by David Rice
Lornen looked across at the starwatcher’s tower. “You know, I left a chair there once,” he said. “And there’s only one way in or out.”
Stigand chuckled. “Only one way out that you would care to take,’ he said.
Lornen laughed along. “It’s a long way down. That was quite the night.” “Indeed.’ Stigand took another sip of sherry.
Koppinger raised an eyebrow. “Yes. The tower. I think that would work. Keep you safe. Until we have the crowds focused on your wedding, and our finances in better order.” “Father Stigand? Can you move the crowd down to the cathedral for prayers and hymns? You can let them know that their devotion has raised my spirits immensely. I’ll even stand by the window and wave as they leave.”
“That is generous of you,” Stigand commented. “I will pass along those instructions immediately.”
“And when the crowd is gone, Your Majesty?” Koppinger prodded.
“We shut the gates and I move to the tower,” Lornen pronounced. “It has everything I need. It is secure.”
Koppinger allowed himself a tightlipped smile. “As you command, Your Majesty.”
“Yes,” Lornen laughed. “A change is as good as a rest, they say, and soon I can have both. I am quite looking forward to it. I’ve earned it, don’t you think?”
Koppinger and Stigand exchanged cautious glances of surprised satisfaction and then agreed with the king whole heartedly.
By moonrise, King Lornen the Third was settling into his new residence atop Starwatcher’s Tower.
DAWNCALLER:
PART TWO
I
From his ridge along the Whitemantle Mountains, Ulimbor surveyed his mighty camp and smiled. The density of the northern forests slowed their progress but provided ample sustinence. When his warriors inevitably encountered the feeble resistance of Longwood’s defenders, they would be fresh and strong. Ready to execute the slaughter.
As All-Father, Shaman of the united tribes of the Eldest, Ulimbor had reached beyond the tasks of the One to secure a future for his own kind, one free of continual conflict with horsewardens and dwarves alike. And he had succeeded. The dwarven holdfasts were all but destroyed. The horsewardens were fractured and in retreat, pushed far into the eastern mountains along the edges of the world. All that remained to crush was the central elven enclave of Longwood.
Longwood’s knowledge was vast and their expertise with the weave was not to be discounted, until now. Now, by possessing the largest of the drakes with the spirit of his first borne son, Ulimbor commanded the primal force of nature itself. Nothing would prevent his reshaping of the world. No longer would his inferiors entrap them upon scraps of inferior land, hunt them for sport, or call them the lifebane. Ulimbor swore to himself that when he was finished this great purge, the lifebane would be the only children of the One still living.
He looked up as the immense shadow of his drake passed overhead and its darkness filled him with joy. Pride. Anticipation. Like his people, it also seemed to enjoy feasting upon this great forest. It would depart for days at a time to light the horizon with purple fires, and return covered in the blood of its hunt, the wreckage of feeble settlements, or the black ichor of weaker drakes who dreamt of being its equal.
There was but one irritation that stuck in his skin like a blackfly. One of his own tribes had not bent the knee. The foolish and cowardly maggots of the Crystal Marshes lived, as yet undetected, just beyond his reach. A small shadow to be burned away in time. But first, Longwood would perish in purple flames. Ulimbor swore it.
***
Deven, High Shaman of the Crystal Marshes, accepted the greeting of his daughter Rybaki. She held out a finely crafted wineskin and he sipped curiously of its sweet fruity wine.
“This belonged to the prisoner?” he asked.
Rybaki smiled. “He tried to poison it but we bound him.”
“A horsewarden approaching from Longwood?” “As foul an example as any I have encountered.”
“And he slew two of our scouts?” Deven frowned.
“Imagine the warrior he had been when he had two legs,” she answered. “I was foolish to underestimate him. My sparkweaving bound him in his own leathers and the trappings of his horsetack but not before he could do harm.”
Deven sighed. “We are fated to lose so many in the coming season. His violence has saved two from the unrighteous wrath of Ulimbor, nothing more.” He handed back the wineskin.
“Hedelma. Far too sweet for me. You have brought this horsewarden with you?”
“As you instructed,” Rybaki responded with a twitch of distaste.
“Good,” Deven said while sitting down. “Bring him forward and place him on blankets at the other side of the fire. Then you and the guards may leave.”
Rybaki’s back stiffened. “That is unwise, father. He is dangerous.”
Deven smirked. “I am not without my defences, daughter. Unbind his mouth as you leave. Only his mouth, mind you.”
Rybaki bowed and followed her father’s directions. As she loosened the prisoner’s gag, she hissed a warning into his ear. He repled by spitting upon the ground.
The four scouts accompanying Rybaki scowled with concern. “Are we to truly leave that rabid wolverine alone with the High-Shaman?”
Rybaki’s voice was uncompromising. “Do not underestimate my father. He has a purpose for this one.” Then she winked and whispered, “We are all adept at hiding. Let’s be as close as we can manage without spoiling my father’s welcome.”
