by John Marco
Though disappointed that Jojustin would not be there to see him made king, Richius was also somewhat grateful that the old steward had declined to join him. It was true what Jojustin had told Biagio. The castle needed someone to tend to it, and only Jojustin had the knowledge to make sure things ran smoothly in Richius’ absence. To leave both the castle and Aramoor unattended for so long would have been unthinkable. Since Darius’ death, Jojustin had seen to almost every aspect of Aramoor’s governing, giving Richius ample room in which to grow into the responsibilities he had inherited. There were times, in fact, when Richius himself deferred to Jojustin’s authority, for his long tenure in Lucel-Lor had left him ignorant of many of his nation’s affairs, especially those that hadn’t existed before the Triin conflict. It was a far better thing, Richius reasoned, that Jojustin should stay behind. Aramoor needed him.
There was, too, the ugly possibility that the Drol revolution might spill over the Iron Mountains and find its way to Aramoor. Though that had once seemed an impossibility, Darius’ recent murder made the chance of it appear much more likely. Since returning home, Richius had spent more than one sleepless night considering how to deal with this invisible threat. He had ordered regular patrols to keep a watch on the Saccenne Run, and to his great relief he had found that the Iron Mountains remained blessedly quiet. Still, it was an unnerving thought that Aramoor was so defenseless, its troops and weapons woefully depleted by the war, and Richius didn’t want to leave his homeland wholly unprotected. If the Drol did come, Richius knew, they might well find Aramoor easy prey, and it was unlikely that Talistan would come to their aid in any way. It heartened Richius to know that he was leaving Aramoor in Jojustin’s capable care, for although Jojustin was too old to ride into battle himself, his mind worked in subtle and dangerous ways, and his long experience with war made him a canny foe.
There were, however, several of Richius’ companions who did accept their new king’s invitation. The first of these was Patwin. Like Dinadin and Lucyler, Patwin had been one of Richius’ most trusted comrades while in Lucel-Lor, and the thought of not having him present at his coronation was simply inconceivable.
Because of Richius’ wound, Patwin had taken on the responsibility of preparing for the journey, leaving Richius time to recuperate. It had also given Jenna and Jojustin something to fret about, for they both treated Richius like a child. The bite had left some nasty scars, but by the morning of his departure Richius was sure his arm had healed enough to make riding at least passably easy.
While Richius convalesced, Patwin set upon gathering the things they would need for their journey. First, of course, was fellow travelers, men that Richius wanted to accompany him. Not long after Biagio’s departure, it had become commonly known throughout Aramoor that Richius was to be made king, and every man who could ride a horse seemed to want to go with him to Nar for his coronation. Most of these were soldiers who had returned alive from the Dring Valley, some three hundred in all. The outpouring of adoration made Richius forget about Dinadin, at least for a moment. But he knew that there was simply no way so many men could accompany him. Aramoor had neither the horses nor manpower to spare, and with the very real threat of a Drol attack looming, every able-bodied soldier was needed at home. When Richius realized that only a handful of men would be able to join him, the choices became obvious.
Of all the men he had served with in the valley, there were three whom Richius had trusted with the vital and demanding task of commanding a trench brigade. They were men who had proven their loyalty and courage innumerable times, who had borne the awesome responsibilities given them with distinction and with selflessness. Though Richius truly believed that all his men had fought bravely, he knew that Barret, Ennadon, and Gilliam had served with the highest calibre of courage. He could think of no others who so richly deserved the reward of going to Nar and partaking in the great feasting that awaited them there. It was a small reward, not really more than a token when compared with the horrors they had endured, but it was at least something that Richius could do.
As Richius had expected, all three of the men had accepted the invitation. Ennadon, the oldest of the trio, had even agreed to find Richius a new horse, for by this time almost everyone had heard of the gruesome fate that had befallen Thunder. Ennadon was a sensitive man, who had been a breeder of livestock before being pressed into service in Lucel-Lor, and so he shared with Richius that strange, intangible love that binds a man and a horse. Richius was grateful for the offer, but in the end he had told Ennadon not to bother. There were horses enough in the castle’s stables, he had said, and replacing Thunder wasn’t possible anyway. Ennadon didn’t push the point, but he had promised Richius that he would not stop trying to find the perfect horse for him.
