by Tim Stead
“Lord Henn,” Blackwood greeted him as he entered. “Perhaps you can help us settle an argument.”
“Hardly my place as your host,” he replied.
“But you are something of a scholar,” Yurdal said. That wasn’t really true, but compared to Yurdal…
“I read a bit, it’s true,” he said.
“Well, then,” Blackwood ploughed on. “Who do you think was the better commander – Arbak or Hebberd?”
It was an old chestnut, a favourite argument among men who studied strategy.
“I cannot say,” Callan told them. “As you know, the two men never fought on opposing sides. They were never tested against each other.”
“But your opinion, Callan, what is your opinion?”
“My opinion, my lords, is that they were friends. It is known that they discussed tactics at various points in the Great War, most notably at Fal Verdan. Hebberd had the better classical education, but Arbak was more innovative. There is no doubt that they fed off one another, and neither would have been so great without that friendship.”
Yurdal laughed. “A scholar’s answer indeed,” he said. “Doesn’t it hurt to sit so much upon a fence?”
“Speculation is no substitute for knowledge, my lords.”
“He makes a good point, though,” Blackwood said.
A soldier clattered into the hall, out of breath. All heads turned.
“What is it?” Callan asked. He recognised the man’s uniform as that of Lord Umber’s regiment.
“It is my lord,” the soldier said. “We cannot rouse him, and the door of the chamber is bolted from the inside.”
Umber had three children and a wife. Surely one of them would have responded?
“You have made every effort?” Callan asked.
“We have beaten on the door for ten minutes straight, My Lord.”
“Then I will come at once.” Blackwood heaved himself out of his chair to follow, but Callan waved him back. “Don’t trouble yourself, My Lord,” he said. “I will let you know if there is a problem.”
Blackwood hesitated, and then sat back down. “As you say, Callan. This is your house.”
He followed the soldier up a winding stair to the door of Lord Umber’s chamber. There was quite a gathering outside, all of them Umber’s people, his steward, his guard captain, even his secretary was standing there wringing anxious hands.
“Be quiet,” he told them, and the hubbub died away. Callan put his ear to the wood. “Lord Umber!” he shouted. There was only silence beyond the door. “Lady Umber!” A man behind him shuffled. He waited a full half minute. Nothing. This had the makings of something very bad.
“Break it down,” he told them.
An axe was fetched and one of the burlier guards began to swing it. Chips of wood flew about, but the door was thick and strong and it was five minutes before one of the men could reach inside and draw the bolt.
Callan followed the steward into the room. It was still dark here, the thick shutters locked in place, and he went to open them. Something was very wrong, but the room smelled like any bed chamber in the morning – a little musty, but sweetened by perfume and candle smoke.
Light flooded in.
It was immediately apparent that Lord and Lady Umber were still in their bed, and only slightly less obvious that they were quite dead.
Callan checked the remaining windows. All the shutters were firmly closed. With a growing sense of dread, he walked through to the adjoining room where the children had been sleeping and unbolted the shutters. They, too, were dead. Their small bodies curled beneath blankets as though they still slept.
This was a disaster. Not only that, but nobody could have got into the room to kill Lord Umber’s family. The door had been bolted from the inside. The windows had been closed or shuttered. His first step was to learn more. He went over to Umber’s bed and pushed aside the steward. He had to know how they’d died. It could only be poison.
He pulled back the blankets.
Both Lord Umber and his wife showed no signs of struggle, or even discomfort, but each bore a red flowering of blood, seeming to indicate that they had been stabbed to death.
Murder and suicide?
There was no weapon to hand, so unless Lord Umber had managed to throw the knife out of the window, close the shutters and climb back into bed after he’d stabbed himself it seemed unlikely. He turned to Umber’s guard captain.
“I need to understand how this happened,” he said. “The bodies must be examined.”
The captain shrugged. “I have failed,” he said. “My lord is dead and my only purpose now is to see him avenged. You may do what needs to be done.”
