by Tad Williams
“At the very least,” the earl told him, “you must let me outfit your men and give you supplies, as your uncle requested in his letter to me. All else that he planned for you, I will take as my own duty, passing on his concerns about the king. I will add your story to Eolair’s, and tell them I vouch for it. I have known you since childhood, Aelin, but I have never known you to be anything other than a teller of truth.”
“I am not as good at telling truth in an artful way as my great uncle,” Aelin said, laughing a little. “That is why I knew in my youth that I would never be the minister or envoy that he is—that I would have to find a place for myself where a blunter manner was not such a hindrance.”
Murdo clapped him on the shoulder, but his face was sad. “I like a blunt man. Such a fellow saves me much effort picking out what he wants and what he thinks. Take good care of yourself and your men, Sir Aelin. Hernystir needs more like you, especially in these darkening days.” He let out a sigh. “I would have sworn such times were over, at least for my lifetime and maybe that of my sons.”
“I had hoped that too. But it seems it is not to be.”
“Go, then, young man, with the blessings of all the gods. When will you leave?”
“First light, I fear. And now I must tell my men the sad news that after all their suffering, their time of wine and feasting is so soon ended.”
“Ended for all of us, it seems,” said Murdo, staring into his cup.
* * *
The last Yellow Moon had long since waned, and the first Red Moon was fattening: the end of the Thanemoot had come. As Eolair was carried by his bandit captors on the track around the lake toward the great encampment, he could see that many had already left, perhaps as a result of the troubles after Rudur’s death, but that many clansmen remained. After years studying the passions of the common people, something often ignored by their rulers, Eolair was uneasy; those who lingered at Blood Lake seemed to have become more excited and warlike, like ships lifted together by a rising tide. They seemed to believe this new leader, this Unver, would lead them in some great enterprise. Eolair could not help fearing terrible ruptures to come, war and death that would afflict all the lands of the High Ward.
Still, perhaps like Rudur, the new leader they called the Shan could be persuaded it was easier to live in peace with stone-dwellers than to make war. Eolair had dark memories of the last Thrithings War, and that had been the work of but a half-dozen western clans, raiding and pillaging along the borders of Erkynland. Even so, King Simon and his knights and men-at-arms had been forced into bitter fighting to quell the uprising. The Thrithings-men did not make war like other armies, with ordered charges and an unequal sacrifice of foot soldiers to prepare the way for their cavalry. Instead they were all cavalry, hardened warriors on swift horses, able to shoot their bows from horseback but also deadly at hand to hand combat. He prayed the High Throne would not have to fight them again. It all depended on one question: What kind of man was Unver Shan?
I’ll find out soon enough, it seems, for well or ill. Less than a sennight after toppling Rudur Redbeard, the new leader had sent for Agvalt, his crew of bandits, and also their prisoner, Count Eolair.
There were many reasons for Eolair to fear the meeting. This Unver might hate Hernystirmen. He might hate the High King and High Queen. He might simply want a stone-dweller to torture to please his new troops. And there was nothing Eolair could do about it, tied up and riding on the back of Hotmer’s saddle like a particularly old and unvalued bride. Not that his bonds mattered: between him and freedom stood Agvalt’s bandits, who still hoped to get something for him, and thousands of angry grasslanders. Whatever was about to happen, he knew he was not going to escape it by running.
* * *
• • •
Rudur’s old campsite, now Unver’s, was guarded by scarred, painted clansmen who stepped aside to let Agvalt’s men through the gate. A few of the sentries led them to an open paddock in front of a large, striped tent that had also once belonged to Redbeard.
Eolair and the bandits waited for no little time, but at last a surprisingly young and slender man wearing the clan badge of the Cranes emerged from the tent.
“I am Fremur, son of Hurvalt,” he said. “I am thane of Clan Kragni. Unver Shan is still recovering from the wounds Rudur Redbeard gave him. Any other man would have died, but Unver is very strong. Still, he is not yet healed, so the Shan has given me all his thoughts and bade me to treat with you. Which of you is Agvalt?”
