Yorien's Hand (The Minstrel's Song Book 3)

by Jenelle Leanne Schmidt

  “Our time grows short,” Kiernan cried. “If we do not find them now, it will be too late.”

  Brant nodded in ready agreement. “Everyone stay alert,” he added.

  ❖ ❖ ❖

  Jemson sat atop his horse, sword drawn and ready. The rain had begun to fall several hours before daybreak and it now drizzled continuously. Heavy clouds obscured the sky, forbidding any daylight to penetrate. A strong wind whipped its way in from the sea; Jemson shivered within his leather armor and stared out at the fire which sputtered and hissed.

  The warriors entrusted with the fire worked in desperation to keep the wall of flame intact, but they were losing the battle to the rain and would soon need to take up their weapons. The fire was dwindling, dying. The sentries had given the alert that the time was at hand and the battle would soon be renewed. Jemson was impressed by how the men reacted to the bad news, taking it in stride. There was no uproar, no frenzied or aimless scampering about as by those with no idea of what to do with themselves. The camp remained orderly and quiet.

  A sign of good leadership, Jemson thought, heedless of the water that dripped down his back and rolled along his spine. These men know their assignments and what is expected of them. He applauded Devrin, and the captains before him, for the evidence of good training and discipline.

  Jemson felt nothing but admiration for the young captain, but he could sense that the emotion was not reciprocated. There was a tightness to Devrin’s jaw, a clipped tone to his words whenever Jemson sought him out that betrayed his true feelings. Jemson was not sure what he had done to elicit this sort of response from the captain. At first he had assumed it was due to his own youth and inexperience—he had encountered plenty of that kind of attitude since taking the crown—but as the days wore on, Jemson came to understand that Devrin’s behavior towards him stemmed from elsewhere. Whatever it was, it didn’t interfere with the man’s duties. The captain acted with courtesy and respect, listening to Jemson’s opinions and even incorporating a few of his ideas into the daily routine.

  Jemson surveyed the camp. The rain plastered his hair to his head and every inch of him was thoroughly soaked. His ears caught the hiss of the fire as the rain pelted it. He tasted the thick, acrid smoke as the wind blew it back over the camp. Now was not the time to question Devrin’s motivations. There would be time for that later if any of them survived the coming battle.

  Despite the terrible army waiting with mounting impatience on the other side of the dying flames, Jemson felt excitement stir within him. Though he was young, he had trained to become a warrior for his entire life, and like his men, there was a part of him that despised the safety of the fire wall which offered protection and asked nothing of him in return. He was trained to do battle, and it was to battle that his entire being now yearned. There was no doubt of his purpose or course of action. He had come to the borders to fight the creatures that now threatened the safety of his kingdom. He faced the wall of fire, every muscle tensed and ready. He tightened his lips in determination, his expression cold and hard. He did not know it, but in that moment, he was the mirror image of his uncle.

  Devrin rode up beside him. Jemson noticed that a young woman rode with him. She sat on a white mare and rode a few paces behind Devrin on his great roan stallion. Her face was impassive, and she was unarmed, yet she exuded confidence and calm. Jemson rubbed his chin, confused. Devrin noticed and nodded at the girl.

  “Her name is Shentallyia,” he said briefly. “She may be able to aid us in fighting the seheowks today.”

  Jemson studied the woman, peering through the rain. She was slight of build and Jemson could not imagine her posing a threat to anyone, but there was something about her that supported Devrin’s assertion. Her hands were steady on the reins of her mount, and Jemson felt he understood her. She would not shrink from the seheowks, they would learn to cower before her.

  “How much longer do we have?” he asked, still staring at the woman who rode behind Devrin.

  “Minutes, at the very most,” Devrin’s voice was quiet. “Are the men ready?”

  Jemson nodded.

  “Stay near me when they break through,” Devrin continued, “the first rush will sustain the greatest losses.”

  With an effort, Jemson tore his gaze away from the woman’s face. It was more difficult than he would have imagined. He clenched his teeth angrily and gave Devrin a hard stare.

  “I don’t need your protection.”

