Storms clouds, p.7
Storm's Clouds, page 7
part #2 of Stormfall Chronicles Series
Bending over, Glynis traced a crude chalk circle across the grass. She stepped back, closed her eyes, and held her hands out, palms facing up.
The earth in front of her seemed to ripple, as if it was a pond into which a stone had been cast. The ripples intensified, until the earth and sod tore itself from the ground, floating in the air in a neat circle – the swelling waves depositing the soil and grass in a broad ring surrounding a central hole.
Lynette was impressed. Glynis had moved hundreds of pounds of earth in mere seconds and had done so with exacting precision. She seemed far too small and frail to be commanding such sorcery. Glynis lowered her hands and strode back to the floating dolly. “Let’s get her oriented,” she said.
The two of them dragged the floating platform over the hole, and then gingerly slid the tree and its urn off the dolly. It floated, suspended above the hole momentarily, then descended slowly into the gap created for it. Once it touched bottom, Glynis gave the pot a light tap. What had once been a kiln-fired vessel disintegrated into black earth. A moment later, Glynis had levitated the sod back into place, surrounding the trunk of the tree – as if the seedling had always been growing there. Lynette watched in amazement, never having imagined her friend and roommate might be capable of such feats. Glynis had always seemed so shy and delicate, like a flower that feared to be trampled.
Glynis was on her knees, whispering to the tree softly, her fingers running across its bark. Finally, she arose. “This spot is perfect. I can visit her each day, after classes, and she’ll have room to grow. Plus a beautiful view.”
Glynis sat down on the grass, looking out towards the river. Lynette sat down beside her. “It is a beautiful spot,” Lynette said at length. She sat, enjoying the sounds of the park: the birds, bees, insects, and the laughter of fae children. “Although the river looks odd from here,” she added. “I never noticed it before. Almost like there was a curtain obscuring the riverbank.”
“That’s because it’s the edge of the Feyfell,” Glynis replied. “You can’t actually see to the other side. It’s more like a reflection. On the other side is the Kingdom of Lotaria, and its capital city, Fairhall.”
Lynette stared out in disbelief. “No. Really?”
“Oh yes. Fairhall was originally built as a hub for human trade with Glysing, from before it became the fae capital. It was built right across the river. That was before the Feyfell was cut off from the outside world. The human city is still there, on the other side of the River Liore. You just can’t see it.”
Lynette shook her head. “It must have taken a truly powerful arche-mage to make an entire kingdom invisible.”
“Well, yes and no,” Glynis replied. “King Elyan wouldn’t really have had the power to do such a thing ordinarily. Not on his own. To make the spell so broad, and to make it durable, he had to pay a certain price. He had to bind his life-force to create the spell.”
“Bind it? How?”
“The enchantment is entangled with his life force and soul. So long as he lives, the Feyfell will remain hidden from the outside world, safe and protected. The enchantment creates a web of disorientation which keeps intruders at bay. But the human kingdoms are still out there. Fairhall is right across the curtain obscuring the riverbanks. We just can’t see it.”
* * *
“That will be enough foolish talk, Herwyg.”
“My king, I can assure you, I have sound sources among the northern tribesmen. Their emperor, Batukhan, is more than willing to make a temporary truce with our kingdom.”
King Friedrich deposited himself on his throne, his brow furrowed as he regarded his elderly counselor. Friedrich’s hair was already shaded with grey at his temples, although his beard was still dark. He wore a metal breastplate beneath his red jerkin. A sword, as always, was ever at his side. His elite guards, bearing the royal red livery, were stationed at each entry point to the great throne room. Friedrich stroked the beard at his chin. “You have been my advisor since my father was struck down by an assassin. I was still a boy then, and your loyalty has commanded my trust since that day. But I have no reason to believe any of the promises of this Batukhan, not after his mercenaries have twice now raided the towns of Lotaria.”
