Читать книгу Sorcerer’s Moon: Part Three of the Boreal Moon Tale - Julian May - Страница 9

After several days of hard slogging afoot through the dense forest above the western ‘ear’ of Black Hare Lake, the five-man reconnaissance party led by Prince Dyfrig Beorbrook reached the Raging River. At that point their Didionite guide, a fur-trapper named Calopticus Zorn, took the prince aside, nodded toward the opposite bank of the watercourse, and drew one finger across his throat in an eloquent gesture. ‘I go no farther,’ he stated.

‘You mean the Salka control the country beyond the river?’ Prince Dyfrig’s skepticism was obvious. ‘Have they truly penetrated this far south? That’s not what the Didionite windsearching team at Timberton Fortress told me.’

‘I go no farther. Too dangerous.’

‘You agreed to guide us to the Gulo Highlands,’ Dyfrig said to him in a low, furious voice, ‘and this you shall do! Our mission depends upon it.’

So did his own self-respect, for the prince was the one who had proposed this risky enterprise, hoping to prove his valor to his true father the earl marshal – and to the Sovereign, who was someone else.

It was still a source of astonishment to Dyfrig that Ironcrown had so readily agreed to let him go on the scouting mission. All the High King had said was, ‘What will you need?’ Dyfrig had asked only that he and his equerry be accompanied by the best scrier and the best windspeaker available, and that he be granted sufficient funds to hire a Didionite guide who was not afraid to venture into the Green Morass. Calopticus Zorn had seemed to be sober, experienced, and reliable – up until now.

‘Tell me what you’re afraid of,’ Dyfrig demanded of the man.

‘I seen bad signs.’ The trapper sat down on a moss-covered boulder, pulled a strip of smoked elk venison from his pack, and began to gnaw on it. The other members of the party, the prince’s equerry Sir Stenlow Blueleaf and the two Zeth Brethren, exchanged puzzled glances.

‘Signs of the Salka?’ Dyfrig persisted. ‘Why didn’t you show them to us when you came across them? What kind of signs are you talking about?’

The guide shook his head. ‘Very bad.’ He was a lanky man some two-score years of age with a long jaw and slitty eyes, who wore greasy buckskin clothing and an incongruously splendid cap made of mink fur, with lappets that would have dangled on either side and behind had they not been tied to a bone button on the crown.

Vra-Erol Wintersett pursed his narrow lips. ‘The rascal is lying, my lord prince.’ The senior Brother of Zeth on the expedition, he was a man who did not suffer fools gladly and was much aware of his position as Chief Windsearcher in the Army of the Sovereignty. Unlike the other Cathrans, who were dressed drably so as not to attract attention, his hunting garb was of the finest plum-colored leather, cut to show off his muscular limbs and broad chest. His face was angular and deeply tanned. ‘I never perceived any Salka windtraces nor any other indications of the amphibians’ presence – and I’ve been alert for such things since we left the villages at Black Hare Lake. I think this fellow regrets having agreed to guide us and hopes we’ll be frightened into turning back.’

‘Zeth knows it’s been miserable going,’ remarked the second Brother, Vra-Odos Springhill. His specialty was long-distance windspeaking. A tireless older man of less than medium stature and sinewy build, uncomplaining up until now, it would be his job to report the findings of the reconnaissance party directly to Lord Stergos and the Sovereign, bypassing the Didionite wizards who usually gathered and relayed intelligence concerning the Salka horde to the Council of War based at Castle Boarsden.

‘We can’t turn back, Cal,’ Dyfrig said to the guide, striving to hold his temper in check. ‘If you force us to go on without you, I’ll order Brother Odos to bespeak tidings of your bad faith and cowardice to King Somarus of Didion himself. You could be severely punished.’

‘Huh.’ The threat did not seem to upset the taciturn trapper. ‘The king is far away and the north woods is big. But you better listen to what I say, prince. So far, the bad ones only been watching us. We cross this river, they’re maybe gonna attack. Sign says so.’

‘Who? The Salka?’ Dyfrig demanded. ‘For God’s sake, man! Tell us plainly what you’re afraid of.’

‘Not Salka. Something worse.’

‘What can be worse than Salka monsters?’ asked Sir Stenlow. Dyfrig’s equerry was a stalwart, rather solemn knight with raven hair and pale blue eyes. A few years older than the prince, he served as both bodyguard and confidential assistant.

‘Come look, all of you.’ Zorn climbed to his feet and strolled downstream, searching the muddy riverbank while still chewing. If the trapper was afraid, he didn’t show it. The prince went after him, trailed by Stenlow and the two alchymists.

