The Drinnglennin Chronicles Omnibus

by K. C. Julius

  It was a sobering thought.

  “Now—I’ve more pressing news to impart,” Morgan continued. “A bird’s just arrived for you. Your crow keeper is waiting outside your rooms with the message it carried. I suspect it bears tidings you’ll want to share with Fynn and the others. Shall I seek them out and then meet you in the small hall below your solar? We’re less likely to be overheard there.”

  They parted company, and Whit went to find Ifor, who tended the estate’s crows. The message was from Wren, and Whit’s heart sank as he read its contents:

  Meregate-50 Humble-76 Lemingham-138

  Gravenstowe-223 Lowporth-23

  Gynd-36 Odileigh- 65

  If all goes well, we’ll arrive by the new moon.

  W.

  Whit sighed. He was sure Wren and Lady Guin had done their best to rally the nobles of Langmerdor, Palmador and Karan-Rhad to their cause, but the result was disappointing to say the least. What was this—six hundred men, all told? With so few men-at-arms coming north to add to Cardenstowe’s force, they had little hope of defeating the combined forces of mighty Nelvorboth and Tyrrencaster.

  As he opened the door of his chamber, he came face to face with Halla, poised to knock on it.

  She dropped her hand. “How did you know I was here?”

  “I’m a wizard, remember?” Whit realized he was happy to see her. “Did Master Morgan find you?”

  “No.” Halla grimaced, then turned slightly to shift her tunic.

  Whit blushed when he realized why. Her breasts were still heavy with milk.

  “Are you regretting leaving her?” The words were out of his mouth before he considered the impact of his question.

  Halla grew still. “Alegre? No, I don’t regret it.” She dropped onto the end of his bed and stuck her long legs out before her. “It was the best decision for her. You probably find it shocking that a mother could part from her babe as I did.”

  Whit blinked. “I don’t… I mean, I know it must be hard for you…”

  “The hardest thing I’ve ever done. It’s astonishing how much I miss her. But I know to the depth of my soul that I was born to be a warrior, and I have an oath to honor. If I’d had to serve Roth… well, that would have been a different story, but for Fynn, I’m proud to fight. And as you pointed out, I can’t ride Emlyn into battle with a baby strapped to my back.” Her green eyes darkened. “Should I meet my end in the coming fight, I’ll die knowing Alegre will have the life I wish for her. Do you find that difficult to understand?”

  Whit sank down beside her and studied their boots—hers streaked with mud, his polished to a high shine. “Actually, I don’t find it difficult at all.”

  She surprised him by draping her arm over his shoulder and leaning her head against his.

  “I never thought I’d say this, Cardenstowe, but you’re actually starting to grow on me.”

  * * *

  When they were gathered in the small hall, Whit shared the news regarding the numbers of soldiers coming up from the south. His discouragement was reflected in all of their faces.

  “I could try to call Lorendale’s vassals to arms,” Halla offered.

  The old wizard soundly vetoed this. “Without Lord Nolan’s consent?”

  Fynn sat back with a sigh. “If only I’d been able to convince Jered to put aside the enmity between Helgrins and Drinnglennians and join us.”

  “Well, I got no connections t’ speak of,” Grinner lamented. “Not that å Livåri be known as fighters.”

  “They are in Gral,” Halla said. “Folks here wouldn’t be so quick to dismiss them if they could see Baldo and his company in action.” A light sprang up in her eyes, and she grabbed the å Livåri by his thin shoulders. “That’s it!” she cried. “I could kiss you, Grinner! I will kiss you!” She took hold of his ears and planted her lips against his. Grinner’s face turned bright red as she spun back to Fynn.

  “You may not know this, my lord, but the å Livåri have always been fiercely loyal to the High King of Drinnglennin, especially to the Konigurs. My great-grandfather, King Gregor, welcomed them here when ignorance and superstition forced them to flee the continent.”

  “So Grinner told me,” Fynn replied.

  “That I did!” said the å Livåri. “There’s many an å Livåri song ’bout King Gregor the Good.”

