Storm's Clouds, page 15
part #2 of Stormfall Chronicles Series
Eirlon was seated at a small desk, putting the final touches on his latest message to Princess Elise. Lynette noticed with interest that there were two other letters on the desk, unfolded but with their crease marks still visible – all in a neat and elegant handwriting which Lynette assumed was from the princess. She wished she could read them, but they were upside down from her perspective, and she knew better than to pry.
Eirlon looked up. “Ah, there you are lass.” He finished the message he had been composing and began to carefully fold it as she had seen him do before, into a narrow ribbon of paper.
“Do we have any news? About the dragon?” Lynette asked.
“News? Oh yes. We have indeed. Although a dragon is one thing it’s not.”
“Then what is it?” Baxter asked, sitting down on the edge of the bed. The spartan room was clearly not meant to be a gathering place, but they all knew it was safer to discuss some matters in the privacy of the inn, than on the street or in a tavern.
“It seems to be attracted to large prey, like cows, sheep or elk,” Eirlon replied, drawing another of the metal birds from inside his satchel. “It breathes fire, but is not attracted to gold, or by greed. Its behavior is more animal than dragon.” Eirlon stroked the metal statue, whispering words into its ear. The statue began to move, to grow, and come to life. It flapped its wings, looking up, chirping. It waited as Eirlon secured the message to its leg. “Open the window, if you would, Baxter.”
Baxter arose, and opened the shuttered window.
“Go to Elise,” Eirlon told the bird. The bird chirped once more, then fluttered out the window and into the night sky.
“So what is it?” Lynette asked. “If it’s not a dragon, what could it be?”
Baxter shuttered the window closed again. Eirlon waited until he was finished. “I believe it’s what they used to call a cave wyrm,” Eirlon said.
“A cave wyrm?” Lynette had never heard of such a thing.
“In ancient times, miners would occasionally come across one. They are certainly dragon-like in many of their attributes, but they’re much smaller, and not nearly as formidable. More importantly, they don’t have the attraction to wealth or avarice that seems to drive dragons to seek out human habitations. Quite the opposite. Cave wyrms tend to be reclusive, preferring a more solitary existence.”
“How certain are you of this? Does Princess Elise know?” Lynette wished she could pry more out of the little gnome. Eirlon with all his secrets! How long had he suspected? What else wasn’t he sharing?
“The princess agrees with my assessment. The key tip-off is how the creature is active only at night. It’s probably blinded by the full light of day and is seeking refuge in some cave or culvert somewhere. Perhaps some poor farmer’s barn.”
“Do we know where it is?” Baxter asked.
“There is word of dragon attacks on farmlands to the east of here, in the foothills of the Trevio Mountains. The animal will probably keep moving until it finds a location with enough game, wild or domesticated, to afford it a steady supply. Those mountains also have a variety of natural caves where it could find shelter during the day.”
“So what’s our plan?” Baxter asked.
“We are to find where the creature eventually settles-in and send word back when we have it located. From there, it’s up to the Fae Council as to whether to authorize the Fae Garrison or Royal Guard to eliminate the potential threat.”
Baxter snorted. “It will never happen. Once the Council realizes it’s not a direct threat to the Feyfell, they won’t be authorizing any intervention.”
“Perhaps,” Eirlon replied. “But our part of this mission will have been completed.”
“What else aren’t you telling us?” Lynette was surprised to hear the words coming out of her mouth, even as she said them. It wasn’t like her to be so direct, but she had been burned before by Eirlon’s propensity for secrecy. Moreover, having uttered the words, she didn’t regret having said them.
Eirlon smiled one of his sly grins. “Oh, the usual news. The goings on of the Fae Council.”
“What more is there Eirlon?”
The gnome sighed and leaned back in his chair. She wasn’t going to settle for half-answers this time, was she? “Since the identity of the beast has become clear, the Council is already withdrawing into itself. Baxter is right, unfortunately. There doesn’t seem to be a lot of interest in finding out where the cave wyrm came from or what sent it this way.”
