The news did not seem to mollify Jannik. Indeed, it seemed to depress him further.
“You do not understand, my lords – nor do I expect you to. The Fair Vale was a special place, a place of wonder, for those who were raised there. Over a hundred of my kin called the place home – gone, now. All gone,” he said, sadly. “Their sweet voices stilled, their merry instruments smashed.”
“You’re certain?” Mavone asked, frowning.
“It was the very first place I headed for, once I was at liberty. It was . . . it was sad,” he said, simply. “A great and glorious place laid to ruin. Every hall is burned, every cot is destroyed . . . and bones. I found bones,” he said, in a hollow voice. “The bones of dozens of . . . well, not enough to account for them all,” he continued, in a more conversational tone. “I’d hoped a few had been captured, taken into the Penumbra. I’ve spent years searching for them, any of them, but–” he said, suddenly overcome with emotion. “They’re all gone.”
“Yet their charge lives on, in you,” Mavone soothed, quietly. “For more than a century the Rysh have guided the rulers of the Wilderlands. Whether by wise counsel or song, they have always influenced the councils of the mighty in the northlands. As we are now the rulers,” he continued, gesturing toward me, “then you still have a duty your line has assumed: to give us the counsel we need to see what is left of the north is ruled as prosperously and securely as possible.”
“It stings to put aside what has been lost,” Sandy agreed, solemnly. “Dead kin and slain friends haunt us all, I assure you. The glory that was the Wilderlands is gone forever, now, at least as it was.
“But consider the potential of the Magelaw, in its place,” Sandy continued, with a little more enthusiasm. “Out of the corpse of the Wilderlands could rise a new and stronger realm to challenge the darkness,” he proposed. “By helping Count Minalan and the rest of us understand what is happening in the shadow, you also help thousands upon thousands who depend upon our protection.”
“My duty is clear enough – you gentlemen may spare yourselves the effort,” the thin minstrel sighed. “Though I do not claim the title of the Rysh, I will do what I can to fulfill our ancient charge,” he agreed, glumly.
“You need not claim it,” I countered. “For I grant it to you, freely. These are not my native lands,” I told him, unnecessarily. “I do not have the experience with the people, what few are left, to rule them without good counsel. I take it wherever I find it: from Wilderlords, wizards, Kasari rangers, pious monks and peasants, alike. I will not eschew the counsel of a bard whose lineage supports the prosperity of this land. I name you the Scion of Rysh,” I announced. “You are heir to Cartrefygan.”
“My thanks, Count Minalan,” the man said, after a moment of quiet reflection. “For good or ill, I shall do my best to see that commission fulfilled.
“But I fear the news I bring, and the message I bear, heralds little in terms of peace and prosperity,” he reported. “For I have news from a far quarter, from an unexpected source . . . and it may prove the most fateful such message I’ve ever borne!”
Chapter Two
An Invitation to a Trap
Many a man has traveled far
Through the highlands in the west
Seeking fortune in the Minden’s shade
In the hills the gods have blessed.
Long into their dotage they smile as they tell the tale
Of drinking merry sunlight in a cup of Pengwarn’s ale!
Western Highlands folk verse
From the Collections of Jannik the Rysh
Jannik was impressed at the wizardly means of traveling the Ways – finding oneself suddenly nearly a hundred miles away from your origin is disconcerting, to most, when they first take the journey, but Jannik was unfazed by the experience – and thoroughly enchanted with the means of travel.
More, he was astonished at the appearance of an entire settlement in a region he had known as vacant. The two little temples, the inn and the guesthouses of Cheerford were less than a year old, after all, and largely unfinished. Though they boasted roofs and walls, there was still a rough feeling to the place that gave it an air of expectancy and potential I think the minstrel appreciated.
I was going to use my rank and the intimidation of my men to secure the back room of the inn, with a little silver to sweeten the bargain. I had spells to ensure that we were unheard, even if we conversed in the midst of a crowded market. I still wanted privacy for this briefing. But it proved unnecessary. Terleman arrived first and had secured the space on our behalf, as well as a robust dinner. His overly handsome squire and Sandoval’s men kept to the common room, where they kept a watchful eye.
