“Then we had best make ready,” Caylib said. He bowed. “By your leave, Cahldien.”
Cal returned the gesture. “Leave as soon are you are ready, Caylib.”
Well, that’s that sorted, Daric thought. Now for the boy.
* * *
Ealian rolled his eyes when Daric, Cal, and the other Cren began to walk towards him. He had just found a comfortable place to sit and was enjoying the late evening sun. Damn if they don’t ruin everything. “Can’t I have ten minutes, Cal?” Ealian moaned. “I’ve been talking to you for an hour. I told you, he’s asleep.”
Cal was about to speak when Daric interrupted. “It’s not him we want to talk to, Ealian. It’s your choice where you go from here. The Cren have made that plain.”
Ealian looked at Cal, half expecting a rebuttal. None came.
“You have three choices,” Daric continued. “Nobody is going back to Albergeddy, and we can’t leave you here. So… Cul’taris, with Grady and me; the dragons, with Olam and Arfael; or back to Brae’vis, with the Cren.”
Gods, he really does think it’s that simple.
“I’m no fool, Mr. Re’adh. I know what I have in my head; I know how useful Alacin’tien could be.” – damn it, I wish it were easy. I can’t go home. Not like this – “I think I should go with Olam.”
Daric raised an eyebrow. And Olam turned when he heard his name mentioned.
Daric took a step forward. Smiling, he said, “So, it’s the dragons then, is it?”
“No,” Ealian snapped. Why do adults assume they know my mind? “I’m going because I might be able to teach Olam. If I can show him enough, then maybe I can go home. If I try to go now…” he tapped the back of his head with his finger “…this blasted voice in my head won't shut up until I change my mind.”
“That’s a wise choice,” Daric said, nodding appreciatively.
Ealian wanted to kick him.
“Are you sure that is what you want?” Olam asked. He had taken a seat on the tree stump.
“No, it’s not; it’s a compromise.” Ealian folded his arms and his foot began to twitch. “And yes, of the three, the dragons do sound interesting.” He glanced at Daric, half expecting the man to have an I-told-you-so grin on his lips – he didn’t.
“Are the dragons dangerous?” Ealian asked Cal.
“No, they’re not. Tor and the other Gan are peaceful. If left to themselves, most dragons are gentle creatures. You will be safe.”
“Safe… with a bunch of dragons. Honestly, can this world get any stranger?”
Daric did laugh at that. “I doubt we have seen the half of it, lad. But at least we have a plan, for now.”
The next few hours passed quickly. The travellers sat around the fire while Daric and Cal prepared supper. Caylib and Eamon had set off in search of Bre’ach and the stolen scroll. Karsha was making his way back to Brea’vis – something about finding Tanri. Night rolled over the grasslands, but not as fully as it had the previous evening. The central plains of Aleras’moya seemed to capture what little light there was and reflect it back into the sky. The resulting glow was a comfort after the deep shadows of the forest. The horses were quiet and all was calm. Even the call of the night birds seemed subdued. The grassland may as well have been a different world.
After supper, Daric summed up their plans. He liked doing that; it was probably the soldier in him. Old habits, and all that.
“Olam, Arfael, and Ealian will go to see what these dragons want while the rest of us travel to Cul’taris and the Keep at Gieth’eire. We won’t have our next move until we know what sort of support we’ll get from the Battalion. Arfael won’t know what to expect until he has spoken with the dragons. So really, it is all about the next four days.”
“Bloody hell, Daric, that a bit… weak,” Grady said. “Can we not at least decide on a rendezvous? You said we need to work together.”
Cal and Olam nodded.
“I don’t see how. We will be near on twenty leagues apart, assuming my guess is right about the location of Bren’alor. And none of us knows how long our part is going to take.”
Grady spat through his teeth and cursed under his breath. “That’s as may be, but I don’t like it; we don’t want to end up walking round in circles.”
“I suggest the best thing we can do,” Olam said, “is agree to make for Bailryn, once we are finished with our own tasks. The battle, assuming there will be a battle, will be fought there, after all.”
Everyone nodded at that.