“Why should that matter?” Baxter asked.
“There hasn’t been a cave wyrm seen since before the last time anyone saw a dragon,” Eirlon continued. “It would be good to know where it came from, and if there might be more, lurking about.”
“And?” Lynette said, still not satisfied. “What else? What else haven’t you told us?”
“And . . . the princess is taking more interest than I had thought she would in the dragon sighting. The one in the village we passed north of here.”
“The one where the fool, Sharik supposedly scared it off?” Lynette asked.
“Yes, that one. She’s not convinced Sharik could have conjured such an image on his own. We’ve yet to see him create an illusion larger than a dog or a pony. Something so large, with both visual and audible components, would have required a more accomplished illusionist to conjure.”
“Maybe in the heat of battle, with his life at stake . . .”
“Those were my thoughts too, but Elise has her doubts. She seemed particularly hungry for details on its appearance. As soon as we’re done locating the cave wyrm and whatever territory it will eventually claim, she wants us traveling back north to search for the origins of the dragon illusion. Once the Fae Council releases us from our current task, it will become our most urgent undertaking.”
“What about Sharik?” Baxter asked. “We can’t continue to drag him along with us. He’s not part of any of this.”
“Yes, I know,” Eirlon replied, appearing unusually contrite.
“I know you’ve been having your fun at his expense,” Baxter persisted, “but he really is a harmless old man. We can’t drag him into this cave wyrm thing.”
Lynette was, for the second time that day, unusually impressed by Baxter’s insight. Perhaps she had been wrong about him. Maybe he really was deeper than she had given him credit for.
Eirlon nodded. “No, you’re right. I took it too far. We’ll send him off with a few coins and some words of advice in the morning. It turns out he has his own problems to deal with. Seems he was playing around with magic he didn’t understand, being an illusionist and all, and accidentally set fire to the summer home of the King of Terone.”
Lynette tried to stifle her laugh, covering her mouth with her hand. “He what?”
“Burned it to the ground,” Eirlon replied, half a smile on his lips. “I got the whole story out of him after we had a run-in with a couple of sailors near the dockyard.”
“Run-in?” Baxter asked.
“Nothing I couldn’t handle. Seems Sharik has a bounty on his head now. I’ve advised him to remain a little less conspicuous.”
“We’re leaving him behind tomorrow?” Lynette asked.
Eirlon nodded. “I’ll have the horses and wagon waiting outside at daybreak. We’ll leave a note for Sharik.”
* * *
Lynette awoke early, a chill morning draft seeping in from the window. She was tempted to just turn over and go back to sleep, but she remembered Eirlon had wanted to get an early start. She didn’t want to be the one to hold things up. She quickly donned her newly washed travel clothes, securing her belt around her waist and sliding on her travel boots. Her light tunic and dark breaches were newly clean – but she missed the fragrant scent of everything in the Feyfell. Her clothes, the forest gardens, the little room she shared with Glynis. She had surprised herself by her desire to be back there so quickly. The travels and tales Baxter and Eirlon had told her had always sounded so grand. But she really was more at home in the Feyfell, in her own room, or in the library, than she ever was on the road or in a city full of humans. She had forgotten how cold and heartless the outside world was. She wondered what Glynis might be doing that same morning.
She had completed most of her packing the night before, so there wasn’t much to do. She threw her knapsack over her back and headed down the stairs to the inn’s eating hall.
Baxter was already having breakfast: eggs, a thick slice of bread, and a wedge of cheese on the side. Lynette was quick to take the next plate the kitchen maid offered – smiling politely and thanking her for bringing out the morning meal. After securing a hot cup of tea to accompany breakfast, she sat down across from Baxter.
“Have you seen Eirlon yet?” she asked.
“He was here earlier,” Baxter replied. “He’s already settled the bill with the innkeeper and went to collect the pony, horses and wagon.”
“What about Sharik?”
“Eirlon slid a note under Sharik’s door this morning and left a small sack of coins to help him on his journey.” Baxter was consuming his meal with vigor, sliding the egg onto the slice of bread to finish it quickly.
