The Drinnglennin Chronicles Omnibus

by K. C. Julius

  “Excellente!” said Latour. He clapped the shoulders of both Nicu and Borne, then led them off.

  Before Halla returned to her å Livåri comrades, she took a moment to enjoy the sight of the marechal’s disgruntled second trailing sullenly in their wake.

  * * *

  It was well past midnight when the victory feast concluded and the å Livåri returned to their own camp. Thankfully, the night had passed without incident, though Halla wasn’t happy when Borne—whom she’d now confirmed was no monk—accompanied Nicu back to their fire. As the tall man sank down across from her at the fireside, she made no attempt to hide her disapproval.

  Nicu remained standing to address those of his men who had not already succumbed to weariness and drink. “We have a decision to make,” he declared, then proceeded to detail what their engagement had earned them this day. Halla listened without comment until the false monk’s name was mentioned.

  “You can’t be serious!” she cried, leaping to her feet. “He’s to lead us as a force fighting for the Gralians?”

  “If you have an objection to voice, Åthinoi,” said Nicu, in the quiet tone she’d learned to be wary of, “we will hear it after I have finished.”

  Halla sank back down and glowered at Borne, whose mild gaze remained fixed on the fire.

  After a censorious silence, Nicu continued. “We’re to receive a range of arms—crossbows, swords, pikes, and axes—and training in their use. In exchange, some of us will serve as a paid unit of the Gralian loyalist army for a term of no less than three months and no more than six, depending on how long it takes to root out the last of the renegades. After this, we’re free to take our weapons and return to our mission.”

  “What about our people held in slavery in Albrenia?” Baldo demanded. “What of those who disappeared to places unknown? They may not have that much time.”

  “As I said, only a small number of us will remain with Latour’s forces,” Nicu replied evenly. “And I will be one of these. Mihail, I would ask you to assume command of the rest and carry on with the rescues.” He let his eyes travel over his men, and pitched his next words so none could fail to hear him. “The reality is that at present, we’re poorly equipped, which limits us to small-scale raids. Latour is offering us the chance to become professional soldiers, under this man’s tutelage.” He pointed at Borne. “He’s not å Livåri, but I judge him an honorable man. Indeed, I made his acquaintance back on the Isle, so I’ve known him longer than I have some of you. Because we share a common language, he’s an obvious choice to lead us for this period, should we agree to the terms. None of you who saw him on the field of battle today can deny his ability as a warrior, and his strategic expertise receives high praise from the Gralian marechal.”

  Borne looked as if he would make a joke, but caught himself when he saw, as did Halla, that the men were hanging on Nicu’s words.

  “Once we’ve acquired the skills and weapons, we will use them to protect ourselves from any who seek to oppress us, and fight for our right to exist in the Known World as a respected people! Noi stunte å Livåri!”

  A shout of accord broke out amongst the ranks, and Nicu let it resonate a moment before raising his hands for quiet. “If we are agreed, I will ask you to choose who will follow Mihail. I need thirty men to stay with me and the Gralians.”

  The men, recognizing their leader had had his say, began to talk among themselves.

  As Nicu made to walk past Halla, she rose to her feet. “And what about a woman?”

  Nicu stopped and turned his well-deep gaze upon her. “A woman who knows her worth will choose her rightful place.”

  * * *

  There was still a light shining from within the small tent. Halla lifted the flap, stepped inside, and let it fall behind her.

  Nicu looked up from his maps and drew a sharp breath, but spoke no word as she crossed to the table and extinguished the single candle.

  He smelled of horse and sweat, but when their lips met, she tasted sweet mint. He held her carefully when she slipped into his arms, as if she might still choose to break away, and he left it to her to lead them in a slow spiral down on to his bedroll.

  Only when they lay face to face in the dark did she speak.

  “A woman,” she said, her lips softly brushing his ear, “has chosen.”

  Chapter 6

  Fynn

  Fynn would survive the cold, for he was Helgrin-born and had known far bitterer autumns than this one. He could endure the rats, the foul, cesspool stench that permeated his cell, and the same thin gruel twice a day. What threatened to break him—what preyed on his thoughts through the long, tedious hours, what brought him daily to the brink of despair—was simply this: he had lost his family.

