Alon and Oren looked to each other, worry beginning to color their faces. “They are at the cave over there, waiting for you, I suppose.”
“Come on then, we have much to discuss,” Soma said.
“Have you seen Rolf?” Alon asked him.
“I was going to ask you the same thing,” Soma replied. “He has not returned?”
“No.” Oren said solemnly. “No one has seen him yet.”
When the three of them reached the mouth of the cave, the edge of the forest was washed in the glow of the woodcutter’s fire. Some men rested, others fiddled with and sharpened their blades as they all waited for their chieftain to return and tell them what to do next.
Goran spotted Soma first. “They are here, brothers! Yasen and Soma are back!”
Everyone turned their attention towards Soma as he rode closer to the camp. “Where is he?” Goran asked. “Where is the North Wolf?”
Soma took a deep breath to steady himself. “He is with Pyrrhus.”
“What?” Goran shouted in befuddlement, the rest of the camp following suit.
“What in the damnable dark is he doing with that one-armed pig?” Gvidus shouted in disgust.
“What is he doing there?” Goran shouted. “I thought it was decided that we—”
“Of course it was decided.” Soma cut him off.
“Then why? Why are we not looking for this place that Cal spoke of? Why is Yasen back at the stronghold with the governor’s dog?” Goran argued.
“Yasen and I found the tower, the place where Cal said he found the girl,” Soma started.
“I don’t care about some damned tower!” Oren blurted out.
Soma shot him a look, and Oren shook his head in aggravation.
“Aye!” Alon agreed. “What good is a tower if our leader is left here with Seig? Is he not coming with us?”
“Whatever it was that rode upon that storm might take issue with our going anywhere at all,” Oren said ominously.
“Will the lot of you shut your gullets for a moment?” Gvidus said as he walked his large-bellied frame into the center of the commotion. “Let the man tell his tale.”
Soma took a deep breath before he spoke again. “We found the tower… the one Cal believes Illium was held prisoner in.”
“Illium?” Alon asked aloud as a throng of whispers began to roil around them.
“Aye, that is what Yasen told me,” Soma said.
“Go on, brother. What did you find there?” Gvidus said.
“We found a word. I think it is the name of the place Cal is looking for, and we know he is looking for it somewhere north of here.”
“What was the word?” Goran asked.
“Shaimira,” Soma answered him quietly, looking nervously to the trees.
“Shaimira? What does that mean?” Alon asked bluntly.
“Hush! I don’t know what it means. But I know it’s what we are looking for. And let’s not let the whole forest know about it either!” Soma chided. “Yasen and I had made our way back to the tree line when Pyrrhus rode up to greet us,” he continued on. “He looked more nervous and agitated than I’ve ever seen him.”
“What did he want then?” Goran asked, rather impatiently.
“He wanted Yasen. He said that it was urgent that the governor see him that instant.” Soma blew out an anxious breath before he spoke again. “Something is not right, brothers. I feel it in my bones. Something very wrong is about to happen.”
“If it was just Pyrrhus, why didn’t Yasen bury his axe in the bastard and be done with it all?” Oren said, disgusted.
“I think … I think he wanted to give us a chance to get as far away from this place as we could before whatever it is that is over there comes looking for us, too,” Soma told them.
“Well, I am not leaving him!” Alon said brashly. “No sir … I can’t in good faith abandon him to the likes of Pyrrhus.”
A shout of agreement rose up from the gathered northmen.
“You don’t understand, brothers!” Soma tried to reason with them. “He made me swear to tell all of you to point your axes northward and seek the light!”
“Point our axes northward?” Oren said, not fully understanding the meaning. “Why would he say that?”
“Because, brother… he wants us to find Cal, and he wants us to get far away from here while we still can,” Gvidus answered.
The cutter camp was silent at the realization. Worry and frustrated anger fell upon them all like a damp fog.
“I don’t like it either, brothers,” Soma told them as he looked back over in the direction of the stronghold. “I don’t like the feeling I have in my gut right now … something is very wrong indeed.”
