Falconfar 02-Arch Wizard
Page 12
"This, too, we have heard and understood," the warcaptain said sternly. "Lord Archwizard, be still.'"
The old knight chuckled. "Heh. You gave him the powder."
"Thalden," Syregorn snarled out of the side of his mouth, eyes still boring into Rod's, "be still."
The old knight nodded, smiled, and fell silent.
"I—just a scrap of parchment as big as both my hands, or vellum, and a quill that—"
"I promise you, Lord Archwizard," the warcaptain said firmly, "that we shall seize any such things we find in Lyraunt Castle, and procure them for you. If we find nothing, and win our ways back to Hammerhold, the Lord Leaf shall provide. Or else."
"I—yes, I—that's wonderf—"
"Lord Archwizard, you have my promise. Now by the Forestmother, be still about ink and quills and writing!"
"I—ah, uh... yes," Rod managed, sitting back down on the rocks as Syregorn rose and shoved, forcing him down. "Now about Ironthorn—why is Hammerhold grieving? What—"
The warcaptain spat out a string of oaths so swift and harsh that Rod couldn't make out the words. There was open laughter around the hollow.
"Syre," one of the younger knights said, through it, "we can't take him skulking up to Lyraunt Castle like this. If he's going to hurl out questions like a youngling until it... wears off, we may as well answer him—or he'll just go and get answers from Lyrose folk, in the castle, and they'll fill his head with all their lies. I'd say the Forestmother—or some great calamity—has made a simpleton of this wizard, and he'll be as dangerous a pranksome lad until he knows what is what under the sun and moon. So..."
"Perthus," Syregorn replied, still holding Rod firmly down, "you see things swift and clear. Not that I like the truths you're telling me overmuch."
He let go of Rod, sat back, sighed, and said, "Lord Archwizard, all Hammerhand grieves the loss of Lord Burrim's only son and heir, Dravvan Hammerhand. He was slain in a fray in the forest. I was there. He was struck down with the aid of fell Lyrose magic—doubtless from the Doom Malraun, who backs House Lyrose, and uses them as his witless tools."
"Only son? So if Lord Hammerhand falls, who—?"
"His daughter, Amteira. Who swings a sword and rides into battle as well as any of us. Lyrose lost heirs in that bloodshed, too: Eldred and Horondeir. Only the youngest brother, Pelmard, survived—by fleeing like a weeping child. So I suppose those of Lyrose are grieving, too. If any of them know how. There have been days when Ironthorn has been stronger."
"Assuredly," Rod agreed hurriedly. "Please believe me when I say I have not come here to rule, nor to force my will upon any Ironthar! I don't want to work any magic or tell anyone what to do! I only want to—"
"Yes, yes, yes." Syregorn's snarl was louder than any of Rod's babbling had been. "Archwizard, we know this."
"—Taeauna—"
"Yes." The snarl became a roar.
"Yet Ironthorn," Rod babbled, "tell me of Ironthorn. Why should wider Falconfar turn its eyes to Ironthorn? What does Malraun want here?"
"Huh." The warcaptain let out his breath in a dismissive snort. "As to that, Lord Archwizard, you'll have to ask him yourself. I'm a mere swordswinger, who serves a foe at that; he doesn't talk to me."
He shrugged. "Myself, I think those of Lyrose are toys to him, idle amusements. The rest of us Ironthar are but ants for House Lyrose to grind underfoot—good for us that they're such arrogant fools as to be bad grinders—and he watches, when he bothers, just to see us die."
BUT IRONTHORN MUST have interested Malraun for some reason in the first place!"
The urge to talk, the restlessness that made him want to get up and move was still strong, but Rod found that he could govern his tongue now. Not that he saw any need to make that obvious, if the warcaptain still felt like talking. "Is it your farms, in the midst of all this forest?"
Syregorn snorted. "Hardly. There are farms beyond counting across Falconfar. It's the gemadars."
Rod didn't quite dare to seem ignorant of what gemadars were, but the warcaptain was already doggedly embarking on educating this simpleton of a Lord Archwizard. Doing a terse but accurate job of it, too.
Gemadars were busy Ironthar smiths, the sons and prentices of those who'd first learned how to bond sharpened gemstones to the edges of swords to make them astonishingly sharp and strong. The sort of swords that had recently become the rage among the wealthy of the Stormar, the black-bearded, dusky-skinned folk who dwelt in their hot, crowded cities along the coasts of the Sea of Storms.
