The Silver Crown

by Joel Rosenberg

  The Silver Crown

  The Guardians of the Flame

  Book III

  Joel Rosenberg

  A Baen Books Original

  Cover art by Monty Moore

  ISBN: 0-7434-3589-3

  Copyright 1985

  CONTENT

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Quote

  Dramatis Personae

  Introduction

  Prologue Ahrmin

  Part One: The Forest Of Wehnest

  Chapter One The Hunter

  Chapter Two Battleground

  Chapter Three Ellegon

  Part Two: Home

  Chapter Four Karl's Day Off

  Chapter Five Dinner Party

  Chapter Six Mindprobe

  Chapter Seven The Bat Cave

  Chapter Eight An Acquaintance Renewed

  Chapter Nine A Matter of Obligation

  Chapter Ten Practice Session

  Chapter Eleven Town Meeting

  Chapter Twelve Parting

  Part Three: Enkiar

  Chapter Thirteen To Enkiar

  Chapter Fourteen Valeran

  Chapter Fifteen Firefight

  Part Four: Bieme

  Chapter Sixteen Prince Pirondael

  Chapter Seventeen "One Thing at a Time"

  Chapter Eighteen Aveneer

  Chapter Nineteen The Siege

  Chapter Twenty Several Acquaintances Renewed

  Chapter Twenty-One Ahrmin

  Chapter Twenty-Two Betrayal

  Chapter Twenty-Three Biemestren Revisited

  Chapter Twenty-Four The Defense of Furnael Keep

  Chapter Twenty-Five Arta Myrdhyn

  Chapter Twenty-Six The Silver Crown

  Chapter Twenty-Seven Goodbyes

  Epilogue Ahrmin

  Dedication

  For Tim Daniels

  In Memoriam, Dammit

  Acknowledgments

  I'd like to thank Mary Kittredge, Mark J. McGarry, and most particularly Harry F. Leonard, all of whom helped to make this a better book than it otherwise would have been. This is both my fourth book and the fourth time I've thanked all of them in print; that isn't coincidental.

  I'd be more than a little remiss if I didn't also thank my agent, Richard Curtis; my editor, Sheila Gilbert, for her advice, support, and patience; my favorite policeman, Officer William T. Badger, NHPD/VSU, for creating the quiet; and Felicia, for the usual—and more.

  Quote

  There is nothing more difficult to take in hand, more perilous to conduct, or more uncertain in its success, than to take the lead in the introduction of a new order of things.

  —Niccolò Machiavelli

  Dramatis Personae

  Ahrmin: master slaver

  Fenrius, Danared: journeyman slavers

  The Matriarch of the Healing Hand Society

  Doria: Hand acolyte

  Karl Cullinane: warrior, raiding-team leader

  Tennetty, Ch'akresarkandyn ip Katharhdn, Peill ip Yratha: squad leaders in Karl Cullinane's raiding team

  Walter Slovotsky: Karl Cullinane's second-in-command; thief, warrior, smartass

  Wellem, Erek, Therol, Donidge, Hervean, Firkh, Restius: warriors, members of Karl Cullinane's raiding team

  Gwellin, Gerrin, Daherrin: dwarf warriors, members of Karl Cullinane's raiding team

