The Roads to Baldairn Motte

by Ahimsa Kerp

  Blackspar spun on his heel and gathered the reins of his horse. Once mounted, he turned in the saddle. “We are all northmen here.” Spurring his horse, he left his men scrambling to catch up. Their mounts kicked up a low cloud of dust as they disappeared.

  “Rat-spear’s cunny,” spat Hem.

  “He had the right of it,” said Caulder. When the miller gawked, he added, “The lad’s caught in the grip of the Passions the same as the rest of us. No need to blame him for what the Ordained have done.”

  “Come,” said Tillon. “Let’s give Alric Herren’s blessings and find a spot in the shade for him to rest. Any who utters a word to Ordryn will find a dirk in their gut.”

  “Aye’ya,” said Caulder as he moved to help.

  Hem studied the ground around Alric. The earlier question returned to him. Where was Orren? It nagged at his thoughts, but he knew his companions would have no better answer than Lewes Blackspar. Whatever path Orren now found himself upon, he’d chosen it, and now he’d have to suffer it, as Alric had. He sighed and glanced at the road behind.

  As would Trask.

  TRASK

  Worry crept into Trask’s gut and painted itself across his face as he studied his home from the hillock at the edge of his croft. A shovel lay in the garden where it shouldn’t be, and one of the barrels he used to hold rainwater lay overturned and splintered. He squinted into the setting sun as it flashed through the boughs and leaves of the orchard on the far side of the glen, but could spy no hint of Gleda or the boys.

  It’d taken him most of the day to cross the grass-and heather-covered dales from where he’d parted with Hem and the others, and he’d made the entire journey brooding over the dangers that encircled his family. What if the boys hadn’t returned? Where could he take them and Gleda if they had? Had something terrible befallen any of them? The last had plagued him above all. He didn’t need to know anything of the southern army to know there were desperate men about, those who’d steal and kill and worse if their passion had grown them bold enough.

  He reached the garden and stopped at its edge, not believing what he saw. Nothing remained of the turnips and leeks, bits of cabbage lay shredded and tossed amidst the soil, and only a few rotten carrots sprouted from their once ordered rows.

  A lump formed in Trask’s throat, forcing his breath into shallow gasps. He padded over to the front door and peered through the slats. In the dim light, he could make out only vague shapes within, none that moved. He pushed open the door. When the waning sun’s light flooded the room, his heart froze. The hearth had gone cold. Splintered scraps of wood littered the floor; the rack Gleda used for hanging garden spices lay broken and empty. Of the heifer and lambs, only their mats of straw remained.

  “Gleda,” Trask whispered. His eyes searched the remnants of their belongings for any sign of his wife, any clue as to whether harm had come to her. His hands shook as he picked through cloth and wood and stone.

  He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen the hearth cold. Gleda always had peat burning, during the day for cooking, and at night for keeping the family warm. It was odd now, lifeless and unkempt.

  Trask frowned. Something about the way the ashes sat caught his attention. He came over and squatted, pushing a hand through the small clods of peat and wood ash that remained. Dried clumps broke away, revealing moisture beneath. He sniffed the air, and swung his gaze to the empty stock pen. A rush of joy swept over him. The ashes had been spread before they were doused, and the pen cleaned of droppings after the animals had been led out.

  They were small details only his eyes would care enough to notice. As he glanced around the room’s clutter he now saw the ruse for what it was. Any strangers who came looking to pillage his croft were meant to think it ransacked already and devoid of anything worth stealing. But he knew the truth, an entire winter’s worth of food and fuel were hidden beneath the garden and in the orchards beyond the croft.

  “Gleda,” he whispered again, this time with a smile. She’d fled the croft as she said she would. As she promised. Trask rose, pondering. Had the boys reached her before she left? Did she know of the holdfast? “She would’ve told me,” he mused. He scoured the room again, and this time he found her marking. Scratched into the wall where his bow normally rested was a small arrow pointing to the south. Its shaft was slashed by three lines.

  To the Hollows, Trask understood, and with the boys. He quivered and placed his hand against the blaze. He was exhausted, but sleep would have to wait a little longer. He wished he had more of the leech’s potent. Its effects had seen him through the day but now left him with a throbbing ache. Picking a stave, he pressed his weight upon it. Satisfied it would support him, he scanned the turned soil and broken wares a last time before trudging off toward the orchard.

