by J. W. Webb
But Corin soon got the measure of his new friend and could tell that Barin loved her deeply. As for himself, he invented pillow conquests and vengeful husbands until Barin guffawed and slapped his back.
Outside, the sounds of the marketplace ebbed and flowed, accompanied by the distant thud of breakers on the harbor wall. After being soundly beaten at dice three times, Corin took his leave of Barin.
He felt better and had almost forgotten the events of yesterday. On a whim, he took to strolling through the village again. Avoiding the market crowds, Corin sauntered back up to the gatehouse to get a better view of Finnehalle. It was a glorious afternoon. Above him, mewling gulls swooped and dived in elaborate circles through clear salty air.
Corin needed time to think. He turned, gazed down whimsically at the ocean, watched it heave and sparkle into the distant west. He had not known what to expect coming home after so long away. Home to where no family would greet him. He was lonely and lost but daren’t admit it.
Corin thought about Holly. They shared memories good and bad, although she had been away at the time of the raid and, thankfully, been spared that horror. He could do worse—
What’s that?
Corin froze, hearing a soft noise from behind. He turned just in time to see the knife hurtling toward him. Corin dived low, Clouter’s crosspiece and pommel clanking as they struck the stone lane’s surface. Corin rolled, reached for Biter.
“Slippery bastards! Show yourself, yellow-belly scum!”
Nothing. Then a shadow flitted behind a nearby wall, and footsteps scurried away back down to the harbor. Furious, Corin slammed his sax back into its scabbard, straightened Clouter’s harness, and scanned the breezy streets. There was no sign of his attacker. Corin cursed and vowed he’d pay the Morwellans a visit before too long.
Corin was still angry when he passed a bakery, but the smells that greeted made him feel hungry, so he forgot the Morwellans, returned to the ’Ship and, with Burmon’s kind permission, raided the kitchens again. Once his stomach was full, Corin felt sleepy after his ale and excitement. So he slipped into his room, unslung his clutter, and sprawled akimbo on the bed. Once comfortable, Corin an Fol slept soundly for a couple of hours.
Chapter 8: The Merchant’s Story
When Corin woke he felt well rested and better than he had in days. Outside, it was quiet, evening settling peacefully on Finnehalle harbor. The market stalls were dismantled, and one by one the grumbling traders of Fol packed up their remaining wares and retired from their busy day. Even the seabirds had withdrawn from the harbor, returning to their lofty crags. Beyond those cliffs the setting sun spilled crimson into western water.
Corin, feeling brisk and sharp for once, slung the faded cloak of blue wool over his shoulders. He’d shaved and looked almost respectable, if a man like him could ever look respectable. The cloak was warm and the gold brooch pinning it depicted a snarling wolf standing alone at the edge of a forest. Another gift from the Lord of Point Keep for his service in the Permian Wars; it marked Corin as a veteran campaigner. He wore it with pride.
Corin had liked and admired Halfdan of Point Keep and had enjoyed fighting under the canny general’s wolf banner. Corin had served in the Wolves for seven years before his rebellious nature spurred him to pursue his fortune as a mercenary. It was a decision Lord Halfdan had frowned upon.
“You are worth more than a common hireling, lad,” the High King’s brother had told him. “You sell yourself short; there is a good future for you here with the Wolves—even a commission, if you keep your head screwed on and control that nasty temper of yours.”
His temper was the problem. After Corin gutted the sword master in a brawl, Halfdan had no choice but to let him go. Disgraced and downtrodden, Corin had left the Wolves that very week.
He hadn’t seen Halfdan since that sorry day. Corin wondered what the general would do now. He guessed he was still holed up in Point Keep—the Wolves had taken the brunt of the coup two years past. Those remaining had accompanied their general to that remote fortress. Word was Halfdan had fallen out with the High King. He despised Caswallon and that old crow had got him banished from court.
But as the slain High King’s brother, Halfdan was needed more than ever. Someone had to stand up to this bastard, Caswallon. Halfdan and Belmarius, leader of the Bear regiment, were the only two strong enough to do so now that Perani had sold out.
