Stolen Crown

by Dennis L McKiernan

  In that moment Conal whistled, and soon all were mounted up, and they rode into the shadowy tunnel beyond.

  • • •

  WHEN THE RADE REACHED ROOD, just as did the people of the other towns and villages along the way, the streets were lined with those who had come to see the heir ride through. And it was here at last that they discovered which lad was the King and which his companion, for Reyer stood on the steps of the town hall and thanked Mayor Bradely and all the Wee Folk for the welcome they brought.

  And when they rode away two days afterward, everyone agreed that the fair-haired boy would make a splendid High King, for unlike Arkov, Reyer hadn’t expected them to kneel.

  • • •

  AND WITH THE ENTOURAGE were seven pony-mounted Thornwalkers—archers all—Digby Thimbleweed and Alton Periwinkle among them, for it seemed Driu had asked for them by name.

  34

  Stonehill

  Fifty-five leagues east of the town of Rood—twenty-three leagues beyond the borders of the Boskydells—the east–west Crossland Road and the north–south Post Road intersect. Nearby sits the large village of Stonehill; it is a compact town on the western fringes of the sparsely populated Wilderland, with a hundred or so stone houses perched upon the hillside above. For the most part, Humans occupy the village, though a few Warrows do dwell nigh the crest of the hill in the northeast corner of the town.

  Where the two main roads form a junction, the terrain is quite level, and a spur from that intersection runs into and through the town itself, lying just north and east of the crossing. The village straddles the spur, and for protection a dry moat and a high stone wall completely encircle the town. There are two primary ways into Stonehill: a causeway over the moat to the east and another one to the west. In spite of the moat and wall, during the Great War of the Ban a Horde of Foul Folk, marching westerly from the Drearwood, broke through the heavy gates and overran the town and set afire as much as they could, though most of the buildings were made of stone and did not burn. Still, a great deal of Stonehill had been destroyed, and had to be rebuilt afterward. As to the villagers themselves, they had retreated into the nearby Weiunwood, for the Warrows of the forest had warned the inhabitants that the Horde was coming.

  Because the town is situated at the junction of two main roads, until a few years past, strangers and out-of-towners were often present—in fact, were welcomed. It was, after all, a layover point for the Red Coaches, traveling as they did between Roadsend in Wellen, and Caer Pendwyr to the south, and Challerain Keep in the north. It was as well a gathering point for merchants and travelers heading east along the Crossland Road and through perilous Drearwood, and the greater their numbers and guards, the less likely Foul Folk and brigands would attack. Too, it was a resting point for those coming west along the Crossland, a place where wounds could be healed, wounds taken within that dreadful wood.

  And so Stonehill would bustle with traveling crafters and traders and merchants and the like, and every now and then there would be a royal—a Duke, Viscount, or other such personage—passing through, at times traveling with their own retinue, at other times accompanying the High King on his springtime trip going north or his autumnal journey faring south. And there were days when real strangers came, such as a company of journeying Dwarves, or King’s-soldiers from the south, or a Realmsman or two, and they would invariably stay at the only inn in town—the White Unicorn, Wheatley Brewster, Prop. And when these special strangers came, the local folk would be sure to drop in to the common room to listen to them and hear the news from far away.

  Yet that was before the Usurper seized power. Now however, since there is no commerce between the Northern Alliance and the Usurper’s domain, the Red Coaches are infrequent, and with this source of trade absent, the town has fallen upon ill times.

  Even so, these days the White Unicorn, with its many rooms, hosts a wayfarer or two, or perhaps a nearby settler who might be staying overnight.

  And on the same eve that Reyer and his retinue entered the Boskydell town of Rood, hard men—twenty in all—rode into Stonehill, the hooves of their horses ringing on the cobblestone streets. Grim-faced and silent, they stabled their horses and entered the inn. . . .

  • • •

  WITH HIS FAST HANDS working on his apron, Wheatley Brewster—large and rotund with salt-and-pepper hair—bustled out from the kitchen as the men tromped into the inn, chain mail ajingle, swords slapping at thighs, saddlebags and bedrolls in hand.