‘Bear prints, lynx prints, reindeer and small animal prints galore,’ Vra-Erol pointed out, not bothering to hide his irritation. ‘We’ve kept the wild beasts at bay with our gammadion magic thus far, and we’ll continue doing so. What’s the bloody fuss?’

Calopticus Zorn peered over his shoulder, smirking. His greenish-yellow teeth were clogged with shreds of tough meat. ‘How ‘bout this?’ he inquired with vulgar relish, pointing to the sodden ground at his feet.

‘Bazekoy’s Bowels!’ Dyfrig crouched to study the sign, and the Brethren did as well, murmuring in astonishment. ‘No Salka made these tracks.’

‘It looks as though a big log was dragged across the mud into the water,’ Sir Stenlow ventured. ‘Perhaps by a bear?’

‘Not unless the log was flexible,’ Vra-Erol said quietly, ‘and had clawed feet on either side. See? Here and here and here. These are not bear prints. They’re too narrow and the claws are too long.’

‘Codders!’ whispered the dumfounded equerry. ‘What manner of brute could it be, then?’

Dyfrig gave Zorn a stern look. ‘Stop playing your silly games, Cal. What made these marks?’

‘Worm.’ A grimace of morbid satisfaction. ‘Morass Worm, supposed to be dead and gone nigh on three hundred year. But maybe not, eh?’ He chuckled.

‘That’s ridiculous!’ the prince expostulated. ‘I’ve never heard such bullshite. Worms are tiny things –’

Vra-Odos cleared his throat pedantically. ‘The word was used in ancient times for larger mythical beasts.’ He looked embarrassed. ‘Er – dragons, to be specific. During our sojourn in Didion, I’ve perused volumes of their old tales that contain mention of intelligent Morass Worms. The creatures are given varying descriptions and no one seems to know –’

Zorn broke in. ‘Back at camp, when we start out this morn, I seen claw-scrapes on tree trunks. More than one worm.’

‘Well, I saw nothing of the sort!’ snapped Vra-Erol. For all his off-putting and haughty manner, he had proved to be an expert in every sort of woodcraft.

‘Didn’t look high enough,’ said the trapper smugly. ‘Marks were four, five ells up a buncha big trees next the creek. Way too high for bear scratches.’ He tipped his head toward the opposite bank of the strong-flowing river. ‘They’re yonder. I can smell ‘em. The claw marks were a warning.’

Vra-Erol sniffed the air elaborately. ‘I smell naught save river mud and conifer sap – and perhaps a whiff of carrion.’

Prince Dyfrig stared at the strange trace with an expression that mingled bafflement and frustration. He was twenty years of age and stood four fingers over six feet in height, having a slender build and quiet manner that belied his considerable physical strength. His hair was tawny and the eyes set deeply in his sun-browned features were an unusual deep brown verging on black, very much like those of the Sovereign. No one who saw the two of them together could doubt Dyfrig’s parentage, but to speak openly of the resemblance was to risk the full weight of Conrig’s wrath.

Dyfrig believed that his mother Maudrayne was dead, and by law and by love considered himself to be Parlian Beorbrook’s son and heir. His being named third in succession to the throne of Cathra was inferred by him and many others to be a mere sop to the Tarnians, his mother’s people, subject to annulment at any time by royal decree. Dyfrig had hardly given thought to the matter of his true parentage while growing up far from the court at Cala Blenholme; nor had he sought to impress the aloof king who was obviously his natural father. Up until now.

‘Cal,’ the prince said at last, ‘I’ve decided that we’ll stop here for a time while you do your best to find further signs of these strange creatures. I need better evidence than your tale of claw-marks and a churned-up mass of mud if I’m to report this to Lord Stergos and the Sovereign. None of the wizards at Count Timberton’s fort mentioned giant worms amongst the beasts we should beware of.’

‘Most wizards don’t know,’ Zorn said. ‘Those that know, don’t believe. Gang of fools.’ He cocked his fur-capped head. ‘Mind you, worms were all supposed to be dead.’ He pulled off another chunk of dried meat and champed it noisily. ‘Guess I’ll take a hike along the riverbank. See what I can see. Should be safe enough. But don’t any of you lot go wandering off into the trees.’

He ambled away.

‘Insolent whoreson,’ Vra-Erol muttered. ‘Wonder if he could be right about the dragons?’

‘I’ve also kept alert to our surroundings,’ Vra-Odos said. ‘I detected no creatures save the wildlife we might expect to find. If the Morass Worms do exist, I can only conclude that our windsenses and the gammadion sorcery of our Order are inadequate to disclose their presence.’

