From The Swan, they went directly to the stables behind the palace. Apparently a horse or two was part of the debt Bregolan owed her grandfather. The warm smell of hay and horses provided a pleasant contrast with the stink of bodies and ale in the tavern. They’d were led past stall upon stall, each inhabited by a horse in seeming good health, with ample food and water, and attendants to see to the animals’ needs. In the light of horn lanterns, she examined each mare, stallion, and gelding until she came face-to-face with the white horse, which nickered and stamped at her approach.
“He knows me,” she said softly, more to the horse than to anyone else. She stretched out her hand under the animal’s nose. “Don’t you?”
It was Elthric’s Banarel; of that she was certain. The awareness jolted her. Tears sprung from her eyes. What of her brother? Where could he be? On further investigation, she determined the mottled gray, a gelding named Aremel, belonged to Elthric’s squire, Urlan.
“These horses were stolen from my grandfather and me.” She endeavored to keep her voice from breaking, and then sucked in a breath, deepening her tone before continuing. “What happened to their saddles? They are worth their weight in gold.” She glanced back at the two men standing side by side just inside the pooling light of the lamps.
Bregolan stared at Gamba, who shrugged and shot her a covert glance.
She met Gamba’s look with a scowl.
“Ah, yes…” Her grandfather whispered into Bregolan’s ear, and the old pirate sought out the most senior of his ostlers.
“What of the saddles?” The old pirate squinted his one eye at the gangly lad.
The boy dropped his gaze to the straw-covered floor. “The man who sold them to us, my lord, he said he bought the horses and saddles from a Nortlunde trader. He said the saddles were worth more than the horses and sold them separately.”
“How much did I pay?” Bregloan advanced on the cowering boy. “And where might the saddles be now?”
The boy fidgeted under Bregolan’s one-eyed glare. “I-I don’t know the price, my lord. Rhaine told us to stow them with your personal gear.”
“Fetch the saddles…” Irritation crept into the old pirate’s gravelly voice, as three of the boys hopped into action and disappeared into the shadows. “… and the bridles,” he called after them, “…and the saddle bags.” Twitching with annoyance, he turned to Gamba. “Anything else?”
“Provisions for five days? As we discussed.”
“Done. All will be ready in the morning. You hear me, lads?”
An overwhelming surge of sorrow buckled her knees when the boys returned with the familiar saddles, bridles and saddlebags, which they dropped into the straw by her feet.
Surely her brother and his squire were dead.
Gamba appeared at her side and prevented her from collapsing into a quivering, wailing lump of jelly. “No more of this,” he said for her ears only. Then with a nod at Bregolan, he smiled. “Yes, they’re ours, all right.”
Leaning her full weight against the stall door, she pulled herself together, as Bregolan waved his hand. His stable boys sprang into attention. “See to those two horses. Have them saddled and ready at sun up.”
Gamba laughed and hooked his arm through hers. “All is well, now, eh?” He winked. “Our horses have been returned. No need to fret.”
And yet, more than likely, her brother was dead.
* * *
Later that evening in the great hall of the old king’s palace, Elthwen pushed her trencher aside and fixed her gaze on her grandfather and the old pirate from her place at the far end of the long trestle. Sitting in a seat of honor beside Bregolan at the high table, Gamba continued to imbibe heavily and eat heartily. The two old men laughed and conversed as if they had not a care in the world. Chatter filled the hall, mingling with the off-key strains of music from an increasingly inebriated trio.
All manner of people filled benches lining the boards. By their dress, merchants and local lords and ladies, family, and officers of the newly arrived victorious Lothrian army paid tribute to the one-eyed man, whose generosity surprised her. The hall grew boisterous. When the assembly finished saluting Bregolan, the old pirate stood and raised his silver goblet.
“To Prince Keirath and his triumph!”
Everyone emptied their vessels amid table thumping and foot stomping, while servants bustled about refilling cups with wine or mead or ale.
A youthful officer at the other end of the table rose and lifted a tankard. “To our glorious victory over the oppressors!”
