Rhydian the White

By L.A. MacDonald

Weep not, for the Light will bring the Sword and the Dark a hand to wield it. With Drakindôm will he slay my enemies, and with your hand will he levy Judgment on kings.
– Neythen Shadowswarm prophesying comfort for Aiberoeth the White after the Roethkin Purge, 500 Year of the Dragon

Rhydian is a bastard, considered of the lowest birth. Yet Rhydian is a member of the Juryn Tir, one of the most respected organizations in all of Esai. He found it entertaining the way that the noble born tried to acknowledge his position while making it clear that he had no birth standing.

But what few of them know is that he is the Drakingraf, destined to pick up the famous sword Drakindôm and avenge his people. If they knew, most would insist he ender Revens Hall and take up the sword now, laying waste to their persecutors.
It was not time, and until he felt it was time, he traveled as a Juryn Tir and tried to save all that he could. Soon, the one phrase of wisdom that the Juryn Tir used - "You cannot save them all" would no longer be true. Not for him.

Great power always comes with a price. Would Rhydian be able to bear it when the time came?

• Language: English
• Publisher: L.A. MacDonald
• Release date: Dec 13, 2021

L.A. MacDonald

L.A. MacDonald lives in the Northwoods of the USA with two shelties, armor, and weapons of all sorts. When not writing, MacDonald is dreaming up new stories and worlds.Classically trained, MacDonald believes that heroes should be heroes, in spite of their flaws, and villains should be villains in spite of – or even because of – any virtues. It is the choices each of us make as individuals that decides our heroic status. The pikeman that stands and saves the King’s life is the same species as the ones that run, the difference is in the choice each makes.MacDonald has a shelf full of books that have not yet seen the light of day, many set in the same world as Oathbreaker. Others set in more exotic locales. Watch for them from Hellebarde Publishing.

Book preview

Prologue

Weep not, for the Light will bring the Sword and the Dark a hand to wield it. With Drakindôm will he slay my enemies, and with your hand will he levy Judgment on kings.

– Neythen Shadowswarm prophesying comfort for Aiberoeth the White after the Roethkin Purge, 500 Year of the Dragon

805 Year of the Dragon

His back slightly stooped with age, Prelate Price waited impatiently for an answer to his question. The hollow echo from his walking cane as it tapped against the stone floor of the Redoubt filled the silence. By the time he reached the end of the room, the sound was accompanied by the rustling of clothing as his smallest charge squirmed with shame at being unable to answer what the old man obviously felt was a simple question.

The Prelate shuffled back to the front of his desk and sighed dramatically. His gaze swept the small room, stopping on his youngest student to wordlessly ask her to at least try to give an answer. When she could not, his watery blue eyes fell on Rhydian. At the smirk on the young man’s face, the Prelate’s unruly brows rose to hang like clouds over the peaks of the Matasan Mountains. The Prelate could feel Magi Gwyn’s disapproval at Rhydian’s expression, but ignored it. He knew it was born of not just the moment but a deeper-seated resentment of the young man’s existence. The Prelate’s thin lips twitched slightly, but he was well-versed in keeping his opinions to himself. He schooled his aged face into a neutral expression. Lifting his cane, he pointed at Rhydian. Well then, Rhydian, name the four prime phenomena of prophecy and-, he challenged with a stern look. What they forfend.

Rhydian slid from his chair and stood without hesitation. With one hand he brushed back the tousled blond hair that hung over his brows and nearly obscured his flinty grey eyes. He squared his sturdy shoulders and raised his chin.

Ariscain’s Moon proclaims the death of a dragon. Llyr’s Flight portends a Roethkin heir. The Great Dragons Converge before the birth of a Drakinsôn. And Bryn’s Dark predicts the coming of the Dragon’s Claw, he pronounced in an unwavering but distinctly childlike voice.

The Prelate nodded and gestured with his cane. Rhydian slid back into his chair and threw the Magi Gwyn a triumphant look. The Prelate ignored the ongoing conflict between the two and asked his next question. And why do the Tir wait for the coming of the Dragon’s Claw?

Price refused to even look at Rhydian this time. The boy knew the answer. After five years under his tutelage, the boy knew the answers to all the questions that would be asked today.

A petite girl whose cheeks had not yet lost the fullness of her weaning years raised her hand, a shy smile on face. The Prelate smiled fondly at her. Yes, Iestal?

Iestal slid primly from her chair and stood. With exaggerated movements, she mimicked Rhydian and threw back her shoulders. "Both the magi of the Seryn Tir and the knights of the Juryn Tir wait for the Dragon’s Claw because he will avenge the slaughter of the Roethkin," she recited in a clear, confident voice far more mature than a girl of only five years.

And what will the Creator provide to help him?

A special sword, she answered after only a moment’s hesitation.

The sword has a name, doesn’t it? the Prelate prompted.

Drakindôm.

The response came not from Iestal, but from Rhydian. Gwyn opened her mouth to reprimand him automatically. The magi stopped as she realized the name had not been spoken in Rhydian’s customary tone of smug pleasure at his own cleverness. There was nothing childish about the way he said the sword’s name. Instead, he spoke it almost reverently. as if he not only knew its purpose, but that it was his.

