War of the Misread Augury: Book One of the Black Griffin Rising Trilogy

by D. S. Halyard

  “Who is with you?” Lanae demanded.

  “Do you remember Jhumar Gaz?” She nodded numbly. “Akarn Jav, Baklam and Tathaga also I have with me. We were on shore when the Thimenians attacked the ship. We escaped from that place and found our way here.”

  “And he has been scouting for me.” Otten explained. “His men have proved themselves in my service, eagle rider. They are under my protection.”

  Lanae stood and stared for a moment longer, then her shoulders seemed to relax. She looked at Jahaksi a long moment before she spoke again. “You aren’t really like them, are you? The whole time we were together you treated me with respect. I thought you were playing me along, but that was the true you, wasn’t it?” Her voice carried echoes of uncertainty.

  “Please do not mistake me, Lanae.” The Brizaki replied seriously. “I hoped very much that you would get away from us. I offered it to you, if you recall. But if the mission had demanded your death, I would have done my duty. But that was then, and I was a Brizaki soldier then. Now I am deserted from that people, and I and my company are swords-for-hire. We have sworn into King Otten’s service.”

  Lanae looked at him for a long time before she spoke. “And I am under his protection, as is the rightful queen of Mortentia. It seems that we have to work together.”

  King Otten smiled. He liked Jahaksi. He liked Lanae, also. He was happy that he didn’t have to hang either of them. Truth be told, he wasn’t fond of hanging. As a Thimenian, he preferred justice to be done blade to blade under the open sky within sight of Sheo the Sky Father, but these Mortentians insisted on strangling criminals with ropes. It was a barbaric practice, and much less lucrative than simply demanding a proper wergild.

  But now the baby was starting to stink of course. It was rare that Otten had a chance to hold a child, for he had none of his own that he knew of, but his enthusiasm for parenting did not extend to changing soiled clothing. He handed Kaelen to Lanae as the queen came into the room, all in a panic of course.

  Emric D’Cadmouth, known to all within his Barony as Emric the Just, rode at the head of a well-equipped cavalry detachment in bright Arker orange and white. A smith’s hammer was the symbol of Arker, and it was displayed on the men’s livery and on their banners. Emric’s soldiers did not bear the D’Cadmouth eagle openly, and he had never insisted on it, for they were proud Arkermen all. With rebellion in the land against his foolish distant cousin Maldiver, he was glad of the lack.

  Beside him rode Urtin and Vanamea, his oldest son and his oldest daughter, both of whom had insisted on joining him in his visit to the queen in exile. Behind him rode twenty lancers in plate and mail and another twenty horse-archers following. The inevitable high wheeled coach followed all, bringing his manservant and a few of his trusted household staff. It was a small cavalcade, but he did not intend to stay in the forgotten kingdom for longer than a single night if it could be helped. From what he had heard, this King Otten was very plain spoken and direct, more of a soldier than a politician, so he hoped that the embassy would be over with quickly.

  Baron Emric was curious, more than anything. Both the king of the forgotten kingdom and he knew that the result of this meeting was a foregone conclusion, but he had never been beyond the borders of this strange land with its secretive and reclusive people. The people of the hidden kingdom did not trade with the men of Arker, at least not openly, nor did they trade with anyone else, so far as Emric knew. A merchant train passing along the king’s road that divided the hidden kingdom could travel the entire thirty league length of that road and not see a single soul. Emric only knew of the hidden kingdom’s existence from his father’s instruction, and in his mind he had always pictured its inhabitants as animal-hide wearing savages with painted faces like Auligs, perhaps. The emissary that had come to Arker to announce that Queen Eleinel was in exile there had been dressed all in leather, true enough, but it had been finely tanned stuff, cut and tailored in the same fashion as the men of western Zoric wore. He had spoken Mortentian with a tight accent, but an accent that Emric found no more jarring to his ear than a Flanesi drawl. The man’s invitation had been to “the castle of King Otten Ottenson” to verify that the queen and infant king were alive and to renew bonds of fealty.

