by Greg Ricker
So Sawl was racing the clock, was he?
That was good.
"It most certainly is." The Gnoll lord agreed.
Sawl could read Skhoragg's doubtful face like an open book. No matter how far he sank his teeth, it would all end, and cities would be rebuilt, perhaps even stronger than before.
It was always the same.
He could not let that be.
There was a first time for everything, and one day a Dy'Shan Lord would rule over Lynnwood.
"And for that matter," Sawl continued, "I shall get right to the point."
He shifted in his throne a bit.
This was a rare meeting, indeed.
"I ask for an alliance between us." Sawl expected the momentary look of shock on the Gnoll lord's face, as well as the grunt from General Nysin. "We must do the impossible, in order to grasp the impossible."
He twisted his hand into a fist, as if he held Lynnwood inside.
Skhoragg took a moment to think of a reply. "What exactly is it that you wish to gain with this alliance? Our numbers are still quite small."
Thousands of Gnolls had been killed when Yeenoghu was slain, and he knew well that his men would not wish to die so easily for an Orc Dy'Shan Lord.
"A defense against river passage to the Blaskies." Sawl answered. "To keep prowlers away from my back door, you could say."
The lord of the Gnolls was no fool. He would not do the fighting for Sawl's army. That is, unless he received something in return. Something great, to satisfy his selfish needs.
"And for us?" Skhoragg bravely, and greedily asked.
This was no time to be shy.
Sawl's evil snarl, was actually a smile. "Any kingdom you choose, shall be yours, once we conquer."
Skhoragg stood silent for a moment. It was a more than tempting offer, indeed. Perhaps he could simply ride out this war, and then claim an easy prize. He had everything to gain, and nothing to lose.
Maybe just a few more expendable Gnolls.
He already knew a way to stop river passage, and would take pleasure in killing the scum who had killed Yeenoghu.
"As well as wealth beyond what your dreams can muster." Sawl added, and when two Orc soldiers brought in a wagon cart full of gold and jewels, the Gnoll lord lost his stubborn edge.
"I accept, great Corasamon!"
"Good." Sawl shifted his position again.
The meeting was going well.
Skhoragg then shouted something in an ancient Gnoll tongue, his eyes still on the cart full of treasures, and a Gnoll soldier, carrying a helmet on a belt slung over his left shoulder, stepped forth. He handed it to his King without haste, and returned to the line.
The Gnoll lord inspected the helmet for a moment, turning it a time or two, before holding it high.
"This helmet was found on the head of a ancient Elf General!" He spoke loud enough for the entire room to hear. "We know not what it does, but we know the Elves have charmed many ancient artifacts!"
He only knew that any Gnoll who put it on their head, came down instantly with a tremendous headache.
He even knew it personally.
The Orcs in the room, especially Sawl, looked on in awe. They were envious of this treasure the Gnolls had found.
How many centuries had they been hiding this?
"The Elves are wise creatures," Skhoragg continued, "and may have made the helmet to only work on the head of an Elf!"
He walked slowly to the foot of the throne, and handed it forth for Sawl to take. "Or perhaps, to perform only on beings who possess magic within them. Perhaps, it will work for a Dy'Shan Lord. Please accept this, and may it do something to help with our victory, great Corasamon."
Sawl took the helmet from the Gnoll lord. It was small, made for an Elf's puny head, but it was a perfect fit on the crown of his misshapen head.
Skhoragg stepped back, afraid that if the headache set in, Sawl would throw the helmet back at him. He could see Sawl's evil smile growing wider, and it made him wonder.
Was it madness?
Or confidence?
Perhaps both.
"Iy tosam ban celab, de un crothim." Said Sawl, suddenly.
"My Lord?" Nysin did not understand what the Orc lord had said.
"Thy enemies shall weep, at my feet." Skhoragg translated. He smiled, as he tugged at a large medallion hanging from his neck. Sawl had read the words written on it in the ancient language of the Gnolls, and only Skhoragg new what it read.
It was the power of the helmet.
