Prelude: History
King Niefion stormed down the spiral staircase of his tower uttering foul profanities, his hair streaming behind him in perfect coordination with his black cape, in color and in motion. His eyes were dark as well, and black with anger. He wasn’t a small man by nature, nor sickly, yet his skin was pale as a winter’s moon and it clung to his bones like cobwebs to old furniture, the circles under his eyes revealed he hadn’t slept well in a long time. All in all, he was the worse for wear, but his stride was purposeful and his anger potent; there was no weakness in his bearing, it was, as is fitting, the bearing of a king. A righteous king. An enraged king.
In his bony hands he clutched an ancient tome, savagely tight, in an obsessive way, shielding it from his own wrath. The shadows around him responded readily to his rage, squirming and writhing, trying to be free from natures constraining laws. Soldiers and servants alike tried to avoid him, pressing up against the wall as their king stalked by leaving a trail of evil, warped magic behind him.
He stopped abruptly and slammed his foot on the stone steps with more force than should be physically possible. The steps around him fractured from the power and the men around him cowered further.
“Traitorous hag!” He raged to no one present. “I loved you! We were going to be the rulers of ALL Yorathia! And what did you do? Turn against ME!?!”
Niefion yelled again and punched the wall, shattering it and sending pieces skittering down the stairway. He then reached out a grasping hand toward a terrified guard, the guard’s own shadow ripped free of the ground and lifted the man into the air, hurling him at the wall. The man screamed before hitting the wall face first with a bone crunching report. He made no more noise, however, as he bounced off the wall and tumbled down the stairs. The other men stood still, silent as prey in the eyes of a hawk, hoping against hope to be overlooked. King Niefion ignored them all as he continued his furious descent into the depths of his castle, even stepping in the dead guards rapidly expanding puddle of blood without a downward glance.
He felt rather than heard the seven spell casters’ chanting, standing outside the walls of his castle. It reverberated in his head like a drum, each word a hammer’s blow driving another nail into his coffin. He could sense their magic forming to their will, rapidly bringing the spell to completion, the spell that would be the end of him if he didn’t act fast.
“Yes,” he sneered. “You have bested me, this battle is yours. But know this Eleri, dear, this war is not over. It does not matter if you battle beside them, the pestilence of this world, I will still win. I. ALWAYS. WIN!”
He bit out these words just as he reached a large double door deep in the bowels of his castle, two slabs of plain iron, completely unadorned and even lacking the handles to open them. Leaning close he put one hand on each side and started to whisper into the crack of the door. His words were soft, smooth, all the fury had gone out of his voice. As he was speaking, black writing flowed out from underneath his palms printing itself on the metal. Suddenly the doors moved as if of their own volition, opening into a large circular chamber with no windows. Inside something stirred, concealed by the shadows at the edges of the room. It produced a sharp clatter as it stood, like horse hooves on pavement, and as it moved the clanking of chains revealed its imprisoned state. However, the single blood red eye that glared through the darkness was not the gaze of an brainless horse and the fire it held is not found in a captive slave.
Niefion returned the glare with one of his own as he crossed the room.
“You will go to my son with these,” he snapped as he flipped through his book, tearing out pages, quite a contrast to the protectiveness with which he had previously held it. Desperation can force a man into a corner, and when trapped, a fox will gnaw off its own leg if only to survive.
He held the papers out to the creature but didn’t let go when it tried to take them in its clawed hand – bending close to it he whispered, “Tell him these are a gift and if he wants the rest….Well, he will have to come free me. Won’t he?”
He finished his statement with a small, sly, smile. Only then did he let the creature take the pages. Stepping back, he uttered a word and the sound of shattering metal filled the room as the chains holding the creature snapped, sending shards rebounding off the stone. The creature stomped its newly freed limbs without moving its gaze from Niefion. Niefion stared right back with a firm look that dared it to disobey his command. A moment lapsed, then the creature began to chuckle.
“The army on the plain, desperate but unbroken, and the king sulking inside his castle, so sure in his power.” the creature’s voice, mocking at first, turned deadly serious “They have something in common, they both only postpone an inevitable fate that will come when the chains are broken and the True Will unleashed. It is not the stroke of a sword that can be blocked or shattered, or a moment in time you can avoid or prevent. It is. Simple and binding, stronger than stone, and as undeniable as the rising of the sun or the falling of the rain.” The creature paused a second as if to say more, instead it let out a shrill, inhuman, laugh that echoed around the room. It kept laughing as it faded away and disappeared from the castle. King Niefion shook himself to dispel the chills that the creature’s words had invoked; abruptly he realized that his emissary had left not a moment too soon. He could already feel reality twist and come apart as the magics ripped into the fabric of the world. The distortion of reality was like a knife being twisted in his gut, even the spiders felt it as they scurried around in the dark room searching for a way out.
“Do your worst lowlifes,” he sneered in contempt. “And you Eleri, I applaud your initiative, bask in this victory, my dear, for there won’t be another. But, please, do not hurry, after all…” A grin split his face as he casually leaned up against a pillar with the book hugged once again to his chest. “I have all the time in the world.” He started to chuckle to himself as the chanting ended and everything went dark.
Lyris stood on a balcony of white marble looking out across the city while she tried to calm the crying baby girl in her arms. The entire city was made of the same stone as the balcony, so purely white that it glowed with the brilliance of the full moon, even if only a few stars peaked through the gloom overhead. It was a beautiful sight, with floating lights wandering the streets shedding light to help the wayward souls to find their ways home and a long wall with tall towers lending a sense of security to all that dwelt within. It wasn’t a large city, little over a mile from one side to the other, so small some would say it didn’t even warrant its impressive walls, but those were a necessity in these dark times. Her child shifted in her arms; a smile came to her lips as she watched her baby’s golden eyes drift shut and her breathing calm. She kissed her daughters forehead gently before returning her attention to the town.
She found her gaze pulled beyond the rooftop gardens to the pale walls and then , beyond… beyond into the shadow lands where a black mist hung eternally over the land, providing a safe haven for the creatures of living darkness that wandered and hunted within. Her smile disappeared as she looked at the mist, a constant reminder of what her people had lost, of why these walls were necessary. Even after hundreds of years, the sun’s light was still forbidden to touch the once green and rolling hills of her homeland, where cattle had grazed and wild beasts had foraged, only the shadows of the dead still walked. But those do not graze for grass nor forage for the bounty of the earth – no – their unquenchable appetite is saved for those of living flesh alone. There were few animals alive out there anymore but the living shadows do not die of starvation, they feed for the joy of killing alone, not for any nourishment their ethereal bodies might need.
