by Miles Owens
The monk raised his other hand to the ceiling. The long sleeves of his black robe slid back to revel a well-muscled arm. “Thus saith the Eternal! ‘This babe at the breast will be a Protectoress of the Covenant. She will be a tool in my hands to strengthen it and return its fullness to the Land while bringing the Mighty Ones and their creatures to heel again.’”
The moment passed, and the expression on the young monk’s face returned to normal. Wavering slowly, he lowered his hand and looked around sheepishly.
Several voices started together, excited.
But then another voice rose. “No! No!” overrode all else. “This will not be!” The older monk’s voice was deep, liquid. It sent a bone chill through Drysi.
The monk surged at Lady Eyslk and seized the babe from her breast. “She must die!”
He swung the little one high above his head, but before he could do more, the other three monks swarmed him. They grappled around the bed with the crying babe still held high. Then the struggling mass fell back onto the bed on top of Lady Eyslk. The side railing broke with a loud crack, tipping everyone to the floor.
The young monk who had given the prophecy wrenched the babe free and came scrambling out of the pile, only to be jerked back by the outstretched hand of the older monk, who kept babbling: “No! No! Must die!”
Tellan flew into the melee. With obvious effort he pried away the crazed monk’s hand, then lifted both his newborn and the young monk holding her and carried them to the far side of the room. He set them down and then whirled with dagger in hand.
The demented monk shook off the other two and rose menacingly to his feet. Eyes pulsing red, he glared past Tellan to the babe and spoke with a calm certainty that sent fresh chills down Drysi’s spine.
“The Mighty One of the North rules here. Give her to him, and you will live and prosper. Refuse, and all in your house will perish with her.” Then the monk came single-mindedly for the babe. To Drysi’s startled eyes, it seemed he grew in size with every step.
Bravely, the small loreteller dove and wrapped his arms around the monk’s leg, only to be dragged across the wooden floor effortlessly before being battered aside with a sharp blow.
Then Tellan launched himself at the advancing monk. As the two came to grips, it seemed to Drysi that the floor trembled. The lord’s dagger plunged into the other’s body twice, but the monk, now looming a full head taller than Tellan, only shuddered at each blow while attempting desperately to dodge around to the babe, babbling over and over, “Must die. Must die.”
The loreteller’s wife took the crying babe from the young monk. “Do something!”
The man gaped at the fight in the middle of the room. “This can’t be happening. The Covenant prevents . . . ”
“You’ve read all those parchments! Help Lord Tellan!”
The man swallowed hard. Coming to his full height, he flung out an arm with a long finger pointing at the crazed monk and bellowed, “In the name of the Eternal, I bind you!”
Still grapping with Tellan, the monk spat, “You lack the power!” He jerked a hand free and dealt Tellan a blow that dropped the new father to his knees. The monk kicked him aside and, leaving a trail of blood on the hardwood floor, came again for the babe.
The young monk stepped in front. “I bind you and any power you draw from the Mighty Ones!”
The other’s tread faltered as he spat, “Weakling! You understand nothing.”
The other two monks joined the fray. “We bind you! In the Eternal’s name and the Covenant, you are bound!”
The wounded monk shuddered—and slowed.
The three continued the verbal fight. “We bind you! In the Eternal’s name and the Covenant, you are bound!”
Tellan struggled to his feet. Dagger in hand, he reengaged, striking repeatedly. The monk seemed weaker, his intensity gone. After more blows, he sank to his knees. A low keening issued from his mouth, and a foul odor permeated the room. Then he crumbled prostate and lay still.
Tellan wavered, breathing hard. Then he sheathed his dagger and ran to the broken bed. “Midwife!” he bellowed in an agonized voice.
Drysi hurried over with a sinking feeling in her heart. Lady Eyslk lay crumpled half on the bed, half on the floor, the lower part of her gown soaked in blood.
“He was so strong,” one of the other monks said, “we couldn’t help falling on her.”
Tellan cradled his wife’s limp body in his arms. “Eyslk? Eyslk!” He stroked her face. “Don’t leave me!”
