Darkling Fields of Arvon

by James G Anderson

  Galli made to lay a playful kick at Kal's shins again and laughed, then stretched himself along the bottom of the boat under an old canvas tarp. Almost as soon as the man laid his head down on his arm, he fell into a slow, steady snoring.

  "Ah, the sounds of the sea," Kal said aloud to himself. "Wind in the rigging, the splash of the bow, the gull's cry, and Galli's nose music."

  For a while, Kal concentrated on the stars and the dark water beneath them, his hand gripping the tiller loosely. The boat drove its way through the starlit waves, riding the crests, making good speed. If these conditions held, thought Kal, it would not be long before they made landfall farther up the coast at the Asgarth Forest. Not long after dawn, perhaps. And by this time tomorrow evening they might be in the company of the Holdsfolk again—theirs and that of the mysterious Aelward fellow.

  Kal's attention was drawn to the disjointed rhythm of his friends' snoring. He was surprised that he had remained so alert, not feeling the least tinge of tiredness, and was happy to let his companions sleep on. His mind began to wander the avenues of memory. Events of the past, both distant and recent, came to his thoughts in a chain of loose association. Beneath the blanket of the ocean's night sky, time slipped away.

  Kal became aware that the breeze had let up slightly, almost imperceptibly, and that the Ellyn had slowed somewhat. Looking up at the star patterns, he recognized from their new places in the sky that nearly two hours had passed since Galli had gone to sleep. He smiled to himself—perhaps it would be midmorning before they made landfall. The moon should be rising soon, he thought, and he craned his neck to look around the dark sail. No light yet showed on the eastern horizon. In fact, there was no light at all to the east or to the north. The Ellyn slowed further still, the breeze dropping steadily. Kal was puzzled—no stars shone ahead, nor to port, nor to starboard, and, off the mast, half the North Crown had disappeared. The star-littered dome of the sky simply slipped into nothingness, into a thick velvet blackness that engulfed a full third of the night's face.

  The breeze faltered, then came in gasping fits that teased the Ellyn's sail until it dropped off altogether, leaving the sailcloth hanging limply from the top spar. The boom tugged listlessly at slack lines as the boat rolled gently on the oily sea.

  A purple flash cut the darkness. Kal leaned forward and peered into the pitch black of night off the starboard bow. The air had grown still. Kal found it oppressive and hard to breathe, and his skin prickled at some unseen, unknown tension that seemed to charge the dead air. Then he heard the first low rumblings, as of a deep drum rolling on and on, growing in intensity, then subsiding with a restless grumble. In the wake of the thunder, he heard another sound, hushed at first, then higher pitched and becoming more insistent. It was a whisper that grew steadily louder and became a whining howl, threatening to become a roar.

  Again, the darkness was torn. Long purple-white fingers flickered in the distance, chasing across the horizon, probing violet mountains of towering cloud that filled the northern sky. In that moment of sustained light, Kal saw a long, broken line of white spray, rank upon rank of wind-whipped waves charging across the still sea, driven by the storm and bearing down upon the Ellyn.

  "Galli!" he cried, and leapt to his feet. "Galli! Galli, wake—"

  The storm winds hit first. The sail snapped tight, and the boom swung with fury over the boat, hammering Kal in the side of the head before tearing itself from the mast. Kal slumped onto the deck planking as the Ellyn heeled and yawed.

  " . . . cut it loose, Gwyn. Cut the rigging . . ."

  Someone was shouting. His head pounded.

  " . . . clear the sail from the . . ."

  He struggled to regain consciousness, like a man grasping for a rope that bounces from the fingertips but remains painfully out of reach. Someone stumbled over him. He heard panicked breathing.

  " . . . give her lee helm—the tiller, Gwyn, to the left . . ."

  The storm howled overhead.

  " . . . keep the wind astern . . . must let her run before the . . ."

  He was wet. And warm between his legs. It was raining hard. He tasted salt—salt and the metallic bitterness of blood.

  " . . . Kal? Kal!" Someone was calling him . . . .

  He wanted to respond . . . .

  He wanted to call back . . . .

  Stars swam before his eyes. And darkness washed over him.

