Goldenmark

by Jean Lowe Carlson

  Khouren was suddenly cut short as General Merra pushed through the throng upon her massive white cat. Vaulting from her saddle with a wide grin and a laugh, she faced their trio. “Ronins! Well done! Savin’ the day was the least of yer accomplishments tonight! I am in your debt.”

  Merra gave a deep nod to Ihbram and Khouren. It wasn’t quite a bow, but it was significant. Khouren and Ihbram blinked, but then both set palms to their hearts, gripping their blades like Alrashemni.

  “Well!” Merra clapped their shoulders. “Time ta find this bastard of a Shemout Kingsman ye’ve told me about, this Vicoute Arlen den’Selthir.”

  “Search no more.” A smooth, iron-hard voice cut the din and Eleshen turned to see a tall, lean lord approach behind them, clad in the Alrashemni Greys. He moved forward through the mass of cats and riders with a retinue of dangerous charcoal-clad Kingsmen, plus archers clad in woven garb of green moss carrying those tall silvered warbows. All six Kingsmen including the lord himself had nicked their chests at their unbuckled jerkins, showing stylized blood-red Inkings of the Mountain and Stars between their shirt-laces.

  With swift grace, the lord made a deep bow, one palm to his heart over his blooded Inkings, one to the sword at his hip. “High General Merra Alramir of Elsthemen. I am the Vicoute Arlen den’Selthir of Vennet, commander of this fortress and Rakhan of the Shemout Alrashemni. My Kingsmen and I are in your debt for arriving with reinforcements this night.”

  “Thank me not, fer it is I who am in yer debt, ye ballsy fucker.” General Merra strode forward, her great white cat upon her heels, extending a hand. Without batting an eyelash, the Vicoute clasped her arm hard. A moment passed between them, like a meeting of kindred souls as a grin split Merra’s lips and Arlen echoed it with a soft chuckle. Merra’s grin grew wide and she laughed, hale and hearty. Moving in, she slapped Arlen upon the shoulder.

  “And indeed,” General Merra laughed, gesturing at Ihbram and Khouren, “it’s these three ronins ye have ta thank. Had it not been fer them an’ their ideas, we’d all be nae but torches in the night out there.”

  “Indeed. Fighters with many uses.” Arlen gave a cordial smile to Ihbram and Eleshen, then a tighter one to Khouren.

  “Arlen,” Ihbram gave a courtier’s nod to Merra, “it is truly High General Alramir you have to thank for your reinforcements today. Had we not met her keshari contingent up near the Elsee a week ago, we’d not have had the ability or the numbers to come to Vennet’s aid, even as much as we might have wanted to.”

  “High General,” Arlen gave Merra another deep bow, one hand upon his heart and the other upon his sword, his stern face split into a fascinated smile. He rose with consummate grace, far more the lord than fighter now. “Anything an old war-maker of Alrou-Mendera can do for you, he will.”

  “Elsthemen will be takin’ ye up on that.” Merra’s smile was strained.

  “Indeed.” Arlen’s eyes hardened, glittering with a fire of battle.

  “Arlen, may I also present the Lady Eleshen den’Fenrir, a close personal friend of Temlin’s.” Ihbram gestured to Eleshen, who stepped forward and gave a Kingsman bow to Arlen.

  Arlen’s hard blue eyes flicked to Eleshen as his brows rose. “Den’Fenrir? Do you hail from the eastern borderlands?”

  A smile lifted Eleshen’s lips as her cheeks flushed under the lord’s intense scrutiny. “I was raised in Quelsis, actually. My father was Dhepan Eiric den’Fenrir. I’m his eldest.”

  Arlen’s iron gaze flicked over her as his lord’s manners dropped, his persona suddenly chilly. “I met Eiric’s eldest daughter once, before their family fled to the mountains after the Kingsman Summons. She was a sun-haired beauty with green eyes. You’ll find that lying to me is rather unhealthful, young woman. So I ask again – who are you?”

  Eleshen’s lips fell open as she flushed, stammered, panicked. It was Khouren who stepped to her side, and slightly in front of her in a protective stance, one hand resting upon his blade. “Milady Eleshen is who she says she is. She’s been through far more than you ever might. She was King-Protectorate Temlin den’Ildrian’s true friend, given command of the Kingsmen at the Fortress of Gerrov-Tel, and is a blessing to those who know her. Be careful how you treat her.”

