Another strobe of light briefly revealed the shape of the fortress. A frayed banner whipped in the wind over the keep’s high tower, the only part of the fortress that looked intact. The crumbling walls were a lusterless gray, the stone infested with yellow growths of lichen. The structure was supported by buttresses that appeared grossly ineffective.
It took long minutes to reach the stone steps of the fortress. Kyel’s legs trembled as they carried him under a high overhang supported by narrow rock arches. He followed the others into a circular room at the base of the keep’s only tower. The wind ceased as soon as he crossed the threshold. As it did, he sagged in relief. He felt weak and dizzy, his face stinging, his cheeks moistened by tears wrung from his eyes by the angry gale.
He wanted to stop there at the base of the tower. It was at least a little warmer inside, and he was exhausted. But the men who had been his guards all through the long leagues between Rothscard and the pass were merciless, forcing the chained men through a doorway ahead.
The room they entered must have been the main hall of the keep at one time. But if there had ever been a ceiling, it had long since collapsed. The rear wall had also caved in, now just a heaping pile of rubble. There were no windows, only narrow slits that ringed the walls.
The guards ordered a halt, glaring at the prisoners with disdain. Kyel waited with a growing sense of unease as a soldier moved slowly down the line, unlocking their chains. Beside him, Traver leaned and almost fell over, earning a sharp look of reproach from the nearest guard.
Three men entered the room. They walked in crisp strides, stopping halfway down the line of convicts. The first man had the look of a hardened soldier, standing straight with hands clasped behind his back. He wore his long, graying hair tied back at the nape of his neck.
“Welcome to the Front,” the soldier announced.
His voice resounded through the hall of the keep, echoing off the stark walls before falling off with a grim undertone of finality. There was a long pause as he surveyed the face of each man in line. “Make no mistake, gentlemen. Every man of you is here to die. One and all, you’ve been convicted of crimes that warrant execution. That sentence yet stands—it has only been deferred. All of you will be dead within a year, much likely sooner. So go ahead. Look around.”
Kyel did as instructed, looking sideways at Traver, who returned his gaze with eyes widened by fear. Kyel glanced away, suddenly queasy, as he envisioned Traver lying dead on the black rocks of the pass.
“These are your brothers in death,” the soldier continued relentlessly. “How long you live and how well you die will depend exclusively on these men here. So learn their faces well. They are all that stands between you and your grave.
“My name is Garret Proctor, Force Commander of the garrison here at Greystone Keep. The order that sends you to your death will come from my lips. I won’t even think twice about it. There is no escape from the Front, so don’t consider it. Every crack and crevice of these mountains is guarded by experienced sentries. If you are ever found even ten steps away from your post, you will be slain. No questions. No one will care that you just stepped away to take a piss.”
Kyel swallowed. He vowed silently that he’d never so much as scratch without permission.
The commander swept his gaze down the line of terrified men. When his stare fell on the man to Kyel’s left, his eyes narrowed. “There is one of you here that won’t heed my warning. It happens every time, without fail. Someone always thinks they can escape and will try to make a run for it in the night. I can promise you this, gentlemen: at least one of you will be dead come morning.
“On my right is Captain Devlin Craig. Half of you will be under his command. Captain Craig has been charged with holding the bottom of the pass, and he has kept that charge for over three years. On my left is Captain Sutton Royce. Captain Royce is charged with the defenses of Greystone Keep.”
Captain Royce stepped forward. He was a robust man wearing a chain mail tunic covered by a tattered gray cloak. His brown eyes were just as stern as the commander’s, though decisively more brutal. His face was covered by a thick growth of beard a shade darker than his hair.
“Greystone Keep holds the Pass of Lor-Gamorth,” he rumbled. “If it should ever fall, then we will lose the pass. If we lose the pass, then we lose the North. And if the North should ever fall, the Enemy will sweep southward until every last city, town, and village of the Rhen looks just like that.”