  Nineteen

  Kal lay facedown. He felt heat on his back and on his head. His whole body ached. Something pulled gently at his legs, then stopped. They were wet, but his head and back felt dry. He lay still, struggling to clear his mind. Something pulled at his legs again. He thought he heard the distant rush of wind . . . . No . . . no, it was the sucking ebb of surf. And the cry of gulls. The storm had passed, that much was sure, but he was no longer sprawled on the hard deck of the Ellyn. There was grit in his mouth, and his cracked lips stung. Slowly, he opened his eyes, but he could not summon the strength to move.

  His consciousness drifted again . . . .

  The sound of a horse's whinny drew him back to his senses. There was a jangle of harness and tack. He sensed the soft pad of feet on sand nearby. He struggled to raise his head, but it remained heavy, resistant to his bidding. A sharp jab of pain jolted his side, and he felt himself being rolled over, limply, like a rag doll, so that he lay face to the sky, spread-eagled and blinking in the severe light of the sun. A leather riding boot lay planted on his chest. Shadow fell across his face as someone leaned over him, an arm extended straight. Kal looked from the stiff arm down the gleaming length of a sword blade poised over his throat.

  "Stand!"

  It was a sharp command, given with authority, although the voice was that of a youth, high-pitched, not yet broken and made husky by manhood. The boot was withdrawn. Dazed, shaking his head, Kal slowly pushed himself over and on to all fours. Seawater swirled around his knees and hands then washed back down across the sand.

  "Up!"

  The Holdsman rose shakily to his feet and grimaced at the pain. The sword stayed trained on him, its point inches from his stomach, as he stood. Kal looked down on a fresh, unshaven face framed by shining black hair cut straight in an even line below the ears and around the base of the skull. But a stripling, Kal thought groggily. Not but a lad. Kal looked the fellow slowly up and down. Before him stood a slight figure, his sword arm unwavering, clad in hose and a coarse, loosely fitted military tunic, its hood flung back. But for all his youth he was fierce-eyed and unflinching and seemed ready to thrust the shipwrecked Holdsman through at the slightest provocation. The boy reached forward and stripped Kal's hunting knife from its sheath at his side, glanced at the highland blade, and tossed it to the sand behind him before returning his hard gaze to Kal's face.

  "Perhaps this one will speak," he said, flicking the sword tip to Kal's throat again. The point brushed the delicate shape of the pios. "Ah, a bard is it, then? Well, that's imaginative."

  "Tell us, man, if you know what's good for you," said a gruffer voice that rang out from behind the boy. "Are you one of Lysak's hirelings? Tell us the truth now. Was it he that sent you?"

  For the first time, Kal became aware of something beyond the swordsman in front of him. A dozen grim men in battered leather jerkins had dismounted from their horses and stood ready but a few paces away with swords unsheathed. In their midst, behind the harsh-voiced questioner, sat Gwyn astride a horse, his hair and clothes bedraggled, his bound hands clutching the saddlebow.

  "Gwyn . . . ," Kal croaked, his throat parched and tight. "Gwyn, are you . . . ?"

  The bound Holdsman nodded to Kal.

  "Ah, so you have a tongue. Not like your friend here," said the young swordsman, stiffening, drawing Kal's attention back to him.

  "Who . . . who are you?" Kal managed to ask. His tongue felt thick and swollen.

  "No, rather, who are you? And why have you come to our land?"

  Kal tried to swallow. "Water . . . Water, please . . . ." />
  The boy shot a glance back over his shoulder to the man nearest him and jerked his head. The soldier slid his sword into its sheath and stepped forward, loosening a flask from his belt, which he handed to Kal. Seeing that the boy made no attempt to stop him, Kal slowly reached for the flask, took it, and lifted it to his lips. Kal closed his eyes and let the water slake some of his discomfort.

  "I am a bard," he said at length. "Here . . . my pios." Kal brought his hand up to the brooch.

  "Yes, a bard—so it would appear. But I doubt it. Tell me your name then, bard. Where are you from?" The boy's lips curled in something between a smile and a sneer, revealing a row of even white teeth. Light played in his green eyes. "Though I think you be from Lysak's land, and you be Lysak's man."

  "Lysak? I don't know who that is." Kal felt a twist of fear in his stomach, and his hands grew damp with sweat. His mind began to race through possible explanations for his presence on these unknown shores. The truth, he knew, must be guarded and portioned out with care. The boy's eyes narrowed at the pause, and Kal thought he felt the sword point press closer in impatience. He settled on a story that he felt least betrayed the truth and steadied himself.

