Runestone of Teiwas
Book 2 in the Swords of Destiny
M. H. Bonham
Published by Margaret H. Bonham/Sky Warrior Books at Smashwords
© 2007 by Margaret H. Bonham
Print book published by Yard Dog Press, 710 W. Redbud Lane, Alma, AR 72921-7247
Other Books By M. H. Bonham:
Prophecy of Swords (Yard Dog Press and Smashwords)
Serpent Singer and Other Stories (Yard Dog Press)
Lachlei (Dragon Moon Press www.dragonmoonpress.com)
Howling Dead (Dragon Moon Press)
The King’s Champion (WolfSinger Publications www.wolfsingerpubs.com and Smashwords)
WolfSongs I (WolfSinger Publications and Smashwords)
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this books and did notpurchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Chapter One
Vaurgar gasped for breath, pressing his hand against the bloody armor, and leaned into the saddle. The nausea had returned along with the weakness. His face was ashen, almost blue, as he willed himself to take another breath. The battle wound had opened again.
He should be dead, Vaurgar reflected. If he had been anyone other than who he was, he would have died a few hours after the battle. But it had been seven days since the Battle of the Nine Kindreds, and he clung tenuously to life.
Vaurgar breathed slowly, carefully – each breath was agony and white-hot. He pulled his hand away and saw that the blood was bright red. Lung, if he read the signs right, maybe even liver. His plate armor was dented and smashed where Elsonre had struck him with Eihwaz, one of the three Swords of Destiny. Surprisingly, Vaurgar's adamantine armor mostly held against the enchanted battle-blade. It may have been luck, or something else. Vaurgar could not be sure.
Sometime since the battle he had lost his black dragonhide gauntlets and his helm. His black mane would have flowed freely, but it was a mass of tangles and sticky with dried blood. He was once an Eltar prince, destined to rule Elren, but now it seemed unlikely he would live past this day. He cursed Lachlan and Elsonre, the two brothers who had ended his sire’s rule – and his life.
The warhorse had slowed to a walk now. Each step was faltering and jarred Vaurgar painfully. He tried to spur the wretched animal on, but the horse was lame. A few paces at an uneasy trot and the horse dropped back down to a slow walk. Vaurgar took another raspy breath. He did not have the strength to continue.
“Halt! Who goes there?”
Vaurgar stared ahead. A moment before, he had seen no one for miles on the northern edge of Darkling Plain. The dark grasses still swayed in the wind, whispering their secrets to his ears, but they had not spoken of anyone. He had been fading in and out because of the loss of blood.
Now, Vaurgar was staring at two men standing in front of his horse with crossbows aimed at him. At first, his eyes would not focus, but when they did, he realized he was looking at two of his own soldiers. They were from the Eltar clan. Their black hair, pale complexion, tall stature, and dark eyes were a combination only found in that kindred. They wore bloodied chainmail and black surcoats with Allarun’s colors.
Despite the pain, Vaurgar straightened. “What are you doing?” he snapped, but his voice came out hoarse.
One of the two men paused. “Prince Vaurgar?” one asked. His eyes caught the insignia half torn away from the tattered surcoat. “My lord?”
Vaurgar’s pain turned to malice. “Yes, it’s me. Where’s your commander?”
“Dead,” said the Eltar. Both he and the other soldier lowered their weapons. “We heard Lachlan killed Allarun – is that true?”
“My foolish father is dead,” Vaurgar said. “I’m in charge. How many are here?”
The man shook his head. “Just us two.”
Two out of sixty thousand? There had to be others.
“Do you have a horse? I must return to Thalarmor.”
“Then, we retreat?”
Vaurgar wanted to strike the man, but he had not the strength. “We regroup. Gather those you can and march north to Thalarmor. We’ll regroup inside our country’s borders. Do you have a horse?”
“Just one, my lord, but...”
“Give it to me,” Vaurgar said, slowly dismounting. “Send word to our troops. We rally in Thalarmor.”
###
Vaurgar took the horse and rode through the night and into the next day. The pain grew worse, and he knew he was slowly dying. He flogged the horse mercilessly; not daring to stop and rest.
But what would he do once he reached Sehduk’s Keep, assuming he could? Allarun was dead – his body was now scattered ashes along the Darkling Plain. The only creatures he might trust to cure him were witches or demons. He had long ago decided against seeking their aid. Even if they saved his life – which he doubted they could – they would demand a price. They always did, and Vaurgar was loathed to owe a life-debt to anyone. There were healers among the Eleion who could save him – Lachlan among them – but he could not chance being recognized as his power and strength waned.
On the dawn of the tenth day, his horse stumbled and nearly collapsed from weariness. He looked over the grasslands ahead and could see the dark spiral towers of Thalarmor in the distance. He placed his hand on the horse's shoulder, giving the animal what little reserve strength he had left. “Just a little longer,” he said to the horse.
Vaurgar met no challenge when he entered Thalarmor and the doors to Sehduk's Keep lay open. Vaurgar entered and descended the stairs that led to the Temple of Death. This chamber, far below the Keep, itself, was the Temple of Areyn Sehduk.
He pushed open the iron doors and stared at the room. It was a small temple with a dais and altar. No statues lined the dark walls and no gaudy flourishes adorned it. The skulls of those who had given their souls to Allarun and the Sehduk lined the walls in a macabre display. Next to the skulls were the weapons of the warriors who had dared challenge Allarun, the son of Areyn Sehduk. The chamber reeked of death and decay. Lila's body, as well as the body of the dead firedrake, was gone – the temple's scavengers had done their job, but the stench still remained.
Vaurgar closed the heavy iron door and sagged against it. He could feel his life-force draining from his body. He stripped his armor off, wincing in pain. The padded gambeson tunic beneath was blood-soaked. The wound would not heal. Stripping the gambeson and gamboised cuisses, he gazed down at the ugly wound.
Eihwaz had cut through the adamantine, but due to luck or the armor's integrity, it had not cut him in two. The gash ran from his right side, straight through from front to back. Eihwaz pulverized several ribs, his liver, and the lower half of his right lung. Vaurgar knew he should be dead: any other man would be dead, save perhaps Lachlan, himself. But time was slipping away and his battle-hardened body was now turning ashen before his eyes.
He staggered to the altar and carefully searched along the bloodstained stone. Vaurgar knew he had one chance before the hand of his grandsire, Areyn Sehduk, closed his eyes. Vaurgar's fingers moved clumsily until they depressed a panel.