When Rhydian’s flinty gaze fell on her, she froze. She was trapped by what she saw reflected in his stare. She shuddered as she saw the truth buried in her soul. Gwyn tore her eyes away and focused on her feet.

The Prelate, sensing her discomfort, dismissed the two children who’d been remanded into his care to be educated and prepared for the tasks that lay ahead of them. Gwyn kept her eyes down while the two rushed out, chattering like the children they were. Their feet pounded on the stone floor in their hurry to escape their lessons.

What happened, Gwyn? the Prelate asked in a concerned tone.

His gifts are developing, she mumbled uncomfortably.

Ahhh, the old man breathed. He nodded soberly. Then it’s time for Marshal Beroth to take him in hand. He will need more discipline than he can learn from us.

Let us hope the Marshal has more patience with him than I do, she said with a relieved sigh.

Fixing an unreadable expression on his face, the Prelate reassured her. I think you will find that Marshal Beroth has the patience of Aiberoeth himself.

815 Year of the Dragon

If Gwyn catches us out here she’ll switch me and lock you in your room, Iestal, Rhydian muttered under his breath. His gaze kept darting from her face to the darkness in a nervous vigil against the Arch Magi happening upon them.

I know, but I had to see you before you go, Iestal replied with a pout which was well known to melt even the most frigid of hearts at the Redoubt.

Rhydian peered at her suspiciously. You see me every day. He’d never been able to read her, not like he could others. Thus, he was never sure exactly what she meant. It was almost a game with her, to see if he could puzzle out what she was thinking.

He was almost certain he loved her by the way his heart raced when she was near and the way his fingers tingled when he happened to brush them against her skin. But he wasn’t sure. After all, he was kept somewhat isolated from everyone who lived and studied at the Redoubt. There were many others who studied to become magi or knights of the Juryn Tir. But for some reason the others – especially the young Roethkin - flocked to Rhydian like flies to honey and invariably, a confrontation between Rhydian and some overzealous young man would ensue. As a result, it had been many years since Rhydian had been allowed to roam free. Thus, the only young woman he saw often was Iestal. He worried it was just accessibility that made his blood course faster whenever she approached.

I see the back of your head every day, Rhydian, she complained. On your way to the yard with Marshal Beroth, on your way to lessons with Prelate Price, on your way to dinner. You never have time for me anymore.

Rhydian guiltily looked away, focusing on the sound of the Falls as they poured down out of the mountain into the glade that surrounded the water. The two were well hidden in the foliage. It was lush and full, nourished by the same waters that legend said had miraculous healing properties. It was late, and the moon was shining down upon the waters, but no one else was there to enjoy it but them. The others would be studying or sleeping at this hour. The two had long ago learned how to sneak out of the Redoubt and make their way unseen to the glade, though Rhydian had long suspected that it had more to do with the Prelate’s insistence they be allowed to than any skill they might possess. Arch Magi Gwyn certainly did her best to prevent it, going so far as to enlist the aid of the Tir that guarded the stronghold and protected it from the unlikely event of an attack by the Lowland king.

He glanced back at the Redoubt. He was fast approaching the age of majority and nearly ready to be Judged and join the ranks of the Juryn Tir. He might even be named a Marshal. Rhydian was understandably nervous, and yet eager. Very few were given the honor of being named Marshal, and certainly no bastard had ever been even considered. Yet he, Rhydian White, had not only been considered but accepted as worthy of the attempt.

He rubbed the back of his neck and turned his attention back to Iestal. He hadn’t been spending time with her because Magi Gwyn forbid it. Only in the company of others, Gwyn had told him with one of her famous frowns.

Iestal was watching him. When his eyes met her expectant gaze, his breath caught in his throat. With a start, he realized they were no longer children. If her increasingly appealing figure hadn’t made that clear in spite of Gwyn’s attempts to hide it with the traditional, bulky arisad of the Highlanders, the look in her blue eyes now did. Sliding a firm hand behind her neck, he leaned down and let himself indulge in a single kiss.

He’d never kissed anyone before. It was an adolescent attempt, nearly chaste by most standards, but it set his heart racing at a suddenly frantic pace. With a start, he understood why Gwyn would switch him if she caught them out here alone in the middle of the night. Because he was a young man and she was a young woman who, by her response, would have eagerly agreed to just about anything he asked after that one, simple kiss.

As the older of the two, Rhydian recognized that Iestal was still too young for such decisions. She was only fifteen, after all, and she would be the Roethkin Queen as soon as she reached her majority and the Diet confirmed her. As the only remaining Roethkin heir to Esai, she would not really be Queen, but the Highland Lords that remained faithful would swear their allegiance to her and look to her to lead them. And one day, perhaps, they would reclaim what was rightfully theirs and she – or one of hers – would truly be Queen of Esai. At the thought, he was suddenly gripped by a fierce jealousy that someone else was destined to claim her heart. He drew back reluctantly, and against her obvious desire. Her wounded expression told him she did not understand his sudden withdrawal.

Iestal, I have to leave soon, you know, he tried to explain.