Lord Halfdan’s heir had been the true successor to the throne of Kelthaine. But as Silon had reminded him, that child had perished at sea long ago, together with his mother and the Queen during a perilous crossing south of Fol.
Corin was still chewing over these thoughts as he made his way along the quayside. All was quiet, save for a couple of scruffy dogs gnawing possessively on the scraps left by the traders. They growled at him as he passed by, tails bravely tucked between their legs.
Corin stopped at the southern side of the harbor, admiring the great vessel moored just beyond the harbor’s arm. The Starlight Wanderer was a splendid sight to behold; she appeared over a hundred feet in length, her clinker hull painted bright blue and silver, with the golden sea eagle’s head carved at her prow. Above deck, tough-looking flaxen-haired sailors sauntered to and fro, adjusting ropes and mending sails.
Corin paid a fisherman to row him across to the waiting ship. Curiosity had got the better of him after his talk with Barin. He didn’t have to commit to anything but might as well go see what slippery Silon wanted.
Corin was acknowledged and welcomed aboard by the boson, a wiry freckle-faced redhead announcing himself Fassof.
“Lord Barin awaits you in the main cabin, me old cock.” Skinny Fassof motioned below with a toothless grin. “With him is the merchant of Raleen.”
Thanking the boson despite being addressed as ‘old cock’ (which in Corin’s opinion was beyond impertinent), Corin descended the narrow hatch to Barin’s cabin.
Below decks the Starlight Wanderer was even more impressive. The master’s spacious cabin was built of dark wood carved to depict hunting scenes in the northern forests of Enromer, of which Corin had heard many stories.
Golden-threaded tapestries hung on the walls, and priceless rugs from Permio were strewn across the polished wooden floor. Hanging lanterns tilted gently as waves passed. At the rear of the cabin a large round window let in the last of the evening light.
Silon was seated at the far end of a heavy wooden table studying a worn-out chart. In one hand he held a crystal goblet of wine, and from this he sipped thoughtfully.
“We will not be disturbed,” the master of The Starlight Wanderer assured them after welcoming Corin on board his ship and offering the longswordsman a seat. Barin looked immaculate in a knee-length blue tunic trimmed at collar and sleeves with silver lace. The giant’s beard was neatly combed, and his golden hair braids were tied back with a silk ribbon. He stooped low, filling glasses for Corin and himself and then placing the heavy crystal decanter on the table.
Silon looked up from his chart. He too was dressed like a nobleman. His scarlet jerkin looked very expensive and made Corin feel something of a vagabond in his well-worn garb. He’d left his faded but respectable cloak in Fassof’s care, as he knew it would be warm below deck. Silon’s close-cropped hair was whiter than Corin remembered. The merchant appeared troubled as he thoughtfully rubbed the diamond stud in his left earlobe.
“So, Corin, you have met my friend Barin of Valkador,” he said eventually. “The master of this fine vessel has worked with us for some time.”
Corin had no idea who “us” referred to. He chose to ignore the remark. Instead, he raised his glass to toast their host.
“I have indeed, master merchant.” Corin’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve something of interest to tell me, I believe.”
“All in good time,” replied Silon, with an impatient wave of his hand. “Supper will be arriving shortly, and what I have to tell you will sit better on a full stomach.”
Just after Silon spoke
came a knock on the door, and Ruagon, the ship’s red-faced cook, emerged carrying three large steaming plates. The food was excellent and wolfed down eagerly without a word. After another helping for Corin and Barin each, and some more wine, Barin ordered the table cleared. Ruagon, sweating profusely, hurried to comply. The galley master left them alone, closing the door quietly behind him.
“And now to business,” announced Silon, leaning back into his heavily carved chair. “You, Corin, must bear with me. In order for Barin to understand what we are up against, I need to delve way back into our history.”
“Aye, get on with it,” belched Corin as he replenished his glass.
Silon gave the longswordsman a sideways glance, the irritation evident in his dark eyes. He sighed, sipped his wine, then began…
“A thousand years ago, Kell the Valiant and his sons fled the ruin of Gol and discovered this fog-bound coast, so say the Legends of Ansu.” Corin rolled his eyes. He hadn’t expected a history lesson. “The exiles claimed this country for their own but soon discovered they were not alone.
