Old Ground and Ancient Shame

Chapter One

Titles

Jakhan was alive. His fall had been softened by the ingenuity of his people, as well as the fear of any man who has been told he will spend the bulk of his time flying through the air. To alleviate the fears of Viharthian corsairs—as unaccustomed to flight as fish to breathing in the open air—their engineers had built a clever device, based partly on the design of their stationary lifting sail.

Even without the lifting properties of an engine fueled by brine and vapor, the Viharthians had discovered the hampering effects of cloth enclosures. It was a simple enough formula: when the sails are filled, the vessel moves forward, but it was the discovery of a wayward nobleman that set them to work in earnest.

On a pleasure ride below the foothills of the eastern mountains, a certain nobleman rose in his stirrups momentarily, to inspect the terrain ahead before kneeing his horse to the gallop. As he resumed his seat, an arm's length of his voluminous silken cloak was pinned beneath him, and the billowing fabric bloused sufficiently in the wind to hamper the horse's forward movement.

Within five years, the descent sail was born, made entirely from silk, that the light fabric might inflate quickly, hampering the descent of any falling man. In two staggered rows, those silken loops had been in plain sight, lining the frame of every outer portal of the Dallupar, though I had never thought to ask of their purpose. Even so, it was one of those loops that had saved Jakhan's life, for he had grabbed hold of it as the thieving brigands hurled him out, and the billowing fabric at the opposing end had slowed his descent sufficiently that he landed with little impact. He found the earth far afield, and though it was not without rock or rising root burl, Jakhan had been wearing his armor. Where the racing Hjarrleth thought to find a broken corpse, they found a billowing silken sail and a grief-stricken brother, instead—he had landed without breaking a single bone.

All around me, it seemed that the immediate reaction was panic. Sigmund and Jakhan had lost siblings, and the Trathnona were without Phulako, High Priestess, or general. They bickered, shouted, made hasty decisions, sent outriders, and made all manner of preparations—they often turned to me, but perhaps they saw the madness in my eyes, for they did not long view me as a source of comfort or leadership.

While they panicked, I surrendered, and in the silence of the afternoon, but a few hours after the loss of my true love, I fought against the force of grief with strong drink. My armor was scattered all about my quarters, and I lounged naked on the floor, my back slouched against the cold stone wall, the dull gray light of winter blocked entirely by shutters and heavy curtains. In time, I slipped from consciousness, and though I had imbibed heavily for nearly an hour, I did not rest without incident.

In that same room, I sat fully-armored, Sequiduris, Sheath and harness hanging from the back of my chair. Where there was once a window I saw instead a deep cauldron with a narrow rim mounted high, Glohrsax blazing beneath; the vessel boiled with such intensity that the wall hangings behind were blown upward against the force of the rising steam.

Seated across from me, his arms on those of his chair, was an apparition that assumed the forms of many different people. He had the white beard of Arne; Chieftain of the Herrulf Clan, and the eye patch of fine dark leather and silver inlay that so marked him.

Though he had died just after my fourth year, my gift for memory was such that I would have known the eye and voice of my father anywhere. The easy, resting smile was Lior's, and though I knew the face and body to be those of long-dead Skiro, he appeared younger, and it seemed strange that the words issuing from that frame were neither mad nor cruel.

Even I was not myself, for as the apparition spoke, I answered without pausing to think, though the responses appeared more or less natural.

"Who are you?"

I—I am Ralph.

That is your name. You are more than that, for such was your title at birth. Who are you?

I am the Onidai.

You may yet be, if you continue true to form, but only two have you Claimed, where five yet wait beyond your reach—Who are you?

I do not understand.

You are what you have earned. 'Onidai' is not yet earned; Ralph was earned before ever you stood as a man. And yet, you have not been without accomplishment, or titles earned for your pains—who are you?

The Vaentan.

The Onidai leads in war, and it is as the war-chief that you have decided to stay and fight, yet you are war-chief of two, alone. Among the captured are the wardens of those you already lead. The Onidai wages war. What is the charge of the Vaentan?

Justice. He slays the wicked, and protects the weak. He frees the Vithrauth from suffering, and leads the Forsaken to freedom. So have I done, already.

