“We shall see how it goes,” Daric said. “Are you and your brother ready?”
“Yes… uh… sorry, we’re late. Father turned into a wailing old woman and would not let us leave.” A disapproving scowl came over her. “I have never seen him act like it before. It was pathetic. Gods, you’d think someone died. We’re only going on a trip.”
Daric grinned at the thought of tough old Theo blubbering. He had some sympathy for the man, particularly after the way he had felt after leaving Mairi behind. “One day, you may be glad there is someone who will miss you when you leave.”
“I certainly hope not!” Elspeth said. She looked around at the troop and gave a quick nod to Gialyn.
He casually nodded back… a little too casually. Daric tried not to laugh.
Grady picked up his pack.
Gialyn had finished repositioning his bedroll and was now standing with his pack in front of him.
Ealian waited behind Elspeth – as usual.
They were all ready to go…
For a moment, Daric wondered what to say. The unexpected twists and turns had put him off his plan, so it seemed.
Olam stepped up. “There is a copse of trees four hours to the east. It is a mile past the first ridge, near to the bottom of the Serath’alor Valley.” He pointed east, where a low-lying ridge, a part of Speerlag cliff, met the horizon. “If I may suggest, it would be a good place to make the first camp. It is by a stream, and there should be plenty of kindling for a nice little fire.
Daric found himself nodding in approval. It seemed Olam was not lying about his knowledge of the road. “Well… if no one has any objection or needs to speak for whatever reason…” He waited; no one spoke. “Then I think we should go with Mr. Olam’s idea.”
Daric paused and waited for a response.
There was none.
“Sir, if you don’t mind me asking,” he asked Olam, “what is your family name? I think it best if the children – all right, Elspeth; you’re not children – if the younger among us can address you properly.”
“It is O’lamb,” Olam said with a grin.
“No… I meant your family name, sir, not your given name.”
“It is O’lamb,” insisted Olam, laughing. “My name is Olam O’lamb. Spelled slightly differently, but sounds the same. Do not ask; my mother was a torturous woman. As for Arfael, he has no other name.”
“Oh,” Daric said, not sure how to respond.
“So, my friends, shall we be off?” Olam O’lamb said.
The wizard turned on his heel and led the travellers towards the bridge. Daric waited for the big man to catch up with his friend before following.
CHAPTER 7
Ships and Scrolls
Groll Id’fae watched as three horsemen rode out of the woods and across the clearing. Their horses struggled in the loose dirt as they climbed the steep gravel slope to the Salrian camp. The three riders stopped at the makeshift gate. Groll, clad in dull half armour, stood in front of the crude barrier. He gripped the hilt of his sword. Yes, he knew the riders were coming, but Groll had no respect for the ambassador. To him, Faelen Cortman was just another Surabhan nobleman: someone worthy of his loathing; someone worth killing, maybe. And never mind the treaties.
“Tell your commander Ambassador Faelen is here,” the Surabhan guard to the ambassador’s right said.
Faelen held the expression of a man who did not like waiting. But Groll did not care. And when Faelen flicked back his cape to reveal the hilt of his ornate sword, the Salrian chuckled to himself while imagining what the ambassador would look like with the jewel-encrusted weapon shoved down his throat. It made for a satisfying image.
Shaking off the thought, Groll turned and pulled the gate rail back from its brace. “He’s expecting you. Go straight ahead.”
He followed as the three horsemen slowly trotted through the gate, never once taking his eyes off Faelen. “We walk our horses up there,” he told the ambassador while nodding over his shoulder at the steep slope the three Surabhan had ridden up.
Faelen spared him a reproachful glance. The ambassador seemed none too pleased at having a mere gateman address him. That brought another smile to Groll’s face. He was enjoying himself; it was a shame their little talk was almost over.
As camps go, the Salrian’s compound was small. Set on the southern face of the Speerlag Cliff, it had a view of the Herann’coi – the forest which ran along the western border of Am’bieth Marsh. Where not shielded by a high rock face, trees, boulders and bushes hid the camp from the prying eyes of passing merchants. Not that there were any merchants this close to the marsh. A pegged tarp covered the exposed side of the cook fire, and another awning, with a table setup underneath, hung off a convenient overhang. A corral held the ten horses and three cart mules they had brought with them. Yes, the camp was small, but they had everything they needed.