  “Welcome, welcome,” he said, his blue eyes atwinkle and his rubious face breaking into a wide smile. “Welcome to the White Unicorn. How might I serve you?”

  “Rums,” said one, his accent heavy.

  “Rums?”

  “Slip,” replied the man.

  Wheatley frowned, but then enlightenment dawned. “Oh, I see: rooms. A place to sleep.”

  “Dà. Rums. Slip.”

  “Pa hrána,” said another, his cold gaze sweeping the common room as if seeking hidden threats.

  The spokesman glanced over and with a deferential bob of his head said, “Dà, povêljnik.”

  He then turned to Wheatley and said, “Fud,” as he made eating motions. Then he added, “Um. . . píti. Er, drank,” now acting as if taking a drink.

  “Food. Yes. I have a great side of beef sizzling on the spit, and plenty of drink—tasty brown ale, cool spring water, bracing dark tea, hearty bloodred wine—and tubers and fresh-baked bread and, well, I am sure I have enough for you all.” Wheatley turned and bellowed, “Hops!” And he smiled at the man, the delegated spokesman, and added, “My son.”

  From a distant somewhere within the inn there came the clatter of footsteps speeding down unseen stairs.

  “Sounds like a horse,” said Wheatley, “but he’s really a nice young man. —Oh, and by the bye, would you and your company like baths? We’ve bathing rooms out back, and large tubs and plenty of hot water. Get rid of the grime of travel, don’t you know.”

  The delegate frowned at Wheatley and turned up a hand.

  “You know, baths,” said Wheatley, now pantomiming washing and bathing motions.

  “Ah,” said the man, nodding, and he turned to the one who seemed to be the leader, a captain perhaps, given his military bearing. “Kopél?”

  Barking a laugh, the leader turned to his comrades and rattled off something entirely too rapidly for Wheatley to catch even a single word. The room rang with the harsh laughter of the men. Then the captain said to the spokesman, “Ne kopél.”

  “Dà, povêljnik,” said the interpreter and then turned to Wheatley and said, “No beth.”

  “Ah,” said Wheatley, his face falling, for he knew the grime would take extra soap to get the bedding clean. “No beth.”

  Again the leader spoke up: “Stroškóvna cerna.”

  “Dà, povêljnik,” said the delegate. “Stroškóvna cerna. Kovánec.” He sighed, and looked at Brewster and said, “Kovánec. Um—” He frowned, but then, lighting upon a remembered word, he brightened and said, “What coin?” Then he mimed eating, drinking, and sleeping. And once again said, “Coin.”

  “Oh, the cost,” said Wheatley. “Well, then . . . harrumph . . . a silver each for room and board, twenty silvers all told. Flagons of ale or goblets of wine, extra.”

  The delegate turned to the leader. “Dvájset srebó.”

  The captain, if he was a captain, shook his head and said, “Desét.”

  “Ten silver,” said the interpreter.

  At that moment, a young, dark-haired man, even taller than Wheatley, though considerably less rotund, popped into the common room. His eyes widened as he took in the sight of so many rough, unshaven men, with all of them armed and armored, too. But the youth stood by as Wheatley and the interpreter haggled, finally settling on eight coppers for each of the twenty men for room and board, a total of sixteen silvers.

 
Now that the bargaining was done, “Yes, Da?” said the young man.

  “Hops, show these guests to the rooms. It seems they speak little Common. This dark one here”—Wheatley gestured at the interpreter—“is the spokesman, though I think that one over there is the captain of this squad. In the meanwhile, I’ll get Tansey and Sam to hopping; these men seem to be hungry.”

  • • •

  WORD OF THE VISITORS quickly spread through the town, and many came to catch the latest news. But for the most part the twenty men were grim-faced and silent, and when they did speak it was in a tongue the villagers did not ken. And so, with naught forthcoming, after a pint or two, most villagers returned to their own doings.

  As to the soldiers—as Wheatley considered them to be—they whispered among themselves, falling silent when food or drink was borne to the tables by Wheatley or Hops, and at times by broad-beamed, ruby-cheeked, bustling Tansey—Wheatley’s wife—or tall, stick-thin Sam, the cook.

