--- Chapter 2

Rain and wind made me, sun and earth cradled me, I am the harp of the storm and pillar of the sky ---

Ancient Creel tree riddle

I sat on the damp straw, watching the sunlight creep across the rough stones of the wall. It leaked in through a slot-like window opposite me, coming in sideways because of the angle of the sun. It was getting to be evening and the light was turning orange.

In the sparkling motes and bent shadows, I saw her. Her flaming crown was made of the sunset light while her garments were of shadow. But her face was made of neither and stood out, watching me with that quiet, sad expression I had become so familiar with. I moved up to the bars and reached a hand through, but could not even touch the sun’s rays.

“Why are you following me?” I paused, but there was never any answer. Out of the forest now, I had thought of leaving her behind. But wherever I had picked her up, for whatever reason, she was staying with me. “Queen of darkness and light. Shadow of dreams. Memory of lost flight. Edge of eternal streams.”

They were words from an old saying from my youth, which I remembered suddenly. It was a sort of poem, or saying used to describe death. The thought made me shiver involuntarily, as I wondered if she was lady death following on my heels. As soon as the thought came to me, the image faded away. The light was failing from the window.

As darkness set in, I considered my situation. The watchman was bent on getting me into trouble for having resisted his arrest. The man who had been robbed, Frethic, was bent on getting me punished for having, as he thought, stolen his clothes and so made a fool of him. Which made me wonder, briefly, why the lad had stolen them and tried to sell them to me so cheaply. Did he need the money, or was it just some sort of twisted joke to play on both me and Frethic?

But that was beside the point. At the moment, I needed to escape the dungeon and quietly take my leave. If I was taken to court, they would probably believe Goodman Frethic and the officer of the watch over anything I could say. And the more I looked at it, the more loony the story of the boy hurrying up and selling stolen clothes sounded, even to me.

But if I was indicted, it would probably mean the stocks, at the very least. Perhaps a flogging as well, or the loss of an ear. And any of those things had the chance of exposing too much...

It was best if I simply slipped anchor and got out of town while no one was looking. My knife had been slipped from its sheath and set upon a shelf in the outer room of the dungeon, but they had not searched my pockets and clothing. In the lining of my vest was a slim, hidden pocket from which I worked a pair of skeleton keys from. One was large and chunky, for gate locks or the type sometimes put on storage shed doors. The other was slim, for the sort more commonly used in houses, palaces, jail cells and other domestic doorways.

Moving over to the cell door, I felt the lock with my finger tips by sticking my hands through the bars. I could just make out the opening in the iron. It was a very simple lock, meant for keeping in wild drunks or petty thieves. Of the smaller sort, just as I had suspected. Putting the larger key away, I moved the teeth of the miniature key into place with a finger. They were set in a narrow slot in the key, so that they could be slid into position for various locks. This lock did not take much fiddling. I simply put the key in and turned it. There was a clicking sound, then I pushed the iron door open with a soft grating noise.

I have always possessed excellent night vision, so it was not hard for me to find my way over to the shelf and grip the familiar handle of my knife that was laying there. It slipped back into its sheath and I walked silently up the steps to the door leading into the rest of the tower. Leaning an ear against it, I listened for any movement outside. The only thing I heard was the faint scutter of rats somewhere in the room I was in.

This door was not locked. It opened easily into the main room of the tower. There was no one there, even though it was lit by a torch burning low on the wall. Like a puff of smoke from the dying light, I passed through it and out of the door into the courtyard of the castle. In times of unrest or war, it might have been more difficult to leave the place. As it was, I simply found one of the postern gates in the side of the wall and unlocked it, walking through before shutting it behind me. There were no guards on the wall tops, nor anyone at the gate.

The town glowed faintly from the candles or fires still burning behind some of the windows. Sticking to the shadows, I moved through it until the stable came into view. At that moment, a small piece of gravel became lodged in my boots through a hole, poking my foot to remind me that I had not picked up the new pair that took so much effort to order.