  Trask shook his head, but couldn’t wipe the joy from his face. It would take him and the boys near half a year to mend everything, but Gleda had done right in making the ruse.

  He moved through the orchard and into the dales beyond, following the low glens rather than high ridges. The grass and heather were thicker there, but he’d feel too exposed above, and there were plenty of game trails to follow if one knew where to look.

  The sun had passed beneath the horizon by the time he forded Gildan’s Sprite for the third time in three days, though this time he was well south of where he and Hem had crossed on their way to Burn Gate. Reaching the far side, he’d just entered a copse of spruce and pine when he heard the jangle of harnesses and the clopping of horses wading up the Sprite.

  Ordained come to throw him in ropes and haul him off to fight.

  The approaching riders were too far away to spy, the trees between them too thick. He darted deeper into the wood, cringing as twigs snapped and needles crunched beneath his boots. He couldn’t let them ensnare him. He’d rather be struck down by their swords than chance capture; the shame he’d feel, paraded in bondage in front of Hem and the others, would be too great.

  Low branches, and clumps of moss and fern, flitted past. The dim light made staying on the trail difficult, but he knew the deeper in, the tougher it would be for horses to follow. He strained his ears, but could hear nothing other than his own labored breath.

  His foot rolled across a loose rock and pain shot through his ankle and up his leg. As he stumbled, he reached out for balance and his arm slapped against the trunk of a gnarled tree.

  He landed hard in the undergrowth, choking back a cry, his whole body heaving. Yet the trees behind him were quiet, the Sprite only a bare whisper in the distant fading sunlight. The only shadows that danced in his vision were from pain. The riders hadn’t pursued him, if they’d seen him at all.

  Trask barked a laugh of hysteria. Pursued by the Ordained, indeed. As if their Order had naught to do but worry over an aged crofter, half-lame and exhausted. He glanced at his arm. It was scratched raw and bleeding. His ankle throbbed, and his other leg had gone stiff and tight. Still, he rose and pulled the leaves and moss from his hair and clothes.

  Somewhere in the Hollows, Gleda and his boys waited.

  HEM

  Hem whistled as he surveyed the swarm of men and horses and wagons. The army of Lord Thurmwood sprawled over three hills before them. Great bonfires sprouted every twenty cloth-yards, shedding enough light to almost blot out the stars above. Wagons filled with wood and food and weapons trundled between each, doling out their wares. Cows grazed in makeshift pens, and pavilions, large enough to hold a score of horsemen, ringed the highest points of the encampment.

  The ground had already turned to muck under the weight of so many feet and hooves, and puddles of water from the rains had brought the midges. The glint of metal flashed against the firelight from a thousand spears and gave the appearance of a mine littered with gemstones.

  “I’ve seen cities, but I’ve never seen so many gathered together before at a time,” said Cynric.

  Caulder chuckled. “This isn’t even a fraction of the army of the North. Imagine w
hat it will look like when Lord Hairng’s spears join us,” he said.

  The skald’s jaw dropped open, and Hem realized his own had too. His cheeks flushed in embarrassment. A midge flew into his ear and broke the spell. He squashed it and flicked it away. “Balin’s arse,” he mumbled. His companions followed as he started toward the first fire. One was as good as the next, he decided.

  The men about the fire were mostly farmers. They greeted the newcomers with kind nods, though none moved to offer them any food or water.

  “You from Ashen Vale?” one asked.

  “Burn Gate,” said Hem.

  “Jarlapple,” the man said, and Hem started. The village the man named was east of Hairng castle. “We come down with the queen’s wagons, near eight score of us along with two hundred from the castle town proper.”

  “We heard Lord Thurmwood rallied here,” said Caulder. “Are there other lords as well?”

  “The whole of the North, it seems. The lords Manter and Balrin and Thistle, all save the ones with Lord Hairng or those already fighting in the south.”

  “Skirmishing,” said another man. “Trying to save their lands and not fairing well, I hear. We saw a score or so come through all bloodied up from a fight near North Port. Said the port harbor had more masts in it than a whorehouse.”

