A fantasy story of mine.
Prologue
Caithal wrapped his horsehair cloak more tightly over his chain mail shirt, wishing he had never left his home province. The moors of the Northland, alternately whipped by wind and flooded by rain, were miserable to a son of the more temperate Iredail, hardened scout though he might be. But Caithal was also son to a poor widow, with no way to provide a home for the family he hoped to have one day. The Baron of the North, with his wealth from the gold mines of this northernmost Axelarran frontier, possessed treasure enough to pay well for the services of an experienced spy and tracker. And so Caithal remained, unwillingly.
Tonight the autumn winds snapped the long grasses with violence, tearing at the few scrubby trees capable of growing in the soil of these northern plains. Clouds drifted like death, veiling the face of the moon. A few bright stars—always clearer in the thin moorland air—peered toward him, but otherwise the face of the heavens remained closed, promising nothing.
The barbarians loved nights like this, Caithal knew. If they emerged from their hillside dugouts, they would soon be off wandering in the wild air—doing whatever barbarians did when the blood rose high in their veins. They’ll stumble on me by accident, if they do, he thought, and that will be the end. He wondered what exactly the barbarians did to the bodies of their fallen enemies. They had never won a battle solidly enough to remain on the field, dealing the dead however they willed; and so Caithal could only make guesses. At the very least he knew that his body, slain here, would never return to Iredail.
A rough-edged plateau etched the eastern horizon, and he urged his horse toward it. Eagle-head Rock was the name on his maps, although guardsmen often called it Fool’s-head Rock in jest. His captain, Clentos, had told him that a number of soldier-myths surrounded the place, but had declined to explain further. Instead, he simply warned Caithal to be watchful, because barbarians often frequented the place. “But why—” Caithal began, until Clentos frowned. “I’ve yet to hear a reliable story about the place, lad, and most soldiers’ tales are worthless. Suffice yourself with this—the barbarians are mad.”
Mad, indeed. What human could actually enjoy these wild northern nights? A barbarian, perhaps, but no other.
Eagle-head Rock loomed blacker, thrusting its shadow toward the scout, who hunched in his saddle, wishing that the Council of Lords would outlaw night jaunts such as this. But then he remembered just which Axelarrain baron he served, and knew that while law might be fine for the rest of the nation, the Northland had unwritten laws of its own. And nothing the Council decided in Pirathol would bully the Baron of the North into submitting to a rule he opposed.
Fool, he called himself bitterly. Just find whether there are barbarians roaming around like for battle, and Clentos will be satisfied. In dark as thick as this, the barbarians will never see you if you stay a decent length off. Caithal tugged at his leather gloves, willing them not to slip and expose his fingers to the biting winds. He had never felt more grateful for the thin layer of padding inside his helmet; at least his scalp was protected from the frigid metal, although the strip of metal protecting his nose dipped to touch his face whenever Caithal turned his head.
Sighing, his breath freezing white in the air, Caithal raised his eyes to Eagle-head Rock, now staring down on him from only a few dozen yards off. It occurred to Caithal that he despised the shape of that plateau. It also occurred to him that he recognized no barbarian sign here. Relief warmed him. He had reached the farthest stretch of his scouting circuit and could return to the sweaty fires of the barracks at Jadoth.
The sound of a movement above him stilled Caithal’s gladness. Feet scuffed rock and then earth as someone, barely hidden from sight, scrambled to the top of the plateau. Caithal gasped fear and nearly choked on the cold air. He had failed in his alertness, and now his enemy occupied the high ground. Any moment a cry from the plateau’s edge would pierce the night, and the barbarians would charge from their hovels to kill him.
He wheeled his horse, intending to flee, when the expected outcry ripped through the night winds. “King of light!” a voice shouted from the rock.
Caithal, poised to gallop, dropped his jaw and stared up at the shadowy plateau, wondering whether his enemy was mocking him. He never carried lit torches while scouting: they might betray his position, and, when the night winds swept the northern moors, they were worse than useless. “Just go and—” he began to snap at the dark form above him, when the voice cried out again.
“Lord of the sky!”
The words chilled Caithal to the heart. The barbarian’s face was turned to the heavens, and he seemed not to notice the shadow of a rider beneath him. The voice was that of a boy nearing manhood, but the barbarian, outlined against the star-burnt sky, appeared Caithal’s match in size. If he so much as glanced toward the ground—
“Hear me!”
The last shouted phrase pushed Caithal beyond his limits of endurance. If that boy wants to practice his heathen magic on top of that rock, let him. But I’ve a warm barracks waiting, and I’ve got no intention of sitting here for him to look down and find. Caithal nudged the mare with his booted heels, hoping that the animal would remain silent. She did.
Caithal guided her into a walk, shivering as much from the barbarian’s strange ritual as from the cold. When he first felt the throbbing beat pulse through him, he chided himself for overreacting to a pointless, if odd, heathen ceremony. But further pounding, louder, was no bodily reaction.
The barbarians were beating their war-drums to the east, and Caithal knew that his bunk would remain cold until the dawn.
