War of the Misread Augury
Book One of the Black Griffin Rising Trilogy
D.S. Halyard
Contents
Title Page
Prologue
Chapter 1: Aelfric, Leaving Root’s Bridge
Chapter 2: Lanae, Eagle's Rider
Chapter 3: Aelfric, A peasant's journey
Ch 4: Tuchek, The End of a Job
Ch 5: Interlude: The Tree of Rhan
Ch 6: Lanae, Misfortune in the East Forest
Chapter 7: In an Alley of Alidis
Ch 8: Levin in Mortentia City
Chapter 9: Entreddi Caravan, Encamped off of the Dunwater River Road
Chapter 10: Aelfric and Haim on the West Dunwater River Road
Chapter 11: The Entreddi Encampment
Chapter 12: The Village of Alidis
Chapter 13: Jagle Bay and Points north
Chapter 14: Northcraven Duchy, West of the Redwater River
Chapter 15: Lanae in the East Forest, Zoric Duchy
Chapter 16: The Muharl Ogre Territory, West of the Bone River
Chapter 17: The Entreddi Encampment
Chapter 18: The Finding
Chapter 19: An Inn on the West King's Town Road, Kancro town, Early Tallis, 405
Chapter 20: West of the Redwater River, Cthochi Aulig Territory
Chapter 21: The East Forest, between the towns of North Down and Mangavolle
Chapter 22: Entreddi Encampment, West of the Dunwater River
Chapter 23: Southern Portions of Jagle Bay
Chapter 24: Northern Wilderness, West and East of the Falls Branch of the Bone River
Chapter 25: West of the Dunwater River, Breaking Camp
Chapter 26: Eastern Jagle Bay, Torth Island
Chapter 27: In the East Forest
Chapter 28: Interlude: Rammas, The City of Magic
Chapter 29 : On Torth Island
Chapter 30: Eastern Muharl Ogre Territory
Chapter 31: Aelfric with the Red Tigers
Ch. 32: Mortentia City: King’s Castle
Chapter 33: On Board the Sally’s High Touch
Chapter 34: Tuchek, Walcox Camp
Chapter 35: Lanae in the East Forest, South of Nevermind
Chapter 36: Gutcrusher, Muharl Ogre Country, the Wraithpit
Chapter 37: Levin, Thimenian Longboat, Off the Eastern Banks of Northcraven Duchy
Chapter 38: Northcraven Sound, points east
Chapter 39: North of the Wraith Pit, Muharl Ogre Country
Chapter 40: Lanae: The Freehold of Nevermind, Nevermind City
Chapter 41: Jecha on the Chiam Road
Chapter 42: Aelfric, Lord of the Privies
Chapter 43: East Forest, Five Leagues South of Nevermind
Chapter 44: Lanae, West of Nevermind and Points North.
Chapter 45: The Celebration and Tales
Chapter 46: Haim: The Whitewood Forest, Just South of Walcox
Chapter 47: Rammas, City of Magic, Forecourt of the Temple of Hidor Hidorus
Chapter 48: Muharl Ogre Country
Chapter 49: Tuchek, on the Northcraven Plain
Chapter 50: Lanae, Nevermind and points west, Walcox
Chapter 51: Levin in Jutland, Hrulthan’s Steading
Chapter 52: Village of Olden, Eleven Leagues North of Walcox, Northcraven Duchy
Chapter 53: Lanae in Mortentia City
Chapter 54: The Town of Remic, Elderest Duchy; Forgotten Kingdom, Central Arker
Chapter 55: One-eye, Muharl Ogre Country
Chapter 56: Levin, Hrulthan’s Steading, Northern Sea
Chapter 57: The Sally’s High Touch, North Sea
Chapter 58: Jecha in the Whitewood, Walcox, points north
Chapter 59: Lanae, Mortentia City, various other points
Chapter 60: Limme: Hrulthan’s Steading, the North Sea
Chapter 61: Aelfric, Walcox Camp and Points West and North
Chapter 62: Muharl Ogre Territory, Late Summer on the Western Plain
Chapter 63: Hill Fort, Western Zoric
Chapter 64: Mortentia City, Mid Kastanus
Chapter 65: Walcox and Points North, Maslit, Late Dire
Chapter 66: The Wrath, North Sea, Emerald Peninsula
Chapter 67: Aelfric in Redwater Town and Cthochi Lands, Early Kastanus
Chapter 68: The Sally’s High Touch, Northcraven Deep, Leath 1
Chapter 69: Gutcrusher, the Wraith Pit, City of the Damned
Chapter 70: Mortentia City, Beginning of Leath