“Aye, but our chieftain has given us our orders,” Goran told the men. “And it is high time that we point our axes northward and see if we can’t find that damned groomsman.”
“Shaimira, then,” Gvidus replied.
A grumble of agreement rolled through the gathered woodcutters. Knowing glances, worried looks, and ultimately nods of understanding were given before they spoke again.
“May it be so!” the men agreed.
Chapter Eleven
Michael and the others caught up to Fryon and his brother. Hidden in the rock and shielded from the glowing fires below, they warily watched whoever it was that camped on the side of the black rocks of Cair.
“What word, Fryon?” Michael asked his friend. “Have you seen anything?”
“Aye,” Fryon answered. There was no fear in his voice, though there was a great deal of mistrust.
“What, then?” Celrod asked, still wincing at the festering wound in his rather sizable leg.
“A dozen shadows or so, walking in and out of the glow of those fires over there,” Fryon answered.
“Shadows?” Margarid asked warily.
“Aye, shadows,” he confirmed. “Of people.”
“Well, that is a relief,” Timorets said. “We know they aren’t the damned Raven soldiers?”
“Don’t be so sure, master brewer. Those Raven soldiers looked like men, too,” Celrod replied. “Or at least they looked as if they might have been men, once before.”
Timorets agreed with a shrug of his weary shoulders and an exhausted breath.
“The Ravens had no use for natural fires,” Fryon observed. “These are people, alright. What kind of people? Well … that I cannot be sure of just by counting their shadows.”
“There!” Fryon's younger brother whispered as he pointed. “There they are again.”
“They are people, aren’t they Margarid?” Georgina exclaimed a little louder than any had wished.
“Aye … so it would seem, girl,” she replied. “But keep your voice down, lest they hear us before we wish them to.”
“Have you seen any blades? Any weapons in their shadows?” Michael asked as he studied the moving figures against the walls of the mountain.
“It’s hard to tell,” Fryon said. “Could be a broom, could be a spear … I am not certain.”
“Alright, then,” Michael said, taking in the responsibility of the moment before he spoke. “We will meet them together, blades sheathed and hands open. I would hate to scare off any chance at a warm bowl and safe rest, just because we are uncertain.”
“Blades sheathed?” Harmier said, aghast at the thought. “But what if theirs are not? What then?”
Michael looked again into the glowing shelter there against the rock. “It doesn’t much look like a trap, nor a band of Raven soldiers, now does it? See, over there.” He pointed further along the rock line. “There are more shelters, more faint fires. They are probably cooking fires for this … this village, I suppose. And we can’t be the first strangers to come upon them unawares like this—”
The distinct sound of a bowstring being pulled taut stalled the words in his throat. First one, and then another, and then again the chilling sounds of three more bowstrings were heard by all. Michael raised his finger to his lips, and reached
his hand for the hilt of his blade.
“Unawares, we are not,” said a dry and unamused voice behind them. “Do not be mistaken … we have been watching you far longer than you have been watching us.”
“Please,” Michael said, turning his head in the direction of the voice. “We mean you no harm, we but seek refuge with your people.”
“Refuge?” the man replied gruffly. “Refuge from what? From this darkness?” He laughed with angered joviality. “You have sought in the wrong place, for there is no refuge here from that.”
Michael stood to his feet, catching the glow of the fire in the eyes of the archers about them. “We seek refuge from those who hunt us, from those who have destroyed our homes and our city.”
The hooded man stood there, staring at them from beneath the shadows of his cloak.
“Please, we mean no harm,” Margarid added.
The archer pushed back his hood enough to reveal a look of disgust upon his face. His long, dark, braided hair hung heavy on his right shoulder, and his eyes flashed in wary repulsion. He walked right up to the standing groomsman and without warning slapped Margarid with the back of his hand. He snarled his reply at the gasp of the huddled remnant before training his bow once again at Michael’s chest. “Maybe not, that is not for me to decide. But I, Hildræd, will not suffer a woman to speak to me, not now … not ever.”
