Yeslnik continued to stare at him for many heartbeats, and gradually Yeslnik’s face softened into a cold chuckle. “Practiced in the art of diplomacy, I see,” he said. “Well done! You have successfully delayed-not avoided, but delayed-the inevitable confrontation. But take heart, for I am certain that your Father Artolivan will choose wisely, when choose he must. Delaval is for Honce, Ethelbert is for Behr, and the beasts of Behr are no friends to the brothers of Abelle. Their gods precede yours and reject yours, and their God-Voice, the father of their religion, has put more than a few of your missionaries to the stake.”
It was true enough, Bannagran knew, but remained quiet. Many of the missionary brothers of Abelle, those nagging and unrelenting proselytizing prigs, had indeed ventured into Behr and never returned, by all reports. Bannagran knew one exception, however, a monk from Pryd who had come back from the deepest reaches of the southern desert, along with an exotic wife, no less, when Bannagran was a young man, serving his friend Prydae and Prydae’s father, Laird Pryd. The brothers of Chapel Pryd had not treated that monk very well, Bannagran recalled.
The standoff between Yeslnik and Reandu, neither of whom was blinking, ended when a man crashed into the room, huffing and puffing, and breathlessly announced, “They come.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Yeslnik, turning to the man. He rubbed his hands together eagerly and flexed his fingers as if he couldn’t wait to wrap them around a sword hilt (which amused Bannagran, since he had seen this one in “battle” before).
“So it will begin as we expected right here in Pryd Holding,” continued Yeslnik. “Ethelbert’s move in the north was crushed by Milwellis of Palmaristown. He knows that Milwellis will now march east and then south along Felidan Bay, then south from there, sweeping up in his wake villages formerly in Ethelbert’s pay. Thus, Ethelbert did not retreat-he cannot retreat. Not this time, or he will be pushed into the sea. So he comes with all that he has left to strike at the heart and center of King Delaval’s gains.”
Yeslnik clenched his fist, his eyes sparkling with diabolical glee. “Never could you have guessed that your humble little hamlet of Pryd would become the center of the world! For all the world is drawn to this place, as if the weight of Pryd Town pulls in the armies, compels them to this place in this time to finally, undeniably decide! Never could you have guessed this, eh, Bannagran?”
Not in my darkest nightmares, the warrior thought but did not say.
Laird Ethelbert slowly sauntered on his mount toward his tent, as if neither he nor the beast could handle a swifter pace. Palfry, his devoted attendant, rushed up to help him dismount. Glancing around to ensure that no one else was watching, the proud old man accepted the helping hand.
He was just into his seventies now, his once bulky frame wilting and thinning about his arms, while thickening about his waist. He was glad for the comfortable robe he wore, a gift from a Jacinthan merchant. The men of Behr were so much more practical in their dress than the men of Honce.
“You must have ridden under a low branch, my laird,” Palfry said. He brushed a leafy twig from what remained of Ethelbert’s hair. Once thick, black, and curly, now it was thin gray fluff. Ethelbert’s eyes, though, were still the steel blue of an ocean under clouds, still hinted at a great depth behind them, and still held the sparkle of a dancing wave.
“Bah, more likely a squirrel threw the branch upon me,” Ethelbert replied somewhat churlishly. “Every creature in this part of Honce is against me, I say!”
Palfry smiled, so in love with this man who had become like a father, though Ethelbert had no living heirs. The laird had made it clear to Palfry that, though he was not in line for Ethelbert’s title, neither would he be cast from the court of whomever ruled the great holding. Ethelbert had seen to that.
“Where are my commanders?” Laird Ethelbert asked.
Palfry turned and nodded his chin toward a distant clearing, where three warriors sat on logs around a tree stump, a parchment spread upon it. Ethelbert started for them, Palfry at his heels.
“My laird,” the three commanders said together, standing as one.
“The soldiers were pleased that you rode their line, no doubt,” said Kirren Howen, the senior of the group.
“Huzzah for Laird Ethelbert!” added Myrick the Bold, champion of Entel, the name given to the port regions of the city of Ethelbert.
