Royce stood on the bank of the river in the early morning light trying to skip stones out toward the tower. None of them made more than a single jump before the turbulent water consumed them. His most recent idea for reaching the tower centered on building a small boat and launching himself upriver in the hopes of landing on the rocky parapet before the massive current washed him over the falls. Although there was no clear landing ground for such an attempt, it might be possible, if he caught the current just right and landed against the rock. The force of the water would likely smash the boat or drive it under when it met the wall, but he might be able to scramble onto the precipice before going over. The problem was, even if he managed to perform this harrowing feat, there was no way back.
He turned to see the wizard walking up the river trail. Perhaps to keep an eye on him but more likely to be on hand should he discover the entrance.
“Morning,” the wizard said. “Any epiphanies today?”
“Just one. There is no way to reach that tower.”
Esrahaddon looked disappointed.
“I have exhausted all the possibilities I can think of. Besides, Theron and Thrace are going to be leaving Dahlgren. I no longer have a reason to bang my head against this tower.”
“I see,” Esrahaddon said, staring down at him, “what about the welfare of the village?”
“Hardly my problem. This village shouldn’t even be here, remember? It’s a violation of the treaty. It would be best if all these people left.”
“If we allow it to be wiped out, it could be seen as a sign of weakness and invite the elves to invade.”
“And allowing the village to survive is breaking the treaty, resulting in the same possibility. Fortunate for me, I am not wearing a crown. I am not the Emperor, or a king, so it’s not something I need to deal with.”
“You’re just going to leave?”
“Is there a reason for me to stay?”
The wizard raised an eyebrow and looked long at the thief. “What do you want?” he asked at length.
“Are you proposing to pay me now?”
“We both know I have no money, but still you want something from me. What is it?”
“The truth. What are you after? What happened here nine hundred years ago?”
The wizard studied Royce for a moment and looked down at his feet. After a few minutes, he nodded. He walked over to a beech log that lay across the granite rock and sat down. He looked out toward the water and the spray as if searching for something in the mist, something that was not there.
“I was the youngest member of the Cenzar. We were the council of wizards that worked directly for the Emperor. The greatest wizards the world had ever seen. There was also the Teshlor, comprised of the greatest of the Emperor’s knights. Tradition dictated that a mentor from each council was to serve as teacher and full-time protector to the Emperor’s son and heir. Because I was the youngest it fell to me to be Nevrik’s Cenzar instructor, while Jerish Grelad was picked from the Teshlor. Jerish and I didn’t get along. Like most of the Teshlor, he held a distrust of wizards, and I thought little of him and his brutish, violent ways.
“Nevrik, however, brought us together. Like his father, the Emperor Nareion, Nevrik, was a breed apart, and it was an honor to teach him. Jerish and I spent nearly all our time with Nevrik. I taught him lore, books, and The Art, while Jerish instructed him in the schools of combat and warfare. Though I still felt the practice of physical combat was beneath the Emperor and his son, it was very clear that Jerish was as devoted to Nevrik as I was. In that middle ground, we found a foothold where we could stand together. When the Emperor decided to break tradition and travel here to Avempartha with his son, we went along.”
“Break tradition?”
“It had been centuries since an emperor had spoken directly to the elves.”
“After the war, there wasn’t tribute paid or anything like that?”
“No, all contact was severed at the Nidwalden, so it was a very exciting time. No one really knew what to expect. I personally knew very little about Avempartha beyond the historical account of how it was the sight of the last battle of the Great Elven Wars. The Emperor met with several top officials of the Erivan Empire in the tower while Jerish and I attempted, without much luck, to continue Nevrik’s studies. The sight of the waterfall and the elven architecture was too much to compete with for the attention of a twelve-year-old boy.
“It was around dusk, nearly night. Nevrik had been pointing things out to us all day, reveling in the fact that neither Jerish nor I could identify any of the elven things he found. This was, of course, the first time in centuries that humans had met with elves; we were at a distinct disadvantage. We found several sets of elven clothes drying in the sun, made of a shimmering material we couldn’t identify. Nevrik delighted in stumping his teachers, so when he asked about the thing he saw flying toward the tower, I thought he saw a bird, or a bat, but he said it was too large and that it looked like a serpent. He mentioned it had flown into one of the high windows of the tower. Nevrik was so adamant about it that we all went back inside. We had just started up the main staircase when we heard the screams.
