The Drinnglennin Chronicles Omnibus

by K. C. Julius

  At the sound of men’s voices, Whit’s heart gave a jolt. The fiery inferno gave him nowhere to hide. All around him, roofs were caving in, sending swarms of sparks skyward, as if signaling his whereabouts.

  He closed his eyes and turned his mind inward, seeking the well of power he harbored within, and for the first time, he attempted to cast his shadow out of real need. He deepened his breathing, compressing time and space in his inhalations, then released them as he exhaled. His heartbeat slowed and steadied, and the sense of his own shadow took shape in his mind.

  Opening his eyes and expelling a long breath, he cast the shadow forth.

  Whit felt a surge of pleasure as it took shape before him, followed by distress as the shadow immediately began to fade. He understood then why Morgan always said there was no place for conceit in magic.

  Focus. Breathe.

  The shadow darkened once more, and he moved into it, entering a landscape cast in gradients of grey. It felt like he’d slipped into a second skin, but it didn’t cling, didn’t hinder his movements. He felt expanded, as if his physical being had rippled outward to form an envelope of air surrounding him. Then his body fully merged with the shadow, no longer contained within it, and he felt light and agile, almost weightless as he glided across the ground.

  He mentally gathered the shade again and cast it forward. He leapt with it, double the distance he’d thought possible, rushing through the air within the cloaking shadow, then leapt again, making his way down the burning lane.

  Occasional scattered screams rent the air, but even more harrowing were the sudden silences that cut them off. He thought of Maisie and Horace, the gentle souls with whom he’d planned to leave the boy, and wondered whether they’d fallen prey to the Helgrin wolves.

  It was as he slipped between two warehouses that the fire had not yet begun to feed on that he at last chanced upon the living. He wished he hadn’t. The first was a young girl huddled under a cart, clutching a still infant, its tiny thumbs severed, against her thin chest. The second was an old man propped against the wall and sitting in a pool of his own entrails, cradling a white-haired woman. He was still clutching the knife he’d used to mercifully slit her throat before the Helgrins could get to her. Neither saw Whit, wrapped in his shadow, as he stole past.

  He forced himself to swallow his gorge and keep going.

  He could see the harbor at the end of the alley now, and the dark, turbulent sea beyond. With more than fifty longboats still ranged across the bay, and at least ten shoreboats beached on the strand, many of the invaders were clearly still roaming through the town. All the same, since everything was aflame, he presumed the Helgrins would soon return to their ships. As for Fynn, he was either already aboard the flagship, or dead and cast into the sea. The thought of the latter scenario aroused a sadness Whit could not have foretold.

  And what then? If Fynn had indeed perished, Whit could return to the capital and report that he’d accomplished the gruesome task he’d been sent by Roth to do. For in a way, he’d done just that—he’d led the boy to his death. The thought repulsed him even more for having been done, even if unintentionally, in the service of King Roth. As much as Whit had hoped to sit on the Tribus one day, he had no desire to advise a sovereign who had, in cold blood, ordered the end of an innocent young life.

  Whit recalled Roth’s fine patrician face, his immaculate dress, and the air of entitlement he’d exuded while giving the order for murder. There was a time in Whit’s life when the man’s appearance would have impressed him, but all he had felt on that day was fear—fear for Drinnglennin. It was why he’d decided that he would go to Toldarin—not to kill the boy, but to protect him.

  Whit didn’t intend to be of use to King Roth. At present, he was beholden only to Cardenstowe, for in Roth’s haste to send him to Toldarin, he had neglected to extract Whit’s oath of allegiance. When I pledge myself and my vassals, it won’t be to that jumped-up Nelvor bastard—it will be to a king I can be proud to serve.

  Perhaps that king was Fynn. The boy might be the rightful heir to the throne, and he might not, but he was clearly Urlion’s son. Whit had seen many a likeness of the former High King in historical tomes, and the boy was the spitting image of Urlion as a youth. And now Whit had let this boy, the last Konigur, slip through his fingers and into Helgrin clutches.

