Sean Russell - The Swan's War 2 - Isle of Battle

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Book Information:

Genre: High/Epic Fantasy

Author: Sean Russell

Name: Isle of Battle

Series: Book Two of The Swan’s War

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Sean Russell

THE ISLE OF BATTLE

Book Two of The Swan’s War

One

Torches guttered and flared, haloed in the mist that boiled above the river. No body had

surfaced, though that was of little comfort to Prince Michael of Innes. He walked knee

deep in the slow-moving river, feeling the mud give softly beneath his boots, half afraid

that he would stumble over Elise Wills motionless on the bottom.

"What a foolish act!" he whispered to himself. Foolish and desperate, but had he not

considered the same thing himself? Escape from Hafydd—escape at all costs.

He found the whole evening strange and unreal. Even his feelings seemed veiled, as

though this same cold mist was all that moved within his heart. Elise was gone... yet he

didn't believe it. Her own father had said she couldn't swim. She'd gone into the river

rather than let their marriage serve Hafydd and his ambitions. Rather than marry me, the

Prince reminded himself.

Voices sounded along the shore, muffled in the murk, but there was no elation in those

calls, no sudden joyful discovery to blow the clinging mist from his heart.

The Prince set one foot down in the ooze, then the other. A of anger made itself felt,

though distant and unformed. He cursed Hafydd under his breath, the words swirling out

in a fine mist.

A blunt-ended punt loomed out of the fog, its masked and costumed inhabitants drawing

quick breams of surprise as the prince appeared in the haze: a man, strangely costumed

walking on water. A ghost. After all the madness at the Renné Ball, a ghost should have

been expected.

One of Hafydd's revenant honor guard hurried by along the bank, a torch held high,

forcing back the night and illuminating the wraiths of mist that swirled around them.

Prince Michael prayed that they would find Elise alive—and prayed that they would not.

Such a courageous act should not end with being dragged from the river, drenched in

failure. She deserved better than that. It was selfishness alone that made him hope she

would be found, still among the living.

The party that had come with the Wills family were desperately searching, running this

way and that, even the men-at-arms choking back tears. They had known Elise all her

short, sweet life, he reminded himself. They wouldn't feel this numbness that penetrated

his heart.

Torches wavered above him suddenly, and he realized he'd come back to the bridge. A

small knot of dark-robed men gathered on the bank, their whispers barely

distinguishable from the river's voice. They glanced up as the Prince appeared, but then

ignored him, as they did habitually. Hafydd was there, at the center, tall and proud. He

moved down to the river's edge and crouched—the motion giving the lie to his years. He

glanced at Michael, then away. A gray man, Michael thought, dressed in black, grim and

hard as stone.

For a moment he didn't move, his men arrayed about him, silent and intimidated. But

then he stood, drawing out his sword. Prince Michael felt himself step back, though he

hadn't willed his limbs to do so. Hafydd slid down the small bank into the water. He

plunged the blade into the smooth back of the river and held it still, his eyes closed.

None of his minions dared speak.

"She's gone, " Hafydd said, but then his arm jerked as if the river had shuddered. His

eyes opened.” Sianon" he whispered. He seemed about to collapse, crumpling over the

blade he still held in the river. Two of his guards stepped forward to support him but the

knight shook them off and drew himself up.

Hafydd turned and strode up the bank, disappearing into the fog, his minions following

after like so many shadows.

"Lady Elise... ?" Baore said, but could not finish the sentence. The look of fear and

concern on his face said more than Elise needed to hear. He kept glancing at the bank,

looking for a place to land—somewhere up the Westbrook, Elise thought, far from the

bridge where she had given herself to the river.

"It is all right, Baore, " she managed. But it was a lie. She could not even sit up. Her

head seemed to be in a whirl, her thoughts a crazed jumble. Memories came flooding in.

War she saw, endless years of war and battle and blood. And with these visions came a

terrible sense of excitement and anticipation that sent a wave of dread through her,

drying her mouth and causing her limbs to tremble. What had she done? What kind of a

monster had she made her bargain with?

