“Yes, ser.”
Lerial can sense that both squad leaders have their doubts.
Altyrn clears his throat, then continues. “Apfhel lies about ten kays ahead. The road follows the top of the ridge line and will turn in a more westerly direction once we’re inside the forest. The clearance between the road and the forest is only a matter of a few yards. Kusyl, if you’d convey that to the teamsters.”
“Yes, ser.”
Once Altyrn and Lerial resume riding up the sloping road toward the woods, Lerial studies what looks to be a largely unbroken stretch of forest, yet there are also thin trails of smoke rising in places, suggesting dwellings with chimneys. The trees at the edge of the forest appear to be relatively evenly spaced, but their trunks are so close together that it would difficult for a man to slip between them and impossible for a horse, especially with the thick bushes that fill the spaces. Extending from the trees is an area of grass still partly green and considerably longer than that on the plains the Lancers have been crossing.
Lerial sees why this is so when he is within a hundred yards of the forest. There is a low stone retaining wall some twenty yards in front of the trees, with the only break in the trees where the road passes through them, and there the retaining wall angles back parallel to the road. The wall is not merely constructed of local stones stacked roughly on top of each other, but of roughly cut chunks fitted carefully together, although the exposed sides of the stones are not rough-dressed, but either smoothed by time and nature or surfaces created when a larger stone was broken or cut. Why would the grass above the wall be greener…? Even as he thinks that, he recalls the ditches he and Rojana had dug the previous summer and he turns to the majer.
“Do the forest people line the uphill side of the wall with clay or something?”
For a moment, Altyrn looks taken aback, before he says, “Why do you ask that?”
“The grass above the wall is longer and greener. Water runs downhill, but—”
“They must do something like that. I never considered it.”
That statement surprises Lerial, because he can’t imagine the majer not considering almost everything, especially since the way Altyrn has phrased his answer suggests that he has seen the wall and the grass before. Still … “You’ve been here before? Or did you know about the posts from scouts or from other roads?”
“All three.”
Lerial glances to his right and to his left, but the low wall, showing less than a yard between the lower ground and the grass growing over the upper edge of the top course of stones, extends as far as he can see in either direction. “The forest people must have been working on the walls for a long time.” After a moment, he adds, “And there must be more of them than most people think.”
Altyrn looks as if he might speak, then closes his mouth and nods.
Lerial can sense the majer’s surprise, and that bothers him. Why should the majer be surprised at his observation of the obvious?
“What else can you tell about the forest people from that?” Altyrn asks as they ride toward the road gap in the wall.
“Only that that there are more people in the woods,” Lerial confesses. “It just struck me when I saw the wall, I suppose, because of the difference in the grass, and I asked how that could be … well … and the rest made sense.”
“I’d have to admit,” Altyrn says slowly, “that I’ve seen that wall before, and others, and what you said didn’t occur to me. I’ve always felt that there are more towns and people hidden here than either Atroyan or Casseon knows. Then, perhaps Casseon does know.”
“And he’s indicated that he wants more tariffs from them?”
“I have my doubts that he’s collected much in the way of tariffs before now. It may be that he feels cheated and has plans for collecting them. Or the elders here fear that may be the case soon. We’ll find out before long.”
As they near the road gap in the wall, two men dressed in brown appear from out of the trees. Neither bears arms, but their garb is identical, as if a casual uniform of some type. One is gray-haired, the other much younger, perhaps only a year or two older than Lerial.
Altyrn and Lerial rein up, and the majer raises his hand to signal the same to the Lancers behind them.
“What brings you to Verdheln?” asks the older man in Hamorian with an accent that Lerial has not heard before, one similar to that of Afritan Hamorian, but softer.
“The request of the elders,” replies Altyrn. “They sent a petition to Duke Kiedron for him to provide Lancers to train other Lancers chosen by the elders. Would you like to see the petition and a copy of his response?”
“If you have it, ser, that would be helpful.”
Altyrn lifts the dispatch pouch, opens it, extracts two documents, and leans forward to extend them to the older man.
The border guard takes them and looks them over, then returns them to the majer.
“You are the majer named in the Duke’s missive?”
“I am.”
“Who is the other officer with you?”
“I’m Lerial, the younger son of Duke Kiedron. He sent me as a token of his good faith.”
“You wear the uniform of a Lancer.”
“All sons of the Duke serve as Lancers,” replies Lerial. “He would have it no other way.” Lerial tries to use a hint of order to emphasize the truth of his words.
The younger man takes a step back and murmurs, “He holds the black, not the white. But … it must be.”
“I can raise some chaos, if you’d prefer,” Lerial says quietly.
“That will not be necessary,” replies the older man. “I will be your guide to Verdheln. Wait a moment until I return.” He turns and walks back into the gap in the trees through which the road passes.
Several moments pass, and then perhaps a tenth of a glass. Lerial begins to worry, although he senses nothing out of the ordinary. But then, wouldn’t harmful intent be ordinary for those who are evil? He realizes that he has never considered that possibility, and he looks to the majer.
“They expected us, but they couldn’t have known when we’d arrive. He’s likely saddling his horse.”
“He is indeed, ser,” replies the younger guard.
