Yet following the Quest of the Dragonstone, of Arin Flameseer and Egil One-Eye’s union, Fjordland slowly became a seafaring nation of trade: they left their old plundering ways behind. Oh, they still sought vengeance against the Jutes—answering incursions with incursions, raids with raids, and killings with killings, for even the great Fjordlander Egil One-Eye could not let such things go without answer. And as for the Jutes, they, as well, let not such things pass . . . especially with their mad monarchs sitting on the Black Throne, Hadron being the first to do so. Even though he began his reign perfectly lucid of mind, he slowly went insane, gradually coming to believe all those about him—as well as those afar—were plotting his downfall. And all who have sat upon the Black Throne since then, they have gone mad in their turn. It was and is commonly believed that a curse or bad blood in the Jutland royal line did and will always lead to an irrational occupant of the Black Throne. But the dukes, counts, and viscounts, even down unto the barons of that realm, use this madness to promote their own ends, feeding the monarch’s unfounded fears and suspicions of the Fjordlanders and others to play upon the fixation, hence furthering the ambitions of the members of the royal court. And thus, with one side driven by a madman and perceived persecution, and the other by ancient hatred and vengeance, no High King of Mithgar had ever managed to settle once and for all the adamant hostility between the two.
Yet using the enemy-of-my-enemy argument, Lord Aarnson of Thol managed to tentatively unite these two implacable foes in the cause of the Northern Alliance for the duration it would require. Even so, in Reyer’s fourteenth year, it took Vanidar Silverleaf the full of it to negotiate an escort to ferry the fifteen-year-old true High King of Mithgar on the first leg of his investment journey. For they would be sailing through the northern reach of the Ryngar Arm of the Weston Ocean there along the border of Jute, and Silverleaf trusted not the mad king.
During these long negotiations, birds flew—some to Challerain Keep, others to Fjordland, and still others to Kell—all messages couched in an obscure code, all citing the painfully slow progress of the talks.
Yet occasionally a bird would fly from Jute to Caer Pendwyr, followed by a dark bird winging to the Grimwall Mountains and another to Chabba. And once in a while a bird would fly from Challerain Keep to the Usurper’s royal towers in Caer Pendwyr, followed by a flurry of birds flying from Arkov to allies in Alban, with birds flying in return.
But at last the negotiations came to an end, and on an appointed day in the fifteenth year of Reyer called Rígán, in the seaside city of Sjøen . . .
• • •
. . . FRANTICALLY THE ALARM SOUNDED—the striking of sledge on the great hanging loop of iron—the clangor calling all to arms. A hammer of running feet pounded on the wooden sidewalks, and men shouted and pulled their war axes from wall racks and headed for the seaside docks. Women wailed and gathered their children, and headed up the inland slopes toward the reaches of the Elven forest above.
Tessa stepped out from her tea room and grabbed a lad flying past by the arm, swinging him about to face her. “What is it, Ragnar? What’s—”
“Jutlander Dragonships. A fleet. Coming from the south. A hundred or more.”
Tessa’s heart leapt to her throat, but ere she could ask further, Ragnar jerked loose and fled. Tessa hiked up her dress and belted it anew so that the hem fell just to her knees. Then she ran into her shop and to a back room and slipped into a heavy leather vest and snatched up her Fjordlander-style fighting axe. As she sped toward the docks—What would a hundred Dragonships want with the likes of Sjøen?
When she reached the wharves, some men were there and more came running, along with a handful of women. With axes in hand, all were dressed for battle: leather vests—some with small bronze plates affixed like scales on a fish. A few had the iron helms of their ancestors, and many bore round, metal-bossed shields.
None gainsaid the women, for, like Tessa at her five foot eight, they were as tall as many of the men and certainly taller than some. Besides, this was the Isle of Kell, where women oft fought at the sides of their men.
“Has anyone sent for the Elves?” Tessa asked.
“I think so,” said a smaller man at hand.
“What of the tiarna?”
“Him, too. I sent Ragnar to the stables to ride to Conal’s holt.”
No wonder he jerked away.
