Jay D. Blakeny - The Sword,the Ring,and the Chalice 01

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Book Information:

Genre: High Fantasy

Author: Deborah Chester

Name: The Sword

Series: The Sword, the Ring, and the Chalice, book 1

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Part One

The dogs warned Tobeszijian that something was wrong.

It was only midday, but the sky hung low, as dark as weathered steel. Snowflakes

like tiny chips of ice dropped steadily, turning the shoulders of his burgundy wool cloak

white and gathering in its folds where it lay across the powerful rump of his stallion. The

king was large, his human blood having given him the same vigorous frame as his

father, with broad shoulders, long arms bulked with muscle, and a neck like a pillar.

When geared for battle, encased in full plate armor and a crowned helmet fitted with the

full spread of gold danselk antlers, he was massive, truly an awe-inspiring sight. But

today the king was hunting, and he wore only chain mail and a breastplate embossed

with the lightning bolts and hammer that symbolized the connection between Netheran

kings and their gods. A bow was strung across his strong chest; a quiver of arrows was

tied to his back at his belt. His sword, Mirengard—spell-cast and eldin-forged, which no

man’s hand save his own could touch—hung at his side, its two-handed grip twisted with

gold-wire and studded with a great emerald set in a gold gryphon’s claw. His riding

gauntlets, crafted of the finest, most supple leather upon his hands and flaring wide to

his elbows, were embroidered with gold thread, again displaying his royal crest of

lightning bolt and hammer. Hunting spears of pure white ash clattered in his saddle

quiver, and his spurs jingled with the clear, ringing sound of pure silver.

The king’s dogs, tall slender beasts with white curly hair feathering thickly on their

long legs, ran ahead. Cresting a rise, they lifted their slim muzzles and barked excitedly.

The king and his lord protector rode right behind them. They parted to dodge a stand of

snow-laden fir trees, and plunged down the slope toward a thicket of briars and choked

undergrowth. Tobeszijian’s gaze swept the snow ahead of him, noting the scuffed

tracks—not fresh—and the nibbled tips of branches. Deer had come this way, all right,

but not as recently as Count Mradvior had led him to believe.

Clamped between his strong thighs, his black stallion stretched its muscular neck and

fought the bit, trying to outrun the dogs, who were bounding gracefully over the

snowdrifts, baying now with a sharp, shrill unfamiliar note. Tobeszijian reined back,

forcing the excited stallion to slow.

Half of the hunting party came into sight behind him, shouting encouragement to the

dogs; the rest galloped in from his left.

Ahead of him, the dogs reached the thicket, snapping and growling, then one of

them yelped sharply and sprang back. Blood stained her white coat.

“That’s no hind!” Kuliestka shouted.

Tobeszijian felt a surge of excitement. Since rising at dawn, he’d been eager to

course the deer that Mradvior and Surov had claimed was out here. He’d dressed swiftly,

eaten light, and kept his horse at a ground-eating canter right behind the dogs. “Nay,” he

said. “I’ll wager my spurs it’s a stag that’s gouged the bitch like that.”

Another dog yelped and dodged, the snarling and snapping taking a vicious quality

unusual when they cornered a deer. Tobeszijian frowned, but could see nothing in the

thicket except a violent shaking of the branches and brambles.

“Thod take the creature!” Prince Kuliestka said. “Will it stand here or will it run?”

An arrow skimmed Tobeszijian’s left arm just above the elbow, ripping his cloak and

sliding harmlessly off his chain mail. It nicked the shoulder of his horse, which reared,

screaming.

Fighting to keep control of his animal and furious at who-

ever had shot so carelessly, Tobeszijian tried to look to see who was shooting, but

his glance took in only a confused blur of snow and trees, rapid movement as the

hunting party galloped closer, and a series of rapid jolts as his horse bucked. From the

thicket, something suddenly exploded forth, racing away black and swift, with the dogs

in rapid pursuit.

Tobeszijian spurred his stallion, who galloped after them. Blood was still streaming

from the horse’s shoulder, splattering back across Tobeszijian’s gauntlets and thigh. He

put his anger aside, knowing he would deal with the matter later, and bent low over the

stallion’s whipping mane, urging him on faster.

