By Ways Unseen Page 20

  “No!” Haydren shouted. Paolound gazed at him, and squeezed. Geoffrey cried out and went limp; Paolound casually tossed him aside, and he thudded lifelessly to the ground.

  A blast of lightning arced from the skies, and Paolound writhed out of the way. His tail lashed again, and the sorceress went sprawling with a cry that cut off abruptly as she hit the ground, her head cracking off a small stone.

  Fighting tears, Haydren’s knuckles went white on his sword. The flames near the hilt budded and fluttered with light, and he felt an energy trying to be released. Gritting his teeth, Haydren approached the dragon, sword before him, trying to watch the dragon’s every shift.

  Paolound reared back and spewed flame, sending Haydren scurrying. The tail swept in again; Haydren leapt over it, but landed awkwardly. In that instant, Paolound backhanded him; his sword flew from his grasp as he landed, sprawling. Paolound slithered overtop him, a paw clamping down on his chest, the dragon’s terrible jaws hanging over him.

  Haydren squirmed for breath as the dragon pressed downward. He grasped and pried at the dragon’s fingers, immovable as iron. Haydren’s chest-plate gave way, and his lungs refused to expand. Blackness crept into his vision as his thoughts rippled.

  Geoffrey. The mysterious knight from Hodp, from nowhere; whatever his journey through life had been, it was over now. Had the God of All seen to this, as well? Could Haydren fault the man for the source of his courage? The dragon’s hot breath washed over Haydren, invading his nostrils.

  Pladt. The famed archer, whose father had not wanted him to come on this journey anyway, would now die, if he had not already. Would he have chosen this? Or was it enough for him to pick his route one day at a time? The stench of the dragon’s breath forced its way into his mind, choking his thoughts as the veil of blackness drew tighter.

  Sarah. The sorceress seemed at peace with who she was, though lately something seemed to still her features in internal scrutiny. Her features would be interminably still, now; Haydren managed a small gasp, and the veil stayed its progress.

  Maerie; Mickel. The kindly parents who had raised him would have no idea what had become of him; that was if Guntsen had not already killed them for whatever malicious reasons the spoiled Earl thought best. They had given him love at every turn, as much as any two parents could.

  A tear of frustration rolled down Haydren’s cheek. Kitrel. His only friend for so many years, killed by beasts; and perhaps Haydren’s own father and mother had been killed by bandits. Quaran was destroyed. So much destruction and death plagued the country, and no one seemed able to quell it.

  The veil slid onward. Haydren’s head rolled sideways, and he saw his sword lying nearby, pulsing with a dim red glow. He released Paolound’s foot and flopped his hand outward to try to reach the sword. His fingers brushed the metal, but came up short. A word leapt unbidden to his mind, then, impressing itself firmly upon his lips. Squeezing his eyes shut, he strained; his fingers fell onto the handle, and he spoke the word: the metal felt cold, then burning hot.

  Paolound screamed in what could only be called terror, deafening Haydren as the veil nearly closed in entirety. The weight lifted from his chest suddenly, and air swirled into his lungs as he gasped.

  Haydren’s eyes flew open. His sword burned a brilliant red, brighter and purer than the dragon’s flames surrounding them. Paolound was fleeing to the north, still howling in animal fright. Haydren’s head fell backward, and the word he had spoken drifted from his thoughts. Pladt was running up to him; the darkness closed in fully, shutting him out from the world.

  *

  Guntsen entered the cold room where Lasserain and his Earl, Hsroang Jgei, were conferring. If he had known he would have to encounter Jgei, Guntsen might never have agreed to Lasserain’s plan: there was something horrendously wrong with the southern Earl. What it was, Guntsen couldn’t place; but there was a constant stillness to Jgei that was entirely unnatural. Perhaps it was the fact that Jgei was only ever seen encased in armor.

  “What do you want?” Guntsen asked, keeping his eyes warily off Jgei.

  Lasserain straightened slowly – and painfully? Guntsen wondered. When he spoke, his voice was strained.

  “The time has come. I cannot delay any longer, or much might be lost.”

  Guntsen eyed him, a smile playing at the corner of his lips. “Haydren is a tricky one, isn’t he,” he said.