Margarid let out a wounded whimper as her soft hands clutched at her burning cheek. Her friends tightened their grips on their spears and swords, bracing themselves for a fight.
Michael held his hands up, willing the deadly tension away from the moment. “Alright, Alright! She will be quiet now … won’t you?” he said to her, his eyes pleading, his countenance covered in worry.
She nodded her humiliation, then lowered her eyes from him.
“You said it was not for you to decide, then please, Hildræd, tell us whose place it is,” Michael asked.
“Lord Æsc will judge you worthy or not of refuge here. But it is not his hospitality I would be worried over.” He laughed a disappointed laugh. “For it is Ragnarr who might cause you to stay … indefinitely,” Hildræd said gravely.
“I don’t understand.” Michael said.
Hildræd looked with disgust at Margarid and spat on the dust before them. “You will. Soon enough, you will.”
The remnant looked worriedly back and forth, while Michael did his best to stand bravely as their spokesman. “Will you take us to him then? To Æsc? Please … we have no home.”
Hildræd looked him over from boots to brow with a loathing gaze. Then, without a word, he walked past him, the full force of his inconvenienced weight slamming into Michael’s shoulder as he strode towards the fire light. “You can keep your blades, if you like,” he said with a taunting laugh. “They will be of little use to you, for they are but tinder in the presence of an angry warlock.”
Michael watched as Hildræd continued on past them, unsure whether they were to follow after him or not, and even more unsure if they now wanted to do so at all.
“You heard him. Up with you … all of you,” came the snarling voice of another sentry. “We Walha do not suffer strangers or trespassers, let alone the dogs of Haven on our doorsteps. It’s time to get the judging over with before your fleas have time to hatch in our homes.”
The men grabbed Michael’s shoulders and pushed to get him moving. The rest of the remnant rose to their feet and followed suit, moving towards the flickering shelter at the base of the black rocks. As they came closer to the fires, they could see more and more of the hooded figures, staring at them from the shadows.
Margarid grabbed Portus’ arm, squeezing her worry to the tall tanner. He nodded in silent understanding as they wound their way past the rocky, black outcroppings of stone and the scores of staring eyes.
“Who are these people?” Georgina whispered to Harmier.
“He said they were the Walha,” the merchant whispered back. “Outliers. I have never had dealings with them myself, but a trader I know from the upper borough used to get juniper from them.”
“And what did this trader friend of yours have to say about them?” Celrod asked in hushed nervousness. “I, for one, would like to know what kind of hornet’s nest we are walking into.”
“They are a harsh people, not very hospitable at all … and women … well, just be as quiet as you can is all,” Harmier pleaded with them.
“We are here!” Hildræd shouted in annoyance. The band of captives halted their marching descent in front of a level clearing, a plateau in the black rock of the mountainside. On the edge of the clearing were curved little structures, comprised of a mix of mud and stone, with rounded, smooth rooftops that were no doubt finished and refined by the sandy wind that whipped down from the great heights above. Small fires were lit in the hearths of each of these homes, and at the center of the community rose a large, oval-shaped hall.
“Wait here,” ordered Hildræd. “For your sakes, let us hope that Æsc is even willing to receive an audience this day.” He turned to his sentries before he swung open the large, wooden door adorned with the white skulls of some massive beasts of old. “Watch them, and I’ll go see if our liege and his wizard,” Hildræd grimaced, then spat to ward off his trepidation, “will be willing to meet our guests.”
The sentries grunted their acknowledgment, and Michael was shoved back into the group. “I do not believe we will find much welcome here, let alone refuge,” he said rather worriedly to his friends.
“I’ve never even heard of this place, let alone the Walha!” Celrod exclaimed. “I thought that these mountains had long since been barren of civilization.”
“Well … there doesn’t look to be much that is civilized here, if you ask me!” Timorets said with a nervous laugh.