In minutes, he grew certain they chased no stag. The creature was larger, fully as big

as a danselk, but too swift. Now and then Tobeszijian caught glimpses of it, too fleeting

to tell what it was, except that it was black, the color of no stag that he knew, nay, and

no danselk either.

They were rapidly leaving the gentle rolling country behind for steeper hills and

sharp little ravines where half-frozen streams plunged. The forest grew much denser

here, in some places impassable. It was hopeless trying to keep the rest of the hunting

party in sight. Tobeszijian focused on his quarry. He was curious about it now and

fevered from the thrill of the chase it was giving him. By Thod, he thought joyously, this

was good hunting.

He stayed low in the saddle, his stallion flashing through trees and under

low-hanging branches far too fast and wildly for safety. The dogs streaked ahead of him,

almost but not quite able to catch their quarry. He realized he had left Kuliestka behind,

and wondered how that could be. His lord protector’s horse must have stumbled or

blown its wind from the furious pace. The sounds of the others crashing and shouting

behind him grew fainter, heading in a different direction. The other dogs must have

scented another deer. Tobeszijian cared not. His own dogs were running easily, their

pink tongues lolling. His horse was strong and not yet tired. If necessary Tobeszijian

could keep up this chase for another hour, surely long enough for the quarry to tire and

begin to slow.

He lost sight of it and reined up sharply, listening to his breath panting in his throat.

The dogs were running in silence now, and for an instant he heard nothing except the

snorts of his horse as it champed the bit. His saddle creaked beneath him, and he stood

up in the stirrups, shielding his eyes from the sting of snowflakes as he peered ahead.

He had stopped halfway down a steep hill. A ridge rose sharply before him,

blanketed almost entirely with snow-dusted trees. If the dogs lost their quarry in this

tight country, he would not find it again.

Even as the thought crossed his mind, the creature bounded into sight in a small

clearing halfway up the rise before him. It paused there, holding its head high, puffing

white from its nostrils. It was a stag, brown with a white throat and belly, antlers

spreading a full twelve points.

The dogs came into sight at the bottom of the hill, yelping and casting for the

creature’s trail along the bank of a narrow, ice-scrimmed stream. Calm, even noble, the

stag gazed across the valley at Tobeszijian. He reached for his horn to call the dogs back

onto the trail, but confusion suddenly swirled in his mind and he never blew it.

Was this another deer? He’d been chasing something black, not brown. He’d seen no

flash of white from its flag and hindquarters. Had the dogs confused two trails?

From far away to his left came the low blat of the huntsman’s horn, startling

Tobeszijian. He hadn’t realized he’d gone so far east. Or maybe he’d lost his direction

entirely in this rough country. It was easy enough to do with the sun hidden behind such

dark snow clouds.

The dogs suddenly found the trail and leaped the stream. They went streaking up the

hill, glimpsed here and there through the dark green of the firs and spruces. The stag

remained motionless, except for flicking one ear in the dogs’ direction. It seemed

unworried by their approach.

Tobeszijian told himself to spur his horse forward and catch up. This was a fine stag

indeed. What did it matter if the dogs had lost whatever he’d been after?

He felt a shiver brush the back of his shoulders beneath his clothing, like icy

fingernails scraping there. An unexplainable but powerful reluctance to go farther seized

him.

That hillside, he felt certain, held his death.

Tobeszijian had never been able to part the veils of seeing and gaze into the second

world, or even the third, despite his being half eldin. It was said his father’s human

blood ran too strong in his veins, blinding him from having the sight. He’d never cared

much if he lacked the eldin gifts, until now when he found himself wishing violently for

the ability to see what had become of his mysterious quarry.

A second shiver touched him, and he felt a dark, malevolent presence, unseen and

unsensed even by his horse, which was tugging at the bridle and pawing with a forefoot.

Danger lurked behind Tobeszijian as well. Remembering the close call with that

arrow, he leaned forward and touched the wound on his stallion’s neck. It had stopped

bleeding. The cut was shallow and would cause no harm to the animal, but had the

angle been different, had the arrow gone into his armpit instead of glancing off his

elbow ...

