by Ellyn, Court
Hidden in the hollow of his hand was a small embroidered leather pouch filled with a pinch of Andy’s ashes. For two days, he had clutched it, unceasing. Now he hung it round his neck from a braided leather cord, and tucked it inside his undershirt, against his chest.
The room had been his when he was a boy. It hadn’t changed much. The same tapestries of hounds hunting stags. The same bedclothes embroidered by his mother’s delicate hand. The same smell. It was the smell that dragged Laral back through the years. Something unsettling about it, like remembering the twisted images of some long-forgotten dream.
Every rug and stick of furniture had been kept immaculate, as if Father had never given up hope of his son’s contrite return.
Trays of cold, desiccated food occupied the breakfast table, alongside several empty wine bottles. Laral’s head throbbed, a testament to his vain attempts to numb the ache devouring him from the inside, to fill the emptiness into which he was plummeting.
The bell rope hung beside the mantelpiece, but he decided against summoning a servant at this hour. Rude. Pathetic. Instead, he made a cursory attempt to look civilized, put on his boots, pulled back his hair, washed his face. But the keep was quiet, its denizens, its guests sleeping. If he was lucky, he’d sneak in and out of the kitchens without anyone noticing. He wasn’t in the mood for chitchat.
On tiptoe, he eased into the vestibule, listening for early risers. And stumbled over something large. Something that groaned. The hell?
A voice rose from the darkness at Laral’s feet, “M’ lord?” The something uncurled and heaved itself up from the floor. Haldred’s broad shoulders hunched under unshed sleep, and he scrubbed his face with a blunt hand. For the first time, he was letting his beard grow and was apparently experimenting with how long and wild he could stand it. “What time is it? Can I get you something?”
Laral cuffed his squire, his former squire, in punishment for startling him, then embraced him. Arryk and Ruthan had caught him up on events, including Hal’s knighting, in an attempt to distract him. But eventually his sorrow had caged him in unresponsive silence and they had left him alone.
“You dolt, why are sleeping on my floor?” Laral spoke with affection.
“Lady Ruthan said you wouldn’t come out. I didn’t like you being alone. Not if I might help. I may have been knighted, sir, but I can still squire for you.”
Hal’s devotion warmed the ice that had encrusted Laral’s heart. “Come, I need to walk. We’ll raid the kitchen.”
Ambling down the grand stair with youthful imperviousness, Haldred asked, “Are you disappointed, about my knighting, that you weren’t there?”
“I am. While we eat, you must tell me your tale.”
Hal’s descent paused. “It was horrible. But I claimed me a sword. I’ll show you…”
Laral tried to summon happiness, for Hal’s sake.
From the larder, they purloined bread, a cheese wheel in wax cloth, cold smoked widgeon and a canister of candied andyr nuts, then absconded to the Great Hall. At one of the lower tables, near the dark fireplace, they tore into the food with their fingers. While Laral listened to Hal’s perspective on the winning of Tírandon, he marveled at this boy whom he had raised into a man, and joy threatened to rise.
Before the food was gone, Hal was yawning, his eyes growing heavy-lidded.
“Off with you,” Laral said.
Hal didn’t argue but hauled himself up from the table. He reached for the remains of the food.
Laral laid a hand upon the tray. “I’ll clean up. I was a squire too, once.”
“Goodnight, sir. Or good morning.”
Hal was right. Dawn paled beyond the windows and eased into the corners. The young knight shuffled out, leaving Laral alone in the immense, vaulted quiet. The hall of his ancestors. It was good to drift through memories and find a few that didn’t sting of regret or sorrow. Outside, on a nearby eave, a bird greeted the new day. Downstairs, kitchen sounds stirred. From over the dark fireplace, a face winked at him. A pale ghostly face. A monster’s face.
The fireplace was a cavernous version of the one in Father’s suite; the columns supporting the mantel were twin wolfhounds seated and snarling. And above it, the only trophy displayed on the vast wall, hung the greatsword Contention.
Laral approached it warily. Old anger simmered. Anger at the Warlord Goryth, he who had broken Tírandon’s gates and murdered his mother. Anger at Leshan, for knowing he was going to die and riding into battle anyway. Anger at his father, for displaying the sword like a boast.