Smiling sadly, she toyed with the fringes of the tightly woven arisad. I know, Rhydian. Gwyn told me. But you’ll be back, won’t you? she asked hopefully. You’ll come back before the Diet calls for me? I don’t know anyone else. I’ll be terribly lonely at Windmere without you.

I don’t know, Rhydian admitted. I don’t know what’s going to happen, Iestal. You know we each have our own paths to walk. Our lives are not our own. You’re the Roethkin Queen and I’m a knight. Or will be as soon as Marshal Beroth hears my vows.

A shudder ran through Iestal, and she shivered visibly. I’m not ready, she admitted in a strained voice.

Rhydian gave her a sympathetic smile before he wrapped an arm around her shoulder and pulled her close. Neither was he, but as Prelate Price had told him sternly just that morning, neither of them really had a choice.

Chapter 1

820 Year of the Dragon – Inveron

A filthy hand slapped a leather pouch down on the table with a resounding thump that managed to cover the delightful sound of coins rubbing against one another. The sound was barely audible in the din of conversation and raucous laughter of men as they drank and told tales but it rang like a gong in Rhydian’s sensitive ears. In his experience, men who tried to pay for justice were usually more interested in vengeance.

Leaning back, Rhydian lifted one long and very lean leg and set a black, leather-booted foot on the chair next to him. The silver buckle at its ankle gleamed, reflecting the red and orange hues of fires in its polished face. The hilt of a long, slender dagger, wrapped tightly with thin strips of white leather to ensure it did not slip in his hand, peeked out from the sheath craftily made to appear part of the boot. Rhydian slowly folded his arms across his chest and presented his new companion with an air of disinterest.

His disinterest was only partially feigned. The man reeked of sweat and the river. Even the tilt of his cap - a tired leather mockery of a decent head covering – was convincing. He looked like a dock hand. But the palm of his hand told Rhydian just about everything he needed to know before the man ever opened his toothless mouth. The hand that eagerly pushed the small, leather pouch across the table was not heavily calloused nor did it bear the rash-red marks customary of dock hands who’d held the rough, thick ropes of a fishing ship for long hours. Its palm was smooth, and unblemished by the salty waters of the Greater Granth River.

Rhydian was quite certain this man would be sorely disappointed this evening, but that did not mean Rhydian was not interested in finding out what a man who went such lengths to disguise himself wanted from him.

The man kicked at the leg of a chair and practically fell into it with a grunt. Leaning forward, he set his forearms on the table and eyed Rhydian expectantly. How much? his gravelly voice demanded.

Rhydian returned his overeager question with a slight smile. His even, white teeth were barely visible between his lips. That, sirrah, depends on many things, he offered coolly. Who, why, and to what end?

As the man’s nose wrinkled with the curling of his upper lip, Rhydian noted the creases on his face were not nearly as deep as they appeared. They were simply caked with grease and dirt. The shadows were deep, like the crags in the Matasan Mountains, and left the impression of one far older than he probably was. Rhydian’s eye twitched with distaste, but he kept his expression impassive. Dockhand named Nine Toes. Stole my purse, the man growled.

Rhydian lifted a single brow and tilted his head slightly as he calmly considered the man’s claim. Rhydian did not need his gifts to know the man was lying. Did he now? he observed. He unfolded his arms and leaned on the table, presenting what the man would surely interpret as an eager expression. They always did. The Bryn Dor – the King’s knights that meted out what passed for Judgment - were always eager to line their pockets with gold. Rhydian could no longer count the number of selfish men who’d assumed the Juryn Tir were no different and paid far more than they’d been expecting for it.

The man’s eyes flickered with annoyance and the tip of his tongue snaked out to wet his lips nervously. He nodded curtly. He did, the man insisted, letting his dark brown eyes meet Rhydian’s steady gaze.

Rhydian gestured at the man, wordlessly asking for more detail. The man leaned in and lowered his voice. He cheated at dice and then stole my money, he did. I want it back along with a finger, so all know he’s a cheat.

You refused to make good on your bet, Rhydian surmised smoothly, playing along.

The man bristled and snorted. A’cause he cheated! he argued, his voice rising and drawing a few curious looks from nearby tables. The Broken Anchor was well known amongst the Faithful in Inveron and its common room often filled after the sun settled into the comforting embrace of night. There were few such havens in Esai. Those that managed to escape notice were fiercely protected by their patrons.

Rhydian waved dismissively at the man. Not my problem, sirrah, he said.

Yer a knight, ain’t ye? the man sputtered disbelievingly. That’s what ye do, ye judge the wrong. A knight was supposed to judge others. Besides, he had gold, real gold to offer.

Rhydian slowly lifted a hand and with extreme patience wiped away the man’s spittle that landed on his cheek. He let his slightly trembling sword hand fall to his upraised knee. His insight told him the man desperately wanted Rhydian to leave with him. We are through here, sirrah. I suggest you leave before I become irritated.

The man’s eyes grew wild with desperation, darting from Rhydian to the patrons nearby who watched the proceedings now with sidelong looks. He made as if to leave, pushing back his chair and muttering with disgust under his breath. But as he stood a dagger appeared in his hand. With a sneer, he snarled in a clear, unaccented voice, Damn all you Roethkin!

