Misthaven: The Complete Trilogy

by J Battle

  For a second, Richard found that he couldn’t move, as if the Trytor had marked him for death and there was nothing to be done about it.

  Then he shook his head and rattled his wits, and then he turned and was off again.

  He was nearing the end of the path. Soon it would be rising again as it left the valley, but it would not take him with it.

  He glanced to the left, and he nodded at the gentle dip in the grass covered slope beside the path.

  He came to a stop with a deep sigh, and then he turned.

  Ashlorn was maybe a quarter of a mile away along the path, and he seemed to be picking up speed.

  Richard grunted a little as he unstrapped the sword from his back.

  He pulled the sword from its scabbard and tossed the scabbard behind him. If he succeeded, he would pick it up it later. If he failed, he wouldn’t be needing it again.

  With a sigh, he gripped the hilt and felt the narrow sliver of Wellstone react to his touch. He groaned at the pain that sprang to life, but he didn’t waver as he watched the Trytor approach.

  He had perhaps another minute before it reached him; another minute to live?

  He raised the sword two-handed before him.

  ‘Stop!’ he yelled.

  With a smile, the Trytor came to a halt less than 20 yards from him.

  ‘You expect to hurt me with that?’ There was a tone of incredulity in his voice. Despite the long run, he was no longer breathing heavily.

  ‘Well, we’ll see if I can or can’t, won’t we? It did well enough for your brother.’

  ‘It’s a little small, your sword, don’t you think? Perhaps you should have brought one like this.’

  From his back-scabbard, hidden by his cloak, he withdrew a broad gleaming sword that was easily six feet in length.

  ‘Now, this is what I call I sword.’ The Trytor laughed, and then he took a step forward.

  Richard held up one hand. ‘Stop there, Lord Ashlorn, for your next step will be your last.’

  ‘Hah, now. You show spirit, man. And you must be a special man, to have killed my brothers. But how special are you? I think I might just take that step, if it’s the same to you.’

  He did as he said, and now he was 10 yards from the waiting man.

  Richard nodded and stared into the red eyes of the Trytor.

  ‘You’ll have to come closer, man, if you mean to stick me with your little sword.’

  Richard looked down at his sword, poised in the air between the two of them.

  He smiled then, and flexed his powerful shoulders.

  ‘No, I think I’ll stay here for a moment. But know this, Trytor. Within the hour, I will have this sword between your shoulder-blades, just as I did with the other scum you like to call your brothers.’

  Ashlorn’s lips tightened. ‘An hour seems such a long time. What do you expect me to be doing whilst I wait for you to make your attempt?’

  The man laughed then. ‘Oh, my Lord Trytor, you’ll mostly be spending that hour dying.’

  With that he swung his sword. He didn’t attempt to hit the Trytor; he was still out of reach.

  But right beside him was the thick rope he’d tied to a deeply-buried tree-root, days earlier. With a grunt, his blade sliced through the rope.

  Then he turned to the Trytor, his sword lowered, and his shoulders relaxed.

  ‘What…?’ Ashlorn turned at the noise as the hundreds of logs that had been lashed to the steep slope to his right began to move.

  He took a step before the first log hit him and knocked his legs from beneath him.

  If he roared or screamed or cried out in any way, the sound was lost in the thunder of the logs crashing down upon him, pushing his inert body into the little declivity Richard had glanced at earlier.

  When the logs stopped falling and silence again visited the little valley, Richard walked forward.

  For a big man, he was light on his feet as he balanced along the freshly-cut tree-trunks, keeping upright with the help of one hand.

  He worked his way across the lake of logs, cut by the men of the nearest village in accordance with Lancer’s clever plan, and he peered through the gaps as he went. Then he stopped. Below him was the body of the Trytor, and he’d thoughtfully ended up face down.

  He pushed the blade of his sword between the logs, and he kept on pushing, through the Trytor’s body and into the ground.

  Then he stepped back and studied the hilt of his sword.

