Darkling Fields of Arvon

by James G Anderson

  "M-my lord Lysak—"

  "Yes, you said that already!" Lysak snarled in the man's face.

  "He has come. He is here, in Woodglence. She is with him."

  "What?"

  "She is with him—she is here with him," the man said, pointing blindly behind himself in the direction of the door through which he had entered only a moment before. "They only just arrived, but now make ready to sail. They will leave, even at this late hour. Their ships lie ready, and they leave within the half hour."

  A thin smile spread across Lysak's face, and his eyes flashed. He pulled at the points of his beard and turned to those at table with him.

  "And so, now is the time for action. Now is the time for me to take what is mine." The smile disappeared. "Come!" he barked and started across the room as men scrambled to their feet.

  "Bethsefra . . . ," Kal breathed with dawning comprehension. "Now we have a quarrel."

  "Who?" Devved said.

  "Later, Devved, later. Gwyn," Kal said, looking to the mute Holdsman, "follow them out. Watch where they go. We'll meet you at the alley to the side, with the weapons. Wait . . . wait a moment so they don't see you following . . . . Good, go now."

  Gwyn slipped through the crowded room. When he had left the Mourning Crown after Lysak and his men, Kal led the others out through the hallway by which they had entered.

  "What, leaving already, my loves?"

  Mearie's short bulk blocked the way through the kitchen. The woman stood with her turned wrists planted upon her hips, the same wooden spoon firmly in the grip of one hand, and eyed the group with disapproval. Tromwyn pushed past Kal.

  "Mearie, dear, were it not for more urgent matters that demand the attentions of my companions here, we would, without a doubt, be still at table making demands upon your kitchen craft—oh, but if they could taste your tarts! But sadly . . ." The tousle-haired blacksmith fumbled with his purse and managed to extract three coins, which he pressed into the fat woman's hand as he bent to kiss her round cheek. "With our compliments," he said. "Please pass these along to your goodman."

  The woman broke into a smile as Tromwyn released her hands and led the other men out into the rear courtyard to the parting salutations of cooks and scullions.

  Galli and Devved retrieved the weapons stashed in the shed, and Galli handed Kal Rhodangalas on its sword belt, which Kal strapped around his waist as they darted up the alley to the riverside road. There Gwyn stood, and, as they met him, he strode off, leading them farther downriver, pointing to the hurrying figures of Lysak and his men jostling their way through the press of traffic on the cobbled street.

  "Uferian!"

  A voice drifted to the group above the din of the crowded street. People turned to look for its source.

  "Uferian!"

  Ahead of them, Lysak had come to a stop in front of two river sloops. From the masthead of each ship, a long black pennant furled and unfurled languidly in the evening breeze. On each pennant was applied the figure of a silver swan. On the quayside, Lysak and his men from the Mourning Crown were joined now by three others in the reddish-brown tunics of the seaholding of Melderenys, a blue crown on the chest and back of each.

  "Uferian!" the young Melderenysian lord yelled again.

  A crowd was gathering around Lysak and his men in hopes of a spectacle. Kal lifted a hand to stop his companions as they neared the back edge of the growing ring of people. Through the throng, Kal saw a cart and several pack animals being unburdened of their loads. The cart and animals were hurriedly led to the rearward ship, away from the Melderenysians, by a handful of men who cast anxious glances to one another.

  "Uferian! Show yourself!" Lysak bellowed, his tone insistent and increasingly impatient. "Uferian!"

  From the cabin on the first of the two ships, a silvery head appeared, and a man, long-haired and bearded, dressed in black leggings, tunic, and cloak, the silver swan of the Oakapple Isles upon his chest, stepped onto the deck and came to stand amidships at the rail. There was a palpable strength in the man's carriage, and his face was expressionless as he looked down upon Lysak and his men. From the cabin behind him, a young woman emerged, her fair skin white against the black of her short-cropped hair and the dark green dress that she wore. At sight of the woman, breath caught in Kal's throat. She walked to the rail beside King Uferian.

  "Bethsefra." It was Lysak who spoke, and though Kal could not see his face, he knew from the tone that the blond man leered at the princess.