  This of course raised many questions in Arker’s court, but Maldiver had cast that die, and Baron Emric had little choice in the matter. Not a week before the arrival of the queen’s messenger they had received a letter from Maldiver D’Cadmouth, the self-proclaimed King of Mortentia, and the man had not even bothered to send it by way of a king’s eye, which was disrespectful in and of itself, but it had been the contents of the letter that made further alliance with Maldiver impossible. Not only had Maldiver declared in the letter that Eleinel was kidnapped and the prince killed, statements that Emric hoped to prove false today; but he had also declared Aelfric D’root a rebel, along with all of the men in his army. The fool man had dared to mention the Hammers of Arker by name.

  Apparently he was as ignorant of Arker’s recent history as he was of that of its ruling family. Emric’s grandfather had been half Arouth, and his mother one-fourth O’root, and many of Arker’s prominent families had Root Blood, as they called it. Not only that, but Commander Aldrid Faithborn and the Hammers of Arker had stopped raiders out of Dunwater and Zoric half a hundred times, and were more highly regarded among the people than the Baron’s own armsmen. For two weeks after receiving the letter his nobles had been calling for Arker to rise in open rebellion and declare themselves a free kingdom. Emric had been calling in all of his soldiery for war when the queen’s emissary came, informing him that the sovereignty of Mortentia was intact in the person of the infant king.

  By verifying the existence of the prince and the freedom of the queen, Emric could prove Maldiver faithless and a false king, and even Duke Quelton D’Cadmouth of Zoric would have to acknowledge it. Dunwater would go wherever strength lay, no matter who they put in Castle Blue, but it was Quelton who concerned Emric the most. Zoric’s duke had been very loyal to his cousin Falante, but all of his holdings were coastal, and not well protected from attack by sea. The king in Mortentia City had the navy, and Zoric would hesitate to act against whoever sat on the throne. Zoric and Arker shared a long border, and the Merry Town of Arker lay little more than a day’s march from it. Dunwater, Pulflover and Brenwater didn’t concern Emric much, for no matter whom they supported, they had a long march over hard and well-defended territory to reach him. Two years ago he’d taken Dunwater’s measure, and the Hammers of Arker had put a crimp in Duke Prosk’s territorial ambitions. Emric doubted that his son, whichever one was chosen to succeed him, would want to dare that again.

  Emric sighed and looked at his son. Urtin was tall, and hardly a boy. He had the high forehead of a scholar, and one day would probably go bald like his grandfather had, but he was a well-muscled lad, with an easy smile and the weather-worn face of an outdoorsman. Emric supposed the boy was handsome, although it was hard to judge such things from a father’s point of view. If he lived, Urtin would inherit the headache that was the management of a barony. It could be a dicey business, for he was surrounded by essential trading partners who could turn into predatory enemies at the first sign of weakness. Arker’s strength was in commerce, and that meant roads had to be patrolled and small keeps maintained and every minor holder kept happy and prosperous.

  By Lio, he missed Faithborn at times like these. Having the mercenary commander away was like not having his left arm. His own captains were competent men within their bailiwicks, but Faithborn had a gift for seeing the larger picture and the politics that his tacticians lacked.

  The day was warming, and the snow beneath the oaks had been thin to start with. The white-gravel roads and paths that formed the maze around the forgotten kingdom’s inner regions were mostly clear of snow now, and the shoes of the horses crunched along with a kind of muddy monotony. Ahead of them a horseman waited on a common looking brown gelding, wearing common leather cloth
ing and carrying a commoner’s horse-bow. This was Captain Bandim, the same man who had delivered the message to Arker. He raised an arm and indicated they should stop.

  “I’ll guide you in from here.” The man said, without any salutation. The Baron found his speech to be remarkably direct, if a bit discourteous.

  “I beg your pardon.” Urtin said abruptly. “You do know that you are addressing the Baron of Arker, don’t you?”

  Bandim rubbed a gloved hand along his jaw. “Aye, well, that’s who I been waiting half the morning in the cold for and I know his face, so I reckon I know it well enough. I seen your party coming along, and you sure taken your time. We’ll want to step lively if you want to be at the castle afore supper.”