A hidden drawer slid out slowly. Bracing himself against the altar, Vaurgar slid his hand in and pulled out a crystal stone. It was clear with frosty-etched runes and just fit in his palm. Translucent and beautiful, like ice, he held the stone up. It glowed white with its own power. Vaurgar turned the stone over and looked at the single rune on the front: Thurisaz.
The Runestone gave him strength and he pressed it against the wound. He smiled as he felt the warmth of life fill him once more. The wound closed. The organs regenerated.
Vaurgar held the Runestone, cradling it in both hands. A gift from the gods. He smiled as the Runestone's power coursed through him.
Both Lachlan and Elsonre would pay dearly for his father’s defeat and his own wound. He grinned as he gazed at the Runestone. Yes, they would pay…
Chapter Two
Three Months Later
“Have you found Ni’yah yet?”
Shhh! Keep your voice down. Or better yet, use mindspeak. Lachlan Ah’rhyn, High King of the Eleion, son and champion of the warrior god, Rhyn’athel, Champion of the Chi’lan, glanced furtively around the inn. He wore a hood and cloak that concealed his striking features, red-gold hair and silver eyes, as well as the fine adamantine mail and the Sword of Destiny, Uruz, that hung by his side. He sat back on the barstool, nursing the flagon of mead that the waitress had brought earlier.
Sorry, said Haellsil. Lachlan flashed a smile at his half-brother before settling back against the wall once more. Haellsil, too, was cloaked and hooded as he sat down beside Lachlan on a barstool in the far corner.
The tavern was dark and smoky – typical of the taverns Lachlan had frequented when he had gone by the name Shadowhelm. That was before he found the great Sword of Destiny, Uruz, and before he learned of his true nature, that being a godling from a thousand years before. The tavern was starting to fill with the regulars for the night. Lachlan scanned the new customers with his powers as they entered, hoping to catch the god before he caused further mischief.
So far, nothing. He took a draught of the mead, letting the heady honey-wine work pleasantly on him as he scanned the room for his quarry.
“Should you be drinking that?” Haellsil remarked, forgetting to use mindspeak.
“Shara’kai,” Lachlan said as if that would make the point. He was a half-breed of sorts, even if it were only one eighth Ansgar, his face was less angular and his body was more powerful than any purebred Eleion.
“You’re at least four times first-blood which makes up for any Ansgar blood,” Haellsil said. “You know first-bloods can’t handle alcohol.”
“Shhh!” Lachlan hissed and then held up his hand for silence. His gaze locked on a Laddel warrior who had entered the tavern.
Haellsil glanced at the Laddel warrior. Is that him? Lousy disguise.
Lachlan did not reply. He did not recognize this Eleion, which made the man suspect. The Laddel warrior had short-cropped agouti hair and gold eyes, characteristic of his kindred. Lachlan thought he had known most of the Laddel on sight, since both Ni’yah and Laddel had been his ancestors. Ni’yah’s son, Laddel, had founded the kindred that bore Laddel’s name.
Stretching out with his senses, he could feel something different about the Laddel warrior present. Something otherworldly that Lachlan had often perceived with the gods. And yet, it was not quite right, almost as if the warrior had been disguised or tampered with. Lachlan smirked, despite himself. The god knew how to play him...
“Where is she?” A loud voice rang from the tavern’s doorway. It caused both Lachlan and Haellsil to jump from their barstools. Lachlan’s hand strayed to the pommel of the great Sword of Destiny.
The Laddel warrior moved aside and two warriors strode in. By their surcoats and features, Lachlan recognized them as Redel nobility. The first warrior he did not recognize, but the second he knew as Redhan, King of the Redel. Lachlan was filled with dread about what he would hear next.
The barkeep turned to the warriors. A thinner Shara’kai who favored his Eleion side, he glanced up at the two as he wiped a spill off the bar. “Who, my lords?”
“My wife, Carellyn,” Redhan said.
Haellsil cursed and they both bolted to the stairway at the end of the hall. Lachlan led the way, drawing Uruz as they sprinted up the steps.
“Why didn’t you sense him?” Haellsil gasped as they made it to the top of the steps.
“He’s a god – he knows I’ve been trying to stop him from carousing,” Lachlan said. He stared down the long hall of closed doors. “Damn Athel’cen and purebloods! It’s going to be hard to find him.”
“We have no time,” Haellsil said.
“Yes, we do – the barkeep is a friend of mine,” Lachlan said. “He’ll stall him.”
Haellsil raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been here before? Does Kalena know? Worse yet, does Elsonre know?”
“Not now,” Lachlan muttered and began concentrating. “I like the mead here.” There were no empty rooms in this part of the tavern that served both as a brothel and a cheap place for travelers to rest. As his mind went from room to room, he touched the minds of those inside. As he suspected they were more or less engaged.
The third room, Lachlan felt what was akin to a hard mental slap. He shook his head and nodded at Haellsil’s puzzled look. “In there,” he said, slamming into the door and forcing it open.
Wards flared as Lachlan entered but he pushed them aside with little concern. They were nothing more than alarm wards and not actual traps. He and Haellsil strode in to see Ni’yah, the third most powerful god, the wolf god, making love to a beautiful golden-haired woman with gold eyes, a shapely figure, and large breasts. Lachlan recognized her at once as Carellyn, the queen of the Redel and wife of the very angry Redhan. Ni’yah was busy trying to fit one of those breasts into his mouth. He stopped, turned and glared at Lachlan and Haellsil.
“What are you doing?” he snarled. Ni’yah had the agouti hair and brass eyes of a wolf – his other form. Carellyn gasped and tried to pull the bed sheets over her naked form.
“Trying to prevent a war,” Lachlan said, closing the door and with a word making the door nearly impenetrable with his magic. “That is Carellyn, wife of the Redel king, Redhan.”
Ni’yah’s brass eyes were slightly out of focus. “You are?” he asked her, licking his lips as he caught a glimpse of her breasts beneath the sheets.
“Yes,” she said, trying to get up and untangle the bed sheets so she could reach her clothes with some modesty. She tangled instead and nearly tripped.
“And your husband is downstairs,” Haellsil added.
The door pounded. “Let us in, Carellyn!” They heard Redhan’s angry voice come from the other side.
“Correction. Up here.” Haellsil shot Lachlan a worried look.