The young outlaw chieftain was no older than this Fremur, and eyed him in a speculative way, perhaps wondering what this youth had done to become a thane and earn the right to speak for the Shan. Eolair understood Agvalt’s mistrust: Fremur did not look like he had won his place by force of arms, and he still had the beardless chin of an unmarried man. “I am Agvalt,” the bandit said at last. “I bring your Shan my congratulations on his victory over Rudur.”
Fremur gave him a cold look. “Unver did not seek the fight. He does not think himself a victor of anything. So is it always with a true Shan. And in any case, you did not come to Unver Shan by your own choice, so let us move past these small words and speak of what brings us here.” He waved a hand. On the far side of the paddock, just beyond the fence, a wagon door swung open and a pair of burly clansmen appeared, half-pushing, half-dragging a third man whose hands were bound just like Eolair’s. When they reached the group waiting in the paddock the two guards shoved the new prisoner down onto his knees before them.
“Do you recognize this man?” Fremur asked.
Agvalt stared. “I confess I do not. Does he claim to know me?”
Fremur ignored the question. He might be young, but Eolair was beginning to see something stern and determined in him that had not first been apparent, a kind of confidence most commonly seen in the very devout. “This is Ogda Forkbeard, Thane of the Pheasant Clan. It was his men who attacked your troop, Lord Eolair.”
“It was not my troop,” Eolair said, striving to keep his voice calm and conversational. “It was a company of the High Throne’s Erkynguard, on a mission for our king and queen. We never crossed into Thrithings lands, but stayed beside the river you call Umstrejha. The ambush was murder, pure and simple.”
“Unver Shan agrees,” said Fremur. “And whatever complaints the new Shan may have with the High Ward, the idea that Ogda’s Pheasants crossed the border of our lands to attack the king’s troops angers him—just as it angers him when the Nabbanai cross into our lands and attack our people.” Fremur gave him a look with generations’ worth of hatred in it, and Eolair was again reminded that he was surrounded by countless bitter potential enemies. If he was going to be given the chance to negotiate, he would have to be as cautious as at any royal court. “The Nabbanai do not even have the sense to retreat again when they have done,” Fremur continued, his voice growing harder, “but instead stay and build villages on the lands that were given to us by our ancestors.”
“Please tell the Shan that the High King and High Queen would agree, were they here, that many of his complaints have merit, and they would hear those grievances with sympathy.”
Beside him, Eolair could feel Agvalt getting restless at being excluded from the conversation. He hoped the outlaw’s common sense would keep his mouth shut long enough to find out what the Shan wanted. So far they had been extremely lucky, and Eolair hoped to keep it that way.
“Do you offer this Ogda as a trade for Count Eolair, the King’s Hand?” Agvalt said loudly, gesturing with contempt toward the dark-bearded man who kneeled before them. “I care nothing about this man. Remember, it was not my people who were attacked. We came in afterward and took Count Eolair as the spoils of an empty battlefield.”
“Ah,” said Fremur with a smirk. “I forgot that you were not clansmen. You do not care about honor—you want gold.” He waved again and this time someone came out of the tent, a tall, long-bearded ma
n in a billowing robe. He walked slowly—like Fremur, he seemed quite certain of his place and privilege—and at last reached the spot they all waited. Now Eolair could see he wore the necklaces and bone jewelry of a Thrithings shaman.
“Volfrag, did you bring the Shan’s gift?” Fremur asked.
“Shaman!” said the prisoner Ogda, suddenly and urgently, “tell them I did it at Rudur’s bidding. You were the one who gave me his orders!”
“Silence, Forkbeard.” Fremur kicked Ogda in the ribs, then kicked him again. The prisoner fell to the ground, groaning.
The shaman did not speak, as though Ogda the Pheasant thane was not worth his words, but held out a single leather bag to Fremur, who took it and turned to Agvalt. “Twenty golden Imperators,” he said. “That is what the Shan offers, and it is a generous price. I suggest you take it.”
