Stolen Crown

by Dennis L McKiernan

  On the eastern edge of the Weston Ocean lies Jute, a nation of Dragonship raiders, with a mad king who sits on a black throne. Jute lies between Gothon and Thol, and, strictly speaking, though Jute is an island, it is made so by the broad and deep surrounding waters of the Ryngar Arm of the Weston, where rivers flow to meet the ocean, salt to the west, fresh to the east, and brackish in between.

  Between Jute and the memories of Atala and Rwn lies the nation of Gelen, principally made up of four large isles, the westernmost of which is Kell, a green land of forests and fields, often beset by storms. The Gelenders, and especially those who live on Kell, still have oral histories of the times great waves swept over their isles—when Rwn was destroyed by the Black Mage, Durlok, and then again when Atala fell, perhaps to the dark god, Gyphon, perhaps to the wizard, Modru.

  To two of these island nations—Gelen and Jute—as well as those continental, emissaries from the Northern Council slowly made their journeys by horseback and coach and some by boat to distant nations, and as a dark agent in Caer Pendwyr waited for the right time to steal a corpse, or at least its skull, time passed and time more, until altogether another year elapsed.

  But elsewhere, two toddlers grew on a farm surrounded by a primeval woodland on the unmarked island of Kell. And often visitors came—some were bards, for Kell is known for its silver-tongued poets and singers and storytellers and a language to rival that of Sylva, of Elven; others were traders, come to buy cattle or pigs, or merchants with something to sell; yet others were tinkers and cobblers, plying their mending skills in their gaily decorated waggons, on their journeys across this emerald domain.

  But the most frequent guests of the stead were a folk reclusive and yet learned and skilled and crafty, and they spent time with the children, speaking in their own melodious tongue and teaching the children many things of wonder. . . .

  And on this day, they brought another visitor, one quite rare in these times . . .

  • • •

  “A SEERESS? Lady Driu, you are a Mage? What are you doing here?” Leaning on the rail fence, Conal ran a hand through his burr-cut brown hair, a tinge of gray at his temples.

  “Silverleaf sent me,” said the slender, dark-haired female, now unsaddling her dun horse. She was of middling height and looked to be no more than thirty or so. Her eyes were brown with a sprinkle of green flecks. A meager scatter of freckles splashed across her nose and onto her cheeks.

  “But I thought all Mages were gone down with Rwn,” said Cuán, a youth and one of Conal’s drovers, “or were killed in the Great War.”

  A fleeting look of distress swept across the face of the Seeress, quickly replaced by a semblance of calm.

  “Not all,” Driu replied, handing the saddle to a lad standing by, one of Conal’s swineherds, a boy of thirteen or so. “Many are in Black Mountain, , while others, such as I, yet stride the world.”

  As the Seeress turned to unlade the packhorse, Conal said, “My lads will take care of that, Lady Driu.” He looked at the boy and said, “Run along, Breccan. Care for the horses and bring the lady’s goods into the house.”

  “Which stalls, Tiarna?”

  “Put the mount in next to Uasal Donn’s stall, and the gelding across the way.”

  As Breccan led the mare and the pack animal toward the stables, Driu called after him, “First give them water and a ration of oats and rub them down and curry them, if you will. Then you can bring my goods to the house.”

  Without looking back, Breccan raised a hand in acknowledgment and continued onward.

  Seeress Driu turned to Conal. “Your horse is Lady Brown?”

  “You know of her? Of Uasal Donn?” asked Conal.

  Driu smiled. “It’s all the talk in Killain—whether Lady Brown will win again in the Kell Ride.”

  “Oi, she should win all right,” said Cuán. “Durgan will be astride.”

  Conal shook his head and frowned. “I don’t know. She’s up against Iarann Rob, and that grey can run.”

  “Aye, that’s what the talk was all about,” said Driu. “Iron Bobbie and Lady Brown in the same race.” She paused and then asked, “Durgan is your son?”

