Authors: Jon Sprunk
Shadow’s Lure
ContentsAlso by Jon Sprunk from Gollancz
the twin centers of my universe;
and to the family and friends who enrich our lives every day
.
Shadow’s Son
G K. Chesterton, 1906O God of earth and altar,
Bow down and hear our cry.
Our earthly rulers falter,
Our people drift and die;
The walls of gold entomb us,
The swords of scorn divide,
Take not Thy thunder from us,
But take away our pride.
A
bitter north wind blew off the moors.
It sliced through Keegan’s thick winter cloak and shirt as he handed over his sword to the gate-wardens. Faint moonbeams cast deep shadows across the weathered ramparts and frost-rimmed towers of Aldercairn Keep. When the sentries were satisfied, he and his band were allowed to enter.
They passed between the close walls of the tunnel running under the ancient gatehouse, and Keegan didn’t breathe easy until they emerged in a courtyard on the other side, where another pair of guards opened the door to the inner keep. Bright light flooded across the snow at their feet. Tromping after his comrades, Keegan entered.
Heat from four great hearths wrapped him in a sweltering embrace as Caedman, their war leader, led them to a table at the end of the hall. Keegan loosened his cloak as he took a seat under an open window and glanced around. This was his first peace-meet. Warriors and house-carls sat shoulder-to-shoulder. Their deep laughter shook the timber walls. At the other end of the hall, a long table sat on a riser above the rest. The five men at the high table were adorned with silver and gold. Their white fur mantles gleamed in the firelight.
One of Keegan’s comrades gestured to a venerable man wrapped in a black bearskin cloak in the center seat. “That’s Old Jevick.”
“The Allastar thane?” Keegan asked.
“They say he hasn’t stepped outside of this big pile of rock in years.”
Keegan took in the banners hanging on the walls, the rows of trophies, and the roaring hearths. “I don’t blame him. This is a good place for an old man to rest his bones.”
As a cupbearer set down a double-handful of mugs before them, a loud thump echoed from the high table. Heads turned as Thane Jevick pulled himself to his feet.
“Welcome, sons of Eregoth.” His voice was shaky, but deeper than his years suggested. “I have called this peace-meet to discuss the troubles that plague our lands.”
Keegan looked around and saw heads nodding. Farms had been burned to the ground, men killed, and women and children taken away. Everyone knew from where the troubles came. He and his comrades had decided it was time to do something about it, and Caedman had brought them here to find out if anyone else felt the same.
The pounding of five hundred fists filled the hall as the aged chieftain returned to his seat. One by one, the other thanes introduced themselves. This took some time, as each attached numerous titles and accomplishments to his name. The last thane was a powerful figure. Flame-red braids hung down his leather breastplate.
“Many of you know me. I am Comarc of the Ragarson clan.” He rapped his knuckles on the table. “And I won’t bore you with the long list of my deeds.”
More fist pounding resounded. Everyone knew of the exploits of Comarc Ragarson and his Red Riders. His had been the driving force behind their country’s march to freedom, but that had been years ago, before Keegan’s birth. Would the Ragarsons ride again?
Thane Comarc looked around the hall. “But I will be the first to speak. We fought and bled to free our country. But now the ravens of war have come scratching at our windows again. Darkness lies heavy over our lands. And Liovard sits at the heart of it!”
There it was, spoken plain for all to hear. Keegan shifted on his seat as the assembly fell silent.
Taelish, the thane of the Nuodir, stood up. “You speak as if we can change things, Comarc. But this peace-meet is a waste of time. Clan Eviskine has grown too powerful. We must make an accommodation with them, or risk losing what we have left.”
Comarc spat on the table and ignored the pointed look it earned him from Jevick. “You Nuodir can go kiss Eviskine’s lily-white arse if you like, but the Ragarsons will fight to our last breath!”
A mighty roar shook the hall as a contingent of men jumped to their feet and pounded on the tables. The other thanes at the high table exchanged concerned glances behind Comarc’s back. One voice rose above the tumult.
“Why fight alone?”
Old Jevick peered into the crowd. “Who speaks?”
The hall had quieted, but the looks cast in the direction of their table couldn’t be called friendly. Keegan swallowed the last of his ale as his captain stood up.
“I am Caedman Du’Ormik, son of Londain.”
Murmurs spread through the hall. Old Jevick turned to speak with the other thanes, but Comarc didn’t wait.
“I’ve heard of you,” the Ragarson chief said. “Most of my fighters cannot decide if you’re a hero, or just a lucky fool. But only a clan thane has the right to speak here.”
Bench legs screeched as two men from Keegan’s band stood up and threw back their cloaks to reveal white mantles underneath. Tongues wagged at the sight.
“He speaks for Clan Indrig,” Thane Samnus said.
“And for the Hurrolds,” Thane Obern added.
Comarc snorted. “I see you’ve brought a pair of yapping dogs with you. Too bad they’re squatting at your heels instead of sitting up here with their rightful peers.”