by David Weber
“I hope that was the last climb of the day,” he told Bahzell wearily.
“It was, lad. Look yonder.”
Bahzell pointed ahead, and Kenhodan shielded his eyes with one hand, blinking away wind tears and fine, cold drops of rain. The road plunged downward, curving slightly, and the wind came up it into their teeth. A dimness bulked across the narrow pass some miles below them, but he could make out few details through the blowing drizzle sweeping up to meet them.
“South Keep,” Bahzell said. “I’m thinking as we’ll sleep warm tonight.”
“Thank the gods!” Kenhodan sighed, and squinted harder, trying to form a picture of the place. The misty rain defeated him, and he shrugged. Any fortress in such a dismal place could only be grim. There ought to at least be fires, though, and hopefully it would have a spare cot somewhere.
“Come on,” Wencit said. “It’s farther than it looks, and I’d like to be there before gate closing. Believe me, we don’t want to camp outside the walls tonight if we can help it.”
Byrchalka and Walsharno started forward considerably more briskly, followed by Glamhandro, and Chernion’s mare and the packhorses seemed to catch the mood as they realized the road sloped only down for a change. Kenhodan watched the keep draw closer, curious about this bastion of the Empire in its bleak and barren surroundings. What sort of men, he wondered, could stand garrison duty in such a place?
He realized only gradually how badly distance and mist had fooled him. What had seemed a low-lying blur slowly resolved itself into a wall; then the wall became a cliff, and his casual curiosity became something very like disbelief. The work of giants lay before him.
Granite walls towered up with a blue-great arrogance that shamed the natural cliffs to either side. There were three of them, those walls, and they were absolutely vertical, reared out of the East Walls’ bones. Kenhodan’s muscles tightened as they moved into South Keep’s shadow, like ants swallowed in shade as the walls soared above him, seemingly poised forever on the edge of overbalancing and avalanching down to destroy him.
A deep ravine edged the outer curtainwall, quarried deep and sheer in solid rock. Archers’ slits fanged the gate towers—row upon row of them banding the stone to mark the levels within. Gape-jawed gargoyles grinned at regular intervals from battlements so high they seemed tiny, and Kenhodan knew that at need each stony gullet would vomit banefire. The effect on any attacker would be dreadful, and the soot streaking their scaled stone snouts spoke of frequent tests. Above all, the scarlet and gold axe banner snapped and cracked, flaunting against the stone-colored sky from at least a dozen staffs.
But it was the gaunt perfection of the wall itself which demanded his attention. It was smooth as ice, without even the thinnest line to indicate where stone block met stone block, and his eyes widened as he realized that entire, stupendous wall was a single, seamless stretch of naked rock, as if the mountains’ native granite had reared suddenly skyward in a frozen comber of stone. Occasional patches of dark moss softened the hard, powerful granite, but they subtracted nothing from the keep’s forbidding power. Rather, they underscored the endurance of the never-taken fortress. It reared like a primeval force, the earth groaning under its weight, between cliffs quarried into knife-sharp vertical precipices. Wing fortresses protected the curtainwall’s shoulders, standing on upthrust islands severed from the mountain walls by more sheer chasms. An aura of power brooded over the pass, frowning down on the insignificant mites who’d dared to raise such stony strength.
“Impressed?”
He turned his head to meet Bahzell’s amused glance.
“Moderately.” He wasn’t certain how he’d managed to keep his tone dry.
“Aye, and well you should be. All the passes are after being well defended, but its South Keep lies nearest the Spearmen, and not even Axe Hallow’s this strong. The King Emperor was in no mind to take chances when he was after ordering it built, and betwixt the Empire and Dwarvenhame ─ which wasn’t after having joined the Empire in those days ─ the better part of two hundred sarthnaisks were after working on it for twelve years. That wall yonder ─” he flicked his ears at the curtainwall “─ that’s not after being built, lad. It was forged in place, and it’s after being tougher than the cliffs to either side.