“Good idea, Olam,” Daric said. “So that’s settled then. Deal with our own business, then make for Bailryn.”
Arfael, who had been very quiet for the past few days, scratched his chin and hummed as though about to speak. He sighed and picked up his plate of rock-hard cheese with a shovel-sized hand. With every eye on him, he grinned. “How do you know we’ll survive to reach Bailryn?”
An awkward silence ensued. Ealian shuffled nervously. Cal looked shocked. And Olam’s pitiful eyes regarded his friend.
Si’eth spoke. “Everybody dies. Best face the end with honour.” The Salrian – who the travellers now regarded quite favourable, except for Grady, who still wasn’t sure about the man – nodded in agreement with his own words.
“Oh, enough,” Ealian said. “Dying…? Honour…? Nobody is going to die; we’re only delivering a few messages and listening to folk. Where is the danger in that?”
Daric nodded. “I hope you are right, boy. I hope you are right.”
CHAPTER 4
The General and the Fool
Bre’ach was exhausted. He and Uld’eth had covered the fifty leagues from Crenach woodlands to the An’aird Barath border in a little under five days. They crossed the Aleras Plain by night, sneaking through the meadows to the east of Illeas’den, then cutting along the Great Western Road before finally arriving at the heart of the Am’bieth Marsh – ever listening and watching, worried they might be discovered by a farmer or merchant, never mind a wolf or soldier. Bre’ach’s first sight of the Am’bieth had felt strangely welcoming. And yet he couldn’t help feeling a sense of anxiety; yes, he was glad to finally be on the Salrian side of the border, but he was not looking forward to facing General Alaf’kan.
Carefully, Bre’ach descended the last few feet of the Blue Rock Pass. Sliding down the northern slope was much more treacherous than climbing up the Aleras side had been. At the bottom, he stood for a moment and took in a long, deep breath, sucking in the air of his homeland. At last, they were safe. For now.
His good mood faded, though, when he remembered it had been his father who had told him about the shortcut through the pass – the narrow goats’ trail that crossed the Speerlag Cliffs. Remembering brought back the sickly-cold feeling to his gut. After all they had done to Barath, how could Si’eth turn against his own men. It made no sense.
On the other hand, maybe Bre’ach shouldn’t have been surprised; it wasn’t the first time his father had acted strangely. Helping Surabhan merchants fix their wagons, ordering his men to keep off the local farms, arguing for compromise in border disputes; more than once, Bre’ach wondered if his father was the same man who had fought the Surabhan for six long years. Indeed, now he had time to think about it, Si’eth hadn’t been the same since returning from the Brion Spur. What had happened out there on that mountain?
Thoughts of his father faded when Bre’ach felt the scroll protruding from his inner pocket. How was he going to explain the broken seal to the general? Could he blame Si’eth for it? Would the general believe him? Maybe he could fix it, or blame the broken wax on a fall? It wasn’t like he hadn’t tripped a dozen times coming through the marsh. He forced the scroll back into his pocket; it was too late to worry about it now, he had chosen his course – made his bed, as his mother would say. He would just have to live with the consequences.
Besides, he had to find the general, first…
It was dawn. The ground was damp and dull with early morning mist. It was hard to see
up from down. Luckily, there was only one way they could go. Bre’ach was no tracker, and he didn’t think Uld’eth was much better. He looked to his right. If he were remembering correctly, a few more miles east and the gully they were in would open up into the Vale of An’aird – another thing his father had taught him. From there, it should be easy to find the general’s encampment. “By the river, just north of the Eaird’vae Forest. A child could find it,” is what Si’eth had said when Uld’eth and Jern were talking about a possible rendezvous.
A child could find it… Bre’ach had no doubt his father was talking about him. Maybe if Si’eth had spent more time treating his son like a man, instead of – no, Bre’ach was not going to think about that, not anymore. He would go to Alaf’kan, give him the map, and then go home to Barath, to his mother. If she’ll have you back, after what you’ve done to her husband.
