The Drinnglennin Chronicles Omnibus

by K. C. Julius

  “Better that than to be herded away like sheep to the slaughter! There was a time when the å Livåri believed that here in Drinnglennin we’d found a kind of acceptance, but now it’s seems we were wrong. It’s like the continental Purge all over again. If we aren’t safe here, there’s no place left to go except over the Vast Sea, from which no man has ever returned. We’ll not be driven out of our last refuge without a fight!”

  “Nor will you be alone,” the wizard promised. “I and many others will stand beside you in your need. Just allow me a little more time to find the proof to put those who are persecuting your people behind bars. I give you my word, I will not fail you in this.”

  Nicu dropped his arms, his fists balled. “You’ve learned something.”

  “I have my suspicions, but I must be certain before we act. I ask you to give me until after the Twyrn. In the meantime, warn your people to be vigilant and to move in numbers. The safest places for them at present may well be in the cities, where those who seek to accost them will be observed. And it would be wise,” he added, “to avoid the sort of political theater you enacted today.”

  Nicu’s eyes narrowed, but he gave a curt nod.

  “Will you be staying long here in the capital?” Morgan asked.

  The å Livåri shook his head. “Our troupe will travel south on the morrow. We’ll seek our folk, to warn them, so that they don’t migrate for the winter months without knowing of the danger.” His expression was bleak. “Though who knows for how many the warning will come too late.”

  The sound of running feet rang along the cobbled street outside, and Nicu stiffened.

  “It might be better,” said Morgan, “if you come back with me to the Tilted Kilt. I fear your pursuers won’t give up their quarry so easily.”

  Nicu smirked. “I return to my troupe now. In any case, I doubt your host would take kindly to a Lurker under his roof.”

  “You are mistaken in this,” the wizard replied. “But if you’re determined to go back to the square, at least let me lead them off.” He shrugged off his cloak and held it out. “Give me yours.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, Nicu obeyed, and Morgan clasped the man’s arm firmly. “Proceed with caution, friend. I will not fail you, and I’ll ask that you honor my trust, and that of your king’s. Let the law deal with these blackguards, whoever they may be.”

  The hard look in Nicu’s eyes didn’t alter, and with a sinking heart, Morgan took his leave.

  He strode down Frensin Street, his staff marking his steps against the stones. Within moments he heard a shout, and a gang of men dressed in black and silver swept around a corner toward him. Without hurrying, he sidestepped into an alley, followed by the triumphant taunts and threats of the men in pursuit.

  He was sorry to miss their expressions when all they found was an unscalable wall in the empty lane.

  * * *

  For the second night running, Morgan’s sleep was disturbed. This time it was Gilly who stood over his bed, the candle in his hand illuminating his grave expression. “I fear this cannot wait until morning, Mortimer.”

  The night watch hadn’t yet arrived in the darkened square as the two of them approached the man kneeling beside a body. He turned upon hearing their horses, and Morgan saw that he was quite young, and wore the livery of a northern house of Branley Tor.

  “Were you a witness to what happened here?” asked the wizard as he slid from his horse.

  The young man rose to his feet, his expression grim. “Not exactly, but I’m certain it was murder, and—I’m partly to blame.”

  “Explain yourself, sir,” Morgan demanded.

  “I only mean the lad might still be alive if I hadn’t stopped him to ask for directions,” said the stranger. “From his speech, I took him for a fellow countryman, but his companions were Lurkers. He left them to show me the way here to the square. He needn’t have done so—we were very near. After we’d turned the corner, I was struck from behind.” He touched the back of his head gingerly, and his hand came away with a stain of blood. “By the time I recovered consciousness, the boy was gone, along with my purse, but I heard voices and followed them. And then I found the boy here.” He looked down at the body at their feet. “Poor lad.”

  Sir Gilbin signaled their groom to bring a torch forward. “But he’s a Lurker too, isn’t he? Look at his amulets and belt.”

  Two riders astride one horse approached from across the square—Regis Mercer, with Nicu behind him—and the young stranger grasped the hilt of his sword.

