He was, however, a curious man and not a bit rude. The two were an interesting pair, to say the least, and they appeared, on the face of it, genuine in their intentions. He certainly had no reason to doubt their character too much.
“I think you mean us,” Daric said. “We’re travelling to Bailryn for the recruitment festival. My son may wish to apply.”
Daric gestured over towards Gialyn, who had barely taken his eyes off Arfael. Daric gave him a disapproving gaze. Shaking his head, he silently mouthed, Stop staring!
“A worthy endeavour, young man,” Olam said, nodding approvingly at Gialyn. “Service to your country is an honourable endeavour if ever there was one.” He turned his gaze back upon Daric. “I do not mean to impose on you, sir. I realise it may seem an unusual proposition, but I would appreciate it if you would give some thought to my request. It could be to your advantage. We know the road well and would be glad of the company.”
Grady—who was listening intently while also staring at Arfael—moved up to Daric’s side. “Can I… uh… have a word?” he asked. He looked at Olam. “Would you… just a moment?”
“Of course,” Olam said, bowing. He backed off, respectfully waiting just out of earshot.
Grady waited for Olam and Arfael to move. He turned his back on the two. “I’m not sure about this. They look an odd couple. I know they came to the rescue, but… that… that… err… what is his name? Alf—Aufrea… the big man! I have never seen the like. And I don't mind saying that it bothers me."
Daric paused a minute to consider. “Let’s not judge too quickly, Grady. He is right! It is safer travelling as a group. I think they have proven themselves friendly, strange or not.” Daric gave a sideways glance at Arfael before continuing. “Let’s be honest. Would you argue with… Alfred is it?” Daric laughed.
“I suppose not,” Grady said. “It may just be that I prefer not to travel with a man who could beat me to a pulp in less than a blink.” Grady laughed as well.
The two men were pondering their thoughts when Elspeth and Ealian wandered up the last few steps of the rise—Elspeth leading, of course.
Elspeth was once again in her huntress garb: a well-pocketed brown jacket, cut tight to her waist; similar coloured, strong linen breeches with soft leather around the knee; thin blouse and soft leather boots. Her dark hair, tied in a loose braid, hung over her shoulder. She had a good elm bow strapped to her pack and a skinning knife sheathed at her waist. She didn’t wear the six-knife thigh-garter she had bragged about last week. Maybe that was for later, when they were out of the valley.
Ealian, on the other hand, looked like he was about to attend a ball: white frilled shirt, heavy tunic in lush dark blue and silken black breeches. His shin-high soft leather boots were his only item of clothing sensible enough for walking, and Gialyn didn’t think they would last long.
Elspeth paused for a second as she took in the larger than expected group.
“What is happening here?” she enquired. Her brow creased and jaw clenched as she darted her gaze between Grady and the two strangers. Shuffling off her pack, she steadied herself and waited for an answer.
Grady whistled under his breath. He turned the other way, leaving Daric to deal with her.
Elspeth was a beautiful girl: tall, slim, with an appealing face. However, her moods were often not so appealing.
Her brother was average. Although his manners were the mirror of Elspeth’s—they were twins after all, if not remotely similar in appearance—as he, too, had an arrogant reputation. He was quite tall, slightly shorter than Gialyn but with a heavier frame. His hair was short and combed straight forward. A bowl cut they called it.
Daric took a few paces towards them while scratching under his ear. He creased up his lip and sucked a breath through his teeth. “Well… we seem to have picked up some guests. You know Grady, of course. This is Olam, and the large gentleman is his friend—” Daric paused with hand outstretched, waiting for the big man to fill in the gap.
Olam moved forward. “Arfael,” he said. “His name is Arfael.”
Olam bowed at Elspeth as he walked purposefully towards her with an outstretched hand. Elspeth shook his hand politely while turning to Daric for more explanation.
“Don’t look at me,” he said with his hands raised in the air. “It is a public road, and apparently, we are all going the same way!”
“If you ask me, this is a bad idea,” she whispered.
“We shall see how it goes,” Daric said. “Are you and your brother ready?”