Syregorn seemed personally insulted by this interest taken in his home hold by outlanders from afar. Rod decided to try to steer him back to Ironthorn itself.
"I—I confess I know not enough of how things stand in Ironthorn just now," he interrupted, waving his hand in a way that had the more spell-fearing knights rising to hurl their daggers. Thankfully, in the suddenly tense silence, none of them did.
Into it, Rod spoke earnestly, playing the innocent dolt for all he was worth, rueful that the act wasn't much of a stretch. "Lord Burrim I had heard of, and liked what I heard. Yet tell me of his rivals; who are these Lyroses, really? There are others, too; I can hardly aid you if I know not who I'm fighting."
"That's true," Syregorn admitted, as knights started to relax and sit down again. "I..." he sighed, obviously at a loss over where to begin.
"Syre," Thalden spoke up gently, "let me."
The warcaptain gave the older knight a hard stare for a few moments, then nodded.
Thalden turned his head to meet Rod's eyes directly. "Lord Archwizard, as we sit here Ironthorn is ruled uneasily by three rival lords. We serve the best of them, Lord Burrim Hammerhand. His badge is the iron gauntlet, on a field of battle-blood. Of living kin, he has only Amteira left, now; his wife, the Lady Venyarla, was raped and butchered years ago by Melvarl Lyrose—"
There were growls and the hisses of indrawn breath from all around Rod, as knightly faces went hard and cold.
"—father of the current Lord Magrandar Lyrose. Lord Hammerhand avenged her, slaying Melvarl blade to blade."
More growls, of grim satisfaction this time.
"From Hammerhold, our lord rules most of Ironthorn: its northernmost three valleys, with all their farms, and Irontarl, the vale's market town and ford over the Thorn River. Lord Hammerhand is and has long been the foremost lord of Ironthorn—because of us, his loyal warriors. Yet he dislikes and shuns magic, and so has suffered in recent seasons as his rivals Lyrose and Tesmer have used magic against him; wherefore his recent embrace of the faith of the Forestmother."
There were some muted mutterings; these knights were not overjoyed by the Lord Leaf, it seemed.
Thalden's voice rose a trifle. "It is needful," he said firmly, "that you know why House Hammerhand are the rightful rulers of Ironthorn, and other claims are empty."
He leaned forward, staring hard into Rod's eyes to make sure the Lord Archwizard was listening. "Long ago the wizard Orthaunt, who then ruled Ironthorn by cruel force of magic, proclaimed the Hammerhands rulers in his stead when he went off to war against another wizard. That other was Lorontar, who mockingly sent the talking skull of Orthaunt back to Ironthorn to tell of Lorontar's victory and Orthaunt's doom. The skull was, in time, stolen. So of course the Lyroses and Tesmers now say it was but a hoax, enacted by some hidden wizard hired by the Hammerhands to advance their claim to rule."
"Lorontar," Rod could not help but whispering, a moment of chill rising inside him amidst all the warmth. The first Lord Archwizard—the real Lord Archwizard—had been a busy man, to be sure.
"Across the Thorn River," Thalden went on, "is our most bitter foe, whom we go up against this night. Lord Magrandar Lyrose sneers at us from Lyraunt Castle, that stands just south of the Thorn River. His badge is the Three Thorns—a pinwheel of three steel-gray thorns, joined at their bases, on a yellow field. Looks like a caltrop. His wife, Maerelle, still lives, but he has now—thanks to our blades, Syregorn's here among them—"
"—but one son, Pelmard the dashing coward. A daughter, too, Mrythra by name, who is as cold a schemer as any wizard I've ever met. Uh, begging your indulgence, Lord Archwizard."
Rod nodded and managed a weak smile. These knights might call him "wizard," but he was hardly striking fear—or respect, for that matter—into any of them.
"Real daggers 'neath her garters, that one," Thalden growled, shaking his head in disgust. "Not that her mother's far behind her. So these Lyrose serpents reign over southwestern Ironthorn. Which is three vales that flank monster-roamed Harstorm Ridge, where none but Lyrose's bravest foresters dare go. And none of them set boot near haunted Stormcrag Castle, atop Harstorm."