  “It’s all right,” said Morgan, staying his hand. “These men are known to us.”

  The å Livåri leapt from the horse with an anguished cry at the sight of his dead troupe member. The boy’s face was broken and bloodied, and a crude ‘L’ had been carved into his cheek.

  “Who did this?” Nicu cried. His gaze fell on the young stranger, and he took a menacing step toward him.

  Morgan caught his arm. “Nicu, this man is only a bystander to this tragedy.”

  The å Livåri shrugged him off, his blazing eyes boring into the youth’s own. “You saw them?”

  The young man shook his head. “I saw nothing.”

  “The assassins are far from here by now, Nicu,” said Morgan, “as you should be as well. For your own safety, come away from this place with us. We’ll bear your friend to Sir Gilbin’s tavern, where you can tend to him in the way of your people. There’s naught else you can do now for this poor soul.”

  “I can avenge his death,” Nicu said through gritted teeth.

  “The king’s guard will see that justice is done.”

  “No.” The grieving man shook his head. “No, not for the likes of us they won’t. I’ll seek my own justice.” He ran a hand over his haggard face. “If I’d stayed with the boy…”

  “Then you, too, might be lying cold on these stones,” said the wizard.

  “Better me than him!” Nicu growled. “The lad only joined us a few months ago, and was just beginning to find his way in our world.”

  Morgan drew in a sharp breath. “A few months ago? Who is this boy?”

  Nicu gently brushed the dead boy’s dark curls from his brow. “Dal,” he whispered. “His name is Dal.”

  The young stranger swore softly. “I know him! Or at least his… family. He comes from a village just over the ridge from mine in Branley Tor. But what was he doing with a Lurker troupe? His people think he died in the mountains.” He spun to face Nicu. “His sister disappeared a few weeks after he did. Is she with your troupe as well? Her name is Maura.” There was no mistaking the urgency in his voice.

  “He came to us of his own free will,” said Nicu defensively, “to honor a family debt. His mother was one of us. But I know nothing of a sister. Dal claimed he no longer had any family but ours. He wanted nothing to do with his past life, for his parents had cast him out.” He shook his head sadly. “Now his short life is over, and it’s my fault.”

  “The accountability lies with those who ended it,” the wizard declared sternly, “and I vow to you that we shall make them pay the highest penalty. Now, Nicu, you must come away!”

  Without waiting for Nicu’s reply, Morgan signaled to the groom to help him lift the body onto his own horse.

  The young man who had been first on the scene forestalled him. “I’ll carry Dal, sir,” he said. He was powerfully built, and easily gathered the boy’s body in his arms. Yet it was with infinite care that he cradled him. Nicu made a move to protest, but when the stranger added, “I owe my life to his sister,” the å Livåri’s objections died unspoken.

  “I’m no sir,” said the wizard to the stranger as they left the dark square. “My name is Morgan. I didn’t catch yours.”

  “Borne, master,” he said. “Borne Braxton. I am the… nephew of Lord Heptorious of Windend, here training for the Twyrn with his young heir.” />
  “I see. And you know the sister of this poor lad well?”

  Borne stopped in his tracks. “You speak of her in the present. Do you know Maura? Does she live?”

  Morgan decided to trust his instincts. “I do, and she does.” He held up a staying hand as he sensed Borne’s eagerness to know more. “I’m not at liberty to tell you anything, other than that she is safe. She has been grieving for this brother, and now, sadly, she has reason. I will bear this news to her, and request your discretion in not speaking of it to others.”

  Borne slowed. “Not even to the family? Don’t they have to right to know how the boy died? And that Maura is still alive?”

  “In time, yes,” said Morgan. “But that time is not now.”

  “Who are you to decide this?”

  Sir Gilbin spurred his horse level to them. “Mind you keep a civil tongue in your head, impudent pup! You’re addressing the greatest wizard in the realm!”

  “I meant no disrespect,” replied Borne evenly, “but I reserve the right to disagree with the High King himself if I believe a wrong is being done.”