“Oops,” Ni’yah said.
Carellyn’s face turned pale. “He’ll kill me.”
Lachlan pointed to her. “You, get on your clothes. You...” He pointed to Ni’yah. “Get us out of here.”
Ni’yah shook his head. “I can’t.”
The pounding became insistent. “Why not?” Lachlan roared.
“Mead.”
Haellsil stared at him incredulously. “You’re drunk? How much did you have?”
Ni’yah looked in askance to Carellyn who shook her head as she pulled on her clothing. “Just a cup.”
“We don’t handle it well, do we?” Lachlan muttered. The famous Athel’cen blood held one shortfall – no tolerance for drink.
“What do we do?” Haellsil asked.
Lachlan shook his head. His powers, as great as they were, were not intended for such paltry things as escaping from an angry husband. The room, like most boarding houses, had no windows and no apparent way to escape. Only one way in and one way out. “We’ll have to fight our way out.”
Carellyn’s pale face became even paler as she stared at Uruz. “You’ll kill him.”
“No great loss,” Haellsil muttered and Lachlan glared at him. “Well, if she was that fond of him, why is she here?”
“Especially when there’s the mind-link,” Lachlan added. “I’m surprised he didn’t know.”
“We’re not first-bloods – no mind-link.” Carellyn had donned her clothing and was helping Ni’yah with his.
“Oh, that’s a good excuse,” Haellsil said sarcastically.
Carellyn shot Haellsil a look. Lachlan shook his head and watched Ni’yah struggle unsuccessfully to get his breeches on. He turned to Haellsil. “Can you help him with that?”
The door pounded again, this time louder. It sounded as though they were using something to batter it down.
“Are you kidding?” Haellsil looked at Ni’yah in disgust. “There’s nothing worse than a drunken god.”
“How long before the door gives way?” Carellyn asked as she pushed Ni’yah on the bed and shove a boot on his foot.
Lachlan shrugged. “It’s a solid oak and my magic is good, but it won’t withstand a battering ram.”
As if on cue, the door shuddered and they heard a loud crack from the wood. Haellsil’s silver eyes went wide and he drew his sword.
“Wait, Uruz...” Ni’yah slurred.
“Uruz?” Lachlan repeated. He shook his head. “It’ll bring us to Darkling Plain, nothing more.”
“I’m not walking,” Haellsil said. “I’ve had enough of that cursed plain to last more than a lifetime.”
Lachlan smirked at his brother’s comment. Haellsil had been trapped on the plain with the other warriors for almost a thousand years in a ghostly half-life. Lachlan could not blame him.
“No,” said Ni’yah. “I can redirect its power...”
Lachlan frowned. He had used the Swords of Destiny only twice when he was Shadowhelm. Before that, he had some recollection of using Uruz to transport himself, only sporadically. His memory as Lachlan was not perfect. Still, Ni’yah was offering a way out. He lowered the Sword of Destiny’s blade and held it so the others could cross their swords on it.
“You trust him?” Haellsil said. Another loud thud and the wood splintered.
“No,” Lachlan replied. “But do we have much choice?”
“What about me?” Carellyn wailed.
“Good luck,” Ni’yah said. Haellsil and Ni’yah lay the flat of their swords across Uruz. “Alla acnu Lochvaur, ella parthna...”
Lachlan flinched and felt as if something seized him and sent him spinning into nothingness. The boarding house, Carellyn, and the pounding ceased to exist.
Chapter Three
Vaurgar sat in the throne room in Sehduk's Keep. He was whole again, thanks to the Runestone. Vaurgar was much like his sire, Allarun, inheriting the Eltar characteristics. He was tall and pale with a dark expression. But unlike Allarun, he was battle-scarred and filled with resolve. Allarun's fear of Lachlan's return had always tainted his actions – Vaurgar held no such fear. No Prophecy sealed his fate as it had his father's. Now, it was time for vengeance.
Vaurgar held the Runestone in his hand, his dark eyes carefully studying it. Allarun had feared the Runestone, even though it held promise of great unspoken powers. Vaurgar had asked his sire about the Runestone many times, but each time, Allarun had been reluctant to discuss it. Now, Vaurgar wondered why Allarun had eschewed the stone, when it could have given the Dark Lord unimaginable power.
The door to the throne room swung open and Kyr, Vaurgar's trusted general strode in. Kyr had been one of the few officers who survived Darkling Plain, in spite of the dragon attack. Like all Eltar, he was tall, his skin was pale, and his hair was black. Dark eyes gleamed in the ruddy light of the throne room.
“What news have you brought me?” Vaurgar asked.
“My lord, as you expected, the Eleion quarrel among themselves,” Kyr said. “Many do not recognize the Shara'kai abomination as their rightful king.”
“Excellent,” Vaurgar said, a slight smile played across his features. He clenched the stone. “Most are too proud to bow to a half-blood – even if he is a son of Rhyn'athel and brought them back from the half-life.” He paused. “What of Caer Lachlanel?”
“Caer Lachlanel is poorly guarded and its walls are not completely fortified. It will be months before they can restore it to its former defenses. Our operatives within the castle tell me that there is more: Lachlan's consort, Kalena of the Long Sword, is pregnant.”
“Are you sure?”
“As sure as one can be, my lord. There hasn’t been an announcement, but there are rumors.”
Vaurgar leaned back, chewing his lip thoughtfully, fingering the Runestone in his hand. “Presumably with Lachlan's child – unless that meddling wolf-god, Ni'yah, got to her first.”
Kyr chuckled.
“This is interesting news. I thought I had killed that Lochvaur bitch when I captured the Shara'kai, but she was not dead as Taryn had led me to believe. My shoulder still aches from her knife on Darkling Plain. Little matter – I thought I had seen something between them. The Shara’kai was willing to die for her even then.” He paused. “I wonder what Lachlan would do for both her and his heir.”
“My lord?” Kyr said as a slow smile crept across Vaurgar's face. “You have a plan?”
“Patience, Kyr – that is my plan,” Vaurgar said. He stood up and strode to the window overlooking the southern mountain range. He held the Runestone out, letting the sun's rays catch and bend to its will, breaking the light into a rainbow of color. “But yes, for Lachlan, I have a plan. One that will bring about his death.”
