“Aye. And what would you have me do?”
“Make certain that the so-called emissary does not return to Challerain with aught: no Seer, no pretend Seer . . . naught whatsoever. Send a company with remounts. Tell them to make haste, and failure is not acceptable.”
“As you will, my lord. But how will we—?”
“To journey from Challerain to Black Mountain, Lord Baloff, an agent will travel much of the way through Garia.”
Baloff nodded. “Ah, yes . . . on Landover Road. And then, my lord?”
Arkov grinned. “At the crossing between Garia and Riamon, that’s where I would have my company of assassins lie in wait to waylay the envoy and his party and kill them all.”
8
Jord
Bounded on the north by the Boreal Sea, on the east by the Judra River, on the south by the Grimwall Mountains, and on the west by the Gronfangs, lies a great steppe of low rolling hills. Frigid with ice and snow in the cold dark days of winter but blessed with endless green grass in the long bright days of summer, it is the land of Jord, a nation of horsemen, tall and fair, much like their kinsmen the Fjordlanders. For centuries upon centuries the realm of Naud has disputed Jord’s claim of its eastern border, and many a skirmish has been fought over the wide wedge of land between the Judra and Grey rivers. At times Naud is joined in this clash by Kath, longtime allies against Jord. But nearly four hundred years have passed since the Naudron’s last probe into the town of Arnsburg, when once again and soundly had the intruders been defeated by the warriors of Jord.
Proud are these descendants of Strong Harl, the mighty king who had founded the nation of Jord long past. In his honor they named themselves the Harlingar—the Blood of Harl. He had come to this land with his Vanadurin—his Warriors of the Pledge—who were formidable horse-borne fighters. And they included Warrior Maidens among them, skilled in battle as well, with a long tradition of fighting beside their men. Yet after the Great War of the Ban, the Warrior Maidens were disbanded, for the nation had suffered greatly, and the then Jordian King Raynor deemed women were too precious to risk in battle—at least until the nation recovered from their losses on the wide-flung battlefields of that war. Some sixteen hundred years later, the one exception to this lack of Warrior Maidens was Elyn of Jord, about whom many a bard’s tale is spun and sung.
Long have the Jordians been in this land, where they raise the finest steeds in all of Mithgar, highly prized in realms far beyond the reach of the West.
But always have the Harlingar—the Vanadurin, the Warriors of the Pledge—been allied with the High Kings in times of trouble, ever since there had been such monarchs. Yet never before had a High King’s throne been usurped, as had happened three years past. . . .
. . . And so, in Jord . . .
• • •
ULRIK, A TALL MAN with shaggy blond hair and beard, shook his head. “No, Lord Bader, I am not interested in the throne of the High King. The four Reichs of Jord is my domain.”
They sat in wicker chairs under a tent-roofed gazebo out on the grassy plains. In the near distance, riders drove a large band of free-running horses, their rough shag coats of winter gone, replaced by sleek browns and tans and blacks and greys. Overhead three families of swift kestrels from several nearby upjutting crags soared, following the drive but paying no heed to the horses, but only to the panicked voles running through the grass, disturbed as they were by the moving herd.
“If not you, King Ulrik, then what of your brother?” said Bader. The emissary turned to the slender dark-haired man on the right. “What say you, Lord Valder?”
Lounging with his feet upon a wicker footstool, Valder barked a short laugh, amusement in his pale blue eyes. “Take on those woes? Not I.” He abruptly sat up and swept his arms wide, encompassing the whole of Jord. “I would live here in our kingdom of grass, where I can raise the finest horses in the world. Hence, Pellar—especially Caer Pendwyr—has naught for me.”
“But, my lords,” said Bader, a short stocky man of Wellen, “we have as of yet not found an heir within the lineage of Devon, firstborn of King Rand and Queen Lessa of Riamon. Devon took the throne, when, as you are well aware, your own ancestral lineage might truly be the one that should have ruled instead.”