  Lasserain’s eyes hardened, and Guntsen’s mouth split open as something invisible forced its way in, straining the hinges of his jaw. A cry was forced immediately back into his throat.

  “Your land is mine,” Lasserain said, the strain in his voice suddenly gone. “You will stay here from now on, and you will daily give me reasons not to kill you.” The mage turned to Jgei. “Send your troops, with this letter signed by the Earl of Kelian.”

  “I never signed a letter!” Guntsen tried to shout, but only tears came out of his eyes as his jaw creaked impossibly wider.

  “Oh, he hasn’t signed it yet,” Lasserain muttered, glancing over the parchment before him. He gazed at Guntsen for several long moments. “Well come over here and sign it,” he said, twisting the parchment toward him. He slid forward an ink bottle, and Jgei held out a quill.

  Guntsen took several teetering steps forward; gingerly he took the quill, dipped, and signed crudely. He dropped the quill; Lasserain inspected the letter, cocking his head.

  “I suppose that should work,” he said, and Guntsen’s mouth was finally able to close.

  “Anything else?” the young Earl whimpered, keeping his jaw as still as possible.

  Lasserain sat back heavily, grasping his temples. Guntsen felt a heavy, gauntleted hand on his shoulder; Jgei’s obsidian eyes met his from the deeps of a thick helm.

  Guntsen could not suppress his shudder, and he left the room as quickly as possible. His reign had lasted a few months, anyway.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  BURDENS

  “Be careful you do not stoke your fire too high.”

  “That was nothing.”

  “He almost died. Again.”

  “He has greater obstacles than death to surmount.”

  Elfumon 1319 – Spring

  When Haydren awoke, he was still on his back and Pladt was hovering over him. The tightness across his chest remained, and his breath came in painful gasps. His armor pressed in odd places around his torso; Pladt leaned over, fumbling with something on Haydren’s side.

  The laces of his armor popped loose, and his chest expanded fully. Haydren gulped air appreciatively, closing his eyes as the cool breeze refreshed his lungs.

  “Geoffrey,” he said, his eyes still closed.

  “I’ll live,” came the reply.

  Haydren’s eyes snapped open, and with Pladt’s help he sat up. Geoffrey was propped up a few paces away with an expression between a grimace and a smile on his face. Sarah, nearby, had her head wrapped in a cloth, and she smiled reassuringly. “We both will, thanks to Sage Pladt, here,” she said.

  “‘Sage’?” Haydren repeated.

  “Well, I was working on it, before you two came along,” Pladt replied, peering under Haydren’s shirt. He pressed some ribs gently. “Does that hurt?”

  Haydren grunted. “Not terribly.”

  “Hmm,” Pladt murmured. “Then you’re better off than Geoffrey; Paolound cracked four of his ribs.”

  “His claws had the advantage of puncturing my armor,” Geoffrey muttered.

  “And you, Sarah?”

  “I’ll be all right,” she said with a slight nod and a smile. “It bled a lot, which Pladt says is better, somehow.”

  “I thought you had died, Geoffrey,” Haydren replied. “The force that he squeezed you, and threw you aside…And when you hit the ground, Sarah…”

  “I wished, when he threw me, that I had,” Geoffrey said with a wry grin. “How close are we to Frecksshire?”

  “A few hours,” Sarah replied.

  Haydren winced as Pladt prodded again. He
shook his head to Pladt’s inquiring gaze.

  “I’ll need something for these ribs,” Geoffrey said.

  “I have spices still in my pack,” Pladt replied, inadequately hiding a smile. Haydren grinned; Geoffrey remained silent. “Can’t you mix something up, Haydren?” Pladt asked, clearing his throat. “Like you did for my ears?”

  “Not here,” Haydren replied.

  “The Sage in Frecksshire will,” Geoffrey said with a grunt.

  “I imagine ten Sages in Frecksshire will have what you need,” Haydren replied drily. “It is the largest castle in the breadth of Burieng; they say eagles leave their aeries in the Endolins to nest in its spires.”

  Sarah laughed aloud, but quickly put her hand over her mouth. “Sorry,” she said, grinning. “It’s different when you’ve lived here as long as I have; it doesn’t seem worth such eloquence.”

