by J. S. Morin
A great cheer greeted Kyrus as his arrival was noted, and a number of tankards and mugs were raised.
“Kyrus!” they shouted in unison, giving the impression they had rehearsed the welcome ahead of time.
“Have a seat, friend,” said Greuder, owner of a local pastry shop, who sat near the far end of the table from Davin.
Greuder then stood and pulled out a chair for Kyrus, the seat exactly opposite Davin’s, at the other head of the table.
Kyrus’s face flushed bright crimson. Twenty or so people were more than he spoke to in a typical day, and he felt out of place at the center of their attention, like an actor thrust into a role at the last moment, never having read the script. Words failed him utterly. He must have stood there stunned for longer than he thought, because the next thing he knew Greuder had a hand on his shoulder, guiding him to his seat.
“Am … Am I late?” Kyrus managed to stammer out once the initial shock wore off.
“No, no, not at all, my boy!” yelled Davin down the length of the table. “You are here right on time, as usual. It is just that I had arranged for everyone else to be early, you see.”
Davin smiled, apparently at his own cleverness. Greuder managed to deliver the guest of honor to his seat and then resumed his own seat just to Kyrus’s right. Once everyone had settled down, Davin stood up and produced a small cylindrical case, the same case that had piqued Kyrus’s curiosity earlier in the day. He withdrew the contents—several sheets of parchment—and tapped them on the table to straighten them out a bit. Turning his attention to his guests, he cleared his throat.
“Well, let us get down to the reason for this little gathering, shall we?” Davin said. “Friends and colleagues, as you may have already surmised, I have a great announcement to make. This gentleman to my left is Kornelius, steward to His Majesty, King Gorden.”
At this, several guests gaped openly, and there was a bit of murmuring.
“He is here at His Majesty’s behest to aid me in setting my affairs in order before I leave for Golis. I have been offered, and most gratefully accepted, His Majesty’s post as the next royal scribe.”
Davin paused here, no doubt fully expecting his friends’ reaction. There were several who clapped, some cheered; Kyrus felt faint and could only stare dumbly at his employer.
“I have been given this opportunity because our dear colleague, Mr. Oriedel Conniton, heretofore His Majesty’s personal scribe, has fallen ill with an affliction resulting from his advanced years and has resigned the position to spend his remaining years with his family. I have already conveyed my well wishes to Mr. Conniton and his family, and I shall be visiting them on my way to Golis to deliver my respects in person.
“As a member in good standing of the Scriveners Guild, I would like to toast His Majesty for his continued support of our craft, despite the ever-intrusive designs of the typesetters and their infernal presses. To King Gorden, may his wisdom be passed down through all the ages!”
Everyone raised his mug and drank deeply, including Kyrus, who found that someone had pressed a tankard of ale into his hand while he was not paying attention.
“Now, of course, there remains the small matter of what will become of my shop once I have moved out of it,” Davin said. “I must admit that over the years I have grown to become quite fond of the place, and I am loath to leave it behind. But, of course, duty calls, and I must answer! Therefore, I have made the decision that I must sell my beloved home, for that is what it is to me, as much as it has been a workplace. And as His Majesty is currently without the services of a royal scribe, the sale must be made in all haste. Since I could not bear to sell it to a stranger, I had thought to ask one of you to buy it from me. We shall auction it right now, with payment due immediately. Let us begin as modestly as possible, at a single eckle.”
There was a general bewilderment at this sudden turn of events. That the men gathered at the table were ill prepared for such an undertaking was obvious. Kyrus could not believe what was happening. Davin was auctioning off his home … his home—the both of theirs. While it was perfectly within his right to do so, Kyrus could not believe Davin had not forewarned him.
“Well, anyone … one eckle?”
There was a general muttering up and down the length of the table, muttered excuses of coin purses left at home and the like. Greuder gave Kyrus an elbow in the side, and Kyrus noticed that nobody at the table would admit to having so much as a single one-eckle coin among them. Fumbling in his vest pocket, Kyrus withdrew the first coin his fingers closed on. He gave a quick glance at the denomination and slapped it down on the table.