‘You could be right, Brother,’ Erol said. ‘They might possess uncanny shielding talent of their own, as do some of the Salka.’

Sir Stenlow gave a slow whistle. ‘Then…if there be numbers of the things lurking in this wilderness, it could explain the great mystery of why the Salka advance has stalled!’

The others stared at him for a long moment, speechless.

Dyfrig clapped the knight on the shoulder. ‘Well said, Sten! You may have hit on it exactly. Our guide thought the worms died off centuries ago. Perhaps the Salka invaders believed the same thing – until a throng of the bastards popped up out of nowhere and gave battle around Beacon Lake. And won.’

‘We must be absolutely certain this is true,’ Vra-Odos cautioned, ‘before passing the information on to the Sovereign. Even then –’ His mouth twitched.

‘There is a problem with credibility,’ Dyfrig conceded with a sigh. An idea came to him. ‘Vra-Erol, you were unable to scry anything of the Salka position from our previous campsite. But since then, we’ve come over a high ridge into more level country. Might it be possible to oversee something useful from here, provided there’s no intervening high ground between the river and Beacon Lake? You might catch some sort of glimpse of the Salka and their presumed antagonists.’

‘One could try.’ The veteran windsearcher was dubious. ‘The overview, if there is one, would be indistinct. Perhaps useless to our purposes. We had hoped to discover whether the Salka plan to hibernate near Beacon Lake and resume their march in spring. Signs of that would be too subtle to ascertain at this distance. We are still over thirty leagues from their estimated position, nearly at the limit of my perception. Any landform blocking the line of sight would muddle the wind-picture significantly.’

‘Please try anyhow,’ the prince urged.

‘To increase the chance of success, I could climb one of the taller trees.’

Sir Stenlow regarded the dignified alchymist with surprise. ‘You’d be able to manage such a thing, Brother Erol?’

A disdainful smile. ‘I work for the army. I’ve climbed more trees than you’ve had hot dinners, boy.’

Dyfrig and Vra-Odos laughed. The prince said, ‘Speaking of food, we’re overdue for our own cold lunch.’

They found reasonably comfortable rocks to sit on and opened their packs. By the time they finished a brief meal of hardbread and ham, Calopticus Zorn had come back into view, trotting at a fair pace. They were relieved to see that nothing seemed to be following him.

The prince rose and called out. ‘Ho, Cal! What did you find?’

Maddeningly, the trapper slowed to a deliberate walk. His long face wore a superior smile. As he drew closer, they could see that he was carrying a good-sized bone.

‘More worm sign,’ he declared, handing his evil-smelling trophy to the prince, who accepted it without demur. ‘See them teeth marks? This is a big brown bear’s upper armbone. Found a stripped carcass by following the carrion stink. Skull crushed like an egg to suck the brains.’

‘But couldn’t the bear have been attacked by a tundra-lion?’ Dyfrig peered doubtfully at the deep gouges. The bone was at least several days old. ‘I admit these wide-set marks are persuasive, but –’

‘That don’t convince you, lord prince?’ Calopticus Zorn rummaged in his capacious belt-wallet. ‘Maybe this will.’ He held up an object that gleamed in the afternoon sunlight like a thick dagger-blade smoothly carved from topaz. ‘Bastard broke it off in the bear’s skull. Hardheaded beasts, bears.’

‘God’s Truth!’ Vra-Erol exclaimed, seizing the thing from the trapper. ‘Look at the size of it! Half a foot long or I’m buggered, and bits of tissue still clinging to the cracked root.’ He turned to Dyfrig. ‘No man can gainsay this. We have our proof, and we must hasten back to Boarsden to show it to the Sovereign and his generals.’

‘Not before you climb that tree,’ the lanky prince said. ‘Give the tooth to Brother Odos – and come stand on my shoulders.’

The Sovereign of Blenholme and his most trusted adviser rode side by side along the crumbling dike track of the River Malle below Boarsden Castle. They were accompanied by two knights from the household of their host, Duke Ranwing.

The Didionite nobleman had done his best to dissuade his guests from making the excursion, pointing out that the bridge at Boar Creek had been destroyed and portions of the dike itself washed away by a powerful spring flood. Repairs were still incomplete because so many of the dukedom’s ablebodied men had been called to arms against the Salka. Unsaid was the fact that the troops, along with over thirty thousand other warriors of Didion, Cathra, and Tarn, had cooled their heels at a vast encampment near Boarsden for over a moon because no one knew what the invaders were going to do and the leaders could not agree on defensive strategy.