Two of Groll’s countrymen met the riders. They took the reins and led the Surabhan horses to a halt in front of the captain’s tent. Si’eth was standing outside, waiting. He did not look pleased the see the Surabhan, either.
The two leaders could hardly look more different…
Si’eth was short, bald – all Salrian men were bald, although they could grow a beard – and pale-skinned. His eyes were light grey – another northerner’s trait, as were his small ears and narrow brow. He wore the same half armour as Groll. His command insignia was a gold stripe on his left shoulder. All the Salrians wore a broad leather belt with a pouch, knife and barbed scimitar attached.
Faelen, on the other hand, was tall and thin. He looked every bit the Kalidhain noble. He had the hooked nose of an easterner and brushed-back black hair. His eyes were dark, too. He would squint now and then, Groll noticed. Maybe he could not see properly. His clothes were mostly a grey-green colour, a mixture of silks and velvet. His sword looked pristine, never bloodied, and had bright jewels embedded in the hilt.
Faelen dismounted and allowed one of the Salrians to lead his horse to the corral. His guards followed suit, and the three stood in line in front of the captain’s tent. Slowly, Faelen stepped forward while meticulously removing his riding gloves, one finger at a time, and then folding them into his belt. He stopped not two hands in front of Si’eth, and then looked down at the captain – as a rule, Surabhan were a good hand taller than Salrians, but the shorter northerners were often stronger. Faelen bowed, keeping his head down for as long as it took Si’eth to acknowledge him, as per the custom. At least he got that bit right.
“You are so welcomed,” Si’eth said, although his tone belied his outward hospitality.
Faelen raised his head and extended his hand in greeting. “I offer my regards to you and to your family, Captain Uldmae. May you prosper and enjoy good health,” he added.
Si’eth gave a brief nod as he shook Faelen’s hand.
Groll knew either man would just as soon shove a knife in the other’s throat. But he also knew both men had their masters, and their duty was clear. Despite the animosity, he did not think there would be any need for him to draw his sword today. He was not sure if he was happy about that, or not.
With eyes fixed on Faelen, Si’eth turned his head slightly and gave a faint nod. Kric, stationed at the entrance to his tent, swept his arm back to open the drape. Si’eth took a step back and, with an exaggerated flourish, waved Faelen into his tent.
Groll followed his captain inside, but only after the ambassador’s guards had checked the interior.
Once inside, Si’eth dispensed with the mock formality. Throwing his cape over the chair back, he sat behind his desk. Then waved Faelen towards the seat in front.
As Groll had expected, the ambassador declined the offer.
Si’eth had furnished his tent as well as any other which Groll had seen on the An’aird-Aleras border. That was to say, barely furnished at all: a simple desk, a few trunks, a small table and three foldaway chairs. Hardly fit for a meeting with a Surabhan ambassador, Groll thought. But
then again, Faelen was not there on official business, so…
Si’eth appeared unperturbed by the ambassador’s presence – if it bothered him, he would not let it show, not to the like of Faelen. But Groll had no doubt that, like him, Si’eth would want their business concluded and the Surabhan gone. It did not feel right, having Surabhan in their camp, and never mind that one of them was a member of the royal court.
“Do you have it?” Si’eth snapped. He seemed to hold his breath while waiting for the ambassador’s reply.
Faelen stood in front of Si’eth’s desk, feet apart, arms folded. “A drink first, perhaps?” he said. Faelen looked over his shoulder and shook his head at his guards. Groll wondered if the man had expected wine and cheese, or maybe a stuffed pig, like the one he had seen in a book about King Eidred. Faelen loosened the clasp on his cloak and handed the garment to his man. “I’ve come a long way. A little refreshment would be in order; don’t you think?”
Si’eth gave the southerner a cool stare while drumming his fingers on the desk. At that moment, he looked ready to leap at the ambassador’s throat. Instead, he ordered Kric to serve wine.
