The Drinnglennin Chronicles Omnibus Page 3

  “’T’were a terrible fire last night up the mountain. Swept through and burned Master Morgan’s cottage to the ground!” he’d reported excitedly. “Strange that the woods surroundin’ didna catch as well. Nary a trace of the old man t’ be found.”

  Malgly saw the look of horror on Avis’s face and reached for her hand. “Blearc’s beard! Avi, your Leif weren’t up there, were ’e?”

  Remembering the blackened pie and the exhausted slumber of her grandson, Avis was struck dumb. And so Malgly’s assumption—that the boy had been lost in the conflagration along with his master—went uncorrected. Soon it had been shared and accepted as fact by the other Valers.

  Some of the neighbors stopped by with small offerings—cranberry muffins, a few eggs, a basket of mushrooms—kindnesses that had threatened to unleash the flood of tears the old woman held grimly in check. She’d lost not only her voice, but her will to correct the misunderstanding. She’d tried only once, when Malgly drew her out to the yard to show her a remembrance stone he’d placed under the laurel tree beside Lira’s grave.

  “Bein’ as there’re no remains to lay in,” he said quietly, “we can say a few words together, if ye like.”

  “He’s not dead,” she whispered.

  But Malgly only patted her hand, and when she shambled back into her cottage without glancing at the marker, he left her in peace.

  Now Avis sat alone in the too-quiet croft. None of it made any sense. She knew she hadn’t been dreaming last night. Leif had come home, his cloak reeking of smoke. Perhaps he’d meddled with some magic he couldn’t control. Avis had only a vague idea of what her grandson was actually learning from Master Morgan; she’d listened with half an ear when he prattled on about rune raveling and riddling. Now it seemed he’d done something terrible, and was hiding—or worse, had run away.

  The boy she knew wasn’t capable of hurting a flea, and his disappearance filled her with anguish. Shock and confusion roiled in her breast, along with the sharp ache of loss. Her grandson hadn’t been consumed in that fire, but he must have been involved in whatever had happened on the mountain.

  She stared into the fireplace, at the dark lump at its heart, and wondered if she’d ever see her Leif again.

  Chapter 3

  Leif

  The novelty of riding the pony had worn off hours ago. Leif’s thighs were chafed, and his every bone rattled as they jolted along through the gloom. Master Morgan, seated before him on the horse, obscured his view ahead, and the scrubby brush was the same to either side. All he knew was they were traveling east over the mountains.

  His mind was still reeling from what had happened to him—the glowing golden eyes, the searing pain. It had all come rushing back when he’d awoken to a strong hand clamped over his mouth in the wee hours of the morning. “Listen to me, lad,” whispered the familiar voice of the wizard. “You must come away now, for your grandmother’s sake as well as your own. It’s no longer safe for either of you if you stay.”

  His panic must have been evident, for Master Morgan removed his hand and said, “It’s gone, lad, and you’ll be safe in my keeping. Now get up, Aeleif Elvinor, and stay quiet. We’re leaving at once.”

  He wished now that he had at least looked in on Gran in her little alcove, but Master Morgan had swept him out the door with such urgency, he’d had no time to do more than change his soiled garments. It wasn’t until they were out of sight of the croft that he realized he felt no pain in the knee he’d wrenched in his fall coming home. He had no recollection of how he’d found his way to his bed.

  As the night gave way to pale light on the forest trail, his anxiety gradually shifted to curiosity. “Master?” he asked, leaning forward. “Why did you call me Aeleif Elvinor? My family name is Landril.”

  “Your mother was a Landril,” agreed Master Morgan, “but your father’s name is Elvinor.”

  “My father?” The pony pranced as Leif accidentally dug his heels into her flanks.

  “There, Holly, there now, girl,” crooned the wizard, bringing her quickly under control.

  “You know my father?” said Leif. “And you say he’s called Elvinor? That isn’t a name from these parts. Who is he? Why haven’t I ever met him?”