There was more drinking, and talk swelled among those around her of the young hero, the son of Aldain. Her betrothed. She tried to listen, but words blended into a steady hum that vied with the thrumming in her ears and a succession of unsettling thoughts. Voices rose and fell. Laughter erupted. Her cheeks burned.
The scents filling space had piqued her hunger—aromas of suckling pigs roasted over the open central fire, bread hot and steaming from the ovens, and a plethora of stewed root vegetables flavored with dill and parsley. But when she tried to eat, she ended up forcing it down. Though her stomach rebelled at the withholding of sustenance, food had lost its allure.
However much she agonized over her brother’s fate, a new worry added to her distress. It galled her to consider that, while her mind and stomach churned, Gamba appeared to have put all concern aside. Late into the night, even as guests bid their good-nights and members of Bregolan’s family and retainers drifted away to their beds, the old friends continued drinking and reminiscing.
* * *
Elthwen spent a sleepless night in the great hall by the central fire pit in the midst of snoring, wheezing, and other sounds she dared not put a name to. In the cold predawn, she met her grandfather in the cobblestoned yard set off from the paddock behind the stables. For an old man who had spent the better part of his night carousing, he appeared remarkably refreshed at so early an hour—and lively—his pale eyes bright with excitement. The stable boys led the two horses into the yard, their well-shod hooves clacking on the stones. He examined the mounts and flipped up the flaps of the saddlebags to peer inside.
“The old pirate was as good as his word,” he said and with a wink he added, “I hope you slept well.”
She tried to blink away the dryness in her eyes. “I am eager to put this place behind us.”
“And well you should be. Don’t say I didn’t warn you against coming here.”
* * *
Two days out of Virna Berin, the Seineryth opened onto the Plains of Caludros, a fertile stretch of lush, tall grass carpeted with wildflowers, in yellow and white, pink and purple, all just opening to the warm spring sun as far as the eye could see. Intermittent clusters of large stones and boulders—some partially buried, others as tall as the occasional stands of trees—and felled ancient oak marred the otherwise sameness of the terrain. Rolling tree-topped hills on either edge of the expanse marked its boundaries. On the left, the road snaked west along the Rhuda River. Cultivated fields and wattle and daub cottages occupied the area beyond the border to their right. Before them, herds of spotted deer, velvety antlered heads to the ground, grazed among scattered droves of wisent, their wobbly, long-legged young prancing and butting newly sprouted horns under the watchful eyes of their ruminating mothers. The animals warily lifted their heads as Elthwen and Gamba rode side-by-side through their midst at a leisurely gait.
Allowing her gaze to follow the antics of the herds, Elthwen let her fears wash away like the city filth from her clothes on the spring rain of the previous day. She enjoyed the peace and serenity of the journey, the sun on her shoulders, the scent of wildflowers. But when Gamba, as ruminant as the animals feeding on the grass, fell into dark introspection, her own mind turned inward, and anxiety once more vibrated upon her nerves.
“Gamba…?”
He startled from his preoccupation and turned to her, his pale eyes adjusting on her as if to a change in the light. “Did you speak?”
“How soon before we reach Elyndrus?”
She could not count the times since they’d left the Old City that she had broached the same question, if only to allay her agitation at the sound of his voice.
Her grandfather pulled himself from his musing, stared straight ahead for a moment, then up at the morning sky and the fleeting wisps of feathery clouds. “If all goes well, another four days…perhaps five.” No sooner had his voice dissipated on the breeze, than he sank once more into his meditations.
“Gamba…?”
“Hmmm?”
“Tell me about Elyndrus.”
Again, the effort with which he dragged his thoughts from abstraction sent a shiver coiling up from her core. “It’s not at all like Virna Berin.” He shifted his staff from his lap to his side, resting it on his foot in the stirrup. “No…not at all. A shining place it is, and clean. Quite staid. No, not like the Old City.”
“And this son of Aldain…?” Her heartbeat intensified.
“Prince Keirath?”
Her face grew hot at the thought. “The one I’m to wed….”