“Good,” said Tessa, now braiding her long yellow hair.
“I count twelve!” called the lookout on the watchtower.
Twelve?
“No more?” shouted up Tarl, the unofficial mayor of Sjøen.
“Just twelve.”
Better than the hundred Ragnar reported. Even so, ’tis more than we alone can handle. Tessa turned and looked upslope toward the distant tree line. Without the Elves we are lost.
“Do they all fly the double eagle?” called up someone.
“Aye,” came the response.
Jutes, all right.
Tarl leapt upon a large keg and turned to the assembly. “Gather ’round.”
As he began reviewing the battle plans and calling out assignments, Tessa kept an eye toward the woodland above, yet no Elves appeared.
Where are they?
While some of the men ran back to their homes to fetch bows and arrows and crossbows and bolts, barricades were erected, and the Jutland Dragonships drew on.
The men returned with the missile casters and were stationed atop several buildings nearby.
And still the fleet neared. Single-masted all and square sailed, with their hulls clinker-built they swiftly cut the waves.
And the Elves did not appear.
Nor the tiarna.
Within a candlemark the Jutes reached the small bay, where, instead of beaching their craft and leaping ashore with weapons in hand, they struck their sails and dropped anchor and remained out in the cove just south of the town.
“What are they doing?” asked Tessa, peering over the newly erected bulwark.
“I don’t—” began the man who had stayed by her side, but just then the lookout called, “Sails ho! From the north. Fjordlanders!”
This brought a cheer from the people of Sjøen.
“How many?” shouted up Tarl.
“Looks to be twelve, all flying the Red Dragon.”
“By Garlon, there’s something afoot here,” declared Tarl.
Tessa shook her head, a rueful grin on her face. I shouldn’t wonder, Tarl old sod.
And they waited . . . as did the Jutes.
Whispered conversations murmured throughout the townsfolk—speculations, rumors, wild guesses.
And still the Elves did not appear.
Soon, and just to the north of the town, the Fjordlanders struck their own sails and dropped anchor as well.
And even as they did so, a sloop rounded the headland. And high on its mast flew the gold and white standard of Thol.
The sloop headed for a pier and struck its sails to glide to a stop dockside.
The lithe helmsman threw a rope to a waiting hand, and then leapt from the ship to the wharf.
’Twas an Elf. ’Twas Vanidar. ’Twas Silverleaf.
And from the forest above, armed and armored Dylvana slowly came riding down.
Silverleaf now sprang to the top of the barricade and gestured toward the Jutes to the south and the Fjordlanders to the north and called out to the townsfolk: “They come in peace to escort the High King on the first leg of his journey to his castle at Challerain Keep.”
High King?
Challerain?
“Are you talking about that Usurper?” shouted someone.
Someone else spat on the ground and snarled, “That Arkov bastard?”
More shouts followed.
Silverleaf threw up his hands and waited until the cursing died down. “Nay! Not
Arkov. But King Valen’s own son.”
What?
King Valen’s—?
Just who—?
Again Silverleaf threw up his hands, and when quiet was restored, he said, “You know him as Rígán, yet his true name is Reyer. He is the rightful High King.”
Tessa’s hand flew to her mouth. Rígán? The High King? Oh my, but wouldn’t you know? And here I’ve bossed him about, telling him to wipe his feet and such, and not get jelly all over. Him and that Alric. But now it wouldn’t surprise me if Alric himself isn’t a high lord or some such.
Once more questions and shouts erupted, but then the Dylvana arrived and quietly rode in among the gathering, and their presence seemed to calm the assembly.
“’Tis true,” said Silverleaf. “Rígán is Reyer, the son of Valen, and we are here to escort him to Challerain for his investment. The Northern Alliance stands behind him, and he will one day soon assume rule o’er all the nations under the High King’s sway.”
Tessa shivered. War is coming.
Mired in the death and destruction of the times she herself had been in battle, she lost track of what was said over the next few moments, but came to the dialogue again when Silverleaf said, “The Jutes and the Fjordlanders are united in this, and they come in peace, so call your women and children down from the forest, they are in no danger.”