  The wizard chuckled. “Curiosity is a fine trait, boy, but all knowledge is revealed in its own time. Of course you have questions, but I shall ask you to save them until we’re closer to our destination. The road can often have sharp ears, in my experience.”

  Leif wanted to ask what Master Morgan meant by this, but that would be another question.

  Casting about for some way to occupy his mind, he remembered the wizard’s last lesson. “The riddle!” he cried, causing Holly to break briefly into a trot.

  “Under fire, newly born

  Babe at evening, old at morn

  Measured hours mark its end

  Wind a foe, night a friend.”

  “It’s a candle, isn’t it?”

  “It is, indeed!” replied the wizard approvingly, and Leif glowed with pleasure.

  “Here’s another for you,” said Master Morgan.

  “A man’s kiss will waken and release my song

  to herald a king, or harts fleeing headlong.

  To battle, I summon, and swallow all breath;

  at times I lie silent, of beauty bereft.”

  “That’s easy,” said Leif. “It’s a horn. Give me a harder one!”

  The wizard hummed thoughtfully. “Try this one.”

  “Skin of mail, godly wrought,

  wise beyond man’s brightest thought,

  Our life’s breath did all lay waste

  When once before the winds we raced.”

  “That’s not hard,” declared Leif. “It’s a dra—”

  A wave of fear froze the word on his lips.

  “Ah,” said the wizard, “perhaps a poor choice, under the circumstances.” He glanced over his shoulder at Leif’s pale face. “As I recall, there’s a spring just ahead. We’ll stop there for a drink, shall we?”

  They broke their journey at a place where crystal water burbled out of the ground, and drank their fill. The air was still and cold, and the snow-crested peaks rose on the horizon, crowned by golden light. Leaning side by side against a sun-warmed boulder, they watched Holly graze in companionable silence.

  “I take it you’re wondering about the dragon,” said Master Morgan at last.

  Leif exhaled a shaky breath. “Yes,” he whispered.

  The wizard’s gaze fell to Leif’s chest. “May I?”

  Leif nodded, although he was rigid with dread. He had resisted looking at his wound because the sight of blood made him queasy. Although it gave him no pain, he imagined it was terrible all the same. With trembling fingers, he pulled open the ties of his tunic and averted his eyes while the wizard examined the injury.

  After a few quiet moments, Master Morgan spoke. “You should see this for yourself.”

  Reluctantly, Leif pressed his chin to his chest.

  Instead of a gaping gash, as Leif expected, the place where the dragon’s talon had pierced him was marked by three concentric blue rings, the largest the size of a fat plum.

  He traced them cautiously with his finger. “It’s like the tattoos the Lurkers have.”

  “It is in a way, isn’t it?” agreed Master Morgan. He studied the marks thoughtfully. “It’s small, as these things go, but then she’s quite young, as dragons go.”

  Leif stared at him, the master’s prohibition against questions forgotten. “How do you know what happened last night? Did you follow me?”

  The wizard shook his head. “Not at first, my boy. But when I went out to bring in wood, the air smelled of sulfur. There’s no mistaking dragon’s breath. So I came after you and found the cave, and the talon the dragon had shed. I guessed the blood on it was yours.”

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nbsp; “I don’t remember leaving the cave,” said Leif. “I don’t remember anything after the… the… until you woke me.”

  The old man had drawn out his pipe, and Leif waited impatiently until it was filled and lit. “I had thought we’d have more time,” said Master Morgan, “before she sought you.” He blew a long stream of smoke. “Of course, I’ve very glad she did, but now I see I should have started your lessons last year.”

  Leif’s eyes widened. “You knew the dragon was coming? But why didn’t you say anything? It could have…”

  “Killed you?” offered the wizard. “I knew she wouldn’t harm you, nor will she ever. She chose you, after all, on my recommendation. As for giving you a warning, how do you suppose you would have spent your days and nights, had you known that in the near future a dragon would drive its talon into your heart?”

  Leif swallowed hard. “Well, when you put it like that… I guess I wouldn’t have wanted to know. But why? Why didn’t it… she… kill me?” He flushed. “Sorry, that’s another question.”