“Yes… uh… sorry we’re late. Father turned into a wailing old woman and wouldn’t let us leave.” A disapproving scowl came over her face. “I have never seen him like it. It was pathetic. Gods… it's not as if someone died. We’re only going on a trip.”
Daric grinned at the thought of tough old Theo getting so emotional. He had some sympathy for the man, particularly after the way he felt when leaving Mairi. “One day, you may be glad there is someone who will miss you when you leave.”
“I certainly hope not!” Elspeth said. She looked around at the troop and gave a quick nod to Gialyn.
He nodded back as casually as he could. His heart raced at her greeting.
Grady picked up his pack.
Gialyn had finished repositioning his bedroll and was now standing with his pack in front of him.
Ealian waited behind with Elspeth in front of him—as usual.
Daric nodded in approval at their readiness. The many unexpected twists and turns of the day had Daric a little turned round. He scratched his ear while looking at them all lined up and ready to go. For a second, he wondered what to say.
Olam stepped up and suggested a plan. “There is a copse of trees four hours down the track. It is a mile past the first ridge, near to the bottom of the Serath’alor Valley.” He pointed east, where a low-lying ridge of the Speerlag cliff met the horizon. “If I may suggest, it would be a good place to make first camp. It is by a stream, and there should be plenty of kindling in this fine weather for a nice little fire.
Daric was impressed. Olam wasn’t lying about his knowledge of the road. “Well… if no one has any objection or needs to speak for whatever reason… I think we should go with Mr. Olam’s idea.” Daric paused and waited for a response. There was none.
“Sir, if you don’t mind me asking, what is your family name? I think it best if the children… All right, Elspeth, you’re not children… so the younger amongst us can address you properly.”
“It is O’lamb,” Olam said with a cheeky grin. He’d had this conversation before.
“No… I meant your family name, sir, not your given name.”
“It is O’lamb,” insisted Olam, laughing. “My name is Olam O’lamb. Spelt slightly different but sounds the same. Don’t ask! My mother was a torturous woman.”
“Oh,” Daric said.
Everybody laughed.
“So, my friends, shall we be off?” Olam O’lamb said.
CHAPTER 5
Turns of the Wheel
The three men rode out of the woods and across the clearing. Their horses whickered, struggling against the loose dirt, as they climbed the steep gravel slope to the Salrian camp. They stopped at the makeshift gate. A Salrian guard, clad in dull half armour, stood in front of it. He had watched them since their horses broke from the tree line and started across the clearing, never taking his eyes off the lead horse, never releasing the firm grip he held on the hilt of his sword. The three horsemen were expected but hardly welcome.
“Tell your commander Faelen is here,” said the first horseman. He looked impatient, arrogant maybe, or perhaps insulted by having to wait. He flicked his grey-green cloak over his shoulder, revealing the hilt of his sword, impressing upon the Salrian that he didn’t care how hard the guard held on to his own, or that he was entering an enemy camp with nine more armed Salrians inside.
The guard reluctantly released his grip. He turned and pulled the rail back from its brace. “He�
�s expecting you. Go straight ahead.”
The three horsemen trotted slowly through the gate.
The guard never once took his eyes off the equally vigilant horsemen. He flicked his head towards the slope. “We normally walk our horses up there,” he said quietly but loud enough for Faelen to hear. Faelen looked down at him with an arrogant grin on his lips. He gave the guard a contemptuous snigger before turning to one of his compatriots and shaking his head in mock amusement. They carried on into the camp, ignoring the guards’ stare.
The Salrian camp was small, just three dark canvas tents pitched on a small plateau, ten spans up the side of the Speerlag cliff. Where not shielded by the cliff, bushes, trees, and boulders provided camouflage. A pegged tarp covered the exposed side of the cook fire and another awning with a table setup underneath, pitched under a convenient overhang. A small corral was set up towards the back for the ten horses and three cart mules they had brought with them.
Two more Salrians met the horsemen. They took the reins and led them to a halt in front of the largest tent.
Si’eth, the Salrian captain, was standing hands on hips and feet apart, waiting. He never once broke his fierce gaze from the lead horseman.
