The Call of the Crown (Book 1)

by T. J. Garrett

  Daric gazed up the slope towards where Ealian stood. The boy seemed casual in his stance. The smile on his face once again triggered Daric’s suspicion. His conversation with Olam didn’t help his misgivings.

  No sooner had the thought crossed his mind than a hail of arrows splintered against the ground a few feet in front of him. Ealian ran back to the group, but with little sense of urgency. Daric and Gialyn ducked to the side and pressed themselves against the rock face, underneath where three of the archers stood. At least they wouldn’t have a target. Those on the opposite wall still had a clear view of the two of them. Daric took off his pack and placed it between Gialyn and those archers. Arfael swooped up Elspeth under his arm and pinned her between himself and the rock, a few feet behind Daric and Gialyn. Olam stumbled forward to Arfael and knelt crouching by his side. Grady threw off his pack and bounded to where Gialyn sat cowering. He crouched and placed himself in harm’s way between Gialyn and the arrows.

  Panic and, above all, fear flowed through Daric’s mind. The situation appeared hopeless, trapped in a perfect ambush. What would he say to Mairi if anything happened to Gialyn? Gods, why was there no bloody merchant train? It was then that he caught site of their attackers, of their clothes, mostly. He took a breath, piecing together events that had led them to this point. He took in a deep sigh and shook his head. His face was a picture of disgust. All thoughts of their attackers emptied from his mind as he realised the truth of it. “You might as well stand up, Ealian,” he shouted.

  Ealian looked shocked, but really, if he lay in the throes of any emotion, Daric thought it was probably anger and annoyance—anger his plan was uncovered. Even so, the boy made a good plea to Daric. “What! What are you talking about?”

  “You know of what I speak, whoever you are, hiding inside that innocent child. Enough with the theatre. I have suspected you for nigh on a week.”

  “Yes, boy! Why don’t you stand up and introduce yourself to us all.” The cry came from farther up the slope. Si’eth had immerged from behind the boulder and taken a few steps towards the travellers. “I would be most interested to know who exactly it is that I have made a deal with.”

  Shouts of confusion came from Elspeth. “What by the gods are you all talking about?” She attempted to push her way free, apparently mindless of the danger.

  “Stay there!” Arfael grunted as he held her head down and covered her back with his thick arm.

  “Yes! Stay there, sister.” Ealian stood. He turned his gaze up towards Si’eth. “This was not our arrangement, you fool!”

  Si’eth turned to his son Bre’ach. “Did he just call me a fool? Really, does he think me a puppet?” His voice was mocking and loud enough for all to hear.

  “What is your order, Father?” Bre’ach asked.

  Si’eth replied with a quieter voice. “I’m going to get the scroll. If there be trouble, then put them down, but only if there is trouble. Remember, no matter what happens, take the big one alive. Make sure your men understand that. If we can get the scroll without violence, all the better. I don’t want it damaged.”

  Si’eth turned back towards Ealian. “Now, boy, just hand over what you stole from me. Maybe we can resolve this ugliness without bloodshed.”

  “What? What did he steal from you?” Elspeth shouted.

  “He knows what it is. Come now, boy, my patience grows thin, and I had scarcely any to begin with.” Si’eth paced left and right, his hands behind his back.

  Daric fought hard to beat down his anger as he looked at Ealian, trying to remember that it wasn’t the boy’s fault. “Whatever he is talking about, speak of it now and let us end this. We can help you, Ealian. The woodsman may have answers.”

  Ealian said nothing, just stood calmly, arms folded and a thin smile on his lips.

  Daric wanted to run over and thrash the demon out of the boy, or whatever it was that had possessed him. Instead, he turned back to Si’eth. “What did he take?”

  Si’eth stopped pacing. “Oh, so you were telling the truth, boy, at least about your friends knowing nothing of your crime.” He emphasised the last with a growl. “He stole a scroll, Surabhan, about a hand’s span in width, fine parchment, with a wax seal.” He began pacing again. “And if I find the seal broken… Well, let’s just hope it isn’t!”

  A glimmer of hope entered Daric’s heart. Gods, is that all they want? He turned to Olam. “Check his pack, quickly!”

