The Shield of Daqan

by David Guymer

  He tore off a bite and closed his eyes, giving a quiet moan of pleasure.

  It was good, just slightly warm, and softer inside than its dark crust made it appear. Foreign spices infused its texture, leaving the inside of the mouth warm long after he had finished chewing and swallowed.

  Dame Ragthorn nodded approvingly as she watched him eat.

  “I’m sure it doesn’t compare to southern tables. But we do our humble best. There has been famine here as I am sure you have heard, hard frosts as if this were Isheim or the northern Dunwarr rather than a barony of fair Terrinoth.

  “This Dremmin character handles the books, I believe,” she said, sharply changing the subject. “I recall her signature on the contract my agent conveyed to me ahead of your arrival. And as daring a piece of brigandry as any I’ve seen committed to parchment. May I ask how you ended up as a mercenary?”

  Trenloe shrugged. Dremmin was forever scolding him for being too free with his life story. By the time Trenloe was eleven years old there was no highwayman or bully left within twenty miles of his father’s farm that had not felt Trenloe’s fists. Their neighbors had hailed him a hero and, as any boy would have, he had reveled in it. But his father had always disapproved of easy violence. The bigger man wins his way with words, he would say. In the end though even he had come to accept that fighting was the one thing in which Trenloe excelled and had given his blessing to Trenloe joining Baron Rault’s army. It had not taken him many months to realize that patrolling the safest border in the richest barony in Terrinoth was not the sort of good he had envisaged himself doing.

  He and Dremmin were technically still deserters, but they had both battled enough evil in the barony since that the legal technicality was almost never brought up.

  “Was it the gold?” asked Marya.

  He shook his head firmly. “No. Never. Not that.”

  The woman frowned. Lines formed across her forehead, dimpling the corners of her eyes. “No. I suppose I didn’t really think that. For all Dremmin’s profiteering I am sure you could have earned twice as much elsewhere. You’ll forgive my prying but I wanted to know the man I had hired. Mercenaries come in all stripes, bad and good. Heroes likewise I suppose, though I swear you’re the first I’ve had the fortune to run across. If it’s not too obvious can I at least ask why you are called the Companions of Trenloe?”

  “It was Dremmin’s idea.”

  She gave a faint smile. “Of course it was. Silly me. But imagine my delight at securing the sword arm of the renowned Trenloe the Strong! So you see I had to meet you properly. Informally. To see if you were mad, or an imposter or…” her hand flapped about her like a wounded bird “…or I don’t really know what. But no one comes to Nordgard Castle by choice. Not unless the other choice is a noose around the neck, if you follow me.”

  “I do,” said Trenloe, thinking back to his earlier conversation with Marns and Dremmin and feeling the soft glow of appearing informed.

  “Do not misunderstand me,” Marya added, quickly. “They can fight. You had best believe they can fight. Woe betide the demon that scales these walls and runs into one of them on a dark night. But I have as many soldiers busy keeping them in line as I do watching over the fords.” She took another mouthful of bread and spent a while chewing. “You don’t talk much, do you?”

  “I suppose not, my lady.”

  “Dremmin takes care of that, I suppose.”

  Trenloe thought about it, and realized that it was largely true. “Yes.”

  The castellan near choked on her bread. “That was meant as a joke!” She took a sip of water, and then another, until she felt comfortable breathing. “Tell me Trenloe. Was it Dremmin’s choice to give up the pleasant climes of Trast, parading Baron Rault’s flag up and down the Lorimon border, in exchange for Hernfar?”

  “No.”

  “Why am I unsurprised?”

  “She handles the details, but I decide which commissions we take.”

  “Why this one?”

  Trenloe shrugged. “A feeling. I wanted to be where I could make the most difference.”

  “Is this something that comes upon you often? These feelings?”

  “My father told me I’ve a good sense for what’s right.”

  “Well,” Marya pointed at him sternly. “I’ve got you contracted for twenty-four months. In case any more feelings come over you while you’re here.”

  For a while they chewed their bread and supped at their water in silence. The square of visible sky in the window darkened from deep gray to truer black. A scarlet tinge undertook the easternmost clouds. The candle smoked and sputtered.

