Fortress of the Forgotten: Book One of the Swordmaster Series

by Rutger Krenn

  “So be it. Let Cadrafer lead. May he lead us well and save our nation. I do not envy him the task.”

  Arandur noticed a change in Mecklem. Had he come to a realization about himself? What would he do in the future? He shifted his gaze to Cadrafer. The Captain of the Guard bowed his head as the burden of responsibility settled on his shoulders. When he lifted it once more his eyes shone with a film of moisture but behind that a steely determination was visible.

  “For good or for ill,” he whispered. “So be it.”

  Chapter 20

  Talon stepped beside Arell and looked closely at the figures hemming them in.

  He saw no one that he recognized. What he did see was the hard, flinty look they had: the appearance of warriors; relaxed, poised and yet ready for immediate and deadly action.

  There were a dozen of them. They all had bristling beards and were short though wide across the shoulders. Their beefy hands strayed close to war axes, the hafts of which were thrust through strong leather loops in jewel-studded belts. Ivory handled daggers were sheathed on the opposite side and they wore knee length chain mail hauberks and gleaming silver helms. The tops of their heavy boots were traced with intricate designs in silver wire and cast over their broad shoulders were green cloaks – the edges likewise threaded with silver and depicting woodland scenes.

  They were Dwarves, and though fearsome in appearance, Talon was relieved to see them.

  “Wyndrinc,” he said, offering the ritual greeting Dwarf-folk used among themselves. It would be prudent to establish immediately that he and Arell were friendly and their purpose legitimate.

  One of the Dwarves stepped forward and bowed.

  “Wynmot,” he replied, providing the customary response.

  He straightened and a hint of curiosity showed through his stern appearance.

  “It’s good that the old customs live though it’s unusual to hear such a greeting from strangers. Few outsiders know it.”

  “Few strangers wander these mountains and none enter the mansions below ground unless invited,” said Talon, “but I am one who has been guided through Dwarf-home. My feet have been taught the paths of Dalas Delendar and walked the narrow way of Caras Derendach. I have lingered there and marveled at what I saw. I have spoken with King Beahldor, or the Drighten as you title him, but mostly I have talked and been guided by Beorht, son of Lord Arohdstan.”

  The Dwarves looked at him with some amazement and Talon felt the eyes of the others fix on him intently. “My name is Runeholt and I marvel that so much has been shown you.”

  “It would not have been, except that I came with Chow, a sifu of the Chung, and much was permitted me because of him.”

  Runeholt nodded in understanding. “That explains much. Chow is a name well known among us and his knowledge of weaponry is in high demand. You must be Talon? The story of how you came to live among the Chung is known to me. But where is Chow, and why do you come now with a lady of the Northmen and not your sifu?”

  “We’re messengers from Thromdar and have urgent news for King Thranding of Aren Daleth.”

  Talon knew that Runeholt would wonder at Arell’s presence but now was not the time to offer explanations. Anyway, she was more than entitled to be called a messenger now after what she’d been through.

  “Also,” he continued, “I bear sad news of Chow. He was killed by poison and that is ill for the Chung.” He didn’t add that the ache of loss still weighed down on him.

  Runeholt looked grim. “That is bad news indeed. It seems much is happening in the world and little of it good. I’ll take you to your king: his army stands close by in the valley to the north, though it has seen little fighting. The Goblins attacked us in ever greater numbers and their ranks swelled daily till we sought aid from your land, but even as the Northmen approached the onslaught lessened. I guess now that greater events are at play and Aren Daleth is in danger?”

  Talon kept his face blank. “No doubt a well-considered strategy of the enemy is at work, and that bodes ill for all of us. Yet it is best a messenger brings word of what is happening to his king before he speaks it aloud to others.”

  “That is so,” agreed Runeholt without offence, though he would have guessed the situation well enough. He turned to the other Dwarves and gave swift orders. In moments they were ready once more and Talon and Arell, walking their tired mounts along the rough trail, followed them northwards.