  ‘Long enough, after all,’ he said, as he bent to withdraw his weapon.

  As he wiped the blood from the blade, he heard a noise behind him. With the sword raised and ready to strike, he turned.

  ‘Good day to you, Lord. And a job well done, I think,’ she said, as she’d studied the logs before her, as if she was actually considering taking a walk along such a perilous surface.

  ‘Come no closer, Ellaine. It is not safe. I will come to you.’

  ‘Is he truly dead, the Trytor?’ she asked, as he joined her on the solid surface of the path.

  ‘Ay he is, and the task is over. I will return home, I think, to my beloved daughter.’

  ‘That would be good, I’m sure. And well deserved, it would be,’ she spoke softly.

  Richard considered her for a moment.

  ‘You have something else to say, I think, Ellaine Woewearer. Speak the words and we shall see what they are.’

  ‘Ah, my dearie, this is not easy, even for me, and I have seen things, I have, in my time.’

  ‘Say the words; they are nothing more than words.’

  ‘Ay, true enough. So, you say that the task is done. Do you believe that is true?’ She touched his arm as she stared up into his face.

  ‘You speak of the fourth Trytor? Does he exist?’

  ‘Ay, he does, my dearie, and that is the truth.’

  ‘But…’ He looked past her, at the road that he’d hoped would lead him home, to his daughter, to rest, to peace.

  ‘The task, my dear, is not yet finished. You cannot leave one standing when you go, can you see that, my dear?’

  He wanted to turn away and say, ’No, let someone else do this. I have done what I can. I have nothing left to offer.’

  Would he be judged harshly by history if he let the responsibility slip from his shoulders? Were two Trytors not enough for a simple man?

  Ellaine turned from him and she stepped lightly onto a log.

  ‘The task is not yet done, my dear,’ were her last words to him, and then she began to walk across the sea of logs, skipping as she went.

  She didn’t look back, but she heard the sound as he slumped to his knees.

  ‘It is a hard thing I have done,’ she sighed. ’It is a hard thing I ask of that poor man. But the world requires it of him.’

  She reached the end of the logs and landed easily on the path.

  She began to walk, for there was much for her to do; much for her to see.

  ‘There is never any shortage of woe in this world, not now, and not tomorrow. But, mayhap I will sing his song one day, and find some comfort there.’

  THE END

  This Fallen Breed

  Misthaven: Book II

  Preface

  ‘A long year has been and gone now,

  Since that terrible day.

  A long year has been and gone now,

  And we’re fair worn away.’

  She stopped singing for a moment, and she rested her bag beside a handy rock.

  ‘This’ll do fine enough to park my bum and give me a moment’s rest. I’ve walked miles already today, and there’s a good few still to go, I reckon.’

  To a stranger, she might have appeared old and frail, but there was an obdurate strength in her thin limbs, and a will to move mountains.

  She sighed and then she took a drink from her water flask, hanging by a length of old rope from her belt.

  ‘Lady Lisbeth, we see you, and your fair child,

  Clara, we see you, and your poor Ma.’

&n
bsp; She sang of the others that died that day, and the days that followed, for she would not forget their names.

  She was Ellaine Woewearer, and what else was there for her to do?

  ‘The blame. Ay, there’s the blame to be borne along with the loss.’ She spoke to herself because there was no-one about to hear on this high dusty road above the rich lands of Midland.

  ‘If I hadn’t set that poor giant to stop the Trytor, then, well, who would still be alive? Come on, you old thing, you know the names.’

  She sighed and wiped her mouth. She smiled as a red-breasted little bird flew past.

  ‘There’s Lisbeth, of course, Lord Richard’s wife,’ she began, in a sing-song voice. ‘And Clara, his oldest daughter. Jumba, his servant, lost to the king’s madness. Belloom of course, who took two attempts to die. Three Trytors, though I’ll not mourn their loss, but their names should be spoken; Brudorth, Teldorn and Ashlorn.’

  She stopped then, and she rummaged in her bag for the last of her bread, and a meagre portion of cheese.

