Citadel

by Martin Ash

  An hour past the border the road cuts northwest for Riverway. A body lay there, half-concealed in the grass.

  Bris dismounted and cautiously approached.

  ‘It’s a man, dead these past two days or more. A solitary traveller, I would guess. Murdered and stripped of all possessions.’

  We scanned the countryside as we rode on, seeking signs of the perpetrators of that evil deed. We would stand little chance against a brigand band; our one hope would be to try to outpace them. But it appeared the murderers were long gone, for we passed unmolested.

  At dusk we were only a few leagues from the town, and the fine weather had held. I chose to make camp in a bushy hollow close to the road, for there was a serious risk of laming a horse by pushing on in bad light. We ate dried meat and bread and drank watered wine, kindling no fire for fear of attracting folk we would rather avoid.

  We came into view of the town the following morning. It was a welcome sight, bathed in full sunlight, the wide river glittering at its back and a single cog plying east towards the inland sea. On the far shore we could see the old Kemahamek township, now virtually untenanted. The heavy scow manned by Stanborg the ferryman was hauling its way out from Riverway’s muddy bank, and looked to be crowded with livestock.

  I chose to stop at a hostelry on the edge of Riverway, and there paid Bris and bade him depart. I could not have him accompany me to The Goat and Salmon Pool for fear that his presence and association with Ronbas Dinbig would draw attention. But I assumed Bris would go there for an hour or so to refresh himself and fill his belly before starting back for Khimmur. I was prepared to wait until he had gone before entering the inn myself, and asked that he make no mention of having ridden with me.

  I was wrong. Upon receiving his payment Bris swiftly bowed his head to me and wished me good fortune, then took his leave, pausing only to replenish his water-sack. I watched through the window as he went outside, climbed upon his mount and rode off at an easy pace back along the way we had come.

  A good man. The best. I was proud and grateful that such a fellow should be in my employ. I wondered again about the wisdom of letting him go. With Bris at my side, watching my back, I would feel far more confident about riding into Dhaout. But I fought down the impulse to ride after him and bring him back, knowing that I was deluding myself. The risk was simply too great. I made my way on to The Goat and Salmon Pool.

  Riverway had been a bustling town at one time, commanding the sole ferry across the White River within many leagues; in the drier months the river is also fordable here on horseback. More recently the town has fallen somewhat into decline, for folk abandoned the area on the Kemahamek side of the river through fear of the Gneth which still roamed wild across the Hecranese border. Gneth did not in fact stray into Kemahamek, but the fear was always there, fuelled by memories passed down and no doubt embellished over generations - memories of the war years of the Great Deadlock, a century and a half earlier, when Gneth were instrumental in driving the Kemahamek from Hecra.

  The roads in southwestern Kemahamek were used less and less, other than by military units assigned to guard the border, and herders driving their stock north to the market towns. Riverway no longer bore signs of burgeoning prosperity. Numerous homes and commercial premises stood empty and derelict, and the place held a general air of neglect. But a handful of hostelries and sundry establishments still survived, deriving passable business from itinerant merchants, travellers and local farmers and herders. The Goat and Salmon Pool, always the most popular of these hostelries, was still noted for its good service, fine food and strong wines and ales.

  Hirk Longshanks, the landlord’s son, stood behind the counter as I entered the common-room. He was as tall as his name suggested, lean and hanging, his tow-coloured hair almost brushing the cobwebs from the cedar rafters. He glanced my way and nodded briefly, but his gaze was drawn to a more beguiling prospect: the serving-girl, Lanna, as she swished between the tables. Lanna, at fifteen or so, was a buxom lass with long, lustrous chestnut hair and deep green eyes. Her manner was bright and engaging, and she wore her newfound womanhood with knowing pride. I could well understand Hirk’s fascination, for I felt my own blood stir at the sight of her.

