The Drinnglennin Chronicles Omnibus

by K. C. Julius

  Morgan smiled as he lifted the twist of silver from Lehr’s hand. “I shall see that it is returned to him. You received my letter?”

  Lehr nodded, then blew on his hands to warm them. “You wish to know what I’ve learned about the disappeared of our people. I need to know what you plan to do with this knowledge.”

  Morgan met his dark gaze levelly. “If they still live, I vow to do all in my power to bring them home.”

  Lehr looked doubtful. “All that you can?” He leaned back against the rock wall. “I know who you are, Master Morgan. Once, you might have accomplished this feat, but now? It’s said you lost your powers.”

  “How I achieve my objective is my business. Do you know where the missing are, or who’s abducting them?”

  “What do you know?” Lehr countered.

  “That some of the young women have been transported to Albrenia, where they are being sold as slaves. That the very old and the very young have been slaughtered here in Drinnglennin. I know nothing of what has become of the others.”

  Lehr shifted his gaze to the dark, roiling water. “Two moons ago, a madman washed up on this beach you see below us. He was brought to our camp by a local fisherman—he was å Livåri, you see, and the fisherman thought he was one of our clan. He wasn’t, but we took him in all the same. From his terrible wounds, it looked like he wouldn’t last long, but we figured if he could tell us what had happened to him, we could at least avenge his death.

  “The poor wretch lay on his stomach on the litter he was brought on, writhing in agony and begging for the mercy of death. In truth, I was tempted to grant his wish. The skin had been flayed off his back and hung in raw, pale threads, his right eye had been gouged out, and he’d lost much blood. How he survived in the sea…” Lehr shook his head, his mouth grim. “Our wise woman set about doing what she could to ease his agony, and for days he slept under the influence of crennin.” He flicked a defiant look at Morgan.

  “I’m aware of crennin’s medicinal powers,” said the wizard.

  The hard set of Lehr’s features relaxed slightly, and he continued his tale. “One morning, I was holding a cup of willow bark tea to his lips when a flicker of sanity lit his eye, and he spoke for the first time. ‘Craith,’ he whispered.

  “At first I thought he was asking if we’d found a hound with him, but when I started to tell him he’d been brought alone, he shook his head. ‘Me,’ he rasped. ‘Craith.’

  “This was his name?”

  Lehr shot Morgan a reproachful look. “No å Livåri mother would call her son ‘Dog.’ But it was what the man called himself.” His eyes were cold. “After he told his tale, I understood why. And once you hear it, you may well want to reconsider your oath to bring our people home.”

  “No matter what, I shall not.”

  “We shall see.” Lehr fixed his gaze on the chop and swell of the pewter water, as though collecting his thoughts. “Craith told me that a month before, he’d taken work on a merchant ship bound for Olquaria. The captain was a kinsman of his, and all the crew were å Livåri.” Lehr turned and spat into the darkness behind them, as to rid himself of a bitterness on his tongue. “It wasn’t until they’d set sail that Craith learned they’d gone gresit.”

  Morgan felt a cold dread mingled with anger. To go gresit meant to betray one’s own.

  Lehr saw by his expression that he understood. “This kinsman told Craith the hold was filled with wheat, silver, and arms to trade for gold, fine cloth, and spices in Tell-Uyuk. It was only once they were far out to sea that Craith learned the truth—that the cargo below was the blood of his blood: å Livåri men, women, and children.”

  Lehr drew his cloak closer against the whining wind. “Craith insisted he could do nothing, for he feared if he protested, his kinsman would simply throw him down into the hold and sell him along with the rest. So he watched and waited for a chance to free himself and the others. He knew nothing of the sea. But he was attuned to the cycles of sun and moon and stars, and he knew that for days on end they sailed not to the east as the captain had promised, but ever to the south.”

  “South?” echoed Morgan.