  “How much do you know about this fortress and its history?” she asked, at length. “What do you know about the battles of the First Darkness?”

  Trenloe considered. Most of his history came from his father’s bedtime stories, or Bethan’s songs. “I know we won.”

  Dame Ragthorn laughed, thumping hard on the tabletop. “Answered like a hero. My word, it’s as though the last great wizard Timmoran Lokander has stepped out of one of those old books and come to dine at my table. If you will allow me then, I will give you a somewhat fuller idea of why we are all here.”

  She paused, considering how and where to begin her tale.

  “There was no fort here then, of course. There was no Terrinoth. It was Talindon still, as it was called in the Penacor reign. The Uthuk could cross the Lothan here as they pleased. That was what they called themselves by the way. The great enemy from the east. Uthuk Y’llan. In their own tongue it means Locust Swarm and as I understand it the name was apt. They swept across Talindon and only the greatest fortresses of the age, our own Kellar amongst them, were able to hold out though they spent many years besieged. Even the great citadels of the Latari and the mountain strongholds of the dwarves were beset. Indeed, were it not for their fixation on conquering Thelgrim, the capital of the dwarven realms, then all lands east of the Kerdoshan Divide would have been his long before Timmoran and an army of Sundermen arrived from across the sea on behalf of the caliph of Al-Kalim to turn them back.”

  She coughed and took a long drink.

  “Anyway. The alliance of elves and dwarves and the two great nations of humanity were enough, barely enough, to break the Locust Swarm at Thelgrim. This castle, and the watch forts built north and south of it along the length of the Lothan, were raised to watch for their return. Those in Frestan lands, I am told, are still garrisoned, though not to the strength necessary in King Daqan’s time. There have been raids across our border, skirmishes fought on both sides of the water, but little to threaten Nordgard Castle itself. Even when Terrinoth found itself beset by other evils during the Second and Third Darkness the threat from the Darklands has stayed quiet. Some say that threat is gone forever and that the tribes will never again gather in such number as they did in that time.”

  Trenloe lent forward, the spread and his own hunger forgotten. He had heard these tales before, albeit in simpler forms, but hearing them spoken aloud here, within watching distance of the endless steppes of the Ru, felt like an illicit thrill.

  “And what do you think, my lady?” Trenloe breathed.

  “I think the Greyfox is not the greatest or only danger to Kell. I see things here that I have not seen before and, if I am being honest, things that I had never thought to see. People flee westward from Last Haven in their hundreds. Most of those you will have seen at work about this castle are those refugees we have taken in from across our border in the last few months. They speak of demons again bestriding the Charg’r Wastes at will, as has not been possible for them in a thousand years, of flesh ripper packs attacking walled settlements in broad daylight and devouring all within. My own scouts fail to return more often than not, and so I no longer send them. On a clear day I can see well enough with my own eyes that something is not quite right upon the Ru. Sometimes I see great num
bers of horsemen, vast like a migrating herd, but it is the stillness of it that terrifies me the most. The animals and the birds fall quiet, as if before a terrible storm. Mennara holds her breath, I can feel it.”

  Trenloe found that he was holding his breath too.

  Marya looked at him and smiled suddenly, as though shaking off whatever darkness her mind had wandered to and the sight of him came as great relief. She waggled her finger at him.

  “Twenty-four months, remember?”

  “There is nowhere else I’d rather be, my lady.”

  “Perhaps it will all come to nothing. That is what my cousin would like to think.” Marya turned towards the window. “But he and those around him do not look upon the Ru with their supper.”

  “I don’t think I’ve seen any Uthuk in Kell,” said Trenloe. “But on the road east from Dhernas we did run across more than one bandit force. They showed little fear of us. Or this castle.”

  Dame Ragthorn frowned down at her table. “I regret the condition of the roads. I haven’t the strength here to discourage the bandits from using them, much less force the legendary Greyfox into open battle. Even if I had twice as many soldiers as I have now, I might hesitate. I have a nagging suspicion that it’s a battle I’d lose.” She looked up at Trenloe and smiled ruefully. “Heroes come in all stripes, as I said. Bad and good – is that not right?”