‘Surely Your Grace and Earl Marshal Parlian would better enjoy a boar hunt in the marshes,’ the duke had urged. ‘It would be my honor to accompany you –’

‘No thank you, my lord,’ Conrig said in a tone that was courteous but brooked no argument. ‘I’ve no stomach for pig-sticking today. My old friend Beorbrook is all the company I need, and you yourself are no doubt occupied with preparations for tomorrow’s great reception and betrothal feast. We’ll go out by ourselves and view the historic spot.’

‘But you must not ride alone, Your Grace,’ Ranwing Boarsden protested. ‘The dike track is dangerous.’

He would have given them an escort of a dozen knights, but Conrig insisted that only two would be permitted. With one warrior leading the way and the other trailing, and both well beyond earshot, the king and the earl marshal set out to see the spot where the infamous tragedy had taken place so many years earlier.

It was now mid-afternoon on the day before Conrig’s three sons were scheduled to arrive at Boarsden for the betrothal ceremony. The sky was overcast and mist already rose over the marshy bottomlands below the castle’s knoll. The air had turned chilly, although the autumnal equinox was still several days away, and dew hung heavy on the seed-plumes of the reed beds. A few small flocks of buntings and ducks took wing as the horses passed by. Out on the wide River Malle, covered barges laden with corn, the stoutly built flatboats of fur-traders, and narrow rafts of timber were being guided downstream to the populous valley settlements and the shipbuilding cities of Didion Bay.

‘See over there, sire,’ Beorbrook said, pointing ahead, ‘where the rivercraft have pulled up along the opposite shore? That’s where the great whirlpool lies. Boats and rafts must go carefully around it, then negotiate the long stretch of rapids below, one at a time.’

Conrig guided his mount across a rock-strewn cut. ‘The track is in better shape than I thought it would be from the duke’s warning. I think he had other reasons for not wanting us to ride out here.’

‘He knows you’ll want to talk about the disaster when you return, and King Somarus won’t like that. The topic is an uncomfortable one to the king and his family – most especially now that the young Pretender has declared herself.’

‘Ah, yes, Casya the Wold Wraith! We’ll have to send someone capable to check her out. Or at least try to. Somarus’s intelligencers haven’t had any luck locating the wench’s boltholes. I’ve heard that some searchers who went into the Great Wold after her never came out again.’

‘It’s wild country,’ Beorbrook admitted. ‘Parts of it are said to be even worse than the morass, with impenetrable scrub in areas once burnt over by wildfire, as well as treacherous sucking bogs.’

‘Do you think there could be any validity to the girl’s claim to Didion’s throne, Parli?’

The earl marshal shrugged. He was a stocky, still powerful man of nine-and-sixty years, with hair and beard gone snow-white while his brows remained black, giving startling emphasis to eyes that glittered like blue glacier ice. ‘The body of the infant princess was never found. Of course, neither were those of over half the victims of the attack on the river, including King Honigalus and Queen Bryse. The Salka monsters devoured them flesh and bone. The two little princes drowned, poor lads, but their bodies came down the rapids almost unscathed. There have been whispers about Princess Casabarela’s survival for years. The Vandragora clan – the late Queen Bryse’s people – would unite in a heartbeat with the great timberlords and certain discontented barons to pull down Somarus if this Casya Pretender looked at all legitimate.’

They rode in thoughtful silence for a few minutes. Then the Boarsden household knight ahead of them reined in, turned his horse to face the river, and removed his plumed hat.

Conrig urged his own mount forward and came up beside the man, who only pointed wordlessly to the broad expanse of water. In a moment, they were joined by the earl marshal and the knight who had been riding in the rear of the party.

‘Where did the Salka ambush the royal barge, Sir Vargus?’ the Sovereign asked.

The first knight lifted his head, which had been bowed in prayer. He was balding and jug-eared, with rugged features, at least two decades older than his companion. ‘Just upstream of the great eddy, Your Grace. The action was very cleverly planned. The oarsmen of the royal barge were weary after having come upstream through the rapids, but they easily avoided the vortex by keeping to the far shore. When the boat returned to midstream and the approach to the castle, the monsters rose up out of the water, smashed the oars and rudder, and began swarming aboard. The royal barge drifted helplessly in the current and was sucked down into the whorl and smashed to bits. Nearly a hundred souls perished besides the royal family of Didion, including an aunt of my own who was a lady-in-waiting to the queen.’

‘What a hideous tragedy,’ Conrig said. ‘And there were no survivors?’

Sir Vargus hesitated, whereupon the other knight, a thin, hard-faced young man whose name was Gansing, exclaimed, ‘No one at all! And those who say otherwise are liars.’

