“The truth. What are you after? What happened here nine hundred years ago?”
The wizard studied Royce for a moment and looked down at his feet. After a few minutes, he nodded. He walked over to a beech log that lay across the granite rock and sat down. He looked out toward the water and the spray as if searching for something in the mist, something that was not there.
“I was the youngest member of the Cenzar. We were the council of wizards that worked directly for the Emperor. The greatest wizards the world had ever seen. There was also the Teshlor, comprised of the greatest of the Emperor’s knights. Tradition dictated that a mentor from each council was to serve as teacher and full-time protector to the Emperor’s son and heir. Because I was the youngest it fell to me to be Nevrik’s Cenzar instructor, while Jerish Grelad was picked from the Teshlor. Jerish and I didn’t get along. Like most of the Teshlor, he held a distrust of wizards, and I thought little of him and his brutish, violent ways.
“Nevrik, however, brought us together. Like his father, the Emperor Nareion, Nevrik, was a breed apart, and it was an honor to teach him. Jerish and I spent nearly all our time with Nevrik. I taught him lore, books, and The Art, while Jerish instructed him in the schools of combat and warfare. Though I still felt the practice of physical combat was beneath the Emperor and his son, it was very clear that Jerish was as devoted to Nevrik as I was. In that middle ground, we found a foothold where we could stand together. When the Emperor decided to break tradition and travel here to Avempartha with his son, we went along.”
“Break tradition?”
“It had been centuries since an emperor had spoken directly to the elves.”
“After the war, there wasn’t tribute paid or anything like that?”
“No, all contact was severed at the Nidwalden, so it was a very exciting time. No one really knew what to expect. I personally knew very little about Avempartha beyond the historical account of how it was the sight of the last battle of the Great Elven Wars. The Emperor met with several top officials of the Erivan Empire in the tower while Jerish and I attempted, without much luck, to continue Nevrik’s studies. The sight of the waterfall and the elven architecture was too much to compete with for the attention of a twelve-year-old boy.
“It was around dusk, nearly night. Nevrik had been pointing things out to us all day, reveling in the fact that neither Jerish nor I could identify any of the elven things he found. This was, of course, the first time in centuries that humans had met with elves; we were at a distinct disadvantage. We found several sets of elven clothes drying in the sun, made of a shimmering material we couldn’t identify. Nevrik delighted in stumping his teachers, so when he asked about the thing he saw flying toward the tower, I thought he saw a bird, or a bat, but he said it was too large and that it looked like a serpent. He mentioned it had flown into one of the high windows of the tower. Nevrik was so adamant about it that we all went back inside. We had just started up the main staircase when we heard the screams.
“It sounded like a war was being fought above us. The personal bodyguards of the Emperor—a detachment of Teshlors—were fighting off the Gilarabrywn, protecting the Emperor as they fled down the stairs. I saw groups of elves throwing themselves at the creature, dying to protect our emperor.”
“The elves were?”
Esrahaddon nodded. “I was amazed by the sight. The whole scene is still so vivid to me even after nearly a thousand years. Still nothing the knights or the elves could do stopped the attacking beast, which seemed determined to kill the Emperor. It was a terrible battle with knights falling on the stairs and dying upon the wet steps, elves joining them. The Emperor ordered us to get Nevrik to safety.
“Jerish grabbed the boy and dragged him out of the tower kicking and screaming, but I hesitated. I realized that once outside, the flying beast would be able to swoop down and kill at will. The Art could not defeat it. The creature was magic and without the key to unlock the spell, nothing I could do would alter that enchantment. A thought came to me and as the Emperor exited the door, I cast an enchantment of binding—not on the beast, but on the tower trapping the Gilarabrywn inside. Those knights and elves still inside died, but the beast was trapped.”
“Where did it come from? What caused the thing to attack?”