“I will fetch them,” said Elissan, one of the Dylvana.
As Elissan turned her grey about, Silverleaf looked at Tarl and said, “Now if I might, I’ll signal the captains to bring their crews ashore.” Tarl nodded, and Vanidar raised a silver horn to his lips and sounded a call. At the signal the individual crews of the Jutes and the Fjordlanders began raising anchor and deploying oars, preparing to beach the craft. Vanidar turned to Tarl and added, “Try to not let them mingle o’ermuch, else they’re like to renew their old strife.”
Tessa broke out into laughter.
• • •
DRIU TURNED TO CONAL AND SAID, “They are here.”
“Both?”
The Seer nodded and took up her rune stones and slipped them back into the bag.
“I’ll call in the family and hands,” said Gretta. She stepped to the side porch and took up the metal rod and began ringing the iron triangle. Soon all were gathered in the foreyard, and Conal, standing on the stoop, said, “The ships are here”—he glanced at Driu—“and Silverleaf?” Driu nodded. Conal smiled. “Yes, Silverleaf, too. Well and good. Anyway, as we have discussed these last few days, some of us will stay and mind the farm, while others accompany Reyer on his journey.”
Alric grinned, as did Durgan, for they would be in Reyer’s train. Catlin frowned, Cuán, too, for they were among those who would remain—Cuán to manage the farm; Catlin to manage the house. Catlin turned and spat on the ground, and mumbled, “I wouldn’t want to be in the company of them Jutlanders, anyway.” Then she turned to Conal and said aloud, “You mind them Jutes, you hear me. Treacherous swine that they are.” She glanced at the sty and added, “I mean no offense to Molly and hers.”
In that moment, calling at the top of his lungs, a lad on a roan came galloping out from the woodland. He was too far away for the words to be understood, all but “Tiarna,” that is. Arriving at last, he haled the steed up short, and leapt to the ground and ran through the gathering toward Conal, his words tumbling over one another to get the message out; the blowing and snorting roan pranced and sidled, adding an unspoken urgency to the lad’s errand.
“Slow down, Ragnar,” said Conal, as the boy came running up.
“Two hundred Jutland ships, Tiarna,” babbled the lad. “Come to murther us all.”
“I told you,” shrieked Catlin, and empty hands reached for weapons absent from their sides.
Startled, Conal looked at Driu, and the Seer shook her head, a faint smile playing at her lips. “Twelve, no more, as agreed. Twelve from Fjordland, too. And one from Thol, with Vanidar aboard.” Then she laughed and said, “Methinks Ragnar, here, took to horse ere a proper count was made.”
“Ah,” said Conal, and all in the gathering relaxed, all but Catlin, who muttered under her breath, her words unheard.
Conal looked at the boy and said, “Ragnar, the ships are here in peace. Come into the house. We’ll get you a bite to eat, and then you can ride back at a leisurely pace; I have a message I would have you deliver into Silverleaf’s hand. That, and you can tell everyone the High King will arrive three days hence; we have packing to do.”
Ragnar’s eyes flew wide. “The High King? In Sjøen?”
“Indeed.”
“Pardon, Tiarna, but I think none will welcome Arkov.”
“No, no, lad, not Arkov.” Conal glanced at Reyer and smiled. Then he turned back to the boy and said, “No, Ragnar. Not Arkov. The true High King instead. . . .”
• • •
ON THE THIRD MORNING, just after dawn, an entourage of Dylvana Elves and Humans rode into the streets of Sjøen. With the ring of his father now on his left hand—the scarlet stone winging crimson glitters to the eye—Reyer rode in the lead, Alric at his left side, Durgan on Steel on his right, and Durgan bore a standard planted in his stirrup cup, with the flag of the High King wafting in the morning breeze: a Golden Griffin rampant on a scarlet field. The flag was one borne into battle by Conal when he was a new cadet in the High King’s service, and it had lain in a chest for many long years, furled and unseen. Yet its time had come once again.
