A War of Stones: Book One of the Traveler Knight

by Howard Norfolk

  “I am Wayland of Rezes,” he said, “the special agent sent from Troli to arrange for the return of the Countess of Rydol.” He gave the introduction letter over to him to inspect. The man looked at the letter.

  “Tig Morten must have a high regard for you.” Wayland caught the wry irony in the man’s voice.

  “That was his intention,” Wayland admitted.

  “Well, you will take your chances with Wenslig,” he said back. Then in a lower tone added, “You should be careful of him.”

  “I will,” Wayland replied. “And there was an incident on the road coming north from the Vara. A Starkand lord in the mountains gave us eight objectors who had been stealing along the road. He wanted us to bring them here.”

  “What happened?”

  “They attacked us and we killed six of them. We let the other two go since they had shown good faith.” The assistant took the letter he offered, detailing what had happened during the incident.

  “There hasn’t been that many men killed at once on the road over into Vara in more than a year.”

  “There has now,” Wayland said.

  A group of guards came in behind them, and Wayland disliked how this scene was now repeating itself in Rydol. He wondered who was really in control of the Traveler Knights if they were constantly being cornered in their offices by the local lords and pressed into their service.

  “I told the sergeant to have a man run the wall if he must and bring word of our arrival,” Wayland said to them, “but I really didn’t think he would do it.”

  “The Countess Sunnil is important to us all,” one of them replied.

  “Indeed,” Wayland agreed, and turned back to trade a knowing look with the assistant, who gestured with his hands that they should go.

  They mounted up and passed the front of the cathedral, and then crossed an ornamental park in front of it that stood in the city like the salt on a lord’s table. The street changed beyond it as they rode north, to rows of fine brick and slate townhouses. A stable yard for military horse sat on one side of the avenue, with two stately barracks next to it. There was an official court on the other side of the avenue where the counting and minting was done: a big white building with Mancan statuary and columns along the front. Between them the paving cobbles changed to flat, dressed stone blocks covered over with a shoveling of pea gravel.

  The palace began at its end, it all constructed of a light, rose colored firebrick with white marble accents. A grand stair of smooth, maroon colored sandstone lead up to it, and people were coming and going from the high, brass dressed doors through a line of guards. Six tall glass windows lined the façade above, like the naves of two cathedrals set side by side. Some panes were stained; others were clear, or had rounds in them like they had been pressed flat out of reused bottles. It was in all a great show of power, station, and wealth.

  A group of liveried grooms took their mounts, and they ascended up the stairs following the sergeant who had found them. They came into a great entry behind the windows, used as a sitting chamber where some of the courtly functions were held. They went across the expanse, barely seeing the wood paneling, carpets, statuary and tapestries. Some tables and chairs were set in a grotto between the stairs, the bounds of which was formed by several pillars and walls covered in colorful mosaic tile.

  The sergeant bowed. ”I present to you, Wayland of the Isles, agent of the Traveler Knights, dispatched by Captain Tig Morten of Troli, in regard to the ransom of the Countess Sunnil.”

  Wayland made a good knee to Lord Wenslig, and then he recovered to hand across his formal letter of introduction. The lord was graying along the sides of his face, but the rest of his hair fell in a great black shock over his high, square forehead. His eyes were gray also, like the flash of polished metal on the field, and just as quick to change. His features were otherwise regular, perhaps his chin and nose a little pointed. Wayland was busy looking for some defect that had caused the man to betray his niece: that his looks would somehow manifest his manners. But Wenslig just seemed normal, and he just looked over the seal and read the first two paragraphs of the letter while they waited. Then he quietly set it aside on the table top. Perhaps that was telling enough.

  “You should go at once from here to Fugoe Castle and talk with the monsters there,” he told Wayland. “I have a list of the people who are missing, and presumed their captives. Go find out which ones haven’t been cooked yet and arrange for their return.” He scrawled out some figures, listing amounts of silver and gold upon a paper, sealed the bottom, then rolled it up with the names and handed it across to Wayland.

  “I’d heard there was disunion and fighting in the hills between these demons,” Wayland said. “Do we know who has her grace, the Countess Sunnil, and the other people?”

  “Whoever is sitting at Fugoe Castle it is reckoned,” Wenslig said. “Go and find that out.” He saw Sir Byrning standing there behind the other men and Wayland’s archers. “Why are you back here?” he asked. “I thought I threw you out of the city.”

  “I left on my own accord,” Sir Bryning said, “and now I am back by this traveler’s invitation.”

  “He will serve as a guide and add strength to our arms,” Wayland explained.

  “He will get you all killed,” Wenslig angrily stated. “He is mad with lust for the sword that Sir Theodor lost. You will jeopardize the parlay, unduly.”

  “I think I can trust Sir Byrning to do the right thing. To help save a damsel in distress is by far nobler a quest for a knight than to chase after some old relic.”

  “Do as you like, and hazard the choices he makes when he gets close to either of those goals.” Wenslig motioned for them to go with several dismissive flicks of his hand.

