The High King: Book Two of the 'Riothamus' trilogy Read online

  “An embassy Lord, from the horsetribes,” one of the Guardsmen on duty had abandoned his post to alert his Prince.

  “So soon…” Aran breathed “We weren’t expecting word for many weeks yet.”

  “Be that as it may…” Darven had sprinted up as soon as he had heard, “We must meet them immediately. To receive them later in the great hall may be misconstrued as an insult.”

  Aran nodded, and pulled off his gauntlets, handing his armour over to Alem who had been waiting nearby.

  “Alem…can you please inform Archmage Maran and the Captain that we have a delegation newly arrived,” Aran asked distractedly. Aran’s bondsman nodded, and disappeared back into the internal hall.

  Aran turned to Darven, “Come let’s go. You’re the only man I’ve got who knows anything about these people.”

  Darven shot him a glance, “My knowledge is scarce indeed.” The Wolf Leader’s dark eyes grew troubled, “Aran, I’d advise utmost diplomacy and courtesy in your dealings with them. Until we know where we stand I’d not risk their anger.”

  “Aye”

  Aran and Darven walked quickly across the training yard.

  “Where are they?”

  Aran and Darven had arrived at the gatehouse, and were looking around anxiously for the delegation.

  “Outside, Lord,” one of the Guardsmen walked up. “They refused to come in. I think they are making camp outside the walls of the Keep.”

  “They refuse our hospitality?” Aran was astounded.

  “It is generally known that they dislike walls,” Darven interjected, “They come readily into Eastling only because we don’t have defenses,” he explained.

  “So where do we negotiate?”

  Darven walked to the open gate and stared out at the distant figures quickly erecting three small conical skin tents.

  “Somewhere between their camp and the Keep,” Darven advised, “For we must not be seen to be bending over backwards for them. I believe they dislike overt displays of friendship,” Darven mused.

  “Touchy people,” Aran commented sourly.

  Darven stepped outside the Keep walls, “Come my lord. We need to greet them.”

  Aran touched for reassurance the pommel of the King’s Sword, and received an answering flare of light from the weapon. Whatever happened out there, he was certain that at least he and Darven would give good account of themselves.

  “Greetings, plainsman,” Darven walked up to the nearest man, and inclined his head. “We offer you greetings and thank you for coming so quickly.”

  Aran stared at the plainsman in wonder. Tall he was and dressed completely in leather and bronze scale armour. He wore a bronze helmet on his head and a few strands of horsetail flowed from the top of it. His face and hands were sun-darkened almost to the texture of old leather and brilliant blue eyes stared back at Aran with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension. He was clean shaven except for a luxuriantly flowing moustache of the brightest red-gold hair Aran had ever seen.

  On his back was a quiver bristling with arrows, and slung from his shoulders was a short curved bow, made entirely of bone and sinew, by his side hung a short, stabbing sword. The young warrior’s armour and clothing had been liberally decorated with beads, plaited horsehair and feathers in ornate curving and knotted patterns. Aran had never seen anything quite like it, and he guessed that the designs were meant to be spiritual symbols and marks of initiation. The man, who Aran guessed to be in his early twenties, took off his helmet and shook out a great mane of red-gold hair which had been intricately plaited and limed into shape. “We come to this high place,” the warrior said without preamble. “We look for the new king.”

  Aran stepped forward and held out his hand in greeting, “I am Arantur…Prince of Andur’s Keep and last of the Andurian line.”

  The warrior stared at Aran then briefly inclined his head.

  “We are surprised that you came so quickly,” Aran added, “For it is barely a week since we sent our delegation to find you.”

  The warrior frowned, “We received no delegation.”

  Aran and Darven exchanged startled glances.

  “Then how did you know to come?” Darven asked.

  The other two young warriors wandered over, both were dressed identically to the first.

  “Our SpiritDreamer has seen an Oak sapling growing in the plains. This meant that we must go to the high place,” another warrior stated, “So we came to see if the omen spoke truth.”