He pointed toward the back of the hall, where the entire wall of the keep had crumbled and fallen away. At first, Kyel could see only darkness broken by occasional flashes of a queer, muted light. But then a strong fork of lightning illuminated the land far below and, for just an instant, Kyel could see a large expanse of scorched earth that stretched as far as the eye could see.
Kyel gasped as he realized he was staring down at the Black Lands. What was more shocking was the fact that they were actually, consummately black. Nothing could live there in that shattered waste. Nothing … but the Enemy.
Royce continued, seeming unaffected by the view below them. “These walls have stood for over five hundred years. As you can see, they have been breached many times, but they have always held. It is my duty to make certain they continue to hold, and I will not hesitate to sacrifice as many lives as it takes to see that they do.”
“So.” The force commander stepped forward next to Royce. “I will leave you with these final words: fight well and die well. And always remember that while you live, you are all that protects your homeland from the fate that befell Caladorn, the kingdom to the north you’ve probably only ever heard of as the Black Lands. If this keep should ever fall, everything you know will be desecrated by the Enemy, and everything you love will be destroyed.”
With that, he turned crisply and let his long strides carry him out of the hall, his gray wool cloak flapping behind him in his wake. Kyel supposed he should have felt relieved as the commander disappeared through the doorway. But, somehow, he felt that his situation had not improved. He almost wished the grim man would come back again. Kyel did not like the malicious glint in the eyes of Captain Royce.
It was Captain Craig that stepped forward then, surveying the line of convicts with a look of distaste. He was taller than Royce, surpassing even Traver’s lanky frame by half a foot. His arms were heavily gauntleted, his straw-gold hair disarrayed about his bearded face. He stood with his hands clenched behind his back in a somewhat casual facsimile of the commander’s polished stance, an enormous sword at his back.
As he waited, groups of soldiers entered the room, hefting between them four large sacks. They carried the sacks to the far corners of the hall and there dumped out the contents gracelessly on the floor. The clatter of falling metal echoed off the crumbled walls, ringing through the keep.
The soldiers began spreading out what looked like garbage across the floor in front of the fires. It took Kyel a moment to realize he was looking at piles of weapons, probably scavenged from the bodies of dead soldiers who had fought and died with those selfsame weapons in their hands.
Devlin Craig smiled as he saw the expressions on the men before him. As if reading Kyel’s own thoughts, he proclaimed, “You will now choose the weapon you will die holding. Whichever it is, be it sword, mace, bow, or spear, you shall eat with it, sleep with it, care for it like a child, and love it better than a wife.
“The decision of which weapon you take will be the last choice you ever make. Henceforth, it shall be either myself, Captain Royce, or Commander Proctor that makes every decision for you. If you ever try to think for yourself again, you will die.”
Beside him, Kyel heard Traver whisper under his breath, “Are those the only words these fellows know? Death and die?”
“Shut up!” Kyel hissed at him. But it was too late.
Craig’s eyes fixed on Traver with a look of deliberate promise. He stalked forward until he was standing right in front of him but a nose length away. Traver fidgeted as h
e tried to meet the intensity of the soldier’s gaze. The whisper of Craig’s breath in his face stirred a lock of his hair. The two men stared at each other a long, stretching moment, Craig’s eyes narrow and piercing, Traver’s wide and terrified.
In one quick motion, the captain swiped out and struck Traver across the face with a gauntleted arm. Traver slumped to the floor, bringing his hand up to cover his cheek as a trickle of blood ran from a cut under his eye. He looked up, wincing, as Craig bent to gather a fistful of his hair, using it to wrench him back to his feet, dragging him forward onto the toes of his boots. Leaning over Traver as if ready to offer him a lover’s kiss, Craig said:
“Never open your mouth unless you’re told to speak. If you even so much as whisper unless you’re addressed, I’ll have your lips sewn shut till you starve to death.” He released Traver, allowing the man to settle back onto his heels.
