by J. S. Morin
“Umm, Iridan, stop before you get it chest-high—your chest, not mine—because we still want to be able to see where we are walking. I just want to make it higher than the goblins can see over.”
Iridan was nearly a foot shorter than Brannis, so the admonition was not an idle one. Brannis wanted to be sure that his men had every advantage he could manage to find.
* * * * * * * *
Iridan finished the spell, satisfied that the human soldiers would still be able to see over the thick bank of fog that now obscured the campsite. It was a simple enough spell and had hardly tasked his strength at all. He glanced around, trying to think of anything else he could do to help prepare for the expected attack. Remembering the wolves, he whistled to summon them to his side. A few seconds later, he felt hot breath on his legs and heard their panting. So effective was the fog cloud that he could not even see the animals, though they were right in front of him.
Hoping that the wolves’ sense of smell would serve them well enough to navigate in the blinding fog, Iridan gestured for the wolves to move out into the surrounding woods. It was a command he had taught them so would aid in the search for game. He hoped that the wolves would not make too strong a distinction between deer and goblins as far as acceptable prey was concerned. He was not too worried, though—the creatures seemed to be quite territorial. Had his magic not deluded them into thinking of humans as part of their pack, he was sure the wolves would have attacked the soldiers already.
Iridan wracked his mind thinking what else he might be able to accomplish before the battle started, but could not come up with any more ideas. He looked around, hoping to catch sight of Brannis or one of the other knights to see if one of them might have need of him. He was carefully picking his way across camp toward Brannis’s tent when he heard a pained yelp from the woods to the east. Iridan winced at the sounds of a struggle: growling, snarling, a rustling of the underbrush, and finally nothing but a few whimpers that quickly died out.
* * * * * * * *
They had been waiting for hours. After the goblins had killed their wolves, Brannis had expected that they would attack the encampment soon, while they might still gain some surprise. But there sat Brannis and his knights, with Iridan as well, still waiting. Reluctantly Brannis had ordered the men to try to get some rest and there had already been two changes of the sentries. Few could sleep, though, knowing that their enemy was lying in wait, preparing to attack at any moment. Sleeping in chain armor was difficult enough without it also serving as a reminder of the imminent attack.
Brannis finally gave in and decided to try to get what sleep he could while he still possessed a choice in the matter. His eyelids were drifting lower by the minute and it was taking a conscious effort to hold them up. He left Sir Lugren on watch and he would be in command for the first few moments of battle should the enemy attack while Sir Brannis slept.
* * * * * * * *
Iridan watched as his friend pillowed his head on a bundled bedroll and tried to sleep wearing plate armor, right in the middle of the camp with the rest of the knights. Even as he saw Brannis grimace in discomfort as he tried to find a position where his armor did not push at him awkwardly, he envied his friend. For his part, Iridan was planning to stay awake as long as it took, for if his magic was a few seconds too late when battle was joined, he might never join it at all. Goblins were cunning and they would likely make an early target of the humans’ only sorcerer. Iridan meditated to try to get at least some rest without fully giving in to his body’s demands for slumber. Getting up to renew the fog as the fires slowly burned it away also helped to keep his mind alert. The channeling of aether might drain the body, but there was something about it that invigorated the mind—something not entirely unlike the effect of jumping into a body of cold water. The effect was quite temporary but Iridan needed whatever aid he might find in keeping awake.
The other knights drew lots to determine who slept and who would keep watch. They did it for form’s sake mostly, since there was little sleep to be had that night in any event. Every cricket, every toad, every breeze might have concealed the sound of approaching goblins. It was more a matter of who would take watch standing and who would lie awake on the ground. As Iridan mused on the curious arrangement, he heard a slight throaty rasping. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he recognized the sound of snoring. Brannis, at least, had found a way to get to sleep.