“Blast it,” I muttered softly to myself, shaking the stone out. Now I would not have an opportunity to get the boots or new clothes, because by morning they would be looking for me. At least Dee and the cart were still easily available. The stable had a boy asleep in the hayloft who tumbled down and let me in when I knocked. Explaining that I had decided to leave that night, and giving him a Tin for his trouble, I walked to where Dee was standing in his stall. His yellow eyes glinted faintly in the gloom as he looked out at me and snorted a question through his nostrils.

“Yes, we’re leaving now,” I murmured, leading him out. His small feet clopped quietly on the floor as the stable boy let us out into the night. He snickered some pointed questions about ale houses and too much fun for a man’s safety. I ignored him. It was better he think that than know the truth.

My cart was sitting outside of the stable in an empty space beside it. I fastened Dee into the traces, feeling the buckles, and tightened them in the dark. He did not spook or act up despite the circumstances. Dee knew about having to leave places suddenly in the middle of the night. I climbed up onto the seat and spoke to him in a soft tone, “go. Feluna.”

Hearing the familiar command, the lithe horse pulled at the lines and set the cart’s wheels to turning.

---

The night was becoming overcast by the time I left Rockyford behind me. Heading north-west, I kept to a steady, unhurried pace and followed the lesser used roads. I did not want to be discovered fleeing the town as if the watch was after me. In fact, I did not really want to meet anyone at all.

The dim shapes and lights of the town faded away behind me, my horizon filling up with low hills and plains of tall, rustling grass. Thunder rumbled in the above world and after a time, I saw the lightning crackling in the distance. Big, dark clouds billowed up over the edge of the world. A summer storm was on its way. Dee sensed it and snorted uncertainly as he trotted along.

“We’ll stop soon,” I promised him, keeping a gentle hand on the reins.

When the first fat, cool rain drops hit my head, I saw a good place to camp for the night. Beside the road, a clump of trees lay in a slight hollow, an almost perfect circle which the hills stood away from. Directing Dee to head for them, I tilted my head back and looked up at the sky. Darkness covered it in rippling shades, ranging from pure black to bell-note blue. A yellow fork jumped through it like a flickering snake’s tongue, followed closely by the boom of thunder. Dee shied uncertainly, so I comforted him with a few words before drawing him to a halt just inside the trees.

Wing shook their leaves like the sound of a waterfall. I unfastened Dee from the cart and tied him to a tree, throwing a blanket over his back against the increasing rain.

“Tonight I’ll have to sleep inside.”

I walked around to the back of the gypsy wagon and opened the door, stumbling over something sitting just inside it as I came inside.

“What--?” Reaching for a candle, I was able to get it going with the coals in the stove. Once it was blazing, I held it down towards the objects I had tripped over. For a moment, I stared without comprehending. Then it hit me exactly what they were.

“My boots. The ones I ordered...” I picked the pair of shiny, new leather boots op and turned them in the light, looking for any note or trap attached. There did not appear to be anything strange about them. They were simply the boots I had ordered, made to specifications and the right size. Sitting on the floor, I slipped off my old ones and put them on. They fit well for being new.

But Lathe did not strike me as the sort to take extra trouble to deliver anything that was ordered, especially when I had promised to pick them up in the morning. And how would he had known where to find my cart or even that I lived in one, anyway? I had never explained my circumstances to him or even hinted at where I lived.

Perhaps he had inquired around at the market... but that seemed unlikely as well. Confused, I thumped the stiff heels of the new boots on the worn wooden deck of the gypsy wagon. Thinking through the problem, I came up with three simple facts.

One, my new boots were in my cart when I stopped it.

Two, I had not put them there.

Three, someone had to, as boots rarely spirit themselves to their owner’s feet. And even if they had, they would have been in the jail cell, not in my wagon.

With a tired sigh and a shake of my head, I kicked the shoes back off. There was no point in wondering about it, at least not tonight. I had new boots, that was enough. Now I needed to get something quick to eat (they had not fed me in jail) and then hit the cushion as quickly as possible.

