Stolen Crown

by Dennis L McKiernan

  As Caleen looked toward Rígán and blinked in confusion, “Then the rumors of Arkov making alliances with the Southers must be true,” said Halon.

  “Damn his eyes!” spat Catlin. “Siding with our enemies of old.”

  A silence fell upon all of them, but finally the Seer looked at the others and then back to Caleen. “Why not tell us when you first met her—Britta, I mean.”

  “All right,” said Caleen. She took a deep breath and began: “It was just before we came to Sjøen,” said Caleen. “I was in the workhouse—”

  “Where?” asked Rígán.

  “In Caer Pendwyr,” said Caleen.

  “The children’s workhouse in Caer Pendwyr?” asked Gretta.

  “Yes,” replied Caleen. “Until Britta took me, it was where I had spent most of my life.”

  Gretta nodded to herself, but did not again interrupt.

  Alric smiled at Caleen, encouraging her to go on, and she said, “One day they had all of us girls to stand in a row. A woman came—Aunt Britta—and she went up and down the line several times, looking closely at everyone.

  “Finally, she stopped at me and said I had good bones and promising features, and would be acceptable when I grew up. Then she told me she had found me at last. She said she was my mother’s sister, and that I was now free to live with her.” Caleen looked at Alric and said, “I was so glad she had found me that I cried, for I had a family at last.”

  “You never knew your mother?” asked Rígán.

  Caleen shook her head. “Nor my father.”

  “Neither did I,” said Rígán. “Neither mother nor father.”

  For the first time Caleen looked at Rígán with sympathy in her gaze.

  “I never knew my father,” said Alric.

  Gretta sat silent.

  “Go on, child,” said Driu.

  “We sailed away on a ship.”

  “What kind of ship was it?” asked Catlin. “Jutlander, like Britta said?”

  “Yes,” said Caleen, while at the very same time Driu shook her head and said, “No.”

  “No?” asked Caleen, looking at Driu. “But Aunt Britta said—”

  “’Twas another of her lies,” said Driu.

  “What kind was it?” asked Conal.

  “An Albaner,” said the Seer.

  “One of Arkov’s allies,” said Gretta. “They aided him to overthrow King Valen.”

  Morosely, Conal nodded, and again a silence fell upon them all.

  Timorously, Caleen smiled at Alric and entwined her fingers with his.

  Gretta noted the gesture and glowered at Caleen and said, “You do not speak like the little guttersnipe you are.”

  “Gretta!” snapped Conal.

  Alric looked at his mother in surprise. Gretta turned her face away from the girl, but said no more.

  “On the ship,” said Caleen, a bite in her words, “Aunt Britta schooled me in the proper way to speak Common, and in table manners, and other such things. And when we got here, she continued teaching me, including how to read and write.”

  “At least she did that much good,” said Catlin, now glaring at Gretta.

  “What of this tale of your aunt, of Britta, being . . . molested?” asked Gretta.

  “Molested?” asked Caleen.

  “She means being hurt by the men on the ship,” said Driu.

  “Oh, I think it must have been terrible, though she bore no scars afterward. But when they tortured her, it was when she went to the captain’s cabin and I could hear her moaning.”

  Conal barked a laugh, and Halon and Ris and Catlin smiled in understanding.

  “What of this tale of being thrown overboard?” asked Gretta, still not looking at the child.

  “Oh, that’s true,” said Caleen, and Driu nodded in affirmation.

  “They tossed us into the sea, but Britta kept me from drowning and she found a floating plank nearby. We paddled away, and the ship turned and sailed off.”

  “’Twas to make the story ring true,” said Driu. “After all, Caleen, believing the lie, would buttress her aunt’s tale.”

  “Then what about the birds?” asked Gretta.

  “All I know is that she kept three,” said Caleen. “One night a man came, and the next day was gone, and after that Aunt Britta had three birds. I liked them; they were pretty. Now and again she would let me feed them. They were nice and gentle.”

  Caleen fell silent, and finally Conal said, “We need to give her shelter.”

  “What?” asked Gretta.

  “I mean,” said Conal, “she cannot stay in the village, not with tempers as high as they are. They are like to kill her out of hand simply because of her ‘aunt.’”

