“Unbelievable,” Si’eth said, spitting on the ground.
“What was that for?”
Si’eth gave him a cold stare. “And you folk wonder why our peoples don’t get along. This field, a ‘small stretch’ as you call it, would provide flour and corn for every Salrian from Barath to the Northern Shoals. And yet you keep us behind the Speerlag and the Karan, leave us to beg for what every man should have a right to.”
“You have grassland on the northern side of Cul’taris that’s every bit as large as this.”
“Aye, but thanks to that damn treaty, you’ll not let us farm it. ‘No settlement larger than twenty souls, no less than ten leagues apart.’ That one sentence cuts us off from the only workable farmland in the whole of An’aird Barath.”
“Well, maybe you shouldn’t have signed it, then,” Grady said. Daric wasn’t surprised Grady had been listening; he was never far away from the Salrian, and always willing to start an argument. The two just did not get along.
“You didn’t give us a choice,” Si’eth said.
“You should not have attacked.”
“We didn’t attack! You annexed the mines and declared the land for Bailryn. We were defendi—”
“Rubbish. You Salrians always say that. The Baralan Heath has forever been Surabhan territory.”
“It wasn’t until your people decided it was worth something.”
“Propaganda, ridiculous propaganda, Si’eth. The fact remains, you still—”
“That will do, you two.” Daric’s words were calm but strong. He had endured two days of this bickering, and neither Si’eth nor Grady seemed to tire of it. “We are only a few miles from Gieth’eire, I suggest you calm down before a patrol hears your shouting and comes to investigate. This meeting will be hard enough, without some pompous sergeant hauling us to the cells once he claps an eye of our friend here.” He said the last to Grady.
“Pft. And I suppose you mean me,” Si’eth grunted.
“You… the talking wolf… the eight-foot tall Cren that no one has seen hide-nor-hair of in two centuries: take your pick. Just do it quietly.” Daric did not bother looking to see if he had made his point; the sudden silence was proof enough.
They passed a farm. It was mid-afternoon; someone should have been about. But there was no smoke in the chimney, the livestock pen was empty, and the barn door swung awkwardly in the breeze. It looked like the tenant had left in a rush; a scythe and other tools lay strewn on the barn floor, and hay had been heaped, un-strung, out in the yard. The farm itself looked in good order: no smashed windows, burned-out stores, or signs of trouble. Raiders had not attacked; it was just… empty.
Daric saw Toban a half mile along the track, running quickly toward them. The wolf had gone out scouting, once they reached Taris province, in hopes of avoiding patrols. Daric reined in his mount and waited.
“Patrol ahead,” Toban shouted while still thirty paces away. When he was close enough not to shout, he explained, “Twelve men in full armour. They’re on a sweep pattern from the looks of it. I’d say there’s trouble of some sort at this keep of yours, Daric. And there are two more empty farms a half mile west.”
“We could hide in the barn,” Si’eth said. The Salrian looked nervous.
But then he would; of the five of them, he had the most to lose, if caught. Most of the guards at Gieth’eire had spent time fighting the Salrians, even with Daric and Grady alongside, Si’eth would be lucky to get away without at least some trouble. And Daric didn’t need trouble.
Daric pondered Si’eth’s idea for a moment. “No, if they are on a sweep, they will have orders to search all the buildings,” he said, almost mumbling the answer to himself. “The best we can do is stay in plain sight. If needs be, we can show their commander one of the scrolls Kirin’thar sent. Although I’d rather not; chances are, a cavalry sergeant won’t care much for a piece of paper. No, we face them, calmly.” Daric looked down at the wolf. “Saying that, there’s no reason for you not to hide, Toban. If there’s trouble at the keep, they’ll be nervous, they’ll probably shoot you on sight. Shadow us in the long grass. I’ll shout you in, once I’ve told them to expect you.”
“Hmm, yes, that sounds like a good idea,” Toban said. “I’ll stay to the north.”
Daric nodded.
“So we are going to ride up to a patrol of nervous Surabhan guards?” Si’eth’s eyes were wide; he looked ready to bolt in the other direction. “I don’t mind telling you, I am not liking this idea.”
