The Crown and the Key

by Andrey Vasilyev

  Whoosh! A portal opened, and the bedraggled subject of our conversation popped out with a heart-rending shriek.

  “What are you just standing there for? Come on, follow me! They’re waiting for you!”

  Chapter Thirteen

  In which we see that troubled times can be unpredictable.

  “Have I told you how she scares me sometimes? I’m always a little nervous about what I don’t understand or can’t control—telelotteries, electrical currents, crazy fairies, all of that,” I said fervently to Kro as I stared at Tren-Bren. “Who are they waiting for? Where are they waiting? And where have you been?”

  “They’re waiting for us,” the fairy replied, gesturing wildly with her arms and bugging her eyes out even further. “You, the king, the redhead, and definitely Kale—Rinald told me to bring him.”

  I was completely lost. Sure, the day had done a number on me, but that was too much.

  “Presumably, we have five minutes.” I stepped to the side, sat down on a bench next to the nearest house, and patted the seat next to me. “Sit down, catch your breath, and tell us what’s going on. I want to hear where you were, and, most important, who’s waiting for us and why they want to see so many of us.”

  “I’m going with you,” Kro announced, having somehow understood something of what Tren-Bren had babbled at us.

  “No good,” the fairy replied. “The council of gelt leaders isn’t for women; they don’t even let them in. They made an exception for me, and that was only because I’m a witness and a child.”

  Oh, so, that’s what’s going on. The “who” was the council, and the “where” no longer mattered so much.

  “Gender discrimination,” Kro frowned. “Screw that.”

  “Those guys couldn’t care less about discrimination,” the fairy said, herself spitting on the ground with relish and very nearly hitting the archer’s boot. “They haven’t even heard of feminism, and they’d just laugh at you if you tried to explain it to them. You’d probably get tarred and feathered. They’re fierce old guys! But they really respect you, pops. I was surprised, at first, but it’s actually kind of nice.”

  “With good reason,” I said, flashing my characteristic humility.

  “Can you really chop heads off like it’s nothing?” the fairy asked eagerly. “With just one swing?”

  “Now’s not the time,” I replied. Tren-Bren was getting off-topic, and I needed to nip that in the bud. “Tissa was there, so you can ask her about the guy whose haircut I messed up. If she wants, she’ll tell you.”

  Kro grimaced. “Someone has skeletons in his closet.”

  “No less than I have out of it. Just a few hours ago, a couple thousand people sent each other off into the next life, and nobody blinked an eye. But that’s enough of that—Tren, out with it.”

  The fairy plopped down on the bench, grabbed my hand, and started telling me about her travels.

  It turned out that she had shown up in Erinbug while we all were in Tuad Valley, and that she’d somehow managed to head that way with Dorn and two NPCs. One was an old bard I’d seen walking around, a sort of gelt Homer who went around singing terrifying ballades in a gruff tenor.

  He cut off his first arm

  Without raising the alarm.

  Then he up and hewed the other

  Without awakening his mother.

  The three of them, along with the bard’s apprentice, had headed off to watch the battle.

  None of them got lucky because they didn’t quite arrive where they wanted to. Instead, they found themselves right in the epicenter of the battle between the Double Shields and the Sons of Taranis—if it could even be called a battle. The fairy caught an arrow in the shoulder and would have probably been trampled underfoot if it hadn’t been for Dorn. He saved her, but that wasn’t all. He gave her a piece of prudent advice I wouldn’t have expected from him. With unusual insight, Dorn realized what was going on and that the Double Shields’ despicable behavior could especially be leveraged to benefit our clan war if a tiny girl with little wings burst into tears. So, that’s exactly what happened.

  The decrepit singer also turned out to be the acquaintance of a veteran who was a close friend of Baron Fergus, as well as the head songster for everyone in the Borderlands. That included the one the baron had to sing him sad songs about the lot of the hillmen in the Borderlands, life and war before every meal. Their group went to work on what was an excellent topic for a song: the graceful, wounded, and tearful fairy. The lyrics were written collectively, and, by the evening, all of Agberdin felt for the small, proud, and courageous MacLynn clan. The dirty MacPratts were roundly scorned and were probably themselves trying to figure out who exactly had come to their assistance in the battle.