Ethelbert hushed him with a waving hand and a snicker. “It is the least we owe them and less than they want, I am sure,” he said. “They want to be done with this foolishness and go home, as do I.”
“Our cause is right,” said Tyne, a young and promising leader, a man Ethelbert had attached to his elite guard right before the advent of war.
“Righter than Delaval’s, to be sure,” the more seasoned Kirren Howen added.
“The claim of a dactyl demon would be more right than that of Delaval,” Ethelbert said with a derisive snicker. “And I’d sooner my one daughter, were she still alive, marry the dactyl!”
Ethelbert’s joke prompted an uncomfortable laugh around the tree stump, for all knew that Laird Ethelbert spoke only half in jest, revealing his deep wounds over Laird Delaval’s treachery. In times past, the two greatest of lairds had worked together to build Honce’s network of roads. With those roads connecting the many holdings, marauding powries and goblins had been more easily driven away. Trade had blossomed, and a sense of unity had spread across the land. Citizens thought of the notion and nation of Honce more than a particular holding.
All that changed abruptly when Laird Delaval struck, and struck hard, declaring himself King of Honce.
Laird Ethelbert had lived too long, had fought too many battles, and had worked to bring too many warring lairds to common ground to allow such a thing. And thus the current war began.
“What news of the son of Panlamaris?” Ethelbert asked now.
“He has not turned south,” said Kirren Howen.
“To the east, still,” said Myrick.
“He will turn,” Ethelbert assured them. “Milwellis’s win in Pollcree has convinced Delaval that this push to the center is our last, desperate try. And not without reason,” he admitted.
“Had that battle turned differently…” Kirren Howen started to say, but Ethelbert cut him short.
“It could not have. We did not understand the true strength of Palmaristown or how deeply Laird Panlamaris had entrenched himself with Delaval. Panlamaris is seeking the favor of the man who claims the title of king, no doubt, so that Palmaristown can control all of the seaborne merchant trade in this new kingdom Delaval proposes. Our friends from the Mantis Arm peninsula could not match Prince Panlamaris’s ground forces.”
“I do not consider this to be our last and desperate try!” Myrick exclaimed.
Ethelbert’s chuckle calmed him. “I am more interested in what our enemies consider it. In recognizing their thoughts may we act appropriately. Fear not, my fearless Myrick”-his joke on the man’s title brought a bit of laughter from Palfry, Kirren Howen, and Tyne-“for I am not desperate, I assure you, and while I mourn the loss of so many allies at Pollcree, I have no doubt that the fierce peninsula warriors handed the son of Panlamaris great losses in the battle. He is stung, surely, and his soldiers, who have never marched across the land, are already missing their homes, I am certain. Their legs are built for ship planks, not cobblestones. We are not as wounded as they believe, of course. We have other allies and other methods, and I can only hope that the apparent victory in the north has served to foster a feeling of invulnerability among Delaval and his followers. None fall harder than the confident, after all.”
“And no one’s fall is more relished than the defeat of he who thinks himself invulnerable,” said Tyne, the youngest of the group, to approving nods from Kirren Howen and Laird Ethelbert.
“Young and proud Milwellis will turn south,” Ethelbert said. “Delaval and his commanders have come to think this our last stand. The son of Panlamaris, hoping to secure a prominent seat for hi
s father and his town, will not be left out of the victory.”
“And when he does turn?” asked Kirren Howen. “How long do we hold?”
“We know the terrain east of Pryd Holding,” Ethelbert explained. “Laird Delaval does not. His generals are not well versed in the eastern reaches of Honce. The same is true, even more so, of Milwellis of Palmaristown.”
“As long as we can, then,” Kirren Howen replied, and Laird Ethelbert smiled and nodded, fully confident in these men who served him. Kirren Howen would not allow Ethelbert’s army to be smashed by the bulk of Delaval’s forces here in the middle of Honce; they were not here for that purpose.
