by Peter Grant
“Thank me by rebuilding a strong Barony. Do you need Garath to stay here and help you, or do you still want him to accompany me?”
“I’d like to have his help, but it’s more important that he broaden his horizons beyond this Barony. When are you leaving, and where are you going?”
“I don’t know the answer to either question yet. I’ll be meeting with the Abbott next week to see whether his priest-mages have learned anything from the scrolls and other things I took from those raiders at the inn. That’ll determine what I do next.”
“Very well. I hope you’ll stay with us until then. A lot of my people are coming by just to see you. You’ve got quite a reputation, my friend.”
Owain shook his head, smiling. “I’m afraid it’s grown with the telling, like most such things. Still, I’ll be glad of the chance to rest myself and my horses for a few days. After that, we’ll see.”
X
The Abbott looked up as a monk showed Owain into his office, and rose from behind his desk with a welcoming smile. “Sir Champion! It’s good to see you again.”
“And you, my lord Abbott.”
The cleric gestured to a priest-mage who rose from one of the visitor’s chairs before the desk. “This is Pater Archelaus, the most senior of my priest-mages. He’s been investigating the objects you brought to us, and is ready with his report.”
As Owain sat down, he said, “I hope your inquiries have borne fruit?”
Archelaus nodded. “Some of them, yes. Let me begin with the scrolls. The one that was already unsealed was dated and timed during the afternoon preceding the attack on the inn that you described to us. It contained instructions to a certain Prince Ilvan. He was to retrieve the ashes and the broken pieces of a sword from a cairn located in a valley.”
“During the afternoon, you say? That means he must have flown direct from Graben territory to reach it that night.”
“Yes. They have two patrol bases from which gruefells could reach the valley in four to five hours. They can cover several leagues every hour, remember.”
“I see. Did it say how they knew the location of the cairn?”
“No. The message indicated that they’d been looking for it for a very long time, but had only just found it. The Prince was to retrieve what the sender wanted, then remain concealed in the valley until the following night. He was then to proceed deeper into the Kingdom to deliver two message scrolls, each accompanied by five hundred gold coins, to the controllers of two spy rings. One was near Kingsholme, the other near Seahaven. He was to travel only at night, avoiding inhabited areas, and take every precaution against being seen. It seems you interrupted the Prince before he could make the deliveries. His presence at the inn doesn’t square with his instructions to avoid inhabited areas or detection, of course. I suppose we’ll never know why he attacked it.”
“I suspect it was the lure of rape and pillage. There are those who find such things reward enough in themselves.” Owen’s face twisted in disgust. “Who sent the message?”
“It wasn’t signed with a name, but with a sigil we’ve never seen before.”
“A sigil? Written, or in the form of a seal?”
“Written. The only sealing-wax on the document was used to close it with a ribbon.”
“Isn’t a sigil alone, without a name, the usual identification of a sorcerer? It was for those of Karsh.”
The priest-mage and Abbott exchanged glances. “That was so for Karsh, yes. In the light of your encounters with sorcery during recent events, we begin to suspect that not all the Master Sorcerers of Karsh were killed during the cleansing of that place, as we’d previously assumed. We can’t prove that yet, but we’re inclining towards that assumption.”
Owain shook his head ruefully. “I said at the time that we needed to be more thorough in assigning priest-mages to ward our perimeter against escape. Unfortunately, there weren’t enough of you with our invading force to handle that task as well as your other duties, so I was overruled. Now I wish I’d been more insistent.” He sighed. “Well, no sense worrying about it. If any of them survived, we’ll just have to make up for past errors when we find them. Did the message name the spymasters?”
“No. Rendezvous points and recognition signals were provided, but no other information. After delivering the scrolls and the money, the Prince was to return to his base, which also was not identified.”
Owain scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Was there enough information to provide clues to those who can look for more?”