  Lehr ignored the question. “One day, a thin line appeared on the horizon, signaling they were nearing landfall. Craith described the air as hot and heavy, pressing down on them so that it was hard to breathe, and said the ship moved sluggishly over the water. All day and through the night, Craith watched the growing silhouette of a port in the distance, and when the orange sun rose, it revealed a wide harbor, in which great carracks and galleons, more than he could count, rocked at anchor. The carracks carried twenty-four cannons just on their broadsides, the galleons ten times as many. He smelled fresh pitch and new wood; he was certain none of the vessels had yet made their maiden voyage. Beyond the swaying forest of masts a field of great barges lay anchored, loaded with various buckets and wheeled bases, levers and massive slings for the construction of mangonels and trebuchets, and there was no doubt in his mind that they had arrived at a city preparing for war.

  “Once their own ship anchored, Craith was ordered to herd the å Livåri into small lighters to ferry them to shore. It was then that he saw the horror that would haunt his dreams for the rest of his days.”

  Lehr flicked his fingers to ward off evil. “There were… creatures.”

  Morgan felt his skin crawl. “What manner of creatures?”

  “Possessed of human speech, but not human. ‘Horned ones,’ he called them, with scaly, gray skin and half again as tall as any man. They swarmed the port and carried our captured kinfolk away.

  “All the long voyage back north, Craith was plagued by nightmares filled with the piteous cries of those they’d left behind, and he cursed himself for a coward.

  “On the night before they made landfall in Drinnglennin, the captain ordered a barrel of ale to be tapped. Craith, tormented by guilt, got drunk and found his courage at last. He lashed out at the captain, swearing he’d see him brought to justice. For his insolence, Craith was flayed, then his kinsman gouged out one of his eyes and ordered what was left of him cast into the sea. By the grace of the gods, Craith surfaced to find a rope dangling off the stern of the ship, to which he tied himself fast.

  “When they drew close to Gloorhilly’s harbor, he cut himself loose. The sea carried him to shore, where the fisherman found him and brought him to me.”

  “What became of this man?” Morgan asked.

  The å Livåri pushed himself away from the wall. “He died a few hours after telling his tale. We gave him the proper rites.”

  Horned ones. Morgan felt his throat tighten with anger and dread. So Lazdac has done it, and gods help them, the å Livåri have somehow provided him with the means.

  “So now, master wizard,” Lehr said, folding his arms across his chest. “Are you still standing by that oath?”

  Morgan’s expression must have given the man his answer, for Lehr’s own shifted to reflect a faint hope. “Is it enough,” the å Livåri asked, “for you to find them?”

  Morgan looked out over the sea, which was now the color of lead. The scent of an approaching storm hung on the air.

  “It will have to be.”

  Chapter 17

  Whit

  From the start, Maeve made it easy for Whit. “Is it your first time?” she asked, stepping out of her dress in his narrow room. She was naked underneath it, and Whit could barely find breath to answer, so taken was he by the sight of her alluring curves.

  Yes,” he managed to whisper.

  “Good.” Maeve moved closer, smiling as she unbuckled his fine belt. “Then I’ll have no bad habits to correct.” She drew his tunic over his head and took his hand, her warm eyes sparkling. “Are you ready for your lesson, Master Wizard?”

  “Indeed,” he said, falling with her onto the bed. “I am always ready to learn.”

  * * *

/>   When Whit rose again, the moon still hung high in the sky. He stood at the window, watching the silvery orb slowly arc toward the shadowed trees. Only when it had slipped from view did he realized how cold the room had grown.

  With a murmur, he rekindled the glowing embers in the hearth to roaring life.

  From the bed, he heard a gasp, followed by a low, musical laugh. “Prettily done,” Maeve purred.

  He turned to see her arms stretched languorously above her head, the bedding falling away to reveal her firm breasts.

  “But I’d prefer something else to warm me,” she added.

  He crawled obligingly back under the covers.

  This time, he lasted long enough to make Maeve cry out twice. Lying breathless against his chest, she said, “True to your word, you are, sir—a fast learner.” He felt the curve of her cheek against his as she smiled, and felt a burst of gratitude.

  He was just drifting off to sleep again when she reached up and stroked his face. “I have to go,” she whispered.

  Whit’s stomach rumbled, and they both laughed.

  “I’ll see a proper breakfast is sent up. You’ll be wanting some fuel for that fire within you,” Maeve teased.

  Whit buried his nose in her hair. “Then you must stay to kindle it.”