  Aran turned to Darven, “Have you any idea what they are talking about?” he murmured quietly.

  Darven whispered back, “They are highly superstitious. They read omens in the fall of a leaf, the movement of water, and the flight of a bird…this Oak sapling may be another of their omen carriers.”

  “So you did not meet our delegation?” Aran asked the first warrior again.

  “No delegation,” he replied abruptly.

  Darven frowned and pulled Aran aside.

  “This is going to make things difficult. I don’t believe these men are leaders. They seem to have been sent here to investigate an omen.”

  Aran studied the three young men standing warily relaxed in the sun.

  “This may yet be to our benefit, Darven,” Aran said quietly, “If we can get these warriors into our confidence they may prove to be excellent intermediaries between their leaders and ourselves.

  Darven nodded, “They are obviously men who are trusted and held in high regard, otherwise they would never have been sent here in the first place. We will work with them, and their voices will provide added weight to our own delegation when it is received by the Clan Chief.”

  Aran nodded in agreement and turned back to the three warriors.

  “Greetings plainsmen,” he said, “I am Arantur...Prince of Andur’s Keep and last of the Andurian line and I welcome you to Andur’s Keep.”

  The three warriors stared at him, then as one inclined their heads.

  “As we have told you,” Aran continued, “We have recently sent a delegation to your leaders. They are asking for your leader’s assistance in helping us combat an enemy that threatens the peace and prosperity of our province. We are asking that the plainsmen ride to war with us.”

  The young warrior frowned, “We know nothing about a war.”

  Darven stepped forward, “Has your SpiritDreamer yet seen the flight of the Raven?”

  The first warrior stared at Darven with great interest, “You know of our omens.”

  Darven nodded, “I am from Eastling…I have heard many stories about the plainsmen.”

  “Ah Eastling,” the warrior smiled, and seemed to relax. “I know a few of the men of Eastling, yet I do not know you warrior.”

  Darven held out his hand in greeting, “It may be because I have lived so many years at the Keep,” he explained. “I am known as Darven of Eastling.”

  The warrior smiled a brilliant smile, and briefly clasped hands, “I have heard of you Darven. Men of Eastling speak with pride of your life as a warrior. You may know me as Guldar Swordbrother.” He gestured to the two other men, “Ansura Windfollower and Bini Stardreamer stand also here before you. We are the warriors who have been sent out to discover the truth indicated by the omen.”

  Darven indicated Aran who was standing quietly listening.

  “This is my liege lord Arantur. He is a Warriormage, the last of the Andurian line, and soon to be crowned King.”

  The warriors respectfully inclined their heads.

  “Lord Arantur, our SpiritDreamer found the Oak sapling growing in the grassy expanse of the plains, and knew that a new King had come to the high place,” Bini Stardreamer said quietly.

  “There has not been an oak found growing in the plains for many generations,” Ansura added quietly, “However the Raven has not yet been seen, and until his shadow touches our tents we do not ride to war.”

  “Where is your SpiritDreamer?” asked Maran, who had suddenly appeared, along with Captain Taran. />
  The young warrior Ansura stared heavily at the old, white cloaked man. “Who is it that asks without courtesy or introduction?”

  Darven stepped forward, “Plainswarrior Ansura…this is our SpiritDreamer, Archmage Maran from Glaive.”

  The warrior fell down upon the earth in supplication.

  “Forgive me great lord,” he muttered into the grass, “I did not know you.”

  “Get up man,” Maran growled. “I ask again, where is your SpiritDreamer?”

  Bini Stardreamer gazed at Maran with respectful eyes, “He is with the Clan Chief at the Great Meeting Tent. Many days ride from here.”

  Maran frowned and exchanged a telling look with Captain Taran.

  “I have sent a delegation to speak to your Clan Chief,” Aran said, “Will they be received or turned away?”

  Bini turned back to Aran. “Lord, your delegation will most certainly be received, but…”

  “What?” Aran grated.