Drysi took her one remaining moss pad—but it was too late. She looked at Eyslk’s stilled face and glazed eyes and suddenly felt old beyond her years.
“I’m sorry, m’lord. She is gone.”
Chapter One
RHIANNON
HER HOME WAS a ruin.
Rainwater collected in cracks where the stone floor had buckled from intense heat. Faint tentacles of smoke rose from fallen roof beams, charred and blackened, the flames quenched by the heavy drizzle.
Rising above the acrid smell of wet soot was the odor of death. It wafted up through the early morning mist, clinging inside Rhiannon’s nostrils and making her filly skittish. The horse gave a low snort and pranced sideways, reluctant to approach any closer. Rhiannon urged the filly forward, applying pressure with her left calf while pulling on the right rein. Her two younger half-brothers were having similar difficulty with their mounts.
Her father and his escort of three clan warriors reined in their horses at the waist-high stone fence that surrounded the structure. They sat silently, contemplating the destruction with grim faces.
Rhiannon eased up by the men and looked, stunned and uncomprehending, at what was left of the Rogoth hlaford, the dwelling of the kinsmen lord. She had been born here and lived all of her almost sixteen years here. Even with the sight and smell right before her, the fact of it was hard to grasp. The hlaford would be rebuilt, of course, but that did not dim the numbness of the loss. Losing irreplaceable keepsakes collected throughout her childhood hurt more than she would have thought.
For nobility the structure was modest, even for a clan as poor as the Dinari. Nestled on a knoll rising from the valley floor, it was a simple two-story structure sixty cubits in length and thirty wide. The ground floor was constructed of stone; timber beams and rough hand-hewn planks comprised the second story. And, to her stepmother’s great pride, both levels boasted glass windows.
Now the panes were shattered, the wooden frames scorched. Soot-streaked chimneys rose forlornly on either end of the building, the larger north one for the kitchen hearth, the south one for the room where Tellan had received petitioners and conducted matters as lord of the Rogoth kinsmen.
The Rogoth loreteller had galloped ahead of the party and was now examining the field full of dead and ravaged sheep. Rhiannon watched as he walked with the herdsmen. They pointed to the ground in several places. Then the loreteller climbed back on his horse and trotted to the smoldering ruin. His face was grim.
Her father stepped off his roan stallion as the loreteller rejoined them. Tellan Rogoth was tall, with pale white skin and black hair just beginning to show traces of gray. His oft-laundered breeches and tunic were frayed, the leather of his boots cracked and the soles well worn. After this year’s wool was finally sold, all of the family would be fitted for new clothes and boots.
He handed his reins to one of the men, then strode through the open gate with the grace of a deadly fighter. Stopping at the burned structure, he stood with both fists on his hips. “Man or beast?” he growled darkly, glaring at the debris as if his gaze would make it relate the happenings of the night. “Girard!” he called out, sweeping an arm from the smoldering rubble to the blood-spattered corpses in the field. “What say you, loreteller? Two legs or four?”
Rhiannon’s disquiet increased. This was no idle question. Her father asked if this was an attack or warning toward him because of the Rogoth kinsmen’s stand against the hard-eyed wool merchants from Clan Sabinis.
“Beasts, m’lord,” Girard said flatly. “We can find prints of neither man nor horse. Claws and fangs are responsible for the bloodletting among the sheep.”
“And my hlaford, loreteller? This honored dwelling where my wife and children sleep secure under its peace? Claws and fangs did this as well?”
Girard pressed his lips together, frowning as he contemplated his answer. The Rogoth loreteller was round of face with heavy jowls. His short, bandy legs barely reached below his horse’s belly. “Lore dating from before the Cutting of the Covenant recounts similar incidents,” he began hesitantly. “Torn throats, dismembered bodies, unexplained fires as this one here.”
Tellan glanced back with eyebrows raised. “You seek to spin a tale of winged horrors of the night?” His voice carried a trace of derision, but even so, his knuckles whitened around the hilt of his sword. “Has the Eternal suddenly blessed you as he did the Founders? You declare with certainty that siyyim and similar creatures stalk the Land again?”
