Darkling Fields of Arvon

by James G Anderson

  He carried the lamp to the writing table in his chamber and began to pore over the ancient lines of Hedric's Master Legendary and the Criochoran in a desperate bid to assuage the growing malaise that plagued him. Meriones's remonstrations presented themselves time and again to his mind as the night slipped away. Eventually, Kal drew out the latest volume of the Chronicles of the Harmonic Age, which had been returned to him the previous afternoon. This he placed on the table in front of himself and thumbed through until he arrived at the final few entries. Here, Wilum's graceful script had become increasingly spidery, as if the hand had been moved by a mind ever more harried and under duress, compelled by a growing alarm at the significance of events only half recognized and half understood.

  Kal reread his master's words. The last few entries had been penned only hours before their flight from Wuldor's Howe. Kal could hear the old bard's voice in his ears as he scanned the lines, the snippets of prophecy set alongside the account of the events that finally led up to the fall of the Great Glence, interspersed with Wilum's own convictions, musings, maunderings, fears, and faint hopes expressed in the face of the impending disaster that he alone seemed to have recognized. Kal read his own words and those of Galligaskin Clout set down on the page as Wilum recounted their brush with the lowlanders above the Shaad overlooking the Great Glence. The Hordanu's suspicions and speculations had been fairly accurate, but little did Wilum know at the time of his writing just how soon his predictions would come to pass, nor how complete would be their fulfillment.

  It was in the middle of these entries that Kal recognized Wilum's first intimations about invoking the Right of Appointment. It was evident in the old man's writings that he admired Kal and held his young assistant in high regard; but it was only now that Kal saw the significance of what Wilum had been doing in those final days and hours. He had been purposefully arranging for the preservation of the office of high bard in the person of Kal, only events had overtaken Wilum more precipitously and more intensely than he had anticipated.

  Kal finished reading the final entry, then closed his eyes. Wilum's face came to mind. Kal thought of the flight across Deepmere in the borrowed boat, the depth of blueness in sky and water, the cold touch of the golden Talamadh in his hands, the coolness of Wilum's hands over his own, and the words of the Debrad he had sworn. He would never fully comprehend the significance of the words—that would take a lifetime, a lifetime of being Hordanu. Kal sighed deeply and opened his eyes to stare at the avalynn lamp, which glowed, unwavering, in the darkness of the room. At length, he broke from his reverie and turned the final page of writing over, revealing a blank sheet. This he flattened with his hand, then removed from the desk drawer a small stoppered pot of ink and a quill, which he sharpened. He sat with the quill poised over the page for some minutes, collecting his thoughts. Then, bowing his head, he began to write.

  HERE BEGIN THE ENTRIES OF KALAQUINN WRIGHT IN THE CHRONICLES OF THE HARMONIC AGE, THE FIRST BEING AN ACCOUNT OF HIS OWN INVESTITURE AS HIGH BARD AND THE DIRE EVENTS RELATING TO THE FALL AND DESTRUCTION OF THE STONEHOLDING.

  I, Kalaquinn, of the Arvonian Clanholding of Lammermorn, son of Marina, herself daughter of Cealya and Marrdoch, and of Frysan the wheelwright, once Royal Life Guardsman under Colurian, High King of Arvon, and himself son of Brescia and Nathaer, do here enter my name and accounting in these the Chronicles of the Harmonic Age, on this the last day of wane-spring's month, known in the Old Tongue as Tramys, the Month of Fire, thirty days from the Candle Feast, twenty-one days from the Fall of the Great Glence, in this the 3019th year of the Great Harmonic Age, inaugurated by the first singing of the Lay of the Velinthian Bridge by Ardiel of the Long Arm, First High King of Arvon, to the holy tones of the Talamadh, the harp most sacred.

  I, Kalaquinn, do here enter my name and accounting by warrant of the office I hold, the office of Hordanu, the office which was conferred upon me by Right of Appointment at the hand of Wilum, my predecessor, son of Annath and Wilthar, the office which I agreed to accept out of bounden duty to my folk by way of my Debrad sworn and sealed while in headlong flight upon the waters of Deepmere, the office to which I attested by my Lay of Investiture, sung while in exile in the forgeland kingdom of Nua Cearta, beneath the Radolan Mountains, domain of Magan Hammermaster, whose protection and generous hospitality I yet enjoy, even as I pen these words.