  Trenloe nodded. It was sad but it was true. “Isn’t that why I’m here?”

  The woman grinned. “What would you say to a ride tomorrow, Trenloe? You and, say, half your warriors. Hernfar Isle is not large, that part of it that can bear the weight of a horse anyway, and it would be good for you to know the isle a little better when… if… the need comes for you to defend it. If you were to take over the garrison at the eastern ford for a few weeks then I might be able to spare enough real officers to show our presence on the Downs.”

  Trenloe nodded. “I am yours to command, my lady.”

  “Good,” said Marya, with a smiling breath, as though already filling her lungs with fresh morning air. “Is this how it is, I wonder? To be in the company of heroes? I do declare, Trenloe the Strong, that I feel better about my future now than I have done in years.”

  Part

  Two

  Chapter Ten

  Trenloe the Strong

  Hernfar, the Ru border

  It was still dark when they gathered the next morning for the ride east.

  Thirty Companions of Trenloe, a few bodies shy of half the company’s full strength, walked out their horses, looking more like dangerous vagrants than soldiers in their mismatched leather wargear and full beards. Meanwhile, up and bored, a third that number again of Nordgard soldiery sat slouched in the saddle, wrapped up tight in their purple cloaks with their faces covered.

  Even the presence of the Lady of Hernfar, Dame Ragthorn herself, did not seem to enthuse them much.

  Her dappled warhorse trotted about the courtyard with a nervous energy it shared with its rider. The powerfully muscled animal wore a heavy caparison, baronial purples made black by the pre-dawn, silvers and golds brought to life by the contrast, and by the damp fingers of the mist. Despite the unholiness of the hour the castellan must have arisen several hours earlier still to be fitted into an elaborate harness of golden fretwork and enameled plate. Her mood, at least, was undimmed by the weather.

  A large ironclad wain rounded out the company. It rode low on its bed, laden with all the goods and baggage necessary to keep the Companions in their garrison for a month. Four strong horses waited in their traces. That the two Borderland Knights remained alongside the wain at all times while Dame Ragthorn clattered about the courtyard at whim told Trenloe all he needed to know about the blight, famine, and brigandry that had afflicted Kell. Of the order of the Borderland Knights, Trenloe knew almost nothing, and nor had they spoken to any of his company except to issue Dremmin a rebuke after wandering too close to their ward. Their heavy armor was quartered yellow and green with a sapphire trim. Demonic heraldry adorned their rondel pieces and visors, and their shields, pennants streaming from their upraised lances.

  Spying Sergeant Marns amongst the impatient riders, Trenloe raised a big hand in greeting as he went to claim his own horse.

  The young girl holding the reins surrendered them with some reluctance. Rusticar was an amiable beast and appeared to have spent the night working his charm.

  Giving the horse a pat, he then took a quick rummage through his saddlebags. Ragthorn’s people had prepared them, but he didn’t want to be the one caught out without a blanket or a cloak in a pinch. Everything seemed in order. Reaching to the bottom of the bag, from inside an oiled wrapping, the spiced scent of Dame Ragthorn’s bread wafted up in reward of his diligence.

  He leant in closer and, in spite of the cold stinging his nostrils, breathed in deeply.

  “Fine day for a picnic, all things considered,” Dremmin grumbled.

  Trenloe looked over his shoulder as he repacked his bags. The dwarf was already mounted, bringing her almost level to Trenloe’s height. The stiff plates of her armor were covered in a thick cloak, her braided hair glittered like a bed of nettles with pricks of morning dew.

  “If we were in Lorimor you’d be complaining it was too windy.”

  “Sea air dries out the skin.”

  Trenloe laughed. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you happy.”

  The dwarf scowled. “I hate that you’re a morning person.”

  Across the square, Marya Ragthorn loudly cleared her throat.