Chapter 2 - Dawn of Morning
Dawn’s first rays of light peeked through the open window, illuminating the small, sparsely furnished room. Kyrus Hinterdale groaned and rolled over, turning his face from the offending light, knowing it was his own fault for leaving the window open last night. It was late spring, and the same window that had let in such fragrant, refreshing breezes overnight had robbed him of an hour’s sleep at the least. It was not that he particularly needed the extra sleep; he was quite well rested. But the sun’s unwelcome intrusion had interrupted a most interesting dream, a dream about …Drat! Now I cannot even remember!
Kyrus often remembered bits and pieces of his dreams, not just in the groggy moments immediately after awakening. As a scribe, Kyrus had little enough to add excitement to his days, without forgetting the interesting bits his slumbering mind conjured up for his entertainment each night.
With a resigned sigh, he sat up in bed, rubbed the last remnants of sleep from his bleary eyes, and threw off the bed sheets.Shambling across his small room, Kyrus reached the basin he kept on a table in the corner. He splashed some tepid water over his face and looked at his reflection in the small, polished, silver mirror that his employer, Expert Davin, had given him. Kyrus saw what he had seen each morning since he’d received the gift: a pale, angular face, blue-green eyes, and a mop of sandy-blond hair, adorned with a sickly little beard, so light it was barely noticeable. He would have shaved it off, but he looked young enough that on the rare occasion he indulged in wine, the barkeeps would always ask him whether he had reached the age of accountability, which indeed he had—five years ago.
Once out on the city streets after a quick breakfast, Kyrus stretched and let out a yawn, filling his lungs with the fresh morning air. If there was a better way to start off a day, Kyrus was not aware of it. Kyrus managed a leisurely pace, his full stomach slowing his normally brisk pace somewhat. He used the extra time his early rise bought him to give himself a chance to try to figure out what Expert Davin was planning. Expert Davin had been telling him all week that he had a big surprise planned for him. The old man was normally quite jovial, but this whole business with Kyrus’s “surprise,” whatever it was, had him nearly giddy of late. Kyrus resolved not to consider the subject of his employer’s recent strange behavior and to focus directly on his work for the day. It was a high-minded plan and one that deep down he knew was doomed to failure, but until he actually sat down to start working, Kyrus entertained thoughts of keeping to it.
The problem was that nothing he could think of made much sense. Davin had been promising for some time now that he would get Kryus admitted to the Scriveners Guild as a full member, but that was almost a formality. Kyrus’s work was exemplary, even if he did say so himself, and a brief perusal of his work would have been enough to gain him membership, if Expert Davin recommended him. He could not picture Davin getting as worked up about the whole affair if that was it.
His favorite theory, which had Davin playing matchmaker for Kyrus with some mysterious “niece,” would at least explain why Davin had been so jovial lately. Davin had expressed concern a number of times to Kyrus that if he did not get out more, he would end up like Davin: an old man with no family of his own. However, Davin had told Kyrus he had only one sibling, a brother some eight years or so his senior. Kyrus snorted in amusement at the very thought. Davin was nearly old enough to be his own grandfather, and any niece Davin might have would have to be at least his mother’s age.
And my dear Juliana, I would like to introduce you to your future husband—Oh my, wait. That
cannot be any apprentice of mine, looking like some sort of ink-speckled shut-in.
Kyrus grinned to himself, trying to imagine Davin introducing him to some fictional niece he could not possibly have. It was a bit of a stretch of course; Davin was less likely to notice a bit of ink and an unruly mop of hair than he was to suddenly grow his own hair back. Still, he should keep up appearances for the sake of Davin’s reputation among his colleagues, who, if he had gathered correctly from Davin’s veiled hints over the course of the week, were likely to be in attendance this evening. And besides, who knew when he might run into a woman without Davin having arranged it for him.
