The Roads to Baldairn Motte

by Ahimsa Kerp

  Baldairn Motte itself was abandoned and became a place of hauntings and legend. The ghost of the Amber Maiden—the Motte Witch—was said to kill any who looted the ruins in search for the great emerald that was gifted and taken away from her. And there were other ghosts, too, the ghosts of the Thralls, descendent of both the Fairie and the Baeldans, who died in battle there for their freedom.

  With such a history, it is perhaps appropriate then that nearly a thousand years later, it was at the ruins of Baldairn Motte that Audwin Ernmund, Lord of Hairng, would fight to put a descendent of the Baeldan line on the throne once again. This time, however, the Baeldan Lord was not fighting to enslave his people, but rather free them from the yoke of the south.

  THE BETRAYAL OF BAARDOL

  The betrayal the Duke of Baardol delivered upon the gentle folk of Hairng sprang from a hatred that had festered in the corrupt heart of Mord Torald since the days of his father. It is known the young duke poisoned his elder brother to claim an inheritance that was not justly his, and had on several occasions encouraged bitterness between the burghers of Baardol and the lords of Hairng. His feud with Hroald Ernmund in particular resulted in bloodshed during the reign of Queen Ana Flynn, leaving the royal no choice but to levy great burdens against the Toralds’ ducal seat. Thus, when the Lord Chancellor of Fairnlin offered Mord dominion over Hairng in exchange for villainous actions, the young duke was eager to comply.

  Having wrestled control of Fairnlin through force of arms, Sturm Galkmeer turned his attention to seducing the dukes of Gaulang and Kiln, whose support he would need to legitimize his throne. He charged Mord with the execution of his plans in the north, the slaying of Audwin Hairng and imprisonment of the dowager Queen Mildrine. Of Borkyr Ernmund, Galkmeer’s intentions remained unclear.

  Mord Torald chose the wooded glen of Plum Grove to enact his betrayal. Lord Hairng, with his wife, son, and retinue, journeyed homeward, abandoning their residence in Fairnlin under threats from the Lord Chancellor. Their party passed under the shadows of the grove when bolts from hidden crossbows ripped through their men-at-arms. Cadby Ernmund and Bjorn Blackfend, a favorite captain of the North, fell in the first assault. Hroald Ernmund charged into the ambushers, striking the arm from one and bludgeoning another with his shield. Those of Hairng rallied at the sight of the heroic feat and harried the minions of Baardol, granting them a swift demise.

  Audwin Ernmund grieved the loss of his son and his captain, and those other men-at-arms who’d fallen, but didn’t tarry long. His first duty to his folk was to see his other son, Borkyr, the heir of Queen Mildrine, to the safety of Hairng castle. This he did at the suffering of his desire for vengeance.

  Now finding himself cornered by powerful enemies, Hairng was forced to consider a new alliance, one his captains warned him against: the Marchers in the north.

  BETRAYAL

  A MESSENGER IN ETONBREEN

  The tall man slipped through the dark streets. He was not sure of the precise directions—the last time he stood on this earth he had been surrounded by trees, not buildings. Change was evident everywhere now. But though the town was growing, it remained small enough to easily navigate. He welcomed the darkness, for it hid his bloody clothing and filthy appearance.

  He made his way to a dark cabin near the edge of town, where tall pines rose in the background. The large man knocked twice and entered. Though his eyes had the night brightness, it took them a few seconds to adjust to the dark room.

  Lord Ghazi, the young Lord of the Marchers, sat cross-legged on the floor. He was alone, lit by candlelight. He greeted the tall man with what could only generously be described as a nod. His eyes gleamed, reflecting flame.

  “You’ve made it,” he observed. “For the last two weeks, I have been coming only out of habit.”

  “If I had known…” the man said, sitting across from the Marcher Lord, “I would never have agreed. Never. In truth, I know not how long ago I left with the message.”

  “Nearly a full month has passed,” Ghazi said calmly.

  The man started. “A full month? I need to return to the South immediately.”

  “Yes I know,” Lord Ghazi’s voice was steady, almost bored. But his eyes shone.

