Men cried out in consternation. The scout who had addressed the king slipped a bow loose from his shoulder and drew an arrow on the intruder; others followed his example.
"Peace!" said King Eofin. "It is only one man." He turned to the stranger. "Who are you?"
"Men call me 'Cira' and 'Culathan'," answered the stranger, in the tongue common to Orden and the other countries in the northeast of Legea. "Some in this place have named me the Sycthwa."
"You are not of Enydhwyn then," said King Eofin, looking at him doubtfully. "Indeed your features are not like those of our land."
"They are not," agreed Finyref close beside him. He frowned.
"What troubles you?" King Eofin asked him in concern.
"I – I cannot say. His eyes – nay, my king, let you speak with him further."
"So be it." King Eofin turned aside again. "Do you come from Dirion or Rodron?"
"In both those lands I have been, but whither I came is unknown. In these mountains I have dwelt for years uncounted. But, O king Eofin dimmur-Wyrha of Echerag, what has brought you into these, the further parts of your rule?"
"Look you," said the king roughly, leaning down from the saddle. "You say you have dwelt here long; then what know you of an evil that lingers here, an evil that rears up from the bones of my country to darken the crowns of her trees? What is its nature? Where can it be found? For truly that is what I seek."
The man Culathan held his gaze, and his strange dark eyes held remote thoughtfulness. "I may know something of what you seek. Come to my hearth, and there we may discuss all in full."
dimmur: son, son of
YOU ARE READING
A Cold Cry
FantasyOne man against a nameless evil, against deception, and ultimately against himself. Something dangerous lurks in the mountains of Enedhwin, and no-one is willing to search it out... no-one except the cocky and loyal-to-a-fault foreign ambassador. Bu...
