The Drinnglennin Chronicles Omnibus

by K. C. Julius

  A ferry wended its way through the maze of tall ships to the carrack’s starboard side. Rope ladders were tossed over the gunnels, and the crew began herding the women toward them. The first to reach the ladders gave a shriek and tried to scramble back away from the gunwales.

  “Monster!” she screamed, as one of the crew made a grab for her. “There’s a monster down there!”

  Halla pushed her way to the railing to see for herself. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled as a hulking creature with deep-set blazing eyes raised its snout and sniffed at her, releasing a long hiss that ended in a growl. Small pointed horns sprouted above the holes that served as the creature’s ears, and it was hairless from the top of its ridged skull to its taloned feet. It stood erect, like a human man, and it was naked except for a leather loinguard. Its scaly skin had a gray cast, and its powerfully broad chest and bulging arms signaled prodigious strength. Despite herself, Halla jerked back when it opened its mouth and revealed its dagger-like teeth.

  To either side of her, the å Livåri women were being forced down the ladders. Those already in the ferry sobbed while jostling one another to stay as far as possible from the monstrous brute.

  Halla swung onto the ropes, then lowered herself into the boat.

  “Gods’ grace!”

  Halla tore her eyes away from the creature to follow Chooma’s pointing finger. Toiling on the wharves were men with the blue-black hair and burnished skin of å Livåri. They had indeed found the lost men of the tribe, all of whom looked starved and frail.

  Sudden shouts rang out on the docks, and the men left their tasks and scrambled to one side of the pier. A horde of monsters sprang past them down its length, hissing and growling, as the ferry approached. Something about the sounds they made was strangely familiar to Halla.

  Before the boat even bumped against the pier, the creatures had descended on it, roaring horribly as they leapt aboard. Halla shielded her head from the flailing arms and legs as women all around her were snatched up and carried off.

  As the screaming faded, Halla found herself alone in the boat.

  “They’ve never done that before—refused one of you.”

  She looked up at the speaker. He was human, although barely more than sinew and bone. A vertical line with a triangle projecting from it like a thorn was branded on his left cheek.

  He bent over and offered her a calloused hand. “I’d say you were lucky, but there’s no luck to be had in this unholy place. You’ll just be made to serve the vaar in another way.”

  Halla allowed herself to pulled onto the pier, trying to still the violent trembling of her limbs, for nothing she had ever faced in battle had been as terrifying as those few moments of manic assault. She attempted a wobbling step, but the ground swayed and rolled under her feet and she would have toppled over but for the man’s steadying hand on her elbow.

  “What are those… things?” She scanned the docks to be sure the marauders were really gone.

  The man wiped large beads of sweat from his brow. His skin had darkened to copper under the unrelenting sun. “Drakdaemons,” he said tonelessly.

  “What manner of beast is that?”

  “The vaar’s creatures.” He released his hold on her then bent to lift the handles of his laden wheelbarrow and began to trundle away.

  “Wait!” Halla called after him, but he only quickened his step. She soon saw why—a lone drakdaemon was approaching from the end of the wharf.

  This one looked shorter and less brawny than those who had taken the women. Its head was larger, but it had the same cavernous nostrils that exaggerated the brutal lines of its pointed snout.

  Halla swung round, searching in vain for something with which to defend herself, but there was nothing at hand. Praying the beast wasn’t familiar with the elven style of wrestling, she widened her stance, all the while fighting to keep her balance.

  But the drakdaemon stopped several paces from her and growled, in perfect Drinn, “Come with me. I shall bring you to the vaar.”

  Halla felt her jaw drop. She was so surprised to hear the creature speak that when the drakdaemon turned on its horny heel, she found herself trotting after it like a stray dog.

  None of the å Livåri men they passed paid them any heed; they remained bent to their labors, their ragged clothes drenched with sweat.

