The Faerion

by Jim Greenfield

"It brought you and the Faerion here to destroy Galamog. A situation that might not have arrived if left to chance."

  "You risked their lives."

  "Their lives are but a moment in the arch of time," said Blackthorne. "Galamog must be destroyed and this is the first opportunity in my lifetime. It cannot be tossed aside for the lives of three Tuors, or kings, or sorcerers, or Daerlan. No individual matters anymore."

  "You speak so eloquently," said Wynne. "Have you been a court jester?"

  Blackthorne's face darkened. "I know you despise me, but keep it back until our task is completed. After Galamog is no more, then you may vent your frustration and anger at me. I shall not care anymore."

  "I am amazed at you two," said Navir. "Fighting like this on Galamog's doorstep. She has a wide array of creatures to throw at us. Perhaps we are lucky her choices are many. She might have decided by now, which force to send at us. Galamog would not dirty her own hands with us three. Unless we gave her a reason."

  "What are you suggesting?" asked Blackthorne.

  "Use some spells from the Faerion. It may not be able to destroy her without closer proximity but she may sense that it is here and more too quickly."

  "Your idea has merit," said Blackthorne. "But do we know what spells are unique to the book?"

  "I thought you were the expert in that regard," said Wynne. "Your knowledge of spells far outstrips mine." She smiled sweetly at him. He frowned and looked to Navir for help. Navir intently studied a rock at his feet.

  "I see."

  "You brought this situation to its present risk, you must complete it," said Wynne.

  "I believed the two of you would have had better ideas." Blackthorne received a withering look from Wynne. "Okay, okay. I will make the first choice of spells, but I expect you both to assist."

  "But of course," said Wynne. "It would be an honor."

  Blackthorne ignored the sarcasm and took the book from Wynne. He turned pages evidently looking for a particular one. He stopped and read.

  "This one I tried to memorize three different times. I had written it down but the words kept changing. The power of the Faerion extends to its spells in any form. This might be the only chance for me to see this spell work. It's very old and I had searched for it too many years to count, but here it is in my hand."

  "What is it?" asked Wynne.

  "Legends spoke of little spites in our dim past that could put the 'come hither' upon you."

  "What" asked Navir. "It is true?"

  "According to this spell. I shall put the 'come hither' upon Galamog and force her from her lair."

  "Is that wise?" asked Wynne. "I mean, are we ready for her?"

  "No. And I don't know what we can do to be ready except expose the Faerion to her. And hope."

  "Hope the book knows what it's supposed to do?"

  "Do you have a better idea?"

  Navir grinned and bowed. Blackthorne shook his head and read the page to himself. He closed his eyes envisioning the work involved. When he was sure he knew what he was to do, he opened his eyes and began speaking at once. A low voice, riddle with staccato words jetting from his mouth and swirling in the dust at his feet. The words bubbled in the dirt rising slowly, flowing into each other to a sinuous shape dwarfing Blackthorne.

  "What do you require?" asked a voice seemingly from nowhere. The tone of the voice made Wynne's skin pimple.

  "I wish to summon Lady Natale Galamog. Can you do this?"

  "It shall be done. Prepare yourselves."

  The shape vanished.

  "What did it mean, prepare ourselves?" asked Wynne.

  "I don't know," said Navir. "But I fear it isn't good news."

  "I agree," said Blackthorne.

  The ground began to tremble; rocks tumbled off the mountainsides. Navir grabbed Wynne and pulled her under an overhang of rock just as two large stones struck the ground where she had stood. Blackthorne dove aside, rolled to his feet and sprinted to join them in their tenuous safety. The earth shook and screamed as the mountain in front of them tried to tear itself open. Fissures opened, widening as the mountain peeled back its skin and a huge blackness bubbled out of it, streaming down the sides.

  They watched, mouths agape as the mountains dissolved. The black material congealed in a crevasse and dragged itself to the top, finding a secure foothold. Then it began to pull in on itself, smaller and smaller until a Man shape stood before them. A woman in her prime, long black hair, alabaster skin and cold, cold black eyes. As she moved forward Wynne was reminded of a serpent toying with its prey.

