by Lela Markham
Deryk watched as the others slowly filed out, talking among themselves. A serving man began to clear the room of the various goblets and tankards. He glanced at Deryk’s goblet and then at the young lord’s face.
“I require a moment,” Deryk explained.
“Of course, my lord. Do you want a fresh drink?”
“Nay, thank you, uh … I do not know your name.”
“Talidd, sir.”
“Thank you for your concern. I just need a moment’s peace.”
Talidd nodded, though his dark eyes still held concern. A good servant, he returned to tidying the rest of the council chamber. Deryk reached for his goblet of mead, distracted by his dark thoughts. As it neared his lips, however, he smelled somewhat to give him pause. Vanyn’s goblet had been beside his and he’d picked up Vanyn’s goblet by mistake. Like all younger brothers, he’d been trained to detect poisons lest he be required to act as taster to the heir. The pungent aroma of wolfsbane caused him to pull the goblet back before it touched his lips.
Gods, no!
“Poison!” he called, croaking, causing the serving man to pause in his duties and stare at him, throat muscles working. “Poison!” Deryk yelled again, louder this time, running from the room with the goblet in his hand to show the chirgeon. “The King has been poisoned!”
Founding Year 1023
Viking Date 741 / Kindred Cycle 24573/–
Hansorfjord, Northern Sea – (Five Years Past)
Hansorfjord celebrated the majority of their future kong by examining him for his physical and mental fitness.
His testing near-complete Erik Magnuson stood upon the testing ground, stripped to the waist in the summer sun, weighing his options. Hovdinkong Magnus Hansorsson watched from the reviewing stand, willing himself not to be anxious. The heavier spear would fly farther, but less accurately. Erik might only wound his prey, which would call his future rule into question.
Magnus watched the boy choose the lighter spear and tried not to be anxious. The spear might fall short of the prey and that would also call his future rule into question. The boy had had a near-perfect score so far over the last two days. He’d run a league in armor the first day and been only a quarter sector off Magnus’ own time. Yestermorrow, he’d rigged a boat for sailing in record time. Hunting should have been the least of trials, but Magnus knew that there were those watching who would make much of the least.
No sooner had the boy made his selection than a flash of movement downfield drew Magnus’ attention. The boy cocked back his arm and let fly. The spear flew straight and true and struck in the gorse-covered shield of a young warrior, who stood to salute the young heir-chief, tugging on the spear to show that the steel had stuck in the wood. Erik saluted him back with the spear he had just picked up and no sooner let the shaft fly, sensing movement just beyond the first warrior who dropped into the hiding brush to avoid being skewered. The heavier spear flew as true and actually toppled the warrior who wielded the shield it struck. The crowd laughed. The warrior stood slowly and saluted Erik in similar fashion, who saluted back empty-handed.
Magnus saw movement at the entry of the testing grounds and watched as a runner marked him and began a run round the pathway that marked the outer edge. The testing grounds occupied a narrow strip of valley with high rocky hills on either side and deep brush along the bottom. Magnus leaned over to consult with his hammer man, Jarl Barentson, who got up to relay the message to the guards.
Magnus had missed the third throw, but it seemed to have gone well for Erik. He knew he would miss others once the runner reached the reviewing stage.
Erik threw four more spears in the interim, all accurate and powerful. He was starting to sweat and where his skin was not permanently kissed by the sun, he was starting to redden. This too was part of the trials. Magnus remembered his own sunbite with grim fondness.
“Kong, a runner comes before you with a message from Hovda Orma,” Jarl announced.
“Bring him forward.”
The runner walked boldly to his chief, aware that messengers were very valuable. He struck his sweat-stained breast with his right clenched hand. Magnus was first among equals, not to be feared
“Kong Magnus, there comes a merchant of Orenthal, bearing fine gifts and the seal of their king.”
There were few things that would interrupt Magnus viewing his son, but the king of Orenthal or one of his envoys was among them. Magnus glanced at the sun. There were perhaps two more spears and then would come the field run, which could not be easily viewed at any rate.
