Stolen Crown

by Dennis L McKiernan

  “Of course not. They are Ogrus, Diggs, and not Giants.”

  “But they’re big, Perry. And you act like—”

  “Giants are Giants and Ogrus are Ogrus,” snapped Perry.

  Digby grinned. “Well, let me ask you this, bucco, if Giants are Giants, then that must mean they’re real.”

  Reyer laughed, and Perry threw his hands up in exasperation.

  Digby looked over at Riessa and said, “Do you believe in Giants?”

  Riessa smiled to herself and said, “Of course I do, Digby.”

  Digby’s eyes flew wide. “You do?”

  “Oh, yes,” replied the Dylvana. “You see, they are indeed real.”

  “What?” asked Perry, astonished.

  “I am speaking of the Utruni, the Stone Giants,” said Riessa.

  “Oh, them,” said Perry. “Well, everyone knows they are real.”

  “But, my wee one,” said Riessa, now grinning, “dost thou know that thee and thy Kind have something of them flowing in thy veins?”

  “What?” asked Digby, stunned, his mouth agape.

  “Aye. The jewellike eyes of thy Folk: they gleam as does the emerald, sapphire, and topaz.”

  Perry shrugged. “And . . . ?”

  “And Stone Giants are said to have real gemstones as eyes,” replied Riessa. “Rubies, diamonds, sapphires, emeralds, and the like.”

  Digby snapped his jape shut. “Really?”

  “’Tis true,” said Riessa.

  “Oh, my,” said Digby.

  They rode in silence for a while, and finally Digby said, “I wish I could meet one.”

  “A Stone Giant,” said Perry.

  “Yes, Perry, a real Giant.”

  Perry snorted, but said naught, and on they rode.

  They camped that eve and the next four, and on the sixth eve after leaving Challerain they reached Stonehill, where they put up in the White Unicorn Inn, to be welcomed by proprietors Wheatley and Tansy Brewster. After a warm meal and several rounds of ale, they remained there that night as well as the next, resting.

  And the news flashed through the village as would a lightning bolt, and all the townsfolk, Human and Warrows alike, came to the inn to see and pay their respects to the true High King and hoist a stein to him.

  • • •

  REYER AND HIS WARBAND set out from the White Unicorn Inn. Southward once more on the Post Road they fared. They had been fed a hearty breakfast provided by Wheatley and Tansey and their staff, and so the members of Reyer’s train were in a good mood, even though they had started their ride late in midmorn.

  “Barn rats,” said Perry, “I wish I had brought my lute. We could have a merry jingle.”

  “You play a lute?” asked Riessa.

  “I do.”

  “He’s rather good at it,” said Digby.

  Perry frowned. “Well, I wouldn’t go so far as to say—”

  “Pishposh,” said Digby. “He is rather good.”

  “Mayhap we can get a lute in the next town,” said Riessa.

  “I don’t know what that would be,” said Perry.

  “Junction, I believe,” said Digby. “Oh, there are some hamlets ’tween here and there, but none with a lute maker, I would think.”

  On they rode, speaking of singing and music and various instruments, Riessa admitting that she was a fair hand at the harp.

  In midafternoon on the second day out from Stonehill, they crossed over the bridge above the River Bog. “I think we should ride a bit farther ere making camp,” said Conal, “else the gnats and mosquitoes and other such might be a trial, the River Bog being what it is.”

  “Sludgy,” said Digby, “or so I hear.”

  Conal laughed and said, “Not exactly, but a breeding sluice for pests. At least it was, back when I was in service to High King Valen. I mean, the river has its origin in Bogland Bottoms, a midge swarming pit itself. Oft we traveled twixt Challerain and Pendwyr, and each time we made certain to camp elsewhere, far from this river’s banks.”

  “Ah, balderdash,” said Perry. “I mean, how bad can it be?”

  “Perhaps not bad at all,” said Reyer, “yet I say we ride on a mile or so to avoid the worst of it.”

  The next morn as they broke camp, Perry scratched at his collection of night-swarm bites and growled, “If where we camped was supposed to get us shed of the Bog River’s midges, then I say at the river itself it must be unbearable.”

