Picking up her helmet, she began to walk – I will not run – towards the clearing behind the command tents. The dragon would land there, or somewhere nearby. Soldiers and servants, horse-handlers and blacksmiths, crossed her path as she tried to make her way through the camp. All were in a rush to get where they were going – to get to where they were supposed to be. Which, for most, would likely be anywhere Vila’slae was not. Even the cooks were flapping about like geese with a fox in the pen. Absently, Nana pulled down her tunic and straightened the clasps on her armour … and then wondered why she did; Vila’slae would not be expecting a parade.
Parade or not, she would expect Nana to be lined up with the rest of her captains. The others would be there already, of course; she was the only one who ate with her men. With Colonel Nezan off supervising the river crossing, it would be up to her, as one of Vila’s chosen, to lead the honour guard. Of all the times to go looking at the bridge, Nana thought. She will not be happy the colonel isn’t here.
A thought occurred to her…
“You there,” Nana called over to one of the Cavalry Sergeants. The man – a Toyan; she would not have spoken to a Kel’madden so abruptly – dropped what he was carrying and stood at attention. “Send word to— No, get on a horse and ride to the bridge. Tell the colonel, Madam Slae has returned.”
The sergeant gulped and saluted, then ran off without question.
Nana glanced up at the sky and then picked up her pace when she saw Vila’s dragon only moments from landing. Pushing a witless cook out of her way, she all but ran to the landing area. She took up her position at the front of the line. Vila’slae was not looking in her direction. Maybe the witch hadn’t noticed her tardiness.
Nana took a step forward and bowed.
Vila slid down the dragon’s shoulder. Folding her gloves into her belt, she said, “Bring the girl,” and nodded up at the dragon cart.
Nana watched as their illustrious leader walked towards the command encampment, surrounded on all sides by scribes, servants, and grey-haired sycophants, each one looking more shocked than the last. Only the servant seemed calm, as she proffered a tray of warm, damp towels, steam still rising from them. Vila’slae smiled at her. Maybe the stories were true.
Nana waved the step-bearer forward and waited while he secured the flimsy ladder to the cart. The girl, whoever she was, was looking the other way. Who could she be? Was she the reason Vila’slae had returned? Nana decided she did not care. Climbing the ladder, she tugged at the girl’s sleeve and waved her down.
The girl looked nervous as she carefully stepped over the rail and began to climb down. The dragon was looking at her; she was going to fall if she didn’t pay attention. Nana grabbed her arm to steady her.
“Ouch! You don’t have to—”
“Be quiet,” Nana cut her off. “The less you say, the better.”
Abruptly, Nana realised the girl may not be a prisoner. She was tall, definitely Surabhan, but— No, if she were a guest, Vila’slae would not have left her to me.
“Where are we going? What are you going to do with me?” the girl asked.
She’s terrified! Nana thought. The girl wasn’t much older than her little sister. Maybe eighteen. Tall, with long dark hair; she was very pretty. Her big eyes looked pleadingly, searching for answers. What mess have you landed yourself in, child? Stifling a look of concern, Nana led the young girl to the clearing. It wasn’t her business, anyway. And even if it was, what could she do about it?
The girl stared wide-eyed at the Nirad; apparently, she was not used to seeing dragons. So, she’s not an Oracle. That, at least, was one question answered. Yet, if not an Oracle, then what?
Vila’slae was already in the tent, ordering most of the lesser officers and non-essentials to leave. Nana waited until only the three captains remained, then led the young girl in at the witch’s beckoning wave.
“Put her over there,” Vila’slae said. Again, she did not look at the… prisoner. Yes, the girl’s definitely in trouble. “I can’t deal with her yet. Cover her ears with something.”
The girl cowed as if she expected a beating. Nana dragged a chair over and guided the child into it.
“Thank you,” she said.
‘Thank you’? Nana almost laughed. Girl, you really are in the wrong place.
Nana took the scrim cloth – used for polishing her armour – from beneath her cloak and wrapped it around the girl’s head, then squeezed her helmet on over the top. She hoped she had not hurt the girl.
