Exile to the Stars (The Alarai Chronicles)

by Dale B. Mattheis

  The guard captain withdrew the saber and examined the scrollwork on the blade. “I am Rengeld, Captain and Commander of the City Guard. Tell me why I should not hang you.”

  Expecting something along that line, Jeff took a few moments to study Rengeld. About thirty-five or forty, he decided, and hard as nails. No bluster, no dummy, one serious honcho.

  “I journey south hoping to find a mercenary unit that needs recruits,” Jeff stated with an elaborate shrug. “The last bunch nearly got me killed, so we headed north to rest up and winter over. That fool by the gate would have forced us over the embankment. My horse might have broken a leg. He’s worth a better end than that.”

  “Ah, yes. Morgat. Every captain must have at least one like him to complicate life.” Rengeld put the saber down and locked eyes with Jeff. “While your desire to collect a little booty and remain alive while doing so strikes a note I am acquainted with, there are aspects of your person and arrival that I find intriguing.” He leaned over the desk with narrowed eyes. “Although I have served in this position for many years, you are the first ‘mercenary’ to enter Rugen from the north in that time.

  “Now, I ask myself, is this not strange? I was many things before becoming guard captain and traveled this country widely in my youth. But not to the north. The yellow-hairs do not welcome travelers from the south, and few return who choose to test their hospitality. Furthermore, these ears have never encountered such outlandish accent.”

  Holding the saber out at arm’s length, Rengeld gazed along the blade and tested the balance. With no more than a gentle push he shaved a thick splinter from the edge of his desk.

  “Well, now. And this is a mercenary’s sword?” He shook a finger at Jeff and laughed. Dry and rasping, there was no humor in it. “Oh no, my friend. A good tale, but one, withal, lacking credit. Now come, tell me of your homeland, your people and your sword.” Rengeld rested his boots on the desk and looked at Jeff with the smile of one ready to be amused.

  Maintaining a bland expression, Jeff thought, Now what? He was about to answer with a quick fabrication when Rengeld held his hand up.

  “Do not bother—I tire of this game. There is only one people with whom you and this weapon belong, and none have been reported or rumored for over fifty years. When they were last abroad, so was war. Once again the suspicion of war looms large and what am I confronted with? The Redhairs of myth return.”

  I don’t believe this, Jeff thought with amazement. The Alarai again. Has to be! Before he could get his thoughts together for a reply, Rengeld continued.

  “You are most fortunate that I am a student of history. Had you encountered anyone else, you would already be dead or in our dungeon’s darkest cell.”

  “I am no more than stated,” Jeff ventured. “I have no…”

  Rengeld slammed his fist on the desk. “Let us be done with tall tales! What is your mission and intent?”

  Thinking furiously, Jeff reevaluated Rengeld. Here’s a man who seems to have no brute stupidity about him, and of all things is interested in history! Every historian I’ve known would go to any length to gather unpublished information, everything else be damned. If he is a student of history, killing me will be the last thing on his mind. The odds of meeting such a person right off are dicey, but what choice do I have?

  Before attempting a reply, Jeff toyed with phrasing. Although the language was similar to the Northman’s tongue in structure, it was much more formal in usage.

  “Too rarely do I meet by choice or happenstance with men who understand the importance of history in our daily lives. Yes I am of the Redhairs, but have long been separated from their company wandering strange lands.” And that’s no joke, he thought wryly.

  “Urged south by powerful circumstances that defy comprehension, I seek to discover if the broodings and misgivings that consume me are true: that war once again reaches out in an attempt to crush the North. I have been sent. I am here.”

  Silence settled over the room along with evening shadow as the men matched wills and strove to auger intent and integrity. Neither gave an inch. The silence continued until it seemed to permeate the small room. An orderly entered and lighted tallow candles set in wall sconces. The orange light they gave off succeeded only in adding to the tension already present.

  Rengeld abruptly let his feet clump to the floor and stood up. “For now, you are my guest. You will remain so until this matter is resolved.” With that he left the room.

