Legend of the Storm Hawks

The Rhi’Iverach

The Rhi’Iverach~

Calum Iverach

Monaughty, Iverach

Forsmoon, 4399

Silver spurs glinted in dawn’s early light. Black boots swayed in a brisk sea breeze.

The almighty Dowan Iverach dangled from a noose, his fists clenched even in death. His lifeless eyes stared down at those who dared survive him—recriminating, judging, and demanding vengeance.

Calum shifted in his saddle and shook away the image as he passed beneath the gnarled branch of the justice tree. For centuries, Iverach chiefs had been meting out punishment from the limbs of the massive sycamore stretching over the coastal trade road where it met the well-fortified approach to Castle Monaughty. On the craggy cliffs below, gulls screamed at the tireless waves crashing beneath the castle.

In their screams, Calum could still hear his mother’s cries.

Seven years back, on a crisp spring morning, Lady Jenna gave birth to a third daughter. Lord Dowan flew into a rage, locking his wife in a tower and threatening to beat her until she confessed. For days, Calum choked on his fear and loathing, and his younger sisters clung to him in hushed terror. When he finally worked up the courage to confront their father, he took the brunt of Dowan’s wrath. He woke battered and broken, and his mother and the baby were gone.

This morning, Calum’s uncle watched him with a frown of protective concern, one Holden had worn often since returning to Monaughty. After Dowan’s death, Holden had quietly but firmly squelched the scandalous rumors, buried family secrets, and helped a frightened boy learn to lead one of the most powerful clans in Innis.

“Checking for cracks in my sanity, Uncle?”

“Your sanity’s intact. It’s your resolve that’s wobbly.”

“I’m going to meet them, aren’t I?”

“Begrudgingly,” said Holden.

“You ask me to trust them to strangers. We exchanged letters. Words mean little.”

Calum spurred his horse and rode up the column making its way towards Iversport.

“Give them a chance,” Holden called after him.

Calum reined in alongside the captain of Monaughty’s guard. Captain Lyn was a chiseled block, from his shoulders to his jaw, even his haircut. Lyn never bothered with needless talk. On the day Calum found his father hanged, Lyn cut Dowan down from the tree, addressed Calum as Rhi, and went about his duties.

“Pastor Ben asked that I stop on our way through town. Have a lad ride ahead to tell him when we pass the gate,” said Calum.

“Aye, Your Grace.”

Calum’s spirited steed snorted impatience at the slower pace. The captain cut a sideward glance at the horse he’d trained himself, and the animal settled to a traveling trot.

“Have you ever been to Aleron, Captain?”

“A few times,” said Lyn. “Mountains are steep. Winters are hard. Aleron’s a demanding land that breeds strength.”

“My sisters are accustomed to comfort.”

“Are they now? Seems to me they’re strong enough.” Lyn left the rest unsaid. They survived the Beast of Monaughty. “There’s more to Aleron, though. Green valleys. Clear streams. The finest trout you’ll ever eat. If I didn’t have seawater in my veins, I might’ve stayed.”

Even Lyn was trying to sway him toward the alliance. Calum doubled back to rejoin his uncle. As he drew near, Daor Ranald’s commentary rose above the rush of wind and sea.

“—planted by the folk who shone before men. They ruled the earth long before we gathered around fires and learned to speak.”

Calum groaned. The pained expression on Holden’s face said Daor Ranald was torturing him with yet another philosophical treatise.

“A people are born. They learn. They rise. They leave something of themselves behind.”

Ranald’s musings were prompted by passing the Sailor’s Wives. The weathered stones, as tall and wide as Calum, stood in a circle on a grassy hillock between the trade road and the sea. Standing stones were common in Innis, especially in the North.

“I doubt the Church agrees with your account of our beginnings,” said Holden.

“Likely not. Doesn’t make me wrong.”

If ever a man was too clever for his own good, it was the learned Daor Ranald. A middle-aged scholar with silver-rimmed spectacles and a curly brown mop of hair that refused any efforts at taming, he was always moving, talking, or reading. Often all at once.

Ranald had read every page of every book in Innis, or so it often seemed. His keen intellect led him to some rather unorthodox theories at times, some heretical enough to bar him from prominent university appointments. Their loss was Monaughty’s gain. Ranald was the finest tutor and most competent advisor retained by any noble household in Innis.

Of course, that meant tolerating a few eccentricities. The occasional workshop mishap. The collection of fungi growing in the solarium. To say naught of the lizards.

Up ahead, Iversport’s black iron gates swung open. As a child, Calum had loved the sights and sounds of the busy port. Silver and sapphires from Iverach mines left on merchant ships sailing south to Jorendon, across the straits to Bresca, and farther south to Larad and Wodi. Others sailed around the northern tip of Innis and east to the Ten Kingdoms of Erusa. A few even sailed west across the Atlassia, to colonial trade towns in Tallu. From such far-flung destinations, the Iverach fleet brought back wonders and delicacies beyond a young boy’s imagination.

Over the centuries, Clan Iverach had built its fortune as both legitimate merchants and opportunistic smugglers. Generations of savvy traders had brought considerable wealth and prosperity to the province bearing the Iverach name. Today, more than a million folk, common and noble, and every shade in between looked to the Lord of Monaughty, Chief of Clan Iverach, and esteemed Rhi’Iverach for military, economic, and political protection within the kingdom of Innis.

Yet, they’re stuck with me. Calum straightened as he rode through the gates.

After his father died, Calum stepped into a role that far exceeded his readiness. Placing the responsibility on someone so young solely because of who sired him seemed a dubious approach to choosing a leader. But after years of mentoring by Holden and Ranald, Calum took solace in having muddled through without foundering the mighty ship Iverach on the rocks.

Inside the gates, the trade road widened into Iversport’s main thoroughfare. The obligatory taverns, brothels, and cheap inns huddled between the road and the wharves, catering to the vices of sailors from around the known world. Pricier inns and shops of artisans, smiths, and other guilders lined the thoroughfare’s opposite side. Along the side streets leading inland, the size and respectability of the establishments increased in proportion to their distance from the bustling harbor.

“The road is holding up well,” Calum said to no one in particular.

“Yes, Your Grace,” Holden said with a wry smile. “You were right. I was wrong.”

“I do enjoy the sound of that.”

“Paving the road was a sound investment and popular with the townsfolk.”

It was more than that. It was Calum’s first decision that ran contrary to his uncle’s advice. He’d doubted himself when construction disrupted trade and took longer than estimated. Now the clap of hooves on stone sounded like music. The Iversport road was tangible affirmation he might be more capable than he often felt.

The cathedral’s spires reached skyward, and Pastor Ben waved from the foot of its white marble steps. Farther up the steps, men dressed in the southern Innish style stood watching their approach.

“Unexpected visitors,” said Holden.

Chapter 3