Esrahaddon shrugged. “The elves insisted they knew nothing of the attack, and that they had no idea where the Gilarabrywn came from except that one Gilarabrywn had been left unaccounted for after the wars. They assumed it destroyed. They mentioned a militant society, a growing movement of elves within the Erivan Empire that sought to incite a war. It was speculated they were responsible. The elven lords apologized and assured us they would investigate the matter fully. The Emperor, convinced that to retaliate or even make the incident public was unwise, chose to ignore the attack and returned home.”
“So what’s this about a weapon?”
“The Gilarabrywn is a conjured creature, a powerful magic endowed with a life of its own beyond the existence of its creator. The creature is not truly alive; it cannot reproduce, grow old, or appreciate existence, but it also cannot die. It can, however, be dispelled. No enchantment is perfect; every magic has a seam where the weave can be unraveled. In the case of the Gilarabrywn, the seam is its name. Whenever a Gilarabrywn is created, so is an object—a sword, etched with its name—it is used to control the beast and if necessary, destroy it. According to the elves, at the end of the war they placed all the Gilarabrywn swords in the tower per Novron’s orders. At that time all the swords were accounted for and all but one was notched to show their associated beast was destroyed.”
Royce got up to stretch his legs. “Okay, so the elven lords held one of their monsters back just in case, or this militant group hid one to cause trouble. The elven leaders tell you all the swords are in there. Maybe they are, or maybe they aren’t, and they just want—”
“It’s in there,” Esrahaddon interrupted.
“You saw it?”
“We were given a tour when we first arrived. Near the top is a sort of memorial to the war. All the swords are on display.”
“Alright so there is a sword,” Royce granted, “but that’s not why you want in. You didn’t come here to save Dahlgren. Why are you really here?”
“You didn’t allow me to finish,” Esrahaddon replied, sounding every bit like the wise teacher letting his student know to be patient. “The Emperor believed he had prevented a war with the elves and returned home, but what waited for him was an execution. While we were away, the church, under the leadership of Patriarch Venlin, planned the Emperor’s assassination. The attack came on the steps of the palace during a celebration commemorating the anniversary of the Empire’s founding. Jerish and I escaped with Nevrik. I knew that many of the Cenzar and the Teshlor were involved in the church’s plot and that they would find us, so Jerish and I came up with a plan—we hid Nevrik and I created two talismans. One I gave to Nevrik and the other to Jerish. These amulets would hide them from the clairvoyant search the Cenzar were certain to make, but allow me to find them. Then I sent them away.”
“And you?” Royce asked.
“I stayed behind. I tried to save the Emperor.” He paused, looking far away. “I failed.”
“So what happened to the heir?” Royce asked.
“How should I know, I was locked up in a prison for nine hundred years. Do you think he wrote me? Jerish was supposed to take him into hiding.” The wizard allowed himself a grim smile. “We both thought it would only be for a month or so.”
“So, you don’t even know if an heir exists anymore?”
“I’m pretty confident the church didn’t kill him or they would have killed me shortly thereafter, but what became of Jerish and Nevrik I don’t know. If anyone could have kept Nevrik alive, it would have been Jerish. Despite his age, he was one of the best knights the Emperor had. The fact that he trusted his son to his care was testament to that. Like all Teshlor knights, Jerish was a master of all the schools of
combat; there wouldn’t have been a man alive who could beat him in battle and he would have died before surrendering Nevrik. They would both be dead now, of course, time would have seen to that, so would their great, great grandchildren if they had any. I suspect Jerish would have known the need to perpetuate the line and would have settled down somewhere quiet and encouraged Nevrik to marry and have children.”
“And wait for you?”
“What’s that?”
“That was the plan, wasn’t it? They run and hide and you stay behind and find them when it was safe?”
“Something like that.”
“So, you had a way to contact them. A way to locate the heir? Something to do with the amulets.”
“Nine hundred years ago I would have said yes, but the odds of finding their decedents now is probably a fool’s dream. Time can destroy so many things.”
“But you are trying nevertheless.”
“What else is there for an old crippled outlaw to do?”
“Care to tell me how you plan to find them?”