  Talon was thinking quickly. He would soon meet King Thranding and pass on the urgent news, but what then? Would he have an opportunity to ask about his mother without Arell present? He didn’t like the idea of hiding things from her but he’d sworn to himself, for good reason, not to reveal his identity. It was bad enough that he must reveal it to the king, and there was no guarantee that having done so the king would respect his wish for anonymity, but that seemed a small risk and couldn’t be avoided.

  The Dwarves led them along a ridge snaking between peaks and valleys. It was high county and the trail was rocky and narrow. It wound around massive boulders and outthrusts of stone like ancient fangs. Scree slid and shifted beneath their boots and the horses struggled to keep their footing. The path soon narrowed further and the peak on their right towered ominously above like a broad shouldered giant, his head wreathed in the clouds, guarding the way. It was an unnerving feeling.

  Runeholt noticed their unease. “It’s the spirit of mount Fahness which you can feel. The Dwarf-home spreads far underground as you know, but we have not delved near its roots. The stone is hard and defies our tools. The tunnels which lead that way are dark and rarely used. The mountain, whether above or below ground, gives us an ill feeling and we let it be. There are powers in the world of which we know nothing and some things are best left undisturbed.”

  Talon could well appreciate the Dwarves’ attitude. Those who didn’t live near mountains didn’t know they had shifting moods and impressed upon those who lived beneath their shadow a sense of alien life, but he understood. The vaguely malevolent feeling soon gave way however as the pass opened and a new valley spread out before them; green sloped and clad with pine trees. At its bottom he saw the camp of Aren Daleth's army. It was arranged in a great square, but at the valley’s northern perimeter a separate contingent of soldiers was stationed to guard the pass.

  Runeholt’s earlier words were borne home to him. What had happened to the Goblins that had attacked the Dwarf-home? Were they gone? Was only a remnant left behind to skirmish with the Dwarves while the main host marched on Thromdar? Such must have been the enemy’s plan all along.

  Runeholt and his troop led them quickly now and soon they reached the valley bottom and the Northmen camp. The soldiers eyed them curiously as they passed through. Near the center was a large tent – no doubt the king’s, and it was to this that Talon guessed they were heading.

  Arell looked at him sideways and there was a strange expression on her face. “Back home they doubted this journey could be made,” she said, “but we did it.”

  “True enough,” Talon said. “We’ve made it here, and it’s no small accomplishment, but it’ll all be for nothing if the army doesn’t return to Thromdar in time.”

  Arell nodded in agreement but said no more as just then they came to the tent. Without stood two Northmen guards; their long swords hanging in scroll-worked scabbards and wearing ring mail hauberks and burnished helms.

  Runeholt stepped forward. “These are messengers from Aren Daleth to see your king,” he announced.

  The soldiers looked at Talon and Arell with keen attention. Before they could react though the tent flap was pulled aside from within and a figure stepped through. The guards bowed and Talon saw the king of Aren Daleth for the first time and the person on whom so much depended if the army were to return to Thromdar in time.

  He was tall, nearer to fifty than forty years old, but there was little sign of aging. He had the look of a warrior at first glance but Talon also discerned a keen intellect when the king’s penetrating gaze
fell on him.

  Those searching eyes swept to Arell and sudden recognition and veiled surprise were shown. She curtsied and Talon followed suite with a bow.

  “Greetings, Lady Arell. I had not thought to see you as a messenger from Aren Daleth. Though if your presence was unlooked for it is doubly welcomed.”

  He turned to Talon. “I thought I knew all the messengers, yet I see there is at least one I haven’t met before.”

  “It’s small wonder that you don’t know me, Your Highness. I’m not a messenger, at least not normally.” Talon was aware of the interest of the Dwarves and the Northmen guards and hesitated briefly. “This is a special set of circumstances.”

  “I see,” said the king instantly recognizing his reticence. “Come into my tent and have a drink while you give me the news from home.”

  He opened the flap again and spoke to the guards. “Will one of you please see to their horses?”

  “Of course, Your Highness,” said the nearest and he took the reins of the sorrel and bay.