“The forts on the shoulders protect the flanks, though Tomanāk knows only a herd of mad and mountain goats could be scaling the cliffs to reach ’em! The garrison comes and goes through tunnels inside the cliffs; there’s no other road. They’ve wells inside, as well, and South Keep’s after being stored for a five-year siege, come to that, though I’m thinking as it’s an unlikely army as could attack both ends of the pass at once.”
Bahzell shook his head as if marveling at the power he’d described, then Walsharno moved into a canter. Kenhodan followed on Glamhandro, pushing to catch up with Wencit and Chernion, who’d drawn ahead of them.
Two of South Keep’s three drawbridges were lowered over the dry moat, and Kenhodan glanced over the edge as Glamhandro’s hooves thudded on the thick timbers of the center bridge. One look was enough. The gorge was over fifty feet deep and its bottom was fanged with grim iron spikes. There was another row of archer’s slits at its very lip, forty feet above the gorge’s floor, and more banefire spouts stretched along the gorge wall just beneath them.
The portcullis was raised—the gods only knew how many tons of weight hung on massive chains, its lower edge glowering with wide flanges designed to lock into iron-reinforced sockets in the roadway when lowered. Halberdiers stood watch before it, and Kenhodan saw colorful splashes of color on the high walls to mark out archers. And this was only the back of the fortress—the side least likely to be attacked!
The gate commander stepped into the road as Wencit crossed the drawbridge to him. He shaded his eyes, and a squad of his men trotted towards him, but he waved them back as he recognized the wizard.
“Greetings, Wencit!” To ears which had been buffeted by the East Walls’ winds for over a week, his voice sounded unnaturally clear in the calm lee of the keep.
“Greetings, Captain…Tolos, isn’t it?”
“Aye, so it is.” The officer was clearly pleased to be remembered, and Wencit drew up and looked down at him from the saddle.
“I’m pleased South Keep mounts such an excellent watch,” he said, “but isn’t it a little unusual for travelers to be challenged on sight?”
“I beg your pardon?” Tolos sounded more than a little embarrassed.
“Come now, Tolos! Gate guard’s usually a lieutenant’s duty, isn’t it? And your men are clearly on edge. For that matter, I’m inclined to doubt you studied our faces so closely because you’re smitten by my beauty!”
“I think Earl Bostik had best explain, Sir,” Tolos said uncomfortably, and something in his tone tightened the wizard’s expression.
“I see,” he said after a moment. Then he shook himself and grinned almost impishly. “And is the trouble—whatever it is—so bad you feel obliged to detail a guide to keep an eye on us?”
“The Governor would have my ears if I suggested such a thing!”
“In that case, Captain, we’ll say thank you and be on our way.”
Wencit nodded courteously and Byrchalka strode under the portcullis with his head carried high and proud.
Kenhodan pressed close behind the wizard in the gate tunnel. Hooves rang in the dark, frowning depths of the gut, and he felt crushed by the oppressive weight of stone. The curtainwall was immensely thick; the gate tunnel cut a dark bore through its foundations, and they emerged from it only to see the next wall soaring above them. The killing ground between the walls was dark and shadowed, a deep gulf fifty yards wide, and beyond the second wall rose a third. A new set of bastioned towers flanked the approach road as it passed through each successive wall, and each of those walls had its own massive gates and portcullises. The approach road was designed to be swept by defensive fire in the open, and the thought of the carnage archers could wreak
on any attacker was sobering, yet as their way plunged back into each gate tunnel, scattered circles of light gleamed on the dark paving. They fell from openings high above, and when Kenhodan passed under one of them and peered upward he saw a metal-lined hole that reached up to the battlements above. He shivered, recognizing still more outlets for banefire. Anyone who carried the outer gates would find the tunnel a death trap.
The passage seemed to stretch forever, and even the dim afternoon light at the eastern end was dazzling when he finally emerged from it.
He blinked, clearing his sight, and stared out over the city those massive fortifications shielded. On the far side, the eastern walls towered even higher than the western walls, and the cloud-hidden sun was a bright pewter patch above the western battlements behind him. The bar of the walls’ shadow reached darkly before him, and his eyes widened in surprise as they dropped to the city itself. The buildings were of the same granite as the walls, but that was the only similarity. It was if the fortress had two faces: one fanged with steel against its enemies, the other warm and alive to welcome friends.