  He would never again see his father or Jered, if indeed they still lived. He would never again feel his mother’s loving arms, for she did not. And because he had failed to honor the oath he’d made before Wurl, the sacred oak, to become the greatest hero of the Helgrins, he was barred from Cloud Mountain in the afterlife. When all those he loved were reunited there, they would not mourn his absence. Nor should they; he had proved unworthy of his father’s name and his mother’s love.

  He would die in this stinking gaol and descend to Nagror, the murky underworld where those who don’t warrant entry to Cloud Mountain dwell in misery. Poisonous serpents would gnaw away his decaying flesh and bones, then feast on his hapless soul as he screamed in torment for all eternity. It was a harsh fate to accept.

  He’d stopped counting the days since he’d been separated from Teca at the port. He had no idea if she too was imprisoned. She’d fought to stay with Fynn when they bound and gagged him, and the last time he’d seen her, she was lying on the ground, struck down by Vetch. Perhaps she was dead.

  The thought evoked no tears, for he had shed enough.

  It was likely that Lord Vetch, the enemy commander who had burned and plundered Restaria, had discovered that Teca was not his mother, nor he her son by a Drinnglennian father. It made Fynn feel ill that he’d gone along with the improbable tale in the first place. It had been a cowardly betrayal.

  His fingers sought the chain around his neck, from which hung the strange pendant his dying mother had given him. He suspected it carried ill fortune, and he would have cast it down the pisshole if safeguarding it had not been his last promise to her. It was a wonder he still had it in his possession, but Lord Vetch had ordered his men not to search Fynn, and to instruct Fynn’s gaolers to keep their hands off him as well, on pain of death. As a result, Fynn still had both the pendant and the small pouch he wore under his tunic. He patted the comforting bulge of the dried bloodteeth against his thin chest—a final escape, should he choose to use it.

  As he lay listening to the rats rooting in the rushes, the heavy cell door grated over the stone floor. Fynn scrambled up, shielding his eyes from the blazing torchlight as something thudded against the back wall of the cell and slumped to the floor.

  The door scraped closed again. Fynn held his breath for ten counts in the ringing silence; he sensed a new presence. Cautiously, he groped behind his back for the spoon he’d found in the bottom of his bowl one day, where it must have slipped when the cook wasn’t looking. He’d sharpened it to a fine point against the rough stone and kept it hidden in the filthy rushes. It wasn’t much, but it could poke out an eye or pierce a throat. Clutching the spoon, he waited. He’d wait as long as he had to. Let the other make the first move. If he proved to be a foe, Fynn would be ready.

  When the whimpering began, he ignored it, suspecting the fellow might be feigning injury. It wasn’t until the man began to moan that Fynn decided he must be ill—then amended that to mad as the stranger started raving and crying out reedy, unintelligible pleas.

  Fynn propped himself against the wall, holding the spoon tight in his grip.

  Despite the noise, he eventually
slept. He jerked awake to weak daylight and snatched up the spoon that had fallen to his lap.

  His cellmate was huddled against the opposite wall, his body twitching and shuddering. He was wrapped in a filthy cloak, and the side of his face was badly bruised.

  When their breakfast arrived, Fynn drew in the two bowls through the roughly cut hole at the base of the door, then nudged one of them toward the quivering man.

  “This is yours.”

  The only response he got was the clacking of teeth.

  “Don’t you want it?”

  With a shrug, Fynn lifted his own bowl and drank its contents in small sips, making it last as long as he could. When he finished, he eyed the second bowl.

  “Are you going to eat that?”

  The stranger raised his head, and Fynn saw that the blue on his face wasn’t a bruise, but a mottled tattoo. The man retched up a string of spittle onto the rushes, and Fynn took that to be as good an answer as he was likely to get. He reached for the other bowl and drained it.

  Feeling full for the first time in weeks, Fynn curled on his side and slept again. He dreamt he was staggering across a grey field strewn with the gory aftermath of battle, gripping his belly where a sword had pierced it. Trying not to tread on the fallen, he cried out for his mother.