“Ah….”
“What do you know of him?”
He rubbed his gleaming pate, flushed and dotted with perspiration from exposure to the sun. “Not much, I’m afraid.”
“From the talk in Virna Berin, he is a brave leader of men, a soldier, as well as a prince of Lothria, a descendent of the old kings who can trace their lineage back to Melthir, himself.” She pondered a moment before continuing. “And that he cuts a fine figure. I wonder….” She absently ran her fingers through her cropped hair and shuddered at the touch. “Do you think he’ll find me…odd?”
Her grandfather let out a short mirthless laugh. “Think not on that, Ellath.”
“What am I to think?” Her heart continued to race.
“Think nothing.” He turned fully to her, his tone unexpectedly brusque. “We have plenty of time to do our thinking. For now we must stay alert and keep silent.”
“But Gamba….”
“Hush!” He held out his staff as he reined in his horse, forcing her to do the same. “Did you hear that?”
“Hear what?”
The animals had lifted their heads, listening for the sound that had caught Gamba’s attention, their meal grinding to a halt.
She felt it before the sound reached her ears. A thundering that shook the earth beneath them.
“Quickly…!” He scanned the area, his gaze settling on a toppled, decaying trunk of an ancient oak spanning a deep depression. “Take cover. There.”
In that instant, the animals, sensing danger, turned ran as one from the approaching sound of rumbling which increased in volume, the ground trembling under their startled hooves.
Once down in the sinkhole, she dismounted quickly and whisked off her cloak. When she attempted to cover Banarel’s head, he backed away, yanking on the reins. His eyes widened and he let out a shriek.
“Easy, Banarel. Hush.” Even as he shook his head, balking and pulling, she managed to fling the cloak and hold it in place about his neck. “Easy!”
Once under cover of the fallen tree, Gamba leaped from the saddle as nimbly as a boy and handed off Aremel’s reins to her.
“What is hap—?”
“Try to keep the horses from bolting.” He clambered back up and out of the pit.
However, Aremel tugged too strenuously and, as she concentrated her efforts on allaying Banarel’s panic, Urlan’s horse, carrying their provisions, ran off with the herd. Clinging to Banarel, she watched in helpless frustration. “Aremel…no! Come back.” Her voice was lost in the commotion.
The rumbling roar grew deafening. Deer, wisant, and hares stampeded in a panic, leaping over the hollow, as birds flocked to the sky screeching and squawking. Elthwen struggled with all her strength to hold on to Banarel’s reins.
A hail of arrows arced overhead, some striking the oak bole, some narrowly missing her and Banarel, slamming into the slope behind her. She squelched the scream rising inside her, as her grandfather gathered his cloak in one hand and sprang onto the tree trunk.
“Gamba! What are you…?” Surely he’d be killed or injured.
While arrows hurtled around him, eyes closed, he moved his lips with no sounds coming forth, as if he were desperately trying to recall something vital that had eluded him.
“Gamba! Get down!”
He couldn’t hear—or didn’t want to hear—above the din.
Over the thundering hooves and now howling, not-quite-human voices drawing close, a booming resonance emitted from her grandfather’s throat in a voice she did not recognize, a language she’d never heard. Glaer awoke with a white pulsing light, brighter than the sun, which for a shimmering instant silenced all sound and movement.
Lightning surging around and through him, her grandfather vibrated with luminous energy. Arms spread wide, head thrown back, staff in hand, he stood motionless, his black cloak rippling on the wind and flashing with light. Arrows bent around and over him. Eyes closed, face taut, his body rigid, he stood like a statue.
All seemed to drag to a half measure. In slow motion, animals continued to leap the hollow as they stormed past and around her.
Now bodies began tumbling into the pit from above. Arrows in their backs, humanlike creatures, male and female, staggered and fell, some crashing into her as she stood, unable to move watching in awe and horror. Banarel reeled, rearing and pulling, his reins cutting into her fists as he shook his head to rid himself of her cloak.