Rain drummed steadily on the roof as I chewed on some stale bread and the end bits of jerky. When it was gone, I pulled down the mattress to the sound of increasing wind outside and flopped myself gratefully onto it. I was getting old, I told myself, soft to need a good sleep every night...

I sunk into the softness of it, sleepily wrapping a blanket around my shoulders before falling asleep. It seemed like hours later, but was probably only half of one, when I heard a knock at the door. Instantly awake, I grasped the knife at the bedside and came up in a kneeling position on the cushion. My mind ran down the possibility of it being the city watch coming after me, but it seemed unlikely that they would search for me on a stormy night. Or knock at the door if they found me. I stood up with only a small rustle of blanket.

The knock came again, more insistently and yet with a slight hesitation, as if the knocker wondered what was sleeping within. I lit the candle again and opened the door. Rain and wind blew in, splattering my bare feet so that my toes curled. A figure stood out in it, a wide-brimmed, peaked hat pulled low over his face and a short cape wrapped tightly around his shoulders. He looked up and in the flickering light, his eyes appeared to have flames in them. But the illusion soon disappeared, and I saw that they were only dark. His hair was dark as well and short, while his face was narrow and weather-beaten.

“May I come in?” he asked with a slight Southmarsh accent. “I’ve lost my horse, you see, and the storm isn’t improving my temper.”

His gaze had flickered over my knife without flinching. I stepped back and set the candle on the shelf, nodding my assent. He climbed up in, knocking mud off of his slim, tall riding boots and adjusting the light saber he wore at his side.

“Thank you. I was very glad to see your wheeled house, as you may imagine. I feel pretty stupid for letting my horse get away, but he usually doesn’t bolt. He was left standing while I got down to camp for the night. It was the lightning that did it.”

“I see.” I threw a few slivers of wood in the stove and blew until they were crackling, then added a few larger pieces. With a candle, I lit a lantern which hung from the roof and offered the stranger a folding chair from the corner. He took it and I sat on the edge of the bed, knife across my knees.

“By the way.” A small, thin smile creased his face. “My name is Shyven.”

“They call me Gray One.” I picked up the sheath from beside the bed and jammed my knife back into it, but kept it nearby. “I’m a traveling merchant, usually in the Dardec. Every once in a while, I come out to resupply. I’m just camping here for the night.”

“Fortunately for me.” Shyven still smiled, holding his hands out to the warmth of the stove. But he did not offer an explanation of where he was going himself or why. For a while we sat in silence, watching the light of the fire dance around the edge of the slotted stove door. Finally, the stranger spoke up.

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“I’m sorry to intrude on you in this way. If you don’t mind my taking up a bit of the floor, say six feet by two, I will not bother you for the rest of the night.”

In reply, I threw him the blanket. He took it and stood up, hanging his black, slick cape beside the stove and divesting himself of the sword. I noted that he leaned it up beside him against the wall carefully, before finding what room he could on the age-darkened boards to lay himself on. He made an angular, thin shape on the floor with the blanket wrapped tightly around him.

Cautiously, I stood up and turned down the lantern to the merest gleam. I was not going to trust this stranger enough to put it out, but he seemed to be of good will, so I did not stay up myself. Trusting my instincts to wake me if he moved far, I lay back down on my bed and fell into a light sleep.

By morning, the rain had stopped, and the clouds were starting to break apart. They left a wet, cooled world beneath them and a ragged one of blue and gray in the sky. I took the wet blanket from Dee’s back and turned him loose to dry off in the wind and graze. Shyven was still breathing softly in sleep when I left the wagon. He seemed to be in the exact same position as I had left him the night before, as if too weary to even turn over. Taking the opportunity to do some research, I followed his tracks back out onto the main road and then down it a stretch. On the side of the road in a small, deep valley lay the sodden remains of a campfire and the deep tracks of a horse, taking off northward through the grass.