  Sternius: master slaver

  Jilla, Danni: slaves

  Ellegon: a young dragon

  Henrad: novice wizard; Andrea's apprentice

  Andrea Andropolous Cullinane: wizard, teacher, Karl Cullinane's wife

  Jason Cullinane: Karl and Andrea's son

  Aeia Eriksen Cullinane: Karl and Andrea's adopted daughter, teacher

  Mikyn: freed slave

  Alezyn: Mikyn's father

  Ahira Bandylegs: Home Mayor

  Louis Riccetti: ex-wizard, the Engineer

  Ranella, Bast: apprentice Engineers

  U'len: cook

  Thellaren: Spidersect cleric

  Kirah Slovotsky: Walter Slovotsky's wife

  Jane Michele Slovotsky: Walter and Kirah's daughter

  Ihryk: farmer, houseman

  Pendrill: stableman

  Werthan: farmer

  Anna Major: Werthan's wife

  Anna Minor: Werthan and Anna Major's daughter

  Afbee: assassin

  Nehera: dwarf blacksmith

  Daven: warrior, raiding-team leader

  Wraveth, Taren: warriors, members of Daven's raiding team

  Jherant ip Therranj: elf warrior

  Dhara ip Therranj: emissary from Lord Khoral of Therranj

  Beralyn, Lady Furnael

  Thomen Furnael: heir to barony Furnael

  Chton: farmer, leader of Joiner faction

  Petros: farmer, of sorts

  Harwen, Ternius: farmers

  Valeran: guard captain in the service of Lord Gyren of Enkiar

  Halvin: Valeran's second-in-command

  Norfan: one of Valeran's warriors

  Prince Harffen Pirondael: ruler of Bieme

  Aveneer: warrior, raiding-team leader

  Frandred: Aveneer's second-in-command

  Theren, Thermen, Migdal: warriors, members of Aveneer's raiding team

  Zherr, Baron Furnael

  Garavar: a captain of the House Guard

  Taren: warrior of the House Guard

  Arthur Simpson Deighton/Arta Myrdhyn: lecturer in philosophy, master wizard

  Introduction

  It had long since ceased being a game. Friends didn't really die in a game.

  But . . . it had been just a game, years before. Professor Arthur Simpson Deighton was the gamemaster. Karl Cullinane, Jason Parker, James Michael Finnegan, Doria Perlstein, Walter Slovotsky, Andrea Andropolous, and Lou Riccetti had sat down for an evening of fantasy gaming. The game suddenly, without warning, became real: James Michael became Ahira Bandylegs, a powerful dwarf; skinny Karl Cullinane turned into Barak, a massive warrior; Lou Riccetti became Aristobulus, wielder of powerful magicks; Andrea became Lotana, novice wizard.

  It had become real, every bit as real as the pain Jason Parker felt in his last moments kicking on the end of a bloody spear, every bit as real as Ahira's fiery death, and his resurrection by the Matriarch of the Healing Hand Society.

  But there was a price to be paid for that resurrection: Karl and the others promised to fight to end slavery. They declared war on the Pandathaway-based Slavers' Guild, the dealers in human flesh who traveled across the Eren regions, securing and selling their cargo.

  Attacking the slavers was one thing—but what to do with the freed slaves? Some could be sent home, but some had no home to go back to. That was easily solved: They built Home, a new kind of society for the world they found themselves in.

  Aeia Eriksen did have a home to go back to, a village in Melawei. While returning her there, Karl discovered evidence that Professor Deighton was actually the almost legendary wizard Arta Myrdhyn, who had left a magical sword in a cave, clutched in fingers of light, waiting.

  Waiting for whom? For Karl's son, it seemed; Deighton/Arta Myrdhyn had plans for Karl's son. . . .

  Not my son, Karl said. He left the sword of Arta Myrdhyn in Melawei and returned Home, continuing to venture out and attack Slavers' Guild caravans wherever they could be found.

  It had long since ceased being a game.

  A revolution is never a game; it is, in more senses than one, a bloody mess.

  Prologue

  Ahrmin

  "You may enter, Ahrmin," the acolyte said. She was a slim woman, dressed in the long white robes of the Healing Hand Society. Her long blond hair shimmered in the sunlight as she stared coolly at him out of the yellow-irised eyes set ex
otically but not unpleasantly far apart in her high-cheekboned face.

  Idly, Ahrmin estimated that she was easily worth thirty gold; he could remove that air of superiority within a tenday, perhaps less. Perhaps much less.

  She shook her head as though in response to his unvoiced comment. "You, and you alone. The others shall remain outside. It is unpleasant enough to tolerate their presence on the preserve; I will not have their breath fouling the air of the tabernacle itself."

  She stared to turn away, but spun back as Fenrius growled and started toward her. Fenrius towered menacingly over her slim form, but the huge man froze in place as the acolyte raised her hand, all the while murmuring soft words that Ahrmin could hear clearly, but never recall. As always, he tried to remember them, but he couldn't; they vanished as the sounds touched his ears.

