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A chance meeting changes the course of Holt's life. Recruited as guard to the King's daughter, he pursues without hope when she is abducted. Facing her fearsome captor, he sets in motion forces of love and hate, enmity and devotion that will shape their future, and the fate of all the Nine Realms.

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Details
Publisher	Writers Exchange E-Publishing
Author	Christine Davidson
Recommended Minimum Age	12+
ISBN Number	1920972242
Word Count	104,591
Price:	$4.95

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Chapter One A CHAMPION OF THE SHEAN There always had been Shean who were strong and athletic, Shean who were bold, and some who thought for themselves. There were even a few with minds open enough to thirst for knowledge of the world beyond their immediate confines--though these, it must be admitted, often came to a bad end, at least according to the standards of their solid countrymen. Seldom indeed were all these attributes to be found in one individual; but the Shean that rode into the wilds of Ullursland this fine spring morning was just such a rarity. Holtworth Goodfellow, twenty-five years old and so of age to claim all the advantages of adulthood, as well as a not inconsiderable inheritance, was choosing instead to leave it all behind to indulge a most un-Shean-like desire to travel to the King's City. What he meant to do there, even he himself would probably be hard pressed to say. Shean were not held in much regard among the tall, proud and often haughty Fir Domnan, their overlords. Most of these, if they troubled to consider Shean at all, reckoned them good farmers, even good hunters; but in other respects, slow of wit, crude in lifestyle, timid and secretive to a fault. But Yeoman Goodfellow was far from typical in at least one of these features. In the first place, he was on an old, little-used trackway, alone. In addition, he wore a mail shirt beneath his leather buffcoat, a round pot-helm on his head, and at his side a small, square shield blazoned with a white bull's head. That such things even existed in the peaceful Commonality of Shean would surprise many. Built almost like a Rockman, strong and sturdy, this Shean knew himself a champion in the sports his countrymen enjoyed: wrestling, archery, weight lifting and tossing, and of course Skarmuch, the mock-battle tournaments that kept Shean youth from too much scrumpy cider and sighing after women. So the flower of Westergarth rode out, sword at his side and bow at his back. If any Shean might be capable of fending for himself among the hazards that lay outside his homeland, it must be Yeoman Holtworth Goodfellow, and surely he should be pardoned for thinking so. Early mist shrouded the outland hills, but was soon dispersed by the quickening spring sun. The old, grass-grown roadway the rider followed ran at first through young, open woodland of oak and ash, filled with vibrant birdsong. After some miles the trees petered out into an expanse of heather and gorse, and the track narrowed, dropping down into a shallow valley, its mild slopes covered with yellow flowers borne on a sea of spines. Here the air was quiet, save for a lone, red-throated linnet that trilled from the top of a bush. The horse picked his way on with slackened pace, and suddenly the bird fled with a whirr of wings, chittering loudly as five figures appeared across the path. Dark, tangled hair spread over their shoulders, but was caught up on the crown into a topknot fixed with smears of clay. Though tall, they had skin far less pale than King's Folk, though nowhere near as dark as Holt's own. Their clothes seemed made chiefly of undressed animal skins, pieced haphazardly together. Their faces were barred with stripes of charcoal and ochre; two of the figures bore long, wickerwork shields daubed in the same colours. Their belts seemed festooned with weapons, an assortment of knives and axes, but they had no bows. They stood unmoving, waiting for the rider to approach. He drew rein and looked at the men. Their appearance was quite unlike that of any of the occasional travellers he had seen passing through Westergarth, and he had no idea who they might be. They were five, and he was alone. He might have unslung his bow and shot all of them before they managed to come up to him; but this he could not do. Shean never shot anything without sufficient reason: wolves that preyed on young lambs, or something that was good to eat. Instinct prompted conciliation. He could see these were men, his own kind if of different race; they were not misshapen gangrels-- as Shean called the several types of light-hating Firbolg whose chief pleasure lay in violence and torment. Possibly these folk had some title here. He touched his mount with his heels and walked slowly down toward them. One of the men, the leader perhaps, said