Parlian Beorbrook interposed smoothly, ‘It’s been long rumored in Cathra that the Salka were incited to commit this heinous crime. A human sorcerer, Beynor of Moss, who was once Conjure-King, is said to have sought revenge against the royal family of Didion for some alleged insult.’

‘I’ve heard the rumor,’ Sir Gansing said. ‘The best-informed persons at our court think it ridiculous. It’s well known that the Salka despise all human beings. Why should they have done the bidding of Beynor? The notion is laughable.’

Sir Vargus stared out at the river and spoke in a voice full of suppressed tension. ‘Those of us from the Firedrake country think otherwise. When Archwizard Fring Bulegosset was on his deathbed in Thornmont Town, he confessed that Beynor had admitted responsibility for the atrocity in a windspoken conversation with him. Fring also said that certain other persons of high rank knew that the attack would occur and did nothing to warn the king and queen.’

‘Codswallop!’ Gansing scoffed. ‘Treasonous drivel! You should know better than to talk of such rubbish to the Sovereign.’

‘Did this dying wizard name the other conspirators?’ Conrig asked Vargus.

The knight’s reply was reluctant. ‘If he did, no one in Firedrake country will admit to knowing. I myself have no idea who they might have been.’

‘Perhaps I can ask King Somarus when we dine tonight,’ Conrig said, eyeing the earl marshal obliquely.

‘Please don’t, Your Grace!’ Vargus’s face had gone ashen. ‘The rumors are very vague, and the tragedy took place many years ago. Our king would be distressed if he were reminded of it on a night when the mood should be one of joyful anticipation.’

‘Oh, very well,’ the Sovereign said. ‘I suppose it would be bad form to speak of such sad things just before a betrothal. And as you said, Sir Vargus – it happened a long time ago. Let’s go back to the castle. I’ve seen enough here. You and Sir Gansing ride well behind us. I wish to speak privily with the earl marshal. We are well aware of the track’s hazards now.’

Both of them trotted off ahead of the Didionites. After a while, Conrig slowed and let Beorbrook draw up beside him. ‘What did you think of the byplay between the knights, Parli?’

‘It only confirms what we already know, sire. Didion is split into rival factions that would be at each other’s throats – and ours as well – if the Salka threat didn’t keep them united.’

‘No, there’s more,’ the king said thoughtfully. ‘The ambush on the River Malle was never satisfactorily explained. The Salka monsters hadn’t ventured so far inland in centuries, and there was no easy way for them to have known about the annual progress of the royal barge upstream – unless a human confederate told them. Beynor certainly had a hand in the affair. He was exiled to the Dawntide Isles and had the opportunity to arouse the Salka. But revenge on his part seems a weak motive for slaughtering the entire royal family of Didion. There had to be a link with Somarus. He was the one who benefited, and I find it significant that he declared Beynor to be an outlaw after the fall of Moss. But what did Beynor hope to gain by killing Honigalus and his wife and children?’

The old general shook his head. ‘Power of some kind. We may never know the truth of it unless he resurfaces. If Beynor had hopes of using the Salka to take back Moss from his sister Queen Ullanoth, he miscalculated badly.’

‘I never heard the tale of the dying arch wizard before,’ the king remarked. ‘Fascinating – Fring and Beynor and Somarus conspiring together, using the Salka to pull off a stupendous coup.’

‘The Archwizard Fring was once a crony of our old nemesis Kilian Blackhorse, you know. And he restored his lost fortunes very handsomely when Somarus took Didion’s throne.’

‘Kilian, that silver-tongued whoreson!’ Conrig growled. ‘It’s a good thing he’s kept out of my way during these strategy meetings at Boarsden. I realize he’s kept Somarus from flirting with rebellion. Still, I don’t think I could control myself if we two were in the same room.’

‘As Didion’s Lord Chancellor, Kilian Blackhorse may well show up for the betrothal feast,’ Beorbrook said. ‘If so, you’ll have to swallow your bile and put a cool face on it, sire.’

‘Don’t tell me how to behave, damn your eyes!’

But Conrig knew that his friend was right, and the knowledge made him sulky. Mulling over Kilian’s spectacular treason, he was distracted from thinking further about Beynor and the Salka ambush; and so the Sovereign of Blenholme and Earl Marshal Parlian Beorbrook rode on together without speaking further of that matter.

