In the High Pass
by Alcuin Fromm
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Table of Contents parts: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8 |
Uncertainty rules in the Empire. Strange tidings from beyond the Harrun Mountains fill the men of the Western realms with apprehension, and a renewed Imperial tolerance of the Magician’s Guild divides the Great Families. Nowhere is the seething anxiety more apparent than in House Ælliri.
Some of the wise and honorable Ælliri can see the gathering storm. Others are not so wise, and still others are not so honorable. Accompanied by his three sons, the Duke of Ælliri brings the Second Army to camp in the High Pass, occupying the strategic entry into the Duchy.
But there is another reason for the Duke’s campaign in the mountains: a dangerous gamble that has more to do with legend than with politics. He sets out from camp one day with the eldest of his three sons. The remaining two will have to deal with the consequences.
part 4
Læynolde gasped and collapsed to her knees as she severed the psychic link. Lurching forward, she barely slowed herself with outstretched, flailing arms before her face impacted the coarse fibers of a rug on her tent floor. Her eyes, rolled back, slowly returned to normal behind fluttering eyelids. Blood flowed freely from her nose. Seated above her in a high-backed chair, with his legs crossed and his arms folded in calm repose, the Guildsman smiled.
“Well done,” he said. “Very well done, indeed. I do not believe I have ever seen such control from a novice... until the end, that is. You squeezed too hard at the last.”
Wracked by an exhaustion she had never before experienced, Læynolde made no attempt to move. Every muscle in her body burned as if it had flexed and unflexed a thousand times in rapid succession. Her mind, however, remained perfectly clear.
“I could have killed him,” she mumbled through a slowly spreading grin. “I felt it.”
“Oh, yes, my dear. You were not merely seeing through his eyes and hearing through his ears. Your grasp was so strong, your access to his entire body so complete, that your heart was beating through his heart and your lungs were breathing through his lungs. And all that could have been stopped with a mere turn of your imagination.”
He closed his eyes and held out a limp hand, using his Art to envelop Læynolde’s body. She rose slowly into the air, her arms and legs trembling. Then, with gentle control, he set her down onto a stool. She wobbled and leaned forward, placing her hands on her calves to support herself. Noticing her bloody nose, she wearily lifted her sleeve up against her face.
The Guildsman frowned. “Wallon silk. What a pity,” he said with a sigh.
“Don’t be foppish,” she said as she lowered her arm and tilted her head back to stop the bleeding.
He smiled. “You’re never so charming as when you try to act like a man.”
His smile vanished. “Now, let us get to work. We did not come here to test the psychic link on any random person. We need to learn something useful, otherwise this little mourning charade is a waste, not merely of our theatrical talents, but of our precious time, as well. What did we discover?”
“Much,” she said. “Duke Rikkon has most likely been killed or taken prisoner by Emter Noon. He was attacked while looking for the Fmoi, of all idiot things.”
“Fmoi?” said the Guildsman with a laugh. “Rikkon is chasing after legends. That is quite interesting. But the other point is surely wrong. Emter would not squander such a quarry by killing him, unless it were truly an accident.”
“It means Rikkon’s out of the way for now, in any case. And with Cenn dead, there is a power vacuum in the Ælliri.”
“Indeed? Is not Doustian already the new Margrave?”
“He’s weak and sentimental,” she said with derision.
“That is true. But he also styles himself as virtuous and just. Those are dangerous qualities to have in an adversary.”
“Perhaps. But I find Pavill the more immediate threat.”
“Hmm. Continue. What do you sense about him?”
“He is intelligent and sharp. There is an anger that courses, seethes below the surface. That man must be formidable in the heat of battle.”
“Or reckless.”
The Guildsman fell silent, absently running his hand along his tattooed neck. Læynolde stood slowly and went to a wash basin to clean her face. She returned and sat heavily on the stool, feeling stronger but still reeling from the effects of the psychic link.