something to the others in a strange tongue, whereupon they laughed. A chill wind stirred the hair on the young Shean's neck. He turned in the saddle, to discover his only route of escape blocked by two more men, who must have lain hidden beneath the bushes as he passed. Too late, he realised he should have been more alert for the tiny signs that would have marked their presence. Now the others were moving deliberately toward him. They had picked their spot well; on either side of the road the thorny bushes grew densely together, and while he might be able to squirm swiftly away beneath them he would not leave his horse and all his gear, which was perhaps just what they desired. You should have listened to what that Sentinel said, the voice of hindsight prompted. You thought it was just the usual Longshanks put-down, but you ought to have realised King's Men know their job. Better than an idiot Shean; no use being able to track down a rogue lynx like you did last year, if you're wool-gathering when a little observation might save your skin. A bit quicker, and you could have got out of this. As it is, you'll have to take your chances. He grasped the hilt of his sword. Seven to one was a tall order, literally, for a Shean, even a large one on horseback, but he hoped a show of confidence would enable him to buy his way out by handing over some, perhaps all, of his money and food; both of which could soon be replenished by some honest work. Horse and weapons he had no intention of giving up. The men's laughter cut off abruptly as the leader brandished his axe. Suddenly, the young Yeoman understood as he gazed into the cold, brutal faces that he stood to lose more than his property. These men meant business, and it looked as though that business included murder. * * * * * * * He had met the Knight-Sentinel the previous day, his second on the road, and first beyond the bounds of Westergarth. The night before he had stayed at the Border House in Kingscourt, an inn that counted as cosmopolitan in the conservative sheadings of the Commonality, since it catered to Outsiders who followed the King's Highway south; indeed, they were not permitted to put up anywhere else. There were, however, few enough of these, the road having been built in an earlier century when populations were differently distributed, and now little used except by the Shean who currently lived by it, and some traders whose wares found a market at the summer fairs. That it should host a Shean travelling in the opposite direction was a circumstance so rare as to be a nine, even ninety days' wonder, as Yeoman Goodfellow had only realised when already halfway through his supper. He had not expected word of his intentions to have leaked out as far as this yet, but Shean were past masters of inspired rumour, and a few stray pieces of information, plus some very fancy guesswork, had unfortunately produced conclusions he could not truthfully refute. He was left alone as long as he was eating; to disturb a man at his vittles being the height of bad manners. The inn had filled up, however, and he could see a couple of local spokesmen getting ready to come over as soon as his mug was empty, and under guise of greeting their Westergarth Champion, grilling him exhaustively for the delectation of the local populace. Not normally reticent, he was, however, not inclined on this occasion to discuss either his plans or his motives, which were not yet entirely clear even to himself. He solved the problem temporarily by rising even as he drained his quart, and moving briskly across to the bar, nodding to acquaintances but allowing no pause for conversation. The hostess came to take his order at once, and he seized the opportunity of asking after her family, since her sister-in-law was, luckily, a distant relative of his aunt. All too soon, however, the conversation took a less welcome turn. "And yourself, Yeoman Holt?" she enquired. "You're off to the King's City, then, just like your father?" "Yes," he agreed. He had not yet decided whether the fact he was following in his eccentric father's footsteps made the situation better or worse. "Going to join the Guards, same as he did?" "Maybe. If they'll have me." "'Course they'll have you, Skarmuch Captain and all. There was one o' them Longshanks asking for you just yesterday." "Asking for me? Why?" "Heard about you, I suppose. Came in, asked for horsefeed and a pasty, and picked up some messages. Didn't stay though, knows that kind an't welcome here." "You mean he was a Sentinel?" "Sentinel, yes." She sniffed. "Opened a letter, went to the door, then came back. Says, 'When young Yeoman Garland of Bardina comes through here tomorrow, tell him I'd like a word.' 'Well, you're out o' luck there,' I tells 'n. 