Herwyg was older than the king by more than a decade. His beard had long since turned grey, and his head gone bald. Despite his age, however, he still donned a chain mail shirt, visible beneath his black jerkin, and a jeweled dagger hung at his waist. He was the chief advisor to the king of Lotaria, after all. Not some hackneyed sage from some sissified kingdom who had never worn a sword. “Misunderstandings are bound to occur between great rulers. But my contacts are convinced that Batukhan has his eyes set on a different prize, one which might interest you as well.”
“And what prize would that be? The city of Winterfield? I’ll tell you what Batukhan respects: the ten thousand armed conscripts I’ve newly deployed there.”
“Perhaps he was under a misappraisal of your resolve, my king. At one time. But I’m certain he has a different prize in mind now.”
“And what, pray tell, would that be?”
“Immortality.”
“What are you blathering about?”
“Batukhan has, as you know, been amassing his own empire, carved out among the northern tribes where he has asserted himself as emperor. But empire is not all he desires. Silk fabrics and glorious tales of valor all fade. It is the secret to immortality which he most treasures. And he has reason to believe he might have found a path to secure it.”
King Friedrich grunted. “Where? Behind the thousands of mercenaries he has hired from every corner of the earth? I know he has sent word out gathering all manner of scum and kingdomless low lives. Promising a share in the spoils for anyone who joins.” Friedrich waved his finger, emphasizing his points with jabs in the air. “Where is this secret of immortality you claim he seeks?”
“Why, across the river from your own domain, my king. In the Feyfell.”
Friedrich eyed Herwyg as if his trusted counselor had broken into a fit of madness. “What are you prattling about? We all know. Anyone who crosses the river falls under the fae spell. They could wander in circles for hours or days. Following mythic lights or being chased by shadows. They always wind up back at the river – sometimes miles from where they crossed it. There’s no immortality to be found there, only the illusions of fae magic.”
“But surely you know the legends. The fae are rumored to live for hundreds, if not thousands of years. Right across the river from this very city lies Glysing, the fabled capital of the Feyfell. A city of gold and jeweled fountains at our very doorstep, holding the secrets of fae magic and long life.”
“Even if anyone believed those children’s tales, there’s no way to find a city which can’t be seen.”
“But what if it could be seen, your highness? What if the spell by which the fae have kept all their stolen treasures hidden from the hands of men, what if the spell was on the verge of collapsing? What if it was to be shattered, revealing a city of riches and wonder, lying on our very doorstep, ripe for the taking?”
“A lot of if’s and conjecture, Herwyg. I still don’t see how this has anything to do with Batukhan.”
Herwyg bowed before his lord and master. “Forgive me my king, I digress.” He straightened himself again, a twinkle in his eye. “Batukhan has been scouring the world, looking for medicine men and soothsayers who might hold the one thing he covets most: the secret to immortality. A fortnight ago he received emissaries who promised him the keys to just that: in the land of the Feyfell. The emissaries delivered gifts and produced what they claimed were proofs: evidence that death could be overcome and mastered. Batukhan has become convinced the secrets he desires are real and are hidden by the fae. He believes he has only to march on the Feyfell and take them for his own. These emissaries have foretold to him how the spell which protects the Feyfell has grown feeble – how it’s ready to fall, only weeks from now.”
Friedrich stroked his beard, considering what he had heard. “Batukhan plans to march his army on the Feyfell?”
“He has an army of over forty-thousand, some say fifty thousand, preparing to do just that.”
“Forty or fifty thousand? An army like that could threaten virtually any kingdom west of the mountains, including our own capital here at Fairhall.”
“Whatever misunderstandings or mistakes might have happened in the past, Batukhan is willing to strike a temporary truce. He is expected to send messengers forthwith, seeking permission for his army to cross our easternmost lands to lay siege to the Feyfell.”
“Cross our lands unopposed? As if we had any meaningful fortifications on our southeastern frontier.”
“His forward scout force is expected to number some five thousand. Their task would be to secure the fords across the river, far to the east. They would be followed by the larger army, which would march on Glysing.”
“And he wants me to allow him free passage?”
