by David Rice
Volsun laughed. “An’ who told ye that?”
Grumm and Olaf exchanged looks. “An elf,” Grumm volunteered slowly. “Well, it was a pair of elves with a special sword we found in the ruins of—”
“What elf? What sword?” Volsun snipped. “Could someone tell me this whole story from beginning to end in a way that makes sense?”
“Ye won’t believe it,” Norin interjected. “Jarl Beru didn’t at first.”
Volsun’s eyes fell upon the Flintedge dwarf and remembered the way he had looked when he first came to Thunderwall so many cycles ago. His temper calmed. “But Beru heard this fully and believed this tale enough to send you all to me?”
“Yes, Jarl Volsun,” Norin replied. “He felt it was the only thing to do.”
“I have to add,” Pell spoke up, “The gnomes from Halnn wanted the gem back so badly they sent a bunch of their bastard cannon after it. Halnn thinks the humans had it stolen, and
Beru wanted the gnomes and humans to have that disagreement without any interference.”
Volsun wrinkled his brow and then chuckled. “So, yer telling me the gnomes are going to attack the humans to get a gem that we have instead? A powerful gem? An artifact of the early days?”
Everyone nodded.
The Jarl grinned. “Fine then. Tell me the story, don’t spare the details, and I promise to not interrupt.”
Grumm took a deep breath and began.
XXXIX
Ulimbor, the All-Father of his people, basked in the strength of the weave as it pulsed through his muscles and bore him high into the sky. Nearby and circling, a dreadful purple flame everpresent in its eyes, was his alpha drake. Once a creature of pure chaotic malice, it had been ensnared by the bloodflame sacrifice of his eldest son and was now his to command.
Below lay the edge of Longwood’s northern boundary where it buttressed against the Whitemantle Mountains. To the west glimmered the distant sea and, hidden in its vast hazy turquoise, the Salt Isles. To the east sprawled the brown thawing expanse of The Steppes where fragments of Horsewarden clans fled from his power. He would turn upon those targets in due time, but the victory he craved most, the one that would set his people free of their prison atop the world, awaited him to the south in the Heartwood. Crush the Longwood elves, grind their arrogant airs of superiority to dust and he knew that he would be able to rightfully rule forever.
Even the One, asleep in his icy barrow of Xlaesin, would be incapable of intervention.
Ulimbor pointed east and his voice thundered over the thousands encamped below. “Two Tribes, Skyrider and Pale Moon, prey upon the last of the Horsewardens. Press them into the unfamiliar mountains at the eastern edge of the world. Make them beg for their deaths.” Ulimbor laughed as the shadow of his drake fell across the camp inspiring all it touched. “The rest of you shall be the harbingers of our new age. We march into Longwood and nothing touched by our lesser brothers shall be allowed to survive.”
Upon receiving their orders, the massive camp began to stir to motion. By nightfall, five thousand of his swiftest would be pushing east upon their mounts, and another thirty thousand would be hacking down the northernmost redwoods of Longwood to construct his war machines.
Soaring upwards, his drake puffed a blast of purple flame, impatient for the promised slaughter.
His body thrumming with pleasure, Ulimbor let himself drift slowly downward. Above, the drake stopped suddenly to hover, its massive wings blasting the air. Its head turned quizzically to the southeast, his nose snorted at the air, and its mouth curled into a snarl.
Ulimbor halted his descent and thundered another command, “Drake. We will soon feed to the south. Remember who you serve.”
The drake flashed a contemptuous sidelong glance towards the All-father then continued to focus upon the southwest.
Ulimbor pushed aside any concern, turned his back upon the fickle creature, and completed his casual glide to the forest floor. Serfs hurried to his side to dress him in his war mantle and to offer plates of food and drink. He shouldered the mantle and dismissed all other comforts with a wave. He was troubled that he could not sense what had distracted the drake but knew that his son was so malleable, so fully in his grip, and so intricately planted in the drake’s tiny brain, that there was nothing to fear. He smiled widely as a vision of his inevitable victory flooded through him. Ulimbor looked skyward and howled in joy. There was no doubt now. Nothing would stop them. Within a fortnight, Longwood would be no more.
***
Duke Wyntress exchanged nervous smiles with Baron Egrant and another officer who had just arrived unexpectedly in his parlour.
“Thank you for coming so quickly, Duke Wyntress,” Egrant said. He pointed to a young officer who was casting a contemptuous glare upon all of the household staff. “Major Codie Poll has just arrived. He is bearing an executive order from Marshall Gow, and some additional messages intercepted by one of his informants.”
Wyntress felt the breath retreat from his chest. He placed a hand upon the mantle of his fireplace and forced casual banter to trip from his lips. “Please, carry on with your duties, Baron.
I have to report that my daughter is overwhelmed with excitement at the prospect of relocation to Eastfork.” He was never a good liar and had to take a seat to recover his wits.
Egrant smiled briefly, sighed, and then produced a series of letters. “I have to admit what I am about to show you is rather awkward for me.”
