Kingshelm (Renegade Druid Cycle Book 1) (12 page)

Alcuin also knew first-hand that many of the dukes and barons despised the Guild’s practice of treating each other’s captured “churlish, pig-shit stomping infantry” with the same courtesy as men-at-arms and chevaliers, even though mercenary infantrymen were sometimes better trained, and almost always better disciplined, than the noblesse that took the field against them. And they were an even match for the Imperial infantry whose discipline and professionalism the Mercenaries Guild emulated. Alcuin watched his colleagues divide up the map amongst them and smiled.

“You are quiet, Grand Master,” Radic told Alcuin. “That means you are thinking.”

“I’m relishing the thought of our brethren and sisters in the Companies beating the whimpering shit out of the barony that are mismanaging the Empire for yet another year,” he said. He clapped Radic’s shoulder. “Though rooting bandits out of their hidey-holes can be a joy and a challenge all its own.”

“They screech like rabbits when a sword’s rammed in their belly,” Radic said.
 

“So do the nobles. Perhaps they are the same species of rodent, but with nicer coats.”
 

A lost hunting party had found smoke rising from ancient ruins long abandoned and discovered the outlaw druid and his relic when they took shelter. Soon, word raced among the Clans that the Kingshelm had been found. The hut Paardrac had built in the ruins of the Krak of the Haughrav was quickly surrounded by longhouses and palisades as the former druid gathered followers. These included warriors, sons of chieftains, farmers and hunters—all eager to defend the finder of the ancient, magical helm. By the time a conclave of druids from the most powerful clans arrived to verify the astonishing news, almost 50 men and women comprised the war band that Paardrac dubbed the Helmsguard.
 

Their location in the shunned fortification only added to the group’s mystique. The Krak lay in the wooded foothills on the seaward side of the Stone Kingdom Mountains, guarding a pass through the highlands. The Caeldrynn had avoided it over the centuries for various reasons. Some believed the Krak was haunted by the ghosts of the short, stocky race that had made its final stand against the Empire hundreds of years ago. Others (correctly) believed that all ruins were splendid habitat for kor-toth and should be avoided on those grounds alone. Others, the brave wanderers and foolhardy deer hunters who had actually seen the Krak, were awestruck by its eery towers, with their stark angles and impossibly smooth black stonework, rising from the broken ruins of its walls.
 

Paardrac ran his hand over the smooth face of the West Gatehouse. Even after hundreds of years of ruin—and more than two thousand in existence, if the legends were to be believed—the surface felt a smooth as a frozen pond. The black stone contrasted starkly with the rough wooden palisades and gates his people had constructed to fill the gaps in the ruined walls. Paardrac and three of his most loyal followers stood outside the gate to meet the conclave: Hredvars the Unready, a strapping young warrior who had failed his apprenticeship to be a druid and taken up the sword; Skadhi, a wiry, brown-haired huntress; and Grim, the heir to Clan Bloodmoon.
   

The conclave approached on horseback through the disused pass.

“Well met! And welcome to the Krak of the Haughrav,” Paardrac greeted the seven druids and their armed escort of twenty warriors.
 

“Well met, Paardrac,” said their leader flatly, a graying woman from Clan Cave Bear named Ursina. Beside her was Banton of Clan Riverstar. He showed no recognition of his former mentor. The druids’ brown wool robes and cowls rustled in the chilly breeze coming in from the pass, and the horses’ manes fluttered. The wind chilled Paardrac only slightly less than his former colleagues’ stern demeanor. The druids and their escort dismounted in unfriendly silence.

If I have angered the Holy Ones, why have They entrusted me with the Kingshelm?
Paardrac thought.
Shun me, and you shun Their chosen champion
.
 

Paardrac and his companions led the visiting druids through the makeshift gate and down a muddy street that had been worn in the Krak’s stone-littered yard. He ushered the group up the shallow, broken stairs to the ruined great hall and through the black ruin’s doorless front portal. Inside the half-collapsed structure, a wooden strongbox sat on an altar flanked by two mail-clad huscarls armed with spears and shields painted the colors of different clans.
 