For over three hundred years, the distinguished Beorbrook family of warriors had held Cathra’s most critical frontier castle, which guarded the only reliable route between Cathra and its northern neighbors. The marshal’s two elder sons, both able warriors, had lost their lives in the Edict of Sovereignty massacre, leaving only the third son, Count Olvan Elktor, in line to inherit Beorbrook Hold and the vital duties that went with it. Though goodhearted and stalwart, Olvan was acknowledged to be too slow of wit to assume the important office held by his father. The earl marshal had been resigned to having the honor pass out of his family upon his death, when the shocking reappearance of Maudrayne Northkeep, along with her son Dyfrig, changed everything.

To the surprise of many, Conrig declared that he would be magnanimous to his divorced Tarnian wife, even though she had accused him of possessing windtalent. The king refused to acknowledge Dyfrig as his son (there was no proof his mother had cohabited with another, but neither was there proof that she had not); but in a great compromise intended to placate the Tarnians while preserving the dynastic status quo, Conrig decreed that whatever Dyfrig’s heritage, he would be accepted into the ranks of Cathran royalty, placed third in the line of succession, and styled prince. The boy was to be adopted by Parlian Beorbrook and would inherit the office of Earl Marshal of the Realm if he proved competent.

It was an ingenious bargain that had defused several potentially ugly situations – including the ambitions of Duke Feribor Blackhorse, who was thereby demoted to fourth in the succession. But the bargain was also one that Conrig subsequently came to regret with all his heart and soul.

Prince Dyfrig Beorbrook was now an adult in Cathran law and the apple of his adoptive father’s eye, while Conrig’s feelings toward the young man were clouded with dark misgivings. He knew well enough that Dyfrig was his own first-born son, conceived while Conrig was still wed to Maudrayne, and the legitimate heir to the throne in spite of the royal divorce. But the king had only found out about the boy’s birth four years after marrying Risalla Mallburn of Didion. The twin sons born to her were already named first and second in the royal succession when Dyfrig’s existence became known. To have placed Risalla’s sons behind the son of Maudrayne, when Dyfrig’s parentage could not be officially verified, would have affronted hotheaded King Somarus beyond all endurance. (He was Risalla’s full brother, while his more rational predecessor Honigalus had only been her half-brother.) The compromise placing Dyfrig third in the succession had been intended to strengthen the allegiance of Didion, while still appeasing Maude’s uncle, Sernin Donorvale, the powerful High Sealord of Tarn.

In recent years, as Dyfrig matured into a young man of conspicuous intelligence and courage, Conrig became all too aware that certain influential persons in both Cathra and Tarn considered Beorbrook’s adopted son to be a much better candidate for the Iron Crown of Sovereignty than either Orrion or Corodon: the Prince Heritor was thought to be worthy but colorless, while his younger twin was a hare-brained roisterer. The earl marshal’s loyalty to the Sovereign was absolute and he swore that he had inculcated Dyfrig with the selfsame virtue. However, Beorbrook was an old man, with no aspirations other than service to his liege. The king brooded about what would happen when his faithful friend died and young Dyfrig became the principal military leader of Cathra, second only to the Sovereign himself.

Conrig Wincantor was only six-and-forty years old, in robust health despite the spiritual corrosion occasioned by fending off his many enemies. Once the Salka were soundly thrashed and sequestered in the unimportant corner of the island they’d earlier overrun, he intended to turn his eyes to the Continent. The nation of Andradh, lacking a strong central government, was in his opinion ripe for the taking.

But only if the Sovereignty of Blenholme remained firm under his leadership.

Only if all of Conrig’s domestic enemies, real and potential, were neutralized.

The opportunity to solve the irksome problem of Dyfrig had come unexpectedly to the king a sennight earlier, following a particularly acrimonious meeting of the Council of War. The Cathran and Tarnian battle-leaders, whose idle forces were chafing for action, wanted to launch immediate attacks against the entrenched Salka horde from both land and sea; while the Didionites, who better understood the perils of fighting pitched battles in the awful Green Morass, insisted on holding back so long as the inhuman foe advanced no farther this year.

Conrig was being pressed for a final decision but knew he lacked important facts about the monsters’ situation. Why had they stalled? Were they waiting for some new magical weaponry before advancing? Had numbers of them fallen ill? Were they expecting reinforcements from Moss? There were too many unanswered questions.

At this point Prince Dyfrig had approached the Sovereign in private and proposed leading a hazardous but well-thought-out scouting expedition into Salka-held territory. Since ships of the Sovereignty’s Joint Fleet, sailing along the north coast of the island, were too far from the concentration of monsters to obtain useful intelligence through scrying, Conrig’s strategists had been forced to rely on vague reports from overly cautious Didionite scouts and the weak-talented oversight of that country’s wizards. Earlier attempts by sizable Cathran reconnaissance teams to penetrate the morass had been total disasters. The men had fallen victim to wild animals and hostile terrain, and the few survivors had no useful findings to report.

