Stolen Crown
Page 19
When the fleet sailed on, they left behind the six barks to be sold for wergild, for many of the relatives of the people of Øygrøn had lived on the isle of Øysmå. As to the Albaners, all were now dead, for the verdict of this isle of the Confederacy was harsh.
• • •
SOME EIGHT DAYS LATER the Wellen port of Roadsend hove into view.
It was the fleet’s final destination.
30
Progression
Oft in Mithgar a king and his court will take to the road and visit the cities and the nobility in that king’s realm. The king will not leave his castle unmanned or the country unled, but instead the king’s appointed charge shall rule—a prince, a princess, a steward, or at times an armsmaster. While the king is away, the chosen ward will sit in judgment on all matters brought before the court, with exceptions as outlined by the king—capital cases being one.
But the king himself will dine elsewhere—with dukes and earls and barons and mayors and such—at the royal houses throughout the land as well as those of the mayoralties. Often, though, the retinue will stop by a village inn for refreshments during travel, and pity the poor taverner who might just barely be scraping by, for in the main it seems neither the king nor any of his attendants ever pay for aught. There are exceptions, of course, but many kings consider it a royal right to simply take and not give.
The dukes, earls, viscounts, barons, mayors, and other hosts of the king and his coterie see these sojourns as both a bane and a boon, for on the one hand the visits deplete their larders—and thus their treasuries—but on the other hand they have the king’s ear to press for favors—lands, rights, alleviations, beneficial marriages, king’s grants, and such.
Thus across their realms fare king’s progressions, or so they are called. . . .
Yet in some lands they are known by other names, one of which is . . .
• • •
“A RAID? We are going on a raid?”
“No, Reyer, not r-a-i-d, but r-a-d-e,” said Conal. “’Tis a fine old Kellian word, meaning a special kind of ride, one where the people can see you . . . you and your entourage. And we are going on a rade.”
“Is that why we didn’t sail directly to the city of Ander in Rian, there on the Boreal Sea?” asked Reyer. “—So that we could go on this rade, I mean.”
Conal smiled and nodded. “Aye. That and other reasons.”
“What other reasons?” asked Alric.
“This time of year the Boreal is too tempestuous for safe passage. Too, we would be exposed on a longer sea voyage, and should the Kistanian raiders come at us for a second attack, they would have more opportunities to do us in.”
“Them, or the Albaners who did come at us,” said Alric.
“Just so,” said Conal. Then he smiled and said, “By the way we go, not only will Jute, Fjordland, and Thol have had a hand in your journey, but also will Wellen and the Boskydells, and a bit of the Wilderland, along with Rian.”
“Ah,” said Alric, “more countries involved.”
“Indeed,” said Conal. “More invested in the High King, in Reyer. Hence, we are going on a rade.”
Reyer looked across a short expanse of water toward the town of Roadsend, where they were to make landfall. “A rade to Challerain Keep,” said Reyer, his words not a question.
“Yes, where the Northern Alliance will invest you as High King, now that you are of an age to be so named.”
“Will we be visiting every city in Reyer’s sovereignty?” asked Alric.
“Oh, no,” said Conal. “We haven’t the time.”
Reyer nodded and said, “Besides, we have a war to fight ere visiting some parts of the realm.”
Distressed at the thought, Gretta glanced at Alric even as Conal sighed and said, “Ah, yes, there is that to do.”
“Still, ’twill be nice to ride a horse again ’stead of this rolling craft,” said Alric, “especially out front with the forerunners.”
Gretta shook her head. “You will ride at Reyer’s right hand. It is the proper place for you.”
“But I am Harlingar,” protested Alric. “I should be in the vanguard, with lance and saber, and even a bow.”
“When you are fifteen you may make your own choices, but until then you will do as I say.”
“But, Mother, I am fifteen.”
At her son’s words, stark realization flashed over Gretta’s face, but then she said, “Even so.”
An unspoken plea in his gaze, Alric looked at Conal.
Conal said, “Gretta?”
Her jaw jutted out and she said, “Fifteen or no, just as we must protect Reyer, so, too, must we protect Alric.”
Conal pursed his lips and nodded, and the air went out of Alric, and he muttered under his breath, “It’s not fair.”
At Alric’s side, Reyer said, “To be sure.”
Alric hissed, “When you are King, set me free of these shackles.”
Reyer nodded.
At the tiller Silverleaf called out, “Alric, wouldst thou like to bring her in?”
“What?”
“Wouldst thou dock the Gull?”
Alric’s glower was replaced by a smile. “Aye, Captain, I would.”
“Then thou to the helm and Reyer to the sheets.”
Reyer laughed and said, “All hands, prepare for ramming.”
• • •
ROADSEND WAS MORE THAN pleased to host the High King and his retinue, and the White Falcon Inn provided room and board for the King’s immediate party. The Fjordlanders and Jutes instead took to the Broken Spar—an inn, a tavern, and a bordello—where they jointly celebrated their victory over the Albaners. News traveled like wildfire, accompanied by rumors—
—Fjordlanders and Jutes celebrating together? Must be th’ end of the w’rld.