  “As I said,” replied Conal, “Valen and I never camped e’en this close, and so you must be right. But think of just how much worse off it is in Bogland Bottoms.”

  • • •

  SIX DAYS AFTER LEAVING STONEHILL, the warband reached the town of Junction, there where the Tineway, out from the Boskydells, met up with the Post Road.

  Junction itself was a main waypoint on the routes of the Red Coach. Yet with the hostility between the Northern Alliance and Arkov’s sphere of influence, few and far between were the Red Coaches now.

  But the town, though pressed by the lack of travelers, still served as a place for wayfarers to stay, and with open arms they welcomed Reyer and his band.

  And Perry strode into the nearest shopkeeper’s store and said, “I say, where might I find a lute?”

  • • •

  EVEN AS PERRY FOUND an establishment—Harver’s Notions—with a lute for sale, Digby, all aflutter, came running into the store.

  “Did you hear, Perry? Did you hear?”

  “Hear what? And stop that jittering about.”

  “Rood has sent forty Thornwalkers to accompany King Reyer.”

  “Forty Thorn—?”

  “Volunteers all,” crowed Digby.

  “Why did they, uh—”

  “The Gjeenian penny,” said Digby. “It came, and even though Reyer says it’s a matter for Humans, still we Warrows couldn’t ignore the penny. After all, you’ve got to remember: Tipperton promised and—”

  “I know what Tipperton promised,” snapped Perry. “I’m just disappointed.”

  “Disappointed?”

  “Rood should have sent more,” said Perry.

  “But we can’t go against the King, ’cause he said—”

  “I know what Reyer said,” growled Perry. “It’s just that—well, Rood should have sent more.”

  “Captain Windlow is happy, and he is in charge,” said Digby. “He’s promoted Billy and Jem to be squad leaders, blooded in battle as they are.”

  “What about us?” asked Perry.

  “You wanted to be a squad leader?” asked Digby.

  “Nah. I just want to know where we fit,” said Perry.

  “At Reyer’s side,” said Digby.

  “Barn rats!” said Perry. “That means we won’t get to go on any scouting missions.”

  “Oh, I dunno,” said Digby. “I think Riessa can spring us for a mission or two.”

  “D’y’ think?”

  “I do.”

  “You be riding with the King hisself?” asked the storekeeper, a tall, stick-thin, bald Human with a sparse moustache and a frazzled beard.

  “We do,” said Digby.

  “Do you think he’d mind if I made a sign that says I provided the High King’s minstrel with a lute?”

  Digby frowned, “What? Wait. I mean, Perry’s no min—”

  “Right now I am,” interjected Perry, and he beamed and said, “Of course High King Reyer would not mind at all, Mr. Harver.”

  “Wull, then, this is yours, free of charge,” said the man, handing over the lute.

  Perry grinned and put on his best look of innocence and asked, “You wouldn’t by any chance have any extra strings, now, would you?”

  43

  King’s Herald

  Jord, a nation of horsemen, is divided into four Reichs—know
n in the Common Tongue as Reaches—each one governed by a Hrosmarshal, the equivalent of a duke. The Reichs themselves—North, East, South, and West—start at their respective borders and form long but irregular wedges that come together at a single point not far from the geographic center of the nation. But the capital—Jordkeep—lies not at the site where the four Reichs converge, but quite a distance to the east, at the place where Strong Harl was born. Occasionally, Jordians argue that the keep should be moved to that central point, yet, much like the blood of Harl himself, tradition flows keen in the veins of these men, especially in the Vanadurin—the warriors of Jord. Hence the capital has never been moved: so it has been for millennia, and so shall it be for many more.

  And into that city of horsemen rode Durgan on a steed the likes of which they never had seen. . . .

  • • •

  “I AM A HERALD OF High King Reyer,” called Durgan, “and I bear a message allied to his cause.”

  The gate captain looked down at this youth, who was a man perhaps in his twenties, though his slight build belied his age. He was mounted on a sweat-stained grey horse, streaks of salt striping its flanks.

