The Path of Flames (Chronicles of the Black Gate Book 1)

by Phil Tucker

  The man raised both eyebrows, as if he’d never thought about it. “Could be,” he allowed.

  “Ah, yes.” Audsley fought to keep his smile and then bobbed his head. “Well, if you’ll excuse me.” He glanced over at his pigeon coop, eyed the gaunt Raven’s Gate standing tall and ominous in the center of the roof, then hurried to the battlement on the keep’s western side and set his case on a merlon. Holding it tightly, he squinted at the horizon.

  To his annoyance, the guardsman stepped up next to him. “Looking for some aught?”

  “I—ah—yes, in fact. Um. A stonecloud. Do you see one?” Audsley shot a quick glance up at the sun. “It should be coming into view right about there.” He pointed at the sun, glanced at a worn compass etching on the merlon’s top, and then dropped his finger to point roughly south by southwest.

  “One of them flying islands, hey?” The man placed both gloved hands on the merlon next to Audsley’s and leaned forward, peering at the horizon. “Aye, there’s something over there. A fleck of some kind. If it were any closer, I’d warrant it a big bird.”

  Audsley beamed at the man. “No wonder they’ve got you on sentry duty, my good man!” His excitement made him feel ebullient. “Sharp eyes, sharp eyes. Now, let me show you something. This is a true wonder.” He unfastened the case and went to open it, but a vivid image of the case, monocular and all, toppling over the battlement to crash below seized him and he quickly moved it to the floor. Crouching beside it, he pried the long, bulky object from its cavity and grinned at the soldier.

  “What’s that, then?” The man leaned in close, smelling of smoke, sweat, and halitosis. “A leather sausage?”

  “No, it most certainly is not a leather sausage,” said Audsley, clambering back up to his feet. “This is a treasure. Here. You sight in through this little hole, and wonder of wonders, the larger end magnifies the world…” He looked through it at the distant stonecloud. “And… there. Oh, beautiful. Perhaps only thirty feet off the ground? And moving in fits and starts, it seems. That’s odd.”

  “Here, give us a look, then.” The guard edged in closer.

  Audsley detected strong undercurrents of onion to his smell. Lovely. He tried to turn his grimace into a smile. “Well, all right, but do be careful. Yes, through that end. Now point it at the stonecloud…” He waited, half-expecting the man to start, to let out a superstitious oath and drop the monocular, but instead the guard simply smiled in pleasure.

  “Well, this is nice.” He examined the stonecloud for a bit, then slowly swung the scope across the whole of the countryside. He lowered it and grinned, revealing strong yellow teeth like those of an old pony. “A sight better than a dried sausage, if you’ll pardon the pun. How come we sentries don’t have one up here to keep watch with?”

  Audsley took it back gladly. “Because they’re delicate, rarer than hen’s teeth, and worth more than everything in this castle combined.” He fought the urge to wipe the eyepiece. “Now, I’m going to have to take some measurements. If Nethys’ Isle is really coming in close, I’m going to have to warn our Lady.”

  The guard nodded sagely, then both men turned to watch as a pigeon flew up from below to flutter around the empty arch of the Raven’s Gate and hover around the coop and then disappear inside through one of the holes.

  “Magister Audsley!” A young boy emerged, holding the pigeon between his hands. “Look! A message!”

  “Indeed, Master Roddick. So I see.” Audsley smiled at the young lord, glanced at the stonecloud, then set his monocular back in its case and hurried over. “Who is it from?”

  The young boy emerged fully from the coop, a few small downy feathers in his black hair, and frowned as he studied at the little case attached to the pigeon’s leg. “Well, this color metal means family. I think?”

  “Very good, very good. Now.” Audsley reached him and took the pigeon carefully from Roddick’s clasped hands. The bird was warm and surprisingly bony beneath its soft cloud of feathers; Audsley held it expertly in one hand and unclipped the message with the other. “Here. Now, let’s put this little fellow back in his coop. He’s flown a long way to reach us. From… Laur Castle, it would seem.” He smiled at Roddick, who eagerly took the pigeon back and disappeared into the coop. When the young lord reappeared, Audsley squatted carefully and held out the case. “See here? Bronze case for the Kyferin family, and here? Two slashes. Second son, which would mean Lord Laur. An important message, I’ll wager.”