“I think so. We’ve already sent translations of the scrolls to Kingsholme, for the attention of the Duke of Gehlen. He’ll doubtless want to see the originals as well.”
Owain knew the priest-mages had their own means of almost instant communication with each other, but had never asked for details. Doubtless the monastery had sent its message to its counterpart in Kingsholme for delivery. He nodded in satisfaction. “The Duke’s overseen our spies and counter-spies for years. I’ve only met him a couple of times. He seemed a strange man, very secretive and uncommunicative – and a lot too ruthless and unfeeling for my liking – but I’m sure he’s good at his job. In fact, I’m surprised to hear that two spy rings have been operating in the Kingdom, without his having put them out of business years ago.”
“That’s one reason this is interesting,” the priest-mage agreed. “If they were funded by an external source, without relying on local fund-raising or donations, that would make it much harder for his people to trace them or identify their members. Gruefells may have been delivering money and instructions to them for years, for all we know. I’m sure the Duke will already be considering ways to pursue further inquiries.” He smiled. “He’ll want to know what you’ve done with the money, of course.”
“It’s being put to good use.” Owain told them how he’d spent part of it thus far. “I’ve no doubt the balance will be needed over the next few months. In fact, you’ll probably be getting a fair amount of it. I think I’m going to need anti-scrying amulets for more than a few people, and perhaps some other help besides.”
The Abbott smiled. “Those are expensive, but thanks to our enemies you can afford them.”
“I’m hoping you’ll give me a better price if I buy a lot of them. That’ll leave more of the money for other things I’m likely to need.”
“We’ll certainly consider that, particularly because we know you’ll use them in the service of the Kingdom rather than for yourself.”
“Thank you. Now, what about the torc I took off those Graben raiders? Could it have belonged to this Prince Ilvan?”
“Almost certainly it did. It’s very like those captured during the Graben Wars from other princes who were killed; but this one has two enchantments placed upon it. One is to unlock something – I don’t know what. I suspect the shapes on either end of the torc fit into sockets. When both are inserted, they open whatever it is. Of greater importance is that it’s a passkey. One wearing the torc, or having it touch his skin, can pass through magical defenses and wards without harm. One without it, or another like it, would be blocked from going further, or perhaps even killed by the protective spell. I think – although I can’t be sure – that there’s a double ward spell in operation; one to guard a large area, and a second, much more powerful, to protect a smaller inner area. The torc will pass the wearer through both screens. The arm rings you took from the other three raiders at the inn, and those who struck the encampment of the Baron of Brackley, were also enspelled, but to a lesser degree. I presume they were to get the wearer through the outer defenses, but not the inner, more powerful ones.”
Owain nodded thoughtfully. “This gets more and more interesting. If I read that aright, I think gruefell riders, individually or as a group, must use their arm rings to enter a specific place, the large area you mentioned, perhaps for ceremonies, or to receive orders. The torc is used to enter a much more restricted area within the first, perhaps a place reserved for senior officers. It may als
o unlock something, perhaps in that inner area, perhaps somewhere else.”
“That sounds likely,” the Abbott agreed.
“What about the Grabens’ theft of Sigurd’s ashes and the shards of his sword? Do you have any idea why they’d want them?”
Archelaus frowned. “I’ve no idea why they wanted his ashes. Mortal remains, particularly after cremation, have no spiritual significance. The soul has already left the body. It’s possible they wanted them to disguise their interest in the sword, which is far more understandable. I’ve never before encountered such powerful spells on a weapon.”
Owain nodded thoughtfully. “I knew there was magework involved in it, and in my axe, because of how we got them; but you say it’s very powerful?”
“Oh, my goodness, yes! There are spells on that weapon unlike any I’ve ever heard of. They’re obscure enough, yet also powerful enough, that I wondered for a time whether they came from the Ancient Ones. That’s not possible, of course, because if the sword was that old it would long since have rusted or worn away, but it’s a fascinating speculation. Our present arts simply aren’t sufficiently advanced to fully understand the enchantments its makers used.”