“Is this your normal post?” asks Lerial.
“We all spend time serving, either on the borders or doing other things,” replies the young man. “That’s before we take up our life-work. For some, working the borders is life-work. Not for most.”
“And you?”
“I will be a woodworker.”
“You have fine woodwork here, I have seen,” adds Altyrn.
The young man does not reply, but steps back as the older man rides forward on a gray gelding.
“I am Yulyn, a wayguide for outlanders and those who need my services.” He inclines his head. “We three can ride abreast. I will answer what questions I can.” He turns the gray.
Altyrn rides up on Yulyn’s left, and, after a moment, Lerial moves up on Altyrn’s left. As they ride forward Lerial sees two lines of dressed stone crossing the road, with a deep groove or channel between them. The groove is just back from the thick line of trees, and there are two long structures even with the stone, one on each side of the road.
“Are those where the road gates are stored?” Lerial asks.
“Yes. We seldom need them, but they are there in case of such need,” replies Yulyn.
The forest behind the gates remains thick and dense on both sides of the road, a mixture of trees and thornbushes, and, contrary to what Altyrn has said, that forest comes right to the edge of the road. That is, it does for almost a hundred yards, after which there is another set of structures holding road gates. Beyond that are grass and bushes bordering the road’s shoulder, cut to roughly knee height … or perhaps, thinks Lerial, they were cut shorter and allowed to grow higher. The cut area is only about five yards from the shoulder to the tree line, and the trees are spaced farther apart than Lerial would have guessed from what
they have just passed through. It is all too clear that the trees have been grown along the edge of the forest to provide a natural barrier. How many raiders or poachers would want to try to go through a barrier of that length and difficulty?
“Are the trees that thick all the way around the lands of the forest people?” Lerial asks.
“I would not know that, ser. The woods are that thick wherever roads lead into or out of Verdheln.”
More likely that they extend only for a few kays … except the stone wall had to be more than five kays in each direction.
Lerial does not ask another question, not then, but studies what he sees. Before long they come to narrow fields that are separated from the next set of fields by a section of forest as wide as the trees. Each section is higher than the next, in a series of terraces, and there is a narrow ditch at the base of each terrace. Each terrace slopes just slightly downhill, so slightly that it is barely perceptible.
For the next two glasses, Yulyn leads them along the road, which, although of packed clay, is largely free of ruts and mud. It is also level and cuts through low hills. Lerial wonders at the effort necessary to dig out such places. They pass narrow clearings, some holding fields and others pastures or meadows, and in places they even pass orchards, although with the leaves largely the gray of winter, it is difficult for Lerial to determine some of the trees, although he does see some apricots, but no olive trees. He also sees people everywhere, if only as individuals or in small groups, and few look in their direction for more than a moment or two, perhaps because they see the wayguide, or perhaps because they are confident that raiders or poachers are unlikely to enter Verdheln. Those whom Lerial sees look little different from other Hamorians, although they do appear somewhat better clad than the fieldworkers Lerial has seen in Cigoerne.
“We are nearing Apfhel,” Yulyn announces.
Less than a fifth of a glass later, the woods end abruptly—except they don’t, Lerial realizes. Rather they are thinned, leaving narrow ways on which stand modest timber dwellings with plank siding and wooden shake roofs. The chimneys are stoutly built of rough-cut stone. While each lane and the houses situated on it are surrounded by trees, there are no trees close to any house, which seems paradoxical to Lerial, after seeing how the trees are everywhere.
“We’ll be heading to the council building,” says Yulyn.
They continue riding along the road, which has become the main way through Apfhel, and after passing perhaps ten sets of alternating side lanes and trees, they come to a cross street, stone paved, but barely wide enough for two wagons abreast.
“To the right,” says the guide.
Lerial and Altyrn turn with Yulyn.
The paved street is lined with single-story shops of various sorts. As they ride past, Lerial sees a shop that resembles a chandlery, set beside another that displays various types of cloth. There is also an inn, with stone walls, and Lerial realizes that all the other shops are of timber—except for the smithy farther along on the right side, which is also of stone, and set apart from the others. Ahead, Lerial can see a stone structure that looks to be octagonal, set in the middle of an octagonal green. The green is raised and bordered by a wall, its top course of stones only about a cubit above the pavement of the street that surrounds it. The hitching rails that flank the beginning of the entry walk are polished wood set in sturdy posts.
Yulyn reins up. “One of the elders will be waiting inside.”
Altyrn nods to Lerial and then dismounts and ties his horse to the rail. Lerial follows his example, and the two take the walk to the entry. The door lever is not of metal, but polished wood, and the door opens easily.
A young woman stands from behind a well-crafted table-desk set in the center of a modest anteroom. “You must be the leaders of the Lancers from Cigoerne. The elder is expecting you. He is in there.” Her accent is similar to that of the guide, although Lerial doubts either would call their intonation an accent. She points to a door to her left.
“Thank you.”
Both the majer and Lerial nod to her. Lerial can sense neither chaos nor danger as he follows, but his hand is still near the hilt of his sabre.