  Roddick nodded, his expression solemn. “Uncle Mertyn. He’ll be writing about Father’s death.”

  “Yes, most likely. Now, let us see.” Audsley unclipped the casing and pulled free a tiny scroll. Adjusting his spectacles, he held the paper up to the light. Fine lettering spelled out a concise message. “Ah. Well, now. That is news. I’ll have to hurry downstairs to tell your mother.”

  “What’s it say?” Roddick peered vainly up at the little scroll.

  “You’ll have to wait for your mother to share that information with me, my good man. I’m allowed to read these messages so as to send them on to their correct destinations, but share them with all and sundry? The horror!”

  Roddick scowled. “I’m not sundry. I’m Roddick.”

  Audsley stood, knees popping, and grinned down at the boy. “And a very fine Roddick you are. Now, if you like, you can come down with me to the Lord’s Hall and see what this is all about, or you can stay up here with the pigeons. What will it be?”

  Roddick tongued the inside of his cheek, considering. “Pigeons,” he said at last. “I’m counting how many we’ve got. They’re almost all gone. When are we going to get more back? I think the ones left must be lonely in there by themselves.”

  “Soon, I hope.” Audsley hesitated and looked toward the southwest. Did he have time to measure the approaching stonecloud’s trajectory? It was still hours away, he decided. It would keep. Tucking the message in a small pocket, he ruffled Roddick’s hair with his free hand, then hurried to the trapdoor. “Please watch my belongings!” The veteran nodded, and Audsley made his way back below.

  He moved down the stairs past the Lady’s solarium to the third floor where she seemed to live these days, holding court and brooding over the fate of her family and their castle. Audsley paused at the entrance, took a deep breath, held it so as to slow his heart, and then let out a sigh. Him a Noussian and still hesitant about stepping forth to execute his duties. When would he grow that careless confidence he so admired in others? Adopting a grave expression, he rounded the corner and stepped into the warm candlelight.

  A massive knight was standing before Lady Kyferin, his armor gleaming, a deep azure cloak falling richly to his calves. Squire Asho—no, Ser Asho—was standing to one side, looking much mended. Lady Kyferin herself was seated on her chair above them all on the dais. All of them turned to regard him as he entered, and despite his best efforts he felt his face flush.

  “I—I’m most sorry to intrude, my Lady, and I shall endeavor to make my message quick, but… Ser Wyland?”

  Ser Wyland smiled, though the expression didn’t touch his eyes. He’d no doubt just learned of their tragedy. “Magister Audsley.”

  “You’re alive! I thought all the Black Wolves dead, dead and gone, but here you stand… How?”

  Ser Wyland’s smile turned tight. “I was away when Lord Kyferin’s call to arms was issued, on pilgrimage on the borders of the Black Forest. I received the message too late to join with him, so I rode here as quickly as I could. My fastest, it seems, was still far too slow.”

  “Oh,” said Audsley. “That’s both terrible and most fortunate for us.” He paused, unsure whether to beam with relief or frown in commiseration, and then caught sight of Lady Kyferin and realized the pause had stretched out for too long. “Oh! My pardon. Yes, a message from your brother-in-law, my Lady. It just arrived.” He hurried over and handed it to her.

  Stepping back, he linked his hands behind his back and tried to look solemn and grave. He was the Magister
. His was an important calling. Still, even after all these years, he wasn’t sure if he was pulling it off. Lord Kyferin had never seemed really convinced. Audsley frowned and tried to stand straighter, then focused again on the Lady who was reading the cramped script on the message paper.

  “It seems we should soon expect a visit from Lord Laur,” she said dryly, lowering the tiny scroll to her lap.

  Ser Asho stirred as if to speak, but frowned instead. Audsley felt a pang of commiseration. The poor Bythian probably was still settling into his new role.

  Ser Wyland, however, had no qualms. “How soon, my Lady?”

  “Within a week. He sent this message this morning as he marched out from Castle Laur.”

  “Giving us as little time as possible to prepare. Any details on his retinue?”

  “Scant. He said he comes with his personal guard to pay homage to his dead brother and offer me consolation in this time of need.” She lifted the message again and reread a portion. “He urges me not to fret, as he shall apparently provide the solution to all our troubles.”

  Audsley frowned. “Well, that would be nice of him. Perhaps he means to loan us knights?”

