Despite being warned by his mother and sister and receiving the official censure of the Suid, Connal leads a crew of fifty warriors for distant Gallodel in pursuit of glory and revenge.
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The sea was calm, strangely so. Connal could hardly remember a time when the Iarlir did not seethe with rage, her billowing waves threatening any vessel foolhardy enough to pass over them. It was a sea of dangerous mystery, the domain of monsters lurking beneath the waves and dwelling on jagged rocks. A sea of angry gods—Gaillag and Drog, Lirgan and Ifryn—hungry for the flesh of mortal men, glorying in the sacrifice of drowned sailors.
But not today. Today the sea was still. Glassy blue. And a strong breeze filled Wave-Tamer’s sail, blowing them south to Eburneum.
“She mourns her king,” Veruc said, breaking his reverie. Connal turned to see the greying sailor just behind him pointing to the great expanse of water. “The Iarlir. She knew no greater master than Craedon.”
“It’s a good omen,” Fionn said. “The oceans themselves are with us. Even if the Suid is not.”
At Fionn’s words, a gloomy hush fell over the crew. They bore a double burden: their king’s death and their council’s displeasure. Yet here they were, rowing Connal’s oars, riding the seas for vengeance. He must speak to them as his father did, inspire them to greatness. Bear the heavy mantle of kingship.
“The Suid be damned,” Connal said. “Their threats are as empty as their hearts. Fear not. We will have our revenge, retrieve the Rigsról, and return triumphant. And when I am king, I will raise you all to glorious heights. Wealth will be yours, and those who stayed will envy your noble fortune!”
For a moment, their gloom seemed to dissipate. Men cheered and stamped their boots along the deck. Yet dark sorrow soon returned, hanging over them even as they sailed all through the afternoon.
That evening, as the sun set in an orange blaze, Connal sat beside Kierran along one of the oar benches.
“This Orthen,” Connal began. “You met him, yes?”
“Not met,” Kierran said. “But I was there when he seized the Rigsról and sent us home.”
“What is he like?”
“He doesn’t look a boy. There’s a weight about him. Like a man of valor.”
“He is a warrior?”
“No. In Prince Daras’s camp, they scorned him. Said he was no better than a monk. A pale scholar, fitter for the cloister than the battlefield.”
“And is this true?”
Kierran shrugged. “He trapped us like a fighter. With more cunning than many a lord of war. He is skilled beyond his years.”
“Perhaps he has good advisors.”
“Perhaps. He claims his advisor is Aonel himself. God sends him visions and Orthen obeys. Daras’s barons—they mocked him as a lunatic. But I’m not so sure. An idealist maybe. They said when he took the throne, he passed new laws, many on behalf of the commons. Any man or woman who enters his hall may petition him for justice. High or low. Doesn’t matter.”
“Justice.” Connal thought of the stories of Eburneum on which he had been raised—frightening tales of barons mad for power, sorcerers soaked in the blood of innocents, and jealous knights vying for fame. By all accounts, they were not a people given to justice.
He struggled to form a clear picture of this Orthen. “So he is a crazed mystic who loves displays of justice and spurns tradition. And the Eburneans suffer such a king?”
Kierran shrugged. “Not all. Most of the country was with Daras. But the ones who follow him are zealous.”
“Why?”
“He’s not as weak as you might think. They say he loves heroic deeds of arms just like his father. He has surrounded himself with brave knights. And he continues many of the old ways.”
“Like what?”
“Trial by arms, for one. And he keeps the feast days. It is just the Telian heresy he hates. They say he aims to restore the old virtues.”
“Virtues,” Connal spat. “And what does the Eburnean pup know of virtue? My father was a greater man than he could ever dream of being. And for that, Orthen disgraces his legacy, stealing the banner of his people. I will teach him virtue. And justice too.”
Kierran shrugged again, looked out to the rolling sea. There was fury in his eyes, only barely concealed. “We will do what we can, Connal.”
♚ ♚ ♚
They slipped among the islands of the Ellthiar, drifting or rowing by day, stopping at night among the many islands that comprised the distant holdings of Cregeirann’s kings. Many of these places, barely more than sea-worn rocks, could offer no hospitality, and the crew kept close to the ship, dining on salted haddock or boiled oats.
On one early evening, as they reached the edge of the Ellthiar, Horan pointed to an island in the near distance. It had low, gently sloping mountains and a surprisingly large settlement for an island this far from Cregeirann.
