by John Brown
He brought a sprig of spearmint to his nose. Serenity, his youngest daughter, had tied it to a string and made yet another necklace for him. He could never say no to wearing her gifts. In his pockets he carried at least a dozen tokens of affection-a small black stone with a slash of red in it, a finely woven lock of hair, dessicated bits of flowers, the pit of a plum. He inhaled the fine, strong scent of the mint.
Behind him rose the first of two rings of defense. More than seventy years ago, the early colonists had wisely located the fortress here on a wide outcropping of rock that capped one of the three hills of Whitecliff. One side of the hill sloped to the town. The backside of the hill, consisting of cliffs and precarious ravines, dropped straight to the sea.
The first structure built had been a simple timber tower and palisade. That had been torn down thirty years ago. In its place the Clans had erected two walls. The outer wall stood twenty feet high. The inner wall, placed almost twenty yards back from the outer wall, stood double that height.
Tonight, at the base of the outer wall, guards with dogs patrolled the dry moat, expecting some Sleth attack. They stood out against the whitewashed walls of the fortress. The Shoka had learned that trick from an old Mungo slave who had won his freedom: whitewash the bottom half of the walls to make it easier for defenders to see below at night, but leave the top unwashed, allowing the defenders to use the cover of darkness.
They used the idea on the ramparts as well, painting the walkways to allow the men to navigate without torches. As long as the moon shone there would be no torches on the wall. Not a lamp. Not a whisper of light that might ruin a guard’s night vision except in the one tower where men were eating.
The distant sound of laughter carried down from the tower. Then a guard somewhere up on the outer wall called out, having spotted movement in the town.
Argoth looked out toward the town. In the distance he could see the dark, squat towers of the town wall. Closer in and off to the left stood the temple of the Glory of Mokad on its hill. It was too dark to see, but within the round, domed structure stood the altar of sacrifice where the Divines drew Fire. Directly behind the altar stood the raised seat of the Glory. And behind the seat stood the statues of the seven Creators in a semicircle, looking down upon the altar.
During the Festival of Gifts, seven fifteen-foot statues would be made of wood and erected around the temple. They would then be paraded in a long procession to the fortress and then to the sea. Seven statues to represent the seven Creators.
Each was festooned with the creations for which He or She was responsible. The first and greatest was smeared over with rocks and clay. The second was in the form of a tree, woven with garlands of seaweed, flowers, and sheaves of grain; the third had the horns and hides of animals and eyes made of butterfly wings; the fourth wore the skins of sharks and whales; the fifth bore great wings upon its back and was clad in feathers; the sixth was in the form of a man with a face of gold. These were the six, dangerous as they may be, who brought life. The seventh was misshapen and black. Upon its head sat a crown of thorns and about its chest was woven a breastplate made from the bones of a thousand animals.
Who really served Regret? There were rumors of men and women who bound themselves to him. Was the creature that killed the harvest master in the village of Plum one such? Or did Regret work in more subtle ways, coming to you smiling and with an open hand so that you served him and never once thought you were doing anything but standing in the light? Argoth thought of his past before he found the Order. He had been a servant of Regret, even though he didn’t know it at the time. Bless the Six, the Order had found him.
At the base of Temple Hill a light moved along a dark street. It passed behind a number of dark homes. Then it reappeared on the fortress road. Whoever held the torch rode a horse and was accompanied by other men.
A half minute more and Hogan rode into the torchlight at the base of the gate road. Beside Hogan sat one of the barbican watchmen. The man called out his name and rank. “We have delivered Hogan, Bowmaster of the Koramites.”
“He’s mine,” Argoth called down. “Dismount, Bowmaster. Then proceed.”
Argoth descended the stairs from the top of the barbican. Before he reached the bottom, he overheard the guards below.
“What’s the warlord doing letting that thing among us? Who can tell which of them is part of the Sleth nest?”
“Good lord, man, it’s Captain Argoth’s brother-in-law.”