###
Lachlan awoke with a headache. He was looking up at what were two suns that were a great deal smaller than Sowelu. The sky was also red. He blinked and groaned wondering where Ni’yah had brought him. The great Sword of Destiny, Uruz, lay quiescent beside him on the ground. The ground was covered with sharp brown sawgrass that pricked and cut with every breath he took. It was cold here too, as though it might snow.
Not far from him, just within his line of vision, two cairns with ward runes hummed with magic. The cairns were very old and Lachlan recognized the writing as ancient Athel’cen.
He heard someone groan beside him. He looked over to see Haellsil lying flat on his back with blood trickling down his face where the sawgrass cut him. Haellsil winced and closed his eyes. “Are we dead?”
“You don’t get that lucky,” Lachlan said, feeling as though he was going to retch his guts out. “You have to be alive to feel pain.”
“Not exactly true,” said Ni’yah.
Lachlan groaned and pulled himself to sitting position. The god seemed to be the only one who managed to get through it standing up. “Oh?”
“Well, you won’t feel pain from your former body, but the one you get can still feel,” Ni’yah said with a wry smile.
“Speaking of feeling, why aren’t you affected by this?” Lachlan said, rubbing his temples. He had a terrible headache he suspected would not go away. Something else would not go away either – a niggling sense that he was someplace he should not be. Someplace dangerous.
“Alcohol,” Ni’yah replied. “Deadens the nerves.”
Haellsil blinked and looked around. “Well it deadened your reckoning, too. Where in the hell are we?” He looked at the twin suns.
Ni’yah frowned. “I think we’re in the World of the Jotunn.”
“Jotunnren?” Lachlan said, his stomach went from queasy to downright sick with fear. “Ni’yah, we’re not supposed to be here.”
“No,” Ni’yah said casually.
“Jotunn?” Haellsil repeated, seeing the fear in Lachlan’s eyes. “You mean Frost Giants?”
Lachlan scrambled to his feet. “Yes, this is one of Areyn’s worlds. We have to get out of here.” He picked up Uruz and stared at the blade. It looked dull and flat in the reddish light. “What’s wrong with Uruz?” He glanced at Ni’yah.
Ni’yah shrugged. “Nothing. That’s just its manifestation in this world. In Areyn’s worlds, it isn’t as powerful because the death god holds sway. But it still holds a great deal of its power nonetheless.”
Lachlan frowned. The Sword of Destiny felt heavy in his hands. “How are we going to get out of here? Are you sober enough?”
Ni’yah shrugged again. “Don’t know. Maybe you can use Uruz to get you back to Elren by yourself?”
Lachlan shook his head. “Darkling Plain is hundreds of miles away from Caer Lachlanel.”
“Well, it wasn’t my idea that you should forge that stupid sword on that barren wasteland,” Ni’yah said.
“Shhh!” Haellsil said waving them both quiet.
“What?” Lachlan paused and listened. In his former life, he had been pureblood and his ears would have detected the noise. Now he strained to hear what he knew Haellsil and Ni’yah heard easily.
“Someone’s coming,” Ni’yah said. “Quick. Hide.”
Lachlan looked around. All he saw was rolling hills of sawgrass. To what he could only guess was north, he discerned hills with dark coniferous trees flocked with snow. Now Lachlan could see that a trail or – more likely – a footpath wound its way along the hill and down behind another one. Up the hill walked a very ugly creature.
The creature was neither Eleion nor Ansgar, but was man-like in that it walked upright and had two arms and two legs. It was huge and misshapen, having muscles that jutted out at inappropriate angles to the point of a caricature of what an Eleion might be. It was twice Lachlan’s height easily – maybe a bit more – but it shuffled with a hunched back and arms that extended down to the ground. Its hair was long and matted – dirty gray or perhaps silver if it had been washed and it had a long, tangled beard. Sharp, gleaming white tusks curled upward from its mouth inches past the lower lips. It pulled its lips back in a snarl, revealing pointed teeth and fangs. In one of its hands, it held a gnarled club with spikes protruding from it.
The creature’s eyes met Lachlan’s gaze. Dark, angry eyes with no sense of reason or mercy within them.
Jotunn. Frost Giant. Lachlan knew the name and knew the fear that gripped him. Before him stood the ancient enemy of the Eleion – a creature whose very strength, cunning and stamina could overpower an Eleion in a fight. Before they were banished to their own world, the Jotunn had hunted the Eleion with no mercy. They were clever, cruel and capable of magic. And they lived as long as Eleion. Lachlan knew their hatred for the Eleion came from their creator, Areyn Sehduk, the death god. Areyn had created the Jotunn to answer for what the death god considered Rhyn’athel’s abomination, the Eleion.
Lachlan stood facing the creature; his brother silently beside him a few paces back with sword drawn, too. Ni’yah had conveniently disappeared.
The Jotunn’s eyes narrowed as it considered the two men. Lachlan suspected it was just as surprised as they were to meet its ancient adversary. It was twice as big but there were two Eleion which made it hesitant to attack them.
What is it waiting for? Haellsil had enough presence of mind to use mindspeak. Lachlan could feel the fear emanate from Haellsil and he pushed it away from him. It was bad enough Lachlan was afraid; he did not need his brother’s fear compounding his own.
I don’t know, maybe it’s never seen an Eleion before. Lachlan knew the Jotunn knew of Eleion magic, but the Jotunn also had magic as well.
“Why are you here, little man?” The Jotunn’s voice broke the silence. It was loud and grating, but understandable. Male, if Lachlan could read the creature right.
“We are here by accident,” Lachlan said, amazed that his voice held none of the terror he felt. He eyed the creature’s club that was the size of a medium tree. One good swipe and his head would be off his shoulders. “We’ll leave you in peace.”
The dark eyes narrowed. “Liar,” he said. “Rhyn’athel’s pets are always looking for some way to extend his power over us.” He raised his club as if ready to take a swing.
“I have no quarrel with you, Jotunn,” Lachlan said, raising Uruz. The Sword of Destiny looked woefully inadequate. Where in the hell is Ni’yah? he wondered. “We will be leaving soon.”
“How did you open the Gateway?” The creature eyed him suspiciously.
Lachlan’s eyes briefly flickered to the stone cairns that stood beside them. Of course, the cairns were a Gateway. He had not recognized it previously because his memory was incomplete. Ni’yah as a god could use the Gateways to transport. Somehow, the god had keyed the Sword of Destiny off the Gateway. If only Lachlan could do it...
“No, we’re not far,” Lachlan said. “An accident.”