“But there must be respect,” the steward protested.
“As much as there can be,” Callan promised. “And when we have gleaned what we can they will be buried with all due ceremony.”
Callan knew he could do nothing, but Dardanel was different. His steward was a man of many talents, and if anyone could find answers, it would be him.
19 The Farheim Roads
The house was modest. It perched high on a hill overlooking a lush green valley dotted with fat sheep, the far slopes were dark with oak trees that climbed to the ridge line. Apart from the view, however, it was little more than a cottage.
The modesty didn’t deceive Sheyani. This was the house of Amberline Esh Zaleh, Abadonist supreme. They had become friends years ago. Sheyani had been a friend of her grandmother, who had sat on the ruling council of Durandar. Amberline had no such ambition. Nor had the woman trekked to Col Boran as so many Durander mages had done. She preferred the simple life, it seemed – to concentrate on her art and live apart from the rest of her kind.
It was fortunate that this place was so close to one of the Farheim Gates. A mere five hours forced march had brought Caster, Sheyani and her guard of Wolfen here.
“Wait here,” she commanded them.
“There may be danger.” Lieutenant Quinifa was a grim young man, hard as nails and determined to perform his allotted task.
“She is a friend,” Sheyani told him. “And she is an Abadonist. If she sees armed men approaching her house she will not be there when we arrive. Wait.”
The man nodded. Keen he might be, but like all the Wolfen he seemed to bend to reason.
“I will come with you,” Caster said. Sheyani nodded. One man would not frighten her friend if they walked side by side.
Sheyani and Caster left the Wolfen and walked up the winding gravel path together. They were twenty paces from the door when it opened.
The woman who waited for them looked a few years Sheyani’s senior, but was yet to see thirty summers.
“My favourite aunt,” she said as they drew near. “But you come with an army.”
“Not for you, dear Amberline,” Sheyani said. “I am travelling many roads and Cain insisted. They are Wolfen, and this is Caster, Narak’s sword master.”
“I am honoured to meet you, Caster.” Amberline craned her neck to peer past Sheyani at the soldiers. “Wolfen? Interesting. They look quite well made.” She smiled.
Sheyani shook her head. “This is serious, Amberline. It touches the Avilian war. Cain is in some danger and I have a task to complete.”
“Tea?” the younger woman asked.
Sheyani sighed. “Why not?”
They went inside. The house was immaculate. Three walls were packed with shelves and the shelves packed with jars and pots, herbs, spices and strange objects Sheyani did not recognise. The fourth wall was completely bare and scrubbed clean.
Amberline poured boiling water into a pot and strained the contents into three cups. She offered one each to Sheyani and Caster. Sheyani accepted hers and sipped at the contents. The drink was hot and sweet, the taste pleasant.
“So,” Amberline said. “You need my help.”
“I do.” She explained in detail the disposition of forces, the northern regiments marching south too slow to arrive in time, the plan to hasten
the cavalry and take the infantry to Bas Erinor by magic.
“Farheim roads?” Amberline asked. “I have not heard of these. You keep secrets well, aunt.”
“It is hardly a secret worth knowing,” Sheyani said. “Only a Farheim can hold the doorway open. To a natural man the doorways are as impassable as stone.”
“Even so, this touches upon my own art. I would be interested to travel with you and your fine men.”
“That would be acceptable, I think,” Sheyani replied. “But time is short. We need to leave soon.”
Amberline stood up. “Where was it you wished to go?”
“Avilian. The King’s Road north of Bas Erinor,” Caster said. “The last of the regiments left High Stone yesterday, so I guess they will be twenty to thirty miles south of there.”
“I know the road well enough,” Amberline said. “I travelled much in my youth, and have seen many places.”
That was traditional. Abadonists needed to have a memory of a place to go there, and so they were generally inveterate travellers. Even so, Sheyani wondered what she’d meant by ‘in my youth’.