Sawl would be able to read the ancient writing in his books, and he would learn from the mistakes of the Dy’Shan before him.
History, for them, would no longer repeat itself.
“Wake up, boys!” Vola’s voice filled the living room, and woke Taron and Dalt with a start. Sleeping in chairs all night had left their necks stiff. They stood and stretched, and tried to rub out the pain.
“Come and get it while it’s hot!” She cried, and brought their attention to the smells that passed under their noses.
They turned to the small table by the stove, to make sure it was true. Scrambled eggs, baked ham, a loaf of homemade bread, and a tall, sweating pitcher of milk. Their stomachs pulled them to the table. An extra leaf in the table had been added to allow for two more chairs, which were of a different make than the other two. Taron and Dalt saved the nicer pair for their hosts, and took their seats at the table.
Dalt started to fill his plate, until Taron grabbed his wrist. “Is Kaylel coming down?”
He raised an eyebrow at Dalt, who had forgotten his manners.
“Eat, boys.” Insisted Vola, as she finished cleaning the stove with a damp cloth. “The day that skinny, frail thing eats more than a mouthful for a meal, I’ll be too old to make it for her!”
She hoped she was loud enough for Kaylel to hear.
“Will you still be just as crabby?” Laughed Kaylel, making her way down the stairs to the kitchen. She was much more properly dressed than when the southlanders had seen her last. Only her hands and face were not covered with navy blue. Tight sleeves and waist, and an ankle-length skirt, made it an Herbearer Mistress’ dress. She even wore her hair all tightly pulled back into a bun behind her head, without one loose strand hanging free.
“Good morning, Kaylel.” Greeted her grandmother. “You look...well...ten years older.”
A frown did not suit Kaylel.
She had carried down a bundle of clothes with her that she set on the table, where her place would have been set. “These are some of my brother’s clothes, but I think they should fit. At least they’re clean, and haven’t been slept in.”
Taron and Dalt never looked up from stuffing their mouths.
Kaylel shook her head as she picked up a slice of bread already cut from the loaf, and tasted it. Spiced apple. Vola was obviously trying to empress her guests. She put the rest down.
“A mouthful!” Shouted Vola while fluffing the padding on her chairs, but when she smelled them, she removed them for the wash. “Always the same!”
“If you like,” began Kaylel, ignoring Vola, “I am going to meet the prince this morning to say goodbye to him before he leaves, you are welcome to join me. I am sure he will listen to you better than anyone else in this city.”
The southlanders ate until their bellies felt about to burst. Then they dressed, and left with Kaylel into the city streets again. She did not make them feel any safer.
The sun's earliest light always brought life to the streets of Bowenn, despite the lingering mist, fog, and worst of moods. Men from the outer village farms usually led their ox-driven carts down the streets about then, delivering their goods to the taverns and inns. Not today.
Too early still for the usually crowded roads, Kaylel was still worried they may have already been too late to meet Danuel. She hoped she could find him on her way to the infirmary before he left.
She led the two southlanders quickly down the street, Dalt carrying her Herbearer's bag of
supplies. When she made a right turn down another road, they could see a large, barn-shaped building, and could not miss the wide, painted sign above the four tunnels to its stalls with The Square Stable, and Owner - Mason Stark, written on it in large letters. Besides an old man pulling a small wagon filled with tied bundles of fresh tobacco leaves, there was no one in front of the stable.
Perhaps they would find Danuel inside.
Someone hastily ran past them, and gave Kaylel a start. It was just a man doing his morning duty, extinguishing pole lamps. He carried the same wooden staff used to light the lamps. One end had a tiny flat plate to smother out fire, and the other, a small, presently unlit tOrch. The man did not even notice them as he ran by, stopping at the next lamp to use the tool again.
Their jog across the street attracted a few eyes, but no one would pay much mind to the chores of an Herbearer Mistress and her assistants. When they arrived at the stalls, Kaylel found the gates were locked, and she assumed that Danuel had already left.
Turning to leave, she saw something shiny on the road between her feet.
“A key?” She showed it to Taron and Dalt.
