The Drinnglennin Chronicles Omnibus

by K. C. Julius

and thus unleash the wings of dread

  ’til all the Known World’s tears are shed.

  Blood of worm and blood of kings

  shall fuel the fires around us ringed

  by those unnatural enemies

  before whom all are forced to flee.

  The final outcome of the fray

  not even dragons’ might can sway.

  The Einhorn Throne to him shall fall—

  A bitter foe to rule us all.”

  “I s’pose ye’ll be tellin’ us there be elves as well,” Grinner sniffed, but from the light in his eyes, Fynn could see he was hopeful.

  Wren, who had been staring at Fynn as if he were seeing a ghost, finally turned his attention to Grinner. “May I ask who you might be?”

  “He’s my friend,” Fynn said. “He was my cellmate in Toldarin.”

  “Cellmate?”

  Whit waved for them all to sit. “I’ll explain that later. At the moment, we need to decide on a course of action. If Vetch is coming after me, it’s because he suspects Fynn is with me. We can’t stay here. But if we can’t go to Cardenstowe either, where do we go?”

  Grinner resumed his place at the small table and started laying out the chatraj board. “Wha’?” he grumbled, when he saw Fynn’s expression. “I were winnin’ that last round!”

  “I’ll concede it to you,” Fynn said. These men were discussing his future—it wasn’t a time for play.

  “If the lad is who you say he is,” Sir Wren murmured quietly, “it could mean civil war.”

  Whit looked grim. “I know. But from what you’ve told me about the northern lords’ protest, we’re headed in this direction already. I’ve got to find somewhere to hide Fynn until I’ve found solid proof of his lineage. Somewhere no one would think to look for him.”

  “We could go to my grandmother’s people,” Wren suggested. “It’s about as far as you can get from Cardenstowe and still be on the Isle.”

  Whit inclined his head. “I thought all your people came from these parts.”

  “On my father’s side, yes. But my grandmother, Lady Helewysa, hailed from the far south. She was forever carping about the cold at Tamlow when my mother came north to marry. The entire household migrated every year to her family seat to spend the coldest months at Heversney.”

  “Heversney? Isn’t that in Langmerdor?”

  “It is. About twenty miles north of Thraven.”

  Fynn stiffened, and he felt Whit’s eyes upon him.

  “That’s where we think we’ll find the evidence we need,” the wizard confessed, “but I can’t risk taking Fynn there. Vetch will be watching all the roads, and it’s too long a journey to expect we can avoid his men the entire way.”

  “Vetch will be watching for a wizard and a boy,” Wren said. “But if the four of us were to make the journey together—and do so by water—as two knights traveling with their squires…”

  Whit frowned. “You mean on the Kerl? The river’s not navigable.”

  “It isn’t usually, but with all the flooding this year, it might be.” Wren sat forward. “It’s worth trying, my lord. And I’ll lay my last copper the king’s men won’t think to search the wetlands for us.”

  Whit pressed his lips together, clearly wrestling with a decision. “You do know what it means if you cast your lot with us, don’t you, Wren? You’ll be branded a traitor along with me, and sentenced to death if caught.”

  “I am your liegeman,” Wren replied stoutly. “And I hope your friend as well.”

  Whit offered his hand for his vassal to clasp, then turned to Grinner. “What about you? Can you play the part of a squire?”

  The å Livåri surprised them all by dropping to one knee and striking a humble pose. “At yer service, me lord.” He looked over at Fynn with a sly smile. “I tol’ ye, me people were mummers. Runs in me blood, it does.”

  Whit got to his feet. “Then we’re agreed. We’ll leave ten men here at Trillyon, and the rest can serve as our escort to Aredell before returning to Cardenstowe.”

  Fynn stood as well, his hands clenched at his sides. “You haven’t asked me.”

  The wizard sobered. “You’re right. I’m sorry, Fynn—I should have done so before asking the others. You, more than anyone, must have a say in the decision. Will you go along with this plan?”

  Fynn didn’t want to go to Thraven. He couldn’t explain why, but the thought of it made the knot in his stomach tighten.

