by Brian Fuller
“The Churchmen tried to force me to recite the prophecy every day, as well, but I refused one day. The Prelate, Coriander, I believe, was so angry with me. Oh, at first he tried gentle entreaties to get me to recite it, then humor, and finally a stern lecture. When I still refused, he grew enraged and started yelling at me and threatening me with all manner of ridiculous punishments. After I had him killed for his disrespect, the Church seemed more willing to let me set my own direction.”
“How old were you then?” the Chalaine pressed, horrified.
“Thirteen.”
“And at thirteen they let you dispense with such justice?”
“Yes. All my tutors felt I should learn to act independently as soon as possible.”
“And how old were you when you took your first concubine?”
“Fifteen.”
“And who was the first?”
“I don’t remember. The five principal Warlords of Aughmere gifted me their eldest daughters on my birthday. So I received five at once. Such a gifting of women is not unusual for a Shadan or for one who will likely win that position.”
“I see,” the Chalaine said as calmly as she could. “But normally such a ‘gifting’ would occur after the first wife is taken, correct?”
“Yes.”
“So was the Church furious at your break from tradition? They reject the practice of wives and concubines.”
“Honestly,” Chertanne returned, “I didn’t hear one word about it. I suppose one might call it the ‘Coriander Effect.’” He laughed loudly enough to draw attention to himself. “No, the Warlords taught me early that the Church would try to convert me from an Aughmerian into something more palatable to other nations. I, of course, thwarted such efforts as quickly as possible. After all, Eldaloth had me born Aughmerian for a reason.”
To the Chalaine’s relief, Maewen signaled them forward. As if reading from a script, Chertanne bid her farewell. “Thank you, Lady Khairn. It was a pleasure talking to you. I hope it will be oft repeated.” The Chalaine inclined her head as he rode off to where Athan awaited him.
While the conversation helped her understand him better, his last statement raised questions within her. Why did Eldaloth have the Ha’Ulrich born Aughmerian? Was it a matter of blood or chance? From where she stood, there wasn’t any reasoning in it at all. When the Church had first announced that the Ha’Ulrich was Aughmerian, neither Tolnor nor Rhugoth took it well. The people solaced themselves, however, by convincing themselves that an Aughmerian Ha’Ulrich would be a mighty man of war, just what was needed to counter Mikkik’s forthcoming assault. Even better, his father was the most renowned fighter and warrior of their age.
Her conversation with Gen about the uncertainty of prophecy now rang more true to her than ever. Doom came to the world before she had ever seen or known Chertanne or Gen. Chertanne was selfish and weak, and she desperately loved the man whose destiny it was to destroy her. The only thing she could think to bitterly laugh at amid the wrack of prophecy was that she imagined Mikkik would be just as confused as anyone when he won the coming war without the Ilch’s help and practically without trying. All Mikkik need do now to recapture Ki’Hal was show up.
The Chalaine wiped away tears she didn’t realize she was crying. How did it all go so wrong?
Maewen led them northeast along a slender stream couched in a small depression brimming with ferns and low leafy plants with small white flowers. The soft gurgling of the water calmed the Chalaine’s nerves. Gradually, the density of the trees lessened and their size increased. Maewen mounted her horse and led the group forward at a brisk pace through the easy terrain.
As daylight faded, they encountered a path of paved stones that forked beneath two towering oak trees spreading toward each other to form a natural arch. One fork disappeared south into the forest from which they now emerged, the other veering southeast. The path appeared to stretch north and south as a single road in an empty plain until it bifurcated where they stood. Maewen called for a dismount. As there were no tents, few provisions, and no fire, situating their camp required nothing more than caring for the horses and finding somewhere devoid of roots and rocks to lie down.
The Chalaine fished a hard roll from her saddle bags after checking the animon again. Fenna approached and threw herself down grumpily at her side. The Chalaine steeled herself for another dose of Fenna’s self-pity, but thankfully, the young woman seemed content to smolder while gnawing on a particularly tough morsel of dried meat. Geoff approached, his book, quill, and ink in hand. Fenna turned away, evincing a hurt look from her husband. He controlled his face and strode by them without a word to seek out Maewen, who managed to not appear more annoyed and concerned than usual.