  As the spell ended, the cleric gripped the air in front of her; Fenrius' arms flew down to his sides, his leather tunic wrinkling as though he were in the grip of a giant invisible hand. Muscles stood out cordlike on his unshaven cheeks; his mouth worked silently, lips drawn wide in a soundless gasp as sweat beaded on his forehead.

  "No," she said, smiling gently, almost affectionately. "Not here. Here, you are within the grasp of the Hand. In more senses than one." She began to tighten the grip of her straining fingers. Leather squealed in protest; Fenrius' breath whooshed out of his lungs.

  His mouth worked frantically, but no sound escaped.

  Ahrmin's five other men stood stock-still, Danared shaking his head in sympathy. But even he was not foolish enough to make a move toward the acolyte.

  Just as Ahrmin was sure that Fenrius' chest would cave in beneath the pressure, the acolyte stopped, cocking her head to one side, as though listening to a distant voice.

  "Yes, Mother," she said, with a deep sigh. She raised her hand and twitched her wrist; Fenrius tumbled end over end through the air, landing on the grass with a thump.

  "You may follow me, Ahrmin," she said.

  Ahrmin limped after the acolyte down dark corridors to a vast, high-ceilinged hall, the drag-slap of his sandals a counterpoint to her even steps. They walked through a high arch and into the hall, halting in unison before the high-backed throne, as though obeying an unspoken command. Later, he couldn't recall whether the room was crowded or empty; his eyes were drawn to the woman on the throne.

  If the acolyte was thin, this woman was positively skeletal. He always remembered the tissue-thin skin on the back of her hands, skin as white as a dead man's, unmarked save for the bulges caused by underlying bones and sinews.

  But despite the funereal slimness of her form, she radiated a sense of power as she sat there, her face hidden by the upswept cowl of her faintly glowing white robes.

  "Greetings, Ahrmin, son of Ohlmin," she said. "I have been expecting you."

  Her voice was like nothing he had ever heard. Though she seemed to speak softly, her words rattled his teeth.

  "Then you know what I want."

  "What you . . . want is obvious," the acolyte hissed. "Karl wrecked your body—he should have killed you. He should have—"

  The Matriarch raised a hand. "Be still, daughter. We shall take no side in this matter." She turned back to Ahrmin. "Which is precisely the point. You were injured in combat with Karl Cullinane—"

  "Injured?" He raised a fire-twisted hand. "You call this injured?" Had it not been for the bottle of healing draughts he had drunk while the ship burned around him, Ahrmin would have died. As it was, he had never fully recovered from the burns or the long trip over the mountains from Melawei to Ehvenor.

  "Yes. Would you not agree?" She gestured, her long fingers twitching spastically as she spoke words that could only be heard and forgotten.

  The air to one side of the Matriarch shimmered, solidifying into a mirror.

  "Look at yourself," she commanded.

  He did, forcing his shoulders back and standing tall.

  It wasn't a pretty sight; it was never a pretty sight. The hair on the right side of his head was gone, the skin permanently browned and puckered, save for the few fleshy spots where his trembling hand had splashed enough of the healing potion to restore those patches to normal health.

  The left side of his face was normal enough; the fire had only singed him there, and the healing draughts, combined with his body's natural healing ability, had brought that back to normal.

  But the right side of his face was a horror. The flames had seared away his ear and most of his lips; it had burned his cheeks down to the bone. While the draughts had healed what remained, their power was not great enough to bring flesh back from ashes.

  Surely, the Matriarch was powerful enough to do that; she was said to be able to raise the dead. Surely—

  "No." She dismissed the thought and the mirror with a wave of her hand. "I do not expect that you will understand this, but there are forces involved here that even I would not wish to involve myself with again. I have done so three times. Once, many years ago, to protect the tabernacle and its preserve, and twice again," she said, laying a gentle hand on the acolyte's arm, "for reasons that do not concern you. I will not do so now."

  "But I've brought gold." He waved a hand toward the door. "Sacks of it."

  "Gold?" The acolyte sniffed. "Bring a mountain of gold, and we still won't help you. Right now, you wouldn't have a chance against Karl. But if we healed you—"

  "I'll hunt the bastard down and kill him. He murdered my father—and did this to me." I'll hunt him down whether you help me or not, he thought. I'll hold his head in my hands.