  Baron Emric raised a hand to his son to forestall his anger. “Different lands, different customs.” He explained patiently. “Remember you aren’t in Mortentia proper now.”

  “Manners know no borders.” Urtin replied testily, but he said nothing further. Captain Bandim put his words into practice, and the gelding began to trot noisily away from them. Emric leaned forward and put pressure on the horse to urge it on. In short order they were all trotting, and the wheels of the carriage made a cheerful rattling as they bounced off of the well-worn gravel that paved the white roads.

  In half an hour and at least ten different turnings later Emric knew that he would never be able to find his way out of these woods without a guide. Each passage seemed identical, and the oak trees that lined them, for all that they had the usual individuality of trees, seemed to blend into a weary gray sameness in every direction. Some roads went up and some went down, but the hills seemed all to be the same height and to stretch on forever. The road had no markers that he could see, and there was nothing in the way of breadth or apparent wear on the road to mark one path from another. He assumed Bandim knew the way, but he had no idea how the man remembered all of the unmarked and indistinguishable turnings. In an hour the horses were beginning to blow and stagger, and the Baron was about to insist that they all take a rest when the road suddenly changed.

  They crested a hill, and in a valley before them lay a village, almost a town, with a single main road and a few side streets passing among the white plaster walled houses with thatched roofs. He saw an obvious temple that looked like a long and narrow house, with a dry fountain and a statue of one of the Secret Gods standing above it. The black line of a river cut through the town, and there was a covered wooden bridge spanning it. But neither the town nor the bridge nor the temple caught his attention, for the town was completely dominated by a massive castle that rose from and was moated by the river. The walls were very tall and smooth, and looked to have been carved from the limestone and granite of the mountains themselves, and they were topped by towers of granite that overlooked and protected them. He had been expecting a hill fort, he supposed, the kind of thing a clan chieftain might slap together over the course of a year out of earth and unmortared stone, topped with wooden barbicans, not this monstrosity.

  His father had told him that his distant ancestors had decided that the forgotten kingdom wasn’t worth the trouble of conquering, and Emric now knew why. Aside from the endless oak forest and the remote location, this was a keep that could resist attack for a long, long time. He imagined some Tolrissan nobleman taking one look at the thing and saying, “Forget it.” And so the forgotten kingdom came to be.

  But now he was invited to that same castle as a guest, an invitation that had not been extended by the rulers here for hundreds of years. When they rode down into the main street before the castle a collection of youths came running to tend their horses and see to their carriage, marveling at the high wheels and the spokes. The few wagons Emric could see were small affairs, suitable to be drawn by a single pony, not a team, and they had solid wheels.

  The people here were of varied complexions, some fair and some dark, some reminiscent of dark Zoric hill folk and some looking hundred kingdoms pale. He saw clean faces and clean hands, with no face paint and no wild-eyed savages among them. But for the leather clothing, they could have been drawn from any street in Arker. He was looking them over when a huge man, at least a head taller than Urtin and broad as well, with a braided blond beard going gray and what looked like an outlandish Thimenian costume came striding up to the horses, and he looked Emric in the face.

  “Good day!” The man said, and his voice was almost a roar, although Emric was fairly certain it was his ordinary speaking voice. “I am Otten Ottenson, and I killed three ogres once. I am king here, and I give you welcome. You’d be the baron of Arker, I’m sure. There’s a fat pig roasting, and the bitch is fair cooked by now. Come and eat with us. We have gravy made from fat and oats, but it is delicious, I promise you.”

  From between two crenellations on the castle wall above, Lanae watched the Baron of Arker and his retinue follow King Otten across the two guarded drawbridges and into the castle proper with amusement. Their welcome was plainly nothing like they had expected, and she understood, for the reception of nobility between one dominion and another in Mortentia proper was a matter of protocol, and there would have been announcements and titles exchanged and half a dozen small courtesies extended from one party to the other upon introduction, but King Otten would have none of it. His court was as informal as a dockside tavern. The Baron and the people he had brought with him seemed equally torn between staring goggle-eyed at the massive castle and staring at the king himself, who was completely oblivious to their disapproval.

