Tales of the Two Rings: Volume 2 Read online

  Carlon turned to face Farlaav and the seated Hearthguard. “The Jutaans of the Windchill Woods were the ones that attacked my House and slew my kinsmen. They still menace the Valley near here, and have slain many over the last few cycles. I have come now to ask for volunteers to follow me into battle and end this threat to Oro.” The young man’s eyes shone with determination. “To avenge my father and his House.”

  There were a series of murmurs in the hall.

  “I can promise no payment, other than the rewards of honor and glory,” Carlon continued. “Which of you men will join me and see justice done?”

  “The Jutaans of the Windchills are a mighty foe, Jalar Carlon,” Farlaav said. “Many brave warriors have tried to defeat them. None have succeeded.”

  “I will,” Carlon said confidently. “The High Father will bless my quest. I will return honor to the name of House Utros.”

  “You will get yourself killed,” one of the Hearthguard growled. Orange-beard again. “A Jalar you may be by right of birth, but you’re still just a boy, and a mist-struck one at that.”

  A ripple of chuckles wafted across the room.

  Carlon turned on the Hearthguard, his face showing his fury. “Perhaps I will die. But if I do, I will die avenging my father and all those slain by these Jutaans.” He turned to the other Hearthguard at the head table. “Who will stand with me? Are there none of you who care for the honor of a fallen House? For the pride of Oro?”

  “What is Oro, but a frozen world on the edge of the Void?” Another of the Hearthguard put his drinking mug heavily on the table. “And what is your House, but a forgotten name from the past?”

  Carlon blushed. His hand twitched by his side, as if desperate to grab a sword.

  “Silence,” Farlaav thundered. He swept his harsh gaze over the seated Hearthguard. “I will not see another Jalar dishonored in my hall, no matter his age. You will speak to him with respect, or answer to me.”

  The Hearthguard straightened on their stools, their faces showing their resentment.

  Carlon looked straight at Farlaav. “So you will help me, Farlaav?”

  “I did not say that.” Farlaav rubbed his beard. “What you ask is beyond courage or honor, Jalar Carlon. It is certain death. The Jutaans you speak of are a fearsome enemy, numerous and cunning. A man who goes to meet them goes needlessly to his doom.”

  Carlon rose to his full height. “So you are all cowards.”

  The hall grew deathly silent.

  “Every man here has seen more of war then you, Jalar,” Orange-beard said. “You speak of things you do not understand. To be unwilling to throw your life away is not cowardice.”

  Carlon lifted his head, and looked in silence around the circle of Hearthguard one last time. “I ride for the Windchill Woods at stardawn,” he said at last. “All those who wish to join me, meet me at the blacksmith’s shop by the eastern gate.” He opened his mouth to say more, then closed it. After a long moment he spoke. “You call me a boy. Perhaps I am. But I choose to die like a man.” He turned and strode out of the hall.

  A storm of muttered conversations and whispers heralded his exit.

  Jalar Farlaav rose and lifted his hands. “Enough,” he said loudly. “Tonight is a night for feasting and merriment. The stardawn will bring enough trouble of its own.” He turned to the skaald in the corner. “Play us a merry tune, Nijal. A happy song to drive away the cold of an Oresian night.”

  The skaald nodded and activated the blue tear gem on his water harp. In moments a jaunty tune filled the hall.

  “The boy’s mist-struck,” one of the Sageeran merchants near Ulaav muttered. “He’ll join his father in the Eternal Halls before long, mark my words.”

  Ulaav said nothing. He turned back to his black bread.

  The mead hall was dark and quiet, save for the soft snoring of those lined against the walls, huddled under blankets and fur skins.

  Ulaav tossed and turned. His mind was unable to relax. Sleep had not visited him for hours.

  Another failure. Another Jalar unwilling to find a place for him. Ulaav was forced again to be a wanderer of the Valley, searching day to day for a place to rest his head a night before braving the cold and snow in search of another Jalar, another mead hall that might become his home.

  Ulaav sat up and tossed aside his fur cape. The embers of the hearth glowed softly, and the torches of the hall were extinguished.

  It was just before stardawn, he reckoned.

  Ulaav stared emptily at the hall’s hearth for a long moment. Then he got up and grabbed his boots.

