Crouched low in the shadows, Ulran snatched up the fallen pointed helmet and unclipped the stained cloak.
After cleaning the knife on the man’s jerkin, he hid the weapon in the cloak’s folds.
Standing up, he scanned about him. Nothing was amiss. He would have welcomed Alomar’s archery skill at this moment, but that could not be. He needed information more than arrows.
Pacing as the fallen sentry had done, he neared the guard on the varteron edge of the camp. He knew the grey accent of Arion well and said, “The night takes its time to wear thin, friend–”
The other nodded then started, eyes widening, with justification for a gleaming sword protruded from his throat, effectively blocking any cry or murmur. Ulran caught him before he fell far.
Two down...
Yet he doubted if he could maintain his disguise or element of surprise much longer. But he wanted the sentries first, otherwise they might be tempted to escape. He would risk discovery for one more, then tackle the others.
Already the red tellars had detected something, flicking their wings, chinking chains, their large beaked heads cocked, listening.
The third sentry managed to cry out before dying.
Ulran discarded helmet and cloak and ran into the midst of the others, slaying two before they could rise from their knees.
Before he joined swords with the other four, he glimpsed the last sentry standing some way off from the chained birds, staring at him.
The innman’s sword played music to his ears as he slashed and carved his way through two more soldiers. Then a skilful upthrust snagged at his shirt and shallowly cut his chest: the swordsman’s smile transformed into a dying grimace an instant later with Ulran’s praise probably the last sound he heard.
The sixth soldier knelt before the innman and held up his sword in supplication. The innman had not relished slaughtering this man’s companions and had done so only out of necessity; though had they been the same who killed the red tellar of two nights ago, he might have dwelt on their deaths longer.
“Give me information, man, or you’ll die,” Ulran told him equably.
“I – what – what do you want to know?”
“Slay him and I slay these birds!” called the sentry eight marks behind the kneeling soldier.
“No!” screeched the soldier. “He’ll not–”
“Silence, jackal!” the sentry shouted. “Now, bold warrior, either throw down your enchanted sword or watch these birds lose their heads!”
In the flicker of firelight Ulran could see the glint of steel, the blade pointing at a red tellar’s head. His quest was greater than the lives of three red tellars, of that his instinct assured him. But he couldn’t condemn them.
His sword against the kneeling soldier’s throat, Ulran called across: “I won’t kill him as long as you keep the birds alive; if you kill them, he dies too. But I won’t surrender my sword. My words might sentence the birds to death, but your actions might sentence your companion to death.”
Face and body trembling, the kneeling man cried, “You don’t understand, that’s what he wants! He wants my wife – we hate each–”
Ulran kneed the whimpering fellow to the dusty ground and threw his long-sword across the camp and quickly ran in its wake.
So unexpected was the throw that the sentry received it full in his stomach and only managed to half-sever a bird’s wing before they waddled out of his reach.
Ulran closed, disarmed him and used the man’s own sword to finish him off.
The keys for the chains hung on the wagon where the wounded lay, fearfully eyeing him. “Stay where you are and you will come to no harm,” he told them, then released the red tellars.
The chains clattered to the ground, the birds ruffled their feathers, flanked their wounded comrade and suddenly leapt into the night sky. No acknowledgement or mental shriek of thanks. He hadn’t expected any.
Obtaining provisions for the next two days, and in addition a change of clothes, he forced the surviving soldier to his feet and the pair walked out of the camp, leaving the wounded watchers stunned.
***
Yip-nef Dom’s soldier had little to tell him about the fate of all the captured red tellars, and Ulran believed him for his mode of questioning had a tendency to elicit truth and only the truth from the sturdiest of men.
King Yip-nef Dom and the enchanter Por-al Row had conjured up some diabolical scheme involving over two thousand red tellars that must be delivered to the palace alive by the First Sufin of Lamous. If Scalrin’s and Fhord’s portents were accurate, that left them one day to make use of the red tellars for the First Durin.
