“Broken bones are easy to set,” she said. “But be careful anyway.”

  He admired her confidence. Yet she also seemed worried for his safety. The soldiers he knew would only have joked, and her concern touched a chord in him.

  He commenced to climb. It was slow going, yet he resisted the urge to hasten. There would be no second chance if he fell.

  There were handholds in rough crevices, and his boots gained purchase on outthrusts of hard stone. He ascended, oblivious to the loud hum of insects in the distance, the sweat that beaded on his forehead or the trickles of blood on his hands from sharp-edged rocks.

  It was his protected foot that slipped, though. The leather sole of a shoe, that had seemed secure against a rock, gave way and he dangled from two arms, little more than his fingers keeping him in place. He groaned with strain and heard a gasp from below.

  Agony shot through his hands, and fear crashed against his mind. He ignored everything and concentrated only on finding a little ledge or hollow where he could secure the toe of a boot and help support his weight. His seeking feet found nothing.

  He could not carry his weight by his arms forever. Better to take a risk now, while there was still strength in them, than later. He swung his body carefully from side to side and then reached out with a hand for a large crevice where he could improve his grip.

  Rocks and dirt showered down the cliff face, and his chest and legs scraped over the ragged surface, but his new grip held and he found a foothold as well. He stayed still, the only movement the heaving of his chest and stomach, which pressed into the stone as he breathed. He stayed that way for some time, and then he began to climb again.

  He came within reach of the karanthrot. It was a small plant, broad of leaf and with succulent, crimson stalks. There were several flowers too, the petals cream with a pink center. He was not sure which part contained the antidote: stalk, leaf or flower, so he pulled the whole plant. There were barely any roots, and it came away easily. He stuffed it into a pocket of his tunic.

  He climbed down slowly and let out a long sigh when he reached the bottom. Arell flashed him a brilliant smile, though there was concern in her eyes, and then threw him his reins and sprang upon her horse.

  Race to the King

  They raced along the narrow track between bank and lake.

  Mist swirled ahead of them. Brand, in the lead, unexpectedly saw a tall man on the path. He was dressed in black, hooded, and with a long sword sheathed at his side. In his hands was a bow, strung and fitted with a steel-headed arrow.

  The archer stood poised and alert, a tethered horse some way behind him. Was he a hunter? No. The assassin had learned of their mission or followed on mere suspicion.

  Brand could not turn on the narrow trail. Nor could he ride up the steep bank or into the water. The archer knew it. He raised his weapon, and Brand did the only thing left to him. He urged his horse onward and tried to run the figure down. It was a desperate ploy. The assassin could not miss, but maybe Arell would get a chance to break through and escape.

  The great stallion responded. Loose sand and rock churned beneath its iron-shod hooves. The archer fired. Brand, leaning low in the saddle, glimpsed the long arrow streak toward him and flinched. He felt a hammer-like blow in the bunched muscles between his shoulder and neck that nearly knocked him to the ground. Searing pain shot through him as the horse surged forward.

  The assassin, suddenly aware of his danger, tried to leap off the path into the water, but the black stallion crashed into him.

  Brand groaned in pain as he pulled up his horse. The arrow was stuck in his flesh, but he twisted and looked over his shoulder. The bowman staggered to his feet while the girl, quick as dancing flame, rode close and struck at his neck with a flashing hand.

  Only after Brand saw the spurt of blood did he notice the slender blade in her grip. She had precisely targeted an artery, and the man reeled back, fell and swiftly died while his hands tried futilely to stem the flow.

  The assassin’s hood had fallen back, but Brand did not recognize him. The queen would have to have his body retrieved for identification.

  Brand watched Arell through the haze of his agony. She came to him swiftly, helped him dismount and laid him gently on his side. She studied his wound professionally, working with speed and efficiency, and then prepared strips of cloth.

  She looked him in the eyes. “It could be worse,” she said.

  Brand spoke through gritted teeth. “It hurts … like the blazes!”

