Kellanved's Reach

This day he was surprised to glance over to find Tayschrenn with him at the crenellated wall overlooking the Hold’s main yard cum training ground. Their ‘High Mage’ stood with crossed arms, his long face registering a sort of peevish confusion as he watched the swordwork routines.

Nedurian cast him a questioning look. ‘You are troubled, High Mage?’

The man’s brows wrinkled in distaste. ‘Not that title, please.’ He pointed to the ranks of trainees, recruits and veterans all mixed together at Nedurian’s suggestion. ‘The cadre mages training in their units, I understand. But sword- and shieldwork for mages? Really? Isn’t that a waste of their time?’

Nedurian gave a curt nod in appreciation of the question. ‘Some will probably always feel that way no matter what. It took some convincing from me’n’Dassem to bring them into line. Nothing heavier than shortsword for them, of course. But the same basic training for everyone. Builds unit cohesion, helps our cadre mages understand what their cohorts have to go through. And they’ll have to defend themselves sometimes.’ The High Mage grunted his acceptance of the point, though his face still registered his distaste for it.

‘Cohesion?’ he asked next, dubious. ‘Really?’

‘Oh, yes. Once they’ve seen action together and fought side by side, it’ll happen. I’ve seen it again and again.’

The Kartoolian mage eyed him sidelong. ‘The old Talian formation.’

Nedurian nodded once more. Then, since he had the man here, he asked, ‘Any word?’

There was no need to say more; both knew he was asking after their erstwhile leaders. The High Mage let out a frustrated sigh. ‘Still missing, but alive, I hope. At least, Jadeen hasn’t reappeared either.’

‘They are hiding from her, you think?’

A wintry smile came and went from the severe Kartoolian. ‘Yes, I imagine that is what most people are thinking, hmm?’

‘But no?’

The High Mage waved a negative. ‘No. They came upon a clue to an ancient legend, and they are now chasing that.’

Nedurian raised a brow at that. Really? ‘What legend, may I ask?’

Tayschrenn glanced about, perhaps checking that they were alone. Visibly reluctant to say anything, and hesitating for a time, he finally murmured, apparently against his better judgement, ‘The Army of Dust and Bone.’

At first Nedurian could say nothing – he must’ve gaped, stunned. ‘The Army—’ he began, almost shouting, then choked himself off. ‘You’re joking. That’s impossible.’

‘I do not joke,’ the High Mage huffed, offended.

Nedurian reflected that yes, this was true. So far the Kartoolian struck him as one of the most humourless, stiff, and even obtuse people he’d ever met. Some used much stronger language than that, such as arrogant, haughty, and pompous, but he did not see the preoccupation with hierarchy or the lust for prestige or status those terms suggested – rather, it seemed to him as if the fellow simply did not know how to get along with people, or couldn’t be bothered to try.

So, the Army of Dust and Bone … Nedurian shook his head, awed. Outrageous. Who in their right mind would dare meddle in that terrifying mystery? Everything he’d ever heard or read about those ancient legends warned everyone to stay away. The Elders were powerful and dreadful – it was a blessing their days were over. Only a fool, or an insane, power-craving …

He shook his head once again, this time in exasperation. Ah …

After a moment he cleared his throat, and leaned his forearms on the crenellations before them. ‘Well, from all I’ve heard about that I’m guessing we won’t be hearing from either of them ever again.’

Tayschrenn nodded his assent. ‘That is the most likely outcome.’

Footsteps announced the approach of a guard, who bowed. ‘Mages, your presence is requested by the commander.’

Commander – Nedurian understood that here on Malaz that could only mean a naval commander, so, Choss, not Dassem. The Dal Hon swordsman was usually referred to as the Sword, in any case.

As he and Tayschrenn, following the guard, reached the second floor of the keep, Nedurian immediately sensed that something was amiss: the tension and heightened awareness of the guards virtually screamed the fact. ‘What happened?’ he demanded of their guide, who gestured them ahead to a meeting chamber.

Within, they found Choss seated, his shirt hanging in tatters, a guard dressing his torso in fresh cloth. Blood gleamed wet down the old sailor’s trousers. A thrown rug covered what could only be a body on the floor.

Choss raised his chin to the corpse. ‘What do you two make of her?’

Nedurian pulled away the rug. It was a woman, probably in her twenties, muscular – hard-trained. Black-haired, her skin was paling now, but carried a swarthy olive hue such as characterized the inhabitants of the west coast. ‘I don’t recognize her,’ he said.

‘An outsider, then?’ Choss asked.