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Dragon Wing
Middanhal
Few but servants and sentinels were awake when the first departures from the Citadel began. Three men left before any others, wearing hoods and furtive glances. They moved towards the northern gate, ready to leave the city by sunrise.
Two hours passed after dawn before the stable hands prepared a carriage along with twenty more horses. Servants hauled luggage outside and loaded it up while kingthanes issued from the castle, talking idly as they found their steeds. Finally, four women appeared. Arndis, Jana, Eleanor, and Gwen entered the carriage, a servant climbed onto the driver's seat and took the rains, and the procession left.
A while later, the third departure of the day took place. The duke of Belvoir and his attendants left swiftly. Most of his forces had been quartered throughout the city, primarily Lowtown, and they joined up as he rode down the Arnsweg, leaving the city through the southern gate.
~~~~
Still in the city, the lord marshal had his own tasks requiring attention. Weeks of siege and the recent battle both outside and inside the city had left Middanhal in turmoil. Every soldier that could be spared would be needed for the invasion of the Reach, leaving the new captain of the Citadel with a scraped garrison.
While William and Fionn discussed the defences of the city, the quartermaster of the Order was equally occupied. An invasion meant the creation of long supply lines, and the provisions gathered for the siege now had to be prepared for transport; most of the army being already in the field only increased the challenge. Carts, oxen, and mules were gathered from across the city to fill the courtyards, the armouries were emptied of weapons, and the vast stores of cloth for surcoats, cloaks, tents, and more were opened. For the first time in its history, the Order would march beyond the borders of Adalmearc.
~~~~
Not all soldiers wearing the Star participated in the hectic activities. In a particular tavern in Lowtown, the lieutenants of the king's archers sat comfortably, drinking ale. They commanded the best table in the room, as one of them was married to the owner's daughter; their fame as companions to the king and the subsequent attraction of other clientele did not hurt either, and the tavern had full tables.
A whiterobe kept the archers company, slamming his tankard onto the table with a satisfied look. "Just what I needed," Caradoc declared. "Though Hamaring smite me if I won't be needing another shortly!"
"Never you fear. Any of king's hundred heroes may drink here without paying," Nicholas declared magnanimously. "Don't tell Geberic," he hurried to add with a panicked look. "He'd abuse it."
Laughter bellowed from the priest. "Of course not! That leaves more for me."
"You've just asked the wolf to keep quiet about the chicken coop, so the fox won't take them," Quentin grumbled. "When we get back, there'll be nothing but empty kegs."
"Never you fear, my ever-smiling friend," Caradoc said. "I'll be going go the Reach with you lads."
"Won't they miss you in that little shrine where we found you in Heohlond?" Quentin asked acerbically.
"Another year won't hurt," the whiterobe declared with a placid expression.
"Why do you want to go to the Reach?" asked Nicholas. "If I didn't have to go, I'd stay for sure." He sent a longing look across the room to where his wife filled tankards from a keg.
"I'm the first whiterobe to ever enter the Reach," replied the priest. "Now I'll be the first to do it twice! Not to mention, they'll be talking about the fight in the streets for years to come. And when they do, Caradoc Whitesark can say he was there, swinging his hammer." He grinned. "Besides, it wouldn't do to deprive the soldiers of my spiritual guidance. Who knows? Maybe even your king will have need of me soon enough, like his father and mother did."
"I'll drink to that," Nicholas proclaimed, and the other men raised their own mugs accordingly.
~~~~
Preparations for the invasion consumed the Citadel over the next two days. Presumably, it also took all of the king's attention, as he did not emerge from his chambers and refused to see anyone; those in need had to seek audience with the dragonlord instead. Some whispered that the king was ill, or that his injuries from the battle had taken a sudden turn for the worse, which only initiated a flurry of new rumours.
Thus, when the king finally appeared after days of absence, it caused a stir. He did not seem inclined to offer any explanations, striding through the Citadel towards the royal wing, and the courtiers were left with only guesswork to underpin their speculations.
He went to his own chambers first, throwing his cloak aside. Slaking his thirst, he bid a servant have a meal prepared for his return and swiftly left once more. Walking through the hallways, he chose the path that led from the royal quarters to the library tower.
Even before he stepped inside, numerous voices reached him through the heavy door. As he opened it, the curious sight of a dozen kitchen maids met him, reading by the tables of the library hall. At the sight of the king, the voices became quiet, and a variety of expressions greeted him. Shock and fear seemed prevalent; some of the youngest girls crawled under the table.
Looking slightly amused, Brand let his eyes wander over the gathering. Some met his gaze while others stared directly into the ground. With an aghast expression, Egil came running from the scriptorium, and he gave a deep bow. "Forgive me, my king," he rushed to say. "I'll send them away!"
Brand raised a hand in a dismissive gesture. "Let them read. Follow me, Master Quill."
Egil sent a confused look towards the bedroom where until recently, the previous King's Quill had resided. "Oh, that's me." Gathering his wits, he followed the king as the latter entered the scriptorium, leaving the befuddled kitchen girls behind.
"All of you, be quiet," Kate admonished them. "Not a sound."
Brand walked along the desks and shelves of the writing hall until his eyes fell upon a large book. His hand slid across the golden letters on the cover, revealing it to be the Tome of Names for House Arnling. "I gave this to your predecessor to restore, years ago," he explained, opening the book. "I rather forgot about it with all the events happening, but it seems he completed the task." His fingers ran over the lines as he read the names of his ancestors.
"Master Quill was always reliable," Egil said quietly.
Brand ran through the pages until he reached the last one bearing letters. "Adalbrand, born to Arngrim of House Arnling," he read aloud. "No further names will be written," he mused. "House Arnling is gone, replaced by the House of Adal."
"Yes, my king," the young scribe mumbled.
"Dragon born to eagle wing," the king read on. "My birth words. The norn had it right." He closed the great book. "As the King's Quill, you will record all the recent events into the annals, of course."
"Of course."
"I have decided you shall accompany me into the Reach. Both to record the campaign accurately, but also any knowledge we might learn about the outlanders."
Egil stood with open mouth for a moment before he collected himself. "As you say, my king."
"What happened to your master?" Brand suddenly asked. "He was not so old."
"Did they not tell you? He was imprisoned by Prince Hardmar and brutalised by his men. Poor Master Quill never recovered after that." Egil's voice quivered.
"I was away. They did not tell me the details, and I never asked until now." The king took a deep breath, and he seemed on the verge to continue speaking; instead, he turned away from the books and shelves, leaving the scriptorium and the library itself.
|
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|
The Turn of the Millstone
Middanhal
A table had been prepared with various kinds of fruit, bread, and small cakes in the chambers of the king’s sister, specifically the parlour. Arndis already sat, accompanied by Eleanor, her handmaiden. As the door opened to reveal Jana, they both rose.
"Please, do not hesitate. Join us," Arndis told her. "I am pleased you would accept my invitation."
"I am only happy to share your company," the lady of Alcázar claimed. She entered and took the third chair, once Arndis had taken her own seat.
"I have been dying to hear more about the South Cities," Eleanor declared, sitting down as the last. "I am told that veils are worn by the women. Though you… I see you do not."
"It is an old custom that some still follow. In these northern lands, I see no need for it," Jana replied politely.
"If I had your hair, I would not cover it either," Eleanor admitted.
"You have a skilled handmaiden," Arndis added, taking a cluster of grapes to her plate.
"I have no maiden as such, only hands," came the jest from Jana. She carefully touched the edges of her intricate hair. "All done by myself, I fear."
"That is outrageous," Arndis declared, though her voice remained calm in spite of her words. "I will find you a suitable courtier, fitting for your rank. I cannot believe the king would overlook this."
"He has other matters on his mind than courtiers," Jana considered.
"You know him well," Arndis continued. "How does he seem to you?"
"I would not presume to know the king better than his own sister."
"I am sure you can provide insight."
"The king is burdened by the burdens of a king," Jana simply said. "Matters that are beyond me."
"I worry for him, as any sister would," Arndis claimed, looking away while her fingers tore a grape into pieces. "Enough of that. Eleanor, who would make a suitable handmaiden for a princess of Alcázar?"
~~~~
The door to the library opened, admitting one Dwarf. He found three youths inside, reading or writing.
"Jorund!" Kate exclaimed. "When did you return?"
"My patrol came in yesterday, late," the Red Hawk explained. "No sign of outlanders yet." He looked towards Inghard. "I didn't think you were here, given the lack of thanes outside."
"Not a prince anymore," the nobleman replied.
"Right, I forgot. These past months have been mad," Jorund declared. "One day I’m poised to fight the Order and this Dragonheart, as they call him. Next thing I know, he’s king and I’m doing patrols with Order soldiers." He exhaled, letting himself drop down on a bench.
"Not to mention, we sat and feared Isarn’s army attacking us to the north. Now, we got to worry about outlanders attacking us to the south!" Kate wrung her hands together.
"I’ve had plenty to write in the annals, that’s for sure." Egil waved his quill about.
"What is the situation?" asked Inghard. "With the outlanders."
"Well, they’re not at the doors yet," Jorund told them. "And I wouldn’t worry. The city is brimming with troops. They’re not getting past the walls."
"Another reason I am satisfied to no longer be prince," Inghard said. "I would rather read than have to fight this war."
"Must be nice," the Dwarf growled. The former prince only smiled and picked up his book again.
~~~~
"The lord of Belvoir awaits, my king."
"Let him enter."
With confident steps, Alois of Belvoir walked into the king’s chamber, and Brand rose to greet him. Close in height and age, their similarities extended beyond the physical; both had gained their titles in tumultuous circumstances, and both had been thrust into responsibility at a young age.
"My lord duke, you are welcome to Middanhal." Brand bowed his head as deep as royal dignity allowed. "As is your army. I am grateful that you would heed the call to war."
In turn, the duke gave a proper bow. "It is a pleasure to meet a true king, Your Majesty. Should the outlanders overrun southern Adalrik, they may threaten eastern Ealond. It is only right that all Mearcians band together."
"Words of wisdom." Brand gestured for the duke to be seated; another motion saw a servant step forward to pour a goblet of wine. "You may recognise the taste. It comes from your own lands."
"A taste of home." Alois took a sip. "Speaking of Belvoir. I hope Your Majesty understands that I have left those lands near empty to protect Middanhal instead. While I see the need for our armies to unite, I hope our strategy will not be entirely defensive."
Brand shook his head. "That would be our last resort. I am still mustering armies from across Adalmearc. Once our full strength is marshalled, I intend to drive the outlanders back."
"That is a relief to hear." The duke took another cautious sip of his wine. "Especially given that while they threaten us to the east, the southrons attack us in the west. Your Majesty is aware, I take it, of Alcázar’s armies."
"Quite," Brand replied. "Though I wager your intelligence may be newer than mine. What is the latest you have heard?"
"They have begun their siege of Portesur. I suspect once they take it, they will march reinforcements directly north across the Langstan, rather than be forced to sail around the Teeth," Alois considered. "Then, with all their ships at their disposal, their armies gathered, and Portesur as their harbour, they can threaten all of the Eylonde Sea, including Herbergja."
"What of King Rainier?"
Disdain flittered across the duke’s face. "The king has lost the support of his vassals. He is unable to mobilise soldiers in sufficient numbers. Last I heard, he stays in Fontaine, leaving the defence of the realm to the Order."
"A pity the gods did not see fit to place a better man on the throne in such times."
"Fortunately, the king of Ealond is not the highest authority." The duke focused his eyes on Brand. "May we rely upon Your Majesty to see our lands freed from Alcázar? I know many of my men are anxious at the thought of fighting in Adalrik when there is also war in Ealond."
"Of course." Brand nodded. "That is the Alliance of Adalmearc. An attack upon one is an attack upon all. As high king, it is my solemn duty to defend all the Seven Realms against all enemies."
The duke bowed his head in response. "I shall pass Your Majesty’s words on to my men."
~~~~
The orchard trees at the Citadel saw a variety of people each day. Gardeners tended to them, and courtiers enjoyed the sight and scent they provided. The king’s sister was among the daily visitors, usually accompanied by a group of noblewomen, vying for her attention. Today proved to be an exception, as she had a knight for her only companion.
"Thank you for attending me," Arndis said with a smile that invited lingering looks from others in the vicinity.
"How could I refuse?" came Athelstan's reply. "There are few people at this court whose presence could be more pleasant." They walked at a slow pace, moving between sun and shade as the trees had begun their early bloom.
"Even so, you must be occupied at all waking hours."
"While I am tempted to let you think so, in truth, that is only the case on campaign. Captain Theobald is organising the city’s defence," he explained. "I have far too much time on my hands. I should be thanking you."
"I have done nothing worthy of gratitude, as I recall."
"When hands are idle, the mind turns endlessly like a millstone," Athelstan said. "Your company is a welcome reprieve from the repetition of thoughts and memories less cherished."
She took his arm as they walked. "Let me again express my deepest sympathies for your loss."
He covered her hand with his. "I appreciate the thought." He cleared his throat. "I have written to Isenwald and the jarlinna, telling them the news. I am ashamed to admit, a small part of me felt relieved that I would not have to do so in person."
"Under the circumstances, none may blame you."
A joyless smile appeared on the knight’s face, swiftly fading. "I must tell my brother. He does not know yet." Athelstan swallowed. "I cannot defend simply writing a missive when we are in the same place."
"Given his temper, I would not blame you for avoiding that conversation either."
"He will be a father who has lost his son. If anger directed at me will help him in his grief, I shall not deny him that either."
"Would you wish for me to accompany you? I understand that the moment itself would be private between two brothers, but afterwards, you might find a friendly face to be needed."
"You are kind to offer. The truth is, I am not sure when it will even be possible to see Isenhart. Only your brother may grant permission for any to visit my brother, and he has yet to grant me an audience."
"I can help with that," Arndis promised, squeezing his arm.
~~~~
Brand sat in the large chamber serving as his parlour; the last audience of the day had been given, and he kept no company besides a goblet and a pitcher of wine. From time to time, he raised the cup to let a few drops past his lips.
"Am I disturbing your thoughts? Or perhaps you are studying the tapestry," Jana considered.
Brand blinked, looking from his visitor to the wall opposite him, depicting the king Sighard hunting a boar. "I think I have gleaned all that may be learned. Which of my treacherous thanes told you to come this time?"
"Does the king assume I would only visit when requested?"
He gave half a smile. "The king does not know what to think these days."
Jana sat down next to him. "Rest assured, I come of my own volition with no purpose other than your company."
"That would certainly set you apart."
"I can imagine. What troubles you on this particular eve?"
Brand scratched his stubbles. "Besides the war? My sister wishes to marry a man I despise."
"Who?"
"Athelstan. You remember him from Alcázar?"
"To some extent. He always seemed kind in his dealings with both you and me."
"He can be when he wishes, I suppose. The moment he no longer had need of me – when he was among his own kin again – he threw me away."
"I imagine it is more complicated than that."
The king emptied his cup rather than reply.
"I have come to know a little of your sister, Brand."
"And?"
"She reminds me of my father’s wives. All of them adept at intrigue, each doing so on behalf of a son. Your sister gathers both knowledge and gold, makes alliances and learns the weaknesses of others at court. The only difference is, she does this to protect herself rather than any progeny."
"You do not paint a flattering picture."
"I say this without malice," Jana insisted. "She grew up alone, Brand, exposed. She does all this to keep herself safe, which none could blame her for. I think in her heart, she is always afraid to suddenly lose everything and once more be at the mercy of others. Because even now, her position still depends on you. Thus, if you are strengthened, she is. Regardless of your misgivings about Athelstan, your sister is right to pursue this alliance."
Brand exhaled. "Perhaps she should be king rather than me. She seems more adept at these games."
Jana shook her head. "You have need of her to counsel you, but your people have need of you to lead them. You have faced death so many times, Brand, you have no fears left. And a fearless king is needed in times such as these."
"If my sister’s counsel prevailed concerning you, do you know what your fate would be?"
"I can imagine." She extended her hand to brush against his stubbles. "What is this? Has your servants only dull blades?"
"Rather, the blade is less steady than I prefer so close to my throat," Brand replied dryly. "Geberic is getting old. That includes his hand. I could summon someone else, but another matter always awaits my attention, and I forget soon after."
She studied his face with a critical demeanour. "Let it be. Leave the smooth face to your knights."
He bowed his head. "I shall heed your counsel, Lady Jana."
|
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Early Dawn
Middanhal
At any given point, scores of sentinels could be seen on the walls. In addition, every turret had a handful of archers keeping watch. Under the pale moon, they looked for anything that might arouse suspicion in the blanket of night covering the approach to Middanhal. The reflection of moonlight in a helmet. The quick flash of a torch otherwise hidden under a cloak. Any kind of movement in the dark. Even just the sound of anything besides the wind or the footfall of patrolling defenders.
The blackboots left no such trace. Their clothing made them part of the night, and they moved without causing the slightest stir. Cautiously, three dozen of these scouts crept forward, spread across the wide area that led to the walls. They crawled among the rotting bodies of their own soldiers, abandoned wicker screens, and destroyed stone throwers until they came close enough to count the defenders, who took no notice. As quietly as they had approached, the blackboots returned to their captain to inform him of the garrison.
With this knowledge, Sikandar gave his commands. The order rapidly spread down the ranks, and five columns of soldiers set into motion against different parts of the wall.
~~~~
"I can't believe we got night duty," Nicholas complained. He rubbed his hands together by a brazier, where a few coals burned to provide light and heat.
"You've said that three times," Quentin growled.
"Well, there's no sign of dawn yet, so be prepared to hear it again." The other archer yawned and leaned against the parapet. They stood atop one of the many turrets that adorned the fortifications of Middanhal. East and west they had the other towers along with the inner and outer walls. If they looked north, the city itself could be seen. But their eyes were turned south.
"Don't take cover against the wind," Quentin admonished him. "It'll help to keep you awake." As if summoned, the cold night breeze swept over them, making Nicholas shiver a little.
"To think I could be warm in bed," Nicholas said with longing.
His companion glanced at him before returning his attention to the darkness beyond the fortifications. "You should have slept after the fight, like I did."
"I had to let Ellen know I was safe," Nicholas protested. "She’s worried sick, every day I’m on the walls."
"I’m sure that was it." Quentin narrowed his eyes. "Hey, look over there."
"Where?"
"At the only thing that’s not pitch-black," the other archer told him, pointing over the parapet. "Is that red? Dark red?"
"Hard to tell." Next to him, Nicholas strained his eyes. "Could just be another body. There’s plenty of them out there."
"Too much of it to be just a single corpse – it’s moving!" Quentin exclaimed. "There’s movement!"
"It’s the same direction as the wind. Could just be that."
"And if it isn’t?"
"Do we – what should we do?" asked Nicholas.
"Let’s see if we can make sure." Nearby, a great torch stood unlit. Quentin ripped a piece of the oil-soaked rag and tied it around an arrow. Next, he stuck it into the brazier, where it quickly caught fire, and placed it on his bowstring. He drew it back as far as his strength allowed and let it fly.
"It’s too far," Nicholas pointed out. "It’s half a mile or longer at least. You won’t hit."
"I don’t have to," Quentin mumbled. "Keep looking."
The arrow flew several hundred yards, igniting a bright streak across the night sky. When it fell, a small ring of light glowed briefly before it went out.
Moments passed where nothing happened. The two archers had their eyes pooled, staring into the dark. Finally, something moved again, but in a different direction than before, going around where the arrow had landed – against the wind.
"It’s them," Quentin declared with clenched jaw. "Make the signal!"
Nicholas grabbed the large torch next to them and ignited it in the brazier. He ran to the other side of the turret, facing the city, and swung the flame wildly.
Meanwhile, Quentin moved over to open the hatch that led inside the tower. "They’re attacking!"
~~~~
As signals spread across the defences, the outlanders abandoned stealth to favour speed. They rushed forward to cover the final distance, raising ladders in five different places. Every available soldier of the garrison gathered in those locations, assembling on the outer wall to beat back the assault or buy time for reinforcements. Order troops, peasant levies, mercenaries, rivermen, heathmen, and foresters, everyone available. Armed with spears, swords, axes, clubs, bows and more, they heard the dreaded sound as the ladders hooked onto the stonework. Gripping their weapons tightly, they stood ready.
With screams to inspire dread, shadow warriors leapt over the parapet. They disdained every blow made against them, moving in close with short swords to fell defenders left and right. Behind them, soldiers came with fire pots, creating havoc. Bursts of flame lit up across the walls followed by the screams of dying men to disturb the night sky.
~~~~
Once their feet touched stonework, the outlanders had only one purpose. Led by the shadow warriors, they slaughtered their way through the defenders to seize the towers, gain access to the inner walls, and flood into the city before reinforcements could push them back. If they achieved this, the Arnsbridge would be their next destination; once this chokepoint fell, the rest of the city would be theirs.
Unable to hold the outer walls, the garrison mounted a desperate defence of the towers. Doors were locked while their own soldiers still fought outside, leaving them to die. Barricades were made from anything that might serve the need. These measures could not defend, only delay, buying precious moments. And still, the outlanders pressed on.
At the western-most turret, a shadow warrior leapt over the barrels and weapons rack blocking the entry from the outer walls. Taken by surprise, the nearest defenders dropped the furniture in their hands, meant to reinforce the barricade. Before they could draw weapons, the shadow warrior's swords sliced them open.
While other outlanders pushed to demolish the blockade, the dread soldier continued up the stairs. Blood dripped from his blades as he ascended the tower. On the highest step, an Order soldier waited, wielding not a spear, but a torch. Looking down, the shadow warrior saw specks of blood mix with viscous drops of oil. He snarled, raising his eyes to see the defender drop the torch, setting the stairs ablaze.
~~~~
Furthest to the east, a similar story played out, except for a different outcome. Butchering the defenders, the Godking's dark champion took the tower; storming up the stairs, the garrison could not hold him back. Behind him came a hundred outlanders, themselves the vanguard of a thousand; further beyond the walls waited another ten thousand to hear word of where the breach had happened. Unlike the worn defenders, all of them were fresh troops who had yet to see battle during this siege.
The shadow warrior kicked open the door that gave access to the inner walls. A spear came against him, striking his thigh; barely flinching, the shadow warrior hacked the haft into pieces and rushed forward to kill its wielder. Already in disarray from their desperate retreat, the unskilled levies could not mount a proper defence. Chaos ruled the fighting, where the shadow warrior excelled. Peasant boys from the villages of Vale or Isarn died, one after the other. And all the while, more and more outlanders stormed up the walls, filling the outer walls and pressing onto the inner counterpart. Step by step, they pushed towards the nearest staircase that led from the fortifications into the city itself.
Another defender fell. His comrades wavered. Death stalked the walls on this gruesome night in the shape of a terrible warrior with yellow eyes behind a steel mask. Whether struck by arrow or blade or club, he continued to advance, barely bleeding regardless of wounds sustained.
Amidst the howling gale and pained screams, another sound began to resonate; the beating of hooves against cobbled stones reached the men on the walls. Distant at first, but rising swiftly. At the foot of the staircase, the riders abandoned their mounts and pushed their way forward. Reaching the fighting, warriors in surcoats with a golden dragon threw themselves into the fray. Alaric and Glaukos, names already known to many, led the charge. They struck as the tip of a lightning bolt, shocking the outlanders and stalling their advance. Behind them, wielding his blade of sea-steel, came Brand.
"The kingthanes!"
"It's the king!"
"The king fights with us!"
"Dragonheart!"
Thirty men wearing the golden dragon filled the wall. In heavy armour and highly adept at close combat, they held the outlanders at bay.
Yet while their skill might measure up against the shadow warrior, they could not cause him injury. Still he fought on until his fell eyes saw the blade in Brand's hand. With a scream more suited for a beast, he leapt forward.
His eagerness became his undoing; taking a step back, Brand evaded the blow aimed at his throat and swiftly retaliated. His blade buried itself in the shadow warrior's chest, tearing unholy flesh apart. With a kick, Brand pushed his enemy back to free his sword. Stumbling, the dreaded warrior fell from the inner wall down to the outer among the outlanders still trying to push into the city.
Seeing the Godking's champion dead, the Anausa broke. With loud cries and fearful shouts, they turned back, fleeing from the fight.
~~~~
At a third point of contention, the outlanders had also reached the inner wall. But their advance had been halted; soldiers of Belvoir, hardened from previous battles against the king of Ealond, pulled back and regrouped. They presented a host of spears on the narrow path, slowing down even the fearsome shadow warrior.
At a standstill, the outlanders called for more fire pots to disrupt the defenders' lines. The decision came too late; down the other side of the wall, a contingent of Order soldiers arrived. Led by a score of knights, they punched into the attackers, caught between the drakonians and the rivermen.
The shadow warrior looked behind to see the soldiers wearing the Star; turning his eyes ahead, the same mass of spears awaited him. Growling, he jumped over the parapet from the inner wall to the outer. Another retreat was sounded. One after the other, as reinforcements arrived, the garrison beat back the incursions. As the sun rose to an early dawn, the defenders breathed a sigh of relief.
|
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"Politics",
"Power Struggle",
"Romantic Subplot",
"Soldiers",
"Strategic Battles",
"Wars"
]
}
|
A King and his Knight
Middanhal
As the days became weeks, Middanhal breathed with greater ease. The peace between North and South held, the reign of the king continued without issue or challenge, and with trade to Vidrevi and Heohlond flowing freely, coin and work became more abundant. Rumours of outlanders seemed for now to be merely that, and the mood in the city was carefree to the near point of exuberance.
This held especially true for one tavern in Lowtown. It seemed ordinary in all respects except one; many of Brand’s companions gathered in this place, and merriment followed them. Especially as their number included a bard, full of tales about the new king. This lured many other patrons in, and the proprietor rushed from table to table, aided by his daughter. The latter proved the reason why this particular establishment held such favour, being married to an archer in Brand’s following.
From a chair in the corner, Nicholas watched his wife serve food and drink around the tavern. Next to him, Quentin sorted through the feathers on his arrows, occasionally glancing at Troy performing. “You need not stare,” the second archer said to the first. “You live with her. You can see her all the time.”
“Two years, Quentin. Two years in Hæthiod and the Reach.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Avoiding outlander arrows and spears at every turn.”
“I was present as well.”
“Many times I never thought I’d make it back to my wife.”
“I could think of something worse,” Quentin claimed.
“Like what?”
“Coming home to a pregnant wife.”
“How would that –” Nicholas’ expression turned from questioning to annoyed. “Funny.”
“I thought so myself.”
“Look!”
Quentin sighed. “I’ve seen her, we’ve been here for weeks –”
“No, you sour-apple, it’s Glaukos!”
Opposite the room, the stocky Hæthian entered the tavern along with Geberic. The two archers rose and gestured for the newcomers to join them. In the centre of the room, Troy began performing the song of the Dragonheart, which had already found great favour among the clientele.
“Ellen,” Nicholas shouted over the din of the other patrons, “can you find something for our friends to drink?” She motioned an affirmative reply, and he turned his attention back on the others. “Come, have a seat!”
“Another time, I’m not walking two hours through the city just for a mug of ale,” Geberic grumbled.
“Quiet,” Glaukos growled. “It does you good.”
“Some things have not changed,” Nicholas remarked. “Thank you,” he added as Ellen placed two tankards more on the table, tussling her husband’s hair before disappearing again.
“And some have.” Quentin looked at the golden dragon on Glaukos’ surcoat. “We are in the presence of the king’s champion and his cupbearer.”
“You could have become kingthanes, if you wanted,” Geberic pointed out, grabbing his tankard.
“That’s work for blade boys.” Quentin’s condescending expression made his thoughts on the matter clear.
“We’re taking charge of the king’s archer regiments,” Nicholas explained. “They’re talking of sending us south soon.”
“While the pair of you can grow fat staying at the Citadel,” Quentin muttered. “Shouldn’t you be at the castle now, bearing the king’s cup or whatnot?”
“Obviously, I don’t do it all the time. It just means I’m his most trusted servant when he needs it,” Geberic retorted. “Besides, you can’t talk to me like that anymore. I’m a beorn now. It’s ‘milord’ and ‘his lordship’ for you lot.”
Glaukos turned his head slightly to give Geberic an appraising look. “If that is the case, I can recall a good number of times where you have failed to show such deference towards me.”
The greybeard frowned. “Are you nobleborn?”
“No, they let any beggar on the street train under Count Hubert to become a King’s Blade,” Glaukos growled.
“I thought as much. Heathmen are so primitive.” Geberic shook his head and took a deep draught from his ale, ignoring the stares from the three Hæthians at the table.
~~~~
The brush in Eleanor’s hand carefully went through Arndis’ dark hair. “Are you sure he will agree to your suggestion?”
“My brother can be emotional, but once he calms down, he always sees reason,” Arndis claimed.
“You would know better than me.” Eleanor stopped the repetitive movement to look at Arndis’ face in the vanity mirror. “Are you not apprehensive at all at the prospect?”
“My dear, I already once travelled into the camp of the Isarn army, and that is when they were considered our enemies. I can handle one of them.”
Eleanor resumed her brush strokes. “He just seems so dour. If it were the elder brother, at least you would be jarlinna.”
Arndis shrugged. “I am the king’s sister. There is no position more powerful for me than that.”
“Except to be queen. Well, which you cannot be.” Eleanor chuckled anxiously. “I suppose even with his disposition, Sir Eumund seems a far better man than his father,” she quickly added.
“Indeed.”
“They are a strange sort, the House of Isarn. Each of them has his own foibles.”
“I would not say that of Sir Athelstan,” Arndis remarked, choosing earrings from her box of jewellery. “He is a fine man in every regard.”
“He does have certain qualities about him,” Eleanor agreed.
“To say the least. Wit and courteous manner, resolve and courage.”
Once again, Eleanor regarded her friend in the mirror. “You might say a greater man than any of his nephews.”
“I suppose.” Arndis raised two different earrings into the air. “Which one do you favour?”
~~~~
Brand stood in the great chamber that served as the heart of the Order. With clerks and ledgers to one side, the main space was occupied by the large map painted on the floor of the Seven Realms. Wooden blocks illustrated the armies of the Order scattered across the kingdoms. Others lay stacked in Hæthiod, showing the strength of the outlanders.
The lord marshal appeared. “My king,” he spoke, approaching with a letter in hand.
Brand looked over his shoulder. “What is it?”
“I have word from Ealond.”
“That was swift.” The king glanced north-east on the map. “Cairn Donn is closer than Fontaine, yet I have heard nothing from Doran.”
“King Brión is wily,” the knight considered. “He may be delaying, waiting to see what happens.”
“Perhaps. If he refuses to support us, it will not be forgotten,” Brand declared. “What of Ealond?”
“Sir Martel writes that all his spare troops have been sent to Herbergja. It is expected that once the southerners take Portesur, they will move against Herbergja next. If they control the ports, we are cut off from Thusund.”
“He must have something left,” Brand exclaimed. “Ealond cannot be emptied of soldiers!”
“We do have a pledge of troops of six thousand troops, though not from the Order.”
“Who?”
“The duke of Belvoir,” William explained.
Brand frowned. “That is unexpected.”
“From what I can discern, reading the marshal’s letter…” The knight skimmed the parchment. “The duke is anxious that proper opposition is mounted against Alcázar, but he has no desire to fight under King Rainier’s banner. I imagine he hopes that by helping us repel the outlanders, we may in turn aid Ealond afterwards.”
“He would be right. Eventually.” Brand waved for a clerk to approach. “Have six thousand men from Belvoir added to the map.”
“Yes, my king.”
“There is another matter to discuss,” William considered.
“Which is?”
“We have reinforcements ready to march to Hæthiod. They may link up with the army from Belvoir at Lake Myr and continue onwards. That will be enough to oppose the outlanders’ first army until their second arrives,” the lord marshal explained. “With speed and skill, we may hold them back from Ingmond long enough to begin harvesting.”
“Very well, dispatch the troops.”
“The question is who should lead them.”
“You are lord marshal. Who better?”
It took a moment for William to answer. “Apart from the king, the most able commander in the realms would be Sir Athelstan.”
Brand let out a deep sigh. “I made him a knight so that he could swing a sword. I would not entrust him with commanding an outpost in Vidrevi, let alone this army.” He looked down to see the earlier summoned clerk trying to place bricks in Hæthiod by his feet. “For gods’ sake, man, wait till I am gone!” The servant crawled backwards with bowed head.
“Yet if it comes to battle with the outlanders – or if skilful retreat is needed to avoid battle on poor terms – we could not ask for a better captain,” William cautiously argued.
“Last time Sir Athelstan was sent to Lake Myr, he betrayed the Order and led an attack on its camp.”
“Which will never be forgotten. But the king has forgiven him,” the knight pointed out, “and it is not my place to cast further aspersions on him.”
“Not yours, but I will do so if I see fit.”
“Of course. But given the difficulty of the task ahead…” William lowered his voice. “Thousands of lives, your soldiers, your subjects, will depend on who is in command, Brand. If there is the smallest chance that Sir Athelstan might prove the difference between victory or defeat, I must urge you to rely on him.”
Brand stared at his lord marshal as moments passed. Finally, he looked at the nearest kingthane. “Find Sir Athelstan and Sir Fionn. Summon them to my chambers.”
“At once, my king.”
~~~~
The sound of chattering women echoed down the hallways in the royal wing. Due to her new status as the king’s sister, Arndis had a flock of noblewomen following her at all times, courting and competing for her favour. At mealtimes, she chose her companions freely, and if inclined, she allowed them to accompany her back to her quarters afterwards. Thus accompanied by this evening’s choice, Arndis moved through the Citadel towards her chambers.
Reaching their destination, they found a kingthane standing outside the open door. Frowning, Arndis approached with a question on her face.
“You have a visitor, milady,” the guard explained, standing aside to reveal the alderman patiently waiting inside.
“Thank you. You may leave,” Arndis told him. “The same goes for all of you,” she added, aimed at her companions.
It took a moment for her words to sink in through the idle conversation. The noblewomen fell quiet, exchanged looks, and left.
Once alone, Arndis stepped inside, closing the door. Smiling at Edwin, she inclined her head. “Master alderman, a pleasure as always.”
“And as always, milady, entirely mine.” Edwin gave as much a bow as his body allowed.
“You have come on business, I presume?”
“Indeed. Your help is needed, in fact.”
“How so?”
“May I?” The alderman pointed to a chair.
“Please.”
They both sat down, and Edwin cleared his throat. “We have prepared another train of trade for departure, but with rumours of war, there is some concern.”
“Concern regarding what?”
“In times of strife, merchants are the first to be attacked. We seek the king’s help and may in turn be of help to him.”
“And you wish for me to facilitate this exchange of aid,” Arndis considered.
“Astute as always. The jarl of Vale had several mercenary companies in his employ, and I understand that their contracts have been taken over by the Crown.”
“I am not familiar with the details, but I am sure your intelligence is correct. It always seems to be.”
The alderman smiled with an attempt at looking modest. “I expect the king will announce war taxes any day,” he continued. “Especially on merchants. My suggestion is simple.”
“You have my attention.”
“Allow us to pay for one of the mercenary companies. The Unbroken Shields will be suitable. In turn, we may use them to guard our caravans during perilous journeys. Most of them will remain in Middanhal, of course, available to defend the city or march with the king as he needs.”
“He may not be amenable to any situation that pulls even a single soldier away from his army.”
“Coin is needed to pay for those soldiers, and protecting our trade will allow us to pay our taxes,” the alderman argued. “We need only a few hundred swords at any given time. Their absence will hardly be felt. And should milady be able to convince the king of this, the merchants’ guild will be grateful.”
Arndis’ fingers played with her earring. “How much would this gratitude be worth?”
“Your share of our next venture would increase from one fourth to one third.”
“I shall speak to the king on your behalf.”
The alderman rose and made half a bow. “Truly a pleasure to be in business with you, milady.”
~~~~
A thane of Vale knocked on the door to Valerie's room. "Enter," came her voice.
“Milady, the jarl of Isarn wishes to meet you."
"Oh. Let him in," she replied. As the thane left, she quickly looked in the mirror, fixing a stray lock of hair.
Moments later, the young jarl entered. He gave a bow, which she returned. "My lady."
"Lord Isenwald, a pleasure."
"Likewise." He wore a cautious smile that quickly faded. "I am sorry – it took me a while to visit."
"No harm done. These have been most difficult times. I am only glad that enmity between our houses is at an end."
"As am – I." He cleared his throat. "I wanted to know my situation before – I came to see you. Thankfully, the king has been merciful."
"He has." A smile dawned on her lips. "I saw you at the audience. For the first time since..."
"I – did not see you, alas, or – I would have spoken to you."
"It is no matter. I figured we would speak when the occasion arose."
"As – it has now." He cleared his throat again, looking nervous. "I came to say..."
"Yes?"
"I know time has passed where we had little contact," he began to say. "But you should know," he continued, hesitating, "my feelings remain – they have not – I still feel as –"
"The same for me," she interjected.
He exhaled in relief. "Good. Thank you for – interrupting me, or that sentence would never have reached an end."
She laughed, born of the same emotion as his sigh, and he joined in.
~~~~
Athelstan sat in the antechamber that led to the king’s quarters, watched by several kingthanes. He did not reciprocate, but simply stared into the air while tapping his fingers against the hilt of his sword. After a while, Fionn appeared. The highlander knight grunted and took a seat as well.
“You have also been summoned?” Athelstan asked.
“Aye.”
“That gives me a better idea what this might be about.”
“We will know soon enough.” The highlander pointedly looked elsewhere.
A kingthane appeared from the inner rooms. “Sir Athelstan. The king awaits you.”
The knight rose and followed the guard until he stood before Brand in the chamber serving as study and for private audiences. Seated by his desk writing, the king looked up to see Athelstan bow.
“I will be brief,” Brand declared, placing his quill in the inkwell. “I have given you command of the Order’s army assembled to fight the outlanders. Sir Fionn will serve as your first lieutenant.”
“I am pleased to serve, my king.”
“The lord marshal will have your orders in detail. That will be all.” Athelstan bowed again. As he withdrew, Brand looked at the accompanying kingthane. “Bring Sir Fionn to me.”
One knight left and another appeared. Fionn wore a broad smile as he bowed his head. “At your command, my king.”
Brand finished the declaration he had been writing and looked up. “You will accompany Sir Athelstan as his first lieutenant to take charge of the Order’s army.”
“With pleasure.”
Brand sprinkled powder from a small container onto the document, helping the ink to dry. “Besides your usual task, I have another for you.”
“At your service, my king.”
“You are to observe Sir Athelstan at all times. If he gives you the slightest reason to doubt his loyalty, seize him. If he resists, he should not be allowed to survive and escape.” Pouring the residual powder back into the container, Brand looked up. “Is that understood?”
“With clarity.”
“Good.” Brand folded the parchment and heated wax to seal it. “This document contains your instructions, should any doubt your word.” Pressing his signet ring into the red wax, he extended the sealed document to the knight, who stepped forward to receive it. “Last I had need of you, you proved worthy of my trust. I have no doubt you will do so again.”
Fionn grinned, waving the parchment in his hand. “Happy to serve.”
~~~~
The day had almost ended when Godfrey slipped through the city gates. A crowd of people moved in both directions, as rumours of war increased traffic; some sought refuge in the city while others deemed it best to flee, all according to their own wisdom.
Of those who left, nearly all followed the Kingsroad south-west for two reasons. Firstly, it followed the Mihtea, allowing freshwater during the journey. Secondly, Ealond lay in that direction, promising safe harbour should the outlanders reach Adalrik.
As the only person, Godfrey moved south-east. Once alone, he began to whistle as he walked. Eventually, a sparrow approached; as he stretched out his hand, it landed in his grasp. He whispered words to it and released the bird, watching it fly north; as for himself, he continued his march towards Hæthiod.
|
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"title": "The Eagle’s Flight - 207. A King and his Knight",
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|
A King Has no Friends
Middanhal
As another day dawned, the king took breakfast in his chambers as usual. Ever since the Adalthing, he had rarely left his quarters except to appear at the noon and evening meals, allowing his court to see their ruler. And even at this early hour, he took visitors.
"Lord Doran is ready, my king."
"Send him in."
The highlander entered swiftly, wearing a broad smile. "My lord king," he said in greeting.
"Welcome back," Brand replied in between chewing on cold fowl. "I trust by your expression that news is good?"
"They are." The young man nodded. "I would have shared them last night, but the hour of my arrival was late."
"It matters little. Tell me what transpired in Heohlond. Did King Brión resist my command?"
"He did not, my lord king. He dragged his feet at first, refusing to see me for a few days. He did not dare to delay longer than that, however."
"What happened once you met?"
"He acknowledged you as ard rí and agreed to gather the clans for the oireacht. That is when the trouble began."
Brand frowned, drinking from a cup of ale. "How so? What happened at the gathering?"
"Some of the clans have bitter feelings against Adalrik since the rebellion. Others remembered the last time that my lord king bid the highlanders march to war, yet without asking the clan leaders."
Brand scratched his chin, looking displeased. "I assume that was not the end of it? You claimed good news."
"Aye. It took some effort on the king’s part. He is keen to preserve good relations with Adalrik. In the end, all the clans relented, though I suspect some will send more than others."
"But they will come?"
"Ten thousand strong, I was told." Doran smiled.
"How soon?"
Doran’s smile faltered. "It will take time. They must gather from across the high lands, from places with poor roads. It could be a month or longer."
The king exhaled. "Then we must defend for a month."
~~~~
In the southern courtyard, a carriage stood bearing the arms of Vale. The door had already been opened; the jarl and his daughter could be seen next to it.
"I do not like this," Valerian mumbled.
"It was your idea to send us away," Valerie pointed out.
"Why can you not go to Theodstan like Alexandra?" the jarl asked.
"Father, I will be just as safe in Isarn. Besides," she added with a touch of red in her cheeks, "I have not seen much of Isenwald. He was most kind to extend his protection and hospitality with the enemy on our doorstep."
"Not too long ago, he was the enemy," Valerian grumbled. "Peace is one thing, but the young man has some nerve requesting your presence."
"Only if that request were to be poorly received," his daughter retorted. "I am only too happy to see his jarldom."
"At least the boy has a proper title," sighed the lord of Vale. "Fine. Off with you. I have plenty of work ahead of me."
She hugged her father quickly. "Enjoy your books," she told him, accepting his hand to enter the carriage. A servant closed the door, and the driver set the horses into motion. The jarl watched as the last of his family left Middanhal. Elsewhere in the yard, other noblemen bid their wives, children, aged parents, and other relatives farewell in the same manner.
Outside the Citadel, commoners began the same journey whether by cart, horseback, or foot. They sought Isarn or Theodstan as well or beyond to Vidrevi or Heohlond, wherever safe refuge or accommodating kinsfolk might be found. At the prospect of yet another war, another siege, the hardships of the road seemed preferable to the anxious comforts of the city. Little by little, the streets grew quiet.
~~~~
A map of Middanhal lay across the table in the king’s outer chamber. Next to it stood the captain of the city guard, Sir Theobald, holding a list from the quartermaster. "When we have finished conscripting the North, we should have twenty thousand soldiers," he said. "We will be able to garrison the city fully."
"But most of our forces are levies, and many of the Order soldiers are newly recruited. In fact, the Red Hawks may be the most experienced fighting force at our disposal," Brand pointed out, standing on the opposite side of the table.
An expression ran across the captain’s face at the mention of the mercenary company. "A month will help whip our recruits into shape, and same for the levies. But the king is correct," Theobald conceded. "We must position knights along with our few experienced Order soldiers on every stretch between towers," he suggested. "Meanwhile, the Hawks should defend the gate in full numbers."
"We must spread out the levies as much as possible," Brand considered. "Our enemy has only trained, hardened troops. If they gain a foothold in the wrong place, they will decimate our conscripts."
"I will do what I can, but inevitably, some parts of the walls will be more lightly defended."
"What are our possibilities to reinforce?"
The captain pointed at different places in Lowtown on the map. "Most of our troops will be quartered in these locations. They will be able to reach the majority of the defences in half an hour. Flags atop the towers will alert them to where the fighting is."
"Good," Brand muttered. "Where are the weak points?"
"The edges, where the walls meet the mountains," Theobald explained. "They will have the fewest troops, but most of them will be Order soldiers. And longbowmen on the adjacent towers should be able to provide support."
"Anywhere else?"
"Here and here." The captain’s finger prodded the map twice. "Those are furthest from reinforcements, and I have no experienced troops left. Not if we are to defend the outer towers and the gatehouse with strong numbers."
"Have Sir Richard take charge of one place and Sir Fionn the other."
The captain cleared his throat. "My king, Sir Fionn was at the battle in Ingmond."
"Right." Brand closed his eyes momentarily, exhaling deeply. "Choose the knights that seem best to you. Two for each place that they might relieve each other."
"Very well, my king."
"If they should breach our defences, what is our situation?"
"Not good," Theobald admitted. "Nearly all our troops are in Lowtown to be able to reinforce. If they get through the walls, they can advance to the Arnsbridge and hold it with relative ease. We in the Citadel will be cut off from most of our troops."
"And the fighting will continue in Lowtown itself, chaotic and scattered. Allowing their greater numbers to wear our forces down," Brand continued.
"Exactly, my king. The city will be lost."
"Unless… unless we collapse the Arnsbridge."
The captain frowned. "Is that even possible? It would take days for men with pickaxes to cut through the stone, and the bridge is set too low for any ram to hit."
"That is a question for the engineers. Once they have finished preparing their war engines, have them figure out how to destroy the bridge." With a worn look, Brand sat down.
"Yes, my king. With your leave, I will return to my preparations." The captain began rolling up the map.
"You have my leave."
The captain bowed and left swiftly.
~~~~
In the north-western quarter of Middanhal lay a large building, similar in size and shape to a guildhall. It served as an assembly for the Dwarves of the city and the personal residence of the dvalinn, leader of their kindred in Adalrik. Inside his private study, he sat with a guest.
"Lord Ivaldi, the time has come!" Godfrey impressed upon him.
The dvalinn sat in a great chair, placed by a fireside. His visitor stood on the other side of the glowing embers, kept dormant for now. "Simple words, yet they demand complicated actions."
"Every other dvalinn would agree with me," Godfrey claimed.
"Of course they would. They would share in the spoils with none of the risk. I am the dvalinn who must ask his people to sacrifice themselves. To defend and die for these sons of Men." The Dwarf scraped his tongue against his teeth. "And when promises prove to be empty as before? When my people show their dead to me, and I must tell them it was for nothing?"
"Middanhal is your home as well. Fighting to defend it could never be the wrong choice."
Ivaldi scoffed. "Home. Our guilds are controlled by outsiders, and we may not own the houses we call home. During the day, we labour in the forges of the Citadel, yet we are sent away at nightfall."
"Dvarheim was your home, and it was lost," Godfrey argued. "This is your chance to retake it. For the first time in eleven hundred years, the Godking has left his mountain!"
Ivaldi picked up a rune-stave. As his fingers ran across the carvings, he looked at Godfrey. "Aye, the other Dwarf-lords agree with you. They all wish for me to risk my people for the sake of a dream."
"If the Mearcians march on Dvarheim, the other Dwarf-houses will join."
"If," the dvalinn repeated. "Eleven hundred years ago, the Godking was wounded. His armies in disarray. Yet the forest lords abandoned us, and the sons of Men lacked the courage to finish the fight. Why should I believe this will be different? With the South Cities threatening Adalmearc, I reckon this high king will look to his own lands first."
"The king understands the necessity to end the threat from the Godking once and for all," the wanderer claimed. "Not to mention, you have blood under the mountain awaiting you."
"Are they blood? More than a thousand years of separation," Ivaldi considered.
"What if your warriors would determine the difference between victory and defeat? Because I promise you, Lord Ivaldi, if the Godking takes this city, you will share the fate of your estranged kin. You will know thraldom with no hope of aid, for none will be left to render it."
The Dwarf-lord stared into the embers of the fireplace. "I will give it due consideration."
Clenching his jaw, Godfrey remained silent and walked away.
~~~~
The king sat, poring over parchments with long rows of numbers. Made by the quartermaster of the Order, they listed available provisions in the Citadel and elsewhere in the city, sometimes based on assumptions or estimates. Other rows showed calculations, explaining how long the city might last in a siege, taking into account further provisions available from northern Adalrik. Besides that, pieces of parchment detailed the weapon stores and other supplies needed. Moving from one to another, Brand let his eyes slowly move through the numbers and calculations.
"May I have a moment, dear brother?"
Brand looked up to find Arndis standing in his outer chamber. "I should have read this in my study," he mumbled. "I have already been aggrieved once today," he added, grabbing a letter to wave it around. "I would hope you have not come to add another grievance."
Looking at the letter, Arndis frowned. "What is it?"
"A reply from Prince Saif, commander of Alcázar's armies. I thought the knowledge of a new king in Middanhal would give him pause. Perhaps consider negotiating peace rather than risk facing our full might, but he must feel secure given the outlanders are at our gates."
"He is not inclined to negotiate, I take it."
Brand shook his head. "He has the gall to claim their invasion is a response to attacks made by reeves acting on our behalf. Setting fires to their city, abducting a daughter of the Kabir, and so on. As if this war is anything but an attempt at brute conquest, yet he would lay the guilt at my feet." He tossed the letter back on his desk.
A pensive expression came over Arndis. "Aggravating indeed," she muttered.
"But you came here with a purpose in mind. What is it?"
"I have not come on my own behalf," she clarified. "I would ask that you listen to a request."
"From whom?"
"Athelstan."
Brand sighed. "Really? You will force this upon me?"
"Given his service to you recently, it would be kind of you to listen."
Brand rubbed his eyes before piling his parchments together. "Fine. Tell him to be brief."
"Of course." Arndis left on swift steps.
A few moments later, Athelstan appeared, giving a bow. "My king."
"I am told you have a request."
"Yes. It concerns Eumund."
Brand’s features softened slightly. "What of him?"
"Isenhart does not know. I could send him a message, of course, but it feels cowardly. He should be told, face to face, what happened to his son."
The king nodded to himself. "You need permission to visit. I see."
"By your grace, my king."
Brand stood up and walked over to a small writing desk. Grabbing a quill, he wrote a few lines on parchment. Melting some red wax to drip onto the bottom, he stamped his signet ring onto it. "Here. This will grant you passage."
He extended the missive towards Athelstan, who meanwhile had been studying the chessboard on a small table next to the desk. "I am grateful," the knight declared, receiving the parchment while bowing his head. He cleared his throat, nodding towards the board. "Who are you playing?"
"None. I am simply practising a new opening."
Athelstan hesitated as he spoke again. "Would my king wish to try against an opponent?" He tapped the edge of the missive against one of the jarl pieces.
Brand let out his breath, staring at the knight. "Fine. Set it up."
|
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"Elves",
"European Ambience",
"Fantasy World",
"Generals",
"Interconnected Storylines",
"Kingdoms",
"Knights",
"Medieval",
"Military",
"Multiple POV",
"Multiple Protagonists",
"Nobles",
"Politics",
"Power Struggle",
"Romantic Subplot",
"Soldiers",
"Strategic Battles",
"Wars"
]
}
|
Breathless
Middanhal
The outlanders did not follow up on their initial attack the next day. The assault had been to test the garrison and exploit possible weaknesses to seize a swift victory; since that had proven impossible, they instead made further preparations. Soon, many more siege towers began to rise.
Another reason existed to keep the outlanders in their camp. As the morning waned, more and more soldiers trickled in from the vanguard of the reinforcing army. They confirmed with eager voices the stories that had already been told many times; the Godking marched with them. The god under the mountain had finally awakened, and he came to lead his people to final victory.
Anticipation gripped the men. Nearly all outlanders lived their entire lives without ever seeing their god, yet they had heard the Servants of the Flame, praying endlessly with innumerable sacrifices for the Godking to appear. At last, those prayers had been answered.
The next sign of his arrival proved to be two shadow warriors. With guttural voices, they commanded a path to be cleared to the centre of the camp, where the priests had taken residence. Scores of servants appeared next, setting up a tent with the luxury to rival a palace. Hundreds of soldiers lined up to watch until the area was packed; only the intended path into the camp remained open, patrolled vigilantly by the shadow warriors.
The entire morning passed this way, and still the outlanders remained in place, waiting. Suffering hunger and thirst, they stood. The mood began to boil, and when the Godking’s train could be seen in the distance, it rose to a frenzy.
"He comes!"
First came the bulk of the reinforcing army, thirty thousand soldiers strong. They dispersed to set up their own camp as an attachment to the existing one. Carts rolled in, carrying supplies. And finally, twenty shadow warriors marched in, surrounding a litter carried by eight strong men. Rather than cloth, the raised chair was surrounded by wooden panels, providing protection from both arrows and eyes.
"The Godking!"
"He’s here!"
"Save us!"
"Destroy the unbelievers!"
Countless cries rose into the air. A few stepped forward, out of line, and were quickly knocked to the ground by the nearest shadow warrior. The cortege continued past the masses of supplicants, paying them no heed, until it reached the middle. The bearers continued all the way into the large tent. Soon after, they returned, leaving with the litter while the shadow warriors took position to surround the domicile made of fabric.
More soldiers and carts streamed into camp, but nobody else emerged from the large tent. Eventually, the crowds began to dissolve, as people sought food, rest, or had tasks requiring attention. Yet a few remained, prostrating themselves before the Godking’s residence. Some prayed loudly, others mumbled; over time, a few drifted away while others joined. If any of their prayers reached the recipient inside the tent, none could tell.
~~~~
The door to Theobald’s study opened, allowing the jarl of Vale entry. He found the captain of the city guard hunched over a map of Middanhal. Crude wooden blocks lay scattered in different colours, marking troop placements across the walls.
"Captain, if I may have your attention," Valerian said.
Theobald whipped his head up. "What? I have little time to spare."
"I am aware. I have tried to meet you for days now." The jarl sounded slightly indignant.
"I have a city to defend. What is it?"
"I will be swift." The jarl pulled out several pieces of parchment. "You may remember, the king has made me overseer of the treasury, and something has struck me as odd."
"And?"
"The guilds have withheld some of the war taxes," Valerian began to explain.
"My responsibility is military, not coin or trade," Theobald interjected. "Speak to the king."
"This does pertain to the city’s defences, captain. Specifically the garrison. The guilds withhold the taxes because they pay for a mercenary company, The Unbroken Shields."
"So? We need every soldier."
"But as I examined your quartermaster’s lists, they are not mentioned as being part of the garrison."
"If the guilds pay for them, they would not be," the captain explained impatiently. He pointed to a crudely carved wooden piece lying on the map in front of him. "Here. They are quartered in these warehouses, kept as reinforcements for the eastern walls."
The jarl frowned. "All two thousand of them? There are barely any warehouses in Lowtown, and certainly not to accommodate such a force."
"My lord jarl, the king awaits me." Theobald grabbed the map of the city with a swift pull, sending wooden pieces flying. "In case you did not realise, we are under siege." He gestured pointedly at the door.
Valerian turned, muttering to himself as he left the study. "Something does not add up."
~~~~
Sikandar, captain of the outlander army, walked through the camp. A shadow warrior accompanied him, acting as his silent guard. All soldiers shied away from their path either out of respect for the commander or fear for his companion. Reaching the Godking’s tent, Sikandar relinquished his weapons before entering, still with the shadow warrior at his side.
Once inside, the captain immediately prostrated himself until his brow touched the heavy carpet on the ground.
"Rise, Sikandar."
Obeying the deep voice, the outlander did so, keeping his eyes low. His fingers trembled slightly until he placed them behind his back, grasping one hand with the other.
The tent was large enough to have several rooms; in some of these, slaves waited until they were needed. Every item present was made from precious metals. Silver pitchers for pouring into golden cups. Velvet carpets covered every inch of the ground. Silken sheets on the bed. Heavy trunks made from cedarwood containing clothes of the same fabric. An armour made of red steel inscribed with runes stood next to a great sword and a spiked mace.
In the middle of the tent stood a great wooden chair with intricate carvings; upon it, the Godking was seated, flanked by two shadow warriors. With eyes of singular colour, he beheld his captain through the narrow slits of his mask.
"When will the next assault take place?"
"In two days’ time, Divine Majesty."
"How?"
"We have built many more siege towers. Some of them will not be able to reach the walls, but their mere presence should draw reinforcements, leaving other areas less defended. Besides that, storm ladders on the gatehouse."
"Good. Use as many troops as needed. I have more soldiers on the way."
"Yes, Divine Majesty."
"Once the faithless are weakened, we will strike the final blow." He turned his head slightly, and the shadow warrior by his right hand growled.
~~~~
"About a thousand men are too injured to fight anytime soon, if ever. Half that number fell," Theobald explained. Before him lay his map of the city’s defence, except it adorned the table in the king’s chambers.
"Heavier losses than I would have thought," Brand muttered, glancing between the captain and the map. "Especially as we knew where their towers would strike."
"They struck elsewhere as well," Theobald said. "Here, where Sir Richard defended with mostly levies from the South. They were little match against the enemy’s well-trained troops. We took our heaviest losses there. We will have to pull most of our remaining reinforcements away to replace them."
"Exactly where I feared," Brand mumbled. "Their spies are as good as ours."
"They took greater losses, though," the captain pointed out. "We counted nearly two thousand dead on the walls, along with those killed before they even made it that far. They must have a fair number of injured as well."
"Unfortunately, they can absorb those losses with ease. We cannot. Is Sir Richard able to take command again?"
"If you asked him, he would claim so, but I have told him to rest for now," Theobald explained. "I will take that command personally tomorrow and bring a few hundred men from the Citadel’s garrison. That does leave the castle nearly undefended," he admitted.
"So be it. The city matters more."
The captain bowed his head, rolled up the map, and left.
~~~~
In a tent of modest size, the two lieutenants of the outlander army shared a wineskin. "Careful," Arash warned. "That is my last one."
Rostam tipped the skin to fill half his cup. "I wonder if any more can be found somewhere in camp."
"I doubt it," his companion scoffed. "After yesterday, anyone who can drink, is drinking. Just look at us."
"I suppose." Rostam handed over the skin and took a sip from his cup.
"At least the Godking has arrived. Surely the city must fall now."
"You would think so." He scratched the back of his head. "But if so, why did we attack yesterday?"
"How do you mean?"
"If the Godking is so powerful, why does he not simply make the walls crumble? Why did so many of our soldiers have to die yesterday, gaining nothing?"
Arash stared at him. "You should choose your words with care. If the wrong person heard you, the Servants would have you on a pyre."
"I am aware."
"I am still surprised you did not lose your head when you lost Tothmor. Or that you had the nerve to return rather than simply flee into the mountains."
Rostam emptied his cup. "My duty was not yet done."
~~~~
Despite what lay outside the walls, life at the Citadel continued as usual. Trade with the southern lands had only recently been disrupted, and for now, stockpiles of most goods remained available. As the northern gate remained open, rationing of food had yet to be introduced. Thus, while soldiers fought and bled on the fortifications, courtiers lived as usual.
The king rarely joined his court for meals, taking them in his chambers. The euphoria after his election by the Adalthing had long since subsided; instead, courtiers murmured at the reasons for his absence. He did not fight at the walls, which would have explained his rare appearances.
Those inclined to view him in a favourable light remarked that he no doubt organised the defence, as was his duty; a captain led from a command post, not the front lines. Others assumed he had left the responsibilities to his underlings; a few even claimed that ill influences kept him placid, though none agreed on the source of such pressure.
Thus, when the king appeared in the great hall for the evening meal, whispers arose in such strength, it sounded like a nest of hornets. The courtiers barely had time to rise as he strode across the room, taking his seat at the high table. Once he had, the rest sat down as well, resuming their meal.
"So glad you decided to join us, Brother," Arndis smiled, sitting at the king’s right hand.
"It was your idea," Brand grumbled. Two kingthanes took position behind him while Geberic hurried to fill his goblet and plate.
"And an excellent idea it was," Jana chimed in, seated at his left hand.
"Now I must hear this from both of you! A conspiracy," he growled, taking a deep draught of his wine.
"Make sure to eat," the lady of Alcázar softly added. "Your cheeks are hollow."
The seating arrangement caused further whispers. It would be custom for the king to have his queen on the left side and his dragonlord on his right; Jana and Arndis occupied those places instead while Theodoric sat one place further to the right. If this disconcerted him, he showed no sign of it.
"What did the good captain say of our defences?" asked the jarl of Theodstan with a voice louder than needed.
"They are strong," Brand replied after a moment. "Our soldiers have repelled all assaults and inflicted heavy losses on the enemy."
"The city is safe?" asked the dragonlord next.
"Completely. Our garrison is strong as are our fortifications, and the enemy cannot encircle us to starve us out. Victory is only a matter of time." Brand broke his bread into smaller pieces, letting it soak up gravy.
The whispers continued around the hall. Some took note of the king’s words; others looked at the lines that furrowed his brow.
~~~~
A slave placed a pearl into a goblet of glass, holding a mixture of wine and vinegar. A hiss could be heard briefly as the precious stone dissolved. Approaching the Godking on his seat, the slave kept his head bowed low while presenting the goblet on a plate. His master took the proffered drink, and the slave immediately stepped back, disappearing behind a curtain.
Removing his mask to reveal smooth, handsome features, the Godking emptied his glass before extending a hand to let it drop. It fell on the soft carpet, receiving no damage. Once his mask sat on his face again, the slave returned to retrieve the goblet and make a hasty retreat once more.
Commotion could be heard outside the tent. Raising his deep voice, the Godking spoke. "Explain."
A shadow warrior entered. "A soldier tried to force his way inside with a drawn knife. We apprehended him."
"Bring him in."
The dreadful guard bowed his head and left, returning immediately with a red-robed soldier in his grip. He threw the captive onto the ground, face first, and planted a boot on his back.
From his chair, the Godking stared with his odd eyes at the soldier. "Why?"
As no answer came, the shadow warrior bent down slap the man in the back of the head. The captive looked up as much as he could, staring at the Godking’s form. "Tyrant," he whispered. "How many have you fed to the flames, only to serve your vanity?"
The ruler of the outlanders rose with measured movements. With one quick gesture, he waved the shadow warrior to step back. At once, the captive tried to leap to his feet. He barely made any progress before the Godking reached down to grab him by the throat.
Holding him in one hand at his long arm’s full length, the Godking stared at his would-be assailant. "Not vanity. To keep you in your place." He began to squeeze. Moment after moment passed. The soldier gasped for breath in vain. The sound of bone cracking could be heard. Once his windpipe had been crushed, the Godking threw the man aside. "Remove him."
The shadow warrior bent down, dragging the corpse outside.
|
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"subset": "scribblehub",
"lang": "en",
"series": "4550",
"id": "422342",
"q": 0.8172727272727273,
"title": "The Eagle’s Flight - 219. Breathless",
"author": "Quill",
"chapters": 245,
"rating": 4.4,
"rating_ct": 19,
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"Medieval",
"Military",
"Multiple POV",
"Multiple Protagonists",
"Nobles",
"Politics",
"Power Struggle",
"Romantic Subplot",
"Soldiers",
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]
}
|
No Other Place to Be
Middanhal
Two days later, Athelstan and the other knights reached the Order’s army on its hasty retreat through Ingmond. They arrived at night, finding a camp in disarray; the hurried march left no time for the usual discipline. Weariness could be seen on the face of every soldier, and fear subdued only by exhaustion haunted their words. Yet seeing the ride of fifty knights as they entered camp, moods and voices rose with the hope that aid had come.
"Find me Sir Ewind," Athelstan commanded even before dismounting his horse, and soldiers scattered in every direction to carry out the order.
~~~~
"Our losses so far have been light, all things considered," Ewind told Athelstan, Fionn, and Eumund. The four knights stood together in the middle of the camp, pulling their cloaks together to shield against the harsh wind. "But they are hot on our heels. Our rearguard has been fighting every day for five days now, buying us time. How many reinforcements do you bring?"
"Not enough to give battle. Tell us everything you know from the start," Athelstan bade him.
"We retreated past the Sureste," Ewind related. "Set up camp and kept in close touch with Inghold, preparing the city for a siege while keeping watch. With barely any warning, three thousand outlanders came upon us from the north. Along with their cavalry, we had a hard time fending them off." The fresh cuts and nicks on the knight’s face added to his story. "We fought for two days, but while we were kept busy, their main army arrived and began crossing the river. Facing envelopment, I gave the order to retreat." He looked at the others with a heavy expression.
"You did right," Athelstan assured him. "What were your losses?"
"About five hundred dead or so. It has been hard to get an accurate count," Ewind admitted. "But at least half the remaining men have wounds, some worse than others."
"I would not have thought them so brazen," Fionn said. "They will be risking their supply lines, leaving Inghold in our hands."
"With their second army on the march, they can afford it, and they have put us on the back heel," Athelstan pointed out. "It is clear we must not underestimate our foe. He is determined and cunning."
"So what do we do?" asked Eumund. "If we keep retreating, they will keep harassing us."
Athelstan scratched the short beard on his cheek. "The land grows narrow between Lake Myr and the hills to the north. We have a thousand footmen that will reach us soon. Those will be the best terms for battle. We fight as long as we can, giving the impression our numbers are strong enough to hold. That should buy us time and opportunity for an orderly retreat."
"What of Belvoir? He has six thousand men marching towards this lake." Fionn threw his hand out, gesturing towards the water. "With those numbers, defending the gap, we will not just pretend to hold."
Athelstan frowned, looking sceptical. "I doubt he can reach us here in time, but if we are able to retreat, we may find another suitable battlefield further west and join forces with him."
Eumund took a deep breath, hesitating before he spoke. "It seems to me that our choice is either a harried retreat today, or fighting that we may have a slightly less harried retreat tomorrow. If those are our options, so be it. But we should not let the men know. Tell only of reinforcements coming."
"Agreed," Athelstan said.
"Staying here to fight with barely any hope seems harsh," Ewind weighed in; doubt lay across his face.
"That is our duty. The king needs time to gather troops. We must buy it for him," Athelstan declared.
"Aye," Fionn declared.
Eumund hesitated before looking at his uncle. "So be it."
~~~~
Since they would not be continuing their hurried flight, Athelstan let the men rest for the remainder of the night; the closest thing to decent sleep that any of them had experienced in several days. With battle on the horizon, every small advantage mattered. To that end, the captain bid them all eat heartily rather than spare their provisions; they would need all their strength soon enough.
With the lake to the south and hills to the north, cavalry had a limited role to play. Instead, Athelstan bid his knights dismount and take position among the ranks, fortifying the footmen. The few hundred archers were placed in the hills along with spearmen to defend them. No troops were kept in reserve; the Order soldiers stood barely four lines deep.
They had barely moved into position before the enemy could be spotted. Few, at first. Scouts and skirmishers, the spearhead of the vanguard. Seeing closed ranks rather than retreating foes, the outlanders did not approach. They returned to their comrades, bearing news that the Mearcians stood ready to give battle. The back lines of the Order soldiers sat down on the grass, resting while time still permitted this. An hour after the scouts had been sighted, the outlanders returned.
They advanced. One row of spearmen in front protected the rest, taking out bows to send a barrage of arrows against the Mearcians. Large shields and heavy armour held. Witnessing little effect, close combat inevitably followed. In their red robes, the Anausa infantry stormed forward. Spears met spears, battle cries filled the air, and blood was spilt.
Fighting in the gap between lake and hills, the outlanders could not take advantage of their greater numbers. Instead, they continued to rain down arrows, aiming at the back lines. Bodies began to fill the ground, never to rise again.
Once both sides were heavily entrenched, Jenaab Sikandar made his next move and sent in his cavalry. Facing only footmen, the obvious choice would be to outflank the Mearcians. Two hundred riders, moving in a thin wedge, galloped southwest to reach the narrow strip of land between the Order lines and the lake. Another three hundred horsemen rode northwest, entering the hills that overlooked the battleground.
Sir Fionn held the southern flank. Seeing the cavalry thunder towards his position, he barked orders above the din of fighting. The back rows of his soldiers pulled away and rushed to fill the remaining gap. In the soft ground by the lakeshore, their boots began to sink. Between the terrain and the terror of battle, the Mearcians struggled to form ranks. What should be a forest of spears aimed at the advancing horsemen became a barren landscape.
Yet the terrain gave no favours to the outlanders either; the horses could not maintain their speed in the mire. In response, some of the cavalrymen pulled left, further into the lake to extend the outflanking manoeuvre. Disruption on both sides served neither, yet losing momentum pulled the fangs from the outlanders’ charge. Disjointed fighting erupted instead between Mearcians on foot and outlanders on horseback.
To the north, the outlander cavalry rode at a slower pace; the hilly terrain made it necessary, but it also let them spare their horses for a swift charge later. They moved in a wide circle, aiming to eventually circumvent the Mearcians entirely and make a devastating assault into their back lines.
Before they reached their goal, they met Sir Eumund’s forces sent into the hills earlier. Longbowmen protected by spearmen had kept out of sight, expecting this tactic. As the outlanders came riding over another ridge, they slammed straight into the Order soldiers. Arrows and spears butchered the horses, sending the cavalrymen tumbling to the ground. Completely caught out, Jenaab Rostam called a swift retreat rather than risk losing every remaining soldier.
Their task complete, Sir Eumund’s troops marched through the hills to join the main battle. Well positioned, the archers sent volleys against the outlanders fighting below. Yet the red-robed soldiers had numbers to spare; absorbing the losses, reinforcements moved in. Some supported their comrades already in the fray while others moved into the hills to fight the spears and bows. The bloodletting continued.
~~~~
The hours passed. Despite inferior numbers, the Mearcians held. The outlanders had placed their hopes on a swift assault to overwhelm exhausted troops with low morale, underestimating their foe. Calling a retreat, the outlanders pulled back in orderly manner. A barrage of arrows warned the Order soldiers not to pursue, though it proved superfluous; the men of the Star watched their enemy retreat with relief on their faces and mumbled many prayers of gratitude.
Pulling back to their primitive camp, the Mearcians began tending to the wounded and replacing broken weapons by taking those of the dead; they also set a strong watch in case the outlanders should return.
Meanwhile, Athelstan met with his flank commanders. Despite holding the enemy back against expectations, despite what could be considered a victory, their faces looked grim.
"Our losses have been too heavy," Athelstan considered. "If we attempt a retreat now, they will fall upon us like wolves. The moment we abandon this gap, they will destroy us."
"We held them today," his nephew argued. "We may do so again."
"We cannot expect tomorrow to favour us," Athelstan admitted. "They sought a swift victory, which allowed us room to manoeuvre, but tomorrow they will be cautious. They will send a large number of infantry through the hills to outflank us. If they have timber, rafts on the lake will allow them to make landfall behind our lines. Just a few hundred men would wreak havoc."
"We could take position in the hills, all of us," Fionn suggested. "That will make up for their greater numbers."
"If so, they will simply ignore us," the captain pointed out. "They are only forced to give battle because we block their path, and we know them to be decisive. If we yield the road, they will march past us and threaten the rest of Adalrik."
"Cutting off Belvoir’s forces and any other reinforcements sent our way. Not to mention, we will be trapped between this army and the next one they have on the way," Eumund continued.
"Six thousand soldiers from Ealond marching towards here. The thousand men we brought, which should arrive tomorrow. And most likely, another one or two thousand leaving Middanhal to reinforce us further." Athelstan exhaled deeply, running a hand through his hair. "If we flee, they might kill, capture, or prevent nearly ten thousand soldiers from defending Middanhal, should the fates be cruel. And that excludes this army."
"So what do we do?" asked Eumund.
The two lieutenants looked at their captain. "I will send a messenger warning the duke of Belvoir to hurry north. Not to mention, we have perhaps two thousand wounded here, who in time can fight again," Athelstan considered. "There is only one choice. We dispatch the wounded to leave now and march through the night. Those of us still ready for battle, including our reinforcements arriving tomorrow, must stay and hold another day. Gods willing, that will buy enough time before the outlanders can pour into Adalrik."
Silence lingered between the three men, only disturbed by screams of agony from across the camp; some wounds killed slowly. "As you command," Eumund finally said.
"Aye," Fionn assented. "Just one more day of fighting. We can do that."
"But the retreat of the wounded, coordinating with Belvoir’s forces, and organising their escape," Eumund spoke again. "Every moment counts, and every soldier saved might turn the war later on. A task of such importance must be overseen by our best captain." He stared at his uncle.
"No." Athelstan shook his head. "I was given command of this army. I will stay behind."
"Sir Fionn, let me speak alone with our captain."
"I will tell the wounded to prepare for march," the highlander muttered and left.
"Eumund, do not even try."
"You are being a fool." The young knight’s expression mirrored his harsh words. "The battle has already been decided. Nothing remains but to fight it. Your presence here would not make a difference."
"As captain, I am not abandoning my army. You will lead the retreat."
"Listen," Eumund hissed between gritted teeth. "Tactical movements will not matter tomorrow. We have no soldiers left to execute them. We can do nothing but fight, and I wield a blade as well as you."
"In which case, it makes no difference if I wield it or you." Pointedly, Athelstan looked past his nephew. "I will stay."
"No!" The outburst caught the attention of those nearby. Lowering his voice, Eumund grabbed his uncle by the shoulder. "Sooner or later, all these outlanders will swarm across Adalrik. When that time comes, you will be needed to command the defence. You know I am right, but you let your feelings blind you."
Finally, Athelstan looked at his nephew. "How am I to stand before your brother and tell him that I abandoned you?" Expressions of pity, fear, or other emotions struggled for control of his face.
"You stand with pride," Eumund impressed upon him, "and you tell Isenwald that his brother fought for the honour of Isarn. You tell him that I have done my duty, as you must now do yours."
Athelstan placed both hands on the shoulders of the younger knight. "I cannot lose you, boy." He shook his head. "I will not."
"Uncle, I will not forgive nor ever respect you again, unless you do what we both know to be right," Eumund declared. "I renewed my oath as a knight because you did. If you dishonour it now, if you choose family over your duty as a knight once again, you make a mockery of us both."
Athelstan stared at his nephew. Foregoing words, he pulled Eumund into an embrace.
The young man returned it before pulling back. "Farewell, Uncle. I will seek what sleep I can. A long day awaits me tomorrow."
~~~~
Shortly after sunrise, the outlanders marched forward in force. Their ranks were deep, like a sea of red; the Mearcians stood less than three thousand. A few hundred soldiers, including every remaining knight, had been sent to the hills; reversely, the longbowmen had been positioned behind the main army on flat ground.
The Anausa marched forward slowly. Unlike yesterday, they did not seem in a hurry. Those with sharpest eyes could spot more red robes in the far distance, moving into the hills.
A man rode through the ranks of the outlanders, continuing forward. He wore the fire-touched robe marking him a priest of the Godking. His lone approach ahead of the army made it clear he came to offer terms. Once within earshot, his voice rang out across the muddy stretch of land separating the two forces, still bloody from yesterday’s engagement.
"I come before you on behalf of Jenaab Sikandar," the herald declared in fluent Nordspeech, "who leads the glorious armies sanctified by the holiest majesty, the Godking." He received no reply other than the wind whipping the banners of the Order. "Jenaab Sikandar acknowledges your courage, and he has no wish to see you all slaughtered. You proved your valour yesterday. Now prove your wisdom. Lay down your arms and surrender to the Godking’s mercy. You shall find his rule benevolent."
The lines of the Order soldiers separated to let Fionn walk through. "Come closer," the knight yelled. "I cannot stab you from this distance!" Anxious laughter resonated through the ranks.
"Your boastful defiance is almost admirable, yet it will not avail you. Surrender and you may live in peace and plenty," the herald claimed. "Only a fool would choose death."
"Those are the words of a thrall," Fionn retorted, "and your master is nothing but a king of thralls."
The Servant of the Flame turned his horse around, riding back to his own ranks, while they advanced. The second day of battle had begun.
Arrows were exchanged to little effect. As yesterday, the shields and armour kept the Mearcians safe; on the other hand, their longbowmen were too few to make an impact on the outlanders.
The Order soldiers stood firm, awaiting their enemy. The Anausa approached. They lowered spears. Once again, battle cries tore through the air.
~~~~
The battle was deadliest in the hills. Two thousand outlanders had moved to outflank the Mearcians through this route; less than fifty knights and a few hundred men stood in their path. Their only advantage lay in the terrain. It disrupted the ranks of the outlanders, breaking up their advance. Hiding between the hills, the Mearcians struck without warning.
Superior in equipment and training, the knights cut through the outlanders. Encouraged, the Order soldiers threw themselves into the fray. The unexpected audacity of their assault lent surprise as another advantage. Yet all of this could not compare to the outlanders being nearly ten to one. Surrounded, the Mearcians fell.
On the flat land, the Order still held. Their longer spears and larger shields held the outlanders at bay in the narrow gap. In response, Jenaab Sikandar gave his next command. A variety of vessels launched into the lake. Small fishing boats, taken from nearby villages. Rafts, primitive but able to float. All in all, hundreds of outlanders sailed onto Lake Myr.
Expecting this, the Mearcian longbowmen had saved most of their arrows. Now they aimed their bows south. Raising shields, the outlanders protected the men rowing, and those standing often took a wound instead. As they closed the distance, some took out bows to return the favour; lacking shields or strong armour, the longbowmen were easy targets. The other outlanders jumped out of the boats and rafts. A handful were too eager or too short, and their boots did not find ground. Burdened by their equipment and lacking the skill to swim, they drowned. The rest came ashore, ready to outflank the Mearcians. Drawing short swords, the longbowmen rushed forward, and where they met, the blood flowed into the water of the lake.
~~~~
To the north, soldiers began to appear. The first were Mearcians; the few who had managed to flee the slaughter in the hills. Afterwards came the Anausa. Reaching the battleground, they struck into the Order’s left flank. For a moment, the battle seemed over; enveloped on both sides, the defenders seemed overwhelmed.
Yet the fighting in the hills had not been in vain, buying precious time. One thousand soldiers, the last of the reinforcements sent under Athelstan from Middanhal, arrived as well. The outlanders to the north turned from attack to defence, struck in their own flank. Chaos spread across the field as battlelines disintegrated.
In the midst of the mayhem, Sir Fionn’s standard bearer waved his banner to summon the lieutenants. Two men-at-arms appeared, meeting the knight in the middle of their own forces. All three were dyed in blood, both their own and that of others. The knight held half a spear, as it had broken earlier; the shield strapped to his arm hung low.
"How long can you hold?" Fionn shouted amidst the sound of steel and screams.
"We’re falling apart," replied his lieutenant from the northern flank. "We won’t last an hour!"
"We’re not faring much better," said the other. "Few archers remain, the rest dead or in flight. They’ll break through sooner or later."
"The reinforcements have pushed them back briefly," added the first man-at-arms. "If we retreat now, that’ll be our best chance to escape!"
Fionn let his eyes sweep over the battlefield. Near him sat the wounded and dying, having crawled or been carried out of the frontline. To the north, red and black colours met in mayhem. The centre and the south held for now, but the ranks were thin.
"Once we break, Adalrik will be overrun," the knight muttered. "We have to hold until sunset," he continued with a loud voice. He turned to the second man-at-arms. "Get the wounded and retreat. Move through the night. If we hold until dark, that should give you time to flee."
As one lieutenant hurried away to carry out the command, the other grabbed Fionn by the shoulder. "They’ll surround us," he shouted, fear overtaking his voice. "We won’t get away!"
The knight wrested his shoulder free, threw away the broken spear in his hand, and drew his sword. "Good," he retorted. "We have no other place to be." He stepped across dying men in bloody mud to reach the northern flank, joining the fray.
|
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A Man of Trade
Middanhal
Thousands of troops entered the city. Most of them marched under the banner of Belvoir, and the rest wore the surcoat of the Order. With them travelled news of battles in Ingmond. The arrival of the soldiers and these tidings sent a shock through Middanhal. After the Adalthing, the common populace had been exuberant at the two blessings of a civil war ended and a king placed on the throne. In the memory of most people, the latest news concerning the outlanders had dealt with victories and the liberation of Tothmor and Polisals. To hear that the war had turned ill and foreign troops plundered through Ingmond seemed a nightmare become real. Seeing the defeated troops marching down the streets of Middanhal along with the wounded brought back only reinforced the dire tidings.
~~~~
"Two thousand experienced soldiers dead or captured," William said darkly. He stood in the king’s chambers, facing his sovereign. "In one battle."
Brand scratched the beginnings of a beard, seated in a chair. "We are not in a position to take such losses unless we get more reinforcements. We may be able to defend Middanhal for now, but not once their entire army arrives. Not even with Belvoir’s forces behind our walls."
"Still no word from Heohlond or Vidrevi?"
"I suspect King Folkmar looks upon our plight with satisfaction," Brand exclaimed bitterly. "As for King Brión, I have not heard word from Doran yet. It did not go well when last the highlanders marched to war for my sake," he admitted. "The clans may be reluctant, and I cannot guess the king’s mind."
"We are training every soldier we can," the lord marshal said. "We have the mercenaries once employed by Jarl Vale, and most of the levies from both the North and the South. Along with Belvoir, I believe we will have the troops to defend the city, even against all their forces."
"We may have the numbers," Brand considered, "but do we have the food to feed such numbers? If this turns to a lengthy siege, that may prove another issue."
"We have made all efforts to ensure provisions," William declared.
"Let us hope that will suffice."
"And should a siege develop, that will give us further time to train our recruits and the levies."
"Sorely needed, given our losses in Ingmond. It seems your faith in Athelstan was misplaced."
The lord marshal shifted his weight. "From what he has told me, I cannot imagine any to have done better. Especially not given his personal loss."
"Is that your opinion or his?" Brand regarded his marshal with narrowed eyes.
"I can only encourage the king to question his captain in person if he wishes to cast judgement upon the captain’s decisions," William carefully said.
"No. I have neither need nor desire to see him." Brand stretched his neck. "You may leave."
The lord marshal bowed his head.
~~~~
Each of the four jarls maintained a residence in Middanhal; even if they could always expect to be quartered at the Citadel, their rank and prestige demanded a mansion in the city. It also allowed them privacy from the countless eyes and ears at court.
The same held true for the jarl of Ingmond. He had remained in the city after the Adalthing, staying at his house. With the outlanders swarming across his jarldom, he could not return hence. Instead, he brooded in the rooms of his mansion, where his family had once resided with him. His disdain for the king kept him from appearing at court; that same disdain kept other nobles from visiting him, fearing the monarch’s displeasure by associating with the jarl.
The alderman of the guilds did not seem to share this concern; his carriage entered the compound, and the steward announced his presence to the jarl, who agreed to receive him. Led by a servant, Edwin crossed through the great house to the upper floors, entering the private chambers reserved for the family.
The servant motioned for Edwin to continue before making himself scarce. The alderman continued on his own until he found the jarl seated on a bed, staring at a portrait on the wall. He cleared his throat repeatedly.
"I hear you," the nobleman snapped, though he did not deign to look at his visitor.
"Forgive me, milord." Edwin licked his lips. "My arrangements are complete."
"Fine."
"I need not remind you that secrecy is paramount."
"Yet you just did."
"Forgive me," he repeated. "I simply meant to point out that my lord jarl should consider carefully who to involve."
"You have brought mercenaries into this," Raymond sneered, whipping his head to finally look at the alderman. "My men are loyal to me, unlike yours, loyal only to gold."
For a moment, the alderman’s eyes shied away until a change came over him. His servile expression disappeared, and he met the jarl’s gaze. "I have no doubt that Isenhart of Isarn thought the same until his own family tied him up like a hog and delivered him to the king on the platter. Loyalties are divided, my lord jarl, as evidenced by your own margraves deserting you at the Adalthing."
Raymond rose from the bed, and his face grew red. "How dare you speak to me in this manner!"
"I dare, my lord jarl, because I am tired of pretence. I am a man of trade. I offer you a bargain, and you have accepted it. Same as I have offered those mercenaries a bargain. I dare speak to you this way, my lord jarl, because as I give those mercenaries what they want, I will give you what you want. That is why I have risen from an orphan on the streets to alderman of this city. I know what people desire, and I sell it to them for the right price." Edwin looked with cold eyes on the jarl. His fingers fiddled with the ring on his other hand, touching the emerald. "Just as I know that you will hold to our trade because you desire what I offer more than anything. Yet I have worked far too long for some loose tongue to spill our secrets. You will choose your blades carefully, my lord jarl, as I have done." Without waiting for a reply, the alderman turned around and left.
~~~~
"You have been informed, I assume." Arndis had barely entered Brand’s chambers before she spoke.
"Of a great many things, but I cannot possibly know if that includes what you refer to." The king stood in the other end, next to a small table with two chairs; a chess set stood atop. With one hand, Brand returned the pieces to their original position on the board.
"The news of Sir Eumund."
"Yes, I heard. Thankfully, most of the knights initially sent to Hæthiod have survived, or I would have few at my disposal."
She looked at him with a weary expression. "The loss of this particular knight has ramifications. We must change our plans."
"We will find another suitable match for you, Sister." Brand moved a white jarl to one corner.
"I can only think of one possibility."
The king halted his movement to look at her. "You are looking beyond the House of Isarn, I trust."
"We still need the alliance. Isarn has another scion, unwed, whose personal support will be invaluable in the war."
Brand dropped the piece in his hand; it fell, disturbing several others. "Surely you jest."
Arndis slowly shook her head. "Sir Athelstan is the perfect choice."
"You are mad."
"He would have been my first choice, except that left Eumund available for someone else to gain influence in Isarn, and it seemed more likely that Athelstan would continue to remain unmarried. Of course, I am sure he will reconsider his solitary state when requested by the king."
Laughter born of disbelief issued from Brand. "What is this? The man is a villain, yet I am beleaguered on all sides to show him honour after honour!"
"He has made mistakes and repented, not to mention paid dearly. He betrayed his brother in order to make you king. He left his nephew to fight a hopeless battle to save your kingdom."
Brand frowned. "How would you know such details?"
"As soon as I heard the news of Eumund’s demise, I went to offer my condolences to Athelstan."
"Did he send you to speak on his behalf? Does he lack the courage to face me in person?"
"Brother," Arndis exclaimed. "His courage is unquestionable. At least have some respect for his loss. Eumund was dear to him, like a son."
"I once thought he had the same affection for me," Brand retorted with bitterness as he rose to stand. "Seven long years I served as his squire in Alcázar. Yet no sooner had we returned to Adalrik before he cast me aside. Forgive me if I have little sympathy to spare for his loss."
"You were both imprisoned in this very castle. He tells me that you forgave him."
"Because I expected us both to be executed. I was hardly in the right state of mind," Brand argued, as he began to pace back and forth.
In contrast, Arndis stood with calm poise. "Athelstan is your best commander. He represents a house and jarldom we must have close ties with. And he is someone worthy of your respect. I will marry him, Brother, for your sake and your kingdom."
"How noble," the king replied with disdain. "You do not seem particularly burdened."
"It could have been worse," Arndis admitted. "Yet in the end, this is the reasonable choice. My own wishes are not part of the calculation."
"Convenient, given that you also presume to calculate my future. Using the same arithmetic."
She stared at him without sympathy. "Yes. The gods have blessed us both with gifts, or we would not have come this far. Your gift is on the field, mine is in court. That is why you should heed my advice, Brand."
"I am to trust in your benevolence?"
"You are to trust the blood and bond between us. I tell you the truth as the only one, Brother, because I am tied to you unlike any other. My fortune rises and falls with yours, completely in step. I have no hidden ambitions when I advise you because my goals are yours."
Brand returned to his chess set, rearranging the scattered pieces. "I would have solitude." Staring at his back, his sister complied with the command.
~~~~
Traffic through Saltgate remained high. Soldiers and provisions marched in; citizens went the other way while the roads remained open. Due to the extraordinary circumstances, the toll for entering the city had been waived, and Godfrey walked straight into the city.
He quickly took a sharp turn, entering Lowtown. Nestled between the southern walls and the river, the many neighbourhoods gave home to the poorest of Middanhal. Houses in various states of disrepair lay closely together, each providing a roof to several families.
Besides that, Lowtown held numerous taverns and temples, tending to the physical and spiritual needs of the citizens. With staggered steps, Godfrey reached a structure of the former kind. Little more than four walls around an altar, the shrine still had a blackrobe in attendance. Godfrey approached the priest, clearing his throat.
Once the blackrobe noticed him, Godfrey took another step closer. "Get a message to the king. Tell him he has less than a month. I’m too worn to cross the city."
"I shall." The priest nodded and disappeared into the throng of people on the street.
As for Godfrey, his business done in the temple, he continued a little further into Lowtown until he reached a tavern. News of war had not suppressed men’s thirst, on the contrary; the place seemed packed. The wanderer pushed his way through to reach the innkeeper, slapping three coppers onto the desk.
"The price is six," came the surly reply.
"You try this every time. I have walked for a week straight. I’m not in the mood, Harold."
Grumbling, the innkeeper filled a tankard and slammed it on the desk, swiping the coins into his pocket.
Godfrey emptied the mug in one drag. "I’ll be in your stable, sleeping," he declared; before any protests could be made, he had already made his exit, lost in the crowd.
|
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The End of the Beginning
Western Hæthiod
Three men sat together out of sight, hiding in the sparse vegetation that could be found on the heaths of Hæthiod. Their dark clothing, and in particular their footwear, marked them as blackboots. They served as advance scouts and sometimes spies for the outlanders, dependent on need. Adept at combat and tracking while avoiding being trailed in turn.
"How long until we can speak with Javed?" asked Dariush.
"He said to expect another month," Kamran replied.
"One of us could go further in disguise," Arman suggested, looking towards the north-west. "Find him and warn him."
Kamran shook his head. "We will not find him unless he wishes to be found, and he will not know to make himself known. He would never approve of such risk that holds barely any promise of reward."
"What are we to do, in that case?" asked Dariush. His eyes moved from west to east, turning from distant fields towards the barren heath. "We have seen nothing of the drylanders to expect they are prepared to resist."
"We trust Javed and his vision. We stay hidden, as always. We wait for the right moment," Kamran stressed upon his companions.
The other men nodded slowly. "Until the morrow comes," Arman spoke.
"Until the morrow comes," Kamran assented.
"May it come soon," Dariush sighed.
With cautious looks at their surroundings, the three men dispersed, leaving the border between Adalrik and Hæthiod in different directions.
~~~~
A hundred miles south of Tothmor near a rare source of freshwater, the camp of the outlanders lay arraigned with the same discipline and precision that characterised their cities. The tents stood raised in small, even sections, allowing for pathways as necessary. One break from uniformity could be found in one corner with fences for horses, blacksmiths, cobblers, and other needed craftsmen nearby.
The centre of the camp held the other exception. The Servants of the Flame, blessing the troops before battle, had their own tent, as did each of the commanders. As could be expected, the largest belonged to Sikandar, captain of the Godking’s forces. Victor of the initial campaign against Hæthiod, he led the outlander army once again.
Inside his tent, the leaders had gathered at Sikandar’s command. A priest dressed in fiery robes could also be found along with two shadow warriors; more of their number prowled the camp or surrounding area, always watching for enemies of one or the other kind.
"Our brave sāyag have returned," Sikandar declared to the other commanders. He was seated on a sofa with the shadow warriors flanking him. Cloth surrounded their faces, and underneath lay the steel masks that further hid their visage; only their yellow eyes stared with intensity, rarely if ever blinking. With nervous glances at the dreaded guards, the lieutenants turned their attention towards Sikandar. "We have the location of all their troops. There are none in sufficient numbers to threaten this army, let alone what will follow from the homeland. Tomorrow, we continue our march."
Exclamations of satisfaction from the commanders followed Sikandar’s words. "Will we face battle soon?" one of them asked.
"Only if they are fools enough to believe they can stand against us when we are four to one," Sikandar replied with satisfaction. "Most likely, they will scatter before us as we march upon their city. Especially given the news that the esteemed Servant has received."
They all turned their attention on the priest. "You have heard the rumours, no doubt," he began to say, basking in their attention. "They are true. The army about to leave our homelands is being led by the Godking himself. At last, as we have prayed and sacrificed for a thousand times thousand, the god in the mountain has awakened."
"Praise be his name!"
"All for the Godking!"
The captains repeated the sentiment in various ways, while a few of them glanced at the silent shadow warriors; none could guess as to their state of mind or mood.
"This will be the end of our long war," Sikandar proclaimed. "The Godking himself will bring us the final victory. But we must all do our part for his glory if we are to be worthy of his coming."
"Without question," mumbled the priest.
"We shall strike first and swiftly, preparing the way into the heart of our enemy. An honour we have not deserved, given the setbacks we have suffered in this dry land." Sikandar looked at Rostam, who had lost Tothmor to the Order’s campaign under Brand.
"There are limits to the Godking’s mercy," declared the Servant of the Flame. "He will not spare those who prove unworthy."
"Do not fail he who is most holy," Sikandar added with a stern gaze at his lieutenants.
"We would never."
"All for the Godking!"
"Spread the word. Let the men know we march tomorrow, and that we march for the glory of the Godking," Sikandar commanded. The soldiers bowed their heads and left; one of the shadow warriors followed.
~~~~
The next day, the outlander army broke camp. Supplied from Lakon in southern Hæthiod and beyond, they lacked for nothing. Provisions, material, horses, draught animals, and everything else an army might need for battle or siege. Dozens of blackboots left before dawn, spreading across the area in advance. The vanguard followed, consisting of infantry armed with bows, ready to fight any skirmish.
Marching with discipline for many days, the main army crossed the border to enter Adalrik. The fertile lands of Ingmond lay before them; in the furthest distance, the hills that separated the jarldom from inner Adalrik could be seen. In between lay Inghold, capital of the province and home to the holiest site for Rihimil. In ancient times, a dragon had been slain upon that place by the hero Alfmod, halting the advance of an ancient enemy. The story would not be repeated in this particular case; as the land lay bereft of heroes and armies in sufficient numbers, nothing stood in the outlanders’ way.
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Till Dragon's Rise
Middanhal
From the mountain of Wyrmpeak, meltwater flowed down and fell as a waterfall into the eastern end of Middanhal. Here, it became the great river of the Mihtea, passing through the city before disappearing underneath the mountain of Valmark in the western end. For several miles, the Mihtea continued underground before appearing again south-west, providing the last source of freshwater before reaching Middanhal itself.
It was commonplace for wanderers and caravans to make camp at this place before making the last stretch of the journey to the capital, sticking together for safety and comfort. One small company stood out among the other groups. Most travellers were craftsmen and their families, looking for work, merchants with their guards transporting goods, or pious people seeking the Temple. Yet this band had no children with them nor anything worth selling. By their rough demeanour, they did not appear to be motivated by faith either. Several of them bore weapons, including one of the women; as they had nothing worth guarding, this suggested them to be mercenaries, selling only their sword arm. As a consequence, the other travellers kept their distance.
With his hood up, Brand walked up and down the banks of the Mihtea. As he avoided the company of other travellers same as they did towards him, he only had a small patch of land to pace about. Several times, his hand moved in absent-minded manner up to run through his hair before he arrested the movement, adjusting his hood.
“Patience was never his strong suit,” Jana remarked watching him. She sat on the ground along with Gwen, while Alaric kept watch with harsh glances to discourage any from approaching.
The other woman looked at her companion rather than Brand. “You know him well, do you.”
“For many years when we were children.”
“People change as they grow older. If not age, then experience will cause that.”
“Very true.” Jana smiled at Gwen. “I barely resemble who I was last year. I have done and seen so much I never could have imagined. The same holds true for you, I am sure, following Brand.”
The highlander crossed her arms. “I follow him because he is my kin.”
“Given what little family he has, Brand is fortunate to count you among them.”
“Why have you followed him into exile?” Gwen asked. “From what you’ve said, the cost was high.”
Jana’s eyes flickered towards the man in question. “He needed help. I could not stand aside.”
A man appeared from the direction of the city. Alaric narrowed his eyes until he relaxed his posture. “Glaukos returns,” he said, leaving the women to reach Brand. The latter returned with him, watching as their companion approached.
“How did it go?” Brand asked swiftly even while the other man was still walking towards them.
“Everyone has their position,” Glaukos declared with his growling voice. “Not that it reassures me. With the northern gate closed, Saltgate is packed. If fighting erupts, it will be chaos with lots of unarmed people caught in the middle.”
“Let us pray it does not come to that,” Jana said quietly.
“At least there are only Order soldiers on the walls,” Glaukos continued. “They have not let the sell-swords take control of that. But captain, you should know I saw plenty of mercenaries on the streets.”
“To be expected. Isarn has driven them all back to the city.”
“A shame they are camped far to the north,” Alaric said.
“Better they are on the streets than in the Citadel,” Brand mused. “If we act swiftly, their presence will not matter.”
His companions did not appear assuaged by his words.
~~~~
Hours later, when the evening had begun to wane, a trio of travellers appeared. This time, Brand did not remain waiting, but hurried forward to approach them. Almost a year after their last parting, Brand could embrace Arndis once more.
“Brother,” she smiled, blinking tears away. “Were I not so happy to see you, I would chastise your reckless behaviour in coming here.”
“Circumstances could be worse. I recall us meeting in a cell once,” Brand replied; his voice almost sounded normal. “Lady Eleanor,” he added, bowing his head.
“Lord Adalbrand.” She returned the courtesy.
“You know most of my company already,” Brand continued, directed at Arndis.
“Of course! Gwen, so lovely to see you again.” She clasped hands with her kinswoman.
“The only person new in our number would be Lady Jana of Alcázar.” He extended one hand towards the princess, who accepted it and moved forward.
Curiosity overtook Arndis’ face briefly. “Delighted.”
“Likewise.” Jana gave a bow.
“While I am intrigued, the pertinent question seems to be why you have come?”
Brand took a deep breath, looking at his sister. “Tomorrow, I intend to enter Middanhal and remove Jarl Vale from power.”
Eleanor released a nervous chuckle while Arndis returned her brother’s look. “Brand, I have the highest regard for your abilities, but I see you surrounded by five people. Four swords,” she added, glancing at Jana.
“My followers are in the city already,” he explained.
“Brand,” Arndis began with a patient tone of voice, “I am not adverse to risk. But surely you understand the danger of entering the city. It is swarming with the lord protector’s troops.”
“Hence the reason I ensured you are removed from the city,” Brand pointed out. “Should anything go awry, you will be safe.”
“I have spent the last years rebuilding our fortunes, and now you are throwing all that away.”
“You have your life and your wealth.” Brand nodded at the coin purse in her belt. “That is gold, I wager. You can live in comfort anywhere in the realms, Sister, if that is your wish. As for me, I am done delaying the inevitable. My fate lies in Middanhal and only there.” He met her gaze with steeled eyes.
Arndis took a deep breath and slowly exhaled, letting silence fill the space between them. “You are determined to do this, I see, regardless of the danger, regardless of the consequences.”
“I am. As long as I know my family is safe, I do not fear what happens next.”
“What of your followers?” Arndis glanced at the others who had followed Brand into exile.
“I am sworn to die for my lord,” Alaric declared. “If he wishes to enter battle, it is not my place to dissuade him, but to fight by his side.”
“The same goes for me,” Geberic said.
“I am looking forward to it,” Glaukos remarked. He flexed the fingers on his sword hand.
“Do not be fearful on our behalf,” Brand told his sister. “You and Lady Eleanor will stay here, along with Lady Jana and Gwen –”
“To Hel with that,” exclaimed the highlander. “I didn’t come all this way only to sit outside at the crucial moment.”
“Gwen, I need you to remain here to protect the others,” Brand requested.
“You know me poorly if you think I will cower outside the walls while you pursue your ends regardless of risk,” Arndis said coldly. “I am the daughter of kings and will behave as such until my final moment.”
Brand looked at Jana as the last. “You will find no sympathy from me,” the lady spoke. “I have nowhere to go but where you go.”
“Arndis, this is foolish,” Brand spoke with a clenched jaw, addressing his sister. “There is no need for you to endanger yourself, nor lead the others into the dragon’s den.”
“And yet that is my choice. Rather vexing when you make meticulous plans and your wilful sibling appears out of nowhere, frustrating them.” Arndis’ smile evaporated as she turned to Eleanor. “But you should stay here. You do not deserve to be pulled into all of this.”
Eleanor shrugged. “Honestly, I doubt anyone would even notice me in this crowd. The rest of you tend to draw all the attention.”
“Arndis, I will not countenance this,” Brand spoke, raising his voice. “Same goes for you,” he added, looking at Jana. “If you enter the city tomorrow, you achieve nothing but placing yourself in needless danger. It is beyond pointless!”
“You have made your choice,” Arndis pointed out. “This is mine.”
“If not for me, your head would be on a spike atop the gate of Alcázar,” Jana told him. “I have placed myself in danger time and time again for your sake. You have no right to question my decision.”
Brand looked around at every other person present, but none came to his aid. “Fine,” Brand declared sharply, “I will allow this on one condition. The moment that fighting occurs, anyone without a weapon immediately makes for Saltgate and leaves the city. You stay outside. I will send for you when it is safe to return.”
“I can accept those terms,” Arndis said.
“So be it,” Jana added.
“Is there any food? We can’t march on an empty stomach.” Geberic looked around expectantly until bags were opened and provisions distributed. They sat down and shared a meal with Arndis engaging Gwen in cheerful conversation; the rest ate in silence.
~~~~
As the day waned, the different members of the small band found various ways to keep busy. Jana repaired her clothes with a sewing needle brought from Dvaros. Arndis counted her coin and made calculations with Eleanor’s help concerning the expenses for a journey to Tothmor. The warriors inspected their weapons and armour to the smallest stitch. From the words exchanged between them all, anticipation mixed with anxiety could be felt building up.
“Gwen,” Brand said, beckoning for his kinswoman to follow him. She did so until they were out of earshot. “I must ask something of you.”
“What is it?”
“Tomorrow, should fighting occur, I place my trust in you to ensure that Arndis and Jana immediately escape.”
“They already agreed to do that,” Gwen pointed out. “As for me, I don’t plan to run.”
“I am aware of both, but tomorrow, with the crowd and the confusion, I am still worried. I need to know that someone will ensure they are both able to retreat out of harm’s way. You are my blood, Gwen, and I place those I care most about in your hands. Will you do this for me?”
He kept her eyes locked until she sighed. “Fine,” she agreed. “Though it doesn’t sit well with me to make a run for it when the trouble starts.”
“I know, and I am grateful to you.”
Gwen waved her hand about in a dismissive gesture. “It’s fine.”
They returned to the small group, and Gwen sat down among the others. Brand remained standing.
“Geberic,” he called out, summoning the greybeard to join him. As with Gwen, Brand led his sergeant some paces away.
“Aye, milord?”
“Did you see Sir William or hear of him at the Citadel?”
“No, milord, nor did I look. Should I have?”
Brand shook his head. “Just curiosity. Glaukos reported he had left the Order camp in Hæthiod, and I wondered where he might be.”
“I’m sorry I can’t help, milord.”
“It was not your task. Did everything go as planned with the captain?”
“Aye, milord. He promised things would be in place.” Geberic hesitated. “I gave him the impression you were only trying to travel north, milord, just as you wanted.”
“Good. I understand it may not sit well with you, but I fear the captain would not have aided us if he knew our true intentions.”
“Indeed, milord.” As silence took over the next moments, Geberic gave an expectant look at his master. “Was that all?”
“No.” Brand lowered his voice. “I have a task for you tomorrow.”
“Anything, milord.”
“When the fighting begins, I want you to make your escape. Leave the city and find the women. Tell them you saw me fall and they must flee.”
Confusion was replaced by disbelief on Geberic’s face. “I could never, milord!”
“You must. The others will not run unless they believe me dead.”
“But milord, what if you require aid? How can we leave without you?”
“That sentiment is precisely why you must tell them of my demise,” Brand stressed. “You cannot afford to delay a moment. Make your way to Hæthiod immediately. Queen Theodora will treat you well for my sake, I am sure.”
“But milord, if matters go ill, surely we must wait for you!” Geberic argued. “If we are to flee, we must do so together.”
“On the contrary. If our plans fall apart, every soldier in Middanhal will seek to apprehend me. They will scour the land to find me. Your only chance to escape is absent my company,” Brand retorted. “Geberic, promise me this.”
Agony appeared on the greybeard’s face. “I am a thane, milord, in my heart. Even if I never swore an oath to you. If there’s battle, my place is next to you.”
“Geberic, I need this far more than I need another sword. The risk is already too great for the people I care most about,” Brand explained. “You have followed me from the beginning, ever since we crossed the Weolcans. I trust you absolutely. You must do this for me.”
“If you’re going to twist my arm about it…” Geberic let out a deep breath. “I’ll do it. Of course I will, milord.”
“Good. Thank you. Should we win the fight, I will send for you all to return to Middanhal.”
“There’s something else I should do first.” The old greybeard knelt with a little difficulty and stretched out one hand. Brand extended his own, letting Geberic press it to his brow. “I will to my lord be true and faithful. Your life is my life, your blood is my blood. All my days I shall serve my lord until death may find me,” he proclaimed. “By eagle’s flight from raven’s cry, through falcon’s fall till dragon’s rise, this oath I swear.”
“Geberic from Cragstan, I accept your fealty.”
The thane got on his feet and smiled. “Just in case this was the last opportunity.”
“Good. Let us get some sleep while we can.”
|
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|
Death upon the Land
Valmark
When the day was still young, before any mercenaries had marched on the Citadel, the armies of Adalmearc assembled on the southern slopes before Middanhal. In gleaming armour, with great shields and tall banners flying, they arraigned themselves upon the foothills of Valmark, facing an enemy more than twice their numbers.
Furthest to the west, where the terrain became ragged, two thousand Dwarves and their dvalinn had taken position. In front of them rose spiked fences, deterring any cavalry charge. Next to them, making up the main part of the flank, stood the forces of Belvoir under their duke.
Order forces and Red Hawks led by Athelstan of Isarn took the centre; despite holding the main position, they were arrayed in wide ranks only four men deep, trusting in their superior armaments and experience to hold the enemy back. The seven-pointed white star of Adalmearc flew upon their black standards.
The highlanders and the levies conscripted in Adalrik had the eastern flank with William of Tothmor as their lieutenant. As the most vulnerable fighting force, they stood in narrow ranks many lines deep. Behind them, every archer in Middanhal had been placed, led by a pair of Hæthian longbowmen renowned as companions of the king.
Beyond the archers, the knights of Adal could be found upon their war steeds. The horses scraped the ground, throwing their heads around as they sensed the anticipation in the air. Each rider gripped spear and reins, ready for the charge; Richard of Alwood led the host.
Further back on the slope up towards Middanhal, the king of Adalrik sat on his horse, surrounded by thanes. His sergeant held the banner of the golden dragon on blue, same image as upon their surcoats; with grim faces and a view of the hills that rolled down before them, they watched in silence as the enemy marched out to meet them.
Unlike the Mearcians, the outlanders appeared as one force. Standards of a black armoured fist upon red unfolded in the wind. Every soldier wore the crimson robes of the Anausa, wielding weapons of the same make. They spread out to form their own centre and flanks, evenly placed six lines deep. Jenaab Sikandar kept a strong force behind as reinforcement, along with his own cavalry; even so, the battlelines of his army extended further than those of the Mearcians. Next to him, seated on a litter and clad in red steel, the Godking watched his subjects prepare to wage war.
At the foot of the incline, Sikandar had a diminished view of the field compared to his counterpart. Yet the weaknesses among the Mercian lines could not be hidden, and with a satisfied look, he issued his first commands of the day. Trumpets sounded their metallic cry, repeating his orders across the gap to his armies. In response, more than sixty thousand soldiers advanced.
~~~~
As ever, the outlanders began their assault with waves of arrows. As expected, they did the most harm to the east among the exposed highlanders and peasant levies. The Mearcian longbowmen retaliated, using their greater bows and higher position, claiming many victims in turn.
More trumpets relayed Sikandar's next order; while the other positions continued to shoot, the eastern flank gave up exchanging arrows and advanced. With better equipment than the troops opposite, the Anausa went into close combat.
Standing in the front line, William waited until the enemy had almost reached them; rather than let them reform their lines after their advance, he yelled the order to charge. Sprinting forward to close the remaining gap, the Mearcians attacked with spears, axes, clubs, flails, and any other weapon available. Better armed, but disfavoured by the terrain, the Anausa fought back, and neither side seemed to gain ground.
Sikandar gave further signals. The rest of his frontline infantry set aside their bows and advanced as well. Battle roars gave way to the deafening cacophony of steel striking steel. Soldiers wearing a white star or a red hawk held their own; to the west, the deep ranks of the rivermen also proved steadfast, and the duke of Belvoir encouraged his men. Further out, the Anausa outnumbered the Dwarves, but the spiked defences disrupted their formation and robbed them of this advantage.
Spears met shields across the length of the battlelines. The infantry of either side became entrenched, fighting evenly for now. To the north and south, both commanders watched their soldiers die. Sikandar, who had reserves, remained passive; Brand, whose army could not absorb losses for long, gave an order.
~~~~
Furthest to the east, Richard watched the banner of the king being waved in signal to him. With a grin, he placed his helmet on his head and picked up his spear from where he had thrust it into the ground. "My lords, our moment has come."
The knights under his command arranged themselves in staggered formation like the tip of a javelin. With a tight hold on reins and weapons both, they drove their horses forward.
The movement made by such a large mass of riders and steeds could not be hidden. Sikandar gave his own order, relayed to Rostam, leading the Zhayedan. The red-robed horsemen moved out as well, forced to carefully consider their speed. Riding too fast, they would tire their horses going uphill and engage the Mearcians far from their own reinforcements; too slow would allow the knights to simply turn right and charge into the outlanders' infantry, tearing the flank apart.
Whether from fear of the latter or some other reason, Rostam led the Zhayedan swiftly against the oncoming knights. Both sides spurred their horses on, lowering spears while maintaining formation during the gallop. Only the skill from a lifetime spent practising warfare in the saddle allowed this, and the best warriors from either army could be found in the clash of cavalry.
But Nordsteel armour, great stallions from Korndale, and terrain favoured the knights of Adal. With terrible ferocity, their spears impaled the outlanders even through shields and iron shirts before shattering. The front line drew blades, exchanging blows. Displaying unmatched horsemanship, the knights in the back ranks retreated swiftly, recreating their formation to make another charge. They hammered into the Zhayedan from the side, felling them in great numbers.
Sikandar gave another command. As in the first battle of the war, thousands of spearmen kept in reserve stormed forward to fight the entrenched knights. Yet their path led them within range of the Mearcian longbowmen on the eastern flank, who had saved most of their arrows. As they saw the Anausa move forward towards the engagement, they resumed shooting.
Volley after volley struck the unsuspecting outlanders on their swift march. Hundreds fell from the first barrage before they raised their shields. Suddenly hindered in their movements and forced to protect themselves, their ranks fell apart. Rather than a concentrated blow, the Anausa trickled into the fight – those that made it past the archers.
~~~~
Watching his cavalry falter, Sikandar turned his eyes towards the weakness in the Mearcian lines. The centre where the ranks looked vulnerable, only four men deep. Already, the Order soldiers and Red Hawks had lost ground; they seemed forced to defend only, unable to push back or inflict casualties on the outlanders. Sikandar gave another command, and his final reserves set into motion.
This time, the defending archers could not offer any reprieve, having spent their arrows already. Unhindered, the Anausa reached their brethren fighting in the middle. They surged forward, replacing weary troops to attack with renewed force.
Having seen the incoming reinforcements, the Mearcians responded. Led by Athelstan, they yielded further ground. Step by step, they pulled back, using this to likewise replace tired soldiers at the front and allow them to catch their breath. But even with skilled leadership and every other advantage at their disposal, the sheer difference in numbers asserted itself. The Mearcian lines grew thinner; the outlanders roared and pressed forward, sensing victory within their grasp.
Brand released a deep-held breath and gestured for another signal to be given. From the east and the west flanks, the back lines of his army retreated under skilful command and turned towards the middle. So certain of imminent conquest, too eager to push forward, the outlanders had gone too far in the centre. Moving ahead of their brethren on the flanks, they left themselves exposed. As if caught by pincers, they found themselves under pressure from three sides.
Unprepared, the red-clad soldiers stumbled to fight back. Along the edges, they tried to retreat under the sudden onslaught, but the mass of soldiers did not allow any room for the smallest manoeuvre. Unable to form any lines, defence became impossible. A slaughter began.
~~~~
From his seat, the Godking watched his army be decimated. Next to him, Sikandar sweated; no reinforcements remained. Already, the Zhayedan had begun to retreat, and although most of the infantry still fought, the situation had become clear; defeat was imminent.
"You have failed me," the Godking proclaimed with a calm voice. "Your fate will be decided later." He reached out his hands to both sides. One received a spiked mace, the other a great sword. Rising to stand, the runes on his red armour seemed to glow briefly. He began marching towards the battle, surrounded by his shadow warriors.
~~~~
The Anausa died in droves. The flanks could not push; the Dwarves held firm in the west against any attempts to force them back, fighting with unmatched spirit, and under Sir William the Unyielding, so did the levies to the east. The overextended centre, holding most of the outlander forces, was trapped and attacked on three sides. Confident in victory, the Mearcian commanders spurred their troops onwards.
The Godking reached the lines. Immediately, five shadow warriors went to each of the pressed sides, while the remaining ten stayed by their master's side. Their presence right and left quickly began alleviating the pressure. Throwing themselves into combat with reckless abandon, they scorned steel and barely took wounds, slicing the Mearcian soldiers apart. As the sun passed beyond noon, the outlanders reasserted themselves, ceasing their retreat.
~~~~
The sound of thundering hooves met the screaming of steel and shouting of men. Having vanquished the Zhayedan, the knights charged into the outlander infantry from behind. They tore through the ranks, tipping the scales of the battle yet again. "Death!" shouted Sir Richard, swinging his sword with glee. "Kill them all!"
The Godking turned to face the new threat, as did his protectors. Snarling, the shadow warriors leapt forward to face this foe. They felled the horses and stemmed the knights' charge that moments before had seemed inexorable. After them, the Godking came. When his mace fell or his sword struck, a knight died.
Already unhorsed, Richard fought with his usual fervour, holding his own against even the dark soldiers of the Reach. Although none of the Mearcians had ever seen the Godking and they scarcely knew him, his armour left no doubt as to his importance. Spitting blood, the margrave of Alwood set his eyes on the immortal enemy of Adalmearc. "Die!"
Facing the shadow warriors, Richard evaded one blow, avoided another, and used his shield to push the nearest foe away. He made no retaliation but simply ran forward. One of the dreaded protectors managed to cut him deeply on the sword arm, but the knight would not be deterred and continued.
At last, he stood before the Godking, more than a head taller than him. The great sword came swinging at such length, Richard could only evade without the reach to strike back. As soon as the blade passed him by, the mace followed up, and the knight had to dodge again.
A shadow warrior's dagger struck him in the back. The armour held, but time had run out. Richard leapt forward, aiming a devastating blow against the Godking's masked face.
With speed no son of Man could hope to match, the fiend avoided the strike. He brought the pommel of his sword up, hitting Richard in the face to send him stumbling back. The mace fell down, crushing his shoulder.
Losing his sword, the knight lowered his shield. "See you in Hel, you bastard," he spat as two shadow warriors fell upon him. Under their relentless attacks, the margrave of Alwood and hero of Adalrik died.
~~~~
To the north, the developments in the battle was met with rising alarm. Everything had seemed to go according to plan. The infantry had pulled the outlanders into the trap, falling on their centre from both flanks. The cavalry had broken their counterpart and charged into the back of the red-clad ranks, leading to complete envelopment. By now, the enemy should be utterly defeated, yet still they held on.
"I do not understand," mumbled Alaric.
"I do," replied the king quietly. He reached out one hand. "My spear." Geberic placed the weapon in his hand. "It is time we fight."
~~~~
The battle had raged for most of the day, and still the scales seemed to tip back and forth, promising victory to neither. The charge of the knights into the infantry had not proved decisive as assumed, yet their presence remained a strong threat that even the Godking and his fell champions could not simply remove.
On the other hand, the Mearcian footmen could not hold much longer. The archers, having spent their arrows, charged into the middle to help the crumbling lines, but their light armour and short swords proved little aid. The Order soldiers were too spread out, had taken too many losses, and all the other advantages gained in the battle could not outweigh this. The shadow warriors turned towards this vulnerability. Once the line broke, the Mearcian army would be split in twain; the Anausa could escape the death trap and pour out to envelop their enemy in turn.
Seventy men wearing a blue surcoat with a golden dragon rode through their own ranks. The beleaguered soldiers of the Star broke into jubilant cries as the horses stormed past and into the fray. Throwing his shattered spear aside to wield a blade of sea-steel, the Dragonheart led his kingthanes forward, killing an enemy with each blow. And as the soldiers looked to see his banner where the battle was fiercest, they roared and fought with renewed strength.
~~~~
A shadow warrior came against Brand. Two kingthanes stepped into his path, but their swords could not keep him back; he ignored their blows to press on and attack the king. Brand caught his strike with the shield and retaliated. Sea-steel would not be denied, and the fell creature sank to the ground.
Another two attacked. "Wrath, rage, storm, and song!" they crowed in the outlander tongue, their yellow eyes trained on Brand's weapon. The kingthanes surrounded their lord to defend him, but more and more of the dreaded warriors came, and even the stalwart Glaukos became separated from his master. Finally, towering over his soldiers, the Godking appeared.
His eerie eyes stared from beneath his steel mask, made of the same red metal as his armour. As his champions engaged the thanes, he struck with sword and mace to claim another life with every blow. Step by step, he approached the king.
"Today, Sigvard's line shall end," the Godking proclaimed in Nordspeech. He raised his weapons and struck with fearsome strength. The king leaned back, avoiding the attack to make his own in return, but he found his reach too short. As thanes and shadow warriors met each other in a whirlwind of iron, the Godking and the Dragon of Adalrik fought.
Repeatedly, the sword and mace passed through the air with the power to kill in a single strike. While men died around him, Brand retreated, always evading.
Taking another step back, his footing seemed to slip, and he almost stumbled. The Godking swiftly advanced, striking with both weapons. As the mace came against Brand's head, the sword threatened his waist.
Revealing his feint, Brand regained his footing and dropped to the ground. While the mace swung harmlessly past, his shield deflected the Godking's sword to do the same. At the same time, his own blade struck low against the nearest target.
The sea-steel clashed against the armoured boot covering the Godking's ankle. The runes on his red steel flared up as if on fire. Although dented, the armour held against Brand's weapon. The terrible foe took another step forward, towering over the king on the ground. With a swift kick, he sent Brand on his back, all but defenceless.
"Now die," he spoke, raising his spiked weapon. A thane threw himself in front, striking the Godking with his sword. It did nothing, and the warrior died as the mace tore through his helmet and skull.
Pushing his body aside, the Godking once more loomed over the Dragonheart. The shadow warriors came on both sides, keeping the kingthanes at bay. Brand raised his shield, but the mace fell and tore it apart, reaching all the way to tear his stomach open. He raised his sword. The Godking struck with his own, flinging it aside. Unarmed, alone, Brand awaited death.
A battle cry spoken in a tongue known to few made the Godking whip his head to the side. As the waning sun illuminated the mass of soldiers fighting and dying, the light became reflected in a blade of Elven-forged metal raised in defiant challenge.
Uttering a curse in a forgotten language, the Godking turned his attention back to Brand. It was too late. A shadow warrior lay dead, felled by yet another sword of sea-steel in Elven hand, and the thanes had pulled the king to safety. With a frustrated yell, the Godking faced his new enemies. The Bladesinger and the Dragonslayer had joined the battle.
~~~~
"The king is dead!" came the shout among the Mearcians. "The king has fallen!"
Pressing his hand against the wound on his stomach, Brand raised his voice. "Hold," he spoke between gasps of breath.
"My king, we must get you away!" declared one of the thanes holding Brand by the shoulder.
"Not yet," he replied. "Help me to stand!" As they did so, he looked around. "Where is my banner? Find me a horse!"
While Glaukos remained to help the king stand, others hurried to fulfil his command. They returned with a riderless horse and Geberic, carrying the royal standard.
With a pale face and eyes lacking focus, Brand's hand fumbled to take the reins. "Help me get up," he demanded. With concerned looks, the thanes did so until Brand could sit slumped over on the horse, using its head and neck for support. "The banner," he breathed, throwing his helmet away before extending one hand while the other clutched the reins.
As Geberic placed the standard into the king's grasp, the latter spurred his steed towards the battle line. "Fight on!" he called out with surprising vigour. "Fight on, men, your king is with you!"
Pressing his legs against the horse, Brand waved the golden dragon over his head. Around him, the soldiers of the Star rallied, few as they were.
~~~~
The Godking let his weapons soar through the air with such fearsome power, even the mightiest of Elven warriors could not hope to withstand. Instead, Alfbrand leapt away. With speed to match the fell enemy, he avoided the mace and used his own sword to steer the Godking's blade away, never receiving a blow.
Desperately, the shadow warriors threw themselves forward to protect their master, disregarding the attacks made from the remaining kingthanes. Yet they could not stand against Alfmod, he who slew a dragon in ancient times. Wielding the same sea-steel and renowned fury as then, he felled one dread champion after the other. None could interfere in the fated duel between Bladesinger and Godking, meeting on the slopes of Valmark for the second time.
Yet even as his blade sang, Alfbrand could not injure his enemy. The red steel, touched by runes to withstand all blows, took barely a mark each time, and every such attack placed the Bladesinger in mortal danger from the Godking's ruinous weapons. The Elf moved with a grace gifted to none other, never taking any wounds, but it could not last. Fighting his second battle of the day, the hero faced exhaustion. The Godking, whether innate to his nature or empowered by arcane secrets, showed no sign of weariness. His eyes underneath his mask, no different than those of the Elf, stared with pure malice as he struck again.
Reaching into his belt with his left hand, Alfbrand did not avoid the oncoming blow, but leapt forward to raise the shield swiftly. As the mace struck his ward, he smashed his own sword into the Godking's helmet, but even here, the red steel held. The hostile blade retaliated, cutting into his shoulder, while the might of the fell mace clove his shield.
His enemy injured and within his grasp, the Godking raised both weapons to finish the fight. The Elf's sword hung low, and his shield was broken. The dreadful foe struck with haste to rival the wind at his hated enemy, who stood too close that he might hope to evade death. The end had come.
The Bladesinger moved as well. Not in retreat, but forwards. As his shield fell to pieces, it revealed the dagger from his belt in his grasp. Swifter than the storm, he stabbed into the eye slit of the Godking's mask.
The ancient being roared in agony; he had not known pain in a thousand years and more. Weapons fell from his hands as he gripped the dagger; pulling it back, a spray of dark blood followed.
Alfbrand did not hesitate. Despite broken arm and injured shoulder, he moved again. One hand tore the helmet from the Godking's head, leaving it exposed. The other struck with the sword against unprotected flesh. At last, the sea-steel drank the blood it had been forged to shed, slicing with ease. As dark liquid erupted from the neck, the head fell to the ground. Around them, the shadow warriors collapsed. The Godking had fallen.
~~~~
As the Order soldiers rallied to their king, the outlanders yielded, breaking into a rout. Their god lay dead, and the drakonian lines had held against relentless assaults. Twilight covered the bloody field, where thousands upon thousands of Mearcians lay dead, and most of the remainder had been near breaking point; a few more arrows striking their mark, spears lasting another blow before shattering, reinforcements arriving a moment sooner, and the fray might not have favoured the Mearcians. But it did. The battle of Valmark, the second ever fought upon those foothills, had come to an end, bringing victory to Adalmearc.
|
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The Seed of Conflict
The Western Reach
With Rund in Mearcian hands, the Order army could continue. Supply lines stretching back across the Langstan to Hæthiod were secure. Ahead, in the far distance, the peak of Niðheim could be seen against the horizon. While the name revealed how the Mearcians disdained this place, the outlanders revered it. It held the throne of the Godking and stood as the centre of his priesthood. Furthermore, the city inside the hollow mountain held thousands of craftsmen, and the same number of slaves worked the deep mines to gather ore. From here, the armies of the Reach were equipped. To conquer the mountain would deal a crippling blow, perhaps decisive enough to end the war. Two days after the conquest of Rund, the Order army began its march south.
It took a week before they met resistance. Quick skirmishes between patrols that slowed their progress and kept them blind to what lay ahead further south. Sending a vanguard in force to press ahead, they eventually found the reason for the enemy presence. The outlander army, revitalised and reinforced, had marched out to defend Niðheim. Battle seemed inevitable.
~~~~
"How many?" Brand sat in his tent, studying a simple drawing of the surrounding landscape.
"More than sixty thousand," Godfrey told him. Besides the two, only Geberic and Glaukos were present. The former sewed a tear in his tunic and the latter sharpened his blade.
"And I have less than forty." The king exhaled. "The terrain gives no reprieve. Godfrey, are you certain of your plan? If you have the slightest doubt, I must withdraw. I cannot offer battle on these terms."
"I am certain." The wanderer looked at Brand resolutely.
"If you are wrong, I will not forgive this error."
"I understand."
"Very well." The king looked at his sergeant. "Summon my captains. We fight."
~~~~
In the camp of the outlanders, Sikandar had done as the king. Wearing the mask of the Godking, he sat in his tent with his captains gathered before him. Out of all of them, only Arash and Rostam had accompanied the commander during the first invasion of Adalmearc. The rest were recent appointments, filling the positions made empty by recent battles.
"If the drylanders advance, we must fight," Sikandar declared. "We cannot allow them to besiege the sacred mountain. The scouts say we have more troops, which the flat landscape will allow us to take full advantage of. Yet our enemy has proven cunning in the past."
"Their best chance would be to trap our centre as they did before," one lieutenant argued. "We should focus our superior numbers on one flank, envelop theirs."
"Many of our soldiers are new recruits or pulled from the garrisons," Arash pointed out. "We do not know how they will handle the fight. We should place our troops evenly across our lines rather than risk any sudden vulnerability."
"I agree with Jenaab Arash," Rostam said. "On flat terrain such as this, cavalry will determine the outcome of the battle."
"Surprising words from the leader of the Zhayedan," another lieutenant remarked sarcastically.
Sikandar raised one hand to command silence. "Do you have more to say, Jenaab Rostam?"
"The typical strategy in a battle like this would be to divide the cavalry to protect each flank. Yet if we do this, and the drylanders do this, I fear their knights will prove stronger in both fights. With this open field, they can manoeuvre with ease, avoiding our infantry or retreating to make a renewed charge."
"You have a solution?"
"We place all our cavalry on the one flank. If the drylanders do the same, the resulting engagement of such large numbers will keep them entrenched, allowing our footmen to join the fight. If they split their forces, we win the engagement, and our cavalry may envelop their infantry," Rostam explained.
"And what of the other flank?" asked a lieutenant.
"We keep our reserves in that position. They may not do much fighting, but they can keep the flank anchored and defend against the enemy's cavalry. Meanwhile, we win the battle on the opposite side."
"It seems dangerous to commit our reserves to one side," Arash argued.
"It will be balanced by the Zhayedan all fighting on the other," Rostam countered.
"And if the Zhayedan fail?" asked another lieutenant.
"The drylanders will envelop our infantry and win. Which will happen anyway if we divide our cavalry and lose. Keeping all the Zhayedan together gives us the best opportunity to avoid this."
Sikandar slowly wrung his hands together, though the mask hid all his emotions. "Fighting in the expected manner has not gone well against this enemy. And their knights have proven formidable. I will follow Jenaab Rostam's advice."
"Divine Majesty." The aforementioned lieutenant bowed his head.
"Prepare the men. We fight tomorrow."
~~~~
The two armies assembled on a flat plain. Nothing met their eyes except the peak of Niðheim to the far south. The sun had risen early and warmed the field; it promised to be a pleasant summer's day, were it not for the impending bloodshed.
The outlanders stood in deep ranks with a large detachment in reserve on the western flank. Further behind, to the east, their cavalry waited under Rostam.
The Mearcians held nothing back. Their entire infantry stood deployed, allowing them to match the breadth of the enemy lines. As for the knights, all of them had gathered to the east, leaving their western flank exposed.
The Order soldiers did not waste a moment. As soon as they stood arrayed for battle, they marched forward. The outlanders met them with arrows. Meanwhile, Sikandar had already noticed the weakness in the Mearcian formation. Quickly, he sent a messenger to the reserves on the western flank. There would be no enemy cavalry to protect against; instead, they were to move into battle at once and envelop the Order army.
The king of Adalmearc did not waste time either. Even while his infantry still marched forward, he commanded his knights to attack. Having awaited the signal from the king's banner, Sir Ewind began the charge.
The movement made by thousands of horses could not be disguised. Sikandar gave his own signal for the Zhayedan to make their counter-attack.
~~~~
"Jenaab, they have given the signal," a soldier said, pointing towards Sikandar's position. "The Godking bids us make our attack." He sat on his horse next to Rostam.
The captain of the Zhayedan did not move. "Hold steady."
"But Jenaab, the drylanders attack!"
"Hold!" he roared.
Ahead, the knights changed their direction. Having moved past the infantry of the two armies, they charged into the outlanders from behind, tearing through the ranks.
"Jenaab, the battle will be lost!"
"And with it, the tyrant!" Rostam declared.
"Traitor!" shouted the soldier. He dropped his spear to draw his sword, but Rostam was quicker, grabbing his dagger to stab to the other man.
"The reign of the Godking is over!" the captain bellowed, pulling his dagger back. "If you wish to see your families free, you will stand down!"
Confusion and murmurs spread among the Zhayedan. Finally, they drew swords.
"All for the Godking!"
"Death to the tyrant!"
A dreadful fight ensued as brother killed brother.
~~~~
The battle lasted only another hour. Unopposed, the knights crushed the outlanders' formations. Their reserves were deployed on the wrong flank, attempting to envelop the Mearcian lines; they had barely moved into position before the battle had been decided. All hope lost, the outlanders took to flight, but the Mearcian cavalry pursued them across the flat plains all through the long summer's day. When night finally fell, tens of thousands lay dead. The might of the Reach had been broken.
~~~~
In the evening, a handful of outlanders came to the Order camp under guard. Soldiers led them to the king's dwelling, where a heated discussion with the thanes ensued. Finally, one of them stepped inside the tent. "My king, the outlander captain is here as you requested, but he refuses to yield his weapons."
Brand raised one hand. "He comes as an ally, not a prisoner. Let him keep his sword." Behind him, Glaukos grumbled while Godfrey murmured in assent.
Rostam entered the tent, still armed. Brand rose in greeting, inclining his head. He sat down, gesturing towards the chair in front of him, and his visitor took the empty seat.
"Welcome, Lord Rostam. I have been told of the aid you have lent us." Brand glanced up at Godfrey, who had moved to stand to the side. "I am grateful."
Rostam bowed his head in acceptance. "You are the great king of all your lands?" he asked, speaking the Mearcian tongue.
"I am high king of Adalmearc, yes," Brand confirmed.
"You are young," Rostam spoke hesitantly, "and you wear no crown or mask, but the same clothes as your servants."
"My power does not rest upon such trinkets."
The outlander nodded slowly. "Maybe we can learn from this. Once Sikandar is removed, and the Servants, we have difficult decisions ahead of us. We already have a second tyrant seeking to replace the first."
"I assumed you would take up the mantle," Brand said.
"I may hold the highest rank among those who seek the morrow," Rostam explained, "but I will not take power for that reason. Else I shall simply be the third tyrant."
"That is your business," the king declared. "As long as the new ruler ensures peace with Adalmearc, that I never have cause to return."
"That is certain," Rostam promised. "We are not eager to have soldiers of your lands in ours any longer than necessary."
"You need not worry. I will withdraw as soon as my aim is achieved."
"Your army, yes, but what of the marked people?"
"He means the Dwarves," Godfrey added.
"They seek return to their ancestral home. It is not for me to hinder this," Brand claimed.
"They are your subjects, are they not? They come from your lands."
"They did, but they left, and they are no longer my subjects. If they wish to settle, I cannot stop this. You do not expect me to turn my soldiers upon them, surely."
"Yet you pave the road," Rostam argued. "You remove any obstacle in their path. I am told they seek the sacred mountain."
"Niðheim," Godfrey interjected.
"It has been ours for as long as we remember. How am I to gain my people's trust, convince them to cast aside the new Godking and his priesthood, if our lands are given away to invaders?"
"Without my army, you will not achieve any of this regardless," Brand retorted. "This Sikandar may be defeated for now, but he will recover in time."
"Without my help, you would not have won this battle. Not to mention I and others risked our lives to pass you information, undermining the Godking's war against you from within," Rostam countered.
"I believe that brings up an excellent point," Godfrey interceded, "that you had and have a common enemy. If Adalmearc is to be safe, Sikandar must be defeated. If the other cities of the Reach are to cast aside the Godking's yoke, Sikandar must be defeated."
"You speak your honeyed words, Javed, but I do not dispute this," Rostam said. "But I will give this warning. If the people of your lands come to take ours, it will be the seed of conflict. If you truly wish for peace to last, you should be careful what you sow."
"Consider me warned," Brand declared. "For now, Godfrey is right. We still have a war to win."
"Very well. I must go. We still have many dead to bury." Rostam rose, bowed his head, and left.
|
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Before the Storm
Herbergja
Nearly past noon, a foot prodded the sleeping Damien. “Time to wake,” came the boisterous voice belonging to the count of Verbonne. “You cannot sleep away the whole war!”
“Begone, Hel-spawn,” Damien mumbled with eyes closed.
“I heard you took a swim last night.”
The baron finally opened his eyes, looking up to find a wide grin greeting him. “You know this, and yet you bother me.”
“I figured you needed to break fast, and I know you got nothing but mouldy bread with you.” Verbonne threw strips of dried meat at his friend. Damien growled but picked up the beef, even the bits that landed in the dirt, and began to chew. “Come, up!” the count demanded. “Walking around will do you good before you grow lethargic.”
With apathetic movements, Damien got up. He took the cloth serving as his bedroll and clasped it around his neck, turning it into a cloak. “You woke me up to take a stroll?”
“I am bored.” Verbonne shrugged. “Damn whatever fool invented sieges!”
“Everyone claims that sieges bore them,” Damien remarked, “but the moment the fighting starts, everyone wishes they were still bored.”
“Hah, true! But we all have reputations to uphold, so we must all make the same, old complaint.”
Damien glanced around with a frown, passing tents and soldiers playing dice. The otherwise pervasive smell of horses began to lessen as they moved away from the parts of camp where the nobility resided. “Where are we going?”
“I thought we might cast a look at the engineers.” Verbonne spoke quietly, relative to the usual magnitude of his voice. “I am guessing that is why you went swimming last night.”
“They had me measure the height of the walls.”
“Could it be for siege towers?”
“Hardly. To get them to the walls, we have to fill the moat. To do that, we must divert the river to stand a chance. I do not see much digging being done so far,” Damien pointed out. “It has to be storm ladders.”
“Perhaps we will see in a moment,” Verbonne considered.
They reached the only part of camp busy with labour. Timber was being measured, cut, and assembled in various ways, overseen by the siege engineers and carried out by their apprentices and craftsmen.
“No wheels in sight,” Damien said.
“I better tell the duke. He will want to know what to expect.”
The baron of Montmer did not reply to this other than to take another bite of his dried beef.
~~~~
The next days passed quietly in the siege camp. Until the engineers completed their tasks, there would be no assault upon the city; being outnumbered, there was little chance of the garrison risking an open battle. Thus, the rivermen had little to do besides patrol the area and wait. This lasted until the fourth day of their arrival.
On the fourth night, cries of alarm rose from the northern sentinels. Arrows descended from the air and spears appeared in the dark. Unlike Damien on his nightly foray, the Order soldiers had not concealed themselves entirely; even if they had, the noise from hundreds of men in movement would give them away. Thus, the men of Ealond had warning before the enemy came upon them, and seizing weapons, they rushed towards the northern lines to defend their camp.
Damien woke among his men, most of whom had had never seen battle before. They gripped their weapons, staring in every direction with fright on their faces. “What should we do, milord?” asked some
“Do we fight?”
“Where do we go?”
“Quiet, you simpering fools!” Damien barked. “Stay where you are. Plenty of other oafs in this camp eager to die.”
“What if they attack us, milord?”
“Himil’s balls,” the baron swore. “This is barely a skirmish. Our camp is fortified, and they hardly got the numbers to do much. Even the rabble here can hold them off.” His voice grew less intense. “In fact, there is nothing to be gained by this attack, unless…”
“What, milord?”
Damien threw his helmet onto his head and began walking away. “Stay here!”
“Milord, where you’re going?”
“Stay where you are!” the baron shouted over his shoulder, hurrying away.
He ran through a camp gripped by confusion, though most soldiers understood to make their way north. As the only one, Damien moved south. He reached the engineers’ part of the camp and stopped, catching his breath. All seemed calm. In part due to the corpses on the ground, making no noise. Every guard posted to this location lay dead, killed in swift struggle overshadowed by the fighting to the north.
Blinking in the dark, Damien stared at the few shadows and shapes moving about. He gripped the hilt of his sword, but did not draw the blade just yet. Ahead of him, the white star of the Order could be faintly seen against the black surcoats of the attackers. Now and then, sparks lit up in the darkness, as flint struck metal in an attempt to ignite tinder.
Moments passed as Damien watched, seemingly paralysed. His hand lay ready on the hilt, yet he did not draw steel, and his brow lay furrowed in thought.
Finally, the attackers had luck, and flame began to blossom. “Over here!” someone cried out. “They’re setting fire to the camp!” The calls for aid were repeated, and soldiers began to stream towards the area.
With a growl, Damien finally drew his sword and ran forward. He engaged the nearest Order soldier, pushing him back. Staying defensive, Damien swiped at several more, forcing them on the retreat. Meanwhile, more rivermen arrived; while some joined the fight, others began to put out the fires. The element of surprise lost and time against them, the Order soldiers pulled back, returning to the darkness.
~~~~
Any damage caused by the nightly raid proved limited. The only aim had been to destroy the siege machinery being built, using the initial assault as a diversion. Yet the attack upon the engineers’ quarters had been discovered too soon, and the work had only suffered minor setbacks. The craftsmen continued the next morning, assembling storm ladders and building primitive bridges to overcome the moat.
Morale rose upon hearing this, especially given the few casualties taken. To many, this was an early victory and a good sign of what was to come. Thus, despite the events of the previous night, the mood in camp was relaxed rather than tense, and none seemed anxious. Rather, the soldiers quickly resumed their routines to keep boredom at bay, which mostly meant games of chance involving coin.
Some of the noblemen found amusement in the same way, though others sparred, either to hone their skills or earn admiration. Especially the younger among the vassals to the duke of Monteau favoured this pastime, demonstrating their swordplay as entertainment for their liege. Whether this increased their standing in the eyes of the duke or if he even paid them much heed was difficult to say; the master of Monteau was not an expressive man, and he watched his vassals spar with little emotion on his face or in his voice.
Others among the noblemen in camp had joined Monteau’s company as well; some to join in the exertions, others to watch. Boredom was not necessarily the only reason that many drifted towards the duke’s quarters; as ruler of a powerful duchy, none commanded as many troops in the army of Ealond save for the king himself.
Another bout ended to the sound of cheers and scorn, depending on the allegiance of the spectators. One young man, having acquitted himself well so far, looked around at the small crowd with confidence. “Anyone else who dares to face me?”
“Montmer, I have never known you to back down from a challenge,” Verbonne exclaimed, elbowing his friend.
Thanks to his companion’s gesture, Damien nearly dropped the apple in his hand. With an annoyed look at Verbonne, he took a bite of his fruit. “I am eating.”
“That seems to be all the good lord of Montmer does,” declared the young beorn who stood as victor in the last fight, and he was rewarded with derisive laughter. “If he wields a sword half as well as his meat knife, those islanders are in trouble!”
Verbonne looked at the baron. “You are not going to stand for that, are you?” His words were overshadowed by his grin.
Damien sighed. “Fine. We might as well get it over with.” He took another, hefty bite of his apple and threw the remainder into Verbonne’s hands. Drawing his sword, he stepped into the open square that served as fighting pit.
His opponent raised sword and shield in response. “You should arm yourself with a ward as well, old man,” he suggested.
“Just attack,” Damien told him.
Shrugging, the beorn did so. He took one step forward and brought his sword in a swift arch from above, aimed at Damien’s shoulder. The blow fell with sufficient force to throw a man onto his back, should it land. Meanwhile, the beorn kept his shield ready to defend.
Damien, unburdened by heavy armour or a shield of his own, crouched low. His enemy’s strike, easy to foresee, missed him; meanwhile, the former Templar could swing his own sword at the beorn’s knee, too low for any shield to guard.
Out of balance from his forward stance, the beorn’s knee collapsed under him. Before he could regain his footing, Damien rose and followed up with a kick to the stomach, and his attacker fell to the ground.
Sheathing his sword, the baron of Montmer turned towards Verbonne, who threw his apple to him.
“Impressive, lord baron,” the duke of Monteau declared.
“I trained as a knight,” Damien remarked. “Swordplay every day for fourteen years from age seven.” He cast a disdainful look at the beorn getting back on his feet. “You better pray that no knight awaits you on the city walls.”
“And be thankful Lord Montmer fights on our side,” Verbonne added with a grin.
“Big words from someone who lets his companion do all the fighting,” the beorn said with anger towards the count.
“Watch your tongue before I take it,” Damien exclaimed with a menacing voice, taking a sudden step towards the offending nobleman with one hand on his sword hilt.
“Peace,” declared Monteau. “There can be dignity in defeat, but you display none at present,” he told his vassal.
“I fight for your honour, my lord,” the beorn protested.
“Of all the reasons to fight, that may be the poorest,” the duke said. “I would be an ill liege to demand you lay down your life on such grounds.” Several expressed their agreement, and it became clear the day’s entertainment had ended; soon after, the small crowd dispersed.
~~~~
In contrast to his vassals and soldiers seeking entertainment, the king seemed content to sit in his tent and brood. He rarely had company, even though many might seek an audience, hoping to gain favour with the king or perhaps insight into his plans; Rainier refused them all and only saw those he summoned. His primary company, besides the servant tending to his needs, was Guilbert, appearing each evening with news of the camp.
“Your suspicions were true, Your Majesty,” Guilbert said after giving a deep bow. “The duke of Monteau cannot be trusted.”
“I knew it,” Rainier muttered. “Leave us,” he added, directed at his servant, who complied. “What did he say?” he asked of Guilbert.
“The duke coats his words in caution, but their meaning remains apparent. He does not support Your Majesty fighting this war, and he said as much for all to hear.”
The king threw his goblet aside. “Impertinent bastards! Why does none of them understand that for Ealond to prosper, to be strong, safe from our enemies, we must have Herbergja!”
“Your Majesty is wise to see this. Sadly, Your Majesty’s vassals are less clearsighted.”
“If I did not need their soldiers, I would have all their heads adorn the city gate next to old man Belvoir,” Rainier said with seething voice.
“The duke only dares to speak ill of Your Majesty because of his army,” Guilbert claimed. “But now the engineers have finished their work, perhaps we may hit two nails with one strike of the hammer.”
~~~~
The following day, the king summoned the noblemen in the camp. Most could guess the reason; everyone with a care to find out knew that the siege engineers had completed the storm ladders and the rolling bridges, on which the former might be deployed.
Once his vassals and their vassals had gathered before his tent, the king appeared, flanked by his guards and Guilbert. “The time has come,” Rainier spoke, letting his voice resonate. “This incursion of islanders on Ealond’s soil will end!”
A few scattered affirmations among the crowd could be heard.
“It is an honour for us all to be here,” the king continued. “But the greatest honour is reserved for those who lead the charge. I could not place such trust in any but the foremost of my vassals, Duke Monteau, and his men.”
Some responded with cheers; as for the duke himself, he bowed his head, but expressed no opinion through voice or face.
“Of course, Ealond is blessed with many warriors of great strength and renown,” Rainier spoke again. “We have all heard of the exploits by the baron of Montmer. Thus, I have chosen him to be first on the walls with his men. Likewise, the count of Verbonne will be given this honour.”
“No.” The flat refusal caused those nearby to turn and stare at Damien, and murmurs broke out.
“Finally, I have chosen – what did you say?” Disbelief gave way to anger in the king’s voice.
“I am done with this war. I am going home,” the baron of Montmer declared.
“You spineless coward!” Rainier spat the words out. “I show you the highest honour, and you dare to refuse your king?”
“I have been first on the walls before you were born, Your Majesty,” Damien replied with equal disdain. “But my men are peasants. I lead them up those ladders, they will be slaughtered for nothing.”
“Pathetic! The great warrior Damien of Montmer is not only a coward, but he hides behind peasants!” the king sneered. “As if they have any purpose but to fight for their lord!”
“Their purpose is to work my lands,” the baron declared with his own temper flaring up. “My fields barely have seed as half my serfs died fighting against Belvoir!”
“Not to mention your father and brother!” Verbonne interjected.
“Right, them as well.” It took Damien a moment before he continued, his voice grew loud once more. “I will not see my harvest rot because a king with no understanding of war commanded all my serfs to die!”
“I am your liege! You are sworn to my service, yet you prove yourself an oath-breaker once again!”
“I always keep my oaths!” Damien roared. “In my life, I have twice sworn allegiance, to the high king and the archon. Neither of those men are here.”
“Guards, seize the traitor!”
Swifter than most could blink, Damien’s hand lay on his sword hilt and had drawn the blade three inches. “Any of you fools try, your heads will greet your feet.”
The guards aimed their spears at the baron, exchanging looks; none seemed willing to be the first to approach.
“Montmer is right,” declared the duke of Monteau. “The islanders never caused harm to me or mine. I also have fields to sow and harvest, and my men have families they must feed with those fields.”
“Yeah!” yelled Verbonne. “To Hel with the king!” His cry was picked up by others. Tension rose until it appeared that it might ignite into bloodshed. The king retreated behind his guards, who stood outnumbered by the scores of noblemen, many of them reaching for their own weapons; hearing the commotion, soldiers loyal to either side appeared from the rest of the camp.
“I am going home,” Damien declared loudly, letting his blade fall back into its sheath. He turned around, showing his back to the king and the spears aimed at him. As he began to walk away, the crowd parted before him. The outbursts of anger from the noblemen died down, watching him leave. One by one, they did the same. Gradually, the crowd dispersed as dukes, counts, and barons each went to their own quarters. Soon after, most of them were breaking camp.
~~~~
Over the next weeks, the cities, towns, and villages of western Ealond experienced a curious sight. The same army that had passed through their lands not long ago now travelled the other direction. Before, it had been many small streams of soldiers merging to form one river; this time, it was the reverse, as the noblemen and their followers broke into different directions, each seeking his home. More than one hurried his men along into a forced march; it was still early in spring, and those who returned swiftly could lay aside their arms and turn from soldiers to serfs in time to sow the fields.
As for the king, he returned to Fontaine in humiliation. Word had arrived ahead of him. His failure to subjugate the young duke of Belvoir last year had already cast aspersions on his rule. That one vassal could oppose the king and keep his title and lands seemed an ill portend, many had whispered; now people spoke openly on the streets of how the king’s vassals had turned their back on him. Truth became diluted into rumours. Many stories flourished regarding what had happened at the siege camp. Some believed that it was only a few that had abandoned the war, and the siege of Herbergja had been lifted due to other circumstances, while others spoke of imminent rebellion and that soon, the king’s head would grace that of the old duke of Belvoir above the city gate.
Regardless of truth, one thing became apparent. The king had lost the support of his vassals and could no longer rely on them. He had barely returned to Fontaine when calamitous news reached the capital. The armies of Alcázar had made landfall and begun laying siege to Portesur, and when Rainier summoned the lords of Ealond to gather in defence of the realm, few heeded the call. Damien of Montmer was not among them; instead, he spent his time and silver building a temple to Austre in the woods of his holding, visiting each day to see how the construction progressed.
|
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|
Law and Landfrid
Middanhal
In Middanhal, tension rose from day to day with the armies of Isarn outside the walls and the Dragonheart inside. News of the Adalthing convening had spread quickly, and while none doubted these events were connected, most could only speculate as to how or why. In the Citadel, the dragonlord made plans, gathering those noblemen loyal to him and his brother; in his family’s house, the dragonborn waited.
Brand’s followers had reinforced the compound as best they could, given the scarcity of time and resources. The whiterobes had scrounged stone to repair the walls and timber to make a crude gate. Doran, the heir to Clan Lachlann in the highlands, had resumed his role as Brand’s aide, overseeing the organisation of their quarters and stocking provisions to handle a small siege.
Bereft of purpose, Jana spent her time outside in what had once been an orchard. Few trees remained, bearing barely any fruit whereas the rest resembled a wilderness. A cracked bench stood there yet, where she sat enjoy the inklings of warmth from the sun in spring.
Quietly, Brand took a seat next to her. Silence lingered between them, only broken by the bustling sounds from elsewhere on the grounds.
“I remember all the times you told me of Middanhal,” Jana finally spoke. “I always dreamt of visiting all these places with you. I would never have guessed under which circumstances.”
“Nor me. None could have foreseen this.”
“And now we wait, much like in Dvaros, while our fate is decided.”
Brand blew out his breath. “Not my favourite part.”
“Is it strange that in some small way, I miss the desert? I remember the terrible thirst, of course,” Jana added. “The fear of pursuit and the slow dread of exhaustion creeping in. But it was simple,” she elaborated. “Every step forward brought us closer to our destination. It felt as if our fate, at least, was in our own hands, as long as we kept going. That thought sustained me.”
“It is not strange at all,” Brand assented. “Simplicity possesses a grace of its own. The moment we returned to Adalmearc, everything became complicated.”
“Perhaps that is what I truly miss. The solitude of the desert.”
“Milord,” a voice called out. One of Brand’s thanes approached them. “Forgive me. Two knights have come, seeking your company.”
“Let them in.”
The thane turned back; shortly after, a pair of knights appeared. Brand rose to meet them, as did Jana, and the former broke into a smile. “Sir Richard! Sir Fionn!” The newcomers mirrored Brand’s expression, extending their hands to clasp his with laughter. “I did not know you were to be found in Middanhal!”
“I returned with Sir William,” Fionn explained. “Sir Ewind has charge of the army for now.”
“And I was cut off from Theodstan by those dogs of Isarn,” Richard added. “I have been trying to persuade those cowardly sell-swords to attack ever since.”
“I am not surprised to hear that,” Brand laughed. “This is Lady Jana of Alcázar, and these good knights are Sir Richard and Sir Fionn. Like you, I owe them much.”
The warriors bowed to the noblewoman, who responded with the same courtesy. “If you will pardon me, I shall withdraw and let you speak freely,” Jana told them, doing so.
“A lady of Alcázar, and whiterobes making your walls? You have gathered an unusual band of companions,” Richard remarked once she had left them.
“Yet all friends of Adalmearc, who would see the realms safe,” Brand replied.
“As are we,” Fionn declared. “William told us of the Adalthing, but who would put their faith in a pit of snakes?”
“They will do as last time,” Richard claimed, “or worse.”
“Many of the Order are with you,” Fionn continued. “They despise Vale and his mercenaries. If he tries something… I trust men who fight for honour far more than men who fight for gold.”
“Let us hope it does not come to that,” Brand declared. “While I was ready to fight as well, I will admit that a lawful resolution is the best outcome. We shall pray that is achieved, but keep our swords ready.”
“Aye,” Fionn exclaimed.
“Tell me of Hæthiod and war in the North,” Brand requested, and the knights obliged.
~~~~
As when the carriage had left Middanhal, the Order soldiers saw no reason to question its drivers or passengers on its return; the letter of passage from the lord marshal opened the gate with ease. Alaric thanked the sentinels while Glaukos merely grunted, setting the horses into motion. As they drove into Middanhal, none could tell that the carriage carried more passengers than one as initially.
Seated inside, still gagged and tied up, the jarl of Isarn sent hateful glares in every direction. He had barely eaten or received water in the three days’ journey from the camp to Middanhal, being too busy to spew curses each time the gag was removed.
As the carriage rumbled past the gate to the Arnling residence, Brand stood in the courtyard waiting. He helped Arndis step down to the ground and gave her a quick embrace. “You are well?”
“I am.”
“I regretted letting you leave the moment you did,” he confessed.
“You know I was best suited for this task,” Arndis told him. “If you had gone, I expect the good jarl would have killed you on the spot.”
“I am glad your instincts proved right and no harm came to you,” Brand said. “What did they say?”
From the carriage, Glaukos and Alaric pulled the trussed up jarl, who landed on his knees with a muted growl. The two warriors placed a hand on his shoulders, keeping him down. “This will take a little explaining,” Arndis admitted as Eumund emerged from within the carriage. The two men who had spent their childhood as pages in the Citadel stared at each other.
“Arnling.”
“Isarn.”
“It really is you. Until this moment, I found it hard to believe you truly escaped Middanhal.”
“And in the process provided cover for your own escape.”
“Fate has a strange sense of humour.”
“What does this mean?” Brand gestured at the bound jarl. “He does not seem inclined to lend his voice to me in the Adalthing, nor demand the same of his margraves.”
“He is not,” Eumund said. “We took matters into our own hands.”
“We had to leave in a bit of haste,” Arndis added. “But I explained your plans in full to Sir Athelstan. He went with us at first, but we decided he should return and help persuade the northern lords to attend the assembly. I have no doubt he will prevail.”
“If not, we are all dead. Arnling and Isarn alike, it would seem.” Brand looked at his men and nodded at the jarl. “Find someplace safe to keep him. Provide him some comfort if you can.”
Alaric and Glaukos grabbed the jarl under his shoulders, pulled him to stand, and began dragging him inside. “Are we breaking the landfrid?” Alaric asked with a touch of anxiety. “While it is in effect, it forbids any assault upon a member of the Adalthing.”
Glaukos shrugged. “We did not assault the jarl, his family did. We are just providing him a place to sleep. If anything, we should be commended for our actions.”
Alaric seemed sceptical at this interpretation, but he made no further arguments.
~~~~
A week after he set out, Godfrey returned from Theodstan. He spent a full day asleep, drank his fill from a barrel of rainwater, and went to the Temple. It did not take him long to find the highfather walking in the inner yard. “Septimus,” he greeted him.
“You’ve returned soon,” the aged priest said.
“I didn’t relish being away from Middanhal,” Godfrey explained. “Too much depends on the next days, and with the outlanders returned in force, everything hinges on what happens next. Your blackrobes may help bringing the noblemen into alignment.”
“You know we stay out of politics,” Septimus reminded him.
“I am aware as I made that rule,” Godfrey replied dryly. “But needs must. Jarl Ingmond is known for his piety, isn’t he? He would be susceptible to your influence.”
“Alas, no.” The highfather shook his head. “The jarl hates young Arnling and blames him for the death of his family.”
Godfrey took a deep breath. “He has a gift for making enemies. Very well. If direct influence will not work, perhaps your brothers may assist in other ways.”
“What did you have in mind?”
“Tell me all you know of the lord protector.”
~~~~
Kate filled the spoon with porridge and extended it towards Quill, lying on his bed. The bowl was mostly full, yet the aged scribe showed no interest in eating. “Please, master, you must have some more.”
“Where is Egil?” Quill asked with sudden urgency, raising himself to rest on one elbow. “Did he get the ink like I told him?”
“We have enough ink that we could bathe in it, master,” Kate assured him. “Egil is in the hall.” She nodded towards the door.
Quill sank back into his bed. “Is he practising his letters? He must.”
“He’s reading the law books, master, concerning the Adalthing. All is in good hands,” Kate spoke with a soothing voice.
Her words had the opposite effect as Quill’s eyes flew open. “What? Why?”
“The Adalthing, master,” Kate stammered.
With belaboured breath, the old librarian pushed himself out of bed to stand up. He swayed for a moment until Kate reached out to support him. Once steady, he stalked out with as steady a gait as his legs allowed.
“What is this?” asked Quill once he reached Egil. The apprentice looked up at him and then at Kate, who could only shrug her shoulders. “You think you are ready, boy? To oversee the Adalthing and guarantee its laws?”
“I just thought it was best,” Egil mumbled with cheeks growing red. “Allow you to rest.”
Quill scoffed. “I am the law keeper. I shall be so until my last breath.” He wheezed as if that every moment was upon him. “But it is good you prepare,” he suddenly added; his features softened, and his whole body slumped. “Keep reading.”
“Yes, master.”
“What about you, boy? What are you reading?” Quill asked the other person present, giving him a stern look.
The prince looked up from his seat. “Ruminations upon the Art of Governance, by Master Anselm of Monteau.” He raised the book in his hands. “I want to know what makes a good ruler.”
“Good, good.” Already looking away, Quill patted the heir to the realms on the head. “All young boys should read Master Anselm.” He retreated back to his chamber.
In the courtyard outside, the jarl of Theodstan arrived with his retinue, ready to attend the Adalthing.
~~~~
On the eve before the Adalthing, the lord protector sat in his study. He stared at a gold coin held between his fingers with the ship of Alcázar imprinted upon it. The door opened, and a thane entered. He cleared his throat a few times. “Milord,” he finally spoke.
“Yes?”
“There’s a Red Hawk here with a message from your brother.”
“Send him in.”
The thane gestured for the mercenary to enter; the latter had been disarmed.
Valerian looked at him expectantly. “Yes? What is it?”
“My name is Jeremy, milord. I began working for your brother almost two years ago,” he began to relate. “The first task I performed for him was on the day Lord Adalbrand was meant to be executed. In the dungeons sat three men from the House of Isarn…”
|
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|
Last Shelter
Herbergja
Activity in the great harbour of Herbergja followed the seasons. The mild summer months saw countless ships arrive and depart, carrying out trade between the inner lands and the South Cities. As the harvest months approached, commerce slowed to a trickle before being choked by winter storms. During the cold season, only a handful of vessels would enter or leave on shorter trips; either they conducted the simple trade still possible and needed during this time, or else they carried out military tasks such as patrolling the Eylonde Sea. Once winter came to an end, activity would blossom once more.
This year, spring had the same effect as always on the harbour, yet for another reason. Although the warehouses overflowed with goods meant for the South and beyond, none were being loaded onto ships. Any merchant vessel braving that journey could expect to be boarded by Alcázar’s fleet and the cargo confiscated. There would be no trade this spring, except what those most daring might smuggle through the Teeth, and that would not be done from Herbergja, but from Portesur further south.
Instead, transports carrying soldiers and provisions filled the piers. With many ships unable to set sail for Alcázar, the marshal of Thusund had ample opportunities for pressing these vessels into service, and the last weeks had seen the departure of numerous ships for Fortönn or Dvaros. Most were empty upon return, though one transport proved an exception as six passengers disembarked alongside the crew. Their strange appearance, revealing them to be a disparate band, raised questions among the dockworkers, which the sailors were happy to answer; the passengers were none other than Adalbrand Arnarson and his most ardent followers, returned to the Seven Realms.
Passing through the crowds, Brand and his companions left the harbour to enter the city itself. The streets were nearly as busy as the port, thanks to the great size of Herbergja. People from all over Adalmearc and beyond lived here; different colours were seen, and different tongues could be heard.
If any building could be said to dominate Herbergja, it was the great keep. No rulers had built palaces here, nor was the city the principal home to any of the priesthoods. While the silrobes held sway, both because Herbergja lay in Thusund and because sailors and traders prayed to Disfara, their temple was modest compared to the Raven Court in Fontaine or the Temple of the Alfather in Middanhal. But the Order always kept a strong garrison in the city, guarding it against aggression over land from Ealond or over sea from the South Cities.
It was this great fortress that Brand steered towards, though he halted while its towers still rose in the distance. He took a heavy purse of silver, a parting gift from Svana, and gave it to Geberic. “You know what we need.” He glanced at Glaukos. “We will meet you afterwards.” The men nodded, and the band split into two; Brand and Jana continued towards the keep while the rest disappeared down another street.
The castle saw as much activity as the harbour did. Bands of infantry left on patrol, keeping order in the city or keeping watch of the area beyond the walls; other groups trained in the courtyard, transforming from raw recruits into disciplined soldiers. Archers, who learnt their craft hunting small birds in the isles where food was always scarce, kept their skills sharp as well.
“I almost miss Nicholas and even Quentin,” Brand remarked as they stood by the gate, peering inside.
“Who?” asked Jana.
“Two of the sharpest bowmen I have ever met,” he explained as a guard approached them.
“What’s your business here?” asked the soldier.
“I am Adalbrand Arnarson,” came the answer. “Your marshal will want to speak with me.”
By his side, as another train of soldiers passed through the gate and left the castle, Jana took his arm to steady herself. The guard glanced at them both, back and forth. “Wait here.”
~~~~
Under the leadership of Geberic, the remaining companions marched through Herbergja. Eventually, Glaukos emitted a groan.
“What troubles you?” asked Alaric.
“I know where he is leading us,” Glaukos muttered. “We have preparations to make!”
“We also need to eat, don’t we,” the greybeard declared undisturbed.
“Every week we stayed in Herbergja, waiting for news of the captain, Geberic spent all his time in one place,” Glaukos added in explanation to Alaric.
“Not all my time!” came the objection. “Besides, so did you.”
“Because I worked there,” growled the heathman. “I earned honest silver keeping peace and breaking heads to that pursuit.”
“A long-winded way of saying you spent as much time in that tavern as me,” Geberic declared. He was rewarded with another groan.
“Something to eat and drink would not be out of place,” Alaric considered. “We all have long journeys ahead of us.”
“You must be starving,” Geberic said to Gwen. “After all, anytime something went down our stomach on the ship, it also came up again!” He laughed coarsely.
Gwen scowled at him, though her expression soon cleared. “Something to eat would be good,” she admitted. “Now that the ground is standing still, like the gods intended it to be.”
The band eventually reached a tavern that looked much the same as the others crowded around the harbour, offering their services to sailors thirsty from long days at sea. “Here we are,” Geberic declared with satisfaction. “The best ale in Herbergja, I promise you.”
“It tastes like rainwater, same as all the others,” Glaukos claimed.
“Better than seawater,” Alaric pointed out.
“Enough yapping, let’s get in,” Geberic demanded. The others followed him inside and took a table while the greybeard negotiated for food and ale with the proprietor. She seemed reluctant, demanding silver in hand before serving anything; Geberic, wielding a hefty pouch, paid her speedily. Unfriendly eyes around the room followed him and his bag of coin as he sat down with the others; seeing his heavily armed companions, those eyes quickly looked elsewhere. Soon after, tankards of beer and bowls of hot soup reached their table.
“To your health,” Geberic smiled, raising his cup.
“And yours,” replied Glaukos.
“And the captain’s,” Alaric added.
Each of them took a heavy draught and returned the tankards to the table with various amounts of force and exclamations of satisfaction.
While the others shovelled soup with vigour, Gwen seemed less interested in her food. “What do you all think of that woman that my cousin suddenly showed up with? Jana, that is.”
The three men looked at each other, some with a spoon sticking out of their mouth. “That is the captain’s decision,” Alaric remarked with a shrug. “It has no bearing on me.”
“I just find it odd,” Gwen continued. “He leaves all of us behind, travelling to Alcázar, saying we’d stick out and only ruin his disguise. Then he shows up with a woman in tow that none of us have ever heard about. Doesn’t it strike you as strange?”
“To be fair, she doesn’t stick out in Alcázar the way we would,” Geberic pointed out with a laugh. “The captain has his reasons for trusting her, and from what I’ve been told, those are good reasons.”
“I’m just concerned, I suppose,” the highlander woman said. “We’re walking into the dragon’s den. The four of us, we’ve been to the Reach and back with the captain. Meanwhile, her father is attacking the realms. She doesn’t strike me as one of us.”
“We are all exiles at this table,” Glaukos suddenly interjected. “Outlaws following an outlaw, all for our own reasons. So is she, an exile. And a damn good seamstress, judging by her stitches,” he added, prompting a grunt in acknowledgment from Geberic. “I would say she fits in.”
“I just think she might be a sign of trouble,” Gwen mumbled, grabbing her spoon to start eating.
“In that case, she certainly belongs with us,” Geberic said before turning his head into the room and raising his voice. “More ale, please!”
~~~~
Brand and Jana was kept waiting a while at the castle gate before the guard returned and bid them enter. He did not escort them, but simply gave instructions on how to reach the marshal. The pair continued on their own, crossing the courtyard to many sounds; weapon masters shouted instructions, spears clashed with shields, smiths struck hammer against anvil, and arrows flew through the air.
The noise grew distant as they entered the keep itself. With most of the soldiers outside, either training or on patrol, the two visitors mostly encountered servants in the corridors. They made their way up to the higher floor, following the initial directions until they could knock on the door to the marshal’s study.
“Enter.”
They did, finding the knight seated behind a desk. He appeared slim and sinewy, wearing armour and the surcoat of the Order and had the blue eyes and brown hair common among islanders. As he looked up at his guests, Brand inclined his head. “I am Adalbrand Arnarson,” he introduced himself, “and my companion is Lady Jana of Alcázar.”
The marshal motioned towards the other chairs in the room. While they sat down, he lifted a piece of parchment from his desk. “I was reading this again when I heard of your presence. An old letter sent from Sir Hákon at Fortönn, mentioning you both. Yet from the contents, it is clear you were meant to arrive along with the letter, not a month later.”