  In a word, I needed to think of a reward for the fairy and Dorn. They’d pulled off exactly what I’d been planning, just much faster—and they’d done a great job of it.

  “So, where are we supposed to be going now?” I asked the fairy, a bit dumbfounded. The news had thrown me for a loop.

  “Are you deaf?” Tren-Bren shot back incredulously. “Old Fergus collected a ton of people, a few clan leaders, and some others. It turned out well—they were already there, and then this came up. Slen MacHen, a cool, big guy with a mustache, and his friends started yelling about how the MacPratts should have been slaughtered a long time ago. Then, an old guy covered in tattoos said that you’re like a son to him, and so he’d be more than happy to spill all their guts. Fergus said we can’t just do it like that, though. We have to come to an agreement, a…oh, right, an appropriate agreement. That’s the only way we can cut people up. Otherwise, it’s just chaos.”

  “That makes sense,” I said. “Okay, go, get everyone together. We have to make sure we capitalize on this.”

  “Dorn!” Tren-Bren shrieked, throwing herself at the dwarf as he walked over and leaving me to turn away jealously. There’s something about little, spontaneous girls that bewitches even the oldest and most cynical of men (in terms of simple affection, not something on Humbert Humbert’s[2] level).

  “What did I tell you to do?” I barked. “Dorn!”

  “Yes, Laird?”

  “You’re coming with us, too,” I said, going over to him. “Your job will be to stand there gritting your teeth, rubbing your side from time to time to let everyone know that you were seriously wounded.”

  “Got it,” the dwarf nodded. “I can do that.”

  “I want to come, too,” Kro muttered darkly.

  “Come on, babe,” I said, putting my arm around her shoulders. She would have pulled away if my grip hadn’t been so tight. “Some things you just have to get over for the sake of a higher cause. You heard for yourself—the gelts don’t let women participate in things like this. It’s tradition. The fairy isn’t even a woman; she’s a mistake with wings. Tissa would like to come, too, I’m sure, but you don’t hear her asking, do you?”

  “You won’t take me, anyway,” Tissa said. She’d appeared from somewhere in my field of vision. “It’s a shame—I’d like to see what happens.”

  “No, we won’t,” I shrugged. “If it helps, there’s going to be enough fun for everyone if everything goes according to plan.”

  A ding told me that I’d gotten a message. Before I could read it, however, a group of voices told me that our group of emissaries was arriving.

  “Brother,” Lossarnakh said, giving me a quick, manly hug. “I know what you did for Abigail.”

  “She’s my sister. How could I have just left her?”

  “Not everyone would have gone into a place like Girten Bog, even for a sister.”

  “You were in Girten Bog?” Kro’s mouth practically fell open. “Really?”

  “Yes, and I—” I was about to tell her about the dungeon I’d found, though Tren-Bren flew over with a heart-rending shriek to interrupt me. “Let’s go, somebody, open a portal!”

  A portal flashed, and we all found ourselves in the middle of Agberdin’s square. It was
packed.

  “Oh, they’re already singing.” Tren-Bren waved at us to stop. “Listen!”

  The treacherous, evil Macmillan MacPratt

  Picked up his hatred and mace,

  Spat in the face of each of the gelts,

  With no honor, nay, nor grace.

  An alliance formed in the dead of night

  With the evil witch of Calidon;

  Blood given in oath to affix the terms:

  A small clan from the Borderlands—gone.

  MacPratt, hungry for power and lands,

  Not to mention young, female flesh.

  The sorceress, thrilled by the suff’ring of people.

  Together, the two were enmeshed.

  Steel and magic cut the MacLynns,

  The MacPratts and the witch rejoiced;

  But the pair missed one important detail:

  Galing’s brother with the deep, strong voice.

