by P D Ceanneir
2
Lord Ness placed his wine goblet onto one corner of the map of the Hinterland to hold it down. He took a compass in one hand, a quill in the other and mumbled to himself as he made calculations on a scrap piece of parchment. Prince Havoc, sitting at the head of the dining table inside the Boarjövrd Tavern, moved his plate of spiced pork and freshly baked bread away from the corner of the map that threatened to engulf his meal.
‘Do you have to do that now, Master?’ he said with a slight irritation in his voice.
‘I’m just making some final adjustments to Captain Danyil’s proposed search pattern,’ said the Ri.
‘Oh, don’t stop him now, Boss,’ said Furran as he pulled another leg off the roast chicken he was eating and waved it in the air, ‘every time we get lost in the mountains he always brings us back here. So, I’m not complaining.’
The others around the table all nodded in agreement. Marlene, the leader of the Wyvern Faille, scowled at Furran’s eating habits as he spoke through a mouth full of chicken and then belched. Truth be told, it was well known amongst the crew of the Cybeleion that she had a soft spot for the rough, stocky knight.
‘What Sir Furran is trying to say so elegantly is, are we any closer to finding the Second Marker?’ said Marlene.
Lord Ness looked up from the map and noticed that everyone around the table was staring back at him, their faces a picture of expectation. He had to agree that the past two months of searching for the elusive marker that pointed the way to Mortkraxnoss was becoming tedious in the extreme. Every time the Cybeleion flew into the vast regions of high mountains, the ships compasses went haywire and this caused them to become dangerously lost. If it were not for the skilled leadership and experience of Danyil and Tyban then they would surely still be floating through the deep valleys searching for elusive passes beyond the high wall of cloud-capped mountains.
Ness Ri cleared his throat, ‘well, I believe I have narrowed down our search area to only a few ruined monasteries and two Castle-mounts, as they are known here. However, hampered as we are by the quality of these old maps, even Tyban has trouble deciphering the symbols; I think it best if we hire a local guide.’
Captain Danyil sipped from his goblet. ‘Agreed,’ he said with a nod, ‘although, there is a slight problem with that, my Lord. I have been to the Hinterland many times in the past and you will be hard pushed to find anyone with knowledge of the mountain interior. It has rarely been mapped in the past and few venture beyond the hunting regions near the slopes. The Plysarus Mountains, even on this side of West Thanis, is immense. I doubt you will find a suitable guide here in Hjornfelt. But,’ and at this he shrugged, ‘I have been wrong before.’
Havoc rubbed his chin in thought. The captain was very rarely wrong about anything.
‘Fine,’ said the prince, ‘let’s ask the locals.’ He raised his hand and the young freckle-faced waitress skipped through the tables towards him carrying her round wooden tray and smiling with genuine joy.
‘Yes, sir?’ she said with a bright smile. As with all Hinterland females, her long blonde hair neatly tied into two plaits that hung down each side of her head and tied at the bottom with bright yellow bows made from silk. Her dress was yellow, low cut to reveal ample cleavage and sleeveless, although the soft leather apron she wore covered most of the dress. She also wore finely made calfskin boots that cuffed just below the knees. In a trading town like Hjornfelt there was no shortage of cheap cobblers and dressmakers for the locals to buy their attire from.
‘Are you all enjoying the food?’ she asked, with that soft burr to her accent that Havoc found so appealing. All of the Paladin-knights answered her with full-mouthed mumbles in one of those embarrassing, and yet comical, moments. Marlene sighed and shook her head whilst, beside her, Tia smiled.
‘Another round of drinks for my friends,’ announced the prince to rapturous banging of fists on the wooden table. ‘Tell me, my dear, do you know of any decent mountain guides in town?’
The girl’s brow furrowed into little wrinkles as she took a moment to think, ‘none lately, sir. Don’t get many through this way. Hjornfelt is on the trade road for fishing and freelance marketers heading to the island clans and beyond. No call for Mountainwalkers to come here.’
Velnour groaned into his soup so loudly that everyone looked at him, ‘not only are we always getting lost, but we’re in the wrong place to get found.’