Wyntress accepted the letters. The first was in Gow’s hand. “Oh my,” he said as he skimmed its contents. “I hope people are not foolish enough to desert.”
“Some are,” Codie chimed in, “and they’ve been rightfully punished as the traitors they are.”
Baron Egrant glared at the young Major who stood there, his chin protruding and his eyes shining. “I will take it from here, Major,” the Baron chided lightly.
Wyntress turned to the remaining correspondence. It was written in a scribbled hand but he recognized the messages instantly. These were partial translations of the coded letters he and Arundy had penned. Everything was lost. He sat back and shivered while his voice tried to drum up some measure of displeasure.
“As you must realize, this puts us both in a delicate position, doesn’t it?” Egrant stated slowly.
“Fabrications and lies,” Wyntress stumbled.
Major Poll huffed and opened his mouth to speak. Egrant raised his palm. “You are dismissed, Major. See to it that your troops are quartered for the night. I shall have orders for you soon enough.”
Codie bit his lip. His eyes were poison as they fell upon Wyntress. “I will await your instructions, Your Grace.” He turned sharply on his heels and marched from the room.
Egrant waited until he was sure the major had descended the stairs. He waved the rest of the servants from the room and then stood close to Wyntress and the fire.
“I met your people coming in from the fields. They’re not all your people are they?”
Wyntress stared into the fire and said nothing.
“Their clothes are a hodgepodge of necessary invention, the lilt of their voice reminds me of a distant duchy, and a few have tried to disguise uniforms that I still recognize.”
Wyntress shrugged. “With such a shortage of people, we’ve taken in whoever comes. Some of the survivors from Stronn’s lands came here instead of journeying to Hillsedge.” Wyntress began to recover his strength. “I don’t pay attention to the trivial, Baron. People are people.”
“And I know some of these people are from the Highlands, Your Grace.”
Wyntress did his best to remain calm. “Does it matter? We are blessed to have enough to put in crops for this year.”
Egrant sighed. “I could report it this way to Marshall Gow, that you have more workers than other Duchies.”
“That’s unfair and you know it.”
“Gow would say that you’ve been holding out.”
“That’s not true,” Wyntress grumbled.
Egrant nodded. “Let’s get to the truth. Some of these workers of yours used to be 1st Hussars who were reassigned to Port Lornen before it burned. Major Codie recognized one himself.”
Wyntress felt all of the colour wash away from his face.
“So, tell me, Duke Wyntress, who’s in charge of this rabble. It has to be someone who inspires a fair bit of loyalty to keep them together for such a long march.”
Wyntress looked away.
“Where’s Arundy?” Egrant pressed.
In a rush of sincerity, the duke replied, “I don’t know.”
Egrant frowned. “You know, I can still help you. Give me Arundy and everything that’s out of place here can be pinned on him.”
Wyntress forced himself to stand. He took a deep breath and locked eyes with the Baron. “You know I can’t do that. I won’t.”
Egrant’s eyes cast towards the ceiling and he repressed a laugh. “I know this has become a rather irksome day for you. It’s no picnic for me, to be sure. If that popinjay major had not
found those messages then this would be so much easier.”
Wyntress raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know what you are getting at.”
Baron Egrant flashed a tight grin. “Think of your daughter,” he stated and then turned away to pace the room.
Wyntress fumed. The messengers were obviously caughtand awaiting torture and execution. The entire plan to bring down Lornen would soon be exposed. It was only a matter of time before every Duke and Baron they had contacted would be swept up and executed, their families destroyed, their lands severed into parcels and gifted to the most loyal. Sycophants like that young Major would occupy every position before Lornen was through. Wyntress shivered and faced the Baron.
“Lornen is a monster,” Wyntress hissed, “You must know that. And I hate the idea of my daughter marrying him even if that makes her Queen. Even if that protects me in some way.”
Egrant sighed. “Lornen doesn’t take refusal kindly.”
Wyntress shrugged and sat again. He pointed to the crystal bottle upon the mantle. “Drink?” he offered. “It’s some of Stronn’s finest.”
“Mmm,” Egrant crossed to examine the bottle. “Some of his last, I think.”
“The drakes,” Wyntress added. “They’ll make a man consider anything, won’t they?”
Egrant poured a glass, downed it in one draught, and squinted into the dancing flames for a long time.
Wyntress sipped at the sherry, its tart dryness absorbing his sorrow somehow, and allowed the silence to persist.
Egrant turned slowly to face the Duke. “I think I have a plan that will work. It will keep you safe.”
“That’s not so important to me now,” Wyntress grumbled. “You’ll have to do better than that.”
Egrant began to pace the room once more. With each step his expression became more animated. “Your daughter will be safe. You might be surprised to hear this but some of your friends are my friends, too, and I want them to have a passable chance of surviving this.”
Wyntress opened his mouth but was cut off by Egrant’s raised finger and sparkling eyes.
“I won’t say another word about it, understand? You are going to have to trust me.”
