by Ulff Lehmann
Kildanor gave the impostor Duasonh a skeptical look, and, after the man grunted his approval, opened the cell door. With deft moves he unhooked the contraption binding her tongue and mouth, then, almost gently, he held a mug to her lips and began to pour. She gulped greedily. Water, cold and clear, and although she could feel it soaking the front of her dress she closed her eyes, enjoying the relief it brought.
When Ealisaid had sated her thirst, she again looked up at the two men and tried to speak. Nothing but a sore croak escaped her lips.
As if he could read her thoughts the impostor Duasonh said, “Your speech will return, the physicians assured me. The tongue-bond dried up your mouth and throat. So, until you can utter more than this, know that you won't be harmed…”
“…yet,” Kildanor interrupted.
She saw a flicker of annoyance on the impostor’s face. “Yet,” he concurred. “You have murdered, and destroyed homes; even if this wasn’t a time of war, those crimes are punishable by death. You will stand trial, and I assure you it will be fair, although the outcome will be the same.”
All she could do was listen and nod, play along with the game. This had to be a prank played on her by the other apprentices. The Phoenix Wizards could not be dead. Even if everything about the situation was unusual. The state of her home, the lack of communication with her superiors, seemed to indicate that something was amiss, but she refused to believe that her order was destroyed.
“You’ll be fed,” Kildanor said.
“And several guards will be close by, should you decide to ignore the terms,” the other man added.
Then, after they had locked the cell door again, both left her alone with her thoughts.
Her bonds merely encased her hands and arms, allowing her to stand and move, even though sleeping in any position other than upright would likely prove impossible. Dizziness claimed her, as she rose to look out the small, barred window inside the door, and it took several deep breaths before she managed to stay on her feet. For a moment she wondered how long she had already been inside this cell, but glancing at her gown she realized it could not have been that long. Hunger and exhaustion ruled Ealisaid’s body and mind, but finally she managed to hobble to the door and look out.
There wasn’t much to see. A similar door across from her, and stout walls, interrupted by more doors, up and down the long corridor. She heard the water dripping down the ceiling into puddles. This truly was a prison, not some illusion, she decided, and with that realization the tiniest flicker of doubt crept into her mind. Could the man be Baron Duasonh? Could the men, women and children she had flung away like ragdolls have been real? This doubt was quickly overshadowed by the rising dread that she was alone, in a world where the Phoenix Wizards were no more. If the Wizards were gone, how long had she been in hibernation? Was there anyone left who would still remember her? What had happened to her parents and siblings?
The prospect of a quick death, so strange, surreal, just mere heartbeats ago, seemed almost welcoming. What could be left for her in a world where her family, friends, and her fellow Wizards were no more? If the man she thought an impostor was truly who he claimed to be, then the man she knew as Baron Duasonh must have been dead for a while. Was he his son? Then the hibernation had lasted, instead of the supposed fourteen days, more than fifty years! If this man was the grandson… she refused to follow this thought to its conclusion. Although wizardry had set her apart from her family, she had still belonged. Now she was alone.
CHAPTER 27
“What the bleeding Scales do you think you are doing?” Kildanor barked at Cumaill Duasonh. He was furious at the younger man. Wizards had brought more harm than good to the lands, here or elsewhere. The Shadowpeaks had been the main stronghold of the Phoenix Wizards, but not the only one. Even now, a century later, merchants and minstrels who passed through town told of battles that had been fought in places he had never seen or heard of before. Whenever he heard some of the tales, he felt small, insignificant. As a young man he had never ventured far, and in the aftermath of the Heir War there hadn’t been the chance to see more of the world. No matter where the storytellers hailed from, no matter how dreadful the tales of woe were, one look at the shattered mountains north of Dunthiochagh was enough to prove that the fighting here had probably been the worst.
Now Cumaill let the sorceress live.
The Baron shook his head. “We have just gotten our hands on a potent weapon, my friend.”
