Hagen followed behind them, “Report back to me as soon as you have information about the prince’s whereabouts.”
Hagen stopped at the next landing while the guards continued on. He walked down the hall, stopped in front of the door to Perrin’s room, and lightly rapped it three times. His arms folded tightly across his chest as he stepped back and nervously tapped his foot. After a few moments—that may as well have been days—the door slowly opened. Perrin’s innocent eyes peered up at him from her shining face while her great, round belly appeared ready to burst at any moment.
“Hagen!” she squealed and threw her arms around the old healer. “Have ye seen me love? I been hearing he be back from his travels.”
Hagen paused a moment, “No, highness. I was hoping he had been in to visit you.”
Her lips dipped into a shallow pout as she stepped back from him and complained, “At any moment I could be bringing his baby into this world and he ain’t having cause to check on me well-being. What a fine gesture that be.”
Hagen became somber as he regarded Perrin. Her crystal, blue eyes dampening with the emotions of a woman with child, her blond hair strong, healthy and full of life, her round belly looking full and ready to burst, she resembled a doll. Perfect and beautiful, she seemed more a portrait than a person as she pouted up at him.
“Alas, Your Highness, I am afraid I have some troubling news. The king has fallen in battle…”
Perrin interrupted, “What? Ymitoth…Ymitoth be…” her damp eyes widened as the sadness of her expression fled in the face of bewilderment, and her arms fell limply at her sides. Her eyes darted about the room behind their rapidly blinking lids. She remained silent for a moment, as she stepped backward into the room inviting Hagen in with a distracted wave.
Once inside, Hagen walked toward the window and continued, “Yes, I am afraid the king has perished. Maelich was with him last night. I left him alone with his father to say his good-byes in peace. Your husband was quite distraught, and I wanted to give him time to grieve the loss.” He slowly shook his head as he added, “I am afraid that was a mistake.”
Tears began to flow over Perrin’s eyelids, “Where be me love now?”
Hagen sighed and rubbed at his jaw, “Well,” he paused, “I do not know.” He stopped short of telling her not only was Maelich missing, but Ymitoth’s body was missing along with him.
Suddenly, the door pushed open and a woman wearing a blue robe hurried into the room carrying a basket. She considered Hagen briefly, raising one eyebrow in his direction. Then she addressed Perrin, “Your Highness, what ye be doing out of that bed? Have ye lost all of your senses? That baby be coming at any hour now. Lay yourself back down.” Then she glanced in Hagen’s direction, adding, “And what cause do ye have to be hanging about and bothering me pregnant misses?”
“Oh Chimarra,” Perrin began, “Hagen be bringing us grave news.” Then she slumped down onto her bed and stared out the window, probably at the same nothing Hagen had been staring at a few moments prior.
Hagen cleared his throat and turned to address Chimarra, “Forgive the intrusion, but His Majesty has expired and his son has gone missing.”
Chimarra had been a midwife in the castle for thirty summers. Hagen—like most who called the castle at Havenstahl home—carried around a great deal of respect for her. She knew her task and took it more than seriously. Bringing royal blood into the world was nothing to be taken lightly. More than one dignitary had been ordered to move along to other business when they would get to making nuisances of themselves. Hagen knew he certainly wasn’t above her strict rule over the pregnant princess’s quarters. However, his news seemed to knock the edge right off her mood and left her with her jaw hanging slack. Meanwhile, her eyes asked the questions her mouth couldn’t seem to get out.
Hagen answered the silent expression, “He fell in battle. Upon hearing the news, Maelich fled. I desperately need to find him.”
Chimarra looked as if she’d been hit with a stick, “If I be seeing him, I be letting ye know.”
“Thank you,” Hagen left the room without additional comment, gently closing the door behind him. He had not even made the stairway before nearly bumping into Cialia as she charged around the corner.
Words flopped from her mouth as she stopped just short of toppling him, “Hagen, I have been looking all over the castle for you. Is it true? Is Ymitoth dead and his body missing with my brother?”
Hagen’s tone was a sharp whisper, “Where did you hear that?”