  Whit had reached the end of the alley. He peered out onto the harborside. Here, the dead mounted. It seemed as if every man, woman, and child in the city had been hacked down by Helgrin blades and spears. The raiders had been merciless.

  He kept close to the warehouses lining the port, for the low buildings offered additional cover to keep his shadow from being detected. The storerooms he passed had been pried open, and bales of precious lapin fur had rolled out onto the cobblestones, bright humps against the grey of sky and sea.

  He sensed the approaching Helgrins just before they emerged from a parallel street onto the harbor front, making for the remaining shoreboats. A few stragglers continued to collect booty, but most of the men began to launch the crafts into the waves.

  As Whit hovered in the shadow of a warehouse, the smoke made his eyes stream. Ash fell all around him, and he found it hard to breathe, so hard that he began to cough. He quickly stifled the sound, but it was too late. To his horror, one of the looters lifted his head and stared directly at him.

  “What was that?”

  The man was ridiculously tall, even for a Helgrin, and built like an auroch. His fair, sweat-soaked hair hung to his shoulders, and a rough, shaggy beard covered the lower half of his face.

  Only one of his two companions bothered to glance over. His hands were awash in blood. “Rats fleeing the fire,” he suggested. Then he bent over a dead man to hack off his thumbs and add them to the blood-soaked bag slung over his shoulder.

  “Solvi’s hearing things,” said the third. “He’s still hoping to find a treasure as valuable as the one Jorson took back to the Ydlyia.” He slipped a gold necklace over his head, where it glittered amongst a dozen others.

  “Don’t know what was so special about the brat,” the thumb-collector grunted. He nudged a corpse over with the toe of his boot. “He’ll just be another thrall.”

  “He spoke Helgric,” Solvi said, looking away from Whit at last. “He claimed he was the son of the yarl.”

  The thumb-collector gave a nasty laugh. “He said he was the son of Aetheor Yarl, who lies unburnt at the bottom of the sea.”

  All three men touched their wrists, and Whit remembered reading about the runes the Helgrins tattooed on their skin to protect them from evil. Then his tickling throat closed. The flagship in the harbor flew the fiery eye, as he’d already noted. If Aetheor was dead, then who was yarl now? And what did this mean for Fynn?

  “The tide is turning.” The tallest man hefted his axe over his shoulder and lumbered toward two small boats that were beached on the sand. The others trailed in the big man’s wake, stooping here and there to collect any remaining booty that caught their eyes.

  Whit felt a rising panic. Soon they would take their plunder and row away. If he wanted to rescue Fynn, he’d have to go with them. But how? There were still hours of daylight left, and a shadow moving over open ground was sure to draw their attention.

  He could swim after them once they were on the water, but he doubted he could manage shade-shifting while struggling with the icy chop, and even if he could, they’d likely have their sails up and oars at the catch before he was halfway there.

  Use the elements at hand, a creaky voice whispered inside Whit’s head. Egydd’s usual advice, which he’d demonstrated often in their duels.

  The elements at hand. Well, there was the sea and the wind. Surely he could make something of these.

  The plundering Helgrins had apparently finished their business. They struck off down the beach toward the last two remaining shoreboats. Whit watched with mo
unting dread as the tallest Helgrin dumped his haul into one of the boats, then began to push the other, which was hitched to it, into the shallows. His companions stowed their own treasures and hurried to assist him, their boots crunching over the stones as they alternated between dragging and pushing the two skiffs into the water.

  Still concealed at the side of the warehouse, Whit tugged off his boots and—with great reluctance—laid his staff beside them. He would have to cross a distance of nearly one hundred yards to reach the boats. And he’d have to do it undetected.

  Drawing a deep breath, he cast his shadow in the direction of the water and flung himself over the clattering stones, the seaward wind covering the sound. He cast his shadow again, and then once more, drawing ever closer to the trailing boat.

  Suddenly he pitched forward, flying headlong. His foot had caught on a piece of driftwood. As he struck the stones, his lungs emptied, and he lost hold of his shadow.

  He lifted his gaze, fully expecting to see the three Helgrins pounding toward him with their axes raised. But they still had their backs to him, occupied with the boat launch. Both crafts were now afloat in the shallows, and the big man already had one foot in the leading skiff.