He didn’t know what atrocities had passed between Lander and the warlord in the years before his birth, but Father had regarded the warlord with single-minded loathing, a loathing he relished, nurtured, clutched like a badge of honor. In return, Goryth had targeted Tírandon with unbridled ferocity.
A light touch on Laral’s arm sent him half out of his skin.
For a moment he thought his mother had returned from her pyre. But it was only Ruthan. She smiled up at him. “I thought I heard voices. Real ones, this time.” Ruthan’s joke at her own expense caused Laral to hurt on her behalf. “I see you’ve had breakfast.”
“What are you doing awake?”
“You know I hate to sleep.”
Laral wrapped an arm about her shoulders and together they gazed upon their father’s trophy, the honed four-foot-long blade, the leering face etched into the moonstone pommel.
The gargoyle looked as if it had been stretched on the rack: the clawed fists, outspread arms, and sinewy shoulders that shaped the crossguard rose into the haft, wide enough for two hands, like a tortuously elongated neck. Atop it, the chunk of moonstone was carved with fangs, malicious eyes, and bat-like ears. In truth, the face might belong to an ogre as much as a gargoyle.
“It’s obscene, keeping it,” Laral said. “Especially now…” It was a wonder that Tírandon’s Fieran guests hadn’t thrown a fit, demanding the sword be removed.
Ruthan shrugged. “I offered it to King Arryk. He refused. He said you should have it.”
“Me? What do I want with it?”
“Goryth carried it to provoke contention, to start a war. Leshan wielded it to put war at an end. In a way, Leshan’s motives washed it clean of taint. Don’t you think so?”
Laral didn’t know about wielding a sword to end the need for swords, but he knew plenty about wielding one in pursuit of vengeance. He hadn’t trained much with a two-handed weapon, but he wasn’t too old to learn.
~~~~
Thorn hurried to Lander’s suite, tucking his hands into satin gloves as he pushed his way into the parlor. Soot smeared the sleeves of his linen shirt and the knees of his riding leathers, likely his face as well. Untamed hair clung to his sweaty neck. He must resemble a lion who’d been rolled through ash, but he didn’t care. He was flush with hope birthed by promising industry.
The rest of Kelyn’s commanders had already arrived. Drona and Johf leaned over a map of the Northwest, whispering with Kelyn. Sha’hadýn had hobbled all the way from the infirmary and gingerly occupied a chair near the hearth. Her bronze face was clammy, but she was determined to ignore the lingering pain of her wounds. Laniel brought her a footstool and raised her feet onto it.
Eliad sat across a table from her, sipping tea with the preposterous delicacy of a gentleman. The cup and saucer looked as fragile as lace in his battle-hard hands. He resented, often loudly, Kelyn’s mandate that his officers avoid the bottle.
Nearby, the leering face of a gargoyle peered over Laral’s shoulder. Sweat streaked his face and drenched his shirt. He must’ve been training hard when he received Kelyn’s summons. He stretched a shoulder that wasn’t accustomed to bearing the weight of such a ponderous weapon.
Thorn was surprised to see young Lady Maeret included in the conference. She stood to one side, alone, as if she’d been cornered by indolent tigers. With uneasy interest she watched the veteran commanders and gnawed her fingernails. If Kelyn had called for her by name, s
he had cause to be nervous.
There was a new face as well. The gristly old knight was large and furry and gray. He wore a rust-orange surcoat blazoned with a raven’s silhouette, which marked him as a vassal of the lords of Dravahyll. He must’ve inherited the position as commander of Leania’s cavalry, replacing the officer slain at Bexby Hill. He introduced himself to Thorn as Lord Guentin.
The only one missing was Daryon. Engrossed in his work at the smithy, he hadn’t heard the squire shouting over the clank of the hammer. Thorn had nudged him and said, “Don’t keep my brother waiting.”
The avedra arrived as Kelyn was calling for an end to the idle chatter. Thorn grinned; it was a relief not to be the one accused of holding up the party.
“Am I late?” Daryon asked, raking haste-tangled hair from his face and painting his forehead with black smears. His eyes were bloodshot from the fumes rising from the forge. His fingers bled from working with the sharp edges of scrap metal, and his gaze contained the faraway look of an artist painting long after he has left the easel.