  The night was fading fast outside. Stars shone brilliantly in the heavens above Molok’Ran. The vibrant colors of the Aether flared across the blue expanse above. Between the softly flickering ripples the massive shape of Pergan the mist-moon loomed in the sky, glowing with its own greenish-silver light. It was always there, day or night, always in the same place, always reflecting a soft glowing light onto the frozen landscape of Oro.

  All Oresians were forbidden from travelling to the mist-moon since time immemorial. No one could properly remember the reason why. In truth Pergan was really no moon at all, but a sister planet to Oro. Each world rotated around the other at a constant speed and trajectory so that to the naked eye the huge mist-moon never seemed to move at all.

  Ulaav found the constant presence of Pergan comforting. In a life where so much had changed and been taken from him, he had the mist-moon always above him, lighting his path and giving balm to his grief.

  The moon of sorrows, Pergan was sometimes called. Ulaav understood sorrow very well. It had been his constant companion for five cycles.

  Ulaav closed the doors of the mead hall quietly behind him. He adjusted his fur cloak and moved down the steps.

  “Good riddance, Ahanga.” A man stepped out of the shadows to the left.

  Ulaav turned his head. It was Orange-beard.

  “I am not surprised to see you go,” the warrior continued in a sneering tone. “You cannot find a real Jalar, so you run to a sniveling whelp. Are you really so desperate?”

  Ulaav stood for a long moment, staring at the Hearthguard. Finally he turned and moved down the steps.

  “Death will find you,” came the voice from behind him.

  Ulaav kept walking.

  Molok’Ran was like most of the ice-dweller towns on Oro, a small collection of wooden huts, stables, and bartering posts clustered around a hill with the ruling Jalar’s mead hall situated at the top. A stockade wall made of sharpened timbers circled the base of the hill and marked the outward limit of the town proper.

  Ulaav trudged through the snow-covered path that led down to the eastern gate of the town. He passed near two of the Jalar’s berthed floatships, guarded even at night by several armed Hearthguard.

  They eyed Ulaav suspiciously as he walked past, but said nothing.

  Ulaav was half-way to the gate when stardawn began in the eastern sky. He raised his head at the sight and stopped his walk for a moment.

  At this distance the sun that warmed the planets in the Inner Ring was merely a bright star. There was no proper day on Oro, not like the bright sunshine-soaked worlds of Ardela or Nevaga. Only a perpetual twilight, brightened by the rising of the distant shining sun at stardawn.

  Ulaav reached the stables just as the sky began to lighten into a purple-pink glow. Many of the stars faded slowly from sight, and soon only the brightest and clearest constellations were to be seen. During the “day” on Oro this was as bright as the sky would ever get. The blue skies of Ardela, Nevaga, and Gardu were unknown on the frozen world of Oro.

  Ulaav’s eohi was right in the stall where he had left it. He paid the stablehand a couple Xans for his trouble, and led the beast out into the cold air of the early stardawn.

  The eohi, snow-white and covered with shaggy fur like all Oresian eohis, waited patiently for the saddle to be put on him, then for Ulaav to mount.

  Stoic and long-suffering, like all Oresians. All life on Oro
had learned to endure hardship and suffering as a matter of course. At the tail edge of the Outer Ring, the very rim of the known worlds and the end of the Xanate’s power, Oro was a world perpetually locked in ice and snow. It teetered on the edge of the Void, the vast expanse of Aether that went on and on in an eternity of swirling color and emptiness.

  Ulaav turned the eohi towards the path again and kicked the beast into a quick trot. By now the sky was a blazing pink. Pergan glowed with a soft luminous light in the heaven above. Within minutes he pulled up to the blacksmith shop at the bottom of the hill, near the eastern gate of Molok’Ran.

  There were six riders there, all mounted on white eohis. One was the young Jalar who had been at the mead hall the night before. Another, surprisingly enough, was the Beast-Slayer who had shared Ulaav’s table. With them was the skaald who had been playing in the mead hall, Nijal. The others were unfamiliar.

  Ulaav reigned in his eohi, his breath steaming white into the air and his shield strapped firmly to his back.

  “Lo,” Nijal said with a mocking smile, “another brave soul joins our happy company. The High Father surely smiles upon us.”

