Aethir

by DeWayne Kunkel

  “It is yours now Gaelan,” King Wolhan said. “And all that goes with it.”

  “It seems heavier now since I last held it.” Gaelan commented.

  “As it should, it is a burden being a King.” Wolhan said. “There will come times when you wish this day had never come.” The King of Kesh smiled. “There have been days when I wanted to cast my own crown from the highest tower of the Spire.”

  “What stopped you?” Gaelan asked, somewhat surprised by his uncles openness.

  “Duty,” Wolhan answered. “I care for my people and lands above all else. It is my duty to protect them; I cannot turn my back on all that I hold dear. My honor will not permit me to do otherwise.

  “There in lies the secret Gaelan. A good King thinks not of himself, a tyrant on the other hand thinks of no one else.” Wolhan took the crown and placed it on Gaelan’s brow.

  “Be a good King Gaelan,” He advised. “Care for the weakest of your subjects and Trondhiem will prosper.”

  Gaelan felt the weight on his brow grow with King Wolhan’s words. He felt no elation only a deep sense of dread. He removed it and handed the crown and sword to Otess.

  Otess took them with a confused look on his face, at a loss for words.

  “Since I was a small child you have always been at my fathers side. Both friend and trusted advisor, he knew your worth, and I know it as well.” Gaelan said. “There is a war growing in the west and I must go to Timosh to defend our lands. I want you to remain here as regent, see to the needs of our people, rebuild and cleanse our home of any lingering Morne.”

  Otess shook his head. “I failed your father,” he stammered. “Do not put me in the position to fail you as well.”

  Gaelan smiled. “By safeguarding these priceless symbols of our homeland you have proven yourself. I can think of no one better suited to accomplish the task I set before you.”

  “Surely one of the Lord’s?” Otess continued to protest.

  “I cannot trust them,” Gaelan answered. “They stood silent while good men died. It must be you, they all know and respect your judgment and will follow your commands.”

  Otess lowered his head. “I will serve to the best of my ability.”

  “Good,” Gaelan clasped his shoulder. “Keep the crown and sword safe until I return.”

  Otess turned to leave when Gaelan stopped him. “I will take the traitors with me, but do not hesitate to throw anyone in the cells below if the need should arise.”

  Otess bowed and left the room, heading for his old chambers and a much needed bath. He was both terrified and exhilarated by the responsibilities cast upon him. He was so preoccupied he did not notice the two guards following, assigned by the new King to protect him.

  Gaelan watched the old statesman leave the chamber. He looked to King Wolhan. “Do you approve?”

  “It is not my place to approve or disapprove of your decisions.” Wolhan said with a smile. “But I will say this, you have made a good choice. Your father often talked about Otess, he trusted him completely. With his wisdom and knowledge you will find your burden lessoned.”

  Gaelan had the Lords assembled in the hall, he told them of his decision. The men were weary from the burial duty and none dared protest. Otess’s place was secure, and they would obey him as they would their King.

  With his duties completed Gaelan left the hall and spent a cold night at his father’s graveside. There were many new mounds in the downs, a sad testimony to the cost his people had paid for Vernal’s treachery.

  A light snow fell that night mantling the land, erasing the stains of Goliad’s corruption from the keep.

  Chapter Eleven

  Casius stepped out into the snow-covered courtyard. The newly risen sun had not driven back the unseasonably cold weather. With the heavy clouds blowing in from the northwest it looked as if this day would see more snow.

  Marcos stood near the curtain wall with Suni at his side. King Wolhan and Connell were checking over their mounts while D’Yana saddled her steed.

  Blowing into his hands for warmth he approached Marcos. “Winter must hit hard in these lands.” He commented in greeting.

  Marcos shrugged unaffected by the cold. “There is a taint on this wind Casius.” He said sniffing the air. “Sur’kar bends nature to his will and the coming storm is his first strike in retaliation for the death of his servant. Crops will fail, and many will starve. He seeks to weaken these brave people.” Marcos took the reins of his horse from Suni. “An early winter will only exasperate the hardships faced by an army on the march. Even during the war of the breaking he never wielded such might. If this is a portent, then he has grown mighty indeed.”

