by J. C. Staudt
“Many of our people became fisherman,” Jeebo finished. “My family became falconers.”
“Fascinating,” Nara said. “Might be we bear some distant relation.”
“Might be,” Jeebo agreed, “though my family came to the realms generations back, and my forefathers have since commingled with half a dozen other bloodlines. We’ve always been falconers, though. That’s how we made our way when we first came here.”
“I wish more of us possessed a skill so rare and useful,” said Nara.
“It is hard to find work as a bird trainer,” Jeebo said. “Though it’s admittedly easier to find food.”
Nara laughed.
“Will you show us a hunt?” asked Ibraldi, Urutar the bowyer’s wife.
“I’d fancy a show of the bird in flight as well,” Kalax agreed.
Jeebo consulted Darion with a look.
“These are protected lands,” said Darion, “meant to be hunted only by their lord and his guests. I’m unsure whether we’re still in Lord Kerring’s lands, or if we’ve crossed over into the dominion of the steward of Keep Ulther.” He cleared his throat. “Either way, I do not believe Lord Mirrowell would approve of his prized falcon being flown for mere entertainment.”
The Galyrians gave him glum looks, but nodded in concession.
They spent their second night with the Galyrians camped at the edge of the Breezewood. Darion slept in his bedroll on a patch of soft clover, only now it was with the restless thrashing of a man anxious about facing his past. They would reach Keep Ulther the following day, he knew. While he could not wait to get there, he also dreaded learning what had become of his old home.
By morning he was wide awake, up and building a fire before the first of his companions had so much as stirred in his sleeping sack. Darion rode all through the day with his gaze fixed on the horizon, reminding himself once again of Rudgar King, staring unceasingly at the city of Cronarmark as his fleet approached the Beach of Daro Kolir.
The late afternoon sky was beginning to darken when the torchlit windows of Keep Ulther materialized past the edge of the trees. The castle appeared to have been well-maintained in Darion’s absence. And it was inhabited. By whom he could not say, though his mind whirred with the possibilities.
Orothi banners fluttered from the parapets, the gatehouse, and the tall south tower in which Darion had once kept the spoils of his life’s adventures. He hoped they were still there. The sight of his old keep put an unsettling murmur in his gut, though the banners of Orothwain seemed to indicate the castle was still under Tarber King’s supervision. That meant the king hadn’t yet awarded Darion’s seat to some other lord. It was the lone bright spot in an otherwise worrisome homecoming.
Darion approached the keep remembering how he’d once imagined himself growing old here. Raising children. Watching them grow. Teaching them to live. Dying in his own bed at the ripe old age of one-hundred and four, surrounded by his grandsons and granddaughters and devoted servants. Yet this vision of the future was no longer possible, and the thought nagged at him.
What saddened him most, however—and indeed, what stole his breath and made his chest ache with loss—was that Alynor and his son were not there now. Under different circumstances he might’ve been riding home to his family, a war hero making his triumphal return. Not only was he bound for a meeting with strangers; he now realized he might never see his family again.
As Darion and his companions approached the gate, a crier sent up the call.
Darion wheeled his horse and halted to address the Galyrians. “It is here I must leave you for a time,” he explained. “There is a matter Jeebo and I must discuss with the lord of this keep. We will return before night falls. You have my word.”
“What are we to do?” Kalax asked. “Sit out here like pheasants in the brush, waiting to be rooted out and slaughtered by the host you call to your back?”
“That’s enough, Kalax,” Nara scolded. “Master Gerrard has been kind to us. You saw what he did for us in Fenria Town. Why do you doubt him now?”
“Hide in the woods if you doubt me,” said Darion. “Watch the gates with Urutar’s bows in hand. If Jeebo and I exit with an armed host on our heels, you have my leave to use them to the best of your ability. I’ve not brought you all this way in friendship only to betray you.”
“Then why can’t we come in?”
“You must allow me to prepare the way. This keep has changed hands, and I want to be sure it’s safe for you.”