Ulrik took a sip of his wine and then made a dismissive gesture, saying, “You are speaking of Wedan, firstborn of King Haldor and Queen Keth. Bah. Jord gave up any claim to that throne long past, for which I am in agreement with Valder. Give me grass and horses, and I am content.”
Bader sighed and looked into his goblet and said naught for long moments. At last he spoke: “My lords, should it come to war, will you side with the Northern Alliance or with the usurper instead?”
Ulrik looked at his brother, and then turned to the emissary. “Did you know that once long past Garia supported the spurious claim of the Naudrons for the land between the Judra and the Grey?”
Bader frowned, clearly wondering what this might have to do with answering his question.
Valder said, “That land is part of the East Reich.”
“Ah,” said Bader, hope glimmering in his eyes.
“Long are our memories,” added Valder.
“I see,” said Bader.
“But as to your question,” said Ulrik, “long are our traditions, too.”
Bader’s voice fell. “Oh,” he said, hope waning.
Ulrik continued. “Ever have we allied ourselves with the rightful High King, but in this case we remain neutral. As much as tradition and old friendships deem, I would not and will not come to the aid of a vile usurper, especially one from Garia.”
They sat for long moments, speaking not, but then Bader said, “You spoke of Jord’s alliance with rightful High Kings. Heed: we have sent to Black Mountain for a Seer. Perhaps even now one is in Challerain Keep. Should he find a rightful heir, then would you come to our cause?”
King Ulrik swirled the wine in his goblet. “As I said, Lord Bader—”
“Hai! But look at him run!” shouted Valder, leaping to his feet.
A large grey had broken free from the herd and fled across the wold, a group of mares running after. Riders pursued and fillies ran, but the grey outdistanced them all.
“By damn, Ulrik,” cried Valder, “I do want that steed.”
Back on the fringes of the main herd and above, kestrels cried and stooped upon the scatter of running prey.
9
Rood
The Boskydells is so named for it is made up of seven districts called “Dells”: Northdell, Eastdell, Southdell, Westdell, Centerdell, Updell in the northwest corner, and Downdell in the southeast. Roughly in the center of the Bosky lies the town of Rood, where the most serious of “official” business of the Dells is conducted. The great east-west Crossland Road runs through Rood and beyond. And from Rood the Two Fords Road fares northeast, aiming for faraway Challerain Keep, while to the southeast the Tineway heads toward distant Caer Pendwyr. And the Red Coach runs along these routes, with Rood being a main transfer point. Perhaps the town got its name because a rood is a cross and this is where roads cross. A cross is also an instrument of death, and some say that when the Warrows came, a gallows stood at this place, specifically where two paths crossed, and everyone knows that a crossroads is where the ghost of a hanged man would be trapped. Yet none had ever seen a ghost haunting the town, and so most dismissed the story of the gallows as merely being an old damman’s tale. Still that might be how Rood got its name. Regardless, Rood is where the Thornwalker headquarters sit, and since the Thornwalkers are charged with the protection of the Bosky, that’s where the debate had carried on for the past three years and would perhaps carry on for another three years or very much more. . . .
. . . And in those Thornwalker headquarters . . .
• • •
“I TELL YOU, Bradely, if the penny comes, we should ignore it.”
“Who says it’s honorable to support a usurper?”
Mayor Bradely sighed and said, “Tipperton Thistledown made a pledge long past; are we just going to disregard that?”
“Yar, there’s that,” replied Jem. “Tipperton’s vow. No doubt about it.”
Bradely frowned and said, “Me, I think the pledge was for all times, no matter who sits on the throne.”
“That can’t be right,” said Windlow, local captain of the Thornwalkers. “I mean, if Tipperton were here, what would he say?”
“Well, Tipperton ain’t here, so we’ll never know,” said Jem.
“But if he were—”
“He ain’t.”
“Jem’s right, Windlow,” said the mayor, “and there isn’t any use speculating on what someone who isn’t here might or might not say.”