“Back then this continent was dominated by two ancient peoples locked in a hideous war. These were the Aralais and the Urgolais. Both races are now almost forgotten save by a few scholars and some country folk who usually refer to them as ‘elves and goblins’ in the tales they tell their children.
“The Aralais, the elves, were a beautiful people, noble and wise and apparently ageless. They dwelt around these western lands between the mountains and the sea. Proud and serene, they built crystal towers and rode across the lands in chariots of multicolored glass.
“The Urgolais, or goblins, were very different—short of stature and hideous to behold, dwelling mainly in the wild lands far to the east of our Four Kingdoms. They became known as the Dog People due to their canine-shaped skulls. Although related to the Aralais, they loved them not.
“A clandestine, clever people, the Urgolais studied alchemy and became wise in the deepest secrets of Ansu.” Silon paused to take a sip of wine. Corin yawned.
“For many years both races prospered,” continued the merchant. “But hungry for lore, the Urgolais delved too deep and were snared by the evil one we call Old Night, who claimed their souls in return for dark power. They vowed to serve Him forever.
“The Aralais were skilled also, and they fashioned great treasures deep beneath the Crystal Mountains, far to the south of what is now known as Permio.” Corin mouthed the word shithole, but again Silon ignored him, continuing, “The Tekara, the sacred crown of Kelthaine, was one such artefact. Callanak, the lost crystal sword of legend, another. They made many more, and in each placed a special power.
“The Urgolais had their own mines far from these lands. The stunted folk were envious of the Aralais artefacts and sought to emulate their beauty.
Spurred on by their leader, Morak (called the Dog Lord by his enemies), the Urgolais captured the crippled god, Croagon the Smith, he who had made the Tekara and Callanak. They blinded Him, demanding Croagon show them his craft.”
“If they blinded the Smith how could he show them anything?” challenged Corin. Silon paused, sipped his wine, and awarded Corin a pained look. Barin was looking at both of them, a half grin on his face.
“I’ll cont—” Silon stopped midsentence when Corin stood up, shaking his head, and wandered over to the porthole to watch the waves dance westward into the gloaming.
“This wine is excellent,” Corin murmured as he gazed out.
Barin nodded, watching his restless friend closely. Silon struggled to quell his annoyance. “Corin an Fol, please let me continue.”
“My apologies,” replied Corin, winking at Barin. “Cramp in left buttock.” Barin nodded sympathetically.
Silon rubbed his eyes, shook his head, and counted to ten.
“The Urgolais…” (Silon paused to look at Corin, who beamed back at him) “…learned much from their prisoner, Croagon. He taught them to forge weapons of power and how to wield them in battle. Once ready, the ‘goblins’ turned on their kin.” Silon paused to reach for his glass, taking another sip whilst Barin lit the swaying tallow lanterns against the fading light.
“The Urgolais were now powerful sorcerers, and this Morak wielded a terrible spear. Golganak was its name, a lance crafted wholly of black crystal. They say Golganak was dipped in the poisonous blood of Old Night’s severed head and His malice corrupted it.
“True or not, panic and dismay exuded from its midnight shaft, scolding the flesh of those it touched, including the Dog Lord himself.” Corin scratched his ear and yawned again. He was feeling sleepy, bored. Stories were all right, but he’d rather be looking up Holly’s shift.
“But the Aralais were undismayed,” continued Silon. “They were a mighty race, and among their leaders were wielders of magic. So began the war that raged throughout Ansu for eons until the time when Kell, our ancestor, arrived out of the west and unfurled his silver banners on the shore.”
Corin’s eyes were glazing over; the wine was starting to mess with his head. He didn’t usually drink this stuff, preferring the hearty taste of ale. Wine smelt of flowers, and flowers made him sneeze.
Besides, he’d heard the story of Bold King Kell and his heroic sons too many times. Such patriotic yarns held little interest for Corin, coming as he did from Fol and not the Four Kingdoms (which, in Corin’s opinion, took themselves far too seriously—particularly Kelthaine).