  Jeff was escorted to a small cell on the second floor and his wrists cut free. The door to the cell boomed shut and was audibly locked. Later, a small hatch at the bottom of the door briefly flipped open to admit a platter of food.

  The night seemed to stretch on forever. Unable to sleep, Jeff restlessly paced the room.

  “Well, at least they didn’t find the Colt. So far. Thank God Rengeld has my sword and not some scumbag like Morgat.”

  He examined the cell but found little that would encourage thoughts of escape unless he used the Colt to blast the lock. Reaching out with his mind, Jeff located Cynic’s thought pattern.

  “Are you well cared for, old horse?”

  His call was rewarded by a mental snort of disdain. “The stable is clean, the hay may be eaten, the horses stupid.”

  “We may have to depart in haste. Be prepared.”

  “When it is time, call me. I will leave.”

  Jeff signed off for the night feeling much better. “That’s my boy!”

  Shortly after dawn, Jeff resumed pacing. Breakfast of sorts was poked through the door, serving to break the tedium if not the anxiety. He was chewing the last mouthful when a bugle sounded an urgent call.

  “That has got to be reveille.” Jeff hurried over to the barred window.

  Foot soldiers came running from the barracks. Some were still dressing; others stumbled along holding their heads, apparently suffering from too much celebration the night before. Jeff heard shouts and tramping from the stable area. Turning his head in that direction, he saw a line of horses emerge lead by grooms.

  Attempting to mount, one trooper fell backward and sprawled in the dirt accompanied by a chorus of catcalls. Squads slowly formed and the mounted contingent got themselves in their saddles. Another bugle call and an officer read the Orders of the Day, followed by dismissal.

  Stretched out on the straw pallet that served as a bed, hands behind his head, Jeff reviewed what he had witnessed. He shook his head emphatically.

  “They wouldn’t last fifteen minutes against a Roman force half their size. Some discipline, but still more of a rabble than an organized military unit. There is no way this bunch could be Gurthwin’s Iron-shirts.”

  Jeff was considering the implications when a key grinding in the lock abruptly interrupted his train of thought. Rengeld pushed the door open and strode into the cell. There were dark circles under his eyes and fatigue lines on his face, but no evidence of sloppiness in his dress or carriage.

  A sardonic smile brushing his lips, Rengeld said, “I trust you had a restful night?”

  Disdaining to address the obvious, Jeff got to his feet and did no more than levelly meet Rengeld’s eyes.

  “You must know that our conversation of yestereve led me to solitary pursuits for the balance of the night in search of the truth in this matter. As a consequence, there is a man who wishes to converse with you. Prepare yourself at once.” Rengeld snapped his fingers. An orderly brought Jeff’s saddlebags and sword into the cell. “I trust you will find your belongings intact.”

  Well now, Jeff thought with great relief as he hurried after Rengeld. Progress! Getting my sword back is a big step in the right direction. Saddling Cynic took only a few minutes and they trotted into the city.

  Narrow streets widened as they moved deeper into Rugen. In addition, buildings were cleaner and showed evidence of regular upkeep. Jeff saw no women, but men were emerging from doorways in a steady stream. A heavy-paneled door swung open nearby. A burly man leaped out in a vain atte
mpt to catch it. The door crashed against the wall drawing loud criticism from inside.

  A passerby stuck his head into the open doorway with a wide grin on his face. “Have peace, Helda. Your husband is a lout, but a well-intentioned lout.”

  Arms thrust out, sending the man stumbling back. A rosy-cheeked woman in her thirties stepped out into the street trying to look angry but laughing instead.

  “Take you care, Reggie. Lout he may be, but withal mine to hold.”

  The man in question swung a friendly blow at Reggie and they ambled down the street in close conversation. Rengeld had drawn ahead while Jeff observed the exchange. Chuckling under his breath, he gave Cynic some slack to catch up.

  “These folks seem so much happier than those I saw yesterday. Nothing of the serf mentality about them.” Jeff nodded firmly. “Got to be freemen—maybe in the trades and crafts—and that means a middle class.”

