by Peter Kenson
“Wait,” she commanded. He looked up in surprise to find that the expression on her face did not exactly match the tone of her voice.
“I didn’t say that I wouldn’t do it,” she went on. “But there are some practical difficulties.” She moved her arms to indicate the figure hugging dress she wore.
“I was given no opportunity to bring a wardrobe with me. Marta was kind enough to provide me with a change of small clothes but, other than that, I have only what I stand up in and certainly nothing suitable for riding.”
“Ah yes… um, Marta…”
“Men”, Marta joined in with a smile. “Full of grand ideas and not a clue about how to deal with the little practicalities of life. Milady, if you would like to come with me, I’m sure we can find something suitable that will allow you to sit a horse with a degree of modesty.”
Held shook his head again as the two women moved off talking about different types of cloth and the cuts and styles that best suited them.
“Jaks,” he said as the gangly youth appeared from behind the wagon. “Let that be a lesson to you. Never try to do a favour for anyone unless you’re sure that they also think that it is a favour.”
“Uh, yes milord. What?”
“Never mind. I’m going to talk with Feynor. We need to deal with Manny’s burial and then I want to speak to all the men together. After that we ride to the village. Make sure that Manny’s horse is saddled and ready to go.”
“You’re taking Manny’s horse, milord?”
“No, not me. I’ll keep my own horse; we understand each other. No Manny’s horse is for the lady Falaise.”
“That’s a big horse for a lady, milord. And quite spirited.”
“Then they should be well suited to each other”, he said, looking at where the two women were disappearing into one of the covered wagons. “I’m sure she’ll be able to cope.”
Chapter 4
The two boys threw themselves down onto the grassy bank, panting with exertion. After a few moments the stockier of the two rolled over onto his back and took a deep breath. “I hope your father gets here soon. I never thought we’d have to follow them this far. It’s killing me.”
“You’re fat and out of condition,” the other one retorted in between gasps of breath. “That’s your problem.”
“I’d fight you for that, if I had the energy,” the first one replied. “But I don’t. The trouble is, they’re all walking along a flat trail at the bottom of the valley, while we’re scrambling up and down hillsides trying to keep up with them and stay out of sight of the guards at the same time.”
“I agree but you’re still fat and out of condition. Ow,” he rolled away as a friendly punch landed on his shoulder. “Let’s make sure they’re still in sight.”
They lay flat on their stomachs and inched their way up the bank until they could peer over the top. The sight that greeted them was one of organised chaos. The caravan had stopped almost directly below them and soldiers were moving up and down the line with waterskins allowing everyone, guards and prisoners alike, to take a drink. Some of the guards had taken up sentry positions and were scanning the hillsides for movement on both sides of the trail.
The boys hurriedly ducked down below the skyline and made their way along the bank to where some low shrubs broke the outline of the top of the ridge before resuming their watch. At the head of the caravan was an imposing coach, functional rather than beautiful, but emblazoned with the arms of Duke Henry of Paelis and surrounded by guards. This, the boys knew, was occupied by the Duke’s tax collector but there was no sign of the man himself.
Behind the coach were two covered supply wagons carrying everything the soldiers would need on an extended patrol and behind that was an open wagon jammed full of small unhappy children. Attached to the wagon and to each other by ropes around their necks, were two long chains of older children. As they watched, the smaller children were being allowed off the wagon in groups to relieve themselves by the side of the trail.
They had counted the guards many times before but they did so again now, out of habit. There were ten horsemen, eleven including the captain, eight foot soldiers guarding the prisoners and another eight on the four wagons. Two of the horsemen came riding up the trail behind the caravan and reported straight to the captain. The boys looked at each other hopefully but no alarm was raised, so obviously there was no pursuit in sight.
The two boys cautiously slid down the bank and sat at the bottom. They were very different in appearance. The older of the two had just turned his fifteenth birthday and was tall and slim with tidy but shoulder length blond hair. His companion, younger by only a month, was almost a head shorter but very much broader in both chest and shoulder and kept his dark hair trimmed in a much shorter style. They were both dressed for hunting with jerkins and leggings of mottled appearance which allowed them to blend into the background. They both carried a short hunting bow with a quiver of arrows over their shoulder and a long skinning knife strapped to their thigh. The packs they carried both looked suspiciously light.
“Do we have any biscuit left?” the older boy asked, rummaging through his pack.
“Not a crumb,” the other replied. “I refilled the waterskin at that last stream we crossed but we finished the biscuit an hour ago. All we have now is the rabbit we caught in the snare overnight and even I’m not hungry enough to eat that raw. Well, not yet anyway.”
“When we’re sure they’ve stopped for the night, we’ll move further away from the trail and risk a small fire. That is, unless my father arrives before then.”
“Well where is he? When is he going to get here?”