“Before he leads us like hogs to the spit,” Kalax said.
“I shall do no such thing. If you suspect I’ve led you here under false pretenses, then go back to wringing coppers from travelers in the mountain passes.”
“I trust you,” said Nara. “So do they… only they don’t know it yet.”
“I’ll prove my vow soon enough.”
Nara gave him a reassuring nod. “Take your leave, Enon.”
Darion turned and rode side by side with Jeebo to the castle gates.
A sentinel called down to him. “State your name and purpose.”
Darion glanced back to gauge whether the Galyrians might hear him. He did not think so. “Darion Ulther and Jeebo Aklund. We are come to beseech the lord of this castle.”
The gatehouse guards muttered amongst themselves. “Ulther, did you say?”
“That’s right.”
A moment passed.
The drawbridge lowered, the portcullis lifted, and the gates opened.
Darion and Jeebo rode through the gatehouse, traversed the outer ward, and passed beneath the smaller second gate into a courtyard lit with early evening torches. Waiting there on the steps of the keep stood Albur Appleby, once Darion’s narrow-faced Castellan and trusted advisor, flanked by a complement of soldiers. Darion saw familiar faces among the men; Paiten, the captain of his levy, and several of his former household guards. No longer did they wear the Ulther crest on their tabards, but a new adornment of Orothi blue. When he heard the inner gates shut behind him, he knew their intent.
An Orothi captain with a wisp of beard on his chin stepped forward to stand beside Castellan Appleby, edging him by the shoulder as if to protect him. “Darion Ulther. You’ve a nerve showing yourself here, if what they say is true.”
Darion ignored the affront. “I would speak with the lord of the castle, if I may.”
“You may not.”
“Am I under arrest?”
“You are indeed.”
Darion breathed a heavy sigh. “Who now holds this seat?”
“The high hall is empty,” the captain said, “as is the seat.”
“Then these lands are under the sovereignty of Tarber King, as your banners would suggest. Meaning the castellan holds stewardship over the king’s lands.”
The captain gave a slight nod.
“In that case, permit me a short conference with Castellan Appleby before you arrest me.”
“Anything a cowardly betrayer might wish to say for himself,” said the Orothi captain, “he can say it in the open, before us all.”
“If you insist.” When Darion dismounted, Appleby shifted to heel, but stood his ground.
Jeebo dismounted as well. Darion turned the horses and gave them each a smack on the rump to send them trotting for the stables. Goam and another stable hand took their reins as they arrived.
“Hello, Goam,” Darion called over with a wave.
“Hello, milord.”
“This man is not a lord,” the Orothi captain insisted. “He is a traitor to the realms.”
Goam gave a nervous smile before turning to lead the horses away.
“You speak true,” Darion said, “so I shall be brief. My companion and I met a group of Galyrian refugees upon the mountain road outside Fenria Town. They are tradesmen—and skilled ones, at that—who have fled their homes to escape the Ogrelord who now controls the southern continent. Castellan Appleby, I know we are all facing hard times, but as my long-time friend and ally, I m
ust beseech you. If you would be so generous as to provide positions for these companions of mine, I would be forever grateful.”
Appleby opened his mouth, then looked at the Orothi captain and hesitated. “I will do whatever I can, my lord.”
“No he won’t,” the captain snapped. “We are under orders from Tarber King himself to bring you to justice. Your request will not be granted. Men… arrest him.”
The Orothi soldiers encircled Darion and Jeebo and began to close in. Darion noticed the men who’d been part of his household levy holding back. They knew better.
Darion turned to Jeebo. “Do you remember what you said yesterday, about me winning a fight without you lifting your blade?”
Jeebo nodded.
“I will attempt to prove that true. If you draw your sword against the king’s soldiers, you’ll be found complicit in my treason. No need to add your name to mine on the king’s list.”
“I stand with you in all things,” Jeebo said, “but I will not stand by while you are captured.”
“Then by all means, if I am about to be captured, help me.”
