The White Tower (The Aldoran Chronicles: Book 1)

by Michael Wisehart

  All eyes returned to the pre-laid plans Tolin had scribed earlier, all eyes except Dakaran, who, after refilling his goblet, retired to his seat in the corner and continued to sulk.

  Chapter 59 | Tolin

  BREAKFAST WAS HASTILY eaten as the lancers formed ranks in preparation for the upcoming battle. The division heads met with Commander Tolin to review the strategies and receive their orders. Once all discussions had been made and orders given, the officers proceeded to their assigned stations to begin briefing their men.

  Tolin stepped from his tent, which had officially become the garrison’s headquarters. “At ease.” He returned the salutes of two sentries posted outside to keep watch over the battle plans, as well as oversee the protection of their commander. As much as Tolin detested war, he did enjoy the excitement it brought with it.

  Tolin was a man of strict order and discipline. He held firm to the belief of always being prepared. The only way to win was to set a contingency for every possible outcome and mitigate the likelihood of surprise. He loved to watch a well-drawn plan come to life, all the pieces of the puzzle fitting in their places and functioning as a whole to bring about the desired outcome. It was thrilling. He hoped that didn’t make him a sadist. He didn’t enjoy seeing his men hurt or killed, but he did enjoy the game. As long as his side came out victorious.

  Tolin found Ayrion and Captain Barthol near the front lines. Moving alongside the other two, he gazed across the open field at the black and red uniforms of the Cylmaran forces on the other side.

  “They seem to be waiting for something,” Ayrion said, acknowledging Tolin’s arrival.

  “Any idea as to what?”

  “None. That’s what has me worried.”

  Tolin understood. “I’m beginning to get that uneasy feeling myself,” he admitted. “The Cylmaran forces are nothing more than a rag-tag group of mercenaries who have been well paid out of the pockets of overtaxed citizens. They have neither the resources nor the manpower that we bring with us, and yet, here they are.”

  “My mam always warned us boys before we went a-courtin’,” Barthol interjected, “‘Just because she looks sweet and smells sweet, don’t mean that she is’.” He crossed his massive arms as he rocked back and forth. “It’s the so-called easy victories that tend to be the most difficult, and costly.”

  “Aye,” Tolin agreed. If it seemed to be too good to be true, it generally was. He turned to Ayrion. “I’ve had word the scouts we sent out last night have returned. I’d like you to sit in on their debriefing, if you have the time. To be honest, I’m a bit worried by their late arrival. I had expected them back hours ago.”

  “I’ll see to the guard while you do that,” Barthol said as he took one last gander at the opposing army before turning around and disappearing back into the sea of rankers.

  “He’s a good man, Barthol is,” Tolin said as he directed Ayrion back toward the lancer command post.

  “To a fault.”

  “Reminds me of Overcaptain Asa. I wouldn’t be half the commander you see here today without Asa’s support and loyalty.”

  “Barthol has been more than my right arm, that’s for sure. He’s one of the closest friends a man could ask for.”

  As they made their way through the encampment, Tolin could feel the weight of unease in the air resting heavily on the lancers as they waited for something to happen. He would have almost preferred the fighting to the unending apprehension of waiting for it. What his men were not saying spoke volumes as to their state of mind as they maintained an active presence around the outskirts of the battlefield.

  The two sentries pulled back the canvas partitions to the lancer staging area and stepped aside to allow them entrance. Ayrion was close on his heels. Stepping into the dimly lit room, Tolin wrinkled his nose as he was overpowered by the smell of hard sweat and old horse. There were four men standing in front of his desk. By their appearance, they looked to have seen some hard miles and rough road over their evening’s excursion.

  The scouts were not arrayed in the same livery as the lancer core. Instead they were given the opportunity to wear what best suited their needs in remaining unseen while traveling through enemy territory. Each man wore an assortment of thick furs that covered most of their bodies. From a distance, they looked more like a pack of ratty badgers than a team of Elondrian lookouts.