  The gate itself stood open, and traffic flowed to and fro. Yet Durgan, as the High King’s herald, was bound by protocol to announce his position, and he would wait for an official escort.

  “High King Reyer?”

  “Aye, the true High King, son of King Valen himself.”

  “Valen, you say?”

  “I do.”

  A grin split the features of the captain. “Sleeth’s teeth, boy! The rumors be true, then?”

  “Captain, no rumor this,” said Durgan, smiling up at the man in return, “but fact instead.”

  Passersby stopped at this declaration, and soon the streets would be afire with the news.

  “Wait where you are,” said the captain. “I will escort you to King Ulrik myself.”

  “My message is not meant for him,” said Durgan.

  The captain frowned. “Then who?”

  “Prince Valder,” replied Durgan.

  “Ah,” said the captain, “then we go to both, for the King and his brother are together, out in the grass. Wait till I fetch my horse.”

  Moments later, the captain rode through. As he led Durgan toward the north and away from the city, “I be Captain Hann,” said the Jordian. “What be your name, lad?”

  “Durgan.”

  Hann glanced at Durgan’s horse and said, “Ridden hard, I see. Your message must be of import.”

  “It is,” said Durgan, “for the Northern Alliance marches against the Usurper, and this message bears on that, or so I believe.”

  The captain clenched a fist and said, “Aye!” But then his face fell and he sighed. “We remain neutral.”

  “Mayhap not, if what my lady has written is of such import as to cause me to ride from Challerain Keep into the east of your land.”

  “Challerain Keep? When did you start?”

  Durgan frowned, adding up the count. “Three days from the Keep to Ander. Four days at sea. Then seven from Hafen to here.”

  The captain smiled, for oft did riders use a relay of horses to cover such distances in haste. And he looked at Durgan’s steed and asked, “Who lent you this mount?”

  Durgan shook his head and reached forward and patted Steel on the neck. “No one. This is my horse.”

  The captain was astonished. “Your horse? You rode your horse all the way? This horse? Seven days from Hafen to here? No remounts?”

  “No. No remounts,” said Durgan. “Steel bore me all the way.”

  “And Steel be the name of your horse?”

  “It is, though in Kellian, his name is Cruach. He is the foal of Iarann Rob and Uasal Donn, er, Iron Bobbie and Brown Lady, the two fastest horses in all of Kell. But Steel is better than both, for not only does he have speed, but endurance as well.”

  “Aye, ’tis a champion steed, you have, lad. I think a legend be born this day.”

  “Legend?”

  “‘Durgan’s Iron Horse,’ they’ll call it, for he must be made of iron to have come so far in such quick time. A name rightly deserved, I ween. By the bye, the king will want to get his bloodline in our herds. Does your iron horse stand at stud?”

  “Well,” said Durgan, “given his head, he would. . . .”

  Durgan and Hann were still talking of bloodlines when they reached King Ulrik’s cloth pavilion, and the captain led the youth out to where Ulrik and Valder sat at their ease in camp chairs, both with tankards in hand and leaning back with their feet propped on stools. They, along with a handful of attendants, were watching a herd grazing in the grass in the near distance, half-grown foals racing to and fro, gaining their legs, now and then nipping at one another, seeking dominance or yielding submission.

  “My lords,” said Hann, “this be Durgan, herald of High King Reyer, Valen’s son. He has a message.”

  As Durgan knelt upon one knee, Ulrik sat up and said, “Rise, boy. A message?”

  “Aye,” said Durgan, standing to fish in his dispatch bag, “for Prince Valder.” Durgan withdrew the letter.

  Valder dropped his legs and sat up straight. “For me? Who, by Hèl, in Reyer’s court would be writing to me?”

  Without answering, Durgan stepped forward and handed the prince the missive.

  “Boy, your lips look parched,” said Ulrik. He turned to an attendant and said, “Give the lad a drink,” and in a trice a grateful Durgan held a foaming stein.

  “Do you recognize this seal?” said Valder, holding the letter so that Ulrik could see the impressed wax, but then saying, “Ah, wait, it’s Hrosmarshal Röedr’s.”