But now Dyfrig volunteered to try something different. He wanted to lead a small, elite group that would travel very quickly and secretly to a vantage point in the Gulo Highlands overlooking the Beacon Valley, a rugged region that the clumsy, water-loving amphibians were unlikely to have occupied. Once the little band gained the heights, its powerful windsearcher would be able to oversee the enemy position in relative safety; intelligence could then be windspoken directly to Lord Stergos without relaying it through the biased Didionites.

Instead of scoffing at the bold idea, Conrig seized on it. If the mission succeeded, the Army of the Sovereignty would obtain invaluable firsthand news about the enemy. If it failed, Dyfrig would either be viewed as an overreaching young fool – or a dead hero.

Conrig had authorized Dyfrig’s scheme without consulting the earl marshal. Only the king and his trusted brother Stergos, the Royal Alchymist, knew the true goal of the mission was direct windtalent oversight of the Salka invaders. Everyone else, including Dyfrig’s adoptive father, believed the prince was traveling only to Timberton Fortress, near Black Hare Lake, where he would personally question local informants about the movements of the enemy.

‘Sire, there are riders coming from Boarsden Castle to meet us. Two of them, at a rather brisk clip.’ Parlian Beorbrook still had the eyesight of an eagle, and a moment later he added, ‘One of them is a local knight and the other is your royal brother.’

‘I hope nothing’s happened to delay those boys of mine.’ Conrig’s tone was sour. ‘If we have to postpone this damned betrothal ceremony and magnify Somarus’s resentment further, I’ll wring their necks!’

The king put the spur to his mount and Beorbrook galloped after. But when the four riders met in a cloud of dust, Conrig was relieved to see the Royal Alchymist’s beardless face alight with happiness.

‘My liege,’ Stergos cried, ‘I’ve received important tidings on the wind! From Prince Dyfrig!’

‘Then let’s you and I and the earl marshal speak of it privily,’ the king said in a pointed manner. The disappointed Didionite warrior backed his horse away.

‘Is my dear son well?’ the earl marshal inquired.

‘Oh, yes!’ Stergos was fairly hopping out of the saddle with excitement. ‘He and his men have learned that the Salka are withdrawing – streaming northward in vast numbers.’

‘God’s Blood!’ the Sovereign cried. He managed to supress his inappropriate consternation just in time. Not only had the young wretch survived his feckless adventure, but it seemed as though he had improbably covered himself with glory as well.

Stergos rushed on. ‘Vra-Erol Wintersett, the army’s Chief Windsearcher, was able to scry the huge host of monsters at Beacon Lake. His oversight was not crystal clear, but the direction of the Salka troop movement was unmistakable. They’re retreating toward the sea.’

‘The Brother scried this from Timberton Fortress?’ The earl marshal was incredulous.

‘Nay, my lord.’ The Royal Alchymist’s exuberance faltered. ‘Prince Dyfrig led his party into the morass as far as the Raging River, deep in the wilderness. They were only about thirty leagues from the Salka position when they made their reconnaissance.’

Parlian Beorbrook groaned. ‘Zeth save us – the young fool!’

‘The Brother windsearcher is absolutely certain of this retreat?’ Conrig demanded.

‘He is. And there’s more.’ Stergos hesitated. ‘It seems almost unbelievable, now that I think further about it. But – well –’

‘Speak up, Gossy!’ the king said harshly. ‘Stop your damned dithering!’

The Royal Alchymist blinked. His brother’s temper had grown increasingly short since the start of the massive Salka invasion. Unlike the earlier forays by amphibian forces against human coastal towns, it had caught the Sovereignty completely by surprise and shaken Conrig’s heretofore invincible confidence. Stergos had tried not to take the king’s emotional explosions personally, and he now spoke as calmly as he could.

‘Dyfrig claims that he knows why the monsters halted at Beacon Lake. It seems there are other inhuman inhabitants of the Green Morass that the Salka were unaware of. That were unknown to the Didionites as well – save as half-forgotten legends. The mysterious creatures are said to be huge and very ferocious. Dyfrig believes that they attacked the Salka host, wreaked havoc on them, and stopped their advance.’

‘Bloody hell,’ Conrig murmured. ‘And the prince and his men actually saw these things with their own eyes?’