  “Who’s in charge?” asked Hem.

  The man shrugged. “Thurmwood’s banner flies atop the motte. The gathered lords decided to honor the old ways—Thurmwood’s lands, Thurmwood’s army and all. Though what that means when one of the greater lords joins is any fool’s guess.”

  Hem’s gaze rose to the central hill. Covered in a sprawl of pavilions, he hadn’t recognized the ancient battlement. Its symmetrical mound shape and flat top stood in contrast to the smaller hills beside it. The ruined foundations of a stone keep were hidden from sight by the pavilions, but Hem had seen them before. Crumbling battlements, no taller than a man’s waist, ringed the old bailey at the base of the mound in broken sections. Only the barbican remained in any recognizable shape. It stood like a portal on the slope of the motte, a stone foundation with two thick walls and an arched henge buttressed by what remained of the inner wall. Thurmwood’s standard, a hawk with barley clutched in its talons, fluttered in the breeze, atop the motte.

  “I think some of your lads were scrounging over there.” The man pointed across the old bailey to where a line of horses were picketed. Beyond, a pair of fires illuminated a familiar wagon half full of casks.

  With a nod, Hem set off. The walk around the pickets took them past a wagon where two men were tossing bread into a sea of reaching hands. Hem and Tillon shouldered their way into the throng and came away with loaves of a coarse, dark bread that stank of yeast.

  Hem stared at the bounty as if it was something left by one of the horses, but in the end his stomach won out. He grumbled that the hard grains threatened to crack his teeth, but he ate almost a whole loaf himself.

  He kept his eyes roaming as they made their way through the encampment, searching for familiar faces or any who looked like they were in charge. But he saw only strangers, and the only shouts for order came as clusters of men scuffled over food and weapons. Already half the wagons lay empty, yet piles of spears and casks of stout and water were horded around each of the campfires. Those who had won the goods guarded them fiercely, and the clack of spear-butts sounded from more than one corner of the encampment.

  “This is chaos,” said Hem. “The forning Fairie have taken the army.”

  “They act from fear,” said Caulder.

  Tillon snorted. “We’re all afraid. But it’ll be a short battle if this is what the southern horde faces on the field.”

  “Where’re the lords and captains?” Hem asked.

  When no one answered, he snatched the sleeve of a farmer passing by and growled the question again. The man pushed him away, cursing. Hem’s jaw hardened. He’d told himself all day that once they reached the motte, a hot meal and warm fire would greet them. He’d dreamed of a full belly and good cheer and captains who ordered the men into fighting ranks. He’d dreamed of an Army of the North, a wall of spear and shield stretching to the horizon, so thick no enemy could ever penetrate it. To find a blathering flood of privy bilge ripped apart his resolve. His blood pounded so hard the world around him fell silent.

  He took a step after the man he’d assailed, but Tillon’s arms locked around his chest and pulled him back. He shrugged off the chandler’s grip, and threw his friend aside, harder than he’d meant.

  Tillon landed in the muck; a shocked looked painted his face. Hem clenched his fists and brought them to his eyes. He shook from toes to brow.

  “Balin’s arse!” he bellowed so loud those who milled about the nearby fires fell silent and stared.

  He watched Caulder help his brother to his feet. Cynric called his name, but Hem ignored the skald and stalked away. His breath came so hard he almost choked. He wanted nothing else but to reach the empty night air away from the encampment.

  But his feet never found the open fields or orchards at the base of the hills. Instead, he wandered in circles, passing the same fires where farmers and crofters, tradesmen and silkmen huddled with the same misery etched upon their faces that he felt inside. Whiskers covered cheeks coated by dust from the road and all were splotched with muck. Some of the folk wore sturdy linen trousers, those of craftsmen, while others wore the tired, homespun cloth meant for long days toiling under the sun.

  He passed a small fire where a rabbit roasted on a spit. The scent hit his gut like a hammer blow, and it was all he could do not to rush the men who guarded it. They glared until he passed.

  At another fire, one crofter whispered to another in a hushed tone. “Some say they secretly work for Fairnlin, to keep the power of Hairng in check.” The man held a bow and was rubbing wax into the string. A sheaf of arrows lay at his feet.