“Return to Hovda Orma with this message. I will come within the half-sector. She is to provide the emissary with all comforts.”
“Yes, Kong Magnus.”
The runner turned crisply and began his run round the testing grounds to the exit and then to the five-mile track back to Magnus’ fortress at the top of the fjord. Jarl awaited his orders.
“I must attend to this. See that Erik knows I viewed all the spears and that I will return after the midday rest for our contest.”
“Of course, Kong Magnus.”
Magnus signaled two of the guards to walk with him and struck out for the small harbor where his canoe awaited him. As soon as they were free of the narrow valley of the testing ground, they jogged toward the sea.
Hansorfjord, straddling the top of the fjord, hemmed in by spruce forests and slate crags, was merely a quarter-sector’s hard paddle across the stunning blue water and Magnus lent his own considerable skill to the endeavor, so that they were soon upon the shingle below the fortress. There was a large Orenthal ship anchored a bit off the shingle here, the yellow-skinned sailors watching him coolly from the deck. Would you be so haughty in the presence of your employer, Magnus wondered. Are you not servants to him? Although in Svardin society, all men were free to come and go as they chose, Magnus understood that the servants of other rulers were not.
The ship impressed, dwarfing the fishing boats beached on the shingle.. The carved and painted masthead showed a beautiful woman of Orenthal features, her dark hair braided tight against her back. The Svardin had nothing like it. The death ferries were carved similarly, but no boat in all of Svardin was so large. Truth-be-told, they didn’t need to be. The long boats were fast and cunning and, if many of them were amassed, carried more than enough men to overwhelm any community of land-lockers.
Magnus climbed the long switchback of steps hewn into the rock that brought him up to the fortress. Death awaited those who trod those steps unwarily, but the Hovingkong had no fear. He greeted each viking by name as he passed through their ranks in the guard house at the top of the stairs, then he crossed the courtyard where some husbandmen were shearing sheep and entered the great hall.
On this fine day, the window shutters stood open to allow air and light into the heavy-timbered room. His wife Orma, nearly as tall as he and with the dark hair common to her island, strode up to him.
“He’s relaxing in the gardens,” she announced, offering him the cloak of state. “Gilyn is his name.”
“That’s not a Orenthal name,” Magnus noted, frowning, settling the sealskin cloak on his shoulders. It was too hot for such on this day, but appearances mattered to the outfolk.
“Nah. His hair is light, his features not slanted. But he bears the seal-mark of the Orenthal king and letters patent.”
Magnus fingered the torc of braided gold round his neck, considering.
“Has he supped?”
“He accepted water only.”
Magnus frowned at her. Tall, with a windburn face and sun-bleached blond hair, he was a man of action. Some supposed he was not given to deep thought. Their assumptions were occasionally their death. Therefore, he eschewed assumptions himself. He did not know what to make of this emissary. He checked the knife at his waist and signaled the guards to follow him.
The Orenthal emissary stood in the garden, at the wall overlooking the plunging river. His hands rested upon the ledge. Magnus did not try for stealth
as he approached; still he was surprised when the emissary turned well before he’d traveled halfway to him.
“Hovdin Magnus,” Gilyn said. Unlike Orenthal emissaries, this one was as tall as Magnus, though slender, with long arms and a thin face. His hair was light brown, his eyes an impossibly light grey shot with vines of ice-blue. Hovdin was a Svardin term for clan leader. The Orenthal did not recognize him as chief-king. For now, Magnus could not argue. Someday, he would crush them - or Erik would.
“Emissary Gilyn,” Magnus replied. Orma had glided up beside him. Although her Orenthal was only passing, it far exceeded his. “Hovda Orma will interpret for us” just about exhausted his Orenthal.
“That will not be necessary,” Gilyn said in slightly accented Svard. “I am conversant in your language.”
Orma and Magnus exchanged looks, hers saying she had been unaware of this, and then she withdrew. By design, she would lie in the board and have a servant bring out a platter in the garden.
