Angus Wells: Lords of the Sky

Thorym paused when he saw me in his taproom, unsure-it was not our custom to allow children ale until they reached their fourteenth year and were deemed young men. But Thorus shouted that I was a warrior born and had sided him and so earned my sup. The rest shouted laughter at that, and my father first frowned and then smiled, torn between disapproval and pride, but then he said I might take a sip or two, for it was true that I had stood my place like a man.

I had never held a mug of ale before, and it was all I could do to stretch my hands around the cup and lift it to my mouth, but I was aware that all there watched me and I raised the mug and drank deep. And immediately choked, spitting out the sour-tasting brew and spilling half the cup over my feet, blushing furiously.

My father took it from me, glancing angrily at Thorus as he urged me to try again, and suggested that I go make peace with my mother. My reluctance must have shown, for he allowed me one more sip before finally retrieving the mug and sending me from the tavern. I went outside, but no farther, skirting around the wall to where a window allowed me to spy on the men and listen to their conversation. It told me little enough, being mostly concerned with the unlikely Coming of the airboat, which they agreed was out of time, its appearance unseasonal. I gathered, from what they said, that none had anticipated sighting the Sky Lords for years yet, when the Worldwinds were due once more to shift. Not even the mantis could offer explanation, save that the sorcerers of Ahn-feshang had developed new usage of their occult powers.

That set them all to arguing and muttering, some perplexed, some fearful; some to suggesting that this was but a single event, a foray attempted and failed, that the boat had somehow succeeded in defeating the winds and the emanations of the Sentinels; some to forecasting a strengthening of Ahn-feshang’s magic and a new Coming.

Then, though, I had more immediate concerns-to wit, my mother, who sent Tonium looking for me with word that did I fail to appear at home on the instant, I might anticipate punishment of a magnitude that should render a Kho’rabi attack the merest prickling.

I hurried back, ignoring my smug and envious brother, and found myself-the grossest ignominy, I thought, given my new-proven valor-ordered to scrub cooking pots before I was allowed to eat. She did not cuff me, which at the time I failed to realize was token of her thanks for my survival, but neither would she speak to me; nor much to my father when he returned, holding him in some measure responsible for my disobedience.

I ate and sulked my way to an early bed, only a little mollified by the open admiration of Delia who, as we lay on our pallets, insisted on a whispered retelling of all that had happened. I admit to embroidering the tale: for my little sister’s ears the Kho’rabi arrows fell in swarms about me, their boat so close above, I saw the grimacing faces of the fanatic death-warriors, felt (this not entirely untrue) the horrible strength of their magical sigils, the malign power of the sorcerer-steersmen.

In time, even my adoring sister was sated with the tale, and her snores joined those of my brother. I lay longer awake, reliving the day and vowing that when I reached my manhood I should quit Whitefish village to be a soldier in Cambar Keep and defend Kellambek against our ancient enemies.

The next dawn, I saw my first real soldiers.

Robus, mounted on his old slow horse, had reached the aeldor’s holding during the night. The watchmen had brought him before the lord, who had immediately ordered three squadrons to patrol the coast road, one to ride instanter for Whitefish village.

They arrived a few hours after sun’s rise, dirty, tired, and irritable. To me, then, they looked splendid. They wore shirts of leather and mail, draped across with. Cambar’s plaid, cinched in with wide belts from which hung sheathed swords and long-hafted axes, and every one carried a lance from which the colors of Kellambek fluttered in the morning breeze; round shields hung from their saddles. There was a commur-mage with them, clad all in black sewn with the silver markings of her station, a short-sword on her hip. Her hair was swept back in a tail, like our mantis’s, but was bound with a silver fillet, and unlike her men, she seemed untired. She raised a hand as the squadron reached the village square, halting the horsemen, waiting as the mantis approached and made obeisance, gesturing him up with a splendid languid hand.

I and all the children-and most of our parents, no less impressed-gathered about to watch.

The soldiers climbed down from their horses, and I smelled the sweat that bled from their leather tunics as they waited on the mage. She, too, dismounted, conferring with the mantis, and then followed our plump and friendly priest to the cella, calling back over her shoulder that the men with her might find breakfast where they could, and ale if they so desired, for it seemed the danger was gone.

I felt a measure of disappointment at that: I had become, after all, a warrior, and was reluctant to find my new-won status so quickly lost. I compensated by taking the bridle of a horse and leading the animal to where Robus kept his fodder. I had never seen so large an animal before, save the sharks that sometimes followed our boat, and I was-I admit-more than a little frightened by the way it tossed its head and stamped its feet and snorted. The man who rode it chuckled and spoke to it and told me to hold it firm; and then he set a hand on my shoulder, as Thorus had done, and I straightened my back and reminded myself I was a man and brought it to Robus’s little barn, where it became docile as his old nag when I fed it oats and hay and filled the water trough.

The soldier grinned at that and checked the beast for himself, taking off the high-cantled cavalry saddle, resting his shield and lance against the wall of the pen. I touched the metaled face of the shield with reverent fingers and studied his sword and axe. He turned to me and asked where he might find food and ale, and I told him, “Thorym’s tavern,” and asked, “Shall you fight the Kho’rabi?”

He said, “I think they’re likely gone, praise the God,” and I wondered why a soldier would be thankful his enemy was not there.

I brought him to the tavern and fetched him a pot of ale as his fellows gathered, and Thorym, delighted at the prospect of such profit, set fish to grilling and bread to toasting. His name was Andyrt, and as luck would have it, he was jennym to the commur-mage, a life-sworn member of the warband and, I realized, fond of children. He let me crouch by his side and even passed me his helm to hold, bidding the rest be silent when they looked at me askance and wondered what a child did there, amongst men.

I bristled at that and told them I had stood upon the sand with hook in hand, ready to fight, as the Sky Lords passed over. Some laughed then, and some called me liar, but Andyrt bade them silent and said that he believed me, and that his belief was theirs, else they chose to challenge him. None did, and I saw that they feared him somewhat, or respected him, and I studied him anew.

He was, I surmised, of around my father’s age (though any man, then, of more than twenty years was old to me) and traces of gray were spun into his brown hair. His face was paler than a fisherman’s, but still quite dark, except across his forehead, where his helm sat. A thin cut bisected his left cheek, and several of his teeth were missing, though the rest were white-the mark of a sound lord’s man’s diet-and his eyes were a light blue, webbed round with tiny wrinkles. His hands were brown and callused in a manner different from a fisherman’s, marked by reins and sword’s hilt and lance. To me, he was exotic; glamorous and admirable.