—The High King’s fleet sunk the entire Alban navy?
—Nar, but a goodly portion of them—ten, twenty ships, I hear.
—Old Malak is like t’have a fallin’ down fit when he gets the news.
—Malak, y’say? No, I say that Arkov’ll be the one who falls down in a foaming rage.
—Did y’see all them Golden Griffins flying high on the masts? Liked to burst my heart with joy.
—Yar, but I hear the Albaners were sailing under our flag?
—Under the falcon, you say?
—That’s what one o’ th’ Fjordlanders said.
—Then I hope they all died in agony.
—and so the stories went.
• • •
A SEVENDAY LATER, ere departing on the first leg of the rade to Challerain Keep, and in spite of Gretta’s protestations that it was not a suitable place for Reyer and Alric to be, accompanied by a cordon of Dylvana, the lads went to the Broken Spar. There, Reyer stood upon a table before the Dragonship captains and crew, as well as the women of the Spar, and he thanked the Jutes and Fjordlanders for their gallant service. Unfortunately, he also wished them well in their unity, which caused jostling and shoving among them, until Riessa snatched up a metal stein and hammered for quiet, declaring, “You stand before your High King!”
Sheepishly, the men came to order.
Someone called for three cheers for King Reyer.
All gladly complied.
It was after Reyer and his party left that the barroom brawl broke out.
• • •
ON THE MORNING OF THEIR DEPARTURE, Silverleaf sent a bird winging easterly for Challerain Keep, a message capsule on its leg, bearing news of the King’s rade, and telling the Northern Alliance to expect them within four fortnights or so.
As the entourage rode from the town, the streets were lined with those who would see their High King, for like as not he would never be here again. And, with Alric at his side, as Reyer passed, men bowed and women curtseyed, and then
they cheered him on.
Armed with bows strung with nocked arrows, the Dylvana escort—leading, flanking, trailing—kept sharp eyes out, scanning the crowds lining the street as well as the windows and balconies and rooftops, seeking any who would betray their King, but none did.
Reyer smiled and nodded to the greeters, but at his side Alric scowled, for he would rather be some distance ahead, there with the vanguard to the fore. After all, they would be first to meet any foe, and here he was, lagging to the rear.
“Cheer up, Alric,” said Reyer. “Soon or late you’ll be riding with the lead warriors.”
Alric growled low in reply.
And on they rode.
At last they passed the outskirts of the city and fared into the rolling farmland beyond. The fields were green and fertile and burdened with crops that had not yet come into fullness. Orchards bore fruit, some, such as those growing cherries, had already seen the harvest, while others were still to mature—peaches would be next, apples last.
In some pastures, cattle and sheep and horses grazed, while in other fields horses or yoked oxen drew wains filled with bales of hay, while men with sweeping scythes and children with sickles harvested the crop, and others raked the largesse to spread it out to dry.
Up on the slopes beyond the farms and fields, thickets and woodlands lay scattered in patches, some large, others small, though here and there forests stretched on beyond seeing. And at places among the trees, men hewed with axes or plied saws, while oldsters collected long-fallen dead branches into rough bundles of sticks and kindling.
And as the retinue passed, dogs barked and alerted the workers, and the farmers and foresters stopped in their chores and watched from afar, though now and again, while their mothers would step from the houses and cottages and shade their eyes and look on, children would run to the fence lines and climb the rails or stone walls and gape in awe as the Elves and others passed.
The King and his escort followed the Crossland Road, a mighty passage that reached all the way from Roadsend—there on the Ryngar Arm of the Weston Ocean—to the Crestan Pass in the remote Grimwalls lying leagues upon leagues to the east. The route itself continued on beyond those mountains, but its name changed to the Landover Road, and it went all the way to far Xian . . . and some say even farther: to distant Jinga on the far-off shores of the Bright Sea.
“But we won’t be taking that route to Jinga,” said Driu, as they set up camp that eve. “Instead, we’ll follow this way into the Boskydells, where we’ll turn northwesterly and travel along a route to the Post Road, and thence to Challerain Keep.”
They were at the small hamlet of Greensward, nine dwellings all told, entirely too small to put up the High King and his party. Yet the villagers did slaughter a hog and roasted it on a spit, and, along with cooked beans and greens and vinegar-wilted lettuce, it made tasty fare.
• • •
THEY MADE CAMP ALONGSIDE A SMALL LAKE, and Reyer and Alric cut poles and fetched line and hooks from their packs. Together they strolled alongside the bank, now and then stopping at a likely spot to cast in, a wriggling leaf-hopper on each barb.
When they were well away from the others, Reyer heaved a sigh.
Alric looked at him, an unspoken question in his gaze. Finally he said, “What?”
Reyer jiggled his line, and then said, “I am not certain I am up to being High King. Who am I to lead an army? I would much rather be a pig farmer. Much rather be out hunting, fishing, riding through Darda Coill, even snapping beans than to be sitting on some throne.”