  Morgan made a respectful bow of his head. “Urlion could do worse than to have young men of integrity such as yourself challenging him from time to time. But what I ask of you is in Maura’s best interest. There are those who might wish the girl harm, and could use her parents to achieve this. And I believe it would be cruel to make them suffer their son’s loss twice.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, Borne nodded in assent. “I will trust your word in this matter.”

  They rode on in heavy silence, while behind them, Nicu softly intoned the Livårian dirge for the dead.

  Chapter 41

  The wizard was relieved that Borne had agreed to keep Maura’s whereabouts, and Dal’s fate, from her parents. He feared, however, that he had not convinced Nicu to allow the law to deal with Dal’s murder. After insisting that he alone should bathe and prepare the boy’s body for his journey across the Abyss, the å Livåri had borrowed a wagon from Sir Gilbin.

  “He’ll not rest within these cursed walls,” Nicu vowed bitterly, “but I’ll return once we’ve sent him onward.”

  Morgan hoped his man Regis would uncover the identities of the murderers before Nicu did. The wizard’s meeting with his informant had proved productive, for he was close to garnering hard evidence to implicate the Nelvor in the Cardenstowe attacks. Once he had this, perhaps Urlion would at last believe the lengths to which this clan was willing to go in order to build support for one of their own as the ailing king’s successor.

  In the meantime, all Morgan could do was wait with growing impatience for another audience with the High King. He would honor his promise to Audric, but he knew Urlion well enough; he could be as stubborn as a goat at times.

  Several days passed before the king’s man appeared bearing the summons, and the wizard wasted no time in answering it. He was pleasantly surprised to find his sovereign out of bed and standing by the window, until he noted that Urlion’s color was exceedingly high, and rivulets of sweat traced a path from his temples down his pale neck.

  “There’s been a Helgrin attack—and this one confirmed—on Langmerdor,” the king said without preamble. “The village of Araraneth was raided and torched in the dark of night. Those who resisted were put to the sword, the rest taken captive to be slaves in that heathen land. I’ve given the Nelvor leave to respond, but the winds don’t favor us at present. We’ll need to wait for the westerlies to abate in early summer.”

  “The Helgrins would face the same dilemma, sire,” Morgan said. “How could they have sailed home so swiftly against the winds?”

  “They’re seafaring people.” The king flashed him a sharp look. “What is it that you’re implying?”

  “Only that it seems unlikely the Helgrins would carry out their first assault against Drinnglennin in over ten years in such unseasonable conditions.”

  “And yet they did!” the king roared. He tottered slightly and grasped the mantel above the hearth.

  Morgan knew better than to offer his assistance when Urlion was in such a mood. “May I ask, sire, who witnessed the attack and brought you this report?”

  “A fisherman who managed to escape the raid. He took the news up the coast to Toldarin.”

  “To Nelvorboth? Odd,” said Morgan, “to sail past all the port towns of Lorendale without stopping there, if only to warn them.”

  “I don’t agree,” the king snapped. “All the realm knows the Nelvor’s forces protect our eastern shores. The man took the news to those with the capability to do something about it.”

  “Ah. So you learned of this attack from Lord Vetch?”

  Urlion glowered at him. “Why do I get the sense that I’m being cross-examined?”

  Morgan bowed his head in apology. “Your Majesty, forgive me if my questions have given offense. I wish only to ascertain the facts. What do the Tribus advise?”

  Urlion snorted. “The usual spineless path: send troops to investigate, assess how to better fortify the coastal towns, proceed with caution. Empty blather! In my prime, we didn’t hesitate to engage with the Helgrins! By the gods, I’ve half a mind to go to battle again myself!”

  The king drew himself up to his full height, and a long-dimmed light blazed in his eyes. “What say you, Morgan? Call back the good knights of yore—Heptorious, Pardelin, Morlenstowe, and my good right hand, Vestor Santiman? It’s a pity so many of them have passed from the world—Jaxe, Glouder, Wren the Elder, Courty. We were a force to be reckoned with in our day!”

  “That we were, sire,” said Morgan. “And you more than any. Your prowess brought us the most precious gift a monarch can bestow upon his people: peace.”