“We were delayed,” Brand admitted. “Our ship took us to Dvaros, and subsequent events left us trapped in the city. That is why we came, in fact,” he added. “Besides giving a belated report on matters in Alcázar, I thought you might welcome being informed on what happened in Dvaros.”
“A strange tale this letter told,” the knight said, waving the parchment in his hand. “Yet I have no reason to doubt Sir Hákon, especially as I see the lady with you exactly as described.” Jana shifted in her seat, but said nothing. “While I welcome knowledge of Dvaros, I think Sir Hákon’s letter has already told me all I need to know about Alcázar.”
“As you prefer, Sir Asger,” Brand acquiesced. “How is the situation at Fortönn? Are they prepared?”
The marshal scratched his full beard. “As best we can.” He took another piece of parchment from his desk. “This arrived the other day on the last ship from Fortönn. The fleet of Alcázar has been seen. By now, they will have landed.”
“Gods keep them safe,” Brand declared. “Sir Hákon is a good man.”
“He is, and a good knight.”
“Any hope you might send him relief?”
Asger glanced out the window of his study, overlooking the city. “Not if word from Fontaine is true. Sir Martel has sent warning that King Rainier is gathering his forces.”
Shock came over Brand’s face, while Jana had an obvious question on hers. “He cannot be so reckless!” he exclaimed. “Does he think Alcázar will leave Ealond untouched, should Thusund fall?”
“I doubt the king has considered that far,” Asger said. “He sees an opportunity for quick gain, and I must prepare to defend this city from southerners and rivermen alike.” He gave Brand a scrutinising look. “I could use the Dragonheart in such circumstances.”
Brand glanced at Jana. “As you think best,” she told him quietly.
“I am needed elsewhere,” he said at length.
“I admit disappointment,” the marshal spoke. “But the same deeds that make me seek your aid also tell me to trust in your decision.” Asger exhaled. “Tell me of Dvaros.”
His guests looked at each other and began recounting their time on the isle of Eldrey.
~~~~
As the day began to wane, Brand and Jana made their way across Herbergja to reach one of the southern gates. They kept their hoods up and faces down, moving through the crowds. Once through the gate, they walked for a little while until they spotted Glaukos and Gwen. The latter stood by a cart filled with hay; Glaukos was feeding an apple to the horse harnessed to the wagon. Neither had weapons by their side.
“Are Geberic and Alaric underway?” asked Brand as they approached. He removed his sword from his belt, placing it under the hay in the cart with their other blades.
“Sailing down the river as we speak. Geberic will have no trouble reaching Middanhal before us, but it will be a tight run for Alaric to reach Hæthiod and return,” Glaukos said. He extended a hand to help Jana step up into the back of the wagon.
“We will have to wait, I suppose.” Brand followed Jana, positioning himself to have his hand near his hidden sword.
“We may stay hidden a while, keeping to the roads rather than the river,” Glaukos remarked, “but once we enter Adalrik…” His voice trailed off before he spoke again. “Sooner or later, someone will recognise us.”
“We will pray Alaric returns before that,” Brand simply said. “Let us go.”
Glaukos took seat in front of the cart, grabbing the reins. Gwen stepped up to sit next to him, and he set the horse into motion.
|
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He Died a Knight
Central Adalrik
Many miles north of Lake Myr, six thousand rivermen lay encamped. They had marched from the duchy of Belvoir across the border into Adalrik. At first, their destination had been the aforementioned lake, aiming to link up with the Order’s army and defend Ingmond against the outlanders. The arrival of a messenger, explaining that Ingmond was lost, had changed their course. Reaching the Kingsroad that ran from Middanhal to Inghold, the rivermen turned north rather than south.
Two days later, the first trickle of survivors caught up with Belvoir’s forces. They brought tales of battle with the outlanders; all of them bore wounds and suffered from grievous exhaustion and hunger. Some, having spent their strength trying to reach safety, died soon after.
Witnessing this, the duke of Belvoir made a swift decision. He sent the train of his army along with the older warriors ahead, resuming the march to Middanhal. The younger, stronger, and lightly armoured soldiers, able to handle a forced march, stayed behind. Patrols left camp to scour for more survivors, and those remaining behind made stretchers to carry the wounded.
Thus, the sight of hectic activity greeted Athelstan as he reached the camp as well. Soldiers pulled down tents and either packed them away for journey or gave them new purpose; with some rope or string, the poles and fabric could swiftly be turned into yet another stretcher.
A riverman appeared, scrutinising Athelstan’s appearance. "Are you hurt, milord?" he asked, noticing the golden spurs denoting the other man’s rank. "There’s food if you need it."
"I am not hurt, and hunger may wait. I am Athelstan of Isarn, and I would speak with your duke."
"Of course, milord." The soldier pointed down the camp. "You’ll find him down there."
With a nod, the knight hurried to follow the direction given. Glancing around, he saw only soldiers, busy with their hands. "Where is the duke?"
A man, occupied with a horse and harness, straightened up and turned his head. "I am he." He pulled the straps and locked them in place, allowing the horse to carry a wounded soldier.
"I am Sir Athelstan," the knight said in introduction.
"Duke Alois of Belvoir," the young man replied. He stood with natural confidence; despite his rank and position as the most powerful nobleman in Ealond, his demeanour held no air of pretence. "We have done what we can for your soldiers, sir knight, but we cannot delay our march for long."
Athelstan extended his arm, and Alois grasped it with his own. "You have my gratitude, my lord duke. I expected you to be half-way to Middanhal already."
"We leave this afternoon. I dare not wait longer."
"Understood."
"A horse can be found for you, sir knight, I am sure."
"Use it for someone with greater need. My legs work as they should."
"Will you be ready to depart with us?"
Athelstan shook his head. "No. The men I arrived with are weakened and require rest. And stragglers may reach us from the second day of fighting."
"From what your other men have told me, such is doubtful."
"Even so, my place is here. If you have provisions to spare, I would be grateful."
The duke nodded. "Of course." This time, he extended his arm first, letting Athelstan grasp it. "May we meet in Middanhal."
"In Middanhal." The duke resumed his tasks, preparing for departure; the knight returned to his men.
~~~~
For a day and a half, Athelstan waited along with his soldiers. Most of the time was spent resting after the forced march from Ingmond. Despite pangs of hunger torturing all of them, he allowed only half rations; Middanhal was more than a week away, and they could not spare time to forage once on the road.
At last, another contingent of wounded soldiers appeared. All those who had been able to flee the second day of the battle, few as they were. Athelstan greeted them, receiving only mute replies; none had the strength to speak unless needed.
"Rest as you can," Athelstan called out. "Eat a little, but do not fill your stomachs. We are too exposed here, and we must leave soon." He glanced around at the tattered remains of the camp; it could be espied from afar. If the outlanders were on pursuit for survivors, they would surely follow the Kingsroad and soon discover this location.
Two men approached the captain, carrying a third between them. "Athelstan," came the croaked voice of Sir Ewind. He lowered the body in his hands onto the ground.
Turning towards the speaker, Athelstan’s eyes moved from the knight standing to the wounded soldier. Dread filled his face, and he fell to his knees besides Eumund.
"My boy," he mumbled, tears already welling in his eyes. He caressed his nephew’s brow.
"I told them to leave me," Eumund mumbled. "Waste of effort to drag me all this way."
"Quiet, boy, quiet. They did right. I will get you to Middanhal."
"I am dying, Uncle." He moved one hand to his stomach, covered in blood. "I suppose seeing you is my reward for holding on."
"I will find a healer for you," Athelstan told him. "You are a son of Isarn. You are strong."
"My fight is done, Uncle. I have no strength left." Eumund’s breath became shallow. "Tell them."
"What?"
"I died a knight."
"I shall have the skalds make songs," his captain promised.
The corner of Eumund’s mouth trembled in the beginnings of a smile. It faded again, and his expression grew blank. Athelstan placed both hands to frame his face, staring into blood-shot eyes that could not return his gaze.
A soldier approached. With a hesitant voice, he spoke quietly. "Pardon me, captain. The men are restless. How long must we wait?"
Athelstan took a deep breath, standing up. "No longer. We leave now. Are there any stretchers left?"
"No, captain, they’re all in use."
The knight nodded to himself. Untying his dirty cloak, Athelstan laid it on the floor. With some difficulty, he moved Eumund’s body onto the fabric. Reaching down to grab the ends of the cape, he began dragging the fallen knight with him. "We move out," he yelled to his men. Across the scattered remains of the camp, the ragged remnants of the Order army followed their captain, marching north.
|
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Within the Law
Middanhal
Eleanor came rushing into the rooms she shared with Arndis. “Have you heard?”
“I have not,” replied the other woman. She continued eating her breakfast in a calm manner, cutting cold ham into pieces. “What is amiss?”
“Lord Vale’s chamberlain is dead. He fell from a tower,” Eleanor explained, slightly out of breath.
Arndis’ movement froze. “Like Theodwyn,” came her voice softly. “Was anyone seen?”
“None that I have heard of.” Eleanor shook her head. “But the castle is rife with rumours already.”
“Any that seem credible?”
“They hard to make sense of.” The Hæthian lady sat down opposite Arndis. “He had arrived from Valcaster a few days ago. Bringing the jarl’s books to him.”
“And?”
“He was found with torn pages on his body. Apparently, he was concealing something.”
“As chamberlain, he would have had ample opportunity to swindle his master,” Arndis considered. “If he was involved in something nefarious, it seems naïve to consider his death an accident.”
Eleanor leaned forward. “You think he was pushed?” She whispered the question.
“He was an older man, was he not? Plenty of soldiers in this castle strong enough to overpower him.”
A shiver went through Eleanor. “A murderer in the Citadel! That will make it hard to sleep at night.”
“Seeing as we have no dealings with the jarl of Vale nor have we ever met his chamberlain, I dare say we are safe,” Arndis remarked dryly.
“Still,” her companion said. “These are such unpleasant times. Enemies at our gates, and those meant to defend us are in Hæthiod, fighting yet another war.”
“With the number of troops in the city, not to mention that we cannot be encircled, I would consider us quite safe,” Arndis reassured her. “When was the last letter from Sir William?” she asked after brief hesitation.
“More than a month ago.” Eleanor regarded her. “Arndis, he would write without delay if he knew anything of your brother.”
“I know.” The young woman returned to her breakfast. “I know.”
~~~~
The captain of the city guard stood flanked by two of his soldiers in front of a door. Two Red Hawks blocked his path. “Sorry, captain, but we can’t let you through.”
“You are in my castle,” Theobald declared. “You will stand aside now!”
“We take our orders from the lord protector,” the mercenary retorted. “He told us to guard this door and let none through.”
“You dare to defy me,” the captain spoke through gritted teeth. “A man is dead in my castle. It is my right and my duty to examine his body!”
“The lord protector feels otherwise, clearly, and he outranks you, I should say.”
“If you do not get out of my way, I could have the entire garrison hack you to pieces!”
“This is our post,” replied the Hawk. Both of them lowered their spears slightly to an angle more suited for combat.
Behind the captain, his soldiers grasped the hilt of their swords. Theobald stood fuming for a moment before he raised one empty hand. “Enough. This is not the place.” He sent the mercenaries a spiteful look. “Your time is coming to an end.” He turned on his heel to stalk away, followed by his men.
~~~~
“Did you hear?” The big door to the library groaned as Kate pushed it open. She found Egil sitting on a bench, staring at the bookshelves. “About the jarl’s man?”
“No.”
“He’s dead. Not just any servant, an important one. He fell from a window, but they hurried to take his body away, and they’re acting all secretive about it,” Kate related with speed as she approached Egil. “What’s that?” She pointed at a letter in his hand.
“A question from the dragonlord. He wants to know the process behind stripping title and land from a jarl.”
“His own brother?” Kate gasped.
Egil sent her a disappointed look. “Probably the jarl of Isarn, don’t you think?”
“That makes more sense,” she conceded. “But the war is hardly won with Isarn’s soldiers on our doorstep. What’s the point in taking the title away? It won’t change anything.”
“Not in the war, but it does in the Adalthing,” explained the apprentice to the King’s Quill. “If he can bestow the northern titles on men loyal to himself, he’ll have full control of the Adalthing.”
“Huh.” Kate looked pensive. “So what are you going to tell him?”
“I’ll let you know as soon as I do.” Egil exhaled. “I have no idea what the law says.”
“Well, you can find it in a book, right?”
He pointed at the bookshelf on the opposite wall. “Those are the laws of Adalrik,” he explained with dismay. Numerous heavy volumes stood arrayed. “I’ll be lucky to have found an answer before solstice.”
Kate bit her lip. “What of Master Quill? Surely he knows. He knows everything.”
“Maybe, but that assumes he’s even able to answer. I can’t remember last time I heard him speak.”
“Well, it’s either that or going through those books.”
Taking a deep breath and exhaling, Egil got up. He walked over and knocked on the door to Quill’s chamber. Despite receiving no reply, he went inside.
The sparse room contained only a bed, a small drawer, and a chair. On the largest piece of furniture, Quill lay under blankets, wearing a nightshirt. “Master Quill, I need your help.”
The scribe looked gaunt to the point of famine, and his skin had turned as pale as bronze would allow. As he opened his eyes, the brown orbs had a yellow tint. “I’m tired.”
“I’ll let you rest in a moment,” Egil promised, sitting down on the chair. A bowl of half-eaten stew sat on the drawer. “But do you know where to find the laws on succession? Which of the books?”
“Did the prince die again?” The old man’s voice sounded like grains of sand grating against each other.
“No, Master Quill. The dragonlord wishes to know how a jarl may be stripped of title and lands.”
“That is simple.” The old scribe coughed a few times. “He must be declared guilty of high treason by the Adalthing. The king may then bestow the jarldom to a male heir of the former jarl, assuming said heir is not guilty of high treason as well.”
“I think in this case, the dragonlord wishes to give the title to a new family.”
“If so, the Adalthing must approve. A house cannot be robbed of its title without the consent of the assembly,” Quill explained with raspy breath.
“Oh. That’s simple enough. I’ll write to the dragonlord.” The youth smiled and rose.
“Egil.” For the first time, the old scribe turned his eyes to look at his apprentice. “You must read the books. You must learn the law.”
“I shall, Master Quill.”
“Never forget. You are the embodiment of the law. Your person is sacrosanct.” A coughing fit interrupted any further declarations. Egil grabbed a cup of water next to the bowl and helped the old man to drink.
“You should rest, Master Quill.”
With laboured breath, the scribe sank back into his bed and closed his eyes.
~~~~
Konstans drummed his fingers against the table. “I admit, it is a strange hour that he should die. I would not consider it coincidence.”
“Right!” exclaimed Valerian.
“But if someone pushed him, I would say they did you a favour.”
The jarl frowned. “How could that be?”
“You are spared the indignity of his betrayal becoming public. Bury him in a pauper’s grave and let him be forgotten.”
“But Konstans, something sinister is afoot!”
“Brother, servants cheat their masters. It is a fact of life as certain as the sunrise,” Konstans explained with an impatient voice. “That is why we only trust family. Be thankful that fate saw it fit to remove this particular servant, saving you the trouble.”
“If this ended here, I would be indeed be grateful. But far too many things do not add up.”
Konstans sighed. “Such as?”
“Arion stole from me. That is obvious from my own books. Yet on his body, we find torn pages proving he is also guilty of stealing from the royal treasury? And a coin from Alcázar is placed on his body, suggesting that the real culprits should be sought beyond our borders,” Valerian explained eagerly. “All of it fits together far too neatly.”
“Brother, merchants cheat on their taxes, yet another certainty. If you are so offended by it, you are free to pursue the matter further. Yet I must ask you do this elsewhere and leave me to my own work.”
“I shall,” the jarl declared loudly, turning around to leave. “I shall!”
~~~~
As Inghard entered the library with a book in hand, he was greeted by Godfrey, sitting in a chair. “You are still here.”
Godfrey bowed his head. “I come and go.”
“Where is Egil?”
“In the scriptorium, writing a reply to the dragonlord.” Godfrey looked at the book in Inghard’s hands. “He tells me you are very fond of stories.”
“I am. If I could, I would do nothing but read or hear them all day long.”
“I suppose once you are king, that will change.”
Inghard frowned. “I guess so. I better make the most of my time now, in that case.”
Godfrey laughed a little. “That is wise. And in fact, I think I may know a tale or two that you will enjoy. I can promise you, they’ll be unlike any you have heard before.”
The prince wetted his lips and finally sat down on a bench, placing his book on the table next to it. “What story?”
Godfrey smiled and began.
|
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|
Fortress and Forest
Montmer
Eventually, the castle settled into some manner of routine shaped around the new baron. Damien would take off for several days, hunting and riding. On his return, he would spend half his time sleeping, eating, taking long baths; the other half was spent barking orders at his guards, exercising them around the courtyard. This would last a few days before he left again, allowing the sentries room to breathe until his next return and the inevitable resumption of training.
A month after his initial arrival, Damien had arrived home after yet another hunt. He lay in a large tub of hot water, soaking with a cup of elderflower drink and eyes closed. There was a soft knock. “Enter,” he replied with the growl of an old dog, raising his head.
“It is me, milord,” Henri announced, entering. “Is everything to his lordship’s satisfaction?”
“Fine,” Damien said. He drank from his cup and leaned back again, closing his eyes. “This is good. Much better than plain water. Are you sure it is not fermented? It tastes too good.”
“I swear, milord. I will let your kitchen servants know of your pleasure.”
“As long as they make more.”
“If his lordship ever returns with any game from his hunts, the kitchen would be happy to cook it to his lordship’s preference.”
One eye opened to stare at the steward. “You better not be making any insinuations, Holfast.”
“I would never, milord. Also, I came to tell you that a visitor has arrived, asking for permission to be your guest at the castle.”
“My guest? Such cheek! Does this look like an inn? It is one thing for vagrants to sleep in the stable, eating scraps from the kitchen, but I will not entertain them at my table!”
“Not even a member of the clergy, milord?”
“I already have one priest eating my food,” Damien growled. “If the good brother wants other robes here, they can sleep at his temple.”
“Very well, milord, I shall let her know.”
“Her? Not another whiterobe, then.”
“Indeed not, milord, she follows Austre, by the colour of her garbs.”
A moment passed before Damien’s eyes flew open and the cup fell from his hand. “Green?”
“Yes, milord, as all the priestesses of Austre.”
“What is her name?”
“Forgive me, she told me, but it was something strange. Northern, harsh. More like a man’s name, really,” Henri mused.
“Old fool,” Damien mumbled. “What is her age?”
“I did not ask, milord, that would have been impertinent. Past twenty, but not yet thirty? I would wager so.”
The baron looked over the edge of his tub around his room. “I need clothes. Tell her to wait in the entrance hall – no, how long until the evening meal?”
“It should not be much longer, milord.”
“Good. Tell her to wait for me in the great hall – no! Let me get dressed and go there first, and you can show her in. Bring her something to drink while she waits.”
Henri kept the confusion on his face from appearing in his voice. “Very good, milord.” He disappeared while Damien hurried up and began rummaging through his garments, dripping water on the floor.
~~~~
A while later, the baron sat in his chair in the great hall, named so for being larger than the entrance hall and thus being slightly more impressive in size and appearance – the keep had no other halls. As the steward opened the doors, he entered first before gesturing at the young priestess that followed. “Gunvor from Hareik, milord, a priestess of the order of the Hart.”
Smiling, Gunvor approached and bowed her head. “My lord baron.”
“Gunvor,” Damien exclaimed, quickly rising from his seat. He cleared his throat. “Welcome to my halls.”
“Thank you. Your lands are pleasant. I saw that as I travelled through them.”
“You are too kind.” He glanced around as if it took him a moment to see Henri standing by her side. “Have the food brought in.”
“Yes, milord.” The steward clapped his hands while the baron sat down again. With the lord of the castle seated, his companions at the table followed suit. One steward and one whiterobe as usual, this night joined by a greenrobe.
While the servants brought in food, Damien poured into Gunvor’s cup. “Elderflower drink,” he told her. “Not fermented,” he quickly added. “Only thing around here with decent taste.”
“His lordship seems wise,” Gunvor remarked. “On my way, I heard the common people praise your benevolent rule, removing old laws that lay like a yoke on them.”
“I try,” Damien mumbled, looking down at the table. “It is my duty.”
“It is unusual to see a sister of Austre this far south,” the whiterobe interjected, looking at Gunvor. “What brings you to our home?”
“Yes, what happened after I left Middanhal?” Damien asked, causing Henri and Pierre to exchange looks.
“I stayed over winter to plant and nurture the seeds I brought from Hareik,” Gunvor explained. “I was tasked by my gydja to bring rare herbs to the great Temple in Middanhal,” she added, aimed at the other two. “Lord Damien escorted me on the journey, providing me with safety.”
“An apt choice,” Henri remarked.
“When spring came and the seeds sprouted, the priestess at the Temple was so pleased, she gave me leave to choose any assignment I wished,” Gunvor elaborated. “So I asked permission to travel south and establish a new temple to Austre.”
Pierre coughed violently as if a garrotte had been tightened around his throat. “Here?” he wheezed.
“That – that was my thought. Are you ill, good brother?” she asked concerned.
“I think that is a marvellous idea,” Damien considered. “I greatly enjoy the forests here, and with a greenrobe’s touch, they might flourish even more. What would you need?”
“My sisters in Fontaine should be able to supply craftsmen,” Gunvor said, “trained to build without nails or iron. I would only require suitable timber from the forest itself. And the right clearing to build the shrine, of course.”
“Perhaps we should ride out tomorrow,” Damien suggested, sounding almost shy. “I will bring my bow for a bit of hunting, and you can find your clearing.”
“That sounds excellent, milord,” the greenrobe declared with a happy expression. Opposite her, the steward sat with a beaming smile while the priest looked like his meal contained hemlock.
~~~~
After the meal, Henri retired to his chamber, attending to his other duties as steward. The changes in taxation demanded by the baron kept Henri occupied most available hours as he went through the ledgers of the fief. He had only resumed this task when the door opened wide, revealing Pierre.
“Something ails you?”
The whiterobe strode into the room. “Did you not see the same as me? At the meal,” he clarified.
“Indeed, extraordinary,” Henri exclaimed. “I would scarcely have believed it, except it happened in front of my own eyes.”
“Most concerning!”
“Yes, it’s – what? Why?”
The priest waved his hands about in despair. “This greenrobe, appearing out of nowhere, to ensnare the mind of our hapless lord!”
Henri frowned, staring at Pierre. “What are you on about?”
“You said you saw it yourself!”
“What I saw,” the steward explained patiently, “was our bellicose baron turned gentle as a lamb, thanks to the greenrobe’s presence.”
The priest froze his frantic hand movements. “You think she is a sorceress? She has bewitched Lord Damien, cast a spell on him!”
Henri’s expression turned to disappointment. “The only sorcery is the fact that our baron is a man, and the greenrobe is a woman. I know you’re a priest, Pierre, but even you must be aware of how such matters work.”
“But why would she come here?” Pierre asked with suspicion in his voice.
“You heard her – she knows the baron.”
“That entitles her to a visit, perhaps, but building a temple? When there is no need or reason for it?”
A sly smile appeared on the steward’s face. “So that’s the berry you find sour. You don’t like the thought of competition.”
Pierre huffed. “It’s not that. I’m worried what she’ll do. I’ve spent my life teaching the townspeople. For two hundred years, my predecessors have carved the temple to Hamaring. And now, they’re supposed to stroll around the forest, praying to the trees?”
For a moment, Henri looked worried. “I see your concern. But,” he continued, and a smile dawned on his face. “Stagnation is death. Change is the only path to improvement.”
The whiterobe spluttered an incomprehensible reply and stormed off.
~~~~
The next day, two horses rather than the usual one departed the castle. They bore their riders to the nearby forest in the early blossoms of spring. They passed through trees of oak, elm, and ash, occasionally observed by curious foxes or cautious squirrels. When they reached a glade that allowed sunlight to reach them, they dismounted.
After tying the reins of their mounts to the nearest branch, Gunvor paced around the clearing, counting steps. “It should be more than large enough,” she told Damien. “I don’t intend for any grand structure, after all.”
“Sounds wise, or you would end up with a temple bigger than my castle,” he laughed.
The priestess looked around at the glade. “This is a good place. Our presence will not disturb the forest. And it will offer tranquillity for all in need of such.”
“All, you say? Even old scoundrels and new barons?”
“Especially those. I hear you’re already fond of travelling into the forest. That sounds like a man who knows the necessity of such a place.”
“Truth be told, I find my new role difficult. Most of my life, I have lived in camps and slept in tents, feeling no different from any common soldier. At times, it feels like the castle walls are not there to protect me, but imprison me.” Damien ran his hand through a branch, pulling off some leaves and tearing them into pieces, looking down rather than at Gunvor.
“I wondered at that. Especially since I am told you go hunting, but you never return with game.”
“Damn servants,” Damien swore. “They talk too much. Though I cannot say if I would rather they knew the truth.” He finally looked up at the priestess, holding one hand in front of him. “They do not shake like they once did, but they are unsteady. No use for shooting a bow with accuracy.”
“I am sorry,” she said with a genuine voice. “Some things cannot be changed.”
“At least I can swing a sword the same.”
“You are not hindered in that regard?”
He shook his head. “Fighting is blood and instinct. In the heat of battle, my hand knows what to do. But hunting is patience and precision.”
“That, at least, is a matter known to me as a servant of the Huntress.”
Damien let out his barking laughter. “True. So there you have it. I go to the woods and throw my arrows away, pretending I have been hunting rather than risk the attempt. It seemed too likely that I would maim the animal without killing it, forcing a slow death upon it.”
“I shall keep your secret,” Gunvor promised with a smile.
“Good. Do not give Hamish any satisfaction.”
“Who?”
“My steward.”
Gunvor frowned for a moment before she slapped Damien’s arm. “His name is Henry, or how did he say it? Henri. In any case, it’s not even close to what you said.”
Damien gave a sly smile. “But his face twitches every time I call him something new, yet he dares not correct me. In lieu of a court jester, I must make my own jests,” he declared, to which she laughed. As the glade became quiet again, he cleared his throat. “If you are to build a shrine here, does that mean you will stay out here as well? Rather than at the castle.”
“Certainly at times, I must,” the priestess replied. “When rituals or the like require it.”
“But not all the time?”
“That would not be necessary, no.”
“You would be welcome to stay at the castle, in that case. When your duties permit it.”
“I should be happy to receive your hospitality, my lord baron.”
“Good. Good.”
“And perhaps,” she continued slowly, “since you are so fond of hunting, you might make your trips to the forest when my duties demand my presence here.”
“That would be most agreeable to me.”
“I’m glad.”
Damien took a deep breath. “I am starving. Let us see what the kitchens prepared for us,” he suggested, walking over to open his saddle bags.
~~~~
In the evening, the baron and his guest returned to the castle. While the old stable hand took their horses, a servant appeared to offer something to drink. Soon after, Henri also entered the courtyard, waving a letter in his hand. “This arrived for you today, milord.”
“Leave it in my chamber,” Damien told him with a dismissive voice and turned towards Gunvor. “Where was I? Right, the siege of Tricaster.”
“It bears the king’s seal, milord,” Henri interjected, tripping with nervous energy.
Growling, Damien reached out to tear the letter from the steward, and he broke the seal to read the content. A cloud passed over his face.
“What is it?” asked Gunvor.
“The king bids me raise my levies and join him for war,” Damien exhaled. Every servant within earshot raised their heads, looking at their lord.
“Oh dear,” Henri exclaimed. “Not again.”
“Make the arrangements,” the baron commanded. “Gather every oaf who can hold a spear.”
“Yes, milord.”
“Gods willing, we will be home before the harvest.”
~~~~
The next day, Damien went to the castle smithy. It was little more than a small room with the most basic necessities for forging, along with a smith more often tasked with making horseshoes than weaponry. As the baron strode into the room, carrying a great sword in each hand, the smith looked up from his anvil and the nails he had been making. “Milord,” he mumbled, bowing his head.
“I need you to perform a task for me.” Damien placed his swords on the workbench in the forge.
“I can sharpen your blades well enough, milord,” the smith said, “if that’s what you need.”
“No. This is my old sword,” Damien explained, pointing at the sword that had served him as a Templar. “I cannot use it in battle. I will bring this instead.” He gestured at the new sword, gifted by the marshal. “I want you to remove the jewel in the pommel from the old one and insert it into the new.”
The smith walked over to investigate the hilts, including the sapphire set into the Templar sword. “It will take me a while, milord, to adjust the pommel and allow room for the stone.”
“As long as you get it done. But be careful,” Damien growled. “That gem is blessed by the Highfather.”
“Yes, milord.”
~~~~
“I have sent the summons, milord,” Henri informed his master. “Your levies should arrive within the next handful of days. Of course, it will not be as many as your father brought to the king’s war last year.” The steward coughed demonstratively. “Not everyone returned.”
“Fine. I plan to do as little in this war as possible, in any case.” Damien stood investigating his armour, which was an old suit of mail that once had belonged to his brother. Some of the rings were missing, but all in all, it still offered good protection.
“As could be expected,” Henri mumbled. “Will his lordship bring the guards?”
“And who will protect my castle in my absence? Do not be foolish.”
“Very good, milord. That will be a relief to the servants, knowing they remain behind.”
“After all the trouble I have had, training them to be even slightly capable in a fight, I am not letting them all die on some battlefield,” Damien remarked brusquely. “Though I will need a sergeant. There is the old fellow with the scars on his face, he must have seen a skirmish or two.”
“I think that’s from his wife, milord,” Henri considered. “He angered her one too many times, and she came at him with a knife.”
“Then he has already faced a greater foe than anything on the field,” the baron declared serenely. “Tell him of the honour bestowed on him and his new duties.”
“I shall, milord. Anything else?”
“Any shrine to Rihimil in this gods-forsaken land?”
“Not to my knowledge, milord. I shall ask Brother Pierre.”
~~~~
It took about a week to assemble the levies from around the holding. A hundred men or so, armed with old weapons inherited or scavenged, gathered at the keep. A horse stood saddled and waited for the lord of the land, as did all the servants, waiting to bid their master farewell.
Damien appeared in armour with a great sword by his side; a sapphire sat in the pommel. He gave curt nods to Henri and the other servants and approached Gunvor. She gave him a half-hearted smile. “I didn’t expect us to part company so soon again.”
“This whole war is nonsense,” Damien claimed. “Some misunderstanding with the islanders. It will be quickly sorted.”
“I hope so.” She bit her lip. “Make sure you come back.”
“I promise.” A sly smile appeared on his face. “And Damien of Montmer always keeps his promises.”
Something that resembled choked laughter issued from the priestess. She stood uneasy, extending her arms towards the baron before pulling back, finally settling on gripping his hands. He returned the grasp, and no further words were exchanged. Separating, Damien swung into the saddle of his steed and set the horse into motion; his band of soldiers followed their lord, marching out.
|
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Pieces in Place
Middanhal
Theobald looked up as the door to his study opened. The guard standing on post stuck his head inside. “There’s a man from Theodstan here.”
The captain of the city guard nodded. “Fine. Let him in.”
With a wink to the guard, Geberic walked inside. “My thanks, captain, for seeing me.”
“Theodoric is my kinsman, albeit distant. You’re his thane, aren’t you? I recognise you.”
“I was, once upon a time,” replied the other man. Seeing Theobald frown, Geberic hurried to continue. “The jarl released me from his service. I serve another now, whom you once fought with. Whom you helped before under dire circumstances. He has sent me to ask for your aid once again.”
The captain’s frown deepened, but he did not dismiss his visitor. “Who?”
~~~~
Three men walked along the Arnsweg just beyond the southern gate. Two of them carried longbows, while the third had only a short sword by his side. “Up there,” Glaukos said, “and up there.” He pointed first at one building, then another across the road while traffic moved around them.
“That should be fine,” Nicholas remarked. “We’ll be ready.”
“Not sure how I’m supposed to get into that house and onto the roof,” Quentin complained.
“You’re a warrior,” Glaukos chastised him. “If you can’t barge your way through, I’ll lose what little respect I might have had for you.”
“Fine, I’ll be ready.” Quentin stamped his bow staff into the ground, looking dour as ever.
“What if there’s no fighting tomorrow?” asked the other archer.
“Then you join us,” Glaukos explained.
“And if there’s fighting? We’ll run out of arrows eventually,” Quentin pointed out.
“Then you’ll have done what you could. Make your escape and go where your heart takes you.” Glaukos threw up the hood on his cloak and left the bowmen.
~~~~
Every day, a mass of people entered the great Temple of Middanhal. While the city had countless shrines scattered throughout, this was the holiest place in all of Adalmearc, and people came from all the Seven Realms to offer the gods gratitude or beseech them for help. Because of this, the Temple square overflowed with people all the way up the stairs and into the Hall of Holies.
Naturally, the Temple had many smaller doors, allowing the priesthoods to enter and leave the complex with ease. As the sun rose in the sky, a small handful of whiterobes made their way through one such entrance. Their ekename seemed a vestige rather than an accurate description; their clothes were coloured by dirt from long travels. None of the priests or priestesses, acolytes, or novices remarked on this, either out of courtesy for their faith or respect for the great war hammers each whiterobe carried over the shoulder.
Even if done in silence, the resident robes watched the newcomers with great interest and wonder. The priests of the Bear typically found in the Temple wielded quills rather than hammers, being responsible for the library in the complex; even they looked at their brothers from Heohlond with trepidation, reverence, or a mixture of both.
Caradoc Whitesark, quietly accepted as the leader of the group, gladly returned the looks with a broad smile. “Let’s get some food and a wash, brothers,” he told the others. “Then, we’ll talk to our brethren. Time is short.”
~~~~
Several women sat in the chambers where Arndis and Eleanor resided, all of them young. They were daughters of the nobility or handmaidens, sometimes both. Lively discussion took place concerning all events at court, helped along by barely diluted wine.
A quiet knock on the door went unheeded among the choir of voices until repeated louder. Finally, Arndis’ handmaiden opened the door. Finding a warrior outside, she took a step back before composing herself, inquiring as to the nature of the visit. Once she had received a reply, Jenny walked over to whisper into her mistress’ ear.
With a doubtful expression, Arndis rose and walked over to the door. Seeing Geberic in the doorway, she flinched. Casting a look inside the room, she decided to step outside and close the door behind her.
“What news?” she asked hoarsely.
Geberic looked down the hallway in either direction. “This isn’t the best place to talk.”
“Follow me.” Arndis went down the corridor and chose a room to enter. “The current occupant is in my chamber at present. We can speak in here.”
Geberic followed her, casting glances before stepping inside. “Your brother has sent me.”
“I figured as much. Where is he?”
“Outside the city. I’m to bring you to him. And take all the coin you can. You may not get a second chance.”
“What’s he planning?” asked Arndis.
“He’ll want to explain it himself, milady. He gave me simple orders. Bring you to him without drawing attention, and bring all your coin with you.”
The young woman looked at the door. “Whatever is happening, I cannot leave Eleanor behind. Not if there is danger afoot.”
“I suppose whether the carriage has one or two passengers make little difference.”
“You have a carriage?”
Geberic gave a wry smile. “That’s one of the things we need the coin for. I spent my last silver getting into the city.”
~~~~
“You summoned me, my lord.” The captain of the Red Hawks stood in the dragonlord’s study, watching Konstans expectantly.
“I have a task for you of a different nature than typical. Seeing as your men are idle in the city, I have use of them.”
“We are ready to serve, my lord.”
“Do you know of Adalbrand of House Arnling?”
“I have heard of his reputation and that he is an exile.”
Konstans nodded. “Indeed. He has many who are loyal to him. Brigands and the like. I have been told some of his men have been seen in the city.”
The mercenary stepped closer. “You wish for us to apprehend him?”
“I do.” The dragonlord pushed a small bag over the desk. “This will help pay for information.”
“You do not wish the Order to handle this?”
“I do not consider them trustworthy in this matter.”
The captain picked up the bag. “It shall be done.”
Konstans narrowed his eyes. “Where are you from, captain?”
“I hail from Alcázar, my lord, same as most of the men in my company.”
“Good. You will not have problems with this next part.”
“Which is?”
“When you find any of Adalbrand’s men, you ensure they lead you to the villain himself. Return to me with proof of his demise, and another bag of equal worth will be yours.”
The mercenary gave a grim smile. “Consider it done.”
“Use discretion, captain. I do not wish for any to learn of his fate or how he met it.”
“As you command, my lord.” The Red Hawk bowed his head and left to gather his men.
|
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|
Badawin
Southern Wastelands
When Brand woke, his eyes slowly moved to survey his surroundings. By his right side, a pole was raised, holding up a tent. He had blankets beneath and one above him. His left arm lay atop, and his hand was being held by someone else. Moving his head slightly, he followed the foreign hand up the arm to find Jana’s sleeping form next to him.
He opened his lips but managed only a croak. Instead, he squeezed her hand several times until she stirred.
“Brand,” she exhaled. “I am so relieved.” She raised herself to look at him, maintaining the grasp on his hand.
“Safe?” he asked hoarsely.
“Yes, we are. The desert dwellers found us. They have done their best to help us, though there was little they could do for you, other than pray you would wake on your own.”
“How long?”
“You should really save your strength,” Jana admonished him. “Here, drink something.” She took one of their water skins and helped him to a sip of water.
“How long?” he repeated.
“We have been here since yesterday. About a full day has passed, I would wager.”
“They know us?”
“I have not told them who we are, and they have asked no questions. Here, have some more.” She helped him drink again.
“Keep us secret,” he mumbled with a few drops spilling down his chin.
“Enough talking. Rest, unless it is to ask me for more water.”
There was commotion outside the tent; an elderly woman stuck her head inside, observing the pair, and left again.
“They know you are awake,” Jana remarked. “But you must rest. I will speak with them when needed.”
“Not tired,” Brand claimed. She gave him a doubtful look.
The tent opening was pulled back to allow a man entry. He was dressed in simple garbs, made from the animals that could be heard outside. A dagger sat in its sheath by his belt; he was otherwise unarmed. His hair and beard were roughly cut, but he had a genuine smile on his face. “Our other visitor is awake, I was told. There was concern whether this would happen or not.”
“Thank you,” Brand whispered.
“Your gracious companion has already shown all courtesy, but you are most welcome,” he replied. “I am Mahir. I am the amir of this tribe.”
“We are very grateful to you for helping us,” Jana added.
“Life is precious in the desert,” Mahir declared. “Life is also a challenge. Because of this, there is no room for falsehood, and I will speak plainly.” Brand and Jana exchanged looks. “Some days ago, we met the warriors serving the Kabir of the great stone camp. They spoke of an escaped prisoner, having stolen the Kabir’s daughter with him.”
Brand tried to speak but ended up only coughing, and Jana hurried to provide him with something to drink.
“They offered gold for any help.” Mahir’s smile became scornful. “The same warriors who steal the wells dug by the fathers of my fathers and turn us away. What use is gold in the desert? It will not quench my children’s thirst.” He regarded his two guests. “Deceit gives birth to deceit. If I speak with them again, I shall give them answer as they asked.”
“What answer?” asked Jana.
Mahir smiled. “Seeing as you have stayed by his side all this time, I must conclude you are no captive. Therefore, I can truthfully say that I have not seen any man with a captive woman.”
“Thank you,” Brand managed to say.
Mahir inclined his head. “We will stay here for the day. You should rest further. Let us leave the discussion of tomorrow’s journey for tomorrow.”
“We bow to your wisdom, amir,” Jana said. Mahir inclined his head once more, adding a smile.
~~~~
Eventually, Brand drifted back to sleep. Letting him recover, Jana left the tent for the first time since their arrival. A score of other tents was scattered across the area, each housing a family. Herds of camels, goats, and sheep could be seen beyond, grazing, which accounted for the smell of animal that permeated the camp. Most of the nomads were busy drawing water from a hidden well, letting the beasts drink. As the sole horse, the mare stolen from the Kabir’s stables kept company with the sheep.
The children regarded the stranger with obvious curiosity, in between fetching water or milking their animals. Their mothers were busy with any number of chores. Meat was cooked to ensure it would not spoil while hides were tanned and wool turned to clothing. Jana smiled at an elderly woman, who had seen to Brand’s wound and treated him; looking up, the old woman returned the smile before resuming skirting the wool in front of her.
Passing through the small village of tents, Jana reached the amir. He had a goat in his lap and was cleaning pebbles from its hooves with his knife. Sensing her approach, Mahir looked up with a smile. “Your friend is resting?”
“He is. I owe you great thanks for saving his life. We can never repay you in full.”
“Please, you embarrass me.” The amir grinned. “The ram requires no gratitude for protecting his herd.”
“As you wish.” Jana bowed her head. “Your speech has refinement to leave any courtier in Alcázar envious,” she continued.
Mahir made a sweeping motion, gesturing to the wasteland with his knife. “There is little else to do in the desert but speak,” he laughed. “And I am the storyteller of this tribe.”
“I can tell,” she assented. “Do you ever have relations with the other tribes of this land?”
He nodded. “We do. When the sun grows weak, we gather in places to exchange animals, keeping our herds strong. Sometimes we also exchange sons and daughters, keeping our tribes strong.” He winked. “At these meetings, we meet our kin that travels with other kindreds, we sing the old songs, and our storytellers compete for attention.”
“It sounds wonderful.”
“As the poet said, the greatest elegance lies in the simplest dance.”
“He did indeed.” Jana let her gaze move across the harsh landscape that surrounded them.
His work done, Mahir released the goat, which jumped away and hurried to join the herd. “We live according to the desert,” the amir declared, standing up. “Life is harsh, but there is beauty to be found. We would never turn new blood away, should any desire to share our hardships and our joys.” He glanced at Jana out of the corner of his eye.
“You are kind,” Jana told him. “I do not think my companion would be suited for a life such as this.”
“Among the sheep, your horse looks out of place,” Mahir remarked. “Yet she seems content.”
Jana smiled to herself. “I fear my companion is too eager to continue. I doubt he can be persuaded to remain.”
“Stallions are hard to tame.” With a knowing smile, the amir went to his herd of goats.
~~~~
Brand slept for most of the remaining day and following night. He woke up intermittently, had a few sips of water, and resumed his rest. When he finally woke to remain awake, it was the hour before sunrise. He looked around until he spotted Jana sleeping by his side, same as when he had first come to in the tent. Having confirmed her presence, Brand let his head fall back to the ground, relaxing himself.
“Are you awake?” Jana’s voice came as a whisper, softer than a breeze.
“I am. You are as well, I surmise.”
She opened her eyes to look at him. “You sound better. You sound like yourself.”
“I feel like it.” He turned his head to reciprocate her gaze. “Do you know where my sword is?”
“You are definitely returning to your former self.” She raised a hand to point across him. “They placed all our belongings there.”
Brand turned his head to look behind him, seeing their saddle bags. “Good.”
“I have a feeling you would sooner leave me behind than that sword.”
“No.” He spoke with calm, but his voice held force. “But I feel best knowing where I might reach for a weapon.”
“Of course.” She cleared her throat. “I believe our hosts intend to journey east. At least, that was their intent before they found us.”
“If that is the case, we part ways. If they can fill our reserves of water, we can travel a long while yet before we turn west and back to the coast.”
“Not too long,” Jana admonished him. “Do not ever dare to exert yourself in this manner again. I will leave your corpse to the carrion birds if you starve yourself to death again,” she threatened.
“Consider me instructed. Not too long,” Brand promised.
“May I have entry?” asked Mahir from outside the tent.
“Of course,” Jana replied.
The amir entered. “We are breaking camp today. The grazing is poor in this area, and we must move on. We will not demand that you move on your own, of course.” The last part was directed at Brand. “We can transport you that you may continue to recover. You are both welcome to journey with us for as long as you need.”
Jana looked at Brand briefly. “We intend to travel north,” she told Mahir. “Assuming that my friend is actually able to stand,” she added, glancing at Brand again. “He may be overestimating his own strength.”
“Not at all.” Brand coughed. “I will be fine.”
Mahir raised his hands in a disarming gesture. “There is no need. There are lands and wells to the north for our herds. We will journey in this direction, at least for a few days, until we reach our next grazing lands. That will give you more time to heal, my friend.”
“Thank you.” Brand gave several more coughs, and Jana helped him to drink.
“Yes, thank you,” she repeated.
“It is a small thing for us. I will send my son to help you gather your things and prepare your horse. We will begin the journey soon, before the sun reaches too high.”
With the direction settled, the amir left and spread the word to his people. All the tents were pulled down and placed on camel backs along with most other goods. A kind of stretcher was assembled for Brand and attached to a camel, letting the beast pull its passenger. With a canopy above, it offered him shelter from the sun and allowed him to rest. As for Jana, she chose to ride her horse, staying close to Brand in the formation. Soon after sunrise, the tribe resumed its never-ending journey across the southern wastelands, herding their animals along.
~~~~
The desert dwellers journeyed for three days, moving north-west. During this time, Brand was on the mend and walked a small distance from time to time, refusing to let his leg grow weak. As the tribe reached their intended pastures, hidden wells were uncovered, and both people and beasts drank as they needed. The nomads made their camp, while Jana and Brand prepared to continue.
At this point, Mahir showed them a final courtesy. Saddling two camels, one for each pair, he and his son accompanied the two travellers on their final journey through the southern wastelands. They journeyed for another day until their surroundings changed. The twisted rocks receded, and the land became flat. It remained dusty with scarce vegetation, but on occasion, they passed a tree.
Finally, on the next morning, Mahir bade them farewell. “Continue in this direction.” He pointed. “You will find the road and, at its end, the stone camp you seek. I have not been there in many years, but I imagine they have not moved it.” He gave a wry smile.
“Thank you, amir,” Jana told him. “You have given strangers more aid than many would offer their own family.”
“In the desert, we are all family.” Mahir grinned.
“These names will mean little to you, but I am Adalbrand of House Arnling. If ever the chance to repay you is presented to me, I shall remember all you have done,” Brand promised.
“I have already been rewarded. At the next gathering, I will have a better story to tell than any other.” Mahir gave another smile and commanded his son to take the other camel. Jana and Brand watched as the amir and his boy rode away, returning to their tribe. As their former companions grew small in size, the man and woman turned north-west in the direction of Maleth.
|
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|
Twain
Dvaros
On the morning of winter solstice, the sounds of weapons clashing guided Brand to the courtyard where the housecarls trained. He had been there several times, pitting himself against the best of Leiknarr’s warriors. Usually in the evening hours, but this time, he made his appearance in the morning.
While the king’s warriors let any join them in the evening, the early hours were another matter. Every day soon after sunrise, the lady Svana took command of the ring, practising her weaponry against her father’s housecarls. As Brand entered the small yard, his line of sight was quickly blocked by two of the household warriors.
“You overstep,” one of them told Brand with a brusque voice. “If the king’s daughter wanted you present, you would have been summoned. Begone.”
“I thought the lady would be interested in testing her prowess against a knight,” Brand replied loudly. “Better opposition than her father’s carls, I wager.”
“If so, she will let you know.” The housecarl raised a hand, ready to push Brand back.
“Let him through,” Svana spoke. “On Thusund, we accept and even encourage boastful words – provided you can prove them.”
“Give me a sword, and I shall do so,” Brand declared.
His request was fulfilled with a shield in addition. Svana motioned for him to enter the ring. Besides her own shield, she wielded a short spear. As soon as Brand stepped forward, the princess struck. She attacked low where Brand’s shield could not protect in time. Swinging his sword, Brand barely parried the assault in time, pushing Svana’s spear aside.
The lady smiled, baring her teeth like a wolf. Several jabs with the spear followed, forcing Brand to constantly defend himself. The few times he could strike back with his sword, the distance made it easy for her to shield herself. The housecarls laughed and spoke among themselves, discussing the fight and Brand’s predicament.
Every time Brand tried to strike, he was met by the spear’s longer reach, forcing him to break off his attack to defend himself. Pushed back, Brand seemed increasingly in trouble; he could not make an offensive move, and sooner or later, Svana’s constant attacks were bound to find an opening.
As the lady struck her spear forward yet again, Brand changed tactics. He evaded and simply threw his shield into Svana’s face. As she raised her own shield to protect herself from his, Brand used his now empty hand to grab the haft of her spear. Pulling his opponent closer, Brand placed the tip of his sword against her throat, leaned against the edge of her shield.
The housecarls murmured amongst themselves. “You lost your shield,” one of them pointed out. “You’ll be vulnerable against your next enemy.”
“Yes,” Brand admitted, “but I won against this one.” He lowered his sword, and the princess gave a sly smile.
“Leave us,” she commanded, and the housecarls did so. “You do not disappoint, dragonborn. I had my doubts, observing you these past days, wondering if you would dare to make any moves.”
“If you wanted to see me take action, you could simply have summoned me,” Brand said.
“If I considered you a simple soldier, I would have. But you are meant to be a commander. What good is a leader who cannot take initiative?” She placed her weapons on the rack, giving Brand a look.
“There is truth in that,” he admitted.
“Tell me, what do you think of my brother?”
Brand hesitated. “I have not spoken enough to form much of an opinion.”
“He is clearly not fit to rule,” Svana continued, giving her own answer. “My father must be the only man in Thusund who cannot see this.”
“Yet as the king, his opinion matters the most.”
“While he lives. Once he is passed, the jarls will choose his successor. They are not blinded by familial bonds,” Svana claimed, pacing around the yard. “They will not follow someone as weak-willed as Sven.”
“Unless having a weak king would suit their needs,” Brand argued.
The princess stopped to stare at Brand. “You may have a point,” she conceded. “Certainly I can see no other reason why my father favours Sven. My brother would be an average king, accomplishing little nor causing waves. Thusund would continue as it has under my father’s rule.”
“You have greater ambitions, I take it.”
“I am not blind. I know supplies have been sent to Fortönn. In early winter? The only reason would be to prepare the island for a siege. You have come to us from Alcázar, dragonborn. What did you see in that fabled city of the South?”
Brand cleared his throat. “I saw the dungeons and made a hasty retreat.”
Svana wore a sardonic smile. “Yes, your strange journey through the Teeth, and with even stranger company. A princess of Alcázar and a dragonborn, wearing only rags.”
“That is her story to tell, not mine.”
The princess selected an axe from the rack and swung it around, cleaving the air. “And where will you go next, son of Arn? I heard that the eastern realms do not think highly of you.”
Brand’s jaw became clenched. “Opinions are divided.”
“If any man in Thusund had done what you have done,” Svana declared, “he would be shown the highest honour. Not exile.”
“Alas, I am not from Thusund.”
“But you are here now,” she swiftly pointed out. “I would never disdain a man of your skills. On the contrary, you would be given chance to show your qualities, and ample reward after.”
“I appreciate such words,” Brand said slowly, “but at present, there is peace in Thusund, and your father reigns. Much would have to change before you could follow through on such a promise to me.”
“Winter solstice is nearly upon us,” Svana mentioned. She looked up at the bleak sky. Even approaching noon, sunlight and warmth were scarce. “The Raven Days follow soon. Jarls gather, and the old grow frail. We may go to sleep in the eve and find the world completely changed by morrow.”
It took a moment before Brand spoke. “I shall remember your words.” He bowed his head. “With your leave,” he added, indicating his desire to withdraw. She nodded in acknowledgement, and the son of Arn left the daughter of Eirik.
~~~~
Past noon, Jana left the library with a book in her hands. She had done so several times before in the past days, but on those occasions, she had afterwards retired to her chambers. This time, she went to another part of the palace, near the royal wing that lay hewn into the mountainside. The housecarls stood posted deeper in, where only lamps burned in the windowless hallways, allowing none access. Thus, Jana remained outside, walking the corridors where other courtiers could be found. She greeted them courteously whenever she passed any of them, but made no conversation. Instead, she continued walking in circles.
Eventually, she saw the prince coming down the hallway, followed by a housecarl. As he approached, she stood aside to let him pass as befitted his rank. Doing so, she brushed her arm against the wall and dropped the book in her fingers.
“Haki,” the prince said, extending one hand. With a low growl, the housecarl bent down, picked up the book, and placed it in Sven’s hand, allowing the prince to present it to Jana.
“So kind of you, Your Highness,” she said with a bashful look at the floor. “Forgive me for being so clumsy.”
“Think nothing of it.” He glanced at the title. “Ruminations upon the Art of Governance. I have read that many times.”
“I did not know,” Jana claimed, “but it is no surprise that His Highness would educate himself on such an important matter.”
“I am surprised, on the other hand, to see it in the hands of a lady. Or anyone,” Sven added. “I did not think anybody else in Dvaros even knew of this book.”
“Even an empty jar becomes valuable when filled with good wine,” Jana remarked. “There is much I may learn in Dvaros. Both how different the city is from Alcázar, but also where the two are similar.”
“Really? How would they be similar?”
“Both are limited in what may be built. For Dvaros, the mountain both protects and restricts. In Alcázar, the location of the twin harbours determines all,” Jana pointed out. “It is interesting how both cities face similar issues, and yet their situations are reverse.”
“How so?” asked the prince with a curious look on his face.
“Alcázar has land it may build on, yet it is entirely dependent on the sea. It cannot expand beyond what the harbours allow.”
“And Dvaros?”
“Your city is locked on land, yet if the harbour could be improved, it might expand towards the sea.”
“Interesting. I have had the same thought,” Sven declared. “The size of the harbour is too small to the detriment of the city. In fact, it was my intention to inspect the docks this afternoon.”
Briefly, Jana opened her mouth and widened her eyes a little, as if hearing this came as a surprise.
“You should accompany me,” Sven declared. “I would hear how things are done in Alcázar, in case we might learn from them.”
“I would be honoured, Your Highness.” Jana bowed her head. “It would be best I return this,” she added with a wry smile, waving the book in her hand. “Or Master Gnupa might be cross with me.”
“Of course.” Sven took the book and handed it to Haki, who had with patience and silence been waiting on his master. “Haki, bring this back to the library. Then run to the stables. We shall need another horse.”
The housecarl gave a grunt with a meaning difficult to decipher, but he walked ahead as bid.
~~~~
Shortly after, three riders appeared by the harbour, attracting eyes from the few others present. Most were dockworkers or crew members from the ships moored. Some looked because they recognised the prince, others wondered at the housecarl, and the remainder were curious about the lady, whose appearance set her apart from the islanders. Another curiosity was that the woman wore a cloak with the raven insignia, whereas the housecarl had nothing to shield him from the bitter wind.
While Haki kept sharp eyes on others, Sven did not seem to pay them any attention. His own eyes rested on the fleet of longships, docked in the far end of the harbour. “Nearly half the piers are taken by warships,” he pointed out to Jana. “Yet they simply lie still most of the time, adding little trade or value. If we built another harbour elsewhere on the island, it would free up the piers for merchant vessels.”
“That is an excellent idea,” Jana exclaimed. “Have you mentioned it to His Majesty?”
“My father is too cautious, too set in his ways. An old man,” Sven declared with a hint of derision. “He wants the ships and its soldiers in Dvaros, as if the city could ever be attacked. With all the ships from all the islands, we have the greatest fleet in the world! Who would dare to threaten us?”
“Indeed,” Jana mumbled.
“Not to mention, between the mountain and the hounds, Dvaros is impregnable.” Sven pointed from the peak in the north to the lighthouses in the south, guarding the harbour entrance. “It is a waste to have this many ships moored here when there is no need of them.”
“And if you built a new harbour elsewhere, not only ships but also crews and craftsmen would move to this new settlement, allowing further room in Dvaros for traders,” Jana speculated.
“Precisely,” Sven said with approval. “It is such a relief to speak with an understanding mind. Dvaros is old,” he continued, “the oldest city in all the Seven Realms. Change is an unwelcomed guest here.”
“Your Highness have clearly given this much thought,” the lady spoke. “May I ask a question on my mind?”
“You may,” the prince assented graciously. He began walking down the docks, followed by his two companions.
“Once the harbour may accommodate more traders, how will Your Highness attract them? Given that trade in the west of Adalmearc is gathered in Herbergja, it would be hard to convince the merchants to trade in Dvaros rather than on the mainland,” Jana pointed out.
“A good point,” Sven granted. “Herbergja is useful to send trade further east along the river. At least, for trade south of the Weolcans,” he added with a sly expression.
“I see. You would gather trade from the northern lands,” Jana deduced.
The prince nodded. “Ships from Trehaf bearing furs, amber, and copper sail to Herbergja, where their goods are sold onwards to Alcázar. They might as well conduct that trade in Dvaros, especially if taxes are low and the market is less crowded.”
“You have thought of everything.”
“My lord, we should consider returning,” interjected Haki, who walked behind holding the reins of their horses. “The solstice feast will soon begin, not to mention, it will only get colder and darker.”
“I am sure you can handle both,” Sven replied dismissively, continuing on his walk. The housecarl gave a low grunt, looking at his cloak hanging around Jana’s shoulders. She mouthed an apology to him and followed the prince.
As they walked, more great ships flowed into the harbour. The last of the jarls had arrived, just in time for solstice.
~~~~
When Jana returned to her quarters, late in the afternoon, she found Brand already present. “A dress has been sent to your chamber. For tonight, courtesy of the king, I suspect.”
“I better not disappoint,” she replied, entering her room. “How long until we must appear in the hall?”
“Sooner rather than later, I think,” Brand considered. He wore a blue tunic of cotton, and the hem was embroidered with silver threads. The belt around his waist was simple, but the bejewelled hilt of his sea-steel sword made up for this.
“I must arrange my hair first,” Jana told him, shouting from her room into the parlour. “The wind was dreadful by the harbour.”
“Did you enjoy the outing?”
“It was of great interest. Oh,” she exclaimed with a little frustration. “A simple braid will have to do. I have neither tools nor time for anything intricate.”
“You could simply keep it lose.”
“My lord Adalbrand, what a scandalous proposition.”
“It must be my years in Alcázar, they ruined my manners.”
Laughter came from Jana’s room to reach the parlour, and the lady herself followed soon after. Her dress was green, likewise embroidered with silver at the hem. The belt in black leather pulled the cloth together at her waist; shoes similar to those she had crossed the desert in, yet made with coarser craftsmanship, adorned her feet. “Alas, I have not a single piece of jewellery to wear.”
“Such trinkets would only detract,” Brand declared, extending his arm.
“Not all your manners are lost,” Jana replied, taking hold of him, and together, they left for the great hall.
|
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Old Friendships and New Hostilities
Fontaine
The Mihtea, largest river in Adalmearc, flowed through Middanhal until it reached the sea in the west. Along the way, it passed by Fontaine, serving as the principal route between the two great cities. Ships passed in both directions, carrying goods and people in great numbers. Coldharbour was the eastern-most port available, as further up-stream, the river disappeared under the Weolcan mountains; Herbergja at the river’s mouth was the western-most destination for the small vessels navigating the shallow waters.
One such barge floated peacefully on the stream, approaching the capital of Ealond. As could be expected, traffic was heavy; the many guilds of Fontaine produced a vast quantity of goods to be ferried either east or west. A few vessels continued past the city, but most, including this barge, approached the port. It carried a variety of items. Salt from Hæthiod, a perennial need. Wool from northern Adalrik to be turned into cloth by the weavers of Fontaine. Bronze from Middanhal to be made into statues or tools, dependent on the buyer – with copper coming from Vidrevi and tin from Heohlond, the Dwarves of Middanhal were perfectly located for this trade and had long since perfected the art of creating the alloy.
The barge also carried a handful of passengers, making the journey for their own reasons. Priests and priestesses of different colours, being sent from one temple to another according to requirements. Young men, sent to Fontaine to take up apprenticeship. Women with children, sent for by their husbands to join them.
The man snoring atop a bag of flour did not fit any of those descriptions. He wore no robe, but a leather tunic hardened to serve as cheap armour. A great sword rested by his waist, large enough to be wielded by two hands. He had boarded the vessel in Coldharbour, paying for passage until Fontaine and demanding absolute peace from both the crew and other passengers. For the most part, his request was easily granted; his sullen countenance did not invite company.
Only the children aboard the barge could not help their curiosity towards his sword, set with a jewel in the pommel; while daggers and short blades were not an unusual sight, a weapon such as his drew attention. Several attempts had been made by the children to steal it; given how the warrior spent most of his time, opportunities were ample. Yet even in sleep, he kept one hand on the hilt, either by coincidence or some instinct to be battle-ready.
As the barge entered the harbour and touched against the pier, this finally changed. The small shock sent through the vessel made the warrior turn in his sleep, and his hand fell away from the hilt. While the crew moored the barge, a boy aged around twelve approached the sleeping man quickly, seizing the opportunity. His little fingers closed around the hilt and pulled out the sword.
As he drew the weapon, the boy discovered that the blade ended some inches below the hilt. Next, he dropped the sword and shrieked in surprise as the warrior’s hand shot out, grabbed the child by the collar, and flung him over the railing of the ship. Accompanied by the sound of a body hitting the water, followed soon by a woman’s screams and frantic movement, Damien of Montmer rose from his coarse bed and returned his sword to its scabbard. While the crew hurried to fish the boy out of the water, the former knight disembarked and entered Fontaine.
~~~~
Like nearly all of Adalmearc, Ealond had been touched by strife in recent years. Fontaine itself had been spared most of the consequences, though. The fighting had taken place far from the city, allowing activities and trade to continue without interruption. Apart from some isolated incidents, such as the execution of Duke Belvoir or disrobing of the Veiled Sister, Fontaine had not experienced upheaval as compared to cities like Middanhal or Tothmor. Robes of different colours, but above all the dark red of the norns, filled the streets along with hawkers of every kind. Crates and barrels were moved around the city to reach the countless workshops with their masters and apprentices, turning raw materials into finished goods. The impressive architecture championed by the guild of engineers continued to dominate and characterise the capital of Ealond, allowing ever higher towers and domes to rise.
Damien pushed his way forward until the colours worn by the surrounding people turned more and more red; he approached the Raven Court, home to the priesthood of the norns. Entering the courtyard, he found scores of people crowding the sacred fountain, around which the temple was built. He glanced around until he spotted guards, looking bored while leaning against the staffs serving as their weapon.
“What is this?” Damien asked, gesturing towards the people. “Did these people pay the tribute, or are they letting every fool in?”
“The new Veiled Sister removed the tribute,” one guard replied. “Any idiot can walk in from the street and drink from the sacred fountain.”
“And here is the result,” Damien said before he began elbowing his way forward. “Make way for a baron, peasants!” he declared; while his words changed little, his elbows had more effect. Many an angry glare was sent his way, but the sight of his sword kept people silent until he could stoop and drink from the sacred fountain, obtaining its blessing. Using the same coarse method as before, Damien got out of the crowd. He glanced back, shaking his head while muttering under his breath, and left the temple again.
~~~~
Rainier, king of Ealond, sat in his study. A book lay in his lap, but it did not hold the king’s attention. Instead, his eyes gazed out the window on the city beyond. His clothing and appearance were immaculate as always, with his hair and beard neatly trimmed, but his eyes seemed sunken, and despite his young age, the first white hairs had appeared. He had only been king a few years, but he had already suffered his first significant defeat, leaving its mark upon him.
The effect was even worse as it came shortly after his first major victory, and how the two were connected. Unravelling Gaspard of Belvoir’s conspiracy and executing the duke had, for a while, strengthened the king’s position as the undisputed ruler of the land. Until he had moved against Gaspard’s son, who had handily defeated Rainier’s armies and denied any attempts to unseat him as the duke of Belvoir. Humiliated, the king had accepted that the duchy of Belvoir remained in Alois’ hands, rather than risk an exhausting civil war he could not be certain to win. Ever since, none dared to utter the name of Belvoir in the king’s presence, unless they desired exile.
A servant appeared, clearing his throat to cautiously disturb his master’s reverie. “What is it,” muttered the king.
“Master Guilbert has returned. You left instructions to give him immediate audience.”
“I know that,” came the swift rebuke. “Send him in.”
Guilbert, once the envoy serving Gaspard of Belvoir and also his bastard half-brother, entered the study. “Your Majesty.” He gave an elegant bow.
“Your task?”
“Success, Your Majesty. I have witnesses and signed documents in abundance. Merchants, guildsmen, and even a captured bandit promised clemency, as long as he says what Your Majesty desires him to say.”
“Good. Assemble the court this afternoon. Spring is upon us. I will not waste another day.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” Guilbert gave a deep bow and disappeared.
~~~~
Through the streets of Fontaine, Damien’s path took him to the second of the great buildings in the city. The Order castle rose with imposing spires, able to hold a garrison of several thousand soldiers. As Damien approached, it was clear to see that the castle held far less. The walls had barely any sentinels, and only a couple of guards stood in front of the gate.
“What’s your business?” asked one of them.
“I am Lord Damien of Montmer,” he replied, “and I was a knight back when your father’s boot first turned your face that way.” He dug out a letter. “The marshal has requested my presence.”
Scowling, the guard took the letter and skimmed through the brief note. “Fine,” he conceded, thrusting the paper back at Damien. “On your way.”
The nobleman snatched the letter and strode past them. He entered the courtyard, watching a handful of pages practising weaponry. With a few muttered comments on their poor footwork, Damien continued past to enter the keep itself.
He walked with certain steps up the floors until he could knock on the marshal’s door. “Enter,” came the command, and Damien did so. Inside, he found Sir Martel. The knight was an imposing sight, taller and stronger than most men with the occasional scar across his dark skin. “Damien of Montmer,” he exclaimed with a smile, and the men embraced.
“I cannot recall how many years it has been,” Damien admitted. “I have memories of our time as pages together, and some from our days as squires, but none after that.”
“We met once after that, if I remember right,” Martel informed him. “When you won the great tournament in Middanhal.”
“Forgive me, I am sure we did, but given the celebrations, I remember little of that day.”
The marshal smiled, though his face quickly turned grave. “My condolences on your father and brother.”
“Thank you. Truth be told, I have given them little thought. But I was grieved to hear of your brother’s death,” Damien declared. “He was the best of knights.”
Martel’s expression darkened briefly. “He was.” He looked away and beckoned towards a pair of chairs. “Have a seat. You must be parched after your journey. Wine?”
Various emotions crossed Damien’s face. “Water for me.”
“As you wish.” Martel poured two cups and passed one along as they sat down. “To the fallen.”
Damien raised his goblet. “To the fallen.” Honour shown to the dead, he placed the cup on the small table between them. “As much as I am pleased to visit you, I do wonder.” He pulled the marshal’s letter out. “How did your missive know to find me in Middanhal, much less that I would pass this way?”
“It was I who ensured it,” Martel admitted. “Once I heard about your father and brother, I took steps to see you restored.”
Damien frowned. “I had not expected you to wield such influence over the Archon.”
“I do not, but I asked the Veiled Sister to intercede on my behalf, and she did so.”
“Been busy, that one,” the nobleman mumbled. “Why go to such trouble? It cannot be simply because we once trained together as pages.”
The marshal exhaled slowly. “Things are not well in Ealond.”
“I thought the war had already ended. The king lets Belvoir keep his title, and Belvoir lets the king keep his head.” Barking laughter issued from Damien.
“I do not trust King Rainier, sad to say,” Martel confessed. “It is the Order’s duty to quell an insurrection such as Duke Belvoir’s, yet my forces were not marshalled. Once he lost the first battles, he would rather make peace with the duke than seek help from the Order.”
“That does sound strange.”
“I can see no other purpose but he wishes to keep us in weakened condition. Most of my troops have been sent east to Adalrik or Hæthiod, and the royal treasury is slow to pay us the taxes we are owed,” Martel revealed. “I have no coin to train more soldiers, and the king is careful not to give me any reason to demand it.”
“Letting him keep the taxes he collects on your behalf,” Damien added. “But you are the marshal. You should storm the palace, break down the doors to the treasury, and take the coin that is yours.”
“I have no doubt you would so that in my place,” the marshal said dryly. “I doubt spilling blood over silver will fortify my position against the king in the long run.”
“That is your flour to grind,” Damien spoke with a shrug, emptying his cup of water. “Do not expect me to intervene. My days as a knight are done. I have a castle with a soft bed and woods nearby for hunting that awaits me.”
“I expected as much. I only desired your return to have allies among the noblemen,” Martel revealed. “Lords who understand what the Order means. Who would set the peace of the realms over the king’s ambitions, whatever they may be. Which reminds me…” The knight rose to open an armoire. He retrieved a great sword and returned to Damien, offering him the sheathed blade. “I had this made for you in anticipation of your arrival.”
“I have a sword,” the nobleman mumbled.
Martel placed the great blade in a precarious position on the small table between them. “This one will actually serve you, should it come to fighting.”
“I have no such intentions,” Damien declared. “I shall wield a spear if there are boars to hunt. For deer, the bow will serve. If I am cold, an axe may cut firewood to keep me warm. But a sword has no use except for war, and I do not intend to ever fight another battle.”
“I do not think you will be given the luxury of choice.”
Damien licked his lips. “I should be on my way. My plan was to leave Fontaine before nightfall.”
“I shall not keep you longer. The king is gathering his court today, and I intend to be there.”
“He has summoned you?”
“No,” Martel admitted, “which makes me all the more curious to attend.”
Damien rose, and the marshal did as well. “It was good to see you. You shall always be welcome at Montmer while I am lord of that spittle of land.” They clasped hands and exchanged a quick embrace in farewell. Hesitating for a moment, Damien finally took the sword from the table and left the room.
~~~~
In the throne room at the palace, the courtiers stood assembled. Most were nobility from different parts of the realm or envoys sent to represent their families or masters at the royal court. None knew why the king had ordered them to gather; no dignitaries had arrived that might warrant an audience, nor had news reached of any great event, whether fortuitous or calamitous. Those with sharpest eyes had noticed the return of the king’s personal servant, Guilbert from Belvoir, and those with keenest ears knew he had been originally dispatched to Herbergja.
Once the courtiers had been left waiting long enough, Rainier appeared with Guilbert in tow. The king took his throne and let his gaze fall on the assembled court. “As ruler of this land, it is my duty to look after my subjects.” The predicted whispers arose as the courtiers wondered at the king’s intentions. “I never seek war for its own sake, but I must stand prepared to defend Ealond and all its people.” Alarmed looks were exchanged at such words, invoking bloodshed. “It has come to my attention that in the north-western corner of our lands, our people are not safe.” The king gestured at Guilbert, standing at the feet of the throne.
“I hold in my hands sworn statement from half a dozen merchants, all accosted by brigands on the road towards Herbergja, with nothing done to repay their losses or bring the bandits to justice.” Guilbert held a large stack of parchment into the air. “Besides that, I have brought witnesses to His Majesty’s court that can relate how our traders are cheated at the markets in Herbergja, how our guildsmen do not receive fair wages when selling their skills in that city, and worst of all, how robbers have acted with impunity against our poor travellers, safe from retribution!”
Witnesses were brought forward, telling their story to the court according to the charges made by Guilbert. Tales of being cheated in various ways or how the lords of Herbergja had failed in their duties, providing protection on the roads to the city and compensating merchants for any robbery when that protection failed. Lastly, a brigand captured through great difficulty confessed to all of this, including how the islanders had promised to allow their plundering to continue, as long as they only attacked traders from Ealond.
Soon, the court was at an uproar with demands for justice. The king gave a thin smile, promising to meet this demand. From the back of the crowd, Sir Martel watched with a disturbed expression, and he swiftly left.
~~~~
A cart rumbled out of Fontaine, leaving the city through one of several southern gates. The driver was a simple peddler, leaving with a variety of goods that he might sell to the many villages beyond the city. Leaning against a barrel with his feet over the edge of the cart, Damien lay half-asleep.
“You’re really a baron?” asked the peddler.
“I told you as much,” mumbled the passenger with a drowsy voice.
“I’ve never had a nobleman travelling in the back of my cart. Never even seen something like that.”
“You are welcome for this novel experience.”
“Shouldn’t you have your own carriage, and horses?”
“I do.”
“Then why aren’t you travelling with that?”
“They are at Montmer. If I am to use them, I must first travel hence,” Damien explained with annoyance cutting through the sleepy tone of his voice.
The driver scratched the stubbles on his cheek. “I suppose.”
The baron of Montmer gave a yawn and closed his eyes.
|
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|
Prayers Unanswered
Dvaros
Ten days after arrival, Brand stood in the courtyard shortly after sunrise. Hitherto, he and Jana had spent their time much like on the first day, mingling at court. Now, he met a housecarl to accompany him outside; for the first time, Brand would be leaving the castle, though without Jana.
“Haki,” Brand said with a nod in greeting.
“Arnarson,” the housecarl replied. “I was told to accompany you. Where are we going?”
Brand raised his eyebrows. “They did not tell you?”
Haki shrugged.
“And if I wanted to go to the harbour and set foot on a ship?” Brand asked.
“I would take you there,” Haki claimed. “Of course, if you think any ship would take you away, you’ve not learned much from your days in Dvaros.”
Brand’s mouth curled up, and he pulled his cloak around him. Another gift from the king. “We are going to the temple.”
“Which one? There’s plenty.”
“For Rihimil.”
“Fine.” Haki turned towards the gate. “Let’s go.”
Brand followed the housecarl, and together, they left the castle. Once outside the protective walls, the wind met them on the street, and both pulled their cloaks closer.
“Is it far?”
“Far enough you’ll freeze, not so far you’ll be tired,” Haki told him. He walked without shield, but he carried his axe in the right hand, ready to fight at moment’s notice. “Tell me, landstrider, why do all you carls of the Star fight with swords? Why never the axe?”
Brand smiled briefly. “When we get back, I will be happy to show you.”
“I recall you tried to do that the other day with little luck.”
“I did not want to embarrass you in front of the other housecarls.”
Haki snorted in response, and they continued through the city. “You’re the strangest jarl I’ve met.”
“I am not a jarl.”
“That’s probably why.”
Now it was Brand’s turn to exhale through his nose in a small display of amusement.
“Why Rihimil?” asked Haki. “You hope he will make you good enough to fight with swords? Not enough prayers in the world for that.”
“He is my protector,” Brand explained. “I owe him my gratitude. I may own nothing worth giving the temple, but I can at least offer my prayers.”
Soon, they reached the sanctuary dedicated to the lord of the Divines. “I’ll wait outside,” Haki said while Brand entered.
The blackrobes greeted Brand quietly, leaving him alone. The temple was modest, but a handful of priests and acolytes could be expected to live here. The altar lay with meagre offerings. Most islanders would pay tribute to Disfara, goddess of the sea and protector of Thusund; only drakonians and those with affinity for Rihimil, such as soldiers of the Order, came here.
Brand knelt by the altar and leaned forward until his brow touched the feet of the statue upon it. “Thank you, great Rihimil, that you have safeguarded me through peril. I ask your blessing and protection, as you have granted it so far. I can offer nothing but my praise, and so it shall be yours. From a willing heart, my prayers and praise shall always reach out towards you.”
Brand rose and left the small temple. On the steps outside, Haki awaited him. “You should pray to Disfara,” the housecarl cautioned the dragonborn as they began walking. “If nothing else to thank her for your safe journey to Dvaros.”
“I did so, soon after we arrived,” Brand replied. “Given our rough journey to Thusund, I would not have dreamt of slighting the goddess.”
“Milord! Captain!” a voice called out.
Brand froze in his tracks. He turned around, and his face lit up. “I cannot believe it!” From down the street, Geberic and Glaukos came swiftly. As they reached their lord, they both bowed their heads. For his part, Brand grabbed each of them by the shoulder while Haki looked on bemused. “How?” he asked with incredulity. “I have scarcely been back a fortnight, yet already, you have found me.”
“We waited in Portesur as agreed,” Geberic explained. “Yet when months passed and you didn’t return, we decided to split up. Alaric and Gwen remained there while this barrel of laughs went with me to Herbergja.” He nodded at Glaukos, who merely growled in response. “We figured, you might find your way back to that city instead of Portesur.”
“But how did you find me in Dvaros?” asked Brand.
“Me and Glaukos, we spent our time at the port, hoping for tidings. A week ago or so, a ship comes from Dvaros telling all how someone named Arnarson has come. Not that this fellow knew who that was,” Geberic added with a sly smile at Glaukos, whose growling intensified. “Once I explained the nature of the name, we got on the next ship to Dvaros.”
“It must be the gods that we should find each other again,” Brand considered with a broad smile.
“Pardon me saying it, but that was also me,” Geberic continued. “We tried to get into the castle, but we weren’t exactly welcome.” He glanced demonstratively at Haki. “So I told Glaukos that our good captain is a pious man, and he’s sure to visit the temple sooner or later. We’ve been waiting here for a few days now. Of course, Glaukos wanted to storm the castle on his own, but thankfully, we followed my instinct, not his.”
“It is good you came, captain, for his sake. Another day alone in his company and I would have strangled him.” Nothing about Glaukos’ brusque expression suggested this was a jest.
“Be at ease, my good men,” Brand told them. “You have done well to find me despite the difficulties. I shall certainly be at ease knowing you are by my side.”
Haki cleared his throat, and the other men looked at the housecarl. “I’m touched by this reunion, but my task is to accompany you here and back to the castle. I’m not supposed to pick up strays and bring them home.”
“The choice may not be yours,” Glaukos spoke. His voice was quiet but menacing.
“Be calm,” Brand commanded. “There is some truth in it. I will seek leave to have you both join me at court, but Haki is right. Until that happens, we cannot expect that you will be allowed to enter the castle. You will have to wait.”
Glaukos groaned at hearing this while Geberic glared at the housecarl. “After all the months we’ve despaired, thinking you were dead!” exclaimed the greybeard. “Now this islander tells us off, and we’re to skulk away, leaving you alone?”
“Why don’t you try fighting one of the king’s housecarls in the king’s own city,” Haki suggested with a tight grip on his axe.
“Peace,” Brand declared. “You are both among the finest soldiers I know. You can wait if you must. If you make yourselves known to the blackrobes, I will send word for you.”
“The blackrobes?” Geberic frowned.
“Trust me, there are none to move messages faster than them,” the young dragonborn claimed. He glanced at Haki. “They will know if need be. For now, be patient a little longer.”
“As you command, milord.” Despite the words, Geberic sounded reluctant.
“See you soon, captain.” Glaukos bowed his head, and the four men split up. One pair walked up the mountainside towards the castle, the other walked down, deeper into Dvaros.
~~~~
Once back at the palace, Brand bid Haki farewell and went straight to the royal library. Inside, he found Jana reading. She looked up as he entered, but he continued past her. “I must speak with the Dwarf. Is he inside?”
“He is,” she confirmed. “What is amiss?”
“I will tell you both if you wish.”
Jana rose to follow Brand, who knocked on the door to the inner room. “Who is there?” asked an old voice from inside.
“Adalbrand and Lady Jana.”
“Please, enter.” They did so, finding the blind librarian. He was reading in his manner, letting his fingers run over carvings in wood to deduce their shape and meaning. He put the rune-stave away. “What brings such illustrious guests to my chamber?”
“I must ask a favour to be granted,” Brand admitted.
“Again? How many temples are you to visit?”
“A favour of a different nature. In town, I had the good fortune to meet two of my old companions. They have served me with honour and loyalty, and they would only add dignity to any court.”
“I see your direction,” Gnupa mumbled.
“I would ask that they be given leave to enter the castle as well.”
“That is not my decision to make,” the Dwarf claimed.
“But you could get the king’s consent,” Brand argued.
“I could ask, but I already know his answer. You may be his guest, but it does not extend to soldiers formerly in your employ.”
“They are not soldiers,” Brand said with gritted teeth. “They are my loyal companions, bound by honour, not by silver.”
“Be that as it may, you are not a lord on these isles,” Gnupa retorted. “You have no claim to a personal guard, and the king’s men already extend their protection to you.”
“Does it extend to Lady Jana as well?” Brand continued. “What happens when spring arrives?” He lowered his voice. “When her father’s armies land, how long until she becomes a target?”
“Brand,” Jana interjected, but it did not stop him.
“It only takes one housecarl to take his anger out on her, or one jarl to consider improving his fortunes by selling her out.”
Gnupa regarded the dragonborn with his blind eyes. “None would dare when she is under the king’s protection. You may not hold it in much regard, but do not expect the king to agree with you.”
“In that case, if the lady’s safety cannot be guaranteed to my satisfaction, the king should not expect me to agree to any of his plans.”
“Brand, it is enough. Let us leave.”
“If you are displeased with the freedom and favours so far shown you, they can certainly be removed,” Gnupa told him with a cool voice.
“Brand.” Jana placed her hand on his arm and began pulling him away. Reluctantly, he followed her out of the room.
~~~~
Brand walked with angry steps onto the walls of the castle; Jana hurried behind to keep up. The sentinels glanced at them with curiosity, but let them pass until the pair reached a solitary spot where none would hear them.
“Be careful, Brand,” Jana cautioned him. “We are not in a position to make demands nor act in hostile manner against our few friends.”
“We are but pawns to that Dwarf and his master,” Brand all but spat. “I know the true reason for this rejection.” He looked at Jana. “They want to have free hands to turn you over to your father, once the war begins. They will make a sacrifice of you, once I am no longer useful.”
“You cannot know that for sure,” she claimed, though with little conviction. “Besides, how does anger help us in our situation?”
Any words on Brand’s tongue were stifled, and he gave no reply.
“If you intend to stay in Thusund and fight, should war break out, it will be on their terms,” Jana argued. “We cannot make demands,” she reiterated. “We can only seek to make ourselves useful, improving our position thereby.”
He stared at her. “Are you not afraid? We are so vulnerable. At a moment’s notice, we might be thrown in chains and sold to our enemies.”
She returned his look. “Brand, my entire life has been lived under those circumstances. I was sent to Labdah, traded like a horse. Yet on a whim, as the city burned around me, another took my place, and I was sent back. I have made only one decision in my life, which was to help you. It has led me here. A different place, but the same circumstances as always.” She took a deep breath. “You know war far better than I ever will, but you must learn to understand this type of battle. The court of any powerful ruler is just like a battlefield, except you do not fight side by side with others. Everyone will fight anyone if need be. Alliances are temporary, and friendships are frail. We must make ourselves into desirable allies, or we will indeed be nothing but pawns.” She exhaled, and her breath became fog in the cold air.
“Fine,” Brand said at last. “I acknowledge the wisdom in your words. But my only skill lies in battle. Until war breaks out, whether it be within Thusund or against Alcázar, I have nothing to offer.”
“I would not underestimate that your name might open doors otherwise closed,” Jana speculated. “Regardless, the king has already shown interest in you precisely for your prowess in battle. Even if war should lie dormant for months, our good host is already making his preparations, as any wise ruler would. We must make our own.”
“What do you suggest?”
“We have only spoken to edges of the court so far. Courtiers and housecarls,” Jana pointed out. “We must be more aggressive. We should speak with the prince and princess. If there is to be war in Thusund, it will revolve around those two.”
Brand took a slow breath. “Very well. Let us do so.”
~~~~
Most ships in the harbour of Dvaros were meant for trade. They had ample room for goods below deck and needed only a few hands to sail. Other ships were the long, slender vessels allowing many men to swiftly row across the sea, patrolling the waters. The ship that sailed into harbour near sunset was neither of those.
It had the shape of a longship, but it was far larger. It could hold up towards a hundred warriors with ease, though it only had about a quarter of that number onboard. Despite the fact that a much smaller vessel would have sufficed, this particular ship was expected. Atop flied the banner of Jarlinna Herdis, ruler of the largest island besides Eldrey, the king’s own fief. She was the first of the many jarls of Thusund to arrive for winter solstice in Dvaros, but the people knew that the others were soon to follow.
|
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The Path to Tread
Dvaros
After the failed assault, the defenders remained on edge for hours; dealing with the dead and wounded could leave an obvious opening for another attack. Yet nothing happened, and while they kept watchful, most of them sought sleep.
When they woke, nothing had changed. In fact, there had not been any sign of their enemy since the attack. It was a strange occurrence; hitherto, the besieging forces had constantly been at work trying to open collapsed hallways, sending arrows through gaps and windows, or otherwise made attempts to undermine the defences.
At first, it was considered a welcome reprieve, presumably born from the heavy losses sustained by Harald’s men in their last attack. But as the hours dragged on without the slightest noise made, the defenders grew wary. It seemed a trap to lure them out. Yet if the enemy’s absence were born of preparations for a new assault, perhaps through a forgotten, undefended passage, it would be even worse. In the end, a brave housecarl volunteered to investigate.
~~~~
He returned half an hour later. First, he had entered the courtyard. He saw no signs of the enemy except the remnants of campfires, splintered shields, and the like. Stepping up to the walls, none hindered his passage. He walked along the fortifications for a while, turned back, and finally ascended one of the towers. His eyes saw no enemies near the fortress; only far down the mountainside, by the harbour, could movement be spotted.
Further discussion ensued, as none could guess the cause of this. Another pressing question was how to seize upon the opportunity. Given how few remained, it would be pointless to take control of the outer fortifications; the queen’s scant forces would never be able to defend them. But perhaps provisions might be found nearby or procured in the city, should they suddenly find themselves under siege again.
While some set to work scavenging supplies, whether food, water, cloth, or anything else, two fleet-footed carls went down the mountain to spy on the harbour and learn what they might.
~~~~
Standing on the tallest tower of the castle and looking down on the courtyard, activity was so hectic, it resembled an anthill most of all. In contrast, the city beyond the walls lay dead. All the people of Dvaros kept indoors. The only exception was, as before, commotion by the harbour. Ships could be seen sailing into port, disgorging soldiers ashore.
“Someone’s coming!” shouted the guard atop the tower, leaning over the wall to alert those in the yard. “Small party, a score or so!”
“Get inside,” Brand told Jana. They had been turning a splintered cart into firewood – Brand swinging the axe and Jana hauling it inside. “Weapons,” he told Glaukos, giving the axe back to Haki while the heathman fetched their shields leaning against the castle wall. Geberic emerged, having dropped his bundle of wood inside.
“A score’s too few for an attack,” mumbled the greybeard. “They might be here to seek terms.”
“Or it is a trap,” Glaukos pointed out.
“Either way, if there is fighting, we retreat back into the castle,” Brand declared. He looked at Svana as she arrived, having heard the news. The few remaining jarls still on their feet came as well, including Herdis. They clustered around the queen, walking up to the ruined gate to look beyond.
“Should we join them, milord?” asked Geberic.
“We will stay back for now,” Brand muttered. “Until we know what is happening.”
The old sergeant looked up at the sky; it was not yet noon. “Better enjoy the daylight while you can,” he mentioned to Glaukos. “Just in case we’ll be stuck another fortnight inside the dark.” He only received an ambiguous growl as reply.
The tension perfused the air as the moments dragged by. Finally, commotion erupted by the shattered gate, where the queen and jarls stood, but no weapons were drawn. The besieged nobility left the erstwhile protection of the gatehouse to meet the soldiers walking up the street; the latter group was led by the carls sent ahead as scouts.
Moving across the courtyard, Brand and his companions passed through the remnants of the gate. Beyond, they saw the ostensible leader of the delegation coming up the road; he stood tall in heavy armour, signalling wealth and experience in war. The besieged islanders had a variety of reactions seeing him; relief was chief among them, and the jarlinna Herdis went so far as to embrace him.
“Lord Ketill,” Svana greeted him.
The man in question extricated himself from Herdis and gave the queen a bow while grinning. “Svana Kongungsdóttir,” he replied. “Svana Konungr,” he corrected himself, his smile growing wider. “We are not too late.”
“I never doubted for a moment,” Herdis proclaimed, standing nearly as tall beside her husband.
“While your arrival is not a surprise, I wonder how you managed to banish all our enemies from the city,” Svana said.
Ketill’s expression became grave. “If only so, though the truth is, they remain a threat. I should explain from the start,” he suggested. “We received word from the silrobes of the situation – many of the islands did, in fact. We gathered our ships as fast as we could and set sail for Dvaros, but we found the city fortified and heavily guarded.”
“Jarl Harald’s reinforcements arrived first,” Herdis muttered.
“We attempted an assault, but we could not take the harbour walls nor get past the chain,” Ketill explained. “Knowing their provisions would have to be low at this time in winter, we decided to blockade the city.”
“You lay siege to those besieging us,” the queen remarked, causing laughter, either from amusement or simply from relief.
“We landed troops on the island to keep them hemmed in over land as well. Without ships bringing in supplies or fishing boats going out, I knew they could not last long,” Ketil continued.
“And they abandoned the city?”
The nobleman nodded. “We made terms. We allowed them to leave in their ships in exchange for leaving the city in our hands. It would have been better to see your traitorous brother and his rebels slaughtered, but we did not know your situation,” he added. “I did not dare delay, out of fear that you might surrender the castle first.”
“A few more days, we might have,” Svana admitted. “But we must pursue my brother and above all, that villain Harald of Svartheim,” she continued with fervour. “Every day we wait, they will gather their strength.”
“Our ships are at your disposal, Svana Konungr,” replied Ketill. “All the loyal islands have gathered by now.”
“We will spend today making preparations,” Svana declared. “Tomorrow, we set sail!”
While the islanders clamoured in agreement, an unusual pair moved up the road to join the others. Neither of them hailed from Thusund by their appearance and garbs. Both wore great swords, though the woman’s hand leaned on the pommel as she walked, tipping the blade backwards to keep it from scraping against the ground.
“I don’t believe it!” exclaimed Geberic. “Milord, do you see?”
“I see them, though I am astonished as well,” Brand admitted, stepping forward to meet the newcomers. He clasped hands with Gwen, his kinswoman, and inclined his head towards Alaric, who replied with a bow.
“About time you two showed up,” Glaukos told them brusquely. “We sent you a message months ago.”
“And we left Portesur as soon as we could,” Alaric said in defence. “We boarded the first ship that would take us here. But by the time we reached Dvaros, we found a fleet blockading the harbour, refusing us entry. The captain of our vessel decided to turn back, but we convinced these islanders we had come to join their fight to free the city.” The kingthane gave a wry smile. “Not entirely wrong, even if our aim was rather to free someone else than their queen.”
“I’ll be happy if I never set foot on a ship again,” Gwen declared with a disgusted expression. “Constant movement, back and forth, and only blue as far as the eye can see! Revolting.”
“Not everyone found their sea legs,” Alaric explained gently. His eyes looked at the remains of the gate, destroyed by a battering ram many days ago. “Your tale looks more interesting than ours.”
“Come.” Brand nodded towards the castle. “You can talk in our chambers.”
“Do you have anything to eat?” asked Geberic. “I’m starving!”
~~~~
The castle gardens lay quiet. With the siege at an end, nearly all the inhabitants had hurried away from the keep, most of them to find their families in the city. The exception was Gnupa, the keeper of the royal library and advisor to the throne. He sat with closed eyes and his face towards the bleak winter sun.
“Who is there?” he asked upon hearing footsteps.
“It is I,” Brand announced. “May I disturb you?”
“I can enjoy the fresh air and talk at the same time,” the Dwarf assented.
“Everything has changed since yesterday,” Brand spoke, taking a seat on the bench. “If Godfrey was here, I would ask his advice, but he is not.”
“And I am the next best choice,” Gnupa smiled, turning his white eyes towards Brand.
“You are in his counsel, I take it. I was meant to meet him in Portesur, but that was many months ago. My companions have arrived from that city, yet saw no sign of him,” Brand explained.
“While I have known Godfred for many, many years, I am rarely privy to his thoughts,” the Dwarf admitted. “All he told me was to lend you aid, to consider you part of our circle.”
“He claimed he could have me reinstated as a knight,” Brand revealed. “While I went to Alcázar, he would see my spurs restored, and I could lead the Order’s armies once more. But without word from him, I am unsure what course to take.”
“I have no knowledge of Godfred’s current whereabouts, if that was your thought. I have not heard from him since before your arrival.”
“I assumed as much. I could stay and wait for him,” Brand considered. “I would not be idle in Thusund. The queen has a rebellion to quell, and Alcázar’s fleet could be on the horizon within weeks.”
“Your contribution would be valued, I am sure.”
“The other choice is to travel to the mainland. Either find Godfrey or take matters into my own hands. The outlanders will resume their invasion, from what he told me last year.” The dragonborn looked at the Dwarf. “Do you see reasons to support one over the other?”
Gnupa sat silent for a long moment. “As an islander, I would counsel you to stay. As a Dwarf, I would tell you to go east and destroy the Godking, once and for all!” The final words came with sudden ferocity.
“You know of him? I would not have thought that Thusund paid much heed to the outlanders.”
“The islanders do not, but my people do.” Gnupa exhaled, looking away. “He has been our enemy long, long before we came to these shores and delved the halls of Dvaros. We do not forget.” He turned his blind stare towards Brand once more. “We curse his name for all that he has stolen from us. Home, wealth, and kin.”
“If that is how your people feel, I would have expected to find Dwarves fighting the outlanders even now,” Brand said.
“Yes, one would think so. We have become withdrawn, a scattered people thinking always on the past and never the future,” Gnupa admitted. “But it could change. If news spread of victories against the Godking... perhaps we would finally awaken.”
Brand looked into the Dwarf’s empty eyes. “Thank you for your counsel, Master Gnupa.”
~~~~
When Brand opened the door to his chambers, he had to look down to find his companions. The furniture had been chopped up for firewood, so they had taken seats on blankets placed on the floor in the manner of Alcázar. Even from afar, lively conversation could be heard with retellings of the siege and all they had experienced. Despite what the merry mood could suggest, nothing but water was in their cups; every other beverage in the castle had been consumed long ago. Glaukos had already drunk more water in an hour than what he had received as his ration yesterday.
“Come, milord, have something to drink!” Geberic urged him, filling a cup from a skin. “This will taste sweeter than any wine from the riverlands, I dare say.”
Brand found a seat on the floor between Jana and Geberic, accepting the water from the latter. “To you,” he said, raising the cup as he looked around the circle. “More steadfast companions could not be found in all the realms and beyond.”
“Hear, hear,” they cheered, drinking as well.
“At the risk of turning the mood sombre,” Alaric spoke a moment later, “what will we do next? The islanders are sure to welcome us, no doubt, should we join their war. But as they depart already tomorrow, we ought to move swiftly to make our preparations.”
“I will not force any to follow me, but I do not intend to stay in Thusund,” Brand declared as all eyes became locked on him. “I should hope that our efforts during the siege have earned us some good will. Enough to secure passage back to the mainland.”
“And then?” asked Alaric.
“That is the question we must discuss,” Brand said. “Given what may lie ahead, I wish to know your thoughts. I will not ask any to follow me into danger with closed eyes.”
“It has worked so far,” Geberic remarked with a sly grin.
“Even so.” Brand raised a hand to quell the amusement. “I can think of different paths to take, and each has its own kind of hardships. Should any of you have concerns, I would rather they be voiced now than later.”
“What paths?” asked Gwen.
“I can think of three options. We sail to Herbergja or Portesur and await news from allies, giving us a better idea of what we may accomplish. Or,” Brand continued, “we continue directly to Hæthiod. We join up with Sir William once more to resume the fight.”
“Better to act than sit around and wait,” Glaukos declared in his brusque fashion.
“I have no interest in war for its own sake,” Alaric spoke, “but I have spent enough time waiting in harbours for news.”
“What is the third option, milord?” asked Geberic.
Brand exhaled, taking his time to reply. “It does not suit me either to sit idle and wait, but last time, my presence in Hæthiod caused an issue. The Order will not follow a knight whose spurs have been taken from him. More than that, the protracted war in Adalrik is costing soldiers and supplies that the Order needs in Hæthiod.”
“You sound as if you have a solution in mind, yet you hesitate to reveal it,” Jana pointed out.
“I can think of only one way, yet it bears the highest risk,” Brand admitted. “The lord protector must be removed. Given his power, this would be exceedingly difficult. And failure would see us executed for high treason.”
His companions sat in silence, digesting the audacious proposal. “How can this be done, my lord?” Alaric finally asked. “Middanhal must be swarming with troops.”
“If we would even get that far,” Geberic added.
“We would need help,” Brand granted. “From any friends or allies we might still have. It would require meticulous planning and flawless execution. I have given some thought as to how it might be done. Conceivably.” He hesitated. “Needless to say, I would not blame any for rejecting the risk.”
Around the circle, Brand’s companions exchanged looks. A highlander, a kingthane, a greybeard, a former Blade, and a princess of Alcázar. They had little in common, yet together they sat on the floor in the keep of Dvaros, contemplating a march on Middanhal without an army.
“I go where you go,” Jana spoke at last.
“I’m here because we’re kin,” Gwen remarked.
“My oath to you has not changed, my lord,” Alaric declared.
“I guess it can’t be worse than the Reach,” Geberic said.
Glaukos shrugged. “Why not? By my count, we should have died three times already. We might as well make it four.”
~~~~
Svana had remained in the courtyard, directing her people as they made preparations. The swift departure left matters hectic. The castle was in a sad state; not just the damages to the various gates and hallways, but much of the interior had been destroyed during the siege. Some had to be chosen to stay behind, overseeing repairs and garrisoning both castle and city in the queen’s absence. Beyond that, food from the arriving ships would have to be unloaded, else Dvaros might starve within days, but enough provisions had to be kept to allow the fleet to pursue Harald and Sven without delays. This and many other concerns occupied the queen and her attendants as Brand approached.
Seeing noblemen and courtiers swarming her, Brand kept his distance, waiting for a lull in the activities. When it happened, he quickly approached her before someone else could claim her attention. “My lady queen,” he spoke swiftly. “May I speak with you briefly?”
“Adalbrand Arnarson,” she said, turning to face him with a smile. “There will be room for you aboard my own ship. Given your valour during the siege, you have earned such a place.”
“I am honoured,” Brand replied with a short bow. “Yet I came to ask your indulgence.”
She raised her eyebrows. “How so?”
“My intention was always to sail to Herbergja. Now that the siege is over, I wish to resume that journey.”
“You will leave? In the middle of war?”
“I have another war to fight,” Brand declared. “Your battles will be fought at sea, my lady queen, where I have little knowledge to offer. I would be just another sword, and my lady queen has plenty of those.”
“More than your sword, your presence would be welcome,” Svana said. With one hand on the pommel of the sword in her belt, she stood a warrior queen, beautiful and fearsome at the same moment. “The daughter of Eirik Wyrmbane with the son of Sigvard Drakevin,” she proclaimed, making heads turn towards her. “They will be writing songs before we even set sail.”
“And I should wish to hear them,” Brand claimed. “But the eastern realms do not have the same strength as Thusund. My sword will not impact your victory already assured, but it might on the mainland.”
“Disappointing,” she admitted, “but I will not appear ungrateful to a man who fought for my crown, although he is not my subject. If that is your wish, find any ship in the harbour that is bound for Herbergja. Tell the captain that his queen commands him to bear you hence.”
“You have my gratitude, my lady queen.” Brand bowed, and the audience was at an end; already, other people clamoured for the monarch’s attention.
As Brand turned around, he almost ran into Jana, standing only a few steps behind him. “I did not realise you had followed me.”
“I came just now, wondering about the queen’s response.”
“It was favourable,” Brand reassured her. “You had no need to come out simply for that – I would presently have returned to the chambers.”
“Your companions are trading tales after many weeks of separation,” Jana began to explain. “My presence into their circle of familiarity felt like an intrusion.”
“I am sure none of them thought so,” Brand claimed.
“I am sure they did not,” Jana assented, “but I did.” She cleared her throat. “The queen agreed to let us leave?”
“Indeed.” All around them, there was the constant bustle of servants moving supplies back and forth along with the clamour of courtiers surrounding the queen. “Let us seek elsewhere,” Brand suggested, and Jana took his arm as they walked away.
Rather than enter the keep, they crossed the yard to walk onto the fortifications. Given the multitude of people on the ground, none kept watch on the wall itself; they were alone, if not by sight, then at least by sound as the noise of the courtyard grew dim.
“Remember when we first walked here?” Jana smiled as she made mention of the memory, though her expression quickly turned grave. “It was only a few months ago, but it seems like years.”
“Such long months with long days in the dark, and yet so much has happened,” Brand considered. “One king dead and another queen crowned. Countless skirmishes, a rebellion begun and, by my guess, soon to be ended.”
Jana shivered a little, whether from cold or emotions. “I shall be glad to leave this city and never set foot here again. The few happy moments I may have experienced are severely outnumbered by those of an unhappy nature.”
A moment passed before Brand spoke. “You are determined to leave Dvaros, then?”
Jana glanced up at him by her side as they walked. “Of course. I declared as much already.”
“I thought you might consider staying. As dreary as our experience has been so far, Dvaros is perhaps the safest city in the realms.”
“Not if you have already invited the enemies inside your halls,” Jana pointed out.
“Conceded,” Brand said with a wry smile. “But the rebels have been driven out, and I doubt Alcázar’s fleet would dare a direct assault upon the city. The danger lies on the mainland. If not from Alcázar in the west, then the outlanders in the east.”
“My knowledge of warfare is limited,” Jana admitted. “If you say that war will not come to Dvaros, but rather to the coast, I believe you. But it does not give me cause to reconsider.”
Brand ceased walking, and he spoke with lowered voice. “You should. I am an exile. Once I cross the border into Adalrik, the law offers me no protection. And given my intentions, once I reach Middanhal, that same law will see us all executed for treason.”
“Yet you did not seek to further dissuade your other companions,” Jana remarked. “You were swift to accept them joining you.”
“They have followed me for years through many other dangers,” Brand pointed out. “If previous experience did not dissuade them, nothing will.”
“Worse dangers than crossing the desert with scarcely any water? Worse than fleeing the gates of Alcázar with my father’s soldiers in hot pursuit?”
“I will grant you, those experiences rank highly where danger is concerned.” Brand bit his lip. “They are soldiers, and they understand that death is part of war. You are a lady, Jana, and only here because of me. You should never have been involved in all of this.”
“Yet I am,” she replied with a firm voice. “I have no interest in staying in Dvaros as an outcast, wondering each day if news will arrive of your execution. I tied my fate to yours the moment I passed through the orchard door of my father’s palace, Brand. For better or worse.”
He let out his breath. “Very well.”
“When do we leave?”
“We have some time. There is little point trying to find a ship sailing to Herbergja while the queen’s fleet fills the harbour. Once they have sailed, we will find a vessel among those remaining.”
“As you say.”
|
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"title": "The Eagle’s Flight - 184. The Path to Tread",
"author": "Quill",
"chapters": 245,
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"Dwarfs",
"Elves",
"European Ambience",
"Fantasy World",
"Generals",
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"Knights",
"Medieval",
"Military",
"Multiple POV",
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"Romantic Subplot",
"Soldiers",
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}
|
The Baron of Montmer
Montmer
A solitary figure trotted along the road that slithered through the small barony of Montmer. Approaching from the north, he reached the small castle town first, as the actual fortress lay further south. Curiously, he had one sword by his waist and another slung over his shoulder. His clothes had dirt and dust, signalling a long journey, and neither his hair nor his beard had seen comb or knife in a long time.
The town had no walls, and the traveller simply strode through. Reaching the modest square in the centre, he stopped at the well to draw water and refresh himself. He glanced around and saw a temple, built in stone unlike the wooden houses of the town. By the engravings, one could deduce the shrine was dedicated to Hamaring, though there was no sign of any whiterobes.
“You, child,” the traveller said, as a girl of about fourteen years approached to draw water.
“I’m not a child,” she protested, throwing the bucket into the well.
“I could not care less,” he continued. “Who is the priest at the temple these days?”
“Brother Pierre,” she replied, pulling the bucket up. “Who are you?”
“You will find out soon enough,” Damien mumbled. “Is he at the castle?”
“I guess so. He lives there when he’s not at the temple. What’s it to you?”
“That is my business. Is he a decent fellow, or does he only care about squeezing tribute?”
The girl looked at the stranger with suspicion and stopped drawing water. “I won’t answer unless you answer me.”
He returned her glare. “Fine. Answer me, and I will give you an answer in return.”
“He’s not a bad sort,” she declared. “He teaches us our letters and numbers. People like him. Is he a friend of yours?”
“I never met the man. What of the steward at the castle?”
“I don’t know,” the girl shrugged hauling the bucket over the wall of the well. “He doesn’t come to the town. Why do you care about him?”
“I want to know if he is going to cheat me. Have your taxes increased since your lord died?”
“You’ll have to ask my pa,” the girl admitted, “but I don’t think so. Are you going to trade with him?”
“Gods no.”
“Girl, hurry with that water,” a brusque voice interjected. A man appeared in the doorway to one of the small houses, staring at the traveller with his two swords. The girl did as told, leaving the well with her bounty of water. Stretching his neck, Damien continued onwards to the castle.
~~~~
A few miles from the small town, the keep at Montmer rose. It was about as small as it could be while still being considered a fortress, but the walls were in good repair, and towers rose to protect the gatehouse and various angles. The same could not necessarily be said for the sentinels; approaching, Damien spied only a few spears on the walls, and a single one guarded the entrance itself. As the traveller stepped into the gatehouse itself, at last the watcher became animated.
“State your business,” the guard declared while giving Damien a disdainful look.
“Fetch the steward of the castle. Tell him his master has arrived.” When his words spurred no action, Damien’s expression turned hard. “If you delay one more moment, I will have your head as my first act. Now go!”
Looking confused, and almost stumbling, the guard hurried away. Watching with contempt as he left, Damien walked inside the small courtyard. He looked around at the other people in the enclosure. Servants and workers ambled about, tending to various tasks with little vigour. A kitchen girl fed the chickens while an old man unloaded fruit from the back of a donkey. A guard leaned against the doors that led to the inner keep; his spear had the same restful pose.
After a while, an elderly man came with hurried steps through those same doors. His clothing and hectic expression indicated his important position compared to the common servants. He approached Damien, and after inspecting the ragged nobleman for a moment, he gave a bow. “I am Henri, milord, steward of the castle. You are the baron, I take it.”
“I am. So far, you seem to be the only man aware,” Damien declared brusquely.
“Forgive the others, milord, they did not know your description.”
“How did you?”
“The marshal of Ealond sent a letter to expect a warrior with two swords, along with a few other – remarks to describe you,” Henri explained. “Given how few travellers we receive, his lordship could not be any other man.”
“Fine. Have water for a bath brought to my chambers.”
“Of course, milord. Allow me to take you,” Henri said.
“I remember the way. I was born here.”
“Very well, milord.” A servant appeared, bearing a goblet of wine to offer the baron.
“No!” Damien made a dismissive gesture. “I will have nothing but water.”
The steward and servant exchanged confused looks. “As you say, milord,” Henri spoke slowly.
“In fact, sell all the wine in the castle.”
“Sell it, milord?”
“Every barrel and bottle. I will not have a single drop within the walls.” Damien stalked off, leaving his confounded servants behind.
~~~~
An hour later, with his master’s immediate needs and demands seen to, the steward trotted through the castle to enter another chamber. It did not have the few luxuries afforded the lord of even a small keep, nor was it small and shared with others like the servants in their quarters. It was a modest room but with a busy desk full of parchments and books, while tools of different kinds lay scattered about.
The white-robed inhabitant sat on the chair, whittling a stick. He looked up as Henri entered. “Well, this bear has turned into a ferret,” the priest declared with brief dismay, throwing the half-carved stick away. He placed his knife on the desk and looked up at his guest. “What has you in a fright?”
“He’s arrived,” the steward explained. “The baron’s here.”
“That’s good, isn’t it?” Brother Pierre suggested. “If the lands had been without lord much longer, our noble neighbours would have sent more than greedy eyes our way.”
“Sure, sure,” Henri conceded, “a bad ruler is better than none at all.”
The whiterobe raised an eyebrow, still looking up from his seat. “You think ill of him?”
“No, no, I meant in general.” Even so, the steward’s expression was distraught. “Given the description I received, I knew to expect… a rough exterior. Whether his behaviour is equal to that, I cannot say yet. But….”
“Yes?”
“He told me to get rid of all the wine. All of it.”
“Better that he dislikes drink than he is too fond of it,” the priest declared. “Besides, I’m happy to help get rid of it,” he added laughing. “Really, Henri, that hardly seems a reason for concern.”
“I suppose,” the steward said, though he did not seem reassured.
~~~~
The next morning, the steward knocked on the door to his master’s bedroom. “Milord, may I enter?” Some manner of grunt issued from inside, and Henri cautiously opened the door. He found the baron sprawled across the bed, wearing barely any garments. “Forgive me, milord, it is a few hours past sunrise, and I have matters to discuss with you.”
The baron rolled over to blink at his steward. “What is amiss?”
“Nothing as such, milord, but I thought I should explain the state of affairs to his lordship.”
“Fine.” Damien scratched himself on the back and filled a cup with water. “How are the coffers?”
“Empty, milord, I am sad to say. Your noble father, blessed be his memory, spent the last outfitting his soldiers for the king’s army.”
“A waste that turned out to be,” Damien muttered, emptying his cup.
“Fortunately, taxes will soon come in, and we will not lack for provisions.”
The baron rose and began to get dressed. “Good. Speaking of which, have half a day’s provisions packed for me, and have the best horse saddled.”
“Milord?”
“I need to get out from these walls,” he mumbled. “I intend to see my lands,” he continued with a louder voice. “Do not expect my return anytime soon. I will go hunting as well. I assume a bow can be found, or is the armoury as empty as the treasury?”
“No, milord,” stammered Henri, “but I thought we would go through the books today. There are many matters that could use your attention. Decisions must be made about your serfs and the fields they are meant to till –”
“That is what I have you for, is it not? You have handled matters in my absence so far.”
“Yes, milord, but I have delayed decisions in anticipation of your return,” Henri explained.
“That was pointless,” Damien remarked, pulling his boots on. “Look, Harry, what is the point of paying you if I have to do all the work still?”
“I haven’t been paid in a year,” the steward mumbled quietly, quickly continuing. “But milord, do you not intend to do anything?”
“I intend to go hunting.” Damien grabbed his cloak from the back of a chair and began beating the dust from it.
“Very well, milord,” Henri conceded, coughing as a cloud of dust filled the room. “I shall make the arrangements and have two guards ready to escort you.”
“Are you mad? What would that accomplish?” The baron stared at his steward with disdain.
“To protect his lordship,” Henri stuttered. “And a nobleman of your rank is expected to be accompanied –”
“I have seen the guards at this castle,” Damien sneered. “The only protection they could offer would be to delay my would-be assailants for a few moments. And how much game do you imagine I will be able to hunt with two louts traipsing after me through the forest?” He flung his cloak around his shoulders. “Now get that horse ready!”
~~~~
Three days later, the baron entered the gate of his castle again. This time, he rode rather than walked, and the guard hurried to stand upright with an anxious expression. Damien rode straight past him without even a glance, dismounted in the courtyard, and began removing the saddle. An aged man hurried out of the stables, almost stumbling on his old legs. Reaching both master and horse, the former threw the saddle into his arms. Struggling to stay upright, the old servant staggered back to the stable while the baron continued to groom his horse. He was nearly done by the time that the steward showed up, entering the courtyard with frantic movements.
“Milord, you have stable hands – that is, one stable hand – for such tasks,” Henri declared with a pained expression.
“A good knight takes care of his horse himself,” Damien replied brusquely. “You cannot ride to war without knowing your mount is in good health.”
“Of course, milord,” the steward assented. He shifted his weight from leg to leg. “And – how was his lordship’s hunt?”
“Miserable. I got a few birds, that was all.”
“If his lordship leaves them with me, I will make sure the kitchen prepares them,” Henri suggested.
“I already ate them. If you want birds, Harold, you will have to hunt them yourself.”
“I could not, milord. The forest and all its game belong to his lordship.”
Damien sent his steward a withering look. “It was a jest.”
“Most amusing, milord. Now, I am glad to see his lordship returned –”
“I am sure. Where is your vaunted stable hand? This lady is ready to rest,” Damien said, patting the horse affectionately.
The steward gestured wildly at the old man, beckoning for him to approach. “As I said, your return is fortunate, milord, as there are matters only his lordship may attend to. Matters above my station.”
“Such as?”
“Well, the lands have been without a lord for about a year, milord, leaving none to grant the serfs their requests,” Henri explained.
“What in Hel’s name would they request?”
“After the war, several villages have empty holdings that serfs from your other villages would like to take charge of, for instance.”
“Fine, let them. As long as they work the land, I could not care less about where they do it.”
“I understand, milord, but there are many other supplicants. Several of your people seek to marry, for instance –”
“What?”
“They ask your permission to marry, milord.” Receiving a look of disbelief, Henri continued with cautious voice. “Was his lordship not aware of this custom?”
“I have spent most of my years outside of Ealond,” Damien mumbled in defence. “Starting now, all that nonsense is over. Consider that law abolished.”
“I beg your pardon, milord?”
“Are you deaf? In fact, any such ridiculous law that leaves me beleaguered by peasants is hereby abolished,” Damien proclaimed. “Let the serfs do as they wish, as long as they work and pay their taxes. There, done.” He strode into the castle, leaving a crestfallen steward behind.
~~~~
The following morning, though not too early, the baron assembled his guards in the courtyard. This was swiftly done, as they numbered less than thirty. Although few, the group of soldiers seemed to contain an example of every type of man. Some were young, others old; some had beards, others were bald, some both or neither. One looked starved while another seemed well-fed; several had red noses, whereas a few looked unnaturally pale. Their expressions were as varied as their appearances, ranging from curious to cynical, naïve to world-weary.
Their lord spent a good while berating them about their posture, how they held their weapons, the state in which they kept said weapons and their armour, everything else related to their occupation as watchmen, and he also added a few choice remarks on their personal cleanliness.
With this out of the way, Damien commanded the guards to exercise around the yard before sparring against each other, much the same way he had been trained as a page. He only allowed breaks for water, keeping the men sweating as noon approached.
As all the guards were busy inside the yard, none stood by the gate. A farmer drove his cart into the yard, glancing around with a confused look. Noticing the newcomer, Damien barked a few instructions to his men and approached the farmer. “What do you want?” he asked brusquely.
“I am bringing taxes from my village, good master,” the man explained. “As I do every year, but usually someone hails me at the gate.”
“Address me according to title, villain,” Damien commanded in the same tone of voice as before. “What do you bring?”
“Asparagus, milord,” the farmer replied, hesitating as he spoke the title. “You are his lordship?”
“Of course I am. Who else has a title in this forsaken spit of land?” The baron’s face became twisted. “I never liked asparagus.”
“They are very good, milord, I promise. My wife makes the best soup in the village with these.”
“I can’t imagine competition is stiff,” Damien snorted.
Another cart rumbled into the courtyard, whose driver also seemed uncertain about the situation. “So that’s where the guards are,” he remarked, letting his cart come to a halt near the other one. “Never seen them do so much work before!”
“You may keep your remarks to yourself,” Damien said sharply. “If you disparage my men again, I will throw you from the walls.”
The farmer’s eyes widened, and he bowed his head. “Of course, milord, begging your pardon many times.”
“What are you here for? Why is my keep under invasion from all these peasants?”
“I’m delivering your share of the early harvest, milord. Beets.” The second arrival pointed at the back of his cart, loaded with beets.
“Let me guess, your wife makes excellent soup from these poor excuses for a vegetable,” Damien remarked.
The driver looked from the baron to the other farmer. “Does – does his lordship want my wife to make soup? At the castle?”
Before Damien could confirm or deny, Henri came running from inside the keep. “Forgive me, milord, I will deal with this matter at once,” the steward said, gasping for breath.
“Good!” Damien exclaimed. “I have old drunkards and young knaves that I must whip into shape, and these distractions do not help! Not to mention, these carts are getting in the way for the men’s next run around the yard.” Several groans could be heard from the soldiers.
“Of course, milord, we shall have them emptied at once.” Henri gestured for the servants that had followed him into the yard. Brother Pierre also appeared, bearing parchment, ink, and quill. While the workers began unloading the carts, the whiterobe marked the amounts being hauled.
“Should I expect more wagons to overrun my courtyard?”
“Only a few more, milord, but don’t worry,” the steward quickly spoke. “It is only the spring vegetables. Come harvest time, when all the grain is brought in, we’ll have many cartloads!” He coughed and added a few words quietly. “I hope.”
The baron scowled and reached one hand into the nearest cart, pulling out a beet. “With vegetables? Grain? What am I to do with this?”
“Milord, we eat it,” the steward stammered.
“Why are the peasants not taxed in silver?”
“We have always taxed their crops, milord. They rarely have coin, and it’s simpler to simply take a part of the harvest.”
“So instead, I will have farmers and carts and Hel-spawned asparagus loitering around my castle,” Damien sneered. “I need silver, not carrots!”
“I understand, milord,” Henri mumbled.
“Come harvest, I will not have this spectacle,” Damien declared while gesturing at the carts. “Find out how much to tax them in silver.”
“But milord, what will we eat if we don’t get any crops from the farmers?”
“Buy it!” Damien roared. “Pay the fools in coin, and they’ll have silver to tax!” He stormed away. The steward turned around as well, and all the servants suddenly hurried to continue their work.
~~~~
In the evening, Henri barged into the whiterobe’s room. “Did you hear? What his lordship told me to do?”
“I was there,” Pierre reminded him, looking up from his parchments.
“He’s mad,” the steward muttered. “How am I to figure out taxes for all the crops in the entire fief? By harvest time? It cannot be done,” he moaned, pacing around the room.
“Be calm, Henri,” the priest told him. “I’ll help you. Such matters of knowledge and arithmetic are our domain. I’ll write my brothers in Fontaine. You would not be the first holding raising taxes in coins rather than crops.”
Henri ceased his frantic movements. “Thanks. That will be a help.”
“You know, it might not be a bad idea either.”
“What is?”
The priest placed the tip of his quill over the inkwell, careful to avoid any spill. “Paying the peasants in coin and taxing them in coin, it might help to increase commerce.”
“What? How?”
“Trade between goods is limiting,” Pierre explained. “But when everyone has coin to buy and sell, none are limited to only selling their goods to those desiring those particular goods.”
The steward stared at him. “What are you on about?”
“Look,” the priest said with the same patient voice he used when teaching the children of the castle village. “Suppose a farmer grows a field of carrots and he needs wool. Many may wish to buy his carrots, but they can only pay him in other goods he has no need for. His only option is to find a shepherd with wool to sell, who wants carrots. It makes trade much more difficult.”
“But,” the steward interjected with a smug expression, “any farmer will have a sheep of his own, even the serfs! He won’t have any need to trade for wool.”
“Fine, say he needs lumber to build a fence. Since the forest belongs to the baron, our farmer can only buy from him. And if the baron has no interest in vegetables? The farmer has no way to pay his lordship or buy the lumber he needs.”
“He does seem to dislike vegetables,” Henri admitted.
“But if everyone buys and sells with coin, there is no issue. The farmer can sell his carrots to any man and use the silver to buy timber from the baron.”
An expression of distaste ran across the steward’s face. “You tricked me into listening to one of your whiterobe lectures.” He turned around and walked out of the room.
“Stagnation is death,” Pierre called out after him, reciting a tenet of his order. “The only path to improvement is change!”
|
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|
The Carven City
Dvaros
They sailed through the nights, as the wind allowed; the oarsmen needed sleep, after all. The stars provided guidance for the captain or his helmsman, as they steered the longship across the open sea of Drake Run.
On the second day, small islands could be spotted on the horizon. All of them had their villages and towns, little harbours of fishing boats and moored longships, and each isle was ruled by its own jarl. The ship from Fortönn paid them no heed, having enough supplies to continue to the journey unimpeded. With skill, the captain led the vessel through the straits between the islands, barely losing speed.
Near sunset, Eldrey came into sight. It was by far the largest island in the kingdom of the thousand isles, and it gave home to Dvaros, the capital. Darkness fell, but this proved no hindrance. Lighthouses along the cliffs of Eldrey provided warning, letting the ship sail along the coast without danger.
Brand woke early in the morning, before sunrise, as the ship’s boy woke the captain sleeping nearby. “Helmsman says it’s time to signal the dogs, captain,” the lad told his master, who grunted in reply and got up.
Moving through the rows of men sleeping where possible, the captain replaced the helmsman by the stern. Sitting down, one hand on the helm, the master of the vessel took the horn hanging around his neck, but he did not blow it yet.
Brand looked ahead and saw not one, but two lights in the distance. The ship’s boy, noticing him awake, moved closer. “The hounds of Dvaros,” he explained.
“The lighthouses that guard the entrance,” Brand realised. “I have heard of them.”
“They’re a sight to be sure,” the boy nodded. “Tall as mountains, each holding a torch that burns to guide us home. And the chain between them keeps the harbour protected, of course.”
“I assume we will not sail blindly into that.”
The boy laughed. “Just wait, milord, you’ll see. Or rather, you’ll hear.”
As the lights grew closer, the captain finally placed his horn to his lips. Long, drawn-out notes issued from the simple instrument, easily heard across the open waters. From the darkness ahead of them, the same crude melody came in response.
“The dogs relax their guard,” grinned the ship’s boy. “The chain is down, and we can enter.”
~~~~
Twilight had arrived by the time they reached Dvaros. As told, two great statues rose the height of twenty men on either side of the harbour entrance. Each statue showed a warrior. He held one hand on the sword hilt by his belt, and the other held a torch high. Inside, fire blossomed, guiding sailors towards the city.
With a gentle nudge of the elbow, Brand woke Jana as their ship glided past the statues. In the clear water below them, they could see the giant chain that during nights blocked the entrance for hostile ships. Normally, it would not be lowered before daybreak, except when given signal by one of the king’s captains, such as on this morrow.
The statues, given the ekename of the hounds for guarding the entry, stood supported by imposing walls that ran to reach the rising cliffs. Dvaros lay on a hillside that rolled down to meet the sea, surrounded by mountains. This meant that as they sailed past the statues, the city rose in all directions up the slopes.
With timber reserved for shipbuilding, near all buildings in Dvaros were made from stone. Some were built, but the oldest had been carved into the mountainsides that lay around the city. Superbly defensible with its secure location, this also proved the city’s only disadvantage; all available space between the mountains and the sea in the small pocket had quickly been used up, and further expansion was only possible upwards, slowly building with suitable stone quarried from far away.
For this reason, Herbergja had swiftly overtaken Dvaros in population; along with its location on the mainland, it was the economic heart of Thusund and all of Adalmearc. But Dvaros remained the seat of the kings; it was rumoured to be the oldest city of Men in all the Seven Realms, and none could dispute its dignity.
The crew moored the ship with routine skill. This early in the morning, the harbour lay quiet. Drunk sailors had already returned to their ships for the night, and the dockworkers had not begun the day’s labour yet. Their arrival was mostly overseen by cats, ceasing their chase of rats to watch the captain disembark along with four of his warriors and his two passengers. In the first light of day, the small group began their march.
The stone city of Dvaros possessed harsh beauty, but the grey and white left little room for green things to grow, making the settlement seem cold. Especially at this time of year, with winter solstice almost upon them. Jana shivered slightly in the breeze that always blew from the sea, and Brand took her arm to keep her close. As for the islanders, they did not pay much heed to cold or their captives, talking merrily about visiting family, alehouses, or both, now they had returned to Dvaros.
“I notice we are not in Herbergja,” Brand remarked pointedly at the captain, who led the way.
“You’re not blind,” he snorted in response. They moved uphill on streets hewn into the rock itself.
“What will Sir Hákon think of this when he finds out your deception? Or the marshal, for that matter.”
The captain laughed. “I serve the king of Thusund, not any knight nor the marshal. What can they do to me? They’ll still need my king’s ships to patrol the Teeth. King Leiknarr, on the other hand, would have my ship and probably my head if I let a dragonborn slip through my fingers.”
“I hold no titles nor lands. What possible interest could I be to anyone?” Brand argued.
“I can’t rightly say, which is why I leave the decision to the king,” the captain replied.
“What of Sir Hákon’s letter to the marshal?”
“If the king wants it delivered, it will be.”
The captain increased the pace, and the rest were forced to hurry along, continuing their march up the hill towards the royal castle.
~~~~
The king’s residence overlooked both city and harbour, visible from almost anywhere and a clear reminder of his rule. With half the castle carved into the rock, it was impregnable against attack from several sides, and tall towers guarded the rest.
The gate had barely opened for the day as they passed through. The captain left them in the courtyard under guard, continuing inside alone. Standing still, Jana shivered once more; the pale, northern sun had little strength in winter compared to Alcázar. Pulling his cloak around him, Brand extended it to shield her as best he could from the wind.
“What happens now?” she asked.
“I have little idea,” he admitted. “Perhaps with luck, we will be sent on our way to Herbergja again.”
“Dvaros or Herbergja, it makes little difference to me as such. I am a stranger either way. But any chance that we might retreat to the wide forests of Vidrevi seems lost,” she considered, looking up at him.
“Maybe not,” he muttered with little conviction.
“If your arrival could not be kept secret on that little island, it will surely already have spread through this city. Every oarsman aboard that ship would have told the news. People will know you have returned to the realms, Brand. Friends and enemies alike.”
He was spared having to reply by the return of the captain, along with a man clad in fine clothes. “I am the steward of this castle,” the latter explained. “You are guests of King Leiknarr. Please follow me.” He turned around to walk back into the fortress, expecting to be obeyed. Looking at the captain and his warriors, Brand took Jana’s arm and followed the steward.
They did not walk far, entering a hall of some size with many doors allowing for traffic in every direction through the castle. The steward gestured for them to stop and bade them wait for a moment, disappearing into a hallway.
The pair stood alone, unguarded, while the castle slowly woke from sleep around them. Servants could be heard in the distance, preparing the day’s tasks. “I suppose leaving is not much of an option,” Jana mused.
Brand shook his head a little. “Even if we could hide somewhere in the city, we would never find passage off the island. They leave us unwatched because we have no choice but to stay.”
“If they offer me a bath, I will make no objections,” Jana admitted.
The steward returned with a male and female servant, clapping his hands. “As the king’s honoured guests, I am happy to extend his hospitality.” He spoke this with a blank expression and slightly bored tone of voice. “If you will follow these good people, they will ensure baths are prepared and – new sets of clothing.” The final words came with a raised eyebrow directed at the rags they currently wore. In contrast to the steward’s disinterested manner, Jana lit up into a smile and almost skipped as she followed the female servant deeper into the castle. Less enthusiastic and glancing around at every side, Brand followed the male attendant.
~~~~
An hour later, they met up again. Both had been able to wash away the dust of long journeys, and Jana’s hair had been brushed and braided by deft hands. She wore a simple dress of same cloth and cut as any servant; likewise, Brand wore an undyed, woollen tunic as used by the common folk of the castle.
“Anything amiss?” Brand asked quietly as yet another servant led them through corridors.
“On the contrary, I was well treated. Though I am starving. You?”
“So far, we have been met with hospitality,” Brand granted. “Except that we cannot consider ourselves free to leave, of course.”
“These island people seem to have affinity for your name,” Jana considered. “Maybe this king of theirs shares the sentiment.”
“I will keep my hope in reserve until we actually meet him,” her companion muttered.
They moved into the deeper parts of the castle, carved into the mountain until they were in fact underground. No windows could provide light; a few scarce lamps burned day and night, casting long shadows down the hallways. The servant led them into a cold room with bookshelves along the walls, ostensibly the king’s library. He did not go further, but gestured for the pair to proceed to an inner chamber.
They did so, finding themselves in what appeared to be a study or scriptorium of sorts. A few writing desks held ink and quills along with scattered pieces of parchment and books in different stages of completion. More curiously, a short person sat waiting for them. In front of him stood a table with two stools by it, and food had been placed on the table.
“Welcome. I am Gnupa, keeper of the king’s library.” He rose to incline his head in their direction. Apart from his short stature, standing about as tall as Jana, his skin had a brown tone except where marked with dye to form runes. With his sleeves slightly rolled back, protecting them from the ink stains that dotted his fingers, they saw the tail end of such markings by his wrists. His right ear held a golden ring in the manner of all Dwarves. Lastly, his eyes held no dark, and he stared in their direction without seeing; he was blind.
Jana made half a bow before she saw his face in the sparse light and stopped herself. “Well met, and thank you for your welcome, Master Gnupa.” Brand cleared his throat, giving no other greeting.
“Please, sit.” The Dwarf gestured in the general direction of the stools and took his own suggestion, returning to his chair. “I thought we might break fast together. I should like to speak with you, but there is no reason we cannot tend to our need for sustenance at the same time.”
Jana followed suit, taking a seat and extending her hand towards a cup of ale. She looked up at Brand, still standing. “Well, I am thirsty,” she mouthed to him, demonstratively taking the cup and drinking from it. A moment later, Brand capitulated and sat down as well, though he did not touch the food or drink.
“Forgive me, my lady,” Gnupa spoke. “By your refined behaviour and the sonorous manner in which you speak Nordspeech, I can only assume you are a woman of noble birth from Alcázar. Yet while I know your companion’s name, I am in the dark as to yours.”
“Oh.” She glanced at Brand briefly. “I am Lady Jana of House al-Saqr.”
Gnupa smiled. “Of course. Nothing less than a princess of that renowned city would do.” His smile turned to laughter. “This morning, I thought I should break the fast alone. An hour ago, I prepared to dine with a dragonborn. Now I sit across a princess of Alcázar. If this continues, Eirik Wyrmbane will be in my chamber by nightfall.” Even after he ceased speaking, he continued to chuckle.
“While I am delighted you find favour in our company,” Brand spoke with a flat voice belying his claim, “I wonder why the king’s guests are speaking to the king’s librarian.”
“Brand, drink something,” Jana whispered. “Remember the desert.” Reluctantly, he took his cup and sipped from it.
Gnupa, whose hands expertly found dried pieces of fruit, fish, and meat, nodded towards the food. “I apologise for the meagreness of the meal. This deep in winter, we do not have the sumptuous offerings that summer might provide. The bread, at least, is freshly baked.”
“At present, I will eat anything put before me,” Jana admitted, breaking bread to place a piece on her plate and another on Brand’s.
“You are kind, given what I know of the many flavours on offer in Alcázar.” The Dwarf smiled towards the direction of Jana’s voice.
Brand tapped one finger against the table. “Has the king expressed any interest in seeing us?”
Gnupa finished chewing a dried fig and carefully touched his lips with a piece of cloth. “The king will see you when it suits him, no doubt. I requested your presence for a few reasons. Curiosity, in part, but also for the very reasons you arrived in Thusund through the Teeth.”
“You are well-informed,” Brand said, though it did not sound like a compliment.
“If anything of note happens on this island, I am soon made aware,” Gnupa remarked. “My eyes may be useless, but my ears are not.” He grinned. “Besides, I was warned that you might make your way to Thusund and be in need of aid.”
Brand frowned. “Warned?”
From his sleeve, Gnupa produced a small rune-stave. He let his fingers run over the carvings. “Adalbrand is tied to our cause,” he muttered while Jana stared with fascination. “Lend him aid if need be. Signed only by a single rune that stands for Godfred.”
Brand exhaled. “You are a friend of Godfrey’s. You know of my journey to Alcázar.”
“The first is true,” Gnupa confirmed. “The second, I did not know as such. This,” he said, holding up the rune-stave, “was simply one of Godfred’s precautions, alerting his allies to be on the lookout for you.”
“Does this mean you can get us to Herbergja?” Brand asked eagerly, while Jana looked back and forth between the two.
Gnupa shook his head. “Breakfast is one thing, but I hardly have the authority to dismiss the king’s – guests. But you need not worry about Sir Hákon’s missive to Sir Asger. The good marshal shall be warned of the threat, what little good it may do.”
“How so? With months to prepare, surely Thusund and the Order can withstand the invasion under way,” Brand argued.
“Whether through misfortune or cunning ploys, we are poorly prepared,” Gnupa admitted. “Matters on the mainland are ill, and the Order will not have many troops to spare. As for Thusund… that is the king’s prerogative to tell you or not.” His blind eyes turned from Brand to Jana and back, staring past either.
“All the more reason I am sent to Herbergja, in that case. I am of little use here,” Brand claimed.
The Dwarf gave a shrug. “That is for the king to decide.”
Brand sat in silence for a moment. “A man cannot sail two ships,” he finally spoke. “Serving your king or serving the realms, you must inevitably place one above the other.”
“Do not worry about my sailing,” Gnupa remarked with his near ever-present smile. “It will take more than reciting one of our sayings to make me doubt myself. However, I must ask that you keep your tidings about Alcázar to yourself. News of an impending invasion could cause disruption here at court. The king’s hospitality is dependent on your discretion.”
“How generous,” Brand muttered.
“Do not let that keep you from enjoying your food,” Gnupa continued.
“The bread is good,” Jana added, glancing at her companion. “And you do not know when the next meal may come.”
“The wisdom of the poets.” The Dwarf helped himself to another serving.
With little enthusiasm, Brand took the bread from his plate. “Are we to be confined to cells once this cheerful meal is at an end?”
“Hardly. You are free to move around the castle. While I maintain this room for my own needs, the library itself is at your disposal. The gardens are rather cold this time of the year, but the lesser hall has a fire going during the day, around which storytellers and those of musical skill may gather,” Gnupa told them. “I am sure the steward has already arranged accommodations according to your rank.”
“No doubt,” Brand remarked, slowly demolishing his piece of bread.
~~~~
A while after his meeting with the king’s guests, Gnupa left his lair. One hand on the wall, he walked with careful steps through the corridors of the castle. Any who saw him knew to move out his way, and the blind Dwarf encountered no hindrance to his path. Any he met were given a cheerful greeting, usually mentioning their name if he heard the other person’s voice first.
His destination was another study similar to his own, though it barely held books of any kind. The desk had equipment for writing, but little else. The room also contained a fireplace with roaring flames; an old man sat in a chair slightly leaned back, warming himself. The Dwarf cleared his throat crossing the threshold.
“Come in, Gnupa. Warm your old bones next to mine.”
“Yes, my king.” The blind librarian made his way through the room, avoiding the furniture with ease that spoke of prior knowledge, taking a seat next to the king.
“Is he as claimed?” King Leiknarr’s voice sounded as tired as he looked.
“He is Adalbrand Arnarson, yes,” Gnupa confirmed.
“What do you make of him?”
“Impatient, first of all. Direct. Subtlety is not his skill, at least not in conversation.”
“Can he be of use to me?” The king’s right hand trembled a little, and he grabbed hold of a curious pendant hanging around his neck. It appeared to be a giant tooth, hanging in a silver chain.
The Dwarf considered the question for a moment. “I think he will balk at the thought of being anyone’s tool, but if given the right incentive, he can.”
“Will bait or spear work best on this fish?” the king asked.
“Bait, I should think. He seems proud and unwilling to yield. But if he is too proud to accept bait…” Gnupa left the remainder unsaid.
“What of the woman?”
“As reported, a daughter of the Kabir himself. Most strange. I did not press for details as to her presence or involvement. It did not seem prudent at this time.”
“A spy?” the king asked with croaked voice.
“I doubt it. She showed no interest when I used news of the situation in Thusund to entice her. Even if the Kabir would use his own daughter in this manner, it does not seem to be the case.”
“Keep her under watch.”
“Of course, my king. If she tries to make contact with any, it will be intercepted.”
“Good.”
Gnupa hesitated briefly. “She cares for him, was my impression. And while I did not personally notice him to reciprocate, I imagine he does. Her beauty was remarked upon by the captain of your ship, which no young man could be blind to.” The Dwarf smiled at his own words. “And our young dragonborn seemed protective of her during their journey, the captain also said.”
“Leverage,” the king breathed. Gnupa turned his face towards the flames, remaining silent. “You may leave.”
“Yes, my king.” The Dwarf rose and left the king alone to his thoughts.
|
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Council in Winter
Dvaros
The feast continued far beyond midnight until even the pale winter morning began to approach. Most found beds before this, including the king and many of the jarls, mindful of the council planned on the following day, even if Leiknarr had not given the reason for the gathering. Brand and Jana also retired early; as the night progressed, more and more eyes looked in her direction, and they were less and less friendly. Bolting the door to their chambers, Brand slept with his sword a few inches out of the scabbard and the hilt by his head.
Morning came without incident; Brand woke after some hours of sleep, soon after dawn. He rose, got dressed, and strapped his sword to his waist. Crossing the parlour, he knocked on the door to Jana’s chamber.
“Is it time to rise?” she asked a few moments later with a confused voice.
“Not as such. You may sleep again. I only require one thing from you.”
“What is it?”
“I am leaving. I need you to bolt the door after me, and only open it for me.”
“What? Brand, I am sure it will be fine.”
“Promise me.”
“Fine.” Commotion could be heard from within her room.
“Thank you. I shall not be long.”
Brand turned and left. He moved with quick steps through corridors to reach the library, only encountering guards and a few sleepy servants. He only stopped once he stood before Gnupa’s door, knocking rapidly.
“Enter,” came the answer after a while.
Brand did so, finding the Dwarf stoking the fire in his hearth. “Master Gnupa.”
“Lord Adalbrand. I did not expect your company. Certainly not at this hour.”
“I did not stay up late. Nor did you, I take it.”
The Dwarf shook his head, looking towards Brand with empty eyes. “Too old.”
“Yet I imagine you already heard everything that transpired.”
“Such as what? Drunken revelry and loud singing?”
“The jarls know. They know of the invasion coming from Alcázar. They all but accused Lady Jana of being a spy.”
As fire blossomed, Gnupa sat down in his seat. “You have a point?”
“I have not been idle these past weeks. Your king favours his son to succeed him, and some would look favourably on that. But a strong faction favours the daughter instead. The lord Sven might be a good choice in days of peace, but the lady Svana is the stronger candidate in times of war.”
“You have not come simply to tell me what I already know.”
Brand’s jaw became clenched, but he continued. “If your king forces the jarls to choose a successor, many will not support him. They may not join him in war, or worse – while the king is distracted fighting Alcázar, they will turn against him. He cannot afford to force the issue of succession.”
“You presume much, Lord Adalbrand.”
“The opportunity has passed. The jarls know of the invasion. They know the king needs their support, their ships to fight. He must delay until Alcázar has been defeated. To that end, I have a suggestion.”
The Dwarf stroked his beard, reaching just below his neck. “Let it not be said my ears are deaf. Continue.”
“Lady Svana is eager to secure her position and push her brother aside, but there may be one way to change her course. Keep strife from erupting and keep Thusund united while the war lasts. Your king must delay the choice of succession and divide his duties between his children.”
“Divide?”
“One child to rule on land, one child to rule at sea,” Brand said. “The lord Sven seeks to make changes to Dvaros and how the realm is governed. The lady Svana seeks war, which will be fought at sea against Alcázar. Given his old age, none would question that the king delegates his duties.”
“Your suggestion assumes that the king, both his children, and all the jarls would agree to this,” Gnupa pointed out.
“You have the king’s ear. If you can sway him, I have little doubt that the jarls will see reason. As for Lady Svana, I will speak to her,” Brand promised.
“I did not realise you held such influence over her,” the Dwarf remarked dryly.
“I do not, but I understand how she thinks. I believe I can find the arguments to convince her.”
Gnupa pulled on his beard. “The king may not agree. I think he fears that time is running out, and he is eager to see the succession handled.”
“If Thusund does not fight united against Alcázar, there may not be any succession.”
“Point taken.” The Dwarf exhaled. “I shall speak with him. If he agrees, Lord Sven will not argue, I think. That leaves Lady Svana to you.”
“Good.” Brand hesitated for a moment. “In light of yesterday’s events, I have a request.”
“Always pressing your luck, Lord Adalbrand. What is it?”
“Jarlinna Herdis all but accused Lady Jana of being a spy last night. Such ill words and ill thoughts will only multiply. She is not safe at this court,” Brand insisted.
The Dwarf raised one hand, signalling his disagreement. “She is under the king’s protection.”
“Master Gnupa, if I am to be of help in the coming days, I must have a clear head. I will be of no service if every moment, I fear for her safety. Even now, every thought in my mind tells me she is in danger, alone, unguarded.” Brand clasped his hands together, a fist inside the other. “It would ease my mind to have my erstwhile companions once more by my side, protecting her in my absence.”
“This again. All the king’s housecarls will protect the lady should need be. Two more will not make a difference.”
“It will to me.” Brand stared at the Dwarf, whose eyes could not reciprocate.
Finally, Gnupa sighed. “They claim that Dwarves are born of stone, but our hearts, at least, are made of flesh. If it holds such importance to you, you shall have your men by your side.”
“Thank you, Master Gnupa,” Brand spoke with relief.
“I will send a carl to fetch them. I know where to find them.”
“I should not be surprised at that. I thank you again.” Brand turned towards the door, but Gnupa’s voice arrested his movement.
“But a word of advice, Lord Adalbrand. If you truly care about Lady Jana’s safety, you should not reveal your vulnerabilities so openly. You might yourself be the greatest threat to her.”
Brand glanced at the Dwarf but gave no reply; instead, he simply left with hasty steps.
~~~~
Without wasting time, Brand went straight to the inner courtyard that served as a training ring. Despite late nights and early hours, the princess and her chosen housecarls could be found. The soldiers, perhaps due to older age or less sleep, did not seem enthusiastic as such; most of them moved slowly, squinting against the sun. One leaned against his spear, looking half asleep. Only the princess moved with vigour, looking unaffected by last night’s festivities.
“If the king’s daughter wanted you…” The housecarl interrupted himself by coughing, and he gave Brand a tired look. “You know what I mean. Go away.”
“I must speak with Lady Svana,” Brand declared loudly, causing several angry stares to be thrown at him.
“Friend, I will run you through,” the guard threatened in unfriendly manner while rubbing his head.
“Let him pass,” the princess commanded. “Early to see you, Lord Adalbrand, and on the morn of the king’s council. I wonder the cause.”
“May we speak with fewer eyes present?”
Svana ceased her movements with the spear and glanced at her guards. “I suppose these eyes offer little protection anyway. Leave us.” The housecarls did so, some looking grateful. “What brings you before me?” she asked once alone with Brand.
“I am here to advise you on how the crown of Thusund may be yours.”
“That does leave me intrigued.” She planted the blunt end of her spear in the ground and gave Brand a scrutinising look. “But you should not promise more than you can deliver.”
“Currently, the court and jarls are split. Some support you, others support your brother. There is one way to bridge the gap.”
“I am listening.”
“For now, you and your brother must share rule over Thusund,” Brand explained. “Let him sit in Dvaros while you take to the sea with the fleet to fight Alcázar.”
“You acknowledge that the South Cities mean to wage war upon us,” Svana said sharply.
“As you already suspected.”
“And your advice is that I should face the danger while my brother consolidates rule safely back in Dvaros,” she added. “I fail to see the wisdom.”
“If the division in Thusund persists, you will face Alcázar divided. If you agree to this, all the jarls will follow you to battle. The full might of your fleet will swiftly defeat this incursion,” Brand claimed. “You will return to Dvaros as victor. The people, the jarls, and the army will all shout your name in exultation.” As he continued, he did so quietly. “In that moment, who can deny you anything?”
She scratched her cheek. “I will give it consideration,” she said at length. “For now, I have training to complete.”
Brand bowed his head and departed, leaving the princess to her thoughts.
~~~~
In the afternoon, Jana sat opposite Brand in their quarters. Between them lay a board with strange pieces. It looked like chess, yet rather than both sides being equal in pieces and position, one player held the edge, and the other side stood arrayed in the middle ground. It was a game only played in Thusund and taught to Brand by a courtier; having borrowed the board and pieces, he was teaching it to Jana when someone knocked forcefully on the door.
“Who calls on us?” asked Brand, right hand crossing over to rest on his sword hilt.
“Us, milord,” came Geberic’s voice.
“Good,” Brand said with relief. He almost leapt to his feet, unbolting the door to open it up. Geberic and Glaukos strode in, the former wearing a grin while the latter was more subdued in his expression. The former Queen’s Blade looked at the heavy door and the bolt with approval. “Decent, though I wish we had a few spears for defence.”
“We must make do,” Brand admitted. “Lady Jana, these are my closest companions, Geberic and Glaukos. They have walked through death for me, and I owe my life to them.”
“Milady,” said the greybeard with a bow while Glaukos repeated the gesture.
“Lady Jana of Alcázar,” Brand continued as introduction. “You have something in common with the lady, as she saved my life in Alcázar.”
“We’re grateful,” Geberic told her, “seeing as the captain was foolhardy enough to venture without us.”
“If you had tried to sneak into Alcázar, we would have gotten caught on the first day,” Glaukos growled.
“I have heard much of you both, all of it high praise,” Jana assured them.
“That makes it egregious that the captain has never mentioned you to us, milady,” Geberic replied.
“I have hardly had the opportunity,” Brand protested.
“See what I have had to live with?” Glaukos interjected, glaring at the greybeard.
“Enough,” Brand commanded. “I must go. The king’s council will begin soon, and I wish to observe. You may continue to throw daggers at each other in my absence, as long as you ensure the lady’s safety.”
“One of us should go with you, surely,” Geberic objected. “There’s two of us, after all.”
Brand shook his head. “The threat is not against me. For once.” He glanced at Jana, who seemed on the verge of speaking, but she kept her tongue still. “I will return soon.”
He left with quick steps. “Well,” Geberic said slowly, “if the lady would indulge us… me and Glaukos are dying to know what happened to the captain in Alcázar.”
Jana gave a faint smile. “Let us take a seat, and I shall give you answers.”
~~~~
The hall in the castle stood filled with people. In one end, the king sat on a large chair, flanked by housecarls. His children were on opposite sides of him, some distance away. The jarls took up the middle of the hall. Some stood by the northern side, closer to the prince, among them Jarl Harald; others, such as Jarlinna Herdis, stood southwards near the princess. The remainder, including Jarl Roar, were dispersed in between. Courtiers lined the walls in between the guards, watching the council to satisfy their curiosity. Brand could be found among them, as could the silrobe, who arrived at court a few days earlier.
“Silence,” the king ordered with frail voice. A housecarl stomped the blunt end of his axe against the floor repeatedly until the noise commanded everyone’s attention. “I will not mince words. We have long suspected that Alcázar was building up their fleet to launch an attack. Now, they feel ready. Once winter eases, we can expect them on our shores.”
Predictably, the dire news caused a murmur among the jarls, even if the rumours had already been rife. The housecarl once more pounded the floor to end the clamour.
“Naturally, we are fortifying our defences. Furthermore, you are all called upon to assemble your ships. We shall defeat this invasion at sea before they even gain a bridgehead. These are our waters,” the king continued with a rising voice, “and these foreign dogs shall regret they ever came!”
Many responded with agreement and enthusiasm. Jarlinna Herdis, by the princess’ side, did not. “Bold words, but cunning matters as much in war as brute strength. Southerners are at this very court, watching our ships and learning our defences,” the jarlinna claimed. By the wall, Brand practically bristled.
“If you speak of the lady Jana, she braved great dangers along with my other guest, Lord Adalbrand Arnarson, to warn us of the impending attack,” the king retorted. “You cast aspersions on those who deserve your gratitude, Herdis Jarl. It reflects poorly on you.”
“The exile,” the jarlinna sneered. “You place great faith in dubious people.”
“The eyes of Thusund are not blind,” Leiknarr roared in sudden anger. “I will not be challenged on this! We have long had reports of hostility in Alcázar. The war is not in doubt. Nor must our response be. Our ships will assemble. We shall meet the sand-lickers at sea before they even have a chance to set foot on our shores.”
“Well spoken, my king,” exclaimed Jarl Harald. Standing near the prince, he stepped forward, approaching Leiknarr but also moving closer to the middle of the hall. “Unlike Herdis Jarl, we are some who stand ready. Ready to rally around a leader in this war. It is clear the choice must be Lord Sven,” he declared loudly.
As could be expected, shouts in favour and opposed resounded through the hall.
“Ridiculous!” Svana strode forward to stand in front of Harald. “I am the better choice to lead us in war!” Behind her, Herdis manoeuvred herself next to the princess.
“Quiet,” shouted Leiknarr with a raspy voice, and they turned their heads towards him. “It is the king’s privilege to lead the ships of Thusund or name someone to take his place. If I desired the opinions of jarls, or my children for that matter, I would ask for it.”
“What of the rumour that you wish to abdicate?” asked Roar suddenly, last of the great jarls to weigh in. “I see the silrobe stands ready to sanctify our oaths of allegiance to a new king.” He glanced at the priestess standing by the wall; she looked expressionless. “Yet it is the jarls’ privilege to choose whom to lead us. You have no right to impose your own will on us in this matter.”
The king sat silent for a while. His hands shook a little until he grasped the armrests of his chair, but his gaze remained firm on the jarls. “That is true,” he finally said. “While I live, I remain king. I have called this council to tell you all of another decision. I am old,” he admitted. “Too old to fight.” He looked at Svana. “Too old to oversee the changes needed to keep Thusund strong.” He looked at Sven. “I have decided to divide my duties between my children. Lady Svana will lead our fleet against Alcázar. Lord Sven will take guardianship of Dvaros, leading new works to expand the city.”
Whispers passed through the hall; the jarls, in particular the three most powerful, exchanged glances. “Lady Svana is the right choice to lead our ships,” Herdis declared.
“Victory is assured by my hand,” the princess proclaimed with confidence.
“Very well,” Roar assented.
Harald looked at the prince, who said nothing. “I will not object to this,” the jarl finally spoke, his fingers fiddling with his golden rings.
“Good.” The king’s breath came wheezing. “Prepare your ships,” he told the assembled jarls. “War will come once winter ends.”
~~~~
As the council ended and jarls along with courtiers dispersed, a strange mood settled over the castle. Relief that a decision had been made with the support of all the jarls, preparing Thusund for war; anxiety that it was necessary to prepare Thusund for war. With the sun already set by the time the council dissolved, the jarls postponed their return to their own islands until the next day. For this reason, all of them were present on the next morrow when word spread with the haste of a winter storm.
It was the chamber servant that dressed the king each morning who found his master. He called out for the housecarls, but there was nothing they could do. Their weapons protected against enemies of flesh and blood, but not against old age and cold nights. Leiknarr, descendant of Eirik Wyrmbane and king of Thusund, had died in his sleep.
|
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|
By the Grace of Disfara
Maleth
Maleth had neither size nor significance to be surrounded by walls. Various roads led into the town, with most traffic entering from the south. A pittance of farmland and pastures provided food for the inhabitants along with a few other goods; beyond that, most survived on the fish brought in from the sea. It was hard to see why there would ever be caravans moving between this settlement and Alcázar except for one reason. Maleth lay close to the treacherous straits known as the Teeth. Passing through those waters rather than circumventing them allowed swift movement of goods between Adalmearc and Alcázar and avoidance of taxes. As a result, the islanders patrolled the Teeth, but the lure of riches proved stronger for many a smuggler.
Situated a few weeks north of Alcázar, Maleth was the furthest end of the Kabir’s reach. In normal times, a small garrison was stationed here, mostly to raise the flag of the falcon; since the smuggling of weapons, iron, and timber had been convenient in the past for Alcázar, the garrison had no orders to interfere.
As Brand and Jana approached the town, they found the situation had changed. Scores of tents were raised beyond the outskirts of buildings. Hundreds of soldiers milled about, including a good number entering or leaving the town. Looking towards the sea, several war ships could be seen.
“Are they starting the invasion?” asked Jana.
“I doubt it. Not enough ships present for that. Besides, winter is upon us. I think they have missed their opportunity.”
“This is how you came to Alcázar?”
Brand nodded. “On a boat sailed by less than savoury characters.”
“Can we trust them to take us across?”
“We cannot use their services,” Brand explained. “They do not dock in this town, but on the coast. I am not able to find them again on my own, and given my lengthy delay in returning to Maleth, I doubt any of my contacts remain.”
“So what do we do?”
Brand took a deep breath. “We find a fisherman whose poverty is greater than his will.”
~~~~
They moved in a circle around Maleth to enter it from the north, where activities and soldiers were fewer in number. Jana rode on the horse while Brand held its reins, giving the impression of a married pair of travellers. Each time they passed any soldiers, he disguised his limp as best he could. They walked almost by the coast, seeking to reach the docks as soon as possible.
The weather was cold, and the wind came from the sea with a strong bite, giving them an excuse to keep their hoods up. They passed one group of fishermen’s wives after another, tying and repairing nets while giving the travellers sharp looks. Brand continued as fast as his leg allowed.
They reached the piers; Maleth only had a few. One had the expected assortment of fishing boats. On the other, great ships intended only for war lay moored on either side. The keels were too deep and the design too slender for a galley; they were built for the open sea and to transport men rather than cargo. On the deck of the nearest war ship, the two travellers could see plenty of soldiers and sailors; the latter did work on the vessel, the former kept sharp watch.
“Let us go,” Brand mumbled. Still with the mare in tow, they walked down the pier, drawing eyes; Maleth had few horses, and never on the pier.
“Who are we looking for?” asked Jana.
“A smaller boat. The fewer onboard we must convince, the better. While I realise how callous it sounds, we should look for one who seems desperate.”
They walked slowly while surveying their possibilities. “There. Four boats ahead to the right, the small one. An old man and a boy. They only got fish in the one basket,” Jana pointed out.
“Good choice.” They approached and witnessed the fisherman and his helper, aged around fifteen, push a basket of fish onto the pier. In the boat was another basket, empty. “Good catch?” asked Brand.
“Could be better, could be worse,” replied the old man. He gave a stare at the horse and their travelworn clothes. “If you’re travelling on horseback, I think you’ve come the wrong way.” He glanced towards the end of the pier and the ocean beyond.
“We seek passage on a boat,” Brand explained.
“I’m a fisherman, not a ferryman. Besides, no place here worth sailing to. You got a horse, you might as well ride.”
“Not if we wish to pass the Teeth,” Brand elaborated with a lowered voice.
The fisherman’s expression became guarded. “That’s a fool’s journey. If the storms don’t sink you, the shallows will. And if you get past the shallows, the patrols will get you.”
“We pay in gold,” Jana added.
“None in this town got gold unless by dishonest means. I don’t want coin with blood on them. I suggest you get going before I call some of these soldiers over.” He nodded in the direction of the war ship behind Brand and Jana. Already, some of those onboard stood at the railing, observing them.
“We do not offer coin nor dishonest pay. The gold is my wife’s jewellery,” Brand claimed. Jana took his hand, moving closer to stand by him. “The horse is yours as well. We clearly have no further need of it.”
Indecision danced across the old man’s face. “It’s too risky,” he declared. “This boat is all I have to leave my son.” He glanced at the boy. “If we wreck, I’ll leave him, his mother, and his siblings to starve.”
Brand withdrew the last of Jana’s jewellery from an inner pocket. “If he sells the horse, along with this, your son can buy a new boat, nets, and have more to spare.”
The old man stared at the gold glistening in the sun. “We need provisions,” he finally spoke. “It’s a long journey.”
“We have,” Jana told him. “Both food and water.”
“Abbi,” spoke the boy. “We will sell the fish. We don’t need more.”
The fisherman looked from the gold to his son. “Get ashore.”
“Abbi, what will I say when I come home?”
“Let my boy have the horse and gold,” the old man said. Brand did as requested. “I expect you want to leave now.”
“Yes.” Brand glanced over his shoulder. Soldiers were approaching from the other pier.
“Tell your mother I’ll be back when I can. Go, boy, now. Before anyone asks questions,” the father bade his son. Looking worried but acting obedient, the boy stepped onto the pier. A quick exchange followed as the saddle bags were emptied of provisions and Brand’s sword, while Jana’s remaining jewels went back in. “Help us cast off.”
Wiping his nose with a despondent look, the boy did as he was told once Jana and Brand had stepped into the boat. Brand took a seat by the oars while the fisherman used a pole to guide the vessel away from the pier. Once they were free of the other boats, he let the sail unfurl. Quickly, the town of Maleth began to shrink behind them; on the docks, a boy holding the reins of a horse watched them sail towards the horizon.
~~~~
Once clear of the harbour, they set a course to follow the coast north. Their boat was small and unable to brave the open waters, should the sea get rough. Conversation was sparse and revolved mostly around rationing their provisions. For two full days, they sailed north until the cliffs of Ealond began to loom in the far distance. Tall and unapproachable, they formed an impenetrable wall against the sea, giving the same protection as the Langstan afforded on land. With this landmark to steer by, the fisherman adjusted the sail, catching the wind from an angle on a slow course west.
With the wind less amenable to them in this direction, they took turns rowing through the day. Each night, they pulled the sail down to lower the risk of being blown off their course. The boat did not afford them much room to serve as bed. The fisherman, experienced to this, slept in a sitting position in one end, leaving the bottom of the hull to his passengers. With cloaks to soften the ground and each other for warmth, Brand and Jana slept curled together.
On the fourth day, they saw the end of the mainland. Where the coast ended, the Teeth began. Countless tiny islands and reefs rose from the sea; their brethren lay hidden under the water as sharp rocks that would tear wood apart with ease. Many a vessel, either for the sake of riches or desperation, had been chewed to pieces by the Teeth; driven by the latter reason, their boat now approached.
The wind picked up, blowing stronger northwards, and they were forced to pull down the sail. One at the oars, another had to sit at the stern with a long pole, constantly scouring the path ahead.
“I can’t take you much further than the Teeth,” warned the fisherman; it was his turn at the pole. “The food won’t last beyond that. As soon as we find a place to beach on the mainland, that’s it.”
“Very well,” Jana responded; Brand was busy at the oars. “We will make our way from there.”
“I don’t know what you’ll find there, but I reckon your husband knows the land.”
“He does. Well enough, at least.”
“Right then. I don’t want to leave you stranded, but I can only take you so far.”
“We understand.”
The old man hesitated while moving the pole back and forth like a pendulum, protecting the full width of the boat. “You paid me well enough not to ask, and you seem like gentle folk, so I won’t speculate. I don’t know if you’ve been forced to run from your home or that’s where you’re going – I suspect with a pair like you, both could be true.”
Jana breathed slowly. “We make our home wherever we go.”
“Right, right. I just meant to say, I’m sorry if it’s ill fate that drove you on this journey. I hope you reach a good end.”
“I am sure we shall.”
“It is getting dark,” Brand warned from his seat.
“We’ll drop anchor,” the fisherman assented. “Let’s sleep. Another day or two, and I reckon we’ll find our beach.” They did as agreed, letting the anchor steady the boat for the night and seeking to their humble beds. Around them, the wind blew harder.
~~~~
The rain woke them in the night, attacking them like pebbles striking the skin. The boat rocked, and the waves pushed, stretching the anchor rope to its fullest. “We have to get ashore,” yelled the old man; the howling gale drowned most sounds.
“To do so, we must raise the anchor!” Brand called back. “That will set us adrift!”
“The rope looks ready to burst,” Jana interjected. “We may not have much choice.”
“Drifting in this weather, we are more likely to run the boat aground,” Brand retorted. “And any of these reefs we may climb onto, they will be flooded by tide and rain.”
“Then we are no worse off than now,” argued the old man. “I’ve sailed my whole life, this is my boat! We do as I say,” he declared loudly. “Pull the anchor!”
Wind and rain whipping his face, Brand did as commanded with reluctance. His arms grabbed the anchor rope and began pulling. Immediately, the boat swayed heavily, and Jana grabbed one hand onto the railing, the other onto Brand’s belt to steady him. The fisherman meanwhile had grabbed his pole, trying to push against the sea bottom to steer the boat; they were in shallow grounds, for now. As lightning and thunder appeared, it became clear the storm was only increasing.
The waves began to rise taller and taller, tossing their boat about. Any attempt to steer was futile; they had no further influence over their fate. The ship cracked and groaned, pressured by strong waves and pushed against the rocks. Water sprayed over the ceiling, drenching them and filling the bottom of the boat.
The clouds parted, letting the moon illuminate the waters, but it gave them no aid; all three were clung to the boat as it tossed about. One arm around the plank that served as a seat, Brand had his other hand against Jana’s wrist; she likewise had hers secured around his. The wind had pushed her hood down, and her black hair, though heavy from rain, flowed behind her like the long leaves of a willow tree. She turned towards him, and he saw the droplets on her face shine with moonlight. Her eyes held fear, but her grip upon him was strong.
“Disfara, I beg you,” Brand whispered through the shrieking storm. “Me, but not her.”
The harsh sound of metal striking wood reached them. They all turned their heads in every direction, frantically searching for the source. It was the railing. Two grappling hooks had sunk their fangs into the planks. Like a phantom sailing out of legends, a ship appeared. It was slender and long, allowing many men to row an oar, while the keel was shallow, letting it navigate the waters of the Teeth. Shields lined the railing, and hardened men, warriors as much as sailors, filled the seats. The sail was lowered in the storm, but atop the single mast flew the raven banner of Thusund.
The hooks pulled the fishing boat to the longship, and hands were extended to help Brand, Jana, and the fisherman cross to safety. Tying the smaller vessel to trail after the bigger, the islanders resumed pulling their oars, ignoring the threats of the storm. One of the sailors approached Brand, pointing at his sword and gesturing for it to be relinquished. Hesitantly, Brand acquiesced.
“You speak northern tongue?” yelled the man in Suthspeech.
“We do,” Brand responded.
“Good. I am captain of this vessel and have been charged by King Leiknarr to protect these waters. You will stand trial and answer for your unlawful presence. Sit tight,” he suggested. “The storm will continue a while.”
“Where will you take us?” asked Brand. “To Dvaros?”
The captain shook his head. “Too far. We go to Fortönn. Now sit! There’s nothing you can do but shield yourself from cold and rain. It would be foolish if sickness killed you after all the trouble we had,” he said with a grin, leaving them.
By his side, Jana pressed up against Brand. “What happens now?” she asked.
Moving closer to her as well, Brand looked ahead. The ship had turned to sail west. “I do not know.” As the howling winds continued, the pair entwined their arms around each other and shared the little warmth they had. With the oars pulled perfectly in unison, the longship ploughed swiftly through the waves towards the kingdom of the thousand isles.
|
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When Hel Approaches
Alcázar
Once more, Salim stood outside Jana’s chamber as he had done each morning for five years. Once her chambermaid had helped the lady and left, he stepped inside. He did not have to make his presence known; she immediately turned to look at him. “Salim,” she called out, sounding apprehensive. “I have something we need to discuss, and I am aware you will not be happy about it.”
His breath came like a growl through his throat.
She raised her hands in front of her. “Just wait. Let me explain.”
He shook his head.
“Just wait. I thought I could convince my brother to spare Brand’s life. Maybe I was a little naïve,” she admitted. “But the matter is serious, Salim. They mean to execute him. He could have days to live, or less.”
The mamluk shrugged.
“It does matter! Salim, he is my friend. I cannot stand idle while he dies.”
Salim disagreed, adding a few gestures.
“I do not know! Only that I will think of something. We were able to get him out his cell once. I am sure we can do it again.”
He asked a question.
“I do not know yet,” Jana reiterated. “We will find some way to get him out of the palace and – maybe on a ship that is bound north.”
Salim crossed his arms, staring at her. He did not look impressed.
Jana took a deep breath. “I know that helping a prisoner escape must carry a heavy penalty. I already thought about it, and I do not wish to involve you –”
He snorted.
“But I realise I cannot hope to do this without you,” she admitted.
His expression made it clear that on this, he agreed with her.
“Salim, please, I will never ask another thing of you. When this is done, I will be the most dutiful daughter any Kabir ever had. I will sit in this chamber from sunrise till sunset if you wish it. But please, help me save my friend.”
He asked her a question. When she did not answer immediately, he repeated it.
“I am not sure,” she confessed. She looked down at the floor, taking a few steps away. “Maybe I just wish to do something for once, to feel that I am important.” She looked at him again. “But I promise you, it is more than that. For years, I spent every day with Brand. I taught him our speech, and he did the same for me. We would play games, read stories together, explore the palace.”
Salim made no reply, but simply listened.
“When I left Alcázar, I buried him in my heart because I thought those days were gone. Returning to this palace, I found memories of him surfacing at every turn,” Jana explained. “Where we would always sit and eat. The trees we would climb in the garden when nobody watched. The walls where we watched the sunset over the waters. When I saw him in the hall, I thought he was a phantasm – that my mind had conjured the past or that I simply saw what I wished to see. But he is flesh and blood, and all my memories of him are flooding my mind.”
Salim exhaled deeply, but he did not interrupt.
“You remember how sad I was when we left for Labdah? You always thought it was because I was leaving my home. Which was true enough, I suppose. I did my best to forget. I resolved to grow up and accept my fate. And you were with me every step of the way, Salim, always there when I needed you.” She walked up to him, taking hold of his hands. “I need you one more time.”
He sighed, freeing one hand to make a gesture.
“I knew you would never disappoint me.” She smiled at him, and he scowled in return, but only in mockery. She laughed and threw her arms around him. He returned the embrace, preventing her from seeing the concern etched into his face.
~~~~
Jalil held a crumpled note in his hand. “I tell you, someone is plotting!”
His mother regarded him with cool eyes. “Obviously. I do not need a scrap of paper to tell me.” She reached out to receive it from him. “If you will let me read it, at least.” She unfolded it.
“The prisoner was gone for hours. Someone questioned him, or instructed him in lies. I can only imagine to further discredit me,” the prince declared.
“I suppose it was too much to hope for this to be signed,” his mother said to herself.
“This smells of Rana or those courtiers always trailing after her,” Jalil claimed with anger. “As if I have not suffered enough with this northern bastard, they plan new indignities against me!”
“Calm yourself, my son.” Her voice held a trace of disdain. “The harm against you has already been done, much in thanks to your own negligence.”
“The mamluk carrying this order was mute,” Jalil considered. “That must narrow it down. How many can there be of those in the palace?”