  “Perhaps not, but you are my king and I am sworn to protect you. It is my Oath. All aethalons take it, and it is the one thing we hold most dear. Its words are binding in a way that few understand,” Devrin said the words with careful enunciation, staring intently at the fires. He did not notice the fury building in Jemson as he spoke.

  Jemson bristled. “I have taken your Oath,” he declared heatedly. “And I am apprenticed these past three years to Brant of the House of Arne. Perhaps you have heard of him. A few of the elders have argued that a younger king or a younger apprentice has never been seen in Llycaelon, but none have argued that there has ever been a greater warrior than Brant. He declared me ready. Because of his teaching, it is likely that I know more about the Oath of our people and what it means than even you. I may be king of Llycaelon, but I doubt that I am your king. I do not know why this is, but I do know that now is not the time to belabor the point. Look to yourself and your men, I am no concern of yours.”

  Devrin turned to the young king, his mouth open slightly and surprise written across his features. “I meant no disrespect to your age, Majesty. I only meant that while you are here in my command, you are under my protection. Were you old and gray, ten full ranks above me, and completely capable of besting me in every contest imaginable, I would still be bound to protect you, my liege. As to the rest of your accusation, you are right, now is not the time for it. But rest assured, it is my own problem, and no doing of yours.”

  Jemson’s jaw tightened, but he nodded tersely. “Very well, forgive me for misunderstanding.”

  A horn sounded, and Devrin stiffened. “The dry wood is gone. The seheowks will soon attack.”

  His voice was steady. Jemson peered at the captain cautiously, trying to discern what the man was thinking. Devrin’s face was full of determination and purpose, all held carefully beneath a mask of imperturbable calm.

  We are not so different, the thought flitted through his mind, perhaps... Then he drew his focus away from the captain. He could not afford to try puzzling the man out now; there would be plenty of time for that once the seheowks were defeated. If such a thing can be accomplished, Jemson thought ruefully.

  He hazarded another glance at the mysterious young woman. She sat like a statue, her pretty face devoid of all expression. She caught his gaze and looked away swiftly. Before she did, however, Jemson recognized something in her eyes that startled him. There was no time to pursue this new knowledge, though, because a moment later lightning streaked across the sky and the rain began to pour down in earnest. The great fire struggled, sibilating as if in anger and frustration. Smoke billowed into the sky and mingled with the clouds as the flames flickered to ash. Jemson tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword. Smoke and fog intertwined, creating a new wall as impenetrable as the barrier of flame had been. The aethalons hesitated, peering through the murky air, waiting to see what their enemy would do. Jemson felt like a tightly coiled spring just waiting to be released. His heart pounded in trepidation and excitement as he waited, poised and ready to strike.

  With a wild, screeching cry the first line of seheowks rushed into the gap. They pounded through the smoke, ash, and rain, furious and impatient after long days of waiting caged between the fire and the sea. As the sinewy creatures reached the dying embers, the fire flared to life again with a brightness and intensity that caused Jemson to catch his breath. He heard his own surprise echoed across the camp as the rest of the aethalons witnessed the strange scene unfolding before them. The flames, w
hich had dwindled almost to nothing, leaped up around the seheowks with a vengeance, licking at their limbs and engulfing them in hunger. Jemson stared in fascinated horror as the line of enemies burst into flame and died with bone-chilling shrieks of terror and agony. The rest of the creatures shrank back, unwilling to hazard the death that had consumed the first wave of their company.

  Jemson turned to Devrin, searching for an answer, but the look on the captain’s face told him that he was just as startled by this turn of events as everyone else. Jemson swallowed hard as the last cries of the seheowks dwindled away, muted by the heavy rain. After a long silence he found his voice again.

  “Well, no wonder they fear it so.”

  Devrin nodded, his expression dazed. He opened his mouth to speak, but words did not come.

  “Does fire always do that to them?” Jemson asked in a dry whisper.

  “I have never seen anything like that before,” Devrin replied.

  Shentallyia tossed her hair back, a tiny smile upon her lips. Jemson caught her movement out of the corner of his vision and turned to her.