  “But you’re alive to feel it.”

  He waited as she ordered her thoughts.

  “The arrow-head has nearly pierced right though you,” she said. “I can feel it bulging out the skin on the other side of the wound.”

  He had seen arrow wounds treated before and prepared himself.

  “If I pull the arrow, you might bleed profusely.”

  He nodded.

  “If I don’t pull it, you won’t be able to ride. It’ll be a long wait for help to arrive.”

  “Do it,” he said. “The sooner the wound bleeds the less chance of festering.”

  Arell appraised him, assessing his ability to endure pain.

  “Hold still,” she said. For a moment her eyes showed sympathy, but there was no lessening of her confidence. She steadied the shaft and with deft movements of her knife shaved away the fletching.

  When she was done, she looked at him once more in warning. Brand clenched his jaw, and she pushed the arrow through smoothly. He groaned and fainted. When he woke a few moments later, pain roared through him, but the arrow was gone and cloth staunched his bleeding.

  His mind cleared. “Take the karanthrot and go,” he said. “I’ll be alright now. The king needs you more.”

  She shook her head. “I’m not leaving you here. The wound needs cleaning, proper dressings and an unguent to stop it from turning bad. The quicker all that’s done the better.”

  She helped him up. Once mounted, he felt as though he might just manage to stay on. The pain was lessening, and his sight had cleared. He saw the concern on her face and attempted a smile to ease her worry.

  “Let’s go!” he said. “But if I fall, take the antidote and save the king. You can come back for me.”

  She did not answer. Nor did he fall on the journey back. As evening shot red shafts of light against Cardoroth’s buildings they thundered through the city gate. By the time long shadows glided down the streets they raced over cobbles, driving sparks against the blackness. It was night when they rushed through the palace and came breathless to the king’s chamber.

  The King’s Chamber

  Gilhain yet lived. The lòhren still muttered words of power but was slumped across the chair like a felled tree. All eyes looked their way as Barathar and the queen hastened toward them. She noted Brand’s bloodied tunic, but he spoke first.

  “We have it!”

  He pulled the karanthrot from his pocket, which he had broken down to its components of stem, leaf and flower. He looked hard at Barathar. Were his guesses about the healer near the mark? He decided to find out, whatever the consequences, and held forth his cupped hands.

  “Which part contains the antidote?”

  Barathar glanced at Arell. “My assistant knows – she’ll dispense it.”

  “You’re the healer,” Brand said. “Come! Heal the king.”

  He pushed his hands forward. “Choose!”

  Barathar reached out a tentative hand. It trembled, and he snatched it back. His mouth opened, but he found no words to speak.

  Brand turned to Arell. “Will you tend the king, healer?”

  She looked at him with wide eyes. He saw her hesitation as she realized that he would make enemies by this action. He pushed his hands forward, and she took the opportunity he offered. She plucked only the thick stem and moved purposefully to the bed.

  The queen’s sharp eyes bored into Barathar. “Why did you refuse to heal your king?”

  The healer stepped back.

  “He can’t,” Brand said. “Arell obviously knows more. She’s the true healer, and though I’d trust my life to her skill, the people in this city look only to bearded old men to tend them.”

  Barathar spoke at last. “You might trust her, but few would pay a hedgerow witch to heal them. I took her in my service, shared some profits with her. And this is my reward?” He shot a venomous glance at Arell’s back. “Where’s her loyalty?”

  Brand grunted and watched as she squeezed juice from the karanthrot stem into the king’s mouth.

  “Loyalty is earned,” he said, “not traded like a trinket in the market.”

  The king coughed. His labored breathing eased, and it seemed that he drifted into sleep rather than the shadow-dreams of fever.

  The lòhren's muttering gradually softened and then stopped. He straightened in his chair; the oaken staff dropped from his hands and clattered on the floor.

  “The king will live,” he rasped. Then he buried his head in his hands.