A chill swept through Tobeszijian, and his nostrils flared in a mixture of anger and

alarm. There had been too many near misses and almost accidents already during this

hunting expedition, enough to make any sane man cautious.

But he could not sit here all day if he was to bring down this stag. His horse pawed

again, rested now, and the stag’s ears pricked toward the dogs, which were nearly upon

it. Again the stag glanced at Tobeszijian, as if to say,

Why don’t you come? He let his

horse trot forward down the rest of the slope, then canter across the stream, kicking up

water and ice around him. He could still see the stag, standing motionless amidst the

trees. Tobeszijian believed it was waiting for him, tempting him. By now, the dogs had

reached it, and were yelping in excitement, but their barks suddenly changed to that

shrill, frenzied noise they’d made earlier.

It was the sound of fear, Tobeszijian realized. He saw the stag whirl around. It

charged forward with its antlers, then sprang aside and went bounding through a stand

of thick pines. As it did, the air around it seemed to shimmer. The pines themselves

rippled, and Tobeszijian glimpsed something black and sleek instead of the flash of white

he should have seen off the animal’s hindquarters. A smell rolled down the hill to his

nostrils, a thick decayed smell of carrion left to ripen.

Shapeshifter.

Fear burst in his chest, and he reined so hard he made his horse rear up.

Tobeszijian’s head nearly cracked against an overhead tree limb, but he paid no

attention. He was hauling back on the reins, yanking cruelly at his horse’s mouth before

finally succeeding in pulling the animal around. Feeling breath-

less and choked, he spurred it hard, and the horse plunged back across the stream.

For an instant he could still hear the excited barking of his dogs, those brave handsome

creatures coursing tirelessly after their prey. Regret flashed through him, and he reached

for his horn to call them off.

But then his hand dropped from the horn hanging on the front of his saddle. The

dogs had the creature’s scent well in their nostrils and they were close enough now to

course it by sight. They would not turn back no matter how much he called.

Tobeszijian fled in the opposite direction with his heart pounding too fast and his

breath tangled in his lungs. There was little enough in this world that he feared, but no

one but a mad fool took on a shapeshifter alone in a deserted wood.

After a few minutes he realized he was bent low in the saddle, shaking all over,

mindlessly urging his laboring horse yet faster. Coming to his senses, he reined up,

making his horse stumble. He nearly pitched forward out of the saddle, and had to grab

the pommel hard to hang on.

Together, horse and rider paused there in a small hollow next to a fallen log

overgrown with ivy now burnished red and gold by the autumn frosts. Tobeszijian willed

his pounding heart to slow down, willed his mind to start thinking.

He was drenched and shivering with clammy, miserable sweat beneath his clothing

and mail. Wiping his face with an unsteady hand, he realized he was alone out here. The

members of his hunting party were well to the west of his current position. He could

hear them, but they were too far away. His lord protector was either among them, or

separately searching for him, or dead of an arrow in his back.

Frowning, Tobeszijian pushed that last thought away. The afternoon was well

advanced by now. The gloomy skies were much darker than before. Nightfall would

come early tonight.

Nightfall with a shapeshifter in the forest.

A keeback burst from a nearby tree with a loud flurry of its wings, making him start

violently, and flew away, calling

kee-kee-kee.

Tobeszijian believed the shapeshifter had been leading him into a certain trap. How

far would he have chased it, galloping to his death like a mindless fool, before it turned

and attacked him? Or led him to an ambush of soultakers?

He shivered again, drawing his cloak tighter around him.

His horse stood with its head low and sides heaving, blowing hard through its

nostrils. Steam rose into the air off its shoulders.

The arrow, he understood now, had been intended to spring him into the chase.

Everyone knew how much Tobeszijian loved hunting, how obsessed he could become,

especially when he escaped court and Grov and fled into the snowy wilderness up north

to the World’s Rim. There, mountains stood as a barrier to the ice-coated Sea of Vvord,

and bottomless fjords held water so clear and still it seemed to be made of glass.