  “Will not such an act hamper his forces as well?”

  “He cares not for their safety or comfort.” Marcos replied. “They are nothing more than tools to him. He does not concern himself over how many may die, only his quest for absolute power matters in his dark heart.”

  Casius patted the horse’s neck and went to find his own mount. Beyond the curtain wall waited Gaelan’s men and the Keshian warriors. Swinging into his saddle he watched as Gaelan bid farewell to his regent.

  The new king took his place alongside King Wolhan and rode out of the keep, the host of warriors following. Women, children and men too old to take up arms cheered them in their passage. Gaelan was moved by the show of support and waved to them in response.

  Down the long sloping road the host moved, in their midst marched the traitors bound with chains. Some were despondent and others angry, the most vehement was Lord Vernal, a man who had fallen from great heights.

  The host entered the low lands of Cal’Arev and turned westward, heading for the distant line of hills that lay within the shadow of the Rahlcrag Mountains.

  For two days the host crossed the plain, the lowland rising gently, its dense grass giving way to small copses of trees. Their leaves tinged brown by the freezing nights.

  To the south the landscape changed dramatically, the wooded crowns of the Delin tor hills swept away eastward. The ragged stone of the plateau for which they were named stood visible against the overcast sky.

  The rugged mountains shone through the haze before them. Jagged behemoths of dark stone crowned with mantles of glacial ice and snow. Cold winds raced down from the imposing heights stirring up clouds of drifting snow.

  The army set camp along a hillside beneath the cover of a sparse grove of hickory and oak. As the sun set behind a thick veil of clouds snow began to fall. At first it was only a light flurry, but by midnight it was a heavy snowfall that threatened to extinguish the campfires.

  The men were cold, and their clothing damp. The snow made finding firewood difficult. Some of the men grew tired of searching out fallen limbs and took an axe to an old hoary oak.

  Marcos was furious and chastised the men severely. He spent the remainder of the night doing what he could for the deep cuts in the living wood.

  The men had witnessed Marcos’s power at the keep and they took great pains from then on only to burn fallen branches.

  For the next five days the men moved northward following a narrow track among the foothills. It snowed nearly every day now, deepening the drifts and slowing their progress.

  The horses at times were forcing their way through drifts that reached up to their broad chests. Gaelan rotated the horses at the front of the column allowing them to share the burden of forcing a path for the others to follow.

  The sun above them remained a hazy disk obscured by the dreary cloud cover. Its weakened light highlighting the deep score they left across the landscape.

  On the thirteenth day since leaving Rodderdam they came to a deep valley nestled between two high ridges of naked stone. The valley ran to the very base of the ragged peaks. It was a barren place; even the hardy pines could not grow within it.

  They turned and forced their way through the deep snow. At the far end, a black opening yawned in the stone. It was towards this cavern they rode.

&nb
sp; “I thought we were going over the mountains, not under them.” Casius said to Connell.

  “We are going through this passage,” Connell answered. “It is but two miles until we come to the deep of Timosh.”

  The valley narrowed until it was but seventy feet across. The nearly sheer walls were littered with deep cracks and dark shadowed recesses.

  “The eyes of many are upon us.” Suni stated, drawing his Kalmari.

  King Wolhan nodded and raised his hand bringing the column to a halt. “These are your subjects,” He said turning to Gaelan.

  Gaelan nodded and rode forward a few paces. “Do you know me?” He shouted removing his helmet and spinning his horse full circle.

  Only the wind answered his challenge. “I am Gaelan your King. Goliad is slain and Rodderdam has been liberated!”

  Slowly men began to make themselves known, a few at a time stepped out from their cover along the walls. Then more came forward bearing heavy crossbows. Within a minute at least two hundred men stood on either side of the column, from within the darkness of the cave opening another score of men emerged.

  One man approached Gaelan and fell to his knees before the new King. “I am Gumwalt, captain of Lord Hurin’s guard.”

