The Call of the Crown (Book 1) (28 page)

Arfael nodded and raised his mug—which i
n Arfael’s hands looked more like a small teacup. Of course, that made Elspeth turn on her stool and look in his direction. She appeared to be pleased to see him.

Grady mumbled into his mug. “Aye, she’s impressed with you, lad. Now don’t you go running off and hiding.” Gialyn felt a tinge of excitement mixed with the butterflies beating a jig in his stomach. “Well, go on, lad. She
’s waving you over.” Grady shook his head again. “Gods, I’ll never be an uncle at this rate.”

“Uncle?” Gialyn puzzled.

“You know what I mean. Go on!”

Gialyn felt a kick at his ankle. “I’m going, I’m going.”

Most of the women smiled as Gialyn squeezed through the multitude. Some of the men grunted, and even the odd woman or two gave a sideways look. Clearly, not everyone was as welcoming as Clem. And there were those that looked upon their arrival as a bad omen, apparently. Gialyn was sure he didn’t know the half of
that
story. Maybe some of the locals were just unfriendly to outsiders, omen or not. But the smiles outnumbered the frowns by a fair margin, thankfully.

As the last group of locals parted to let him by, Elspeth rose from her stool and moved to the comfortable chair Olam had vacated. In turn, he had moved round to sit by Arfael. Elspeth gestured at the hard wooden stool. The smile on her face said she had considered letting him have the comfortable chair, but not for long.

“I was beginning to think you wouldn’t be coming,” Elspeth said. She readjusted her dress—yes, a dress—around her legs as she settled in the deep cushions.

“Father was talking to some of the Rukin. I waited, but
—”

“What was he talking about? Nothing wrong, I trust?” Olam’s question was a little too eager. Gialyn paused in positioning his mug on the table.

He gazed at Olam with a creased brow. “No. He was asking about merchant trains. Why, is there trouble of some kind?”

“Oh no, nothing like that, Gialyn. It is just some folk are a little… nervous.” Olam dismissed his response with a casual wave of the hand. “Nothing for you to worry about, child.”

Gialyn pulled his stool up and arranged his mug so he could lean in closer. “Why would anyone be nervous?” he whispered. He looked over his shoulders both ways to check no one had overheard his question. Elspeth sighed and put her drink down with a thud. Clearly, this was not what she wanted to talk about.

“Really
, Gialyn, it’s nothing,” Elspeth said. “Just try and enjoy yourself. We are back on the road tomorrow.”

Gialyn turned to her with a surprised look. “If you know something is going on, then why don’t I?”

“Really… Gialyn, it is noth—”

“And here they all are, or at least most of them.” Toban interrupted Elspeth’s answer.

Gialyn turned in time to see the crowd part and allow three wolves and a tall grey-haired Rukin man through to their table. Toban stopped a short pace in front of Arfael. “Elspeth, Arfael, Olam, Gialyn, may I introduce you to Arthben, Gaiden, and Ishban: the Village Council Elders.

Those sat at the table rose to exchange bows with the three elders and Toban. The two wolves, Arthben and Gaiden, sat themselves on the high
, cushioned alcove, while Ishban pulled up a stool. Toban made do with a cushion on the floor Ishban had placed down for him.

No sooner had they settled than Clem came scurrying up to the table, dry-washing his hands and smiling particularly widely. Behind him, the older of the serving girls was carrying a tray of—well, Gialyn wasn’t sure what it was; it could have been nuts or seeds of some kind—snacks and laid them carefully in front of the elders. She quickly curtsied and took up a position by Clem’s shoulder. Clem nodded, possibly in the hope of approval, before asking
, “And what can I get you, good sirs? And may I say it is a pleasure to see you all here?” He bowed.

Ishban, the Rukin man, nodded back. “I don’t know about anybody else, Clem, but I’ll take a mug of your fine wine, sir.” The others nodded in agreement, two more enthusiastically than the other one; Arthben had a face that could crack walnuts.

Clem waved off the serving girl. “Go on, Kalina. One mug, three bowls. Quick now, go!” Kalina’s smile abruptly fell as she about-turned and darted back towards the bar. “Now, if there is anything else you need,” Clem said, looking mainly, if not completely, at the council members, “then don’t hesitate to shout… or, uh… no. Just wave. I’ll keep an eye out.” With that, he bowed and followed Kalina back to the bar.