Kric splashed the contents of a wineskin into three steel goblets, then handed them, unceremoniously, to the Surabhan guard standing at Faelen’s right.
Faelen bowed, thanking Kric twice, then saluted Si’eth before drinking the wine straight down.
He licked his lips and lowered the goblet to his side. “Quite a place you’ve made for yourself,” he said. “Nice tents, a little corral for the horses, a kitchen. I bet you have dug a latrine, too. All contrary to the Brion Accord, I might add.”
Si’eth sat back in his chair and folded his arms. “You know, Faelen, they teach us to read up north. I know the border treaty: ‘No more than ten men, and no less than twenty leagues apart.’”
“Yes, the border treaty.” Faelen glanced at Groll, before glaring down at Si’eth. “Shame you Salrians are not on the border. You appear to be three miles on our side!”
Si’eth slapped his palms on the table. “What would you have me do? Hang by my nails from the Speerlag?” He laughed as he leaned back into his chair. “Trust the Surabhan to put a borderline halfway up a cliff.”
“I would expect you to follow the law, be it three miles or thirty. You should not be here, Salrian!” Faelen slammed his goblet down on the desk.
Groll eased his sword from its scabbard as the two Surabhan guards took a step forward. Si’eth raised a hand. Face red, he waved Groll back.
“As I was saying,” Si’eth said, his voice strained. “Do you have the scroll… sir?”
Faelen, who had been leaning forward, scowling, stood up straight and, with a grin, said, “Ah, a little civility. How refreshing.”
Faelen waved one of his guards forward and waited as the man pulled a small wooden chest out from under his cloak. Eyes front, the guard held the chest up in front of him. “Yes, I have it.” Faelen lifted the lid while the chest was still in the guard’s hands, revealing the contents – an ochre scroll with a royal seal lying on top of a purple plush cushion. He closed the lid and handed the chest over.
Si’eth half-stood and quickly took the chest from Faelen’s hands. Sitting, he set the small box down on the desk in front of him and opened it. His lip curled with annoyance as he prodded a finger at the royal seal. “Why is it protected?”
Faelen pulled in a sharp breath and stood almost at attention. “I don’t know why it is sealed… I don’t want to know why it is sealed… and neither, my little friend, do you.”
Si’eth ground his teeth. “You realise, now I have this I could kill you and be done with your insolence.”
Faelen laughed. “We are both puppets, Si’eth, toiling at the belly of the serpent.” Faelen looked vacantly at the packed dirt in front of his feet. “If you knew what I know… if you knew what lay at the head of the serpent… you would not ask such questions.” Faelen stared at the wooden chest. He clenched his jaw, then raised his hand and began scratching at his neck as if suddenly uncomfortable in his skin. “Mark my words, my Salrian friend, an answer is the last thing you need.”
Si’eth stared quizzically at Faelen, doubtless puzzled by the man’s rant. He closed the little box and looked up at Groll, as though asking if he had an answer to the ambassador’s outburst. Groll shrugged. The captain gazed at the polished wooden chest. He followed the gilded edge with his fingertip. Groll thought he must have been wondering what General Alaf’kan had dragged him into this time.
After a long moment, Si’eth raised his eyes from the chest and looked at the ambassador. “We are having dinner soon. You and your men are welcome to stay.” His comment was more matter-of-fact than a cordial invitation, but he suddenly seemed less at odds with the ambassador. Maybe he had understood what Faelen was trying to say. Groll certainly did not.
Faelen stared vacantly for a long moment. He looked taken aback by the offer of food. And for once, he made no snide comments. “No, I want to be on the Baralan Trail before dark. But, thank you for your kind offer, Captain Uldmae.”
Faelen bowed to Si’eth, flicking his gaze between the Salrian captain and the small wooden chest, as though stressing some unspoken warning.
Si’eth stood, bowed, and then turned to Kric. “See that their horses are watered, and our guests have drink and food for their trip.” He walked to the front of the desk, hand outstretched to Faelen.
Faelen took Si’eth’s hand in what appeared to be a grudging acceptance of friendship. But as reticent as the ambassador seemed, his stare was softer than it had been, with less of that Surabhan superiority they all knew too well.