Wyntress scowled. Why was trust so damned difficult now? Common friends? He wondered who. He examined Egrant’s expression but could find no evidence of deception there. Finally, his voice forced a reluctant oath to pierce the quiet. “I do,” he grumbled. He had no choice.
Egrant’s expression relaxed. He slapped his hands together and moved quickly towards the doorway. “No time to lose. Get your daughter ready to travel in the morning.”
Wyntress was alone in the room. The fire crackled beside him bought brought no warmth. He would travel with his daughter. Eastfork could be a safehouse for them or it could be a prison. All Wyntress could do now was what any soldier would in dire circumstances, what his friend Arundy always managed to do, push forward and hope.
***
The canal was far behind him now and the breeze was shifting and cooling with the setting sun. With a soft rub upon the neck, Balinor nudged his horse across one more ridge line. Kicking up a thin cloud of dust a league away was a small grouping of wagons heading his way.
Balinor whistled in relief and took a long pull on his canteen. Those wagons begonged to Arundy’s refugees. What were they doing out here? Why were there so few of them? Was he too late? He leaned over his horse’s ear, scratched her cheek gently under the bridle, and whispered, “One more ride, pal, and then we’ll give you a rest.” He turned to Vargas whose paws were red from the constant travel. “I’ll let you ride in the wagon when we get to the Duke.”
Vargas barked his approval.
The sun’s orange haze was colouring the grasslands when he reached the wagons. He dismounted alongside once he saw Arundy, his white hair dishevelled by the wind. Arundy called for a halt and stepped down from the wagon’s seat.
“It is a relief to see you, Your Grace,” Balinor exclaimed as he bowed.
Arundy blinked twice “I didn’t think I’d see you again. Thank you for returning.”
Balinor bowed slightly. “Did you choose to leave or did you have to leave?”
“Baron Egrant was about to arrive and I felt my presense would be a severe inconvenience to the Duke so I gave my people the choice to stay or go.”
“Banefather,” Balinor swore. “I was trying to warn you about Egrant. There’s worse, though. His troops along the roads have taken to murdering innocents. I’ve seen the graves.”
Arundy disguised his shock but Balinor’s report drew the small group inward with murmurs of worry and disgust.
“That is not like Egrant. Murdering deserters?” Arundy probed.
Balinor shook his head. “Craftsmen and families returning home, mostly.”
“I never expected that.” Arundy studied Balinor more closely. “You delivered my messages?”
“To those in Graniteside and some other places, Your Grace. And I scouted the Crossroads ruins and discovered that members of the Blackthorn survived Gow’s purge.”
Arundy sighed. “That news is quite welcome.” He looked back to his wagon where Robi and Leonara sat listening quietly. “Now the bad news. I can see it in your eyes.”
Balinor lowered his eyes briefly then met the Duke’s gaze. “Our few remaining messages were stolen from us by one we rescued.”
Arundy let out a brief gasp. His eyes narrowed. “We?”
“I was travelling with another, a survivor of the Battle with the Lifebane.”
Arundy raised an eyebrow. “The same battle that almost killed Lornen?”
“His name’s Rickert Alain. He was Lornen’s adjutant, and he says that the dwarves took him in, saved him, taught him to walk again.”
“Where is your companion now?”
“In the foothills with a mortally wounded dwarf.”
“The foothills are no place to stand watch alone,” Arundy replied. “Who stole the messages? Does Egrant have them now? They were encoded.”
“I am sorry we failed you in this, Your Grace. It was Alain’s sister. She was in hiding when we found her. She took the part of the codebreaker as well. We had no reason to suspect—”
Arundy’s eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched. “What’s done is done. My people move slowly and they are tired but if these messages have been deciphered then we will be hunted.
Even Wyntress can’t do much to delay that.”
“We will keep pushing on, Your Grace,” Baris called out. “We’ve been through worse.”
Arundy looked towards the retreating sun. “On our travels here, Balinor, I used to send you out to choose our next camps.”
Balinor acknowledged the compliment with a brief tightlipped grin. “One ridge over there’s a deeper valley that leads into an unfinished irrigation canal. That would be a place you could camp for the night fairly safely.”
Arundy nodded. “Lead on,” he commanded.
“And once you get us situated, Balinor, take four of my men with you to return to your friend. We will catch up tomorrow.”
Balinor smiled briefly. The situation was dire and yet it felt good to hear the Duke’s decisive voice once more.
“Up on the wagon, Vargas.” The dog quickly leapt to the bench and then into Leonara’s arms where she sat under the tarp. Her laughter and his happy barks filled Balinor’s heart. “It won’t be too long,” he informed the small group. “But no fires tonight.”
***
Red-faced, Major Codie Poll stomped his foot into the dirt and shook the Marshall’s edict in the air like a tiny flag. “You are not taking this order seriously, Baron Egrant. The Marshall would certainly want all troops under your command to immediately pursue and apprehend this traitor to the King.”