  The king nodded thoughtfully. “Aye, so I did. But now that time of peace is over. Surely you agree we must redress these barbarous acts?”

  “They cannot go unpunished, my lord. But I also agree with the counsel of your Tribus. Any response must begin with an investigation. I would be happy to accompany a small royal force to the Langmerdor coast.”

  “Vetch has already dispatched some of his knights and ordered up a second fleet to patrol the eastern coastline from Eustar to Thraven.” Urlion sank into an armchair by the hearth. He appeared spent by his display of passion, his skin ashen in the pale light. He waved Morgan to the chair opposite him.

  “Has Your Majesty considered reinforcing the royal armada?” asked the wizard. “The shipwrights of Tyrrencaster and Glornadoor would benefit from the work it would provide them. Times have been hard for them, with the dockyards idle these past years.”

  “Yes, of course,” replied the king testily. “Mistress Selka has been most ardent in pressing for this. Ships have been commissioned, but the royal treasury isn’t limitless. With the peace, we lost the spoils of war.” He leaned back and slapped his hands on his thighs. “This, however, will soon be amended. I hear the Helgrins have amassed a fortune in loot from their colonies in Gral. I would love to wrest these riches from them.”

  “Drinnglennin has a treaty with Gral, my lord,” Morgan reminded him. “Signed by both you and King Crenel at the close of the Long War.”

  The king let out a harsh bark of laughter. “Crenel has lost control of his realm. It’s now at the mercy of Helgrin hounds and his own roving brigands. I’d be doing him a favor if we drove them out and established Drinnglennian law in the land. Even Audric isn’t totally against this idea.”

  “And I’m sure Lord Vetch is its ardent advocate,” said the wizard.

  The king bristled. “As a matter of fact, Vetch feels we should concentrate on subduing the northernmost Helgrins. It’s Aetheor who’s leading the raids.”

  “And yet the one that allegedly occurred in Cardenstowe would have been carried out by the southern Helgrins.”

  “How can you know that?” demanded the king.

 
“I make it my business, sire, to know all that concerns your realm. The pennant that was left behind at that massacre bore the red eye. It was the standard of Lothiar, the former Yarl of Helgrinia, whose lands were in Frendesko. He left no living children, so the leadership passed to Aetheor, his brother-in-law in the north. Once he was proclaimed the new yarl, Aetheor put aside the red eye in favor of the standard he has always flown: the white bear.”

  The king’s expression grew thunderous. “You seem bent on implicating Vetch and the Nelvors in treason! And yet I am reminded that it was you who bound the dragonfast to serve my successor rather than me. Perhaps it’s because you yourself have designs on the High Throne!”

  Morgan folded his hands calmly before him. “Have you forgotten, my lord, the vow I swore when you were newly anointed, a boy king of twelve years?”

  “Remind me!” commanded Urlion, although with less belligerence.

  “I swore on the blade of Arithon, the sacred sword of the Konigur line, to serve you all your life and beyond.”

  The High King grunted, but he was still listening.

  “As for binding young Leif and Maura in service to the one true king who follows you, I have ensured that your wishes are honored, provided you name your heir before leaving the Known World. Can you not tell me, sire,” said the wizard, keeping his voice even, “what forestalls you in doing so? Is it that you fear by naming your successor, you somehow invite your own death?”

  A shadow fell over the king’s face, and he bent his head as if in prayer. “It’s not that.” His voice was low and anguished. When he looked up again, he stared past the wizard with unseeing eyes. “I… I can’t remember,” he groaned, “except when I dream.” A sob wrenched itself from his throat.

  Morgan felt a thrill of alarm. “My lord? What is it that you can’t remember?”

  “Damn you!” cried the king. He snatched up his goblet and hurled it against the hearth. “I don’t know! I—don’t—know! It’s always there, just beyond recalling, when I wake. Something I’ve longed these past years to remember, and ever fail to do. Something that eludes me no matter how I strive. All I know is that whatever it is compels me to wait to name my heir. Can you not understand? I know there is a reason, but I can’t remember what it is!”