“We’ll have comfort tonight, lord.” Horan grinned. “There’s a real tavern there.”
But Connal shook his head. From the moment he first caught sight of the island, a cold dread had gripped him. “No. We’ll keep going.”
“Lord?” Horan looked at him in disbelief. “It’s the isle of Dán. One of ours.”
“I know,” Connal snapped. “But we’re not spending the night there.”
“What’s this?” Kierran asked. “Why not?”
“Just keep us to the south, Horan,” Connal insisted. “We’ll find another port.”
“There isn’t one, lord. Not till we hit Logren. We’d have to spend the night aboard the ship.”
At this, a chorus of grumbling arose from the men. His command was highly unusual, Connal knew. A crew did not sleep among the oar benches unless absolutely necessary. But he could not relent.
Kierran approached him by the stern, and leaned in, speaking quietly, “Connal, what’s going on? You’re not making sense.”
“I made an oath,” Connal said.
“What oath? What does this have to do with where the men sleep?”
“There is a woman,” he blurted, feeling the color rush to his cheeks. “She lives in Dán. And I swore never to come to her again.”
Kierran shook his head, but the hint of a smile crossed his grim face. “You dumb bastard. What’d you do? Rob her virtue? Get her with child?”
“Never you mind. Just know that we cannot land here. It is a question of honor.”
Kierran sighed. “It always is with you, isn’t it?”
Then Kierran turned to the rest of the crew who still sat muttering and complaining. “Alright, keep this ship going. We sleep aboard tonight. And if I hear any of you whoresons so much as hint at grumbling, I’ll toss you to the Iarlir myself!”
♚ ♚ ♚
The first of Logren to come into view was a tower, black against the sky, cutting the horizon like the sinister fin of an enormous shark. At Horan’s warning that it was a place of evil Eburnean magic, they gave the tower a wide berth, continuing due south.
Soon, the coast of Logren revealed itself more fully. Towering mountains rose from the sea, green against the bleak greyness of the sky. And all around, the thick tangle of the forest sprawled, filling the gaps between the peaks and extending deep within the inner country.
They found shelter along the stony beaches, passing sleepless nights at the edge of the wild forest. Strange beasts called to one other amid the pitch-black dark, and the woods seemed to teem with hordes of rabid man-eating monsters.
Tossing restlessly on his blanket, Connal fought his wandering, erratic thoughts. To calm himself, he offered prayers to Aonel, asking for peace, for direction, for any sign at all. But he felt nothing, no sense of the deep communion with the divine presence promised by the priests. It was like speaking to a stone. Nor did his appeals to the saintly host fare any better. Warlike Urient, seafaring Farrion, healing Abria—all these and many more he adjured, yet no prayer could lessen the raging fire in his soul. His thoughts flitted through a series of violent images: his father’s death, the battle at Feóthán, the Suid’s obstinate cowardice, the vengeance he would take at Gallodel. Even in long-sought sleep, scenes of wrath and blood filled his nightmares.
♚ ♚ ♚
As they rounded the western horn of Moralann, the rugged green peaks began to taper off. A wasteland lay before them, a dry, brown country absent trees or grass. Even the mountains were brown and dusty, the buildings a ghostly white, like the sun-baked bones of a long-dead colossus.
“Marbhglyn,” Kierran said. “The Valley of the Dead.”
“Are there people here?” Connal asked.
“Some. But none we would wish to meet.”
“Did you stop here when you sailed with my father?”
“Aye. But we had many ships then. Now, we have but one.”
“If it’s abandoned, what do we have to fear?”
“There are stories of this place, Connal. Of ancient evils dead and buried. We won’t land here.”
“But—”
“You had your way at Dán. I shall have mine here.”
Connal shrugged. “Very well.”
But as they slipped by the ancient ruins, he felt a curious longing. It called to him, this strange place of death, as if entwined with his destiny.
♚ ♚ ♚
Connal shot from the water like a speeding arrow, his head bursting through the surface of the gently rolling waves. Falling to his back, he gasped for breath, then lay there floating upon the water, his bare chest heaving with the effort of his breaths.
“Did you touch it?” asked Fionn, his words coming halting between shallow breaths.
Connal shook his head, raised himself slowly to an upright position, treading water with arms and legs.
“Too deep,” he said. “You?”