“Aye,” Fryon agreed. “Outliers. Their homes are governed by their own laws, and not many, if any, have much affection for our kind.”
“Our kind?” Georgina asked.
“Yes, girl,” Harmier answered her. “Our kind … our people … Haven.”
“But why? Our city is beautiful, and our people are peaceful. I don’t understand,” she murmured.
“Yes, we are peaceful … to our own kind,” Fryon told her. “But strong cities like ours barter and trade and rein with different kinds of rules.”
“Different rules?” she asked.
“Strength is not always strong enough to protect the interests of anyone other than its own, and in turn it becomes the bully who takes, rather than the neighbor who shares,” Margarid said warily.
“She is right,” Harmier replied. “Long have we leveraged our high-walled strength to—” His words were interrupted by the abrupt slamming of the hall’s large door.
Hildræd nodded to his men, and Michael, Margarid, and the rest of the remnant were corralled towards the ominous opening. “My liege will see you, if but only to rid our people of you!” the large, dark-haired man grunted to them.
Michael reached out and took Margarid’s hand, squeezing his wordless soothing to her worried heart. She squeezed her reply in return and with a nervous exhale they passed through the darkened threshold into the large, mud-covered chamber before them. Braziers lit the rounded walls, and vine-like patterns scrolled from floor to ceiling, covering the black and brown room with vibrant veins of green and spots of pale blue.
The cold, granite floor was covered in the furs and skins of animals foreign and terrifying to look at. At the center of the room stood a rounded, stone-lined hearth and spits of iron-skewered beasts, dripping delicious smells of roasted meat into the amber coals below.
Celrod’s belly let out a large, awkward rumble that echoed off of the rounded walls, and Timorets elbowed him in reply. “Keep it quiet, lest you want one of us to end up on the wrong end of that spit!”
The group had not eaten a true meal in what seemed like days now, save the strips of dried meats and fruits that Elmer had so lovingly thought to pack for them. The delicious smells
here in this most inhospitable chamber were utter and complete torture to the road-weary remnant of Haven.
At the end of the hall, seated at the head of a large, wooden table, sat a tall, strong man. His long, dark hair was braided with strands of fine gold, and his face was clean of hair, save the long braid that descended from the point of his chin, which too had woven into it the same finery as the rest of his dark hair.
“I could sense your hunger the moment you stepped foot upon my lands,” the large man said, without so much as raising his gaze from the roasted foul his large hands were buried in. “How can it be so that the fat princes of Haven show up on my threshold, famished and gaunt like stray dogs?”
Michael looked to his friends, not quite sure if he were to respond, or if silence was the best option. Just then, a heavy, gloved hand struck hard the back of his head. “My liege, Æsc, has asked you a question, dog! Do not further insult him with your ignorant silence,” spoke the voice of Hildræd.
Michael rubbed the bruised and throbbing part of his head, his eyes clouded over with the pain of the assault. “I’m… I’m sorry, Lord Æsc,” he said through gritted teeth. “I did not mean to insult—”
“Enough sniveling already,” Æsc replied, cutting off his apology with his full-mouthed annoyance. “Answer the question I asked of you. How do these princes of Haven find themselves here, bedraggled dogs on my threshold, begging at my doorstep?”
“Our city is taken,” Michael said without further pause. “Overrun and sacked, Lord Æsc.”
“Ha!” He laughed, choking on his food as he did so. “You mean to tell me,” he coughed and sputtered, “that the great walled city of Haven, with its mighty gates and its maddened high pass, is in ruin? Overtaken? Ha! Ahhargh!” He laughed and coughed again before taking a deep draught from a large, clay goblet.
“If my father could only hear these words, huh?” Æsc said. “Ealhstan would surely have loved to see the ruin of Kaestor’s fortifications, his mighty highways gone, especially after what that damned king did to him … did to all of us.”
The Coming Dawn: Epic of Haven Trilogy Book 3 Page 7