She was pulled from her dark reverie when her husband, Missael, came up behind her and put his hand on her shoulder. In his other hand, he held a miniature sun; it floated above his palm chasing away the darkness in the corners of the balcony while the warmth of his hand on her shoulder chased the dark from her mind. Turning her head, she smiled lovingly up at his face. He yawned before returning her smile with a sleepy one of his own. He was a large man with a strong jaw and heavy brow, his eyes and hair, golden like that of all their race, lightly reflected the city’s glow. Stepping in closer, he looked down at their daughter, murmuring in her sleep. Lyris pulled away a little when he reached out to touch the child, her meaningful glare informing him wordlessly of the consequences that would come if he woke her. He grinned a little then smoothed the child’s small patch of hair gently.
Suddenly an explosion shook the balcony beneath them, and their neighbors’ houses, and all the rest of the city. A white cloud of dust rose from the city as stones, long held still by mortar, were disturbed from their motionless state. Missael’s arm snaked around Lyris’ waist supporting her, keeping her and their daughter from tumbling over the edge as they were thrown against the balcony’s rail. When they had recovered their footing they looked up to see the city guards gathering at a gap that had appeared in the wall, an entire ten foot section of the wall had been reduced to rubble; inside that breach living shadows of all shapes and sizes were gathering, dreadfully curious. Magic lights were popping up all over the city as people poured into the streets to see what was happening, a mistake on their part. The shadow creatures’ eyes lighted upon their new prey and they started forward, stepping on soil that had long been kept from them by barriers of stone and magic. They came hesitantly at first but with gathering confidence, until they swept forward into the ranks of the guards. Sulfur-yellow lights erupted angrily in the distant streets as the guards fought back against the hordes of maleficent creatures. Then the screams began, deafening, the people in the streets realized that they were under attack, the walls that had protected them for generations had finally failed. Panic took the streets as people ran rampant not knowing what to do now that the unthinkable had happened. The never-ending waves of monsters quickly overwhelmed the city guard and tore into the populace. Lyris stood frozen in place as she watched the white streets run red with blood; the women, the children, the old, the infirm – it did not matter to the beasts as they mindlessly slaughtered everyone within reach with wicked glee.
Unnoticed by the fear-ravaged people, several men in black cloaks now stood atop the walls, indifferently watching the carnage unravel.
Lyris stayed as she was, unmoving and rigid with fright, until Missael grabbed her shoulders, turning her towards him and breaking her from her trance.
“Go,” he said urgently pushing her down the corridor into their home. “Save yourself – save her. Take the back stairs and head to the citadel. You should be safe there.” He kissed them both quickly before dashing down into the street to help where he could.
Lyris took a deep breath then turned and ran into the house. The jostling woke the baby who started to cry, tears of fear and desperation seeped out of Lyris’s eyes as she ran down the hallway; she headed for the stairs as Missael had told her. Running full tilt, she grabbed the banister, pivoted right, and charged down the steps. But she stopped short as the door at the bottom of the stairs exploded inward, the heavy wood splintering with a crackling sound. Pieces of it clung to the frame as the door fell to the floor with a thud; the air forced out from under it became a small breeze that blew away the dirt on the floor, raising a small dust cloud. Through the opening came one of the living shadows, it was in shaped like a man, standing tall, shoulders back, but it seemed to be made of a dense black mist, like the mist that covered the rest of the land, but thicker. The only parts that seemed truly solid were its teeth and its clawed fingers, which were like polished obsidian, solid and shiny and deadly sharp – they dripped the blood of previous kills – as it stalked into the house. Lyris didn’t hesitate, she turned and ran back upstairs; turning, she ran into the bedroom. Immediately she stopped short, knowing she was at a dead end, she had entered the room through its only door; turning in a circle, she searched for options, only one came to mind. She placed the baby on the bed and ran to the door. The shadow creature came out of the stairwell, just as she reached it, blocking the only way out; when its bottomless black eyes met her golden ones it howled with feral glee. She screamed and slammed the door as it began to charge. She put her back up against the door and quickly muttered a phrase, activating the magical lock just in time to feel the impact as the creature crashed into the wood. She darted back to the bed and took her daughter into her arms; kissing her baby girl- one last time.
“I wish I could have seen you grow up.” She whispered in a quavering voice. The beating on the door grew louder as more creatures arrived. A sob tore out her throat as she tossed the child into the air, words flowed from her lips in a strange, flowing language. The baby hovered at the peak of the throw as magic danced over her like light shining through a glass of water. With a pop the floating baby disappeared in a bright flash. Lyris smiled briefly before turning towards the door, magic running spilling from her fingertips like fountains of sunlight, ready to fight the undefeatable hordes.
“Goodbye, Sola.” she said.
Not long after in Angharad:
Davyn Owen sat on a bench outside his mother’s chamber attempting to blow his unruly brown hair out of his eyes. He was barefoot, as young boys will be on a sunny day like this, but his clothes were well-made and tailored personally to fit him. They were not extravagant clothes, no bright colors or jewels; instead practical and tough, perfect for the rough horseplay of childhood’s days.
Children have a tendency to notice small things that their parents assume they won’t pick up on, it is the obvious things that slip past them: that cats do not like to be squeezed or that bugs are not meant to be eaten. Such was the case with Davyn as well, he was innocently ignorant of the tension surrounding him, blatantly obvious though it was. He just pattered his bare feet on the cold stone and wondered what games the village boys would be playing on such a nice day.
His father, Baron Cadwallader Owen of Traheron, was pacing up and down the hall in front of his wife’s door – his hands clasped tightly behind his back, knuckles turning white. Cadfael Owen, Davyn’s grandfather and the former baron, was more in control of himself, sitting on a chair next to the window puffing on a pipe of abyss-weed, but he too sent frequent glances toward his daughter-in-law’s room.