  “Aye, and a fine rider he is,” said Conal, grinning and pointing toward a distant lad of perhaps ten or eleven who was switching pigs across a field toward an oak grove. “He has dreams of owning a colt of Lady Brown and Iron Bobbie. I told him if he wins, we’ll see.” Conal turned again to Driu, and his smile faded somewhat. “But enough about racing horses, Lady Driu, instead tell me why that rascal Silverleaf sent you to me.”

  Driu glanced across at the circle of Dylvana sitting on the grass and laughing and entertaining two toddlers, while Gretta sat off to the side and smiled. “I’d rather we speak of this in private, Tiarna Conal.”

  “Pah!” snorted Conal. “No lord am I, no matter what Breccan said. I’m just a plain soldier who once served King Valen.”

  “That’s not the way Silverleaf tells it,” said Driu.

  Conal laughed as he climbed over the rail fence. “Did I not say he was a rascal? But, no matter, if it’s privacy we need, then privacy we’ll have.” He turned to Cuán and said, “Get out of there and run ahead and tell cook to put a kettle on and to set out some of those scones. Then get back here and make ready for the calving; we’ve several who are ready to let fall their burdens, one I am worried about.”

  As the youth scrambled across the fence and ran toward the house, Conal offered his arm to Lady Driu. “Shall we?”

  Driu laughed and linked her arm with his, and they strolled toward the manor, while off on the grass the Elves spoke and sang in their fluid speech, the captivating words rolling off their tongues and into the attentive ears of two children.

  • • •

  “DANGER? RÍGÁN IS IN DANGER?”

  “Aye,” said Driu. “Rígán, Reyer, by any name, peril will come for him.”

  They sat upon the verandah overlooking the sward, tea and scones at hand.

  “Arkov?”

  “Most likely he is the one behind it,” said Driu. “But as to just who will present the immediate danger . . .” She shrugged.

  “But you are a Seeress,” said Conal. “Don’t you know just who it will be?”

  “Someone or something is blocking me,” said Driu.

  “Blocking you?”

  Driu nodded. “I cannot see the possibility, or rather I should say the many possibilities.”

  “Who would do so, and how?”

  “Another Mage, and by use of the Art.”

  “Another Mage, eh?”

  Again Driu nodded. “Most likely a black one—a follower of Gyphon.”

  “When?”

  Driu frowned at Conal’s question, but then she said, “Ah. I see. As to the when, the most probable time lies some years from now, as the boy enters his teens. Until then, I know they will be searching. We must remain on alert.”

  “But not for a number of years, right?”

  Driu shook her head. “Not so. You see, there are many branches leading from now to next. Each decision, each choice made by us and others could lead to salvation or disaster or joy or sorrow or to something completely humdrum.”

  “So, you don’t know when, right?”

  Driu sighed and said, “Right. Yet each day I will cast runes and see what that day might bring. But nothing is carved in stone, so we must be ever on alert.”

  “You plan to stay, Lady?”

  “I do. For I will veil this location from those who would use the Art to search.”

  “Veil, eh?” said Conal, a faint smile on his lips at the feminine choice of words. “Like the Black Mage veils Arkov’s plans from us?”

  Driu smiled and nodded and took a sip of tea.

  As she set the cup down, Conal replenished his and hers. Then he looked at Driu and said, “
With these storm clouds on the horizon, I will continue training my men in the art of spear and sword and bow and arrow and long-knife and dagger and shield. We will be ready when they come.”

  “You are instructing your men in the ways of battle?”

  “Aye. Raiders from Jute come in their Dragonships and plunder and pillage. They have never ventured this far inland, but if they do, we will stand and fight.”

  “Ah,” said Driu. “’Tis best to be prepared for that which might never come than to be unprepared for that which does.”

  “Just so,” said Conal.

  “Armsmaster,” said Driu, giving Conal the title he had had when he served Valen, “you must also fiercely train Reyer, um, Rígán and Alric when they come of the age to do so.”

  “I will begin ere then, Lady. All must be ready when peril arrives, be it raiders or assassins.”

  “You will not put them at risk, though.”