Faelen dismounted and allowed one of the Salrians to lead his horse towards the corral—the other two horsemen followed his lead. He walked slowly towards Si’eth while meticulously removing his riding gloves, as though setting his own pace gave him some control over proceeding. He looked down at Si’eth—Southern Surabhans are generally a good six inches taller than their northern neighbours are, though Salrians are much thicker boned and every bit as strong. Faelen bowed to the Salrian commander, keeping his head down for as long as it took Si’eth to acknowledge him, as per the Salrian custom.
“You are so welcomed,” Si’eth said, though his tone belied his forced hospitality.
Faelen raised his head and took a pace forward. He extended his hand in greeting. “I offer my regards to you and to your family, Captain Si’eth. May you prosper and enjoy good health.” His remarks sounded equally strained.
Si’eth bowed as he shook Faelen’s hand.
In all honesty, either would just as soon shove a knife in the other’s throat rather than show respect, but each had their own master, and their duty was clear.
The two men could hardly look more different…
Si’eth was short, bald—all Salrians were bald; they didn’t shave their heads but were born that way, although for some reason they could still grow a beard and a moustache—and pale-skinned. His eyes were a pale grey, another common trait, as were his small ears and narrow brow. He wore the same half armour as his guards. The insignia of his command was a golden strip on his left shoulder. The armour was mostly of thick leather, with vital areas, such as the heart and groin, plated with dull sheet metal. His belted tunic flared slightly in the middle to just over his knee. He wore soft leather on his legs and studded leather boots. All the Salrians wore a broad leather belt with a pouch, knife, and barbed scimitar attached.
Faelen, on the other hand, was tall. He looked every bit the pretentious Kalidhain noble. His hair was shoulder-length, combed back from his forehead, and set in place with what looked like goose grease; it shined more than hair should. He had the hooknose synonymous with the eastern regions, his chin was proud, and his eyes were dark. He was thin but broad, with a lengthy stride and long arms. His clothes were mostly a grey-green colour, a mixture of silks and velvet made his tunic, and dark, woollen breeches covered his legs. He, too, had a sword, though it looked ornate and pristine, as though it hadn’t seen much in the way of action. With the rings on his fingers and the ornate broach on his chest, Faelen looked better suited for court than the backwoods of Ealdihain.
With eyes fixed on Faelen, Si’eth turned his head slightly and gave a faint nod. The guard stationed at the door swept his arm back and opened the drape. The Salrian captain then took a step back, and with an exaggerated flourish, he waved Faelen into his tent. The three Surabhan entered, but only after Faelen let out a long sigh of exasperation.
Once inside, Si’eth dispensed with the mock formality. He threw his cape onto a ladder-backed chair and sat behind his makeshift desk. He nonchalantly waved at Faelen to take the seat in front. The Surabhan declined his offer.
Si’eth had furnished his tent as well as any other that stood on the border between An’aird Barath and Aleras’moya—that is to say, hardly furnished at all: a simple desk, a few trunks, a small table, and three ladder-back chairs. Hardly fit for a Surabhan ambassador, the whole lot would pack up onto a small cart.
Si’eth appeared unperturbed in the presence of the ambassador—if he were bothered, he certainly wouldn’t let it show. In all honesty, he didn’t care who Faelen was; doing deals with Surabhans is what irked him so. He wanted their business concluded and Faelen, along with his two compatriots, gone from his camp.
“Do you have it?” Si’eth snapped. He gazed expectantly and held his breath while waiting for the ambassador’s reply.
Faelen stood in front of Si’eth’s desk, feet apart, arms folded, and brimming with unabashed arrogance. “A drink first, perhaps?” he said. He looked back at his own guards and tsked, blatantly mocking his host’s scant hospitality. His guards mumbled their agreement, and Faelen turned back to Si’eth with a haughty grin on his face. He loosened the clasp on his cloak and let it fall—knowing one of his guards would catch it before it hit the ground. “I’ve come a long way. A little refreshment would be in order, don’t you think?”