“We hold faith that our journey to central Honce will not be in vain,” Myrick the Bold asserted, and there was nothing but supreme confidence regarding Laird Ethelbert and these unknown ulterior motives in the old man’s words. He bowed low, as did Tyne and Kirren Howen, and Ethelbert took his leave, signaling for Palfry to remain here with the commanders.
In another clearing not so far away, the Laird of Ethelbert dos Entel met with a second group of warriors, a half dozen men and two women of darker skin and black hair and blacker eyes. It was no secret among his ranks, or among his enemies, that Ethelbert had hired mercenaries from the deserts of Behr, but this group was another matter altogether. Their leader was a petite woman with deceptively soft facial features, a disarming wide, white-toothed smile, and dimples that could melt a man’s heart at the same time that her sword-or even her bare hands-could dismember him. And, oh, how she could dance, Ethelbert mused, the turning and weaving of those supple limbs enough to melt an old man’s heart.
Her name was Affwin Wi, the Eyes of Bursting Sunrise, given to her by her masters at the Walk of Clouds, home of the Jhesta Tu. Affwin Wi had been known among that order not as a creature of introspection or quiet meditation but rather as something akin to the sudden explosion of light when the sun peeked above the eastern horizon, an excitable and impetuous sort. These characteristics had gotten her into trouble among the introspective ascetics who sought to teach her. Jhesta Tu was an art of mind and body: Affwin Wi’s masters feared that she possessed too little of the former and an abundance of the latter.
She had left the Walk of Clouds as a young woman, only a few years before. Again, contrary to Jhesta Tu teaching, Wi had taken on the role of teacher for the similarly fiery men and woman standing around her.
“Laird Delaval continues his advance?” she asked Ethelbert now.
“He cannot surrender the center, and Pryd Town is the center,” the old laird replied. As Ethelbert spoke Merwal Yahna walked over to stand beside Affwin Wi. Ethelbert noted that the rest of Affwin Wi’s disciples, amazing warriors all, shrank back as this one passed. He wasn’t a large man, and the loose fit of his soft black silk clothing did not reveal his tightly packed muscles. Only his clean-shaven head could perhaps be construed as imposing-that and his eyes, narrow, small, and intense.
Watching the sureness of the Behrenese man’s stride and the pure grace of his movements reminded Ethelbert of the value of this gift of deadly mercenaries the Sheik Kali-kali-si of Jacintha had given to him.
“Laird Delaval intends to meet me on the field with every warrior he can spare, and he can spare them all, so he believes.”
“But he has not arrived to join them in this glorious victory?” Merwal Yahna asked, his voice measured. The deference Affwin Wi showed him by allowing him to speak was yet another testament to the man’s rank.
“He is not well, by all word, and desires to heap praise and stature upon his buffoon of a nephew. No, my warrior, Delaval will not be on the field.”
Merwal Yahna’s small eyes lit up, and he gave a slight nod. A quick glance around by Laird Ethelbert told him that he need say nothing more, that the plan was understood and now in action.
Ethelbert bowed to these fearsome disciples of Affwin Wi and took his leave.
He would sleep well that night.
THREE
Out of Their Element
He stumbled through the blinding storm, the cold wind whipping his cloak wide, the persistent snow rushing in around his armor. He stumbled and nearly fell, but knew the group behind him, nearly ninety men, depended on his continuing forward against the harsh elements. He shielded his eyes, futilely, and leaned forward against the wind, driving on.
But the ground gave way before him as he walked right over the edge of a chasm he could not see. His cry diminished as he dropped fifty feet to where the snow and ice cushioned his fall enough so that he did not die immediately. Twisted and broken, unable to draw in enough breath to scream out, he tried to hold faith that his brothers would get to him with their healing stones.
He died alone that night.
“He’s gone over!” a monk had cried when Brother Juniper fell. “Ropes! Brothers! A stone of levitation!”
“Turn east and trek the length of the gorge!” Father De Guilbe ordered, his tone accepting no debate. “Brother Juniper is lost to us, and many more will perish if we do not find shelter from this accursed storm! East, I say, and with all haste!”
