by Jack Conner
The healer, a thin man with a short black beard and watery eyes, seized him before he could fall. “Don’t collapse,” the man said. Giorn recalled that his name was Sifram. “That wouldn’t do. And what are you doing up? I didn’t give you permission to be up. Now sit back, back. There you go. Sit, yes, you don’t have to lie down, but keep that leg up and immobile. There you go.”
Giorn reluctantly obeyed. “I smelled food.”
“Did you now? And you’re hungry? Well, that’s a very good sign.” He gestured to a woman standing in the doorway. She wore the green uniform of a nurse and carried a plate of food. “Fortunately, as it happens, that food is for you.”
The nurse placed the tray on Giorn’s lap. The eggs, sausage and toast, all unseasoned, nevertheless looked like the best meal he’d ever seen. Without being asked, he began to eat. He almost wept, it tasted so good.
“Where’s Dalic?” he asked around a fork-full of eggs.
“A few rooms down,” Sifram said. “Sleeping off a bit of drink, I’m afraid. He was quite worried about you, ever since your arrival two days ago, and yesterday your fever had you firmly in its grip. I’m afraid we all expected the worst. He took a bottle to his room and I haven’t seen him since. But when I checked up on you earlier, I noticed your fever had broken, and now here you are, hungry as I hoped you’d be. A bit hungrier, to tell you the truth.”
By the end of this speech, Giorn had finished his breakfast. His belly rumbled. “Can I have more?”
The healer smiled. “Yes, my baron. You certainly may.”
“What did you call me?”
“You are Lord Wesrain, are you not?”
Dalic should not have told, Giorn thought. We’re no longer what we were. We are outlaws, refugees. He would speak with Uncle Yfrin about it. If anyone they encountered should report back to Raugst, Giorn’s rebellion would die before it had a chance to begin.
“No,” he said. “That was my friend’s little jest. My name is Balad, as in Balad’s Folly.” That was appropriate. “Torent Balad.”
Giorn spent two more days there. Sifram’s draughts and healing salves helped greatly, and his leg was quickly healing, flesh knitting, bones setting. Even Vrulug’s scar seemed to hurt less. Sifram instructed him to remain abed for another few weeks.
Instead, Giorn departed that night. He knew he could not stay in one place, not while Raugst would be hunting for him, and especially not after Dalic had let their true identities slip. Not only that, but it was quite likely that Raugst had sent word out to the nearby villages to apprehend a man fitting Giorn’s description. Thus Giorn gathered Duke Yfrin, their new horses (which the duke had purchased while Giorn healed), left the gold he owed Sifram on his bed along with a note of thanks, and took his leave. The night was dark and cold, and the horses unsure of their footing, but Giorn kept them on the main road and they faired well enough. The road branched at last, going further north, or west, to the province of Wenris—Yfrin’s dukedom.
At the fall of evening the next day they entered the outskirts of Wenris, where they came upon a likely hamlet and took rooms for the night. Giorn had taken with him a compliment of salves and pills, and once holed up in his room he administered to himself as he’d seen Sifram do. Irritated by the ride, his leg pained him, but he bit back the discomfort, drank some whiskey—carefully—and carried on.
The next morning they departed. Now that Giorn had spoken to him, Duke Yfrin allowed no one to discover his true name or even see his face, as he was well-known here, often traveling through his dukedom and staying at the various towns. He was officially listed as dead and could risk no one recognizing him and drawing attention to himself and Giorn, not before he reached the castle, restored his good name, if that were possible—for officially he was considered Baron Wesrain’s assassin—and reclaimed his crown.
That night when they repeated the procedure at a small inn in a town along their way, Yfrin lowered the cowl of his robe over his face and retired immediately to his room, while Giorn, hungry, thirsty, and curious about events in the south, limped to the bar, took a seat and ordered a meal and a brew. The inn’s main room was large and crowded, and smoke wreathed the ceiling, lantern light making the shadows long and sinister. The customers’ conversations created so much noise that Giorn had to pitch his voice high when he asked the barkeep, “What news from Thiersgald?”
After shoving a couple of mugs at some customers, the barkeep said, “Lord Raugst drove the ‘stogs out.”