  "I-I am Kalaquinn Wright," he said. A pang of fear clenched his gut. He shouldn't have given his real name. Nothing to do now but continue. He swallowed hard. "I don't know who Lysak is, but I am, in truth, a bard. My people are from the Keverang of Pelogran, the Asgarth Forest. My friend Gwyn and I were in a fishing boat when a storm arose and blew us out to sea. I can't remember what happened, as I was knocked unconscious in the boat. Next thing I know, I'm washed up here on your shores."

  The young man eased the grip on his sword and lowered it a touch.

  "Careful, milady." The gruff voice warned. "Don't trust him. We all know that Lysak's a snake. With all the many ruses he's tried, this may be yet a new trick."

  Kal's eyes widened as he looked from the speaker to the boy in front of him. "My lady?" Kal echoed. "Wh-who are you?"

  "Bind him! You're right, Durro. We must take care." The swordsman glanced back at a tall dark-browed man, the one with the gruff voice, then turned again to look at Kal.

  "I am Bethsefra," the swordsman said curtly, "daughter and sole heir to my father Uferian, King of the Oakapple Isles. You are in my custody." Bethsefra thrust her sword into its scabbard, turned heel, and strode towards the horses. "Take them back to town and secure them in the donjon. We'll question them further." There was a hint of delicacy to her movements not disguised by her boyish appearance or attire.

  So, Kal thought to himself as he watched the woman walk away, the Oakapple Isles . . . they had been driven by the storm as far south as that! It was a wonder that they hadn't been swept right out into the middle of the Cerulean Ocean. And here he was, found by the king's own daughter—and a wary and distrustful thing she was.

  "But Bethsefra," Kal protested, trying to suppress his rising ire, "I speak the honest truth! My friend and I, we are not your enemy. We bear you no ill will." Two burly soldiers stepped up with rope. "Wait! You must not do this! You've mistaken us!"

  "I hope so—for your sakes," she said, looking back at him. "For the time being, you'll be our guests."

  "But you must believe me . . ."

  Bethsefra returned to her horse and swung herself lightly into the saddle, leaving Kal to the rough attentions of the two heavy set soldiers assigned to secure him.

  "You mustn't do this! I demand that you release—"

  "And another thing, Durro."

  "Milady?"

  The woman wheeled her horse around until she sat looking down at her lieutenant. "Gag him. I think I prefer his companion's company. He's quieter. We'll break from our training for the day. Have the rest of the men search the shores. See what can be found. There may be others, so have them stay alert."

  "Yes, milady."

  Kal was manhandled onto the horse behind Gwyn, his wrists bound and a soldier's sweat-stained neckcloth placed between his teeth and firmly tied behind his head. Durro barked sharp orders, and his men broke into two groups, each riding off in an opposite direction along the beach. Durro got astride his own horse and snatched up the reins of the horse on which the two Holdsmen sat. He and four other men followed Bethsefra, whose mount trotted along the beach then turned away from the sea and scrambled up an embankment. With only Gwyn's tunic to grab hold of, and with two hands bound tight, Kal found it increasingly awkward to keep his seat on the horse. Still, he ventured to look back over his shoulder at the water, now calm save for a gentle swell, and hoped that Galli had escaped the storm's wrath, that he was safe, that he might find and rescue them.

  They crested the steep rise and crossed a windswept stretch of moor that had been set up as a makeshift grounds for martial exercises with quintains and straw-stuffed dummies, some of which sprouted arrow shafts left from an interrupted practice. The open heath broke against a forest of stately oaks, into which they plodded. The familiar musk of moist earth, leaf mould, and undergrowth was underlaid by the strange tang of sea air. The rope bit into Kal's wrists, and he hurt worse than ever, each jostle on the horse's back sending shooting pain through some part of his aching body. It seemed that the well-trodden track stretched interminably on and on, rising, then dipping, then rising again, but eventually they stopped in a clearing by a bridge that spanned a gorge loud with the sound of running water. A dour-faced man pulled the two Holdsmen ungently down from their mount one at a time. Bethsefra conferred with Durro, who kept an eye cocked on the two captives. At a nod from the woman, the lieutenant strode over to the Holdsmen, thrust a waterskin at Gwyn and cut away the gag from Kal's face. Kal gratefully took the waterskin from Gwyn's hand and rinsed the sour taste of the soiled cloth from his mouth. He handed the skin back to his companion and stepped towards the woman, only to be barred by a soldier and brusquely pushed back.