“It sounded like a war was being fought above us. The personal bodyguards of the Emperor-a detachment of Teshlors-were fighting off the Gilarabrywn, protecting the Emperor as they fled down the stairs. I saw groups of elves throwing themselves at the creature, dying to protect our emperor.”
“The elves were?”
Esrahaddon nodded. “I was amazed by the sight. The whole scene is still so vivid to me even after nearly a thousand years. Still nothing the knights or the elves could do stopped the attacking beast, which seemed determined to kill the Emperor. It was a terrible battle with knights falling on the stairs and dying upon the wet steps, elves joining them. The Emperor ordered us to get Nevrik to safety.
“Jerish grabbed the boy and dragged him out of the tower kicking and screaming, but I hesitated. I realized that once outside, the flying beast would be able to swoop down and kill at will. The Art could not defeat it. The creature was magic and without the key to unlock the spell, nothing I could do would alter that enchantment. A thought came to me and as the Emperor exited the door, I cast an enchantment of binding-not on the beast, but on the tower trapping the Gilarabrywn inside. Those knights and elves still inside died, but the beast was trapped.”
“Where did it come from? What caused the thing to attack?”
Esrahaddon shrugged. “The elves insisted they knew nothing of the attack, and that they had no idea where the Gilarabrywn came from except that one Gilarabrywn had been left unaccounted for after the wars. They assumed it destroyed. They mentioned a militant society, a growing movement of elves within the Erivan Empire that sought to incite a war. It was speculated they were responsible. The elven lords apologized and assured us they would investigate the matter fully. The Emperor, convinced that to retaliate or even make the incident public was unwise, chose to ignore the attack and returned home.”
“So what’s this about a weapon?”
“The Gilarabrywn is a conjured creature, a powerful magic endowed with a life of its own beyond the existence of its creator. The creature is not truly alive; it cannot reproduce, grow old, or appreciate existence, but it also cannot die. It can, however, be dispelled. No enchantment is perfect; every magic has a seam where the weave can be unraveled. In the case of the Gilarabrywn, the seam is its name. Whenever a Gilarabrywn is created, so is an object-a sword, etched with its name-it is used to control the beast and if necessary, destroy it. According to the elves, at the end of the war they placed all the Gilarabrywn swords in the tower per Novron’s orders. At that time all the swords were accounted for and all but one was notched to show their associated beast was destroyed.”
Royce got up to stretch his legs. “Okay, so the elven lords held one of their monsters back just in case, or this militant group hid one to cause trouble. The elven leaders tell you all the swords are in there. Maybe they are, or maybe they aren’t, and they just want-”
“It’s in there,” Esrahaddon interrupted.
“You saw it?”
“We were given a tour when we first arrived. Near the top is a sort of memorial to the war. All the swords are on display.”
“Alright so there is a sword,” Royce granted, “but that’s not why you want in. You didn’t come here to save Dahlgren. Why are you really here?”
“You didn’t allow me to finish,” Esrahaddon replied, sounding every bit like the wise teacher letting his student know to be patient. “The Emperor believed he had prevented a war with the elves and returned home, but what waited for him was an execution. While we were away, the church, under the leadership of Patriarch Venlin, planned the Emperor’s assassination. The attack came on the steps of the palace during a celebration commemorating the anniversary of the Empire’s founding. Jerish and I escaped with Nevrik. I knew that many of the Cenzar and the Teshlor were involved in the church’s plot and that they would find us, so Jerish and I came up with a plan-we hid Nevrik and I created two talismans. One I gave to Nevrik and the other to Jerish. These amulets would hide them from the clairvoyant search the Cenzar were certain to make, but allow me to find them. Then I sent them away.”
“And you?” Royce asked.
“I stayed behind. I tried to save the Emperor.” He paused, looking far away. “I failed.”
“So what happened to the heir?” Royce asked.
“How should I know, I was locked up in a prison for nine hundred years. Do you think he wrote me? Jerish was supposed to take him into hiding.” The wizard allowed himself a grim smile. “We both thought it would only be for a month or so.”
“So, you don’t even know if an heir exists anymore?”
