Gambit of the Glass Crowns: Vol. I of epic fantasy The Sundered Kingdoms Trilogy (23 page)

He closed the satchel and put the strap over his good shoulder. He took one final look around the room and left, at peace with his decision for departure.

He stood briefly just outside his door before he turned toward the stairwell. Descending the stairs, he once again felt a bittersweet emotion come to the forefront of his mind.

As he opened the door, the cool, morning air rushed in, and he was pleased with his decision to pack his cloak. He looked around the garden, confident that Bronwen would surely dismantle it not long after he left. He walked across the path toward the drying house and took shelter in the warmth it provided as yet more emotion filled him.

He inhaled deeply the aromas of home. It pained him to leave the drying house, his special place. When he thought of Arlais and his resolve to reach it, he achieved some comfort. They had the ability to grow herbs there he never dreamed of working with in his humble garden.

“I thought I might find you here.” Gawain came through the door behind him. “Are you ready to take your leave?”

“Yes‌—‌I was simply reminiscing.”

“Is that all you take with you?” Gawain noticed the single satchel slung over Connor’s shoulder.

“It is all I shall need. If I am to take vows at Arlais, I will have no need for trivial belongings. I bring only what I will need on the journey.”

“I suppose you are correct.”

“It does not lessen the pain of leaving, however. Are your men ready to depart?”

“Yes. They await us in the courtyard.” Gawain reached for the satchel. “Here, let me carry this for you.”

“I thank you.” Connor let the satchel slide from his arm into Gawain’s hand.

“Are you certain you wish to leave so quickly?”

Connor looked around the drying house. “I am certain.”

“Then let use make haste.” Gawain opened the door. “A storm looms in the north.”

Connor followed Gawain through the small gate and into the main courtyard, surprised to find twenty horsemen awaiting them.

A loud ruckus from the stables caught Connor’s attention.

“A struggle?” Gawain drew his sword.

“Of sorts.” Connor tried to stifle his laughter, but let out a chortle, his pink cheeks highlighting his undignified amusement. “They are trying to bridle Víðófnir, I imagine.”

“Víðófnir?”

“Come, you will see.”

Connor rushed forward to stop the two men who tried to prepare Víðófnir for travel. The creature instantly calmed itself when Connor opened the gate and nuzzled him.

“This‌—‌this is no ordinary horse,” said Gawain, in awe of the beast.

Connor laughed, brushing the creature’s golden mane, a crowning glory atop its fiery auburn body. “Víðófnir is no horse. He is one of the Chwyrn Droedio.”

“Chwyrn Droedio?”

“Immortal creatures of old. They are native to Dweömer’s Brynlands and the Far Reaches. Look‌—” Connor pointed down at Víðófnir’s feet. “His feet are cloven, like a deer, not hooves like a horse.”

“He has the tail of a leopard,” Gawain said.

Connor pet Víðófnir’s muzzle and slipped the slender bridle onto him. The animal then knelt down for Connor to mount as though he could sense Connor’s inability to climb.

“How did you ever tame such a beast?” Gawain looked in amazement as Víðófnir stood with Connor atop.

“Tame him? You cannot tame a creature of old. You must gain its trust. You must befriend it.” Connor brushed his hand over Víðófnir’s mane. “And I have been friends with him since I was a child.”

“But, how did you acquire him?” Gawain stepped closer. “I thought they were gone from these lands.”

“They are not gone, they simply do not care for Humes, so they go elsewhere. As for his acquisition, that would imply I claim ownership of him, which I do not. Ceridwen brought him here as a foal when she arrived.”

Gawain smiled. “You certainly speak as one who belongs to Arlais.”

“Do I?”

“It is very Meïnir to not claim ownership of such a magnificent animal, while Humes would pay a mountain of gold for one such as he.”

“Come, shall we leave?” Connor ignored Gawain’s compliment as to not seem foolish. But inwardly, he was very pleased to be compared to one of the Meïnir.

“Should we not wait for your uncle to see us off?” Gawain questioned, noting the high king was not in the courtyard.

“I do not have the heart to say farewell to him. I could not bear to see the pain in his eyes. We leave immediately.”

“As you wish.”

Gawain mounted his horse and Connor joined him at the front of the party.

One of the older warriors with a battle-scarred face and rotten teeth, by the name of Garth, called out to Connor in a gruff voice. “You have no sword, young master.”

“I have no desire to carry a sword, sir,” Connor replied.

“We aren’t riskin’ our lives for someone who don’t bother to protect himself.” Garth tossed a sword to Connor, who reluctantly caught it. “’Twas my son’s. May it bring you better fortune.”

“Thank you.” Connor hooked the sword under his belt.

“Just make sure you can keep up with us.” Garth pat his horse’s withers as he spat through his teeth. “I don’t want to be out in them plains with bandits about longer than we hafta.”

“Hold your tongue, Garth,” Gawain snapped. “Or must I remind you we are his escorts.”

“It is all right, Gawain,” said Connor, patting Víðófnir’s side. “Sir Garth, it is not I who should be worried about being left behind. Come, Víðófnir.”

They sped off at an unbelievable speed before eventually halting to face the men.

“Come, Sir Garth,” he called out, to a response of raucous laughter from the men.

“It would seem your worries are without merit,” Gawain said to a wide-eyed Garth.

“Aye.”

“Let’s move out!” Gawain shouted.

Gawain felt the rain beat against his back in sheets as they crossed the border from Cerwyn into Helygen. He had remained hopeful the storm would stay in the north, but the storm caught them in the open plains and dashed the last of his optimism for a dry journey. With nightfall, the rain turned cold and the wind grew harsh.

Gawain noticed that Connor struggled to keep warm beneath his rain-soaked cloak. He insisted he was well, but he certainly did not look it.

If he had traveled alone, he would be able to make the journey to Helygen within a few days’ time, riding throughout the nights. But he could not do that with Lord Connor at his side. It was apparent he pushed himself harder than he should. Gawain wished, more than anything, even if only for a moment, he could take Connor’s pain away.

He shivered as fog rolled toward them from the coast. In the distance, he could hear the crash of waves against the southern cliffs.

A light, far ahead of their party, drew Gawain’s attention from the cold. It bobbed up and down in the distance.

“Men, at your ready!” he shouted.

He rode closer to Connor’s side and whispered, “Should there be an attack, flee as fast as that beast will carry you.”

“But‌—”

“You are in no condition to fight off a bandit, let alone a well-trained mercenary.” Gawain could not hide the worry in his voice.

“All right.”

“If you were well, I am sure you could stand against them.” He nudged Connor’s shoulder, sensing the hurt pride in his voice.

Víðófnir drew his attention as the party slowed to a halt. The face of the beast contained a Hume-like quality about it. His deep, blue eyes sparkled like the night sky and his muzzle appeared to smile. And under the smile, an auburn beard like a goat’s.

Gawain drew his sword, positioning his horse in front of Connor. All around, the sound of steel unsheathing filled the air as the men prepared for battle. He could feel his pulse in his forearms as his grip tightened.

He squinted, trying to see past the rain and fog. It was not a bandit’s torch, but the light from a lantern of a traveling merchant’s cart.

The squat, Duamor man sat just beneath the lantern on his horse-drawn cart. Clad in dark leathers with a green tunic and gold embellishments, he appeared to be of great wealth. The covering on the cart was bright purple, not at all fitting the rough appearance of the merchant.

“Aye, you don’t look like bandits,” the man called out as he halted the cart, wringing the water from his orange beard.

“We are not bandits,” Gawain announced. “And you do not appear to be a bandit yourself, friend.”