Garin glanced at Aelyn on Bran's other side. Even if he was inclined to ask his questions of Bran, Silence knew he wasn't going to ask them in front of that mage.
So he plastered on a crooked smile. "I do have a question. How do you old men expect to keep up with my young legs?"
Bran laughed. "Oh, you need not concern yourself with that. Young or old, a traveler's legs will go further than a farmer's."
Garin started to retort, then paused. "I suppose I'll be a traveler soon myself."
"Yes. I suppose you will."
The day grew brighter as the sun rose, but Garin's thoughts fell into deeper shadows. What had he done? He was no traveler. And now that he thought about it, it had been a damned foolish notion, running off with two strange men he barely knew. A boy's idea of adventure, he saw now all too clearly.
He scrunched up his brow. What would a man do? Would he stay to his word? Or would he think better of it and go home?
As they walked mile after mile, he mulled over his dilemma. The longer he took to decide, the further from home he went. A man should be decisive — his father had always told him that before he'd been conscripted for one of Avendor's endless wars. His older brothers had certainly listened to him.
But Garin had always let others make his choices. His daily chores, his meals, his clothes — his mother and brothers had overshadowed what he thought and said. The decision to leave off his duties early to spend time with Bran had been his one rebellion. And this, going on the journey, had been his first, real resolution. Going back on that now would show them all he wasn't a man after all, but just a boy.
Evening began to fall, and still they walked on, only briefly breaking for food and other necessities. The day had grown late enough that other travelers had thinned out on the road. Ahead, the Winegulch Bridge came into view, the river flowing sluggishly below, never smelling of the fruity sweetness that Garin had been told was wine's aroma, but stinking instead.
Garin's heart began to pound harder like they were approaching a bear's den rather than a bridge. He'd never crossed the Winegulch before, never been so far west of Hunt's Hollow. Even if it made him a boy, he had to speak — to turn back or to seek assurance, he didn't know.
"Bran—" Garin started to say, but he cut off as a sudden whoop filled the air.
"Hold there!"
His companions stopped midstep onto the bridge, and Garin stumbled to a halt after them. Whipping his head around, he saw three men step out from the brush. A glance forward showed another two stomping across the bridge, hard frowns worked into their faces. His heart began to pound harder, like Smith's hammer working out a particularly tough piece of iron.
Dusk, Garin's mother had well instructed him, was the time of day that brigands liked best.
And these were brigands, without a doubt. Their hair hung in greasy locks. Pimples dotted their skin, and wiry, untamed beards grew from their chins. Most of them looked half-starved, faces gaunt and eyes hollow, but for one big fellow, who was bloated enough for the rest of them, if no less healthy looking. In all of their hands, some manner of weapon was clutched: knives, axes, and in the big man's hands, a warhammer.
It was the large fellow who spoke. "You!" he said, his voice not as deep as Garin had expected, but plenty loud enough to send his legs wobbling like a newborn calf. "You'll give us your coin. Now. And everything that man is wearing." The big man pointed one sausage-like finger at Aelyn.
The mage narrowed his eyes, and Garin noticed he had delved his hands deep into his mysterious pockets. He wasn't sure if he was more nervous about the highwaymen or whatever his companion had in store for them.
"Now, now, wait a moment." Bran wore an amiable smile and raised his empty hands. "I can tell from your accent that you're not from around here, and from your clothes, that you were conscripted not long ago."
Their assailants exchanged glances that Garin would have thought apprehensive if they hadn't had them surrounded with sharp steel.
The big man stared at Bran, unmoved. "Then you know we mean business."
"I know you're running away," Bran corrected. "And I know exactly why. I, too, ran from war once. I'm a deserter, as surely as you are."
Garin stared in astonishment. He'd guessed Bran had been a warrior — but a deserter? The King's wars might be many, but men didn't run from their duty. It put his companion in a new, uneasy light.
"What of it?" the brigand barked. "So people think you're a coward like us. Don't mean we won't rob you!"
"Of course not," Bran said, speaking as if he were trying to soothe a horse. "We'll give over our gear in just a moment. But I just want you to be fully aware of what you're doing."