With no promising new theories coming to light on that particular walk, Kyrus arrived back at his employer’s establishment. The wooden sign above the door hung out toward the street on a wrought-iron bracket, and swung gently in the morning breeze, proclaiming the building to belong to Davin Chartler—Expert Scrivener. The carved wooden letters were bold and plain, and had been painted over in white to make them more visible against the dark-stained background. The letters were the only feature of the sign, which made it quite unique among the establishments of Scar Harbor. Most other businesses would have carved a symbol on their signs, indicating what sort of work went on there, many without even lettering to accompany them. A great many of the folk who lived in the kingdom of Acardia could not read and found the places they needed by picture. A horseshoe indicated a blacksmith, a loaf of bread adorned the bakers’ signs, and a needle and thread meant a tailor’s shop. Expert Davin had little use for the illiterate professionally, so he forewent the customary quill-and-ink pot that graced the signs of scribes throughout the rest of the kingdom. His stance had likely cost him a bit of business over the years, penning letters and writing up contracts for those who could not write, but his moral stance had gained him respect among the guild membership and freed up more of his time for other work he considered more rewarding.
Shutting the door, Kyrus was once again surrounded by a stuffy feeling in the air, at once both comfortable and a bit stifling. Visitors to the establishment frequently complained that it smelled strongly of equal parts musty old books and cat. The cat was a grey mongrel of indeterminate breeding named Ash, who had free run of the building. Ash was a mouser, and quite a good one. He had worked for Davin longer than Kyrus had by some years, and his skills had given him quite a large girth; he weighed more than some dogs Kyrus had seen.
Ash’s eyes followed Kyrus’s path as he crossed the main room to his chair, which Ash was currently occupying. The chair was high-backed and solidly built out of oak, and the hard seat gave Kyrus awful aches—or at least it used to. Ever since he had gotten a cushion to pad the seat, Ash had taken to napping on it. Knowing he would not be allowed to remain in his favorite napping spot once Kyrus managed to cross the cluttered room, Ash stretched himself out and, with a sidelong look at Kyrus, hopped to the floor. Kyrus lost sight of the animal as he stepped around a small table with a chessboard on it, careful not to disturb the pieces. As he got over to his chair and sat down to begin his day’s work, he caught a glimpse of Ash padding up the stairs. Kyrus could not help but smile. The door to Davin’s room did not shut quite right, and if Ash was determined to get in …
A string of curses punctuated Kyrus’s thought: “What the…? Pltheah! Get your tail out of my face! How many times do I …”
Davin’s voice trailed off, and Kyrus turned to his desk and dipped a quill into his ink pot.
Good morning! Kyrus thought, then chuckled to himself.
* * * * * * * *
It was nearly half an hour later before Davin emerged from upstairs, suitably dressed to meet the day. He was of an age at which a more wealthy man would have considered retiring to the countryside. Over the years, Davin had grown thick around the middle from good eating and little strenuous work, though he could hardly be considered fat. He occasionally joked that his hair behaved like a flock of sparrows: each year it migrated north, but unlike the sparrows, it inconveniently forgot the trip back south. What little was left of his once-black hair had long since gone to grey. His eyes seemed to be those of a much younger man, twinkling from behind a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles and reflecting the joy from a broad smile.
“Fair morning, my boy! How does this fine day find you?”
“It finds me quite well,” Kyrus replied, returning his employer’s infectious smile. “Has it found you yet?”
Davin took the jest in the spirit in which it was given, and they settled into their morning routine. Kyrus watched Davin write for some time while feigning interest in his own work. His own quill had grown bone dry, and he had been scratching at the same beleaguered piece of parchment for over an hour. Several times, as Davin continued to write, Kyrus tried to peek over the top of his employer’s writing desk, raising himself in his chair as much as he could without drawing attention to himself. He did not want to upset Davin by spying on him, especially when tonight was supposed to be the end of his week-long ordeal of curiosity, but he could not help himself. His work had fallen behind, but he silently assured himself that he would be able to catch up starting tomorrow, once he knew what all the mystery lately had been about. Until then, he more or less just gave up and tried to covertly indulge his curiosity, hopeless as it might seem with Davin apparently committed to keeping his secret until the promised time. Davin was an honest man, almost to a fault. But if the king ever had need of a spy, Kyrus doubted he would be able to find one craftier than Davin. Kyrus got the feeling that Davin had been hanging clues in front of him all week, enjoying the opportunity to have a little fun with him. He was sure that whatever Davin was writing had something to do with what he was going to find out that evening.