  “Your ambush is well set,” Gaelan complimented him. “I bring the assembled men of Trondhiem and the blades of Kesh.” He motioned for the man to stand. “Will you grant us passage?”

  The man looked at the long line of warriors and smiled as if his few hundred could hold back a force numbering in the tens of thousands. “I live to serve my liege.” He said.

  Gaelan donned his helm. “Return to your post, and keep a good watch I don’t want the Morne to come upon us unawares.”

  Gumwalt saluted and stepped aside.

  Gaelan led them from the gloomy daylight into the abysmal darkness of the cavern. Gumwalt’s men lit torches of pitch, handing them to riders as they passed.

  Casius looked at Connell and pointed to Suni with his chin. “How did he know of the ambush?”

  “Damned if I know,” Connell answered. “A handy skill to have though.”

  The clopping of the horse’s hooves echoed loudly in the darkness. The rough stone of the tunnel was barely visible in the torchlight. The ceiling overhead was low and the sooty smoke of the brands left their mark among the countless other stains left by travelers who had passed this way before.

  An irregular patch of gray daylight ahead broke the darkness. They came to an Iron grate, old and rusty its bars sunk deep into the stone. Beyond the bars stood a watch of several men. They stood well out of reach, their weapons in hand.

  Gaelan stopped at the gate and once again revealed his identity. The men gladly unlocked the iron grate and swung it open, the freshly oiled hinges silent in the gloom.

  They rode through the opening and out of the tunnel and into shadowed daylight. The walls spread out beside them revealing a deep cut scooped into the side of the mountain. A great cavern once stood here, but long ago during the war of the breaking as the earth heaved and buckled. The western wall of the cavern collapsed leaving behind a barren comb in the rock face.

  Remembering the horrors from the west, the men of old built a great tower within the open cavern known as Kahlen Ahned. On either side of the tower a curved wall was laid, taller and thicker than any ever made by the hands of man before. Standing close to eighty feet in height and two hundred feet thick. The wall arched back too butt against the eastern face of the comb cutting off all access to the tunnel. Within the massive barrier they constructed halls and barracks, below them lay stables that could house many thousands of horses.

  Soaring over the wall stood the tower of Timosh, two hundred feet high. The merlons atop its ramparts a scarce fifty feet from the combs rocky over hang. Along the walls torches burned adding their flickering light to the gloom.

  A heavy iron gate stood at the base of the tower, guarding the only access to the lands of Moinar-Thur, where men fear to tread. It was here that the heroes of old sought to protect the eastern lands from the inhuman hordes of Morne. Timosh Kahlen Ahned it was named in the old tongue, the shield of the east.

  “Behold Timosh!” Gaelan proclaimed.

  “By the gods,” Casius stammered. “I never would have thought such a thing could be built by men. That gate is as large as a house! How can such a thing be opened?”

  “Four winches, moved by teams of mules from within the tower.” Gaelan answered. “It is by their strength alone that it can be done.”

  “Raise high the standards.” King Wolhan ordered the flag bearers. “Men of Kesh sound the horns of greeting.”

  The standard bearers rode forth their flags snapping loudly in the breeze. One hundred men placed bronze horns to their lips and sent three echoing notes into the air.

  Several heartbeats later a single note of immense power answered their call. Deep and melancholy the powerful blast echoed long in the mountains.

  “The horn of Orivie,” Gaelan shouted above the din. “Hurin is unsure of us and seeks to test our mettle.”

  “How large is the horn?” Casius asked Gaelan, amazed by its power.

  “Twenty feet of tooled brass and silver,” The King answered. “As tall as a man at one end. It was fashioned to summon the men of Trondhiem to war should danger threaten the keep.”

  “I’m sure they heard it all the way to Red Spire.” D’Yana said with a note of sarcasm, her ears yet ringing.

  The Cave mouth opened onto a narrow track that ran in a sweeping arc along the northern side of the comb. On one side was the looming wall of granite on the other a steep slope of broken stone.