“Shall we sit then?” Magnus asked, indicting the table and benches that stood nearby.
“Of course.” They took their seats. Gilyn wore black Orenthal silks, the lower garment cut in trews. His cloak, draped over the bench, was a fascinating grey that seemed to shift with the light. “You are no doubt confused, as I am not what you expected.”
“You are not as the other emissaries, nah.”
“I am in the employ of the Orenthal emperor, but I am Celdryan and Kin by descent.”
Magnus knew of the Celdryans who occupied the mainland to the south. He’d heard of the Kin who lived in the mountain fastnesses. Gilyn’s appearance suggested the tales Magnus had heard were fantasy … the Kin were men like any other.
“And you have come to Hansorfjord for some business or to deliver a message?”
“For business. I understand your heir has reached his majority.”
“Yah.”
“He must undertake a great task to prove his worthiness to rule, yah?”
“He must.”
“Has he selected it yet?”
“Not as yet.” Truth-told, Erik had been fleeced of a great accomplishment by his own father, who had been all too successful in uniting the Northern Isles.
“Ah, good waters then.” Magnus refused to show it, but he was impressed with Gilyn’s command of the language. Usually idioms troubled speakers who were not Svardin. “I believe the continent to the south is ripe for the taking with a well-organized invasion. If your son is willing to attend an inspection with me, I believe he will come away with the same impression.”
Magnus was familiar with the lands to the south. Now desert, there were signs of a great past civilization. A few vikings had followed a river up into the mountains, but the formidable barrier had not been surmounted by Svards to his knowledge. Then there was the matter of Gilyn’s employers.
“And, what is in this for the Orenthal?”
Magnus knew well the Orenthal would always claim the greatest portion of the spoils. A devious and rapacious race. The human face of his guest notwithstanding, Magnus trusted the Orenthal not at all.
“Of course, the spoils can be divided according to contribution,” Gilyn said. “The Orenthal desire a partnership with the Viking.”
“Hmm. The last emissary suggested subjugation might be in order.”
“The last emissary had limited vision.”
Magnus considered the offer.
“Erik’s testing is not yet complete. Should he pass it, you may discuss the future with him. Is that acceptable to you?”
“It is.” Gilyn held out a slender, but muscular hand to clasp Magnus’. Magnus held him firm.
“Just remember, Emissary. What a vikrus can count and carry is his by right and we’ll not be playing any games of who owns what when the day is done. Yah?”
“Yah,” Gilyn assured him. He laughed, a bit daft sounding. “You have my word as a Celdrya and a Kin that this will be above-board and honest.”
“Against your own people?”
“My peoples turned their backs on me many cycles ago. I hold no affection for either of them. You’ll learn to trust me on that.”
“We’ll see,” Magnus replied. Magnus trusted few men, which was how he had become kong, but he knew an opportunity when one presented itself. Would Erik be so wise? It was time to find out.
Founding Year (FY) 1028
East Faren, County Dublyn - Spring
Not to be too melodramatic, Lord, but did the ancient Believers feel this way as they were forced to leave home to do Your work?
Along a lonely mountain trail, a sorrel mare bore an elven-dressed human, his hair plaited with beads in Kindred fashion that identified his heritage to those who knew the meaning. Tall and slender with long fingers and strongly blue eyes that subtly hinted at elvishness, the man bore regular features and dark brown hair that showed rich in the sun; in most of the kingdom he would have been thought handsome and naught more.
Padraig ap Chenyn of Cenconyn traveled home, but he felt very much as though he departed his true home, for he left people he truly loved who would mourn his absence, to whom he hoped fervently one day to return.
He reined his horse to a stop at the top of a rise and caught his first glimpse of the Basketlands, to use its proper Kindred name Since leaving the camp at the end of the highway, he’d encountered some difficult trail, with washaway and downed trees, evidence of scant use in recent years. What he saw ahead looked more pleasant for horses’ legs. This part of Dublyn was rolling hills of grassland broken by occasional copses of trees. Far to the north where the mountains began to rise round Cenconyn way lay a stretch of old forest between him and the dun he’d been raised in. He didn’t think he’d be going there just yet.