  The red-haired warriors looked nervously about them, “Lord, as we said before, the plainsmen will not ride to war unless the SpiritDreamer sees the shadow of the Raven’s flight touch our tents. He saw the Oak sapling growing in the plains and thus here we are. However to the time we left, eight days ago…there was no indication that the Raven flew.”

  Aran sighed and his shoulders slumped, “Then we can do no more here.” He turned back to the warriors, “We offer you hospitality whilst you are here. You are welcome to stay to witness my coronation at week’s end.”

  “That is our object and plan Lord,” Bini assured him, “However we are only the first of the plainspeople to come here,” he admitted. “For upon our heels are many others, since the oak still needs to come to the high place,” the plainsman added cryptically.

  Aran frowned at that last remark, then shrugging his shoulders he asked, “Will you camp here or take advantage of the comforts of Andur’s Keep.”

  The warriors stared uncomfortably at the high ramparts of the Keep and trembled visibly. “No lord, we will camp here,” Bini replied, “We dislike walls about us. We will venture within for your coronation…then we will depart.”

  Aran nodded and turned to go, “Then if you will excuse me…I have duties back at the Keep.”

  The warriors respectfully inclined their heads.

  *

  “I don’t know if I like these people,” Aran commented later to Maran. “They are too ruled by their superstitions and omens. Can we ride without them?”

  Maran frowned and stared blindly at the empty fireplace in Aran’s private hall.

  “Aye, we could…but without them the war would last longer and we would almost certainly lose many more soldiers.” He glanced back at the darkening face of Andur’s heir and shook his head. “We have not so great an army that we can afford to lose the support of the horsetribes. The main reason Andur won those last few battles of the Great Uprising was that he had the horsetribes riding with him. No, we cannot afford to lose their strength.”

  Aran frowned, “The Great Uprising? I have not heard that term before…”

  Maran’s eyes grew distant, “No, I expect you wouldn’t have. My father Andur often referred to the war as the Great Uprising, although most of the contemporary writers just call it the Serat war.”

  Aran’s face grew still, “I like the name. It rings true.”

  Then Aran rubbed his eyes wearily, and pulled his thoughts back the matter at hand, “As to the plainsmen, we can only hope their SpiritDreamer sees this Raven.”

  “If the Thakur and its Warleader are the threat we believe them to be, then aye…the Raven will soon fly over the horsetribes and we will have their aid,” Maran assured him.

  Aran swallowed the remainder of the mild cider that was in his goblet, and stared out at the window.

  “Maran, I am greatly concerned about Trevan,” Aran stated abruptly. “He is over two weeks late in returning. I feel as though I ought to send out some of the Guard to find him,” he worried.

  Maran shook his head, “Do not fret Arantur, Trevan knows this part of the province better than most. I would expect that he has been delayed in the northern villages and towns.” He stared at the young man opposite him, “You must remember that it has been many years since a Glaive trained healer has been that far north. I expect that he is only very busy attending to those who require his skills.”

  Aran sighed and put his goblet down on the table, “I guess so, although I do worry about him.”

  Maran stood up, “I will speak to Earthmage Theaua…she will search for him.”

  “There will be another transformation?” Aran asked.

  The Archmage nodded, “Aye, Theaua is a Master Earthmage who is close to becoming a High Earthmage. Her magepower is developed enough to transform herself into the guise of a mountain panther. If he is near then she will find him.”

  Aran smiled happily, “Good…I will rest easier knowing that he is safe here and in good health.”

  “What then are your plans for the remainder of the day?” Maran asked.

  Aran sat back in his favourite chair and stretched out his long legs, “I don’t know yet, do you want me to go over again the simple uses of power you have been teaching me?”

  Maran laughed shortly, “No we have spent enough time today doing that. Perhaps you might want to spend some time training with the Guard?”

  Aran shook his head abruptly, “To be brutally honest Maran, I’ve progressed so far beyond what the Guards can teach me that it is really a waste of time training with them. I’ve sparred endlessly with Taran and both the company leaders and really there is no-one here who can match me.”