  As soldiers do, they wolfed down their food and drink, and as Hops and Wheatley were delivering more flagons to the men, “What nemm plece?” asked the delegate as he took up a tankard, the man well into his cups.

  “Eh?” asked Wheatley, setting more flagons down.

  “What nemm plece?”

  “Oh, Stonehill. This is the village of Stonehill.”

  “Willage?”

  Wheatley nodded. “Village. Town. Hamlet.”

  “Ne. Ne vás. No willage.” He pounded on the table and gestured about and said, “This plece. Róg kònj. Horn horse.”

  “Ah. The White Unicorn. It’s not really a horse, but a Unicorn. Some think it a fabled beastie, but me, I think it’s real. I mean, of certain there’s a lot of old wives’ tales about them, and the bards are always singing of maidens and true love and Unicorns, and who would know better than the bards, eh?”

  It was clear that the man didn’t at all follow Wheatley’s words, but he smiled widely and said, “Horn horse.”

  Pausing in his taking up of empty flagons, Hops said, “I say, where are you and your men bound? Up to Challerain Keep, I expect, right?” He glanced at his father and said, “I wish that I could go.”

  Wheatley sighed, but did not reply.

  “So, where are you bound?” asked Hops again. “Challerain Keep, I would think.”

  The man frowned.

  “Challerain Keep?” repeated Hops, miming riding motions.

  “Ne. Ne.” The man shook his head. Then he owlishly looked about, as if seeking eavesdroppers and lowered his voice and said, “Tájnost.”

  “Tájnost?” Hops turned up his hands.

  “Bíti molčeč!” snapped the captain.

  The interpreter cringed. “Dà, povêljnik,” he mumbled. A moment later, full of too much ale, he vomited on the floor, and then fell over, passed out.

  • • •

  THE NEXT MORNING, with some worse than others for their drinking, all the men laded their horses and fared out the western gate and over the causeway and toward the Post Road, where they turned north.

  Watching them ride away, Hops turned to his father and said, “Looks like they are bound for Challerain.”

  Wheatley nodded but said naught.

  After a moment, Hops said, “What do you think Tájnost means, Da?”

  Without a moment’s hesitation, Wheatley said, “Secret, I shouldn’t wonder.”

  35

  Drearwood

  As the gorcrow flies, some sixty-six leagues farther east of Stonehill there crouches the dark fringes of a dreadful woodland. But by the slow meander of the Crossland Road it’s another six leagues ere a traveler aground would reach the sinister edge. The tangled mass fills the stony hill country twenty-five leagues north to south and thirty east to west, and it squats astraddle the route, where it imperils anyone who would think to travel through. All within the enshadowed mass, blackness musters in ebon pools, and a dismal sky seems ever to hover above this malevolent place. To either side of the way, stunted undergrowth clutches at the rocky ground, and gnarled trees twist upward and into gloom-cast darkness. Jagged branches seem ready to seize whoever or whatever comes within reach, while runs of thorny growth stand ready to rend to bloody shreds any victim who would dare their grasp.

  Long has this ill-cast clutch been a region most dire. Therein Foul Folk lair—in cracks and crevices and caves and holes, anywhere out of the radiance of day, for they fear the Ban, and rightly so: any who are caught in Adon’s light suffer the Withering Death, leaving husks to crumble into dust in the stirring wind. But between dusk and dawn they are free to roam, and woe betide any who would be within that tangle when the Foul Folk are abroad.

  But Spawn are not the only dread things to fear, for other grim monsters are said to dwell within, things all: some hulking, larger than Trolls; others massive and long and thick like snakes, but no snakes these; there are the multilegged, spiderlike, some creeping, some swift; and yet others, unseen but heard, their squalls and clickings and mewls and hisses driving terror deep within.

  Many are the tales of lone travelers and small bands who have followed the road into this dismal woodland never to be seen again. And rife are the stories of large caravans and groups of armed warriors who have beaten off grim monsters half seen in the night, and many have lost their lives to these grisly creatures. This land is shunned by all except those who have no choice but to cross it, or by those adventurers who seek fame, most of whom do not live to grasp their glory. Yet the main trade route—the Crossland Road—splits through this dread realm, and so traders and travelers mass together, and armed escorts hire out their axes and swords and bows and arrows and other such weaponry to see them safely through. Even so, casualties are high, though the larger the caravan, the less likely a full attack from the cowardly Spawn.