“Strange fellow
. You would think he had never seen us before.” Ishban laughed as he picked up a nut, or seed. “Get a few visitors and the whole town turns to fools.”

“They may well have good reason to be weary, Ishban.” Arthben made a point of turning his head away from Arfael as he spoke. He was the largest and possibly oldest of the three wolves sat round the table. Gialyn didn’t think a wolf could possibly get any bigger than Toban, yet he had seen two or three much larger in the short time he had spent in Illeas’den.

Toban rolled his eyes at Arthben’s comment. “We are not here to talk about that, Arthben. We are here to keep our new friends company.”

Arthben squared his eyes on the Alpha. “Nothing is beyond talk, Toban. And if not now
, when?”

“I don’t disagree,” Gaiden said. He seemed the most… congenial of the three, other than Toban, of course. “But there is a place, as well as a time, for such matters. And an inn is not the place.”

“Well, the time is now! Inn or not. If this omen is to be believed, we must guide the Kin. It is our sworn duty, our
sacred
duty. We owe that much to our ancestors.”

Gialyn, who was far from enthusiastic when it came to listening to quarrels, began to rise from his stool in the hope of leaving them to it. Only to be pulled back down to his seat by Elspeth. “You’re not leaving me here alone,” she whispered.

They continued. “As of yet, we know nothing other than a Kel’mai has visited us. You are jumping at shadow and prophecy, Arthben. Gods, we do not even know if he is, in fact, Arlyn Gan’ifael.” Gaiden said the last much too loudly to be ignored. A hush descended on the common room as all eyes turned to the table.

Toban shook his head. “There is nothing to be done one way or the other, Arthben. If news reaches us, if your fears are realised, we will still have months to prepare. The Madden cannot launch an invasion without every man, woman, and child east of the
Drieg hearing of it weeks before an attack.”

Arthben wouldn’t give up. Kalina brought their drinks. Toban and the others tried engaging Olam, Arfael, and even Gialyn in small talk. Elspeth joined in the talk about the hot weather. However, for all their efforts to lighten the mood…

“We don’t know how much time we have. We should send emissaries. Preparations need to be made.”

Toban’s mood changed for the worse on hearing of emissaries. “I know of what you speak, Arthben. We will not involve the Darkin in this. It is too dangerous. Nobody has spoken with them in two generations. They have… changed.”

Arthben huffed indignantly. “That’s folly and travellers’ tales, Toban. You should know better than to put stock in such yarns.”

“They
have
changed. People I trust have seen it. They are twice the size they were and fiercely guarded about it. I will not send emissaries to them on a whim.”

“A whim? You accuse me of being whimsical at a time like this.”

“A time like what? Nothing has happened. We have a visitor. The sky is not falling down.”

“You watch your station, Toban. We are the council, and until war is declared and the
Battle-brother’s oath sworn, we are still supreme, for the good of ALL Rukin.”

Arfael’s fist came down on the table with enough force to crack the maple top. The silence that had accompanied the wolves’ argument was now ushered into gasps of incredulity. Gialyn shrunk into his stool. He gulped at the sight of painted rage o
n Arfael’s face.

“My duty is my own,” Arfael shouted. “I’m not
yours
to be guided!”

Whispers like a distant plague of locusts filled the common room. Feet shuffled as an arch of space opened around the table where Arfael sat. Even Arthben, for once, was silent.

And then the song began. The minstrel chorded his harp. The flutist droned a sorrowful melody. And the man began to sing:

“In Arlyn, brave Arlyn, our honour be sworn,

T
o fight evil ‘til the end of our days.

And not rest when we hear triumph
’s horn,

Arlyn Gan’ifael, the blessed, we pray.

“Hear now, you sons of the mountain high,

Do not fail your Kin of the Isle.

Lay down your sword at the throne of your foe,

And fail the sons of Ifael.

“His voice shall sing once more in the fields,

W
hen the witches of Eiras do come.

The dragons’ breath brings fire upon us all,

As the Madden, they beat on their drum.

“Aye, the tales they tell of Blackwing of Old,

A
nd the brothers wage war on our lands.