Bre’ach and Uld’eth trudged through the thistle and tightly packed shrubs for three hours before reaching the Vale. The thick, grey-green grass of the highlands gave way to the lush greens of the valley floor. On the horizon, Bre’ach could see the outline of the Eaird’vae Forest. A five-mile walk, maybe six, then three more up river to the general’s camp. Bre’ach sighed with relief at the sight of it.
“Have you decided what you are going to tell him?” Uld’eth asked.
So much for relief…
Thus far, their journey had been all about getting to this point. Now, every step brought Bre’ach closer to the inevitable: he would have to blame his father for everything that had happened; ruin his family’s good name. He would be the son of a traitor! For a moment, he considered destroying the map, but only for a moment. Uld’eth wouldn’t allow it. Bre’ach would have to kill the man.
Besides, handing over the map was the right thing to do.
Gods, he wished he really believed that.
“I’ll tell the general the truth,” Bre’ach said, a little too firmly to be entirely believable.
“And what of our men? They may be prisoners, and the Surabhan know of the map.”
Bre’ach’s shoulders slumped. Did Uld’eth think he hadn’t already considered all of that? “Those Surabhan were nothing more than farmers. They have no proof; nobody will believe them. As for our men, if they are prisoners, they will likely release them. Which is fine with me; they know nothing about the map of the Bailryn sewers. The garrison at Cul’taris won’t keep them.” He hoped that was true.
“Bailryn sewers…?” Uld’eth said the words with more than a hint of sarcasm. “Seems a lot of fuss over nothing. Still, the general must have a plan; he won’t be happy when he finds out a group of Surabhan know something about it. Farmers or not, those travellers are a risk.”
“I’ve been thinking about that.”
“Have you indeed.” Uld’eth laughed. “And what have you come up with?”
“We say nothing. Tell them my father opened the scroll and was caught trying to deliver it to the Surabhan.”
Again, Uld’eth laughed. “That won’t work. If, as you say, they release our men, they will come back and make a liar out of you.”
Bre’ach stomped down hard on the damp grass and turned a scornful eye in Uld’eth’s direction. “Then what do you suggest we do?”
“Tell him the truth, boy. It was your father’s fault, after all.”
“Go on,” Bre’ach said, not really wanting to listen to another man insulting his father – though he supposed this was the sort of thing he would have to get used to, once it became common knowledge that Si’eth was a traitor.
Uld’eth shook his head and sighed. “It was your father’s command, boy. He failed to secure the scroll, he failed to retrieve it, and he fought against his own men, of all things, when you tried to get it back. I would not have believed it, had I not seen it with my own eyes. Yes, the general will be angry. But when he has stopped shouting, he’ll be pleased that you put duty ahead of family.”
Duty ahead of family… Bre’ach felt a surge of pride, quickly followed by the stab of remorse. Uld’eth had known his father for twenty years, and already the man was willing to drag his name through the dirt to save his own skin. But was he any better? Gods; mother, what will she do when she finds out? The shame will kill her.
“I suppose you are right,” Bre’ach said. “Either way, we will find out soon enough.”
The general’s encampment did indeed lie a few miles north of the Eaird’vae, nestled at the base of a shallow hill. A stream flowed along the forest’s edge. Smoke from the campfires diffused amongst the tight-leafed canopy; tents had been draped in netting, camouflaged with undergrowth, and no guards stood where a passer-by might see them. A well-hidden camp, but why the secrecy?
The knot in Bre’ach’s stomach tightened. At that moment, he would just as soon be done with it all, turn west and head for home – and Diobael take the bloody map. But there was no turning back. He gathered his wits and straightened his coat. With a huff, and what he hoped was his best sergeant’s march, he headed for the two guards stationed at the entrance. The knot turned to sickly nausea as the guards noticed him. They brandished spears, pointing them in his direction. Damn, that’s a good start.
“State your business, boy,” the first guard said. He was a hefty man, with broad shoulders and a flat nose. Dressed in full armour, the guard clinked as he took a step forward. The familiar steel discs, the same as Bre’ach wore on his half-armour, covered the man from head to foot. Underneath, a thick-fleeced shirt provided both comfort and warmth. He wouldn’t be feeling the cold breeze that had Bre’ach clenching his jaw against chattering teeth. The guard’s helmet was a heavier version of the one Bre’ach had left back in Herann’coi; a bucket-shaped headpiece with leather ties wound under the chin. The helmet also had a lining of thick wool.