“Only across our southeastern territory, to reach the river crossings. From there, they would strike west, across the Feyfell.” Herwyg stepped closer to the king, his voice lowering. “It might also be an opportunity for our kingdom to profit.”
“Profit how?”
“You know the legends. If the veil which protects the Feyfell were to fall, the capital of the fae lands would be on our very doorstep. You could capture all the fae wealth, which they have so vilely hidden from us. All of it no doubt stolen across the centuries from human hands. It could all be yours, long before Batukhan’s army could arrive. He will have to cross the entire Feyfell, after all. We would only need to cross a river.”
Friedrich considered his counselor’s words, visions of the wealth of the fae circling through his mind. “I do not trust this Batukhan. Any truce he might make with us is liable to be broken as soon as he sees an advantage. But if the veil were to fall . . .” Friedrich turned to one of his aides. “Ehrung!”
A young soldier with a black mustache and tightly trimmed goatee stepped forward, dressed in the dark armor and red jerkin of the royal bodyguards. “Yes, my king?”
“I need two squads of scouts positioned and at the ready, prepared to cross the river on a moment’s notice. One half a league to the west of Fairhall and the other half a league to the east.” Friedrich leaned back in his seat. “I’ll play this game, Herwyg. If Batukhan wants to chase after a mirage, let him. He can stumble and waste his troops on outlying towns if it suits him.”
“You won’t accept his offer of truce?” Herwyg asked.
“I will neither accept nor decline his offer. Let him guess at our intentions. He can waste resources overrunning peasant villages if that’s his desire. They’re too far away for us to defend, and every village he burns will cement the will of the masses to follow our lead. But make no mistake. The moment his army threatens to turn on our capital, he will have more war on his hands than he knows what to do with.”
Chapter 3 - Fear and Fire
The sound resembled the blast from a crushed and distorted trumpet. It was accompanied by a heavy thud that shook the rafters of the house. Waylon all but fell out of his bed in surprise. “Waylon? Waylon?!” his wife called. “What was that?”
The old farmer held still, listening. He could hear the wind and the chirruping of the nighttime insects – but nothing resembling the chilling wail which had shaken him out of slumber. It had been distinctly animal in origin, and it had come from outside. “I don’t know,” he replied in a hoarse whisper. “But I’ll find out.” Waylon reached for his jacket, draped across a chair. In the darkness of the early morning, his shortly cropped, grey hair appeared silver in the moonlight filtering in from the window. “Stay here, could be thieves.”
Waylon made his way down the ladder from the loft. Cautiously crossing the darkened room below, he took short steps so as not to stumble as he felt his way to the entrance of their small house. His hard, calloused hands reached to grasp the handle of an axe before he let himself outside.
He opened the door, stepping outside into the moonlit landscape. Crickets and frogs droned in the cool darkness. The night seemed like any other, but there was an odd scent in the air – one he couldn’t quite place. Something akin to a roast burning in the oven. In the silvery moonlight, he could clearly see the little barn, and the fence abutting it. The gate was still latched shut. Waylon proceeded cautiously. His axe was raised and at the ready.
He unlatched the gate, wincing at the sound it made as he swung it open. He proceeded to the edge of the barn, ready to let any would-be thief receive the sharpened edge of his wood-chopping axe. He had just rounded the corner, axe at the ready, when he saw it.
It was huge. Its head looming much larger than that of any horse or oxen he had ever seen. Its hide was a pale white, shining brilliantly in the moonlight. Its forelimbs ended in hooked talons – gripping the remains of the cow it loomed over, and whose entrails it had spilled across the barnyard.
Waylon tried to shout, tried to scream, but the sound wouldn’t come out. Only a little wheeze escaped his lips. He was frozen, rooted to the spot, as the dragon swiveled its head to peer at him. Its jaws opened, revealing a row of jagged teeth. It opened wider, and Waylon’s life ended then and there – one final shrill shriek escaping his lips as his body was engulfed in flame.