“At least thirty or forty,” his mother informed him.
“What? That many?”
“Your grandfather preferred it that way. It kept them from spilling any secrets they overheard. He had a cruel streak, as I recall.”
“Still, that gives us something to go by.”
“For what reason?” She stared at her son with little sympathy. “If this prisoner had spoken to anyone of importance, I would have heard word of it. Most likely, he was fetched to provide entertainment for some of the bored ladies in the harem, easily thrilled at the thought of a little danger. While I hold Rana in little esteem, the old witch would not have been careless in this manner, wasting time to have him bathed and given new clothes.”
“You refuse to take this seriously?”
“My son, I refuse to lend credence to your foolish notions. This note did not come from Rana, that much is clear to me. I have already made my own enquiries into the prisoner. While I once thought he might be of use, he will soon be executed, and my enquiries have turned up nothing of importance.”
“Nothing of importance? He humiliated me!”
“No, Jalil, you did that. And why did you even go near the prisoner? Did I not forbid you?”
“I simply asked his warden a few questions,” he replied with a sour expression. “And I uncovered something you overlooked, I might add.”
“Jalil, I grow tired of how tiresome you are,” she told him with an acerbic voice. “Leave my presence.”
He stood with open mouth; his tongue moved but did not produce sound. Finally, he turned on his heel and stormed out of her chamber.
~~~~
The Kabir gestured towards Labdah on the great map in his library. “First, their ships must arrive,” he told his son, tracing a line to Alcázar. “The mercenaries will be assembled beforehand. Then, the journey begins. Your first destination will be this island.” He pointed at the small island of Fortönn, sitting at the south-western corner of the Eylonde Sea and the kingdom of Thusund.
“Why this island?” asked Saif.
“Several reasons. The ships of the island kingdom that patrol the Teeth sail from here. Seizing the harbour will give us many of their ships,” the Kabir explained. “Most importantly, it will provide us an excellent staging point to invade the mainland. Once that is underway, our ships can stop for supplies on the journey to reinforce your army. Besides, we cannot allow the islanders to maintain a fleet so close to Drake Run. It would threaten all our reinforcements.”
“How strong is the fortress upon the island?”
“Our spies report the garrison is small. Especially as most of the soldiers are spent patrolling the sea. If you seize the harbour quickly, you should have little resistance taking the fortress.”
“Very well, Father.”
“I will send an advance force of ten thousand troops with you. More than enough to take the island and prepare the next step.” The Kabir pointed at the town of Maleth, sitting up the coast from Alcázar. “Reinforcements and supplies will be sent here, awaiting the fleet’s return. That should secure you swift delivery of both.”
“Very well,” Saif reiterated. He looked at the map and the island chain known as the Teeth. “Could our ships not traverse these straits? We would have no need of the island, and reinforcing our army would be much swifter.”
The Kabir shook his head. “I have made several attempts to investigate this. Our ships are too large for those treacherous straits. The risk is too severe.”
“As you say.” The prince hesitated a moment. “Father, what is our goal? What is it we seek to win in this war?”
The ruler of the city looked away from his son to fix his eyes on Herbergja. “This. This will ensure our trade and keep our city safe. Once it is ours, we may buy all the timber we will ever need from the forest people further to the north – they have no regard for the islanders or the great king upon his throne.”
Saif studied the map. “We have spies there as well, I presume?”
“We do.” The Kabir nodded. “All the information I have collected will be sent with you. I have also a map of the city and one of the island. You will know everything needed to lay siege to either.”
“What of the islanders’ fleet?”
“Conquering the first island should pull a few teeth out,” the Kabir considered. “Furthermore, the islanders are divided at present. We strike at an opportune moment. They should not be able to intercept our reinforcements. Should it happen, the army I send with you at first will still suffice to take the city.”
Saif let a hand rest on the pommel of his sword. “It is hard to fathom the time is almost upon us.”
“Yet it is. It is time we remove these northern chains upon our city. When all is done, Alcázar will be stronger than it has ever been before,” the Kabir claimed. “Come. You must meet the captains of the mercenary companies that will fight under you.”
~~~~
In the afternoon, Brand was fetched once more while Imad watched with curiosity. This time, there was no bath or other delays; Salim ushered him to Jana’s chamber with speed, avoiding as many eyes on the way as possible.
“Jana,” he exclaimed with a subdued smile. “I am glad to see you again.”
“As am I, though my news is not happy. I do not think I can convince any with influence to stay your execution or even delay it,” she admitted, her brow and voice heavy with sorrow.
“It was always doubtful. Who did you ask? The hāgib?”
“My brother, Saif. He is now my father’s favourite, and we are on good terms,” Jana explained. Salim meanwhile moved to stand by the door and glance into the corridor beyond.
“I remember. Is there any other you might petition? His mother?”
“If Saif would not listen, she will not either. There is only one option left. You must escape.” Jana stared at him, brown eyes into blue. “You must.”
“I have nothing to lose,” Brand considered. “But how? You may have gotten me out of the dungeon, but they will know it was Salim who fetched me.” He glanced towards the mamluk. “You will both be held responsible if I do not return. In fact, my previous visit to you has already been noticed.”
“Then we should make our plans swiftly,” Jana declared. Closing the door, Salim growled in agreement. “I have already discussed it with Salim. We are convinced your best chance is to escape tonight while the palace sleeps. Tomorrow it may already be too late.”
“How will I get out of my cell?”
Jana looked at her protector. “Salim will ensure that.”
Brand followed her gaze. “The guard and the jailer will both have to die, else they will reveal your involvement. Are you prepared to have their blood on your hands?”
Salim walked over to place one hand on Jana’s shoulder. “For me, he is,” she explained.
Brand gave a nod. “In that case, I thank you. I know the palace well enough – if only I can get out of my cell, I think I can escape. There is still the orchard door, is there not?”
Salim nodded, adding a gesture. “With one guard,” Jane said.
“I can handle one guard,” Brand claimed.
“And what after? A ship to take you north?”
He shook his head. “Trusting a captain to let me stow away is far too dangerous. Any that I might approach would be more liable to turn me in. I will have to steal a horse from the stables and leave the city through a gate. With luck, my escape will not be noticed before the gates open for the day.”
Salim’s face expressed his doubt at such luck, but he kept his hands still.
“Very well. Tonight, Salim will let you out of your cell.”
The mamluk added a flurry of extra motions. “He also suggests that he will deal with the guard in the orchard while you steal the horse,” Jana said slowly, interpreting as Salim continued. “It will be faster, and the guard will not suspect a mamluk.”
“If you are willing to do so, I am in no position to reject,” Brand confessed, and he bowed his head deeply to Salim. “I am grateful.” An expression ran across his face. “There is something I have forgotten.”
“What is it?”
“When I was taken captive, I lost my sword.”
“Brand, there are plenty of swords in this city alone.”
“No, no.” He shook his head fervently. “This is a sacred blade. If I lose it, I am cursed.”
“Brand! You cannot be serious!”
“If you can find out where it is, I will get it myself,” he declared.
“You are willing to take such a risk for a sword? A piece of metal?” Jana asked with disbelief.
“Jana, the gods intervene to see me escape certain death,” Brand explained. Salim coughed. “I cannot dishonour my oath to them. I must have this sword.”
The princess of Alcázar stared at the prisoner. “Very well,” she said at length, though her tone did not agree with her words. “My brother has your sword. But there will be a dozen guards tonight between you and his chamber.”
“If you only tell me where it is, I can find my way,” Brand claimed.
“No, you will get caught, and all this will be for nothing.” She scowled for a moment. “I forgot how stubborn you are.”
“The risk is mine. I am prepared to take it.”
“No, that is foolish. I will get it,” Jana declared. Salim frowned and his fingers moved in the air, which she ignored. “The guards will not question my presence. I will get your stupid sword and bring it to you in the orchard.”
“Jana, I cannot allow –”
“You are a prisoner, Brand. What you can and cannot allow is very limited. Besides, I can be just as stubborn as you.” She gave him a challenging stare.
“Salim?” Brand turned to the other man for aid.
The mamluk raised up his hands in defeat.
“I suppose I must accept. And lest you think I am not grateful – thank you, Jana, for getting my stupid sword.”
Salim touched Jana on the shoulder. Letting his thumb and finger meet to make a circle, he lowered his hand. “Salim is saying the sun will soon go down, by which he means that we are running out of time.”
“Yes. Please return me to my cell, Master Salim.”
“Wait,” Jana bade them both. “I am sorry, Salim, you will have to bear this.” She flung her arms around Brand in a tight embrace. “You make sure that you escape,” she mumbled. “Do not let me watch you hang from the gallows.”
A little awkward, Brand returned the gesture. “I can promise you that,” he responded, pulling himself free. “I am of noble blood, after all – if anything, it will be the axe for me.”
She choked a little, either from laughter or tears. “Go,” she told both him and Salim. “Before you are the death of me.”
~~~~
Back in the dungeon, Salim walked Brand all the way to his cell. As the latter entered the darkness, he sent a final look at the mamluk, who in turn gave a barely noticeable nod. Next to him, Imad pushed the door shut and locked it.
Brand heard retreating footsteps, leaving him alone with Imad. The torturer, standing on his toes, glanced through the bars of the cell door. “Once more, the mouse is back. Did you feed, little mouse, before you scurried home to your hole?”
Brand, already sitting down, raised his head to meet Imad’s gaze. “My companion’s name was Majid. He was a champion of the sands in Labdah. That is all I really know of him.”
“The mouse speaks,” squealed Imad. “But only of the dead. Perhaps because soon, the mouse will join them?”
“But I know he was too good to die in this gods-forsaken place. I know he did not that deserve that.”
Imad smiled with all his teeth. “Then you shouldn’t have killed him, should you.”
“When you die, Hel herself will bring you to her halls. You will be cold to the bone,” Brand told him. “You will know hunger without satiation. Thirst without satisfaction.”
“I don’t fear your gods,” Imad sneered.
“When you walk, you stumble. When you sit, you fall.”
“You hear me? I’m not afraid!”
“When you bend to drink, the water is putrid. When you seek to carve the meat, your knife is dull.”
“Quiet!”
“When you chew, the food is ash. When you swallow, the drink burns your throat.”
“Shut up!” Imad banged his hands against the door, causing noise to drown out Brand. The latter ceased his speech and lay down to sleep, ignoring any sound made by Imad.
|
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|
Eirik's Dance
Dvaros
With the arrival of nearly all the jarls of the greater islands, about forty in all, it was time to celebrate the solstice. In Thusund, they paid greater heed to this the longest night than anywhere else in the realms. The dark winters on windswept isles, where little grew and life was harsh, bred the hardiest people in Adalmearc, it was said. Solstice gave cause for revelry and caution both. Revelry in the knowledge that days grew longer; caution that the coldest days yet lay ahead before spring arrived. Food stores would dwindle, and should fish not appear in abundance to supplement meagre harvest, there would be starvation. Such was life on the thousand islands, where food ever remained in scant supply. In the next months, winter would claim its victims among the old, the poor, and the frail, as it had claimed the king’s own wife last winter.
With jarls and their families in addition to the regular courtiers, the great hall was full. All tables had been pushed to the sides along with chairs and benches for the old and weary, including the king. The rest remained standing, circling to the tables and back to collect food and drink. Animals had been slaughtered to provide a meal worthy of the occasion, and each jarl had brought a tribute of meat or mead as well.
Apart from nobility and courtiers, skalds and musicians could be found. For now, they simply provided music while people ate, drank, and talked; later in the evening, the great songs would be performed, and there would be dancing.
Lastly, numerous servants flitted about, attending to the needs of the guests while remaining beneath the notice of those they served.
~~~~
“We should make conversation with the jarls,” Jana suggested quietly to Brand. “Split up and see what we may learn.”
“Aye, captain,” Brand replied, earning him a slap on the arm in reproach.
“Talk. Learn. Make the most of this opportunity,” Jana impressed upon him before leaving him to approach a group of noblewomen already deep in eager conversation.
For his part, Brand glanced around the room and finally chose someone to engage in discussion. “Watch duty on solstice night. You drew the short straw?”
Haki shrugged. “I spent last solstice with family.”
Brand threw his head towards the crowd. “Are these jarls known to you?”
“Of course,” the housecarl said. “They come each year, after all.”
“What is your opinion of them?”
“Some care about silver, others about power.”
“You might argue the two are the same,” Brand suggested.
“In Herbergja, no doubt. But not in Dvaros, oldest of cities. To many, even among the jarls, tradition weighs more heavily than coin or crown,” the housecarl considered. “Take Jarl Roar, for instance.” He nodded in the direction of a heavyset man, built like a brick. His face seemed humourless even as those around him laughed, and the skin of a bear kept him warm inside the cold hall.
“What of him?”
“His people care little for barter except for necessities. No silver threads will line his clothing, but he knows every word of ‘Eirik Wyrmbane’, I am sure,” Haki related with a wry expression.
“Do you think he favours Lord Sven or Lady Svana?”
“Who can say?” Haki shrugged. “I think he cares little one way or the other.”
“They are hardly alike,” Brand pointed out. “Strange he should not think one of them more fit to rule than the other.”
“I’m a housecarl. Such matters are not for me to consider.” Haki gave another shrug.
“And strange that two children can be born at the same time, to the same father and mother, and yet be so different,” Brand considered.
“A pity they cannot both rule, but there’s only one crown.”
“Indeed,” Brand muttered with contemplation in his eyes. “A pity.”
~~~~
Several women stood in a semicircle, eagerly talking. The wealth on display in their clothes differed. Some wore ordinary dresses with little ostentation, looking even simpler than Jana in her gifted garments. Others, in particular the woman around whom the half-circle had gathered, wore golden jewellery. Regardless of wealth, all wore brightly dyed clothes; on the grey isles, the islanders held all colours in great esteem.
As Jana took the empty place in their small group, she drew their attention at once. “You must be the lady of Alcázar,” spoke the woman with golden earrings. “Already we have heard so much of you.”
“I am flattered, especially as there is so little to tell of me,” Jana replied politely, evoking laughter.
“Hardly!”
“You must tell us of your father’s court in Alcázar!”
“Is it true that lions and leopards dine with the jarl?”
The questions continued a long while before Jana had satisfies their curiosity. Once all the women had been enthralled by tales of the South Cities, she ventured a question of her own. “As I am new, I must ask your indulgence and that you tell me of your families.”
Happily, the women pointed out their husbands, children, and any siblings, in-laws or otherwise, also present. As the lady in golden earrings spoke, Jana paid particular attention. She indicated a tall man, bald but with a great, black beard neatly trimmed. “My husband, Jarl Harald of Svartheim,” the lady said with satisfaction in her voice. Like his wife, the jarl had a circle of attendants, listening to his boisterous laughter.
“He seems most convivial,” Jana remarked, “and admired among his peers.”
“If they can be called that,” the jarlinna said pointedly, but her voice quickly became pleasant again. “Here, let me introduce you.” She grabbed Jana by the arm and pulled her away, even as some of the other women protested at being left behind. “I need a change of conversation anyway,” the lady whispered in Jana’s ear, and the latter gave an understanding smile. “Harald, my dear,” the jarlinna called out to no effect. “Harald! Harald Jarl!” she almost shouted over the din of music, conversation, and laughter.
“My sweet’s wife delicate voice reaches my ear!” The facetious remark was accompanied by a wide smile as the jarl turned towards the ladies. “And your honeyed words have caught a rare bird!”
“Do not be crass, dear,” continued the jarlinna. “This is Lady Jana from Alcázar.”
“I think my eyes could have told me as much, but you are good to introduce us, dear wife,” laughed Harald before he gave a bow to Jana. “One of two names on every tongue tonight! And yet for two opposite reasons.”
“Pray tell, Your Highness,” Jana asked.
“Ah, the courteous manners and titles of eastern lands,” the jarl remarked. “Well, your companion is known to all and thus terribly exciting to talk about. Whereas you, my dear lady, was unknown to all, which is also terribly exciting to talk about.”
“I see that both fame and lack of same leads the same way,” Jana said.
“Indeed!”
“Harald, dear, we must invite the lady to Svartheim. Her illustrious companion too,” the jarlinna inserted. “Why not bring them with us on the ship home after solstice?”
“We certainly have room,” the jarl laughed.
“That is most kind of you to offer,” Jana replied courteously. “I would have to speak with Adalbrand first.”
“Some polite company would be preferred, rather than all the brutes you brought along,” complained the jarlinna. “Nothing but housecarls all over the ship!”
“Katla, my dear, do not bore our company,” Harald warned with an edge to his voice that quickly disappeared into his smile. “I assure you, Lady Jana, you and Lord Adalbrand would be honoured guests. Svartheim may not have the size of Dvaros, but the island is prosperous, and my home has many rooms. You will not be deprived of any comfort.”
“You are kind, Your Highness,” Jana replied, glancing at the rings on his fingers. “Indeed, in this company of jarls, you seem preeminent.”
“Ah, more courtesy! It must be the sun that gives southerners such pleasant demeanours. Nothing like our dark winters,” Harald laughed.
Commotion spread through the hall; it quickly became apparent that more skalds had appeared, and a performance was underway.
“The song of Eirik Wyrmbane. We better be quiet, or Jarl Roar will have our hide,” Harald grinned.
“In that case, if you will excuse me,” Jana said, bowing her head.
~~~~
As music began to play, Jana made her way to the edge of the hall where Brand stood. Catching her eye, he left the housecarls hitherto keeping him company, and the two spoke quietly in the back.
“How is your evening?” he asked.
“I have sailed some distance,” she replied. “Jarl Harald is as expected. I think he hides a cunning mind under his merry countenance. He is certainly richer than the other jarls I have seen tonight.”
“How can you tell?”
“Both he and his wife wear jewellery made from gold. Other than the lady Svana, I have only seen silver being worn by any tonight.”
“Curious,” Brand considered. “Gold implies trade with Alcázar. Perhaps usual for Herbergja, but not for Svartheim.” In the middle of the hall, most of the guests had arranged themselves for the traditional dance accompanying each verse of ‘Eirik Wyrmbane’. As the skalds sang, the guests moved in intricate patterns, both men and women. Those not participating stood by the edges; the king sat down as an exception, drinking heated and spiced wine.
“He is rumoured to favour the prince,” Jana pointed out, speaking of Harald. “He may have been paid for his allegiance.” Her eyes fell on a woman wearing a deep blue robe with an intricate horse head sewn in silver on the chest. “Who is she? I have not seen her at court, but nor does she seem to belong in the company of these jarls.”
“She is a silrobe,” Brand explained. “A priestess. I do not know her name. She must have arrived today.”
“She does not seem to enjoy herself despite the festivities.”
“I suspect her purpose is not tonight, but tomorrow at the king’s council. Silrobes serve Disfara, and oaths are sworn in her name.”
“I see.” The singing rose in intensity, as many of the guests joined in, and the pair abandoned quiet conversation for the moment.
~~~~
Throughout the evening, as breaks in the music allowed it, the jarls appeared before the king to present themselves and their families, showing their respect towards not only their host, but also their liege. As Jarlinna Herdis appeared alone, it drew curious stares and raised eyebrows.
“Welcome, Herdis Jarl,” the king greeted her with a thin voice. “I see you stand alone.”
“I thank you, Leiknarr Kongungr,” replied the jarlinna, both using the old greetings. Her tone was cold. “My husband remains at Silfey, overseeing my affairs in my absence. The Raven Days approach, and ill tidings soar on the winds that fill the sails.”
“We appreciate that you would make the voyage,” the king remarked dryly. “Tomorrow you may sail home and remain at Silfey.”
“For how long?” asked the jarlinna with sudden sharpness. “Faint rumour only reached us at Silfey, yet all the whispers in Dvaros speak of ill omens. How long, Leiknarr Kongungr, will you keep us in ignorance? We deserve the chance to defend ourselves!”
“This is a celebration!” Leiknarr replied equally sharp. “I have called a council tomorrow. Rest your questions and accusations until then, and do not forget you stand before your king.” His warning was undercut by a coughing fit.
“I hope it is not too late.” Herdis’ piercing blue eyes swept over the gathering until they found Jana. “I heard that even today, your own son showed our warships to spies from Alcázar.”
The king rose as fast as old knees allowed, immediately reaching out to support himself against the nearest housecarl. “That is enough, Herdis Jarl. My hospitality is not without bounds. Another word, and it will be withdrawn.”
For a tense moment, jarl and king stared at each other until the lady inclined her head slightly and moved away. The skalds began playing another song and music filled the room, but the words spoken by Herdis of Silfey quickly spread through the hall.
|
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|
The Breaking of Teeth
Fortönn
At all times, the Order kept watch from the highest tower on Fortönn towards southwest. As the sails appeared on the horizon, the message was sent through the keep; the enemy had been sighted. The last ships able to leave fled the harbour, carrying children, women, and any not needed for the defence of the island. Soldiers remained along with certain craftsmen, such as smiths, fletchers, and masons. The rest were sent away, both for their own protection and to help the garrison’s provisions last longer, should it come to a lengthy siege.
Sir Hákon inspected the fortifications one final time. The harbour had to be abandoned, lacking any kind of defences; yet it lay within the reach of the stone thrower atop the gatehouse, allowing great rocks to be hurled at enemy ships mooring by the piers.
A few vessels still remained, having ferried supplies and soldiers to the island, who would remain; none had need of these boats anymore. Strong hands grabbed axes, preparing to sink the ships rather than allow them to be seized by the enemy. Struck in the right place, repairs would be futile, and they would have no future other than as firewood. But first, they would serve one last purpose.
The sailors rowed their boats a short distance from the piers, spreading them across the entrance to the harbour. Using their axes, they splintered the bow before hacking holes in the stern. The boats sank with the jagged bows protruding, acting as artificial reefs, turning the harbour into hostile waters for ships of Alcázar.
Their task complete, the sailors swam ashore. All looked grim; they had destroyed their own livelihood, sent it to the seafloor, and the reason for this desperate act swiftly approached.
Inside, the fletchers worked all waking hours to make arrows. Thusund had excellent archers to rival the hunters of Vidrevi or the longbowmen of Hæthiod; on islands scarce on food, hitting small birds in flight with an arrow meant surviving winters that claimed the hungry. But few had found their way to Fortönn, and each tower on the keep could only be manned by two or three archers each.
The smiths repaired armours, ensuring each ring of every chain shirt was strong. The masons hewed stone into smaller pieces, making them easy to haul and stack. Should the walls be breached, swiftly mending such a gap would be the only thing preventing the keep from being overrun.
Water was scarce, as the only source on the island lay elsewhere; once the siege began, rainwater would be the only way the garrison could replenish this precious resource. As it stood, they had enough for two weeks, should not a drop fall from the sky; whether Alcázar would allow the siege to continue for that long was another matter.
~~~~
As the hours passed, the sails on the horizon multiplied until they seemed to number in the hundreds. They steered clear of the western coast, too close to the castle walls. Instead, while part of the fleet rounded the island to approach from the north, the rest remained anchored south of the island. Scores of boats were lowered into the water, and with quick strokes of the oars, the soldiers of Alcázar made landfall. The first wave of warriors set up a strong guard, waiting as the boats returned to the ships to retrieve more of the comrades. Once the second wave landed, patrols were dispatched to seize control of every part of the island beyond the castle. With the third wave came the equipment needed for the siege, and the soldiers set to work assembling it all.
While the men of Alcázar set foot on Fortönn unopposed on the southern shore, the story played out differently to the north, where the harbour lay. Standing on the gatehouse, Sir Hákon watched the ships approach. As the first vessel reached the pier, he gave a gruff order, and the soldiers by his side released the catapult. The arm flew up, hurling a rock through the air to strike the ship on the side. It did not break the hull, but the wood groaned and crack where struck.
The Order soldiers turned the levers of the stone thrower, twisting its arm down. The sailors on the ship abandoned their attempts to moor and raised the sails again, catching the wind to get away. The next stone fell short, hitting the water where the ship had been. Making its escape, the vessel struck the sunken boats in the harbour. Rather than make further manoeuvres, the ship made anchor while the Order soldiers cheered, seeing the enemy denied. Their joy proved short-lived; as the ships of Alcázar lying south of the island had done, the fleet launched its boats to land troops beyond the range of the stone thrower. From their walls, the defenders could do nothing but watch.
~~~~
Nothing further happened on the first day, allowing for an anxious night inside the castle. Guards stood everywhere, scouting towards the encampment that now lay spread across the island, accommodating thousands. Scattered fires burned to aid their own sentinels, in case the garrison should dare a sortie. Activity was scarce. Unlike the Order soldiers, fearful of what was to come, the mercenaries slept soundly. It was their first night on solid ground and last night before battle; they knew to get as much rest as possible.
The following morning, the siege engineers swiftly completed their last tasks. All the needed timber for their construction had already been prepared and brought along from Alcázar, allowing for swift assembly. On the eastern part of the isle, the southrons pushed stone throwers forward with greater range and strength than the single one defending the gatehouse. The bombardment began. Rocks rained down on the defenders, forcing them to hide behind shields and crenellations or seek refuge inside the towers.
While the catapults were useful to harass the Order soldiers, they could do little against the sturdy walls. The engineers had discussed battering rams, but the defending stone thrower could, if used well, destroy any rams aimed at the gate. Attacking the wall itself, out of the reach of the enemy catapult, would take many days if not longer to cause a breach. As for siege towers, the rocky terrain would make it difficult to push it all the way up to the fortress. In the end, the engineers presented their conclusions to Prince Saif, leader of Alcázar’s armies, and he agreed with their assessment. The castle would have to be taken by storm ladders.
Against a fully manned garrison, this strategy of attack would carry higher cost than any other, but it had the clear advantage of speed. Within a few hours, scores of ladders had been assembled and ready for assault, all the while the stone throwers continued to launch their munition against the defenders.
~~~~
“Sir, they advance!” The call came from a tower, shouted down into the courtyard.
Hákon, knight captain of Fortönn, turned to yell over his shoulder. “To the walls!” His message passed through the gate into the keep, where it was repeated. Half the soldiers inside, about a hundred men, responded and joined him in the courtyard; the remainder dispersed throughout the castle, taking up position elsewhere.
Raising their shields to protect themselves against the enemy stone throwers, the soldiers filled the walls. Atop the towers, the archers readied their arrows and shouted what they saw; thousands of soldiers beginning the assault.
The air became filled with missiles from both sides, raining down on the fortifications and the open land becoming a battlefield. Every islander able to aim a bow had work, emptying the barrels of arrows placed on each tower. Likewise, the archers among the southern mercenaries ran close enough to barrage the defenders; few would fall, but forcing the Order soldiers to hide behind their shields gave the other attackers room to reach the walls and begin raising the siege ladders.
As this happened, the catapults became silent rather than risk striking their own, still leaving the archers to harass the defenders. The Order soldiers, expecting this, worked together; one man kept the shield up to protect himself and the next man, who hurled stones over the wall, crushing helmets and heads of the soldiers on the ground.
Scores of ladders struck against the walls, biting over the stonework. As cries rose into the air, born of battle and death, the mercenaries ascended, often losing their life for coin. But for every attacker struck down, two reached the top. The archers in the towers changed aim, shooting down at the fortifications rather than the ground in a desperate attempt to push the tide back. Every Order soldier not yet engaged ran towards the points of infiltration, which only left gaps elsewhere.
The bodies filled the walls until they were pushed down, falling into the courtyard. All along the outer defences, southrons overwhelmed the Order soldiers. In their bright colours, denoting the mercenary companies they served, they extinguished the pockets of black surcoats one by one.
Sir Hákon, his blade dripping with blood, retreated into the nearest tower. He rushed up the stairs to reach the top. The archers did not notice his appearance, consumed by their task. The knight moved to the edge of the tower, standing beside them to see what they saw. The outer walls were lost.
“Retreat!” yelled the knight. He pushed his shield into the archer on his left and the pommel of his sword into the other right. “Fall back!” Shooting their final arrow, the bowmen grabbed their comrades and followed their commander down the tower. Across the fortifications, the command was repeated. Those of the southrons, who understood Nordspeech, roared in exuberance; the rest, seeing the Order soldiers flee into the castle, soon shared their joy.
Running across the courtyard, the black-clad warriors hurried inside the keep, barring the inner gate behind them. Any Order soldier still outside was abandoned, falling prey to southern swords. As for those who had been swift enough, respite was brief. The archers ascended up the stairs to take positions at windows overlooking the yard, harassing the attackers. Others spread out to retrieve any Order soldiers on the northern walls and to close the remaining entrances; depending on how swiftly the attackers moved, the latter might be done before the former.
With the first obstacle defeated, the forces of Alcázar would not be deterred by the inner gate. Protected by wicker screens and great shields, they advanced and threw great jars of oil against the wooden doors, followed by torches. Their task completed, they retreated beyond the range of arrows, hiding inside the conquered towers of the outer walls while watching the gate burn.
Inside the keep, Sir Hákon watched. He saw the flames devour the wooden doors, slowly but surely eating their way through this final obstacle. Blood and grime covered his face; both his shield arm and his sword arm hung low, making the tip of his blade touch ground. Around him in the entrance hall stood his remaining men. Some looked grim, others frightened, but most wore defeat on their faces. Further retreat was futile; once the keep was breached, the final part of the battle would commence. Sir Hákon looked at his men, and his own expression mirrored theirs.
~~~~
Exercising caution, the southerners kept themselves safe as they prepared to take the inner castle. During the first assault, they had been squeezed together, forced to focus their attack on the southern and eastern walls; the castle lay close to the sea by the western and northern coast, making manoeuvres difficult. With the outer defences taken, such difficulties had vanished. The forces of Alcázar could move to find every avenue of attack into the keep, making the most of their superior numbers.
“Your Highness!” A warrior, dressed in light armour untouched by battle, approached Saif by the outer gate. “Sidi, they have shown the horsehead flag.”
The prince walked forward, staying behind the mantlets made of wicker that protected against archers in the upper windows. Ascending the nearest tower, followed by his aide, Saif looked across the courtyard. As said, a flag showing the head of a horse had been tied to a spear and extended from a window. The prince turned to his right-hand man. “Invite them out.”
~~~~
A handful of southerners stepped into the open courtyard. One man carried a banner, while the rest had large shields. The sight of this was quickly relayed to Sir Hákon. The knight kicked the smouldering remains of the gate, clearing a path for himself. He walked through, carrying no weapons but his sword in its sheath by his waist. Behind him came a soldier of the Order, holding a banner with the head of a horse upon it, which signalled the Mearcians’ desire to negotiate peace.
Lastly, the prince appeared with his aide by his side. They stayed within the circle of their soldiers, who held the shields up while watching the windows of the keep.
The aide cleared his throat. “This is His Royal Highness, Prince Saif of the House al-Saqr, firstborn son to the Kabir of Alcázar, whose rule –”
Saif raised one hand, making a quick gesture to dismiss his servant. “I think that will suffice.”
“I am Sir Hákon of Dvaros,” replied his opponent, inclining his head, “knight of the Order of Adal and captain of this fortress. I seek terms.”
“State your desire,” Saif bid him.
“In exchange for our surrender, my men will not be harmed. They will be spared any suffering, and should the opportunity arise to exchange prisoners, this will be done without delay, securing their release,” the knight declared.
“These are my terms,” the prince replied, speaking Adalspeech with only a trace of his southern origins. “In exchange for your surrender, your men will not be hurt, except if they violate these conditions as agreed. They will be set to work repairing the damage done to this castle and other works I deem necessary, but I shall place no greater burdens upon them than my own men. They shall eat and rest as my men do, and if prisoners may be exchanged, so it shall be done as swiftly as is feasible.”
An expression ran across Hákon’s face. “These terms are agreeable, upon your honour as a prince and commander.”
Saif bowed his head. “Upon my honour.”
The knight undid his belt, presenting the scabbard of his sword with both hands. “I surrender the castle and island of Fortönn.”
Saif received the sheathed weapon, likewise accepting it with both of his hands. “I accept your surrender. You may call your men out to lay down their arms. Take heart, Sir Hákon. You carried out your duty with honour.”
Hákon gave no reply; behind him, the soldiers of the Order appeared, throwing their weapons on the ground. Almost as swiftly as it had begun, the siege of Fortönn had ended.
~~~~
Although the battle had ended, activity remained high. Besides burning the bodies of the slain and clearing up the worst of the destruction, the southrons also dismantled their many siege engines and salvaged all materials they could find. This included the arms and weapons of the Mearcians; since much of it was forged from Nordsteel, it was highly prized among the southerners, and the commanders distributed the spoils among those soldiers who had shown particular bravery on this day.
As for the victorious commander, he stood by the harbour. Several mamluks surrounded him in a loose ring, watching any who dared approach. Even if the island had been taken and the Mearcians had surrendered, this remained hostile territory, and the guards knew to be watchful. Despite their caution, they did not stop the aide to the prince from passing through their rank; as Saif’s right-hand man, he was trusted and spent most of his time in his master’s company.
“Your Highness,” he spoke, waiting a few steps away until acknowledged. The prince had his back against him, gazing upon the ships in the water.
“Adherbal.” The prince replied without looking, waiting until his aide stepped up to stand next to him.
“You sent for me?”
“I seek your counsel.”
Adherbal bowed his head. “As you command.”
“You know the decision I face. What recommends caution, and what recommends speed?”
Adherbal followed the prince’s gaze to look on the ships. “More than half your forces remain in Maleth. Caution would advise that we wait for the galleys and even now send vessels back to fetch reinforcements. Once the majority of your troops are on this island, they can swiftly reinforce your army once you continue the invasion.”
“And the other argument?”
“We have not heard from our spies in the kingdom of the many isles. We cannot be sure how much longer their strife continues. Should they have made peace, their assembled fleet may fall upon your scattered ships, and worse, keep your army trapped on this rock. And even if you are able to sail your army to the mainland, their fleet may prevent yours from reinforcing you, leaving you deep in enemy lands with few troops.”
Saif took a deep breath. “What do the captains of the companies prefer?”
The aide shrugged. “They are mercenaries. The longer they can sit around and be paid to do nothing, the better.”
“What would you advise?”
Adherbal scratched his cheek. “I am a cautious man by nature, sidi. That is how I have come to serve you and retain my position where many bold men failed.”
“It certainly is not brevity that keeps you employed.”
A wry smile crossed the aide’s face before it grew serious. “Caution avoids defeat, sidi, but it rarely wins a war.”
Saif slowly exhaled. “Give the order. We make landfall as soon as possible near their city of the southern harbour.”
“As you command.”
|
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|
Council in Blood
Dvaros
An hour after dawn, news of the king’s death had reached everyone in the castle. By the end of the day, the whole city would know. Eventually, ships would carry the news to the other islands and the mainland.
Normally, once the many islands of Thusund heard of the king’s demise, the jarls would set sail and gather in Dvaros within the next few weeks to choose a successor. This time, it would not be needed. Nearly all the jarls had already gathered; even a silrobe was present to sanctify their oaths of fealty to the new ruler. The knowledge that a new king or queen could be chosen immediately caused as much commotion as did the knowledge of the old king’s passing.
~~~~
Glaukos stood by the door while his three companions broke fast in their quarters; he and Geberic slept in the parlour while Brand and Jana retained their rooms.
“Who will they choose, milord?” asked Geberic, chewing bread.
“Thusund is on the brink of war. They will choose the ruler best suited to lead them through such times,” Brand replied, digging into his meal. Jana swept her spoon through a bowl of porridge with a dismayed look.
“What does that mean for us, captain?” asked Glaukos. “You told us yesterday that you believed the king kept you on hand, should it come to civil war. If the jarls support this new queen, and the king is dead, that leaves us free to leave.”
“It does.” Brand glanced from Glaukos to Jana. “We will have to consider our options.”
“We’ll go where you go, milord, you know that,” Geberic exclaimed.
“I do. The situation is complicated. Thusund, Adalrik, Hæthiod – war has touched many of the realms.” Brand stood up, pacing about a few steps. “For now, let us see the end of this matter.”
“As you say, milord,” Glaukos declared, to which Geberic nodded.
“I will attend the council and return once a decision has been made,” Brand told them. “Once we know the situation has been settled, we will determine our future course.”
“I will go with you,” Glaukos said, adjusting his belt.
“No. The less attention we draw, the better,” Brand pointed out. “Besides, I am not in need of protection.” He glanced in a furtive manner towards Jana. “Wait here for my return.”
“Aye, milord,” Geberic agreed while Glaukos grumbled.
“As you wish,” Jana acquiesced. With a brief nod towards his companions, Brand left for the great hall.
~~~~
In the course of the morning, the jarls trickled into the great hall. Everyone discussed the same topic, whether with resigned feelings or enthusiasm. The arrival of the silrobe caused further anticipation; already, a horse had been chosen for the ritual slaughter to sanctify the coronation of the next ruler. Thusund had no rules for how many jarls had to be present to elect the next king or queen, but in times of peace, thirty jarls in agreement were considered favourable. In times of war or dire need, a smaller number might do, but fewer than twenty would be less than half the full number and deemed invalid. So the jarls waited, watching one after the other join them.
Two hours after dawn, Svana appeared herself, sending a quick wave of excitement through the crowd. Brand had arrived a little earlier, watching the hall from a corner. Each time another person entered, he conferred with Haki, asking the housecarl if the new arrival were a jarl or not. Slowly, the count rose as the moments floated by. Eighteen jarls, nineteen, twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two, and so forth.
While they waited, many of the nobility circled around Svana. She stood with a confident smile, surrounded by those already eager to court her favour. Jarlinna Herdis and Jarl Roar both stood nearby, though they talked to each other rather than the princess; as two of the most powerful jarls, their combined support was likely to determine the outcome of the election. As for Jarl Harald, he had yet to appear.
“Should we proceed?” asked Svana with impatience. “There is little reason to delay.”
“We are still missing fifteen or so of the jarls,” Herdis pointed out. “Perhaps it is time to send for them. Tell them the hour is now.”
“Lord Sven should be here as well,” Roar argued. “He deserves the opportunity to be heard.”
“Little good it will do,” Svana claimed with derision.
Conversation continued, which masked the commotion coming from elsewhere in the castle. Only as it increased did awareness grow as well until the sounds could be recognised. Metal and screams.
Everyone with a weapon drew it. Svana, unarmed, pulled a short sword from the scabbard of a housecarl. Some turned to flee deeper into the castle. Others stared at those nearby with distrust, and the remainder looked towards the doors hiding the fight beyond.
Finally, those doors burst open, and battle spilled into the great hall. Housecarls marked with a raven fought their counterparts wearing different emblems, including the bear of Jarl Harald.
Sneering, Svana ran forward, swinging her sword while surrounded by her warriors. Brand looked at the arriving soldiers, at the blade of sea-steel in his hand, and finally at the hallway towards his own chambers. Turning from the battle, he ran in that direction.
~~~~
Fighting erupted across the castle. The inner parts, delved into the mountainside, still lay untouched; the sensible courtiers fled in that direction. The remainder of the stronghold, including the courtyards, outer halls and corridors, lay splattered with blood. Everything was chaos; the royal housecarls fought to defend the castle, but they could not know friend from foe among the jarls and their retinues. Some joined in the defence, others turned traitor, and the guards only knew the difference when the latter showed their colours, making their assault.
Brand was caught in between. Fighting for neither side, his lack of insignia and drawn blade left him a suspected foe of everyone he met. Battle remained as fierce in this part of the castle as the one he had left. More than once, the beleaguered royal guards turned their axes towards him. Keeping defensive, Brand slipped past them each time without causing hurt and ran onwards.
In the next hallway, Brand ran out of luck. A warrior with a bear emblem blocked his path in the narrow corridor, wielding a spear. Lacking shield, armour, and reach, Brand was forced back. Retreating, he could do nothing but parry the spear tip thrust at him; his cloth tunic would not provide any protection.
In a desperate fight, Brand swung his sword too wide, and it struck the walls of the hallway. Seeing an opening, the housecarl leapt forward to strike the spear in a deep manner. Swiftly, Brand evaded and used his free hand to grab the haft of the spear just below the metal point. Revealing his feint, Brand reassumed control of his sword and struck it against the haft. The sea-steel clove the wood with ease, leaving the spear useless and the housecarl astonished. His short sword was only partly drawn from the scabbard by the time Brand’s blade lay impaled in his chest.
Seizing the now ownerless short sword with his free hand, Brand hurried on. He followed the hallway as it ended in a wider room, already occupied. Two housecarls immediately turned towards him; a third pulled her weapon from the stomach of a fallen royal guard and did likewise. All three wore the bear on their chest, and all three wielded spears.
The carls surrounded Brand on every side except his back. Wielding two blades, he denied their attacks, turning one spear into the path of another, but he could do nothing more. No feints would work here that might allow him to defeat one opponent without the other two seizing the advantage.
Once more, Brand was pushed back. Yet behind him came the royal guards with battle fury, liable to assume all unknown warriors to be enemies, including the dragonborn. Brand glanced over his shoulder for a moment, and immediately, three spears struck at him. He parried all, making them interfere with each other, but his time was running out.
From the opposite corridor leading into the room, Glaukos appeared like a vengeful spirit. Lacking armour, but armed with a short sword and surprise, he fell upon the housecarls. Before they could turn their spears around, he stood among them, slicing throats and shedding blood.
Words were unnecessary. Brand nodded to his companion and quickly exchanged his short sword for a round shield from a fallen royal guard. The pair hurried onwards, down the hallway whence Glaukos had come, while the battle continued to rage in the halls and corridors of the castle.
~~~~
In their shared chambers, Jana and Geberic remained. The latter stood with a drawn sword, though he kept the tip low; the door was bolted, and he would have a moment’s warning before any might try to force their way through. As for the lady, she sat on one of the few chairs in the room, looking composed. Only Geberic’s knife in her hand showed anything out of the ordinary.
Even through the heavy door, the sounds of battle reached them. Whenever a scream pierced the air, even Jana looked rattled for a moment, and Geberic renewed the grip on his sword. Yet the screams faded, replaced by axes hacking shields and swords striking armour.
“You’re admirably calm, milady,” the old greybeard remarked.
“I went through the same experience last year,” Jana revealed. “Though the fighting did not actually take place inside the palace where I found myself at the time.”
“What happened?”
“My father’s mercenaries slaughtered all the leaders and took the city,” she related. “I was fine, of course, but few others were.”
“Not a gentle man, your father.”
“Far from it.”
“You told us of your journey with Lord Adalbrand back to the realms,” Geberic continued, “but you never mentioned how the two of you were already acquainted.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Is that what is on your mind at present?”
“It might prove a good distraction, milady. For you.” He mumbled the next words. “And me.”
“Very well. Brand arrived to Alcázar many years ago, as a squire. He must have been thirteen or so. I was a few years younger,” Jana explained. “I had no siblings, as my mother was too weak to bear more children. And being a daughter, none took interest in me.”
“That seems harsh.”
“My father has at least twenty daughters.” Jana shrugged. “Brand was different from my brothers. He taught me games and learned our speech from me in return. We explored the palace together. Those were the happiest years of my life.”
“I see,” Geberic muttered with his eyes on the door. The shriek of someone dying reached them from beyond the door, making both of them start. “What happened next?”
“Peace was concluded with Labdah, and my father sent two of his children as hostages. Daughters, with the intention we would eventually be wed to the leaders of that city, solidifying an alliance.”
“That didn’t happen, I take it.”
Louder and louder sounds could be heard. Fighting or movement in the corridors nearby. “No, the political situation in Labdah changed quite rapidly.”
A fist pounded on the door to their chambers. “Open up!” shouted Brand from the other side.
With fear turning to relief on his face, Geberic unlocked the door and pulled it open. Brand and Glaukos hurried inside, slamming the door behind them.
Jana’s eyes glanced over Brand’s blood-soaked tunic. “Are you wounded?” she asked with trepidation.
Brand shook his head, throwing his shield to the ground. “Not mine,” he remarked, pulling on the bloody garbs he wore. “You?”
“We are fine,” she reassured him.
“No concern for me, I notice,” Glaukos growled towards Geberic.
“You’ll only get ideas,” the greybeard retorted.
Brand wiped his sword clean and sheathed it. “It is chaos, mayhem. The jarls are slaughtering each other, or at least their carls are.”
“Did someone not accept the election?” Geberic asked.
“It never took place. The prince never showed. Tellingly, neither did Jarl Harald.”
“He acted quickly once he learned the king was dead,” Glaukos said brusquely.
“He did,” Brand acknowledged. “But more jarls, along with their carls, support the lady Svana. It will be many gruesome, bloody hours before we know who has carried the day.”
“We’re not getting involved, then?” Geberic looked from his lord to Glaukos.
“This is not our fight,” Brand declared. “If we join one side and they lose, all of us will be executed.”
“It may be too late for that,” Glaukos remarked with his typical growl. “We have already killed some fighting for the prince, or that jarl, Harald. We have tied our fate to the other side. We should be out there, ensuring it wins.” He looked at the door. “Let me go alone. If it goes wrong, you can disavow me. Say I acted on my own.”
Brand scratched his neck. “I cannot send you out alone to die.” He cleared his throat. “Besides, I will lose all standing if I stay behind while others fight.” Another scream rung through the air, though sounding faint; the fighting was moving elsewhere in the castle.
“I’ll go as well,” Geberic declared. “I can’t remain behind if you leave.”
“No,” Brand said quickly. “I need you here.” He glanced at Jana.
“Stay,” she simply said, meeting his eyes. Her knuckles turned white, grasping the knife in her hand.
Brand looked away. “Let us go,” he told Glaukos. Picking up the raven-crested shield from the floor, he unbolted the door with quick motions, and the pair left to enter the fray once more.
~~~~
The fighting continued for hours. As the short winter day began to wane, the jarls and soldiers loyal to the prince were pushed back from the halls. Blood continued to be spilled in the courtyards – the attackers formed a last line to hold fast while waiting for reinforcements from the city and harbour.
The defenders proved stronger. Led by Svana, Herdis, and Roar among others, they repelled the attack and retook control of the castle. As hostile reinforcements surged up the mountainside to reach the castle, the gates were shut and barred, denying them entry. Less than half an hour had separated victory from defeat for the attackers; as night swiftly fell, they retreated to the surrounding streets, setting up a strong guard. They had failed to seize the castle, the princess, or the jarls loyal to her; only a siege could now deliver the fortress into their hands.
|
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Cold Winds
Dvaros
After their meeting with the king’s counsellor, Brand and Jana were shown to the quarters made ready for them. A small wing with a chamber for each, connected by a parlour. Furniture and space appeared scarce, but this was no slight towards the pair; in Dvaros, most rooms tended to be small. Although confined to the castle, their quarters were not meant to insinuate imprisonment; even visiting jarls would not receive better.
As soon as the servant leading the way had left them, Brand checked the bolt on the door between the corridor and the parlour. Finding it strong, he locked the door and turned to Jana. They stared at each other. “Are we thinking the same?”
“I imagine so.” She exhaled. “I am exhausted.”
He nodded, yawning. “Let us make plans afterwards, with clear minds. If you wake before me, wake me as well.”
“Not a chance. You sleep every hour that you can.” She turned to the room prepared for her, leaving him alone. Yawning once more, he went to his own chamber, removed the rope serving as his sword belt, and fell onto the bed.
~~~~
A fist slammed against the door to their wing. Brand woke with a start at the sound, and his hand grabbed the hilt of his sword. As waning sunlight streamed in through a high, narrow window, he blinked a few times. The heavy knocking continued.
He stepped into the parlour, one hand on the scabbard and the other on the hilt, ready to draw. From her room, Jana appeared with wide eyes, staring from Brand to the door.
“Who demands our attention?” asked Brand.
“The king,” came the brusque answer. “He summons you both.”
Brand lowered the sword in his hand to look at Jana. “One moment, we shall appear.”
“Be swift about it,” muttered the man outside.
While Brand strapped his belt around him, Jana tied her hair together and smoothed her clothes. As she gave Brand a nod, he unbolted the door and opened it.
Outside stood a bearded man, heavily armed. The raven of Thusund sat upon his chest, marking him as one of the king’s housecarls. He glanced up and down Brand, eyes lingering on the sword briefly. “Follow me.”
Jana took Brand’s offered arm, and they followed as instructed.
They walked through the corridors, occasionally meeting servants, courtiers, or other guards. Most stared with curiosity at the pair being accompanied by the king’s warrior, though none spoke to them.
Soon, they reached the king’s chambers, having passed several pairs of housecarls. Their guide motioned towards Brand’s weapon. “Your sword, milord.” The guard blocked their passage forward, hand outstretched.
A barely audible growl came from the former knight. “Brand,” Jana said with warning in her tone.
Relenting, Brand untied the scabbard. “I release it upon your honour,” he told the housecarl.
In turn, the guard stood aside and gestured with his open hand for Brand and Jana to enter.
They did so, finding the same scene as Gnupa did earlier in the day. A sparse room with an old man sitting under furs by the fire.
“Enter,” King Leiknarr bid them. “While your blood might merit the courtesy that I stand to greet you, I shall invoke royal privilege to remain seated. Not out of pride, but for the sake of my knees.” He spoke with a straight face except for his twinkling eyes.
“Of course, Your Majesty,” Jana quickly said, bowing to the king. After a moment’s hesitation, Brand inclined his head.
“All the courtesy that can be expected, I wager,” mumbled the king. “Sit.” He motioned towards two chairs opposite his own by the hearth. “It gets on my nerves talking to people standing up.”
Once his guests sat down, the king gave them both scrutinising looks. “Adalbrand of House Arnling, and Jana of House al-Saqr. Neither expected to ever grace my court, and certainly not in each other’s company.”
“We did not expect it either,” Brand remarked with his mouth forming a thin line.
“But we are grateful for your hospitality,” Jana added.
“Good. I am too old to waste words, so I shall be direct,” the king said. “In fact, my advanced age is the core of the matter. Idisea’s raven is coming for me. If not this winter, then the next, or the one thereafter.”
“Those are sad tidings.” Jana’s face mirrored her words, whereas Brand looked unmoved.
The king did not seem to pay either any heed and continued. “The custom of Thusund of old has been that when the ruler dies, the jarls of all the islands gather to choose the next. Always of the kin born to Eirik Wyrmbane.” Leiknarr touched the strange pendant hanging around his neck. “We are not so different from Adalrik in that regard. Sigvard or Eirik, we all have our heroes.”
Brand’s eye caught the king’s gesture, and his blank expression turned to a frown. “Is that – it cannot be.”
Leiknarr smirked. “Yet it is. Eleven hundred years old. Worn by every king of Thusund. Or ruling queen, for that matter. The first successor to Eirik Wyrmbane was his daughter, after all.” Jana looked from one to the other, a question on her face. “You cannot be expected to know, of course,” the king continued, noticing her expression. “This is Eirik’s trophy taken from his fallen foe. This is the tooth of the dragon he slew.”
“Wyrmbane,” Jana breathed.
“Indeed. It shall pass to my heir, along with the rulership of Thusund. That is one tradition I wish to keep, while I intend to break another.”
“Which is?” asked Brand.
“Rather than keep the jarls waiting until my death, I will have them choose my son at winter solstice. He shall be crowned king while I watch, and I shall my spend final years in peace.”
While Jana stared fascinated at the dragon’s tooth, Brand kept the king’s gaze. “That seems sensible. If you have any reason to doubt the jarls would choose differently than you would, once you are gone.”
The king gave a sardonic smile. “You have experience with noblemen in assembly. Would you place trust in them?”
“Never.”
“The jarls are gathering in Dvaros for winter solstice. I intend to have them swear allegiance to my son and have him crowned. That will resolve the issue before it can ever arise, and the succession is safe,” the king explained.
“Your plan is clear, which leaves only one question,” Brand mentioned. “How does this involve us?”
“Your name is Arnarson,” the king pointed out. “A name we treasure nearly as much as that of Eiriksson. I want you to voice your support for my son to the jarls. Let them know that House Arnarson stands with me.”
Brand frowned. “That is all you ask of me?”
“It is.”
“Very well. I shall do so.”
“Good. In return, you and your companion are my guests for solstice.” Leiknarr glanced from Brand to Jana. “Once my son is crowned and the matter of succession dealt with, one of my ships will take you where you wish to go.”
“We thank you, Your Majesty,” Jana said.
“I am tired. Leave me.”
“Of course, Your Majesty.”
“As you wish, my lord king,” Brand mumbled. The pair rose and left the king, who resumed staring into the fire.
~~~~
As they entered the corridors, Jana took Brand’s arm once he had tied his sword around his waist again. “Would you take me for a stroll outside, perhaps on the walls? I should like some fresh air.”
He glanced at her. “If there is the slightest breeze, it will be freezing cold.”
“I might as well become accustomed to northern winter,” she said with a half-hearted smile.
“If that is what you want.”
Neither of them familiar with the castle, they walked for a while until they found doors that led outside. Apart from the occasional guard keeping watch, none others were on the battlements. Behind them stood the mountain that formed the outer ring of Dvaros. Before them lay the city itself, rolling down the slope.
“You are right, it is freezing.” Jana shivered. She glanced around. “That must be why nobody else is out here.”
“We could have spoken in our quarters.”
“I grew up in a harem, and you learn quickly such a place has no secrets. Chambers such as ours, meant for nobleborn, are exactly where I would have my spies keeping watch. Those chambers are for guests of importance, after all. People worth watching.”
“You are right,” Brand nodded. “We must assume our conversation is not private indoors.”
“What of our meeting with the king? I saw you clench your jaw at his demand. Is it so egregious to you that you must support his son?”
“His demand was not the cause of my consternation, but rather that I suspect he is lying to us.” Brand placed his hands on the wall despite the cold stonework. It was afternoon, but given wintertime, sunset came soon. In the approaching twilight, the carven city reflected the golden-red colours of the waning sun.
“How so?”
“As much as it galls me to admit, I am an exile of dubious honour. My support is as likely to harm as help anyone,” Brand admitted. “I have only one skill that might aid this king. War.”
“You think he desires you to fight for him? Against my father, perhaps?”
“Possibly, but I suspect the threat lies closer to home.” Brand looked at her. “Why the urgency to have his son crowned before he dies? That can only be if King Leiknarr doubts his son has the strength to secure the succession after he is dead. And that can only be in doubt if there is another pretender. Someone to question the prince’s claim.”
“Is there?”
“From what I know, King Leiknarr has not only a son, but also a daughter. Same age. Twins.”
“A daughter? To succeed him?”
Brand shrugged. “It is not far-fetched. As you heard, the first successor to Eirik Wyrmbane was his daughter. I think the king fears strife between his children. That one might not accept the other to take the throne.”
“In which case, there will be war.” Jana shivered, perhaps not only from the cold. “And we are caught in the middle.”
“It is only guesswork, but I suspect that is the king’s intentions. He wants me for his war, should it come to that.”
“And what are your thoughts?”
Brand hesitated. “With luck, we might attempt an escape. If we can find a boat to take us away… the king has no power outside Thusund. Once on the mainland, we would be safe.”
She scrutinised his face. “But that is not what you want. I can hear it in your voice. You want to stay.”
He took a deep breath. “If Thusund becomes embroiled in civil war, their ships cannot fight Alcázar, who will have free reign of the sea. They can capture Herbergja and Portesur, raid the coast, and even strike deep into Ealond. The realms will be torn apart between Alcázar attacking from the west and the outlanders from the east.”
“Who?”
“Other enemies. You chose an ill year to visit the realms, I fear.”
“I would have come sooner, but you did not require rescue then,” she retorted with a wry smile. “So we stay. If it comes to it, you will fight for this king.”
“His interest is in me.” Brand cleared his throat. “I am sure in return for my support, he would grant me the favour of sending you away. You could go to Middanhal, where you would be safe.”
Jana shook her head. “No. I have thrown my lot in with you, Adalbrand Arnarson, and for better or worse, I stay by your side.”
He smiled, though with little joy. “Very well.”
“In any case, this remains speculation. We need to gather knowledge,” Jana considered. “I will seek out the noblewomen of the castle. They must be curious to hear of foreign lands. Perhaps in return they can tell me more of our new home.”
“Good idea. I shall seek out new friends myself.”
Jana shivered yet again. “With that settled, let us inside. I will not grow accustomed to this cold in a single day.”
~~~~
In the harbour, nearly every ship lay moored for winter. Trade would dwindle to a near halt within the next weeks and only resume once spring returned. Except for the many jarls coming for winter solstice, no ships were expected to arrive nor depart. Even so, one crew returned to unmoor their vessel.
The same ship who had carried Brand and Jana to Dvaros set oars into the water. Making the most of the fading day, they left the harbour before the chain to the entrance was raised for the night. It was a late hour to begin their journey, but with a skilled captain at the helm, the darkness would not hinder their departure from Eldrey. With their unplanned visit to Dvaros done, the captain and his crew set sail towards Herbergja as originally intended. With them, they brought the news of the dragonborn Adalbrand and his return to the Seven Realms.
|
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|
Honey and Oil
Dvaros
The princess, the prisoner, and their horse hastened away from the palace. With pained expression and some difficulty, Brand got on the horse, sparing his leg. He pulled Jana up behind him, and they rode away. Few were on the streets at night in the north-western part around the Kabir’s palace; they passed through what seemed an empty and eerie city.
Once they had distance between themselves and any possible pursuers, Brand steered the horse away from the main streets and into the medinas near the maswar. Shielded from most eyes by tall buildings, Brand gestured for Jana to dismount. Once she had, he followed suit.
“What happens now?” she asked.
Leaning against the horse, Brand wiped cold sweat from his brow. “We need to escape the city, but that is not possible for a while.” His words came tripping over each other, and his breathing was laboured. “First, I need several things.”
“You need to rest,” Jana told him. “Maybe we can find you a bed.”
“Too suspicious. Help me to sit.” He reached out to her, and she took hold of him by the shoulder, gently guiding him to sit against a house wall. “How long until sunrise, do you think?”
“Most of the night has passed. Some hours, maybe. Are you thinking of when the gates open?”
He shook his head. “The marketplace. You need to buy some things for me.”
“What do you need?”
“Wait. First, get me the jewels you brought,” he bade her, speaking with heavy breaths.
She obliged quickly, retrieving the pouch from the saddle bag.
“Thanks.” He opened it and chose a necklace; the pendant was laid with a few gems. He took the knife from his belt.
“What are you doing?” Jana asked, sounding a little aghast.
“Your jewels will look stolen. You try to sell them on the market, the guards will be called,” Brand explained. He inserted the tip of the knife into the socket, prying the gems out. “But travelling merchants often carry gems, sewn into their clothes. Much easier to hide and to transport than coins.” He wheezed the final words.
“Brand, you are not well.” She used her sleeve to wipe his forehead.
“You need to know. Listen carefully.”
“Yes, I am. Tell me.”
“There are jewellers at the small market. They buy and sell gems like these.” Brand placed the small rubies in her hand. “You are a merchant’s wife, exchanging these gems to coin for him. Make sure to dispute the price, or they will be suspicious. Demand more.”
“I understand.”
Brand raised one hand with a feeble gesture. “There is more.”
“Yes, tell me, but sparingly. Do not exert yourself.”
“Use the coin to buy some things. Most importantly, honey and a small bolt of linen.” Brand stared at her with eyes that had a feverish shine.
“Honey and linen? Are you sure?”
“Yes, yes. Also water, food for the journey. A cloak of my height. Clothes for you to travel in. Understood?”
“I understand.”
“Repeat it all to me.” Brand coughed.
“Honey, bolt of linen. Food, water, cloak, clothes,” Jana told him, staring at his face with concern.
“Good. Take the horse and this.” His hand trembling slightly, Brand gave her Salim’s knife.
“But you may need both! What if they find you while I am gone?”
“A beggar raises no suspicion, but a beggar with a horse…” Brand waved his hand in the air, letting the gesture conclude his sentence. “Leave me my sword. I can protect myself with that,” he claimed.
Although she looked doubtful, Jana rose and collected his sword from the saddle bag, placing it by his side against the wall. He took it, placing the scabbard to rest alongside his leg. “Less obvious,” he remarked, causing another cough.
“Brand, I cannot leave you in this state.”
“You must. Else I will not make it.”
“Take my cloak at least, for warmth.” She began to unclasp it.
“No, no.” He raised his hand, fumbling against hers to make her stop. “Your clothes are conspicuous. Hide them under the cloak. Avoid riding, too. Walk.”
“Is there nothing I can do for you?”
“Get the things.”
“Very well. I shall return as soon as I can,” Jana promised.
“Wait.” He took hold of her wrist. “If I am not here upon your return, wait for me in the maswar. Southern end.”
“I shall.” She bit her lip. “What if you do not show?”
“Go back to the palace. Say I took you hostage. Know that you did all you could for me,” Brand told her in between short breaths. He leaned his head against the wall, closing his eyes.
She stood, staring down at his pale figure. Seeing him at something resembling rest, she grabbed the reins of the horse and left the alley.
~~~~
East, the sun began to rise, and its light awakened the city. The hojon marched in through the southern gate from Almudaina, dispersing to the harbours and warehouses that relied on their labour. Vendors opened their stalls, taverns and serais served breakfast and drink, and the cold streets grew warm and bustling.
With one hand on her knife, the other tightly gripping the reins of her horse, Jana traversed the city of Alcázar. The further south she went, the busier it was, and the crowd became more diverse. Merchants with armed guards, servants of high and low status, slaves, day-labourers carrying great packs of goods, she encountered all of these. It was the first time she was outside the palace on her own.
Having walked an hour, Jana stopped outside a tavern, where a few men sat, eating the first meal of the day. “Forgive my intrusion. Could either of you point me towards the market?”
“I’m guessing you want the small market, yeah? Not the big one,” one of them said with a kind voice. His companion on the other hand sent Jana a leering look.
“Yes, thank you.”
“Continue down this street a good while. You’ll see a stream of people crossing. Just follow them, they’re all headed to the market too.”
“Thank you kindly, good master.”
“No trouble, child. Take care, you hear.”
She inclined her head to him, took a new hold on the reins in her hand, and hurried away.
She walked against the current of people; most moved towards the maswar to continue along the other major thoroughfares of the city. Pressing herself against her horse, Jana kept her head down and let the mare split the oncoming crowd to carve a path forward.
When the people in front no longer came towards her, but across, she turned and followed them. Going with the stream rather than against, her progress was easier. Soon, a host of coloured canopies met her eye, each covering a stall. Countless voices meshed together in disharmony. Food, cloth, all manner of tools, pottery, and more, all of this was yelled towards Jana. Pulling her hood closer around her face, she continued.
Asking around, she received directions to the gem traders. They all sat on the same long bench, with one table in front of them and one canopy above. Each had scales and tools; armed guards surrounded the tables.
Jana approached one who sat idle. Looking up, the trader smiled at her. “Please, come. You have precious stones to buy or sell?” He gestured for her to come closer.
“I do,” Jana confirmed.
He waved one of the guards forward. “Make yourself useful, take the mistress’ horse.” With a snort, the armed man did as told, taking the reins from Jana. It took her a moment to let go, but she finally stepped close to the table. “Let’s see, what do you have for me?”
Jana took out her rubies. With apprehension, she let them fall onto the black cloth in front of the trader. He smiled and struck each of the gems with a small hammer. Apparently satisfied, he took a thin knife and tried to scratch each of them. This accomplished, he leaned forward while stretching his hand out to hold them into the sun one by one, watching them reflect the light.
“Will this take long?” asked Jana, her voice a little unsteady.
“Not at all, good mistress. But you must appreciate that I must be certain of quality,” the gem merchant told her with a cordial voice. He placed the rubies on his scale, weighing them. “Didn’t your husband teach you to never to seem in a hurry? It puts you in a poor bargaining position.”
Jana gave a nervous smile. “He has, many times. I forget.”
“Very well, they all seem in order. I can pay you fifty silver for each.” He looked at her expectantly.
“That will be –” Jana interrupted herself. “My husband said to get sixty.”
“I could not possibly pay that. Fifty-five at most.”
“Fine. That will be one hundred and sixty-five,” Jana told him, holding out her hand.
“At least she can add numbers,” the trader muttered to himself, sticking a hand under the table to pull out a bag of silver. He added five to the purse and handed it over. “You may count them, of course.”
“I trust you,” Jana mumbled, accepting the coin. She turned around, nearly bumping into the guard holding her horse. With a faint apology, she took the reins and left.
“You can tell that the husband married her for looks,” the trader jested, prompting another snort from the guard.
~~~~
It took Jana more than an hour to move across the market, buying everything that Brand had requested. Once her saddle bags were full, she wiped her forehead with her sleeve. It was not necessarily anxiety causing her to perspire; the sun was growing hot, and she still wore her hooded cloak.
Unlike in the morning, traffic along the main streets was less uniform at this hour. People moved in every direction, often carrying burdens on their backs or leading donkeys. More than once, people pushed into Jana, and at times, she practically stood still before she felt confident enough to move forward.
The pressure was relieved as she reached the maswar; the great square opened up before her, allowing people to spread out as they crossed it before streaming together down another congested road. With a grip so tight on the reins that her nails bit into her hand, Jana walked along the edge of the maswar until she reached a small alley.
It lay in darkness; the tall buildings did not allow sunlight to reach except around noon. Jana moved down the narrow street, finding it empty. She continued further along until other alleys crossed through, peering down either way. Not a soul was in sight.
The horse stamped its hoof against the cobbled street, mirroring the distress written on Jana’s face. “Brand,” she called out, but so quietly, the sound seemed to vanish in the air like smoke. “Brand,” she repeated. There was nothing but empty stonework to reply.
Grabbing the reins, she turned the horse around and went back to the maswar. Stepping into the sunlight, she pulled the hood tighter over her head and walked towards the southern end. Halfway there, standing in the middle of the square, she paused and looked over her shoulder.
In the northern end, the Tower of Justice rose in dark stone. Jana’s eyes, starting at the tall structure, followed the edge of the maswar. She glanced over the larger streets and the smaller, each of them feeding traffic into the maswar like rivers into the sea. Frowning, she began to walk back.
Reaching the alley she had just left, she continued to its neighbour. Finding only children laughing and yelling at her, she moved to the next. She pulled her hood down, narrowing her eyes as she walked from sunlight into darkness.
“Jana?”
She let out a deep sigh. “I was so afraid,” she admitted, hurrying forward to kneel next to Brand. “How are you?”
“Alive. You have it all?”
“I do.” She stood up, patting the saddle bag on the horse. “Everything you asked for.”
“Good. Get out the water and the honey.” Jana dug out the aforementioned items, placing them on the ground. “Get me the linen.” She found the bolt of fabric and placed it in his hand. “Your knife.” She gave him that as well and watched as he cut some of the cloth. “Douse the cloth with water.” She did so. “I need you to clean my wound.”
“Oh. Of course.” She sat down by his leg. Even with sparse light, a dark-red colour could be seen, making her shiver. She took the wet rag from Brand and did her best cleaning dried blood and dirt away. “It is done.”
He took the jar of honey and handed it to her. “Put this on.”
“You mean – on the wound?”
He nodded. “It will prevent infection.”
“The things I learn today,” she mumbled, causing a faint smile to appear on Brand’s face. He was still pale, but he did not sweat or shiver. Carefully, she applied the honey like a paste upon his wound. “There.”
Brand cut a long piece from the bolt. “Bandage it with this. Careful it does not get dirty from the ground.”
“Of course. I – I need to move your leg up, though.”
He nodded in acceptance, wincing only a bit. Soon, his wound was treated and bandaged. “Thank you.”
“I am glad to help.” She gave him a joyless smile, standing up.
“Put this back, please.” He handed her the remaining linen, and she returned it to the saddle bag.
“I should put – wait.” She patted the inner pocket of her cloak. “The silver! I had a purse! Someone stole it!”
“That is Alcázar for you.” Brand still spoke slowly, but his breathing no longer sounded like the bellow of a forge.
“At least I got everything. This is for you.” She grabbed a cloak from the other saddle bag, unfolding it to place it like a blanket over him.
“Thank you.”
Sinking down to sit next to him, back against the wall, she blew out her cheeks. “What a morning.”
“Indeed.”
“What happens now?”
“They will be watching all the gates,” Brand considered. “We wait until it gets dark. Try to escape just before nightfall. If they discover us, we can lose them in the dark.”
“That makes sense. Do you think we are safe here until then?”
“No. The horse makes us look strange. Do you have any coin left?”
“A few.”
He nodded a little, leaving his head bent forward like a drunk. “We stable the horse at a serai for the day. Eat somewhere. Move around a bit. Avoid staying in one place. Avoid suspicion.”
“Brand, you are breathing heavier, and you sound worse again,” Jana told him, sounding worried.
He waved one hand in front of him, trying to make a dismissive gesture. “It will be fine. I rest a little. Then we leave.”
“If you say so,” she assented, though her demeanour was suffused with concern.
“You can still go back.”
“What? Go back where?”
“To the palace. Say I took you hostage. Do not throw everything away for me.”
She shook her head fervently. “If I leave you – if you get caught…” She cleared her throat. “It will all be for nothing. Salim will have… he…” Her voice began to quiver.
“I know. I know. I understand,” he told her in between his troubled breathing. “I will not say it again. For now, I rest. Just for a moment.”
She adjusted herself, letting him lean his head against her shoulder. As he closed his eyes, she used hers to keep watch; although she saw nothing to cause concern, her expression remained fearful.
~~~~
Once Brand felt strong enough, they abandoned the alley and followed his plan. The horse was stabled for the remainder of the day, and their last silver was spent on a warm meal. Despite Brand’s injured leg, they did not stay long in one place but moved around the medinas near the serai that stabled their horse. Neither spoke much, and both kept their cloaks close around them.
As sunset approached, the pair fetched their horse and saddled it. Leading it by the reins, they moved east towards the Purple Gate. Getting close, they saw the road leading out of the city was blocked. Scores of people stood, waiting to leave Alcázar. Peasants on their wagons, ordinary travellers, and a caravan of camels and carts crowded the gate, none of them able to move forward. The guards inspected everything and everyone, taking their time.
“This will be a problem,” Brand muttered. “If they look closely at us, we are sure to raise their suspicion. I doubt we can bribe them either. Not when they are searching for the murderer of a prince.”
“Perhaps we should stay in the city?” Jana suggested. “If we give it a few weeks, maybe they will ease their vigilance, and we can slip out unnoticed.”
“Without coin, I am not sure how well we can hide ourselves. Besides, I need to reach Adalmearc before winter closes the paths. I must warn them of the invasion,” Brand told her quietly. They were trying to push their forward, without luck; they were surrounded by beasts, wagons, and the men driving both.
“But how can we get through?” Jana stood on her toes, looking at the gate. She could spot around ten soldiers. Most examined the travellers seeking to leave the city, while the rest kept watch of the crowd.
“We need a diversion.”
“Like you did at the docks. You lit a fire to draw attention.”
“Something like that,” Brand confirmed.
“These barrels…” Jana looked at the many different goods stacked around them. “Wait here. I have an idea.”
Before Brand could object, she disappeared in between camels and travellers, weaving her way around the crowd. As Brand tried to look in every direction while also keeping his face covered by his hood, Jana moved from cart to cart, exchanging a few pleasant words here and there.
Soon, she returned to him. “I have an idea,” she repeated.
“Nothing with running, I hope.” He shifted his weight away from his bad leg.
“There is a barrel of lamp oil on that wagon over there.” She nodded with her head to indicate the direction.
“All we need –”
“Let me handle that.” Jana gave what resembled a confident smile.
“Jana, be careful!” Brand urged her. “A panic in this crowd could cause a stampede.”
“Given our situation, everything we do involves great risk,” she pointed out. “Will you be ready?” She sent a look towards his injured leg.
“I will.” He straightened up to get a better look at the barrel in question. “I am just worried.”
She squeezed his arm. “Wait for me.” Once more, she moved through the throng of people, leaving him.
By the gate, a merchant argued loudly with one of the guards. “Sidi, please! My caravan must leave today!”
“I don’t see how that’s my problem,” came the reply. “Now move aside.”
“Sidi, if we’re not allowed to leave right now, I’ll have to find stables for the night for all my animals! It’ll cost me a fortune,” the merchant whined. He glanced towards the west, as if he could see the setting sun beyond the city.
“My heart bleeds. Look, you’re simply too many. It’ll take us ages to search your entire party, and we’re closing the gate soon. You’ll have to come back tomorrow.”
“Sidi, you don’t understand. It’ll cost me at least thirty silver.” The merchant lowered his voice while glancing around.
The guard sent him a look. “Thirty silver?”
“At least.” The trader hefted the heavy coin purse by his waist.
“Too bad!” The guard gave a sneer. “Now get back, and get your caravan out of here! Come back tomorrow.”
Commotion spread among the packed crowd hoping to pass through the gate. Most were unable to see the reason and could only discern the ripples moving through the people. Only those close by witnessed the curious sight.
A young woman entered a serai and stole a lamp, running out while being chased. Once among the host of travellers, she escaped her pursuers. As her next act, she threw the lit lamp straight onto a cart and its load. It broke, spilling oil and flames over the barrels on the wagon.
“Run!” screamed the driver, jumping down. “That’s lamp oil!”
A pillar of fire erupted, spitting flames in every direction. Shouts and shrieks could be heard as people fled. The square turned to chaos. Animals reared and ran away, some with carts hitched to them. In the ensuing panic and stampede, people were trampled and injured. Blood was in the air, and those standing in safety could do nothing but watch.
Through the noise and dust, a man came riding on a horse. He bent down to pick up a woman, slinging her onto the back of his steed. Spurring the beast onwards, they rode straight through the gate, shielded by the disruption. By the time the guards realised what was happening, the horse and riders had already passed them, galloping away from Alcázar.
|
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Arnarson
Fortönn
The Teeth stretched from the mainland in the east to the island of Fortönn in the west. In most parts, they were little more than reefs or shallow spots of land, treacherous to all vessels that dared brave them. Yet some did, smuggling goods through the narrow straits to be sent further south. In response, the ships of Thusund patrolled the Teeth in swift, light longships, able to traverse the dangerous waters with unmatched speed.
The harbour of Fortönn provided a home for the longships and their crew. After each patrol, they returned to the island, mooring at the pier. The arrival of such a ship caused commotion among the dockworkers, for despite the stormy weather last night, the sailors brought captives with them. Three of them, one old, two young, along with a humble fishing boat tied behind the longship.
Most of the crew handled the mooring except for the captain and a few of his warriors, ushering the captives to disembark. The young man did first, helping the young woman to step from the ship to the pier. The sailors pushed as much as aided the old man, laughing a little at his anxious behaviour. A few curt remarks from the captain cut the amusement short, and he gestured for his prisoners to follow him. With mute looks, Brand and Jana did so; the fisherman, who had risked his life and boat to sail them through the Teeth, whimpered as they went along.
~~~~
Fortönn was little more than a rock, providing no arable land other than meagre grazing for sheep and goats. Despite this, the island was fortified with a strong keep overseeing the harbour, holding a large garrison overseen by a knight. Besides patrolling the Teeth, Fortönn lay furthest south-west of all harbours in Adalmearc, making it the last port before any journey to Alcázar. The island not only provided supplies to the many ships of Thusund, but it lay as the first line of defence against enemies from the South.
At the castle, the arrival of the prisoners caused a few reactions. A clerk met them in the courtyard while the nearby guards and servants stared, making the most of the disruption to the monotony of castle life in an outpost. The captain of the vessel whispered a few words to the clerk, who in turn sent a messenger boy into the keep. Another brief exchange followed, and the old fisherman was taken away.
“What will happen to us?” whispered Jana.
“I cannot say,” Brand mumbled.
They only waited briefly before two Order soldiers appeared from the keep and beckoned for the two remaining captives to follow. With Jana holding onto Brand’s arm, they did as obeyed.
One soldier ahead of them, one soldier behind, they were led up the stairs to enter a small room. It appeared to be a study of sorts, with a desk holding quill and inkwell, though neither seemed to be in use much.
A knight stood by the window, overseeing the harbour. He turned as the soldiers and prisoners entered, clearing his throat. “Usually, our ships find goods being smuggled, not passengers. The old man is of little interest, I was told, but you are a strange pair, seeking to enter Adalmearc unseen. If you have any explanation, I suggest you speak fast.”
“I shall, Sir Hákon,” Brand replied. “We have met before.”
The knight furrowed his brow. “I have no memory of you. Knowing my name does not prove acquaintance.”
“It was a few years ago. Sir Athelstan returned from Alcázar, and his ship made port at Fortönn. He and his squire dined with you that night before their journey onwards. My clothes are ragged, but if you imagine that I wear the colours of the Order, perhaps you recognise me.”
Hákon squinted his eyes. “I do not believe it!” Surprise painted his face. “Adalbrand of House Arnling, squire to Sir Athelstan. I remember well our visit from the most famous knight in the realms, but I never imagined to find his squire before me in such a state and situation.”
“Much has happened since then,” Brand admitted.
“Indeed. Our island may be remote, but I have heard of your exploits – and your exile.”
Chagrin took hold of Brand’s expression briefly. “That is true.”
The knight raised a hand to quiet him. “I have heard many rumours, but what matters now is your presence here. You were found in forbidden waters. Can you explain, or must I pass sentence?”
“I went to Alcázar to gather information about an imminent assault,” Brand said quickly. “The Kabir of the city plans to attack the realms, starting with Fortönn. Once the winter storms end, you will find yourself under siege.”
The knight narrowed his eyes. “Is this trustworthy information?”
Brand nodded. “I saw the ships myself, gathered for war. Both in Alcázar and Maleth.”
“Not only that,” Jana interjected. “My – the Kabir has allied himself with Labdah. They will lend ships as well. A fleet large enough to transport thousands of troops.”
“And who are you?” asked Hákon brusquely.
Jana looked at Brand, who gave a slight nod. “I am Lady Jana, daughter to the Kabir.”
“This tale grows taller and taller,” the knight muttered.
“She helped me flee the city. We only entered the Teeth because we had no other choice, and because it is vital the realms are warned,” Brand stressed.
“If this is true, I must prepare,” Hákon mumbled. “I need aid. The marshal must help me.”
“Will you write him?” asked Brand.
“Better. I will send the pair of you to him. If your tale is honest, you may convince him in person. I will need every soldier, every sack of food this keep can hold.”
Brand exhaled. “Excellent, sir knight. We will be happy to relate everything to the marshal.” He glanced at Jana. “Though I must ask. My sword was taken from me. The blade is sacred to me.” Next to him, an expression of slight exasperation crossed Jana’s face.
“Fine,” the knight said. “It will be returned to you.”
“And the fisherman who went with us. He only trespassed into forbidden waters to help us, that we might warn the realms. It would be a sorrow to see him punished for that,” Brand continued.
Hákon raised an eyebrow. “A knight who cares about a fisherman? You are strange, my lord Adalbrand, but I shall consider leniency.”
“My thanks, Sir Hákon.”
“Guard, find some food and bedding for our guests tonight,” the knight commanded. “I will find you a ship. Now excuse me. I must write to the marshal.” He took a seat behind his desk while Brand and Jana left the study, accompanied by the guards.
~~~~
The keep had a large hall for meals, where Brand and Jana brought to. Despite their nominal status as captives, the guards left them alone, and they were given bowls of porridge to serve as a meal.
“That could scarcely have gone better,” Brand remarked, digging into his food. He spoke quietly, in Suthspeech. “We will be on the mainland soon, and our warning will be heard by the right ears.”
On the other side of the table, Jana kept her eyes on him rather than her meal. “You never mentioned that you were an exile.”
Brand looked down at his bowl. “It is not a source of pride for me.”
“That changes our situation drastically. I am the daughter of an enemy to the realms, and you are an exile.” She exhaled slowly. “We are entirely at the mercy of other people.”
Brand finally looked up. “It is not desperate. I have many friends still.”
“I hope so.” Jana finally picked up her wooden spoon and pushed it through her porridge. “What else should I know?”
“I will tell you everything in full,” Brand promised. “We have a sea journey ahead of us with many idle hours on a ship. Plenty of time to tell you about it all.”
“Very well.” She took a spoonful of her meal, making a face. “You said we will be on the mainland. Where is this marshal we are to meet?”
“Sir Asger, marshal of Thusund,” Brand elaborated, scraping his bowl empty. “He resides in Herbergja. It is fortunate for us. From that city, we can with ease travel onwards.”
“None of your vaunted friends reside there?”
He shook his head. “I had people waiting for me in Portesur, which is not far. But they would have expected me to return weeks ago from Alcázar. They may have moved on.”
“So where should we go after Herbergja?”
Brand stretched his neck. “I am not sure. I will consider our options, and we can decide. We have time, after all.”
Jana filled her spoon again, staring at the sludge. “I cannot believe you pressed the knight about your sword.”
Across the table, Brand spluttered with laughter.
~~~~
The two prisoners turned guests were given separate quarters for sleep; Brand lay in the barracks with soldiers, Jana with the servant women of the castle. As morning came, they met again in the hall, breaking the fast together with the inhabitants of the keep.
“Is anything amiss?” asked Brand as they sat down. As yesterday, he stuck to Suthspeech. “None gave you any trouble, I hope.”
Jana stared with despondence at her bowl of porridge. “No. The other women kept their distance. I would kill for a bath and some fresh clothes, but asking for either felt like tempting fate.”
“Perhaps we can accomplish that today,” Brand considered. “We may be stuck a few days on this island before passage can be found for us. I doubt they would begrudge us a bath, if I am the one fetching and heating the water.”
“I would be grateful,” Jana told him, slowly working her spoon through the meal.
An Order soldier made his way through the hall; in itself, not remarkable given the many other soldiers present, except he carried a jewelled sword in one hand. He made his way to Brand and Jana’s table. “This is yours, I was told.”
Brand eagerly seized the scabbard, caressing the hilt. “Give the knight commander my thanks.”
“You should hurry,” the soldier continued. “Sir Hákon has arranged passage for you. The ship will be ready by the time you make your way to the harbour.”
“Already?” exclaimed Jana.
“That’s what I was told.” The soldier shrugged. “Go as soon as you’ve eaten. It’s the only ship in port making ready to depart, you can’t miss it.” Without further words, he left them.
Brand and Jana exchanged looks. With a despondent expression, she dug into her meal.
~~~~
The pair left the keep soon after, walking to the harbour. As promised, while most vessels clearly lay moored, only one longship was prepared for departure.
“I am amazed we will be underway already,” Jana confessed.
Brand trailed her by a few steps, fumbling with his scabbard. He only had a rope around his waist, serving as a poor sword belt. “The knight understands the importance of our news.”
They walked down the pier to reach their erstwhile destination. A handful of sailors stood or sat scattered around the ship. One of them, with a horn hanging by his side, looked up at them. “You’re my passengers, I take it. There can’t be other people around with your description.” He glanced at Jana with her expensive clothes turned to rags and Brand, wearing a worn tunic and a jewelled sword tied to a rope serving as his belt.
They both nodded. Brand jumped into the ship, helping Jana to step aboard.
“Let’s away,” the captain mumbled. “There’s room for you both to sit over there. Stay sitting or lying down. I’m not interested in wasting time fishing anybody out of the water, and as cold as it is, you won’t like it either.”
Brand’s lips became pursed, and Jana took hold of his arm. “Of course, captain,” she hurried to say, moving to the assigned space with Brand in tow. Around them, the sailors unmoored the ship and took their own positions. Soon, the ship was underway.
~~~~
Seated at the bottom of the ship, the passengers could look just over the edge to see the sea beyond. On either side of them were rows of oarsmen, lending the vessel speed along with the unfurled sail.
“I have given your question some thought.” As before, Brand spoke in Suthspeech.
“Which one?”
“What our options are once we reach Herbergja and have spoken to the marshal.”
“What conclusion have you reached?”
Brand stared at Fortönn, shrinking in the horizon. “I see two possibilities. The first is that I track down my friends and allies. Re-join them. I would be returning to war, but you could stay with my sister in Middanhal. She has coin to see you restored to comfort, and you would not have to worry.”
“While I do not relish the thought of being a burden to a woman I have never met, I can hardly complain,” Jana considered. “What is the other possibility?”
Brand cleared his throat. “One reason I went to Alcázar – I shall tell you the rest of the story soon enough – was because my life was threatened. Hired blades sought to kill me. I have made powerful enemies.”
She glanced at him. “That sounds ominous. Given your situation in Alcázar, I dread to think what made you flee from Adalmearc.”
“My predicament in Alcázar was my own fault,” he admitted. “Regardless, once I return to my comrades, my presence will be known. For better or worse, my name attracts attention. Once my enemies are aware that I tread on Mearcian soil once more, I will be in danger. As might you be.”
“And you have a solution for this?”
“There is only one way to avoid this. Rather than allow my return and name be known, once we have spoken with the marshal, we must disappear.”
She frowned. “Disappear? How so?”
“The forests of Vidrevi are said to be endless. I can hunt well enough if need be. It would be a life of poverty and simplicity, with nothing more than basic necessities to sustain life,” Brand explained. He turned to look at his companion. “But we would be free. None would know of us. None would chase us. We would live our days in peace.”
Doubt took hold of her face. “Could you truly accept such a lot in life? When I knew you as a boy, your mind was always on future glories, never a settled life.”
“I have known nothing but war for years. I am weary,” he admitted. “I have given everything to serve others, to fight and protect. So far, my reward has been exile and threats of execution, not to mention hidden blades meant to murder me.” He stretched his neck, staring at the distant keep on Fortönn. The weak winter sun was reflected in the grey stones of the fortifications. He moved his hand to cover hers. “Perhaps the gods have given me this chance for another life.”
“What of your friends that you spoke of? Your sister? Could you leave them all behind?”
“I already did, in a sense, when I went alone to Alcázar. They would have expected my return weeks ago. They must assume I am dead.”
“Some may choose a dwelling made from alabaster,” Jana quoted, “others find their heart amidst the oleaster.” The words were those of al-Tayir, the great poet of Alcázar. She cautiously turned her hand around to take hold of Brand’s. “We have some days until we reach the mainland, correct? Let us consider it until then.”
“Agreed.”
~~~~
Eventually, the island of Fortönn disappeared from sight. Likewise, no other ships could be seen on the sea besides their own craft. Calling the ship’s boy to take his place at the helm, the captain moved down the boat until he could crouch in front of his passengers.
Scratching his beard, the captain let his eyes glance over Brand. “You are Adalbrand Arnarson,” he spoke. Whether he meant it as a statement or a question was hard to tell.
Brand returned the captain’s stare. “Yes,” he muttered at length. Nodding to himself, the sailor stood up and returned to take the helm.
“What did he call you?” asked Jana.
“Arnarson. On the islands, they keep to the old tongue in some ways,” Brand explained. “It is how they refer to House Arnling.”
“How did he know?”
“Good question.” Brand leaned forward, raising himself up. “Boy, come here,” he called out to the ship’s youngest crew member. Swiftly, the young lad did as told. “Do you know who I am?” Brand asked.
The boy smiled. “Of course! You are Adalbrand, the son of Arn.”
“Who told you?”
The smile turned into a grin. “We remember the stories on the thousand islands. In the hour of need, fighting the cruel men of the South, Arn came to our aid,” he related, sounding like a quote from memory. “It could never be hidden for long that a son of Arn had come to the islands.”
“Lad, some water!” yelled one of the oarsmen, and the boy leapt away towards the water barrels.
“I wonder why the captain cares,” mumbled Brand.
Jana took hold of his arm. “Our destination is east, is it not?”
“Yes. Why?”
“We have changed course.” She looked up briefly at the sun. Earlier it had been ahead of them, with the sail providing shade. Now it was to their right. “What lies north that we would sail hence?”
“The only city of importance would be Dvaros, home to the kings of Thusund.”
“What reason could there be that they would sail us hence?”
“None good, I fear,” Brand muttered.
|
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"title": "The Eagle’s Flight - 171. Arnarson",
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|
A Worthy Spectacle
Alcázar
“Explain how you could be so careless to let a prisoner die.” Jalil’s voice was calm, but he spoke with a clenched jaw.
“There are marks from fingers around his neck,” Imad explained. He was sweating despite the room being cold. “The northerner must have strangled him.”
“Preventing him from talking,” Jalil sneered. He grabbed Majid’s hair, pulling his head up.
“With respect, sidi, I don’t believe he had anything more to say. I think the torments you threatened made him –”
“You dare blame me?”
Imad swallowed and bowed low. “Never, sidi.”
“This failure will cost you,” Jalil promised him, letting Majid’s head drop. “I will see you punished!”
“Yes, sidi.” Imad kept his head down.
“First of all, do not tell anyone. There is no need for my father to know.”
Imad cleared his throat. “My apologies, sidi.”
Jalil stared at him. “No. You did not.”
“It is my duty, sidi. These are the exalted Kabir’s prisoners.”
“They are my responsibility!” the prince shrieked.
“Alas, I am first and foremost the exalted Kabir’s humble servant.”
Jalil stared at the little torturer with a multitude of expressions running across his face. “Keep this one alive. Can you manage that, you despicable creep?”
“Of course, sidi. I will not be strangling him, after all.”
Jalil let his tongue run over his lips slowly. “You will pay when I have time to deal with you.” He turned on his heel and marched out of the room.
Imad let out a heavy breath. “I hope he doesn’t become the next Kabir. What a nightmare my work would become.” He looked at Brand. “Very cheeky, you. I’ve never had a prisoner die unintentionally before.” He ran his hand over the edge of the table containing his tools. “I can’t damage you, not without my master’s approval. Fortunately, much can be done leaving little trace.” Without having to look, he moved his hand to pick up an instrument.
~~~~
Jalil went straight to the harem and his mother’s chamber. As he entered, she stared at him under heavy eyelids. “I heard.”
“That fool failed me!” Jalil complained.
She raised one hand to silence him. “The blame is irrelevant. The fact remains, your position is weakened.”
“He was not of much use, anyway,” Jalil mumbled. “He had not told me anything worthwhile.”
“It does not matter. In the eyes of your father, you have taken a loss. He will respect you less because of it.”
Jalil chewed on his lower lip. “You think so?”
“I know your father’s mind.” She sat up from her divan, straightening her back. “He will begin to favour Saif over you, unless something changes. Unless we change something.”
“What can we do?”
“What can you do,” his mother corrected him.
A small girl entered from a side corridor. “Mother?” she said tentatively.
“Not now!” came the reply, sending the child running. “You must prove yourself to your father another way,” she continued at Jalil.
“Of course, Mother, but in what way? This was the task he gave me.”
“We need to show him – and the court – that you are superior to your half-brother when it comes to war. After all, the soldiers will need a commander they can respect,” she considered.
“How can I do this?”
She leaned back on her divan. “You still have one prisoner left.”
~~~~
Close by, another of the Kabir’s sons visited his mother in the harem as well. “You sent for me, Mother?”
“I did,” Rana confirmed. “I have received word. One of the two prisoners in the dungeons has died.”
Saif widened his eyes and broke into a smile. “Poor Jalil! He must be in a state trying to recover from this. Was it his own eagerness that went too far?”
Rana shook her head. “It happened during the night. I could not discern the reason, but either the torturer made a mistake, or the other prisoner decided to silence his companion.”
“I suppose either way, it leaves Jalil crippled.”
“Do not be too hasty. By all accounts, the truly valuable prisoner remains in Jalil’s hands. You still need to prove yourself, my son. Jalil’s mishap does not prove your worth. Should it come to it, your father has other sons.”
“Of course. I continue to pursue the spies with all means at my disposal,” Saif defended himself.
His mother regarded him with a curved eyebrow. “And has this yielded any result?”
“They remain elusive,” he admitted.
“With this development, Jalil, or should I say his mother, will be trying anything to make up for it. Be on your guard, my son!” she urged him. “Remain diligent in your duties and give none cause to doubt you.”
“I shall, Mother. I did not plan otherwise.”
“Do not underestimate that old hag or her odious son,” Rana continued. “I will be vigilant as well. Go, resume your duties. Let none accuse you of being lax in your duties.”
“Very well, Mother.” He inclined his head towards her and left.
~~~~
Despite his mother’s command, Saif did not leave the harem. Instead, he walked through a few corridors to reach Jana’s chamber. He knocked and received no answer. Waiting a little while, he finally entered. “Sister? Are you present?” he asked, peering into the room.
A female voice reached him, coming from the corridor on the other side of the room. He waited until Jana came into sight, accompanied by Salim. She was talking, and both were smiling. The prince cleared his throat discreetly.
“Saif! You took me by surprise.” Jana’s smile faltered a little before returning. “I was just in the gardens with Salim.”
“Pleasant surroundings, but perhaps one-sided conversation,” Saif remarked with a wry expression.
“Salim has lots to say. You just have to listen,” she argued, sending the mamluk warrior a fond look. “What do I owe this unexpected visit?”
“Just had some news to share,” her brother explained with a satisfied smile. “One of Jalil’s prisoners died during the night. This will have thrown his plans into chaos.”
“I see.” While Salim took position by the wall, she sat on a sofa. “I see the reason for your joy.”
He remained standing, tripping in place. “If we are fortunate, our father will soon be done with him.”
“If we are fortunate,” Jana repeated. “It seems a pity a man had to die for this, though.”
“Your gentle heart speaks well of you, but you need not feel troubled. He was a traitor, helping the spies for the sake of coin. Not to mention, knowing Jalil, his death might have been a mercy.”
“I suppose there is that.”
“You should come sit with us at the evening meal again today,” Saif encouraged her. “My mother is always in a good mood when she has your company.”
“That is very kind of you to say.”
“I must go,” he continued. “I have matters requiring my attention before the meal. I will see you later,” he smiled, taking his leave.
Jana turned her head towards Salim. “Your tongue may be quiet, but I can hear your eyes speaking like a waterfall even without looking at you.”
He gave a wry smile and a few gestures.
“I know, I know. Alcázar is my home once more.” She looked pensive for a moment. “Is it strange that sometimes I miss our seclusion in Labdah? I felt alone and thought I wished a return to Alcázar, but now, this palace seems a more solitary place to me.”
Salim responded, adding an understanding expression to his mute motions.
“Very well. I will leave for the evening meal now. You should take some time for yourself,” she suggested. “You have barely left the palace since our return. There must be more thrilling entertainment in the city than standing in my chamber all day.”
He winked, inclined his head, and left her alone.
~~~~
As the sun approached the horizon, the dining hall filled with courtiers. They spread out in natural patterns like birds across the sky, arranging themselves in semicircles as always. One difference was that today, fewer sat with Jalil and his mother than they had yesterday. After a while, the Kabir entered the hall from his private entrance, taking his seat upon the dais reserved for him. While plates and cups were brought to him, he had a servant summon one of his younger wives for company.
“He does not call for you or your brother,” Rana remarked quietly to her son. Jana had joined their circle, conversing lightly with one of Rana’s daughters.
“He wants to keep us on our toes,” Saif suggested. “That is always his habit.”
“An art he has perfected,” she said with a wry look. “And with the fleet preparations delayed, he has plenty of times to think of more ways.”
“It will be a long winter.” Saif gave a little sigh in mockery.
“What is this?” exclaimed Rana. Her eyes rested on Jalil, having risen from his seat to approach the Kabir. Granted permission to step close, the prince exchanged quiet words with his father. Soon after, a few servants were dispatched by Jalil, leaving the hall.
“I suspect we will find out,” Saif considered, watching his brother.
Standing by the dais, Jalil moved to the side that he might face the court without having his back turned to the Kabir. He raised one hand to demand silence, which came easily; he already had the attention of everyone present. “My lords and ladies,” he called out. “With the permission of the exalted Kabir, I wish to present a spectacle to you. As all know, earlier this year I returned from Labdah, having ensured that city’s allegiance towards our exalted Kabir.”
Saif rolled his eyes.
“In that savage city, I witnessed a display of skill and swordsmanship. A warrior of the North, gruesome and fierce, fought on the sands against a champion born of Alcázar. The northern savage was fearsome in his fury, killing all in his rage. Against him, our champion stood as a tower of skill and strength. In the end, our warrior proved superior, as was to be expected, and he struck the northerner with ruin.”
“He killed an inexperienced fighter who had never been on the sands before,” Saif whispered to his mother.
“I do not like this,” Rana admitted. “I do not like this at all.”
Jalil continued. “As Alcázar is greater than Labdah in all respects, the exalted Kabir has granted me leave to present a better spectacle to you all. In our dungeons, we have a prisoner from the North. A devious villain, he was discovered setting fires in the city!” Gasps were heard. “It took ten guards to subdue him, and many wounds he gave them. Some would fear to face this creature, more beast than man, but the sons of Alcázar fear none!” A few cheered; most remained silent in anticipation. “As evidence of this, I will face this savage before your very eyes! I will wear no armour, no protection save a sword and my skill.”
“I will bet you the poor soul probably has broken hands and cannot even hold a blade,” Saif muttered.
“Surely your father cannot be impressed by this,” his mother declared. “Such posture and vanity!”
“I would ask you all to make room in the middle of the hall,” Jalil said. “Before the exalted Kabir’s eyes, and yours, I shall battle this dog and punish him for his misdeeds!”
The Kabir gave a nod in acknowledgement of this command, and the courtiers rose from the ground, moving to the sides until the centre was clear. Jalil stepped into the open space with a smile. “We all know that the North is home to countless savages. In older times, they would appear in their ships, plundering our coasts and disappear before we could strike back. Because they know that one of our mamluk warriors is worth ten of theirs. Skill has heavier weight than numbers, and none can stand against the sons of Alcázar!”
There was commotion at the far end of the hall; two guards entered with Brand in chains between them. The prisoner stared around with a wild look. His clothing was torn open, revealing his neck and chest along with the wounds upon them. Dirt covered both his tunic and skin, and two fingers on his left hand were swollen. His right hand lay on his throat, covering the leather string surrounding it.
“Behold the villain!” Jalil cried out. “Even now, murder is in his eyes, but fear not. We shall fight with blunted swords, and the guards will keep his murderous intent in check.” The courtiers mumbled, and several pressed backwards to put distance between themselves and Brand. Meanwhile, more guards appeared, taking position along the edge of the cleared space where Jalil stood. “Remove his chains,” the prince commanded. While Brand was freed, a servant appeared with two dull swords, meant for sparring. He gave them both to Jalil with a bow and hurried away.
“I hope he trips and impales himself,” Rana muttered, watching Jalil holding the two swords.
“I think the blade is too dull to impale anything,” Saif told her.
“Good. It will hurt more.”
The prince, meanwhile, had approached Brand. “Fight me or die,” he told the prisoner in Mearcspeech, throwing one blade onto the ground. Retreating two steps, Jalil swung his own sword around a few times before he turned to face his father. “At your pleasure, my lord.”
From his seat, the Kabir gave a nod in signal. Jalil whirled around, raising his sword and assuming a fighting position.
Brand stared around the hall, at the courtiers, the prince in front of him, and the blade on the ground. Slowly, he leaned down to pick up the weapon with his uninjured hand.
With an expression between a smile and a sneer, Jalil stepped forward to make a quick stab at Brand, like baiting an animal. In response, Brand jerked backwards, and he finally raised his sword. Seeing his opponent ready, Jalil advanced more carefully, striking several blows from different angles and forcing Brand to parry and retreat. With flourishes and wide swings, Jalil was entertaining the crowd as much as he was fighting.
He attacked, Brand defended.
Jalil was a prince of Alcázar with an aptitude for sword-fighting trained since childhood.
Another blow, another parry.
Brand was a knight, likewise skilled and trained.
A deep thrust from Jalil, a step backwards from Brand.
Had they met on the battlefield, the fight would have been equal.
Avoiding another thrust, Brand circled around Jalil.
Brand was wounded, starved, and had not seen sunlight in days.
A rapid succession of strikes, a quick defensive manoeuvre.
Jalil was fighting to adore the spectators rather than to win.
The prince raised his sword in a wide strike, looking impressive. Having plenty of time to react, Brand did not parry, but simply stepped to the side. He struck his blade down against Jalil’s sword hand. With an outburst, the prince dropped his weapon. Brand followed up by striking the pommel of his sword into Jalil’s chest, sending his opponent sprawling to the ground.
The court looked in shock, but none dared interfere. Brand’s sword hovered over Jalil’s face; although blunt, it could easily take an eye out. The guards stood frozen as well, looking at each other or the Kabir. As for him, the ruler sat with a stone face, not revealing any emotion.
Brand let his eyes run over the crowd. “I am a knight of Adal,” he proclaimed in Suthspeech. “Go north, and you shall face ten thousand like me!” He threw his blade to the ground in a contemptuous manner, stepping away from the prince.
|
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Restoration
Middanhal
About a month after they left Hareik, the double walls of Middanhal rose in the horizon to meet them. They had encountered the first Order patrol a few days prior; unlike in the lands of Isarn, the soldiers simply let them pass. As they came closer to the city, they met several more contingents of Order troops and even mercenaries. Damien scowled upon seeing the latter, which they hardly seemed to notice; thus, without further incidents, the pair reached the capital of Adalrik.
They entered through Woolgate. There few other travellers passing into the city; as if to compensate, a great number of soldiers loitered around the gate and surrounding fortifications.
Damien paid little heed to their surroundings; in contrast, Gunvor stared with something approaching awe. “I have never seen a building so big!” She gestured with excitement at the Citadel.
“I suppose it is quite the size,” Damien assented. “Probably the biggest castle in all the realms, if not the world.”
“It must be!”
“Come along. We follow the Arnsweg, and it will take us to the Temple.”
“The Arnsweg?”
He pointed down. “The road we are walking right now. Built by Arn, I presume. But these drakonians will claim that about anything. You meet a farmer living two stones from the Alfskog, he will claim that Arn himself laid the foundation of his outhouse.” Despite his disparaging remarks, a smile played on his face.
Gunvor laughed and glanced at him. “You seem in good cheer.”
“I would never admit it to a drakonian, but there is something special about this city.” He gave a sigh. “It feels good to have returned.”
“What will you do next?”
“Well, I am taking you to the Temple, of course.”
“After that,” she clarified. “Do you intend to stay?”
“You know, I should probably have put some thought into that,” he admitted with a wry smile. “I never considered beyond Middanhal. I suppose you will return to Hareik?”
“I will discuss it with the gydja of my order here in Middanhal,” Gunvor explained. “The gydja in Hareik left me free to decide.”
“Would you consider that? Staying in Middanhal?”
“Possibly,” she contemplated. “It would certainly be a change from Hareik! But maybe the gydja will know of a small temple elsewhere that needs a priestess. Somewhere with a forest.”
“That sounds pleasant.”
She cleared her throat. “If you have no other options available to you, perhaps you should consider becoming a temple guard.”
“Hah! The Templars would seethe with rage if I became employed at the Temple, even as a lowly guard.”
“I did not mean the Temple,” she elaborated, stressing the second-last word. “With my recommendation, I am sure any temple of Austre would accept you.”
His mouth curled upwards. “That is a kind thought. Maybe.” They separated briefly to walk around a cart driving towards them; when they met on the other side, he spoke again. “Thank you for this journey.” His left hand was on his sword hilt, but it seemed mostly out of habit; his right hand was barely shaking.
“I am the one who should thank you, surely.”
He shook his head. “I did this for my own sake. It has been a long while since I had to think of anyone else. It has done me good.” He looked up; ahead of them, they could see the Temple dome. “I blamed the Highfather, the Templars, and many others for my current misfortune.”
“But now?”
“I still do,” he laughed. “But there is a fight inside of me, and the drink makes it worse.”
“What fight?”
“Even now, when I grasp my sword, I relish it. The world becomes slow, like – like moving through water,” he explained with a feebly voice. “All thoughts disappear. I know exactly what to do. I am never afraid because I never imagine I could lose a fight. In those moments, I am Damien of Montmer once again. So half the time, I feel the urge to become that man again.”
“And the other half?”
“The rest of the time, I am sick to my stomach of blood. Sick of feeling empty when it ends, remembering that I have nothing else.” He took a deep breath. “I do not know what to do. But it cannot go on. Maybe – maybe a quiet life guarding a temple by a forest is what I need.”
She took his arm, letting him steer her through the crowd, which grew thicker the closer they came to the Temple. “Once I have spoken to the gydja, perhaps we can make plans.”
“Perhaps.”
~~~~
They reached the Temple square; solstice was long over, and it had returned to its usual state as a marketplace. This allowed them to easily make their way across and walk up the stairs.
As they reached the plateau in front of the entrance, the two Templars standing guard surged forward to block their path. “You have some nerve showing your face,” one of them growled.
“You best be gone before I finish my sentence,” warned the other.
Damien pulled out a letter. “I am here at the Highfather’s bequest.”
The Templars exchanged looks of disbelief, but one of them grabbed the creased parchment to unfold and read it. “Seven and Eighth, this seems genuine.”
“You cannot be serious,” remarked the other.
“I will investigate this. Wait here,” the first Templar commanded, disappearing into the Temple.
“You should go ahead,” Damien told Gunvor. “This might take a while.”
“Where do I find you afterwards?”
“At the central basin in the gardens.”
“Very well.” She stepped forward, and the remaining guardian let her pass into the Hall of Holies.
Damien waited outside, pointedly ignoring the Templar’s scowls. With a demonstrative grip upon the pommel of his two-handed sword, once consecrated to holy service, he used his other hand to lean against one of the pillars.
Eventually the other Templar returned, sending his comrade a look. Silently, he gestured for Damien to follow, which the latter did with a smug expression.
The anointed knight led him straight through the complex and into the gardens in the middle. He took Damien to a bench, where the Highfather sat in his customary, unadorned robe.
“Thank you, Sir Wulfric,” the old priest told the knight, who bowed and left. He turned his attention on Damien. “I was told you returned in the company of a sister of Austre.”
“Yes, Holy One,” Damien confirmed. His voice was flat.
“I assume you have completed the task I placed upon you.”
“Yes, Holy One.”
“Very well. Kneel.” Damien did so, while Septimus stood up and placed his hand upon Damien’s head. “You are returned to the embrace of the gods. You may seek shelter in their refuge. You may seek their blessing. You are spared their wrath. Under the eyes of the dragon, the raven, the bull, the horse, the bear, the hart, and the eagle, this will be.”
“This will be,” Damien mumbled. As the priest withdrew his hand, he rose to stand.
“You are free to go where you please,” Septimus told him, “and I place no further commands upon you. But this silver is yours to speed you on your way, and this letter contains news you should hear.” The priest placed a small purse and a letter in Damien’s hands, leaving him alone.
~~~~
When Gunvor went to the Temple gardens, she saw no sign of Damien at the central basin. She searched around for a while until she found him sitting on the bench. He was staring at a letter in his hands.
“Damien?” she said cautiously. He looked up. “Is something the matter?”
“A letter from my father’s steward. There was a battle in Ealond between the king’s forces and those of Duke Belvoir.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“My father fell on the field, and when my brother tried to save his body from mutilation, he was slain as well.”
“Those are dreadful news!” She sat down next to him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “I am so sorry!”
“You need not be on my account. Last I saw either of them, I was still a squire. We were strangers to each other.”
“Still, you have my condolences. What of your poor mother?”
“Dead years ago. I have a sister, but neither of us have any interest in the other, I wager,” Damien explained. “Regardless, they want me home.” He waved the letter in the air.
“Of course. You must pay your respects.”
“I had not thought of that, but I suppose I must.”
“Will you – do you intend to stay in Ealond?”
He glanced down at the letter. “I probably have to, seeing as I am the new baron of Montmer.”
She pulled her hand away from his shoulder. “Baron?”
“My father was the thirteenth baron of Montmer. As the second son, I went into the Order,” Damien explained, sounding absent-minded. His eyes continued to move across the letters on the paper in his hand. “But now I am the closest heir.”
“You are not only nobleborn, your family is entitled,” Gunvor said softly. “And now you are as well.”
“In the faintest sense of the word. Montmer is little more than a keep with a scrap of land to its name.”
“Yet there is still a world of difference between Lord Damien and Baron Damien.”
“Only the difference we make of it.” He gave a shrug and looked at her. “What of you? Was the gydja satisfied with your efforts?”
“She was. I am free to stay here or return to Hareik.”
“What will you do?”
She stood up from the bench. “I don’t know. I need to think.”
“Same here.” He stood up as well. “I should find lodgings. It is too late in the day to set out for Ealond.”
“Of course. Farewell, milord.”
“Fare you well, Sister.”
“Gods be with you.” She turned and left with hasty steps.
He watched her leave and clenched the coin purse in his hand. “I need a drink.”
~~~~
When the Highfather returned to his cell, he found Godfrey waiting outside. “You are still here? I thought you went to see the Quill.”
“I decided to delay until tomorrow. Also, I have a letter you should sign.”
“Of course.” The priest unlocked the door to his room. “Damien of Montmer arrived just today.”
“I had my doubts,” Godfrey admitted, “but this was never my scheme to begin with.”
“Indeed, it was mine.” Septimus opened the door, and they stepped inside. “I have my own doubts whether he will ever be a capable lord of Montmer, but that is out of my hands.”
“Who approached you?” Godfrey asked as they sat down. “I can’t imagine who would take an interest.”
“The new Veiled Sister in Fontaine, though I cannot understand either why she would care. I suspect she acted on another’s behalf.”
“But you helped her nonetheless.”
“After my visit to Fontaine, I thought it best the sibyls saw the gentle side of the archon,” Septimus explained. “The heir to Montmer is restored, and the Veiled Sister has been shown a kindness.” He picked up his quill. “You had a letter?”
|
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In Crimson Colours
The Reach
Close to evening, a procession of fifty soldiers marched on the road north of Rund. The land around them grew dry and dusty as they progressed, and they were sweaty at the end of each day’s march, despite the coolness of their robes. Several days after leaving Rund, they reached the small outpost just south of the Langstan with its promise of fresh water.
The place was empty except for some horses and a few soldiers standing near the animals. Many of the Anausa removed their helmets and wiped their brows, sitting down or digging out rations to eat, while others crowded around the wells to fill their water skins. Idle conversation was exchanged along with laughter, smiles, teasing, and gruff responses.
One of the soldiers shouted a question to the men guarding the horses. When he received no reply, he approached until he could poke one of them in the chest, who responded by collapsing to the ground.
Like lightning from a clear sky, arrows descended and felled several outlanders. Scores of Mearcians issued from the few tents, buildings, surrounding brushes, and other places erected for concealment. Led by Glaukos with murderous delight on his face, thirty Mearcians fell upon the outlanders from one direction; Alaric and thirty others completed the ambush from the other side. Meanwhile, arrows continued to fly, finding their targets in unprotected skulls.
The slaughter lasted a quarter of an hour before all the outlanders lay dead. A handful of the Mearcians had injuries, a few of them severe, but none to threaten life. The whiterobes put down hammers and took out herbal remedies and bandages instead, getting to work on their wounded comrades. Under Geberic’s supervision, the Mearcians gathered those slain by injuries to the head, stripping the bodies of their pristine uniforms. Others dragged the corpses away, preparing a mass grave. The youngest of the band, including Matthew, were sent to calm the horses; the noise of the assault and the smell of blood had made some of them skittish. Stroking their muzzles and leading them to water, they soothed the beasts while the Mearcians continued to clear away the signs of carnage.
~~~~
Aware of the constant danger that the Mearcians would seek to retake the Langstan, thus severing the outlander forces in Lakonia from the Reach, the Anausa kept a strong watch upon the wall. Sixty men guarded the ramps that served as an improvised bridge for their troops and supplies to pass the Langstan, and they had garrisoned every watchtower for ten miles to the west. Along with their constant patrols across southern Hæthiod, they would have ample warning should any Mearcian forces approach from the north.
Because of this, the outlander sentries took little heed upon seeing nearly forty soldiers marching on the dust road to approach their position on the Langstan from the south. The contingent was dressed in the red robes of the Anausa and wore their customary weapons. On the nearby watchtower, the sentinels watched their progression with little interest, as did the guards on the wall itself and at the foot of the ramp, huddling their cloaks around themselves to shield against the afternoon rain. One of the latter called out to the column as they reached his position; he promptly received a spear in his stomach as a response.
A handful of the Mearcians, kingthanes all, rushed up the ramp to act as the spearhead of the assault. Behind them, their companions quickly surrounded the outlanders on the ground and butchered them. Upon the wall, the kingthanes spread in either direction, mowing down their opposition. Discarding their spears, they drew swords to enter the watchtower and fight in close quarters, clearing it of enemies. A few archers followed them throughout their entire progression, thinning the opposition.
A score of outlanders had been on the ground north of the wall. They ran up the ramp upon realising that battle was afoot, but swift though they reacted, it was already too late. The Mearcians established a shield wall at the top of the ramp, letting their spears hold the outlanders at bay while the remaining archers cut down their numbers. A few of the outlanders, realising the futility in assaulting the shield wall, retreated and used their own bows instead. Seeing this, Doran gave the command to break formation and push down the ramp, overwhelming the last of the enemy.
The rest of the Mearcians, except those severely hurt in previous clashes, arrived soon after and set to task. The whiterobes had new injuries to tend to; nearly all the kingthanes had sustained many wounds, bearing the brunt of the assault. The dead were plundered for their equipment and the bodies removed. Most importantly, scouts were sent north to provide eyes into that region, and a small band under Glaukos marched west along the Langstan; this had only been the first watchtower to be reclaimed.
Once satisfied that all his orders were being carried out, Brand joined his men digging graves.
~~~~
Each patrol dispatched by the outlanders through Lakonia consisted of twenty soldiers. That was more than enough to handle any small bands of enemies that might have slipped past the vigilance of the blackboots, who scouted along the edges of outlander-held territory. These patrols were rarely eventful; southern Hæthiod was sparsely populated close to the Langstan, and much of the land was dry, nearly barren. Along with the occasional village or farm, the Anausa encountered little else than olive trees.
Further north, near the Order camp, they remained vigilant; even with the blackboots keeping sharp watch, there was always a possibility of a skirmish. Near the Langstan, however, the Anausa spoke freely with each other and seemed unburdened by the state of war, especially on days of sunshine and clear skies.
Their easy conversation was interrupted when they spotted another patrol. Idle speculation upon seeing their counterparts turned into doubt. Hands reached for weapons, doubt was replaced by suspicion, and finally, fighting ensued. The Mearcians charged with spears first, drawing swords afterwards as the skirmish became chaotic. Half the outlanders tried to stem the advance while the other half drew bows.
Blood was spilt on both sides, but the Mearcians were battle-hardened beyond compare, and they cut their opposition down. The last of the outlanders threw down his weapons and attempted to flee. Two arrows struck his back, sending him to the ground; without words spoken, Nicholas and Quentin had reacted in unison.
Their purpose done, the Mearcians quickly prepared to return to their brethren. Two of their number were badly hurt; a few cloaks were made into improvised stretchers. With a slow pace, the band set a course south, back to the Langstan.
~~~~
At night, the Mearcians filled their bellies without reservation. They had seized more provisions than they could ever need from the outlanders, and they had no interest in trying to cart the sacks and barrels around. Instead, they simply ate their fill. They had meat and fish to roast, flour for baking, and vegetables of every kind, providing for a sumptuous meal that many of the Mearcians had rarely known before. With Troy providing song and music and the weather mild, the warriors lacked for nothing.
“Glaukos has returned. They cleared three towers before they turned back,” Doran informed Brand. “No losses, but they all seem wounded. Our scouts have found hills both north-east and south-west of the outpost. As the water runs through both, either would be ideal for setting up camp. On that note, we have also found three tents in total. I can have the men set one up for you and arrange better sleeping quarters.” The young highlander, who was not only Brand’s clansman but also heir to Clan Lachlann, fell silent and awaited Brand’s reply in calm fashion without any air of pretence. Gone was any trace of the hot-headed warrior eager to prove himself that he had been only last year.
“We take to the southern hills for our camp,” Brand decided. “If needed, it will allow us to retreat further west. Use the tents as a sickhouse for those too wounded to move about. If you give them to Brother Caradoc, he can see them put to use.”
“Yes, captain.”
“When you do, ask him about our number of wounded.”
“I already did, captain. We have thirteen soldiers who should not be fighting any time soon, and about a score with lesser wounds that will need a few days of rest.”
“Good. The archers?”
“They all have full quivers. With the outlanders so fond of bows, finding arrows is child’s play.”
“Good,” Brand reiterated. “We rest here for tonight and move to our new camp tomorrow.”
“Very well, captain. I will see to it.” Doran inclined his head and left at a brisk pace.
Dispersed around campfires, most of the warriors were busy shovelling food into their mouths, only taking breaks to exchange jests and laughter. Brand sat at the edge of one such circle, silently eating the meat and bread provided him. Behind, one kingthane stood guard; even in camp with no sign of danger, Alaric insisted upon this measure at all times.
Cutting smoked fish into pieces with his knife, Jerome glanced at the captain from time to time. Even though others were near and with a kingthane by him, Brand radiated a sense of seclusion.
“He’s a quiet fellow, the captain,” Jerome remarked.
By his side, Matthew sat, happily gnawing on bread. “He’s got a lot on his mind, no doubt. I’ve known him to talk more at other times. I’m his sergeant, you see.”
“Are you really,” Jerome remarked, not looking surprised in the least to hear this.
“Been that since the start,” Matthew continued, his attention on his food.
“You must know him well.”
“Oh, I sure do.” His words came muffled as he stuffed large morsels into his mouth.
“Do you think he will be leading any assaults himself? I’ve not seen him draw his sword yet.”
“Of course he will,” Matthew replied, slightly indignant. “When it’s necessary, the captain doesn’t shy away from fighting. At Polisals, I saw him charge the enemy commander straight on, killing him to turn the battle in our favour.”
Jerome nodded slightly, scratching his beard while the other hand fidgeted with his knife hilt. “You must be thrilled to be in his personal company. Fighting by his side and all that.”
“Just doing my duty,” Matthew said, straightening his back.
“I hope I get the same chance as you. Prove my worth to him.”
“I’m sure there’ll be an opportunity,” Matthew declared with a magnanimous voice. “There’s plenty of fights to come.”
“Matthew!” The sergeant snapped to attention as his captain called out his name. “Have you practised today?”
“No, sir!”
“Get to it soon.”
“Yes, sir.” Matthew emptied his plate and stood up. “I must be off. But maybe I can put in a good word for you when the captain needs men for something.”
“You can do that?”
“Of course,” Matthew smiled. “He listens to me. See you around.” The young sergeant left, and Jerome finished his own meal in silence.
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Strings
Alcázar
Seeing Brand disarm himself, several things happened at once. The crowd reacted with a multitude of emotions. The guards swarmed forward to seize Brand. Jalil got on his feet, staring at the prisoner with undisguised hatred.
“Prince Jalil!” The voice of the Kabir cut through the noise, and the courtiers became silent. “Prince Saif,” the ruler added. “With me. Guards, take the prisoner to a cell where he may rest.” The Kabir rose from his seat and left the hall through his private doorway; his sons hurried to follow him.
As they walked through the corridor, all three men were silent, though the brothers wore vastly different expressions; the Kabir’s face was blank. He continued until he reached his library, finally turning around to look at his sons. “Do you understand what you have done?” he asked Jalil.
“He took me by surprise! I can fight him again –”
“Silence.” The Kabir’s voice was calm but with an unmistakeable edge. “First of all, you allowed the prisoner to declare himself a knight to everyone present. If he is of noble blood, it will be dishonourable to torture him. You have deprived yourself of your remaining opportunity to find the other spies.”
Jalil looked pale. “I did - I did not –”
“Silence,” the Kabir repeated. “Yes, you did not think. The entire court saw you bested by a ragged prisoner.” A measure of disgust flowed into his voice. “You have dealt a blow to our own forces, making them doubt House al-Saqr. How are they to face the northern armies with confidence after this display? Certainly not under your command.”
This time, Jalil remained quiet. By his side, Saif looked increasingly satisfied.
“Remove yourself from my presence. Do not go near the prisoner. You have failed me, and I will not tolerate further failings on your part.” The Kabir stared at his son with harsh eyes. Swallowing, Jalil bowed his head and retreated from the room. Once he was gone, the ruler looked at his other son. “This is yours.” He walked over to open a cabinet containing trophies of past conquests and took out Brand’s sword.
Saif accepted it with a bow. “I shall not disappoint, Father.”
“No. You shall not.” The Kabir turned towards a map that hung upon his wall, great enough to show both the South Cities and much of Adalmearc. “Come. We must discuss the future.”
~~~~
Once more in iron, Brand was led by guards through the palace. They returned him to the dungeons, but not the torture chamber as before. Instead, he was led to a small cell nearby, barely large enough that he could lie down in it. Its only redeeming feature was a coarse blanket lying on the floor, shielding him from the worst of the cold stonework beneath. The door was solid wood. Near the top, it had a window with bars, allowing light to enter and any occupants to be observed; a hatch was cut into it at the bottom, which could only be opened from the outside. Chains removed, the guards pushed him inside.
Shortly after Brand’s arrival to the cell, the small hatch was unbolted, and a bowl of food pushed through. “You may be behind this door, but you’re still in my kingdom,” Imad told him through the barrier. “You’re a mouse in a cage. Rest while you can, little mouse.”
Brand did not reply; he took the bowl, sat up against the wall, and began eating.
~~~~
In the harem, Jalil stood with his head hanging before his mother. Her eyes regarded him under their heavy lids. “I cannot even look at you,” she muttered, turning her head.
“It was your idea,” he said in defence.
“I thought you would win against a filthy prisoner. My son, I thought, would at least be capable of that,” she exclaimed with venom in her voice.
“I did not expect him to react the way he did!”
“Spare me your excuses,” his mother hissed. “While I am disgusted by your performance, this is not the time for chastisement. We have until winter ends to remedy this situation before your wretched brother goes north with the fleet, along with your future.”
“Yes, Mother.”
“Tell me everything you know about this prisoner. Other than his superior swordsmanship, of course.”
The insult made Jalil’s face twist for a moment. “I do not know. I only interrogated him a little, and he did not reveal anything. That foolish torturer did poorly,” the prince claimed. “He did not know how to break him.”
“That in itself says something. He is not some pawn, eager to buy his freedom. He may very well be a knight, though he speaks our language well, which is strange,” his mother considered.
“He had an unusual sword when he was captured. It seemed far more valuable than a common knight would possess,” Jalil explained.
“He could have important relatives in the Seven Realms,” she contemplated. “Relatives that might be exploited. A father commanding a castle, or a mother knowing secrets. Some mothers will do the most foolish things for the sake of their sons,” she added.
“Yes, Mother,” Jalil mumbled.
“We will have to watch this prisoner. That old witch, Rana, is sure to think along the same lines. Meanwhile, you will stay far away from him.”
“But Mother, he insulted my honour! I must have satisfaction somehow!”
“No, you must not! Your failure is your burden to bear. Now be gone! You have tired me.” She lay back on her divan, waving her hand in dismissal.
“Yes, Mother.” He skulked away.
~~~~
Elsewhere in the harem, a conversation around the same topic played out between another mother and her son. In contrast, both were smiling and laughing. “I will never forget Jalil’s face, lying flat on his back!” Saif exclaimed.
“The dirty northerner should have pushed that blade just a few inches down,” Rana remarked. “Losing an eye would have taught Jalil some humility.”
“I think the humiliation will serve that purpose,” Saif told her, sounding less vicious. “Always priding himself on his swordsmanship,” he continued. “Jalil will not be able to show his face for weeks!”
“Is that the sword your father gave you?” Rana asked. They were sitting on a sofa together, and she extended a hand to touch the pommel of the sword by his side.
“It is,” Saif said, satisfied. “A blade like no other, thus fitting. I shall take great joy wielding it against the northerners when the time comes.”
Rana moved her fingers down the hilt and over the runes inscribed on the cross-guard. “You should not wear this, my son. Who knows what evil power lies in these markings?”
“Mother,” he spoke with teasing admonition. “If they hold any strength, surely that will only make the blade better.”
She shuddered a little. “Their gods are not ours. Far from their lands, you may be safe, but who knows once you travel hence? You may have given yourself into their power.”
“This is a sign of Father’s favour,” Saif reminded her. “I must wear it, else he might think I scorn his gift.”
“Very well, but leave it behind in camp when you ride to battle,” his mother demanded. “Do not give their primitive gods any power over you.”
“If that will make you feel better, I promise to do so.”
“Thank you, my son. It is the same sword that was taken from the prisoner?”
“It was,” Saif nodded. “Clearly, he knows how to use it.”
“There is much about him that seems strange,” Rana considered. “Not only this sword, but his claim to be a knight. I have met a few in my time at court, and they are not spies.”
“Perhaps they are, and we simply never knew before.”
“Perhaps… Regardless, you should keep an eye on this northerner. Ask your father what he intends to do with him. I have an ill feeling about him!”
“Be at ease, Mother. I already spoke to Father, and he intends for the prisoner to be executed at the next day of judgement. Beheading, as befits his status.”
“Good, good.” Looking relaxed, Rana smiled at her son. “Everything is falling into place.”
~~~~
Brand had only been in his new lodgings for a few hours when the door opened. He shielded his eyes against the sudden light, weak as it was, and heard Imad’s voice. “You’re to follow this guard. Don’t ask questions, and don’t try to run. If you do, you’ll end up back here with your ankles slit.”
Still keeping his eyes squinted, Brand got on his feet. He pushed his way past Imad, who growled, but did nothing else. With a heavy hand on Brand’s shoulder, the mamluk guard led him out of the dungeons. They walked through corridors intended for the servants to move quickly through the palace without being seen, often staying below ground.
At length, they reached a small room with a pool and a few basic necessities for cleaning. An old woman and a male slave were already present. “Remove your clothes,” said the former, while the latter filled water in the pool.
Brand hesitated, looking at the guard, who stared back with one hand on his sword hilt. Clearing his throat, Brand complied, removing the rags on his body.
The woman ran her fingers over Brand’s torso. “Already healing,” she mumbled. “As long as they’re kept clean and don’t open again, they’ll be fine. Now about this…” She took hold of Brand’s left hand, making him wince in pain. “Not good, but not too late, I think.” She gently pressed against Brand’s fingers, feeling the damage underneath the purple skin. “Steel yourself, boy. This will hurt.”
“What will?”
She twisted one of his broken fingers, making Brand’s entire body tense. “One more.” She repeated the procedure, which Brand accepted with gritted teeth. “There. Healing will be slow, but at least they’ll heal properly.” She took out a roll of bandages from a pouch and placed it around the broken fingers. “Best you don’t use it for at least a month, probably two.”
“Thank you.”
“That’s all, I take it,” the old woman said to the guard, who nodded. He stood in the doorway, blocking it; now he stepped back, letting her leave.
“In here, if you please,” the slave told Brand, gesturing towards the pool. He had finished preparing the bath.
Eyes darting between the servant and the warrior, Brand stepped into the pool. “What is this?”
“You’re to be washed. With good reason,” the slave added and began to scrub the filth from Brand’s body. “This is hardly worth keeping either.” He touched the leather string around Brand’s neck.
A hand shot up to grab hold of the slave’s. “No.”
Offended, the servant wrestled his hand free. “Only trying to make you presentable. Gods, some people.” He continued his duty, adding oils to Brand’s hair. Little by little, the signs of Brand’s imprisonment were removed from him.
~~~~
When he was finally presentable, Brand once more moved through the palace. He wore a clean if simple robe of linen, same as most servants. The mamluk was by his side as before, leading him by the shoulder with a firm grip. They left the servants’ quarters to enter the harem, still using the passages that kept them invisible to courtiers and nobility.
At length, they entered one of the many chambers housing the women of the Kabir’s family. A curious sight spread before Brand’s eyes. On the floor, a meal had been placed with meats, fruits, and bread. A pillow lay alone on one side; a woman sat on another pillow opposite. She was dressed as to be expected by a wife or daughter of the Kabir. Her hair was covered with a veil clasped across her face, hiding her features. Only her dark eyes were visible, looking at Brand.
“Please, enter and have a seat.” She extended one hand in invitation. The guard led Brand forward, hand on his shoulder as before, and pressed him to sit down. This accomplished, he took position right behind the prisoner, hand ready on his sword hilt. “Forgive my companion if he seems discourteous. He is merely zealous in his duties.” Brand made no reply. “I imagine you have not eaten well lately. Please, do not hesitate.”
Brand turned his eyes from his companion to the meal before him. “Will you eat?”
“You need not worry. This is not Labdah,” the woman told him, and her smile could be sensed underneath her veil. “But I can if it will put you at ease.”
“If you wanted to cause me outright harm, you would not have to resort to poison.” Brand glanced over his shoulder at the armed warrior watching him. “But we are sitting on the floor, making me believe you respect the customs of Alcázar. Another custom holds that if you share a meal with any under your roof, they are your guest, and you have no ill intentions towards them.”
“Very true, sir knight. That is your rank, is it not?”
Brand cleared his throat. “It was. As you can see, my golden spurs are gone.”
She reached out with delicate fingers, picked a grape from the stem, and guided it under her veil to eat it. “There you are, sir knight. If you will eat or drink as well, the custom is satisfied.”
Brand filled his goblet with what turned out to be cider made from apples. He took a sip and placed the cup on the ground. “Very well then.”
“You are curious, no doubt, as to what is happening.”
“Yes.”
“I am told your true name is not known. Is this so?”
He hesitated. “Yes, that would be the case. In the spirit of hospitality, I would ask that continues.”
“As you wish. Please, you should eat.” She gestured towards the food, and he took some bread. “I only wondered because if you had revealed your rank as a knight and your name, surely you would have been much better treated.”
Brand swallowed the bread. “If they had believed me. Besides, I do not wish my name known. Let my family think I have disappeared rather than receive word of my ignominious end.” He pulled the meat of a fowl into pieces, small enough to chew.
“I respect your position. I should warn you that some might be able to piece together your story nonetheless. You are rather unique.”
Brand raised his head to stare at her eyes, framed by veil and cloth. “There is little to distinguish me.”
“You are a knight, by your own admission.”
“One out of thousands.”
“You know our customs. You speak our tongue as if you were born in this city,” she pointed out.
“Both can be learned,” he argued.
“But it takes time. You seem young, sir knight. Your childhood must have been spent in this city for you to acquire such fluency to pass as a native of Alcázar.”
He cleared his throat. “A city such as this has many travellers.”
“But few knights who live in the Kabir’s palace. The manner of your speech reveals you learned our tongue in marble halls, not on the street.”
Brand’s shoulders tensed. Behind him, the guard shifted his position a little. “There are no knights in this palace, as far as I know.”
“Not anymore. There used to be, years ago. Sir Athelstan, his name was. He had a squire named Adalbrand,” she explained, her gaze wandering while recounting her memories. “Before I left for Labdah, on the last day I saw him, I gave him a knotted leather string as is our custom. I believe I see it around your neck in this very moment.” She locked her eyes on him.
Brand’s hand flew to his neck. His fingertips moved across the leather as it lay twisted against his skin. “Jana?” he whispered.
She moved one hand to unclasp her veil and reveal her face. “Forgive me for acting coy. I thought it best to make sure it was truly you.” A cautious smile played on her lips.
“How can this be?” He extended one hand towards her; it shook in the air. Behind Brand, the mamluk growled until he pulled his hand back.
“Peace, Salim. Brand can be trusted.” The mamluk’s face expressed his doubt better than any gestures could.
“You were sent away. I thought you were to marry,” Brand told her.
“I was. It turned out to be unnecessary. I only returned earlier this year. Waiting until the next time my father needs an alliance,” Jana explained.
Brand exhaled slowly. “The gods are kind, after all, to comfort me with this meeting. Perhaps – perhaps you can send word to my sister. Do not explain my fate in detail, simply that I met my end trying to do good.”
“I asked, but I could not find out why you are even here. All I learned was that you, or your companions, set fire to the city, which does not sound like anything you would ever do.”
Brand looked apprehensive. “I am far different from the boy you knew. It is true,” he admitted. “I burned the stores of sailcloth at your father’s shipyard. My hope was to damage his fleet and ruin his ability to wage war against Adalmearc.”
She gave a mournful smile. “That does sound like the Brand I knew.”
“I did what I could, what I thought right.” His expression mirrored hers. “I tried.”
“I cannot fathom what you have been through, what strange story has brought you back to Alcázar,” she admitted. “But maybe I can help.”
He frowned. “How? My crime is clear. There can be no judgement upon me but execution.”
“Maybe not. Your fight in the hall has given me an idea,” she told him.
“You think your father will listen to you?”
“I doubt he would even recognise my face,” she confessed. “But others hold influence in this palace as well. Have courage, Brand. You are not without friends.” Salim gave a growl, making Jana nod. “I think Salim is worried should any notice our meeting. I am sorry, but you will have to return to the cells.”
“I have suffered worse,” he told her with a rueful smile.
“I think I can tell. Your brow is heavy, Brand, with many burdens,” Jana told him. Salim placed his hand on Brand’s shoulder, interrupting their conversation. “Yes, very well, Salim. Forgive me. You will have to follow him back. But we will meet again when we can.”
Brand rose to his feet. “When we can,” he repeated. He inclined his head. “Thank you, Jana.”
“It is my pleasure. You should go.” She watched as he walked out, followed by Salim.
|
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|
Niðheim
The Reach
Far to the south-east of Rund lay a solitary peak. It had many names in the tongues of the outlanders, Elves, or Dwarves. Among the Mearcians, it was known of old as Niðheim, though none of their tribes had ever beheld this mountain with their own eyes. To them, it was a name of legends, long since faded from memory. To the outlanders, it was the dwelling of their living god.
Because of this, the mountain was sacred and forbidden. This did not mean the dwelling was empty; only that few were allowed into the presence of the Godking. The Servants of the Flame, many slaves to serve the god, and guards chosen among the strongest and most devout could be found in Niðheim. All others had to be content with seeing the summit on the horizon.
From afar, the mountain might seem ordinary; upon approach, the work of mortal hands could be seen. Towers rose from plateaus, flying banners with the red-golden fire of the Godking on black. Beside those, only a gate revealed that the mountain had been delved. It seemed wrought by giants, made with steel and cunning. It rose to the height of many men and looked impervious to anything, whether the beating of rams or the fire of dragons. The surface was decorated with carvings, showing the Godking’s victory over warriors tall and short.
On most days, the gate was shut. On the plains outside, caravans and the like would gather, erecting a city of tents. Every other week, the earth would tremble as the giant doors opened by some method unseen. All those outside would hurry to bring their goods past the gate, leaving the plain desolate until the next caravans arrived, beginning the cycle anew.
Immediately beyond the entrance, the commoners would find themselves in a great, natural cave, which hammer and chisel had expanded over the centuries. Along the cavern walls ran streams of luminous material found inside the rock, illuminating the place. Here, the wagon trains were emptied. Provisions of many sorts, fabric, glassware, tools, and much else were taken by slaves and distributed further into the mountain. The wagon drivers were not allowed beyond; as soon as their carts had been emptied, they were made to turn and leave under the watchful gaze of the guards. Only those summoned by the Godking could proceed, such as the commander of his armies, Jenaab Sikandar. This did not mean he was immediately allowed further in; in the halls of the Godking, even the mightiest among the outlanders had to wait.
Meanwhile, a stream of slaves hurried to move barrels and crates in every direction. Precious metals and gems were brought to the treasury; all such valuables in the realm of the Godking belonged to him personally. Most food went to the lower levels along with coal for great furnaces; day and night, iron was mined, smelted, and hammered into weapons for the Godking’s army by a great number of thralls, both Men and Dwarves.
Most of the fabrics and sundries went to the other areas of the mountain, populated by the Servants of the Flame and privileged slaves. Some went to the upper levels that gave access to the outer towers, commanded by the guards. The most costly materials – silk, candles made of beeswax, pearls, and such – were sent to the heart of the mountain. This was the Godking’s residence, where few ever went.
It contained several rooms; between them and the rest of the mountain lay another hall used to grant audience. Like its counterpart near the entrance, it had once been a natural cave. The key difference was that nothing of natural rock remained in sight; in the audience hall, every inch was covered by marble and precious stones, reflecting the eerie light that spread through the mountain.
At the far end stood a throne, elevated many steps. It was constructed entirely from gold and silver, the metals weaving together and spreading out to climb up the wall like a spider’s web. Upon the throne itself on those rare days of audience, such as today, sat the Godking.
Even in his great seat, it was clear that he was taller than all others. His garments flowed with the finest cut and cloth, sewn with gems and silver thread. He carried no weapons, no guards stood near him; the Godking required neither for protection. In this hall, he could not be touched. He carried no crown but instead a mask upon his face, showing a beautiful face. Slits allowed him to gaze at the world beyond; his eyes were entirely uniform, having only the colour grey.
The hall was of such size, it seemed built to house a great court, but the Godking was alone save for a few personal slaves, hiding behind pillars until they were needed. When he felt inclined, he gave a small nod, and the doors opposite opened.
First to enter came a whole procession of Servants; behind them walked Sikandar. The Servants moved to the first set of pillars and prostrated while chanting. “Hail to you, god and king!” At the next pillars, they repeated the gesture. “You who raised the sun and brought low the moon!” Sikandar followed, throwing himself on the ground each time they did. “Eternity lies in your palm. The stars rest upon your brow!”
When they had finally progressed to stand before the throne, they threw themselves down one last time, remaining on the ground. The Godking’s mask stared upon them, letting the moments pass. “Rise, Sikandar,” he commanded. His voice was deeper than his thin body frame suggested; it seemed to reverberate through the hall. While the Servants stayed down, Sikandar rose, keeping his head bowed. “Have you fulfilled your task?”
“Yes, Divine Majesty. The faithless scum has been eradicated and peace restored to your cities.”
“That is well. I commend you for your loyal service.”
“Thank you, Divine Majesty.” Even as he spoke, Sikandar kept his eyes down, staring at the lowest steps of the throne.
“I have another task for you. Renew the assault upon the godless horde beyond the great stone. Assemble all my armies and crush them. Prepare the way to their city upon the hill.”
“I live to serve, Divine Majesty.”
“Rise, my Servants.” All the priests and priestesses of the Flame did as commanded. “Let this message be spread among the faithful. When the city upon the hill is within sight of our devoted warriors, the one, true god shall awaken.” The Servants gasped. “Yes. I shall walk amongst them and lead them forth to final victory. All shall be as I command.”
“All for the Godking!” shouted the men and women in fire-red robes. They fell back onto the ground, prostrating themselves once more. “All for the Godking!”
Behind them, Sikandar mumbled the words as well, keeping his eyes upon the floor. Upon the throne, the Godking sat silent, letting their adoration wash over him.
~~~~
Once the audience was finished and his subjects dismissed, the Godking returned to his chambers. Walking through the atrium, he took a glass on a platter extended by a slave with bowed head. A flicker of his hand sent them all from the room, leaving him alone to remove his mask. He emptied the glass with its concoction of wine and vinegar, in which a pearl had been dissolved.
“Enter. What do you have to report?”
A shadow warrior crept inside from the corridor. “Master, the dragonborn escaped along with the Blade of Ruin.”
The Godking’s hand slowly squeezed the glass until it broke into pieces. As he unclenched his fist, the shards fell to the ground without a trace of blood. “Was nothing gained?”
“Master, he was wounded. We have tasted his blood and strengthened the scent. We will continue the search.”
“Do so.”
The shadow bowed his head and walked backwards out of the room, ensuring that his masked face was turned towards the Godking at all times. Paying the shadow no further heed, the ruler of the outlanders ventured further into his chambers.
Most of his rooms were luxurious beyond measure. Thick carpets made the floors soft and the walls warm; every piece of furniture was carved with utmost skill from wood imported from the eastern realms. Silk was the predominant choice of fabric, found in such quantity that it would make for a king’s ransom. But one chamber had none of these luxuries.
The walls and floor were bare, showing stonework. It held neither soft beds nor chairs, only tables and shelves. As the Godking entered, his naked face surveyed the room. The shelves held many jars and flacons, containing unmarked powders and liquids; some had books written in mystical script as the last remnant of otherwise long-forgotten lore. On the table stood peculiar instruments and objects, and knives of strange design lay upon it. The floor in the middle was free of furniture, having strange runes written upon the stone; in between were metal rings and shackles. Currently, they held a boy, no more than fifteen years old. His torso was stripped naked, and his eyes were blindfolded; enough of his face remained visible to reveal an expression of abject terror.
Ignoring the boy, the Godking walked over to a shelf hanging over a table. From the former, he picked out several flasks, placing them on the table. From the latter, he picked up a curved dagger and turned around to face his prisoner.
|
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The Dragon's Rise
Middanhal
On the morrow of the Adalthing, the Citadel was bustling as could be expected. Lords from across the realm had gathered along with their retinues. Many of them grumbled at being summoned to the capital outside the regular gathering at summer solstice, especially once they had learned the reason. As some expressed, the matter of Arnling had already been resolved, and they demurred at being forced to take this trip only to re-tread familiar ground.
Regardless, they had come. All the many margraves of Vale, the southern landgraves, and the jarl of Ingmond along with his vassals; all of which could be assumed to follow the lord protector. From the North, the jarl of Theodstan and his margraves appeared, as expected. But few, if any, had guessed that the remaining northern lords would appear. Rebels against the realm, they marched into the Citadel.
Many seized weapons at the sight of them, but the lord marshal had been forewarned. Order soldiers stood ready to prevent hostilities and guarantee the landfrid, posted in strong numbers. Thanks to their presence, only jeers instead of arrows flew across the hall. In the end, the Adalthing stood nearly at its full count, as only the jarl of Isarn was not present.
In the end, sixty-seven out of sixty-eight members entered the hall of the Adalthing along with their closest attendants or relatives. More than half of the full count, regardless of how many were present, would have to be in favour for any decision to be made; the number to reach stood at thirty-five.
~~~~
The remainder of the court, restricted from entering the hall itself, watched from the balconies. Apart from courtiers, those of high standing had also been allowed to find a place from where they might observe the proceedings. The highfather was among them, being accompanied by an unassuming man in travelworn clothes.
“Godfrey,” Septimus said quietly, his old hands clenched to the railing, “if this fails… what do we do? With Isarn’s army to the north and the realms in disarray, how will we stop fifty thousand outlanders from taking the city?”
Godfrey exhaled. “I fear even the gods may not know.”
~~~~
Arndis and Eleanor had found a perch as well, accompanied by the new lord marshal. “I am so nervous,” Eleanor admitted, biting her lip. She looked at William. “It did not go well last time.”
“I am sure the dragonlord understand the sense in having Brand fight on our side,” William claimed. “He will be restored to knighthood, and we may place all of this behind us.”
“And if not?” Arndis turned her head towards the knight. “Will we have your protection, Sir William? Will my brother?”
He frowned. “Of course, but as I said, it only makes sense to have Brand return to the Order. It will not be needed.”
“We shall see,” Arndis remarked. She looked to her other side, where Gwen and Jana had found room for themselves on the next balcony, observing the people below.
~~~~
On the floor, Brand stood by Theodoric. “I received your message,” the latter said. “Do you believe your schemes have come to fruition?” The jarl glanced at the lord protector, standing by the dragonlord on the opposite side of the hall.
“We will find out momentarily.”
“How reassuring.”
Quiet mutterings could be heard as the young prince of House Hardling crossed the floor to stand in front of Brand, who exchanged a surprised look with Theodoric. “Lord Inghard.”
The youth inclined his head. “Lord Adalbrand. You always return to Middanhal under the most auspicious of circumstances.”
The older atheling regarded the younger. “Is that all you wished to say?”
“I remember we played chess in your cell, so long ago,” Inghard continued. “You beat me every time. Even when I thought your moves were too bold, audacious even, you still seized victory.”
“I remember.”
“You were always ready to sacrifice any piece,” Inghard added. “Even yourself, it seems now. Are you truly willing to not only kill, but even die?”
The son of Arn scrutinised his counterpart once again. “I am.”
The son of Sighard nodded slightly. “I am not willing to do either of those things. I should like to see you restored, in that case. Men like you are needed to win these wars.”
“I could not agree more.”
After bowing his head once more, the young prince walked away.
~~~~
“I have assurances from all the southern landgraves,” Konstans remarked with a satisfied expression. “And given how much Ingmond hates the Arnling brat, his support is certain. I almost admire their impertinence in having all these rebels attend, but it makes no difference. The only question will be how fast they run to escape Middanhal before the landfrid ends.”
By his side, Valerian stood with deep furrows on his brow. “Brother,” he spoke at length, “did you let the Isarn prisoners escape two years ago?”
Konstans looked at him in shock. “What nonsense is this?”
“Did you send the prince Gerhard with them that he might die?”
“Are you mad? Why would I ever do this?”
The jarl stared at his brother. “I could not make sense of it either, until I recalled how their escape meant you travelled north to negotiate peace, along with Prince Hardmar. He did not return either.”
“Valerian, have you gone insane? Why would you bring up such slander in this very moment?” Konstans glanced at Inghard, returning towards them after speaking with Brand. “I cannot fathom where such ludicrous accusations would come from, but can you at least wait until after the assembly?”
“Waiting is all I have done,” the jarl mumbled.
“The King’s Quill approaches,” someone announced. “We will begin soon.” Conversation around the hall died down and the noblemen moved to different positions, according to their affiliation. Margraves gathered around their liege; the southern landgraves, usually found supporting each other, formed their own group. As for the northern lords, regardless of title, they stood as one.
~~~~
It took a while for the King’s Quill to actually reach the hall. Once he stepped inside, it became apparent to all. He walked with slow steps, being supported by his apprentice. His eyes lacked focus, drifting in every direction. The hall was silent as he crossed it, finally reaching the empty throne in one end. Taking position before it, he turned around to address the noblemen.
“This gathering must be consecrated,” he spoke with a frail voice. A priestess of Disfara entered the hall, moving to the statue of the goddess. One by one, each member of the Adalthing approached to have his forehead smeared with blood to sanctify his role in upholding the laws of the realm.
When all was done, the law keeper spoke again. “The Adalthing has been summoned by the dragonlord, as is his right in times of need,” Quill wheezed. Whispers could be heard, repeating his words around the hall and on the balconies. “He may speak as to the nature of this need.”
Konstans stepped forward to address the crowd. “Two weeks ago, Adalbrand of House Arnling returned despite the exile upon him to enter this city. He brought a mob with him to seize the Citadel. While we stood ready to defeat this outrageous assault, I agreed to summon the Adalthing in order to avoid bloodshed. He argues that the judgement upon him is unjust and would ask you to rescind it.” He let his eyes sweep over the southern lords. “Yet given his entry to the city, we have seen what happened when we let mercy temper justice and sent him to exile! My counsel can only be that this time, we affirm his guilt and let execution be his fate.”
His words caused different reactions throughout the crowd; some gasped in surprise, especially on the balconies. Many on the floor seemed satisfied and in agreement; others appeared unfazed. Among them Theodoric, who stepped forward as well.
“Master Quill, it has come to my attention that another matter must be dealt with first, as described by the law.”
“Spare us your trickery,” Konstans sneered. “You will not stop this counting from taking place.”
“Yet I will be heard,” Theodoric demanded, looking at the law keeper.
One hand on his apprentice, lightly swaying, Quill nodded slowly. “We should not silence a jarl of the realm in this chamber. Speak your concern, Jarl Theodstan.”
“It is the foremost duty of this assembly to ensure the realm has a ruler,” Theodoric began to say.
“Which it has in the form of our esteemed lord protector,” Konstans said.
“A ruler born to Sigvard’s blood, whether he be king or heir,” the jarl continued.
“Prince Inghard is an atheling.”
“But he is not chosen by the Adalthing,” Theodoric swiftly countered.
“His brother was. By custom, that would make a younger brother the next heir.”
“Yet Prince Hardmar was never coronated. His house was never elevated to the status as the House of Adal. That means Lord Inghard remains a son to House Hardling. He has no stronger right to the crown than any other man in the eyes of the Adalthing,” Theodoric pointed out. “In fact, he has retained his membership of this assembly precisely because he is considered the atheling of House Hardling. If he were the heir to the realms, he would be seated on that throne rather than standing among us.” The jarl pointed at the empty throne behind Quill.
“Preposterous,” Konstans exclaimed, but doubt could be seen on his face. All eyes became fixed on the law keeper.
“The jarl is right in his learned interpretation of the law,” Quill proclaimed, sending a shock through the listeners. On the balcony, Godfrey smiled before he disappeared. “The realm is without a lawfully chosen king or heir. One must be chosen immediately.”
“So be it!” Konstans all but roared. “If we must go through this farce of choosing Prince Inghard, we shall. I cannot imagine any man here would be fool enough to lend his voice to an honourless outlaw, who already tried to seize the throne!”
Brand quickly advanced to place on one hand on the statue of Disfara. “Yet if you support me, I swear by the goddess, I shall grant clemency to every man in this room for all crimes against the realm. The civil war that has torn our kingdom apart shall be over this very day.”
“One traitor giving pardon to the others!” The dragonlord’s voice flowed with contempt.
“Fifty thousand outlanders stand in Hæthiod,” Brand continued. “They shall march through Ingmond and all of southern Adalrik before reaching this city, burning it to the ground!”
“Convenient!” shouted Konstans. “As if a word from your mouth can be trusted!”
“The lord marshal, a knight of unassailable honour, may verify my words.”
All heads turned towards William, who, looking bemused at the sudden attention, nodded.
“Another of your cronies, usurping power!”
“For three years, Adalrik has been torn by war! Enemies surround us on all sides, from the Reach to Alcázar. It is time to put these grievances aside. Even you, Lord Konstans, will be pardoned,” Brand promised, locking his gaze on the dragonlord.
“How magnanimous,” Konstans spat. “Enough of this! Let the counting begin.”
Quill began to speak, but he only managed to cough. “Water,” he finally wheezed at Egil.
The youth turned to a nearby soldier. “Fetch water for the King’s Quill,” he commanded. “One moment, milords, and we shall begin.”
~~~~
A chair was brought in to let Quill sit and rest for a few moments, regaining his strength. Meanwhile, murmurs erupted across the hall as the noblemen discussed the development.
“If this fails, the realm will fall to chaos,” Theodoric muttered.
“If this fails, I will be dead,” Brand pointed out dryly.
“We need eight from the South to join us,” the jarl continued. “Eight men will decide if we have peace, or if I have thrown away my alliance with Vale to be eaten by the wolves of Isarn.”
“They will see reason,” Brand claimed, looking at the southern lords.
Across the hall, the dragonlord clenched his fists in anger. “So this was their ploy,” Konstans sneered. “I should have known. But it is a desperate act. This changes nothing.”
“What if it should?” asked Valerian. “All the blood and gold wasted on this war.”
“Have you lost your wits? If that brigand is made king, he will have our heads!” Konstans grabbed his brother’s tunic to pull him close. “Think of your son! You want him to grow up, I take it?”
“In peace,” the jarl mumbled, sweat on his brow. “I want him to know peace.”
“Keep yourself together! The counting is about to begin.”
Still mumbling, Valerian turned his attention towards the King’s Quill, as did all others.
Standing once more, though leaning on Egil, the law keeper began to speak. “The Adalthing must choose who shall lead us. The ancient customs permit for any man to be chosen in times of strife, though such a choice would be temporary until the end of war. Only an atheling of Sigvard may be seated on the Dragon Throne.” Quill paused, breathing heavily before he could continue. “I encourage the Adalthing to choose wisely. Lord Raymond, to whom do you lend your voice?”
The jarl stepped forward. “I lend it to Inghard of House Hardling.” His eyes looked with hatred on Brand before he returned to his margraves.
“Does any margrave from Ingmond speak otherwise?”
Silence lasted for a moment before one nobleman walked up to the statue of Disfara.
“How dare you!” shouted Raymond. “You would support this bastard? The blood of my family is upon his hands!”
The margrave looked at his jarl. “When the outlanders come, the blood of all our families will be upon your hands.” He placed his own on the foot of the statue. “I lend my voice to Adalbrand of House Arnling.” He walked over to stand by the northerners, who welcomed him with cheers.
“Quiet,” the law keeper demanded, though he could barely be heard, and Egil had to repeat it. “Lord Valerian, to whom do you lend your voice?”
The lord protector moved to the statue. He glanced at his brother, but quickly averted his eyes again. As the moments passed, astonished murmurs spread through the hall. “I lend – I give it to Adalbrand,” he finally spoke, causing a clamour to break out.
Konstans marched up to grab his brother’s collar with both hands. “Traitor!” he roared. “Why would you do this?”
“Quiet!” Egil shouted.
“We failed, Brother,” Valerian declared, his expression etched with regret. “We let this war continue, and now the outlanders will destroy us!”
“You have destroyed us!” Konstans shouted into his brother’s face. “Begone!”
“Quiet!”
“Begone, you coward!” As Konstans all but screamed at him, Valerian stumbled backwards, fleeing his brother’s rage until he stood among the northern lords. In the confusion, Godfrey slipped inside the hall.
“Be silent!” Egil’s third attempt finally had sufficient luck to let the law keeper continue.
“Does any margrave from Vale speak otherwise?” Quill asked.
“All of you, support Hardling or I will see you destroyed!” Konstans roared until the margraves bowed their heads and nearly tripped over one another to reach the statue. Fourteen lords mumbled their support for Inghard and returned to the dragonlord, whose face looked red enough to spew fire. Yet two margraves did otherwise; raising their voices, they declared to be in line with their jarl, and they crossed the hall to stand by him.
“Lord Theodoric, how do you speak?”
“I speak in favour of Adalbrand of House Arnling,” the jarl loudly proclaimed. All of his margraves followed suit.
“Lord Isenhart, how do you speak?”
“The jarl is not present,” Egil said quietly in Quill’s ear.
“How do the margraves of Isarn speak?” asked the law keeper with ragged breath.
All as one declared for Arnling.
“Twenty-five,” Theodoric muttered.
“We continue.” One after the other, Quill called the landgraves next. All the northern lords lent their voices to Arnling.
“Thirty-one.” The jarl of Theodstan clasped his hands together until his knuckles turned white. “Another four.”
“How does the lord of Marcaster speak?”
As the first southern landgrave, Marcaster strode up to the statue and declared for Hardling. The other nine did so as well.
“Thirty-five,” Theodoric exclaimed, looking crestfallen. “That is thirty-five for Inghard.”
Opposite the hall, Konstans had reached the same conclusion by the satisfied look on his face. Regaining his composure after his furious outbursts earlier, he inhaled and exhaled deeply. The landgraves gathered around him, talking among themselves.
They paid no heed to Inghard, who held the last vote to be given. Few did, given that the counting had been already decided. The prince left Godfrey, who had kept him company for a little while, and stepped up to the statue.
“Lord Inghard,” Quill asked, “to whom do you lend your voice?”
The young man looked at Brand before raising his eyes to look at the goddess. Touching the stonework on which she rested, he took a deep breath. “I, Inghard of House Hardling, renounce my claim upon the Dragon Throne. I bow before the Dragon of Adalrik.” He approached Brand and did as he had claimed.
Half the hall appeared stunned, watching the youth down on his knee with bowed head. Valerian recovered as the first, pushing his way forward to follow Inghard’s gesture, kneeling in front of Brand. The noblemen of Theodstan, Isarn, and all the North swiftly did as well.
The southern lords were last to realise what had happened. “What is this?” Konstans roared with renewed anger. Confusion spread among those gathered around him; several of Vale’s margraves hurried over to kneel next to their lord.
“The crown cannot be forced upon an unwilling head if another atheling stands ready,” Quill declared. “If Lord Inghard refuses this honour, we must make another counting.” His words were swiftly repeated through the hall and upon the balconies.
Konstans looked around bewildered as his brother’s margraves abandoned him. “Stop!” he cried out. “Stay, you cowards!”
It was too late; the tide had broken. The southern landgraves crossed the hall to join the jarl of Vale and his vassals. Seeing this, half of Ingmond’s margraves left him to do the same. With unintelligible words of anger, Raymond stormed off, followed by his remaining supporters. In the end, Konstans stood alone. He glanced around and found no sympathy on any of the balconies; in the hall itself, only Brand could meet his gaze, as the other noblemen knelt before him. With clenched jaw, Konstans left as well.
Quill squinted his eyes. “Am I to interpret this as the will of the Adalthing?”
Theodoric rose to his feet. “Aye,” he spoke. His vassals did as well, repeating the affirmation. Vale followed next along with the other southern lords, confirming the same.
The law keeper raised one hand to command silence. “As none objects, so be it. Bring your choice and have him kneel by the statue.” He coughed several times as Brand did as instructed. Supported by Egil, Quill walked over to place one hand on his shoulder. “Adalbrand of House Arnling, as keeper of the law, I confirm that the Adalthing speaks with one voice. An atheling of Sigvard, you have been chosen to take his place.” Cheers interrupted Quill briefly before he could continue. “Since you are of age and the realm has no ruler, the authority of the king is yours without delay. Rise as king.”
Brand did so, and the cheers returned. Wiping sweat from his brow, Quill raised his free hand as before to gain silence; Egil held him upright by his other arm. “In time, go to the Temple and be crowned upon the steps in sight of the entire realm that all may see and know you are the Dragon of Adalrik. For when you rise on that day, you rise as High King of Adalmearc, and never again shall you kneel before any man.” His work done, Quill stepped back and allowed Egil to lead him away.
“The Dragon of Adalrik!” shouted all those present in the hall, whether on the floor or upon the balconies.
Brand raised both hands, palms outwards to the sides, and the gathering fell quiet. “I am true to my word,” he declared, reaching out to touch the statue of Disfara. “As my first act, I declare that all in this hall are pardoned for any crimes committed against the throne. No longer shall our kingdom be torn by civil war.” Jubilant outbursts followed his proclamation. “Yet we remain under threat,” the king continued. “As my second act, I bid you all prepare your armies. Our enemies shall know the might of Adalmearc, and we shall know victory!” His words were met by deafening shouts of agreement from northern and southern lords alike.
|
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|
Wellspring
North of Alcázar
Once they could no longer be seen from the city walls, the fleeing pair turned away from the main road. Instead, they rode at a slower pace through the farmlands surrounding Alcázar; most of it was occupied by fruit trees able to survive the long summers with little rain. When they had not seen another living being for a while, Brand halted the horse.
“We should walk a while. We have already exhausted our steed, galloping while carrying two.”
“As you say.” Jana dismounted and extended one hand to help Brand do the same. He did his best to spare his wounded leg, but still he winced as his foot touched the ground. “Are you sure you can walk? Maybe you should continue riding, and I will walk alongside.”
“No, the beast is in worse shape than me at this point.” He supported one hand against the saddle. “Can you lead the horse? I think it best I walk in this manner, using it as a crutch.”
“Yes, of course.” She moved to the other side of the creature, grabbing the reins. “Ready?”
“As if all the Kabir’s men were chasing me.”
“Funny. Why do you even need a sword when you have such sharp wit?” She set into motion, and both her four-legged and two-legged companion followed suit.
“It would be too cruel to use my wit as a weapon. The sword is a more merciful death.” He reached out and plucked a solitary plum from the branch above his head; the rest had been harvested, either by human hands or birds.
They walked in silence for a while until Jana spoke again. “I realise this is a late question, but as all my thought was spent thinking about fleeing the city, I never gave much consideration to afterwards. What is our destination?”
“Do you know Maleth?”
“I know of it. It lies up the coast, correct?”
“It does. That is our destination. From there, we can find passage into Adalmearc.”
“Really? I did not think any ships sailed from Maleth to the Seven Realms.”
Brand gave a vague smile. “They do not officially. Fortunately, gold can change many a tune.”
“How long will it take us to reach Maleth?”
“When I came the other way, to Alcázar, it took us two weeks. But I travelled on the roads with a caravan. I think we will need at least three weeks,” he speculated.
“We do not have food for half that,” Jana pointed out, biting her lip. “And we cannot buy more because I was foolish enough to let someone steal our remaining coin!”
“We still have what remains of your jewels. Even without the gems, they are valuable,” Brand mentioned, looking at her. “Jana,” he called out until she glanced over her shoulder to meet his eyes. “You got me out of the dungeons. You got my sword back. Your jewellery has paid for everything we bought. I am walking amidst the shade of trees rather than up the scaffold on the maswar. All because of you.”
She looked away. “I know. I am just a little overwhelmed,” she admitted with an unsteady voice. “If we escape my father’s men, survive hunger and thirst, reach Maleth and bribe our passage to Adalmearc, what then? If my father truly intends to invade, I will be an enemy to all in your lands.”
“I realise that I do not cut an imposing figure right now, but I do have friends in the Realms. Some are influential. Your good deed towards me will not be forgotten, I promise.” He stopped walking. “Jana.” She stopped as well; her eyes peered over the back of the horse to meet his. “I promise.”
It took a while before she responded. “Very well. You have never given me reason to doubt you.” She turned to move onwards and almost tripped in the dark.
“It is too dark to continue,” he considered. It had been near twilight when they fled the city; now, the sun had set in full, and they had fumbled their way forward for a while. “We must sleep.”
“You think we are safe out here in the open?”
“I cannot say, but we have nowhere else to go. We need to avoid other people.”
She nodded. “Of course.”
Brand caressed the horse, making it lie down. “It will be cold,” he told Jana. “We should stay close to the beast for warmth.” Being careful of his injury, Brand sat down, leaning against the side of the horse. He gestured for Jana to do likewise, and she followed his example. Their backs against their animal companion, they each pulled their cloaks tighter around themselves and closed their eyes, letting exhaustion take over.
~~~~
The next day, they continued their journey, using the sun to set their course northwards. They walked, letting the horse recover after yesterday’s hard ride. Around them, the land slowly grew more barren. Trees were replaced by thorny bushes, serving no purpose but to feed goats. On occasion, a boy tending to a herd would watch them with curious eyes; each time, they kept their distance.
The lack of trees also meant they could not walk in shade, but had to suffer the sun. Their lips grew dry, and the horse made occasional complaints.
“Brand, our water will only last a few more days,” Jana finally remarked. As before, they walked on opposite sides of the horse, both of them keeping their eyes on the road ahead.
“Sooner or later, we will find a stream.”
“I think our only hope is to find a well. We have seen people, so there must be villages nearby.”
Brand shook his head. “Only caravans and peasants travel in these parts. We are far too easy to remember. Should the Kabir’s men come this way asking questions, they will guess the truth.”
“If our only other option is death by thirst, we have to risk it,” Jana pointed out.
“If we keep going north, we are bound to cross a brook or similar, feeding into the sea,” Brand claimed.
“Maybe. If that happens in a week’s time, what will we do without water in the meanwhile?”
“This many people cannot live in this place without freshwater. More than what wells provide. There must be a stream,” Brand maintained with a weary voice.
“Brand, look around.” Jana gestured with her arm at their surroundings. “The land is only getting more barren. There are no fields ahead of us, nothing to suggest an abundance of water.”
“Just give it a few days.”
“You said you came this way, travelling from Maleth to Alcázar. Do you remember crossing any streams of water?”
“Yes, at least once,” Brand responded.
“Where?”
He cleared his throat. “Further north.”
“Where exactly?”
“A few days south of Maleth,” he admitted. He was forced to a sudden halt; Jana had moved around the horse to stand in front of him.
“I knew it! Brand, we need to get more water soon.”
“We have for at least another day or two. Why are you pressing this issue?” he asked.
“Because if our skins were full, you might actually drink some! You need water to heal.” She glanced at his leg. “Right now, the horse has had more water than you!”
“The horse needs more than me. I am only making sure it lasts.”
“Exactly! If we used the wells, there would be no need. You could drink your fill.”
He shook his head weakly. “I have been through worse.”
“Well, I did not have to watch you on those occasions, and I will not do so now. The next chance we get, we are getting more water.” She turned her back to him, resuming her position, and they continued onwards, walking for hours until past sunset.
~~~~
Despite both of them keeping an eye out, they did not come across any sources of water until the next day. Around noon, they spotted a small collection of huts. Just beyond the edge of what could be called the village, there stood a well. Besides from the occasional villager, a few soldiers could be seen, milling around a tent raised in the middle of the cluster of huts. Beyond that, one of the warriors guarded the well itself, and they wore the falcon of Alcázar upon their uniform.
“Too dangerous,” Brand declared. They were hidden behind a rock formation, letting them spy on the village.
“If this well is guarded, so are the others. We might as well attempt this as any other,” Jana argued.
“If they suspect the least… we must assume they know we are travelling together and are watching for a pair like us,” Brand considered. “I count at least three or four soldiers with spears. With no armour, my injury, and only a sword, I cannot expect to win that fight.”
“Then let us not make that an option. I will go alone. They have no reason to suspect me,” Jana claimed.
“It should be me taking the risk.”
“Why? You cannot fight them, and you cannot run away. Besides, fetching water is a woman’s work. They will grow suspicious the moment they see you.”
Brand sent her a look before gazing back at the well. “Maybe. But if you appear with water skins, they will also know something is odd. Wait here. I will fetch something more suitable.”
“Let me go. I am not wounded.”
Brand smiled weakly. “Jana, I accept your other arguments. But between the two of us, I think I am more accustomed to sneaking around quietly.”
She stared at him for a moment. “Fine,” she conceded. “But be careful.”
He nodded in response and moved away, following the rocks and cracks in the ground to hide his approach towards the village. Soon, he was gone from Jana’s vision, and she resumed watching the village. The small buildings lay scattered with little discernible pattern to their placement. Some had their doors towards the well, others in the opposite direction. Most had openings in the walls serving as windows to let in air and light. Glass was too expensive for these people, and the windows had shutters instead, allowing for the sun to be shut out when desirable. With the noon heat growing stronger, most windows were closed in this manner, and few of the villagers seemed willing to move about. As for the Kabir’s soldiers, they kept inside their tent except for the unfortunate soul chosen to stand guard over the well.