Craig strode away. Captain Royce stepped forward, announcing in a ringing voice:
“Before you make your choice of weapon, be warned: you might be tempted to pick up a bow, thinking that waging war from a distance will keep you clear of the thick of battle. But before you think to become a bowman, remember this: arrows always run out. And when the line breaks in front of you, a bow is useless when you have an Enemy sword in your face. Now, choose your weapon and get back in line!”
Kyel walked toward the nearest assortment of arms. Unlike most of the boys he’d grown up with, he had never experienced the desire to wield one of those cold, sinister-looking blades scattered haphazardly across the floor. He watched Traver moving his hand over the collection, finally gripping the hilt of an enormous sword.
But Kyel had spent his entire adult life calculating totals and carving wood. He didn’t think he would have the strength it would take, or the sheer brutality, to drive such a blade home into living flesh. So he chose a longbow from the pile of scattered weapons, knowing well how the irony played on his surname. He didn’t care; the smooth length of wood felt good as he closed his fingers around it.
Kyel felt a moment of hesitation as he remembered Royce’s warning, but he chose to ignore it. He held up the bow, testing the weight of it in his hand. The wood looked to be cut from a single, long-grained stave of yew. There was no bowstring, just notches in the ends where a string could be anchored. The bow was slender and tapered, and also quite a bit longer than it had looked on the floor.
The last man selected his weapon and filed back into line. Beside him, Traver was staring at the monstrous blade he had chosen, looking down at it with a perplexed expression on his face. If Traver had the strength to even swing that mass of steel, Kyel would be surprised.
“We’ll now divide you into two groups,” Craig announced over the nervous sounds of shifting weapons. “The first group will be under my command. The remainder will be under the command of Captain Royce.”
The officers conferred quietly for a moment, turning to glance back over their shoulders to consider the line of prisoners. Craig made the first pick, selecting what appeared a random assortment of men who stepped forward to collect in an anxious but silent group in one corner of the hall.
Kyel closed his eyes as the captain approached him. His fingers clamped around the bow in his hand as he pleaded silently with the gods not to be chosen. He had no wish to be picked by that brutal man and be forced to follow him down into the dark bottom of the pass.
Craig’s eyes narrowed as he regarded Kyel for a moment. Then, with a slight lift of his chin, the captain signaled his choice. Kyel felt the breath squeezed out of him as he moved forward, walking across the room to take his place among the group of terrified convicts in the corner.
He turned back to find Traver striding toward him, head lowered miserably and clutching the scabbard of that gruesome sword he’d chosen. Kyel was surprised Craig had picked the man, after the way he’d lit into Traver. Kyel just hoped Traver had learned his lesson.
The sorting was finished quickly, the line of men now divided into two cheerless lots at opposite ends of the hall. Two soldiers walked toward Kyel’s group, piles of gray cloaks in their hands, and slung them on the floor. Kyel bent down, selecting one from the top of the pile and cradling the rough wool against his chest. The others all around him did the same.
They were then instructed to bed down right where they stood. There was to be no meal, no blanket. Just a rough wood floor and an open roof overhead. At least the fire behind him shed a little warmth.
Kyel lay down on the cold floor, wrapping the gray cloak tightly around his body.
As he lay there, he found himself doing exactly what Devlin Craig had promised he would. Kyel squeezed the shaft of the longbow against his body, hugging the golden wood close. He closed his eyes, almost able to pretend it was Amelia there beside him. He hoped, in his dreams, she would be.
The sound of shouts woke him in the middle of the night. Kyel sat up, shivering, to find that the fires had burned low. Pulling his cloak around him, he tried to make sense of the commotion going on all around, anxiety sliding cold fingers into his chest.
Groups of soldiers ran by him, scaling rough wooden ladders up to a narrow ledge that ran all around the walls. There, men were positioned at regular intervals, peering out through narrow slits in the walls. A few raised longbows, nocking arrows to bowstrings and sighting out through the gaps.
Something was happening. Only, Kyel had no idea what. He watched Commander Proctor stride into the hall, barking a demand for a report. He was met by Royce and Craig.
