Deborah Chester - Sword,Ring & Chalice 01 - The Sword

The Sword

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 whoever 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

breathless 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-control 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 jingling 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 Kuliestka’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.

Tobeszijian drew a deep breath and reached out his mind, calling, Nereisse/Nereisse/Nereisse/Nereisse.

It was too far. He could not hear her—but something had heard him.

He felt a sudden connection, a sudden, sucking darkness that focused on him.

Deborah Chester - Sword, Ring & Chalice 01 - The Sword

相关推荐

开通VIP享超值会员特权

作者详情

相关内容

热门标签

举报选择: