by Greg Curtis
And when they’d passed by the cemetery, her heart had almost stopped beating. So many graves. So many fresh graves, the earth newly dug, the headstones clean and flowers planted. How could there be so many? But there were. And there were still more coming. Even as they’d ridden past, a dozen funerals at least had been underway, the priests of the various faiths standing there, intoning from their sacred ritual books, families gathered around, their faces filled with grief.
So much death.
This place was bad enough already. A town as large as a city, but built for giants not civilised people. Built for big dwarves that lived above ground rather than buried in it. It didn’t need war and death as well.
Then they had come across the castle.
Castle Drake, sitting in the centre of the town, cresting the hill like a sleeping dragon of grey stone and overlooking all. If the other buildings were big and solid, it was surely a thousand times more so. The castle was massive, and nothing at all as the images of castles had been in the storybooks her mother had read to her as a child. They were white with huge towers stretching for the skies, and pennants flying from all the turrets and rooftops. This was something else.
It was a fortress maybe. Circled by a moat, an actual moat large enough that a boat could have rowed on it, the huge stone walls standing at least twenty feet tall had intimidated them as they’d approached, as they were meant to. The crenulations atop them from which guards stood watching them as they’d approached, told her that they were intended to be defensive. The snouts of cannon peeking out from between many of the crenulations had suggested that they could be truly deadly.
Sophelia had wondered briefly how many of her people had died trying to attack the castle, and shuddered a little at the thought. Finell might be wrong about a great many things, but he was right in at least one. The humans were a warrior people. Their armies had never stood a chance.
They’d passed over the drawbridge and through the iron portcullis to reach the castle, guards standing at attention as they did, and it was only then that she’d finally seen the fortress itself. It had taken her breath away with its sheer scale.
The castle was nowhere near as tall as she’d imagined, standing only four stories high and having no towers. But it sprawled hundreds of paces to both sides of them. Hundreds of paces of imposing stone walls, iron grated squared off windows, and of course, more battlements. Endless battlements lining the roof and the balconies. Anyone making it in through the outer wall she knew, would be trapped in the staggeringly large courtyard, and arrows fired down upon them from above would soon have found their throats. If the cannon didn’t get them first.
To an elf this place was a nightmare, but to the soldiers who had brought them here and to Iros himself, this was home. She had seen the smiles on their faces. Even on his. She had tried to find one for herself for the end of the journey, it was only politic, but as the soldiers had escorted them in through the massive iron and oak doors leading to the great hall, it hadn’t come.
Instead as she stood there facing the staff she had to settle instead for trying to look calm and composed, even though she was anything but.
The staff and by the looks of things many of the nobles of the realm, had gathered in the great hall to welcome their lord home, and when Sophelia walked in through the huge doors a few steps behind her husband, she was surprised by how many there were. But more than that she was surprised by the apprehension she could see in their eyes. Maybe they were even a little fearful.
But they had reason to be. From what she had been told Iros had been away for many years, and after the deaths of his entire family, they surely didn’t know what to expect from him. He had after all been a boy when he had left, and now in the wake of a brutal war, they needed a man. They needed someone to tell them that things were going to come right. She prayed to the Mother that he could be that man. That he could be their lord of Drake in truth.
Then they started clapping, applauding him simply for returning home, for standing in front of them, and the thunder of their welcome gave her a chance to catch her breath. To look around.
Sophelia stood there and stared for a heartbeat or two, taking in the people, and the hall itself, staggered by its sheer scale. The great hall was an impossibly large open area that could rival the Royal Chamber for size if not beauty, and it impressed Sophelia for that at least.
She had heard the word castle from long before she had even seen Iros, and wondered at it. But she had also heard the phrase farmer lord bandied around among the high born, and she had always imagined that his home would be little more than a run down fort, ruled over by farmers with grand ideas. This wasn’t that. It was something far more impressive. And at the very least it spoke of wealth. Wealth perhaps even to rival that of the seven great houses. He had no house but still Iros was not from such humble origins as he’d intimated. Perhaps that had just been the envoy speaking.
Sophelia still couldn’t quite believe that she was standing in a building so vast. That there could be such a structure. But she was. The stone block walls had towered above her head, almost like small mountains as she’d approached, and now being inside the hall it felt like being inside a mine. As though there was a mountain above her head. And the huge beams above them, entire trees, massive trees had been shaped into beams just to support the unimaginable weight of stone hanging overhead.
The castle was a titan of stone and oak. It was vast and crude, roughly built and seemingly unfinished. And yet there were also touches of an artist’s thought in it. In the great hall at least, which was all that she’d seen of the castle thus far.