“Maewen,” Geoff entreated her, “may I beg you to tell us more about this place . . . for the record?” Maewen regarded him coldly. The Chalaine quickly stood, Dason following her as she came to Geoff’s side.
“I, too, am curious,” the Chalaine added. “The trees are so beautiful and the breeze so pleasant that this place must have been something out of the common way.”
At the Chalaine’s request, Maewen acquiesced, Geoff flopping open his book and thrusting his quill into the ink bottle.
“We camp beneath the Gate of Three Dreams, for it was said that no matter what path was chosen from here, there awaited a delight in beauty that would linger forever in the dreams of the traveler. The path to the southeast joins the southern fork of the Dunnach River where scented trees line the bank of the wide, clear river. There moose drink the cool water and bear feed on silver fish that leap from the depths.
“The path to the south plunges into the heart of the Muliel Forest where giant firs thrust into the sky with such height and with branches bristling so thick with plump needles that they cast the wanderer into an eternal evening at noonday. Feathered ferns and wide leaved water plants wet the boots and cloaks of those that pass with dew that continually falls to soft, damp earth.
“Our road lies northward. Here the path runs out into an open plain of waving green grass where once mighty herds of elk and deer ran with abandon, hooves striking up a thunder in the air. Low clouds thread through the jagged peaks of the Far Reach Mountains to the west, falling as they pass under the fire of the sunset sky to cover the land in a soft haze that thickens in the night into a blanket of fog.“
Maewen turned to peer into the north where the haze gathered. “I can only hope that some of those herds remain. We need food.”
The half-elf’s turn toward the practical broke the spell created by her descriptions, Geoff scribbling with inhuman speed across the pages to capture her words.
“I long to venture these paths again,” Maewen continued, “and if you should mourn anything, it is that you will tread only one way and likely never see the others.”
“Marvelous, Maewen,” Geoff complimented her, face happy for the first time since his forced marriage. “I think your eloquent descriptions will inspire caravan loads of people to journey here after the Unification.”
Maewen frowned. “Then please strike what I said from your record. Such a crowd would surely ruin the place.”
She stalked off to scout around before darkness and mist obscured her view completely.
“I don’t think she’ll ever like me again.” Geoff said glumly after closing his book and arranging his other implements within his cloak.
“Maewen or Fenna?” the Chalaine inquired softly.
“Fenna.”
“Give her time, Geoff. She was very fond of you before the unfortunate events on the wedding night. Fenna is stubborn and can be petulant when hurt. Be patient. The storm will blow itself out.”
“Thank you, Chalaine. I know it is hard for her losing a man such as Gen. If she loved him, then loving me will not be easy. Gen and I are as different as a peacock and a falcon.”
“True,” the Chalaine agreed. “But honestly, I believe she is better suited to you than him.”
“Do you mean it
?”
“I do, and I know her as well as any.”
“Your words bring me comfort,” Geoff said, “but I wish I could do something to speed the storm’s passing. Every day I live with her scorn is a day boiling in agony.”
“Well,” the Chalaine said, squeezing his arm as she turned to go, “you are a bard, and if sweet words—and sincere ones—are a way to a woman’s heart, then you are eminently qualified to negotiate the trail, however thorny it may be at the moment.”
Fenna looked away quickly as the Chalaine returned. A chill washed over the party as breezes blown in from the plain to the north pushed them deeper into their cloaks. Fenna’s eyes flashed angrily as the Chalaine reclined on her bedroll.
“How can you speak with him?” she whispered angrily, trying to keep Dason from overhearing.
“Why shouldn’t I? Has he done something wrong?”
Fenna folded her arms. “An honorable man would have died rather than accept a forced marriage to a woman who doesn’t love him. If Gen and Geoff’s places were reversed, I would not be married now.”