  I set down my pack before the counter and ordered a flagon of dark ale and a dish of stewed goatsmeat, potatoes and corn. The inn was doing fair business. Casting my eyes around I recognized a number of faces among the clientele, and spotted one or two potential candidates for my employ. I engaged Hirk Longshanks in conversation, maintaining my facade of unfamiliarity. That is, I tried, for he was a man not greatly given to speech.

  ‘I am Linias Cormer, of Chol. I am on my way to Dhaout and hope to hire a couple of sturdy, honest men to ride with me as a deterrent to robbers and cutthroats who might regard a solitary traveller as an opportunity for illegal gain. Indeed, I have seen only yesterday convincing evidence that these roads can be perilous. Do you know any here who might be looking for this sort of work?’

  Longshanks nodded slowly, easing forward his chin. The bulk of his attention was still on Lanna, who had returned to the counter to refill a wine pitcher. ‘Hmm... possible, aye.’

  ‘Perhaps you would be good enough to point them out to me?’

  ‘There’s Monden Halcamel, over there.’

  I turned to look in the direction of his nod. Four Kutc’p were seated at a table, engrossed in a game of dice.

  ‘Monden Halcamel. He is one of those four, is he?’

  ‘Aye.’

  Hirk Longshanks was not a deliberately difficult fellow, but he was a stranger to the art of supplying information.

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘The big fellow, second from left.’

  ‘And what of the others?’

  ‘Well, next to him is Do Farness. Then there’s young Albo. He’s a good lad. And Romo Gorflock.’

  ‘And all of these men you would deem suitable?’

  ‘It’s possible, aye.’

  ‘And the others, over there?’

  ‘That’s Holf and Gilmut. They’re herders, but one of them might be able to get away. And Stanborg’s boy, Jerm.’

  ‘These are all local fellows, are they?’

  ‘Aye.’

  Lanna had moved closer, clasping the brimming pitcher. In a conspiratorial voice she said, ‘Not Jerm, you can’t trust him. You know that, Hirkie. And Holf’s too daft. All he knows is sheep.’

  She giggled behind her hand.

  ‘What of the two over there, in the corner?’

  ‘They’re Kemahamek,’ said Lanna. ‘They’ve been here a couple of days. I’ve seen them before. Don’t know much about them, do you?’

  Hirk shook his head. ‘They’ve made no trouble.’

  ‘ “They’ve made no trouble”,’ repeated Lanna, mimicking his sober tone. ‘That’s all Hirkie cares about, isn’t it, Hirkie? As long as you make no trouble you’re all right as far as Hirk’s concerned. That’s so, isn’t it, Hirkie?’

  Hirk nodded sheepishly. ‘S’pose.’

  Lanna stood close to him and laid a hand upon his waist. ‘Do I cause trouble for you, Hirkie? I don’t, don’t I?’

  ‘No, not you, Lann.’

  ‘A good job you said that.’ She squeezed his ribs, making him grunt, then moved off with a knowing laugh, tossing back her long hair.

  Hirk Longshanks busied himself wiping a mug, smiling happily. I addressed him once more. ‘I’m also hoping to make contact with a trader who I believe passes through here from time to time. His name is Wirm, hailing from Guling Mire. Do you know the fellow?’

  ‘Aye. He was here just recently.’

  ‘Bound for where? Do you know?’

  ‘I think he said home. Lanna, do you recall?’

  Lanna, having delivered the wine to her customers, was making her way back. ‘Home, then Dhaout. So he said. You’ll probably find him at one or the other or somewhere in between.’

  ‘Dhaout? For what reason?’

  Lanna shrugg
ed. ‘We don’t ask.’

  No, of course. It was a foolish question. But all roads led to Dhaout, it seemed.

  I took a seat at a vacant table while Lanna brought my meal. As I ate I struck up conversation with some of the men she and Hirk had named. The two Kemahamek were also keen to hear what I had to say. In the end it was they whom I hired, for they professed themselves ready and willing to start out immediately for Anxau, and appeared to have more than a passing knowledge of Dhaout. The others, though in several cases wanting work, were typical of the Kutc’p in being unable to commit themselves without further consideration and consultation.