Ifael, and the kings, reign the ancient war bond,

As the children spill blood on the sand.

“The day will come, the Black Dragon cries.

His son will he give, for the coward they call.

Let the witches tremble in his bloody rage,

A
s the Oracle’s tears do fall.

“In Arlyn, brave Arlyn, our honour be sworn,

T
o fight evil ‘til the end of our day.

And not rest when we hear triumph
’s horn,

Arlyn Gan’ifael
… the blessed… we pray.”

A silence filled the room, filled it so thick it was deafening. A tall woman in a grey dress took a step forward. She curtsied deeply to Arfael, touched her fingers to her heart and then to her lips. “Gods bless you, Arlyn Gan’ifael.”

A large man with grey hair took a step forward and did the same. Then another and another. Soon, every man and woman stood with hand on heart, staring.

Arlyn
closed his eyes and whispered, “My name is Arfael.”

CHAPTER 19

The morning came. A pale-blue spring sky lay over the Illeas. Sharp shadows fell from the buildings and lay strong across the streets and alleys of Illeas’den. It was early; birds had barely finished their chorus. Folk were busy with their breakfast
. The smell of cooked fish and bacon and eggs wafted from the open windows, mixing with a welcome morning breeze. Scents of sweet blossoms mingled with the earthen aroma of dewy grass. The barest wisp of cloud hung breaking in the sky, as the white of the eastern mist gathered to blue.

Few were about on the street, save those with responsibility for the livestock and chickens housed in coups and pens neatly arranged along the thicket border. Some had collected water, b
earing too-heavy yokes as they walked along the path from the lake, trying not to spill any as they climbed the last short rise through the village gates. All was quiet and peaceful. Another day in Illeas’den had begun, a day that promised little out of the ordinary, save the presence of a few gossip-worthy visitors.

Daric and Grady swung their heavy packs to rest against the short wall at the base of the great hall steps. Balancing a cup of tea and half a bread roll in one hand, Daric loosened the ties on his pack and shoved a pair of socks he had forgotten to pack through the opening. He sat on the wall and continued with his bread roll, pondering on the days—no, weeks—ahead.

Grady stretched as he looked out over the buildings—the hall was on a shallow hill at the northern edge of the village—towards the east and the Illeas Ridge. The ridge would be their first marking post on their journey back to the Great Western Road. It stood bold in the mid-distance, barely four miles away. Beyond that, the rolling grassland spread in swathes of painted meadows until disappearing in what little remained of the morning’s mist. Down the path, out of the village, the lake stood proud and prominent, beautiful in its simplicity, a near perfect circle of glassy blue-green, embarrassed by the light stone of the old quarry that held it.

“It is a good morning for a walk, my friend,” Grady said. He took in another long, deep breath of the dew-sweetened air before sitting on one of the hall’s steps. He, too, had the remnants of a bread roll and half a mug of sweet tea, more like watered
-down honey. Daric didn’t know how the man could stand it so sweet.

“It is at that.” Daric agreed. “I just hope this place hasn’t made the others too soft: hot baths, comfortable beds, good food. I can hear the complaints already, not that I won’t be the one complaining, too. This certainly is a fine village.” He joined Grady in admiring the effortless charm, the beauty of what lay before them. “Back to business, I suppose. Have you seen sight of anyone?”

“I heard Olam and Arfael making ready. Ealian will be here shortly. He’s a strange one, that child, that’s for sure,” Grady said. “Don’t know what to make of the lad.”

Daric, mindful of what Olam had said about Ealian and the Dead Man’s Vein, asked
, “In what way is he… strange?”

Grady blinked and began toying with his pack. “I—it is probably nothing. Just his age, I expect.”

Daric knew that face; Grady was hiding something, but then, so was he. Well, he could hardly ask him about something he himself was keeping secret. However, Grady’s admission, small as it was, added to his tally of concerns over the boy.

“Aye, you’re probably right. I’m worried, too. He did have that bad night in the marsh. We
’ll just have to keep an eye on him.” Daric didn’t like lying to his closest friend and liked it even less that he had just tricked him into keeping an eye on the boy without telling him the whole truth. But he had a greater bargain struck with Olam: not to mention their suspicion until certain of it or a cure was found. There was nothing for it but hope. Still, lying, even by omission, bit hard at his stomach.