Kildanor held up his hand. He had feared Duasonh would think along those lines. “True, an army out there that has already taken much of the realm, but to think you could control this wizard, or any other for that matter, is madness.”
The room they were in was a small study, set aside for clandestine meetings, conversations none of the servants or courtiers could be privy to. He sat down on one of the chairs and buried his face in his hands. “You have no idea what she is capable of.”
“Oh, but I do,” the Baron replied happily. “I’ve lived in sight of the Shadowpeaks all my life, and I know that the gorge rent through the mountains is unnatural. I’ve also seen the damage this woman alone has done to my people and their houses. But think of the possibilities!”
Kildanor’s head snapped up. “A wizard on a battlefield is a sight I would not wish upon my worst enemy. Only the oldest controlled the fury they unleashed. This child, she can barely control what she has summoned. We should be grateful what she called wasn’t a firewraith or a dragon. With her lack of experience either beast would have laid this city to waste! Scales, she collapsed after what should have been easy work to her. Trust in catapults and the skill in arms, not in sorcery. Flesh and blood and steel win battles. Wizards can't be controlled, Cumaill.”
“I will use whatever is available to me, and if this woman can take some of the Chanastardhians with her when her magic kills her, so much the better.”
Kildanor understood his friend’s desire to use whatever means necessary to fight the invaders, but to bring sorcery to the battlefield was not the same as recruiting a new band of bows or swords. “Magic is more powerful, yes,” he said as he traced the seam of his tunic, “but you will have the guilds and all captains against you.” He paused for a moment before he spoke again. “Not only them, but think of the victims’ families, of the churches. Damn, do you think Braigh will tolerate your actions? Or the Lawspeakers?”
“I’ll do what I have to,” Duasonh said. His voice had taken on the same steely quality the Chosen knew well when his friend was determined to pursue a path. “The people will fall in line.”
“We are better prepared than Harail.” He knew it was a weak argument, especially with Jathain’s failed rebellion only a few days past.
“We don’t have any confirmed numbers regarding the enemy’s strength,” the Baron said as he began to pace the length of the room. “We don't know what kind of hidden doorways my cousin left behind for the Chanastardhians. And who is to say there aren’t more of his accomplices left within the city?”
“Anything we could retrieve from the rubble of his room?” Kildanor asked although he already knew the answer. Aside from the list of contacts Jesgar Garinad had stolen from the smuggler’s hideout, there was not so much as a scrap of paper left whole in Jathain’s study or chambers.
“My cousin was thorough,” Duasonh grumbled. “Think the Wizardess could help?”
The thought had crossed Kildanor’s mind, but he’d dismissed it on the grounds that the woman had collapsed after just the bit of magic she had used to blast her path through two buildings.
“She might,” he finally said. The Chosen wanted to say more, when he felt the Calling. His brothers had need of him. “Ask her,” he said, stood, and added, “But first you need to convince the others that this is a risk worth taking.”
Before Cumaill could speak again, he left the study. He needed solitude and sunlight to focus on the message. The sun was setting, so the appropriate place to be was one of the towers on the w
estern side of the Palace’s battlements. Servants, clerks, warriors, and courtiers passed as he hurried through the hallways, down the stairs and onto the inner bailey. He ignored the greetings some of them muttered, ignored the salutes a few of the men and women he had fought to free the Palace, his mind racing.
A Calling. Such a thing hadn’t happened in years, and the last time was well before his banishment from Harail.
Despite being Second of the Chosen, his status wasn’t as valued as Orkeanas’. He was just second of a score and two, not the leader. Nothing in the past decades had demanded his attention. So why now? Why call him now when Chanastardh had invaded… he stopped abruptly.
Could it be that …? No, he dismissed the thought immediately. Who would dare?
There had to be another reason. When he reached the western rampart, he ascended one of the towers and looked to the west. “I’m listening,” Kildanor whispered. And listen he did.
CHAPTER 28
“We’ll reach Dragoncrest Castle tomorrow,” Lord Nerran said as he dismounted.