“I’m pretty confident the church didn’t kill him or they would have killed me shortly thereafter, but what became of Jerish and Nevrik I don’t know. If anyone could have kept Nevrik alive, it would have been Jerish. Despite his age, he was one of the best knights the Emperor had. The fact that he trusted his son to his care was testament to that. Like all Teshlor knights, Jerish was a master of all the schools of combat; there wouldn’t have been a man alive who could beat him in battle and he would have died before surrendering Nevrik. They would both be dead now, of course, time would have seen to that, so would their great, great grandchildren if they had any. I suspect Jerish would have known the need to perpetuate the line and would have settled down somewhere quiet and encouraged Nevrik to marry and have children.”
“And wait for you?”
“What’s that?”
“That was the plan, wasn’t it? They run and hide and you stay behind and find them when it was safe?”
“Something like that.”
“So, you had a way to contact them. A way to locate the heir? Something to do with the amulets.”
“Nine hundred years ago I would have said yes, but the odds of finding their decedents now is probably a fool’s dream. Time can destroy so many things.”
“But you are trying nevertheless.”
“What else is there for an old crippled outlaw to do?”
“Care to tell me how you plan to find them?”
“I can’t do that. I’ve already told you more than I should have. The heir has enemies and, as fond as I have grown of you, that kind of secret stays with me. I owe that much to Jerish and Nevrik.”
“But something in that tower is part of it. That’s why you want to get inside.” Royce thought a moment. “You sealed that tower just before you went to prison, and since the Gilarabrywn was only recently released you can be almost certain that the interior of that tower hasn’t been touched in all that time. It’s the only place that is still the same as the day you left it. There’s something in there you saw that day, or something you left there; something you need to find the heir.”
“It is a shame you aren’t as good at deciphering a way to get into the tower.”
“About that,” Royce said, “you mentioned that the Emperor met with the elves in the tower. They aren’t allowed on this bank, right?”
“Correct.”
“And there was no bridge on their side of the river, right?”
“Again correct.”
“But you never saw how they entered the tower?”
“No.” Royce thought a moment then asked, “Why were the stairs wet?”
Esrahaddon looked at him puzzled. “What’s that?”
“You said earlier that when the knights were fighting off the Gilarabrywn, they died on the wet steps. Was it blood?”
“No, water I think, I remember how the stairs were wet when we were climbing up because it made the stone so slippery I nearly fell. Some of the knights did fall, that’s why I remember it.”
“And you said the elves had clothes drying in the sun?”
Esrahaddon shook his head. “I see where you are going with this, but not even an elf can swim to the tower.”
“That may be true, but then why were they wet? Was it a hot day? Could they have been swimming?”
Esrahaddon raised his eyebrows incredulously. “In that river? No, it was early spring and still cold.”
“Then how’d they get wet?”
Royce heard a faint sound behind him. He started to turn but stopped himself.
“We’re not alone,” he whispered.
“When you lunge, step in with the leg on your weapon side, it will give you more reach and better balance,” Hadrian told Theron.
The two were at the well again. They had gotten up early and Hadrian was putting Theron through some basic moves using two makeshift swords they had created out of rake handles. To his surprise, Theron was spryer than he looked and despite his size, the old man moved well. He had gone over the basics of parries, ripostes, fleches, presses, and the lunge, and they were now working on a compound attack comprised of a feint, parry, and riposte.
“Cuts and thrusts must follow one upon the other without pause. The emphasis is always on speed, aggression, and deception. And everything is kept as simple as possible,” Hadrian explained.
“I’d listen to him. If anyone knows stick fighting, it’s Hadrian.”
Hadrian and Theron turned to see two equestrians riding into the village clearing, each leading a pack pony laden with poles and bundles. They were young men not much older than Thrace, but dressed like young princes in handsome doublets and hose complete with box-pleated frill and lace edging.
“Mauvin! Fanen?” Hadrian said astonished.
“Don’t look so surprised.” Mauvin gave his horse reign to graze on the common’s grass.
“Well, that’s a little hard at this point. What in Maribor’s name are you two doing here?”
Just then a procession of musicians, heralds, knights, wagons and carriages emerged from the dense forest. Long banners of red and gold streamed in the morning light as standard-bearers preceded the march, followed by the plumed Imperial Guards of the Nyphron Church.