  Moreover, I recognized one of the Kemahamek. He had ridden guard before now for a business contact of mine, who had himself been working for my friend Viscount Inbuel m’ Anakastii. The Kemahamek’s name was Jaktem, and I reckoned him a relatively safe bet. He was a tall, quietly spoken man of about twenty-five. Robust of build and self-assured, he hailed from Twalinieh, Kemahamek’s capital, and gave the impression of being useful to have around in a fight. His companion, Ilian, was from Hikoleppi, Kemahamek’s second city. Both men were adequately armed and accoutred, and had their own mounts. So, with the terms of their employment agreed, I finished my meal, paid Hirk Longshanks, and we set off upon the road to Anxau.

  I was undecided whether to ride directly to Dhaout or to make the diversion to Guling Mire in the hope of finding Wirm there. By Lanna’s account there was a good chance of my encountering him in Dhaout. But Wirm might change his mind, go elsewhere, delay his journey... anything. I still had little more than an odd coincidence to link Wirm with my business, anyway, and I harboured doubts that he would be able to provide me with any information of real value. Though I was uneasy about the fact that his name had cropped up twice, his involvement was, by all indications, quite innocent. He had simply sold me the green amber - which had no connection at all with my journey, but happened to have come out of Anxau. And he had seen, or claimed to have seen, my double being led in chains by Feikermun’s beasts.

  But for that latter reason alone I felt, on further consideration, that Wirm was worth seeking out.

  So we travelled for the remainder of that day and into the next, riding deep into the grasslands of western Kutc’p and the semi-independent land known as the Urvysh Plains. We camped at the wayside, and then the following morning left Wetlan’s Way and cut north across country, making for the settlement of Guling Mire. The truth is, the diversion served more than one purpose, for it helped ease - at least for a while - a weight that preyed upon my thoughts. I was postponing the inevitable, the moment when I must enter Dhaout and establish contact with the crazed warlord Feikermun. And the longer I could keep that moment at bay, the better.

  Darkening rainbellies which had begun to muster on the horizon before us now loomed closer as we rode across the wide ocean of grass. The sun faded and a bitter breeze sprang up, pushing directly into our faces, numbing cheeks and fingers. Before long we felt the first big splashes of sleeting rain, which developed into a series of harsh showers. It was a clear reminder of the season and the mercurial temperament of the elements.

  We came in sight of Guling Mire as dusk closed in. We were cold, wet and miserable, wrapped in our capes, our spines curved against the driving rain. In the circumstances the settlement was a welcome sight, though ordinarily there is little to recommend it. It is a sprawl of buildings - some wooden, some stone - set around the uncertain edge of a dank primordial marsh. Some homes have been built in the marsh, mounted upon stilts sunk deep into the dark water and seeping mud. Others, generally those of the more affluent inhabitants, crown the proximal low slopes. The marsh itself covers a vast area of creek-ridden lowland on the south shores of the Great White River. Guling Mire township grew up on outcrops of firmer ground at the marsh’s southernmost rim.

  The place gave me the shudders, for I have never been comfortable around large amounts of water. Guling Mire, with its slurping, sucking muds and ever-lapping pools, its swirling streams and gurgling, unpredictable eddies, comes straight out of my direst nightmares. We smelt the wet stench of its ooze even before we set eyes on the town, and my heart quickened. I began to wonder at the wisdom of choosing Guling Mire in preference to Feikermun.

  A high defensive rampart of stone and clay stands upon the solid ground before the settlement. The only approach to its single gate is along a natural narrow causeway flanked on either side by bog. No more than four mounted men may ride the causeway abreast, and it is devoid of defensive cover. Hence Guling Mire is amply protected against assault.