Until this moment Jesgar had thought the weapon training with Baron Duasonh’s men had been very harsh, but now he knew better. He was no horseman, barely knew how to ride such a beast, and yet he had sat in a saddle for almost an entire day. His back, rear, and legs felt like one big bruise, and when he tried to lift himself off the horse, he fell like a sack of grain. “I’ll just remain here,” he grunted, the ground felt safe and comforting.
The Riders laughed and began to set up camp. Jesgar watched as they, albeit stiffly, moved about their business much like he and his brother had done after a hard day at the forge. Riding a horse seemed casual with them, but would they feel like he did were they to stand a day in a smithy? That thought gave him the focus to sit up, if they could still walk and talk, so could he.
“That’s the spirit, lad,” Lord Nerran grinned and held out a hand to pull him up to his legs. “You need to keep moving; otherwise you’ll be of no use to us tomorrow.”
Today they had inspected the strongholds of Silver Meadows and Rainbow Ford, and after his discovery of the hidden steps that led up the wall of the castle at Falcon’s Creek all of the men knew what to look for. The traitor Jathain had tampered with all of the fortresses’ walls, but Jesgar agreed with Lord Nerran that finding and destroying the ladders was more important than searching for the man responsible. Jathain would almost be in Harail by now, and if the handholds were removed at least part of the traitor’s plan was thwarted. There had been some desertions, but it seemed that not one man loyal to Jathain was left in the castles.
Jesgar stood and winced as he tried to stretch his back. “Bloody horses,” he grumbled.
“Nothing wrong with the horses, lad,” the older man said with a chuckle. “You just ain’t used to them.” The warrior looked at him and shook his head. “You need to straighten up.” And without a word of warning he drew Jesgar into a hug, wound his arms around his lower back, and pulled. He howled in pain as he felt his spine pop into place. “See?” the warrior released him, grinning widely. “That’s better, eh?”
“I’ll tell you when my ears stop ringing,” Jesgar grunted, but already he felt the pain lessening. “How can you stand being in the saddle for so long?”
“Ah, lad, when you’ve spent as much time riding as I have, you can even sleep while your horse just walks on.”
He didn’t want to consider that idea. There was something oddly comforting about the thought of sleeping on a cold stone floor, compared to resting on the back of a horse. “I’ll never get used to that,” he muttered.
One of the other riders, a man named Briog, came up to them. “Mate, you better get used to it.”
Jesgar looked at the tall, blond, older looking man and frowned. “Why’s that? I’m no horseman.”
Briog looked to the leader and shrugged. “You want to tell him?”
“Nah, lad, you do it. I’ll set up the guards, and pick a cook for supper.” The old warrior turned and walked toward the camp where Riders had begun tethering the horses and starting a fire.
“Don't let Gavyn anywhere near the pots!” Briog called.
“Never! Not even if my life depended on it!” Lord Nerran’s reply was equally loud, and Gavyn, the youngest of them, muttered something unintelligible, much to the amusement of the others.
Jesgar chuckled along with the rest of the party, and immediately felt the pain in his back returning. He hissed and was rewarded with an amused snort from Briog.
“It gets better,” the warrior said. Then he added, “After a while that is.” He looked at Jesgar and chuckled. “First time outside the city-walls?”
The spy nodded. “All the other times I could still see the walls. That doesn’t count, does it?”
“No, not really.” Briog walked to Jesgar’s horse and began to remove the saddle. “I’ll do this for you, tonight. By tomorrow you have to take care of your horse yourself, understood?” The warrior hit the mare on her rump when she started to inch away. “Hold the reins, will you?”
Jesgar complied. “How long have you been riding with Lord Nerran?” he asked. He was curious about the old, fatherly, yet distant warrior.
“A couple of years,” Briog replied, hoisting saddle and blanket off the horse’s back.