Chapter 71: Mid-Leath in the Kingdom of the Green Hills
Chapter 72: Lanae in Diminios, Whitewood Forest and Walcox, latter Kastanus
Chapter 73: West Torth, Torth Island, Mid-Leath
Chapter 74: Cthochi Aulig Territory, West of Redwater Town, Early Leath
Chapter 75: On the Emerald Peninsula, Late Dire, Early to mid-Kastanus
Chapter 76: Root’s Bridge Freehold, mid-Leath
Chapter 77: Silver Run, Diminios Dominion, Mid-Leath
Chapter 78: Aelfric near Redwater Town, Mid-Leath
Chapter 79: Sally’s High Touch, Northcraven Harbor, mid-Leath
Chapter 80: East Torth, mid-Leath
Chapter 81: Celdemer in Maslit, Walcox, latter Leath
Chapter 82: Northern Muharl Ogre Country, latter Leath
Chapter 83: Kingdom of the Green Hills, Mid to Late Leath
Chapter 84: Aelfric, Redwater Town and Ugly Woman Hill, mid to late Leath
Chapter 85: Levin on the Emerald Peninsula and Points South, latter Leath
Chapter 86: The Sally’s High Touch, Northcraven Harbor and Points North and East, Latter Leath
Chapter 87: Jecha in Mortentia City, Latter Leath
Chapter 88: The Suzerainty, Latter Leath, Early Arianus
Chapter 89: Cthochi Camp on the Ruins of Western Northcraven, Latter Leath
Chapter 90: Tuchek, West of the Redwater River
Chapter 91: Mortentia City and Points North
Chapter 92: West of the Bone River, Muharl Ogre Territory
Chapter 93: Kingdom of the Green Hills
Chapter 94: Tuchek on the Redwater River, south of Northcraven
Chapter 95: Crew of the Sally’s High Touch, Nevermind Town, Early to Mid-Arianis
Chapter 96: Aelfric in Redwater Town and Points North
Chapter 97: Elderest Duchy
Chapter 98: Southern Mortentia, on the Dunwater River Road
Chapter 99: The City-State of Nevermind and Points South and West
Chapter 100: Northcraven City and Points West
Chapter 101: Gutcrusher, Central Cthochi Aulig Territories
Chapter 102: Cthochi Territories, Early Jember
Chapter 103: Redwater Town, Expanded Fort, Early Jember
Epilogue
Prologue
Mortentia City, In the Regency
(30th Day of Jember, dead of winter, Second Year in the Reign of Falante; in the Year IV 404)
Falante D’Cadmouth had the makings of a fine king, Hambar D’root, Lord of Root’s Bridge thought, as he walked through the fine powder of snow toward the stable. A young king, but a good one. He hefted the leather scrollcase, embossed with the royal seal, and smiled. Light and easy to hand, the scrollcase was a treasure, a writ that would mark a new beginning for his family and an end to several years’ worry. He knew the worry had left its mark on him, that his hair was a bit thinner than it had been, and his face more careworn. But his walk was as sure as it had ever been, and lighter tonight.
He had traveled a
hundred leagues to beg this writ of Falante, and had learned that begging was not necessary. King Byroth had apparently given his son some wisdom. Falante welcomed him as a friend, despite not knowing him personally, and they had supped and shared stories of his father, the war, and of days long gone. He granted the writ without further petition, almost as an aside, as something trivial. Even in his best hopes Hambar had not imagined that the new king would take six hours in visiting with him, the least of his vassals.
The journey to the King’s Town had cost him more silver than he had meant it to, and he was trying to be careful of his silver these days. He had stabled his horse in the market district, for the stables in the Suzerainty were expensive. Even in winter the markets in the King’s Town were busy, but the merchants closed their stalls at sunset. He hoped he could find the hostler, and that he could rouse him without too much difficulty.