“Ten eckles!” Kyrus cried as everyone turned their gazes in his direction.
Silence fell over the gathering as they waited for someone to respond.
“Well, we have a bid of ten eckles. Do I hear any other bids?”
Silence followed Davin’s question. After a moment, Davin deemed it suitable to continue, having given everyone enough time to protest should they so choose.
“Ten eckles it is, then.”
Davin smiled at Kyrus and beckoned to him with one hand—the hand not holding the speech that had turned Kyrus’s world on its head that evening.
“Congratulations, my boy. Let us just get the deed signed over to you, which Kornelius has conveniently brought along.”
At a nod from Davin, the old steward retrieved a small strongbox from the floor in the corner of the room, where it had lain unnoticed. Kornelius placed it on the table and withdrew from it some papers, a quill, and ink. Starting to put the pieces together and figure out what precisely was going on, Kyrus cautiously made his way down to Davin’s end of the table. The whole thing gave Kyrus the impression of one of the old, trite plays that Davin so enjoyed watching.
Kyrus and Davin both signed the contracts that Kornelius had drawn up to complete the sale, and Kyrus could not help but get the feeling that there was something missing. As if on cue, Davin interrupted his musings.
“Of course, to keep the old place in use, there will have to be a member of the Scriveners Guild there to oversee things. Now, Kyrus, I know you have been painfully aware that I have been remiss in my duties to you as a mentor of late. You are long overdue for your journeymanship, as I have long admitted. Now close your eyes; I have something for you.”
Kyrus did as he was told and shut his eyes, grinning broadly. At last, he would get his official membership in the guild. He had waited perhaps a year longer than was considered the norm, but today would make up for all that. He would also be the only journeyman in Eastern Acardia to own his own shop. He could hardly contain his excitement as he first heard Davin step around behind him and then the clatter of a fine metal chain. He felt Davin lower the chain over his head; it had to be his journeyman’s medallion, a symbol of his new status as a guild member.
“Now,” Davin said, “I know that the guild does not forbid a journeyman from maintaining his own shop, but the general public does not place their trust lightly, and it is difficult for a journeyman to gain that trust, not having been recognized by the guild as an expert in his field. You should not have to worry, though.”
Kyrus’s eyes shot open. He looked down at his chest and did not see the journeyman’s medallion he had first expected. What he saw was the emblem of an Expert Scrivener: a golden “S” curled around a quill. He spun around to face Davin, the question on his mind written upon his face as clearly as his gifted hands could ever have managed.
“At the last meeting of the guild, when I found out about my new station, I remembered to recommend you,” Davin said. “I had some of your work along with me for them to review, and I had to somewhat sheepishly confess to my own dereliction in not presenting your case sooner. Needless to say …” Davin reached over and gave Kyrus’s medallion a meaningful flick. “… they were impressed. Oh, to be sure, there were a few who thought that despite your talent, you should progress through the ranks the same way everyone else has to, but these are
difficult times. The Typesetters Guild is gaining prominence as they refine those blasted machines that make a mockery of our art. We cannot let a brilliant scribe languish as a journeyman when his works should be heralded as those of a true expert. Now enough of all this seriousness. Let us celebrate!”
Davin picked up his mug of ale, and the other guests did likewise, raising their voices in toasts of congratulation for Davin and Kyrus both. Another mug found its way into Kyrus’s hand, and he lifted it along with the others. Few among the guests were hard drinkers, and the night’s revelry was fairly brief. Kyrus, who rarely drank anything more potent than wine, was the first to pass out.
Chapter 3 - After the Bloodless Night
By dawn, most of the men were emotionally spent. With the long night finally past, the threat of the goblin attack seemed to diminish. It was almost as if, believing the goblins would attack at night, the threat seemed over with the arrival of the morning sun. Few of them had slept much during the night, between the added watches and chain armor pressing down on their chests like the heavy hand of waiting death.