“I don’t care; this isn’t right-”
Then someone must have heard him because the conversation fell silent. Argoth walked into the main passageway and then out to the front of the barbican to stand with the five guards standing posted there. Hogan’s escort had departed back to the city barracks, so Hogan walked the ramp alone.
Argoth could have ignored the guard’s earlier comments, but he chose not to. “Do you know what I love about that Koramite?”
“Zu?” said the most senior of the guards.
“Not his might, nor the many Bone Face kills to his name, but his loyalty.”
“Yes, Captain,” said the guard.
“Mark him,” said Argoth. “I would rather have that one loyal Koramite at my side than a whole company of backbiters.”
“Yes, Captain,” said the guard. “Of course.”
Argoth walked with Hogan out of the barbican and onto a wooden drawbridge that led over the dry moat and to the first gate of the fortress. The gate stood open before them like the dark maw of a giant beast, the raised portcullis a sharp row of teeth.
A set of guards with mastiffs stood just inside that mouth out of sight, waiting and watching for an enemy who might be able to slip by all the outer defenses.
On the drawbridge, away from the guards, Hogan ran his fingers through his beard braids and said, “I will hate to lose this tree.”
The Order patterned itself after an aspen tree. Aspens sent runners under the ground that would shoot up saplings, which in turn would grow and send out runners of their own. A grove of aspens could cover acres and acres, and yet, they were not separate trees. They were all connected to one another at the root. And so it was with the Order. Each area where the Order was established had a Root, a trio of leadership, that governed the tree and branches that might grow in that area. Hogan was the chief Root here, Argoth the second. Matiga, the Creek Widow, was the third.
Of course, the guards wouldn’t call the grove an “order.” To them all combinations of people such as Argoth and Hogan were nests, tangles, or murders. For some combinations those were appropriate terms. But not for those of the Order. Nevertheless, the guards would be horrified to know that a Root of the Grove of Hismayas was about to walk right past them.
A tree might be felled by Seekers, but unless they pulled up the whole grove, the Roots would grow another tree somewhere else, and another and another, until the Order filled the earth. Of course, some trees had to be culled to protect the grove.
“Did you contact Matiga?”
“I did,” said Hogan. “She is prepared.”
In each conflict, the Order took great precautions to make sure the full trio of leaders could never be found together at the same time. If two fell, the third would have a better chance to bear the rest of the grove off to safety and start again somewhere else. Or to mount a counterattack.
“I told her to take the victor’s crown,” said Hogan. The crown of a victor was a special weave. An ancient device used by the old gods that bestowed great might upon its wearer.
“Do you think it will come to that?” asked Argoth.
“This situation is odd. It’s not right.”
Argoth nodded. “So be it. Although I do wish she were here. How can we make a decision to cull this tree without her?”
Matiga was strong-willed. Sometimes to the point of being obstinant. She was currently many months into a grudge against Hogan. She had found an excellent woman for him. The widow of a Koramite boat builder. She’d prepared the woma
n and asked Hogan and Argoth to consider her for admittance to the Grove. Of course, the woman knew nothing of the Order. She could not. They had tested her in many ways for almost a year. Argoth and Matiga had been satisfied. But Hogan found her wanting. The trio had to act in perfect unison on such matters. And so the woman was rejected. Matiga had been furious. In this case, Argoth thought she had grounds. Matiga might be strong-willed, but she was also perceptive in her odd way. The woman would have been an asset.
Purity was an asset. Matiga’s clear vision was needed here. It was a terrible decision before them. Purity had been a friend for so long. But the Grove couldn’t risk putting all three roots together in this situation. And even if they could, he doubted he would have been able to convince the lords of the Shoka to let him bring in yet another person to see the prisoner.
“If this tree can be saved,” said Hogan, “we will do it. But if it cannot, are you prepared?”
“I am prepared,” Argoth said, his heart heavy. He had brought the required poison with him.