Vila’slae was standing with her arms folded. Foot tapping, she stared at the girl. Nana thought she saw her shake her head. “That will do. Now hurry, and pay attention. We haven’t got much time,” Vila’slae said. “Where’s the colonel?”
Nana did not want to speak, but… “He is at the bridge, Ma’am. I sent a horseman to fetch him.” Suddenly glad she had thought of it, Nana watched as the other captains all but sighed in relief. Not much made Vila’slae more irritable than tardiness.
“I’ll speak to him later,” Vila’slae said, none too cheerfully. The colonel would likely be wishing he had chosen another time to do his rounds.
Vila’slae spun the map she had laid out on the table so Nana and the others could see. “You will gather your men and be here by tomorrow morning.” She eyed the captains while prodding a finger at the map where the middle tunnel opened up into a valley on the Surabhan side of the border.
Nana could feel the tension oozing from the other captains. She hoped her own expression did not give her away. The middle tunnel…? The middle tunnel was half as long again as the western route and nobody – as far as Nana knew – had surveyed it yet. Suppressing the urge to look at the girl – what have you done? – Nana asked the only reasonable question she could think of: “Will the general be meeting us, Ma’am?”
“Yes,” Vila’slae said, smiling. The tension drained a little. “With luck, he will already be there. Unfortunately, I will not be joining you until the siege has begun. I must… take care of something.”
Vila’slae did glance at the girl. It only lasted a second, before she focused back on the map, but Nana thought the witch looked resigned, as if forced to act in some way. More questions.
“Do any of you foresee any problems with the timetable?” Vila’slae asked.
Nana tried not to look surprised. Usually, Vila’slae gave orders and expected her officers to move mountains, if necessary, to fulfil them. Captain Merriden rocked back and forth from one foot to the other, and Parlasan barely managed to stifle a squeak. Only Sandau appeared calm. In fact, he looked as if he were actually considering her question.
“The Karakin?” Captain Sandau asked, as if he were talking about what he had had for breakfast.
Well, Parlasan did squeak at that. Indeed, Nana found herself taking a step away from Sandau.
Vila’s face darkened. “There will be no problems with the Karakin, Captain. That’s what the map is for.” Vila’slae scowled at him while jabbing her finger at the map. It was, without a doubt, the worst question he could have asked. Captain Sandau shuffled his feet. Pale-faced, he must be wishing he could take it back. “Do you think me a fool?” Vila asked. “Do you think I haven’t planned for every contingency?”
Nana clenched her teeth and concentrated on breathing as quietly as possible. She wanted to back off another step: men, even officers, had been killed for less…
What a foolish thing to say: every soldier, Trooper and officer knew what had happened last time Vila’slae attempted to take Aleras. If they did not know the full story, a fool knew enough not to mention the Karakin. Nana half-expected Vila’slae to draw her shortsword and kill Sandau where he stood. But, to her surprise, the witch calmed herself.
“You need not worry, Captain. The general is sending scouts in from the southern entrance. They are likely half way through by now. They will report any problems. And if they don’t arrive… Well, I will be giving the colonel instructions as to what to do if that happe
ns.”
Sandau bowed. “Thank you, Ma’am.” He sounded like he was thanking her for more than her answer.
“Once ready, I want you to take…”
Vila’slae continued her instructions for another fifteen minutes. Three times, she asked for advice. Nana half expected her to hand out goblets of wine. When finished, she actually wished them luck!
Nana turned and retrieved her scrim cloth and helmet from the young girl. She, at least, had remained relatively calm. Likely the only person in the tent that had. The young girl blinked as the mid-morning sun hit her eyes. She looked like she was about to say “Thank you” again. Nana did not give her a chance. She didn’t want to think what might lay in store for the girl. Folding her scrim cloth, she about turned before the girl could open her mouth.
It was going to be a long day. Skelk and three of the men were waiting a little way off. Skelk was eating, as usual.
“Go on then,” the sergeant said. “What are our orders?” He turned to the others and smiled. “Are we going home?”
“No.” Nana could not help but smile. After the morning she had had, it seemed the appropriate thing to do – that, or scream. “Rouse the regulars, Sergeant. We are moving the schedule forward. She wants us through the Tunnels by morning.”
