The Call of the Crown (Book 1) (31 page)

CHAPTER 21

Brea dropped the cloth she was holding to her mouth and ran towards the tunnel. Halfway there, she cursed, realising she didn’t have her lantern. Quickly, she turned back to the table and picked it up. Once lit, she set off again, mindlessly charging up along the passageway to the inner cavern. She didn’t care that her feet were getting wet in the stream, didn’t even care when she grazed her elbow on the rock wall. As soon as the cavern entrance was in sight, she began to shout.

“Tor, Tor!” she bellowed. Wheezing from the climb, she put the lantern down on the rock shelf and began to look about for any sign of the dragons. “Tor… Tor, are you here?”

“Yes, child. I’m here. What is it that has you so flustered?” Tor’s booming voice came from the upper entrance.

“I saw it, Tor, the Cinnè’arth. I saw it in the Lier’sinn. It was awful.” Brea began to pace from side to side, one hand on her hip, the other covering her mouth. Her eyes were wide and panicked. She patted her chest and coughed as she tried to gather herself.

“Slow down. What do you mean you saw it? What has happened?” Tor lowered himself from the raised platform. Brea saw the concern in his eyes, which was unusual; he was always so stoic with matters of duty. “Child, please, you must calm yourself and explain.”

A cold, sharp chill gripped at Brea’s throat. She began to cough; the damp of the cavern and her breathless state were becoming too much for her. “I need water first,” she said through short breaths.

“There’s water by the steps. You can use that silver goblet. Don’t worry, it’s clean.” Tor nodded to his right, where a small spring bubbled up from a crack in the rocks next to the “stairs.” It was one of many fed by the Moon Pool.

“Thank you,” Brea said. She filled the goblet and then sputtered as she tried to gulp it down.

“No so fast!” Tiama said. Brea felt the warmth of her breath as Rek’s mother moved down from where she slept to investigate. “Child, please, you must calm down
. You will make yourself sick.”

Brea sat on the step and settled herself, sipping at the water now. “There was a fight, in a gully”—she spoke between long draws of breath—“by the Crenach’coi. The Salrians attacked them. All seemed lost … I think two of their friends died. At least… I saw them… fall! I don’t know, maybe they—” Brea put her head in her hands, unable to continue. The vision she
’d seen was cloudy and sporadic at best. What stuck in her mind most was the fear in their eyes. Especially the girl. Her face turned ashen grey when she saw her two friends fall into the water. And the monster…

Rek jumped off the platform and came to her, his head bowed low, when he saw her state. He nudged her knee with his nose. Brea lifted her eyes and hugged him tightly to her chest, stroking his cheek. “I’m worried for all of you now. What if…
What if our plan doesn’t work? It is an animal!”

“What do you mean ‘it?’” Tor asked.

“The Cinnè’arth, it has no control. It ripped four men asunder! And fast! I have never seen anything like it. What If I cannot control him?”

Tor looked to Tiama. “My child,” she said, “if we are prepared, all will be fine.
The Cinnè’arth’s condition is not unexpected.”

“You sound like my mother,” Brea said. “But you didn’t see it. If I bring him here and our study of the lore is wrong… you will have to kill him before he kills you, or my precious Rek.” She put her cheek against Rek’s. Tears began to well up in her eyes.

Tiama stepped over to the hearth and lit the fire. “Come, sit over here. Your hands are shaking. Come on, bring your drink with you and sit by the fire.”

“Thank you, Tiama.” Brea slowly got to her feet. Half at a stumble, she made her way to the now well-lit fire. She set her goblet down and sat on the edge of the hearth. Despite the warmth, she embraced herself and rubbed at her arms while gazing vacantly into the flame.

“You must not worry, my child. We have time. We can prepare ourselves.” Tiama noticed Brea was shivering. She nodded to her right. “There is a blanket there, if you want it,” she said.

With that, Rek rushed forward to the blanket
, carefully picked it up with his teeth, and brought it over for Brea.

“Thank you, my darling boy,” she said.

“At least one argument is settled.” Tor raised himself up, as if ready to run for the door. “I must fly to Kirin’thar tonight. The Salrians could destroy all our plans before we have even begun. I must ask Kirin to get him to safety—show him the way to Bren’alor.”

“Crenach is only three days
’ walk,” Brea said. “They could be here by week’s end.”

“Yes, but if he is by the river, then they have another two days before they reach the edge of the
Coi
,” Tor said. “But you are right. We must start preparing now.” Tor sat up on his hind legs, picked up a leather cowl, and pulled it over his eyes. “Tiama, can you see that the others know what has happened? Maybe they have ideas that we have yet to think of. It will be dark enough soon, and I saw clouds that will cover my flight. I will leave in half an hour, flying east along the spur. I should only be in the open for an hour or so. And once over Crenach—”

“Even so, be careful,” Tiama said. “We do not want our enemies to learn of us just yet.”