Davyn fidgeted slightly as muffled sounds of pain came from behind the door. However, he was quickly distracted when a movement in the window caught his eye. Getting up he ran to investigate. Standing on tiptoe he stuck his head as far out the window as he could, looking right and then left, then up, then down. He saw nothing of interest, just the walls surrounding the keep and the village rooftops beyond them. It was a nice day, sunny, with an occasional cloud, a day meant for fun and mischief. But Davyn was stuck inside; not that he cared, much, not while his mother was finally giving birth to his new baby sister- or brother. He wiggled in excitement as he imagined all the things he would do with his new sibling, if it was a boy he would be his squire, if it was a girl she would be the damsel in distress.
Cadfael came over to lean against the windowsill beside his grandson.
“What is it lad?” he asked quietly, barely above a whisper, “What do you see.”
“Nothing, I guess.” Davyn replied, “Thought I saw a bird or something. Hey grandpa! Is it going to be a boy or a girl?”
Cadfael chuckled at the question. “Can’t say that until it’s born, it’s one of those cherished mysteries of life. Though Midwife Wynne has her suspicions.”
“I hope it’s a girl. Father says if it’s a girl I’ll have to protect her no matter what, so he’s going to train me to be a better knight than him or even Davyn Brychan.”
“Better than Prince Brychan was? Your namesake? Hmmm, your father had better train you hard then, I hear he was very good.”
He looked down at his grandson’s face. “You don’t look to happy about it.” He said softly.
“Well,” Davyn said scratching his head, “Being a knight’s alright, I guess, but I wanna’ be like you grandpa and make swords and armor and stuff.” He looked up excitedly. “Do you think you could teach me? Well grandpa?”
It was Cadfael’s turn to scratch his head. “Well… Your father won’t like that at all, besides you’re still too young to work the forge, maybe in a couple years.”
Davyn’s face split wide in a grin, revealing gaps and gums where his baby teeth had been.
The sound of a door opening disrupted their conversation and they turned to find Midwife Wynne leaving the baroness’ rooms, several red-gray hairs had escaped her tight bun and her wrinkled face was weary and sad.
“You might want to go in, my lord.” she said before they could question her, “she hasn’t much time”
Baron Owen let out a breath that sounded like a weak “no”, stricken he shoved past Midwife Wynne and a couple of maids bearing rags and hot water, into his wife’s chambers. The old woman shook her head sadly and let him go.
“The child?” Cadfael asked, “I heard no cries.” But the look on the midwife’s face and the faint sobs from the room behind her were answer enough. There was no child.
Cadfael’s face was grim as he followed his son into the room, a worried and confused Davyn right on his heels. Inside the room was well lit by a few candles and an open window that let in a warm summer breeze. Davyn’s father was not one for appearances and his mother, Ellen, was almost as austere as her husband, so their furnishings were not ornate, a wardrobe, a dresser, a canopied bed, only what was necessary. On the bed lay his mother, looking pale and tired, holding his father’s hand. Cadwallader knelt next to the bed talking softly to his weeping wife not even noticing the tears that stained his own face. Ellen held the unmoving babe in her arms, wrapped in a blanket she had so lovingly made months before.
Cadfael stopped several feet away from the bed and watched. Davyn stood wide-eyed, his hand fisted in his grandfather’s tunic. Cadfael let out a sigh that sounded almost like a groan. Closing his eyes, he pinched the bridge of his nose as if he had a headache, his jaw rippled slightly as he clenched his teeth, trying to contain his grief.
Davyn turned to his grandfather, questions spilling from his lips.
“What’s going on, grandpa? Is it a sister or a brother?” His voice grew more frantic. “Why is father crying? What’s wrong with mama?”
His Grandfather’s hand came down upon his head, not an answer but a simple comforting gesture. Then Cadfael gently pushed him forward towards the bed, Davyn clambered up beside his mother and looked quizzically down at the still form she held.
“She is a girl.” Ellen told her son weakly.
“Oh…” Davyn said sheepishly, “She’s just sleeping then.”
Ellen sobbed but tried to smile. “That’s right Davyn, she’s sleeping, and mama has to sleep now too.” Her voice grew fainter even as she spoke the words. “Your sister and I are going to sleep for a very long time… and one day, when you sleep to, I’ll see you again.”
“Huh?” Davyn said his brows scrunching together in confusion.
Ellen just kissed his forehead and said, “You will understand someday when you’re older.”
Turning to Cadwallader she tried to raise her hand but her strength finally failed her. Instead, Cadwallader leaned in close and kissed her lightly, and then he took the hand he still held and brought it to his lips. Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes. Ellen’s eyelids drooped lower and lower and her breaths become shallower and shallower. Finally her eyes shut completely and the small smile froze on her face.
Davyn still did not understand why his father was crying but, seeing that his mother was sleepy, decided not to make any noise that might disturb her or his sister. He was looking around the room for something to play with when something spectacular caught his eye. In the window floated something nearly invisible, most would have ruled it off as a trick of the light but children like Davyn knew exactly what it was.
“A Fairy.” Davyn immediately concluded. Awed, his jaw hung open as he watched it drift into the room, the thing was only about a foot and a half long and it looked just like golden sunlight passing through a wisp of mist. Though it was almost transparent, Davyn could make out some slight shadows within it that might have been construed as a face.
The creature twisted its way through the air towards the bed; Davyn didn’t dare move for fear of scaring it away or waking his mother and baby-sister, so he held perfectly still eyes glued to the fairy. It came to a stop right above the unmoving baby girl unnoticed by his father who wept silently over his mother, It seemed to hesitate a moment before it descended down to touch the child. As it fell it thinned out into a stream, like water from a pitcher, plunging into the baby’s forehead passing wraithlike through the skin. Davyn held his breath as a moment passed and nothing happened, then his little sister moved, her mouth opened and a wailing cry sounded through the castle. Cadwallader jerked his head up at the sound and stared in amazement at his daughter. Then he shouted for joy and jumped to his feet, taking her in his arms he started laughing through his tears.
“You did it Ellen, our daughter is alive! You did it.” He smiled and cradled the baby close. “We have already chosen a name for you little one, it’s the last thing your mother ever gave to you so treasure it, Creia.”
Davyn leapt from the bed, careful not to disturb his mother, and ran up to his grandfather who wore a large smile now as he watch his usually gruff son cuddle and coo at the crying Creia. Though he was smiling his eyes were thoughtful, almost intense.