Barret and Gilliam had come to the castle together. Both were only slightly younger than Richius, not quite twenty-five, and both of their faces glowed as they thanked Richius for the chance to go to Nar. Like most Aramoorians, Barret and Gilliam were somewhat provincial and not really knowledgeable about the world outside their narrow borders. But they had heard the tales of the Black City, and were anxious to see what truth there was to the talk. They were Guardsmen, after all. Like all Guardsmen, they ached for the chance to be on horseback and travel to places they had never been before. They were entranced with the notion of seeing Nar, and even Richius found their enthusiasm contagious. He too began to look on the coming journey with favor. It would be a long trip, maybe difficult at times, but they would be together, five companions riding without the threat of a Drol arrow finding their backs. They would be free.
*
It was a bright, late autumn morning when Richius and his comrades finally set out for Nar. Ennadon, ignoring Richius’ protests, had found a beautiful gelding for Richius to ride, a sandy-coated, pleasant-tempered horse that bore an almost eerie resemblance to Thunder. Though Ennadon claimed it was from his home stables, Patwin and the others knew the truth, and told Richius that Ennadon had purchased the gelding with his own gold from a horse breeder he knew. Richius was overjoyed with the gift, and on the advice of Patwin said nothing to Ennadon about how he had acquired it. Upon seeing the horse, Richius promptly named the beast Lightning.
At last they rode away from Aramoor Castle, heading west across the continent toward the Dhoon Sea. Patwin had devised a simple course for them, and kept a trove of maps stuffed in his saddlebags. They would not really need them, for wherever they went they could always ask the locals to direct them toward the Black City, but it made Patwin feel better to have them. There was a saying in the Empire, that ‘all roads lead to Nar.’ One needed only to know the general direction of the Black City to find it. Whatever else the conquering soldiers of the Empire had done, they had constructed a network of roads that was without peer. Even in the far northern reaches of the Empire, in places such as Gorkney and Criisia, there were roads. They were well-traveled roads, too, for the tax collectors of the emperor made good use of them.
Richius was pleased with the route Patwin had planned for them. They would take the Naren roads west until they reached the western coast, where the port city of Karva lay. From there they would travel south, perhaps for no more than a week, over the hills of Locwala and finally to the Black City. By Patwin’s closest guess they would reach Nar within seven weeks, and they would not hurry. They would spare the horses that misery, and enjoy the trip. For food and shelter they would stop at any of the hundreds of towns and villages that lined the roads to Nar, and make good use of the hospitality of farmhouses. Each of them had some gold, and whatever they couldn’t buy they would simply do without. Doing without had been a way of life for them in the valley, and none of them particularly feared it.
The first few days of the trip were blithe and carefree. Aramoor was behind them, and the great open fields and forests of central Nar were yet to come. The weather was mild for so late in the year, and they passed the time regaling each other with stories of what they might find in the fab
led Black City. None of them had ever been to Nar, but they had all heard the tales, some bizarre, others flatly unbelievable, and every time they spoke of them it made them coax their horses on a little faster. Richius told them that Biagio had promised them a feast beyond imagining, with beautiful women and heavenly music and all of the emperor’s palace at their feet. It was only a half-truth, Richius knew, but it made for great conversation, and after telling his tales a dozen times he started to believe them himself. He was, he reasoned, going to be a king. It only seemed fair that he and his men should be treated as such.
Richius enjoyed the journey. These were days like those of his boyhood, before he had learned what being a prince really meant. Here, lost in the rolling vastness of the Empire, he wasn’t a prince or a king or even an Aramoorian. He was just a man, and he had no concerns greater than where he should spend the night or how much beer he should let his comrades buy him. He loved being outside, loved being with his friends and sleeping under the stars when a bed could not be found. He cherished the talks about little things, about women and horses and wars that didn’t involve them in the least. They sharpened their swords around campfires and never spoke of using them. And never once did any of them slip and say the word ‘Drol’ or ‘Lucel-Lor’ or ‘Tharn.’