“What should I do?” Brea said.

“I’m afraid it is back to the books for you, child,” Tiama said. “I will send for Altor. He knows much
. He will be of great help.”

“Oh no… not Altor the grump,” she said.

Rek let out a low hoot and bounced his head up and down in agreement.

“Grump or not, he’s forgotten more than I know about ancient lore.” For a second, Brea thought Tiama looked remarkably like her mother. “Just be patient with him. You know he is likely to test you.”

“Yes, I do. And by test, I assume you do not mean he will be asking me questions.”

Brea began to feel better. The snug blanket and warmth of the fire did the trick. She wrapped the blanket around her shoulders and started to make her way towards the platform. At the top of the steps and to the left, there was another curtained-off nook where all the
“old” books were stored: books of ancient lore and the journals of past guardians. She took a deep breath as she stared around at the seemingly endless array books, scrolls, and letters. “So, where to start?” she said.

“The blue ones,” Tiama said. “They’re from the Madden, back before the Eiras turned them. There should be something of the curse in there. If not, then the large yellow one is the journal of
Aleria Loian, your great-great-great-grandmother. She was wise and doubtless knew a thing or two about calming spells. If nothing else, we can at least make him feel that there is no threat here.”

“To be honest, that makes the most sense,” Brea said. “I doubt we would have the means to perform a Madden spell, even if we knew which one to use.”

“Yes, you may be right. Anyway, you get started, and I will go fetch Altor and tell the others of Tor’s plan.” Tiama sighed and shook her head. “This should be interesting!”

*  *  *

Tor made his way to the top ridge above the high entrance of Aldrieg. He stood a moment, nervously looking down. A hundred years had passed since he had flown beyond the vale. With his keen eyes, he could see his route. He could almost see the Crenach border, though it was little more than a dark haze. He backed up a few steps and then lunged forward over the cliff edge. He glided first, tipped back his wings, and skipped along the treetops. Then, with a few huge wafts of his mighty wings, he rose. Slowly, he circled the valley until he reached high enough to clear the southern ridge. Once over it, he made his way east. It took a little under five minutes to fly to the Spur. Once there, he turned south again.

The joy in his heart at being airborne and free near made him howl with excitement.
Keep to the plan,
he thought. He rose higher and higher towards the clouds; he wanted to be certain no passing traveller would even have the vaguest hint at who he was, or what, or where he was going. On the far horizon, he could see the outline of the kingdom of Crenach’coi.
Couple of hours maybe,
he thought. He fixed his sight on the horizon and settled to an easy glide.

CHAPTER 22

Dark had fallen heavy. A low cloud of mist obscured the moon, and with it any hope of light. Gialyn struggled ashore with the dead weight of his father in his arms. He stumbled and slipped his way up the shallow bank, barely a few inches at a time, the mud and shale slipping away underfoot at the slightest effort. Eventually, he came to a grassy area beneath a rocky overhang. With one final effort, he pulled his father the last few feet onto the dry ground and then collapsed, his father half lying on top of him.

Daric had remained unconscious since hitting his head in the fall. For almost an hour, Gialyn struggled to keep his head above water. Until, finally, the river had done toying with them. At the bend of a wide eddy, Gialyn had managed to place his feet on the bed and pull his father’s limp, lifeless body towards safety.

Now here they lay. The ominous attentions of the Crenach forest loomed over the river. Gialyn was freezing, though more from fear and effort than the cool breeze that swayed downriver from the valley. Now that he was safe—relatively—a sickness came over him
. His thoughts turned to the others, to Elspeth. The last thing he saw as they fell was her hand outstretched towards him, desperation on her face. Then he heard her cry, “They have fallen.” He hoped someone heard her shout. Hoped someone was alive to do anything about it.
Gods, what a mess!
He sat up and tried to form a plan in his mind… Nothing. They would
have
to be alive, somehow. He decided there was nothing he could do but take care of his father.

The kindling box in his pocket was made of brass and had a tight-fitting lid. Gialyn was overjoyed to find the contents remained dry and in good order. “Thank you, Gobin!” He muttered praise to the air for the Albergeddy blacksmith who had made it so well. He pulled his father out of the wind and went to gather wood. There was plenty about, for they had paddled near two miles into the Crenach’coi, the immense forest kingdom of the Cren’dair. As imposing as it was, Gialyn paid it little attention. He scurried quickly all around the base of the trees for thirty yards about, collecting all the loose
, dead wood he could put his hands on. He returned to the overhang, his arms full to the chin with dozens of dead, dark branches. He cast the flint on some dried moss and built the fire.