With absolute calm, Rhydian invoked Judgment. The draconic word was barely audible in his own ears amidst the rising cacophony that erupted in the wake of the man’s curse. "Jurizon."

Too enraged to notice, the man’s dagger did not falter in its trajectory until the white claws of a dragon sank into his chest. The man choked with surprise, blinking rapidly with wide eyes that traced the path of Rhydian’s arm to its end, now partially embedded in his chest. The sound of the dagger falling from the man’s suddenly shaking hand rang out in the ensuing silence.

The tavern had gone deathly quiet. Few had ever seen a Marshal invoke Judgment. The number of Juryn Tir Marshals could be counted easily by even an uneducated man, and the number of those who lived long enough to have Judged more than once was even fewer. King Phylip did not tolerate the Tir any better than he tolerated the Faithful who held to Canon along with them.

Still, those who had seen Judgment had never seen it carried out like this.

The sound of the man’s now frantically beating heart echoed in Rhydian’s ears. He stood carefully. You can’t lie to a Marshal, he said, raising his voice slightly as he let his gaze sweep the tavern, noting with passing concern that at least a handful of patrons were nervously edging their way toward the door.

Your name, Rhydian demanded, knowing he did not have much time.

His would-be attacker managed a ragged response. Ervin Redbeard.

The man was shaking now, and Rhydian knew he would have to hurry before the man’s knees buckled beneath him. If Ervin fell now, he was a dead man. A dragon’s talons were not nearly as strong as one might think given the toughness of their scales. The tips could – and did – break. It had happened once before, and though the man had not been guilty enough to deserve death, he’d died nevertheless. Rhydian had always been careful after that to avoid such an incident.

This man had made unremarkable claims and yet Rhydian’s heightened senses told him he was lying. Catching the man’s eyes, he held his gaze. His eyes seemed to lighten and then glowed luminously, boring into the man’s soul. Judgement sought, and found, every violation of Canon and laid them bare to Rhydian. His expression hardened. The man was a Loyalist and would have led him into an ambush.

Rhydian blinked deliberately, trying to erase the knowledge but knowing he could not. Every time he sank into the soul of some degenerate like this one, he felt tainted. Some thought his fastidiousness a requirement to be a knight, but the truth was that his careful attention to his appearance was simply an extension of the discipline required to keep himself from falling into the eager arms of despair at knowing just how corrupt men really were.

Prescript One, please, Rhydian prompted.

In a slightly trembling voice, the man managed the common version taught to children. Speak no lies.

Rhydian’s lips curled into a slight frown. You’re a Loyalist. You were to convince me to leave with you that others could help you kill me.

The man’s eyes grew wide. Rhydian dipped his chin slightly when the man clamped his lips together. Go on, Rhydian encouraged. I would hear the words from your own lips.

The man wet his dry lips. Yes.

Very good, he complimented politely at the man’s sudden need to speak the truth. Judgment compelled it, but some still required more encouragement to speak it aloud. Your mother must be very disappointed in you. Prescript Two.

Dishonor no one. Ervin’s voice was increasingly laced with disgust.

Rhydian’s eyes flattened. The recitation of the Prescripts during Judgment was not just a reminder of what they were, it ensured witness to a man’s guilt. While not strictly necessary, it was customary to provide a public recitation. This man had done more than dishonor others. Rhydian decided to leave them unspoken lest they disturb the already nervous crowd. Prescript Three, if you would.

Ervin’s breath came faster as he recognized that the Marshal was nearing the end of the terrifying ritual. He tried not to speak. Rhydian tilted his head slightly in a gesture meant to impart growing impatience, and suddenly Ervin found his voice. Strike no innocent. Before Rhydian respond, he squeezed his eyes shut tightly. Please, I changed my mind, I did!

Rhydian tried to keep the revulsion he felt from showing on his face. The entire tavern was silent, all eyes on the two men. Some watched with morbid curiosity; others with smug satisfaction. The Marshal could, if he chose, Judge the man guilty and no one would speak against it. He had admitted to plotting murder and theft, after all, and even the King’s law forbade both.

At the man’s pretended sudden change of heart, Rhydian recognized the man was trying to buy time. He begged for mercy not because he was repentant, but because he hoped to be saved by others. Rhydian’s eyes flew to a front window. Dismay rose as he caught the flicker of torches held high several streets away. Even with his sensitive hearing he had to strain to pick out the angry chants that told him they were Loyalists, and there were a lot of them. With a resigned sigh, he let his flinty gaze return to the man in front of him.

It wasn’t just me you were after, was it? he demanded impatiently.

In spite of the man’s alleged fear, he was smugly pleased with himself at the look on Rhydian’s face. He was compelled to tell the truth, but he was not compelled to feel remorseful about it. "All Roethkin must die, Tir."

Rhydian gritted his teeth. Judgment comes to us all. Each word was precisely enunciated. It was a declaration of guilt and a judgment of death. There were times when such a judgment was unnecessary. But when it was required, experience had taught Rhydian not to wait for the imploring tears to well up in the Judged eyes. Such sentences were best carried out immediately, and without time for the condemned to consider what was about to happen. It was, he believed, more merciful and it was in accordance with Precept Two, which taught that compassion shown was a reflection of one’s own strength. Rhydian clenched his fist and abruptly ripped the man’s heart from his chest. The Loyalists’ eyes widened and his lips parted with sudden surprise before he collapsed like a strawman to the floor, dead.