  Olam dragged Ealian’s pack over from the centre of the path where it lay. He wrenched open the top and wasted no time in emptying the contents on the ground. A bowl, mug, and some apples rolled down the slope. The rest lay in a heap. Olam spread the contents about, picking through them and throwing to one side all that was irrelevant. “It is not here!”

  “Of course it’s not there,” Ealian said, taking the scroll out from his inner pocket. He held it up for the Salrians to see. The seal was still intact. “See. I told you I wouldn’t read it.” Ealian took it in both hands, as though about to rip it into pieces. “Now, I’m leaving! I will leave the scroll at the bottom of the slope once I’m down and away.”

  Si’eth immediately nodded at one of the archers poised on top of the rock face. The archer let fly. The arrow pierced Ealian strongly about the stomach, powerful enough to push him back against the rocks. Elspeth let out a mournful cry. Ealian slumped to his knees and then the ground, releasing his grip on the scroll.

  Daric turned to the others. “When it starts, get amongst them.” Daric directed his first comment towards Grady, Olam, and Arfael. He turned to the youngsters. “Get behind that rock and hide.” He pointed up at the rock face to where a large boulder lay wedged against a splintered, dead tree trunk. “If you have to, jump into the waterfall.” He silently reached inside his coat for his blade. “They will come down to fetch that scroll. When they are close, we make our move.”

  Gialyn protested, and Elspeth looked ready to spit. “We can’t leave,” she said. “My brother!”

  “We have to play this well, Elspeth, or we could all end up dead. That will not help your bother one bit. Now do as I say. If we can draw them off, you can come back for Ealian. That scroll is the key. If I can get it…”

  Elspeth nodded yes, but her face said maybe. Daric didn’t blame her in the slightest.

  Sure enough, Si’eth and Bre’ach slid and stumbled down the slope towards where Ealian had dropped the scroll. The archers directly above Daric and the others stood down and began to move along the top of the rock face to join their compatriots. They couldn’t get a shot from where they stood; only the two on the western rock face had a shot. Daric was very glad of that much, at least.

  Si’eth, Bre’ach, and two of the other Salrians were but ten feet away when Daric gave the signal. Immediately, Grady picked up two rocks and hurled them up at the remaining archers, giving Daric and himself enough time to move. They lunged towards the four Salrians. Daric knocked Bre’ach down to the ground. He slid on his side until he took hold of a small outcrop to steady himself. Grady flew into the two Salrians from behind, piercing one’s shoulder with his knife. The other he hit square in the face with the hilt of it. The four Salrians at the top of the slope quickly slid down to help. Daric saw them and sprang to the side, letting two of them slide right past him. Arfael took one by the leg and threw him up against the rock—that was the end of his fight. The big man was about to attack the other when three more Salrians jumped from the rock face behind. Two landed square on his back; the third lassoed his left arm, tethering it to a boulder, holding the strain with his legs, both legs. His fellow Salrians grappled with Arfael’s free arm; it took both to render it harmless. Olam hit one across the shoulder, missing his intended target. He became pinned behind a boulder by the two archers that remained on high.

  Gialyn and Elspeth followed Daric’s heed and climbed to the top of the face. Behind them, a ten-span drop to the waterfall was followed by a thirty-span plummet into the plunge pool below. Neither particularly wanted to t
ake the leap. Two of the other Salrians made their way across the eastern rock wall and towards the two youngsters. Gialyn threw rocks at them, while Elspeth readied an arrow. She was shaking fiercely. Her aim was not true. The arrow splintered in the side of a boulder nearly four feet from its target. She fumbled for another arrow but instead picked up the whistle that Toban had given her. A desperate instinct made her blow hard on it, though knowing fully that Illeas’den lay near sixty miles west. She shouted to those below. “Help up here!”

  Daric heard her shout and left Grady to deal with Si’eth and the one remaining Salrian. Olam had managed to keep Bre’ach down by throwing rocks. Daric ran, keeping as close to the Salrians as he could. Once at the rock face, he quickly climbed up and ran along its rim. Headless of any danger, he charged into the two Salrians that were attacking Elspeth and Gialyn. So great was the force that both he and the two Salrians fell from the cliff’s edge towards the water below. The Salrians both struck the rocks.