  Dragon!

  “You’re a...” he stopped, interrupted by a shout that swept through the ranks of the aethalons. Perceiving the reluctance on the part of the seheowks to join the battle, men and horses charged down through the gap, trampling through the ashes and bearing down on the enemy with all the force they could muster.

  Devrin unsheathed his own sword. Holding the blade high in the air he let out a cry of his own. Then he pointed his great blade forwards and spurred his horse into the gap. The aethalons stampeded to the attack. The hooves of their horses churned the ash and sent it flying into the misty air where it hung like a gray sheet.

  Forgetting Devrin’s charge to stay close, Jemson raced into the midst of the enemy. The many years of exacting training under his father’s demanding eye and the more recent years under his uncle’s watchful one bore fruit as he brandished his sword, the king’s sword. His blade flashed again and again, and with every stroke one of the terrible creatures met its end. Nothing could withstand his fury or deadly precision.

  Sensing the threat that he posed, the seheowks turned their attention to the young king. Ignoring the army of aethalons before them, they surged their energies towards Jemson, placing him at the center of the quickly shifting battlefield. Time and again the seheowks attempted to pull him down, but nothing would slow or stop his battle rage. Like a berserker of old, the ringing of Jemson’s sword would not be silenced and the cries of the evil creatures echoed out into the night as they fell before his every stroke.

  From a distance, Devrin could see the seheowks beginning to rally and surround the king. Cursing the tide of the battle that had separated them, he struggled to return to Jemson’s side. The king fought like no living man, but the captain knew no one could stand alone against so many for very long. In that instant, Devrin’s mind was made up. His brother’s dishonorable death had not been Jemson’s fault, and to hold it against him was wrong. Jemson had proven himself. In spite of his youth, he had worked alongside the Border Patrol without complaint. And now, here in this battle, he had proven that he was no coward.

  He is my king. The thought struck Devrin like the flat of his master’s blade across the back of his head.

  At the same moment that this thought swept through his being, Devrin saw the king’s horse stumble. Jemson fell from view as the seheowks pulled him down. Fear clenched in his gut. For a heart-stopping moment, he lost sight of the boy, but then the great horse regained its feet and the aethalons raised a cheer when they saw King Jemson still firmly seated in his saddle and wielding his blade.

  “To Arne! To Arne! For Llycaelon!” the king shouted the battle cry of his forefathers to rally the aethalons, now truly his aethalons, as his sword found its mark again and again. His eyes were ablaze and his face was like lightning. He was, in fact, a warrior king of old. Those who saw him took heart and redoubled their efforts to push the loathed enemy back into the sea. The seheowks fell away once more. The aethalons rallied to their king, taking up his battle cry for themselves. They surged towards him, attacking with a new vigor and defiance. Devrin fought desperately to reach Jemson and fight by his side. There was no hesitation now; he was caught up with his brother warriors in the battle cry of their king. He was almost there, at his king’s side, when Jemson was pulled down again. This time, he did not reappear.

  CHAPTER

  FOURTEEN

  The land was dying. Zara held up a handful of brown grass and looked at Arnaud in confusion.

  “I can’t stop it,” she said. “I don’t have the power.” Her voice was filled with frustration and despair in equal parts. She buried her face in her hands. “I feel so helpless. I don’t even know why this is happening! I wish Dylanna and Leila were here. I wish I knew where they were! I’m so worried, so scared, I-I...” her words trailed off as Arnaud pulled her close in a strong embrace. She pressed her faced into his shoulder and leaned on his strength.

  “It’s okay,” Arnaud whispered into her hair. “You’ll figure it out.”

  “I don’t know,” Zara moaned in defeat. “I’ve tried everything.”

  “Do you know why it’s happening?” Arnaud asked.

  “Not really,” Zara mumbled, still clinging to her husband.

  Arnaud stepped back, but kept hold of her hands, giving them a gentle, reassuring squeeze.