“The guards are talking about it. They say Talhomme—one of the stablemen—said Maelich ordered him to ready Validus. He also said it looked as if my dear brother was carrying a body wrapped in blankets.”
Hagen looked to the ground, shaking his head. It would be too late to control the rumors. Rumors born out of truth are the worst kind. The idea of the future king, a god even, stealing corpses would not sit well with most of the population of Havenstahl. He tapped his index finger nervously against his forehead.
Finally he spoke, “I will need to speak with this, Talhomme, immediately. I need to know exactly what he saw and what Maelich may have said to him.” He sighed, turned his gaze toward a window sitting across the hall from them, and looked out at nothing in particular as he continued, “This is very serious. I fear for Maelich’s mental condition and what his actions will mean for the people of Havenstahl who worship him.”
Cialia’s wide eyes and hanging jaw conveyed her shock far more effectively than her words as she quietly asked, “So it is true?” Then her face tightened as her head shook and she continued with more force, “I cannot believe this. Why would he steal Ymitoth’s corpse? What will our mother say?”
“It appears it is quite true and quite worse than I hoped. My hope was he would still be somewhere here in the castle. Alas, with Talhomme’s testimony, that cannot be true,” his gaze remained fixed on nothing in particular. He thought for a moment before pulling his mind back to the present and continuing, “Come, we must not waste any more precious time talking about this. We shall go speak with Talhomme.”
chapter 6
the stable hand
Talhomme gently brushed Dixby’s mane. The big oaf looked clumsy as a drunken dwarf on Maelich’s Day most of the time. When grooming a horse however, he was an artist. He used long, slow, graceful strokes while humming softly in the horse’s ear. His round belly, leathery skin, and stringy, yellow hair seemed a contradiction to the tender affection he showed the animals in his care. For all of his gruffness, he was gentle as morning rain with the horses.
Dixby was a wild one. Her coat was light-tan but glowed like shimmering prang in the sunlight. Her mane was a dark, luxurious brown. However, all the beauty oozing off the beast seemed a prank when one caught a glimpse of her eyes. Madness danced about their darkness like the frenzied insanity trapped in the desperate stare of a shackled prisoner yearning for sunlight and fresh air. None of the other stable hands could get within ten feet of her. She seemed to favor Talhomme though, nuzzling her head up into his chest as he hummed his songs softly in her ear.
Hagen considered the stable hand briefly before addressing him. Under different circumstances, the oddness of a brute such as Talhomme taking such tender care of anything might have earned a chuckle from the old healer. However, the cause for his quest kept even the slightest giggle buried deep in his gut. Instead, his tone was flat, carrying none of its usual flamboyance, “Talhomme, I seek an audience with you.”
The rough brute absently turned and replied, “Aye?”
Hagen wasn’t sure if he was impressed or irritated with the man’s lack of interest. Commoners would typically fall all over themselves to bow in his presence. Talhomme just continued his careful brushing. Realizing he wouldn’t get the usual salutary greeting he deserved, the old healer continued, “Yes, I understand his majesty had you prepare his horse for the trail earlier this morn. Would you tell me about that please, everything you know?”
&n
bsp; Talhomme rolled his eyes as he turned and said, “Aye, he came to me looking for his horse. Had somebody with him too, all wrapped up in blankets. I don’t be knowing who that might have been.”
Under different circumstances, Hagen would have rightfully chastised Talhomme for his disrespect. However, the situation begged a more diplomatic course of action. Besides, the smell of horse waste filling his nostrils had him desperately battling back an urge to gag. Keeping the meager contents of his stomach down quickly occupied the lion’s share of his attention.
“When was this?” he asked.
“Like ye’ said, earlier this morn. What of it?” Talhomme shrugged.
Hagen forced a grin to his lips that did little to hide his impatience, “How early this morn?”
The frumpy stable hand grabbed his chin and looked up toward the sky, “I be guessing it must have been just after sun up.”
“Did he give you any clue as to where he may be going?”
Talhomme shook his head, “No. He be in a mad hurry though.”