  Carlon was not smiling. He looked at Ulaav with a mixture of weariness and sadness. “Are there any others? Any of the Hearthguard?”

  Ulaav shook his head.

  The Beast-Slayer muttered something under his breath and looked away.

  Carlon glanced at Ulaav again. “What is your name, warrior?”

  “Ulaav, son of Onov.” Ulaav straightened on the back of his eohi. “I am…hearthless.”

  Nijal rolled his eyes. “Wonderful. An Anhanga. He will surely bring our company good fortune on this noble enterprise.”

  One of the other riders, an Oresian warrior with a dark purple beard and long hair, turned suddenly on the skaald. “Your flippantry grows tiresome, Nijal. If you wish to depart, I encourage you to do so.”

  “Ah, but why would I miss this?” the skaald asked with a sly grin. “The last, desperate act of vengeance by a young Jalar determined to see the spirit of his father rest in honor? Aided by his last faithful Hearthguard,” he looked at the purple-bearded warrior, “a Beast-Slayer of great skill and cunning, a daughter of the High Father,” he gestured back to a mounted Oresian woman with braided red hair and ill-fitting leather armor, “a Sageeran mercenary,” he nodded towards a purple-skinned warrior wearing green armor trimmed in gold, “and now an Anhanga.” He reached down and patted the leather case that carried his water harp. “It will make an epic poem, one that I will sing again and again in the mead halls across the Valley of Oro.”

  “If you survive,” the Sageeran mercenary noted in a low voice. Unlike the Oresians, he sported only a thin black goatee. His leaf-green armor was of the crested helmet, breastplate and greeves-style common in the rest of the Two Rings. A shard rifle was holstered in a leather scabbard by his saddle, and a shard pistol was holstered at his belt.

  Nijal smiled. His beard was short, a dark blue in color, and his long hair was braided into many locks. Unlike the Sageeran, he wore almost no armor, but only the leather and fur clothing that was common on Oro.

  “I am not yet a daughter of the High Father,” the red-haired woman said. The irritation was evident in her voice. “I have yet to prove my worth.”

  Nijal smiled. “My mistake, fair Leefa. But in an epic tale of vengeance, death, and doom you must admit that it sounds better.”

  Leefa snorted and turned her head away.

  “Well there is one thing we can remedy before we leave this place,” Carlon said. He looked over at Ulaav. “Do you follow me in search of vengeance and the restoration of honor to the House of Utros?”

  Ulaav felt a pang in his chest. He looked at the Jalar.

  A boy. He was just a boy.

  “I follow you,” Ulaav heard himself say.

  “Then I offer to make you one of my Hearthguard,” Carlon said. “No more will you wander.”

  The purple-bearded warrior pulled his eohi next to Carlon. “My Jalar—”

  “Enough, Tovaan.” Carlon looked over at the older warrior. “You have served my father and me well over the cycles. But if this warrior will give his life for us, then he surely deserves a place among us.”

  “Wonderful,” said Nijal with a sparkle in his eyes. “The Anhanga made Hearthguard once again. This will make a great opening to my song. I will devote an entire stanza to it, at least.”

  Carlon ignored the skaald and kept his gaze on Ulaav. “What say you? Will you swear fealty to me?”

  Ulaav didn’t know why he was here. This whole enterprise was a mist-struck fantasy, a road to certain doom. Despite what Nijal seemed to think, Ulaav knew that there would be no glory in this, no vengeance or restored honor to a fallen House. Only death.

  Ulaav got off his eohi and drew his sword. He knelt in the snow before the young Jalar and offered up his blade to the boy just as he had done to Farlaav the day before. “I swear to serve you in life and death,” he heard himself saying. “To honor your commands, to protect your life and the lives of your kin. I will stand before your hearth in faithfulness and loyalty, or Qurna take my soul.”

  “I accept your pledge,” Carlon responded. “Rise, Hearthguard of House Utros.”

  Ulaav rose and sheathed his sword.

  No longer an Anhanga. A Hearthguard, for however short a time.

  “Now House Utros has two loyal Hearthguard,” Tovaan rumbled. “We shall see if it will be enough to destroy the Jutaans of the Windchills.”

  Ulaav mounted his eohi once again. He felt a strange sense of calm.