'There's two young Farmer Garlands on Bardina holdings-- no, three, Yeoman Jossif's second son came into his landshare last month; two Bachelors, and a Shepherd, just wed. But none of 'em's a Yeoman yet, though old Forester Garland was hurt bad this winter, got himself cornered by a bear and fell down his own pit, so he's handed Ploughright to his eldest. Was it him you was thinking of?' "Longshanks looks mighty puzzled. Turns out to be wanting the Warden's heir, and heard you just inherited a piece in your own right. 'Ah,' says I, 'Now ye're talking, only his name an't Garland, it's Goodfellow. Champion Goodfellow we call him in these parts, or Captain, because he's both, and that's some rarity.' "So then I explained all about your Pa, and your uncle adopting you, and you getting to be Champion of Three last Midsummer and your troop winning Skarmuch League too." The hostess plainly expected Holt to be pleased that she had given the ignorant Outsider such important information. It was true that Holt had won the Archery, Wrestling and Hammer Contests at the Merigarth Midsummer Fair, the foremost meeting of the year. To win all at one occasion was rare; Holt's pride in the achievement was tempered by the fact that some reckoned Forman, his best friend, had thrown the final shoot-off to let him win - something Holt was not sure about himself. "Where's the Sentinel now?" he asked her. "Waiting for you across the Border. Wants to take you to the King, I shouldn't wonder." She was half admiring, half disapproving. Holt decided not to tell her that a Sentinel whose beat lay around the Commonality of Greater Merigarth was unlikely to have the ear of the King, or that his own prowess, while putting him above his countrymen, was not going to make him anything remarkable in the world at large. He took a draught from the quart she had drawn him, hoping he might finish it before the gossip-mongers closed in. "I'll turn in soon," he said. "Be fresh for the road." "Give us a song or two first?" she suggested. Entertainment from such a noteworthy source would be a scoop to enhance the reputation of her house for many weeks to come. This would have been so, even if the performance were mediocre, but Holt was reckoned a fine balladeer in the Commonality; though admittedly anyone who could strum three chords on a seven-stringed lihar, and keep reasonably in tune at the same time, was by Shean standards considered musical. It would have been churlish to refuse, and besides, he would be free from cross-questioning while he was singing. He took the instrument she handed him over the bar, quickly made sure of its tuning while she gained her customers' attention, and gave them several songs, then several more. The audience would have been happy to listen to him all night, but reiterating the need for an early start, he went to his bed, leaving the denizens of Kingscourt to shake their heads over the departure of Westergarth's pride. Sanford Garland, many opined, must be sick to lose his adopted heir just as he was successfully launched into manhood; Bettris, his wife, likewise at the loss of the one child she had brought up as her own; and equally his cousin Pernell, at seeing the most eligible bachelor in the sheading slip through her pretty fingers. Holt could guess what they were saying, having caught snatches of it behind his back in the village before he left, once word was out; and even to his face, some worthies believing it their duty to upbraid the ungrateful folly of wayward youth. Holt had trouble deciding which irked him most, the sharp rebuke or the pained reproach. Such disapprobation, once the first steps were taken, served only to strengthen his resolve. It was not by sitting complacently at home that Shean had survived the former rigours of the world, and come to claim Merigarth, earliest settlement of the Commonality, for their own. Resolutely blocking out the rise and fall of voices from below, and calling to mind the few who had encouraged his endeavour, or at least not tried to deter him, he fell asleep. He breakfasted at first light, alone in the common room except for a couple of laconic Duergh tinkers who ignored him. Holt savoured the meal of beef-rib, spring mushrooms, fried angelica root and fresh bread, the last such fare he would have for some days. He ordered a couple of pasties to take with him; once eaten, he would have to subsist on salt meat and hard journey-bread until he reached the King's City. Such curtailment of their normal good living was one reason most Shean preferred not to travel, though of course Holt could gather fresh greens, dig for roots and hunt small game as he went; it all depended how long he was prepared to spend on the way. To call any Shean impatient was something of a contradiction in terms, but eagerness was naturally more likely to manifest in the young. Once his feet were fairly on the road, Holt did not intend to delay, but make briskly for the lodestone of the King's City, hard rations notwithstanding. "We'll be seeing you again, Champion," the landlady