  A brother, maybe, not by blood,

  But with bonds that were forged in battle.

  The sorceress dead, the clan without leader,

  About to be sold as chattel.

  Laird Hagen! Northern jarl, Western thane,

  List of glories too long to retell,

  Collected his friends to save the proud clan

  And protect the girl from a miserable hell.

  Righteous rage blossomed in the hearts of the gelts,

  Swords yearned for the blood of the transgressor.

  Their king by right and birth, Lossarnakh,

  Led them against the oppressor.

  With them stood MacSommers, desperate,

  Flossi, Mistress Krolina, and Kale.

  In their hearts, the Borderlands held dear,

  No homespun gelt beyond the pale.

  A bloody battle in Tuad Valley,

  Passions bright—infamy once more!

  Mercenaries sent to fight;

  Royal forces cut to the core.

  The hated one, his war chests full,

  Let fear o’ertake good reason.

  Only thus could he stoop so low,

  In the face of all the gelts, this treason.

  Decide, oh, gelts! For whom your blades?

  Never ignominy left to lie

  By you, your days spent sloshing ale.

  No, no, it is to war we fly!

  The ugly singer in the great kilt fell silent, dropping his uncombed head and showing with his entire disposition that he expected Agberdin to make the right choice.

  “Touching,” Lennox said, brushing a tear away from the corner of his eye. “We’re such heroes!”

  Dorn and I glanced at each other, realizing what kind of play that was going to get. We weren’t just working our way toward a small, victorious war anymore; we could line up a battle for the Borderlands. Civil war…damn.

  “Raidion is out of their minds,” I heard someone say, and I tuned my ears to listen. “One event after another… Do you know what’s going on?”

  “No,” came the second voice. A closer look told me that the two were players, and high-level players, at that.

  “I’m not sure who Kale and Flossi are, but I’ve met Krolina—she and I were on a raid, once, and I joined the Thunderbirds on her recommendation. She’s up there as a player, even led that raid. What was I talking about? Oh, right. It sounds like she’s in the middle of whatever this event is.”

  “So?”

  “You really are an idiot sometimes.” The first player even shook his head. “We need to figure out what’s going on and try to get involved. It could be fun, and there could be something in it for us, too.”

  “You think it’s better than what’s happening in the Western Mark?” the second player grunted. “I doubt it.”

  Wait, what’s going on in the West?

  “Sale, you and I aren’t complete loners, but, let’s be honest, we aren’t team players. What do we have to do with all that clan stuff? They’re out there, and what difference does it make to us if they decide to start killing each other? We just want to have fun. Agreed?”

  I didn’t hear Sale’s response, because a group of locals walked through the square, shouted down the pair, and, apparently, carried them away in their wake. Regardless, it was a pretty sensible point of view. They were interesting characters, even if we didn’t need them. I made a mental note to let Kro know they might be showing up.

  “Dorn, hey, do you know what’s going on out there in the world?” I asked, only to receive a surprised look. He hadn’t been out of the game, either, and we didn’t have any cable news stations.

  “Let’s go, let’s go,” Tren-Bren called, rushing us forward with a flap of her wings. “Time is money, and they’re waiting for us. Hey, make way up there!”

  “That’s Lennox,” some gelt girl called from the crowd. “Hey, everyone, that’s MacSommers. And Kale, too!”

  “Yeah!” another woman chimed in. “So, that must be Lossarnakh MacMagnus with them!”

  “That’s him,” a male voice boomed. “I saw him back when he didn’t have that gray hair. He’d just come of age, but you could tell even then, that he was like his old man Selar.”

  “MacMagnus!” called the crowd. “MacMagnus, exiled hero! Slandered, but unbroken!”

  “There you go,” I whispered to Lossarnakh. “And you said they’d throw dirt. If we’d thought to stick a bloody bandage on your head, they’d have carried you through the streets!”