Haellsil nodded. “No hard feelings? Just an accident.”
Shut up, you’re babbling, Lachlan said.
“Then, there will be another ‘accident’ if you don’t return,” the Jotunn said menacingly. He raised his club and swung.
Lachlan leapt back, nearly tumbling into Haellsil. The Jotunn snarled and charged, swinging the club again. Lachlan rolled and leapt forward, barely avoiding the club and swinging Uruz. The Sword of Destiny flared as it bit through the tough armor and into the Frost Giant’s leg.
The Jotunn bellowed and slammed the club down on Uruz. The shockwave was so intense it not only broke Lachlan’s hold on the Sword but also threw him against one of the cairns. The cairn flared and the hard smack against his shoulders and neck caused flashes across Lachlan’s vision. He shook his head uneasily as his eyesight began to fade. He fought the nausea and the unconsciousness that threatened to take him.
“No,” came Haellsil’s voice from somewhere above him. “You will not pass!”
Lachlan focused on his brother’s voice. Through sheer will, he forced himself to open his eyes. He wished he had not.
The Jotunn loomed over both of them; the creature’s maw was foaming with anger. Haellsil stood looking pitifully defiant against the Giant. Still, Lachlan’s brother did not waver. While not a godling, he was still a first-blood and the blood of Rhyn’athel still coursed in his veins. He held his sword ready for the attack.
“What can you do, little man?” the Jotunn sneered.
What could he do? Lachlan was quick to agree with the Jotunn on this. Uruz laid quiescent on the ground yards away, its blade darkened with the Jotunn’s blood. If it could bleed, it could die, but Lachlan had little faith in being able to kill one of these creatures. He wondered if this was how his ancestors felt during the Battle of the Nine Worlds when the Jotunn had ravaged Elren. It had been said that Lochvaur, his ancestor and the founder of his own kindred, had been a great Jotunn and demon slayer but had succumbed to an army of these giants.
“I can kill you.” Haellsil glared at the giant. Lachlan almost laughed at the boast but instead stared at his brother for his audacity. By his stance, Lachlan saw that Haellsil was ready for the blow that would come. Lachlan’s brother held his sword in challenge and the Jotunn swung.
Lachlan scrambled out of the way and the club slammed hard into the ground where Haellsil had been a few moments before. Haellsil had retreated, this time away from Lachlan.
Brave fool, Lachlan thought. He’s buying me more time to shake the daze and think of something to do. But what?
Haellsil pressed the attack and dove under the swinging club, nicking the Jotunn in the arm. The giant roared in pain and anger and charged at Haellsil. The Chi’lan warrior slipped aside and slammed his sword into the giant’s injured leg. The Jotunn roared again.
In this world, the Eleion magic felt muted. Lachlan glanced at the Gateway’s cairn and back to Uruz. He could use Uruz to open the Gateway as Ni’yah did. He would not have the focus to direct their position, but he could probably get them to Darkling Plain. That would be hundreds of miles away from home, but then it would be home – Elren.
Drawing on as much powers as he could, Lachlan reached out. “Uruz!” The command reverberated with his power and echoed along the branches of the World Tree. The Sword of Destiny flashed and flew into his hands. The Gateway flared bright blue with the sound of his voice.
The Jotunn screamed in rage and turned on Lachlan, but Lachlan could already feel the pull of the Gateway. “Haellsil!” he shouted.
The Jotunn swung his club, but Lachlan was already in the Gateway and the club passed through him as though he was no longer there. Haellsil dove into the Gateway, slamming hard into Lachlan and throwing both of them backwards into darkness. Lachlan felt the sickening pull of the Gateway before falling into unconsciousness.
Chapter Four
Arianne lay naked, bruised and bloodied. She shivered violently as she lay in the dirt, chained to a tree. Her throat ached from screaming, but her cries had fallen in the silence of the forest as they raped her again and again. How many Eltar soldiers? Arianne wondered. At last, she had fallen unconscious as they continued their sadistic game.
It was approaching nightfall and the beasts had not even had the decency to give her a blanket or food or water. Arianne could still smell the acrid smoke that rose from what had once been her village. The Eltar had slaughtered everyone save a few Shara'kai women, herself among them. They had then split up in their own raiding parties to drink and revel. Arianne wished she had died.
They chose her because she was young and pretty. Her long black hair was now matted and muddy and her pale skin was bruised and cut with long weals, but she was still a beautiful woman. It was a terrible curse, Arianne decided. Perhaps this is what my mother felt when the demon took her... Her dark eyes closed and she shivered again.
It was hard to believe that she could be related to these beasts. Arianne's mother, Asvora, had been Northmen Ansgar, but Arianne's sire had been an Eltar, like the ones who had raped her. Asvora's village, Arristan, had been too close to Thalarmor's borders, and many years before, Eltar soldiers had come just as they had now. The soldiers had raped the women and murdered most of the townspeople in a gruesome bloodbath. Asvora had fled and given birth to a daughter she did not want…
Harsh laughter interrupted Arianne's thoughts and she gazed at the Eltar soldiers as they sat on logs around the fire, drinking stolen mead and fighting amongst themselves. They would be back for their next round of cruel torture soon unless the mead had its full effect. They did not see the hatred burning in her eyes.
Nor the wolf who moved silently through the forest.
Arianne did see the wolf and drew a sharp inward breath. She was powerless against the brute if it came after her. She wanted to call out for help, but she remained silent. The Eltar would relish watching her die, mauled by the wolf. Perhaps the wolf would end her misery quickly.
The wolf passed her by, so close that Arianne could have reached out and touched its fur. It broke into a lope and in an instant leapt on the drunken soldiers.
Sheer pandemonium followed. The wolf ripped out the first two soldiers' throats before any could react. Several drew their swords and attacked, but the blades had no effect on the wolf as it attacked each of them. The rest fled.
The wolf pursued, and Arianne heard the agonizing screams of the Eltar as the wolf hunted them down one by one. The forest then became quiet once more.
The first moon, Tomah, was rising when she saw the wolf's dark form. Arianne trembled again, this time from fear. This was no ordinary wolf to have taken out so many armed soldiers. The wolf came forward and nuzzled her face. Arianne tentatively brought her hands up to touch the creature's warm fur. The chains fell away from her hands and feet.
Go, child, find Lachlan. He has what you seek, the wolf said plainly in her mind.
The wolf then turned and vanished into the dark forest.