“Maybe it’s just youngsters these days, Daric. I do not know. One thing is for sure
; he is an odd character. That was plain enough even
before
we started out.” Grady yawned and stretched again. “Are they coming, or are we to spend another day here? Not that I would mind, if the truth was known.”

“I hear someone coming. It will be them, I would guess. Wolves aren’t that noisy.” Daric chuckled. “Lucky for us we aren
’t tracking a wild beast for supper. We would surely go hungry.”

“I do not know. The girl is no lead-footed oaf. Right impressed with her, I am.” Grady nodded, agreeing with himself.

“Steady, old man, she was a child barely two summers ago,” Daric jibed.

“Oh, please. I need a woman! You’ve seen my house.” Grady sighed.

“Yes!” Daric said. “It’s next to the piggery. Oh, wait… no, it is the—”

Grady clipped Daric round the head with his fingers. “All right now, we can’t all have beautiful doting wives, my friend. You don’t know how lucky you are.”

“Oh, yes, I do!” Daric said. “Believe me, I do!”

The double-arched doors of the great hall swung open, and out poured the rest of the travellers, along with Toban, Sarai, and Aleban. The group skittered to the bottom of the steps, bread rolls in mouths, jackets half fastened, still half asleep, by the looks of it, except for Olam, of course.

Arfael brought up the rear. A very sober expression on his face, he looked like he hadn’t slept at all. Daric had heard about the… incident. How that could concern such a man was a mystery, but then, he wasn’t there, and just because the man wasn’t much for talk didn’t mean he couldn’t hold a thought in his head.

The others waited at the bottom of the steps while Daric and Grady picked up their packs.

“Morning, everybody, are we all ready?” Daric asked. His question was met with mumbled groans and sighing. Gialyn yawned, Elspeth dry-washed her face, Ealian circled impatiently, and even Olam looked reluctant. Arfael nodded and began to walk towards the gates leading to the main street.

They had barely taken a step onto the outer path before the doors and windows of the village dwellings opened. From the side streets and alleyways they walked, jamming up the junctions, two or three deep in places. It would appear the whole population of Illeas’den had come to see them off. Twenty paces on, three Rukin women stood in the road with baskets of food to present to the travellers. Grady, Olam, and Elspeth accepted their gifts, bowing deeply as they did so. A young cub wobbled his little legs up to Arfael—with the encouragement of his mother—holding a single flower in his jaw. The tiny youngster bowed and placed the flower on the ground in front of Arfael’s feet. The big man picked it up and was about to pat the youngster on the head when he remembered what Olam had told him of their custom. Instead, he bowed and thanked the young cub for his kindness.

Upon reaching the gate, all the wolves present let out a deafening howl. The travellers turned and graciously bowed left and right to their hosts. How Daric could stand without his face burning with embarrassment was beyond him. The level of awkwardness echoed in the expressions of his friends. Yet Olam treated the whole affair with dignity and majesty. The man did enjoy his etiquette, no doubt there. After a final bow, they turned feet towards the lake, leaving a village full of—what Daric hoped were—new friends.

*  *  *

Gialyn followed Toban and Aleban as they walked to the east, turning by the lake. He could still hear the howls of the Rukin ringing in the distance. For all of last night’s troubles, he, too, was sad to leave. As nice a day as it was, thoughts of the comforts of home tugged particularly strongly after the hospitality of the past few days. Still, a rest was good. The next few weeks would be all the better, the easier, for it. The wolves rounded up against the bend to say their good-byes.

“You are clear on the route?” Toban asked.

“I think so, my friend, and we have your map at any rate,” Daric said.

“You have three, maybe four, easy days
’ walk to Crenach and a straight path north along the tree line. You will be south of Cul’taris and heading for the Great Western Road in no time.

“I don’t know how to thank you for your kindness, my friends,” Olam said. He spoke as though he were leaving loved ones behind: solemn and regretful.

“Here.” Aleban placed the pouch he was carrying on the ground by Olam’s feet. These are Camcus, wolf whistles. The mothers give them to their children. One blow and any Rukin wolf within five miles will come running, yet your enemy will not hear them, lest they be wildling wolves.