And yet you are not dead. You have fulfilled ancient prophecy—but that is not the end of a hero's charge. You wish to be Onidai?

Yes.

Then you must protect those that you lead. Ralph wanted to save his love, but you were mistaken in thinking that the Onidai would stay on the force of doubt, alone. Did you believe you would defeat the Musicians? Assassins? Darratonn? Nidhag? Kaerkjan? Skiro? Bankeina? Reya's jailers? You feared death, expected to fail, yet your feet carried you forward, and you still live. Fear of failure never stayed your hand, ere now, and love, while strained, can never be slain by doubt. She may yet love you—how then can you fail to try?

The war cannot be fought without leadership.

And without the Wardens of the two Proved, you cannot advance further. The Onidai needs to be Proved before the five remaining, the Vaentan must mete out justice, and you Ralph, are not without the desire to rescue your true love.

How can I accomplish that which defies possibility? They fly through the air, straight to a far and hostile country at great speed, while I would be bound to earth and sea. Nothing can prevent their arrival.

It is not their arrival you must prevent, but that which will shortly follow. You cannot fight them head-on, not even with the Banners united, but you are not without the capacity for barter.

The chests, gifts from Malmheith's hoard flew open simultaneously, revealing the wealth of gold and jewels within.

How am I to buy their freedom in the land of white gold?

You cannot, but in a land of starving laborers, gold may buy much. You need only a ship to find far Ebria, and gold may buy that, as well.

But if I cannot fight them outright, how am I to barter for prisoners—beyond price?

"There is a price to all things. They have a wealth of Phulakoi, but you possess the pearl beyond price—a single defiant nobleman of their kind survived Varian's rise, and this you know full well."

Gabrian?

The apparition had appeared strong and sure throughout our conversation, but at first mention of the Ardos's name, he weakened visibly, and slouched in his chair. His words were labored.

The way—is not certain. Your path may change. Your decision must not. Do not deny them. You—will need all before it is ended. The Onidai may stay behind—that choice is yours. The Vaentan must go—clever Ralph must follow.

As those final words met my ears, I felt a sudden chill. When I looked down, I saw that my armor was gone, and I was dressed once again in the shabby rags I had known as a Meadrow tavern boy; I no longer felt the bulge of my harness at the back of my chair.

The light faded and began to flicker savagely, and when I turned to look I saw that Glohrsax had been sheathed, and was now resting beneath the flat of my palm. Beneath the cauldron, there was a common hearth, a guttering fire therein, and the steam no longer issued with such strength as before.

When I turned to look on the wise specter, he was gone; in his place I saw a tall man, disproportionately lithe. He was naked, and his coal-black eyes danced against the diminishing firelight. The light had grown so dim that I could not discern his features entirely, but I saw his mad, distant grin, and I could not fail to see the cleaver in his right hand—it was long and wickedly serrated. In his left hand, he held two short coils of thick hempen rope, in appearance like that used for ship cable, and both lengths ended in wide nooses, dangling flaccidly at his side.

Never before had I seen him, but I knew that I hated him. Glohrsax blazed instantly as I leapt from my seat. He brought around his heavy rope to club me down, the cleaver raised for a vertical chop even as I aimed the Branding Knife at his vile heart.

My eyes opened, but I did not leap to awareness. Rather, I rose slowly, pulled the curtain, and looked with satisfaction and hope, for the sun had not yet begun to set.

* * *

The Ardos had been the perfect guest. We could call him nothing else; though he continued to dine alone, he behaved just as he had promised, neither menacing the household nor attempting to flee. As such, Sigmund and I had decided to bar his windows.

With two locks on the Ardos's door at night, and barred windows, we felt comfortable in 'trusting him' not to escape, so his chamber was no longer guarded.

I could not trust in numbers. That dream vision was my spur, my motivation to pursue my true love, but nothing more. I left Sequiduris, Sheath, Glohrsax, Key, and armor behind, but did not hesitate to reach for the Olinbrand lockbow. As I have written, it was a magnificent weapon, a thorough improvement over its rude Ebrian cousins, and though I would not take my cumbersome armor—or the legendary trappings of the Onidai, against the fear that I might fall—I knew that I might yet find a use for clever weaponry. With Malmheith's white iron dagger, and that of the long-dead assassin, I felt myself well enough equipped to answer minimal threats, but knowing that I might be riding into certain death, I stole into Sigmund's armory, just the same.