Skaddock! Smaller than a man, yet surprisingly not so different in appearance, bleeding from wounds, arrows protruding from their backs, panting, pale, eyes wide and white with terror, they dropped and scrambled up and out of the hollow. Others rolled over, eyes glazed, wheezing their last breath, blood pouring and spurting from mortal wounds, their gazes fixed on her. Pleading.
Paralyzed, she stared at the man-beasts in their death throes. Wanting to go to them, she could not force herself to move, as Banarel continued his frenzied efforts to flee.
Then it stopped.
All sound and movement came to a halt. In one gust of wind and an eddy of dirt and grass, her grandfather’s voice echoed off the hills in a tone that would have struck terror in any living creature. A profound stillness swept over the area.
“Cease your attack!” Gamba shouted. “Hold your arrows.”
She wrapped Banarel’s reins around a limb of the fallen oak and gently pulled her cloak from his head. “It’s all right now. Be still.” She stroked his neck and when his eyes told her he was calm, she patted the side of his face. “Wait here.” She clambered up from the hollow and onto the fallen tree beside Gamba, her heart pounding in frenzied rhythms.
The remnants of the Skaddock band fled in disarray, some fleeing to the right, others to the left. A quivering heap of dead and dying remained on the plain and in the ditch. A company of armed men lined up short of the hollow. Archers stood poised in a semi-circle, arrows taut in their bows, while the horsemen, swords in hand, pulled taut on their lines, their mounts pawing at the ground. Their surcoats bore her father’s red dragon insignia; their pennon identified them as guardians of the Border Lands.
“How dare you threaten a ghalthrach!” Her voice, deep and forceful, took her by surprise. “What is the meaning of this?”
One of the horsemen edged closer, his mount snorting and prancing. “Who wants to know?”
She raised her head and, met the man’s arrogant glare. “You may call me Lord Elthric. King Wolthar is my father,” she said slowly, forcefully.
The man gave her curt nod of the head.
“Now put down your weapons.”
Gamba clambered down from the fallen trunk and approached the horseman. He leaned heavily on his staff, as if the expenditure of energy had drained him. “Do as the boy says.” Glaer’s angry light flashed twice. “Or I’ll change the lot of you into squirrels…or voles…or something like that.” He waved a hand dismissively. His voice trembled but held enough authority that the men paled, their mounts twitching.
The apparent leader held up a leather-gloved hand, a signal to the archers to unnock their arrows and lower their bows.
“I thank you for being reasonable.” Gamba drew in a breath, a hand on his chest. “Otherwise I would have been forced to do something unpleasant.” He nodded, his gaze wandering over each of the men. “I see by your colors you are keepers of the peace in the north.”
“Aye,” the leader replied with a sigh, leaning on the pommel of his saddle. He wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “I am Feldreld, formerly Captain of the Guard at Tinogeth. We served Lord Scannan.”
“Formerly…served?”
“Our duties are ended, my lord.”
Gamba’s brow furrowed in disbelief. “In such a time as this? How can that be?” He eyed each man in turn. “Why have you abandoned your posts?”
“We were ordered to return to our homes.”
“By whose authority?”
“An emissary from Ishlonna arrived at Tinogeth three days ago. He said our services are no longer needed.”
“And you did not question?” Gamba was nonplused.
“Lord Scannan and his retainers were taken away in irons, my lord. We were given no choice.” He glanced around at his men. “Most of us have families.”
“Hmmph!” Gamba turned to Elthwen. She strode to his side, for without warning, he wavered on his feet. Surely he would not want those men to see him succumb to weakness. He sagged against her shoulder. “Can you tell me who this emissary was?”
“No, my lord. Only that he came with an armed escort from Ishlonna bearing a directive with the king’s seal.”
“Hmmph!” He drummed his fingers on the staff and spoke as if to himself, “But not in the king’s hand, I’ll wager.” With narrow eyes, he glared at Feldreld. “And what of the people living thereabouts?”
“As we rode out of Tinogeth, we saw many departing for the west.”
“And the castle…? What of its defenses?”