The highwayman took a step forward, and his companions followed his lead. Garin was sure he'd start sweating through his tunic, and jerkin besides. He gripped his belt knife tightly as if the small blade meant for cutting meat would be much help against former soldiers with proper weapons.
"We know what we're doing," the big man sneered. "Now, I'll give you to the count of five. One—"
"You really don't know what you're doing, I assure you." Bran, far from seeming uneasy, jabbed a thumb at Aelyn. "For example, did you know he's an elven mage?"
The brigands, ready for blood a moment before, all stumbled back, though their weapons raised higher. Garin was ready to run himself. He'd accepted Aelyn was a mage — but an elf besides?
The big man, however, narrowed his eyes. "Show me your ears!" he commanded Aelyn.
The mage didn't move, his molten eyes leveled at the big man. Under that stare, Garin would have turned tail, but the deserter seemed unmoved. In a swift motion, however, Bran swept the hat from Aelyn's head, and pointed ears sprang up from beneath the ink-black hair.
The mage hissed at him, but Bran hardly seemed to notice. "See?" he said pleasantly. "An elf. And everyone knows elves possess magic."
The deserters backed away another step, and even the big man seemed to be having second thoughts. Garin recognized him now for a bully. Small as Hunt's Hollow was, it had its fair share of bullies. But as Garin knew from experience, until a bully broke, he didn't back down.
"Then I'll break him first!" the large man growled. "Forget the counting! Hand over the bags now, or I'll smash your head in!"
"But you don't even know who I am yet," Bran said pleasantly. "See, in addition to a deserter, I'm a bit of a sorcerer myself. I'll warn you once — drop that hammer."
Far from dropping it, the big man raised the big weapon, and Garin stepped back, wincing as he waited for Bran's head to cave in.
"Kald!"
The hammer's shaft burst into flames.
The brigand stiffened in surprise, then howled and threw his hammer to the ground, staring at his charred hands. "Yuldor's fucking balls!"
Bran shrugged, not seeming the least alarmed. "I warned you, didn't I? Now, I only ever mastered a few cantrips. Imagine what this fellow next to me will do if you stick around. Let's see… How about I give you until five? One—"
The brigands were bolting before he'd finished the first count, disappearing back into the forest. Only the big brigand remained.
"Same goes for you," Bran reminded him. "Two—"
The man eyed his still-burning hammer on the road, then growled a curse and made for the forest at a lumbering run.
Garin stared, open-mouthed, at his companions. "Who are you?" he whispered.
The chicken farmer — who was no chicken farmer, Garin knew all too well now — had gathered a solemn look again. "Exactly as I said. A deserter. A failed warlock. And many more half-realized roles." He glanced at Aelyn. "Sorry about the hat."
The mage had bent to retrieve his pointed hat and was brushing irritably at a bit of horse dung that had crusted onto it. "I very much doubt you are," he snapped as he fixed the hat back on his head, ears tucked into it.
Bran shrugged. "I'd be lying if I said I wasn't also amused."
"Why did you let them go?" The question burst fr
om Garin.
Aelyn eyed Bran as well.
The man looked between them. "Many reasons. In my experience, violence should always be a last resort. Men who use it too quickly, like our would-be smith here—" he gestured at the hammer "—get themselves in far more trouble than out of it. But more pertinent here…" He looked off down the road. "Acting the brigand, too, I can claim in my past."
Something was stirring in Garin's stomach. Hunger, yes, and a bit of the need to relieve himself. But under that, the warm glow of awe, and the cold shiver of fear.
"Who are you?" he asked again.
"You'll learn soon enough, and regret that you did."
"Enough," Aelyn cut in. "We must walk miles yet before we make camp to be sure we're far from those fools."
Garin's stomach grumbled, but he followed as the elven mage set a quick pace across the bridge. He was tired, and scared, and still had to piss. But one thing had left, he realized. No longer did he wonder if he should stay or go.
For better or worse, he'd made his decision to follow the road where it willed him. Even if he still didn't know the first thing about those he traveled with.