“There’s nowhere to run, Si’eth,” Daric said, with as much calming authority as he could muster. “We always knew this part was going to be awkward. The worst that will happen is they’ll arrest us and take us to Gieth’eire. Fortunately, all prisoners have to go before the Keep Commander. I know the man.”
Si’eth heaved a long sigh. “And if this friend is no longer in command…?”
Daric smiled. “Then we turn you in, plead ignorance, and wait until we find someone we can deal with.”
Before long, the troop of Surabhan guards came into view. Toban was right; they were working a sweeping pattern, checking the countryside in blocks from a central point. The guards carried on, oblivious to Daric and the others, until one of them raised his arm. Daric couldn’t see their faces, but they were all looking in his direction. A moment later, all twelve were charging towards them.
“Pull reign and keep your hands where they can see them,” Daric said.
The oncoming guards did not slow down. When they were close enough to shout, their leader ordered Daric and the others to dismount. Most fixed their eyes on Cal – which was hardly surprising; even standing, he was a head taller than any of the guards. Si’eth had his hood up; no one had noticed his bald head, yet.
“Stand by your reigns. Hands out front,” the first rider said.
Daric didn’t know if he was in charge – their rank insignia was covered, as was the custom in times of action – but he certainly had the loudest mouth.
Daric stepped forward. “I am Captain Daric Re—” He ducked, as the lead guard swung the butt of his sword, barely missing Daric’s nose.
“You weren’t told to speak, peasant,” the rider said. He was holding his sword ready for another swipe. “Hold your tongue and speak when spoken to.” The rider turned to his left. “Sergeant, search their mounts.”
Daric could do nothing but stand silently, while a fat, slovenly sergeant rifled through his pack. Any item that didn’t interest the fat man ended up on the ground behind him, thrown over his shoulder. The rest, including Kirin’thar’s scrolls, were unceremoniously stuffed into Daric’s pack and handed to their leader.
“I am here to see Colonel Amerkin Le’ode. Those are for him,” Daric said, as he watched the man squinting down the funnel of one of the scrolls, trying to get a look at its contents without breaking the seal.
“Are they now?” the rider said. “And why would a peasant like you have scrolls for Colonel Le’ode?”
Daric’s heart lightened. Thank the gods: at least the fool knows who Colonel Le’ode is. “As I was trying to say, I am Captain Daric Re’adh of His Majesty’s Royal Guard. This man” – Daric nodded at Grady – “is Sergeant Grady Daleman, also of the Royal Guard.”
“Are you indeed? Well, I’m Lieutenant Corman, and I say you are a Salrian spy.” As soon as Corman said ‘spy,’ he pushed Si’eth’s hood down, exposing the Salrian’s bald head and grey eyes. “I don’t know how you thought you were going to get him into Gieth’eire, peasant, bald head or not, the man is a hand shorter than my daughter.”
Laughter erupted behind Corman as he pulled his horse up in front of Cal. Even on his horse, the idiot lieutenant’s head was barely past Cal’s shoulder. “And how do you fit into all this, giant? I assume you are a giant. Although you’re the first I’ve seen.”
Cal laughed. “You are a funny man, Lieutenant Corman,” he said. “You say my friend Si’eth is short, and yet you think me a giant. You seem to have
a problem judging size. Is your wife a happy woman, Lieutenant?”
Corman pulled rein, but before he could give an order, or reach for his sword, Cal had him by the neck, dangling in mid-air. The Cren loosed his horse. The giant Kalidhain charged headlong into four of the riders, knocking each one to the ground. Cal flicked the back of his hand across the fat sergeant’s face, then grabbed another rider by the scruff of his neck. Cal hurled the second man at the remaining riders – four of whom were already having troubles of their own, trying to keep their mounts steady. They weren’t having much luck.
Cal pulled his long knife and pointed it at Corman’s neck. “Now,” he said, in a loud commanding tone. “Shall we start again, with perhaps a little more civility this time?”
Corman nodded. Cal put him down.
“Or we could just do it Cal’s way,” Daric whispered to Si’eth. The Salrian couldn’t help but chuckle.