The streets in the district were deserted, and the kind of quiet that comes with a light snowfall lay over everything. He saw no tracks in the snow other the ones he was making, but as he approached the narrow street where the stables waited, a trio of figures detached themselves from two alleys behind him. The lack of tracks told him that they had been waiting. They were following him, and he was not fool enough to think it coincidence.
Footpads were common enough in the King’s Town, although he had never heard of them operating this close to the Suzerainty, the royal district. The lamps were well-placed and the streets brightly lit. He quickened his steps and was relieved to hear their footsteps fade into silence behind him. Perhaps they looked for an easier mark, for although he was unarmed, he knew that he was still fit enough and his walk confident enough to give pause.
His relief was short-lived, however, for not more than twenty paces ahead he saw another three men, standing beside a wagon and looking in every direction but his. The stables lay not far off, perhaps another hundred paces or so, but they might as well have been in Zoric for all the chance he had at reaching them unmolested.
He looked around and saw the entrance to an alleyway, and he turned into it swiftly, for he was a decisive man, and not one to hesitate. He began to run.
After perhaps another forty or fifty paces the alley dead-ended, and he found himself surrounded by the back doors of several businesses. His eyes scanned the little cul-de-sac for anything he might use as a weapon. A door opened in the back of a building, directly beneath the area’s single lamp, and a man in Falante’s household livery stepped out. He was a small man and thin, with a youthful face and empty hands.
“Lord D’root.” He said beckoning, and Hambar was surprised to hear himself named. “This way, milord.” He hesitated, but the king’s livery decided him. Here in the Regency it was a serious crime to wear the king’s colors falsely, and he had told Falante the name of the stable. Apparently the king had sent a man to ensure that he could retrieve his horse after hours. Thoughtful, that.
“There are footpads about, milord.” Said the servant. “The king would not wish you to run afoul of them.”
“I saw them.” Hambar replied, and he turned to follow. Out of deference, the servant stepped aside to let him go first.
He felt a sharp blow to his lower back, and he looked down to see the king’s servant readying a long and thin dagger for another strike. There was blood on his hands, no longer empty. Already he could feel the shock from the blow, and he had seen enough of battles and of wounds to know that his kidney had been punctured. Nevertheless, the training of a lifetime took over, and he snatched the servant’s wrist with his strong right hand. The king’s writ fell forgotten on the snow. The servant tried to twist away, and he was strong despite his thin build, but Hambar held him fast, then wrenched the dagger from his hand with his left, pulling it from blood-slickened fingers.
“Don’t!” The king’s servant cried, but he plunged the dagger into him twice, once deep under the ribs and once in the neck. Black and hot, the blood drenched his hand and decorated the gold eagle on the tabard in new and awful patterns.
He was standing in the open doorway with the dead servant at his feet when the first three footpads arrived, running. He scarce could stand with the agony in his back. Still, he was a man who knew this business of killing and of dying perhaps as well as any man ever had, and a bitter wrath rose up in him. He determined to take as many with him as possible.
The three drew longswords from scabbards concealed beneath their cloaks, and flowed into fighting stances. Not footpads then. Assassins. The pain galvanized the man, though it would have crippled many another. Instead it lent a desperate fury to his movements, although every action had to be forced. He was gasping.
Even in his fury and agony, he never lost his head. It was a gift he had, perhaps a family legacy, for his ancestors had been known for their cold rages for over a thousand years. He knew the dagger was an inadequate weapon for a contest of swords, so he determined to exchange it for one. He did this by whipping his right hand out and throwing the knife expertly into the left eye of the nearest swordsman, then hurling himself onto the man bodily. Even as he wrenched the weapon away from the man he felt the blade of another pierce his shoulder, inches from his neck.
A mistake, the cold part of his mind said. A mistake to strike at the neck when the ribs were exposed and the heart available. He had seen many men make mistakes over the years, many times fatal mistakes. For the man had a sword in his hand now, and now he would make them pay.