* * *
They had spent two days navigating up and down the foothills to the north of the Feideid Mountains. To Baxter’s eyes, each forest-shrouded hill had looked the same as the last. Ordinarily, he would have expected a map and compass to be necessary for traveling with any precision in such a pathless, uncharted terrain. Yet somehow, to Iolyn and the others, each hill was unique. They successfully navigated to two different drop-points where food, weapons, and a message box had been secretly cached in the wilderness. The drop points were not marked in any way Baxter could see, each one blending with its surroundings at the base of a tree or on a rocky face. At each drop point, Iolyn replenished the stored food rations with a fresh supply – taking the previously stored rations to use for themselves on their return journey.
The drop points also marked an opportunity for them to pause for weapons training. Iolyn had them draw out the spears which had been cached at the second of the two sites. “I know all of you are experienced with the use of your personal sword – but a sword will not always be the preferred tool. While useful at close range, the sword gives larger, longer-armed opponents an advantage,” Iolyn explained – walking through the ranks of trainees as he inspected their stance and hold on their weapon. “A spear is not as versatile as a fauchard or halberd, but it gives you an advantage in reach you will not have with a sword. This is crucial when dealing with a much larger opponent such as an ogre. Remember: ogres can cast a limited array of charm spells when at close range. You do not want to give such an opponent time to focus on spellcasting. Hit them fast and hard, keeping them off-balance. Take advantage of your smaller size and speed to put them on the defensive until you can find an opening. Now, let me see a proper forward thrust. No – not like that Arthfael. Grip the spear solidly with both hands or your opponent will rip it from your grasp.”
At the end of two days Iolyn directed them back, southwest – towards the Feyfell. They followed a different route on their return than they had on their departure. Keeping themselves amongst the foothills of the mountains. Iolyn and a couple of other fae kept close contact with the forest animals as they traveled. Baxter heard them chattering to the birds or squirrels – about what he could only guess.
As they approached another line of hills, however, Baxter thought he could hear running water ahead, as it skipped across rocks and meandered playfully on its way. Iolyn signaled the party to fan-out. Baxter followed their example, watching for Iolyn’s hand signals. He flattened himself against the ground as they came over a ridge, observing a stream in the gully below. It was broader than other brooks they had crossed, but none too deep. Baxter wondered if there was something different about this river which might explain the Captain’s sense of caution.
Iolyn signaled two scouts to advance and reconnoiter the stream, waiting to hear a whistled all-clear signal before the rest of the squad advanced. It was only after they had advanced and waded across the little river that Baxter realized they had just crossed the headwaters for the River Liore – crossing back into the Feyfell. There was a moment after crossing the river when his vision became blurry, then a tingling sensation emanating from the metal, three-leafed clasp securing his cloak in place. Baxter recognized the feeling from his travels with Eirlon. He was passing through the spell which shielded the Feyfell from unwanted visitors. As a non-fae, the clasp was the only thing marking him as a friend and not an intruder.
The forest ahead of them seemed unusually dark. It was late afternoon, and the shadows were already providing ample hiding places. Baxter could feel the tension in the air as Iolyn motioned for the patrol to draw arms and spread out. Owain and Sior had already strung arrows to their bows. Baxter drew his sword, keeping it low and at the ready.
The goblins moved first, bolting from the underbrush. Arrows from Owain and Sior brought the first four of them down – their bodies rolling to the ground as they were struck. Iolyn was charging, sword drawn. Baxter rushed forward, right behind him, when the two ogres lumbered out of the brush. Their tusked jaws opened into a snarl. What was he going to do against one of these? What was an ogre even doing in the Feyfell? Baxter saw a goblin bolt towards him and thrust his blade into its side. He felt the blade pass beneath the goblin’s breastplate, beneath the rib cage – then watched the body of the goblin evaporate before his eyes. A simulacrum! Of course. They were illusions. Iolyn had led them into a training ground previously prepared on the edge of the Feyfell – a training ground conjured back in the days when there were still arche-mages in the land.