  ‘Is that the lot? It’s surely enough to carry on my poor shoulders.’

  She smacked her lips as she chewed her bread, and she groaned a little. These days, she seemed to be groaning whenever she had nothing more urgent to do.

  ‘Mayhap that will change, in the next few weeks, if my fore-sight is not awry,’ she said; her words soft and supplemented by a sigh.

  With her meal complete, she slung the strap of her bag over her shoulder and stood up.

  ‘l’ll sing of them all today, but I’ll not mention them Trytors again, no I won’t.’

  If she’d had a mind to defend herself, she could have weighed the lives that she saved when she deflected Brudorth from his journey to Hesselton, against those that died.

  But that was not in her nature.

  There were also other deaths of course that she could not know about, and could never be blamed for.

  The deaths on Fairisle, of the kidnappers, and the challenger, and of the people who fell to Meldon’s whims, and near Hesselton, of Jefro and Jimmywood

  But all that was a year ago, and much has changed.

  Book I

  When the age of Magic ends, then the First Men shall return

  Chapter 1 Lydorth

  ‘They laugh at you.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘They laugh at you, Sir. My lord Lydorth, they scoff and call you ‘little Tor,’ and they bend their little finger like so.’

  Bendram held the little finger of his right hand up, slightly curled, and wiggled it.

  Lydorth burst from his throne and stormed around the long hall, his passing causing the torches in the wall to splutter and gutter. His long shadow danced like a giant with too much ale, but there was little dance in his heart.

  ‘This cannot be,’ he spat as he returned to his throne, towering over the human before him, ‘this cannot be.'

  He slumped back on his throne, and his great head drooped.

  Dryan hurried over from his seat by the wall and ushered Bendram from the rulehall.

  ‘Say no more, man, if you want to keep your head between your shoulders!’ he hissed, as he gave a less than gentle shove.

  ‘How have we come to this, Dryan? How have we fallen so far?’ asked Lydorth, suddenly noticing him.

  Dryan turned, but he kept his head down; not wishing to make eye contact with his lord; Lydorth, the last of the Trytor.

  ‘This is merely one of many such reports, Master; I make no judgment or attempt explanation. But, as I have said before, for the first time in many generations, the people are no longer in fear. They believe that they no longer have to pay their respects to their lord and master, for they think that they rule themselves. It has been so long since you walked amongst them, my Lord.’

  He risked a quick peek, but he quickly lowered his head. The fury in the eyes of the last of the Trytor could have flayed the skin from his body.

  ‘Leave me be, Dryan, lest I vent my anger on you. Leave me to my thoughts; leave me to my shadows. There is naught I require from the human world you speak of.’ There was a long pause then, and Dryan thought to slip away and be about his business.

  ‘But I will have respect.’ Lydorth spoke softly but Dryan felt suddenly chilled.

  ‘Yes, my Lord,’ he said, and he bowed by way of showing his own respect.

  ‘I will have respect, Dryan. They will give it willing, or they will cry for their dead as it is dragged from them.’

  ‘My Lord…’

  ‘Do not try to sway me with your words, Dryan.’ There was a threat in every word, and the Trytor’s muscles flexed as if preparing to strike.

  ‘What will you do, master?’ asked Dryan, knowing that he was foolish even to ask.

  ‘I will have respect, Dryan. I will have it, and there will be a price to pay for this mockery. Yes, and it will be immediate.’

  He leant forward, suddenly animated.

  ‘Now, listen carefully, Dryan, and do not mistake my words. Hear me clearly, and act as I demand, for my will cannot be swayed. I will have the head of each firstborn child delivered to me, here in this hall, before the week ends.’

  ‘The firstborn from which village, Sir?’ He knew the answer already, but he had to ask.

  ‘All of them, Dryden. From every hamlet, village and town in this land. And do not seek to short-change me in this, or take me for a fool. My brothers may have been brave and courageous, forthright and martial, and awesome in aspect, but I know details, little man, and I will not be denied one single head.’