Jurizon ne.

The Marshal’s hoarse whisper seemed to carry in the silence that often accompanied his rather unique method of Judgment. The muffled sound of retching finally broke the silence. Rhydian was unsurprised. He’d seen even the most stout of heart turn green at the sight. He’d turned green the first time. And the second, and the third. He could not recall when he had finally adjusted to it enough that he was not made physically ill by the process.

Dropping the remains of the man’s shredded heart atop the now lifeless body, he crouched down and wiped his hand clean of blood on the man’s cloak. Straightening, he turned and addressed the crowd. There appears to be a Loyalist mob approaching, I suggest you make your way someplace safer before they arrive, he urged before he hurried to the door.

Peering out, he could see a fairly significant number of Loyalists silhouetted against the flickering light of the torches they carried above their heads. He did not need to see them clearly to understand their intent. As they had been in Eynsworth two years ago, they were out for blood. Roethkin blood. The centuries-old conflict between the descendants of Aiberoeth the White and Ariscain the Red raged on. With a glance, his gaze swept the tavern. No one had moved. If Rhydian had to guess, some were paralyzed with fear and others with helpless rage.

Find the back door. Get your families out of Inveron, now! he bellowed, the dreadful sense of anticipation that made some retch with fear and others rise to the challenge gripping his insides. Turning, he swung the door wide.

Why in the name of the Creator would you do that?! a man’s voice shrieked. Rhydian judged him one of the former, whose fear prevented any kind of rational thought in the face of danger.

With a smirk in his voice, he replied far more calmly than his insides felt. To make sure they see me, of course.

While the man sputtered with stupefied disbelief, Rhydian began methodically incanting a Shield. He might be a bastard, but he was a Roethkin bastard and had thus inherited the ability to use magic. The strength of one’s bloodline determined the power of one’s inheritance. Those who might only be able to incant a Shield large enough to protect themselves might be named a Magi. Rhydian could, and often did, manage much more. Had he not chosen the path of the Juryn Tir he might have been named an Arch Magi of the Seryn Tir.

The required dragon-tongue slipped from his lips with the ease of someone born to the language, rather than one who learned it in his youth. Against the backdrop of boots racing across the wooden floor and tables crashing into one another, Rhydian raised his clenched fist and drew it across his chest, from left to right. He shouted a single, draconic word and released the magic that was every Roethkin’s inheritance.

An icy shield formed in front of the inn, spanning its low, broad porch from one end to the other. He frowned slightly as the boards of the roof protested and began to buckle under the pressure of several inches of solid ice expanding into it. Backing up a step, he squinted and then grinned as the figures of the Loyalists were blurred by the ice that now stood between them.

Then he cupped his hands over his mouth and shouted the cry of the Faithful. Long live the Roethkin Queen!

An angry, answering roar told him he’d been heard. He turned, his brows furrowing at the sight of a few patrons who’d been more curious as to what the knight would do than fearful of the approaching Loyalists. Go! I’ll keep them occupied as long as I can!

The sound of their retreat was lost to the furious pounding of fists on the ice. Over the din of their anger rose shrieks that clearly told all who heard them that this time the Loyalists would not stop until every last drop of Roethkin blood in Inveron had been spilled.

Rhydian waited, taunting them with his mere presence, until he heard the first dreadful crack of the ice. Their shouted promises of a horrible death followed Rhydian as he joined the flight of the Faithful through the streets, gathering up more as they ran northward.

Chapter 2

There ain’t naught you can do for them now, Marshal.

The whisper of Ernst Blackthorne was choked with horror at the sight before them.

Rhydian and several of the more loyal Faithful in Inveron had returned in a futile attempt to save its Lord, Isaac Price. The attempt was futile because the Loyalist mob had not been the only force involved in the uprising in Inveron that night. A quad of Bryn Dor, obvious by the black of the shirts peeking out from under silver chain mail covered with a blood-red tabard, stood abreast of the doors to the Lord Price’s manse. If there was any question of their allegiance it was erased by the Bryn Dor badge on their tabards, a red dragon rampant guardant emblazoned on a shield of gold. As the Juryn Tir honored Aiberoeth, the ancient white dragon from which the Roethkin were ultimately descended, so the Bryn Dor honor Ariscain. A vile great red dragon whose bloodlust drove his Ariskin descendants to seek the death of the Roethkin.

Rhydian nodded mutely in reply. Words would not pass the thick lump in his throat at the sight of the terrified expressions on the faces of Lord Price’s children. There were three; the oldest no more than ten and the youngest barely weaned to words. He did not even try to guess where their mother was. Every Roethkin woman would pray for death rather than be in the hands of the Bryn Dor. Rhydian unapologetically hoped the same.

A man with brown, shaggy hair that stuck out weirdly where it reached his ears swaggered out of the door, a smug smile on his face. Rhydian’s eyes narrowed suspiciously as he caught sight of blue eyes. He sniffed the air, like one of the wolf-like dragonkin common to the Highlands. His nose wrinkled with distaste. Who is that? he demanded in a whisper, his eyes fixed on the slender man that obviously rarely used the sword that hung at his hip.