“No.” Fionn brushed his long black hair from his face, plastering against his neck and back.
Together they had swum out from where the rest of the men paddled and waded into the water. Wave-Tamer lay berthed upon the shore of the island of Meday, situated between the eastern shores of Logren and the Eburnean earldom of Wessing.
Every thirty feet or so they had paused, diving beneath the waves, seeing if they could touch the bottom. The contest would continue until only one of them could touch, or, if neither could, the victor would be whoever stayed underwater longest. It was a game they had played since they had been boys of seven, on the rough and wild seas by the shores of Edòrn, testing the limits of their budding courage and growing bodies, the endurance of lung and limb.
This last time, the fifth attempt, Connal had been underwater for what felt like hours. Filling his lungs, he had dived as deep as his breath would take him, plumbing the ocean’s murky depths. The sea had grown dark and cold, yet the bottom lay beyond his reach. As his lungs began to burn, he had flipped around, pressing his hands together above his head, kicking to propel himself upwards. The burning intensified as he had sped toward the flickering light broken upon the shimmering surface of the sea.
“I suppose you win,” Fionn said lightly.
Connal laughed, sweeping his long hair back from his forehead. “Always.”
Four years he had spent on Edòrn, living in the hall of Rodin its lord, his foster father until Connal reached his eleventh winter. Rodin had taught him much, building on Craedon’s teachings. Fionn, Rodin’s youngest son, was of an age with Connal, and the two had formed a fast and immediate friendship. Many joy-filled days they had spent in Rodin’s ship, learning to master the Iarlir’s waves as best as any mortal could, sparring with Edòrn’s warriors, hunting wild pigs and monsters across the jagged islands of the north.
“Shall we?” Fionn said, waving a hand across the beach in an overly dramatic gesture.
Slowly, they made the swim towards the crew, riding the waves towards Meday’s shores.
Compared to the vastness of Logren, Meday seemed dwarfish, though it was no smaller than many of the Ellani islands Connal had once thought large. There were no great towns or castles here, but plumes of smoke rose from further in, grey against the reddening sunset, announcing the presence of villagers. They had not seen any of the inhabitants. If the locals knew of the foreign ship on their shore, they were wisely keeping themselves hidden.
Many of the ship’s crew were in the water, floating lazily upon the waves. Some, like Connal, stripped down to their linen breeches; others wore nothing at all.
Many more had returned to the shore, dressing themselves and gathering by the newly kindled campfires.
Kierran stood in his breeches, water to his knees, his broad muscled torso lined with scars old and new, grey mingling with the black hair on his chest. He held a fishing line, a basket floating upon the water beside him, tied to his waist.
It was strange, this, for a ringed and worthy Elan lord to catch the ship crew’s supper. When Kierran had first thrown a line over the ship, a few days into the journey, Connal had hinted to him that they had best let another—a man of lesser status—do the fishing. But Kierran had smiled and shaken his head, saying the practice suited him, helped him clear his mind.
“How goes the fishing?” Connal asked him now.
“Good,” Kierran said, never keeping his eye from the line. Even as he spoke, he began to tug, reeling in a skipping, thrashing seabass. “We’ll eat well tonight.”
Connal shook his head. Kierran Wolfsbane, fishing like a common peasant. There were things in this world he would never understand.
He rose from the water, striding for the beach, the air cold and bracing to his wet skin. Connal shivered and sighed contentedly. He welcomed the cold, the clarity it brought, how it hardened a man to fear and worry. And it was not so cold yet. The Moridea—South Sea, as the Eburneans called it—was warmer than the Iarlir, and it was still late summer, a pleasant time for swimming.
“How was the water, lord?” Roras called. He squatted before the nearest fire, cloak draped across his bare shoulders.
“Refreshing.” Connal said. “You did not swim?”
“No, lord. Waded only to my knees.” Roras rose stiffly from his squat. His cloak was splayed open, his round hairy chest and bulging belly hanging over woolen breaches. “I cannot swim.”
Connal had always found it hard to believe—the Ellani were islanders, surrounded on every side by water. But there were some among his people and his crew, who had never learned to swim, never braved the Iarlir’s tempestuous seas.
“You of all men needn’t fear drowning.” Fionn laughed, holding out his hands before his own lean belly. “With all that fat, you’d float like a barrel.”
Roras shook his head and grinned at Fionn’s jab.
