The Drinnglennin Chronicles Omnibus

by K. C. Julius

  Sooner than he thought possible, dawn began to paint the sky with red and gold, and the bonfire before the inn burned low.

  “It’s time!” called Otkell.

  One by one, the young men rose and jostled for position in a ragged line before the fire. A few of them, the worse for drink, toppled over before they could even get a running start, but the rest managed the mandatory three jumps. Fynn whistled and cheered along with the others as Jered easily cleared his passes. Ragnarr tripped on his third leap and had to be hauled up out of the ash. He was unhurt, and Fynn doubted he would have felt a burn in any event, for the synda winner had consumed more snapps than anyone else.

  “Go on then, Flipper!” Ragnarr growled as he was lowered unsteadily onto the bench next to Fynn. “You’re one of us now—take the leaps!”

  Jered leaned in close. “You don’t have to, Fynn,” he said, keeping his voice low.

  Fynn nodded. “I know. But I want to.” He got to his feet.

  Ragnarr staggered up as well. “Let’s sing him through, lads!” he cried.

  Someone struck up the pipes as Fynn strode to the far side of the fire. The breadth of the jump gave him a moment’s pause, but he straightened his shoulders when Jered and his friends raised their goblets and gave voice to the age-old song.

  Lycka till själv

  När du göra språng

  Tre gånger glav

  Chi lyckalar klang!

  Drawing a deep breath, Fynn crouched down, the ground gritty under his fingertips. Then he sprinted toward the burning logs, braving their heat as he took to the air and soared over them.

  He landed on his feet, stumbling only slightly, beyond the fire’s perimeter.

  With the men’s roars filling his ears, he spun around to face the bonfire again before his courage could desert him. This time his leap was longer and his landing steadier, and another ragged cheer rose up. The singing commenced again.

  Nu verklig Framt

  och oes rädsla

  Midsommer tur

  för helas bra!

  One more leap. Fynn rose on the balls of his feet and propelled himself forward, the voices lifting him as he launched himself high into the air.

  He hit the ground and, this time, kept his balance with ease. He looked over his shoulder and saw a wide grin spreading across his brother’s face.

  The young men surged toward him with a roar. Fynn endured an enthusiastic pummeling, then had no choice but to accept a shot of snapps in honor of his feat. Raising his glass with the others, he caught sight of his father, standing under the eaves of the tavern, the dawning light revealing the pride shining in his eyes. When Father, too, lifted his glass in salute, Fynn thought his full heart would burst.

  He tipped the fiery liquid down his throat, and his companions pounded their approval on the wooden table. “Fynn! Fynn! Fynn!” they chanted, and more snapps was poured.

  The liquor made Fynn bold, and he attempted a bow, which made all the blood rush to his head. Otkell caught hold of him before he pitched to the ground. “I’ll bear this Helgrin warrior home!” he declared. “The sun’s already on the rise, and even the bravest must rest after a night’s battle.”

  A wave of weary contentment washed over Fynn as Otkell led him away, the men’s farewells echoing behind them as the brief night surrendered to the day. Morning birds flitted over the meadow, heavy with dew, and the strains of music drifting up from the town grew faint.

  “I’ll rest here for a minute,” Fynn mumbled, slipping from Otkell’s grasp and sinking down on the grass, but Otkell just chuckled and lifted him into his arms.

  The last thing Fynn remembered was his father lifting his glass, and how it felt to make him proud.

  * * *

  He awoke on the veranda to the sound of Mamma’s singing drifting in from the forest path. He couldn’t have slept long, for the sun hadn’t yet climbed past the firs lining the yard.

  “You’re back!” Mamma exclaimed upon seeing him. She set down her basket and drew her hair away from her radiant face. She’d been scavenging, for the most powerful herbs were collected on Midsommer’s Eve.

  She looked past him into the darkened house. “Did your father come with you?”

  Fynn had to think about how he’d gotten home. Otkell. “No… that is, I don’t think he’s here.” He shivered in the cool morning air.