  “Well,” Halla continued, “there’s a highly trained army of å Livåri in Gral—fierce fighters to a man. This is the perfect opportunity for them to prove their worth as loyal defenders of the Isle. I want to go get them. If they’re guaranteed the same respect you’ve shown Grinner, I believe they’ll come. And once they’re here, they can raise their kinsmen to swell our ranks.”

  “They’re commoners, Halla,” Whit reminded her. “They’re not allowed to bear weapons. If we flaunt the law and arm them, it will likely turn the few allies we’ve just won against us.”

  The wizard placed his fists on the table. “Desperate times require us all to open our minds to previously unthinkable possibilities. To defeat Lazdac and the drakdaemons, we need Fynn Konigur on the Einhorn Throne, and every able-bodied man—and woman too, for that matter—to take up arms against these monsters. In fact, you’d do well to get your vassals to start training your own peasants here in Cardenstowe.”

  Whit opened his mouth to protest, then shut it again. If Master Morgan believed this was the best plan, it likely was. And he was appalled by the thought of his villeins trying to defend themselves with only pitchforks and sickles against the monsters Halla described. For whether he wished it or not, they would be forced to defend themselves, their families, and perhaps their very realm. It was only right that they be as well-equipped as any knight.

  “But it’ll take you weeks to reach Gral from here, find this group of rebel å Livåri, and then return,” Fynn said. “I doubt we have that much time.”

  Halla shook her head. “I’ll ride Emlyn there, and I have some idea where to find them. It’s at least worth a try.”

  “And what if they don’t come?” Whit asked.

  “They will.” Halla said adamantly. “But I’ll need your assistance.”

  Whit lifted his brows. “I’m listening.”

  Her grin widened. “You’ll have to open Cardenstowe’s coffers. I’ll need gold—and plenty of it.”

  Chapter 34

  Borne

  Just before the second leg of the yaraket was to commence, Borne found himself and his men surrounded by Kurash and his elite guard. The hazar’s malicious smile told Borne they were all in grave danger.

  He looked to the imperial box, only to discover it was empty. Maura and Yasiha were also gone, and the remaining courtiers sat strangely still, their attention shifting between the troops who, he now observed, were massed at the main gates, and whatever was about to unfold between the hazar’s guard and Borne’s men. The Gralians were unarmed, for none but the Companions were allowed to bring weapons into the great arena. If Kurash was attempting a coup, his timing was flawless.

  Kurash’s first words confirmed Borne’s suspicions. “The race is run,” he sneered, slapping the flank of one of the dromas to send it trotting off. “And your part in it ends here, janabi, as does your welcome in Olquaria.”

  “The Gralian embassy is here at the Basileus’s invitation,” Borne replied.

  “That invitation has been rescinded. You are under arrest, herald, for plotting to bring Olquaria under Gral’s domination.”

  “By whose orders? Where are Their Royal Majesties?”

  “The Basileus and Basilea have been taken into protective custody. This is no concern of yours.”

  “I beg to differ,” Borne said evenly. “I hold the sash of the Order of the Bells, which makes the Basileus’s security my primary concern.”

  The hazar narrowed his eyes. “Your men are free to go, as is Balfou and th
e rest of the Gralian embassy. You, however, will be held to account for your crimes against the empire.”

  Borne folded his arms across his chest. “Then show me proof of these alleged crimes.”

  “I show you nothing. The evidence will be presented at your trial. Now, dismiss your men. Then you will come along quietly, unless you wish to afford me and all of Tell-Uyuk the pleasure of seeing you dragged from the arena tied behind my droma.”

  A disheveled D’Avencote pushed his way past the guards and in among the Gralian competitors. Borne silently cursed his aide for putting himself in unnecessary danger, but since he was here, Borne would make use of him. Turning his back on the hazar, he took hold of D’Avencote’s sleeve and leaned close to his ear.

  “Find out what’s happened to the imperials, and to Khadin Yasiha and Lady—and her Drinnglennian tutor, who goes by the name of Melisa. When you locate these ladies, you must see them safely away with the Gralian contingent. And take Magnus with you as well.” He tightened his grip on D’Avencote’s arm. “Swear to me you will do this, and you will be rewarded handsomely for this service.”