They said nothing more. Argoth led Hogan past the guards and mastiffs, and into the first bailey. They turned left and walked to the second gate and another set of guards.
The whole design of the castle was to create a series of killing fields, areas where attackers would be forced to expose themselves to fire from many directions. The path from the first to the second gate was just such a killing field. The moat, the fortress road, and the spaces before the gates and barbican were killing fields as well.
Something small, probably a rat, scurried out of the gate tunnel before them and into the inner courtyard.
The courtyard itself lay in darkness. An armsman on a horse trotting to the gate nearly collided with Hogan. He jerked his horse to the side and headed for the gate, the clopping of the horse’s hooves on the cobblestones echoing in the tunnel.
Across the deep courtyard, the sea tower rose into the sky, moonlight gleaming dully off its ramparts. From the top of that tower a watchman could see miles out to sea. On a clear day he could see the outer islands.
In most fortresses, prisoners held for ransom were kept in the tops of towers. To escape they would have to make their way through all the defenses below. Besides, it was more comfortable living at ground level, and the lower rooms would be taken by those with authority. But Sleth were a different matter. They could descend heights and break timber floors that other men could not. Experience had shown that they needed to be held behind tons of rock. The cleansing room, the only place in all of the New Lands capable of holding Sleth, was built in the cellar of that tower.
Argoth led Hogan across the courtyard to the tower. They passed a group of soldiers drawing water from the well. A number of yards farther they arrived at the first gate of the sea tower and stopped. The gate was a low wall a dozen paces from the door of the tower. Half a dozen guards stood along the wall with two more mastiffs in their midst.
“Hold,” one of them said.
“Captain Argoth, here on at the warlord’s request. We’ve come to question the woman.”
“Aye,” said the man, then he walked back to the tower door and knocked. The door of the tower was set deeply between two wings much like a fortress gate, but in a smaller dimension. There were dark arrow loops in those wings that would allow archers to cover the door with crossfire.
Moments later, a small block of wood set behind bars opened at eye level revealing lamplight within. Part of a face filled the opening.
“Your visitors have arrived,” the man said.
The face disappeared and the block closed. A moment later the crossbar on the other side scraped, then the door opened. A giant of a man with a bushy beard held the door with one hand and a lamp with the other. His name was Droz. Many straps hung from his armsman’s apron-for not only was he experienced, but he was also a dreadman of immense ferocity. Argoth had seen him chop men in two. Both his right and left forearms were covered with warrior tattoos.
“Ah, Captain,” Droz said. “We’ve been waiting for you.” He motioned for Argoth and Hogan to enter.
Argoth led Hogan through the opening in the wall and to the door. When they entered the dimly lit room, Droz shut the door behind them and swung down the crossbar.
The room was windowless, wide, and bare, with only a plain hearth burning to one side. There were no wooden tables or benches. Not a chair or cupboard. Nothing a Sleth might use as a weapon. The only seats or shelves were those carved in the stone. It was purposely large enough for half a dozen men to wield spears and bows freely. A few guards slept on the floor. Three stood behind Droz holding their weapons. One stood at the far end of the room next to an iron lever set in the wall.
The giant motioned at Hogan with his lamp. “I expect you want irons for him?”
“No,” said Argoth. “He’s working with me.”
“But he’s not working with me,” said Droz, “now, is he?”
“Actually, Droz,” said Argoth, “he is.”
Droz stood a head taller than either Argoth or Hogan. He folded his massive arms across his chest and looked down at them. The three men behind Droz shifted ever so slightly into a stance that would allow them to quickly spring into action.
“Search him,” said Arogth. “In fact, if you’re worried about it, order him to strip. Send him to the cleansing room naked.”
“Now, now,” said Droz. “We’re not in the business of sending pretty men to the witch. This isn’t a brothel, Captain.”
The other men smiled, but they did not laugh.