  "May I ask a boon, Bethsefra?" Kal cried out. "My lady?"

  Bethsefra turned to him. "You may ask," she said flatly. Durro's brow creased with suspicion.

  "A small boon," Kal ventured again, dropping his voice and holding up his bound hands. "My lady, have you tried sitting a horse with wrists lashed together like so, and naught but a scrap of tunic for a handhold?"

  "Yet another trick, milady," Durro said. "Don't trust him. No doubt he's as sly as Lysak, his master."

  "I tell you, I know no Lysak," Kal said wearily.

  "Bah, he lies. He lies through his teeth. Let me muzzle him again, milady."

  The woman lifted her hand to stay the soldier.

  "Look. Your men are fine archers." Kal tried hard to sound reasonable. "I'm a highlander—I have an eye for these things. How far would I get before they shot me down, bound or unbound?"

  "Our seaholding stands in the balance, and we'll not take any chance," said Bethsefra. "You will remain bound."

  Kal sighed heavily.

  "Be thankful I don't let Durro gag you again. Lomric," she continued, addressing the soldier nearest the Holdsmen, "get them mounted again. They've rested long enough."

  "But I won't try to escape. I can promise you as solemnly as you wish," Kal said, twisting away from the grip of his guard.

  "And I can promise you," Bethsefra said slowly, enunciating each syllable, "as solemnly as you wish, Master Kalaquinn Wright, if that is who you are, that if you do not do as you are bidden, I will have you lashed to that horse's rump like a sack of flour. Now, silence." Her eyes bored into Kal's for a long moment before she spun away and leapt to her saddle. With a shrug of resignation, Kal stopped struggling and let himself be helped onto the horse where Gwyn already was seated.

  "It seems we're in a tight fix again, Gwyn," Kal whispered to his friend's back. The mute Holdsman merely lifted his shoulders in a shrug, and Kal fell into a despondent silence at the realization that there was no escape from their predicament.

  When the party emerged at last from the forest, they entered a patchwork of rolling pastureland, fields in crop, meadows, an
d garden plots. A scattering of steadings dotted the countryside. The slow, rhythmic clang of hammer on steel ringing from a not-too-distant smithy met them, and here and there smoke rose lazily from stone chimney stacks.

  "It's Lady Bethsefra!" a small boy cried out, pointing with great excitement from the front door of a dwelling that pressed near the road. "And she's got two prisoners! Mean-looking fellows." Curiosity drew people from house, garden, and shop to gape at their lady, her soldiers, and the captives as they passed.

  Dominating the landscape in the near distance ahead loomed a gleaming white citadel, high on a hill. For a brief moment, Kal caught his breath. He forgot the chafing pain of the ropes that bound him and the dire thoughts that harried him. Swanskeld—he knew it must be Swanskeld, the town seat of the Oakapple Isles, a city of ancient renown. History accounted the town as spectacular not only for its location high on the chalk cliffs above the innermost end of the deep ocean inlet, Swanskeld Sound, but even more for the semblance that the white stone town, set upon the white cliffs, with its fortress walls and tower, had to the gentle creature that its name suggested.

  Bethsefra lead the party up the steeply climbing cobbled surface of the road, and the gently rolling farmland gave way to scrub and rocks and stunted trees. As the road climbed higher still, the ocean appeared far below to their left, its breakers crashing along the base of bold cliffs that curved to the foundation of the town's curtain wall. Indeed, the sweeping chalk cliff on the opposite side of the sound looked like the wing of an impossibly immense bird stretching forward to the open ocean from a white breast of stone ramparts overtopped by a citadel tower that was thrust upward, like the neck of a swan crying to the sky.

  As they drew nearer the town, Bethsefra and the horsemen did not slow but rather picked up their pace, turning from the road onto a less traveled path, spurring their mounts to an easy canter. Kal had slackened his grip on Gwyn's tunic and lurched to regain his balance for fear of tumbling off the horse as it, too, broke from a walk. Soon they had ridden into the shadow of the walls footing the base of the citadel. They reached a small iron-studded oak door, and all dismounted. The two Holdsmen stretched, stiff and sore. Kal looked up and along the curtain wall. Farther down the ramparts stood two larger towers. Men loafed atop them, leaning against their crenellated parapets. That would be the main gate, he thought, opening to the road they had traveled—this, then, would be the postern gate.