His story had been true, the little he had told me of it. Retracing my steps, I found him just swinging down out of the wagon onto the ground. He gave me a smile, thin and creased as before, saying, “I noticed the instrument on your wall for the first time. A Vhoe, isn’t it?”

I nodded, and he continued, “I’ve only ever seen one before and it was missing three of its strings. Hanging on an inn wall covered in dust.”

“Yes, they are a rare instrument. Played in Creel, but not many other places.” I nodded my head towards the road in the direction I had searched. “It looks like your horse went north.”

Shyven’s face took on a wry grimace. “That will mean some walking for me until I can catch up to him or find another one.”

I hesitated before making him an offer. “I’m heading north. You may ride with me until we find a farmstead or village to inquire at.”

He gave me a speculative look. “Very kind of you. I think I’ll accept.”

While he stretched his legs and tried to work out the kinks from sleeping on the floor, I cooked breakfast for two in the cart. With eggs, ham and bread bought in Rockyford, we ate well that morning. Dee trotted up to the door to beg for breadcrumbs and I offered him a crust, feeling the familiar tickle of his soft lips across my palm. When breakfast was over, we hitched up and began to follow the road further north. The cart and two passengers were a bit more of a load for Dee, so I let him walk easily, even though I wished to leave Rockyford as far behind us as possible.

The sun broke through after a few hours, giving the land a clear, washed look as the raindrops sparkled in the grass. Soon those and even most of the mud on the road had evaporated, leaving a bright summer world behind. It was warm enough that I threw aside my vest again to ride on the seat next to me. Shyven sat with his saber across his lap, watching everything go by with flashing dark eyes. Eventually his mind must have turned back on the Vhoe, for he remarked, “Creel is some distance from Rockyford or even the Dardec forest, but I suppose you have been there?”

It was a question, but I simply replied, “oh?”

I was tired of telling him the truth and getting little in reply. He nodded slowly, looking at me from the corner of his eyes. “I hear that the prince of Creel went missing about a week ago. Let me see, what was his name? Oh yes, Vis Non Visnak, of course, because the Visnak family is in the ruling position at the moment.”

If he expected to see me start or make a telling expression, he got none. Instead I returned, “you must run in greater circles than I to have such fresh news.”

He grimaced again. “It is all the talk in the big cities. You know how those rich folk are, always making the lives of noblemen into tales for their enjoyment.”

“Oh?” Was my only remark for the second time. After another silence had stretched out, I thought it polite to enquire, “any other great news in the kingdom?”

Shyven fiddled with the sheath of his sword. “You probably know that our king is dying. Yes? Hmm... they say that there is a new Dragonbound somewhere in Shardland. Hasn’t been one of that sort for neigh one hundred years in these parts, they say. But then again, who would know if there were unless it gave itself away? What do you know about Dragonbound?”

“Not much,” I muttered, wondering how he could be such a gossip when he never told anything about himself.

Settling back, he waved a finger in the air. “Well, to begin with, they are also called Men Bound Dragons, because that is exactly what they are. Far to the north, over the Creelmont mountains, there is a land made of rocky peaks, deep valleys and arid but beautiful deserts. It is the last known stronghold of dragons. Sometimes they have flown over the mountains and attacked our land, as you have probably heard. A few heroes have always fought them off. That is why the Gunairing family line of knights always has a dragon on their shields: they are descended from a man who slew one, single-handed. But what many don’t know is that dragons are actually quite intelligent--”

Shyven broke off abruptly to give me a sideways glance. “This isn’t boring you, is it? My apologies. History and society are two of my hobbies”

I shook my head, tightening my hands on the reins. “I’m not bored.”

He gave an almost shy smile and looked away. “Alright then. Dragons are intelligent enough to have their own system of kingship, traditions and code of rules. Most of the rules have violent punishment for those who break them. One punishment, saved for the highest rules, is what they call a Binding. Because dragons view us as a weak, pitiful race of creatures, they think it a great torment to force one of their own into the shape of a man. Dragonbound, you see. A dragon bound into the form of a man.”

“Why don’t they just kill him?” I asked, frowning.