Hagen sighed, “Is there anything else you can tell me? Did he say anything unusual, anything at all?”
Talhomme shook his head again and shrugged, “No.”
“Very well, thank you for your time,” Hagen turned to leave.
He made it as far as the stable gate before Cialia stopped him, “Well, did he say anything about where Maelich may have been going?”
Hagen shook his head, “Nothing we did not already know.”
“Well now what? How will we find him?” Cialia pressed him.
“I do not know,” he stared into nothing as his mind worked. “What about you? Do you not feel his presence? Why can you not track him?”
“He is not with me. I have been looking but…” she shrugged.
“He is hiding,” Hagen decided as he hurried off to find the General.
chapter 7
sword training
Despite the ale he and Ymitoth had drunk the night before, Maelich rose before the sun. After waking Ymitoth, he prepared a light snack of bread and fruit for them. A full belly wasn’t helpful during the morning run. The two men ate in silence. Once they had finished, Maelich spoke, “Will we be taking the morning run, master?”
“Aye,” Ymitoth replied, “always we be taking the morning run. It be keeping ye fit and keeping the fat off of your bones.”
Maelich nodded as he cleared the table, carefully setting their dirty plates in the washtub. The water had grown cold overnight. He’d have to heat some more before the afternoon nap. Keeping clean dishes was one of his chores.
“Leave them, lad,” Ymitoth said as he grabbed Maelich’s shoulder. “Let’s be getting to that trail before the sun does.”
The two men ran east up Keller’s hill and then turned south at the great oak crowning it. The path they followed was an old one, worn into the grass by the feet of many mentors and their pupils during years and years of training. Nothing grew there anymore. The old, familiar path would lead them along Yester’s pond and then further south into the valley before turning back. A stiff breeze from the east gave the crisp, morning air a biting chill, perfect for the morning run. The sweat wouldn’t come in earnest until well after they rounded the pond.
Maelich reached the hut a step behind Ymitoth. Neither he nor the wily veteran paused to catch their breath. Instead, both men grabbed their swords and moved through various techniques. The air gradually warmed and the breeze died down as Maelich swung his blade about at the air mimicking battle with the elegant movements marking a swordsman of Havenstahl. His forehead quickly earned a glistening sheen of sweat. It was all but dripping into his eyes by the time Ymitoth turned to face him.
Ymitoth took a defensive stance and commanded, “Attack, lad.”
Maelich lowered his sword and slashed at Ymitoth with a backhanded strike. His blade tasted nothing but air as the old swordsman leaned away from the attack. Maelich followed with a forehand. Again, his mentor dodged it effortlessly. Finally, Maelich finished the progression with a lunge. He didn’t miss his mark. Unfortunately, his mark no longer matched his target, and he wound up in a heap at Ymitoth’s feet.
“Enough!” Ymitoth shouted. “After all these years we been training, is that the best ye can do? Get on your feet and try again. This time don’t be letting your body tell me where your blow be aiming to land.”
Maelich quickly scrambled to his feet apologizing, “Sorry, master.”
Ymitoth kicked him back to the ground, “Ye’re sorry? Ye’re sorry? This blade of mine will be taking the head clean off your shoulders if ye be spending your time on sorrow, lad. Get up and fight like ye’re trying to keep the blood in your body!”
Maelich leapt back to his feet and attacked again. His blade devoured the air with urgent passion. He barely noticed a proud smile creeping onto Ymitoth’s face. He couldn’t let up. That proud smile would quickly gnarl up into an angry sneer if he lost focus for even a moment, so he didn’t. Instead he remained aggressively on the offensive, attacking with a fury grossly excessive were his opponent any less than the greatest swordsman to ever live.
“Halt!” Ymitoth ordered. “Now, defend yourself.”
Maelich retreated a full twenty feet before even considering standing his ground. He nearly lost himself marveling at the master’s furious yet crisp and elegant technique. Each dazzling movement had purpose. Every step, every slash, every thrust, and every spin of the blade were strung together with the precision of an artist crafting a masterpiece. The attack seemed one long strike rather than several techniques executed in rapid succession. Maelich had all he could handle parrying, dodging, and countering in a desperate struggle to keep his master’s blade from running him through.