  The din of industry grew louder as they left the port and entered a street lined with forges where smiths were hammering steel, tanneries stinking of piss, leadbeaters and lorimers, coopers and wheelwrights. In some, the vaar’s creatures toiled alongside the men, particularly at work that made use of their brute strength. All the buildings appeared to have been recently erected. The street was wider than any she’d ever seen before, running straight and true without turns, and she guessed this was to accommodate all the traffic moving along it.

  Leaving behind the clangor of the workshops, they entered a vast square with mud-brick buildings lining three of its sides. Hundreds of the drakdaemons were training here—slashing swords, thrusting pikes, and swinging maces at one another. Halla slowed to watch them, but her guide continued on, turning under an overhang skirting the square.

  Reluctantly, Halla followed, but she felt instant relief as she stepped into the shade. Under the pounding sun, her shift had become stuck to her skin, and she was dripping with sweat.

  Halfway around the square, they veered onto a street running toward a high, graceless tower. As they entered the building, Halla felt a surge of nausea, and had to lean against the cool bricks, willing it to pass.

  Her drakdaemon guide, heedless to her physical distress, disappeared up the stairs. Left alone, Halla closed her eyes against flashing bright spots and slid down the wall, her energy spent.

  When she came to again, she was over the drakdaemon’s shoulder, being carried up the stairs like a carcass. She offered no resistance, for she had none left to give. The creature’s scaled skin smelled of brimstone, reminding Halla of something her foggy brain couldn’t grasp.

  The drakdaemon swung her to her feet before an ornate wooden door, carved with the same rune she’d seen on the å Livari’s cheek. He pushed it slightly open and made a short hissing sound.

  “You may enter, Lash,” said a voice from within.

  Lash. The monster has a name.

  The drakdaemon pulled Halla into a sparsely furnished solar.

  A man sat at a table in its center, his head bent over a book. “What is it?” he said, without looking up. He too spoke in Drinn, and his accent was that of a cultured man.

  “A cull, Lord,” Lash growled.

  The man’s head jerked up, his surprise clear on his face.

  “If I might speak, my lord?” Halla attempted to balance her tone between hauteur and respect. “I am Halla of Lorendale, and my brother, Lord Nolan, will pay a goodly sum to anyone who returns me unharmed to his care.”

  She was relieved to see the man smile, until she saw the chilling light in his dark eyes.

  “You instructed me to bring any not taken to you, Lord,” Lash said. “She is of the blood, and is already sown.”

  The man’s eyes widened with amazement. “She’s with child? An å Livåri child?”

  Lash grunted, and Halla felt her heart flip in her breast. How had he guessed this?

  The vaar rose from his chair and came around the table, his long white robes whispering over the tiles. The way he devoured her with his eyes made Halla lay a protective hand over her belly.

  “You did well, Lash—very well. I shall send you a reward later. You may leave us now.”

  The creature bowed his misshapen head. As the door closed behind him, the vaar continued circling her.

  “Lorendale, you say? So you are of the Konigur line?”

  “Yes, my lord.” Surely he would send her back to Drinnkastel, now he knew her worth in ransom. “King Urli
on was my cousin, although removed by two generations.”

  The man moved to the cupboard and brought out two glasses and a decanter. “Sit at the table,” he instructed.

  Gratefully, Halla obeyed, for she was swaying on her feet. She drained the wine he placed before her, and was halfway through a second glass when a chilling thought made her set the goblet down hard.

  Guessing the source of her fear, the vaar said, “There’s nothing in the wine to hurt the child. You can rest assured that I will do everything in my power to see that you are safely delivered. Indeed, I will keep you under my own watchful eye.” He set a bowl of golden fruit and nuts before her. “First, you will eat, and then you will bathe and sleep. The long voyage must have been taxing.”

  The strong wine was already having its effect on her brain, and the force of will she’d been exerting ever since the drakdaemon had raced toward the ferry was beginning to waver. This man may be acting the host, she reminded herself, but he is the cruel master of this unlovely world. “You do plan to ransom me, don’t you, my lord?”