Every autumn Tobeszijian allowed himself this one excursion for pleasure, taking

himself far from the cares and intrigues of politics, the day-to-day management of his

kingdom. Summers were for war against Gant and sometimes Klad. Winters were for

remaining denned up by the fire, clothed in wool and heavy furs against the bitter cold,

plotting strategies while the harsh weather raged outside. Spring was for taking his lady

wife out into the forests, officially to hunt with her dainty falcon, but in reality to let her

visit her people in privacy away from the disapproving stares of his subjects and the

churchmen. But autumn was for hunting; autumn he saved for himself.

Gladly he abandoned the mundane duties of his office for two months of glorious

play, hunting and camping in the wilds with his most stalwart knights and whatever

courtiers were in favor. It was a way of clearing his mind and restoring himself. He had

gone forth every year since taking the throne, telling himself that his enemies could not

wreak too much havoc in his absence.

His fear had left him now. Reaching out, Tobeszijian scooped a handful of snow off a

pine branch and rubbed his face with it. The snow was dry and powdery, burning his

skin with its cold. He ate some of it and tossed the rest away. He felt hollow and a little

embarrassed by his extreme reaction. Still, he knew himself to be no coward. It was not

foolish, but prudent indeed, to flee one of the Nonkind.

Frowning, he put the other incidents of this trip together, piecing them into place the

way Princess Thiatereika might solve one of her puzzles.

The first incident had been with the white beyar.

He always started his hunting trips by traveling far to the north in search of the

fabled white beyars of Omarya Fjord.

Sighting a white beyar was considered a very good omen. To capture one was rare

indeed, and he had set his heart on someday having white beyar fur draped across his

winter throne. Every year, he always came home without it.

But this time, he had actually sighted one—a huge male with intelligent black eyes.

The animal’s throat was banded in dark gray, and he stood on an ice floe bobbing on the

surface of the fjord, staring right back at Tobeszijian as though in recognition.

Holding his bow undrawn, Tobeszijian had found himself transfixed, unable to

breathe. A voice tugged at his mind, and he could almost hear the words

who/who/who/who.

“Look at him,” Prince Kuliestka said, breathing the words in Tobeszijian’s ear.

“Magnificent devil! He’s not afraid of us.”

“He’s waiting,” Tobeszijian said in sudden understanding. “Waiting for his rider.”

Kuliestka’s hand tightened on Tobeszijian’s shoulder. “Shoot him now. It’s a clear

shot, perfect.”

But Tobeszijian did not move, did not draw. The beyar was still staring right at him,

as though he knew everything they thought and said. A cold shiver ran down

Tobeszijian’s spine. He glanced around, at the steep snowy slopes of the hillside that ran

straight down into the water. Tall pines, spruce, and firs grew in heavy thickets, snow

bending their branches almost to the ground. The eld rider could be anywhere, close by

or a league away. Tobeszijian had not sensed his presence, but then he had been killing

game all day. The smell of blood hung thick in his nostrils, and the proximity of his

human companions was smothering his senses.

A short distance away, angled up the bank from Tobeszijian and kneeling behind a

fallen log, Count Mradvior nocked his bow and aimed it right at the king, who was in the

line of fire between him and the beyar. The count rose as though to shoot over the head

of the king, and Tobeszijian sensed rather than saw him. Anger flooded his mind. He

stood up, turning in one fluid motion, and hurled his bow like a spinning scythe at

Mradvior.

The heavy bow hit the count, knocking him over and spoiling his aim. His hastily

released arrow flashed in a short, high arc, coming down harmlessly into the water.

“He is not your game!” Tobeszijian said angrily.

Mradvior stood up, floundering in the deep, powdery snow, and swore long and

loud. His voice echoed up the hillside, bouncing between sky and water. Keebacks flew

from the tree-tops, making their plaintive

kee-kee-kee sound.

Mradvior glared at Tobeszijian. “I was trying to pin him for your majesty. I was

trying to help your majesty get the perfect shot.”

