“Make sure that Little Toad eats enough, or I will make her eat you,” he told him. The archer sneered, but then he nodded and went back to get a plate of food for her.
“What is your sense of this, Little Toad,” he asked the countess later, half hoping for a magical foretelling, or at least a pointed insight. She paused from eating and looked over at him.
“There’s nothing here to make much of,” she replied. “It hardly compares to the marches of Rydol, or of Grotoy, or to the Yellow Duke of Wallenz. Any of those I could ask to come here on my behalf some day and we could then compare.”
“You dare!” he shouted at her. He looked around at the White Knife warriors, who were all watching to see what he would do. He roared out a laugh and splashed her in the face with some tump. She tried to withstand it, but a moment later she kneeled over and began to retch into the grass.
“Where were they when I was in the West Lands?” he asked her. “Why did they not protect you, these phantom legions of Gece and Alonze?” He looked over at her, and he pointed, directing her eyes off at the distant warrens and castles to the south, sitting with their gates shut fast. Then he pointed over at the Rune Hut, a large headland warren a little way off to the east from the camp that was right then under an assault from some of the more eager groups of goblins in the horde.
“I do not need to speak of our might,” he said. “I can see it right here, where it is real. You will also see what we replace this with, when we are done fighting for it, if you do not come to heel. It will make this all look small. And that will all be real. ”
His White Knife warriors approved and thumped their hands on their chests, and on their shields. Kulith lifted his raised hands around in thanks, and then turned to go into the Vagrim’s tent, where the chieftain’s daughter was waiting for him, combing out her golden mane on one of the sleeping furs. He shut the flaps and toggled them up from the inside. Everyone knew what that meant. Kulith figured it was the last night of relative peace he would have for some time to come.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
WAYLAND
THE CITY OF RYDOL
They rode through a final pass between two small, stony peaks and then the slope began to fall down a final time, quickly the other way, leveling out into wide valleys between smooth, low foothills. This was covered by a broken forest, with small outcrops of rock, and large plains of green grass that rivaled those Wayland had seen in Wellund. There were small castles and villages sitting out in the distance, all dark with little lights, from the sleet and constant rain. The road ran about a hundred feet to the west of the Gure River, only moving farther from it now where there were cataracts or small falls. The wood camps and cropper shacks at the edge of the trees turned into interlocking fields with peasant farmsteads, barns, and small estates.
Four more days of travel allowed them to look out across from atop a small set of hills and see the city walls of Rydol in the distance, built up on an embankment next to the Gure River. The town battlements and tower tops were covered over in green tiles, and the Mancan Gate was visible as a small brown rectangle upon the south wall. A cathedral spire rose from the center of the city, and was rosy in the weakening light. Two old rows of columns with plinths straddled it upon a cross avenue, these collected up from old temples and ruins. Wayland knew that the avenue acted as the city’s main stall yard and forum, and had a good reputation for quality and variety.
“It’s a charm to see it from this view,” he said. “Now I will have yet another thing to tell them of back home.”
“It’s not bad as cities go in Gece,” Sascha mused.
“From here on, my bag is open,” Wayland said to them. ”I will no longer be able to hide who we are or what my purpose here is.”
Sascha spread his hands and shrugged, “You have been more than fair to me.” He had recovered from his fever and was now thoughtful and tempered, neither returning to his former bravado, nor acting bitter.
Wayland turned back to Temmi, who had done his duty well on the journey and had not complained of the circumstances they had faced. “Temmi, go ahead and find the biggest inn outside the Mancan Gate. Arrange for a meal to be set out for us there, and private lodgings.”
Temmi nodded and rode on ahead of them, skirting the other traffic moving back and forth on the road. The rest fell in behind a cart that passed them by, it full of produce, and rode more slowly behind toward the city.
They halted in a torch lit roundabout before the inn Temmi had found, in a hamlet called Old Gate that lay just shy of the staked ditches and city walls. The Mancan Gate stood just beyond, illuminated now with its own brackets and torches. Wayland wanted to eventually get closer and look at the old lion, ram, and god faces set there with great blocks of newer masonry, all around the gate. A frieze taken from a Mancan temple had been attached to the front of the battlement above it, with the wall then continuing up until the height matched the city’s other towers.
The inn was a long hall and kitchen in the old style, of beam, wattle and plaster with a court of rooms running out on one side. A barn and stable yard stood in back, and cherry trees had been planted in the court and around the yard to provide relief from the sun and wind.
They unsaddled their horses and released them into the pens to feed and water. The group caused interest, with heads turning in the village to watch as so many coats and cloaks emblazoned with the gilt scales of the travelers did their business. They ignored them and went on inside the hall.
Wayland saw that the maid had already set their table, and he called for a bucket of beer as the others put away their road gear. He sat down with a saddle sore groan and looked about the room. There were just a few people there, mostly drovers and carters, come back from delivery and now getting drunk, and one dirty looking soldier over in a corner.
Wayland sat back and waited for the others to return. It was early, and most leaving the city would perhaps come in later. Others would have left the city at first light or during the day to get in as much distance as possible. He wondered if he should have made the attempt earlier along the road to talk with those people who had eventually stopped for the night. But there was nothing that could be done about it now.