If it was a key to the gates, then miracles did indeed happen. She gave it a try, and the miracle occurred. The lock turned, so she opened the gate, and they slowly stepped in.
The inside of the stable was near pitch dark, and they did not care for the smell, though the southlanders had more experience with horses than Kaylel. The fresh outside air could not travel through with the doors locked shut. The area was well kept, but the odor had long since driven itself into the wooden walls.
They walked down the center of the tunnel, looking left to right through the barred doors to each stall. Kaylel looked for a large, white stallion with a gray spot on one of its eyes.
Danuel's stallion. Moon's Eye.
They passed several empty stalls, and she was convinced he had already left. Maybe they were in the wrong tunnel, but there was only one she knew of, that was set aside for the steeds of nobles.
Then, finally, she saw a white horse. She motioned for the others as she walked to the door of the stall.
“Good morning, Moon’s Eye.” Kaylel greeted the impressive horse. She had to look twice, but she was certain that she could see fear in the stallion’s eyes. Even an uneasiness about its stance. With further observance of the stall, she could plainly see two legs, tied at the ankles, sticking out from under a blanket in the far corner.
“Look!” She pointed.
After seeing the restrained man, Dalt set down Kaylel’s bag, and Taron his bow, then they both kicked the door open simultaneously, busting the lock and chain. As they entered, Kaylel carefully eased her way around the frightened stallion. It stepped anxiously back and forth, disapproving of its already cramped quarters getting even more crowded. She pulled the blanket up quickly, and gasped.
“Danuel!” She threw herself to his side.
He was bound at the wrists and ankles, and another tie around his head held a gag in his mouth. Blood streaked his blonde hair, and had dried while he lay there unconscious.
Making haste, Kaylel asked Dalt for her bag. First off, she removed the gag, and placed his head gently on her knee. She reached into the bag with one arm, and out of a hundred jars or more, she managed to pull out the very one that she needed. Stink root. She removed the lid, and steadily held it under the prince's nose.
He wanted to knock it away, but with his hands and feet bound, all Danuel could do to get away was turn his head and squirm. When he opened his eyes, Kaylel pulled the jar away.
"Kaylel?" The prince's head was throbbing with pain. When she cut his hands free, he grabbed his forehead with both hands, and felt the lump that had grown on the back of it.
"I think...Mason hit me with...something." He groaned, and rubbed the large goose egg while his ankles were cut free. "We have to get out of here."
"Mason did this to you?" Asked Kaylel, putting her knife back in her bag. Danuel tried to stand on his own, but it took her help to succeed.
Then they heard voices, and the tunnel gate opened.
“Someone’s coming!” Alerted Taron.
"Quickly!" Danuel urged Kaylel. "Get on!"
He threw his leg over Moon's Eye's high-pommeled saddle, and then reached down to take her hand.
"Stop them!" Came a roaring cry.
Mason Stark was opening the door for Nyol Jakard and three Lieutenant Commanders, who entered the stable as they dismounted their horses outside.
Younger, and faster, the Lieutenants were already drawing their swords at full run.
Kaylel took Danuel´s hand and jumped onto the horse with her bag strapped over one shoulder, and with surprisingly very little of the Prince's help.
With a snap of the reins, Moon's Eye raced out of the stall, and into the tunnel, toward the oncoming soldiers. They backed against the walls, in fear of being trampled by the huge animal.
Only one tried to throw himself at the prince, but Danuel kicked the soldier back before his sword made contact, and Kaylel nearly fell off of Moon's Eye. She held both Danuel, and her bag, with great difficulty.
Adding to her distress, her present attire was not suitable for riding horseback, and she had to ride with both legs on one side.
Taron and Dalt followed close behind, daggers out, trying to use the path that Moon’s Eye was making.
Mason had already fled, leaving only Lord General Jakard in the way. He took up nearly as much room in the tunnel as Moon's Eye did. He stood crouched, with his giant hands outstretched. He looked as if he intended to wrestle them, horse and all, to the stable floor. When the prince reached him, the General swung around and grabbed the reins. A move that Danuel did not expect, and with the strength of an ox, Nyol pulled down the stallion's head.