The Chalaine shook her head. “No. You seem to forget that Gen’s life was in the balance. Think, Fenna! By marrying you, Geoff was attempting to save an honorable man, and however you feel about him, his feelings for you are obvious. Why should he die when his life could secure so much good, even amid woe?”
“Well I thought you at least would understand what it is like to be forced to marry someone you don’t love, but I suppose there is one difference between us—you have never really loved anyone else. Your heart has never been uprooted from where it was content and joyful and asked to thrive in a cold, foreign country. When you have felt an attachment as I have, then maybe you will understand what it is like to have it torn away!”
The Chalaine could bear no more, choking back a hundred explanations and chastisements Fenna had no power to understand or profit from. Without a word she rose, strolling slowly around the trees until those majestic views which were said to inspire dreams faded into fog and shadow.
Chapter 52 – Hunted
Stirring in the camp snapped the Chalaine out of a blissfully dreamless sleep just before Dason stooped to wake her, and when she woke, she needed no explanation for the hurried movements. Somewhere in the forest behind them the Uyumaak thumped their chests and beat sticks against trunks, familiar sounds introduced to her during the last days of the doomed caravan. The rhythmic pattering struck fear into her heart, and she nearly forgot to collect her bedroll before moving to the horse that Kimdan finished saddling as she approached.
Dawn struggled to make its presence known. Fog clumped thickly about them, blinding their eyes, dampening their cloaks, and matting their hair. Mirelle grabbed her daughter’s hand briefly as she walked by, Cadaen seeing to her horse. Chertanne was already astride his mount, head darting about at every sound. The Chalaine checked the animon as she waited for the rest of the company to mount. Gen yet lived. What comfort this brought was short-lived.
“We ride fast,” Maewen informed them, signaling for everyone to come close. “They have our trail and likely know exactly where we are going. It will be easy to get separated in this fog. Keep to the path. If you do lose your way, ride in widening circles until you find the road. Keep the sun and the mountains to your left. The fog should clear by midmorning. Ride hard!”
They started slowly until they were sure everyone was on the trail. After a quick glance over her shoulder, Maewen spurred to a gallop, dark hair streaming behind her. The Chalaine rode just behind the half-elf and Chertanne, the soldiers bringing up the rear. While Maewen had described the fog as a blanket, it was a ragged one, clarity and blinding obscurity alternating in irregular succession. They rode single file down a road as wide as a man is high, pushing the horses to the limit to gain time and distance.
Maewen reined the party in as they ascended a slight rise into a clearing in the fog. She rode around, counting to make sure no one had drifted away. The Chalaine patted her horse as steam shot from its nostrils. The thumping Uyumaak still dogged them, sounding uncomfortably close.
Maewen frowned. “We should have put some distance between us with that run. They have elements out here on this plain. We need to get somewhere high and more defensible. The fog works to their advantage—they can smell us but we can’t see them. Stay close. We will leave the road.”
Again they streaked forward, pounding hard down the stone path before them, the sun breaking above the horizon to their right, casting diffuse light through the mist. The Chalaine’s heart pounded, wetness matting her veil to her face and hampering her vision as she struggled to keep Maewen in view. A sinking dread took hold of her.
We’re not going to get off this shard.
Thumping behind her and to the right startled her by its nearness.
“They are a hundred yards behind us!” Maewen yelled. “Break left now!” As one, the horses plunged off of the road, mud and grass flipping off their swift hooves. The Chalaine hung onto the reins as they ascended a steep hill she hadn’t seen, the riders in front of her fading in and out of the fog. Abruptly they emerged into the weak morning sunshine, cresting a hill with a narrow top of knee-high, thick-bladed grass just starting to brown. Before her stretched a sea of misty white interrupted by islands of hilltops jutting up into the clear.
“Look!” Dason yelled, pointing below them. Eddies swirled in the fog below as Uyumaak, practically invisible save for the disturbance in the mist, raced toward the hill.
