by J. P. Wagner
“It won’t do any good, Your Highness,” Lady Adengler broke in. “He’s a warrior, you know, and they’re not allowed even to say ‘ouch’ if it hurts.” There was laughter in her eyes as she spoke.
Carrtog smiled and said “Ouch! Sorry, I must not be a very good warrior.”
“If you can joke about it like that, you must be getting better. Actually, I didn’t come just to be company for Her Highness; I wanted to add my own thanks to you for bringing us safely home.”
“I didn’t do it all by myself. Yakor had a good deal to do with it, and even the King’s Gentlemen did their part.”
“Next thing you’ll be telling us that it was all luck, and you just happened to make a few good decisions. Nonsense! You were still the one making the decisions. Because you made those decisions, we are now safe at home. And because you are still not completely healed, we had best leave you to your rest. We will be seeing you from time to time, though; you can rely on that.”
#
Days went by. Carrtog forced himself to get out of bed and walk, first around the room — discovering himself to be dreadfully weak — then up and down the hallway in front of his room. He began to do other exercises as well to the point where Yakor began to chide him.
“Don’t wear yourself down by trying to build yourself up, Lord Carrtog. You took quite a battering, you know, and you can’t expect to jump out of bed and be totally recovered in a couple of days.”
Carrtog grinned, a little tiredly. “But the longer I lie around in bed, the longer it’ll be before I can be back in shape. I expect the king will be wanting me to follow him when he goes to put down the rebellion.”
Yakor looked around to see that no one was near enough to overhear him, then said, quietly, “I don’t think the king is going to want you near him to be a reminder of certain instances where he showed himself in a less than admirable light. I think you’ll find that he has some sort of good reason for you not to go along with him, whenever he leads the punitive expedition.”
“It’s that bad?”
“’That bad?’ Boy, do you remember nothing of the journey back out of the North?”
Carrtog grimaced. When Yakor called him ‘boy,’ that usually meant he had been being more than normally foolish.
However physically tired he might be, he could still recognize facts when his man hit him over the head with them. He forced a smile. “You’re right, of course. Well, I suppose I’ll have to deal with whatever comes.”
#
The Great Hall of the High kingdom of Cragmor was a massive high-domed structure built of gray marble hauled from far-distant quarries at great expense by the great-great-great-grandfather of King Bornival. Tales were told of how magicians had cut and transported the stones in the space of one night. In the tales, a mist had come down on the site, and in the morning, the hall had stood fully built.
Certain spots outside of the walls of the Great Hall had been found to be pits containing the bones of men tossed in and covered over with no sign of proper burial. Some said these were the bones of people sacrificed to give strength to the building spells. Others pointed out a more likely alternative, that the bones were those of many slaves who had died during the building of it.
The inside walls were decorated with hangings and tapestries depicting scenes from history and legend, sometimes mixing the two. Carrtog remembered similar wall-hangings from his Grandfather’s hall and realized the intent of such things. No one really thought that the hero Boldavor had actually appeared at the birth of Cedwin, son of Dolvar, but in the case of that Tsingallik tapestry, if Boldavor had been around at the time of the birth of Carrtog’s far-off ancestor, he would have been aware of the special nature of the babe, just because he himself was special.
At least, that had seemed the best explanation.
The Great Hall was packed with colors today, all the lords present wearing their family tartans, along with cloaks in the main colors of the banners of their lands. The fashion now was shirts with slashed sleeves, and some lords went so far as to have the inserts in the sleeves done in the main colors that made up their tartans. In some cases, of course, the main colors of the tartans were not suited for such use, and in those cases the lords used whatever colors suited their fancy, trying not to use any colors that matched, or seemed to match, the tartan of another lord. Lords had been known to start quarrels, even occasionally leading to bloodshed and years-long feuds, over some lords ‘misappropriation’ of certain sleeve-colors.
During the reigns of certain kings, such quarrels, or the continuance of long-standing ones, were frowned on by the monarch, but the fractious nature of the nobility was often not amenable to even royal legislation.
Carrtog had managed to find a weaver who was capable of and willing to produce a measure of cloth in his family tartan, and a tailor had turned the cloth into several kilts for him. The craftsmen, knowing Carrtog stood high in the king’s regard, quite willingly did their work on the promise of future payment. Carrtog privately hoped that nothing would happen to remove the king’s favor before he could find the money to pay them, though he was also very careful not to mention that concern to anyone, with the exception of Yakor, who could be trusted not to speak out of turn.
Carrtog stood just inside the main door to the Hall, and before him, the lords of the kingdom — save those who were on campaign with Maelgwn Longarm or who had not managed to get to the capital in time — were gathered in two roughly equal groups on each side of the path between the door and the king’s High Seat. The king’s steward, in giving Carrtog his instructions, had dropped some hints as to the impossibility of convincing the status-proud lords to allow themselves to be mustered into anything approximating neat ranks.
By this time, the name of the leader of the Black Powder Rebellion had become known. He was a man by the name of Rhadfel Llorsan, a third cousin of one of the previous lords of a part of the conquered north. Carrtog glanced around the room and found himself wondering which lords present may have sympathy or quiet understandings with Rhadfel Llorsan. He was sure there must be some.