* * *
Colonel Nezan kicked at the pebbles as he waited outside the command tent. He had tried to go in, but a wave of Vila’s finger kept him outside, pacing up and down like some raw recruit who had mislaid his sword. Vila’slae would go too far one day: push the wrong man and find a dagger in her back. But it would not be him, he knew that much. Still, the thought was comforting sometimes.
Nezan was about to leave them to it, go to the cook tent and have some tea, when the curtained doorway flapped open. The captains emerged in single file. None were talking, but the looks on their faces spoke volumes – the witch was not happy. Nezan waited a long moment and was about to enter when he saw Vila’slae talking to a young girl.
“Who is she?” he asked Captain Sandau.
Sandau shook his head and shrugged. “I have no idea, sir. She came with Madam Slae. She’s a Surabhan, I know that much, but from where, I could not say. Paulson thinks she is from the palace. But she doesn’t look like any noble I have ever seen.”
Nezan just nodded. He eyed the girl. She was pretty, if a little ragged around the edges; her clothes were filthy, and she was young, barely a woman grown. What could the witch want with her?
This was intolerable. He was left outside the tent, and now Madam Slae was bringing in outsiders! He turned and stomped off to the cook tent. She’s not going to make me look a fool, not anymore. Wait until we are in Bailryn; I’ll show her who deserves respect and who should be left out in the cold.
CHAPTER 2
Bailryn
There were likely more buildings outside the Bailryn Wall then there were in the rest of Aleras’moya combined. Everything from brightly coloured inns to windowless warehouses, and drab dwellings to large merchants’ houses, all squashed up together along the length of the tall greystone wall. The inns were the largest buildings. Some had six or seven floors, each painted a different colour, as if a coat of paint would make the squalor more desirable. Daric knew their reputation well, he knew a brightly painted wall would make little difference to their clientele; no respectable landlord would have an inn in the Wickham.
The Colaroy Bank, or the Wickham, as the locals called it, ran along the city’s western fringe from the Highgate at the northwest to the Hallam Road at the southern entrance. A mile wide, this collection of dwellings had been there for as long as there had been a wall. As for the other walls – north of Bailryn, the prospect of being caught between the city defences and an attacking army kept that wall clear. The same was true for the south. As for the east… well, east of Bailryn was Halem Point Bay and the open ocean. Only the Colaroy River, with its fast flowing currents and steep banks, made the west wall safe enough to live under.
The wall itself was little more than a fifty-foot high mound of rocks and boulders. As with Gieth’eire, Bailryn’s wall was not built to look good. The light-grey stone was rough and uneven, hardly the work of master stonemasons. The top was level enough, though, and every forty paces a white-domed tower reached up another twenty feet. The Highgate, or northwestern gate, was the only part of the wall without a tower, but then it had crenelated balconies and sling platforms on either side of the forty-foot high, iron-reinforced gate.
Daric was surprised the gate was open; surely they had heard something of the invasion. He knew for sure Colonel Le’ode had sent pigeons. Why haven’t they closed the thing? This was not a good start; anybody could walk through. Spies, assassins: anybody.
Daric chose not to lead the line of soldiers through the gates. He left that honour to the sergeant from Redgate. Well, major or not, it wasn’t like they were his men. Besides, he didn’t even have a uniform yet. Not that he wanted one. Instead, he stayed with the others at the back of the line.
“See! What did I tell you, Si’eth? The greatest city in the world.” Grady told the Salrian.
Si’eth looked ready to agree. Or he might, if he could close his gaping mouth long enough to say something.
The rest of Daric’s men surrounded Si’eth – the few who had accompanied them from the keep at Gieth’eire, not the fifty Redgate regulars. Daric did not want a stray arrow finding the Salrian before he had a chance to explain who Si’eth was and why he was here. With any luck, he would meet a cool-headed lieutenant and have an escort so he would not have to repeat his story too many times before reaching the palace.