  Daric managed to clasp at a thin grip on a ledge under the rock ridge. Slowly, he tried to move left to where Gialyn and Elspeth were. Gialyn hung halfway over the edge, while Elspeth held him by the ankles. Daric reached for a final grasp of Gialyn’s hand. They took a weak hold on each other. Gialyn reached down farther to his father’s shoulder and twisted the leather handle of his knapsack about his wrist.

  “No!” Daric cried. “I can’t hold on, son. Let me go. I’ll be fine.” Gialyn refused. Daric held on with his last morsel of strength, but his fingers were burning with pain, the sharp edge of the rock cutting into them. “Please, son! Let go!” he shouted.

  Gialyn was crying, “No! No! I will not.”

  Daric fell to the waters below, pulling Gialyn along with him. They landed square in the water’s flow, around the midpoint of the falls.

  Elspeth let out a scream. “They have fallen! They have fallen!”

  * * *

  Olam peered out from behind the boulder where he was hiding. He had his “apple” ready, but had nowhere to throw it. Keeping Bre’ach busy by throwing rocks at the Salrian was all he could do, and that only worked three times out of five. Bre’ach was beginning to move free of his aim. The situation was desperate, he knew that much. Gods, a fool could see that: Arfael trapped, Grady pinned, Daric and Gialyn had fallen, and Elspeth all alone. And he could do nothing with the archers still on the western cliff. He feared them the most. Thankfully, no one else was hit, or worse. Thank the gods. But it wasn’t going to stay that way, not for much longer.

  He turned his gaze to Arfael. The big man was still fighting against the ropes, growling, cursing and kicking at his captors. Olam shouted for his attention. Once given, Olam nodded. “You have to, Arfael! You have to!”

  Arfael stopped struggling. His shoulders sank, but not as much as his eyes. He worked his mouth soundlessly. Blinking, he shook his head. “No! No, Olam, I must not.”

  Olam nodded again. His chin was firm and his eyes were set. “Please, my friend. There is nothing else. We will die!”

  Arfael bowed his head and laid his hands upon the ground. For a long moment, calm appeared to wave through him; his breaths deepened as he slowly rocked back and forth. Abruptly, his huge arms began to shudder as he grasped frantically at the rock by his feet. He clenched and clawed at the earth, as though he were suddenly in great need of something hidden beneath the packed rock and shale. Then, just as suddenly, silence. He crouched as still as a statue, until a long, low moaning came forth from deep within his chest, a sullen, woeful moan, an ancient lament, a warning of things to come. The shaking became heavier, the clawing more fanatic; the moaning turned to a rasping, gurgling growl. Then suddenly he craned his head forward and let out an unearthly roar, a screaming, deafening, mournful roar.

  The Salrians near to him dropped their ropes and quickly put hands to ears. Indeed, all in the gully stood in silence, frozen to the spot it seemed, watching Arfael, waiting for what would come.

  “Drop your weapon, Grady,” Olam whispered. Grady looked at him, puzzled. “For the love of Ein’laig, please drop your weapon!” Olam forced the words through his clenched teeth, as if he’d rather be screaming a command. Grady put down his sword, as did Si’eth the Salrian commander. Olam looked up at Elspeth and bid her to get down and put away her weapon.

  Arfael crouched again, still shaking. He raised an arm, and taking hold of his cloak at the nape, he quickly pulled it over his head and threw it to the side. He punched his fingers into the rocky ground; they cut through the hard earth like a red-hot knife through a bale of hay. Smoke and steam rose as the earth around his fingers melted like molten lead, pooling and spitting as he stirred his fingers around. The liquid rock began to rise up his arm like dirty water pulled though a bilge pump. As it rose, scales, like shiny granite leaves, formed around his wrists and arms. He pushed his arms out wider. More rock melted, more scales formed, up to his shoulders now. When his arms had taken all they could, he lunged towards the rock face, pushing his shoulder into it. There, too, the rock melted away. More scales cascaded along his neck and shoulders as he pushed his way along. Rocks fell from above the hole he had made; they fell onto his skin like drops of water onto a pool, spreading outwards, peeling off more scales as they rolled down his back. In little more than a quarter minute, he was covered, head to foot, in a bristling, sandy-grey armour.

