by Matt Heppe
She was tanned from the sun, not like the pale ladies of the court. But her skin was not so dark he could not make out the three little rayed orbs, almost like tiny stars tattooed on her cheek.
Her arms and legs were tanned as well. She certainly didn’t hide her flesh under layers of linen and wool. And there wasn’t much flesh there; he could lift her with one arm. No curves worth mentioning, just lean limbs and muscle. Gods, but he didn’t care. They’ll laugh at the pair we make. But she is beautiful and fights like a wolf and I love her.
He snorted a short laugh. He didn’t care if the helmsman heard him.
“Sir Nidon,” a young voice asked. “Are you awake?”
“No, Rayne, I am not.” Nidon didn’t bother opening his eyes.
“But, sir….”
“I am asleep and having a nice dream. Now go away.”
“But, Sir Nidon, there are ships in the river ahead of us.”
Nidon opened his eyes. His page stood in front of him, hands clasped together. Despite the red uniform of a Page of the House he still looked the ragamuffin Nidon had rescued from the stables. He had shown some gumption though, following the army out to the battle at King’s Crossing. It was a good thing Hadde had saved him.
“Will you ever learn to comb your hair?” Nidon asked. “You are the Champion’s page.”
Rayne unclasped his hands and ran his fingers through his unruly hair, but if anything he only made it worse. “Sir Nidon, the boats are blocking our way. The ship’s captain sent me back to tell you.”
“It appears so,” the helmsman said. “Four war galleys.”
Nidon grimaced as he got to his feet. “Pirates?” he asked.
“They fly the queen’s colors, ” the helmsman replied.
“A greeting, perhaps.” Nidon stared downriver and saw the four galleys in the distance.
“Not in that formation, Champion.”
The man was right. The four galleys had formed in line, blocking the river ahead of them. Beyond the ships, well downriver, he saw the walls of Mor-Oras. He hadn’t realized how close they were to the city.
In Forsvar’s name, can’t anything be easy?
“Down sail!” the captain ordered from the foredeck, his voice clear across the deck. “Man your sweeps.”
Nidon glanced over his shoulder and saw oars extending on the next ship in line.
And one more delay.
Nidon went down the five steps to the main deck and strode toward the bow. He tried not to favor his bad hip; he couldn’t stand the idea of anyone thinking he was weak. Men greeted him as he went forward. They were his men. Almost all had been with him the entire year and a half. They were hard men. True men.
“Back water and hold our place,” the captain said to the oarmaster as Nidon approached. “And signal the line.”
“Aye,” the man replied and marched off.
“What’s going on?” Nidon asked.
The captain was a gruff greybeard. He owned four of the six ships carrying Nidon’s army. “Forsvar help me if I know, Sir Nidon. We’ll be finding out soon enough.” He nodded toward the waiting ships. One raced closer under full oar, its ram casting a wake from just under the surface.
Nidon rested his right hand on his longsword’s pommel and watched the galley’s graceful approach. Besides two rows of oarsmen, the ship carried a dozen men-at-arms and as many crossbowmen on the fighting deck.
His own ship carried far more fighting men, but it wouldn’t matter one bronze if it came to a fight. The war galley would smash its ram into the cargo ship’s hull and they would all drown. It wasn’t a noble way to fight, but it was efficient.
The war galley slowed as it approached. Four men stood on the forecastle. “Who goes there?” one shouted.
“I am Nidon, Champion of Salador, returned from war in the east.”
“You are early. You were not expected until tomorrow.” The man wore full harness with his visor raised so that he could speak. Over his coat-of-plates he wore a pale blue tabard with three golden crowns upon it. It hadn’t taken long for the queen to abandon the red and silver of the Royal House.
“And who are you?” Nidon demanded.
“I am Sir Redlan. I command the queen’s river squadron.
“Well, Sir Redlan, I have men and horses who have been away at war for a year and a half. We wish to be on our way.”
“You are early, Sir Nidon.”
