armor.”
“Aye, they’re a sorry lot, these kings of men. And I’d have no influence over them if they hadn’t respected my father so much. And hadn’t forgiven him for not fathering a son.”
And if they knew the truth about me, they’d have me drawn and quartered, my name struck from the records. But the Goddess, bless her holy name, she gives me knowledge of her rituals and apparently cares not about how I became Skald of the Land.
“Don’t sell yourself short, my love,” Kerenthos says. “You did convince them to gather here, and you’ve proven your worth to the Kingdoms of the East many times over.”
“I’ll give them the tale and do what I can to encourage them. Then you and I can guard the Sacred Isle. Together there we can be happy for a little while longer. And if the army fails, my skills will be needed to rally our people.”
Kerenthos’s response is interrupted by a page who reports that all the kings are now assembled.
Bregissa climbs onto a stage and sounds three sharp notes on the Horn of Valyn. Silence falls over a host eager to hear about their enemy. Hints and rumors are all they’ve had, pieces of a history humanity had wished to forget.
“Ages ago,” she says, summoning all the natural power she can into her voice, “the witch-king Khuar-na led a warped race of beings like unto men through a magical gate, fleeing their dying world and invading ours. Men named them the Skithikri and learned to fear their twisted sorceries and the fell, reptilian beasts they commanded.
“Our climate displeased the Skithikri, so through sorcery the witch-king bound streams and rivers, rain and winds, to create parched scrublands and deserts. Farms failed and many thousands died. Those who remained, the Skithikri enslaved.
“Yet our ancestors continued. As the centuries passed, their numbers increased, and so too did their will to be free. At last, humanity rose up against its oppressors. The great hero Palamaron struck down the witch-king. Rain returned to the parched scrublands. Streams flowed again. Sprigs of green shot forth, and young ones played under fast-growing trees that soon became forests. Our nations grew and prospered.
“But he was not dead this king of the Skithikri. He retreated deep into the earth. As the centuries passed, his injuries healed. Many prophets said this would be the case, but so much time passed that people doubted and then ultimately forgot.
“Until the witch-king returned three months ago and brought forth the last of his dread race that had remained hidden in the West: Ten thousand of them, strong, eager, deadly.”
“What is this Khuar-na like?” shouts one of the kings.
“We know little, your majesty, save that he rides a giant, draconic beast the size of a fortress, a monster from ancient times, a companion earned in sorcery but bonded by like spirit. The beast is named the Scorch-Walker. Its hide is supposedly impenetrable, and like Khuar-na, its lifespan limitless.
“Powerful sorceries guard the witch-king from harm, but he has a vulnerability: the touch of a white-steel blade. The metal of the Bright Moon can cut through the enchantments that guard him.
“Only three among us have white-steel weapons, though, so let us pray that our muskets and cannons can accomplish what the more primitive weapons of our ancestors could not.
“Kings of the East, our goal is clear. We must unite to prevent the witch-king from destroying us. Though the nations of the West have already fallen, we are stronger. Together, we can prevail.
“I have no more to tell you. The rest is up to you. May the Goddess bless us.”
Heads nod. Murmurs spread. Voices strengthen, and arguments begin. Who will lead the army? Whose forces will form the vanguard? How will the cost of the war be divided amongst them? How will they guard against treachery in the empty castles they leave behind?
Kerenthos places a hand on Bregissa’s shoulder.
“It doesn’t take long for
“Aye, they’re a sorry lot, these kings of men. And I’d have no influence over them if they hadn’t respected my father so much. And hadn’t forgiven him for not fathering a son.”
And if they knew the truth about me, they’d have me drawn and quartered, my name struck from the records. But the Goddess, bless her holy name, she gives me knowledge of her rituals and apparently cares not about how I became Skald of the Land.
“Don’t sell yourself short, my love,” Kerenthos says. “You did convince them to gather here, and you’ve proven your worth to the Kingdoms of the East many times over.”
“I’ll give them the tale and do what I can to encourage them. Then you and I can guard the Sacred Isle. Together there we can be happy for a little while longer. And if the army fails, my skills will be needed to rally our people.”
Kerenthos’s response is interrupted by a page who reports that all the kings are now assembled.
Bregissa climbs onto a stage and sounds three sharp notes on the Horn of Valyn. Silence falls over a host eager to hear about their enemy. Hints and rumors are all they’ve had, pieces of a history humanity had wished to forget.
“Ages ago,” she says, summoning all the natural power she can into her voice, “the witch-king Khuar-na led a warped race of beings like unto men through a magical gate, fleeing their dying world and invading ours. Men named them the Skithikri and learned to fear their twisted sorceries and the fell, reptilian beasts they commanded.
“Our climate displeased the Skithikri, so through sorcery the witch-king bound streams and rivers, rain and winds, to create parched scrublands and deserts. Farms failed and many thousands died. Those who remained, the Skithikri enslaved.
“Yet our ancestors continued. As the centuries passed, their numbers increased, and so too did their will to be free. At last, humanity rose up against its oppressors. The great hero Palamaron struck down the witch-king. Rain returned to the parched scrublands. Streams flowed again. Sprigs of green shot forth, and young ones played under fast-growing trees that soon became forests. Our nations grew and prospered.
“But he was not dead this king of the Skithikri. He retreated deep into the earth. As the centuries passed, his injuries healed. Many prophets said this would be the case, but so much time passed that people doubted and then ultimately forgot.
“Until the witch-king returned three months ago and brought forth the last of his dread race that had remained hidden in the West: Ten thousand of them, strong, eager, deadly.”
“What is this Khuar-na like?” shouts one of the kings.
“We know little, your majesty, save that he rides a giant, draconic beast the size of a fortress, a monster from ancient times, a companion earned in sorcery but bonded by like spirit. The beast is named the Scorch-Walker. Its hide is supposedly impenetrable, and like Khuar-na, its lifespan limitless.
“Powerful sorceries guard the witch-king from harm, but he has a vulnerability: the touch of a white-steel blade. The metal of the Bright Moon can cut through the enchantments that guard him.
“Only three among us have white-steel weapons, though, so let us pray that our muskets and cannons can accomplish what the more primitive weapons of our ancestors could not.
“Kings of the East, our goal is clear. We must unite to prevent the witch-king from destroying us. Though the nations of the West have already fallen, we are stronger. Together, we can prevail.
“I have no more to tell you. The rest is up to you. May the Goddess bless us.”
Heads nod. Murmurs spread. Voices strengthen, and arguments begin. Who will lead the army? Whose forces will form the vanguard? How will the cost of the war be divided amongst them? How will they guard against treachery in the empty castles they leave behind?
Kerenthos places a hand on Bregissa’s shoulder.
“It doesn’t take long for
Similar Books