Amberline picked up a piece of charcoal and began to draw on the clean, white wall. She drew in bold strokes, the line of the road stretching from left to right, angling slightly down, the horizon, a tree trunk rising in the foreground, and then more trees. As she drew the lines began to gather details to themselves unbidden. The line of the road became a road, the trees blurred into leaf, and within a minute they were looking through a window onto the King’s Road. Sheyani could hear birds singing. The leaves rustled in a light breeze.
“Amazing,” Caster said.
“More than you know,” Sheyani told him. “Most Abadonist Mages would have taken twenty minutes to do this. Amberline is a great talent. That is why we are here.”
Caster picked a coin out of his pocket and tossed in into the picture. It passed through and clinked among stones by a tree trunk.
“We can go through?” he asked.
“Of course,” Amberline said. “But I do not see your soldiers. Perhaps we should try further south?”
“Yes, of course.”
The mage muttered a few words and tapped the wall three times. The charcoal fell of the wall like dust and the image vanished. She drew again. The line of the road was different, the placement of trees and horizon had changed.
“We are five miles further south,” she said. “Look.”
In the distance Sheyani could clearly see a column of men moving south along the road. They were too far away for her to see their colours, but the men were emerging from a forested stretch and looked like a full regiment with cavalry, infantry and wagons all in marching order.
“Excellent,” Caster said. “That must be Yurdal’s regiment. We must go through at once.”
Amberline pursed her lips, and Sheyani guessed that now the time had come to depart, and so suddenly, that she was reconsidering her plan to travel with them. But the hesitation was brief.
“You can bring your Wolfen up to the house, aunt,” she said. “I have a few things to gather if I’m to be of use to you elsewhere. I need only a few minutes.”
Sheyani went out the cottage door and waved to Quinifa, who immediately led his men up the slope at a trot.
“All is well?” He stopped before the house with his hand upon his blade.
“All is well,” Sheyani said. “We are about to travel back to Avilian.”
“Through an Abadonist’s gate?” he asked. He looked more animated than she had seen him since he saw the Farheim Gate. He was clearly not afraid, and embraced every new thing. It was so different from the attitude of his ancestors, clinging to the immutable ways of their book, that Sheyani found it fascinating. The Wolfen had made themselves the opposite of Seth Yarra.
Quinifa and his men followed her into the cottage, making it a crowded and uncomfortable space. Amberline was rummaging in a large trunk in the corner, packing things into a satchel.
“A moment more,” she said. She picked up a blade from beside the trunk, a half-length thing somewhere between a long knife and a short sword. She strapped it to her waist. “Ready. Shall we go?”
Caster stepped through, and the Wolfen poured through on his heels, all but Quinifa, who stood to one side, waiting for Sheyani.
“It’s been a long time since I had an adventure,” Amberline said. “Let us hope it is a pleasant one.” She stepped through. Sheyani followed, Quinifa came through last and they found themselves standing on a hillside above the King’s Road. The men on the road had already seen them, and a dozen riders were approaching. Caster was waiting, slouching against a tree and perfectly at ease. The Wolfen looked less relaxed. They had taken up positions in a line, and three of them had strung bows.
“They won’t fight, will they?” Amberline asked. She seemed apprehensive.
“Not if these are Yurdal’s men,” Sheyani assured her.
The horsemen reined in a few yards short.
“Who are you?” their officer demanded.
“You are Lord Yurdal’s regiment?” Caster asked.
“We are.”
“Then I am Caster of Wolfguard, and this,” he indicated Sheyani, “is the lady Sheyani Arbak, Duchess of Bas Erinor.”
The man on the horse inclined his head. “Then you are most welcome,” he said. “I am Captain Ravanesh, at your service. May I ask your purpose?”
“You may, but I’d rather reveal it to your colonel. We bear a message from the Duke.”