Tobeszijian was not appeased. He needed no help in shooting his game, but that was

hardly the point. Mradvior was always trying to step in where he was not needed,

helping where no help was wanted, offering assistance that was in the way, hastening to

perform tasks of service such as plucking a freshly filled wine cup from the serving boy’s

hand and bringing it to Tobeszijian himself. New to court and far too ambitious,

Mradvior seemed to think he had to work hard to win favor, when that was the surest

way to lose it. Tobeszijian had regretted bringing him on this hunting trip from the first

day. And now he was certain he had made a mistake.

“Surely our noble companions have informed you by now that I need no help in

making my shots,” Tobeszijian said furiously. “I am not enfeebled. My eyesight is not

gone.”

“No, your majesty,” Mradvior said, beginning to turn red as everyone stared at him.

“Forgive me, your majesty. I was only trying to help.”

“Couldn’t you see the beyar is an eld-mount?” Tobeszijian said in disgust.

Mradvior looked puzzled. “I—I—”

“They are never to be killed.” Disgusted, Tobeszijian turned away from him. Of

course, the ice floe was now empty.

Prince Kuliestka, holding his helmet in his lap so that the fading sunlight spangled red

highlights in his golden hair, still crouched on the bank, staring intently at the fjord. It

was getting late now in the day, and mist was forming over the water, obscuring the ice

floe and curling in among the trees on the bank.

“He dove off the moment you moved,” Kuliestka said without turning his head. His

keen eyes, wrinkled with squint lines at the corners, swept the mist and water again

before glancing up at his king. “Fast, for such a big one. No splash of water. I knew he’d

go and I kept my eyes on him every second, but he was gone from sight in a blink.”

“The legends say they can swim underwater for many minutes,” Tobeszijian said,

feeling disappointment encompass him now. He’d wanted to watch the beyar, to

communicate with him. If he’d had time to share his thoughts, perhaps the beyar’s rider

would have returned and made greeting. It was rare to communicate with the eldin this

far north. Tobeszijian sighed. “He is long gone by now.”

Now, that memory faded as a scream from the throat of nothing human rose into the

twilight air and echoed over the hills. Shivering under his cloak, Tobeszijian patted his

tired horse, scraping off the lather foaming on his neck. At the time, he had been caught

up in the wonder of having seen a white beyar that close, that clearly. He had realized he

could never shoot one of the magnificent animals, for they were not meant to be

trophies on display in the palace. That day, the hunting party had ridden on and pursued

other creatures. But now, chilled and worried, Tobeszijian considered the incident in a

new light and asked himself if Count Mradvior had been aiming at the beyar or at

himself.

And what of the night a drunken Count Surov had stumbled into the fire while

Tobeszijian was standing close to it with his back turned, talking to some of the younger

members of the party? Surov had tipped over a huge cauldron of boiling stew. Only the

quick intervention of Prince Kuliestka had saved the king from being seriously burned.

Young Fluryk had been splashed in the face, and he would be scarred for life.

In the morning, a humbled Surov had apologized on his knees before the king, who

had pardoned him kindly. Surov had promised not to let himself get drunk again, and he

had kept that promise. Only now, thinking about the matter with a mind full of

suspicion, did Tobeszijian realize Surov had not been drunk a single evening prior to the

incident. Nor was Surov ever one to lose control of himself. He was a dour, somber

man, more a companion to the king’s half-brother than to Tobeszijian himself. But he

had asked to come on this year’s hunting trip, and proved himself to be a competent

hunter, although he seemed to take little enjoyment from the sport.

Then there had been the boar, which had exploded from a thicket without warning,

squealing and attacking savagely. The horses had panicked, bucking and rearing away.

Leaning over to grab one of his hunting spears, Tobeszijian had been rammed from the

side by another man’s horse and nearly knocked from the saddle right into the path of

the charging boar. Prince Kuliestka had spurred his own frightened mount between

Tobeszijian and the boar, managing to stab the creature in the neck. By then Tobeszijian

had dropped out of the saddle, which was slipping dangerously around his horse’s belly.

With his horse running backward away from him, he managed to draw a spear from the

saddle quiver and turned to stab the boar in one eye just as it reached him. The boar

squealed horribly and fell over at his feet with a final kick of death.