  Wayland bowed and then added, “I would like a day here if I could have it, as we are long on the road from Troli, coming up through the Vara Fringe. I would also like to talk to a Traveler Knight named Sir Augustus who originally lost the countess, and perhaps take his with us.”

  “You would need a box and a mule to carry what was left of Sir Augustus. There were just some bones and parts found along the road, forty miles east of Gilsflor Pools, near the wreckage of Countess’ coach. The goblins eat heroes you know, to take their strength. And good luck to you Sir Byrning, for you are already at a disadvantage, being both well-salted and covered with spice.”

  Sir Byrning made an abrupt noise, but Lord Wenslig kept talking. “You will all leave today, the road being where road knights naturally belong. There are two angry Sobrezeks in this city right now with their men, so you must understand why I give you speed. Return immediately when you have reached an agreement with the beasts. ”

  They were taken from there to one of the barracks and allowed two hours for a bath and some food. Then they were set back on their horses with more provisions. They received an escort of lancers out through the north gate of the city. The lancers soon spun their horses away, the officer giving Wayland a good luck wave.

  “That was a strange,” Temmi commented, as they watched the lancers ride back to the gate. “His actions showed there is a story here he would not tell to us.”

  “Rydol is vigilant,” Wayland said. “Wenslig either refused to show me all sides of things, or he did it to insult me for my behavior. He’s hiding his true intentions, no doubt.”

  “You are right, I think,” Sir Byrning said. “He forbade me to go back to Fugoe before, and now he puts me out on that very road. He must have great confidence in something.”

  “He has great confidence in our failure,” Temmi spoke up. “Perhaps in you surely getting the rest of us killed.”

  Sascha pointed out to them the road they needed to ride on in order to reach the West Lands. They used a cross track along a field’s edge and were soon riding on it toward the green skirt of the Khaast Forest.

  “There were enough people who saw me ride that cow through the Mancan Gate,” Wayland said. “That story will now spread around, perhaps getting the inter
est of the Sobrezeks. Lord Wenslig just moved beyond it, perhaps sensing I was trying to provoke him, to move us on to the next peg that might break.”

  “I think he suspected you were going to make mischief for him in Rydol,” Sir Byrning said. “It was not in his interest, so he acted. That is the way he is. The city is ill at ease with what he did, but his decision of inaction is also well understood. Should he have done more? Surely he could have, but what chance would we now have if he did?” He thought for a moment, swatting at a horsefly that buzzed by him, and then he continued. “He did not give any natural allies we might find the chance to show themselves and make their interests known to us, but there is little more they could do that he did not.”

  “Your shot is close enough to the mark,” Temmi said, nodding in agreement.

  Wayland though about it all and decided it had been a mark against his ability that Lord Wenslig had not even inquired if he might be bought off. He had looked at Wayland, Sascha, and Sir Byrning and figured they didn’t have a chance of returning the girl on their own. And as for the rude remark to Sir Byrning, Wayland felt that the knight was proving himself already as an asset to their cause. The trees folded over the road from both sides, the autumn sun hid, and they were swallowed up by the chilly silence of the Khaast.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  KULITH

  THE RED TOWER IN THE FOREST

  Kulith had been fighting continually now for most of three days. First he had walked up to the edge of Big Stone’s forest with his war bands and entered. The fight that followed against goblin archers had forced them to chase Vous Vox’s buggers into a bad spot, where they had gotten shot full of more arrows, and from there they had been chased back to rally under the trees and then fought through the night, with the enemy gradually pulling back away.

  He had warned the goblin and troll chiefs about the use of cavalry on Big Stone, but they had still gotten attacked on the flank by two or three score of them, and it had caused a panic for about an hour, with the little buggers running around the trees and getting mauled by the wolves. He had taken charge, roared out, and they had come to order around him and made a new line, and then they had pushed the riders off with spears and shot them back full of arrows. They were lucky to have had a lot of veterans with them from the Priwak, or it would have been a route.

  He had told the goblins to start cutting the forest for the wood they needed as soon as his horde entered to look for the Red Tower. The distant sounds of chopping came steadily down to them from the north, and helped navigate through the trees. The plan had gone as he had suspected it might, though the thring that abided within the forest appeared to have been roused and now fought at times with them. It was strong, but not in the way that the Vagrim had been, or like Sarik and his magic. It was a strange one with a strange name.

  Kulith had found the Whisper’s minions at first as easy to destroy as any other thring. The buggers had moved along in formations with their superior numbers and with the might of the trolls helping, and quickly impaled on lances the swarm of white corpses that attacked. They had then burned them, and collapsed the mouths of the caves they had found. It was then that the true form of the creature appeared, and they had briefly skirmished with it.

  They had later taken a wolf rider captive and tied him to a tree. One of the trolls had cut a length of spine out of a mount’s body with an axe and then beaten him with it. Some of the other goblins had decided that one of the dead riders had shown great bravery during the battle and they had butchered the body and began to cook it. Kulith thought that was an excuse because they were hungry, just like the rest of them were. The sky had begun to darken again between the branches of the trees and the chilly white mist of a night fog was already rising up into the air. They had made large fires and kept lances and brands ready to fight the Whisper’s minions, if it came at them again from out of the trees. No larger portions of meat were offered for sentry duty, because all of them were equally in jeopardy.