  Grinner seemed to sense his reluctance, for he reached over and laid his thin hand on Fynn’s arm, a rare gesture for him. “Do ye ken what ye said t’ me back in that shitehole in Toldarin? That if we was t’ ev’r get out, I should try an’ find me people? And when I said ’twere no use—they’d have long fergotten me—ye said, ‘Family ne’er fergets.’ Well, I reckon there’s sumbody who’ll want t’ know ye, and wha’ become o’ yer ma, down there in Thraven.”

  Fynn thought of Mamma, and how much she’d loved him. She’d kept a terrible secret from him, but she’d done it to protect him, to shelter him from harm. Perhaps her own mother still lived, and her father as well. His grandparents. Maybe they’d spent the last thirteen years in the anguish of not knowing what had become of their child, just as he had wondered about Aetheor and Jered since the day he left Restaria.

  And there was Teca, too. She’d always cared for him, shown him such selfless love. Didn’t he owe it to her to find her people, and tell them what a fine, brave woman she had become?

  “All right,” he said, releasing his fists. “We go to Thraven.”

  * * *

  They left Trillyon that afternoon, along with the company of Cardenstowe men that Wren had brought with him. A fine mist fell from low clouds that hung over the spreading oaks and lindens lining the road as they set out.

  They hadn’t traveled far when Fynn heard the hoot of an owl, which was odd considering the time of day. He was just turning to Grinner to comment on this when a troop of men in silver cloaks burst out of the forest and plunged into their midst, swords drawn and steel glinting. Fynn and Grinner, riding in the center, were shielded from the initial onslaught, but at the fore, Whit and Sir Wren had barely time to draw their swords before they were engaged in a fight for their lives.

  Fynn wrested his own blade out of its scabbard, his heart pounding at the prospect of his first battle. But he was hemmed in by the men of Cardenstowe, who seemed intent on keeping their horses between him and their assailants.

  Over the clash of swords, he heard Whit shout his name. The wizard wheeled Sinead and began fighting his way toward him.

  “With me, Grinner!” Fynn called, and the two of them pressed their mounts toward Whit.

  All around them, men were falling. One of the attackers, hacking at Whit’s vassals savagely with his axe, broke through their protective ranks and bore down on Fynn. The man came on so fast, all thought fled Fynn’s mind, except the realization that he’d never trained for battle on horseback. Desperately he swung his sword.

  It cut through empty air.

  The man smiled, but instead of burying his axe in Fynn’s skull, he reached for the bridle of Fynn’s horse.

  A knife whizzed past Fynn’s ear to find its mark in the unprotected space between the axeman’s helm and his mail. The bright spurt of blood from the death blow made Fynn’s stomach flip, and hot bile surged into his mouth. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Grinner leaping from his horse, presumably to retrieve the weapon from the axeman, who had fallen from his mount and slumped to the ground.

  A big man surged up on Fynn’s left, a full wiry beard and black hair springing from beneath his helm, the point of his flat blade directed at Fynn’s throat. “Put up your sword, and I’ll spare you,” he growled. “It makes little difference to me if you don’t—Lord Vetch’s reward for a young fellow traveling with Lord Whit will be paid dead or ali
ve.”

  Before Fynn could react, the man’s horse reared with a terrible scream of pain. Fynn’s would-be captor dropped his sword arm and fought to keep his seat. Fynn seized the opportunity to drive his own horse past him toward Grinner, who had clambered back into his saddle, the hilt of his bloody knife between his teeth.

  The å Livåri jerked his head, signaling for Fynn to follow him, and they pressed in Whit’s direction.

  The wizard had made little progress toward them. Worse, it seemed he’d lost his sword and was now using his staff in an attempt to clear the enemy blocking his path. He swung it back and forth with lightning speed, sparks flew from the rod as Whit brought it crashing down against his opponent’s sword, knocking it out of the man’s hands. In the next breath, the wizard drove the butt of the staff hard into the man’s chest, sending him backward off his horse.

  Sir Wren fought beside his lord, slashing and parrying with practiced confidence. Still, when Fynn swept his eyes over the fray, he felt a wave of despair, for it was clear their opponents had the advantage. The silver cloaks outnumbered the Cardenstowe men at least two to one, and half of the escort from Trillyon had already been cut down. In the coming moments, Fynn’s friends would die—because of him—and he had yet to strike a single blow in his own defense.

