by R. E. Palmer
Gundrul pointed. ‘Help is at hand, ma’am. Captain Roold and his men are moving into position.’ Elodi watched as the guards surged across the parapet, dispatching the raiders with deadly precision. Only days ago, she had believed them to be lost beyond help, yet they fought with a ferocity taking even the Ruuk by surprise. She gasped. ‘Such speed. Such strength.’
Gundrul’s chest expanded with pride. ‘A fine body of men if I may say so, ma’am.’
‘An impressive sight indeed, Gundrul. If only we had more.’ She noted his impatience. ‘The time is now. Go to your men, Captain. Hold the outer wall as long as you can, but Gundrul’ — she touched his arm — ‘please don’t fight a losing battle. I’ll leave it to your judgment but retreat to the gatehouse as soon as your position is compromised.’
He saluted. ‘I will, ma’am. My men won’t let you down. They may be young, but they’re disciplined and well-trained. They’ll fight for the honor of the Archon and your ladyship with pride.’ He turned to leave.
‘And, Gundrul.’ She sought for the right words. If events were to go against them, the thought they would never meet again was hard to bear. But the words did not come, and time pressed on. She patted his shoulder. ‘Good luck, Captain. May the Three be with you.’
39. Hope Rising
‘Over there. See?’ Toryn directed Hope’s gaze to a gap in the bushes. ‘Looks like an old farmhouse.’ He clutched his arms around his middle and shivered. ‘I’d happily fight a droog to sleep under a roof for once. I’ve forgotten what it’s like to wake up in dry clothes.’ Toryn welcomed the opportunity to rest. Towards the end of the day’s long trek, they had crossed a deserted bridge close to a small inhabited town. Toryn was certain the river had to be the Great Elda, and the town, that of Buckleburn. The river’s source sprang from the icy streams of the Kolossos Mountains, before widening on its way across Noor, eventually reaching the sea at the town bearing its name: Eldamouth. As well as being the one of the longest rivers in the Five Realms, it also served as the northern border of Darrow, meaning Toryn had arrived back in his home ward.
Hope clapped her hands. ‘Then what are you waiting for? Stop staring and get over there. Check it’s empty, and if so, light a fire. That rabbit you caught this morning has been teasing with my belly all day.’ She pulled at the two fish dangling on her belt and grinned. ‘And these will do for breakfast.’
Toryn removed his backpack and strolled through the scrub. He glanced back and watched Hope as she stood scratching her head. Something was undeniably different, and he wondered if it had come to her attention. He cursed as a thorn scratched his cheek, but thankfully he was right about the building.
The large farmhouse stood defiant against the ravages of time. Thick ivy and other climbers clung to the walls and weather-beaten roof as if trying to claim it for the land. Toryn brushed aside the fronds, put his shoulder to the door and shoved hard. The hinges resisted and creaked, perhaps opening for the first time in decades, but open it did. Inside, piles of dead leaves covered debris from the collapsed roof and ceilings, but enough tiles remained in place to offer some shelter. He stepped into the main downstairs room and almost laughed out loud. It looked like a palace compared to where he had slept over the last few weeks. A small fire in the hearth could make the place feel a little like home and bring warmth to his chilled bones.
He turned to call back, only to find Hope stood directly behind him. She nodded. ‘This will do. Barricade the door.’ Her eyes widened as she examined her hands. ‘My fingers are tingling. Must be nasty creatures roaming these parts.’ She yawned. ‘I need to sleep. Wake me when supper’s ready but… take your time.’ He wondered what she meant by nasty but decided to let her sleep.
Toryn glanced up from the glimmering embers of the hearth to the stone chimney breast. Skilled hands had built the farmhouse hundreds of years ago, possibly before the closing of the Caerwal Gate. For that, he was grateful. The wind had picked up since sundown, but the thick walls kept it at bay. Sadly, none of the glass had survived, so Toryn had blocked the window with an old tabletop. He wondered about the family who had once sat around the table, large enough to seat twelve. What had become of them? Were they forced to move by disease and famine? Or had they fled from the raiding parties sailing up the Elda before the Archon had changed the seas? Hamar had spoken of the Lost Years but his account of events, and that of his parents differed. The fact remained, no one knew for sure what happened in those dark times, but none questioned the devastation had set back the Five Realms many generations. Toryn looked to the dying fire — would they see such desolation again?