  "Lysak, you toad," she said. "What do you—" Her father placed his hand upon hers where it rested on the ship's rail, bidding her to silence. He turned, pulling the edge of his long cloak behind him, and descended the gangplank to the quay, coming to a standstill in front of Lysak. In his wake, on the river sloop, two retainers in black livery appeared on deck. These took a quick survey of the situation, then strode down from the ship and drew up on the cobbles, flanking their lord, their hands poised on their sword hilts. Snatching up a sword from somewhere on deck, Bethsefra also hastened from the ship and pushed past one of the men to stand at her father's right side. Lysak had not moved, nor had his men. Kal could sense the tension thickening over the crowded quayside.

  "Uferian, you'll not hold out against me any longer. I've come to take what's mine." The malice and hatred in Lysak's voice were unmistakable, and it was some moments before the silver-maned lord addressed him. When he did, it was with a voice of calm authority, low, though still loud enough for the entire assembly of onlookers to hear.

  "I regret your father's death, Lysak. He was a man of some nobility, though greatly misguided by his ambition. Sadly, not a shred of what little greatness he may have had can be found in his son."

  "You dare speak of greatness? What would you know of it? I will show you greatness, for it is not measured by the man, but by his actions. I will accomplish what my father never had the courage to do."

  "You insult his memory."

  "And you insult me. I will have what's mine!"

  "And by what right do you make claim to the throne of the Oakapple Isles?"

  "I will have what is mine!"

  "What claim can you make to my throne, Lysak? Speak!"

  "Your throne? Your throne? You and your throne are but a nuisance. There ever was only one throne for all the isles of the seaholdings—mine. The true seat of all of Arvon. The Isles are but a start. My father never saw beyond that, but I do. I will make suit with my lord Ferabek for my rightful place as the high king of Arvon, for I occupy the true throne, not the Mindal's dog, Gawmage. I hold the true throne of Arvon. I do. I sit upon the Seaheld Throne, king in unbroken succession from Ardiel himself, and I will wear his crown!" Lysak's voice had reached a fevered pitch, and, as he fell silent before the implacable sternness of Uferian, the air seemed to crackle with the strain of enmity between the two men.

  All work had stopped on the ships, and two more men in black livery now stood at the opening of the ship's rail atop the gangway, even as three men from Uferian's other ship edged through the encircling throng. Beside Kal, Gwyn had discreetly readied his bow. At a nod from Kal, Galli and Devved did likewise. Then Kal pressed closer into the crowd behind Lysak, his companions following his lead.

  "You are mad," Uferian stated flatly, his cold blue eyes locked on Lysak, "mad if you think Ferabek will grant you anything other than the sharp edge of his—"

  "Ah, but I have assurances, guarantees that whoever serves Ferabek faithfully—"

  "Faithful? You?" Uferian laughed mirthlessly. "Boy, the Boar makes no promise that he intends to honour, of this you can be sure. And you—"

  "I will take what is mine," Lysak said. "And to start, I will take a queen." In a flash, Lysak shot a step forward and seized Bethsefra by the arm, shaking loose the sword she held, which fell to the street with a clang, and pulled her back to his side. The young woman struggled against the Melderenysian's grip.

  "Let go of me!" she cried. "Take your hands off of me at once!"

  "
I will do as I please," Lysak said, pulling her closer still and, with his unencumbered hand, slapping her hard across the face. "And I will have you."

  The sound of steel drawn from hardened leather filled the crowded quayside as Uferian and his men unsheathed their weapons. In immediate response, the russet-clad men beside Lysak drew their weapons.

  "Release her," Uferian said, raising his sword. "Release her at once."

  Lysak laughed. "What? Will you stain your sword with my blood as well?" he said, dropping his voice. "Is it not enough that you should fell the tree, but that you would strike at the sapling as well? Press your point now, and, so doing, you confess your guilt and condemn yourself. It would be a deed in proof of what you stand accused."

  "Of what I stand accused? You whelp! I may stand accused of your father's death—accused by you—but I am faultless of the deed. Your father's blood drips from your sword, not mine."

  "My sword, your sword, what is the difference? Torras died because of your stiff-necked refusal to submit to the court of Tarkhuna."

  "What is this madness?" Uferian said, his brow furrowing in exasperated anger.