  Tolin sat behind his desk and gestured to an empty chair at the side for Ayrion. On the left side of the doorway stood Overcaptain Asa, scratching at his eye patch as he waited for the scouts to relay their findings.

  Tolin directed his attention to the man on the right. “Terris, let’s start with you?”

  A middle-aged man with disheveled hair draping his shoulders and a full beard covering a long face stepped forward and pulled off his fur hat before offering a quick salute. “Sir, Ellson and I, we rode south along the Pyruvian River at least a good ten miles before cutting west and around the Cylmaran forces. We spent the remainder of the night in Cylmaran territory looking for signs of additional armsmen, but I’m happy to report we found none. There were no signs of heavy-crossings along the river, only local traffic.” He saluted again and stepped back.

  Tolin felt distinctly upbeat about the news.

  “Did you follow the main road into Cylmar?” Overcaptain Asa asked.

  “Yes, sir,” Terris replied. “As well as a few of the local fields and surrounding forests that would have also lent a possible route in case they tried concealing their movements, but still nothing.”

  “Very well,” Tolin said as he glanced at the other two. “Merrick, what about you and Bayle? Any sign of movement to the north?”

  Merrick, a short, round man with a square-cut goatee that didn’t quite fit his chubby face, stepped forward and saluted. “Sir, we headed north toward the base of the Black Hills and then cut west around the Cylmaran ranks, but as the others, we found no signs indicating any additional forces.” The scout saluted and stepped back beside his partner.

  Tolin couldn’t help but appreciate the very blunt and very brief report the short man had laid out regarding their findings. He also couldn’t help but wonder what had happened to the others. “I thought there were three sets of scouts?”

  “There were,” Asa replied, taking a moment to adjust his eye patch, “but the third team hasn’t returned as of yet, which has me a little troubled since they had the least distance to travel.”

  “Where were they sent?”

  Asa scratched his chin, rubbing his fingers down his perfectly shaped ducktail beard. “I sent them to scout the passes in the Black Hills.” Turning to his side, the captain coughed up some phlegm, and not seeing a place to spit, he reluctantly swallowed. “We don’t want those flamin’ Cylmarans sneakin’ up our backsides in the night.”

  Tolin took a deep breath and turned to the scouts. “I hate to do this to you, but if something has happened, we need to know before we find ourselves in a situation from which we can’t fight our way out.”

  Merrick saluted. “I can ride, sir. Roan and Arnst are friends, and if something did happen to them, I want to know.” The other three sounded their enthusiasm as well.

  “Excellent.” Tolin stood from his seat. “How soon can you leave?”

  “We’ll need fresh mounts and supplies,” Merrick said as he pursed his lips in thought. “I would say within the next half-hour.” He looked at the others for verification. They nodded.

  “Very well. Keep up the good work, gentlemen. You’re dismissed.” The scouts raised their fists in salute and left. Tolin could only hope that what they found was nothing more than a lame horse, but something in his gut said differently. He had a bad feeling about this whole situation.

  Chapter 60 | Dakaran

  PRINCE DAKARAN RETREATED to his temporary dwelling at the center of the encampment.

  One of the white-clad guards of the Black Watch lifted the flap aside, allowing him passage. He walked around the privacy wall toward the back and was start
led by a tall, lanky figure robed in crimson. The mitre atop his head reminded Dakaran of one of the palace spires.

  “Where have you been?” Dakaran demanded with a noticeable slur as he reached for his glass and poured some more wine. “I was looking for you earlier, but it seems no one saw you leave.” It seemed his counselor was always lurking behind closed doors or pulled shutters. He wondered if he might have made a miscalculation in his choice of advisors. Oh well, he mused, his eyes glistening over the rim of his fluted chalice as he lifted it to his lips, I can always have him disposed of after I take the throne.

  “I can come and go without being seen, Your Highness,” Valtor said with a very small bow, his eyes dark around the edges from an apparent lack of sleep, “a most helpful trait if you find yourself enabling two opposing forces.”