“What do you mean by ‘the Ancient Ones’?” Owain asked.
Instead of answering right away, the priest-mage glanced at the Abbott, as if in inquiry. His superior nodded slightly, as if giving him permission to proceed. He turned back to Owain.
“An unknown time before our Kingdom was established, there were people living here about whom we know very little. They left few traces of themselves. Their cities – if they had any – have long since crumbled to dust. There are only a few ruins of ancient buildings in out-of-the-way places. I know of three, all far distant. There are also several burial mounds for their important rulers and warriors – in fact, they’re not so much burial mounds as structures that were later covered by drifting earth and sand, over which grass and trees have since grown. Again, they’re few and far between. They worshipped the Gods of Light, as we do, although most details of their lore are lost to us. They used very powerful enchantments, compared to which our spells are as the shadow to the substance. It’s one of our top priorities to examine any artefacts of theirs that come to light, seeking to understand more about what they knew and practiced.”
“You mentioned burial mounds.” Owain’s voice was thoughtful as he gazed at the priest-mage. “That’s interesting, because it was from such a mound – or, rather, a building inside such a mound – that Sigurd and I received our weapons.”
For a brief instant, it seemed as if someone had discharged bolts of lightning into the seats occupied by the Abbott and priest-mage. They leapt to their feet in unison, gazing at him, mouths agape in astonishment.
“You took your weapons from a burial mound of the Ancient Ones?” the Abbott demanded. “When? Where? How did you find it? How did you get inside?”
“There was more than one weapon?” Pater Archelaus demanded in the same breath. “What was the other? Where is it?”
Owain held out a hand placatingly. “I’ll tell you the story. We didn’t take them. We were given three weapons; Sigurd the sword and a matching dagger, and I my battle-axe.”
“Where are the axe and the dagger now?” Archelaus demanded, voice vibrating with eagerness.
“In my guest chamber. I’d normally keep them with me in times like these, but your rules don’t permit weapons to be brought into the monastery proper; so out of respect for you, I left them in your visitor’s house.”
Archelaus swung towards the Abbott. “My Lord, could we not send for them?”
“No, my son,” his superior said regretfully. “Our rules are inviolate, unless the monastery is actually under attack, and armed defenders need to gain access to our buildings. However, we can continue this meeting in our guest’s room – that is, if you’re willing, Sir Champion? It’s outside the walls of the monastery proper, so we could examine your weapons there.”
“Of course, my lord.” Owain hesitated. “I know your monastery is secured against scrying spells and other intrusions. Are your guest quarters protected in the same way?”
“No, they’re not.”
“In that case, let me tell you the story here, where we know it’s secure, then take you to look at the weapons. If you can screen my guest room against scrying spells while we do so, that might be a good idea.”
“We can do that.” The Abbott sat down again. “Please proceed.”
“It’s a long story. Sigurd and I had just met on board a ship bound for Seahaven. We were young then, full of vim and vinegar, looking for adventure. Our ship began to break up in a tempest. The sailors made several rafts by tying together timbers, gratings and cargo barrels. We took to one of them when the ship sank. When the storm had blown itself out we found ourselves alone, drifting towards a strange coastline. It was Midsummer Day…”
—————
“Where do you suppose we are?”
Owain looked impatiently at his companion. “How do you expect me to know that? Do I look like a sailor?” He licked his parched lips. They’d last had fresh water eighteen hours ago, shortly before the ship broke up.
Sigurd shrugged as he raised his paddle – which was nothing more than a barrel stave – for another stroke. “You look like a half-drowned rat, actually, but then, so do I! It’s just that it’d be nice to know whether we’ll have to fight for our lives against the locals when we get ashore, or whether they’ll be friendly.”
“I don’t see any houses along this stretch of coast, but I daresay we’ll find out soon enough. My father always told me to expect the worst – that way I might sometimes be pleasantly surprised.”