  “I’ll fetch you a coverlet. I wonder Teca didn’t think to bring you one.”

  Mamma returned a few moments later with a soft blanket made of lapin fur, part of Father’s plunder in a long-ago raid on Drinnglennin. Fynn snuggled beneath it, and it seemed he’d just drifted asleep again when he felt a hand gently shake him. He looked up into his mother’s anxious eyes.

  “Fynn, did you see Teca when you got home?”

  Fynn sat up and winced, for his head felt twice its normal size. “She’s probably down in the town,” he mumbled. “You said you were going to let her go.”

  Mamma bit her lip. “She decided she didn’t want to, so instead we went together to gather wild fennel and rue. I sent her back when her baskets were full, then I wandered deeper into the forest in search of laburnum. But that was hours ago.” The furrow in her brow deepened. “We must look for her, Fynn. I fear she’s come to harm.”

  Fynn remembered Lars’s threat to take Teca away. Could it be he’d really meant it?

  His head throbbed as he stood, and he wished he could hold it under the pump in the garden, but his worry propelled him after his mother. He nearly ran into her when she stopped suddenly at the edge of the yard—and his heart lurched when he saw why.

  Teca’s crown of flowers lay trampled on the ground beside her overturned baskets.

  At that moment Lars emerged from the woods, carrying Teca’s limp body in his arms. Her shift was ripped and soiled, her parted lips bruised and swollen. She’d lost her shoes, and there was blood on her legs.

  “What did you do?” Fynn screamed. He flew at Lars, only to be caught from behind by his mother. “You’ve killed her!” he wailed, struggling to free himself.

  Lars dropped to his knees, pressing his cheek to Teca’s own. His eyes streamed with tears. “I found her just off the path ahead. She must have tried to run from whoever… did this to her.” A tortured sound tore from his throat, half a growl, half a sob. “I was coming to ask her again, but I was too late!” He looked up at them beseechingly. “Why was I too late?”

  His mother knelt before Lars and laid her fingers on Teca’s wrist. Then she turned to Fynn. “I need you to run to the kitchen and put some water on to boil. There are clean linens in the cupboard; bring them to my chambers. Then take Flekka and ride to your father’s house. Tell him we have need of him.”

  Fynn flew to do her bidding. As he was setting the water over the fire, he heard Mamma directing Lars through the house to her chambers. He scooped up a bundle of linens from the cupboard and turned to see his mother dropping a handful of herbs into the pot he had just hung.

  She looked surprised to find him still there. “Just leave those,” she said sharply. “Go for your father.”

  Flekka shied when Fynn dashed into her enclosure, and he was forced to calm his own ragged breath before she would let him approach her. They took the trail to town at a brisk trot, and once they were on level ground, he gave the mare her head.

  The few thralls in his father’s courtyard scattered as Flekka thundered in. Fynn leapt to the ground just as a thrall with a familiar face came around the side of the stables. It was the man who’d suffered the beating over the banner. The slave’s face was still yellow with fading bruises, but his expression was friendly.

  “I need to speak to the yarl!” Fynn blurted out.

  The man must have heard the panic in his voice, for he quickly loped up the wooden staircase of the longhouse and disappeared inside. Moments later, Father
appeared in the doorway with a tousle-headed Jered at his side.

  “Fynn! What is it, lad? Is something amiss with your mother?”

  “No. That is, yes.” Fynn had to take a breath to keep from sobbing. “She said to tell you we have need of you.”

  His father spoke quietly to Jered before descending the stairs. “You can tell me what this is about as we ride,” he said, and pulled Fynn up behind him on Flekka’s back.

  Clinging to his father’s waist, Fynn dissolved into a flood of tears. He choked out a garbled story that even he would have had trouble following, but his father listened without comment as they trotted up the hill.

  At the manor, Father instructed Fynn to see to the horse and then go to bed. But Fynn had no interest in sleeping, and the idea of being alone in his room, not knowing if Teca still lived, was unthinkable. So after putting Flekka back in her pen, he lingered on the veranda. There was no sign of Lars; Mamma must have sent him away.