  Light shone in the queen’s eyes. She turned them on Barathar, and they narrowed to dark slits.

  “Brand has ensured the girl will not want for patients now. She healed the king and word will spread. You, and many others, will lose clients to her. Starting with my family.”

  The white-smocked men in the room shuffled uncomfortably. They cast brooding glances at Brand, but he did not give a damn what they thought. He looked at Arell and she flashed him a smile. His decision might cost him, but he would live with it.

  3. The Helm of the Duthenor

  Brand looked across the table and studied the man who sat opposite. He knew only three things about him. His name was Felargin. For joining a risky venture he offered as reward something Brand wanted. And the man intended to kill him before he could claim it.

  The usual tavern noises were about them; sudden laughter in response to jests, loud speech and the clatter of empty mugs collected by nimble-fingered maids. Brand allowed none of them to distract him.

  The first two things he was supposed to know, but not the third. He might have come from the wild lands of the Duthenor to the city of Cardoroth, but that did not mean he was stupid. Felargin had agreed too readily to give the Helm of the Duthenor as payment from the treasure; an artifact that would outweigh Brand’s share of the enterprise. Also, there was something in the man’s eyes that did not spark to life regardless of his easy smile.

  Felargin leaned over the table, his knobby arms devoid of muscle. “Are we agreed, then?”

  Brand sipped his ale. “Very well, I’ll meet you and the others at the South Gate in three days.”

  Felargin leaned back. “Make it at dawn,” he said. “We’ll be waiting for you.” He rose and walked out to the street on legs like sticks.

  Brand sat alone in deep thought. Had he just agreed to a venture that would cost him his life? Perhaps, yet the risk was worth it. What warrior among his people would pass up the chance to obtain a legendary heirloom of the Duthenor? And though he did not trust Felargin, it was hard to imagine what threat the weakling could pose. It would be prudent to consult Aranloth though. The lòhren was a friend, wise in the ways of the world and adept at magic, and that was something to take advantage of.

  He was going to spend the next few hours in quiet contemplation of the task ahead. At least, that was his intention. It was clear from the expression on the face of the man who now approached that he would not be left alone to do so.

  The man sauntered over and sat down uninvited in Felargin’s chair. He was tall, with multiple scars running along his arms and a single white line across his neck. He did not carry a sword and Brand took him for a knife fighter. It was something to keep in mind.

  “You and that skinny feller seem to have had a nice chat.”

  Brand frowned. “Hardly cause for comment at an inn.”

  “I don’t much like your tone,” answered the newcomer.

  “If you don’t like it, there are plenty of other tables to sit at,” Brand said pointedly.

  The man laughed. “You’d like that,” he said. He tapped a finger against his nose. “I have a feel for things from time to time. I know when things are happening. That Felargin has been hanging around here a lot. Won’t tell nobody what he’s about though. But I got an idea it’s something big. I’ve heard the word treasure a few times.”

  “Some people say good manners are a treasure. You shouldn’t eavesdrop on private conversations.”

  The newcomer smiled at him coldly, and Brand noticed his right hand drop casually under the table.

  “We can do this the easy way or the hard way. One way or another, you’re going to tell me about the treasure. I just might want to have a look for it myself.”

  Brand decided things had gone far enough. It was obvious that the man had slipped a hidden knife from beneath his sleeve into his hand and was about to threaten him. He lashed out with his right foot and felt his heavy boot smash the man’s hand against the bottom of the table. The knife clattered against the timber floor and the newcomer rocked out of his chair and staggered up.

  In one motion Brand stood, kicked the blade out of reach, and sent his fist crashing into the man’s stomach. It struck with a satisfying thud. The newcomer collapsed, winded and unable to speak.

  “It’s been a nice chat,” Brand said, and walked out into the night.

  The evening air was cold and he cursed himself. If he did not have such a smart mouth, and a tendency to violence, he would still be enjoying the warmth of the tavern and another drink. He should have spun a story for the scarred man and made him into a friend instead of an enemy. Always he was too quick to fight, and always he regretted it afterward, but he made the same mistake time and again.