“Jana.”
A start went through her; she turned around to find that Brand was already back. “You really are good at sneaking.”
He gave a little bow with a mock smile and extended his hand that held a large gourd. “For the lady.”
“I feel guilty. This belongs to someone else.” She accepted it hesitantly.
“Well, we should hurry before they miss it,” Brand suggested. Jana turned around to leave. “Wait! I forgot.”
“What?”
“Hold out your hands,” he bade her as he crouched low.
“What for?” she asked, complying.
He picked up dirt from the ground and began smearing it on her hands. “Your hands give you away. Too clean for someone working.”
“Right,” she assented. He began repeating the process with her face, making it dirty. “What is that for?”
“You are far too beautiful to approach a band of soldiers, bored from guard duty.”
“Oh.”
“We do not want to give them any reason to look at you twice.”
“Of course.”
He studied her new appearance with a critical eye. “Not the best disguise, but it will have to do.”
Jana gave him a half-hearted smile and walked towards the well, gourd in hand.
She disappeared from Brand’s line of sight, just as he had done earlier from hers. After a while, she appeared again between the huts, moving towards the well. He watched intensely, barely blinking. As Jana reached the well, the soldier moved towards her. He towered over her.
Turning on his heel, Brand leapt the few steps back to his horse. He ripped the saddle bag open and drew his sword from its sheath. Facing the well again, Brand limped forward. He took a few paces before he stopped. The soldier was pulling up the bucket from the well to fill Jana’s gourd for her.
Visibly relaxing, Brand returned to his post behind the rocks, hiding himself. Keeping the sword ready, he saw Jana bid the soldier farewell and walk away.
A few moments later, she appeared by his side. “Is everything fine?” she asked, glancing at his drawn weapon.
“Yes,” he mumbled. He crossed the short distance to the horse, returning the blade to its home. Picking up the full gourd from Jana, he placed it in the other bag.
“Brand,” Jana called out; her voice was quiet but urgent. He turned around and saw as she did; several of the guards were moving in their direction.
“We made them suspicious,” Brand guessed.
“How?”
“It does not matter. Time to flee.” He mounted their steed and helped Jana do the same. Once her arms held onto his waist, he pulled on the reins while kicking the flanks of the horse, and they sped away.
~~~~
When no pursuers were in sight, Brand let the horse fall into a slow trot. “What happened, do you think?” asked Jana. The same rough landscape lay ahead of them as behind, with sparse vegetation and few if any creatures in sight.
“Could be any number of things,” Brand considered, speaking over his shoulder. “Maybe the guard realised he had never seen you before in the village. Maybe he thought it odd you fetched water at noon. Someone could have noticed I stole the gourd. It does not matter. We got away.”
“With the water, most importantly. We should stop and drink,” Jana suggested.
“Not yet. Our tracks are easily seen. We need to put more distance between us and them.”
“You are sure they are following us?”
“If they only had suspicions before, seeing us ride away would certainly have confirmed them,” Brand pointed out. “We must assume the Kabir’s men are on our trail now.”
“Can we lose them in the dark? Like we did after the city gate.”
Brand nodded. “We have to. Even if it is troublesome.”
“It was not so bad last time,” Jana considered. “I only fell twice.”
“We will not do it for long. We just need to make sure they cannot catch up to us.”
“I will walk all night if need be,” Jana declared. The tail end of her words was caught up in a yawn.
“It will not come to that, which, by the sound of it, is for the best.” Brand wore a wry smile she could not see.
“What about you? Are you not tired? You sleep as little as me.”
“I have been through worse.”
“I am starting to suspect that is merely what you say to keep me quiet.”
“My lady, I would never dare.”
~~~~
As agreed, they walked for a while after sunset. Far from roads, the terrain was rough, and their speed was slow. Something resembling grass grew in these parts, allowing for herds to graze; besides that, the only feature was how the land twisted itself with rocks and cliffs.
Brand was the first to stumble, gritting as tremors went through his injured leg. Considering that a sign to stop, they made the same kind of primitive bed as before, resting with their backs against the horse. Both fell asleep at once.
Brand’s repose lasted only briefly before voices awakened him. He reached out a hand to cover Jana’s mouth. The touch jostled her awake, and she struggled for a moment until she recognised Brand. He placed his finger on his lips.
“What in Haktar’s bloody name is the point of this? We can’t see a damn thing!”
“Look, you know that, I know that, and I suspect the lieutenant does too. But we’re not out here because they think we’ll find them.”
“What?”
“We’re out here,” said the second voice patiently, “so the lieutenant can tell his chief that he’s done all he can to find the prisoner. And his chief can tell his chief, who tells his, all the way up to the Kabir himself.” Both of the voices were growing louder.
“You’re telling me, I almost sprained my ankle back there, just so we can put on a show?”
“That’s soldiering for you, friend.”
The first voice made a sneer. “To Haktar’s bowels with this! Do we even know that fellow is out here? What if he’s gone to Gadir, drinking tears till his head comes off?”
“What I want to know is, how did he manage to abduct the girl?”
“Not the first time a man’s taken off with a woman, is it.”
“But see, escaping from the dungeons, that must be hard, right?” reasoned the second voice. “And stealing the Kabir’s daughter from the palace, that must be damn difficult too, right? So how does this guy manage both at the same time?”
“Huh. Maybe we got ourselves a new Prince on our hands.”
The voices grew more distant. “Doubtful. Rather, something else entirely is going on, and this is just the story they served us.”
“All those mercenaries the Kabir’s got, why can’t they do all this night searching?” complained the first voice. “If I sprain my ankle, you know the lieutenant is going to leave us behind.”
“Us? Why would he leave me behind as well?”
“What, you’re going to make me hobble on my own all the way back to camp?”
If the second voice had a reply, it did not reach Brand and Jana. The pair waited, neither making the least movement or sound, until it seemed certain they were alone.
“How did they find us?” Jana whispered.
“Our tracks brought them this far. They must be a whole company, combing the area,” Brand considered, also keeping his voice quiet.
“So we can expect them to be in any direction we go.”
Brand looked up, finding the Wayfarer that pointed north. He turned his head right. “Not if we go east.”
“The desert?”
“They cannot track us there.”
“How long can we last?”
“We will go a few days,” Brand suggested. “Move back to the coast when we need.”
Jana nodded, barely visible in the dark. “Very well. We might as well move. I doubt either of us wants to sleep knowing my – my father’s men are near.”
With careful movements, they rose and woke the horse as well. Once it was saddled, they began a slow march east.
|
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|
The Prince and the Atheling
Alcázar
A caravan approached Alcázar from the north. While not unheard of, these were rare; most goods entered the city through one of the harbours or else by caravan from the east. Its origin was the city of Maleth, which lay up the coast towards Adalmearc. Maleth served as a minor port for ships that for one reason or another did not wish to unload their goods in Alcázar; the same held true for passengers seeking to enter Alcázar over land rather than sea.
After braving the treacherous straits of the Teeth and joining the caravan in Maleth as a guard, Brand could now follow the camels through the gate to enter Alcázar. He had spent his youth as a squire to Athelstan in this city; only two years had passed since the pair had left Alcázar and returned to Adalmearc.
While the leader of the caravan paid toll, Brand took a deep breath. The air in Alcázar was a blend of dust and spice, tinging with the smell of animals in the sun. Leading one of the camels to water, Brand patted the beast on its neck while surveying his surroundings. His skin was tanned after his sojourn into the Reach, and the dark colour of his hair made him look like any other in the city. Only the blue of his eyes set him apart from most, though in a city of crossroads like Alcázar, not even that would raise eyebrows.
Once past the gate, the caravan continued to a nearby warehouse. All goods were unloaded from the camels, and both men and beasts made their final stop, reaching one of the serais clustered around the northern gate. The animals were placed in stables, while the drivers and guards could finally relax. The caravan master paid them their wage for the journey, making arrangements with those willing to work the return journey. Some sought food or sleep in the serai; others went into the city to spend their coin without delay.
Brand was among the latter group, though not for long. While the rest sought towards the marketplaces or docks, Brand went alone towards the centre of the city. He crossed the maswar, keeping a tight hold of his coin purse as he went through the crowd. To his left rose the Tower of Justice in dark stone as a warning to all who would break the Kabir’s law.
Continuing into the medinas nestled around the maswar, Brand’s path took him through narrow streets and alleys until he stood before a small building with a dragon sigil above its doorframe. He stepped inside and knelt by the altar, whispering a brief prayer and leaving a few coins in offering.
Getting on his feet again, he glanced around in the dark room. “Gods’ peace,” he called out.
A blackrobe appeared from an adjacent room. “Gods’ peace to you, traveller. You are welcome in Rihimil’s abode.”
Brand glanced towards the door opening. Seeing it empty, he withdrew a rune-stave and extended it. “This is for you.”
“With me.” The priest returned to the adjoining chamber, followed by Brand. By the light of a window, he examined the runes upon the wood. “What name is written here?”
“Harun,” Brand replied. “And you are Brother Cuthbert.”
The priest switched into Suthspeech. “You speak the tongue well enough that any will believe your name is Harun?”
“None questioned it on the journey here from Maleth,” Brand pointed out, speaking the same language.
Cuthbert nodded. “Good. You should not linger in this place. The Kabir’s men are watching the temple.”
“Very well. When should I contact you again?”
“You shouldn’t. Wear this.” The priest removed his own necklace and placed it in Brand’s hand. It was a smooth stone with the rune for Rihimil carved into it. “Our man will find you. Where are you staying?”
“At one of the serais near the Kabir’s Gate. I came with the caravan of Master al-Hossam.”
“Good. Make sure to spend tomorrow evening there, and keep this visible.”
“As you say,” Brand acquiesced. He removed the cloth wrapped around his head, revealing a knotted leather string already resting around his neck, to which he added the stone pendant. With a small adjustment, it came to rest upon his chest atop his clothes.
“Excellent. You should leave now. If you find yourself followed, do not react,” Cuthbert warned him. “And no matter what, do not return to this place. It will arouse suspicion.”
“Very well.” Brand walked out of the chamber. “You have no acolyte to help you keep the temple?” he asked, glancing around.
“No time for questions,” Cuthbert claimed with an unhappy look. “Go, before anybody suspects you are more than a simple traveller.”
Brand gave a nod in compliance. “Fare you well then, Brother Cuthbert.”
“Rihimil protect you,” the priest responded, watching Brand leave the small temple.
~~~~
Back on the streets, Brand did not return to the serai. Instead, he went deeper into the city, moving to the small marketplace. Its name came not from its size, but the goods being bartered; all manners of sundries were sold in this place. Standing at the edge, Brand saw, heard, and smelled it all. Colours of every kind could be seen in the garments or the canopies covering the booths. At every stall, vendors and buyers haggled, whether it was to buy yards of cloth or a small ribbon. As Brand moved forward, the scent of pepper was replaced by cinnamon before the smell of roasting chicken suddenly took hold. Unlike Garrick, who had observed it all with a look of wonder, Brand took it all in with an expression of contentment.
For a few copper coins, Brand bought himself a slice of chicken and a piece of freshly baked bread. Gnawing on his food, he left the marketplace and walked west, leading him to enter the southern medinas. These neighbourhoods lay with little space to spare, and every building was filled to the brim with occupants; furthermore, these streets had a reputation for being ruled by brigands, and the city guard made only a token effort to maintain peace.
If any harbouring ill intent watched Brand’s progress, they left him alone; the sword by his waist and the confidence in his steps set him aside from the easy mark that most rogues preferred to prey upon. At one point, he stopped in one of the medinas briefly to drink his fill from the well. The bucket had to go deep before it hit water; it would be a while before winter would come, bringing rain. Nearby, he heard the sound of poetry being recited in unison by a choir of young voices. Looking up, his eyes found the local madrasa and the score of children inside, repeating the words of al-Tayir and others. Brand stayed a brief while; on occasion, his lips found the right words and fell into the same rhythm as the children.
At length, with a smile, he moved onwards. Passing through one medina after the other, he eventually came close to the city walls and could follow them to the west gate and the harbour that lay beyond. As could be expected, this was the busiest part of the city; people and goods moved in countless numbers in and out.
Brand found one of the numerous establishments serving both locals and sailors, buying himself a cup of evening tea. Around him, young and old did the same. Whether rich or poor, tea in the evening was a custom observed by all in Alcázar. Conversation flowed around him like a river surrounding a solitary rock. Brand paid no heed, keeping his eyes west. The Outer Sea spread out before him. A few ships could be seen in the far distance; soon, the fires at the edges of the harbour would be lit, guiding them to safe port.
In the far horizon, the sun sank into the sea. It dyed the waters red and gold, and from this position, nothing obstructed Brand’s view. He sat close to where many years ago, al-Tayir had composed many of his famous poems; presumably, it was when exposed to this view, the poet had named Alcázar the City of Sunset.
His tea finished, Brand got up. Turning his back to the sea, he walked east, passing through the gate into the city before it was locked for the night.
~~~~
The following day, Brand took another stroll through the city. His serai lay close to the Kabir’s palace, and he went there early in the cool of the morning. Walls surrounded the estate, but only to keep out intruders; they were not wide enough to allow soldiers upon them. Instead, a few towers rose to allow guards a vantage point. Brand stood staring at the gate for a while; behind lay the place he had called home for seven years. Now, it was clear he would not be allowed inside. Neither Adalbrand the knight nor Harun the caravan guard would be welcome at the Kabir’s court.
When he had lingered long enough for the guards to notice him, Brand turned and left, walking south once more. This time, his path took him to the great market. Here, large quantities of materials were traded among merchants along with livestock and slaves. The latter two dominated the smell in the air; animals and human bodies were herded together in small confines, and despite canopies being raised to provide shade, the heat could be felt by all.
The traders ignored Brand as he walked between the pens and stalls; his sword and demeanour made it clear he was not a merchant nor the kind of servant sent to buy slaves or animals for the household. Sheep, goats, cattle, and horses were sold along with people from every corner of the world.
Brand did not linger, but walked through the great market to reach its other end. He kept moving until the sounds and smells had dissipated. Feeling the noon heat, he ducked into an eatery and was served wine along with steamed vegetables. Once his meal was done, he had a few more cups, passing the time while watching warehouse workers hauling goods to the great market. After an hour, Brand bade the tavern keeper farewell, receiving a blessing in return, and made his way back to the serai.
~~~~
When evening came, Brand stayed in the large common room that served as both sleeping and eating quarters for the serai. Around his neck he wore the blackrobe’s pendant. He had found a chair and sat in a corner, giving him a view of the room. In one hand, he held a cup of tea; he continued to sip from it even after it was empty.
At length, a man strode into the room. His height and muscular appearance drew some looks, but nothing more than that; his clothing was typical for a citizen of Alcázar, and all sorts of people could be found in a serai. Around his neck, he had a wooden pendant; it resembled a statue with a rune upon it.
As the newcomer moved through the room, he came close enough for Brand to see the necklace. He demonstratively touched his own, making sure the rune upon the stone was visible.
“Harun,” said the other man in greeting, and Brand rose to meet him. “It’s me, Majid.” He extended a hand, which Brand accepted. As they touched, a small, wooden rune-stave was passed from Majid’s grip into Brand’s. “We’re old friends,” he whispered.
“Majid, old friend,” Brand replied with a loud voice. He placed his hand inside his flowing garbs, allowing him to deposit the rune-stave into an inner pocket. “I am pleased to see you.”
“It saddens me I cannot stay. I must be going,” Majid told him, also speaking loudly.
“Surely you have time to stay for tea,” Brand enquired.
“Sadly, I must be going.” Majid began to turn, but his companion reached out to hold him by the shoulder.
“I insist – old friend.” Brand put particular emphasis on the final words. “We have not spoken in so long, there is much I wish to ask of you.”
Majid licked his lips, glancing around. Some of the other patrons looked at them. “Not here,” Majid declared quietly. “These people know you – you shouldn’t attract more attention.”
“Plenty of places that will serve us tea,” Brand pointed out placidly. “Follow me.”
They made their way out of the serai; one walked with casual confidence, the other with a wary look. Crossing a few streets to leave the area by the gate and enter the nearby medina, Brand settled them at a small table by a tavern. The proprietor, catching Brand’s eyes, raised two fingers in the air, to which Brand nodded. Shortly after, two cups were placed on their table.
All throughout this, Majid had been near scowling at his companion; seeing Brand raise the cup, blow the steam away, and take a sip did nothing to improve his mood.
“Old friend, with that look upon your face, people will get curious,” Brand admonished him.
Taking a deep breath, Majid adopted a blank expression and took his own cup of tea. “Why are we here?”
“Do you speak the northern tongue?” Brand asked.
“I do,” came the reply in Adalspeech.
“Excellent. I doubt anybody cares about our conversation, but just in case,” Brand explained, also speaking the Mearcian language.
“I ask again, why are we here? My task was simply to deliver to you what has been delivered.”
“I think there is much to gain if I can ask you a few questions. After all, our cause is the same,” Brand declared. “How long have you served the blackrobes?”
“My master does not wear black,” Majid replied confused.
“The priests,” Brand elaborated. He held the stone pendant around his neck with its divine rune. “You bear the mark of Rihimil, same as I.”
“This?” Majid mirrored Brand’s gesture. “It has nothing to do with gods. It is simply a token to remember a – a fallen friend.”
“You fought side by side with a northerner? I assume he was, given he worshipped a northern god.”
“We fought on the sands together. What of it?”
Brand leaned back, giving the other man an appraising look. “You are a champion of the sands. It was plain to see you are a warrior, but I did not expect that.”
“Does it matter? Why are you wasting my time?”
Brand raised his hands with the palms outwards in a calming gesture. “I simply wish to understand who I am dealing with. You speak like a native of Alcázar, yet you are a champion of Labdah, and now you run errands for northern priests.”
“I don’t see why any of this is important. I’ve done my task. Our business is concluded, and you have given me no reason to think otherwise.” Majid rose to his feet.
“I want to meet your master,” Brand quickly said. “If you are merely the messenger, I wish to speak with the man who stands behind you.”
“The whole reason I am being sent is to avoid that,” Majid pointed out. “He has no interest in meeting you.”
Brand rose as well. “Tell him that Khalid calls upon him.”
“That name means nothing to me.”
“It will to him. I will wait here tomorrow evening for your master.”
Majid smiled with a touch of contempt. “Wait all you want.” He turned and left. Brand left a few coins on the table and departed as well.
~~~~
On the second morning after his arrival to Alcázar, Brand ventured into the city once more. His path took him across the maswar once more to reach the eastern part. Rather than seek the small market as the other day, he went further east to pass through the gate and reach the eastern docks.
Compared to its western counterpart, this harbour received far fewer merchant vessels; as a consequence, it had less traffic of goods and people. Instead, ships built for war lay anchored at most piers. Many were galleys, swift, manoeuvrable, and well-suited for combat at sea along the shallow coastlines of the Mydlonde Sea. Ships of newer make could be found as well, with deeper keels and more masts, relying rather on wind than oars; ships that were built for the intent to traverse the deeper, dangerous seas between Alcázar and Adalmearc.
Even though less used for trade, the docks remained busy. Countless sailors crowded the harbour and nearby establishments that offered food, drink, and entertainment. Workers, both skilled and unskilled, were found everywhere occupied with tasks; a constant train of donkeys carrying materials and tools for ship-building passed through the gate, dispersing to various destinations. Lastly, scores of soldiers patrolled the docks, keeping the peace and guarding the ships of Alcázar.
Moving north along the city walls, Brand approached the wharf that supplied the city with its fleet and the merchants with their vessels. This area was a nest of ants frantic with activity. Men dragged timber from stockpiles to be sawed into planks. Large rocks were hewn into exact shape and placed in the bottom of the wooden skeletons taking shape, providing ballast for the ship-to-be. Endless coils of rope were ready to be run along railings and masts, connecting sails and ship like blood veins. Lastly, great sails made from cotton or linen were hauled to storehouses, waiting as the final piece to be added.
Apart from the shipwrights, their apprentices, and the workers, the wharf was also heavily guarded. Watching from a distance, Brand saw numerous spear tips above the crowd of labourers. As he stood, observing the ships being built, he was himself observed; a number of the aforementioned spear tips began moving in his direction. Turning on his heel, Brand made a hasty departure, leaving the docks entirely.
~~~~
When evening came, Brand sat in the same tavern as the day before. He did not hide his smile when he saw Majid approach.
“Follow me,” Majid instructed him, wearing a scowl as he had during their last conversation.
“Certainly.” Smiling more than ever, Brand finished his tea, left payment, and rose to follow Majid.
They walked for hours, crossing most of Alcázar until they reached one of the southern medinas, looking like any other neighbourhood. “Here,” Majid explained, approaching a building. It was the only word he had spoken during their journey through the city. He opened the door and entered; Brand followed. They stepped into an empty room with sparse furniture and little else. Majid pointed across the room to a door on the other side. “Through there.”
Moving past him, Brand did as instructed and walked into the back room. It contained four things. A table, a chair on either side of it, and a man sitting in one of them. Somewhere in his fifties, he was dressed modestly like a servant. Behind him was yet another door. “Pleasant surroundings,” Brand remarked, glancing at the bare walls.
“The walls and doors are thick. We will not be overheard,” his host explained with a smile. “Please, take a seat.” He motioned towards the empty chair in front of Brand.
“A convenient escape route,” Brand retorted, nodding towards the exit behind the other man. As he sat down, Majid closed the door to the other room, giving them privacy.
“One can never be too careful in my line of work.”
“Are you him?” asked Brand.
“Haktar, no, I am but a simple servant like Majid. My name is Jawad, and yours is Harun, I am told?” He leaned back in his chair.
Brand did the same, allowing him to inspect Jawad from head to toe despite the table between them. “It is. I must confess to some disappointment. I thought tonight I would meet the infamous Prince of Cats.”
Jawad smiled. “Not a name to be tossed around lightly. How do you know it?"
"Khalid told me who I would have dealings with."
"Were it not for Khalid, or should I call him Godfrey, for we know his true name, my master would have ignored you entirely or worse. Now explain the reason I am spending my night in this forsaken hole, meeting you.”
“Of course. The symbols that Majid delivered to me – do you know what they say?”
“I see no reason to reveal whether I do or not.” Jawad was still smiling, but his voice had an unmistaken edge to it.
“I cannot read the old runes,” Brand admitted,” except when they are used as numbers. And I saw two numbers on the wood. I believe one signifies ships and the other soldiers. Specifically, the Kabir’s fleet and his mercenaries.”
Jawad shrugged. “Perhaps. What is that to me or my master?”
“The other day, I went to the western docks and the great market. One thing struck me as curious. Hardly any timber was unloaded or sold. Similarly, iron ore, tools, and weapons were scarce to find.”
“Your point?”
“The Kabir’s shipwrights are frantically working, but their stockpiles are running low. Soon, the Kabir will not have lumber for more ships or iron for more weapons. I believe the Kabir plans to invade Adalmearc. The message delivered by Majid to me suggests the same. Without timber or steel, he will have no reason to delay further, as he cannot add more ships or troops.”
“I am a simple man – these are matters far beyond me,” Jawad claimed.
Ignoring his remark, Brand continued. “While unusual to invade this late in the harvest season, I believe that is exactly the Kabir’s intention. He will seize the fortress upon Fortönn in a lightning assault, gaining safe harbour for his fleet and unfettered access to the Eylonde Sea. He can spend winter transporting troops and supplies to the island while raiding Thusund, hindering their efforts to assemble their own fleet. Once spring arrives, he will have his full army ready to invade every island, every coast along the Eylonde Sea.”
“I wouldn’t claim to know the Kabir’s mind. Besides, I fail to see why this is significant for my master.”
“The Kabir cannot invade over land. If he marches up the coast, there will not be enough water for his army. Not to mention, the Mearcians will have advance warning and can defend the long wall.” Brand paused for a moment. “Without his fleet, the Kabir cannot invade.”
Jawad leaned forward, placing his elbows on the table. “You want to destroy his ships.”
“That was my first thought. But setting ships aflame is difficult, given all the water they are surrounded with,” Brand pointed out. “We may torch one or two before the guards stop us and the fire.”
“We?” Jawad’s voice held equal parts disbelief and disdain.
“Most of the ships have not yet been fully outfitted, however,” Brand continued undeterred. “Their sails and rope are in storage. A much easier target to hit. Without sail or rope, a ship is just a floating piece of wood.”
A reluctant smile appeared on Jawad’s face. “You’re bold, I’ll give you that. If you want to run around setting fires, we won’t stop you.”
“I will need help. Someone to keep watch, at the very least.”
“The more people, the greater chance of discovery. Regardless, your plan may be for naught. After rather aggressively pursuing an alliance with Labdah, the Kabir now controls their fleet as well. Even if we carry out your plan, he will still have many ships at his disposal.”
“We do not need to destroy his fleet, merely cripple it,” Brand argued. “He cannot invade if he can only transport a few thousand troops at a time. Especially if Thusund is warned and their fleet is stronger than the Kabir’s.”
Jawad blew out his cheeks. “That may all be true, but I see no reason we should help you.”
“This could prevent war between Alcázar and Adalmearc,” Brand claimed.
“We are thieves, not soldiers. Why should we care?”
“Khalid would want you to help me,” Brand ventured to say.
“Khalid.” Jawad gave a sardonic smile. “Khalid is owed a debt, it is true. But he is demanding payment more and more often. I don’t think my master will care.”
“Should we ask him?”
“Rest assured, I will relay everything you say to the Prince.”
“Is that necessary? I suspect he has heard everything already,” Brand argued.
“I don’t follow.” Jawad wore an expression of genuine confusion.
“You are dressed like a simple servant, and you even dirtied your boots. Still, it is plain they are made from the finest leather. The stitching is perfect, a mark of excellent craftsmanship.” Brand leaned back to look under the table briefly. “If I were to guess, they are lined with lamb’s wool. It looks soft.” He straightened his back, looking at Jawad’s hand. “The skin on your finger has a pale band where you normally wear a ring. Strange for a servant to wear rings, even stranger to feel the need to disguise it.” He looked up at the rogue’s face. “You speak in a subservient manner, but your demeanour betrays confidence. Add to that, one of the most famous exploits of the Prince was the murder of al-Badawi deep inside the harāmlik of his own palace, which happened more than thirty years ago. Based on that, I would wager the Prince to be between fifty or sixty years old.”
Jawad returned the stare sent his way. Moments of silence passed. “Nobody ever looks at the boots.”
“As many miles as I have marched, I have learned to appreciate good footwear.”
A knowing smile appeared on Jawad’s face. “Whether for sneaking or fleeing, good boots are necessary for a thief.” The smile disappeared. “But you are not the only man with eyes, Harun. You speak the true tongue flawlessly, but your intentions betray you to be a northerner. Beyond that, you speak as one raised in marble halls. I’d wager good silver you were born among the nobility and came as a child to Alcázar, learning our speech.” He glanced at Brand’s neck. “Especially with that leather string you wear, knotted by a girl from Alcázar to show her affection for you. It looks old. The two of you must have parted ways years ago. Furthermore, you have the bearing of a mamluk, a warrior trained from birth. Along with your noble blood, that would make you a knight. One who spent his youth in Alcázar. There cannot be many of those.”
Brand adjusted the collar of his tunic, hiding the leather string around his neck. “Maybe not. It matters little to me – I have no interest in your identity. Only whether you will help me.”
Jawad’s smile returned briefly. “I suppose we can keep each other’s secrets.”
“More pertinently, will you help me prevent a war?”
The Prince of Cats scratched the stubbles on his cheek. “One condition. My debt to Khalid is paid in full – whether we succeed or not,” he stressed. “If I ever hear the name Khalid again, I will ignore it. If I hear it twice, I will consider it a threat and respond accordingly. Do we understand each other?”
Brand nodded with a smile. “Perfectly. We need to move fast. If the Kabir wishes to strike before winter, his fleet will set sail within a few weeks.”
“That should be plenty of time.”
“We have less. The ships must be prepared beforehand, meaning the sails will be removed from storage and fitted to the ships within the next days,” Brand pointed out.
“Good point. We will strike within the next few days.”
“Tomorrow night, preferably.”
Jawad raised an eyebrow. “And how many times have you broken into a guarded compound, committed theft, and escaped unnoticed?”
“I have conducted nightly raids before.”
Jawad laughed. “With much noise, no doubt. This is different. First, we must ascertain the placement of our mark – the sails, ropes, and what else we want to destroy. We must also determine patrol patterns, number of guards, blind spots where we may hide. Lastly, most importantly, we must deduce the safest way to enter and leave. Given that our act of arson will send a bright signal to every guard in the vicinity, alerting them to our location, that won’t be easy.”
Brand swallowed. “Fine. I leave the details to you.”
“Finally, some sense. I need all of tomorrow to scout the mark. Return to this building the day after tomorrow, at noon,” Jawad instructed him.
“At noon? That sounds early, but as you say.”
“We’ll need to get through the gate while it’s daylight and have time to get into position,” Jawad explained. “I’ll bring clothes for you, something that doesn’t jingle with every step.”
Brand inclined his head. “Very well. The day after tomorrow at noon.”
“Leave through the front door.”
“As you wish.” Brand rose and opened the door behind him. He passed by Majid, giving him a brief nod before he left the building.
“Long talk,” Majid remarked, stepping into the back room.
“Indeed. But fruitful, I think. Lock the front door,” Jawad commanded him, getting up to stand by the back door. “Let’s be off as well.”
“Very well.”
“I have a message for you to deliver, also, this very night.”
“Tonight?”
“Yes, to our friend by the great market. Tell him to get his hands on all the cotton and linen he can. There’s going to be a shortage in the city very soon.”
|
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"title": "The Eagle’s Flight - 155. The Prince and the Atheling",
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"Elves",
"European Ambience",
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|
Seal and Seat
Southern Hæthiod
The Mearcians continued their march until nightfall. Despite the miles they had traversed, the Langstan remained empty; the Order only maintained control further west. Using its ancient stonework for their own purpose, they erected primitive tents made from spears and cloak placed against the wall.
In the middle, Brand held council. He sat on a tree stump, occasionally rubbing his leg; it had been a long march with an injured thigh. His lieutenants sat around him on fallen logs. All of them were quiet, looking at their captain.
“What happens now, milord?” Geberic finally asked.
When Brand did not reply, others did. “We still have most of our fighting force,” Glaukos pointed out. “We can still harass the outlanders on this side of the wall.”
“They will be expecting us,” Alaric countered. “Our only advantage was stealth and surprise. Both are lost.”
“What else are we to do? Go back to the Order camp and sit around, spear in hand?” Glaukos asked.
“We wanted to hurt the outlanders enough to challenge them on the field,” Doran mentioned. “Perhaps we should return to Sir William and assess the situation. Maybe the time is right to give battle.”
“See now, those are words worth hearing!” Glaukos assented.
“The knights still won’t fight,” Geberic argued. “We can’t fight a battle without them.”
“Enough,” Brand uttered; the others fell silent. “We have had a long and trying day. Sleep as you can. Decisions are for tomorrow.”
The others mumbled their acquiescence and left Brand alone, save for the thane keeping watch.
Scarcely had the others gone before Jerome approached, having watched the meeting from a distance. “May I speak with you, milord? In private.”
“Of course.” Brand nodded to his guard, who walked away. “What is it?”
Jerome shifted his weight from foot to foot. It took him a moment to phrase himself. “I’m probably the only one who went with you for selfish reasons,” he finally said.
“I don’t think that can be said of anyone.”
“It’s true. I was a mercenary, milord, fighting for silver far from home. I’m a heathman, but I didn’t think twice about the war in Hæthiod. I didn’t care.”
“Something changed, I surmise.”
“It took longer than you’d think, milord. Maybe it was underway for a while, but today, seeing that evil creature,” Jerome explained. “I finally understood. This war isn’t about gold or land. It’s – bigger than anything else I’ve known. I’ve seen strange things in the deep South, but nothing like this. This war, it’s more important than me.”
“We all have our parts to play, Jerome. Every soldier with the courage to fight is important.”
“That’s not what I mean to say, milord. I need you to understand why I see things differently today than I did yesterday.”
Brand frowned. “Is something the matter?”
Jerome took a deep breath. “Lord Konstans of Vale offered me a purse of gold to ensure you never returned from the Reach, milord. Once he realises I have failed, he’ll send someone else. You need to be warned.”
Brand straightened his back and looked up to stare at Jerome. “I see.”
“I’d ask you didn’t tell the others, milord. Let me just take my things and leave. I don’t want them looking at me with contempt in their eyes,” Jerome asked, his voice thick.
“You will stay where you are,” Brand commanded him sternly. “As long as you are in my camp, Lord Konstans may assume you still intend to carry out your task.”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” Jerome admitted.
“Speak of this to none,” Brand continued. “But inform me immediately if anything catches your suspicion.”
“Yes, milord.”
“Good. Get some sleep. We will all need to be rested.”
“Yes, milord.” Jerome walked away with heavy breaths, leaving Brand to stare into the dark. Despite his own words, the captain found little sleep.
~~~~
The following morning, Brand’s lieutenants gathered. None of them spoke; they simply stared at their haggard leader in anticipation.
“We will return to the Order camp,” Brand informed them. “Sir William can inform of us of the current situation and the effect our raids have had. Seven and Eighth willing, the outlanders will be sufficiently weakened to consider battle and besieging Lakon.”
“Very good, sir,” Geberic assented.
“We keep a course northwards for now even if it adds days to our journey. No need to risk discovery by patrols.”
“I will tell them to move out,” Doran declared. Brand gave him a nod and gathered his few things in preparation for the march. Around the camp, the others did likewise; given how light they travelled, it took only a brief while before they could form a column and set out.
“Does this feel strange to you?” Nicholas asked Quentin. “Like we’re running away.”
“It feels that way because it is that way,” Quentin retorted, walking by his side. “We were a hundred soldiers invading our enemy. It was always going to end with us in retreat.”
“I guess, but I feel like a dog with its tail between its leg.”
“We must have killed hundreds and hundreds of those scum,” Quentin pointed out. “And all in all, we lost maybe thirty of our number. You’re just feeling downtrodden because things went ill towards the end.”
“I suppose you’re right.”
“Besides, this is good for you. When we reach the camp, you can get a letter sent to Ellen.”
Nicholas seemed to regain some of his cheer. “That’s right. So she won’t forget me.”
“Because women tend to forget about the men they married within a year.”
“Actually, we’ve been away for a year and –”
“Gods, spare me,” Quentin exclaimed exasperated. “I’m never marrying if this is the result.”
“I don’t think you’re in much danger,” Nicholas remarked gently.
~~~~
Due to their hasty departure, the band had few provisions. The surrounding land was far from lush and provided little opportunity for foraging, especially not in spring. Following brooks and streams to ensure freshwater was available, the group marched on despite the pangs of hunger. When it became too dark to march on, the soldiers were encouraged to seek rest at once; a sleeping man was not a starving man, for a while.
A few sentries remained alert, as did Brand. He did not seem to make much effort in pursuit of sleep either; he sat on a rock large enough to act as an uncomfortable seat. The cold wind made him pull his cloak around him, but it appeared to be mostly by reflex; inevitably, the cape would soon after slide down, leaving him exposed to the elements, starting the cycle anew.
“Captain.” One of the sentinels approached with another man in tow. “Your spy is back.”
Brand looked up to find Godfrey staring back. “I did not expect you.”
“That’s how it usually is with me. You received my warning, I take it.”
“The blackboot? We did.”
“What of him? Is he safe?”
Brand gave a vague nod. “We let him go unharmed.”
“That’s good.” Godfrey breathed easier. “We should speak. Alone.”
Brand looked over his shoulder; a thane sat up against a tree, struggling to stay awake that he might guard his captain. “Stay here,” Brand told him and rose up to follow Godfrey to the edge of camp. “Speak up.”
“Are you hurt? Your leg.”
“Nothing of importance.” The wound was nearly healed, causing only a slight limp.
“It was bound to happen. The blade by your side, the blood in your veins,” Godfrey muttered. “To the outlanders, these are omens both good and ill.”
“How so?”
“They are signs, memories of past defeats. Though some would see them as challenges of the Godking’s might. They think this means he will return. From his stronghold under the mountain, he will awaken to wage war.”
“Meanwhile, we are divided, fighting amongst ourselves,” Brand remarked with a sardonic smile. “I command less than seventy warriors. Not much of a challenge.”
“That can swiftly change. Even now, the Godking fears you enough to send his shadows against you. They will shed your blood and steal your blade.”
“Let them come. These shadows, I fought one of them upon the wall. This sword sent him into flight.” Brand rested his hand upon the hilt by his waist.
“Next time, they will not be so brazen. They will sneak into your camp. They are creatures of shadow, Brand, as the name says. You cannot hope to guard against them at all times.”
“What then? Am I to cower the rest of my days?” Brand asked bitterly.
“I have a better idea. You must leave for now. Our enemies will lose track of you until time is right for you to return.”
“Leave?” Brand exclaimed. “You must be mad. This war is far from done.”
“What can you accomplish here? You left the Order camp because your presence merely caused division. Until you are reinstated as a knight, there is little you may achieve.”
“And that is within your power? Having my honour and spurs restored to me?” Brand asked with derision.
“It is,” Godfrey claimed undisturbed. “But it will take time. Months. I must cross the Realms to forge new alliances and rekindle old friendships. Brand, if you trust me, I can deliver an army to you. An army to not only fight this war, but win it!”
Despite Godfrey’s forceful words, Brand seemed unmoved. “How do I explain to my people that we are abandoning the war? Where would we go?”
“I have already considered that,” Godfrey replied with a sly smile. “It requires a bit of an explanation.”
“Very well, go on.”
“Alcázar is planning war. What’s more, I believe their preparations are soon complete,” Godfrey stated.
“How certain are you?”
“Absolutely. I have seen their shipyards. They’re building a fleet to sail north and amassing mercenaries to use it.”
“That is grave news, but how does this matter? Do you intend for me to travel west and fight another war?”
“Not yet. I have built a network of spies in Alcázar, much as I have done in the Reach. Knowledge of the armies arrayed against us, their plans for invasion, this will be critical if the Realms are to survive.”
“I do not see how that pertains to us here and now.”
“I need someone to travel to Alcázar and retrieve the intelligence. Someone familiar with the city and language that he will not draw attention. You spent your youth in Alcázar, did you not?”
“You cannot be serious! I am no spy,” Brand said with indignation.
“For all their bad reputation, spies are useful,” Godfrey remarked dryly. “You had no qualms about using my information. Information, I might add, which gave you advance warning just a few days ago.”
“Be that as it may, I am a commander, a warrior. My place is on the battlefield. You are the spy,” Brand pointed out. “This is a task for you.”
“Yes, but I already have a task. I must patch the Order together that we stand a chance against all we face,” Godfrey retorted, his voice gaining an edge. “I have wheels in motion and many matters requiring my attention. Do you have a plan to accomplish this?”
Brand stared at him with anger flickering across his face. “If I did, I would not be in the wilderness with only seventy warriors at my call.”
“Then you should trust me. Have I not proven true to my word each and every time in the past?”
Brand’s jaw was clenched, but his reply came with softening voice. “You have.”
“None of this is coincidence. Alcázar will strike while our attention is in the east, causing a severe blow. Once the western realms are burning with war, we will be too weak to resist the Godking. An alliance born in Hel has been forged between the two,” Godfrey explained patiently. “I am sure of it.”
Brand glanced around before his eyes settled on his companion again. “I cannot leave my people. They will think I have abandoned them. What would I even tell them?”
“That you have a task only you can fulfil, on your own. They had enough faith in you to follow you into the Reach,” Godfrey pointed out. “They will wait for your return.”
Brand shook his head. “A captain does not simply walk away, leaving his soldiers behind. You must find someone else.”
“There are none who can play the part convincingly – your youth spent in Alcázar makes you perfect for this. Besides, this solves our other issue of your safety. The shadows will not know to pursue you this far.”
“Because spying is such a safe trade,” Brand remarked.
“This will be. You need only enter the city and meet my reeve. I will arrange for your passage to and fro. It will take a few months, during which you will be gone from all hostile eyes. When you return, I will have you commanding the Order’s armies once more, I promise you.” Godfrey kept his piercing eyes on Brand.
Turning away, Brand’s gaze found Jerome sleeping by the edge of camp. “What use will this information be? We have no armies in western Adalmearc.”
“It will be passed to my associate in Thusund. If the islanders and the Order know what they face, gods willing, they will stop Alcázar’s fleet from even entering Drake Run.”
“How certain are you that Alcázar plans war against us specifically?” Brand asked hesitantly. “Their aim could be the other South Cities.”
“Brand, we can argue until dawn. I can inform you of every bit of knowledge I have assembled with pain-staking care. In the end, it all relies upon the same question. Do you trust me to do what I ask of you?”
Exhaling slowly, Brand nodded. “I do. But I cannot bear the thought of leaving my people behind. How can I meet their eyes when I tell them this?”
“You were born with strong will for a reason, Brand. You have the strength to bear such burdens. Besides, travelling alone to undertake a task that will ensure victory,” Godfrey declared, “that reminds me of Sigvard himself.”
“You can spare me your bait,” Brand retorted, but his voice carried no sting. “I have already accepted.”
“Sorry. Force of habit,” Godfrey smiled. His voice and expression became grave. “I know great sacrifices are asked of you. I wish I could promise you they will be rewarded, but the fates do not weave justice. Good men suffer, evil men prosper.”
“Your ability to motivate people is without equal.”
“Sorry. Again.” The smile returned to Godfrey. “I will travel a bit of the distance with you and ensure you have all needed instructions. When we meet again, most likely in Portesur or Herbergja, you will be a knight once more.”
“Very well.” Brand looked up at the night sky. “I will try to rest while time permits.”
“A wise decision.”
~~~~
When morning came, Brand did not give the order to break camp as yesterday. Instead, he bade his lieutenants assemble everyone. Stepping onto a rock to make himself visible to all, Brand let his eyes sweep across the men and women gathered. Their expressions were tired, their clothing dirty, but when he spoke, he had their full attention.
“We have come far,” he began. “Some of you have been with me since before we crossed the Weolcans.” A few, including a pair of Hæthian archers, responded with noise. “Some of you fought at Bradon or Cudrican with me. Some of you were at Tothmor or Polisals.” A few more joined in. “Some of you chose exile over dishonour and went to Heohlond with me.” The kingthanes gave weary cheers. “Some of you left Heohlond to follow bonds of blood.” The highlanders raised their hands in greeting. “Regardless of when you joined this band, you all went into the Reach with me.” All of them responded upon hearing this.
“We marched where none of our people has dared to set foot. We taught the enemy fear,” Brand impressed upon them. “One day, they shall sing of the hundred heroes,” he proclaimed, raising his voice. “And none shall sing your praises louder than I will. That is my solemn promise to you. All of your names are sealed upon my heart, and you shall be seated at my table. Always.” The soldiers cheered again with what strength they could muster.
“Now comes the part I wish I never had to say.” Worried looks were exchanged. “While all of you must return to the Order camp, I cannot follow.” Disbelief overcame the crowd.
“No!”
“Why?”
“You must!”
Brand raised his hands to gain silence. “My presence in the camp would only cause disruption. But another task lies before me, and it cannot be done with strength of arms. I swear to you, I shall return. One day, I shall walk amongst you again. This I swear, by the Seven and Eighth, I swear it. But for now, I must ask you all to trust me as you did when you followed me into the Reach.” Murmur could be heard, especially among Brand’s closest followers and lieutenants. Several of them glanced at Godfrey.
“Where are you going?” yelled one of the highlanders.
“I cannot say. I can only ask that you keep faith in my return.”
“I have faith, captain,” someone declared. It was Jerome. He glanced around as if to challenge any to gainsay him.
“What are you going to do?”
“I cannot say that either.”
“I’ll wait, captain. You’ve never led us astray before.”
“Aye, I will as well.”
“And me.”
Brand smiled without joy. “I know you will. Never have I known warriors of such heart. Never shall I feel alone again, knowing you await me.” His expression did not seem to agree with his words. “Sir William will welcome your hardy company and treat you well for my sake. Until I return.”
“Until you return!” several shouted as Brand stepped down.
He turned to face his lieutenants, addressing Doran. “Keep the company together in my absence. Write to my sister in Middanhal for coin. That will help you see to their needs.”
“Yes, captain.”
“Good. Break camp. You should be underway soon.”
“As you say, captain.” Doran saluted Brand and hurried away, organising the march.
Before Brand could say anything to the others, Geberic spoke up. “It’s that spy, isn’t it?” He looked towards Godfrey. “He’s given you some information that you can’t ignore, and now you’re chasing off.”
“There are many considerations in play,” Brand said curtly. “I will meet you all in the Order camp.”
“Not me,” Geberic replied, quickly adding, “I’m going with you.”
“I appreciate the sentiment, but your presence would only endanger me at my destination. I must be alone.”
“Then we will follow you as long as we can,” Glaukos interjected. “I am a King’s Blade. I need a king to fight for. Besides, I have had my fill of killing outlanders for the time being.”
Alaric nodded towards him. “As he said.”
Behind them, Gwen pressed forward. “I didn’t come here to fight a war. I came here to stay by your side. I’m going the same way as you.”
“You cannot follow me all the way,” Brand told them. Seeing them all stare at him, he continued. “I suppose I will not mind the company some of the way.” They grinned.
“We should leave,” Godfrey told him quietly, having approached.
Brand gave a nod. “Gather your things.”
They did so with speed; moments later, they were ready to leave. While the remainder of the company prepared to march north, Brand set a course westwards. As he took the first step, those left behind beat their fists against their chests in a last salute. “Dragonheart. Dragonheart. Dragonheart.” Brand turned to send them a final look; with a smile leaning towards sorrow, he set on his path once more, followed by five others.
|
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Fires in the Night
Alcázar
At noon, the thief, the champion, and the knight met in the same place as before. Yawning a few times, Jawad pointed at the table. “Dress yourself,” he told Brand. “Get rid of all your shiny metal bits.”
“My sword stays,” he replied curtly. “But I have brought leather strips to cover the hilt and pommel.”
“You’re not entirely fresh in the net.” Jawad smiled sardonically.
“As I mentioned, this will not be my first nightly raid.” Removing his chain shirt, Brand donned a dark leather tunic in its place.
“You have a plan, master?” asked Majid. He had already dressed himself in colours similar to Jawad.
“Several, in fact, but we should only need one. If I recall, you are a strong swimmer, right?”
“I am,” Majid nodded.
“And given your background, I assume you’re good with horses,” Jawad added, aimed at Brand.
“Indeed.”
“Very good. I hate the beasts myself, but there’s no denying they make for a speedy escape. You can both rest easy – I’ll do all the hard parts,” Jawad smiled.
“Even so, would you care to enlighten us?” asked Brand, who was not smiling.
“Of course. You’ll have a task fitting your gifts,” Jawad declared. “You’ll be waiting with the horses for our escape. I assume that’s within your capabilities.” Brand’s face twitched, but he did not respond. “I’ll sneak inside and set the sails aflame.”
“And my part?” asked Majid.
“Getting in will be easy enough, but once those flames start burning, I’ll need a distraction to escape.”
“My task, I assume. How?”
Jawad nodded. “The best distraction from a fire is a bigger one. You’ll start one by the harbour south of the wharf, giving me the opportunity to escape north.”
“We cannot set the whole city on fire!” Brand protested. “The loss of life is unthinkable!”
“We won’t burn down the city,” Jawad said dismissively. “There are warehouses by the pier, which will serve our purpose nicely. The wall will keep it from spreading to the city, and there’s plenty of water nearby to put the fire out.”
Brand stared at the rogue. “Is that the truth or simply what you think I wish to hear?”
“If the latter, I’m hardly going to admit it, am I,” Jawad replied with annoyance. “Destroying the sails is your idea, Harun.” He spoke the name with a sneer. “I’m the one actually making it possible.”
“You need not be concerned,” Majid told Brand. “It’ll be me setting the fire. I will not do it if there is any chance that it could spread to the city. On my honour,” he swore.
Brand’s eyes moved back and forth between the two. “I wouldn’t trust such words from him,” he declared, “but I will trust yours. Very well.”
“If you are done insulting me,” Jawad remarked dryly, “I’d like to finish.” Hearing no objections, he continued. “Once you’ve created a distraction, jump into the sea and swim north. I’ll set my own fire once yours has dragged the guards away and make my own way north as well. We’ll meet up further along the coastline, where you wait with horses.” He nodded towards Brand. “We ride through the night, putting distance between ourselves and the harbour, and enter the city through the northern gate tomorrow morning.”
“I suppose that sounds simple enough,” Brand granted.
“I’ll do my part,” Majid claimed.
“We should get to it. Harun,” Jawad spoke, smiling as he pronounced the name, “we’ll go with you and procure the horses. Once you’re sent on your way, Majid and I will go to the harbour, spending a pleasant day before tonight’s work.”
“Is it safe to leave our belongings here? I don’t wish to return and find my armour gone.” Brand nodded towards his chain shirt lying on the table.
Jawad laughed. “Trust me, those who know of this place, also know better.”
“Let’s be on our way, then,” Brand declared.
“After you, Harun,” Jawad smirked.
~~~~
Once Brand had been sent on his way with horses, Jawad and Majid made their way to the eastern docks. They did not seem to have any aim in mind, walking and talking casually. Majid’s demeanour only grew serious for a short moment when they approached a specific warehouse while Jawad mumbled a few instructions to him; for his part, Jawad was smiling and laughing without interruption.
They spent the rest of the afternoon with a meal, watching the ships and sailors of the docks. Every now and then, a galley would return from patrolling the seas, elegantly gliding into the harbour; once close enough, the oars would pull in, ropes would be thrown onto the pier, and the ship would be moored. While the sailors took care of these details, a contingent of mamluks would disembark, marching with perfect discipline to their barracks in the city.
After a while, the same story would play out, only in reverse. A company of mamluks would appear, marching through the gate to embark a galley. The sailors would unmoor the ship and set it into motion. Once free from the harbour, the oars would come out, pulled by numerous slaves, and the ship would sail east or south in search of pirates.
As the day waned, Jawad finished his evening tea. “Time for me to leave,” he declared. “Make sure you wait. I can’t move until it’s completely dark, and I’ll need an hour at least before I’m ready.”
Majid gave a nod. “I shall, master. See you on the other side.”
Jawad smiled. “See you there.”
He emptied his cup and left. In the dying light of the day, he strolled around the harbour, watching the hojon. With weary steps, they trod through the docks, making their way back to Almudaina before the gates were locked for the night. The guards kept sharp watch, making sure none broke away. Jawad patted his pockets, feeling the small alchemical flasks inside. With a deep breath, Jawad turned his back on the hojon and his attention towards the wharf.
~~~~
As night fell, nothing seemed out of the ordinary on the eastern docks. There was the usual noise and traffic of sailors seeking drink and entertainment along with the sounds and shouts of the locals offering either. The many galleys meant plenty of soldiers traversed the harbour as well. Even if not on duty or patrolling, their presence had a calming effect on the worst excesses, and brawls were rare; or at least, they were less frequent than on the western docks.
When the night sky had the same colour as his clothes, Jawad crept into position. Following the same method as last, he moved undetected deeper into the wharf, staying hidden as needed. As he already knew exactly where to go, he reached his destination faster compared to last time. Similarly, he was already acquainted with the lock on the storage door; within moments, it opened up.
He did not enter; as the building had no windows, it would be impossible to see when Majid had done his part. Instead, Jawad remained hidden outside, occasionally stretching his limbs or neck in his hiding spot.
Time passed, as did the guards. Each time, Jawad moved a little further into the shadows between the city wall and the storage; each time, the watchers continued without suspecting anything. None of them ever checked the locks on any of the buildings; they had never had reason to do so before.
The calm atmosphere was shattered without warning. Flames rose against the air to the south, sending grey smoke towards the sky. Voices crying out in alarm were carried by the wind. Panicked, the guards ran southwards. Waiting a while, Jawad crept around the storage building to enter it quickly. From his pockets, he withdrew the flacons purchased from the alchemist. He opened them one after the other and poured their contents onto the sailcloth. A loud hiss ensued, followed by flames. Wasting no further time, Jawad got out. He left the door open, allowing air to feed the greedy fire, and hurried away northwards.
~~~~
After Jawad left him, Majid remained a while at the tavern, having another cup. His brusque countenance and the short sword by his side dissuaded any from approaching him, letting him drink his tea in peace. When it was dark and the tavern became crowded with other patrons, Majid finally rose to his feet and left. He walked aimlessly around the harbour, waiting while more and more stars appeared on the firmament. Once the night sky was full of lights, he changed direction, moving with purpose.
He reached the small warehouse that Jawad had pointed out to him earlier. It lay secluded to some extent with the city wall to one side and open road to the other. Choosing the former side, Majid stepped in between stone and wood. From one pocket, he withdrew a jar and let it pour onto the warehouse wall. The smell revealed it to be lamp oil.
Jawad had reserved the alchemical aid for himself; Majid had only ordinary flint to start a fire with. He began striking the stone, trying to cause a spark, when a voice called out. “What’s going on down there?” Majid glanced up and saw a guard on the city wall, staring back at him. “Hey, what are you doing?” the guard asked. Majid’s response was to strike the flint more frantically. “Stop!” yelled the watchman. “Men, down there! A thief!”
At last, the sparks caught the lamp oil. Fire burst forth, devouring the soaked wood. It illuminated Majid’s face, showing his relief that quickly turned to fear. Alerted by the guards on the walls, others were running towards his position, shouting and drawing more attention.
Setting into a sprint, Majid fled the scene. As soon as he came into the open, he was spotted by the approaching watchmen.
“Fire, fire!” some yelled.
“Over there, he’s running!” came another.
His despair obvious, Majid ran across the streets, seeking to hide among the other buildings of the district. While most people in the vicinity moved towards the fire, many of the guards would not be deterred, and they set after him in pursuit.
The further Majid ran, the more he became trapped. Each time he reached a new street, he found people advancing on him. He slipped between buildings, jumped over barrels and toppled them behind him, changed directions, and did anything else he could to escape his pursuers. None of it availed him.
Finally, he reached edge of the harbour; only the sea lay ahead him. He ran along its length, attracting further attention, shouts, and vile gestures as he pushed people aside. When the way ahead was barred by spears, he turned to run down one of the piers. Reaching its end, he jumped into the waters without hesitation.
“He’s jumped! He’s in the water! Get some boats!” With powerful strokes, Majid swam north-east; behind him, boats were lowered from the nearest galleys with guards and mamluks at the oars. Against the night sky, the fire raged on.
~~~~
Further up the shore, where the sand turned to rocks, Brand waited with three horses. They were all of dark colours and tied to a tree; as for Brand, he stood upon an outcropping, giving him a vantage point of the bay and its coastline. Above his head, the moon traversed the sky as the only marker of time.
Tranquillity was finally broken deep into the night. Even from afar, he could see the flames devouring the warehouse, but little else. The wharf was close enough that he could hear the outcry in response; as the moon appeared from behind a cloud, its light allowed him to discern figures in the distance, running about.
Crouched on the rock, tension gripped his body. His hands were balled into fists, and his eyes constantly scouted the horizon. Yet despite being ready to spring into action, all he did was wait as assigned.
“Harun,” Jawad called out, sending a start through the other man, whose hand was already on his sword hilt as he spun around. “Only me,” Jawad grinned. “All done. And my horse is ready, I see.”
“You torched the sailcloth?”
“I did. Not with a torch, but same result.”
“Good. We need only wait for Majid then.”
An expression ran across Jawad’s face. “Not for long.”
Brand frowned. “This was your plan.”
“And it was a good one,” Jawad defended himself. “We hit our mark as intended. It’s on Majid’s shoulders now to make his escape. We can’t hang around forever.”
Brand looked down with disdain on the shorter man. “So you’re ready to abandon him? Your own man, who is only in a trouble because he ensured your escape?”
“We all had our part to do,” Jawad replied curtly. “Seeing as your task involved no danger at all, you shouldn’t be quick to judge. I did all the hard work here.”
“That does not mean we abandon one of our companions to his fate!”
Jawad gave an overbearing sigh. “I thought you were a knight. Have you never ordered men into battle, to their death?”
Brand clenched his jaw. “That is a different matter.”
“In your eyes, I’m sure it is.”
They were interrupted by shouts in the distance. Torches carried by men were moving up the beach along the wharf. Lights could also be seen out at sea, illuminating small boats.
“What is happening,” Brand mumbled.
“He’s being pursued,” Jawad declared with the confidence of a rogue familiar with such circumstances. “They’re spreading out along the beach, making sure he can’t swim ashore without being caught.”
“Then we have to help him.”
Jawad gave his companion an incredulous look. “There’s dozens of armed men down there.”
“I am not arguing that we should fight them all, simply that we must help him escape them.”
“Friend, I’ve been a thief twice as long as you’ve been alive, I wager. I’ve escaped certain death more than once, and I can tell you, there’s no escaping from that beach.”
“Perhaps not for a thief. Fortunately for Majid, I am a knight.”
Jawad made a throat sound resembling choked laughter. “Be my guest. As for me, I believe one of those horses is waiting to take me away from here.” He turned around, walking over to untie one of them. “Bloody beast,” he mumbled, getting into the saddle without his usual grace. As Brand stared on the beach, the Prince of Cats rode away.
~~~~
Majid swam for his life. Boats were nearby, staying alert for the sound of his movements, forcing him to swim under the water. Each time he came up for air, he looked around to gain his bearings; every time, the sight of soldiers on the beach awaited him. He had no recourse but to take another deep breath and dive once more.
Being forced underwater had caused him significant delay; it had taken him near an hour to clear the harbour and come this far up the coast, and he had still not passed the wharf. At this speed, it would take him far longer to swim past the beach and reach the rocks with Brand and the horses.
Majid swam onwards. Each stroke brought him a little closer. He continued the process that had brought him this far – deep breaths of air and a quick look to determine his course followed by a long stretch under the water. Breathe, swim.
His luck did not last. Swimming in the dark underwater, the boats were as invisible to him as he was to them. Coming up for air, he found himself right next to his pursuers. He dove as soon as he realised this, but a spear had already been thrust against him. It pierced his leather tunic and gave him a wound.
He swam onwards, but soon, his strokes came with less fervour. He had already spent much of his strength swimming along a curved path, since being blind underwater kept him from swimming in a straight line. The next time he surfaced, forced by his need to breathe, his eyes darted between two places. Ahead in the dark lay the rocky coast and his escape; to his left was the sandy beach and his capture. Treading waters, Majid faced the inevitable conclusion forced by his loss of strength. After greedy breathing, he dove and swam left.
His new course had the advantage of leaving the boats behind; they continued northwards in their search, giving him a little more room. Approaching the beach, this advantage disappeared. He dove once more, avoiding the careful gazes from the watchmen ashore. This also lasted only a short while; when his swimming strokes touched the seafloor, Majid abandoned his subterfuge. Rising to his feet, shivering from the cold with a bloody shoulder and a short sword by his side, he began to run.
His speed was slow at first, trying to sprint through water that reached his knees. When he had come far enough that it receded to his ankles, he was also discovered. “I see him! Over here!” came the shout. Muttering a curse, Majid saw the guards gathering, trying to close spears and keep him from escaping.
Majid was a champion of the sands. He had more training with the short sword in his hand than all his opponents put together. But they wielded spears, they were not exhausted, and they could encircle him from all sides. Using their reach, they jabbed at him constantly. Majid could do nothing but parry their attacks and turn the spearheads aside with his blade; each time he might consider advancing on one enemy, he was forced to protect himself from another.
The sound of a galloping horse made Majid spin around, ready to defend against another foe. It was not needed. Making his horse rear, Brand used its hooves to knock one guard to the ground while his blade slashed another. Grabbing the reins with his sword hand, Brand turned his horse around to extend his free arm towards Majid. “Hurry!”
Grabbing hold of Majid, Brand swung him onto the back of his horse and kicked his heels in. The beast did as commanded, setting into a swift trot.
The spears wielded by the guards were not javelins, but they served well enough at close range. Several came flying through the air. Struck, the horse tumbled to the ground, forcing the same fate upon its riders. Drawing swords, the guards did not hesitate; before Brand could recover from the fall, the tip of a blade was pressed against his throat. To his side, he saw the same happen to his companion.
“We surrender,” Majid declared hoarsely. With triumphant grins, the guards collected their weapons. Soon, they began their return to the city along with their two prisoners.
|
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An Even Table
Alcázar
Morning was announced in the dungeon by a bowl of cold gruel pushed through the hatch into Brand’s cell. He had no spoon and had to use his fingers instead.
“He has a fine new coat of fur, but the mouse is back in his cage,” squealed Imad from the other side of the door. He was standing on his toes, peering through the barred window. “Eat, eat and grow fat, my little mouse.”
Brand finished his meal, ignoring the torturer peeping at him. When he was done, he pushed the bowl back.
“Not a squeak, little mouse? Afraid you’ll be fed to the cat?” Imad giggled to himself, pressing his face against the window of the door.
Brand smashed his hand against the bars, sending a start through his jailer, who tumbled backwards. “The crow is loud while the eagle sleeps,” he said from within the cell, settling back against the wall. “You should not disturb my sleep.”
Imad hissed, getting on his feet. “When they take your head, I will be in the crowd, jeering and cheering!”
Brand lay down, turning his back to the door.
~~~~
Salim waited outside Jana’s chamber. He did this each morning while a slave helped Jana dress and set her hair. Once the slave left to assist the next lady in the harem, Salim entered, announcing his presence by clearing his throat.
“Good morning, Salim.” Jana turned her head quickly, sending him a smile.
He scowled at her.
“Yes, I understand your hesitation.”
He crossed his arms.
“Fine, your scepticism. But I am only going to talk to my brother. Surely that is harmless.”
He frowned, gesturing at her.
“I have an idea that I will mention to him, that is all. Nothing that will reflect poorly on me,” she promised him.
He asked a question with a raised eyebrow.
“I understand that to you, he is nothing more than a prisoner, and a dangerous one at that. But while he lived in Alcázar, Brand was my only friend in this palace.” Jana walked over to place her hand on his shoulder. “If I can help him, I believe that I should. If I am to spend the rest of my life in this chamber, at least let me do some good when the opportunity arises.” She looked up at him with the pleading eyes of a child.
He gave a sigh and asked another question.
“Nothing complicated. I will take the morning meal with Rana and her family, and then I will ask Saif to walk with me in the garden. If I can sway him to help me, everything will be fine, and you can rest easy.”
Salim shook his head.
“Always so full of doubt.” She patted his arm. “I am not even involving you. Why not take the opportunity to see your old comrades in the city? I know you did not go last time I suggested.” She had a sly look on her face as she spoke.
He raised his hands in defeat.
“I will see you later.” She smiled at him and left for the dining hall.
~~~~
In his library, the Kabir was served a light meal consisting mostly of steamed vegetables. A slave squeezed a lemon on top of the plate and salted the food as well, after which the ruler waved his hand to send him away. As the slave departed, the hāgib entered, bowing his head deeply.
“What do you have for me?” asked the Kabir.
“Two dispatches of note, my lord. The first will please you greatly.”
“Meaning the second will not, and you want to give me the good news first, you rascal.”
The hāgib gave a guilty smile. “You know me too well.”
“Let us hear it.”
“We have the final tally of all the ships that Labdah may send us. It is more than we estimated, and they will finish any repairs over the winter. In other words, they are ready when we need them,” the hāgib informed his master.
“It would have been better if they were ready now,” the Kabir muttered. “Very well. At least something is going right. What is the other news that have you trembling?”
“Nothing quite as terrible, sidi. Simply reports from our garrisons up the coast. Our increased troop movements have put pressure on the sources of water,” the hāgib explained.
“We have not even sent a thousand in total,” the Kabir exclaimed. “They cannot seriously lack water.”
“They do not, sidi, forgive my clumsy explanation.” The hāgib bowed his head reflexively. “But once we move reinforcements towards Maleth, the pressure will increase. Already our soldiers clash with the desert dwellers, and our lieutenants wish to know how to respond.”
“The desert dwellers,” snorted the ruler. “Those primitives. If they cannot find water, they should go elsewhere. Inform the troops to do what is necessary. I will not tolerate anything to impede their march north.”
“Very well, sidi, I shall do so without delay.” The hāgib gave a bow and retreated, walking backwards until he left the room. Alone, the Kabir took a fork and began eating his meal.
~~~~
After the midday meal, Jana took a stroll in the Kabir’s extensive gardens accompanied by her brother Saif. It was a popular place for the courtiers to spend their leisure time, though few did so during the noon heat. While the time of the day forced the pair to move from shade to shade, it also afforded them solitude.
Regardless of the heat, Saif walked with confidence, a smile, and one hand casually on the pommel of his sword. By his side, Jana seemed equally carefree and relaxed. “Your mother has always been a cheerful person, but these days she seems to burst with it,” Jana remarked.
“She is rather pleased,” Saif agreed. “I think my sisters are exhausted just trying to keep up.”
“Well, she has good cause to be. Rumour is around the palace that you are undisputed Father’s favourite.”
“The rumour is true,” Saif confirmed with satisfaction. “He gifted me a sword and his confidence. This very sword, in fact.” He clapped the pommel by his side.
“I was wondering why you felt the need to walk armed,” she considered with gentle laughter. “I thought maybe Jalil’s defeat in the hall had made you wary.”
He laughed. “Hardly.”
“It was quite a spectacle. Better than anything I ever saw in Labdah.”
Saif gave a grin. “I should be thankful to the northerner. He gave me not only this sword, but also Father’s favour.”
“Oh, is it his?”
“It was,” Saif corrected with a smug expression. “A strange blade, but strong metal, I am sure. Father thinks the same.”
“Fascinating.” Jana cleared her throat. “Watching the fight in the hall gave me an idea, actually.”
“What idea?”
“I suppose it was Jalil’s idea first, but for once, his thought might have merit,” she added with a wry smile. “You should arrange for fights like those in Labdah. It would make you popular without doubt, and since you have Father’s ear, I am certain he will allow it.”
“I suppose I could,” Saif considered. “Every fight would remind us all of Jalil’s defeat, which is quite the extra grape on the stem,” he laughed.
“Very true,” Jana smiled. “And you already have an excellent fighter you could name your champion.”
“Of whom are you thinking?”
“The prisoner, of course, who so handily defeated Jalil. Imagine how incensed he would be!”
Saif laughed again. “A capital idea. I almost wish it could be so.”
“What prevents you?”
He glanced at her as they walked side by side. “He is a spy. Regardless of his rank, he must die. There can be no leniency in his case.”
“You are the future Kabir. Surely such is for you to decide?”
He shook his head with an overbearing smile. “Father would never allow it, and I see no reason to ask him. Considering what this spy and his companions have cost us, he should be grateful for a swift execution.”
“It seems so harsh. Do you not owe him a debt? Because of him, Jalil has lost the favour now bestowed upon you,” Jana argued.
“That seems contrived,” Saif laughed. “He is an enemy of our city. Death is the only suitable fate for him.”
At his side, Jana turned her head away, biting her lip.
~~~~
Imad bowed his head low. “Forgive me, sidi, I can’t say. I have no knowledge of where the prisoner was taken.”
Jalil stared down at him with cold eyes. “Then tell me what you do know!”
“Only that yesterday, a mamluk fetched the prisoner. He took him away for many hours and returned him in the evening,” Imad explained.
“And you simply allowed this without question?”
“Forgive me, sidi. When a mamluk wearing the livery of the Kabir gives me an order, I obey.”
“Simpering fool.” Jalil shot a look towards the door behind which Brand was imprisoned. “How did the mamluk look?”
Imad’s tongue moved around his mouth, searching for words. “Like a mamluk, sidi. Tall and strong, sword by his side. Short hair.”
“That describes all of them, you decrepit vermin!”
“Yes, sidi, because they look the same. All mamluks do.” Imad bowed his head low again, hiding his expression.
“Did he wear the livery of the Kabir’s personal guards?”
“I couldn’t tell you the difference, sidi, they all look like falcons to me.”
Jalil exhaled in frustration. “They all wear falcons, you moron, we are the House of al-Saqr! But the insignia is different whether it is a servant to the Kabir, to the harem, or elsewhere in the palace.”
“Forgive me, sidi, I rarely see them. They have little reason to enter my home, and I do not seek them out.”
Jalil muttered a curse. “Did the prisoner reveal nothing about where he had gone?”
“He is not very talkative, sidi, and I am not allowed to make him talk.”
“It must be that old hag Rana in her harem chamber, like a spider in her web,” Jalil spat. “Tell me exactly what the mamluk told you. How did he convince you to release the prisoner?”
“He said nothing to me, sidi.”
Jalil frowned. “I thought he came alone.”
“Oh yes, sidi, he was most assuredly alone, but he did not speak.”
Jalil balled his hands into fists. “I swear, if you do not make sense soon, I will strangle you.”
“I think he was mute, sidi, he could not speak.”
“But how did he tell you to release the prisoner?” Jalil nearly shouted in frustration.
“A written message, sidi. I did not question it. After all, he was a –”
“A bloody mamluk in the Kabir’s livery, yes, I got it.” Jalil gritted his teeth. “Wait! Where is that message?”
“Oh, I think I used it to light a fire.”
“You burned it?”
“My coals had gone out, you see, and it gets very cold down here,” Imad explained. “Or maybe that was the letter from my brother… he doesn’t write interesting letters, sidi. Burning them is the best use of the paper.”
“I will stuff those coals down your throat, while they are burning, if you do not find that note!”
“Of course, sidi, let me look.” Imad cleared his throat and walked away. He rummaged through his tools, opened drawers, looked under pillows, and anywhere else. “Ah!” He hurried into the chamber where days before, he had tortured Majid and Brand. He bent down next to the table with his tools. “One leg is a little uneven, you see,” Imad called out to the prince, standing in the central chamber of the dungeons. “It has annoyed me for years, but you know how it is, you always put off dealing with it.” He pulled out a folded note underneath one of the table legs. “But yesterday, with all my prisoners gone and paper in my hand, I finally took care of it.”
“Shut up and bring it to me!”
“Of course, sidi, at once.” Imad hurried back to Jalil, handing him the note. “But now my table is uneven again.”
Jalil grabbed the paper from the torturer’s hand. “If you say one more word, I will feed you your own tongue.” Imad clamped his lips together. “Do not speak of any to this, either.” The prince turned around and walked away with hasty steps, leaving the torturer to sigh.
From his cell, Brand looked out between the bars of his window. Seeing Jalil leave, he retreated back into the darkness of his cell.
|
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"title": "The Eagle’s Flight - 163. An Even Table",
"author": "Quill",
"chapters": 245,
"rating": 4.4,
"rating_ct": 19,
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"Dwarfs",
"Elves",
"European Ambience",
"Fantasy World",
"Generals",
"Interconnected Storylines",
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"Knights",
"Medieval",
"Military",
"Multiple POV",
"Multiple Protagonists",
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"Politics",
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"Romantic Subplot",
"Soldiers",
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|
The Crossing
Wyrmpeak
The Mihtea roared past them, strengthened by all the waters of the mountain’s summit melted by summer sun. It was some hundred feet from bank to bank in this particular place, and it flowed with a swift current.
“Can either of you swim?” asked Jorund. Both his companions shook their heads. “Couple of land-legs,” he muttered. “We’ll need to find somewhere to ford it. Either of you, find me a long stick.” While they did as bid, he began removing his pack and some of his clothes until he was shirtless. Kate returned with the desired object, giving him a long, twisted branch. With an approving grunt, Jorund accepted the stick and began testing the river bottom.
He stuck the branch down, prodding the ground underneath the water while moving along the bank. Finally, he took a step into the river, planting one boot on the bottom, followed by the other. Using the branch to measure the depth ahead of him, he took a few more steps. “It’s getting deeper,” he remarked, turning back. “And the current is swift.” He walked back on land, shaking his feet. “Let’s move upstream. I can see a bend up there.” He pointed in the aforementioned direction. “The current will be slower.” He picked up his pack and clothes, starting to walk. Deferring to his wisdom, Kate and Egil fell into place behind him.
~~~~
It took them half an hour to reach the bend. The river was wider, but as Jorund predicted, it flowed with less force. Putting down his pack, he set to work again, stabbing his branch into the river bottom.
“You’re sure we have to cross?” Kate asked Egil while staring at the water.
“Two different books mentioned it. I’m sure.”
“Very well.” The look on her face gainsaid her acceptance.
“There may be a way here,” Jorund shouted over his shoulder. He kept his cautious crawl forward for a good while until he was half across the river; the waters reached to his chest. Satisfied, he returned to his companions. “Let’s give it a try. Let me have my pack,” he told Egil, extending a hand. The boy picked it up with some difficulty, using both hands, and Jorund grabbed it from him, slinging it onto his back. “You both stay here,” the Dwarf told them upon seeing Kate stepping towards the bank. “I’ll go across first. If it’s fine, I’ll come back and bring each of you across, one at a time.”
“That’s going to take ages,” Egil complained.
“You have a lot of opinions on crossing rivers for someone who can’t swim,” Jorund remarked dryly, and the boy shut up.
“We trust your decision,” Kate said pointedly. Meanwhile, Jorund turned around and walked back into the river.
He walked with careful steps as before, even the first part that he had already traversed. In the middle, his pace slowed further; he spent a good while examining the ground with his branch, stomping it down as hard as he could through the water. Only when he was fully satisfied did he take the next, tentative step, starting the process anew.
At length, he reached the other bank and could throw his pack onto dry land. Taking a deep breath, Jorund turned around and began the crossing again. With the slowest of steps, he made his way back towards Kate and an impatient looking Egil.
Stepping onto the bank next to the others, Jorund looked at them. “Which one first?”
“Let me,” Kate said. “It won’t hurt Egil to wait a moment longer.”
“Fine.”
“Listen both of you,” Jorund told them with a sharp voice. “You grab hold of my shoulders, you hold on fast no matter what, and take each step as I take them. Understood?”
“Yes,” they both replied.
“Good. Kate, let’s go. Tread where I tread.” Jorund descended into the river once more, making room for Kate to fall into place behind him. Once she was in the water as well, she placed her hands on his bare shoulders; thanks to his short stature, she did not have to raise her hands much.
They began their cautious crossing; for each step, Jorund planted his stick into the ground, lending him support against the swift current. They reached the deepest part of the river; the water rose to Kate’s neck. “You in good order?” Jorund asked loudly over the sound of the rushing waters.
“All well,” Kate shouted back, squeezing his shoulders. As he continued on, she raised her chin and followed. Eventually, the ground inclined upwards, the water fell, and the current became less fierce; gasping for breath, Kate could step onto the bank. Jorund did not waste time but turned back, making the crossing once more.
“Ready?” the Dwarf asked. Despite the heavy exertion, he did not seem weary nor cold from having walked through the river several times.
“Been ready for a while,” Egil replied.
“Hold onto my shoulders,” Jorund instructed him.
“I got it. I saw you cross with Kate.”
“Very well. Let’s go.” Jorund turned around yet again, stomping his twisted walking staff into the ground. Behind him, Egil entered the river. A violent shiver went through the boy as the cold waters surrounded and soaked him to his waist.
“Let’s hurry,” Egil urged.
“Not a chance,” Jorund dismissed him.
“It’s freezing cold,” the young scribe complained. In his eagerness, he slapped his foot into Jorund’s leg, having moved too soon.
“It’s summer, lad, you’ll live! Now eyes down, step when I step, and not before!”
Egil grumbled at the admonition but did not reply. They continued the crossing, and the water slowly rose up their bodies. The boy’s hands shook with cold as he held onto Jorund’s shoulders, and his teeth chattered.
“Everything well?” asked Jorund.
“Fine,” Egil said, just as he hit his foot against Jorund once again. Thrown off balance, the Dwarf struggled to gain a foothold, as did Egil; the former succeeded, the latter did not. With a yell, Egil’s hands were torn from Jorund, and the current swept him to the side.
The boy flailed his arms to little effect; the coursing river pulled him along with ease. On the bank, Kate screamed and ran downstream. Jorund, born on the islands of Thusund, dove into the waters. Rather than pursue Egil, he swam directly south towards the bend in the river. This let him reach the bank, climb up, and race across the terrain to the other side of the bend, and without hesitation, he jumped in.
Egil had also made the bend, courtesy of the current. His body was dragged over several rocks that rose from the river bottom, twisting him around and forcing his head under water. He tried to kick his legs, but his wet robe clung heavy to him, hindering movement. Water entered his mouth, and his attempts to spit it out only invited more. His arms ceased their flailing; his body became limp. On the bank, Kate screamed, but her words drowned in the thunder coming from the waterfall several miles south.
With a powerful motion, a hand shot through the water and seized the boy by the collar. Moving like an eel, Jorund had caught up with him and now dragged his head up in the air. With a slap to the face, he roused Egil, and the boy immediately began waving his arms and kicking his legs. Another slap left him with shock on his face, and his frantic motions stopped. With one arm safely around the boy, Jorund kicked his legs to push them both towards the bank. Moments later, he flung Egil onto dry land, climbing after him.
~~~~
The boy coughed repeatedly, spewing out gulps of water. Reaching them, Kate bent down to slap him on the back. Jorund wiped the water from his face and beard, blinking. “Got all your arms and legs, boy?”
Egil attempted to reply, but only water issued from his mouth. “He’s hurt,” Kate replied on his behalf, pointing at his legs. The robe was torn in a few places, revealing gashes underneath.
“I’m fine,” Egil finally managed to gasp. “It doesn’t hurt. Much, anyway.”
Jorund got up and moved north-east along the river, while Kate slapped Egil on the shoulder. “You bloody fool!”
“Ow! Don’t you think I’m hurting enough?”
“You deserve worse! You could have drowned!”
“I know that! Why does that make you mad?” Egil rubbed his shoulder.
“Because it’s your own damn fault! You couldn’t be patient for half an hour and make the crossing safely,” Kate seethed. “You risked both your lives!”
“I lost my footing,” Egil defended himself. “It’s water, it’s slippery. It could have happened to any of us.”
“But it happened to you because you can’t wait to pursue this fool’s errand. As if an extra hour or two would make any difference.”
“It’s not a fool’s errand,” Egil mumbled. “Besides, I didn’t slip because I was impatient.”
“Is that so?” Kate all but sneered at him.
“I’m afraid of water.”
“You’re – what? You’ve never said anything like that before.” Kate looked at him with accusation in her eyes.
“It’s hardly something to brag about, is it?” Egil retorted. “I don’t like water. For good reason, I might add! To Hel with this river.”
“I didn’t know.”
“I wasn’t impatient to continue our journey,” he muttered. “I just wanted this crossing over with.”
Jorund returned with his pack, dropping it to the floor. “Right, let’s take a look.” He bent down to examine Egil’s scratches and wounds, prodding them with a finger.
“Ow, again! Careful!”
“Well, it doesn’t feel broken. You don’t sound like you have a broken leg either,” Jorund remarked with a wry look. “Normally, I’d tear your ear off for not listening, but I imagine you’ve had enough of a fright to learn your lesson.”
“Definitely. Only cross rivers on a bridge,” Egil grumbled.
“We need to take care of that, though.” Jorund pointed at the boy’s superficial injuries. “Limp over to the water and stick your leg in. Get it cleaned. Kate, make sure he doesn’t fall back in.”
Egil attempted a vague objection, but Jorund had already turned around towards his pack. With Kate’s help, he hopped over to the bank. Suppressing the look of anxiety that overcame him, he extended his leg down into the water; he gasped at the cold sensation, while Kate knelt down to grab a tight hold of him.
“That should be fine,” Jorund said a short while after. “Up again, lad, and let me ply the physician’s trade.”
Egil did as commanded; turning away from the river, he saw what Jorund had dug out from his belongings. “You brought bandages?”
“Of course,” the Dwarf replied brusquely. “I’m not some landlocked boy whose never felt the spray of saltwater! I come prepared.” He opened a small jar, applying a salve to Egil’s gashes, and followed up with a tight bandage. “There! First time I had to do this, me and the lads were on the run after a skirmish gone bad outside the city of Surru. I dare say I’ve gotten better.”
“Thanks,” Egil mumbled. He got on his feet, cautiously putting weight on the hurt leg.
“You’ll have to mend your clothes yourself,” Jorund told him, packing his items away. “I’ll lend you needle and thread, but the work is yours. You both should get out of your wet clothes,” he told them, walking back towards the original crossing point where Kate’s bag remained.
The children followed him, one moving with more difficulty than the other. Once upstream, Egil removed his robe and sat down, rubbing his leg. “Don’t touch it,” Kate admonished him.
“It itches,” he mumbled.
“You knew all this time we’d have to cross a river like this,” she said, abruptly changing topic. “Why did you ever think this was a good idea?”
“I didn’t,” Egil said in defence. “But I also didn’t know what else to do. Master Quill is sick. I couldn’t get him out of prison, but I won’t fail him again.”
“But you did get him out,” Kate pointed out. “You got him released.”
“The prince did, not me.” Egil tugged on his robe as it lay on the ground, slowly drying in the sun. “He gave me a trade, a home. If all the knowledge in the library can’t help him, what use is it?”
“I don’t know about books, but nobody would ever deny the usefulness of a needle,” Jorund inserted, handing over said tool along with thread to Egil. “Mend your robe, boy, while you’re sitting down anyway.” The Dwarf pulled out his short sword and stabbed it into the soil. Loosening the dirt, he used his hands to dig a hole.
“What are you doing?” asked Kate.
“Making a mark that the crossing is here. We’ll need to go back the same way on the return journey.”
“Gods above,” Egil uttered.
“Less talking, more sewing. We’ve already wasted half a day at this blasted river.”
“We need some time for our clothes to dry,” Kate argued. “Besides, what are you so impatient for? You barely know Master Quill.”
Jorund mumbled something in reply.
“What?”
“I’m not being paid by the day,” the Dwarf grumbled. “That miserly quartermaster would only pay the same coin, whether our little trip takes a week or a month.”
“At least you’re getting paid,” Kate told him.
“I hope so!” Jorund exclaimed. “The old bastard certainly wasn’t happy to promise me anything. Just because I got a hawk and not a star on my chest, he doesn’t feel I’m trustworthy!”
“He wanted Order soldiers to accompany us?” asked Egil, sending needle through cloth.
“Damn right he did. He didn’t think the Quill’s apprentice should be left in the hands of a mere mercenary,” Jorund explained, sneering the last words. “The prince had to write a letter to convince the old curmudgeon he ought to pay me! He still had the nerve to inform me that payment would only be issued if the Quill’s apprentice declared his satisfaction with my services.” The Dwarf spat into the ground.
“So,” Egil considered, “you’re saying that you won’t get paid until I’m satisfied? No matter how many days we spend up here, you have to stay if you want your coin?”
Jorund glanced away. “I just remembered why I didn’t tell you.”
Kate in turn sent the Dwarf a look. “Well done, Master Jorund. We’ll never get off this bloody mountain.”
Next to them, Egil finished mending his robe with a smile.
~~~~
Eventually they continued their journey, following the vague directions given them by Wilhelm. Using the river to maintain their bearings, the travellers began traversing the landscape. Wyrmpeak itself was directly north; the area around them rose and fell, hindering their sight. They walked for hours in a particular direction, keeping their eyes open for any signs of caves or openings into the mountain; eventually, Jorund would set a course leading them back to the river. In this manner, they combed the area for days.
“How much food do we have left?” asked Kate on the morning of the third day after their crossing.
“We should have for three or four days,” Jorund replied. “If Egil can keep his appetite in check.”
“I’m of growing age,” the boy protested. “Can’t we look around for food?”
Jorund demonstratively let his gaze sweep over the rocky terrain. “Be my guest, lad.”
“I don’t know what to look for,” Egil admitted meekly. “But there must be something.”
“There’s only this sorry excuse for grass.” The Dwarf kicked the brown stubbles on the ground. “There’s goats and birds, but we got no weapons for hunting. You could look for eggs, I suppose, if you fancy climbing the peak while fighting off the eagles as you plunder their nests.”
Egil looked up at the imposing summit in front of them. “Fine. We can go back to Wilhelm and Hilda. They’ll not begrudge us a few days’ provisions.”
“Perhaps not, but their life is harsh enough as it is. We shouldn’t impose,” Jorund declared.
“You just want to get back to Middanhal and your payment,” Egil retorted.
“We have to cross the river to go back to Wilhelm and Hilda for more food, only to cross it yet again to return here and continue,” Kate pointed out. “Do you really want to keep doing that?”
“Let’s just keep our eyes open,” Egil mumbled. “Maybe smaller birds have nests here too.”
Jorund slapped the boy’s back. “That’s what I like about you, lad. You always hope for the best, not caring how foolish it is.” He slung his pack onto his back. “Let’s be off.”
They set out, following the same pattern as before. They walked nearly half a day northwards, following the terrain and exploring any hopeful possibilities of caverns hiding nearby. During the afternoon, Jorund led them east and finally south, finishing their search of the area. As darkness fell, they reached the Mihtea and made camp, drinking greedily from its waters. With few words exchanged, they ate their meagre provisions and sought rest.
~~~~
“We got food for another two days of searching,” Jorund declared as they woke the next morning. “These caves we’re looking for, I don’t think they’re close by. We’d have seen them. We need to widen our search.”
“What do you suggest?” Egil asked.
“Either we follow the river and search the way we have so far.” The Dwarf pointed in that direction. “Or we go further north or further west than we have the other days.” His finger flew around the air.
“Which way is best?” the boy continued.
“I can’t say, lad, this isn’t my expedition. Don’t your books say anything?”
“They only mention that Sigvard followed the Wayfarer, crossing the river. But I don’t know if it means he went that way until he reached the Mihtea, or after.”
“The Wayfarer points in that direction,” Kate interjected. She gestured towards the peak of the mountain. “I noticed it last night.”
“The choice is yours, boy. You have two days left.”
Egil swallowed, staring north. With the sun rising in the east, any stars were gone by now, including the Wayfarer. Only the Wyrmpeak itself met his gaze, rising indomitably against the horizon. “We’ll go north.”
“North it is.” With the summit as their own wayfarer, they set out.
The entire day passed with little conversation, except to discuss the terrain. They strayed from their course to investigate rocks and cliffs on occasion, but never with any luck; the mountain stood sealed before them. When night arrived, so did rain, joining the harsh winds that blew at these heights. They ate their meagre supper while huddling together under a small, solitary tree.
“Keep your eyes and ears open for signs of water tomorrow,” Jorund told them. “We’ll need to find more before we return to the river.”
Egil held out his hand, catching raindrops. “I found some.”
Jorund snorted. “How’s your leg?”
“It doesn’t hurt.”
“Let’s put a new bandage on, just in case. Kate, hold my cloak over us to give some shelter.” She did as bid while Egil pulled his clothes away and Jorund rummaged around for a new bandage.
“Egil,” Kate said apprehensively, “you know we’ll have to turn back tomorrow, right?”
“I know.”
“We just don’t have more food.”
“Yes, I’m aware.”
“Very well. I just wanted to be sure we all agreed.”
“We’ll simply have to find the cave tomorrow,” Egil declared.
Jorund finished wrapping the cloth around the boy’s leg, throwing the used bandage away. “I can’t argue with that. Let’s sleep.”
~~~~
They woke to find the drizzle of rain had either continued through the night or else begun anew. Regardless, the result was the same, and they chewed through bits of bread and meat while holding their cloaks up as shields against the rain.
“Right,” Jorund began to say. “I’ve been thinking about our rations. We can either spend the whole day going north, after which we’ll have to return in a straight line back to Wilhelm and Hilda, and even then it’ll be with starving bellies.”
“Or?”
“Or we spend half a day going north, make a turn, and explore some of the area west or east. By staying closer to the river and eating less, we might be able to stretch our food another day.”
“Eat less?” Kate winced. “I’m already starving from sunup to sundown!”
“Master Egil? You’re the helmsman on this trip.”
The youth looked from Dwarf to kitchen girl. “We’ll keep straight north. Follow the Wayfarer.”
Jorund nodded. “Very well. Let’s get going.”
The land sloped upwards in their chosen direction; the Wyrmpeak still loomed above them, casting long shadows westwards. It had never been climbed to the top according to the memories of Men; if any had tried, they had never returned. Far below the summit, the weary travellers continued.
The hours crawled by; the terrain remained the same. The only change from the last few days was an increase in exertion, as they walked more uphill.
Nightfall remained an hour away when they reached the top of a slope; the land moved down to form a small and shallow valley with Wyrmpeak itself on the other side. “I see water,” Kate exclaimed, pointing ahead. A brook rippled through at the bottom of the valley, working its way west.
“Good eye,” Jorund told her. “Let’s get some drink in our skins.”
They moved with renewed speed, walking downhill. Twilight appeared to surround them with each step they took down the valley; one by one, the stars blinked into sight above their heads. “There’s the Crown,” Kate explained, pointing at a constellation above them. “That was the first one Master Quill taught me to spot.”
“Are you sure? It doesn’t look like it,” Egil argued.
“That’s because one of its stars appears later than the rest,” Kate explained with a superior smile. “You can see one is missing. It’s not as bright as the others, so we won’t see it until it’s proper dark.”
“That won’t be long now,” Jorund muttered. “Hurry up, you two! Eyes on the ground, not the sky.” Realising that their stargazing made them fall behind, Kate and Egil hurried to catch up to Jorund.
Despite setting a quick pace, darkness arrived in the valley before they did. “How far are we from the brook?” asked Kate. “I’m so thirsty!”
“Impossible to tell,” Jorund grunted. “I can barely see ten paces ahead of me.”
“The land barely slopes,” Egil pointed out. “We have reached the bottom of the valley. The brook must be just ahead of us.”
“Sure, but how far ahead? Ten steps or a hundred?” Jorund stopped abruptly. “It’s getting foolhardy to continue. Before we know it, we’ll stumble headfirst into the water, and I can’t pull you land-legs ashore if I can’t see you.”
“It’ll be fine,” Egil claimed. “We’ll hear the stream before that happens. Let’s just keep going.”
“Jorund’s right,” Kate chimed in. “There’s no point in continuing. It’s too dark to see anything.”
“Just a little longer,” Egil urged. “The moon will provide light.”
They looked up at the clouded night sky. “We should make camp here,” Jorund declared. “We’ll find the brook tomorrow morning and fill our skins for the journey back.”
“We can’t go back yet,” Egil insisted. “We’re close to the actual Wyrmpeak. We should cross the brook tomorrow and search the northern side of the valley!”
“Unless you’re a goat that can eat brown grass, we’ve got to turn back,” Jorund reminded him. “We can’t go on.”
“We can! You won’t get paid unless I’m satisfied with your service!”
Jorund snorted. “If the other choice is starvation, I’ll forego the coin. Calm yourself, lad. You knew this would come.”
“You said I’m the helmsman! I set the course!”
“And I’m charged with seeing you both return home safely. I won’t have it on me that I let the Quill’s apprentice starve to death on the bloody Wyrmpeak a stone’s throw from Middanhal!” He raised his hand as he saw Egil about to object. “Enough! Make camp and rest. We have a long journey home.” Scowling, Egil turned his back towards them and made his bed for the night.
“I’m so thirsty,” Kate complained, unpacking her bedroll.
“You won’t feel it once you sleep,” Jorund told her, making his own preparations. “Tomorrow, we’ll fill our skins at the brook.”
“I guess. Good night.”
“Good night to both of you,” Jorund replied.
Egil did not.
~~~~
The day was yet to break when Egil awoke; the clouds had gone from the sky, revealing half a moon shining down on his face. Rubbing his eyes, he reached for his water skin, turning it upside down only to find it empty. He pushed his cloak aside and stood up; nearby, he could hear Jorund snoring. With a glance upwards, he found the Wayfarer star, showing him north. Skin in hand, he walked in that direction with the occasional yawn. Soon, the tranquil sounds of water rippling through the valley reached his ears, and he continued until the pale moonlight illuminated a brook before him.
Bending down, he slaked his thirst before filling his skin. As he stood up, he saw Wyrmpeak staring back at him. Above, the Wayfarer shone as it had done for Sigvard nearly eleven hundred years ago.
Egil looked back; the darkness prevented him from seeing his companions. Hesitantly, he set one foot into the brook. He touched the bottom easily; it only reached to his ankle. He took another step. The stream was only about ten feet or so; with a few more paces, he reached the other side.
Once more, his eyes darted between the Wyrmpeak ahead and the darkness behind, where his companions still slept. Indecision was written on his face, and he sat down by the bank, taking a hefty sip of water from his skin. He craned his neck to observe the stars above him, eventually lying down on his back to watch them. No matter where his gaze sought, it always returned to the Wayfarer; it was the centre around which the other stars moved.
Hours later, he woke up abruptly; the sun shone on his face, as the moon had done earlier. His water skin fell to the ground; it had been lying on his stomach when he had fallen asleep. With a yawn, he stretched his shoulders and glanced upwards again. The Wayfarer was gone; only Wyrmpeak remained, illuminated by the rising sun. Egil stood up, looking at the imposing mountain; his eyes widened, and the skin fell from his hand. He turned around, running south across the stream.
~~~~
“Where’s that boy run off to?” asked Jorund with a frown.
“His water is gone. He probably went to get some,” Kate considered, packing her bedroll away.
“It wouldn’t have hurt him to fill ours as well,” the Dwarf mumbled gruffly. “I hope he isn’t thinking of anything foolish,” he added as an afterthought. “I know he must be disappointed we’re turning back, but he can’t honestly have expected we’d find anything up here. I mean, finding one small cave on the biggest mountain in the world,” he laughed, “we’d need more luck than a eunuch among norns!”
“He probably thought he’d learned enough from the old books to retrace Sigvard’s steps.”
“I suppose.” The Dwarf shrugged.
“What’s a eunuch?”
Jorund cleared his throat. “Never you mind. Pack your things. I’ll go find the boy.”
That proved unnecessary as Egil came running towards them. “I found it!” he shouted; his wet robe clung to his ankles as he ran. “I found the cave!”
“The fates must be toying with me,” Jorund grumbled. “Where have you been, boy? Did you go wandering off alone?”
“Just to the stream,” Egil explained, closing the distance between them. “On the far side, you can see a cave leading into Wyrmpeak.”
“You didn’t go in, did you?” Jorund asked brusquely.
“Of course not,” the boy replied, sounding offended. “I came to get you as soon as I saw.”
“It might not be a real cave,” Kate pointed out. “Just a trick of the eyes.”
“Well.” The Dwarf took a deep breath and hefted his pack with one hand. “Only one way to find out.”
They followed Egil to the stream; words flowed from his mouth as swiftly as the water in the brook before them, explaining his find, whereas his companions were tight-lipped. “I don’t know how long I slept. When I woke – there!” the young scribe exclaimed, interrupting himself and pointing forward.
Jorund squinted. “I suppose that could be a cave, but it’s an hour away or more.”
“We have to investigate!” Egil pleaded.
“We will, but don’t complain when your bellies are empty on the march home.”
Kate made a wincing sound, but Egil was already trotting through the brook with Jorund following. With an expression of defeat, she did as well.
|
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|
Bargains Made
Silfrisarn
The fair at Silfrisarn was the largest of its kind in northern Adalrik, and it had taken place for centuries. At first, it had simply been for iron merchants to purchase ore from the mines of Isarn. Being placed between the copper veins of Vidrevi and the tin mountains of Heohlond, the fair had a natural location to facilitate trade of these metals as well. Wool, always the biggest trade of the realm, became part of the fair also, and many other items eventually followed. At present, countless goods for many purposes were sold and bought at the Silfrisarn fair, though the trade in metals and wool retained the greatest importance.
To the jarls of Isarn, this yearly event had become their greatest source of revenue along with their silver production. All the iron ore sold at the markets came from their own mines, and their chests overflowed with taxes levied from those trading. Merchants came from all the northern realms to conduct business during the six days of the fair, and prices for food and lodgings were three times as expensive, allowing the citizens of Silfrisarn to earn a handful of silver as well. For the entire jarldom, the Silfrisarn fair meant prosperity, even in times of war.
~~~~
The sheer size of the markets had long precluded the fair from taking place inside the walls of Silfrisarn. Instead, the fields south of the city were bursting with tents, stalls, carts, and countless goods. Those in the horse trade had their own location furthest to the east, necessitated by the overpowering smell of the beasts. On the first day of the fair, the jarl himself could be found inspecting the animals. Being lord of the region, Isenhart claimed the right to be the first buyer of any horses that attracted his attention. As a result, he moved through the pens, accompanied by his thanes, the master of his stables, and a scribe keeping notes.
Commotion arose as Eumund rode through the market; his magnificent steed drew appraising glances and approving remarks. Reaching his father, the thanes stood aside to let the jarl’s son approach. With the ease of an experienced rider, Eumund dismounted fluently to stand by Isenhart. “Father,” he spoke. “You wanted to know the moment that Uncle Athelstan sent word. That moment is now.”
The jarl stood by a mare, feeling her teeth. “Eumund, what do you think of this horse?”
“She is a fine beast. She would be worth breeding.”
The jarl scratched his beard before giving a nod to his scribe, who jotted down a few words. “Come with me,” Isenhart commanded Eumund. “Let us find less ears to hear Athelstan’s message.”
With the thanes keeping people at bay, the jarl and his son left the pens and stood at the edge of the horse fair. Their eyes beheld empty fields to the south, in contrast to the noise and smell of the markets assaulting their other senses.
When none but his sworn men were near, Isenhart spoke again. “What did your uncle say?”
“He and Athelbold have arrived at Cairn Donn. They have been well received by King Brión, and few others but the king are aware of their presence. Vale also has emissaries in the city.”
“Vale,” Isenhart spat. “As we expected. Athelstan best not disappoint in his task.”
“He will not,” Eumund claimed. “He never does.”
“I suppose,” the jarl granted. “Do you have the latest count of the men from Vidrevi?”
“Not the latest. Last I heard, about five hundred had arrived, but that was days ago. I can enquire with the steward,” Eumund suggested.
“Do so.” Isenhart turned to walk back towards the horse fair.
“Father,” Eumund uttered. “Do you think it wise to trust King Folkmar, or any of the foresters?”
The jarl gave a contemptuous smile. “Hardly. But if he betrays us, we will show him our steel once we are done with the southern silkworms. Until then, we will put his arrows to work.”
As the jarl returned to inspecting the horses, Eumund mounted his own steed and rode back to the keep.
~~~~
“Isenwald? Are you in here?”
“Yes, Mother.” The heir to Isarn stood inside his chambers at the window, staring out at the city.
“There you are! Some of your cousins were hoping you would take them to the fair.” The jarlinna moved through the parlour to enter his bedchamber. “Is something the matter?”
“Nothing at all.”
“Isenwald of Isarn, I gave birth to you. Do not think for one moment you can fool me.” She walked up to stand next to her son. Her fingers toyed with the tip of an elegant braid, resting over her shoulder. “You are troubled by ill thoughts.”
“These are – ill times,” he replied in his slow fashion.
“They are,” Halla admitted. “But you were never one to let such thoughts fester in your soul.”
He let out his breath. “How can – I ever be jarl, Mother?” He gestured with hand towards the city beyond the window. “How can – I ever shoulder that responsibility?”
“Because you were born to it, my son.”
“It would have been better – if Eumund was the – oldest.”
“Either of you would make an excellent jarl,” Halla claimed. “The fates wanted it to be you, and they always have their reasons. Tell me, what has brought these feelings up?”
“I think – I made mistakes – in Middanhal. If not for me, maybe this war could have been avoided.”
“Nothing could have prevented it,” Halla said firmly. “Look at me, boy.” She took hold of his chin to turn his face towards hers. “From what I hear, your brother and uncle would have met their end on the scaffold if you had not ensured they were freed alongside you. Others would have fled, but not you.”
“I – didn’t really think – in that moment,” Isenwald admitted. “Someone like Eumund would have – immediately considered the – importance – of freeing Uncle Athelstan.”
“Because he thinks strategy,” Halla assented. “You thought with your heart, protecting your family. You and your brother have different instincts, but they both lead to good decisions. That is why I have no doubt you will make a great jarl, my son. In fact, I look forward to seeing you assume the responsibility.”
“Hopefully not for many years,” Isenwald expressed.
Halla moved her hand up to caress his cheek. “You’re a good man, Isenwald. Now, your mother needs many things from the market. Will you accompany me? We will bring some of your unruly cousins, and you can practice being ruler by wrangling them.”
“I would rather tame wild dogs,” Isenwald remarked with a wry look, but he offered his mother his arm, and they left his chambers together.
~~~~
In another chamber in the keep, a pale woman lay in bed. By her side sat Athelgar, using a cloth and cold water to cool the woman’s brow.
“Athelgar, dear boy, is your father home yet?” she asked with a feeble voice.
“No, Mother. He is in Heohlond, still. It will be days before he returns.” He gently removed a few beads of sweat.
“Right, you told me so. Forgive me.” Anhild moved a hand over to pat him on the knee.
“Nothing to forgive, Mother.” He placed the cloth in the bowl of water on the nearby table, wringing it afterwards.
“I just wish he were here.”
“I know he wishes the same,” Athelgar claimed, using the cloth on her brow again.
“Do you think it will be long?”
“Some days, Mother, maybe longer.”
“How long?” The question was swallowed by a coughing fit.
“I think you should rest,” Athelgar told her.
“That is all I do,” she complained.
“Just for a little bit,” her son impressed upon her. “I will be back later and bring you something to eat.”
“Soup, I bet,” the sickly woman replied with sudden bite in her voice, but she closed her eyes obediently. With quiet movements, Athelgar rose and left the chamber, carefully shutting the door behind him.
Outside, he found a small boy sitting in the corridor. “What are you doing here?” Athelgar asked sternly. “I thought you went to the fair with the others.”
“How is Mama?”
“She is resting, and you are not to disturb her,” the youth stressed. “Why are you not at the fair?”
“I did not feel like going.”
Athelgar tussled his brother’s hair. “Sitting here will not be any better. Come.” He extended his hand towards the boy. “I have enough silver to buy you something amusing, if it will get you on your feet.”
“There is not anything I want,” the boy claimed, but he accepted Athelgar’s hand and got on his feet.
“Wait until you see the woodworkers,” Athelgar declared confidently, leading the boy out of the hallway.
~~~~
A week later, the fair drew to a close. The citizens of Silfrisarn returned from the markets for the last time, decorating themselves and their homes with fine clothing, jewellery, carpets, and ornaments. The peasants put their draught beasts before the cart, having sold crops, wool, hides, cattle, and sheep while bringing everything back their own homesteads could not produce. Lastly, merchants departed either east or west; goods and metals common in Vidrevi were now brought to Heohlond and reverse.
One thing set the final day of this fair apart from those of previous years. A steady number of foresters had arrived over the week. They had not come in carts or carrying goods. All they brought were bows and blades, they sold nothing but their service, and they swelled the ranks of Jarl Isarn.
|
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Storm
The Reach
A few nights after his arrival in Rund, Godfrey once more skulked through the streets. With sword and cloak, he passed from one district to another, remaining unseen. He made his way to a building previously visited, soon after knocking on the door to one of its rooms. “Manzik,” he spoke quietly.
The scribe opened, gesturing for Godfrey to enter quickly. As the latter did so, Manzik closed the door. “You have my payment?”
“Of course.” Godfrey pulled out a coin purse. “Your information is worth it, I take it.”
“You’ll be satisfied,” Manzik promised. He turned towards the table in his room and began rummaging through pieces of parchment. “Let me just find it. One moment.”
Godfrey frowned. “You wrote it down?” He narrowed his eyes. “Why would you risk –” He interrupted himself. “You snake.”
The clerk turned around. “Kaveh, I am not sure what you are implying –”
Godfrey did not bother to hear more. He pulled his sword from its sheath with one hand and tore the door open with the other, stepping outside to enter the corridor. An expression of discomfort flew across his face, and he whipped his head around to stare down the hallway.
From the stairs, a warrior cloaked in shadows appeared. He seemed barely visible except for the yellow of his eyes, focused on the blade of sea-steel in Godfrey’s hands. “Wrath, rage, storm, and song,” he growled. “What a prize that will make for my master.” Already, each of his hands held its own blade.
“Go to Hel,” Godfrey muttered, pivoting on his heel. He leapt into Manzik’s room, sheathing his sword and slamming the door. While the scribe babbled incoherent words, Godfrey took two steps towards the window. With one hand, he tore the shutters off their hinges and jumped through without hesitation. He landed with little grace on the ground outside, grunting upon impact.
“Over here!” a voice shouted.
Sneering, Godfrey got on his feet and began running, sharply pursued by Anausa soldiers and one shadow warrior.
~~~~
While the Anausa spent the next hours spreading across the city in a search for Godfrey, the latter melted into the shadows of the night at first opportunity. Soon, he was moving under concealment. A few minutes of hiding here, two quick leaps across an alley there, and he was beyond their reach.
Even so, he kept a quick pace walking back towards the home of Valash and his family. It took him a few hours to pass through the districts, being forced to choose a longer route to circumvent the searching soldiers, but at last, the familiar building beckoned. Godfrey peeked in every direction and scurried across the street to reach the workshop. He stopped just shy of the door, closing his eyes and jerking his head abruptly. Exhaling slowly, he backed away, turned around, and vanished once more into the night of the city.
Inside in the kitchen, a shadow warrior sat with yellow eyes trained on the door.
~~~~
Godfrey woke after sleeping a few hours on a roof. Sunrise was close. He made sure his cloak and clothing concealed his sword, as such were forbidden for the Godking’s subjects to carry, and quickly made his way to the street before the inhabitants underneath this roof woke as well.
Once more, he moved through the city from district to district, passing monotonous buildings on end. He entered a tavern, indistinguishable from most others, and paid for food and drink with a few iron coins. People came and went like the tide, entering the place for a while and departing after their meal. Godfrey endured both the quiet and the bustling hours in the same manner, sitting placidly at a table with a drink in front of him.
Hours passed until noon approached and Kamran entered in his disguise as an ordinary citizen. He signalled the woman tending the tavern for something to drink and sat at the table. “Javed,” he mumbled. “Is everything in order?”
“The man I bribed turned out to be untrustworthy,” Godfrey replied. “In hindsight, I shouldn’t be shocked.”
“It was you we chased last night. I thought so, but neither the fravashi nor the priest told us much. I’m glad you got away.”
“I always get away.” Godfrey shrugged. “What’s worse is that I must start anew finding someone who to provide us with information.”
“I could attempt it,” Kamran suggested.
They grew silent as the tavern keeper placed a mug on their table. Kamran dug out a coin and gave it to her; once she had returned to the circle of noise surrounding them, Godfrey spoke again. “Far too dangerous. We can’t risk any suspicion falling on you.”
“As you say.”
“Something else. Were any prisoners brought to the barracks last night? A potter and his family.”
“Not a family, I think,” Kamran clarified. “But I remember guards being sent to bring in a potter. I don’t remember his name.”
“It must be Valash,” Godfrey muttered. “The man I was staying with. One of the shadow warriors was waiting for me in his house.”
Kamran shuddered slightly. “Two of them on your trail. You must be careful, Javed.”
“I’ll be fine. But their presence here indicates that matters have been quelled in the cities. I think the Godking is preparing to send his armies north again.”
“All the more reason we must learn what intelligence we can. Are you certain I shouldn’t attempt to infiltrate the shahrban’s offices?”
“Completely. But there is something you can help me with meanwhile.”
“Yes?”
“I must free Valash. I need your help if we are to escape unseen.”
“I will think of a way. Maybe we can put you both in crates with arms sent to the smaller barracks in town.”
“Something of the sort. He won’t be in any state to sneak past the guards.”
Kamran exhaled. “Probably. When I left, they had already begun the interrogation.”
“Which is why we must do it already tonight.”
“As you say.” Kamran nodded. “How do you get into the barracks? Should we do as in Tothmor?”
Godfrey shook his head. “That only worked because the city was about to descend into chaos. Here, they’d know you brought me in. My disappearance would raise questions for you.”
“How do you want it done, then?”
Godfrey glanced at Kamran’s plain garbs. “I’m going to need your clothes.”
~~~~
At night, a blackboot crossed the great square in the centre of Rund. To his left lay the main temple of the city; a few priests and priestesses in their flame robes could be seen walking in and out. Other than that, the area was empty. With cloth around his face, the blackboot walked past the statue of the Godking, keeping some distance between himself and the Servants of the Flame. Approaching the barracks, he looked up and locked eyes with the sentinel standing on the roof. They exchanged nods, and the blackboot continued past the doors.
He stepped inside a large room that served as the kitchens. One third of the room contained equipment for making food, while the rest of the locale had tables and chairs where meals could be taken. During the day, it was constantly busy, and even at night, several guards occupied the room. Seeing the blackboot enter, one of them got up from their game of cards.
“Who are you? They didn’t say a sāyag was returning.”
“Because the nature of our work is constantly reported to doormen,” Godfrey snorted, removing the cloth masking his face.
“No need for lip,” the soldier replied. “You know we have to ask.”
“I’m Dariush. I’ve been with the boys up north, harassing drylanders, but I was sent back here. Apparently, you fellows are having trouble with some traitorous scum, and they need a big boy to come handle it.” Godfrey winked with an insufferable smirk on his face.
“Got documents?”
“Of course.” Godfrey dug out a piece of parchment that gave his name and status.
“Hey, if you’ve come from the north, you must know how the war is going,” asked one of the soldiers at the table.
“It’s been quiet over winter,” Godfrey told them, walking over to lean against a chair. “We’re waiting for reinforcements to make a push. You boys heard of any on their way?”
They shook their heads. “Not a peep, but they wouldn’t tell us, would they.”
“Nor will they when we get sent out. Why give me time to say farewell to my girl when they can just wake us up at sunrise and tell us to be off.”
“Don’t worry, she’ll forget about you the moment we’re through the gate,” someone laughed.
“Here,” the first soldier said, giving Godfrey’s document back to him. “Beds are upstairs, you know how it is. You had something to eat yet?”
Godfrey nodded. “I’m settled on that front. Just need some sleep before it’s back to work tomorrow.” He yawned. “See you boys around.”
“Good night, Dariush,” one of them called out, and as Godfrey left, they resumed their card play.
Leaving the kitchens, Godfrey progressed deeper into the building. He passed the occasional guard, sometimes a soldier walking to or from somewhere, exchanging nods and greetings each time. Moving downstairs when possible, he came across the storage for provisions and water, the armoury, and finally he could descend into the dungeons. None of the guards questioned his presence; interrogating prisoners was typical work for the blackboots.
The actual dungeons were quite small; it was never the intention for the barracks to hold many prisoners, or hold them for long. In fact, half the space was taken up by racks. Chains along the walls lay empty, waiting to be put to use. Godfrey’s eyes quickly surveyed the room; it was dark apart from a lamp oil, fighting desperately to spread some light into the room.
Stepping further in, Godfrey’s eyes fell upon one of the racks, which held the only other person present. Grabbing the lamp oil from its perch, he hurried forward and held the light until it fell upon the other man’s face. It was Manzik.
Godfrey let his eyes glance over the straps that held the former clerk bound. “This was unexpected.”
“Who’s there? Please, no more!” Manzik begged. His body bore the signs of interrogation.
“You need not fear. I have not come to hurt you.”
“Who – Kaveh? Is that you?”
“None other. The fates are not without a sense of humour.”
“Kaveh, please! They forced me to give you up. Please help me!”
Godfrey leaned forward and let his eyes pierce into Manzik’s. “You lie. I can see the greed in you. How much did they offer for a rebel? More than you could resist.”
“It’s not true,” Manzik pleaded. “They tortured me, but I didn’t say anything.”
Godfrey gave a sardonic smile. “You said nothing because you know nothing. Only my name, and I wear them like hats.”
“Please, you must release me before they take me to the temple!”
“Release you? I ought to kill you for your betrayal.” Godfrey moved one finger to prod Manzik’s exposed throat. “But I will tell you a secret.” He leaned down to whisper into the ear of the man strapped to the rack. “There are laws, of higher authority than you can imagine, holding me back. I am simply not allowed to harm one of your kind.” He stood up straight again and took on the appearance of a vengeful spirit. “Nor am I obliged to help you.”
“Please, please,” Manzik begged with tears. “Don’t let them drag me to the altar.”
Godfrey looked at him in contemplation. “Perhaps I can be persuaded to release you if you tell me what I need to know.”
“Anything!”
“Another man was brought here, same time as you. Valash, a potter of trade. Where he is now?”
Manzik wetted his dry lips. “Release me, and I’ll let you know.”
Derision was in Godfrey’s laughter. “I think I’ll leave you here. You’re more trouble than you’re worth.” He made to turn away.
“Wait! They questioned him through the day. I saw it all. They finished with him hours ago. They…”
“They took him to the temple,” Godfrey continued.
“My restraints,” Manzik urged him. “Please, release me.”
Godfrey turned his head askew, staring at Manzik. “I think not. That seems an unnecessary risk.”
“But – you promised!”
“Terrible when you cannot trust in those you have dealings with,” Godfrey remarked, grabbing a rag and stuffing it into Manzik’s mouth to silence him. Turning on his heel, he left without delay.
Upstairs, he reached the armoury and slipped inside, where Kamran waited, still wearing ordinary clothing. “Javed, I’m sorry. I couldn’t find you in time to warn you.”
Godfrey raised one hand to calm him. “Understandable. I was too slow. I should have known they would finish with Valash quickly. Poor man didn’t know anything of value to them.”
“What about his family?”
“With the fravashi watching, we cannot risk approaching. Especially not while we have so much work to do.”
“Javed, the moment you have the intelligence to satisfy you, you should leave. The Servants and the fravashi are tightening their grasp around the city,” Kamran explained concerned. “I cannot keep them off your trail.”
“I don’t expect you to. Buy the drylanders time, hide their trail,” Godfrey instructed him. “That is all I require of you.”
“As you wish. But we should meet daily while I am in the city,” the blackboot suggested. “We need to keep close contact.”
“Agreed, but somewhere private. I know a room belonging to a scribe who won’t be using it again,” Godfrey explained dryly. “It should be a few weeks before the shahrban’s offices assign it to another.”
“Very well, I remember the location. When should we meet?”
“Around sundown, I think. I’ll lie low for the day.”
“Do you need any help leaving?” Kamran gestured towards the surrounding barracks.
Godfrey shook his head. “Dariush can handle himself.” With a faint smile, he turned and left the armoury; after waiting a while, Kamran did the same.
|
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|
Where Power Presides
Middanhal
In the study belonging to the dragonlord, the ruler of Adalrik toiled away daily. While the common people assumed that power resided with the lord protector, Jarl Valerian of Vale, most residents at court were wise to the truth; his brother was not only the Kingmaker, but also the man making all decisions of import. Because of this, there was a crowd every day outside his wing in the palace, and even in the long summer days, Konstans worked from dawn until nightfall.
The only man working as hard as the dragonlord was his servant, admitting people into audience according to strict rules of rank and the importance of their errand; some jested that this made him the second most powerful man in the realm. Despite this, even he could not prevent the lady Mathilde from storming into Konstans’ study.
“I am sorry, milord,” the servant muttered.
Konstans waved him away; this had happened before. “Dearest wife, I am not opposed to seeing you, but some advance warning to set aside my current affairs would be preferable.”
“This cannot wait.”
Konstans returned his feather pen to its inkwell. “What is it?”
“I have found out why my missives to my father’s steward has gone unanswered. The fool is trying to locate my useless brother!”
“That would be his duty,” Konstans remarked dryly.
“If Damien has not died in a ditch somewhere, he is certainly drunk in one of them! You have to intervene!”
“What exactly is it you imagine I should do?”
“Send Konstantine with me to Montmer! I will have him declared baron within a day of our arrival, and our son can finally have at least one title he deserves!”
Konstans gave her a look. “Dearest, your father and brother died in battle as vassals to King Rainier, who not only is losing a war against his own subject, but also has designs on Thusund, from what I hear. And you wish for our son to become his new vassal?”
Mathilde dropped into a seat. “I had not considered that.”
“Clearly. If you feel idle and want to help our son, make preparations for his wedding,” Konstans suggested.
“How soon should it be? I assume the sooner, the better.”
Konstans shook his head. “I only just announced the engagement, and we should observe tradition. I would say sometime next spring. The beginning of the year is an auspicious time for weddings.”
Mathilde frowned. “You have never been one for observing tradition before. Would it not be wiser to have the marriage done with expedience? We want Konstantine and the Hardling girl to have a son as swiftly as possible.”
“I would agree, but with the war dragging on, we need something to raise people’s spirits. A wedding with all the traditions observed is both a guarantee of the past and the future,” Konstans considered.
“Very well. You shall have a celebration that Middanhal will never forget,” Mathilde promised.
“I have no doubt.”
“This would suggest you are not optimistic that the war will be over any time soon,” she continued.
Konstans had been reaching for his quill; he abandoned the motion and leaned back. “Isarn has strengthened his numbers, in particular with archers. I suspect he is hiring foresters to fight for him.”
“Just as we are hiring mercenaries against him.”
Konstans nodded. “It is becoming a contest to see who has the deepest coffers.”
“Surely we shall prevail, in that case.”
“I believe so. I have plans in motion to speed matters along,” Konstans revealed.
“I am sure you have, dear husband. I shall leave you to your plans, but I would urge you to join us all for dinner in the hall tonight. You do not eat enough, and it will be good for the court to see their dragonlord.”
“I shall endeavour to find the time,” he promised; he reached for his quill once more and was not interrupted again.
~~~~
Although he left many tasks to his brother, the lord protector had taken a keen interest in one aspect of ruling the realm. The court kept meticulous records of all income and expense, and true to his ekename as the Bookkeeper, Valerian was poring through the materials. He did so in the company of Edwin, alderman of the guilds.
“Even a child would notice the Crown’s falling revenues,” Valerian began by saying. He was seated behind a desk with numerous ledgers in front of him, opened at various places. “The challenge is deducing why.”
“Forgive me, milord, but is it not explained by the expenses of war and no taxes from most of northern Adalrik?”
“Ah, but that only covers the last few years.” Valerian moved his fingers across the ledgers. “The decline started long before. Thirteen years ago, in fact.”
“If you say so, milord. It’s not my place to inspect these books.” He licked his lips.
“When did you become alderman, Master Edwin?” Valerian set his eyes on the guildsman; suddenly, his face was cold.
“I confess, I can’t recall the exact year –”
“Thirteen years ago, master alderman. I already checked.”
“Very wise. Knowledge is the fountain of wealth,” Edwin mumbled.
“I have gone through the books, comparing all the sources of income. The decline is most prominent in taxes levied upon the guilds,” Valerian remarked.
“We have fallen on hard times,” Edwin confessed, breathing quickly. “Disruption of trade hits our people twofold. It impoverishes those who would be our customers and robs us of the materials we need for our crafts.”
“What disruption?” Valerian scoffed. “Other than the last years of war, trade has been flowing as ever. My caravans have only increased year after year.”
“Your skill as a merchant is only exceeded by your nobility as a jarl, milord,” Edwin said subserviently. “I fear not all have your skill. More than a decade after the highlander war, stone and marble is still far more expensive than it was before. Many of our stone cutters and artisans have been forced to give up the trade.”
“Ah, but see here,” Valerian exclaimed, paging through one ledger. “The artisans’ guild did indeed contribute only half as much in the years during the war, but two years later, the amount rose, only to sharply decline in the next three years. There has not been war in Heohlond since then to my knowledge.” He looked at the alderman expectantly.
“Indeed not, milord, and thank the gods for that. I shall make enquiries to the guild master of the artisans on your behalf,” Edwin promised. “I will do so immediately with your leave.”
Valerian raised a finger. “Not yet.” He began moving books around until he found his quarry. “The weavers are paying one third of what they did twenty years ago! One third! If there is one thing people always have to sell, it is wool, and if there is one thing people always need, it is cloth! Can you explain this decline to me?”
On the other side of the desk, Edwin sweated nervously.
~~~~
Valerian was not the only person in the Citadel going through ledgers, but unlike the lord protector, Arndis inspected her own books. Compared to those of the kingdom, her finances were modest and fit into a few ledgers; compared to landless nobility, she was a wealthy woman. She had managed to grow the coin from Brand’s spoils as an Order commander, and as she sat writing her accounts, she looked the part of a merchant except for her dress; it was meant for life at court, not work at a desk.
She looked up as Eleanor entered her room. “Anything of interest?”
“Not much. Jarl Theodstan is leaving the Citadel soon, apparently.”
“He has lost his stomach for politics,” Arndis remarked as her eyes returned to her ledgers.
“But one of the girls overheard Lord Marcaster tell his wife they would be staying for the time being. She thinks the landgrave hopes to marry his daughter to the prince,” Eleanor related.
Arndis’ lips curled upwards. “He came close with the previous prince.”
“The jarlinna Alexandra made mention of you in passing.”
She looked up. “What did she say?”
“Simply expressed her dislike of you, I believe.” Eleanor looked apprehensive. “I was unsure whether to tell you. It seems of no consequence, and I do not want to remind you.”
“You do no harm in telling me,” Arndis reassured her.
“It is a shame she is so disinclined towards you. She would make a powerful friend.”
“She would,” Arndis assented, “but as long as she blames Brand for her father’s death, I doubt she will show me any hospitality.”
“I suppose.”
“Anything else?”
Eleanor shook her head. “Nothing. You should come along tomorrow. The girls would be excited to have your company, I am sure. It has been many days.”
Arndis gave a small nod. “Why not? With solstice completed, my books are in order until the fairs beyond Middanhal are completed.”
“Will you have good fortune selling on the fairs?” Eleanor asked.
“I expect I will,” Arndis smiled. “Enough talk of trade for now. Let us take a walk,” she suggested. “I need a change from these stonewalls.”
~~~~
Outside the entrance to the royal library, two kingthanes stood guard. The heavy door silenced most noise, but on occasion, they could hear faint laughter. Upon seeing a shape ascend the stairs to reach the corridor, they both adopted expressions of contempt. One of the thanes opened the door, stepping inside the library. “Forgive me, my prince. That Dwarven mercenary is here again.”
Three faces turned towards the door. One belonged to a scribe, the second to a servant girl, and the third to a prince. “Let him through,” commanded the latter.
The kingthane nodded and returned to his post; he and his companion glared at the Red Hawk upon the Dwarf’s surcoat, but neither spoke. With a grin and open hands to show himself unarmed, Jorund walked past them to enter the library, closing the door behind him. “My prince, my scribe, my scullery maid,” he laughed, adding a bow to his greeting.
“Jorund!”
“You’re back!”
“It is a pleasure to see you returned, Master Jorund.”
“It’s good to be returning! Only thing better would be to never leave!”
The youths laughed. “What would your commander say about that?” asked Egil.
“He’d have my hide and send me bleeding out on patrol,” Jorund grinned.
Kate was next. “What did you see out there? Did you fight any rebels?”
“The scurrilous bastards – pardon my choice of words, my prince – don’t dare come this close to Middanhal. I spent weeks walking on dirt roads and through fields, meeting no enemies but stray dogs trying to steal my supper!”
“I am glad there has been no need of bloodshed,” Inghard declared, “though it makes me wonder how this war will ever reach an end.”
“Once these noblemen get tired of throwing coin out the window, I bet they’ll be ready to negotiate peace,” the Dwarf told them with a wry smile. “Until then, me and my company will be standing outside that window, filling our purse! What about you young rascals, what have you been up to?”
“Jorund, you cannot speak to the prince that way,” Kate scolded him.
The Dwarf laughed. “Very well! What have you two rascals and our esteemed prince been up to?”
“We found an old tale about the Brothers Swordsmen,” Egil eagerly explained.
“It was curious,” Inghard admitted. “From what we could tell, the famed swordsmen were cousins, not brothers. If not even their name is true to circumstance, it casts everything we know about them into doubt.”
“Most curious,” Jorund assented. He patted the short sword by his side. “Perhaps they were Dwarves!”
“That seems fanciful,” Inghard frowned.
“Where’s the old man?” the mercenary asked.
His young companions shared looks of apprehension. “Master Quill’s in his room,” Egil finally replied. “He hasn’t left it in a while.”
“Ah.”
“Jorund, won’t you tell us a story from your travels?” asked Kate.
“Again? If stories were coins, you young marauders would rob me blind!”
“Jorund, please!” pleaded Egil.
“But what if I have none left?”
“If so, we will be satisfied with the retelling of a familiar story,” Inghard granted.
“Hah! I see that I am in the claws of ruthless brigands. You’ll never let me be, will you.”
“Never!”
“Very well, seeing as I have no choice.” Jorund threw his hands up in surrender before sitting down on a bench by a desk. “Have I ever told you of the time I meet a jinni?”
Inghard sat down next to him, while Egil and Kate positioned themselves on the floor in front of him. “Tell us more!”
“They are devious creatures, full of trickery and not to be trusted! Much like Elves in that regard, except the jinn are creatures of air and fire, and they live in the desert.”
“Like dragons,” Egil inserted. “They are also born of air and fire, I read.”
“Really?” asked Inghard. “Where did you read that?”
“The old codex we found. After the story of the Brothers Swordsmen, it continued to talk about Sigvard, dragons, and the Great War.”
“You’re interrupting the story!” Kate’s voice was indignant.
“Keep your sails up,” Jorund grinned, “we’ll get there soon enough. Now I imagine facing a dragon is not a tale most live to tell, and the same goes for meeting a jinni! This was many years ago, you understand, back before I joined up with the Red Hawks…”
|
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|
The Might of Wyrmpeak
Wyrmpeak
The cave lay before them. The darkness inside prevented them from seeing its depth. From his pack, Jorund pulled out torch and tinderbox, lighting a flame. “Both of you stay behind me at all times,” the Dwarf impressed upon his companions. “If we come across anything, anything at all, you both run like Hel is hunting you, and you don’t stop. You keep running out of this valley and south. Understood?” He stared at them with sharp eyes. They both nodded. “Good.” He turned towards the cave. “I won’t have it said that Jorund Seaborn couldn’t keep two children safe,” he mumbled. Raising his torch, he stepped forward, and the children followed.
~~~~
Jorund in front, the travellers entered the cave. It seemed little more than a scratch into the mountain, being narrow as well. “Over there!” Egil exclaimed. At the back, the rocks split apart, allowing for an opening. With a deep breath, Jorund walked over. There was sufficient room for one person to walk at a time; the torch in his hand flickered, revealing flow of air.
“Let’s go,” the Dwarf muttered. His usual tone of command was gone; his expression seemed conflicted. In contrast, Egil’s eyes shone with excitement. Bringing up the rear, Kate walked with hesitation.
Entering the natural corridor, they found the ground uneven. In the dark, it was easy to stumble, and their progress was slow. None of them spoke; the only sounds were their footsteps and breathing. This lasted for half an hour before Egil reached forward to grab Jorund by the arm. “Look!” he called out, pointing up.
Jorund raised the torch, and its flickering light revealed deep cuts into the rock. “It’s a man,” he mumbled.
“It’s a warrior,” Kate corrected. The carving showed a figure wearing a helmet, but nothing else. His arm was stretched out with his hand raised, showing a gesture of greeting or warning.
“Shouldn’t he have weapons?” asked Egil.
“He may not have needed it,” Kate suggested.
“Unlike us,” Jorund muttered; he switched the torch into his left hand, which kept his sword hand free.
“Wait,” Egil uttered. “Isn’t the helmet strange? It has patterns and carvings.”
“Egil, it’s all a carving.”
“No, no, look! Imagine the helmet is metal. Those patterns are like waves. It’s sea-steel! He’s not a warrior, he’s a king wearing the Dragon Crown!”
Jorund squinted. “Hamar’s skull, the boy may have a point.”
“That proves it! It’s Sigvard! We’ve found it!” Egil all but shouted.
“But when Sigvard came, that was before he was king. Before he wore the crown,” Kate objected. “Why would this show him as a king?”
Egil shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe if we find more carvings, they’ll tell the full story.”
“Let’s be mindful of what else we might find,” Jorund growled. “We should continue. We don’t have the food to stand around all day.” He began walking again, and his companions hurried after him. All short of stature, none of them noticed the other carving high above their heads, opposite the crowned figure.
~~~~
Their journey into the mountain continued for hours before the narrow corridor finally expanded into a great cavern. It was impossible to determine the size; the torch struggled to illuminate more than a few feet away. “You think there are more carvings?” asked Egil. He was standing by the cave wall, running his hands over the rock.
“It could take days to find out,” Jorund said. “Days we don’t have.”
“This place looks empty,” Kate considered. “If this was where Sigvard came, whatever he found in here, I think he left with it.”
“It’s too soon to know that,” Egil replied curtly. “We need to look more. If we find more carvings, that’ll tell us which direction to go.”
“Don’t split up,” Jorund warned them. “If either of you gets lost in this place, you’ll never find the way out.”
“Do you hear the wind?” asked Kate. “I can hear a strong breeze, but I don’t feel it.”
“Odd, but it would suggest there are more caves. Maybe this goes all through the mountain, and we’ll come out the other side,” Egil speculated.
“Possible, but irrelevant,” Jorund argued. “That’s not what we came to find.”
“And what search, pray tell, has led you here?” The three travellers stared at each other. None of them had spoken. Their eyes widened, their mouths opened, their breathing stalled. The voice sounded deep, as if the mountain itself had spoken to them. “Perhaps we should have more light. Conversation is easier when you can look into the eyes of those with whom you speak, would you not agree? Master Stoneman holding the torch, if my senses do not betray me, I would ask you to move towards the centre of this cavern. You shall find ample firewood left by my previous visitors that you may set aflame.”
The torch was able to illuminate the dumbfounded look on Jorund’s face as he followed the instructions; his right hand fumbled for the hilt of his short sword meanwhile. He walked fifty paces towards the middle of the cavern; all that time, there was no sound except his footsteps. Behind him, darkness covered the children he had left behind. Ahead, he saw what the voice had promised. Firewood lay piled high. Swallowing, Jorund threw the torch onto the wood and stepped back, keeping his sword hand ready to draw.
The pyre burst into flames. Light illuminated the cavern. Kate and Egil appeared as Jorund glanced over his shoulder; looking ahead, there seemed to be only the wall of the cave. It had an odd appearance, with lines running in precise patterns like carved stonework. As Jorund stared at it, the wall moved. A pair of yellow orbs appeared, reflecting the light of the flames. With brown scales covering its body, white teeth the size of a man’s arm, black claws like swords, and its very breath pushing them back, a creature of legend rose before their eyes.
“Holy –” The sentence died in Jorund’s throat. His arms fell limp to his sides.
“I ask again, why have you come to my dwelling? Humble abode though it may be, it is my resting place.” The voice resounded inside the cavern.
“What – who are you?” asked Kate.
“You have come to my home, yet you know not who I am?” A gust of wind passed through them, as if the creature had blown its breath out in amusement. “Names I have that mortal tongues cannot comprehend, known only to my kind. Others were bestowed upon me by the forest lords, who delight in giving names. In your speech, many were the cries that rose when my flight across the sky was seen. One pleased me the most, and thus I would be called Earthwing once more.”
~~~~
The three travellers stared at the towering figure. With dark-brown scales, the creature had been near invisible against the cavern wall. “You’re a dragon,” Egil whispered.
“Indeed, little one. If you are disappointed to learn this, you should not have come to a dragon’s lair.” There was a sound like a barrel being drummed repeatedly; he was laughing.
“How can this be?” asked Kate.
“How? Little one, do you have all the time in creation to listen, for that is my age, and no less would be needed to tell the tale of Earthwing.”
“You’re that old?” Egil exclaimed.
“All of my kind are. Before sun rose, before moon shone, we were there. But these are not matters for mortals, nor is it why you have come.”
“Indeed, great one,” the young scribe admitted, bowing his head low. He stepped forward, Kate following closely. “We did not know you would disturb you. I beg you, do not punish my companions. They’ve only come because I pressed them on. The blame is mine alone.”
Earthwing rose upon his front legs, towering above Egil. Opening his mouth to speak, the dragon revealed his rows of teeth. “Punishment? Has knowledge of Earthwing decayed to such a degree, you would think me capable of such?” His voice took a turn, brimming with sorrow. “Or do the deeds of my brethren taint my reputation? Calm your hearts, little ones. I obey the laws of the divines and always have. None of their children shall come to harm through my acts.”
“Dvalinn’s beard!” Jorund exclaimed. His entire body relaxed. “So you won’t hurt us?”
“Was my speech unclear, Master Stoneman? Never have I shed a drop of blood belonging to your kind. I certainly do not intend to begin today.” The dragon’s breath made another gust sweep over them. “Perhaps I have approached this conversation in the wrong manner. What are your names, my young visitors?”
“I’m Egil, apprentice to the King’s Quill.”
“I’m Kate.”
“I’m Jorund Seaborn.” The Dwarf sent a look towards his companions before making an awkward bow.
“I bear you no ill will for having roused me from my slumber, but as this was not your intention, I would ask again the cause for your presence.”
“We came seeking what Sigvard found, many years ago. Would you know of him?” Egil asked.
Earthwing stretched his neck. “Of course. You may rejoice knowing your search is complete. You have found what he found.”
“Sigvard found you? You’re the power of Wyrmpeak?” Kate asked with wide eyes.
“What else would you imagine to be found in the deep places of the earth? Did you think the name of the mountain mere fancy?” The dragon stretched out his front legs, making each of his claws visible. “Verily, Sigvard came to me, seeking to end the war.”
“What – the Great War? That’s how it ended?” Egil licked his lips, looking like a dog staring at a bone.
“Has it been so long? Does your kind remember nothing? How many years has gone by since the days of Sigvard?”
“More than a thousand,” Egil revealed.
A gust of wind passed from Earthwing’s mouth as the dragon sighed. “Deep has been my sleep. I am the last watcher, protecting against a threat that I imagine will never come. One day, perhaps I shall sleep and never wake again.”
“That sounds sad.” The same emotion was evident on Kate’s face.
“Your kindness touches me, little one, but do not be troubled. One way or another, my fate is in the hands of higher powers.”
“I can’t imagine anything more powerful,” Jorund mumbled. He moved to stand in front of his charges.
“You flatter me, Master Stoneman, but I must protest. I fear that basking in such words led my brethren to evil.” The dragon lay down, leaning his head over his leg.
“What happened?” asked Egil.
All their hair was pulled forward as Earthwing took a deep breath. “I suppose their folly may be a valuable lesson. There is much I should not tell, but the fall of my brothers and sisters inflicted grievous destruction upon your people – who am I to hide this truth? Even if it shames me.”
“We don’t want you to feel bad,” Kate said earnestly.
“For many reasons,” Jorund said to himself.
Earthwing moved his head back and forth, shaking it. “Do not be concerned, little one. In the end, we have only ourselves to thank if we are shamed by the truth. Let me tell you as briefly as I can this tale, and you may consider what lessons it holds for us all.” The dragon raised his head and stretched out his front legs. Meanwhile, the three travellers sat down on the cave floor, next to one of his clawed appendages, and the children placed their heads in their hands.
“So long ago, the years cannot be counted, I had six brothers and sisters. We delighted in flying across the sky, meeting each other in a dance of fire and air. We are not creatures the same as you, little ones. We do not require nourishment, nor do we age. Yet even so, as the years passed, we each felt weariness, and we would retreat to sleep for decades, centuries, or more. I chose this cave as my dwelling, and eventually, I stayed longer and longer. The king of the forest would at times come seeking counsel, but at some point, this ceased as well.” Egil and Kate exchanged looks.
“It all changed that day – the last day I received a visitor before your arrival.” Earthwing breathed so deeply, his entire body seemed to shake. “He was a child of Men, young even by your reckoning. He told me terrible tidings, and I wished with all my being to call him a liar. Yet I knew his every word was true. I have never spoken a lie in all my life, and so I cannot be deceived by falsehood.”
“Bloody useful,” Jorund muttered.
“His name was Sigvard. He told me of war between the children of the divines, of blood spilt and untold death. Worse than that, his final words were a dagger in my heart. All six of my brethren had abandoned their purpose and turned against the laws of the divines. They fought on the battlefield, committing sacrilege with life’s blood staining their claws and teeth. Indeed, three of them had already fallen to the bravest of heroes among the divine races.” Sorrow filled the dragon’s voice. “I shall never know the cause. Long I have speculated, but the only reason I could think of such betrayal would be that greed filled their minds, and they sought dominion over others.”
Earthwing breathed deeply again. “I knew my duty. A terrible battle was fought beneath the slopes of this very mountain, and the remaining three of my kin stood arrayed against Sigvard and his people. How could there be hope of victory against three of such might? There was only one way to turn the tide.” None of his listeners spoke; they sat in rapt attention. “I stretched out my wings and left my home. From on high, I saw the battle unfold and my brethren causing wanton death. I gave them one warning – to submit immediately or suffer to be destroyed. They chose the latter.”
The dragon clenched his claws together, scraping cuts into the rock below. “I lured them away from the battle that our clash would not inflict casualties upon those below. With fire and fury we fought! All of them came against me, but their might was for naught. Against Earthwing, they fell, one by one. Bloody and wounded, I claimed victory, but there was no joy in my heart. I had slain my brethren to save your people and thereby made myself the last of my kind.”
He relaxed his claws once more, letting them extend, and Kate moved to lean her cheek against the scales of his leg. “That is so sad. I’m so sorry.”
“As am I, little one.”
“That must have been incredible to behold,” Egil said. “How could you stand alone against three other dragons and win?”
The wyrm stretched his neck forward. “Seven we were, but not equal in might.” He opened his mouth and gave a roar. “I am Earthwing! Eldest of my kind, foremost servant to my lord! How could any challenge me?” Embers seemed to glow inside of him, visible through his scales. As he raised his head, flames erupted from his jaws, and the cave exploded in light. It disappeared as swiftly as it had arrived. “Why would they challenge me?” he asked again, and his voice changed from thunder to gentle rain, filled with grief. “Why would they not submit? Why would they…”
“Hamar’s fist,” was all that Jorund could remark.
“Forgive me, dear visitors.” Earthwing’s voice assumed its former steadiness. “I did not mean to cause you alarm. Rest assured, you remain safe as ever in my presence.”
“We understand,” Kate said. “Thank you for telling us your story.”
“So that’s how the battle of Valmark was won,” Egil considered. “Sigvard didn’t fight himself. He brought you, great Earthwing, and tipped the scales of the war. That’s why his name is Drakevin,” he added in sudden realisation. “All these years, and that’s all we remember.”
“We can’t stay here,” Jorund interjected. “No offence to you, mighty Earthwing,” he quickly added. “But we’ve barely any food left and a long journey home.”
“I guess you’re right,” Egil admitted reluctantly. “But there’s so much we could learn here!”
“I think Master Jorund has it right,” Earthwing assented. “The wise king of the forest never stayed here long. In the deep places of the earth, the world changes. That is of no consequence to me, but it is to you. Stay too long, and you may not recognise what awaits you outside.”
Kate stood up, placing her hand on the dragon’s claw. “It was wonderful to meet you, Earthwing. I will never forget this day.”
“Nor shall I, little one.”
Jorund picked up a torch from the fire and gave a deep bow. “Farewell, mighty Earthwing.”
“Farewell,” Egil reiterated.
“And the same to you all. May the blessings of the divines follow you all your days.”
The travellers walked out of the cave, glancing behind several times. As they reached the corridor, Earthwing beat his wing swiftly, causing a strong wind to blow out the fire burning in the middle. The cavern was plunged into darkness once more; a final flicker of light was reflected in the dragon’s eyes before it disappeared as well.
~~~~
When they stumbled out of the cave opening and into the valley, the sky was darkening. Nearly the entire day had passed inside the mountain. “You best prepare your bellies,” Jorund told them. “They’ll go hungry long before we can replenish our food. Let’s be off.”
They began the walk south. “Are you well, Jorund? You don’t sound like yourself,” Kate considered. “You didn’t say a word the whole journey through the mountain.”
“Who wouldn’t be impressed by what we’ve just seen?” Egil pointed out.
“It’s not that,” Jorund claimed. “I mean, maybe, but more than that.”
“What do you mean?” asked Kate.
“This is the best story of my life, meeting a dragon, but who will ever believe me? I can never tell a soul without being called a liar.” He exhaled deeply. “I’m ruined as a storyteller.”
“We’ll listen to your story,” Kate promised. “We know it’s true.”
Jorund gave a defeated smile. “It doesn’t really work when you were there as well. The story belongs to you as much as it does to me.”
They continued walking for a while in silence. Far ahead of them, barely visible in the fading light, lay the brook at the bottom of the valley; on the other side, they could see the hillside sloping upwards.
“You called yourself Jorund Seaborn,” Egil suddenly said. “I’ve never heard you use that name before.”
“That’s right!” Kate exclaimed. “You haven’t told us that.”
“What, I’ve never told you why I’m called Seaborn?”
Both the children shook their heads vigorously. “Never!”
“Hel on a horse! That’s a mistake on my part. Well, we have to go back more than sixty years…”
|
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|
Root and Sword
Isarn
Damien rubbed his eyes. When he was done, he still saw an empty spot where Gunvor had gone to rest. Her belongings were not to be seen either. With some difficulty, he got on his feet and limped around the remains of the campfire. There was an impression in the ground where she had lain, and footsteps led back towards the road.
Damien turned around; as he collected his own things, he noticed a long branch placed next to where he had slept. It could serve as a crude walking staff, and upon it was carved the name of Hareik. A gift and a message in parting from Gunvor. Picking it up along with his possessions, Damien hobbled back to the road and began following it east.
Predictably, his progress was slow. After an hour that had seen him move one mile closer to Middanhal, he had to stop. He unwound the bandage around his ankle; the swelling seemed worse, and the skin was miscoloured. He took out his knife to whittle at his walking staff, making it more even and smoother to hold. With a few deep breaths, he bandaged his ankle again and resumed walking.
After two hours and a few more miles, his luck turned. A peasant driving a cart overtook him on the road. “You in need of help?”
“Friend, you have been sent by the gods,” Damien responded. The farmer halted his wagon to let Damien climb onto the driver’s seat next to him.
“The gods help those that help others,” the driver remarked, setting the cart into motion again. “In times like these, more than ever. Where do you hail from, friend?”
“I have come from Hareik,” Damien responded. “My destination is Middanhal.”
“You look the part, but you don’t sound like a forester.”
“I was born a riverman,” Damien confirmed.
“That’s more like it,” the old man nodded. “Never been that far south. I was born in Isarn, and I reckon I’ll die in Isarn. That’s more likely these days than ever,” he added darkly.
“Yet you are not afraid to be on the road?”
“Few got reason to harm an old man with naught but wool in his cart. Unless their hearts are colder than my wife’s feet at winter solstice,” he added laughing. “What about you, friend? What brings you limping down the Kingsroad?”
Damien paused. “Pilgrimage. Going to the Temple.”
“You won’t make it in time for solstice, sorry to say it.”
“As long as I make it.”
~~~~
When the farmer stopped for the night, he was visibly surprised to find that Damien insisted on continuing. “But – it’s dark! You can’t do more than hobble anyway! Why not sleep? Spare your leg and drive with me in my cart tomorrow.”
“I am in a hurry,” Damien simply explained. “But perhaps we will meet again down the road.”
The old man scratched the back of his head. “I can’t rightly make sense of this, but as you wish.”
“I appreciate your kindness, good master. May Egnil bless your harvest until the end of your summers.”
“You’re a strange fellow, but not a bad sort,” the farmer replied. “Rihimil keep you safe.”
“He always has,” Damien assented. Touching his brow with his hand in a gesture of farewell, the warrior continued down the road.
~~~~
The next morning, Gunvor spent it as usual. She found some roots and fruit to break her fast along with the dried meat in her bag. When she had slaked her thirst as well, she checked the seeds lying in their box; satisfied all was in order, she returned to the road.
She looked towards the south-east, where Middanhal lay. Before starting her day’s journey, she glimpsed towards west and saw a shape in the distance. Her eyes narrowed; disbelief filled her face. In the end, she began walking west, approaching the other person.
“Is this some trick? Some form of punishment?” Gunvor asked when the distance between them had lessened.
“You tell me,” Damien retorted. “You are the one who left me behind.”
“I thought you would return to Hareik.”
“What for? What is there for me in that city?”
“I don’t know. I just thought –”
“You just thought it was the opposite direction of you,” Damien interjected. “Well, I am a free man, and I chose this direction.”
“You must have walked – or limped – all night to catch up with me. Are you mad?”
“On the contrary, I would say that betrays good sense. If I had spent last night in sleep, you would only have put greater distance between us.”
“Your foot must be killing you,” she scolded him. “Sit down, for heaven’s sake.”
He quickly obliged. “It does feel a bit worse than yesterday.”
She sat down to remove boot and bandage from his ankle. The skin was purple and black. “This will take many days to heal,” she said in reproach. “I can’t believe you were so reckless.”
“Nothing reckless about it. I swore to see you in Middanhal. I keep –”
“Yes, yes, you keep your oaths. I know. I hope you are happy. We are stuck here for days, at least.”
“With that in mind, I would ask you to promise me that you will not abandon me again.”
She gave him a look. “You think I am that eager to get to Middanhal?”
“You did not abandon me before because I would slow you down.”
She turned her eyes down, staring her hands. “No.”
“You did not trust me. You still do not trust me, I wager.”
“Hard to say.”
“It is possible I make bad decisions from time to time,” Damien admitted.
“Possible?”
“Likely,” he granted. “But you may still have need of me before the road ends.”
“Maybe. Or maybe I will be fine on my own.”
He hesitated. “Well, I have need of you. To make things right. To have the Highfather lift his curse upon me.”
“I thought you were simply thrown out of the Order.”
“The Highfather felt I deserved worse punishment.” Damien swallowed. “He was right. But I cannot go on like this.” He stared at Gunvor. “Please. Promise me you will stay.”
She nodded slowly. “I promise. But since we are trapped here for now, I will make better use of my time and collect a few useful herbs.” She rose to her feet.
He looked up at her. “You will come back?”
She glanced down at him. “You will have to trust me on that.”
~~~~
Gunvor returned an hour later. Sitting in the shade under a tree, Damien made no remark as he saw her approach, although he had been scouting the horizon the entire time she had been gone.
“It would have been best if we could get you to a cold stream,” she considered, looking down upon his ankle. “But there doesn’t seem to be any near here. At least I found these.” She extended her hand, which held a bundle of roots and herbs.
“Those are odd berries.”
“Funny.” She used some water from one of the skins to clean the roots of dirt before giving them to Damien. “Chew on them. Slowly.”
Cautiously, he accepted the stringy plants and put them in his mouth. He quickly pulled a face as he began chewing. “Bitter.”
“That’s how you know it works. Keep chewing. You want it all released.”
“This is the strangest form of torture I have ever endured.”
“So funny. It’s owl’s root. It’ll help with the swelling.”
“You would know.”
“Yes, I would.” She gave him a few herbs as well. “When you are done with the owl’s root, chew these after. Slowly!”
“Yes, commander.”
“Dying with laughter.”
“What do these do?” He finally swallowed the roots.
“They will ease your hands and – other symptoms.”
“My hands? Oh. Thank you.” He looked down to see them tremble slightly.
“You’re welcome. I should search for water,” she considered. “If we are here for several days, we’ll need more.”
“I would not worry,” Damien declared with a casual air. “I am sure the gods will provide for us soon enough.”
“Don’t mock them.”
“I do no such thing,” he claimed. “I meant it. Give it time, and I am confident that our plight will be amended.”
She gave him a suspicious look. “I didn’t expect that from you.”
“In the meantime, I will sleep.” He lay down and did as proclaimed.
When a cart carrying wool and an old farmer rumbled down the road three hours later, Gunvor widened her eyes. She turned to rouse Damien from his rest with excited words. Her expression turned into a scowl as she saw him laugh. Shortly after, they were seated on the cart, driving eastwards.
~~~~
Days later, they parted ways with the farmer; as the road split, he went north towards the summer fair of Silfrisarn, while they continued east towards Middanhal. By now, Damien’s ankle had recovered enough that they could continue on foot.
“I never thanked you for this,” he said in sudden realisation. He hoisted the walking staff in his hand.
“Oh. Of course. I couldn’t leave you entirely crippled and alone.”
“Your lettering could use work, though.” He let his thumb glance over where the name of Hareik was carved.
“My – oh, so hilarious. I have actually never carved anything before.”
“I thought that would be an obvious pursuit for a priestess of Austre.”
“It would, but it isn’t the case for me,” she explained.
“What is?”
“What?”
“If I remember, you have never left Hareik before. Why did the gydja choose you for this task?”
“I grew up in the forest,” Gunvor told him. “But I have rarely left Hareik since joining the order. Our duties towards others necessitate that we dwell where others dwell, after all.”
“This displeased you?”
“I felt that I was neglecting my duties towards Austre. The forest is her domain. If I could choose, I would not serve her in the cities, but elsewhere.”
“Such as?”
“Anywhere with a forest and people,” she smiled.
As their conversation continued, their attention turned from their surroundings to each other; by the time they realised that a band of warriors was approaching them, it was too late to hide.
“I do not recognise those colours,” Damien mumbled. “They are not Isarn’s men.”
“They will recognise mine,” Gunvor declared confidently. They remained standing, waiting; Damien shifted his weight, hiding that he was favouring one leg over the other.
“Hail,” said one of the warriors, ostensibly the leader. He was clad in mail and had a sword by his side. His followers had leather for armour and a variety of shields; most wielded axes. “This is dangerous land to travel.”
“Indeed, but sacred duty requires it,” Gunvor replied. She took out the box of seeds from her bag. “I have been charged to bring these seeds to the Temple in Middanhal. As gods-fearing men, you have no objection to this, surely.”
“Indeed, Sister, we will not hinder your way,” the leader promised. “But you are aware that we are at war. Besides keeping this land safe, Jarl Isarn has charged us with collecting toll on the road to pay for his defence.”
“Has he now,” muttered Damien, standing tense.
“Of course,” Gunvor assented loudly. She opened her coin purse to take out several eagles. “Thank you for keeping the roads safe.” She let them drop in the palm of the leader’s hand.
“Much appreciated, Sister.”
“What about that box?” asked one of the soldiers suddenly. He had his eyes on Gunvor’s bag. “Show us what’s inside.”
“As you wish. As I said, it’s only seeds.” She dug out the box again and opened it, revealing its content. “See?”
“Why you need a swordsman with you just to protect some dirt?” asked the same warrior. Greed was beginning to take hold of his expression. “Chief, I’m betting you there’s gems hidden inside.”
“Upon my word as an ordained sister of Austre, I swear to you, we have no wealth,” Gunvor declared. Behind her, Damien gave a growling sound.
“Let’s see for ourselves,” insisted the soldier, pushing to the front and reaching out.
Damien stepped forward, raising his staff as a weapon. “The sister has given her word. I have watched her carefully tend to those seeds every day for weeks, and I will not let your oafish hands rake through them and destroy her work.”
“That’s a lot of lip from a man on his own,” sneered the soldier. Ignoring Damien, he reached out to grab the box from Gunvor’s hands. The former knight used his staff to slap the warrior’s hand away, spurring several of the warriors to raise their weapons. In turn, Damien threw his staff behind him for Gunvor to catch, and he raised his open hands before him.
“Listen! You boys are all drakonians, I take it,” Damien said, looking at the leader, who nodded.
“What of it?” He had not drawn his sword, preferring to take a step back to stand amongst his men.
“I am Damien of Montmer. You might have seen me years ago, winning the grand fight at solstice.”
“Hah!”
“Can’t be!”
“Nonetheless, it is true. Believe me that if any of you touches that box, I will cut his hand off. We paid your toll. Now let us be on our way.”
The leader glanced from Damien to his men; they seemed as divided in opinion and courage as he did. “You’re really him? The oath breaker?”
“Yes.” The word was forced past gritted teeth.
“He’s lying, chief. Let’s kill them both and sort through their things!”
Damien moved one hand to grip his sword. “If need be, I will kill each of you to protect the sister and her seeds. To me, dying over a box of dirt seems foolish, but I am prepared to oblige you.”
The leader spent another moment considering the outcome. “Let them pass. They paid the toll. We’re not thieves.” He gestured for his men to stand aside on the road.
All of them did save the soldier who had already tried his luck once before. Without warning, he took a step towards Damien, raised his axe, and struck.
Swifter than a falcon’s dive, Damien’s sword left its sheath. It met the soldier’s axe and turned it aside. The impact broke the blade in twain; undeterred, Damien swung the remaining edge around and cut into several fingers.
Howling with pain, the soldier dropped the axe and clutched what remained of his hand. Damien swiftly kicked him to the ground. “I will let you keep the rest of your hand. Consider yourself fortunate.”
He knelt down slowly, watching the remaining warriors, and picked up the piece of his blade that had broken away. Nodding to Gunvor, he gestured for her to follow. Keeping their distance to the soldiers, the pair passed them by and continued along the Kingsroad.
~~~~
When they had lost sight of the patrol, Damien cleaned his sword and placed both pieces in the scabbard.
“I am sorry you had to fight and break your sword.”
“No matter. It was bound to happen.”
“At least the rest didn’t want to fight.”
Damien shrugged, taking his walking staff back from Gunvor. “They were a poorly disciplined lot. I could have beaten them all, broken blade or not.”
“I am sure you could have.”
“It would have been a nice challenge. Part of me regrets I let them get away.”
“Why did you?”
“You might have become hurt in the fight. As I am sworn to protect you, that seemed an ill course of action.”
“I suppose it does.” She gave a smile. “Perhaps you are not the worst protector to have.”
“High praise,” he snorted. She laughed, sounding relieved, and eventually, he joined in.
|
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Bargains Broken
Middanhal
About two weeks after they had left Middanhal, the three travellers returned. Egil’s status as apprentice to the King’s Quill got them through the gate without paying toll, and they proceeded along the Arnsweg. Middanhal was little changed from when they left. Around them, citizens hurried about on errands. Guards patrolled the streets, craftsmen worked in their workshops, and children played, laughing and shouting. The market at the Temple square was busy as ever, and the three companions walked along the edge to avoid entanglements.
At last, the Citadel loomed ahead, much like Wyrmpeak had done for most of their journey. The fortress seemed as impregnable as the mountain had done; its walls and towers were manned by a full garrison, and the banners of Adalrik and the Order flew in the wind. The guards at the gate nodded to Jorund, exchanging coarse words; the Dwarf laughed and returned the favour.
Standing in southern courtyard, the small band looked at each other. “I suppose I am to the quartermaster,” Jorund considered. “Finally get my coin.” He smiled wryly.
“I guess the kitchen waits,” Kate remarked, a little despondent.
“I better see Master Quill.” Egil exhaled. “See you in the library tonight?” The other two nodded, and they parted.
The library was as Egil had left it. He closed a book lying open on a table, returning it to the shelves, and put his travel sack in his room.
“Egil, is that you, boy?” Quill emerged from his room into the hall, wearing ruffled and stained clothes.
“Yes, master,” Egil quickly responded, appearing as well. “Is something the matter?”
Quill licked his lips, looking around the library. “Did you fetch those feathers?”
“Feathers, master?”
“It is a poor library that lacks feather pens,” Quill mumbled.
“I will fetch more,” Egil promised.
“Good. Good,” the old man repeated, returning to his chamber.
Egil watched the door close. He stood pensive for a moment before entering the scriptorium. Finding quill, ink, and parchment, he sat down and set to work. The first word he wrote was the name of Earthwing.
~~~~
“From what I hear, the fair at Silfrisarn was as busy as ever.” Konstans stared with an indeterminate expression at Edwin.
“I trust your lordship would know best,” the alderman mumbled in reply, avoiding the nobleman’s gaze.
Konstans let his fingers drum on the desk between them. “That is all you have to say?” he asked when a few moments had passed.
“Milord, if you would ask anything of me, I would be more than happy to tell you. Otherwise, I would never presume to impose my opinion when unasked.” His fingers fidgeted with the golden chain hanging across his stomach.
Konstans finally broke his stare away, looking at the hourglass on his desk. “It is obvious that many defied the ban and traded at Silfrisarn. I want you to find all these traitors.”
“Milord, I can’t possibly believe any would dare –”
“Then your imagination is too limited,” Konstans interjected. “I will have my own people assist you. Arion, my brother’s chamberlain, will comb the ledgers of your guild members.”
“Milord,” Edwin protested, “a merchant’s books are sacred! I cannot command my fellow members to open their books – the very thought is unthinkable!”
“Not to me,” Konstans stated dryly. “I have already written a statement granting Arion the necessary rights. He will be at your guildhall tomorrow morning. You will assist him in every way unless you want to lose that chain.”
Edwin wetted his lips with a nervous look. “Very good, milord.”
Watching the final sands of the hourglass run through, Konstans waved his hand. “Dismissed.”
~~~~
The study belonging to the lord protector was stacked with books. His desk bore the brunt, but towers had been built on either side as well, and more ledgers lay in layers atop the sole bookshelf in the room. As for the lord protector himself, he sat by the desk with open books in front of him and his infant son in his lap.
“You see, my son, these are all the expected expenses for each caravan going to Alcázar,” Valerian explained. The small child in his arms reached out, trying to grab hold of the book. “And here are the actual expenses,” he continued, pointing to another ledger. “This is just for last year, but I have gone through several.” The child responded with incoherent noises. “I have written down a few calculations… where did I put it…” He rummaged through the loose parchments with his free hand, maintaining a firm grip on his son with the other.
“Here!” Valerian pulled a sheet from underneath several others. “See? Do you see it?” The small child opened his mouth and tried to bite down, leaving drool on the parchment. “This is for reading, not eating,” Valerian chastised him, placing the sheet out of reach. “As the numbers show, someone thinks your father a fool.”
“Valerian!” exclaimed a voice, and the jarl looked up to see his wife enter the study. “Valerius needs to sleep, and he has not had milk yet!”
“Sleep and milk is all he gets,” grumbled Valerian. “I was just teaching the boy a few things.”
“You can do so when he is old enough to understand,” Alexandra chastised him, walking forward with her arms stretched out.
“Fine. I will bring him to his nursemaid,” Valerian declared, standing up, holding one arm around the boy’s stomach like carrying a barrel.
“Honestly, Valerian, mind his head!”
Valerian patted what little hair the boy had. “He will be fine. The men of Vale have sturdy heads.”
“Stubborn, more like it,” his wife retorted, once more reaching out her hands to take the child.
“I said I would bring him,” Valerian brushed her off, walking past her.
“Valerian!” She turned on her heel to stalk after him. “Watch his head!”
~~~~
Arndis sat in her atrium, reading missives when her handmaiden informed her of a visitor. “Send him in.”
The alderman of the guilds appeared with an awkward smile. “Lady Arndis.” He inclined his head.
“Thank you, Jenny,” Arndis said pointedly, and the handmaiden disappeared.
Edwin’s smile turned sly, and he untied the coin purse at his belt. “Your share, milady,” he informed her, placing the bag in her hand. “Feel free to count.”
“I am sure that is not necessary.”
“As a merchant, I must protest, but as a simple man, I appreciate your courtesy.”
Arndis gave Edwin a smile to mirror his own. “Given we have further business together, if you were planning to cheat me, I imagine you would wait until the most opportune moment.”
The alderman laughed. “Of all my partners in business, you are my favourite, Lady Arndis.” She accepted the compliment with a nod. “You will be pleased to hear the tin sold at the price we expected. There was some competition for the copper, but my reeve was able to buy the bulk of it.”
“How long until we can sell it?”
“It will be weeks before it reaches Heohlond. Rest assured, once that is done, I shall return with another bag.” He gestured towards the coin purse.
“I shall look forward to your next visit, in that case. I did not expect you would make this visit in person, truth be told.”
“As said, my favourite liaison,” Edwin smiled. “Not to mention, I had matters requiring my presence in the Citadel anyway, and I thought I might as well remove the need for a messenger to make this particular delivery. The fewer hands involved, the better.”
“Quite right. That reminds me, I hear a rumour that the dragonlord is making enquiries into the guild of merchants.”
The alderman sent her an inquisitive glance. “I wonder who might have shared that rumour with her ladyship.”
“Wonder all you want, master alderman, it will not cost you anything.”
He gave a grin that quickly disappeared. “It is true. Lord Konstans is releasing his hounds upon us.”
“Anything to be concerned about?”
“As you are not a member of the guild, milady, I cannot possibly see why you would have to be worried. As for me…” He stood a little taller. “I have survived three dragonlords – four, if you count Sir Roderic and his few months of office. I am not concerned.”
“Very well. Thank you for your visit, master alderman.”
He made a slight bow. “Until next time, Lady Arndis.”
Once Edwin was gone, Arndis collected the coin purse and entered her chamber. She poured the coins onto her desk, stacking them until she had a count. Satisfied, she unlocked her strongbox and poured the coins inside.
“Arndis?” came Eleanor’s voice.
Locking the small chest, Arndis returned to the atrium. “Yes?”
“Did I see the alderman leave our rooms?”
“Yes. A courtesy visit, since I have dealings with the fellows of his guild.”
“How nice. I know little of him, but it is pleasant to see good manners in someone commonborn.”
Arndis smiled sardonically. “Indeed. Are you going to the gardens?”
“I am. Just a little stroll before the meal.” Eleanor corrected her veil.
“Let me accompany you,” Arndis suggested, picking out a hat and a pair of gloves.
“Really? I thought you had business to attend to.”
“It can wait a while. I feel in a good mood.” With a more genuine smile, Arndis took her friend by the arm, and they left together.
~~~~
Even at a late hour, Konstans could be found in the study of the dragonlord. Any servants had retired for the night and all supplicants sent away; he was alone in the wing, reading and scribbling documents. His solitude was interrupted as the door opened. The frown on his face suggested his anger at being disturbed until he saw it was his wife, carrying a plate of food and a large goblet.
“Mathilde, there was no need,” he claimed, as she found a place on his desk for the plate and cup.
“You look haggard,” she said flatly. “You cannot rule the realm if you are dead. Now eat.”
He grumbled but did as told, taking a heavy sip from the goblet. “Strong.”
“You can use it. Eat something as well.”
He broke off a piece of the meat pie and put it in his mouth. He chewed it quickly. “I am hungry,” he admitted.
“Of course you are. Since you insist on making a habit of these late nights, I will be making a habit of this as well,” Mathilde declared.
Konstans brought the goblet to his lips once more, emptying it. “I suppose there is no harm in that. Unlike these letters,” he growled.
His wife stood up and fetched a pitcher of wine from a small table, filling his cup. “Ill news?”
“My envoy to Cairn Donn has not had success with Brión. The old rascal may coat his words with honey and crust, but his intentions are easy to read,” Konstans uttered with a touch of contempt. “He intends to sit this war out.”
“Strange. Your offer was generous, especially to a ragged king and his band of savage mountain men. Do you think Isarn got to him?”
“It is possible,” Konstans granted. “He would never join them in the field – with Theodstan in our hands, he would be isolated from his allies. But perhaps Isenhart simply offered him payment in exchange for remaining neutral. That would suit the old greybeard well, getting paid for doing nothing.”
“Not to mention the history between Athelstan and the king.”
Konstans frowned for a moment. “The highlander war. I forgot.”
“What of Vidrevi? If the foresters could be dragged into this, that would leave Isarn vulnerable. Folkmar’s soldiers could plunder western Isarn with impunity,” Mathilde suggested.
Konstans picked up a letter from his table, waving it about. “My spy at the Silfrisarn fair has sent word regarding that. Numerous foresters have been seen, dressed for war. Either they are mercenaries in Isenhart’s employ, or –”
“Folkmar sees this as his chance to weaken Adalrik,” Mathilde concluded. “That repulsive little moss-licker.”
“I had hoped to send a company of mercenaries through Vidrevi and achieve exactly what you suggested,” Konstans explained, “but as it stands, I doubt Folkmar will grant them leave to march through his lands.”
“You need to turn Theodstan from passive to active ally,” Mathilde considered. “He may not be a match for Isarn in the field, but he can still have his soldiers raid Isarn’s allies in the north.”
“Our treaty with him states he is not obliged to provide levies,” Konstans argued.
“You must pressure him. Whether with rod or honeycomb, get him to commit.”
“I will consider it,” Konstans assented. “Gods, this war will drain the life from all of us.”
“At least matters at home stand better,” his wife considered, “with Konstantine’s betrothal to the Hardling girl secured. Soon, the blood of the dragonborn will work in our favour.”
“Regarding one of them,” Konstans muttered. He searched through his missives once more until he found his quarry. “Adalbrand, that perennial thorn in our side, has vanished from the eyes of my spies.”
“How is that possible? How is he even still alive? I thought he went to the Reach.”
“He did, and he came back alive. That is the last I know. His men returned to the Order camp, but he did not.”
Mathilde scratched her cheek with her finely shaped nails. “Do you think he has gone into hiding? If so, he must be making nefarious plans.”
“No doubt.” Konstans emptied his goblet again.
“Thankfully, he is a pure novice compared to us.” Mathilde gave a satisfied smile. “Let us to bed, husband. The realm with all its worries will still be standing tomorrow.” She stood up, extending a hand towards him. Placid, he accepted and followed her to bed.
|
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|
An Orchard Meeting
Alcázar
At night, the palace was quiet, but not empty. Guards patrolled the corridors. The Kabir and the hāgib might both work late, either together or apart. Sometimes, men or women would sneak from one chamber to another, carrying out activities best hidden from the light of day.