“I can’t do that. I’ve already told you more than I should have. The heir has enemies and, as fond as I have grown of you, that kind of secret stays with me. I owe that much to Jerish and Nevrik.”
“But something in that tower is part of it. That’s why you want to get inside.” Royce thought a moment. “You sealed that tower just before you went to prison, and since the Gilarabrywn was only recently released you can be almost certain that the interior of that tower hasn’t been touched in all that time. It’s the only place that is still the same as the day you left it. There’s something in there you saw that day, or something you left there; something you need to find the heir.”
“It is a shame you aren’t as good at deciphering a way to get into the tower.”
“About that,” Royce said, “you mentioned that the Emperor met with the elves in the tower. They aren’t allowed on this bank, right?”
“Correct.”
“And there was no bridge on their side of the river, right?”
“Again correct.”
“But you never saw how they entered the tower?”
“No.” Royce thought a moment then asked, “Why were the stairs wet?”
Esrahaddon looked at him puzzled. “What’s that?”
“You said earlier that when the knights were fighting off the Gilarabrywn, they died on the wet steps. Was it blood?”
“No, water I think, I remember how the stairs were wet when we were climbing up because it made the stone so slippery I nearly fell. Some of the knights did fall, that’s why I remember it.”
“And you said the elves had clothes drying in the sun?”
Esrahaddon shook his head. “I see where you are going with this, but not even an elf can swim to the tower.”
“That may be true, but then why were they wet? Was it a hot day? Could they have been swimming?”
Esrahaddon raised his eyebrows incredulously. “In that river? No, it was early spring and still cold.”
“Then how’d they get wet?”
Royce heard a faint sound behind him. He started to turn but stopped himself.
“We’re not alone,” he whispered.
———
“When you lunge, step in with the leg on your weapon side, it will give you more reach and better balance,” Hadrian told Theron.
The two were at the well again. They had gotten up early and Hadrian was putting Theron through some basic moves using two makeshift swords they had created out of rake handles. To his surprise, Theron was spryer than he looked and despite his size, the old man moved well. He had gone over the basics of parries, ripostes, fleches, presses, and the lunge, and they were now working on a compound attack comprised of a feint, parry, and riposte.
“Cuts and thrusts must follow one upon the other without pause. The emphasis is always on speed, aggression, and deception. And everything is kept as simple as possible,” Hadrian explained.
“I’d listen to him. If anyone knows stick fighting, it’s Hadrian.”
Hadrian and Theron turned to see two equestrians riding into the village clearing, each leading a pack pony laden with poles and bundles. They were young men not much older than Thrace, but dressed like young princes in handsome doublets and hose complete with box-pleated frill and lace edging.
“Mauvin! Fanen?” Hadrian said astonished.
“Don’t look so surprised.” Mauvin gave his horse reign to graze on the common’s grass.
“Well, that’s a little hard at this point. What in Maribor’s name are you two doing here?”
Just then a procession of musicians, heralds, knights, wagons and carriages emerged from the dense forest. Long banners of red and gold streamed in the morning light as standard-bearers preceded the march, followed by the plumed Imperial Guards of the Nyphron Church.
Hadrian and Theron moved aside against the trees for safety as the grand parade of elegantly draped stallions and gold etched white carriages rolled in. There were well-dressed clergy and chain-mailed soldiers, knights with their squires leading packhorses laden with fine sets of shining metal armor. There was nobility with standards from as far away as Calis and Trent, but also commoners, rough men with broad swords and scarred faces, monks in tattered robes, and woodsmen with long bows and green hoods. Such an assortment of diverse characters made Hadrian think of a circus he had once seen, although this column of men and horses was far too grim and serious to be a carnival. Bringing up the rear echelon was a group of six riders in black and red with the symbol of a broken crown on their chests. At their head rode a tall thin man with long black hair and a short trimmed beard.
“So they’ve finally decided to do something about this,” Hadrian said. “I’m impressed the church would go to such an effort to save a little village so far out that even its own king doesn’t care. But that still doesn’t explain why you two are here.”