The horses were saddled fifty paces from the rear portico—five mounts, including Edam and the tall chestnut Gabrian had come to favor during his afternoon circuits around the estate. The other three were the tall gray creatures favored by the Hjarrleth; two for spare mounts and a third for pack. Of course, this was blatant theft, but I consoled myself with the knowledge that there was gold enough in the pouch I had left atop my note of explanation to purchase a score of fine horses, saddlery included.

I had raided the kitchens, waiting until well after all but a few had retired. I had stolen a bit of Framlach from Sigmund's infirmary—the very same sedative Rowan had given to me, almost a year before—and corrupted the drinking vessels of the night servitors, so I knew my actions would not be observed.

Our pack horse had food enough for months, water for more than a week, as well as vinegar to sanitize questionable sources of further hydration, and I had even seen that the oats in all five sets of saddlebags would last at least seven days, ensuring a strong start. I had to be careful though, against the possibility of burdening the pack horse with too much weight in general supplies, for my bribe was not at all lightweight.

Four oiled leather sacks, each more than double the size of a wineskin, hung from the pack frame, two to each side, and I hid the small pouch of rubies, sapphires, and diamonds in the beast's leftmost saddlebag: if I had thought he could carry it, I would have hoisted the whole of Malmheith's hoard onto his back.

In the armory, I had already set aside Gabrian's sword, knowing that even in agreement he would not leave without it, and I made certain to remember his strange, spring-operated dagger.

When I found the odd knife among the captured papers and maps, I examined it closely, admiring its golden hilt—a sweep of thin golden rods—and its bright, undulating blade, a perfect match to the white iron of his sword, Flamma. The blade only appeared to waver for half its total length; below it was nothing more than a flat rectangle with deep serrations, opposing one another at either side. When I pressed my thumb to the ruby at the center of the hilt, I understood the peculiar design.

The firm pressure of my thumb released a simple spring mechanism, pushing the rectangle apart top and bottom. In the blink of an eye, that beautiful dagger grew a shorter blade to either side, with a reinforced outer edge and deep serrations facing inward. The purpose, as the Ardos had explained, was the entrapment of the opponent's blade, though, to date, he was the only man in his country that possessed one; with all of his opponents safely dead, few knew of the clever knife's existence.

For myself, I took a Hjarrleth spear, and, owing to my increased strength, I felt confident in choosing a heavy one. The head was just shy of a handspan in width, triple that in length, and it tapered to a sloping point. The oak shaft was nearly equal to my height, the entire upper third covered by the socket, and a thick ferrule, longer than my forearm, covered much of the lower portion, while the rest was gripped with textured leather, the surface criss-crossed by thongs of braided sinew to improve the grip.

The sword is a weapon for a warrior, and without Sequiduris I was nothing more than a strong amateur. Still, with lockbow, daggers, and the Hjarrleth spear, I felt I might at least give a good accounting of myself, and, as I was not at all confident about fighting without at least some protection, I had also retrieved my ancient Meadrow shield.

The weapons secure among the baggage, I sought out the Ardos's fighting leathers. I had discovered, on closer inspection, that the Ebrians did not share the Hjarrleth fear of reforging white iron. The boots, with their raised shin guards, were not solely leather, and when I commented on their rigidity, as well as that of the long bracers, formed of the same glossy leather, Gabrian explained that they were reinforced by very thin butted plates of hjarrviht iron.

Though Ebrian longswords are far from light, hjarrviht are exceedingly heavy, lending themselves best to a two-handed grip. As a result, the Ardos's ancestor made far more use of the captured weapon than the mere forging of another sword. With shin guards, bracers, and wide kidney belt, the wearer had all the subtle protection needed against any similarly-armed foe, and with Gabrian's clever dagger—his own innovation to make use of the long-neglected remainder of white iron—few foes had lasted beyond the initial phrases.

I had the key to Gabrian's chamber, borrowed from the belt of Brander, whose sickly-sweet mead I had drugged at dinner. The disgusting flavor of his chosen beverage left Sigmund's majordomo with little hope of detecting the additive, and he had been snoring in his own chamber long before my arrival.

