by D Mickleson
“The only thing I’m surprised at is how useless your presence has been,” retorted Sarconius, his deep voice, filled with malice and fear, seeming to teeter on the edge of falling out of his control. “That bit of showmanship you called an enchantment failed utterly in its purpose. I have half a mind to send you packing back to your precious Fane. Now still your serpent’s tongue so I can consider matters in peace.”
Triston’s heart burned with anger at the man’s haughty words. Alden was cursing him under his breath. How dared he speak with so much scorn to a woman of such high honor? Triston imagined how her eyes must have flashed at this contempt. He wished she would put the man in his place. But for the moment she seemed to be obeying his command in silence.
Even while he fumed in the darkness, Triston couldn’t help but wonder about this thing Sarconius was talking about. What object of value could the Meridian be scheming to acquire? Besides Willbrand’s sword, could any relic of those ancient days still reside in this place of long-faded glory?
Surely not. Secrets were impossible to keep in a village this small. He and everyone else would know if anything special or magical remained. For all his pomp and pride, the Meridian lord was a fool to think otherwise just as the Seer kept hinting.
A minute later Sarconius began to muse out loud to the Seer, speaking with deliberate patience and forced politeness.
“Very well. I will be more open with you, my dear. Just enough to quell that insatiable curiosity of yours. A dangerous curiosity, especially to yourself, I might warn you. Very well.” He paused, as though to gather his thoughts. “You see, a Relic of Power is bound by ancient sorcery to its native land, its haunting ground, as the sorcerers of old put down in their records. The Relic I seek, we seek, will be immensely difficult to remove once we find it. It will not want to leave this village.”
“And yet you propose to bring this Relic back to your emperor?”
“What its defenses will be, and how we are to overcome them, I do not know. As I have said, the records are deliberately vague. I know the thing’s name—that does not concern you now so don’t ask—and I am sure of the location. As for what’s sure to be a difficult and dangerous removal, my master will be able to guide me—”
“The emperor? How?”
“Do not interrupt me! Now, why are you here? I believe that you, with what small powers you possess, may prove useful when that moment of removal comes.”
“I’m swept away by your confidence. But tell me this: how will you recognize it if you ever find it?”
“My confidence in you grows less all the time. Do you think me a fool? Do you believe I, who have long studied the ancient rites of sorcery, could hold a Relic of Power and not know it?” The man gave out a harsh bark of a laugh, which echoed discordantly in the furnace’s iron chamber and sent a shiver down Triston’s spine. Beside him, Alden was listening so intently he seemed to have given up breathing.
“Now, gold has not sufficed, so sterner measures will be required. What are you prepared to do to aid me?”
“I can’t imagine what you might mean. But if the glow of gold has not illuminated this Relic’s whereabouts, then perhaps someone else has already removed—”
“It is here I tell you! We have not uncovered everything concealed beneath the thatched rubble of this infested hovel. Take Willbrand’s sword now, the magnificent Bloodprice. A mighty heirloom, one I had high hopes for. Alas, the sword is not the Relic of Power, that much is clear. But who knows what other treasures are stowed away in the Chief’s Keep or the Fighter’s Hold? I will have them, if not through their greed, then through their fear.”
There was another pause, in which Triston became aware that his fingertips were bleeding as he gripped the lip of the furnace.
“But that can only mean violence,” said the Seer, speaking very quietly now. “But you have no army.”
“And what if I could produce one? I can count on your aid, I presume? That rabble of a town guard would quail at the thought of taking up arms against their beloved spiritual leader. You would be a great asset, at last, if matters came to blows.”
Silence filled the furnace chamber, a long, terrible silence darker than the night all around them. Triston awaited the Seer’s response, feeling that the life or death of his people depended on her words. He became aware that he too, like Alden, was no longer breathing, but this seemed not to matter at all.
“Know this, my lord.” The words reverberated off the iron walls. “I will never take up arms against my people. I see you now for what you are, a liar and a traitor. You will be banished from Wyrmskull and from Corellia. I go now to speak with the Chief.” Soft footsteps and the slamming of a door sounded dimly from above, then all was still once more.