“Grandpa! Grandpa!” Davyn whispered loudly, “Did you see that fairy? It woke up my sister.”
“Her name is Creia, Davyn.” Cadfael said, “And yes I did see the ‘fairy’.”
Chapter one
18 years later
It was a dreary day in early spring, the sort of day that was only appropriate for solemn funerals or silent battlefields. The trees wept under the drizzling rain, the roads were rivers of mud, and in the thin, clinging, white mist there wasn’t a songbird that dared sing its song. Gray clouds and gray forests were all nature had to display, and while the animals shivered, cold, in their burrows so also did the humans quiver in their hovels, hands outstretched toward meager fires.
Through this Davyn Owen rode with his travel worn and road weary company of knights. There were seven in all, including Davyn himself, all of them wearing suits of chain mail and sporting swords and wary gazes. It was an odd thing for men to wear armor of any sort when they had been traveling for a long period of time, a length of time made apparent by their weary, mud splattered steeds. But upon closer examination anyone could see that though the armor was well polished and cared for, it was also well used; scratches and nicks adorned the suits as well as their sword scabbards, fresh by the looks of them. All in all it seemed that the roads had not been kind, not even to knights of the realm.
But though there were seven men, they were not all seven of them knights, only the six men following Davyn claimed that title. They were knights sworn to the Baron Owen of Traherun. Davyn was the Baron’s only son and not a knight but a Wielder, one of the few people chosen by an elemental spirit of power to be its host and master. The Celestial church claimed that these spirits were sent by the gods to choose warriors to do their work on earth, since the gods could no longer freely transverse the heavens. They appeared to their chosen in vivid dreams and asked them to enter into a contract binding them together. Davyn was a Wielder of fire, as was evidenced by his smoldering green eyes and his flame red hair, which seemed to change between red, orange and yellow. His eyes had a subtle luminescence of their own that pierced the gloom of the fog, on this dull, colorless day, and his bright hair stuck out against the drab grays and browns that surrounded him.
Davyn was a tall man, not an inch under six feet, and he had layers of muscle built from hours and hours of hard labor. A strap across his back held a sheathed broadsword and a shield; an odd combination since the broadsword had to be used with two hands even by the most hulking warrior. Davyn, however, used both the shield and the sword at the same time, and with contemptible ease at that. The power the elemental spirits imparted to their Wielders was not limited to their magic, a Wielder’s speed, strength, and senses were beyond compare and in battle he had no equal. Songs were sung of the legendary few who had managed to kill a Wielder even if it were by trickery or some such method.
“ “The condition of the roads betray the state of the kingdom” ” Davyn sighed to himself, quoting one of the many books he had been forced to study over the past six years at the Wielder Academy in Freilds.
“Truer words were never spoken.” Said Sir Orthal with a grim smile. ‘Grim’ wasn’t a look Sir Orthal had much, it didn’t suit his happy-go-lucky personality or his handsome face. Orthal was a knight straight out of those stories people begged the bards to tell over and over again: long, blond hair, devilish smile, chivalrous, brave. And a good swordsman to boot, which had served him well upon this journey. He was an inch or two shorter than Davyn, and of a somewhat slighter build. He wore what the rest of the knights wore, the green tunic emblazoned with a black embroidered lion clinging to a sword set point down- the Owen family crest.
Davyn had to agree with him, the words were true indeed. Six years had passed since the war with Arisland. But, bloody though the war may have been, how long could peace talks take? Something was wrong with the world, of that Davyn was sure, something had poisoned it against them: fields refused to grow, cities were rife with the plague, and the monarchs were too concerned with their political plays to be distracted by their peoples plight. On second thought, maybe there wasn’t anything wrong, it had been like this for as long as he could remember, could be this was how it always was. But the old men always told stories of how things were so much better when they were young; they worked hard, got paid, the nobles fought for their vassals and tenants, fairly and justly. They talked of prosperity as opposed to poverty, contentment instead of greed, honor instead of dishonor.
“My lord.” Sir Orthal said as they passed a lane. “Isn’t this the Obren family’s farm?”
Davyn looked at the place. The ramshackle buildings and pitiful fields did not need a gray day to make them appear grim, the state of the crop and condition of the buildings were sad enough. The fields were weed infested, no one had plowed them in over a year, the barn was overgrown with vines that wove in and out of the stone foundation slowly tearing it apart. It looked as if the next passing storm would blow it over. Already the equipment shed lay on its side, flattened, tool’s handles stuck out between the rotting slats of the walls. A rusty plow, half buried in mud, was surrounded by a small herd of sickly cows, there by choice if the broken fence was any indication.
A knot formed in his stomach. The Obrens were some of the wealthiest farmers around or had been years ago when he had gone north to the Wielder Academy. His father, Baron Owen, had held hhhhhh Obren in high esteem, letting him do whatever he pleased with the land the Baron gave to him.
Old man Obren’s secret to success was well known. “Run a tight ship”, a seafarer’s term that Obren clung to judiciously. hhhhhh claimed he was a descendent of the last captain to sail here from the Homeland, he said it was his great-granddaddy’s mantra and now it was his. Everything had a place on Obren’s farm, and it all was painstakingly maintained, nothing stayed broken for long. This mess of a place was hardly recognizable.
Davyn, Sir Orthal and the other knights solemnly watched the farm as they rode by.
“I had been wondering,” Orthal whispered “I saw this happening in the rest of Angharad but… this is home, it’s not supposed to change.”
Davyn shook his head sadly and looked away. Orthal and the others followed suit. They continued on in silence once again, each occupied with his own thoughts.
In spite of the dreariness of the journey and the sad sight of the Obren homestead, a jolt of excitement went through Davyn as they rounded the next hilltop to see Traherun stretched out below them. A happy murmur ran through the knights at the sight, their spirits rising at last. The horses snorted and tossed their heads, sensing their riders’ enthusiasm.
“Well it seems not all has gone to the Accursed, eh?” Sir Orthal said, that familiar smile back on his face.
“Not all,” Davyn thought happily “not all indeed.”