Tobeszijian wondered who had knocked him off his horse. Was it an unavoidable

jostling in the confusion of out-of-con-trol horses, or yet another attempt on his life?

Tobeszijian realized he could explain away each incident, dismiss them all if he chose.

Had there only been one or two, he would have. But there had been too many. And after

today, when he’d come so close to falling into a terrible trap, he no longer wanted to

dismiss any suspicion.

The scream came again, a long, wailing shriek that made the hair on the back of his

neck stand up inside his mail coif. He felt a fresh surge of fear, but controlled it this time.

He knew the shapeshifter now realized it had lost him. Would it come back for him?

His mouth felt dry, and he swallowed, resisting the temptation to gallop blindly away.

He had to use his wits now and not fall into another trap.

Who among his thirty or so hunting companions could he trust? He realized that

Prince Kuliestka was the only one he could be absolutely sure of. And his lord protector

was missing.

Mouthing an oath, Tobeszijian steeled himself and took his time about finding his

bearings. He had lost his dogs and his party, but he himself was not lost.

He kicked his horse forward, heading back toward camp at a cautious trot. He had to

conserve his horse’s strength now. If he broke the animal’s wind he would be alone and

on foot when darkness fell. That would surely be the end of him.

He rode for a grim hour, keeping his wits and senses sharp. The snow had stopped

falling, but the air was heavy with damp and bitterly cold. It was growing steadily

darker, making the forest close in around him. With the hills and ravines and thickets any

man could easily have become lost. But Tobeszijian’s eldin blood gave him a sense of

direction superior to any human’s. He followed his instincts and knew himself close now

to camp.

That’s when he heard the sound of hoofbeats and the jin-gJing harnesses of several

riders. In the gloom and snowy mist, he could barely see more than a few feet ahead of

him.

He stopped his horse and backed the reluctant stallion beneath a fir whose branches

were bent low under their burden of snow. Dismounting, he held the animal’s nostrils to

keep it from whinnying at the other horses. They rode past at a weary walk, close

enough for him to recognize Nuryveviza, Varstok, Surov, and Mradvior.

“We’ll be at camp in a few minutes,” Varstok was saying. His voice was gruff, hoarse

with cold, and unmistakable. A huge beyar of a man, he wore a black fur cloak lined

with white wool and layers of sheepskin padding beneath his plate armor for warmth. He

looked like a mountain being carried by a horse. “What do we tell them? What do we

say?”

“What we know,” Mradvior said, sounding short-tempered. “The king chased a stag

from sight. We lost him. We have called and searched, but he is not yet found.”

“Kuliestka will make us search all night,” Surov grumbled.

“The lord protector is missing too,” Mradvior said.

Someone laughed, and Tobeszijian’s fingers tightened too hard on his horse’s nose.

It flung up its head, almost pulling free of his hold, and one of the riders glanced back.

“Did you hear something?”

Mradvior clapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t jump at shadows, my friend. Let us

find fire and wine to warm us.”

They vanished into the gloom, and Tobeszijian stood there in snow up to his knees,

shivering and cursing beneath his breath.

He knew now he could not return to camp. Not alone, with no one to witness what

had happened except a handful of frightened servants. They could be killed or bullied.

Mradvior and his friends had said enough to confirm Tobeszijian’s suspicions. His

five-year reign had been a difficult one from the start. Following in the footsteps of his

father, Runtha, had not been easy, and he’d made mistakes at first.

The worst one had been to believe his half-brother, Muncel, would ever accept him

as king.

He’d tried to make peace with Muncel, had awarded him a rich holding in southern

Nether near the Mandrian border, but Muncel was not appeased. Every day he listened to

the steady drip of poison that was his mother’s voice, whispering in his ear. He listened

to the churchmen who were opposed to Tobeszijian because of his eldin blood. When

Tobeszijian took an eldin wife as queen, following in the tradition of his father, the

church had raised violent objections. Tobeszijian ignored them, and had made himself

more enemies as a result. There were plenty who said that Muncel, fully human, should

be king— never mind that Muncel was a vain, petty, small-minded, conniving cheat who

could barely wield a sword and did not understand the concept of honor.