Eleven days to the deadline, then. He might not have time to await Alomar and Fhord and the chance of releasing them. His only option was to get to Arisa and locate secret brethren whom he had never met and enlist their support for his quest, the purpose of which he was still unaware.
Unable to kill for its sake alone, Ulran let the soldier go after removing the man’s knee-length boots and breeches; clad only in a cotton shirt and woollen under-garments, he wouldn’t travel far fast.
Utilising what remained of the night, Ulran jog-trotted towards Arisa which now appeared on his horizon, a black silhouette between the two larger silhouettes of mountains that created the Arion Gap.
Another night and he would be within the gates.
The following day dragged on as though it would never reach its dusk. He used the time to treat his slight chest-wound and taped a narrow sliver of gold leaf over the cut. He had little of the rare leaf remaining in his belt pouch, however, so he used it sparingly.
At dusk he set out, wearing the abandoned soldier’s clothing over his own. He planned to arrive outside the Prime City shortly after dawn.
It was a splendid sunrise, coming over the mountains behind him to the dunsaron. Though quite high as the rays reached into the Arion Cradle the slanting reds and yellows touched upon the black rock of the solitary ancient city and lent it an evil black glow, sinister in aspect.
Yet there was no sight quite like Arisa.
Tall walls blocked off the valley entrance on either side; a massive rock stood in the centre of the Arion Gap and upon this crouched the citadel with two entrances only, one from the varteron – winding up sheer high unscaleable cliffs – and the other from the dunsaron.
He was soon mingling with soldiers and farmers, the latter on their way to the morning market. They trod a wide dirt road, a straight line towards Arisa where it would zig and zag up the rocky sides to the walled city.
It proved quite a climb in the crowds and he was sweating profusely beneath all the clothes he wore.
The black stone of the city was a bizarre contrast to the ochre of Goldalese and the grey of Lornwater. Yet it was obviously the most impervious material to use for even after two thousand and fifty years it appeared unmarked by inclement weather.
He climbed the steep winding path, jostled by bleating sheep and recalcitrant mules; the rock fell off on his right and veered on his left and blended into the structure of the city-wall itself. Ulran peered up in open admiration.
An ancient city – indeed, the oldest, for here the calendar was created. Yet now the city was allowed to fester under the ill-omened tread of Yip-nef Dom.
He passed through the tall carved stone portals of the gate. Gleaming black metal portcullis blades glinted. The soldiers on duty hardly glanced at him or the farmers and peasants. He crossed through the enclave of peddlers who set up their stalls in the great courtyard by the gate. Then he walked down a narrow street in shadow.
Almost every building’s wall was a piece of ancient artwork, prized for its antiquity and beauty. But he had no eyes for beauty this day.
He turned a right angle and further down turned left and there – at the end of the street – the Sixth Gate to the palace. Guarded. A beggar-woman sat, leaning against a wall; occasionally she cast her cataract-plagued eyes up at the looming palace. Omnipresent, mocking the
poor.
Idly sauntering past the palace gate and guard, Ulran eyed the adjacent houses that ran parallel with the high palace wall.
On either side climbed the mountains that formed the portals to the Gap.
He was decided. It could be done.
But first he must contact someone. He had time before the deadline. Prior to breaking into the palace, he would attempt to glean more information on Yip-nef Dom’s scheme.
A good distance from the palace a shopkeeper grinned roguishly as Ulran bought an idol of Osasor for Fhord. He would have preferred Alasor, but that was the only idol on the stall. “Your craftsmanship does you credit, friend,” Ulran observed, paying.
As the change crossed hands, Ulran’s little finger brushed against the merchant’s inside wrist, index finger jabbing lightly.
The merchant’s response was immediate, his eyes widening, his throat constricting. “If you’d care to view my other work, you might find more to your liking... soldier.” He indicated a beaded curtain hanging in a doorway.
“If you’ve anything else of this quality, I might be interested,” Ulran replied.
The merchant showed him through the curtain and called, “Sapella, tend the stall, will you?”