The front of the great hall extended forwards of the castle, with a balcony on top of it. But until she’d entered the hall she would never have imagined that the balcony’s floor was made of glass. Poor glass, thick glass that people could stand on, but still glass to let the light in from above her head and fill the room. More light came from the oil lamps above their heads. Wagon wheels hanging on chains set into the ceiling had dozens of oil lamps on them, imparting a soft yellow glow to the room. And the huge fireplaces, half a dozen of them, all of them burning furiously, added to the effect and took away the chill of the stone. Without them she guessed, it would be very cold inside, even on a warm summer’s day.
Still the thing that stayed most with her of the room as she stood there staring, waiting for the applause to die down, was its size. The great hall could hold hundreds, and it seemed that it was. The hall was full.
When the applause began to quieten she knew that the time had come to stand with her husband before the people who called this monolith home. It seemed an impossible task. So many people, so many eyes, all staring first at their lord in his finery, glad to have him home, but then one by one turning to her. They saw an elf. They saw her blue hair and pointed ears. They saw a member of House Vora. And she was sure that they saw an enemy.
Her feet were suddenly frozen to the floor.
Iros held up his hand for quiet, and soon he had it. The staff stopped applauding and waited for their lord to address them. They seemed restless as they waited for Iros to speak, unsure of themselves and unsure of her. Sophelia was nervous too as she faced them, wondering what to expect, and desperately trying to find the strength to walk those last few steps to stand beside her husband as she needed to.
These were people who had just been at war with hers. Their town had been attacked, their people killed, hundreds if not thousands of their loved ones were never to return home again, and none of them she knew, had done anything to deserve it. Greenlands was a farming town, a rural province. Its people cared nothing for politics, and they weren’t brigands. They were farmers. They had reason to be angry. She was angry.
Riding through the town, seeing all those people, all those faces staring at her, had been beyond hard. It had been soul destroying. And all of the faces they’d ridden past had seemed to accuse her of causing their loss. Blackened and broken buildings, fire could
destroy so much, even stone. Dark stains in the dirt streets. Women crying, children crying, even men in tears. At least the bodies were gone, but the memories lingered and the pain endured. And it had shone in the faces of the towns people. And the faces of the staff in front of her, they were the same faces.
Riding through Greenlands, trying so desperately to maintain her composure, that had surely been the toughest journey she had ever made. Yet suddenly she had to make a worse one. To walk the few steps to stand in respectful silence beside her husband as he introduced her. And she couldn’t do it. Her feet refused to move. Yet somehow she did it. She did it because Iros helped her. He turned around when he realised that she wasn’t beside him, held out an arm for her, and smiled politely, and somehow she took it.
Then, her hand in his, all she had to do was stand beside him, facing all those angry eyes and pray to the Mother that he knew what to say.
It took everything she had to stand tall and dignified in the hall beside Iros. Her two attendants were luckier as they remained outside in the wagon, where she too would far rather have been. But Sophelia knew she had only one ally in this terrible place, her husband. And Iros would protect her. She knew that too. His hand in hers told her that truth.
Not for love. Not for the rule of law. Not even out of respect for her feelings or to give her comfort. But purely out of a sense of what was right and wrong. What had to be done. He was a lord, he had responsibilities, and though many others would have been crushed by what had happened to him, he stood tall. He stood somehow like a giant in that room.
The Lord of Drake was home.
Part of that though was probably the bandaging. The physicians had redressed his wounds from head to foot before he had entered the town. And there were so many wounds, so much damage to a mortal body. Even after weeks on the trail, weeks of healing. She’d had to look away each time they’d done their work. Even this last time. The bandaging wasn’t enough. So then the guards had strapped him into his armour, binding it as tightly as they could so that he could not bend. The cloak draped carefully over his entire body and tied close at the neck had been the final touch as it hid much on his infirmity, and even the crutches he leaned on.
Though he was broken and perhaps close to death, there in that hall, he was Lord of Drake. As he should be. As he had to be.
Iros held up his hand for silence once more, the Mother only knew how he found the strength, and the last of the noise stopped. The murmuring, the rustling, even the loud breathing of some. There was only a hush as all eyes turned to him.
“My friends.” Iros sounded strong for once, even though he still stood only with the aid of crutches. Maybe his time resting in the wagon and being attended to by the healers had been good for him after all. Or maybe he sounded that way simply because he had to. She suspected the latter. Iros was a man of duty.
“It is good to finally be home again. A joyous occasion, and a sad one.”
“Greenlands, our beloved home, has suffered a terrible attack. We have lost so many dear to us.” And he was not only speaking of their loved ones. Iros, Lord of Drake had suffered perhaps more than anyone, and everyone there knew it. Sophelia knew it only too well. Yet he still stood there, calm and certain, somehow more than just a man in that room.