Hadrian and Theron moved aside against the trees for safety as the grand parade of elegantly draped stallions and gold etched white carriages rolled in. There were well-dressed clergy and chain-mailed soldiers, knights with their squires leading packhorses laden with fine sets of shining metal armor. There was nobility with standards from as far away as Calis and Trent, but also commoners, rough men with broad swords and scarred faces, monks in tattered robes, and woodsmen with long bows and green hoods. Such an assortment of diverse characters made Hadrian think of a circus he had once seen, although this column of men and horses was far too grim and serious to be a carnival. Bringing up the rear echelon was a group of six riders in black and red with the symbol of a broken crown on their chests. At their head rode a tall thin man with long black hair and a short trimmed beard.
“So they’ve finally decided to do something about this,” Hadrian said. “I’m impressed the church would go to such an effort to save a little village so far out that even its own king doesn’t care. But that still doesn’t explain why you two are here.”
“I’m hurt,” Mauvin feigned a chest pain. “Granted, I’m only here to help Fanen, but I might try my hand as well. Although, if you’re going to be competing it looks as if we shouldn’t have bothered with the trip.”
Theron whispered to Hadrian, “Who are these people? And what is he talking about?”
“Ah-sorry, this is Mauvin and Fanen Pickering, sons of Count Pickering of Galilin in Melengar, who are apparently very lost. Mauvin, Fanen, this is Theron Wood, he’s a farmer.”
“And he’s paying you for lessons? Smart idea, but how did you two get here ahead of the rest of us? I didn’t see you at any of the camps. Oh, what am I thinking? You and Royce probably had no trouble discovering the location of the contest.”
“Contest?”
“Royce was probably hiding under the archbishop’s desk as he set up the rules. So will it be swords? If it’s swords Fanen has a real chance to win, but if it’s a joust, well…” he glanced at his brother who scowled. “He’s really not that good. Do you know how the eliminations will work? I can’t imagine they will pit noble against commoner, which means Fanen won’t be competing with you, so-”
“You’re not here to slay the Gilarabrywn? Are you saying these people are here for that stupid contest?”
“Gilarabrywn? What’s a Gilarabrywn? Is that like Oswald the bear? Heard about him coming through Dunmore. Terrorized villages for years until the king killed him with just a dagger.”
The entourage traveled past them without pause up toward the manor house. One of the coaches separated from the group just after it cleared the well. It stopped and a young well-dressed woman exited and ran to them, holding the edge of her skirt up to avoid the dirt.
“Hadrian!” she cried with a bright smile.
Hadrian bowed, and Theron joined him.
“Is this your father, Hadrian?” she asked.
“No, Your Highness. May I present Theron Wood of Dahlgren Village. Theron, this is her Royal Highness, Princess Arista of Melengar.”
Theron stared at Hadrian, shocked, “You really get around, don’t you?”
Hadrian smiled awkwardly and shrugged.
“Hey Arista, guess what. Hadrian says the contest is to kill a beast.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Which is just fine by me because if Hadrian was going to be competing I think, I would have to withdraw. But now, a hunt is a much different story. You know luck is often a deciding factor in these things.”
“These things?” Arista laughed at him. “Attended several beast slaying contests have you, Fanen?”
“Bah!” Fanen scoffed. “You know what I mean. Sometimes you are just in the right place at the right time.”
Mauvin shrugged. “Doesn’t sound like much of a contest for noblemen really. If it turns out to be true, I’ll be disappointed. Slaughtering a poor animal is no good use for a Pickering’s sword.”
“Say, did you also hear what the prize will be?” Fanen asked. “The way they’ve been selling this contest in every square, church and tavern across Avryn, it has to be big. Will it just be a gold trophy, or is it land? I’m hoping to get an estate out of this. Mauvin will inherit our father’s title, but I have to fend for myself. What does this animal look like? Is it a bear? Is it big? Have you seen it?”
Hadrian and Theron exchanged stunned looks.
“What is it?” Fanen asked. “It’s not dead already?”
“No,” Hadrian said. “It’s not dead already.”
“Oh good.”
“Your Highness!” A woman’s voice came from the carriage still lingering up the trail. “We need to be going-the archbishop will be waiting.”
“I’m sorry,” she told them, “I have to go. It was good seeing you again. She waved and ran back to her waiting carriage.