“As you know, m’lord, it has been years since anyone has been gifted at that level.” Girard rubbed his hand nervously across the stubble on his chin. “But for some reason I feel strongly about this. Come and see the heavy claw marks in the ground. And the deep gouging of the grass. Whatever attacked must be several times the weight of a horse. The prints are abundant in the middle of field where the sheep lay, there and nowhere else. Serous and his herdsmen have searched. No tracks lead into the field or away.”
Tellan turned to face his loreteller. “And the ground here around the hlaford? I see no prints or claw marks.”
“Our lore recounts how such creatures flew to the roofs, breathed fire on the thatch, then circled above before swooping down to catch those forced out by the smoke and flames.”
Rhiannon exchanged startled looks with her half-brothers. Creag was thirteen and ever desirous to appear fearless. Nonetheless, he cut his eyes to the sky, head swiveling back and forth as he anxiously searched the rolling mass of gray clouds.
Phelan’s gaze flicked from Girard to Tellan, then to Rhiannon. The boy was ten, small for his age and frail. He had his father’s pale skin and black hair. Catching her eye, Phelan grinned with excitement, teeth biting down on his lower lip, clearly relishing the prospect of seeing such mythical beasts.
Rhiannon did not share his enthusiasm. She brushed a hand across the hilt of her sword, taking comfort in its weight resting in the scabbard hanging from a broad belt buckled around her waist. On her fourteenth birthday, her father had given in to her pleading and presented her this scaled-down version of his broadsword. Since then she had joined her brothers in daily lessons with their arms instructor, infuriating Creag by continually besting him in bouts with their wooden practice swords.
Returning to the big roan, Tellan took the reins and swung easily into the saddle. He led them toward the sheep in the nearby field. The grassy hillsides around the hlaford were rock-strewn. Further on, a series of ridges undulated upward to the higher peaks towering in the distance. Below, a wide stream snaked through the middle of the valley floor, bubbling and frothing its way to the join the Clundy River several leagues away.
On warm summer days, Rhiannon and her brothers wove fish traps from rushes gathered in the quiet eddies of the stream. Then they waded into the snowmelt with bare toes clinging to the slippery stones along the bottom, placing the traps between rocks that narrowed the current, emerging with chattering teeth and blue lips. Later, they returned to lift the baskets out and carry the trout home to be cleaned and cooked for dinner.
The clouds hid the sky completely, a solid gray sheet seemingly close enough to touch, as was often the case in the Dinari highlands. Its rugged hills produced two things superbly: sheep with prize wool that could be woven into waterproof garments, and hard-muscled warriors, each equal to any three men from the other five clans. Or so the Dinari boasted.
But Rhiannon’s beloved highlands had not produced anything in living memory that could wreak such havoc as she saw now. The sight chilled her more than the long predawn ride in the cold drizzle. Less than a hundred paces away from her home the bloody carcasses of several score of sheep dotted the surrounding field. Recently shorn, their white bodies lay in stark contrast against the green grass. The animals’ throats were ripped open. But even more ominous to Rhiannon was the number of limbs torn from their bodies and flung paces away.
She struggled with the filly again as they came to where the majority of the sheep had been slain. The horse pranced about with light feet, head swinging side to side, blowing low snorts at the mangled corpses. Rhiannon collected her mount with gentle but steady pressure on the bit. “Easy, easy.”
Phelan nudged his horse up alongside. “You think winged horrors did this?” he whispered in awe.
“I don’t know,” Rhiannon shook her head. “A pack of wolves could kill this many, but . . . ” She swallowed as a cold twist rippled through her stomach. “But their feeding would not tear bodies apart in such a manner.”
Every carcass in sight had its throat torn away by what must have been sharp teeth and the power of massive jaws. Plus, Rhiannon noted, most of the severed limbs lying scattered about had the bones sliced—or bitten—completely through.