The boat slid to a halt in soft mud, and Baore leapt nimbly over the side to haul the craft

high up the bank. He tried to help her out but in the end reached in and lifted her in his

arms, setting her down by the coals of a smoldering fire. He disappeared a moment and

returned with a blanket wrapped around a bundle of clothes. This he held out to her

awkwardly.

"They're my cousin Fynnol's,” he said, "but I think they'll fit.”

Elise glanced up from where she crouched by the fire. Baore was a shadow presence in

the darkness and mist.” Thank you,” she Dai, but could not move to begin to put them

on.

She began to tremble again, not from the cold. She had drowned in the river! Drowned!

"You must get out of that wet costume,” Baore said, mistaking

her trembling for cold. But she could not, and in the end Baore helped her, dressing her

like a child, averting his eyes as he did so, which would have made her smile if she had

been capable of it.

He rekindled the fire but the flames did not warm her.

"They will be looking for me, " she managed, her head perhaps spinning a little less.

"We came a distance upstream, my lady, " Baore said.” They will look downstream

toward the Wynnd.”

She nodded. It made sense, surprisingly. The trembling in her limbs was fading slowly,

and the visions that had swum in her head were receding. Though she still felt as though

the world spun beneath her, and her feelings were not her own, she closed her eyes and

saw the wraith, the nagar Sianon, hovering before her in the water, luring her, deceiving

her.

"I must find Alaan," she said.” He—He might be able to help me find my way through

this.”

Baore was crouched down across from her, shifting the wood in the fire. He glanced up.”

You struck a bargain with... her, " he whispered.

She looked up at him, but his gaze dropped to the fire.

Then very softly she said, "How resolute you were to refuse her, Baore Talon.”

Elise took a long deep breath. She was regaining something like control but even her

senses seemed wrong—contradictory. She was dressed in the clothing of a man and it

felt strangely familiar. Sianon had shunned women's dress, she realized, the memory

coming unbidden.

Elise took up the whetstone Baore had given her—Sianon's whetstone—and held it a

moment. Stone endured when all else wore away. It seemed at once familiar and

unknown to her—as though she could almost remember it. She had a memory of hands

honing a dagger edge on this very stone, so very long ago.

She tucked it securely into a pocket. With an effort she stood. If Hafydd found her thus,

she knew she would not survive a moment.

9

Hafydd had long ago made his bargain with Caibre and was more

dangerous than her

I must find a place of safety to gain control of this transformation,

she thought. She glanced over at Baore, who looked like a man who had lost a brother

in battle. He had met Sianon. He knew.

"I must find Alaan, " she said.” Will ATM know where he is?"

She could see the big Vale man shrug in the firelight.” We were, all of us from the Vale,

to help Alaan in his plot against Hafydd—

"Hafydd lives, " she said.” Alaan failed.”

Baore put a callused hand to his brow.” Who—Who knows what's become of the others,

then? They've not returned here, where we were to meet.”

"Alaan will not let them come to harm if he can help it. Don't be concerned. We will wait

here, but not too long. When Elise's body is not found, Hafydd will become suspicious.

Best not to be near the river then.” She looked out at the passing stream.” Best we draw

the boat up, Baore. I don't want to be found just yet. When Caibre learns that I've come

back, let it be too late.”

Prince Michael climbed up the embankment, which was slick with dew. Costumed

onlookers still stood about gawking at the river hidden in fog. At the height of the road

the mist thinned, as though a river of haze flowed beneath the bridge that arked over the

Westbrook. The onlookers—nobles returning from the Renné Ball—were being told that

Lady Elise had been thrown from her horse over the bridge rail. Prince Michael wondered

if any believed it.

One thing was certain: there had seldom been a Renné Ball that provided gossips with

more fodder.

The Prince found Lord Carral, wrapped now in a heavy wool cloak but still sitting upon a

horse, his mask discarded, replaced with a look so wretched and pitiable that it tore at

Michael's heart.

'Is there any news, sir?" the servant who held the lead to Car-

10

ral's horse asked as the Prince emerged from the fog—like a man walking ashore, Prince

Michael thought.