remarked, as she took his fee. "I expect so," he answered. She gave him his wrapped pasties, and he found room for them in his already crowded saddlebags. "D'you know how long you'll be?" she enquired. To gauge when her house might host the rarity of a returning prodigal would be excellent for business. "Summer Fair won't be the same without you," she added. "I can't say," he told her truthfully. His return depended on so many factors: where he went, what he did, the possibilities of success, failure, even homesickness. Forcible prevention was not, however, something that at this point occurred to him. She wished him a good road, with cordiality not entirely professional, overlaying regret more than disapproval. He thanked her for her hospitality and left. Few were astir to mark him in the grey morning as he crossed the wooden bridge over the Glydwater, its narrow banks containing a rushing spring spate, and was swallowed up in the chill mist that shrouded the outland hills. After a couple of miles, he was reminded of the message given him at the Border House when he caught a sudden sound through the blanketing mist. The muffled snort and stamp might have come from any hard-hoofed creature of the woods - wisent, aurochs, deer or wild pony - but a faint chink that followed it told him the animal bore harness. Holt drew rein. The rider who waited up ahead was probably the Sentinel who wished to see him, but visibility was poor, and he would like to be certain. He also, truth to tell, wanted to prove himself as much at home out here as the King's Man, rather than come tamely up to him like some summoned 'prentice. Accordingly he dismounted, led his horse quietly off the road, and found a place for the beast to stand with his reins over a branch. A breathed word and a touch on the muzzle told him to be quiet, something Brandysnap was trained to, being often used in the hunting that Shean executed when necessary with particular efficiency. Holt moved silently through the trees and scrub, working to get a vantage behind the Sentinel, who should be watching the road. Peering carefully between branches of holly, he saw that this was not in fact the case. The figure leaned negligently against the trunk of a tree, several yards back from the road, and turned slightly away from it. Holt's first thought was that this could not be the man who had wanted to meet him after all, judging by the long, leather coat, much faded and stained, well-worn boots and somewhat battered, broad-brimmed hat, not what he would expect to see on a proud Fir Domnan knight. He wished he could make out the features, but all were masked by the hat, except for a long tail of dark hair. But he saw that over the coat was belted a long sword, with a chased basket hilt hinting at an equally well-crafted blade, and through the open breast fastenings there showed the steely glint of fine mail. Holt remembered his uncle, who as Warden occasionally met with King's Men, telling him that knights who patrolled the provinces tended to dress much like the natives whose lands lay on their beat, rather than in full panoply with blazoned surcoat; preferring a costume less obvious, more suited to their work. Holt's dilemma was resolved by the large, laden gelding that grazed the rough grass beyond the tree. A quartered shield hung from the left horn of his saddle, confirming that his owner was indeed one of the highly trained warriors sworn to keep the King's Peace in the Nine Realms. Holt circled further, to approach from cover. The horse cocked an ear and blew softly as he passed close by, but continued to graze. He made no sound, his tread disturbing not a single fallen twig, until he gained the opposite side of the tree. The Sentinel, unmoving, had not heard him. Well pleased with himself, he stepped out, to stand squarely in front of the King's Man. The Sentinel gave not a flicker. Only after a full two seconds of absolute stillness did a hand tip back the hat, revealing a face creased by constant exposure to sun and wind, though paler than Holt expected from its owner's outdoor occupation, and still young. The warrior looked the young wayfarer up and down, observing that he was clad in the stout but supple buffcoat worn by Fir Morian throughout most of the Nine Realms; but his boots were the soft, seamless buskins exclusive to Shean. On his head he wore a helmet of the pudding-bowl type used by the youth of the Commonality in their national sport of Skarmuch, and at his side was belted a quite serviceable sword, undoubtedly an heirloom lovingly preserved. Beneath his coat, as beneath the Sentinel's own, mail gleamed, suggesting both caution and initiative in the wearer-- his race being noted for the former quality but not generally for the latter. His personal appearance was pleasant, good-looking even, if one's taste ran to a square, solid frame, skin smooth and brown as the rind of a ripe