The Ruins of Erlodan
When the evening of the sixth day began to fade, Aelyn glanced at Bran with his strange, copper eyes. "We must make a detour here."
Bran looked away, studying Garin to buy time. After their run-in with the brigands, the young man had taken to doing his part by setting up camp with an avidity that puzzled him. Perhaps, he mused, that fire cantrip had done a little magic for the boy's doubts as well as the big bandit.
He turned back to find Aelyn still watching him and reluctantly answered. "I thought you'd want to make all haste for Halenhol. The King's summons and all that bilge."
"This is in the spirit of the King's orders, as I'm sure you've guessed."
"Perhaps I have."
But though he hadn't, the truth came to him a moment later, and his stomach clenched. "Are we traveling a day north to the top of an abandoned hill?"
Aelyn nodded. "The Ruins of Erlodan, they call it these days. A high name for a low place."
"That's the truth behind most high names, in my experience."
The elf narrowed his eyes. "All elven places possess high names."
Bran flashed him a smile. "I couldn't mean those, surely."
Anger flared in the mage's eyes, and Bran's grin grew wider. A prickly lot, elves, and mages the thorniest of the lot.
"Why didn't you go on the way to picking me up?"
Aelyn's eyes had tempered down to their usual subdued bronze. "I wouldn't have had the requisite sacrifice then, would I?"
They stared at each other in silence.
Bran cracked a grin. "For a moment, I thought you were serious."
The elf still didn't smile. "Perhaps I am."
"In that case, I have the perfect candidate. I hear from the Creed that the more rotten a person's heart, the hotter they burn when they descend to Night's Pyres."
Aelyn shook his head. "Jest while you still can. You won't feel so jovial once we reach the ruins."
Bran turned away. "I wouldn't count on it."
The trek, however, proved Aelyn right. Bran's mood took a dip as they slogged through bog after sticking bog, his boots filling with muddy, cold water and his nose full of the swamp's stink.
Beside him, Garin looked yet more miserable, for though he was adjusting to the rigors of the road, he was far from adapted.
As much to take his mind off the misery as Garin's, Bran asked, "Doing alright, lad?"
The youth glanced over with a raised eyebrow. "What do you think?"
"Nothing like a detour through a swamp, eh?"
"What are we going here for, anyway?"
Bran shrugged. "You'll have to ask our fearless leader."
Garin glared at Aelyn's back, twenty strides ahead of them. "What's he about, anyway? I know he's the Gladelysh emissary to King Aldric and serving the Avendoran Crown on his Queen's orders. But why's he so…?" The youth seemed to be hunting for the right word.
"Foul?" Bran suggested.
He grinned sheepishly. "More or less."
Bran glanced toward the mage. "I'm the last person who would make excuses for him, but… he's had a hard life."
Garin's eyebrows raised.
"When he was a babe," Bran continued, "a rival kinhouse claimed a brutal revenge for an old vendetta. His parents, his siblings, everyone in his extended family were killed, and he was left an orphan."
"How did he survive?"
"Elves have different ways of doing things than us. A child is given many different 'mothers,' we'll call them — not only for their benefit but to strengthen the ties between kinhouses. At the time of his family's murders, Aelyn was in the care of an allied family, and so he avoided their fate."
Garin was looking at the back of the mage with a different expression now. "What happened to him?"
"That family chose to foster him, as good as adopting him, though in the elven way, Aelyn kept his name."
"Cloudtouched?"
"That's the translation into Reachtongue. In Gladelyshi, it's Belnuure."
Garin shrugged. "No worse than my family name, Dunford, I suppose."
And mine, Bran thought. "But Aelyn's woes don't end there. Though he was raised by allies, the oldest brother of the family didn't appreciate an outsider suddenly adopted as kin. Thus, he made sure to make Aelyn constantly feel an outsider in his own home, and despite the sister's efforts otherwise, his childhood was full of strife."
"It's almost enough to make you pity him."
Bran grinned. "Almost."