  It is the Drearwood, this awful haunt, and perhaps some day, Men or Dwarves or Elves or others, or combinations thereof, will purge this tangle of these dire inhabitants. Perhaps someday, but not this day . . .

  And at sunset on the eve that Reyer and his retinue reached the Boskydell town of Rood, in the faraway Drearwood a Grimwall Corvus came to rest in the gnarled branches of a shadow-wrapped tree nigh the hide-covered mouth of a dim-cast cavern deep in that dreadful place. . . .

  • • •

  THE CORVUS SOUNDED A sharp graak!

  There was no response.

  Hopping to a lower branch, again the Corvus called.

  Still there came no response.

  Agitated now, the bird began a sound much like that of knuckles rapping on wood. Knk! Knk-knkk! . . .

  With the Corvus knocking and skrawking and gracking, finally, the hide gave a faint twitch aside, enough so that whoever, whatever was within could see that twilight had fallen, and out stepped a Hlôk. [Shut your beak!], he snarled in Slûk at the bird. Then he saw the capsule upon its leg. A message! Perhaps it bore news of a caravan or merchant or someone else coming through. Thoughts of horseflesh and plunder raced across the Hlôk’s limited mind. Then he turned and stepped back to the entry and pushed the flap aside. [One of you slugs bring meat, now!], he shouted.

  Rûcks within the cavern looked at one another, but otherwise did not stir.

  The Hlôk ground his teeth and pointed and said, [You!]

  Moaning, the designated Rûck scrabbled to one of the buckets and withdrew what appeared to be a thick gray worm. And, trembling because he knew what was coming, cowing and whining, he stepped to the cover and the Hlôk shoved him outside, snarling, [Feed it and bring me the vial.]

  The Corvus flew down to the mewling Rûck and landed on his flinching forearm and dug in its claws, and blood spurted. It snatched the gobbet of meat from the yowling Rûck and permitted the screamer to detach the capsule. By this time a second victim, bearing another wad of gray meat, stepped out to the bird’s eager rush.

  A thir
d Rûck slipped a fearful look out from behind the hide flap and saw that the message capsule was free, and then, grinning at the other two, he stepped forth with a third chunk of meat and threw it on the ground, and the Corvus leapt from another bleeding perch and snatched up the wriggling morsel.

  The first Rûck, his arm dribbling dark ichor, bore the capsule to his leader.

  Snatching it away from his whimpering minion, the Hlôk opened the tiny vial and extracted the tissue-thin strip from within. There was no writing upon the slip, but even had there been any, the Hlôk could not read, for, as with nearly all Foul Folk, he was illiterate except in the crudest sense: a rude drawing or no more than a symbol or two was the limit of Spawn enlightenment. Yet no writing was needed on this missive, for it had come from a Dark Master, and the message it bore stabbed directly into the small wit of the Hlôk.

  He groaned.

  What he was told to do was perilous in the extreme.

  That much he understood.

  He loped swiftly to another crevice, where he let a second Hlôk hold the missive, and then to a third hole, and then a fourth, where the final Hlôk was commanded to join the first three.

  They gathered up their respective Rûck lackeys, along with weapons and rations, and, fifty-two in all and led by the first Hlôk, north to the Crossland Road they went and began loping westerly along its course.

  All night they ran, starting out under the light of the half-moon, but it set at mid of night, which left only starlight to see by. Yet they did not slow, for to do so would mean death.

  And the world slowly turned in its track until false dawn came.

  Rûcks began to whimper, yet onward they sped, now at a faster pace—they were running for their lives.

  The east began to lighten, and still they ran; the Dark Master had told them where safety lay, and toward this hold they galloped.

  And just barely before the rising sun lipped the eastern horizon behind, away from the Crossland Road they sped south and into the Wilderness Hills, where they jammed into a tiny cavern. All but one laggard, who withered away and crumbled to dust in their wake.