Cal brushed Corman’s cloak as the Surabhan lieutenant straightened his collar. “You can lead us to Gieth’eire if you wish,” Cal told him, “but first of all, you will give back Captain Re’adh’s possessions.”
Corman looked up at Cal, then nodded. He gestured to the fat sergeant, who quickly gathered the flotsam from the side of the road and made his best job of putting it all neatly back into Daric’s pack.
Daric snatched it away from him before he had finished.
“We must escort you, you understand that much?” Corman asked as if Cal had not asked him to do just that.
“That is perfectly acceptable, Lieutenant, but perhaps just four of your men. I assume you have a job to do out here, other than harassing good citizens.”
Corman said nothing. He mounted his horse and pointed to four riders, who were trying to get back on their horses, and waved them towards Daric. He told the fat sergeant to take the other riders and continue on their patrol.
As soon as all his men were mounted, Corman led them off with a reluctant “Follow me, Captain” to Daric and a nod for Cal.
“I wouldn’t like to be him when he gets back to the barracks,” Grady whispered to Daric.
“He’s just doing his job. If we were spies…” Daric shrugged.
Grady nodded. And they followed the five riders north.
A few minutes later, Daric whistled. More eyebrows rose when Toban slotted in next to his horse. One rider nearly fell off, when the wolf asked if they had had fun with the “stupid lieutenant.” It was all Daric could do not to howl with laughter.
* * *
The knoll at Cul’taris was the only high land for ten miles in any direction. It rose out of the grasslands like a boil on the back of Aleras’moya. Built on top of the knoll, the keep had a view of the surrounding countryside, from Eaird’vae in the north to the Am’bieth border to the southwest. Huddled around its base was the town of Taris. The wall surrounding them both was every bit as impressive as the one at Bailryn. Although Taris was nothing like as big as the capital city. The wall encompassed not only the town and the keep; within its bounds were three farms and a large underground spring, which made a lake of an abandoned quarry. In fact, the spring was the reason the wall was so long: a safe, fresh water supply was hard to come by in these parts, and needed protecting. The farms were a fortuitous extra, to “fill up the space,” as Daric’s old commander had once told him.
No one could approach Gieth’eire without alerting the guards. On all but the darkest nights, lookouts stationed on one of the many towers could see for miles around. Architectural beauty was never a consideration for those who had built the keep. And the wall was no masterpiece, either. Most of the drab fortification was little more than large, blackened boulders, piled on top of each other: ugly, but still impressive. Yes, a lone man could breach the wall. But stopping assassins was not why they had built it; Cul’taris was the doorway to An’aird Barath, and the keep was that doorway’s protector.
Daric reined his mount in closer to their Surabhan escort, then gestured for the others to do the same. “Best it looks like they’re leading us in,” he said. “Don’t want any of those archers getting the wrong idea.” He nodded at the wall above the gate, from where a line of archers gazed back at him.
The others followed suit.
“Are they always this nervous?” Cal asked.
“No, they are not. At least not in peacetime.”
Despite the security, the gates stood open. But, along with the archers, twenty footmen were standing guard.
The archers were wearing the silver-red armour of the cavalry. The situation must be dire if they’re giving crossbows to cavalrymen. The guards by the gates were in full armour, and Daric noticed the horses were equipped with their chainmail skirts, ready to ride at a moment’s notice.
The guards kept to their station as Daric and the others approached. Most, if not all, were staring at Cal. Their whispers carried; Daric heard “Giant” mumbled more than once. Nobody had noticed the Salrian yet, never mind the wolf.
Fortunately, the only shout Daric heard from the ranks was from someone he recognised.
“Gods, is that you, Re’adh?”
“King’s glory to you, Paiden.” Daric waved at the young man. The last time Daric had seen him was in the training grounds, south of Bailryn. Paiden was a cadet, then. “I see you have graduated, Corporal. Congratulations.”
Ashton Paiden was a tall, broad young man, who always looked like he was smiling. Daric wasn’t surprised they had promoted him; the lad was loyal and took his duty seriously – smile or not.
“Yes, and they stick me out here.” The young man laughed. “Are you staying long, sir? I’m on duty till nine, but I would enjoy a chat and a tankard or two, if you have time.”