  ‘But, my Lord Lydorth…’

  The Trytor’s laugh stilled the words in his throat.

  ‘Say not the words, Dryan. Do not attempt to deny me. In fact, bring her to me first; but bring her whole, for now.’

  ‘But…’ He could have spoken of the long years of service he had given to the Trytors, how he had nursed him through his time of despair at the deaths of his brothers, how he’d been his only friend in all that time. That surely his beautiful daughter, Esmere, could be spared. But the words would have been wasted.

  Without another word, he stood and turned to leave.

  ‘Will you leave without a word, Dryan? Will you leave in disrespect, just as others disrespect me? Is that it, Dryan? Not even a bow to your Lord?’

  The Trytor was on his feet now, with his scarlet cloak thrown back and his seven fingered hands raised in a mockery of prayer.

  Dryan turned and stared up at him, meeting his fiery red eyes for the first time. With a deep sigh, he bowed and then spun away before another word could be spoken.

  Lydorth watched him go, a slight sneer on his narrow lips, then he slumped back onto his throne.

  He closed his eyes and thought of better times, when his brothers were all around and he could bask in their reflected glory.

  At last he opened his eyes and lifted his head. To his right were three shelves, carved from the solid stone of the cave that was his home.

  The first contained the ashes of his brother, Brudorth, the closest to him in age and size, and the first to know death. Then there were the last remains of Teldorn, mayhap the wisest of the Trytors. Last of all, and slightly separated, was the gilded urn that contained the ashes of Ashlorn; the greatest of all the Trytors.

  ‘We’ve been too long apart, brothers,’ he whispered as he slid from his throne, ‘but it will not long be this way. I can feel a change coming, and we will be reunited, one by one, and then we will not need to ask for respect; not need to demand respect. For it will be ours by right, and it will be given freely. When Trytors walk the land once more, then fear will garland our path.’

  He marched across the hall and threw open the tall double doors.

  He called out a name and returned to his throne.

  ‘My lord?’ The voice was hushed and full of due respect as the tall gaunt figure knelt on the hard, stone floor.

  ‘You are ready Cavour? You are certain?’ He leaned forward, feeling a rush of excitemen
t.

  ‘Yes, my Lord, I am always ready to fulfil your will. And I am as certain as I can be; at least about where I should start my search for the first. I will not lie to you about the others; mystery still surrounds them. If they still exist at all.’

  Lydorth hissed.

  ‘I need all three, Cavour. One for each of my brothers. One will simply not do.’

  Cavour stood upright as his shadowed eyes met those of his master.

  ‘Yes, my Lord. But one will be a start.’

  ‘How many men will you take with you? You can have an army. I’ll send every man in this land, if they will help you succeed in this task.’

  ‘I will travel alone, if you allow me, Lord. Subtlety before force; it has always been my way, and a sneaky hand can do more than a brutal fist, as they say.’

  ‘You’ll take horses, then, to speed your journey?’

  ‘Ah now, they would indeed save time, but I would miss so much, so high above the people I must talk with, and, to be honest my Lord Lydorth, I’ve never met a horse that took anything but dislike to my face, so it will be shank’s pony for me, as my mother always said.’

  ‘Shanks?’

  Cavour slapped his lower leg with one hand by way of demonstration.

  ‘Go then, Cavour, and make haste, and know what success will bring to you.’

  The muscles in the man’s thin face tightened and his glare would have made a lesser creature step back in fear.

  ‘Allow me these few words, my Lord Lydorth, said in full and due respect.’

  Lydorth shook his long head. ‘Say the words and be damned.’

  Cavour drew a great breath into his chest.

  ‘When I return, and place a stone before each of your dead brothers, then I will not be denied. By Man, by Giant, by Elflord; by Trytor. By God.’

  Lydorth stared down at the tall, proud man for a long moment, then he shook his head. ‘As you wish, Cavour. As you wish. But hear this, also. Do not fail me. Do not fail me. For I too will not be denied.’