Paardrac opened the box and bid the visiting druids approach with a nod of his head. Ursina’s gray eyes widened when she saw the artifact inside, and Banton gasped quietly before regaining his composure.
 

“May we?” Ursina asked, her features softened with wonder.
 

“This belongs to all Caeldrynn—by all means,” Paardrac answered. He lifted the ancient helm from its protective strongbox.
 

The seven druids examined the artifact by turns and murmured among themselves. “It is genuine,” Ursina judged. “What is your intention for it? To wear it yourself and lord over all the Clans?”

“Gods and Ancestors, no! I am a druid, not a chieftain,” Paardrac shook his head and placed the helm back in its box.

“You were a druid,” Banton corrected. “Now you are merely an outlaw in exile from Clan Riverstar.”

“An outlaw with a fortress and a war band,” Ursina said. “And a growing legend that unifies outcasts and second sons throughout the Clans. When was the last time you saw shields bearing the colors of Clans Rock Viper and Storm Cloud facing the same direction? Yet here they are, guarding your found treasure in your haunted fortress. And you harbor no secret ambition to wear the helm they so faithfully guard?”

“None,” Paardrac said. “If the gods wanted me to rule, they would have made me a warrior, not a druid. We shall guard the helm until all the chieftains of the Clans gather for moot and elect a high king. Unless, of course, the most learned druids of the Caeldrynn can divine a more appropriate course of action.”

Paardrac stood under Ursina’s cold gaze for several moments and refused to flinch. He had never challenged a druid as a lay person, much less as an outlaw, and it was uncomfortable. Doubt began to creep into the edges of his consciousness, but he dismissed it immediately.
If saving a boy from the superstitions of his own people makes me an outlaw, then it is the outlaws who are closer to the gods, not the druids
, he thought.

Suddenly, Ursina broke her stare off and turned to Banton. “Find us a place where we may discuss what we have seen today in private.”
 

Paardrac led the druids to a dry and relatively intact room in the keep and ordered fire, stools and ale for the council. Once the room was made habitable, if far from comfortable, the druids’ guards took up position at the doorway and Paardrac ordered his people away. The outlaw leader paused by the strongbox containing the helm and rested his hand on it.
Have the gods blessed me or cursed me with this thing?
he asked himself, and left the ruined keep to the druid conclave.
 

Weeks passed as the druid conclave read oracles, observed the signs of the stars and sought guidance from the spirits of the woods and stone.
 

One afternoon, three of the druids’ guards found Paardrac inspecting the rebuilding of the Krak’s stables. Having distinguished guests did not stop the extensive work to be done on the ruined fortress if it was to defend the Kingshelm.

“You are summoned,” the leader said. “Come with me.”

Paardrac followed the warriors into the ad-hoc council chamber. He noticed a shaving bowl on a makeshift pedestal beside the flaming hearth his people had provided for the room.
 

Ursina spoke for the druids. “We are in agreement that the helm is genuine. This, Paardrac, you know already. Now we must determine if its finder is counterfeit or true as well. We have heard the multitudinous stories of how you found the Kingshelm—the tale has already changed in the telling beyond recognition. Now tell us yourself, and withhold no detail from us.”

Paardrac did as he was asked, beginning with his leading Barryn’s spirit quest. He told them every detail—Barryn’s dreams and visions of Ashara, how he made the potions that retarded the flames on the boy’s pyre and smoke-screened his escape, his flight into the wilderness, the dream of the kor-toth and the Chaos Moon, the thunderstorm on the barrow. He paused before he told the druids how he was able to see inside the barrow.

“Well?” Ursina said.
 

“The kor-toth followed me in, and they began to glow and flash wondrous colors. I could not look away—I felt like my mind had been captured. And then I heard the voices from my dream. They were speaking directly into my soul,” Paardrac said.
 