“You’re in an awful hurry.”
“Want to be off before Sharik wakes up. Don’t want him to feel obligated to follow us. No use involving him in all this.”
Lynette sipped her tea. Try as she might, she couldn’t bring herself to eat as quickly as Baxter. “I’m sorry about the shop, the one with the locket. I didn’t know they were slave-made.”
“It’s alright,” Baxter replied. “Couldn’t help what you didn’t know.”
“I’m sorry about when we were on the road too. I had never heard the term, groundhog used like that.”
Baxter gulped down his tea and stood. “You can finish eating. I’ll go see if Eirlon needs any help with the horses.”
Lynette watched Baxter exit the inn. He had grown since she had first known him. He was taller, and broader at the shoulders. But also – in other ways. She finished her meal, knowing it was the last meal she was likely to have sitting down at a table for several days to come. She had just finished her eggs, bread and cheese, and was beginning to wonder where Baxter and Eirlon might be, when she saw Baxter reenter the inn. From the troubled look in his eyes she knew instantly something was wrong. “What happened?”
“It’s Eirlon, he’s gone,” Baxter replied. He was holding a strip of cloth in his hand. It took Lynette a moment to realize it was Eirlon’s travel cloak – the one with the three-leafed clasp each of them wore.
Lynette arose from her seat. “Where did you find it?”
“It was next to the wagon. He had already hitched the pony and was loading things in, when something happened. His staff was in the driver’s seat.”
Lynette took the cloak from Baxter’s hand. There was dried blood on the collar, and the clasp had been torn from the fabric. “Show me where you found it.”
Baxter led her outside, down the street and around the corner to the stable where they had lodged their wagon and horses. Eirlon’s wagon was there, with the pony hitched – just as Baxter had described it.
It was early morning, and the stable was empty – but Lynette knew it wouldn’t stay that way for long. The pony seemed particularly agitated. Lynette glanced around, making sure no one was within earshot. She put her hand on the horse’s bridle, and began to make quiet, cooing noises in her throat, willing her thoughts into them. “Where’s Eirlon?” she asked. “The gnome? What happened?”
“Little gnome. Four men,” she heard the pony’s voice in her mind. “Three and then one.”
Lynette inhaled slowly, gathering herself and hoping she could channel just a little of what her teachers had taught her. “What men? Describe.”
“Three men in shadows. Hit gnome. Hit hard. Gnome dragged. Fourth man with wagon take.”
“What man? What wagon?” Lynette asked.
“Bad man,” the horse bared its teeth, its ears pinned back in agitation as it spoke into Lynette’s mind. “Man with wagon cage.”
Lynette inhaled, understanding but not wanting to understand.
“What is it?” Baxter asked, not having understood any of their conversation.
“Eirlon was ambushed,” Lynette replied. “Three men in the dark. And then dragged off.” Lynette had to steady herself against Baxter. She felt dizzy. She was surprised by the effect the conversation had on her. “He’s been sold to a slaver.”
Chapter 5 - Onslaught
Waya steadied his horse, testing his grip on his javelins: one in his throwing hand on his right; two in his shield hand on his left. He had seen eight mercenaries go before him and fail. The practice course was direct enough but required expert mastery over your horse. Ahead of him were three targets, each suspended from the branches of a tree: the only trees they had seen for leagues out on the open plains. There were two targets on the right-hand side of the course and one target on the left. They were expected to plunge a javelin into each of the three suspended shields as they rode by. Simple enough.
But the ground was uneven, and the course was in a zig-zag pattern. He would have to transfer a javelin from his left hand to his right hand twice, while charging at a gallop and steering through the S-shaped course. While transferring javelins, he wouldn’t be able to hold the reins, so he would be directing the horse with his legs and heels the entire time. The northern tribesman who had demonstrated the course had made it look easy. But eight mercenaries had gone before him, and each had failed. Three had been thrown from their horse in the turn. The others had completely missed their marks.