“Every man should fear the sea,” Duer said in a flat, nasally voice. He stared blankly at them all with large, sad eyes, his broken nose slightly crooked. “Even the strongest swimmer can drown, should his limbs tire—or Lirgan betray him.”
Roras nodded, his smile fading. “My brother was a swimmer,” he said hoarsely. “Confident in his skill. He used to swim between Dumoir and the surrounding isles, often under cover of darkness.”
“What warm-blooded Elan hasn’t made that voyage?” Fionn laughed, a few others joining in.
Connal knew what Fionn alluded to, even if it was only through hearsay. The islands surrounding Cregeirann were notorious for illicit trade—prostitutes and soothsayers, smugglers and hired killers. Craedon had banished all such business from Dumoir itself—though not so far that a short boat ride couldn’t take you there. It was an open secret, allowed to continue so long as the sordid trade did not work its way into the royal town.
Roras did not share in Fionn’s amusement. “Whatever his destination, one night, the Iarlir took him, a current sweeping him out to sea. We never found his body.”
A gloomy hush suddenly fell over the crew. Even Fionn. It seemed no matter what, they could not outrun the gloomy specter of death.
“Gods!” barked Delar, slapping his brother Duer across the back of the head. “What in Anturr ails you? Why’d you have to bring up drowning? You’d make a funeral of a feast!
Duer frowned, his face becoming even more dour. “It’s true though.”
“Lots of true things in this world,” Delar replied. “Don’t all make for good conversation.”
Duer held his tongue, and for many moments, all was quiet, save for the crackling of the campfires, the gentle crashing of the surf on shore.
Then Roras gave his belly a resounding slap, pulled the cloak tight around himself. “Delar is right. No more of this grisly talk. I, for one, shall never swim. And so I need never fear to drown! Now, let’s prepare the meal, shall we?”
He returned to the fire, began rummaging in a sack for salt and spices.
As he did, Fionn reached into his belt, drew out a small sharp knife. He gestured to Connal, then pointed to his own beard. “Shall I? You’re starting to look like a he-goat.”
Connal considered a moment. It had been weeks since he had taken a knife to hair or beard, and when he saw his reflection in the water, a hirsute savage peered back at him, red-gold hair disheveled and unkempt. It made his normally angular features full and wild like a thornbush. He did not look like the son of a king.
Yet he shook his head. “No knife shall touch this beard—not till I have fulfilled my oath.” Only then would he desrve to look the part of an Ellani prince. Craedon’s son.
♚ ♚ ♚
“My lord. It is Esting!”
Connal woke to Horan’s exultant cry. Rubbing his eyes, he followed his pointing finger over the portside. There lay before him the shores of Esting: stony beaches bathed in the rosy glow of dawn’s first light, giving way to steep yellowed cliffs and rolling fields of green.
Yes, Esting, the earldom governed by Gallodel itself. For days, they had tracked the Eburnean shoreline, drifting past a series of towers and castles and villages, dotting the cliffs and shores of Wessing, Sutting, and Eorland. As of yet, their presence had raised no alarm. The South Sea teemed with ships—merchants from Logren and the Brevin kingdoms, the Auronian city-states, even faraway Telum. Wave-Tamer was but one ship among many, joining the great concourse wending towards Gallodel.
Connal gripped the wale with iron fists. The lands of the usurper Orthen, contested by his brother, watered by Eburnean and Ellani blood. Along the ridges, smoke rose in fat grey plumes, and beyond the trees, the rich and vulnerable hamlets lay. There was wealth here undreamt of in the islands.
Kierran came to stand beside him, leaning against the wale. “I think it time we discuss strategy.” Kierran said. “How will we, with fifty-some men, do what Daras could not with thousands?”
Connal stood tight-lipped, watching the shore pass slowly by. That was a good question, he had to admit. Rage and honor had carried him this far. Yet rage and honor were seldom enough. A man must be cunning too. His father had taught him that much. Cunning in strategy and fierce in execution. No such strategy had come to him, however, and he knew Kierran could read it in his face.
“We could pull in there,” Veruc said, indicating a small bay. Above it stood the cottages, thick and newly thatched. “If we pillage his lands, the king is bound to send men to their aid. He’ll think us easy prey.” Tapping his sword hilt, Veruc grinned. “We slaughter a company of Eburneans, and the deaths of King Craedon and our brothers are avenged.”