“I think we’ve established that.” Men in the galley behind him chuckled. “We got off early from Sal-Oras and have had a strong wind behind us. We only wish to make shore.”
“They are not ready for you, Sir Nidon. You will have to wait until you have permission to land.”
“Permission?” Nidon felt heat rising into his face. “I am Champion of Salador. You’re telling me I am not permitted to go where I will?”
“It is the queen’s command.”
“From her mouth? Or from some lackey?”
“I do not know, Sir Nidon.”
“And what if I choose to land, Sir Redlan?”
“I will ram you.”
“Are you a coward, Sir Redlan, that you would ram a merchant with your warship? That you will kill brave men of Salador who have done no wrong?” Nidon shouted.
“I obey the queen’s orders.” The man smirked at him.
Nidon’s anger rose like a wave, but he took the anger and bent it to his will and the killing calm came over him. A calm that tamed the fury of his rage and gave him strength. The calm that overtook him before every battle.
Redlan stood fifteen strides away on the fighting deck of his galley. Nidon wanted nothing more than to take the man’s head from his shoulders. But those fifteen strides of water might have been five hundred leagues for all his anger mattered.
Nidon turned his back on Redlan. Another time. “Hold your position,” he said to the captain. And then, “No, ease us towards shore. Slowly. No closer than thirty strides.” And with no other word, he marched back toward the command deck. Knights and men-at-arms avoided his gaze as he passed.
Nidon climbed the stairs and then found his favorite spot at the rail and sat down. He took a deep breath, and when he let it go, he let his anger go with it. He didn’t need it and it would exhaust him if he let it burn too long. He had just closed his eyes when footsteps pounded up the stairs.
“Sir Nidon, how can you accept this?”
Nidon didn’t open his eyes. “I am not accepting this, Sir Lindras.”
“But you are just lying there.”
“How many battles have we been through together? How many times have I told you to pick the time and place for a fight? Never fight on their terms.”
“He insulted you. You are the Champion of Salador.”
“We have established that I am powerless in this situation.” Nidon opened his eyes and looked up at his lieutenant. Lindras was young, but bold, and a good leader. “In the proper time and the proper place I will make things right.”
“Aren’t you angry?”
“No, my friend, I am not. I was a few moments ago, but it isn’t doing me any good right now. Anger is a weapon, and I don’t need that weapon right now.”
“We need to do something.” Lindras clenched his fists.
“Now I’m getting angry.”
Nearby the helmsman chuckled. Lindras shot him an angry glare.
“You’re a happy man, aren’t you?” Nidon said to the gap-toothed helmsman.
“That I am, your lordship.”
The captain climbed the stairs to the command deck. “Rowers, reverse your benches on my command!” he shouted. “Reverse!”
Nidon nodded approval as the rowers rapidly switched positions so that they now faced the bow.
“It is much easier for them to hold position this way,” the captain said.
“No need to explain. You know what you are up to.” Nidon glanced to his lieutenant. “Sir Lindras, would you pass word to the other ships that we are holding position for the
time being. We don’t know how long.”
“At your command, Sir Nidon.” Lindras clearly wanted to say more, but instead saluted and left the command deck.
Where was I? A forest glade and a beautiful woman. And away from all this crap.
***
“Sir Nidon, I am sorry to disturb you.”
Nidon’s eyes popped open. He hadn't truly been asleep. Or so he thought. “What is it, Captain?”
“A boat approaches. They are hailing us.”
Nidon stood. A sleek twenty-oared boat approached from the city. It came for them, not for the galleys blocking the river. All along Nidon’s ship, hot, bored soldiers looked up from their games of dice or cards, clearly hopeful that their river ordeal would soon be over.
Nidon, prepared for an angry exchange, felt some relief at the sight of the old Steward of the Court, Sir Fenre, standing at the bow of the approaching craft. The steward was a dour man, but solid. Nidon had known him for years. Fenre wore the queen’s blue and a broad-brimmed felt hat with the one flap pinned up with the badge of the royal steward.