Triston’s breath returned and his heart relaxed a little. Chief Gorbald would have this foreign lord out of their village in no time, and life could return to normal. Unless—unless there really was an army somewhere waiting to do his bidding? The only force strong enough to attack a walled village was the garrison at Fort Ironwood, two days march east. But the Meridians were supposed to be there to keep the peace. Would they really turn against part of their own empire?
Beside him came the sound of ringing steel. Alden had drawn his sword. “Banished? Banished! I’ll have the dungheap’s head off. Come on, Triston. The Chief will need every man fit to bear arms on hand. Let’s go!” Without pausing for a response, Alden kicked open the wooden door and disappeared into the darkness. Triston started to follow, then stopped, wondering. What would Sarconius do now? What orders would he give to his servants?
Curiosity getting the better of him, he felt his way back to the furnace door and stuck his head in.
“Master, I have much to report. I was a fool to doubt you. That Corellian witch has betrayed us as you foresaw. There seems little hope but to follow the other, darker plan.” The lord was speaking rapidly, his tone breathless, almost pleading, so changed from the deep, powerful voice of moments earlier. “Not all the news is grim, you may be assured. There is still the idea you thought would be—”
Sarconius suddenly stopped talking, as if interrupted, but though Triston strained his ears, nearly tumbling through the furnace’s iron mouth in his eagerness, he heard no other speaker.
“Yes, yes. I see that now. I know there is no excuse for wasting your time, Master. I know. But give me just three or four days more I beg, and you will see your faith in me was not ill-judged. I am your most devoted—”
His groveling words abruptly ceased once more. As Triston listened, more disturbed than ever, he believed he heard something like whimpering emanating from the darkness above.
“I understand, Master. That will not be necessary. I would rather die than fail you again. Yes, I know I will. Thank you, Master. You won’t regret it. I will bring you the glad tidings in a matter of days. Yes, until then. Thank you.”
Another pause, followed by the loud clang of a bell and hurried footsteps from many directions. And then, in command of himself once more, Sarconius ordered in his masterful voice, “Pack my belongings in haste. All of you. There is no time to lose. We’re leaving.”
SIX
REVENGE IS BITTER
The road brings out the worst in me.
—Emperor Radicus II, upon the execution of the seventh servant in one day, 1142
“It’ll be Alden and Triston escorting Her Grace to Luskoll. What with those Guardians she’s got, that ought to be enough. Anyways, that’s all we can spare.”
Chief Gorbald puffed out his chest and stared around at the assembled Fighters, daring them to challenge his decision. Captain Brand stood beside him in grim silence, though Triston was sure he’d caught the faintest hint of a smile on the man’s hard features.
Gorwain had a different take on the situation.
“Why him?” he growled, stepping forward and shaking a meaty finger at Triston. “A trip to Luskoll with Her Grace! Dad, he’s not even a Fighter—”
“Not a Fighter?” repeated Alden, inserting himself between Triston and Gorwain and resting a hand on the pommel of his sword. “Had you bawling like a baby badger when he nicked your wrist—”
“ENOUGH!” roared the Chief. “Son, stand down. And you,” he said, turning to Alden with eyes like coals, “shut your fool trap or you’re reassigned. Unlike the boy here, Her Grace never asked for you by name. Just watch it or I’ll know how to deal with you. A lonely trip through the bog as message-boy to the king would do your oversized ego a world of good.”
“Got that, message-boy?” chortled Swimple the Swineherd’s son, a frog-faced rustic who won a place on the Fighters five years earlier against unusually weak competition.
“But seriously,” added Gorbald. “We must get a letter through to His Majesty. Swimpy, it’s on you this time. Come with me. The rest of you, you have your orders. Get to it!”
Earlier that evening, Captain Brand, backed by half a dozen Fighters, had burst into Sarconius’ quarters on Gorbald’s orders, only to find the room abandoned. The gate guard reported the Meridian lord and a small entourage had swept by on horseback just fifteen minutes earlier, but not suspecting any foul play, no one thought to follow or watch them. A team of trackers led by Gorwain followed their trail to the creek at the bottom of the hill, only to find no print of hoof or boot reappeared anywhere on its further bank.