Finally, the door behind the king’s High Seat opened, and two trumpeters stepped in, put their horns to their lips and blew a fanfare. The steward, still out of sight beyond the doorway, announced in a loud voice, “Gentlemen, the King!”
The lords pulled themselves into erect postures, intended to indicate their respect for the king, who immediately strode into the room, stepping to a place before the High Seat, where he turned to face the lords and seated himself.
The king spoke, “Lord Carrtog, step forth.”
Carrtog, following the directions the steward had given him, stepped forward, coming down the gap between the two groups of lords, and placed himself just a little in advance of the front row.
After a short pause, King Bornival began to speak once more. “You will all know much about the events of this spring, how we took ourselves to the town of Tenerack for the opening of the railway line which we had built for the benefit of the people of the region. The ungrateful folk of that town and its environs chose that time to rise up in rebellion, and made an attempt to lay hands on our person.
“Lord Carrtog did not hesitate to put himself in danger on our behalf, fighting valiantly by the side of our Gentlemen. By the help of the Gods the plot of the rebels failed, though very few of our Gentlemen survived. We being incapacitated, Lord Carrtog took charge of the few that remained and organized a defense to stand off the rebels who came out to see what had become of their associates.
“In the following days, Lord Carrtog led us in our escape from the midst of the rebels, bringing us at last into the sight of our own troops marching northward. In that last moment, within sight of safety, Lord Carrtog did put our beloved daughter on his own horse, and set himself between her and danger, at the risk of his own life.”
The king paused for a moment,
then went on. “For all these reasons, it gives us great pleasure to declare Lord Carrtog Lord of the Territory known as Nandycargllwyd, The Brook of the Gray Stones.”
The king raised a hand. “Steward., the colors!”
The steward came forward and beckoned to a young page carrying a folded cloak in the colors of Nandycargllwyd. The steward took the cloak, shook it out of its folds, and set it on Carrtog’s shoulders. Carrtog reached up and fastened it at the neck. The Steward withdrew, followed by the page.
The king spoke once more. “Lords, I bid you all welcome among yourselves Lord Carrtog of Nandycargllwyd!”
The lords broke into a resounding racket of clapping, stamping, and shouting of “Bornival forever!”
When the noise died down a little, the king called out, “Lords, make yourselves known to the new Lord of Nandycargllwyd!”
The lords came up, one by one, in order of precedence, to clasp hands with Carrtog. There were several occasions where lords, though allowing themselves with poor grace to be ordered into the not-quite-ranks before the king, took up the quarrel again, declaring that they would not allow themselves to be put behind this or that man. Most of them eventually allowed the steward to convince them that they would be better off to allow the question of precedence to be settled for certain at another time, rather than disturbing the festivity surrounding the rewarding of the man who had saved the life of the king’s daughter. In one case, unfortunately, two lords allowed themselves to become so worthy that they would not be mollified and left the hall rather than either one give up what he considered to be his rightful due.
The king watched this conflict with a grim face, and Carrtog thought, neither of those two had best require anything of the king for a long while.
Yakor had told him beforehand, “Don’t expect great sincerity from all who give you their hand today. There’ll be some who had hoped to get the Brook of the Gray Stone for themselves, and some who are just jealous of your place as a new friend of the king, and a few who just don’t like to see anyone getting ahead.”
Carrtog had grinned back at him. “And nothing like that went on back at Tsingallik? No one thought that my grandsire’s youngest son wasn’t given unwarranted favor? Don’t worry, Yakor, I won’t forget to watch my back.”
He watched all the faces of the men who shook his hand, but there were simply too many to remember. Most merely shook his hand and muttered some words of congratulation, some more seriously than others.
His own grandfather, a tall and well-built old man smiled as he grasped Carrtog’s hand strongly. “So you went out with only a sword to find your fortune, and indeed you did. Well-done, boy! Tsingallik for true!”
Carrtog smiled in return. “Tsingallik for true,” he responded. “My father is well?”
“Yes, and your brothers as well. We thought it best that we not take too many away from Tsingallik, with the border in turmoil.”
“Of course. You’ll take my good wishes to them when you return.”
“Most certainly.” His grandfather stepped away and let the line continue.
Carrtog suddenly found himself facing an older man whom the steward named as “Melwys of Cwm Gwyrdd,” A name he recognized.
“You’re the father of Lady Adengler!”
Strongly-built, with scars on his hands and wrists to show that he had been a fighting man, he was of some age but it was clear he was still someone to be reckoned with.
He smiled at Carrtog’s outburst. “Lord Carrtog, I’m pleased to meet you at last. I’ve been hearing fine things about you, the kind of things that concern a man when he hears them from his daughter.”
Carrtog felt himself redden. “I’m sure she can’t have built me up that much, Lord Melwys!”
The gray eyes twinkled. “Oh, no! The most worrying thing she said was that you scarcely needed someone to speak up for you.”