“Sir Nidon, your ships are free to land at Mor-Oras,” Fenre called out without preamble.
“Sir Fenre, it is good to see you,” Nidon said, smiling at the familiar face. The smile was not reciprocated.
“Sir Nidon, upon landing, your men are to march directly to the Queen’s Gardens along the river and make camp there.”
Nidon frowned. The steward had never been so curt with him before, although he had always been somewhat uptight. “I’ve never heard of the Queen’s Gardens. Is it a grand inn? I have almost three hundred men.”
“It is the place formerly known as Lady Beleth’s Park, where the city juts into the merger of the two rivers.” Fenre pointed down river. A low wall, just eight feet above the river level, pushed into the river at an angle. Although it was a long distance off, Nidon saw the manicured trees and bushes of a broad garden.
“There’s no place in the city for them?” Nidon asked. “These men have lived more than a year in the field. There must be some lodging for them.”
“They are to camp in the Queen’s Gardens. Their mounts will be cared for in the city stables. You are to find lodging in the Inn of the Dancing Horse.”
“This is unacceptable. I will see the queen when we land.”
Fenre glanced over his shoulder towards the city walls. “Do not be too bold, Sir Nidon,” Fenre said when he looked back. His voice was lower, as if by not shouting quite as loud only Nidon would hear him. “I will see if she will take an audience.”
“It is within my right to demand an audience.”
Fenre took off his hat and brushed his hand across his sweaty brow. “Not everything is as it was, Sir Nidon. I will speak with the queen on your behalf.”
With that, Fenre ordered his boat over to Sir Redlan’s war galley before it sped off toward shore.
“Take us in, Captain,” Nidon said.
Under the watchful eyes of the four warships, Nidon’s transports rowed toward the city’s docks. They passed the working docks and warehouses east of the city, and continued close under the walls to where the warships berthed. A narrow road separated the moorings from the city walls. The rowers skillfully brought the ships in and they were soon tied off.
As the crew finished tying off the gangway, Sir Fenre and four armored men in blue tabards rode up the quay to the ship. One led a riderless horse.
Ignoring the still unsecured gangway, Nidon leapt to shore, grunting at the jarring impact to his hip. The four men approached. All wore full harness.
“Sir Fenre, why are you not attired as a Knight of the House? Why have you abandoned the crossed bolts of Forsvar? Where is the red of the House?”
Fenre brushed the front of his tabard. “The Knights of the House have been dismissed. We are now the Queen’s Guard.”
“The Knights of the House have guarded the royal family since the time of Handrin the Great. Why have they been dismissed?”
“The queen commanded it.”
“And what of the king?”
“The king is gravely ill. The queen rules in his place.”
“Still? The king has not recovered at all?” Nidon shook his head. “It has been a year and a half.”
“We have to accept that he might never recover. The queen rules with a steady hand in his place. I will escort you to your inn. The queen will see you tomorrow.”
“No, I’ll stay with my men in the Garden. I will not rest in an inn while they sleep on the ground.”
Fenre glanced at the Queen’s Guardsmen with him. “It would be better for you if you would accept the queen’s generosity and stay at the inn. Tomorrow everything will be resolved.”
Nidon looked over the four men escorting Fenre. He didn’t recognize any of them. Would they dare stop him if he rode to the keep to see the king? Or if he joined his men by camping in the Queen’s Gardens? It was his right to go anywhere in the Kingdom of Salador he wished. It was the law. He would have every right to kill every one of them. Heat rose in his chest.
No. He took a deep breath and thought of Hadde and of his plans. What do I care for these insults? I don’t even want to be Champion. I just want to leave.
He took another breath and said, “Very well, Sir Fenre. I will do as the queen requests.” Nidon turned back to the boat. “Sir Lindras, you have command. Encamp the army on the Queen’s Garden. Send the horses to the city stables.”