The scouts followed their leader’s example and blended into the woods less than a shout away.
Deven knew his daughter would not be far, so long as it was far enough for the privacy of a discreet discussion.
Ballok was laying on his side. He twisted and cursed until he could see the High-Shaman clearly. “You will all bleed before my life is done,” he growled.
Deven nodded without betraying a smile. “Your bravery is beyond measure, travelling alone in these wilds at this time, disfigured as you are, and so capable a warrior.”
“You can all burn,” Ballok cursed.
Deven nodded. “Perhaps. But that would be a tremendous waste. There are greater enemies to face than one another.”
Ballok tried to spit upon the Shaman. What didn’t drip into his beard, sizzled in the fire. “Your despicable sorceries cursed the womb of my wife. I shall do nothing for you.”
Deven raised an eyebrow. “Your wife’s womb? We do not do such things.”
“Liar!” Ballok ranted. “Even my flesh will be poison to you when you choose to consume me.”
Deven pushed away a smile. “Impressive,” he responded evenly. “But do not be concerned. This forest provides more than enough.”
“Cowards! Unbind me and I shall fight you all to the death. Or have you no honour at all?”
“Your actions already announce that you are an honourable man. May you find us to be the same.”
Ballok laughed. “Murderous, lying wretches. Lifebane are an insult to honour.”
Deven was warming up to the passion that drove such a man. Such energy could do much if given the proper motivation.
“I agree,” Deven stated.
Ballok’s mouth filled with silence.
“My own people have been grieviously misled towards their own doom,” Deven continued. “by promises of something greater than the will of the One. And those you see with me, they are of my clan of the Crystal Marches. We stand against Ulimbor and his wicked ambitions.”
Ballok found his derisive laughter once more. “Do not waste your words. Your attack upon me as I slept is deed enough.”
“We saved you from falling into the hands of Ulimbor’s army. We stand between Ulimbor`s wretched horde and your people.”
“My people?”
Deven shrugged. “You are a horsewarden. We assisted another of your people, healing him in his time of need, and warning him of Ulimbor’s smaller force striking east. We hope that he has convinced the remaining clans to
seek refuge in the mountains.”
“Your words are like gnome promises. Fabrications. Nothing more.”
“And you approach from Longwood. Your blades and bow are clearly the products of their craft. Your armour, a blend of the two traditions, as if you had stayed there for a length of time. And your horse, unharmed I assure you, is of their breeding, longer in leg and shorter in coat. We approach Longwood to warn your people there, too.”
“Your words that are nothing,” Ballok grumbled. “If you care so much for my life and the lives of my people, let me duel your best so that I may win my freedom or a warrior’s death.”
Deven’s wise and understanding smile emerged. “You already have completed that duel, brave one, and you were bested.” Deven whistled for Rybaki. She entered the circle and took off her mask.
Ballok’s eyes sparkled. “A woman?”
Deven shrugged. “My daughter, Rybaki. Warrior and Shaman.”
Ballok thrashed against his bindings. Each time he moved they seemed slightly tighter. His eyes locked with Rybaki’s and she did not stir. She did smirk, however, in the slightest way.
Ballok settled. “You wish to press me like a grape, I see,” he grumbled.
“We mean you no harm, warrior. Ulimbor has a powerful drake at his command and he must be stopped. Everyone who is not under Ulimbor’s power must unite to resist him. I am
Deven of the Crystal Marsh Clan and I swear this as High-Shaman.”
Red-faced, Ballok squirmed again and his voice boomed. “And I am Horsewarden Ballok, First of the Swift Current Clan and First Warden of Longwood, and I am telling you, lifebane scourge, that you can bite my aaa—”
Rybaki stopped wiggling her thumb and index finger. “That was rude,” she said. “He’ll have some time to sleep now.”
Deven shook his head and chuckled. “I hope that the One grants us the time to tame this wild horse.”
“What will you do, father?”
“Eventually he will choose to fight alongside us.”
“When?”
Deven sighed. “It might take a drake to convince him.”
II
Balinor always woke first, before sunrise, because he liked to listen to the first birds as they sang their welcome to the world, and watch them as they shook the first mist from their feathers. He woke early because he felt days should always begin with hope, no matter how
brief.
Vargas was out chasing his own breakfast, usually a fat rabbit, while Balinor nudged the coals of their fire to greater life. They’d need something warm in their bellies before a long ride, and with Gow’s lumber camps and soldiers just the other side of the river, it might be awhile before they could enjoy warm food again. As the rest of his companions tossed and mumbled themselves awake, Balinor climbed the western rise to peek over the crest and turned his attention to the north. He noticed smoke drifting towards them from the north side of the Raelyn where a town should have been. It was greasy and thick with the scent of burned pork. Balinor knew that smell, and his stomach fluttered until he could take a sip of ice-cold water.