  “Only if it’s to his advantage,” said Lady Kyferin. “I know Lord Mertyn Laur better than I would like. A more political and conniving animal was never born. He sees our weakness as opportunity. The question is how hard a bargain he’ll try to drive. Ser Wyland, you’ve dealt with him before, by my Lord husband’s side. Your thoughts?”

  Ser Wyland frowned. “Lord Kyferin never gave him the chance to speak or strike deals. He rode roughshod over him every time they met, much to Lord Laur’s chagrin. Still, I’ve campaigned alongside him twice. He’s as ruthless as our Lord was, if not more so. A very pragmatic man. Whatever he offers us will only be to serve his own interests. No doubt he’ll seek to frighten us with the Agerastian victory to his benefit.”

  Audsley blinked. “And shouldn’t we be frightened? After such a conclusive victory, might they not threaten Ennoia itself?”

  “Not really.” Ser Wyland’s smile was cold. “An army marches on its stomach. Ser Asho has told me that the Ascendant’s forces chased the Agerastians for weeks before forcing them to battle. Even though they won, the Agerastians will be half-starved, without arrows, and in dire need of reinforcements and supplies. I’ll wager they’ll head for the coast in hopes of meeting up with the Agerastian fleet.”

  Ser Asho frowned. “But they have a clear line of attack on Ennoia. If they take the capital, they’ll gain access to the Solar Gates. They’ll be able to strike at every corner of the empire - at Aletheia itself! They can’t pass that up.”

  Ser Wyland shook his head. “They might take it, but they’d never hold it. Mark my words. They need provisions. They need reinforcements. If the Agerastian general is anything short of a fool, he’ll withdraw to the coast.”

  Ser Asho nodded, then took a step forward. “My Lady. I know I’m newly knighted, but if I may?”

  Lady Kyferin nodded.

  “We need all the strength we can muster to resist him. Perhaps Lord Wyland and I could ride to some of your more remote holdings and urge the families of the fallen Black Wolves to send men, if only while Lord Laur visits?”

  Audsley nodded. The suggestion was wise. If Asho went alone, he would risk being laughed at by the Black Wolves, or insulting them. What would they think of Lady Kyferin sending a Bythian with such a summons? But with Ser Wyland leading the mission…

  Ser Wyland eyed Ser Asho. Clearly the squire’s elevation was taking some getting used to. “A good idea, but it would project our weakness most clearly.”

  “You have a suggestion, Ser Wyland?” asked Lady Kyferin.

  “As a matter of fact, I do.” Ser Wyland’s smile was just shy of roguish. “Hold a tourney the day Lord Laur is due to arrive. We have twenty-five families’ worth of unproven sons and brothers. While they might balk at simply lending you their strength, they will leap at the chance to prove their skill in arms and demonstrate their right to lead their families. You could even say the tourney is being held to commemorate your late Lord husband’s passion for combat. None could gainsay you.”

  Audsley felt a squiggle of delight worm its way through him. “A brilliant idea! Lord Laur will ride into a surprising display of military might, and seeing him, these new knights will naturally feel beholden to you and lend you their arms. Brilliant!”

  Ser Wyland sketched a gently mocking bow. “I am glad Magister Audsley approves.”

  Audsley flushed but decided he wasn’t really being mocked, only gently teased. Ser Asho, however, had stepped back, his pale face neutral. Ah, his first suggestion, and it had been squelched.

  “I approve, Ser Wyland. Lord Laur will take at least a week to arrive. Let’s spread the word.” Lady Kyferin looked to the doorway, where a page was standing. “Please summon Marshal Thiemo and Master Bertchold.” The boy nodded and took off.

  Ser Wyland hesitated. “My Lady? There is another option open to us. I would not have suggested it were your Lord alive, but with him gone and us in dire straits…”

  “Yes, Ser Wyland?”

  “There is a man being held beneath the Wolf Tower. He’s been there three years now.”

  Lady Kyferin stiffened. “You’re speaking of Ser Tiron.”

  Ser Wyland nodded uneasily. “I know his case is not a simple one.” He hesitated. “But before your Lord husband gave him… cause to go mad, he was as loyal and dangerous a man as could be found amongst the Black Wolves. If you could convince him to put the past behind him and serve you in exchange for his freedom, he would make a mighty addition to your forces.”