Danuel could not pull the reins free from Nyol's iron grip, and Moon's Eye was having trouble dragging the load. When they emptied out into the street, the stallion took full advantage of the extra space. It turned quickly in the direction that Nyol was pulling, and he fell to the road, hanging on with just one hand. Then Moon's Eye bolted, and dragged him on the cobblestones until his fingers slid free, or he gave up, and he let go.
Taron nearly lost his head to Lieutenant Rohn Ferrel’s sword, and Dalt deflected a chest blow with his dagger, which shot blue sparks when it collided with Baril Bryer’s sword. When they ran out of the stable, they saw Danuel and Kaylel getting away on the prince’s white stallion. Quickly, they jumped onto the backs of two of the Lieutenants’ horses. They heeled the horse's’ flanks, and passed Nyol Jakard as he stood from the wet street.
He cursed under his breath as he watched them all disappear around the corner. His uniform soaked, scratched and dented.
Nearly a dozen people on the street, watched with surprised faces. There would be plenty of gossip spread that morning about that little scene. They quickly went about their business as before, but some were now walking noticeably faster than they had been before.
Nyol would now have the unpleasant obligation of telling Victor what had just happened.
It had seemed to go so well, until...those two boys, and that girl showed up.
He would find out who they were, soon enough.
His one good eye, had seen plenty.
Two light taps on the door to his bedchamber, removed Elssamon Drennidell's attention from his journal. He slipped his quill pen back in its holster next to the ink jar, and stood up from his kneeling position. For him, a chair was only for sitting in to dine, or to talk with friends. Or maybe to play the harp, but that chair was occupied by another.
The music of the harp was soft and slow, but changed often to different pieces with the same mood. The musician's robe, which the Elves called a sombay, was white, with green embroidery and belt. He often played in that room, as well as most rooms in the castle. He was the Grand Performer for the king.
"Continue please, Lonl." Elssamon heard the slightest hesitance in the bard's playing when
he stood. His own robe was solid dark blue, and hung down to the ankles of his bare feet. He walked to the door, and turned the silver handle to open it.
He expected to see a servant, but after discovering Elssamon had answered his own door, First-Commander Hann Aljesson snapped his heels together and bowed before the King.
"Your Greatness." Hann greeted. He wore his uniform, as usual, with his helmet under one arm. Shining chainmail over a gray, tight, long-sleeve shirt, and only slightly looser black trousers. He wore it with obvious pride. He was handsome, with long, blonde hair to his shoulders.
"Greetings, Hann." Answered the King, in the lowest of spirits. He did not see much of Hann, until something was wrong. "Is all going well with the preparations?"
"Precisely what I came to tell you, my King." Hann, for once, had brought Elssamon some good news. "Our army is ready, and Windsinger is prepared for the arrival of the Lynnwood fOrces."
Elssamon could have been given this news later in the day, but these days, he would take even the most trivial of good news over the bad.
"Well done, First-Commander." Elssamon replied. "I, on the other hand, do not have good news to share."
In fact, he had just finished writing about it in his latest journal.
Hann did not like the look on the King's face.
"Bowenn was attacked by the Orcs."
Hann wanted to respond, but could not.
Elssamon filled the First-Commander in on what the eagles had shown him, as Hann listened in shock. He told him of the burning castle, and of the Orcs and Gnolls riding on the backs of Dragynn.
"Tell everyone in the city to keep an eye on the sky." He finished.
"Yes, my Lord." Hann bowed, and left to spread the warning.
Elssamon backed against the door after he closed it, and looked up at the ceiling. It was painted entirely as one whole picture. Ayarlyn, as it looked several thousand years before. The castle had been made of mostly wood, instead of the present polished masonry, and built on a bridge over the Asmynd river, instead of as a dam directly in the water.
He often tried to think of what his forefathers would have done in certain situations. He closed his eyes, and sighed. Listening to the beautiful music of the harp was calming, and he could lose himself in the story of each song.