  "Blackthorne," her voice purred. "You have summoned me? I did not know you possessed such power, or was it your passion that called me?"

  "Natale, I did not summon you to discuss the past. My friends and I have brought something with us, something you need to hold."

  "What?" asked Galamog. She did not seem nervous and did not move save the darting eyes.

  Wynne stepped forward. "I am descended from Wierluns, Galamog. And on their behalf I bring the Faerion to you."

  Galamog stood still as stone.

  The wind came from nowhere, blasting them off their feet, tearing at their clothes. Branches and twigs pelted them in a hail brought by the gale force winds. Wynne could not stand. Shadowy shapes rose up from the ground and advanced toward them. They could hear Galamog's voice in the roar of the wind.

  "Fools! Did you think it would be so easy? Did you think the mention of the Faerion would bring me to my knees? My victory will be total."

  Chapter 19

  The soldiers of Wierland woke to trumpets from the battered walls of Nantitet. Long and clear rose the notes, piercing the rose-colored sky pulling cheers from the besieged people. People lined the top of the wall waving and jeering the army below them. Dirty faces dropping their lines of worry and spreading smiles of joy to the confused Wierland soldiers. At their captains' commands, the Wierlandians readied their arms, falling into positions for battle. A silence followed. The people on the wall squirmed in anticipation. A growing unease spread among the Wierland army and Galen puzzled, unsure how to put an end to it.

  "What is happening?" asked Galen.

  "I do not know," answered Lord Armas. "It seems that the wind has changed, at least from the Calendia point of view, but I can't see how. Out here, nothing has changed. Unless they plan to send another army out, but they couldn't have hidden one inside Nantitet. We will have to wait and see."

  "I think they move to surrender."

  "Unlikely. King Treteste is unbalanced. He would do nothing so sensible."

  Galen stood forward, thinking a parlay to be imminent. He began to consider the terms of his victory and the taste was sweet. Still, his sword wavered in the morning light. He took nothing for granted. His army had not breached the white walls of the city. The gates of Nantitet groaned open; their hinges bent from the Wierland assault. A single figure stood in the gateway dressed in black and gold armor.

  "Galen of Wierland," called the herald on the wall. "You are challenged to a duel. If you win, Nantitet is yours. If you lose, Wierland loses. Do you accept?"

  "Who challenges me?"

  The black and gold figure strode forward. The people on the wall cheered wildly. Galen nodded certain of who approached his position.

  "I do. I am Sir Kirkes. And I challenge you to the death, berserker and woman killer. Children have fallen to your blade and I will foul mine with your blood to avenge your acts of cowardice!"

  "I accept your challenge. I shall not be cowed by words, Sir Kirkes. Come, and meet me here on this field, if your sword is as lethal as your words. Else, go and cower with King Treteste whom we know to be a coward and murderer of liege lords."

  Soldiers from both sides moved quickly to clear a space for the battle of champions. Each side kept their weapons ready, expecting deceit from their opponents.

  A great space opened up in the battlefield with both armies backing away from the two combatants. Estes stood closest to Kirkes, expectin
g the Wierlandians to fall upon the knight in violation of the battle of champions. Estes and Apal had followed Kirkes through the crowded streets of Nantitet and took positions of support on either side of the great knight. Two Wierland soldiers assumed the same positions for Galen.

  The two men strode nearer, and then Galen suddenly roared and rushed forward, his great sword high over his head. Kirkes moved quickly blocking the blow as he stepped aside. Galen counterstrokeed but again Kirkes's sword intercepted the berserker's lunge. Again, Galen attacked, and then again. They circled each other occasionally testing each other's defense.

  Estes watched the Wierlandians soldiers, especially the bowmen for signs of treachery. Apal stood close by. Estes looked to the wall where several archers stood at attention. He was thankful so many kept a secret allegiance to Apal, or Tagera, as he should now call him. Still, Kirkes would have turned many to his side on his own right. Between the two of them Estes found he could build a power of support to lay claim to the throne. He realized why they were so hard on him. Kirkes and Tagera, alone, could proclaim him king. They would not use their authority without caution. It was a nation they considered, not the egos of young men who feel wronged by the world. Estes's mind eased at those thoughts. He never admitted wrong in himself. He was stubborn to a fault and Tagera wanted him to see that there was more to the world than himself.

