The Brotherhood (The Eirensgarth Chronicles Book 1)

by Philip Smith

  Jesnake smiled. “Let’s call it an even score,” he said. “I couldn’t have done it if I’d fallen off the cliff.”

  “Fortunate indeed,” Dinendale said emotionless. “But Jesnake, this plot?”

  Jesnake’s somber expression did not sit will with Paige. “Well, judging by what I heard at the table, I think we have a real problem. They know about Paige, and they know about the scroll. I think they know we’re coming.”

  Dinendale spat into the dirt.

  “News must have reached them faster than we could take the path over the Raychels.”

  “We still have some advantage of surprise,” Jesnake shrugged. “They don’t know when or how we are coming. For all they know, we’re still trying to sneak past the outposts on the normal route from the Wild.”

  “True,” Dinendale said thoughtfully. “Woodcarver, why don’t you fill them in on what you and Duely found?”

  The magician looked up from where he was sharpening one of the blades in his gloves. “Duelmaster and I entered the city with little difficulty, much like Jesnake. I managed to get into the barracks, on the very south side of the first wall, past the marketplace. It’s the sickest, vilest place I’ve ever had to walk through, and I’ve been around a long time. Men laying in drunken filth, no regards for moral standards of any kind, and blatant disregard for any authority. The only reason those men follow orders is fear of the savage punishments those above them will inflict. We were, however, able to glean that at least two of the regiments stationed there were at Kapernaum. Many had prizes from their plunder, and it took all my power to keep Duelmaster from cutting them into bits and pieces as they showed off their spoils.”

  “A person’s scalp is not something to be happy about,” Duelmaster said. Paige shuddered in horror realizing that those scalps could have been her people’s. Xandla? Matildra? That sweet merchant who had sold her the necklace she now wore around her neck? A hatred welled up inside her like a tea kettle coming to a boil.

  “One crucial piece of information is how stupid these soldiers are, especially at night. After just a few drinks, these men are as chaotic as cats going around for a mouse. I’ve noticed that drinking is quite the prevailing pastime. When not stabbing blacksmiths and making off with young ladies, that is. They also take forever to get in rank, judging from the drills we saw. I’ve seen young lads gather for their parents faster than these men can line up for their commanders.” Woodcarver stated.

  “But there are over three hundred soldiers in that camp. One division of three that had originally set out from the capitol at Telesan. There is no chance for any of us if they are called to arms while sober,” Duelmaster watched as the group nodded in agreement.

  “There is a window of time when they’re changing the guard, and it seems that the later the hour, the longer the gap,” Robert added. “From what a rabbit hauker told us, it takes fifteen minutes for the turret guards to change at midnight. He swore it was true because it happens every night when he goes outside the city gates to snatch rabbits in the valley, and the noise they make scares off the rabbits. Hurts his business, so he had no problem venting his frustration to us when we asked if we could help him in any way.”

  “Then I think I know how we get in,” Dinendale said. They all looked at him expectantly. He took a second to collect all his thoughts, then picked a stick off the ground and drew a diagram of the city’s layout on the dusty cave floor.

  “This is the outer wall,” he said, drawing a square into the dirt with the stick. “Here is the keep and its wall, then the second inner wall that divides the city from the barracks. The dungeon is in the back of the palace, carved right into the mountainside.”

  “It may be easy to go through the first two walls,” Robert commented, “but the palace will be better guarded, especially now. I doubt that even we could get by without an incident.”

  “Incidents are our specialty,” Broadside teased.

  “There is another way,” Dinendale said. “I found it on my own search. Look here. See this turret attached to the palace itself?” He pointed to the westernmost turret nearest the mountain backdrop. “The aqueduct funnels water over the first wall and into a giant cistern here on the outside of the first interior wall. Now there is a grate that lets the water through the wall. Then it flows in a deep moat straight into the palace itself. All these towers are heavily guarded, but the channel flowing into the palace is not.”

  “Which means we have an unguarded entrance into the fortress,” Twostaves said.

  “Well,” Broadside said. “All we’ll have to do is get over the outer wall, hop into the cistern, claw our way under the second wall, then swim straight into the palace. All during the time it takes for the guard to change. Seems easy enough.”

  “It’s definitely not going to be easy,” Dinendale smirked. “But it’s the only option, shy of knocking on the front door, that I see.”

  “Well, we could give that a try, too,” Twostaves laughed, slapping Dinendale good-naturedly on the back. Dinendale screamed in pain, his agonizing wrenching threw him face first on the cave floor, clawing at the dirt. The rest of them rushed to his side, but Woodcarver held them back.

  “Don’t,” Woodcarver said, holding Broadside back as the dwarf made a lunge for his fallen friend.

  “Let me go. Dinendale, what’s wrong?” he demanded.

  “Stay back!” Woodcarver pulled the heavy little creature back. “Don’t touch him.”