  D’Avencote made him a low bow. “I need no reward to do your bidding, ser. I promise, on my honor, I will do all in my power to protect the princess and Mistress Melisa.”

  “Maura.” Borne could not resist the urge to speak her name. “Her true name is Maura.”

  A heavy hand fell on Borne’s shoulder. “You will come now, herald.”

  Borne shrugged off Kurash’s hand. “I must dismiss my men, hazar.” He turned to survey the company of soldiers he had shaped into a finely honed fighting unit, hoping his expression adequately conveyed his pride in them.

  “Nargoret, you will assume command of the company. Return directly to the barracks and follow whatever instructions Comte Balfou gives you. If it is indeed necessary for you to leave Olquaria, I charge you to achieve this in an orderly manner. You are, under no circumstances, to put yourselves at risk on my account.”

  He shifted his gaze to Kurash. “I trust you will give the Gralian emissaries until the end of the week to organize their departure from Tell-Uyuk?”

  “They have until first light the day after tomorrow.” Kurash spat at D’Avencote’s feet, the offending slime spattering the Gralian’s boots, then signaled to one of the Companions. “Take the herald to the Zindan.”

  D’Avencote’s eyes widened with horror, and with good reason. It was said that there were only two ways out of the Zindan, the notorious dungeons of Tell-Uyuk: in a coffin or along the path leading to the executioner’s block.

  “It’s all right, D’Avencote,” Borne said brusquely. “Now, go and honor your pledge.”

  While his men were herded away, Borne’s wrists were bound. He felt the tip of a spear prod his shoulder, then an explosion of pain burst in his skull as the hazar drove his fist into his temple.

  * * *

  Borne blinked into the beady eyes of the rat perched on his chest. He struck it away, then dropped his arm with a groan at the pounding the movement had set off in his head. Vomit surged up through his gullet, and he rolled to his side so as not to choke on it.

  Once his stomach was empty, he crawled over the filthy straw to prop himself up against the cell wall. He was not alone in the Zindan; muffled cries echoed from unseen chambers nearby.

  Gauging by his thirst, he figured he’d been unconscious for hours, perhaps even a day. The weak torchlight from the corridor allowed him to locate two crude buckets in the corner of his cell. The one holding water was only slightly less odiferous than the slop pail, and although he knew drinking from it would likely make him ill, he would have to do it sooner or later.

  Foul water was the least of Borne’s worries. It was no secret that the Olquarians’ preferred method of execution for those found guilty of treason was a flogging, followed by sacrifice to the Bronze Bullock. Kurash would no doubt take great pleasure in sealing Borne in the hollow belly of this infamous instrument of torture, then slowly roasting him alive over a fire. With luck, he would suffocate before his flesh charred and his muscles fell from his bones.

  The slow hours crept past, and alone in the dark there was no distraction from the agony of not knowing what was going on in the city above. Had Balfou and the other Gralians been allowed to leave? Borne’s heart ached when he thought of Magnus, who would pine when he didn’t return; the dog would not go willingly with D’Avencote. He wondered if the Basileus and his empress had been spared, and what would become of Yasiha. Had Kurash already claimed her for his own?

  Finally, when he could no longer repress his greatest fear, his thoughts turned to Maura, and he recalled in excruciating detail the charges he’d laid against her. He realized now it had been ridiculous to assume she’d come to Tell-Uyuk because of him.

  He told himself that as long as D’Avencote could get to her, she should be free to depart with the Gralian mission, for she was in no way associated with Borne—thank the gods. If Kurash knew the depth of his feelings for her, the hazar would find a way to use her to torment him.

  There was no point in denying those feelings now. From the moment he’d seen Maura again, he’d known he loved her still, and there would never be room for another in his heart. Going to seek Taqui-Rash’s blessing for a marriage to Yasiha had been his vain attempt to seek absolution for going through with it despite the fact that he could never bestow that depth of feeling upon the princess. Instead, Alima Nina had shown him no mercy as she laid bare the fatal flaw in his plan.

  It seemed a cruel fate that his final words to Maura had been in anger, but at least he’d spared her the awkward burden of his unrequited passion for her. And for once, someone he cared about hadn’t been destroyed by the curse his love seemed to bring with it.