  “Well, she cannot stay here,” said Gretta. “She is nothing but a Lowborn—”

  “Gretta,” warned Conal harshly.

  Gretta clenched her teeth and finally said, “I cannot let her turn Alric’s head, nor for that matter, Reyer’s.”

  Caleen frowned and looked at Rígán, as if wondering why anyone would call him Reyer.

  “She will stay with us,” said Halon, with Ris nodding her approval.

  “Stay with the Dylvana?” asked Caleen, her voice rising with hope. “You want me to stay with the Elves?”

  “Yes, child,” said Halon. “We will raise you as our own.”

  26

  Schemes

  In the Grey Mountains in the Realm of Xian there sits an ebon Wizardholt. ’Tis Black Mountain, where at the time of this tale, Mages to recover the life force given up during the Great War of the Ban. Were they on their home world of Vadaria, they would have already recovered what they had spent. Yet with the destruction of Rwn, the only known crossing had been lost; that and the sundering of the ways precluded any attempt to return to Vadaria e’en were there an in-between known. And so the Mages and recover, there in the dark stone mountain, a place of infinite possibility.

  And somewhere within this fortress there exists a great spherical chamber, in the middle of which is a huge globe rotating slowly on a tilted axis. It is not told just how large is the orb, yet it is certainly several times man-height. A catwalk leads to a sturdy, latticed framework enclosing the sphere, and on one wall of the chamber is a lensed lantern in a housing affixed to a track marked with days and seasons running full ’round the room.

  Designed by the Mages but crafted by the Dwarves, the globe is an accurate map of Mithgar, and the lantern represents the sun. The moon itself is missing from this depiction, yet it will be added some day.

  That the world is a ball might surprise some, but not the members of Wizardry, for they ken the truth of the matter.

  Yet not only are the lands and waters delineated thereon, but the globe itself is riddled with glints—some dazzling, some dark. Each bright spark represents one of White Magekind, and each dark glimmer one of those of the Black; one might speculate how this is done, yet only the Wizards know for certain.

  And at the place of one of the shadowy gleams, there in the depths of the Grimwalls . . .

  • • •

  “MASTER,” cried Radok, clattering down the stone stairwell, “a message, a bird, from Gelen, from Kell.”

  But Nunde was not in the laboratory, and so Radok’s call went unheeded.

  Whirling, Radok stepped back into the corridor where stood a Hlôk on guard. [Where is the Master?] snarled Radok in Slûk.

  Cringing in fear and bobbing in subservience, the Hlôk grunted wordlessly and pointed toward the end of the hall where lay Nunde’s chambers.

  Now it was Radok who cringed, for to disturb Nunde in his quarters . . .

  Yet the message was vital, and so, dreading what might happen, Radok crept toward the far end of the hall, while the tongueless Hlôk behind him smirked, now that the tables were turned.

>   Lightly, Radok tapped at the heavy bronze door, and whispered, “Master?” Yet he knew the sound did not penetrate.

  Screwing up his courage, he reached for the speaking tube and spoke into the funnel. “Master, a message, a bird, from Gelen.”

  With his ear pressed against the bell of the horn, again Radok cringed as he heard Nunde curse. But then Nunde bade him to enter.

  Lifting the latch and grunting with the effort, Radok pushed open the door and stood on the sill, waiting. And sitting on the edge of the wide dark bed in which a fresh female corpse lay splayed, Nunde gestured the apprentice to enter.

  Radok passed by the altar with its still warm basin of blood and handed the message capsule to his master.

  A moment later, Nunde gave a triumphant laugh. “The boy survived the raid of the fortnight past. Good! Now my plans go forward in spite of that blundering fool.”

  “Blundering fool, Master?”

  “Mosaam bin Abu, you idiot. Had the raid succeeded, then Arkov would no longer be my unwitting catspaw.”

  “Catspaw, Master?”

  “My ignorant dupe.”

  With this latter remark, the apprentice did not know whether his master referred to Arkov or to Radok himself.

  Smiling, Nunde looked at Radok, and the apprentice cringed in response. “Radok, let me explain my glorious design.”

  Clothed only by his own waist-length hair, Nunde paced back and forth, elaborate gestures punctuating his words, his voice glowing at his own cleverness.