“Indeed,” Kelyn said, glancing between the two avedrin as if he suspected them of sinister doings. “Mind telling me what you’re working on?”
Thorn shrugged. “Just building things. You know, things that fly.”
“Hnh, figured you’d have to learn that one.” Kelyn leveled his suspicion on Daryon. “Don’t you have enough things?”
“These are special things, built at your brother’s request.”
Kelyn grimaced. “Is this experiment as dangerous as your last one?”
“Definitely,” Thorn said. “But don’t worry, if it works, it will go right along with whatever you’re planning. You’ll love it, promise.”
“I hate these mysteries, damn it.”
“I’ll tell you later.” Thorn swept a smile around the assembled commanders, all of whom regarded the avedrin with open curiosity. The gesture was enough to convince his brother to move on with the business at hand.
“All right, all right, listen up,” Kelyn said. “While I was convalescing I had a lot of time to think. Currently, Lothiar has isolated us with extreme effectiveness, which gives him the upper hand. All he has to do is continue sending his ogres against us and he’ll whittle us down. He has all the time in the world, and we don’t.
“We humans are separated into three large, capable forces, cut off from each other by divisions of complacent ogres.” He pointed at the map. “Brynduvh here. Graynor there. And us.” The dots his finger indicated formed a large triangle. “If we can open corridors from Tírandon to Brynduvh and Graynor, and then between Graynor and Brynduvh, we just might be able to regain control of western Fiera, southern Leania, and Aralorr’s southern border.”
Thorn was no strategist, but he recognized that the plan his brother proposed wouldn’t be accomplished overnight. The campaign would be a long, grueling contest for strength, for territory, for trade routes, for freedom of movement. Kelyn had no illusions that this war would end quickly. It was a disheartening, but not a surprising, realization.
“Johf will lead a regiment of Fierans and Leanians west to the Blythewater and along the southern edge of the Gloamheath, in an attempt to reach Graynor. Lord Guentin here is to accompany him. If they are successful, they will parley with Queen Da’era for more troops and secure her help in guarding Leania’s southern highways.
“Drona will march south to Midguard.” Kelyn indicated the border-tower overlooking the River Bryna. “Her objective is to retake the Athmar Bridge, then push south, clearing a path for reinforcements from Brynduvh. If I’m any judge, the White Falcon’s city is approaching a desperate state in terms of food and supplies. Drona’s corridor will open supply routes. If the people there are fed, perhaps the Lord Chancellor will agree to send us more swords.”
“But Brynduvh is besieged by ogres using the veil,” Laral said. “Is not Graynor as well?”
“You’re right,” Kelyn said. “Our plan will not be possible without the Miraji. It’s vital that a company of Elarion ride with each division and cover them in the veil when necessary—and work to render the ogres’ protection obsolete. A few Elarion have been practicing the method Thorn used when we freed Tírandon.”
Sha’hadýn pushed herself up a measure straighter in the chair, closed her eyes against the discomfort of motion, and nodded at Laniel’s interpretation.
“Regardless,” Kelyn added, “the divisions will likely meet with stiff resistance as they approach the cities and strongholds. So you must move quickly. Do not allow yourselves to be bogged down by pointless skirmishes.”
Johf nodded agreement, gazing at the long road lying between him and his goal.
“Sir…,” said Eliad. “All this will come to naught if Lothiar learns about it. He’ll crash down on the divisions like a fist.”
“We have a distraction in mind. Haven’t we, Lady Lunélion?”
Maeret nodded queasily. She had been furiously bent on avenging her mother and father, both of whom were murdered at Bramoran. Now that she was given the chance, could she do what needed doing?
“According to Lothiar himself in that damnable proposal of his,” Kelyn explained, “Lunélion was once an Elaran city, which means he intends to hold onto it. Maeret will lead the militias of Zeldanor and Blue Mountain east in a brazen display. It’s to appear that they mean to retake Lunélion. If Lothiar takes the bait, he won’t be gazing west for some time. And that’s when Johf and Drona make their move.”
Poor Maeret looked ready to vomit. Her thick-lidded brown eyes had grown wide, the muscles of her face unnaturally still.