Mavone treated Jannik with far more deference than I’d ever extended the minstrel. It was at that first meeting with him in Cheerford when I began to suspect his true importance in the conduct of our operations. For his part, Jannik’s quick eye seemed to capture everyone in the room. I could see why he would be a good spy.
We patiently allowed the man to drink a few cups of ale and enjoy a civilized meal in a homey inn, without bombarding him with the questions we were gathering in our minds. It was difficult – I had other things that required my attention – but at the same time there are worse places to find yourself captive on a cold winter’s night than an inn blessed by the God of Innkeepers, himself. Instead, Terleman updated us about the repair and restocking efforts at Spellgate.
Finally, Jannik pushed back his bowl, lit his pipe, and began unpacking the satchel he had kept close to him since his rescue.
“I bear seven reports and dispatches from our friends in the Penumbra,” Jannik began, unfurling the odd collection of parchment he carried in a folio. “They’re here for your inspection, but I can summarize: Korbal has authorized a goodly portion of his soldiery to Shakathet’s command, in an effort to overwhelm your new realm,” he reported. “Perhaps a third of his total forces. The best third. The storehouses and barracks have been nearly emptied, and since the beginning of the thaw, every road east is filled with marching goblins.”
“How many?” demanded Mavone.
“At least sixty thousand, my lord,” the minstrel reported, with a reluctant sigh. “That is in addition to the forces Shakathet has already gathered. May I ask how many men the Spellmonger can put in the field?”
“Ten thousand, perhaps fifteen,” Terleman replied, as we absorbed the depressing news. “Though they were enough to destroy Gaja Katar’s army at Spellgate.”
“Shakathet is not Gaja Katar, my lord,” Jannik reasoned. “I confess the latter was ridiculed for his foolhardiness even in the courts of shadow. Shakathet is far more capable. Nor do I think he plans on directly assaulting such a strongly held point as your new fortress. Or such is the gossip reported by one of our men near his keep,” he said, tapping one of the parchments. “When word came of Gaja Katar’s defeat at Spellgate, he overheard many of his Enshadowed officers deriding the attempt. The same spy says that the consensus is that they will attempt either a southernly or northernly route.”
“The season allows for either strategy,” frowned Mavone. “Nor do we have those routes adequately defended.”
“I believe Shakathet is aware of that,” Jannik nodded, gravely. “But back to my report: other spies tell me that most of the garrisons being deployed in the campaign are from the northern cantonments, the forces used most recently to harass the Goblin King’s lands. He retains the southern garrisons to protect the Umbra against the Wilderlords nearby.”
“Are the northern hills unguarded?” Terleman asked, interested.
“Not exactly, my lord,” the minstrel said. He stood and walked to the wall, where Mavone had hung a map. “The main pass between the hills and the middle regions is held by a single garrison, at Marshkarth – that is, Castle Bartanz,” he said, tapping his finger on the spot. “Korbal left a legion there. Just an old tower keep with a wall, but enough to prohibit any incursions from the rebels.
&nb
sp; “My most interesting report comes second-hand, from one of my friends who’s a drover for the scrugs. He’s made six trips into the Umbra, as far as the gates to the Cursed Vale – the old Mor Tower,” he said, staring at the place on the map and shaking his head. “That’s as close as I’ve ever heard of a human getting to the place and returning.”
“He went into the Umbra?” I asked, suddenly extremely interested.
“Oh, aye, and the gods save him from the nightmares he’ll carry because of it,” Jannik sighed, returning to his seat. “It’s a wasteland, now. A dark, windy place where the grass barely grows and the trees are dying or dead, what’s left of them. Mor Tower is covered in bones – literally, the bones of the sacrifices are heaped there, after the flesh is stripped off for . . . rations.
“But his intelligence is more useful than a mere tale of terror,” Jannik continued. “For he says that the Enshadowed have occupied the place and filled it with undead. My gurvani friends were scandalized . . .”