  One might reasonably ask why anyone would wish to attack such a horrible place. Indeed, persons unfamiliar with the region might well wonder what possessed anyone to found a settlement here in the first place. Guling Mire stinks; it is regularly subject to flooding; respiratory problems caused by the foul vapours that rise from the marsh are common among its inhabitants, and fever and disease are rife. Fearsome and deadly creatures inhabit the depths of the marsh, frequently making a meal of livestock, hounds or unwary humans, and wraiths are said to arise from the slimy waters on moonlit nights to weave among the narrow streets, slipping soundlessly through unsecured windows to smother sleeping infants in their beds. Yet more than a thousand people had chosen to live here - people of erstwhile nomadic stock, whose forebears had roamed the plains for generations, pitching their camps where the grazing was good and moving on as the need arose. They had relinquished their traditional lifestyle for settlement on the mire.

  Why?

  The answer is simple, if not obvious:

  Eels.

  The flesh of the young Grey-backed Twiner is a delicacy prized for its distinct and memorable flavour, and is believed by some to have invigorating properties, promoting longevity and the powers of the virile member. Thus it is relished by certain folk and regularly graces banqueting tables in wealthy homes, fetching a most respectable price.

  Cultivating and harvesting the elver flesh in order to bring out its finer qualities is a meticulous business, so I understand. It demands particular care and attention, for the creature is quick to know distress, which can seriously disrupt its breeding habits and impair its flavour.

  The only known breeding place of the Grey-backed Twiner is in the clogged creeks and marshes around Guling Mire. How this was first discovered is not known. It was a comparatively recent find, for the township of Guling Mire had been established for less than a quarter of a century. It is true to say that every inhabitant was linked in some way to eels, but one family in particular had found its rising star among the wriggling beasts. The House of Wirm, of which the merchant Wirm was head, had grown affluent on elvers. Under its auspices Twiner flesh had become available in many forms: fresh, dried, preserved, marinated or pickled; as paste, paté or potage; in gelatin, oil, aspic or syrup; peppered, salted, sweetened or flavoured with herbs... the variations exceed my capacity to tell. Eager consumers were happy to take it in any of its recipes, and none but the scions of the House of Wirm knew the secret of its cultivation.

  Some years earlier there had existed a rival House in Guling Mire, but it suffered misfortune and fell in time into ruin. Its wagons came under frequent attack, and so murderous were the assaults - leaving none alive to identify the assailants - that House Gorpen found difficulty in hiring reliable guards. A consignment of Grey-backed Twiner flesh delivered by House Gorpen to a noble Sirroman household was found to be tainted, causing acute inconvenience to the Sirromans and their guests. There were no fatalities, but the incident did guarantee the mortification of House Gorpen’s reputation.

  At approximately the same time House Gorpen suffered disaster on a personal level. Two family members drowned in the marshes in close succession; a third vanished. Suicide due to failing fortunes was deemed the most likely explanation, though the circumstances were never entirely clear. The two bodies were in fact not properly identified, having been stripped of much of their flesh by schools of hungry Twiners. House Gorp
en collapsed; its remaining members packed their bags and departed, and the House of Wirm went on to prosper as sole purveyor of the slippery delicacy.

  The open marshland behind the settlement was a network of eddy-pools, lagoons and tanks, bobbing with pots and traps and accessed by long wooden jetties and rafts. The eels were assiduously husbanded by dozens of low-paid workers, and armed guards kept watch day and night. Wirm employed a private army of more than one hundred disciplined men to maintain order in the settlement and discourage intervention from outside. Wirm himself dwelt in a formidably fortified manse on a low slope above the marsh.

  When I arrived with my two Kemahamek companions before the settlement’s main gate we were immediately challenged. The gate had been closed for the night. In the watchtower overhead the dim forms of a pair of guards could be made out, their faces illumined by the orange glow of a brazier. Other sentries stood close by upon the rampart, peering down curiously at the unexpected visitors.