The Drinnglennin Chronicles Omnibus

by K. C. Julius

  Salvation arrived in the form of a tall, blond stranger, who entered the camp accompanied by a great tawny-coated dog. He had apparently gotten past the guards because he was well-known to them all, and as he approached Fynn’s tent, he was subjected to much back-slapping and even a few crushing embraces.

  Whit stopped his pacing, his expression extremely wary, but Fynn took an instant liking to the fellow, who carried himself with the same natural grace and easy confidence as Jered had.

  Which was why it surprised Fynn when Grinner surged to his feet, a curse on his lips.

  Fynn rose as well. “Do you know this man?”

  The stranger, now standing before them with a grinning knight from Branley Tor at his side, replied for Grinner. “As it happens, we have met, my lord.” He laid a hand on his dog’s head to still its low growl, then dropped gracefully to one knee. “My name is Borne Braxton, my lord. Until recently I served King Crenel of Gral. Sadly, he is no longer among the living. He was murdered, although whether it was by Albrenians or on the orders of the Helgrin’s yarl, has yet to be determined. In any event, I’ve come to offer my services to your cause.”

  Fynn frowned. “If you’re referring to Aksel Styrsen, he may have proclaimed himself yarl, but he wasn’t chosen by the people—at least not of the northern Helgrins.”

  Sir Borne bowed his head in acknowledgment of his error. “I forgot, my lord, that you are well-acquainted with these people.”

  “Please rise, sir.” Fynn glanced over at Grinner, who hadn’t moved a muscle during this exchange. “Is there something I should know, Grinner?”

  Grinner bit his lip. “I… I once done this fellow a… a disservice.”

  Fynn raised an eyebrow. “I see. What sort of disservice?”

  The å Livåri, now looking at his boots, mumbled something under his breath.

  “He stabbed me.” Borne’s voice conveyed the same mild amusement reflected on his face.

  “T’were an accident,” Grinner grumbled. “I were still on the crennin at th’ time.”

  Dimples appeared in Borne’s cheeks. “Actually, you did me a good turn. If I hadn’t been left bleeding half to death, a certain young lady wouldn’t have had to come along and rescue me.” His grin deepened at the å Livåri’s confusion, and he thrust out his hand. “It’s a long story. Let’s let it be a tale already told.”

  The cloud lifted from Grinner’s brow as they shook hands. Whit, however, was still eyeing Borne with suspicion. Before Fynn could determine why, Sir Tucker and Sir Steward came trotting up, grinning from ear to ear.

  “Braxton, you old loiter-sack!” the knight from Morlendell exclaimed. “Where did you come from?” He looked sidelong at Fynn, his cheeks flushing. “Begging your pardon, my lord.”

  Fynn waved an impatient hand. “No need.”

  Sir Steward thumped Borne on the shoulder. “Have you come to lead us, my good man?”

  At this, Fynn’s ears pricked up. “You’ve commanded men?”

  “I have, my lord. I fought with the royal forces against the renegades in Gral, and I trained an army of å Livåri in exchange for their service to Marechal Latour.”

  “And made good soldiers of us,” declared Baldo, joining the welcoming committee. “He was made a herald of the Gralian crown, and given a title for his efforts.”

  Borne’s eyebrows shot up at the sight of Baldo. “What in the name of all gods are you doing here, comarade? Is Halla with you?”

  “She was. In fact it was Halla who came for us and brought us back to fight for Lord Fynn. But she’s gone to the capital, as a hostage of the false king.”

  Borne’s smile vanished. “Halla is the Nelvor’s captive?”

  Whit stiffened. “May I ask how you come to know Lady Halla?”

  “She and I served together in Gral, Sir…?”

  “Lord Whit of Cardenstowe.”

  “Ah.” Borne gave a slow nod. “The cousin.”

  To Fynn’s surprise, Whit flushed.

  “Who did Roth leave in your custody?” Borne asked the young wizard.

  “Lord Lawton.”

  “His favorite sycophant? Now, that’s somewhat of a surprise.”

  “Perhaps the Nelvor feared another of his inner circle might be tempted to defect to our side,” Sir Tucker suggested, to guffaws all around.