  Maran stared narrowly at the young man, “The Guards are the best fighters in the province. Are you absolutely certain you can go no further with them?”

  Aran nodded.

  Maran scratched his head dubiously, “Have you yet found out how your Ability can be linked with the weaponskill?”

  Aran frowned, “No, in that I keep running up against a wall. I can take my Ability linked weaponskill to a certain point but beyond that there is nothing more I can do. I think I need some fundamental knowledge of how the ancient Warriormages harnessed and used their power in conjunction with the magecrafted weapon to take me further.” Aran sighed, “Either that, or opponents with greater skill levels that will force me to break through this block, if it is a block…”

  Maran sat back down on the chair he had vacated, “We have determined that there is no-one else in the province who can match you.”

  “Aye,” Aran sighed heavily, “And I regret every day the loss of the Warriormages and their knowledge.”

  The Archmage shook his head, “I cannot even begin to comprehend the depths of the despair those mages were feeling to destroy the knowledge so completely.”

  Aran’s gaze moved from the fireplace to the elaborately woven and embroidered hangings on the wall, “Well it is old regrets, old despair. I guess we must make the best of what we know now and move on.”

  Maran nodded, “Your coronation is at week’s end. The first of the embassies from the southern cities will be arriving in the next couple of days. Do you feel able to receive them?”

  Aran absently chewed on his thumbnail, “This King business is new to me. I guess they will just have to take me as I am. I’m not one for pomp and ceremony.”

  Aran gazed at the young man and smiled, “No, of that you are not. The people will be getting a very down-to-earth and sensible young king.” He smiled again, “And that’s no bad thing.”

  Aran stared at the wall and wondered how he was going to frame his next question.

  “Maran”

  “Aye”

  “I have been talking with Darven about the business of choosing a consort, a Queen. I am not certain if I am allowed to make the decision in this matter.”

  Maran stared at the young man in some surprise, “Have you someone in mind?”

  Aran stared at the wall, “I may have…”
>
  Maran chuckled, “If she is a maiden, and of a good family, then you would hear no objections from me.”

  Aran spun around, “Honestly, I can choose?”

  Maran shrugged eloquently, “There is flexibility in this matter. Although I believe the Councillors already have someone in mind.”

  Aran sagged, “I guessed as much, that girl who came with them.”

  “Aye…Terea, daughter of Councillor Ordac.” Maran grinned, “Ordac would be most put out if his daughter was not selected. As soon as Glaive informed the Council that there would be within the month a new King at Andur’s Keep, they worked night and day to find a suitable consort from within their ranks and lineage.”

  Aran felt crestfallen, his face wooden, “Then I don’t have a choice…”

  Maran gazed out of the window and a secret smile hovered about his lips. “I didn’t say that. The mages of Glaive have always delighted in upsetting and hindering ridiculous Council plans and power plays. There’s no reason why we can’t have our own way in this too.”

  Aran looked up hope flaring in his eyes, “You’ll support me in this?”

  Maran nodded, “As I said before, if the girl is from a good family and comes to you a maiden then there is no reason why she shouldn’t be your Queen. I only hope you’ll at least do me the courtesy of giving me her name before you present her at your betrothal day.”

  Aran smiled for the first time that day, “I wonder you haven’t guessed already, for it is Alissa, daughter of Captain Taran.”

  Maran spun around and stared sharply at Aran, “Alissa? I thought you considered her but a friend. You would choose her? She is a commoner, not nobly born.”

  “Does it matter?” Aran spoke harshly. “I know her well and would choose no other.”

  Maran frowned, “It has not been custom for a king to marry a mage.”

  “Then I will start the custom!” Aran flared, irritated. “Besides Alissa is not a Glaive trained mage, she has a latent Ability only.”

  Maran stood up and paced the room, “True, I can see no objection beyond the fact that she is not nobly born of Haulgard. She has strength of character and uncommon sense in one of her age and sex.” He stopped his pacing, and stared at Aran. “Do you think she is a maiden still?”