The streets were lined with the citizens of Sjøen, and with the crews of the Dragonships, several of whom had bruises and one or two with broken noses and some with black eyes. Yet no one had been slain, and all had finally been brought to task by the various captains of Jute and Fjordland.
And all men bowed and all women curtseyed as Reyer rode past. Reyer smiled and nodded, yet when he fared by Tessa and she raised her gaze from her deep curtsey, he winked. She did not respond in any manner, for this occasion was overwhelmingly solemn to her. He was, in the end, gangling lad or no, the High King of them all.
The lading of the ships began—with goods, water, food, grain, horses, and other such, along with those who would be going.
As that got under way—ships docking, filling, pulling back—down from the woodland rode Ris, and at her side fared black-haired Caleen dressed in Elven garments—pale blue and white—and riding a dappled horse, and though but a maiden in her first teens she was striking in her silken raiment.
She curtseyed to Reyer, but she embraced Alric and whispered something in his ear.
Off to one side Gretta looked on, her gaze somehow less unfavorable, for perhaps Caleen wasn’t a guttersnipe after all. Even so, Gretta was determined that Alric would not marry a Lowborn—slender and beautiful or no.
At length all stood ready—the ships fully laded and their captains anxious to catch the good wind that had come.
Finally, and last, Reyer—fifteen and nearly six feet tall—stood on a keg before the assembly and said, “Thank you for my safekeeping. I shall try to serve well. Someday I will return and we shall all have tea and red-berry jam-spread scones at Tessa’s Tea Room.”
This brought a quiet smile to Tessa.
Reyer was about to step down, but Conal gave a nearly imperceptible shake of his head. And then unofficial Mayor Tarl called out, “Three cheers for High King Reyer! Long may he rule!”
When the echoes of the shouts died away, Caleen again curtseyed to Reyer and kissed Alric, tears in her eyes. And then the two lads stepped aboard the sloop, and Silverleaf cast off.
• • •
THE LATE-MORNING TIDE and the brisk wind carried all ships out to sea, a few fishing boats riding along with the flotilla to see them away. And all the Dragonships as well as the Tholian sloop flew the scarlet and gold, for it was now a King’s fleet that sailed into the deep.
Both Reyer and Alric sat in th
e back of the craft and watched Sjøen recede, Caleen now but a small figure standing on the dock. And though neither lad would admit it, their hearts seemed like unto choke them.
29
Ryngar
The Ryngar Arm of the Weston Ocean is a bight that loops ’round three sides of Jute, the wide sea occupying the fourth; hence one might say that Jute itself is an island, though no one thinks of it that way, for it is embraced by the continent, with Thol just across the channel to the full of the north, Gothon to the whole of the south, and Wellen and Trellinath completely occupying the east. These waters are not without dispute, for some small islands lie in the midst of the northern and eastern reaches of the bight, the islands not only claimed by Jute but by Thol as well, though a few are claimed by Trellinath. In the past, High Kings have affirmed that most of these isles lie outside the offshore limit of three sea leagues from any of these lands and thus are free and independent of anyone’s domain but for the inhabitants themselves and, of course, that of the High King. But those isles that lie within the traditional three sea league bounds of a nation, then those lands are within the rule of the associated domain. Yet the islanders themselves—mostly fishermen and farmers and a few craftsmen—are banded together by what they call the Confederacy. A loose-knit union, it is, of all the isles, whether they are within or without the three sea leagues. In general, the Confederacy has but meager business to conduct, except for trade carried out by the independent islander boats selling their fish. Still the scattered members fly a unified flag—a field of blue dotted with white stars, one for each of the isles. As for any given island, it is presided over by an Überbergermeister, elected by the people of the villages thereon. Typically, it is but an honorary appointment, with little or nothing to do except to attend or to host a gathering of all of the Überbergermeisters in an annual meeting of the heads of the Confederacy. On these occasions, each one acts as spokesman for his isle. Most of the union’s inhabitants think that these meetings are simply an excuse by the Überbergermeisters to get together and drink a copious amount of ale. The Überbergermeisters themselves do not deny this.
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