Sarconius had vanished without a trace.
As for the Seer, she had reported Sarconius’ threat to the Chief at once, but no word reached Triston’s ears that she mentioned what he was after, this Relic of Power. Those present at the Fighter’s Hold reported that, after taking brief council with Gorbald, she had consented to serve as emissary to Fort Ironwood on her return journey to Luskoll, just to be sure the garrison was not preparing an attack on Wyrmskull.
To Triston, the lord’s treachery seemed like a kiss from Cadentia, Lady of Fortune.
“Gone? Gone! Impossible!” Bildad had repeated over and over in a daze when Triston first informed him of Sarconius’ flight.
Leaving Alden and the Seer to warn the Chief and raise the Fighters, Triston had stationed himself by the inn’s main door, determined to spot Sarconius’ hidden master. A minute later the Meridian party had swept past him without a glance, but Triston, staring openly, saw no sign that any sinister figure had joined their group.
“But the bill! They never settled—over a hundred Lions!” Winchie had gone white at the news. “YOU!” she’d managed at last, rounding on Triston, her suddenly bloodshot eyes blazing. “YOU STOOD BY AND DID NOTHING!”
“You wanted me to stop the lord, his seven men-at-arms, plus at least as many servants, Winchie?” he asked in a voice of mock politeness.
For a moment the trembling innkeeper’s wife seemed on the verge of attacking him, fingering the kitchen knife in her apron pocket. Instead she contented herself with comforting her weeping husband and shooting off dagger eyes in Triston’s direction. But when Brand showed up with a team of Fighters to search the Meridian’s rooms not long after, Winchie accosted him.
“Captain! Captain Brand! He’s gone. All our gold! And worse”—here she gripped his arm with two hands—“you have a lawbreaker in your midst. Trips into the forest. Haiseroot I’m sure, or worse. It’s that half-breed bastard—”
“Stop your gibberish woman. We heard about Sarconius. What do you think we’re here for? Upstairs men and turn out every cranny,” he barked. Then, turning his back on a stunned Winchie, “Triston, the Chief’s asking for you. He’s with Her Grace in the Fighter’s Hold.”
His sharp eyes took in Triston’s dilapidated clothing. “You’d better stop by the barracks first and pick up a fresh leather tunic and some woolen trousers. Should be some new boots too. Oh, and take the best sword you can find from the armory.” He gave the side of Triston’s head what was meant to be an affectionate thump. “Choose one that isn’t notched, eh?” Then he was gone, leaving Winchie open-mouthed and red-faced.
“Gone? Gone! Impossible!” said Bildad for the tenth time.
Meanwhile, word of the extraordinary events had spread faster than a shameful secret, creating an uproar in the village. Not that most people took Sarconius’ threat to return with an army seriously, but everyone learned he’d left their piles of possessions in the inn. Recovering some of his wits, Bildad made an ill-judged attempt to claim they would now pass under his ownership, but this was swept aside by a surge of trespassers eager to reclaim their erstwhile property, and maybe more besides.
By the time Gorbald and Brand had the situation in hand, and Bildad was properly bandaged from the new injuries he’d sustained, darkness had descended. The search would have to wait for the dawn.
“Let me get this straight,” whispered Alden, one corner of his mouth forming a half-smile. “We’re both free of the innkeepers and we’re both set for a pleasure ride to Luskoll, and it’s all thanks to that hightailing horse’s ass.”
Triston lay back and grinned at the stone ceiling above him. He’d been granted a bunk in the barracks—“For the time being,” Gorbald had grunted, eyeing him curiously. “Don’t know what Her Grace wants with you, but we can’t take on an extra Fighter permanently.”
“I mean to thank him, this Sarconius chap,” Alden went on. “Before I run him through, that is.” Lying on the bed next to Triston’s, he paused in the act of whetting his dagger. “I just realized. You’ve never been.”
“Where, Luskoll?”
“Anywhere.”