Ernst’s lips turned down in a frown as he peered at the man. Shaking his head, he admitted he did not know. Seen him in the city a few times, down at the high markets, but don’t know who he is.

He’s Roethkin, Rhydian asserted with a certainty only a Juryn Tir could manage.

That don’t make no sense. Why would a Roethkin work with the Bryn Dor? someone behind him scoffed quietly.

A good question, sirrah, Rhydian returned in a flat voice. He did not recognize the man, he only knew he carried the blood of Aiberoeth. Not just from his blue eyes, which Roethkin shared, but from his scent. Rhydian did not try to explain that; it was something no one else seemed able to detect and trying to prove its veracity was often far more trouble than finding some other proof.

The traitorous Roethkin pointed at the children and exchanged a few words with, based on the glint of sun striking gold buttons, the captain of the Bryn Dor quad. Rhydian forced himself to watch as the Bryn Dor turned to one of his men and casually waved a hand at the children. He had to bite back a scream of rage as the knight drew a dagger from his hip and casually opened the children’s throats without so much as blinking.

Creator have mercy! the choked prayer was repeated by several of the men with Rhydian. The Marshal closed his eyes and begged forgiveness for not having moved a muscle in their defense. Ernst’s hand on his forearm made him glance at the man. Ye can’t save them all, Marshal.

Rhydian nodded but his face clouded with guilt. He could save them all, and legend said he would, but not yet. As much as he sometimes feared his fate, he longed for it every time he was forced to witness the cruelty and implacable hatred of the Ariskin.

Movement in front of the manse took their attention off the dying children. An open wagon, pulled by two very fine Lowland stallions, pulled up in front of the steps. The traitorous Roethkin cupped his hands and yelled toward the house. A moment later, two Bryn Dor roughly dragged a chained and barely conscious Lord Price through the door. The man’s feet dragged behind him, and even at this distance they could see the purple bruises on his face. Caked blood from a broken nose covered his lips and streaked down his chin. Half his face was swollen like the distended gut of a man who’d spent too many years drinking ale.

Rhydian tensed, and almost immediately felt hands on his shoulders try to restrain the obviously enraged Marshal. Counting to ten in dragon-tongue under his breath as Marshal Beroth had drilled into him, Rhydian forced himself to assess the situation. Ernst was right when he’d said he couldn’t save them all. With four Bryn Dor and a growing crowd of Loyalists, he’d do Price no good and likely wind up dead himself. He was dismayed to watch as the Bryn Dor locked Price in an iron gibbet. The scorched, black strips of iron that formed a cage meant exclusively for a man told all the Faithful what would come next.

They mean to Fire him, Ernst said with a visible shudder. Ain’t no worse way to go.

Rhydian could think of a few worse ways to go, but not many. The Ariskin loved to use Dragon’s Fire as much in battle as for execution. The damned magical fire was not meant to consume one in flames right away. Instead, it would burn itself like embers into a man’s flesh and slowly eat him alive. There was no Roethkin magic that could counter it, save the Waters of Sear. The Bryn Dor would take Price and hang him from the gates of the small keep at the edge of the entrance to the city, where every visitor passed, and then Fire him. He could linger for hours or even days as the Fire slowly ate its way through his flesh. The Loyalists would leave him there as a warning to other Roethkin. Not to stay out of their city, but to make sure they understood the price of entry. Once Loyalists controlled a city, they went to great lengths to keep it free of Faithful.

Fixing his stormy countenance on the Roethkin, Rhydian memorized his face. He burned every detail into his memory, determined to find out who the man was and avenge the Lord Price. That he was Roethkin told Rhydian he was Highborn, perhaps even a lord’s son. He wore no obvious badge or colors that Rhydian could see, so he was no fool, at least. Rhydian continued to scrutinize the man until, along with the Bryn Dor, he bounced happily down the steps and climbed up onto the wagon’s seat. At his word, the horrific procession lurched into motion.

We don’t need to see what comes next, one of the Faithful insisted. We gots to find Brey’s family and get out of Inveron if we can.

Ernst glanced at Rhydian expectantly. Rhydian felt the blacksmith’s pleading eyes upon him and his jaw tightened with the dreadful choice. As much as Rhydian wanted to do something to help Price, he was aware it was wishful thinking. The Faithful were looking to him to lead them to safety. He had a duty to all the Faithful, not just Highborn lords, to defend and protect them. With a curt nod, he agreed. When the last of the bloodthirsty Loyalists had disappeared behind the grisly procession, the small group of men set off to find Brey’s family.

They crouched and ran across the street. Rhydian noticed the men deliberately averted their eyes from the manse, where the blood of the Lord’s children still dripped with agonizing slowness down the front planks of the porch. Rhydian did not. He fixed that image, too, in his mind. At some point in the future he knew he would need a reason to go on and lying in their own blood in front of him was not just one, but three very good ones.

Lowland Heathers

I don’t mean to argue with you, Marshal, Ernst asked anxiously. But are you sure you want to take us across the Heathers?