  A Gift

  The next morning, when he called on the lòhren in his rooms at the palace, Aranloth opened the door and looked at him knowingly. His sea-gray eyes, as ever, absorbed everything but revealed nothing of himself.

  He invited Brand in. “You’ve come to me with a purpose,” he said, “and not merely to pass the time of day.”

  Brand’s pulse quickened. “You’ve seen a vision?”

  Aranloth chuckled. “I’ve seen no visions. But when a warrior knocks on the door of a lòhren with a frown on his face it means he wants advice. There’s no magic in seeing that.”

  Brand told him of Felargin and the planned venture, and Aranloth listened attentively.

  “Did he say why he picked you?”

  “He told me he was looking for five of the best warriors in Cardoroth. He said I’d proven myself as such since my coming to the city.”

  Aranloth nodded. “Well, for someone who hasn’t been here long you’ve earned a reputation. Trouble follows in your footsteps. You started as a wanderer, became a soldier and then a captain in the king’s army almost overnight.”

  Brand grinned. “If trouble comes my way I won’t back away from it. The king seems to like that.”

  Aranloth looked thoughtful before speaking again. “Did Felargin say why he wanted only five warriors?”

  “He told me it would be enough to deal with any problems but not so many that the treasure would be spread too thin.”

  The lòhren grunted. “I don’t suppose he told you how he knows where the treasure is?”

  “He was vague. He only said that he thought something guarded it, but swore he knew exactly where it was. I don’t trust him, but I’m sure he wasn’t lying about that.”

  “I don’t think so either,” Aranloth said thoughtfully. “That’s what worries me. Legends of the treasure have been circulating for decades. Everyone has heard the tale of Shurilgar the Sorcerer and the wealth he acquired by the betrayal of nations. Many have sought his lair near Cardoroth, but nobody has ever found it. At least, nobody that returned to tell.”

  “You think there’ll be danger, then?”

  Aranloth raised an eyebrow. “You know it. You know also that Felargin doesn’t intend to share the treasure and will try to kill you. Is the helm you seek, the heirloom of a long dead Duthenor chieftain, worth it?”

  Brand answered without hesitation. “That chieftain was a relative of mine and came close to uniting all the tribes together. My people revere him and the immortal Halathrin gave the helm to him as a gift. They crafted it with unmatched skill and it’s worth more than all other Duthenor treasures combined. With the helm on my head I could lead my tribe.”

  “You don’t need the helm – you’re the rightful chieftain by birth.”

  “Maybe so,” Brand said quietly, “but with my parents killed and the chieftainship usurped, I need all the help I can get. You know I intend to reclaim it one day, but it won’t be easy. The helm will aid me more than a crown.”

  “I won’t try to persuade you against the venture. But though I haven’t seen any visions, I think you’ll encounter sorcery.”

  The lòhren gave him a gold ring. “This may help. If you’re faced with magic, remove it from your finger.”

  Brand studied the ring, but it was unremarkable. “What use will it be if I take it off?”

  “Just remember!” Aranloth said. “Things aren’t always what they seem. You don’t have to be a lòhren to understand that, do you?”

  Brand spoke a little more with him, and then left his rooms. Aranloth wished him well when they parted, and he could see worry in his eyes, but he had a good feeling. The ring, whatever it could do, was on his finger, and he had a true-bladed sword by his side. Still, as he made his way along the cobbled streets, he could not help feeling a twinge of doubt. Felargin was not to be trusted, but what kind of trouble could such a weakling contrive?

  The Quest Begins

  The days passed without event and at the appointed time he rode from his barracks to Cardoroth’s South Gate.

  Felargin, looking like a scarecrow fashioned from sticks, waited on a placid chestnut mare and four warriors were with him. After quick introductions they passed through the gate and traveled south-west, Felargin in the lead. Brand considered them all as they rode.

 

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