His fingertips felt slightly numb, but his hands remained steady. He knew the forms for fighting multiple opponents and he slipped into them like slipping into his clothing in the morning. With his life streaming now from shoulder and lower back, he could not be patient. He attacked the remaining two. The shoulder wound was nothing, but his lower back was a riot of pain, and he could feel his strength ebbing. Every step sent a jarring pain through him, making him want to cough and threatening to send him to his knees. Still, his hands did not shake.
The two remaining men were good. They did not speak nor threaten, and they plainly knew each other well enough that they did not fumble or get in each other’s way. But the alley was close and he knew he was dying. That gave him an advantage, for he need not worry about defense, not that he ever had, really. Attack had always been his way, and victory always his aim. He had been famous for his victories, once upon a time.
He lunged into the first man, careless of the other, who now stabbed him again in the back. Was it the other kidney? Perhaps the liver? It hurt terribly, but it did not matter. He slipped the first man’s defense by ignoring it, which cost him a deep cut along his rib cage, but the tip of his own sword caught in the gristle of the first man’s throat, so that was ended.
The second man was slashing at his unprotected back, and he felt two blows, but he was full of wrath and fury and did not care. He spun about and hurled the sword, seeing with satisfaction that it caught the man full in the guts. He would be a long time dying, that man, but die he would. Four dead in as many minutes. It was like old times.
But wrath and fury could only keep a dead man on his feet for so long, and the time expired. He fell swordless to his knees. Now his hands began to shake. He had lost a great deal of blood, and the cold was creeping in on him.
The other three men came upon the scene and found him like that, still on his knees, dying hard and painfully in the cold alley. They wisely kept their distance.
“I told you we would need a wagon.” The man called Denjar Leetham said to the others. “The man was always a marvel.”
Chapter 1: Aelfric, Leaving Root’s Bridge
Year 405, Third Year of the Reign of King Falante D'Cadmouth.
29 Mardis, Falante 3
Aelfric D’root rested his hands on the cold stone of the balcony and looked out over the sward of brown grass, spotted with a few cottages and buildings, to the river. Behind him was a narrow door and his bedroom, and from the balcony he could just make out a single brown piling, near the center of the wide,
darkly brown, mist-shrouded river. He could not see the other shore in the early spring fog. He could not have fit his arms around that piling, not even were he half a pace taller, and he was a tall man. Under his breath, he cursed the river and the piling as well, the last remnant of the once mighty D'root Bridge.
Five years before he was born that piling had been one of many supporting the only bridge spanning the mighty Dunwater River for nearly sixty leagues in either direction. The bridge had also marked the end of the deep river to the south and the beginning of a stretch of sandbars that prevented deep-hulled vessels from traveling upriver. Root’s Bridge, as the town two leagues south of D'root Keep was called, had been a natural place for the large ships to stop, just as it had been a natural place for the tradesmen of D'Rut, Kundrel, Ioli, Morin and Blackwall to bring their goods to market. Shallow-drafted barges from farther north had come to the Root’s Bridge harbors, and in those days the town had grown to rival Pulflover, if not in size, at least in commerce. Root’s Bridge Freehold had been a rich plum, ruled by a royal governor.
King Byroth awarded that plum to General Hambar D’root, for his service in the Northcraven War, making him both the Lord of D'root Keep and the Lord Mayor of Root’s Bridge, and a wealthy man by any measure. He also made the position hereditary.
Three years before Aelfric was born, his father made a decision that meant not only the ruin of his wealth, but the loss of his prestige as well. He married for love. Lena Askelyne, Aelfric's mother, had been beautiful, gracious and kind. She was all that a man could ask of a wife. But she was not Fiorina D'Cadmouth, third cousin to the king.
Admittedly, Fiorina was a shrew. She was a hard, flat-faced woman who made the life of Baron Brego D'Tarman a living hell by all accounts, but she was a D'Cadmouth. It had been a slap in King Byroths’s face when Hambar passed her over, or so it was said. To make up for the affront Hambar had agreed, as a favor to the king and at his own expense, to dam the four large brooks that bled into the Dunwater north of Root’s Bridge, thus deepening the upper channel and permitting the king's vessels to sail north.
War of the Misread Augury: Book One of the Black Griffin Rising Trilogy Page 1