  The residential district rambled on for some time before the street, now quite narrow again, wound up a hill in hairpin switchbacks. The hill was so steep and the street so narrow, no more than steps chiseled out of living stone, that the men dismounted to lead their horses. A pocket garden occupied the peak of the hill and Jeff stopped to take in the view. Rengeld tied his horse to a bench and joined him.

  “A most lovely view of Rugen, Captain.”

  Rengeld did not respond but also made no attempt to hurry Jeff away.

  It was a humid morning and moisture softened early sunlight into a misty glow, lending an impressionistic sense to buildings that rambled over lower hills. Jeff followed the course of the Vana River as it cut through the city in broad curves. Even though shops and residences crowded the banks, he could see slender boats plying the river. At other points boats queued up abreast waiting their turn to pass under bridges that swooped across the Vana in high arches. A round lake of good size surrounded by wooded parkland occupied a central location.

  The air was still, allowing smoke from brick chimneys to rise straight up with delicate whorls until the columns dissipated, forming a bluish disk. To Jeff, it seemed he was suspended in a childhood fairy tale. Rengeld indicated it was time to leave by unhitching his horse.

  As they descended, the homes gave way to a district of shops that seethed with activity. Broom-wielding men and boys were sweeping debris away from shop fronts while calling greetings to other shop owners doing the same thing. Jeff caught a flash of reflected sunlight. He reined Cynic closer to the shop that had drawn his attention.

  “Well, son of a gun,” he blurted out. “Glass, and good-sized panes at that. Not distortion-free by a long shot, but still pretty damn good. Now that takes some know-how.”

  Rengeld frowned over at Jeff. “You appear quite taken with amazement, but I fear I am unable to comprehend your speech.”

  “Please forgive my rudeness. Yes, I am so captivated by Rugen that my native tongue asserted itself.” Jeff waved an arm around, its sweep taking in the array of shops and noisy crowd. “A most industrious scene.”

  “Industrious, but also troubling.”

  Searching in the direction Rengeld was pointing, Jeff saw two men flailing away at each other with their fists. Look like drunks, he concluded. He noticed a sign displaying a beer barrel suspended above the brawl and shook his head. Yep, has to be a tavern. Lord, some things never change no matter which planet you’re on.

  Bushy eyebrows coming together in a scowl, Rengeld urged his horse to the tavern side of the street and spurred him into a trot. The crowd cheering on the drunks scattered with cries of warning. Rengeld’s horse plowed into the men and sent them sprawling. One of the drunks staggered to his feet with dirk in hand. Reining his horse around, Rengeld stared down at the man.

  Hardly able to stand, the drunk seemed to be having a hard time focusing on Rengeld. He was wearing a filthy smock caked with what looked like dried vomit. The man’s rheumy eyes popped wide open.

  “Run fer it, Herk! It’s tha guard!”

  Herk wobbled to his feet and both took to their heels. Unable to resist temptation, a bystander stuck a foot out to send one crashing to the cobblestones. Rengeld stood up in the stirrups as the man scrambled away on all fours.

  “Disperse at once. This event is closed.”

  Rengeld glared around until the crowd scattered, growled something under his breath, and nudged his horse into motion. As they continued on their way, Jeff was convinced he saw Rengeld’s lips twitch into what might have been a smile.

  Passing through an area of large houses, formal gardens and neat rows of trees on either side of the street, they trotted onto a wide bridge spanning the river. Hooves boomed on wooden planking, and they were across. Rengeld pulled up in front of a blockish building with groups of plainly garbed people bustling in and out.

  Oh ho, Jeff thought. Paper pushers. Got to be. That means some form of organization to this hodgepodge.

  Rengeld dismounted. “The horses will be seen to.”

  Looping the hackamore over a hitching rail, Jeff admonished Cynic to behave himself and hurried after Rengeld. Upon entering the building Jeff decided his first impressions were correct. Brown-robed men and women hurried about carrying scrolls and stacks of parchment. Nearby, gaudier specimens frowned importantly from behind expansive desks.

  Brushing aside pompous demands for authorization to pass, Rengeld strode down a hallway and entered an alcove that had a large door set in the center of a curved wall. He rapped lightly on the door and pushed it open.