  The tall man reached into a pouch at his side. He handed the Marcher Lord a small cylindrical tube. If he was expecting his Lord to show gratitude or even interest, he was wrong. Ghazi placed it by his side without so much as glancing at it.

  “What does he know?” Lord Ghazi asked.

  The tall man shrugged. “Of most things? Very much. Of me? Very little, one hopes. The captain has enough big troubles not to look for small ones. And I am not without my own means of misdirection. After a month’s absence though…”

  “I doubt not your abilities,” Ghazi said. A small smile played across his lips. “And the Galloper?”

  “Sturm Galkmeer?” asked the tall man. Surprise edged around the corners of his voice. “Unless something has changed, he will continue to play the part for which he was groomed. Nothing more.”

  Lord Ghazi nodded, satisfied. “He will continue to do so. It has been assured to me. Soon, Thrand will march with a force from the South, drawing Hairng away from his city.”

  “Is this true?” the messenger asked.

  “Assuredly. It may be happening already.”

  The messenger gaped at him. “Much has changed. I fear my letter, no matter what it contains, could well be too late.”

  Ghazi shrugged carelessly. “As to the letter…” He popped open the cylinder and removed the parchment. “Please listen while I read,” Ghazi said. “You have risked much and should know of his words.”

  Lord Ghazi,

  Again, it pains me that we cannot meet in person. Such clandestine dealings are not in my nature, or consistent with my family’s past. Baardol is a proud family; though I know I need not regale you with the history of that now. Nonetheless I am not blind to the present situation. Thus I have used my most trusted courier who will take this message to the man you claimed more apt than all others.

  My spies have corroborated what you told me; the Galloper cannot be defeated. I am throwing our power and prestige to his side. The past be damned; never in history has joining the winning faction been worse than joining the losing. Does that sound overly expedient? Perhaps it is.

  The Galloper’s man who has been by my side, waiting for an answer for a month left to the south yesterday. He finally bore an answer. The answer his master wanted.

  It is decided. As you have said, the site of Plum Grove is ideal for our purposes. We shall strike the head from the northern serpent and victory will be ours. The body may yet writhe and squirm, but victory will be ours. With your men aiding mine, victory will be ours.

  Living under the yoke of Galkmeer is not a dream I have ever suffered from. But these things can wait. I trust my messenger and yours, but only the Passions know what can happen. We have much to discuss.

  Ghazi leaned back and was silent for several long, dark moments. “He talks too much,” he said at last. “The ambush at Plum Grove failed last week.”

  The messenger growled in anger. “Then it was all for nothing? Bleeding my guts out in the forest, fighting off bears and flies and worms who wanted to tear my life away, killing a woman for her horse. All for nothing?”

  Lord Ghazi looked closer at the man. The bandages on his side reeked of stale blood, his neck had a large bruise of purple yellow and green, and his eyes had rings so dark it would have required many nights without sleep. No words were needed.

  “Stay a moment more,” said the Marcher Lord. “This will not take long.” He drew out a long parchment of his own. It was already filled out nearly to the bottom. Ghazi jotted a few more sentences and then slid it into the empty canister. “You’ll know what to do with this. Deliver it to the right person at the right time, and you’ll have my gratitude at a time when many will seek it.”

  The man rose silently, reached for the message, and took his leave.


  After the messenger left, an hour passed before the Marcher Lord moved. At last, he stretched with a long yawn, climbed to his feet, and exited into the darkness. A cold wind blew through the trees and across the silent city streets.

  It was a dangerous game he played. One that had just gotten a lot more interesting. Now if only the fools would do as their natures dictated.

  BLADES OF THE NORTH

  PART I

  Henry Barlow shoved the healer to the ground. Eugo’s body sprawled, flailing, and he hit the packed earth with alarming force. Barlow hadn’t meant to shove him that hard. Eugo looked up at him, his eyes reflecting more shock than hurt. The men behind Barlow muttered uncertainly as well. No one touched the Order of Balin that way—they were itinerant healers who helped all. That taboo meant less to Barlow than the survival of his men.