  Overnight, the land had changed from a vibrant, lively green to a sickly brown. It was as if Change-Term had gotten confused and come early. But there were none of the brilliant reds and golds and purples of that season. This change was all limp grays and browns. Tree limbs dangled lifelessly, weakened and weary. Flowers wilted. Even the wild animals had disappeared, as though retreating into early hibernation.

  Zara tried on her own to put life back into the land, using every last trick she knew, but whatever was draining the land of life was too powerful for Zara to counter. It was frustrating for her to admit defeat. She had the most raw power and talent of the four daughters of Scelwhyn. Leila had once commented that Zara possessed the potential to be even more powerful than Calyssia, perhaps even stronger than Scelwhyn himself, but Zara had given up her life as a wizardess when she met Arnaud, and thus never realized her full potential.

  “If only I had paid more attention to Calyssia when I was younger,” she said now. “If only I knew more.”

  “Perhaps it is the work of the Ancient Enemy,” Arnaud said. “Have you read the messages Oraeyn received from Yochathain and Kallayohm?”

  “I have. None of them mention a blight on the land,” Zara pulled her hands out of Arnaud’s grasp and rubbed her fingers along the bridge of her nose. “It must be the Ancient Enemy, though, nothing else makes sense.”

  “Then Aom-igh must be different in some way from the other countries,” Arnaud replied. “If the Enemy is using a different tactic on our land, he must be worried about his ability to conquer us.”

  “But what do we have that makes us different or a threat?” Zara asked. “We don’t have the numbers that Kallayohm has. We don’t possess an army like Llycaelon's.”

  Arnaud squinted thoughtfully. “We have dragons and gryphons and pegasus. We have wizardesses. We have magic.”

  Zara stared at him for a moment, then she chuckled ruefully. “I must be very tired not to have figured that out.” She pressed the palm of her hand against her temple and sighed heavily. “Of course. A magical attack against us is logical. How could I not have seen it?”

  “When is the last time you slept?” Arnaud’s voice was soft but stern.

  “I don’t remember. I can’t sleep. I need my sisters, I worry about what awful fate has befallen them. I can’t do this on my own... I’ve lost one sister already, I cannot bear the thought of being the last one, all by myself... if only...”

  Arnaud walked around behind Zara and rubbed her shoulders gently for a moment. “Would you give up the life you cho
se in order to have the ability to counter this threat today?”

  At the tone of his voice, Zara turned and took Arnaud’s hands in her own. She stared up at him. His expression was sad and tired and she reached up to touch his face with gentle fingers.

  “Even for the power to heal the land and drive this Enemy out of Tellurae Aquaous once and for all, I would not have chosen differently. You and Kamarie are my world, and I would not trade either of you. Not for anything,” she said the words firmly.

  Arnaud did smile then, a gentle smile. He did not speak as he brushed the stray wisps of golden hair from her face. Zara gazed at him for a long moment.

  “I would not have chosen differently,” she spoke the words with quiet resolve. “But that doesn’t make what I have to do now any easier.”

  “What is that?”

  “I have to speak with Rena. I fear she must play the dragon pipes once more.”

  ❖ ❖ ❖

  “No!” Devrin shouted his fury into the murky, ash-filled air. “No!” He was not aware of what he was yelling, the words tore their way out of his throat with no conscious effort on his part.

  He forced his way through the swarm of seheowks, his blade glinting with their blood. With their prey in hand, the seheowks fought with renewed frenzy, but other aethalons reached the king and beat them back. Devrin reached the spot where Jemson lay and defended the king’s body with every ounce of strength and skill he possessed. Together with his fellow warriors, they formed a shield around the king and retreated slowly, allowing him to be carried from the battlefield to the relative safety of the camp. Behind them, the fighting continued.

  Devrin stayed by Jemson’s side as the king was placed beneath a makeshift shelter, a length of canvas held up by tall posts. A few other wounded men already lay on pallets inside the shelter, tended by a few Kestrels who worked in the camp but were kept out of the fighting. Rain pelted the canvas roof with a pitter-pattering crackle. Devrin knelt by the pallet upon which Jemson was laid and watched uneasily as he was tended by one of the physicians who traveled with the Border Patrol.