The cheer of morning seemed to banish such dark thoughts. The singing of morning birds and the rosy cheer of the day’s first rays of sunlight seemed at odds with the thought of death lurking out among the trees. There was some talk that perhaps the goblins had thought better of their attack, and silently withdrawn back from wherever they had come. Some believed what they were saying; others just needed to hear some words of confidence to assuage their uncertainty and nervousness. Brannis did not like it.
Let the men say what they would, but Brannis had the nagging feeling that the goblins were scheming something. They would not have delayed their attack just to cost our men a night’s sleep, would they? Perhaps …
There had been no hunting the previous night, so the morning meal was to be nothing but cured meat strips and water—hardly an appetizing prospect. Brannis made his way over to claim his dawn feast from the army’s stores and ran into Iridan, his eyes sunken and bloodshot, appearing a bit wobbly on his feet.
“Fair morning, what say?” asked Brannis with a smile.
Brannis had managed a restful sleep despite the circumstances and felt refreshed. His dreams had been growing more vivid of late and he seemed to sleep the deeper for it, not awakening throughout the night as so many of the other knights had.
Strange to have such vivid dreams about such mundane drivel. What about copying texts for stodgy old men should be so worth remembering? Am I trying to tell myself I would be best off retiring and taking up a trade? The thought amused Brannis. He had never used to remember what he dreamed at night and wished it was not always the same bland stuff. Why not fair lasses and glorious battles some night?
“I would not know; it is still last night for me,” Iridan said. “I never thought I would envy anyone a night’s sleep in full armor. Guess I was wrong on that count. Hey, when can we call off the goblin watch and let me get some sleep?”
“I will have some patrols search the surrounding area for signs of the goblins. I do not think they can hide from us in daylight in any threatening numbers. If the patrols do not turn anything up, well, I guess we will see about letting you sleep a bit.” Brannis leaned closer and added in a low voice, “I can see now why necromancy is forbidden. I cannot imagine anything dead would look less horrible than you do right now.”
Despite his fatigue, Iridan could not help but smile and chuckle a bit. The playful swat that he aimed for the back of the grinning Brannis’s head missed badly, and drew an amused snicker at his expense from the few men nearby.
“Sure, Brannis, enjoy this now. I will be getting you back once I have …” Iridan paused for a yawn. “… gotten a good sleep in me. I will not be forgetting! Maybe the next wolves I bring into camp will be doing their business in your tent.” They had been friends since childhood, so Iridan was freer than most to joke with the battalion commander.
He looked at Brannis out of the corner of his eye and tried to feign a menacing look. This drew a good-natured laugh from everyone, as Iridan was hardly in any condition to look menacing. Brannis nearly toppled his friend with a hearty clap on the back and helped him to a seat and dawn feast.
* * * * * * * *
“Goblins!” one of the sentries screamed.
While the goblins were as silent in daylight as at night, there was no denying that they had given up some advantage in stealth with their dawn raid. One of the sentries had spotted them.
“To arms! Form a shield wall just inside the camp perimeter,” Brannis ordered as he plunked his helmet onto his head and secured the chinstrap. “Keep the shields low and remember that the goblins cannot reach above your shields, only under and between.”
The knights were gathering behind the rapidly forming wall of men with shields and spears, each wielding a pair of “goblin swords”—whip-thin rods of steel meant to overcome the goblin advantage of quickness. Only Brannis, carrying Massacre, was differently armed. And, of course, Iridan, who was neither armed nor armored, though he had been given a chain shirt identical to those of the commoner soldiers.
Poor Iridan, thought Brannis, no sleep for him after all.
The young sorcerer had shunned the armor he had been given, planning to rely solely on his own magic for his defense. If the goblins were half as smart as everyone claimed, they would pick him out of the crowd easily enough anyway, and he preferred to be free of the awkward armor to better cast his spells.