  "But submit to my will, you shall. I will denounce you, old man, before Ferabek. This Convocation in Dinas Antrum will be your end. But act now, do, try to kill me, and justice will be served. You won't live to see the stars tonight—or perhaps she won't." Lysak seized the woman and swung her around, her back to his chest, and drew a knife to her throat. He began to retreat slowly with Bethsefra backwards into the crowd.

  "Madness, this is madness . . . ." Uferian broke his gaze from Lysak and began to look around himself, his face growing pale. "This is madness . . . ," he said again, his tone betraying his sense of desperation. He lowered his sword and, with a gesture of his hand, bade his men to lower theirs.

  "Father?" Bethsefra whispered. "Father? No, no, no!" she began to scream in dawning realization of what had happened, struggling anew against her captor's grip.

  Still, Lysak and his men backed away from Uferian, the crowd giving way to them step by step.

  "Let her go," Kal said. The point of his hunting knife dug into Lysak's back between his shoulders. The man stopped in his tracks and gripped Bethsefra's arms more tightly. "I said,'Let her go,' " Kal whispered into his ear through clenched teeth. He pressed the knife, and the blade's point bit through the man's tunic. Lysak flinched at the knife's prick. To his left and right, pushing past his own men, Holdsmen stepped forward, each with a bow drawn to full bend.

  "All right," Lysak said, releasing his grip on the woman, who immediately fled to her father's side.

  "Your men . . . ," Kal whispered in his ear.

  "Drop your weapons," Lysak said. At first the Melderenysians were hesitant to obey. "Do it! Now!" Lysak barked, and one by one his men let their swords fall, clattering, to the cobbles.

  Kal slowly circled the Melderenysian lord, keeping his knife at the man's neck, until he and the other Holdsmen stood facing Lysak's men, their backs to Uferian and his.

  "So, it seems that we do have a quarrel after all," said Lysak, staring at Kal through narrowed eyes.

  "Galli," Kal said without taking his own eyes from Lysak's.

  "Aye, Kal."

  "If he moves . . ." Kal let the implied threat hang in the air as he lowered his knife, replaced it in the sheath at his belt and, stepping back, drew Rhodangalas from beneath his cloak and levelled the sword at Lysak's throat. From the corner of his eye, Kal saw Tromwyn, his own sword drawn, step through the line of Lysak's men. The marchlander, his grey thatch wild, his black eyes wide and darting around the crowd, sidled up to Kal.

  "Go, Tromwyn," Kal said in a low voice, not looking at the man. "Leave now, while you may. Before the town guard comes, go."

  Lysak's pale face split in a grin, his eyes on Rhodangalas. "There's a pretty blade for a pretty boy," he said.

  "My lord Uferian," Kal said, raising his voice to address the man standing behind him, "do your ships stand ready to make sail?"

  "Ready enough," came the response.

  "Then I would invite your lordship, the princess Bethsefra, and your lordship's party to board," continued Kal, still holding Lysak in an unflinching stare. "And, by your leave, my lord, you'll have a clutch of new passengers."

  "And how shall I address the rescuer of my daughter?"

  "We would call ourselves friends of Uferian and friends of the Oakapple Isles, we and our companions."

  "It is Kalaquinn, Father," Bethsefra said. "He upon whom you bestowed the title 'Friend' as the one to whom you owe your life—now twice, and I myself once."

  "You highland ditch rat," Lysak hissed, his grin vanished from a face now twisted in rage. "I'll not be stopped by the likes of you, nor my designs foiled. You'll not escape me this easily. Uferian's throne will not last long enough for you to hide behind."

  Uferian issued a series of quick commands to his men to prepare the ships for sail without delay, then said, "You and your companions are right welcome, Kalaquinn."

  Kal shot a look over his shoulder. Men hurried over the river sloops, stowing the last of the baggage, hauling on lines and sheets and readying the sails to be set. Several of Uferian's men now stood on deck along the rails, their bows trained on the Melderenysians. Kal nodded and said, "Gwyn, Devved, let us go."

  Galli glanced at Kal. "But, Kal, our plan—"

  "Has changed. Onto the ship, carefully now."