“Share a notch of that bucket?” a man’s gruff voice asked him, as he worked on the interesting mental puzzle. He looked across the table to see that it was the dirty soldier, come over from the corner of the room. The man had on a tabard, but he could make no sense of what it was supposed to represent.
“Why are you here outside Rydol?” Wayland asked him. “I thought that there was a campaign over in the West Lands against the bandits who took Fugoe.”
The man held out his cup, waiting. Wayland poured him out some beer, though none of his men had gotten any yet. He sat down at Wayland’s table, as the others returned, and he got a better look at the tabard. There was a dull white eight-pointed star emblem: the anise seed of the Pendwise Knights sewn over his heart. The rest of the garment was a light brown with piping done in silver thread.
“What’s a Pendwise Legionary doing up in Gece?” Temmi asked him, as the men sat down around the table and began to eat. Wayland took a drink off the bucket and passed it to the next man over.
“I am Sir Byrning,” he said to them, as Wayland marked his dark blue eyes and long nose, and a square jaw line with only one small scar near an ear. His hair was the color of dry wheat, his lips seemed to always hold a proud frown that with his eyes and nose made it appear as though he was always looking down on others.
“I came to fight when I heard that goblins had seized Fugoe Castle and were raiding though the West Lands,” he said. “During the defeat there a magical sword called the Tuvier Blade was lost by Sir Theodor of Aukwen. That knight is in no condition to try and retrieve it, but I am.”
“I see your motivation in joining the campaign,” Wayland said. “You feel you are in the right place at the right time to take this relic back to Pendwise as a trophy. Let me remark of your que
st that in such stories, always before one man ultimately succeeds, many are said to try and fail at it.”
“True, but that is what makes it a tale,” Sir Byrning replied. “It would not be so good a story if the thing was easily and quickly done. But we know by common reasoning that through steady aspiration, mostly it is the case.”
“So what happened then?” Sascha asked. “Why do you not have this magic relic already in your possession as we speak? You appear to me to be a dauntless, worthy individual.” Sir Byrning sighed and drank out of his cup, then answered.
“Lord Wenslig of Berize cancelled the campaign and called in his army,” he said with disgust. “The goblins hold by sheer bad luck the countess of this very city, now in the clutches of a great monster. Lord Wenslig is her uncle, and cannot move on them for fear of her life.”
“Did you argue this with him then? Did he kick you out of Rydol?” Wayland asked.
“True, his actions were contrary to my own,” Sir Byrning said, “but I chose to leave.”
“And here you sit, waiting now for some different word. Are you waiting for word from Grotoy, perhaps?”
Sir Byrning slowly shook his head in negation and motioned again to the men to fill his cup. Horwit filled it back up with beer.
“How did the other knights and men respond to Wenslig’s actions?” Wayland asked him. “How did the magis and burghers of Rydol react?”
“Ah, you know they are suspicious of his motives. But what would you do in such a situation?”
“Yes, the countess being a hostage makes them all hostage,” Wayland conceded. “Who made that mistake I wonder, because it now plagues us all.”
“Why, it was one of you,” Sir Byrning told him, gesturing with his hand at the gilded scale he wore. “It was a Traveler Knight named Sir Augustus. When Fugoe Castle was taken he wanted to return the Countess Sunnil directly to Rydol so that she could make court. But alas, she was caught up the swift advance.”
Wayland poured himself a cup of beer and thought that over. He remembered something that Tig Morten’s garrison officer had said about it during his trial. If the stones in Rydol could not move here, then they would have to move from somewhere else. He knew now why he had been sent to do it, and not some more important man. Tig Morten was cleverer than he looked.
“Temmi,” he said to him, “I need to talk with you now about Rydol.”
“As you will,” Sir Byrning said. “But if you could give me just a bit more of that beer for my cup, I would consider it a favor of the good will that exists between our two orders.”
“Nonsense Sir Byrning!” Wayland said. “You must join us for the entire meal. Tonight you have a place among us. We must all stick together, we knights of the road.”
The next morning was misty, not something that Wayland could have predicted or counted on. The green stripe of Rydol’s wall was just visible above them through the fog, and any sounds off the top of it seemed muffled. He had stumbled out of bed and had sent someone immediately to go wake up Sir Byrning, with a pitcher of milk and some fresh bread. The man had turned out, but looked the worse for wear after the drinking the night before.
“Did you really bet him that?” Sascha of the Krag asked him, after he heard the reason for Sir Byrning’s presence there among them.
“Perhaps,” Wayland replied, “and he seems to know the players in Rydol right now better than us. Any reason to get him back in the city where we can question him is worth it. And the farther afield that reason is the better for now. I have a hunch that once he is with us, he will go where we lead.”
“This will also get people talking,” Wayland added. “My good arrival will be so noted widely through the city. That’s a good thing, so it will also be noted if I somehow disappear. I understand now why I was sent here. I know why we were sent here. This will all go well.”
“But you will never afterwards live this down,” Sascha gruffly hissed at him. It was a strange comment, coming from an irresponsible young noble who thought his name alone would carry him over any obstacle, or protect him from the scandals he caused.
