by Alec Hutson
Vhelan knuckled his brow and bowed. “Word of your kindness will reach many ears when we are again before the Dragon Throne. Thank you, my lord.”
D’Veskan smiled grimly. “The queen believes that the coming struggle will determine the fate of our kingdom. I am grateful for any part I might play. Now, let us find you some supplies.” The count jabbed a thick finger at Keilan. “And you, my young friend, need some warmer clothes if you’re on your way north. The forests of Dymoria are far harsher than the soft lands to which you’re accustomed. Best prepare yourself.”
Ribbons of pink dawnlight were just creeping over the city walls when they arrived the next morning at the Maw, the huge gate that guarded Theris’s northern flank, and through which travelers who wished to journey to the far east or west usually passed. Jagged shapes dripped from the gate’s arched recesses, just resolving from the morning dimness: the spikes of an upraised portcullis, and where Keilan suspected the gate had gotten its name, as it truly did look like they were riding towards the fanged mouth of some great stone beast.
The fortifications above the Maw bristled with pennants and pikes, and perched like predatory birds on the ramparts were the hulking shapes of trebuchets and catapults, staring north.
“How did the city ever fall?” Nel asked as they neared the gate, guiding her horse around the steady stream of farmer’s carts laden with vegetables and bleating animals that were heading to market.
“And yet it does,” Vhelan muttered, his words still slurred slightly from a night spent drinking with the count and playing tzalik. The wizard hunched in his saddle with the hood of his cloak drawn up, as if the encroaching dawn was something that needed to be avoided at all costs. “The Iron Duke has held the city for nearly three years, which is an eternity in the annals of the Shattered Kingdoms. In the decade before he overthrew the boy-prince – what was his name, the one with the bloat – a dozen men had ruled in the Warding, although to be fair the city had never fallen in a siege. Usually someone in the city watch turns traitor and opens the gates to whoever is camping outside. Or an ambitious vassal puts a sword in his lord’s back. Or there was that one earl who died face down in his onion soup – no one ever figured out who’d poisoned him. In all honesty, after a century of near-constant chaos and war I’m surprised that there’s still anyone with noble blood left in the Kingdoms. The lords around here seem to come and go fast as mayflies.”
“We haven’t seen so much of that down south,” Keilan said, unable to tear his gaze from the imposing walls that continued to swell higher as they neared the Maw. “My da said it was the western lords who had the hottest-blood and the deepest memories. Couldn’t ever let a grudge die, and that just kept layering fresh grudges over the old ones, until no one even knew what started it all. The Fens are pretty torn up, he said, and up along the edges of the Blightwood the villages have all been razed and their people gone elsewhere, like the farmers who settled near our village. But the fighting hadn’t come anywhere near us in a generation.”
“Lucky lad,” Vhelan said, fumbling a silver flask from his saddlebags and taking a quick sip, “and lucky us that the Iron Duke has turned this city and the northern roads into a little oasis of calm within the tumult. There were some years not a single caravan of any size made the journey from the Kingdoms to Dymoria. Just a few small traders who risked life and limb navigating a route infested with robber bands, unpaid mercenary troops turned feral, and greedy lordlings.”
As if in thanks, Vhelan saluted with his silver flask the pair of grim-faced men flanking the Maw. Neither of the gate guards glanced at the slumped wizard, continuing to stare straight ahead, their hands gripping the shafts of the long-handled halberds planted in the dirt in front of them.
They passed into the dimness of the Maw’s gullet, almost brushing the ancient, lichen-stained walls to avoid a large cart filled with squealing pigs. Keilan found himself staring into the deep blackness of a murder hole, wondering if someone was looking out at him holding a loaded crossbow. He shivered at the thought and kicked Storm into a trot.