“This is a tragedy. But it is not ours alone. Many others have suffered these past months. The elves have suffered the same tragedy, and perhaps worse. And the ones who have done this are not here. Remember that. Those who gave the orders, those who are truly responsible, are far away.”
“There are no enemies here.” He repeated himself, adding emphasis to his words, making certain he was understood.
“And remember this too. We have suffered, we have lost our hearts and shed our blood to the evil of war. But we have not died. We have survived. We will recover. We will live again. And we will rebuild our home.”
“This I swear to you. You have my word by all the Divines that rebuilding and defending our home will be my only duty during these coming days and years. On that you have my word as Iros of Drake, and Lord of Greenlands.” His voice somehow seemed to resonate through the castle, gaining in power as he spoke. This was no overly polite envoy always speaking in respectful tones to the high lord and his court. This was the Lord himself, addressing his people and everyone there felt it. Standing beside him Sophelia felt it and was awed by his power.
How she wondered, could he be the same man who had offered years of considered advice and quietly spoken thoughts to her spoiled high lord? The same man who had never complained at the slights made of his race, never shown anger or even emotion? Had the shy boy suddenly become a man? Or had he always been one and she had never noticed?
“But this day as we bury our dead and mourn our losses, we will also begin the celebrations for our survival. And we shall begin those celebrations with a feast for a wedding. Our wedding.” Somehow he managed to raise an arm in a sweeping gesture that included Sophelia, and she quickly managed a small bow to him and everyone else.
“This is my wife.” For words, simple and yet profound, that seemed to run right through the castle. Everyone had known who she was long before she’d entered the town, and yet it still seemed to shock them when he announced her.
“Know that. This is my wife. The Lady Sophelia of Drake. And you will treat her as one of my family.” His voice filled the room, so powerful and filled with vigour when he wasn’t, that it set her back. And it impacted on the audience too. She could see it in their faces. She could see the profound respect shining in their eyes. Almost awe. Their Lord had spoken and they listened.
“And know this also. Sophelia of Drake and I were betrothed and wed for one reason above all, to end this terrible war. She is not an enemy. She is not an elf. She is a friend and one of us. She is a woman of courage who acted to stop the shedding of blood. She is a woman of great honour and great sacrifice. And you will treat her with the respect that she is due because of it.”
“When you see her, when you speak with her, think not of those who have passed on from this life. Think instead of those who still live because of her.”
His words carried weight. But more than that, they carried the truth, though Sophelia hadn’t thought of it in that way before. For her it had been family and duty. But for Iros it had always been about the people. His people, his family, one and the same. And he generously included her in that. Sophelia could see his message growing in the eyes of the people as they studied her. They understood it. They understood exactly what their lord was saying. A poor marriage but a necessary one. A marriage of convenience maybe, but a marriage to seal a peace. And one that would be respected no matter the cost.
Sophelia breathed deeply with relief as she knew he had saved her. She might not be happy here in this strange prison of dark stone and among these people. Her marriage might be both shameful and a sham. And danger might still lie ahead for both of them. But she would be treated properly.
For that at least Sophelia was grateful.
Chapter Forty.
The family plot was always a beautiful place. The gardeners kept it in perfect order just as the other servants kept the rest of the castle running. But it was a sad beauty. Terribly sad.
Iros sat on the bench that had been thoughtfully laid out for the living members of the family to pay their respects to those passed on, uncomfortably aware that he was alone. Completely alone. The last living member of his family to draw breath, and thanks to his improper marriage, there would be none to follow him either.
Yet that was the least of the pain that assailed his soul. The sight of the three freshly dug graves in front of him tore his soul apart.
He had known of course, that they were dead. He had been told by the evil little toad of it even before they had left Leafshade, and there had been such malicious glee in Finell’s eyes as he’d said it, that Iros had had no doubt of his words. But still seeing the graves somehow made their deaths real. And his failures worse.
&n
bsp; His parents, good and decent people who had loved him dearly even as they had deplored his early failings, now lying there under the cold earth. He would never get the chance to prove to them that he had truly turned his life around. That he had become the man they had always wanted him to be.
And his baby sister. Luella. So young and carefree, and filled with the joy of life. If anyone should have survived this terrible war it should have been her. And if anyone should have become Lord of Drake, it should have been her. There was never a cruel bone in her body. But now she too lay under the cold damp earth, never to smile again.
He would have cried. He should have. But no tears could find his cheeks. No sobs could push their way past his throat. It was as if some harsh taskmaster held them back. And so instead he just sat there, knowing only the misery of failure. Endless failure.
“My lord.” His steward gently reminded him that he was still there, and that there was work to be done. A lot of work. A land to rebuild, people to heal, lives to make whole again and law to be restored. All of which had to flow from his hand as the Lord of the land.