Alric said, “I think I know how you might feel. Thank Adon, I will never be a monarch. Such is not in my bones. But list, we’ve trained for battle, for war, though for much of the time we did not know it was coming, or how we might fit in. Nevertheless, heed me: I will ever be at your beck, should your events dictate.”
Reyer smiled and said, “Spoken like the Harlingar you are.”
Alric grinned. “I say, that was rather noble of me, right?”
They broke out into laughter, carefree for the moment.
Little did they know what lay ahead.
• • •
A FORTNIGHT AND THREE DAYS LATER, and some four hundred miles east of where they had begun the rade, Driu summoned Durgan unto her side.
“My lady?”
The light from their campfire illuminated the Seer’s face, now lined with age, for she had been casting a spell every morning for the past thirteen years, ever since Reyer had arrived at Kell. And to cast spells meant the spending of her
“Durgan,” she said, “on the morrow I would have you ride swiftly ahead and to the Boskydells.”
“There where the Warrows live,” said Durgan.
“Aye. I would have you tell them that we are coming. We should reach the Thornring some eight days hence. Do not press Cruach beyond bearing; you need but to ride him such that you precede us by a day, yet no more.”
“Were it necessary, Steel and I could reach it in but a twoday or three, though it would be hard on him.”
“No, Durgan. Your getting there in a sevenday is sufficient.”
“As you will, my lady. What then?”
“I would have you ride on to a village called Rood, there at the center of the Seven Dells. It is on the Crossland Road.”
“Rood.”
“Aye. It lies some thirty-five leagues from where you first enter the Dells. Tell them we will be in Rood six days after you yourself reach it.”
Sensing there was more to come, Durgan looked up from the fire and into Driu’s lined face and said, “And . . . ?”
“And I would have you ask the Captain of the Thornwalkers if he could spare us seven or so of his best archers. I would have them accompany us to Challerain Keep.”
“Thornwalkers? Warrows? Riding with us?”
“Aye. You see, in the Great War of the Ban, ’twas a Thornwalker—Tipperton Thistledown—who saved the High King and all of Mithgar from Modru the Vile, and we would have Warrows with us. —Ah, but heed: ’tis important that you show them this.” Driu held up a small pewter coin with a hole through the center and threaded on a leather thong. “’Tis a Gjeenian penny, by which they will know it comes from the High King. Yet I would have you say we ask not the entire Bosky to muster, for it is not their fight to join. But for an honorary presence of a handful of the Warrows in the company of the High King, we would have the remainder dwell in peace.”
“Gjeenian penny,” said Durgan, taking the coin and holding it up in the firelight.
“Someday I’ll tell you that tale,” said Driu.
“As you will, my lady.” Durgan looped the thong about his neck, the penny to hang at his throat.
“Oh, and this, too, Durgan.” Driu opened a small satchel and lifted out a folded crimson tunic. “This tabard bears the Golden Griffin of the High King. It will look well upon you.” Driu handed the garment to the young man.
Durgan’s mouth fell open, and he took the surcoat in hand and shook it free of its folds. The griffin glowed auric in the firelight. Finally he breathed, “I will wear this in honor, my lady, and do nothing to disgrace the symbol thereon.”
“I know,” said Driu, the Seer smiling.
• • •
THE NEXT MORNING DURGAN on Steel set out before the others broke camp. Gretta and Conal stood and watched as he rode away, Gretta with tears in her eyes. And Steel galloped up to the crest of the next hill just as the sun rose. And over the crest and down beyond ran Steel.
In a scarlet flash, Durgan was gone.
31
Rage
The fastest way in
Mithgar for news to travel a distance is from a Mage to a Mage afar. Yet since the Great War of the Ban, most of Magekind now
Hence, the next swiftest way to send word from place to place is by messenger bird. But even with birds, news travels slowly in Mithgar, and without birds, word of distant affairs simply creeps across the land from one realm to another, its progress maddeningly slow. In some of the smaller villages, it can be weeks, months, years ere knowledge of a happening comes to light, and in some—if not most—areas, decades and centuries pass without anyone knowing aught.
Likewise, any needed responses to distant events also can take weeks, months, years to occur. And during the Usurper’s reign, skirmishes and rebellions rose and were put down by Arkov’s mercenaries ere the news reached Caer Pendwyr weeks later. And no sooner would one fire be extinguished than another would spring up—in Riamon or Jugo or Aven, or in Hoven or Tugol.
It had taken some six years of sitting on the throne ere Arkov had learned of a potential heir of Valen, a child who might not have burned atop a pyre but was perhaps living on Kell. Subsequently, four years elapsed, during which Kellian children were murdered by Arkov’s agents without any confirmation that a child with the griffin-claw birthmark was among the slaughtered. And it seemed that none of the slain children had had a royal upbringing. But then his spy in Sjøen sent word that an assassin disguised as a tinker had failed in an attempt to slay a pair of lads, one of whom might be that heir. And both seemed to have the carriage and manner of those who have had courtly training.
Two more years slipped into the past ere the Sukut Khayâlîn from the Red City of Nizari made an attempt upon those particular children’s lives, and it was weeks ere Arkov learned of the result: utter failure.