Traherun, ruled by the Baron Cadwallader Owen, Davyn’s father, was a large, practical city tucked into the base of the Burmast mountains. The square, blocky keep was situated on a hill, higher than the inner walls of the castle which were also built taller than the houses and buildings of the city. The outer wall encompassed the city, it was twenty feet tall all around with a tower every quarter mile or so. It was well designed; the outer wall no taller than the city buildings, should an invading army take the wall they would be granted only a very limited advantage over the retreating defenders, who could take up defensive positions on the rooftops. Also, if the invaders took the inner wall the soldiers in the keep would still be at a higher point and able to pick off attackers easily from above.
It was a good layout. A simple layout. One to be proud of, though Davyn knew it was not something his family could take pride in. Traherun had been designed by some renown architect, —–, some four hundred years ago. It had been ruled by the Brychan family until it was given as a fief to Sir Andreas Owen a century and a half ago along with the title of ‘baron‘.
As Davyn’s cohort neared the gates, one of the two rain drenched guards on watch hailed the approaching company, a greeting and a warning. The soldiers hoisted their bows to the ready, arrows knocked in case of trouble, without actually drawing them.
“Ho! Who goes there? Don’t come any closer, friend.”
“This is about as close as I’d ever want to get to you Gwil.” Orthal called back. “We all know how you chew those nasty garlic cloves when you’re on duty.”
“Well if it isn’t the young master and his order of disreputable knights.” said Gwil, visibly relaxing at the sound of Orthal’s voice. They lowered their bows but, Davyn noticed, did not remove the arrows from the strings.
“Finished dancing wit’ dem pretty northern orcsies, have yeh?” Joined in the other guard. “’Ope yeh haven’t gone to soft or high n’ mighty to thresh some wheat. Or do yeh think now that yeh got some notches in yer blades that ’ol Baron Owen won’t send yeh out t’ the fields?”
The men all laughed at that. In Traherun no one was spared from harvesting save for the dead and the dying.
“I’m sure we’ll be back in shape come harvest time.” Davyn quipped. “But you two…” he gave them a scathing, mocking glance. “… might take a little longer.”
This brought on another round of boisterous laughter. The group had not had a reason to laugh in awhile and the liberating feeling of returning home left them all somewhat giddy.
Realizing they were keeping their friends out in the rain, the guards lowered the gate and ushered the troop under the portcullis into the city streets. After promising to meet again later to have drinks and swap stories, Davyn and company continued on toward the castle.
The city folk turned out to greet them despite the rainfall and cold early spring air. They gathered around the knights in droves, making progress slow. They did not care about the drizzle or the puddles that splashed them when the horses plodded through, and news traveled fast spreading to more and more people, who then came to see their old friends. Davyn was anxious to get to the castle- to get home- he needed to get his men off the road, out of the wet and back to their loving families. He, too, had family to see. Three years was a long time to be away from home. Impatience continued to well up inside him to the point of bursting. He shifted in his seat, half ready to holler at the crowd to remove themselves from his path.
With a glance over his shoulder that all changed, his restlessness drained from him with the rain at the scene before him. Shop owners stood in their doorways, men came from their houses. The women also left their chores and their baking and hurried into the streets. They all came out to welcome home their town’s sons; back from distant lands and strange adventures. It wasn’t something to be expected in such a large city, such a closeness, but it had always been in Traherun. Davyn couldn’t believe he had forgotten that. Many people kept pace with the group, chatting and exchanging news. His knights were desperate for local news, especially concerning their families. Davyn recognized most of the folk on sight, some had changed, grown a beard or a mustache, the children ,especially, had grown. Orthal’s brother-in-law, one of many, gave Orthal’s horse a friendly smack on the withers before sprinting off, presumably to spread the word, of the return of the family’s glory boy.
Davyn allowed himself a small smile as he turned back around releasing his tension into the wind. He felt no overpowering need to hurry to the castle anymore. He was already home. Right where he belonged, just like he remembered it.
He listened to the chatter around him continue as they rode on. From what he heard no one mentioned the Obren family, sad news was better left till last, but there were plenty of odd tidbits to be heard.
“… grew a carrot this big, but his wife chopped it up for…”
“… a healthy baby boy, cries all the time though…”
“… -aid he heard a banshee! Can you belie-…”
Davyn was so wrapped up in the conversations going on around him he started when a small hand grabbed his boot. He reigned in his horse as he looked down… right into the gaunt, hungry face of a young girl. Her right arm, the one not clutching him, was bandaged with a clean cloth, the white linen stood out against her dirty skin. Her blond hair was matted and unkempt, her bare feet were scratched and raw and her toenails were frayed from walking the cobbled streets. A tattered dress clung to her bony frame, it was brown now but looked like it had been yellow or white several owners ago.
“Alms sir?” the girl said in a trembling voice, holding out her right hand. “Have you a coin or two to spare?”
When she spoke Davyn instinctively raised his eyes to meet hers and what he saw there shocked him- fear. She expected him to lash out at her but she was hungry- starving even- and willing to risk some pain for a little food.
The conversation behind him went silent, the knights had stopped when he had and now sat utterly still upon their horses, staring at the shivering child with solemn expressions. However, the gathered people did not look at the girl, instead they turned their weighty gazes upon Davyn.
They’re waiting, He realized, waiting to see what I do. Three years is a long time, they want to see how I’ve changed.
He turned back to the scrawny girl with the fear filled eyes. Jesting with the guards on the gate, being welcomed so warmly by friends; he had naively allowed these things to convince himself that Traherun was untouched. That it was above and beyond the influence of the rest of the kingdom. An influence that reared its ugly head everywhere, evidenced by the Obren farm, first, and now here with this little girl. Traherun was his home! Home doesn’t change. Not like this. Davyn sighed and reached down to pry the child’s hand from his leg. She tensed at his movement but he kept it as smooth and unthreatening as he could so she remained where she was, frozen like a rabbit, hoping, waiting. He dismounted then. Once on the ground he realized that the girl was taller than he thought, she was probably somewhere between twelve and thirteen; older than he had thought her to be. The clean bandage on her arm and the fact that she had survived the winter led him to believe that someone had taken pity on her on numerous occasions. He realized now how thin the people around them were, their clothing was patched and their shoes had holes if they had shoes at all. Winter had not been kind to any of them, least of all this girl, but still the people of Traherun would not have let one of their own go unhelped. But still…
Davyn took out two copper nobles and pressed them into her outstretched palm. Before she could take them and run he asked softly.
“Why haven’t you gone to the church parish? The one next to the Sleepy Sun Inn?”