Rhydian stroked the nose of his Lowland destrier, Solmyr, and considered the question seriously. Stafford was the closest of those cities that was safe for the Faithful. Esker, to the southwest, had fallen to Loyalists three years ago. He knew because he’d been there. It was hardly safe for him, let alone a dozen Faithful families. South was Winterhaven, and they were certainly not going to walk into the king’s own city. They might as well commit suicide. The only safe path was through the Lowland Heathers. He shifted his weight and eyed Ernst thoughtfully. I can think of no other path as safe, he returned.

Ernst glanced nervously at the two children who sat astride the black stallion, swaying with exhaustion. He leaned closer to Rhydian and lowered his voice. But what about the White Wyrms?

Turning, Rhydian looked out over the expanse before them. The White Wyrms were indeed a threat, if one was not a Roethkin. The smaller, burrowing cousins of Aiberoeth lived beneath the heathers that ran wild to the west of the Greater Granth in the Lowlands. Stories said that like all dragonkin, they could smell the Ariskin and eagerly came to the surface to hunt them down. The rolling hills that lay before them, carpeted in a brilliant bloom of heather lilies, were alleged to be formed by the undulating movements the White Wyrms made as they tunneled endlessly from one end of the heathers to the other. He had never seen one, and those who claimed they had were often dismissed as having mistaken the waving of the white lilies in a strong wind for one of the creatures.

Well, unless one of you is Ariskin, I don’t think we need to worry about them. As he’d already checked himself, Rhydian knew none were, though he also knew that most were not Roethkin, either. The lowborn were not dragonkin at all, though aside from their inability to wield magic there was little difference between them and the Highborn who could. Rhydian, who Judged men by what was in their hearts and saw the corruption of souls both high and lowborn had long ago determined there was no difference at all. All would be weighed against the same scale that was Canon in the end, dragonkin inheritance or not.

If you’re sure, Marshal, Ernst reluctantly agreed, the creases in his brow clearly showing his lingering doubt.

I am sure of nothing but the Creator’s Judgment, but I would not take you across the Heathers unless I felt it was the safest route for the children, he told Ernst confidently. If the Ariskin will not cross it to march on Revenshold, I find it unlikely they will follow us there, either.

All right, I’ll tell the others. But I don’t think they’ll like it either, Ernst told him, then paused expectantly as if waiting for Rhydian to change his mind. When the Marshal turned his attention back to his horse, Ernst sighed dramatically and hurried back to tell the others they were going to brave the Lowland Heathers.

Within the first hour, Rhydian amended his estimation of how much time it would take to get the dozen or so families across the Heathers to the safe haven of Stafford. Every time a gust of wind blew or a rabbit raced low and ruffled the lilies that liberally covered most of the hills, someone cried out they’d seen a White Wyrm and the train would stop. It would take long minutes for Rhydian to cajole them back into moving, sometimes requiring him to prove nothing was amiss by walking out to where the Wyrm had been sighted.

In between, he comforted the children that took turns riding astride Solmyr. Their sturdy little legs bounced along with the stallion’s easy gait. Rhydian told them tales and described the Redoubt more times than he could count. Each child wanted to hear about the Faithful Stronghold where the Seryn Tir instructed magi and watched for the signs that would herald the coming of the Drakingrâf.

Ware the Drakingrâf, for through him will my children be avenged, each one solemnly repeated, some of them too young to even understand the words.

Yes, ware the Drakingrâf, Rhydian repeated in a teasing tone to a child barely weaned to words. He reached out and tickled her under her chubby double chin just to hear her giggle. She obliged, and the sparkle in her eyes brought a smile to Rhydian’s face.

He rarely spent time around children by choice. Not because he didn’t like them. On the contrary. He enjoyed the refreshing honesty of children and the way they laughed as though they had not a care in the world. But as a Highborn bastard he was not allowed to marry without the permission of a Diet lord and he refused to curse a child to the same status. Thus, he tended to avoid children as they reminded him that he was unlikely to ever see his own visage mirrored on a tiny, perfect face. He lifted the child from the saddle and held her out to her mother.

I know she doesn’t understand the words, Marshal, her mother offered unabashedly as she collected her daughter. "But I know it means that someday we won’t have to fear the color red."

Lovely, I am hopeful you will see that day in your lifetime, Rhydian offered honestly.

Oh, do you really think so Marshal? she breathed, holding the child close and eyeing him hopefully. The Juryn Tir are trained at the Redoubt, aren’t they? she suddenly spouted out excitedly. Have the magi seen something that makes you think so?

Rhydian cleared his throat delicately. He would never lie, but there were times the truth was simply too dangerous to share. Drakindôm waits in Revenshold, lovely. And a Queen soon at Windmere, he offered what was common knowledge amongst the Highborn.

Her rough hand grasped his arm, squeezing it along with her grateful smile. Then surely the Drakingrâf cannot be far behind. Thank the Creator, she breathed, then hugged her daughter and turned to hurry back and share the news with the others.