  “For many of you this is as far east as you have ever been. No doubt you are looking forward to an unpleasant ride ahead!” Dremmin opened her mouth as if to comment, but at a look from Trenloe left it unsaid. “Hernfar Isle is no more than three miles across, as the birds of the Lothan might fly, but the going can be treacherous, and there is no real road as such. That said, Runemaster Garlon predicts that the day before us will be dry and fine. If you ask me the fog already seems a little thinner than it was yesterday evening and the wind from the east has a late touch of summer to it.” She took a deep breath, her harness creaking as she filled her lungs, and then shook out her reins. “All right then. Chop chop. Get a move on now and all things being well we should make the eastern ford by midday.”

  Dremmin muttered under her breath.

  It looked as though as she was chewing on fog.

  “You were saying only yesterday how you wanted your own castle,” said Trenloe.

  The dwarf’s glare was ice. “Be lucky that the lives of the dwarves are measured in centuries rather than decades. Were it otherwise then I might be extraordinarily bitter about now.”

  With the company ready and as willing as they were likely to get without a hefty rise in their pay, Dame Ragthorn led them out.

  The east gate was far smaller than its counterpart to the west, dedicated fully to defense with little thought to its usefulness as a thoroughfare. It was wide enough for the supply wain, but only just, and its metal hubs shrieked along the tunnel’s sides more than once. Traversing it became quite the operation, and getting everyone through took most of what was left of the night. The sun was just beginning its steady climb over the distant Ru when the last Companions across emerged to a chorus of sardonic cheers.

  But the coming of day put things into a different light. The sun remained a pallid blur, as bright as a coin at the bottom of a wishing pool, but the warmth of it was already beginning to burn off some of the fog. A chain of hummocky atolls extended out towards a river Trenloe couldn’t see yet but could definitely hear; bulrush fronds and stagnant pools, trees sticking out from lumps of ground like broken fingers. Somewhere deep in the fog, birds chattered and cawed.

  Trenloe had a feeling that Dame Ragthorn’s runemaster had called this one right.

  “Trenloe!” Ragthorn called, waving furiously from further along the boggy trai
l. “Ride up front with me. I have lived in this castle forever. If anyone can guide you better then let them be castellan for a day, I say, and I shall put my feet up in Kellar.”

  “Get on then,” said Dremmin. “I’ll be sick of you in a few days and by then there’ll be nowhere to be rid of you.”

  With a nod and a smile, Trenloe spurred Rusticar into a canter until he had caught up with the column’s van. Dame Ragthorn smiled brightly as Trenloe reined in alongside to match her walking gait. The expression took a decade off her face. The armor already appeared to have removed another. “Your dwarf friend is exactly as I pictured her.”

  “She is not as bad as she likes to look.”

  “And I think that you are one of those people who determined to find only the best in people. Is it that, I wonder, rather than your strength and size, that makes you the hero you are?” When Trenloe simply looked at her, at a loss for words, she laughed. “Relax, Trenloe! I’m second cousin to a baron. Not a dragon.”

  “I think I might be more at ease with the dragon.”

  Grinning, Dame Ragthorn looked ahead, enthusiastically pointing out every sluggish rill or still pond that caught her notice. “A desolate looking isle is she not? But believe it or not, she works as hard towards the defense of the realm as you or I. The only credible ground is that which King Daqan built his castle on. Everything else winds through marshland from ford to ford, and can be remade by a single day’s rain. Only I and a handful of scouts know it well. Still, better to be watchful. Small groups of Uthuk Y’llan are forever looking to sneak across in boats. They tend to hide out in the hollows hereabouts to cause mischief and poach livestock and make the crossing west where the opportunity presents. I’m resigned to the fact that one or two will always slip the net. Fredric knows my needs and as he’s not sent the soldiers I need to meet them, I can only assume that he’s resigned to it as well. He’s a good sort, my cousin. He cares. Kell could do worse, but…” her gaze drifted across the marsh, and she went on, “we used to patrol the island regularly, but, as you know, I have not had the manpower to spend on that kind of exercise in some years. I console myself instead with the knowledge that the western ford is watched far more heavily. The Uthuk may cross in dribs and drabs, but not in any significant number and… Remind me, Trenloe, what was I saying?”