  “Understandable,” said the wizard. “You shall have the answer in good time. For the present, you are safe, so do try not to worry.”

  For the present. Leif didn’t feel entirely reassured by this, but he attempted a small smile. “I’ll try, master.”

  “Good!” said the wizard. “Now we must ride on if we’re to reach Findlindach before dark. There’s quite a decent inn there where they serve Glorgie’s Ale. It’s a particular favorite of mine, and not easy to come by!”

  * * *

  By the time they reached the crest of the mountain, the winter wind was blustery, and Leif burrowed deeper into the new cloak his master had given him. The stark peaks jutting against the horizon made him all the more aware that this was the farthest he’d ever been away from his home.

  The wizard pointed to a cluster of grey slate roofs below. “There lies Findlindach,” he said.

  The village appeared close, but the downward slope was treacherous, and the going was slow. Night had descended by the time they passed the outlying crofts, and large, wet flakes of snow had begun to fall. The ground was soon blanketed in white. Most of the cottages were shrouded in darkness, and those showing light were well off the track, disclosing nothing of their inhabitants.

  Leif was relieved when the glow of lanterns at last flickered ahead. A sizable inn loomed into view, with lamps hanging on either side of a creaking sign obscured by snow.

  “We’ll stop here for the night,” announced Master Morgan as he reined in before the stables. “Remember, no questions, particularly in front of the other patrons.”

  Leif wasn’t sure what patrons were, but he was grateful to get off the pony. Holly nickered as a groom led her away, as if she was equally happy to be rid of her burdens.

  Leif followed his master through the shuttered doors of the inn. They led to a large common room filled with a surprising number of men for so small a hamlet. The raucous laughter and the clatter of dishes assaulted his ears, for he’d been raised in the quiet company of his grandparents. He felt a pang of homesickness; poor Gran had no idea what had happened to him, and she would be worried sick. How would she manage all the chores by herself? A tear trickled down his cheek as Master Morgan propelled him toward a vacant bench.

  “Sit here, and I’ll order us some supper,” the wizard instructed.

  Leif obediently squeezed into the corner and leaned back against the wall, thankful for the blazing fire in the cavernous hearth. He cast a cautious glance at the men who ate and drank around him, his stomach rumbling as he eyed their steaming platters.

  “He’ll not wait long,” declared a stout, black-bearded man at the next table. He wore the black and silver livery of Nelvorboth, a kingdom that lay to the south in the Midlands. “Aetheor’ll strike on the eastern shores at the first signs of fair winds.” He sank his knife into his haunch of venison for emphasis.

  “We’ll hold him,” replied his companion, a towering man with long ragged hair. Leif wondered if perhaps he was a giant. He mentally added Aetheor and giants to his growing list of questions. “The Nelvorbothians held off the Helgrins ten years ago,” the man continued, “and we’ll do it again if need be. The bastards are busy with their own strife, anyway. I hear there’s bad blood brewing between Aetheor and his kin to the south.”

  “It makes no difference,” insisted the black beard. “The High King’s said to be on the brink of the Leap, with no heir declared to succeed him. Aetheor’ll come, I tell ye.”

  The giant drained his flagon with savage gulps before slamming it down on the table. “Urlion’s been tottering for a decade,” he growled. “If he dies before naming his heir, the Tribus’ll do it for him. And if then, it’s likely to be one of our own house, from what I hear. And when did you become an expert on the Helgrins? Or do you claim to be a soothsayer these days?” He grabbed the skirt of a passing barmaid and twirled her expertly onto his lap. “Fancy havin’ yer fortune told, Gretti?” he asked, while she batted at him ineffectually. “Till here says he can see into the future. Come to think of it, so can I! I see you in me bed before the cock crows!”

  Gretti struggled free of the big man’s grasp. “Away with you, Picar! We’ve a full house t’night and I’ve enough on me tray without havin’ to fight off your big hams in the bargain!” She tried to frown as she smoothed her apron, but even Leif could see the pleasure rouging her cheeks.