Tonight, Salim was among those walking the hallways. He made no attempt to hide himself; he walked, calm and casual, progressing through the palace. Wearing the Kabir’s falcon-crested uniform, none questioned his presence; to others, he was simply another guard.
Reaching the dungeons, the sentinel by the door sent him a bored look. “They got you working the moonlight hours too?” he asked.
Salim raised his right hand, making gestures with it. The guard frowned, not understanding. Meanwhile, Salim’s left hand grasped his knife. Distracted, the guard was too late to notice the blade thrust into his throat, cutting his windpipe. Gasping for breath that would never come, unable to raise the alarm, he sank to the floor; Salim caught him, opening the door beyond to drag him inside the dungeons.
Closing the door behind, Salim pulled the body into an open cell. Returning to the central chamber, he saw Imad appear from his private room. “What’s all this noise?” asked the warden, rubbing his eyes. The area lay in darkness; only the faint light of glowing embers from coals gave any illumination.
Salim’s fist came like the kick of a horse, sending Imad back to sleep. Stepping over his body, Salim found the keys in his room. He crossed the dungeon and unlocked Brand’s cell.
The latter got on his feet swiftly, bowing his head in gratitude as he walked out. Salim placed a hand on his arm, gaining his attention, and drew his knife. He gestured to where Imad lay unconscious before pointing at himself or Brand, back and forth.
“Let me,” Brand said quietly. “I should shoulder the responsibility.” He took the knife from Salah and walked over to Imad.
Already, the torturer was waking up. Seeing Brand approach with steel in hand, he began crawling backwards. “No, please, no! I won’t tell a soul, I swear! Trust Imad, he won’t tell! No, please!”
He could not crawl fast enough. Brand stood above him, staring down without pity. The knife blinked as it moved quickly, slashing Imad’s throat open. Placing the knife into the rope serving as his belt, Brand grabbed the dying man with both hands and placed him in his bed, leaving him to bleed out.
Returning to the central chamber, Brand offered the knife back to Salim, who shook his head in refusal. He patted the sword by his side and pointed at Brand’s empty hand.
“Very well. Thank you, Master Salim,” Brand told him. “I will see you in the orchard.”
Salim nodded in confirmation and moved to the door. Signalling for Brand to stay back, he opened to peer into the corridor. Finding it empty, he stepped into it, waving for Brand to follow him.
~~~~
A slender, female figure also moved through the palace. Within the harem, the few guards paid her little heed. Their numbers increased as she approached Prince Saif’s chamber, but being his favoured sister, none saw reason to bar Jana’s progress.
She entered her brother’s rooms, much larger than her own. Besides being richly furnished, they also held statues and other works of art. The walls wore paintings, while maps of foreign places lay on one of the tables. Cautiously, Jana moved further in. The outer chamber had several doors; one of them led to Saif’s bedchamber. Seeing no weapon rack or armoire, Jana entered where her brother lay sleeping.
The bedroom had several wardrobes; one contained clothes, the other contained arms. Jana examined both and found the latter, letting her hands move inside to feel the metal of Saif’s armour; the darkness did not allow her eyes to see much. With careful motions, she moved her hand until she felt the hilt of a sword. She pulled it free from its rack and brought it close to her face. Her expression turned to disappointment; it was clearly a native blade. She returned the sword and tried the next, finding only a long dagger.
On her third attempt, she retrieved a sword with an emerald laid in the pommel. On the cross-guard, strange marks were inscribed. Straightening up, Jana cautiously removed the sword entirely from the armoire.
“Who – Jana? What are you doing?” Blinking repeatedly, Saif sat up in his bed.
“Forgive me, Brother. I did not mean to disturb your sleep.” Jana moved, trying to slip the sword behind her back.
“Why are you here at this hour? Is something wrong?”
“No, not at all. I am sorry. I should not have come here. I will leave you to your sleep.” She took a step backwards towards the door.
“Why do you have a sword behind you? What do you need a sword for?” Saif pulled his covers away to sit on the edge of his bed. “Jana, what is going on?”
“I – simply wished to see it, but I was embarrassed to admit it to you. Silly of me, I know.” Jana gave a nervous laughter.
“That is the prisoner’s sword.” Saif frowned. “My mother heard a rumour he had been sent to the harem… Jana, what is happening?”
“Nothing, Brother. I am simply being silly. I just wanted to see it.”
Saif stood up. “Jana, I have never known you to be silly for one moment. Is the prisoner back in the harem? Are you taking the sword to him? Jana, you know he is a skilled warrior, this could be dangerous!” He advanced upon her, taking hold of her shoulders.
“No, Brother, not at all! I have no idea where the prisoner is,” Jana claimed. She stepped back to escape his grip. “I was just being foolish. Please, could you forget you saw me and return to sleep? We will never speak of this again.”
Saif stared at her. “Are you helping him escape? Bringing him his weapon to fight his way out?”
“No, Saif, nothing of the sort! I just wanted to see what Father gave you.”
“Jana, that sword was Father’s gift to me.”
“Saif, I need you to forget about me and return to sleep.”
“Give me the sword first.”
“Saif, do not betray me the way you betrayed Dalia.”
He stared at her with a hurt expression. “How can you say that to me? I chose you! I saved you!”
“I did not ask for that. But I am asking for this. If you truly care about me, this is what I want. Forget I was here tonight,” she impressed upon him.
“I cannot fathom why you would do this, but if it involves the prisoner – his escape will humiliate Jalil further.” He returned to his bed. “If Father finds out about your involvement, I cannot and will not protect you.” Said did not look at his sister as he spoke his final words.
Jana gave no reply, but turned around and hurried away.
~~~~
Armed with only a knife, Brand moved silently through the palace. He often had to hide or move into smaller corridors, aided by his knowledge of the premises. Although it took him a long time, he was able to leave the main building without causing alarm. Under the cover of night, he moved along walls to reach the stables.
Inside, the finest horses in Alcázar could be found. Brand chose a mare that seemed gentle of mood, allowing him to approach and caress its mane. He looked around in the dark until he saw saddles and other equipment for riding a horse.
“A horse thief as well?” exclaimed a voice. Brand spun around, knife in hand. Jalil stood in the stable, blocking the exit. The prince already had his sword in hand. “I should not be surprised,” he sneered. “Why Jana is helping you, I cannot understand. That foolish girl will be punished, but rest assured, so will you.”
“How did you know?” asked Brand while his eyes glanced around in search.
“You were not nearly as careful as you thought,” Jalil told him with obvious delight. He advanced on Brand, sword raised and ready. “This palace has countless ears and tongues. But do not worry. I will not kill you now.” He gave a cruel smile, whipping his blade back and forth in the air. “Just hurt you as payment for your insults. And then we will have another duel in front of the court, and everyone can watch as I kill you.”
This time, the prince fought without pretence of any kind. He struck, swiftly and cleanly. With the short reach of his knife, Brand could not retaliate. He had to retreat, step by step. Jalil’s eyes glowed with malice; he took his time, watching Brand grow desperate.
Pressed into a corner, Brand ran out of room. He reached for a horse blanket with his free hand; at the same time, Jalil made a deep thrust into Brand’s leg, stabbing him below the knee. There was an outburst born of pain, and Jalil smiled as he pulled his sword back; he did not do so fast enough. Brand threw the horse blanket over Jalil’s sword hand, weighing it down while covering the blade. Ignoring his wound, Brand launched himself against the prince, and they both landed on the ground. Brand thrust his knife into Jalil’s chest repeatedly, until it was a mire of blood and rags.
Gasping for breath, Brand ceased his movements. The prince stared with dead eyes at the ceiling. Pain and exhaustion upon his face, Brand got on his feet. He wiped his knife clean on Jalil’s sleeve and carved away a strip of the prince’s trousers, using it to bind his own wound.
Limping, Brand dragged the prince’s corpse into an empty stall and covered it with the blanket. This accomplished, he returned to the mare he had originally chosen. The sounds of fighting and the smell of blood had upset the beast; with gentle words and comforting touch, he calmed the creature until he was able to saddle it. Taking hold of the reins, he led the horse out of the stable towards the orchard.
~~~~
Jana moved among the fruit trees and their shadows in the moonlight. She had a cloak around her, dark in colour. The place was deserted at night, and many of the trees were in full blossom this time in the year; their full foliage made her invisible to anybody inside staring out of windows. The ripe scent of countless fruits surrounded her, but she did not seem to take notice; with an anxious look, clutching a sword to her chest, she hurried forward.
Ahead, she spotted the orchard door; she gave a sigh of relief seeing Salim by it. He was dragging the body of a guard through the doorway. No wounds were upon the slain, only finger marks upon his throat; Salim had strangled him with his bare hands.
“Salim!” Jana said softly. The mamluk raised his head hearing her voice; he finished pulling the body away, leaving the orchard clear of evidence, and went through the doorway again.
He sent a few gestures, asking a question.
Jana nodded. “I am fine. Where is Brand?”
Salim pointed at a pale figure, leading a horse towards them. Even from a distance, his hobbled walk was evident.
“You have my sword.” Brand smiled weakly. “Put it inside the saddlebag.”
“Brand, is everything well?” Jana asked concerned while she did as he requested.
“Jalil followed me. He cornered me in the stable. I had to kill him,” Brand confessed. “He must have spied on us. I only hope your involvement can remain secret now.”
“Brand, are you badly hurt? You look pale as a ghost.”
“Just my leg.” He grimaced for a moment, contorting his smile into a mask of pain. “I lost some blood, but I can walk. I can ride. I can escape.”
Salim slapped his fist against his open hand repeatedly, making his impatience clear.
“Here,” Jana told Brand, retrieving a pouch from her garments. She placed it in the saddlebag as well. “This is all my jewellery. In case you need to buy your way out.”
Brand’s smile returned. “Thank you, Jana, for everything. I owe you my life. Both of you.” He looked at Salim. “I should go.” He took a step, wincing, and had to grasp the mane of his horse for support.
“Brand!”
“I am fine. Just – the blood loss. Little more than I thought.” He took another step forward, slowly leading his horse towards the orchard door and his freedom.
“To arms! A murderer is loose! To arms!” The cry came in the distant, by the stables.
“They found the prince,” Brand mumbled. He hastened forward, but misjudged his own strength, and his wounded leg twisted under him. Acting quickly, Salim reached out to steady him.
“Salim, he will never make it on his own,” Jana told the mamluk. “He needs our help.”
“I am fine,” Brand mumbled. He renewed his grip on the reins of the horse, continuing.
“Salim, please, we cannot abandon him now.” The princess looked at her protector with pleading eyes.
“Spread out! Search the grounds!” Around them, torches appeared in the darkness, encircling them.
Salim looked from Jana to Brand, trying to pull the horse towards the orchard door; the opening was so low, the mare could barely fit through. The mamluk looked back at the young woman he was sworn to defend.
Taking a deep breath, Salim nodded to Jana and pushed her in Brand’s direction. She slipped ahead of the horse, grabbing its reins to help Brand lead the beast forward. Within moments, the two were outside the palace.
The yells of a guard reached them even there. “Over here! The small door!”
“Go back,” Brand urged her. “Before they find you here!”
Jana shook her head. “You can barely walk, let alone ride. You will not get far on your own.”
“Jana, you have done enough!”
“Salim and I will –” She was interrupted by the sound of the orchard door being shut and bolted. “Salim?” From the outside, she hammered her fists against the wood. “Salim!” It was of no use. The door had no bolt or handle on the outside; it could only be opened from within the orchard. “Salim!”
On the other side of the wall, they heard weapons clashing and cries of death. Salim was performing his final duty for his mistress.
“Salim!” Jana cried out in despair.
“Jana!” Brand grabbed hold of her, forcing her to look at him. “He is buying us time to escape! We cannot waste it!” One hand on the reins of the horse, the other holding Jana, Brand began to hobble away. Tears falling from her face, Jana abandoned the door and followed him.
|
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|
What is Written
The Reach
More than a month after his arrival in Rund, Godfrey sat enjoying food and drink at one of its many taverns. Manzik’s room had long since been reclaimed by the shahrban’s offices and delegated to another, more faithful servant, leaving Godfrey homeless. Since then, he had drifted from place to place, avoiding the shadow warriors and blackboots pursuing his trail.
Surprise filled his face as he looked up to see not one, but two blackboots approach his table. They were dressed in the garbs of their trade, which meant everyone else looked and kept away.
“Arman,” Godfrey exclaimed, standing up. They quickly clasped hands and took seats. “Well, we can’t meet here again,” he remarked, looking around at the other patrons, who did everything to avoid meeting his gaze.
“There was not time to be inconspicuous,” Arman explained. “I just arrived this morning.”
“What is amiss?”
“I have been sent by Jenaab Arash to coordinate an attack against the drylanders raiding our patrols,” Arman said.
“I have done my best to make the sasab delay,” Kamran inserted. “But with these news, the fravashi will not wait any longer.”
“There are rumours that the drylanders are led by a Blade of Ruin,” Arman added. “In the hands of the bloodline born to Sigvard, no less. The fravashi claim certainty of this, and they have been restless ever since.”
“They would know,” Godfrey conceded. “Very well. We have gained what we could. The drylanders must be warned. I have plans for their captain. He must survive.”
“Time is brief,” Arman warned. “The fravashi will be killing the drylanders north of the great stone and take possession of it. When the remaining drylanders attempt to flee back across the wall, they will be killed as well.”
“The fravashi from Rund will ride out to destroy their camp, send them fleeing north,” Godfrey realised. “Hammer against anvil.”
“Exactly.” Kamran nodded. “I have already been ordered to leave the city and scout ahead.”
“Javed, if this son of Sigvard is so important to our plans, he must be warned now,” Arman urged.
“Yes. I will leave at earliest opportunity.”
“That will be too late,” Kamran declared. “It will have to be me.”
“Kamran,” Godfrey protested. “Don’t be a fool. It is far too risky to send you.”
“It’s the only way. I already have orders to leave the city, whereas every guard in Rund is searching for you.”
“I’ll find a way,” Godfrey mumbled.
“I am sure you will. Tonight, when it is dark, and you can sneak across the wall. That is many hours wasted that could make the difference,” Kamran pointed out. “I can leave through the gate in this very moment, and none will question me.”
“They will kill you on sight,” Godfrey argued.
“Javed, he’s right,” Arman interceded. “This is greater than any one of us. We have all been prepared to die since the day you lead us to the light.”
Godfrey bit down on his lip. “Very well. Go quickly. I shall follow when I can.”
Kamran rose to his feet. “Until the morrow comes.” With those words, he disappeared.
“I must go as well,” Arman declared. “They will expect me to follow the soldiers when they move out.”
“Of course. Fate willing, we meet again soon.”
“Until the morrow comes.”
~~~~
Being inside hostile lands, the Mearcians kept a strong watch surrounding their camp. Their patrols were numerous, although each consisted only of two warriors, as injuries and deaths had made its toll on Brand’s fighting force. One such pair leisurely made its way through the hills, enjoying the gentle weather and casual conversation.
“… only one card left, and only a thane will win the game for me.”
“You told me this story yesterday.”
“I did?”
“Yes! Twice, you halfwit.”
“Well, it’s a good story.” The soldier cleared his throat. “So there I was, one card left, and I needed to draw a thane.”
“Well met, men of the Mearc,” a voice called out to them in Nordspeech.
“Himil’s balls!” The pair turned abruptly to see a blackboot calmly staring at them. They lowered their spears immediately.
“I wish to surrender.”
The Mearcians exchanged looks. “What does that mean?”
“Please, take my weapons and lead me to your camp.”
“This can’t be right.”
“I assure you,” Kamran said patiently, “if I wished you harm, I would simply have ambushed you. On the contrary, I wish to warn you of impending danger.”
“I don’t trust him. We should kill him.”
“I can also hear and understand you,” Kamran pointed out.
“This ain’t right,” repeated the other soldier. “Outlanders aren’t supposed to talk, they’re supposed to die.”
“Might I suggest you take me to your leader, should you be uncertain how to proceed?”
The pair looked at each other again. “No tricks out of you. Hand over your weapons!”
“As you command.” Kamran unbuckled his belt and hung it upon one of the spears pointed at him. “Shall we proceed? I believe your camp is in that direction.”
“This is all kinds of wrong,” one of the Mearcians muttered as they set off.
~~~~
Everything was peaceful in the Mearcian camp. Nearly one third of the inhabitants were gone; a score had been sent north to ambush a group of outlanders, and others were spread across the area on patrols or as sentries. The remainder busied themselves with the usual chores, fetching water, preparing food, mending clothes, and so forth.
Serenity was shattered when a blackboot entered the camp, flanked by two warriors. He carried no weapons, but his hands were not tied either, and his demeanour made him seem at ease. From all sides, the Mearcians moved towards the outlander, many of them with drawn weapons.
“What in Hel’s name are you doing?” came a roaring voice. With fury on his face, Glaukos stalked towards the pair and their prisoner. A blade was already in his hand.
“He surrendered, milord,” they explained.
“And you morons brought him here?”
“What else to do?”
“Anything but give him the location of our camp,” Glaukos yelled. He scowled at Kamran. “We will have to kill him as soon as we are done interrogating him. We cannot take any risk he escapes.”
“In fact, I should seek to speak with your commander,” Kamran interjected.
“Holy Hel, it speaks,” Glaukos exclaimed. “You must consider me a fool if you think I will let you within a hundred feet of our captain.” He spat on Kamran. “But knowing you speak the true tongue makes this easier.” He raised his blade to place it against the blackboot’s cheek.
Unflinching, Kamran met his gaze. “I know you are not a fool, Glaukos of Tothmor. That is why you will let me speak to your commander.”
Glaukos’ mouth dropped open, and his blade fell down on Kamran’s shoulder. “You filthy bastard. How in Hel’s name do you know mine?”
“Glaukos, Queen’s Blade, leader of a resistance group until you were betrayed and failed,” the blackboot began to say. Glaukos’ fist punched him on the mouth, and he fell to the ground. “You were lured into an ambush,” Kamran continued, wiping away the blood from his split lip. “Led by a traitor, Hugh of Esmarch. You fought one of the fravashi. Outmatched and wounded, you fled into a tavern.”
“Go to Hel!” Glaukos yelled, but he stood still as if spellbound by Kamran’s words.
“You were bleeding. You hid in the cellar underneath the kitchen.”
“How do you know that?” The words came more like the snarl of a beast than the speech of a man.
“It was I who used the oil lamp to cover the scent of your blood from the fravashi,” Kamran recounted. “It was I who saved you.”
“Why?” Glaukos yelled. “Why?” he repeated with fury seeping from his voice. “It can’t be.”
“Javed teaches us that when we save a life, we save ourselves.” Still lying on his back, Kamran stared up at Glaukos. “I did not think your courage deserved death.”
“Milord, what do we do?” someone asked Glaukos. There was a ring of spectators, watching with bewilderment.
“I do not believe in gods, Glaukos, but I believe in fate. It is time you repay me by taking me to your commander,” Kamran stated calmly.
Glaukos let a deep breath; his empty hand trembled until he clenched it into a fist. “Pull him on his feet,” he commanded. “We will take him to the captain. But one false move and I will gut you like a fish, you hear?”
“That is reasonable,” Kamran assented as someone grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him up to stand.
“On your way,” Glaukos growled, pushing the blackboot forward with a blade against his back.
~~~~
Brand sat on a tree log in discussion with his aides when half the camp seemed to approach his position. Even stranger, a blackboot walked at the head of the procession.
“Glaukos, what is this?” he asked, seeing the warrior walking behind the prisoner.
“This – man surrendered to us,” Glaukos explained. “He wishes to talk to you.” He reached out to slap a hand down on Kamran’s shoulder. “That is close enough.”
Brand stood up. Behind him, a kingthane kept his hand on the hilt of his sword and eyes locked on the blackboot. “I admit I am curious. Does he speak our tongue?”
“I do,” Kamran confirmed. “You must be Lord Adalbrand, wielder of the Blade of Ruin.”
“In the hands of my warriors, all blades carry ruin,” Brand said with half a smile. “Speak up! What is your purpose? Are you alone?”
“I am, my lord. I have been sent by Javed. The one you call Godfrey, I believe,” he added.
An expression moved across Brand’s face. “Speak.”
“Your location is no longer secret. Forces are moving towards this camp in this very moment. The same is the case for your soldiers guarding the long stone,” Kamran declared. His words caused ripples through the listeners, and the open hostility on their faces changed into concern.
“He could be lying,” Glaukos pointed out.
“Both my presence and my news should indicate that neither your camp nor your movements are hidden. You must retreat at once before it is too late,” Kamran stated.
Brand stared at him and took a step closer.
“Milord,” came a warning from his thane.
“Describe Godfrey to me,” the captain demanded.
Kamran licked his lips. “He is – not young, but he does not look old. He does not have a beard. Maybe stubbles. His eyes are – dark, I think. You cannot look into his eyes for long.”
Brand’s own eyes lingered on the blackboot a moment longer. “I believe you,” he finally said, causing further tension in the crowd. He looked past Kamran at Glaukos. “Gather every horse and the kingthanes. We ride to the crossing.” Glaukos gave a nod and left immediately; nearby, Matthew grabbed his equipment with excited eyes. Turning his head, Brand looked at Doran. “Break camp. Once the patrols return, march for the Langstan. We will keep the crossing open for you. You have command in my absence.”
“Yes, captain.”
“Bring him along, but do not harm him,” Brand specified with a gesture towards the blackboot. “Our enemy is the Godking, not his people.” Hearing this, Kamran inclined his head slowly. After a moment, Brand reciprocated. Around them, the Mearcians broke into hectic activity.
~~~~
Twenty warriors in disguise moved north of the Langstan, tracking an outlander patrol. Their prey had equal numbers, but the Mearcians were not concerned; the element of surprise and the ferocity of their leaders had proven decisive every time. Led by a kingthane, they marched quickly to reach their target.
When they finally did, the actual outlanders slowed down, turned, and waited. As the Mearcians approached, the imminent battle caused tense demeanours, and they gripped their weapons tight in anticipation. Reaching their enemies, they lowered spears and charged with the thane in the lead.
A warrior stepped forward among the outlanders; he wore a mask of steel. Instead of spear and shield, his weapons were only blades. He leapt forward, evading hostile weapons. The kingthane, unprepared for this, was cut down within moments.
With surprise turned against them, the Mearcians held out a moment longer, clashing against the outlanders. Another two fell to the shadow warrior by precise strikes, and another two. Finding themselves in a hopeless situation and outnumbered, the Mearcians dropped weapons and fled.
Rather than pursue, the outlanders took out their bows and let arrows take flight. Several of the Mearcians tumbled to the ground, never to rise again.
Once they were beyond range of the archers, the shadow gave a quick order, and the outlanders formed a column, taking up pursuit.
~~~~
Gasping for breath, seven survivors finally stopped their frantic escape. They had placed enough distance between themselves and the outlanders that for now, the latter were not in sight. Most of them collapsed onto the ground, breathing with greed.
“What was that – thing?” asked someone with spare breath.
“Some manner of fell creature,” mumbled Jerome. He stood bent over, as exhausted as any other.
“More importantly, what do we do now?” asked another.
“Go west,” came the suggestion. “They won’t pursue far.”
“I can’t believe I’m about to say this,” Jerome muttered. He straightened up to look at the others. “We have to go south.”
“South? They’ll catch up to us!”
“That creature’s presence wasn’t a coincidence,” Jerome pointed out, still out of breath. “They’ll be taking the Langstan, probably the camp, too. We have to warn them.”
“If they’re headed for the wall, we’ll die if we go there as well.”
“Our people will die if we don’t,” Jerome countered. “Enough talk. Let’s go!”
He turned south and began to move again. Inspired or shamed by his example, the others followed suit. In the far distance, they could see the towers of the Langstan beckoning.
~~~~
An hour later, seven stragglers reached the crossing of the Langstan. They were met by five Mearcians keeping watch.
“What happened, brothers?” they called out in shock upon seeing the ragged band.
“They’ve figured us out,” someone replied. “They had this – this beast with them in the shape of a man. He tore through us like cattle.”
“Rest now,” a guard suggested while others brought water for them to drink. “You’re safe.”
“We’re not,” Jerome declared in between sharp breaths. “I’ll bet my last copper they’re coming here to keep us trapped. We must warn the camp.”
“He’s right. The captain should know what happened.”
“I’ll go.” One of the watchers placed his shield and spear against the parapet, turned south, and ran down the ramp towards the hills.
“The rest of us should prepare. We need weapons,” Jerome pointed out. He had only his short sword by his side; the same was the case for the other survivors. One of them picked up the spear and shield left behind by the runner.
“We have a few more spears inside the tower and a bow. Any of you an archer?” asked a sentinel.
“I’ll take that.”
“Get to the top of the tower. You’ll have better –”
“They’re here! Arrows!”
The Mearcians scattered. Those with shields quickly raised them; the rest hid behind crenellations or ran inside the tower.
“They’re coming!” someone roared. “Formation!”
Because of the ramp, the outlanders had direct access to the wall. The Mearcians had no choice but to stand side by side in the open, preparing themselves for the charge. Arrows flew both ways; one of the attackers fell as did one of the defenders, caught without shield. The remaining outlanders stormed up the ramp, led by the shadow warrior.
He sought out one of the poorly armed Mearcians. Instantly, he was up close, stabbing his victim. A spear came against him, striking into his leg. Snarling, the shadow grabbed the shaft of the spear and pushed it from his wound. With haste, the shadow pulled the spear towards himself, bringing its wielder within range of his long dagger that found another victim.
The line of defenders broke. In the chaos that ensued, the shadow warrior excelled. Unhindered by his wound, he moved and lashed out with speed and precision.
Seeing those yellow eyes fixed on him, Jerome raised his sword; in response, the shadow stalked towards him on the wall. Witnessing death approach him, Jerome staggered backwards; his blade hung low, anticipating defeat.
A horse came thundering up the ramp, throwing the shadow aside. Nine more followed as Brand and his retinue arrived to the fight. The captain impaled an outlander with his spear; the force made the shaft break, and he threw it aside, drawing his sword.
Sneering, the shadow rose to his feet. His sight set on Brand with blade in hand. With a leap, the shadow tumbled forward, cutting the forelegs of Brand’s mount and diving away. The horse reared in pain and fell to the ground, trapping its rider underneath.
The shadow warrior readied his blades and leapt forward once more. Before he could strike down, Matthew appeared at his master’s side, raising his shield in defence. Deftly, the shadow struck below Matthew’s guard. Surprise filled the boy’s face, and he stumbled backwards.
Underneath the horse, Brand struggled to free himself. As he finally managed to pull his legs out, the shadow was upon him. His knife came against Brand’s stomach in a blow promising an agonising death. Pushing his feet against the dead horse, Brand slid backwards on the ground, and the knife struck into his thigh instead.
With a grimace born of pain, Brand used his other leg to kick the shadow in the chest, throwing him back. Finally free, he got on his feet, raising the sword of sea-steel.
“Wrath, rage, storm, and song,” the creature spoke in Adalspeech; his voice came distorted underneath his steel mask. “Death awaits!”
Despite his previous injuries, the shadow seemed unhindered. He launched a fierce assault against Brand with both his blades. In contrast, Brand had only his sword, and his movements were dulled by his wounded leg. As the fight raged around them, the Dragonheart was forced back, step by step, in a desperate defence.
From the edge of this maelstrom of steel, Jerome kept back. He stared at Brand embroiled in the bitter duel. Once more, he found himself positioned behind Brand with a blade in hand.
Rushing forward, Jerome slashed his sword against the shadow’s arm. It caused no injury other than consternation as the shadow turned and struck back, but it was enough. The brief distraction allow Brand to thrust his sword into the side of his enemy. Eagerly, the sea-steel bit what common iron would not.
With a terrible shriek, the shadow staggered backwards. Dark liquid flowed from the wound as Brand pulled the sword back. His countenance hidden beneath his mask, the shadow turned and fled. As the outlanders witnessed this, their morale broke as well.
Their horses dead and their bodies exhausted, the Mearcians did not pursue. The small space upon the wall seemed to hold an impossible number of corpses, both beast and Man. Sword sliding from his hand, Brand fell to his knees seeing Matthew among them.
~~~~
It would be a while before the remainder of their company joined the Mearcians at the wall. Making the most of the waiting, they prepared their fallen brethren for burial.
It would take too long to dig individual graves, but they could not bear to simply pile the corpses together in a single mass grave. Instead, the Mearcians decided to build a pyre. Furniture from the tower and anything else that would burn was brought down from the wall. They built the fire on the Mearcian side, deciding the ashes of their dead should fall on familiar soil. Some lamp oil ensured that the pyre would burn with strength.
They placed the dead side by side onto the fuel; as the last, Brand laid Matthew down gently. The boy wore his Order colours; it was the same surcoat he had donned years ago when first conscripted, no doubt having lied about his age. He had worn it at Lake Myr, across the Weolcans, in every battle by Brand’s side, and finally in the Reach. Now its journey ended as his had done.
Brand’s face was devoid of expression; he spoke not a word, and none dared speak to him. Instead, their work done, the Mearcians settled onto the wall, keeping watch; some looked north should the outlanders return, others looked south in anticipation of their brethren arriving from camp.
When the latter happened, they were greeted by a sombre mood and the sight of a battlefield. Lengthy explanations were unnecessary; their journey into the Reach had been a challenge to the Godking, and a response was to be expected. Having judged Kamran’s words to be true, Brand gave the brief command to let him be freed. With a silent gesture of respect, the blackboot left in peace and in haste.
Their company assembled, the Mearcians could begin the funeral. They gathered in a circle around the pyre with all eyes on Brand. “Wigstan,” he began to say. “Kevan. Jason. Morgan. Ciara. Brogan. Ryan. Hrodgar. Damon. Sinéad.” He took a breath. “Matthew. Your names – your names are written on my heart. All of them.” He placed his hand on his chest.
Next to him, Brother Caradoc stepped forward to finish the rites. Soon, the pyre burned. Brand kept his gaze upon Matthew’s face as the fire erased every facial feature once so familiar. Around the circle, the others paid tribute in their own manner. Some prayed, some wept; some gave their own sacrifice to the flames.
It did not last long; knowing that the smoke would attract unwanted attention, the Mearcians did not linger. Keeping to the shadow of the Langstan, they marched west.
|
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|
The Tale of Sir Damien
Isarn
On the first morning in Adalrik, Damien woke to find himself alone. It took him a while to notice this. He stretched and rubbed his eyes, drinking greedily from their water skin. He only realised Gunvor’s bedroll was empty once he got up and glanced towards it. For a moment he stood with obvious confusion on his face; he used one foot to prod the empty bedroll. Only fabric and the dirt underneath met his movement.
Crouching into a stance ready for battle, he crossed his hand over to grab the hilt of his sword; his eyes darted around among the surrounding bushes where they had camped. “If this is some trick by Elvenfolk – if you have taken my companion, know that I have good steel ready for you,” he called out, but not too loudly.
There was a rustle behind him, and he swung around with the sword a few inches out of its scabbard. The foliage of the bushes separated, and a green shape passed through. Damien relaxed his tense body as he saw it was Gunvor; she stared at him astonished. “Who are you fighting?”
“You were gone,” he mumbled, letting the sword slide back into its sheath. “I thought someone had taken you.”
“I was merely collecting a few nuts and berries.” She held out the cloth in her hand that she had tied into a bundle. “You sleep so late in the morning, and you’re impossible to rouse.”
“Soldier’s habit. You learn to sleep as soon as you can, as much as you can.”
“So you retain at least one habit from your soldiering days,” she remarked pointedly, gathering her things.
“That sounded like a veiled insult.”
“I’ll be clearer with my next words. You keep holding your sword or your belt, or you hide your hands behind your back.”
“Strange thing to observe,” Damien muttered, picking up his cloak that served as his bedroll.
“Your hands are shaking. Thirsty, are you?”
“I just like holding my belt,” he yelled with sudden anger. “Keep your eyes to yourself, you Hel-damned robe!”
“Hand that shakes, blade that breaks,” Gunvor spoke with a mocking tone. “How can you call yourself a warrior?”
“As if a bloody priestess would know anything about that!”
“I’m not defenceless!” she retorted, drawing the dagger in her belt.
Reacting on instinct, Damien grabbed her wrist and bent it, making her drop the knife and exclaim in pain. “Careful,” he growled, releasing his hold. “You draw a blade on a man, you best be prepared to use it against him.”
“You’re a brute,” she said with a scowl, picking up her dagger. “You’re no better than the brigands you’re supposed to protect me from.”
He gave a harsh laughter. “Trust me, I have killed far more men than any bandits you will ever meet.”
“I thought you said that brittle sword of yours never killed anyone,” she pointed out.
“This is a holy blade, consecrated for use in the Temple,” he told her with a sneer. “I never killed anyone after I took the Templar’s vows, except…”
“Except? Regale me with tales of your exploits, mighty warrior.”
With a scowl of his own, he picked up his possessions. “We are wasting time.” Without waiting further, he returned the road. Staring at Damien’s back, Gunvor eventually followed his example; they began moving east, keeping distance to each other.
~~~~
Moving from forest to farmlands brought another change; the travelling pair began to see villages on their journey. None of them lay close by the Kingsroad, as its only purpose was to connect the major cities, but they saw the smoke rising in the distance that spoke of hearths and homes. Inevitably after days of journey, they passed by an inn offering food and shelter to weary travellers.
“We should stop for the night,” Damien declared.
“The sun hasn’t set yet,” Gunvor pointed out. “We can easily walk another hour.”
“Why sleep on the ground when beds are available?”
“It hasn’t been a problem for the last three weeks.”
“We can get a warm meal. Sleep without roots prodding us in the back,” Damien said with a tone of temptation.
“Such comforts become a crutch,” the priestess replied without much conviction.
“You can have conversation with someone other than me.”
Gunvor exhaled. “If it’ll silence you, fine. But I have the coin purse, and I decide what we spend it on.” She patted the small bag hanging by her belt. “Food and beds, nothing more. We drink water,” she told him pointedly.
“As you wish,” Damien assented, sounding docile.
They entered the common room and found it mostly empty. A handful of men sat scattered around the tables, drinking, talking, and playing dice. By their garbs, they were peasants from the nearby villages; none wore signs of lengthy travels like Gunvor and Damien.
“Gods’ peace to you, Sister, and your companion. What’ll it be?” asked the tavern keeper.
“A meal for us both, and a simple bed for the night,” she replied.
“Certainly. That’ll be a silver for each of you, and I can have my boy fetch water for a bath. Won’t cost you a petty extra,” the owner offered.
Damien waved his hand dismissively. “I bathed the other month.”
Gunvor gave him a look. “I would be grateful for that, good master.” She dug out two silver marks from her purse.
“No trouble at all. Find yourselves a place to sit, and a bowl of stew will be on its way.”
“Some water to drink, if you please,” Gunvor quickly added. Damien glanced elsewhere.
“Sure.”
They sat down at an empty table; moments later, the promised bowls were placed before them along with a wooden spoon and a mug of water for each. They began eating.
“You know what would go well with this stew?”
“No.”
“A strong, stout ale.”
“No.”
“A cup of red wine.”
“No.”
“White wine.”
“No.”
“Mead.”
“No.”
“Diluted mead.”
“No.”
“Water with flavour of hops.”
“No.”
Damien sighed. “I tried.”
“Just eat.”
“You are a harsh task mistress. You make a good priestess.”
“You would know, I’m sure. All that time you spent in the great Temple. How long did you serve?”
He looked down into his bowl. “I do not wish to discuss that.”
Gunvor glanced around; being the only strangers, their simple presence had attracted attention, as did their conversation. “Then you best eat and be quiet.”
“Very well.” They finished their meal in silence; with a sad look, Damien drank his water.
“Pardon me, good mistress.” A boy in his early teens approached their table. “The bathing room is ready for you, and there’s an empty bed for each of you upstairs when you want to turn in.”
“Thank you,” Gunvor smiled, getting up. She passed through one of the doors to enter the adjacent room.
It contained a hearth, upon which water could be heated; in the middle stood a tub, partly filled. Gunvor quickly undressed and stepped into the warm water with a pleased look. After enjoying the warmth for a while, she made use of the coarse soap and rags made available to her.
Half an hour later, she returned to the common room. Her expression turned from satisfied to alarmed as she saw Damien in the company of the other patrons, emptying a tankard as they laughed.
“Of course, by then we were long gone, leaving them with nothing but their trousers,” the former knight explained.
“Friend, I think you’re full of lies, but they’re well told,” one of the farmers admitted.
Gunvor stalked over to the table. “Damien, I believe it’s time you retire,” she told him.
“Uh, the wife is here, and she’s not happy,” someone remarked, causing laughter.
“Sleep all you want,” Damien told her. “I am not finished.”
“Yes, you are,” Gunvor insisted. “You should not entice these men to buy you drink.”
Damien’s companions raised their hands with demonstrative innocence. “Sister, we’d never be so foolish. We know better than pouring coin down a bottomless well.”
“I pay for my own ale, thank you,” Damien told her.
“How? Did you steal from me?” Her hand grabbed at the purse hanging by her side.
“How dare you!” Damien exclaimed. “Damien of Montmer is no thief! I had a silver mark down my boot, for desperate times. Old soldier’s trick.”
“I’ve heard that name before.” One of the peasants stroked his chin. “Sir Damien, right? Of the Temple.”
“Not as such,” muttered the former knight.
“Damien, you should sleep,” Gunvor insisted. She took hold of his arm, trying to pull him up, but he resisted with ease.
“I will sleep when I damn well please,” he growled.
“Better listen to the wife, friend,” someone laughed.
“Hey, you’re right,” another interjected. “Damien of Montmer, he was a Templar. Broke his oaths, didn’t he, lost everything. Sword broken, spurs taken.”
“Lies. All lies,” Damien mumbled with slurred speech. “Never broke an oath.”
“Sometimes you wonder, what happens to these high and mighty fellows.” Several grinned. “Now we know.”
“Dogs, the lot of you,” Damien declared, wresting himself free from Gunvor’s grip. “I wore the ash tree upon my surcoat. I earned my golden spurs on the field of battle. I was first on the walls at the siege of Beaumont. What has any of you curs ever done?” he roared.
“We’ve never broken any oaths.”
Damien smashed his tankard into the table with such force, it broke in his hand. In an instant, he was on his feet, towering over the villagers.
“Damien!” Pushed back by his sudden movement, Gunvor placed a hand on his shoulder, pulling at him. He swung around to face her. Anger overflowed his expression, and his empty hand was curled into a fist. “This is beneath you,” she said quietly, and when he hesitated, she dared to place one hand against his cheek. “A man of your stature does not involve himself in simple tavern brawls.”
“Listen to the wife.” Scattered laughter could be heard.
Damien breathed heavily; his face was red with drink and anger. He stared at Gunvor until his body suddenly relaxed; the broken mug in his hand fell to the floor. “To Hel with all of them,” he mumbled.
“To Hel with them,” Gunvor reiterated.
“We should retire for the night,” Damien declared.
“We should.” With her supporting him, the pair walked up the stairs to the sleeping hall.
~~~~
The next morning, they woke to find the other patrons gone; none else had stayed the night. The tavern keeper’s wife offered them some porridge and water for breakfast; otherwise, she and her family kept their distance. Damien and Gunvor ate their meal in silence; before they departed, she left a handful of copper petties on the table.
“The gods made the sun too bright,” Damien complained. They were in the midst of summer, and ever since leaving the forests of Vidrevi behind, they travelled on roads without shade.
“We should look for a stream soon,” he remarked a while later. “We forgot to fill our skins before we left this morning.” Gunvor did not reply.
An hour later, Damien knelt by a brook, drinking his fill. “Cold,” he muttered. “Are you not thirsty?” Ignoring him, she submerged her skin until it was full once more.
They travelled a few miles longer before Damien broke the silence again. “You are not saying much today.” He continued a moment later. “Not that I mind. My head aches a bit.”
“I wonder why.”
“Probably the bed I slept on.”
“Really? Really?” she repeated. “You don’t think it has anything to do with all your drinking last night?”
“I had maybe three ales. Four at most,” Damien replied casually. “Nothing to trouble me.”
“Oh, so you wouldn’t count your behaviour last night as trouble.”
“Hah! There we have it. You are angered.”
The priestess kept a quick pace, pointedly avoiding looking in Damien’s direction. “Why would I be? You’re a drunk. Of course you’ll drink when you get the chance.”
“Right. Glad you understand.”
“Never mind that you nearly started a fight and Hel knows what else!”
“You must be really mad if you are using such language.”
“You – you absolute bastard!” Gunvor yelled.
“I assure you, my parents were married at the time of my birth.”
“What if there had been a fight last night? What would you have done?”
“You mean if I had faced three peasants? Probably cracked their heads together and sent them home with bloody noses,” Damien considered.
“And if you had killed one of them? You would have been seized as a murderer and brought to trial!”
He quickened his steps to move ahead of her and turned around, walking backwards while facing her. “If so, you would be free to continue your journey alone, unhindered,” Damien said with a wry smile.
“Get out of my face!” He did so, albeit not of his own will; not able to watch his own steps, he stumbled and fell to the ground. “You really are useless,” she remarked with contempt, stepping around him.
“That is harsh,” he complained, getting up. He took one step and immediately fell down again.
She stopped and turned to look at him. “Really?”
“I think – I may have sprained my ankle,” he mumbled, avoiding her gaze.
¨”Gods give me strength.”
“To carry me?”
“To keep from strangling you.”
With some difficulty and leaning on Gunvor’s shoulder, Damien hobbled off the road. He sat down against a tree, removing his boot with a small grunt of pain. His sock followed after, revealing skin that was growing red and starting to swell.
“It will be fine,” he claimed. “A bandage, maybe a walking staff for support, and I will be on my feet again.”
“Depends on how much it swells. If it is bad, you should not move for a few days.”
“I thought your robe was green, not red.”
“You don’t have to be a norn to understand a simple sprain,” she retorted.
“I once fought for three hours with an arrow through my ankle. Between the two of us, I think I am the better judge of injuries,” he claimed.
She looked down at his foot. “I don’t see any scar.”
“I have two ankles.”
“Fortunately only one tongue,” she muttered, digging out a piece of cloth from her travel bag that she began wrapping around the swelling.
“Not too tight,” he cautioned her.
“You are not the first person in the world to have ever a sprained ankle,” she proclaimed in exasperation. “There! Does it suit his lordship’s standards?”
He moved his foot back and forth. “It will do.”
She stood up. “Wait here.”
“Where are you going?”
“We will need more water at some point. Foraging for food and collecting firewood for tonight would also be useful. And I can imagine which of us will have to do it!” She stalked away, leaving him to tentatively prod the bandage around his leg.
~~~~
When night came, Gunvor had built a fire and shared anything edible she had found. Using the pommel of his dagger, Damien cracked several walnuts open and handed a few over to her.
“At least you’re good for something,” she mumbled.
“Nuts or skulls, the principle is the same. Apply force in the right place,” he explained.
“I didn’t ask. That’s all you’re good for, isn’t it? Fighting.”
“Yes.”
She sent him a look, taken aback. “We agree on something.”
“But I was never simply good. I was the best.”
“I knew you’d turn this on its head somehow.”
“As a page in Fontaine, I beat every other page. Even those two years older than me. Even Sir Martel.”
“I haven’t a clue who that is.”
“I squired for Sir Theobald,” Damien continued, adjusting himself to sit more upright. “You heard of him, at least?”
“Never.”
“The Blade of the North? Now captain of the Citadel?”
“That may ring a bell,” Gunvor granted.
“He was the best warrior in all the realms, and for seven years, he trained me until I was his equal. He took me on because he knew I had the right mettle. That I would keep improving, keep perfecting myself,” Damien declared.
“Why?” asked Gunvor.
“What else is there to life when you are a knight? What other goals could I pursue?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I don’t know anything about knights.”
“I had a gift,” Damien explained. “I knew I could be the next great warrior. Another Theobald, another Etienne, another Eirik Wyrmbane. I swore to myself I would not relent until I had achieved this. And I always keep my oaths.”
“So I hear.”
“I was thirteen when I met Sir Theobald. I challenged him to a duel. He beat me handily, of course, but he was sufficiently impressed to make me his squire and train me.”
“What happened next?” Opposite the fire, Gunvor stared at Damien’s face illuminated by the crackling flames.
“Seven years of war as his squire. Another fifteen years of the same as a knight. I fought battles in every realm, sometimes beyond.” He stared into the fire. “Sieges in Ealond. Ships beyond Drake Run. Crossing rivers at night. Fighting knee-deep in snow on the slopes of the Weolcans. I killed men using spear, sword, axe, knife, mace, and flail.”
“That sounds like a nightmare.”
“It is until the battle is over and you have won. Then it is everything you dreamt of.”
She shivered despite the heat of the campfire. “What a wicked dream to have.”
He nodded, still keeping his eyes on the flames. “It took me too long to realise that.”
“What happened?” she asked as before.
“There was a battle in Heohlond. Sir Theobald took a spear, and I knew he would never fight as before. I knew my time had come.”
“What did you do?”
“I fought in the grand fight at the solstice tournament,” Damien related. “I crushed them all.”
“You proved yourself the best.”
“I did, and in that moment, I realised what it meant.”
“What did it mean?”
He took a deep breath. “A never-ending turn of the wheel, year after year of war. On mountain slopes or in river valleys. Attacking walls or defending them. Killing men until one day, they would kill me. I held my prize in my hand, and it was hollow. All it meant was more of the same.”
“You had enough.”
“I had nothing left to strive for. I sought leave to join the ranks of the Templars. The Highfather granted it.”
“You stopped killing.” She glanced at the sword by his side.
“For six years – or seven? Maybe five – I wore the ashen tree. I kept my vows. Obedience, poverty, chastity.”
“But something happened.”
“I spent an evening in a tavern in the city. A man insulted me. I was drunk, and so was he.”
“How did he insult you?”
“Gods, as if I have any recollection. I do not even remember hitting him.”
“You killed him?”
“It was not my first brawl. While unseemly for a Templar, I was never reproached for it before. Until I woke up and was told I had killed a man.” He wetted his lips. “The Temple paid a weregild to his family to keep the matter quiet. I was dismissed, my sword broken, and my name stricken from all records of honour.”
Gunvor shook her head. “You realise that last night you could have done the very same? Killed a man simply because of drink and anger. Do you never stop to consider?”
He gave a shrug. “I am what I am.”
“I don’t accept that. You can’t shirk responsibility for your actions so easily.”
He finally raised his eyes to stare at her. “From the age of seven until I was older than forty, I spent every day training to kill or fighting to kill. I wager it would take as many years to calm the beast they woke inside of me.”
She kept his gaze for a long while before she spoke again. “We should sleep.” She lay down on her bedroll, closing her eyes. He agreed wordlessly, manoeuvring himself to a restful pose without disturbing his ankle.
When Damien woke again, glancing over the ashes of the campfire, he saw no sign of Gunvor.
|
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A Measure of Mercy
Alcázar
“How is your progress?” Jalil’s mother stared at him under her heavy eyelids.
“The prisoners are breaking,” he claimed. “They will lead me to the remaining spies soon enough.”
“In other words, you have made no progress.” There was a steel edge in her voice.
“I am sure Saif is no further along than me! This takes time,” he complained.
“You should aim at being better than Saif, not his equal,” she told him pointedly. “Your father will not be impressed by a son trudging along, doing the bare necessary and nothing more.”
“What do you expect from me? That I spend my days in the dungeons, wielding the knife myself?”
“If that is necessary.” She rose from her divan and approached her son. She placed her hand on his cheek, seemingly with affection, but her long nails scratched into his skin. “We have been working towards this your entire life, my son. Do not stumble so close to the end of the journey.”
He swallowed. “Of course not, Mother. I will do anything I must.”
“There is the boy I raised.” She smiled without warmth.
~~~~
Going to the dungeons, Jalil found Imad preparing his tools and the prisoners. They were once more forced to stand with their limbs spread out, unable to move. Seeing the prince, Imad bowed low and picked up a pair of thongs.
“Is he ready?” Jalil asked coldly.
“Yes, sidi. Ask your questions.” Imad moved to stand next to Majid, while Jalil kept some distance.
“Tell me the names of every spy in the city.”
“I took my orders from a man named Jawad,” Majid admitted. Imad quickly pushed a piece of dirty cloth into Majid’s mouth, grabbed one of his fingers, applied the thongs, and pulled the fingernail out. Distaste ran across Jalil’s face upon hearing Majid’s veiled scream; Brand’s face was turned the other way, hiding his expression.
Letting the bloody nail fall to the floor, Imad removed the gag. “Ask again, sidi.”
“Tell me all the names of every spy, you traitorous scum.”
“Jawad,” mumbled Majid. “His name was Jawad. And the black-robed priests.”
Jalil looked at Imad, who nodded. “He tells it true, sidi.”
“Tell me of this Jawad. Who is he? Where can he be found?”
“He is a thief. I have no idea where to find him.” The dirty cloth was returned to Majid’s mouth, and Imad pulled another nail. “I swear it!” Majid exclaimed once the rag was taken away. “I don’t know his home.”
“Where did you meet?”
“He came to my home when he needed me.”
“What was your task?”
“I took messages from him to the black-clothed priests,” Majid explained. “That is all.”
“What did those messages contain?”
“I don’t know.” Jalil nodded to Imad. Another finger lost its crown. “I don’t know, I swear!”
“I believe he is honest, sidi,” the torturer interjected.
“Make sure.” The thongs made their pull.
“I don’t know!”
Jalil watched Majid with a dissatisfied face. “You are of no help.” He turned his eyes on Brand. “Maybe he can answer some questions.”
“Sidi, with apologies, I think it’s too early,” Imad intervened.
“How?” exclaimed Jalil with anger. “Your task is simply to hurt them! Hurt them until they tell the truth!” He drew a dagger from his sheath and made a quick cut across Brand’s stomach, prompting a small gasp of pain. “See? Like this!”
“With all respect, sidi, simply applying pain will not yield good results. The prisoner will say anything to make it stop. It becomes very hard to know whether they are being honest, which is why I must take time, build up the pain and learn their reaction,” Imad explained.
Jalil watched the little man with disdain. “You are testing my patience.”
“I beg your forgiveness, sidi.”
“I will return tonight,” the prince declared with a sneer. “I expect the northern bastard to provide me with answers.”
“Very well, sidi.”
~~~~
Naturally, the Kabir had an entire wing of the palace at his sole disposal. Here, he slept, ruled, and occasionally ate his meals. This had especially been the case during the wars with Labdah when poisoning was considered a probable threat. Whether attending to matters of state or desiring solitude, the Kabir preferred to sit in his library, surrounded by a wealth of books, coincidentally a reminder of his own wealth. Only a few trusted slaves were allowed to disturb the ruler in his library. The same privilege extended to the highest ranking of his servants, the hāgib.
Serving as the veil between the Kabir and his people, the hāgib was given more responsibility and authority than any other in Alcázar. Once a day, before the evening meal, he would inform his master of all pertinent matters and news, providing counsel and receiving instructions.
“At the very best, the fleet may be at full strength in two months’ time,” said the hāgib.
The Kabir received these news with a clenched jaw, but when he spoke, his voice was calm. “See to it.”
“Yes, sidi.”
“What of my sons?”
“Prince Saif has taken many for questioning, but most have been released again. Nothing of substance so far, I fear.”
“Jalil?”
“The prince Jalil fares similarly. His interrogation of the first prisoner seems to have yielded little. It is my understanding he will question the northerner soon.”
The Kabir took a heavy draught from a golden goblet of wine. “Do you consider their failure a sign of incompetence or simply that their pursuit is barren?”
“I fear the latter, my lord. This spy ring has always been organised with many layers. Like an onion, we peel away only to find another. Whoever sits at the core, they are too wily to be caught. Perhaps they have already fled the city.”
The Kabir stroked his oiled beard in contemplation. “Should I close the ports? It may be time we stop the flow of information.”
“With respect, sidi, that will send a certain signal to the island kingdom that our invasion is imminent. The longer they are kept in uncertainty, the better. Especially as our own spies report they are descending into chaos – news of our attack would make them unite against us. And should Your Eminence close the ports, we will be cut off from our spies as well.”
“You have convinced me,” the Kabir told him, waving his hand. “Just make sure the fleet is ready as soon as the winter storms end. This delay will put my plans under pressure.”
“Of course, sidi.”
“Any news from the Council of Ten?”
“Nothing since my last report, sidi.”
“Those old fools,” muttered the Kabir. “Fine. Enough for tonight. The evening meal beckons me.”
“Very good, sidi.” The hāgib bowed his head. “Shall I have food brought to you?”
“Let me dine with my sons for once. They may need the reminder of what is at stake.” The Kabir emptied his goblet and rose to his feet, striding past the hāgib, who retreated while bowing low.
~~~~
The dining hall of the palace distinguished itself in one aspect; it had no furniture of any kind. Instead, the Kabir’s court ate their meals sitting on the floor. It was an ancient custom, mostly eradicated by northern influence and northern lumber for chairs and tables, but it was still observed in full by the Kabir and all his courtiers. At least, this was the case in public.
Mealtimes were informal; unlike in the North, they were not announced by bells, nor did a water clock anywhere keep time. Instead, courtiers simply arrived within a certain span of hours, and there was a continuous stream of slaves bringing food to the hall. Those eating sat in semicircles, aimed towards a small dais intended for the Kabir; this ensured none ever sat with their backs towards the ruler of the city.
Around sunset, the hall was mostly full. Only the dais was out of bounds; the courtiers could sit where they pleased in the rest of the hall, though the closer to the ruler’s seat, the better. The hāgib always took his meal near it, often surrounded by people seeking his influence and approval. The same was the case for a few of the Kabir’s wives, who chose to eat here rather than in the harem; both Saif’s and Jalil’s mothers were among them, each having their own semicircle of attendants.
Jana entered the hall, quickly glancing around. Once her eyes found Saif, she moved to join him, his mother, and a few younger daughters. “Sayidaty,” she spoke.
“Jana, dearest, I am so glad you came,” said Saif’s mother. “Come, sit by my side! Make room,” she added to one of her children, who obliged.
“You are kind to desire my presence, Lady Rana,” Jana told the older woman, sitting down next to her.
“Nonsense. I always tell my daughters to look towards you as an example,” Rana replied. “Is that not true? I always tell you girls that Lady Jana is the very picture of a princess of Alcázar.”
“Yes, Mother,” the daughters mumbled.
“Besides, Saif has always prized your company, is that not so, Saif?”
“Very true, Mother,” replied her son with a smile, helping himself to fruit and roasted pigeon.
“And I have hardly seen much of you, even though your return was almost half a year ago. You must be happy to be back in Alcázar,” continued Rana.
“I am,” Jana confirmed. “Labdah is very different.”
“Saif told me all about it. Those alchemists in their tower.” She gave a visible shudder. “What a relief we do not have them in Alcázar, or I should positively never dare to put a fig in my mouth.”
“None would ever dare tamper with your food, Mother,” Saif declared with a wry look. “They are all much too afraid of you.”
“Silly boy,” she admonished him. “Hear how he talks to his own mother?” she added, directed at Jana.
“Even the best of trees may at times yield poor fruit,” Jana replied, making Rana laugh.
“How very right you are, my dear! Hear that, Saif? You are a rotten fig.”
“And you are a blossoming fig tree, dear mother,” her son told her.
Conversation became hushed all throughout the hall. From a door behind the dais, the Kabir appeared. He walked forward with slow steps, sitting down on a rug amidst pillows. There was frantic movement around him as servants hurried to bring him his preferred dishes and pour his wine.
The Kabir gestured for a slave to bow down and spoke a few quiet words into his ear. The slave quickly moved towards Saif and his companions. “The exalted Kabir commands the presence of his son.”
“Go, boy, do not keep your father waiting!” Rana exclaimed, ushering him away with her hands.
“If you will pardon me,” Saif told the others and got up. As he walked towards his father, he saw the slave continue to deliver the same message to Jalil. Moments later, the brothers stood before the Kabir.
“Sit,” he told them, and they complied, taking a seat on each side. “Saif,” he continued, “how goes your investigation?”
“I have interrogated many, which has given me further roads to follow.”
“You have nothing at present, in other words,” the Kabir pointed out, making Jalil smile.
“Not as such,” Saif admitted.
“Jalil!” Hearing his own name wiped Jalil’s smile away. “What of you?”
“I have done as you instructed, Father,” Jalil hurried to say. “I have thoroughly questioned the helper, and he yielded a name. I will question the northern savage tonight. I expect the spies will be known to me soon.”
“A name? Have you acted upon this?”
“Not yet,” Jalil mumbled. “I have not been able to find the person behind the name.”
“You are as far along as your brother, it seems,” the Kabir declared. This time, Saif had cause the smile.
“I will see this through,” Jalil claimed, gritting his teeth.
“Perhaps I need to think of other ways you can prove your worthiness. Both of you,” the Kabir remarked, letting his eyes move from one son to the other. Both of them looked down, avoiding his gaze.
~~~~
In the dungeons, Imad was busy cleaning Brand’s wounds on his chest when Jalil entered the cell. Already, the prince’s face was red. “It is time to continue. I want the northerner to tell me everything.”
Imad swallowed. “Yes, sidi. If I may, he has not spoken a single word yet. He is not an easy man to break –”
Jalil’s hand across Imad’s face interrupted his speech. “Get him ready!”
Imad rubbed his cheek but made no further interjection. He fetched a tool from his table. It was an iron ring with a long handle. Moving over to the prisoner, he pulled out a long needle from Brand’s little finger and stuck it into the prisoner’s wrist. The iron ring was pressed down on Brand’s finger, and Imad turned his face towards the prince. “Ask, sidi.”
“Tell me all the names of every spy in the city,” Jalil said in the northern tongue.
Brand did not make the slightest inclination of hearing the question.
Slowly pulling the handle of his tool, Imad began to bend Brand’s finger backwards. Brand clenched his jaw. The sickening sound of flesh ripping could be heard. Finally, Brand released an outcry of agony, and Imad released his grip.
“Tell me all their names.” Jalil walked over to grab Brand by the chin, sneering the words into his face. “Tell me!”
Brand responded only with a stare, and Imad began to pull his tool backwards again. This time he continued until the bone snapped and Brand roared with pain.
“Tell me!” shouted Jalil, grabbing hold of Brand’s hair. “Tell me everything!”
“I have nine more fingers. Keep going,” Brand told him in Mearcspeech.
Flushed with anger, Jalil relinquished his grip and turned towards Imad. “I thought you were breaking him! You have had days, and still he is defiant!”
“I beg your forgiveness, sidi, but you must understand the difference.” He pointed at Majid. “Him, he was motivated by coin. This one,” he continued, pulling out the needle from Brand’s wrist, “is fuelled by loyalty. He believes in his cause. That makes him harder to break, more delicate. I need more time.”
“More time,” Jalil sneered. “What use are you!”
“Apologies, sidi.”
The prince turned back to Majid. “What of you?”
“I know nothing more,” the prisoner mumbled.
“Then you can only serve one purpose. You will die, painfully, as an example to your companion.” Jalil turned his head towards Brand. “Do you hear? He will die with the utmost agony! And once I am done with him, you will follow.”
Brand only stared ahead.
“Take his next finger,” Jalil commanded with a malicious voice. Complying, Imad applied his tool upon Brand’s ring finger and pulled until bone broke. “Talk!” he added in Mearcspeech.
“Eight left,” Brand replied.
Exhaling, Jalil turned towards Imad. “You will break him, and you will do so soon.”
“Please, sidi, you must understand. If I proceed too swiftly, the prisoner will say anything to make the pain stop. It becomes very unreliable –”
Jalil interrupted the torturer with another slap. “Tomorrow.”
“Yes, sidi.”
“As for him…” Jalil turned towards Majid. “Listen to me, you faithless coward. I give you this respite until tomorrow to rack your mind for any knowledge, any name, any place. If you cannot provide me with anything, you will be tormented hour after hour, kept alive at the brink of death, until you remember.”
The prince left with swift steps. Imad watched him leave, sighing. “He’s going to undo days of work for me. It’s very difficult to do my task with all this interference,” he mumbled to himself. He glanced at Majid. “I suppose there is no need to work further on you. You’re a lost cause.” He reached out to grab the wooden pendant hanging around Majid’s neck. With a swift pull, Imad tore it off and threw it into the nearby brazier. The fire hissed and began consuming the wood. “A pity. I had hoped for more from you.” He turned his attention on Brand. “You, on the other hand…”
~~~~
Hours later, it was night, even in the dungeons. Imad had gone to sleep; the prisoners sat on the floor, allowed some manner of rest. “Harun,” muttered Majid.
It took a while for Brand to respond. “Yes?”
“I can’t anymore.”
Brand raised his head, glancing at the other man. The faint shimmer from the coals in the brazier was all that illuminated their space, casting an eerie glow the colour of a sunset. Their clothes were reduced to rags. Sweat and grime covered their skin along with streaks of dried blood. “I am not keeping you here.”
“But you can set me free.”
“What do you mean?”
Majid slowly turned his head to look at Brand. “Please. Kill me.”
His fellow prisoner raised his hands, showing the irons upon them. “How?”
“If we stand. Now, while the chains are not tight. You have long arms, I’ve noticed.”
Brand coughed. “I have never killed a man in cold blood, or with my bare hands.”
“It is an act of mercy. Please,” Majid implored him. “I cannot face tomorrow.”
Brand stared ahead into the coals. “Very well.” He pulled his legs back and placed one hand on the wall, supporting himself. With some difficulty, hindered by his shackles, he managed to stand. His movements were still difficult, but the chains were sufficiently loose that he could extend his arms.
Majid had gotten on his feet as well and moved as far as he could towards Brand. “I have never paid much attention to the gods. Do you think it is too late?”
“If they will not accept you, they are not just and thus not worthy of you,” Brand replied.
“I wore your god around my neck, yet he seems to have brought only death. Is he worth your loyalty?”
“Yes,” Brand whispered. “He did his best to keep me safe. My own actions brought me here.”
Majid nodded. “Then I shall pray he will take pity on me, and that I will see you again in a better place.”
“In a better place.” Brand swallowed, blinking several times.
“Do it. Before I lose my nerve, before the day dawns, before I am damned.”
Brand reached out and placed his hands, one injured, around Majid’s throat. He squeezed. At first, Majid stood calmly with closed eyes. Suddenly, his eyes flew open. He gasped for air. He grabbed Brand’s wrists, trying to pry his hands away, to no avail. Finally, he simply clawed against Brand’s grip.
Tears crept down Brand’s cheeks, becoming dirty. Still, he held on until Majid no longer struggled. He continued to squeeze and squeeze until there could not be a mote of doubt that all life was extinguished in Majid’s body. When only dead eyes stared back at him, Brand finally let go. Majid fell forwards, hanging at an awkward angle in the chains like a lifeless doll. As for Brand, he sank to the floor, burying his head in his hands.
|
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Jawad
Alcázar
Dār al-Imāra was counted among the Hundred Houses of Alcázar, making it one of the preeminent trading houses of the city. It was owned by the family al-Musharaf, who made their wealth known by living in a splendid palace with stables and beautiful gardens. As the principal trade of Dār al-Imāra was training slave boys into mamluks, the large compound also contained extensive living quarters for the host of people owned or employed by the family in various capacities.
Each morning, the master of the house woke early. Leaving his chamber in the harāmlik, he walked through the corridors of his palace, greeting servants as he passed them. Once he entered the courtyard, he would pause and watch the mamluks conduct their morning exercises. On occasion, he might exchange words with the master of arms in charge of the training, demanding corrections or offering praise before he continued on his way. The manner of his gait and the sword by his side suggested that, although not a slave soldier, the master of Dār al-Imāra knew his own trade.
His morning walk always ended at the stables, where he would procure a mount for a ride to his possessions in the city. While a stable hand prepared a steed for him, the master toured the stalls, inspecting his horses and making idle talk with beasts and servants alike.
“You seem less energetic than usual,” he remarked with concern as he patted his favourite mare on her muzzle. “And your eyes have a bit of shine to them. Boy, how much did she eat last night?” he asked the nearest servant without looking at the latter.
“I’m as old as you are, Faisal,” the other man replied with a quiet mutter, which prompted the nobleman to whip his head around.
“I wondered how long until you made your appearance.”
Jawad approached the nobleman, pretending to be busy caring for the horse. “I didn’t want to show up before I had results.”
“You’ve solved the issue?”
Jawad nodded. “Your lockbox will be returned today along with all of your items that I could find. There’s gold in compensation for the rest.”
“And the thief?”
“His days of thieving are over. His days of doing anything, in fact.”
“Very well. You have held up your end of the bargain as always. But you could simply have delivered all of this in a message,” Faisal al-Musharaf pointed out.
Jawad lowered his head, hiding his smile. “You hold the highest rank of all my friends.”
“It warms my heart to be named thus,” the nobleman replied, trying to tempt his mare to eat by offering the creature half an apple.
“I have heard the Kabir has sent his two favourite sons to Labdah.”
“This is no secret. They left only yesterday, I believe.”
“Given past hostility between our fair city and the Emerald Tower, how should this move be understood?” asked Jawad.
“Presumably, the intent is to open trade once more, though I cannot imagine Labdah will be amenable towards that.”
Jawad glanced through the stable doors at the slave soldiers practising weaponry. “You have more men in training than usual.”
“The Kabir has increased his demand. Though he has not sent many mamluks to Labdah, if that was your thought,” Faisal told him. “The princes have mostly brought mercenaries with them. It makes you wonder what the Kabir needs with so many mamluks.”
“And so many mercenaries.” Jawad abandoned his pretence of tending to tasks. “I’ll take no more of your time. You’re eager to continue with your day, I’m sure.”
“Come by some evening for tea. You are welcome to enter by the main entrance.”
Jawad smiled. “You know me better than that.” He made his exit, leaving Faisal to care for his horse.
~~~~
A city of trade, Alcázar was dominated by warehouses and mercantile buildings. Clerks with records, slaves carrying packs, and drivers leading camels or donkeys filled the surrounding streets, transporting goods in a constant flow between the harbours, the gates, and the countless storage rooms.
Along those employed in and by the wealth of the city, an odd pair walked. One was short and slender, the other big in every way. Walking empty-handed, they stood in stark contrast to the busy trains of barrels, packs, and crates being hauled by those around them.
“It was around here,” Walid muttered. Lumbering down the street with the grace and awareness of a blind elephant, he had already knocked several bearers to the ground; it seemed he preferred to go through obstacles rather than around. In contrast, Jawad was small and lithe, weaving in and out to avoid traffic, and few seemed to even notice his presence.
“You’ve said that four times this morning,” Jawad grumbled. “I thought Tahmid used this location repeatedly.”
“It looks different at night,” Walid complained.
“You’re not even looking at the warehouses we’re passing by.” Jawad dodged a donkey with baskets of fruit on its back.
“I won’t recognise it by looking at it.”
“Pray tell, how? Does it have a distinct odour? Will it whisper your name as you pass by?”
“No,” mumbled Walid. “I meant, it’s not the warehouse itself that I know.”
“I suppose knowledge is hardly your strongest suit,” Jawad conceded. “But in this case, it may be your saving grace.”
“How so?” Another bearer fell victim to Walid as the latter pushed forward.
“You’re clearly not a man of ambition. If you were, you would be sharing Tahmid’s fate as we speak.”
“I warned him,” Walid claimed. “I told him it wouldn’t go well.”
“Even a blind rabbit can smell the fox coming, it would seem.”
“There!” Walid raised his finger towards their left at a large building. “That’s where Tahmid delivered the weapons.”
“Don’t point,” Jawad said quickly, slapping his hand down. “Are you sure?”
“I remember that carcass,” Walid explained, now pointing to the ground at the remnants of a dead bird. By the look of it, the creature had been dead for days, crushed into the dirt by a cartwheel at some point.
“That explains your preoccupation with looking into the ground rather than ahead where you’re walking,” Jawad admitted. “Very well. Let’s go.” He began walking again. “You’re certain Tahmid’s buyers wore the falcon crest?”
“I think so. Not a lot of others wearing birds on their clothes.”
“Not much I can do about that,” Jawad conceded, mumbling to himself.
“What?”
“Never mind. Your part is done.”
Walid shot his companion a glance. “This settles it, right? The Prince isn’t going to come after me.”
“Never fear. You’re too dumb to pose a threat, and too useful to simply discard. Go home, Walid.” Jawad disappeared between the rows of animals and men, invisible as he crawled along the strands of trade covering Alcázar like a spider’s web.
~~~~
North of the maswar lay an alley, much the same as all the other alleys in this medina. It had a few shops selling hot food or cool water, a well-reputed shoemaker, children playing on the street, and neighbours leaning out of windows to exchange news. Its only object of curiosity was the shrine to Rihimil, occupied by a northern priest and occasionally attracting other northerners to visit. Thanks to this, one or two reeves employed by the Kabir sat in the aforementioned shops at all hours, keeping watch while pretending to be engaged in conversation.
At one end, Jawad stared down the length of the alley. His gaze moved from the shrine to the Kabir’s men, watching all entering or leaving the small temple. “Girl, come here,” he spoke softly to a nearby child playing with a handful of rags stuffed into the shape of a doll.
Aged around eight and more curious than afraid, the girl approached Jawad. “Who are you?”
He opened both his hands to show the child; each of his palms held a coin. One was a silver eagle, the other held the jagged blade of the Black Teeth. “Do you know these coins?”
She looked from one to the other. “Yes.” She took a step back.
“This coin is yours if you complete a task.” Jawad threw the eagle to her, and she dropped her doll on instinct to catch the valuable piece of silver. “This coin is a warning to you.” He held up the symbol of the Black Teeth.” Forget me as soon as it is done.”
“What’s the task?”
Jawad produced a rune-stave from his sleeve and extended it towards her. “Go to the temple where the ajama in the black robe lives. Give it to him.”
The girl eyed both the rogue and the rune-stave with suspicion. “That’s it? And I get to keep this silver?” She clutched the coin.
“That’s all.”
Hesitant, she reached out and grabbed the piece of wood, pulling her hand back instantly. Turning on her heel after picking up her doll, she walked quickly down the street. Jawad watched her from the corner until he saw her enter the shrine. Once the girl was out of sight, so was the rogue, just before the Kabir’s reeve turned his head.
~~~~
Alcázar lay upon a great rock, protecting the southern tip of the city from any approach. Further north, sandy beaches allowed for the two harbours that earned Alcázar its trade, but beyond, the coast grew ragged once more. Reefs and sharp cliffs made the border between sea and land hostile to ships, which consequently kept a healthy distance upon their journey to the city.
A few enterprising locals provided the exception. With knowledge of how to sail the shallow waters, avoid the rocks, and reach coves hidden from sight, they had ample opportunity to smuggle goods into Alcázar. The harbourmasters made thorough inspections of all wares entering the city by ship, collecting fees and tolls to fill the Kabir’s coffers. In comparison, the guards at the gates paid little heed to peasants driving carts with what appeared to be wool, cotton, fish, grain, or the like.
One moonless night, a boat rowed towards the shore. The darkness did not hinder the helmsman; he steered with firm hand past rocks and reefs until the vessel nearly touched land. The oarsmen jumped onto the beach and pulled the boat the final feet ashore.
A few other men, clad in dark clothing, approached from between the cliffs. Some nods were exchanged in greeting before the men began hauling crates from the boat to a nearby cart.
A short figure entered the water as well, but not to perform manual labour. Avoiding the other men, he approached the helmsman instead.
“Jawad,” growled the smuggler. “What’s amiss to bring you here?”
The rogue threw a purse of silver to the other man. “Nothing’s amiss, but I need your services. That’s your coin for this run, and payment for bringing extra cargo with you back to Labdah.”
The sailor stowed the silver away inside his coat. “Well, I got room in the boat. What’s the cargo?”
“Me,” Jawad replied, climbing aboard.
|
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The Tower of Justice
Alcázar
It was dawn by the time the guards reached the Tower of Justice with their captives. As they crossed the maswar, the empty square was contrasted by the imposing structure looming above their heads. They entered the tower and found the entire ground floor was one hall. A score of guards sat scattered around the locale, passing the time. There was also a simple cooking hearth, where a pot boiled merrily.
“Get the night warden,” said one of the arriving guards. One of his peers got up and walked down the few stairs.
“Bit of a fight in them?” asked another. He nodded towards Majid’s wounded shoulder.
“More than that. This one tried to swim away!”
Dispersed laughter was heard. “That’s a new one!”
“It didn’t work,” someone grinned.
A man appeared from the stairs below. He was dressed as a clerk with expensive clothing rather than a soldier, having no weapons. “What do you have?” he asked, approaching the newly arrived guards and their prisoners. “Couple of thieves?”
“Not quite, sidi. This one was found setting fire to a warehouse.” The guard speaking gestured to Majid. “The other one tried to help him escape.”
“How bad is it? Has the fire spread?”
“It was on the eastern docks. Wall kept it from reaching the city.”
“Thank the gods for that, at least.” The warden scrutinised them both. “Your names?” he asked. Neither responded. “Do you know the penalty for starting fires?” Silence. “Well, if you won’t talk to me, others will make you talk. Throw them in a cell, and keep them on separate floors. I’ll send a message to the judge.”
~~~~
Due to its height, the Tower of Justice had many cells; in fact, more than was ever needed. The top floors were never in use; the only purpose of the height was to ensure the tower was visible throughout the city, reminding all of the Kabir’s rule. The criminals kept in the prison never stayed for long either. Usually the day after arriving, a judge would hear the case against them and pass sentence. Those found guilty were executed, maimed, or sent to the galleys according to their crime. In any case, they would leave the tower.
With a chain around his ankle, Brand sat on the floor of his cell. Hay was strewn across the stonework to provide minimal comfort, which he had gathered to himself, making a primitive seat of sorts. Unlike most prisons, since the cells in the Tower of Justice were above ground, there was a small window with bars providing fresh air and light from the outside world. Apart from that peculiarity, Brand’s accommodations were much the same as when he had been imprisoned in Middanhal.
Accustomed to rough quarters and having been up all night, Brand was able to fall asleep soon after his incarceration. It only lasted a few hours before a guard opened his cell door and dragged him to his feet. With not only wrists but also ankles chained, forcing him to take small steps, Brand was led down the spiral staircase below ground and into a well-furnished room.
A man sat behind a table with a writing set and parchment in front of him. His exquisite clothing and jewellery left no doubt that he was a man of certain rank. The guard pushed Brand down upon a stool in front of the table. “The prisoner, sidi.”
The judge looked up from the parchment. “Your name?”
Brand stared into the air with a clenched jaw.
“Starting a fire is a far worse crime than theft, in case you did not know,” the judge informed him. “I am told it was your companion who did the actual deed, and you merely assisted in his escape. Without success,” he added dryly. “I am willing to show leniency if you deserve it.”
Brand showed no sign of having understood.
“Your fellow criminal has already confessed in full. You gain nothing by refusing to speak.”
Brand’s lips were shut.
The judge leaned forward, placing his elbows on the table. “You understand that your life is in my hands? I would encourage you to speak rather than show me such disrespect.”
Brand remained silent.
“Very well. I sentence you to the galleys. Take him to his cell.” The judge made a dismissive wave with his hand, returning his attention to the papers in front of him to scribble his judgement upon one of them.
~~~~
Soon after, Majid was taken before the judge as well. “Your name?”
“Majid, sidi.” He continued with a quiet voice. “Please, have mercy. I am but a stray cat, unaware of the custom of princes.”
The judge sent Majid a quick glance. “Would you fetch me some tea?” he asked the guard, yawning. “I did not sleep much last night.
“Of course, sidi, if you don’t mind being alone with the prisoner.”
“With arms and legs chained, I will be fine.” The judge made a dismissive gesture, and the guard left. He looked at Majid again. “You understand that if you invoke the Prince’s name in vain, it will not help you. He will have you killed.”
“I know, sidi. I swear that I am his servant. I was told to mention him discreetly, should I ever find myself in this chamber,” Majid explained.
The judge nodded. “Yes, and if this were common theft, something could easily be arranged. But this is arson. I must sentence you to the galleys, or it will arouse suspicion.” Seeing panic flash across Majid’s face, he raised one hand. “But word shall be sent to your master. He will arrange for your freedom. Until then, keep your mouth shut and be patient. Understood?”
“Yes, sidi,” Majid exclaimed with relief.
“What of your companion? Is he to receive aid same as you?”
Majid hesitated. “No, sidi. He does not run with the Prince.”
“Very well.” The judge began scribbling on the parchment before him. Moments later, the door opened, but it did not reveal the guard. Instead, two men entered in yellow livery with a falcon emblem.
“Sidi?” asked the judge. One of them crossed the room to whisper into the judge’s ear. “Very well. As you command.” He looked at Majid. “You must go with these men.” The men in yellow grabbed the prisoner under the shoulders and pulled him to stand, taking him away.
~~~~
Although the life of a galley slave awaited him, Brand did not seem weighed down by this. He sat as before, back against the wall, staring out the small window. Sunlight reached between the bars, illuminating his space. While his thumb ran over the leather string around his neck, his other hand played with a few straws, pushing them in and out of the sunbeams, watching their yellow colour intensify.
A guard entered, pulling him to his feet. Once more, Brand was escorted down the stairs; this time, he was only taken to the ground floor. Majid was already there. They exchanged looks, but nothing more. Besides the manacles around their wrists and ankles, a blindfold was added.
Guards on either side of them placed a hand on their shoulders, leading them outside. Their awkward gait and lack of vision made them stumble more than once; their watchers only laughed at this before ushering them forward.
Outside, they were roughly grabbed under the shoulders and thrown onto a cart. Brand gave a gasp as Majid landed on top of him, knocking the wind from him. Grinning, the guards pulled them apart and placed them to sit on the bottom of the cart. This accomplished, the driver set the draught animal into motion.
They bumped through Alcázar on cobbled streets. With the blindfold, the prisoners could only deduce the sun warming their bodies and the sounds of the city waking around them. Children laughed as they passed, but otherwise they drew no attention; a couple of prisoners under guard was of little interest to the people hurrying up and down the streets, busy with their own errands.
The journey lasted more than an hour before the cart came to a halt. They had left the street by now; their surroundings were too quiet to be anywhere public. The prisoners were hauled down from the wagon in the same rough manner as before. The guards led them out of the sun, indoors. They went through long hallways and down staircases. The air grew stale and filled with unpleasant smells. Their hair bristled from the coldness of their surroundings.
“Right here,” said a high-pitched voice. Keys jangled and turned locks. Hands grabbed their chains, and the prisoners were pressed up against stonewalls. They each felt their arms and legs spreading to the sides, pulled by the shackles. Finally, the blindfolds were torn away.
Brand blinked several times. He found himself chained against the wall in an upright position. There was no slack upon the restraints, forcing him to stand spread out, unable to move any of his limbs. To his side, Majid was in the same position. In front of them stood a rat of a man, grinning from ear to ear. “Welcome! I am Imad, your host.” They were in a cell of sorts, small and empty besides the captives and Imad. “Please wait here. My master will be with you shortly to explain.” He turned and left the cell, entering a larger room beyond. Stretching his neck, Brand could see a table with various vicious-looking knives upon it, a rack, and other devices of pain.
“Where are we?” Majid asked with a whisper.
“I can only think of one place with dungeons besides the Tower of Justice,” Brand muttered, keeping his voice low as well. “This must be the Kabir’s palace.”
“Gods, no,” Majid breathed.
“Save your prayers. Nothing will help us now,” Brand told him. In the other room, Imad began sharpening his tools.
|
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|
A Prince and his Quill
Middanhal
Next day, Egil sat alone in the scriptorium when he heard the door open. “Kate?” he questioned.
“Not quite,” Godfrey replied, entering the library hall.
Egil stuck his head out from the adjacent room. “You’re here! I haven’t seen you in months!”
“I’ve been busy. Is your master present?”
Egil looked towards a closed chamber door. “He is in his room. He doesn’t leave it anymore, really. Kate and I look after him, bring him food and water, but he doesn’t eat much.”
Godfrey sat down, letting his walking staff rest on a table. “I see. I feared something like this.”
“Like what? What’s happening to him?”
“I think the cruel treatment at the hands of your former prince broke not only his body, but also his spirit.”
Egil’s lips quivered. “The physician gave up on him, but there must be something we can do!”
Godfrey shook his head. “I know of no remedy for such a malady.”
“What about the norns at the Temple? They know every cure!”
“They can only heal his body. I fear the best you can do is simply to keep him company and tend to his needs.”
“What about – what about the Elves?” Egil lowered his voice. “They have strange powers, right?”
“None of this nature. Not even the heroes of old possessed such strength.”
“How do you know? You can’t know everything.”
“I have seen it before. Quill is lost in his own mind. Only time and his strength of will can save him,” Godfrey declared.
“I don’t believe that,” Egil argued.
“Believe what you wish. But there is nothing you or I can do for him. Prepare yourself, Egil. You may find yourself assuming the duties of the King’s Quill much sooner than you thought.” With those words, Godfrey stood up, grabbing his staff. “You and I will speak again on that account. On my return.”
Egil watched him leave and turned his gaze to slide over the countless volumes of lore covering the numerous shelves. With a determined look, he began searching through them.
~~~~
Around noon, the alderman of the guilds went to the Citadel for the second day in a row. This time, it was not the lord protector who summoned him, but the dragonlord. With a nervous look, Edwin sat down opposite Konstans.
“I have prepared an edict for you to bring to the guilds,” the dragonlord explained. “Calm yourself,” he added with a frown. “I am not demanding anyone’s head.”
“Forgive me, milord,” Edwin replied, using his sleeve to wipe his brow. “These are trying times, especially for us poor merchants and craftsmen, simply trying to get by.”
“Not all your brethren are suffering from hardship,” Konstans remarked. “Despite the war, I am told that some traders seek to the summer fair in Silfrisarn.”
“The roads are dangerous, milord, it’s true, but all would suffer if trade ceased to flow. While he may be a traitor, even Jarl Isarn sees the value in protecting the merchants on his roads.”
“I agree with you on both accounts, but not entirely. I think Isarn would suffer far more if all trade ended with his jarldom. It is therefore in the best interests of the Crown to see that happen.”
“Oh, milord, so few merchants would dare take the trip these days, I believe that has already happened.”
“That seems doubtful. The fair at Silfrisarn is where copper from Vidrevi meets tin from Heohlond, not to mention furs, wool, iron, salt, and countless other goods to make life easier.”
“Your knowledge of these matters would be the envy of any merchant,” Edwin claimed.
“While the war may have disrupted trade, it is certain to embolden others. Greater risk, but also greater reward.”
“Sadly, greed does take hold of some,” the alderman assented.
“The Silfrisarn fair is a great source of wealth, which Isarn must be deprived of. Trading at the fair is the same as aiding an enemy of the Crown and thus treason in itself,” Konstans declared.
Edwin wiped his brow furiously. “Milord, those are strong words.”
“They are also true. Are you concerned, master alderman? Do you have goods being carted to Silfrisarn, perhaps?” Konstans kept his piercing gaze on the merchant.
“I’d never dare, milord! As you say, such is certain to enrich the jarl Isarn.”
“I fear not all your guildsmen might have the same attitude. Greed often wins out. To that end, I have prepared this edict.” Konstans picked up a parchment from his desk and handed it to Edwin.
The alderman ran his eyes across the writing. “Really, milord, is this necessary?”
“In this manner, none can claim ignorance. Have the proclamation spread amongst your members. I have already sent it to the town criers. It goes into effect immediately,” the dragonlord added.
Edwin swallowed. “Yes, milord. As you wish.”
“You are dismissed.”
~~~~
Some hours later, Eleanor entered the rooms she shared with Arndis and found the latter buried in paper and parchment. “Arndis? I thought you were coming with me to the gardens.”
“Something has come up,” the other woman replied. “Our esteemed dragonlord has made a new law.”
“What is it about?”
“Any merchant trading at the Silfrisarn fair is considered a traitor. All his goods and possession are to be confiscated, and his life is forfeit,” Arndis explained without looking up.
“That sounds harsh,” Eleanor considered. “I suppose those are the times we live in. But why has it put you in such a state? You do not trade directly, but through others. Surely you cannot be held responsible?”
“That is not my concern either. The reduced trade at the fair will have other consequences worth contemplating.” She located a number in a ledger and copied it onto a parchment with other scribbles on it.
“Such as?”
“The price of tin will continue to fall, and the price of copper and iron will rise. Without bronze or steel, the price of many other goods will increase as well. Stone and marble will see little change, though,” Arndis considered. She underlined a few numbers. “Vidrevi was never a place for building in stone.”
“Does this affect you? I thought you simply gave your coin to traders, and they conduct the actual business.”
“That is mostly the case, but I still decide in which sort of trade I set my coin to work,” Arndis replied. She gave a frown. “I wonder how long before it will be worthwhile to send a caravan to Herbergja and simply sail the goods to Trehaf.”
“I take it you will not be joining us this afternoon,” Eleanor remarked quietly.
Arndis looked up briefly before resuming her work. “I fear it is inopportune today.”
Her companion gave a faint smile that went unseen. “Of course. I understand.”
“Forgive me. Another time.”
~~~~
The evening sun cast a warm glow into the library tower when Jorund entered, passing between the pair of kingthanes guarding the door. Inside, he found Kate and Inghard in conversation, discussing a story they had read.
“Well met, my younglings. Is our company a short man short?” Jorund asked with a grin.
“Egil’s almost as tall as you, and he’s still growing,” Kate countered.
“Until he does outgrow me, I reserve the right to remark on his height or lack thereof,” the Dwarf declared. “I have to make the most of the time left.”
“Egil is in the scriptorium,” the prince explained. “He has been there all day, I believe.”
“I know he’s a scribe, but I didn’t honestly think he ever scribed anything,” Jorund contemplated.
“He’s not writing, he’s reading. But really old books, and he has maps out,” Kate added. “I asked if he wanted help, but he just mumbled something.”
“Let’s not disturb the lad, then,” Jorund considered. “I won’t be staying long, in any case.”
“What?” asked Kate, sounding disappointed.
“Me and some of the boys are going into town tonight,” the Dwarf explained. “We’ve been on patrol for weeks, and by the gods, we deserve ale, proper food, and – polite company.” He cleared his throat.
“You are leaving us alone?” she continued.
“There’s three of you, you’re not alone,” Jorund countered. “I spent all evening with you yesterday, the first evening I was back, I might add! I’ll be back tomorrow – or the day after, depending on my consumption of brew.”
“Let the man have his leisure,” Inghard declared graciously. “He has been hard at work defending us all.”
The Red Hawk gave a little bow and a grin. “You are most magnanimous, my prince.”
“I have an idea.” The voice came from the door opening to the scriptorium and startled all three of them. They turned to find Egil. “It’s hard to be sure, but I think I am.”
“Can you elaborate?” asked Inghard.
“Something that was said to me. I asked someone if he could help Master Quill, and he said not even the heroes of old had such power,” Egil began to explain. “But how could he know? Maybe they did. There are strange things in the world we don’t always understand or even know about.”
Kate sent him an apprehensive look. “Egil, maybe you’re tired. When was the last time you ate? I can get something from the kitchen for you.”
“We all know the Song of Sigvard, and the old books has many other stories about that time. The Great War, the battle of Valmark where Sigvard ended the war, and so on,” Egil continued. “I’ve been reading them all, comparing with maps.”
“There’s a glint of madness in your eye, boy, but I’m too curious. What are you chasing?” asked Jorund.
“All the stories agree that Sigvard ascended the Wyrmpeak, and there, he found a hidden power. It made him strong enough to turn the battle of Valmark. One man, winning a battle by himself!”
“While I do enjoy tales of Sigvard,” inserted the dragonborn Inghard, “they are often merely that. Tales. One warrior cannot defeat an army by himself.” He looked towards Jorund, the only warrior in their company.
“The prince is right, though I don’t know.” The dwarf rubbed his chin. “In Thusund, we still tell the stories of the Great War, Eirik Wyrmbane, and Sigvard. Maybe it’s my islander blood, but I wouldn’t be so quick to dismiss them.”
“Don’t encourage him,” Kate admonished Jorund.
“Regardless of veracity, what does it matter now?” asked Inghard. “Sigvard is gone, as are all the other heroes.”
“But Wyrmpeak is not,” Egil countered.
“It’s a mountain,” Jorund laughed. “They tend to stay in place.”
“My point is,” the young scribe continued agitated, “what if it’s still there?”
“What if what is?” asked Kate.
“What Sigvard found! The power that made him a hero!” Egil stared at them triumphantly.
“Egil, it has been almost eleven hundred years since the battle of Valmark,” Inghard pointed out gently.
“So? Something like that doesn’t decay.”
“How do you know?” asked Inghard. “You do not even know what it is. Even assuming the legends are true, it could be anything. Most likely, it would have been long gone.”
“He has a point,” Jorund assented. “I always thought it was a sword or something that Sigvard brought with him from the mountain.”
“But something like that would have become an heirloom,” Egil countered. “The Dragon Crown was worn by Sigvard, for instance. But we have nothing else of his.”
“Egil, what exactly are you hoping?”
He looked at them, standing in his brown robe that he had nearly outgrown. “Nobody can help Master Quill. Nobody knows what to do. This is the only thing I can think of. Do you want me to just sit and wait while he gets worse and worse?”
“You can provide comfort for him,” Jorund suggested gently.
“He’s lying in bed all day, he couldn’t be more comfortable if I tried!” Egil’s outburst left him taking deep breaths. “Look, I’m not asking anything of you. I think I’ve uncovered enough clues to follow in Sigvard’s footsteps. Just take care of Master Quill and the library while I’m gone.” He looked at Kate.
She in turn glared back. “You can’t be serious. You’re going to trample up a mountain looking for something you don’t even know what is!”
“I have seen strange things already,” Egil countered. “In Hæthiod, in the – Alfskog,” he muttered. “I don’t care if you think it’s a bad idea. I’m going.”
Kate turned towards Inghard. “You can command him to stay. Tell him he’s being foolish!”
“Marching up the Wyrmpeak is a harsh journey, even in summer,” the prince considered, speaking slowly. “You should bring Jorund. He’s an experienced traveller.”
“What?” exclaimed the mercenary.
“I am sure your lieutenant will grant me your services for a week or two. I doubt he wishes to refuse the heir to the realms,” Inghard pointed out with a sly look.
“You’re going to encourage this?” Kate’s voice overflowed with disbelief.
“I do not believe Egil will find anything. Except maybe peace of mind that he has done everything he can for his master. Seeing as one day I will be king, and he will be my Quill, I find that a worthwhile goal,” Inghard explained. “I will be happy to arrange for Jorund to accompany you. Any other resources you might need?”
“I don’t think so,” Egil replied. “I’ll get provisions from the kitchens.”
“Look, at least postpone until the day after tomorrow,” Jorund pleaded. “Just let me have this evening back in town, and tomorrow for sleeping it off.”
“I see no reason we cannot delay that long,” Inghard granted.
Kate let her glare move between them. “Well, I’m coming to.”
“You have to stay and look after Master Quill,” Egil protested.
“Oh no, if you can leave him, so can I! You have a habit of trying to sneak away to go on adventures, and I’m not going to be left behind! I’ll have the kitchen girls take care of him and make sure he gets his meals.”
Inghard rose from the bench where he had been seated, glancing at the mercenary, the scribe, and the kitchen girl. “It sounds like the expedition is well in hand. I have the utmost faith that if any trace of Sigvard remains upon Wyrmpeak, you will find it. As your prince, I bless your endeavour.”
“I better get paid for every day I’m gone,” Jorund muttered with a surly expression
|
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|
A Beacon in the Dark
Wyrmpeak
The second morrow after the decision had been made, the small expedition left the Citadel. Despite his day of recovery, Jorund grumbled at the early hour and exertion, but his words held little sting. He wore a great pack on his back, easily carrying twice as much as his young companions tallied together. They seemed mute in demeanour and made no replies to Jorund’s remarks. By the time they had traversed the Arnsweg, he lost interest in conversation himself, and they passed through Saltgate in silence to leave Middanhal behind.
Once outside the city, they followed the walls to walk east. Hours after leaving the Citadel, they reached where the fortifications met the mountain of Wyrmpeak. The cliffs rose sharply to their left, proving impassable and protecting Middanhal from all attacks. The small band continued along the mountainside, entering the wild. As they progressed, they found neither roads nor people. The land was harsh in the foothills of Wyrmpeak; nothing grew except stubbles of grass, which fed only the occasional mountain goat.
They continued for the remainder of the day in the same direction, traversing the rough terrain. When night approached, they made camp nestled between hills, keeping them out of sight. The weather was warm and dry, allowing them rest in the open without need of a fire. With few words exchanged, they went to sleep.
~~~~
The following day, Egil set a course north-east. “It’s time we walk up the actual mountain,” he informed the others.
“How do you know we should climb the mountain from the south and not the north?” asked Kate. “How can you be sure it’s this way?”
“The battle of Valmark was fought defending the Mihtea, meaning the enemy was camped south of the river. Sigvard had to pass through the enemy camp before he could scale the Wyrmpeak, so he must have approached it from the south,” Egil explained.
“Assuming we can trust people long dead,” Kate remarked curtly. “Not to mention, who knows how the land has changed since then?”
“The mountain and the river won’t have changed,” argued Egil. “I see no reason we can’t trust them.”
“We’re wasting the day,” Jorund told them brusquely, swinging his pack into its place. “The lad says this way, that’s where we go. Get to it!”
Spurred on, the group began the day’s journey. Slowly, the landscape changed as they moved from hill to mountain. The Wyrmpeak loomed ahead and above them, snow-capped even in the heat of summer. The path, such as it was, grew ever steeper, and the sun beat down upon them. They stopped to catch their breath quite often; on occasion, they would come across a stream of meltwater, giving them an excuse to rest, drink, and refill their skins.
At one such occasion, Kate returned to the topic of their course. “How far up the mountain are we going? We don’t have enough food to search everywhere.”
“Legend says Sigvard entered a deep cave. He overcame some sort of guardian and took the power that made him a hero,” Egil explained.
“A guardian?” interjected Jorund. “Blast you, boy, you didn’t tell me there’d be fighting! I only got this leather jerkin for protection!” He thumped against his chest.
“It was slain by Sigvard, presumably. I don’t expect we’ll encounter anything.”
“If we do, you children turn back, and you run and keep running,” Jorund growled. “I’ll catch up with you. Don’t either of you dare do anything stupid and get in my way.” He let his hand touch the pommel of his short sword.
“So we’re looking for a cave?” Kate asked. “I suppose that’s a start.”
“I don’t intend for us to walk around blindly,” Egil told them. “We’ll get help.”
“From who?”
Egil looked up the mountainside. “From the keeper of the beacon.”
“Well, we won’t get to them sitting here all day,” Jorund pointed out. “Let’s go!”
~~~~
In spite of Jorund driving them forward, their progress remained slow. They attempted to follow the brooks upstream, ensuring their supply of water, but the rocky terrain often made this untenable, forcing them to move right and left rather than forward. They made camp a second night once it grew too dark to continue; next day, they continued anew.
In the afternoon, their surroundings changed again. They had reached a plateau of sorts, allowing for easier march; the soil was gentler, and soft grass grew. Eventually, the travellers saw sheep in the distance and steered towards them.
They were greeted by a large shepherding dog, barking from excitement. Kate and Egil stopped in their tracks, but Jorund stepped forward and let the beast smell him; a moment later, it was happy to let the Dwarf pet him.
The shepherd came soon after; it was a girl of twelve years at most. “I’ve never seen travellers up here before,” she remarked.
“I don’t imagine we’ll make a habit of it either,” Jorund grinned. “Gods’ peace to you. I am Jorund, and my companions are Kate and Egil.”
“Gods’ peace to you,” the shepherd replied. “I’m Wilhelmina, but that’s a bit of a mouthful, so my pa and ma and others just call me Mina.”
“Could you point us in the direction of your home? We’d like to speak with your father,” Egil told her.
“We live that way,” she replied, pointing east. “You can’t miss it. There’s no other buildings.”
“He’s the beacon keeper, yes?” Egil continued.
“Aye, that he is. This is our land,” Mina said proudly. “Because we keep the beacon. Maybe one day I’ll be beacon keeper after my pa.”
“We thank you,” Jorund said. “Come, let’s see what this keeper has to say.”
“Farewell, Mina!” Kate waved to her, and the three set off.
~~~~
As the girl had promised, they easily spotted a cottage with a lean-to on one side. A man and a young boy were weeding in the vegetable garden while a woman skirted wool. From a distance, Jorund raised one hand to wave, put it down, and did the same with the other, thereby showing them both to be empty.
“Well met, good people,” the Dwarf said in a convivial tone. “Your daughter was kind enough to point us in your direction.”
“Well met,” said the man of the household, leaning on his rake. “It’s only been two summers since we last had visitors. This place is starting to get overrun,” he remarked with a glint in his eyes.
“Hush, you old codger,” his wife reprimanded him, standing up while dusting off her hands. “You’re welcome here,” she told the travellers. “Don’t mind my husband. He fancies himself a wit.”
“Perhaps your husband will indulge us in conversation, and he’ll have the chance to impress us,” Jorund grinned. “You are the keeper of the beacon, I take it?”
“Aye, that I am. You came all this way just to see it?” The peasant nodded behind him. “I don’t mind showing you, but it’s just a pile of wood.”
“Ah, it is not the true intent of our journey, good master. We could simply use some knowledge of the area, and we figured there’d have to be a keeper nearby,” Jorund explained.
“Aye, you guessed right. What’s your need?”
“My young friends work for the royal library,” The Dwarf continued. “They found mention of old artefacts in on Wyrmpeak, naught of interest save for scholars. At the behest of the King’s Quill, we’re looking to salvage any that we can find.”
“The King’s Quill?” The farmer widened his eyes. “I’ll say. I fear he may have sent you planting seed for sheep! My family has lived here for generations, and we never find anything but thistles.”
“But we’re common folk, Wilhelm, and it’s not like we go looking or ever put the soil under plough to turn things up,” his wife interjected. “I’m sure the King’s Quill knows his business better than us.”
“Fair word,” replied the husband. “I don’t see how we can be of any help to you good people, though.”
“Our sources tell us that we’re looking for caves,” Egil told them. “Caverns, really. Do you know of any?”
The farmer and his wife looked at each other. “There’s one in that direction.” He pointed east. “I’d be careful though. There’s a bear in those parts, and I reckon it uses the cave for its den.”
“What about west? Across any streams of water?” Egil enquired.
The others frowned. “There’s caves north-west,” said the woman. “You told Oswald about finding them as a child, remember? And he went searching for them himself that whole afternoon once.”
“Seven and Eighth, I forgot,” the man exclaimed. “You gave him such a scolding for skulking off, the boy still has nightmares, I bet! That’s many miles north-west. I couldn’t rightly tell you.”
“Are they on the other side of the river?”
The farmer frowned again. “There’s lots of brooks here in summer. You’re talking about the Mihtea? I don’t rightly know if any of those streams is the river or not.”
“You’ve been of great help regardless,” Jorund told him. “At least we have a direction now.” He looked at Egil. “Anything else we need to ask of these good people?”
Egil shook his head.
“You’ll stay for supper, won’t you?” asked the woman quickly. “You won’t get far tonight before it’s dark. We don’t get many visitors, but we’re good hosts when the need be.”
“A proper meal would make a nice change from the food we brought,” Kate pointed out. Jorund looked at Egil, who shrugged.
“Why not? Those caves aren’t going anywhere,” the Dwarf said with a smile. “We’d be grateful for your hospitality.”
“You’re in luck.” Wilhelm smiled. “I got some salted pork when I was in Middanhal for solstice.”
“You’re too kind,” Jorund told them.
“Any excuse not to eat mutton,” said the wife. “The old sheep had a lamb, bring out the pork! We’ve harvested all the cabbages, let’s have some pork! There’s a nice breeze today, you guessed it –”
“Pork!” exclaimed Kate.
“Hilda grumbles, but she always fetches it,” Wilhelm laughed.
“Have it your way,” his wife conceded. “I better get started. We should have some barley flour left, and Osmund can pick some thyme for the meat. The wool will have to wait until tomorrow.” She turned around to enter the cottage, followed by her little son, who had been quiet throughout the entire exchange.
“I’ll give you a hand,” Kate declared, following after the wife.
“We can’t stand here with idle hands,” Jorund told Egil, and he sat down next to the bowl of wool, resuming Hilda’s work. Egil did the same.
“That’s mighty kind of you,” Wilhelm told them, resuming his work weeding the vegetable garden.
“You mentioned Middanhal, Master Wilhelm,” Jorund continued. “Have you made many travels?”
“Hah! I was born in this homestead, and I’ve never gone further than Middanhal. That city’s so big, it satisfies all I’m curious about! My eldest, Oswald, on the other hand, he was never one to settle here. He took the white star as soon as he was twenty-one.”
“That’s good work, keeping the king’s peace,” Jorund replied. “Myself, I was the same. Soon as I was old enough to set foot on a ship, I sailed away. I could tell you many stories, if you’d want?”
“Nothing better to while away the time while working,” the farmer said, to which the Dwarf gave a grin.
~~~~
As the sun began to sink behind the western cliffs, the plateau was plunged into twilight, and Mina returned with the sheep from grazing. Her dog herded the animals into their pen while she greeted her father, who patted her on the head. The wool had been cleaned, the weeds removed, and supper prepared inside the cottage.
Like the homes of any village, the small house had a single room under its thatched roof. A fireplace in the middle provided heat for cooking. In winter, it might burn through the night to keep the cold at bay; tonight, such was not necessary, and the embers were covered by the ashes.
Stew was poured into wooden bowls from a cauldron standing in the fireplace. Pieces of meat mixed with beets, carrots, other vegetables, and the occasional herb for flavour. Once all six had a full bowl, Wilhelm broke a piece of bread for himself and passed the rest on.
“Fit for a king,” Jorund declared, dipping his bread into the stew. “I should know – I have dined with several.”
“Your words have more honey than this pork has salt!” Wilhelm laughed.
“Guilty,” he replied, stuffing his mouth. “Tell us of your son. Where’s his posting?”
“Oswald was at the siege of Grenwold,” Hilda explained, “but he’s been pulled back to Middanhal. I know it’s not a good sign for the war, their retreat and all, but it was good to see him at solstice.”
“Aye,” Wilhelm nodded. “I’d rather the high lords let their mercenaries do all the fighting, spare my boy the danger. If someone has to die, let it be the foreigners.” Egil gave a cough.
“As it stands, nobody is dying at the moment,” Jorund said placidly. “Let’s hope it continues.”
“Gods willing, it will. Are you a soldier, Master Jorund? I couldn’t help but notice your sword,” Hilda pointed out.
“I am, good mistress. Not much use digging through scrolls and books, but I can keep these two safe.” The Dwarf tussled the hair of his companions on either side of him. Egil pulled his head away, while Kate did not seem to notice; she was engrossed in conversation with Mina while feeding bits of bread to the sheepdog.
“If you know these things, can you tell us how long the war might go on?” asked Hilda. “I’d dearly like to know how long my boy has to fight.”
“As it currently stands, it could drag on for years,” Jorund admitted. “But neither side is eager to fight. For the time being, your son is as safe as any Order soldier can be.”
“Besides,” Wilhelm interjected, “if the war ends, Oswald will probably be sent to Hæthiod, which would be much worse. Our boy fighting savage outlanders, can you imagine!” His wife shuddered in response.
“Why do you have an earring?” asked the small boy seated between his parents suddenly.
“Osmund, that’s not polite,” his mother reproached him.
“I take no offence,” Jorund told them. He touched the golden ring in his ear; it was the most obvious sign of his Dwarven nature along with his skin, dark in colour with dyed runes upon it. “It’s custom among my people, especially those of us that travel far, to carry such a ring. Should I die in distant lands, it will pay for my funeral.” The little boy stared with open mouth.
“That’s bleak,” Wilhelm remarked, “but I suppose if you’re leaving home and hearth, you best make preparations. It’s a dangerous world out there.”
“It is indeed,” Jorund assented, tapping the scar where his left ear had once been.
“What happened?” asked the little boy.
“Osmund!” his mother scolded him.
“I think your own ears are a little too young for that tale,” Jorund told him with a wink. “But I know a fanciful tale told in Alcázar, involving a master thief and an emerald necklace.” Finished with their meal, the small family along with Egil and Kate settled in to hear the story.
~~~~
When daybreak came, the wanderers packed their bags. Hilda gave them some bread and dried fruit to take along; in exchange, they promised to stop by on their way back to Middanhal. Mina, her dog, and the sheep followed them some of the way west until the herd reached its pasture; with a final wave, they parted ways, and the small group headed north.
They left the green plateau, moving into rocky terrain once more. Wildlife grew scarce; on occasion, an eagle might soar above them, flying to or from its nest higher up. They set their course not according to sight, but sound. In the distance, a rumbling could be heard; they followed the stony path only tread by goats, drawing closer towards the distant thunder.
Hours later, they reached the origin of the noise. Ahead of them, meltwater flowed swiftly. This was the source of the Mihtea, the mighty river that crossed through Middanhal. If they were to follow it downstream, they would reach the edge of the cliffs and the waterfall that marked the river’s entry into the city.
“This is it,” Egil declared, almost shouting. While they could not see it, the noise of the waterfall reached them even this far away. “This must be the waters that Sigvard crossed. We have to do the same.” They stared, some with dismay, at the daunting challenge ahead of them.
|
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|
Rain and River
The Reach
Weeks after their arrival in the Reach, the Mearcians had established a camp in the hills south of the Langstan. The elevated terrain kept them shielded from hostile eyes, and a pleasant brook nearby supplied them with freshwater. Their numbers were diminished, but not due to casualties; given the need to both hide from outlander patrols while also finding new enemies to assault, many of the Mearcians were sent across the area to scout. Those that remained prepared for the next battle, rested their injuries, or busied themselves with chores.
“Matthew!” Geberic’s voice rang out in growling fashion. “Why are you lazing about?”
“There’s nothing that needs doing,” the boy replied sullenly. He was lying on his back, enjoying the sun.
Geberic moved to cast his shadow over him. “You’re a sergeant to a captain, there’s always work to do. Is his blade sharp and oiled?”
“He told me that was taken care of, and I shouldn’t touch his sword,” Matthew explained with a satisfied smile.
“Have you polished his boots lately?”
“Yes,” Matthew claimed. A look from Geberic made him hurry to speak again. “Well, he’s wearing them right now, isn’t he? It’s not like I can polish them while he’s walking around camp.”
“In that case, find Lord Doran. He needs people to fill the water barrels.”
“I did that yesterday,” Matthew complained.
“And you’ll do it every day if need be,” Geberic roared at him. “Get going, boy, before I whip your hide!”
Grumbling, Matthew got on his feet and moved through the camp, reaching the middle with several water barrels nearly the height of a man. Seeing his approach, Doran called out to him. “Matthew, good. I need you to take at least two trips today, since it still has not rained.”
“I figured.” Sighing, Matthew picked up a yoke that had a bucket suspended on either end. He slung it over his shoulder and began walking towards the brook.
~~~~
People from the camp could be found by the brook throughout the day, fetching water, bathing, or washing clothes. On occasion, a few tried their luck fishing as well; not from a lack of provisions, as the Mearcians had plenty taken as plunder, but from a desire to eat fresh.
A man, one of the few islanders in the band, stood on the bank with a spear. His eyes were trained on the flowing water, and his body kept still like a statue. There was a flash of silver in the brook reflecting the sunlight, and his arm shot forward, hurling the spear down. One moment later, he waded into the water to retrieve the spear and a fat pike on its tip. With a satisfied grin, he returned to dry land, walking back to camp.
“I wouldn’t mind some fish,” remarked Sandar. He was bathing along with a few of the other kingthanes.
“Plenty of spears,” someone remarked. “Nothing’s stopping you.”
“I’m not good at that. You do it, Hrodgar.”
The other man snorted derisively in response.
“It’s not the same as in the Citadel,” said a third of the kingthanes, “but you can’t complain. We got bread, meat, and even a barrel of ale on occasion.”
“You don’t know Sandar,” Hrodgar claimed. “He always finds something to complain about.”
“That’s hardly fair,” protested the man in question. “Would I prefer to be in a city with a tavern and some honest, Mearcian women? Sure.”
They stared at him. “But?” one of them asked, encouraging him to continue.
“What?”
“You sounded like you were going to continue.”
Sandar scrubbed his arms. “I wasn’t.”
“You’re incorrigible.”
“True, I wouldn’t mind sleeping in a soft bed. With company. And wine.”
“But?” came a second attempt. “But you are at least happy to be doing your duty? But you follow orders gladly? But you know that honour and oath matter most?”
“But nothing,” Sandar replied with irritation.
“Incorrigible.”
“You ever think about Middanhal?” asked Hrodgar. “Who’s the captain now? Is the new prince any better than the old?”
“Not really,” Sandar said, getting out of the water to lie down and dry in the sun.
“Sometimes,” replied the third man in their company. “But I have been a kingthane for twenty years, and I’ve never felt more at peace than I do right now. There’s honour in serving, they always tell us, but the honour of a thane can never exceed that of his lord’s. If I die in this land, at least they’ll say of me that I died with honour.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Hrodgar remarked with a wry smile, bending down to cup some water with his hand and lead it to his mouth.
~~~~
The whiterobe prodded Gwen in her side as she lay on the ground, making her wince. “Stop that,” she growled.
The priest straightened up and looked at Brand. “See? That wound’s not even close to healed.”
“I’m fine,” Gwen insisted. “What good am I, lying about like this?”
Crouching by her side, Brand sent her a disapproving look. “What good will you be if you disturb that wound and need another two weeks of bedrest?”
“That’s hardly going to happen.” Gwen tried to sit up, but a firm hand from Brand on her shoulder kept her down.
“Gwen, I can spare you for a few days. I cannot spare you for weeks. You will remain at rest until the brother says otherwise.”
“Tyrant,” she grumbled.
“Captain!” Jerome came moving quickly towards them.
With a vague smile, Brand stood up and turned. “Yes?”
Jerome glanced at the kingthane ever present at Brand’s side. “Brother Caradoc asked me to find you. Some trouble, though he didn’t tell me what.”
“Very well.” He turned his head to look at Gwen. “Remember my instructions,” he told her with a stern voice before departing.
With quick steps and followed by both thane and heathman, Brand moved through the camp until he reached a small cluster of tents. Everyone in this part of the camp were either whiterobes or wounded, all of them taking orders from the highlander priest, Caradoc Whitesark. Like most of his brothers, his white robe was covered in dried blood by now.
Arriving, a curious scene met them. A soldier sat on the ground in front of a tree stump; a whiterobe stood behind him, holding him fast by the shoulders, and Caradoc stood by the side, carrying a hatchet in one hand.
“Brother Caradoc, you had need of me?”
“Lord Adalbrand, I need you to take sense into this muttonhead!” He gestured towards the soldier on the ground.
“What is it?”
“He got two of his fingers sliced some days ago, and now the wounds are rotting. We need to cut.”
“I’m fine!” claimed the soldier.
Brand crouched down to look him straight in the eyes. “Wigstan, show me.”
With reluctance, the warrior placed his right hand on the tree stump. The little finger and its companion were bandaged, and the cloth had a dirty, red colour. A faint smell, sickening in nature, emerged from the hand. “It’ll be fine, captain, it just needs a few more days.” He tried to move his shoulders free, but the whiterobe kept him locked in place.
“That rot spreads, you’ll lose the whole hand, you damn fool!” roared Caradoc.
“I don’t want to have only half a hand, captain,” Wigstan pleaded. “I have a girl at home, waiting for me. What if she’ll be disgusted by me?”
“What if I lost two fingers?” asked Brand.
“Pardon, captain?”
“Would you think less of me if I lost two fingers?”
“Of course not,” Wigstan declared.
Brand placed his right hand on the tree stump. “I will let the good brother take two of mine if you will do the same.”
“Captain, that’s… You know I can’t let that happen. All the others will beat me purple!”
“I cannot let you lose your hand, Wigstan, or worse. I need every warrior in this camp. You can swing a sword without two fingers, but not without your hand. Certainly not if you are dead.” Brand stared with a calm demeanour at the other man.
“Captain, please,” Wigstan pleaded.
“Brother Caradoc, is your axe sharp?” asked Brand.
The whiterobe hefted the hatchet. “Sharper than a snake’s wit.”
“No matter what, your fingers are lost, Wigstan. The only question is whether I must lose mine as well to persuade you. The choice is yours.”
With a pitiful expression, Wigstan gave the slightest of nods. “Fine. Get your hand away, captain. But for gods’ sake, do it quick.”
“Bite down on this,” Caradoc instructed, giving a thick piece of leather to Wigstan.
“You won’t miss, right?” the soldier asked before the leather went into his mouth.
“Miss? Boy, don’t insult me!” With swift, determined motions, the whiterobe grabbed Wigstan’s wrist and let the axe fall. Two fingers rolled away.
“Jerome,” Brand spoke as he stood up. “Throw those in the fire, will you?”
The heathman stood bewildered a moment until he caught on. “Yes, milord,” he hurried to reply, picking up the fingers with a touch of disgust upon his face while the priests made sure the new wounds were treated and tended to.
~~~~
Just outside of camp, Nicholas and Quentin could be found. They stood with the shorter bows favoured by the outlanders. Some distance away, they had set up a target made of folded cloth. Quentin put an arrow on the string, took aim while pulling back, and released. The arrow flew in an arc to strike the target.
Lowering the bow, Quentin tugged on the string a few times. “Not quite as powerful, I’d say, but damn accurate.”
Nicholas readied an arrow and shot it as well; it landed so close to Quentin’s, their barbs touched. “It’s a good bow,” he assented. “It won’t penetrate a target in good armour, but it’ll do well against most. The outlanders don’t seem to wear as heavy mail as our boys do, so it makes sense they didn’t think their bows needed to be stronger than this.”
“Lucky for the blade boys, they do wear heavy mail,” Quentin remarked. He sent a few more arrows flying in rapid succession. “Good draw. It doesn’t snap on the release.”
“You didn’t pull it back all the way,” Nicholas argued, giving it a try himself. “Huh, it really doesn’t.”
“I told you.”
Nicholas lowered the bow with an apprehensive expression. “Quentin, do you think Ellen will be there when we get back to Middanhal?”
“Himil’s balls, this again?”
“It’s on my mind.”
“Of course she’ll be there. Where’d you imagine she’d go?”
“That’s not what I meant,” Nicholas told him, slightly irritated. “She won’t be getting any letters until we return to Adalmearc. What if we winter here? It’ll be over a year. She’ll think I’m dead.”
“We’re not wintering here,” Quentin told him dismissively. “We got no tents, barely any fuel, and only the supplies we can plunder. Not to mention, once the outlanders grow wise to what we’re doing, these hills will be swarming with enemies. The savages may be dim-witted, but even they will know of our presence before winter.”
“Still, it’ll be a long while before she hears from me. What if she grows tired of waiting for me to return?”
“Yes, what if? Are you going to leave us?”
“Of course not,” Nicholas protested. “I’m not deserting.”
“So no matter what she does, you’ll be staying here. Why worry about it, then?”
Nicholas chewed on his lower lip. “I can’t help it.”
Quentin gave a sigh. “Let’s get back to camp. Maybe some food and song will change your tune.”
~~~~
Matthew shuffled into camp with the yoke across his shoulders. Reaching the water barrels, he put the yoke down, careful not to spill the contents of the buckets. His burden removed, he unclasped each bucket and poured them into the nearest barrel. Just as he was done, something lightly touched his face. It happened again, becoming a pattern. Looking up, he saw clouds and stretched out his hands. Raindrops met them.
Matthew lowered his eyes to see the rain falling into the great water barrels, slowly filling them. “Really?” he exclaimed in defeat.
Dejected, he went through camp until he reached where the captain’s men were gathering for a meal. Stew was boiling over the fire, and Troy was strumming his lute. “Play ‘On the Field of Blue’, Troy,” someone requested.
“Quentin isn’t here, and I haven’t learned the words yet,” the bard admitted with embarrassment.
“I’ll sing it,” Jerome suggested. “I always liked it.”
“Very well,” Troy assented and began the tune. Haltingly at first, Jerome soon found his voice, even as his eyes darted towards Brand.
The captain had been sitting a small distance away, secluded in prayer; it was Rihimil’s Day, the day of his miraculous escape from execution in Middanhal. His obeisance done, Brand joined the others, receiving a plate. Doran took a seat next to him. “Glaukos and his band are back. They cleared three towers and left two sentries. He wants to return with a new group tomorrow and clear at least two more.”
Brand smiled. “I am sure he would. Tell Glaukos he is to rest for a change. He is not to leave camp tomorrow. When he inevitably complains, tell him to come see me, and I will repeat my command to his face.”
A hint of a wry smile appeared on Doran’s face. “Very well, captain. He is right, though. Three miles is too close to the wall crossing. We should push the outlanders back further.”
Brand nodded. “We should. I will lead a patrol myself. Find me fifteen rested warriors tomorrow, including two archers.”
“Pardon me, captain.” The kingthane guarding Brand at this particular hour suddenly spoke up. “If you’re going out tomorrow, I’d like to join. My blade is getting rusty.”
Brand turned his head to give the thane a slight nod. “As you wish, Leofric.” He looked at Doran again. “Fourteen warriors.”
“Understood. We have supplies for at least a month,” Doran continued, “and that is excluding the watchtowers that Glaukos cleansed today.”
“Very well. Organise a train to collect it tomorrow,” Brand ordered. “How many horses do we have?”
“Five, captain, and two carts.”
“Good.” Brand turned his head slightly up towards the skies; they responded with the droplets of water that were raining down. “I assume water is not an issue.” Nearby, Matthew coughed.
“Not at all, captain.”
“Thank the gods for small blessings.” Brand smiled, setting aside his plate. He moved to the primitive bed that provided him rest at night, lay down, and fell asleep in the soft rain.
|
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|
Under the Hill
Alfskog
While an unlikely pair ambled southward, Godfrey left Hareik on a northward course. He travelled along a near empty road; nothing but small villages lay scattered around the endless forests of northern Vidrevi. The only other travellers were the occasional peddlers, supplying the villages with finer fabric, spices, or bronze items in exchange for furs. Moving with his customary haste, it took only a week before Godfrey was so far north, he no longer had any roads to follow. He encountered a few more villages, where he might buy himself a meal and a dry place to sleep. After another week, this was no longer available either.
Unlike Adalrik and Heohlond, where the division between cultivated land and the Alfskog was clear, Vidrevi had no such border between the forests inhabited by Men and the woodlands left in peace. Over time, the foresters had simply learned how far they might go; beyond a certain point, they would not be allowed to return. With a sparse population, the foresters accepted this readily; their own woods had more than enough room to accommodate them all, and they did not mind leaving the northernmost reaches to its unseen guardians.
Seven days after he had departed from the last village and against their warnings, Godfrey set foot across the border that all foresters knew to beware; with a whistle and a carefree expression, he entered the Alfskog.
~~~~
Judging by a glance, there was no visible change in the forest. The trees, sounds, and animals were exactly like those further south. If the foresters of Vidrevi would ever dare to venture north, they would neither see nor feel a change in their surroundings.
The same did not seem to be the case for Godfrey. As his steps took him north-east, he appeared like a snake shedding its old skin. The lines on his brow became smooth. His shoulders relaxed. His steps came with less urgency. His demeanour showed him to be at ease. As he walked, staff in one hand, he would use the other to reach out and touch the trees in passing; every so often, a smile would pass over his face. From the treetops, the birds chirped at him, sometimes making him look up and chuckle. When he bent down at the streams to drink, their cool waters would suddenly spray at him, and he laughed in response.
A week after he had left Vidrevi, a week after entering the Alfskog, Godfrey looked to be a man at peace.
~~~~
Another few days occurred before Godfrey came to a sudden halt. He turned slowly. Between the trees, an Elven scout stepped out, already returning her arrow to the quiver. Words flowed like a rippling brook from her mouth.
In response, Godfrey nodded and smiled. “Thank you, I would appreciate that. It has been some years since I last came this way.”
The Elf gave a reply.
“Forgive me, but I have not spoken your tongue in a number of years that would even astound you.”
She laughed and made a throw with her head. Godfrey joined her in walking that direction, and their conversation continued, each speaking their own speech.
~~~~
In the company of the scout, Godfrey travelled three days until she bid him farewell. She left him in a part of the forest where the land sloped upwards, and he followed this incline. After an hour, he reached a brook. It flowed over a precipice, creating a waterfall. Here, Godfrey sat down and waited. He dug out some provisions, sharing them with a curious squirrel.
He was not made to wait long; soon, an Elf appeared by his side. “You are back.”
“Well met, Ælfwine,” Godfrey said cheerfully.
The Elf known in ancient times as Alfmod sent him a scowl. “You smile, but your tidings never give me cause to do the same.”
“Curse of the trade,” the traveller admitted, standing up. “Is your cousin here as well? I should speak with you both.”
Alfmod shook his head. “He is on the hunt with his bond. They have been gone some days already, though. I suspect they return today or tomorrow.”
“I shall wait in that case, with your leave.”
“Of course. Come with me.”
Alfmod turned and led Godfrey towards the waterfall. They passed behind its stream to enter a cave beyond. A trained eye might observe that work had been carried out to greatly expand upon not only this cavern, but those that followed.
Soon, there was nothing to suggest that this was a natural place; instead, a village spread out before Godfrey under the hill. Hallways led in every direction, giving access to new rooms and areas. Here and there, the pair met other Elves, who always greeted them with respect. Wandering eyes would also have seen Elves at work in the various caves; bowyers, fletchers, weavers, and others tended to the simple needs of the village. As for illumination, strange gems encased in glass upon the walls glowed with an inner light, acting as lamps.
Alfmod led him to a room so small, it was little more than a niche. “I imagine you are weary,” the Elf said, gesturing towards the simple bed inside.
“I am.” Godfrey moved past him to lean his staff against the wall.
“I will find you food and water,” Alfmod promised, pulling down the skin of a deer that acted as door. Once in darkness, Godfrey lay down and fell asleep.
~~~~
“Godfrey.” The voice came from the opening where the deerskin was pulled back. Opening his eyes, Godfrey saw Alfmod stare down at him. “Alfbrand has returned.”
“Already?”
“You have slept for more than a day.” The Elf gestured to Godfrey’s side, where a jug of water stood next to a wooden plate with dried bits of rabbit meat. “You snored. Loudly.”
“My gifts are many,” Godfrey retorted, supporting himself on his elbow. The other hand grabbed the water, and he emptied the pitcher with one draught. He swept the meat into his hand and got up. “Lead on,” he told Alfmod, already chewing.
He followed the Elf into the network of caves, going a different route than before. Eventually, they reached another way out of the village; stooping low, Godfrey passed under the roots of a great tree and found himself in the forest once more. As he left, the gap behind him seemed to narrow; if he had looked back, Godfrey would have seen nothing to indicate the caverns beyond. Instead, he looked forward.
Ahead of him, Alfbrand was at work, cleaning a pair of rabbits. As Alfmod called out, his kinsman stood up and turned to face them. Standing close, the kinship was obvious; while their relation was as cousins, it was easy to see why legend remembered them as the Brothers Swordsmen. Neither of them wore weapons in this moment, aside from Alfbrand’s knife, but even in their plain clothing, they were as different to other Elves as wolves to dogs.
Alfbrand stared at Godfrey; finally, he threw his knife into the soft ground and reached out to clasp the traveller’s arm. “My heart is heavy with concern to see you, yet even so, your presence makes me glad.”
“As am I,” replied Godfrey.
“I suspected you would come. The presence of those children you sent, my cousin’s disappearance two summers ago… I knew you could not be far behind,” Alfbrand claimed.
“Children?”
“That is not important right now,” Alfmod hurried to say. “Why have you come, Godfrey?”
“I believe there will be another battle at Valmark. Perhaps this time, it will reach even into the antechamber.”
Alfbrand looked at the dead rabbits he had been cleaning. “You claimed so before.”
“That was five hundred years ago,” Godfrey protested. “I’ve hardly made a habit of it.”
“What will you do?” asked Alfmod.
“What I can to prevent this. Delay if nothing else. But if it comes to it, I will make my last stand in the antechamber.”
“What will happen?” asked Alfbrand. “You never faced our enemy in the past.”
Godfrey let out a deep breath. “I don’t know. But I fear no matter what, it will not be good.”
“So why have you come?” asked Alfmod again.
“Because he wants our swords on the battlefield,” Alfbrand interjected, bending down to pick up his knife.
“Yes,” Godfrey confirmed. “I need you.”
“We cannot win this battle for you,” Alfmod declared. “Nor can we march our kindred onto the field. The Song is gone from southern lands. We can barely protect it here.”
“No,” Godfrey assented, “but the presence of the Dragonslayer and the Bladesinger might be the leaf that turns the wind.”
Alfbrand turned the knife in his hands, looking at its bloody steel. “I have not drawn my blade in a thousand years,” he stated. “I have no wish to do so now.”
“Too much is at stake,” Godfrey argued.
“We did our part,” Alfbrand retorted. “We have fought our battles.”
“One battle remains. You always knew this.”
“Cousin,” Alfmod quickly said upon seeing Alfbrand’s brooding face, placing a hand on his kinsman’s arm. “The matter is not to be decided now. Let us speak no further of this.” Alfbrand gave a slight nod, sitting down to resume his work on the rabbits.
~~~~
At night, when most of the Elves were asleep, Alfbrand moved through the cavern corridors. He reached a room that held numerous bow staves and countless arrows. It also had a number of barbed spears for boar hunting, and a few magnificent armours stood on display. Cobwebs showed that the latter had not seen use in a long time. Alfbrand walked over to a great chest standing against the wall and opened it. It contained mostly fabric. Linen shirts, woollen gambesons, and a few leather jerkins. Beneath all of them, Alfbrand dug out a sword. Its pommel was blue; the hilt was carved with runes like the swords wielded by his cousin and Godfrey.
He did not draw the blade but kept it sheathed. Taking the stance of a warrior, he thrust the sword forward and pulled back. Moving slowly at first, his speed increased as he began more complex patterns of movement, hands and feet working in unison. Quicker and quicker, his display of swordsmanship continued until sweat was on his brow. He moved with a grace legendary even among the Elvenfolk, but he never let the sword leave the scabbard; Bladesinger he might be, but his blade was quiet on this night.
A voice reached him from the door. A woman stood, clad in the same simple garments that everyone in the village wore. She smiled in the dim light of the crystals mounted on the walls, speaking to him.
He ceased his movements, lowering the sword. With a weary expression, he gave a reply and stashed the sword back into the chest.
As he turned back to face her, she crossed the room and touched his cheek, still with a mournful smile. They exchanged a few more words until he slammed the chest shut, and they left the armoury.
~~~~
The next day, Alfmod followed Godfrey out of the village. It was a pleasant day; the sun provided heat, and the trees provided shade. The Elf handed over water and provisions to the traveller. “You are welcome to stay longer.”
“A tempting offer,” Godfrey admitted, “which is why I must decline. Time has a way of slipping through my fingers in this forest.”
“As you prefer. I wish you a speedy journey, in that case.”
“Alfmod – will your cousin fight?”
The Elf took a deep breath. “You ask much of Alfbrand. You have never stood opposite the enemy, Godfrey, not the way we have. I do not fear death, but I fear him.”
“I am aware, but I must ask it nonetheless.”
“I think my cousin will. In his heart, he knows the same as me. Some battles never end, it seems.”
“At least we may receive a respite from time to time,” Godfrey considered with a mirthless smile.
“If nothing else, I shall be there.”
“I know,” Godfrey nodded.
“Send the signal when the time comes.”
“When the sparrow sings and the wolf howls,” Godfrey remarked, smiling wryly. They clasped hands.
“Until the next morrow.”
“Until then.”
|
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|
Night Labour
Alcázar
Beyond the southern gate in Alcázar lay the slums known as Almudaina. Each morning, once the gates opened, the residents of this area shuffled into the city to beg, steal, or seek work as day-labourers. Like a caravan of poor and dirty people, usually dressed in little more than rags, they moved through the city, branching into different directions. Some sought the warehouse districts, others went to the harbours, selling the strength of their hands and backs for a few silvers.
They were so numerous, nobody noticed when a short, slim man in his fifties joined their march; his worn clothing and sandals made him look like any other of the hojon. He went with those walking to the eastern docks, waiting in large groups to be selected for work. Some went to unload the few merchant vessels allowed to moor in this harbour; Jawad kept away. Instead, he waited until overseers from the wharf appeared, needing workers to carry materials.
Several scores of the hojon were chosen, and they set off following the overseers. Only the sick, hurt, or otherwise unfit for hard labour remained, left with no recourse but to beg in the city for their meal.
The overseers led Jawad and the other day-labourers to a stockpile of timber, ushering them to pick up the logs and carry them to the shipwrights, who would cut them into shape. In pairs, they lifted the lumber and began the haul.
Stretching his neck, Jawad reached down and grabbed one end of a log. “I have not seen you before working here, jiddo,” said the young man who took the other end. Together, they began the walk towards the small sawmill.
“I usually try my luck on the other docks,” Jawad explained, his voice strained with effort. “But fewer and fewer ships every day, less and less work. I can go hungry for one day, maybe even two, but three? Rather the rats,” he added, quoting a typical saying in Almudaina.
“Hah, I know the feeling. This is better work, anyway,” claimed his companion. “Unloading ships, you have to carry each load by yourself until your back breaks.” He was leading their way, moving in and out to avoid obstacles on their path.
“Very true, my young friend, though these old hands will not last forever either,” Jawad admitted with a mournful voice.
“Don’t worry, jiddo, we take care of each other here. Take the smaller end next time, I’ll carry the heavier one. Are your hands properly wrapped?”
“You are good towards an old man. Yes, they are.”
“If the cloth breaks, let me know. The overseers have old rags they let us use.”
They continued in silence until they reached their destination, lowering the log next to its fellows. The smell of sawdust hung in the air along with the sounds of wood being shaped by serrated blade or hatchet. Jawad let his eyes wander across the area, but already an overseer was upon them, pushing them back. “Get the next, you lazy bastards!”
“We’re on our way, sidi,” Jawad’s young comrade claimed, and they began the walk back. “They talk tough, but they rarely hit us. It’s better than working in the warehouses.”
“I prefer being outside too,” Jawad chipped in. “Air is all stuffy inside those warehouses, and it’s always so dark because they’re too cheap to light any lamps, so every other day, some poor alhajin trips and breaks his leg. And the masters, they simply hire another.”
“You speak the truth, jiddo. Stick to the docks, I always say.”
“Do you only ever haul timber down here?”
“These days, yes. That’s all they need.”
They split for a moment to avoid other pairs of workers coming towards them, bringing logs for the pile. “Don’t ships need sails?” asked Jawad as they walked side by side again. “I hate hauling cotton, those bales are never comfortable.”
The young man laughed. “Of course, jiddo, but there are no sailmakers out here. They’re all inside the city.”
“I see, so you’re spared ever touching that damnable stuff.” They had reached the stockpile and bowed down to pick up another log; as promised, the younger alhajin took the heavier end. “Or do you ever have to carry the sails?”
“I did, months ago. This summer, it’s only been lumber, though.”
“It sounds like a long trip,” Jawad remarked. “I once hauled from the docks to warehouses in the northern district, what a sweat!”
“It wasn’t so bad. The sailmakers are not far from here, just inside the gate.”
“I suppose they knew it was smartest to place them there,” Jawad pointed out with a grin. “I don’t see any pile of sailcloth anywhere though,” he added.
His companion laughed. “Jiddo, they can’t just leave it on the ground for the rats to gnaw at.” He threw his head towards a cluster of small buildings built close to the city wall. “It’s all stored in there.”
“Of course, they’d have to store it somewhere,” Jawad assented, smiling.
They continued their work for a few hours before a break was called and water was distributed along with bread and figs. As the workers crowded together to eat and drink, Jawad stepped away, leaving unnoticed.
~~~~
Leaving the docks, Jawad went to the building where yesterday he had met with Brand. Entering, he found Majid playing cards against himself; several piles of garments lay on the table as well. “Master,” he said in greeting, ceasing his play.
“You found clothes, I see. For the northerner as well?”
“I did. We’re roughly the same height, it should fit him well enough.”
“He’ll have to be satisfied,” Jawad remarked with a smile. He untied his sandals and removed them. “That’s all I need from you today. Be here tomorrow at noon.”
Despite the dismissal, Majid remained in place. “Master,” began hesitantly.
“Yes?” Jawad responded, busy removing his ragged clothing.
“So far, the work has been easy and the pay good. I couldn’t complain.”
Jawad pulled a tunic from one of the piles, putting it on. “Yet I get the sense you’re about to.”
“When you employed me, you told me we wouldn’t do anything unlawful. I’m no thief, master, and this business at the wharf… it seems very much like thieves’ work.”
“There’s truth in that. I won’t force you to take part, Majid, if you wish to sit this one out.”
“Thank you, master,” Majid spoke in relief.
“Of course, if you did join, you’d get your share of the spoils,” Jawad remarked casually as he sat down, putting on his boots.
“Spoils?”
“I was thinking a hundred birds for this. Yours alone.”
Majid licked his lips. “A hundred pieces of silver for one night’s work?”
Jawad rose, picking up a copper ring from the table to place it on his finger, which completed his transformation from alhajin of Almudaina to a respectable citizen of Alcázar. “But if you feel the work is beneath you –”
“I’m in,” Majid hastened to say.
A smile crept over Jawad’s face. “Good. Tomorrow at noon.”
~~~~
Returning to the streets, Jawad moved at a leisurely pace. He had time to stop and eat a meal before going to the great market. He crossed through it, ignoring the hawkers seeking his attention. Noticing that most fabric had been sold already, he continued with a satisfied smile.
His path took him to a door that had a curious symbol carved into it, denoting that an alchemist lived inside. Taking a deep breath, Jawad knocked.
The door opened to reveal a bald, elderly man with a wild beard. He wore a robe with burn marks and plenty of stains. “You! I haven’t seen you in a long time.”
“That’s because I haven’t needed your help in a long time.”
Confusion took a dance across the alchemist’s face before he lit up in a smile. “That makes sense. Come inside!”
Jawad followed the man inside. His abode was typical for his occupation. The main room of the building had a bed where patients might be examined or treated; a table stood with the tools of his trade, and shelves along the walls held the ingredients that made up the secrets of his craft.
“I need something that’ll light a fire quickly and reliably,” Jawad explained. “Small enough to carry in my pockets.”
The alchemist turned towards his shelves. He frowned in thought, crossed his eyes, took a deep sniff, ran his tongue across his teeth, and finally picked out two small flasks. He turned around to face Jawad, holding a flacon in each hand. “This,” he said, shaking one container, “is a cat. And this,” he continued, shaking the other, “is a dog.”
“You – you don’t mean that in a literal way, I hope.”
“Apart, they are friendly. You can pet them and play with them.”
Jawad coughed. “Yes?”
“Put them together, you have a fight! Within a moment, fire shall blossom that cannot die,” the alchemist promised.
“Excellent.” Jawad extended his hand, receiving the flasks. “You want payment, I presume?”
The old man glanced around his workshop. “Yes,” he replied with an absent mind.
Jawad’s hands made a circular motion, encouraging the other man to continue. “Yes? How much?”
“A cat is six silver, a dog is nine.” The alchemist wrinkled his forehead in contemplation. “Twelve falcons.”
Jawad stared for a moment. “Oh, twelve silvers. For a moment, I thought you wanted me to fetch you twelve actual birds.”
“This is not an aviary,” came the offended response.
Jawad counted out twelve silver pieces; some had the falcon symbol of Alcázar, others the eagle of Adalmearc. When done, he placed them in two stacks on the nearby table. “Pleasure as always.” He waited until he had left the building before letting his exasperation show. Once he had finished rolling his eyes, he went east.
~~~~
It was afternoon when Jawad returned to the eastern docks. Dressed as a citizen rather than alhajin, nobody recognised that he had spent the morning working with the day-labourers. At a casual pace, he strolled along the piers, exchanging pleasantries with the sailors disembarking their ships. Every now and then, his path took him north towards the wharf, and each time, he took notice of the guards, constantly gathering in groups and scattering in pairs. Every time he had passed by, Jawad made sure to turn back and walk to the southern part of the harbour, waiting a while before he returned.
When the sun began to sink towards the horizon, he found something to eat in a tavern. The mood was good if rowdy, as was always the case where sailors congregated. Whether they had just returned ashore or enjoyed a last outing before embarking tomorrow, all of them made the most of their time on land. Jawad did not seem troubled, on the contrary; he made many a jest, played dice for coppers and lost with a smile. When one of his companions mysteriously seemed to have lost the silver in his pocket, Jawad graciously bought his next round.
As it grew dark outside, Jawad declared his intention to leave, much to the dismay of his newfound companions. They implored him to stay; the night was still young. After many exclamations of friendship and brotherhood, he finally managed to escape the tavern.
At this hour, all the hojon working as day-labourers were gone; the law commanded they returned to Almudaina before sunset. The merchants, their clerks, warehouse overseers, and other servants had likewise retreated for the night; the gate into the city would be shut soon.
This did not seem to trouble Jawad; he turned away from the gate towards the wharf. He was dressed in dark blue colours that matched the night sky; once he moved away from the fires and lamps burning here and there on the docks, he was near invisible.
The same could not be said for the guards, patrolling in pairs; a spear in one hand, they each had a torch in the other, illuminating their presence at all time. With a smile hidden by darkness, Jawad crouched low and let his eyes measure his path forward.
There was no clear separation where the wharf began. At some point, the piers and warehouses of the docks stopped, and the first signs of shipbuilding began. Piles of materials lay on the ground with the occasional box of smaller tools. Here and there stood machinery, too large to be moved around and thus built on the spot, helping shape the great planks of timber. Some buildings stood near the city walls, including a few lean-tos actually touching the stonework. Rain was scarce during the summer months, but come winter, certain materials and tools needed to be sheltered. Keeping his eyes on the flickering flames moving around in the night, Jawad began his approach.
He moved with slow steps and silent footfall. Sneaking forward, his first destination was the pile of timber that he had helped diminish earlier. Constantly, his eyes darted in every direction, keeping track of the guards. Once he reached his first stop, he lay down between some of the logs, hiding himself. Moments passed until he heard footsteps and saw the scattered light from a pair of torches. Words were exchanged as well, spoken by bored voices.
Patiently, Jawad waited until footsteps, lights, and voices were gone. When all was quiet, he slowly raised his body until he could survey his surroundings. Once his eyes gave the same message as his ears, he continued rising up, careful not to touch any of the surrounding wood. Having not made a sound, he crept forward.
In this manner, he moved from one hiding spot to another, always taking his time and waiting before continuing. At length, he reached the small buildings that housed the ship supplies. They had a lock, of course; Jawad smiled seeing this and pulled out a few lock picks. A dance followed where he spent a few moments working on the lock before noticing guards approaching, forcing him to hide; the city wall was accommodating to his needs, casting deep shadows where he could stay unseen. It took him several of these small trips back and forth before the lock clicked open and he could slip inside.
The interior was entirely black; the building had no windows, Jawad had not brought any light, and he had closed the door entirely behind him. Instead, he let his fingers do the seeing, fumbling his way through everything. His hands found a barrel first; opening the lid, he stuck one hand down only to pull it out with a hiss. It contained nothing but nails. He continued his investigation of the room; given its small size, it was quickly done. Taking a deep breath, he slowly opened the door and listened intently before creeping outside. Quickly, he locked the door again and disappeared into the shadows, moving to the next building.
He followed the same procedure for two more buildings until he found his target. Kept dry and safe from vermin, great bundles of sailcloth lay ready to be hoisted onto masts and carry ships forward. Jawad smiled briefly in the dark before leaving the small storehouse, leaving no trace of his presence.
Having found his quarry, Jawad did not return. Instead, he continued in the same direction as before, moving away from the piers and deeper into the wharf. His method did not change, hiding in a half-built ship or between hewn rocks intended as ballast. Step by step, he avoided the guards until he had passed through the entire wharf and reached the empty coastline that lay north.
With a satisfied expression, Jawad relaxed and continued. When he reached a solitary tree, he sat down with his back against its trunk and slept through the remaining hours of the night.
|
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|
Evenday
Labdah
While Adalmearc celebrated summer solstice and mourned winter solstice, the triumph and defeat of light, the South Cities reserved their festivities for the days of equinox when light and dark were in balance. The Evenday in spring was particularly revered, bringing new life. Revellers filled the streets at all hours, and no work was done if it could be avoided. Even slaves lazed about as the entire city let loose of all restraints.
Master Hanno’s compound was one of the few exceptions. Every area saw frenzied activity; today, his fighters would earn their keep and prove themselves. The first games would commence before noon, and the last would take place long after. Hanno had fighters participating in most of them, and all had to be ready and prepared for departure at the same time.
“First time on the sands. Nervous?” Majid asked smiling, strapping on his greaves.
“I’ve been in battle before,” Garrick reminded him, putting on bracers. “I’ve fought people actually trying to kill me. I’ll be fine.”
“You’ve never fought with a thousand eyes staring down upon you,” Majid retorted. “It will be nothing like what you have known.”
“You keep saying that, but I didn’t flinch when we fought the other night,” Garrick argued.
“You did well,” Majid acknowledged. “Just stay on your feet. Don’t take any risks. I can handle every opponent we’re up against, as long as I don’t have to drag a dead man by the chain.”
“Don’t you worry. I’ll take care of myself,” Garrick claimed. “You do the same.”
“Trust me, I will. I am this close to freedom,” Majid declared.
“Why does it matter so much to you? You seem awful satisfied being a slave,” Garrick taunted him.
“I accept my lot while working to improve it. Is that so hard for you to grasp?”
“How can you ever accept being a slave? Under someone else’s boot?”
“Most of my life has been this way. When I was a soldier, my life was not much different. I lived in the barracks, ate what I was given, trained daily, and followed orders,” Majid pointed out. “If I had tried to leave, I would be branded a deserter. Freedom was a stranger to me then as now.”
“But you choose to be a soldier,” Garrick argued. “I never chose this. I was tricked, assaulted, and sold like cattle! Prodded by strangers and measured like a horse. They made an animal of me,” he complained. “No man should endure such a fate.”
“Yet thousands do,” Majid replied prosaically. “You can continue to complain about it, or you can claw your way up. I made my choice long ago, and today, my reward is in sight. You are free to choose to do the same.”
~~~~
At Hiram’s estate, an entire procession of people prepared to depart. Besides the nobility, most servants and slaves would be going to the spectacle as well. An ample number of guards was also included. Since the stable hands and bearers were not working today, there was neither horses nor litter available. As a result, everyone was walking.
“I could do without this tradition,” Dalia complained as they set into motion.
“Walking once a year will not kill you,” Jana chastised her.
“But it is so far to the theatre! My shoes are not at all suited for walking that far.”
“Then why are you wearing them?”
“They are the only pair that is suitable with this dress,” Dalia explained with a superior attitude.
“Of course.”
Just ahead of them in the column, their brothers spoke with lowered voices. “Everything prepared?” asked Saif.
“Naturally. I would not walk with such leisure otherwise,” Jalil replied, slightly indignant.
“Just making sure. The meeting with the Council is tonight.”
“I am aware,” Jalil told him with irritation. “Until then, perhaps we can enjoy the games.” He increased his pace to fall into step with Hiram, soon engaging him in conversation.
~~~~
All of Labdah was celebrating Evenday, including at the docks. Whether natives or foreign sailors, everyone was happy to indulge an excuse for revelry. Even the slaves hauling goods to and from ships took part. All across the piers, men and women were laughing, drinking, and enjoying the mood. An exception were the tavern keepers; most of them worked half the day, providing a steady stream of drink to get the festivities started.
Jawad slipped into one such establishment; although early, the place was already full. He approached the proprietor, a stocky man with sweat on his face from running around the room. “Fasih.”
Seeing the old rogue, the tavern keeper’s demeanour changed. He put down everything in his hands and nodded towards the backroom. Jawad entered, quickly followed by Fasih. “Yes, chief?”
Jawad gave him a piece of paper. “A message for Amal. Make sure it leaves today. Things are going to change fast in Labdah, I suspect, and our operations with them.”
“You got it.” Fasih accepted the missive with a meaty hand. “You found out everything you needed then, chief?”
“I did. You can withhold any payments to Maharbal.”
“We ain’t on friendly terms with him anymore?”
“We are,” Jawad clarified, “but it won’t matter much longer.”
Fasih frowned. “We won’t need him? Is this to do with the Council and the emissaries from Alcázar?”
Jawad nodded. “If ties between Labdah and Alcázar are restored, so will trade, and there will be little profit in smuggling goods between them. If the current situation holds, it means Maharbal and his faction have become isolated on the Council,” Jawad explained. “In which case, he will be soon be ousted. Either way, we have no further need of him.”
“As you say, chief. Anything else?”
“Have a boat ready to take two passengers to Alcázar. Either late tonight or possibly tomorrow, though I aim for sooner rather than later.”
“Very good.” Fasih nodded. “You’re going through with it, then?”
“I am.”
“He’s important to you, this northerner?”
Jawad shrugged. “I’ve never met him before recently. But he works for the Prince, and the name of the Prince must be respected.”
“Aye.” Fasih nodded again, fervently. “I hope the master knows all the ways we’re doing his work in Labdah.”
“I’ll be sure to mention your name to him,” Jawad promised.
~~~~
While the Evenday celebrations could stretch on for days, the games were only held on the actual day. This meant a steady stream of people leaving the city to reach the theatre that lay outside the walls.
“I’m not looking forward to this heat getting worse,” Garrick mumbled.
Oblivious to his remark, Majid grabbed his arm and attention. “Look! Your future and fortune lie ahead.” He pointed at a great structure coming into view as they left the city gate. Hewn into the rock, the theatre of Labdah loomed in the distance. It was rumoured to be the largest of its kind, able to accommodate many thousands. For more than twelve centuries, it had seen countless fights on its sands. Underneath these tribunes, a now forgotten Elder of the Council had enflamed the populace to war against Adalmearc eight hundred years ago. Many still spoke of the trial against Hamilcar, the captain accused of treason following the defeat against Alcázar. Today, another chapter in the history of the great theatre would be written.
Nearby, a small town of tents rose, allowing the fighters a place to prepare. Weapons and armour were being inspected, oiled, and polished everywhere. Every warrior fought in a distinct style, easily recognisable by their equipment. The style of Alcázar was among the most common, and passing through the area, Garrick saw numerous shields similar to Majid’s. The spearmen of Gadir were also popular. Here and there, an emerald warrior could be seen carrying a tower shield. The crowd adored this style as it was an homage to Labdah, but few trainers chose it for their fighters; not many warriors could handle a shield of such size with the swift manoeuvres needed to win in the arena. Reaching Hanno’s tent, Garrick saw no fighter in the northern style but himself.
“The first game is about to begin,” Majid remarked to Garrick. A few of Hanno’s warriors had already prepared themselves and departed.
“When is our fight?”
“It’ll be some hours. We participate in the grandest spectacle, my friend! Fifty warriors upon the sands at the same time. The excitement of the crowds is like a lightning bolt coursing through your veins. You have never felt anything like it, I promise you, and you will crave it ever after,” Majid told him.
Looking distracted, Garrick did not reply at first. “I wasn’t honest with you the other day,” he finally admitted.
“How so?”
“When you asked if I had something waiting for me back home. I didn’t quite tell you the truth.”
“Ajama, such matters are between you and your god.”
“No, I want you to know. Someone should know,” Garrick declared. “It’s been eating at me.” He continued in halting fashion. “Remember the girl I was going to marry? She got pregnant. I was a day-labourer, barely making coin for myself. So I joined the Order to get some quick silver, provide for them both.”
“That doesn’t seem like anything to shame you.”
Garrick shook his head. “As the campaign dragged on, I sent less silver home. Spent it on myself. When it was finally over, I didn’t go home for several years. I became a temple guard until they wouldn’t have me either. I only returned once my coin was gone and I had no better prospect.”
Majid inspected his weapons, letting Garrick speak without interruption.
“By then, she had found someone else. Not much of a surprise, and I hardly blame her. As for the boy, he’d never met me before.” The old soldier exhaled. “All the years I was gone, I can’t really claim to be his father, and I don’t think her new fellow cares much about the lad either. He’s going to end up like me, working himself to the bone for a few petties, or join the Order and bleed in the mud somewhere.”
“Ajama, you should not fill your head with these thoughts before a fight.”
“That’s why I accepted the task, going to Alcázar. It was enough silver that I could buy him an apprenticeship. If I could make sure he got a trade, he’d get a better life than me,” Garrick said. “Perhaps that would atone for my failings.”
“Those are good intentions. Let that comfort you,” Majid suggested, “and put your mind towards the sands.”
“But he doesn’t know that,” Garrick interjected. “In his mind, I went away again. He’ll think I left him, like the first time. I don’t want that on my conscience.” He finally looked at Majid. “One way or another, I have to leave. I won’t stay twelve years hoping to one day become champion.”
The other warrior sent him a stern look. “Tomorrow, you can set the city on fire for all I care. But today, Ajama, today you will fight!”
~~~~
Warriors left and returned over the next hours. Some in triumph, some in defeat, all with wounds. At some point, the mamluk left while shooting a menacing look towards Garrick; when he returned, he was subdued, and the physician began treating his wounds.
“I’m guessing that bastard didn’t win,” Garrick said with glee.
“Keep your thoughts on your fight,” Majid cautioned him. “Keep your head where it belongs.”
Garrick examined his equipment. Besides his armour, he had been given a sword with a long blade, a helmet that covered around his eyes, and a round shield. “Why does my shield have a horse head on it? That’s the symbol for peace,” he pointed out to Majid.
“Why does a horse mean peace?” the other man asked confused.
Garrick frowned. “You know, I’m not sure. It must have something to do with Disfara. A goddess,” he added.
“If I don’t know, the crowd won’t either. As long as it’s sturdy.”
Garrick struck the steel edge of the shield against the ground a few times. “It looks to be.” An official exchanged words with their master and quickly examined Garrick, who glared back at him. “What’s that for?”
“They are checking their records. You must be new to the sands, remember? It would be a breach of sacred rules if not. One champion, one beginner,” Majid reminded him. Hanno walked over to speak a few words in Suthspeech, and Majid nodded. “We are next, Ajama. Prepare yourself.”
Garrick closed his fist around his amulet. “Rihimil, protect me,” he muttered, squeezing the wooden carving.
“Your god?” Majid asked, checking the many straps of his armour.
“Rihimil, the Black Knight,” Garrick confirmed. “I served in his temple once.”
“Black? He is like me, not pale like you?”
“No, I think it’s his armour. Never thought about that,” Garrick admitted with confusion.
“Too bad. You might have made a convert out of me,” Majid grinned. “Here! We must complete your appearance.” He brought out a jar and began to smear some of its contents on Garrick’s face. “There. That’s how a northern warrior should look.”
“I’ve never seen an islander look like this,” Garrick retorted.
“Neither has the crowd, but they expect it nonetheless. Come! It is time you stand upon the sands.”
With chains connecting their ankles, the two fighters followed Hanno. Passing through the town of tents, other combatants joined them. Those staying behind saluted them in various ways. Majid responded with a nod to each; Garrick simply breathed heavily.
“Just survive,” the Mearcian told himself. “You can do that. Just survive.”
They finally stepped onto the sands. In a semi-circle, the tribunes spread around them, and the cheers from thousands of spectators rose in greeting. Majid waved his sword in the air while Garrick craned his neck to stare all around. It seemed the entire population of Labdah had come to see them fight. The sand crunched beneath their feet; above, the sun shone down to be reflected in their armour. When all twenty-five pairs of fighters had returned the greetings of the crowd, they spread out across the arena, turning to face each other.
“Ajama! Do like me,” Majid bid him and bent down to let the grains of sand run through his hands. “Greet the sand. Let it know who stands upon it. You will do this many times before your last fight,” he told Garrick.
“Seems like silliness,” the northerner mumbled, but he did as suggested.
All the tribunes were the same except those at the very top; seats and canopies had been installed to allow the nobility of Labdah to enjoy the games in comfort. Mago, Eldest of the Council, nodded to a horn blower by his side. A sound issued from his instrument, and the fight could begin.
Fifty warriors shouted in bloodlust. Some charged forward with expert coordination, others stood fast. “Ajama!” Majid called out. One pair came at them, and Garrick found himself in desperate defence. His foe ran into him like a battering ram, knocking both of them to the ground. He stabbed as best he could, but his long blade could not find its target in such close combat. His enemy had a shorter sword and thrust it down; in the nick of time, Garrick’s shield came up to take the blow.
Blood sprayed over him as Majid’s weapon pierced the enemy fighter from behind, and his comrade used one foot to push the corpse away from Garrick. “On your feet, Ajama!”
“Just survive,” he mumbled, repeating Jawad’s words to him as he got up. He saw the other fighter, Majid’s first opponent, sitting disarmed on the ground. “Just survive.”
Another pair approached, more cautiously. Garrick and his counterpart measured each other; he faced a spearman. The tip came jabbing at him, which he blocked with his shield. He tried to advance, but found himself held back; at every attempt to move forward, the spearman skilfully attacked, forcing him to step back and defend. Finally, he attempted the same manoeuvre as in Hiram’s palace. When his enemy lunged forward to stab the spear at him, Garrick dropped his shield and reached out to grab the shaft, pulling it towards him.
It had worked in the cramped space of Hiram’s hall; here, the spearman had enough distance to balance himself and stop his own momentum. With both hands, he tore the spear out of Garrick’s grip. Despair clawed across the northerner’s face as he saw his discarded shield on the ground.
Majid’s blade came swinging into the spearman’s helm, making a dent and sending him tumbling to the ground. “Stop acting the fool!” Majid cried out to Garrick, who hurried to pick up his shield. “Just defend yourself!” The spearman’s comrade already lay on the ground with arms stretched out in surrender. “They come!”
Another pair of enemies. An emerald warrior charged Garrick, and they exchanged blows. Trying to find a way past the tower shield seemed impossible; it covered the wielder nearly from head to toe. Daring a look towards Majid, he was also hard pressed; he faced a warrior in the same style as himself, apparently of equal skill.
Garrick shifted slightly until the sun was behind him, making his opponent squint against the harsh light. With this small advantage, Garrick launched himself forward but immediately dropped to the ground, stabbing his enemy in the foot. The emerald warrior gave a cry of pain and stumbled backwards, out of reach, while swinging his sword to keep Garrick at bay. That was not needed; on his feet again and with one enemy in retreat, Garrick turned to slash Majid’s opponent across the back.
Majid did not waste the opening and sent him to the ground. Two against one, they turned on the emerald warrior, circling around him like wolves finding a wounded deer. A feint from Garrick drew his attention, letting Majid move in close; one moment later, he lay down in defeat.
Across the sands, few remained standing. None were eager to rush into the next fight; all appraised their remaining opposition. In response to this, the roar from the crowds lessened while anticipation built. Garrick pushed his helmet up to wipe the sweat from his brow. “What now?”
“We make someone else than us the target.” Majid nodded towards another pair. “Keep pace.” They began walking with the chain between them rattling like a snake across the sand.
Their chosen opponents noticed the threat and turned to defend themselves, thereby making themselves vulnerable from another angle. This was not lost on another pair of fighters, who moved to take advantage of this. Two pairs against one left nothing to chance.
Majid shouted a few words over the din to their temporary allies, and an agreement was reached. All of them moved to face the third pair on the sands, repeating their strategy. As before, isolation proved disastrous. One of them managed to surrender; the other had the choice ripped from him with a sword through his chest.
Only two pairs remained. “Just survive,” Garrick mumbled.
“Just keep yours at bay,” Majid instructed him. “Don’t fall, don’t leave me vulnerable. Stay on your feet, keep your weapons in hand. It’ll be over soon.”
For the first time since the fight had begun, Garrick faced a mirrored opponent; his enemy held a long blade and round shield in the northern style, same as himself. Blue eyes met his own of the same hue; it seemed likely he stood against another Mearcian.
His opponent lunged forward to launch an attack; on the sands, they were all enemies, Mearcian or not. To the side, Majid engaged his own counterpart likewise.
Sword and shield clashed repeatedly; Garrick was constantly pressed back, having met his match. The chain around his ankle stretched out, objecting to any further retreat.
“Ajama!” Majid called out upon feeling the chain pull at him, threatening his balance.
Blows rained down against Garrick, forcing him further back. The shackles stretched, encouraging his enemy to press on. Sun glared into his face, sweat poured into his eyes, defeat loomed over him. With a quick stroke, his foe struck a gash across his right arm, making Garrick drop his sword. In a desperate act, Garrick threw his shield against his enemy. It bought him a moment, which he used to jump to the side. The chain between him and Majid stretched out and became a snare to entangle his enemy’s legs, and he fell to the ground.
Immediately, Garrick fell upon him, seizing his dropped shield and bashing its edge into the throat of his enemy. His windpipe crushed, the man gargled and suffocated. Getting up, pulling his chain free and picking up his sword, Garrick stalked towards the last remaining foe. Attacking from behind, he slashed him across the hamstrings. With an anguished scream, the fighter fell to his knees, dropping his weapons in surrender.
“Ajama!” Majid roared in wonder. “We did it! We won!”
“We won?” Garrick asked in a daze. He stared around the arena and saw it to be true. He raised his bloodied sword in triumph. “We won!”
~~~~
“Those are your champions, are they not?” asked Saif of Hiram.
“They are indeed. Master Hanno has proven worthy of my patronage,” Hiram said pleased. “As his patron, I have the fortune of naming one of them as champion.”
“You decide between these two?” asked Jalil.
“Custom is the experienced fighter receives that honour,” Jana explained. She was the only woman among them; Dalia sat with Maharbal. “Along with his freedom.”
“Customs change,” Jalil claimed. “Letting such a skilled warrior go free seems a waste.”
“That particular pair is interesting,” Hiram declared. “It is no coincidence they fight in the style of Alcázar and Adalmearc. The taller one is from your city, and the other hails from the North, I was told.”
“And the taller was the experienced fighter, correct?” asked Jalil.
“Indeed. But was he the better? It seems almost auspicious that Alcázar and Adalmearc should fight on the sands. But a real fight has only one winner, does it not?” Hiram looked at the princes seated by his sides.
“In this case, they worked together,” Saif pointed out.
“Lord Hiram is right. War has only one victor,” Jalil declared. Smiling, Hiram rose from his seat.
The multitudes of spectators were still in a frenzy after the game; it took a while for them to notice the expensively clad man at the top of the tribunes, raising his hands to gesture for silence.
“Good people of Labdah, what games we have had today!” Hiram declared. The crowds roared back in agreement. “I am Lord Hiram, Elder of the Council and patron of the fighters who stand victorious upon the sands this day!” He paused with a beaming smile. “It is tradition that the champion of the chained games shall be set free. While I strongly believe that Labdah stands upon the traditions of our ancestors, I also believe that Labdah should stand with its friends. Before us, we have a warrior of Alcázar and a warrior of Adalmearc. Who is stronger?”
Hiram waited to let the question take root. “There is only one way to know!” he continued. “Let the sands decide! Two men stand before us – only one may be free. Only one may live. To the death! Let the sands decide!” he repeated with a roar.
Both Majid and Garrick had worn smiles while Hiram spoke. Now, their smiles faded as the truth became apparent.
“Fight!” yelled the crowd.
“You said we had won,” Garrick said confused. “You promised!”
“This is unheard of,” Majid mumbled.
“Fight!”
“I don’t want to fight you,” Garrick declared, but he kept his sword angled towards Majid.
“Fight!”
“I’m sorry,” Majid muttered. “I’ve waited too long for this.”
“Fight!”
Garrick leapt forward without warning, raising his blade. As he struck down, Majid parried every blow, quickly recovering. The northerner swung in an arc, aiming to cut Majid’s throat. The latter leaned backwards with cold-blooded calculation, and the tip of Garrick’s sword passed by within an inch of his skin. Before Garrick could stop the momentum of his swing, Majid closed the distance and plunged his short blade into flesh.
Garrick’s sword fell from his hand, and he sank to the sands. He sought to speak to no avail. By the time Majid knelt by his side, only dead eyes stared up. “I’m sorry, Ajama,” Majid told the dead man. He reached out and grabbed hold of Garrick’s pendant, pulling it free. “You deserved better.” Clutching the carving of Rihimil in one hand and his sword hilt in the other, Majid rose to receive the adulation of the crowd and his freedom.
“The people certainly do not mind this departure from custom,” Saif remarked casually.
“It proved beneficial today,” Jana admitted. “But abandoning tradition means abandoning its protection.”
“Labdah has far too long been in the grip of tradition,” Hiram declared with a touch of scorn. “Twelve men cannot steer a ship or ride a horse. This is how it should be.” He gestured towards the arena. “One champion. Today, the sands showed us the truth.”
“It would not have looked well if the northerner had won,” Jalil pointed out.
“There was no danger of that. He was far less skilled,” Jana argued. “I am sure Lord Hiram had taken that into account.”
“Of course.” Hiram smiled. “This display of Alcázar’s strength is a good omen for our negotiations tonight with the Elder Council.”
Jana stared down upon the arena where the bodies of the slain fighters were being retrieved. “A bloody omen, to be sure.” But already, the sand was being replaced, removing all traces of bloodshed.
From the tribunes, Jawad watched Garrick’s corpse being dragged away, and he gave a sigh.
|
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"title": "The Eagle’s Flight - 129. Evenday",
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|
A Light in the Dark
Rund
Godfrey slept in Manzik the scribe’s room when there was a knock on the door. Stirring, he got up and grabbed his sword in its scabbard.
“It’s me,” Kamran’s voice spoke.
Letting go of the weapon, Godfrey opened the door to let him in. “How is the situation?”
“The same. There’s no sign that they’re any closer to discovering you than before – or any of us, for that matter.”
“That is reassuring. What about Valash’s wife and son? Are they still being watched?”
“I do not know,” Kamran admitted. “I have not been involved with that.”
“What would you assume?”
Kamran gave a shrug, sitting down. “Hard to tell. The knowledge that a Blade of Ruin is in the city has put the fravashi in an uproar. On one hand, this might make them patient as the desert for rain. On the other hand, they seem eager to punish any rebellion and make a show of force.”
Godfrey sat down on the bed, scratching his cheek. “We’ll be here a while regardless. Let’s wait a bit longer until they grow tired, and then we’ll arrange for Myrod and Zayen to be taken elsewhere.”
“As you say.”
“I’ll go to the shahrban’s offices tomorrow and get documents for them both.” Godfrey patted the deflated coin purse in his belt. “I’ll have little left.”
“I can attempt to bring you more coin,” Kamran suggested.
“If you can. Else I’ll have to steal some,” Godfrey suggested. “Regardless, what other tidings do you bring?”
“Not much. There is talk of Jenaab Sikandar bringing an army to Rund soon, but there has been talk of that for a long while. I and others of my brotherhood are being sent beyond the city later this week to hunt the drylanders.”
“Do you think you can avoid discovering them?”
Kamran looked doubtful. “Maybe. I fear they are too many to hide well.”
“Let us hope for the best. We are slowly strangling the Godking’s armies in Hæthiod. If this can last another two months, our position will be strengthened greatly. Perhaps enough to delay the Godking’s advance another year.”
“Two months is a very long time, Javed.”
“I always aim high,” Godfrey said with a smile. He clasped Kamran’s arm. “Until the morrow comes.”
“Until the morrow comes.”
~~~~
In the evening just after dusk, Godfrey left the shahrban’s offices in the centre of the city. Safely tugged away inside his clothing, a few documents hid themselves; his coin purse, on the other hand, was empty. Stepping out on the square, he saw people arriving from all directions. He turned his eyes towards the middle and the pyre erected in front of the statue of the Godking. Earlier, it had been empty. Now, a woman stood tied to a stake and gagged. Next to it, a small pedestal was placed; a Servant of the Flame had taken position upon it, so that he was visible to the crowd.
“Behold the blasphemer!” he cried out, gesturing to the woman. “Her sins are many, but chief among them is rebellion against the Godking! In her black heart she plotted treason, and even now she refuses to repent!”
“Blasphemer!” shouted many in the crowd. Those most willing to witness the spectacle had pushed to the front, and they were eagerly watching and shouting their disdain for all to hear.
“Only the divine flames of our Godking may purify her spirit!” His eyes reflected the same fire mentioned in his words and woven into his garments. “Only death may offer her release!”
His words fuelled a frenzy in the crowd. “Death! Death! Death!”
“This woman is Myrod, married to Valash the potter. Never let her name be spoken again! As the flames devour her flesh, may they burn away all memory of her name, her life, and all that she was!”
“Burn! Burn! Burn!”
The priest turned to face Myrod and was given a torch by a soldier. “Even a traitor and blasphemer may serve a purpose. Know that your sacrifice proves our devotion to the Godking. Soon, the god in the mountain shall awaken,” he declared. Raising one fist in the air, he threw the torch onto the pyre. “All for the Godking!”