  Dinendale’s cloak slipped off one of the elf’s shoulders as he heaved for a few seconds and slowly sat up. Paige gasped in horror to see his dirty peasant's shirt covered in blotchy patches of dark, wet blood. He turned to face them, trying to hide his back.

  “Dinendale,” Woodcarver said quietly. “Show us your back.”

  The elf didn’t move. He just stared at the dirt floor.

  “Now, Dinendale,” Twostaves demanded. The elf looked up with sad, angry eyes, and slowly turned and lifted the back of his shirt. The group gasped in alarm.

  “Dinendale,” Paige gasped. “What have they done to you?”

  Chapter 17

  The Wolf & the Bobcat

  Dinendale’s back was a webbed mess of bloodied stripes, each as long as Paige’s forearm. The wounds oozed dark liquid like wine being squeezed from wild grapes. While probably not life-threatening by themselves, the risk of inflammation and putrefaction was real with a mess this horrific.

  “Dinendale,” Paige demanded again. “What happened?”

  “They whipped me, obviously,” he laughed in pain, voiced laced with agitation.

  “Calm down Din. I’m just trying to help,” Paige snapped.

  He rolled his eyes and sighed, wincing as the cold night air stung the cuts.

  “Why?” Twostaves asked. The elf let out a menacing chuckle.

  “Because they could,” he mocked. “I was walking in the street.”

  “People don’t get flogged for walking down the street, Din,” Duelmaster said, suspicion in his voice. “Not even in Aschin.”

  Dinendale paused for a moment, resting his hand against his thigh, his knuckles popping as he clenched his fist in an attempt to reign in his emotions. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “It does matter,” Jesnake said, sliding next to his comrade and examining the mess of stripes. “These kind of wounds don’t just happen.”

  “They were hitting a little girl. You happy?” Dinendale snapped.

  “Oh, no problem having an altercation with a guard who definitely could have pegged you as an elf if he’d inspected you close enough, but I’m the one that drew too much attention to myself,” Robert snapped.

  Dinendale glared at him, then sighed. “I know. I’m sorry,” Dinendale rubbed the bridge of his nose as his shoulders drooped in silent defeat. Robert grunted and Broadside threw some more scratchy scrub brush onto the fire.

  “When will you learn you can’t always be the hero? You’re not immortal,” Broadside shouted as he hopped up and slowl
y walked around the small fire.

  “What is that supposed to mean?” the elf demanded.

  “You throw yourself in front of any danger you face as if you can defeat it all,” the dwarf scolded. “But you can’t. One day, you’ll find a soldier, or serpent, or even a dragon that is bigger than you. Then what?”

  “It’s only a few stripes!” Dinendale said indignantly. “They’ll heal, eventually.”

  “Eventually?” Paige barked.

  Din looked surprised but not affronted by her outburst. “That is how wounds tend to heal.”

  “We don’t have time for eventually,” Jesnake insisted.

  “Can’t you do anything for him?” Paige asked, whirling to look at Woodcarver.

  “It wouldn’t do any good,” Dinendale muttered.

  “I agree,” Woodcarver said glaring at the elf. “But my question is why? What makes you immune to my magic?”

  Dinendale was silent for a moment, but Woodcarver stared him down, his clear eyes probing for an answer. After a moment or two, Dinendale looked over at the magician and shrugged.

  “It won’t work because I’ve had the Aondraíoch curse put on me.”

  Woodcarver vented an exasperated grunt as his eyes flashed in anger and annoyance. Duelmaster and Jesnake had shocked looks on their faces, while Paige and the others were oblivious to what the Aondraíoch Curse was.

  “Cursed? Is it bad?” Broadside’s worried expression was pronounced by a quivering lip.

  “Well, I think the term ‘curse’ is hardly ever used in a good way,” muttered Robert.

  “It’s not a curse if you chose it,” Dinendale said defensively.

  Woodcarver laughed sharply. “Oh, is that what happened? How great of a fool are you, Dinendale? I thought you would have had more sense than that.”

  “It’s not,” Dinendale started, but Jesnake cut him off.

  “Why didn’t you tell any of us?” He shoved a finger at his friend. “This isn't something you just keep from your brothers, Dinendale!”

  “Will someone please explain to me what in the name of moons the Aondraíoch curse is?” Twostaves bellowed.

  “It’s curse put on a magical person,” Woodcarver spat, disgusted. “It renders the recipient unable to use the Mist even if he’s of the bloodline.”

  “It takes a very powerful wizard or magician to perform it, and once cast, it cannot be undone,” Duelmaster hopped off his rock perch. “Which begs the question, Dinendale, how and more importantly why?”

  “Because what it also does is keep the person from being affected by other attack spells or magic,” Dinendale shouted. “I gave mine up because it’s one more thing I don’t have to worry about.”

  “Even still, to keep that from us? It was this ‘I can do it on my own, I can handle it all myself’ attitude that has already caused so many of our problems,” Jesnake quipped.

  “I’m strong enough,” Dinendale spat, drawing away from Jesnake, “and frankly I don’t need your permission to do with my life what I see fit.”