His country, although tiny, was an independent land claiming ancestry from the mythical god who’d given it his name. The folk of the Four Kingdoms laughed about Fol. They said its people were backwards and had horse’s ears. It was a small matter Corin had had to put right on several occasions.
“By this time”Silon’s neatly manicured fingers tattooed the crystal glass“the war had taken a terrible toll on both races. The opaque towers of the Aralais were cast down and destroyed, that ancient beauty lost forever. The Urgolais were now few in number. Only a scattering of their most powerful wizards remained. Foremost among them was Morak.” Silon shook his head and smiled wryly.
“It was by a strange twist of fate that our ancestors came upon these two warring races in what was to be their final deciding battle. The Aralais were surrounded and it seemed all would be lost, but then Kell led his warriors into the bloody fray. Legend says he received a sign from Elanion bidding him lead his force against the Dog People. Whatever the truth, the newcomers’ arrival surprised the Urgolais, defeating them utterly. Few of that ancient evil race survived, and of their necromancers only three remain. But I fear one of them at least has returned from the catacombs of Old Night’s cavern.”
“The Dog Lord?” inquired Barin, his clear, blue eyes glinting fiercely in the lamplight.
Silon nodded his head. “I pray not, for all our sakes. But we shall see.”
“This Morak? Is he an ugly fucker with a long doggy snout?” Corin felt a chill penetrate his skin. He was interested now.
“I know not, but it’s likely, since he’s called the Dog Lord, isn’t it?” replied the merchant—rather tartly, Corin thought. “His skin, they say, was burned black by the terrible spear he wielded, and his face rumored hideously scarred.”
Silon’s dark eyes locked on Corin’s blue-grey. No give there.
“Why do you ask? Showing some interest at last, Corin an Fol?”
Corin felt a strange unquiet enter the room. “I just wondered,” he replied lamely.
Silon looked at Corin curiously for a minute then continued his story. “Though the Aralais were nearly wiped out and their ancient power gone, they looked on this new race with wonder. In gratitude their leader, Arollas the Golden, gave Kell their last remaining artefact. This was the Tekara; the crystal crown fashioned long before, in times of peace. Arollas, with an immortal’s wisdom, knew that his people’s time was gone and that these mortal warriors from across the sea heralded the dawning of a new age—”
“So he stinks of wet dog and wears a hood?” asked Corin,
interrupting.
“Who wears a hood?” Silon was getting annoyed again.
“The Dogshite Lord,” replied Corin, waving an arm energetically, knocking his glass over, and spilling crimson contents on his lap. Barin reached across, righted the glass and refilled it. Corin thanked him and took a slurp.
“He might, Corin an Fol. I don’t know. And you shouldn’t mock things you don’t understand. Now, kindly stop fucking interrupting.” Silon gulped a swallow.
“Continue,” replied Corin, taking another pull. He had a suspicion who’d tried pay him visit last night. That discovery was far from comforting. And why would this Morak creature single him out?
Silon shook his head in resignation and drained his wine glass. He remembered why he hadn’t felt that sorry to see the back of Corin an Fol. Despite his lethal efficiency with that mile-long blade of his, the man had the subtlety of a mountain troll. Just what had Nalissa seen in the idiot? But then his daughter was as perverse as she was wayward.
“So it was,” Silon continued under duress, “that Kell the Mighty wore the Tekara upon his head. And his rule was long and righteous. You see, the power within the crown gave wisdom and strength to the rightful monarch.
“Arollas informed Kell to protect the bloodline for future generations. The crystal crown could pass only to the firstborn of his eldest sibling. Kell’s only heir was Wynna, his lone surviving son and founder of Kelwyn. But Wynna was able to honor the Aralais wisdom. From his time on, the Tekara passed from uncle to nephew.
“This custom has held true for a thousand years—indeed, until relatively recently.” Silon paused to study his companion’s faces in the lamplight. He carefully poured himself out another glass of wine. Outside, the only sound was the gentle lapping of the ocean against the ship’s wooden hull.
“What happened to the surviving Aralais’?” asked Barin.