  Gaelan and Wolhan led them down the path. The men were forced to make the short decent two abreast. At the bottom of the comb stood a clear pool of water fed from a small stream that flowed out from the mountains heart.

  They stopped beneath the high tower. High above them men with grim faces looked down, their hands nervously toying with their weapons.

  The great gate groaned and slowly swung outward. The beaten iron was as thick as a man’s arm and black with grease for protection against the elements.

  The chamber beyond was massive, lit by sputtering torches that left a haze of smoke roiling along the ceiling. The strong aroma of animals and their fodder wafted out of the opening. Several men stood just within the chambers entry. Their faces lean with sharp eyes that had seen much death, they bowed as Gaelan dismounted.

  Gaelan shook their hands in greeting. One of the men wore a blood caked bandage about his upper arm. The limb was splinted and held fast in a sling of clean Lenin.

  “How bad is the arm?” Gaelan asked concerned for Lord Hurin.

  “There are men here who carry worse wounds than I.” Lord Hurin replied with a shrug. “We failed to hold the north, Goliad’s army was too strong, but they paid a dear price for the ground they took.” Lord Hurin’s eyes widened as he took in the size of the force following Gaelan. The men were still flowing out of the tunnel’s mouth.

  Gaelan laughed at the man’s expression. “Word travels slow on the frontier.” He gestured to the mounted warriors behind him. “Behold the riders of Kesh and the freed men of Trondhiem. It was with their aid that we slew Goliad and cast the traitors out of Thorunder hall.”

  “Rodderdam has fallen?” Lord Hurin asked in disbelief.

  “Aye,” Gaelan answered. “Lord Vernal is now in chains.” He pointed to the group of prisoners standing amid the warriors.

  Lord Hurin smiled broadly. “It appears that the chains have humbled him.” He breathed in a deep breath of air. “Then its over and we can return home to rebuild what was lost.”

  Gaelan lowered his eyes. He had no choice, though he wish it were otherwise. He needed Hurin and his men at Timosh. “I need you now more than ever, Lord Hurin.”

  King Wolhan nodded in agreement. “The war has only just begun. It will be won or lost here, the whole of the east needs us now.”

  Lord Hurin looked skeptical.
“A few Morne do not pose that much of a threat.”

  “Something far older and darker is making itself known.” Gaelan said. “Sur’kar will strike, and under the cover of this false winter his forces will come.”

  Lord Hurin arched his eyebrows, “If you were not my king I would deem you mad.”

  King Wolhan liked the man’s honesty. “The madness is yet to come.” He said. “From what little I have seen and by the tales I’ve been told, we are all going to see things that even our worst nightmares grow pale beside.”

  “How many men have you?” Gaelan asked.

  “Perhaps three thousand battle hardened men, with at least another five hundred who have come from farms and villages all across Trondhiem. We have been drilling them in the basics of combat.” Hurin reported with a chuckle. “Although at least half of them could instruct us on the use of a bow.”

  “Hunger is often a good teacher.” King Wolhan said quoting an old teacher he once knew in his youth.

  “If Sur’kar moves against Trondhiem he will find Timosh well defended indeed.” Gaelan said. “Thirty seven thousand men will present a formidable bulwark for his army to come against.”

  “If is not the question,” Marcos interjected. “It is a matter of when we should be considering.”

  Gaelan nodded, he had grown to trust Marcos’s judgment.

  “I will have my men guide yours to the stables and quarters above. It will be growing dark soon and the comb is not a safe place to wander about after sunset.” Lord Hurin offered.

  “What of Moinar-Thur?” Connell asked Lord Hurin. “Have you any news?”

  Hurin waved the column of men to begin entering the keep. “The watch towers are manned.” He answered. “It has been quiet, no Morne has been seen in a score of days. Those that we did see were riding west, away from Timosh.”

  Casius dismounted and joined his friends. He handed the reins of his horse to one of the guards as the man rode past. He stood on the fringe of the group listening to Lord Hurin, feeling somewhat overwhelmed by all that he was seeing.