The Ardos was not asleep, and when I made my way into his chambers, his eyes were still to his window.

Here to kill me, Master Onidai? That is just—but not at all satisfying, for though the culprits are of my nation, I am not the man responsible. I was expecting you, you know. With such heavy losses today...suffice it to say that I do not blame you.

You know, then?

"Yes, I do. A clever stratagem, really. This Hertha, whoever she is, does not lack for guile. She has the means to placate Varian, even after my 'escape', in the form of three foreign dignitaries, and the very same vessel that will speed her far ahead of any pursuers will also gift his army with a powerful new conveyance. I know not if spies are given ranks, but if so, the woman has certainly earned a promotion. She will be held in high esteem indeed, if she survives the trip—I know well of the...men who travel with her."

Then you know where they are going?

"Certainly. Ebria has many cities, but such a triumphal return could only be bound for Milharta, the seat of our new king. As I have said, she is certain for promotion—posthumous though it will be, for Uncle Varian will not take kindly to the news of my capture."

He had said it all facing the window, and each time he paused he tensed a bit, as if expecting a killing stroke in response.

I walked around the edge of the room, finally stopping by his side. He turned his head as I held out the leathers.

These are yours, I believe. You will need them in the saddle.

* * *

I outlined my plan (or a plan, as I had no intention of telling him of the trade I would attempt) as he donned his fighting gear, and even as I spoke I stacked his folded clothes in a pillowcase. The intelligences I had gathered, the maps and missives, were already packed with our fifth mount, so that all of his remaining effects were in that very room. His leathers were overlaid with borders and inlay of gold and silver, and with both rings on his left hand, and the pendant hanging about his neck, he appeared as regal as all his claims, though only for a moment, for he was fast to tuck the pendant beneath his doublet, and he tied his hair back for riding as I led him into the corridor.

Again, he gave his word that he would not try to escape, and, strangely, I knew that I could trust him—of the two of us, I was the only liar. I had offered his freedom in return for his services as guide; I excused my treachery by reminding myself that he was Ebrian, and therefore destined to see all people of the 'lower continent' as nothing more than inconveniently located herds of useless and dispensable animals.

And besides, he would not likely come to harm. He had been his uncle's prisoner, and such would be his lot again.

When we reached the horses behind the nearest outbuilding, he leapt deftly and quietly into his saddle. I had been impressed by his skill at riding, but, following the first good-natured laughter I had seen from the man, he informed me that not all travel in Ebria was accomplished by steam engine.

I held out Flamma and matching dagger, both wrapped in the spiral of his belt and baldric, and I made certain that he had met my gaze before speaking.

You have kept your word at every turn, Ardos, but in truth, I would not offer these unless our predicament was dire. Before you take them from my hand, I will have your word that you will use them only in your own defense, and that you will not use them to effect my harm, that of my mount, or to hamper my efforts in any way.

You have my word; I swear also that I will not leave your side until our work is accomplished—or beyond all hope of success. Flamma is at your service—as am I, until this deed is done.

I could ask nothing more, and so I handed him his weapons. I could tell that he had to fight the urge to draw the sword of his forefathers, but he restrained himself well, harnessing the weapon instead. I clicked my tongue to bring Edam to a walk, and the tension on the halter attached to a ring at the back of Edam's saddle brought the three big Hjarrleth grays clattering behind us.

The moon was waxing bright, nearly full, and the few heavy clouds moved slowly in the heavens, that any real darkness was periodic and brief. The Ardos rode with an easy grace, moving with his mount as if they were joined as one, and I was surprised to hear the lightness in his tone, particularly when paired with the content.

If I may ask, why is Sequiduris not among your baggage? With that blade, as with the first two of Rorik's tools, our chance of success would be far greater.

I was in no mood for any such discussion, and in truth, I had not felt like talking, at all.

Your countrymen have not lain idle, this past decade or so. Were you aware of their expeditions in Tulakal?

Of course. A land of limitless wealth, in terms of knowledge and the benefits to be gained thereby.