“A large party approaches from the south,” Royce announced, nodding his head in the direction of the tower.
Above, a flaming arrow shot across the sky, up and over the open roof of the keep. It was followed shortly by another. A signal, though Kyel had no idea what it meant.
As he turned in the direction of the shattered rear wall, his eyes fell on a prone form laid out on the floor behind them.
It was the convict who’d stood next to him in line. The man’s back was pierced with three long arrows adorned with gray fletching, the same type of arrows the archers had nocked on the ledge above. The man who had walked with Kyel all the way from Rothscard had not been killed by the shafts of the Enemy.
Kyel’s eyes widened as he remembered the commander’s promise that one of them would be dead by morning. Apparently, Proctor had been right.
Above, a third fiery shaft blazed across the midnight sky. A shout rang out from the pass below. Both Royce and Craig moved to a long, horizontal slit, staring down into the darkness below as the commander took up position in the back of the room.
Proctor stood erect, arms behind his back, in the same manner he had adopted when addressing the prisoners. He faced the door of the hall and did nothing more than calmly wait.
The sound of voices came from below. Overhead, Kyel watched as an archer checked his aim and drew his bowstring back to his cheek. Over the sound of the wind, Kyel could hear the echo of approaching footsteps. Whatever force was coming, it was no few.
The bowmen on the walls swiveled as one, their shafts now aimed at the door to the hall.
Garret Proctor stood regarding the doorway with narrowed eyes. Royce and Craig drew up in front of him, one man to either side, baring their steel as men surged in through the doorway.
Kyel almost pushed himself to his feet, but just as he pressed his hands against the floor, he realized that the men congregating at the front of the hall were no threat.
They were not soldiers.
If anything, they looked to be farmers. Exhausted farmers, though some did appear to be armed.
They staggered in shivering, swaying on their feet, eyes widening as they noticed the bowmen on the walls with shafts directed at their chests. But the men kept coming, pouring in through the open doorway, at least seventy of them. Possibly over a hundred.
As the last of the ragtag collection entered the hall, Kyel felt himself drawing in a gasp. The man who entered on the heels of the others was no
thing like those who had come before. Indeed, he was no mere farmer. He strode forward through the press of bodies by the door, drawing up sharply as his eyes fixed on the commander and his captains.
He was young, only a little older than Kyel himself, but there was an alarming intensity in his eyes that made Kyel want to draw back away from him. The man was clothed entirely in black with the gleam of a sword hilt protruding over his shoulder. His hair was as black as his cloak and as long as the commander’s, worn in a similar fashion.
Kyel knew little about warfare, the Enemy, or the Front. But he guessed that if the man turned enough to show him his back, he would find a Silver Star embroidered on that ebony cloak.
The man strode toward the still forms of the officers and their threatening steel. As he passed by, Kyel saw his suspicion was confirmed. The star was there, set into the fabric of the cloak between the man’s shoulder blades.
A hushed silence filled the hall as the mage drew up before the still forms of Craig and Royce. Slowly, the two men lowered their weapons. The commander made no move, just stood regarding the newcomer with hard and critical eyes.
A slow smile formed on Craig’s lips. In one smooth motion, the captain sheathed his blade and strode forward to clasp the man’s arm.
“Darien!” he exclaimed. “I didn’t think we’d ever see you again. And by the looks of it, you’ve brought us a kingly gift. Praise be to the gods, man!”
As Kyel looked on in astonishment, the two men embraced as if old friends. Royce eased his blade back into its scabbard with as close to a smile as his harsh face could manage, stepping up to shake the mage’s hand. Garret Proctor moved forward, unfolding his arms. He nodded a curt greeting, his expression no longer quite as stern.
The mage shifted his weight, and as he did the hilt of his sword gleamed in the dying light cast by the fires. That was strange. Mages of Aerysius were forbidden weapons. Perhaps he was merely an acolyte. That might explain the presence of the blade.
The Complete Rhenwars Saga: An Epic Fantasy Pentalogy Page 11