The beaded curtain led onto a landing with stairs that descended into shadow. The gloomy room below was illumined by light-beams from the one narrow barred window set in the far wall, level with the cobbled road outside. As people passed, wisps of dust floated through.
Eyes now accustomed to the shadow, Ulran could make out a wooden table; a broad wooden bed with dishevelled blankets; a chest of drawers beneath the high window, with a porcelain basin of water and a jug inlaid with Reresmond vermicular work; a bear rug by the empty hearth; four wooden chairs; and a few idols. The ceiling rafters were partly concealed with cobwebs.
“Go down, my friend – I’ll be right with you,” said the merchant, following him.
Wary, despite the exchange of keywords and the secret touch signal, Ulran descended the stairs, removing his stolen helm as he did so.
The stone stairs puffed underfoot with thick dust, doubtless blown in from the street.
“My name is Grayatta Essalar. Please sit, while I get you refreshment.”
Ulran sat at the table, placed his helmet gently on the knotted wood. “You live humbly,” he observed. He unbuckled his sword; it clattered on the table top.
“It is better, less likely to draw attention…” Essalar grinned, giving the innman a pewter mug of beer; “Though I think there are exceptions such as the innman of the Red Tellar.”
Ulran nodded, sipped the lukewarm drink: it had a bitter taste not to his liking but he swallowed it nevertheless. “Yours is the first smile I’ve seen on the lips of a resident of Arisa,” he said seriously. “All the people seem so grey and lifeless, save for the itinerants, visiting farmers and rare minstrels.”
Essalar sighed. “The malaise is biting deep, I’m afraid.” He sat opposite, face grim.
In the shaft of light, he appeared to be a young man of perhaps forty years, with alert closely set blue eyes. His chin’s stubble was blue, and his black hair held a blue sheen to it. His clothes were frayed at their cuffs and collar, but his leather belt and short-sword looked well-cared-for. “I’ll not pretend that we’ve ever been a happy, carefree people in Arisa; we’ve a reputation for being dark and immutable, as the rocks on which our city is built.
“But the longer Yip-nef Dom’s reign lasts, the blacker does his realm seem. There are whispers in every dark corner now where once there were but few.”
“It is much the same in Lornwater, Essalar. Times seem to be changing for our cities – hopefully for the better. Though, sadly, revolt does not always result in the best answer.”
Essalar shook his head, sipped his beer. Froth bordered his upper lip and the back of his hand wiped it clear. “There can be no revolt here, for Yip-nef Dom still rules with an iron hand of fear and retribution. His cells are crammed full, the master torturer is overworked, and the corpse caravans to the Manderranmeron Fault are proving too costly.
“Some younger ones have escaped over the varteron cliffs and others have been killed in the attempt.” Essalar shrugged. “But most just sit and wait and hope. Hope Yip-nef Dom’s time will come soon.”
“What of his successor, Yip-dor Fla?”
“Imprisoned. He might disagree with me, but I believe he is fortunate – Dom’s still scared of Fla’s supporters. He knows as long as Fla lives as a hostage to the future, they will contain their revolution. But should Fla die, then Dom feels insurrection might wrest his throne from him.”
“Have you any more friends of like mind who can be trusted? I need information and help if I am to get into Yip-nef’s palace.”
Anxiety showed in Essalar’s eyes. “You are here because of the red tellars?”
“Yes.”
“I wondered what brought you – I thought perhaps, but, no–”
“Our lives are shaped in mysterious ways, Essalar. There may be a hidden connection between us.” Ulran leaned forward conspiratorially. “Now, have you associates you – we – can trust?”
“There are six of us, though we have not met in–”
“And you can get them here this evening?”
Essalar nodded. “It will be done.”
“Good.” Ulran drained his mug, shook his head. “No thank you, one flagon is sufficient. I am expecting some friends shortly, prisoners of Yip-nef Dom’s men. They were apprehended outside Tritaalan. I would like to engineer their escape, preferably before breaking into the palace.”