Lachlan awoke to groaning and darkness. At first, he thought the groans might have been his brother, but as he took another painful breath, he realized they were coming from him. So much for being the great warrior, he thought. Son of the Great Warrior God, Rhyn’athel, Champion of the Chi’lan, Wielder of the Swords of Destiny, High King of the Nine Kindreds...
He had a splitting headache. He was thirsty and cold. He suspected if he had eaten anything, he would have thrown it up. Yes, so much for being the greatest warrior.
Despite the darkness, he realized he was staring up at the night’s sky. As pinpricks of light came into focus, he recognized the pattern of a familiar constellation. “Teiwaz,” he said, his voice raspy and harsh to his ears.
“Teiwaz?” Haellsil’s voice repeated beside him to the left. “We’re home?”
Lachlan sat up, despite his protesting head and body. “I think so.” He glanced at Uruz at his side. The blade glowed with a thought. He picked up the blade and laid it across his knees. Looking around, he could see miles of fields. They were on a small hillock. “We’re on Darkling Plain.”
Haellsil rubbed his head and sat up. “Cursed place – I wish you chose some other place to forge your sword.”
Lachlan shrugged. He could see a glow in the east – Mani, Elren’s third moon, was beginning to rise. “I’m just glad we’re back. I don’t think you could’ve held off the Jotunn much longer.”
“I was doing ok,” Haellsil said with a snort.
Lachlan laughed.
“There you two are.”
Lachlan scrambled to his feet and had Uruz pointed at the god before he realized he was looking at the wolf god. “Ni’yah,” he said. “Don’t do that.”
“Some gratitude,” the god muttered. He disappeared.
“Great. How are we getting back?” Haellsil asked. He stood up slowly and rubbed his temples. Lachlan suspected Haellsil was feeling as queasy as he did.
“I guess we walk,” Lachlan said with a shrug. As much as he hated the Darkling Plain, there was something about it that had drawn him to it all those many years before. Something that niggled in the back of his memory. When he concentrated on it, the fleeting memory vanished. Maybe if he did not have this blasted headache...
Instead of worrying about it, he grinned at his brother. Haellsil was still wobbly, if upright. “It beats fighting a Jotunn. You ok?”
Haellsil laughed. “I wasn’t the one who got clobbered.” He looked at Lachlan in earnest. “They say we used to fight against armies of those things.”
“True,” said Lachlan. “But the stories don’t say we won that often.”
“Often enough,” Haellsil said. “What about the story of how Lochvaur destroyed entire armies of Jotunn with just a thought?”
“Magic was different then,” Lachlan said.
“I wouldn’t mind being able to transport like they did,” Haellsil said, looking over the moonlit plains. “Well, we have a long road back.” He started walking.
“You would mind,” Lachlan said, sheathing Uruz and following him. “It wasn’t any more pleasant than what Uruz did.” He paused. “Wait.”
“What?” Lachlan drew Uruz again and Haellsil raised an eyebrow. “You’re not trying to teleport us again?”
“No,” Lachlan said with a smile. “Something better.” He closed his eyes and focused on the blade. As Shadowhelm, he did not recognize all the powers, but as Lachlan’s reincarnation, he could feel the links between Uruz and the Fyr; that is, the Fire of Creation and Destruction. Another creature could feel that link...
For a while, nothing happened. The cold air of Darkling Plain burned in his lungs as Lachlan measured his breathing. At last, the blade’s glow faded and he sheathed the sword.
“Well?” Haellsil stamped his feet and rubbed his hands on his legs in an effort to get warm.
Lachlan shrugged. “We wait.”
The wait proved to be not long. Within an hour, a dark shape appeared along the northern horizon and headed towards them at an incredible speed. Soon they could make out the bat-like wings and immense form of a Fyr-dragon. It circled once before landing. It was a large black dragon with glowing red eyes – one of the larger Fyr-dragons to exist in Elren.
Chapter Five
“Haegl!” Lachlan said with a grin. “It’s good to see you again.”
The dragon’s glowing red eyes narrowed in disapproval. I am not a pack mule.
“No, you’re not,” Lachlan agreed. “But we ran into a difficult situation. Ni’yah deposited us in Jotunnren.”
Which you deserved, no doubt, the dragon replied.
“Not hardly,” Haellsil said. “We were trying to stop a war.”
The dragon turned his baleful gaze at Haellsil. You still haven’t learned manners even after a thousand years.
Lachlan chuckled. “Haegl, I need you to bring us back to Caer Lachlanel.”
Your directions were abominable, the dragon said, preening a wing. Do you know how big this plain is?
Lachlan laughed. “I know, my friend. And I owe you, as usual.”
Somewhat mollified, Haegl lowered a shoulder. Lachlan grasped the dragon’s scales and hauled himself up. Haellsil clambered up behind him. Problems? Haegl asked with amusement.
“You were a bit smaller the last time I rode you,” Haellsil replied. “I hope the ride has gotten a bit smoother.”
The dragon snorted and leapt into the air. Lachlan and Haellsil grabbed onto the spine ridges and held on tight.
How did you get here so quickly? Lachlan asked, once his stomach stopped lurching. He had ridden Haegl many times in both lives but never got used to the dizzying experience of flight. Below them, the dark land unfolded beneath them, occasionally broken by moonlit water.
The Fyr, Haegl replied.
Through the Fire of Creation and Destruction? Haellsil asked. Wouldn’t it burn you?
The dragon’s sides heaved in what Lachlan perceived was a chuckle. No, my friend, I am a being from that very fire. The Fyr-dragons were there at the beginning with the gods; we will exist even when the Fyr consumes all. He glanced back at Lachlan. We owe Lachlan’s father and mother a great debt because of what they did. That is why I come when Lachlan summons me. He paused. Even if it is only to ferry Lochvaur princelings...
What’s that supposed to mean? Haellsil said indignantly but Lachlan laughed.
I’ll try not to impose on your good nature too often.
###
Arianne sheathed the Eltar sword. She now wore chainmail. She had stripped the Eltar bodies of useful clothing and mail and dressed after cleaning herself up the best she could. The blood and dirt she could remove, but not the pain or rage. Her long flowing mane was hopelessly matted and she took a knife to it and cut it short. The armor was a little large, but with a few modifications, it fit satisfactorily. The boots, however, were too large. Even the Eltar with the smallest feet were several sizes too large for her. Arianne cut up one of the cloaks and stuffed the boots until she could wear them tolerably. She would have to find a cobbler and obtain boots her own size.
