The Call of the Crown (Book 1)

by T. J. Garrett

  Faelen bowed to Si’eth, flicking his gaze between the Salrian captain and the small wooden chest, as though stressing some unspoken warning.

  Si’eth stood, bowed, and then turned to his aide. “See that their horses are watered and they have drink and food for their trip.” He walked to the front of the desk, hand outstretched to Faelen.

  Faelen took Si’eth’s hand as a friend might. The guards on both sides glanced at each other with faint, quizzical expressions on their faces. Si’eth led the group out.

  As soon as the ambassador’s horses were ready, Si’eth had one of his men bring Faelen a bag of supplies: fresh bread, cheese, cold meats, and a good-sized skin of spring water. After another round of bowing, he watched the three horsemen ride off down the slope, across the grassy clearing, and on to the path through the woods.

  Rae’tar, Si’eth’s aide, joined him at the gate. “Your orders, sir.”

  “Put the chest in the east tent and post a guard.” Si’eth turned back to his own tent. “We have over two weeks before it need be delivered, but I want it gone. We will set off for Taris as soon as Bre’ach returns—if that fool son of mine ever returns. He’s probably lost in the Am’bieth.” Si’eth huffed at the thought of his son getting lost. “Even so, make preparations. I want no delays. The general can deal with whatever had that Surabhan so nervous.”

  “He did look nervous, didn’t he? Do we even know wh—”

  Si’eth interrupted him. “I’m well aware of what we don’t know, Rae’tar.” Si’eth stopped and wiped down his face with his hand. “Like the man said, we all have our masters. I only hope Alaf’kan knows what he’s doing.”

  Rae’tar muttered something inaudible to himself.

  “What was that?” Si’eth asked.

  “Uh… nothing… Sorry, sir.” He bowed an apology.

  “You can speak freely, Rae’tar.”

  “I said, ‘He knows how to line his own pocket,’ sir… the general, I mean.”

  Si’eth laughed loudly. “Indeed he does, my friend. Let’s just hope he knows the cost of his comforts!”

  * * *

  Cal lazed on the deck of the small Surabhan ship. Legs stretched out in front of him, he read the map he had borrowed from the captain. Not that he could read nautical maps, but there was nothing else to do. He’d already asked the crewmen to teach him how to set the sail and read the ships strange compass. He’d help cook, learnt how to set the lines, spent a nervous half an hour clinging to the top of the mast as the lookout—that wasn’t something he was willing to try twice. In short, he was bored. Fishing was boring. Give him a good bow and a forest any day.

  His friend, and fellow countryman, Mateaf, sat opposite, whiling away the hours trying to catch fish with a hand line, using small sea worms for bait. The three-man crew and their captain, a short, plump man called Fitch, weren’t doing much, either. One sat against the port rail fixing a net, another was sharpening his gutting knife, and the third sat on the forecastle steps practicing his knots. The captain was nowhere to be seen, as usual.

  It had taken ten days to sail back from the northern An’aird Barath coast. To say the weather was calm would be an understatement. Ten days, and they had only just passed the Bay of Bailryn. They were barely half way home. A few more days of this, and Cal would have to ask the captain to drop them ashore, maybe at Halem. They could walk to Whitecliff faster, and then get a small boat to take them up the river to Crenach’coi. It was worth thinking about. Maybe they could buy a couple of good horses and ride home. But then it was unlike anyone in Halem or Whitecliff would sell a couple of Kalidhain Tall Horses, assuming there were any for sale. Surabhan horses were no use, at almost eight feet, Cal’s heels would be scrapping along the ground, and Mateaf wasn’t much shorter than he was.

  Time was playing on his mind. He had to get home, tell the council what they had witnessed. Thousand of Kel’madden troopers, and more than a few dragons, were on their way south. The Madden's target was probably Bailryn, but that didn’t mean the Witch would stop there; nobody would be safe if she managed to get a foothold in Aleras’moya. Especially if she sacked Bailryn, they would be no getting them out of there, not with the port to bring down reinforcements from Toi’ildrieg.