Everyone laughed, including the girl. She tucked her tray under her arm, ‘maybe Bors will know more,‘ she said, pointing towards the large broad-shouldered barkeep as she called him over. ‘He deals with many of the traders that pass through here.’
Bors was a huge man; well over six feet tall and his figure still trim for a man in his sixties. He walked with a slight stoop and his left arm was missing at the elbow. His face was badly scarred on one side, but he was once a handsome man in his youth.
Lord Ness explained their situation to the barkeep and pointed to areas on the map that they had covered and where they intended to head next. Bors listened to him intently and scrutinised the map over the Ri’s shoulder while scratching at his thick bushy beard.
‘If, as you say,’ boomed Bors with a heavy accent and rumble in his throat, ‘you seek out the fabled Isle of the Dead, why would you seek out a structure in the mountain interior?’
‘Because there is a Marker Stone somewhere inside one of those structures pointing the way,’ said Lord Ness, ‘at least, that’s as much as we know.’
‘Hmmm…this marker…what is so special about it?’ said Bors, ‘I mean, what does it look like?’
Havoc said, ‘we are not sure, but it will definitely have Rawn Skrolwork on its surface.’
The barkeep nodded and smiled, ‘I think you seek the Castle-mount of Sjardhiem. It is a tale told to us as children by our parents, that the great High-king Grendal the Wayfarer had a strange monolith inside his feasting hall of Sjardhiem. The writing on it was not of the Hinterland in origin and thought to have been a gift from the “People of the Desert”.
The group at the table began to murmur excitedly amongst themselves. Lord Ness looked over the map again, ‘I do not see Sjardhiem here.’
‘That’s because you are using an old Fyrandian map, sir. They usually keep their own titles for places since they conquered many miles of the highlands centuries ago.’ He leaned forward and pointed to a castle symbol with a central spire, which said Lythardium. ‘There is Sjardhiem.’
‘Excellent!’ said the Ri, ‘but there is no road to it or any named passes and it is deep inside the mountain territory.’
Bors shrugged, ‘neither there are, at least, no roads that still exist today. Sjardhiem has been lost to the Hinterlanders for centuries. However, there is only one man I know that has been there recently, or so local gossip says,’ he shrugged his big shoulders, ‘I never believe gossip, though.’
‘Who?’
The barkeep hesitated for a few seconds and then shook his head.
‘Very well. He goes by the name of Elric Stormstrider.’
The table went silent, so too did the entire bar. Guests turned to look at the barkeep and listen in on the conversation with the newcomers.
Little Kith spat out a chunk of venison onto his plate and rubbed the grease from his chin. ‘Did you say “Elric Stormstrider”? The Elric Stormstrider?’
The barkeep nodded.
‘You have to be kidding me!’ said Foxe, ‘he’s still alive?’
‘Alive and well, Sir Knight,’ said Bors respectfully, noting that the guests before him wore military clothing and Rogun ranking insignias sewn into their lapels and chest. Of course, the Ri and the fellow with the long dark hair tied into a golden cup were obvious Rawn Nobility.
Havoc was not following any of this, ‘erm... I don’t want to appear ill informed regarding famous Hinterlanders, but who is Elric Stormstrider?’
Everyone now looked at the prince in shock; clearly, he was the only one who did not k
now who this man was. He felt very self-conscious, ‘sorry. I don’t get out much.’
‘Elric Stormstrider,’ answered Lord Ness, ‘is probably one of the most famous warriors in the Hinterland. His exploits are legendary.’
Velnour said, ‘as a child I heard he defeated a three-thousand strong Helaklean army near Hearn’s Keep in Jalfrin Bolt…’
‘The Battle of Hearn’s Keep,’ cut in Furran, ‘I heard that one too.’
‘It was actually four thousand,’ added Bors.
‘Oh, so he’s a battle commander?’ asked Havoc, a proven general of soldiers himself.
‘Er…no, sir. He fought on his own that day,’ said Bors.
‘Really?’
‘Told you he was famous,’ added Lord Ness. ‘Where can we find him?’