  “Lossarnakh!” everyone yelled even louder. “Death to the dastardly MacPratts; up with the fearless MacLynns! The heroes of Tuad Valley! Gelts die, but they never surrender!”

  “You got that right,” Lennox roared suddenly. “Down with the MacPratts; up with Lossarnakh!”

  “Hurrah!”

  There was definitely something thrilling about it. The local bards had done their job riling up the crowd, and there we were.

  “Kill the MacPratts!” Tren-Bren shouted. “They even shoot arrows at kids—just take me!”

  “She’s right about that, gelts,” the deep voice boomed out again over the crowd. “Shall we go teach the MacPratts a lesson?”

  “The leaders will say who needs a lesson, and then we’ll go teach it,” somebody responded. “The elders are the ones who decide who we kill, when we kill them, and why.”

  Finally, we arrived at Baron Fergus’s familiar house.

  “Good luck, Lossarnakh,” several voices called. “And to you, too, newcomers.”

  Nobody called my friend the king. That idea apparently hadn’t gotten around, though it was in the clans. Also, nobody recognized me as the leader of the clan. Still just as much an outsider as ever.

  Your relationship with the Supreme Vila took another hit, and she currently dislikes you.

  You can get her to be distrustful of you or further spoil your relationship by getting her angry at you.

  And that was interesting. Not only had the vilas not burned Hilda in the swamp, but she’d also apparently done quite the number on them. Regina was left with no sacrifice to make and an angry dryad on her tail. Good—we can’t have all that Satanic stuff in the game. I certainly wasn’t planning on any bog trips in the near future. That was doubly true for when it was dark since I couldn’t see anything then, and the vilas would be able to carry out their dastardly acts with impunity.

  Oddly enough, Hilda didn’t have anything against me. I hadn’t gotten a message to that effect, at least. That was in line with what I’d been thinking—neither she nor her sisters could come into open conflict with me until I brought their goddess back. But then… Although, she might not have even put two and two together since she was clearly the least intellectually endowed in the dryad family.

  ***

  We were expected in the house.

  “Well, gelts, and you, dwarf,” Rinald said the way he always did. “Let’s see your weapons.”

  “Why?” Dorn frowned. “You think we’re here to hurt you?”

  “With a beard like that, I can’t quite tell,�
� Rinald replied unyieldingly. “And you never know what might happen during a council meeting.”

  “Exactly,” the dwarf shot back. “It could go sideways, and I’d be left with nothing but my beard and bare hands.”

  “It’s true,” I added. “What’s fair about that?”

  “Here’s what’s fair,” Rinald said, pointing at a battle axe he had leaning against the wall next to him. “Anyone who tries to disturb the peace gets that.”

  “I’m convinced,” the dwarf said. He handed the gelt his own weapon—apparently, he didn’t have the usual junk rattling around in his bag after his heroic death.

  “How’s your sciatica?” I asked him as I gave him the same useless sword I’d handed the guards at the order fortress. “Not too bad?”

  “With things like this going on, you forget about diseases,” Rinald replied darkly.

  He stepped back and gestured us toward the stairs leading to the second floor, from which we heard the voices that were supposed to be expecting us.

  ***

  I thought I’d see something like the meeting of leaders we’d had before heading off to attack Rennor—rugged, scarred, gray, mustachioed, and tattooed warriors sitting around discussing issues of life and death between jokes.

  It wasn’t like that, at all. On the second floor, where I’d never been, a pair of very serious gelts opened a large double-door in front of us. The room looked to be impressive, judging by the door.

  It was, indeed, a large hall, at the far end of which, a fire burned brightly in the fireplace. In the center was a round table, and the leaders of the clans were seated in heavy chairs. Some seats were empty, but there were still a good forty people in the hall.

  “There’s the new head of the MacLynn clan,” Fergus MacSommers called. “It’s him and his command.”

  “That redhead isn’t one of his,” one of the hillmen said quickly. “I know him—that’s Lennox MacSommers. Baron, if one of your people is with MacLynn’s group, is it fair to say that you’ve made your choice?”