The Raelyn’s ice was breaking up and its banks were flooded. The town itself was covered with a black cloud of scavenging birds. Perhaps a half-league downstream on the southern shore he could make out a make-shift camp of tents and wagons. It lacked the colours of gnome traders, and it was entirely bereft of any military discipline. He could see portions of the King’s Road continuing west without any patrols in sight. Gow’s army was gone. But where?
Balinor wore a thin smile as he returned to the campfire. Grumm, his shield covered securely upon his back, was delivering Olaf his boots that had been drying near the fire. With Olaf up and moving, breakfast would be cooking soon. Pell, silent as always, was already tucking the last of his kit into his backpack and stowing his tent upon one of the goats. He strolled up to Grumm and waited for the dwarf to notice.
“Morning,” Olaf said cheerily. “Going to soften some of the jerky in the pan and use the eggs we traded for near the Crossing. Then a hot pot of gavva juice with some goat milk to take away the bite will set us up for a good day.”
Grumm nodded to Balinor. “I recognized a cabin on the far shore yesterday just before sunset. It’s where I met my kin and tried to heal up a friend. How much farther till we can cross? It’s gotta be close.”
Balinor nodded. “Take a look over the next rise and see for yourself. You’ll be able to smell it, too, when you get up there.”
Grumm gave Balinor a curious glance, huffed, and then waved for Pell to join him. The dwarves jogged through the grass and climbed the crest. Balinor watched Pell take out a spyglass. That dwarf was always prepared, it seemed.
“I can’t wait to see Longwood,” Olaf commented. “I’m sure Kirsten’s alright.”
Balinor frowned. “The elves threatened to kill her and her father. I don’t expect a terrific reception.”
“Ah, she’s got that sword,” Olaf swaggered. “If a dragon couldn’t kill her then good luck to any elf.”
Balinor’s frown deepened. “I hope you’re right.”
Grumm and Pell came thumping through the grass, huffing and puffing.
“Took a good look at what’s left of the town,” Pell reported.
“Banefather’s mischief’s been here,” Grumm wheezed.
Purple flames. We’ve seen them before,” Pell clarified. “Lots of well cooked corpses, humans and horses alike. Hundreds of carrion birds and coyotes picking through the scraps. And a camp of looters, too.
“A drake?” Balinor repeated.
Pell nodded. “Big craters from explosions. Large cannon emplacements destroyed. Lots of salvageable metal there but—”
“Who knows when the drake comes back,” Grumm added, “or where it is now.”
“Looks like there had been an attack from the north and the east.”
“Could ha’ been those gnomes that almost caught you, Olaf? And Glandrew’s folk. I would like teh hear the tales o’ that,” Grumm added.
“Saw white shafted arrows along the north. Elves were there, too,” Pell said.
Balinor took a deep breath. “Bad day for Gow. Olaf, get our breakfast ready right away. I’ll feel better once we can be under cover of some woods. Preferrably on the north shore.”
“There’s a camp with soldiers and other folk in our way,” Pell added. “They don’t look ready for a fight.”
Balinor nodded. “Looks like they’ve been through enough of one already.”
Olaf proved he could move quickly when the motivation was there. The sun had moved only a hand’s span when they were ready to ride.
***
Balinor rode towards the camp slowly from the south while the rest of his companions crouched behind some scrubby bushes to observe. Vargas, his tail wagging happily, trotted alongside.
`There was an indistinct shout from a pair of scrabbling children. They pointed his direction and then dashed under a wagon. Other children were herded to the center of their ramshackle camp by worried parents. A few soldiers, clearly bloodied, burned and exhausted climbed the nearest wagons with bows but seemed disinterested in a fight.
“Wait. Hold,” an authoritative cry sounded from behind the wagons. Emerging from cover came a tall man wearing the torn remnants of an officer’s tunic. He was rubbing his hands together as if trying to clean them.
The men on the wagons relaxed. Balinor stopped his horse. Vargas sat down, still wagging his tail.
“Your going the wrong direction, friend,” the officer called out. “Unless you have some food to spare.”
Now that Balinor could resolve the finer details of the uniform, he realized that this man was dressed in similar fashion to Arundy and other nobles. He straighetend his posture and reinvented his better manners while nudging his horse forward. “I saw the smoke from a distance,” he replied. “What happened, Your Grace.”
The man laughed. “Don’t bother with that. Titles aren’t worth much out here.”
Balinor nodded and waited for the man to continue.
“First there were gnomes with cannons. Ripped our eastern wall to shreds. Then there were elves who set fire to everything along the northern approach.”
“Elves and gnomes!” Balinor echoed. Pell was a damned good scout.
The man’s laugh soured. He kept walking towards Vargas until the dog could sniff his hand. “Women and children got locked into the barracks by that idiot Gow. Drake showed up then.”
Balinor felt queasy. “A drake? I’ve heard horrible stories.” He looked past the noble at the rest of his kin where they huddled hurt, blackened with smoke, and possessed by shock. “How’d you manage to get across the river?”
An older woman broke from the group and rushed up. She stared wild-eyed at Balinor and leaned upon the officer for support.