“All for the Godking!”
Godfrey turned away and left the square. Myrod’s muffled screams followed him for a long while.
~~~~
The next day at noon, Kamran appeared in Manzik’s room again. “I bring bad tidings.”
“I know. I happened to be present.”
“Death by fire,” Kamran muttered. “Their cruelty knows no bounds.”
“We can do nothing further for her,” Godfrey declared. “The same is not the case for Zayen.”
“I’m not sure. The boy has been taken to the temple. They will make a Servant of him.”
Godfrey exhaled, staring into the air. “I feared as much. He is a bright boy.”
“He is beyond our reach.”
“Not beyond mine.” Godfrey raised his head to look at Kamran. “I will get him.”
“Javed,” Kamran objected, “you always urge us to avoid risk! The fravashi, the Servants – you cannot hope to avoid detection!”
“Kamran, you need not concern –”
“Javed,” he repeated, “I know you have powers at your command that confound even a sāyag like me. None other has evaded the fravashi the way you have. But –”
“Kamran.” Now it was Godfrey’s turn to interrupt. “Both his parents are dead because of me. The Servants will beat obedience into the boy until he is a mindless slave.” He turned to look at the closed window as if his eyes could pierce the obstacle to see beyond. “Hundreds have died upon the streets or the altars because the Godking ordered them to die, and because I ordered them to resist.”
“You cannot blame –”
“I can. Every life lost is a burden I must bear, and I do so willingly. But I will not bear more than I must. I will see the boy freed.”
Kamran stared at him, silent for a moment. “What do we do?”
“I will get the boy and hide him here. You must find a way to get him out of the city. Come collect him tonight.”
Kamran let out his breath. “Very well. See you tonight.”
“Tonight.”
~~~~
Godfrey dove in between two buildings, looking around. Seeing himself alone, he bent down and tried to pry one of the cobbled stones loose from the ground. It did not move in the least. Frowning, he tried its neighbour with same lack of success. Straightening up, he began stomping on every stone on the path, moving methodically forward. Finally, one of them budged slightly. With patience and long nails, Godfrey slowly made the stone come loose until he could lift it up.
It revealed a hole, from which Godfrey pulled out a simple sack. He dug his hand inside and took out a robe; it was red in colour with patterns of fire woven into the fabric. He dusted it off a few times; it was clearly old and worn. Looking around once more, finding himself still alone, Godfrey began removing his own clothes.
~~~~
None might enter the temples of the Godking of their own accord, save the priesthood of the Flame and the fravashi. The ordinary citizens were only allowed inside if summoned or dragged inside by the Servants, and few returned. Because of this, most only knew the temples from the outside with the fires burning on either side of the gate. Dressed as a priest and walking with determined steps, Godfrey crossed the square to enter the great house of worship in Rund.
Past the gate, he stood in a long hallway. On either side of him, the mask of the Godking had been carved into the wall to stare down at him. At every pace, another set of masks watched his progression to the end of the passageway, where a large brazier burned. The fire provided plenty of light, but being the only source, it also cast long shadows throughout the space. Moving in this interplay of light and shadow, Godfrey reached the brazier and had to walk either left or right.
Peering in either direction, Godfrey chose left. He immediately ran into one of the Servants. “Who are you?” asked the priest brusquely. “I’ve not seen you before.”
“Indeed, Brother, I am newly arrived from the seventh district. My Keeper sent me here.”
“What for?” The Servant’s eyes glanced over Godfrey with suspicion.
“She thought I had been – remiss in some of my duties. I am to present myself for re-education.”
The priest gave a cruel smile. “Well deserved, no doubt. Your robe is dirty and worn!” His expression turned contemptuous. “Is this how you approach the altar of the Godking?”
Godfrey turned his head down, looking like a shameful dog. “Forgive me, Brother.”
“It is not I that you must beg forgiveness from,” the Servant sneered. “Come with me!” He grabbed hold of Godfrey’s arm and dragged him deeper into the temple.
They ventured through narrow corridors same as before with braziers to summon shadows and the mask of the Godking staring down. At length, they reached the very centre of the building. It was a small room, entirely square. It lay directly beneath the spire that stood the tallest structure in Rund. From every corner hung torches, shining light upon the centre. It contained a stone slab, carved in such a manner to mirror the shape of the room; upon it stood a blood-red statue of the Godking.
“Wait here,” the priest commanded Godfrey. He left the room. A moment later, Godfrey moved to the edge of the door and peered outside. Seeing nobody, he took a step forward; hearing the rustling of robes, he immediately jumped back inside the room and adopted an expression of idleness.
The Servant returned. In one hand, he had a knife and bowl; in the other, he held chains to drag a man with him. The prisoner looked pale to the point of sickly and malnourished. Pulling on the chains in his hand, the priest made the shackled man stumble to the ground.
He held out the knife and bowl to Godfrey. “Let me see you perform the sacrifice,” he demanded with a harsh voice.
Godfrey accepted the tools, staring down. The knife was clean, reflecting the light from the torches. He looked at the prisoner as the light fell upon him. Besides showing the signs of torture, the dancing flames revealed him to be Valash. No sign of recognition suggested that the potter knew his executioner. “Brother, I cannot,” Godfrey began to explain. “I have not cleansed myself in a long time. I am not worthy.”
“Are you serious?” The Servant stared at him with wild eyes.
“I’m afraid so, Brother.”
“Pathetic.” The priest grabbed the knife with one hand; the other took hold of Valash’s hair, holding his head close to the altar stone. “Watch, you worm.” With a steady hand, he cut the throat of the condemned, spilling his blood. “All for you, my god, my king,” the Servant whispered with half-closed eyes. He ran the flat side of the blade against his cheek, smearing the warm blood against his face. “We beseech you, awaken from your sleep! Lead us, your faithful, we beg.” Taking the bowl from Godfrey, he pulled up the dying victim to increase the bleeding, catching some of the red liquid. Slowly, the priest poured it onto the statue. “All for the Godking!”
“All for the Godking,” Godfrey repeated with less enthusiasm.
No longer enraptured, the Servant turned his head sharply towards Godfrey. “Help me clean this up. Once you are done, I think a night in the tower without food or water will you do you good. Tomorrow, when you have had time to reflect upon your many failings, the Keeper will have to decide your fate.”
“Yes, Brother.”
~~~~
The tower of the temple contained a spiral staircase, ending in a small room right underneath the roof. It had no windows, only the mask of the Godking etched into the walls. Other than the hatch in the floor, it contained nothing but a small lamp oil burning a fickle flame. In the dark with nothing but the fire to focus on, acolytes of the Flame were sent here to contemplate their weaknesses and prepare them for service in the priesthood. It was also a typical punishment for Servants who had neglected their duties. Few experienced it twice; if punishment were needed more than once, usually only sacrifice upon the altar would suffice.
Staring at the oil lamp, Godfrey sat on the floor. Minutes passed by, one by one, coalescing into hours. It had been early evening when he went inside the temple; it was past midnight when he finally stirred. Blinking repeatedly, he stood up and stretched his body. He opened the hatch and stepped through. There was no guard of any sort. It was unthinkable that any would seek to leave the tower before being permitted; the punishment for this was not in doubt. Undisturbed, Godfrey descended down the staircase.
Reaching the second floor, he left the stairs and began a slow search of the building. These were the living quarters of all residents of the temple, much like the structure of the barracks; creativity was not encouraged among the Godking’s subjects. All regardless of rank or age slept in these halls, twelve beds per room. Godfrey silently passed through each of them until he found his mark. With one hand, he covered Zayen’s mouth; the other shook the boy awake.
Mumbling, Zayen squirmed to be free; his eyes were wide open in fright. “Zayen, it’s me,” Godfrey whispered, leaning closer.
The boy finally became calm, and Godfrey removed his hand. “Uncle,” he whispered.
“Put this on.” Godfrey handed him the tunic hanging by the bed while Zayen got up. “Don’t speak. I’ll explain when we are outside.”
Doing exactly as he was told, Zayen put on the tunic and took Godfrey’s hand. The latter led him out of the hall and back to the staircase; there was only one way in or out of the temple. With hasty steps, they walked through the empty corridors, where light and darkness flickered in constant dance, until they approached the entrance.
A start went through Godfrey just as they entered the last hallway before the exit. In the opposite end, a shadow warrior walked in through the gate. Beneath his mask, his yellow eyes were set on Godfrey.
For a moment, nobody moved. Reacting first, Godfrey picked up Zayen, turned, and bolted. Snarling, the shadow warrior took up pursuit.
With the entrance blocked, Godfrey had no recourse but to flee deeper into the temple. He passed by the altar room, returning to the spiral staircase. He already gasped for breath from sprinting; under his arm, Zayen was crying. Reaching the second floor, a few Servants could be seen sticking their heads out of the halls in search of the commotion. Godfrey continued further up.
He reached the hatch and pushed it open forcefully, breaking the bolt. Once more he was in the upper room inside the spire, surrounded by only walls. At the foot of the stairs, the shadow warrior closed in on his prey.
Holding Zayen back, Godfrey punched straight at a brick in the wall. It flew out. Inserting his hands into the hole, Godfrey pulled back on the remaining stonework. He groaned in exertion as the wall began to crumble. The bricks fell to the ground, widening the gap.
He crouched low to sling Zayen onto his back. “Hold on tight,” he told the boy, placing Zayen’s little arms around his neck. Keeping a firm grip on the boy’s hands, Godfrey took a deep breath and jumped through the hole in the wall.
He landed on the lower roof of the temple, feet flat on the ground. Without hesitation, he took several leaps forward, jumping from the roof to the street below.
Wincing, Godfrey stood up. Turning his head, he saw the shadow warrior standing in the gap newly formed in the spire, returning his stare. With Zayen still on his back, Godfrey disappeared into the city.
~~~~
Godfrey returned to Manzik’s room that had served as his home in the last few days. Zayen was walking by his side; the boy had not spoken since the temple.
“Take a seat,” Godfrey bade him, gesturing to the bed. “Maybe you should sleep.” Zayen sat down as directed and did nothing further. “Are you thirsty?” Godfrey took a cup and filled it with water before giving it to the boy. He accepted it into his hands, but did nothing else. Staring at him for a moment, Godfrey eventually sat down next to him.
“They told me my parents are dead.”
Godfrey swallowed. “Yes.”
“That they were traitors to the Godking.” Tears began to fill the boy’s eyes.
Godfrey placed one arm around Zayen’s shoulders. “Your mother and father were good people. Never doubt that. They did not deserve what happened to them.”
“Then why did it happen?”
Godfrey licked his lips. “The Godking rules your people, Zayen, but he is not a good or kind ruler. Nor is he a god, regardless of what he pretends.”
“How can that be? At the temple, the Servants told me how he created the world and gave us life.”
“Those are lies, Zayen, all lies. Nothing that the Servants have told you is true.”
“But if he’s not a god, then why does he have all the temples? They said my father – my father was sacrificed…” the boy lost his voice. “Couldn’t you have saved him? Or my mother?”
Godfrey swallowed. “I wanted to. But if I had intervened to save your parents, I would not have been able to save you, my boy. They would have known to watch you.”
“I wish you had saved them,” Zayen declared through tears. “I wish they had given me to the Godking instead of them.”
Godfrey pulled him closer, letting the boy cry against the Servant’s robe that he still wore. “No, boy, none should be given to that monster. The Godking is no god, but he is a tyrant. His rule is close to absolute, and he kills without mercy to keep it so. He deserves only our deepest contempt.”
“I don’t understand anything,” Zayen sobbed.
Godfrey stroke the boy’s hair. “Long ago, more years than I care to think, your people were free, Zayen. They worshipped truth and lived in peace. But a great enemy came to them, seducing them. He turned truth into lies and stole the fire, making it his symbol.” Sorrow filled his voice as he spoke. “He has remade your people in his image, causing untold agony in the process.”
“Why?” asked Zayen with a distorted voice.
Godfrey stared into the air. “A lust for power, I fear.”
“Why did my mother and father go against him? Why did they have to –” his voice broke off again.
“Because under his rule, people will continue to die. His hunger for sacrifice can never be satisfied. There will never be peace until he is gone.”
“How can that ever happen? He rules the world!”
“No, boy, that is what he wants you to think. Beyond the borders of his lands, there are people fighting him openly. The world is far bigger than what they preach in the temples.”
“The Servants mentioned that,” Zayen assented with a nod. He had pulled back a little, and he cried less. “That the enemies of the Godking live at the ends of the world. They are savage people, eating their children and living in filth.”
“Nothing more than lies,” Godfrey assured him. “Granted, some of them could use more regular bathing,” he continued with a wry smile. “But they are good people, living free from the tyranny of the Godking. One day, so shall your people as well.”
“Uncle, I have another question.”
“Yes?”
“Why do you keep saying ‘your people’?” Zayen asked.
After a moment, Godfrey gave a smile. “Good question.”
“You’re not my uncle, are you?”
“I am not. But I wish I were.”
“Me too.” The boy finally drank from the cup of water he had been holding.
There was a soft knock on the door. “It’s me.”
Giving Zayen’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze, Godfrey stood up and opened the door. Kamran walked in. Seeing the blackboot, Zayen gave a shriek and dropped his cup.
“Zayen, it’s fine,” Godfrey hurried to say, moving back to the boy. “This is Kamran. He is a friend.”
“He’s a sāyag,” the boy mumbled with wide eyes.
“He is, and one of my dearest friends,” Godfrey told him. “Every day, he risks his life fighting the Godking, just like your parents did.”
Approaching cautiously, Kamran knelt by the bed. “Well met, Zayen. I am sorry about what happened to your mother and father.”
The boy gave no reply to this.
“I am going to take you away from this city. We’ll find a place for you far from here, where the Servants will never get to you. Do you understand?”
“I think so.”
“You will have to trust me and do exactly as I say. Can you do that?” asked Kamran.
Zayen looked at Godfrey, who nodded. “Yes,” he mumbled.
“Good. We should not linger,” Kamran declared.
“One moment.” Godfrey opened one of the drawers in the room and pulled out a folded document. “This may help. It has the boy’s description, but the name is left blank. It has already been signed by the shahrban.”
Kamran stuffed the paper inside his clothing. “It’ll be many days before I return. I am to scout the hills for at least a week.”
“Understood. I will be here on your return, most likely. One more thing.” From another drawer, Godfrey pulled out the wooden horse that he had given Zayen upon his first arrival. “This is yours.” With a mute expression, the boy accepted the figurine.
Kamran stuck out his hand towards Zayen; hesitantly, the boy took hold of it. “Don’t worry,” Kamran said. “You’re safe with me.” He looked up at Godfrey. “Until the morrow comes.”
Godfrey watched the pair depart. “Until then.”
|
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Northern Men, Northern Steel
Isarn
The fortunes of war had changed for Isarn. The Red Hawks had bitterly tried to defend their siege of Castle Grenwold, but constant harassment from Isarn’s forces had made it untenable. Supplies from Middanhal could no longer be expected to arrive; soon, the besiegers had felt they were beleaguered themselves and were forced to break camp, lifting the siege. As they began a march back towards Middanhal, the harassment continued, constantly costing lives among the Hawks. Under strict orders from Konstans not to engage in actual battle, the Hawks could do nothing but defend themselves in these skirmishes and hasten back towards the safety of Middanhal. As Drakevin’s Day arrived, all forces loyal to Vale had retreated inside the double walls of the capital.
This meant that at last, control of the North had returned to Isarn. The jarldom was no longer under threat of invasion, and all enemy forces had been driven from the lands of his allied landgraves. After a dark winter and long months that had portended defeat, the northerners sang songs of victory once more.
~~~~
In the Isarn camp some fifty miles north of Middanhal, a row of prisoners was marching out. With shackles on their ankles, their progress was slow. All of them were Red Hawks taken captive during the last months of fighting. Being mercenaries, Isenhart had little respect for them; rather than allow them to be ransomed, they were being sent to the iron mines of southern Isarn. In this manner, they would be put to use in aiding the war; their labour would retrieve the ore that the Dwarven smiths of Silfrisarn refined and forged into Nordsteel armour to equip Isarn’s allies.
Eumund was overseeing the departure of the prisoners when his kinsman Athelgar hailed him. “Eumund,” the latter called out. “Your father summons you to council.”
“Again? I thought we had decided to leave Theodstan for now.” He turned to join Athelgar in walking towards the middle of the camp.
“From what I gather, this has nothing to do with Theodstan. Scouts returned with news.”
“What news?” asked Eumund.
“I was not told yet. I assume you will hear at the council. Some of the thanes have a card game going on. Join us after the council if you wish,” he suggested.
“Why not,” his cousin agreed.
They reached the jarl’s tent and split up. Eumund walked inside to find both his father, his uncle Athelstan, and his father’s cousin Athelbold waiting; the latter was reading a letter but looked up as Eumund arrived. They were seated on simple chairs, forming a half-circle inside the tent. “Finally,” Isenhart grumbled as his son took a seat. “Let us begin. I have been told that an army is amassing in Theodstan.”
“While he refuses to join us? So he must be planning to assault us,” Eumund argued.
“It could simply be a deterrent against the possibility of our attack,” Athelbold countered.
“Quiet,” Isenhart growled. “There is more. This is not Theodstan’s army. Although they march under no banner, our spies have discovered the army comes from the highlands.”
“Heohlond?” Athelstan frowned. “Does this mean King Brión is entering the war?”
“So it seems. The numbers are small. A thousand men at most,” Isenhart related.
“An advance guard, perhaps sent to reinforce the Hawks,” considered Athelstan, the jarl’s brother and his foremost commander. “If we had not been so swift to beat Vale’s forces back, these highlanders would have arrived undetected by us.”
“Perhaps it is not King Brión who sends this force,” Athelbold interjected. “Else they would be travelling under the mark of Clan Cameron, surely.”
“They could be from another clan,” Eumund pointed out. “That would explain why they hide their origin. They have not officially joined the war, but simply sent their warriors to Adalrik.”
“It makes sense that Vale would scramble to find new allies now that his mercenaries proved so unreliable,” Isenhart snorted. “The question is if they are simply marching through Theodstan, or if the latter is making common cause with our enemies.”
“That should be easy to determine,” Athelstan declared. “Jarl Theodoric refused to join us. If his levies march with this highlander army, we must assume we face an enemy to the east.”
Isenhart grabbed a cup standing on a small table. “Give me your advice on what to do next,” he commanded and took a swig of wine.
“We should attack the highlanders immediately before any more of them arrive. Scatter them and destroy the threat,” Athelstan stated.
“Agreed.” Athelbold, the jarl’s cousin, gave a nod.
“What afterwards? Middanhal is the prize,” Isenhart told them. “The longer we delay our siege, the more time we give Vale to shore up his defences.”
“It is too dangerous to attempt a siege if Theodstan has joined our enemy. Especially if another army from the highlands marches into Adalrik. We will be attacked from both sides,” Athelstan warned.
“A small force can besiege Cragstan and keep Jarl Theodoric enclosed. We need not take the city, merely prevent him from fighting,” Athelbold argued. “That will also allow us to bolster our provisions with what we can plunder from Theodstan.”
“What of the highlanders? If we detach troops to maintain a siege of Cragstan, they will be vulnerable to any relief army arriving from Heohlond,” Isenhart contemplated. “We will have to invade Heohlond afterwards.”
“I think we can do this swiftly,” his brother claimed. “If King Brión is behind this, we march to Cairn Donn. It will not take us long, and the city’s defences are surmountable. If Vale’s new ally is another clan, we force the king to respond. Given he would have lost his throne and head if not for my victories in the highlander war, we should find him more amenable than Theodstan has been.”
The jarl sat thoughtful for a moment. “Get the army ready. We march against Theodstan tomorrow.”
His commanders rose quickly. “It will be done,” Athelstan promised. He and Athelbold left Isenhart and the tent. “My sympathies once more, cousin,” he added, gesturing towards the letter in the other man’s hand.
“It is what it is, but thank you,” Athelbold muttered before they separated.
~~~~
Whilst Athelstan went to issue orders, Athelbold went in search of his son. He found the latter sitting outside another tent along with several of Isenhart’s thanes. They sat on the ground with a folded cloak in the middle, acting as an improvised table. Stacks of copper petties and silver eagles lay on top, and the men were dealing cards while jesting and laughing. “Athelgar.”
The youth looked up and noticed his father. “What is it?”
“I must speak with you,” Athelbold told him, nodding for his son to follow him.
Athelgar gave his companions a chagrined look. “If you sorry lot of wretches look at my cards, I will have the jarl string you up,” he impressed upon them and received only laughter in return. Getting up, he walked over to join his father. “What is amiss?”
“Your mother is ill.” Athelbold waved the crumbled letter in his hand.
All ease vanished from Athelgar’s face. “Gravely?”
“The jarlinna would not write otherwise.”
“Are you leaving?”
Athelbold shook his head. “We expect battle soon, so my place is here. But you are her eldest child. It will comfort her to have you by her side.”
“I will leave immediately,” Athelgar declared. “Anything I should do?”
“Just provide your mother with comfort,” his father instructed. “And if the worst should happen,” he added, swallowing, “comfort your siblings. The youngest will not understand.”
“Of course. I shall write you when I am home,” the youth promised.
Athelbold placed a hand around his son’s neck, patting his shoulder with the other hand. “Good. Gods willing, I will be able to go home soon.”
“Until then, Father.”
Soon after, Athelbold watched his son ride out of camp with a thane as attendant, moving west towards Silfrisarn.
~~~~
The Isarn army would have been heading out in any case, but preparations for the march were swiftly amended; instead of besieging Middanhal, Isarn would be seeking an open battle with the highlanders. In some ways, this made matters simpler; the main camp, strongly fortified and at a location unknown to the enemy, could remain occupied for the time being. There was no need to pack everything up and move it towards Middanhal. On the contrary, speed was of the essence to catch the highlander army unaware and before reinforcements might arrive.
Thus, instead of having the next days to gather everything and send it on wagons along the main road towards Middanhal, the majority of the army had to be ready to move out the next day. Furthermore, their path was directly east, crossing into forests and over hills rather than roads. A forced march in arduous terrain lay ahead, calling for provisions to be packed into sacks and anything else that could be carried; the wagon train with any other supplies would have to follow at its own pace on roads more lenient to wheels.
The changes in preparation were handled with speed and competence by the Isarn army. After more than a year of campaigning, they had become experienced soldiers. Leaders such as Athelstan, Eumund, and former men-at-arms from the Order had spent winter instilling discipline and routine through rigorous training, which had yielded results. The army of Isarn was becoming a formidable fighting force, equipped with the finest steel available in Adalrik, and the day after the jarl’s council, they marched east against Theodstan.
|
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Negotiations
Labdah
With the games completed, the theatre became empty and the streets full. Soon, Labdah was a maelstrom of drunken revelry. Music was played everywhere by anyone with the slightest skill, and countless songs filled the air in honour of this mystical time where night and day was even.
Few places celebrated with more fervour than Hanno’s house; the presence of a champion ensured that. With strong wine in their cups, all were certain to enjoy the evening. Everyone in Hanno’s household wanted to offer their congratulations to Majid; one after the other, slaves and servants, the other fighters and the old physician, and even the guards passed by the courtyard to hail the champion, now a free man.
Majid received their praise calmly, expressing his gratitude; he drank sparsely. As the last, Hanno appeared as well, greeting his former slave with a small purse of silver. “Thank you, Master Hanno,” Majid said.
“You’re welcome, Master Majid,” Hanno replied before moving back into his house.
The former slave was quiet for a moment before he stood up and poured some of his wine onto the ground. “Hail to you, Garrick,” he said. “May your god bring you home.” Around him, the celebration continued undisturbed.
~~~~
One place in Labdah remained outside the grasp of festivity. In the gathering hall for the Elder Council, there was a slow trickle of people arriving. With the games concluded, the twelve Elders made their way to cast their vote and decide whether Labdah and Alcázar should be on friendly terms. Most of them were accompanied by a servant and a few guards; one Elder had his taster present as well, handing him grapes. The mood was light; mostly, people were eager to return home and join the celebration.
Mago, leader of the Council and recognisable by the emerald pendant around his neck, was quietly talking with everyone present. He moved from one person to the next, measuring their intentions and exchanging thoughts, opinions, and promises. When Hiram arrived as the last, accompanied by the princes of Alcázar, Mago welcomed him with a satisfied look. “We are all here. Let us take our seats and begin.” The twelve Elders sat down. Hiram took his place at the end of the row, near Maharbal; Mago sat in the centre. “Welcome back, my lords of Alcázar,” he told Saif and Jalil.
The princes had appeared with several guards in tow; they inclined their heads towards Mago. “Our thanks.”
“I will continue straight to the point,” Mago spoke loudly. “We will take a vote as to whether Labdah should begin trade negotiations with Alcázar. If this esteemed Council deems it so, we will appoint three Elders to negotiate on behalf of the city, as is custom.” The other members nodded and mumbled their assent. “Let us begin.” Mago extended his right hand in invitation.
The Elder seated to the far right spoke up. “I am against.”
The next Elder continued. “As am I. I vote against.” More and more of the councillors joined them. In the end, only two on the council were in favour of the proposal.
“Our decision is obvious,” Mago declared. “I thank the Council for having performed its duty. On behalf of the Elders of Labdah, I must decline the proposition put forth by our guests from Alcázar.” Hearing this, Hiram left his seat and walked down to stand next to the princes. This evoked questioning glances and mutterings from the other Elders; even Maharbal sent him a confused look. “Lord Hiram, it is not our custom for any Elder to abandon their seat while the Council is assembled,” Mago chastised him sternly.
“Today is not a day for customs,” Hiram replied. Behind him, the doors to the hall swung open. More than a score of blue-clad warriors burst inside, drawing steel.
“What is this?” demanded Mago to know.
“Brigands!”
“Assailants! Help!”
The soldiers made short work of the guards present. Some of the Elders tried to run; they were caught immediately and put to the sword. A few fought back with predictable result. Maharbal rose from his chair and tried to call out to the princes; he was run through before he could finish. Stunned, Mago did not move; a blade to the stomach left him dead soon after, still in his seat.
Just as swiftly as it had begun, the assault was over. More than a dozen bodies lay scattered across the hall, servants and masters alike. An eerie silence descended upon the building; the soldiers cleaned and sheathed their weapons before gathering outside.
Surrounded by the carnage, neither Saif nor Jalil spoke or moved. Hiram, on the other hand, walked up to Mago’s corpse and took the emerald pendant to hang it around his own neck. Exhaling, he turned with a smile to face the men from Alcázar.
A blue-clad warrior, dressed in better armour than most, entered. “We are prepared, milords,” he told the princes.
“Captain, this is Lord Hiram,” Saif explained, gesturing to the man in question. “Once we depart, you will take orders from him.”
“Milord,” the captain spoke.
“This is the captain of the Sapphire Sons,” Saif continued to Hiram. “Captain, you may proceed.”
“At once. I leave the contingent here to escort you home. I must warn you that until the remainder of my company arrives, I will not have enough men to patrol the streets.”
“When will they arrive?” asked Hiram.
“The ships should be in harbour within the next days. Until then, we will seize the gates, the docks, and the estates of the Elders.” The captain glanced at the dead men. “There should be no significant opposition beyond that.”
“Good. Proceed, captain,” Saif reiterated. The mercenary leader saluted them and departed.
“With the festivities, I doubt our men will meet much resistance. The city is yours,” Jalil told Hiram. “As you can see, Alcázar delivers upon its promises.”
“In full,” Hiram assented. “I do have one further request not previously mentioned in our negotiations.”
Jalil frowned. “More conditions? Do not forget whose gold is paying these mercenaries.”
Saif raised one hand to calm his brother. “What is it?”
Hiram looked back upon the corpse of Maharbal. “Since your sister is no longer engaged, I should wish to amend my alliance with your father. We will proceed with the marriage as intended, but let it be between me and the lady Dalia. I find her – more to my taste.”
Jalil shrugged. “I care not.”
“Agreed,” Saif expressed.
Hiram smiled broadly. “Excellent. Let us return to my home. The next days will be pregnant with fate.”
~~~~
Screams filled the streets. Warriors in blue stalked through Labdah, killing any opposition. The city guards, only used to fighting drunks and thieves, were slaughtered. The same happened to any ordinary citizens that dared resist until bodies piled up.
The estates of Labdah’s elite were not exempt from the mayhem. While built with garden walls and reinforced gates, the palaces were intended to protect against thieves or brigands. The Sapphire Sons, accustomed to besieging fortresses, had little trouble forcing their way in. Harder fighting ensued, but numbers won out, and the blue-clad warriors put many to the sword while also helping themselves to plunder, getting their pay in advance.
The only palace untouched belonged to Hiram, but even here, the sounds of battle reached into the marble halls. In one wing, Dalia was clutching Jana around the waist, hiding her face. In front of the sisters stood Salim with his sword drawn and mute fury in his eyes. They were otherwise alone; any servants were hiding, while the guards patrolled the outer grounds.
Commotion could be heard in the hallway beyond the chamber; Salim shifted his stance, raising his weapon. The doors burst open to reveal Hiram; behind him, several warriors wearing blue cloaks could be seen. “Forgive me the intrusion and that I have not come to see you sooner,” he spoke. “I only just arrived home. You must be unnerved by all that is happening, but I assure you as my guests, you are safe.” Despite Hiram’s words, Salim kept his sword in position.
“Lord Hiram,” Jana began to speak as she extricated herself from Dalia’s arms. “Can you tell us what is going on? It sounds as if the very city is under assault!”
“There is fighting going on,” the nobleman confirmed. “Nothing for you to be concerned with. As said, you are both safe. I have brought extra guards to keep the palace secure, and in any case, we are not under threat.”
“Why not?” asked Jana.
“Please remain in this chamber until I say otherwise. For your own safety,” Hiram instructed them. He turned to leave.
“What about Maharbal?” Dalia added suddenly. “He went with you to the Council. Where is he?” Hiram paused briefly, but did not turn back; he continued his departure. “Maharbal!” Dalia called out like an animal in distress. She received no response except that the warriors in blue shut the doors behind Hiram.
~~~~
As night and festivities ended, Labdah woke to a changed world. The stains of spilled wine mixed with spilled blood upon the streets. Fearsome, unforgiving warriors in blue surcoats locked the city and permitted no entry or exit for days. Ships could not depart or make berth, the marketplace lay deserted, and cries of woe were heard for the slain.
For three days, Labdah held its breath, waiting for any opposition to materialise. It never did; there were no leaders or citizens of prominence left to take charge, and the city guard was either disarmed or cut down. Many looked towards the Emerald Tower, but its doors were shut; it was impossible to say if the sages even knew of what had transpired.
On the fourth day, after a ship had arrived carrying nothing but blue-clad warriors, something resembling normalcy returned. The gates were opened, ships were allowed to leave, and the most daring or desperate peddlers began hawking their wares. The common inhabitants began appearing on the streets again, which the Sapphire Sons now patrolled.
From Hanno’s house, Majid appeared. As a free man, he had no further place in Hanno’s household; with his small bag of silver and nothing else, he wandered down the street. He saw few others; when he did, they hurried past him without making eye contact. The Sapphire Sons scrutinised him, on the other hand, but as he was not even armed, they saw little reason to stop him.
Reaching the harbour, Majid found a spot to sit and observe the ships. Normally the busiest part of the city, the docks seemed quiet; the hundreds of slaves and workers that otherwise would be busy loading and unloading goods stayed away.
“Well met, Master Majid.”
He turned to find a short, slender man in his fifties, who without a sound had taken seat next to him. “Are we acquainted?”
“Not yet. My name is Jawad.” He sent the former fighter a smile. “Like you, a native of Alcázar. I am quite eager to return, given the events of the last few days. As are you, I imagine.”
“Alcázar abandoned me to slavery, and part of me despises the city for it,” Majid muttered, “but there is nothing for me in Labdah either. It makes no difference whether I go or stay.”
“I saw you fight on the sands. You clearly have skills worth selling,” Jawad considered.
“I have no interest in fighting for coin ever again,” Majid declared forcefully. “Besides, what is it to you? Who are you to appear by my side, whispering these things?”
Jawad raised his empty hands before him. “A simple servant sent on an errand to Labdah. I failed, unfortunately, and do not wish to return with nothing. I have a task back in Alcázar that requires a clever man, able to take care of himself.”
“That sounds dubious,” Majid snorted.
“It does not involve hurting anyone or breaking any laws,” Jawad claimed. “I have gained passage on a ship departing soon to Alcázar. I can easily arrange for another passenger. All I ask in return is that you listen to my proposal, and you can make your decision once we are ashore again.”
Majid turned his stare from Jawad to the harbour and the city that lay behind it. “I don’t know…”
“Unless you prefer to stay in a city where mercenaries from Alcázar just slaughtered all its leaders,” Jawad remarked casually. “They may not take too kindly to people with our origin.”
Majid swallowed, keeping his hand on his small purse of silver. “When does the ship leave?”
~~~~
In the spirit of returning home, the Kabir’s galley had set sail as well. It carried three passengers of noble blood and their retinue. Jalil had gone below deck immediately, seeking sleep in a cabin. Jana had remained on the deck, staring at Labdah, her home for the past several years, as it dwindled in the distance.
Saif had moved around the ship at first, but after discovering that the crew had everything in hand and there was nothing accomplished by his intervention, he had gone to stand by Jana’s side. “You have been quiet for days.”
Salim stood nearby, silent but watchful as always; he sent Jana an inquisitive look, to which she shook her head. “That cannot surprise you,” Jana told her brother.
“I understand this is a sudden change, but I thought you would welcome returning home to Alcázar.”
Jana glanced at him with incredulity. “You think that is what bothers me?”
“What else?”
“Saif, you and Jalil conspired with Hiram to murder half a score of people, including Dalia’s betrothed. We shared a table with Maharbal, and you had him killed.”
“It was necessary,” Saif claimed. “Father knew the Council would never deal with us. We would never convince twelve men, but one man was possible. We needed Labdah in the hands of someone compliant.”
“We have everything in Alcázar,” Jana exclaimed. “All the trade in the world flows through our city. What does Labdah have to warrant this bloodshed?”
“Ships,” Saif replied quietly. “In exchange for our aid, Lord Hiram will let us make use of Labdah’s ships to transport our troops.”
A question was on Jana’s face, but it disappeared as the answer came by its own accord. “We are going to war with Adalmearc. Or rather, Father is, and he will drag all of us with him.”
“Yes.” Saif nodded. “We have no choice. Like you mentioned, we have had everything thanks to trade, but no more. Adalmearc has banned all sales of timber and iron ore to us. We cannot build ships or forge weapons. Eventually, we will be too weak to defend ourselves. We must strike now while we have the strength.”
“We are planning war because Adalmearc refuses to sell us wood and iron,” Jana reiterated. “Or are they refusing to sell to us because we are planning war?”
Saif stared down upon his hands clutching the railing. “Father has planned this for years. We cannot alter the course now. It is why you and Dalia were sent to Labdah. Father knew this day would come.”
“Was this always the plan?” Jana asked, staring at him. “Killing all the Elders but one? Or did Father decide to hasten his schemes, regardless of the cost?”
“I do not know,” Saif admitted, avoiding her gaze. “We have accomplished many things in Labdah, more than just the fleet. Father considered all of this, I am sure.”
“Accomplished? What are all these great accomplishments?”
“Eleven of Labdah’s greatest merchant houses are destroyed. Trade will dwindle to a trickle, and Labdah will become poor. Especially as Lord Hiram will soon have to impose punitive taxes on all to afford the mercenaries keeping him in power, once we no longer pay for them. Labdah will never again be a rival to Alcázar. In fact, I foresee further strife in its future. I would be surprised if the rule of Lord Hiram has a peaceful end,” Saif speculated.
“And it only cost Father some gold and one daughter. You realise that if Hiram falls, his wife will fare no better?”
“I am aware,” Saif replied curtly. “I take no pleasure in it. Be grateful it is not you.”
“Why is it not me? Why was Dalia sacrificed in my place?”
Saif hesitated. “Lord Hiram desired it, and I granted it. I think he found her more pliant.”
“She was always the prettiest of us all,” Jana considered. “Poor Dalia. Now it became her downfall.” Saif made no remark, so Jana spoke again, staring at him once more. “You are a changed man, Saif. You were not this callous when I knew you.”
“You were a child,” Saif retorted. “Now your eyes are opened. You think Jalil would have hesitated to carry out this plan? If I show any weakness, Father will know, and our dear brother will take advantage of it. If I do not stand ready to do what I must, we would end up with Jalil as the next Kabir.”
“Would it make any difference?” Jana did not wait for a reply but went to her cabin. She remained there for the duration of the voyage to Alcázar.
|
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|
Rage
The Reach
Before sunrise, fourteen men and women chosen by Doran stood assembled in the Mearcian camp. Along with the sergeant Matthew and the kingthane Leofric, they gathered around Brand. The group was mixed and representative of the band as a whole, consisting of a few more kingthanes and other drakonians, some highlanders and heathmen, and even a daleman. All of them wore the red colours of the Anausa and their shields.
“Our goal is to clear three watchtowers east of the crossing. This will give us more warning, should the enemy move down the Langstan or otherwise threaten our control of the crossing from that side,” Brand explained. “Any questions?” The warriors shook their head, indicating their readiness to depart. The captain turned towards Doran, who was nearby. “You have command in my absence.” He looked at the assembled soldiers once more. “Let us move out.”
They set into motion with Brand at the head of the column; among others, the rear was brought up by Jerome.
~~~~
Keeping a good pace, the group reached the Langstan before noon. Making use of the outlanders’ ramps, they ascended onto the wall and followed it east. All the towers west of the crossing had been cleansed of enemies; it was time to push back the outlanders’ control in the other direction.
The first of the eastern towers was empty; Glaukos in his zeal, leading a band much like this one, had done that days ago.
A mile later, Brand’s warriors reached the next tower, also cleared by Glaukos and his warriors. They were hailed by two sentinels, left behind.
“Anything of note?” Brand asked as they all convened on the upper floor of the tower.
“It’s been quiet,” one of the guards replied. “We’ve not seen any signs of the salt-lickers.”
“Good. Upon our return, you will be relieved of duty and may come with us back to camp.”
“Aye, captain. We’ll keep the watch until then.”
Brand gave a small nod to his followers. “Move out.” The seventeen men and women arrayed themselves like a patrol and marched out of the tower, following the wall eastwards.
~~~~
The outlanders closest to the crossing kept their vigilance; they spotted Brand and his soldiers at a long distance. The stolen uniforms did little to allay suspicions; the outlanders had grown wise to the fact that Mearcian soldiers could be close by. They hailed the approaching warriors, who had no response; none of them spoke the same tongue as the outlanders. The alarm was raised and all pretence abandoned.
Rather than wait, the outlanders opened the door between the wall and the tower and charged forward with spears lowered. Meanwhile, many of their brethren used their bows atop the tower, sending arrows down. The few archers among the Mearcians returned the favour, but the angle and crenellations meant they had little chance to hit.
The attackers lowered their spears as well, leading to a stalemate as neither could gain ground. This suited the outlanders, keeping the Mearcians on the wall and exposed to arrows from above. Acting quickly, a Hæthian longbowman jumped onto the crenellations next to him. The extra elevation would not avail him against the outlander bowmen, but it did afford him line of sight above the heads of his compatriots. With speed, he sent several arrows against the door opening, hitting more than one outlander and disrupting their spear wall. His position also made him an obvious target, and outlander arrows flew against him. One of them hit and sent him hurling down, but the damage was done.
Upon a quick nod by Brand, Leofric at his side was spurred into action. He threw his spear forward like a javelin. It was too heavy and unbalanced to have any deadly effect, but it further disturbed the outlanders’ formation. Meanwhile, the kingthane drew his sword and leapt into close combat. He felled one soldier and pushed the others back, creating an opening behind him.
Taking advantage of this, Brand entered the fray, wielding the sword of sea-steel. It cut spears in twain with ease. The rings upon chain shirts burst when struck. Flesh, blood, and bone offered no resistance. For the first time since their sojourn into the Reach, the soldiers saw the Dragonheart in battle and how his blade wrought devastation. Enemy after enemy fell to his strikes. Spurred by the sight of this, the Mearcians roared and charged into the watchtower.
With the outlander formation broken, their ability to resist had been lost as well. They were simply no match in close combat for the experienced Mearcians. Once the upper and lower floors had been cleared, a handful continued up the stairs to kill the remaining enemies on the top of the tower. The remaining encircled Brand, staring with reverence as he cleaned his sword and sheathed it.
~~~~
All in all, twenty outlanders lay dead, and the Mearcians had lost none. The victory still bore a cost. The longbowman whose arrows had opened the way into the tower had taken an arrow to the chest, leaving him unable to fight on; he would have to remain here until the band returned for him on their way back. Besides him, several of the others had taken wounds, most notably Leofric, who had gone first into the assault. He disdained any notion of being left behind, and in the end, sixteen warriors continued towards the next tower.
As before, stolen uniforms did not fool the outlanders for long. Arrows flew as the Mearcians approached with raised shields. This time, the door remained closed; instead, these outlanders relied solely upon their archers for the initial attack.
Several of the attackers dropped their spears to climb up the outer ladder hewn into the stone. Meanwhile, Brand summoned a warrior to the front who had brought a great axe. While dressed in red for the moment, he was a whiterobe and knew how to handle the tool in his hands. With speed, he began reducing the door to kindling.
As his axe thrashed the planks, spears were thrust through the gap. The priest roared in anger, aiming his axe once more. He struck where the hinges sat, finally destroying the door.
Over the protestations of his thane, Brand leapt into combat as the first. With his shield protecting him, his sword hacked spears to pieces and let him carve a path forward. Seeing the blade of sea-steel, the outlanders cried out in terror; some turned to flight. Those remaining were cut down without mercy as the Mearcians spilled into the room.
Some hurried upstairs to help those that had scaled the tower; flanked by Leofric and Matthew, Brand descended to the lower floor, finding it empty. The door stood wide open; in the distance, a few soldiers in flight could be seen northwards over the open plains.
Brand rushed up the stairs once more and found his remaining archers. “With me,” he yelled at them and ran past them onto the wall itself. Once outside the tower, he pointed to the fleeing figures. “Shoot!”
The archers followed his order readily, sending arrows into the air at speed. They flew gracefully up, reaching the peak of their flight before descending down. All of them struck into the ground. “Sorry, captain,” expressed one of the archers. “They’re too far away.”
Brand simply nodded and leapt up the ladder to reach the top of the tower. Climbing over the parapet, he saw that the fighting was done. Numerous bodies lay across the summit. Their faces were frozen in various expressions. Some held fear, others fury; most seemed simply surprised that their life had come to an end.
Surrounded by all this death, the Mearcians stood calmly, tending to their needs. Many had wounds that required binding. Gathering all his warriors, Brand assessed their situation. Two of the men and one woman were judged to be unfit for further fighting, leaving him with twelve warriors.
“You’re not thinking of going back, captain?” asked Jerome, seeing a frown upon Brand’s face. The heathman was unhurt; he had been at the back during both fights. “You wanted three towers cleared.”
“Two should be enough,” Brand considered.
“We’re here, captain,” Leofric argued. “Let’s do what we came for.”
“Let’s finish them off!” Matthew declared forcefully. There was blood on his blade today, for the first time. The others nodded and murmured their assent. Leaving three behind, the remaining twelve and their captain continued along the Langstan.
~~~~
Once more, the outlanders were not deceived by the Mearcians wearing red robes. Arrows meet them as soon as they were within range. This time, Brand commanded none to attempt scaling the tower. As before, the whiterobe with his axe was called to the front, making short work of the door.
First man through, Brand wielded his fabled blade with the skill of a knight. He did not aim to strike killing blows but rather push the outlanders back, allowing his soldiers entry. They flooded the room, tearing the outlanders’ ranks apart. Chaotic combat erupted everywhere as the outlanders on the roof rushed down the stairs, joining the skirmish.
Embroiled in combat, Brand kept several enemies at bay, to his left, right, and front. Behind him stood Jerome. Dropping his spear, the heathman drew his dagger suited for close combat, staring at Brand’s back. He stepped forward, preparing a strike.
Matthew pushed into the heathman. Where Jerome had stood, an outlander spear pierced the air until it struck Matthew’s shield. Recovering, Jerome fell onto the outlander and thrust his dagger into his enemy, killing him. Quickly getting on his feet, he saw the remaining outlanders being pressed into a corner of the room. The Mearcians asserted themselves, closing ranks and taking control of the fight. Brand retreated a few steps, not taking part in the final slaughter. Their eyes met for a moment, and Brand nodded to Jerome in recognition, one soldier to another; sheathing his dagger, Jerome returned the gesture.
The battle done, the Mearcians gathered on the upper floor. “Captain,” one of them said, gaining Brand’s attention. She did not speak again but simply pointed to the ground and Leofric’s body. Brand walked over to kneel next to him. The wounds and blood upon the kingthane pronounced the truth.
“I saw him, captain. He went deep into their ranks, like he did at the other towers. There was no holding him back.”
“He fought like the best of us.”
“Tend to the living,” Brand declared. “See to your wounds. Jerome, go to the roof and keep watch.”
“Aye, captain.”
The soldiers dispersed to do as bid. Meanwhile, Brand and a few others found tools and went outside to dig a grave.
~~~~
It took nearly an hour before the hole was deep enough to be a suitable grave; if too shallow, it invited wild animals to dig up the body and feed upon it. They lowered Leofric gently down along with not only his, but every weapon taken from the outlanders. As a final gesture, Brand tore away his own tattered, red-robed uniform. Seeing this, his followers did the same until all stood as Mearcians and none in stolen garments.
“Here lies Leofric,” Brand spoke. “He was mighty in battle, mighty in spirit. Strong of arm, strong of arms. Disdain he held for dread, contempt he had for cowardice.” There was a brief silence before Brand spoke again. “He left comfort and coin to follow oath and honour. From the hills of Heohlond to the heaths of Hæthiod, he fought beside me. In Mearc and Reach, he stood by me. While I draw breath, his name shall rest upon my heart.” Brand finished by placing his fist upon his chest, and the others mirrored his salute.
The whiterobe in their company stepped forward. “Sleep, Leofric of Middanhal. The raven has come for you. Your spirit shall soar with the eagle until the Sapphire City beckons.” He pulled out a raven feather and threw it into the grave. “Let none disturb your rest. Under the eyes of the dragon, the raven, the bull, the horse, the bear, the hart, and the eagle, this will be.”
“This will be.”
With the burial done, the Mearcians began their march back to camp. It was late in the day, and it would be night before they reached home.
“I owe you thanks,” Jerome said to Matthew, falling into pace next to the boy. “You saved me back there.”
“It’s fine,” Matthew replied with a beaming smile. “We fight together. We’re all the captain’s men.”
“That we are,” Jerome muttered.
“What a speech! For Leofric, I mean.”
“It was quite something.”
Matthew stared ahead at the object of his praise. “I’d be lucky to have him say such words about me.”
“Wouldn’t we all.”
|
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|
Broken Swords
Hareik
One month after parting ways with Brand, Godfrey walked on the Kingsroad that connected Adalrik with Vidrevi. It ran from Middanhal north-west to Silfrisarn and continued further west in the shadow of the Weolcan Mountains until it reached Trehaf by the sea. Before that, one branch went directly north towards Hareik, the capital of Vidrevi. It was this path that Godfrey followed. Ahead of him, the city rose in the distance. Even from afar, he could spot the high oak in the middle of the city rising up; by law, no other building could be raised to rival its height.
The city was built all from wood with only a few exceptions. The first was the outer walls; in this case, the builders had to concede to the strength of stone. The second was the cobbled roads that ran as the main thoroughfares throughout the city. The third was the Order keep. Thus, as Godfrey stepped past the gate, he saw only buildings made from timber. Despite this, fire was not considered a great hazard. Hareik was the stronghold of the greenrobes, who held trees, plants, and other living things as their domain; every plank of wood in the city had been treated according to their skill, making it durable and resistant to flames.
The road ran straight from the gate to the great temple in Hareik. Godfrey followed this path, watching the tree rise up before his eyes. Its crown spread far, blossoming green. The temple itself built around it was a marvel; like all the dwellings of the greenrobes, it was built entirely from wood without the use of a single nail or other metal.
The temple lay surrounded by extensive gardens, growing herbs of all sorts to avail many a need. Greenrobes of all ranks worked them every day. Godfrey approached one of them, waiting until she noticed his presence and stood up. “What can I do for you, traveller?”
“I should seek a brief audience with the gydja,” he told her. “You may tell her that it is Godfred, bearing a message from Middanhal.”
“Of course,” she acquiesced, hurrying inside. Godfrey remained in the garden, glancing around. Besides him, others were present, enjoying the splendour and rich scent of the place. Young noblewomen accompanied by old nursemaids, talking lively to each other. Couples meeting to share a moment together. Poor people, hoping for alms. In the gardens of Austre, all manner of people met.
The greenrobe returned, gesturing for Godfrey to follow her. They entered the temple itself past the guards, who wielded bows and long daggers for weapons as befitted the servants of Austre, the great huntress. Passing through the building, the priestess led Godfrey to a row of small chambers. Godfrey went to the far end and walked inside, entering the private room of the gydja.
A woman of some years, hair between black and grey, looked up to send him a smile. The high priestess of Austre was at work embroidering a robe with a leaping hart, but she set the needlework aside to stand up. “Godfred, how pleasant,” she remarked, greeting him with a kiss on the cheek.
“As always when I find myself in these halls, the pleasure is mine,” he remarked.
“Thank you, Sister,” the gydja told the greenrobe at the door, who had escorted Godfrey inside. She nodded and left them alone. “What brings you to Hareik? You always have business.”
“Sadly the truth, or I would come here more often. I bring a letter from the Highfather.” Godfrey fished out a folded piece of parchment, handing it to the priestess.
She opened it and let her eyes run over it. Reaching the end of the brief missive, she frowned. “It is an easy task to gather the seeds my sisters request, but I am confused by the last part. The letter says that a travelling companion will be provided – does he mean you?”
“Not quite. There is a man in Hareik whom the Highfather wishes to entrust with the task of bringing the seeds to the Temple. If you can have the seeds prepared for journey, I will seek him out and have him present himself to be of service,” Godfrey explained.
“I suppose that will be fine, though some of these seeds are delicate. One of my sisters will be needed to take care of them during the journey. I hope this companion is an experienced woodsman if he is to be responsible for the safety of my sister.”
“He will prove more than adequate to the task, gydja, I am sure of it.”
The priestess looked sceptical, but she made no further objections. “Very well. Return tomorrow and I shall have everything arranged.”
Godfrey smiled. “Excellent. Before I leave…”
“You wish to visit the sanctum?”
His smile widened. “You know me too well, Sister.”
“You know the way. I will make sure you are not disturbed,” she promised with a kind voice.
He bowed his head. “My gratitude, as always.”
Turning, Godfrey left the chamber and moved deeper into the building. The temple was built like a hollow shell around the great oak in its middle; this meant that although he was moving deeper inside, Godfrey eventually found himself walking on grass again as he entered the innermost part of the temple. Ahead of him rose the mighty oak, tall enough to rival any tower. Its roots ran across the area and deep into the earth; its crown left the ground covered in shade.
Godfrey walked over to sit down and lean against the tree. With the building surrounding him, all was quiet; there was not the briefest sound of the bustling city outside. The only disturbance came when a sparrow landed on his knee, chirping away. Smiling, Godfrey broke off a small piece of bread from within his pouch and held it in the palm of his hand. The sparrow flew up to land on his thumb, pecking into the bread.
“I am tired,” he told the little bird. “I miss home.” The sparrow gave no reply; it was too busy eating.
~~~~
Hareik had its share of taverns. On the surface, nothing distinguished the establishment known in the neighbourhood as the Oak and Arrow from others. It had a few rooms for travellers, a courtyard and stables, kitchens and storage, and a common room with a hearth and sleeping drunkards. Usually, these would be roused from sleep at some point and thrown out. The sole exception was a man in his early fifties, who always slept in the common room; sometimes he did so on the bedroll by the hearth, sometimes with his head on the table in drunken stupor. His only belonging of note was a great sword, meant to be wielded by two hands and resting in its scabbard against the nearby table. He seemed average of height and build; perhaps once he had been in good shape, but copious servings of ale had begun to take effect.
Despite it was early evening, he was already deep in the cups. He hung over the table, constantly swaying like a sapling in the breeze, and his eyes were out of focus. He kept picking up his tankard, trying to drink its contents except it was already empty. The other patrons in the tavern did not seem to pay him any heed; in fact, they kept a certain distance.
This changed when up towards ten men entered the place. They were in high spirits; by their breath, gait, and speech, they were no doubt influenced by actual spirits. Today was Ausday. For some, it was the one day of the week when they rested and did no labour; for others, it was a cause for carousing.
“Barkeep! Let’s have some ale!” shouted one of them. Their rowdy manner attracted attention from both patrons and servants.
“Fine, no need to string your bow. It’ll come,” replied the matron of the house, grabbing cups for her husband to fill.
“That’s got to be him,” remarked one of the drunken youths with a whisper loud enough for most to hear. He elbowed his companion in the side, pointing out at the drunkard at the end of one table.
“Eh? He doesn’t look like much.”
“He wouldn’t, would he? He’s a wreck. Nothing left but a rotting log.”
“You’ve probably mistook the place. I bet he’s elsewhere.”
“Don’t be a fool. That sword is a knight’s sword.” The young man pointed an unsteady finger at the sheathed blade by the end of the table.
“Or it’s just a sword.”
“Go to Hel, I’m right, and I’ll prove it.” Picking up one of the tankards of ale, the youth moved down along the table; a few of his companions followed. “Hey! Hey, you!” he called out to the man still swaying over his empty mug. “You hear me?”
“Just leave the old fool alone,” suggested another. “He’s nothing more than a drunkard.”
“Shut up. Hey, old man! You that old knight? The oath breaker?”
“Aggi, just drink. What’s the point of this?”
“Aggi would rather plough with oxen than admit he’s wrong,” someone snickered.
“I am not a knight,” slurred the drunken man.
“See?”
“I am a Templar, you feckless prick.”
“Old man’s got bite!” The youths laughed. Several of them were gathered now, forming a circle around the spectacle.
“He may be right about Aggi. I heard some rumours.”
“Go to Hel,” Aggi responded to his friends, turning back to the former knight. “You’re a Templar, eh? You don’t look like one.”
“Well, you look like a bitch, and you bark like one.” The warrior gave a hiccough.
“I hear Templars take vows of poverty and chastity,” Aggi retorted. “Which one did you break? It certainly wasn’t poverty!”
“Ask your mother, bastard, and she will tell you it was the other.”
“Oh!” The youths, except for Aggi, roared with laughter and red cheeks. “He knows about your family history, Aggi!”
“Piss off! At least I’m not known as Damien the Dullard, a filthy oath breaker!”
“That would be Sir Damien the Dullard to you, peasant,” mumbled the former knight.
“Uh, peasant! His tongue is getting dull, much like his wit!”
“Fits his name!”
“Let’s go. He ain’t a silkworm no more, he’s just a worm.”
“Run back to your mothers’ skirts,” Damien slurred. “Not like you have fathers waiting for you.”
The youths began to disperse, laughing and already talking about other topics. Only Aggi remained, his face boiling. With a snap movement, he turned his tankard over and spilled its contents over Damien’s head. “Have a drink on me,” he spoke with a mocking tone.
As the drops flowed down his face, Damien seemed undisturbed for a moment. Before Aggi could turn away, however, Damien’s fist was planted in his chest, sending him sprawling to the floor.
Confusion mingled with uproar. As the youths realised what had taken place, Damien was on his feet. He grabbed his sword but kept it in the scabbard, wielding it like a staff. The pommel became a metal fist, cracking heads and striking skulls. The men at the bar realised their comrades were in trouble and rushed forward to join the fight. In the background, one tavern keeper screamed in panic, the other shouted for order, but ignored by all. Thanks to the narrow spaces between the tables and their own inebriation, they came at Damien one or two at a time, allowing him to constantly swing the pommel from head to head.
Moments later, the men limped or crawled out of the Oak and Arrow with battered bodies. Damien slammed his sword onto the nearest table and sat down, examining the closest mugs for any content.
While one of the owners began to clean up, the other yelled. “Twice in one month! You’re supposed to prevent fights, not start them!”
“I hate a man who throws ale away,” Damien explained. With instinct and reflexes gone, his slurred speech and slouching posture had returned. “Even if it is piss-poor.”
Seething, she turned towards her husband; he was cleaning up drops of blood with bucket and a wet rag. “This was your idea! What good is he? We’re having more fights in this place than ever before!”
“At least they’re over quickly,” the husband mumbled, avoiding the stares sent his way. Most of the remaining patrons watched the spectacle between the married couple with amusement as the wife insisted Damien be sent packing; an exception was Godfrey. Pulling down his hood, he kept his eyes on Damien, eventually moving over to sit opposite him.
“Lord Damien of Montmer,” Godfrey said.
“Really? Me too.”
“I have a task for you. Two, you might say, though one is quickly done.”
“That sounds like your father.”
Scrutinising Damien’s drunken demeanour, Godfrey got up and moved over to the bickering couple. “If you would allow me use of this, I believe I can solve your problem.” The owners stared at him, but neither objected as he picked up the bucket of water. Turning back, Godfrey emptied it on top of Damien’s head.
Veins pulsing, the warrior leapt to his feet and planted his fist against Godfrey’s chest. The latter did not flinch. The experience, or the cold water, seemed to have a sobering effect on Damien. “Who in Hel’s name are you?” He stretched the fingers that had been a fist, giving them an odd look.
“I am known as Godfred. I have come from Middanhal seeking you out.”
“They are not done with me? Did they forget to kick me an extra time while I was lying down?”
“Bitterness does not become you,” Godfrey replied coldly. “You are to perform a service for me and a task for the temple of Austre.”
Damien gave a scornful laughter. “Why would I?”
“The same reason you never draw that blade,” Godfrey told him. He extended his hand and grabbed the two-handed sword from the table.
“That is mine!” roared Damien, lunging after it.
Godfrey stepped back, out of reach, and drew the sword. One foot below the hilt, the blade was broken. Godfrey threw sword and scabbard back on the table. “Your honour is as broken as this sword, Lord Damien of Montmer, but I offer you the chance to redeem yourself.”
Sheathing the broken blade, Damien scowled at Godfrey. “Who are you to do such? You look nothing more than a pauper.”
Godfrey pulled out a piece of parchment. “I am the Highfather’s servant, here on his authority.”
Damien grabbed the letter. “Why would the Highfather do this?” he asked, still scowling.
“You can ask him yourself. Question remains, are you up to the task or not?”
The disgraced knight looked around the room, seeing only amused or unfriendly faces. “To Hel with it,” he declared, grabbing his sword. “What is it you want done?”
The corner of Godfrey’s mouth curled up. “Follow me.”
~~~~
“Yes, yes, I understand,” Damien claimed, short of breath. Godfrey had set a brisk pace since they left the tavern; coupled with the busy streets they traversed, it was a challenge for the drunk to keep up in his state. “But why?”
“You should save your breath until we reach the keep,” Godfrey suggested. “You sound like you need it.”
“If I am getting you inside the keep, I deserve to know why.”
“For a soldier, you’re terrible at simply doing as you’re told.”
“Must be why I am not wearing the colours anymore,” Damien wheezed. He used the sheath in his hands to push people out of the way, attracting angry glares and rude remarks. “Stop evading the question.”
“I am not evading anything.”
“Why are you involving me?” asked Damien; he was staring at Godfrey’s back, having almost caught up to him.
“Because last time I had to get into that damn place, it took me two days to find a good opportunity,” Godfrey mumbled.
“What did you say?”
“I said you’re slowing us down. Keep up!”
“Hel on a horse,” Damien swore, almost staggering his way forward. “What do you need to see the marshal for?”
“If I wanted you to know, I would have told you.”
“I take offence at your lack of courtesy,” Damien declared.
He nearly stumbled into Godfrey as the latter abruptly stopped. “Quiet.”
They were outside the Order keep in Hareik. It was small; while the kings of Vidrevi were forced to accept the Order presence in their capital, they had restrained that presence as much as possible. Rather than a castle, the stronghold was built like a thick, short tower, as it had to be lower than the great oak of the temple. It held only a score of knights and a garrison of a few hundred clustered together. It possessed one advantage; it was near impossible to infiltrate, and assaulting it was a daunting task.
Two guards stood outside the gate of the tower in Order surcoats. They scowled at Godfrey and Damien as it became apparent the latter two had come to a stop. With a smile, Godfrey approached them. “Good masters, this is Sir Damien of Montmer. He has business inside the keep with the marshal.”
The soldiers sent Damien an investigative look. “A sword doesn’t make a knight. Where are his spurs? His horse? His armour?”
“Sir Damien’s appearance is not traditional, but it is nonetheless urgent we are allowed inside. This letter from the quartermaster at the Citadel speaks to my veracity.” Godfrey pulled out parchment, handing it to the soldiers.
One of them opened it up while the other glanced over his shoulder. “What does it say?”
“It says that the quartermaster confirms Sir Damien was trained as a knight in Fontaine,” mumbled the guard. “That’s his seal.” He gestured with his finger towards the bottom of the parchment.
The other guard gave Damien’s beggarly appearance an incredulous look. “You’re saying this fellow is genuine?”
“I’m saying we should let the marshal decide. Wait here,” he told Godfrey and Damien, going inside the tower.
“I need a drink,” mumbled the former knight. He had planted his sword in the ground, using it to keep himself upright.
“I think you have had enough to drink for a lifetime,” remarked Godfrey.
“Then bury and resurrect me, for I am getting another.” Straightening up, Damien took one step away.
Godfrey’s arm shot out and grabbed him by the collar. “No, you’re not.”
“Gods damn,” Damien exclaimed, nearly falling to his feet. “Unhand me!”
“I thought you wanted your honour restored,” Godfrey questioned, pulling Damien closer.
“Right now, all I want is mead. My head is pounding like a sawmill,” he complained. “Besides, what is it to you?”
“You can drink yourself to death for all I care,” Godfrey snorted. “But not until you have served my purpose.”
“To Hel with your purpose!” Damien struggled against the hand grasping his collar until Godfrey willingly let go, and he fell to the ground. “I will not be a slave to you!”
He was still lying down when the other guard returned. “The marshal will see you,” he announced, sending a baffled look at Damien lying in the dirt.
Reaching down with one hand, Godfrey grabbed Damien under the shoulder and hefted him up. “Let’s go, Sir Damien.” With a firm hold on the former knight, Godfrey stepped inside the tower, dragging Damien with him.
“I can walk myself!” Damien sneered, and Godfrey released him.
They followed the guard up the stairs in the centre of the tower, passing floor after floor. Finally, the soldier led them into a small room having nothing but a table and chairs. At the window stood a knight, turning to face them as they entered. He looked like most foresters and most knights; he was tall and lean with a groomed beard, and his arms held sinewy strength.
He waved the quartermaster’s letter in the air. “I realise that this only mentions Sir Damien trained as a knight in Fontaine, but not his current status.” The marshal gave Damien a closer look. “Even in this place, I have heard rumours of a fallen knight in Hareik.”
“Of Montmer, actually,” Damien interjected, clearing his throat. He was holding his head with one hand, looking miserable.
“I admit to a certain curiosity what business such a disgrace might have with me.”
“Disgrace?” barked Damien, his eyes gaining focus.
Godfrey’s hand on his chest pushed him back. “Enough! Sleep it off.”
Stumbling back several steps, Damien grumbled, but Godfrey blocked the doorway. “Bastards, all of you,” he mumbled, moving towards the stairs.
Behind him, Godfrey turned back to the marshal. “Forgive me the tricks, Sir Starri. But there is much I must discuss with you.” He began pulling out several pieces of parchment, laying them on the table.
Leaving the others behind, Damien staggered down the stairs. The spiral steps presented quite the challenge to him, but he managed to reach the floor below and spotted the empty beds of the living quarters. He moved unsteadily forward and nearly tumbled into one of them, face down; the sword in his hand, having done its part to help him steer his course, fell to the ground with a loud noise.
~~~~
A hand grabbed Damien’s shoulder to rouse him from sleep. He woke, wiping his own drool from his face. “Who dares,” he mumbled with drowsy anger.
“It’s me,” Godfrey replied. He straightened up and took a step backwards, holding Damien’s sword.
“That belongs to me,” the warrior snarled. Expressions of pain flew across his face, but he managed to sit up and grapple towards the sword.
“I took some liberties while you were asleep,” Godfrey admitted. He pulled the sword from its scabbard slowly. Inch by inch, the blade was revealed, whole and complete.
“What did you do?” exclaimed Damien, sounding both furious and frightened. Godfrey finally let him grab the sword.
“I had the smith in the keep repair the blade.”
“You fool,” Damien sneered. “You had no right.” He let his fingers slide over the mended steel. “You cannot repair a blade once broken. You have only concealed the weakness within. This blade is likely to break at first swing.”
“You would do well to remember that,” Godfrey instructed him. “Perhaps you will be less likely to solve your situations with violence.”
Damien looked at him with a sour face. “If you are trying to teach me a lesson, I am far too hungover to give a damn. Be gone, you vagrant! You have been a pestilence to me all day.”
“It is a new day, Damien of Montmer, and just like this blade, you are renewed. On your feet!”
“What in Himil’s name are you on about? Leave me alone!”
Godfrey grabbed him by the collar and pulled him to stand. “I am tempted, but I promised an old friend I would see you sorted. That either means you will be in Middanhal, your task done, or dead on the road. I can accept either possibility.”
“I hope you rot in Hel’s maw,” Damien mumbled.
“Time we go. I will explain your next task on the way.” The wanderer and warrior left, ignoring the stares and remarks of the amused soldiers in the hall.
~~~~
“I see no reason why I should dance to the tune of the Temple,” Damien declared as they moved through the streets of Hareik. “I will require payment. Beforehand.”
Godfrey smiled sardonically. “You shall be paid with something better than silver. The Highfather will release you from your wretched state.”
Damien sent him a suspicious look. “He will lift the ban upon me? That sounds unlikely.”
“Yet it is the case. If you prove yourself worthy.”
“As if I cannot handle a simple errand such as this,” the warrior scoffed. “It is beneath me.”
“If you would rather continue your accursed living, I cannot force you to accept,” Godfrey admitted as they approached the great temple of Austre.
Damien scowled at him. “I will do it, but if this turns out to be a trick, I will hunt you down and use your guts to strap my boots.”
Godfrey glanced at the other man’s footwear. “That would be an improvement.” He stopped a short distance from the temple and pulled out a letter. “This will grant you an audience with the Highfather, but be warned. If you show your face in Middanhal without the priestess, the Templars will have no reason for mercy.”
“They never have,” Damien remarked. He reached out to grab the letter.
Godfrey pulled it away. “Swear upon your honour that you will accomplish this task.”
Anger flashed across Damien’s face, but he relented. “I swear I will see the priestess to Middanhal.” He reached out once more, and Godfrey allowed him to take the parchment.
“Very well. Fail, and your dishonour shall continue to haunt you.”
A sneer ran across Damien’s face before he composed himself. “It is a long journey to Middanhal. I shall require silver for provisions.”
Godfrey laughed. “Coins to a drunkard, water to the sea. Come along, let’s meet your travelling companion.”
~~~~
In the temple of the oak, the gydja stood with a younger greenrobe near the entrance. The high priestess extended a finely carved box. “Here are the seeds. Any doubts how you must tend to them?”
“No, Sister. I know them all,” replied the young priestess. “I am honoured to be given this task.”
“Many of our order need to run like the hart before making roots like the beech,” the gydja told her. “You have never left this temple, have you?”
“I have not, Sister.”
“Then it was about time. Be warned that this may not be a simple journey.”
“You mean because of war in Adalrik?”
The gydja nodded. “Yes. Be watchful like the hawk once you enter the jarldom of Isarn, my child.”
“Of course, Sister.”
“Your robe should afford you some protection, but these are dangerous, uncertain times.”
“Austre walks with me, and I walk surrounded by her kingdom,” the greenrobe said confidently.
“Even so, you will have a companion. He should be here any moment now.”
“Who is he, Sister?”
“A warrior of renown, I am sure. The Highfather tasked him with your safety,” the gydja explained.
“I am surprised he would take an interest.”
“As am I,” admitted the high priestess. “Ah, there he is,” she added. “Godfred, this is the man?”
“Indeed, Sister,” Godfrey confirmed as he and Damien approached. The former took a few steps inside whereas the latter stayed outside the entrance. “Lord Damien of Montmer, as strong a warrior as you will find anywhere.”
“Let us hope your strength will not be needed, Lord Damien,” the gydja expressed. “This is Sister Gunvor.” The younger priestess bowed her head to Damien.
“I have food for the journey,” she explained, extending a bag with one hand while holding the gydja’s wooden box in the other.
Damien made a growl in response, taking the bag and rummaging to find a drinking skin inside. “Let us be off,” he muttered.
“Yes, of course, no reason to linger,” Gunvor assented. She bowed before the gydja and hurried after Damien.
The latter took a sip from the skin as he walked out of the temple. “What is this?” he asked, making a face.
“It’s – it’s water.”
“Terrible choice,” he mumbled. “So, which way is south?”
“You don’t know?”
“Obviously, I can find out if you force me,” he grumbled. He peered towards the sun in obvious discomfort. “Too bright. We should have left at night.”
“South is that way,” Gunvor informed him, pointing in the relevant direction.
“I was about to say that,” Damien claimed. “Let us depart,” he commanded. “The sooner this is done, the better.” Still squinting his eyes in the daylight, the warrior began marching, and the priestess fell into pace.
|
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Negotiations at Night
Southern Theodstan
Peaceful days followed in Theodstan after Brand’s negotiations with Theodoric. The jarl had not called a general conscription yet, but had a small force at the ready; they were the soldiers hastily assembled when the army of highlanders had first been discovered. His thanes were training them to make the most of the quiet days. Brand’s sworn men were doing likewise, teaching the highlanders as best they can. Besides that, they were foraging in the area and waiting to hear back from the emissary sent to Isenhart; it would take several days for any messenger to find Isarn’s army, receive a reply, and return. Until then, they were making the most of the time available.
“Captain!” Caradoc Whitesark ran through the rows of men and women fighting, reaching Brand, who was overseeing the training.
“Yes?”
“We have been attacked,” the whiterobe panted. “One of our foraging parties. Two dead. The other three are back at camp with minor wounds.”
“Lead me to them.”
Caradoc turned back the way he came, walking with hurried steps; Brand followed straight behind. Soon, they reached the edge of the area that could loosely be called their camp. Two men and a woman sat, looking harrowed. All of them had cuts or gashes, mostly on their arms or legs.
They stood up as they realised Brand had joined them; he gestured for them to be at ease. “Who were they?”
“Isarn,” one replied. “Black swords. I recognised their emblem.”
Brand exchanged looks with Geberic, who had also arrived. “Who attacked first?”
“They did, milord, no doubt about it. We didn’t even know they were present before they were upon us,” the woman explained. “It was an ambush, plain and simple.”
“It was good you escaped,” Brand told them. “Rest and see to your wounds.”
“Yes, captain.”
Turning back into camp, Brand began issuing orders. “Geberic, ride to the jarl. Tell him what happened and that he needs to send another messenger under a flag of truce. Isarn’s army is not in the west, it is here.”
“Yes, milord.”
“Gwen,” he continued. “Choose five men you rely upon and investigate the area between here and where our people were ambushed. If you see any sign of enemy soldiers, retreat at once.”
“Yes, cousin.”
“Alaric, double the guards around camp.”
“At once, milord.”
“Caradoc, tell every man to be ready for battle. We do not move out, but if our camp is attacked, they must be prepared.”
“Yes, captain.”
~~~~
The first envoy from Theodoric was travelling on the road south and west, seeking to find Isenhart and present a proposal of alliance. Unfortunately, the Isarn army had marched through hill and forest, far from the Kingsroad and hiding its progress. Unaware of any attempt to contact him, Isenhart had moved his army only twenty miles from Cragstan. They were now preparing camp for the night; their forward scouts had found the enemy and drawn blood, meaning a surprise attack was unlikely to succeed. Instead, Athelstan had decided to let the men rest that they might fight with full strength tomorrow.
To march with speed, they had brought no tents or furniture of any kind; because of this, Athelstan was sitting on the ground with his cousin, Athelbold, studying an old map displaying the local terrain, when Eumund called out to him. “Uncle! Our men have met a messenger from Theodstan under the flag of the horse. You should come quickly.”
Athelstan rose up, walking towards his nephew. “Where is he?”
“He is being presented to my father now,” Eumund explained, as his uncle and Athelbold joined him. “Our men met him after scouting the enemy camp.”
“They found its location?”
“They did,” Eumund nodded. “Their numbers have increased since the first report from our spies. They are closer to two thousand highlanders now.”
Moving through the primitive camp, they came upon the latest dispatched messenger from Theodstan; he was carrying a flag depicting a horsehead, signalling his status as a peaceful emissary. He was in conversation with the jarl, who nodded curtly. “Wait here,” Isenhart told him and turned to look around until he spotted his advisors. “With me,” he commanded, beckoning them to follow him. They walked some distance until out of earshot of Theodoric’s messenger.
“What did he say?” asked Athelstan.
“Apparently, Theodoric has changed his mind,” Isenhart snorted. “He wants to ally with us against Vale. When I asked about the highlander army, I was told a rather ludicrous story.”
Athelbold frowned. “How so?”
“They claim that Adalbrand of all people is leading an army of highlanders, who have joined his cause of their own volition.”
“Brand is alive?” Athelstan exclaimed; relief touched his eyes briefly.
“So they say,” Isenhart scoffed. “And while he has been my enemy until today, he is now eager to ally with me. Along with Theodstan, who refused to submit but has already changed his mind.”
“It might not be impossible,” Athelstan considered. “Underestimating Brand is always a costly mistake.”
“Adalbrand was taken to be executed the very day you escaped Middanhal,” his cousin expressed with a doubtful face. “It seems unlikely he should have escaped that fate.”
“I and both my nephews did,” Athelstan retorted, glancing at Eumund. “Brand’s mother was a highlander. He might very well have sought refuge with her clan, who in turn have sent their army with him home.”
“If that is so,” Athelbold considered, “where are the banners of his clan? Why is this army hiding its name and nature?”
“There can be no cause for that other than they plan deception against us,” Isenhart stated with growing anger. “Just like Vale and Hardling did!”
A look resembling despair flittered across Athelstan’s face. “But why would they lie about Brand? What possible gain could there be claiming he is alive and free?”
“Who is the only commander to ever defeat you, Uncle?” asked Eumund quietly.
Athelbold nodded. “If I wanted to buy time and convince Athelstan of Isarn to retreat, I would use that name.”
“Of course,” Isenhart growled. “They grow their numbers while we idle. Highlanders, Theodstan’s levies, and Vale’s mercenaries all gathering to crush us,” the jarl murmured.
Athelstan took a deep breath. “I suppose it would be too strange if Brand escaped not only the scaffold but also Middanhal,” he spoke doubtfully.
“This is not the first time that Vale has attempted to lure us into a trap with false words of negotiations,” Isenhart continued brusquely. He looked at his brother, his son, and his cousin. “This time, we spring the trap.”
“I agree,” Athelbold uttered while Eumund nodded.
“We will turn their falsehoods against them,” Isenhart declared, turning to walk back. Followed by his kinsmen, the jarl reached where Theodoric’s messenger awaited. “I have an answer to your master.”
“Yes, my lord jarl?”
“Tell Jarl Theodstan that I agree to cease hostilities for now. I shall withdraw my troops from his lands as a gesture of good faith,” Isenhart proclaimed, “and await further message from him regarding how, where, and when we may negotiate further.”
“My lord will be pleased,” the emissary replied, giving a bow and leaving camp.
~~~~
Near sunset, a messenger arrived in Brand’s camp from Cragstan. He was immediately led to the captain to deliver his message. “The jarl’s emissary was well received by Jarl Isarn,” the thane spoke. “Isarn are withdrawing their forces, and my lord will soon begin discussions of a formal alliance with Jarl Isarn.”
“Thank you,” Brand told him, and the thane left to return home. Meanwhile, Brand’s men crowded around him.
“That’s fortunate,” Alaric declared. “We will avoid a needless battle.”
“It’ll not be that easy to convince Isarn to join forces with us,” Geberic muttered. “He’s more stubborn than a mule. We could be here for a long while.”
“I did have an impression of Jarl Isarn as being particularly obstinate. Strange that he would agree so easily,” Brand contemplated. “He made no demands of hostages from us or proof of our good intent.” He narrowed his eyes, glancing around the camp. “Our position is not particularly defensible.”
“We chose it to be near water,” Glaukos reminded him. “We had no reason to expect fighting.”
“We still don’t,” Geberic added.
“If I were our enemy, I would have us thinking exactly that,” the captain told the others. “Gather my lieutenants and men-at-arms. All of them.”
~~~~
Night fell. The moon was weak, and the sky was partly clouded. Conditions could scarcely have been better for the soldiers of Isarn that moved quietly through the forest area. They halted as they reached the clearing where the highlanders had made camp. Torches burned here and there, allowing the guards some visibility in the dark night. Besides the occasional movements of the sentinels, the camp was quiet.
Athelstan raised his hand, signalling to the men behind him to stop; they were at the edge of the forest, and stepping forward into the open would reveal their presence. The commander glanced southwards; east of his position, Athelbold was supposed to wait with his contingent of men, and to the west, Isenhart and Eumund with theirs.
It was impossible to spot the other companies; Athelstan had no recourse but to wait until it was safe to assume they had reached their position. Given that they were all moving slowly through a thick forest at night, none of them familiar with the terrain, it was easy to imagine one of the contingents getting lost or delayed.
Tension lay heavy on each soldier wearing Isarn’s surcoat; some had brought spears, and others had chosen to bring only a sword for the close combat that would ensue. Gripping shields, they breathed deeply in an attempt to stay calm before the coming bloodshed. None of them thought to look anywhere but straight ahead at the camp.
It was past midnight when Athelstan finally gave the signal to advance. The first ten or twenty paces, the Isarn soldiers attempted to maintain stealth; they were still at least fifty yards away from camp when they were discovered.
“To arms!” “We’re under attack!” “To arms, to arms!”
From three sides the soldiers of Isarn roared forward, flooding the clearing with steel. As soon as they reached the edge of camp, they met resistance. Rather than sleeping warriors, the camp was prepared for their arrival; from every tent issued men and women clad for combat.
The men of Isarn were not only battle-hardened, but drilled like Order soldiers for fighting in formation; the latter was unfortunately for them of no use under these circumstances. Battle was chaos inside the camp with countless skirmishes erupting across the area, and the highlanders had the advantage, fighting on familiar ground.
Brand stood in the centre of camp. While he wore armour and helmet, his sword was sheathed, and no shield was strapped to his arm. Tonight, he was a captain, not a warrior, and he calmly surveyed the battlefield as best he could. They had built a small podium that allowed him to gaze above the tents. His sworn men surrounded the platform, and unlike their captain, their swords were ready. Even though he was the youngest and least experienced member of this company, Matthew had been given this honourable assignment too. Troy was there as well, clutching his lute and failing at keeping the fear from showing on his face. Lastly, by Brand’s side stood also Brogan, captain of Theodstan’s thanes.
“You were right,” he admitted brusquely. “I did not think Isarn so deceptive.” Several of Theodoric’s best warriors were scattered throughout the camp, ensuring that veteran fighters were present everywhere.
“War makes animals of all men,” Brand mumbled. “Connor,” he called out, gaining the attention of a thane. “Take your company and reinforce the west.”
“Aye, milord! You heard the captain!” he roared with the last part addressed to his soldiers. They spread out in a previously determined pattern, bolstering the defenders in the western part of camp.
Brand’s eyes did another sweep of the fighting. “It is time to end this. Sandar,” he called out. “Send the signal.” Sandar nodded; the warrior was holding a torch, which he now used to light a big fire nearby. The wood burned merrily, letting flames blossom swiftly and fiercely.
The sudden fire was easily spotted in the night, even among warriors hiding further inside the forest. “Charge!” Glaukos yelled. Along with a hundred men, he dropped down from the tree branches where they had been hiding. They rushed through the wood, reaching the clearing to attack the Isarn soldiers in the back.
From another side, Alaric led a similar assault. The attackers became the defenders as their ambush was ambushed. With the highlanders attacking them from behind, confusion reached its climax, and any remaining semblance of order among Isarn’s warriors evaporated.
Athelstan had retreated a few steps from the fighting, standing with a bloodied sword and seeking to examine the battle. His limited field of vision hindered him; all he could see were men dying. “Watch out!” a soldier shouted next to him. Athelstan swung around to find a screaming highlander charging him. He let his shield deflect the incoming blow and struck back; his sword had little trouble piercing the leather tunic protecting his attacker, who fell to the ground.
Others by his side had not reacted as quickly; several of the soldiers around him fell to this surprise assault. Soon, Athelstan was engulfed in fighting. “It’s Athelstan!” someone yelled, recognising him. The highlanders swarmed towards him; all of them had either fought at Cairn Donn against him or lost relatives in that battle.
Pressed from all sides, Athelstan found himself surrounded by enemies and his situation most dire. Regardless, he continued to fight coldly, calculated, and there was no trace of panic upon his face. While his enemies had limited training and poor equipment, Athelstan was an experienced knight clad in the strongest armour known in Adalmearc. Keeping his attackers at bay, the captain of Isarn’s forces had the mental fortitude to locate his own troops fighting nearby. In a skilful dance, Athelstan pushed his enemies back, outmanoeuvring them until he broke through their ranks and joined his own men.
“With me!” Athelstan commanded. “Move as one! Shields together!” His presence and voice brought clarity to the Isarn soldiers fighting in disarray. They closed ranks, protecting each other, and moved to link up with other groups. Some of their brethren, who had been farthest ahead, retreated from the camp to the safety of numbers; others tried but fell before they could get that far. “Retreat!” Athelstan called out. “Orderly retreat! To me!”
Any who heard his command and could comply, did so; the remainder were surrounded inside the camp, deserted by their comrades and struck down. On the other fronts, Isenhart and Athelbold surmised the same as Athelstan had done; their nightly raid had been turned against them, and nothing further could be gained. Only the dark woods held some promise of safety, and each of the Isarn companies pulled back, cutting down the highlanders standing between them and the forest edge.
~~~~
It was morning when the army of Isarn returned to its temporary camp. The soldiers were exhausted, and many of them suffered from injuries. This was not an excuse to be complacent, on the contrary; guards were chosen among those unscathed, keeping a tight watch of the surroundings. Athelstan had no intentions of being caught unawares twice in the same forest.
While the men saw to their wounds, the commanders of Isarn assembled to hold council. “How did this happen?” growled Isenhart. Despite having fought and marched through the night, he showed no sign of weariness; his rage kept him not only standing but pacing. “There must be a spy in our midst!”
“Or they did not believe us when we claimed we would retreat,” Athelstan remarked with a tired voice. He stared out into the distance.
“It could have gone worse. They did not have the numbers to properly envelop us. We had losses,” Athelbold told them, staring at each of the other men in turn, “but so did they.”
“We could not bring our dead back,” Eumund pointed out, “meaning we have given them valuable armour and weapons. Our enemy is better equipped today than yesterday.”
“What if they told the truth?” Athelstan interjected. “What if Brand is alive and he is leading that army?”
“Cousin, we have discussed this. It is irrelevant,” Athelbold reproached him.
“Everything I know about warfare, I taught him. He would have guessed my intentions and known how to react,” Athelstan continued unabated.
“If that brat is alive, I will see him dead,” Isenhart swore. “Without him, I would be sitting upon the Dragon Throne in this very moment!” His exclamation made his brother whip his head around to send him a disturbed look.
“It does not matter,” Eumund argued. “We have lost the element of surprise. We are exposed.”
“True,” Athelstan conceded. “The highlanders excel at fighting in this terrain with all the hills and forests between us and Cragstan. It will be a slow push forward, giving Theodstan further time to assemble his armies. We have to retreat.”
“Retreat?” The word burst from Isenhart with indignation. “Allow this highlander rabble to send us scurrying home?”
“We will be caught between hammer and anvil,” Athelbold told the jarl. “While we fight step by step to reach Cragstan, Vale’s army will begin to bite at our heels.”
Eumund nodded. “We must retreat until we know the full extent of what we face. We cannot tell how many more of the highlanders will join that army.”
Isenhart looked as if his eyes would burst from his face; upon seeing all of his counsellors in agreement, he became less agitated. “Very well. We will retreat. But one day, I will make every highlander in Adalrik pay in blood for this night,” he swore with malice in his voice. His commanders spoke nothing but simply dispersed to prepare the army to march.
|
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|
Black Blades and White Walls
Middanhal
Surcoats with red hawks and black swords stalked each other across the open landscape north of Middanhal. With winter’s end, the armies of Isarn and their allies had left the jarldom and marched south-east once more. For weeks, the northerners had clashed with mercenaries in the employ of Vale. The latter, unwilling to give battle against an army under Athelstan’s command, had instead spread out their forces, engaging into minor skirmishes and always swiftly retreating. This had slowed the advance of Isarn’s armies; with their scouts and vanguard always under risk of attack, they had to move more cautiously and in greater numbers.
Yet unwilling to face Isarn on the field, the Red Hawks could only delay their enemy, never defeat. Isenhart’s own kinsmen began leading patrols, delighting in the encounters with Vale’s mercenaries. Not only Athelstan himself took the field, but also other renowned wolves of Isarn, among them the jarl’s son Eumund and his cousin Athelbold with his own son, Athelgar.
The final defence took part just north of Middanhal before the last Red Hawks had to retreat into the city. As they did so, they abandoned northern Adalrik to the rebels, including Theodstan, now severed from its allies in the south.
~~~~
Some miles north of Middanhal, Isarn made camp. Given this could still be considered contested land, they did so with great caution, posting countless sentinels and deploying many scouts; even if Vale’s forces had been sent on the retreat, the capital was certain to be filled with enemy troops, and vigilance was paramount.
Time did not permit palisades to be erected before darkness would fall, and instead, Athelstan had commanded trenches to be dug interspersed with spikes. This would protect against cavalry charges and break up enemy infantry formations, should any nightly assaults be attempted. Eumund, trained by the Order same as his uncle, walked the outskirts to inspect with stern eyes for any vulnerabilities. He leapt into the trenches, ensuring they had sufficient depth; if not, he scolded the men for their hasty work and commanded them to continue digging. He examined the spikes, at times correcting their angle or how deep they sat in the ground. If any seemed to hesitate or make quiet grumblings, the former knight was swift to chastise them with threats of the lash; he never needed to repeat himself.
“Cousin!” The call came from Athelgar. “Your father wants us to attend him.”
“I am nearly done,” Eumund replied, glancing ahead at the primitive defences yet to be surveyed. “Darkness will soon fall.”
“If you are willing to suffer your father’s displeasure, by all means, go ahead,” his kinsman said. “As for me, I do not intend to delay.” With another look ahead and dissatisfaction on his face, Eumund turned and walked swiftly to catch up to Athelgar. “I do not see your concern, in any case,” the latter spoke again. “We have not seen sign of Vale or his southern swords for miles.”
“We may be safe tonight, but if we are to remain camped here, we must tighten our defences. With Vale on one hand and Theodstan on the other, we are exposed.”
“If that is the case, you may continue flogging the men with your tongue tomorrow,” Athelgar pointed out.
“I suppose.”
“Wait, why would we remain in this place? Surely, we must be moving east to strike at Theodstan. I am certain that will be my father’s counsel. Same with Athelstan.”
Eumund gave his kinsman a quick look. “It is not for them to decide.”
“But what could be gained –”
“Save it for the council,” the jarl’s son suggested, and they walked onwards in silence.
~~~~
In Isenhart’s tent, his closest relatives had gathered; all those who served as commanders of his armies and gave counsel when called upon. With the enemy pushed back to Middanhal, Isarn’s first goal had been achieved; as spring and the next season for campaigning arrived, his jarldom and the lands of his allies were safe.
As Eumund and Athelgar entered, the jarl gave a quick grunt. “Should anyone feel as if we have achieved anything, let me remind you of this,” Isenhart spoke with his usual anger lurking in his eyes. “By pushing Vale back to Middanhal, we have only restored control of our own lands. We have yet to put the hurt on our enemy.”
“We are in the position to do so now,” Athelstan remarked.
“After far too long a delay,” the jarl spoke with a menacing voice. “No more delays. We begin the siege of Middanhal immediately.”
Everyone looked at Isenhart with surprise. “That is beyond us,” Athelbold finally declared while his son scoffed behind him before quickly avoiding Isenhart’s gaze.
“He is right,” Athelstan assented. “We cannot starve the city out, and any direct assault is doomed to fail.”
“You cowards invite defeat by declaring it!” the jarl sneered. “If you value bearing the name Isarn, you will choose your next words carefully.”
“Father,” Eumund said with a slow voice. “It is our duty to counsel you.”
“Yet all your counsel has yet to win me this war.”
“Nor has it lost you this war,” his brother pointed out. “Our advance has made Theodstan vulnerable, and we might –”
“Theodstan!” Isenhart spat out. “Am I to spend the year besieging his mountain cave? Even if I take that forsaken rock, it will not bring me victory in this war!”
“It will force an ally of our enemy to switch sides,” Athelbold said, taking a step to stand next to Athelstan. “With full control of northern Adalrik, we may even persuade the highlanders to join.”
“Empty words!” The jarl’s intense eyes stared at each of his kinsmen. “Those pathetic clans will never join. The siege begins tomorrow. Begone, all of you, and see to it!”
Everyone except for Isenhart swiftly left.
~~~~
As it became night, Athelstan and Athelbold walked the camp. As they were highest in authority save the jarl himself, all hurried to get out of their way. Not that the pair of cousins seemed to notice; they moved with quick steps without paying much attention to their surroundings.
They reached a small tower that had been raised to serve as post for sentinels. At present, it was little more than a raised platform, but it did offer some seclusion. The two ascended up the ladder to find a soldier keeping watch. “Leave us,” Athelstan commanded. The warrior complied without hesitation.
“What are your thoughts?”
The jarl’s brother stared towards the south. The darkness hid the Weolcan mountains, but on a clear day, one might see as far as the white walls of Middanhal. “An assault will be a massacre. This is not open battle. There are no manoeuvres nor trickery that will get us past those defences. They know to expect us.”
Athelbold took a deep breath. “I agree. Forcing Theodstan to join us and promising the highlanders enough to do the same remains our only option.”
“That might give us a chance.” Athelstan ran his hand through his hair. “However fickle it might be.”
“How do we persuade him?”
“I do not know. If our preparations for the siege go poorly and drag out, his impatience may work in our favour. Marching on Theodstan instead might seem like a better prospect, promising immediate action rather than further waiting,” Athelstan speculated, looking at his cousin.
Athelbold nodded. “I will work on him bit by bit. Start by suggesting scouting into Theodstan’s territory, keeping us safe. Escalate to raiding parties and ensure he sees them as successful. Make him amenable to the idea of attacking Theodstan.”
“I will avoid the subject entirely. If we both bring it up, he will be suspicious.”
“We do it the same way we convinced him to hire the forester bowmen, only reverse,” Athelbold suggested. “This time, I will plant and grow the seed while you wait for him to ask you in council.”
“Agreed.”
“Athelstan.” He hesitated a moment. “What if even gaining both Theodstan and Heohlond will not be enough? What do we do if Middanhal cannot be taken? You know that he will never back down.”
The jarl’s brother turned his gaze southwards once more. “We will spend that coin when the time comes.”
|
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|
Disorder
Southern Hæthiod
North of Lakon, a skirmish was fought. The winter had been quiet, but with the return of spring came also war. The outlander army, after raising the siege of Lakon, had remained in the vicinity to defend their holdings in southern Hæthiod. Further north lay the Mercian camp, likewise defending the part of Hæthiod under their control. In between, scouts and patrols met in constant challenge, testing the readiness of their enemy.
Most of these minor battles took the same form. On one side, scores of the red-clothed Anausa fought with bows and short swords in close, chaotic combat across the barren moor. Their opposition was far more difficult to determine. Hæthian longbowmen stood at the back, supporting Order soldiers, some highlanders and dalemen, and even a few whiterobes wielding great hammers. It seemed men from all over the Realms had gathered to fight the outlanders, but in such low numbers that the fight was even. Neither side was eager to press forward; the closer the fight moved to the enemy camp, the greater risk of enemy reinforcements. As dusk fell, both contingents felt the point had been made and regrouped in order to retreat. The wounded were pulled back, and the skirmish concluded.
~~~~
The Mearcian camp resembled a field sown by an inebriated farmer. Tents rose into the air in scattered constellations across the area. Some lay solitary, others clumped together. The Order army attempted some imitation of organisation, whereas the Hæthian levies under their king had made camp with little forethought. One small part had the strangest assortment of warriors; they were a mixed group of drakonians, Hæthians and highlanders, who had followed Brand into his exile. The dalemen, divided under the leadership of several lords, had simply raised their tents where they saw fit.
In what could reasonably be called the middle of the camp, William’s tent stood. Nominally the captain of the army, he had called for a council of war. Count Hubert, representing his king and the Hæthians, had already arrived, as had Prince Flavius of Aquila for the dalemen. The captain and the count were in easy conversation, while the prince mutely kept to himself, when a knight entered the tent.
“Sir Vilmund,” William spoke questioningly. “I bade Sir Ewind to appear, not you.”
“I am aware, captain. The other knights and I felt that another should meet with you.”
“You felt?” William repeated brusquely. “What manner of insubordination is this?”
“None intended, captain,” Vilmund claimed. “With spring arriving, battle seems inevitable. But many of the knights, including myself, doubt the legitimacy of the orders we might receive.”
“How dare you impugn Sir William’s honour!” exclaimed Hubert, jumping out of his seat.
“It is not the captain but his counsel we call into question,” Vilmund retorted. “You have an outlaw and oath breaker acting as your lieutenant,” he continued, addressing William.
“Sir Adalbrand is the best commander in the Realms,” the captain argued. “I would be a fool not to heed his advice.”
“He has no right to that title,” Vilmund spoke with utter contempt. “He is not even in the Order. His blade was broken and he pronounced a knave. The honour of every knight under your command is forfeit if you follow this man.”
“You follow me,” William proclaimed. “That is all you need to know.”
“As the Codex proscribes, any knight is bound to refuse an unlawful command,” Vilmund continued.
“Every order is given by me and thus lawful,” William declared with a clenched jaw. “It is not the place of any knight to question it.”
“That is not our view. As long as the outlaw pulls your string, captain,” Vilmund said, speaking the title slowly, “do not expect the knights to agree with you.” Without being dismissed, he turned and left the tent.
Hitherto silent, Prince Aquila rose from his seat. “I see this council is nothing but a waste of time. As I have no interest in committing my soldiers to a fight, especially not without the knights on our side, I think that concludes our meeting.” He left as well with haste.
Sighing, William turned towards Hubert. “At least you are not in a hurry to leave.”
“Boy, you know I am itching for a battle as much as anybody,” the count told his old pupil. “If you decide it, I will convince the king to march the Hæthians south alongside you.”
William shook his head. “We cannot risk an engagement if our cavalry refuses to fight. I should have them all flogged! The question is whether it is merely Sir Vilmund and a few malcontents, or if many of the knights are on their side.”
“While I agree ardently with flogging men refusing to fight, we must consider what was said,” Hubert admitted. “The knights hate Adalbrand. For reasons I have never understood, Prince Aquila blames him for being the reason that King Adelard sent him here. Even Leander is spiteful towards him for having kept reinforcements in Adalrik that were meant for Hæthiod.” The old count exhaled. “He certainly has a gift for making enemies.”
“Brand has been the architect of all our victories,” William said despondent. “Tothmor and Polisals were freed because of him. His gift for strategy is invaluable.”
“But is it more valuable than five hundred knights?” Hubert asked pointedly.
William breathed heavily. “He is my friend. I failed him in Middanhal. How can I fail him again?”
“And to all the soldiers out there, you are their captain,” Hubert retorted. “You cannot afford to fail them either.”
~~~~
Leander emptied his cup. “I swear, if we ever run out wine, I am leaving. This has been the dullest winter of my life, worse than last year spent in Korndale.”
Troy sipped with more caution from his own. “Part of me should desire excitement, but I can’t say I mind things being dull. I only take exception to having spent another winter in camp. Winter is meant for cities.” He shuddered.
“It serves you right for trotting off with a band of fortune seekers,” Leander admonished him, pouring another cup.
“When I trotted off, they were a respectable band led by a knight,” Troy defended himself. “How was I to know he’d be declared an outlaw?”
“Ill fortune follows that man like a dog follows the butcher,” Leander mumbled.
“I don’t regret it,” Troy declared. “Seeing the highlands was the best experience of my life. The beauty of the land, and the people there know to appreciate bards.”
“I bet if you drank all their wine, their tune would change.”
“I’ll have you know they were happy to serve me.”
“I always knew they were a strange lot.” Leander took a healthy draught from his goblet.
Troy sent him an inquisitive look. “Leander, are you well? You seem – unsettled.”
“Half my land is in the clutches of murderous savages. Should I be fine?”
“No, of course not.”
“That damnable priest told me things would get better when we returned to Tothmor,” Leander mumbled into his cup. “Another robe proving to be a damned liar.” He threw his head back, emptying his wine.
“What are you talking about?”
“Nothing.” Leander paused, putting his cup on the small table in the tent. “I had a letter yesterday from Tothmor.”
“What did it say?”
“The sibyls have examined Theodora. She is pregnant.”
“The queen?” Troy exclaimed.
“Who else?” Leander asked with irritation.
“Of course. I am just surprised. Isn’t that great news?”
“I suppose.”
“Have you told the men? They’ll be overjoyed,” Troy claimed.
“Because this means an heir?”
“Well… yes, I suppose.”
“That is all that child will be,” Leander mumbled. “An heir. A piece on the board.”
“Neither you nor the queen will look upon him or her that way,” Troy insisted.
“Does it matter what I do? The way it seems, I will be here when that child is born. It might be years before I return to Tothmor. I could die in battle tomorrow and never meet it.”
“Count Hubert won’t allow that,” Troy declared. “Don’t throw away the olive before it’s been cured. Before you know it, this war is over and your child will have its father home.”
“Troy,” Leander asked with a tired voice, “what do you or I know about fathers?” Troy did not have any immediate response. Leander reached out to pick up the wineskin. “I am tired. I will try to sleep.”
“Of course. We’ll talk another time,” Troy said. He got up and left while the king poured himself another cup.
~~~~
Brand’s tent contained two cots and a table. On the latter lay a crude map of southern Hæthiod and the Reach beyond the Langstan; Godfrey and Brand sat on the former opposite each other.
“I didn’t see much activity yet,” Godfrey told him. “But I did not venture much beyond Rund. The city here,” he elaborated, pointing at a settlement.
“I remember seeing it in the distance during my own sojourn into the Reach. About a week south of the wall, correct?”
Godfrey nodded. “Any reinforcements or supplies will be sent to Rund first and then north across the Langstan to reach Lakon or the outlander army.”
“What are the chances they might enter Hæthiod from the east? They did so in the initial invasion.”
“It seems unlikely. The land east of Hæthiod is hilly. It will take them much longer to enter Hæthiod than if they approach from the south,” Godfrey explained. He pointed at the map again. “The outlanders consider everything beyond the Langstan to be inviolate. A small force in this area could cause untold damage.”
“The idea appeals to me,” Brand conceded, “but leading my men into the Reach is not lightly done. We will be in hostile lands with an entire army between us and home.”
“If we delay going on the offensive much longer, the opportunity may slip from our hands.”
“How so?”
“There is a reason the outlanders did not advance further after taking control of Hæthiod. Did you ever wonder why so many of their troops were pulled back?” Godfrey asked.
Brand frowned. “I assumed for supply reasons.”
Godfrey shook his head. “An insurrection was instigated in their cities, forcing the Godking to pull back troops to quell the riots.”
Brand scratched his cheek. “How great a threat does the insurrection pose against this Godking?”
“It is a distraction at best,” Godfrey admitted. “His rule is absolute and cannot be challenged for long. Soon, he will turn his full attention, not to mention his full armies, against Adalmearc once more. If we are to take advantage of the disarray among the outlanders, we must act now.”
Their conversation was disturbed by the arrival of William. Entering the tent, the captain glanced at Godfrey. Brand gave the latter a nod, who left. “I see your spy has returned,” William remarked once they were alone. “Not the most auspicious company to keep.”
“Many would say the same of me.”
“I grant you that,” William admitted. “When judgement comes easy, it rarely comes fairly.”
“All too true. What brings you by? Something you wish to discuss?”
William took a deep breath. “Some of the knights are refusing to fight. Prince Aquila is stubborn as ever. We may only have the infantry and the Hæthians with us to take Lakon, along with your band, of course.”
“Knights refusing to fight?” Brand frowned. “That is unheard of.”
“It is not cowardice. They question my leadership.”
A knowing expression spread across Brand’s face. “Because of me.”
“Yes. I cannot say how far it spreads. We will know once we march out.”
“William, facing the outlanders on the field without cavalry is preparing for defeat.”
“You defeated Sir Athelstan on those terms,” the captain countered.
“Because I had fifty Templars and favourable terrain,” Brand reminded him. “Not to mention, I knew exactly how Athelstan commands. We have none of those advantages here.”
“Perhaps we can outmanoeuvre them,” William suggested. “We move to threaten Lakon. They will have to intercept and give us battle on terms we dictate.”
“Or they will march north and threaten Tothmor, ravaging the land. We need the outlanders contained in the south,” Brand argued. He paused for a moment. “We need them weakened.”
“How can we accomplish that? It will be difficult to raid their supply lines, and Lakon offers them much protection.”
Brand took a deep breath. “We must send forces into the Reach. They will not expect us to attack them there. After all, we have never done so before.”
“I see the merit of your proposal, but choosing whom to send must be done with the utmost care. Only our best and hardiest can be expected to prevail if we are to send them deep into hostile territory without reinforcements or support.”
“You need not worry. All my men knew I expected to lead them into the Reach on this campaign. We will simply be marching there sooner than expected,” Brand said with a wry smile.
“You cannot be serious! I will not be sending my best lieutenant on such a dangerous errand. I would rather go myself,” William declared.
“I have no doubt you would, but if you did, this army would fall apart. Just the fact that you come here to my tent to discuss strategy is more fuel for the knights’ animosity against me,” Brand pointed out.
William stared at him, looking crestfallen. “I need you here to help me command the army.”
“If I stay, you will not have an army to command.”
“Sending you to near certain death cannot be the answer,” the captain maintained.
“William, I have always admired how reasonable you are. This is the obvious solution. The shadow cast upon your leadership is gone. I can lay the groundwork for our campaign into the Reach, scouting the land while whittling away at the outlanders. My warriors are tougher than stone and well-suited for this kind of fighting.”
William stood in silence. “Damn you,” he muttered. “I hate how you can always sway me.”
“You bear this burden admirably,” Brand remarked with a slap on the shoulder.
“Let the quartermaster know what you need,” William told him. “Come see me before you depart.”
“I will, and I shall. Do not worry,” Brand said with a light heart. “I will return soon enough. We shall meet again before you know it.”
William left the tent, and it took only a moment for Godfrey to return. “That seemed important?”
Brand exhaled. “We will leave for the Reach as soon as we are ready. Sir William is in agreement.”
Godfrey nodded. “I will leave ahead of you and gather what intelligence I may.”
“See that you do.”
With another nod, Godfrey departed from the tent, and soon after, the camp.
~~~~
Of all the motley bands in the Mearcian camp, Brand’s followers stood out the most. Their count was one hundred, give or take, and they had little in common except being under Brand’s command. A handful were whiterobes, providing spiritual aid to the rest of the Mearcians and hammer blows to the outlanders. Many hailed from Adalrik, following the only man they considered a true atheling of Sigvard, even if that road led them to the Reach. Some were Hæthians, seeing the dragonborn as the best leader in the fight against the invaders. Lastly, ordinary highlanders besides whiterobes could be found, and their number included both men and women; they came mostly from Clan Lachlann, of the same name as Brand’s mother and following their clansman into battle.
As Troy returned from Leander’s tent, he found the others occupied in casual ways; most of them watched one of the highlanders sparring Glaukos, known to be the strongest swordsman among Brand’s followers. “You cannot hesitate,” he admonished his opponent. She was panting for breath, holding a sword with both hands while glaring at Glaukos. “If you are going to fight without a shield, you cannot allow your enemy the opportunity to strike first.” Gwen, kinswoman to Brand, raised her sword and swung it over her head with a loud cry. Glaukos quickly stepped back, out of its reach. “Better,” he acknowledged, stepping forward to touch her leg with the flat of his own blade. “But you also need to hit, or you remain just as vulnerable.”
“To Hel with your advice,” Gwen grumbled, rubbing her smarting thigh. Despite her outburst, she readied herself and renewed her attack, continuing the sparring.
Troy sat down next to Geberic, who was cleaning his boots. “Quiet around here.”
“The lads are enjoying the mild weather, I suppose,” the gruff drakonian replied. “Quentin and Nicholas are out shooting, I’m guessing, and gods know what Matthew and Baldwin are up to. I’ll have to teach that boy a thing or two if he’s ever going to make a proper sergeant.”
“I think that race has been run,” Troy said with a good-natured manner. “Anyone making the meal?”
“That’s all you bards think about,” Geberic grumbled. “Food, drink, and song.”
“True, and doesn’t it sound wonderful?”
Geberic stopped his cleaning. “Fair point.”
Nearby sat another heathman, idly carving a small stick into chips. He was quiet in nature, but he had an eerie ability to procure any kind of goods through barter, ensuring his popularity among his peers. They knew little about him except that his name was Jerome from Tothmor. All assumed that like others, he was simply a heathman who had heard the tales surrounding Brand and had come to fight under the captain’s leadership for his homeland. None of them knew that he was a former Red Hawk in service to Konstans, dragonlord of Adalrik, who had promised to fill Jerome’s hands with gold if he made sure Brand never returned to Adalrik again.
Patiently, Jerome continued his work making kindling while keeping an eye on the captain’s tent and those who guarded it. At all times, one of the former kingthanes now sworn to Brand’s service remained by the opening, keeping vigilant day or night.
Along with Jerome, all the men sitting nearby looked up to see Godfrey stride past them, leaving Brand’s tent with his walking staff in hand. Their inquisitive looks followed the wanderer as he left in haste. Behind them, Brand appeared. “Geberic.”
“Yes, milord!” The man-at-arms snapped to attention.
“Tell them all to make preparations. We break camp tomorrow or the day after. We will need provisions for several weeks.”
“Yes, milord.” Soon after, bustling activity replaced leisure among the hundred followers of the Dragonheart, all of them appearing to be loyal.
|
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|
The Last Prince
Middanhal
Of all those that went north, Konstans and a few retainers were the first to return to Middanhal. He had a bath drawn for him in the dragonlord’s private quarters and was in the hot water when his wife strode into the room. “Forgive me, milord,” Eolf stuttered, trailing behind her. “I tried to explain you were occupied.”
“I am his wife, you dolt!”
“It is fine, Eolf,” Konstans waved him away. The servant bowed and left them alone.
Mathilde found a seat on a chair. “Tell me what happened.”
“It went as planned.” Konstans sat up, washing the dust of the road from his arms with a piece of soft cloth. “The prince is dead.”
“Good. We should find Inghard more pliable.”
“Yes. Hopefully the cutthroat has done his task on Gerhard already,” Konstans spoke casually.
“This will amuse you to hear,” Mathilde smiled. “Jerome returned only yesterday. He barely rested between here and Silfrisarn, so eager was he to escape our good friend Isenhart.”
“Did he botch the killing?”
“This is the amusing part,” she continued. “Isenhart killed Gerhard himself. He was enraged by our deception, and you already know how he treats hostages. Out of all people, Athelstan intervened and made sure the Hawk was spared.”
“Brilliant.” Konstans let a rare laughter sound. “Isarn killing the other prince leaves our hands clean. I could not have planned it any better.”
“A shame that Gerhard had to die,” Mathilde considered with a pragmatic voice. “He was very amenable towards us. He would have been a good puppet.”
“He would have revealed our involvement in releasing the Isarn prisoners sooner or later,” Konstans pointed out, scrubbing a resistant spot of dirt until it cleared away.
“That, on the other hand, could have been planned far better,” Mathilde scowled. “The half-witted son is hardly of consequence, but letting Athelstan escape has made our enemy twice as dangerous.”
“You exaggerate,” Konstans claimed with a calm voice. “Isarn’s armies are crippled. It does not matter how great a commander Athelstan is when he has no soldiers to command.”
“You underestimate him. Jerome also brought news of a skirmish between the Red Hawks and Isarn’s forces. The Hawks were forced to retreat.”
“Winning a small encounter will hardly turn the war around for Isarn. Every soldier he loses, he cannot hope to replace anymore. As long as he has losses, every victory is also a defeat for him,” Konstans stated.
“You better be right.” His wife wore a sneering expression. “These mercenaries are costing us a fortune. The last thing we need is for this war to be prolonged.”
“All will be well,” the dragonlord claimed. “We have matters closer to home.”
“What do you mean?”
“The marriage between our house and Hardling fell through. With Hardmar’s death, plans will certainly have to change now,” Konstans remarked with a sardonic smile. “Of course, he is not the only Hardling.”
“Valerie and Inghard? It will have to wait at least a few years, even if you get the boy declared of age to marry before time,” Mathilde contemplated.
“I had someone else in mind.” He ran the cloth in his hands across his face, sighing with relief as the soft, warm cloth touched his skin. “Inghard has a sister, and we have a son.”
A knowing smile spread across Mathilde’s face. “Of course. How clear-sighted of you, my husband. I will tell Konstantine and prepare him for it.”
“Let me,” Konstans told her. “Such an important matter should come from his father. After all, it marks his time to do his part for our house.”
“As you say, dear husband.”
~~~~
Several days after Konstans’ arrival, a trio approached Middanhal. When the city was still some distance away, Ælfwine stopped. This close to the capital, he had been walking with the blindfold during the day; even avoiding the Kingsroad, there was always a danger of meeting other people. Now he removed it and turned his strange gaze upon his two companions.
“The road must be close by,” he told his companions. “You can find your way to Middanhal from here. My task is done.”
“Will you not come all the way?” asked Egil. “Much could happen between here and the Citadel.”
“Yes, at least let us treat you to a meal, and you can sleep in a real bed tonight,” Kate offered.
“There are many dangers in this world,” Ælfwine smiled. “You can handle what lies between here and your home.”
“I need you to come with me,” Egil stated with a worried look.
“Egil, he’s done enough for us. If he wants to go home, we should let him,” Kate interjected.
“I need your help,” Egil spoke almost imploring.
“With what?” Ælfwine frowned.
“Master Quill is in a cell. You remember him, right?” the boy asked the Elf.” “The prince hurt him, and now he is a prisoner. He is an old man, and we have to get him out!”
“Egil, I am no prince or lord to your people. They will not heed my word,” Ælfwine pointed out.
“No, but you’re the best warrior I’ve ever seen. You could fight your way out!” Egil suggested. “Free Master Quill and get him out!”
“Egil, there will be an entire garrison between your master and freedom,” the Elf gently said. “I am not an army.”
“You killed those bandits like it was nothing!”
“They were few and had no reason to keep fighting me. There could be hundreds of soldiers standing in our path.” He looked at the boy with concern. “Even if I could make it out alive, I cannot imagine your old and frail master would survive the same trip.”
“Can’t you try?” Egil pleaded. “I beg you, please!”
“And afterwards? Where do you flee, pursued by soldiers? With a sickly man who needs to be tended to? Egil, we would only hasten his demise.”
“Don’t say that!”
“Egil, he can’t,” Kate told him with sadness in her voice.
“If your master is to be freed, it will be by cunning or some similar device, not by strength of arms,” Ælfwine declared. He let his gaze move back and forth between the children. “I take my leave now. I warn you that you should never return to the Alfskog. You know what awaits you.”
“We know,” Kate nodded while Egil sniffed.
“Since you never listen,” Ælfwine continued with a scolding voice, “I will tell you this. Should you ever met any of my people, speak the name of Alfmod to them. They will recognise it and bring you to me. Now farewell.” He bowed his head to them and turned around, moving north rapidly.
Kate watched him leave. “Did he say what I think he said?”
“Who knows,” Egil replied monotonously. He began a shambling walk towards Middanhal; a moment later, Kate turned from watching Ælfwine’s tall shape to catch up with the boy.
~~~~
An hour later, the double walls of Middanhal rose imposingly before them; ahead lay Woolgate, allowing people to enter the city from the north. Kate suddenly reached out and grabbed hold of Egil’s sleeve. “Gate toll!” she exclaimed. “Do we have any coin left? I think we spent the last we had.”
“It’s fine. I am the king’s servant, and you are travelling with me. We don’t pay gate toll,” Egil informed her tonelessly.
“Are you well? You’ve barely said a word since we said goodbye to Master Ælfwine.”
“Yes.”
This close, plenty of other travellers were moving along the Kingsroad; one branch came from Theodstan and the other from Isarn to entwine before the gate. These days, there were few travellers coming from the western branch, but trade and traffic remained as usual from the east. For a city of Middanhal’s size, having only two gates was deeply unusual; while it made the city easier to defend, it also meant that both places were constantly crowded. The nobility was exempt from being subject to toll or guard inspection and could ride through without interruption; all others had to wait their turn. Kate and Egil, one looking concerned, the other indifferent, joined the row of people waiting to enter the great city.
“One silver per head to enter the city,” the guard announced with the utmost boredom. He held his hand outstretched while his head was turned elsewhere, staring at a few pretty faces that had just passed by.
“I am the King’s Quill,” Egil proclaimed.
Seeing his hand devoid of silver, the guard looked outwards and finally down to see a young boy staring back and a girl of the same age nervously tripping behind him. “What?”
“I am the King’s Quill,” Egil explained. “Kindly let us pass.”
The guard grinned. “I’ve never heard that one before! That’s funny, lad. For that, I won’t slap the teeth out of you.” His grin disappeared. “Now either sod off or pay.”
Egil kept his unblinking gaze on him. “I am a servant to the king and do not pay toll. Stand aside.”
The guard scowled and grabbed hold of Egil’s robe, pulling the boy to him. “You’re itching to get smacked, aren’t you.”
“I am the embodiment of the law,” Egil told him fearlessly, staring right into his face. “My person is sacred. An assault upon me is an assault upon the Adalthing.”
The guard’s expression turned confused. “Don’t try and confound me, boy! I’ll slap you silly till the sheep come home!” Despite his many threats, the soldier did not move to carry any of them out.
“I am the King’s Quill. I am the embodiment of the law. My person is sacred,” Egil reiterated.
Doubt spread across the guard’s face. “Listen, I don’t know what you’re playing at, but the Quill is an old geezer –”
“Let him go, you halfwit!” It was the gate lieutenant, summoned by the commotion. “Haven’t you heard? The old Quill got thrown into the dungeons. This must be his apprentice who went north with the prince.”
The soldier quickly let go of Egil’s robe and backed away. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “How was I to know?”
“Quiet, you moron,” the lieutenant silenced him. “You may pass, Master Quill. I was sorry to hear of the prince’s passing,” he told Egil and disappeared into the gatehouse again.
Without sparing the guard another look, Egil walked forward and entered the city, closely followed by Kate. “Egil, that was amazing!” she exclaimed. “You were so fearless! How did you know to do that?”
“I learned it from Master Quill,” he explained in a tired voice. “I suppose I should return to the library.”
“Wait, didn’t that soldier say the prince had passed?” Kate’s eyes widened.
“He must have died when the camp was attacked,” Egil assumed. “I guess that’s my luck. I won’t have to forge anything.”
“Forge?”
“The prince wanted the master to make false documents,” Egil related. “He refused and was thrown in prison. I was next.”
“Wait, the prince,” Kate suddenly interjected. “He can help.”
“He is dead,” Egil pointed out. “Let’s get back to the Citadel.”
“Not him! I mean, one prince is dead, and the other prince fled with the prisoners. So there is only the youngest prince left, right?” Kate’s eyes beamed.
“I guess. So?”
“That means he is in charge now. What the old prince did, the new prince can change. And Prince Inghard is a friend to Master Quill,” she explained excitedly. “He was always visiting us in the library!”
Realisation spread across Egil’s face. “I have to get an audience with the prince!”
He sprinted towards the Citadel. An hour later, having used his authority as the king’s scribe to open further doors, Egil and Kate accompanied Inghard down to the dungeons. Shortly after, Kateb al-Qasr was freed from his cell, restored to his position as the King’s Quill, and could return to his library tower.
~~~~
In the great Temple, affairs had returned to normal after that fateful day when the doors had been closed. The blackrobes had never given any explanation for this, and none dared ask the Templars. Rumours swirled. The Highfather had fallen violently ill, and his death had been feared until he miraculously recovered. One of the Templars had broken his vows and been cast out, like it had happened to Sir Damien years ago. Some swore they had seen Adalbrand, the infamous knave, pass through the halls. Others were convinced that a large treasure of gold and silver had been sent to the Temple for safekeeping.
Two of the men who knew the truth, Septimus and Eadric, sat in the latter’s study. “We have received another report,” the high priest told his superior, holding a strip of parchment in his hand containing scribbled runes. “Not only did Isarn win a battle and threatens to end the siege of Grenwold. The jarl killed Prince Gerhard afterwards by his own hand.”
Septimus sighed. “Perhaps it were better if Athelstan had died on the scaffold. This war may drag on indefinitely now.”
Eadric looked at the old man. “Should we seek to intervene?”
The Highfather shook his head. “Too dangerous. This must play out by itself. Any news of Adalbrand?”
“None of our priests have reported anything. Either he is well disguised –”
“Or he is keeping to the wild,” Septimus nodded. “I wish him gods’ speed in either case.”
“If Adalrik is out of our hands,” the blackrobe began to say, “it is time to deal with Ealond.”
“You are right. They did not heed my warning. Inform the Templars and have a carriage made ready.”
“Yes, Brother. When should you wish to leave?”
“Tomorrow. I leave the Temple in your capable hands until I return,” Septimus declared.
“Yes, Brother.”
Next day, though few inside or outside the Temple were made aware, the Highfather and ten Templars left for Fontaine.
|
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|
Prisoner
Alcázar
The Kabir of Alcázar was lord of the city and its highest authority in all matters. His rule was undisputed, as long as trade flowed; when that was the case, all the merchant houses bent to his will, paid tribute, and supplied him with all he needed. Should the opposite ever happen, he would be in danger of being deposed; the very thing he had done to his own father, the previous Kabir, when Alcázar had been weakened by costly wars and dwindling trade. The greatest trading houses had thrown their support behind the ambitious young prince, letting him dethrone his father and consolidate his power. Their belief had not been unfounded; with rapid expansion of the fleet and decisive victories over Labdah, the Kabir had sealed Alcázar’s position as the dominant power of the Mydlonde Sea.
Now, he strode into the dungeons of his palace. His silken garbs and jewellery stood a stark contrast to the sinister surroundings, but the Kabir seemed at ease regardless. The scent of perfume followed him, fighting to banish the smell of sweat and blood that over centuries had bled into the walls. His two favourite sons were already present; as soon as they saw their father, both Saif and Jalil snapped to attention. The Kabir’s mamluk guards did not enter with him, taking position outside the doors.
“Leave.” The order was directed at the simpering Imad, who disappeared. The Kabir turned his attention on his sons instead. “Do you know of the fire last night?” Both of them shook their heads. “A warehouse on the docks. It turned out to be a ruse, allowing another fire to be set on our shipyard.”
“The ships?” asked Saif, the eldest.
“Untouched. They torched our stores of sailcloth.”
“A minor setback, but we have cloth to replace it, do we not?” asked Jalil. His fingers placed with the pommel of his sword; he was the only one who walked around armed.
“It will take a month at least, by which time, winter storms will have begun on the Outer Sea. My plans are severely disrupted, which is no coincidence.” Each word was spoken calmly, but with an icy tone. “These men are northern spies, and I want their entire ring stamped out.”
“Of course, Father,” Jalil bowed his head.
“How do you wish for us to proceed?” asked Saif.
“I want you to take charge of the black priests,” the Kabir declared, directed at Saif. “Figure out who act on their behalf and have them all rounded up. When nothing further can be gleaned, have the priests arrested as well.”
“Yes, Father.”
“What of my task, Father?” asked Jalil eagerly.
The Kabir nodded towards the cell where Brand and Majid stood chained. “These are the men who set the fire. I want to know all their accomplices. You are in charge of their interrogation.”
“I shall discern their every secret,” Jalil promised with a superior smile.
“The one with blue eyes is most likely the ringleader and a northern spy. The other seems to be a native who was hired for the task. Maybe others were hired as well. I want to learn the full extent of their activities,” the Kabir stressed.
“You shall, Father.”
“Deal swiftly with the henchman. He knows the least, and I doubt he is of much value. Be more careful with the northerner and make sure he lasts. He may have useful knowledge about many matters in the North,” the Kabir instructed.
“Very well, Father.”
The Kabir turned to a table upon which lay two swords. “These are their weapons. The shorter sword is ordinary, but this…” He picked up Brand’s sword, pulling away the leather strips that hid its pommel jewel. “This was taken from the northerner.” He pulled the blade a few inches, revealing the sea-steel. “Metal unlike any other. This is a weapon for a king, not a spy, which is further proof that he could be the leader of these spies that plague our city.”
Jalil extended a hand. “As I am interrogating the prisoners, I should hold on to this sword.”
“Father said it was a sword for a king. You are delusional if you think yourself worthy of it,” Saif remarked.
“At least I can wield it properly,” Jalil replied with a superior attitude.
The Kabir looked at each of his sons in turn. “Whoever handles this matter best may have the sword as a reward,” he told them. “The poets will smile seeing the commander of my armies fighting the northerners wielding this blade.” While his sons exchanged glances, the Kabir turned on his heel and walked out of the room.
Jalil turned his head to look at Saif. “You better hurry, Brother. You have a lot of threads to disentangle.”
“Yes, Father gave you the simpler task. Equal to your abilities,” Saif smirked. He left quickly as well.
“Imad.”
From the doorway, the warden peered inside. “Sidi?”
“Get in here, you rat,” Jalil commanded, and the torturer scuttled inside. “Begin your work. Start with the black-skinned man, and break him quickly. Soften the blue-eyed bastard meanwhile. I will be back tonight.”
“Yes, sidi,” Imad replied subserviently. His eyes gleamed as he turned towards the prisoners.
~~~~
Majid woke as someone gently clapped his cheek. Opening his eyes, he stared down into Imad’s face.
“It’s time to begin,” the shorter man announced cheerfully. “Let’s get you ready.” He used a knife to cut Majid’s tunic open, revealing the skin underneath with its scars. “Impressive!” Imad touched one of them tentatively. “You must be a warrior, maybe a mamluk? I imagine you can endure a lot.”
Majid spat at him. “Do your worst, fiend.”
Imad carefully wiped his face with a bloodied rag. “I intend to do my best. I am not a novice.” He stuffed the rag into Majid’s mouth. “For instance, this will keep you from hurting your tongue while I work on you.” He leaned closer. “It wouldn’t do if you had trouble speaking when my master returns,” he said with a quiet voice and a glimmer in his eyes.
Majid made a response, though it was not understandable.
Imad let his fingers run over the pendant hanging around Majid’s neck. “This is important to you, no doubt. You may keep this – for now.” He smiled. “See, I do not wish to start too harshly. You should have something to cling onto. You will be surprised how important it can be to have just a little piece, a little memory as a doorway to another time.” Imad ran his tongue over his teeth. “When that is all a prisoner has left, all they cling to, that is when I take it. The look of despair is exquisite. I am no novice, no. What is the purpose of all this pain but to break the mind?”
He looked towards his other prisoner. “You have one as well, I see.” Imad glanced at the knotted leather string around Brand’s neck. “I have seen such before. A token given by a woman’s hand – no doubt precious to you?” He gave a sly smile and turned around to face his tools. He had already lit the coals in the brazier, which was heating up the room.
Licking his lips slowly, Imad finally chose a knife and placed it in the brazier. He looked over his shoulder at Majid. “Normally I would go much slower,” he explained, sounding apologetic. “This is not something to be rushed. Alas, the masters want you ready soon, very soon.” He looked at Brand and gave a smile. “Don’t worry, I will take my time with you.” Brand did not acknowledge hearing him. With a careful motion, Imad picked up the heated knife and walked over to Majid. “I had a fun idea. Why make new scars when the old ones make such a beautiful pattern?”
He pressed the knife against Majid’s chest, and the red-hot metal seared his skin. The smell of burning flesh spread while Majid screamed through his gag. By his side, Brand averted his eyes.
~~~~
The Kabir’s harem made up a sizeable part of his palace. Most of his wives were born to the greatest merchant houses of Alcázar or from the other South Cities, confirming alliances and ensuring peaceful relations. Many of them shared rooms; only his favourite wives had their own quarters. All of these chambers were luxuriously decorated, further demonstrating privilege and importance among the Kabir’s court.
In one room sat a woman near forty. Even in the privacy of her own chamber, she was exquisitely dressed and wore elaborate hair. She lay on a divan, a custom she had brought with her from her home. Her gaze was locked upon Jalil, standing in front of her. “Tell me exactly what your father said.”
Jalil cleared his throat. “He said that whoever found the spies would receive the sword and wield it while commanding his armies against the northerners.”
She watched him with half-closed eyelids. “There is no doubt in your mind this is what he meant?”
“None, Mother.”
Her eyes strayed, staring into the empty air. “He must be furious to offer such a reward for the capture of these spies.”
“He seemed calm, under the circumstances,” Jalil remarked.
She snapped her head back to look at him again. “He always does, but he is most susceptible to frustration when his plans are disrupted. Trust me, the thought of his fleet being delayed fills him with gall.”
Jalil inclined his head. “You know best, Mother.”
She ran her eyes over him. “If you command his armies to victory in the North, you are guaranteed to become his successor. Who knows? Perhaps the succession will even come sooner than anticipated.”
His eyes shone upon hearing her words. “You think so?”
“I am not lying idle in this chamber,” she told him with gentle chastisement. “Your father is pushing his luck with these wars. They are expensive and disruptive for trade.”
“I have not heard any complaints?”
She gave an overbearing smile, showing the family resemblance. “Of course not. Never mind. You have your own task. You are already the better warrior compared to Saif – it is imperative you succeed in this and win your father’s approval. Once you lead his armies, you will bring victory, and everything shall fall into place.”
“I shall, Mother. The prisoners are being tortured as we speak. I will begin interrogation soon.”
“Do not tarry. The sooner you bring your father results, the better,” she instructed him with a stern voice.
“Yes, Mother.”
~~~~
In the dungeons, Majid hung forward from the wall. He was only upright because his chains kept him standing. Imad stood right in front of him, looking up at his face. “Too much for you?” Burns lay scattered across Majid’s skin. “Rest a little, my friend,” Imad told him cordially. He moved to a corner of the room, which held a curious contraption. Wheels were attached to pulleys holding chains. As Imad began turning the wheels, the shackles moved. Slowly, Majid’s chains around both ankles and wrists slackened, lowering him to the ground.
Imad walked over, adjusting Majid’s position to let him rest with his head against the wall and his legs stretched out rather than crossed underneath him. Finally, he removed the rag from Majid’s mouth. Standing up, he looked over at Brand. “It’s important to listen to the signals of the body,” Imad lectured him. “I am already pushing our friend hard. Now, his mind needs a little sleep. When he wakes up, he will be ready for more. Fortunately, that gives me time to show you some attention as well.”
Brand neither spoke nor looked at Imad.
Undeterred by the lack of a response, the short man went to his tools, selecting a number of long, thin needles. He placed them cautiously between his lips, leaving his hands free except for the rag taken from Majid. Returning to his prisoners, Imad grabbed hold of Brand’s chin with one hand. The latter turned his head, trying to break free, but for his stature, Imad was surprisingly strong and easily held onto his victim. He pressed on Brand’s cheeks to force his mouth open, pushing the gag inside.
Next, he grabbed Brand’s right hand. The manacles kept Brand so firmly in place, it was useless to struggle here as well. Imad closed his grip around one finger and cautiously pulled out one of the needles held between his lips. Slowly, he pushed the thin steel into Brand’s fingertip, just below the nail. An outburst of pain was heard from Brand, and he tried once more to tear his hand away. He had as little luck as before.
Imad continued with each finger on Brand’s hand, applying a needle to each. As he pulled the last from his mouth, he gave a small yelp. “Pricked my tongue,” he explained. “Of course it would happen with the last one. No trouble with five in my mouth, but one left and I hurt myself,” he giggled. He scraped his tongue against his teeth. “This hurts! You wouldn’t believe how painful such a small sting can be.” He looked at Brand’s hand. “I suppose you would.” He grabbed the remaining finger and pushed the needle in.
~~~~
Most of the Kabir’s many children also lived in the harem. Until a certain age, they stayed with their mothers. After that, they shared rooms with their siblings. They would take their meals and be tutored here as well. As they approached adulthood, favoured daughters might receive their own chamber, whereas the sons would move to another part of the palace. They were still allowed access to the harem that they might visit their family, and it was common to see the Kabir’s sons entering or leaving.
The eldest of these, Saif, sat on a sofa next to Jana. Her constant protector, Salim, stood nearby, watchful if relaxed in his pose. The room itself was large, although more sparsely furnished compared to the chambers of the Kabir’s favourite wives.
“If this task is of such importance, I wonder you even have time to visit me,” Jana remarked.
Saif gave a shrug. “I am waiting to hear reports from my sentinels. I imagine that soon, we will be able to seize suspects and unravel the entire spy ring.”
“You sound confident, but you still came to me to unburden yourself.”
He gave a wry smile. “Perceptive. I am a little worried.”
“Why?”
“If the sentinels knew anything with certainty, they would have acted already. We know the black priests are involved, of course, but they are only one link in the chain, and watching them has given us limited success. I need to bring Father the remaining links, but I fear Jalil has the better position. Eventually, his captives will give him names. Time is limited.”
“This all sounds strange in my ears,” Jana admitted. Her fingers played with one of her golden earrings. “Your ability to find spies hardly determines whether either you or Jalil is a capable commander.” She swept a lock of black hair behind her ear, looking at her brother.
“Father would be sending other captains as well. But supreme command needs to rest with a member of House al-Saqr,” Saif explained. “Since he does not intend to go himself, the choice falls upon Jalil or I.”
“I wonder why he is staying behind.” Jana frowned in contemplation. “From what I remember, he has never shied away from going into war himself.”
Saif glanced towards Salim, who did not seem to pay them any attention. “I think he fears losing control if absent. The Council of Ten are not happy at the prospect of another war. It is they who have paid for many of our new ships being built. Of course, if we wrest control of trade from the Mearcians, it is also they who will profit,” he added with a contemptuous smile.
“Why is Father risking this?” asked Jana.
“Because he needs new victories to pay the debts of old wars,” her brother remarked.
“I fear we will all end up paying those debts.”
“The course has been set. We cannot turn this ship around anymore.” Saif touched her shoulder with a comforting gesture. “No matter what happens, you will be safe.”
“I know. Nobody has much interest in yet another daughter of the Kabir. At worst, my fate will be the same as Dalia’s, and I exchange my gilded chamber for another.”
At the mention of their sister left behind in Labdah, Saif’s hand fell away. “I better take my leave. Those reports must be arriving soon.”
“Of course. I hope your hunt goes well.”
Smiling with his mouth closed, Saif nodded to her and left. Once he was gone, Salim finally stirred. He caught Jana’s attention and gestured towards her.
“I am fine, thank you, but perhaps we can take a stroll tonight. You should relax until then, I will not have other visitors today, I imagine. Borrow my book with al-Tayir,” she suggested. “It would do you good, reading some poetry.”
The mamluk gave only a wry smile in response.
~~~~
Evening had arrived when Jalil returned to the dungeons, stepping into chambers where night and day were erased. No light was possible but torches, lamps, and coals burning in the brazier. Holding scented cloth before his nose, Jalil approached Imad. “Is the prisoner ready?”
“Yes, sidi,” replied the torturer.
“You, scum,” Jalil spoke at Majid, who was awake and standing once more with his chains keeping him in place. “Tell me everything you know about the northern spies in the city.”
Majid hung forward, his jaw slack. “I’m just a messenger. I brought messages, that’s all.”
“From whom and to whom?”
“From the black-clothed priests. I brought them to Harun.”
“I know about the priests,” Jalil sneered. “Who is Harun?”
“He is hanging by my side.”
The prince walked over to stare into Brand’s face. “This is your leader?”
Majid coughed. “He’s just a messenger like me.”
Jalil’s mouth curled with contempt. “Then who is? Tell me, you pathetic traitor! Who do you take orders from?”
Something resembling a smile struggled to appear on Majid’s face. “Who knows? He hid his true nature. He could be the Prince of Cats for all I know.”
Jalil slapped him across the face. “Do not waste my time! I want another name!”
“Majid,” he whispered.
“Who is he?”
“Majid from Alcázar. He was a soldier,” the prisoner explained. “He fought against Labdah at the battle of the bay and was taken captive. He spent ten years as a slave, fighting on the sands.”
“Was it him who planned the destruction at the shipyard?”
“No, but he was present. He did it for silver and for revenge against the city that abandoned him after he served it loyally.”
“Where can he be found?” Jalil asked eagerly.
Majid raised his head with difficulty. “You are looking at him, sidi.” He hissed the final word.
Confusion was replaced by anger on Jalil’s face. He sent a knee into Majid’s groin, who gasped in pain and lost his footing; there was an unpleasant sound as the chains around his wrists kept him from falling down.
Jalil turned towards Imad. “Clearly, he is not ready for interrogation yet.”
“My apologies, sidi. I try to hurry, but this is a delicate art best progressed slowly. I can only guarantee the truth if I am given time to understand his body and mind, how far he can be pushed.”
“Understand this, you little creep,” Jalil spat. “I will return tomorrow, and I expect him to cooperate.”
“Of course, sidi.”
“Meanwhile, step up your work with him.” Jalil nodded towards Brand.
“The exalted Kabir told me to be careful –”
“I am telling you now! I want him to spill the truth, or you can take his place.”
“Yes, sidi.” Imad bowed low while Jalil left the dungeons. The torturer turned towards the prisoners. “I really do hate being so blunt about it. There’s just no art to it. I suppose it’s straight to the blade.” He sighed and walked over, placing a knife in the brazier.
~~~~
Outside the palace, it was night; in the dungeons, it was the same flickering illumination, heavy with smoke. Imad had finished his work and gone to sleep in his own room nearby, but first he had lowered the chains on the prisoners, allowing them to sit against the wall.
“Harun. Tell me of the outside world.”
“Why?” Brand adjusted his uncomfortable seat. He had fresh wounds across his chest where his tunic was torn open.
“Help me remember.”
“There is… bread, freshly baked. You can smell it. And cool water on a warm day. Rain that falls… it calms you.” Brand swallowed, fumbling for words. “I do not know what to tell you.”
“Tell me your memories. I’ve seen the leather string around your neck. A woman of Alcázar made that for you, did she not? Tell me of her.”
Brand opened and closed his eyes again, slowly. “She is long gone. I do not recall her face. She left. Instead of memories, all I have left of her is this piece of leather. Until they take that away from me.”
“That as well.”
“Majid.”
“What?”
“Why do you not tell them about Jawad? He left you behind. You owe him no loyalty.”
“What little I would know, he has already taken steps to make irrelevant. That is how he works,” Majid explained with a strained voice. “Our only chance is to keep quiet, and perhaps the Prince may yet see us freed.”
“Do you truly have hope of that?”
“No.” Majid was quiet for a moment. “But my only other choice is to hope for death. The sooner, the better.”
“Do not despair yet. You are a champion of the sands,” Brand reminded him. “These men, our captors, will not get the better of you.”
Majid licked his lips with a dry tongue. “Yes, they will.” Neither of them spoke further.
|
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|
Hospitality
Labdah
Many settlements encircled the Mydlonde Sea; together, they were known to the Mearcians as the South Cities. Alcázar was familiar to most; in part because it was the largest and most prosperous, in part because it lay closest to Adalmearc. Gadir was famous for its incense, Surru for its pearls and purple dye. Labdah did not have the wealth or size of its rivals, but it was considered the oldest of them all. When Alcázar was little more than a trading post, the jewellers of Labdah were renowned for their work with gems. Before Gadir was named, ships from Labdah crossed the seas to reach Adalmearc. At a time when only birds settled where Surru stood today, the alchemists of the Emerald Tower had long perfected their knowledge for creating elixirs and potions to cure or cause any ailment.
Even if Labdah had been surpassed by its rivals in terms of trade, the harbour remained the heart of the city. The rest of its districts lay spread out like a semi-circle surrounding the docks. This included the bustling marketplaces with a thriving slave trade. Nearly daily, ships arrived to disgorge the unfortunate souls from their holds. From the docks, they were trotted in chains along one of the great avenues that cut through the various districts until they reached the vendors at the marketplace. Here, guards herded them together in pens to be inspected by prospective buyers.
Sitting in chains with his fellow sufferers, Garrick stared emptily ahead of him. He was surrounded by words he did not understand in a foreign city. On occasion, the other slaves he was shackled with stood up to be examined, and he simply followed their movements, standing up and sitting down as they did. Men and women, usually in expensive clothing, would move down the rows while letting their eyes run over the goods for sale. They would feel the muscles, tap the teeth with their fingernails, stare them in the eyes, and abruptly move on to the next one. Now and then, heavy purses of silver would be exchanged while shackles were unlocked, letting someone leave the row.
“Hanno!” exclaimed one of the slave traders with a broad smile; the Suthspeech from his tongue came harsher and slower than it was spoken in Alcázar. “I have saved the finest for you.”
“I never heard you use that line before,” his customer muttered as his eyes swept over the slaves for sale. “You can spare me the honeyed words. I’m not looking for a champion today, just some meat to fill the ranks.”
“For the games, yes, yes, but you don’t want to serve the audience a carcass, do you?” The slave trader beamed a smile. “Look at this!” He gestured towards one of his items for sale. “Captured near Surru aboard a pirate vessel. He’s sure to be a fighting man!”
Hanno shook his head. “No honour among pirates. He can’t be trained.”
“This one, a mamluk from Alcázar. He’s worth three times as much as I’ll ask of you.”
Hanno gave the slave soldier a scrutinising look. “How much?”
“Two hundred, good master, and that’s a bargain.”
“I’ll give you one hundred and fifty.”
“Hanno,” the trader protested. “I paid that much myself! One hundred and eighty.”
“One hundred and sixty, you dog, and it’ll be twice as much as you paid, I’m sure.”
“You are merciless, but I accept.”
“Any other decent prospects?” asked Hanno, eyeing the remaining slaves.
“I have a man who was in the royal bodyguard in Gadir. Or perhaps someone younger? A child that you can mould as you see fit.”
“What about him?” Hanno gestured towards Garrick. “What’s his profession?”
“You have an excellent eye,” the trader declared. “He doesn’t speak the civilised tongue, but he is one of the fearsome knights from the far north, trained from birth to be a warrior!”
Hanno took in the sight of the various scars that adorned Garrick’s body. “You,” he spoke in the Mearcian tongue, “what’s your name?”
The northerner blinked. “I’m Garrick.”
“Are you a warrior?” asked Hanno while the slave trader looked on anxiously.
“I am. Seven years in the Order, and more than that as a temple guard for the blackrobes. In fact, if you send word to them in Alcázar –”
Hanno turned towards the merchant. “He’s no more a knight than my grandmother. I’ll give you a hundred silver for him, despite your lies. If you try to haggle, it’ll be eighty.”
The trader licked his lips. “He is yours for a hundred, good master.” He nodded to his helpers, who began unshackling Garrick from the other slaves. Shortly after, he and the other purchases were pushed along to follow their new master.
~~~~
Life at the harbour of Labdah paused briefly when a galley, grander than most, made berth by the docks. It was built for speed, not cargo; it had two rows of oars and lay high in the water rather than being burdened down. It also possessed a mast to catch the wind when beneficial, and above the sail unfurled the falcon banner of Alcázar. Everyone watched as a princely procession left the ship, led by two men; a hefty number of blue-clad soldiers followed them. They were greeted on the pier itself by a delegation from Labdah, offering them a welcome and horses. The young noblemen returned the greetings and mounted the horses, beginning their entry into the city itself; around them, the dockworkers and slaves resumed their tasks.
“Father thinks this town is worth an alliance?” remarked one of the lords leading the column with poorly concealed contempt.
“Father thinks their ships are worth an alliance,” the other corrected him. “So should you, Jalil.”
“I understand the situation perfectly,” Jalil retorted. “But Surru would have been an infinitely better choice for an ally. Even Gadir could offer more than Labdah.”
“It is not as if we have free choice,” his brother argued. “Labdah has what we need, and they are more amenable to our influence.”
“I am surprised. It has not been more than some five years since our fleet thrashed them on the waves. You would think the Elder Council would have more pride than to enter dealings with Alcázar,” Jalil considered.
“Undoubtedly, many of its members do. Fortunately, we only need one.”
Riding down the street, the Emerald Tower rose to their left. It lay at the centre of the city, visible from nearly anywhere thanks to its location and height. In the sun, its green stonework shone clearly. “You think the snails will let us inside their precious tower?” asked Jalil.
“I doubt it, and do not refer to the men of Labdah in that manner,” his brother reproached him. “We are their guests and must conduct ourselves accordingly.”
“Calm down, Saif,” came the casual response. “I know what to do. And Father told me he expected me to see this through. You should have as much faith in me as he does.”
Saif gave a hearty laughter. “Did he now?”
“What is so amusing?” asked Jalil with a scowl.
“Father told me to make sure you would not ruin our plans,” Saif grinned.
“As if I would believe that,” sneered his brother.
“Why not? It sounds exactly like him, pitting us against each other.”
They passed a row of shackled slaves, barely affording them a glance as they trotted down the street on the way to their destination. The princes of Alcázar were the guests of one of the twelve members of the Elder Council, and his palace would be their home during their stay.
As the procession reached the estate, the host himself stood upon the steps to bid them welcome. “My lords, I greet you most cordially.”
“And fair greetings to you, Lord Hiram,” Safi replied as he dismounted.
“Yes, well met,” Jalil hurried to say.
Their host was dressed almost entirely in green. While his words were warm, his voice was cold; his mouth smiled, but his eyes did not. “Please, enter and seek shade. We shall take bread and salt, and there will be drinks cooled with ice from the mountains.”
“Most gracious,” Safi spoke.
“Indeed,” Jalil added.
“We have much to discuss before the Evenday, but there shall be time for that, of course,” Hiram continued as he led his guests inside the reception hall of his palace; the attendants accompanying the princes, all of them armed, dispersed to the chambers prepared for them.
“Have our sisters been told of our arrival?” asked Saif.
“They have. They will join us for the meal,” Hiram promised. “But you have had a long journey. Please, chambers and baths are available. Once you are refreshed, we shall eat.”
~~~~
On bare feet and in chains, Garrick marched across the city to enter the estate of a merchant. Its size was modest, suggesting an owner enjoying prosperity within limits. It had several curious features to set it apart from the dwelling of a typical merchant, such as being placed far from the docks, where most other traders had their homes and warehouses. The walls surrounding this place were higher and the gate better guarded; there was an open stretch of land on the inside of the walls, suggesting their purpose was as much to keep people in as to keep them out.
Reaching the open courtyard, orders were barked to make the newly arrived slaves stand still. Their chains were removed, and Hanno, their owner, addressed them. Garrick, unable to understand a single word, glanced around instead. Wooden men meant for practising weaponry stood near one of the walls with weapon racks close by. Other instruments for training could be found as well. A guard stepped forward to hit Garrick in the back of the head, presumably for being inattentive; growling, the northerner returned his eyes to Hanno.
One of the newly acquired slaves made some remark. Upon a simple gesture made by Hanno, two guards seized him. With an expedience born of routine, they strapped him to the wall and tore the clothes from his back, leaving it exposed. One of them grabbed a whip with obvious, cruel delight, and upon a nod from Hanno began administering lashes.
While the slave cried out in pain, Hanno turned to address his new purchases again. After ten lashes, the punishment stopped, and the guards untied the wounded man to bring him inside.
The other slaves broke away from the line, moving towards a large trough of water. Before Garrick could follow suit, he was intercepted by Hanno. “How much do you understand of our language?” he asked the northerner.
“Nothing,” Garrick admitted.
“Ajama,” Hanno uttered with annoyance.
“My name is Garrick.”
Hanno gave him a lazy slap across the cheek. “Your name is what I say it is. In fact, being ajama, that is a fitting name for you. It will save me explaining your situation over and over.” He looked at Garrick touching the reddened skin on his cheek. “You are not the first defiant slave to walk into this house, and you will not be the last. Do not entertain any foolish notions of escape or disobedience, and you will do well. Now go and wash yourself with the others.” Hanno gestured towards where the other slaves were crowded around the trough and turned on his heel, walking inside.
~~~~
Like most palaces in Labdah, Hiram’s estate was built like a hollow square. In this way, the central courtyard with its gardens was shielded from the dust and noise of the city, and large sails could be raised across the open space to provide temporary shade. Where the shadows fell, a table rose with offerings from across the Mydlonde Sea and beyond. Fruits of any kind, meats from many birds, and cooled wine stood prepared for the guests of Lord Hiram.
At the end of the table, the master of the palace awaited the arrival of his guests. The princes of Alcázar greeted him as they entered the courtyard, wearing exquisite attire and sweet fragrances after the baths. “Please, my lords,” Hiram said in invitation, gesturing for the seats on either side of him. Jalil moved to stand at the right side while Saif took the left, leaving two seats remaining.
Three more people arrived. Two were young women of obvious standing; the third was a mamluk, following them with one hand upon the hilt of his sword.
“Lady Dalia, Lady Jana,” Hiram greeted them. “Please, be seated.”
“Sisters,” Saif spoke with a smile. “Salim,” he added in a nod to their guardian, who responded mutely in the same manner.
“Saif, dearest,” one of the women said to him, kissing his cheek and taking the seat by his side.
“It is good to see you,” said the other, sitting down next to Jalil. Once the women had taken their seats, the men sat down as well, and attendants began serving the meal.
“This is my taster,” Hiram told the princes while gesturing to a well-dressed slave standing behind him. “He has been trained at the Emerald Tower, naturally, and he guarantees the safety of everything upon this table, whether it is the wine, the fowl, or even the smallest grape.” The taster inclined his head in response. “Please, eat,” Hiram bade them. They all took a few pinches of salt, scattered it on a piece of bread, and ate it at the same time.
With the ritual observed, general conversation ensued. “You both look well,” remarked Saif, looking at his sisters. “I see our host has taken excellent care of you.”
“We have lacked for nothing,” declared Jana, sitting opposite.
“Except for company,” complained Dalia. She had an obvious beauty that left none unaffected; it was only marred by the childish tone in her voice. “We are so close to Alcázar, yet you are the first visitors we have had from home in years!”
“We have been very well, both of us,” Jana said sharply with a look at her sister.
“When may we meet the Elder Council?” asked Jalil of Hiram, ignoring the other conversation.
“Soon, my lord. In a few days’ time. Before the Evenday and all its – activities.” Hiram cleared his throat.
“Our father expects the matter resolved by Evenday at the latest,” Jalil stressed.
“I will argue in favour of a reply being given by then,” Hiram promised, “but surely if we must delay a day or two, it will not cause any problems.”
“A day lost here and there may unsettle other plans, causing even further delay,” Jalil claimed, pulling the meat of a bird apart on his plate. “The exalted Kabir has certain expectations for Labdah that must be met.”
“I can assure both you and your father, my lord, that I shall not fail to deliver on my end,” Hiram replied pointedly, turning his attention to the remainder of his guests.
~~~~
After a coarse scrubbing and receiving a worn tunic made of linen, the new slaves at Hanno’s compound were treated to a meal. They were not alone; at least a score of others marched out of the main buildings to line up. They each received a plate of vegetables and a bowl of lentil porridge; for those first in line, there was also a ration of freshly baked bread. The hierarchy was clear, even to an outsider; the new slaves waited until last, and they had to settle for just the smell of the wheat bread pervading the area.
There was not enough room either on the benches for all of the slaves; some, like Garrick, resorted to eating standing up, while a few of the newcomers tried to grab a seat. This caused shoves and angry words to be exchanged. When it was on the verge of escalating, several guards stepped in and dealt out blows on arms and legs with the staves they wielded. It quelled the fighting, forcing the newly arrived slaves to give up any hope of sitting down, and the meal continued.
Afterwards, the slaves filed out to take positions by the training equipment scattered around the courtyard. Some laughed and jested, others seemed dour in disposition. Garrick wavered, moving towards the others before halting himself, standing indecisively under the roof where the meal had been taken. “Ajama!” Hanno called out. It took a moment for Garrick to react. “That’s him,” Hanno remarked to his companion and disappeared.
The man left behind sized Garrick up. They were about the same in height and build; both of them stood out from the rest of the slaves by virtue of their skin; one was paler, the other was darker. “You’re the northerner,” remarked the latter in Mearcspeech. “I hardly needed Master Hanno to point you out.”
“You know how to speak my tongue,” Garrick stated with surprise.
“We are not all witless snails from Labdah here,” came the reply loaded with disdain. “I am from Alcázar, and my name is Majid.”
“I’m Garrick.”
“You’re Ajama,” corrected Majid. “A foreigner, one who does not understand. You will carry that name until Master Hanno feels you have proven otherwise, which I suspect will be never.”
“I’ll prove you wrong.”
“You’ll get the chance now. Tell me, Ajama, do you know the reason you have been brought here?”
Garrick looked around at the other men training weaponry. “To practise fighting, obviously.”
“To practise fighting on the sands,” Majid stressed. “Master Hanno trains warriors of the sand. You are to fight in the arena in the games held at Evenday.”
“That’s soon!”
“It is. Master Hanno does not expect much of you, either. See, in Labdah, the rules for fighting on the sands are complex. We are not savages like in the pits of Gadir,” Majid explained with disdain. “There are many different games, and the most prestigious of them all demands that warriors fight in pairs. One of these warriors must be unproven and unknown to the sands. You see your part.”
“You and I are to pair up, I take it.”
Majid nodded. “In this particular tournament, I will be the champion representing Master Hanno and his patron, Lord Hiram. Your task is to avoid dying or getting in my way while I bring us victory.”
“I can’t wait to risk my life with you by my side,” Garrick snorted.
“You think you are the first man with fighting experience to think himself ready for the sands?” Majid’s disdain was obvious on his face. “Nothing compares. Do not presume to think you’ll be prepared.”
Garrick looked at guards scattered around the courtyard, ready to reward any gestures of disobedience with the lash. “Keep underestimating me.”
Majid grinned. “Did I mention that we will be fighting chained together?”
“What in Hel’s name for?”
“One of many things you will learn. Let me begin with this lesson.” The tall southerner leaned forward to stare down at Garrick’s face. “I am not your friend. I am not responsible for you. On the sands, we fight together, but in this place, you stand alone. If you cannot do this, you will be pushed down, never to stand again. Learn this quickly.”
“Himil, you’re a friendly sort,” Garrick muttered. Majid only responded with a contemptuous smile.
A man with harsh features and what seemed an ill temper shouted at them in Suthspeech; from his lean body, he looked like a warrior of the sands, but his clothing marked him as above them in status. Majid responded quickly, bowing his head, and turned to look at Garrick again. “Our weapons master. Enough talk! We are to begin practising. Come, Ajama! It is time you prove me right.” He beckoned towards the training equipment and walked onto the courtyard. They spent the rest of the afternoon practising.
|
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Allies
Southern Theodstan
Theodoric departed a few days after Konstans had done so. As the dragonlord had predicted, time was suddenly pressing the jarl; the Adalthing was about three weeks away, and Theodoric had a vote to win that would require nearly all the southern landgraves swayed to his side. It was time for favours to be returned or granted, promises made or kept, and vows exchanged or renewed.
Brand and his men stayed behind. While the landfrid offered protection for any member of the Adalthing for two weeks before solstice, he was not going to arrive early, tempting fate or repeating his previous experience when travelling to the assembly. With Theodoric’s permission, Brand was delaying his departure as long as possible.
Because of this, the young captain was still at Cragstan when Geberic entered his room after knocking. “This is going to sound strange no matter what,” the greybeard admitted, scratching his neck.
“What is it?”
“That spy from Hæthiod is here to see you.”
“Who?”
“Godfrey, he calls himself. Given his nature, probably one out of many names.” Geberic scowled at the mention of such villainous behaviour.
Various expressions flowed across Brand’s face. “Send him in.”
Godfrey entered immediately before Geberic could even fetch him. “Well met,” he smiled. Geberic’s scowl only deepened.
“Leave us,” Brand commanded.
“Milord,” came the objection.
“Leave us.”
With a final grumble and growl against Godfrey, Geberic departed. The wanderer stepped further inside to sit down on the bed. “Things are quite a mess, I hear.”
Brand sank into a chair. “I am not sure if you know the full story, but matters can only be worse than you imagine.”
“I believe I know everything. Septimus told me of your escape from Middanhal, and – other sources have informed me of your deal with Lord Konstans.”
Brand sent him a disbelieving look. “How could you possibly know? And so soon?”
Godfrey gave an overbearing smile. “If you think a conversation between the dragonlord and a jarl can be kept secret, you have much to learn.”
“I do,” Brand admitted. “Part of me wants to burst into the Adalthing and demand each of those snivelling cowards to beg my forgiveness, or I will do my utmost to see them all hang. Unfortunately,” he continued, “I must instead remain silent while Jarl Theodoric speaks on my behalf, begging them to forgive me for crimes I never committed.”
“At least you have learned to listen to the second of those two voices,” Godfrey encouraged him.
“Not an easy feat.” Brand gave him a closer look. “I have a memory vague in my mind, as if it happened in earliest childhood and not a few months ago. Tell me, I ask you ardently, what did I see below the Temple?”
Godfrey gazed back tight-lipped. “Matters we should not speak of.”
“I dream of a tree,” Brand explained. “When I wake up, there is a moment where I think I see it. Ash tree, with branches that move though no wind sways them.”
Godfrey let out a long sigh. “Septimus was wrong to inflict this upon you. Suffice to say, the Temple harbours a secret. It is my task above all to safeguard it. Whether you want to or not, you have been recruited for the same purpose.” He motioned towards the sword of sea-steel that still hung by Brand’s side. “That was not lent to you lightly.”
Brand glanced downwards surprised, as if only noticing the weapon now. “I will be honest. I have not had occasion to use it once.”
“Perhaps that makes you worthy of it after all,” Godfrey considered. “When I heard that Septimus had both shown you the antechamber and lent you that blade, I am not sure what made me angrier.”
Brand stared at him intently. “I thought at first that you served the Highfather. Now I suspect it is reverse.”
“There is hope for you yet,” Godfrey remarked dryly. He took a deep breath. “I came here for a specific reason. The siege of Lakon has been lifted.”
“How so?” asked Brand sharply.
“A relief force of outlanders arrived from the Reach. Sir William withdrew the Order forces along with the dalemen.”
“They did not lose a battle?”
“No.”
Brand let out a small sigh of relief. “At least the army is intact.”
“I have to return to the Reach,” Godfrey told him. “Matters are complicated beyond explanation, but I believe we have a chance to strike against the outlanders and their Godking.”
“Why do you tell me this?”
“You are smart enough to know.”
Brand glanced at the empty wall. “You want me to return to Hæthiod. To fight the outlanders.”
“There are plenty of men in this world who can swing a sword. I need you to command the fight.”
“Am I to risk my life for men who would see the executioner’s axe on my neck?”
“Yes,” Godfrey told him sternly. “No different than every soldier in that army, risking his life to protect all the peoples of the Realms. When he lies dying on the battlefield, do you think his name is known by any of them?” His voice grew fierce. “Do you think he will be remembered? What makes you so special compared to every man that serves under you?”
Brand sat silent. “Every answer I come up with seems like folly,” he finally admitted.
Godfrey exhaled deeply. “I cannot force you. In the end, the choice is yours. But you were born for this, Adalbrand.” He stared directly at the young captain. “I believe this whole-heartedly.”
His companion returned the gaze. “Call me Brand.” He gave a weak smile. “I have grown so used to it, being called Adalbrand makes my hair bristle.”
Godfrey smiled back. “Very well.” He paused for a moment. “The choice is yours. Unless you object, I will travel with you back to Middanhal. While I need to hasten south soon, I will stay in the city until the Adalthing has convened.”
“Of course,” Brand nodded. “We leave in a few days, once the landfrid has begun.”
~~~~
As decided, some fifty people departed Cragstan barely two weeks before solstice and the gathering of the Adalthing; with a leisurely pace, they would arrive shortly before the assembly. For the most part, the company suffered from a subdued mood; the exception to this were the whiterobes, whose cheer seemed indestructible.
“One thing that bothers me,” one priest mentioned, “is the colour of our robes. It is the least practical colour for doing anything, especially fighting!”
“True point,” someone else conceded. “I spent half a day after the battle trying to get rid of these blood stains. Those Isarn boys may not fight well, but damn me to Hel if they don’t bleed well!” Raucous laughter followed.
“Maybe Hamaring prefers it this way,” Caradoc mused. “A priest whose robe is always clean is a priest who never does an honest day’s work,” he put forth.
“What you’re saying is that the best sacrifice you can give Hamaring are the stains on your robe,” another brother argued.
“There is some truth in that,” Caradoc acknowledged.
“That must be why they call you Caradoc Dirtsark behind your back,” came the witty retort.
“Listen to this court jester!” Caradoc growled. “The stitches on his bear are barely done,” he murmured, referring to the emblem upon the whiterobe’s chest, “and already this cub is challenging his elders!”
“If we don’t put our strength to the test, do we truly possess it?” came the ponderous retort.
“True,” Caradoc conceded. “Tonight, I’ll test my hammer against your face.” His words were met with good-natured laughter.
~~~~
The company moved on foot; while Theodoric had offered to lend Brand some horses, the latter had declined, resolving that he would walk same as his warriors. For the most part, his thanes formed a circle around Brand, walking at the head of the column; as they drew close to Middanhal, Brand dismissed them from his presence and bade Godfrey join him instead.
“What is on your mind?” asked Godfrey as he caught up to Brand.
Brand stared at the white walls and towers in the far distance. “If I am to commit myself to the campaign in Hæthiod, I want to understand why. This sword by my side, for instance.” He touched the hilt hanging by his waist. “You know its origin. You know what it was meant to protect. I would not be surprised if you even knew who placed it there, ages ago.”
“You may be right about all those things. Or maybe I am just a traveller, grown a bit touched from solitude,” Godfrey suggested with half a smile.
Brand gestured towards Middanhal ahead. “What lies underneath the Temple? What are we all risking our lives to defend?”
Godfrey took a deep breath. “I cannot say, for I have not the words. How would you explain moonlight to a blind man?”
“Is that what we all are? Blind men, stumbling around in the dark?”
Godfrey laughed briefly. “That is often how I feel.” He grew serious once more. “There is a Song being sung, Brand, and if it were to stop, the consequences would be disastrous. That is the best way I can describe it.”
Brand waited a while before answering. “Very well. I will let that satisfy me. There is something else,” he continued. “You strike me as a man capable of keeping a secret.”
“That is a fair assessment,” Godfrey admitted with a wry expression.
“I cannot tell any of my men. Or Gwen,” Brand added with a faint smile. “I would simply be putting the burden on them, not to mention undermine their confidence in me.”
“What troubles you?”
Brand exhaled deeply. “I have made so many mistakes. I fled this city earlier this year, and now I am marching back because I have run out of options.”
“I have known other people in worse straits than you, my friend.”
“But this is my own doing,” Brand continued. “The king of Heohlond warned me, and I was too arrogant to listen.”
“You met with King Brión?”
“I did. Do you know him as well?”
“Only by name. He is a clever man, I am told,” Godfrey related.
“He is,” Brand admitted. “He knew I was blinded by pride. I paid him no heed when I should have tried to make him my ally, and in return, he took my army from me with but a word.”
“I heard.”
“I did the same with Jarl Isarn,” Brand confessed. “When I guessed he came to attack our camp, my only thought was how to punish him for it. I drove him into retreat. If I had made it plain I knew of his intent, he would not have attacked. We would have come to terms rather than fighting.”
“Or perhaps not. Jarl Isenhart is a tempestuous man, Brand.”
“As if this was not bad enough, I all but forced Jarl Theodoric to abandon my cause as well, having lost all other allies.” Brand gave a prolonged sigh. “My fate rests in the hands of others, because my own have let everything slip.”
“You have made one clever move,” his companion pointed out.
“Which is?”
“You have made an ally of me.” Godfrey let his smile linger as they continued on their march.
|
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|
Two Reasons
Clan Cameron
The day after leaving Ardbeann, the group of whiterobes reached the small army following Brand. Spread out across the rocky terrain, it was a mixed affair. Tents of undyed colour were scattered through the area, pitched in clusters without pattern or thought. Here and there, banners proclaimed the identity of a minor house from one of the clans, though none of the emblems belonged to any of the ruling houses. Despite the disorganised appearance, the priests were hailed by guards as they approached the camp.
“Who’s there?”
“Hammer and quill! A bunch of norns, can’t you see?” one of the brothers shouted, making the others laugh.
“It’s me, Caradoc Whitesark,” muttered the eponymous priest. “I’ve brought those of my brothers back who’s ready to fight. Where’s the captain?”
“How should I know?” The guard gave a shrug.
“Lads, this man lacks proper respect for Hamaring and his followers,” Caradoc declared with a threatening voice. He advanced upon the guard, hefting his hammer; behind him, his brethren raised their weapons menacingly.
“Sorry,” the soldier stammered, “I don’t know where the captain is. Probably in the middle of the camp.”
Caradoc broke into laughter. “I figured as much, boy. Just keeping you on your toes. It’s the duty of any good priest.” Still grinning, the whiterobes moved past the guard to enter the camp and announce their arrival.
~~~~
“Thank you, Brother Caradoc,” Brand told the priest after hearing his report. “The men will be bolstered seeing you and your peers in our ranks.”
“Glad to help,” the whiterobe replied brusquely. They were standing inside Brand’s tent, generously gifted by one of the minor lords who had joined his cause. “Where’s your shadow? That Theodstan fellow. We’ll be in his home soon.”
“Geberic is in Cairn Donn,” Brand explained. “That is why we stopped early today. We are buying what supplies we can before the next stretch of the journey.”
“Until we reach Theodstan,” Caradoc nodded. “How will the good jarl react upon seeing hundreds of highlanders descend upon his jarldom?”
“We will find out soon enough,” the young captain smiled.
“My lord,” Glaukos spoke as he entered; he and another kingthane had been standing guard outside.
“What is it?”
“Geberic is back, and he is not alone,” the heathman explained quietly. “From the looks of it, he is accompanied by someone of high rank.”
Brand walked to the opening of the tent and glanced outside. First, his eyes caught the banner of Clan Cameron progressing through the camp; looking down, he saw twenty heavily armed warriors surrounding an old man in rich furs. The whole procession was led by Geberic. While still some thirty paces away, Geberic gestured for the others to wait and approached Brand alone. “Milord,” he spoke with a subdued demeanour.
“Who is this?” Brand nodded towards the old man.
“That, milord, is the rí ruirech himself,” Geberic explained, causing every man to react with surprise.
“That is King Brión?” Brand asked incredulously.
“None other. His men approached us in the city and said the king demanded a meeting with you. They followed us back here,” the man-at-arms elaborated.
“We better give the king what he desires. Let him come,” Brand commanded, retreating into the tent.
Moments later, the tent was more than crowded. In the back stood Brand, flanked by Glaukos, Geberic, one of his kingthanes, and Caradoc. Opposite stood Brión, king of Heohlond, and as many of his sworn men as could fit inside. Appearing to be in his seventies, the monarch stood straight and did not seem burdened by his years. “Perhaps,” the king began to say in a hoarse voice, “we might speak privately, Lord Adalbrand.”
“My king,” one of his men exclaimed in disapproval.
Brión raised a hand dismissively. “I doubt the noble Lord Adalbrand will cut me down during a civil meeting. If his men can trust that I will not knife their captain during our informal conversation,” he continued with a sardonic smile, “I think we can extend the same courtesy.”
“Of course,” Brand agreed. “Your gallóglaigh may rest easy. No harm will come to you by my hand or any of my men.”
“You heard him,” the king added. “Leave us. All of you.” His protectors exchanged glances but finally did as commanded; Brand’s men did the same, leaving the two groups to stand outside, staring menacingly at each other.
“I regret I cannot offer you a seat, my lord king,” Brand spoke politely. “We have only the barest of necessities in my small band of followers.”
“Your army, you mean,” Brión corrected him. “Your army consisting of my subjects.” He gave Brand a scrutinising glance, having to raise his eyes to look the captain in the face. “Are you surprised by my visit, Lord Adalbrand?”
“I had expected some form of reaction once we entered the lands of your túath,” Brand confessed, “but I did not imagine my lord king would appear personally.”