  Arlen’s eyebrow rose, his hard eyes wrathful as if Khouren had personally taken a shit on his boots. Stony with fury, he turned to Ihbram. “Ihbram? Can you vouch for any of this?”

  Ihbram coughed, not a little bit of chuckle in it. “Please forgive my nephew. He’s a bit – enamored. And his manners are thin. But trust me, Arlen, milady Eleshen is everything she says she is. She has a strange history, one touched by wyrria.”

  Arlen narrowed his eyes, and their intense searching returned to Eleshen. Those piercing blue eyes bored into her for a very long moment, and it was all she could do to not back down from them. But as they held their strange duel, Eleshen felt something flare within her. Some heat and attitude that she’d always had, and she opened her feisty mouth, giving him what-for.

  “If you’d like to question me about all the little or notable things about my family and my lineage, then go right ahead,” Eleshen sassed the Vicoute, setting her hands to her hips in challenge. “But if you really knew either me or my father, then you’d know that neither of us had any tolerance for shit. So if you’re quite done, I believe we have larger problems, such as what to do about that massive force down there that we’ve only managed to burn back a fraction of tonight. And if you’re a lord as you say you are, you’ll show your reinforcements some hospitality, in the way one should for the Heir to the Dhepanship of Quelsis and the High General of Elsthemen.”

  Eleshen’s tirade was the lordly equivalent of a smack in the face with a fry-pan. The aging lord blinked, his blue eyes wide, before he laughed, then bent in a deep bow to Eleshen. “Forgive me, milady. I was callous. I can see now that you are who you claim to be. I do recall a very young version of yourself giving me a similar speech when you were only six years old, about how I should protect my neighbors better against Valenghian invaders. Please accept the apologies of one who has lived too long interrogating every shadow.”

  And suddenly, the memory returned to Eleshen also. Her, just a little thing with a fiery temper and an even more vicious tongue, lashing some tall, handsome lord with bright blue eyes about the situation of their surrounding countryside. “You were the lord I berated when I was six?” Eleshen blinked. “Aeon! Forgive me! I—”

  “It is nothing,” Arlen’s lips lifted in a kind smile as he lifted a hand to stop her apology. “You were a spitfire of a girl, and your father and I laughed late into the night about your vicious tongue, a welcome thing in a desperate time, and the true spirit the heir of any Dhepanship should show. Please know that I was sorry to hear of your father’s passing in exile. Forgive me for not sending men to your aid, I shall forever regret that. War devoured the eastern reaches, and I was much preoccupied. Your father and I held the border together many a time during the Raids, along with Rakhan Urloel den’Alrahel of Alrashesh, and Vicoute Purloch den’Crassis, back in the day.”

  Eleshen had nothing to say, finding her self strangely tongue-tied as too many emotions rose, too quickly. Arlen’s gaze pierced her, though a deep sadness lingered in his warrior’s countenance.

  “Come,” Arlen smiled, and with a genteel bow, extended his arm to Eleshen. “A tour of the Vault, I believe, is in order. War devours us, but we have had a victory tonight, my friends. The force that Lhaurent den’Alrahel sent to rout the Kingsmen out of Vennet wasn’t enough, but you’ve walked in on their reinforcements, a full eight thousand now. I fear you are here to stay, as further war will be our pastime come dawn. But let us rest tonight and plan for the battles ahead.”

  The Vicoute Arlen den’Selthir stepped forward, offering Eleshen his arm as if she was already of the station she should have inherited. She accepted it, but her gaze found Khouren. He held a dark look, his jaw set, his eyes piercing the aging lord.

  The m
ood might have remained somber but for High General Merra Alramir. With a hearty laugh, she strode forward, her massive white cat looming over her shoulder. “Piss on bones! Have we not got the most talented warriors the continent has ever seen right here in this very fortress? Let the ghosts of the dead see how we come, in battle and glory before we fall. Come on! Ale fer parched throats!”

  Merra moved forward, slapping Khouren on the back as if sensing his unrest. Giving Eleshen a wink as she passed, Merra stepped away to her riders, her great white cat ambling at her heel. With a nod and a courtier’s smile, the Vicoute Arlen den’Selthir followed, leading the way into the fortress with Eleshen’s fingers clasped lightly upon his arm.