  Radok stood speechless, not only because to interrupt his master might be fatal, but also because of the deviousness of Nunde’s plan.

  And when Nunde finished, Radok said, “Oh, Master, how, how . . .”

  “Ingenious?” supplied Nunde.

  “The very word, Master, the very word.”

  “Yes, it is,” said Nunde, preening. But then his face twisted in a scowl. “Yet first, I must deal with the one who nearly wrecked all my plans.”

  Still unclothed, Nunde stepped to a small escritoire and quickly penned a note on a tissue-thin strip. He then stood and slipped the message into a capsule, all the while looking at the corpse on his bed. He handed the capsule to Radok. “This goes to Chabba, to the m’alik himself.”

  “Fadal, Master?”

  “Of course, idiot,” snapped Nunde, and he turned toward the bed. “Now go, and leave me to my pleasures.”

  “Yes, Master,” said Radok, glancing at the black satin sheets and the throat-cut female thereon. Then he spun on his heel and raced toward the cotes, for the sun would soon rise, and he would dispatch the bird ere then, for he would not delay his master’s order.

  Within moments, a black Grimwall Corvus winged on its way, the message tied to its leg.

  And heartbeats later the sun rose, yet it found no one on the dark ramparts above, for all those so banned cringed in the chambers below, shut away from Adon’s light.

  27

  Allies

  As an eagle might fly, it is just over four thousand miles from the Island of Kell in the Weston Ocean to the city of Khalísh in Hyree. But by Kistanian ship the journey is much longer, for a bird wages over both water and land, whereas the oceangoing vessel must sail the brine. Hence, by water, a craft would first fare southerly from Kell to reach the Straits of Kistan and then southeasterly to reach the goal of Khalísh, a journey of some five thousand miles. But given the fickleness of Ruella, the goddess of the winds, there are calms and doldrums with “irons” to escape, or storms and blows with shrieking winds to battle, and the tacking alone adds at least half again as many miles as one would think. Even so, the surviving crew of the Kistanian Rovers sailed into port some fifty days after the raid on the farm. A black desert kite was immediately dispatched to the capital of Chabba, and shortly thereafter a dark gull flew across the Avagon Sea, aiming for cotes of the Chabbain embassy in Caer Pendwyr.

  And from that embassy the new ambassador, Kaleem bin Aziz, called upon King Arkov.

  And in the throne room emptied of all but three . . .

  • • •

  “I BRING NEWS FROM KELL, my lord.”

  “At last,” growled Arkov.

  “The raid failed; the boy yet lives.”

  “Sranje!” cursed Arkov, slamming his fist against the arm of the throne. He leapt to his feet and strode to a window and looked out upon the Avagon Sea, where sheets of rain fell from the somber skies above.

  Counselor Baloff turned to the ambassador. “And you know this how?”

  “The Kistanian ship docked in Khalísh a fortnight past, and messenger birds were sent. It confirms what M’alik Fadal has known for weeks.”

  Arkov whirled about. “Fadal has known this for weeks?”

  “Aye, sire.”

  Arkov stalked over and glared down at the short dark man. “And yet you withheld that knowledge?”

  Kaleem inclined his head in assent and said what he had been instructed to say: “We waited for confirmation, my lord.” Then he spread his fine-boned hands wide. “We thought surely your own agents in Kell would have sent you word.”

  Arkov ground his teeth in frustration. “Out! Leave my presence!”

  Kaleem bowed and backed away. “As you will, my lord. As you will.”

  Baloff accompanied the ambassador to the door of the chamber, and when they had stepped clear of it, the counselor asked, “Is there aught else you would tell us?”

  “Just this,” said the small dark man. “If the boy is truly Valen’s heir, that he has survived will make the Northern Alliance even stronger. I think your own forces are woefully inadequate to meet them in combat, and the army we are assembling to send to your aid must be strengthened.”

  • • •

  ARKOV ONCE AGAIN STOOD at the window overlooking the sea. The skies continued to weep, wind-driven rain sweeping across the white chop below. “Did you hear what that little brown pile of gnoj said?” Arkov took on a mincing tone: “‘Surely your own agents in Kell would have sent you word.’ As if we had any agents left on that cursed isle.”

  Baloff shook his head. “Even so, my lord, he was right. If Petja yet lives, she should have sent a bird.”