“I am Bre’ach Uldmae, son of Si’eth, uh, son of Captain Uldmae. This is Uld’eth Jardin. We are here to see the general.”
The guard raised his chin as he eyed Bre’ach up and down, then laughed. “Here to see the general, aye.” The guard scratched his neck under the helmet strap and glanced at his friend, who was also smirking. “Maybe you should tell me what this is about. We don’t want to go bothering the general over nothing, do we?”
Bre’ach blinked at the man and shuffled his feet. “It’s important. I don’t think he would want me tell—”
Uld’eth interrupted. “Can’t you see his rank insignia, Sergeant?” The older man took a step towards the guards. He put his hand on the hilt of his sword. “He’s a First Sergeant; he outranks you. No, don’t bother talking. Stay at your station. You!” Uld’eth pointed to the other guard. “You go and tell the general’s secretary that Bre’ach Uldmae is here. Tell him, ‘We have what they have been waiting for.’ No, don’t look at him. Move.”
The other guard gulped and cleared his throat before running off into the camp. The first guard grumbled as he stared at Uld’eth, but said no more. The man looked fit to spit.
Bre’ach paced back and forth, kicking at stones and leaves while they waited for the other guard to return. His mind spun with everything that might go wrong over the next hour. Uppermost: the general not believing a word Bre’ach said.
After a while, the second guard returned. He brought a sour look with him – almost pale, as though he had had a strip torn off his back. He looked nervously at his friend before speaking. “I am to lead you to the general’s tent. Please follow me, sir.”
Uld’eth gave the first guard a sly grin as he gestured, with an exaggerated bow, for Bre’ach to lead the way.
Bre’ach and Uld’eth followed the guard through the trees.
It was a well-ordered site, if a little sporadic. A general would generally expect his camp to be the epitome of order: straight picket lines for the horses, a precise circle of tents, smartly spaced fires and weapon racks. The best had been made of the conditions, though. The tents were tidy, weapons neatly racked, and the fires had been set in stone surrounds, with care taken to cho
ose the driest deadwood, to minimise smoke. Why would Alaf’kan order smokeless fires twelve miles within his own border? In fact, the whole camp appeared to be on a war footing. It was quiet – very quiet. Are they expecting an attack?
The guard stopped close to the centre of the camp and gestured, open-handedly, at a large tent with two more guards stationed at the door. Bre’ach and Uld’eth entered. The tent was lavish, ridiculously so: ornate carpet, hardwood desk and chairs, bronze lamp, and, of all things, a map in a gilded frame hung behind the desk. It could have been the common room of a fancy inn.
Bre’ach stood to attention in front of the desk. General Alaf’kan was reading a scroll. He hadn’t batted an eye when Bre’ach and Uld’eth entered.
Alaf’kan was not as old as Bre’ach had expected; at least, he didn’t look particularly old. He wore the beard of office – Salrian generals were the only rank permitted to grow a beard. Bre’ach always thought beards looked out of place with the bald heads of Salrian men. The beard wasn’t what set the general apart, though; sitting in full ceremonial uniform, Alaf’kan looked ready to welcome royalty. Why was he dressed in that? Was he expecting someone important? The general’s back was as straight as a quarterstaff, even when seated. The haughty manner, expected from a high-ranking officer, was more than evident. He looked to be a man who relished power, a man who believed himself above others.
Bre’ach stood as still as a tree and tried not to gulp.
Eventually, Alaf’kan spoke. “Where is Si’eth?” he asked, without raising his gaze.
“He is working with the Surabhan, sir,” Bre’ach said. He had decided the direct approach was best. Uld’eth was right; there wasn’t any easy way of saying his father was a traitor.
Bre’ach braced himself for the general’s tirade…
But Alaf’kan made no such display. Haughty didn’t begin to describe the man. He continued reading his scroll as if not hearing.
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