  “He is in that dungeon for a reason, Ser Wyland.” Lady Kyferin’s voice was cold. “I don’t think he’s forgotten his grievances. Nor have I mine.”

  “Well I know it.” Ser Wyland shrugged. “But the past is past. I merely make the suggestion. Regardless of how successful our tourney is, we will still have only greenhorn knights on hand. Ser Tiron is a brutal, seasoned, and ferocious warrior. I know he’s no longer the man we once knew—how could he be? But whatever is left of him in that dungeon cell is still worth ten untried sons.”

  In the silence that followed, Audsley looked for something to hide behind. The look on Lady Kyferin’s face was one he wished never to have directed at him. Her cheekbones seemed to have become more prominent, her eyes as hard as water under a winter sky.

  Finally, she nodded. “I will think on it. Thank you, ser knights.”

  Both men nodded, stepped back, then turned to quit the Lord’s Hall. Audsley nodded as he watched them leave, then realized that Lady Kyferin was looking at him expectantly.

  “Is there anything else, Master Audsley?”

  “What? I mean, my pardon, my Lady? Oh! No, nothing. Not yet. Soon? A stonecloud floats our way. I’ll just go take the measurements, and then I’ll return, that is, if the measurements urge me to do so?”

  A flicker of amusement passed across Lady Kyferin’s face, but it didn’t linger. “Very well. Please keep me apprised.”

  “Yes, I will. Right now, in fact. If you’ll excuse me?” Blushing ever more fiercely, Audsley turned and hurried out of the room, turned up the steps and paused once he was out of sight. He leaned against the wall. One day he’d have the poise and grace of Ser Wyland, and would be effortlessly courteous and controlled. But not yet.

  In the meantime, however, the Nethys Stonecloud awaited him. Buoyed up by this prospect, he smiled in the darkness, tugged down on his tunic, and hurried back up to the keep’s roof.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Asho followed Ser Wyland down the dark keep stairs and out into the sunlight. The sight of the large man’s back filled him with troubled doubts. This was a real knight, a true Black Wolf, a man trusted by Lord Kyferin and proven in dozens of battles. Where Asho barely stood over five feet tall, Ser Wyland towered over six. Each of the knight’s steps was a powerful thud that was accompanied by the ring of his heavy armor.
Asho ghosted down behind him, feeling insubstantial and inconsequential. Ser Wyland had greeted him politely enough in the Lord’s Hall, but made no move to speak to him now that they had left it. He opened his mouth several times to address the man, but each time closed it with a sense of futility. What would he say? Here I am? Acknowledge me a knight?

  They stepped out onto the bailey. While life continued apace, there was a tension to the air that betrayed everyone’s fear. Nobody laughed, and even the children were subdued. Asho hesitated. With nobody to guide him, he’d taken Ser Eckel’s room in the Stag Tower, though the experience had been unpleasant. He’d lain awake each night in the bannerman’s large bed, unable to sleep, feeling like an imposter, expecting at any moment to be rousted from under the covers and thrown out on his ear. Just before dawn on that first night he’d risen, irresolute. He couldn’t return to his old spot beside the fireplace in the great hall, but he could not sleep in the Stag Tower. Instead, he’d stolen down to the stables and up into the hayloft past the sleeping grooms, and bedded down at the very back. Each night since then he’d snuck back, but he knew it couldn’t last.

  Should he march brazenly back into the Stag Tower as if he belonged there?

  Ser Wyland took a half dozen paces and then stopped, turned and stared at Asho. “Come on, then.” He nodded to the tower and resumed striding toward it.

  Asho swallowed. An invitation? A threat? He hurried after.

  People smiled at the newly arrived knight. Trutwin the gardener called out a greeting, and then looked past Ser Wyland to Asho. His smile flattened and he turned away. Asho kept his expression blank, and was glad when the darkness of the tower claimed him.

  Ser Wyland climbed to the very top, up four flights, and then out onto the roof. There was no guard. Asho stepped out after him. A cinder of three firecats glared at them for intruding, then spread their feathered wings and dove through the crenellations to glide down into the bailey. The wind plucked at Asho’s hair, pulled a lock free and blew it across his face. Asho ignored it and instead watched the other man. Ser Wyland moved to a merlon, placed his hands on its top and studied the land, then turned to regard Asho.