  I, Kalaquinn, do set ink upon this page in my own hand. In the wisdom of Wuldor, though undeserving and considering myself ill-suited to the task, I have been chosen to be High Bard of all of Ahn Norvys, Guardian of Wuldor's Howe, Keeper of the Sacred Fire of Tramys, and Master of the Holy Talamadh, ninety-seventh Hordanu in succession from Hedric.

  I am humbled that, unworthy as I am, I should be included in the esteemed company of these my forebears, that my name should appear in a list alongside theirs, and that my words should be appended to theirs as a continuing testament to the mindfulness that Wuldor bears towards Ahn Norvys. May he always direct my hands, my strength and my heart so that I may never give him cause to regret his choice or disown his chosen Bard.

  As my first entry in these collected writings of the Hordanus, I here give an accounting of those few folk of the Clanholding of Lammermorn that survived the ravages of The Boar and the events that have ushered in the darkest days since before the Great Harmony was ever spun over this world, since before even the veiled time of the echobards, days of a darkness the likes of which have not been seen since The Great Undoing.

  Apart from the betrayers Kenulf, son of the late Thane Ayllin Strongbow, his cousin, Enbarr, his retainers Nechtan and Dellis, and the black-hearted Relzor, all of whom have fled to the skirts of their liege and master, Ferabek, and the Hordanu, Wilum, who died at the hand of Relzor in the Cave of the Hourglass, there survive the following persons, who yet abide in the hope of Wuldor's kindness:

  + I, Kalaquinn Wright, Hordanu;

  + My mother, Marina, her man, Frysan Wright, wheelwright and once Royal Life Guardsman, and their son, my brother, Brendith;

  + Goodwife Gammer Clout, her man, Diggory, a farmer, together with their daughters, Marya—who holds my heart—Marrisya, and Heathal, as well as their nephew Galligaskin;

  + Riandra Woolage, her man, Narasin, a farmer, and their sons, Artun and Garis;

  + Fionna Fletcher, her man, Thurfar, a bowyer and fletcher, and their daughters, Laesia, Giarra, and Bytha, and their son Gwyn;

  + Devved Smith, a farrier and blacksmith, together with his son, Chandaris;

  + Rindamant Lakesward, her man, Athmas, a fisherman, together with their daughter, Mikail, and sons, Petrys, Joranth, and an infant son yet unnamed, as well as Rindamant's mother, Charyll;

  + Gara Shepherd, her man, Manaton, a herdsman, together with their daughter, Laloke, their son, Hannon, and an infant son yet unnamed.

  This is the remnant of the Stoneholding—of more than fourteen hundred folk, thirty-four souls remain.

  I hope that Master Wilum's intention in seeking out Aelward was for him to offer us some counsel, for, beyond getting my people to the safety of the Marshes of Atramar and into Aelward's care, I have no idea as to how I should proceed with the rest of my mission. I trust that Aelward, whoever he may be, can provide me further guidance.

  The Sacred Fire is extinguished. It must be rekindled before the turn of the seasons occurs once more and it be time again for the Candle Feast. However, the sacred spark that kindles the Fire can only be acquired in the Balk Pit of Uäm, which lies more than two hundred leagues away. Further, the Balk Pit can only be broached by one of Ardiel's very own blood. So, I must discover the whereabouts, in all the broad reaches of Ahn Norvys, of Prince Starigan, then, with him, go to the Balk Pit. All this with Ferabek growing ever more powerful and his forces on the move everywhere. And the Talamadh, the holy binder of heaven and earth, is lost. It must be recovered. And still the Great Harmony grows ever weaker, as the world plunges into dark chaos—and I am Hordanu. I am overwhelmed.

  I am overwh
elmed by the unknown road that stretches before me. But, in this, as it is in any thing—be it the grandest undertaking or the most commonplace and meanest of tasks—every journey is taken in pacing strides, one after the other. So I shall first bring the remnant of the Stoneholding to Aelward, then with his counsel will I set out to find the prince. Beyond that, at present, I can design no further.

  I know not what dangers, what trials and adversities loom ahead on the veiled pathways of the future. But, though death lurk in wait, this is the course that lies before me, and this is the road I must venture. I entrust myself and my quest to the wisdom of Wuldor and the care of the anagoroi. May he ever hold me in his watchfulness.