They did find shelter, meager though it was, amidst a tumble of boulders and a few thin evergreens. With frozen fingers, the servants of the brothers moved about the area, digging out any piece of wood they could find, breaking branches from the trees. Brother Giavno held his hands in front of his face and blew into them, trying to get feeling back into his fingers. He stood at the back of the camp, a wall of rock climbing up high behind him to the north. Before him, the servants dumped their thin loads of kindling.
Giavno waved the next brother in line over to the latest pile and presented him with two gemstones, serpentine and ruby.
The younger brother placed the ruby down and clutched the serpentine close to his chest, offering prayers to Blessed Abelle and reaching into the gemstone magic until an aura of bluish white light glowed about him. Shield in place, he bent and retrieved the ruby, then thrust his hand into the kindling pile and called forth its fiery properties.
The fingers of pine branches exploded to flames, but they didn’t last and could not fully take hold on the thicker, wet wood. The brother called upon the ruby again and again until finally the flames caught. Still holding the serpentine shield, he left the ruby for Brother Giavno and carried the burning pile to his appointed section of the encampment.
“There is little shelter for the light of our fires,” Brother Giavno warned his only superior among the group, Father Cambelian De Guilbe, a giant of a man, larger than life, standing well over six feet and weighing nearly three hundred pounds. De Guilbe’s girth seemed all the more remarkable because the rest of their group had thinned considerably during the years away from Vanguard and Honce. De Guilbe was almost a decade older than the middle-aged Giavno but possessed of no less vitality. Indeed, with Giavno’s own head more skin than hair, many who regarded the pair could not be certain which was the older. “The hill behind us blocks a view to the north. The chasm to the south perhaps protects us from attack, but the flames we need to stave off the cold this night will be seen for a long way.”
“Yes, yes, I know,” an obviously impatient De Guilbe replied, his tone revealing that this decision had weighed heavily upon him. When word had come of Ancient Badden’s designs over Mithranidoon, a plan that would have wiped out all the communities living in the many islands scattered about the warm waters, De Guilbe determined that this fight was not his. He turned from the barbarians and powries, long his enemies, and their call for unity against Badden and decided that the time had come for his missionary group to return to the south, to Vanguard and the civilized lands of Honce. Away from the warm waters of Mithranidoon for more than two weeks, with no knowledge of what had happened in the brewing fight with Badden, the band of monks had wandered the rugged and broken terrain of Alpinador without much success. They had expected to be in Vanguard by this point, back in Chapel Pellinor, at least, but more than once they had lost days of travel by wandering in c
ircles.
And worse, they had lost ten men to the elements and to monsters. Brother Giavno’s warning recalled a dark night only a week before, when a host of ice trolls had descended upon the band. With magic and fighting skills, the brothers and their servants had driven the foul creatures off but at a cost of three lives and many wounds-so many that the entirety of the next day had been spent using the healing magic of the soul stones.
“Our food stores run low,” Giavno said. “When the storm abates, we must form hunting parties and send them out.”
“You are a beacon of hope on this miserable night,” Father De Guilbe scolded. Brother Giavno went respectfully (and fearfully) silent.
“You still carry the weight of guilt that we did not follow Cormack up the glacier to do battle with the Samhaist ancient,” De Guilbe accused him. “Or is it that you still carry the weight of guilt for the flogging you delivered to the traitor?”
“No, Father,” Giavno denied, his eyes averted.
“Yes!” De Guilbe shot back. “Let it wash downstream, Brother Giavno. Cormack was condemned by his own actions. Your arm struck not from personal vengeance but from the demands put upon us as brothers of our beloved Abelle. You struck with righteousness.”
“He was once my friend,” the humble Giavno said simply.
“Of course it pains you, but our road is not easy. Spiritual purity and devotion are oft the harder roads, but it is a course we walk with pride!” He glanced around and gave a helpless little laugh. “Although I admit this Alpinadoran road is at least as confusing! Would that we had an Abelle of a different sort, yes?”
Brother Giavno’s eyes widened at the apparent blasphemy, but Father De Guilbe patted him on the shoulder and chuckled his concerns away. “It is not an easy road we have chosen,” he repeated, “not in body, not in spirit.”
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