  After an interminable interval, Fynn heard the door to Mamma’s chamber open and close, and his parents’ voices carried clearly out to him.

  “It happens, Jana. Young men get too much snapps in them and lose their heads in Midsommer’s heat. The girl will survive, and the worst that can come of it will be a spring lamb, one of many made this night. She’s what, nearly twenty? It’s unlikely she was a maiden.”

  “Is it?” Mamma’s voice was as bitter as winter’s wind. “And if she was, would that make any difference?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I’m no maiden! If I’d been ravished along with Teca in the forest, would my attacker be as easily excused?”

  “Of course not, my love. Is that what this is about? No one would dare lay a finger on you. You are my woman.”

  “Yes, I am. But should you fail to return from the next raid, what then, Aetheor? Will I be fair game?”

  Fynn felt a jolt of alarm upon hearing his mother echo Teca’s fears. He crept behind the wide settee and curled into a ball, willing his father to reassure them both.

  “I don’t intend to fall in battle any time soon. Come now, my love. It’s not like you to give in to foolish fretting. I understand this has been difficult for you, and we’re all in need of sleep. You’ll see—things will look brighter once you’ve had some rest. I’ll be back tonight.”

  Father’s footsteps moved toward the veranda.

  “And when we find out who did this to Teca?” Mamma called after him. “Will he be punished?”

  From his hiding place, Fynn could see his father now, standing on the threshold. He looked tired. “You really think it wasn’t the lad who found her—Lars Gormensen?”

  “You didn’t see him, Aetheor. He was as distraught as I’ve ever seen a man. It wasn’t him.”

  “Well, I’ll see what I can find out, then we’ll cross that river.”

  He strode across the veranda, and Mamma appeared to watch him ride out. This time there were no tears, but the stark desolation on her face was far worse.

  * * *

  The summer sun could not dispel the darkness of the days that followed. Teca’s bruises healed, but she remained marked by the attack in other ways. She no longer sang while she worked, nor smiled at Fynn in passing, and she moved like a wraith through the house as she went about her chores. She never left the manor, except when she had work to do in the yard. If she’d told his mother who it was who’d attacked her, nothing came of it.

  Father gave Mamma another thrall, this one taken from Gral, and it was she who now did the marketing and ran errands in town. Frana was sullen and slow to learn their tongue, and Fynn hated her, not so much because of this, but because of why she had to be there in the first place.

  Since that fateful night, Lars had called at their house every day. Teca refused to see him, so it was Mamma who sat with the young man while he poured out his heart. The weeks dragged by under this pall of gloom, until one day, Lars failed to make an appearance. That night Fynn heard Teca weeping in her room.

  Lars didn’t come again.

  As the long days of light passed, Fynn found he couldn’t bear the strained sadness in the manor. He escaped early each morning to swim and fish with Einar, and then went to his father’s longhouse to practice his swordplay and axe-wielding. His mother didn’t chide him for his absence, even when he returned late in the evening after spending time with Jered and his friends. No further mention was made about what had happened to Teca.

  One evening, Fynn spied Lars alone at a table at the inn, looking like a ghost of himself. Their eyes met and then flicked away, for the wound that joined them was too raw for words.

  Fynn’s parents, at least, seemed to have mended their dispute. Father came, as always, to spend the long summer nights with his mother on the veranda and in her bed. They laughed and drank and dined in the garden on Teca’s delectable fare. They touched hands and lips, and exchanged the same fond glances. But Fynn wasn’t fooled. He understood now that it was up to him, and him alone, to secure his mother’s future. Which was why, the very next night after Teca’s assault, he had slipped out of his bed while his parents slept.

  He’d found what he was looking for in the storeroom: the sword Father had given him on his last birthday. The one Mamma had said he was still too young to carry.