Garin yelped as his foot stuck in a bog, then grunted as he pulled it out, boot hanging precariously off his foot. "Damned swamp," he muttered as he pulled it back on and staggered upright again. "How do you know all this, anyway?"
Bran's smile froze on his lips. After a moment's hesitation, he found himself able to speak. "We both loved the same woman, though in different ways."
Garin's brow was furrowed, but sensing Bran's change in mood, he asked no further questions.
They reached the base of the hill that marked their destination as the day's light began to fade.
"Aren't we going up?" Garin asked when Bran and Aelyn set down their packs.
Bran shook his head. "Up there's a foul place to be when night falls. We'll ascend in the morning."
Garin set his pack down as well, though he cast a dubious glance up the hill. "Why's that?"
Bran glanced at Aelyn to find him watching him from another one of the magically formed chairs that he'd taken to shaping each night at camp. The mage had a bad habit of staring. Not for the first time, he wondered just what the King of Avendor had in mind for him.
But soon enough, he'd have to sit with the knowledge of it. And he'd had enough poor tasks put before him to know that rushing into the next one wouldn't make it settle any easier.
Looking back to their young companion, Bran gestured to a nearby fallen tree. "Sit."
Garin's eyes darted to the mage as if sitting in his presence might offend the elf, but he obliged.
Bran mounted a foot on the end of the tree, leaning into his leg as he scrunched up his face like he were in deep thought. "Once, a long time ago, a great and powerful warlock lived in those ruins, celebrated as the foremost of the followers of Jalduaen — the Revered Spirit of Knowledge, to all human warlocks. This warlock went by the name of… Hm, let me see..."
"Was it Erlodan?" Garin asked drily.
Bran snapped his fingers. "That's the one! But in Erlodan's day, those ruins were a magnificent castle, with a plethora of halls for his many distinguished visitors and an army of servants to serve them. Erlodan occupied the highest tower, the better to look over his domain and work his wonders.
"The warlock was respected and trusted, but not widely loved. With great power comes a great many enemies, and Erlodan was proof of the saying. But wise as he was, the warlock kept his defenses tigh
t and had lived for centuries insulated against those who sought to do him harm.
"But there was one enemy that Erlodan could not prevail against. For though Jalduaen is a fierce patron god, the warlocks of the East had a mightier deity still: the Night itself, as manifested in Yuldor, the Prince of Devils. And so it came to pass that one of the East's mages finally decided to challenge the Warlock of the East Marsh and overtake his dominion."
"You're talking about the Extinguished, aren't you?"
Bran lowered his gaze to find Garin's eyebrows raised in skepticism. "Perhaps I am."
The youth rolled his eyes. "The Extinguished are fairy tale enemies, just like Yuldor — they're used to scare children into staying in bed. They don't actually exist."
"What makes you say that?"
"Because if they did, and they were as powerful as the stories say they are, why wouldn't they rule not just the Eastern Empire, but all of the Westreach?"
Bran glanced at Aelyn, but he had his back to them as he bent over something. Working some kind of devilry, he didn't doubt.
Looking back to the youth, he suppressed a sigh. "Power isn't enough to reign supreme, Garin, and the Extinguished are far too clever to rely only on their strength. They crush their enemies when they have to, but far more often, they use their deviousness and wits to bring about the ends they desire."
The youth's brow creased. "You speak as if they exist, here and today."
A frozen moment. Then Bran forced the wolfish grin again. "A story isn't right without urgency, is it? But back to the point — and no more interruptions!
"As I was saying, one of the Extinguished took the guise of a servant and found a reason to go up that high tower, intending to ambush the old wizard. But for all the skill the Soulstealers wield in illusory magic, no sooner had the Extinguished opened the door than did Erlodan recognize him for what he was.
"The old warlock rose with all the power possessed to him, and the Extinguished threw off the servant's skin and attacked. For a full day, the two pitted their wills against each other, their sorcery crashing together like two great waves, both tiring, but neither of them faltering. Both had such a towering degree of sorcery that no single effort on the other's part could break him, but they had to be worn down as slow as a river wearing on rock.
A King's Bargain Page 4