Inside the small chamber are a circular table of polished dark wood and four armless wooden chairs. Standing beside one is a silver-haired man in green, whose long-sleeved tunic is trimmed in brown. “I am Elder Moensyn. Welcome to Apfhel.” He looks to the majer. “You are?”
“Majer Altyrn, of the Mirror Lancers. This is Undercaptain Lerial, the younger son of Duke Kiedron.”
Moensyn nods, then addresses Lerial. “You are truly just an undercaptain?”
“A very new undercaptain, Elder Moensyn. I have barely finished training.” In the larger sense, Lerial believes, that is true.
“Does your older brother command a group of Lancers?”
“No. He has only been riding patrols for a year. He is assigned to a company in the southeast of Cigoerne.”
“You have no other siblings?”
“A sister only. She is six … seven now.” As he corrects himself, he realizes he has missed Ryalah’s birthday. He also realizes that Moensyn must be an ordermaster from the flow of darkness around the elder.
Moensyn frowns just slightly. “As the son of the Duke, with his heritage, are you not of the Magi’i?”
“I am. My talents lie more in order, though.” Lerial knows he is not telling Moensyn any more than the elder can sense.
“Yet you are effective with a sabre?”
“Enough to defend himself most effectively,” interjects Altyrn smoothly.
Lerial can sense a veiled feeling of exasperation on the majer’s part.
“You must pardon me, Majer,” says the elder, “but it is my task to ascertain you are those you purport to be.”
“That may be,” replies Lerial, “but as an ordermaster, you should now know that.”
Moensyn looks taken aback, if but for a moment, before he replies. “I do. I apologize for any inadvertent offense I may have created.”
“What exactly do you expect of us?” asks Altyrn.
“Here in Apfhel, we expect nothing. We will provide lodging and food for the night and morning, and tomorrow Yulyn will guide you on your way to Verdell. The High Council will tell you where you are needed. You will be staying at the travelers’ hostel just beyond the western end of town.” Moensyn smiles. “The other elders and I would hope that you two would join us at the Copse Inn for dinner. It’s the inn you passed on the main street.”
“We would be delighted,” replied Altyrn. “Once we have seen our men settled.”
“Of course. Perhaps in two glasses, or somewhat earlier?”
“Between a glass and a half and two glasses, I would judge,” replies the majer. “If there are no difficulties.”
“There should be none, but we will wait on you.”
“Thank you.”
Moensyn inclines his head, and the two Lancers nod in reply, then leave the council building, nodding in turn to the blonde who stands as they pass. Lerial does note that she is extremely attractive … as he has been warned.
As they ride toward the west side of Apfhel, Lerial is definitely puzzled. The town is orderly and clearly prosperous, and certainly nothing like anything he had expected. With all the prosperity and with what appear to be solid defenses and border guards, why are the elders requesting aid from his father?
Less than a half kay from where they turned off the paved street and onto the main road west, Lerial sees a small, single-storied stone building that isn’t a shop or a dwelling, set, again in an octagonal green. The structure is long and narrow with a tower at one end that holds a pair of spires. Yet the spires are very different. One is shimmering silver, and the other a warm bronze. The silver spire is straight, narrow, and several cubits higher than the bronze spire, which appears as if wide rounded coils had twisted around each other and narrowed as they rose in a most even fashion to a rounded nub at the top, while the tip of the silve
r spire is almost like a mirror lance. Or what a mirror lance must have looked like, muses Lerial, since he has never seen one.
He shifts his weight in the saddle and points, asking Altyrn in a low voice. “What’s that?”
“I think it’s the local temple of Kaorda—the mighty god and goddess of order and chaos.”
“The god and goddess have the same name?”
“No. Kaorda has two attributes,” replies the majer. “As I understand it, there is the orderly male side and the chaotic female side. According to the Kaordists, half of Kaorda’s face is male, and of unsurpassed and rare beauty and composure. The other half is female, but of a dark beauty that shows chaotic and demented passion.”
“Some would say that it is the purity of unchecked passion,” interjects Yulyn, looking back at them.
“Are there any statues of the god … goddess?” asks Lerial, wondering how such a visage might appear.
“Oh, no,” replies the guide. “Trying to create an image of Kaorda would be blasphemy.”
“Blasphemy?” Lerial almost laughs, except he can sense just how serious Yulyn is. Making a statue would be … blasphemy? Trying to show what their deity is would diminish it? Ironmages and builders in Cyad often made models to see what something looked like or whether it would work. Saltaryn had been quite clear about that. Either a god exists, or he or she doesn’t. If a god doesn’t exist, what harm could a statue do? And if the god of the Kaordists does exist, how could a graven image diminish what exists? “What would happen if a stonecutter or a wood carver tried to make such a statue?”
“They would not. Not in the lands of the Verd.” Yulyn’s voice is firm.
Lerial wonders how the Kaordists express their belief, but he can sense that pushing his questions further is unwise. “Thank you for explaining.”
“You are welcome.”
A tenth of a glass later, Yulyn turns south off the main road and down a smooth packed clay lane that leads into an open space that holds several long timber buildings, all of one story, as well as a stable as long as one of the buildings. The guide reins up at the end of the nearest building, which resembles a barracks of some sort.
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