“At once,” the captain said. He slipped down from the saddle and handed his reins to one of his men. “I will escort you back. My men will take word of your arrival to the colonel.” Sheyani could see that he was eyeing the Wolfen suspiciously, but he was too polite, perhaps, to ask.
They walked down the trail beaten by the horse’s hooves and as the approached the road a second group of riders came to meet them with a dozen spare horses. The man in charge was thick set, square faced and wore no helmet on his close-cropped, iron-grey hair.
“You’re Lord Caster?” he asked. Caster agreed that he was. “Colonel Vandermay at your service. Can we hear your message on the hoof? We have miles to cover.”
“That will suit for now,” Caster said. “And you have further to go than you know.”
He mounted, as did Sheyani, Amberline, and the Wolfen. Amberline looked especially pleased to be on horseback.
“So,” Vandermay said, spurring his mount alongside Caster’s. “What news from Bas Erinor?”
“You will not arrive before Alwain,” Caster said. “You will be shut out of the city, but there is a plan.”
“Tell me.”
“The cavalry will ride with all speed to the city. We believe that you will arrive before Alwain if you do this. The infantry will reach the city by another route.”
Vandermay frowned. “I do not like to leave my foot soldiers so unprotected. Why can’t my cavalry travel by this ‘other route’?”
“It is a question of size, colonel. A man may pass where a horse may not.”
Vandermay considered this for a moment. “I don’t like it, Lord Caster. You say this comes from General Arbak himself?”
“It does.”
“Well, I can see how it favours Bas Erinor. All the risk is carried by us. If my infantry is caught without cavalry support our losses could be very great indeed. What route will you take?”
“I will ride with you as far as Lord Blackwood’s regiment and turn back with his infantry. You will continue with his cavalry to Bas Erinor. You should catch Kinray before you reach the city.”
“And this other route?”
“It will take us east of the King’s Road a way.”
“It is magic, then.”
“It is.”
Vandermay scratched his greying head. “I had thought an Abadonist could not pass so many men so great a distance.”
“So I believe, but we will not be relying on a mage.”
“Not even a god m
age?”
“Eran Pascha has no part of this. We will be using ancient roads built for the Farheim of old.”
Vandermay stared at him for a moment. “Farheim Roads? I have never heard of such things. Even in legend.”
“Well, they are real enough,” Caster said. “We came to Durandar by one, and will travel back to Bas Erinor by another.”
They rode side by side in silence for a while. Sheyani watched them from behind. She knew that Vandermay had no choice. His lord had chosen to recognise Cain as the Duke of Bas Erinor, and the duke had authority to command the armed forces of Avilian. If he refused this order, he would be guilty of treason against both sides.
She was proven right.
“We will ride with you,” the colonel said. “I will give the orders.” He turned to Sheyani. “Will you be staying with the foot, My Lady?”
“Someone must guide them, and I know the way,” she replied.
“I will leave you a dozen horses…”
“There is no need. Leave sufficient to pull the wagons, no more. We will walk.”
Vandermay nodded. “As you wish, My Lady. I will leave you in the hands of Captain Ravanesh and your… escort.” He eyed the Wolfen once more. It was clear that he had no idea who they were, but like Ravanesh before him he did not want to ask and Sheyani was not inclined to explain.
It took the best part of half an hour to split the regiment. The cavalry loaded up with the supplies they would need for a hard three days, each man carrying his own food and water, and a little after midday they set off at a good pace towards the south, their dust trail fading gradually until the five hundred foot soldiers of Yurdal’s regiment were quite alone. Sheyani found herself walking between Captain Ravanesh and Lieutenant Quinifa. It was like being a valley between two mountains.
“You should know each other,” she told them. “Captain Ravanesh has introduced himself, but this is Lieutenant Quinifa of the Wolfen Pledge. They are loyal to Wolf Narak and to the Duke, my husband.”
Ravanesh eyed the Wolfen, but stuck out a hand. “Anyone loyal to the general is a friend,” he said.