“Indreithio anamakne ubtaio wanuzar pronedook,” intoned Iridan.
Brannis spared a glance over his shoulder to check on the spell Iridan was casting. He was holding his arms skyward, fully extended, with his fingers slowly weaving an intricate pattern in the air. Brannis recognized it as a shielding spell, and from the way Iridan was gesturing, one meant to form a barrier overhead to prevent the goblins’ thrown weapons from penetrating, like giving a house a sturdy roof to keep out the rain.
Brannis was just behind the front lines when the first of the goblin missiles sailed in. He shouted for his men to keep down behind their shields and not to raise them up. All but a handful managed to put aside their instinct to bring their shields up to cover their heads.. A second wave of thrown spears and daggers quickly followed the first and with few targets presenting themselves, those few went down quickly amid a storm of hurled blades.
The sound of the goblin sorcerers’ spell chants were drowned out by the sudden war cry of their first wave of infantry, a horrible chattering cacophony bringing to mind a flock of startled chickens in an echoing canyon. Yet the spells were cast—heard by the defenders or not—and a blast of lightning shattered the ranks of men to one side, while two bolts of white-hot aether hammered into Iridan’s shielding spell, illuminating the transparent barrier for a flickering moment. The shield appeared almost to buckle, but it held and the aether-bolts dispersed.
The goblins pressed their advantage where the lightning had cleared a hole in the Kadrins’ shield wall. Two knights rushed in to fill the breach, a burning scent heavy in the air around them. They stood over the bodies of the fallen soldiers and continue serving their duty on the line.
Both sides now had to contend with the effects of the fog.. There was still enough visibility at head height that the humans could clearly make out where their allies were. The goblins, mired in thicker fog whose nature they had somewhat underestimated, were having difficulty finding their footing. Brannis sported a rather wicked, self-satisfied grin when he heard the startled yelps of the goblins that stumbled into one of the vast number of latrines his men had been digging the last several days. He had figured that a waist-deep hole to a man was plenty to take a goblin out of the fighting.
The goblins, however, were nothing if not adaptable. One of their sorcerers quickly cast a spell that created a gale of wind that dispersed the remaining fog in the span of but two breaths. Another created a dimness in the air not entirely dissimilar to the fog, but which acted to dim the light from the mo
rning sun over the battlefield, creating an artificial night.
Iridan acted quickly to counter the latter effect, and nullified the advantage that goblin eyes held in the dark.
“Aleph kalai abdu.”
He quickly spoke the few necessary words, and made a quick circling gesture with his right hand, with the tip of his middle finger touching his thumb. It was the simplest of all spells and the first one taught to every student at the Academy. It was a spell simple enough that Brannis nearly had the strength to cast it. Instantly the false night was replaced by an equally false noontime, as a bright ball of light appeared overhead near Iridan’s outstretched hand, the harsh white light cutting through the dimming spell the goblins had fashioned.
The spell had worked well, and taken back the advantage that the goblin spell had bought for the few moments prior. But it had also marked Iridan clearly in the eyes of the goblins. The way the spell was worded, it was difficult to make it appear more than a pace or so from the hand from which it originated. In fact, it took some skill and practice even to keep the light from emanating from one’s own fingertip. Iridan might as well have painted a sign reading "Sorcerer" and hung it around his neck.
* * * * * * * *
Brannis had been calling out orders, orchestrating the Kadrins’ defenses, when he heard a high whistle sound above the noise of battle. It came in two quick bursts, a longer whistle, then two more short: goblin signals, he realized. He had not yet become engaged in the combat; his own sword was far too dangerous to have it drawn and swinging about in close quarters with his own men. They were holding up well. They had resisted the urge to break ranks and attempt to press the goblins back into the forest, which was now starting to burn. Iridan’s shielding spell had somehow managed to turn a ball of fire from one of the goblins back at their own ranks. Brannis watched to see what came of their enemy's whistle.