  Scarcely able to believe his luck, Whit scrambled to his feet and lunged forward to put the trailing boat between him and the other two men. He barely registered the frigid water as he sloshed into it, too relieved to feel anything else.

  When he reached the boat’s side, he ducked low, forced his breathing to slow, and reached for his shadow. This time the magic flowed with ease. Under its cover, he ventured a peek over the gunwales. The last of the Helgrins was hauling himself aboard the first boat.

  Whit whispered up a surge of water, sending a wave crashing over the occupied boat. The Helgrins shouted and ducked down instinctively, giving Whit time to clamber aboard the second boat, which had been reserved for carrying loot. He landed with a stab of pain, and looked down to see blood welling through a gaping hole in his hose. He’d been sliced by one of the men’s plundered blades.

  He heard the Helgrins sputtering from their soaking, then the slap of their oars.

  Whit groped in his pocket for the flask of elixir. It wasn’t there, and he realized it must have fallen out when he tripped on the beach. He still had his knife though, which he used to saw off a strip of his tunic—regretting the ruin of a fine linen shirt—then bound the gash.

  When he raised himself to peer over the bow, his heart sank. The rowers were making for a longboat to the far left, not for the flagship and Fynn. He’d have to alter the skiffs’ course.

  Calling up wind required more finesse than a wave. It took Whit a precious minute to center his mind. Then he slowly emptied his lungs to bind the spell.

  Dwal gwynd thoil dagat!

  He envisioned the wind’s dance over the water and the rising foam on the crest of the waves, then held the image in his mind.

  His cloak billowed around him as the little craft rocked and reeled to the right. The Helgrins’ shouts informed him their boat was reeling as well. He could hear the dip and drag of their oars as they tried to fight the will of the magicked wind.

  Whit kept up a fierce concentration, peering over the gunnels as he guided the gusts to send them toward the ship flying the fiery eye. They began to close the distance to the flagship, slowly at first, but then accelerating.

  When they came within a half dozen yards of the longboat, the Helgrins in the forward dingy cried out and braced themselves for a collision. Whit levered himself into the water, the shock of the cold sea making him gasp, and released the wind.

  The two boats quickly slowed, and the rowers pulled hard on the oars to turn the dinghies to the port side of the flagship, while Whit struck out for the hull. Already his fingers were going numb, and the rest of him would soon follow if he didn’t quickly find a way to get aboard the longboat. As he rounded the stern, he spied what he’d hoped to find: a set of rungs running up the ship’s side.

  Grasping the lowest rung, he hauled his trembling body out of the water, shivering in the stabbing, cold air. As he climbed, he drew breath into his aching lungs to cast his next spell.

  Gwenyl pferd al gwinch y dal!

  Wisps of mist began to drift over the sea, their tendrils thickening to dense fog. He heard shouting just above as the men exclaimed at the sudden weather. The fog engulfed the longboat in a matter of seconds, and under its cover Whit pulled himself up the last few rungs and aboard. He hit the deck and rolled under the gunwales, wrapped once more in his shadow’s cloak.

  Through the dense fog, he sensed the presence of other men, some only an arm’s length away. You’re a fool, Whit Alcott, he told himself, if you’re imagining this will end well.

  The surrounding fog meant he was almost as blind as the Helgrins who were bumping about around him. He pictured the layout of a longboat; he’d seen a few illustrations of them in various books he’d read. It would be less than two dozen feet wide, but over a hundred long. And these crafts had no cabins—the deck would be largely taken up with more than a score of benches for rowers.

  From under the narrow gunwale, Whit could see only the cloth-wrapped legs of three Helgrins.

  Across the water, a horn blared.

  “Fell and the others are aboard Fàlki,” said one of the men.

  “Set the sail,” came the command.

  “In this murk? We can barely make out our hands in front of our faces. I’ve never seen such a brume come up so sudden-like. The men don’t like it. Vadik says it smells of sorcery.”

  A gob of spit hit the deck inches from Whit. “Vadik!” the raspy voice scoffed. “That’s the stench of his own belches the old fool’s scenting. Our bard’ll be seeing snakes in the rigging soon.”