Si’eth gave the southerner a pensive stare while drumming his fingers on the desk, as if contemplating Faelen’s request. In that moment, he looked ready to leap at the Surabhan’s throat. Begrudgingly, he ordered one of his guards to serve wine. The guard splashed the contents of a wine skin into three goblets and then handed them—very unceremoniously—to the Surabhans.
Faelen made a meal of his gratitude, bowing and thanking the Salrian guard twice. He turned to his own guards, bowed and gave cheer to them, and then finally saluted Si’eth before drinking the wine straight down.
He licked his lips and lowered the goblet to his side. “Quite a place you’ve made for yourself here,” he said. “Nice tents, a little corral for the horses, a kitchen. I bet you have even dug a latrine, all contrary to the Brion accord, I might add.”
Si’eth sat back in his chair and folded his arms. “You know, Faelen, they teach us to read up north. I know the border treaty—no more than ten men, no less than twenty leagues apart.”
“Yes, the border treaty.” Faelen looked to his men. “Shame you are not on the border, Si’eth. You appear to be three miles on our side!”
Si’eth slapped his palms on the table. “What would you have me do? Hang by my nails from the Speerlag?” He laughed as he leaned back into his chair. “Trust Surabhans to put a borderline halfway up a cliff!” he said, looking to his men. They all laughed.
“I would expect you to follow the law! Be it three miles or thirty. You shouldn’t be here, Salrian.” Faelen slammed his goblet down on the desk.
The three Salrian guards put hand to hilt and moved a pace forward. Si’eth raised a hand to them. He could barely contain his own anger and would have liked nothing more than to let his men have at them, but he was mindful—as always—of his orders. “As I was saying… Do you have the scroll… sir?”
“Ah, a little civility, how refreshing.” Faelen waved forward the guard carrying a small chest under his arm. Eyes front, the guard passed the ornate box to Faelen. “Yes, I have it.” Faelen lifted the lid while it was still in the guard’s hands, revealing the contents—a small ochre scroll with a royal seal lay inside on top of a plush purple cushion. He closed the lid and passed the whole item forward.
Si’eth half stood and quickly took the box from Faelen’s hands. He set it down on the desk in front of him and opened it. An annoyed expression creased his brow upon seeing the royal seal. “Why is it so protected?”
Faelen pulled in a sharp breath and stood almost at attention. “I don’t know what is in it… I don’t want to know what is in it… and neither, my little friend, do you.”
Si’eth ground his teeth. “You realise, now that I have this, I could just kill you and be done with your insolence.”
Faelen laughed. “We are both puppets in this, Si’eth, toiling at the belly of a serpent.” Faelen looked vacantly to the ground. “If you knew what I know, if you knew what lay at the head of the serpent… you would welcome death.” Faelen stared at the wooden chest; he bit his lip, then raised his hand and began scratching at his neck as though suddenly uncomfortable in his own skin. “Mark my words, my Salrian friend. Death is the least we deserve.”
Si’eth sat with eye’s wide and mouth open, staring at Faelen. He closed the little box and looked at the guard to his right; he, too, held a similar gaped expression. Si’eth gazed at the polished, wooden chest. He followed its gilded edge with his fingertip. What is the general up to now? What have I gotten myself into, now?
Si’eth raised his gaze from the small chest, a faint crease of sympathy creasing his brow. Is the man arrogant, or is he scared of something and trying to hide it? Whichever it was, to him, at that moment, Faelen looked like a man lost, a desperate pathetic soul with no more control over his destiny than he himself possessed. He suddenly felt quite a kinship towards his apparently arrogant counterpart.
“We are having dinner soon. You and your men are welcome to stay,” Si’eth said. His comment was more matter-of-fact than a cordial invitation—he may have found some sympathy with the Surabhan, but he didn’t want to appear weak.
Faelen stared a moment. He pondered between the lines of the Salrian commander’s offer of food. He, too, saw a connection between them. He would have liked to stay, liked to have some company for his own misery, but thought better of it. Best to have it done with. “No, I want to get back to the main road before dark, but… thank you for your kind offer, sir… friend.”
The Call of the Crown (Book 1) Page 7