“He’ll be here,” the older boy said with more confidence than he actually felt. “It takes time to organise a pursuit, get enough men together, make sure they’re properly armed etc. There’s nearly thirty soldiers down there. He can’t just grab half a dozen retainers and ride out. He’ll need most of the men in the village to take on that lot.”
“Why didn’t they stop them in the village? Why did they let them take the boys in the first place? There’s nearly every boy in the village down there, including your cousin Raslo. What are they going to do with them, sell them as slaves?”
The taller boy looked sad as he shook his head. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “We’ve been through all this several times now. We don’t know what happened in the village; we weren’t there. But you know as well as I do that our people don’t normally go around carrying weapons. I’m guessing that they were caught unprepared. Against an organised force of trained and professional soldiers, resistance by unarmed men would have been futile and there would have been casualties.”
“Well maybe they should go around carrying weapons. This is the second time in a week that the village has been raided. First that group of bandits took a wagon load of supplies and your lady mother as hostage. And now Duke Henry’s men have taken all the boys as slaves.”
“Our people are not fighters. I can’t see them agreeing to walk round carrying weapons everywhere they go and I don’t see how the council could enforce such a rule. But you’re right in a way. We do need to be able to defend ourselves. When I see my father again, I will speak to him about forming a small force of guards to at least face those bandits when they return with my mother.”
***
The leader of those bandits was, at that precise moment, riding alongside the older boy’s mother. Jaks had been quite right about Manny’s horse, he reflected. It had been quite spirited and was obviously used to carrying more weight than just a lady. They had fixed that by filling two saddlebags with rocks and strapping them to the saddle. The problem of the riding dress had been resolved by Marta splitting the skirt from hem to crotch, front and back, and then sewing the pieces together to make two legs. Not perhaps a perfect solution but in the time available, it had made a passable riding dress.
The other events of the morning had passed quite smoothly. They had
buried Manny with appropriate formality and he was pleased to note that the venomous little dagger was buried along with him, still clutched in fact, in Manny’s severed hand. Every man in the camp had given him their personal oath of allegiance. He had offered to take Feynor’s oath from his sick bed but had been refused. Despite Marta’s scolding, Feynor dressed and stood alongside the other men. When the time came, he was the first to step forward and kneel to give his oath.
Marta also had again offered her oath to him. He had thought about that for a long moment but there was a glint in her eye that seemed to say “You asked for my advice. Now take it”. So Marta had knelt and given him a solemn oath. The other women in the camp had seemed impressed by that but none had offered to follow suit and he had not pressed the point.
The issue of the slaves was still unresolved. He had called them all forward in front of the men and told them they were no longer slaves, that they were free to go or to stay as they chose. Any that chose to stay, he had said, would be entered into the books of the company as a servant and would be entitled to a share in the fortunes of the company. Not as large a share as one of the fighting men but, nevertheless, something. And all he had got back was a series of blank looks. Not a flicker of expression from any of them. He didn’t know if they hadn’t understood him; the common tongue was, for the most part, not their native language, or if they just needed time for the concept of freedom to sink in. In the end he had dismissed them and given orders to the sentries that, if any of the former slaves left the camp that day, they were not to be hindered in any way.
“How many will still be there when we return”, he wondered now.
He had not brought the whole company with them for fear of aggravating the situation in the village. There were two men on the supply wagon, a scout on point, Bern commanding an honour guard of a dozen men and Jaks, tagging along behind like a faithful puppy. He had left Feynor in charge of the camp with instructions to organise hunting parties to bring in whatever game could be found in the surrounding woods. Food was a priority that could not wait to be dealt with.
For the most part they had ridden in silence, Lady Falaise politely rebuffing any attempt at small talk on his part. But as they were climbing the final rise before descending to the village, he tried again.
“Jaks has told me somewhat of the history of your people, my lady, but I would be interested to know more.”
“Why would that concern you, my lord? You will forgive me I trust, if I say that, after today, I hope that we will never see each other again.”
“I am sorry you feel that way, my lady, but given the circumstances, it is quite understandable. However, I am not from these parts and know little of the politics and history of the region. If I am to lead this company as it should be led, as I want to lead it, then I need that information in order to survive.”
She turned her head to look at him directly for a minute. The she nodded and looked back at the trail ahead. “Under different circumstances, my lord, I might have been pleased to call you a friend. But events are what they are and we cannot change them.
“What is it that you wish to know?”
“Jaks said that you were not always a travelling folk. That once you were settled and had your own cities and towns.”
“Only one, my lord, Marmoros. The most beautiful city in the world. The city had its own marble quarry and so all the principle buildings in the city were constructed, or at least faced with marble. There were fountains and waterways throughout the city. There was a system of plumbing that took water, hot and cold, to every major household and to every street corner in the poorer parts of town. And the city itself sat in the Neverwinter valley, aptly named because it never was. There was a river running the length of the valley, the Savage River they called it. It flooded the lower plains every year to make the land exceptionally fertile. That was a cold river but the hills surrounding the valley were perforated with hot springs that kept the climate in the valley spring-like even when the valley itself was cut off from the outside world by snow drifts. The farmers in our community could grow two crops in every year.