Ever since he’d come ashore in the realms, Darion had dreaded finding himself in a situation like this. Not because these soldiers would prove a challenge for him, but because he did not relish the thought of inflicting injuries on men who were only following orders. They were armed, armored, trained, and experienced in combat, and that meant Darion would have to put them down hard if he wanted to keep them there. Most would be bedridden for weeks. All on account of a fool Orothi captain who didn’t know any better.
Darion began to cast. It was a spell he’d had occasion to cast often during the war in Korengad, and he spoke the sigils as easily as if he were reciting the names of the horses poking their heads out from the stables. Horses and stables which had, at one time, belonged to him.
“He’s casting a spell,” shouted one of the Orothi soldiers. “Stop him.”
Darion grasped the mage-song and whirled, throwing his bare fist at a man who was too far away yet for him to reach. Wind coursed down his arm and shot from his hand, a pillar thick enough to blow a door off its hinges. The soldier expelled his breath in a grunt as the wind buffeted him; he flew back and rolled to a stop on the ground.
Each time Darion swung his arm in a slashing arc or a stabbing strike, he carried the wind with him. The soldiers advanced, only to be blasted backward with each mighty swing. Some picked themselves up for a second go, but Darion was ready for them. This was no simple push spell intended to knock them over, like the spell he’d used to escape Castle Maergath one early morning a few years back. No, this was the wind of concentrated mage-song, bent on destruction.
When he had sent the last of the Orothi guardsmen to the ground with wounds that would keep them there, he found the soldiers of his former household still hanging back at the fringes.
“Why do you not do as I say?” the Orothi captain shouted, waving them forward. “Arrest this man.”
The soldiers remained where they stood, Paiten and all the rest, having no intention of following orders.
“You dare disobey me?” the captain screamed. “Then you disobey our king.”
Darion turned to the captain as the last of the mage-song dissipated between his fingers. “You are not the king’s steward here. That honor belongs to Master Appleby. Nor are these men to blame for their good sense. Come and arrest me yourself, if it means so much to you.” He held out his wrists as if in surrender.
The captain stood for a moment, eyes flitting over the fallen soldiers who lay writhing and groaning around him. “You are every bit the cowardly rogue they say you are. A magician with no recourse but to use trickery over steel.”
Darion drew his sword and tossed it on the ground between them. “No more magic,” he said, “and no more steel. I give you my word.”
The captain set his jaw, yanked his sword from its scabbard, and marched across the yard toward Darion. “On your knees, dog. Yield, or I shall strike you down where you stand.”
Darion did not move. When the captain came close, he could see the fury in the man’s eyes. Still he held.
The captain’s sword flashed in the torchlight.
Darion spun to avoid the blow, then drove a heel into the captain’s ankle to topple him in a clatter of armor. With his foot on the captain’s chest, Darion looked down at him and smiled. “I will not accuse you of disobeying our king. Only of not knowing when you should.”
“You will hang for this.”
“Perhaps I will,” Darion said. “But not tonight. Tonight, I will climb to my armory at the top of the south tower, wherein I shall gather my personal effects. Then I will leave this keep, unhindered by your guardsmen, never to return. If you wish to send word to the king that you encountered me and I escaped, I will understand. If you try to stop me or follow me, I will not be so forbearing.”
The captain’s mouth tightened, his breath rasping through his nostrils. “What personal effects are you looking for, pray tell? I think you’ll find that tower room sorely lacking in such things. Everything of value has been sent to Deepsail, to be inventoried for the king’s vaults.”
Darion looked to Master Appleby. “Is this true?”
Appleby could not meet his gaze, even through the growing dark. “Yes, my lord. I am afraid it is.”
Chapter 15
A glint of sunlight on the valley road made Alynor sit up and squint against the morning. There were travelers approaching; a large group of them, by the look of it. She slid out from under Draithon, whose head was resting on her lap, trying not to wake him up.
It was no good; the boy stirred and opened his eyes. “I’m hungry, Mommy.”