A steady stream of commands poured from Ymitoth’s lips, “Always be mindful of your opponent’s eyes, lad. They be telling ye where next he’ll strike. Stay loose behind your sword. Don’t be stiffening up like that. Ye got to be bouncing on the balls of your feet. Always be looking to counter a blow. Attack when your opponent exposes weakness.”
Maelich absorbed it all as he blocked and parried blow after blow, each moment searching for weakness, a rare opening in Ymitoth’s assault. Finally, it came. Maelich slipped to the right as Ymitoth’s sword slashed vertically down upon him. For a brief moment, the tip of it was trapped in the dirt. Maelich seized the opportunity and stepped on the old warrior’s blade, pinning it down. Then he pounded a quick elbow into the master’s chin while sweeping his feet in the same instant. With Ymitoth on his back a safe distance from his weapon, Maelich triumphantly placed his left foot on the master’s chest and pressed the edge of his own blade against Ymitoth’s neck.
“Submit,” Maelich grinned.
Ymitoth growled.
A moment later, the horizon was vertical and Maelich could see Keller’s hill between his feet. As he helplessly fell to the ground, he lost his grip on his sword. By the time his eyes came back into focus, he was lying on his back with Ymitoth’s blade pressed up against his throat.
“Never be underestimating your opponent, lad, even when ye believe he be beaten,” Ymitoth scolded.
Then the old warrior was gone. He was halfway to the hut before Maelich made it back to his feet. There would be no words of encouragement or further instruction. The lesson was finished and Maelich knew better than to expect any fatherly affection during training. An opponent cannot be counted on to show sympathy, compassion, or mercy. Therefore, none should be hoped for from the mentor. He hurried along behind Ymitoth who would rest in his chair while Maelich prepared the midday feast. It felt good to be back to training, normal.
chapter 8
the great mother
Cialia packed in silence with too many thoughts zipping around her head to focus on one idea. She paused from her toils and walked over to the window next to her bed. The valley stretched out like an empty void with the Sobbing Forest standing like an impenetrable wall at the other end. From Cialia’s room, it didn’t
look like much more than a green smudge on the horizon. Her thoughts pressed deeper into that smudge, that barrier standing tall against her will, into the minute details of the trees. ‘Are you there, my brother? If not, then where?’ His voice had become such a common occupant of her mind its absence left her feeling incomplete, like she was less than herself without him. Even when their minds weren’t speaking directly to each other, she could feel his presence. Since Ymitoth had passed, there was nothing. He simply wasn’t there, completely lost to her. Where could he be?
She stared a long time out that window, searching. It was more an effort of her mind than her eyes. No matter how hard she focused her intent, there wasn’t so much as a whisper from Maelich. A shiver crept down her spine as images of what must be going through her brother’s head filled her consciousness. A man and his father share a special bond. Even though Maelich and Ymitoth shared no blood, Cialia knew that bond was exceptionally strong between them. The bruise had to be deep. If only she could slip into his head and fill him with soothing thoughts, massage his wounded psyche. How muddled and confused must his mind be? Ymitoth stood so tall in Maelich’s eyes, as great as any of the gods, probably even as great as Helias or Coeptus. How could a force that mighty ever die? In her brother’s eyes, he probably couldn’t.
Where should she look? That was the question, the weight pressing down her brow. Maelich was always so busy catering to the people, spreading hope and preaching of Coeptus. She didn’t really even know him anymore. He had become something else. It was as if his life didn’t belong to him anymore and instead it belonged to the people who followed him. That same path had been calling her, but she didn’t let herself fall in like Maelich had.
Suddenly, the door burst open with Leisha storming in behind it. The cadence of her words was frantic, “Where is he? Where has Maelich gone off to?” The normally smooth skin of her face twisted into tight knots, joining her tone to express her panic, “Can you not see him with your mind? Do you not speak to him always without words? Where is he? Where is my son?”
Kallum's Fury (Lake of Dragons Book 2) Page 5