Triston shrugged. “Never lost sight of the hill. Never had a reason. There was mom to think of, and then . . . I lost everything. Where was I supposed to go?”
Alden nodded, suddenly grave. “We’ll have some fun. Should have a little silver after a few deals. I’ll show you the town.”
Triston didn’t ask what a few deals meant. There was no dissuading Alden from whatever he had in mind anyway. Yawning sleepily, he changed the subject. “A bit strange though, isn’t it? Her Grace and all that. The whole thing feels a bit off.”
Alden considered him for a moment. “Maybe she has a thing for freckly, ale-pouring beanpoles.”
“For reasons that escape me, you’ve been chosen to accompany Her Grace back to the Fane.” Bedecked in full armor complimented by a gleaming white cape, a golden harp emblazoned on his right breast, the Guardian made an impressive sight. Judging by the scorn in his eyes as he looked them up and down, the feeling wasn’t mutual.
Triston had been eyeing the chestnut palfrey he’d borrowed from the Fighters, hoping very much they wouldn’t be doing much galloping today. His riding experience was limited to draft horses. Beside him, Alden held the reins of a beautiful black charger he’d won the previous autumn at the Harvest Tourney in Leviathan. They were just leading their mounts on a shortcut behind the inn on the way to the gate when the surly champion hailed them from the nearby stables.
“Let me warn you now,” he went on, addressing himself entirely to Alden, “you’d better stay out of our way and you’d damn well better stay away from Her Grace. As far as I’m concerned, we’re all the guard she needs, see?” He jabbed a finger hard into Alden’s chest. “So I hope for your sake you and your little friend here watch yourselves.”
The Guardian turned to leave, but Alden grabbed him by the cape and yanked him back around. Seizing the cape’s neck string, he twisted it tight around the man’s neck.
“Now you’d better listen to me,” he growled. But at that moment he was distracted by the abrupt appearance through a side door of three more Guardians, followed by the Seer herself. Alden froze, eyes widening. They didn’t look in their direction however, but proceeded around the building, another Guardian ordering a footman to bring up Her Grace’s carriage.
The distraction cost Alden dearly. The incensed Guardian landed a ferocious punch in his stomach, causing him to double over in pain. “This cape is made from the finest Arcusian silk money can buy. Lay a hand on it again, boy, and you’ll lose it. And what are
you looking at?” he roared at Triston.
“Come on, Ald,” said Triston, getting up and staring angrily after the man as he stumped after the others. “They’re leaving. That means we’re late.”
After a minute, Alden had recovered enough to stand up straight. “By the nine hells he’ll pay for that!” he vowed through clenched teeth.
“Come on.”
When all was ready, they led their steeds down to the gate where a large, glum-looking crowd was already awaiting the Seer’s arrival. They mounted, Triston holding his reins uneasily and wishing he had Alden’s skill as a rider. Before long, a gilded-carriage drawn by four white horses clattered into view, flanked by the four Guardians on magnificent bay destriers.
Chief Gorbald, standing before all ten of the village’s elders, waited before the open gate, his ram’s horn at the ready. When the glittering wheels slowed to a stop before him, he bowed and assisted the Seer from within.
Together they turned to face the onlookers. The Seer, stunning as usual in a flowing travel dress of silver embroidered with scarlet traceries, performed a parting benediction, blessing all present in heart and mind.
“Wish I could ride in the carriage with them,” whispered Alden, looking on appreciatively at the Seer and her young handmaiden, the only other female in their company.
Gorbald began what was sure to be a wordy farewell speech, and Triston let his mind wander. He looked around for Kara, but neither she nor Traven was present. He wondered whether her absence meant she and Alden had quarreled again.
“Probably just Traven making her beat the raw hides or something,” he muttered.
“What’s that?” Alden asked, frowning.
“A word, you two.” They looked down to see Brand approaching. Holding the reins of Triston’s horse, he addressed them in a low voice so as not to disturb Gorbald’s lengthening recital. “The Crow Road to Luskoll is not for the fainthearted, as you know. There’s highwaymen, thieves and bands of looters—”