Beyond the Maw spread a ramshackle collection of buildings, most only a single story tall. Chipped and crudely painted wooden signs hung above the doors of a few of the largest: a frilled serpent coiled around a foaming mug of ale, a pair of leaping goats, their horns locked, and the silhouette of a rose laid over the outline of a plate, or possibly the moon. Inns and taverns, Keilan guessed, for travelers who either did not want to pay the rates commanded in Theris proper, or were departing early in the morning. A few dark shapes huddled outside the entrance of the tavern with the flower emblazoned on its signage.
“Ah, the Rose,” Vhelan sighed wistfully as they passed the sprawled drunks. “A shame we didn’t get a chance to spend another evening there.”
Nel glanced at Keilan and rolled her eyes. “Yes, a real shame. When we came through Theris last time this wizard and a certain disguised Dymorian merchant prince made quite the scene. Couldn’t keep their mouths shut or their eyes off a few veiled Keshian ladies who were very clearly spoken for. Started a huge mess, which of course I had to settle. The owner, good pockmarked Rose herself, had to roll out extra sawdust to mop up the blood on the floor. I’m fairly sure we were banned from ever stepping foot inside again.”
Vhelan waved away her words. “Oh, please, taverns such as this have short memories. Just a regular night at the Rose, really. Next time we push through those doors with a purse full of silver we’ll be welcomed with open arms.”
“Until next time, then,” Nel muttered.
Beyond the dilapidated inns and alehouses was a large fenced meadow where a half-dozen different caravans had circled. Closest to the paddock’s gate were three large covered wagons, the blazing sunburst of Ama painted on each side. Shaggy ponies were tied to a nearby hitching post, cropping grass as their Menekarian masters in loose, white robes busied themselves, preparing to depart.
“Look!” Keilan cried excitedly, pointing at a white shape lolling among the ponies, its long tail lashing. At the sounds of his voice the steppe lion raised its silver-maned head and yawned languidly, regarding them with sleepy eyes.
“A white lion of the plains,” Vhelan said, leaning forward to get a better look. “The Menekarians have tamed the beasts, making them as docile as house cats. They can still be vicious killers, however. The beastmasters of Menekar bring them into battle, though we in western Araen rarely see these war lions. They are used on Menekar’s eastern frontier, where the empire borders with the Qell wastes. What a sight it must be, watching a host of these lions race across the red steppes and leap into the snapping jaws of the pale lizards at the vanguard of a Qell horde.”
Keilan couldn’t tear himself from the lion’s unblinking gaze as Vhelan led them towards wagons that were swarming with activity. Finally, with some effort, he broke the spell and turned to find a stocky, richly dressed merchant approaching Vhelan’s horse. His forked black beard was bound with silver rings, and gold glittered on his fingers as he knuckled a respectful greeting. Vhelan reined in his horse and returned the gesture.
“Good health to you,” the man fairly bellowed, his words accented in a flavor similar to d’Veskan, although to Keilan’s ears he sounded a bit rougher. “You must be our guests who are in such a rush to be off that we can’t wait till tomorrow . . . and for our last delivery of pear brandy.”
Vhelan cleared his throat. “Ah, yes. We greatly appreciate you leaving early. We have pressing business in Herath.”
The merchant squinted and rubbed his nose. “So d’Veskan’s man said. Well, the count has been good to me and mine, so I don’t mind doing him this favor. The name’s Halan, out of the Slopes. Your men arrived earlier this morning, tough looking lot they are.”
Keilan noticed for the first time a few familiar faces among the caravan guards. The rangers had shed their forester garb and golden dragon medallions and now wore unadorned leather
armor and pointed steel helmets. Their captain, d’Taran, caught Keilan’s eye and winked.
“We’ve quite the menagerie this trip,” Halan said, gesturing at the wagons behind him. “Dymorians, a seeker, and a Shan all traveling together. Along with whatever you folks are. Sounds like the beginning of one of Jesaphon’s Tales.”
Vhelan’s brows knit together. “There’s a seeker from the Reliquary here? And a Shan?”