“We should probably be going too,” Mauvin said. “We want to get Fanen’s name as near to the top of the list as we can.”
“Wait,” Hadrian told them. “Don’t enter the contest.”
“What?” they both said.
“We rode days to get here for this,” Fanen complained.
“Take my advice. Turn around right now and head back home. Take Arista with you too and anyone else you can convince to go. If it is a competition to kill the Gilarabrywn, don’t sign up. You don’t want to fight this thing. I’m serious. You don’t know what you’re dealing with. If you try and fight this creature it will kill you.”
“But, you think you can kill it?”
“I’m not fighting it. Royce and I were just here doing a job for Theron’s daughter and we were about to leave.”
“Royce is here too?” Fanen asked, looking around.
“Do your father a favor and leave now.”
Mauvin frowned. “If you were anyone else I would take your tone as insolent, I might even call you a coward and a liar, but I know you’re neither.” Mauvin sighed and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Still, we did ride an awfully long way to just turn around. You say you were preparing to leave? When will that be?”
Hadrian looked at Theron.
“Another two days I think,” the old farmer told Hadrian. “I don’t want to go until I know Thrace will be okay.”
“Then we will stay here for that long and see for ourselves what’s what. If it turns out to be as you say, we will leave with you. Is that fair, Fanen?”
“I don’t see why you can’t go and I stay. After all, I’m the one going to enter the contest.”
“No one is going to kill that thing, Fanen,” Hadrian told him. “Listen, I have been here for three nights. I have seen it and I know what it can do. It’s not a matter of skill or courage. Your sword won’t harm it, no one’s will. Fighting that creature is nothing more than suicide.”
“I’m not deciding yet,” Fanen declared. “We aren’t even certain what the contest is. I won’t sign up right away, but I’m not leaving either.”
“Do me a favor then,” Hadrian told them, “at least stay indoors tonight.”
Something, or someone, was in the thickets.
Royce left Esrahaddon and moved away to the river’s edge, careful not to look in the direction of the sound. He descended from the rocks to the depression near the river and slipped into the trees, circling back. Something was there and it was working hard to be quiet.
At first, Royce caught a glimpse of orange and blue through the leaves and almost thought it was nothing more than a bluebird, but then it shifted. Far too large to be a bird, Royce drew closer and saw a light brown braided beard, a broad flat nose, a blue leather vest, large black boots, and a bright orange shirt with puffed sleeves.
“Magnus!” Royce greeted the dwarf loudly, causing him to stumble and fall out of the bramble. He slipped backward off the little grassy ledge and fell on his back on the bare rock not far from where Esrahaddon sat. With the wind knocked out of him, the dwarf lay gasping for breath.
Royce leapt down and placed his dagger to the dwarf’s throat.
“A lot of people have been looking for you,” Royce told him menacingly. “I have to admit, I rather wanted to see you again myself to thank you for all the help you gave me in Essendon Castle.”
“Don’t tell me this is the dwarf that killed King Amrath of Melengar?” Esrahaddon asked.
“His name is Magnus, or at least that is what Percy Braga called him. He’s a master trap builder and stone carver, isn’t that right?”
“It’s my business!” the dwarf protested, still struggling for air. “I’m a craftsman. I take jobs the same as you. You can’t fault a guy for working.”
“I almost died due to your work,” Royce told him. “And you killed the king. Alric will be very pleased when I tell him I finally eliminated you. And as I recall there’s a price on your head.”
“Wait-hang on!” Magnus shouted. “It was nothing personal. Can you tell me you never killed anyone for money, Royce?”
Royce hesitated.
“Yes, I know who you are,” the dwarf told him. “I wanted to find out who beat my trap. You used to work for the Black Diamond and not as a delivery boy either. It was my job, I tell you. I don’t care about politics, or Braga, or Essendon.”
“I suspect he’s telling the truth,” Esrahaddon said. “I’ve never known a dwarf to care at all for the affairs of humans beyond the coin they can obtain.”
“See, he knows what I am saying. You can let me go.”
“I said you were telling the truth, not that he should let you live. In fact, now that I can see you have been eavesdropping on our conversations, I have to encourage the notion of ending your life. I can’t be sure how much you heard.”
“What?” the dwarf cried.
“After slitting his throat you can just roll his little body off the ledge here.” The wizard stepped up and looked over the cliff.