“He drank all that beer, and a bet is a bet,” Wayland said, resolved. “I cannot disappoint him, for the sake of the good will that exists between our two orders.” Horwit and Samur chuckled when he said that, but he held up his hand for silence and then he turned back around to address the Pendwise Knight.
“Are you ready Sir Byrning?” Wayland asked him.
“I am as you are,” he replied, and he smiled and waved to them with one gloved hand.
Wayland handed the reins of his horse off to Sascha of the Krag. He beckoned the boy with his milk cow to approach, who he had hired earlier near the inn. The owner’s son was slight, in a smock and straw hat, and he led the cow with a piece of rope tied on to her ring. The boy looked frightened, much more concerned about it all than the placid cow.
“People have ridden her before, right?” Wayland asked him.
“I ride her all the time,” he said, “and my sister does too, and she weights only a stone or so less that you.”
“Do you hear that Sascha?” Wayland called over. “I think I have found you a perfect bride right now of his sister.”
“She’s worth a look later maybe,” Sascha said, nodding back and then he pulled his hood forward down over his face.
“Let’s go, before this cow also loses her nerve,” Wayland said. He slipped up onto her back, and she barely moved in response under him. The boy made a noise and drew on the rope, and the cow lumbered slowly off, up toward the Mancan Gate. He rose up on her bony back and was pushed around, but the ride was very slow and easy if he continually balanced. They went up the road, following it as it ran over a packed earth ramp right to the fabled gateway.
“Hold there!” the guard called out from the Mancan Gate, as Wayland and the cow became visible out of the mist. He looked up at Wayland, seeing his sword and the gilt badge on his chest. He frowned and let the boy leading her pass by, but then stopped him. Wayland looked down at him and moved his hand up in salute, as if to lift the visor of his helm. He drew in a curious crowd from the open square that lay just beyond the gate.
“I am Wayland of the Isles,” he said, “the far-ranger of Rezes, currently under assignment by his great command, Captain Tig Morten of Troli. I have come to arrange with the beasts of Fugoe for the ransom of her grace: the Countess Sunnil of Rydol.”
“Why are you riding on a cow?” the guard asked him, as other people near the gate laughed and shook their heads. Some seemed shocked, scandalized, and that was something that Wayland had wanted to see. Wayland looked away into the small market ahead, through the gatehouse, at the tan bricks and black tiles of the buildings.
“A wise man once told me it is the best way to get the lay of the land. Have you not heard of it?” People around the gate that weren’t laughing had stopped to listen. A lady forty feet away suddenly saw him and dropped her vegetable basket on the street.
“Get off that cow sir, you have undoubtedly been fooled by some joker,” the sergeant shouted up at him. Behind them, the rest of the traveler party and Sir Byrning built their quiet chuckles up to a roaring round of laughter. Wayland lifted his leg up and slid down off the cow, trying to appear reluctant and haughty.
“It seemed to be working,” he remarked. “Why would someone play such a joke on me?” he asked one of the gate guards.
“I do not know!” the guard snarled back.
Wayland slipped a document out of his belt and handed it to the sergeant as he cooled. Behind him the travelers parted their horses to let the boy lead his animal back out of the Mancan Gate and down the ramp. The sergeant looked at the seal twice and then looked back at Wayland.
“You are not joking, are you sir? So, you must come with me.” Wayland waved his hand dismissively in negation.
“I must first report to the traveler command of this city.” He wished that he had gotten a better look at the gate he had just entered, and now he was g
oing to just rush past the great stone heads adorning it. “Send runners along the city walls if you must to inform Lord Wenslig of our arrival. We will see him soon, I think.”
“This way my lord!” Temmi called out. They all moved forward, with Wayland mounting his horse and adjusting his sword about. The houses they passed had ground floors of brick, and then wood for the second and third stories, with dark roofs that overhung the streets and made the gutters stick out. Laundry was drying across on rope lines, and people were selling apples, bread and cooked corn from wheeled stalls. The cross streets were narrow and looked almost empty as they passed by them. He wondered what he might find down these quieter lanes and cart alleys, if he was given the chance.
They came out of the more confining street to ride through the columns of the great east to west avenue, through the market, and he got a good view of the cathedral ahead, the stone now off white, with flecks of green in the good morning light. The market was bustling today, with the passing traffic three lanes deep, and it was all of great interest to him, but they turned instead and went over to the traveler station that fronted on a small square.
They got down and hitched their horses to a set of rings, to let them drink at a trough. There were shops, houses and tenements stacked around them, and at least one tannery, from the stink in the air. Wayland went up into the building and opened the door. He found a full complement of men inside, going about with many packets of documents, placing them in groups on several tables and reading them, perhaps checking their contents, before they were moved on to somewhere else.
“I’m one of the station assistants,” a man said, looking them over. “Sir Hallus is off to Berize and then to Braus Palonze.” He gestured at the documents they were sorting through. “He’s delivering the Grand Prince’s muster along the road toward the West Lands.” They looked about at each other, some in surprise and some in satisfaction for having been proved right.
A War of Stones: Book One of the Traveler Knight Page 20