  The captain emerged from his cabin. Cal could smell him from five paces away; he had been drinking again. These appearances were becoming regular, hours hiding in his cabin, interspersed by a few minutes of ranting about one thing or another.

  “Trim the sail, men, and make your course east. We are going to Bailryn,” Fitch shouted.

  Trim the sail! There was no wind. The sails weren’t raised. Cal felt his shoulders drop. This was the fourth time in three days that the man had ordered a course change. The drunkard had become convinced that he could warn the king of the invasion, that somehow the word of a fisherman would force the palace to rally their troops and prepare for invasion. Cal could sympathise with his motives, but the buffoon was acting more erratic by the day.

  “Now then, Captain, we had this talk this morning. We are going to Whitecliff, remember?” Cal stood and took Fitch by the arm. He tried to turn him back towards the cabin, but the man spun free.

  “I am the captain of this vessel, Mr. Calid… Calihi… Cal. I will decide where she goes.”

  The crew might have agreed with their captain, but they knew they wouldn’t get the second half of their pay if the ship didn’t put them ashore where he wanted. Most of the time, they left him to deal with Fitch.

  “It’s only a few more days, Captain. You can come back and save Bailryn once we are off ship and you have the rest of your money.”

  Fitch slurred something inaudible and allowed Cal to guide him back to his cabin door.

  Before they reached the steps, though, the captain spun again, this time pulling a knife from under his coat.

  “This is my ship, I tell you. She goes where I say.”

  The drunkard thrust his blade forward, stabbing at the air. Cal backed up a step. “Put that away, Fitch. You’ll hurt yourself.”

  The captain swayed, one hand holding a bottle of the cheap wine he was always drinking, the other thrusting his blade in all directions. “You… you Cren, you think you can do anything because you’re so… big. I tell you again, sir, this is my—

  Cal caught the captain as he collapsed forward. The crewman that had been practicing his knots slipped his cudgel back into the loop on his belt. The other two took the captain by his arms.

  “Come on,” one of them said, “let’s get you back into bed.”

  Cal slowly shook his head as the crewmen struggled to carry Fitch through the narrow cabin door. He wondered how long it would be, how many hours would pass before the fool tried turning the ship again. Walking from Whitecliff was beginning to sound like a good idea.

  “Perhaps we should drop him ashore,” Mateaf said. “He has a point, misguided or not, someone has to warn the Surabhan.”

  Cal sighed. Mateaf was right, of course, someone did have to warn them, but a drunken captain would have little influence on the Royal Court. The man would probably get himself thrown in jail. No, it would be better coming from the Cren Council, even if it did take another few weeks. That’s assuming the council members were prepared to help the Surabhan. “He’ll have his chance soon enough. We have to get home.”

  Mateaf nodded. He had probably agreed with him all along, but it was a Second’s responsibility to play the advocate from time to time, and Cal’s friend was a very good Second.

  CHAPTER 6

  Brea’s Lot: Part Two

  Brea had already collected the milk from Elarie, the farmer’s wife. She collected double, as it was Mir-tirdis—week’s end—and tomorrow was the farmer’s day off. She had spent a tiresome ten minutes arguing with the geese about who was in charge of the food bucket, weeded the vegetable garden, brushed down the horse, and brought in the flour that Kallie the miller had delivered. She’d eaten dinner, helped her mother wash and peel some potatoes f
or supper, and had just walked the mile to Aldrieg Cave.

  Brea would try to visit the cave every day—especially when her beloved dragon was poorly—sometimes for duty’s sake, sometimes for pleasure. Pausing at the threshold of the cave, she placed her pack on a convenient boulder and took out her miniature lantern. It was little more than a small candleholder, protected from the wind on three sides and shiny at the back. She lit the wick with a Tup-stick, swung her pack over her shoulder, and went in.

  She followed the stream the hundred yards up the shallow slope to her table. Before dropping her pack, she fished around in the nook for one of the big candles and lit it with the lantern, then used that to light the other two. She placed all three in a hollowed-out nook next to the table.