  "Good boy. Keep you eyes on the left side; I'll watch the right. Kirkes will get a fair fight out of this or I'll be damned."

  "Me as well."

  Apal patted him on the shoulder.

  Kirkes swiftly moved in, his blade scraping off Galen's shield. The berserker struck Kirkes in the back with the flat of his sword, sending the black and gold knight sprawling. He brought his sword down with all his strength but Kirkes' blade blocked and held with tremendous strength, unyielding to Galen's blow. Kirkes's shield struck Galen's legs and he stumbled while Kirkes used the opportunity to regain his footing.

  Kirkes' breathing was loud. He appeared wearied by the weight of the armor. Galen roared again and charged Kirkes. The impact sent both of them rolling down the slope. Galen regained his footing first and struck at the prone Kirkes. Kirkes rolled, barely escaping the brunt of the blow. Then he kicked Galen's feet out from under him. Kirkes stood slowly and stepped back to catch his breath. Blood trickled down his face.

  "You are strong for such an old man," said Galen. His uncovered head was plastered with hair and blood.

  "I'm not so old that I can't beat a whelp like you."

  Galen charged again but this time Kirkes sword shot upward disarming the berserker. Galen stood, stunned.

  "I shall offer you your life. Take your army and depart these fields."

  "Kill him!" shouted Galen to his men.

  Estes ran forward to cover Kirkes' back. He glared at the Wierlandians nearest him.

  "You'll have to go through me cowards! The battle of champions is a battle of honor. Do not dishonor your country anymore. Fall back!"

  Several Wierlandians rushed forward, their eyes cold and hard. Estes felt his fear rise quickly into his throat. He hopped slightly to expend his nervous energy. His sword was ready. He moved smoothly and quickly as his father trained him. His arm was young but the sinewy strength whipped his blade through the close quarters wounding the first opponent. He seemed to slip into another place, watching himself move, parry and thrust. His speed proved greater than his opponents and they fell at his feet. He looked at the line of Wierlandians facing him. He saw fear and respect. He glanced at Kirkes, who nodded his head.

  "I call upon the army of Wierland to surrender. Who speaks for this army?"

  "Lord Armas speaks for Wierland," said one of the soldiers. "The old man on the hill."

  "Get him."

  The soldier moved through the bunched groups of soldiers to fetch Armas.

  Kirkes smiled at Estes then turned again to Galen.

  "If nothing but death will satisfy you, so be it. Pick up your sword and fight."

  Galen picked up his huge sword, watching Kirkes.

  "I am honorable. I told you to pick it up and I shall not attack until you are ready."

  Without warning Galen struck, wounding Kirkes in the shoulder. He staggered back, blood coursing from the wound. Galen laughed, raising his sword skyward. He rushed Kirkes knocking him down. Kirkes jabbed his foot and Galen howled, dancing out of reach. Kirkes found his footing, staggering. Estes resisted putting out a hand to steady Kirkes.

  Kirkes dropped his shield, switching his sword to his left hand. Galen charged but Kirkes surprised him with the left-handed blow, slicing Galen's midsection. Galen's armor creased but did not rip open. Kirkes quickly struck again, catching Galen under the arm between the armor. Galen gasped and reached for the wound. He appeared shocked to see his own blood. Kirkes found the strength for another blow and lodged his sword in Galen's neck.

  Galen fell dead.

  Estes stood forward with Apal who supported Kirkes. The Wierlandians parted and a tall white haired man walked toward them.

  "Lord Armas!" called Estes. "I am Estes. I call upon you to surrender the battle on the terms of the battle of champions."

  The old man walked through the sea of soldiers to stand before Prince Estes.

  "I stand before you to accept the terms of the battle." He exhaled deeply. He felt the despair of his people. He gambled and lost. "I speak for Wierland and we surrender. We are diminished because of the battle of champions, which Galen should not have agreed to fight. We came to win or die. Our country is poor and starving. We cannot return like this. We have condemned our people to death."