His men murmuring behind him—twenty Imperators was a handsome sum indeed—Agvalt stepped forward to receive the bag, then opened it and peered in. A little buttery light was reflected on the lower part of his face before he closed the bag again, but he showed no expression. “The Shan offers it in exchange for what?”
“For this stone-dweller noble. He is of more use to the Shan than he is to you.”
Eolair’s heart sped. Did that mean that Unver meant to ransom him to the High Throne? It would not only assure him returning to Erkynland alive, but might even mean the chance to strike other bargains with the new war-chieftain of the plains. His diplomat’s thoughts were already flitting like bees in clover as he tried to imagine what could be done in this new situation. Of course, he reminded himself, it was still possible that Unver merely wanted to send the king and queen a dead Eolair as a warning to stay out of the Thrithings.
Agvalt was not one to give up so easily, however, even for the princely sum offered. “I could get more out of the High Throne, I think. Why should I give up my prize? And do not offer me that miserable creature on the ground. I told you that he attacked the stone-dwellers, not me. I care nothing for him.”
“It is good to hear you say that,” said Fremur. “Because Ogda Forkbeard is not a gift to you. The Shan wishes justice to be done. That is what the true Shan brings—justice.” The slender clansman suddenly leaned down and grabbed the prisoner by his hair and pulled back his head, exposing a whiskery throat. “Count Eolair, vengeance on this man is yours if you wish it.”
Eolair shook his head. “I do not act in that way for my king and queen. Send this murderer back with me to Erkynland . . .”
Fremur smiled as if at a subtle jest. “We are not cold-hearted cowards, we of the clans. Whatever their crimes, we do not send our own away to face judgement by stone-dwellers. Ogda Forkbeard’s fate has already been decided by the true Shan.” And without another word he drew his own curved sword and hacked off the man’s head with one heavy stroke. The prisoner’s neck fountained blood for several pulsing heartbeats before his body slowly toppled forward. His head rolled to a halt on the grass a pace away, facing the sky, wide, startled eyes staring up into the sun.
Agvalt pulled at his beard and looked the body up and down, as a man far from shelter might examine a swiftly darkening sky.
“We will accept the Shan’s offer,” he said.
* * *
It took Sir Aelin and his weary men several weeks to cross the great expanse of the Inniscrich plain into northern Erkynland in bad weather, and to ride all the way to the once-mighty River Nartha, now little more than a middling stream winding along the base of the range of hills called the Wealdhelm.
On the thirteenth day of their journey, in late afternoon with the sun hot on their backs, Aelin finally saw the walls of Naglimund standing tall and straight like a jewel in a diadem beneath the crest of the limestone hills. Seeing Prince Josua’s Swan banner flying above the towers (though Josua himself had not ruled there in decades) beside the High Throne’s twin dragons was an exhilarating, reassuring sight. The whole journey he had been fearful that he might find the castle under siege by the White Foxes.
“We have beaten the Norns here,” he said aloud. “Or they have some other destination.”
“No army so far from home would be fool enough to leave a manned fortress behind them,” said his squire Jarreth with a confidence that made the back of Aelin’s neck itch.
“I have heard too many of Count Eolair’s stories of the Storm King’s War to feel confident of anything about those white-skinned devils,” he said.
“But you said yourself for us to remember they were immortal only in age—that they can be killed like any man.”
Aelin sighed quietly. “I did not want you to be afraid to cross swords with them, Jarreth. I am not speaking of that now, but of the way they think, the strange tricks they play.” He turned to survey the rest of his men and absently counted them, his attention only fixing on it when he realized they were one short. “Where is Evan?”
“Directly behind, Sir Aelin,” one of the men at the back called. “Stopped to water his horse at the last stream.”