‘Not exactly,’ Stergos admitted. ‘They encountered strange tracks supposedly made by one of the creatures, and claw marks high in the trees. They also found a huge bear that had been torn to pieces and devoured by an unknown predator – and in its skull was one of the attacker’s broken teeth. It’s nearly the length of a man’s hand and almost resembles a Salka tusk – save that it’s golden-yellow in color, like a sharpened topaz gem, rather than glassy clear.’

The earl marshal said, ‘But can they be sure that the bear wasn’t brought down by others of its kind, or by some human hunter? This so-called tooth might be naught but a primitive weapon of some sort, made of something like obsidian.’

‘The expedition guide is a Didionite fur-trapper,’ Stergos said, ‘the most experienced man Prince Dyfrig could hire in Timberton, where men of that stripe congregate. This fellow is adamant that the bear was killed by something called a Morass Worm, a sort of dragon without wings that was thought to have gone extinct centuries ago. The worms are intelligent – and they possess talent, just as the Salka do.’

Conrig let loose a sharp obscenity. ‘Giant worms? Dragons? Have they all lost their minds? Are we supposed to believe a tale spun by an ignorant Diddly stump-jumper?’

‘Sire,’ said the earl marshal, ‘something caused the Salka army’s lighting advance to slam to a halt over a moon ago. It wasn’t the terrain. They had a clear corridor through the morass: wetlands and rivers and lakes, perfect for such creatures. They could have reached the valley of the Upper Malle if they’d kept moving, and would have caught Didion’s forces flatfooted before troops from Cathra or Tarn could reinforce them. Luckily for us, the brutes stopped dead in their tracks. We’ve speculated about some unknown disease decimating their ranks. But they didn’t withdraw at the end of Thunder Moon, when they first stalled, so that explanation doesn’t hold up. Dyfrig’s does.’

The king’s jaw muscles worked. He said, ‘And you, Gossy? What do you think?’

‘What Prince Dyfrig says is logical,’ said the Royal Alchymist. He added with enthusiasm, ‘And what a wonderful stroke of fate it is! The Salka are all but defeated. We won’t have to fight them in that hellish bog country. You can announce the great news to Somarus and the generals and the Tarnian Sealords at supper tonight. Our warriors – all of the Sovereignty’s warriors – can go home for the winter.’

Conrig thought: And I shall not lead Blenholme’s army against the inhuman foe after all! The momentous battle that might have solidified our uneasy political unity is once again postponed…

Aloud, he said, ‘The Salka withdrawal must be verified before we allow the troops to disperse. This apparent retreat might be only a feint. I’ll announce that the findings of Dyfrig’s party are only preliminary – but very hopeful.’

Beorbrook sighed. ‘I suppose that’s wise, sire.’

‘If numbers of Salka are retreating into the sea, the fact can perhaps be confirmed by a Tarnian sloop or two carrying windsearchers along the north coast. The High Sealord must order boats out from Ice Haven at once.’ Conrig addressed the Royal Alchymist. ‘Gossy, I want you to contact the windspeaking Brother who accompanies Dyfrig. Order the expedition to return to Boarsden immediately.’

‘They’re already on their way. But even coming at breakneck speed with little sleep and many changes of horse, it might take them four or five days to get here.’

‘They are to bring with them both the Didionite guide and the alleged tooth, along with whatever other evidence they may have collected concerning these Morass Worms.’

‘My talent isn’t strong enough to bespeak Vra-Odos directly right away,’ Stergos said to his brother. ‘Even though I am a Doctor Arcanorum with a fair windspeaking facility, Prince Dyfrig’s party is too far distant to hear my unfocused windhail. I must wait until they are closer – or until Vra-Odos calls out to me on a narrowly aimed thread of mental speech.’

‘Then see that you keep your mental ears well pricked!’ the king said curtly. ‘Let me know just as soon as you’re able to pass on my orders. And add another, which is even more important: Dyfrig is to make certain that the Didionite is closely guarded and tells no one about the presence of the Morass Worms. This charge I lay upon the prince with the full weight of my authority. It goes without saying that the Cathrans in the party will also be sworn to absolute secrecy.’

Beorbrook was puzzled. ‘But, sire! Why?’

‘Fighting Salka monsters in raids along the shores of our island in recent years has tested the courage of our warriors to the utmost,’ Conrig replied. ‘Think, Parli! The Didionites, especially, are terrified of the moonstone sorcery wielded by the great trolls and their habit of devouring their foes slowly, while yet alive.’ A cynical smile twisted his mouth. ‘Who can tell what our worthy allies might do if they learned they might now also have to battle dragons to save our beleaguered homeland?’

‘Who can tell,’ the earl marshal said somberly, ‘what any of us would do?’