  Pladt glanced at her. “I would think we would have seen some farmhouses by now,” he said.

  She shook her head. “Not many places in the moors can support a farm; there are more around Frecksshire itself.” She smiled. “Don’t worry, Pladt; you’ll see plenty of farmland tomorrow morning.”

  “Should we be safe enough to sleep here tonight?” he asked, rising finally.

  Sarah shrugged. “Ask Haydren; it was his sword that frightened off the dragon.”

  Pladt shuddered. “I have never heard such a noise in my life,” he said, shaking his head. “The first instant I thought it was you, Haydren.” He paused, gazing inward. “I almost vomited; then I realized it was Paolound, and I almost had a different accident.” He fought off a grin, and shook his head again. “What kind of sword is that?”

  “I told you before, I don’t know,” Haydren replied. “I don’t even know what kind of metal this is.” He picked the sword up off the ground and glanced down its length; the fire was extinguished now, and it looked as it had before. The handle was still a little warm, but only as warm as if he had been holding it for some time.

  “The flames look, I don’t know…” Pladt cocked his head to the side. “Did you notice Mount Thoret to the east whenever you came to Werine? Did you see it in the morning when the top is lit by the sun?” Haydren looked at him and nodded. “Those flames remind me of that,” Pladt concluded with a nod. “I mean, up close, they look like what Thoret looks like far away. I’ve never actually been to the mountain itself.”

  “Interesting,” Haydren murmured, looking back at his sword.

  They spent the night uneventfully, though Geoffrey slept uncomfortably. Haydren, if he rolled to his most injured side, woke up infrequently, rolling immediately to the other side with a gasp. Pladt, in between the two, got almost no sleep at all.

  Pladt awoke them all the next morning, tending their bandages quickly during breakfast. It felt good to be useful again, more useful than trying desperately to shoot animals zipping in and out of torchlight. He wished now that he could have spent more time learning – surely the moors held something that could be helpful with Geoffrey and Sarah’s scars.

  They all shrugged him off though. The company set out, Pladt trailing behind again. He tried to keep his head up – they were on a grand adventure, after all – but no one seemed interested in conversation or remarking on the weather or countryside. Adventures were to be shared; it was no fun being awestruck alone.

  True to Sarah’s word, just as the towers of Frecksshire rose into view, gently rolling swells covered in just-sprouting wheat and corn stretched out before them. The path they were on met with the broad cut that was King’s Highway, which stretched from the northern port of Estwind, down the length of Coberan Province, then east of the Shadowmere to the castle of Fūnik. The four descended the short dike that lined both sides of the road, and turned north. They had come upon the road at the top of a large swell that gave them enough of a vantage point to see several miles ahead of them. On the horizon, just now becoming visible, were the walls of Frecksshire.

  Pladt’s head came back up, unable to be unhappy with such a view on the horizon. Even from this distance, it seemed Haydren’s rumors were not impossible; great towers loomed over the walls, with banners impossibly high and snapping in the wind. Normally, a castle’s inner keep was the highest structure; but though a flag could be made out at this distance, the building itself did not rise over the outer parapet.

  Dotting the landscape, a number of small homes could be seen living in the shadow of the great castle. Farmers like ants were crawling across the deep brown fields, and smoke from cooking fires spiraled above several chimneys. Far ahead, just below the horizon, a detachment of soldiers on horses could be seen riding down the road toward them.

  Pladt’s steps faltered; surely such a troop was not on their way to welcome them. Four armed people entering the Earl’s domain unannounced? Junei would not have been pleased. He continued to follow Haydren and the others, walking just to one side in case he needed freedom to shoot.

  The horsemen galloped on, throwing clods of mud behind them. At the bottom of the depression between the swells they met, and the lead soldier held up a hand to halt his detachment in front of the companions. Though Pladt couldn’t see the man’s face between the bars of the helmet, his posture did not seem happy.

  “Tho kegen kernet Kalen held?” the man demanded in a language Pladt didn’t recognize – likely Rinc Nain. His voice was muffled behind the great, impenetrable helm. The other guards in phalanx blocked the road.

  “Do,” Sarah retorted, stepping forward. “Hodl akna et’Quaran dafa Fūnik avod ruus: Ih av Sarah Lasgadt.”