‘Ah, now that part is easy. I also see a sense of irony in this. He is in Sythar-Nord, a high security prison for the extremely dangerous,’ said Bors grinning. ‘In the past Lythardium was used by the Imperial Realm as a form of prison for the criminally insane. They built Sythar-Nord as a sister prison for political exiles until they deserted it three hundred years ago. For some hundred years now the Argentium have used it as a prison for our more…erm… shall we say, more unsociable Hinterlanders.’
‘Wait a minute!’ cried Furran, ‘how did anybody manage to capture Elric in the first place?’
Bors sighed, ‘it’s no secret that Elric Stormstrider has upset the Argentium on many occasions. Recently he had angered the king by sleeping with four of his daughters…’
The Paladins chuckled and Hexor got a savage scowl from Tia when he said, ‘I’m starting to like this Elric already.’
‘…and the queen,’ finished Bors to ructious laughter. ‘Only a month ago he gave himself up and arrived at the prison gates asking to be incarcerated for his crimes.’
‘Really?’ said a surprised Sir Powyss, ‘that does not sound like the Elric Stormstrider of legend.’
Bors shrugged for a final time and turned away to wander back to his duties behind the bar. Over his shoulder, he said to them, ‘few know what goes on in his head, but what I do know is that Marauder Dooms don’t do anything without good reason.’
3
The Hinterland laws laid down in the Vorlkwern were similar in many ways to Rogun and Vallkyte Civic Laws and the National State Law. The leading advocates in the Wards dealt with most small and petty crimes. Larger crimes, such as rustling, assault and theft were usually, depending on the severity, judged by the local Jarl’s numerous Jötnor courts or landed judiciary representatives.
The Royal Jötnor dealt with the more serious crimes, such as murder, via the Argentium. Most of those found guilty spent lengthy sentences inside the harsh, labour intensive prison that was Sythar-Nord.
Havoc had seen prisons before but he was unprepared by the sheer size of Sythar-Nord. It was virtually a sprawling town behind one hundred feet high walls sitting halfway up a snow covered mountain on the east side of the Plysarus Mountain Range. The prison was only accessible via a wide wooden bridge that spanned the flatter Sythar Plateau on its western flanks. Tall, manned archery towers flanked each side of the bridge right along its length. The prince and his small party cantering along the wooden road of the bridge got a sense of being watched by the unseen guards inside the towers. Occasionally they could just see the business end of a Sjvollis Bow following them. The huge bows were about the size of a Rogun Gollas, but attached to a fixed stand and capable of firing their huge metal arrows from five separate bow arms, one above the other.
‘A death trap,’ grunted Little Kith as he glanced from one imposing tower to another.
‘Agreed,’ nodded Havoc beside him. He rose up onto Dirkem’s stirrups to get a better look over the bridge wall. All he could see was a sheer drop into a mist-covered valley below. The prison itself just seemed to grow out of the mountain. A chill autumnal wind brushed past them, bringing with it a flutter of early winter snow.
‘Difficult to get in and even harder to get out,’ added Furran who was eyeing the towers with some trepidation each time he passed one. ‘That’s six on each side I’ve counted and we’re only half way there, smacks of overkill if you ask me.’
‘Did we ask for your opinion?’ growled Little Kith over his shoulder.
‘No, but I am giving it!’ snapped Furran.
‘I’m surprised at you, Furran,’ chirped Gunach, who for the last few days of shore leave had disappeared amongst the many bars and taverns in Hjornfelt. Havoc was to learn later that the Dwarves always liked the Hinterland; it was their second home.
‘What?’ asked Furran, ‘surprised that I have an opinion?’
‘No, I’m surprised that you can count.’
Little Kith’s bark of laughter could be heard echoing off the surrounding cliffs.
Furran sighed. He was unused to being the butt of anyone’s quips. He turned to look behind them. Commander Powyss and Lord Ness were bringing up the rear. They were both smiling at him.
‘Remind me again why we brought the dwarf?’ he asked as he ignored Gunach.
‘Because he can speak the language,’ answered Powyss.
‘And the peoples of the Hinterland get on very well with dwarves, more so than any other race,’ added Ness Ri.
‘And,’ chucked Powyss, ‘unlike you, He has an opinion.’
This time Kith and Havoc laughed as they looked back to listen in on the conversation.
‘Oh, I see,’ Furran scowled, ‘is this “take the piss out of Furran day”, or something?’