“Listen well,” Kelyn told her. “I’m sending you only if you swear on your mother’s soul that when it’s time to fall back, you will do so. Drys and Kalla are going with you to advise you. Do as they say. They have the experience. You will be routed. Do you understand? There is no shame in retreat. This is merely a feint to keep Lothiar’s attention on a false target.” Kelyn squeezed her shoulder. “We will retake Lunélion, but not today.”
Maeret inhaled deeply and composed herself. “I’ll keep my head, sir.”
“What about my Elarion?” Daryon scrubbed coal grit from between his fingers with his shirtfront. “Where do you want them?”
“Since you’ve only just arrived,” Kelyn said, “I hope to give your people time to rest from their march. But more importantly, with our Miraji dispersing across the countryside, I need your Elarion to make up their numbers and guard Tírandon’s gate.”
Thorn made a quick tally. Along with the Drakhanoran elves, Tírandon still had her own militia, Dagni’s dwarves, Eliad’s highlanders, some of Leania’s cavalry, a little over half the Miraji, the Regs, and Laniel’s dranithion manning her defense.
“Perfect,” Daryon said. “Gives me time to build things. Mind if I get back to it?”
He was on his way out when a fist hammered on the chamber door. It burst open inches from his face. Young Azhien stumbled into him, but looked frantically across the room at his cousin. “Brannië! The Wood. It’s burning.”
Thorn struggled to keep up with Laniel’s long, frenzied stride as he raced up the tower and across the skybridge. Kelyn followed, urging, “Please, brother, stay calm.”
Feared cyclones and floods, did he? “Me? It’s Laniel I’m worried about.”
Falconeye’s troop had gathered along the curve of the northern battlements. A high-pitched, harmonious keening trembled into the currents of the hot summer wind. White humid haze blanched the blue of the sky and cast a glare along the horizon, but that haze was broken by a whiter smudge. Over the long miles, the column seemed hardly to change shape. It was too distant to be a grass fire on Tírandon’s plain. It was too broad to belong to a village. Thorn’s heart revolted at the loss. The ancient trees, trees as old as Lethryn itself. Given a century, five centuries, ten, would Avidanyth regain its majesty? He would never again see it in full splendor. Perhaps even Laniel would not.
“It could be a grain f
ield,” Kelyn muttered, but the suggestion lacked conviction.
The keening rose from the ground too. Thorn peered through the crenels. The Regulars had gathered beyond the moats. Their dranithi brethren must have conveyed the news. Though the rise of the land hid the smoke from their view, the warriors wearing the red keldjeq held their heads in their hands and raised faces toward the sky and loosed a heartrending wail.
Laniel’s cry joined theirs. He had restrained his sorrow when he lost warriors to ogres’ axes, but he unleashed it now, pacing wildly, watching the smoke stretch out upon a lofty current of sky. “If Lothiar has done this…! If he has done this, Dathiel…” He shouted in Elaran.
Thorn answered in kind. “Nethai, we don’t know it was Lothiar. It might’ve been lightning or an accident.”
Laniel squeezed his eyes shut against the horror of inescapable reality. “The Wood is all we have! Ah, Goddess, if the Wood is lost, we are lost.” He wasn’t being melodramatic. For a thousand years and more, Avidan Wood had provided the only safe refuge for Aerdria’s people. Slowly, humans had whittled away at the forest’s eaves, but its heart remained hidden, unmolested. Without those dense shadows and deep bowers, the Elarion of Avidanyth were exposed. And if the city of Linndun burned, the Keepers of the Veil would be forced to abandon the spells that concealed the vast curtain wall, the libraries, the tree towers, the riverside avenues singing with the laughter of children. Where would the Elarion go? With Daryon to live among rocks and ruins? With Sha’hadýn to dwell among alien sands where only spindly palm trees flourished?
Laniel’s pacing stopped abruptly. “Dranithion, form up! We’re leaving.”
“Leaving?” Thorn cried in duínovan, alerting Kelyn, then stepped into his oath-brother’s path. “To do what?”
Laniel snarled, teeth bared, and with a brutal shove sent Thorn careening into the wall. Rage flared, and Thorn hurled himself back, fist knotted. Laniel turned to avoid the worst of the blow and opened his arms. The two of them grappled like enemies. Laniel was stronger, but Thorn had ice and wind and stone, whatever it took to subdue his fool of a friend.