Feldreld lowered his gaze and said softly, “I believe Tinogeth has been deserted, my lord.”
“And the other hillforts?”
“We met men of the garrison from Bedmerna on their way south. They told a similar story. Of the others, I can say no more.”
Elthwen tensed, gripping her grandfather’s arm, but said nothing, merely glowered at the men.
Gambra raised his head and gathered his strength. “I imagine you are all eager to see to the welfare of your wives and children. I have nothing more to do with you.” Again he waved his hand. “Be gone.”
Before they had turned their horses and began marching on a course around them, Elthwen cast a glance at the pile of Skaddock, some still writhing and moaning. “Why did you attack those creatures?” She stepped into their path.
Feldreld tugged on the reins and cast her an imperious look. “We’ve been tracking them since the Penshalan Wood…for well over a day now.”
“For what purpose?” She turned a withering glare on Feldreld. “It seems clear enough these creatures pose no threat. It’s the ones to the north you should train your arrows on…instead of washing your hands of your obligations and abandoning your king.”
* * *
Standing side-by-side, they watched the men continue on their way east toward Virna Berin. An icy foreboding wrapped around Elthwen’s heart.
“Cowards!” She fought back visions of her father, his face in his hands. “Why is this happening, Gamba? My father is a good king. A good man.” Tears sprang into her eyes. “He can’t be dead. And Elthric…. My mother!” Her lips trembled.
Gamba squeezed her hand. “There is always hope, Ellath. Never forget that.”
She swiped away her tears and sucked in a breath. “An idle promise. What more can we want?” She forced an unconvincing smile.
“I see Aremel has run off.”
Anguish distorted her face. “I couldn’t help it. Banarel….”
He raised a finger to her lips. “Shhh. No matter.” His blue eyes twinkled. “Anyway, it will do me good to walk. My legs were getting cramped, and my buttocks are sore from the saddle.” He bent his knees as if to ease the stiffness.
“But our provisions…?”
“The land will provide.”
She forced a sardonic smile. “Yes, I was beginning to tire of dry bread and salted pork.”
“See, Ellath, there is a bright side to every adversity.” He matched her smile. “Now go fetch Banarel and we’ll be on our way.”
Moaning from the pile of Skaddock hunters grew in volume. “What about them? We can’t just leave them like that.”
With a hand shielding his eyes from the sun, he scanned the hills on either side. “I wouldn’t worry. Their people won’t have gone far. They’ll tend to their own.”
Along with the increasing sound of distress, the mound shifted. Something moved under the dead. They both rushed to the figure writhing to free itself from under the bodies.
“Stand back, Ellath.”
She could not obey. She helped her grandfather pull the corpses aside—a task made more difficult as many had died with their arms interlocked—until the form of a small Skaddock emerged.
It lay still for a moment, moaning softly, eyes closed. Just a child, she thought. Like any human child of ten-years or so…except for its primitive appearance. Dressed in pelts sewn together with sinew threads into a simple tunic-like garment, its foot coverings also of animal skins, the little Skaddock wore a string of bones and small animal teeth, along with a pouch of rabbit pelts on sinew threads around its neck.
Tentatively, she poked at its shoulder. The creature’s eyes popped open and she jerked away, flooded with the memory of the morning she’d cut off her hair. This was the same little Skaddock that hid in the reeds, observing her. She recognized the uncertainty in its amber-colored eyes.
The creature rose on all fours and lifted its matted head. Purple bruising marred its red- and ochre-painted face, and a small cut on its left cheek trickled blood. Battered and bloodied, he appeared otherwise not seriously injured. By all appearances the dead around it had shielded it from further harm. Was that why the others had linked their arms? Had they been protecting him?
She stepped back warily as the little Skaddock rose to its feet, eyes trained on her with an aspect of fear, then dawning recognition. It sniffled, drawing a hand across its flat, wide-nostriled nose. A small, uncertain smile flickered over its thin, puckered lips. Then it ran as if for its life toward the hills leading to the road and the river, howling as it went.