“I may be, Paiden. I’ll be in the Plough if I’m able.” Daric gave a salute. He could not stop, and the Corporal could not break rank. Maybe later it would be good to talk to someone from the Battalion; catch up with the news.
Daric felt calmer for having seen Paiden. Now, if only he could get over the next hurdle…
The keep loomed large. Standing proud on the knoll, it was the best known, and probably the only, landmark in Cul’taris. In the town of Taris, it was the single overwhelming feature.
The keep would not be easy to reach; the half-cobbled, half-dirt roads were overflowing with outsiders. It seemed that every farmer for thirty miles around was in town, packed tightly into the narrow alleys and roadways; their families, too. Overloaded carts, filled to the brim with prized possessions, crammed every nook and cranny. Useless items – old clocks and antique bookshelves – shared space with chickens and geese. Children played Hop in any space they could find while the men looked worryingly at their neighbours. The women were making the best of it, Daric noticed. Often gathered in choruses of six or eight, the wives and mothers busied themselves organising water supplies and rationing what little food they had. Generations of war had left the home-front wife well able to make the best of things.
“I’ll leave you here,” Lieutenant Corman said. “I wish you luck.” The lieutenant glanced at Si’eth and Cal, then nodded to his men. The five pulled rein and turned back towards the gate.
Daric said, “Thank you,” to the lieutenant’s back, but the man did not respond.
“He’s probably hoping one of the keep archer’s will take a shot at us,” Grady said.
Daric snorted. “Don’t think I haven’t thought about it,” he said. “We’ll go slow. Tell Si’eth to keep his hood up.”
“Do I have to?” Grady said, looking over his shoulder at the Salrian. “They’ll probably only wing him, hit him in the shoulder or something.”
Daric knew his friend was joking, but he gave Grady a you-are-kidding look. He hoped he was joking.
Daric carefully led the way through the throng. Absently, he thanked the gods for Cal; the locals were so busy ogling at the Cren that few had glanced in Si’eth’s direction. Toban, however, had made a bit of a stir. After some persuading, Toban had agreed to wear a lead. He ha
d answered with a resounding “No!” the first time Daric had suggested it. “The Rukin Alpha, tied to a horse? Never!” is what Toban had said. However, Daric could think of no better way to bring the wolf to the keep, short of smuggling him in. “Besides,” he had explained to Toban, “people have been known to keep wolves as pets.” Of course, Daric knew now that they probably weren’t pets at all, more likely Rukin in disguise. Anyway, it had worked, and Toban seemed to enjoy the fuss made of him, especially from the children. A few even offered food, but Toban drew the line when one child wanted to pet him. He snarled at the girl’s parents, and they quickly whisked their daughter away. Still, that was the worst that had happened, and still nobody was looking at Si’eth.
Eventually, their horses emerged from the crowd and entered the outer courtyard that circled the keep. It was a stark contrast to the confines of the inner streets; no carts, stalls, shops – nothing stood between them and the ominous-looking tower. It was the killing ground of the keep’s archers – its cobbled span had to remain clear of anything an enemy might use as cover. Even the houses and shops that bordered it had windowless walls facing the courtyard. And if that were not enough to confine an enemy, there were only two ways in or out – one east, one west.
In the centre of this oasis of calm, the keep stood proudly on top of the knoll. Although he had seen it before, dozens of times, Daric was always surprised at how this hill came to be stuck in the middle of nowhere. From its base, crenelated battlements spiralled once around the knoll in a long serpent-like trail, ending at the gate to the inner courtyard. More battlements of grey-green stone sat high up on the outer walls. Within those walls, another hill, smaller this time, rose from the centre of the inner courtyard. On its peak stood Gieth’eire, a hulking grey tower of menacing simplicity. Daric hated it; he had often thought it belonged at the gates of doom, not in the middle of a town full of farmers.
The clip-clop of their horses’ hooves echoed around the outer courtyard as Daric and the others made their way around the serpent-like trail towards the main gate. Daric saw the eye of every guard turning on them. It was a relief to enter the inner courtyard without a ream of questions. And more relief, when an old friend came to greet him.
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