  “I said no cantrips,” Barlow told the prone healer.

  Eugo rose sullenly and got back in line, patting the dust from his robes. His bald head gleamed in the thin mountain air. “I’m cold,” he protested. “And tired. It will help me keep up with—”

  “No cantrips,” Barlow repeated. The healer looked long at him and said nothing.

  The healer was an unwanted burden, and an unnecessary one. Anything dangerous enough to wound my men would kill that man ten times over, Barlow thought. Most of his men had marched with him long enough to have grown accustomed to not having a healer, though not all agreed with him.

  Henry Barlow was Captain of the Titan Guard. The Titan Guard was the elite infantry of Hairng, Lord of the North. What only a handful of men knew was that he was really part of a much more secret organization, the Shades. What only one other person knew was that even his Shades role was a cover, and he served a cause so secret that Barlow himself struggled to identify it at times.

  This was not one of those times. The mission was simple in conception if complex in execution. He was heading to the icy north with a dozen men. Back to the north. He hated the frigid, forning north. It was cold, full of snow, ice, barbarians, and worse. Last time he had been a newly anointed Shade, alone, and had been lucky to escape with his life. This time he was most definitely not alone, and should have felt safe. There were good things there; people he was looking forward to seeing. He wondered if she had missed him as much as he had missed her.

  For all of that, he felt vulnerable. Henry Barlow had too much knowledge of what lay ahead; and not nearly enough. He looked at his men. Though most of the twelve had inherited honorable and ancient signs of their house, all had foresworn them to wear the plain darklink armor that marked the Titan Guard. As was custom they had the two newest recruits, Maryk and Tracant, carrying most of the gear. Buried under massive bags, Maryk sweated like a stuck pig even in the cold air.

  Every man of the dozen carried at their waist the namesake Titan maces: large bludgeoning weapons that were symbolic of their power, and, more importantly, formidable weapons in their own right. The men were the elite of elite, of good noble blood and already survivors of many skirmishes and battles. Barlow suspected two of them might even also be Shades, though he only knew of one for certain—the man who had indoctrinated him. The identity of Shades was such a closely guarded secret that often men in the same company could serve without ever knowing of the other’s participation.

  They were good men. The exception of course was Eugo. Barlow did not—could not—trust the healer. The commoners and pig-forners had aptly named them leeches. They healed sick farmers and near-dead peasant babies to be sure, but they were a liability in war, expecting to have whatever they needed handed to them in return for their services. He knew the man was too stupid to purposely betray him, but he was utterly incompetent in stealthcraft, and an unwitting traitor killed you just as dead as an intentional one. Now that they had crossed into the land of the Marchers there could be no mistakes, and he had been clear with the leech. He did not believe their powers had an origin with the Passions, and his own training had taught him knowledge and subtlety techniques that could match any of their miracles. The Marchers had demonstrated an uncanny, animal ability to sniff out cantrips and Barlow did not want his men to be discovered yet.

  They had climbed high into the mountains, above the trees and could feel the difference. The healer especially labored in the thin alpine air. The Titan Guard was conditioned and strong, but Barlow knew they were struggling. He was finding it difficult himself, though he hid it as best he could. Only Petteri, who was half-Marcher himself, a giant of a man, seemed happy, humming to himself as he returned to the land of his ancestors.

  This high up, an unlucky man could die in his sleep. Heads ached, lungs labored, and hearts stopped. Maybe unlucky was the wrong term, Barlow thought as he considered the leech and the air blowing out his pale lips. They had abandoned their steeds the day before; the paths were too steep and too rocky for horses. If they’d had time, Barlow would have tried to arrange for several guanaco to at least carry supplies over the alpine pass for them. Guanaco were strange, small, long-necked, coarse-haired animals that Barlow had always considered little horses, though the Marchers who bred and used them claimed them to be relatives of some massive desert beast. Whatever their lineage, Barlow would have paid much to have the service of a few. But guanaco were sole province of the Marchers, and they were inaccessible to others.