  “His sigil but not his personal seal. Too dainty,” said Ulrik. “A child of his, I would think. Most likely one of his daughters. Which, I know not.”

  Valder looked up at Durgan, an unspoken question in his gaze.

  “Lady Gretta,” said Durgan.

  “Gretta?” said Valder. “Why, it’s been, um, sixteen years or so since last I saw her. Caer Pendwyr, it was.”

  Valder broke the seal and opened the letter and quickly scanned it. Then read it again. He turned to Ulrik and handed the missive over, saying, “I have a son. Alric, she named him. After our own sire. He marches with King Reyer.”

  Even as astonishment flashed over Durgan’s face, Ulrik cocked an eye and said, “A son?”

  “Aye.”

  “With the Iron Duke’s daughter?”

  “She did not tell me,” said Valder.

  “I remember her,” said Ulrik. “Third girl child of Röedr. A pretty thing. And you and she . . . ?”

  “We had too much wine,” said Valder, as if that explained all. “Then you and I set sail the next day.” Valder pointed at the letter. “She thought I abandoned her, yet had I known . . .”

  Ulrik read the letter a second time and then handed it back to Valder and said, “So there she was in the Queen Mairen’s court, both she and the queen with child, and—”

  “And Gretta’s was the bastard,” said Valder. “My bastard. My son.” He took a deep breath and let it out, then said, “And having given up her virtue to drunken me, she was unsuitable for—” Valder turned to Durgan. “Has she wed?”

  “Aye. To my own sire, Conal. He was a captain in Valen’s court ere retiring to Kell. That was before Valen fell. But then, in the immediate aftermath of Valen’s downfall, Lady Gretta and Silverleaf came to Kell with Reyer and Alric in tow. And three or four years after that, Mother Gretta and Dad wed.”

  “Silverleaf, the Elf?” asked Ulrik.

  “Aye,” said Durgan. “He rides with Reyer, now.”

  Valder scanned Gretta’s words once more, then asked, “When she gave you this letter, had she aught else to say?”

  “Only that I bring Jord back with me,” said Durgan.
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  Ulrik stood and stepped forward and gazed long at the distant herd.

  Valder, yet seated, looked out at the herd as well, the colts and fillies yet at gambol and frolic in scant concern. Finally, Ulrik turned and said, “We thought we had little or nothing at stake, yet now we know ’tis not true. A royal heir of Jord is at risk.”

  “Sire, what be your command?” asked Captain Hann.

  Ulrik looked down at his brother and grinned. “Light the bale fires. Fly the red flags. Sound the black-oxen horns. We Vanadurin ride to war.”

  44

  Bards, Minstrels, Jongleurs

  Of the many professions in Mithgar, none is as welcomed into a town as is a good bard. Of course, minstrels rank nearly as high as a bard. And the lowliest of the allied professions, yet still highly respected, are the jongleurs. All are wanderers, and many come to see them perform. Bards quite often play before a royal house. Minstrels and jongleurs are more oft found in taverns and city squares.

  And then there are those who simply sing and play lutes and harps and flutes and other instruments for their own amusement, or those of close family and friends.

  Perry was of this latter kind. . . .

  • • •

  ACCOMPANIED BY PERRY’S JOLLY TUNE, the next morn, Reyer and his warband left Junction, and, yet on the Post Road, they headed southward. At the end of the third day of travel they reached the city of Luren, charred buildings on the outskirts yet evidence from the great fire that killed so many and destroyed the town in 3E1866. Even though the fire had occurred some hundred thirty-four years past, still it dampened the spirits to see the remains of such ruin. But, spurred on afterward by the trade of the folk riding the Red Coach, some of the town had recovered, especially near the river with its wide ford. Yet over the past decade, the town once more had fallen upon hard times, for now the Red Coach seldom came. But with the King and his entourage passing through, the citizens welcomed them with open arms. And that eve there was much merriment in the Yellow Lantern Inn.

  The next morn, Reyer and his comrades crossed Luren Ford, splashing through the waters just below where the Rivers Caire and Frith and Hâth came together and were then called the Isleborne on west-southwestward.