Seabird
Brannan Marec Mavrenn walked swiftly along the corridors of the Torrent Mountain Redoubt, carrying his harp case. Warriors, officers, and officials alike greeted him courteously, and although Brannan acknowledged them with a smile and a word or two, he did not pause.
The Redoubt, built deep into the mountain, had ancient roots. Part of a system of defences or shelters in times of conflict and war, it could house many troops and people who served the Citadel outside the fortress’s massive gates. The wide, high corridors glowed with hidden light sources as the Bard navigated through them. His route took him past the well-guarded doors to the Deep Redoubt, a further section off-limits to all who did not have a specific purpose in going there. Those corridors held the still-operative power systems and countless storage rooms. Vast spaces that once housed machines whose purpose was now forgotten loomed dark and mostly empty. The Archives and the Records Hall were also placed there, which contained Torrent Mountain’s most precious resource: knowledge. At another time, Brannan would have felt an inevitable curiosity about the secrets the chambers were said to hold, but now he scarcely glanced that way.
His heart pounded as he fought down a growing desperation. It had come down to this: that the Warlord he served had imprisoned his wife in the tower. Shock and grief had filled Brannan when Lord Raith came to him and reluctantly disclosed the news, giving the Bard little time to act to save her. Charges had been brought against Mara that she planned to effect the downfall of Lord Samir and the entire city-state by employing the black arts of the Alsar. To the Bard’s mind, the charges were incredible: lies spun by an enemy. He felt shaken that the Warlord chose to believe them.
But his vows as a Ruithin bard and Mavrenn’s Servant laid an initial claim upon him, even before Mara’s life. So first, he had placed his harp in the Music Conservatory with Master Nazar and secured a promise in the event of his death to return the treasured artifact to his homeland. Second, he took a particular garment stored in Mara’s chambers against such a dreaded possibility as this and hid it in his harp case. Now, if only he could reach Mara in time. Raith had disclosed that the Warlord would shortly arrive at the tower and that he threatened her life.
“I tried my best to dissuade him, Brannan,” Raith told the Bard. “Samir will not listen to me. This is unlike him, the man who holds cool counsel in matters of war and considers all the options. Perhaps you can reason with him.”
Deep shock gripped Brannan as he hurried to implement his rescue plan. His palms sweated, although his skin felt ice cold. The tower portal loomed before him, and he slipped inside. Calm…be calm. I will do this. He took a deep breath and steadied himself, falling back on his bardic training and self-discipline. No one challenged him as yet, but Brannan knew that would change at the end of the long, winding stairway.
As he climbed the broad stone steps, a creeping sensation gripped his neck and back as if someone walked close behind him, and he knew that the fear of Samir’s unreasoning wrath caused it. The Bard reflected that the Warlord, while utterly ruthless in battle when the occasion demanded it, had strong codes of ethics and behaviour: he valued loyalty, integrity and honour above all other qualities, and the thought that his wife could betray him would be intolerable.
Her accusers had discovered and twisted a truth; Mara was partly of the Alsar race, and people of many city-states, including Torrent Mountain, speculated on their rumoured abilities. Brannan knew the Alsar’s powers were real. Nijal had been in and out of Brannan’s life for the more significant part of it, and, while secretive about many things, the Guardian had let slip enough information for Brannan to deduce some facts. He knew that the Nijal’s people communicated telepathically with each other on a wide scale and that, somehow, their gathered minds could wield forces of nature. Still, he had never known Mara to employ such powers to influence those around her— unlike himself, who was not Alsar.
Climbing onwards, the Bard tried to focus. However, the message concerning the coming strangers remained. He had not yet had a chance to talk to Lord Samir as planned. If he perished, Nijal would have to find another way, as the Warlord was uniquely placed among the city-state leaders to coordinate effective defences between them.
The stairs seemed endless. Located on the mountain’s face but attached to it on one side, the tower soared upward from a rocky promontory. Far below him in the stairwell, the Bard heard a sound and wondered if the Warlord’s party followed behind him. The overwhelming sense of urgency increased.
On the upper level, Brannan passed a side room door and knew he had one flight of stairs left. As he suspected, two guards confronted him outside the top chamber door and crossed their spears, barring his way. They wore polished bronze cuirasses and pauldrons, with swords at their sides, proclaiming the seriousness of this duty.
“Marec Mavrenn, Lord! No one is allowed in, not even you,” said one guard.
“As Lady Mara’s priest, I come to offer her solace. Such an action on your part goes against all reason, even in these circumstances.”