Connal shook his head. “I did not come all this way to butcher farmers and loot cottages. And besides, what chance is there that the king himself would ride from Gallodel to fight a band of raiders? At best he would send out riders, and, if we slay them, still we are no closer to retaking the Rigsról.”
“Then what would you do?” Kierran asked. “Lay siege to Gallodel? Fifty thousand might perish in the attempt.”
Connal shrugged. “All I know is I am drawn to this Eburnean city. My fate compels me and honor too. And if death at the gates is woven in my life’s thread, then I will face it as a man must, as my father did. Yet I do not believe God would lead me here, far from home, only to die beneath the city walls. A strategy will come.”
♚ ♚ ♚
It was midday before the first of Gallodel’s towers came into view, a white turret upon the sea, nearly a small island unto itself. Alone it stood, some miles south of the rest of the city, buffeted by the ocean’s wrath.
Seaguard. On a clear day, Roras said, you could look out to the lands across the South Sea, the cold, grey coasts of Breviny.
It was such a day, Connal noted, cursing Drog. No chance of drawing close to the city without being spotted.
Soon enough, a few of the Ellani warriors cried out, and Connal looked out over the bow. A ship approached, larger than any vessel he had ever seen. Triple-decked, it rose from the water like a primordial beast, more castle than ship, its single mast towering like the oaks of Logren.
“Gaillag strike us,” Veruc muttered. “What is that thing?”
“A cog,” Kierran said. “Merely the waves of its passing could capsize us.”
“Your orders, lord?” Horan asked. There was fear in his voice, and his hand trembled slightly upon the rudder.
“Steady on, Horan,” Connal said. An idea was forming in his mind, and he cast a silent, grateful prayer to the heavens. God and his saints did not leave him without recourse.
“Lord?” the steersman asked.
“I said steady on.”
“Connal, this is madness!” Kierran said. “You think we have any hope of fighting such a ship?”
“No,” Connal said.
Kierran threw up his hands in frustration. “What then?”
“We’re going to talk to this Orthen.”
“Talk? You took us all this way to bloody talk?”
Connal nodded. “We shall try the king’s justice.”
♚ ♚ ♚
The Eburnean ship had drawn closer, and Connal could see the archers aboard and the rows of oars rising and falling in unison. From the top of its mast streamed the royal banner: an azure field on which was raised a golden battle-axe, the spike of its haft driven into a coiled red serpent’s head. Below it another flew showing a knight falling from his horse, a shattered lance looming over him. The western wind was against them, carrying Connal’s drifting ship towards the lumbering cog.
Soon, Connal thought. A few more moments and they’d be in speaking range.
On Wave-Tamer’s mast flew Connal’s own banner, bearing the same black stork that blazoned his shield. Absent the Rigsról, this would have to suffice. Let the Eburneans know that a son of Cregeirann had come—let them tremble at the thought.
Connal had armed himself as the west wind drove them on. Now he stood at the bow, clad in mail, Glámaire and a seax sheathed at his belt, round shield slung across his back. If there were to be fighting, he wanted both hands for the sword.
At last, they were close enough for voices to carry. A man, high atop the forecastle, called out to them, demanding their names and their business in the king’s waters.
“I am Connal, son of Craedon,” he shouted in stilted Eburnean. The words came thick and awkward to his tongue. He had learned the language long ago at his father’s orders but had not used it in some time. “I am come to talk with your king.”
It was a good introduction, he thought. The name of Craedon, if not Connal, carried weight. It was a name men bowed to. It commanded respect.
“I know of no Connal,” the man replied. “Nor a Craedon. Nor do I recognize the heraldry you fly. From what kingdom do you hail?”
Connal fumed. The insolence! And from this royal lapdog. He could see the man more clearly now, the curls of his short auburn hair running a little past the nape of his neck. He wore a tightly fitted bright blue tunic and a contemptuous sneer.
“Your king knows the name well enough,” Connal said, trying to keep the anger from his voice.
“Perhaps he does. And perhaps not. But you will not gain an audience until you answer the question: what land are you from? And what business do you have with the king?”
“I hail from Cregeirann,” Connal said, his anger bubbling. “And I did not sail all this way to bandy words with you. I am a king’s son and will speak to your king.”
“Not unless I allow you to pass, ‘king’s son,’” the courtier replied.