The Olinbrand Chieftain, Sigmund's father Sigred is the one who retrieved the Kenalkan Key. He did so only with difficulty, for it seemed that all of Ebria was scouring southern Tulakal in search of the very same artifact. If they wanted the Key, it stands to reason that they wanted the Devices, as well—or perhaps they didn't want the Onidai to have them. In either case, I will not risk losing the only proof of the Onidai's return. If I fall, they might still choose another.

Admirable, but short-sighted. If you die, how will they choose your successor? And how will Sangholm and Venibrek acknowledge the man's worthiness? If you die, they'll be left only with valuable trinkets over which they may bicker, even as all of Foundation burns down around them. You should have taken them—the Sword and Sheath at least. Mine is a land choked with noble swordsmen—as well as commoners who train to fire in volleys.

I let that sit, for the very same thought had crossed my mind. It was a dangerous and tempting line of reasoning: 'if they can't make use of them, I will, and if I survive, all the better, for they will still have a leader'. That argument, thin from the outset, was well worn, threadbare, and required that I ignore entirely the fact that it was based on groundless assumption. I preferred to look to the evidence.

Venibrek and Sangholm had already cooperated in their efforts to find the Onidai, and to choose another might be as simple as accepting my counsel. In my note, I had named another—and, in truth, a more worthy man than I—as my successor.

Sigmund was already a warrior, and it was his father who had found the Key. He had been patient throughout the years of travel, searching diligently for a worthy claimant and living a life contrary to that expected of a Hjarrleth chieftain. He had strength, intelligence, patience, a kind heart, and the will to see the war to its end. Truly, I could think of not one man that I would trust with the responsibility of Rorik's title more than my silent friend.

It is often said that people materialize at once when they have become the topic of discussion. The Olinbrand Chieftain must have possessed Brenna's talent for reading minds, for I had only been thinking of the man, and as we rounded the corner of his estate, there he was, in the company of two mounted men and amidst a gathering of haltered mounts.

They marked our presence as we rode to their position, but continued their conversation, as if I had been expected all along. I thought briefly of trying to gallop past them, but knew that to be sheer folly, for they were no poorer in horseflesh than I. On closer inspection, I saw that his companions were Jakhan and Hod.

Jakhan had resumed his custom of going about in black silks, but wore also a knee-length riding coat of dark wool with wide sleeves, cinched up in front to accommodate his accustomed harness and weapons. Armored, he preferred an arm's length rod of iron and bronze, as well as a curved single-edged sword of thinly-hammered iron, highly flexible and extremely sharp, with a wide belly near the point, suggesting great power in the slash.

That night, he wore his unarmored harness, a shorter, more agile version of the Ebrian longsword, and a strange, bent, leather-wrapped wooden club in a thick, rectangular sheath. All that remained on his belt was a short, cylindrical leather case, which I took to be some sort of parchment container.

Hod was likewise unarmored, but he had chosen more practical garments, for none know more of evading winter's chill than the people of his own Banner. He wore a fur tunic, the hair facing inward, with leggings and gaiters of the same make, and his boots were much heavier than the thin hide shoes normally worn by the Hjarrleth. His thick waxed-wool cloak was lined with the pelt of a brown bear, a provision that weighted the garment, that Hod had to mount it on a mantle of tanned hide.

Sigmund's cousin was armed with the Hjarrleth hunting bow, a very strong weapon formed from laminated layers of birch and ash; it had but a single curve, ensuring a perfectly even draw and a steady release. He had a densely packed quiver at his back, but also another to the right of his saddle bow, and I spotted two more on one of the pack horses.

The Olinbrand Chieftain was dressed as his cousin, and though he was not encased in the Ironskin of his house, he wore cuirass, pauldrons, greaves and bracers of boiled hide. Over his right saddlebag, I saw the chieftain-shield of the Olinbrand, the huge, round iron ward that he had carried nearly a year earlier at the Orinsos. Embossed on the shield's surface, I saw the symbol of Sigmund's house: Taraz, the Hjarrleth war-rune, shown in that image as a hammer with a downward-slanting head, gripped in a mighty, ironclad fist.

Sigmund was armed in common Hjarrleth fashion, the focus, in his case, being the huge war axe favored by the Athleith. He had a hatchet for throwing, as well as a broad-bladed hand axe, mounted at opposing sides of his belt, and a long Hjarrleth dagger, sheathed horizontally behind him.