  “Were you in Gral when it fell, Lord Braxton?” Fynn asked.

  Borne’s expression clouded. “No, my lord. King Crenel sent me with a company of Gralian soldiers to Olquaria over a year ago, where I served the Basileus. Former Basileus, I should say,” he added bitterly. “This past month there was a coup in Tell-Uyuk, and our mission was expelled.”

  “Then how are you here?” Whit asked.

  “I was meant to return to Gral, but I was detained and missed the ship carrying my men home… and then it was destroyed by Albrenians after it left the harbor in Rizo.”

  “I know what it’s like to be the only one to survive at the whim of the gods,” Fynn said softly, and in the long look that passed between him and Borne, he glimpsed the man’s suffering.

  But Whit’s tone remained cold as he addressed the newcomer. “You say the last two princes you served have been deposed? Hardly a glowing recommendation as a commander of men.”

  Borne returned the young wizard’s gaze levelly. “I didn’t propose myself to command anyone.”

  “Sir Borne’s the best I’ve ever served under,” Sir Tucker declared stoutly. “And the marechal of Gral held him in the highest regard. I’d trust my life to him, and that of my people, too.”

  “As would I,” Sir Steward chimed in, glaring at Whit.

  Fynn turned to Whit as well. “May I speak with you in my tent, my lord?”

  “Yes, of course, my lord.” Whit followed him inside.

  When they were alone, Fynn spoke quietly. “Sir Borne’s appearance seems to me to be a godsend. He’s just the sort of man we need, and unless you know of a reason why I shouldn’t, I think I will ask him to assume command of our army.”

  Whit gave a slow shake of his head. “I don’t have a ready reason to offer you, except that… well, it seems a bit too fortuitous to me, his showing up like this in our time of need.” He released a long breath. “But he’s clearly earned the trust of these men.”

  “As far as I’m concerned, that’s as solid a recommendation as we could hope for,” said Fynn. “And we’re hardly in a position to refuse his service just because it appears to have fallen in our laps.”

  After a slight hesitation, Whit nodded. “I agree.”

  “Good.” Fynn pushed back the tent flap and stepped outside. “Sir Borne, should you be willing, we would gladly accept your service as commander of our army.”

  Borne’s eyes widened, and pleasure ignited his handsome face. “’My lord,” he said, bowing his head, “it will be my great honor.”

  Fynn felt a flood of relief, knowing one very major concern had been resolved.

  When Borne’s eyes strayed to the chatraj board, Fynn said, “Would you care to play? I should warn you—you’ll need a heavy purse on you.”

  “I hope I can give you a challenge, my lord.”

  “Oh, I expect you can. But Grinner here is the master player. If you can get past me, you’ll have to take him on, and there’s not a man in camp who’s beaten him yet.”

  * * *

  Fynn lost the first game, then the second. He had a feeling his opponent was holding back in order to save him from embarrassment, yet even so was winning rather handily. But it was a pleasant enough way to pass the time, and Fynn appreciated the opportunity to better know his army’s new commander—and to fill him in on the circumstances his army faced.

  Before long Borne was facing Grinner across the board. They played for over two hours before they reached what Fynn had grown up calling a dödläge. When
Borne suggested they declare the draw, Grinner set his teeth, his eyes fixed on the board. After a long pause, he gave a curt nod of agreement, to the collective groan of the observers.

  Borne clapped the å Livåri on the shoulder as they both rose to stretch their cramped legs. “You’re better than me. I just got lucky with that capture of your jester.”

  Grinner looked slightly less disgruntled. “Ye’re th’ best I played.”

  As the gathering broke up, Fynn invited the contestants, along with Whit, into his tent. “We should raise a glass to the players. My father—that is, Aetheor Yarl—used to say you can tell a lot about a man from the way he wins, and more from the way he loses.”

  “’E didn’t lose though, did ’e?” Grinner grumbled. “’E’s a canny one, fer sure.”

  Borne raised his goblet. “I—” He broke off as a distant roar echoed overhead. “What in Blearc’s name—?”

  “Dragons,” Whit said. “Two of them. They came two nights ago, and have been circling Drinnkastel.”