Ever since they had escaped their imprisonment in Dunath Tower, Aelin had a dread of losing track of any of his men, and he was just about to send some of the riders back for Evan when he saw the young soldier riding up the trail. “Do not fall behind,” he called as Evan rode up. “Our task is too important.”
“Accept my apology, Sir Aelin. I thought I heard something and waited back a bit so I could hear better.”
“And what did you think you heard?”
“Not certain, to be truthful,” said the youth. “I thought I heard many creatures moving in the trees back there—and not small ones, either, like squirrels.”
“It is bright daylight. Is it really surprising to hear animals in the trees?”
“When there are so many and so large, yes.”
For a moment Aelin wondered if he was being too careless. “Do you think it might be Norn scouts or spies?”
“Not unless they have taught badgers to climb. The sound was too small for Norns or anything manlike.”
Aelin shook his head. “Norns are practiced in stealth, but also, these are wild lands on this side of the river. Few men live here. Who knows what might be found? Come, let us hurry—we can reach the valley long before sunset, and there we will see even Norn-badgers coming a long way off.” Evan smiled at his joke, but without much conviction. Aelin raised his voice for the rest to hear. “Hot meals and beds await us! Enough meandering—let’s set a pace that will get us to them by nightfall!”
* * *
• • •
When they reached the closer bank of the Nartha afternoon was fading. The streets of the town were nearly empty as the townsfolk gathered inside for their suppers, but many came to their doors to watch Aelin and his men riding past on their way to the bridge.
Naglimund’s great curtain wall dominated the hillside, but up close the castle was not quite the shining ivory object it seemed from a distance. From the valley floor it was possible to spot the places where the wall had been breached during the Storm King’s War, the limestone used to rebuild it of a slightly darker cast. It looked, Aelin could not help thinking, like an old scar. Behind it rose the inner wall, and behind that stood the tall, square towers of the castle itself, which Aelin found comfortingly plain and human despite their size.
Evan looked up at the castle with something like awe. “It’s so big! I thought the Taig was the biggest in the world when I saw it, but this is twice as high!”
“If we must continue to Erchester, you will see something much bigger than Naglimund before we’re finished,” Aelin told him.
“But why such a great pile of stones?” His squire Jarreth was frowning at the castle’s wall, ten times a man’s height or more. “What is there to protect? The river is scarcely a trickle, the city is barely a village, and the only folk who live here are river boatmen, a few herdsman, and sheep farmers.”
“Once the river was much wider here,” Aelin explained as their horses’ hooves rattled on the wooden bridge. “In King Tethtain’s day and before, this was a port, and the town was much larger. Many goods traveled up and down the river. So Nagliumd was built atop the ruins of some older fortress to defend the port and its riches. It is a fighting castle, and built for that.” He pointed. “See how the great walls slant outward at the bottom? Meant to stand against catapults and great slingstones. Our old Taig back home has not contested a siege in a century or more, but Naglimund has been besieged many times.”
“And conquered,” said Evan seriously. “By the White Foxes.”
“Yes, which is why whoever holds the castle now will want to know of the Norns’ coming.” Aelin gave his horse a touch of his heels. “Come now,” he said as his mount trotted down from the bridge onto the road leading to the castle. “Jarreth, unfurl my banner and lift it as we ride through the town. The sentries on those walls must have already seen us and wondered who we are.”
* * *
• • •
The castle gate was open, and although a large number of Erkynguard troops stood waiting, they let Aelin and his men pass into the courtyard between the inner and outer walls. There they were met by a soldier wearing the crest of an Erkynguard officer on his helm. He took it off, revealing a bearded face so worn by sun and wind that it was hard to guess his age.
“I am Captain Fayn, commander of this garrison,” he told Aelin. “What brings you so far east, my lord?” His tone was conversational, but it was plain he was not asking idly.
“I have news for your liegelord. I am Sir Aelin of Nad Mullach, as you see by my banner. Count Eolair, the Hand of the High Throne, is my kinsman. I hope whoever rules here is still a friend to the king and queen and we are welcome.”