“There could be reprisals.”
Ulran pursed his lips. “Then, I must see to their escape with great subtlety.”
“What of the red tellars?”
“I was hoping you could enlighten me. Have any been brought into the city?”
“Indeed, well over a thousand. To begin with, they brought them under the concealment of darkness in cages covered with canvas. But of late they have been coming in at all times of day and night. The people are, naturally, becoming very nervous.”
“Yet still they do nothing – well, perhaps they need an incentive, a lead. Could your group of six rally the populace round you, do you think?”
“I could not vouch for it, innman. The folk are fickle – and bloodshed has not occurred within our walls for a long–”
“What of the torture chambers, the corpse caravans?” Ulran enquired ironically.
Essalar laughed nervously. “Death always happens to someone else!”
“So, nobody knows why the red tellars are being captured and brought here?”
“Alas, no – though there are plenty fearfully curious!”
***
With nine days to the deadline, Ulran lay beneath the stairs of Essalar’s house and again pictured the entrance gate to the palace, stone by stone.
A tap on the shop door alerted Essalar. His wife, Sapella, sat up in bed with a gasp, sheet drawn up to her pursed lips.
“It is only our friends – listen, the knock...” Essalar clambered out of bed, donned a fur-skin coat and tied the belt as he ascended the stairs.
Ulran had detected the footfalls of more than three men outside the front door. He was instantly ready, emerging from the dark confines under the stairs with sword in hand. He offered Essalar’s wife a reassuring smile.
Hair unkempt, she sat wide-eyed, unmoving, knees drawn up under the bedclothes.
Politics are for men! He wondered which Lornwater orator had said that. Perhaps the affairs of men might be better handled by women. He turned as the door onto the landing opened; the reed curtain swished.
“It’s all right, they’re friends,” whispered Essalar, coming down ahead of the newcomers.
There were four. “Bindar’s unable to get away and Shadron was arrested last night. Someone betrayed him, we feel sure.”
After brief introductions, they sat around the table while Essalar broke out the mugs and
a jug of beer.
They all sipped thirstily, save Ulran who drank his sparingly. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Sapella had turned her back to these co-conspirators and, judging by her shallow breathing, was fast asleep.
The four were distressed about Ulran’s proposed plans; unwise, most unwise, they said. Retribution would be swift and bloody. Just for two friends – a whole city would suffer.
Ulran refrained from arguing, intent on doing what must be done with or without aid. He had called them together more to judge the calibre and psychology of the faction opposed to Yip-nef Dom.
Now he could appreciate how Yip-nef held sway so successfully.
Eventually, the talk swung round to Lornwater, as news of rebellion had been brought by roumers. This was the first Ulran had heard, and for a moment feared for his son. No, Ranell would cope, no matter what. Still, the implications made by the group were blatant: Ulran should first be concerned with his own city’s fate.
And, besides, what matter over a few birds?
At this, Essalar jumped up, sword half-drawn.
Ulran quietened them all down. “We need not fight amongst ourselves – unless there are enemies within,” he said evenly, eyeing each in turn. His meaning was made clear and they all resumed their seats, moderately mollified. “All I ask is that you think over what I have requested of you men. Let me know tomorrow night.”
After the group had left, each with a thoughtful crease upon his brow, Ulran wished Essalar a worry-free sleep and curled up beneath the stairs.
But, as he had feared, sleep would not touch his lids. He lay and stared up at the underside of wooden treads, the complex interwoven cobwebs, the angles of dark shadow. As he lay unmoving, deep in thought, a spider emerged from a dark corner and began its upside-down walk along the wooden beams. With the greatest of ease he could crush it; and, for the same reason, he did not.
Contrary to all his own teaching to Ranell, he was disturbed, torn in two. He had known distress many times, most particularly after the tragic loss of Ellorn, but he had steeled himself against its devouring nature, and he would again, now, but each time this inner battle cost him dearly, in mental effort which could be ill-spared at present.
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