“Has Vrulug been seen since?”
“Sure. He’s raiding near Branagh. But at least Thiersgald is safe.”
Safe from Vrulug, maybe. Not from Raugst.
“Yes,” the barkeep went on, “that Raugst is a good one. Lucky to have him, we are.”
Giorn ground his teeth. “You think so? Myself, I preferred the Wesrains.”
“Each to his own. But the old Baron was too high-minded. He liked his books of philosophy and history and such. Thought of himself as an intellectual, above the likes of us.”
“He was a better leader than this Raugst,” Giorn said. “No one even knows who this Raugst is, or where he comes from. Where’s his family, I ask you? Has anyone seen them, does anyone know them?”
The barkeep looked at him strangely. “You implying something, stranger?”
Giorn relented. “No.” He drained his mug. A fight with the barkeep would accomplish nothing.
“Good,” the barkeep said. “Besides, everyone has to come from somewhere, eh? Everyone must have family. We never heard o’ Raugst’s because they’re not uppers, are they? They’re of the common rabble, like us.” He studied Giorn. “Where you from, anyway?”
“The south. Fleeing north. My home was destroyed by Vrulug.” That was true enough, in a way. To explain his upper-class accent, he gave the usual explanation: “My father was a minor noble in Hasitlan.”
The barkeep served another customer, then turned back to Giorn. “Lot o’ these folk are in your place. Why it’s so busy here. Vrulug put a lot of homes t’ the torch. An’ he’s still out there, somewhere, and the Eresine Bridge is nearly finished, they say. Soon his whole might’ll come up from the south, and then . . . Well, I hear the King is ready to marshal his army to come to our aid. Hopefully that’ll be enough.”
“You don’t think it will?”
“What do I know? But it does occur to me that Vrulug hasn’t missed a trick so far. I don’t know why King Ulea should trip him up.”
Giorn ordered a refill. As he drank, he recalled the spies that Vrulug had called into service in Feslan, the ones who had opened the gates to the Borchstogs. And now Raugst, up to some devilry. All that combined with the corruption of the Moonstone hinted at many threads coming together, of a well-laid plan just now reaching fruition. The plan was at its peak now, and the forces of the Enemy looked unbeatable. The End Times might truly be nigh.
It was Raugst, of course. Raugst was the reason Vrulug thought he would prevail—Raugst, and the Moonstone. Perhaps if Giorn could take one from him, the plan would unravel.
First Giorn needed supporters. Duke Yfrin could help with that. As he drank, Giorn mulled on how he and the duke should go about Yfrin’s homecoming. The duke was thought dead, after all, even by his own family—and a traitor.
“Do you think he did it?” he asked suddenly.
“Did what?” The barkeep’s thick black eyebrows rose.
“Duke Yfrin. Do you think he’s the one that slew the old Baron?”
The barkeep’s face screwed up in resentment. “That’s a sore subject ‘round here.”
Giorn sipped his drink, saying nothing more, and eventually the barkeep relaxed. After dealing with more customers, he returned to Giorn and said, by way of apology, “He was a good man, the duke. A bit soft, but good. No one knows why he did what he did. Just doesn’t make sense.”
“No?”
“No. He and Baron Wesrain were friends all their lives. Some say they were cousins, but that’s jus
t talk. The Baron’s brother was a guest at Castle Yfrin for awhile after the Duchess was widowed, and who knows how he comforted her? But enough of that. I’ll not soil her good name by repeatin’ that sort o’ talk. But they were fast friends, our duke and the Baron. Some say perhaps they had a falling out, some say the duke must have been sleeping with Iarine, the Baron’s favorite concubine, and he and the Baron had a row—but, really, who knows?” He lowered his voice conspiratorially. “There are those that say the duke wasn’t the one that fired that shot, after all.”
“Really? Who do they say fired the shot?” This is unexpected. The people suspected Raugst, after all.
“Why, the Baron’s son, of course. Giorn.”
“And why would Giorn do such a thing?”
“Why, to become baron, o’ course. They say he was a greedy one, impatient for his father to die. He was next in line, remember. Would’ve worked, too, if Vrulug hadn’t attacked when he did.”