  CHAPTER 34 – KHOUREN

  The following morning dawned cold and clear, the brisk scent of autumn in the air. Khouren sat upon the edge of the bed in the filigreed bower of stone inside Arlen’s main keep, watching Eleshen. How calm she was, her breathing deep and even in sleep, oblivious to his watching. He’d not made love with her after the allies’ war-conference the preceding night, only held her with their clothed bodies twined close until her breathing had evened out.

  Then stayed awake as the night drowned on – watching her haunting loveliness in the flickering shadows cast by the torches.

  Eleshen had accused him with her violet eyes last night, about not telling her the dangers he’d faced inside the citadel, as Ihbram had recounted the tale to Arlen and the rest. He’d not been able to meet her steady look, unused to telling anyone about his activities. Massaging his bitten shoulder in his new charcoal Kingsmen garb rather than his ruined sneak-thief attire, he watched Eleshen’s sleeping loveliness. Though his body had healed from the mer-people attack, he was still stiff. Rolling his shoulder out, he glanced out the carven window of their filigreed bower, to see the sky lightening in the east.

  Slipping out of bed away from Eleshen’s intriguing warmth, Khouren slid from the bower like a wraith. Stepping into the hall of filigreed stone, he watched torches flicker in niches, lighting the lofty dome all around him as water burbled from clever fountains set throughout the massive space. Staircases wound up to vistas through the outer wall, creating a warped feel that twisted Khouren’s mind. Filigree was carven into the stone at every turn – fine as lace with curling scripts and tendrils. Ringing the cavernous hall were statues of winged men and women in elegant poses, all carven from towers of rose quartz. Scenes of people at rest – laughing, playing musical instruments, eating a peach. Like an artist’s gallery, the domed space soared around Khouren, though it could not uplift his tumultuous heart.

  As he passed one statue, Khouren felt the quartz’s pleasant heat in the chill dawn. The hall was heated not by fireplaces but by the luminous effigies, curled into private alcoves by filigreed stone dividers that towered up inside the dome. Orbs swirled above, much like the ones that haunted the blue halls of Roushenn, though these were pale pink and rose-gold, swirling with an easy grace down from the latticed vaults.

  Khouren moved on, out of the dome that was Arlen’s primary command-area, taking a high-arching bridge over to the fortress proper. Turning, he looked upon where he’d egressed from. The dome, an enormous hall of twisted crimson pinnacles, rose beyond the vaulted walkway from a high cloverleaf plaza reached by three arching bridges. Hovering upon that graceful curve as if suspended in the lightening morning, a filigreed wall of stone surrounded the dome like a hedge of vines, set with arched doorways into the air all the way up the curving sides.

  Turning, Khouren moved deeper into the massive citadel, thinking again of Eleshen’s supposition, that this place had been built by winged people. It was a warren, a labyrinthine beehive. Pinnacle-towers spiraled up all around, sharp as needles in the heavy dawn sky. Staircases wound to lofty balconies and suddenly ended. Vaulted archways opened into thin air. To Khouren, the Albrenni bird-people were a legend, tales passed down through his family line from stories his great-grandfather Leith Alodwine once told. But what if the stories were true – of the winged Albrenni and the massive Giannyk who had fought the Red-Eyed Demon in the greatest and most sundering battle the world had ever known. The Albrenni were said to have been fearsome and accomplished wyrrics. Seeing this place, these lofty pinnacles and arcane doorways, Khouren almost believed it.

  As he walked on toward the southern wall, Khouren found his mind twisting trying to memorize the layout. It would have been easier to move through the walls rather than navigate all these twists and turns, except that the Vicoute didn’t seem to know just exactly who or what Ihbram and Khouren really were – though he seemed to know that Ihbram was long-lived and both the Alodwines had wyrria.

  In his brooding, Khouren’s gaze strayed to a brazier-lit plaza. Keshari riders cared for their cats as Khouren gained the courtyard with the rising dawn – brushing them down, feeding them lard, butting heads. The mood was joyous, keshari fighters cracking lewd jokes of battle and bravado as they went about their early duties. Not a few of the Elsthemi were still embracing with abandon right there in the courtyard on piles of shed furs, filled with the heady triumph of the night before. Others lay in trysts with grinning fortress defenders or Vennet-folk, some of whom staggered under their fierce mounts at the nearest wall.