Multicolored slate roofed the buildings and walls danced with agile frescoes and bas reliefs vibrant with energy. Even the clifflike inner sweep of the third curtainwall was covered with intricate, cunning mosaics. South Keep was a place of war, and Tomanāk’s mace and sword dominated many of the carvings and mosaics, but others were peaceful, almost whimsical. Here a maiden peeped shyly up at her lover. There an entire village danced barefoot in the wooden vats of the season’s first pressing. And on another wall, children vied with one another in sports and games or raced across alpine meadows with high flying kites.
The scenes were bewildering in their variety, yet all flowed smoothly together, as if wrought by a single hand, and the colorful roofs completed the composition, turning the inside of the grim fortress into an oasis that celebrated not death, but life. A single structure—citadel and palace in one—dominated its center, its sheer walls and towers alien to the cheerful kaleidoscope about it, yet somehow not marring it, and a tall staff atop its central keep showed the axe of the King Emperor over the crossed swords and axe of an imperial governor.
Kenhodan blinked at that. At first sight, it was ridiculous to equate a fortress commander with the viceroy of an entire province, if that was what the governor’s banner implied. Yet it became less ridiculous as he considered it. If South Keep was the most powerful military bastion of the Empire, its commander had better be gifted with extraordinary ability, and it wasn’t unreasonable for him to hold rank appropriate to his responsibility.
But as they moved deeper into the fortress Kenhodan’s attention shifted from the rank of its commander to the tension about him. Every eye was shadowed, and though several called greetings to Wencit or Bahzell, all seemed subdued. Not with fear—this was more like uncertainty, yet it bit deep, whatever it was, and its cumulative effect was contagious. Even Bahzell seemed affected, and Kenhodan watched his eyes move from side to side, searching for the source of the uneasiness. He remembered Wencit’s exchange with Captain Tolos, and a small butterfly of nervousness began to beat its wings within him.
A party of horsemen clattered down the street towards them, led by a tall, narrow man in half-plate, his visored helm open to show wary, mud-brown eyes and a drooping mustache. He drew rein when he saw Wencit.
“Greetings, Wencit!” His voice was high and nasal, grating on the ear. “And to you, Bahzell! Of everyone in the Empire, you’re the two I’d’ve asked to see, given a choice.”
“Greetings, My Lord.” Wencit bowed from the saddle. “What’s amiss?”
“Damned if I know!” The narrow man hawked and spat into the gutter, then smiled grimly. “I’m a plain soldier. All I ever wanted to be. Whatever this is, it’s beyond me. Come to the palace; we’ll discuss it over supper.”
Kenhodan covered his surprise. This was the governor of South Keep? This stoop-shouldered, sharp-toned, staccato-voiced, somehow seedy man?
“Ah,” Bahzell rumbled. “I’ll not be taking food ‘amiss’ whatever else might be afoot!”
“You never have,” the Governor snorted. “Well, come on then! Cooks can find you something, I suppose, Bahzell.”
“It’s to be hoped so,” Bahzell retorted, and the Governor gave another snort.
Earl Bostik’s escort formed around them and pushed briskly through the streets, with Wencit and the Governor at the party’s heart in low-voiced conversation. They looked a bit odd—despite Bostik’s height, Wencit had to bend low in Byrchalka’s saddle to hear him—but no one seemed disposed to laugh. No one else could catch their words, either, but Kenhodan heard the irritating, drillbit cadence of Bostik’s indecipherable voice and shook his head mentally.
Their brisk pace carried them quickly to the Governor’s palace. Its walls lacked the strength of the main fortress, but it was a formidable castle in its own right. Though an effort had been made to provide a pleasant residence, it could clearly hold its own against attackers for a long period. Unlike the main fortress, it was moated, its walls rising sheer from the water to overhanging battlements, and Kenhodan saw carp darting in the clear water as they clattered over the drawbridge.
The courtyard was paved in pastel flags, and stable boys dashed to take the horses. Glamhandro snorted at the strange hand on his bridle, but calmed at a word from Kenhodan. The coursers, though, shook off the ostlers disdainfully and paced majestically in the proper direction. Bostik watched the two of them go and barked a laugh.