Michael shook his head, and then remembering Lord Carral's affliction, said, "Neither

good news nor bad.” He remembered Hafydd's odd reaction when he put his blade in

the river, but as he had no idea what it meant, he said nothing.

"Prince Michael?" Lord Carral said, as though there could be some doubt. The Prince

knew that Carral Wills never forgot a voice.

"At your service, " Prince Michael said.

The slightest hesitation.” Do you mean that or are you merely being polite?"

"Of course I mean it, sir.”

"That's good, for I'm about to ask a favor. Can you find your horse and ride with me a

short distance down the road?"

"Certainly. I shall escort you all the way to the Wills encampment, if you wish.”

The habitually blank face seemed suddenly overwhelmed by sadness. The sightless eyes

closed tightly, distorting the handsome face.” I shall take the other direction, " he said

very quietly.

"Toward Castle Renné?" Without thinking, the Prince held up his hand.” No. It is none of

my business where you go. Let me find my squire.”

In a few moments he was on his horse and accompanying Lord Carral across the bridge.

Among the onlookers, nobles of both Prince Michael's family and Lord Carral's waited. A

few guards remained among them, but no one saw anything odd in Prince Michael and

the father of the drowned girl crossing the bridge. It was thought that perhaps they went

to seek news on the other shore.

In a moment they had passed beyond the retinue of both families, and were on a

shadowed road, populated only by staggering stragglers. The pale light of stars and

moon shivered among the trees of the wood, and washed over the road as the wind

moved the branches.

"You needn't go farther than this," Lord Carral said.

"But it is late and you have only one unarmed servant to guard you.”

"That will be enough. After what I have lost this night, anyone may have my purse.”

They drew their horses up in a patch of clear moonlight, and just as they did so, the

drumming of galloping horses reached them. Six riders appeared out of the shadow.

Prince Michael thought they would be Hafydd's guards sent to retrieve Lord Carral, but

they were neither knights in black nor retainers of the Wills family or of his father.

The riders thundered by, spraying them with detritus and sand.

"They wore Renné blue, I think,” Prince Michael said.” Though why in such a hurry I

cannot guess.” He found the riders' sudden appearance unsettling.

For a moment Lord Carral said nothing, then unexpectedly, "You tried, Prince Michael.

We all tried, but we failed her...." Again the minstrel shut his eyes tight, squeezing back

the tears.” Don't blame yourself," he said after a moment.” Hafydd is formidable.”

"But what will you do now?" the prince blurted out.

"Better you not ask, " Carral said, then softly to his servant, "Take me on.”

Prince Michael sat on his mount for a moment watching the famed minstrel disappear

into the shadows of the trees. Carral's gray was a pale mass in the dark, as though the

nobleman rode a cloud, and then it too was gone. The Prince spurred his horse and

turned back the way he'd come.

At the bridgehead he found one of his father's knights, torch in hand.” Who were those

riders who sped by?" Prince Michael asked.

"Did you not hear?" the man said.” Arden Renné is dead: killed by an assassin's arrow

this very night.”

12

A strand of mist snaked along the valley bottom, curling in the moonlight. Tarn and the

others crossed an open meadow, which tumbled down toward the river. Below them

dark trees stood silhouetted against the haze. They were back in the land between the

mountains, their scheme to bring an end to Hafydd, in ruins— Alaan on the run, chased

by Hafydd's minions.

They went slowly, the moon throwing their shadows down in a jumble beneath their

feet. Tarn wondered if the others felt as exhausted as he. All that had happened that

evening seemed suddenly to drain his emotions away, leaving nothing behind—like a

retreating wave. Tam only wanted to lie down and sleep, to bury his head beneath

blankets and be left in peace.

"But what is that, Cousin?" Fynnol asked Tom, and pointed.

As they crossed over the shoulder of the hill another artery of mist appeared, weaving its

way among the trees.

"It must be the Westbrook," Pwyll said, looking around to find the moon. He pointed

off.” The two rivers must meet there beyond the wood."

"Then our camp is not so far off," Cynddl said.