Si’eth led the group out.
As soon as the ambassador’s horses were ready, Si’eth had one of the men bring Faelen a bag of supplies: fresh bread, cheese, cold meats and a good-sized skin of spring water. After another round of bowing, Si’eth watched as the three horsemen rode off down the slope, across the grassy clearing, and on to the trail which wound through the woods.
Groll joined Si’eth at the gate. “Your orders, sir.”
“Put the chest in the east tent and post a guard.” Si’eth turned back to his own tent. “We have two weeks before we need deliver it, but I want the thing gone. We will set off for Taris as soon as Bre’ach gets back – if he gets back. That foolish son of mine has likely got himself lost in the Ambieth.” Si’eth grumbled something about his son’s uselessness. Then said, “Make preparations, I want no delays. The general can deal with whatever had that Surabhan so nervous.”
“He did look worried, didn’t he?” Groll said. “And we still don’t know wh—”
“I’m well aware of what we don’t know, Groll.” Si’eth stopped and rubbed the back of his neck. “Like the man said, we all have our masters. I only hope Alaf’kan knows what he’s doing.”
Groll could not help but grunt. Then mumbled something he hoped Si’eth had not heard.
“What was that?”
“Uh… nothing… Sorry, sir.” Groll lowered his head in apology.
“You can speak freely.”
“I said, ‘He knows how to line his pockets,’ sir, the general, I mean.”
Si’eth laughed loudly. “Indeed he does, my friend. Let us hope he knows the cost of his comforts.”
* * *
Cal lazed on the Swallow’s deck. Legs stretched out, he perused the map a crewman had lent him. Or rather, he tried to; it all looked Eurmacian to him. He’d already asked the crewmen to teach him how to set the sail and read the ship’s compass. The cook had taught him how to make a dish called Cram, and he had learned how to set the mile-long fishing lines. He had spent an hour clinging to the top of the mast while supposedly acting as their lookout – that was not something he was willing to try twice. In short, he was bored… Fishing was dull… Sailing was tiresome… The sea was wholly uninteresting… Give him a bow and a forest any day.
Mateaf sat opposite, baiting a small hook and line with a wriggling sea worm.
Since leaving Amlin Bay, the Cren Second had spent half his waking hours trying to catch squid. Apparently, he was determined to cook one of the bizarre creatures. Cal could not see the point. The crew had a hold full of the slimy things; he had asked his friend why he did not just cook one of theirs. Mateaf had insisted the creature would taste better if he had caught it himself. Cal left him to his sport; he had had enough of eating fish, never mind squid.
The three-man crew and their captain had not done much, either. Now and then, one would work on the nets, or spend an hour sharpening their gutting knives. Wex, who doubled as the ship’s cook, was also their navigator. He had taught Cal how to use the compass. Not that Cal had understood much of what the young man had said; Wex’s eastern accent made him sound like a Toyan trader.
The captain, as usual, was conspicuous by his absence. The man had barely spent an hour on deck since they left Amlin Bay.
Today was their tenth day of sailing south: the same number of days it had taken to sail north from Linieth. And yet they were only half way home, just coming up on Halem Point. To say the weather had been calm would be an understatement. A few more days of this and Cal would have to ask the captain to drop them ashore… maybe at Halem. Cal and Mateaf could walk to Whitecliff faster than the Swallow could sail. It was worth thinking about; they could buy a couple of good horses and ride home…
Then again, it was unlikely anybody in Halem or Whitecliff would have a couple of Kalidhain Tall Horses to sell. They would have to make do with Surabhan horses, which would be next to useless; quicker to walk home.
The slow passage of time was playing on Cal’s mind. He had to go home, tell the council what they had witnessed around Amlin Bay – thousands of Kel’madden Troopers, and more than a few dragons, on their way south. Their target was likely Bailryn. Although that did not mean the witch would stop there. Nobody would be safe if she managed to grab a foothold in Aleras’moya.
Jedd, the largest of the three crewman – tall, but still a hand short of Cal’s shoulder – jumped to his feet. “Come on, Wex,” he said to the young, fair-haired crewman. “Let’s have a game of stick.”
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