The other chuckled. “He sounds like a wise man. Hey – stop paddling so hard! I have to take two strokes to your one to stop you turning this raft around!”
Now it was Owain’s turn to shrug. “If I paddle any softer, it feels like I’m being lazy.”
Sigurd eyed him appraisingly. “You’re much heavier-built and stronger than me, that’s why.”
“Yes, but you’ve got the speed of me, being smaller and lighter.”
“True. I could probably run rings around you in a fight, but if you landed just one good blow, it’d be all over with me.”
“Good thing we’re not enemies, then. I’d get awfully dizzy turning in circles to fend you off!”
Laughing, they bent to their paddling anew.
An hour later they reached the surf line at the foot of a long, low cliff face that stretched for leagues in either direction. The waves were high, still disturbed by yesterday’s storm. Their makeshift raft surged and tossed, then overturned as a larger wave flipped it. Sigurd and Owain found themselves clinging to its sides.
“Hold on!” Sigurd called, spitting out salt water. “The waves and the tide will take us in.”
“The sooner, the better,” Owain replied morosely, blinking seawater from his eyes. “I can’t wait to have some good, solid earth beneath my feet once more!”
Sure enough, within five minutes the waves had washed the raft ashore on a narrow, sandy beach at the foot of the cliff face. The two men struggled further up the sand, then collapsed to catch their breath.
Eventually Owain sat up. “It’s no good staying here. We’ve got to find water, then get up these cliffs.”
“Or the other way around,” Sigurd agreed. “Which way?”
“The ship was headed north to Seahaven. I suppose we should walk that way too.” He glanced up at the sun. “That direction, I think.”
They trudged along the narrow beach for half an hour before they reached a small waterfall rushing down a gully it had carved for itself in the cliffs. They scooped up the fresh water in their hands and drank until their thirst was slaked, then rinsed the salt from their hair, skin and meager clothing.
“We’re going to be sore tomorrow,” Sigurd remarked, looking ruefully at the ruins of his shirt and breeches. “The sun’s already burned us
.”
“Can’t be helped,” Owain said briefly. His kilt was intact, but his shirt was in tatters. He looked up at the steep gully. “You know, I reckon we could find enough purchase for our hands and feet to scramble up here.”
They helped each other over the steeper parts of the climb, scrabbling at the rocks and tufts of grass with sea-softened limbs, swearing as a nail caught and tore or skin ripped and bled. They’d kicked off their shoes to stay afloat more easily after the ship sank, and now regretted it. It took them three-quarters of an hour to reach the top, where they flopped on the grass, exhausted.
“Before this I could run all day and half the night,” Sigurd panted in a disgusted tone. “Now look at me! I couldn’t keep pace with a new-born kitten, stumbling around looking for its mama!”
“At least the kitten would have milk when it found her,” Owain pointed out. “We’ve got nothing but the clothes on our backs. We don’t even have weapons, if the locals prove to be unfriendly.”
Sigurd sat up and looked around. “I don’t see any sign of anyone. Friendly or not, we’d better look for a farm or somewhere to beg food. I don’t know about you, but I’m ravenous!”
“All right.” Owain glanced at the sun and the shadows, then pointed. “North’s that way.”
They marched parallel to the sea for three hours as the afternoon drew on, seeing no settlements or signs of life. The cliff tops rose and fell gently, covered in grasses and occasional clumps of brush, but with no forests or tall trees. The midsummer heat made them sweat, adding to their discomfort as the moisture chafed at their red, sun-dried skin.
As the sun settled into the sea, bathing the sky in red and orange, they came to a headland. Beyond it the coast fell away to the east, forming a huge bay that extended beyond their sight. A large flat-topped mound, eighty or ninety feet high, stood as if to mark the beginning of the bay, well inland from the edge of the cliff, in line with the headland. It was smooth, unmarked, covered with grass. There were no other landmarks in sight.