"Let us make some haste," Pwyll said, starting off, "and see if Alaan has returned."

But Fynnol slumped down hard upon a stone.” Give me a moment's rest. We've been

caught up in madness all this night and I for one am exhausted and still frightened. I

admit it. Even the climb down from that place left me shaking, and once again the

lackeys of this man Hafydd tried to murder us." He put his head in his hands for a

moment, and Tam stepped nearer and patted him gently on the back.

"What has become of Baore?" Fynnol asked loudly.

"I don't know," Tam answered, "but I suspect he's come to no harm."

"Then why didn't he meet us in the garden as we'd arranged?"

"Much occurred within Castle Renné," Tam said softly.” Likely the explanation is innocent

enough. He was protecting some

THE I5LE OF BATTLE

13

grandmother in the chaos. It would be like him. With a little luck

&

the woman will adopt him and leave Baore her vast estates."

But the jest fell flat. Tam knew he should leave such things to Fynnol.

Pwyll was trying hard to be still, but he kept glancing down toward the

Westbrook—there in the ribbons of mist.

"Come along, Fynnol," Tam said, again patting his cousin on the back, "we'll go down to

our encampment and find food and drink. That will help more than rest."

"Nothing will help but to be out of this madness." But Fynnol rose up resolutely and they

went off down the hill. At the bottom they found a rutted cart track worming into a small

wood. Here they stumbled forward in the blackness where the moonlight would not

enter. As they came out of the trees into the pale light again, they found a road that ran

alongside the fog-bound river and followed it through the tendrils of mist that reached

out to catch them.

There were people camped here and there along the roadside or not far off, sitting

around campfires, often playing or listening to music. Tam thought the music more

moody and sad than he would have expected, but perhaps that was fitting for the end of

the fair. It certainly suited his own mood.

Two riders came toward them, and they all hesitated a moment as though they might

slip off the moonlit road. Then Cynddl waved them all forward.

"These are Fael," he said.

In a moment they reached the companions.

"Cynddl!" said one of them, surprised.” Nann has sent riders out seeking you."

It occurred to Tam that they must look an odd bunch in their costumes, the fine fabrics

stained and torn to ruins.

"And you have found me," the story finder said.” What is it Nann wants that cannot

wait?"

The two wanderers glanced at each other.

"And so the swan finished its tale and swam away. In her despair and loneliness Ninal

threw the net into the river and then lay on the cold bank and wept beneath the stars.

"In the morning she went down to the river, and to her horror found the swan entangled

again in the net, but this time it was still and cold. Gently, she freed the drowned bird

and carried it up onto the bank where she made a pyre. When the pyre had burned to

nothing, Ninal took the ashes and poured them into the winter river.

"That night at dusk she came down to the bank and told a story to the night. And the

next night she did the same, and the next, until a hundred nights had passed. On the

hundredth night she paced along the bank telling her tale, but just as she finished the

bank beneath her feet crumbled and she was swept into the cold river.

"She struggled to reach the shore but the current was too swift and the bank crumbled

and fell wherever she touched. As she began to grow cold and weak she realized a black

swan swam just out of reach.

" 'Now you have had your revenge!' she wailed as she sank lower in the water.

" 'Revenge? I am but a spirit now, and have no influence on your world.'

" 'Can you not save me?' the maiden cried. 'I am not ready to cross over the river.'

" 'Few are/ the swan said. 'I am unable to help you even if I wanted to. But I will do this.

I will tell you a story about a sad, lonely maiden who lived on the banks of the great

river. . . .' '

Two

A

daan went down, too quickly, slipped and slammed his knee on the worn stone, tearing

his fine costume. For a moment he slowed, his throbbing knee forcing him to take more

weight on his hands as he slid and scrambled over the rock.

The wind funneled up the gorge with an agonizing moan. Alaan clung to his place while

it shoved and tore at him, flailing his costume about his face. His arms trembled and his

knee throbbed. Above, he could hear voices, the words shattered and swept up into a

violent sky.

Is he among them? Alaan wondered. Had Hafydd come seeking him? Had he been lured

here away from the armies of the Prince of Innes?