‘A day like any other,’ said Gunach, ‘so, yes.’
‘Right, stumpy…’ began Furran.
Powyss whistled though his teeth at the comment. Most dwarves were gentle creatures, Gunach was no exception, but they did not take kindly to name calling about their height or even their appearance. Gunach, however, remained impassive.
‘… Give it your best shot!’ finished Furran.
Gunach held up his hands in a calming gesture, ‘there is no need to be so defensive, Furran, I was merely pointing out your lack of counting skills. Now, how many fat little digits am I holding up?’ he waggled his fingers and grinned.’
Furran reined in his mount, ‘Right, that’s it! I am throwing the dwarf over the side of the bridge. Don’t try and stop me!’
Everyone laughed until Kith shouted out that they had reached the end of the bridge and that the huge steel gates were opening to admit them into the prison courtyard. It was here that they met the Jötnor Administrator, a tall bearded man in a long blue and grey robe by the name of Köthal. Like most Jötnor the front of his head was shaved into a Tonsure, while the rest flowed down his back, unbraided.
Everyone dismounted, as convicts wearing tattered, one-piece linen smocks and thick woollen trousers called Brega, took the horses away towards the stables. Lord Ness handed a sheaf of paperwork to the tall Jötnor who scrutinised the signatures at the bottom of each one.
It had taken weeks in order to gather enough permission notes to even step into Sythar-Nord. It soon became clear that no one was ever granted the right to visit a relative inside. Only the fame and noble ranking of the De Proteous speeded up the process somewhat. Havoc, for his part, did not wish to make a fuss. Relations between the Hinterlanders and his own people were always good and he felt his presence would cause ructions, especially because he had no desire to present himself to the current Hinterland High-king unannounced when even his father’s ambassadors did not know he was in the area. Royal Protocol, under these circumstances, had to be adhered too. Of course, protocol did not necessarily apply to Ri and Lord Ness had a way of getting what he wanted.
The strict rules regarding visiting could be waived in regard of the Prince and the Ri, but as soon as the name of the convict was mentioned, then panic set in amongst the Jötnor’s usually calm demeanour.
‘This is highly irregular, Master Ri,’ said Köthal, as he shuffled through the paperwork with extremely shaky hands. Ha
voc had noticed that the Jötnor prided themselves in their emotional discipline. The Blacksword, always quick to judge someone’s emotions but having none himself, also remarked that there was a barely disguised level of stress simmering below the surface of most Jötnor they dealt with; Köthal had that same look, his voice wavered as he spoke as if he battled against some internal struggle.
‘I realise that, Administrator, but our time is short and we need to take Elric Stormstrider into our custody to continue our mission,’ said Lord Ness, ‘the paperwork is stamped and perfectly legal.’
‘I do not dispute the work of my colleagues,’ said Köthal, ‘taking such a…creature…into your custody is dangerous. He is not to be trusted. He is better off in the high-security wing forever!’
‘Hang on a minute!’ Gunach said as he stepped in beside the Ri, ‘you have a high-security wing in a high-security prison?’
The Administrator looked the dwarf up and down with a curled lip. Clearly, not everyone in the Hinterland liked dwarves.
‘Yes, we do,’ the Jötnor sighed, ‘it was built next to the mine tunnels over a hundred years ago to imprison our more “dangerous” offenders.’ The reference to the mine surprised Havoc.
‘Mine?’
Köthal bowed as he spoke to the prince, ‘yes, highness, the prison sits on top of a gold mine. The prisoners awarded Hard Labour sentences mine the metal and the proceeds got to the royal coffers.’
Havoc doubted that all the profits would reach their final destination intact without a percentage first going to the Jötnor and the Argentium.
The Administrator turned back to the Ri, ‘I urge caution, Master Ri, I have many prison guards here to watch over Stormstrider. Even chained he is lethal. The Marauder Doom is not to be trusted. He…’
‘Administrator!’ snapped Lord Ness with a tone of authority that Havoc had not heard since his academy days. It had an effect on Köthal because he stood up straight and went pale, ‘where is the danger here? A man chained inside brick walls, or a Ri rapidly running out of patience?’