After scavenging the bodies, she searched their supplies for food. The Eltar had eaten most of the supplies they had looted and spoiled the rest, so she went through the horses' saddlebags and found rations. It was poor fare -- hard tack and dried meat -- but she ate and drank greedily.
It was then that she heard the distinctive clatter of hooves. Arianne stood up and drew her sword. By the sound, it was one or two riders. Arianne knew she looked like a man now and she fitted one of the helms over her head. If it were Eltar, she might be able to take them by surprise. She slid out of view and waited.
Two horsemen rode into view. As she suspected, they were Eltar soldiers. They halted amid the carnage in shock. Arianne watched as one rode slowly through the grisly scene. The other dismounted and approached the logs where Arianne had collected her supplies. She cursed herself for not being more careful -- the Eltar would soon discover her.
Arianne's hands were cold and clammy as she gripped the sword. She was a Northmen Shara'kai and knew how to use it -- the Northmen trained their women in battle as well as their men. She waited as the Eltar approached her position. Her breath came out in raspy gasps and she fought to quell her fear -- certainly, he had heard her by now?
I will die before the Eltar take me prisoner again.
Arianne waited as the Eltar drew closer. Closer.
Now!
Arianne lunged forward with a cry, swinging her blade. She cut down the Eltar before he could draw his sword, plunging her own sword deep into the man’s gut. She watched with pleasure as the man writhed in pain and felt the death rattle as he drew his last breath.
Arianne turned to the mounted horseman who stared at her in horror. A slow, grim smile crept across her face and she held the bloody sword ready. In terror, the Eltar turned his horse and fled.
Chapter Six
It was nearly sunrise when Lachlan, Haellsil and Haegl approached Caer Lachlanel. Lachlan gripped Haegl’s ridge spines tightly as he strained to get a look at his beloved city from the air. Built on the ruins of a much older city, Caer Lochvarel, the Lochvaur had renamed it Caer Lachlanel after Lachlan had become king all those many years before.
It was nestled at the foot of the Lachlanel Mountain – a formidable mountain range that separated the Lochvaur from the other kindreds. When Allarun had come into power, he had taken the fortified city, forcing the Lochvaur to flee south. It had sat in decay for a thousand years.
As Shadowhelm, Lachlan had never been to the legendary ruins, but the moment he had set foot in the city, he instinctively knew that this had been his home. It was not just the memories of his former life that drew him as much as the feel of the place. It felt clean and the cold, thin air of the mountains filled his lungs and senses. Something deep inside him told him you are now home. For a mercenary who had never called any place his home, this was new to him and surprisingly comforting.
And yet, three months ago, Lachlan had almost abandoned hope of ever seeing the castle and great hall – let alone the entire city – restored to its former greatness. The roof to the Great Hall had partially collapsed and there was a huge accumulation of debris. The nobles' quarters – including Lachlan's own private chambers – were a heap of rubble and collapsed walls.
But the freemen had surprised even him. Masons had fortified the castle’s and city’s crumbling walls with new cut limestone and most traces of the decay and debris had been swept away. The Great Hall's roof and Lachlan's own quarters were rebuilt. Amazingly, the keep, garrison, and dungeons had remained mostly intact. Lachlan's banner, a black dragon rampant on a red-gold background, once more waved gently in the spring breeze.
“She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” Lachlan commented.
Haegl grunted in affirmation. When will they have the walls replaced?
“By winter or so the masons assure me.” Lachlan shrugged. The walls along two sides were completely gone and still had to be rebuilt. Caer Lachlanel was far from being defensible.
“At least there’s a stockade and earthen works,” Haellsil said, the wind tearing the words from his mouth.
It will not stop Vaurgar or a massive siege, Haegl commented.
Lachlan did not reply. He focused his thoughts to the men who stood on the parapets, readying their weapons. The Fyr-dragons, freed from their enslavement to Allarun, were allies not foes, but Lachlan knew his soldiers would treat any dragon as a potential threat.
This is Lachlan Ah’rhyn with Haegl and Haellsil, he announced.
His brother shot him a worried look. Will they believe you?
Lachlan closed his eyes. He could sense his men’s bewilderment at such a strong broadcasted mindspoken message but also knew they would be wary. I think they’ll take a wait and see attitude. Don’t do anything that remotely looks aggressive.
I’ll try, Haegl spoke.
Lachlan tensed, despite himself. He could possibly sense before someone released an arrow shaft, but there were too many men to constantly scan. Being a godling had advantages but one of the major drawbacks was that he could not always see the Wyrd as it unfolded before him. The Sight was not perfect. The ability to see the Wyrd with utmost clarity was reserved for the gods.
If he had truly seen the Wyrd, he would have seen his own death at the hands of his friend a thousand years ago. Allarun had been Wyrd-blood – a descendant of Areyn Sehduk and the Laeca goddess Fala – which made him difficult to see in the Wyrd. Lachlan had further made the mistake of creating three Swords, one of which could blind the other two.
Haegl swooped low before landing in the bailey, close to the rebuilt garrison. There was just enough room for the massive dragon to land without hitting walls or buildings. Soldiers and Chi’lan warriors alike came running out of the garrison to meet the dragon and his riders. When they saw it was Lachlan and Haellsil, they began cheering.
I always said this was too damn small for me, Haegl grumbled.
Lachlan laughed and slapped the dragon on the neck. “You’d have to take that up with my father – he’s the one who rebuilt this city, you know.”
Yes, but you had a chance at redesigning the garrison, Haegl remarked, scratching his massive head with a talon.
Haellsil grinned and slid off, waving to the crowds. “You’re bigger since the First Battle of Darkling Plain. No doubt in another thousand years you’ll be too big for any of this.”
“Lachlan!” shouted one of the Chi’lan. “Elsonre and Kalena have been looking for you.”
Lachlan grimaced as he swung himself down from the dragon’s back. “Is that so, Chi’lan Kian?”
Haellsil met Lachlan’s gaze knowingly. “Do you think...?” He fell silent as Lachlan raised his hand.
Kian picked his way through the crowds. He was a tall Chi’lan warrior who had served the Lochvaur kings even before Lachlan’s time. Like all Lochvaur, he had a red-gold mane and silver eyes. “Kalena and I returned last night from our meeting with the Silren.”