Her father’s head herdsmen, Serous, came forward to hold the stallion’s bit while Tellan dismounted. Serous was of average height and painfully thin. Both his hands were gnarled, the joints red and swollen. “Not a pleasant sight, m’lord. As a boy, then a man, I’ve been herding sheep nigh on fifty years, and I never seen the like.”
A murmur of agreement came from the other herders. They shifted back and forth on nervous feet, eyes flicking between their lord and the dead sheep.
The loreteller dismounted and walked with his short-legged, rolling gait to an area of torn grass. He turned back and pointed down. “Here, m’lord. This is what I am talking about.”
Rhiannon slid off, handed the reins to Phelan, then followed her father to where the loreteller stood. The marks were easily distinguished in the soft, wet soil. Long clumps of grass had been gouged up where one or more creatures had pivoted and twisted. The deep parallel lines sliced through the dirt had to have come from sharp claws or talons. Looking at the width of the footprints, Rhiannon realized that the loreteller was correct—the creatures that did this were large.
“From what our men have told me, m’lord,” Girard said quietly, “and from the evidence of my eyes, I can come to but one conclusion: winged horrors of the night.”
Rhiannon looked up and caught her father’s gaze. Worry was evident behind his eyes as he looked from her to her brothers, to the three warriors, then back to her again. His hand dropped to his sword hilt.
Two days past Tellan had taken his family and lone household servant to the town of Lachlann, a ride of more than two turns of the glass. They were staying in four of the upper rooms of the largest inn. This unusual move had been necessitated by his involvement in the tense negotiations concerning the wool trade. Tellan had not wanted to leave his wife and children alone during what promised to be a time of unrest.
When a messenger woke them at the inn an hourglass before dawn, Rhiannon had asked to come home along with her father, with Creag and Phelan echoing her plea. Their mother, Lady Mererid, was gone to interview a prospective tutor for the three of them, taking five of the Rogoth warriors with her as an escort. She was not expected back in Lachlann until late in the day. Considering the tension in the town between the Sabinis merchants and other small Dinari lords allied with the Rogoth kinsmen, her father had agreed to bring Rhiannon and the boys along.
From the lines creasing his brow, she could read his thoughts: he had brought them from one danger into a greater one.
Stone-faced, Tellan surveyed the ravaged sheep. “Tell me what you saw, Serous.”
“The fire at the hlaford woke me, m’lord. The roof was aflame.” Serous had only two upper teeth, both slanting sideways. He kept running his tongue around them in a
nervous tic. “At first I was concerned for your lordship’s safety, but then I remembered how everyone was in Lachlann. As I came running up, the hlaford looked like a huge torch. The flames was being fanned by . . . ” He looked at those around him, then down at his feet.
The nervous movement among the other herdsmen ceased. They waited with pensive faces.
Tellan reached out and gripped the old man’s shoulder. “Serous de Rogoth en Caillen, you strapped on your sword and rode by my father’s side every time the kinsmen were called out. And you have served me with honor these last years. Tell it straight and know I will believe you.”
Serous took a deep breath. “It was like Girard says, m’lord. Him being a great loreteller and such, he has seen it true. Winged horrors of the night. That’s what they had to be, just like in the old stories. At least four of them. As you said, m’lord, I was a warrior until my joints started to swell, and no man can say he seen my backside when cold steel was drawn.” He stood up straight. “Fearsome I was. Ask them that knew me when I could grip a sword.”
“No need to ask. I know your mettle.”
The old herdsman’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he regarded Tellan with watery eyes. “I ran from them things, m’lord,” he confessed softly, his weathered face twisting in misery. “I left the sheep unattended and ran for my life. The other herders were just following my lead when they ran, too. Then the winged horrors was free to do this.” He paused, then lifted his chin. “I have a few coins put by. So do the rest of us. It won’t be near enough to repay your loss, but it is all we have. If you want me to end my service, I will.”
Tellan smiled grimly. “Serous, if any of you had stayed, we would be burying fools this morning. I have no need of fools. Cowards try to excuse their absence. Rogoth warriors do not hide behind words. In Serous Caillen and his herdsmen I have such men. Keep your coins. You are more valuable than any metal jingling in a bag.”