  Borne set down his goblet, all color drained from his face. “Dragons?”

  “No one’s been attacked,” Whit said. “Although their presence is, admittedly, unsettling.”

  “Not t’ mention the ruddy racket they make when we’re tryin’ t’ sleep,” Grinner grunted.

  “Has anyone tried to speak with them?” Borne asked.

  Grinner snorted into his glass, forcing wine out his nose. “Yer nae serious?”

  “We’ve been waiting for Master Morgan’s return,” Fynn said.

  “Have you seen them?” Borne asked. “Do you know what color they are?”

  Whit shook his head. “They only come at night.”

  Borne ran a hand through his tousled hair. “My lord, I must go and try to speak with the dragons.”

  Grinner wiped his face on his sleeve. “Are ye mad?” he cried. “I seen what them beasts can do wit’ me own eyes—char a body wit’ a single blast ’o their breath, leavin’ nae but a sour whiff o’ smoke an’ ash!”

  Seeing the urgency in Borne’s eyes, Fynn said, “Is there something about the dragons you need to tell us, Sir Borne?”

  Borne sat back. “I recently… met a dragon. She is bound. If she’s one of the creatures flying over Drinnkastel, perhaps I can find out why.”

  Fynn gave a slow nod. “We’d certainly all like to know that. But I think you should take Lord Whit with you, if he agrees. He too is acquainted with the dragons of the dragonfast.”

  Whit reached for his staff. “I’ll come with you, Sir Borne.”

  Fynn took up his cloak. “Me too.”

  “My lord, perhaps it’s better—”

  Fynn lifted a hand to cut off Borne’s protest. “Don’t worry. I’ll stay well back. I’ve seen Lady Halla’s dragon, and already had to flee once from a wild dragon attack.” He turned to Grinner. “If you’d prefer—”

  Grinner scowled. “T’ let ye go wit’out me?” He snatched up his own cloak and slung it over his shoulders. “Not hardly likely!”

  Borne looked stunned. “Did you say Lady Halla? Do you mean to tell me she is dragonfast, too?”

  Whit drew back the tent flap, then stepped back for Fynn to proceed him. “You’ll need to keep abreast of the times, Sir Borne,” he said, “if you’re going to command the army of the High King.”

  * * *

  While Whit and Borne walked out into the open on the Tor, Fynn and Grinner positioned themselves by an outcrop of rocks. If the dragons proved to be unfriendly, the great boulders and the cover of darkness should keep them undetected.

  The plan was for Whit to use his magic to light up the sky, so as to discern the color of the dragons’ scales to determine if they were those known to them or their wild siblings. The obvious risk with this plan was it would provide the dragons with a clear shot at them below.

  “I don’ like it,” Grinner mumbled. “They’re dabblin’ ducks out there.”

  “I know, but at least Whit has some means of defense. And I don’t think these dragons are like the one we encountered before we went to Trillyon. They’ve been in the area for several days now and haven’t done anyone any harm.”

  “None we know of, ye mean.”

  A roar erupted overhead, and a sudden burst of light illuminated both the sky and the two men standing exposed under it. Two dragons hurtled toward them, one bronze and the other jade green.

  Grinner released a shaky breath. “Thank the gods, one of ’em’s that green beast o’ Halla’s!”

  “C’mon, then!”

  As Fynn started forward, Grinner clutched at his arm. “Shouldn’t we wait here t’ be sure they’re feelin’ friendly an’… well-fed?”

  “I’m going, but you don’t have to.”

  “I bloody do too!”

  The magical light suddenly disappeared, plunging them into deep shadow. They followed the sound of low voices.

  “Stay close,” Whit was saying. “No—closer.”

  “Because?”

  “Just do it. And if I say to duck under my cloak, don’t delay.”

  Fynn couldn’t help grinning at Borne’s reply. “How could I resist such a charming invitation?”

  A rush of air drowned out any further talk, and the ground reverberated as the dragons came to rest. Fynn could make out the two men in the gloom now, both of whom were bowing to the dragons.

  The dragons reciprocated, and then the bronze spoke.

  “At last you have come to answer our call. We did not dare to approach your camp, for fear we would be shot. Our brothers have seen to it that the world will fear and loathe our kind for millennia to come.”