“You have gurvani friends?” Sandy asked, surprised.
“If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be alive to tell this tale,” Jannik admitted. “Not every gurvan is a flesh-eating killing beast, my lord. Some of them are quite reasonable once you get around some mutual prejudices.
“But they don’t like the idea of the undead so close to their sacred cavern. They think it’s unholy,” he said, amused. “But, to continue, my drover friend discovered something while he tarried at Mor Tower. A dragon flew overhead, and he remarked about it to one of the guards. And thus, he learned some intriguingly valuable intelligence, which he passed along to me. Apparently,” the minstrel said, a smirk on his face, “Korbal has lost faith in dragons. He only has a few remaining dragons that can be deployed, and he keeps them for defending his strongholds, now.”
“So, it’s unlikely we’ll face one in the coming war,” concluded Terleman.
“Unlikely, but not impossible,” agreed Jannik. “But Korbal’s folk do not trust them . . . on account of how many have been lost to the hated humani wizards. It seems they’re damnably expensive to grow, feed, train and maintain, for one thing. They’re supposed to be immortal, unkillable . . . and yet here you’ve slain three, severely wounded two, and another one kippered off on his own. That only leaves a few more . . . and the eggs are extremely difficult to acquire, from what I understand.”
“Does that mean we win the war, then?” Sandy asked, hopefully.
“It appears Korbal has invested in other weapons, instead,” cautioned Jannik. “Also, from my friend the drover, an account from another slave he met at a well, while watering his horses. This woman insists that the scrugs and the Enshadowed have been bringing . . . other things through the cavern portal.”
“What kinds of things? That thing is only about four feet wide,” Mavone reminded us.
“Eggs,” Jannik said, simply. “Big spherical eggs the size of cabbages. Black, shiny, hard, pebbly surface and very, very heavy. That’s the best description I’ve got,” he admitted.
“Not dragon eggs,” I considered. “I’ve seen them. These sound . . . new.”
“And foreboding,” agreed Terleman.
“Nay, my lords, they are not the eggs of dragons, from what my agent reported. Nor are they the only things the woman told my spy they were bringing through, but those were the only ones she described with any detail,” Jannik said. “She also whispered that there were strange creatures – horrors, she called them – coming through, as well. Or they’re what’s being hatched by those eggs. She didn’t say.”
“Is that all, Jannik?” Mavone asked, hopefully.
“Not quite,” the minstrel said, pulling a sealed letter from the bottom of the stack. “Beyond troop movements, gossip, and speculation about the molopor, I have real news. This is the reason I had to end my service in the Penumbra, my lords. Two weeks ago, I was found out,” he revealed, solemnly. “It was a bit of bad business; I was meeting with a cell in Lotanz, and we were raided. I believe someone talked – but I tarried to confront the gurvani, while my fellows escaped. I was captured.
“I was as surprised as anyone that I wasn’t executed on the spot. The local authorities don’t tolerate much from the few humani slaves left in town. I’ve had my run-ins before, even been questioned, but I always managed to talk my way out of it. This time, though, I was fairly nicked. I had one of these dispatches on me,” he winced.
“But the gurvani merely held me prisoner until their new commander arrived. I was shitting anvils, talking fast, and getting hit regularly by the guards – not normal gurvani, but those shaved, burned-up ones. Veterans of Timberwatch, given light duty for their service,” he explained. “Then their captain arrives. A human. He goes by Krepechen; a Wilderlord knight whose face is burned nearly off —”
“Sire Koucey!” I gasped. “He yet survives!”
“The very same,” nodded Jannik. “And he persists. You know the gentleman, I assume. He’s been given minor posts, since his defeat at the Poros, but his allegiance to King Ashakarl and his allies within the gurvani ranks kept him from prison or the sacrificial stone. When the Enshadowed took over, after Olum Seheri, he was one of the few humani who did not flee to the north with Ashakarl. So, they put him in charge of the town watch.”