Carrtog felt a flicker of near panic. What was that supposed to mean? It was scarce the time to dwell on his terror, with the lords lined up behind Melwys becoming more restive every moment, but Carrtog’s mind could only come up with the polite request, “My Lord, may I have your permission to speak to your daughter?”
He hardly thought it was possible for his face to become any redder, but when Melwys laughed out loud, he thought the glow must be visible across the room.
“Don’t you think that request a bit tardy, Lord Carrtog, coming as it does after you have spent so many days in each others’ pockets in the journey down from Tenerack?”
The older lord continued to grin as he said, “When you’ve gained my years of experience, you will undoubtedly discover the futility of giving a daughter a command you know she won’t obey. I will only say that I trust you will not make her unhappy.”
The steward moved restively, almost certainly on the point of breaking up a conversation that had gone on much too long, but Carrtog held firm just a moment longer, long enough to say, “Of course not, Sir,” before Melwys allowed the steward to pass him along and introduce the next lord in line.
#
In the dinner that followed, Carrtog, being the guest of honor, sat at the king’s right hand and could practically feel the waves of jealousy from the Lord of Silver Mountain to his own right. That lord was usually seated at the king’s right and apparently begrudged his replacement, however temporary, and treated Carrtog to a series of frosty glares and sneers.
Carrtog worked at ignoring him and managed to enjoy the main course: a well-seasoned roast pig.
The next course, however, a pastry delight on which the cook had expended his considerable talent, was interrupted by the entrance of a man in a dusty cavalry uniform, accompanied by two of the King’s Gentlemen. They hurried to the king’s side where the dusty messenger murmured into the king’s ear.
As the man spoke, Carrtog watched Bornival straighten and his face turn grim. When the man had finished delivering his message, the king stood and called for the attention of the company.
“Lords, your attention if you please! Serious news has just been brought to us! General Maelgwn has brought the rebels to battle in the North, at a place called Fallen Hills. The result has been a severe reverse to our arms. General Maelgwn himself has fallen, and the remnants of our force that could escape are fleeing southward. Tomorrow morning we will hold counsel to decide what will be our response.”
He paused and looked down at Carrtog. “My apologies, Lord Carrtog, for interrupting your celebration for such unhappy news. Let the feast continue.”
He seated himself, and the feast continued, but the festive air was somewhat strained.
Carrtog himself could not pull his mind away from the woods of the North, and the scattered, beaten soldiers fleeing southward, harried at every step by rebels like a pack of wolves.
Chapter 8
The day after the ceremony and subsequent celebration, Carrtog returned from his walk to find two well-dressed gentlemen waiting for him. One was older, slender, with graying hair and a receding hairline. He wore a snug-fitting suit of black with silver trimming.
The other was more toward middle-age, somewhat heavier, with red-gold hair and a colorful outfit in a mix of reds, blues, and greens.
The older one spoke. “Good day, Lord Carrtog. We are among the King’s Magicians, and he has asked us to wait on you. My name is Enemantwin, and my companion is Gwaitorr. I am well-trained in the usual gunpowder magic though my passion and skill lie in magic involving plants. My companion is also well-versed in gunpowder magic, but specializes in the magic of mechanics. His Majesty desires us to give you further training in magic.”
“I’m happy to hear that. Especially in the later days of our flight from the North, I was very much aware of my limitations.”
“I’m pleased to hear that,” Enemantwin said. “You’d be surprised to know how many young men come for magical training who already know ev
erything.”
“I see. And when can I expect the lessons to begin?”
#
Carrtog had not forgotten how the rebels had managed to suborn the workshop that had produced the carriages for the train that had been supplied for the opening of the station in Tenerack. Suborned it so well in fact, that the rebels had successfully mounted a complex spell, using a blend of magic and mechanics, to form a glider with which they had attempted to seize the king.
With those thoughts in mind, he approached his two tutors with the question even before his lessons began.
“Gentlemen, you will recall how the rebels set the magical-mechanical trap in the railway carriage bound for Tenerack? Are you aware if any efforts have been made to uncover any other such plots down here where we least expect them?”
Enemantwin pursed his lips. “Some days after His Majesty returned, his magicians undertook a severe magical investigation of that particular plant. I do not have at my fingertips the results of that investigation, but I do recall that the results were astounding. I understand that several people lost their positions, and I believe that only the vast extent of the rebels’ secret involvement in the workshop prevent there from being more than a few executions. No one wished to have it publicly known how severe the problem had been.”
“With that as a warning, were there any other investigations made of other workshops, other groups or organizations that might be important to the kingdom?”
“There certainly were! Though very little was found that was so complex as the plot against the king.”
Gwaitorr spoke up. “What of the firearms workshops?” He turned toward Carrtog, “They discovered that several capable magicians had gotten employment at several workshops that provided firearms for His Majesty’s forces. They did not sabotage every weapon, but they did manage to put out a significant number of weapons that seemed to function perfectly, but only awaited a magician to speak an incantation and problems would suddenly happen. Small parts, such as triggers or springs, would break leaving the weapons useless. They had not yet had sufficient quantity of weapons produced to be a severe problem to the Army, but I suppose in a battle, even a small quantity in the wrong place could result in a victory turned into a defeat.”