  Tromwyn remained nearby and once again pressed beside Kal and whispered hoarsely, "Let me come with you, please. Please . . . Kalaquinn"

  "Tromwyn, this is not your fight."

  "But I would join you."

  "No. Leave now, while you still may." Kal looked at the blacksmith. "If you follow me, it may well cost you your life."

  "Then I would die," said Tromwyn, leaning even closer. "But at least I would die in service of the king."

  Kal saw the earnestness in the man's expression and heard it in his voice, and in the man's shining black eyes he saw the reflection of his own face. Kal turned away from him.

  "No. You must leave at once," the Holdsman said. "There is still time. Go now, Tromwyn, and may Wuldor ever hold you in his eye."

  The marchlander hesitated, half turned away and hesitated again as if caught in the throes of a dilemma. Finally, he slid his sword into its scabbard and melted into the press of people on the quayside, still gripped by curiosity.

  Kal glanced around him. All of Uferian's men, as well as the three other Holdsmen, were aboard the ships now, the first of which, at Uferian's command, was already nosing out into the river. At last Kal lowered his weapon from Lysak's throat, turned, and ran aboard the remaining ship, where archers lined the rail. No sooner had he set foot on deck than was the gangplank pushed overboard into the water and the mainsail hoisted.

  Following her sister ship, the river sloop slipped slowly away from the quay. On the quayside, Lysak remained standing, unmoved, though Kal saw him turn to give a sharp command to his men, two of whom disappeared into the crowd. In the failing light of evening, Kal could still see the man's expression as he turned back to look at the retreating ships across the growing span of water. He wore a smug, knowing grin as he twisted the points of his red beard with one hand and stepped to the edge of the quay. In but a few seconds, Lysak's men had returned to his side dragging between them the struggling marchland blacksmith. Lysak's grin spread into a gash of a smile as his harsh laughter drifted across the water. The blacksmith's head jerked back as Lysak grabbed his hair, and Kal saw the flash and glint of a blade, reddened by the evening sky. Blood washed down the blacksmith's breast. His limp body began to crumple, until Lysak pushed it forward and it fell with a splash into the green water of the Winfarthing.

  A stunned silence gripped those standing with Kal along the rail of the ship, a silence broken only by Lysak's continued laughter, now grown shrill and maniacal. The lifeless body bobbed to the surface and slowly turned, facedown, amid a red-black cloud of blood that blossome
d and billowed around it in the river. Devved, standing to Kal's left, drew a deep sobbing draught of air. Like a great bellows venting, he screamed, "No, Tromwyn, no!" In that instant, before Kal had time to act or even speak, the big man drew back his bowstring and let loose an arrow with a twang that sounded as thunder.

  Not two dozen yards away across the water, Lysak's laughter suddenly died and his eyes grew wide. His hands grasped the fletched end of the highland shaft that protruded from his throat. His mouth opened and closed noiselessly as he staggered back a step, overcompensated, and fell face-first into the river, knocking into the blacksmith's corpse and sending it sluggishly spinning out after the river sloops into the upper Winfarthing River.

  Twenty-Seven

  "That's twice now, Devved. Twice, you've committed us to a path of blood." The young Hordanu did not look at the broadly built Holdsman leaning beside him at the rail but continued to contemplate the play of morning sun on the gently stirred surface of the water between the two river sloops. Beyond their sister sloop, along the north shore of the Winfarthing, the forest was thinning, replaced now by an irregular pattern of field and copse, with here and there a stretch of ploughland. On the riverbank, a farmer, watering his oxen, looked up at the passing ships. Devved remained silent, his face lowering and sullen, seemingly oblivious to both Kal's words and his presence.

  Kal had lain awake in his cot most of the night, wrestling with the most recent turn of events and how they might further complicate an already impossibly complicated plan.

  "So, do you feel that your hunger for revenge has been sated?" Kal spoke again.

  "He was a highlander in need," Devved said in little more than a low growl, still staring fixedly across the water to the other ship. "A highlander . . . A highlander about to be ruthlessly slaughtered." His thick fingers toyed with a bit of frayed yarn that he had plucked from his sleeve.

  "The act would have fallen on the conscience of the doers—"

  "And on us as idle onlookers, for pity's sake!"