"Tell me," Rod said quietly, as the old knight sat back to reach down a cupped hand to the spring by his feet, and drink. "The Lyrose sons who were slain; what did you do with their bodies?"
"Burned, and the ashes scattered," Syregorn snapped. "No wizard or priest will be bringing them back."
"And that's the real power behind Lyrose," Thalden said urgently, swallowing hastily so as to lean forward again, to be sure Rod heeded him. "The Doom Malraun is Lord Lyrose's spine and fire. When our lord slew Melvarl Lyrose and came after Magrandar, seeking to slaughter the whole family and take Lyraunt Castle, the wizard offered Lyrose his aid. Now, Magrandar is a snake and a wallower in cruel pleasures, but he is not a fool. He accepted. It made him a slave to come, aye, but kept him alive then. The wizard's spells hurled back our lord's forces, felling many brave knights. Yet, mark you, Malraun did not hound us, or seek to scour out Hammerhold; he is no great friend of House Lyrose or their aims. He gave them magic, though, to keep them alive. Little things, shields that heal and banish poison and the like. Then he vanished again, and has seldom been seen in Ironthorn since."
The old knight drank again, cleared his throat, and added, "Yet Ironthorn has a third lord. Lord Irrance Tesmer, who dwells in his castle of Imtowers, holding sway over the valley of Imrush. The largest, most lush farms in Ironthorn; the River Imrush winds through them, down to join the Thorn at Irontarl."
"Uh, ah, does he matter?" Rod asked, more to try to make Syregorn think he was still babbling helplessly than to goad Thalden into telling all.
"He is the reason Hammerhand and Lyrose didn't hurl themselves at each other and into death long ago. The reason we skirmish and glare instead, and Ironthorn staggers along wealthy and crowded, with three lords, rather than being a graveyard ruled by one."
Well, that was emphatic enough.
Thalden wasn't done, though.
"Tesmer's arms are a purple diamond on a light gray field. That diamond shape represents gems, for every rock crevice in the Imrush was once full of gems, and they are still to be had to this day, albeit scarcer, and only in deep crawl-mines."
Rod frowned. "So why isn't Tesmer the strongest Ironthar lord? Why didn't Malraun aid him?"
"Well," the old knight said slowly, "there you have hit on a mystery. There's some as say another Doom was lurking in the minds of the Tesmers already—a trap for Malraun, belike—and others hold that Tesmer's wife Telclara—who rules him as harshly as he lords it over the Imrush farmers—is set against Malraun, and has some power or thing of magic he fears, to keep him at bay. I know not, and I doubt any jack or knight of Ironthorn does, whatever truths they may claim to know."
"And Tesmer's heirs? How well does she rule them?"
"Well, now," the old knight growled. "That's the part that's worth listening to me ramble, to hear. Lady Telclara, they say, no longer admits Tesmer to her bed, but herself selects bedmates for him from beautiful slave-girls she buys off traders who come in a steady stream to Imrush-vale from the cities of the Sea of Storms. They get them in raids from more southerly cities across that sea."
He took another drink, shook his head at what he was about to say, and added, "And after they bear him a child, she slaughters them. The sickly or defiant babes she kills, too. Those she deems acceptable are named heirs of the blood Tesmer, and trained to war. Wherefore there are now three Tesmer daughters, followed by six sons, all gained by this means. From eldest to youngest, they are—"
He counted them off on his fingers as he listed them, to be sure of missing none.
"Maera, a cold and haughty one who never lets anyone forget she's foremost; Nareyera, a scheming beauty whose eyes actually flash when she's raging; the tall, quiet one, Talyss, and then the sons.
Thalden cleared his throat again, and went on. "Belard, the handsome master swordsman; Ghorsyn, who's big and loud and a bully, so of course witless lasses love him; Kalathgar, who just might be the smartest of them all, and doesn't think much of his kin; and Delmark, a lazy cheat and spy who'd slit your throat for an idle instant's amusement."
He shook his head, waggled the two fingers still upthrust, and added, "Two more. Ellark, who's ugly and clumsy. His brothers sneer at him, but he's strong as an ox and perhaps the only Tesmer who knows how to be kind. Last and youngest: Feldrar, another coward, liar, and prankster like Delmark, but busies himself being the dashing swindler instead of lie-a-bed lazy. Quite a House, hey?"