Giorn just stared. Something about his demeanor must have frightened the barkeep, for the man found excuse to wander to the other end of the bar and clean some mugs with a dirty cloth.
Giorn finished his brew, paid and limped out. As he went, he overheard some men around a table speaking. One was saying, “And I heard he faced Vrulug bare-handed. He was standing on a mound of dead ‘stogs, all of ‘em slain by hisself, when out of the smoke comes the wolf-lord, all covered in blood, and he looks at Raugst, and Raugst looks at him, and they fly at each other. They say the earth trembled when they struck, and the sound of their roars deafened the men about them. They say they grappled there on the battlefield, right there before the gates of Thiersgald, and they fought a fight of the gods, surrounded by mounds of bodies, with thunder rumblin’ and lightning blasting all around, and at last good Lord Raugst, he takes Vrulug by the clawed foot and swings him around and swings him around and hurls him from the battlefield!” The man laughed and drank from his mug. “They say you can still see Vrulug on a clear night, sailing through the stars.”
The men around the table laughed and ordered another round of drinks.
Grinding his teeth, Giorn retired to his room.
Giorn and Yfrin left early the next day, riding northwest for Isaldt, capital of Wenris. They found the road thick with refugees, forcing the duke to keep the cowl of his robe pulled low over his face for much of the time.
“’tis a sorry thing when a man has to go in masquerade through his own sodding land,” he grumbled.
“At least you have a home and family waiting for you,” Giorn reminded him gently. “My home and family are gone, slain or usurped.” His good hand balled into a fist.
His other did, as well. At one of the towns he had hired a carpenter to fashion a device for him, a sort of glove that slid over what was left of his right hand. Wooden pieces shaped like fingers fit over his nubs, and they were strapped to his hand and wrist so tightly that he could actually hold things, as long as they did not require too much dexterity. It was not a whole hand, and he could never wield a sword with it, but it was not completely useless. At least it could make a fist.
Duke Yfrin nodded understandingly. “We’ll destroy him, my boy, fear not. Then you will have your home back, and once more a Wesrain will rule Fiarth. That’s as it should be, lad. That’s as it should be.” His eyes gleamed, and Giorn realized with some appreciation that the old duke truly meant it. “For a thousand years Wesrains have ruled here, and I mean to make it a thousand more. They were kings for hundreds of years, you know, before they bent the knee to King Raegar.”
“Father raised me on those stories.” The Wesrains had ruled for much longer than the Raegars, as a matter of fact, and the Raegars had not survived long after they’d forced the Wesrains to submit. The war with Fiarth had weakened them politically, and a rival family, the Uleas, had eventually usurped them. Still, the capital of Felgrad had been named after that ancient clan of kings, and the Uleas had not dared change it. The Raegar line had not lasted long, but it had burned bright.
Dalic looked at him sideways. “You know that it was an Yfrin that ended him, don’t you?”
“Who?”
“Orin Feldred, who else?”
“I don’t . . .”
Dalic smiled, but it was a sad smile, tinged with bitterness. “When Vrulug had him in the torture-racks of Grasvic, after he’d flayed him. One of Lord Feldred’s supporters shot him, that you must know. What you probably don’t is that that man was an Yfrin. Oh, they didn’t call themselves Yfrins, not back then, it was Osfryd, but it was an Yfrin just the same.”
“Osfryd?” Why did that name sound familiar . . . ?
“That’s right, lad. His name was Adlan Osfryd, one of Orin’s closest friends and highest allies. I’m proud to count him an ancestor.”
Suddenly it came to Giorn where he’d seen that name before, and he shuddered. As if he’d seen it just yesterday, he remembered the brain kept alive in Vrulug’s lair. He realized what must have happened, and what it implied about Vrulug’s wrath, for it could only have happened one way: the wolf-lord, denied Orin, had taken his vengeance out on the man who had slain him. Gods knew what terrors he had subjected Adlan Osfryd’s still-living brain to over the many centuries since that fateful day. Giorn paled just to think about it, and he wondered if he should tell Dalic. He decided against it. Let him think Adlan had died bravely, years and years ago.