“I’m hurt,” Mauvin feigned a chest pain. “Granted, I’m only here to help Fanen, but I might try my hand as well. Although, if you’re going to be competing it looks as if we shouldn’t have bothered with the trip.”
Theron whispered to Hadrian, “Who are these people? And what is he talking about?”
“Ah—sorry, this is Mauvin and Fanen Pickering, sons of Count Pickering of Galilin in Melengar, who are apparently very lost. Mauvin, Fanen, this is Theron Wood, he’s a farmer.”
“And he’s paying you for lessons? Smart idea, but how did you two get here ahead of the rest of us? I didn’t see you at any of the camps. Oh, what am I thinking? You and Royce probably had no trouble discovering the location of the contest.”
“Contest?”
“Royce was probably hiding under the archbishop’s desk as he set up the rules. So will it be swords? If it’s swords Fanen has a real chance to win, but if it’s a joust, well…” he glanced at his brother who scowled. “He’s really not that good. Do you know how the eliminations will work? I can’t imagine they will pit noble against commoner, which means Fanen won’t be competing with you, so—”
“You’re not here to slay the Gilarabrywn? Are you saying these people are here for that stupid contest?”
“Gilarabrywn? What’s a Gilarabrywn? Is that like Oswald the bear? Heard about him coming through Dunmore. Terrorized villages for years until the king killed him with just a dagger.”
The entourage traveled past them without pause up toward the manor house. One of the coaches separated from the group just after it cleared the well. It stopped and a young well-dressed woman exited and ran to them, holding the edge of her skirt up to avoid the dirt.
“Hadrian!” she cried with a bright smile.
Hadrian bowed, and Theron joined him.
“Is this your father, Hadrian?” she asked.
“No, Your Highness. May I present Theron Wood of Dahlgren Village. Theron, this is her Royal Highness, Princess Arista of Melengar.”
Theron stared at Hadrian, shocked, “You really get aroun
d, don’t you?”
Hadrian smiled awkwardly and shrugged.
“Hey Arista, guess what. Hadrian says the contest is to kill a beast.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Which is just fine by me because if Hadrian was going to be competing I think, I would have to withdraw. But now, a hunt is a much different story. You know luck is often a deciding factor in these things.”
“These things?” Arista laughed at him. “Attended several beast slaying contests have you, Fanen?”
“Bah!” Fanen scoffed. “You know what I mean. Sometimes you are just in the right place at the right time.”
Mauvin shrugged. “Doesn’t sound like much of a contest for noblemen really. If it turns out to be true, I’ll be disappointed. Slaughtering a poor animal is no good use for a Pickering’s sword.”
“Say, did you also hear what the prize will be?” Fanen asked. “The way they’ve been selling this contest in every square, church and tavern across Avryn, it has to be big. Will it just be a gold trophy, or is it land? I’m hoping to get an estate out of this. Mauvin will inherit our father’s title, but I have to fend for myself. What does this animal look like? Is it a bear? Is it big? Have you seen it?”
Hadrian and Theron exchanged stunned looks.
“What is it?” Fanen asked. “It’s not dead already?”
“No,” Hadrian said. “It’s not dead already.”
“Oh good.”
“Your Highness!” A woman’s voice came from the carriage still lingering up the trail. “We need to be going—the archbishop will be waiting.”
“I’m sorry,” she told them, “I have to go. It was good seeing you again. She waved and ran back to her waiting carriage.
“We should probably be going too,” Mauvin said. “We want to get Fanen’s name as near to the top of the list as we can.”
“Wait,” Hadrian told them. “Don’t enter the contest.”
“What?” they both said.
“We rode days to get here for this,” Fanen complained.
“Take my advice. Turn around right now and head back home. Take Arista with you too and anyone else you can convince to go. If it is a competition to kill the Gilarabrywn, don’t sign up. You don’t want to fight this thing. I’m serious. You don’t know what you’re dealing with. If you try and fight this creature it will kill you.”
Avempartha Page 17