  Jeff followed Rengeld into a large circular room. It was furnished with a thick carpet on the floor, wooden racks holding scrolls along the walls, and not much else except a table and some chairs. A tall, thin man in his late fifties was seated at the table.

  Pushing aside what appeared to be a map or chart, he fixed Jeff with a sharp glance. Neither hostile nor friendly, the glance was so acute that Jeff concluded any attempt at deception might well prove deadly.

  “I trust that suspicion has not been aroused?”

  Rengeld bowed. “Matters have progressed as designed.”

  “Excellent.” The older man turned his attention back to Jeff. “Your presence has cost Rengeld and me loss of much sleep, Redhair, but a loss put to good use. How are you called?”

  “Jeffrey Friedrick. How may I address you, sir?”

  “I am Ethbar, Counselor to Imogo, Sovereign of the Northern Kingdom. I am also, at least for a time, your protector along with good Rengeld. Now, tell me at length of the travels that led you here.”

  Well, Jeff thought, this is it. You’re on. It’s fish or cut bait time. He met Ethbar’s gaze and attempted to fathom risk. In spite of the circumstances of their first meeting, Jeff had to admit that he respected Rengeld. And Rengeld appeared to be on friendly terms with Ethbar. This guy talks like a straight shooter, but what does that mean when you’re dealing with a politician? I really need to check them out.

  That was a forlorn wish, and Jeff knew it. The sense of urgency had not abated in the least since leaving Valholm. If anything it was stronger. There were no viable options and time pressed hard. Okay, Jeff decided, Let’s go with it. This meeting did not occur by chance.

  “I have come to this land from one so distant that I have no words to convey the sense of it. Only recently have I grown to suspect that the full circumstances of my arrival speak of power and skill beyond the contrivance of man, whatever their origin. But allow me to relate what I learned at a village far to the north of Rugen; what I learned of the Iron-shirts…”

  As Jeff talked, Rengeld crossed his arms and stared down at the table to focus his attention on every word and not the man. Ethbar rested his elbow on the table and sat with chin in hand. Although he listened attentively, a part of his mind was tuned to the impact of the moment. He had studied the history of Rugen, now he was experiencing it.

  “…And so I departed Valholm, driven south by urgency and urged on by a man who walks close to the gods.” Jeff paused for effect and crossed his fingers. “
Now you have heard my tale and must judge its merit.”

  Without comment, Ethbar motioned for Jeff to be seated. It was some time before he stirred from reflection.

  “It is true,” he murmured, “the times of legend have returned and I doubt not that war will soon follow.” He stared thoughtfully at Jeff. “You have taken a great risk in revealing what you have. For that I thank you. Your trust will not be betrayed.” Ethbar probed Jeff with intense eyes. “What you have said persuades me that your character is sound and fuels my concern for the safety of this land. Now permit me to reciprocate trust and relate in turn what we have learned through our studies.” Ethbar frowned at the table.

  “Years ago this city was the seat of much knowledge if one can believe the tales and the writings, which we do. While the records in our possession are incomplete, they do clearly indicate that Rugen was first invaded sixty years ago by a people called the Salchek.”

  Ethbar got up from his chair and unrolled a crude map on the table. Motioning Jeff over, he pointed out various features as he talked.

  “The Salchek entered Arvalia through Arzak which lies here, bordering on the southern and eastern ocean. It is a hot land, and from what little we know of it appears to hold no love for strangers or even its own citizens.” Ethbar’s finger moved far to the west. “While Arzak is rumored to be a decadent country, Zomar is cloaked in mystery alone. I know nothing of its policies, form of government, or the nature of its people. I do know that while Arzak’s role in the invasion suggests complicity, the warriors of Zomar fiercely resisted the Salchek and were never overcome.”

  Ethbar stroked his chin in silence and continued to study the map. “I have often wondered what lies beyond the confines of this feeble thing we examine. Careful study suggests the Salchek spring from a land far to the east of Arzak, and perhaps to the south. Ah, well. Perhaps one day we will know.” Ethbar returned to his chair. “Whatever occurred to the south, Salchek armies made their way north virtually unopposed.