Hope rolled onto her side and hummed part of a song before drifting back to sleep. Toryn stood, walked to the window and peered out into the night through a small gap. In the gloom, he could just make out an old path leading through what he guessed would have once been a garden full of herbs for cooking and healing. He tried to imagine the children of the house picking leaves to flavor their mother’s stew, or sooth cuts and bruises, but brambles had long since choked the garden dead.
Toryn gave up trying to picture the scene and returned to Hope’s side, placed a log onto the fire, picked up his threadbare blanket and lay on the floor. The flames took, but he could not stop shivering. He curled into a ball, closed his eyes, and let the dark dreams take him.
Toryn woke in the dead of night. The wind had died; the flames all but spent. Shards of pale silver light speared through the ancient wood covering the window. The westerly breeze must have chased the clouds to the mountains, allowing the moon to gaze upon the land. But with the blanket of clouds gone, the temperature had plummeted. Toryn’s frosty gasps filled the air. The moonlight traced his breath as it left his body, drifting across the room like the ghosts of Hamar and his fallen colleagues. Toryn had been both enthralled and terrified of the old man’s tale of Hallows Night. In the middle of winter, a gateway opened, allowing the departed to return and spend the longest night together with their loved ones. Toryn’s frozen face cracked into a smile. Now he had taken the Oath, he knew Hamar would be happy tilling his field on the Plain of Evermore. Could it be true? Would he see Hamar and Elwold again? Lying in the silent, still night, he believed anything was possible. He puffed out another ghost and watched it curl as it hung in the air before fading to find peace on the plains.
The light outside moved. Toryn jerked upright. Moonlight doesn’t move. The room grew colder, surely too cold for the season. Hope stirred. A twig snapped. A shiver streaked through Toryn’s already frozen body. He scrambled over to Hope and shook her shoulder, but failed to rouse her. The door creaked. He stood and crept into the hallway. The door stood ajar, but the fallen joists Toryn had set in place, held firm. The ghoulish light moved along the side of the house. He bent and picked up a rotten banister from the floor. But he doubted even a knight’s blade from ancient times would trouble the strange being outside. Ice formed on the inside of the wall, marking the progress of the creature as it made its way towards the blocked window.
The tabletop across the window cracked. Toryn tiptoed back into the room where Hope lay and positioned himself close to the frame. A heavy thud! The beast was huge. He pushed his back into the icy wall, desperate to not let his gasps alert the creature to his whereabouts. It stopped. Toryn held his breath. He craned his tight neck until he could see through a split in the wood. He stifled a moan. A hoof on the end of a long, scrawny leg nudged the wall. The stone shuddered as if remembering a terror of old. The creature crouched, bringing a large head towards the same gap Toryn peered out. His jaw clamped shut. The tabletop moved. A white patch of ice formed in the shape of a claw, spreading across the rough surface.
‘Step aside.’ He twisted back to the room. Hope stood a few paces from the window. She whispered again, gesturing with her hand. ‘Get out of the way. This is not your fight.’ He drew strength from her confidence and held up the bannister. She pointed to the hall. ‘Get in there. You won’t stand a chance.’ Toryn did not
need telling again. He edged back along the wall, sensing a change in the creature outside — it knew.
Hope bowed her head and brought her palms together. Low at first, barely audible, she muttered a few words. A faint, blue sphere appeared between her palms, warming the room, repelling the creature’s icy curse. Toryn blinked as the light intensified.
Hope threw open her arms. ‘Begone!’ The air burst with a brilliant light. The wood shattered, shooting a thousand splinters at the creature. It wailed, threatening to bring the walls down, and forcing Toryn to his knees. He clasped his hands to his ears, fearing his skull would split in two. Then silence — the room turned black.
Hope panted. ‘It’s gone.’ A warm hand took his. ‘It won’t dare to trouble us again unless it finds more of its foul kind.’
Toryn blinked in the dark. ‘What… what was that?’