  “I heard their oaths…” The other man, struggling with the buckles of a studded jack, started to speak, then spied Hem and fell silent.

  “No food here,” said the first crofter. “Try another fire.”

  Hem shook his head. “Just wandering a bit, I guess. Looking for faces I know.”

  “Lots of fellows looking for their kith and kin,” said the man with the jack. “No sense looking for them in the dark. Better tend to your stomach while there’s still food left to eat. The wagons are getting empty.”

  “My kin are all gone,” said Hem.

  The man chuckled, misunderstanding. “They’ll be here when the sun comes up if they’re here at all. Find yourself a jack and bow, too, if you can manage it. Come morning there might not be anything but spears to hold. Not that I wouldn’t mind ramming a pike into one of the rat-spear’s gullets. I’d just rather not have an Ordained’s sword in my back pushing me forward.”

  Hem scowled. He moved on but heard many of the same sentiments voiced as he wandered throughout the camp. There was a sense of captivity that spurred the restlessness of the men who’d gathered to fight, and it wasn’t difficult to discern from where the feelings stemmed.

  Furrowed brows and hasty glances were cast upon the armored men who rode through camp in pairs, with badges depicting a down-turned sword and scales meant to represent justice. The Ordained gazed upon the common folk as parents upon children, and though Alric’s body had been laid to rest out of sight, rumors wafted through the camp of cruelty and murder at the hands of the Order.

  The Ordained had forged a stockade in the heart of the encampment. Sharpened spikes thrust outward in an arc facing south, protecting a bank of picketed horses and canvas tents. A score of Ordained milled within the stockade and another rode about the camp. The Order held only a few dozen score in its ranks across the whole of the North, yet most were with Lord Hairng’s army in the west.

  Hem moved on. After a time he found himself staring at the remains of a broken water cask. Its contents had gathered in a depression and formed a murky pool. The shattered cask reminded him
of crossing the Sprite two nights prior, and of the dead stag sprawled at its bank. Broken and in ruin, both were, at the hands of chaos.

  “Balin’s arse,” he grumbled. Whining wouldn’t get him anywhere. The Passions take Alric and Trask, and the captains and lords too. He spat into the water and spun on a heel. All he wanted was a spear and some southern blackspurs to spit.

  By the time he found Jaren Bulware’s wagon, his friends had made a serviceable fire and sat in a huddle around it with others from Burn Gate. A few munched on apples. “Three days at the most,” Caulder was saying across the fire from his brother. “The lads from the coast said you could see their camp fires from the Beacons. Thousands of them, though I’ve not met a lad from North Port yet who could count to a thousand.”

  “Won’t take a half-thousand if they’ve men-at-arms and horse,” said Tillon. “They’ll run our lot right off these hills.”

  “They can start with Ordryn’s blessed oathtakers,” said Hem. He met Tillon’s gaze and shrugged an apology. The younger chandler nodded and threw an apple at him. Hem smirked as he flopped down into the muck. The fire had dried the ground a bit, but not enough to keep the chill from seeping into his bones.

  “Aye’ya,” said one of the other men, nodding, “but Tillon has the right of it, we need more men. Men-at-arms who know what they’re about, not farmers and craftsmen. Lord Hairng can lay siege to Baardol until the Passions bless his cunny, but he’ll come home to an empty land, or worse, one full of southerners.”

  A few grunts sounded, though it was hard to tell if they were in anger or agreement. Caulder rubbed at his chin. “Thurmwood’s not fool enough to stand against the Fairnlin army alone. He’s more like to know things we don’t. Maybe Lord Hairng’s at Baardol, and maybe he’s not. Maybe Thurmwood’s just trying to slow Sturm Galkmeer down with this army here.”

  “Maybe the Marchers are coming to kiss our arses,” said Tillon.

  The grunts sounded again, but this time they were sapped of strength. Long faces stared into the flames in silence. Hem felt the weight of the day’s march, and all it had entailed, crush down upon him. His eyes closed as the first drops of rain began to fall. From across the encampment curses rang out, but the men from Burn Gate were too tired to care. Slowly each wrapped themselves in their damp cloaks, laid out in the wet muck, and pretended to sleep.