She gave him a shaky smile. “They are filled up there, sir. I go there from time to time for a few morsels of food or to visit my younger siblings.”
“And your parents?” He asked.
“My pa died of the plague, and my ma…” She hesitated and glanced away, uncertain whether to trust him. “…she is over there.” She gestured to the alley behind her.
Davyn looked up at the place she indicated, he saw a woman chewing on a piece of hard bread, the dark of the alleyway and the rain kept him from seeing any details but she looked even worse off then her daughter. She was not the alley’s sole occupant either, farther in a man slept on a plank of wood covered in a ragged blanket and a boy sat with his head in his hands, small shoulders shaking.
Davyn pulled out three more copper nobles and handed them to the girl. Her eyes lit up, she clutched them to her chest as she ran back to her mother.
Davyn turned back to his men who still waited silently.
“I need to see my father.” Davyn told them before he remounted his horse. They all nodded and rode on, a little faster this time. They would catch up with friends later, at this moment they had a duty to fulfill.
Seeing the troop’s new resolve the townspeople made a way for them, waving them on. Davyn caught several glances directed at him, the people threw him nods and smiles as he passed. They had wanted to know if he had changed, if he had apparently they approved.
Chapter Two
Davyn knew that word of their arrival had undoubtedly reached his father before they even reached the keep. On top of the gatehouse, it seemed, the entire castle guard had gathered. They let out a cheer when Davyn and his men came into sight. Davyn chuckled a little to himself, though his father would have their hides on a rack if he saw how lax their discipline was.
They passed into the courtyard, where the members of the general staff had also come out to greet them. The knights dismounted amidst more applause and cheering, and handed off their steeds to nearby stable boys.
The courtyard was sizable, with plenty of room to build any essential buildings. The castle itself was small, considering the size of the city it governed. Usually the castle grew with the city, the wealthier the city the more prestigious the keep, but Baron Owen refused to spend any money on frivolous things. In his eyes enlarging the keep, when there was already plenty of rooms in which they could conduct any necessary business, was indeed frivolous. It was this mindset that kept Traherun running so well, despite the condition other cities were in. The nobles taxed the people so they could live their luxurious lives, raising taxes even when the crop yield was low and the winter long. Baron Owen took only what he needed to pay the Kings taxes and keep Traherun safe. That and what he needed to keep himself in the cups.
Davyn’s thoughts turned to his father’s drinking habits. They had started after Ellen, Davyn’s mother, died giving birth to Creia, her loss had taken a toll on the burly baron. Not long after her death Cadwallader was called to duty by King Mabon to fight the Arisians, a war that had made Cadwallader a hero and a legend. But Davyn had never heard his father speak of the war. Ever. He had heard songs composed about the great Cadwallader’s exploits in battle: Capturing the gate house of Naldun single handedly, leading a small band of fifteen knights to victory against a hundred Arisians. The stories got more and more ridiculous after that, men said that he was secretly a Wielder of stone and used his magic to bring down the walls of the city, or that he was descendent from giants and stood ten feet tall. But Baron Owen would suffer no mention of the war, a minstrel had asked him about it once, wanting to compose a new song, the Baron’s face went hard as stone and his eyes cold as ice. Then he ordered the man out of the castle, out of the city too, actually. They threw him out of the gates with only the clothes he was wearing and his lute. That had ended all inquiry into that subject matter.
Making his way through the crowd amidst much back slapping, and “welcome home”s Davyn reached the large, carved, double doors, left ajar by the joyous staff. On either side of the doors stood two stern guards, their disciplined gazes swept the courtyard missing nothing, even in the throng of people gathered there. They flicked their eyes at Davyn as he passed but that was all the reaction they gave him. They were part of his father’s honor guard, veteran soldiers who knew their jobs well, some had served with his father in Arisland.
Once inside Davyn found himself in the great hall, the main room in the castle, used for all purposes. Dinners were taken here, guests greeted, and court cases heard. His father might not be one for trying to impress visiting nobles, but the great hall contained astounding craftsmanship worthy of the King’s own palace. The room was at least fifty strides long with the lofty ceiling held up by eight towering pillars, each adorned with carvings of legendary battles and hunts. On the walls hung embroidered tapestries depicting scenes from ballads and songs, these Cadwallader would have had sold long ago had not Ellen said the cold stone hall needed their warmth, he had never mentioned taking them down after her death.
Davyn made his way into the hall, eerily quiet to his ears after the noise from the staff outside. Sitting at the head of the table in an ornate chair was a large, burly man, drinking ale from a mug while reading a stack of parchment covered with numbers and lists. The air around him seemed to say “Do not come near“. His muscular frame and forceful stare gave him this imposing presence, but it was his multiple scars that made him so unapproachable. They decorated every exposed part of him, his skin was a map of war and pain, a lifetime’s worth of each and then some to spare. One intense brown eye lifted from the paper to gaze at Davyn as he walked closer, the other was a blank gray, empty and blind. A knife wound had done that, and left him with a gnarled scar running across his forehead, through his eye and down his cheek. It was deep and craggy like a crevice in a rock, and it wasn’t even his worse wound. Both the man’s arms rested on the table before him, his right hand holding the parchment, but his left arm was a useless stub of flesh ending just before the wrist. Some stories said that he had chopped it off himself when an enemy had grabbed a hold of it. Davyn could believe it, this man was the sort of fighter to do just that. He knew that well.
“Hello Father.” Davyn said as he came to a stop several feet down the table from the man.
Baron Cadwallader raised his head, shaking his long chestnut brown hair out of his face. It had more gray in it than Davyn remembered. The baron’s wrinkled, scarred, and weather beaten face had always seemed ancient to Davyn, though the baron was only now nearing fifty years of age.
“You are back, eh?” Baron Owen said unsmiling.
“Yes, just now.” Davyn replied.
There was a brief pause, it wasn’t awkward, but neither of them had anything to say. Then Baron Owen asked.
“How were the roads?”
Three years and that was the question he got. To the Baron fond greetings and drawn out farewells were naught but mind numbing drivel. The state of the kingdom‘s roads was useful information, something he needed to know, his son was obviously alive and healthy so he had no need to enquire as to how he‘d been. In Davyn’s eyes it was one of his father’s more redeeming qualities, he took after his father in his impatience for gestures of sentimentality.