  With the lantern still in her hand, Brea squinted down behind the high rock shelf and on towards the tunnel on the right—nothing but darkness, no sign of her friend Rek. Lazy dragon, he must be sleeping in the den, she thought. She dropped her pack by one of the boulders under the table and blew out the lantern.

  Before doing anything else, she pricked her finger and allowed a few drops to fall into the Lier’sinn. The contents of the silver bowl bubbled up immediately. She gave it a nod of approval. Knowing it would take a few minutes to work, she set about preparing the table.

  To her left, behind the table, a long brown curtain hung across a doorway. The curtain covered the entrance to a small room—more of a convenient alcove—about twelve foot deep and six wide. She called it her “second home.” Inside, there was a small cot, a dresser, a nightstand, and some rickety old shelves. The shelves were full of various-sized jars and an assortment of small boxes.

  She took down some of the jars and brought them to her table. After checking the labels, she placed them in the order she would be using them, starting with the Kalli Root, because it made everything else smell better—a little better; Ousblud smelled like something the cat killed last week, regardless of how much Kalli she used—then went back to fetch the large mortar from under the bed.

  Standing at the table with hands on hips, she glanced around at the ingredients, ticking off every item in her mind. “I think that’s everything,” she muttered. She sat, tied back her long dark hair, rolled up her sleeves, and began to scoop out the contents of the jars into small piles, arranging them in a well-ordered line along the centre of the table. She was quite a fastidious young lady—some might say “annoyingly fussy”—and liked everything to be in its proper place before she started.

  Once finished, she took a quick glance down the tunnel—no sign yet of Rek making an appearance. He must be asleep. Dragons… pft, never known anything to sleep as much. They’re worse than Mother’s cats.

  Brea went back into her alcove and began to tidy. She had a few minutes before the Lier’sinn worked, and with no sign of Rek…

  She lay down on the bed and closed her eyes. Just a few minutes rest. It can’t hurt. She wriggled down to find comfort, flattened her hands under her cheek, and tucked up her knees. There she lay, comfortable, waiting for the Lier’sinn to sound its readiness.

  Brea thought of her visions. Things were happening quickly now. The time for idle comforts may soon be at an end. She sighed as she thought of the man in her vision and of the dragons—her dragons. What’s going to happen? How long do I have to wait? Gods, the thought of my poor Rek in battle. It is all happening too fast… A few more years.

  Of course, worrying about it wasn’t helping. It was coming whether she wanted it to or not.

  Or is it? she thought. She still wasn’t clear on how things would progress. Tor—Rek’s father—liked his little mysteries and rarely gave a straight answer. She hoped, for a moment, that it was only bravado and not that he, too, was as clueless of the coming storm as she was. No. He must know what he is doing. He is a thousand years old! If he can’t come up with something, what hope do I have? Doubt crept into her mind. Lying there, still and quiet, it was easy to allow things to pass over her. Sometimes she felt the whole ordeal was no more than a dream, something otherworldly, something distant, and something that would never really affect her.

  Brea wished she could be more like her mother. Affrair’s view was set—she was sure all would turn out for the best, certain an answer would come. She kept Brea’s feet firmly on the ground. But she’s not the one up here in a cave full of dragons!

  At home, when speaking with her mother, the dragons would often seem a lie, unreal somehow, even though they were plain enough to see. After all, she was a guardian! She could reach out and touch them, talk to them, listen to their troubles, and even play with them. She supposed, for a moment, that it was hard to imagine such things as death and war, having never left the valley, never done anything adventurous. She thought maybe that was why it all seemed so unreal, so ominous and incomprehensible.

  The Lier’sinn began to pop and spit. The sound dragged Brea from the edge of sleep. She rushed through to the table and quickly picked up a cloth. Covering her nose and mouth, she waved the steam from above the silky surface and waited… and waited… and—

  Please, hurry it up. This stinks. Hurry up!

  Eventually, the mist cleared. She immediately recognised the location of the image as it settled into focus: the Geddy footbridge—she had crossed that very bridge not two years ago, on her way back from Alber. She and her mother had gone to Ealdihain with Reagin to buy goats—some fresh blood for their herds. Well, at least we know where you are, and, by the looks of it, which way you’re heading, too.