“Nevertheless, Lord Samir has given us our orders, and we dare not disobey them,” the other guard stated.
Brannan thought back to what Lord Raith had disclosed. “The Warlord follows me and will be here shortly,” Brannan replied, forcing himself to adopt a calm and reasonable tone. “The Lady is entitled to the comfort of her bard on this occasion.” “Regretfully, we must ask you to wait until Lord Samir arrives. On his word, we will let you in,” the first guard replied. “Very well, I will wait,” the Bard said agreeably, setting the harp case down. He needed the guards to believe his pretence of waiting, to put them at ease. Brannan had to get the garment hidden in the harp case to Mara before anyone, especially the Warlord, could intervene. He could not risk returning down the stairway with her, leaving him with only one other means to effect her escape.
As the guards lowered their weapons, Brannan whirled into action. He seized the shaft of the first guard’s weapon and used it to push the second guard against the wall, causing him to drop his spear. As the man reached instead for his sheathed sword, Brannan spun in a kick to the first one’s forehead. The guard collapsed to the floor with an audible thump, knocked unconscious by the blow. Narrowly avoiding the remaining guard’s sweeping sword, the Bard jabbed his stiffened fingers into the side of the man’s neck, pressing into a point that caused him to crash backward against the stone wall, insensate.
Filled with apprehension, Brannan shook his hand, relieved that nothing seemed to be broken, and breathed deeply. There was no going back now. Although he refused to kill the guards, who were merely performing their duty, he knew the Warlord would not forgive him. Seven Turns, seven winters serving in this foreign land, and he faced the futility of it all. At the moment of her greatest joy, Mara had been swept into terror. But he had no time now for introspection. Kneeling, he removed a large key from one of the unconscious bodies. Using it to unlock the door and unbar it, the Bard called out to the prisoner within.
“Stand clear, my Lady!”
He snatched up the weapons, tucking them awkwardly under his arm, picked up his harp case, and manoeuvred through the doorway.
The Bard’s eyes immediately fastened on the one he had come for. Mara turned from the window embrasure to face him, a cloak wrapped around her slender form, her long black hair cascading down from the hood, and her midnight-blue eyes staring back at him from a pale face. A few snowflakes touched, then melted like tears on her cheeks. The wide- open window overlooking the sheer mountainside allowed the lightly falling snow to drift inside and settle on the stone f loor, for the tower room was unheated. Brannan’s heart broke for his Lady’s plight.
But he hesitated only momentarily before striding to the window and hurling the weapons through it, save for one sword. “Brannan?” Mara’s voice trembled slightly. “What is happening?”
“Quickly, open my harp case and put on the garment inside. I collected Cyndyllan’s gift from your chambers. It presents a chance for you to escape through the window. I hope you recall your skills in using it. We have little time, for Samir is on his way here. Raith came to me. Samir knows your mother is Alsar and is convinced you bewitched him. Apparently, you plan to destroy him and the entire city-state of Torrent Mountain through your child.”
Mara’s face paled more as she heard the Bard’s words, even as she obeyed him without question.
“He confronted me before imprisoning me here,” she replied. “I did not even have time to send you a message. He asked me, and I told him; perhaps I should have lied, but…”
“I know,” Brannan forestalled her. “You were raised by the Ruithin, as was I. The truth is a sacred trust.”
“Is he coming to kill me?” she asked bluntly.
Brannan forced himself to speak. “Yes. Raith believes so, and he has always harboured a special regard for you.”
“Madness! My husband has taken leave of his senses!” Mara exclaimed as she pulled out the case’s contents. Then: “The wind-suit! King Cyndyllan’s wedding present that he sent me from Yrys! I never understood such a strange and costly gift. However, it becomes clear to me now. Our King in ArMorica has been known for his prescience.”
“You were wed to Lord Samir under threat of his invasion of our King’s land,” the Bard said. “It takes little prescience to suspect trouble might come of it.”
Brannan watched Mara hold out the suit to examine it. Used by messengers in the mountain fastnesses of his country, a wind-suit was designed to increase the wind’s resistance against a vertical fall, allowing the wearer to glide at a near-horizontal downward angle for great distances. Broad panels of cloth extended each side of the suit, running from wrist to ankle, and another piece filled the space between the legs, maximizing the body’s total surface area. Made of windsilk, a fabric renowned in Brannan’s homeland of ArMorica in the distant north for its spectacular warmth, water resistance, breathability, and minimal weight, it could let its wearer glide for long distances in mountainous regions. The windsilk makers carefully guarded the secret of its forming, and few could afford to have a garment of such material.