In the broad valley below, Padraig could make out the road and a faint trail of smoke rising a half day gone. Being past midday, he faced a choice. Uncomfortable with camping in the open grasslands until he knew exactly where he was, yet recognizing he could not reach the first settlement that day, he decided to bide time and camp in a copse of trees within an easy ride of the mountains. He couldn’t just ride there without preparation.
Padraig dismounted to begin stripping off his clothes. Good quality elven clothes consisted of a pair of leather trews and a coton tunic embroidered with flowers and vines. He folded these up and stowed them in the bottom of a pannier on the back of the dapple-grey pony he led behind the horse, replacing them with the traditional Celdryan clothing of loose woolen breecs and a shapeless linen siarc. He tightened the breecs with a draw cord and drew in the siarc with a wide leather belt. He’d have to wear his elven boots since he didn’t have a Celdryan pair, but he supposed it wouldn’t matter. Many a Denygal wore them and he planned to travel as a Denygalman. After four years of wearing the practical elven dress, Padraig felt near-to naked in the loose-fitting Celdryan garb.
Get used to it, man! he chided himself. There’s naught for it!
As a final act, he removed the beaded braid from his hair with the edge of his dagger. That saddened him. Given different timing, he’d have given the braid to Ryanna against promise of his return. Sighing, he stowed the beads with his elven clothes, repacked the herbs on top and faced the kingdom.
As he mounted, he felt a tug on his mind. Thinking it one of his elven friends, he responded, then sensed the mind that touched his and recoiled at the filth encountered. With a sharp mental parry, he closed his mind and set seals against any unknown entrance.
“I suppose it might have been a dark one,” Padraig said aloud, a bit breathless. “They are known to scry for those sensitive.” Padraig laughed nervously then, and patted the mare’s golden neck with an affectionate hand. “Listen to me,” he scoffed, “spouting forth like I actually know somewhat about dark ones. I suppose I’ll likely learn, don’t you think, Joy?”
The horse’s mind touched his, just the beginnings of communication, a sense that she understood what he was saying, or at least understood his tone and agreed wit
h it.
“Well, I suppose you know more about dark ones than I do. They say animals are naturally attuned to what men ignore. I hope that’s true, because one of us should know somewhat about things.”
The horse, Joy, snorted, perhaps because a fly bothered her or, more like she found him ridiculous. He supposed that they were the same maturity level within their species and like any headstrong young lass, she found the folly of lads dreaming of adventure humorous. The Companion link allowed her to understand his species in a way horses usually did not.
Padraig reined to a halt at the bottom of the slope where a marker stone announced the border. The leaping hart on the kingdom side announced the vyngetrix of Dublyn. On the mountain side the marker stone sported a hideously demonic face with peaked ears and evil eyes. He chuckled at the folly of man’s mind that he would believe such nonsense. Still shaking his head, he clucked to Joy, continuing into the kingdom.
On the morrow, he awoke early to ride toward the chimney smoke he’d spotted on the horizon. He had dreaded the kingdom while in the mountains, remembering it more for crowded towns and bustling cities, yet as he rode along the barely discernable dirt track that passed for a road, the experience grew enjoyable. A faintly unreal color of gold covered the rolling hills, signaling they were about to burst into green. Leafless shrubs and occasional trees he rode past hovered on the edge of bursting into verdant life. Birds flitted from branch to branch and tree to tree in a riot of mating, their song filling the air.
The hard blue sky promised warmth, yet couldn’t really produce it. He wore his good warm cloak, throwing it back on his shoulders. As he rode he began calculating the date as he had quite lost track of the wheel of the year in Celdrya while in the mountains. The Kindred kept their own calendar; by their reckoning it was about the spring equinox -- halfway between Imbolc and Beltane. The green would brighten the hills quite soon; already the grassland lay wet with run-off streams and many of the trees had water round their roots.