Windlow rubbed his jaw. “I’ll tell you what: let’s send someone to the Caer and ask this—what’s his name? Arkov? Aye, Arkov—ask this King Arkov what he will do if we send the penny to him. See what his answer is. Be guided by what he responds.”
Alton Periwinkle spoke for the first time. “Who’s the best one to go?”
“Not you, Perry. You’re just as like to spit him with an arrow as to look him in the eye,” said Windlow.
“Oh-oh. I know, I know, send me, send me. I’ve always wanted to see what Caer Pendwyr looks like, and the Argon, too, and the Red Hills, and I’ve never seen an Elf or a Dwarf or—”
Now Windlow turned a gimlet eye toward Digby Thimbleweed. “Oh, my scatterbrained lad, you are just as apt to go haring off after butterflies along the way as you are to get to Pendwyr. Why, you’re likely to end up a thousand leagues elsewhere because you thought it would be interesting to talk to a Dragon or some such.”
“Would not.”
“Would too.”
“Well, I’ve never seen a Dragon either.”
“I say we send Arl,” said Mayor Bradely. “He’s the most experienced buccan we’ve got. I mean, he runs the Red Willow, and talks to Big Folk all the time. Lords and ladies and commoners alike.”
“Good idea,” said Jem. “Send Arl.”
“I’ll run fetch him. See if he’s willing.”
“He’ll need bodyguards. Perry and me,” said Digby.
“Diggs, I—”
“Ooo, and I’ve always wanted to ride the Red Coach.”
“Look, the Digger is right,” said Perry. “Arl will need bodyguards, and I’m best with a bow, and Dig has enough crazy ideas to get us out of whatever fix we might find ourselves in.”
“Crazy, Perry? My ideas aren’t crazy. Instead, I’m, I’m, well, I’m . . .”
“Creative.”
“Yar, Jem, that’s it. I’m creative.”
• • •
MONTHS PASSED, and months more, and the Red Coaches ran to and fro, but finally Arl and Perry and Digby returned to the Bosky.
“Well . . . ?”
“I don’t care if he does send the penny, I won’t serve him, ever.”
Mayor Bradley frowned. “Why not, Perry? Arl, what happened?”
“It took weeks and weeks just to get an audience,” said Arl.
“He didn’t even know what the Gjeenian penny meant,” said Perry.
“Even after we told him, he just laughed,” added Digby.
“He refused to come to our aid,” said Arl.
“Worst of all, he made us kneel,” growled Perry.
Taken aback, Captain Windlow said, “Damnation! Made you kneel?”
“Called us pipsqueaks, too,” said Digby, glancing at Perry. “Right?”
“Diggs, I would have shot him then and there,” said Perry, “but they made us leave our weapons at the gate.”
The mayor shook his head. “Let me get this straight, Arl: in spite of High King Blaine’s edict, Arkov made you kneel?”
“Yar. They forced us to our knees, like we were vassals or some such.”
“Well, that settles it then.”
10
The Maw
At the far eastern extent of the Grimwalls lies a broad and perilous plain; it stretches some two hundred miles across ere it fetches up against the western reach of the Grey Mountains. In winter, savage winds rage out from the north, out from the Untended Lands—the Barrens—and thunder over the wide expanse to visit violence upon the lands of Aralan and Xian in the south. Sometimes blinding snow is born on this fury; other times the wrath scours clean the terrain; and at yet other times the air is dead still, as if lying in wait for some ill-fated being to test his fortune by trying to cross over or through. In summer there is little relief, for warm westerlies from the Avagon Ocean collide with the frigid ones from the Boreal Sea and furious rainstorms flail this passage, trapped as they are in between the Grimwalls and the Greys, where the air on occasions is twisted into roaring funnels that can destroy a dwelling or a caravan in but a blink of an eye. Dwellers within or near this hazardous gape take extensive measures to protect themselves from its ragings, and travelers who frequently come nigh or traverse this dangerous course know its menace as well.
They call it the Maw, and strangers are warned.