The hilt of a common but serviceable sword rose from behind his left shoulder, and at once I understood his designs, for they were not much different than my own. His goal was rescue, as evidenced by the absence of Starkdrepa. If his choice of armor could have been excused as a provision to aid in haste, the absence of his sword could not. He knew that death was likely, and like me he did not wish for such a wealth of armor and weaponry to be lost in far lands.

They did not speak. Hod removed the halter from my saddle-ring, then cinched it to his own, on the left, that it would oppose that used by their own mounts. When Sigmund kneed his horse forward, we followed at a middling gait, galloping for a quarter-hour, and slowing to a walk for twice as long. Such was our pace, and, four hours later, we arrived at Hjarrgoth Manor.

Sigmund held out the Olinbrand guide rune. That he would risk, for it would be sorely needed. Floating in its flat cup, the rune of black iron pointed directly north, and, noting that I had seen the needed direction, he spilled the water from the case, wiped it dry on the hem of his long, white, fur-lined cloak, and returned the rune to the safety of his scrip. For a moment longer, we waited near the gate of Hjarrgoth Manor, while Hod plied flint against iron to light a torch, then handed it to his cousin.

Sigmund kneed his tall horse to a full gallop, that his torch guttered loudly. The light-stave was Trathnonan, and I knew that its flames would not die, but the practice seemed senseless. We had gone afield a full half-mile; there he halted, and we all followed his example. He dismounted, then indicated the place of Jakhan's fall, where his descent sail had been rolled up and staked to the ground.

There were more torches, simple Hjarrleth staves, yet unlit, planted in an even line a few paces from a tree at the center of the field. I had heard from Jakhan himself that the flying ship had floated directly over that tree, and if not for the billowing drift of his descent sail, that is exactly where he would have landed.

Sigmund beckoned me to dismount with a motion of his hand, and I obeyed mechanically. As I landed, he passed his Trathnonan torch over the others, each spaced two full paces from its nearest neighbor, and they ignited in passing. With his finger he called me forward, then reached into his scrip and handed me a familiar item: Alinblath. That fragrant blue flower, encased in a crystalline resin to preserve it for all time, had been left on the breast of the last victim of Hertha's co-conspirators—a token from the Lady herself, that I might know the identity of my victorious foe.

Sigmund pointed to the south, and I followed, my eyeline stretching diagonally, so that it rested finally atop the roof of Hjarrgoth Manor. Someone had lit a massive torch, for a half-mile separated us from the gate, and an equal distance stretched between gate and Manor house. Yet still I saw the point of light clearly.

I followed Sigmund behind the line of planted torches, and there he held out both arms. With the tips of his thumbs pressed together, and his palms held skyward in a mirror image, he leaned forward, his eyes to the empty space between his hands. He then stepped aside and pointed south, clearly indicating the twinkling light a mile away. I did as he, and as I knelt down, I finally understood.

The planted torches, two paces apart, formed a perfectly straight line with the light a mile beyond. Hertha had placed the Alinblath as a parting shot, probably as she boarded the ascent cradle, which was evidence of the flying ship's initial position. Jakhan had given a second point of reference when he told of the tree he had so narrowly avoided during his descent. Those two points offered some idea of the Dallupar's course. Even with quarry that never truly touched the ground, Sigmund's keen eye had found a trail.

Further, he guided me to another line of torches yet unlit on the northernmost side of the tree. He lit those as well, then handed the torch again to Hod, who stepped away respectfully. At the southernmost end of that line, he repeated the previous performance. Mirroring his own stance, I saw another light far off, near the height of a gently rising slope. I offered him a quizzical look, and he held up his right arm as he turned south. His forearm floated, in mimicry of our quarry, then nearing the tree, he drew his sword and hacked away the end of a lower branch.

Apparently, some nearby witnesses had seen the hull of the Dallupar strike the uppermost branches of a tree, and Sigmund had tied another large light-stave at that exact position, to be lit only as that of Hjarrgoth Manor was ignited. I did not have to move again to the other line to know that the torches of manor, field, and tree formed a perfectly straight line. When he saw the light of recognition in my eyes, he looked on me with an intensity that might normally have been paired with a smile. At that moment, his look was a silent promise, and without hesitation, I clapped his left shoulder with my right hand, a gesture that he returned in kind.