Waya waited for Oktai, the horseman commanding the raiding party, to give the ready signal. Oktai was a burly man, who wore padded armor over his long leather jacket. The padding further emphasized his broad shoulders. The sword handle at his hip had been stained with a red dye, standing out among the drab, earth-tone colors of the horseman’s attire. He had a lightweight bow and quiver slung across his back. In practice, however, Waya knew that it was his spear which Oktai usually preferred during a charge. It was a thick-shafted weapon sure to skewer any opponent, even one heavily armored. Oktai had spent the afternoon deciding how to integrate the handful of northern tribesmen at his disposal, together with the various volunteers and mercenaries who had joined. It had been a disappointing day.
In contrast to the broad-built northerner, Waya was a short, slender youth. His jet-black hair was braided neatly across his back, and he wore only a lightweight leather jacket and leather pants. He held a small, round shield in his left hand. He was also slightly darker than most of the northern tribesmen, another reason he stood out. But he knew how to ride a horse, and he was determined to prove his mettle, no matter the price.
Waya saw Oktai reposition himself and his horse to watch the next run, raising his hand. The course was at the ready. Waya balanced his weight in his stirrups. Oktai dropped his hand, and Waya spurred his buckskin horse into a gallop, with a “Wah-ooh!”cry from his lips. The first target loomed ahead: a simple wooden shield suspended beneath the branch of a cottonwood tree. Waya drew back, aiming, his muscles coiled like a loaded spring. He released the reins. Feeling the pounding of the hooves, then his muscles lunging, propelling the javelin forward. It struck its target, the barbed tip plunging it home.
Waya squeezed with his right leg just behind the girth, directing his horse to the left as he transferred a javelin from his shield-hand to his throwing hand. The second target was fast approaching. The eight mercenaries who had preceded him had all missed this one. The target would be on his left. Waya balanced, aiming, then releasing the javelin – making sure to follow through and put as much force behind it as he could. It sunk into the target.
Waya immediately turned his horse sharply to the right, his left leg pressing against the horse’s belly. Three others had lost their balance and fallen trying to execute this turn. Waya could feel the steps of his horse. The ground was softer here, muddied by the moisture which collected and pooled beneath the trees. Waya leaned into the turn, transferring the third javelin to his throwing hand.
He braced his legs against the sides of the horse, balancing his feet in the stirrups. His horse was at a full gallop, charging towards the final target. He raised his arm, aiming. The third target was swinging. He would have to time his release just right.
Waya threw the javelin – deftly finding its mark. The barbed tip struck and lodged itself firmly into the wooden shield. He squeezed again with his right leg, turning the horse out and away from the target as he reached for the reins. Then slowing his mount, bringing it around.
“What do you think, Oktai?” Timur had drawn his horse up on Oktai’s left. They had been evaluating the mercenaries and volunteers all day. Most hadn’t even wasted their time attempting to prove their worth as horsemen.
Oktai stroked the tightly cropped beard on his chin. “The boy maintained control. Solid hit on the shield.”
“He’s still just a boy,” Timur replied. “Not even old enough to shave.”
“He has better horsemanship skills than the other rabble who joined from the east and south. The rest are only useful as foot soldiers. Good for cleaning up and looting.” Oktai watched Waya bring his horse around, trotting back to where Oktai was observing. “This boy from Tsien could be useful.”
“Well?” said Waya. He knew he was not as proficient with the javelin as some. He had found his mark, but he didn’t have as much strength to put behind his throw. Not enough for a quick kill. His father had told him as much when they used to go hunting. But he understood horses, something the northerners would respect.
“You will ride with us when we reach the Lotarian outpost,” Oktai said.
Waya grinned broadly, feeling a wave of relief. He would finally be able to prove himself. To be more than just a frightened child. “Facing soldiers? The real scum? From Lotaria?”
“You’ll be facing whatever defenses those pathetic earth-turners put up. Just remember, whatever you see, you kill. There’s no room for hesitation on the battlefield.”
