by Ed Greenwood
He shrugged again, and added bitterly, "When I was young, of course, I knew all truths with fire-graven certainty-when I bothered to think at all beyond my loins, belly, and the point of my sword. Later, I saw I was no more than a hotheaded brawler… and then was caught in a Dwaer-blast that left me with but the shards of my memories and my thinking. Now I'm a simple soldier indeed."
He smiled at the Lady Talasorn. "I think many Aglirtans are like me. They've known so much disappointment and war that all they remember is their anger and their loss-and how to fight."
" Aglirta is the anvil upon which all hammers fall,' " Embra murmured, quoting the old Vale saying.
"I don't think the 'why' of the strife matters, particularly to those who puzzle when they should be swinging swords, and so wind up dead," Hawkril rumbled, leading his horse to join them with Craer right behind. "Our task is to defend the realm. As always. How we do that is our puzzle."
"Our task?" Tshamarra echoed. "As overdukes?"
"As overdukes," the armaragor agreed heavily. "Our work is simply put: Find whatever crisis tightens its jaws about Aglirta now, and deal with it before the next hungry trouble comes."
"My only real complaint," Craer put in, as he swung himself back into his saddle, "is that overdukes seem to spend their waking lives riding hard from crisis to another. Can't the things grow in bunches, or at least on the same bush?"
"Now, Cleverfingers," Embra said affectionately, "you'd miss these endless rides-ho ho-if ever you weren't racing wild-cloaked across the realm."
"Which brings us back to what I was yammering about before yon carters went mad," the procurer responded with something like triumph. "If discontent and lawlessness among Aglirtans are rife from one end of the Vale to the other, and we've already harvested all the bad barons and dangerous wizards we know of-hidden Phelinndar and his Dwaer excepted, I'll grant-where precisely should we now be racing to? Wouldn't it be easier to establish ourselves somewhere pleasant that's well supplied with wine, platters of good food, and willing wenches, and wait for the foes of Aglirta to come to us? We could rig up some traps or the like, to-"
"My Lord Delnbone," Tshamarra Talasorn said in a dangerously silky voice, "I hardly think I missed hearing you say 'willing wenches.' "
"Ah, I was thinking of Lord Blackgult's comfort, my lady!" Craer replied brightly and a shade too swiftly. "Truly! I-"
"Craer," the Lady Talasorn said coldly, "I can tell your lies from several hills away. I think you'll be sleeping in cooler and lonelier circumstances. This night and henceforth."
The procurer winced and looked imploringly at Tshamarra, but she turned her head away, to stare west, downriver.
"Cold place, this 'henceforth,' " Hawkril told the nearest tree trunk conversationally, into the deepening silence. "I never liked visiting it, myself."
"The less said, here and now, on any personal matter between the Lady Talasorn and the Lord Delnbone, the better," Blackgult said firmly. "At the risk of sounding like some doom-tongued old father, let us speak only of other things. I can see much crawling in Craer's future, and things growing only worse if more words are uttered now. For all our sakes, let there be fair feeling between us. Two of us were for Stornbridge, as I recall. Embra, pray give us the reasons a warcaptain might head there, rather than take the other trail."
His daughter nodded. "As Craer started to say ere his tongue rode away with him, the easily identified foes of the crown have fled, fallen into our hands, or lie well hidden. We need some honest answers as to their whereabouts, or doings, or odd happenings locally-and about how Raulin is truly regarded by the local commoners, not what self-serving tersepts and barons and priests may tell us of what the folk feel." She gave her fellow overdukes the beginnings of a smile and added, "Several of us know the Tersept of Stornbridge-well enough to take our measures of him, at least. He's a bit of a fool, weakling, and drunkard-agreed?"
"Agreed," Blackgult said, as Hawkril and Craer nodded, and waved at her to say on.
Embra acquired a real smile. "Some wine should loosen his tongue enough-with you, me, and Tshamarra all probing with spells, if need be-to get him to spout some truths. Even if he knows nothing but the lean of the nearest fencepost, we should learn how the folk of his terseptry feel about the King, and Aglirta in general. The ones whose words he hears, at least. Perhaps we'll learn more than we want to know… But we must begin turning over rocks in the Vale somewhere, now that all the easy chasing is done."