“As you command, Sir Nidon.”
“I will do what I can to make this right. Rayne, bring my baggage to the Inn of the Dancing Horse.”
They exchanged salutes and Nidon strode toward the horse Fenre had brought for him.
“Sir Nidon,” Fenre said, his voice tentative. “You cannot bring your battle sword into the city. Only a short sword.”
“This must be a joke, Sir Fenre. Since when is this the law of Salador?”
“Since the queen—”
“And I am Champion. I am the king’s personal bodyguard. It’s my privilege to go in full harness wherever I choose. Even into the king’s own chamber.”
“It is the law. It is meant to keep the peace.”
“I am the highest defender of the law in all of Salador!”
“We have our orders.”
“And what of your honor?”
Fenre flushed red. “I do my duty before the queen. I serve her with honor.”
Nidon drew himself up and was about to challenge Sir Fenre, his own plans be damned, when Rayne appeared next to him with a sheathed short sword in his hands.
“With Sir Lindras’s complements, a sword for you to wear in the city.”
Nidon looked back to the ship. Lindras met Nidon’s eyes, but then Lindras’s gaze went past Nidon, and up. Nidon glanced to the top of the city walls. Dozens of crossbowmen stood behind the crenellations staring down at him. Nidon frowned as he unbuckled his sword belt.
What in Forsvar’s name is going on?
Chapter Four
“Are you certain of your decision?” Enna asked.
“I think so,” Maret replied.
She sat with Enna and Arno at the heavy oak table that dominated the kitchen area of the cottage the couple shared with Hadde.
A small cooking fire burned in the large stone fireplace. It was too warm a night for any more. A single candle illuminated the table and the letter Maret held in her hands.
“It is good,” Enna said. “Landomere needs the spiridus. Your son’s presence restores the Great Spirit.”
Arno snorted. “The end of the Wasting restores the forest,” he said. “I love the little lad, but I’m not so certain he’s a spiridus.”
“Just because you can’t see something with your own eyes, doesn’t make it untrue,” Enna said. “Landomere spoke to both Maret and Hadde. They know the truth of it.”
Arno shrugged and then smiled at Maret. “Spiridus or not, I’m glad you both are staying.”
“Thank you,” Maret said. Her
throat caught at the words. Arno seemed more a father to her than her own.
Off in the village people laughed and shouted. Johas had traded a large store of firewine and a raucous party had begun. Soon the villagers would depart Long Meadow forever, and all were ready for a farewell celebration.
From what she had heard, similar celebrations were happening all across Landomere as people prepared to move to the reborn city of Belavil. They all believed, well, most believed, that it was the living spirit of Orlos within her son that had brought the fountains in the ancient spiridus city back to life again.
She’d thought of little else besides the move and the children for months. Until today. Maret read the letter again.
I, Queen Ilana, wife of King Boradin of Salador, do recognize Orlos, the child of Lady Maret and Earl Waltas as heir to the Ducal Seat of the South Teren.
This decision has been ruled legal and valid by the Council of Judges.
Furthermore, the Baron Grax shall serve as Duke Orlos’s Head Counsel until the Duke comes of age.
Lady Maret shall, from the time of her Son’s ascension, be known as the Dowager Duchess of the South Teren.
Signed by my own Hand,
Ilana, Queen of Salador
It was quite an offer Grax made to her. To live in Del-Oras as Dowager Duchess would mean a return to Salador and wealth and status. Even in the Maiden Hall she could hardly have dreamt of such a life. Yes, she had once wished for Prince Morin’s hand, but she had known she would end up the wife of a powerful earl instead.
Baron Grax had offered her every type of enticement, but she had turned him down. Gods, but had she made the right decision? Her fingers ran along the skirt of her dress. What would it be like to have maidens sew her dresses for her? True Saladoran dresses in the latest fashion. And to bring her delicious meals with white bread and beef instead of venison. And fine wine. Good Saladoran reds, or even Idorian whites.