The wind dropped away, growling down the slope, and Alaan followed it, his knee stiff

but bearing weight now. An arrow sparked off the stone by his hand and he jumped,

letting himself fall and slide a dozen feet to a ledge. Pulling his own bow over his head,

he nocked an arrow and shot the first man to appear above. The next he thought he

might have missed, though narrowly.

He pulled his bow back over his head and shoulder and went on, the way widening and

becoming easier. The advantage here was

oean Kussell

his, for he had been this way before and, as much as he could, had committed the path

to memory, though by moonlight everything seemed steeper and more dangerous.

A ledge should slope off to the right not far below—though when it didn't, he was

possessed by a sudden fear that he'd passed it when he let himself drop down to avoid

the arrows.

But no, there it was, much as he'd remembered, though appearing narrower now. He

swung himself onto the ledge around a buttress of stone and paused there a moment,

gazing up. He didn't have to wait long. The men-at-arms followed behind, climbing

down quickly, searching for holds and trying to watch for him at the same time. How the

lead men must be expecting an arrow at any second.

Alaan knew that Hafydd, if he were here, would not be among these. He would be safely

behind, letting his guards suffer the risks. Alaan barely had the heart to use his bow, but

he didn't want to make their pursuit seem too easy. Hafydd was suspicious by nature. So

Alaan stayed there awhile, and drove the men back up the draw, repelling two of their

attempts to rush him. And then he went on, trotting quickly along the ledge, his battered

knee having stiffened up again as he stood.

To his left the night world stretched away—shadows like shale, mountains of jagged

moonlight. A cloud passed over the face of the moon, and Alaan was forced to grope

forward, barely able to discern the ledge. It would be easy to misstep in such light, to be

fooled and find oneself suddenly a creature of the air—for a brief moment.

The cloud passed and he hurried on. Where the rock bent around a corner, he stopped

to look back. There they were, following quickly along, their costumes lending a

macabre air to the scene in the stark light; like a madman's painting. Alaan pressed

himself on. There was some distance yet to go, even to one who could find hidden

shortcuts.

The ledge led to another gully, though not so steep, with a slop-

19

ing floor of loose rock, some of it large, most not. Alaan could almost run now, his knee

loosening up a little. The trick was to keep his speed under control. The rock slid

beneath his feet, and he stood upon its moving back like a trick rider at a fair. When it

slowed, he went on, leaping knee-high boulders, falling once to bloody his knuckles.

Twice he paused to fire arrows back up at the men behind—keeping them at a distance.

The path he took offered them few branchings or even other passable tracks to take.

Alaan did not want to lose Hafydd's guards—or Hafydd. Not yet.

Is he there? he wondered. Does that aspect of Caibre survive in this stern knight?

Alaan knew what miscalculation now would mean. Hafydd had made a bargain with the

nagar, ancient soul of the sorcerer Caibre. Only Alaan still had memories of Caibre from

an age ago when he had overrun kingdoms, putting man, woman, and child to the

sword. Of spells that had thrown down mountains, toppled castles, and shattered the

bones of the earth. Caibre was a monster whose air was the smoke of war, whose wine

was the blood of his enemies— and it was always difficult to predict who Caibre would

decide was his enemy. Difficult to predict, one day to the next.

He pressed on until he was down from the high cliffs and under the trees of a wooded

gully. This place did not match with any view that could be seen from above, but Hafydd

would not be much bothered by that. He had chased Alaan before.

Beneath the trees the air was moist and cool, and the ground was soft beneath his feet.

A little stream curled out of the dark to bounce and burble along the gully bottom, as

though it had come to keep him company.

This should allay Hafydd's worst fears, Alaan thought: ivater. He could not die where

there was water.

Streaks of moonlight swarmed over the ground as the wind whipped the trees to and

fro, and Alaan went forward haltingly, trying to make sense of the frantic landscape.

dean Russell

The air rasped cruelly in and out of his lungs now, and his mind seemed numbed, the

sound of his breathing loud in his ears, punctuated by the dull thuds of his footfalls.