  Arfael staggered and flinched throughout, grasping a breath and holding it firm against his gritted teeth. He lifted his fists towards his eyes and slowly opened his palms, shaking his hands violently. With each whip, talons sprouted another half inch from where his fingernails once were. Blackened and thick they grew, until they were almost palm length. He placed his clawed hands over his face and stood hunched for a moment, whining and moaning like a wounded animal. Slowly, he lowered his arms to his sides. Leaning forwards, he spat out teeth and blood upon the ground. Then, finally, he lifted his face to the slowly darkening sky, and with jaw wide, he cried out. The gaping holes left by the missing teeth began to fill. Others pushed their way through the bleeding gums—fangs of silver grey, long and sharp, shining like steel, three inches at the top, two at the bottom. Once fixed, he let out a second deafening roar and crashed back to the ground, settled—so it seemed—on all fours. His back legs had twisted, his ribs had rounded, his spine had thickened, and his shoulders widened. It was no longer Arfael.

  The beast stood on all fours, searching left to right. For a moment, nothing stirred in the gully. Until, up on the ridge, one of the Salrians raised his bow. The beast coiled and pounced, jumping ten feet to the midpoint of the eastern wall. Then, using that as a platform, he spun quickly and launched himself to where the archer stood. With a single swipe, he threw down the archer. The beast fell back into the gully, twisting in mid-air so as to land clean on his feet. It did so, right among the four Salrians that stood higher on the slope. He lunged forward, taking hold of one about the waist and then casting him back behind as though he were a doll. The Salrian flew a clear five paces on to the ridge above. It was the end for him.

  There were six Salrians left: the three now in front of the beast, the last remaining archer, and Si’eth and his son. Si’eth and Bre’ach had long since dropped their weapons. They were standing by Grady and Olam. No thought of fight remained. Grady passed a glance towards them and both raised their hands on their heads and knelt in surrender.

  The last archer dropped his bow and ran away, back from the edge of the cliff and out of sight. The other three dropped weapons and followed. The beast now stood in the centre of an otherwise empty gully, growling like a mad dog. It breathed deeply as it slowly turned towards the travellers. Olam immediately got to his knees.

  Grady, buoyed by the Salrians’ cowardice, raised his hand and cheered. The beast lunged towards him. Grady backed off and knelt, covering his head with his hands. All four now were prone before the beast, as though praying to it. They stared silently at the ground before them, not daring to raise an eye forward.


  The beast paced slowly towards Grady, its head low as if stalking. It came close, within three feet, and then stopped. Slowly, it raised a hand and with an outstretched finger, pushed against Grady’s shoulder. The black talon burnt through the cloth and scorched the skin. Grady flinched. The beast moved its hand away, growling at Grady’s movement. Grady made the best job he could of settling himself and bowed his head. Again, the outstretched finger came, this time to Grady’s forehead, he could do nothing but let it be and watch as the scorching black blade that was the beast’s talon came closer. He saw the top was flattened and smooth. Upon it, a ripple of dark purples and yellows swirled around the surface like oil on water. The nail touched the skin at his cheek. Slowly, it ran down the side of his face, scalding and cauterizing in a single move. Grady braced against the pain, making no noise or movement.

  The beast lowered his hand back to the ground and turned to the side, as though it had finished with Grady. It looked at the other three; all were in the same pose, all with heads bowed with hands clasped behind them. The beast turned, as if having no interest or perceiving no threat. It walked a few steps and then in two leaps, it was over the top of the ridge and away. Gone for now, praise the gods.

  CHAPTER 20

  Bits and Pieces

  The gully stayed silent for a long while after the beast’s departure. Grady wanted to rub the burn on his cheek, but no one so much as moved a muscle. Until, after about a minute, Si’eth began to stand. Scrambling for his sword, Grady pointed it at the Salrian’s neck before he had a chance to straighten. “Stay down!” he growled. Si’eth submitted. Bowing his head even lower, he returned to his knees without so much as a sideways glance.