Sigmund had been more eloquent with that single look than he could have known. 'Vengeance,' it said to me, 'Vengeance, at the very least.'

* * *

Back in the saddle, Hod had passed out clear crystal phials to each man in our party, and he assured me that it was not Hilyrtrotha.

"The March of the Burning Brow is all but gone, and the next batch will not be viable for some time. But the Olinbrand House is home to more than one secret of the Wise Kenalka. This is Galruht, the distilled juice of a berry from a bush known only on the high slopes of northeastern Tulakal. With Galruht, you will not sleep while the sun shines, and that is well, for we must travel in haste."

The sky was already lightening, sunrise less than an hour away, and so I drank, following Sigmund's example. Unlike Hilyrtrotha, Galruht was not at all bitter, but sweet and pleasantly tart, and, waiting no longer than the time needed for Hod to collect the empty vessels, the chieftain kneed his mount to the gallop, his route pre-aimed by the light of the flickering torches.

Measuring the guide rune against our intended route, I knew Sigmund would not lose the way, and with my wealth of gold, I felt we would be sailing for Ebria far sooner than expected.

Sigmund had not made his own plan of action known, and perhaps he'd had none at all beyond the need for swift pursuit, but I felt certain that he had far more pieces of the puzzle than I. He had not questioned the presence of Gabrian, perhaps aware of his significance in a venture that would lead us to his homeland, though in truth, he must have been as ignorant of my goal as I of his own.

And yet, we continued.

Chapter Two

The Noose Tightens

By sunrise, the effects of the Galruht had made themselves known, and though they were far from unpleasant, neither were they in any way enjoyable. I was awake, clearly enough, and entirely unable to yawn or close my eyes beyond periodic blinking. And yet, I had not ceased to feel fatigue. Rather, I was tired in the extreme, for nearly a day had passed with little more than an hour's sleep, and still I rode on.

We galloped in quarter-hour intervals, offering our mounts only equal time at rest, and for that reason we were required to change mounts frequently. Each time I resumed the saddle with Edam, I felt pangs of guilt as I urged him to the gallop, though the faithful bay never failed to follow my commands.

Near noon, we found a wide track of bare earth that stretched very nearly along our desired course. Sigmund signed with Hod, then consulted a map, and after accounting for the deviation, he nodded his approval. We ate in the saddle as we made for the road, then changed mounts again, before speeding our way along the smooth, dusty gradient of a much-used track. So we continued for two days, resting only briefly by night, for Sigmund wished to make the most of the moon, which had only just begun to wane.

On the third day, we turned away from the road, and made our way across flat grasslands, through empty fields where neither tree nor shrub seemed fit to grow. Six days in those grasslands, and finally, as the sun was just beginning to set, we passed into the rocky abutment preceding the dark and lifeless Salsuk; Foundation's Central Sea.

The brine was yet beyond, through the abandoned limestone quarries once favored by a long-dead race, and how they might have lived in such a rocky, lifeless place, I could not tell, though I suspected that they had ventured there only for salt and stone, and made their home in the grasslands, as I would have done.

Our road was a wide stone track, bounded to left and north by a solid, flat wall of weathered limestone, and to right and south by a gently sloping rise. Also along the southern rise, no more than ten paces from the edge of the road stood tall monoliths, spires of crude-cut stone spaced five paces apart. So much work, dedicated to such a pointless construction—I was on the verge of sharing my thoughts with the others, when I saw that they had closed ranks.

All day, Sigmund and Hod had been tense. I had been unable to talk to either of them for much of the journey, and not at all concerning Sigmund's plan of action (perhaps I was right in thinking he'd had none), but that day, they had been even more alert than usual.

Though Hod held his bow low, horizontally beside his mount's barrel, he had an arrow already nocked. We had been moving at the walk for more than half an hour, an unusual occurrence, given our customarily grueling pace, and that to me was the final evidence: something was afoot.

I knew I would fare best by following their example. Hod was riding two horse-length's behind and to the left of his cousin, and as I was armed with the only other weapon in our party capable of menacing an enemy from a distance, I took a similar position to Sigmund's right, though I gave Hod a slight lead, that I would not obstruct his eyeline.