"There's one thing more," Tshamarra added, a little hesitantly. "At the risk of insulting you all by pointing out the rock-hurled obvious, we've been hunting wizards for a while now, and swording Serpent-priests along with half the realm before that. If we see none now, it doesn't mean we've scoured the Vale of them all-it just means they've learned to be wary and keep hidden. We ride all over the realm, and can tell when a face we last saw down in Drungarth is now happily settled in Overember-but villagers don't. They're used to wandering peddlers and to folk fleeing this or that baron elsewhere in the Vale coming to town, and won't suspect new arrivals of being anything more than they claim to be. Not all mages-or Serpent-clergy-are arrogant, swaggering dolts. Some can hide themselves very well… and I suspect more than a few of them have learned both caution and patience, these last few years."
"Well said," Blackgult agreed. "Wherefore we find the loose-tongued and ambitious, and see what they can tell us. Stornbridge may of course know nothing beyond what he likes at feasts and in his bed, and where his next sack of coins is coming from… but folk desiring power would soon see that, and try to use him. If they have, we should at least be able to get their names and faces; my magic is laughable scraps set beside the might of you two ladies, and even I could get that much from him."
"Well then," Hawkril rumbled, mounting up, "it seems we're agreed. Our chosen idiot's castle lies near enough to be easily reached before much more of the day is fled-crazed passing carters willing-so let's be about it."
So it was that they took the eastern trail at Osklodge, along the way meeting with only a lone farmer walking beside his mule cart. He gaped at them and then nodded, as one Aglirtan to another, making no bows for overdukes but also refraining from howling and charging at them with a sword.
"Blessing of the Three," Embra murmured sardonically at that, and her companions gave her various wry expressions of agreement. As they rode, they saw a few folk working in distant fields. Most straightened to stare, but only one waved.
From time to time gated farm lanes departed the trail, but as the overdukes rode on, the trees on either side grew from thin boundary stands one could see rolling fields through to dark forests that entirely hid the farms.
As the light grew dim and green, Craer turned in his saddle and silently signaled Hawkril. The armaragor nodded and waved to his fellow overdukes to slow their mounts, be wary, and proceed as quietly as possible.
The procurer hastened ahead, opening up a large gap between his mount and Hawkril's. Tshamarra heard the faint rasp of Blackgult drawing his sword behind her. Frowning, she began to cast a slow, careful spell.
It was at about that moment that Embra realized there were no more birdcalls and whirrings of wings on either side of them. The forest had fallen strangely silent.
Their own gear creaked in its usual manner as they rode on, but the sounds were startlingly loud now as the overdukes listened intently, peered, and… waited.
Tshamarra suddenly stiffened in her saddle. At almost the same moment, the distant Craer threw up his hand in a silent wave of warning.
Silence held for a moment more-and then the trees flanking the trail erupted into snarling movement. Large, dark beasts burst out at the over-dukes through dancing branches, shredded leaves tumbling-six-legged monsters bigger than bears, gaping great wide jaws like the largest and ugliest lurgfish hauled up in Sirl nets. Mean and hungry red eyes flashed as the beasts hurled themselves at the rearing, screaming overduchal horses.
Embra cursed as she fumble
d for her Stone while trying to stay in her wildly bucking saddle-and Blackgult's blade slashed past her out of nowhere to hack at monstrous jaws reaching to close on her arm.
Orange blood fountained from the beast's sliced snout, accompanied by a loud, pain-filled roar-a roar echoed by other beasts along the trail, where Craer had raced his own frightened mount back to join them, busily hurling daggers into red eyes and down beast-throats as he came.
Hawkril stood up in his stirrups, reins bouncing free, and held his own fearful mount steady by gripping its head in one iron-strong hand. His other hand swung his warsword, hacking tirelessly, the sharp steel rising and falling in a blur soon marked by sprays of orange gore.