Cal rode in front of their little group. Unlike Si’eth, the big Cren did not look in awe of the city. More… disgusted. Daric would have to ask him why. But later; the Cren had a habit of speaking his mind, and what with the guards not ten paces in front…
Toban seemed happy enough. Although it was hard to tell with the wolf. He, too, was walking in the centre, along with Si’eth. He looked almost used to the leash around his neck. That, or he was doing a better job of pretending. And that’s how they stayed, waiting for their turn at the gate.
As it was, Daric’s precautions proved unnecessary. No one gave Si’eth or Toban a second glance. They rode unchallenged under the massive lintel which formed the frame of the Highgate.
Daric shook his head in disbelief, and Grady snorted.
“These fools would let a bloody dragon come by,” Grady said, looking down at the “guardsmen” leaning against the gatehouse, talking and playing cards.
“How are you going to get these men in shape?” Cal asked. “Gods, what a mess; there’s no order here.”
Daric watched the tall man gaze along the two lines of folk entering and leaving Bailryn. The guards simply let them pass, not even asking names, never mind stopping and searching suspicious-looking characters. Of which there were many, Daric noticed.
Daric looked at Grady before answering Cal’s question. He felt ashamed. Things had not been this bad when he left, and that was only a few years ago. Yes, there was the odd lazy soldier, especially amongst the city guards – what few there were – but nothing like this. Grady shrugged.
“I don’t know, Cal,” Daric said. “Maybe they are just getting their orders. We’ll have to see.”
He hoped they were getting their orders. Although, saying that, there did not seem to be anyone in charge. Where were the group commanders, the sergeants, the captains? If this lot were anything to go by, they were likely inside, drinking and gambling. He hoped the palace guards were not in a similar state. It was not a good example to show off to his Cren’dair friend. Cal must have wondered what he had let himself in for.
The city rose on a shallow incline. The further inland, the higher it went, finally making its way up the wide sea-cliffs where the palace stood. The High Cliff – the rocky scarp which turned back inland – had its own wall. Not as high as the outer wall, and not as ugly, either. Beyond that were the palace gro
unds, the barracks, the palace square and the theatres. Daric often wondered why they put the theatres up there. He’d heard it was to keep the patrons above the smell of the docks. Although Daric wondered if it were the smell coming from the Wickham that bothered the middle classes. Either way, he wasn’t sure he blamed them; both could be odorous, particularly when, like today, the late spring weather was hot and humid.
The Great Western Road widened into North Parade once it passed under the Highgate. Although wide, the Parade was often crowded. Half the people of Aleras’moya could fit along its two miles of wide, cobbled road, so Daric had heard. Along the centre of the Parade ran a grassed area where folk were not allowed to walk. Despite this, the grass was brown and the trees which grew every ten paces were leafless. At least that was the way of it for the first half-mile or so. Blacksmiths and ironworks made up most of the business in this part of town, and the soot had long since killed the trees. Nobody had ever cut them down, though – some old law protected them. Most of the folk on the street were men in leather aprons, fetching and carrying from the wagons which had brought ore up from the docks.
The docks…
Daric wondered, for a moment, what would have become of them if he had chosen to take Gialyn aboard ship from Beugeddy. They would likely have arrived by now. To think, if he could stand to be on a boat, how different things would have been; no Cren, no hunting for the map, and no staying in the wolf village. To say nothing of, on more than one occasion, fighting for his life. The thought made him laugh.
Once past the blacksmiths and ironworks, the road surface lightened somewhat, as did the clothes. The people were cleaner, too. This was the Traders’ Mile. Pottery from Eurmac, silk from Krasis, Toyan herbs and spices: everything changed hands here. Most goods stayed in the city, or went south to the other cities: Whitecliff, Linieth and Colair. In fact, Whitecliff was closer to Krasis and Toya – a good three days closer, and yet everything, be it iron, cloth or grain, had to come through this mile of road. It was both the reason for the capital’s wealth and the many battles between north and south. Daric despised the place. It was said, “You can’t spit on the Blue Mile without hitting a thief” – “Blue,” in reference to the dark-blue trading license every shop had to display in its window. The licenses cost a small fortune: two thousand gold per year, regardless of the business’s size. It was the Royal Exchequer’s way of “ensuring contributions” – “The palace is the biggest thief of all,” others would say… but not as loud.
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