“Imagine Walsharno’s about to set the stable by its ears!” he said, smiling crookedly up at Bahzell. “And who’s the other fellow, if I can ask?”
“His name is Byrchalka, My Lord,” Wencit replied. “He’s agreed to bear me, but his heart’s been badly wounded. His wind brother was murdered in Korun.”
Bostik’s half-smile disappeared, and the muddy brown eyes went bleak.
“Be Krahana’s own hells to pay for that,” he said grimly, and looked back at Bahzell. “Know who did it?”
“Aye,” Bahzell replied, equally grimly. “A fellow named Chernion, assuming the little bastard as had Byrchalka locked in a stall was after telling the truth.”
“Chernion!” the Governor hissed. Neither he nor Bahzell noticed the quick flicker of “Elrytha’s” eyes. “Now, there’s a whoreson whose head I’d like to see over West Gate!”
“That you’ll not be doing.” Bahzell’s ears shifted in unmistakable satisfaction. “The two of us were after having a brief discussion in the Forest of Hev. I’m thinking he’ll not have any more of them.”
“That way, was it?” Bostik looked up at the hradani in obvious approval. “In that case, looks to me like you’ve already accomplished one good thing on this trip!”
“I’d like to think we have, at any rate,” Wencit said. “And in the meantime, I believe something was mentioned about food?”
“Aye, so it was!” The Governor’s wide, froglike mouth curved in a slow smile that was the first really pleasant thing about him Kenhodan had noticed. “And from Bahzell’s expression, we’d best be getting to it quick!”
Bostik chuckled at his own wit, and the travelers followed him into his home. The passages were wide and warm, with coal fires burning on numerous hearths. Colorful tapestries covered the walls, and narrow windows high up under the western eaves admitted the fading afternoon. Their stained-glass turned the gray light into a tangled spill of color despite the dimness of the day.
They entered a large room with an intricately patterned black and white floor. Desks covered half that floor, and maps covered the walls, dotted with little flags mounted on pins. Clerks and officers bustled purposefully, and Kenhodan’s respect for Bostik rose. This was clearly a well-oiled team, keeping affairs moving with minimal intrusion from the Governor, and Kenhodan recognized the strength of personality needed to head such a staff…and to be willing to delegate to it once it was in place.
A plain wooden chair sat on a low dais, the i
mperial axe worked in silver and six feet tall on the wall behind it. The floor immediately before it was clear, and as Bostik dropped into the chair, additional seats arrived magically for his guests. Small tables followed, and then steaming plates of the best food Kenhodan had tasted since Belhadan. A gray-haired man took Bostik’s helmet and battered sword, and the governor wiggled out of his armor and arming doublet with a sigh of relief and sprawled back in a plain linen shirt, left knee bent over one chair arm.
Kenhodan watched him between mouthfuls, and his earlier impression changed steadily. Bostik’s voice was hardly that of a leader of men, and his narrow body was long and gawky. His face was homely—to put it kindly—with its long jaw and drooping mustache, but it had an underlying power, and his dark hair, tied back in a warrior’s braid, lent him more strength. His fingers were long and powerful, callused from long hours wrapped around a sword hilt, and although he lounged sloppily in his chair, his movements were quick and purposeful and his dyspeptic manner hid his swift mind only poorly.
“Now, Wencit,” the high-pitched voice cut through the clatter of plates. “Bahzell I know, of course, but make me known to your other friends.”
“Certainly, My Lord. This is Elrytha of the Border Wardens.”
Chernion looked up and nodded respectfully. Earl or no, the Governor would receive only an equal’s deference from any borderer. Border wardens were the King Emperor’s personal agents, charged with keeping order in areas where even the Royal and Imperial Army rarely ventured.
“Border Warden.” The dull eyes gleamed as Bostik returned her nod.
“And this is Kenhodan, a comrade of ours from Belhadan.”
“Welcome,” the Governor said, and Kenhodan rose to bow.
“Thank you, My Lord. Your cooks have already made me fully welcome, though!”