Ursina and two of the other druids kept their faces neutral, but the others looked at each other, barely stifling their scoffs and mutterings of disbelief.
 

“What did they say?” she asked.

“They told me I could keep whatever ‘trinkets’ I could carry and go in peace,” he said. “The beasts seemed content to have found a new lair and let me go.”

Banton shook his head. “Are we really dignifying these lies with our time? Why not tell us something believable, like a talking dog led you to the barrow?”

One of the silent druids put a hand on Banton’s shoulder. “Let him finish.”

“My tale is ended. The kor-toth were speaking to me in my dream, as well. I know it. They are not stupid animals. They are intelligent, and they can speak with us if we will listen.”

Banton opened his mouth to say something—Paardrac clearly read the disbelief in his eyes—but Ursina lifted her hand for silence.
 

“This is indeed a privilege for several of you,” she said. “Paardrac has revealed knowledge to you that is above your grades of initiation. He is correct. The kor-toth are intelligent, and they can speak with us in our dreams when they are so inclined. And they are not known to lie.”

“What of my dream?” Paardrac asked. “Can we trust the creatures when they say the Chaos Moon is returning?”

“It matters not whether the dream of the Chaos Moon was yours or theirs,” Ursina said. “Just because we unnamed you does not lessen your abilities as a druid. If your dream is true, the Clans will need to unite under a High King if they are to endure the frightful times ahead, and the Kingshelm will need guardians until the High King can be elected.”

One of the druids led Paardrac to the bowl and took up a razor. “Those who would guard the Kingshelm with their lives, honor and fortune will be marked with a sign. The sides of their heads will be shaved and painted blue, man and woman alike. In combat, their helms will be painted blue. Thus shall they be known. Do you take this sign?”

Paardrac nodded. “I will be the first of the Helmsguard to take this sign.”

With those words, Paardrac left the world of outlawry. The relief nearly overcame him as the druid’s razor cleared the hair away from his ears. Paardrac wondered how his charge Barryn was faring on the outlaw trail.
 

May you guard him well,
he said to the gods
. And if you have abandoned him, let the Deva Ashara be gentle with him.

It wasn’t the casual nudity that kept Barryn’s chest tight and his eyes wide when he entered the great hall of the House of Portia—it was the augmented nudity. Sparkling jewels and intricate whorls of multicolored body paint accentuated the feminine curves of the courtesans on duty; various perfumes tantalized his nose as the women passed with clients in tow or breezed by him with a smirk as if to tease the young, travel-stained heathen. The women were tan, with dark hair, as were
 
most of the people he had seen since entering the Empire. Barryn felt conscious of his fair skin and reddening cheeks.

Dub, walking ahead of Barryn and threatening to leave him behind in the cauldron of eroticism that was the House of Portia, chatted up the courtesans and patted them affectionately if they were alone. The women batted their eyelashes at him or hugged his neck in return, depending on how well they seemed to know him.
 

Barryn followed the tinker toward a wide, carpeted staircase that led up to a gallery wrapping around and above the great hall. It was bedecked with courtesans leaning over the carved stone railing, chatting with each other and beckoning clients below. Two women and a girl of fifteen or sixteen years emerged from double doors beyond the gallery and majestically descended the staircase.

The girl walked a step or two ahead of the others and had dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. Her dress was modest and functional, at least compared to the diaphanous finery that barely clung to the women in the great hall below them. She was pretty, but Barryn could see a puckered scar on her mouth that gave her an ever-so-slight hare lip. Her nose was wide, almost feline. Her bright green eyes, however, cast a light into Barryn like midsummer sunlight filtered through the forest canopy.
 

Whereas the girl was an exemplar of earthly beauty, the two women behind her were celestial—one angelic and the other demonic. The angel, complete with blonde locks spilling in studiedly careless curls over her shoulders, wore a blue velvet and brocade dress that was form-fitting from the waist up and flowed luxuriously with skirts and petticoats below.