The monarch gave a joyless smile. “You know our words. No wonder you have fooled these people into following you.”
“Each man in this camp has come because he believes it is the right thing. Same goes for the women,” Brand added, and a genuine smile flickered across his face.
“Regardless,” Brión continued, “I came to give you a warning. I will not accept my people going to war against Adalrik.”
“They are not,” Brand argued. “My enemy is the jarl of Vale and his ilk.”
“He is the lord protector,” the king spoke pointedly. “He is Adalrik. He has levies, the Order, and mercenaries on his side. While you have a ragged band of malcontents. I would not care if all of them die on some gods-forsaken field in the low lands, except for how it reflects upon me.”
“How would it reflect upon you, my lord king?” Brand asked courteously.
“As if I have no control over my own kingdom. As if the tuatha do as they please. As if when the oireacht assemble, another táinaiste than my son should be chosen.” Confusion touched Brand’s face briefly, and Brión gave another mirthless smile. “I see you have not learned all our words yet. Perhaps you should stay longer in the high lands than a few weeks.”
“If that is why you came, consider your warning delivered,” Brand told him.
“You will not heed my words,” the old man contemplated. “You will continue ahead, ignoring all the ill omens until you are utterly defeated.”
Brand could not help but laugh. “Forgive me, my lord king, I mean no offence. But I have never known defeat on the battlefield, and I do not intend for that to change.”
The king gazed at him intensely. “I have heard the tales. In part, that is why I came myself rather than send an envoy. I wanted to measure the man who brought the famous Athelstan of Isarn so low. No doubt these men praise you for that,” Brión scoffed. “Many of them would have lost someone when Athelstan won the battle of Cairn Donn.”
“It counts in my favour to some,” Brand admitted.
Brión nodded. “I have taken my measurements, and I shall rest easy tonight. I have no doubt you are most capable at winning battles, Lord Adalbrand.” The title was spoken with little reverence. “But you have no knowledge of winning wars and the peace that must ensue. You gather peasants to your cause, spiting the lords whose fields will not be worked when summer comes. Nor will the lords of Adalrik look kindly upon the man leading an army of invaders to ravage their lands and renew an already costly civil war. Making friends of farmers and enemies of noblemen is a poor strategy for any ruler.”
“If you will allow me a question, my lord king. Have you read Master Anselm and his treatise concerning governance?” asked Brand.
“I have little need for books to teach me this subject,” the king spoke with disdain. “I have ruled as king longer than you have been alive, boy.”
“Allow me nonetheless to share his wisdom,” the captain requested. “Afterwards, my lord king can tell me if the old master’s words ring true.”
“Get on with it, then.”
“Master Anselm explains that if an enemy is within your power, there are only two reasons for letting him live,” Brand stated. “The first is if he cannot possibly be of any threat to you, and you wish to appear magnanimous.”
“The second?”
“The second reason for letting him live is if killing him would only create more enemies.”
“I see your point, but I imagine you will explain it to me nonetheless,” the king remarked with a sigh.
Brand gave a sardonic smile of his own. “If you had the power to stop me, you would have done so by now. You realise the danger in opposing me, the son of Arngrim and the victor against Athelstan, which are only two out of many reasons why your people support me. Thus, you have come in a feeble attempt to discourage me from any course of action that would upset your tenuous relationship with Adalrik, because discouragement is your only weapon against me.”
Brión took a deep breath. “You have a king in your tent, boy, and rather than attempt making an ally, you let your arrogance rule your behaviour. You best return to your books, for you have much to learn. I bid you farewell, Lord Adalbrand. We shall not meet again.” The king turned to walk out of the tent.
“Not unless it is on the steps of the Temple in Middanhal,” Brand spoke quickly.
Brión stopped abruptly and glanced over his shoulder, laughing hoarsely. “If that is the case, I will bend my knee gladly. But my instinct tells me that if I ever see you in Middanhal,” he continued with a contemptuous smile, “it will be because your head gazes down upon me, mounted on a spike above the gate.” The king left, and his men joined ranks to escort him out of the camp.
Brand’s own men filtered into the tent. “What did he want?” asked Alaric, who had arrived late and been pacing outside anxiously, hearing his lord was unguarded.
“Just empty words. Did we get supplies in Cairn Donn?” Brand asked.
“Aye, enough to last us a week, perhaps. Longer, depending on what we might gather,” Geberic informed him.
“Good. We can take our time marching out of Heohlond. There is still a chance for more of the brave highlanders to catch up and join our ranks,” Brand considered.
“Aye,” Geberic grinned. “Never thought I’d march alongside a band of stone-lickers, but damn me if it doesn’t feel good to see more of them arriving each day.”
“Get used to it. We have only just begun,” his captain declared smiling.
~~~~
The next day, Brand’s army set into motion once more, continuing their march west. The land they passed through could hardly be called fertile, and for the most part, they encountered only brown grass and the occasional goat, the only beast that could subsist on such feed. As they progressed, this began to change. Flowers appeared, scattered across the hills. This was not merely because the highlander army was reaching Theodstan and gentler soil; it was a sign that spring had arrived in full force, finally. Soon, crops would grow on the fields, the animals would give birth to offspring, and food would be abundant. The season of summer, and with it the season of war, was fast approaching.
|
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|
A Bloody Mark
The Alfskog
Two youths, not too old to be called children, travelled across northern Adalrik. The food they had brought with them from camp had been devoured after a few days. Instead, they foraged for berries and wild fruit, mushrooms and even roots on occasion when hunger was worst.
“Egil, we’re far from camp now, and we haven’t seen any soldiers,” Kate said, walking alongside him. “Don’t you think we should go east? And then we can turn south.”
“Not yet.” They were between three and four weeks north of Middanhal. Ahead of them for many miles lay only pastures for sheep, oxen, and horses until grass eventually gave way to wood. “We need to go further.”
“Are you sure we’re not just walking in circles?”
Egil made a gesture with his head upwards. “The sun is to our left. It’s late afternoon. That means north is straight ahead.”
Kate drank from the container they had managed to bring along from camp. “We’ll need more water soon.”
“There’s bound to be a stream somewhere,” Egil considered. “If it runs in the right direction, we can just follow it, and we’ll have enough water.”
“Until we have to turn east. Right?”
“Right.”
~~~~
The next day, fortune smiled upon them. It was Kate who was alerted to the sound of a brook; they followed her ear and came upon a stream of water, allowing them to drink their fill.
“There we are,” Egil remarked. “There’s probably things to eat that grow around here too.”
“We’ll keep our eyes open,” Kate nodded. “I’d give a year’s pay for an hour inside the orchard in the Citadel,” she added with a whining tone. “Apples, pears, plums –”
“Stop! You’re making me hungry,” Egil grumbled.
“You better keep your eyes open, then,” she teased. “Make sure you find enough for two!” He did not reply but started walking instead, following the stream. “Egil?” Kate said as she caught up to him. “Is something wrong?”
“We’re running for our lives,” he pointed out.
“We were,” she corrected him. “Nobody’s chasing us. Nobody’s got cause to. I think we’re safe.”
“Still, let’s be alert.”
“Of course. You just seem in a troubled mood.”
“I’ll be fine once we get further away from camp.” He increased his pace, and they continued in silence.
~~~~
“Egil, we should turn back.” Kate had repeated this point throughout the day, receiving varying responses. It was more than a week after they had fled the camp.
“We’ve come all this way. We might as well continue,” Egil mumbled, sounding weary.
“Where to? I’ve seen the maps, there is nothing this far north!” Kate stopped and stared at him. “There’s nothing here!” They stood in lands near barren except for brown-coloured grass.
“There is the forest,” he pointed out, nodding ahead. In the far distance could be seen the rising trees of the Alfskog.
“So?”
“So I am going there,” Egil told her and began walking again.
“Are you mad?” Kate ran up to stand in front of him. “You can’t enter the forest!”
“Well, that’s what I intend to.” He moved around her.
“But you’ll die! Nobody enters the northern woods and returns,” Kate nearly yelled, catching up to walk by his side.
“I’ve done it before,” Egil declared.
“You never told me that.”
“I was asked not to tell anyone.”
“I’m not anyone,” she told him with a sour voice.
“Well, I am going there.”
“Egil, that’s stupid. We should turn around and go back to Middanhal. Find a way to help Master Quill.”
“Kate!” He stopped to look at her. “I can’t explain because I don’t know how. I wouldn’t understand if someone tried to tell me. So you’ll just have to trust me. You can wait by the treeline, and I’ll come back for you.”
“No, that’s not the way we play.” Kate raised a finger to put him in his place. “You keep trying to leave me behind. If you’re going inside to die, so am I.”
“With that attitude, what could go wrong,” Egil mumbled, but he began walking again as did she.
~~~~
It was nightfall when they reached the edge of the forest. With the sun setting, the wood was pitch black, and nothing could be spied past the first trees. “So?” Kate asked. “What now?”
“We enter the forest,” Egil told her. Taking a deep breath, Kate began to walk forward. “Wait!” he called out. “We’re not ready yet.” He took out the small knife in his belt.
“What do you mean?”
“We need protection,” he told her, rolling up his sleeve.
“From who?”
“From whom.” He squinted in the darkness, looking at his arm.
“Shut up and tell me.”
“That contradicts itself.” He touched his skin with the tip of his knife gently.
“Just tell me what you’re doing!”
“The forest has protectors. I need to make sure they won’t attack us.” He inhaled, exhaled, and cut into his own skin.
“Egil!”
“It’s fine,” he gasped. “I know what I am doing.” He traced a strange pattern with the knife, frowning in concentration. “There. Done.”
“What does this mean?”
“Apparently it means I’m not to be killed.” Egil cleaned his knife, sheathed it, and wiped the blood from his arm with his hand. “Blood is disgusting,” he remarked. “I’m glad I’m not a warrior.” He made sure the sleeve would not come loose and fall down to conceal the bloody rune.
“How does this work?”
“You’ll see. Let’s go,” he told her, and together, they entered the Alfskog.
They had to walk slowly; there were no paths for walking other than what the animals might have trodden by chance. Roots occasionally rose from the ground, causing them to trip, and they soon held on to each other tightly for support. Owls could be heard, performing the hunt; likewise their prey, such as swift little forest mice, could be noticed rustling through the undergrowth.
A squirrel passed by not far from them, giving them a curious gaze before hurrying onwards. As they approached a clearing with a small lake illuminated by moonlight, they spotted several deer drinking; as the pair came closer, the animals fled.
The boy and girl walked over to drink greedily from the water and fill their skins. Standing up and turning around, they saw an archer pointed a nocked arrow at them.
It took a moment for them to realise the threat; even in the moonlight, the Elf was in near complete concealment with the forest behind him. Had he not stepped forward into the clearing, they would never have seen him. His eyes, strange in colour and without pupils, stared at them intensely. The arrow on his bow looked sharp.
“Here!” it burst from Egil, who held his arm forward. “Elf-friend, I am an Elf-friend!” By his side, Kate stood paralysed from shock or fear. “Ælfwine,” he added, “do you understand me? Ælfwine, like the old tongue!”
The scout scowled and shouted something in his own speech. Another scout appeared as from thin air; she also had an arrow at the ready and pointed at the pair.
“Do you know Ælfwine? The word or the man?” Egil asked.
One of the Elves yelled at him, and the boy stopped. The woman lowered her bow, but her disposition did not grow gentler. She kicked Egil behind the kneecap, making him fall to his knees and keeping him immobile. Grabbing his wounded arm, she examined it briefly and exchanged further angry words with the other Elf.
With little consideration, she pulled him up to stand. The man gestured for them to move, adding a string of sounds like a thunderous waterfall. With dread in their eyes, Kate and Egil began to walk, followed closely by their captors.
~~~~
They walked through the night. The sun could be felt faintly through the foliage, but it did little to disperse the cold that lingered in the forest or the fear evident in Kate and Egil’s demeanour. Whenever they attempted to speak, the Elves silenced them, either with words or a smack of the bow staff on their heads. They soon learned to remain quiet and focus on the difficult march through the thick woods.
It was finally starting to feel warmer when the Elves halted the pair; one scout kept them under guard while the other disappeared. Words were still forbidden, as the children quickly learned when they tried to speak; there was nothing to do but wait. Eventually, the other scout returned with several other Elves. The others were clad in the same manner, carrying the same weapons, and a heated argument erupted between them. More than once, Egil’s arm was examined with little regard for his comfort. Each time he tried to interject or say a word, he was silenced with a slap.
Finally, the Elves seemed to reach a decision. Rope was collected from somewhere and used to bind Kate and Egil’s wrists; appearing thin, almost frail, the twine nonetheless held them tight. Kate pulled on her hands a few times to no avail, and a smack on top of her head taught her to stop.
With a push, the two captives were told to start moving. No less than four scouts accompanied them, leading them through the forest while keeping a sharp watch on both the children. They walked at a quick pace through the rough terrain; with their balance impaired from having their hands tied, the prisoners stumbled more than once. Every time, one of the Elves was close by to grab hold and keep them standing up, pushing them onwards. On occasion, the scouts allowed for a brief rest, giving Egil and Kate some water; they only received food at the end of the day. As they had not slept the previous night, both children fell asleep immediately once given the chance. When they woke next morning, food and water was provided once more; soon after, another day’s journey began. In this manner, they travelled for nearly a week through the Alfskog.
~~~~
Both the youths were exhausted after seven days of journeying through the forest. They received only enough provisions and rest to keep them on their feet; if the keen eyes and sharp arrows of the Elves were not enough to dissuade attempts of flight, the sheer exertion forced upon them banished any thoughts of escape.
Their pace only lessened when they reached some kind of larger clearing, where the landscape sloped upwards ahead of them. One scout kicked both the prisoners behind the knees to make them fall down. With further motions and words conveying the impression that they better not move, three scouts remained behind to watch while the last disappeared swiftly.
Time passed while they had their faces against the forest floor. The only sounds were the trickling of a stream in the distance, the wind rustling the leaves, and a bird chirping about its territory. Their watchers, standing behind them, could neither be seen nor heard.
At length, there was movement ahead. Both children raised their heads as best they could. The one scout was returning, accompanied by another. He was also an Elf, yet he seemed nothing like his brethren. It was not due to anything apparent, such as their individual heights, which were near even. Nor was it because of how they were clothed; their leather armour and his woven tunic of linen were both the attire to be expected of people living in a forest village. It was his very presence that stood in contrast to the scouts. Speed was in their every movement to the point where they seemed as skittish as the deer that roamed the woods; their eyes constantly darted in every direction, and their fingers fiddled with the smoothened wood of their bow or the soft feathers upon their arrows.
The other Elf was nothing like this. He walked with dignified steps, careful in each movement whether it was done by his feet, his hands, or his head. He breathed deeply, and the rising of his chest could be seen each time. He was dressed like a simple villager, yet exuded command like a prince. He gave his attention to the surroundings as he pleased, while both the scouts and the children found their eyes drawn to him at all times. He bore no weapons, not even a small knife in his belt to cut thread or meat, and he seemed average of build; nonetheless, a sense of danger surrounded him as it would a lion who feared nothing and gave all others cause for dread.
“Rise,” he commanded briefly as he reached Kate and Egil. He spoke the Mearcspeech with strange pronunciation, but it was understandable. They quickly did as he told them. “Show.” He pointed at Egil’s bloodied arm. Egil complied. With a strong grip, the Elf took hold of Egil’s arm to look closer. Anger began to cloud his delicate features. “You make mockery of symbols dear to us,” he proclaimed with an irate voice. “There has not been Elf-friend for a thousand years. With ignorance you paint yourself,” he sneered, pushing Egil’s arm back against the boy. “You have gone too far. As with all your kind, death is your fate.”
“Please!” Egil begged. “It wasn’t me who did this, it was Ælfwine! He’s like you!”
“We haven’t done anything,” Kate protested, her voice breaking. “You can’t do this to us!”
“Silence,” the Elf commanded. “Your borrowed words and false attempts to gain our trust will not avail you.”
“I swear to you, Ælfwine gave me this mark! He’s an Elf like you! Please listen!” Egil implored them. One of the scouts responded with a backhanded slap across Egil’s face that made him tumble backwards. Some of the scouts grabbed each of the youths and began dragging them away while their lord turned to leave. “Ælfwine, he is a friend of Godfrey, you must know him!”
The stately Elf stopped dead in his tracks. He shot an angry look over his shoulder at Egil before giving a brief command in the Elven tongue. The scouts dropped their captives, who fell to the ground yet again. The other Elf stalked away with forceful steps, leaving Kate and Egil to exchange mystified glances.
Moment after moment passed in anguish for the pair; as before, each time they spoke, one of their guards interfered with a harsh response. There was nothing they could do but wait.
~~~~
Eventually, the Elf returned, but not alone. By his side and engaged in a fierce argument with him walked Ælfwine. Egil gave a deep sigh of relief and sent a cautious smile to Kate. What Ælfwine and his companion discussed, they could not understand. It was evidently a tense conversation that ended with Ælfwine remaining and the other Elf departing in anger.
Walking up to the children, Ælfwine sent them an annoyed look. He dismissed the scouts curtly with a brief word; they bowed deeply and disappeared. “You,” Ælfwine simply spoke as Kate and Egil stood up, managing to pack a good amount of disdain into the word.
“Ælfwine, it’s me! Egil!” the boy exclaimed happily.
“I am not an imbecile,” the Elf retorted. “I can see that. I do question your intelligence, as you have decided to stroll into the dragon’s den and beg to be devoured.”
“Egil, what’s going on?” asked Kate.
“I made the mark!” Egil defended himself. He held out his arm. “Like you did!”
A sneer went across the Elf’s face. “Those ragged lines are closer to an insult than anything else. No wonder my cousin was incensed.”
“That’s your cousin?”
“Egil, who is this?”
“Enough,” Ælfwine declared. “Your lives are spared. Leave immediately and never return.”
“We can’t,” Egil claimed. “We’re hundreds of miles from Middanhal. The two of us crossing the realm on our own? We won’t make it.”
“That is hardly my problem,” the Elf replied dismissively.
“But how am I to help Godfrey as the King’s Quill if I am dead?” Egil asked slyly.
Ælfwine stared at him. “You little fiend,” he finally declared. He let out a sigh. “Wait here. I mean that. Do not move one single step.” He turned around and left with speed.
“Egil!” Kate stamped her foot in the ground. “Will you tell me what’s going on?”
“That was Ælfwine. He is an Elf, as you can see. Well, if you know how Elves look. I guess few people do,” Egil rambled.
“How in Hel’s name do you know an Elf?”
“Remember last year when I went to Heohlond on an assignment for Master Quill? Ælfwine was the reason I left.”
“I thought Elves lived in marshes, stealing babies or waylaying travellers,” Kate frowned.
“I don’t know about elsewhere, but the Elves in the Alfskog just kill anyone who enters the forest,” Egil explained happily.
Kate stared at him; then she punched him on the shoulder. “You dimwit! You knew they were going to treat us this way?”
Egil let out a cry of pain. “I didn’t! They were supposed to treat us like friends. That’s what the mark was for. Ælfwine gave it to me, and it means that other Elves look on me as a friend.”
“Is this how they treat their friends?” Kate asked incredulously. “No wonder they don’t get visitors.”
“Maybe I drew it wrong,” Egil considered, examining his arm.
“So this is why we walked for weeks? So we could get threatened and dragged around with arrows pointed in our face? What a plan, Egil.”
“It was good thinking,” he defended himself. “Ælfwine is an Elven warrior! We’ll be safe all the way back to Middanhal now. It wasn’t part of the plan for them to threaten to kill us,” he admitted, “but it all worked out!” Kate simply sent him a disbelieving stare.
When Ælfwine returned, he was clad for travelling with thick garments and a heavy cloak. A sword was strapped around his waist, and he had various other items packed away. As he reached his companions, he sent Egil an angry glance, grabbing his hurt arm. “You did not even clean this properly,” he muttered, pouring some water over the skin and cleaning the dried blood away, followed by a quick bandage. “Time to leave,” he declared. “You will walk at the pace I set. We will not rest until I decide. You will not complain about weariness, hunger, or anything else. In fact, you will be silent throughout the entire trip. Do you understand?” They nodded. “Good.” He began walking with the boy and girl right behind him like a pair of dogs.
“Master Ælfwine, are you really an Elf?”
“Of course he is, I told you as much.”
“Gods help me.”
|
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|
The Raven's Shadow Falls
Castle Belvoir
In the south-eastern part of Ealond lay the duchy of Belvoir along the border to Korndale. It was situated where several tributaries converged upon the river Sureste, making the lands fertile and lush. Along with this came the rich trade with Tricaster across the border, making Belvoir a prosperous fief and its master one of the most powerful noblemen in Ealond. His fortress reflected this with many towers, high walls, and a large garrison; the nearby castle town had many stately houses built by wealthy merchants, its markets and workshops bustled with activity, and it had over time reached a size and acquired its own fortifications to merit being called a city instead.
Riding through it on a magnificent steed, Duke Gaspard was followed by a grand retinue of kinsmen and other noblemen. They were returning from the hunt in the nearby forests that teemed with game, reflected by the many pheasants and even a large deer that their servants were bringing back. The townspeople hurried to stand aside for this splendid procession, but many of them cried out to the duke, wishing the gods’ blessing upon him. He waved in return on occasion, exchanging jests and laughter with his companions meanwhile.
The hunting party went down the main street of the city, eventually reaching its temple. Unlike its domed counterpart in Middanhal, it had a tall spire and a stained glass window above its great door that formed the shape of a raven. A novice in her brown robe was sweeping the stairs by the entrance when she looked up to see the duke and his followers approach. Dropping the broom, she hurried inside and called for her sisters.
The high priestess of the temple was soon outside with the other ordained members of her order, bowing low as the duke reached them. “The Raven Days are over!” Gaspard declared. He was a handsome man with a groomed beard, as brown in colour as his cheeks were red. His fur-lined cloak and wealthy attire made an impression upon the commoners as well; a crowd was already gathering to gawp at the richly dressed riders and hear their lord’s words. “Those days of hardship always take their toll, and food becomes scarce in many a home.” Concern lay upon his countenance. “As the new year arrives, it brings an end to hardship for now. I bring this gift to the temple,” he announced, motioning to his servants that were holding the deer upon a stick, “that our revered sibyls may use it to feed those who cannot feed themselves.” His men walked forward to place the carcass upon the steps of the temple while the onlookers cheered.
“You have our thanks, Your Highness,” the eldest of the norns replied. “May the goddess bless you as you have blessed us with this gift.” She gestured to some of her sisters, who grabbed the legs of the deer and began hauling it inside.
“May the new year bring you all gifts,” the duke declared loudly, and his people roared enthusiastically. Waving to them, the duke turned his horse and began a slow trot, giving his people time to greet him and be greeted in return.
“That was kind of you, Father,” remarked the young man who rode next to Gaspard; he had the same ruddy cheeks and clear blue eyes, though his hair was blonder and his beard thinner.
“I prefer the pheasants anyway,” the duke remarked with mirth in his eyes, winking to his son before sending further smiles to the adoring crowd.
~~~~
The land was nearly flat, but where it sloped slightly upwards stood Castle Belvoir. It towered over its surroundings, including the town, and dominated the landscape. The nearby river had been partly diverted to serve as a moat, increasing its defences greatly. As the hunting party approached the fortress, the call went up from the guards, and the drawbridge was lowered in response. Numerous servants hurried into the courtyard to receive the duke and his retinue; stable hands received the horses, kitchen servants took the dead fowls to prepare or cure the meat, and personal attendants brought wine and other refreshments to drink.
“Welcome home, milord,” declared the steward.
“All has been well in my absence, I trust?” asked the duke.
“Yes, milord. I was told to relay that your wife has gone through the books for the last year, and she wishes to discuss them with you.”
“Tell her we may do so tonight,” Gaspard commanded.
“Yes, milord. Also,” the servant continued hesitantly, “Master Guilbert returned yesterday.”
The duke was quiet for a moment. “Send for him in my study immediately.”
“Yes, milord.”
The duke turned around. “Alois,” he called out.
His son walked over to him. “Yes, Father?”
“Meet your mother and me tonight in my study. We will be examining the duchy’s books.”
“Of course, Father.”
“Let us attend to our horses,” Gaspard continued. Father and son went over to where their steeds stood waiting. The stable boys had removed the saddles already and handed brushes to the noblemen to let them groom the horses themselves. Idle conversation ensued, mostly about their luck on the hunt, until the beasts had been properly tended to; only then did the duke allow his men to enter the castle and relax after their expedition.
~~~~
While his companions rested, changed clothes, or saw to other needs, the duke marched straight to his study. The figure inside had been sitting down, waiting, but leapt up as his lord thrust the door open and strode inside. “My lord,” Guilbert greeted him, bowing low.
“Guilbert,” the duke responded with a nod. He moved to pour a cup of ale from a pitcher on a small table. “How was your sojourn to Middanhal?”
“It was a success, my lord,” the envoy reported with satisfaction. He grabbed a leather cylinder that had been leaning against his chair and opened it on the duke’s desk, letting a rolled up document slide out.
Gaspard seized the parchment eagerly and unfurled it, letting his eyes glance over it. At the bottom, it carried the signature and seal of the jarl of Vale. “Excellent. This should silence the other lords. You have done well, Guilbert.”
“I live to serve,” he replied with a bow.
“What is your impression of the jarl?”
“I never met with him,” Guilbert admitted. “Only his brother, the dragonlord.”
“What would you say of him?”
“A clever man, clear-sighted and willing to act as necessary,” Guilbert described. “Yet under strain from the civil war and liable to make mistakes if pressured sufficiently.”
“I see. Once we intervene, the war should come to an end,” the duke declared. He sat down by his desk, continuing to examine the treaty in his hands. “Did you learn anything else of note?”
“The prince seems charming. Seems, that is. I did not witness anything to the contrary, but his cordial manner felt like a mask upon his face, and I did not feel at ease when I glimpsed behind the mask.”
“Is that so,” Gaspard considered, stroking his chin. “That will be a headache for the drakonians, not us. Once we finish this war that threatens his future rule, he should at any rate be amenably disposed towards us.”
“Indeed, my lord.”
“You have done well securing this, Guilbert,” the duke reiterated, rolling the document together. “Thanks to this, my plans may proceed.”
“It was an honour. May I enquire as to when you depart for Fontaine?”
“In a week or two, I estimate. Why?”
“I was wondering,” Guilbert spoke cautiously, “if I would be accompanying his lordship to the capital. I believe I may be of great service at the court.”
Regret appeared on the duke’s face. “I fear that would be unseemly. I will face opposition as it is, trying to legitimise myself at court. Legitimacy, unfortunately, is your weakness.”
If being reminded of his bastard background upset Guilbert, he did not show it. “As you say, Your Highness,” he assented with a servile demeanour.
“You will do important work for me here at Belvoir,” the duke maintained. “Far more important than at Fontaine.”
“Of course, Your Highness. Was there anything else you required of me?”
“No, you are dismissed,” Gaspard told him. Turning around, Guilbert left the study with his countenance devoid of emotion.
~~~~
The duke took dinner with his family and court afterwards, being served pheasants. After the winter, it was the first fresh meat anyone in the castle had eaten in months, and to augment the good mood, the wine was less diluted than normal. As the duke’s cheeks were already red in colour, the effect of the drink was not visible on his appearance; he laughed a great deal, yet that was also commonplace. His wife was quieter in comparison, retaining a dignified disposition and only occasionally adding a remark to her husband’s jests. Their eldest son, mixing their blood and temper, was somewhere in between; laughing more often than his mother but with less intensity than his father.
In any case, the successful hunt and the return of the lord of the castle, with delicious food and wine to follow, meant for a merry meal. The harshness of winter lay behind them, and while other lands might be ravaged by war, those seemed like distant realms; nothing threatened the prosperity of Belvoir.
When all were satiated, the duke withdrew to his study, followed by his wife and Alois. The accounts of the duchy had already been brought there by command of the lady, and she wasted no time in opening the ledgers at specific pages.
“Look here,” she told her husband. “These are our expenses for linen and cloth for the last year, and these are sums paid.”
“They match, so why the dissatisfaction?” asked Gaspard.
“I enquired with the merchants and weavers and tallied every sum. There is a discrepancy of fifty silver,” she declared triumphantly. “Your steward has written higher figures in these books than he actually paid out, keeping the difference.”
The duke laughed. “My dear Claudette, you acted like a wolf with the scent of a wounded hart. Fifty silver is all?”
“It is not the amount of coins, it is the principle,” the lady replied offended. “I told you that daleman was not to be trusted, and I was right!”
“So you went to all this trouble, tracking down every merchant and craftsman, just to prove you were right?” Gaspard’s voice danced with amusement.
“It is the principle,” she reiterated fiercely. “He is cheating us!” While the duke appeared calm in the face of the duchess’ outburst, their son kept his distance.
“Darling, in the course of examining the books, do you have an estimate of how much coin we have saved since Master Livius became steward?”
“I would not know,” she sniffed. “I did not compare with the previous year’s books.”
“But you must have an idea,” Gaspard pressed her.
She stared at her husband. “Three crowns and seventy-two silver, or thereabouts,” she admitted sourly. “But what he stole has to be subtracted from that!”
“Thereabouts,” the duke smiled amused. “My arithmetic is inferior to yours, my dear, but that should leave us three crowns and twenty-two silver richer.”
“It is the principle,” she repeated.
“Alois,” the duke called out, looking at his son. “What would you suggest is done?”
The young man frowned. “A servant who cheats his master is an offence to our honour. Furthermore, if it became known we have done nothing to discourage this, all our servants would be emboldened to steal from us.”
“Very true. But Master Livius is the most capable steward I have had in many years. Is it worth losing his skill in running my estate to set an example?” asked Gaspard.
Alois scratched the thin beard on his chin. “I would call Master Livius to my study tomorrow and tell him that starting this year, his wages will be increased with fifty pieces of silver.”
“Are you mad?” came an outburst from his mother.
“I would also inform him,” the young nobleman continued, “that I have decided not to suffer any kind of thievery or dishonesty among my servants henceforth. He is to crack down on any such behaviour harshly, and you expect that the coming year’s books will be balanced perfectly with not a copper petty out of place.”
“You are soft-hearted like a wench,” his mother grumbled.
Gaspard smiled broadly. “You are wise beyond your years, my son. Come now, Claudette, be thankful that our son has inherited your mind and my good looks. Imagine the disaster if it had been reverse,” he grinned.
“How dare you!” Claudette exclaimed, though her outrage seemed disingenuous. “Tonight when you come knocking at my chamber door, home for the first time in many nights, I shall remember your words and make you bitterly regret them.”
“Lock your door all you want, dear wife. I have a copy of the key,” he informed her with a wink to his son, who seemed slightly nauseated at the conversation.
“I expected nothing less from a rake like you,” she huffed. “Alois, do not stay up late. There is a chill in the air tonight, and I do not want you to get sick.”
“Mother, I just spent a week in the coldness of the forest,” he tried to protest, but she was already leaving.
“That was a clever decision, my son, concerning Master Livius. You will make a great duke today. Maybe more,” his father predicted with gleaming eyes.
“You have not changed your mind, then?” Alois asked apprehensively.
“I considered your objections as promised. I am still determined this is the best course of action,” his father declared.
“The decision is yours to make,” the son assented. “I should be by your side - that should be my decision to make.”
The duke shook his head. “There will be plenty for you to do in my absence. Once matters in Fontaine are decided, we march to war in Adalrik. I want you to make those preparations.”
The youth considered this briefly. “As you say, Father. I shall make you proud.”
“You already have, my boy. Now, let us have a glass of this brandy to chase away that night chill your mother mentioned,” Gaspard suggested with smiling eyes, pouring two glasses.
~~~~
About a week later, Gaspard of Belvoir was in the saddle once more. Along with his usual retinue, many hundred soldiers stood ready in the courtyard; on their march, their number would increase to the double, and it would still only be a small portion of Belvoir’s full strength. Although the duke had been summoned by King Rainier to march all his soldiers to Fontaine, equipping all his levies and keeping them fed was very costly, and Gaspard was only bringing the number he felt necessary. To the inhabitants of the castle, unused to seeing armies of any size, it was an impressive sight regardless.
As the columns made ready for departure, a norn entered through the gate and approached the duke. Seeing her, he dismounted again, allowing her to address him with more ease. “My lord,” she greeted him while inclining her head.
“Sister.”
“I come to wish the Raven Lady’s blessings upon your venture,” she explained. She lowered her voice as she continued to speak. “I have received word from the Veiled. She awaits your arrival.”
“Very well,” the duke simply replied. His gaze fell upon one of the windows above where his wife and children were watching him, including his eldest son. “You were present when Alois was born, were you not?”
“I was the sibyl for all your children, Your Highness.”
“Do you remember his birth words?” the duke asked, waving and smiling to his family.
“Of course,” the norn claimed.
“Raven’s shadow falls, fountain overflows, the river shall be his,” Gaspard quoted from memory. “In that moment, I knew he was destined for this.”
“There can be no other interpretation, Your Highness.”
“My son,” he added to himself, smiling again. “Thank you, Sister,” he added, taking to the saddle again. “Gods go with you,” he told her in farewell. “Move out!” he shouted to the procession of men behind him while his personal guards fell into place by his side. With a gentle push of the spurs into his horse, the duke began the journey towards Fontaine.
|
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Cards on the Table
Middanhal
The following morning just as the sun rose, Jerome of the Red Hawks returned to the dragonlord’s atrium and was immediately admitted into audience. “I did as you commanded, milord,” he told Konstans. “There’s been no sign of anything amiss so far. Nobody suspects anything.”
“Nor will they,” Konstans declared. “There was only water in the vial. At worst, my brother will find his wine a little diluted this morning.”
Jerome frowned. “Water? But I thought…”
“You thought I wanted my brother dead,” Konstans stated. “Never mind the chaos this would cause for me, including the election of a new lord protector.”
“So what was this for?”
“I needed to know if I could rely on you. If you are willing to kill my brother at my behest, the most powerful man in the realm, I expect you will carry out any other task I give you,” Konstans explained.
The Hawk gave a scowl. “I don’t like being tested.”
Konstans took out the coin purse from last night and slid it across the table. “You did as I asked. Here is payment as promised. You will find me a generous master.”
Jerome’s face turned from displeasure to satisfaction. “Anything you ask, milord.”
“Good. I have another task for you. And this one, I assure you, is of the utmost importance.”
~~~~
The jarl of Theodstan sat in his parlour, playing cards with one servant when another entered hurriedly.
“Milord,” Holwyn exclaimed, short of breath. “I have just been told that the dragonlord is calling for assembly out of time.”
“Are you sure?” Theodoric’s voice was deeply sceptical.
“Completely. I believe the Quill has already been told to send out the summons.”
The jarl threw his cards on the table. “What is so urgent they cannot wait until summer?”
Holebert gathered up the cards, shuffling them together. “Maybe they want Jarl Isarn officially declared a traitor sooner rather than later.”
“Isenwald is safe in Silfrisarn now, which will not have changed when the Adalthing convenes at midsummer,” the jarl said dismissively. “If anything, it is the Isarn prisoners they want executed.”
“Maybe they fear an escape attempt?” Holwyn suggested. “The guards in the dungeons are no longer Order soldiers but have been replaced by Red Hawks.”
“Could be,” Theodoric considered. “Or they have some agenda we cannot guess.”
“I will listen for any whispers. See what we may learn,” Holwyn declared.
“Good.” Theodoric glanced at the table and his missing hand of cards. “Holebert, did you take my cards?”
“I thought you were done playing,” the servant said in excuse.
“I had king and jester,” the jarl complained, followed by a sigh. “Deal us a new round. I need better servants,” he grumbled, to which the others only laughed.
~~~~
“Milord? Your son requests an audience.”
Konstans looked up at Eolf. “My son? Are you certain?”
“I know how his lordship’s son looks,” the servant sniffed. “Shall I show him in?”
“I admit to some curiosity,” Konstans confessed, turning the hourglass on his table to let the sands fall. “Let him enter.”
With almost timid steps, Konstantine entered his father’s study, glancing around. “Father.”
“Of all the men waiting outside, I did not expect to see you.” Konstans’ voice was almost amused. “What brings you here?”
“I thought we should speak,” the young man spoke.
His father glanced at the hourglass. “By all means, but time is short. What do you need?”
Konstantine cleared his throat. “I know you are disappointed that I am no longer Uncle’s heir.”
“Have I expressed any such disappointment?”
“Not directly –”
“Then why would you assume such a thing?”
Bewilderment spread across Konstantine’s face. “But I thought –”
“I was born the second son. Do you think I have ever let that hold me back?”
“I guess not.”
“Let me share some fatherly wisdom I received myself when I was young, from your grandfather. He was a clear-sighted man,” Konstans told his son. “He kept me out of the Order, knowing it would be a waste to make me a knight. He explained to me that that there are two kinds of value to possess.”
“What are they?” asked Konstantine interested.
“Resources and respect. The former is land, gold, soldiers, and the like. The latter is titles, honour, authority, and so forth. It is important to know that they are interchangeable and never constant.”
“You mean, land can be exchanged for gold, gold can be exchanged for soldiers?”
“Exactly,” nodded Konstans satisfied. “Similarly, a title in itself is of little value, except for the power and authority it can be exchanged to. It does not matter whether the jarl of Vale is my brother or me. The title belongs to our family, and I may use its authority when I need it.”
“Just as you have used it to become dragonlord.”
“Indeed, which offers further possibilities. On the other hand, the Red Hawks are loyal to our gold, not our title. Or take Jarl Isarn, who will soon have lost all right to that title. Yet his vassals will remain loyal to him because they have sworn to be. In that case, honour has its own value.”
“So you are saying I should not care about titles?”
“I am saying,” Konstans explained with patience, “that titles are but one form of commodity. As long as the title remains in our family, we have access to its value, and your time should be spent pursuing something else. To borrow some wisdom from your uncle, it is a poor merchant that stares himself blind on one commodity.” The dragonlord smiled at his own words.
“Thank you, Father. I understand much better now.”
“I am glad you are sensible enough to listen.” Konstans looked at the hourglass on his table, which had run empty. “I must press on with today’s affairs. Tell Eolf I need a brief while before I see anyone else.”
“Of course, Father.”
~~~~
“Do either of you know the lady Arndis?” asked Hardmar.
“She is Sir Adalbrand’s sister,” explained Inghard.
“Obviously,” sneered his older brother impatiently. “But what do you know of her?”
“She is a confidante of Lady Theodwyn, I think,” Gerhard told the others. “I have seen the two of them together, along with the veiled woman.”
“Lady Eleanor,” Inghard inserted.
“Never mind them,” Hardmar snapped. “I have heard that the king of Korndale seeks to marry her.”
“Really?”
“Odd. She brings no wealth or alliance with her,” Inghard contemplated.
“On the contrary,” Hardmar retorted. “She will strengthen his claim on the Dragon Throne, my throne, and tie Adalbrand to his cause. Treasonous lot!”
“I suppose there would be danger no matter who she marries,” Inghard continued. “Her children will have the same blood as us, even if it is matrilineally.”
“A shame if she leaves for Plenmont,” Gerhard spoke up, drumming his fingers on a table as customary. “She is quite beautiful, unlike that company she keeps. An old hag and a scarred woman.”
“Does that matter to you?” Hardmar asked his brother with a hint of contempt. “You will be pleased to know I have decided you should marry the daughter of Lord Marcaster.”
“Lady Gloria?”
“Unless he has other daughters, that would be the one,” Hardmar jeered.
“Why that one?” asked Gerhard, whose face seemed to struggle with finding an appropriate reaction.
“He will pull several other landgraves to our side. It is a favourable alliance,” the prince explained.
“You could have asked me,” Gerhard pointed out with a sour disposition.
“Fine. Pretend I asked you beforehand.” Hardmar waved his hand dismissively.
“You will not get an exception for me as well to marry early, will you?” The question was asked with a suspicious voice. “I am in no hurry.”
“Fret not, little brother,” Hardmar reassured him. “I only intend to announce your engagement at the Adalthing. Unlike Vale, I do not rush these things.”
“Perhaps you should,” Inghard interjected from his corner of the room. “A lot can happen in the next several years. Maybe Jarl Vale is wise to make sure you marry his daughter before you have a chance to find a better match.” With this said, the youngest Hardling brother resumed reading his book, leaving the crown prince to contemplate his words.
~~~~
In the dungeons, Arndis sat with an empty coin purse and a chessboard inside Athelstan’s cell. The knight raised one hand, careful to avoid his chains accidentally knocking any pieces about, and moved his thane to threaten Arndis’ jarl.
“I knew it,” she smiled, moving her dragonlord forward into the vacated space. “I believe that concludes the match?”
Athelstan stared at the board in disbelief. “How long did you say you had been playing?”
“Brand taught me the game last summer,” Arndis replied, looking both shy yet also pleased with herself.
“Impressive. It took him years to beat me the first time, though granted, he was only thirteen when we started playing.” Athelstan continued staring at the pieces, tentatively moving a few about to examine the different positions. “I will excuse myself with not having played the game in several months now.”
“I am glad we can remedy that,” Arndis smiled. “I am sorely lacking for worthy opponents among my friends at court.”
From his tattered clothing, Athelstan pulled out a small wooden carving. It was a king piece. “I gave this to Brand the first time he beat me.”
She nodded. “I recall you told me.”
He extended the piece towards her. “It seems fitting I give it to you.”
“Oh, thank you.” Hesitantly, Arndis accepted the gift.
“It is just a piece of wood,” Athelstan told her with a joyless smile. “It is all I have at present, however, and perhaps it will remind you of me in the future.”
“I shall cherish it for that reason,” she promised.
He began arranging the pieces on the board to their starting position. “Another game?”
“With pleasure.”
~~~~
As evening arrived, it was Konstantine seeking out his mother and not reverse. She gave a look of surprise upon seeing her son in her chamber, but it was quickly replaced by disappointment. “I suppose you have come to offer excuses?”
“I spoke with Father.” Mathilde’s expression turned blank. “In general, I have given it all some thought,” Konstantine continued. “Should anything happen to my little cousin, it would be a tragedy to our house. I cannot imagine Father would want that.”
“So now you choose to think,” Mathilde sneered, but there was little bite in her voice.
“In fact, I cannot imagine Father would condone what you told me last night.”
“What happened to obedience?” she hissed. “How dare you question me!”
“I threw it away, that little flask,” Konstantine told her. “I do not intend to ever think about it again. I do not think you should either.”
“Are you presuming now to tell me what I should do?”
“As long as Valerius is healthy and safe, I see no point in dwelling on last night,” Konstantine told her. “But should something ever happen to him, Father will know everything in detail.” He stared at his mother.
“At least you show some backbone.” She returned his gaze and found him unwavering. “As you wish,” she finally declared. “Last night is forgotten.”
“I am glad. Goodnight, Mother.” She did not return his well-wishes.
|
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The Wolves of Isarn
Northern Adalrik
As morning came, the Hawks surveyed the damage. As it turned out, it was limited. Few of their people had been killed or even injured; in fact, most of them had not seen any fighting. Only the kingthanes had suffered; fifteen of their number had been slain or grievously wounded. None of the attackers were found among the dead; either they had survived unscathed or been mindful to retrieve their dead upon their retreat.
The assault had achieved its purpose nonetheless, for it became clear that their target had been the prince. His tent had burned down, and when the remaining kingthanes had discovered the flames, they had braved the fire to rescue Hardmar, only to find him dead. They had saved his body and that of the nearby thane’s from the flames, which was all the aid they could give. Both the prince and the thane bore many injuries, suggesting they had been overwhelmed. Konstans had been among the first to arrive, examining the slain and explaining all this to the thanes and Hawks close by.
“I will bring the news to Middanhal myself,” the dragonlord declared. “The kingthanes may follow at their own pace to bring the dead home. However, this dastardly attack by cowards too fearful to face us in daylight must be avenged. Captain,” he continued, looking at the leader of the Red Hawks, “search the area. No doubt the savages that serve in Isarn’s army will be nearby. Find them all and eradicate them,” he commanded.
“Yes, milord,” the captain promised. He wasted no time organising this, sending out scouts and arraying soldiers into skirmishing bands; soon, the Hawks were scouring the countryside while Konstans rode swiftly back to the capital, bearing news that death had befallen yet another heir.
~~~~
Less than twenty miles away, the army of Isarn lay encamped. Exercising caution, they had outriders scouting the area; they returned with reports of being attacked by Red Hawks. Soon, it seemed evident to the captains of Isarn that as feared. These negotiations were simply a ruse to lure them into battle.
The Hawk scouts, meanwhile, returned eagerly with news that a force of Isarn soldiers had marched close to their own camp, measuring some two thousand in strength. The captain of the mercenaries summoned his lieutenants for a war council. With an army ten thousand strong, the Hawks did not fear an open attack by a force so inferior in numbers; the danger, as some pointed out, was in continued nightly raids destroying their supplies and making it untenable to maintain the siege. Or, another argued, if this relief force was allowed to break through the palisades and reinforce the defenders of Castle Grenwold with both men and provisions, it could prolong the siege greatly. As their contract with Jarl Vale stated, letting an enemy significantly reinforce a besieged castle meant they forfeited a great deal of the pay owed, and their future pay for continuing the siege would be reduced. While the Hawks did not fear an attack against their main army, it was impossible to protect the palisade works everywhere at all times against the Isarn force present in the field.
The captain considered and made his decision, marching out with more than five thousand Hawks to punish Isarn for approaching so close. It took them an hour’s march to reach their enemy; by then, it was late afternoon. Most commanders would consider it too late in the day to start a battle, but several things spoke in favour of the Hawks fighting now. They were far more numerous, allowing them to envelop the Isarn ranks as soon as battle began. The terrain was flat, affording no advantage to the enemy; although there were hills directly west of the field, the Isarn army had not had time to array themselves upon it, which would have significantly strengthened their position.
If battle was not fought today, the Isarn army might retreat out of reach or be allowed to take formation upon the hills; either of these possibilities would make it far more difficult to uphold the siege of Castle Grenwold. With these arguments presented, the captain of the Hawks acquiesced to his battle-thirsty lieutenants and gave the order to attack.
~~~~
Once it became clear that fighting was inevitable, both sides presented themselves in battle lines and approached their enemy. Neither had cavalry to speak of nor archers, making this an engagement of infantry alone. The Hawks in their dark green coats were a terrible sight as their numbers filled the horizon; their ranks were far deeper than Isarn’s, yet their lines easily extended beyond their opponent’s to either side. With hope of victory dim, Athelstan commanded his men to storm forward in an attempt to breach the Hawks’ centre; could this be achieved, the near certain defeat might be avoided.
Led by Isenhart and Athelstan themselves, the men of Isarn followed with roaring battle lust into the lines of the Hawks. With the jarl, his brother, and his thanes spearheading the charge, it was a formidable fighting force consisting of the best warriors in the jarldom.
The ranks of the Hawks proved too deep. Despite their best efforts, Isarn could not punch through. The enemy captain, acutely aware of this danger, sent his reserves to reinforce his centre, ensuring that the lines would not break. Slowly, Isenhart and his men were pressed back. Their Nordsteel armour served them well to diminish the losses inflicted upon them, but nothing could protect against overwhelming numbers.
Sunset was only a few hours away when there was a sudden turn. From the west, thousands of Isarn troops rushed forward into battle, led by Athelbold and Eumund. In this moment, Athelstan’s strategy became clear. He had used half his forces as bait, luring the Hawks into battle. His army seemed under strength and caught on flat terrain; easy to deal with if done so now, but promising to be nuisance if allowed to escape and remain in the region. In their eagerness to fight, the Hawks had not scouted the area thoroughly, and they fell prey to the soldiers that had been hiding behind the western hills.
The Hawks’ superior numbers were for naught. The Isarn reinforcements hit them in the flank, and their own reserves had already been spent to support their centre. Their flank disintegrated under the attack. Soon, it became apparent that defeat was inevitable. As their right flank fell apart, their captain ordered a retreat of the remaining forces.
The setting sun saved what was left of the Hawks; with darkness falling, Athelstan ceased any pursuit of the fleeing enemy. It would too easily descend into disorder, making it man against man rather than army against army, and the Hawks were still near equal in numbers despite their losses. A chaotic chase might turn against Isarn, causing them to suffer as many dead as they might inflict.
Even though the Hawks were allowed to flee, their defeat was indisputable. As his men cheered, Athelstan stood on the bloodstained grass under fallen bodies and fallen arms, victor of yet another battlefield.
~~~~
Late in the night, the Isarn army returned to its camp, bringing wounded and what spoils of war could be taken with them. Some of the soldiers remained at the battlefield, keeping watch and protecting the defensive position upon the hills to deter any further fighting while the northerners were unready; Athelbold and Eumund stayed behind to command, whereas Isenhart and Athelstan returned to camp.
The latter seemed unburdened, his reputation restored. The jarl was pensive, almost brooding in the dark. As they strode into the middle of camp, Gerhard came running out to meet them, followed by Jerome. “What happened?” asked the young prince. “How did it come to battle? Why did you not negotiate?”
“Lord Konstans had other plans, it seems,” Athelstan remarked. “Prince Gerhard, I fear you must consider yourself our prisoner for the time being. While I have not forgotten that you secured our release –”
“As I suspected from the start, this was all a trap,” Isenhart interrupted. “There is only one reward.” He drew his sword.
“Isenhart!” Athelstan called out sharply, reaching out for his brother, but in vain. Before anyone could stop the jarl, he plunged his blade into Gerhard’s chest. Blood sprung forth like a fountain, and the prince lay dead within moments. Isenhart turned his eyes on Jerome. “Brother,” Athelstan shouted, finally reaching him to place a hand on his arm. “We will need a messenger to tell Middanhal their devious plans failed them,” he explained, gesturing with his head towards the dead prince. “Let it be this man,” he added, now motioning towards Jerome, “who freed your sons from prison.”
Contempt was on Isenhart’s face, but he finally relented, lowering his sword. “This once. Let him never appear in my sight again.”
“Of course,” Athelstan promised.
As the jarl stalked away, Jerome fell on his feet before Athelstan. “Thank you, milord,” he stammered.
“This was unfortunate,” Athelstan admitted, glancing at Gerhard’s corpse. “I do not wish it said that the sons of Isarn are ungrateful or repay kindness with death. You saved our lives, and so yours is safe. But this I do wish to be said,” Athelstan continued. “Do not treat wolves like sheep. Your masters have tasted the fangs of Isarn today. They will so again. Relay that message to the men you serve.”
“Yes, milord,” Jerome agreed anxiously, standing up. Soon after, he was escorted out of the camp to make his way south.
|
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|
Rotten Beries
Eastern Vidrevi
The odd pair had not come far from Hareik before the bickering began.
“Why would you only pack water?” Damien’s voice was indignant.
“It’s good enough for Austre’s trees, it’s good enough for us.” The words were spoken through a clenched jaw.
“Wine. Spirits. Ale. Even that honey water you moss-lickers call mead would suffice. You could have chosen any of these possibilities!”
“If you are so concerned about our supplies, why did you not bring any?”
Damien grabbed the hilt of the sword by his side. “I did! I took care of my part.”
“Why don’t you stuff that in your mouth, then.”
“Hilarious. If you can provide no relief for my aching head – some priestess you are – at least spare me the grating sound of your voice.” He placed a hand against his forehead.
“You are the one who brought this up! Besides, what fool goes drinking the night before a journey?”
“I did not know I was going on a journey, did I? Nobody warned me of travels to Adalrik,” he retorted.
Gunvor stopped. “Perhaps if you are so ill-advised on this journey, you should return to Hareik. I can make my own way easily enough.”
He kept moving. “No, we continue.”
“Why?” She remained motionless. “What’s it to you?”
He looked back. “I swore to see you safely to Middanhal, and Damien of Montmer keeps his oaths.” He threw his head towards the road. “Come on.”
She began moving, staring at him in suspicion. “Something is not right.”
“You sniffed that out, have you? I thought Austre favoured harts, not hounds.”
“You might as well tell me.”
He cleared his throat, raising a hand to shield his eyes from the sharp sunlight coming from the east. “The only thing wrong is that my head is pounding, and all your talking is only making it worse.”
She quickened her pace to overtake him. “Hurry up, then! It’s nearly a month to Middanhal, and with your steps, it’ll take us two!”
“A dagger for a tongue,” he mumbled, moving faster to catch up.
~~~~
“We should stop for the night,” Gunvor suggested.
“There is still daylight,” Damien replied, walking onwards.
“Because we are near solstice,” Gunvor retorted. “It’s not going to get dark, but we’ll get tired all the same.”
“It is barely night,” Damien argued. “Let us continue a while longer.”
She gave him a glance. “You’ve quite the energy, considering how you dragged your feet this morning.”
“As you said, it’s many days until Middanhal. The more ground we cover, the fewer days it will take.”
“You’re hoping we’ll find a tavern.”
“There is a certain sting in your words, which I do not care for.” He kept on walking, staring ahead.
“There’s also truth in them. You’re like a hog after chestnuts.”
He halted abruptly, looking at her. “Are you calling me a swine?”
“Only your behaviour, Lord Damien.” The title was spoken with irreverence. “Do you recall my name, milord?”
He glanced back at the road. “Of course,” he mumbled, taking a few steps forward.
“They’ve given me an addled drunkard for protection,” Gunvor said with exasperation.
“I am not addled!” Damien barked, looking over his shoulder. “Are you coming?”
“No. I am tired and would prefer to sleep now that we may have an early start tomorrow.”
“An early start,” the former knight exclaimed, “good grief!”
“As such, I am going to find a place to sleep here.” Gunvor turned from the road, walking into the adjacent forest. “You’re welcome to continue without me.”
Damien watched his charge leave him. With a quiet curse, he followed.
~~~~
Despite Damien’s fervent wishes, they did not encounter any taverns or inns as they travelled south. The road cut through forest and did not touch any villages. On occasion, they strayed from the path to forage in the woods; this was mostly done by Gunvor, whose knowledge as a greenrobe made her well suited for this task. Damien followed behind her, swearing at the tree roots making him stumble.
“I will not listen to such language,” Gunvor declared at one point when they were on the road again. Ten days had passed with frequent displays of verbal hostilities, followed by long displays of silence.
“Seven and Eighth! What is it to you?”
“There you go again! How can people take your oaths as sacred when you use sacred language for such vulgar reason?”
“Oath and curse, the words are suitable to either cause,” Damien argued. “Whether I swear for one reason or the other, that is my business.”
“I suppose your disregard for the gods was to be expected,” Gunvor muttered.
“I have always honoured the gods,” he defended himself.
“Hah, I’ve heard differently.”
He reached out to grab her arm and pulled her around to face him. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“Let go!” She ripped herself free from his grip.
Colour flushed his cheeks. “Does anyone dare blacken the honour of Damien of Montmer?”
She returned his gaze without flinching. “You tell me. I’ve heard Damien of Montmer is an oath breaker. I heard he was a Templar, but the Highfather cast him out in disgrace. Is none of that true?”
Wrath filled his face, and his fists became clenched as he stared at the greenrobe in front him. “I did not break my oath,” he finally declared. “Not as such. Not directly.” His voice grew weak, as did his anger.
“But the rest? You were stripped of rank, your sword broken?”
He gripped the sword hilt by his side. “Maybe,” he mumbled.
Her expression became incredulous. “Is that the same sword? Is your only weapon a broken blade?”
“It is not broken,” he defended himself. “Just – brittle after being forged anew.”
“Well that’s a relief!” She threw her arms out, exasperated. “So it’ll last one blow before it breaks again! We’re safe as long as we’re only attacked by a single bandit. Thank the gods they don’t tend to roam around in packs!”
“Quiet!” he told her through gritted teeth, grabbing her arm and dragging her off the road.
“I told you not to touch me!”
He ignored her objections, covering her mouth with his other hand while pulling her behind a cluster of trees. “Silence,” he hissed, releasing her arm to point at the road. From a track in the woods, a band of archers appeared. They were clearly men of Vidrevi by their clothing, each armed with a bow and a quiver of arrows. They talked and laughed among themselves while still keeping a quick pace, moving south.
Once they were out of sight, the hidden pair relaxed. With a sudden motion, Gunvor grabbed Damien’s hand and pulled it away from her mouth. “Thank you, I’m not a child to be kept mute.”
“That was not the case a few moments ago,” Damien retorted.
“Why hide? These seemed like ordinary men. Brigands don’t travel along the Kingsroad.”
“They were not traders or farmers either,” Damien pointed out. “They travelled only with weapons. They were warriors, and they were going south. My guess is, they are smelling an opportunity with the war in Adalrik.”
“Even so, that is no reason to presume they would have hostile intent against us.”
“You turn a man into a warrior, and war will be on his mind, even in peace time,” Damien muttered. “I should know. I have spent most of my years among warriors.”
“Is that what has made you so quick to strife?” she asked with a bold look.
“No, that is just the family temper,” Damien retorted, suddenly barking with laughter. His mirth ended as swiftly as it had begun. “Let us get going. We are wasting the day.”
They continued on their march south.
~~~~
One evening, when they had travelled for almost two weeks, they saw the flickering light of a campfire in the distance.
“We should head into the forest,” Damien declared. “Sleep there and let these people move ahead of us.”
“Or we could see if they are friendly folk,” Gunvor suggested. “We don’t have to think that everyone we meet is our enemy.”
“You don’t have to think that way because I do it for you,” Damien argued.
“Lord Damien, if I must spend the entire journey to Middanhal solely in your company, I shall go stark raving mad.”
He frowned. “Fine,” he conceded after a moment. “Wait here.”
She watched him creep forward. There was no sign of the stumbling behaviour or unsteady movement that had been his constant companion in Hareik; with the stealth of an experienced night raider, Damien moved quietly until the darkness enveloped him from her sight.
Gunvor leaned against a tree, waiting. She took out the box from the bag that she carried with her at all times, opening the lid. Inside lay numerous seeds, arranged in piles of dirt neatly divided by pieces of wood. They had been treated to be in a dormant state, ready to be wakened with water when the time came. They would be a boon to the gardens of the great Temple in Middanhal, providing the norns with healing herbs otherwise scarce to come by.
“It is safe,” a voice spoke quietly next to her.
Gunvor slammed the lid down as a start went through her. “I’m not the one you’re meant to sneak up on!”
“My apologies.” Damien did not sound particularly sincere. “They are a band of simple merchants. I doubt they can offer us any harm.”
“Let’s approach,” Gunvor suggested. She moved towards the small camp with Damien skulking behind her.
Even in remote and sparsely populated Vidrevi, travellers were common upon the Kingsroad, which over time had simply become the name for any road connecting the major cities of Adalmearc. Here and there, natural campsites had developed in the occasional clearing along the road. Each group of travellers making rest would cut down branches for firewood, and their beasts of burden would graze on the land; in this manner, the clearings slowly grew over the years. Inevitably, the different regions would at times be struck by calamity, usually war. The resulting drop in trade and travels would allow the forest to slowly retake the clearings until peace returned, and the merchants along with it; this increase in travellers would start the cycle anew.
At this particular campsite, two carts stood to the side, their goods protected by a coarse leather cover. The draught animals grazed nearby, and around ten people sat in a circle around a fire. Every generation from grandfather to father and son seemed present along with mothers, wives, and daughters. None of them was armed, not counting the knives in their belts that everyone carried for mundane purposes.
“Austre’s peace upon you all,” Gunvor called out. “Even if it is night and her eye at rest.”
The travellers turned to look at her, a few with alarm; they relaxed as they saw a woman in green robes. “The Huntress bless you, Sister,” one of the men called out. “Come, share our fire.”
“My companion and I thank you,” she replied, making a show of gesturing for Damien in his dark leather to step forward. His appearance caused a few more looks to be exchanged around the fire, but nobody spoke up, and room was made for the priestess and her protector to sit in the circle.
“What brings a sister of the green on the road?” asked an elderly woman with a kind face; she was already fishing out bread and breaking it up, giving one half to each of the newcomers.
“I am on a pilgrimage of sorts to Middanhal,” Gunvor explained.
“Bad times if they think a sister of the Hart needs protection for the road,” someone remarked.
“I am on a pilgrimage of my own,” Damien muttered. “Say, you would not happen to have a drop of ale on you? Or dare I hope for a taste of wine?”
“Apologies, friend,” came the reply. “We drank the last the other day.” A sound like that of a wounded animal escaped from Damien.
One of the children, a small boy, pilfered with the hilt of Damien’s sword. The former knight reacted swiftly, slapping the boy’s hand away. “Not to be touched.”
Unabashed, the boy stared up at Damien. “Are you a warrior?”
“No, I am a tailor. Be gone, boy.” He began stuffing the bread into his mouth.
“Come here, lad, don’t bother the man. He must be weary,” came the reproach from the boy’s mother.
“Why do you have a sword, then?”
“My sewing needle.”
“Have you killed anyone with it?”
“No,” Damien replied through the bread he was chewing.
“Isn’t that what swords are for?”
“It is not for killing,” the former knight replied, swallowing his food. “It is for protection.”
“Wouldn’t you need to kill someone at times in order to protect?” asked one of the men.
“That was never my fate as a protector,” Damien simply said. “Do you have water? I am parched.” Someone handed him a skin, and he drank greedily.
“Where are you good folk headed?” asked Gunvor.
“To Trehaf,” said the eldest of the men. “My sons and I usually make the trip to Silfrisarn, selling furs for silver, but with the war, we dare not go that way.”
“We hope there will be islander ships in Trehaf, happy to buy our furs instead.”
“Brought the family too, I see,” Gunvor pointed out.
“Hareik is getting too cold for my bones,” remarked the old woman. “My brother’s children are already in Trehaf, and they promised to take us in.”
“Trade is slow in Hareik,” came an interjection. “It’s always been too far north, too remote. Trehaf and the sea is where a merchant makes his fortune, mark my words.”
“You are welcome to join with us,” offered the old man. “At least until the road diverges between Trehaf and Middanhal.”
“I do not think –” the former Templar began to say.
Damien was interrupted by Gunvor. “We’d be delighted.”
He sent her a scowl; in the flickering light of the flames, she did not seem to notice. “If that is to be the case, I will retire,” Damien declared with a sour disposition. “We have plenty of walking ahead.”
“Why don’t you have any armour?” asked the boy.
“Seven and Eighth!”
“Mind your words.”
~~~~
They followed the merchant family for a few more days until they reached a crossroad. The foresters went west, towards Trehaf and the sea; the pair went east, towards Adalrik and war. They separated with blessings exchanged and minor gifts, mostly food. Damien remained mute, keeping one hand on his sword hilt and the other on his belt; in the end, he simply started walking and forced Gunvor to finish her farewells and follow him.
Freed from the slow pace of the oxen pulling the carts, they moved faster through the landscape. The surrounding forest grew thinner as they progressed; eventually, it ceased altogether.
“We have reached Adalrik,” Damien quietly informed Gunvor.
“How can you tell with certainty?”
“These fields are not sowed. No menfolk around to sow them, I wager, because they are at war. We are in the jarldom of Isarn now.”
“Well, foresters or drakonians, they all respect a woman of the robe, I assume.”
“Hamar take me! You are lucky I am with you.”
“Lord Damien,” she said in reproach. “Mind how you speak.”
“The only thing that soldiers respect is this.” His hand, resting on the pommel of his sword, gripped it demonstratively.
“You see things too bleakly,” Gunvor argued. “Every bush may bear a rotten berry, but most of these are good, honest folk, I’d wager.”
“I am not concerned about the good, honest folk.” He spoke the last words with condescension. “One rotten berry can give us plenty of trouble.”
“I thought you were a mighty warrior.” Gunvor smiled sardonically. “Aren’t the Templars supposed to be the fiercest fighters in all the realms?”
“I am not a Templar anymore,” Damien muttered, quickening his pace into the lands ruled by Isarn.
|
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|
Blighting the Song
Northern Adalrik
“Why are your eyes that way?”
“Why are yours not?” Ælfwine snapped. They had left the Alfskog some days ago, and the barrage of questions had been relentless. “Hel take me, it was bad enough last time with just one of you.”
“I don’t think he is in a mood for questions,” Egil related with a loud whisper.
“He never is, so there’s no point in waiting,” Kate countered. “Why do Elves swear by Hel like we do?” she asked loudly. Ælfwine increased the pace.
They moved through the empty lands that constituted the north of Adalrik. On occasion, they encountered paltry flocks of meagre sheep, but they kept their distance. Even though Ælfwine had brought his blindfold, he preferred to avoid outside company that would force him to disguise his true nature by hiding his eyes and sword.
While he had success during the day with his strategy of marching too fast to allow the youths any questions, he fell prey when they made camp at night. If the area seemed desolate and firewood was available, he built a fire, suffering enquiries ranging from his method of making a campfire to whether he lived in a house or inside a tree.
His usual response was to roll up his cloak like a blanket and turn his back to them, falling asleep as quickly as possible. This led to a routine each night where they would continue to talk or bicker among themselves for a while before eventually following his example.
~~~~
As none of them knew the lay of the land well, they simply steered by the sun, setting a course south and for the most part avoiding other people. Staying away from the main roads slowed their progress; a week after leaving the Alfskog at some point, they reached a hilly area that added further hardship to their journey.
“I need a break soon,” Kate declared, out of breath. Egil did not speak, but his appearance gave the impression that he was of the same mind.
Ælfwine did not look back, though he slowed his pace. “It is barely past noon. You can walk for a while longer.”
“Not much longer,” Kate insisted. She and Egil were slogging some steps behind Ælfwine with their heads bowed down from weariness, staring at the grass underneath their feet. Because of this, they almost stumbled into the suddenly motionless Elf as they reached the top of a hill.
“Hey,” Egil exclaimed as he nearly collided into Kate; his mouth remained open, but no further words came. Ahead of them stretched a meadow that in peaceful times would have been lush with grass. Now, it had been trampled by thousands of feet, and a brown, rusty colour had dyed the vegetation.
“What happened here?” asked Kate with a low voice.
“There must have been a battle,” Ælfwine surmised. “Over there,” he nodded, “you can see where they buried the bodies.” The children strained their eyes to see small mounds of loose dirt; there were scores of them if not hundreds.
“Who fought?” asked Egil.
“Who can tell?” Ælfwine shrugged and began walking down the hill.
“Should we be here?” whispered Kate.
“There is no reason to linger,” the Elf granted, “but simply passing through should not cause offence to living or dead.”
“If you say so,” Kate replied doubtfully.
Walking down the slope, many details were revealed before their eyes. Pieces of broken blades or armour, shields destroyed beyond repair or use, fabric torn and discoloured. “I wonder why they fought on the flat land,” Ælfwine mumbled.
“How so?” asked Kate.
“You would think at least one of the commanders would have positioned their army upon the hills to gain that advantage,” the Elf speculated. “No arrows or marks left by hooves. This was an engagement of foot soldiers.”
“You’re so good at noticing,” the kitchen girl spoke with admiration.
“He is,” Egil nodded eagerly. “It was the same in Heohlond. He could deduce so much.”
“They are just simple observations,” Ælfwine told them modestly. “Besides, it is of no concern to us. We should leave this place of death before night falls.” He picked up the pace, and the youths hurried to keep up with him.
~~~~
Camp that evening was made in unusual silence; neither the girl nor the boy spoke while Ælfwine struck fire, warding off the darkness for the night. They had all made themselves a place to sleep when Kate finally spoke. “Master Ælfwine, did you ever fight in a battle like that?”
Unlike previous nights, this was not followed up immediately by another question; both the children simply stared at the Elf waiting. He cleared his throat. “I did. Many times. Gods grant I never have to again.”
“What did you fight for?” Egil asked.
“I fought… We fought…” Ælfwine’s voice trailed off, but his companions did not interrupt him. “We defended ourselves.”
Silence followed until it became clear he would not add to his answer. “Did you win?”
“We won and we lost. There is nothing left.” He exhaled deeply.
“How do you mean?” she questioned him.
“If you are in the wastelands with nothing but a water skin and meet someone who tries to take it away,” Ælfwine explained hesitantly. “If you fend him off, but spill all the water in the process, did you win or did you lose?”
“That sounds like you lost,” Kate contemplated.
“I think so as well.”
“Is that why you live in the Alfskog?” Egil wondered.
Ælfwine closed his eyes. “We should sleep. We have a long way ahead of us yet.” The children looked at him, but when he did not stir or speak again, they did as he had done.
~~~~
To reduce the time spent on gathering food, Ælfwine decided to enter a village on their way, bartering for food with the few coins Egil and Kate had available. Putting on his blindfold, the Elf played the beggar escorting his young kinsfolk to other relatives. Anxiety had touched the villagers after the battles and armies in the vicinity, but they saw no threat from an old, blind man and two children. In fact, they eagerly questioned the travellers for news; when curiosity had been satisfied and food traded for silver, the three companions were given leave to sleep in a barn with a roof and hay for a bed.
“What’s that noise?” asked Kate. They had each found a place to rest for the night, but the sound of small creatures scurrying about could be heard.
“Probably rats,” Egil considered. “There are plenty of them in an army camp. You get used to it.”
“I don’t want to get used to rats,” she declared offended. “If someone let rats live in the Citadel kitchens, they’d get a smacking, and rightfully so!”
“This is a barn. There’s bound to be rats,” Egil countered.
“I think it’s just one, but it sounds really big.” Kate pulled her cloak tight around her. “There!”
“Where?”
“Over there. I think.” She bit her lip. “It’s hard to see in the dark, but there was definitely movement.”
“Will you two be quiet,” Ælfwine demanded.
“I just keep imagining that big rat crawling onto me while I sleep,” Kate complained.
“Now I am imagining it,” Egil whined.
The sound of tiny feet tripping through the hay could be heard, making both the children squirm and squeal. “For gods’ sake!” In the blink of an eye, Ælfwine sat up and flicked his wrist; his dagger flew through the air in the dark, impaling something against the wooden framework of the barn. “Fetch my blade, clean it, and go to sleep!” he commanded of Egil, throwing the knife scabbard at the boy. With eyes darting between Kate and Ælfwine, Egil got up and moved over to where the Elf’s dagger had struck. He found a large rat, impaled against the wall.
~~~~
The younger travellers woke early in the morning as the oldest of their company held a hand to cover each of their mouths. “Wake up,” he whispered emphatically. Both children reacted by twitching and making mumbling sounds until they became aware of their surroundings and Ælfwine. “Be quiet,” he commanded in a low voice. Only when both of them were still did he remove his hands.
“What’s going on?” Kate whispered.
“There are armed men in the square,” Ælfwine explained, keeping his voice low. “Twenty or so. They wear no emblems, so I suspect they are bandits rather than soldiers. Best we put some distance between them and us.”
“They can’t be looking for any of us, can they?” asked Egil.
“And we don’t have anything worth stealing,” Kate added.
“Regardless,” the Elf spoke impatiently, “let us not wait to find out their motives. Get up, hurry!”
“What about the townspeople?” asked Egil as he stood up.
“Since they live here, I imagine they prefer to stay,” Ælfwine replied.
“But if they’re bandits, they’ll take what these people have. Probably all their food, and they might starve come winter,” Kate objected, brushing some hay away from her dress.
“How can we leave with the food they sold us if their own food will get stolen?” asked Egil with wide eyes.
“Merchants do it all the time,” Ælfwine said dismissively. “It is called the principle of bartering. No more talk, get going!”
“But you’re an Elf,” Kate argued. Neither of the children had moved one inch. “You can bewitch people, can’t you?”
“If I could, would I bother carrying around a sword?” Ælfwine hissed. “This is not something to debate!”
“You can fight,” Egil pointed out. “You’re a better warrior than any of them. You killed all those brigands that were after us in Heohlond.”
“I knew it! Kate declared eagerly. “You got witching powers!”
“I fought maybe six or so, not twenty,” Ælfwine retorted. “I have no armour but this leather tunic, and you want me to fight twenty men on my own? One arrow in the right place and I am done for. Did you bring me all this way just to get me killed?”
“I think you can do it,” Egil proclaimed.
“For what purpose? There must be scores of these bands roaming the land. This is what happens when wars drag on and armies lose battles,” Ælfwine informed them. “Men get desperate, and with no tool or trade but blades and battle, they turn to banditry. It will not make a difference if I fight them.”
“But –” Egil began to say.
“Silence! Now follow me,” Ælfwine commanded, and he left the barn.
Outside stood two armed men. They had been checking the outlying buildings, making sure every villager was accounted for. At the sight of the travellers, they grinned at each other. “Got ourselves a few more chickens hiding in the coop!”
Their laughter died as Ælfwine turned his eyes on them. One of them raised his axe while the other fumbled to pull a sword from its scabbard. The Elf was faster. His knife was in his hand one moment, embedded into the axeman’s chest the next; by the time the other brigand had pulled his sword out, the dagger sat in his eye.
Kate and Egil crept forward as Ælfwine cleaned his weapon, staring at the bodies. “They’ll notice they are dead, and then they’ll come after us,” Egil pointed out. “If we leave now, we’ll be hunted.”
“Unless someone stops them now,” Kate added.
Ælfwine stared at them. “Seven and Eighth, you will be the death of me,” he swore, pulling off his cloak with angry movements. “You will both stay here and stay hidden. Do you understand?” he asked sharply. They both nodded vigorously. Clenching his jaw, Ælfwine adjusted his sword belt and walked away with forceful steps. They waited a few moments before sneaking after him.
In the village centre, a band of armed men were gathered. The villagers were forming a circle around them, but not of their own volition; threats and rough treatment had called them to assemble. “It’s a simple matter,” one of the ruffians explained. “My men need food for a week. Give us that, and we’ll be off with no further harm.” Some of his men eyed the women of the village, gainsaying his promise that the harassment could be at an end so easily. “Though we require more than simply food to subsist. Bring out your silver in a pile before me. I’ll let you know when your payment for our protection is sufficient.”
The villagers exchanged glances. “If you want food, we’ll give you what we can spare. But with the taxes we have to pay, there’s nary a silver coin in all the village,” an elderly man claimed, ostensibly the town alderman.
The bandits gave a coarse laughter, and their leader stepped towards the old man, who stood next to a young woman and a small boy no more than five. “Your daughter and grandchild, I’m guessing,” he told the alderman. “Or your son’s wife, perhaps. It makes little difference to me.” He picked up the boy in his arms. His mother reached out in vain with a desperate expression upon seeing her child in the outlaw’s arms; the old man placed his hand on her shoulder to keep her back. “Just as this boy means little to me,” the bandit added. He walked a few steps back towards his own men, making him more visible to the other villagers as well. “But I imagine he means a lot to you,” he continued with a louder voice, glancing at the other peasants. “Is the silver you have hidden away worth more to you than this boy’s life?”
“Enough.” The word was spoken calmly; thanks to the silence that had already fallen onto the crowd, it was easily heard. Bandits and villagers turned as one to see the speaker. A tall wanderer, clad only in leather with a sword and knife in his belt, stood calmly awaiting their gaze. Upon seeing his eyes that had but one colour in them, the outlaws retreated several steps, opening a path between him and their leader.
“It’s a ghoul,” someone whispered.
“A fiend!” another declared.
Ælfwine strode forward without fear through the pack of bandits until he stood a few paces away from their leader. “I have killed two of your men already. Leave now, or I will kill you all.”
“Chief, what should we do?”
“He’s a fell creature, chief, let’s bolt!”
“Silence, you dogs! And you, whatever demon you may be.” While he spoke, the bandit put the small boy down on the ground, but kept one hand on his head; the other hand pulled out a knife. Not understanding what was happening, the boy began to cry, looking at his mother. “Drop your weapons or he gets it.” Encouraged by their chief’s example, some of the other brigands moved to circle around Ælfwine.
With his left hand, the Elf pulled his dagger from its sheath, turned it between his fingers to hold it by the tip, and launched it at the leader of the outlaws. It happened within the blink of an eye. Although not balanced for throwing, Ælfwine’s aim was close enough that the dagger embedded itself into the unprotected throat of its target. The chief dropped his own knife and his hold on the boy, clutching the wound with both hands while sinking to the ground.
There was the briefest of moments while the outlaws realised this turn of events and what it meant; outraged, they charged wielding blade, axe, or club.
Ælfwine was one step ahead of them. He leapt forward, crouched low, picked up the small boy into his left arm, and held him close to his own body while his right hand drew his sword. Strange waves lay in patterns along the blade, and the leather strip that was wound around the pommel came loose to reveal a red gemstone; few if any took note of this as the bandits closed in from all sides.
Clutching the boy closely, Ælfwine stayed in constant movement. Most attacks he evaded, occasionally letting his leather protect against a weak blow. Each time his own sword struck, it removed an enemy. An axe swung out; he crouched and slashed its wielder across both ankles. A club came against his head, far too small a target to hit reliably; sidestepping, Ælfwine cut the club-wielding hands off at the wrists. Arrows flew from a few archers in the back, but with their own people crowding around the target, it was impossible to aim at the Elf and hope to hit him. A dagger was plunged at him, too close to evade; Ælfwine turned his body so the blade did not stab into him, but glanced against his leather. Turning his sword around, he used the pommel to strike his attacker’s chin, sending him flat on his back.
When the first five men lay dead or dying and Ælfwine still stood with battle fury ignited in his strange eyes, the bandits changed strategy. Some held onto their weapons, some threw them on the ground, but they all chose to flee, scattering in every direction. They left the Elf standing bruised and battered with a ring of corpses surrounding him; a bloody god of war in the midst of the carnage he had caused.
Breathing heavily and bleeding lightly from small cuts and gashes, Ælfwine finally stood still. He gazed around the village square with a perplexed look, as if it took him a moment to understand the enemy had fled. The boy no longer cried in his arm, appearing to be in shock; specks of blood were sprayed across his face. Lowering his sword and relaxing his stance, Ælfwine put the child down on the ground and took two steps away. The mother hurried over to grab her son tightly, looking up at the Elf with fearful eyes.
Looking at the villagers, they all mirrored her countenance and stared at the Elf, whose odd eyes stared back. “You should keep those and learn to use them,” he declared, pointing with his sword at the weapons left behind by the brigands. Grabbing cloth from a pouch on his belt, he stalked away while cleaning his blade before sheathing it, leaving the shocked villagers to gather their wits.
From their vantage point behind one of the houses, Kate and Egil hurried to cross the village and catch up with Ælfwine. “You did it!” Egil declared triumphantly.
“I did. Do you have our possessions? We leave immediately,” he informed them, not slowing his pace for one moment.
“They’re in the barn,” Kate told him, struggling to walk as fast as him. “Why are we hurrying away? You just saved those people!”
“Tomorrow, they may decide they fear the fiend more than those bandits,” Ælfwine explained. “Best we have some distance between us and them, should that happen.”
They did not argue further, but quickly collected their few belongings from the barn and set a course south. They had not walked more than a few hundred paces from the village when a voice behind them called out. “Wait!” Turning around, they saw the mother of the small boy hastily approach them, clutching something in her hands. As she reached them, she extended the item towards Egil, who stood closest. “Thank you,” she mumbled. As soon as Egil accepted it, she hastened away.
Opening the cloth bundle, they saw that it was half a cheese wheel, bits of sausage, and some apples. “See?” Kate smiled. “They are grateful.”
“Yes, had I known my reward would be a morsel of cheese, I never would have hesitated throwing myself into the fray against twenty men,” Ælfwine muttered sourly.
“I want one of the apples,” Egil declared.
“Less talk, more walk.” The trio continued south.
~~~~
When it became time to make camp for the night, Ælfwine forbade fire; they could not risk attracting any of the unsavoury folk that were marauding the area. So they sat in darkness, the children staring at the Elf as he examined his minor injuries and ensured they were clean.
“I have never seen a sword like yours,” Kate spoke with curious eyes at Ælfwine.
“How could you have seen it today when I bade you both stay away from the fighting,” he retorted without looking up.
They children exchanged guilty looks. “It’s sea-steel, isn’t it? I saw the high king’s crown once before he died. It had the same patterns,” Egil explained.
“What is it to you,” Ælfwine muttered.
“That sword must be worth a king’s ransom,” Egil continued. “How did you end up with it?”
“The smith gave it to me.”
Kate and Egil sat with eyes nearly bulging out. “The smith?”
The Elf breathed slowly. “Six items he made after unlocking the secret of the sea. A knife to test his prowess and four swords to follow, given to our champions,” Ælfwine spoke almost like a chant, still keeping his attention on himself. “Yet when he realised that his greatest work had no purpose but to kill, he took to the forge one last time and made a helmet for protection, giving it to our king that he might never die. It did not work.”
“That reminds me of something,” Kate considered. “Swords made from the sea. The swords of sea with count of four,” she continued. “That’s from the Song of Sigvard!”
“That may be. I have never heard it,” Ælfwine replied, finishing his examination of his wounds.
“It tells the story of the last battle in the Great War,” Egil explained. “The swords of sea were wielded by the Brothers Swordsmen, Alfbrand and Alfmod. Did you know them?”
A wry smile played around Ælfwine’s lips before it faded away. “They were cousins, not brothers.”
“Are the legends true?” it burst from Kate.
“That depends, what are the legends?”
“Alfbrand was the Bladesinger, and Alfmod was called the Dragonslayer. Wasn’t he?”
Ælfwine’s fingertips ran over the ruby in the pommel of his sword. There was enough moonlight to illuminate his shape, but they could not discern his face. “Yes.”
“Did he do it? Did he really kill a dragon?”
“Yes.”
The children stared at him with open mouths. “How?”
The Elf sat with closed eyes. He ran his hand over his forehead as if wiping away sweat, though the night was cold. “Fire and jaw, scales and claw,” he muttered to himself, suddenly opening his eyes to stare at the children. “Be thankful, you little fools, that you live in a time where all the dragons are gone.” He grabbed the water skin and drank greedily from it.
“What does Bladesinger mean?” Kate dared to ask after brief silence.
Ælfwine exhaled. “Alfbrand was the greatest champion of our people. When he moved his blade, it was a song made flesh to behold. There was never a swordsman like him under the sun, and there never shall be.” Noticing the children staring at him in wonder, he cleared his throat. “In any case, they were warriors, and we should not regard the skill of killing with such awe. I do know that neither Alfmod nor Alfbrand took delight in battle.”
“What about you? Aren’t you glad that you’re a good warrior? You saved that village,” Egil argued.
Ælfwine stared away from the children. “It is an ill deed to kill a child of the Alfather, whatever the cause.”
“Your people wanted to kill us just because we entered the Alfskog,” Egil pointed out.
“We have grown hardened,” Ælfwine admitted. “We consider it bleeding the patient to ensure his survival.”
“I don’t see how killing those bandits was a bad thing. Now they won’t ever hurt anyone again,” Kate added.
“You do not understand,” the Elf told them. “Death such as the battlefield we passed through is a blight upon the Song. One man’s violence may not cause much disruption, but that of thousands?” He held his fingertips against his brow as if suffering from headache. “I can barely hear it. Its absence is like a pressure against my mind that will not relent.”
The children looked at each other confused. “Master Ælfwine,” Kate asked cautiously, “are you hurt?”
He looked up at them. “I am a man in the wasteland who killed five others to defend my water skin, spilling it all.” He sat upright with a start, blinking a few times. “I am fine. Merely thoughts of old battles resurfacing. Time to sleep.” He lay down, rolling his cloak around himself. The children gesticulated and mouthed words to each other, silently discussing, until they both admitted ignorance with a shrug and lay down as well.
~~~~
At dawn, illuminated by the sunlight, Ælfwine seemed his normal self. “We avoid villages in the future,” he declared to his companions. “We will have to gather food for the remainder of the journey.” The children, who in contrast were less talkative than usual, accepted his decision by nodding. In silence, they broke camp.
They were about three weeks from the capital if they had travelled in a straight line, but because of Ælfwine’s caution, their journey was greatly extended. They had to spend an hour or longer on most days foraging for food; without a bow, hunting was impossible. Furthermore, they could not follow the brooks and rivers they encountered, as villages and towns inevitably were settled by these streams; because of this, they had to spend further time finding water. Lastly, progressing south meant entering more populated lands. As their surroundings grew lush, so did villages, fields, and herds grazing on green pastures.
On occasion, the children attempted to ask Ælfwine further questions about his blade, his past, or the Brothers Swordsmen; he ignored them entirely, refusing to yield even the briefest answer. Day after day, they trotted southwards with Kate and Egil talking among themselves and Ælfwine a few steps ahead.
Their strategy turned out to be effective if slow; travelling for five weeks away from roads, they had no further encounters since the village. Eventually, the twin summits of Valmark and Wyrmpeak grew in size to loom ahead of them; between those mountains lay Middanhal and their destination.
|
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|
Building Ships
Labdah
In the house of Hanno, the new fighters were becoming accustomed to their routine, especially as they found their place among the veterans, and fewer arguments broke out. When such happened, it was settled in the training yard, and few held grudges afterwards. An exception was the mamluk, who stared with ill intent upon Garrick whether they were bathing, eating, or training.
“Ignore him,” Majid suggested. They were taking a break from this morning’s practice, refreshing themselves with cool water. “You have the respect of the rest, which is more than I expected from one of the ajam.”
“Having many friends is good, but it only takes one enemy to bring you down,” Garrick muttered, splashing water onto his face.
“Yet it’s your friends that betray you, never your enemies. You can’t defend against the blade you never see coming,” Majid countered.
“You’re so cheerful. I’m glad we’re not friends,” Garrick retorted, softening the remark with a grin.
“As you should be! Was I your friend, I’d hide the truth about your pitiful performance. Luckily, I am happy to tell you that you might improve.”
“Lucky me.”
“You still hesitate before you strike. It must be instinct, Ajama, instinct!”
“I’m going to do my best that we might win on Evenday,” Garrick promised. “Since that seems my best chance to be rid of you.”
“Whatever motivates you,” Majid replied; his grin appeared behind the rag he was wiping sweat and water from his face with. “Who knows? In years’ time, you may be the champion winning freedom and fame on Evenday.”
“Years,” Garrick scoffed. “I’ll play this game for now, but I’m not sticking around that long.”
“You wish so badly to return to your northern lands? Is someone waiting for you?”
“No, nothing like that,” he admitted. “Well, at one point, there was a girl back home.”
Majid grinned. “There always is in these stories.”
“I joined the Order for a campaign. Get some silver, enough to start a new life somewhere. It was just meant to be for a summer or two.”
“I take it that wasn’t what happened.”
Garrick shook his head. “Campaign dragged on for years. Letters stopped arriving from home. I never went back – stayed with the Order for a full seven years and became a temple guard after that.”
“All I hear,” Majid began to say, “is that you have nothing waiting for you at home. That in fact, here on the sands you may for the first time in your life accomplish something of worth.” Before Garrick could reply, the veteran fighter put his helmet back on. “Back to training! Words won’t win us any fights.”
~~~~
In the parlour of their private wing, Jana sat reading a book. It was slightly worn, as she had brought it with her from Alcázar and read it many times over the years. In the vicinity, Dalia was pacing around. At the door leading out of the wing, Salim stood watch.
“Perhaps I should retire to my chamber,” Jana considered, closing her book.
“What? Why?”
“Dalia, have you ever tried reading with someone circling you?”
“Do not be silly, dearest, you know I never read.”
“That was foolish of me,” Jana admitted, standing up.
“No, do not leave me!” Dalia moved to block her path. “If you leave me alone, I shall go mad!”
“It seems too late for that,” her sister remarked.
“I need your company to distract me! Besides, you have read those boring old poems time and time again. It is no harm for you to lay those aside and comfort me in my time in need. Some might even say it is your duty,” Dalia sniffed.
“I shall overlook your comment on al-Tayir,” Jana told her pointedly. “And while I will regret asking, I accept my fate. What has you in such a state?”
“It has been more than an hour since Maharbal came to visit, and he is still with Lord Hiram!” Exasperation filled Dalia’s face. “Salim, will you please go and find out if they have finished their discussion?”
“My dear, I am sure Maharbal will come here the moment they are done. There is no need to inconvenience Salim,” Jana pointed out. By the door, Salim waved his hands in front of him, indicating that he was only too happy to leave. “Very well. Go on,” Jana told him. “Traitor,” she mouthed at him; with a relieved expression, Salim left the chamber.
“I simply cannot understand what would take them so long!” Dalia exclaimed in frustration.
“They are both Elders of the Council with an important decision coming up. Of course they have matters to discuss,” Jana reminded her.
“I thought it was a simple matter. Why would the Council be opposed to cordial relations between Labdah and Alcázar? You and I will marry two of the Elders, it seems a formality by now.” Dalia sat down on a sofa, looking perplexed.
“Two of the Elders out of twelve. That is very far from securing our father the alliance he wants.”
“Alliance? I thought this was simply about putting the wars of the past behind us,” Dalia said with confusion.
“You do not know our father very well, do you.”
“I never spent much time with him.” Dalia gave a shrug.
“As long as I can remember, Father has been obsessed with Adalmearc.”
“Those wild men from the north?” Laughter issued from Dalia.
Annoyance moved across Jana’s face, disappearing again. “Those ‘wild men’ have the best steel in the world, and their knights are a match for our mamluks in war.”
“Surely that cannot be a problem. I would wager Salim could handle any of these knights in a fight.”
“Maybe,” Jana granted, “but for each Salim, the Realms have ten knights. Anyway, that is beside the point.”
“Does this lecture have a point, then?” asked Dalia.
“Their ships control the trade between their lands and our city. Furthermore, most goods in our city must be sold to Adalmearc – they are far more numerous than the cities around the Inner Sea. If the northerners wanted, they could extinguish all trade and starve us of coin,” Jana explained patiently.
“But they would hurt themselves as well!” Dalia pointed out eagerly. “They would not receive any of the goods we sell to them!”
“True, but those are luxuries. Silk, cotton, spices, and the like – the Realms would survive without such trade. Left without the coin from northern trade, not to mention northern timber and iron, Alcázar would languish.”
“You say luxuries, but really, can you imagine living through summer without wearing silk?” Dalia assumed a superior expression. “Or imagine having food without spices! People would riot, I am sure.”
Jana took a deep breath. “I think I hear Maharbal in the hallway. You should go and see.” Without hesitation, her sister leapt from the sofa and hurried to look.
~~~~
Hiram sat in a soft chair, leaning back. A slave appeared, serving a cooled drink on a tray. “There is no need for this excitement,” Hiram declared, taking a sip from the glass offered to him.
“How can you be so calm?” asked Maharbal. “The Council is meeting soon, and at least half of them are opposed to our proposal!” He was too agitated to sit down or even stand still, walking around the luxurious chambers where Hiram received visitors.
“We only need the other half,” Hiram declared calmly.
“We need more than that! I sincerely doubt that Elder Mago would decide a tie in our favour, given he is among those opposing us,” Maharbal complained.
“Of course, I simply meant it matters not if some oppose us,” the other nobleman clarified with slight irritation. “We have the support we need.”
“How can that be? I have discussed the meeting with several of the Elders, and they all seem staunchly opposed.”
“As I instructed them to be,” Hiram explained patiently, “else Mago would find out and pressure them to support him instead. I do not intend to show my ledger beforehand. Better to keep the old man in the dark.”
“You are certain it is Elder Mago and not you who are being deceived?”
“Yes,” Hiram declared confidently. “Now calm yourself. I have the matter well in hand.”
“Our future depends on this. Neither of us can expect the Kabir to let us wed his daughters if we cannot secure this for him.”
“In that case, I suggest you trust me,” Hiram told him brusquely. “Would that be all? I do have preparations to make before the meeting.”
Maharbal swallowed before inclining his head. “Very well. I trust you, Lord Hiram.”
“Good. May I suggest you go and visit your betrothed? I am sure she would be delighted.”
“I shall follow your suggestion.” With a slight bow, Maharbal turned to leave. Outside in the hallway, Jawad removed his ear from the door and resumed his pretence as an unremarkable servant to Maharbal.
~~~~
In one of the courtyards, the princes of Alcázar were exchanging blows. As the blades were blunted, there was little danger involved; the worst that either received was a few bruises. At length, Saif raised his hand. “Enough,” he called out, catching his breath.
“Have you had enough?” While his breathing was also belaboured, Jalil had the energy to smile.
“No need to over-exert ourselves, little brother,” Saif replied, speaking the familial term with gentle mocking. “We have important days ahead of us.”
“I am hardly exerted,” Jalil bragged, swinging his sword in a few circles. “But as you wish.” They both handed their weapons over for one slave to stash away, while others approached with cloth and cups of wine. “I am glad this is soon over. This city has little excitement compared to Alcázar.”
“What city can compare with Alcázar?” asked Saif, wiping his sweat away. He gave the cloth back to the slave and took the cup of wine. “Though we may be unfair. The games at Evenday promise a spectacle to remember, I am sure.”
His brother mirrored Saif’s movements, wiping himself dry before letting the cloth fall to the ground, where the slave immediately removed it. “I suppose. I will admit, the thought is exciting, but I am unsure if it will truly satisfy. From what I hear, they do not fight to the death.” He emptied his goblet of wine in one draught, holding it out again that it might be refilled. “I imagine that dulls the affair. You cannot expect the fighters to truly give their best if their lives are not at stake.”
“I am not sure about that,” Saif considered. “At Lord Hiram’s feast, the fighters gave us a splendid spectacle, and that was merely for our benefit. Imagine when they actually fight on the sands in front of the entire city.”
“I did not expect to learn anything from these poison peddlers,” Jalil admitted, sipping from his wine again, “but perhaps we should consider hosting games in Alcázar.”
“If you think you can persuade Father. I imagine he has other things on his minds.”
“I can be persuasive,” Jalil claimed. “Not to mention, Father will not be the Kabir forever. I do not doubt his successor will see the wisdom of my ideas.” His self-satisfied smile left no doubt as to whom he imagined the Kabir’s heir would be.
“Do not sail before the ship is built, little brother,” Saif warned, turning on his heel to leave the yard.
“At least I am building mine,” Jalil muttered, staring at his brother’s back.
~~~~
At the end of another training day, Garrick returned to his cell after he had washed and bathed. He knelt by the cot serving as his bed, clasping the pendant he wore around his neck.
“Rihimil,” he prayed, clutching the wooden carving of the god, “I have always revered you above all others. Grant me victory, I beg of you. See me through the trials ahead. Keep your wing over me through this Evenday, and I shall bring you tribute on that day all my years. Let me have a second chance, and I shall cherish it. Give me the opportunity to atone.”
“Keep praying,” sneered a voice by the door. It was the mamluk, staring down on Garrick with malice.
“Even a dog can learn to speak, I see,” Garrick retorted, standing up quickly and balling his fists.
“I am no ignorant ajama like you,” the mamluk spat. “You are a lamb among wolves, and you will be devoured. On the sands or elsewhere, it does not matter.”
“Keep barking. You’re nothing but a thrall,” the northerner spoke in contempt. “You were born in chains, and you will die in chains.”
The mamluk smiled with disdain. “The rats of the street are also born free. I was trained by the finest warriors in Dār al-Imāra while you suckled on your mother’s teat! I despise you, Ajama, as I despise all the ajam. You will not leave this house alive, this I swear to you.”
“What’s going on?” yelled a voice in Suthspeech. A guard came walking down the hallway, raising his staff in warning. “Get to your cell!”
The mamluk inclined his head with a subservient smile. He had time to send a final sneer towards the northerner before disappearing to his own room. The guard appeared in the doorway, speaking brusque words to Garrick.
“Yeah, I’ll go to sleep,” he replied with weariness, sitting down on his cot. The guard continued on his round; lying down on his bed, Garrick let his fingers run over the smooth wood that hung around his neck.
~~~~
When midnight had barely passed, guards and slaves crossed the city, bringing Elder Mago to the Emerald Tower once more. As always, a necklace filled with green gemstones rested on his chest, signalling his rank as leader of the Council and Eldest of the Elders. Wearing it, none barred his entry into the Tower, and he ascended its inner staircase; two slaves, each carrying a small chest, followed him.
After passing the many levels indecipherable sounds and smells emitting from behind every door, Mago reached the top chamber. He knocked.
“Enter.”
“I hail you, sage of the tower,” Mago spoke as he stepped inside, followed by his servants.
“Hail, Eldest. I have finished examining the gifts sent to you.” The alchemist gestured towards the various items given to Mago by the princes of Alcázar. “But you have come for another purpose.”
“I have.” Mago gestured for his servants to place the chests in their arms on the ground. “Leave us.” While their tongues had been cut out and they were forbidden from learning how to write, all to ensure they could not reveal their master’s secrets, Mago had not become Eldest of the city by being careless. He waited until he had seen the slaves go down the stairs before he closed the door and turned to face the sage again.
“What is this?” The aged man nodded towards the small chests.
Mago opened one of them, revealing various objects of great value. Various items of clothing and jewellery, a dagger in a sheath set with gems, and flasks of spirits. “Once the Council rejects the proposal from Alcázar, the visiting princes will each be given a chest of gifts to soften the blow.”
The alchemist raised an eyebrow. “I hope you don’t intend for me to poison the brew. Any novice could do that.”
“Far too obvious,” Mago smiled. “Besides, I do not want the princes dead. It would be too easy to deduce our involvement, and the Kabir can hardly overlook the death of his sons. I wish to send a warning, not a declaration of war.”
“What did you have in mind?”
“Some manner of concoction to make them violently ill. A reminder that we could have done far worse, and the Kabir should look elsewhere than Labdah.”
The alchemist approached the gifts. He leaned down to inspect them, though avoided touching any. “Something absorbed through the skin,” he considered, looking at the clothes and jewels. “That should be simple.”
“Excellent. The Council will make its decision on Evenday. Afterwards, I imagine the princes will be kindly asked to return to Alcázar.” Mago gave another smile. “I will require it ready by then.”
“As you wish, Eldest.” The sage straightened his back as much as his advanced age allowed. “You are certain the Council will vote with you, then?”
“It is guaranteed. Hiram believes he has swayed some, but he is an upstart,” Mago sneered. “His schemes are laughable and easy to see through. Half the Council has promised to support him, yet they are in my pocket.” He patted his robe as if the Elders were hiding inside.
“As you say, Eldest.”
“You doubt me.”
The alchemist gave a cough. “I would never, Eldest. I am no Councillor, merely a sage. As I have been for many, many years.” His voice came so crisp, it sounded like a chain rusted with age.
“Longer than I have been the Eldest, you mean.”
“Longer than you have been on the Council,” the sage added. “Longer than you would care to know.”
Mago stared at the alchemist, surrounded by the countless trophies of his arts and hidden knowledge. “I need it by Evenday,” he reiterated, turning around to leave.
Outside, hearing the conversation reaching its end, Jawad retreated from the door and made his escape from the Emerald Tower.
|
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|
Who We Are
Middanhal
As the day of the Adalthing arrived, unease could be felt in the air. The Adalthing was meant to convene the day after summer solstice, and meeting so early in spring felt eerie to many. This was exacerbated by the fact that the Adalthing had also met out of time last year, and repeating this felt like an ill omen to many of its members. Most of these noblemen preferred to be left in peace without the Crown interfering in how they governed and taxed their estates; gathering the Adalthing to meddle in the Crown’s affairs invited the latter to meddle in theirs. Furthermore, with the grim topic of traitors and executions looming, the stage was set for a bleak assembly.
There was none of the merriment and idle talk between the different noblemen and their families, who would usually only meet for this occasion at solstice. As noon approached, the lords gathered in the hall of the Adalthing. With the absence of Jarl Isarn, his margraves, and four of the northern landgraves, the chamber seemed large and almost empty. Jarl Theodstan and his followers congregated in the northern part, appearing very few in number. Jarl Ingmond arrived with his vassals as did Jarl Vale, and the southern landgraves moved back and forth between their groups or occasionally formed their own. Other than the absence of the rebellious lords, a key difference from last year’s assembly was that the throne was once more occupied. Although he was not king and had no formal role in the Adalthing yet, Hardmar had taken the seat with a satisfied expression, and none had seen cause to argue against it.
The balconies were full of spectators. The high priest of the blackrobes in Middanhal with his silver-threaded clothing was present, as was Edwin, alderman of the guilds. Sir William had found a location and stood surrounded by several women such as Arndis and Theodwyn, friends of his former ward Eleanor, who was also by his side; Geberic and Glaukos stood nearby. Arion, chamberlain to the jarl of Vale, was another in the audience, and eventually the guards had to turn people away from walking up the stairs.
As the noon bell resonated through the castle, Quill called the assembly to order. First, the ritual had to be overseen. Each present member of the Adalthing was consecrated by the priestess of Disfara and swore the oath to uphold the Adalthing, its laws, and its decisions. With the gathering sanctified, the trials could begin.
~~~~
The first brought to the room was Elis, landgrave and former dragonlord. His imprisonment had lasted many months now, and he bore the signs. His clothing was ragged and filthy, and the lords standing near the entrance shied away from the stench as he was dragged in by two Hawks. His hair was long and unkempt, his nails ragged and torn. He raised his hands to shield his eyes against the daylight and stood a pitiful sight with chains around his wrists, which had left the skin raw and red.
As dragonlord, Konstans stated the allegation against him. He conspired with the rebels to surrender the Citadel to them; thus, the charge was treason by aiding a rebellion against the Crown. Witness to this was Isabel of Hæthiod; although absent, her testimony had been heard by Theobald, captain of the Citadel, who repeated it before the Adalthing. Elis had revealed his plans to betray the defenders and ensure the castle fell into the hands of the Isarn army, and Isabel had subsequently informed the captain. Soon after, the rebels had carried out a nightly assault, though it was foiled as Elis’ treachery had been unmasked beforehand.
The charge and evidence presented, Quill turned towards Elis. “You may speak in your own defence now, my lord, or if you admit your guilt, you may call for the Adalthing to show mercy.”
Elis licked his lips. “I am innocent,” he claimed. “The only evidence against me is that of a woman, who is not even present. Why would I, a landgrave of the south, seek to aid these murderous northerners?” He glanced around the hall at the other noblemen from the south, avoiding Theodoric and his men. “I am the victim of a plot to see me fall.”
“It is working,” someone remarked with harsh laughter.
“Silence,” Quill commanded. “The prisoner alone may speak.”
“I see that my enemies are numerous and have infiltrated even this place,” Elis continued, straightening up as much as he could. “I will find no justice here. I demand my guilt is determined through trial by combat instead.”
The noblemen exchanged glances. “Unfortunately, my lord, trial by combat is only permitted in disputes of honour and when evidence is absent. You stand accused of treason, and evidence has been brought against you. For either of these reasons, your request cannot be granted,” Quill explained, making many of the lords grin at Elis’ despondent appearance.
“I am innocent,” Elis reiterated, though his voice was growing faint. “I do not deserve this.”
“Enough,” Konstans declared.
“I do not deserve,” Elis continued, stammering to himself.
“Let us have the voices counted,” the dragonlord commanded, to which Quill nodded. He began the ritual questioning, asking each member to state whether he considered the accused to be guilty or innocent in the charge brought against him. All declared him to be guilty.
“George, landgrave of Elis, the Adalthing has spoken with one voice. You are found guilty of treason, which may be punished by geld, exile, or death. Furthermore, the right of your house to inherit your title is no longer guaranteed,” Quill proclaimed.
“Execution!” Hardmar announced loudly, making everyone turn towards him. “The only reward for treason is death.”
Konstans cleared his throat. “The doom placed upon him shall be execution by the axe. Remove the prisoner.”
“Innocent,” Elis croaked as the Hawks dragged him out.
~~~~
Shortly after, three men were brought to the hall. One pushed against the guards, one walked with bowed head, and one moved with dignity. “Isenwald of Isarn, Athelstan of Isarn, Eumund of Isarn, you stand accused of high treason. You broke the king’s peace with the aim to seize the throne for your lord. You led armies against the Order of Adal in open rebellion. You assaulted the garrison of Middanhal through deceit in order to further this aim. Furthermore, Sir Athelstan and Sir Eumund, you broke your oath as knights and the loyalty you owed the king, or in his absence, the lord protector at the time,” Konstans declared.
“As you have surrendered after battle as part of rebellious forces, no further evidence has been considered necessary,” Quill explained. “Yet you may all speak in plea of mercy, asking the Adalthing to absolve you of your crimes.”
As the first accused, Isenwald spoke first. “I have nothing to say,” he declared.
“Thank the gods, or we would be here all year,” someone jested, evoking grim laughter.
Eumund glanced around the room. “Give me a sword, and I would gut each of you like the fat pigs you are,” he proclaimed with an acerbic voice. “I would rather have death than mercy from any of you.” He caused a murmur; many met his contempt with their own disdain, while others expressed some measure of respect.
Athelstan spoke as the last, but before any words left his tongue, he let his eyes move slowly among the collection of lords. “I am resigned to my fate. I make no apologies nor excuses for my actions. I once did more for this realm than any man standing in this hall, and I received only exile in Alcázar as reward. I did more than any man here to hurt this realm, and now I shall receive death. Hero or villain, our fate in this life remains the same.” He glanced up at the balcony and let his gaze rest upon Arndis. “I bid you all farewell, knowing you shall never see the like of me again.”
“Enough,” yelled Hardmar. “Let us get on with it.”
“Let us count,” Konstans demanded, and each lord proceeded to state for each prisoner whether they favoured him to be punished for his guilt or not. As with Elis, there was never any doubt about the outcome.
“Isenwald of Isarn, Athelstan of Isarn, Eumund of Isarn, the Adalthing has spoken with one voice. You are found guilty of high treason, which may be punished by exile or death. Furthermore, Athelstan of Isarn and Eumund of Isarn have forfeited their rank as knights. You shall each be pronounced a knave and have your sword broken.”
“They will be dead long before that,” Hardmar laughed. A few noblemen joined his laughter anxiously.
“All the prisoners are condemned to execution by the axe,” Konstans announced. “Return them to the dungeons.”
~~~~
When the last prisoner was brought to the chamber of the Adalthing, murmur rose from the floor and on the balconies. The previous trials had been matters of formality; this was the one that would be discussed for years to come. Walking tall, Brand entered the hall flanked by guards. His incarceration had not had time to leave as great a mark upon him as the other prisoners; although his clothes were dirty and torn in places, he seemed unbroken in spirit and body. His strong blue eyes moved from one lord to the next, causing some to shrink. Others gave a curt nod in greeting and acknowledgement, which Brand returned. A few had entirely different reactions; Ingmond stared with unbridled hate at the chained knight.
Quill called for silence, and once it had been obtained, Konstans could pronounce the charges. “Sir Adalbrand, you stand accused of high treason and related crimes. They are as follows,” the dragonlord proclaimed. “You sought an alliance with the king of Korndale in order to lead his armies against Middanhal, either to put him or yourself upon the throne.” Mutterings erupted among the audience.
“Silence,” Quill demanded.
“You gathered men to your personal guard as thanes, despite not having that privilege,” Konstans continued. “Lastly, you violated the Knight’s Codex and its command to act in a righteous manner against your enemies by poisoning them in order to conquer the city of Tothmor.”
There was a clamour of voices upon hearing the final charge. “Silence,” Quill repeated, “there must be order in the chamber. Proceed, my lord,” he told Konstans.
“In my hand, I hold a letter from my reeve in Plenmont,” Konstans told the assembly, holding it high. “It proves the first accusation as it recounts how the king of Korndale is seeking to strengthen his claim upon the throne of Adalrik through marriage to Sir Adalbrand’s sister, Lady Arndis.” A number of eyes turned towards the woman, who looked as perplexed as any. “It further explains the source of this intelligence, proving it to be trustworthy.” At the last word, Brand smiled.
“We will pause these proceedings later to allow any to investigate the letter,” Quill declared. “Continue, my lord.”
“The second charge requires little explanation. When I came to arrest Sir Adalbrand, his men fought without fear of death to defend him rather than stand aside. Neither of them are Order soldiers. One is in fact a former thane of the jarl of Theodstan, and the other a former Blade of the queen of Hæthiod. Both have shifted allegiance towards Sir Adalbrand, defending him in the manner of thanes. Even if we set aside the perversion of these thanes abandoning their former masters, Sir Adalbrand has usurped the privilege of the high nobility to name thanes. This is a direct threat against the Adalthing,” Konstans claimed. Brand scoffed in response.
“On with it,” Hardmar demanded. “Tell us about the poison!”
Konstans gave a grim smile. “In order to weaken the defenders of Tothmor, Sir Adalbrand had the water supply poisoned. I have demanded of Sir William that he stands witness, but he has refused.” This caused another wave of conversation to flood over the hall with many staring at the famous knight. For his part, William showed no emotion. “I have letter again explaining the events and Sir Adalbrand’s dishonourable actions,” Konstans elaborated, pulling out another piece of paper from his clothing. “It reveals the details of the assault upon Tothmor, explains how the garrison was too weak to fight back, and how the contaminated water had to be disposed of. The honourable Sir Vilmund has signed the letter as witness of its veracity in describing these events.” Bitter laughter ensued from Brand.
“We shall halt this trial for an hour,” Quill announced with an eye towards the water clock that stood near the throne, “to allow any that so desires to read the contents of the letters.”
~~~~
While Brand was allowed to read the missives as the first, the remaining people present gathered into small groups and hushed conversations. As the exception, Hardmar sat alone. His eyes swept over the assembly, noting how the noblemen were dispersed or with whom they gathered, or he gazed up at the balcony.
Arndis stared at her brother. “Would your testimony have changed anything?” she asked William while looking ahead.
“Nothing I could say under holy oath would have helped Brand,” the knight admitted quietly.
Frustration danced across Arndis’ face before she composed herself. “I understand,” she spoke tonelessly.
Eleanor gave a shiver and placed her arm inside William’s. “This is all so dreadful.” Next to them, Theodwyn stood silent.
Her brother was on the floor of the hall, surrounded by his margraves. Remarks were being exchanged along with worried looks, and they seemed most of all a group under siege.
The southern lords were livelier, many of them engaged in discussions. More than one expressed satisfaction that the first of the rebels would soon face justice, and it was only a matter of time before Jarl Isarn himself followed his sons and brother to the scaffold. Some questioned Brand’s guilt; Jarl Ingmond brooked no disagreement in that respect and added that the axe was far too good and swift a fate.
Jarl Vale, lord protector of the realm, was remarkably silent. The proceedings of the Adalthing were generally led by the King’s Quill and the dragonlord, and he had not interfered with this arrangement. While his vassals were conversing loudly around him, the jarl himself mostly stared at the water clock.
His brother made up for this, being in high spirits. Both margraves and landgraves commended him for unmasking this treachery before it could come to fruition, and the dragonlord received their praise with smiles and grace, even making jests.
Quill had left the hall. He appeared again on the balcony, carrying on a quiet conversation with the high priest of the blackrobes. They made sure none could overhear the words exchanged; the only thing discernible was that the blackrobe shook his head slightly before the conversation ended.
~~~~
As the hour drew to its close, Quill returned to the hall and resumed the proceedings. Brand was given the floor to defend himself, now that he had seen the proof against him. “My lords,” he began. “You have heard the accusations against me, and you have seen the evidence against me. Yet Lord Konstans has been far too kind. He is too humble a man, I assume, or perhaps he feared to tire this assembly by going into lengthy details. Allow me to purge my soul and confess all the reasons I stand in chains on this day.”
“My first crime was to be born Adalbrand of House Arnling, atheling of Arn, atheling of Sigvard. My ancestry, proclaimed in my very name, gives these mighty lords cause to fear.” He let his gaze move from Konstans to Hardmar before it swept over the rest of the assembly. Some seemed to listen; others met Brand’s attempt to defend himself with little regard. “My next crime was leading an army across the Weolcans together with Sir Richard of Alwood and Jarl Theodoric of Theodstan.” As he mentioned the latter name, Brand motioned towards its wearer. Theodoric did not seem pleased or proud.
“After that, in the company of the same lords, I had the audacity to liberate Middanhal from Isenwald of Isarn. I continued by defeating Isenhart of Isarn upon the battlefield, and having not learned from my past mistakes, I finished my spree of transgressions by defeating Athelstan and Eumund of Isarn. In fact, each of the men whom you just condemned for high treason was only in chains because of me.”
“And we did nothing?” one of Vale’s margraves jeered, which several of his brethren agreed with.
Ignoring the outburst, Brand continued. “Given two thousand men and the company of the esteemed Sir William,” he spoke with a glance towards the knight on the balcony, who nodded in return, “I marched to Hæthiod to face an enemy ten times stronger. I conquered Tothmor, I conquered Polisals, I drove the outlanders from the realm. I did all of these things because I am a knight of Adal, and that is my charge, the only charge here today that matters. I defend the Alliance of Adalmearc against all enemies, whether they be invaders or rebels.”
“If letters may prove a villain, I am sure Lord Konstans could have the entire realm vilified within days,” Brand remarked. “No witnesses whose character and veracity may be assessed stand here today to prove these allegations against me. Allow me to fill that gap and bear witness myself.” He cleared his throat. “Any rank or position I have ever held has been given to me. Knight, lieutenant, captain, all have been earned. I have never sought to usurp the rightful position of another nor privileges I do not deserve. I have made no deals with foreign kings, only demanded their defence of the Seven Realms. I have gathered no men to me pledged in oaths, only in loyalty and willing service. I have slain no enemy who surrendered or were too wounded to resist, only those who struck first against these realms.”
Brand raised his hands before him, showing the chains upon them. “I am feared because of who I am, not because of what I have done. Consider this. You are all men of power,” he impressed upon them, “power greater than mine. One day you might find yourself standing where I stand. Would you wish to be convicted based on who you are or what you have done?” He let his eyes move across the room one last time. “I only ask that you judge me as you would wish to be judged.” He fell silent.
“Finally,” Hardmar sneered. “Let us get this over with.”
Brand left the centre of the hall with the statue of Disfara, clearing the space for the lords to approach and pronounce their judgement. Ingmond went first along with his margraves. He declared Brand to be guilty of high treason and all other charges, and none of his men went against him. The first twelve voices to send Brand to the scaffold. It required thirty-five.
Vale stepped forward as the next. He was glancing around the room, and his hand fumbled a bit as it tried to grab the foot of the statue. As Quill called for his vote, the jarl did not reply at first. His face was worried as he looked at Brand and the assembled noblemen. Whispers began to appear as Valerian delayed, and Quill called upon him again. “Guilty,” the jarl finally declared, returning to his brother and margraves. None of the latter went against their jarl. Twenty-nine voices against Brand.
The last jarl to voice his support was Theodstan, who mirrored his predecessor at the statue. Exhaling deeply, Theodoric swallowed and at last called out his choice. “Innocent of all charges.” As he turned around to walk back, his eyes crossed Konstans and afterwards Hardmar, making the jarl hurry back to his men. Had he declared as the others, the decision would have been made. Instead, people in the hall were calculating furiously. Six more members of the Adalthing had to lend their voice to a guilty verdict.
Only the landgraves remained now; upon his ascension as heir to the realms, Hardmar had lost his membership as an atheling, and Brand would not be participating either, though it seemed doubtful he would have voted for his own guilt in any case. Absent those northern landgraves who were in revolt, eleven in all had come to the assembly; nine of these were from the south. One by one, the remaining noblemen were called forward to make their voice heard.
Marcaster declared the prisoner guilty and sent Hardmar a nod, which the prince graciously reciprocated. The next two followed suit. The fourth hesitated briefly before announcing that he found the accused innocent. As he returned to the edge of the hall, the other southerners shied away from him. The fifth landgrave followed his peers and proclaimed his verdict to be guilty, as did the sixth, reaching a tally of thirty-four, one shy of a majority. With a heavy expression, Brand looked up at his sister. Arndis attempted to smile, but failed.
The seventh landgrave stepped forward and called out his judgement. When the word resonated around the hall, Brand staggered as if the doom pronounced upon him had physically fallen onto his shoulders. It did not matter what the remaining noblemen decided; Brand was found guilty of high treason.
Once the counting finished, Quill began to speak, but he stuttered so, he had to try again several times. “Adalbrand of House Arnling,” he finally spoke with quaking voice, “the Adalthing has spoken with one voice. You are found guilty of high treason, which may be punished by exile or death. Beyond that, you have forfeited your rank as knight. You shall be pronounced a knave and have your sword broken.”
Hardmar leaned back on his throne, satisfaction overflowing in his smile. Konstans stepped forward. “Your sentence is execution by the axe. Remove the prisoner.” On the balcony, there was sudden commotion; Arndis had collapsed and would have fallen if not for the quick intervention by William. As the Hawks dragged him away, Brand stared across the hall to gaze at his sister; both the faces of the Arnling siblings were drained of blood.
Once the condemned had been taken away, Hardmar made a motion to Konstans, who gave a quick nod. “The prince wishes to address the assembly,” he informed the noblemen.
“My lords, they are grim matters that summoned us here today, but justice has been served, and we may all find solace in that thought. We will not delay, but see justice carried out. The executions will begin tomorrow, spread over several days, to set a lasting example of what happens to those rebelling against the Crown,” Hardmar declared. Hearing this, Arndis retreated from the balcony with hasty steps, leaving the chamber. “The prisoners shall be executed in ascending order proportional to their crime. Elis tomorrow, Arnling the day after, and one man from Isarn each of the following days,” the prince decided.
“As you say, my prince,” Konstans acquiesced.
“Furthermore,” the prince continued, “not all is ill. I have an announcement to make in this assembly, declaring the intentions of mine and another house.” He paused, making sure all eyes were upon him. “I am proud to announce the engagement between my sister, Lady Gunhild of House Hardling, to Lord Edward of Marcaster.” Cheers rose among many of those listening; Valerian and Konstans remained silent, and neither looked pleased. “While it is traditionally the head of the bridegroom’s household who has the honour of making such an announcement, I thank Lord Marcaster for allowing me the joy of informing you all of the bond between our houses, soon to be made formal through my sister and his son.”
Marcaster took a small step towards Hardmar, separating himself from the crowd of his peers, and made a small bow. “The honour remains mine to see my son wed to such an illustrious house as yours, and the joy felt by my prince is shared by me and all those of my house.”
Congratulatory and celebratory cries were heard around the hall; Valerian on the other hand drew close to his brother. “What is happening?” he whispered. “What of Valerie?”
“We are being usurped,” Konstans muttered darkly, staring at Marcaster. “Hardmar wants the landgraves on his side to move against us, and Marcaster wants to replace us.” He turned towards Quill and spoke again, raising his voice. “Our business is concluded. You may end the assembly.”
The law keeper had been standing dazed, but the dragonlord’s words pulled him out of it. “The voice of the Adalthing has spoken and may now lie silent. Under the eyes of the dragon, the raven, the bull, the horse, the bear, the hart, and the eagle, I declare its word to be law.” The Adalthing was over.
Valerian turned to his brother again, speaking with a hushed tone of voice. “What happened? I thought the prince had agreed to marrying Valerie?”
“I am as surprised as you, Brother,” Konstans confessed. “He was supposed to announce the engagement.”
“What will we do now?”
“Do nothing,” Konstans told him. “I will handle this.”
“What will you do?”
The dragonlord let out a deep breath. “Tell the workmen to raise the scaffold. We will need it from tomorrow on.”
|
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Cold Quarter
Middanhal
The Dragon Throne was a marvel of artisanship, combining sculpted marble with fashioned gold and laid with sapphires. The seat itself sat atop numerous stairs, giving it an elevated position in the throne room and conveying the majesty of its occupant in comparison with those standing on the floor, looking up to gaze upon the seat of power in Middanhal. Currently, a seventeen-year-old boy sat in that seat, wearing a charming smile while dressed in blue and golden silk.
“You are welcome at our court,” Hardmar spoke to the envoy standing before the throne. “I am pleased that King Brión would affirm the ties between Heohlond and Adalrik.”
The emissary inclined his head with a smile. He was dressed in the colours of Clan Cameron with a heavy, fur-lined cloak and thick woollen clothes. “The rí ruirech acknowledges the bond between the high lands and the low lands. He bows before the ard rí and sends these gifts.” As he spoke, the messenger gave a bow before gesturing to a small chest behind him. Two servants accompanying the envoy unfastened the leather straps and opened the lid, revealing the contents to be dyed fabrics, carved figurines, and pieces of jewellery.
“They say that three things are beyond the price of gold,” Hardmar spoke. “Kin, honour, and peace. I accept these gifts as a token of peace between my loyal subject, King Brión, and I. Tell him he has proven his honour in my eyes, and inform him of my desire that he and I should be as close as kin.”
Many of the courtiers mumbled their approval and appreciation at the eloquence displayed by the young prince, and the highlander envoy seemed satisfied. “My deepest gratitude, great prince, along with that of my king.” Not finished yet, he pulled out a small statuette from a pocket, about the height of a man’s hand from wrist to fingertip. “As for the esteemed lord protector, my king offers his good wishes to your son and had this prepared in anticipation of the joyous occasion. As Idisea saw fit to let your son arrive already, it gives me great pleasure to present you with the king’s gift to Valerius of Vale.”
The envoy gave the statuette to a servant, who approached the throne and placed it in Valerian’s hands with a deep bow. The jarl examined the piece. It was carved in ivory, a near priceless material. The statuette resembled a white bear standing upright, its jaws opened in a roar. “It is exquisite,” Valerian exclaimed, examining the craftsmanship.
The envoy nodded with satisfaction. “It was made by our best craftsmen with runes of protection added underneath.” Valerian flipped the piece over to see the symbols cut into the bottom. “Place it by your son’s bedside, my lord, and the great bear himself shall come from the mountains to safeguard him.”
“Magnificent,” the jarl’s voice boomed. “Convey my deepest thanks to your king.”
With final courtesies towards Hardmar, who graciously bowed his head in return, the envoy retreated along with his servants, leaving behind the chest of gifts.
While waiting for the next person to be given audience, the courtiers murmured among each other in small groups. One of these was centred around Theodwyn. As a jarl’s sister at a royal court without any queen, she ranked among the highest noblewomen. Her handmaidens were viewed with favour by others, other noblewomen sought to be included in conversation with her during meals or audiences such as this, and being invited into Theodwyn’s circle of confidence in her parlour was an emblem of distinction. So far, only Arndis and Eleanor had a safe place by Theodwyn’s side, whether they were out among the court or in the privacy of her quarters; as for the remaining ladies, they were continuously given attention and cast aside in an endless cycle according to Theodwyn’s whims and their ability to inform her of interesting events at court.
“Do you suppose that statuette was made from real elephant bone?” whispered one of the ladies excited. While trying to be discreet, her voice hissed the sibilant sounds like a rusty nail scratching steel.
“Of course it is,” Theodwyn declared dismissively. “King Brión is not foolish enough to risk offence.”
“Those are rich gifts,” Eleanor mentioned. “I did not imagine the highlanders would have such to spare.”
“We are not all savages in the north, Eleanor,” Theodwyn chastised her. Many of the other women exchanged glances; had such an expression of displeasure been aimed at any of them, they would soon after have been banished from Theodwyn’s presence.
“Of course not, my lady,” Eleanor spoke with flushed cheeks. “I meant nothing against Theodstan.”
“Theodstan is in Adalrik and obviously different,” another woman declared. “But just look at the envoy, all dressed in furs and wool! There is an obvious difference between highlanders and drakonians.” Several of the other women present nodded and chirped affirmations of this.
“Arndis may disagree with you in that regard,” Theodwyn said crisply. “After all, her mother was a highlander.”
Several pairs of eyes turned in surprise to look at the blue-clad woman. “She was,” Arndis confirmed. “I have never been to Heohlond, so I cannot speak for the rest of the realm, but my mother was a true lady.”
The same women who had affirmed that highlanders were savages hastily agreed that none could cast aspersions on the late wife of Arngrim. “Indeed, all knew that Lady –” one of them began to say, but she fell silent, unable to complete her sentence.
“Lady Deirdre,” Theodwyn spoke with emphasis on the name, “was poised and dignified every time I saw her at court. I only regret I never knew her better,” she added with a kind look towards Arndis. “I am tired,” she announced with an abrupt shift in her voice. “I shall retire to my chambers. Do not disturb me before the evening meal,” she instructed them.
“Yes, Lady Theodwyn,” they replied in unison, scattering as she left them.
~~~~
The dragonlord of the realm was not attending audiences, as he could not spare the time for ceremonial gestures. Instead, he was hosting his own meetings in his chamber as usual. While his brother was receiving gifts, Konstans was sitting across the table from Theobald. As captain of the Citadel, he was the only knight in Adalrik with a commanding rank until such time that a lord marshal and knight marshal would be appointed.
“Captain Theobald, I appreciate that you will meet with me.”
“You are the dragonlord. I assume this was important,” Theobald replied in his brusque manner.
“Quite right. I have observed your efforts in rebuilding the city guard,” Konstans began to say, broaching the topic. “It is of course of the utmost importance that Middanhal has a strong garrison with effective patrols.”
“Of course,” Theobald agreed. “Jarl Isarn would never have taken the city if most of my soldiers had not been marched off to war, against my counsel.”
Konstans nodded. “To this end, my brother has retained the services of the remaining Red Hawks here in Middanhal. They can be used to bolster the garrison.”
Theobald’s expression stiffened. “There is no need for such.”
“The outer walls and the gates are thinly manned,” Konstans argued. “Letting the Hawks guard one of the gates seems sensible.”
“The Order mans the fortifications of this city,” Theobald declared firmly. “Every gate, every tower, all will remain under the command of the Order.”
“The Hawks can patrol the streets,” Konstans suggested. “Help keep order in the city.”
“I will not have mercenaries responsible for upholding the law,” the captain retorted with gritted teeth.
“You are a difficult man to offer aid,” the dragonlord replied.
“I did not request your aid.”
“What about inside the Citadel? The kingthanes already guard the royal quarters and the throne room,” Konstans considered. “The Hawks could be assigned similarly to protect the courtside of the castle.”
“I will not have any soldiers on the walls but my own,” Theobald growled, “regardless of location.”
“Of course, but the interior is a different matter, is it not? The Hawks could guard the corridors, the prisoners and so forth. There is no reason Order soldiers must stand guard outside my wing or that of my brother’s family, for instance,” Konstans argued in a cordial tone.
“I suppose that would not matter much,” Theobald admitted hesitantly. “Though it would not make a big difference either. There must be less than a hundred soldiers on duty in those areas you speak of.”
“In part because you cannot spare more,” Konstans pointed out. “This way, we can strengthen the guard, and you will have more men for the rest of the city. In truth, I fear that these mercenaries are getting restless. Having tasks would keep them out of trouble. You would be doing me a favour.”
“True, idle soldiers are the enemy of peace and order,” Theobald agreed. “I will inform the leader of the Hawks and have him put his men to use as you suggest.”
“Excellent,” Konstans smiled gratefully. “I am much obliged, captain.”
“No trouble.” Theobald made a dismissive gesture. “If that is all, I shall return to my duties.”
“Of course, captain. Thank you again.” Theobald rose, turned, and left the dragonlord, who was already buried deep in his next task.
~~~~
For the time being, the dungeons under the Citadel were still guarded by Order soldiers. Since prisoners were usually sent to the mines or released after paying geld, in rare cases executed, only few cells were needed. A single guardroom manned by two soldiers was enough. The room was circular and like a spider had corridors extending in every direction; each of these contained a number of cells.
A young woman in an expensive, blue dress walked down the steps and entered the guardroom. It was not only her appearance that made her seem out of place; her eyes darted around, taking in sights unusual for a noblewoman, and her nose wrinkled at the unpleasant smell any dungeon possessed.
“Look, milady, I mean no disrespect, but this ain’t a place for gentle folk,” one of the guards began to say, standing up from their dice game to block Arndis’ path.
“I merely need to speak with one of the prisoners. Then I shall trouble you no further,” she told him.
“We can’t just let anybody walk down and enter the cells. That’s against our orders,” the guard informed her, still blocking her path.
“Hold up,” the other man said, scratching his cheek. “That colour. You’re Sir Adalbrand’s sister, aren’t you?”
“I am,” Arndis confirmed. “Are you known to my brother?”
“Not as such. I was part of the original garrison when those Isarn dogs besieged us, both here in the Citadel and later Athelstan’s army outside the walls. Both times, your brother came to our rescue,” the guard explained. “He’s a good man, a true knight. The sort we need.”
Arndis sent him a smile that emphasised her good features. “You are most kind. What is your name, good master?”
“Just Ingmar, good lady.”
“I shall pass your words and your name onto my brother,” she promised.
“That’s real nice of you, milady,” he muttered bashful, scratching the ground with one foot. “Which prisoner do you need to see?”
“Isenwald of Isarn, if it is no trouble to you.”
“No trouble at all. Not like anyone else is down here,” the guard reassured her, even if his compatriot sent him a sceptical look. He fetched the keys from the wall and walked over to one of the corridor doors. “This one, milady.” Unlocking it, Ingmar entered the hallway beyond. It was dark, but light from the guardroom revealed that that the corridor had a blind end and four doors on either side, allowing for eight cells. “Wait,” the guard exclaimed, turning around to quickly fetch a lit candle. “You will need this, milady.”
“Thank you,” Arndis replied politely, accepting the faint light source.
The guard walked down the hallway until he reached the third door on the right, unlocking it. “We’ll keep the doors open, he is chained up anyway. Don’t get too close, though, he might be able to reach you if you step inside the cell,” he warned her.
“I understand,” Arndis told him. She moved to stand just by the door, while Ingmar turned back to the guardroom.
The candle light flickered, struggling to illuminate the dark space. Sitting on a primitive bed with a chain around his ankle was Isenwald, heir to the jarldom of Isarn. His previous slender frame was now gaunt, and his eyes seemed unnaturally large in his hollow face. “Who – is there?” he croaked with his typical hesitation and a voice that had not known much use of late.
“Lady Arndis, my lord,” she presented herself, holding the candle near her face.
“It has been a while since any called me by title,” Isenwald spoke and coughed a faint laughter. “I would – offer you a seat, but – I think you are better served by remaining standing.”
“Thank you nonetheless,” Arndis replied cordially.
“What – do – I – owe the pleasure – of this visit?” He gave a hollow smile. “That was telling – of how long – I have been here. Before my – imprisonment, I would have remembered to avoid such clumsy words.”
“I felt it was only in good order that I paid you a visit,” Arndis replied to his question. “I apologise for the delay it took me to make my appearance.”
“Since – it was not expected, I cannot reproach you for any such – delays.” Isenwald cleared his throat, choosing his next words with care. “I am curious why you felt the need to visit me.”
There was a moment before Arndis answered him. “You recall the last time we met?”
“Yes. I surrendered – our house and have been here since. In some ways, it – is my last memory.”
“You saved lives on that day, Lord Isenwald.” Her voice took on a formal tone. “Not only mine, but also the lives of my friends and many other innocent people. It took me a while to admit it, but you deserve praise for your actions. I do not expect others will see it this way, so I have come to thank you myself.”
Isenwald straightened up a bit, his expression becoming serious. “I appreciate the sentiment, my lady. I shall remember your words.”
“You are welcome,” Arndis replied, inclining her head.
“Perhaps,” Isenwald spoke quickly, just as she was about to turn away; she stopped as she heard him speak, holding the candle in front of her face so that the thin wisp of smoke lay under her nose. “Perhaps you would – do me a kindness – in return,” he hurried to say in slow fashion. “What can you tell me – of my family?”
Arndis stared at him in surprise. “You do not know?”
He shook his head. “I have not been told anything since – I arrived here.”
Sympathy coloured her face. “There was a battle. Your uncle and brother were both captured, and they are prisoners here as well. Your father still controls Isarn, but his allies are under siege.” Isenwald responded to this news with silence. “I am sorry,” she added.
“May – I ask a favour, my lady? Can you tell them – I am here as well, alive and – in good health?” His words were undercut by his own coughing.
“Of course,” Arndis promised him.
“Uncertainty about the fate – of your family leads to terrible speculations,” Isenwald explained, “and we have – only too much time to speculate – in this place.”
“I shall let them know,” she told him. “Farewell, Lord Isenwald.”
“Thank you,” he spoke hoarsely, following the candle in her hands with his eyes as she left the room.
~~~~
“He has a strong grip,” Valerian exclaimed with pride. “I imagine he will be a warrior if he wants to be. Granted, right now he mostly sleeps, but once he grows up, just wait and see,” he impressed on his brother.
“Undoubtedly,” Konstans replied absent-mindedly.
The jarl did not seem to notice. “Alexandra has proven to be a pillar of strength. She seems delicate, but I would bet on her against Alfbrand himself in a fight!”
They were in the royal quarters occupied by Hardmar, though the prince himself was absent. Standing by a desk, Konstans drummed his fingers impatiently against the wood. “Do you know why the prince called us here?”
“I could not say,” Valerian admitted. “He gave no sign that anything was on his mind when I saw him at the audience.” Konstans exhaled through his nose, creating a snorting sound, though he did not make any reply.
At length, the prince appeared. “My lord protector and my dragonlord,” he smiled.
“My prince,” the brothers replied with differing enthusiasm.
“I called you here because of Adalbrand, who seems bent on being a pest,” Hardmar informed them. “He was supposed to sink into oblivion in Hæthiod, yet I must hear his name shouted from the street and muttered in the corridors. What will you do about it?”
Valerian sent his brother a surprised look. “My prince, I am already taking steps towards this. I have him under increased watch to anticipate his future moves. We will be warned should he become a threat.”
“Watch. Warn.” Hardmar chewed on the words. “That sounds like doing nothing but wait for him to become an actual threat.”
“Hardly,” Konstans spoke in defence. “It is merely prudent to gather intelligence before we act.”
“Yet he wears his victories like a crown already,” the prince claimed. “Why wait with removing him? In fact, I have toyed with the idea of replacing him myself.”
The two men looked at him with alarm and disbelief. “You would travel to Hæthiod? On campaign?” asked Konstans.
“Why do you sound surprised?” asked Hardmar offended. “I am to be king. What task is more kingly than leading an army and winning battles?”
“There is a reason kings have captains,” Valerian pointed out. “One purpose of the Order is precisely to train the commanders needed.”
“Such as Athelstan,” Hardmar sneered. “How soon before Adalbrand becomes another like him?”
“I will not allow Adalbrand to become a problem,” Konstans declared curtly.
“My brother is most reliable when it comes to solve such problems, my prince,” Valerian hastened to add.
“That is why he serves as dragonlord, I take it,” Hardmar remarked. “Tell me, what else has been done in service to the realm?”
“Forgive me, what are you asking?” Konstans frowned.
“You are the dragonlord, you serve the realm. What have you accomplished?” asked Hardmar.
Konstans cleared his throat. “I have convinced the captain to let the prisoners be guarded by Hawks rather than Order soldiers. This way, none who might harbour loyalties to Athelstan, former soldiers of his or the like, will be tempted to let him escape.”
“The captain is not an easy man to convince,” Valerian said impressed. “How did you manage that?”
“I made a few suggestions that I knew were not palatable to him, waiting with my true purpose and making it seem inconsequential. A slight misdirection,” Konstans explained.
“A change of guard.” Hardmar’s voice expressed the opposite of his lord protector’s. “What else?”
“What else? I negotiate with the guilds to ensure trade and coin flows into the city,” Konstans told the prince. “I meet with envoys. I prepare for the Adalthing. Once this rebellion is over and the House of Isarn has been removed, a new house must be raised in their place. We will need the voice of many others in the Adalthing to see our choice carried through.”
“Have you achieved this?” Hardmar asked.
“It is too early to approach Ingmond. He is still in mourning,” the dragonlord elaborated. “Besides, this will not be relevant for a long time. There is time to secure our choice for jarl.”
“Our choice? I have not chosen any to become jarl of Isarn.”
The brothers of Vale exchanged looks. “We were not aware you had a choice in mind, my prince,” Valerian spoke with caution.
“I have none in mind right now, but seeing as he will be one of my four jarls, I obviously want to choose the man,” Hardmar informed them coldly.
“Certainly, my prince,” Konstans spoke with deference. “We will keep this in mind.”
“Of course you will.” Hardmar gave a sudden smile. “That is all I require from you. You are dismissed.”
The brothers muttered their farewells, making awkward gestures of courtesy before leaving the room. “He has grown more demanding,” Valerian mumbled as they walked past kingthanes standing guard in the hallway.
“Not to mention his newfound interest in governance,” Konstans added.
“And warfare. But he is still very young. Taking counsel from others is rarely a virtue of youth,” the jarl pondered.
“He has four years to grow up,” his brother remarked.
“Let us hope he does. We cannot replace him, after all,” Valerian pointed out with a wry smile.
Konstans made no reply to this.
~~~~
In the dungeons below, Ingmar moved to lock the doors to Isenwald’s cell upon seeing Arndis return to the guardroom. When he came back, he saw that she had remained rather than moving towards the stairs.
“Anything the matter, milady?” he asked.
“I am sorry to impose on your kindness, but I should like to visit two of the other prisoners. I made a promise,” she explained.
The guard looked at his counterpart sitting down. “Captain can’t chew us out any more than he is going to already,” the other soldier remarked in a resigned fashion.
“Which prisoners, milady?” asked Ingmar.
“Athelstan and Eumund of Isarn.”
“All the men of Isarn,” the guard considered. “They are down different corridors. Captain wanted them kept separate,” he explained, unlocking another door, stepping past it and unlocking the cell door beyond.
Arndis followed him, still holding the candle in her hand. Inside sat a young man reminiscent of Isenwald, though he remained more muscular than his brother even after months of imprisonment. “Sir Eumund,” Arndis called out.
“What is it,” he replied tonelessly.
“I am Lady Arndis,” she began to say.
“I recognise your colours,” he interjected.
“Of course.” It took Arndis a moment to resume speaking. “Your brother asked me to inform you that he is being kept here as well, but he remains in good health.” Eumund made no reply to this. “I bid you farewell,” the lady added awkwardly when it became clear she would not receive an answer.
Ingmar looked behind Arndis as she returned to the guardroom. The other soldier, still seated by the table, was staring pointedly at the cup in his hands.
“Athelstan as well, was it?” Ingmar asked, walking over to unlock a third corridor and yet another cell.
“You are most kind,” Arndis told him with a smile that would confound most men.
“It was nothing,” Ingmar mumbled, leaving to let Arndis step inside Athelstan’s cell.
The man once renowned as the greatest commander in the Seven Realms lay on the primitive wooden construction that served as his bed. His eyes were closed, and he looked almost serene; the fact that his cell door had been unlocked did not disturb his reverie. The faint light of the candle was enough to reveal his skin was unnaturally pale, however, and his hair had grown long and wild, but lacked any lustre.
“Sir Athelstan?”
He opened his dark eyes and quickly sat up. “My apologies, my lady. Had I known to expect delicate company, I would have been more courteous.” He stood up entirely and made an awkward bow as his chains allowed.
Arndis seemed confused for a moment before she bowed in return. “Nothing to apologise for. I did not announce my arrival ahead, so you could not have known.”
“I appreciate your visit, regardless.”
“I bring news from your nephew, Isenwald. He asked me to inform you that he is also kept here, but he is in good health.”
Athelstan inclined his head. “That is very kind of you to tell me. I have wondered often about Isenwald’s fate.” He paused briefly. “If I may impose further upon you, would you tell me how the war goes against my brother?”
“The Red Hawks are besieging the castle of Grenwold. There have been no battles or other events of note.”
“The Red Hawks… Jarl Vale has brought in mercenaries. Putting his gold to use,” Athelstan contemplated.
“I do not quite understand why the jarl is besieging Grenwold,” Arndis admitted. “I would have imagined they would seek to capture Silfrisarn.”
Athelstan shook his head. “Marching an army deep into Isarn is too risky. The terrain is mountainous in the southern parts and easily defensible. Not to mention, provision lines would be under threat of constant raids. Taking Grenwold castle allows the supply lines to be defended,” he explained, frowning as he continued, “or they can march on Hrossfeld afterwards. Taking Hrossfeld leaves northern Isarn vulnerable to an invasion that my brother does not have the troops to defend against.”
“I see. Now that you explain it, it sounds so simple.”
Athelstan gave a hollow smile. “It was my pleasure to be of help.” Silence filled the dark confine. “Lady Arndis, if you will forgive me for asking further questions…” When she did not object, he continued. “How is your brother?”
Arndis gave him a surprised look. “Brand is well. He has just sent news that he has retaken Tothmor from the outlanders. All the city is rejoicing.”
Athelstan smiled, this time in a genuine manner. “In winter, no less. I always knew he had a gift for command, but even I did not expect…” He did not finish the sentence but simply continued smiling, seeming lost in memory or thought.
“He had the best teacher,” Arndis pointed out.
Athelstan turned his gaze on her again, his attention snapping back. From a pocket in his ragged clothing, he dug out a small wooden carving, specifically the king piece from a chess game. “I gave him this the first time he beat me. Eventually, I could no longer win against him, no matter how often we played.” He rubbed it between his fingers.
“He taught me how to play the game,” Arndis said. “We did not have much time to play, sadly, but I found it intriguing.”
“It is an excellent challenge for anyone, whether a knight or a lady,” Athelstan declared with a wry look. “You should practise the game. Give Brand a challenge when he returns.”
Arndis smiled. “Good advice, Sir Athelstan. I will take my leave, but I thank you for the pleasant conversation.”
Athelstan gave a bow as deeply as his manacles allowed. “The pleasure was entirely mine, my lady.”
~~~~
As Quill moved through the corridors of the Citadel, a few heads turned to stare. On most days, the King’s Quill was known to never leave his tower, and he was a rare sight elsewhere in the castle. The scribe greeted those he met and knew, whether courtiers or servants, making his way to the lower levels. With him, he carried parchment and writing tools. He was near the entrance to the dungeon when a noblewoman came from the opposite direction, ascending the staircase. Looking up, Arndis saw Quill standing in the doorway.
“Master Quill,” she exclaimed surprised. “I was not expecting to see you here.”
“My duties are varied,” the scribe smiled, “and one of them calls me to the cells. I confess, I did not expect to see you here either, Lady Arndis.” An anxious expression appeared on her face, and Quill swiftly added, “Nor is it any of my concern.” He stood aside to let her pass. “A pleasant day to you, Lady Arndis.”
“Thank you, Master Quill,” she replied with a hint of relief and hurried past him.
Continuing down the stairs, the law keeper entered the dungeons and found the Order soldiers on guard. They in turn easily recognised the scribe. “Master Quill,” Ingmar spoke in greeting.
“I need to speak with a prisoner.”
“Lots of that going around,” mumbled the other guard.
Ingmar hastened to get the keys while sending his companion a threatening look. “Which prisoner, Master Quill?”
“Lord Elis.”
“Elis?” Ingmar questioned.
“You know, southerner. That hallway,” the other guard reminded him while handing Quill a candle. “You’ll need this.”
“Right. This way, Master Quill.” Ingmar led the scribe down one of the corridors, unlocking a cell.
“Who is there?” asked a frail voice. The dim light had trouble illuminating the cell, showing little more than a haggard shape on the bench serving as a bed.
“Master Quill, milord,” replied the law keeper. “I have come to inform you of the charges of treason against you.”
Metal could be heard scraping against wood as chains slid across the bench. “Treason? I have languished for months in this hole! I must be given an audience with the lord protector!”
“Your guilt will be determined by the Adalthing, milord. The lord protector will not hear your plea.”
“But he can have me released! There is no need for a trial against me!” Elis insisted.
“Charges of treason cannot simply be swept aside,” Quill declared. “Only the Adalthing can proclaim you an innocent man, or grant you mercy in case you are found guilty.”
“I am innocent,” Elis protested.
“There is evidence to the contrary, which is why I urge you to admit your guilt and plead for leniency,” Quill told him.
“What evidence,” the nobleman scoffed. “I say that I am innocent! Is my word not enough?”
“There are witnesses that you attempted to surrender the Citadel to Jarl Isarn’s forces. Lady Isabel among them, whose word cannot be doubted. Not to mention, given that you made deals with both Jarl Vale and Jarl Isarn at the Adalthing, promising to support both as lord protector while seeking the office yourself…” Quill swallowed. “Milord, your word is not in good standing among your peers.”
“I may have – entertained the notion of surrendering to the rebels,” Elis admitted. “We were in a desperate situation! I might have saved many lives otherwise lost if the Isarn scum had stormed the castle. How can it be treason simply to consider surrender?”
“Milord, the evidence is heavier than that. You were discovered communicating with the rebels, planning to betray the castle.” Quill licked his lips; the candle in his hand showed him to be ill at ease. “I really must urge you to consider begging for leniency.”
Elis had so far been looking in every direction, staring at shadows, but he now fixed his eyes on Quill. “You would enjoy that, I bet.”
“Milord,” Quill protested.
“I remember. It was you who discovered me. You and that wretched kitchen girl!”
The scribe coughed. “Please, milord, this does not help your situation –”
“You bastard!” Elis lunged forward; the chains on his wrists plunged him back. “You are to blame! You are the guilty party, not me!”
“Milord, please!” Quill moved back, hitting the wall of the cell.
“How dare you show your face to me!” Elis shouted. He strained against his shackles, gritting his teeth and looking like a madman.
Pressed against the wall, Quill moved to the side until he nearly fell backwards through the door opening. Regaining his balance, he hurried away; the screams of the former dragonlord followed him all the way out of the dungeons.
~~~~
After the departure of the brothers Vale, Hardmar moved from one part of his quarters to another, where his own brothers were to be found. Gerhard was playing with a deck of cards, constantly shuffling them, while Inghard, the youngest, had his nose in a book.
“I am losing faith in Vale,” Hardmar proclaimed. “Both of them.”
“What would give you cause for doubt?” asked Gerhard.
“My lord protector seems only to care about his son,” Hardmar sneered, “while my dragonlord seems incapable of his tasks.”
“That is odd. Lord Konstans strikes me as an intelligent man,” Inghard remarked from his seat, looking up briefly.
“I did not ask your opinion,” his eldest brother said dismissively. “I questioned Konstans about his work, and he had little to show. I do not believe he can effectively handle threats to my rule, nor can his brother.”
“He is the most powerful jarl,” Gerhard pointed out with incredulity, scattering playing cards everywhere on the table by him. “Vale is paying for the Red Hawks currently fighting Jarl Isarn. His armies are fighting for you!”
“As they should,” Hardmar replied with disdain. “He deserves no reward or special title for simply defending the realm. I want a lord protector, a dragonlord that carries out my wish swiftly and obediently. Neither Vale or his brother seem able.”
“Jarl Vale chose to put you on the throne,” Inghard interjected, looking up again from his book. “It will be four years before you are crowned and that choice is irreversible. Until then, you should not whip your only ploughing horse,” he advised.
“Shut up, Inghard,” Hardmar told him coldly. “I will whip whom I please.”
His youngest brother returned to his book.
|
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|
A Bloody Welcome
Middanhal
Nearly a month after the summons to the Adalthing had been sent out, a large entourage rode into Middanhal. They were led by two Order knights, meaning their passage was not hindered or subject to toll. Furthermore, both of the knights possessed such fame as to be immediately recognised. The news quickly spread that Sir William the Unyielding and Sir Adalbrand the Dragonheart had come to Middanhal.
William’s retinue was as modest as his nature, consisting only of his squire. In comparison, Brand was accompanied by his sergeant, four soldiers acting as his guard, a bard, and an apprenticed scribe. While Middanhal was familiar with much, this was an unusual band led by the two most renowned knights of the day, and all heads turned to witness their progression. Order soldiers stopped on patrol, commoners and noblemen stared, and several contingents of Red Hawks watched them keenly.
Before the Citadel, they parted ways. William and his squire rode further on to enter the northern courtyard and the Order stables; Brand and his followers entered the southern yard, leaving their horses to the stable hands.
“You should find rooms in the barracks,” he told Nicholas, Quentin, and Matthew, who were enlisted as Order soldiers. “My own chambers should accommodate you two,” he told Geberic and Glaukos. “Thank you for your service,” he finally told Egil. “Give my regards to Master Quill.”
“Yes, sir,” the young apprentice promised. The group split up, each to their destination.
Brand, followed by his remaining two guards, walked through corridors and up staircases past servants, nobleborn, and Red Hawks, until he reached the chambers that had been assigned to his house last year. He knocked heavily, and the door was opened by Arndis’ handmaiden. “Milord!” she exclaimed.
“Jenny,” he nodded. “Is your mistress at home?”
“She is,” came Arndis’ voice from inside. Brand moved forward with hurried steps, embracing his sister.
“You look well,” he smiled, retracting his head to gaze at her.
“I am well,” she replied, pulling back after a moment. “Jenny, have ale fetched for our guests.” The servant gave a quick bow and hurried off. “Geberic, well met,” Arndis told the soldier, nodding to him.
“Thank you, milady,” he replied.
“This is Glaukos. We picked him up in Tothmor, and he has stuck to us since,” Brand explained with a wry smile.
“My lady.” Glaukos gave an elegant bow.
“Well met,” she repeated before turning her attention towards Brand again. “I am surprised to see you already. I did not imagine you would arrive before another week or two.”
“I had to make it in time for the Adalthing,” Brand laughed. “There is no point in arriving after it has been held.”
“Of course, but you made it with weeks to spare,” Arndis smiled.
“What do you mean?” The mirth on Brand’s face gave way to uncertainty. “The Adalthing is in two days’ time.”
Now it was his sister who exhibited confusion. “Brand, the Adalthing is more than a fortnight away.”
The men exchanged glances. “That can’t be right,” Geberic grunted. “I saw the summons from the Quill myself. Lord Adalbrand is correct.”
“Maybe a mistake was made?” Arndis suggested.
“It is not like Quill to make such an error,” Brand frowned. “Geberic, find Quill and ask him. Sort this out.”
“Right away, milord,” Geberic promised. He left the room.
“I am sure there is an explanation,” Arndis said.
“No doubt,” Brand muttered; his expression gainsaid his words.
Almost immediately after stepping out, Geberic returned. “Something’s wrong. There’s a bunch of Red Hawks standing in either end of the corridor, and they scowled as soon as they saw me.”
Glaukos’ hand flew to his sword hilt, holding it ready. “Who are these Red Hawks?”
“Mercenaries working for the jarl of Vale,” Arndis explained.
“He is the one who called the Adalthing,” Brand considered. “The Hawks we saw at the gate, in the city… he has been watching my progress, waiting for my arrival.”
They all looked at each other. “This is a trap,” Geberic finally said out loud.
“Lock the door,” Brand commanded, which Glaukos immediately did, bolting the door. “Can we fight our way out?” Brand asked with a look at his other guard.
“There’s a lot of them,” Geberic admitted. “They can’t get to us all at once in the corridor, of course, but how many mercenaries does that bastard have in the castle? Hundreds?”
“I stand ready!” Glaukos declared fiercely.
“Geberic is right.” Brand shook his head. “That was a foolish notion by me. Maybe we can wait until nightfall and make our escape in the dark through the window.”
Geberic walked over to their suggested escape route. “It’s quite a drop,” he mentioned sceptically. “If you can climb down a bit though, it’s not so bad.”
“Brand,” Arndis spoke. “In a few days, it will be two weeks until the Adalthing assembles. The landfrid takes hold.”
“That is why I was given the false date,” Brand realised. “They needed to lure me here earlier. They dare not break the sacred peace of the Adalthing.”
“In other words, if we can wait them out for three days, you are protected by the landfrid,” Arndis pointed out. “You can walk out of here and Jarl Vale will not dare touch you.”
“That door will not hold for three days,” Glaukos pointed out.
“I need to get to the northern part of the Citadel,” Brand contemplated, marching over to the window. It gave him a view of his desired destination; the path to it went through one of the orchards supplying the castle with fresh fruit. “The Order soldiers will not permit the Hawks to take me. They can protect me for three days, after which I can leave the city unhindered.”
“How do we get you there?” asked Arndis.
“I will have to make a run for it,” Brand declared. “I will climb down under the cover of night and flee to the Order side.”
“Let’s hope for clouds,” Geberic muttered. “There’s moonlight tonight. You’ll stand out like a sheep in a coal mine, going out the window and down the wall.”
Their discussion was interrupted by a heavy knock. “Sir Adalbrand, this is Lord Konstans, dragonlord of Adalrik. I wish to speak with you.”
Everyone inside the room glanced at each other with a variety of thoughts appearing on their faces. Brand walked over to the door. “I hear you. What do you have to say?”
“Would you mind opening the door that we may discourse with civility?” Konstans requested.
“I can hear you easily,” Brand replied. “You wish to speak, so tell me what you have to say.”
“There are charges laid against you. I require you to follow me that they may be addressed. I assure you, you have nothing to fear,” Konstans claimed.
His words were received with contemptuous looks, though none inside the room gave voice to their disdain. “I thank you for bringing this to my attention,” Brand answered from his side of the door. “Will you give me some time to consider?”
It took a moment before he received a reply. “I cannot. This requires that you immediately come with me.”
“I will be with you shortly,” Brand promised. He turned away and approached the other people in the room. “How long until nightfall?” he asked quietly.
“Hours,” Geberic answered.
“He will not be delayed that long,” Brand considered. “I need to make my escape now.”
“What if you get spotted trying to climb down? They could be waiting for you,” Geberic objected.
“I will go first,” Glaukos declared. “I will hold them back and buy you time.”
They were interrupted by Konstans’ voice from beyond the door. “Sir Adalbrand. Wielding the authority of the realm, I demand you open this door now!”
“Lord Konstans,” Brand said cordially, raising his voice that he might be heard by the man outside, “you may go to Hel and give her my regards.” He turned to his men. “It has to be now.”
“I think it is too late,” Glaukos murmured.
The sound of an axe striking wood reached them. The Hawks had begun their assault upon the door. Glaukos and Geberic took position in front of it, swords drawn.
“Stay inside your chamber. There is no need to put you in danger,” Brand told Arndis, gazing around the parlour that now seemed a prison.
“Let it not be said I cowered before these villains,” Arndis declared, standing firmly next to her brother. He gave her a weak smile, drawing his own sword.
The door splintered. A hand moved through the gap in the wood to try and unlock the bolt; Glaukos stabbed the hand with his sword, prompting an outcry of pain and quick retreat by its owner. The axe resumed its work.
“Milord, it’s been an honour to serve you,” Geberic said while keeping his eyes fixed on the disintegrating door.
“You freed my home, my lord,” Glaukos added without explaining himself further.
Brand took a deep breath. “As you both showed at the battle of Polisals, no captain was ever flanked by better men.” He assumed a fighting stance, covering Arndis as best he could.
The door fell to pieces. One Red Hawk rushed through, but Glaukos easily evaded his weapon, slashed him across the shin just above his greave, and pushed him back with a kick.
His comrades pulled the Hawk back, and someone else tried their luck with passing through the door. With Glaukos waiting for him, his luck was equally poor. A third came through, a fourth. The third did not merely receive a wound, but fell to the ground dying; the fourth was engaged by Geberic and followed his fellow Hawk in death. The mercenaries pulled back and ceased sending men through the doorway to slaughter.
“You should escape, milord,” Geberic argued, speaking quietly. Although they had retreated, the Hawks could be heard moving around out in the corridor. “Before they try again.”
“He is right,” Arndis told Brand. “You have a chance.”
“We can keep them at bay meanwhile,” Glaukos added.
The young knight walked over to the window and looked out. “There are Hawks in the orchard below. It is too late.”
“Him and Hel,” Geberic swore.
Glaukos renewed his grip on his sword. “Let them come, in that case.”
When they did, their tactics had changed. The first soldiers had attacked with short swords meant for close combat, usually ideal for fighting in such tight quarters as this; they had not anticipated the presence of Glaukos, who excelled in such combat and had the advantage of a longer sword. The next wave of Hawks came with spears.
Their ability to wield the weapons in this space was limited, but they were not aiming for elegance; they simply used the long reach to force Glaukos and Geberic backwards into the room. Now several Hawks were able to press forward while using their spears to keep the defenders at a distance. The fight turned into a regular skirmish with the Hawks trying to manoeuvre further into the room to fill their numbers, and Brand and his men trying to push them back.
Arndis picked up anything that could be thrown to use it in that manner, hurling bowls, plates, needlework, and anything else possible at the attackers.
Another Hawk fell to Glaukos’ blade, but it cost him a spear piercing his thigh, causing the former Blade to roar in pain. For the first time, Brand had to move in close, protecting Glaukos by forcing the Hawk back; meanwhile, Geberic exchanged blows, dealing and taking wounds as well.
With his moment of respite, Glaukos leapt back into combat, felling the Hawk that Brand kept occupied and following it up by doing the same to Geberic’s adversary. The bodies were beginning to pile up in the room.
With every Hawk inside the parlour dead, the mercenaries delayed their next assault. Brand retreated behind his defenders, catching his breath. Both the men in front of him were wounded. He glanced back at his sister, so far unhurt.
“They’re not in a hurry, these Hawks,” Geberic growled.
“They are waiting for fatigue and injuries to take effect,” Glaukos muttered darkly.
“I’ll gladly fight three days and three nights,” proclaimed his comrade. “We’ll keep them at bay until the landfrid.” Glaukos did not reply to this other than a knowing smile.
Brand bit his lower lip until blood appeared. “We will not last that long,” he mumbled, licking the trickle of blood away. “Is anyone out there with the authority to negotiate with me?” he called out.
“I am,” Konstans replied. He appeared in the doorway, standing behind his men. “Are you ready to surrender?”
“Will my men and sister be left unharmed?”
“They will be,” Konstans promised.
“What say you Hawks?” Brand continued. “Will you keep from seeking revenge for your fallen?”
“If it gets that big bastard to stop killing more, I’m practical enough to say yes,” someone shouted. Others agreed with this position enough to satisfy Brand, who let his sword fall.
“Milord!” it burst from Geberic. “Brand!” exclaimed Arndis.
He raised his hands to silence them. “What is the point in all of us dying?”
“Very wise,” Konstans assented.
“I surrender,” Brand declared, stepping forward unarmed. Two of the Hawks approached cautiously, eyeing Glaukos and Geberic. “You need not seize me,” Brand told them. “I shall follow willingly.”
They glanced at Konstans nervously, who gave a nod. “We are all men of our word here. Escort Sir Adalbrand to the dungeons,” he told them. “Collect your dead and get your wounded to a lay brother. As for them,” he added while gesturing to the remaining people inside the room, “we have no quarrel with any of them.”
Brand glanced over his shoulder as he walked out of the room. His two defenders stared with bitter looks and bloody appearance at their master’s departure into enemy hands; his sister stood tall in the carnage, subduing any emotion that surfaced. Looking ahead, he continued to the dungeons.
|
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|
Slow March
Middanhal
Konstans returned to his quarters, but before he could resume giving audience, his brother burst into his study.
“Pardons, milord,” Eolf exclaimed, a few steps behind. “He would not wait.”
Konstans raised a hand in a disarming gesture. “You may leave us,” he told the servant and turned to his brother. “You seem agitated.”
“Men are dead! There was fighting inside the Citadel! Fighting between our Hawks and Order soldiers!” The words came flooding from Valerian and were spoken with incredulity.
“Between one Order knight refusing to obey my lawful authority,” Konstans corrected him pointedly. “The two men doing most of the fighting were not Order soldiers.”
“That hardly makes it better! What gave you the notion this was a good idea?”
“Adalbrand was a threat. That threat has now been removed,” Konstans explained.
“By inciting fighting? Was there no better way to handle this?”
“Nothing has happened that was illegal,” Konstans retorted. “It is my right as dragonlord to arrest someone suspected of high treason. Adalbrand was seized before the landfrid takes effect, and the question of his guilt will be put before the Adalthing. It is the right way to handle this.”
“You gave me no warning!” Valerian struck the table with his fist. “I had to hear this from some common soldier,” he complained.
“I handle many affairs of the realm without informing you,” his brother replied. “I sit in this room from sunrise past sunset each day, governing. Do you think you would have time to handle your precious books or see your son if not for me?”
This gave Valerian pause. “I am not saying you did wrong,” the jarl muttered. “Merely that you should have told me before you started a battle inside the Citadel.”
“I did not know one would erupt,” Konstans argued. “I did not expect he would resist to such a degree. Which only proves his guilt.”
“You are certain he is a traitor, then?”
“Without doubt. He has been proclaiming his victories to win favour with the people. Not to mention, our reeve in Plenmont informed me that a union of marriage between King Adelard and Adalbrand’s sister was being planned. This would have provided Adalbrand with an army to attack us from the south while our forces are engaged to the north,” Konstans explained. “A clever plan that would have succeeded if not for my quick intervention.”
“I suppose,” his brother granted.
“Are we done? I have plenty to see to before the Adalthing convenes.”
“Fine,” Valerian mumbled, leaving.
Konstans waited until his brother was gone before summoning his servant. “Have this brought to Master Guilbert, the emissary from the duke of Belvoir,” he commanded Eolf, who bowed and accepted a document rolled inside a case. Inside lay the treaty signed between the Houses of Vale and Belvoir. Soon after, it was in Guilbert’s possession, and he could return to his master’s lands.
~~~~
William knocked and awaited a reply before entering Eleanor’s chambers. “They would not let me through. I was unable to ascertain anything with my own eyes.”
“Were you not able to gather any news?” Eleanor asked. She sat, unveiled, pressing her hands together; anytime she stopped, they would begin to shake.
“They claim that the only dead are Hawks. Sir Adalbrand, his sister, and his men are supposedly unharmed.”
“Are they still fighting?”
He shook his head. “Sir Adalbrand was taken to the dungeons, I was given to understand.”
“How come they will not let you through then?”
William took a seat. “Who can say? From what I can tell, this was instigated by the dragonlord. The dungeons are guarded by his mercenaries. I will take this matter up with him,” he declared.
“Do you know why he was arrested?”
“High treason, I was told.”
Eleanor gasped. “That cannot be! He only arrived today. How could Sir Adalbrand ever be involved in such?”
“I am not sure he is,” William spoke darkly, “and it may not matter either.”
Eleanor touched the burn scars on her cheek. “Poor Arndis. She should not be left alone.”
William rose up. “I will try again to demand entry and get her away. I will bring her back here.”
“Always a hero,” Eleanor smiled sadly.
“If only that were enough.”
~~~~
Theodoric sat in his parlour. Theodwyn’s guests and ladies had been dismissed immediately upon his arrival, leaving him alone with his sister and two servants. “Several dead and many more wounded,” the jarl exclaimed, stroking his forehead. “They attacked him in his own chambers!”
“What do you know of Arndis?” asked Theodwyn concerned.
“She seems unharmed, milady,” Holwyn reassured her.
“What else do you know?”
“Only that Sir Adalbrand was taken to the dungeons. His two guards are wounded, but not severely. The charge against him is high treason, though none seems to know the evidence or any details,” Holwyn rattled off.
“Perhaps we should leave,” Theodoric contemplated. “Withdraw to my house.”
“Leave? Show timidity before this crass act of violence?” Theodwyn sounded appalled.
“I only have half my thanes with me in Middanhal, and most of them have been left at the house because you demand several chambers to yourself,” the jarl reminded her. “We are vulnerable here.”
“If Valerian or Konstans lay a finger on a jarl of the realm, they will find another rebellion on their hands,” Theodwyn claimed loudly. “They would not dare move against you.”
“Adalbrand is dragonborn, yet that did not protect him.”
“The Adalthing is in a few weeks,” Theodwyn pointed out. “If you withdraw to your house, you will be far removed from all the negotiations taking place beforehand.”
Theodoric’s face became wrinkled in thought. “Holebert,” he finally said, “go to my house and fetch four thanes.” He raised a finger when Theodwyn was on the verge to protest. “No arguments.”
“Yes, milord,” Holebert bowed.
“As you wish,” Theodwyn almost sneered. “This is very poor for my health, you know, all this commotion. I intend to move freely and unfettered as always. I will not be cowed!”
“Imagine your health when we are locked in the dungeons,” her brother retorted, turning on his heel and retreating to his chamber.
~~~~
Moving through Lowtown, Nicholas walked with determined steps towards a specific tavern. With his bow staff, leather jerkin, and confident stride, he gave the impression of a seasoned veteran, and none gave him trouble. His destination was packed with patrons, drinking and eating; the ravages of war seemed contained to northern Adalrik, sparing the capital from shortages. Entering the common room, Nicholas let his eyes search around until he found the tavern owner.
“Master Gilbert,” he called out to no avail due to the noise of the room. He pushed his way forward, moving in and out between tables, until he could grab hold of the corpulent man’s shoulder. “Master Gilbert!”
The tavern keeper turned around, and his expression of confusion was replaced by delight. “Nicholas, my boy! You’re back, and in one piece, it seems!” He ran his eyes over the archer as to confirm his observation.
“Indeed, Master Gilbert.” Leaning forward, Nicholas spoke into the other man’s ear. “I can see you’re busy, but I was wondering –”
“You’re looking for Ellen?”
“If you can spare her.”
Gilbert grinned. “It won’t hurt these misers to wait a while longer for their ale. Come along!” he yelled, gesturing and moving towards the back of the room. Behind the bar stood a young woman, filling mugs and removing others. “Ellen!” Gilbert shouted as he approached. “I’ll take over for you – there’s someone here to see you!”
She looked up and beamed a smile at the sight of Nicholas, walking swiftly around the bar to embrace him. “You’re here! Come, let’s talk elsewhere,” she said, speaking into his ear, and he nodded in agreement. Leading him by the hand, Ellen moved through a door to enter the small courtyard of the tavern. While the sounds of the common room still reached them, they were shielded from all eyes, and Ellen greeted him with a proper kiss.