The Guildsman rose and pulled his chair closer to Læynolde. He leaned forward and looked at her intently. She returned the gaze with a questioning look. “Are you ready for the Trials, Læynolde?”
“Ready? Of course, I’ve been ready for—”
“Look at me,” he said with deadly seriousness.
She stopped speaking and stared at him in vexation.
“I do not ask as someone you can impress or manipulate. I know that you have the talent and the desire and could reach to the highest ranks of the Guild. But are you ready to leave behind life as you have known it until now. Are you ready to commit not only your mind and body, but your soul?”
She sneered: “Watch me.”
A wave of anxiety suddenly passed over the Guildsman for a brief second. Something in her eyes, some wild ferocity shone that he had never seen before in such intensity. She is powerful, he thought, but can she be controlled? He let the thought go and returned to the task at hand.
“Then, we have our plan. The Trials will come soon enough, but first we must take steps that will permanently sever you from the Ælliri and any life outside the Guild.”
“With Cenn dead, there is no more influence that I can assert over the Ælliri anyway.”
“Yes, but you will also be estranged from your own House Thurst.”
She laughed mirthlessly. “If only I could have done that fifteen years ago. The Ælliri boy got one thing right. She is a fat sow.”
The Guildsman look at her with puzzlement.
“Never mind. Get to the point. What’s the plan?”
The Guildsman leaned back on his chair, gazing upwards, and folded his hands under his chin. “Ironically, their strongest point is also their weakest.”
“Pavill?”
“Precisely. You shall ride this very night under cover of darkness to Bellwether Lake, where Viscount Myronokor has moved a contingent of his western forces. If you ride hard, you should reach it by midday tomorrow. In Bellwether, seek out the viscount, and give him the letter that I shall presently provide you. It will convince Viscount Myronokor to move his army against this stronghold at sunrise in five days. It must be exactly at that time.”
“Why then? And what does Pavill have to do with this?”
The Guildsman smiled. “Leave that to me.”
* * *
The fog that had settled in the valley looked like a grey lake, reflecting silver rays of light from the full moon Creska and the nearly full Beronai. Doustian strolled slowly from the refectory tent. With extra patrols still searching for Duke Rikkon and his party, the hunting had been particularly fruitful in recent days. Satiated by a meal of rich rabbit stew and fairly inebriated, Doustian felt in no rush to reach his own tent.
After a fitful rest that afternoon, Oluumber-Lenn had felt well again, hale enough to join Doustian, Pavill, and a number of the captains and senior officers in an overindulgent meal, partly in pleasant camaraderie, but partly to ignore the sadness and worry that still hung over the camp. As Doustian sloppily returned the salute of a passing soldier, he could still hear the murmur of voices from the refectory tent.
He looked down from the clear sky and noticed his nighttime shadow, which stretched out in front of him. Suddenly there were two. He closed one eye to focus his vision, but both shadows remained. He turned around and saw Læynolde gliding slowly towards him.
“Good evening, my lady dowager,” he said with a slight bow.
“Good evening, my lord.”
“Out enjoying the night?” he asked, slightly slurring his words.
“Something like that.”
An awkward pause followed.
“I think I had have one too many ales, my lady dowager.”
She smiled flatly and parted a fold in her cloak. Doustian quickly tensed, despite his inebriation, and his hand flew to the hilt of his sword. Her empty smile became a real one as she withdrew her hand holding a small waterskin. She drank from it, keeping her eyes trained on Doustian as he relaxed.
“You don’t trust me, do you?”
“My lady dowager, I do not trust you.”
“Why not?”
Doustian tilted his head in surprise, then took a step to steady his sway. He had no response at first, but after a short reflection, he came to a realization. “Because Pavill doesn’t trust you,” he said with a maudlin frown, wishing he did not find her so beautiful.
Her smile turned venomous. “And why would the Margrave of Æliri, if he were really a man, let himself be influenced by his younger brother?”
Doustian’s frown deepened. “Because I do trust Pavill.”
* * *
Copyright © 2022 by Alcuin Fromm