Silent, he waited for the man to continue. Instead of talking, Briog opened one of the saddlebags and retrieved something that looked like a small, bent poker. “Ever scraped a horse’s hooves clean?” the rider asked, taking hold of the reins.
Even though he had worked in a smithy for most of his life, he had never done such. Ben had always taken care of the horses, so the only thing he knew about them was how to beat the iron into horseshoes. Jesgar shook his head.
“A day you learn something new is a day well spent,” Briog said and handed him the scraper. “Just stand next to her, facing her rear end. Then gently grab her lower leg, she’ll do the rest. When her hoof is up, just scratch out the dirt and you’re done.”
He followed the instructions, and indeed it was easy, aside from his legs and back still protesting whenever he moved. The mare seemed used to the procedure, and within a few moments all four hooves were clean. “Done,” he said.
“Next time, just remember not to move around the horse’s back,” Briog said with a hoot. “Some aren’t as docile as our girl here. Some do kick. My brother got one in the head once, and he couldn’t see straight for a few days.”
Jesgar blanched. “I’ll remember that.”
“Now you rub her down. Get that piece of cloth from your kit when you return the scraper, make sure the bugger is free of dirt, mind you.”
He replaced the tool in the saddlebag and pulled out a two-foot square of blanket, there wasn’t much else in the bag. “And now?”
“Now you rub her down, top to bottom.”
“What for?” he wondered aloud.
“We didn’t do any galloping today, but after a day of hard riding, horses, like men, get wet. They sweat like us, you see. If they don’t get a chance to get rid of that sweat they’ll catch a cold, sometimes.”
He realized Briog hadn’t really answered his question, yet, and while he began to rub down the mare, he repeated his query. “So how long have you been in Lord Nerran’s warband?”
The warrior stroked the horse’s muzzle and looked at Jesgar. “He usually doesn’t like people calling him Lord Nerran. To us he’s just Nerran. One of the lads, you know? I’ve been riding with him for the better part of twenty years, I think.”
“Always for Dunthiochagh?” Jesgar kneeled to wipe down the mare’s front leg.
“Nah, Nerran was always busy doing this and that for one lord or another.”
“He’s not from Dunthiochagh?” he stood and wiped along his steed’s back.
“Top to bottom, mate,” Briog said. Jesgar complied. “Oh, he is from the city, sure enough, but he ain’t the sort to get caught up in all those politics.”
“So, what did he do?”
the spy asked.
“He, and most of us for that matter, were traveling, looking for trouble, that sort of thing, you know?”
It seemed as if Briog avoided the heart of the matter. Jesgar decided to be diplomatic; after all, he did have experience with learning what he wanted to from people reluctant to talk. “So, what did you mean with me getting used to long rides?” he changed the topic.
“Well,” the warrior said and scratched his chin. “It’s like this; Dragoncrest is furthest away from the city, and closest to Harail. If I were the Chanastardhian general I’d get my troops moving to Dunthiochagh as soon as possible before winter comes. That general probably still believes Jathain is with us and that he’ll open the gates.” Briog paused and scratched his chin again. “See, you don’t want to lay siege to a city in winter.”
“He won’t bother with the castles?” Jesgar said, more to himself than to the warrior.
“Not if he can take the city before the snows come. But that’s just it, to claim the city before it starts snowing, he has to move fast. Gods know it’s already getting crisp and cold.”
He moved around the horse’s front to the other side and began to move the cloth up and down the mare’s left flank.
“Ah, you’re catching on,” Briog said.
“So, you think the enemy is already on the move?” Jesgar concluded the other man’s thought.
“Aye. He’d be stupid not to get his troops moving. And if we see their vanguard it’ll probably be too late for us. Dragoncrest will have scouts out so if we’re lucky, we get a warning and can make for Dunthiochagh at a decent speed. If not, it will be slightly quicker, with no rest.”
Jesgar groaned, partly because of his aching back, partly because of the thought of spending more time than he already had in the saddle.
“You’ll get used to it,” Briog said, winking.