“No,” Royce replied, “it will be better to toss him off the falls. He’s not that heavy; his body will likely carry all the way to the Goblin Sea.”
“Do you need his head?” Esrahaddon asked. “To take back to Alric?”
“It would be nice, but I’m not carrying a severed head for a week while traveling through those woods. It would draw every fly for miles and it would stink after a few hours. Trust me, I speak from experience.”
The dwarf looked at both of them in horror.
“No! No!” he shouted in panic as Royce pressed his blade to his neck. “I can help you. I can show you how to get to the tower!”
Royce looked at the wizard who appeared skeptical.
“For the love of Drome. I’m a dwarf. I know stone. I know rock. I know where the tunnel to the tower is.”
Royce relaxed his dagger.
“Let me live and I’ll show it to you,” he turned his head toward Esrahaddon. “And as for what I heard, I care nothing about the affairs of wizards and men. I’ll never say a word. If you know dwarves, well then you know we’re a lot like stone when we choose to be.”
“So there is a tunnel,” Royce said.
“Of course there is.”
“Before I decide,” Royce asked, “what are you doing here?”
“I was finishing another job, that’s all.”
“And what was this job?”
“Nothing sinister, I just made a sword for a guy.”
“All the way out here? Who is this person?”
“Lord Rufus somebody, I was hired to make it and deliver it to him here, honest, no traps, no killings.”
Royce heard the sound of footfalls. Someone was running up the trail. Thinking it might be the dwarf’s associates, he slipped behind Magnus. He gripped his hair, pulled his head back, and prepared to slit his throat.
“Royce!” Tad Bothwick shouted up to them from down near the water.
“What is it, Tad?” he asked cautiously.
“Hadrian sent me. He says you should come back to the village right away, but that Esra should steer clear.”
“Why?” the wizard asked.
“Hadrian said to tell you that the Church of Nyphron just arrived.”
“The church?” Esrahaddon muttered. “Here?”
“Is there a Lord Rufus with them?” Royce asked.
“Could be. There’s a whole lot of fancy folk around. Must be at least one lord in the bunch.”
“Any idea why they’re here, Tad?”
“Nope.”
“You might want to make yourself scarce,” Royce told the wizard. “Someone might have mentioned your name. I’ll go see what’s happening. In the meantime,” he looked down at the dwarf, “your death sentence has been suspended. This kindly old man is going to watch you this afternoon, and you’re going to stay right here. Then later you’re going to show us where this tunnel is and if you’re telling the truth about knowing, then you live. Anything short of that and you’re going over the falls in two pieces. Agreed? Good.” He looked back at the wizard, “Want me to tie him up or just hit him over the head with a rock?” Royce asked, panicking the dwarf again.
“Won’t be necessary, Magnus here looks like the honorable type. Besides, I can still manage a few surprisingly unpleasant things. Do you know what it is like to have live ants trapped inside your head?”
The dwarf did not move or speak. Royce searched him. He found a belt under his clothes with little hammers and some rock shaping tools and a dagger. Royce looked at the dagger, surprised.
“I tried copying it,” the dwarf told him nervously. “It’s not very good, I was working from memory.”
Royce compared it to his own dagger. The two were very similar in design, though the blades were clearly different. Royce’s weapon was made of an almost translucent metal that shimmered in the light while Magnus’ dagger seemed dull and heavy by comparison. The thief threw the dagger over the cliff.
“That’s a magnificent weapon you have,” the dwarf told him, his eyes mesmerized by the blade that a moment before had been at his throat. “It’s a Tur blade, isn’t it?”
Royce ignored him and spoke to Esrahaddon. “Keep an eye on him. I’ll be back later.”
Arista took her seat on the balcony above the entrance to the great hall of the manor house, along with the entourage of the archbishop, which included Sauly and Sentinel Luis Guy. It was a very small balcony created of rough logs and thick ropes, where only a few could fit, but Bernice managed to squeeze her way in and remained standing just behind her. Having Bernice hovering out of sight was as irritating as a mosquito in the dark.
Arista had no idea what was going on-few people appeared to.