  “Nay. If they are yet unprepared, and perhaps even if they are, I will make certain to have an escape planned for Rígán and Alric.”

  “Thank you,” said Driu. She glanced across at the circle of Elves. “Heed, the Dylvana will be on ward as well.”

  “Good,” said Conal. “Then, no matter what peril comes, we have a fighting chance.”

  7

  Caer Pendwyr

  Back before the counting of Eras, Awain, who was king of Pellar, through the force of arms, conquered several nations and united them in trade and self-defense. He declared himself the High King over those nations and began measuring the years, 1E1 being the first year of the first Era of the first High King’s reign. In that year he established his throne in a brand new city in Pellar, nigh the mouth of the Argon. Some sixty years later, in a trade dispute, an army from the nation of Chabba invaded and burned that city of Gleeds to the ground. At that time, Rolun, grandson of Awain, was the High King, and he and his army slaughtered the Chabbains to the last man . . . even though some had surrendered. Knowing that ever after, the Chabbains would seek revenge, Rolun decided that he would not rebuild burnt Gleeds, or at least not place his capital there. Instead, he selected a site more easily defended—the three high stone spires sitting in the Avagon at the very end of the Pendwyr Headland in Pellar.

  The first spire, the largest of the three, would house his fortress-castle and be connected to and protected from the mainland by a swing bridge.

  The second spire was to be attached to the first by a rope-and-board bridge; this spire would contain housing for his closest advisors.

  The third and final spire would contain the King and Queen’s residence, along with the servants’ quarters. Access to it would be by another rope-and-board bridge.

  The buildings on the headland nearest to the spires would contain quarters for the standing army as well as house various government agencies.

  Beyond these buildings, high battlements of stone would be built as the first line of defense.

  And all construction would be of stone and tile so that, unlike Gleeds, the buildings would not burn.

  As for a supply of water, rain is frequent upon the headland, and clever catchments and cisterns were to be made for the runoff from the tile roofs. And as it is with any city, food would be grown in the fertile plains beyond.

  As the work on the capital commenced, various masons and merchants arrived, and soon a city grew beyond the defensive wall, rising a stone-and-tile-roofed building at a time as merchants and craftsmen settled on the headland to be near the fortress. As the city grew, additional bulwarks were erected for defense.

  Below the city, and along the southeastern shore of Hile Bay, men constructed docks, and a switchback road crawled up the headland to reach the plateau above. Ocean trade commenced.

  The port and the city and the castle all took on the name Caer Pendwyr, though the official name for the town was simply Pendwyr.

  But no matter the defensive measures taken, they mean little when traitors negate them, as was the case when Arkov overthrew King Valen. . . .

  . . . And in that city, behind those walls, within the castle itself, in the third year of Arkov’s reign . . .

  • • •

  “MY LORD KING ARKOV,” said Counselor Baloff, “I have here the list of honors.” The tall, thin, stringy-haired advisor handed the list to Arkov.

  Quickly, the King skimmed down the list, marking off some, adding others, changing the titles and lands of some. He paused over the name Viliev Stoke, who had been the one to open the gate into the courtyard during the invasion. Arkov shook his head. “No, no, Baloff, this will not do. Not a viscountcy for Stoke. Instead give him a barony in the Skarpals and send him away.”

  “My lord?”

  Arkov sighed. “Baloff, as did the others, he betrayed Valen, and, like they, he is not to be trusted, for what’s to keep him from betraying me? His loyalty lies with the highest bidder.”

  “You could just kill him,” said Baloff.

  “No,” said Arkov. “I would slay neither Stoke nor any who betrayed Valen. Were I to do so, then should we need someone else betray their liege, they would hesitate. Instead, I would merely have Stoke out of the way, as we did with the others. Old Baron Drechin’s estate is abandoned. Give it to Viliev Stoke. I’ll not have him in my court.”

  “As you will, my King.”

  Arkov paused and asked, “What of these local uprisings?”

  Baloff said, “Whenever they occur, your loyal troops ride out from the garrisons and put a quick end to them. They are diminishing and are of no moment, my lord.”