  One of the corpses in his path lifted its cracked skull, embedded with the axe that had split it. “Stop yer snivelin’, ya lily-livered cuss!” the man growled.

  Fynn reeled away, doubled over from the stabbing pain in his groin. Looking down, he saw his guts spilling out through a bloody gash. When he tried to push them back inside, they writhed into snakes and began to tear at themselves in a frenzy.

  His eyes flew open, and he lay panting on the floor of the dingy cell until the terror of the dream receded. His hair was damp with sweat and his stomach burned and churned, the pain pinning him on his back. When he tried to call out to the guards, he could only manage a weak croak.

  The rustle of the rushes sent a jolt of fear through him. He’d forgotten he was no longer alone. He’ll make me pay now, Fynn thought, for eating his gruel.

  The thought of food sent sour bile surging up into his throat, and he began to retch and shiver uncontrollably, waiting for the blows to fall.

  * * *

  Someone was bathing his face again. His head pounded as it was lifted, and he felt the press of a ladle against his cracked lips. “Drink,” said a now-familiar voice, and he managed a little sip before his belly clenched. He felt hot and cold at the same time, but willed himself to look up at the monster with the blue face bending over him.

  “I’ll not harm ye,” the man growled. As if to belie the words, his mouth twisted. A tremor shook his body and he let out a low groan.

  Fynn remembered then that his cellmate had vomited too. Perhaps they’d both been poisoned by the guards.

  As if on cue, the heavy door opened and the two gaolers thrust their heads in, one pale as straw, the other flaming red.

  “Cor, what’s that stench?” said Strawman. He pressed a filthy rag against his bulbous nose.

  “The Lurker has the jits, and the young ’un’s taken ill,” said the one Fynn had mentally dubbed the Owl because of his wide-spaced eyes.

  “Wit’ any luck, it’ll finish ’em off,” muttered Strawman. “You there! What’re you doin’ to ’im?”

  “Tendin’ to ’im is all,” his cellmate retorted.

  “Well, don’t,” said the Owl. “You just keep t’ yerself and let nature take its course.”

  So it’s true, thought Fynn. I’m dying. Now he’d never have the chance to redeem himself, in this life or the next.

  The door closed with a thud, and his head was lifted again.

  “Drink,” said his tormentor.

  * * *

  It was two more days before Fynn could keep down more than a few sips of water and a mouthful of gruel. He owed his life to Grinner, as the blue-faced man was called, despite the fact that Fynn had turned away from Grinner when the man himself had been in need.

  Once Fynn could sit up, he forced himself to meet his cellmate’s eyes. “Why did you bother with me?” he whispered weakly. “I mean, when you were sick, I didn’t help you.”

  Grinner shrugged. “Someone done me a kindness once.” He let out a sharp bark of laughter. “And gettin’ thrown inta this stinkhole were another, in a way. I tried and tried b’fore to get clean, but I were ne’er able to get past the jits. Locked in ’ere, I’ve had no choice; the crennin’s out o’ me now.”

  “Crennin?” said Fynn. “My mother uses… used that in her healing. What are the jits?”

  “What ye get when ye don’t have crennin. Once yer hooked, crennin don’t let ye loose.”

  “Is crennin what made me sick?”

  “D’ ye mean, did I slip some inta the soup ye nicked from me?” Grinner snorted. “Not hardly likely. I reckon ye just got a bad batch o’ gruel, or might be yer belly couldn’t handle the double rations.”

  Fynn hung his head. “I’m sorry I took your food.”

  “I weren’t goin’ ta eat it! Jus’ don’ go tryin’ that again. Since I’m o’er the jits, I’m hungry now.” He gave another barking laugh. “And here I be, where the food’s free!”

  “And so appetizing,” said Fynn, pulling a face.

  Despite his aching stomach, his heart felt lighter. Grinner was strange and coarse, but it was good to have someone to talk to, even if the fellow’s Drinn was different from that which Fynn had spoken with his mother and Teca.

  Over the following days, they began to become acquainted, each sharing the bits of their pasts they were willing to reveal. Grinner thought he was about twenty years old, but he wasn’t sure. He came from a people called the å Livåri, but he hadn’t grown up among them.