When they arrived, everything was in chaos. The lord of the manor was apparently dead and the place was filled with peasants. They were promptly chased out. Luis Guy and his seret established order, properly assigning quarters based on rank. She was given a cramped but private room on the second level. It was a ghastly place lacking even a single window. A bear rug lay on the floor, the head of a moose looked down at her from above the bed, and a coat rack made from deer antlers hung from the wall. Bernice was busy unpacking her clothes from the trunk when Sauly stopped by, insisting Arista join him on the balcony. At first, she thought the contest might be starting, but it was common knowledge it would begin at nightfall.
A trumpeter stepped up to the rail and blared a fanfare on his horn. Below in the courtyard a crowd formed. Men rushed over, some holding drinks or half-eaten meals. One man trotted up still buttoning his pants. The growing audience created a mass of heads and shoulders bunched together, all staring up at them.
The archbishop slowly stood up. Dressed in full regalia of long embroidered robes, he spread his arms in a grand gesture and spoke, his raspy voice barely adequate to the task.
“It is time to announce the details of this event and reveal the profound happening that you, the devoted of Novron, are about to take part in, an event so monumental that its conclusion will see the world altered forever.”
Several people in the back complained they could not hear, but the archbishop ignored them and went on. “I know some of you came believing this contest was to be a battle of swords or lances like some Wintertide tournament. Instead, what you will see is nothing less than a miracle. Some of you will die, one will succeed, and the rest will bear witness to the world.
“A terrible evil haunts this place. Here on the Nidwalden River, at the edge of the world, there is a beast. Not a great bear like Oswald that terrorized Glamrendor. This creature is none other than the legendary Gilarabrywn, a horror not seen since the days of Novron himself. A monster so terrible that even in those days of heroes and gods, only Novron, or one of his blood, could slay it. It will be your task, your challenge, to slay the creature and save this poor village from the ancient curse.”
A murmur broke out among those gathered and the archbishop raised his hands to quiet them. “Silence. For I have not yet told you of the reward!”
He waited as the mob grew quiet, many pushing closer to hear.
“As I said, the Gilarabrywn is a beast that only Novron, or one of his bloodline, can slay and as such, he that succeeds in vanquishing this terror can be none other than the heir to the imperial crown, the long lost Heir of Novron!”
The reaction was surprisingly quiet. There were no cheers, no shouts of jubilation. The crowd as a whole appeared stunned. They remained staring as if expecting more. The archbishop in turn looked around equally bewildered by the hesitancy of the congregation.
“Did he just say the winner would be the heir?” Arista asked, looking at Sauly who appeared as if he’d just smelled something unpleasant. He smiled at her and, standing up, whispered in the archbishop’s ear. The older man took his seat and Bishop Saldur addressed the crowd.
“For centuries the church has struggled to find the true heir, to restore the bloodline of our holy lord Novron the Great,” Sauly’s voice was loud and warm and carried well on the pine scented afternoon air. “We have searched, but all we had to guide us were old books and rumors. Speculation really, hopes and dreams. There has never been a means of finding him, no absolute method to determine where the heir was, or who he may be. Many have falsely claimed to be his descendent, many unworthy men have striven to take that lofty crown, and the church has sat helpless.
“Still, we have faith he is out there. Novron would not allow his own blood to die. We know he lives. He may be oblivious to who he is. A thousand years have passed since his disappearance and who of us can accurately trace our lineage back to the days of the Empire? Who knows if one of us might have an ancestor who went to his grave with a terrible secret? A terrible, wonderful secret.
“The Gilarabrywn is a miracle Novron has sent. It is a tool to show us his son. He has confided this to the patriarch and told his holiness that he should hold a contest and if he did, the heir would be among the contestants, the truth of his lineage, oblivious even to himself.
“So you see, you-any one of you-may be the Heir of Novron, possessor of divine blood-a god. Have any of you sensed a power within? A belief in your own worth beyond that of others? This is your chance to prove to all of Elan that you are no fool, no mere man. Place your name upon the roster, ride out at nightfall, slay the beast, and you will become our divine ruler. You will not be a mere king, but emperor, and all kings will bow to you. You will take the imperial throne in Aquesta. All loyal Imperialists and the full force of the church will support you as we usher in a new age of order that will bring peace and harmony to the land. All you need do is destroy one lonely beast.
“What say you?”
This time the crowd cheered. Saldur glanced briefly at the archbishop and stepped away from the balcony to take a seat.