hazelnut, his dark face fringed by crisp peat-brown hair. In addition, he possessed an infectious grin and the bright, questing eyes of an untried tercel ready to fly. "Ah, Yeoman Goodfellow," the Sentinel said. "I've been expecting you this past hour." The words were genial enough. It was the voice that disconcerted Holt; soft, pleasant, and not at all what he had expected. "That's right," he stammered. "Messir. I mean, Ma'am." "Messir will do," the female knight said. "The title serves all." Holt was silent; that a woman should actively choose a life of combat and danger over domesticity was something his Shean upbringing had not equipped him to understand. He plainly did not know quite how to respond to her, even after she had set him right about her title; but this was something her recent, if hurried, briefing on the Commonality had prepared her for. "Not many women seek this life, and few stay in it long, but the choice is ours," she said. "You of all should not begrudge us that, youngling. Most of your race prefer to stay quiet at home, but that is plainly not your desire." "No. Why was it you wanted to see me?" "This border is my beat, and so all who cross it concern me. You more than many, young Master-- I should say, Yeoman Goodfellow." "Are Shean not welcome outside the Commonality, then? Surely I'm no threat to the Nine Realms!" "Perhaps you are, in ways you have not thought of." But she smiled as she said it. "You stand high among your people, and so your fate may touch many. It would help me, to know why one of our provincial overlords is losing his heir." "My uncle's not a lord! Shean don't have them." "He speaks on your governing Council, call him what you will. And you, I gather, have been bred to follow him. Why have you run away?" "I'm not running away. Didn't my uncle tell you?" "In his report he said little of you, save that your heart was set on the King's City. That is something I may understand, but I would guess a good many will think you shirking your responsibilities." "Is that what you think?" "Anyone who decides to travel is aiming to leave something behind." The way she said this suggested it might be so for her, but Holt, as a Shean taught from infancy that inquisitiveness was shockingly impolite, did not dream of asking. "Maybe, but only for a while," he assured her. "I do mean to go back, you know. It's just that I'm not ready yet." "Ready for what, if I may ask?" "Everything. You know, settling down. Oh, I will be, one day. When I've found-- well, found out as much as I want to, I suppose." "Including whether a Shean Champion can follow his illustrious father, and hold his own among the King's Guard?" Holt flushed. "I don't know what you've heard, but that's not something I've ever said," he denied. "Folk exaggerate, and they don't understand. I know the Guard are the cream of the King's knights, and my father was never one of them, only a scout. I thought I might do that, or maybe join a City company." "It's not the Basca Campaign tempts you, then? Though by all accounts, that is nearly over." "Basca Campaign? Oh, the war in the south. I don't think my uncle would have been happy to let me go if I'd had that in mind. Besides, it isn't really my concern." "If you join any part of the King's army, young man, you will be obliged to fight when and where he tells you, 'your concern' or no." "Yes, of course. I meant-- well, we've no quarrel with the Bascas. Shean, I mean. Going after gangrels, Firbolg, I wouldn't mind. What I'd really like, though, is to go exploring, like my father did." "The King no longer sends out expeditions to far lands. He has deeper concerns near to home. As to meeting Firbolg, you may get your wish sooner than you think if you pursue this road. I advise you to retrace your steps, for trouble mounts and I am called away, so cannot convey you as I had intended." The suggestion that he needed nurse-maiding on the King's Highway clearly nettled Holt, though he was too well-brought-up to be uncivil. "Look, I can take care of myself," he asserted calmly. "I don't mean to boast or anything, but I can hit the bull at a hundred paces, seven out of seven every time, and the running target at sixty, nine times in a minute without a miss. I came second in last year's Skarmuch hand-to-hand too, so I know how to use a sword as well." "You know how to fence with a wooden stick. Defending yourself against cold steel you will find another matter! Have you ever used that blade of yours in combat?" Holt's silence answered her. "Ah, well," the knight sighed. "You know which end to hold, I suppose." She saw from the tightening of Holt's jaw that this sarcasm was a mistake. Civilised folk throughout the Nine Realms paid heed to the strictures of a Sentinel, and even a Shean, suspicious of Longshanks in general, would be likely to listen, if grudgingly, to advice from a man whose business was keeping the peace. But