Tshamarra cried out and clutched at her head as three coldly hostile minds broke her seeking spell and then fled from her thoughts again, as swiftly as if three swords had slid icily through her-and as they departed, the surging, unified beast attack broke apart into a growling flurry of monsters fleeing in all directions.
Branches splintered and cracked as hairy bodies plunged through them, Hawkril riding hard in pursuit. More than one wide-jawed beast fell heavily, squalling, as the armaragor's blade hit home. Embra called up a burst of fire in the air under the nose of the only beast still menacing the two sorceresses, as Blackgult pursued another on its ungainly scramble back into the trees.
At the forefront of the chaos of frightened, plunging overduchal horses, Craer cursed softly as a six-legged monster wheeled away wearing one of his best daggers. Leaping from his saddle, he bounced once in the swirling trail-dust, sprang forward, and landed running.
His sprint was short but swift: he caught the beast as it was shouldering between two trees in pain-wracked haste. Catching hold of his knife-hilt as if it was a handle provided by the gods, Craer hauled hard-and found himself steered bruisingly by a tree branch up onto the thing's surging, stinking back.
Which was about the time he saw another beast-head turning toward him in the tree-filled gloom, jaws opening, and remembered that this was no bards' ballad-and that overbold heroes seldom live long.
Taking hold of his dagger with one hand and an overhead tree limb with the other, Craer jerked, twisted, and ended up dangling above emptiness, gore-dripping dagger in hand, as those wide jaws reached up for him.
He kicked out at hand-sized teeth, driving the snarling snout aside-and as he swung away and it whirled amid a great splintering of small branches to bite at him again, Hawkril arrived at a run.
The armaragor swung his great blade in both hands, down and in, like a woodcutter seeking to fell a tree with one ax blow-and the beast roared in pain and fell back, one leg almost severed. Wailing, it fled into the trees, disappearing with many crashings.
Meanwhile, Blackgult was swinging his own sword in a smaller but just as tireless metal storm, slicing and slashing at a beast as it turned its head repeatedly to try to bite Embra and Tshamarra.
" 'Tis almost as if someone's controlling it," he gasped, hacking a snout already raw, diced, and dripping flesh in four places. Moaning, the beast finally whirled and fled blindly through the nearest saplings, trunks shattering under its weight.
And then all the beasts were gone, and the anointed Overdukes of Aglirta were panting at each other across a blood-spattered ruin of hacked branches, trembling and snorting horses, and Craer's mocking comment, "My, but a stroll along a woodland trail in Aglirta these days is apt to be awfully entertaining!"
"W-what were they?" Embra gasped. "I've never seen the like before…"
"Dlargar," Hawkril growled. "Beasts sometimes called running bears and sometimes widejaws. Of the swamps nigh Elgarth-never seen in the Vale."
"So they were conjured?" Craer asked sharply. "By someone still out there?"
"Well," the Lady Talasorn replied, "yes, and they were, but…"
"No awakened magic or scrying near us," Embra reported. "They've fled."
"Serpents?"
"Yes," Tshamarra said grimly. "Three of them guided those beasts, and broke my tracing spell. Their minds were… not nice."
Hawkril frowned. "The same ones who turned the carters against us?"
The Lady Talasorn shrugged in reply.
"Will they try again right away, do you drink?" Blackgult asked gently.
The sorceress shook her head. "They're nowhere near-gone by magic. One was very angry, a rage born of fright. He won't willingly face us again until he has better spells to hurl."
Craer rolled his eyes. "Then let's be on our way, before someone else decides overdukes are good hunting."
The five clapped spurs to their horses together. The still-frightened mounts were only too glad to flee, galloping wildly over a ridge and out of the thick trees. Their riders peered warily around when the horses slowed, snorting and pawing, flanks streaming with sweat.
Embra looked to Blackgult questioningly, indicating her horse, but the Golden Griffon shook his head curtly, and pointed ahead down the trail. Winded or not, the horses would have to wait for a chance to rest.