“Hurry, put it on. But first, put these food cakes in your pocket. They will provide both nutrients and energy. You can carry no other supplies with you.”
Mara dropped her thick cloak on the floor, and the Bard helped her unfasten her over-gown to reveal leggings and a fitted shirt of fine black wool beneath. It would have to do.
“I fear for you in this cold. The wind will be fierce when you leap,” Brannan told her as he helped her into the strange, white, one-piece garment.
“As Samir now knows, my mother’s Alsar blood runs in my veins. I can speed up my body’s ability to heat itself, but the process can be exhausting. The windsilk fabric will keep me warm like your cloak does for you.”
“I hope your ability will protect you and the child in your womb,” Brannan said with heartfelt concern as he fastened the straps of the drift pack attached to her back. He ran the pull cord over her shoulder and clipped it to the front. “Remember to—”
But at that moment, loud and angry voices from the stairway interrupted their speech.
Brannan swept up the sword and stood between the Lady and the open doorway. His heart thundered in his chest. “Quickly, get to the window. Now!”
Men stormed into the room, with the Warlord in the lead, carrying his longsword unsheathed, and his furious countenance told the Bard all he needed to know. He faced a man with the nature of an angered tiger. Lord Samir stood before him, his tall, powerful body poised to strike with the naked blade in his grip. The pupils of his eyes were pinpoints in an icy grey sea, denoting out-of-control emotions. Brannan had only ever seen such rage in him in the heat of battle.
“YOU!” Lord Samir shouted. “Stand down or die, Bard. You shall not stop me in this.”
“Lord Samir, please reconsider this rash action. Mara has done you no harm.”
“My wife is exposed as a sorceress plotting against me. Until now, I believed you served me faithfully. Do you stand with her or with me?”
Brannan’s reply spilled from his lips. “And I believed you loved her deeply. You have never before shown her cruelty. I can scarcely credit you as the same man I have served all these Turns and held in such high regard. Will you now give in to fear? How can her accusers have swayed your thoughts so easily?”
“Do you, of all people, not understand the danger? You who have been at my side in the direst of situations? Will you turn against me now, Brannan? Stand aside! This is your last warning.”
“I cannot support this, my Lord!”
“Then you will die!” The Warlord lunged forward, the guards accompanying him.
“STAND BACK!” he roared. “They are mine.”
“Mara, go now!” Brannan cried out in desperation, even as he parried Lord Samir’s onslaught, but the Lady crouched in the window as if frozen.
The Warlord’s massive blade swung at the Bard, forcing his full attention. It barely missed him as he executed a roll, coming up at Samir’s side with his sword raised two-handed. Brannan desperately fought off each blow, but without attacking, as the ringing of blade-on-blade echoed in his ears. Each blocked strike sent shivering vibrations through his arms, threatening to break them. The Warlord came at him again, forcing him back, closer to Mara. The tip of the longsword ripped Brannan’s shirt when he tried to defend himself, but he ignored the stinging pain in his breast as blood splashed his clothing. The Bard could not let Samir reach his wife, but it was only a matter of moments. He knew he could not last.
The Warlord’s ice-cold rage forced Brannan to his knees as, with a mighty blow, the longsword came crashing down. Brannan brought his blade up with both hands, gripping the steel to avoid its edge, and blocked the strike, even as he yielded to its force, allowing it to dissipate. But Samir’s massive blade shattered the Bard’s sword as if it were made of wood. Brannan rolled backward and climbed to his feet, unsteady and wavering now, despair flooding his body.
The end of the fight came quickly. With a surprise lunge, the Warlord buried the blade in Brannan’s abdomen, not bothering to twist it as he would have in war. The Bard cried out in agony. Bright red blood flowed, staining the floor. Paralyzed by the pain, Brannan sprawled on the flagstones, helplessly watching his life ebbing away as the Warlord stepped over his body in an attempt to reach his wife.
Through his rapidly diminishing vision, the Bard glimpsed Mara one last time as she launched herself from the window and leapt into the void with a wild cry like a seabird. Samir reached the opening, gripping the stone sill, and shouted, but the words were far away and unintelligible. The Bard’s heart fluttered like a frightened sparrow’s, and he struggled to breathe. His dimming eyes glimpsed corridors made of shadow, where a misty and somehow familiar figure beckoned him, and he sank into darkness.
To be continued...