  With a roar that was half anguish, half fury, Fynn spurred his horse past Grinner’s, riding straight for one of the silver cloaks. At the point of impact, the man raised his shield and slammed it into Fynn’s. The force of it jarred Fynn’s arm, but he managed to keep hold of his shield and ram it forward, forcing his opponent’s shield left and exposing the chink in the man’s mail under the arm.

  He stabbed his blade into his attacker’s armpit, cutting through sinew and flesh, and the knight recoiled with a groan, a river of blood streaming from his wound. Fynn swallowed the vomit rising in his throat, pulled his sword back, and finished the man off with a slash to the neck.

  Yet even as the knight went down, another took his place, wielding an axe and aiming a downward blow at Fynn’s head. Fynn lifted his shield to parry it, then felt a powerful wuff of air rush past him. The man shot backward from his saddle, his axe flying from his grip, and collided with another horseman. The two men toppled to the ground.

  Then Whit, with his staff upraised and a stricken expression on his face, surged up at Fynn’s side

  “This way!” the wizard cried, then spurred Sinead forward.

  “Grinner?” Fynn called.

  “Right behind ye! Follow Lord Whit!”

  Fynn did as he was told. Just ahead of him, Whit stood in his stirrups, driving Sinead on with his knees as he thrust the butt of his stave into an oncoming attacker, fighting to clear a path out of the chaos. Grinner drew even with Fynn, raising his shield to ward off a descending blade aimed at Fynn’s head. The fighting was at extremely close quarters now, and Fynn realized their opponents were deliberately pressing in from all sides. He couldn’t see any of the Cardenstowe men; it seemed they had all perished.

  A silver cloak lunged at Fynn, burying his axe in Fynn’s shield. A tug of war ensued as the warrior strove to retain his weapon and Fynn his means of defense. When the axe head at last came free, its owner was momentarily thrown off balance. Fynn seized the chance to thrust his sword hard against the man’s chest, knocking him off his mount.

  Fynn turned to see a silver cloak’s sword descending directly above him.

  A stave whirled past Fynn’s head and slammed into the man’s windpipe, killing him instantly, then spun back into Whit’s hands.

  The wizard reached over and dragged Fynn onto Sinead’s broad back. When Wren came charging up, Whit seized the reins from his startled vassal’s hands. “Take the å Livåri on your horse with you, Wren, and whatever you do, all of you stay quiet and close!”

  As soon as Grinner leapt from his horse’s back onto Wren’s, the world went grey, and Fynn realized Whit had cast his shadow over both horses.

  Without warning, the wizard pulled Sinead into a rear. Her lethal hooves flailed at the air, striking out at frightened horses and horsemen alike. They fell back from the invisible threat, and in doing so, opened a way out of the fray. Whit drove both horses through it, and in seconds, they were clear of their attackers.

  As they raced down the road, Whit raised his staff, pointed it behind them, and shouted, “Taear, trowch y do thoil é, os yw’n pocaslyn!”

  The sound of pursuing hooves was replaced by shouts of anger and fear. Through the haze of the shadow cloaking them, Fynn saw men pitching headlong off their mounts, their horses scrambling to find purchase on solid ground that had suddenly turned to a mire.

  It was almost enough to stop the pursuit, but not quite. One rider had made it free of the muck and was pounding after them.

  Color started to bleed back into Fynn’s vision, and he realized that Whit’s magic must be fading.

  Whit spurred Sinead on, but she was carrying two riders and could not outrun their lone pursuer. Fynn turned to look back just as the silver-cloaked man behind them threw a war hammer, sending it spiraling toward Fynn. But in the second before it delivered his death, he heard a whisper pass from Whit’s lips.

  The hammer suddenly reversed direction and went spiraling back to bury itself in its owner’s chest.

  Fynn flashed a look at the wizard, who was paler than the moon.

  They raced on.