  Dakaran seated himself and threw his feet on the table. “So tell me, oh great mediator, is everything in readiness?”

  “It will be.” Valtor turned his attention to the table at the back, which held a few of his dark tomes. “I have a few minor details which need some smoothing.”

  Dakaran raised a brow. “That doesn’t quite fill me with confidence.”

  “You might want to go easy on the wine, Your Highness. You’ll need a clear head if we are to be successful in this little coup.”

  Dakaran finished off the glass with a long, slow gulp. “Stop worrying about my drink, and start worrying about those wrinkles you need to smooth. The only reason Saryn promised his forces was to give us the opportunity to oust my father under the guise of war, but with little ol’ righteous Aryion always hanging over my father’s shoulder, it’s going to be rather difficult.”

  “Don’t worry about the guardian. I have something special planned for him and his men.”

  Dakaran’s enthusiasm rose, along with his brows. “Oh? Do tell.”

  “I’d rather let it be a surprise, Your Highness. But as you know, men die in battle all the time, as do kings.”

  Dakaran raised his glass with a wobbly hand. “And so do Guardian Protectors.” Leaving his seat, the prince placed his goblet on the table and headed for the back of the cramped dwelling. “I’m going to get some rest. Wake me if anything important happens.”

  “Wise decision, Your Highness.”

  Dakaran watched from his bed with a careful, yet blurry, eye as Valtor grabbed a couple of books and packed them into his riding satchel. He also collected his disturbing looking staff with its wolf-shaped head before making his way to the front of the tent.

  “And where are you sneaking off to?”

  Valtor stopped at the entrance and turned. “I’m on my way to iron out a few of those wrinkles, Your Highness. Nothing to concern yourself with.” He bowed slightly. “By your leave?”

  Dakaran waved his hand in dismissal before rolling over on his back and staring at the designs stitched into the material overhead. He could hear the tent flap dropping back into place. I don’t like him, Dakaran mused with a sneer. He makes me nervous. There’s something shifty about his eyes, or maybe it’s those bony fingers, always tapping. Hmm? Yes, he will definitely have to go.

  With the wine taking its toll, Dakaran drifted off to sleep.

  Chapter 61 | Merrick

  TRUE TO HIS ESTIMATION, Merrick and the other scouts were on their way out of the encampment with fresh horses and additional supplies within half an hour. The sun was just peeking out from the hills behind them. Its light did more than guide their path. It promised to curb the chill of their overnight excursion.

  They headed north along the main road, skirting the waters of the Pyruvian and continued in the general direction of the Black Hills and their connecting passes into the Kingdom of Cylmar.

  After a couple of hours of hard riding, without seeing another living soul, the scouts reined up at an adjoining crossroad. It wound its way back across the Cylmaran border, avoiding the Black Hills altogether.

  Terris hopped off his horse. He and Ellson had followed the road last night when scouting the northern side of the Cylmaran flanks. “It appears to be just as we left it.” Terris knelt in the dirt beside his horse and thoroughly scanned the rough terrain. “I don’t see any additional movement here, Merrick.”

  “We best press on, then.” Merrick turned his horse northward.

  They rode through the rest of the morning and into the afternoon before reaching the opening to the first pass leading into the mountains. The dark deposits of granite were a clear indicator of how this range had received its name. The two passes in and through the Black Hills had been opened for the use of mining operations. However, because of the increase in raiders coming out of Cylmar, they were closed for the season.

  The pass was wide enough for two haulers, but no more.

  Merrick, Ellson, and Terris dismounted and carefully scanned the mouth. There were deep rutted grooves in the flooring of the rock where the heavy wagons, laden with the newly mined ore, would travel. The fresh deposits were then taken to Aramoor for processing.

  “I’ll be a scoutin’ ahead, boss,” Bayle said in his deep seafaring accent. He moved his horse into the pass and trotted toward the first turn.