When Royce reached Dahlgren, the village was in turmoil. People were everywhere. Most of the villagers were heading toward the common well. There were plenty of new faces, all of them men, most carrying some sort of weapon. Royce found Hadrian at the well mobbed by villagers. None of them looked happy.
“Where do we go now?” Selen Brockton asked in tears.
Hadrian once more stood on the well, standing over the crowd and looking like he wanted to break something. “I don’t know, Mrs. Brockton, home I guess, for now at least.”
“But our home has a thatched roof.”
“Try digging cellars and getting as low as possible.”
“What’s going on?” Royce asked.
“The Archbishop of Ghent has arrived and moved into the manor house. He and his clergy, as well as a few dozen nobles, have taken over the castle and driven everyone else out. Well, except for Russell, Dillon, and Kline, whom he ordered to fill in the shelter and the tunnel we were digging, saying they could repair the damages or hang for destruction of property. Good old Deacon Tomas, he stands there nodding and saying, ‘I told them not to do it, but they wouldn’t listen.’ They kept most of the livestock too, saying it was in the castle so it belonged to the manor. Now everyone blames me for losing their animals.”
“What about the bonfires?” Royce asked, “We could still build one here in the commons.”
“No good,” Hadrian told him. “His lordship declared it unlawful to cut trees in the area and confiscated the oxen with the rest of the animals.”
“Did you tell him what will happen when the sun goes down?”
“I can’t tell him anything.” Hadrian threw up his hands, running his fingers through his hair as if he might start pulling it out. “I can’t get past the twenty or so odd soldiers he has at the castle gate. Which is a good thing too or I might kill the guy.”
“Why is the church here at all?”
“That’s the kicker,” Hadrian told him. “You know that competition the church has been announcing? Turns out that contest is to slay the Gilarabrywn.”
“What?”
“They intend to send contestants out to fight the thing at nightfall and if they die, they’ll send the next one. They’ve got a damn list nailed to the castle gate.”
“It’s alright, it’s alright,” Deacon Tomas shouted.
Everyone turned to see the cleric coming down the trail from the castle approaching the crowd at the well. He walked with his hands raised as if in blessing. He had a great smile on his face, which turned his eyes into half-moons. “Everything is going to be fine,” he told them in a loud confident voice. “The archbishop has come to help us. They are going to kill the beast and save us from this nightmare.”
“What about our livestock?” Vince Griffin asked.
“They will need most of them to feed the troops, but what isn’t used will be returned after the beast has been slain.”
The crowd grumbled.
“Now, now, what price do you put on safety? What price do you put on the lives of your children? Are a pig and a cow worth the lives of your children? Your wife? Consider it a tithe and be thankful the church has come to Dahlgren to save us. No one else has. The King of Dunmore ignored us, but your church has responded by sending not just some knight or margrave, but the Archbishop of Ghent himself. Soon the beast will be dead and Dahlgren will be a place of happiness once more. If that means one year of no meat, and plowing without an ox, surely that is not too high a price to pay. Now everyone please, back to your homes. Stay out of their way and let them do their work.”
“What about my daughter?” Theron growled and pushed forward looking like he might kill the deacon.
“It’s alright, I’ve spoken with the archbishop and Bishop Saldur; they have agreed to let her stay. They have moved her to a smaller room but-”
“They won’t let me in to see her!” the old farmer snapped.
“I know, I know,” Tomas said in a soothing voice, “but I can. I just came down to explain things. I am heading right back and I promise you, I will stay by her side and watch over her until she is well.”
Hadrian slipped out of the crowd that now shifted around the deacon. He turned to Royce with a bitter look. “Tell me you found a way into the tower.”
Royce shrugged, “Maybe. We’ll need to check it out tonight.”
“Tonight?” he asked. “Shouldn’t such things be done in the daylight? When we can both see and things with complicated names aren’t flying around?”
“Not if I’m right.”
“And if you’re wrong?”
“If I’m wrong we’ll both certainly die-most likely by being eaten.”
“The thing is, I know you’re not kidding. Did I mention I lost my weapons?”
“With any luck we won’t need them. What we will need, however, is a good length of rope, sixty feet at least,” Royce told him. “Lanterns, wax, a tinderbox-”
“I’m not going to like this, am I?” Hadrian asked miserably.
“Not at all,” Royce replied.