Prologue
Caithal wrapped his horsehair cloak more tightly over his chain mail shirt, wishing he had never left his home province. The moors of the Northland, alternately whipped by wind and flooded by rain, were miserable to a son of the more temperate Iredail, hardened scout though he might be. But Caithal was also son to a poor widow, with no way to provide a home for the family he hoped to have one day. The Baron of the North, with his wealth from the gold mines of this northernmost Axelarran frontier, possessed treasure enough to pay well for the services of an experienced spy and tracker. And so Caithal remained, unwillingly.
Tonight the autumn winds snapped the long grasses with violence, tearing at the few scrubby trees capable of growing in the soil of these northern plains. Clouds drifted like death, veiling the face of the moon. A few bright stars—always clearer in the thin moorland air—peered toward him, but otherwise the face of the heavens remained closed, promising nothing.
The barbarians loved nights like this, Caithal knew. If they emerged from their hillside dugouts, they would soon be off wandering in the wild air—doing whatever barbarians did when the blood rose high in their veins. They’ll stumble on me by accident, if they do, he thought, and that will be the end. He wondered what exactly the barbarians did to the bodies of their fallen enemies. They had never won a battle solidly enough to remain on the field, dealing the dead however they willed; and so Caithal could only make guesses. At the very least he knew that his body, slain here, would never return to Iredail.
A rough-edged plateau etched the eastern horizon, and he urged his horse toward it. Eagle-head Rock was the name on his maps, although guardsmen often called it Fool’s-head Rock in jest. His captain, Clentos, had told him that a number of soldier-myths surrounded the place, but had declined to explain further. Instead, he simply warned Caithal to be watchful, because barbarians often frequented the place. “But why—” Caithal began, until Clentos frowned. “I’ve yet to hear a reliable story about the place, lad, and most soldiers’ tales are worthless. Suffice yourself with this—the barbarians are mad.”
Mad, indeed. What human could actually enjoy these wild northern nights? A barbarian, perhaps, but no other.
Eagle-head Rock loomed blacker, thrusting its shadow toward the scout, who hunched in his saddle, wishing that the Council of Lords would outlaw night jaunts such as this. But then he remembered just which Axelarrain baron he served, and knew that while law might be fine for the rest of the nation, the Northland had unwritten laws of its own. And nothing the Council decided in Pirathol would bully the Baron of the North into submitting to a rule he opposed.
Fool, he called himself bitterly. Just find whether there are barbarians roaming around like for battle, and Clentos will be satisfied. In dark as thick as this, the barbarians will never see you if you stay a decent length off. Caithal tugged at his leather gloves, willing them not to slip and expose his fingers to the biting winds. He had never felt more grateful for the thin layer of padding inside his helmet; at least his scalp was protected from the frigid metal, although the strip of metal protecting his nose dipped to touch his face whenever Caithal turned his head.
Sighing, his breath freezing white in the air, Caithal raised his eyes to Eagle-head Rock, now staring down on him from only a few dozen yards off. It occurred to Caithal that he despised the shape of that plateau. It also occurred to him that he recognized no barbarian sign here. Relief warmed him. He had reached the farthest stretch of his scouting circuit and could return to the sweaty fires of the barracks at Jadoth.
The sound of a movement above him stilled Caithal’s gladness. Feet scuffed rock and then earth as someone, barely hidden from sight, scrambled to the top of the plateau. Caithal gasped fear and nearly choked on the cold air. He had failed in his alertness, and now his enemy occupied the high ground. Any moment a cry from the plateau’s edge would pierce the night, and the barbarians would charge from their hovels to kill him.
He wheeled his horse, intending to flee, when the expected outcry ripped through the night winds. “King of light!” a voice shouted from the rock.
Caithal, poised to gallop, dropped his jaw and stared up at the shadowy plateau, wondering whether his enemy was mocking him. He never carried lit torches while scouting: they might betray his position, and, when the night winds swept the northern moors, they were worse than useless. “Just go and—” he began to snap at the dark form above him, when the voice cried out again.
“Lord of the sky!”
The words chilled Caithal to the heart. The barbarian’s face was turned to the heavens, and he seemed not to notice the shadow of a rider beneath him. The voice was that of a boy nearing manhood, but the barbarian, outlined against the star-burnt sky, appeared Caithal’s match in size. If he so much as glanced toward the ground—
“Hear me!”
The last shouted phrase pushed Caithal beyond his limits of endurance. If that boy wants to practice his heathen magic on top of that rock, let him. But I’ve a warm barracks waiting, and I’ve got no intention of sitting here for him to look down and find. Caithal nudged the mare with his booted heels, hoping that the animal would remain silent. She did.
Caithal guided her into a walk, shivering as much from the barbarian’s strange ritual as from the cold. When he first felt the throbbing beat pulse through him, he chided himself for overreacting to a pointless, if odd, heathen ceremony. But further pounding, louder, was no bodily reaction.
The barbarians were beating their war-drums to the east, and Caithal knew that his bunk would remain cold until the dawn.
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