  So ends my first entry into the Chronicles of the Harmonic Age. I trust it will not be my last.

  Day had dawned in Nua Cearta, and light now spilled through a gap in the curtains over the window. Bleary-eyed, Kal cleaned the quill and ink pot, restored them to the desk drawer, and pushed himself up from the table. He shuttered the glowing avalynn and closed the heavy leather binding cover of the volume in which he had written.

  After washing his face, Kal felt somewhat refreshed and awake; however, his disquiet had not yet completely coalesced into resolve. He would speak to the king later in the day, he thought to himself; he must. He moved to the window, drew the curtains aside, and opened the casements. The soft inflow of light from the avalynn trees planted in the courtyard was still a marvel to him. He lifted his gaze and looked up towards Sterenhall, rising from its rock-founded terraces as if holding up the sky with its glence dome. He wondered how Dhu was faring, whether he had made the right decision in bringing the fellhawk from the upperworld to Nua Cearta, but that was just one of innumerable thoughts and questions that swirled through his mind. He sighed and lowered his gaze to the broad courtyard outside his window again.

  At King Magan's insistence, the young Hordanu was lodged in a guest room of the palace itself, which lay at the heart of Sterentref, the town seat clustered around the royal enclave. The place teemed with stables and shops, armouries and forges—an abundance of forges. It seemed every hammerson was a master smith—a forgemaster, as they termed it. Indeed, they reckoned everything in terms of their smithcraft. It was their constant point of reference.

  There were other dwellings, too, in Sterentref, including the guesthouse where Kal's mother and father and brother and the rest of the Holdsfolk were lodged. It stood at the far end of the central courtyard, which was beginning to stir with life. Already two hammersons, Magan's guardsmen, were filling pitchers for their morning ablutions from the fountain that dominated the centre of the concourse, its high-flung waters tumbling down into a square pool edged with smooth stone slabs to knee height. A third figure, taller, one of the Holdsfolk, came into view—a young woman clad in a cream-coloured tunic, clasping a smaller jug. Her footfall seemed hesitant. Kal leaned nearer the window ledge and stared down for a moment, trying to make her out. She drew closer, circling the fountain towards the near side of the water pool, and looked up to the window of Kal's chamber on the second story, fastening her gaze on it . . . on him. Now he knew who it was, not from her features, too indistinct from this distance, but from the way she carried herself. It was Galli's cousin, Marya.

  At a loss, Kal averted his eyes and turned quickly aside from the open window. He stood for a moment in thought, composing himself, considering how greatly things had changed for him and for Marya. Their old life in the Stoneholding seemed an ever-receding, distant dream, a life as neighbours, as friends, a life as . . .

  Well, he had hoped it would become more, but that had all changed. Besides, he could do nothing about it here and now, so it did not really warrant pondering. At least it would accomplish no good to mull on it. Despite the pang of guilt he felt at the thought of Marya left standing, staring at an empty window, he pushed himself away from the wall beside the window and paced across the room to his bed. Hastily, he dragged the coverlet over the mattress, then turned and left the chamber.

  The faint fragrance of freshly baked bread drifted through the halls. It stirred his hunger, and lured Kal down marble corridors and staircases to the palace kitchens, where he took a breakfast of still-warm bread and cheese with chilled apple cider pressed only the evening before. While he ate, he quietly watched the bakers, following them with his gaze and exchanging morning pleasantries with them as they stoked the oven fires and set about mixing and kneading dough for the many loaves that would be needed in the royal household that day.

  Still chewing from a thick slab of bread slathered with honey, Kal left the kitchens and climbed to the spacious entrance hall of the palace. Its pillars rose to a vaulted ceiling, which arched then swept down to sidewalls hung with an array of beautifully wrought implements of both peace and war—poleaxes and swords, ploughshares and coulters, firedogs and grates, hauberks and helms. There was also the handiwork of the hammerdaughters, finely woven tabards and tunics, along with banners representative of the various crafts in Nua Cearta. Licking his fingers clean of honey and crumbs, Kal lingered for a time in the hall examining the work of the hammerfolk, until, at length, he realized that others were close by. He turned to see the palace steward supervising the placement of a new banner on the wall across from him.