  It was practically a bordello, half-clad couples fucking in every archway Khouren passed. Sounds of ecstasy accompanied the crackle of brazier-flames and the yowls of cats. A colonnaded causeway led to another courtyard with more of the same, but despite the lewd scenery, Khouren found himself at ease as he walked on. Taking a winding staircase up, Khouren sought the highest vantage to clear his churning thoughts. He finally found himself atop the southern wall of the citadel, gazing down upon the river-plain below.

  Glancing up at the lightening sky, Khouren shivered in his new charcoal Kingsmen garb, his hood up. From his vantage atop the ramparts, up by the now-silent trebuchets, he took in the valley. It was still filled to the brim, despite how many had perished last night. There was barely any room for the river with all the men, tents, livestock, and sundry moving below, though the Menderians had cleared out of the burned area that Arlen’s trebuchets and longbow archers had decimated near the river’s bank.

  Khouren’s head ached, from dire thoughts and the endless battle-conference last night. Maneuvers and feints fluttered through his mind like moths. He didn’t have a mind for battle-plans. He was a knife in the night, and would kill whom he had to when the moment came. Until then, planning only made his mind swim like wayward minnows.

  “I should warn you to not go about the Vault without one of my Kingsmen as a guide. This fortress has many unexplored dangers still lurking within.”

  A smooth voice with iron tones cut through Khouren’s reverie. He turned, finding the Vicoute Arlen den’Selthir’s blue gaze piercing him like the talons of an eagle as the sword-honed lord emerged from the shadows of an arch. He moved toward Khouren as the sun finally crested the eastern ridge and dawn began in truth, tendrils of gold and rose flaring through the clouds high above.

  “This fortress is no more dangerous than some places I’ve haunted,” Khouren spoke, wondering if the man had followed him or had simply been here already, watching his trebuchets in the rising dawn.

  “Indeed.” Arlen stepped forward, approaching the retaining wall and leaning a hip against it, his arms crossed. “Long ago, this place had some sort of wyrric charm upon it. Hunters and trappers passed stories of Devil’s Mountain from father to son. Until forty years ago, none could even cross between the river’s cut. Misfortune occurred to any who dared approach the cliffs. But forty years ago, a party of my Kingsmen hunting nearby were able to not only cross the river, but climb the walls. I rode out to assess the situation immediately, and though we suffered casualties over the years breaking into the Vault, and we’ve only got a tenth of it functional for our purposes, it’s proven its use these past weeks.”

  “Casualties?” Khouren glanced at Arlen, rubbing at his shoulder.

  “Wyrric
traps and trials,” Arlen chuckled darkly, “much like you and your uncle endured yesterday. I lost a lot of good men in those early days. You’re rubbing your shoulder like you were damaged far more than Ihbram described in your encounter with the beings in the pools. Perhaps men with strange talents fall into those traps as readily as normal ones do.”

  “Something like that.” Khouren didn’t feel like explaining their encounter with the water-wraiths, and ceased rubbing at his stiff injury. Arlen eyed him but didn’t press, though Khouren had a feeling the man would, later. Not about the mer-things, but about what and who exactly Khouren was and why he had come here.

  “You don’t have sentries posted on the northern walls,” Khouren settled a hip against the berm, unconsciously mimicking the Vicoute. “Aren’t you worried Lhaurent’s forces will cross the river and climb up behind you?”

  “No.” Arlen’s visage was stony as his impassive gaze devoured Khouren, trying to figure him out. “They’ve already tried, and found the same trials. They’ve given up all avenues other than the south face. I only defend the portion of the Vault we’ve commandeered, because the rest defends itself.” He glanced at Khouren pointedly. “Other than your ingress.”

  Khouren returned the gaze, not feeling like apologizing for what he was. “You trust my uncle.”

  “Are uncle and nephew alike?” Arlen watched Khouren carefully.

  “No.” Khouren said it plainly, letting the Vicoute make his own judgements.

  A slow smile crept over Arlen’s face, but it was a cold thing. “Wyrria doesn’t make a man powerful, you know.”

  “I don’t want power.”

  “I see how you watch her, shadow, how you covet her,” Arlen’s eyes narrowed in a shrewd warning look. “The lady Eleshen den’Fenrir is not yours. She is Heir to the Dhepanship of Quelsis, a lofty title and a great responsibility. I would counsel you to caution in that arena, whoever you are. She may rise to a great station if this war ever ends, or perhaps because of it. Her father was an excellent Dhepan, and was beloved in his city. Eleshen has the makings of the same.”