Giloran was not a man, and new to this beat, not long in provincial service, she had forgotten how this would colour a Shean's perception of her warning. "You don't think much of us," Holt said, the mild words taut with piqued male pride. "I know it looks as if we only play at fighting, but we do it because we remember when no one protected us but ourselves. Our women can tell one end of a sword from the other, too, you know, but we don't send them out to deal with marauders. We defend them as well as we can, which is why we settled Merigarth and the rest of the sheadings." "I don't doubt your courage, Yeoman," Giloran said, attempting to retrieve her error. "But you lack experience. I've been asked to look out for you, and not only by your uncle. I should not otherwise have stayed here kicking my heels, when I am urgently required elsewhere." "You don't need to hang around for me. I'm sure my uncle only told you out of courtesy, and I don't know who else would want to stir in my broth." "There are those who, like Shean, take little part in the world, but unlike them, have interest and concern in what passes. They speak seldom, but when they do, it is wise to heed." "I suppose you mean Wildfolk, or Elfins. None of them come near us, as a rule." "Can you blame them? Wildfolk hate fenced land, and as to the rest, call them Firdan, Elfionar, Lanteans, even Wanderers if you must, but never Elfins." "Don't they like it? It's just our name for them. We wouldn't want to get across anyone, only we don't hold with all that Farseeing and the like. It's same as telling the weather; some reckon they can look ahead, but it's often wrong." "That is true," Giloran admitted. "But a man who failed to tie down his ricks would be foolish, though in some seasons no gale might come to tear them apart. You don't strike me as foolish, Yeoman Goodfellow, and I'm not asking you to give up your journey. But for now, go home. Wait until I return and can escort you." "Go home?" The tenor of the response showed clearly that this venturesome Shean, whatever his mettle, had no stomach to face the nods and nudges of his neighbours if he turned back with his tail, so to speak, between his legs. Of course, Giloran thought, one prepared to accept such prudent counsel would never have set out alone in the first place. "At least stay in Kingscourt," Giloran suggested. "Or go east, and join a caravan on the Kings' Road coming up from the south." "That could take weeks," Holt objected. "From here, I can be in Gwendirion in four, maybe five days. Are you telling me the King's Highway is crawling with gangrels? How many did you meet?" "None. Firbolg tend to travel in small bands and leave a well-armed warrior alone, knowing that some of their number will be killed. But you may not be so lucky." "I'm well-armed, and I know how to kill gangrels. I've hunted wolves." "There are creatures out yonder more cunning than wolves, and more evil, and they go on two legs. I'd not give much for your chances against a pair of bare-handed bogles, if they should see you first." "You really don't know us, if you think that's likely." "I'm trying to warn you. Some of other races can stalk as well as Shean. Bogles, for instance." "My father didn't think so. You know who he was?" "The King's-- pathfinder. What was it they called him?" "Windtracker." "Ah, yes. He's taught you all he knows, I presume?" "Well, no. He died when I was four." "Lords," she murmured. "I trust you have his talents, and his luck. It would be pity to waste one so rare among your kind." She straightened, lithe and businesslike, gathered her horse and mounted in one fluid movement. "Farewell, Yeoman Goodfellow," she said. "May we meet again." "Ay, Messir," he replied. "In Gwendirion." She looked down at him as he stood, feet planted square apart, mind set immovably on his goal in the way of all his race, confident as one can only be who has never yet met adversity or failure. "One day, perhaps, you will learn to heed a woman's caution," she said. "If you live so long. You may, if you keep your Shean wits about you." "I aim to," he said. "Farewell, Messir." Giloran said no more, but turned away southward. She had done her best, but her duty was clear. Many would suffer if she did not go, and she was already late, with no more time to spare for a single, over-sanguine young provincial, who was not likely to have much impact on the future of the Nine Realms. If he held some importance for the Lanteans, whose concerns throughout history, while paralleling those of the Fir Domnan, had never been quite the same, let them watch out for him. But she hoped her words would at least have some effect. Holtworth Goodfellow was several things Giloran thought little of--raw, stubborn, unabashed, masculine, and Shean; yet even with all these disadvantages, he had somehow contrived to win her liking.

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