Once the fire was set and had strength of its own, Gialyn pulled his father in closer to the heat. He removed his boots and opened his shirt so the heat might warm his heart, rather than dry his wet clothes. For a moment, he wondered how he knew he had to do that. He laughed when he realised his father had probably told him. With that task done, with warmth restored to the pair of them, all that remained was to wait and hope
. No point looking for food in this dark.

Gialyn listened to his father’s breathing; it seemed shallow but steady, as though he were asleep. He thought of slapping him or splashing water about his face. Though having just climbed out of a river, he decided that would be pointless. He wanted him wake so he could say everything was going to be fine, that Elspeth was going to be all right. Surely, they wouldn’t kill them. No. They could have done that easily without all the talk. If they were alive—they
were
alive!—were they prisoners? Was anyone coming to help him?

As the minutes passed, the darkness grew. What he could see of the moon remained behind mist and in the thick of the heavy leaves and branches of the Coi. Even the water seemed black, save the odd ripple reflecting the fire. Ripples aside, the forest was still; no birds sat in the trees or fish gulping and splashing. However, there was something there. Something above the familiar noises of the forest, noises he had heard back at Illeas, or in the marsh. One sound in particular worried him. And it was getting closer: a sound of scurrying. Not light, like a squirrel, but deep and determined, like a boar or hound. Gialyn tracked it in the darkness, following the invisible teaser from left to right
. It never came close enough to the fire for him to see what it was. Gialyn followed the sounds for some minutes. Eventually, it moved off to the right and grew quieter. He then became aware of another sound to the left. The same sound, the same determined scurry.
So there are two of you,
he thought.

Another ten minutes went by. And as the fire began to die and Gialyn moved to fetch more wood, they attacked. The first came from behind, pouncing from the overhang onto Gialyn’s back, the other from the front, snapping and snarling at Gialyn’s feet and hands.

“Get off me!” Gialyn wailed as the creature on his back scratched ferociously at his neck, repeatedly butting its teeth against the back of his head. Gialyn managed to stand. Guarding his face against the sharp claws and teeth, he ran to the overhang. He turned sharply against the rock, and after three attempts, managed to peel the creature from his back.

The creature jumped to the floor. It was some kind of giant rodent, rat-like but with longer legs, about the size of a dog. Gialyn kicked at it, picked up stones to throw at it, and took hold of a stick to stab it. The
rat
kept dodging, diving left to right, snapping at the stick, not really attacking. Gialyn realised he was fighting the decoy as two other rats had taken hold of his father by the trouser leg and were trying to drag him to the water. Gialyn leapt over the fire, took a long stride, and kicked the larger of the two rats square in the stomach. It turned on Gialyn, snarling and biting. Yet it was injured; it limped away and slid into the river.

The remaining
rats backed off, as though deterred by their leader’s surrender. They, too, jumped in the river, gone for now.

Gialyn grabbed as much wood has he could find from around the “camp” and placed it all within easy reach. He knew he couldn’t keep the fire going all night but had to stretch it out for as long as possible. He couldn’t risk leaving to find more wood now, not knowing what the rats had in mind for his father. He would have to sit and hope—pray—that help came before too long.

He wondered for a moment whether the rats were river animals, whether it would be worth dragging his father farther into the woods. It might work. Then they could just as easily be forest rats, and maybe the river was his best means of escape. Maybe they weren’t good swimmers? No. They wouldn’t have tried to drag him into the water.
Gods,
I cannot just sit here.
Gialyn looked with dread at the dwindling fire. The wood was dry and old and burned quickly. Enough left to stoke it maybe one more time, and then it would be darkness.

The tap, tap, tapping sounds of the rats came back, more this time, or at least it sounded like more. Gialyn dragged his father behind him and put the rest of the wood on the fire, saving the largest of the sticks to defend against the attackers. The rats appeared to be toying with him. He followed the sounds in the darkness as they crossed paths behind and to the side. Every so often, one would come to the flank, run in close enough to “take a look” and then dart off again. The creatures called to each other, their shrill cackle echoing from side to side in repeating patterns, as though instructions were being given. Once in a while, a loud cry
would tear through the darkness. One of the creatures would come closer, testing the area from another direction, as if to see what Gialyn would do. They were pack hunters, and they were very good at it—too good for rats.

Gialyn became frantic. He clutched at the thick branch in his hand, not knowing whether to turn right or left. He forced himself under the overhang and stabbed at the most meagre rustle of leaf or grass.

The fire had all but gone out.
Any minute now,
Gialyn thought.

The first attack came from the left. Three of the rats ran straight for Gialyn. He fought in frenzy, beating them off. His eyes might as well be closed for all he could see of them. He spun the stick round his head, darted, and jabbed at every noise. The rats’ cackles sounded like mockery to his ears. Every few seconds, he would feel a nip at his ankle or his knee, always the same side and as regular as clockwork. They were trying to separate him from this father.