  But she slid from his grasp and into her dress. “I’ve a wedding to attend,” she reminded him, pulling together the stays of her bodice. She leaned over and brushed his lips softly with her own. “I’ll not forget this night, and I’d like to think you won’t either. They say a man never forgets his first.”

  “Never,” he vowed. He tried to draw her back into the bed, but she danced away with a laugh. Blowing him a soft kiss, she slipped out the door.

  Whit lay drowsing, a smile on his lips, when a rap on the door jolted him fully awake. He pulled on his crumpled tunic before admitting a boy bearing a fragrantly steaming tray. Maeve had been true to her word as well. She’d sent up fresh bread, runny eggs, and thickly sliced bacon, which Whit took back to bed and ate with relish. After a quick ablution, he dressed and went down to have Sinead saddled.

  He rode out to the accompaniment of chirping birds and rustling leaves, and found himself humming a tune often played in Mithralyn. He felt buoyant, with a world of possibilities ahead.

  He had at least a half day’s ride between him and Drinnkastel, so used the time to consider what he would wear to his audience with the High King—Cardenstowe’s black and yellow, of course, and the fine belt he’d inherited when his father had died, with the golden crow buckle. He’d need to see a barber beforehand, though.

  The pounding of approaching hoofbeats snapped him out of these musings, and a score of riders were upon him in the space of a few breaths. The men wore unfamiliar silver livery, trimmed with crimson, and their well-bred mounts sported costly trappings. Whit felt slightly less apprehensive when he spied the monter riding with them. Not robbers, then. Still, he kept his hand on his sword as they milled around him.

  “Identify yourself, sir,” demanded a solid man with close-set eyes.

  “It’s you who’ve accosted me,” Whit retorted. “If you mean no harm, give me your names.”

  “Why don’t I shorten that insolent tongue of yours instead,” snarled a rough-looking man with coarse, orange hair and a bulbous nose. He pulled a dirk from the scabbard at his waist.

  “Hold, Saywen! The whelp has the look of a lord about him.” The heavy man’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “As to who we are, our colors speak for us.”

  “Not to me.”

  The man puffed out his barrel chest. “We serve High King Roth, and wear the red panther proudly.”

  Whit now discerned the crouching feline on the man’s breast. “I beg your pardon, sir. I’ve been… away. I didn’t know King Roth had adopted new heraldry.”

  “Well, now you do, Sir…”

  “Lord,” Whit amended sharply. “Lord Whit Alcott of Cardenstowe. As it happens, I’m on my way to the capital to have an audience with His Majesty.”

  He didn’t much care for the effect his words produced. The sturdy man exchanged a cryptic look with a tall knight who’d ridden up beside him. The newcomer’s hair was jet black, and sleek as an otter’s.

  The heavier man offered Whit a slight bow. “My Lord Cardenstowe. I’m Sir Ewig Ghent, captain of the King’s Guard. It’s fortunate we’ve met on the road. As it happens, King Roth is not in Drinnkastel. He and Queen Grindasa are currently in residence at Nelvor Castle. We’ll be happy to escort you there.”

  Whit frowned. “Nelvor Castle? I think not. I’ve other business to take me to Drinnkastel as well. I’ll await the king’s return there.”

  “Surely none more pressing than swearing Cardenstowe’s allegiance to your sovereign.” Sir Ewig was no longer smiling. “Your absence has been noted, sir, but I’m sure now all can be put to rights. If you’ll just come along with us.” His expression made clear he would brook no objection. “Nelvorboth is quite pleasant this time of year—you’ll see for yourself, my lord.” And with that he spurred to the head of his men, leaving Whit glaring in frustration at his back.

  Sir Ewig’s men had closed ranks around Whit. A tall knight detached himself from the circle and urged his horse forward, making Whit a courtly bow. “Sir Harlin Korst, at your service, my lord. I shouldn’t consider refusing Sir Ewig’s kind offer of an escort, if I were you.”

  Whit’s irritation had turned to anger. “Why am I am being forced to go to Nelvorboth against my will?” he demanded.

  The skeletal monter kicked his mule closer as well. “Come now, my son. You said yourself you wished an audience with the king. Are you not in fact a kinsman of his? King Roth takes the bond of blood very seriously.”