  “Think you she has turned against us?”

  “Perhaps, my lord. Perhaps she has joined with the people of Sjøen, she and that little girl.”

  “I am besieged by traitors and fools,” growled Arkov. He turned away from the window and strode to the throne and flopped down. “At least we know why Abu suddenly and mysteriously died.”

  “Mosaam bin Abu?”

  “Yes, Baloff. That’s what I said.”

  Baloff made no comment, for it seemed Arkov was intent on not recognizing the difference between any Chabbain’s given and surnames.

  As Baloff took his customary seat at the side of the dais, he said, “My lord, what I meant was that I don’t understand why he died, though rumors say he was poisoned.”

  “Abu failed, Baloff. First, it took two years just to get the mission under way, and then his so-called Silent Shadows bungled the assignment; they did not slay the child. Fadal has known Abu’s blunder for some time, and so the m’alik had that incompetent killed.”

  They sat in silence for long moments, each lost in his own thoughts. Finally, Arkov said, “As much as I hate to admit it, this new ambassador, Aziz, has a point: it will make the Northern Alliance stronger. We should ask Fadal for more aid.”

  Baloff groaned softly and said, “I think it will cause the unrest in Hoven and Jugo and Riamon to grow.”

  “Let it,” snarled Arkov. “After we destroy the Alliance, then we will deal with them.”

  Again a stillness fell upon the two, finally broken by Arkov, who murmured, “Fadal is a good ally to have.”

  Baloff wondered whether Arkov meant for his thought to be silent or said aloud.


  • • •

  WITH RAIN FALLING FROM a dismal sky, Kaleem bin Aziz, from the covered carriage in which he rode, marveled at how the tile roofs of Caer Pendwyr channeled the precious liquid into the cisterns and wells below. He would make a note of this and pass it on to his superiors in the palace of M’alik Fadal. As much as the Chabbains loathed the Pellarians, still this was a good way to gather such a harvest against more arid times.

  Kaleem then smiled to himself, for the meeting with Arkov had gone just as planned. Then he laughed aloud, but quietly, for he knew that the fool of a usurper and his aide would draw an erroneous conclusion over the news of Kaleem’s predecessor. But Kaleem had deduced the truth behind the m’alik’s decision, and, no doubt, that of the m’alim in the dark mountains far north. For Kaleem had perhaps determined the master’s grand scheme, and so would not make the same mistake: Mosaam bin Abu had been recalled and eliminated not because he had failed to kill the boy, but rather because he had nearly succeeded.

  28

  Escort

  When adversaries of old with millennia of bad blood between them unite against a common foe, the wrongs of yore simply do not vanish but instead lie smoldering ’neath. The antagonists keep wary, vigilant eyes upon one another, seeking signs of betrayal, treachery, duplicity. There lies no trust twixt the two, for their past encounters with one another most often have been in brutal retribution. Even so, when faced with a mutual adversary, there is an old saying: the enemy of my enemy is my friend. . . . At least for a while, that is.

  In Mithgar, even among nations within the High King’s realm, bitter is the blood that often fills the cups of individual warring monarchs. And one of the High King’s roles is to settle such disputes fairly. Yet when the Usurper took the throne for himself, seldom did any bring their grievances to him, for though they trusted one another not, they trusted Arkov even less.

  And among ancient and recurrent antagonists, the nations of Jute and Fjordland seemed ever in conflict—not continuous war but sporadic assaults instead. It began centuries agone, when both were in the same ravaging pursuit—the business of looting and pillaging and raiding, plundering from others that which they themselves had not earned, neither by the labor of their hands nor the sweat of their brow. Each raided the seaside villages and river cities of Thol and Rian and Gothon and Basq and Vancha and the Gelen Isles. Each in their Dragonboats, each with swift and lethal strikes. At times their raids brought them into conflict with one another, when, on rare occasion, they came upon a town being raided that they themselves had come to spoil. At other times they found their intended victims had already been sacked by their rival. But one side then made the mistake of marauding a town of the other—just which one did this first has always been in dispute. Yet, given that instance, there began the assaults and killings of reprisal, of vengeance, retaliation, and of settling scores both new and old. And in spite of the efforts of various High Kings down through the centuries, the enmity and revenge never ended.