Davyn sighed and sat down in one of the chairs, needing to get off his feet.
Odd, Davyn thought, I’ve been riding all day and yet I need to rest my feet. He found the idea very amusing but stifled his smile and gave his father an account of the trip from Frields.
“We ran into two groups of bandits on the way, we were obviously well armed and they still tried to rob us. I can’t imagine what it is like for other travelers who are less well equipped. I expected to pass quite a few merchant caravans this early in spring but we only came across three, and they were small. None of them had more than three wagons of goods to sell.”
Baron Owen leaned forward, his one good eye focused on Davyn, soaking up everything he said.
“There were a surprising number of families traveling as well, ’moving to greener pastures’ they said. Thing was they were coming from all directions, some were fleeing Lord Barian’s lands and heading to Dimstane, people from Dimstane were heading here to Brychan lands. People are even leaving Bituwin, though it seemed better off than most cities when we passed through it, thanks to the church. But they all seem to think that they would be better off somewhere else.”
His father sat back, exhaling heavily.
“The King has been raising his taxes.” He said “But he cannot tax the nobles, our tithes to him are set and changing them would anger some important -and dangerous- people, so he taxes the common folk.”
“I saw the Obren farm on the way here, Father,” Davyn interrupted. “it was falling to pieces. What happened?”
“That is a different matter. Obren was always very good with his money, so even when whole crops went bad he still was able to pay the King his due. But the King’s taxes have hit hard on the sale of abyss weed, it has become very hard to get. Obren fell victim to the plague two years ago and died refusing to pay the exorbitant prices the merchants wanted for their abyss weed. He was a stubborn old man and, I suppose, more tight fisted than a he should have been. Anyway, his sons were much less frugal and had no idea of how to run the farms finances, that was all done by Obren. I tried to help where I could but without him the farm was unable to keep going.”
“Abyss weed, eh? You have heard, I suppose, about the king’s sally into the Standing Forest?” Davyn said.
“I have heard rumors. Letters from court gossips and such. I did not think that he would actually do such a thing.” Cadwallader replied. “Did he really try to enter the Fralken forest?”
“Yes, he did. Earl Sayfius had just come back from court with the news before I left Frields. He says King Mabon tried to claim lordship over the Standing Forest, saying that it was inside the borders of his Kingdom and his families personal holdings giving him twice the authority over the it.”
“And the Fralken ignored him.” Cadwallader said.
Davyn nodded. “They refused him any entrance at all, stopped him at their borders like they do to everyone else. From what Earl Sayfius said, he was fuming mad at that.”
“Yes, King Mabon would be, wouldn‘t he?. His pride will not let him stop pushing the edges of his authority, he thinks that nothing is forbidden him; raising taxes, making war with his neighbors, banishing nobles, and now this. The Fralken have always been a reclusive people, no one has entered between the trunks of the Standing Forest in living memory… or before. Our past Kings were forced to keep a good relationship with them because the Abyss weed grows only deep in their secluded haunts. Without our trade with them a quarter of the people of Angharad would die from the plague in just a few short years, with more to follow after.”
He sighed and shook his head in disgust.
“Well, at the end of all things, he is still the king. We need only concern ourselves with that which we are able to change. So tell me. How was Freilds?”
“More bad news from there, I’m afraid.” Davyn said wearily. “The orcs are acting strange. Reports are that they have been fleeing from the Eternal Mountains in droves, the patrols can barely keep up. Earl Sayfius says he has never seen them so violent and restless.”
“Well,” Cadwallader said. “Orcs have always been prone to mood swings. And of course they’re violent, what does Sayfius expect? Peace talks? By the stars! They’re orcs!”
“Father,” Davyn replied quietly. “they reached the inner villages.”
His Father paused at that. The Orcs had been held at the border for years. Low level skirmishes had been commonplace for centuries but never any major invasions large enough, or determined enough, to get past the patrols sent out from the Guardian Cities; Frields, Sayastan, and Wanspar.
When his father didn’t say anything Davyn continued to explain.
“The orcs haven’t gathered any large forces but their raiding parties have grown more and more frequent over the course of the winter. And they almost seemed desperate and frantic when I fought them; Like they really needed to get into Angharad.”
Cadwallader let that sink in a moment
“You fought them?” He asked.
“Yes.” Davyn said, sensing where this was going.
“You kill any?” Cadwallader asked.
“Yes.” Davyn answered tensely.
“With magic?”
Davyn didn’t say anything, but his face started to heat up, slightly ashamed at his father’s accusing tone of voice.
“My son the Wielder.” Cadwallader said scornfully.
“Most fathers would be proud to have their son chosen like I was.” Davyn said. “Most consider it a position of honor.”
“Bah!” His father said, angrily swiping his hand through the air, no longer bothering to disguise his disgust. “Fighting with magic is a coward’s way to do battle. No son of mine should be scared to face his opponent with a blade in hand.”
Davyn stood up quickly, so quickly that the movement sent his chair skidding noisily across the floor. Cadwallader’s good eye flickered toward the heavy oak chair as it hit a pillar twenty feet behind where Davyn stood, a good distance to throw such a hefty piece of furniture much less knock it back by simply standing.
“I am NOT afraid. I would, were it up to me, face my enemies with my blade instead, but a Wielder’s place in battle is where he can help the most.” Davyn said quietly, tightly controlled anger raging behind his tone.
“Behind the lines with the archers and the women?” Cadwallader shot back. “Yes true honor is found there. That is where the battle is best fought at. Had I known that I would have stayed there while we slaughtered the Arisians down south!”
Davyn struggled to keep his anger in check. From him, a blow struck out of anger wouldn’t just knock his father down, it would kill him.
But why? Why didn’t his father understand? Of course he wanted to fight at the front lines as his father had but it wasn‘t his choice to make, the patrol commanders had their orders, and in battle the Wielders always stayed back. As physically destructive as they could be in hand to hand combat it was no match to what they could do with magic and the concentration required to do magic meant they couldn‘t do both. Cadwallader had trained Davyn in combat since he could walk, he had hoped that Davyn would become a knight someday. They had practiced Sword fighting, horseback riding, archery, even wrestling, though it was considered to be a low form of fighting by the nobility. And neglected many of his other studies such as poetry, music and dance. But the baron’s expectations were shaken early on when Davyn showed a severe lack of talent in horsemanship. During times of peace the tourney matches were where knights gained stature and renown, and jousting, the preferred game of knights, required, above all else, superb horse riding skills. Nevertheless, Cadwallader’s hopes were not destroyed until the morning Davyn had awoke seemingly burning with fever and rambling about a man with fiery skin standing in a burning field. No one knew what was wrong with him at first, thought him mad with sickness, until he had set several curtains and a serving boy’s clothing on fire.