  Master Morgan had made his way back to Leif, and he plunked down two trenchers of crispy-skinned pork with drippings, alongside buttered slabs of soft bread. Leif dug into the succulent meat with relish, and soon he was mopping his plate with the last of his crusts. He washed the meal down with a heady gulp of beer, and Master Morgan smiled indulgently when he let out an impressive belch.

  The wizard, too, ate heartily, but Leif couldn’t help noticing that he leaned back often to listen to the conversation at the next table. The bearded man had dropped his voice, but Leif’s sharp ears had no trouble hearing him.

  “Ye haven’t forgotten what Fredor said, have ye? About dark doings in the far south, and what he saw on the slavers they passed off Albrenia?” He shivered despite the warmth in the crowded room. “There’s something foul afoot in the Lost Lands, Fredor said, he did. Them mon—”

  “Shut your trap, fool!” hissed Picar, and he cast a wary glance around. His eyes met Leif’s and narrowed.

  Master Morgan leaned forward then, coming between Leif and the knight’s gaze. “Well then,” he said, lightly slapping the table. “If you’re finished, I’ll take you to our room and then have a quick look-in at the stables to see that Holly is settled for the night.”

  Leif gulped down the last of his beer, aware that the men behind his master had fallen silent. As he got to his feet, he was careful not to look at either of them, but all the way to the door, he had an uneasy feeling that their eyes followed him.

  “We’re sleeping over the stables,” said Master Morgan when they’d pushed out the door. “It won’t be as warm as above the tavern, but it’s sure to be quieter.”

  The wind had dropped, but the snow still drifted silently down, crowning the hitching posts with jaunty white caps. Despite the harrowing experience of the dragon attack, now that Leif had a full belly, his spirits were brighter. Master Morgan had said the dragon had chosen him, although for what purpose, Leif hadn’t the slightest idea. Still, it gave him hope that perhaps he was destined to accomplish something great after all.

  Their tiny room was little more than a loft that had been walled in. It smelled of hay and horse. Leif dropped gratefully onto the thin mattress and tugged off his boots, then fell back and pulled the coverlet tight to his chin. It had been a very long day, and between one breath and the next, sleep took him. He never heard the bolt fall as the wizard slipped quietly out, locking the door behind him.

  Chapter 4

  Morgan


  Stepping out into the dark yard, Morgan counted himself lucky that the sudden blow aimed at his head glanced off his shoulder instead. Still, it sent him to his knees, and he only managed to dodge the second punch by falling onto his side.

  He looked up to identify his attacker. It was Picar, the big man who’d been seated behind them.

  Morgan thrust his staff into the snow and levered himself to his feet just as Till, Picar’s bearded companion, lunged out of the shadows. The wizard ducked under his savage swing and whirled, bringing his staff low against the back of the stocky man’s legs.

  Till fell, but Picar came at Morgan again. The wizard only partially parried his next blow. It caught him in the ribs, but fortunately it lacked the force to break them.

  Too late, Morgan heard the whistle of a descending stave behind him. His head rang with pain, and then, mercifully, he felt nothing at all.

  * * *

  Master Morgan welcomed the throbbing in his head that signaled his return to consciousness. Though he kept his eyes closed, he discerned that he lay on a bed of straw, and that someone was binding his wound.

  “It’s fortunate we’d arranged to meet,” said a familiar voice.

  The wizard blinked up at the shadowed beams of the stables, but pain forced his eyes closed again at once. “It’s you, is it, Barav?” The å Livåri cook at the inn was a recently acquired informant of Morgan’s.

  “Aye,” replied the man, holding a cold cloth to the back of Morgan’s head. “It doesn’t look too bad, but you were out for a while. It’s lucky I was heading to your room. When those thugs saw me, they bolted. From Nelvorboth, they were. Any idea why they attacked you?”

  “Not a one,” said Morgan, “although these days, Grindasa and her henchman Vetch don’t require prodding to act outside the law.” He held out his hand, and Barav helped him to a sitting position. “Perhaps they feared I’d overheard something I wasn’t supposed to.”