Olam picked up the small bag, took one, and passed the rest back. “Again, thank you, sir. It is a sad day for us all. I know I speak for everyone when I say thank you.” The rest of the group nodded and mumbled in agreement.

Elspeth, head bowed, stepped up to Toban and Aleban, knelt, and hugged each in turn. “Forgive me this once. I know that isn’t your way. I’m so proud to have met you all. I will never forget you.” She whispered the last.

“My dear Elspeth, of course. And please, all of you, remember to stay in touch, send any news of the east. We will bid you safe journey. May Galais Gan’ilea
n mind your way.”

With that, they were off, heading eastward along the thin bramble-hedged track to the Illeas Ridge, minds full of the events of the last few days. Their trials seemed nothing but the pale glimmer of old memories next to the kindness of the Rukin. Despite the few, they
were
kind and generous of spirit.

Olam seemed particularly lost for a time. He walked a pace off from the rest, his head bowed low in silent contemplation. True, the virtues of the Rukin were many
. The union of man and wolf left Gialyn feeling woeful at the thought of the petty selfishness he witnessed every day. He was ashamed to admit he was probably as big a culprit as anyone else, not much better than Ealian at times. He, too, had his prideful ambition, his selfish ambition. How could he throw scorn in the face of people who cared? Maybe his parents were not always right, but they certainly cared, even if it was sometimes nigh on impossible to see it, especially in his father. He had a lot of thinking to do.

Before long, they reached the junction of the north/south road. Ahead lay open meadow, stretching miles to woods at the base of a distance scarp. The north road led to higher country. The road widened there, until eventually cutting east—the “long way round” of which Toban spoke. Its route eventually led to Cul’taris, and they would have followed it, too, had they exited the marsh by the northern pass as planned. No, it was south for them, onward towards the
Raithby River.

The southern track followed the base of the Illeas Ridge down to the very last mile before the flats of the Raithby basin. Occasionally, the toes of the ridge poked into the sandy path; the route wasn
’t straight, but it was firm, easy, and downhill. The fields to the left weaved up and round a wide rolling landscape of patchwork meadows. Hedgerow, bush, and tree stood at the peaks and troughs of the swelling fields, as if carefully placed to make the best of the picture. The centre of the meadows lay to grassland; cowslip, clover, and goat’s beard lay among the greens and browns, splashing colour against the hue of the spring’s bright morning. Dots of whites, blues, yellows, and reds peppered the scene, as though they were an artist’s final delicate touch. Indeed, a place that, all too soon, the travellers would sorely miss.

Noon had barely passed when they came upon the Raithby. The path led to a tight pitch, where the river meandered sharply around a pale grey-green outcrop. The bank there lay long and shallow. The travellers made good use of the easy access to the water and rested there for lunch. There was little in the way of conversation between the travellers. They chose instead to sit and take in the view. All were content, as all was going well. A simple path lay ahead. “Follow the river for four days.” Toban’s route couldn’t be clearer. An easy peace lifted their hearts. All were aware of their good fortune; they need speak nothing of it. The sun was warm. The path was clear. All was well. And that was the way things stayed for the next three days.

By the evening of the fourth, they had come within sight of the waterfall and gully that Toban had described, the “shortcut” to the central plains that led north to Cul’taris. Ahead, in the distance, the tops of the trees of Crenach woods were visible, their dark crowns crossing the river and filling the southern horizon. In the near distance—around one mile—the waterfall cascaded in a single drop of maybe thirty spans. The waters ran fast from its base, feeding into the eastern flow of the Raithby. To the left of the waterfall, a narrow gully climbed the rock face. A steep path lay in its centre. It looked a hard rise; it wasn’t going to be an easy trek, but no need for climbing boots. Toban was correct in his direction. Once past the gully, a short trek across the upper river would see them to the edge of Crenach’coi. And the central plains
of Aleras’moya.

*  *  *

Daric looked up along the narrow stony path leading from the base of the gully. It lay barely a hundred paces ahead now. Four paces wide and maybe fifty long, it ran between two sheer rock faces, maybe two or three spans high on either side. There was no going round it—sheer cliffs to the left, with the Crenach forest and river to the right. It was this or turn back.
Good place for an ambush,
he thought. He turned to the others with hand raised. “Rest here for a while. I’m going to reconnoitre the gully before we proceed.”