  The Matriarch folded her thin arms across her chest. "That is entirely a matter of opinion." She extended a skinny arm, her sleeve rippling. "Now, go."

  There was no point in staying. He couldn't fight the Hand, not even if he had the entire guild behind him.

  He spun on his heel and limped away. Their words echoed down the marble halls after him.

  "We have to help Karl, Mother. Or at least warn him."

  "Ahh. Your skills have improved, daughter. You read beyond Ahrmin's surface thoughts?

  "Yes—Karl must think he's dead. He doesn't know—"

  "Nor can we tell him. Our responsibilities lie elsewhere. And elsewhen. To interfere now, to involve the Hand further at this juncture . . . it would ruin everything. As well you know."

  "I do know, but . . . Forgive me, Mother—I was lying. He just might be able to kill Karl, or have him killed. It's—"

  "You are forgiven. You are not the first of our order to tell a lie."

  "He could kill Karl, if he took him by surprise—"

  "I think you perhaps underrate this Karl Cullinane of yours. In any case, my decision stands, daughter."

  "But what can we do?"

  "For now, nothing. We must wait. Waiting is a difficult skill; I commend its practice to you, Doria. . . ."

  Part One:

  The Forest Of Wehnest

  Chapter One

  The Hunter

  Out of the darkness of the tent, a hand reached out and gently grasped his shoulder. "Karl, ta ly'veth ta ahd dalazhi." Karl, it is time to wake up.

  Karl Cullinane came awake instantly. He clamped his left hand around the slim wrist and pulled, slamming the other into the tent pole, almost dislodging it. He brought his right hand around to block a possible knife thrust—

  —and stopped himself when he realized who it was.

  "Ta havath, Karl." Easy, Karl. Tennetty laughed, her breath warm in his ear. She switched from Erendra to her thickly accented English as she pushed away from him, rubbing at her shoulder. "I don't think Andrea would approve. Besides, if you move around much more, you'll bring the tent down around both our heads."

  He released her and sighed. He would have preferred Tennetty to be a bit more nervous about waking him, a bit less trusting that he would recognize her before doing something sudden and fatal.

  "What is it, Tennetty?" he asked in Erendra. "Is the dragon here?" Ellegon? he thought. Can you hear me? />
  No answer.

  "Wake up, Karl—you're a full day off. He isn't due until tomorrow."

  "Slovotsky, then?"

  She nodded. "On his way up," Tennetty said, smiling faintly in the dim lanternlight as she untangled herself from his blankets. "Gerrin spotted him—and a small caravan, camped down by the fork."

  "Slavers or merchants?"

  "He couldn't tell, not from here." She shrugged. "But if they are slavers, it would explain Slovotsky's return." She rose to her knees and took up a piece of straw from his bedding, using it to carry fire from her lantern to his, idly pausing to straighten his tent pole in passing. Tennetty was a slim woman, but not a soft one; beneath her ragged cotton under-shirt, strong muscles played.

  "I've had my team's horses saddled and ordered a general weapons inspection." She flashed a smile at him, then dropped it. Tennetty seemed to have a permanent sneer, which somehow started with her narrow eyes and continued down her thin, broken nose, all the way to her cracked lips. A scar snaked around her right eye; a black patch covered the remains of the left.

  "You take a lot on yourself, don't you?"

  "Perhaps." Picking up her lantern, she rose smoothly from her half-crouch and held the tent flap open for him. "Let's go." She hitched first at the wide-bladed shortsword on the left side of her belt and then at the crude flintlock pistol on the right side.

  "I'll be a minute," he said, his hand going to the spider amulet secured around his neck by a leather thong.

  That was a long-standing reflex, its source back in his long-ago college days. Karl Cullinane had always had trouble keeping track of things; pens, pencils, books, lighters, change, and keys always seemed to vanish from his possession, as though they had turned to air. The amulet was too important; it couldn't become part of that pattern of lost valuables.

  "If you see Slovotsky, tell him to get up here. In the meantime, give the order to break camp, then have your team wait by their horses—and tell Restius to keep the animals quiet this time, even if he has to slit the throat of that idiot mare of his."