After that Davyn’s fate was fixed, the law required all wielders to be reported to the landholder or shirereave of the area, Davyn‘s father in this case. Then they were shipped off to the academy for military training and were required to serve in the army of the noble who‘s land they had been found on. A Wielder could be chosen by the spirits at as young as ten years of age but they were never older than twenty. They were taken by force, if necessary, from their parents to serve the kingdom.
This was no problem for Davyn who had always known he was destined for military service, as the son of a noble, but his father had been crushed. Enraged that his only son would not follow in his footsteps he had nearly defied the law and refused to send Davyn to the academy. In the end he had, however, he given up on Davyn and drowned himself in managing his estates, raising his odd daughter, and ale.
Davyn looked into Cadwallader’s eye and saw something he hadn’t before- Cadwallader’s eyes were glassy and he was sweating to much for the coolness of the castle air. He grimaced as a few things that had just happened suddenly made better sense.
“You’re drunk.” Davyn said almost sadly.
His father looked confused for a moment, then the anger seemed to drain out of him and he slumped back into his chair.
“It doesn’t matter.” He half-mumbled.
“No it doesn’t. Does it?” Davyn replied wearily. He scrubbed his face with one hand, blinked several times, as if to reorient himself. Then he abruptly started toward one of the doors heading deeper into the castle.
“Where are you going?” His father called after him. “We are not done yet.”
Davyn turned briefly to say, “I need to rest and to go say hello to Creia and grandfather. We can talk later about courts and nobles and kingdoms later, father, perhaps when you are sober.”
Chapter Three
Davyn stood outside his old room. He ran his hand over the wooden boards of the door, which were held together tightly by two bolt studded bands of iron, one at the top and one at the bottom. It was not as old as the rest of the doors in the castle, though, the wood was comparably newer, not as grayed with age. He smiled a little as his fingers found familiar knots and dents. He had built this door himself; his father had made him do it as punishment for burning it down in the first place.
It was deep in the winter months when it happened. A blizzard had snowed them in. With nothing to occupy his time but trying to stay warm he had had decided to do just that. He smiled a little, remembering how hard it had been to work magic back then before he had gone to the academy. Concentration is very hard for a young man of fifteen; there were so many distractions, even in the eerie stillness created by a winter’s storm: wind rattled the windows, his hands were too cold, his nose was too runny. The more he tried the worse it got, the rattling became louder, the cold colder, and his nose ever wetter. He kept pausing to wipe it but then he had to start all over again. And then there was his father’s voice calling out to him to help haul firewood. His annoyance became irritation, then quickly developed into anger, rage followed closely on anger’s heels. Flash! Bang! Boom! The door was gone, in its place sat burning cinders and warped metal.
Davyn sighed and rolled his neck as he remembered his father’s wrath. The baron might care little for fancy decoration and pretty embellishments but that did not mean he did not like to keep things in their best shape. In this case, in any shape at all.
One good thing had come out of all that, he realized, his father had ordered him to remake every piece of the door himself with no help, and so he had. It had taken him many long hours, days, and weeks, but he forged the bolts, bands, handles, and hinges he needed, then he cut the timber for the boards. His step became lighter as he remembered those days he had spent in the smithy, with fire and iron all around him. The feel of it is his hands, the musical sound of metal ringing on metal, smelling it in his hair and clothing as he fell asleep at night.
Opening the door, he entered his room for the first time in three years. It was cleaned and dusted but otherwise unchanged, a warm feeling rose in him at the sight. He would never accuse his father of sentimentality so Davyn figured that his room was vacant and unused because its state of availability had been kept hidden from the baron. Cadwallader left the rooming arrangements to his housekeeper, Missus Idelle wife of , but had he known they had an extra space he would have found a use for it. That was just the way he was.
There was not much to the room: a bed, a wardrobe, a desk with a chair. A locked chest sat in the corner near the window, which had been covered with a woven matt to keep out the winter snows. Davyn shivered a little as he realized how much this room resembled his father’s, both were austere and simple. Most boys of his age and status collected random items or decorated their rooms with useless frippery; they wore lace and silk and owned a suit for every day of the year. Davyn bought what he needed, only what was necessary to life, sometimes he made it himself if he knew how. He didn’t care to admit how much he and his father had in common
After dropping his packs on the bed, he made a circuit of the room. He opened the wardrobe and, finding it barren; he turned and wandered towards his desk. On the desk sat a few items he had left behind, a fresh candle, a quill pen, and a inkwell, probably dried up by now. He picked up the candle and fiddled with it a moment, then he took a breath and concentrated on the wick.
He had used a candle as a boy to practice his magic, failed attempt after failed attempt to light it had taught him a lesson, that lesson was “it isn’t as easy as it seems”. The concentration required to light the candle was as great as the concentration needed to start a bonfire. And with a child’s mind, which is as flighty as a bird, it was near impossible to focus solely on the wick and the flame.
But that was years ago.
Davyn reached for his magic, drawing it from that secret place where it hid within him, pulling it though that gateway hidden in the recesses of his mind. He felt its familiar warmth spread out from his chest, down his arm and into his fingers like a gentle caress. It did not heat his skin, however, nor was he actually any warmer than before; it was an internal heat, an ethereal one; it did not touch his body, only his soul.
The candle sputtered into flame, leaping up a few erratic inches before settling down to a steady burn. That magical warmth bled out of him like a receding tide as he released his hold on it, and was replaced by a surge of self-satisfaction. Silly though it may seem for a grown man in his twenties to feel so proud to accomplish something he failed to as a boy, Davyn could not keep himself from smiling.
(This chapter is unfinished 
. I’ll get to it later. Eventually.)
.
) but I hope y’all enjoy it! Ttfn, people! ~Myth
) She grinned. “Still,” he continued. “If you feel even slightly tired, we’ll stop.”
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