  He heard footsteps approaching. A guard, holding a flickering torch, shoved a bowl through a small opening at the base of his cell door.

  “Enjoy your last meal, janabi,” the man muttered before trudging off.

  It was to be a floury slurry mixed with bulgur. Borne tipped the sludge into his mouth without tasting it.

  The next time footsteps sounded, he struggled to his feet, gritting his teeth against the pain in his head as he steeled himself for what lay ahead. At least his stay in this grim place was not to be protracted. Now all that remained for him to accomplish in life was to face the terror of his death in a manner that would not dishonor his parents or Lord Heptorious, who’d raised him to be a man. The image of the old knight, ailing from gout and grieving alone at Windend, swam before his eyes. Maybe news of Borne’s death would somehow reach his former patron. It might even bring him the solace of righteous avengement.

  The same guard emerged from the gloom, accompanied by a man with a mashdash covering his face. After the key clicked in the lock, the guard melted into the shadows.

  Borne sensed a trap. Well, better a swift knife-thrust to the ribs than broiling in the Bullock. But when he stepped out of the cell, the man threw a cloak over his shoulders and silently hustled him down the passageway. Borne resisted the urge to try to overpower the fellow; the pounding in his head was nearly blinding him, and even if he succeeded in taking the man down, he had no idea which way to go.

  They halted before a gaping hole in the stone floor, and Borne was relieved to see stairs spiraling into the darkness. The man gestured for him to go first, and as he started down, he tried not to imagine what a misstep might cost him. But as the air grew cooler and fresher, his head cleared a bit, and he dared to entertain the hope that the stairwell might lead out of the prison.

  He was once again considering taking the guard on when he turned to see his escort stepping off the ladder, his headscarf now across his shoulders, revealing a friendly face.

  Mir stepped toward him and gave him a swift embrace. “My brother—we must hurry.”

  Borne clasped his friend’s arms. “Mir! I can’t d
eny I’m happy to see you, but you’ve taken a terrible risk on my behalf. What if your aid to me is discovered?”

  “Never fear for me. Despite these recent events, I still have many friends.” Mir handed him a mashdash. “Put this on.”

  Borne wrapped it around his head. “What’s happening in the city? Have the imperials already left? And what of Yasiha?”

  Mir started down another tunnel. “I’ll fill you in once we’re out of this grim place,” he said over his shoulder. “It doesn’t pay to linger in the Zindan, particularly if you’re already a condemned man.”

  * * *

  Borne stepped out into the bright sunlight of midday and filled his lungs like a man surfacing from the depths of the sea. His head was still sore, but the pounding had subsided to a dull ache.

  Amazingly, Tell-Uyuk’s bustle appeared to have been uninterrupted by the deposal of her ruling family. So much for Zlatan Basileus being a god to his people.

  Mir hurried Borne down unfamiliar streets, keeping up a steady stream of talk as he explained what had occurred during Borne’s brief incarceration.

  “The Basileus issued a statement less than an hour after you were taken, claiming the Basilea’s ill health had brought on a longing to see her homeland. No one dared ask about the urgency of their departure, despite the fact the entire city witnessed their royal majesties leaving the Censibas in the middle of the yaraket. The emperor vowed to return from Far Taria before Itras, the month of atonement, and named Kurash as regent in his absence.” Mir’s laugh was scornful. “I don’t for one moment believe that my father will ever return to Olquaria. And if he tries, he’ll be met with the might of the Seven Thousand.”

  “But the Companions are sworn to defend the throne!”

  Mir gave an indignant snort. “The throne, yes. But if the people reap sufficient rewards from a new occupant, they aren’t much troubled by who warms it. Kurash has already declared a month’s holiday, with grand celebrations to take place throughout the land, in honor of his upcoming wedding. He’s also ordered generous sacrifices to the gods to ensure a safe passage for Their Imperial Majesties, from which the poor will feed for weeks. With largesse being distributed daily all over Olquaria, the people will be content to support him. As for the Companions, he’s opened the royal coffers to give them a lavish incentive for their continued loyalty to him.” He grinned slyly. “I used mine to bribe the appropriate guards.”