“It is a more lasting torment to be in a new shape.” Shyven shrugged, still looking away. “Or at least, if you are a dragon, it is... especially because humans are always looking to use them. A dragon, even in the form of a man, has powers that no human usually possesses. Because of the fire in them... they are a source of energy that can be used to power wonderful and strange inventions.”

At that moment, a movement in front of us on the road caught my eye, and I noticed what looked like a row of figures, men and horses, blocking it just ahead. Alarm shot through me and I pulled to a stop. Shyven and I had both been so caught up in his story that we had not been paying attention. Cursing myself silently, I began to turn Dee and the cart around. But we had only gone a small way when another line rode out some distance behind us. About four men in each, eight in all. Before I could pull off the road, they started riding up around us, forming an ever-closing circle.

Dee could not outrun them while pulling a cart and two passengers. With just a rider, he would have left them all eating his dust for breakfast, but I was not about to abandon my cart. The riders closed in until they were all around us, perhaps a hundred feet distance. Then one came forward alone. He was carrying a rusty spear and an old buckler on one arm, hanging somewhat askew. His face was grim, with a small, fresh scar and one cheek that seemed to be trying to make his flat mouth into a smile.

“Halt!” The man held up the spear in a signal to stop, though we were no longer moving.

Shyven slid his sword a little from its sheath, while I quietly moved a hand to my knife.

“I am in charge of this patrol of the Newfound army,” the man reported, “Major Simeon Hinks. Because you have passed into an occupied area, your cart must be searched.”

He gestured to a few of his men to come forward, while I wanted to slap myself in frustration. I had heard, while in the safety of the Dardec, that a small rebellious movement known as the Newfound army was agitating in certain parts of Shardland. They wanted to turn the country into less of a monarchy, or at least one ruled by their own chosen leader. I could not really blame them for this, as taxes and harsh laws had multiplied over the last few years in the country, but in my opinion, they were going about it in the wrong way. From what I had heard, they spent most of their time raiding farmhouses for supplies, trying to rule small villages and running their mouths at larger inns when they dared.

And now we had walked right into one of their patrols.

“I have no weapons that could be of use to you,” I told the major, giving him a flat stare. “Why don’t you leave my house alone?”

His grim, square face hardened even further. “I will decide what is useful or dangerous enough for the people’s army to confiscate, not you. Tom, Grelluk, search the wagon!”

The two men that he picked out came around the wagon, looking at me sideways with their peculiar weapons held at the ready. I slid from the seat and stood beside Dee, whom the major was now eyeing thoughtfully.

“That a Frizzeen horse?”

I turned from watching the other two to look at him. “Stallion.”

“Hmph.” The major had evidently heard of Frizzeen horses, as well as how hard to manage the stallions could be. Dee was pinning back his ears and rolling his yellow eyes, living up to it.

Then there came a crash and a twanging noise from the back of the cart. Whipping around, I called, “hey, leave the Vhoe alone!”

“What, this ol’ thing?” One man, either Tom or Grelluk, came from the back, carrying my instrument. A smirk crossed his face when he saw my eyes fastened on it and he whipped out a knife, pressing its blade against one string. “Seven is an unlucky number. Let’s see how it sounds with six, shall we?”

Shyven had also jumped to the ground and now whipped out his blade. “Why don’t you leave his instrument alone? It’s of no military use.”

The major’s eyes lit up at the sight of the saber. “Ah, a weapon.”

He moved towards Shyven as if to take it. At the same time, the soldier laughed and jerked up on his blade, snapping the highest string. Twang!

It was as if the knife had gone through me and snapped something inside. My knife was in my hand and with an angry roar, I jumped towards him, crossing the length of the wagon in only a few strides. The soldier was still laughing until I was almost upon him. He dropped the Vhoe to the ground, suddenly realizing that he was targeted. I hit him in the face first with an empty clenched fist, knocking him staggering back against the cart. He tried to bring his knife into a defensive position, but I easily knocked it aside with my own. With one thrust, I ran him through and he sagged to the ground with a groan.