Solmyr snorted then butted him in the arm and knocked Rhydian off balance. Rhydian threw his stallion an arched look. You think that was too much? he asked, reaching out to scratch Solmyr under his chin. Just don’t get used to the lighter load, Rhydian warned playfully. We’ll be in Stafford soon enough and then we’re going to see Richard, he decided. The uprising in Inveron and the traitorous Roethkin bothered him. Something was afoot, and he hoped his closet friend and fellow Marshal might know something that would indicate what that was.

Midbury

Rhydian had never had his patience tried quite as he had for the days it took to drag the survivors across the Heathers. He’d crossed them a hundred times in the past five years and this was the first time he’d been unable to truly appreciate them. On the one hand, it was a relief. The blue lilies awash in fields of white always reminded him of Iestal, who he missed more than he would ever admit. On the other hand, the lilies reminded him of Iestal, who he missed more than he could admit. The memory of their time at the Redoubt always soothed his restless thoughts and reminded him that there was more to life than duty.

He sighed aloud with relief when the hazy spire of the granary at Midbury appeared on the horizon. Shortly after its lantern and tower appeared. Then, finally, the granary itself came into view.

The sound of their weary feet on the only bridge across the Little Granth for more than a day in either direction echoed dully. The Little Granth was at one of its narrowest points at Midbury, hence the reason the granary had been built here. The small town on the north side of the river had grown up long after it, when someone had taken on the responsibility for lighting the lantern to guide barges and ships bearing grain to its dock.

Rhydian led the weary refugees past a line of squat mercantile shops fronted by tall, painted façades declaring their purpose to the Ale House. He glanced automatically at the pediment, noting its tympanum had been painted white. Times were troubled, and such subtle signs told the Faithful the place was as safe as it could be in the Lowlands. He gave Solmyr a stern look before bounding up the steps and flinging the door open wide.

Inside, he glanced around, ignoring the patrons who lounged at its few tables until he found a familiar face. Garris! he called out, striding to where a young man reclined on a chair against the wall, his feet on the table. His chin rested on his chest, and the floppy leather cap upon his head shadowed a face framed with a mass of dark hair.

The chair legs thudded heavily against the wooden floor as Garris’ head snapped up at hearing his name. A broad grin of surprise and delight engulfed his face. He sprang up and moved to greet Rhydian with a hardy slap on the shoulder. Rhydian, he exclaimed as he examined the marshal from head to toe. It’s good to see you!

Rhydian grinned, and clapped the young man on the shoulder in return. It’s good to see you too. Right where I saw you last, in fact.

Garris laughed and beckoned at the inn’s only serving maid. Bring Rhydian something to eat and a glass of that apple brandy Gerald thinks is hidden behind the box of -.

Rhydian held up a hand and threw a dazzling smile over his shoulder at the young woman. Not yet, lovely, he told her, then turned back to Garris, his expression sobering. I have a dozen families outside. Hungry and tired with no place to go.

Garris’ expression immediately sobered. Bring them in. The garret is empty, they are welcome to it.

Reaching down to his belt, Rhydian removed a small, leather bag that jingled delightfully as he held it out. That’ll more than take care of it, I’m sure.

You know that’s not necessary, Garris protested weakly, knowing Rhydian would insist. He always did.

And you know you’re going to take it anyway, so let’s skip the argument. I’m hungry and tired, too, he paused, baring his teeth. Besides, the Bryn Dor who it came from suddenly didn’t need it anymore. Besides, I’ll need seven wagons for the families, let me know if you need a contribution from another Bryn Dor

When Garris took the bag with a hearty grin, Rhydian spun and headed out to round up the refugees. At his promise of food and drink and a warm place to sleep they shuffled inside with nervous steps. Upon being warmly welcomed by Garris and the serving maid several began to weep with relief.

It was hours before the families were, if not comfortably, safely ensconced in the garret overhead. Unlike most of the older inns and taverns across Esai, the Ale House had been built recently. It boasted a gambrel roof lined with dormer windows. The shallow slope of the upper roof combined with the steep pitch of the lower slope offered ample room for sleeping. Thus, rather than litter the floor of the common room with those who could not afford a more private one, patrons could – for a mere copper piece – sleep soundly and safely in the garret.

The only disadvantage, particularly with so many children, was the constant pounding on the wooden ceiling as they moved about, sometimes with enough force to shake dust free to rain down on those in the common room below.

Garris pulled the cap from his head and tossed it on the table where Rhydian had settled to watch the proceedings. Midbury was well known amongst the Faithful as a safe haven. Thus, those fleeing from further south or increasingly, from the east, often passed this way on their way to the safety of the Highland Horn. Garris had learned over the years how to shepherd and comfort them with relative ease. That meant that in spite of his apparent youth, Garris was one of most well-informed of those who continued to struggle against King Phylip and his damnable Ariskin.

It also meant the young man was wise beyond his years. He looked evenly at Rhydian and shook his head. What in the name of the Creator were you doing in Inveron?

I had a craving for salt trout, Rhydian replied smoothly. And all Esai knows the best salt trout can be found in Inveron.

Next you’ll tell me you visit Windmere for the sea bass! All Esai knows that Phylip is stirring up Loyalists everywhere, Garris returned pertly. But especially north of Winterhaven. He raked a hand through his dark hair and signaled to the serving maid. "He imposed another new tax, to give him an excuse to send out bailiffs