  “You’re not as strong as you think, Dinendale,” Duelmaster said, his voice low and quiet.

  “I can take care of myself!” Dinendale yelled, his temper flaring.

  “Oh that raw back clearly says ‘I can take care of myself’ right? Then why do you need us, huh?” Robert shook his fist at the elf. Dinendale was taken aback. Robert smirked. “Because you can’t do it by yourself. You have one of the strongest wills and bodies I know. But you need to quit thinking you can do it yourself, you selfish twunt.”

  There was a long pause, and Dinendale glared at Robert with an intensity that could have melted wrought iron. Robert merely returned the gaze. A terrible amount of tension throbbed through the cave.

  “I don’t need to rationalize my decision to you any more than I have to apologize to you for saving that child,” Dinendale glared.

  “You're missing the point,” Jesnake retorted. “No one here is saying saving a child is a bad thing, but this mess on your back? This was not the way to go about it. There are people there who could recognize you!”

  “Well, whatever. We can’t change any of that now,” Paige said, pulling a roll of bandages out of her pack. “All we can do is move forward. Sit down Din. Woodcarver? Help me dress these.”

  The magician was still furious at Dinendale’s revelation but did not argue with Paige. He knelt next to her as Din sat on his knees with his bloody, raw stripes turned towards them. They worked on his back carefully, putting on ointment from a bottle Woodcarver kept tucked in his boot. He explained it was a natural remedy to help keep swelling down, so it should work on Dinendale without any issues. To aid in the numbing process, he mixed the powder with some of the wine they’d taken off the Shaud’s cart.

  “I’m sad I cannot heal these, Dinendale,” the wizard said, still angry but taking deep breaths. “But you brought that on yourself.”

  “I will sleep in the bed I made. I have no regrets.”

  “You say that now. I can get these to stop bleeding,” Woodcarver said. “But you have to be careful with them.”

  The wizard applied the salve gently to the elf’s shredded back. Paige helped mix the foul smelling paste of pine needles, lichen and wine as the magician applied it to each stripe. Dinendale whimpered once but kept silent beyond that. Once Woodcarver had applied enough salve, they carefully wrapped the elf’s bare torso in clean linen cloth so he could put on his old shirt.

  “No infection will set in, at least,” Woodcarver sighed, still visibly irritated. “Rest now. You’ll need as much strength saved as you can muster.”

  Dinendale didn’t move. He just laid there, motionless in the dull euphoria that follows great pain. Paige sat for a moment before she stood and followed Woodcarver out of the cave into the dark night air. She took her cloak and threw it about her shoulders as she stepped out into the open.

  Taivian and Suntra shone brightly overhead casting pale white light through a cloudless sky as they chased each other across the heavens. The air turned Paige’s breaths into waltzing wisps of fog that danced ever higher till they disappeared into the breeze. Woodcarver faced the two moons as that same steady breeze ruffled his forest green cloak.

  “Why are you so angry with him?” Paige demanded.

  The magician sighed. “Angry? No dear one, not angry. Frustrated, but it’s not my curse to bear nor my choice. Does little good to be angry over someone else’s mistakes.”

  “But why is what he did a mistake?”

  Woodcarver ran a gloved hand through his hair before raising his hood to keep warm. He held out his palm and mumbled something Paige couldn’t hear. Little wisps of white smoke appeared with blue sparks, taking the shape of a galloping horse that ran circles around the magician’s hand and arm.

  “It was a gift,” he said. “It is always a gift. No matter what people say about bloodlines, and heritage, and all that rubbish, to be blessed with such power is a privilege. The Creator gives some people the ability, just as he gives others a beautiful voice, or an eye to see the raw beauty of a summer sunset and turn it into a painting,” he explained.

  Paige wrinkled her brow. “And you think he squandered it?”

  “If you had a beautiful voice, or an ability to paint the most lifelike portraits ever created, would it not be a waste to cut out your voice box or break your own fingers?” he asked.

  Paige shrugged.

  “I just hate to see people throw away a gift others would kill, indeed have killed, to possess.”

  “But there are evil people who use magic as well, and now he cannot be touched by that, correct?”

  “That is the one benefit, which I dare say is the only reason I can nearly understand his thought process. But magic is just like any other gift. It can be used for evil or good and is only as strong as the person who wields it.”

  “So then why doesn’t the Creator take it away from those who use it for evil?” Paige asked.

  Woodcarver looked at her
sorrowfully. “If you sing for evil purposes or paint evil pictures, will he take it from you? No. He gives us the gifts. We choose what to do with them. There’s a lot of evil in this land, but there is also much good. It is up to us to take the tools and use them to do good, and not ill.”

  “Still, I think I’d prefer he just get rid of the ill altogether. Can’t be much of a Creator if he allows his creation to be infected,” she said. A note of bitterness held her tone.

  “No?”

  “Can he though? What kind of being creates something, then just sits back and watches the world tear itself apart?”

  “And you think He’s done that? That you’ve been abandoned on this journey?”