  Kulith thought about what he would ask the goblin they had captured. The warrior might know what was going on with this greater thring, and then it might not. The other buggers thought that the cavalry had not been local, but had been brought over to fight from the area around the Stone Pile. That made sense generally, but he did not understand why Vous Vox or Sterina had not committed a larger horde to directly oppose them. He assumed that they were waiting for the army of hunger, disunion or disease to attack first, which seemed to be now happening.

  Kulith had seen for himself the earlier manifestation of the Whisper, it rising out of a muddy pit on the side of a slope. That kind of thing was what was expected when thring were summoned and compelled to fight, but this one had been specially prepared, from a good corpse, not yet badly damaged or decomposed.

  He guessed he had seen it on some of the others they had destroyed earlier, but had not taken too much notice or care of it. This one had been slender and athletic, with its nose broken in, and the skin cut and the remains stitched together, to make the face into a mask. The mouths had also been cut, but not as much, and then stitched closed, and he suspected that something had been put inside of it and had a hard time staying there. A face would only be able to whisper after such a modification, he mused, but he wasn’t sure if that was where the name had come from.

  One of the concerning things about the Whisper, beside the speed it showed, was that it used weapons when it attacked. There were a couple companies of ensorcelled thrings that Vous Vox had at the Stone Pile that did the same, but when the Whisper cut or touched some of the goblins, and one of the trolls so far, they had quickly weakened, died, then gone white and reanimated to immediately attack their pot mates. There was something else about it that only a few had been able to notice so far. When the manifestations were taken down, the white spirit inside had jumped out and not dissipated, but rushed away on a small wind like a ghost through the air, Kulith suspected, to go and find another body.

  “I’m the one they call Golden Sword,” he told the captured goblin, as he walked up to the tree it was tied to. This one was a ratty little bugger, a kind of goblin he particularly disliked because they had opposed him on several occasions. It also reminded him that he had been unable to kill Rat Face while in the Priwak and on the Shore. He was sure that the creature was even now skulking about and plotting against him.

  “I’m interested in the thring that abides in these woods,” he said. “I want to know where its lair is, and how I can kill it off.”

  “You see,” said the goblin, “that I am not from here. I’m a Gray Hole bugger, from the coast that looks out to the west, onto the Face.”

  The Face was a group of three islands between Big Stone and the Pale Shore. When viewed from either the east or west they lined up in profile to make the shape of a face. One of the southern hills was more regular, and that was the fortress the greater thrings and buggers called Toothstone, it set in a moat fed by the lake around it.

  “You’ve heard something,” Kulith said, pressing. “Swebog would have not sent you to fight here without some idea of what the Whisper is and of how to treat with it.”

  “It’s not in the trees or in the air, that is for sure,” the rat face said. Kulith played that opening.

  “I have guessed at that already. Where is its cave then?”

  “I don’t know,” the bugger said, “do you know how fast a wolf runs through these trees?”

  “Oh, I do know today,” Kulith snarled.

  The rat bugger thought better of what it had said. “There is something I could tell you though, if you will let me go.”

  “Tell me what it is and I will judge it for myself,” Kulith said.

  The goblin thought for a moment, squirming in its ropes. “The Red Tower, you will try and take it soon?”

  “It is inevitable,” Kulith admitted.

  “There is a trick to the causeway. There are pegs and chains that can be pulled from the castle, to make the timbers drop out
into the water. If you attack, the causeway will fall and the warriors will be dropped down into the deep before the gate.” Kulith exchanged glances with the goblin and troll chiefs that were with him by the tree.

  “How can it be gotten around?” he asked the goblin.

  “It cannot. I would dare it might be easier to go over the moat and wall on one of the sides. But there is also a weakness to the fortress. A smart bugger will look at the way the water runs around the moat and know what to do.”

  Kulith thought about it for a moment. The creature could be lying, but no goblin lied for long when it was tortured, or it got hungry. He thought he could trust in the honesty of their overall nature. They did not look ahead a few days to what someone else might think of their treason. It was all about the moment. It was how goblins lived, and even a garrison troll on Big Stone knew it.

  “Release this one, and give him a joint of meat,” Kulith told the others. He looked back at the creature. “Don’t fight against us again wolf rider, or you will regret it.”

  Two of the goblins untied him, and he fixed his broken snout, smoothed down his face fur, and then took the big piece of seared meat they brought over. The creature looked about, and then chose a direction to go, to get back to its own lines. They watched it move off; disappearing into the gloom between the groups of goblins and trolls camped around their fires.

  “Watch where it goes just like the others,” he told the two goblins near him. In the morning they would head out in two groups, one toward where the captives thought their own camp lay, and the other more dangerous one to where they thought the Whisper was probably laired.

  The sun dawned upon the Red Tower’s woods, cool as it rose over the hills on the lip of the Dimm. The rays struck the leaves above them, changing their color, and diffused a reddish golden light down upon to the forest floor. Kulith walked through a bath of scarlet and gold to see the smoking pyre that had been lit up in the night.