“But Jaks was wrong in one respect. We have always had travelling in our blood. The Lyenar are a race of merchants. We sent caravans to trade with every city, town and village in this region and beyond. We prospered. Marmoros became fabulously rich and the world became jealous.”
“What happened?” he prompted.
“Treachery, my lord. We were betrayed from within. There was no easy way into the valley for wagons or horses. However, at the western end of the valley, the Savage River exits through a narrow gorge. Alongside the river, the earliest settlers had found, or maybe dug, nobody knows for certain, a narrow tunnel that allowed access on foot to the valley. It was about a hundred paces long, cut through solid rock. Later generations extended this tunnel to allow horses and wagons to pass through and sealed either end of the tunnel with massive gates that were supposed to be impregnable.
“When the warlord Krantos came to the valley looking to steal our wealth, we closed the gates and sat there laughing at him, secure behind our fortifications. But one of the members of the High Council had ambitions to be king. He made a bargain with Krantos and showed him a secret pathway through the foothills. Krantos sent round a small band of elite warriors who attacked the gates from the inside, surprising and overpowering the guards. They opened the gates and the rest of Krantos’ army came pouring through.”
“And did Krantos keep his bargain?”
“What, that one? No chance. He killed the king, my husband’s grandfather, and every member of the High Council, including the one who had betrayed us. He forced all the families to leave the valley and killed anyone who resisted. We have never been back since. Never been allowed back.”
“And this Krantos still controls the valley?”
“Not Krantos, he’s long dead. It’s his grandson Kraxis who rules there now. From all reports he’s even worse than his grandfather. They’ve taken control of the town of High Falls, the only place where the Savage River can be forded west of the valley and they plunder, or in their terms, exact tolls on every trade caravan that passes through.”
“So your husband is now the King of the Lyenar?”
“He doesn’t use that title. No one has used that title since our people were expelled from the valley. He is just Lord Brantyen, leader of the Lyenar and head of the council. He is a very proud man and refuses to be known as the king-in-exile.”
“And all of your people are in this village over the hilltop?”
“Oh no, by no means. Without leaders, the people scattered in all directions after the exodus. Gradually, family groups banded together for security, met up with returning trading caravans and coalesced into larger groups. My Lord Brantyen’s group is the largest of these but there are two other major groups of families, villages as you call them. And there are many other families who still travel independently to trade across all the regions.”
Their discussion was interrupted by the sight of the scout on point suddenly appearing over the brow of the hill and galloping down towards them. Held raised his hand to signal the column to stop and waited for the scout to reach them. Bern trotted his horse up to join them and listen to the report.
“There’s something wrong in the village, milord. There were lots of people in view but none of them appeared to be working. They were just standing around in groups and looked as though they were arguing. They had lookouts posted on the outskirts of the village, which is unusual in itself. As soon as they saw me, they raised the alarm and there was absolute panic down there. The women started screaming and disappeared into tents and wagons with the children. The men grabbed weapons and headed towards the village approach like an angry mob.”
“What sort of weapons were they carrying?” Held asked.
“Anything and everything, milord. A lot of farm implements, pitchforks and the like. But I saw more than a few clubs and s
words in amongst them and even a couple of fully strung longbows. That’s when I thought I’d better come back and report.”
Held looked across at Falaise. “I have no idea, my lord,” she shrugged. “They knew, of course, that this was the day we were due to return. They may have prepared for that but even so, I would not have expected a reaction such as your man has described. Perhaps if I could see for myself, maybe talk to them.”
He nodded in agreement. “Bern, bring the wagon and the men up but stop short of the top of the rise, out of sight of the villagers. And have the men stand ready.”
Held turned back to the scout. “Jerome isn’t it?”
“Yes, milord.”
“Well then, Jerome, you’d better show us the situation. Jaks, you come with us”, he added as an afterthought.
As soon as they crossed the ridge, they could see the truth of the report. A group of men, about fifty strong, stood blocking the path to the village. When they saw Held’s party they began to scream abuse and brandish their weapons. The village itself appeared largely deserted but he could just make out frightened faces peering from behind wagons and tent doors.
“Something has happened, my lord. I don’t know what it is but I fear the worst. I must go and talk to them.”
“Wait, my lady, please. I beg you. I am afraid for your safety if you ride down there alone.”
She rounded on him indignantly. “These are my people, Lord Held. They will not harm me.”
“They are an angry mob, my lady. And angry mobs do not make rational decisions. They have bows down there. One hot-headed bowman could bring you down before you get near enough to talk to them.”
“Then what do you suggest I do? Sitting here is doing nothing. I want to know what has happened to them.”
“I appreciate your frustration, my lady. But a rash move now might only inflame the situation and make matters worse,” he said.
“Look, you see that clump of gorse ahead on the right?” He indicated a bush about thirty paces in front.