  He led them into the castle by walking in front of them, all of the time half-turning to get their names and tell them about the large feast that had been prepared for them. He talked with his hands, gesturing here and there, smiling and laughing and telling small jokes, until they were forced to drop their pretence of indifference and laugh along with him. He was charming, in a brutish and slightly ridiculous sort of way.

  When they had passed beneath the wall from which she had been watching, Lanae turned and descended a flight of narrow stone stairs to the courtyard, determined to get into the central keep before they arrived. She noticed that like the eyrie, all of the stairs descended in leftward spirals, giving a swordsman above the advantage. She was wearing a beautiful linen dress of pale blue that had been sewn at the direction of the queen, and she did not want to fail to make an impression.

  She had just enough time to brush back a strand of hair and tuck it into her floral headpiece before king Otten and the baron walked into the room. “So this is your queen.” Otten said brusquely, pointing to Eleinel, who was wearing an elaborate gown of white with royal crimson accents at the waist and around the voluminous sleeves. Her dark hair was up and braided, showing her long and graceful neck to best advantage. Her necklace and earrings were the same ones she had worn on the day she escaped from the palace, and she looked both regal and poised.

  “Greetings baron Emric.” She said, briefly nodding in response to his deep bow. “It is pleasing to see you here. How fares Arker?”

  “Greetings your majesty.” The baron began, preparing to launch into the inevitable flowery back and forth that passed for communication between the gentry, but king Otten rudely interrupted.

  “Well, you see she’s alive.” The Thimenian said, nodding at her. “And we brought out the prince, too. He’s in the crib, healthy and fat.” He pointed to the bassinet, still lying under the jaws of the enormous boar’s head.

  The baron took one look in the direction king Otten was pointing, and cursed. “Lio’s flame! That’s the biggest boar’s head I’ve ever seen! That monster must have been the size of a barn.”

  “Come and eat, baron. I will tell you his story.” Otten promised. When the baron looked at Eleinel for instruction, she merely smiled and nodded.

  “It’s all right baron Emric. We can skip the courtesies. This is Otten’s hall, and I know you must be hungry from your travels. The feast is prepared.”

  The king’s hall was little more than a glorified tavern, baro
n Emric thought as he sat at the place of honor, a roughhewn wooden chair at the right of king Otten. To the king’s left the queen was seated, and Emric was proud to see that his son remembered enough of his manners to pull out the chair for her. A pretty maiden sat beside her, and it took Emric a moment to recognize that it was Lanae Brookhouse, the king’s eye that everyone was saying had kidnapped queen Eleinel. This was obviously not the case, nor had Emric ever put much stock in that story.

  “So you see that big bastard?” King Otten pointed above his shoulder at the boar’s head, which was truly the largest specimen of its kind that Emric had ever seen. When Emric nodded, the king continued, talking with his mouth full and pausing only to stuff more meat in his mouth.

  “It was like this. I came here on straga.” When Emric’s face showed no recognition of the term, the king explained. “It’s like a, how do you say it … a quest. A command from a priest of Sheo Sky Father, who we say is a god, but you Thimenians say is an angel. This straga took me far to the north, but in spring time I was coming back, and going to Zoric, because there are men there who will give me passage back to Thimenia without questions, you understand?”

  Baron Emric nodded. He was familiar with the smugglers and their ways.

  “It was a long and lonely road, because big Thimenians with axe and knife are not so popular in many places, which is a shame, but not my fault. I am no reaver. It was a warm spring and I was happy to be walking beneath the naked sky under the eye of the Sky Father. I came to this forest, with all of these great big oak trees and many wide paths, but there were no patrols and all of the land was quiet, like scared of something. Twice I saw dead men on the road, all chewed up and murdered by animals. Night was coming on when I came to this town, but it was not until I showed them my gold coin that they would open up the tavern door for me.