  Arkov nodded and returned to the list—commenting here, changing it there, adding and deleting names and ranks and titles. Just as he handed it back to Baloff, a page came scurrying in and quickly knelt before the throne, holding his tongue until given leave.

  “Well, what is it, boy?” asked Baloff.

  “My Lord King Arkov, Lord Baloff, someone has taken Valen’s corpse from above the gate.”

  “What!” demanded Arkov. “Taken the corpse?”

  The boy quailed and mumbled, “Yes, my lord. Skull and all. ’Twas done sometime in the night, the ward says. They made no notice of it until just now.”

  “Damned rebels up north!” cursed Arkov. “They mean to make a martyr of Valen and entomb his bones at a revered site. I’ll have their hides for this.”

  “Indeed, my lord,” said Baloff.

  Yet seething, Arkov said, “Find who actually took the remains. We’ll make an example of him. And from our agents at Challerain Keep discover where those rebels plan to entomb Valen. We’ll burn the remains and scatter the ashes and put short work to that scheme.”

  “Aye, my lord.”

  But for Arkov’s fuming, silence fell, and Baloff glanced at the page. “Dismissed, boy.”

  As the lad ran away, Arkov gained control of his breathing. Finally, he asked, “How go the negotiations?”

  Baloff looked to make certain the page had gone and had closed the chamber door after. Then he softly said, “Alban, Hurn, and Sarain are with us, but Chabba still demands more.”

  “Damn dark bastards,” said Arkov. “What do they want now?”

  “No tolls on the trade routes imposed, they say, by Rolun. That and the right to hallow and prohibit all but Chabbain from the grounds where their army was slain in 1E60 nigh the site of Leeds.” Baloff then shook his head and said, “They have long-held grudges and long-held memories, these men of Chabba, especially when it concerns their dead ancestors.”

  “I will not reduce the tolls. And we must never give them the ground, yet tell them they can visit freely.”

  “My lord? Chabbains on our soil after we put down the insurgents?”

  “Ah, Baloff, heed me: because much of my army is tied down quelling these uprisings in Riamon and Aven, we will need our southern allies when we decide to march against the so-cal
led Northern Alliance. Afterward we can always rescind any treaties with the Southers when we are stronger,” said Arkov, smiling.

  “As you will, my King, but still I hesitate to include Chabba.”

  “Worry not about Chabba,” said Arkov. “Instead concentrate on dealing with Challerain. They are who I will conquer, and if I must make a temporary alliance with enemies of old, I shall do so.”

  “As you wish, King Arkov.”

  “Speaking of enemies of old, Baloff, what of Khal?”

  “My lord, Khal and Aralan declare their neutrality. Jugo and Hoven, especially Hoven, passively resist us, but are not in open rebellion as are Aven and Riamon.”

  “Well, none of them has a claim on the throne, so I would expect no better of them. It’s that traitor Cavin, Valen’s lackey, who’s behind this resistance as well as the local unrest. He would have the throne for himself. And we must be ready for his invasion.”

  “My lord, our agents in Challerain do not think the rebels are anywhere near mustering and marching. They are squabbling among themselves. Many believe, as say you, Cavin is out to grab whatever he can.”

  Arkov clapped his hands. “Hah! Did I not tell you this?”

  “Yes, my lord, yes indeed.”

  Arkov suddenly sobered. “What of Jord? Does Ulrik have any designs in this?”

  “Not as far as we can tell, my lord.”

  “Better for them if not,” said Arkov, clenching a fist.

  “My lord,” said Baloff, “Jord gave up all claim even as Riamon, in its collusion with corrupt Seers, stole the throne from Garia.”

  “Even so, they might revisit the issue,” said Arkov.

  “Well, my lord, by bird my agents report the traitor Cavin has recently sent an emissary to Black Mountain.”

  “Black Mountain? What for?”

  “A Seer.”

  “But Black Mountain is closed, they say,” said Arkov. He pondered a moment and then said, “This is a ruse, I think. Some plot of Cavin’s to trump up a pretender.”