  For a while, he stood by, silently watching the steward and his two workmen. Kal felt a warm flush of pride, for on the banner, against a field of green, surmounted by a range of mountains, was an archery butt bristling with arrows, arrows fletched in the manner of the Stoneholding. Which is to say, the manner of Thurfar Fletcher, for he had been the sole fletcher in the Stoneholding and a master of his art. Kal grinned to himself as the steward finally approved of the banner's placement and, with his two subordinates, turned and departed. Soon the place became busy with the coming and going of palace life. Kal decided it was time he leave the hall himself and go outside.

  As he wandered across the vaulted chamber towards the rear of the palace, he paused to admire a tapestry on the wall next to doors that gave onto a courtyard. It set the theme not only for the hammerfolk king's royal abode, but for the hammerfolk themselves. A rich, earth-toned tapestry, it depicted a flaxen-haired hammerson, girt with leather apron, standing before his blazing forge by night. The man lifted from the forge's fire a sword, its blade aglow and ready to be tempered, annealed. The tapestry was one of the first sights that Alcesidas had shown him in Nua Cearta, a masterpiece woven long ago by exquisitely gifted hammerdaughters in the Burren Mountain homeland of Alcesidas's ancestors. It had been brought with them to Nua Cearta. Alcesidas had spoken of it as an heirloom of inestimable importance to his people, for it was a constant reminder of both the past and the future, a reminder that they were a people of the forge destined to be tempered and shaped by the trials and challenges of a new life far from their homeland. Not at all unlike the folk of the Stoneholding, mused Kal, thrust out of their mountain redoubt, forced to embark on an ominous new adventure beyond the comfortable familiarity of their clanholding. Perhaps that was why they had experienced so much fellow feeling among the forgefolk, such affinity with them.

  Kal felt a twinge at the thought of the parting that must come, and must come soon. It spurred him from his reverie, and he strode across the slate floor towards the rear of the entrance hall. He passed through a broad set of doors to a square filled with stalls and shops, now milling with hammerfolk, men and women, bustling about their tasks. Here and there, still a wondrously distinctive sight for a Holdsman, avalynn trees gave forth their light, stronger and more intense than he had expected, until Kal realized to his surprise that it was already pushing midmorning.

  He fished into his pocket for a coin with which he bought an apple from one of the stallkeepers, a wizened old man hawking his wares, a delightful little girl in tow. Kal gave the bright-eyed hammerdaughter an affectionate chuck under the chin, then bit into his apple and wandered into the Ward of the Forgemasters. The air carried the sweet tang of horse manure, for here, hard by bo
th forge and farrier, there were stables, themselves crowded by the stalls, booths, and market stands of merchant and craftsman. Kal regarded the blacksmith shops of the Ward, all marked with the colourful insignia of the most respected trade in Nua Cearta. They were hot and noisy hives of activity, the armourers and smiths beating out metal and driving rivets with their hammers.

  "By the Stone, Volodan, will wonders never cease? The craft, the workmanship! Truly you are all masters in Nua Cearta. Not a journeyman among you." Devved's voice rose unmistakeable above the din. It came from the other side of a shop front open to the traffic of passersby.

  "Look, Volodan, there is the Hordanu. Master Kalaquinn! Briacoil! Here, you must come see this. Here, here we are." Having caught Kal's eye, Devved waved, beckoning him.

  Kal sidestepped a wagon heaped high with coal and entered the workplace of one of the armourers.

  "Briacoil, Devved. And to you, Volodan." Kal nodded to each of them and to a third figure, to whom he proffered a similar greeting, a sinewy hammerson clad in a soiled leather apron, his thin, heavy-browed face smeared with grime. The smith inclined his head shyly.

  "This is Kesontor, Master Armourer," said Devved. "Look what he's made. The workmanship!" Devved pointed to a chainmail hauberk draped over an anvil. "Come, feel it, lift it. Never before in all my days have I seen its like—"

  Volodan burst out laughing, recovered himself and said, "Forgive me. We have visited half the forges in Nua Cearta, so many that my head reels. So many that I have lost count." Volodan chuckled again. "Just as I have lost count of the number of times I have heard those same words coming from his lips. 'Never before in all my days have I seen its like.' You should hear yourself, Devved. Like a child in a room filled with new toys."