Lachlan nodded. “How did it go?”
The smile twisted downward and Kian shook his head.
“Is it even worth it?” Haellsil said.
Lachlan sighed. “I don’t know.” He turned to Haegl. “Thank you, my friend. I am, as always, grateful for your help.”
Haegl turned his head to meet Lachlan’s gaze. The red eyes glowed with consternation. There was a narrowing in his mental voice that suggested the words he spoke would only be heard between them. Call me whenever you need help. The power of the Swords and of the Fyr-dragons do not end in the Fifth World. I can cross the gates where mortals cannot. Next time you find yourself in Jotunnren, call me. The Jotunn are dangerous creatures.
Lachlan patted the dragon’s leg. I’ll remember that. He backed up. “Give him room!”
The small crowd backed up and Haegl took a stride and a half before leaping into the sky. Lachlan watched as the dragon circled once before heading north over the Lachlanel Mountains and out of sight.
“I wonder where he goes,” Haellsil mused.
“He has a cave in the Neversummer Mountains,” Lachlan said absently. He turned to Kian. “Let Elsonre know I’ve returned but will be unavailable for a while.”
Kian nodded and turned to leave. “Wait,” Lachlan said. He turned to Haellsil. “I want you to go with Kian and report to the Council.” Keep our little adventure secret for the time being. Hopefully the incident with Ni’yah and Carellyn hasn’t totally ended negotiations with the Redel. See what you can do about it.
Thanks, Haellsil grumbled. And what are you going to do?
Lachlan grinned wryly. Kalena’s back. What do you think?
Chapter Seven
Lachlan opened the gate to the private courtyard adjacent to his own quarters in the castle. He had sealed the gate itself with ward runes that would only allow certain people access to his quarters, but now he rewove the spell to deny access to all save himself and Kalena.
As Shadowhelm, he had been unaware of the power he had to command – something that was now so simple to do, that he marveled at his former inability to do magic. And yet, part of it had been the guise Lachlan wanted. A pureblood Lochvaur with extraordinary powers would have certainly garnered Allarun’s attention, but a mixed-blooded Shara’kai mercenary had not. Not until Lachlan had begun to awaken and not until Allarun had irrevocably set himself on the path to his death did the Shara’kai appear.
Lachlan closed the gate and finished the binding spell.
“Do you really think that’s necessary?”
Lachlan turned to see Kalena standing before him. “Kalena!” He took her in his arms and kissed her, feeling her respond to his touch. Only after several long minutes did they break apart.
As a warrior, Kalena was powerfully built, but she was also very beautiful with flowing red-gold tresses and silver eyes. She was nearly as tall as he was and wore the chainmail and surcoat of a Chi’lan warrior. But there were discrepancies to her uniform now. She had let her mane grow out, since she was less apt to wear a helm. And beneath the chainmail was a nearly imperceptible bulge that had not been there three months earlier at the Second Battle of Darkling Plain. She closed her eyes and sighed.
Lachlan gently slid his hands around her waist. “How do you feel?”
“Tired,” she admitted. As Lachlan studied her face, he caught a trace of puffiness. “This latest trip taxed me. I won’t be able to do this much longer, no matter what Elsonre says.”
Lachlan nodded. “How goes the negotiations?”
“Poorly. Silvain is a fool – as big of one as he was a thousand years ago. Silvain says he will not recognize a ‘Shara’kai bastard’ as Lachlan’s incarnation.”
Lachlan laughed. “You should have told him that I’m heir to his throne,” he said. “Though he would deny that, too.”
“Silvain never recognized you as king during your first lifetime, why should he now?” Kalena said. “The Shara’kai statement is an excuse…”
Lachlan stifled a chuckle when he looked down to see Kalena glaring at him. “It’s not funny,” she said. “Silvain is challenging you.”
Lachlan sighed. “I’ll speak to Elsonre about this, but I doubt we can change Silvain’s mind. He’ll never forgive me for Cara and that’s something I can’t change.” He shook his head. “Not even the gods can change what is past.”
“You loved her, though; certainly that means something?” Kalena asked.
“The betrothal and marriage was not with his consent – nor would it have ever been,” Lachlan admitted. “For him to accept an heir from my line would have him accept me, which he won’t.”
Kalena met his gaze. “You still love her?”
“I can’t love anything but her memory, beloved,” he said. “You are my queen, and I would have none other.” He kissed her again.
She smiled wryly. “I hear you’ve been in the taverns again.”
“Is that so? Well, it was strictly business.”
“Really?” Kalena pulled away. “I would like to hear it.”
Lachlan frowned. “There was an altercation between Ni’yah and—a woman...”
“Really?”
Lachlan nodded. “All true. I’m sure you saw me riding Haegl back.”
“I did.” She looked in askance. “What did Ni’yah get you into this time? I swear, that god is as dangerous...”
“He is, but I can’t keep a leash on him.” Lachlan shrugged. He pulled her close again and led her towards their quarters. “But enough about Ni’yah...”
“Where are we going?” she asked. “We must talk to Elsonre.”
“Elsonre can wait,” he said, pulling her close and kissing her. He paused in his affections long enough to slip the chainmail off and unlace the gambeson.
“Can’t you think of anything else?”
Lachlan laughed. “You’ve been gone two weeks and all I’ve had to do is watch that lecherous god carouse.”
“Ni’yah hasn’t taught you anything?”
“He says I learn too fast,” Lachlan said. “We’re both becoming bored with the training.”
“You could help Elsonre with the kingdom.”
“What would I do?” Lachlan replied. “I’m a warrior not an administrator. He’s happy to do that. Anyway laws, administrations and negotiations have never been my strength.”
“That’s what led us to Darkling Plain,” she said.
“You wound me,” he said as he slid her tunic off.
“I think not,” Kalena said. “Tell me, what happened that you had to return on Haegl?”
Lachlan paused. “Later, beloved,” he whispered.
Chapter Eight
Haellsil strode into Caer Lachlanel’s throne room, following Kian into the great hall. Haellsil halted and grinned, still amazed at the full restoration. White granite walls and floor sparkled beneath the giant columns that lined the approach to the dais. Light from clerestories and an opening in the ceiling high above brought bright sunlight and air into the great hall. The granite sparkled in the light. Lachlan's standards draped the hall – the black dragon across a field of red and gold. Benches lined the hall where the nobles sat before a great firepit. The firepit was empty now. It would not be lit until evening.