“He couldn’t stand to see Orin tortured so,” Dalic was saying, “so he shot him, once through the head, once through the heart, then killed himself with his dagger. The crossed dagger-and-arrow, my family’s coat-of-arms, didn’t you ever wonder why?”
Giorn, though feeling ill, looked at him with new respect. “Truly?”
The duke patted his shoulder. “So, you see, our families have been linked for ages, and always we’ve been your allies and friends. So shall it be still.”
They rode on, Giorn and Dalic, and the sun rose hot and bloated overhead. Giorn’s mind turned to Niara, as it often did, and he tasted something bitter on his tongue. Why had she betrayed him—betrayed Fiarth? It made no sense. She was so goodly, so pure. Even now, despite everything, he ached to hold her in his arms . . . and to throttle her.
Somehow she had done it for Fiarth, he told himself. She had not done it out of love for Raugst. However misguided, she had done it to thwart Raugst. Somehow . . .
The hilly ground gave way to forest-covered flatlands, with here and there settlements carved out for human use. Some of these isolated townships had stood for a thousand years and more, and they had developed their own dialects and cultures. Duke Yfrin prided himself on knowing them all, and Giorn was impressed that he lived up to his boasting. As they went, Giorn heard him converse fluently in not less than three dialects with villagers whose speech Giorn could barely understand, and that after some thought.
They slept in the forest that night along the main road. They were not the only ones. Many refugees fleeing Vrulug’s path of destruction made for Isaldt. Some erected campfires, sang songs and ate what was at hand, holding little impromptu celebrations—of just being alive, as far as Giorn could tell—long into the night. Giorn and Yfrin joined one, and the young baron partook of the flask that was passed around perhaps more liberally than he ought to have done. A pretty young woman, equally affected, offered to share his blankets that night, and for a moment he was tempted, then he thought of Niara and declined. As he watched her go, he wondered at himself. Fool, there’s no reason to be loyal to one who is not loyal to you.
He and Duke Yfrin rode on, and the next afternoon they arrived at Isaldt, a large city of tall square-cut gray stone towers overgrown with ivy, with here and there a sturdy bridge from tower to tower. The city sprawled across a couple of low hills and was surrounded by a low, thick stone wall that had been torn down and rebuilt many times over the years as the city expanded. Ivy grew along much of its dark gray length and soldiers constantly had to chop it away for the handholds it provided. A river passed thr
ough Isaldt and wound down through the forest Giorn and Yfrin had slept in, and Giorn saw many of the refugees bathing and washing their clothes in the water as he passed.
These are my people, he thought. They depended on me to keep them safe, and look what I’ve done to them. I’ve turned them into vagabonds.
Only too soon, he and Yfrin reached the gates of the city, which were open, somewhat to Giorn’s surprise; he had half feared he would find them sealed against the overwhelming number of refugees. But no, Isaldt had elected to admit them, one and all, at least for now. Perhaps, Giorn thought, the situation might yet grow dire enough for the city to change its mind. I won’t let that happen.
“So what’s our plan, lad?” Yfrin asked as they rode through the crowded streets. And they were crowded, packed building-to-building with desperate people seeking shelter and food and loved ones lost in the chaos. More thronged the alleys, having built little lean-to shelters. Laundry was strung on so many lines that Giorn could not see the alleys’ other ends. In the streets, women dressed seductively, selling their bodies for coin, and men too. Some were very young. He wished he had taken more gold from Fria so that he could distribute it among them and save these people’s honor, but it was not to be.
“Well, lad?” the old duke pressed.
“We’ve no time to linger,” Giorn said. “We’ll go straight to your castle.”
Yfrin nodded in a mulling fashion. “Yes, but by now Raugst will have heard of my escape. What if he’s sent agents to capture me? If so, they’ll be waiting for me to show up at the castle.”
“I doubt he’d waste his resources tracking you down. What’s one escaped prisoner in the midst of a war?” Giorn paused. “Just the same, are there any secret ways into the castle that might help us?”
“None that I know of. Though within the castle is another story.”
“It doesn’t matter. Secret ways didn’t avail me much last time, and Captain Hanen and all our men died because of it. Perhaps the direct way will be better.”