“That’s better,” Nicholas laughed, placing his arms around her waist. “I’ve missed you.”
“Same, in case that wasn’t obvious,” she replied.
“It was, but a reminder wouldn’t be bad.”
She grinned and reminded him as requested. “Are you back for good? Your last letter didn’t even mention your return.”
“It was a rather sudden decision,” Nicholas explained. “We’re not staying, though. The lieutenant is here along with the captain, asking for support. Reinforcements and the like.”
“I thought you were close to throwing all those savages out,” Ellen said. “Isn’t it strange that your commanders leave rather than finishing the task?”
“They have their reasons,” Nicholas declared with confidence. “Besides, it’s only because Lord Adalbrand went to Middanhal that I get to be here as well.”
“I’m grateful to him for that,” Ellen said smiling. “How long?”
“Who knows how long with these lords and noblemen? Some days, at least, maybe weeks if we’re lucky.”
“We should make the most of it,” she told him with a glint in her eye.
By the door, Quentin cleared his throat. “Sorry to intrude.”
The reunited couple turned their heads towards him, separating a bit. “Quentin? I thought you were staying at the castle.”
“Something’s happened,” he explained with a grave voice. “Lord Adalbrand’s been arrested.”
“Arrested?” exclaimed Ellen.
“What for?” asked Nicholas.
“Nobody seems to know. They don’t seem interested in us, but stay away from the Citadel,” Quentin cautioned him. “In fact, stay here. I’ll tell Geberic we should meet at this place. Sorry,” he added towards Ellen. “I don’t mean to cause trouble, but we’ll need a friendly location to stay low.”
“Perhaps we shouldn’t stay here,” Nicholas considered, “and bring danger to anyone who lives here.”
“Nonsense,” Ellen declared firmly. “If there’s trouble, your friends should stay here, and so should you.”
“Will your father agree?”
“I’ll persuade him.”
“Thanks,” Quentin told her. “I’ll fetch the others.” He disappeared again.
Ellen turned to look back at Nicholas. “What are we going to do?”
He pulled her into an embrace. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “What can we common folk do when the nobleborn are at each other’s throats? I don’t know.”
~~~~
It was evening when the door to the library was pushed open forcefully and Kate stormed through. “Egil!” it burst from her as soon as she saw him with an embrace to follow.
“Good to you see too,” he coughed once she let go.
She glanced at his and Quill’s face. “You look serious. Is something wrong?”
“My friend, Sir Adalbrand, has been arrested,” Quill told her.
“I’m sorry,” she replied. “What has he done?”
“We don’t know,” Egil interjected. “I have travelled with him for months. I don’t understand what’s going on.”
“The matters of high lords are rarely transparent,” the old scribe remarked.
“Are you in trouble?” Kate asked Egil while biting her lip.
“Hardly,” Quill assured her. “This has nothing to do with us.”
“How were your travels?” she asked next. “You must have seen so much.”
“I did,” Egil answered, giving Quill a hesitant look.
“Go ahead. You are both excused tonight,” he told them. “But do not be loud. I have work in the scriptorium.” As Quill left to continue his tasks, Egil had already launched into the first of many tales.
~~~~
A huge man with a great axe strapped to his back stormed through the royal wing of the Citadel. The kingthanes cast sidelong glances but did not get in the way, as it was their own captain. Berimund burst into the chambers belonging to the princes, making all of them stare at the big warrior with various expressions. Inghard had raised eyebrows, Gerhard seemed perplexed, and Hardmar appeared irritated.
“You move with the grace of a bull and make as much noise,” the crown prince sneered.
Berimund came to a halt. “My apologies, my prince. I have just heard the news and desired to speak with you at once.”
“What news?” asked Inghard. For once he was not holding a book, but playing chess against his brother.
“The arrest of Sir Adalbrand,” Berimund explained.
“It is most excellent,” Gerhard proclaimed before turning his attention back on the game. “Vale has lived up his reputation and removed a threat for us.”
“You agree with Lord Konstans’ actions?” Berimund exclaimed in disbelief.
“Of course,” Hardmar told him curtly, leaning back into his couch. “Adalbrand desires my throne. He had to be stopped.”
Berimund gave a frown. “You know this, my prince?”
“It was obvious,” the young nobleman scoffed. “Gathering followers and support, making alliances.”
“You consider him a traitor?” Incredulity continued to permeate the captain’s voice.
“It is not consideration, it is fact,” Hardmar stated. “Why do you think the Adalthing is being summoned? So we can execute the lot of them.”
“He is your blood,” the kingthane argued a deep furrow in his forehead.
“Only barely,” Hardmar retorted.
“It does not concern you that a dragonborn may be sent to the scaffold?” Berimund clenched his fist by his sides.
“I would send my own brothers to that same place if they betrayed me,” the prince declared casually, making Inghard and Gerhard stop their game.
The kingthane glanced behind him. By the door stood two of his brethren, staring pointedly ahead into empty air. “I see,” the captain mumbled. “I shall not disturb you further, my prince.”
|
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|
Dust
Southern Wastelands
A desolate region lay between the South Cities along the coast of the Mydlonde Sea and the Langstan to the north. The people of Alcázar called it a desert in memory of the great dunes south of the Mydlonde Sea, whereas the Mearcians styled it as the southern wastelands. It rained only scarcely, and the ground swallowed all water greedily until nothing remained; no rivers or brooks flowed through the wastelands. It was rocks and cliffs with barely a blade of grass. Only a few hardy tribes of nomads lived in these parts, moving their small herds to the few patches worth grazing and drinking from wells whose location was jealously guarded. Into this wasteland travelled Brand and Jana.
The sun was warm, but not unbearable; summer had long since passed, and harvest season approached winter. Still, they took breaks around noon, especially if they came across rocks suitable to hang their cloaks from, creating a primitive tent with shade. In such cases, they slept for a few hours, fearing no interruption. The stony terrain underneath their feet left no tracks for any pursuers to follow.
Neither spoke during the day; mindful of what lay ahead, they drank little, and their lips were cracked dry. Food was another issue. Foraging was impossible, and they had only what lay in the saddle bags. The horse could graze a little on occasion; beyond that, they had nothing.
On the first evening, they huddled together as before; in this empty land, the nights were especially cold. Pulling her cloak around her, Jana settled in against the horse. “Brand, do you think we should leave the horse?”
“It is useful if we need to make a hasty escape.”
“Our water could last several days longer without it.”
Brand attempted to shake his head; little movement ensued. “Sooner or later, we must return to the coast to refill our water regardless. We may need the horse like last time.”
“As you say. That means we need to try our luck in two, maybe three days.”
“We can go nearly a week, I am sure.”
“Brand,” she exclaimed with an admonishing tone. “I would object, but I am too weary.”
“Same. Let us sleep.”
~~~~
The next day was the same as its predecessor. Nothing about the landscape changed; they would have to walk north for weeks before they would approach greener pastures and eventually the Langstan. The only break in the day’s journey was when they found a rocky outcrop, letting them seek some shade below.
“Jana, your shoes.” She sat with her back against the stone, giving Brand a view of her soles. He crouched down to take a closer look.
“They are fine. It is good leather.”
“It is thin leather, not meant for traversing deserts,” Brand corrected her. “I am amazed they have not fallen apart already. They are nearly in tatters.”
“Are you going to waste time talking? You cannot be as tired as you look.”
He sat down next to her. “You should ride the horse. Before you injure your feet.”
“I suppose we might as well make use of it. You should do the same.”
“My boots will last.”
“Where did you get them? I did not buy you any.”
“I stole them from the palace on my way out.”
“Maybe I can walk with them while you ride.”
He gave a wry smile. “I doubt they would fit. They are already too big for me.”
“Somewhere in Alcázar, a man with enormous feet is walking around without shoes,” Jana mused.
“Hopefully, he got another pair since then.”
~~~~
Each night, they shared a drink of water before seeking rest. They drank it slowly, letting the liquid fill the mouth and soak the tongue, savouring it. As for the horse, it simply gulped it down, making weak complaints for more that were denied. The mare had already lost weight, and the saddle could barely fit around anymore.
“She will not last much longer,” Jana remarked, petting the horse. “Not much more than a day.”
“We will move towards the coast soon,” Brand promised.
They lay down for another night’s sleep, but Jana did not close her eyes. “I wonder at something.”
“What?”
“Do you think they took Salim alive, or did he – is he dead?”
Brand gave his answer slowly. “I think he was too good a warrior to let them take him alive.”
“Of course. They would punish him the way you were treated.”
“I fear so, yes.”
She hesitated, swallowing despite her thirst. “So he is dead because of me.”
“I am sorry. He seemed a good man.”
“He was. Always trustworthy, always protective. Always… caring.”
“I am sorry,” Brand repeated through cracked lips.
“He was not just my guardian, he was – father, brother, all good things to me.”
“Then I am glad he was in your life, and you were not alone.”
“Me too, but…” She sent Brand a look. “He did not deserve to die for it.”
“Often it seems those who deserve it least suffer the most.”
“I do not know how to carry this weight. The burden of his death.” She gazed upwards at the stars.
With an exhausted expression, Brand closed his eyes. “It gets easier. Though it never leaves you. Maybe that is how it should be.”
“How do you know?”
Brand exhaled. “I had a sergeant. He was young. He must have lied about his age to join. He followed me across mountains into wastelands. He died taking a blade meant for me.”
“And you are still burdened by it?”
“By him and many others.” Another deep breath escaped Brand. “Salim is only the latest to die for me.”
“I thought you said it gets easier.”
“It does. A little. At some point, a whole day will pass where you do not think about it. Later on, two days in a row.”
“But it never stops entirely?”
Brand rolled his head from side to side in a weak imitation of shaking it. “Somebody will say a word in the same manner. You see someone with similar looks. You remember fondly something that happened and suddenly realise who was also present.”
“I suppose that is for the best. I do not ever want to forget Salim.”
“Nor me.”
Jana closed her eyes. “Good night.”
~~~~
They woke the next morning and made their quick preparations to start the journey. “You should ride today,” Brand suggested to Jana.
“If the mare has to carry me, she will not last the day,” Jana cautioned him.
Brand surveyed the landscape ahead of them; it was the same as the days before. “I cannot say how far we have travelled. I fear we might still run into soldiers combing the coast for us.”
“In that case, I shall walk another day,” Jana decided. “But tomorrow we must turn west. Else the horse dies.”
“You are right. Tomorrow.” Brand turned, keeping the rising sun to his right, and began walking.
They had barely begun before Jana called for his attention. “Brand, behind us.”
He looked back and saw the same as her. Clouds of dust being kicked into the air, telling of riders moving fast. “They might not have seen us,” Brand said, though he did not sound hopeful. “Let us go.” They set into motion once more.
~~~~
They did not stop for the remainder of the day. Every now and then, they looked behind, and eventually they saw no further signs of others in the wasteland. Even so, they continued past sunset until all twilight was gone. When darkness surrounded them, making each further step a hazard, they finally stopped.
“We need to change your bandage,” Jana remarked as Brand unsaddled the horse. She opened a bag to take out what remained of the linen bolt. Obligingly, Brand sat down and carefully unwound the old bandage. When he was done, he extended his leg. “Sit still,” Jana commanded him.
“I am.”
“Just in case you considered not sitting still.” She had to move her face close to examine his wound, having only starlight for illumination.
“How does it look?”
“Dark.”
“It feels better.”
“Liar.” Jana’s smile was hidden in the darkness, but it resonated in the one word spoken.
“I would never.”
“We need to drink.” She finished with the bandage, returned the linen, and took out the gourd. She handed it to Brand. “You first.” He placed the vessel against his open lips and used his tongue as a stopper, letting only a few drops pass. He tried to hand the gourd over to Jana, who shook her head. “Another sip,” she commanded.
He did as before, letting barely any liquid trickle past. “There. Your turn.”
She stared at him with suspicion. “Last night, you categorically refused.” She accepted the gourd, taking a sip herself.
“It is impolite to argue with a lady, as I have come to remember.”
“Better later than never, I suppose.” She hesitated before she spoke again. “Brand, we must turn west tomorrow. The horse will not last longer, and I admit, I doubt myself. I realise how this sounds, given you are the one wounded, but I have to be honest.”
“I understand.” He nodded a bit.
“I never planned to journey this far,” she continued. “I have never walked this much in my life. I am exhausted, Brand.”
“Of course. We will go west tomorrow morning.”
She took a deep breath, exhaling it slowly. “I would have brought better shoes, had I known.”
“I will give you better warning next time.”
She gave him half a smile. “I swear, Brand, I am trying to be strong. Trying not to complain. Trying to keep going. At day, I am delirious from thirst. At night, I think about Salim.”
“I am sorry. Truly. I know what I have cost you,” Brand confessed.
“No, do not be. It was my choice to accompany you. I do not aim to place further burdens on you.”
“I know.”
“We should sleep.”
“We should.”
~~~~
When morning came, they set a course west as agreed. Their pace was sluggish as on the other days, and only the position of the sun told them they had changed direction; ahead, the land looked as uninviting as ever. Suddenly, Brand stumbled, and he had to grab onto the saddle strap to stay upright.
“Brand!” Jana walked around the horse, looking worried. “Are you hurt?”
“I am fine. My foot hit this. Curious.” He crouched to pick up a small stone. It was elongated in shape, but no longer than his hand. It was clearly carved, resembling a warrior. Whether due to crude craftsmanship or design, neither eye upon the depicted person had an iris.
“Brand.” Jana grabbed his shoulder while pointing, making him stand up. In the distance behind them, dust rose in a whirlwind. This time, it was close enough that they could discern the shape of riders.
“Hurry.” They resumed their positions, Jana leading the horse by the reins while Brand used the saddle for support, and moved forward. Despite the urgency, their pace remained slow; none of them had the stamina to match their fear.
Two things soon became apparent. The other group was pursuing them, and their mounts had the strength to ride fast. Each time either Brand or Jana looked behind, their followers had gained upon them.
“Jana,” Brand called out softly as they walked.
“Yes?”
“Your father will invade the island of Fortönn first. Once he has the castle, he will continue his invasion from there. Probably raid all the islands to keep Thusund from gathering its strength.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“I need you to pass this knowledge on.”
“What? To whom? Why are you saying this now?”
“In Maleth, find a boat willing to take you through the Teeth.” Brand was wheezing between words, struggling to keep up the pace. “Find someone beyond the strait. Anyone. Warn them.”
“Brand, I think you should ride the horse,” Jana suggested.
“No, you should.”
“You are clearly worse than me. Brand, please, get on the horse.”
Brand tried to shake his head. “No. I will not get far. You can.”
“I am not going anywhere without you.”
“Please. Maybe – if your father is stopped at Fortönn, he will give up. Many lives can be saved.”
“All that matters right now is your life. I implore you, please, drink some water.” Instead of walking forward, Jana moved to stand in front of Brand.
He swayed in front of her. “Too late for me. I will not make this escape.”
“I am not leaving you.”
Brand turned towards the horse, using both hands to support himself. “You must. Prevent the war.” His fingers fumbled with the saddle bag.
“What are you doing?”
Brand’s hand dove into the pack and grasped the hilt of his sword. With a belaboured movement, he pulled it free. “I will buy you time. Go now. Ride.” He exhaled rather than spoke each word.
“You cannot fight, you can barely stand! Brand, I beg you, let me help you!”
He looked in her direction with eyes unable to focus on hers. “Go.” He turned his back to her, facing the oncoming riders. His feet moved into the proper stance, and he raised his sword. For a moment, he stood ready for battle; in the next, he collapsed onto the ground.
|
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|
Flour and Turnip
Middanhal
Hours later, still before the sun had risen, Holwyn slipped inside her master’s quarters. She found her brother waiting for her in the parlour. “How is he?” she asked softly.
Sadness was written on Holebert’s face. “He has not been to bed. He merely sits upon it, staring blankly. He does not answer when I speak to him.”
“Let me try.” She passed her brother and entered the jarl’s personal chamber. “Theodoric?” she called to him with a gentle voice.
As Holebert had told her, the jarl sat on the edge of his bed staring at an empty wall. He did not stir or turn his head when Holwyn spoke his name, but he did respond. “What have you learned?” His voice was toneless.
“None saw the actual – incident,” she told him cautiously. “A kingthane was seen by that wall not long after.”
“Who?”
“He was spotted from afar by a guard standing on a tower,” Holwyn explained with hesitation. “The guard paid little notice to him. I could enquire about the movements of the kingthanes and determine his identity, possibly, but success is uncertain. I might learn enough to piece it together, I might not.”
“How likely?”
“It will be harder with the prince departing today along with many of the kingthanes and the Hawks,” Holwyn considered. “Those would be the people to question. I could travel with the army and return to you once I know.”
“I know enough,” Theodoric stated monotonously.
“You do, milord?”
“It was that former thane of Isarn. If not him, then one of his companions.”
“I think so as well, milord.” Holwyn stared at her master, searching his face, but it remained devoid of emotion.
“My mind is settled.”
“What will you do?” Holwyn asked carefully.
He finally turned his head to gaze at her. “I will leave this chamber and attend court. I will accept the condolences and this story that she fell by accident. I will appear to be in mourning, nothing more.”
“But?” she dared to add.
“I will find the coward who declared war on the House of Theodstan, and I will kill anyone I see fit until my thirst for revenge is satisfied,” he declared in a calm voice, standing up. “Tell Holebert to come here. I need to dress.” The choice of attire was easy; all of Theodoric’s clothes were black.
~~~~
Although it belonged to her husband, Mathilde was a rare sight in the dragonlord’s office. Her presence was a sign of how tumultuous the last days had been; she had marched through the antechamber and forced her way into his study without allowing any obstacle to hinder her.
“Calm yourself,” Konstans told her to little effect.
“The Quill is in prison, Theodstan’s sister is dead, and Athelstan has escaped the dungeons to join his brother,” she declared with a clenched jaw. “Everything is unravelling.”
“Athelstan’s escape is unfortunate, but Isarn has not nearly the army he once did. The damage is limited,” Konstans claimed, taking a healthy sip of his undiluted wine.
“This has made Theodstan completely unpredictable,” Mathilde argued. “Before, he could be relied upon to remain passive. Who knows what he intends now?”
“Who knows,” Konstans repeated muttering. “He will be seeking revenge.” The dragonlord paused for a moment. “I need to meet with him now while there is time,” he exclaimed in sudden realisation. “Before we leave. There is no time to waste.” He left in haste, leaving his bewildered wife behind.
~~~~
In the library tower, Egil was packing his belongings. Although the task was familiar to him, he still had his belongings spread out on his bed to determine what to pack. Along with nearly all his possessions, Kate was also in his room, looking concerned. “What about Master Quill?”
“I don’t know,” Egil admitted, surveying his ink set, feather pens, clothes, and rolls of parchment. “I tried to see him this morning, but they wouldn’t let me in, and I won’t get any more chances before I have to leave.”
“How can you leave at such a time as this?” Kate questioned.
He looked up at her. “Do you think I want to travel with these madmen? They tortured Master Quill,” he spoke with emphasis. “I want to run in the other direction, but that won’t help me or my master, so I am doing as I am told.”
“Why can’t you tell someone? When I saw Lord Elis receive letters from the rebels, I was also scared to talk. But I told the captain, and he made it right,” Kate argued.
“Those were special circumstances,” Egil countered. “Master Quill is the law keeper, and they threw him in a cell, which should tell you what regard they hold the law in. If I say anything, I’ll be right there next to him.”
“Then at least you could look out for him!” Kate almost stamped her foot in frustration.
Anger flashed across Egil’s face, but it quickly subsided. “Just be glad you’re a kitchen girl and not part of any of this. Now, I have to pack, and you have your own duties to attend to.”
“Egil,” she asked hesitantly, “what happens to the library while you’re gone?”
“Happens to it? Nothing,” he replied absentmindedly. “I imagine the kingthanes will keep it locked until my return.”
She stared at him as he picked out what to bring along on the march north; receiving no further reaction from him, she turned on her heel and left the library swiftly.
~~~~
There was a knock on the door to Eleanor’s room, and with her handmaiden absent, she opened the door herself to find William standing outside, wearing full armour and surcoat. “I just heard about Lady Theodwyn,” he told her with dismay. “You have my deepest sympathies.”
She stood staring at him, hesitating for a moment before she stepped forward to put her arms around him tightly. Although taken aback, he returned the embrace. “I am glad you are here. You are very cold,” she continued. “Have you been out all night?”
He nodded, and they separated; she stepped back into the room, followed by him. “Yet another fruitless search for Brand. Wherever he hides, I cannot reach him, which I hope means he is beyond the reach of his enemies as well.”
“He is clever,” Eleanor declared. “He is probably miles away by now.”
“I doubt it, but let us hope so since I obviously cannot help him.”
“You have done your best,” she consoled him.
“I have done nothing. I could not stop his arrest, his trial, or his execution. I cannot even help him escape,” William admitted bitterly. “I am a knight, not a courtier. It is little wonder I should fail at every turn.”
“You are being too hard on yourself,” Eleanor said in a soothing voice, letting her hand stroke his brow.
“On the contrary, it is important I remind myself. Brand is the same, and he forgot. It does not matter that he wins every battle on the field. He loses every battle in these halls because he does not understand.”
Eleanor bit her lip. “So what will you do?”
He took a deep breath. “Bearing this in mind, I will return to my duty. I came to Middanhal hoping to solicit aid for the campaign in Hæthiod. I will speak with the quartermaster and gain what troops I can, and then I will return to finish the liberation of our homeland.” He hesitated briefly. “You could come with me. You have not been home in Tothmor for ten years if I recall.”
Eleanor considered it before shaking her head. “Arndis has lost her brother and a close friend within the span of days. I cannot abandon her as well.”
“I understand,” William told her. “I will leave soon, I imagine. With summer approaching, I need to take advantage of the season to finish the campaign.”
“Of course,” Eleanor replied, almost masking the disappointment on her face. “The Order has no better knight than you.”
He stared at her with an indeterminable expression on his face. “You are too kind as always, Lady Eleanor.” He gave a bow and left her room.
~~~~
The jarl of Theodstan strode into his own quarters, where the dragonlord awaited him. The latter bowed his head. “My condolences, my lord, upon your loss.”
“Thank you,” Theodoric replied with indifference. “I was told you were anxiously waiting in my chambers to speak to me. I thought you had a horse waiting to take you north.”
“Hence the reason for my anxiety as time is short,” Konstans explained. He glanced at Holebert, who had originally fetched the jarl. “May we speak privately, my lord?”
There was a moment where Theodoric seemed not to care, but he nodded to his servant, who quickly departed. “What do you want?”
“We are both intelligent men, so I will dispense with pretence. You are aware of who is guilty in Lady Theodwyn’s death?”
The jarl’s eyes and voice changed from dull to cold. “Why?”
“One of the new kingthanes. Ulfrik would be my guess,” Konstans told him.
“That is not what I asked.”
“I want to give you the opportunity to exact your vengeance.”
Theodoric gave a sardonic smile. “Grief may cloud my mood, Konstans, but not my mind. What does it matter to you?”
“A member of a jarl’s family has been slain with impunity,” he explained. “It cannot go unpunished.”
“That sounds likely, but not coming from you.”
“I extend this aid to you now because I hope to rely on your aid in the future,” Konstans admitted. “Should, for instance, a new jarl of Isarn need to be chosen by the Adalthing rather than by our future king.”
Theodoric scrutinised the other man’s face. “You are a hard man to read.”
“It might also come to pass we need to choose another future king,” Konstans finally confessed. “One who will not throw the Quill into shackles.”
The jarl gave another mirthless smile. “Your puppet has cut his strings, has he? Now the rest of us shall pay the price.”
“I grant you that matters have escalated far beyond what any could predict.”
“You have a hand in creating this monster that besets us, Konstans,” Theodoric declared. “Yet I may not hold it against you if you can deliver what you promised. State your plan.”
“The kingthanes, including your sister’s murderer, are untouchable inside this castle. Yet all of these new savages appointed by our prince will travel with him north. An army camp in comparison is susceptible to swift raids.”
“I am aware,” Theodoric remarked with a touch of disdain.
“I am going north to negotiate with Isarn, however futile such an attempt is bound to be. It is common knowledge that Isarn will have troops in the area, and given his lack of honour, none would doubt that he might make such a cowardly attack.”
“I assume that is not all you intend? To tell me things I already know?”
“We have a great number of Isarn uniforms in our possession after defeating their army,” Konstans explained patiently. “My chamberlain, Arion, can give you access to those surcoats.”
The mocking expression disappeared from Theodoric’s face, and he took a deep breath. “I see.”
“You will have some time,” Konstans told him. “The army does not travel fast, and we will be in camp for a while.” He gave a deep bow. “My condolences once more, Jarl Theodoric. I shall leave you in peace.” As they parted, one man wore a faint smile, the other a contemplative look.
~~~~
Less than an hour later, the Red Hawks in Middanhal marched out to join the rest of their company at the siege of Castle Grenwold. At the front of the long column rode Prince Hardmar with more than twenty kingthanes, most of them newly sworn to his service; the supplies train was in the other end. Unlike his previous journey with an army, a horse had not been provided for Egil, so he had found a seat in the back of a cart carrying large sacks of flour. It was not particularly comfortable, but he could do worse for a seat, and riding the wagon spared his legs the walk and his arms from carrying his belongings.
Red Hawks were marching alongside the carts, acting as rear guard. Soon, one of them caught Egil’s eye. The soldier missed one ear but had an expensive ring in the other along with coloured marks on his skin. While one hand held a spear as he marched, the other had a tendency to stroke the groomed beard on his chin. Eventually, Jorund noticed the young scribe staring and sent him a grin.
“You’re a Dwarf,” Egil pointed out.
As if bewildered, Jorund touched the gold ring in his ear and then grabbed hold of his facial hair. “By my beard, you’re right, lad! I never knew!” He laughed.
“I just meant,” Egil stammered, “I’ve never seen a Dwarven warrior. You’re a Red Hawk, even.”
“You don’t miss anything, do you?” Jorund’s eyes glistened with mirth.
“I didn’t think your people liked to fight.”
This evoked boisterous laughter from the Dwarf. “Are you mad, boy? We fight in our mothers’ wombs, trying to punch our way out. Show me two Dwarves and I’ll show you where the fighting’s at!”
“I didn’t know,” Egil admitted thoughtfully. “The only Dwarves I’ve seen are those at the Mint or working their craft in the shops in town.”
“Inland Dwarves,” Jorund remarked with a superior smile. “I’m from the islands, and like any true islander, travelling is in my blood. I’ve been to every Realm by now and Alcázar beyond. Where I lost this.” He motioned towards his missing ear.
“What happened?” Egil asked excited.
“I had too much to drink one night. Truth be told that happened every night,” Jorund confessed with a wicked grin, “but this time, these fiends notice my ring and don’t know better not to mess with a Dwarf. So they followed me and fell upon me in a dark alley, cutting off my ear and my ring with it, beating and kicking me to a pulp.”
“Then what?”
“The halfwits made the mistake of leaving me alive. I woke with a bigger headache than usual and a nasty itch on the left side of my head,” Jorund related. “It took me a while, but I found out each of those bloody ear snatchers’ names and I got my ring back, plus something for my troubles.”
“I have never seen a man wear ear rings,” Egil contemplated. “Only women and Dwarves.”
“It’s an old custom,” Jorund began to explain.
“Jorund, you bow-legged, bearded bastard!” A Hawk with a more elaborate insignia appeared. “Quit your yapper and fall into line, or your only supper will be the whip tonight!”
“Yes, lieutenant!” Jorund replied with a stout expression. “Don’t worry,” he spoke quietly to Egil, “he is all hammer and no nail.” He gave the boy a wink and hurried past the cart, falling into place next to a couple of other Hawks.
Egil turned his head and followed the Dwarf with his eyes. Looking beyond to see the rest of the train, something caught him by surprise. Jumping down from his cart, he ran forward past a couple of other wagons. “Kate!” he exclaimed.
Sitting in another cart was the kitchen girl from Citadel. “I wondered how long before you realised I was here.”
“What on – how? Why?”
“You’re not the only one who gets to go somewhere,” Kate told him with a touch of defiance. “The fine folks need someone to cook for them in camp same as in a castle, and Cook must be tired of me, because she let me leave.” Her demeanour changed into a grin.
“Kate, this isn’t a trip for leisure!” Egil almost tripped over the words in his eagerness to correct her impression. “It isn’t like the stories you read in the books or hear in songs. There could be battles, this is dangerous!”
“Would you prefer I wasn’t here? Would you rather be alone?”
“I didn’t mean that,” Egil defended himself. “I just don’t think you thought this through.”
“I did,” Kate claimed forcefully. “Master Quill is in the dungeons and you are gone, leaving the library locked off and me trapped in the kitchens. I am tired of being left behind.”
Egil walked next to the cart for a few moments, digesting her words. “What’s in that cart?”
“Mostly sacks of vegetables, I think. Turnips, by the feel of them.”
“Mine is better, it’s flour.” He gestured with his head. “Let’s sit there. It’s more comfortable.” With a smile, Kate jumped down and followed him down the row of carts.
|
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|
Seal and Sign
Middanhal
This particular evening was busy in the library tower. It was Laugday, meaning all the servants had enjoyed their weekly bath; on this eve, Quill opened his library for the kitchen girls, knowing their hands had been scrubbed clean. For an hour, the library turned into a lore house, teaching them to read and letting them have access to a select part of the book collection. Kate supervised, ensuring every page was turned with care, books returned to their rightful place, and that the library did not suffer in any way from showing this courtesy to the servant girls.
Quill meanwhile was free to continue his work. He sat in the scriptorium, writing letter after letter. “Master Quill? What are you doing?” Kate asked curiously.
“The Adalthing is being convened outside its regular day,” he explained, pausing his work. “Summons must be sent to the members that they can make their way to Middanhal in time.”
He continued writing, and she stared with awe at the tip of his feather pen as ink flowed to mark elegant letters. “It looks so easy in your hand.”
“Want to try?”
“I couldn’t!” She seemed almost horrified at the suggestion.
“It is just a letter,” Quill smiled. “The recipient will probably know its contents merely from having my seal upon it. I doubt you could do much damage.”
“But Master Quill, I can’t make it nearly as fine as you.”
“As long as it is readable,” he told her. “Here, this letter is finished. Copy the writing exactly as you see it.” He made room for her at one of the writing desks, preparing quill and ink, blank paper, and placing the original letter next to it for her to see.
Hesitantly, Kate took a seat. Her fingers almost trembled as she took hold of the feather pen, dipping it in ink. With cautious movements, she made one line and immediately paused to examine her work. “It’s not exactly straight.”
“Keep working,” Quill commanded, starting a new copy himself.
It took Kate nearly half an hour to write what Quill had done twice as fast. When she told him she was done, he walked over and examined it with a solemn look. “Not bad. With some practice, you might become quite decent.” A twinkle appeared in his eye.
“It’s good enough?” Relief flowed from Kate’s voice.
“I think it is. In fact, let us use this version to send to Sir Adalbrand in Hæthiod. Perhaps Egil will read it, and you can tell him when he returns home.”
“Egil is coming home?”
“He is travelling with Brand, that is, Sir Adalbrand, so I assume so. If the good knight returns, so should Egil.”
“I can’t wait!” As an example of the impatience expressed in her words, Kate stood up, moving around the room.
“You will have to,” Quill told her. “Also, it is late. Tell the girls to pack their things away. Come see me afterwards.” While Kate did as instructed, Quill folded the letter together and tied string around it. He melted some wax upon the string knot before marking it with the insignia of the King’s Quill.
“The girls are leaving now, Master Quill,” Kate said as she returned to the scriptorium.
“One final task for you tonight. Deliver this to the Hall of Records. Tell the scribes it is to be sent to Sir Adalbrand at the Order camp.” He handed her the sealed letter.
“My first letter.” It was with a grin that she left the library to carry out her assignment.
~~~~
Hours later, when night had fallen upon the castle, something stirred in Egil’s empty room. A shape pushed itself out from under the bed, stretching arms and legs once out of the uncomfortable hiding place. Leaving the small chamber on silent footsteps, the intruder entered the library hall. Moonlight fell through the window to reveal it was Jerome, the Red Hawk, though he wore dark clothing instead of his green surcoat with its conspicuous red symbol.
His gaze fell upon the long table and benches where the kitchen girls had been reading. “Of all the days…” he mumbled to himself, rubbing his back and neck; the girls’ appearance had forced him to hide and lie immovable for hours.
He glanced towards Quill’s bedroom; it was quiet. Moving swiftly, he entered the scriptorium, closed the door behind him, and quietly searched through desks and drawers until he found his target and could pull out Quill’s seal, conveniently placed with a stick of red wax next to it.
Jerome took out a small candle and fire tools. After a few tries, a small flame sprouted and ignited the candle. Retrieving a letter from a pocket, he did just Quill had done hours earlier, melting wax onto the string and marking it with the seal of the King’s Quill.
Suddenly the mercenary stiffened and quickly blew out the candle, returning the room to darkness. With barely a sound, he moved to stand near the door so that if it should open, he would be concealed by it.
After waiting with bated breath, nothing happened. He gave a smile in the dark and relaxed, exhaling. After a few more moments of waiting, he dared to open the door into the library hall. It was as he had left it. A look towards Quill’s door revealed it remained closed.
Jerome quickly crossed the hall and turned the key sitting in the door leading outside. It creaked terribly, sending a start through the intruder. Forgoing caution in favour of speed, he opened the door as soon as it was unlocked and moved through; after closing it, he hurried down the spiral staircase. Behind him, Quill continued to sleep without interruptions.
Walking through the castle, Jerome met with no hindrance other than the occasional Red Hawk, who recognised him and greeted him in passing. With a smile, he threw a few remarks back and went on his way, reaching the Hall of Records. It was not locked; it contained nothing of value in coins, only books, ledgers, and the like concerning the organisation of the Order, and whatever post was to be sent from Middanhal to any of its garrisons or camps.
Jerome aimed for the bowl containing the latter. He dug through a few dispatches and missives until he found his target; removing the letter that Kate had written and Quill had sealed, he replaced it with his own. Also bearing the seal of the King’s Quill, it would appear genuine to anyone else.
With a faint whistle, Jerome passed through the corridors of the Citadel, returning to his barracks. It was not hard to find a fire burning somewhere in winter, and the flames greedily ate the letter he had stolen from the Hall of Records. Satisfied that the paper had been consumed entirely, Jerome went to bed.
~~~~
The following morning, the envoy from the duke of Belvoir presented himself to the dragonlord of Adalrik. “You wished to see me, my lord?” he questioned after his usual gestures of courtesy.
“I did. You may tell your master he has my tacit approval to act,” Konstans declared.
“He will be pleased!” Guilbert’s smile widened, as much as such a thing was possible. “However, the duke should like certain reassurances.”
“I just gave them to you,” Konstans informed him dryly.
“More than that,” Guilbert retorted. He pulled out a document, unfolding and smoothening it. “This is a formal declaration of an alliance between the House of Vale and my master, the duke of Belvoir.”
Konstans raised an eyebrow as he accepted the parchment, glancing over its contents. “Why is this necessary? Is my word not enough?”
“With deepest respect, my lord, you are not the head of your house. The duke has already signed this, as you can see. It needs only the signature of Jarl Vale.”
Konstans dropped the document onto his desk. “I said that we will accept the duke’s intervention in Fontaine. I have no intentions of writing anything down.”
“Ah, my lord, this paper merely formalises the alliance between your house and the duke’s. There is nothing criminal about a pledge of friendship and mutual assistance.”
“I suppose not, but why does the duke require that we write it down?”
“An alliance with the lord protector and jarl of Vale will ease the minds of the other lords of Ealond,” Guilbert explained. “There is nothing odious about it. It will give my master the confidence he needs to take action in Ealond, and in return, it is proof that he will march against your enemies afterwards.”
“All our enemies,” Konstans specified. “Whether northern or southern, whether in Ealond, Adalrik – or Korndale.”
“All your enemies will be his,” Guilbert promised.
“Very well. Leave it with me. I will have my brother sign and seal it, and it shall be delivered to you soon.”
“Most splendid, my lord,” Guilbert beamed. He took his leave. Konstans sat staring at the document for a moment before he grabbed his quill and signed it as Valerian, jarl of Vale.
~~~~
“Arndis! Arndis, are you in here?” Eleanor came almost flying into the chambers belonging to the only member of House Arnling still in Middanhal.
“Right here,” Arndis replied amused, stepping out of her room and into the parlour. “What is happening?”
“I just heard a rumour,” Eleanor said, sitting down. She removed her veil, letting her breathe a little easier.
“I am not Theodwyn,” Arndis told her in amused chastisement. “You need not exert yourself on my account.”
“But this pertains to you,” her friend explained.
“A rumour about me? How curious.”
“They say that the Quill has been ordered to convene the Adalthing soon,” Eleanor revealed.
“What does that have to do with me?”
“Your brother is a member, is he not?”
“He is. Oh!”
“That must mean Sir Adalbrand is coming home,” Eleanor said excited.
“Really, just call him Brand,” Arndis corrected her. “But you are right. Or maybe he cannot? He is on campaign, he might not be able to just leave camp.”
“The way the campaign seems to be going, the war might already be over and we just have not heard the news yet,” Eleanor suggested merrily.
“Hardly,” Arndis smiled. “Though I hope you are right.”
“You are lucky. There is no reason for Sir William to return to Middanhal.” Eleanor gave a small sigh.
“If the campaign is over as soon as you seem to think, nothing would hold him back either,” Arndis spoke with a teasing voice. “I wonder why the Adalthing is being assembled outside of time,” she continued contemplatively.
“Most seem to think it is to have the traitors in the dungeons officially declared just that, traitors,” Eleanor told her in a casual voice. “I guess the lord protector is eager to have them executed.”
The colour vanished from Arndis’ face. “I forgot about them.”
“Are you well? You seem pale,” Eleanor pointed out concerned.
“I – I did not sleep well,” Arndis claimed. “In fact, I should like to lie down a little. If you would excuse me.”
“Of course!” Eleanor quickly agreed. “I will see you at the meal, or I can have something brought to you if you are not well enough to appear.”
“I just need rest,” Arndis told her with a feeble smile. Once her friend had left, she returned to her room and took out a king piece from a chessboard, staring at it.
|
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|
Playing Blind
Middanhal
Once he had surrendered, Brand walked with his head held high through the hallways of the Citadel. Despite the slow pace, the Hawks did not pull him along or push him forward, and Brand was not in chains or had his hands bound; it seemed more like a band of thanes protecting their lord than guards escorting a prisoner.
To reach the dungeons, they had to cross from the southern side to the northern part of the fortress, where the Order had control. If Brand considered making a run for it, he showed no sign, walking steadfast along the shortest path to the cells; his word and his honour bound him stronger than iron. He descended the stairs to reach the circular guardroom, only stopping once he had come that far.
The guards discussed briefly where to place him while placing iron rings around his wrists; their instructions were to place prisoners as separate as possible, and the cells already held noblemen and thanes of Isarn along with the landgrave of Elis. Finally, one of the Hawks gave a shrug, took the keys, and gestured for Brand to follow him.
Choosing one of the empty cells casually, the Hawk entered along with Brand. He attached the chains hanging by the wall to Brand’s wrists, pulling a few times to make sure they were secure and sturdy. “Enjoy your stay, milord,” the Hawk grinned and left, closing and locking the door after him.
Brand sank down onto the crude bench that served as bed and chair. A torch burning in the hallway outside cast a dim light through the barred window in his door. As his eyes adjusted, he was able to examine his chamber. It was quickly done; a blanket lay folded next to him, and straw had been spread onto the stone floor to mitigate its coldness. “Gods, hear me,” he mumbled with a despondent expression. “Help me, for my circumstances cannot get any worse.”
A voice reached him from the adjacent cell. “Is someone else there? Did the guards bring a new prisoner?” someone asked. “My sympathies for your situation, though I hope you are not adverse to conversation. The hours grow long in this place.” Frowning, Brand listened as the voice continued. “I am Athelstan of Isarn, friend, and who are you?”
Brand let his head sink into his hands.
~~~~
Early next day, Brand received a visitor. The guard unlocked the door to let in Arndis, and she hastened forward to embrace her brother tightly. “I am well, I am well,” he repeated, stroking her hair. “You need not be worried.”
She pulled back. “Of course I am worried! You are the last person who should be in a place like this.”
“Yet I am. Guilt or innocence has little bearing upon it,” he told her.
“I tried to see Lord Konstans, but I could not get admitted.”
Brand shook his head. “He will not see you. He has no reason to hear any plea you make.”
“If he would at least tell me with what evidence they hold you –” Arndis began to say.
“What would that accomplish?”
“We must plead your case to the Adalthing!” she declared. “If we can dismantle any proof they may have, the Adalthing must declare you innocent.”
“I already told you, my guilt or lack of same does not matter,” her brother impressed upon her. “All of this has carefully been planned. I was lured to Middanhal ahead of time that the landfrid would not protect me. Now they have me in chains, and Lord Konstans is far too clever to stumble on this last step. The Adalthing is entirely under his and his brother’s control. I saw that last year,” he added bitterly.
“Maybe that control can be broken. Lord Theodoric is our friend and wields influence too,” Arndis suggested.
Brand sat down, exhaling deeply. “Jarl Ingmond blames me for the death of his family. There is nothing he wants more than to see my head separate from my shoulders. Between him and Jarl Vale, I would need nearly every other member of the Adalthing on my side to be acquitted.”
“Then I will get them on our side!” Arndis proclaimed fiercely. “I will plead, beg, threaten, bribe, extort, and do what else I must to see you freed!”
Brand looked up at his sister’s face. “I am in no position to stop you. But heed my counsel, sister. Sell our house, take all the coin we have, and depart for distant realms. Do not let my downfall pull you with me. Escape while you can.”
“I will not abandon you,” Arndis told him firmly. “I will return. Keep your spirits up, Brother.”
She caressed his head for a moment before departing; he watched her leave with a resigned smile.
Walking down the corridor, Arndis stopped briefly in front of Athelstan’s cell to look through the window. He glanced up, and as their eyes met, a smile was lit on his face before she continued on her way. Once she was gone, Athelstan called out, “You are fortunate to have a sister such as the lady Arndis.”
“Yes, I am certainly in fortune’s grasp,” Brand muttered, rattling his chains.
“Did you speak? I could not hear,” Athelstan shouted apologetically. Brand responded with a deep sigh.
~~~~
Arndis went straight from the dungeons to the chambers occupied by the siblings of Theodstan. Theodwyn sent a glance at the dirty hemline on Arndis’ dress but did not remark upon it, instead gesturing for her visitor to take a seat. “You must be so distraught, dear child. Did you manage to sleep at all?”
“I am fine,” Arndis replied, remaining standing. “Eleanor was a gracious hostess.”
“Room could be found for you here,” Theodwyn offered. “My brother has filled the chambers with his thanes, but I am happy to throw some of them out.”
“That will not be necessary,” Arndis told her, quickly changing the subject. “I need your help and that of your brother’s.”
“Theodoric is elsewhere. I do not know when he might return, but let us speak until then.”
Arndis finally sat down and took a deep breath. “I need to know if the jarl can see my brother exonerated in the Adalthing.”
Theodwyn clasped her hands. “He will seek to influence the assembly in that direction, of course.”
“Good,” Arndis exhaled. “That is a start.”
“It may not be enough,” Theodwyn admitted. “If Jarl Ingmond follows Jarl Vale, they need only to convince six landgraves of your brother’s guilt.”
“He is not guilty of anything,” Arndis exclaimed.
“Of course not, but what matters in the Adalthing is whether the lord protector can make it seem so.”
“How?” Arndis asked confounded. “What possible reason could there be to suspect Brand of anything?”
“There are – rumours,” Theodwyn spoke with careful phrasing. “Jarl Vale will fan the flames of such, I imagine.”
“Rumours? Of what?”
Theodwyn hesitated. “That your brother sought alliances in order to lead a revolt. In fact, it is said that he sought to marry you to the king of Korndale to secure the king’s armies for his cause.”
“That is preposterous!” Arndis could barely sit still. “Brand defeated the rebels, why would he become one?”
“You and I know that,” Theodwyn explained, “but it is not common knowledge.”
Arndis was silent for a moment, calming herself. “So it is the landgraves that will determine his fate.”
Theodwyn regarded her friend with concern. “My dear, it is almost time for me to take my stroll. Will you not join me? It will do you good.”
“Thank you, I have no need of it,” Arndis replied absentmindedly.
At this point, the jarl entered, followed by two of his thanes. He stopped as he saw Arndis and nodded in greeting. “My lady,” he said courteously, removing his cloak and handing it to Holebert, who appeared upon his master’s arrival.
“My lord,” she greeted him back.
“Theodoric, it is good you have returned. Arndis needs our help to secure her brother’s release.”
“I see,” the jarl mumbled. “It may not be that easy.”
“Nobody expects it to be easy,” Theodwyn retorted. “You have swayed the Adalthing against worse odds.”
“That was a different time,” Theodoric countered. “It is not a matter of persuading the landgraves to support your brother, it is persuading them to oppose Vale. With his tight grip on power, few will be willing to do so.”
“You will try, will you not?” Arndis asked with concern.
“I shall see what I can do,” Theodoric promised her, though his words were spoken cautiously. “We already have a rebellion on our hands, and the noblemen are frightened. It is easy to make them see traitors everywhere.”
“My brother is not a traitor!” Arndis interjected, standing up.
“Do not worry,” Theodwyn spoke in a soothing voice. “Theodoric has no intentions of giving up. Have you, Brother?”
The jarl cleared his throat. “I shall see what can be done,” he reiterated faintly.
Arndis let her gaze measure him from head to toe. “You have my gratitude for that, my lord jarl,” she spoke politely. “If you will excuse me.” She gave a short bow and left with haste.
Theodwyn sent her brother a scathing look. “You could have at least attempted to reassure the poor girl.”
“And lie to her?” he retorted. “I was as kind as I could be.”
“You could have pledged your full support, that you would do your utmost to save her brother from the axe.”
“His fate is sealed,” Theodoric claimed. “I shall lend my voice to him in the Adalthing, but no more. If I negotiate with the landgraves on his behalf, suspicion will fall on me next!”
“I find your company difficult when you act cowardly,” Theodwyn declared coldly, leaving abruptly for her own room without another word.
Theodoric stared at the door she closed behind her. “I am keeping us both alive, you ungrateful woman,” he muttered through gritted teeth.
“You always do what you know is best,” another voice spoke. It was Holwyn, entering the parlour to place a hand on Theodoric’s shoulder. “We all know this.”
“That does not seem to be the case for my sister,” the jarl grumbled.
“I think you are right and that Sir Adalbrand is doomed. Unless unusual measures are taken into use,” she proffered.
Theodoric turned his eyes on her. “No. They are looking for any excuse to tighten the noose around anybody that might seem against them. Do not give Vale or his brother any reason to lead either of us to the scaffold as well.”
“As you say, milord,” Holwyn declared meekly; she inclined her head and retreated a few steps, hiding her expression.
~~~~
“I heard the story of your victory at Polisals. It was most impressive,” Athelstan called out. When he received no reply, he continued. “It must have been exhilarating to be hailed as the Dragonheart with the rush of battle and victory coursing through your veins. I can only imagine your state of mind on that day.”
“You need not flatter me,” Brand retorted. “You have won your own share of battles. You know the taste of victory as well as any other.”
“I have,” Athelstan granted. “Yet none where I challenged the enemy captain to single combat and turned the tide of the battle by felling him. You would think such only happened in song.”
“I suppose,” Brand assented, sound mollified. “In fact, a skald in Hæthiod chose to travel in my company, and he witnessed the battle. He must have thought as you, for he put the deed into verse.”
“Hah!” Athelstan exclaimed. “I always knew they would sing your name one day. It happened sooner than I anticipated.”
“I guess,” Brand commented with a pleased voice.
“I wish I could have seen the sight,” Athelstan declared. “How you waded into battle and hacked your enemy’s head off.”
Brand gave a frown. “How do you know such details of the battle? I did not mention this in my dispatches.”
“Arndis told me.”
“My sister has been paying you visits in this godforsaken hole?” Brand’s voice quivered between disbelief and outrage.
“She has. She bribes the guards, I believe. Even her considerable charm could not grant her passage this often.”
“Often?” The word was bellowed by Brand. “What in Hel’s name would she come to visit you for?”
“An act of kindness, I would assume. She brings me news of the outside or plays chess against me. She is most skilled.”
“I know,” Brand said icily, “I taught her. If I had known she spent her time so frivolously, I would have returned to Middanhal months ago.” Athelstan gave no reply at first, but suddenly he roared with laughter. Brand pressed his lips together, but finally curiosity took hold and he yelled out, “What?”
“You must have earned a lot of silver from the spoils after your victory against me,” Athelstan began to explain.
“So?”
“That very silver was used by your sister to bribe her way into visiting me. I could have accepted it as mere coincidence that you and I are now made neighbours in imprisonment, but the evidence is mounting. The gods have a sense of humour, and the jest is played upon us.”
“Then let that be your entertainment and let me have some peace,” Brand shouted, crossing his arms and ignoring further attempts at conversation.
~~~~
Meanwhile, Arndis entered the wing occupied by Jarl Vale and his family. She did not get far before a pair of Hawks stopped her. “What is your business?”
“I seek an audience with the lord protector,” she answered.
They both grinned. “You thought you would simply walk in and speak with the ruler of the realm?”
“How could that fail to work?” the other soldier laughed.
Arndis placed her hand on her coin purse. “I understand there may be a certain toll in order to pass.”
The Hawks eyed her and exchanged glances. “Do you hear what I hear?”
“I hear someone thinking we’re willing to risk our employment for a few meagre coins.”
Arndis bit her lower lip. “I would make it worth –”
“As if our employer wouldn’t notice we let someone walk right past us and into his chamber, or worse, into the room where his newborn son sleeps.”
“There would be a flogging in our future. But who wouldn’t happily take a whipping for a handful of silver?”
While the soldiers laughed at her expense, Arndis saw someone moving down the corridor. “Lady Valerie!” she called out, making the shape turn around. “Lady Valerie, may I speak with you?”
The woman hesitated but eventually walked down the hallway to approach the group. At her presence, the Hawks ceased their merrymaking and stood up straight with blank expressions. “Do I know you?” Valerie asked.
“I am Arndis of House Arnling,” she introduced herself.
Valerie inclined her head in greeting. “What do you require of me?” she asked, a little confused.
“I should dearly wish to speak with your father, Jarl Vale,” she added politely,” if such a thing is possible.”
“My father rarely receives visitors. You should speak with my uncle, Lord Konstans, instead,” Valerie suggested.
“I have tried, but he seems too busy to receive me,” Arndis explained. “Your father is my remaining hope.”
“I cannot help you in that case,” Valerie told her and turned to leave.
“Wait! My brother is the only family I have,” Arndis pleaded. “I ask humbly that you would intercede with the jarl on my behalf.”
“In this case, my father does not listen to me,” Valerie replied with a hint of regret. “You have my sympathy, Lady Arndis, but do not expect that of my father’s.”
“What of the prince? Are you not engaged to him?”
Valerie gave a frown. “Our engagement has not been made official. I do not see the relevance, regardless. It is not Prince Hardmar who has had your brother arrested.”
“Yet the lord protector must heed him, I imagine,” Arndis claimed. “Prince Hardmar’s opinion must weigh heavily.”
“Perhaps,” Valerie admitted doubtfully, “but I am sure his opinion is aligned with my father’s. I have even less sway with the prince, in any case. I have not met him even once save from afar, and I doubt he holds any affection for me.”
An expression of dejection fluttered across Arndis’ face before she composed herself. “I see. I thank you for your attention, Lady Valerie.” She gave a short bow and departed. The guards waited until Valerie had gone as well before resuming their laughter.
~~~~
Athelstan moved about, restless in his cell. With the chains restricting him, his options were limited; mostly, he shifted between sitting on his bench and lying down upon it, moving the blanket about, or arranging the dispersion of straw upon the floor. Eventually he called out to his neighbour. “Fourth pawn two steps forward.” He received no answer. After waiting a while, he repeated himself. “I move my fourth pawn two paces forward.”
He had to be patient before he finally got a reply. “Second pawn one step forward.”
Athelstan gave a smile. “Thane on black, three steps forward.”
“You tried that before. Last summer we spent in Alcázar. Knight on black, two steps forward and inland.”
“I thought you might have forgotten,” Athelstan laughed. “You cannot blame me for trying.”
“I suppose not.” Brand cleared his throat. “Your move.”
~~~~
With evening on its way, Arndis approached the royal wing. Instead of Hawks, she was met by kingthanes, who glanced at the blue colours of her clothing. “Lady Arndis,” they greeted her respectfully. “What brings you here?”
“I desire an audience with Prince Hardmar,” she informed them.
“It is late, but we can enquire whether the prince is available to receive visitors,” one of them offered.
“I was not thinking tonight,” Arndis corrected them. “If you would be so kind as to tell the prince that I hope to return tomorrow afternoon with his approval. He will have my utmost gratitude should he be amenable to entertain me, even but a short while.”
One of the kingthanes nodded. “Of course, Lady Arndis. I will tell the prince immediately.” He turned and disappeared deeper into the wing. Shortly after, he returned. “The prince has agreed to your request and expects you tomorrow afternoon.”
Arndis gave a slight bow. “You have my gratitude, my lords. Until tomorrow.”
|
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|
Sins of a Father
Lakon
A week outside of Tothmor, the Order and the Dalemen reached each other. William, Brand, Leander, and Hubert accompanied by knights and Blades rode in front of one army to meet Prince Flavius of Aquila, commanding the forces of Korndale. With numerous riders and banners, the two parties met on the heath between Tothmor and Lakon.
“Prince Flavius,” William greeted him, nodding in the saddle.
“Sir William, I presume,” the prince replied. “Your Majesty, Count Hubert,” he continued. “You must be Sir Adalbrand.”
“A pleasure,” Brand spoke with courtesy. “The reputation of Flavius Ironside precedes the man.”
“As does yours,” Aquila replied with a growl.
“You seem alone?” William questioned. While accompanied by a sergeant and other common soldiers, the prince did not seem to have any lieutenants or warriors of noble birth with him.
“We have brought as many as we could spare, as requested by my king,” Flavius informed them gruffly. “But I had to leave someone to defend my own city in my absence. Let us continue rather than waste time. We have a war to finish.” Without delay, the prince turned his horse and entourage, leading them south.
With glances exchanged between their commanders, the Order army followed suit. Brand slowed the pace of his horse until he was next to Hubert. “Did you meet the prince Aquila in Korndale?”
“We did,” the count confirmed.
“Is this brusque behaviour typical of him?”
“It is,” Hubert nodded. “Though he was against Korndale sending its armies abroad, which could explain his disposition towards us,” he added as an afterthought. On Hubert’s other side, Leander gave a scoff.
“I see,” was all that Brand spoke in reply, spurring his horse forward to ride at the head of the column.
~~~~
With two armies marching together instead of one, the pace slowed for several days until some manner of cohesion was achieved. About a week later, Lakon loomed in the distance. It was the second-largest city in Hæthiod and a centre of trade that connected the rest of Hæthiod with Florentia in Korndale, allowing primarily salt and olive oil to flow in one direction with meat and fabric going the other way. Its importance was such that the late king Everard had married his own sister to Count Stephen of Lakonia, tying his support to the throne. This had been before it had become apparent that Everard would never have children with his wife, paving the way for Stephen’s daughter Theodora to be made heir.
The queen was not present, but her champions could gaze upon the city in her stead. Due to the great traffic Lakon saw, it had numerous gates, weakening its defences. Despite this, the outlander commander had decided against facing the Order on the field. Whatever the strength of Lakon’s walls, the outlanders were relying upon them. With quick orders, William commanded a fortified camp to be set up, advanced siege fortifications to be constructed to ensure the enclosure of the city, and siege equipment to be assembled in preparations for assaults.
~~~~
A curious sight was assembled on the table in William’s tent. Rolled up letters were arranged to form a circle with chess pieces placed in various patterns.
“This gate is closest to the castle and can expect swiftest reinforcements,” the knight captain of the Order explained, revealing that the paper and pieces served as a crude representation of Lakon. “I suggest we feint an attack here, drawing their spare forces in this direction, before we begin our actual assault on the opposite side.”
“Seems wise,” his first lieutenant concurred. “Especially –”
“I will not commit any troops to storming the city,” Flavius declared flatly.
“You have come simply to watch?” Brand asked acerbically.
“I have come,” the prince spoke with scorn, “because of underhanded dealings between you and my king!”
Confusion spread among those present for the war council. “I have never exchanged a single letter with your king,” Brand defended himself, his voice wavering between disbelief and anger.
“Yet his desire to court your favour, Sir Adalbrand,” Flavius said with disdainful emphasis on the name, “is why my soldiers are sent here when they are needed to defend my city!”
“Your accusations are baseless, Prince Flavius,” the knight replied coldly. “I have no knowledge of your king’s intentions, and the notion that any king would court my favour is ridiculous.”
“My lords, we are gathered to discuss the assault,” William pointed out.
“By all means, make your assault. But not a single Daleman will participate, I swear by all the eyes,” the prince declared, turned around, and left.
From a chair in the corner, Leander gave a snort of laughter. “I suppose this concludes the council.” He rose and did as Flavius, forcing Hubert to do likewise.
The captain and the lieutenant of the Order looked at each other. “Our losses will be far too heavy if we are to storm the city with only our men,” Brand considered. “Our supposed allies have abandoned us already.”
“I did not understand his reasoning, but he seems to have some grievance against you. Perhaps you could settle matters with him?” William suggested.
“It was he that accused me,” Brand argued indignantly. “I have done nothing against him, yet he is set against me. I see no cause why I should settle anything with him, and regardless, he does not seem inclined to listen to any word I would speak.”
William gave a quiet sigh. “I will give the order for our camp to be further entrenched.”
~~~~
The days became monotonous. Lacking the men for an outright assault, the Mearcians simply set up a sharp watch surrounding Lakon. Patrols were sent out as well, and supply lines were established under strong escort from Florentia and Tothmor. The Order soldiers were frequently trained by their men-at-arms, but other than that, the soldiers soon descended into games and gambling to fill the time.
“The scouts have returned.” As he delivered the news, Brand entered William’s tent. His own sergeant was already there, playing chess against William’s squire with Egil watching. All of them looked up, however, as the lieutenant walked in.
“What did they find?”
Brand gave a shrug. “Nothing. The outlanders are not manning all the Langstan. They have built a ramp to facilitate easy crossing, which is the part they guard.”
“We should set up our own watch, in that case,” William decided.
“Already seen to,” his lieutenant informed him.
“Good. The thought of the Langstan in the hands of the outlanders is grating.”
“If the outlanders send an army to relieve Lakon, it is less than a week from the wall,” Brand began to speak. “Not much warning.”
“Your point?”
“We should send scouts into the Reach. Establish the location of the closest city from which the outlanders operate, and extend our sight into their lands,” Brand suggested. “Should they attempt another incursion, we might even repel them at the Langstan itself.”
William gave a frown. “The men will be reluctant to enter the Reach, let alone traverse it. We will have to enforce discipline.”
“I will lead the first patrol,” Brand declared boldly. “I have already asked for volunteers. Once I return, failure to follow my example will be considered dishonourable. Let shame drive any soldier afraid to do what his commander does. If shame is not enough, the lash will have to do.”
The captain gave his lieutenant a look. “That seems many days to spend investigating a wasteland.”
“It is but the first step. What good is driving the outlanders from Hæthiod when they might return any day?”
William gave another frown. “You wish to establish permanent patrols beyond the wall?”
“I wish to invade,” Brand said with conviction. Egil’s mouth dropped open, and Baldwin’s hand froze in the air as it was moving a chess piece.
The captain leaned back in his chair. “The aim of our campaign is to see this land freed, not the occupation of another.”
“How many centuries have we suffered the outlanders to plague Adalmearc? They struck first, but we should strike last, and with such strength that they never rise against us again,” the lieutenant argued forcefully.
“Brand,” the other knight spoke quietly, “we would need ten times the soldiers we have now just to begin. Half our current forces are not even willing to fight for us currently.”
Brand nodded in agreement. “Korndale would need to be actively involved. Given that their king apparently courts my favour, it should be possible. We need support from Adalrik, but that can be won as well. When I return, I will have the knowledge to plan the campaign and convince those in need of being convinced.”
“Me, first and foremost,” William warned his lieutenant.
“If I cannot persuade you of all people, I will know the cause to be hopeless,” Brand smiled and took his leave.
Walking from one end of camp to the other, Brand was almost at his tent when he saw a familiar shape waiting for him. With a wry expression, Godfrey sent Brand a smile. “Tell the volunteers to make their preparations,” he told Geberic, who had followed him from William’s tent. “We depart tomorrow morning.” Geberic sent Godfrey a scowl but did as told.
“What did your captain say?” asked the wanderer.
“He is reluctant,” Brand admitted, “but if I can verify your information, we have all the knowledge necessary for a successful campaign.”
Godfrey nodded. “All my intelligence can be trusted, you will see. The map I made is waiting for you in your tent. We will speak again when you return from the Reach, no doubt.”
“No doubt. One last thing,” Brand added. “If I find anything amiss, or if my return seems in doubt, I have left orders for your death to be excruciatingly painful. You will not be left alone either for a single moment until I have returned, should you consider making another disappearance.”
“I expected nothing less,” Godfrey smiled.
~~~~
Evenings in the camp were subdued. There was a general lack of firewood; although southern Hæthiod could be considered lush in some regions compared to its northern counterpart, much of that were olive trees and forbidden to chop down. With spring having only just begun, the nights were cold without fires burning, and most soldiers remained inside in their tents. The volunteers for Brand’s patrol were an exception, having spent the day gathering supplies and preparing for departure. The sun had already set when they were done, each seeking his own tent to sleep before the morrow.
One of the volunteers, who had distinguished himself as a skilled warrior despite being a young recruit, was moving through the dark camp when a voice called out to him. “Soldier!”
The young man stopped dead in his tracks upon hearing the voice. He began walking again immediately, but it was too late.
“Hugh,” the voice spoke again, this time softly. It belonged to Count Hubert. He was standing between tents, darkening his surroundings and isolating them from anyone else still awake.
The Order soldier turned around with a joyless smile. “Father,” Hugh greeted the old man, stepping into the shadows to approach him.
“It really is you. I was not sure if I wanted it to be true or not.”
“What we want rarely matters,” Hugh declared casually. “Right now, I want you to turn around and forget you saw me, but I imagine that will not happen.”
“Why are you here, Hugh?”
“Another thing that does not matter.”
“It does to me.” The count’s face, always expressive of his mood, was painted with anguish. “Either you are here to redeem yourself by undertaking a dangerous task.”
“That would make for a good story,” Hugh spoke with another smile.
“Or the outlanders released you from the dungeons and keep you in their employ as a spy.”
“If it will calm your spirit, Father, I am not here as a spy. I have sent no reports from this camp, and I do not intend to.”
“That seems worse,” Hubert claimed, “for it means you are their hired blade.”
“I ask you again, Father.” The familial term was emphasised. “Let us part ways and forget this meeting took place.”
“If your intentions are honourable, surrender yourself. I will plead your case to the king, and you may serve some way to earn your redemption,” Hubert urged.
Upon hearing the royal title, Hugh snorted with derision. “The king is my inferior in every way. He would keep me locked up out of spite if for no other reason. This is the last time I ask you,” he continued, placing his right hand on his sword hilt. “Let me leave without further words.”
“Are you running away?” Hubert contemplated. “Joining the patrol to escape to the Reach? No, joining the Order would only complicate such a goal. I was right. Your hand has become that of a murderer.”
Hugh bit his lower lip, and chagrin filled his face. “You could have let me walk away.” Slowly, his sword left its sheath.
“It is hard to strike in camp, and we will not see battle any time soon,” Hubert continued his contemplations. “But out in the Reach with just a few men surrounding him, you will have your chance at the lieutenant. Is that your reasoning?”
Raising his sword at his father, Hugh gave the smile of a rogue. “The outlanders know of his skills as a commander. They will pay me most handsomely for his demise. All my troubles will end with a single, swift stab of the dagger.”
Hubert drew his own sword and assumed fighting position with such speed, his son barely had time to react, taking a step backwards. “I cannot allow that.” His voice shook for a moment.
“Father, please.” There was an overbearing tone in Hugh’s voice. “I am your son. If you had the heart to see me executed, you would have raised the alarm already.”
“As my son, responsibility falls to me. If your blood is to stain any blade tonight, let it be mine.” Gone was any tremor from his voice, any anguish from his face.
“I have beaten you before, Father. I remember vividly the day that I finally surpassed you. If I must, I will do so again.”
“Is that all that would hold you back from this terrible misdeed?” Hubert stared at his son. “Would you only surrender to me if you thought defeat certain, and not because honour, loyalty, justice demand you stay from this course?”
“None of those ideals ever served me well,” Hugh muttered and struck his first blow.
Hubert evaded his son’s blade and retaliated. Fighting in close quarters hampered them both, limiting their movements. Nonetheless, Hugh took the offensive, pressing his father back.
Hubert parried each blow. With a countenance that spoke of deep remorse, he struck past Hugh’s guard and landed a thrust into the younger man’s side, swiftly pulling his sword back.
Hugh stared with disbelief at his own blood on Hubert’s steel. His mouth lolled open, and his sword fell from his hands. As his body did likewise, Hubert dropped his own weapon to catch his son and cradle his head in his arms.
“You killed me,” Hugh stammered. His eyes were already becoming void, staring emptily into the night sky.
“My son, my son,” the old count cried. “All those times we trained. You always wanted to be better than me, so I let you win. I wanted to see you smile, I wanted you to be proud. I should have made you a better man instead, that this moment would never have come to be!”
Hugh could not reply.
|
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|
The Weapons of War
Western Hæthiod
Early the next day, Brand led a company of knights and attendants out of camp, a hundred men in all. They rode at a steady pace, raising heads and questions as to their purpose, though no answers were to be had. A few speculated on a possible connection with the new prisoner kept isolated in a tent, but since the soldiers were not allowed to speak with prisoners as a general rule, no information could be found there either.
“What do you say to tell a woman she’s beautiful?” asked Nicholas. He was inside the tent he shared with most of the lieutenant’s men, as they were known.
“You just used the words,” Quentin growled. “Unless she is deaf, she’ll get your meaning. If she is deaf, other words won’t help you much.”
“I wasn’t asking you,” Nicholas muttered, looking at Troy.
“You use a picture,” the bard told him. “One made out words. You paint that picture in her inner eye and compare her to it, and she’ll see what you mean.”
“I don’t follow,” the archer frowned.
“Think of something that’s beautiful, like a flower,” Troy explained. “You tell her she is fairer than a field of flowers, and all the blossoms she has ever seen will come into mind, and she’ll know what you mean.”
“That’s real clever,” Nicholas nodded thoughtfully. “You’re crafty.” The compliment was accepted with a nod and a smile.
“It’s a shame you don’t know Song of Sigvard,” Egil said. “I would like to hear it on solstice.”
“Alas, my audience tends to be found in taverns rather than great halls. A ballad I can handle,” Troy spoke regretfully. “Less so the high songs.”
“Isn’t there a song about Erhard?” asked the young scribe.
“Yes. On the Field of Blue, it’s called,” Quentin replied, checking his bowstrings for any frayed threads.
“Do you know it?” Egil asked Troy with shining eyes.
“I think I learned it once,” the bard mumbled. “Maybe tonight. I’ll need to remind myself how it is played…” his voice trailed off. Meanwhile, Egil had gathered some of his writing tools, and as the other men busied themselves, he left the tent.
The young apprentice shivered in the cold and pulled his hands as much inside the sleeves of his robe as he could without dropping quill, ink, and parchment. Walking at a brisk pace, he traversed the camp until he reached the tent that had been drafted into service as a primitive prison.
“What you want?” asked the soldier standing guard brusquely.
“The lieutenant told me to ask some questions to the prisoner and write them down,” Egil replied, holding up the utensils in his hands.
“Lieutenant told you?” the guard questioned, scratching his beard. Egil gave a nod. “Get to it then.”
Egil nodded again and walked past, entering the tent. Inside, he found a large, wooden pole hammered into the ground. Around it was a metal ring, and sitting on the ground, chained to that ring, was Godfrey. “I wondered if you recognised me,” the prisoner smiled.
“Hard to forget,” Egil muttered. “Thanks to you, I was attacked by murderers and brigands, and I met – I met Elves,” he whispered almost feverishly.
Godfrey leaned back a little. “He told you? I did not expect that.”
“He had to,” the young scribe explained. “I had to hide in the Alfskog to avoid being killed by muggers.” Egil paused for a moment. “How do you know an Elf? Why is Ælfwine helping you? What’s all this about?”
“I have no answers for you,” Godfrey told him. “But since you are here, I have questions of my own.”
“I’ll answer yours if you answer mine,” Egil replied with a cunning look.
“No.” At Godfrey’s reply, disappointment replaced cunningness. “When Quill made you his apprentice, he bound you to his service. That includes serving me. I believe that has been made obvious.”
“Fine,” Egil pouted.
“First, why are you here?”
“Sir Adalbrand asked Master Quill to let me join him. He wanted to have this campaign recorded by a reliable witness.”
“The lieutenant is Quill’s friend,” Godfrey commented with dawning realisation on his face. “I thought he looked familiar.”
“You know him?”
“I have seen him before, that is all. Who is the captain?”
“Sir William.”
“Is he a good commander? How would you judge him?”
“They say he is unbeatable in combat,” Egil explained. “He seems honourable and trustworthy. So say all the men.”
“He will need more than that as long as the outlanders have five times his numbers,” Godfrey remarked dryly. “Is he a capable commander in the field?”
Egil hesitated. “I don’t think I’m supposed to talk about such things. I don’t know anything about you.”
“You know two of my friends,” Godfrey told him. “Quill and the Highfather. Judge me by my company. Would you doubt either of them?”
“I suppose not,” Egil admitted reluctantly.
“I walk in shadows, boy. Secrets keep me safe. But if you trust me, Egil, I will return the favour. You are in a camp of war, and you might soon find yourself in danger again. Think of whom I summoned last to protect you on your journey to the highlands. Trust me, and I will protect you in the future,” Godfrey promised in a soothing voice.
“As you say,” Egil acquiesced.
“Now. Sir William, how is he as a captain?”
“He is suitable, I suppose, though Sir Adalbrand is the true leader. When winter is over and battle can be expected, it’ll be him commanding the army,” Egil explained.
“Strange. He is the lieutenant and many years younger, is he not? He seems barely old enough to be a knight.”
“He is very young,” Egil admitted, “but he has proven himself. He defeated the Isarn rebels on the field twice, even against Sir Athelstan.”
“That was him?” Godfrey raised his eyebrows. “I have heard stories of what happened in Adalrik, but few details.”
“He crossed the Weolcans with an army,” Egil elaborated. “He took Middanhal from the rebels by surprise and defeated both Jarl Isarn and his brother.”
“Maybe the outlanders need to outnumber him by more than five times,” Godfrey jested.
“Not all are fond of him, though,” Egil confided, lowering his voice. “They say Jarl Ingmond hates him, and because of that, we cannot have winter quarters in Ingmond but have to stay in this camp instead.”
“How do the soldiers feel about him?”
“The knights are spiteful towards him, I think,” Egil considered. “They don’t like being under his command. Half the footmen, especially those who are new, seem to dread or dislike him intensely.”
“For what reason?”
“He likes to make inspections, especially at night. Anyone being lax in his duties or on post gets flogged. And as mentioned, they aren't happy that we are quartered in camp instead of a city in Ingmond.”
“Half the men feel this way? What of the rest?”
“They worship him,” Egil said after a moment. “Especially those that fought with him the longest in Adalrik. They’d assault the gates of Hel if he told them to.”
Godfrey’s eyes examined Egil. “What do you think of him, this Adalbrand?”
The boy frowned before he gave his answer. “I feel uneasy knowing someone has such power over the hearts of men. Who knows what he will use it for?”
“Indeed,” Godfrey assented, leaning back and closing his eyes. “How did they react to the news I brought them?” he asked, looking at Egil again.
“Sir Adalbrand rode out this morning with a force of knights.” Egil hesitated a little. “What will happen now? What do you plan to do?”
“Wait here for his return,” Godfrey smiled, rattling his chain.
~~~~
The Order army had not only chosen its camp from availability of fresh water and defensive features; if one were to trace a direct line between Lakon and Tothmor, the camp was not far from such an imaginary line. The outlanders were aware of the Order presence to some degree since their outriders clashed with their Mearcian counterparts from time to time. Even if they did not know the precise location, caution made their convoys and contingents march in a wide semicircle bent eastwards, keeping distance to the Order army. Usually, this coupled with their blackboots restricting the range and movements of the Order scouts kept their supply trains hidden from detection.
When the scouts already knew such a train was on the move, however, discovery was only a matter of time. Riding swiftly, they soon found revealing tracks and could return with certain knowledge to Brand, waiting in the empty wasteland with his knights and their squires and sergeants; of his personal retinue, he had brought Geberic and Matthew. As soon as information reached the restless Order warriors, they acted upon it. A force of a hundred riders could not be concealed long in the empty land of western Hæthiod, and the garrisons from either Lakon or Tothmor were sure to react eventually.
Like a snake coiled through the landscape, the supply train moved through the heath. The terrain was a little rough, but generally flat, allowing their wagons to move. There were about ten of them in total, and each had several soldiers sitting on it or surrounding it; all in all, each wagon had an escort of about ten warriors.
Out in the open, the Anausa soldiers were vigilant and tense; they spotted Brand’s company as soon as it was within range.
“Half charge,” Brand commanded. “Squires and sergeants, ride down stragglers. Geberic, with me.” The order was spread down the line. Leaving their attendants behind, the knights alone moved their horses to stand side by side and began a slow trot. Ahead, the outlanders were desperately gathering, trying to form lines with their spears. In a display of discipline and horsemanship, the knights spurred their horses to a gallop to close the distance, every man keeping perfect pace.
With a deafening sound, the longer spears of the Mearcian knights struck into shields, cloth, mail, leather, and flesh. Nearly half the outlanders died where they stood, not even inflicting a scratch in return. Chaos erupted as both lines disintegrated; most knights had released their spears as soon as they struck target and drawn swords instead, or they were using the hooves of their war steeds to trample their enemy.
The outlanders’ shorter spears had served them ill in the first clash, but now they struck back, aiming for the knights’ horses. A few fell, but the knights had the upper hand in every way, and they cut the outlanders down like wheat before the scythe. Some attempted to use the wagons to buy themselves reprieve, but it was short-lived; within moments, the Mearcians outnumbered the Anausa and surrounded those still fighting. About a score of the red-robed warriors dropped their weapons and bolted; some ran north towards Tothmor, some south towards Lakon. The squires and sergeants caught up with all of them, leaving not a single enemy to survive.
In practical terms, the skirmish was over shortly after it began. Some of the wounded outlanders tried to continue fighting and were promptly dealt a deathblow. The remainder, too wounded to move or too smart to draw attention, were left alone; it was against the Knight’s Codex to kill an enemy who could not defend himself, and if any were taken prisoner, they were to be shown care and courtesy. Since it was not feasible to drag any of the outlanders from this fight back to camp as prisoners, the knights simply ignored them and thereby avoided any responsibility for them.
Instead, the Mearcians turned their attention towards the wagons. Some of them contained cloth, such as uniforms, tents, clothing, and the like. One wagon had barrels of arrows, a few had food supplies, and three contained large barrels of water.
“Sir Ewind,” Brand shouted, and one of the knights approached with a grin. “I will have Geberic deal with the water barrels. See to it that the rest of the supplies are destroyed as best we can.”
“Consider it done,” the knight saluted with a fist to his chest and turned around to bark some orders.
The lieutenant meanwhile turned towards Geberic. “Only half of them,” Brand instructed him quietly.
“Understood, milord,” Geberic smiled, pulling a hatchet out of his saddlebag. He began striking the water barrels with the axe, breaking the wood to let the contents pour out. However, whereas half of them received vigorous strikes to leave them all but destroyed, Geberic only inflicted minor damage on the other half. A little of the water spilled, but most remained.
Pulling a bag from his own saddle and opening it, Brand’s expression became displeased as the smell of rotting flesh rose into the air. Working quietly, Brand distributed the pieces of spoiled meat to each of the water barrels still intact, throwing the bag away when done.
“Let us away,” Brand told his companion. At the other end of the wagon train, the knights had set fire to supplies and carts with rising smoke that was sure to attract attention. The squires and sergeants who had pursued the fleeing outlanders were returning by now.
“Into the saddle,” Geberic yelled to the knights. “We’re back to camp!” Moments after, the knights and attendants were riding west, leaving only gruesome remains for the outlanders to find.
~~~~
With firewood being scarce, the fires around the Order camp were of pitiful size, and the soldiers typically sat huddled close around them. This evening was an exception; Since Geberic and Matthew had gone with Brand, the remaining of the lieutenant’s men had more space than usual. Troy was strumming his lute as always, while others were preparing food.
“Just one more time,” Nicholas pleaded. He shook a letter in his hand at Egil.
“You know how to read,” the young scribe protested. “Besides, I read it for you twice the other day.”
“It takes me too long,” Nicholas complained. “I hack through the words. When you read, it’s like watching an arrow take flight through the air, graceful and unstoppable.”
“Watch out, Troy, you have competition,” Quentin laughed coarsely.
“He’ll need to refine his verse before I feel threatened,” Troy grinned.
“Egil, please,” Nicholas reiterated his prayer, shaking the letter once more.
“Fine,” Egil grumbled and snatched the paper. Squinting his eyes and turning so that the light of the fire could illuminate the words, he began reading. “Dearest Nicholas,” his voice rung out clear. “I was happy to receive your latest letter. I am glad if nothing of note is happening in camp. If I had my wish, you would spend the whole campaign in camp and then return to Middanhal without a scratch on you.”
“Typical women,” Quentin scoffed, though he had ceased stirring the pot boiling over the fire, listening to Egil reading instead. Nicholas did not seem to notice Quentin’s remark; his face showed his rapture at every word spoken by the scribe.
“There is not much to tell here either. The city seems calm after all the awful events earlier this year, and I hope it continues that way. I have prayed to Idisea for a peaceful winter solstice, just as I pray to Rihimil for your safety. Pa has promised to slaughter the sow, so we will have solstice ham with honey.”
“Ham,” Troy whined with the expression of a starving dog.
“You’re getting soup, and you’ll be thankful for it,” Quentin scowled at the bard.
“Old Hilda’s cough has worsened. I am worried the raven will find her come the Raven Days. I make her some tea to help every chance I get, but yesterday I found it cold in the cup. She had forgotten to drink it. I told Pa we should leave something at Idisea’s shrine to spare Hilda another winter, but he said we had enough worries of our own to spend silver on an old neighbour whose time had come. I told him that yes, Hilda is our old neighbour and has been our neighbour since I was born, and she was always kind to me.”
“Every time you read that letter, I wonder if Hilda is clad in raven feathers yet,” Quentin said coarsely. Nicholas made a shushing sound, still staring into the fire.
“That did not convince Pa, though, so I spent my own coin. I know you would approve. You are so kind yourself. Write back when you can. Yours faithfully, Ellen.”
Nicholas blinked a few times, turning to look at Egil. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” Egil told him, handing the letter back.
“Maybe tomorrow you would write a reply for me?” the Hæthian asked slyly.
“Yesterday Troy, tomorrow you,” Egil complained. “You realise that you would have to pay good silver to a scribe if we were in town for this service?”
“We’re in camp, though,” Nicholas pointed out, making his companions laugh.
“Don’t be so stingy,” Quentin admonished Egil. “We let you share in our food, so you don’t have to cook any yourself.”
“Fine,” Egil grumbled.
“Food!” came Matthew’s voice as he found a place to sit by the fire.
“You’re back,” Troy pointed out. “How did it go?”
“It went well,” Matthew replied. “When’s the food ready?”
“In a little while,” Quentin told him brusquely. “Where’s your master?”
“He had to talk with the captain,” the young sergeant explained.
“Isn’t it your duty to be by his side at all times?” Quentin questioned him, beginning to pour soup for the others.
“He told me I wasn’t needed,” Matthew mumbled defensively.
“Let the boy have some rest,” Nicholas interceded on his behalf. “Weren’t you going to play something new, Troy?”
“I was, but I only remember the tune, not the words,” the bard admitted.
“Play it anyway,” Quentin told him, finishing his duty as a cook.
“Yes, play it,” said Matthew.
Troy nodded with a gracious smile and began plucking the strings of his instrument. The melody came in waves, washing over them, and to everyone’s surprise, a voice soon accompanied the tune.
“Sing to us, songs of old, valour’s flame burning bright,” Quentin sung with a deep voice as the others stared with varying expressions. “Sing on the Field of Blue, night so dark turned to light.” Soon the others were clapping along, their hands and laughter performing as the final instruments alongside Quentin’s voice and Troy’s lute.
~~~~
While his men tended to their stomachs, Brand had gone to William’s tent. Leaving Geberic outside, he gained admittance with ease, as the guards outside would not hinder the lieutenant of the army.
“What happened?” asked William, closing the book he had been reading. “What did you find?”
Brand cast a look at Baldwin. “I need to speak with you privately.”
William gave a frown but nodded at his squire, who left the tent. “What is amiss?”
“The report given to us by the traveller was accurate,” Brand informed him, sitting down. “We found the supply train and dealt with it.”
“What was it carrying?”
“Provisions, arms, lots of water. They are getting thirsty in Tothmor.”
“It will rain sooner or later,” William contemplated. “Lack of water will not trouble them indefinitely.”
“I agree,” Brand said, his voice growing hesitant, “which is why we should act soon. Prepare the men for a surprise assault on Tothmor.”
William sat up straight, frowning. “Against a garrison twice our size?”
“I only destroyed about half the water that the train was bringing to Tothmor. The outlanders will have recovered the rest by now. It should reach the city tomorrow,” Brand explained.
“Why did you leave any of the water intact?”
“Because once the outlanders drink it, they will get sick. Their garrison will be depleted of men able to fight, and we can take the city by storm,” Brand told his captain, speaking slowly.
It took a moment before William’s frown turned to a scowl. “What did you do?”
“What was necessary.”
“You poisoned the water.” William’s voice trembled slightly.
“Giving us an opportunity to retake the city with minimal losses,” Brand argued.
“We are knights!” William almost bellowed, rising up quickly to pace around the tent. “We follow the Codex! We fight with honour!”
Brand leaned back in his seat. “No prisoners have been mistreated, no enemies have been denied quarter. We will take the city in battle.”
“By dishonourable means,” William fumed.
“If a traitor opened the gates for us, would you disagree with taking advantage of such an opportunity?” Brand asked. “When Sir Richard and I assaulted Middanhal at night, we took the city through stealth and surprise, and it helped to bring our war to a swift conclusion.”
“This is different!” William exclaimed, constantly moving about inside the small space of the tent. “Killing through poison is a woman’s weapon, unworthy of a knight.”
“I doubt many, if any, will die,” Brand retorted, remaining calmly seated. “They will be weak, unable to fight.”
“What of our own citizens in Tothmor?” William countered. “Your ploy may spread disease among them. Even if by some miracle this does not claim any of their lives, you have tainted the water supply. People in Tothmor will face death by thirst even if we liberate the city.”
“How many would die from thirst or starvation if we besieged the city?” Brand replied, his voice growing harsh. “We have already been denying the outlanders all the supplies we could intercept. How is it noble to make the city suffer through siege and skirmish, yet villainous to do so in the manner I have done, which will allow us to free the city in days rather than months?”
William was silent for a moment, ceasing his pacing. “We fight our enemies with sword in hand, giving them a chance to defend themselves. To surrender if need be. As they give us the same terms. What will war become if we dare not trust the water we drink? How soon will we slaughter enemies and innocents alike?”
“War has already become this,” Brand argued. “Both sides use spies. We have guards outside our tents to protect against hidden killers in the night.”
“It can be much worse,” the captain muttered darkly. “I was your age when I fought in the highlands. I witnessed what soldiers of the Order did, fighting an enemy with gruesome tactics, justified by that enemy’s own methods.” He turned to stare at Brand. “Your own father died seeking to stop this. I never thought I would find his son defending such tactics.”
“What I have done,” Brand spoke with a grim voice, “will hurt a few, but save hundreds of our soldiers and remove the yoke of the outlanders from Tothmor. Is that not a bargain worth making?”
“I do not know.” William sank into his seat. “The price we pay for this could be much higher than what you estimate.”
Brand licked his lips. “Were you present? When my father died.”
“I was not. It happened in camp while I was scouting the terrain with Sir Athelstan.”
“He does not deserve that title anymore,” Brand declared harshly.
“You are quick to cast judgement given your own actions,” William swiftly retorted.
“I have done nothing against the Knight’s Codex,” the lieutenant claimed. “Even if you disagree, this act is upon me, not you. You have been presented with an opportunity to deal a devastating blow to our enemy. As captain, what is your duty?”
William exhaled slowly. “I will free my city. Whatever sin we commit, let it be my burden to bear.”
“Good,” Brand declared, standing up. “We should spend tomorrow making preparations and march out the day after. I will see to the arrangements.”
“I am sure you will,” William muttered. “Another matter. The traveller proved good to his word. There is no need to keep him imprisoned.”
“Just to be cautious, I recommend we keep him under guard until we have departed for Tothmor,” Brand advised. “If this was all a ploy to gain our trust, we do not want him warning the outlanders. Once we have marched out, however, he may be set free.”
“Very well,” William assented absent-mindedly.
“Captain.” Brand nodded in farewell, striding out of the tent. He gave a brief nod to Baldwin as well, who had been waiting outside.
Walking away, the lieutenant was joined by Geberic as they moved towards their own part of camp. “Did it work?”
“We march out the day after tomorrow,” the knight told his attendant. “We have a lot of preparations ahead of us. Before I forget,” Brand added, “the traveller who brought us news of the supply train.”
“What about him, milord?”
“Arrange for him to be released after we have marched out, but he is under orders to remain in camp. Make sure he is watched. If he attempts to leave camp, it can only be to warn the outlanders, in which case he is to be killed immediately.”
“Very well, milord.”
|
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|
Knives at Night
Castle Grenwold
“I don’t believe you!” Egil exclaimed.
“I swear on my ring,” Jorund asserted. “They make it from snails.”
“You’re lying,” Kate insisted. “I’ve seen snails. They’re gross and slimy, but not purple.”
The Dwarf let his bellowing laughter sound. “Obviously they are not like our snails, or every peasant would dye his clothing purple! These snails live only on the coast of the Mydlonde Sea, where it is far warmer than here.”
“But I don’t understand.” Egil scratched his head. “How do you get dye out of a snail?”
“It’s a long and difficult process, and they don’t tell outsiders about it lest their secrets get stolen,” Jorund confided in them. The two youths looked downtrodden upon hearing this, making him quickly continue. “But I once spied the snail gatherers at work. It was a strange sight to behold!”
“Tell us more,” Kate entreated.
“As you wish,” the Dwarf granted graciously. “See, in the city of Labdah, they used to gather the snails and crush their shells, making a giant stew of the whole thing,” he described. “Of course, this soon turned against them. You can’t milk the cow you kill.”
“Of course,” Kate nodded sagely.
“So the smartest people in Labdah left the city and founded a new one called Surru, in the other end of the inland sea. A place still teeming with the little slugs,” he continued. “To avoid repeating the mistake, they keep the snails alive and simply prod them. It provokes the snail to cover itself in nasty, stinking slime, repelling any predator. It would work perfectly except that disgusting slime has a nice, purple tint,” Jorund explained. “So you’ll see hundreds of people walking up and down the coast, prodding the snails and gathering up their muck. You get much less than by the old method, but it keeps the snail alive to be milked next year.” He punctuated his words by pretending his water skin was a slug leaving its slime all over Kate, who shrieked and moved away while Egil laughed.
“Jorund, we are almost there,” Gawad informed his friend and nodded towards the road ahead. In the distance rose Castle Grenwold as an imposing sight, dominating the surrounding hills by being situated on the tallest. The landscape was lush, allowing for grazing of animals, but the immediate area around the castle was desolate; neither man nor beast were found. Where that no man’s land ended, the palisade works could be found, encircling the besieged fortress. A distance further from the castle was the siege camp itself. It resembled a typical army camp except for the siege crafts assembled.
“Sure,” the Dwarf responded to his friend. “Time to get back into line,” he told Kate and Egil with a smile. “Maybe we’ll see each other inside camp, yah?”
“I hope so!” Kate replied eagerly while Egil nodded. Following his comrade, Jorund hurried to find his place and march with the other Red Hawks into camp.
~~~~
While the soldiers got settled in, Konstans moved straight to the captain’s tent. He was followed by Hardmar, who kept a close eye on him; two of the prince’s thanes stuck close by as well. The captain was sitting in a chair, having idle conversation with some of his men, when the small party of noblemen strode in. Immediately, the commander rose up and greeted them with a bow. “Lord Konstans, Prince Hardmar,” he spoke. “You arrived sooner than expected.”
“We made good time on the march,” Konstans replied. “How goes the siege? You do not seem particularly burdened.”
“There have been the occasional sorties and skirmishes,” the captain told him. “The defenders were mostly active when we first arrived, seeking to disrupt our attempts to set up the siege. That ended with the completion of the palisades. We have sent terms of surrender but heard nothing back.”
“What terms did you offer?”
“Surrender within two months if they are not relieved. Our best guess is their food stores should be depleted by then.”
“Fine,” Konstans assented. “I am here for another reason.”
“I see. The missive made no mention of this,” the captain spoke cautiously.
“We are not in the habit of spreading secrets by letter,” Hardmar interjected with an overbearing manner.
“Of course, Your Highness,” the Red Hawk replied, looking at the prince. “May I enquire why you have come?”
“We will be conducting negotiations with the rebels,” Hardmar sniffed. “As they have already proven themselves dishonourable men, we will also be bringing the army.”
“What we need from you, captain,” Konstans now interrupted, “is to prepare the continuation of the siege with as few men as needed, so that the remainder may march with us.”
“Of course,” the Hawk nodded. “The castle is lightly defended. I think one thousand men should be sufficient to maintain the watch. I do not imagine there is any threat of a relief force assisting the besieged if the Isarn army travels to negotiate with you – or ambush you, as you suspect.”
“Indeed,” Konstans agreed.
“If the castle is lightly defended,” Hardmar spoke with an almost irate voice, “why have you not taken it yet?”
“A castle is designed for defence, even by a small garrison,” the captain explained as if to a small child. “If we storm it, we will have losses. You need only give the order, of course, as long as you are willing to pay the extra sum we are owed for such an attempt as per our written agreement.” He looked at Konstans.
“No need, captain,” the dragonlord replied. “Have the army ready to march out by tomorrow, and that will be all.”
“Very well, my lord,” came the obedient answer. Hardmar did not speak again but restricted himself to an angry stare before storming away, followed by his thanes.
~~~~
Along with the soldiers dispersing to find beds for the night, the provisions train and its many unarmed attendants also spread out to seek a place to lay their head. One of these, a driver for a cart full of water barrels, left the wagon with no further regard and moved quickly into the camp. The shape, drawing little attention, moved through the tents until finding one with a specific shield upon a pole outside; the shield had an insignia of a tree upon it.
Stepping inside Richard of Alwood’s tent, the driver was immediately noticed by the knight. “What is this?” he spoke brusquely. “Announce yourself!”
“Sir Richard,” Holwyn spoke with a quick grin, letting her hood fall down.
“Holwyn,” he exclaimed astounded. “Does this mean Theodoric is recalling me? He knows how much I hate sieges,” he spoke surly. “I should never have agreed to act as his reeve here.”
“In a manner,” she replied. “You are to leave camp with me, but leave your belongings. You need only your weapons, armour. And your horse,” Holwyn added. “I suppose it would look odd if you left on foot. If anyone asks, make an excuse. Say that you are exercising your steed or scouting the area, but do not give the real reason why you are leaving.”
“I have no idea what that reason might be,” Richard pointed out.
“Good. See you outside of camp,” she told him and swiftly left.
~~~~
A few miles south, concealed among the hills and the few trees remaining after the besieging army had chopped most of them, a band of warriors stood restlessly. They made no idle conversation or engaged themselves in any other pursuits to pass the time except scouting north towards the camp. They wore dull cloaks and helmets concealing their faces and any insignias upon their clothing. Their leader was Theodoric.
As sunset approached, Holwyn and Richard reached the group. “Theodoric?” the margrave questioned. “What is the meaning of all this?”
The jarl looked at his vassal. “Theodwyn is dead,” he declared tonelessly. “Murdered by someone in that camp.”
Richard’s face began to turn red with boiling rage. “Who?” he growled, his right hand grabbing hold of his sword hilt.
“One of the kingthanes. Our prince has elevated a new brood of brutes to this rank, and one of them pushed her from the walls to her death.”
“Which of them? I will carve him into pieces,” Richard swore.
“I cannot know for sure. But I accuse the prince of being behind this, and so his misdeed falls upon all of his sworn men. All of them are guilty,” the jarl proclaimed with his monotone voice.
“Very well,” Richard accepted. “I will challenge each of them and cut my way through them all.”
“Even you would not last through twenty duels,” Holwyn inserted. “It must be done another way.”
“How?” asked the knight.
Holwyn pulled out red surcoats from bags lying on the ground. They had the black swords of Isarn upon them. “We take our revenge the old way, the true way.” Removing her cloak, she began to put one of the uniforms on. Meanwhile, the other warriors discarded their own cloaks, revealing them to be already dressed in the tabards of the north-western jarldom.
Richard’s face expressed his doubt. “This is not right, Theodoric. Kill the bastards, yes, but under our own colours. Our vengeance is just. We have no need to hide it.”
“If we do that, we will be denounced as traitors and it will be the end. They will besiege Cragstan, and we will all fall,” Theodoric retorted. “Besides, if the culprit escapes justice tonight, I need to be free to see vengeance completed.”
“This is not right,” Richard reiterated. “I have never fought under any colours but my own and the Order’s.”
“This is for Theodwyn,” Theodoric impressed upon him, staring down at the shorter knight. “Her blood screams to me from the ground. Every single person involved in her death must pay, and this is the way to ensure it.”
The knight exhaled. “Very well,” Richard relented with reluctant voice. “For Theodwyn. But do not ask this of me again.”
“I will not,” Theodoric promised. He watched as the knight removed his own surcoat with help from Holwyn and donned the emblem of Isarn.
“Let us be on our way,” the knight demanded brusquely. “I have no wish to wear this attire longer than necessary.”
Theodoric nodded in approval, and the small band set into motion except for himself and Holwyn. “You have scouted the camp?” he asked quietly of her.
“Yes, milord. I know where to strike.” She hesitated slightly. “What of the prince?”
“We kill his protectors tonight, including the hand that slew my sister. At some point, he must travel back to Middanhal. Spare him until then,” Theodoric exclaimed with sudden savagery, “that my own hand may plunge the knife into him! When he is isolated and weakened, we strike.”
“Yes, milord,” Holwyn replied, put on a helmet and hurried after the other warriors. The jarl remained behind, watching them disappear into the night.
~~~~
As darkness fell, the soldiers in camp had no reason to suspect this night would differ significantly from the previous. The defenders of the castle had not attempted any raids in weeks, being too few to risk losses in skirmishes. With the reinforcements, the camp seemed safer than ever. It did not have its own stockade, as the available wood had been spent on encircling the castle or on siege engines, but deep ditches were dug to prevent cavalry from riding through, and the Hawks maintained enough scouts to spot any army of sufficient size to act as a relief force for the besieged. Their vigilance did not allow them to notice a band of warriors counting only forty.
In the dark, nothing gave away their position until the first handful were upon the sentries. Several Hawks went down within moments, though they managed to fulfil their duty and cry out for their brethren to take up arms. Rather than other Hawks, the alarm was first heard by the kingthanes; the attackers were entering camp close to where the prince had chosen to raise his tent for the night. Thus, it came to battle between the thanes of Hardling and the thanes of Theodstan, neither side showing any leniency but letting the sword rule freely.
Ulfrik was in the midst of the fighting, wielding his fearsome axe to great effect. Battling men wearing his former master’s emblem did not seem to inhibit his lust for blood or slow the swing of his weapon. He felled one opponent with a roar and turned towards the next, a short warrior wielding only a sword. The blade was bloodied; Richard had already claimed his own victories. As the two men locked eyes, both charged the other.
Ulfrik let his axe fly with a powerful blow against Richard’s midsection, impossible to parry and strong enough to bite deep into his flesh. The disguised knight crouched as he sprinted, rolling underneath the axe swing and in the position to stab his sword up into Ulfrik’s groin. The latter gave a terrible scream, dropping his weapon. As Richard rose with fury in his eyes, pulling his sword out, he slashed the blade into the side of Ulfrik’s neck. Withdrawing the sword, blood poured out, and the thane sank mortally wounded to the ground.
~~~~
A maelstrom of mayhem appeared across the camp. The attackers were not concentrated in one place; some had spread out along the edge of the encampment, solely to cause chaos. Making use of what remained of cooking fires, they set tents ablaze and made it impossible for the defenders to discern what was truly happening. The Hawks grabbed their weapons and rallied, but in most places, there were none to fight other than the flames quickly spreading, and they were forced to discard weapons and use water or wet blankets to combat the fire.
With the flames keeping the Hawks occupied along with the general confusion, none came to the kingthanes’ aid. Nearly equal in number to their enemies, the fighting was vicious and closely matched. Hardmar was not aware of this or anything else happening in camp; he was standing inside his tent, furthest from the entrance, with one of his guards in front of him. The only knowledge available to him was the sounds of fighting and men dying in close vicinity.
A man entered the tent quickly, and the thane nearly fell upon him with a drawn sword. “Peace!” exclaimed Konstans, showing his empty hands. “It is only me!” The thane relaxed slightly, but kept his weapons ready.
“What are you doing here?” Hardmar questioned.
“There is fighting all over camp,” the dragonlord explained. “I came here to help defend my prince.”
“As if I would believe that,” Hardmar sneered.
Konstans hesitated. “I have no thanes with me,” he admitted. “Unlike you, my prince.”
“You came to hide,” the youth declared with a contemptuous smile. It quickly faded as screams pierced the air.
“If need be, I will defend us both,” the nobleman claimed. He looked at the thane. “Your brothers are dying out there. Why are you in here?”
“Unlike you, his place is here,” Hardmar claimed with a shrill voice. His remark was undercut by the sounds of weapons clashing and more men dying.
“Of course, my prince,” Konstans assented subserviently.
“If you are so concerned, you may go fight yourself,” Hardmar declared with his customary sneer and picked up a cup, emptying it.
“My apologies for speaking out of turn, my prince. Allow me,” Konstans spoke with a servile voice, picking up a bottle. “As for you,” he said to the remaining thane, “make yourself useful and look outside. Tell us what you see.”
The warrior did as instructed, gazing outside. “I see Isarn soldiers, several of them. They’re fighting our boys. I think we are pushing them back.”
As the thane turned his back on the noblemen, Konstans poured the wine for Hardmar’s cup. Placing the bottle on the nearby table, Konstans waited until the prince began to drink; then he drew his knife and plunged it into Hardmar’s neck.
Blood and wine filling his throat, the prince was unable to make any sound. He fell towards the ground, but by then, Konstans had already withdrawn his knife, taken the four steps towards the unsuspecting thane, and done the same to him.
Cutting the strings that held the tent opening drawn back, Konstans closed the tent and concealed the sight within. He used his knife several times more on both bodies inside, mutilating them to make it seem like they suffered many wounds. Looking at the small candle that illuminated the tent, he reached out to tip it over. Slowly at first, then eagerly, the flames began to consume everything they touched.
Using his knife for the last time, Konstans cut open an escape path in the back of the tent. The fires illuminated him briefly as he stepped out into the darkness before he was gone.
~~~~
When the attack began, Kate had been sleeping underneath a cart serving as an improvised shelter. Looking out from between the wheels, she could see distant fires accompanied by great noise, but there was no sign of men actually fighting near her. Gathering her courage, she crawled out and headed towards where Egil had found his place to rest for the night. Occasionally, a Hawk hurried past her, but most people in this part of camp were not soldiers, but craftsmen or labourers, and they kept themselves hidden.
Reaching her friend, Kate found him packing his belongings together. “What are you doing?” she whispered.
He turned around startled. “Don’t sneak up on me!” he chided her. “I am running away.”
“Are you mad?”
“This camp is not safe,” Egil told her. “There will be more fighting. Besides,” he added, “I don’t want to be the prince’s prisoner. I am leaving.”
Kate bit her lip. “Fine. But I bet you didn’t prepare any food. I know where it’s stored. We’ll get some and go.”
“You shouldn’t come,” Egil told her. “It’s dangerous where I am going.”
“So is this camp. You just said that,” Kate reminded him with raised eyebrows. “Now come on, let’s not waste time!”
“If you’re sure. Let’s go,” Egil assented, and together, the scribe and kitchen girl made their flight.
|
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Walking in Flames
Tothmor
The dungeons underneath the Order keep in the first circle were humble in size. They were only intended to keep the rare prisoner of political importance or those guilty of particular crimes such as treason, and usually only for a short time; such people either ended up on the executioner’s block or in the salt mines. With the outlanders in charge, this had changed; the cells were full of not only insurrectionists, whether confirmed or merely suspected, but above all occupied by robes of every colour. Black, red, yellow, blue, green, and a single white. Every priest and priestess of the city had been rounded up and imprisoned. The largest number of robes were brown, however, as they included all the novices from every order, the youngest being seven and the oldest fourteen.
The torture chamber had at first been in use by the blackboots, extracting information to root out the resistance in the city. This changed with the arrival of the priestess Daena; with her helpers, she had assumed command of the racks, and those placed upon them were not ordinary citizens or rebels, but men and women in robes.
“They found another,” one of the tormentors informed Daena, pointing to where two blackboots dragged in a priestess of Austre. The mistress was busy watching another of her aides turning the mechanisms that stretched the body of the unfortunate blackrobe on the rack. “One of those wearing green.”
“Those don’t last long,” declared the torturer turning the wheel, sounding disappointed. “Those in white hold out longest. It’s a pity there were so few of them.”
“Remember your purpose,” the flame-robed priestess spoke sharply. “This is not for your amusement.”
“Of course, Mistress Daena,” mumbled her helpers.
“In fact, I am dissatisfied by your efforts. Barely any of these filthy blasphemers have denounced their false gods. I am inclined to believe you are being too gentle with them.”
“Never, Mistress Daena!” The torturers looked abhorrent. “We do our very best.”
“See that you do,” Daena told them with a harsh voice, “or you may find yourselves taking their place if you continue to disappoint me.”
“Yes, Mistress Daena,” they said meekly.
“This one is done for now,” she declared, looking at the blackrobe, who had lost consciousness. “Throw him back in his cell and let the woman take his place,” she told the others, who hurried to carry out her orders.
Either because it served some unknown purpose or simply due to some penchant for arranging things by colour, the outlanders kept the imprisoned clergy in separate cells based on the dye of their cloth. All the blackrobes, the most numerous of the orders, were thus kept in the same place. As the guards returned with the latest acolyte to have been tortured, they threw him into one of the cells with little regard, fastened the chain around his ankle to the wall, and left again.
“Brother Nikodemos,” whispered Dominic. The former court seer crawled over to where the broken body of his brother lay, bereft of its black robe. Wearing only a ragged undershirt and pants, nothing hid the signs of the severe mistreatment that the acolyte had suffered. He gave a groan as Dominic took hold of him, helping him to a more comfortable position.
“Do not worry, Brother,” Nikodemos whispered hoarsely with the vaguest of smiles. “I did not break.”
“My son, my son,” Dominic exclaimed with a thick voice, caressing the hair of his fellow blackrobe. “What have they done to you?”
“They hurt my body,” the acolyte said with belaboured breath. “They cannot have my spirit. We are all in Rihimil’s hands, are we not?”
“Yes, Brother,” the high priest told him. “One day, the eagle shall come for us and lead us to the Sapphire City. The gates shall open for you, my son, and Rihimil himself will welcome you.”
“I remember as a novice, you told me this,” Nikodemos recounted with a dreaming smile upon his bruised and battered face. “I kept your voice and words in my ear as they tried to break me, as clear as I hear it now.”
“The streets are paved with silver,” Dominic continued, raising his voice and receiving the attention of his remaining brethren as well. The last word made those who still had their robes touch the silver dragon upon their chest. “The doors are made of gold. A seat of sapphire awaits each of the faithful. There is no night, no travail, no suffering. Only peace.”
“Only peace,” some of the others muttered.
With some difficulty, Dominic removed his robe and used it to cover Nikodemos instead. “Rihimil, your names are many,” he began to pray. “Ruler of heavens, we beseech you. Silver dragon, we beseech you.” As he spoke, the other priests joined him. “Knight in black, we beseech you. Sword of high, we beseech you.” The longer the high priest spoke, the stronger his voice became. In the darkness of the cell, none could see his tears.
~~~~
Nearby in the council chamber, the lord of Tothmor was tending to the affairs of the city as usual. He was not accompanied by Philon at present, however, but instead meeting with several blackboots. Behind him stood as always his shadow.
“Jenaab, respectfully,” one of the blackboots said, “We are spread thin. Not only must we root out these rebels, we must also assist the flame mistress in hunting down the worshippers of the false gods. And in between these, several of our numbers are constantly leaving the city to scout the surroundings.”
“I will withdraw you from scouting, in that case,” Rostam declared.
“That might not be wise,” another hastily interjected.
“Yes, Kamran?” asked Rostam with raised eyebrows.
“There is still danger from the drylanders,” the blackboot replied haltingly.
“With winter approaching?” The outlander captain’s voice sounded dubious.
“They have not retreated beyond the border,” Kamran began to explain, recovering from his initial stammer. “We will need supplies sent to us to last through winter, which will be easy targets for their raids unless we remain vigilant.”
“That may be,” Rostam muttered, now contemplative.
“You cannot spare the Anausa to effectively patrol such vast areas,” Kamran continued, speaking at a steadier pace. “Beyond the city, just one sāyag keeping watch is worth a hundred soldiers.”
“Enough,” the captain raised his hand. “Focus your efforts on finding the conspirators in our city. We will resume our search for the blasphemers in the city once the rebels have been dealt with.”
“That is well, Jenaab,” one of the other blackboots expressed, and they all nodded. “We will bring the rebels to you soon.”
“See that you do,” Rostam demanded.
~~~~
The landscape surrounding Tothmor was dry heath. There were no trees or vegetation except for heather and flowers stubborn enough to grow in such arid conditions. No hills or forests broke the sight for many miles. The only interruption was the occasional rock formation; remnants of Mount Tothmor that spread out like discarded leaves. The blackboots used these structures to divide the landscape into areas for scouting.
That was not the only use the blackboots had for them. One of their dreaded company had just reached one of the formations, and he walked along the edge of the rock with a searching gaze. At length, he found something that was not natural in origin. It was a series of scratches, made with a tool. Upon closer inspection, it could be surmised that these were runes of a crude variety, the kind that the Mearcians used as numbers.
The blackboot brushed away some brown vegetation to examine the numbers closely for a moment. After that, he climbed onto the rocks and perched himself, keeping vigilance of the surrounding areas.
As night fell, he abandoned his post, but only to position himself on the ground instead, leaning his back against the rocks. With not even a cloak as shelter against the cold, he wrapped his arms around himself and slept.
Morning came, though it brought no change other than daylight. Even the rays of the sun were weak and without warmth. Waking up, the blackboot stretched his limbs and took a sip from his flask. Returning to his place atop the rocks, he resumed gazing in every direction. He kept this up for several hours.
Past noon, the outlander abandoned his purpose. Jumping down, he returned to where the runes could be found, near the ground and almost invisible. Pulling out his dagger, the blackboot made a few scratches at the end of the row of numbers. The current date in the Mearcian calendar. Sheathing the blade again, the blackboot stood up, glanced around, and began walking back towards Tothmor.
~~~~
A crowd had gathered in the third district, in the area between the gates. It was one of the only open squares in Tothmor where people could assemble or, in this case, be commanded to assemble. By the edge of the area, small fires burned outside the nearby public houses; usually it was for the sake of allowing people warmth when drinking outside the smoky rooms of the taverns, though it served extra purpose with crowds gathering at the square for the spectacle about to unfold. In the centre, a scaffold had been built, though not to be used for executions. It served simply as a platform from which to address the crowd. A ring of Anausa soldiers surrounded the scaffold, keeping people at bay.
Upon the wooden construct stood three people. One was a priestess in a green robe, shivering either from the cold or due to her circumstances. Next to her stood a priestess in flaming garments, with a shadow warrior behind them both.
“This woman,” Daena called out in Mearcspeech, “was a blasphemer. She worshipped false gods and led you to do the same. She and her ilk grew fat on your offerings while lying to you. She has come to see the light, however. The light of the true god, the Godking. Speak,” she commanded, pushing the greenrobe forward, “that these people may hear the truth.”
“I am a blasphemer,” the sister of Austre stammered. “I worshipped a false god and led others to do the same.”
“And now?”
“Now I have seen the light,” she uttered. “I have been cleansed in the blood –” Her voice faltered at this point.
“Continue!”
“I have been cleansed in the blood of those who do evil,” she cried out, and those standing closest could see the traces of this; dried blood stained her dirty clothing.
“What else?”
“I profess the name of the Godking as hallowed,” she shouted. “He is my lord, my king, my god. I long for the day when he shall wake –”
Something was flung through the air, followed by several other objects. They looked like stones, thrown at the women on the scaffold and the soldiers on the ground; then they hit their targets and smashed into pieces. A certain smell quickly spread; the projectiles were small jars filled with lamp oil.
From the small fires that had been burning outside the local taverns, a few men picked up burning branches, ran forward, and hurled them through the air over the heads of the crowd.
The shadow warrior grabbed Daena around the waist and threw himself and her backwards over the edge of the scaffold.
One torch hit the oil-drenched clothes of the apostate greenrobe, who was quickly engulfed in flames. Same fate happened to several of the nearest Anausa soldiers. Swiftly, screams and the stench of burning flesh spread through the square along with ensuing panic.
~~~~
“Your concern is noted,” Rostam said with a firm voice.
“I am not concerned, I am furious,” Daena all but screamed. They were in the royal quarters, which formerly had belonged to the queen of Hæthiod and where the captain currently resided. “They sought to burn me alive!”
“That is what the fravashi is for,” Rostam remarked with a nod towards her silent shadow.
“An assault on me is an assault upon the Godking himself!” the priestess continued. “Do you expect Shahriyar to accept this insult?”
“Those responsible will be caught and punished,” Rostam promised.
“Failure to repay this insult against Shahriyar means complicity,” Daena threatened. “Take care that I do not decide your blood is needed to purify the new temples to our lord.”
“Jenaab Sikandar placed this city under my command,” Rostam defended himself. “It is not your place to question me or his authority.”
“If I deem you are guilty of blasphemy, I need no further authority,” the priestess retorted. “Obedience to the Godking goes before all else.”
“I am loyal to the very depths of my being,” the captain claimed.
“Yet you withdrew every sāyag from my service,” Daena spat.
“In order to catch the very rebels that attacked you,” he countered.
“They will be returned to me at once,” the flame mistress demanded. “Since your methods have failed, I will employ my own. If you hinder my efforts in any way, I will consider it an obstacle to my holy charge of cleansing this city of blasphemy with the appropriate punishment to follow.”
A lengthy moment followed where Rostam was silent, until he lowered his gaze. “Very well.”
The priestess turned on her heel and marched out, followed by her shadow.
Looking up, Rostam directed his sight at his own shadow. “It is late. I retired to this chamber in order to sleep.”
The shadow stared at him with its black-clothed face. The yellow eyes revealed no emotions. “I will be watching.” The words came monotonously, but still an expression of unease ran across Rostam’s face. Without further words, the shadow left the chamber, positioning himself outside the doors.
|
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Quenching the Thirst
Middanhal
“Tell me.” The command was spoken by Konstans to his brother’s chamberlain, Arion.
“Other lords have received the same summons. King Rainier is gathering his troops in Fontaine,” Arion explained. They were meeting one cold morning in the dragonlord’s study, some weeks before the Raven Days and while Godfrey was still journeying to Middanhal from Hæthiod.
“Anything at all to indicate the king’s plans?”
“There is no unrest anywhere in Ealond to quell. While many of his vassals demurred when he took the throne, none have openly defied the king.”
“Herbergja,” Konstans mumbled. “The kings of Ealond have an unhealthy obsession with that city. Rainier must know that he cannot hope to conquer, let alone keep Herbergja without a fleet stronger than what Thusund can muster.”
“The king seems to believe otherwise.”
“What else have you learned?”
“Nothing more about Ealond,” Arion replied with regret. “I am waiting to hear from your reeve in Hæthiod. I do bear news from the south.”
“Yes?”
“Rumour in Plenmont is that King Adelard seeks to marry Arndis of House Arnling. He is sending his army into Hæthiod to assist Sir Adalbrand as a token of this coming union. Your reeve sends this.” He placed a letter upon his master’s desk.
Konstans leaned back in his seat, frowning. “I wondered what kept Adelard asleep for so long. Everything falls into place now,” he considered. “Adelard strengthens his claim by marrying another dragonborn. He combines his army with the Order forces in Hæthiod, led by an undefeated commander. When these two, king and knight, march into Middanhal to lay claim to the Dragon Throne, who can oppose them?”
“But they cannot both take the throne,” Arion reminded his master. “Is it the king or the knight who seeks to be crowned?”
“It does not matter to us,” Konstans countered. “Either way, we will be an obstacle to be removed.” He exhaled through gritted teeth. “It is obvious now. These dispatches spreading the news of Adalbrand’s victories. He is laying the foundation for his treason.”
“The Order, Korndale, Ealond,” Arion muttered. “It does not bode well.”
The dragonlord of Adalrik sat quiet for a while. “I must take action. Tell the envoy from Belvoir to come see me in a few days,” he instructed the chamberlain. “Return to me afterwards. There is much we must attend to.”
~~~~
A few hours later, Konstans entered the royal wing. The kingthanes noticed his approach, but did not hinder the dragonlord, and he was allowed straight access to the parlour by the royal chambers.
“My prince,” Konstans greeted Hardmar while inclining his head. “May we speak in private?”
“Lord Konstans,” the prince spoke affably. He saw sitting down with a cup of wine in his hands, evidently in a good mood. “Leave us,” he commanded, causing Berimund and another kingthane to vacate the room. “What brings you here?”
“You recall that I promised to watch Adalbrand in case he became a threat,” Konstans reminded him. “I have recently learned that he has joined an alliance with the king of Korndale.”
“An alliance? What for?” Hardmar frowned.
“The king will wed Adalbrand’s sister, tying them together. The king’s armies will march to Hæthiod, where no doubt the treasonous knight will take command of them. Given that his father died a rebel in Heohlond, it is no wonder that the son follows the same path.”
“I knew it!” exclaimed Hardmar. “He has always coveted my crown. He must be stopped!”
“I have a plan to do so,” Konstans explained. “Adalbrand is beyond our reach in Hæthiod, surrounded by Order troops. He must be lured to Middanhal, isolated.”
“How can that be done? Since he plans treachery, he will be wary of anything we do,” interjected the prince.
“As atheling, Adalbrand has a seat in the Adalthing. If it is convened to discuss unrelated matters, he will have a reason to come to Middanhal. Furthermore, the protection of the landfrid will make him feel safe and not suspect anything.”
“Clever,” Hardmar granted. “Some of the nobles may grumble that we break the landfrid and seize Adalbrand, but as a traitor, the king’s peace does not extend to him regardless.”
“I have no such intentions,” Konstans exclaimed, sounding almost shocked. “If we break the sacred peace of the Adalthing, every member will turn against us. We need the Adalthing to formally declare Adalbrand a traitor, but if we imprison him while he is under the protection of the landfrid, the noblemen would see him freed purely out of spite if nothing else.”
“Are they fools? Why would they protect a traitor?” Indignation overflowed in Hardmar’s voice.
“Because if the landfrid protects a traitor, it also protects them,” Konstans explained impatiently. “I have a better way. The peace only extends two weeks before the Adalthing assembles. We simply make sure Adalbrand arrives in Middanhal earlier than that.”
“I see,” Hardmar remarked doubtfully. “How will you accomplish that?”
“Trust me, my prince, as your dragonlord. Solving such problems is my responsibility.”
“Very well,” the prince declared. “Accomplish this, and you shall have my utmost satisfaction. My dissatisfaction will be of equal measure, should you fail.”
“That will not happen,” Konstans claimed tight-lipped. He gave a curt nod and turned on his heel, leaving with speed.
~~~~
While Konstantine sometimes sought out other young noblemen at the court for games and merriment, living in close quarters with his family meant that his evenings were mostly subdued in nature. The Red Hawks, who by now kept watch over most of the Citadel courtside, had furthermore been instructed to ensure the dragonlord’s son stayed out of trouble. Because of this, Mathilde was rarely disappointed when seeking out her son in his chamber.
“Konstantine,” she called out as she walked inside. Unlike other times when she visited him, her voice was heavy.
“I am here, Mother,” he answered, looking up from his bed.
“Sit up,” she told him, and when he did so, she sat down next to him. “Konstantine, my son, you do not seem content.”
“I have nothing to complain about,” he told her. “It is dull here, but so would Valcaster be, or Uncle’s house if it had not been burned down.”
“I mean discontent with your lot in life,” Mathilde elaborated, prompting confusion to spread across her son’s face. “As your mother, it is my task to remedy that. I have spoken with your father, and we have devised a solution.”
“You spoke with Father?”
She nodded. “There is something very simple you can do, which will thrust you out of the shadows and into your rightful place again. I have arranged everything, but I need to see you take action yourself. Your father needs to know you deserve this.”
“Deserve what?”
Mathilde took out a small flacon from inside her clothing. “Tonight, Valerius’ nurse will sleep heavily. I have seen to it. Myself, I promised Alexandra to stay with her in her room. She sleeps poorly of late.” The woman gave a smile. “This is for you.” She thrust the small flask into Konstantine’s hand.
“I do not understand,” he said confused.
“Tonight, you will not be disturbed. None will be awake. Go into Valerius’ room and let these drops fall into his mouth.”
“What on earth for?”
“To prove you are my son,” Mathilde told him harshly. “To prove your father worthy. Do you think he is satisfied having an idle son, lying about all day?”
“But what will this do?” Unease overflowed Konstantine’s face.
“It will set things right.” She grabbed his chin with her hand, staring directly at him. “Are you a child still, my son?”
“No, Mother,” he mumbled awkwardly through her grip.
“Do this, or do not expect to be part of our family,” she told him as her nails dug into his cheeks. She relinquished her hold on him and stood up; despite her short stature, she seemed imposing in comparison to his seated position. “Tonight. Do not disappoint me,” she impressed upon him. As she left, he stared down at the flask that was clutched in his hand still.
~~~~
It was long past the hours when the dragonlord gave audience, yet he had a visitor nonetheless. Jerome of the Red Hawks sat in the seat opposite Konstans’ desk, staring at the nobleman with either curiosity or suspicion in his eyes.
“I am told you are the kind of man I need,” Konstans declared.
“That depends on what kind of man you seek, milord,” the heathman replied.
“I need someone who will do exactly as I say, no matter what it is, no matter what it takes. Who is motivated by coin more than anything.”
Jerome raised an eyebrow. “Usually, lords want loyalty first and foremost.”
“I am practical. I have more gold at my disposal than anyone else in the Seven Realms. I find it hard to trust a man who is loyal merely by his honour, but a man loyal to gold, that man I can trust,” Konstans explained.
“There’s reason in that.”
Konstans took out a heavy bag that filled out his hand. “We will start with silver for now. This bag is yours if you accomplish a task for me.”
Jerome eyed the coin purse greedily. “What do you need done, milord?”
“Tonight, I want you to sneak into my brother’s bedchamber. As a Red Hawk, you should have no trouble getting there, and my brother sleeps alone.” Konstans retrieved a small flask with his other hand. “He always has a cup of wine standing by his bedside. Pour this vial into the wine without being noticed by any. Return to me by morning for your payment.”
“What’s in it?”
“If you get paid, does it matter?” asked Konstans.
“No,” the other man admitted. “Why not do it yourself, milord? You have easier access than anyone.”
“He is my brother. It should not be done by my hand.”
Jerome licked his lips. “And after I do this, should I expect to find my own wine someday spiced in the same manner?”
“If you leave no trace, what reason would I have for that?” Konstans hefted the coin purse in his hand. “Enough questions. The choice is yours. Do you want the coin or not?”
“Aye,” Jerome answered and extended his hand to take the vial. “I’ll do it.”
~~~~
As night fell, the interior of the Citadel became quiet except for the occasional kingthane, Hawk, or Order soldier walking rounds or relieving a comrade from his post. In her chamber, Valerie woke. She reached out to grab a cup standing by her bed only to find it empty. With an annoyed look, she got out of bed and left her room. She stumbled around in the darkness of the hallway until she reached one of the parlours and found a pitcher. Filling her cup, she took a hearty draught. Only then did she look back at the corridor she had come from, and the sight of frail light made her frown.
Walking towards it, she saw that it came from Valerius’ room; the door was ajar. She peered inside. The small chamber had an alcove, from which snoring sounds were emitted; the child’s nurse was fast asleep. The boy himself made no sound; he was lying in his cradle. Sitting next to it, holding a candle, was Konstantine. The young man sat on the floor with one hand on the child’s bed, gently rocking it.
“Konstantine,” Valerie whispered. “What are you doing in here?” She stepped inside, closing the door behind her.
“He was making sounds,” Konstantine explained. “I was just rocking him to help him fall asleep.”
Valerie took another step to stand next by the cradle and touched the boy’s cheek with her hand. He stirred a little but continued sleeping. “He seems fine now,” she told Konstantine, sitting down next to him. “You can probably go back to bed.”
“I will stay,” he declared, staring at the empty door. “Until morning. In case he needs me again.”
“There is kindness in you,” Valerie said affectionately. “You should show it more often.”
“Perhaps.” He paused. “What is it like, now you have a brother?”
“Konstantine, I have always had a brother,” Valerie admonished him. “You and I grew up as close as siblings. Granted, I disliked you the first year or two when you did nothing but cry, but you have grown on me,” she grinned.
“That is good.” He gave a faint smile. “It is good to have family.”
“He is lucky,” Valerie said and nodded towards the sleeping Valerius. “Lucky to have you as his older brother. All the things you will teach him when he grows up.”
“Yes,” Konstantine spoke. “I will take care of him,” he promised, staring at the closed door.
~~~~
Close by, a Red Hawk moved through the wing occupied by the House of Vale. He walked past the empty rooms belonging to Valerie and Konstantine, he heard the sounds of Alexandra and Mathilde sleeping in the former’s chamber, he passed Valerius’ room with its closed door. At last, he reached the innermost quarters. They were not locked; this location was deep inside the wing with many guards between here and the rest of the fortress. The door opened obediently to the mercenary’s touch, and he walked inside.
In the bed slept the jarl of Vale, the richest and most powerful man in Adalrik. A cup of wine stood nearby. The Hawk took out a small vial and poured its contents into the goblet; then he tucked the empty vial inside his garments. Within few moments and without causing a sound, Jerome was out in the hallway again.
Leaving the wing, he eventually came across a few of his fellow Hawks making their patrols. “Seen anything?” they asked.
“All’s quiet,” he told them. “My watch is over. Time for me to get some sleep.”
“Lucky,” one of the Hawks said enviously.
“Very lucky,” Jerome smiled.
|
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|
We Pray
Tothmor
Weeks after winter solstice, Brand went to the temple for Rihimil. Despite his donation, little progress had been made as it was still under the care of a single acolyte. All the rubble had been cleared, but the damage done to the interior remained, there was no bell in the tower, and the altar remained as bare as ever. Although few others came to worship, this did not dissuade Brand, who knelt and prayed by the red-stained marble. As he finished and rose to his feet, another person appeared from deeper inside the temple. “Might I have a word?”
In the dark, it took the lieutenant a moment to recognise the speaker. As he did, he stepped back on instinct, his right hand moving across to grasp his sword hilt.
“My hands are empty,” Godfrey declared, raising them in front of him.
“Yet you always come like a thief in the night,” Brand pointed out.
“I am most comfortable dressed in shadows, it is true,” the traveller admitted, “but I deal only in knowledge. Which has served you well, I might add.”
“Everything you say is tainted by your suspicious actions,” Brand retorted. “An honest man has no need to scurry away.”
“What use am I in chains? If you are to defeat the outlanders, you need the intelligence I bring. Without it, you have no idea of the forces arraigned against you in the Reach.”
“That is what scouts are for,” the lieutenant spoke dryly.
“They can only tell you so much. You need spies to determine the size and location of their armies, the weak points of their city defences, and any vulnerabilities that can be exploited.”
“The outlanders are almost driven from Hæthiod. This campaign will be finished soon,” Brand claimed confidently.
“Will that satisfy you? What of when the outlanders return?”
This made Brand give Godfrey a sharp look. “What do you know?”
“Nothing at this moment, except they will return eventually. If all you do is beat them back, they need only recover their strength to try again. If you want to eradicate this threat,” Godfrey said forcefully, “you must invade, as they invaded you. You must gather knowledge, as they did of you. You must exploit their weakness, as they exploited yours.”
“What weakness?”
“Adalrik is torn by war, but the outlanders are similarly troubled. This is why some of their troops were withdrawn along with their best commander, why reinforcements have not yet shown. You have an opportunity to strike,” Godfrey urged.
“Or lead my army into a trap beyond the Langstan,” Brand argued.
“All I have told you has been true,” Godfrey countered. “Question your prisoners, learn what truths you can from them. You will find my words confirmed and that the iron grip of the Godking has cracks.”
“The Godking? Who is he?”
“You will meet him in the Reach. Consider my words until we speak again,” Godfrey told the other man, retreating back into the temple. Brand did not pursue but stood in contemplation with his eyes resting upon the wall painting of Rihimil behind the altar, damaged to near unrecognizability by the outlanders.
~~~~
Fear of spies meant that the outer gate of Tothmor was closed even during the day except for Order soldiers and those with explicit permission from the captain of the army. This changed as a procession approached from the heath. Numerous riders in front with banners, ornamented carriages afterwards, and a great following behind. For the citizens of Tothmor, it was a splendid sight to behold and deeply emotional as well; it was the return of Queen Theodora and her consort to their home and their subjects.
At the front rode several Blades with King Leander and Count Hubert right behind them. Several more Blades were found along around the carriage carrying the sovereign. The window in the door was open, allowing her to look out and her people to look at her. Young and beautiful, she smiled and waved, provoking many outbursts of affection and loyalty from the crowd. If any bore her ill will for having left the city towards the end of the siege, it was not expressed.
Reaching the first circle, the procession halted. On the palace square, the captain and lieutenant of the Order army stood waiting. They gave a bow before the king as he dismounted and another as the queen appeared from her carriage and joined them.
“Welcome home, Your Majesties,” William spoke with a faint smile.
“Thank you for preparing the way,” Theodora replied graciously. “It seems a lifetime ago that we parted ways in Adalrik, yet we find ourselves home far sooner than any could have presumed. You have our gratitude.”
“The praise must go to my first lieutenant as well. It is his mind that is the architect of our victories.”
“The famous Sir Adalbrand,” Theodora declared, prompting the man to incline his head. “All the Realms speak of your accomplishments, in this war and the previous.”
“I merely serve as needed,” Brand replied humbly.
“It is our luck that you finally serve in Hæthiod, then,” Leander scoffed. “As I recall, this army was meant to have arrived in Tothmor in the summer, not winter.”
Everyone looked at the king with expressions ranging from surprise to dismay or, in some cases, confusion. Not all knew that this army had originally been on its way to fight the outlander invasion when Richard and Brand had led it north across the mountains instead, making it absent at the Order’s defeat at the battle of Sikyon.
Brand stiffened. “The rebellion in Adalrik had to be contained, or there would not be an army here or there.”
“Of course, sir knight,” Theodora spoke soothingly. “If you will forgive us. We are weary from our journey,” she added with a glance at her husband.
“Understood, Your Majesty,” William said, retreating a few steps to clear the path towards the palace entrance.
“Where is Troy,” mumbled Leander, gazing through the crowd, as he and his wife moved forward.
Behind them, Hubert was greeted by Baldwin. The former was composed in his demeanour, greeting Baldwin with a courteous nod; the latter could be seen attempting to control his exuberance in response, but eventually he gave in, and a torrent of words was released as the young squire told the old count everything that had passed since they parted.
~~~~
A feast was prepared to celebrate the return of the queen and king, bringing with them the return of something resembling normalcy to the court of Hæthiod. The queen and her king sat in their seats in the dining hall once more. Count Hubert flanked the king and had the Order commanders by his other side, also allowing him to speak to his admirers, Baldwin and Matthew, who stood behind their respective masters. By the queen’s side sat her mother and her aunt. The seat after that was left empty out of respect of the court seer.
“I cannot imagine choosing a new court seer,” Theodora whispered to Leander with a glance towards the vacant chair.
“Even worse, this flame woman managed to take her own life,” Leander replied viciously. His voice was slightly slurred. “Of all the prisoners taken, we barely have any of worth.” He emptied his cup and gestured to a servant.
“We have a few officers to execute, at least,” the queen considered. “The rest can be sent to the salt mines.”
“I will enjoy my meals more knowing where the salt comes from,” the king smiled.
Conversation halted as Troy entered the hall and walked to its centre. In his hands, he held his instrument and began plucking its strings.
“I did not have the heart to tell him no,” Leander explained apologetically to his wife.
With a clear voice that did not falter, Troy performed On the Field of Blue, not missing a single word. With its story of Erhard defeating the outlanders, every member of the court was elated. They listened as the devious enemy invaded, and in a terrible battle, slew the king of Hæthiod and shed its noblest blood. They followed the news of this disastrous defeat to Erhard, jarl of Ingmond, where the Order forces were gathering in response to the invasion. They cheered as Erhard decided to take action immediately, gathering any available warriors and riding hard to ambush the outlander army, still drunk with victory. They shouted Erhard’s famous line to his men as they faced an enemy with far greater numbers, the jarl telling his men to take courage and to the spear be bold. Frenzy seized the audience when Troy sung of the victory won on the field of blue. As Erhard was offered the kingship of Hæthiod, establishing a new line that now had come to Theodora, the applause would not take an end.
“Is Troy… good?” whispered Leander.
“He must have practised. Not much else to do in camp, I guess,” Theodora smiled.
“We should send him on more campaigns. He may end up being worth his keep,” the king jested, applauding with the rest.
“With Your Majesties’ approval,” Troy called out as the cheering finished, “I have been working on a new ballad, never performed before. While it is not quite finished and still needs further verse, I should wish to perform it on this auspicious night.” The almost stunned royal couple gave their assent, allowing the bard to continue.
“When night has crept into this land,
When fiend and foe come ‘cross the wall,
Then who shall stand with sword in hand,
Then who will answer call?
Dragonheart, come forth!
Your people pray,
Dragonheart, come forth!
Hear what we say,
Dragonheart, come forth!
We’re led astray,
Save us, we pray!"
“Is this another version of that song Troy was always singing?” the king questioned. “That ballad about some village and dragonborn.”
By his side, Theodora frowned. “I do not think this song is about Prince Sigmar.”
“Was he not the Dragonheart? Who is this, then?” asked Leander confused.
The tune chosen by Troy caught the ears of its audience. The third time the chorus was sung, many of the courtiers joined in, and more and more eyes turned towards Brand. If any before this evening had not known about the battle of Polisals and the ekename bestowed upon the young commander, they did so now. As Troy finished to great acclaim, he bowed before the high table. The monarch clapped politely, while her consort seemed to have no response. As for Brand, he gave a barely perceptible nod in recognition. However, hours later when Troy retired to his chamber, he found a small purse of silver waiting for him.
~~~~
The morning after, the knight Vilmund returned to his chamber. He had been lightly exercising his swordplay, albeit wearing only a leather tunic above his shirt. Once alone, he removed the tunic with stiff movements and a few grunts. Through his shirt, he ran his fingers over the healing wounds upon his back. The fabric was dry, meaning they had not opened up despite his movements.
A servant entered the room. “Pardons, milord,” he quickly spoke. “I came to empty the fireplace. I thought the room would be vacant.”
“Just get it done,” Vilmund spoke brusquely, inspecting his armour hanging upon a rack in the room.
The servant moved to the hearth, but did not begin his work. “You are Sir Vilmund, are you not? I hear you led a fearless charge at Polisals.”
“That I did,” the knight replied absentmindedly.
“Now they are singing songs of the battle already.”
Vilmund’s back stiffened. “Not a very good one. The verse reminded me of Song of Sigvard, and the tune was like any ballad,” he spoke dismissively.
“Many seemed to like it,” the servant claimed, finally bowing down to clean out the fire pit. “Everyone is singing about the Dragonheart today.”
“People are fools,” Vilmund sneered, hanging his sword belt upon the rack.
“You do not share their opinion of Sir Adalbrand, milord?” came a cautious question.
“He is a brat,” the knight spoke with scorn. “Barely old enough to fight, yet given command. It galls me to my very core that the Order is led by such an upstart.”
“No doubt you would be a worthy commander,” the servant ventured to say.
“Without doubt,” Vilmund agreed magnanimously.
“Perhaps it can still be so.” The man crouching by the hearth kept his attention upon his task, but his voice grew cautious. “If Sir Adalbrand is defeated, people will know the truth and seek a worthier leader.”
The knight’s eyes turned narrow. “What are you saying?”
The servant continued his work, but his movements were slow and produced little effort. “If a battle were to be lost under his command… it would be easily done. A message in the right place to reveal the necessary knowledge, for instance.”
“You mean tell the enemy of our movements, our tactics?” Vilmund’s voice was fraught with suspicion.
“I am but a simple servant. What would I know? But if a great knight such as yourself deems it wise…”
The man was still looking inside the fire pit and did not realise what was happening until it was too late. Vilmund’s fists closed around his neck and smashed his head against the wall. “You think I am a filthy traitor?” bellowed the knight, releasing his anger with numerous kicks. “You think I can be spurred to dishonour?” He took a pause to spit before resuming. “You can explain in the dungeons why you advocate treason, you worthless dreg!”
When the guards arrived, summoned by the commotion, the servant was already beaten to a bloody pulp.
~~~~
More than two months passed after the return of the exiles to Tothmor, with winter reaching its end and a new year its beginning. There was thaw in the air, the frost receding. Winter rains had filled the water storages, and food provisions had arrived from Korndale, spurred by the resuming of salt deliveries from Polisals. The smiths had been busy hammering new arms and armour. As the Raven Days ended and a new year began, the Order army left Tothmor and began its march south.
Its ultimate goal was Lakon, though before that it would meet with the armies of Korndale, sent by King Adelard under the command of Prince Aquila. The combined forces could match the outlanders in Lakon and commence the final liberation of Hæthiod. The king himself along with his trusted companion, the count of Esmarch, and a contingent of Blades, was leaving the queen to participate in this final leg of the campaign.
Beyond that, the Order brought many recruits to fill the gaps in its ranks. There were barely any men left in Tothmor with the age and vitality to bear arms, and the city seemed a domain of the elderly. The reasons why these youths joined the Order were many. Some did it for silver, others for revenge or for justice, many to seek opportunity far away. Among their number was Hugh, the disgraced son of Hubert.
|
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Falling Sands
Middanhal
The cold winter following the solstice held Middanhal in its grasp. There was no market at the Temple square; anyone forced to be outside spent no more time on the streets than necessary. Despite the frost, the Citadel was as busy as ever, especially in the dragonlord’s wing. The antechamber was full each day of people seeking audience. Eolf, servant to the dragonlord, entered the room from deeper inside the wing. “Master Edwin, his lordship will see you now,” he announced. Groans could be heard from the rest as the rotund alderman got on his feet and followed Eolf.
Entering the dragonlord’s study, Edwin found Konstans sitting behind a desk with his head buried in papers. “Sit,” the latter commanded without looking up. The alderman, his face exhibiting his usual anxiety and discomfort in these situations, did as directed. Hearing the chair crack under Edwin’s weight and still not looking at his visitor, Konstans reached out to turn a small hourglass around. Putting it down on his desk, the sands quickly began flowing through. “State your case swiftly.”
“Yes, milord.” Already, droplets of sweat were beginning to form on the alderman’s brow despite the cold weather. “We – the merchants, that is – are concerned about scarcity.”
“Of what?” Finally, Konstans turned his head level.
“Salt, first and foremost, followed by meat. Since we cannot cure meat as we normally can, it will soon become scarce. Especially as the same must be taking place in Korndale, and we cannot expect them to sell their cattle to us as usual.”
“Because they will keep theirs rather than risk hunger,” the dragonlord realised, nodding his head slightly. “Have you not taken precautions? This is your responsibility.”
“We have, milord,” Edwin hastened to claim. “We are rationing our stores and seeking other means to avoid any shortage of food.”
“So why have you come to me?” Konstans glanced at the hourglass by his side, which had deposited a quarter of its sand.
“Milord, if the law on meat prices is kept in effect, we will have to sell at a loss.”
“I doubt that,” Konstans spoke with a scoffing sound.
“We will only be able to buy it at exorbitant prices,” the alderman continued his claim. “Furthermore, as we cannot salt it, we must sell it as swiftly as it is butchered. If we are allowed to raise the sales price, we can both afford buying more animals and also delay butchering.”
“Not to mention allow for a tidy profit, I am sure.”
“Milord,” Edwin exclaimed in a protesting manner.
“Allowing the price on food to soar is not lightly done,” Konstans declared. He eyed the hourglass that was more than halfway through its journey. “Do you have no other avenues to explore?”
“The royal treasury could reimburse the merchants for selling their goods at a price,” Edwin suggested cautiously.
“What would that cost?”
“Who could know for sure?” The alderman attempted an anxious smile.
“You would not mention it unless you had calculated the cost to the last copper coin,” Konstans claimed coldly.
“Nothing above thirty-five crowns, I assure you, milord.”
“A month?”
Edwin licked his lips. “A week.”
Konstans raised an eyebrow. “I want you to write those calculations upon paper and deliver to me.”
“Of course, milord. I should hope to leave today with a decision, however,” he ventured to say, eyeing the hourglass on the table. It would not last much longer. “Surely there is no harm in allowing the price per pound to be raised by two eagles? Only in case it becomes necessary,” he hastened to say.
Konstans also glanced at the hourglass. “For the next month only. The price return to the fixed amount once the Raven Days have ended.”
“Very well, milord,” Edwin acknowledged with a bowed head.
The hourglass dropped its final grain of sand. “Deliver those numbers to me and seek another audience a week after that. You are dismissed.”
“Yes, milord.” The alderman rose and gave a bow. Konstans already had his head in the pieces of parchment before him and paid no further heed as Eolf led Edwin out.
~~~~
Although the jarl of Theodstan kept a house in Middanhal as behoved a man of his position, he and his entourage dwelt at the Citadel in spacious rooms that almost constituted a wing of the castle on its own. This time a year, a strong fire burned merrily in the hearth of the parlour, where the jarl’s sister held court with her friends and attendants. Most of them sat busy with embroidery, in particular the handmaidens, though one of them was reading a book aloud to Theodwyn, who sat with her eyes closed. Arndis was an exception, playing chess against the jarl’s servant, Holwyn, who was dressed like any other female servant. Eleanor with her customary veil was fiddling with a needle, though not making much progress and constantly pulling up the threads she put in.
Theodwyn raised a hand to silence the servant reading to her. “If that needle does not suit your purposes, dear, I am happy to lend you another,” she stated, afterwards opening her eyes to look at Eleanor.
“No need, my lady,” the other woman replied subserviently. “The needle is fine.”
“Then I pray you put it to proper use.” This was spoken sternly as an admonishment.
“Of course, my lady.”
Holwyn sent a raised eyebrow at Arndis sitting across her. “There should be post arriving today,” the latter explained in a hushed voice. “Dispatches from Hæthiod tend to arrive on the second and fourth Hamarday.”
“Personal letters are given lowest priority and distributed last, however,” Eleanor exclaimed, biting her lips immediately afterwards and glancing at Theodwyn.
“Patience is a virtue,” the jarl’s sister remarked without looking at anyone in particular. “It is not becoming for a lady to chase correspondence either. It will arrive when it arrives.”
“I am no lady,” Holwyn admitted with cheek. “I could walk to the hall of records and enquire after the latest dispatch.”
A smile appeared on Eleanor’s face, visible even through her veil, and vanished as she glanced at Theodwyn. “That will not be necessary,” the Hæthian lady spoke meekly.
“I wish a handsome knight was writing letters to me from the front,” a young handmaiden said with a dreaming voice.
“You wish nothing of the sort, Alyssa,” Theodwyn corrected her. “Perhaps if your mind was more disciplined, your horse would not resemble a bloated sheep.” The reproached handmaiden quickly glanced down at her embroidery with flushed cheeks while the other women hid their smiles and giggles.
“I would not mind a letter from a knight such as Sir William,” Holwyn declared brazenly, making Eleanor blush.
“That is because despite my best efforts, impressing manners upon you was like trying to dye black wool. It simply would not take,” Theodwyn told her pointedly.
“I am happy to be a black sheep,” Holwyn grinned.
“Besides,” the jarl’s sister continued, “there will be no news of interest from Hæthiod as long as it is winter. War is like a bear. It hibernates. Nothing will be happening until it is spring again.”
“And then the bear goes in search of bees? Do bees mean knights in this image?” Holwyn asked with an innocent look.
“Do not be silly, girl,” Theodwyn scoffed.
“I suspect that in this gathering, knights are more like honey,” Holwyn mused.
“Enough,” Theodwyn exclaimed, though there was no real edge in her voice, and her servant did not look chastised. “It may sound like a pretty tune, knights in war, but the truth is they are doing nothing but sitting in camp and whiling away the time. If you need further encouragement to think of something else, let me tell you that an army camp is a breeding ground for vermin.”
This immediately made several of the women look uneasy, in turn giving Theodwyn a satisfied expression. Holwyn immediately seized upon this new topic. “You refer to rats scurrying around inside the tents? Lice on every man’s head? Or is vermin another of your images and it really refer to the camp followers, the women of dubious –”
“Thank you!” This time, Theodwyn’s voice was sharp enough to cut steel, and any signs of mirth upon her companions’ faces evaporated. “Instead of entertaining silly notions or making a mockery of our soldiers, you should pray for them. The outlanders are ten times as many as the Order, and we should be happy that winter prevents any battles from being fought. No news is good news.”
The mood became sombre. “But surely,” Alyssa spoke cautiously, “our knights will win no matter who they fight?”
“Of course,” Theodwyn reassured her. “They need only await reinforcements, and victory is certain.”
“Therein lies the problem,” Arndis remarked absentmindedly, her hand hovering over a chess piece.
“What do you mean?” asked Eleanor.
“All available Order soldiers are already in Hæthiod. Sir William and my brother cannot expect any further.”
“Levies can be raised among the noblemen, surely,” Eleanor argued.
“Any left have been sent north against Jarl Isarn,” Arndis countered, moving her hand to another piece. “None of the southern lords will commit troops to fighting in Hæthiod as long as Adalrik is caught in war as well.”
“What of the mercenaries hired by our lord protector? They’ll finish the war against Isarn swiftly and afterwards, they can be sent south,” Holwyn suggested.
Arndis shook her head. “They are too expensive for Jarl Vale to use against the outlanders. Once Jarl Isarn is defeated, they will either be dismissed from service or remain here in Adalrik to strengthen his rule. Why use his own gold to fight the Order’s battles?”
“You think he would abandon Hæthiod?” Eleanor sounded shocked. “He is the lord protector, ruling on behalf of the prince. When the prince is king, Hæthiod will be his subject. Thus, Hæthiod is the responsibility of the lord protector as well.”
“Perhaps, but it is not the responsibility of the jarl of Vale, which I think weighs more heavily,” Arndis replied, finally deciding which piece to move. “Game end.”
~~~~
Eolf, servant to the dragonlord, appeared in the antechamber once more. As before, the sight of him raised eyes and hopes. He extended a gesture towards an old man in undyed robes, who rose to follow the servant, leaving disappointment behind.
“The quartermaster has come to see you as bidden,” Eolf told his master.
“Have a seat,” Konstans offered, adding a few scribbles to the paper before depositing his quill in its inkwell. “I have summoned you to discuss the execution of your duties. Or rather, the dereliction of same.”
The quartermaster of the Order, well into his seventies, gave a sardonic smile. “At least you offered me a seat before hurling insults at me. I may be old, but my mind is stronger than my knees, and neither need any rest.” He remained standing with a defiant expression.
“In other words, it is not because you misunderstand your duties,” Konstans spoke coldly. “You simply refuse to attend to them appropriately.”
“I have served the Order in my position for nigh on twenty years.” The reply was spoken with an icy tone equal to the dragonlord’s. “In that time, I have not let one bag of flour go missing, one dagger be unaccounted for. If there is the slightest discrepancy with the men or material supplied for any campaign of the Order, it will not have happened at the Citadel.”
“Yet supplies are not going north the siege camp at Grenwold, but south towards Hæthiod. Even though you were specifically instructed to do so.”
“I serve the Order and its marshals. You have no authority to instruct me.” There was sneer in the old man’s voice.
“You give me no choice but to have you forcibly removed from your position, as you are not fit to fulfil it,” Konstans threatened.
“Who will remove me? Your sell-swords and hired brigands? An attack on me is an attack on the Order itself, here in its very heart. I cannot imagine you would be so foolish.” The quartermaster gave an impatient sigh. “I have duties to attend to. I take my position most seriously, Lord Konstans, as does every one of the Order’s soldiers in the Citadel.”
Konstans watched with frustration as the other man left, anger leaving a mark on his face. “Eolf,” he called out curtly. The servant quickly materialised. “Tell the captain of the Citadel I wish to see him tomorrow. No more supplicants for the next hour.” The servant bowed and made himself scarce again.
~~~~
Unlike the permanent quarters for the dragonlord, there were no such provisions for the position of lord protector, being so rarely needed. Instead, the jarl of Vale had been given chambers that a guest of his prominence would typically receive at the Citadel. In another contrast to his brother, Valerian was not receiving petitioners; any seeking the lord protector were told to request audience with the dragonlord instead. This allowed the jarl solitude for the most part, surrounded by his books and ledgers. The only other people in this wing of the castle were his family, the most trusted servants, and a strong contingent of his personal guards.
The jarlinna, pregnant for several months now, had on numerous occasions expressed her desire to live elsewhere than the cold walls of the Citadel. As the jarl’s house in Middanhal had been nearly destroyed during Isarn’s occupation, it was not a possibility. While Valcaster would be more pleasant during the winter months, Valerian had expressed his fervent wish that his wife give birth in Middanhal and not in Valcaster, where news would take weeks to reach him. As a consequence, Alexandra made her discomfort known to her surroundings often, thereby ensuring they shared her plight and further prompting Valerian to seclude himself in his study.
Seated in that room, the jarl’s quill was scribbling away, as it was on any other day. Numbers were compared, added and subtracted, underlined and finished with a swirl. Sometimes the jarl was humming to himself, sometimes his face made a frown as numbers and figures did not initially align, but they always yielded to him once he finished his calculations.
There was a knock on the door. “Enter,” Valerian called out; he enjoyed his solitude to such an extent, there was not even a servant in the room with him to attend to his needs or answer the door. A young woman entered. In terms of facial features, she had little in common with the man sitting behind the writing desk, taking after her mother instead. Despite the dissimilarities, they were father and daughter. Valerian looked up. “Yes?”
“How are your numbers?” Valerie asked, slipping inside and closing the door behind her.
“Bigger than last year,” her father replied with uncharacteristic dryness. “But you came here to ask me something else. What do you need?”
“I was considering taking Alexandra to the Temple. See what the greenrobes have left in their stores. The winter is making Alexandra look pale, and a little red mixture for her cheeks would brighten her appearance. If you approve?”
“Fine by me,” the jarl muttered, his head already bent over the papers again.
“A change of surroundings might be beneficial for her as well,” Valerie continued.
“Take a carriage. It is too far for her to walk,” her father instructed her.
“We shall,” she promised, opening the door to the study. Although her query had been answered, she remained in the doorway, however, hesitantly. “I was wondering, Father.”
“Yes?”
“What will happen to the Isarn prisoners?”
The sound of Valerian’s feather pen scratching over paper ceased. He looked up. “They are traitors and rebels. The only punishment is execution.”
“For all of them?”
“Perhaps leniency will be granted to those of lesser status. Those who captained this rebellion will lose their heads,” Valerian stated with a flat tone of voice as if discussing his calculations.
“I see.” Valerie’s voice was equally toneless.
“Is something the matter, my child?” He deposited his quill into its inkwell.
“No, Father.”
“Are you nervous about the wedding?”
“No, Father.”
“There is no shame in that. You will not only become a wife, but a queen. This is the best possible match I could ever hope to secure for you.”
“I know, Father.”
“Good.” Valerian smiled, taking hold of his feather pen again, soon scribbling numbers again.
~~~~
A youth in rich garments walked brashly into Konstans’ study, almost pushing Eolf out of the way.
“Prince Hardmar, milord,” the servant quickly muttered, stepping aside. “I will inform the envoy he must wait.”
Konstans raised his head but did not have time to speak before the prince did. “I make this appearance as a courtesy, which I will not repeat. I am your prince, and you will not summon me in this fashion again.” Hardmar’s voice was swinging like a pendulum between angry and icy. Behind him came his guard, Berimund, captain of the kingthanes.
Konstans sheathed his feather pen in its inkwell. “I made a polite request, my prince, that you would see me. I am attending to matters pertaining to your kingdom, after all, and in service to it.” In contrast, Konstans spoke with politeness, although tinged with distance.
“Precisely. My kingdom. In the future, you will come to me.”
“Of course, my prince,” Konstans conceded. “If you will allow me to address the matter at hand.”
“Yes, be swift about it.”
Nothing about Konstans’ demeanour revealed that he was affected by this show of condescension. “I thought we should determine the date for the wedding.”
“What wedding?”
“Between yourself and my niece,” the dragonlord explained patiently. “The end of the Raven Days seem a fitting time for a celebration, and we can formalise the union between our houses.”
Hardmar frowned. “That is far too soon. We have not even announced it at the Adalthing.”
“The Adalthing is six months away,” Konstans pointed out. “We can have the town criers announce it within the next few days. That gives an engagement period of almost three months.”
“Three months,” Hardmar scoffed. “I am the future king! You would disgrace me with such a short engagement?”
“That was not at all my intent to imply,” Konstans argued calmly. “A wedding between the two most powerful houses will signal stability and bring to mind thoughts of a prosperous future.”
“I will announce my betrothal to your niece at the Adalthing, as is proper,” the prince declared. “If she cannot wait that long, she is free to marry a man of lesser worth,” Hardmar added with a sneer before turning on his heel and marching out. Berimund avoided looking at Konstans and followed his master in leaving.
Konstans watched the prince leave. Taking a deep breath, he dipped his quill in ink and continued writing.
~~~~
The number of Order soldiers in Middanhal was considerably below full strength, having yet to replenish its ranks after most of the men marched south to Hæthiod for the campaign. The garrison still manned the Citadel and walked the streets of Middanhal, but the sentinels on the walls were spread thin, and the patrols were infrequent.
This left plenty of room in the barracks for soldiers wearing tabards of other colours. Some had the golden spirals on red that signified the House of Vale. Others wore colours and symbols hitherto unseen in Middanhal, such as a green surcoat upon which a crimson bird of prey spread its wings. These men were the mercenary company known as Red Hawks. Such companies whose only loyalty was to gold were viewed with disdain in Adalmearc, and the Hawks had sailed from as far away as Alcázar to serve the jarl of Vale and bolster his forces. Despite their base being beyond Adalmearc, many men of the company hailed from the Seven Realms, however, making for a motley band, and the Nordspeech of the Realms was heard among them as often as the trade speech of Alcázar.
Most of the Hawks, including their captain, had been sent north for the siege of Grenwold Castle, but a few hundred remained in Middanhal to support the lord protector. They spent their time as all soldiers did, exchanging silver for beverages, games, and company. The cold weather might temper their desire to leave the Citadel in search of these distractions, but it could not supress their boredom indefinitely.
In one of the barracks belonging to the Red Hawks, three of their colours returned in the afternoon after such an outing. “Blast this weather!” one of them exclaimed, shaking his cloak. Already, the snow was melting into their clothes, prompting them to quickly remove their outer garments to hang them by the fireplace. All three of them had the appearance common to natives of Alcázar and warmer skies.
Deep, rolling laughter was heard from one of the tables. “You southern boys wouldn’t last a day on the isles.” This proclamation came from a man carving a piece of wood in an almost idle fashion. His skin had an earthly tone to it, much like the men he addressed, but with several coloured markings, which along with the gold ring in his right ear revealed him to be a Dwarf; his other notable features were a neatly combed beard and a missing left ear.
“The isles,” repeated the first soldier while making a face. “You keep running your mouth about how tough life is there, yet I never see you step one foot away from the fireplace.”
“Of course,” the Dwarf laughed on. “That’s what life on the isles taught me. Don’t go outside in bad weather, you fool!”
“It’s going out into the snow or staying in here with you, Jorund,” one of the other soldiers pointed out.
“Fair point,” Jorund admitted, placing his woodcarving on the nearby table and collecting some of the shavings on the ground to throw them into the fire. “Say, while you lads were out, did you get some proper brew to bring back?”
“Just get some from the kitchen,” someone suggested, warming his hands as Jorund began feeding the flames.
“That’s weaker than the milk I had from my mother’s breast,” the Dwarf retorted with a sour expression.
“You remember the taste?” This was spoken with mild surprise and almost no hint of mockery.
“You’re right, Gawad, that does sound odd,” Jorund assented. “Maybe it’s your mother’s milk I remember.”
The other soldier, same height as the Dwarf but with a thin, black beard and both his ears intact, gave a vague smile. “Keep talking that way, and I’ll keep this small keg of ale to myself that I brought back from town.” He spoke Adalspeech with a strong accent yet otherwise flawless.
“Knowing you, that beer was brewed by a horse, I bet,” Jorund grinned.
“Close,” Gawad admitted. “Apparently, it was brewed by a bull.”
The Dwarf’s grin lasted a moment longer until he caught on. “Bull’s brew? You got this from the geolrobes?”
“If that’s what they’re called,” Gawad spoke with a shrug, acting as casual as Jorund was getting excited. He pulled away his cloak from where it was hanging, revealing a cask underneath it. A bull’s head was branded into the wood of the small barrel.
“Gawad, you glorious creature. I’ll pay you one silver a mug,” Jorund promised. He was already licking his lips.
“Maybe it’s all for me,” the other soldier considered. He was quickly surrounded by several men, however, joining the Dwarf’s in demanding or even begging that the keg be opened without delay. Soon, every tankard in the room was full.
Jorund let out a long sigh of pleasure after the first sip. “Now this is how you brew it,” he smiled. Everyone else agreed.
“Did you hear any news?” someone asked of the men who had gone outside. “How’s our boys faring?”
“Siege is slow,” came the reply. The man speaking was thin, but looked lean and tough; along with Gawad, he had organised the acquisition of ale, and currently he sat counting the silvers this had brought him. “I’m guessing our new masters don’t want to pay us for our dead, so they’re not going to storm them, but starve them out.”
“Sieges are the best,” came a content sigh. “We get pay for being employed, but don’t have to do any fighting.”
“Yeah, right until our employer gets tired of waiting and sends us all up on the walls to die in an assault.” This was spoken with a derisive snort by the coin-counting soldier, and several other Hawks followed it up, giving their assent.
“Jerome is right. I’d rather be here,” Jorund declared, “even if we’re not getting active pay. If you think it’s cold here, imagine lying in those tents with just the rats for company.” A handful of murmurs voiced their agreement.
“We heard other news,” Gawad weighed in. “About your home, wasn’t it, Jerome?”
The lank soldier stopped his counting, putting his silver away in a pocket deep inside his tunic. “That’s right. Those Order lads took Tothmor. All the town criers are yelling it.”
“Tothmor? I didn’t know it was under siege,” the Dwarf frowned.
“It wasn’t,” Jerome shook his head. “It seems the boys in black got themselves a good captain.”
“Not as good as Captain Bassel,” someone declared loudly, making everyone raise their mugs in cheers.
“I’ll drink to that!”
Gawad looked at Jorund, whose ale remained motionless in front of him. “Something troubling you?” he asked.
“Cities like Tothmor don’t fall without a siege,” the Dwarf muttered, barely audible through the clamour of the other soldiers’ voices. “Things are going to change now, one way or the other. Question is if they will change for us or pass us by.” He finally looked at Gawad, gave a shrug, and emptied his mug.
~~~~
Towards the end of the day, Eolf entered his master’s study. “Milord, the envoy from Ealond is still waiting.”
Konstans looked up abruptly, muttering to himself and stroking his forehead. “Send him in,” he finally declared, pouring a cup of wine for himself. As the door opened, he turned the small hourglass on his desk before looking at his visitor.
The man entering was clad in bright colours describing intricate patterns. He was a stark contrast to the highborn drakonians or their servants, whose garments were typically a single colour with an emblem upon it.
“Master Guilbert, milord, servant to the duke of Belvoir,” Eolf announced and retired.
“Have a seat, Master Guilbert,” Konstans offered. “You have come a long way to see me.”
The envoy made an elaborate bow. “It is but a short distance for an audience with a man of your import.” He remained standing with a smile; having waited all day did not seem to have dampened his spirits in any way.
There was a moment of silence, where Guilbert looked at the dragonlord expectantly, while Konstans glanced at the hourglass swiftly disgorging grains of sand. “What brings your master to send an emissary to Middanhal?” he finally asked.
“My master, Duke Gaspard of Belvoir, sends his cordial greetings and wishes to convey his deepest pleasure at your ascension to your current and most rightful position,” Guilbert declared with a fluent stream of words as if reciting a poetry from memory, adding another small bow. The smile had so far not faltered from his face for even the briefest of moments.
“His courtesy is appreciated,” Konstans replied. “I assume that is not all he wishes to convey?”
“Most astute, my lord,” Guilbert remarked, finally sitting down. “As the rest of Adalmearc, the duke has been watching events unfold in Adalrik and Hæthiod with anxious eyes. The Order must fight two wars, and their strength is greatly weakened in Ealond, for instance.”
Konstans’ eyes narrowed. “The Order will be victorious, as it always is. Besides, the lord protector has added his own forces to theirs, including the renowned Red Hawks. The war in the North will come to a swift conclusion, I assure you.”
“Yes, the Red Hawks,” Guilbert repeated contemplatively. “Order soldiers, Vale soldiers, mercenaries. All the warriors you could possibly gather to fight these wars. There cannot be any left,” he added with a smile.
“The coffers of the jarl of Vale are deep,” Konstans retorted. “Add the treasury of Adalrik to this, and you will find we have enough gold to fight twenty wars.”
“Gold, I do not doubt,” the envoy assented. “But soldiers can only be hired if there are soldiers to hire,” he continued, and his smile seemed a challenge. “If the lands are empty, no one can fight for you.”
“As long as there is gold in this world, you can find a man willing to swing a sword for it,” the dragonlord replied dryly.
“Perhaps. Even so, allies willing to fight by your side, not for gold but for friendship’s sake, must be welcome.”
Konstans gave the other man a scrutinising gaze. “Is Duke Gaspard offering his aid?”
“In more ways than one. It grieves my master to inform you that you cannot trust King Rainier to uphold the high king’s peace.” Guilbert’s smile was dropped in favour of a concerned expression.
“What proof does Duke Gaspard have of this?” Konstans’ voice was steady, but his eyes stared at the envoy.
“The king has told his vassals to make certain preparations. Prepare the stores of war such as filling the armouries, ensuring food supplies, making a count of able-bodied men and so forth,” Guilbert listed. “Unless King Rainier has arranged this with your lordship, and you are already aware of what is happening in Ealond?”
“It is not by arrangement with me,” Konstans admitted, barely moving his lips. “Does the duke have any material proof that King Rainier plots war?”
“Nothing in writing or similar, alas.” Guilbert’s face was appropriately regretful. “Every one of the king’s subjects knows it to be true, but unless someone dares speak up first, none of them will risk being singularly disloyal.”
Konstans took a deep breath and exhaled through his nose. “Does the duke know exactly what King Rainier intends?”
“On this, the king has revealed nothing. However, both Herbergja and Tricaster have been targets for the kings of Ealond in the past, and either city seems likely.”
“Tricaster is across the border from Belvoir,” Konstans pointed out. “If King Rainier seeks to expand his lands to include that city, he might add it to your master’s duchy. I can only imagine a man as shrewd as your duke has considered this.”
“My lord, I am shaken that you would insinuate Duke Gaspard would take advantage of such an unlawful situation.” Guilbert’s voice was indignant. “Breaking the peace of Adalmearc in order to seize the lands of Korndale and bring them under his own rule, it is unthinkable for an honourable man such as the duke!”
“But not unthinkable for King Rainier,” Konstans added with a sardonic smile.
“Indeed not.” Guilbert’s face quickly became sorrowful.
The dragonlord licked his lips. “You may inform your master of my gratitude for delivering this intelligence.”
Guilbert inclined his head. “Duke Gaspard is prepared to do more. As the foremost noblemen of the realm, he feels it is his duty to take action.”
“What sort of action is he planning to take?” Konstans’ expression bordered on suspicious.
“The duke is bound in loyalty to King Rainier, of course,” the emissary began to say. “However, both dukes and kings are bound in loyalty to the Dragon Throne of Adalrik above all. If the king has broken his fealty, it is the duty of those still loyal to amend the situation.” Each word in the last sentence was spoken with the utmost care.
Konstans carefully stroked his chin. “Only the Order has such authority. I cannot condone or command your master to take such drastic steps.”
“In normal times, the Order would be strong enough to dissuade King Rainier from even attempting. Yet the lord marshal is dead and cannot intervene, and there are none others to command the Order to action.”
“What of the marshal of Ealond? If he is made aware of this, it is his duty to step in.”
A sarcastic smile made a brief appearance on Guilbert’s face. “All of Sir Martel’s forces in Fontaine have been sent east except for some hundred. There cannot be more than a few thousand Order troops in all of Ealond. The good marshal is powerless to stop King Rainier.”
“Moving against the king,” Konstans spoke slowly, each word chosen with care, “especially when our cause could be considered insubstantial, is an extreme measure to take. Should the duke do this, he will be seen as a usurper.”
“The alternative is worse,” argued Guilbert. “King Rainier is ambitious, and he is young. If this attempt at expanding his power is thwarted, but nothing else is done, he will simply wait for the next opportunity. And the next, and the next.”
“Even so.” Konstans tapped his fingers on the table idly. “Without the proper authority, without real evidence, any action taken could cause as much harm as it would prevent. Merely by sending this message, Duke Gaspard is risking the wrath of his liege.”
“Which is why, should any ask, I am here to propose a union between your son and my master’s eldest daughter.” Guilbert’s smile swiftly made its return.
Konstans displayed a brief, emotionless smile. “The House of Vale is flattered and will consider your master’s proposal.” The dragonlord gave Guilbert an inspecting glance. “He must place a great deal of trust in you to convey such a proposal.”
“I am proud to carry out the duke’s tasks, though I am the most humble of emissaries.” Guilbert gestured towards himself. “A simple servant whose father’s name is not his to speak and the least worthy member of his lordship’s household. Thus, should I reveal anything spoken between my master and your lordship, my testimony would hold no value. You are both noblemen of the highest birth, whereas I am lower than commonborn.”
Konstans leaned back in his seat, his fingers playing the stem of his wine cup. “What exactly is your master asking of me?”
“A pledge between your house and his. If not symbolised by union through marriage, then through other means such as a treaty,” Guilbert explained.
“What would this pledge entail?”
“Duke Gaspard pledges himself to your cause and your wars. As you pledge yourself to him.”
“Such a treaty might be misconstrued as our approval of any unlawful actions taken by the duke,” Konstans pointed out. His eyes, formerly resting on his cup, rose to meet Guilbert’s.
“Surely none would be so crass as to assume that. My master merely requires your written pledge to prove to the nobles of Ealond that Adalrik is our friend.”
Konstans began tapping his desk again. “This is not a matter lightly decided.”
Guilbert nodded. “I will remain in Middanhal until the Raven Days have ended. It will not be pleasant to travel until the new year, regardless.”
“I will summon you once a decision has been made,” Konstans declared and rose.
Guilbert stood up as well. “Very well, my lord.” The envoy paused before he spoke again. “Remember, Lord Konstans, that if you agree to lend your support, in return you gain not only the assistance of Belvoir, but all of Ealond.”
The dragonlord merely gave a brief nod and rang a bell standing on his table. His servant quickly appeared. “Show Master Guilbert the way out,” Konstans told Eolf, who did as ordered.
Once alone, Konstans sank down into his seat. He glanced at the hourglass by his side, whose sands had long since run out.
|
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