  The vaar’s rumble of laughter raised gooseflesh on her arms. “Halla of Lorendale, in whose veins runs the blood of kings.” He filled the other glass and raised it to her in salute. “Through you, history will be made, and I am the one who will determine its course. I drink to you and your child, for the babe in your womb will give me the means to triumph over all who would oppose me.”

  Halla felt the blood drain from her face. “What do you mean?”

  “Of course,” he said, as if she hadn’t spoken, “you’ll just have to take my word regarding my forthcoming victory.” He set his glass down with studied care, then offered her a look of mock regret. “Since you won’t live to see it.”

  Chapter 33

  Fynn

  Fynn and Grinner locked eyes over the chatraj board at the sound of horses entering the yard. Whit had ridden for Cardenstowe less than an hour before, and he’d left strict instructions in the event of unexpected visitors.

  Fynn sprang to his feet. “Quick! Up to the crawlspace!”

  Grinner started to sweep up the game pieces.

  “Leave those!” Fynn hissed, tugging on his friend’s sleeve. “Come on!”

  The å Livåri grunted and snatched up the board as well.

  From the third floor landing, Grinner edged to the window facing the yard. “There be about forty-odd men down there,” he said. “But it’s all right—Lord Whit’s with ’em, an’ he looks t’ be in charge.”

  Fynn gave a relieved laugh and joined him at the window. Whit and one of the men were approaching the manor. The stranger looked to be not much older than the wizard, and from the way Whit clapped him on the shoulder, Fynn decided they were well known to one another.

  Still, Fynn and Grinner waited cautiously, and when the sound of voices drifted up from the sitting room, they crept back down the stairs to listen. Fynn gave Grinner a thumbs-up for taking the time to clear away any sign that they’d been in the cozy room.

  “You were gone so long, we feared the worst, my lord.”

  “I’ve been… traveling,” Whit replied. “Now, Wren. Tell me what’s brought you and a company of Cardenstowe men to Trillyon at such breakneck speed? You nearly rode straight past me. And why did you insist we come back here before we could speak?”

  “I followed the advice of your wise wizard friend. You must recall how Master Morgan always said secrets are best shared within four walls.” Wren sobered. “I’ve news from Drinnkastel, my lord. Olin returned from the capital last night. He’d gone to seek an audience with King Roth to smooth over the damage done by Nidden.”

  “And did he meet with success?”

  “He thought he did—at first. Roth accepted his apologies on your mother’s behalf. But then after the meeting, Olin went to the stables to check on his horse—he’s always been like a fool in love when it comes to that charger—and at any rate, he overheard two of Vetch’s men talking about how the lord commander himself was preparing to lead an army on Cardenstowe to ‘bring the insolent bastards in line.’ So I came to Trillyon to leave men here as a safeguard on the off chance you came through on your return home.”

  “How fortuitous that you did, for that’s where I’m heading today. If Vetch is advancing on Cardenstowe with an army, the household here may also soon be at risk.”

  Fynn and Whit exchanged a glance as they heard the sound of a chair scraping against the stone floor, but no one came into the hall.

  “It’s unlikely Lord Vetch would think to come to Trillyon, my lord,” Wren said, “but with all respect, you should not consider returning home. Lord Nidden says if Vetch advances on Cardenstowe, the city is prepared to wait him out. And…” There was a small silence before the knight continued. “Your lady mother fears this royal army is being sent to arrest you. Olin says he heard something else while he was in Drinnkastel, my lord—a vile rumor.”

  From the pause that followed, Fynn guessed the man was reluctant to repeat it.

  “Go on,” Whit said.

  “It’s said that you’re… you’re wanted for treason, my lord.”

  “Yes, I imagine I am.”

  Because of me, Fynn realized, an all-too-familiar knot forming in his gut.

  “You’re not surprised?”

  “No, although I assure you, I’ve committed no treasonous act.”

  “I never thought you had, my lord. That’s why I’m here. Well, because of that, and the dragons.”

  Fynn wasn’t sure he’d heard right, but Grinner’s wide-eyed expression confirmed there was nothing wrong with his ears.