  * * *

  Whit didn’t slow their pace until they had put a few miles between them and the scene of the ambush. They turned onto the southern road, riding at a steady canter for Avedell, and they reached the river port just after dark. While Wren went to procure a boat, Whit hurried Fynn and Grinner past the watering holes favored by rivermen to a grubby pub called the Olde Rushes Inn.

  Fynn consumed the lukewarm pasties of grizzled meat set before him, and washed them down with sour ale, but the victuals sat in his stomach like a stone. Flashes of the battle, and his woeful part in it, kept coming to mind. Grinner went at his food with his usual gusto, but the å Livåri was quieter than Fynn ever recalled him being. As for Whit, it seemed as if the fight and ensuing flight had sapped his strength. He looked ill and shaken in the flickering firelight.

  It was only when the wizard went to relieve himself that Fynn learned the true reason for his grave appearance.

  “’E’s in for it now, I’d say,” Grinner muttered. “Though if ’e hadn’t killed that silver cloak, ye’d be dinin’ across the Abyss this night.”

  Fynn frowned. “What do you mean—in for it?”

  “’E’s gone an’ broken the Code, Lord Whit has. It’s an oath all wizards on the Isle’s made to swear. I ken it from a play I seen once at a Gatherin’ down in Glornadoor. Wizards in Drinnglennin been bound by it since King Owain’s day. Whit used magic t’ kill t’day. Only time a wizard’s allowed t’ do that is when it’s in defense o’ hisself or in the name o’ the king. Different story, o’ course, if it’s duelin’ another wizard.”

  “But he saved my life,” Fynn protested.

  “Aye, but they was king’s guards what ambushed us. Now Whit’s given the High King just th’ glue ’e needs t’ make the charge o’ treason again’ Lord Whit stick, and ye can bet yer ol’ gran that once them wizards on the Tribus hear what happened…” Grinner shook his head. “I reckon ’e’s done fer.”

  Chapter 34

  Maura

  Maura raced through the castle, her footsteps ringing on the marble floors. If she could find a way out of the city and into the open where Ilyria could easily see her, perhaps she would get to the dragon before Roth loosed his army.

  She plunged down the wide steps leading to the main courtyard, then jolted to a halt.

  A tall, veiled figure blocked her path. Her hand snaked out and grasped Maura’s wrist.

  Maura recognized Llwella’s earthy green scent. “Let me go!” she crie
d, struggling to break free. But the woman’s iron grip held her fast.

  “Be still.” The maid pulled Maura toward a shadowed alcove. Her voice was low but commanding. “I’m here to help you.”

  “If you wish to help me, you must release me,” Maura protested. “I have to get out of the city at once!”

  “And so you shall, as long as you do exactly as I say. Do you understand?”

  From the courtyard came shouts and the blare of battle trumpets. Maura felt cold with dread; she would never reach Ilyria before the army rode out. Even if she made it to the gate, she would likely be challenged, then marched back to Roth. She had no choice but to accept whatever help Llwella had on offer.

  “I understand. But please, hurry!”

  Llwella opened her cloak and enclosed Maura within its folds. Maura felt the woman’s slow, steady heartbeat against her cheek, then her breath was stolen from her lungs as they skimmed across the ground in a blur of speed.

  When they came to an abrupt stop, Maura was suddenly alone under the cloak. She threw it off to discover she was outside the Havard Gate, a saddled palfrey standing beside her.

  “How did you—?”

  She turned to empty air. Llwella was nowhere to be seen.

  There was no time to wonder where the maid had disappeared to, or by what means she’d brought Maura beyond the castle walls. The city gate was grinding open behind her. At any moment now, the High King’s army would gallop through it, intent on killing Ilyria.

  Maura snatched up the cloak from where it had fallen at her feet, fastened it on, then leapt onto the palfrey. As she galloped across the Tor, scanning the sky for the bronze dragon, the drumming of hoofbeats informed her the army was on her heels. She had to get to Ilyria before they did.

  Ahead, the trail veered north off the main road. Whichever direction she rode, she would be in plain sight of the soldiers.

  Raising her face to the sky, she called to Ilyria.

  The rumble of the cannons was her only answer.

  I can’t lose her—not this way.