The days passed quickly. Seven weeks after leaving Aramoor behind, they reached the port city of Karva. From here they would follow the coast south to Nar, a ride of perhaps six more days, according to Patwin. But they stopped in Karva for a time, for they were making good progress despite their leisurely pace. Karva was a small, salt-stained merchant city, old and decrepit and more than willing to take the gold of weary travelers. It was night when they reached the city. A cold rain had just begun to fall. It was the beginning of a storm that lasted three days, and so they spent their time in Karva gambling and sleeping and stuffing themselves in Karva’s bakeries. When at last the storm abated, they rode out of the port city on a road that was flooded and muddied by the rains. They had four days left to reach Nar.
‘Four days until you’re made king,’ said Patwin to a melancholy Richius. ‘Excited?’
‘A little,’ said Richius, looking up into the gray sky. The rains had gone, but clouds still canopied the horizon. ‘I just hope we make it. We still have a long way to go.’
‘Not as far as you think,’ said Patwin with a chuckle. He leaned in his saddle a little closer to Richius. Ennadon, Barret, and Gilliam were several paces behind them. ‘I knew the others wouldn’t be able to pass up the taverns of Karva so easily, so I exaggerated the time a bit.’ He smiled. ‘We should be in Nar in three days.’
Richius stared in amazement at Patwin. ‘Three days? Are you sure?’
‘I can show you the maps if you like,’ said Patwin. Then he sighed, saying, ‘But no, you wouldn’t be interested in my maps, would you?’
Richius couldn’t help but laugh. Since leaving Aramoor only Patwin had been truly concerned with the roads, poring over his maps each night to make sure they selected the best route in the morning. The others had made sport of Patwin’s studious interest, gibing him that a real Guardsman could find his way with only the sun and stars to guide him. Now, it seemed, it was Patwin who was laughing.
‘Lord Patwin, you know how worried I was. Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘You’ve been known to stay in a beer house too long yourself, my friend. This way I could be certain we’d make it. It’s a good thing I did lie about it, too, what with all the rain we’ve had.’
‘We’ll still need to keep up a good pace,’ said Richius, glancing down into the churned-up soil of the roadway. His horse’s hooves were caked with soggy earth. ‘It’s going to be slow going in this mud. I just hope none of the roads are flooded.’
An hour later, they discovered to their dismay that the roads were indeed flooded. The rains that had forced them to enjoy Karva’s hospitality had been worse in some parts than in others, and even the wide Naren highway they were following had turned into a bog. The floods slowed their progress to a crawl.
‘Damn,’ said Ennadon. ‘We’ll have to rest the horses soon. This muck is tiring them too quickly.’
Richius reluctantly agreed. It was well past noon now and they had hardly gone a fraction of the distance he had hoped to cover. But the labored breathing of his horse told him that Ennadon was right and he reined his mount to a stop, thankful that they were out of the thick woods they had traversed that morning. At least here the roadside afforded them room to rest. But just as he brought his horse to a halt, Richius heard something in the distance. He cocked his head to listen, raising his hand to halt his party.
‘Shhh,’ he said. ‘Listen. Do you hear something?’
Each man inclined his ear to listen, and all at once they heard the distinct sound of a whinnying horse. Punctuated between the strains was the equally discordant sound of a man swearing.
‘Well,’ said Barret. ‘It sounds like we’re not the only ones stupid enough to be riding in this swamp.’
‘Whoever he is, it sounds like he’s in trouble,’ added Patwin.
‘Probably stuck,’ said Richius. ‘We should help if we can.’
In a few moments they rounded a bend and found a carriage, its tall, spoked wheels stuck fast in the mud. The carriage driver was yelling at his team, a weary-looking pair of horses that seemed about to drop from exhaustion. He made good use of his whip as he swore at them.
‘You there!’ cried Richius angrily. ‘Easy on that whip, fellow! You’re not going to get out that way!’