  “Aye, he’s likely buckled. He’s downed more than a few claps of thunder, and so have the rest, Yarl. They’ve already tapped a second of the kegs we found in yon gods’ house cellars.”

  Yarl! The rough-voiced speaker was Aetheor’s successor. Surely this was who they’d brought Fynn to—but where was the boy now?

  “Well, bung the keg up again,” the yarl growled. “I plan to be long gone by moonrise.”

  “We’ll have to row out of this pall before we raise the sail.”

  “Get to it then! Reider, give the signal to drop oars!”

  A pair of legs darted past Whit’s hiding place toward the bow. In a moment, the drum would be struck, and there would be no chance for escape once they put out to sea.

  But instead of the drum, a shout of anger rang out, and a new pair of leggings stalked by. Dragging behind them were thinner ones, clad in Whit’s own hose. He edged out to have a peek at Fynn, and it was only when he saw the boy’s white face that he realized he’d let the fog of enchantment drift from his mind. It had served its purpose, and so instead of raising it again, he cloaked himself in his shadow so that he could observe the scene about to play out.

  “The White Bear’s cursed cub bit me!” the newcomer howled. The offended Helgrin was stout, with a nose that appeared to have been broken more than once.

  Fynn struggled in the man’s grip, his mouth a firm, determined line. Someone had stripped him of the elven cloak, and his face bore the marks of a beating. “Where’s my father?” he demanded. “This is his ship!”

  The man Fynn addressed was built low to the ground, and had the bulging eyes of a fish. A thick band of gold rested on his broad brow, and gold rings encircled his beefy arms. He smiled unpleasantly, revealing jagged teeth. “Your father’s body lies under the sea, cousin. As for his soul, who can say?”

  “You’re lying!” Fynn shot back. “Jered always said you were a liar.”

  Cousin. This was Aksel Styrsen, Aetheor’s rebellious nephew.

  The smile fade from Aksel’s thick lips. “Your brother was always an arrogant—”

  “What did you do to
my father?” The anguish in the boy’s voice was heartbreaking.

  Aksel shook his head with mock regret. “My uncle was with me when we set off on this raid. But before we made landfall here, we got separated, and your father and his men sailed into an Albrenian ambush. Fortunately, I myself am on good terms with our southern neighbors.”

  He must be lying, Whit thought. Why would Albrenians be in these waters?

  Fynn stared at Aksel with a mixture of disbelief and fear. “But… these ships are all from Father’s fleet. Where are his men? Why are you sailing the Ydlyia, his flagship?”

  “She was Aetheor’s flagship. Was, but is no more. As Aetheor Yarl is no more.”

  Fynn’s sudden stillness was almost worse than if he’d wailed with grief. When he spoke again, his voice was tight. “And Jered? Where is he?”

  “Ah.” Aksel crossed his arms across his chest. “Now that I’d like to know myself. You’ve done me a great service, cousin, joining us so unexpectedly. I thought you’d died in Restaria, you and Aetheor’s Drinnglennian whore. I imagine Jered thinks so, too. How happy he’ll be to discover you still walk the earth! What do you think your brother might offer in ransom for the last of his kin? How many ships? How much of Aetheor’s buried gold? Of course, I’ll get it all in the end. But I need to flush out the other cub to put an end to the White Bear’s line, and you’ll do nicely as the bait.”

  Fynn stiffened. “Jered is no brother of mine. I’m not even Aetheor’s son. My mother was carrying me in her womb when she was taken from Drinnglennin. I’m worth nothing to Jered.”

  How brave, thought Whit, and how foolish.

  “I don’t care if your mother was queen of the faeries,” Aksel growled. “And don’t expect me to swallow this claptrap. We make now for Frendesko, the new seat of all Helgrinia. I’ll see that Jered learns you are my… guest there, and I will invite him to come to retrieve you.” The yarl laughed unpleasantly, then lifted his bulging eyes to the mast. “The fog’s clearing and the tide has turned. Raise the sail!” He shoved past Fynn without another glance.