  She continued gazing into the Lier’sinn. It focused on a small group of people. “There you are,” she whispered. The big man—the person she was most interested in, though Tor hadn’t said much more than a brief description—and his older friend, were talking with another group that were standing beside a cart with a broken wheel. She watched as they spoke, annoyed at not hearing their words. She couldn’t tell if they were arguing. Questions were asked; that much was plain. A girl asked a question? That made Brea’s eyebrows rise. What was she doing there? The travellers, all seven of them, headed off across the bridge. The picture faded.

  Brea stood, swept her hair over her shoulder, and tossed the cloth back on the table. “So… now there are seven.” And one of you is a girl! She pondered the vision for a few moments. “What have we learnt?” She scratched her chin. “You’re three weeks west, leaving the Geddy Vale and heading in this direction, and you have five more people with you.” Brea chuckled to herself. Tor’gan is going to love this.

  She walked over to the tunnel entrance and shouted. “Rek, it’s time for your medicine!”

  A faint whelp of disappointment drifted down from the den.

  CHAPTER 7

  The Journey Begins

  The sun had dipped halfway to the western horizon by the time the travellers reached the border of Arandor, the midpoint to their first campsite. The last few hours had passed by peacefully, with only the odd moan or mumble about sore shoulders or chaffed ankles. All appeared to be going well. Gialyn was beginning to think his father had worried over nothing—Daric had mentioned an uneasy feeling he’d had over travelling with the Tanners. They were not easy people to get along with, that much was certain, but maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Perhaps the Tanners were more mature than he or his father had thought. However, as with many things, no sooner had he thought about it…

  The grumbling and moaning gathered like a winter storm: a sarcastic smile here, an ill-conceived joke there, followed by a childish rebuttal. For twenty minutes, it carried on in that vein. By the time they reached the edge of the Serath’alor valley, the Tanners were at each other’s throats.

  “Will you stop it? For the love of Ein’laig, just be quiet for five minutes… please!” Elspeth said. It seemed Elspeth’s already limited reserve of patience was at an end.

  “But you wouldn’t have won, not if Vin had spent half the time practicing as you did. I bet if he had even one day’s practice he would have beaten you easily.�
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  Elspeth’s brother had been rambling on about that bloody archery contest for the past half hour. Gialyn was convinced the fools argument was more for his benefit—Ealian still thought he had been cheated out of a victory on the Hill Climb—but the selfish little twolloc couldn’t face Gialyn, not without his cronies around him to urge him on and protect him, coward, so poor Elspeth had to take the brunt of Ealian arrogant prattle.

  “I will gladly prove it to you, Ealian.” Elspeth said, staring her brother in the eye. “Why don’t you go walk over there with that half-eaten apple on your head? Let’s say, uh… twenty paces.”

  Ealian laughed. “You couldn’t hit a moving target at twenty hands, never mind twenty paces, and certainly not something as small as an apple.”

  Elspeth smiled cheekily. “I wasn’t even going to try, Ealian, but I don’t mind pretending, so long as it gets you away from me. Go on!” She waved him away to the side of the track.

  Ealian sarcastically waved his hand in front of her face. “Twenty hands, Elspeth. I will bet you half a Krùn you can’t hit a bird flying from twenty hands. And I’m not talking about a sparrow. I bet you couldn’t hit a crow!”

  Elspeth turned on him with a fierce look. She gave a grunt but said nothing in response. Putting a few feet between them, she carried on walking. Ealian made faces at her back.

  “Why do you do that?” Gialyn asked Ealian, while giving him his best sideways glare.

  “Do what?” Ealian returned the gesture.

  “Play with your sister, upset her. She won the contest fair and square,” Gialyn said. “So maybe she can’t hit a crow on the wing; shooting birds wasn’t part of the competition. And yes, maybe Vin could have won if he’d practiced more, but he didn’t, did he. Your sister did, every day, and that’s why she won.”