Someone jumped out of the cart and shouted at me. I was dimly aware of a fight breaking out near the head of the wagon while Dee reared and bucked. But the scent of blood and fighting energy had put me in a whirl of wrath by now and I hardly saw what was around me.

Except for the next target.

The second man who had been searching the wagon jumped down and ran at me, holding a spear pointed out like a ram. He was only a few paces away and came at me fast, but I ducked his spear and grasped it by the side of the haft, shoving it out of the way while taking him in the throat with one fierce motion. His weight bore against me in his dying moment and I jerked away, catching another man coming up behind me with a rough, spiked club.

With a jerk, I freed the spear from the dead man and spun it through the air, whacking its blunt end across his head like a quarterstaff. He blocked part of the blow with his club, so that only a fraction of it impacted on his skull, sending him staggering sideways. But with a growl, I swung the point around and took him through the chest with it, just under the ribs.

A line of white heat streaked down my back and I turned again to find a fourth soldier there, little more than a lad with a long kitchen knife. He looked frightened at what he had done, holding the knife with a thin line of blood down it and gazing at me with a pale face. Leaving the spear, I jumped forward and knocked his knife flying, thumping both my hands together into his chest, then giving him a blow on the chin with my blade’s handle clenched in the fingers to stiffen them.

He fell to the ground in a heap. I turned, panting, and looked about me. At the head of the wagon, Shyven was dueling a tall, burly man with a heavy sword of a design not manufactured for the last hundred years. A few swift, graceful movements later, and Shyven had laid him out on the ground with a head that was barely attached. The heavy sword clattered to the road, unmanned. With an efficient move, Shyven wiped his own blade clean and sheathed it.

One soldier lay under Dee’s hooves, either unconscious like the boy, or dead. A light blade had slashed the other two, including the major, and they were no longer breathing.

Shyven turned to me, wiping at a light cut on the side of his chin. He looked over the inert shapes around me and said lightly, “you know how to make a party fun.”

“You’re not so bad yourself. I’ve never seen the Huntsman’s maneuver carried out so smoothly.” I felt a wet warmth on my back and remembered the slash I had been given by the boy’s knife. Reaching up awkwardly, I felt a long, thin slice running just below my shoulder blade at an angle downwards. It was throbbing now and making my green shirt look even more disreputable, but it did not feel dangerously deep. The poor lad had not known what he was doing with a weapon.

The feeling of exhilaration and battle wrath went out of me with a sigh then and I pressed a hand to the slitted shirt on my back wearily, looking around at the carnage. I closed my eyes for a moment and felt my hands tremble. I had promised myself not to do that sort of thing anymore.

“My luck has gone to the hogs these last few days.”

Shyven gave me one of his speculative looks, then wiped his hands on his knees. “Are you injured? Let me see.”

“We should leave this place first.”

“It will only take a moment.”

With a snort I picked up my Vhoe and jumped up in the wagon, carefully hanging it on its rack. One string was broken cleanly in half, each side springing away like kinky hairs. But after looking at it for a moment, I took a tin of salve from the cupboards and brought it out to Shyven along with a strip of scrap cloth that had not been sold on my last trip. “Go easy with it. It’s powerful.”

He opened the tin and smelt it, making a face and nodding in agreement. I allowed him to roll up my shirt and look at the wound, feeling less uneasy about him now that we had been through a fight together. He seemed to have the same feelings, for as he dubbed the slash with the sticky unguent, he said, “you know--”

Then broke off for a minute to begin wrapping on the bandage before going on, “I’ve been in need of a partner for some time. You seem to be hitting a streak of bad luck and could use a lift. What if... well, you see, I am on a quest. What if we banded together to finish it?”

I turned around, eyeing him as I rolled my shirt back down. “Put some of that salve on your face, too. What sort of quest is this?”

A strange, mysterious expression crossed his face, as if he were looking inwards at something no one else could see.

“The quest for the Ebony Queen.”