  Finally, after five cycles, he had a Jalar again.

  Carlon glanced up at the distant sun that was rising slowly in the pink eastern sky. “We should get moving,” he said. “We have a long ways to go before we reach the Woods.”

  The group turned their eohis towards the gate and moved out in a line, past the sword and spear-armed guards that watched over the entrance.

  Tovaan tarried behind the others, and pulled his eohi close to Ulaav. “You are either very brave or very stupid,” he said in a low voice. “I do not know how you became Anhanga, nor do I care. I have sworn to serve House Utros, and I mean to see my oath fulfilled to the last. I will not see my Jalar mocked or betrayed by you or anyone else.”

  Ulaav looked the warrior directly in the eyes. “I do not make an oath hastily or vainly.”

  “Let us hope not.” Tovaan turned his eohi away and followed after the little group that was trotting out the eastern gate.

  Without a word Ulaav pulled in behind him.

  The wind was chill and from the north, blowing down off the high mountain peaks into the Valley below. Snow came with it, whirling and driving in flurries that pelted the travelers constantly.

  The eohis trudged along the road, their faces set implacably to the white desert of snow and ice before them.

  The riders spoke little, wrapped in their cloaks and bearing the full brunt of the cold. The Oresians were used to it, and their skin and bodies were adapted to the freezing temperatures of their home world. But Ulaav saw more than once that Krytos, the Sageeran mercenary, reached for the climate belt that he wore over his armor to thumb the gem control up.

  Before long Ulaav found himself riding beside Rogaan, the Beast-Slayer. The man pulled out a long-stemmed stone pipe of Kolan-make, then fished around in his saddle-bag.

  Ulaav frowned in disapproval. “You smoke?”

  Rogaan caught his glance and smiled. “One of the many things I picked up off-world.” He pulled out a bag of kalish and expertly filled his pipe while he rode. “Despite what many Oresians think, there is much to be learned in the Rings. It is not all an evil.”

  “Perhaps.” Ulaav turned his face back towards the road ahead. “I will still put my trust in Oresian mead, a tried sword and a solid shield.”

  Rogaan lit the pipe with a firestone and puffed gently into the strong wind that battered their cloaks. His orange beard tossed in the wi
nd. “I have hunted creatures throughout the Two Rings,” he continued conversationally. “Fleshtearers on Llathe, Sun Drakes on Kol, the karani of Nevaga—”

  “And the great Cloud Eels of Erutha?” Ulaav said jestingly.

  Rogaan gave a good-natured laugh. “I would if I could find a gun big enough.”

  Ulaav’s face turned serious. “A real warrior uses only honorable weapons, not those of a coward. A sword, an axe. There is no glory in shooting a man at two hundred paces.”

  Rogaan chuckled. “You forgot, I am not a warrior. I’m a hunter. And I assure you a frost bear does not care how much honor you show in killing it.” He reached for the leather scabbard that hung from his saddle, and pulled out a sleek rifle with a wooden stock.

  Ulaav started back as if the man had withdrew a poisonous snake. “An Ardelan gem-weapon?” he asked suspiciously.

  Rogaan lifted the weapon and grunted. “A needle gun.” He flicked back the breech and showed Ulaav the loaded clip of crystalline darts. “A pneumatic weapon with a surprising punch and good rate of fire. The darts are poisoned with a toxin developed from the Nevagan karani.”

  Ulaav gave the weapon a dismissive glance. “A slaver’s tool,” he sniffed. “Hardly the weapon of a warrior.”

  The Beast-Slayer shrugged and put the needle gun back in its scabbard. “It is true that slavers often use needle weapons to stun their prey. It is not of much use against armored opponents.” His eyes sparkled mischievously. “But then most beasts don’t wear armor, and for those that do there are other remedies.”

  Ulaav fixed his shield where it hung on the side of his saddle, doing his best to curb his rising irritation. He had always had a low opinion of the Beast-Slayers of Oro. They had no sense of honor, used any and every weapon at their disposal, and boasted of their achievements as if they were worthy of epic song.

  His conversation with Rogaan was doing little to alter his attitude.

  “Why are you even here?” Ulaav asked, not quite keeping the annoyance out of his tone. “You don’t owe any kind of allegiance to House Utros, do you?”