  Estes turned to Apal who motioned him to continue. It was his problem if he was to be king. His mind raced at he looked into the proud eyes of a man driven by desperation to make war. Estes thought he found a way.

  "Lord Armas. Your terms of surrender are this: swear fealty to Calendia and repair the damage done to the homes on your route. Calendia shall help restock your granaries. Your people will not starve. After Wierland is on its feet again, we require Wierland to send one twelfth part of your income to us annually to help repay our generosity."

  "Your father and Treteste diverted food and gold from our merchants. You would be giving us much that should have been ours."

  Estes looked the old man in the eyes.

  "Well then. That is a different matter. If we adjust the annual amount to one sixteenth?"

  "It is acceptable."

  "Good. If fortune shines on me I shall be crowned within the week. I shall send for you and seal our agreement officially after I am king."

  "You are fair, Prince Estes. I offer Godspeed on your coronation. I would wish to discuss many things with your highness." He turned to Apal.

  "Tagera, you are a scoundrel."

  "Good to see you, too, Armas."

  "You have done it, then? Prince Estes possesses the throne?"

  "Only a matter of time before Treteste is behind us."

  "He was the only reason I decided to attack. Otherwise, we would have begged."

  "Yeates might not have given you anything if you appeared weak," said Tagera.

  "No," agreed Estes. "Father would not have helped you. I know that now."

  Tagera patted Estes on the back. "It is a fine beginning."

  Bells pealed throughout the town. Flowers floated from the white walls to the victors approaching the gates. Sir Kirkes rode without helm. His forehead bloody, but his strength allowed no waver. Somehow Tagera found several tankards of ale on the battlefield and they firmed up Kirkes's spine tremendously.

  He entered through the gates, Estes at his side. The people cheered Kirkes; then the young man accompanied him was recognized. The people cried out Estes' name, calling for him to be king. Runners went to the castle to warn Treteste, but he already rode his horse toward the procession. In his haste, the king rode without guards. Spittle hung to his chin. Kirkes noticed the rider thundering through the streets toward them. Kirkes tou
ched Estes' shoulder and pointed.

  Treteste drew his sword, spurred his horse and rode hard down the streets; his face contorted in rage. He screamed at Estes and Kirkes, but they both looked at each other, unable to understand the words. Estes shrugged.

  "This battle is yours, Prince Estes," said Kirkes. "Win and you are king, fairly won. The crown returns to your family in the eyes of the people of Nantitet. There would be no doubt; the right to rule through strength of arms. Listen to the voices of the people of Nantitet. They want you as king. Kill Treteste fairly and you will be king."

  Estes looked into Kirkes eyes, his own face grim.

  "I will win," he said flatly. "I shall earn the crown and work for my people's trust and respect."

  Kirkes grinned and clapped him on the shoulder. "I ask no less. Godspeed."

  Estes rode to meet Treteste. His grim face troubled Treteste who slowed his horse.

  "Traitor!" cried Estes at the top of his lungs. All the people heard his words. "You plotted against the throne of Nantitet for years and murdered my father. Your actions have cut you from our family. Whatever blood we share has been tainted by the blackness of your soul. I deny kinship with you! Taste the steel blade of justice!"

  They met in the square and the concussion buckled Treteste's horse. Estes struck Treteste on the shoulder. Treteste grimaced and tried to turn his horse as Estes rode into him again and tore open his chest with a slicing blow. Even as the horse toppled, Treteste dropped his sword and clutched his bloody jerkin. The horse tipped Treteste to the ground; his leg trapped under the horse. It rolled off him, regaining its feet, but Treteste lay there. Estes looked down upon his father's killer. In his mind he saw his father's head rolling on the ground and the sound of Treteste's laughter. He could not squeeze out the sound. He bit his lip until it bled. His blood flowed hotly in his veins and his head began to pound. Rage such as he never knew filled him and he raised his sword, his arm shaking with anger. Unbidden, an image of Deenie came to him. Her soft eyes penetrated his anger blowing it away like candle smoke. He smiled as she smiled. The crowd screamed for blood, but Estes' heart beat cold for violence. He wanted to see Deenie. Only Deenie. He turned away and rode back toward Kirkes.