She led him back to the dying fire. ‘Just a shroul. Lucky, eh?’
‘Lucky?’
‘Oh yes, had it been a shreek, we’d be wraiths in its thrall before dawn is come. I can’t fight a shreek, oh no, not one of them. Not at my age.’ She shuddered. ‘Or a droog. I’m in no mood to face those foul, yellow-eyed worms. The very last way I want to die is kicking and screaming in a droog’s putrid stomach.’
Toryn shivered. ‘I know of droogs. But what are shrouls and shreeks?’
‘Creatures from the past. Shrouls are a nuisance, still nasty. Must have sensed our warm bodies. I see them every winter, but unusual in spring, especially in these parts.’
‘And shreeks?’
Hope spat. ‘Now they’re a different matter, dangerous and not to be taken lightly. Thankfully, not seen one in… must be years.’ She peeked out of the window. ‘Worse fates than death await us in the night.’
Toryn staggered forward. He gawped at Hope; her face blurred. His head span and he collapsed.
Hope kneeled at his side, bringing her warm hands to his face. ‘Rest now. Sleep.’ She placed his head in her lap, humming as she gently rocked him. The coldness in his limbs eased as she lifted her voice to sing. Toryn’s eyelids grew heavy as he let sleep take him — for a moment, he heard his mother’s voice as she had eased the aches of the Winter Fever wracking his young body.
Toryn woke as the first pink light of dawn streamed through the empty window. Hope lay by his side, sleeping peacefully. He reached over to cover her with the blanket that had slipped from her shoulders. She sat up and blinked at him. ‘You’re… let me think. You’re Toryn.’
‘You know my name?’
Her eyes wandered to the window. ‘A voice… from the Song told me your name.’
The words burst from his mouth. ‘My father?’ Toryn took her hands and turned them over. ‘He had markings like yours.’
Her eyes searched for the answer in his face. ‘Wait. There was another such as me. I had to watch over you when…’ Her brow creased.
‘When what?’
‘He left.’ She shrugged. ‘I know not why, but the voice tells me I must take you.’
‘Where? To my father?’
Her eyes closed, she lay down, mumbling. ‘The voice tells me…’ She drifted off to sleep before Toryn could find out where the voice wished them to go.
The Hope Toryn knew awoke several hours later. The coming of the shroul had stirred something within her, and for a moment, she appeared to know him, and his father. But that had soon changed. As she woke, she had jabbed a finger in his face and demanded breakfast. When he had asked about the confrontation with the shroul, she shrugged, having no memory of the previous night. But now he knew more of what lay behind her gray eyes, he found her easier to tolerate. And if his father trusted Hope, he knew for certain he could. But where had his father gone? What had been so important that led him to abandon his son? And… how long had Hope watched over him?
Once they had eaten, Hope had been keen to head off and strode with renewed purpose, heading due south. For his part, Toryn felt stronger and found he could match her pace. But deep down, he sensed the coldness planted by Uleva still held.
Toryn’s foot landed on a firm surface. He glanced up, annoyed at himself for stumbling across a road while deep in thought. Voices! Marching feet! He grabbed Hope’s arm. ‘Quick, hide us.’
‘What?’ She held out her hands. ‘Where? How?’
‘Like you did from the Ruuk. Remember, you used some sort of spell. They walked straight…’ he glanced back to the road. ‘Never mind. No time.’ He dragged her behind a tree.
She moaned. ‘What the—? You can’t do that, you could have—’
‘Shush!’ Her eyes widened. He remembered her words and placed his hands on her shoulders. ‘The voice, the one from the song, tells you to shut… to be quiet.’ His words caused her a moment of confusion, but she nodded as the request appeared to register beyond her reasoning. Without protest, she leaned against the broad trunk, slid down to crouch, and mumbled quietly under her breath.
Toryn peered out from behind the tree. Close to forty men and women marched in two lines, armed with a variety of weapons ranging from swords to spears and the odd farming tool. He heaved a sigh. They were not Ruuk, but the reserves of Darrow. He watched their set faces, young and old, including a number who could have served in the Archonian Guard. But they marched north, not south. Apart from the Archon, only the ruler of Harlyn had the authority to muster the reserves. Had the forces from Wyke Wood mounted an attack elsewhere in Dorn? But despite the power Uleva had, surely it was not beyond the skill of the Knights of Calerdorn to contain her. What had prompted Lady Harlyn to summon her reserves from the far reaches of the realm?