There was a shout from behind, and an arrow buried itself in the ground near his boot.

Alaan pushed himself on, dodging into shadow, the trees throwing stains of moonlight

at his feet then stealing them away.

On the wind he thought he heard a distant baying like hounds, but he paid it no mind.

The slope began to level, and Alaan leapt the moon-silvered stream, which only

whispered now. He stopped in the shadow of a tree, bent double, listening. The

moonlight chased madly across the clearing. When the silhouettes of men appeared, he

showed himself, waited until he was seen, then slipped into shadow and ran on. He

knew how dangerous this was, keeping the men so close, but on the paths he traveled, if

he lost his hunters they would never find him again—and he didn't want that; not yet.

The slope went steeply down again, and the smell of rotting vegetation wafted up on a

falling breeze. By the time he found the shore of the swamp, he was out of breath, and

stopped again, standing with one foot in the tepid water.

A man shot out of the shadow, sword raised. Alaan barely had time to pull his own

blade and dodge a vertical stroke. He slipped on the wet bottom, having stepped back

without thinking, and fought to regain his balance, barely parrying a thrust at his heart.

Alaan's own blade sank into the man's throat as he felt steel drive deep into his thigh

above the injured knee.

The man, dressed as a toy soldier, reached up and grabbed Alaan's blade, choking as he

did. In the pale light dark fluid ran down his hand, and he fell to his knees. Alaan yanked

his blade free and wallowed into the water, limping terribly. Across a few yards of open

water he forced his way into the reeds, looking back to see his track plainly marked

where he'd stirred up the bottom. The man lay at the swamp's edge, still gurgling and

choking.

21

Alaan pulled his bow free, ducked down and nocked an arrow. Others appeared,

catching up to the magnificent runner who now jay choking on the bank. Alaan shot the

first man and just missed another as they retreated up the bank into the protection of the

trees and the shadows.

Not waiting to see what the men would do, Alaan plunged into the reeds. His pursuers

were too close now, and he was wounded. He bulled through the rushes, trying to

balance on one leg, the sharp-edged reeds lacerating his hands. As his shoulders began

to ache, he pulled free of the cattails into open water.

"A staff," he muttered, barely able to go on.” I need a staff."

If anyone was close behind him now he would be caught out in the open, vulnerable. He

slipped down into the water and crossed the pool, half swimming, half pulling himself

along the bottom. His bowstring would be wet and useless now, but there was nothing

for it. He had to put some distance between himself and his hunters.

In the sky, goatsuckers dove and wheeled, crying forlornly, and frogs sang of their night

of love. A snake slid silently by. Alaan knew his hunters would be difficult to hear in this

place, but then he need not be so quiet himself, which had advantages when one was in

a hurry.

He reached a shallows and tried to stand on the soft bottom, lost his balance and toppled

into the water with a splash. He crawled on, dragging his injured leg, cursing under his

breath. A channel opened up to his left and he followed it, able to pull himself forward

now, letting his body half float, the weight of his sword and quiver dragging him down.

Alaan glanced up at the sky, hoping for clouds, but the moon, perfectly full, floated in a

clear, star-filled sky. He dragged himself into the rushes again, forcing his way through,

taking many turns and doing as little damage as he could. His bow was impeding his

progress and should have been cast aside, but he wanted to leave no markers of where

he'd been—and he might have use for it yet. Again he found open water and went back

down to his half-swimming pose, digging his fingers into the soft muck of the bottom

and

„.*,

propelling himself forward. He glanced over his shoulder often, afraid that he'd been

found. Without the use of his bow he wouldn't have a chance. He wouldn't last long in a

sword fight, hobbled as he was.

Alaan felt like a hunted beast paddling through the swamp with tall, armed men in

pursuit. Again he pulled himself into the reeds and forced himself through. The bulrush

stands were dense and stood high above his head, offering perfect cover. Another snake

slithered, frightened, into the reeds almost beneath his feet.

"Yes," he whispered, "I am a son of Wyrr. You should fear me." He came to another

Sean Russell - The Swan's War 2 - Isle of Battle

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