My lockbow had been behind, attached to my left saddlebag, so I retrieved it slowly, though the operation was far from silent, with spear lashed over brazen shield behind me. Following Hod's example, I held my weapon low. My hip felt naked, absent the weight of my Sheath; any attack by night was sure to be accompanied by the flight of missiles.

Sigmund turned and locked eyes with me, beckoning me forward with a gesture. He repeated the operation with Jakhan, and both of us rode forward, that we were riding three abreast, with Hod and our dozen tethered, riderless mounts bringing up the rear. The Olinbrand Chieftain had already taken his shield from its customary place, and now it hung from a thick leather strap at his left shoulder. The huge round ward dangled pendulously at his right side, and as I approached he cinched up the strap, in a manner I had seen with the axemen of their common warriors, though their own shields were not nearly as heavy or broad as those of Hjarrleth chieftains.

When he saw that we had gained to either side, he transferred the haft of his great axe to his right hand. With two fingers of his left hand he covered his eyes, then pointed his thumb behind him. As always, he did not need words to communicate clearly in times of need, and at that moment I was grateful.

'We are being followed.'

When he saw that we had understood him, he made a show of discomfort, then leaned back and raised his left leg, bending it, that he might pretend to adjust his gaiters. Apparently satisfied, he tapped his index finger to the top of his shoe, an operation that I could not see from my place at his right, though Jakhan told me of it later. He then pointed to the ground. For me, he leaned to the left of his saddle, then looked down, before looking ahead, and when he checked to ensure that his shield-strap had been properly tightened, I understood his message fully: 'They are ahead, also. Prepare yourselves.'

Suddenly, the lockbow faded into insignificance. In a hopeless fight, particularly when surrounded—by the rise to the right, the wall to the left, and enemies before and behind—the single shot of a lockbow would do nothing to alter the odds in my favor. With the lockbow hanging by its reloading stirrup, I removed my spear from its place at my back, and even took a moment to remove the braided length of leather that had held it there, before retrieving my shield.

After much fumbling, I was able to reach a position of relative preparedness, my heavy Hjarrleth spear gripped in my left hand through the handhold of my shield, with the lockbow in my right, the business end rising vertically, with the butt balanced on my right thigh. I had grown in strength, as well as stature, and so I felt confident that I might be able to loose that single shot quickly—if not accurately—with my right hand, and then cast the useless weapon aside.

Neither the warriors of Sangholm nor the Guardsmen of Meadrow were accustomed to fighting from horseback, and though I knew little of Viharth, I felt sure that a people famous for warring upon the waves might likewise prefer to fight on foot. Of course, it was possible that Sigmund might try to ride through the source of danger, using the combined weight of our riderless horseflesh to force our passage; I wished to be prepared for any eventuality.

Regardless of their strategy in dismounting, I knew that I would raise my shield to cover my head, before throwing my leg over and landing to the right of Edam. My Trathnonan bay was smart, and I knew that he would make for safety immediately, either the wall of stone to the left or the rise to the right, returning only when I called, for that was what he had been trained to do.

The horses of Venibrek had been bred to a high level of intelligence, and their breeding programs were almost half as old as those of the Nalbans; by my time, the creatures were smarter than any hounds I had seen, and trained to respond to any potential threat. Risking a horse is a foolish endeavor indeed, when no other means of conveyance is available; and I had grown to love my Edam, so I was thankful that he would not risk his own life.

My mind had been wandering, and I knew it, aware also that it was likely the lack of sleep that had left me so susceptible. I felt the tension growing with each passing moment, and I knew that Sigmund felt it as well, for the vein at his temple was bulging visibly, throbbing at the same pace as his great heart.

Jakhan was not so ill-at-ease, or so it seemed, for his movements were fluid and precise. He unbuckled his belt, quickly but gracefully, then removed his knee-length coat and threw it across his horse's rump, before resuming his harness. For a few moments, he appeared to be practicing the drawing motions he would shortly require, and the sight of his modified Ebrian sword brought my eyes to the Ebrian riding behind me.

I could see points of light in Gabrian's eyes, and he nodded to me almost imperceptibly from beneath the