  “As do I,” Whit replied. “Drinnkastel is on my way to Cardenstowe, where my mother awaits me. I’ve been gone many months and have responsibilities to attend to there.”

  “Your first responsibility is to your king,” Sir Harlin said evenly, “and Cardenstowe seems to have been managing without you for the past year. As I recall, my lord, you weren’t at the Twyrn.” His look was coolly speculative. “Indeed, Cardenstowe remains the only realm that has not sworn formal fealty to our new High King, because you were not to be found. May I ask where, exactly, you’ve been all this time, my lord? Your lady mother claimed even she didn’t know your whereabouts. It was thought you might have taken ship for the continent with Sir Glinter and his band of mercenaries. It’s lucky you didn’t; Glinter and his crew sailed against the express orders of the Crown.”

  Whit was alarmed to hear his mother had been questioned about him. “I was in the north,” he replied stiffly, “in the company of Master Morgan. Perhaps you’ve heard of him?”

  “Lord Blearc, preserve us!” the monter cried.

  “Heard of him?” Sir Harlin gave an incredulous laugh. “Every soul in the land knows of the wizard’s perfidy! Derrlyn, Saywen, to me!”

  Two powerfully built men, armed with rough staves, trotted forward and scowled at Whit.

  “Secure this man and guard him closely!” Sir Harlin commanded.

  Whit swore as Saywen—the man who had threatened him with his knife—grabbed hold of his arm. The other man, an even more unsavoury-looking fellow with a protruding jaw and pockmarked skin, eyed Rowlan and gave a low whistle.

  Whit tried to urge Sinead out from between their mounts, but Sir Harlin grasped the mare’s bridle.

  “What’s the meaning of this?” Whit demanded. “I am a peer of the realm!”

  His loud protest brought Sir Ewig riding back. “You refuse to come to Nelvorboth?” the captain demanded.

  “The young lord here says he was away in the north,” Harlin replied, “in the company of Master Morgan.”

  A slow, delighted smile spread across Sir Ewig’s face. “You will tell me, at once, where this Morgan is hidi
ng.”

  Saywen started to wrap a rope around Whit’s wrists, and Whit attempted to pull away. “What do you think you’re doing?” he cried.

  “Answer my question,” Sir Ewig demanded.

  “I’ve no idea where Master Morgan is! We parted in the north days ago.”

  “Where exactly?”

  Whit was so incensed he couldn’t think straight. He needed a moment to gather his wits. He could easily set the rope alight, but in doing so, he risked harming Sinead and spooking Rowlan. More importantly, he sensed that to use any magic in front of these men would be ill-advised.

  “Where did you leave the wizard?” Sir Ewig repeated.

  “Are you deaf? I said in the nor—”

  The knight’s blow took Whit full in the face, and he saw stars before his eyes.

  “See here, Ghent!” Sir Harlin cried. “We’ve no proof the young lord was involved in that treason.”

  “Any who consorts with wizards bear the taint of these heathens,” the monter intoned. He narrowed his eyes at Whit, his loathing palpable.

  Whit held his jaw, trying to make sense of what he was being accused of.

  “And we’ve no proof that he wasn’t involved, either!” Sir Ewig growled. The captain leaned toward Whit, who smelled onions on the man’s breath. “I claim you as my prisoner, Whit of Cardenstowe. You’ll answer to King Roth himself for your treachery.”

  “What treachery?” Whit cried.

  But Sir Ewig had already wheeled his horse.

  “Saywen,” said Sir Harlin, “see that his lordship comes to no further harm.” Then avoiding Whit’s eyes, Sir Harlin rode after Ewig.

  Saywen was still ogling Rowlan. “Tha’s a fine horse, tha’ is.”

  “The destrier is the property of Lady Halla of Lorendale,” Whit said stiffly.

  Saywen leered at him, revealing dark, broken teeth. “Then what ’er ye doin’ wit’ ’im?”

  Whit leaned over and spat blood in answer. It would be better to say as little as possible to these men. If he was suspected of some foul crime, it wouldn’t do to link Halla or Lorendale to him, any more than their bonds of kinship already did. In any case, he didn’t owe these ruffians any explanation.