The carriage driver turned, obviously startled by the unexpected order. Then, from within the shadowy recesses of the carriage, Richius caught a glimmer of blond hair. The glimmer became a striking yellow mane as a young woman poked her head out of the carriage window.
‘Oh!’ she cried excitedly, waving at them as they approached. ‘Could you please help us? We’re stuck and can’t get out!’
A low murmur passed between the men as they sighted the girl. Even from a distance she was beautiful. Like the carriage she rode in she was unspeakably elegant, her shoulders draped in a richly brocaded dress of scarlet. Two stout hoops of gold hung loosely from her ears, and around her neck dangled a pendant of azure gems. She was very young, perhaps no more than sixteen, yet she still looked every bit a woman in her expensive ensemble. Richius glanced at the carriage, hoping to notice a banner or insignia that marked it. Yet if there was one, it was splattered with mud and invisible. Still, he already knew one thing for certain – she was a lady. He waved back, trying not to smile too broadly.
‘We’ll help you,’ Richius said. ‘Tell your man to stop beating those horses!’
The man sat up indignantly. ‘I know what I’m doing.’ His voice cracked with a harsh northern accent. But the girl pulled herself further out of the carriage, and in a low, deliberate tone ordered the man to lower his whip. The man did so, muttering.
‘Damn fool,’ Ennadon hissed. ‘He’ll kill those beasts before he gets that carriage out.’
‘It’s a good thing we showed up when we did,’ said Richius. ‘Patwin, we’ll need a rope. Any chance that you packed one along with all those maps?’
Patwin shook his head. ‘Sorry, Richius. I didn’t think we’d need one.’
‘I’ve got a rope,’ the surly driver called. ‘This isn’t the first time I’ve gotten stuck. I knew these damn southern roads would be a nuisance.’
‘Good,’ answered Richius, relieved that they would not have to push the vehicle out of the mud themselves. The carriage looked to be at least three feet under, deep enough to get a man well soiled. ‘We’ll tie the saddle rings together. Between all our horses we should be able to get you out.’ Richius glanced over at the girl in the carriage. ‘Don’t fret, my lady. We’ll get you along safely.’
‘Thank you so much,’ she said. ‘You don’t know what trouble we’ve had trying to get out. Why, it’s probably been near an hour.’
‘Not much longer,’ said
Richius. ‘But first we’ve got to get you out of there. The less weight we have to pull, the easier it’ll be to get the carriage out. Do you think you can open that door?’
The girl looked down thoughtfully at the mud and grimaced.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Richius quickly. ‘I’ll bring my horse over to you. All you’ll have to do is slide on. All right?’
‘All right,’ she responded dubiously. Richius smiled. She was obviously unaccustomed to getting dirty. He would do what he could to spare her that misery. The driver, who had been fumbling with a chest behind his seat, now stood up and tossed a long coil of rope to Richius. The rope was oily and ragged, obviously used many times before. Richius tested its strength with a snap before deciding it would do. He handed the coil to Patwin.
‘Start getting the horses tethered together, Patwin,’ he said. ‘Use the cantle rings on the saddles to bind them to the carriage riggings.’
Patwin took the rope and tossed one end of it back to the carriage driver. ‘Do you think you can reach the riggings?’ he asked.
‘I can do it,’ the man rumbled. While he began to secure the rope to his carriage, Richius trotted his horse into the mud. At once the hooves disappeared, and in two more paces half the gelding’s legs were mired. He gently coaxed the horse over to the side of the carriage where the girl awaited him, her knuckles white as she clung to the small door of the vehicle.
‘Hold on,’ said Richius. ‘Not much further.’
‘I don’t know how to ride a horse,’ she said nervously. ‘All you have to do is hold on,’ said Richius. ‘Leave the riding to me.’
After a moment he had reached her, his horse’s legs well buried in the sticky ooze. He put out his hand.
‘Easy,’ he said. ‘Just slide on.’
The woman took Richius’ hand, breathed deeply, then let go of the door. Richius grabbed her firmly around the waist and slid her onto the horse in front of him, sidesaddle.