The merchant nodded. “Aye. Been with us since we came up from the Thread. Queer fellow, but keeps to himself. Normally I wouldn’t truck with one of those spider-eaters, but he paid generously, said he needed to get north in a hurry. My guess is that some Visani lord wants some new silks for his mistress, but the Shan hasn’t let on what he’s carrying.” Halan shrugged and spat. “And I haven’t asked. Enough gold buys privacy as well as protection.”
“And that one?” Nel asked, pointing to the last wagon in the forming train. It was the same pale wood as the Menekarian wagons they had passed earlier, and on its side was painted the same coppery sunburst. Keilan felt a small thrill of apprehension at the sight. An impossibly thin and tall man in flowing white robes was checking the harnesses attached to his two shaggy steppe ponies.
“Him? Newest member of our little troop, joined up just this morning. The rest of his fellows are headed west, to Gryx and then on to Kesh. This one’s got business in Herath, something about the fur trade, I think he said.”
“Wonderful,” Nel muttered under her breath. “A Menekarian. We just can’t get away from them.”
Vhelan turned towards his knife and lowered his voice so that the caravan master couldn’t overhear. “A solitary merchant, one without even guards of his own. Unless he’s one of the Pure in a very convincing disguise I imagine there’s not much to concern us.”
“From the looks of it you don’t have many supplies,” Halan said, gesturing towards the saddlebags hanging from their horses.
Vhelan faced the merchant again. “Aye. But we’ve coin enough. When we stop along the way we’ll buy provisions.”
“Very good,” said Halan, “and if we’re caught between inns you’re welcome to partake in my own personal stores. I’ve a few choice bottles of crystal wine; it pairs nicely with fresh-caught game dripping juices into a fire while a blanket of stars blazes above.”
Vhelan’s mouth quirked. “Good merchant, I believe we are going to get along quite well.”
Halan clapped the wizard on his shoulder. “Ha, excellent. Sometimes I’m starved for civilized company out on the road. I’ve been out of Herath for nearly a year now, and I’d dearly love to catch up on the gossip I’ve missed.”
For Keilan, the days with the caravan quickly fell into a familiar rhythm. He would wake just before dawn, either in a bedroll damp with morning dew, songbirds above him greeting the rising sun, or on a mattress of stale straw in the common room of whatever inn they’d stopped at the night before, the rich smells of baking bread and simmering gravy wafting from the kitchens. After breakfast he would saddle Storm and give her oats from the feedbag Halan used for his own horses. The mare would watch him with liquid brown eyes, ears twitching as he whispered to her. Sometimes he spoke of his father, or Sella, or even his mother, and sometimes he wondered aloud what awaited him in Dymoria and the court of the Crimson Queen. He would pour out his hopes and his fears, and in reply Storm would whicker softly and press her nose into his hand, asking for a second helping of oats.
Then he would lead her over to where the caravan was forming and climb back up into her saddle. By the fourth day the ache in his legs and back had almost disappeared, the callouses on his thighs having bloomed and wilted during their long days on the road.
Most often he stayed at the front of the wagon train, riding beside Nel and Vhelan as they chatted with Master Halan. The caravan passed through a sparse forest of stunted birch and pine, and then rolling meadows grazed by sheep and aurochs. Shepherd boys watching their flocks would turn and stare at them as they passed, sometimes waving their crooks in greeting, sometimes hurriedly urging their animals away from the road.
Yet despite the shepherds’ wariness, Keilan at first struggled to reconcile the lands they traveled through with the dark picture painted by Vhelan. Gradually, though, he began to notice small signs of past troubles. Beside a fresh-timbered farmhouse he could see a charred foundation poking from the long grass. Elsewhere the road was lined with a score of small cairns, a few topped with rusted, split-open helms. On the third day they came to a fork, the road diverging around a massive oak tree. From one of its gnarled branches four men had been hung, their bodies bloated black and twisting in the breeze.