That was too much for Connal. “Allow me? You insolent dog! I dare you try to stop me. Why, in the battle’s heat, I have cut down more men than you have hairs on your shiny, perfumed head!”
“Connal,” Kierran whispered, laying a hand on his trembling shoulder. “This isn’t helping.”
That was true, though he hated to admit it. Insulting this fool would get him nowhere, satisfying as it might be.
The Eburnean lord remained in the same position, hands on his hips, glaring disdainfully. Quietly, the royal archers, in their checkered livery of blue and gold, lined along the fore and stern castles, nocked arrows to their strings. Connal inhaled deeply, checking his rage. He could not afford a bloodbath now. A cool head must prevail.
“I have come to seek the king’s justice,” Connal said. “I am told that he turns away no man or woman, regardless of their station.”
At this, the Eburnean frowned and turned to one of the men standing behind him. The two conferred some moments together, before he addressed Connal once more. “Very well,” he said. “We will escort you into the harbor. But no more than five of your people—” he nearly spat the word— “may come ashore. The rest will stay on your ship, under guard of our archers, an assurance of your cooperation.”
“Connal, is this prudent?” Kierran whispered.
Connal shrugged. They had abandoned prudence when they first set sail from Cregeirann.
“What other choice is there?” he muttered.
Kierran sighed and nodded slowly.
“I agree to these terms,” Connal said. “Now take me to your king.”
♚ ♚ ♚
Beyond its white, towering outer wall, Gallodel was more impressive still. The narrow, cobbled streets teemed with life, as people and animals rushed to and fro. The heavy scent of foreign spices filled the docks and markets, and the pungent stench of excrement assaulted them as soon as they came ashore. And the noise—it was like nothing Connal had ever heard before, a ceaseless din of shouting, laughing, cursing—the chorus of thousands of souls and a dozen languages. It filled his head like the strongest wine, the rush of bodies, smells, and voices overwhelming his senses.
As they passed along the narrow lanes—Connal, Kierran, Fionn, Veruc, and Roras—escorted by Eburnean guards, the citizens stopped to gape. They pointed and prattled, speculating on who or what these strangers were, these wildmen from the western seas. Connal did his best to ignore them, to maintain his dignity and composure before this gawking rabble. But he was unaccustomed to such numbers, and he found his gaze darting from face to foreign face amid the crowd.
Kierran spat, eying the mob like a cornered beast. “So this is a city.” His deep, rumbling voice was nearly inaudible under the weight of noise. “Bloody madness. A man’s got no room to stretch himself. To think. To grow.”
“Explains their shortness then,” Connal said with a laugh. But his was an empty mirth, quickly smothered by the babble of the crowd. Kierran was right: a man lacked space even to think in all this tumult.
The royal hall, when they came to it at last, was a thing of wonder, a dizzying masterwork of stone and timber, interrupted only by beautiful, intricate glasswork. These windows were gorgeously colored, with blues and reds and greens, and every other color under heaven, the Creator’s palette captured by the craft of man.
Connal stared up in awe as a guard went inside to announce them.
“Who built this?” he asked of his guide, whose name he had found out was Sir Baldren. In his wonder, Connal forgot his disdain for the Eburneans. “It’s magnificent.”
Baldren smiled and lifted his brows. “Generations have built it. The kings of three peoples raised it from the dust. The Moradii were first, hauling stones the size of ships from the quarries of Uainlann to create the Judgement Circle. Then the Telians came, and with the knowledge of brick and mortar, raised up the Magisterium. And at last, under Marrok III, Eburnean engineering completed its construction, setting the marvel before you now, the glory of all Moralann, unparalleled by the decadent empires of the east or the savage isles of the west.”
Connal ignored Baldren’s insult, his eyes fixed on the Eburnean hall. There truly was no parallel. At least none he had seen. How many Rigtallas might fit in such a building, swallowed whole like the leviathan’s prey, hapless ships devoured by Lirgan’s cruel sons?
The guard returned, holding open the great iron-studded oak door. This was it—the moment he would face his mighty foe. Orthen of Eburneum, a tyrant who dared malign Cregeirann’s honor, who bade the Sea Kings bow before him, humble vassals to a foreign king.
It was time to confront this Orthen with a truth learned by the conquerors of ages past, a lesson of blood and death and fire. Other peoples might submit when threatened—the Ellani did not.
Connal drew a sharp breath and stepped forward, into his enemy’s den.
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