Four more rats came from the right.

Gialyn was desperate and on the ground now. The smallest ember from the fire highlighted his plight. The rats were pulling his father away. He felt a large
creature on his legs. He swatted it off, but it came back all the harder, biting the back of his arm, then at his neck. Gialyn had no strength. His limbs became numb. His body surged with fear. A sickness came upon him. He felt lightheaded, as though about to pass out.

Then the wolves came. Hurtling down the bank, they bowled the rats over without halting their charge one iota. One wolf—he couldn’t tell who—wrenched the rat from Gialyn’s side so quickly that its neck snapped with a sickening crack. Another wolf pulled at the hind leg of the rat by Daric’s feet, spinning it against the rocky outcrop, crushing its skull. The other five rats regrouped, and for a second there was a standoff. Wolves howled and rats chattered and squealed. Lips curled as teeth snapped on both sides, heckles raised, both wolf and rat testing the ground between them. The wolves were much bigger but still outnumbered. And there was no telling if more rats were waiting in darkness. The rats attacked first, ignoring Gialyn for the time being. The wolves ripped and shredded their way through them
. The rats had no answer to the ferocity of the wolves, nor to their strength and crushing jaws. Two rats were down almost immediately, once more literally torn limb from limb. The remaining two ran off. The wolves left them to tend to Gialyn and his father.

*  *  *

Gialyn did indeed pass out, but only for a few minutes. When he opened his eyes, he saw the friendly silhouette of Toban standing by him.

“Get up, Gialyn,” Toban said. “You
’re injured. You need to clean your wounds.” The wolf’s tone was patient and very matter-of-fact. He repeated himself, and again and again.

Gialyn struggled to comprehend. The shock had left him cold and lightheaded. Cold sweat beaded about his palms and forehead
. For the moment, he had little idea of his predicament.

“Gialyn
, can you hear me?” Toban raised his voice.

“Yes… I can. Yes,” he mumbled. He raised himself to his elbows and looked around. He saw the two other wolves coming back with branches in their jaws, dropping them onto the fire. Toban sat beside him, patiently waiting for him to come to his senses. Then he remembered.

“Father!” he shouted. He twisted his body to look.

“He is going to be all right, Gialyn,” Toban said. “In better shape than you, I’d say.”

“What happened? Is everyone all right?”

“Yes. Do not concern yourself about others. Please, you must wash your wounds before they are infected. Those rats didn’t look particularly clean.”

“Yes, of course. I will.” Gialyn struggled to his feet and stumbled over to the river. He knelt by the bank and cupped his hands in the water, splashing it over his face.

“No! My boy, you need to scrub! If you can
bear it, you should get back in the river and soak. The back of your neck is cut, so is your forehead and your arms and legs.”

Gialyn sighed. He was so utterly tired that he thought he might just roll over and sleep where he knelt. He leaned on his side and rolled his feet into the fast-running water. Slowly, he inched himself farther, until he could submerge his head. He made the best of his limited strength and scrubbed hard at his wounds for five long
, painful minutes.

By now, the wolves had a roaring fire going. “That will do,” Toban said. “Now come, sit by the fire and take off your clothes.”

“Not that again.” Gialyn laughed, though not for the humour of it.

He did as asked and sat knee to chest a few feet from the fire. Two of the wolves lay by his back to help keep him warm. Another twenty minutes saw him feeling much better.

“I think your father’s waking up,” Toban said.

“Thank the gods,” Gialyn whispered. “Can he talk?”

“He is mumbling. Maybe in a few more minutes.”

Gialyn’s clothes were near dry after hung within two feet of the fire. He dressed quickly and came over to his father’s side.

“Father, it’s me, Gialyn.” He put his hand on his father’s shoulder and shook a little.

Daric moaned, still with eyes closed. He slowly lifted his hand to his head. A fair bump had risen where he
’d hit the rocks. “Where am I? What has happened?” he asked.

“You’re down the river a way, Daric,” Toban said. “Your son is here with us, and all was well when I left the others a few hours ago.”

“What?” He opened his eyes. He lay there, puzzled by his surroundings. It was half a minute before he could recall the events that brought him to the riverbank. “You say all is well. What of the Salrians?”

“Some are dead, some have run away, and two are prisoners.”

“Dead…” Daric turned on his side and lifted his head towards Toban. “How?”

“Arfael.”

“And…” Daric shrugged his shoulders and waited for more.

“Arfael killed maybe four, from what I could make out. One more died from a fall and three or maybe four ran off,” Toban said.

“By Ein’laig, how is that possible?”

“Things with Arfael are not quite as they seem, Daric. I will explain more later. For now you must rest, my friend”