“I know, dearest. So am I. Wait here a moment. Mommy is going to see if she can find us some food. Rest, darling. Close your eyes.”
“I’m not sleepy.”
“Wait here, then. Stay down and don’t come out until Mommy calls you. There may be dangers about, and I don’t want you running into them without me.”
“I’ll come with you. I’m brave like Poppy.”
“I know you are, pumpkin. You’re also very small. Someday you’ll be as big as Poppy, and then you can go wherever you please.”
“When will I grow?”
“Why, you’re growing now. Only, very slowly. Do as I say, dearest.”
Draithon rubbed his eyes. “I want to go home.”
She kissed his forehead. “I’ll be right back. Stay here.”
Alynor crawled out of their niche beneath the hillside boulders and descended to stand beside the road, waving her arms as the strangers approached. Her stomach grumbled. She felt dizzy, and realized it wasn’t nervousness that was making her mouth so dry. It was thirst.
There were eleven of the strangers, some on horseback, others driving wagons, all with bloodied armor crusting in the sun. Their two horse-drawn carts were piled high with objects which bobbed and jingled beneath canvas sheets. The man riding in front—their leader, she assumed—urged his horse off the road when he saw her. He and his men halted a few fathoms away.
“Hail, my lady, and well met,” said the man. He had sharp eyes with dark rims and a thick purple scar running up his cheek from jawline to eyelid.
“Well met, sirs,” Alynor said with a curtsy.
“This is a strange place to find a woman alone. Are you in trouble?”
She hesitated. “No, only I—I have been. I’ve had some very bad trouble indeed.”
“Those troubles will be over soon, I hope. I am Caelor Maffrey. These are my companions.”
Alynor studied the group, stern men with grimy faces, staring at her through weary eyes. “Hello,” she said.
A few nods. No replies.
“And you are…?”
“Alyn—Stoya,” she said. “Stoya Lyrent.”
“Well, Mistress Lyrent. If there is any way we can help, just say the word.”
Alynor was sure she must look a fright after her long march t
hrough the Wildwood and her tangle with Shandashkaleth and the goblins. She certainly felt that way. These men looked as though they’d been through a tangle of their own, and they were coming from the north—the direction in which she intended to go. “Are you fighters?” she asked.
They chuckled.
“We are, at that,” Caelor said. “We’ve just come from the infestation in Westenreach. Doing our part, as ever.” He gave her a thin smile.
“Infestation?”
“Curious thing, really. Came out of nowhere. We’ve done all we can for those poor folk, I’m afraid.”
“I was headed to Westenreach,” she said.
Caelor cast a curious glance across the hillside. “By yourself?”
“I had arranged to meet with my companions nearby. I thought you were them.”
One of Caelor’s men, an older fellow with a bald pate and long white hair, spoke up. “Why would your friends be coming south if you was headed north? Weren’t nobody behind us for leagues.”
“Now Abran,” said Caelor, “we’ve no reason to put the lady to the question. What’s happened to you, madam?”
Alynor swooned. Her head was a blur, the morning sun bright in her eyes. She would sooner refrain from answering Caelor’s inquiries. Nor did she have the presence of mind to formulate a response in her current state. “Food,” she said, dropping to her knees. “Water.”
Caelor jumped off his horse and came to her. “Are you alright? Here, sit down.”
His arms were strong. He helped her sit up while he uncorked his waterskin so she could take a long draught. She drank until she had to gasp for breath. Then Caelor rounded up the men and told them to settle in and build a fire by the roadside.
“We’ve only just begun the day’s march,” old Abran complained. “We won’t make it to the river in time at this rate.”
Caelor turned to Alynor. “Will you be alright if I leave you for a moment?”
She nodded.
“Please excuse me.” Caelor stood and pulled Abran aside.
Alynor’s head was spinning, though the water helped. She could barely open her eyes beneath the beating sun. Caelor and Abran argued in low voices for a time. They gestured in Alynor’s direction more than once. After a moment he returned to her with a smile on his broad face.