Tobeszijian had the sudden, overwhelming urge to be home in front of a fire,

supplied with a brimming wine cup, his boots off, watching his small children trying to

climb inside the boots and toppling over with peals of laughter.

It was his children who had surely goaded his enemies into such desperate measures.

First had come Thiatereika, so delicate and beautiful, like her mother. She was four now,

straight-backed and clear-eyed, her eldin blood stamped strongly on her features even

without her distinctive blue eyes and pointed ears. Two winters past had come Faldain,

named for an eldin king, in defiance of Tobeszijian’s critics. Little Faldain with his black

hair and chubby cheeks and eyes a pale gray. Eldin eyes that frightened his nurses, who

murmured he would put a spell on them. Faldain could point at a supplicant cringing

before the throne and yell, “Liar!” and be proven correct in his accusation. Faldain, gone

missing, only to be found sleeping in the midst of the king’s pack of tall, slender dogs,

his chubby arms cradled around the neck of Shaiya, the pack leader who would let no

one but the king touch her without biting. Faldain, who this summer had stood up in his

cradle and loosed a shriek of temper that blew out all the candles in the room. And who

a few minutes later had laughed, igniting them all again.

Prince Faldain, heir to the throne of Nether, was three-quarters eldin. Unlike his

father Tobeszijian, who looked human and rarely exhibited any gifts of eld, the child was

clearly nonhuman. His face might be sweet and chubby, but already the pronounced

cheekbones and pointed chin were showing. His eerie gray eyes were tilted at the

corners and saw into the minds of men and animals alike. The people feared him, and

rumors said that Muncel had vowed the boy would never supplant him as king.

Tobeszijian had kept his concerns to himself. Five years of uneasy rule had taught

him to conceal his reasons and motives whenever possible, to give away little, to confide

never. He had decided to take the boy with him in public as much as possible once

Faldain grew a bit older, for he wanted the people to see the boy and grow used to him.

Already he had started negotiations with the people of eld, asking for a tutor who could

train the boy in private to govern his special gifts.

But the rumors kept spreading that Faldain was of the evil, that the eldin were hardly

better than the Nonkind of Gant. Religious factions in Grov, Lolta, Trebek, and other

towns of Nether wanted complete separation between humans and eldin, saying they

didn’t belong together and never had.

That was false, of course. Tobeszijian knew the ancient histories, of how the folk of

eld had lived in Nether first, all the way back to the time of the War of the Kingdoms,

and how, following that fearsome time when the gods had battled and slain each other,

humans had crept from the Sea of Vvord and ventured into the land. They had been

welcomed by the people of eld. An alliance had been formed, now very old, with bonds

still true, that said eldin and humans could live together in peace. Over the centuries,

more separation had gradually come, but it was not until the reformation of the Church

of the Circle, ushered in by zealots and evangelists from other lands such as Mandria,

that prejudice and distrust had been born.

They were thriving now, driven by greed and the ambitions of men.

If they have grown so bold that they would take my life, what have they done to my

family? Tobeszijian asked himself.

He mounted quickly and left his hiding place, ducking beneath the low branches,

which unloaded snow down the back of his cloak. The horse turned toward camp, its

ears pricked forward now, but Tobeszijian swung around, spurring the animal when it

fought him, and headed to the road and home.

His enemies would not catch him unawares again.

Tobeszijian’s horse stumbled over something in the near darkness. Although it

snorted and shied away, the animal was too tired to bolt. Tobeszijian brought him

swiftly under control and turned around to squint through the gloom at whatever lay on

the ground.

He could see only a motionless man-sized shadow. His nostrils caught the scent of

fresh blood.

His heart seemed to stop.

No, he thought.

No.

The horse would go no closer. Dismounting, Tobeszijian tied the reins to a branch

and drew his dagger. Cautiously he approached the prone corpse, keeping himself alert

in case this was another trap.

The snow was well trampled here. His shoulder brushed a broken pine bough,

dangling, and he could just make out dark patches on the snow. Bending, he scooped up

a patch and sniffed it. Blood on the snow.

There had been a fight here.