“Well, there’s your problem,” said Argoth. “Not all prisoners can be cracked directly. Sometimes you’ve got to build a little trust. And Zun Hogan here will do that. So perform your search. It’s late and I want some answers.”
“You’re not going to get any,” said Droz.
“Is that so?”
“We’ve been pressing her. Quiet as a fish, she is. Oh, she’ll struggle and cry out as loudly as the next one, but she won’t talk.”
Argoth truly hoped that, if nothing else, Purity had been able to keep their names hidden. “We’ll see if different methods produce different results.”
Droz motioned for one of the other men to search Hogan. “How many of us do you need?”
“It will be just me and the bowmaster this time.”
Hogan took a wide stance. Then the guard began to pat him down.
Droz grunted. “Just the two of you? Are you sure that’s safe?”
“She wears a king’s collar, doesn’t she? So she’s nothing more than a woman. And an injured one at that.”
Droz nodded. He pointed at Hogan. “He’s her lover then?”
“She had one love,” said Hogan. “And he wasn’t a man even you would want to cuckold.”
Then the guard checking Hogan stood back, looked to Droz, and nodded.
Droz considered Hogan. “So, Zu, why are you here?” He used a polite title, but not the one deserved by a bowmaster.
“I’m a friend,” said Hogan.
Droz looked at Argoth then, and what was going on in that mind Argoth couldn’t tell. Droz was a cunning man. And a man with such a mind just might suspect everything here was not as it seemed.
A beat passed, then Droz said, “Before you go down, you should know: Anything happens, anything at all, and Pony there”-he pointed to a man standing by the doorway to the back chamber-“will pull that lever. That will bring down two portcullises that five dreadmen together cannot lift. One will seal off the cleansing room. But, just in case someone makes it out of the cleansing room and to the stairs, the second will seal that back chamber. Should you be caught behind them with the witch, do not expect us to even think about saving you. You’re on your own.”
“I wouldn’t worry about her getting out,” said Argoth. “I’d be worried about her kind getting in.”
“Nothing’s getting in here,” said Droz.
“Of course not,” said Argoth, hoping he might provoke Droz into revealing mor
e of the defenses. “Who would dare?”
“We’ve got archers in the wings of the entrance,” said Droz. “Men on the wall above. Nobody is getting in.”
“And have you set a crossfire up in here?”
“You don’t need to worry, Captain,” said Droz. “We’re tight as a drum.”
Argoth nodded. They’d planned for everything but a traitor in their midst.
Droz led them to the back of the chamber and through an arched opening. Argoth glanced up as they walked through the short passage. The heavy portcullis hung there. It would not be made solid. No, they’d want holes in it so they might shoot arrows at whoever was caught behind it.
Another lever was set into the wall of this chamber. Argoth supposed it would release only the lower portcullis. There was a stench in this rear chamber. “What is that?” asked Argoth.
“Bones,” said Droz. “The man has the noxious flatulence of the Dark One himself. I think the designers of this tower wanted to suffocate their prisoners. There’s no second window and, therefore, no cross breeze. So what do we do? The best I could come up with was to order the man to release his poisonous vapors back here. They still waft out to torment us, but at least their potency has diminished by a degree.”
Argoth wrinkled his nose. “I tell you what: forget the crossfire. Just put Bones at the door.”
“I’d put him out,” said Droz, “if the man wasn’t such a good swordsman.” He motioned at the numerous squares on the floor with handles in them. “Mind the covers.”
“Murder holes?” asked Hogan.
“Exactly.”
Droz lit and handed both Argoth and Hogan an oil lamp, then held his aloft to reveal the stairs.
“Here’s another thing,” Droz said. “They spent a fortune making this small fortress; you’d think they’d make it safe for the guards. But no, the fifth stair will try to kill you. Just mind its slope as you go by.”
They descended the stairs. Argoth stepped over the fifth one. The stairs followed the curve of the tower wall to what looked like an empty cellar that lay directly below Bones’s stink chamber. This chamber too had murder holes in the floor.