“That is an interesting use of the man’s abilities,” Mavone commented, darkly.
“It actually makes sense – he understands the human slaves and he speaks fluent gurvani. He takes no sides between the gurvani loyalists and the Enshadowed. And he does a good job of running the town, I’d say,” Jannik admitted. “Things did get safer, after the rebellion. Crime is apparently down.”
“There’s crime in the Umbra?” chuckled Terleman.
“There’s always petty crime and those willing to make a profit in a changing marketplace,” Jannik said, philosophically. “Some of my best informants are criminals. But the worst of it went away, once Krepechen took charge. When he took off his closed helm, I knew at once who it was.”
“And he didn’t slay you, out of hand?” Sandoval asked, surprised.
“No. He told me he knew precisely who I was. He called me by name and cited my lineage. And then we had a nice little chat.
“Sire Koucey, it seems, not only knew who I was, he knew who I worked for – who I really worked for, not the tapestry of cover stories I’ve used over the years. He was really quite insightful. He guessed to whom I reported and to whom he reported, in turn. You, Count Minalan.
“I was nicked. We both knew it. But he told me he’d spare my life if I would bear a message to you, my lord. This message.” He pushed it toward me as if he was glad to be rid of it. “It’s still sealed,” he pointed out, as I picked it up. “I didn’t want to intrude.”
“I don’t believe that for a moment,” Mavone said, wryly.
“My lord marshal, I understand when a message must be kept secret, even from the bearer,” Jannik countered, indignantly. “I am a professional.”
The letter was written on the darker parchment produced by the western reeds, and the ink was watery. But I could read the lettering, and recognized Koucey’s hand from our old acquaintance.
Across the front was written To the Spellmonger of Minden’s Hall. That had been my title when I’d come to Boval Vale. There hadn’t been another one before me, and after me the neighborhood had gone dramatically downhill.
“It’s intended for me,” I confirmed, and flipped it over. A small blob of black wax secured the corners of the outer parchment together. It was stamped with Koucey’s old signet ring, a cow over a mountain. It was completely nonmagical. I broke the seal and removed the letter.
Greetings, it began, simply.
Despite our former disagreements, I feel we can come to some mutually beneficial conclusion to our contentious relationship if given the chance for honest discussion. I propose we meet under the full moon someplace where the ale once tasted like sunlight. Someplace flying an argent banner. I pledge to come in good faith a
nd rely on your honor to do likewise.
K
I read it silently, twice. Then I read it aloud.
“It’s code,” Mavone observed, nodding, when I finished.
“Of course,” Terleman agreed. “He referenced your earlier title . . . one which would not inspire identification by anyone unaware of your history,” he pointed out, sagely.
“And he is as vague as a maiden’s promise,” Sandy agreed. “It sounds more like a disagreement with an artisan than a message to a political rival.”
“Clearly by design. It demonstrates a change of loyalty in the man,” Terleman conceded. “But he is hardly a trusted figure.”
“He has never dealt unfairly with us,” I reminded everyone. “Though he served a dark master, he comported himself as an honorable gentleman on the field and at the negotiating table. He never foreswore the oaths he gave at Timberwatch and at the Poros River. I cannot fault his honor. If he claims he wishes to parley in peace, our history suggests I take him at his word.” I doubted the truth of the words even as I said them. This seemed too good to be true.
“Was he not in thrall to the Dead God, since Boval Vale?” reminded Mavone. “He was clearly thus occupied in the field. As if Sheruel were floating right behind him. I cannot imagine him betraying the master who lives inside his skull.”
“Yet Sheruel is no longer an independent actor,” Terleman proposed. “Since Olum Seheri, he’s more of an artefact than an agent. Korbal keeps him as an engine of his will, with that arcane device. That dark staff,” he said, remembering the battlefield on that cursed isle. “Mayhap since Korbal’s betrayal, the bindings between Koucey’s mind and Sheruel’s foul sphere have been severed.”
“Thus, rendering him independent thought,” Sandy nodded. “He’s free of the Dead God’s taint.”
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