  “What happened with Maura, Ilyria?” Borne asked, his voice almost pleading. “Why is she not with you?”

  “She left Mithralyn over three weeks ago in the middle of the night, to accompany one of the Tribus back to Drinnkastel. When I heard nothing more from her, Emlyn and I came south to seek our bindlings, as we fear they are both being held here against their will.”

  The dragon lifted her snout in Fynn and Grinner’s direction, and the smoke streaming from her nostrils darkened.

  ”Come on,” Fynn said to Grinner, beckoning him forward. “They already know we’re here.”

  As they approached, Whit made a point of bowing low to Fynn before turning back to the dragons to make introductions. “Behold Fynn Konigur, son of Urlion Konigur and grandson of Owain of the same name. He is the true heir to the Einhorn Throne, whom Master Morgan swore your bindlings to serve.”

  Both dragons lowered their great heads. “Fynn Konigur is known to me,” said the green dragon. “May I present my sister, Ilyria?”

  Ilyria’s glittering eyes held Fynn’s gaze for a long moment, and he sensed her wisdom in their depths.

  “Fynn Konigur, I am bound by Maura’s oath to serve you as the High King of this Isle.”

  Somehow, hearing these words from such a magnificent creature made Fynn feel, for the first time since accepting this mantle of power, less of an impostor.

  “You must know, sire, that the fight for Drinnglennin will soon commence,” said Emlyn. “We have sighted longboats on the Erolin Sea heading toward the Isle, and an Albrenian armada stands off the Nelvorbothian coastline.”

  Whit swore softly. “In that case, I don’t think we can allow Roth and his Tribus any more time to debate the legitimacy of your claim.”

  Borne nodded. “If I may make a suggestion, my lord? Send a letter to the Nelvor, demanding Lady Halla’s return as agreed, along with the document verifying your legitimacy. If your request is denied, we’ll need to take immediate action.”

  “I believe that’s what Master Morgan would advise,” Whit agreed.

  “Let’s send the missive now then,” Fynn replied. “We’ll give Roth until daybreak to release Halla and return the marriage
certificate. If he doesn’t, we take them back by force.”

  Chapter 45

  Morgan

  As he approached Mithralyn’s western border, Morgan sensed no presence from the great sentinel stone set to guard it—and he soon discovered why. It had been toppled to the ground, where it lay in impotent pieces.

  He bowed his head in sad homage to the great stone, and when he lifted his gaze, he spied something moving across the grey fields ringing the elven realm. At first he thought it was a large wolf, but then, with a jolt of surprise, he realized the creature looked familiar. “Could it be?” he murmured.

  At his whistle, the pony lifted her head, whinnied, and trotted over. It was Holly, his gentle pony from his days in Valeland. He had last left her in Celaidra’s care, with instructions to deliver her to Gilly. How had she found her way here?

  “Holly, my dear girl! What are you doing roaming around out here?”

  As Fercwri, Morgan’s present horse, nosed the newcomer, the wizard slipped a rope over Holly’s neck and proceeded into the woods.

  Here, his foreboding grew. This early in the autumn, the forests of the elven realm should only just have been beginning to gild, but instead the boughs of the trees were already hung with shriveled, dry leaves. Holly flicked her ears, while Fercwri scented the air and gave a nervous snort. The absence of birdsong coupled with the melancholy evidence of premature summer’s passing made Aenissa’s summons all the more portentous. Come at once, her message had implored, but tell no one your destination, else all will be lost.

  But even the urgency of her missive could not have prepared Morgan for this.

  Mithralyn’s magic was fading.

  He cantered down the winding trail toward the golden pillars of the elven palace, then leapt from his horse. As he climbed the steps to the grand bower, no music or laughter greeted him, nor did a gracious elf appear to offer mead to quench the thirst of travel. He went directly to Elvinor’s quarters and found them in disarray; if the elves had indeed left their magic realm, they had done so in great haste. Then he hurried to the library, holding out hope that he’d find Cortenus in his usual corner, sipping a cup of lavender tea. But the cold mustiness that greeted him upon opening its doors informed him he would find no living soul wandering among the shelves.