But if one is on his way from west to east to visit the Wizards in Black Mountain in the Greys, there is no choice but to brave this crossing, for from the west the only route inward lies at the edge of the plain. . . .
. . . And on a summer eve in a wild storm, with the air shrieking arage and hail hammering from above . . .
• • •
“CAPTAIN EWAN!” cried Sergeant Kandor, shouting to be heard above the howl. “We’ve got to find shelter, else the horses are dead, to say naught of the men.”
Lightning flared and thunder crashed, and Ewan shouted back, “I know, Sergeant.”
Again lightning jagged down with a deafening Crack! followed by a bone-rattling, juddering Boom!
“Ahead, a vale!” called Corporal Deyer, pointing at a shoulder of foothills, the unseen bulks of the Greys just beyond.
“It could be perilous, Captain,” cried Kandor.
“Yes, Sergeant, I know, but we have little choice.”
Following Deyer, the squad rode toward the lee side of the hill, though with the furious swirl of the air, which was lee and which windward made the pick somewhat moot.
• • •
THEY HAD BEEN ON the journey for nearly six months and the remaining twenty-eight men and fifty-seven horses were weary from traveling. Yet, their goal—the Wizardholt known as Black Mountain—still lay a fortnight further away. It had taken two years of diplomatic squabbling for the Northern Alliance to form, two years of wasted time, or so Captain Ewan thought. And in that interval, no Seer had been found within the so-called rebel realms. And so, to meet with a Seer, Ewan and his company were given the task of escorting an envoy to Black Mountain, where Wizards were known to dwell.
They had started in the last week of winter, riding south from Challerain Keep and down through the realm of Harth, and then eastward through Lianion along the Crossland Road. Up through the frigid heights of Crestan Pass they had fared, with its ice and snow yet heavy-laden, even though it was then early spring. Nine men and seventeen horses had been lost to an avalanche at those perilous heights, and one of those men swept over the edge to their deaths was young Lord Dinfry, the emissary they were to escort to the Mages and back.
Captain Ewan had sent one man back to tell of Dinfry’s death, and then he and the remaining men had pushed on, knowing that to turn hindward would simply be to lose even more time. Another two men—unable to carry on—had stopped at the Baeron outpost on the way down; frostbite had taken their feet. Along the Landover Road in Riamon, three more had fallen victim to ague, and turned north for the healers in Dael. But the remaining men and horses continued onward, as
the days and weeks and months flowed by.
And on the last day of crossing the wide plain lying between the Grimwalls and the Greys, that’s when the storm had fallen upon them in fury, and, trapped in the open, they struggled through the thrashing downpour of frigid water—sporadically interleaved with torrents of battering hail—until at last they reached the foothills of the Greys and took refuge within. . . .
• • •
“NOT MUCH SHELTER, Captain,” called Corporal Deyer above the icy downpour now plummeting upon them.
They had ridden to a small stand of silver-birch, where the trees did cut the wind, though the overhanging branches provided scant relief from the bitter cascade and intermittent fusillades of hail.
“Off the mounts,” ordered Ewan. “Blankets to dry the horses, and give them shelter from the cold.”
“What about the men, Captain?” asked Sergeant Kandor.
“They’ll have to make do with their rain cloaks,” replied the captain. “The horses are vital; the men less so.”
Even as Ewan tended to his own mount along with his tethered packhorse, by lightning flash he scanned the surround. Not high enough upon the slopes, yet there is no shelter that way. As Kandor said, it could be perilous. I’ll go lower down into the vale and see what I can see.
As soon as his horses were cared for, in spite of the wind and rain, the captain managed to light a lantern, and then he called for Deyer.
“Sir?”
Ewan smiled. “You look like a bedraggled rat, Corporal.”
With his beard adrip and his hair plastered down around his face, Deyer laughed and said, “As do you, Captain.”
“No doubt,” replied Ewan. “Are your horses well set?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then you are with me.”
Down toward the bottom of the shallow vale they picked their way among the pale birch boles.
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