Toryn took a step. He should join them. Harlyn obviously needed all who could carry a sword. His shoulders dropped. He had no sword — it had shattered during his first taste of action at Drunsberg. And what difference could he make? He was an Archonian Guard in name only. A guardsman without a sword. A guardsman because of a rash decision made in an emergency by Roold. Toryn returned to the tree and slumped beside Hope. He listened as the reserves marched off to answer the call of Lady Harlyn. What could he do? He glanced over to Hope. She held her finger to her lips, looking pleased with herself for staying quiet. He tried to smile back but achieved no more than a grimace. But he could not deny Hope had powers, even if she appeared to be unaware of their nature.
Toryn stood. He had another important task, perhaps ultimately more critical to the safety of the realm. The Archon obviously placed great value on the Singing Stones; Hamar had spoken of the threat of death to those revealing their location. But was the Archon aware of the destruction of the stone in the cave? This would be his mission. Toryn clenched his fist. He was the son of a powerful man, yet had wasted his life digging holes and building fences. But no more. He would make his father proud and deliver his message to Archonholm. It was a risk he had to take, regardless of whether the Archon would discover his secret. Whatever Hope wanted to show him would have to wait. This had to be more important.
Toryn waited for the two supply wagons following the reserves to trundle out of sight. He turned to Hope and held out his hand. She stared at his outstretched fingers, then back to his face. He tried to remember her as she had been at the farmhouse, but right now he found it difficult to imagine she could be anything other than a forgetful, old woman. He wriggled his fingers. ‘Come on, it’s safe.’
She scowled, meeting his gaze. ‘I’m comfortable here.’
‘You must’ — he felt a tinge of guilt as he remembered a game he had played as a child — ‘the voice says you must come with me to Archonholm.’
40. Lady Harlyn Rides Out
An explosion rocked the city. Elodi flinched and twisted away as night briefly became day. She steadied herself, grasping the wall as another projectile erupted, throwing her against Ruan. Elodi rushed back to the parapet and gaped in horror at the burning buildings between the twin walls. A line of bucket carriers formed, but as the man at its head hurled water at the fire, it flashed white
, roared, and to Elodi’s despair, the violent flames consumed the man and those close by him. She spun away, unable to watch their flaying arms, but even amid the din of the battle, their cries pierced her heart.
Ruan peered over the wall. ‘Same fire as from the bolts, ma’am. There’s nothing we can do to quench it.’
Elodi threw up her arms. ‘Our heavy weapons are spent, Ruan. Uldrak brings more of his forces forward. We cannot sustain too many more—’ The second volley of bolts crashed into the main gate, hurtling burning wood and glowing metal across the cobbles. Elodi cried out, feeling the blow as if a battering ram had slammed into her chest. The city lay open. Only the portcullis stood between her people and Uldrak’s army.
Elodi stared, open-mouthed, frozen for a moment. She had failed. She had let down her people, leaving them vulnerable to the hate-filled Ruuk bent on revenge. Elodi gazed to the east, longing to see signs of the dawn. Rise up! Send these demons back to the darkness. The Archon’s plea she had witnessed in his dazed state, hammered home. He had not been calling for reserves; he had begged the sun to rise. Now she understood. But he had faced a far greater foe and did not have thick stone walls to shield him. How had he endured for so long? Yet endure she must — it would be another hour before dawn, and a rising sun would not save her city.
But as quickly as her dread had risen, part of her yelled back. I’m not finished yet! She straightened and closed her visor. Archers raced to the gatehouse parapets, forming lines ready to greet their uninvited guests. Elodi yelled to Ruan. ‘To the gate!’ They ran down the stairs, taking them two at a time, stumbling as another salvo erupted over the inner wall. She skidded to a halt and turned to take the last flight. At the gate, Ruan’s spearmen formed a semi-circle, five deep with their spears lowered. ‘Join your men, Ruan!’