  Whit gave an incredulous laugh. “Dragons? What nonsense is this?”

  “No nonsense, my lord. There have been several confirmed sightings. It seems there’s a drove of the beasts flying over the north.”

  “A drove?”

  “Lord Grathin himself sent word out to all the realms. He’s seen them in Fairendell with his own eyes, and his warnings have sparked wild speculation as to what the dragons’ sudden reappearance in the world might portend.”

  “What sort of speculation?” Whit sounded more curious than alarmed.

  “Those unhappy with the Nelvor succession, like Lord Grathin, say the dragons herald the coming of a dark age, foretold in the final prophecy of the lost Chronicles.” Wren dropped his voice. “Which brings me to the last of my news, my lord. There was a council convened last week at Morlen Castle, the result of which is that the lords of Valeland, Morlendell, and Fairendell have sent a formal protest to King Roth over the diminished status now accorded their realms. The noble families of Nelvorboth and Tyrrencaster have been given priority of posts and honors under our new ruler, and there are an increasing number of Albrenians holding high positions in Roth’s court, which the northern lords of the Isle deem utterly unacceptable.”

  Fynn had been so caught up in all he was hearing, he’d failed to notice that Grinner, peering round the door, was actually now in plain view of the occupants within. Before Fynn could pull him back, there was a sharp cry, followed by the sound of drawn steel.

  “It’s all right, Wren!” Whit cried. “Put away your sword. Come in, Grinner, and you too, Fynn.”

  Fynn joined his friend on the threshold.

  Wren, sword still in hand, looked on them both with surprise before turning to Whit.

  “Sir Wren,” the wizard said, “as my sworn vassal, I am about to charge you with a confidence that you will honor with your life.”

  The knight returned his sword to its scabbard and straightened his shoulders. “My lord. You have my word.”

  Whit turned to Fynn. “This is Sir Wren, my liegeman. His family has served Cardenstowe for generations, and he has my unmitigated trust.”

  Wren’s eyes narrowed slightly. Fynn assumed it was because, as in Helgrinia, proper etiquette demanded that a young perso
n be introduced to a man his senior, not the other way around.

  “Sir Wren,” Whit continued, “you stand in the presence of Fynn Konigur, whose mother was joined in lawful matrimony to the late High King Urlion. Or so we believe.”

  Grinner made a choked sound, and Sir Wren’s expression shifted from stunned disbelief to what appeared to be startled recognition.

  “Can it be?” Wren whispered.

  “I believe it can. You can see for yourself the resemblance.”

  Fynn felt his cheeks grow warm under the knight’s scrutiny.

  Sir Wren slowly bent his knee and lowered his gaze to the floor. “My prince.”

  Fynn flashed a helpless look at Whit. “There’s… there’s no need to bow! Please, sir, get up.”

  To make matters worse, Grinner was frowning at him. “Ye said ye was Helgrin,” he growled.

  “I am,” Fynn protested. “That is… I was. When I told you that, I thought it was true.” He felt a surge of resentment, but didn’t know against whom to direct it. “I don’t want to be anyone but me—just Fynn.”

  No one said anything as they continued to stare at him.

  “What’s this about seeing dragons?” he asked Wren, in an effort to make them stop. “Is it really true?”

  To his surprise, it was Whit who confirmed it. “Yes, it’s true. I’ve seen them as well.” He turned to Wren. “I’m sorry I pretended not to believe you. I guess there’s no longer any need to conceal their return to Drinnglennin. The two dragons I know of—indeed, I’ve met them—came to the Isle to make bindings. They spoke of discord between their kind over the decision to reveal their existence in the Known World. And then of course, there’s the prophecy.”

  “A prophecy?” Grinner looked worried. “Somethin’ t’ do wit’ Fynn?”

  Whit walked to the window, as if expecting to see dragons descending, and recited:

  “When dragons return to Drinnglennin’s skies,

  her darkest mage again shall rise