  Shouldering the blade, he made his way stealthily down the hill, skirting the sleeping town. Somewhere a dog barked. He crossed the river and didn’t slow his pace even when the overarching branches shut out all light from above, making his heart quicken and his palms slick with sweat.

  Not a breath of wind stirred as he entered the Grove and stood before Wurl, gazing up through the great oak’s boughs into a sea of leaves. He drew the blade from its scabbard, knelt, and raised the sword in offering above his head to swear the first solemn oath of his young life.

  “O Great Wurl, hear my pledge,” he proclaimed, as loudly as he dared.

  The tree seemed to lean toward him, and he felt gooseflesh rise on his skin. But now he had begun, there was no turning back.

  “I vow, before you and all who reside on Cloud Mountain, to become the greatest hero the Helgrins have ever known.”

  His heart thundered in his chest as he uttered the words, for he would never walk in the Sky Hall if he failed in this promise to the gods.

  He knew he was young and untested, but he had no time to squander. To protect his mother, he had to become a warrior like no other before him. And that would require more than practicing the art of war; he needed real experience. He had to join his father and Jered on their next voyage to wherever the Helgrin longships sailed, even it was to Drinnglennin, the land of his mother’s birth.

  It was time to begin his journey to make a name for himself—a name sung in praise in the Sky Hall on Cloud Mountain forever after.

  Chapter 11

  Maura

  “You’ve picked a fine day to arrive in Drinnkastel, m’lady.” The maidservant lifted a gown from Maura’s trunk and spread it across the broad bed. “The whole of the capital’s in a frenzy, what with the start of the Twyrn day after tomorrow.”

  The girl fingered the fine silk, and Maura hoped she wouldn’t ask where it had come from, for she had no ready lie. She certainly couldn’t say the thread had originated in Mithralyn and the gown had been woven by elven magic.

  “It’s been right dull these past years,” the maid confided, “not like in the old days when our king was in good health. This tournament’s made it lively once more!” Her plump cheeks reddened with excitement. “And we still can be counted on to offer a gracious welcome, particularly to one of His Majesty’s kin.”

  She hesitated, rather too obviously presenting Maura with the opportunity to explain exactly how she came to be related to Urlion. But when Maura remained silent, the maid bundled the garments into her arms.

  “Well. I’ll see a tr
ay is sent up for this evening’s meal, m’lady, since you must be weary from your journey. At this hour, His Majesty will have already retired. And I’ll have these gowns pressed and returned promptly. Will there be anything else, m’lady?”

  “No, thank you…” Maura couldn’t remember the maid’s name. Indeed, since they’d left Mithralyn in Master Morgan’s company three days before, everything had been a blur. The slight throbbing that had pulsed at her temples since her arrival was now a full-blown headache.

  On the journey south, her mind had returned often to Ilyria. It had been much more difficult to leave the dragon than she’d imagined, and she suspected that the separation was the root of her headaches. The weeks spent in daily company with the bronze dragoness had deepened the bond first forged through blood, creating a fierce affinity between them.

  When the maid departed, Maura drifted to the wide casement window, which provided a glorious view of Drinnkastel’s magnificent towers. On another day, she might have been enchanted by their soaring beauty, but now she only wished she’d asked the maid for a potion for her headache. She’d left behind her own medical stores—along with her past life—at Fernsehn Manor, the farm in Branley Tor where she’d grown up… and to which she would never return.

  That time now seemed so long ago.

  Her new life had begun in the elven realm of Mithralyn, a beautiful idyll that had served as balm for her grieving heart. It was a life filled with music, light, and dancing under the moon. And of learning. During the winter months, she had become aware of Drinnglennin’s current conflicts and challenges. Through Ilyria’s eyes, she had seen what the Isle could become—for better or for worse.

  And now she was far from her dragon. Somehow that hurt her even more than losing her family and her childhood. At least she had Leif to console her. He hadn’t wanted to leave Mithralyn any more than she had, immersed as he’d been in helping Elvinor preserve the ancient elven lore. But when the High King sent his summons, they obeyed.