  Fynn didn’t ask why; doing so might lead their conversation to a place where he was asked about his own losses, and he wasn’t ready to talk about them. He told Grinner only that his mother’s people came from Langmerdor, and Grinner didn’t press him for more information.

  But in the second week of their shared captivity, Fynn unintentionally let something slip. He’d been explaining to Grinner about sailing, and encouraged by the wonder in his new friend’s eyes, he became careless. “My father reads the waves to gauge the speed of the wind. He can tell from the way the breakers roll where dangerous shoals lurk under the water. His men call him the Sea Whisperer.”

  A look of incomprehension crossed Grinner’s face. Too late, Fynn realized he’d used the Helgric word. “I mean… I…”

  “I knowed from the start ye ain’t from these parts,” said Grinner. “That weren’t the first time ye spake tha’ strange tongue. When ye was in the grip o’ the fever, ye was mostly spoutin’ gibberish.”

  Fynn felt the blood drain from his face.

  “Dinna fash,” Grinner said. “Ye kept yer clap shut when the guards was about. No one heared ye, save me.”

  Fynn saw no reason not to tell Grinner the truth now. “I’m Helgrin,” he said, feeling a curious lightness of heart upon making the confession. It was like claiming a piece of home. “I was taken a few month ago in a Drinnglennian raid on our settlement, Restaria. Perhaps you heard about it?”

  Grinner shook his head. “The likes o’ me don’t hear much more than market gossip.” He sat back and eyed Fynn curiously. “So why’re ye rottin’ in this stinkin’ hole here in Toldarin? Are ye worth somethin’ in ransom?”

  “I’ve no idea,” said Fynn, which was true. All he knew was it had been a terrible mistake to honor his mother’s dying wish to come to this land. To change the subject, he said, “What happened to your face?”

  Grinner rubbed the blue patch. “Tattoo gone wrong. Tha’ lyin’ bastard Ferka said ’e knowed what ’e were doin’. I told ’im, I says, I want me a alphyn t’ honor the good King Gregor o’ yore, w
hat saved our people from the Purge. ’Course that were before they got at it ’ere in Drinnglennin.”

  “Got at what?”

  Grinner scowled. “Blamin’ the å Livåri fer whate’er vexes ’em. Making us all out t’ be thieves, murderers, and worse. Nowadays it seems we’ll be chased off again, only there’s no place left fer us t’ run. Drinnglennin were our last refuge.”

  “I thought you just said the High King saved you from the Purge.”

  “That were in King Gregor’s day. We swore allegiance to ’im and ’is son Owain after ’im. To the grandson as well, but Urlion, well, ’e didn’t pay us much heed. Now the last o’ the Konigurs’ made the Leap…” He shook his head. “It’ll be the same ’ol story. Folks’re findin’ any reason t’ make our lives a torment, takin’ offense that we hold to different gods, or that we live a free life, widout lords and such. It don’t bode well fer the å Livåri on the Isle.”

  “Is that why you’re in here?” Fynn asked.

  Grinner shrugged. “I’ve no idear what they nabbed me fer, but I s’pose if they were thinkin’ t’ hang me, they’d ’ve done it by now. I were in Dveld, the dream place, when I were taken, an’ afore that I were jus’ passin’ through the city, mindin’ me own business. When yer a rusher, not even yer own kind have much t’ do wit’ ye. Come t’ think o’ it, though, I don’t recall seein’ any å Livåri about. Like as not, they’d already headed south t’ Glornadoor fer the winter.”

  Even with Grinner’s company, time passed slowly in the dismal cell. To combat boredom, Fynn asked him to teach him Livårian in exchange for lessons in Helgric. When he discovered Grinner could neither read nor write, Fynn set out to teach him runic, which Grinner proved quick to learn.

  It was also Fynn’s idea that they practice wrestling, for he could feel his muscles growing weak from disuse. Grinner had little stamina at first; his body was still recovering from the damage his long addiction had inflicted on it. But he was game to grapple with Fynn as best he could in the cramped cell. They were always careful to listen for approaching footsteps, for if the guards thought they were fighting, they might be separated. Neither of the two cellmates wanted that, for gradually, a bond of friendship had grown between them.