“Everyone that can fight dismount and put the horses in a tight group behind us,” Maewen ordered.
“Wouldn’t we be at an advantage, mounted?” Dason asked.
“We need to protect the horses. Uyumaak are not noble. The horses give us an advantage and they will kill them before they kill you. Do it.”
“Jaron!” Mirelle yelled. “You stay with my daughter.” Jaron nodded, moving his horse to the Chalaine’s side and taking the reins from her.
“Uyumaak can spook horses,” he explained.
The Chalaine trembled. Her mother, Geoff, and Fenna joined her as the fighters jumped from their horses and pushed them back. The soldiers, Maewen in the middle, formed a line at the edge of the hill. The half-elf drew her bow, pulling an arrow to her cheek. Chertanne rode away from the line, heading for the Chalaine’s tightly knotted group before Athan intercepted him.
“Your Grace,” he pleaded, “we need your magic!”
Chertanne, already pale, turned an even whiter hue. “I . . . I am not. . .”
“Chertanne!” the Chalaine yelled, anger welling up within her. “Get in the fight, for all of our sakes! This is what you were born for!”
“The moon is not full!” he yelled defensively. “My magic is yet weak! I will be of no use!”
Athan appeared ready to present some argument, but Maewen’s bow singing and a yell from the men at the line prompted him to abandon his entreaty and rush forward to help with his own magic. Chertanne sidled up to Geoff, not meeting anyone’s eye for fear of what he would find there.
The soldiers shifted their weight and gripped and regripped their swords. Maewen shot three times before shouldering her bow and drawing her knives. The defenders stepped back as a band of Uyumaak Hunters slammed into the line as one. Long limbed and lanky, they soundlessly pressed the attack, their many eyes darting among several targets. The Chalaine startled at their long claws and frightening speed. The men fought off lightning slashes and chopped at the bony arms, holding the charge at bay. Sharp Uyumaak nails shrieked along plated armor and tore clothing and flesh.
Athan, riding behind the battle, incanted. One of the Uyumaak turned from its human opponent and attacked the other Hunters. The confusion afforded the advantage to a nearby Dark Guard who quickly finished off the creatures and gave aid to the Aughmerian soldiers. Sharp swords hacked away arms and impaled the bodies of the silent enemy. Two of the attackers finally broke and ran, Maewen finishing them with her bow.
“How many?” Athan asked, after the battle was over.
“Eighteen,” Maewen calculated, grabbing her horse. “If there are two companies out there, they should have numbered twenty-two. We are missing four, though they may have returned to give news of our position. It is time to be a little unpredictable. Let’s check the wounded and get moving.”
What wounds there were received a hasty, rough bandaging of shredded cloak, and in short order Maewen led them off the hill and back into the fog, veering west toward the mountains. She kept the pace even, saving the strength of the horses against the need to flee.
As the half-elf had said, the rising sun coaxed away the fog by midmorning and added greatly to the relief of the party. The land spread green about them, rolling and inviting, as pleasant a morning as any traveler could ask to favor her for a journey. The Far Reach Mountains rose a hazy gray-green before them, steep, grassy foothills gashed with gullies crouching at their base.
They rode in silence until midday, crossing several gurgling streams as Maewen gradually turned north to avoid the uneven terrain of the foothills. As they halted for lunch, Maewen explained that she hoped she would find more animals nearer the mountains, for as yet the mighty herds she had described the night before had not materialized.
She said, “The gullies and washes also provide us a quick way into the mountains and more defensible places where we can find better concealment. With the Hunters mostly destroyed, we should be able to stay ahead of the main body of Uyumaak . . . unless there are more in front of us.”
The rest of the afternoon saw nothing of animals, Uyumaak, or conversation. The territory simultaneously fascinated and worried them. As travelers, their eyes and hearts anticipated what views awaited just behind the next rise, around the next bend, or just behind a jut of rock; as prey, they feared the same. Once evening approached, the haze and fog returned to accumulate in the low places as Maewen searched the high ones for a defensible place to encamp.