His senses told him that the dead man was Prince Kuliestka. Grief pierced

Tobeszijian, but he slammed a door on all his emotions and knelt beside his friend.

Kuliestka had not gone easily. His sword was still clutched in his hand. Three arrows

protruded from his back.

Touching the fletchings, Tobeszijian scowled. “Cowards,” he muttered aloud.

Gently, although it did not matter now, he gripped Kuli-estka’s shoulders and rolled

him over on his side. The heavy smell of blood rose up, and Tobeszijian could see it

pooled black beneath his friend’s body. There was another smell, something foul and

decayed. Tobeszijian’s nostrils flared, and he slid around on his knees to stare into the

surrounding gloom.

Breathing hard through his mouth, Tobeszijian stripped off his gloves and touched

Kuliestka’s face. His friend’s skin was cold and hard. The heavy ring on Tobeszijian’s

forefinger glowed suddenly in warning, and he snatched his hand back from Kuliestka’s

flesh.

Curling his fingers into a fist, he tried to breathe through his mouth, wanting none of

the rank smell to enter his lungs.

The light coming from the ring grew brighter. He lifted his hand, feeling himself

sweating lightly now beneath his clothes. The pale, clear light shone down upon

Kuliestka’s corpse, showing the bloody mess where his eyes had been torn out and the

huge rents that had been sliced through his chain mail as if it were parchment. The

bulge of his intestines showed, and his left hand was missing. Swallowing hard,

Tobeszijian averted his gaze. A large paw print showed clearly in the snow nearby, and

Tobeszijian lowered his hand unsteadily, not wanting to see any more.

A hurlhound had killed Kuliestka.

Grief submerged Tobeszijian momentarily, but at the same time his thoughts were

swirling in a tangle of new suspicions. A hurlhound had attacked Kuliestka, and a

shapeshifter had nearly led Tobeszijian to his doom. Mercy of Thod, what had unleashed

the Nonkind here in the depths of Nether, where none of them should be? On the shared

border between Gant and Nether, yes, there was always trouble, but these creatures

should not have been able to come so far without detection.

Unless someone was opening Nether to them, opening forbidden doorways between

the first and second worlds, and tampering with the spellcraft that protected the

boundaries.

“No,” he whispered in horror, and drew back from Kuliestka’s corpse.

Was Muncel the one? Tobeszijian did not want to believe that his half-brother would

turn to such allies in an effort to gain the throne. But to tell himself that Muncel did not

harbor excessive hatred and ambition was to be naive. Of late, it seemed that Muncel

was a seething mass of rage and resentment. Tobeszijian had been warned to watch his

half-brother and stand guard against treachery.

Until now, Tobeszijian had discounted such warnings, certain that someday with

patience he could find a way to make peace with his half-brother.

Now, with Kuliestka lying dead before him and the echo of Mradvior’s ugly laugh still

in his mind, Tobeszijian finally believed the rumors and suspicions. Evil men consorting

with evil Nonkind had infiltrated his court and his circle of friends. Today, they had

meant to see him die.

Yet Mradvior was no controller of demons; Tobeszijian’s senses would have warned

him of that. One of the Believers had to be nearby, had perhaps joined the hunting party

today in disguise.

Tobeszijian’s thoughts spun rapidly. His emotions were too chaotic for him to think

clearly.

But he knew he could not tarry here. It was almost fully dark, and these woods were

not safe. He had to get home, and he had to hurry.

He pulled on his gloves, concealing the strong light that still shone from his ring.

Thinking of it, he paused a moment in temptation.

The Ring of Solder had been passed down from father to son in a long line of kings.

It, along with the Chalice of Eternal Life, had been awarded to mankind by the gods at

the Dawning. Forged by the gods, and imbued with their power, the Ring and the

Chalice together held the spiritual center of Nether and served as its twin guardians

against the darkness. The Ring of Solder alone had the power to transport its wearer

from the first world into the second or third. It crossed boundaries of distance and time

in the space between heartbeats. He could use it now, and be home just that fast.

Jay D. Blakeny - The Sword, the Ring, and the Chalice 01 - The Sword

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