* * * * * * * *
When evening finally came, Kyrus gratefully put away the parchment that had been tormenting him for the past few hours—a treatise on the enlightened state of the kingdom’s justice system commissioned by the local magistrate, Lord Kenrick Lionsvaen. He wiped his ink-stained fingertips on his handkerchief as best he could, though a black tinge of it remained, which never seemed to go away anymore. Hurrying up the stairs, he splashed a little water on his face and ran his more or less clean fingers through his hair to straighten out the tangles a bit. After a glance at his reflection in the mirror, he pronounced himself fit for public viewing. Kyrus generally did not give much thought to his appearance, but tonight was likely to be a bit of a spectacle, if he had judged Davin correctly. He would hate to be an embarrassment to his friend should he arrive looking like he had just lost a fight with his own ink pot.
The streets were quieting down as Kyrus made his way to the Brown Elk Tavern to meet Davin. The sun had just cast its last rays of light over the horizon and was giving way to twilight. Shopkeepers were closing their doors, peddlers packing up their carts and wagons, and fest halls were admitting their clientele for the evening. Kyrus passed a man carrying a large tin jug, reeking of kerosene, who was making his way down Westfall Street, lighting and refilling the lamps that kept the cobblestone street lit through the night. Kyrus nodded a greeting to the man, whose name he had never learned, and received a sidelong glance in return. Kyrus paid little heed to the indifferent response, since he evoked similar reactions from the majority of the people in town. He was not rich, or good-looking, or even particularly sociable, so he figured he had no reason to expect any better.
As he walked, he tried to mentally prepare himself for a letdown, knowing that he had built the whole thing up in his mind all week to the point where anything short of a knighthood or a visit from King Gorden himself would have been a disappointment. Whatever it turned out to be, he would not want Davin to think he was not pleased with it, even if it turned out not to be as grand as he had thought. The old man had been so kind to him over the years of his employment that he could not bear the thought of hurting his feelings. He practiced beaming his best surprised smile until it occurred to him that he must have looked like a simpleton to the fe
w passersby he came across, grinning at nothing in particular as he walked.
He eventually reached the front door of the Brown Elk Tavern, a modest two-story structure with whitewashed walls and brown shutters. Light shone from the yellowed windows, casting a blurry tableaux of shadows onto the street that hinted as to what transpired inside. Raucous laughter and shouted conversation mixed with the tinkling of glass and stoneware to give the tavern a welcoming air. He breathed deep and steeled himself for whatever lay inside, then painted his best expectant look on his face and pushed the door open in front of him.
The Brown Elk was a well-loved establishment among the locals of Scar Harbor. Most nights, the large common room was filled to capacity, and on busy nights, the mezzanine level overlooking that common room would be close to overflowing its railings. That night, however, things were a bit out of sorts. A number of the small square tables that normally stood scattered about the room had been pushed together by one wall to form a makeshift banquet table, with a large tablecloth draped across them all to make the whole arrangement look quite proper. Crowded around the table were a great many people that Kyrus was familiar with, though many were just passing acquaintances. There were several members of the Scriveners Guild from both Scar Harbor and several nearby towns, a few neighbors from the buildings adjacent to Davin’s shop, merchants with whom he dealt frequently, and some men he recognized as friends of Davin. At the head of the table sat Expert Davin Chartler himself, laughing at something one of the men next to him had said and hoisting a mug of ale. Next to Davin, and not taking a seat, was a distinguished looking older gentleman, dressed in black and standing straight, as if a board had been tucked down the back of his shirt.