“Bandits,” Vhelan said, wrinkling his nose at the smell. “Encouraging, actually. It means that either the Iron Duke’s justice reaches this far north, or the local lord has decided that the coin gained from feeding and housing merchants outweighs what could be stolen from those same merchants at the point of a sword.”
Keilan stared at the hanged men, unable to look away as the caravan passed beneath them. He’d seen the dead before – in his village, the bodies of those whose souls had slipped beyond the veil were wrapped in cloth and carried down to the sea. It was always a festive occasion, the children skipping ahead of the procession and scattering flower blossoms and seashells. Usually the faces of the dead were resigned and peaceful, as if their souls had departed willingly.
The souls of these hanged men had not departed willingly. The few eyes that had not been picked out by scavengers bulged wildly, and the flesh of their necks was patterned with livid purple and blue bruises.
“What did they do?” Keilan asked, swallowing away the dryness in his throat.
Vhelan shrugged. “Robbery. Rape. Murder. What always happens when men live in a land with no strong ruler. In Lyr, the people pride themselves on the freedoms granted them by the archons. On the Hill, in the Silk Quarter, beside the Salt, the touch of the watch is light, but it is there, and outside of bravos dueling there is little violence. In the Warrens, however, the archons long ago ceded authority to the criminals, and it is a deadly place. If you do not pledge to a gang you cannot survive. Since I left the Gilded Cities I’ve come to appreciate the strong hand of the Crimson Queen. Some freedom must be sacrificed for order.”
Keilan learned much from Vhelan in those days. Quickly he came to realize why the once-thief had earned the nickname ‘scholar’. He was a fount of knowledge about a vast array of topics, and anything could set the wizard off on a rambling lecture. A glimpse of a brooding keep on a distant hill led to a lengthy description of the major families of the Shattered Kingdoms, which was then followed by a detailed history recounting how the death of two princes had first plunged the realm into chaos, twin brothers who slew each other on the field of battle. Another afternoon was spent outlining in broad strokes the Incarnate theory of sorcery, how it was believed that wizards opened a conduit to the primal force of the Void, and through will and technique shaped it to serve their purposes. That explanation was peppered with arcane terms and references about people and places Keilan had never heard of, and most of it washed over him without illuminating very much, but he did manage to glean a few interesting facts about the Scholia’s understanding of sorcery.
Foremost of which was that the mumbled incantations and fluttering fingers that accompanied Vhelan’s conjuring was not what actually summoned forth sorcery. The magic was always there, bubbling within the wizard like a spring, but the actions and words allowed it to be used in very particular ways. That was why the ancient scrolls they had found beneath Uthmala might be so valuable, as possibly they contained the intricate formula to twist sorcery in a way that had been lost thousands of years ago. Once, Vhelan had sighed, staring off at some scene only he could see, sorcerers had walked on air, climbing into the sky to coax rain from the sky. What the wizards of Dymoria now knew was only a tiny fragment of the sorcerous knowledge of
old.
When they stopped for the evenings, Nel continued her own instruction with Keilan. She would lead him away from the encampment, until they found a clearing hidden from the road, and then she would patiently walk him through the basics of knife-fighting. He learned how to balance on the balls of his feet, how to feint, how to strike quickly and powerfully, how to find the chinks and seams in most armors, and also, since Nel constantly stressed its importance, how to recognize when he was overmatched, and retreat hastily.
On their third night from Theris the caravan stopped early, having arrived at a rambling old inn that wrapped around a towering stone monolith. A ragged cheer had gone up from many of the merchants and guardsmen when the pale white spire had first appeared over the tree-tops ahead. “The Godsword,” Halan had said, “finest establishment between Theris and Vis. No better inn along the entire length of the Wending, I’ll stake my good name on it. They’ll be music and feasting tonight, lads.”
Keilan hurriedly stabled Storm, the playful skirling of fiddles calling to him from the inn’s main hall, but before he could push through the ancient doors Nel materialized beside him.
“There’ll be time for that later. We should take advantage of this light and get your practice in.”