  Barlow sighed. One week ago, he had still been sleeping in his own bed. Now he was in the land of the Marchers. Nominally, the Marchers were allies with Hairng, but in truth they raided as often as they traded, and of late there had been more coordinated attacks. In the south they whispered of cannibals, trolls, and worse lurking in the North. Barlow knew that those tales were truer than most suspected, but the monster he was afraid of was the one he had created.

  Near dark, the Titan Guard moved off the road. Once the sun set, the assault of cold began. As was custom in foreign territory, there would be no fire. They set up the tents with practiced ease. The men relied on thick layers of rare vicuña wool to stay warm in the night, and standard practice was two men per tent. After a cold dinner, the six men on watch moved to the perimeter. Half-watches were one of Barlow’s innovations—he wanted at least half of his guard ready at all times. The other six quickly grasped for sleep, knowing the value of rest. Sleep crept up on the weary Barlow; before it could reach him, Ambrose intercepted it.

  Ambrose was the oldest man on the ranging, and he had commanded the Titan Guard before Henry Barlow had even joined. He was the only other person that Barlow knew was a Shade. There was little animosity between the men, but little friendship either. The older man was one of the few who spoke his mind to his Captain. Barlow didn’t exactly mind—his advice was typically sage—but he hated that sense of entitlement.

  “It’s nothing to get excited about,” Ambrose said, when they had moved out into the trees and away from the camp and its sentries. “But there are questions.”

  There were questions all right. Barlow had plenty of them himself. “About Lord North?”

  “Yes. And others. We haven’t had proper introductions to this one.” There was soft reproach in his Ambrose’s voice.

  Ambrose, when he’d led the Titans, had made it a custom to explain every detail to every man. The introductions, he’d taken to calling them. Barlow was phasing that out, more slowly than he would have liked. It took too much time, and the missions were more efficient when each man could focus on exactly what he needed to do. To best function, every unit needed a clear leader. The Titan Guard could not exist were its members all peers.

  “What did Lord North say to you?” Ambrose asked into the silence. It was good that Ambrose was focused on Lord North. He thus far showed no knowledge of anything below the surface.

  “I didn’t find out about the attack until too late.” Was it only a week ago? Barlow had run it over in his head so often it already felt like months now. He had immediately sent the swiftest rider on the swiftest horse, but there was no time. As fast as those hooves
beat down the road from Hairng town, they were too late. Lord North was ambushed at Plum Grove by his erstwhile ally Lord Baardol. North had escaped with his life, but his bastard and many others died in the ambush. Cadby Ernmund was only fifteen and had been a promising warrior. His death was a shock, particularly to North himself. Bjorn Blackfend, he who had won such fame against the Marchers, lay dead in the dirt and muck of that day. Worse even than that day’s casualties was the significance of the ambush. Baardol’s treachery had cost them a valuable ally in the war with the Lord Chancellor Sturm Galkmeer.

  Barlow had seen Lord North that night. The moon was high in the sky when he was summoned to his meeting. Clearly no one planned on getting much sleep. Barlow couldn’t stop thinking of how old his Lord had looked, though in truth he was not more than ten years his elder. It had been horrible.

  “Queen Mildrine was nearly hysterical, though she bore no love for the bastard, she’s had enough death to contend with,” Barlow told the older man. “Lord North looked half-dead himself, though his wounds were not physical.”

  Ambrose nodded. “This I know.” Of course he did. He was an elder Shade, had possibly known of the Plum Grove ambush before Barlow had himself. What he meant by that, Barlow understood, was “Tell me why we’re here.”

  “Without the power of Baardol, Hairng is vulnerable.”

  Ambrose spat onto the pine underfloor of the forest. “Baardol! That young fool. To think he can trust Sturm Galkmeer! Northerners fight with other northerners, not with those southern blackspurs! Baardol has always been subservient to Hairng. Neither this war nor any other are going to change that.”

  “That is exactly what the young lordling hopes to change.” He pronounced the term “young lordling” without any emphasis but knew how it would be received—Barlow was nearly the same age as both Lord Baardol and Sturm Galkmeer.