Not many words were exchanged as the overdukes descended out of gently rolling hill farms, the trail often running beside a chattering brook that garnered strengdi and size as springs joined it, until-over a broad green shield of intervening forest-they could see the roofs of Stornbridge ahead.
It was a fair-sized place, a market-moot surrounded by several twisting streets of cottages. They could see gardens amid the trees, and many folk at work in them. With the day well past its height, much of Stornbridge lay in the shadow of the tersept's castle, which rose like a cluster of stone lances out of a little lake that served it as a moat.
"We've been seen," Craer announced, pointing at someone only Blackgult saw before the tiny, hastening figure passed into concealing greenery.
"Let's hope we won't have to fight our way through the town," Tshamarra commented. "My spells aren't endless."
"Embra," Blackgult asked politely, "have you such a thing as a shielding-spell against arrows?"
"Of course," the Lady of Jewels replied, "but even with the Dwaer to source it, I can't hold something large enough to protect ^11 of us on horseback, on all sides, as we ride. Not without many gaps, albeit shifting and unseen. If we stood tight together, more or less unmoving, yes, but…"
Her father held up his hand. "Forget it. 'Twas only a passing thought. Perhaps I'm being foolish…"
Craer looked back at him. "You mislike the look of yonder trees as much as I do?" he asked quietly, gesturing at the thick stand ahead, where the trail plunged into gloom, turning and descending swiftly out of sight.
"Yes," Blackgult replied simply, reaching for the small, almost useless shield slung across the high back of his saddle. Hawkril already had his own out. Embra looked at Tshamarra, who gazed back and shrugged.
"As usual, my sweet curves are all my armor," the last surviving Talasorn announced-as Craer spurred his mount to swiftness, the rest of them did likewise, and they thundered into the trees together.
Here and there woodcutters' glades opened out on either side, but for the most part the forest was old, dark, and thickly grown, branches interlaced above the road to form a dark tunnel. Wherever their steep descent revealed glimpses of what lay ahead, it seemed the five were always looking at the tall towers of Stornbridge Castle.
Slippery leaves forced them to slow, and Hawkril growled, "Made for brigand strikes," as he fell back to ride beside Embra. There was no room for anyone to shield her other side, even if they'd had armored riders in plenty to do such a thing. As it was, Blackgult fell back to let Tshamarra ride just ahead. Craer was left alone at the forefront, and he thanked his companions loudly and sarcastically for that as they plunged down through the last stretch of forest, spurring more swiftly again now as sunlight-and the waiting homes of Stornbridge-opened out ahead.
"We're turning into a lot of fearful shy-at-shadows," Embra told her man ruefully as the trees grew thinner, and the piercing rays of sunlight more prevalent. Tangleleaf and thrushtarn bu
shes grew thickly where the light fell, making hedges on either side of the trail, and they could hear the thock of axes on chopping blocks ahead, and the creaking of cartwheels. Hawkril made a small, noncommittal sound and raised his shield higher.
The next sound they heard was a loud hissing from the trees all around-and a startled grunt from Craer as an arrow struck his shoulder and snatched him out of his saddle, its bloody, glistening point coming out right through his back as he fell.
Tshamarra screamed and tried to ride right through Hawkril to reach the fallen procurer. As their horses jostled, the armaragor's shield raided under the crashing strikes of three arrows-and an arrowhead burst half through it, to quiver not far in front of Tshamarra's nose.
At about that time a shaft thudded into her horse, and it reared. The Lady Talasorn clawed at its mane to try to keep her saddle as Embra snarled an incantation, Blackgult shouted something else, and Hawkril sprouted an arrow of his own.
As she saw hooves kick at leaves overhead and started the long, slow tumble down into darkness, Tshamarra screamed again. Arrows came hissing down like storm-driven rain…
4
A Stornbridge Welcome
The circular window of the study overlooked the finest and most extensive gardens in all wealthy and sun-warmed Arlund. A gray-bearded, dark-browed man in simple but expensive robes stood gazing in the direction of Aglirta, thinking of that nigh-Kingless Land.