  Merrick nodded and turned to the others. “Ellson, can you ride north and make sure nothing is moving south from the second pass? I would hate to get stuck in here with no way to retreat.” The young scout nodded and swung his horse north. He kept to a good pace as he continued up the main road.

  After feeling assured there had been no large-scale movement of men in any recent days, Merrick and Terris mounted and made their way into the pass. The echoes from their horse’s hooves reverberated off the solid walls rising hundreds of feet into the air around them. Like an enormous tomb, the passage held an eerie sense of finality.

  During the winter months, the caps would cover in snow, periodically avalanching through the pass and blocking all access. For this reason, they kept the ironworks closed through the colder season, usually cutting off production near the beginning of Akòsi and not starting back up until the middle of Manù.

  Rounding the first corner, Merrick could see Bayle up ahead kneeling beside his horse and scanning the path for recent activity. Merrick reined in alongside. He watched as the stout sailor moved a few rocks out of the way while checking for tracks. “I be seein’ two recent sets leadin’ in,” he said, still glancing at the grooves in the overlaying dust, “but I don’t be seein’ any leadin’ out.”

  Merrick took a deep breath and released. He didn’t like the feeling worming around in his gut.

  “If I remember correctly,” Terris said with an understandably apprehensive tone, “the pass splits a couple miles ahead. The left will take you out toward the Cylmaran side of the mountains, and the right takes you back toward the mines.”

  Bayle swung back into his saddle. “Shouldn’t we be a waitin’ fer Ellson?”

  “We’ll take it slow,” Merrick said as he twisted in his saddle to glance at the passageway behind them. “If he hasn’t caught up to us by the time we reach the fork, we’ll leave a marker for him to follow.”

  The other two flanked him as they continued down the pass toward the next curve. All three kept a close eye on the trail for any indication as to what had happened to their missing comrades.

  The shallow padding of their horse’s hooves was the only sound present within the vast corridor of stone. A sense of unease slithered down Merrick’s back like fingertips stroking his skin. Raising a gloved hand, he rubbed the back of his neck. He didn’t like this at all.

  The silence was beginning to eat at them. The farther in they traveled the jumpier they became. “What be that?” asked Bayle, bringing the small group to a halt for the third time. They strained their ears for a hint of anything, but the only sound was the howling of the wind as it occasionally whipped through the tunnels from the peaks above.

  “That be your imagination,” Terris mumbled, sounding more than a little frustrated at the constant stopping and starting.

&
nbsp; By midafternoon, they had managed to reach the forked split. They climbed down from their mounts and scoured the open ground around both trail heads, trying to piece together which direction Roan and Arnst had taken the previous night. “It appears they took the pass toward the mines,” Terris said as he moved a few rock fragments with the toe of his boot to get a good look at the hoofprints underneath.

  Bayle held the horses while Merrick checked the left side. “I’m not seeing any recent tracks heading back toward the other end of the pass.”

  “That be makin’ not a lick a sense,” Bayle said. “Why would ye be a-headin’ toward the mines, if ye be a lookin’ for armsmen comin’ from Cylmar? That trail be only one way.”

  “Well, something obviously gave them cause to search the ironworks.”

  The tension in Merrick’s neck was growing more pervasive. “Let’s eat a quick bite and give Ellson a chance to catch up before moving further in.” He pulled out a small bundle of wrapped cheese and sliced meat with a couple of hardtack biscuits on the side. The other two followed his example, washing it down with a little brandy from their corked bladders.

  A quarter of an hour passed and still no Ellson. Merrick re-wrapped the rest of his food and stuffed it back in the satchel. “We need to keep going.” He watched Terris walk over to the right fork and with a nearby rock, draw a simple mark in the dust, signaling the direction they were taking.

  Merrick waited for Terris to remount before the three headed in.

  “How fer be these ironworks?” Bayle asked, trying to break the uneasy tension.

  “I’m not sure,” Terris replied. “I haven’t been here since I was a child. My father used to work these mines years ago.”