"By the Falcon, I don't want to rule Ironthorn!" Rod said feelingly, by way of reply. "I take it House Tesmer has few knights?"
"Aye, and we take care to keep it that way. Poisoned arrows from the trees, if need be. Not that we often see the need; Lyrose usually has his archers in there slaying, first."
"I cannot help but see," Syregorn said firmly then, "that your fit of talking has passed, Lord Archwizard. Sunset is not all that far off, now, and it will take us much of what's left of the day to work our way around and into the Lyrose lands unseen. They are not unguarded."
"Patrols like swarming flies," one of the knights commented, earning himself a sharp look from the warcaptain.
Ah, yes, Rod thought. This was supposed to be when the Lord Leaf's little powder made me yield up answer after answer to you. Not a time for me to ask and ask, and so hear all that befalls in Ironthorn.
The hard, steady stare Syregorn gave Rod then made the Lord Archwizard of all Falconfar wonder if the warcaptain could hear his thoughts.
Perhaps magic was among the secrets the Hammerhands were still guarding.
After all, it wasn't as if he was wizard enough to find out.
"THERE GOES THE sun," Garfist grunted. He turned away from the castle window like a restlessly prowling bear. "Can't help but feel this's not going to be a restful night."
Iskarra nodded. "So my bones tell me, too." She made a face. "I am beginning to hate one thing most of all."
"That is?" Gar rumbled, flexing his fingers as if a handy throat was waiting for them.
"There's not a glorking thing we can do but sit and wait," his lady said bitterly. "'Tis like being a sworn soldier again."
"Ye were a sworn soldier?"
Even after all these years, Garfist was used to Iskarra being able to surprise him.
"No, but after you've killed one for his cloak and armor and put them on, one idiot who can march, dig shit pits, swing a sword, and die is enough like another for a warcaptain not to care. Especially when he can thrust his little warrior into you whenever he pleases, under threat of revealing what you've done and having you put to death slowly and painfully. With all your fellow soldiers helping."
Garfist grew a slow grin. "What'd ye do to him, in the end?"
"The short tale? Put him to death slowly and painfully. With all the other soldiers helping."
Garfist waved one large and hairy hand. "Tell me the longer tale. 'Tis better than just waiting."
Isk gave him one of her more twisted smiles. "Well, farther away and longer ago than I care to remember, I was born in a muddy field during a lightning storm..."
"No TALKING, NOW," Syregorn murmured into Rod Everlar's ear. "We are well inside the Lyrose patrols. No noise, whatever befalls."
Like a ghost in the darkness—it had grown da
rk amid the trees with frightening suddenness—the warcaptain rose and moved along the line of Hammerhand knights. Rod could barely see the nearest of them, ahead and behind, even though he knew exactly where to look.
The forest was still thick, and alive with small rustlings. None of them made by Syregorn or his men, so far as Rod could tell.
Scarcely daring to breathe, he froze only for a moment when a hand patted his arm. It was the third time he'd felt that signal, and knew what to do: rise from the tree he was crouching against, and move on along the trail without making a sound.
He did that, and so did the Hammerhand knights behind him.
The last of them had been gone for the time it took the Lord Archwizard to draw in three of his new, careful, oh-so-quiet breaths before something rose silently up the other side of the stout old tree Rod Everlar had been crouching against, and started to skulk after them.
GAR AND ISK stiffened when someone stepped into the room, but it was only the Aumrarr, and she gave them a smile, not a brandished blade.
She'd gone off to walk about Stormcrag Castle some time ago, telling them firmly she did not want them along, for their own safety.
"Lurking beasts? Traps?" Garfist had growled at her challengingly, whereupon she had nodded and replied simply, "Yes."
A look from Isk had quelled whatever defiance Gar might have offered next, and Dyune of the Aumrarr had walked off alone.
Now she was back, her hands empty. There were cobwebs in her hair, and smudges and smears of dust all over her. "Find whatever it was ye were looking for?" Gar rumbled, raising one bushy eyebrow.
"No," she replied, and went to sit beside Iskarra, where they could both look out the window into the night.
Silence fell. Garfist lurched a few steps, threw up his arms in exaggerated exasperation, spun around, and returned to where he had been sitting, facing Iskarra. He stared, however, at the Aumrarr.
She gave him a nod and went back to staring out at the night.