  Pladt glanced quickly between the two. Surely Sarah didn’t mean to pick a fight with these men; they were, after all, on their ground. Not to mention Haydren and Geoffrey were wounded!

  “Woathod,” the soldier replied, lifting his visor. “Ih riddi tun gurtho tho. Ih av Ketteran, Hagta it’Kinnligurleth Abta. Jet thol kilfeiti?”

  Pladt wiggled his fingers, itching for his feathers; but he dared not move until Sarah gave some kind of signal. Unless she’d forgotten again that he couldn’t speak Rinc Nain.

  “Haydren Loren, it’ruusligur Hewolucs; Geoffrey, it’Hodp; jet Pladt Grecce it’Werine,” Sarah replied.

  The man turned and glanced at his troops. Now? Pladt wondered, surreptitious glances at Sarah still yielding no signal. He held his breath, waiting.

  When the soldier turned back, his eyes were wide in wonderment. “We did not know it was the archer Grecce who traveled with you,” he said – in Cariste – with a hint of awe in his voice. “I am Ketteran, and pleased to meet you,” he said.

  Pladt was dazed, and a little proud. They had heard of him all the way out here? He was sure his father wouldn’t believe him. Did this mean they weren’t going to kill him?

  Ketteran’s gaze shifted. “Geoffrey is an Andelian name, is it not?”

  “Just something my parents gave me,” Geoffrey replied indifferently.

  Ketteran smiled. “You need not be worried around Coberan Province, Geoffrey, as I can imagine you were in Kelian. We are not quite so ill disposed toward Andelen on this half of the continent.”

  Geoffrey remained silent, but nodded once.

  Ketteran returned his gaze to Haydren. “Most of your movements have been observed since entering our lands, young swordsman,” he said, his voice a strange mixture of authority and respect. “You have incredible luck, incredible friends, or incredible skill.”

  “I would like to think I have all three,” Haydren replied with a small grin that quickly disappeared. “Especially the first two.”

  If Ketteran wondered at Geoffrey’s glance toward Haydren, he did not show it as he bowed his head in acquiescence. “Perhaps. The Earl would be pleased to see you in any event. Of course,” he said, turning slightly to face Sarah as he continued in Rinc Nain, “the Earl will want you to report immediately; Fūnik was grave news, and you appear to have news even graver.”

  Sarah’s silence was answer enough.

  “His G
race honors us,” Haydren replied. “However, Geoffrey is in need of urgent care; our fight with the dragon was not without injury.”

  “His Grace is aware,” Ketteran replied. “He will see you in a week, after you have had sufficient time to mend. I am to take you to our best Sage at once.”

  “We are in his Grace’s debt,” Haydren said with a short bow.

  “You are indeed,” Ketteran replied. He lowered his visor once more, and gestured for four un-laden horses to be brought forward. The companions mounted – Geoffrey a little more stiffly than the others – and rode to the castle. Geoffrey’s mount was sure-footed and fluid, able to carry him without too much jostling.

  Impressive as they seemed at a distance, the walls of Frecksshire were overwhelming up close. Fully thirty feet thick at their base, the walls soared impassively and impossibly upward, and Pladt had to catch himself from falling backward, craning his head as they passed under the gate.

  Dwarfed in comparison, though still five or six stories high, the buildings inside the walls choked downward, preventing any good view of the blue sky overhead. The wide streets were clogged with merchants, sellers, farmers, travelers, horses, vendors’ stalls, butchers’ blood, and slop water. The sea of bodies parted before the gleaming armor of the troops, and closed just as instantly behind with barely a curious glance backward. This was the kind of press Haydren was accustomed to, and he longed to be on his feet among the mass, feeling the bump of the bodies while keeping one firm hand on his coin-purse.

  Up the twisting road the procession went until, after several turns, Ketteran stopped before a shop with bundled herbs on the wooden sign above the door. He gestured for the three men to dismount.

  “If you go back to the main street,” he said, lifting his visor once more to be clearly heard, “you’ll find the Dancing Piper; one of the best Inns in Frecksshire. His Grace requested I inform you that if you are searching for anyone, you may find news of them there.”