  The king held the flap open for them while they entered and Talon noticed the tent’s interior was quite plain and without signs of luxury or prestige. Heavy blankets were rolled up neatly in a corner – the same most likely as used by the common soldiers for bedding. Apart from that it was bare except for a basic table and several chairs, no doubt provided by the Dwarves and not transported from Aren Daleth. The tent and furniture appeared the only concessions to his rank, and he would need them both to comfortably meet with his captains and the Dwarves. This, thought Talon, was a commander who led his men by example: who lived under the same conditions as they did, suffered whenever they suffered and celebrated only when they celebrated.

  King Thranding pulled out a chair for Arell and indicated Talon to sit as well. “You may as well give me the worst of it,” he said.

  His face was grim but there was no fear in his voice. “Something bad has happened – that much is certain or you wouldn’t be here. I’ve been uneasy for some time but there’ve been skirmishes enough with the Goblins to keep my mind busy.”

  Talon decided it was best to tell him the news straight out. “It seems enough Goblins have remained to give you some trouble here but the rest have marched on Thromdar castle. The fortress is besieged.”

  Thranding considered this news silently. He showed little surprise. “So it was a scheme to lure the army away from Aren Daleth? It worked too – though it’s a tactic likely beyond the Goblins.”

  “That’s true,” said Talon. “An Engar tracked us from Thromdar as well, and they’re said to hunt only at the bidding of a Turgil. There’s a mind behind all this and it plans and works cunningly for our downfall.”

  “Worse and worse,” said the king.

  Talon was impressed with how steady he was taking this news. Underneath the surface though he began to sense Thranding’s mounting worry and his chagrin at being manipulated. He steeled himself to say the rest of what must be said. “Worse, but not worst.”

  “There is more?” The king looked at him levelly and didn’t flinch though Talon read the deep concern in his eyes.

  “Out with it then,” said Thranding.

  Talon hesitated. It would have been easier to tell someone who swore and cursed for he had no desire to burden this man with fear for the survival of an entire nation.

  It was Arell who spoke. “The regiment at Thromdar is seriously weakened. A hundred men were lost on patrol and now only two hundred remain to defend the castle”.

  The king looked at her expressionlessly. “It’s not like your father to risk so many men on a patrol, even less like him to lose them.”

  “My father was in the capital when it happened, Your Highness.”

  “Who led the patrol then?”

  Arell looked down at the ground. “It was Mecklem,” she said simply.

  Thranding wasted no time on useless recriminations. “Then the fortress may have already fallen and Aren Daleth lie open to the Goblins?”

  There was no need to answer, for it wasn’t so much a question as a statement, and Thranding looked at the table blankly. For the first time Talon sensed him at a loss.

  It didn’t last long. The king stirred and spoke. “All may be lost,” he said, yet life was sparking in his eyes again. “But that is not certain. There are few Goblins here and no hindrance to our swift return to Aren Daleth. I’ll give the orders now and send word of what has happened to the Dwarves’ leadership. We’ll march tomorrow, and we’ll march with speed. If Thromdar can only hold fast we’ll save our people yet!”

  The king went out to speak with the guards and left them alone in the tent. They could hear his muted voice outside giving clear and precise instructions.

  “He’s not quite what I expected,” said Talon.

  “What do you mean?”

  “He gives the appearance of a soldier rather than a king. There’s an air of leadership about him, without the trappings of royalty or the prestige and luxury I expected.”

  “He’s always been like that,” said Arell. “He’s polite to me whenever we meet, but he’s the same with soldiers, servants or anyone. He treats everybody alike. I once saw him help a servant clean the floor after he spilt some wine. Mecklem nearly choked!”

  They were interrupted by Thranding’s return. “It’s taken care of,” he said. “We’ll march tomorrow and a messenger has been sent to the Dwarves explaining what’s happened. They don’t need us anymore.”

  The king looked at Arell uncomfortably. “I’m afraid I can’t offer you the hospitality I would like,” he said. “The tent will be yours though for the night and I’ll see to it that you’re well looked after – as well as can be managed under the circumstances.”

  “Nonsense!” said Arell. “The tent is yours. Besides, I’ve been sleeping rough for days now so another night won’t worry me at all. I’ll find a place nearby.”

  “You must have had some adventures of your own,” said the king. He looked at her shrewdly. “You’re not quite the same as you were.”

  “Perhaps not.” She looked at Talon sideways. “We’ve had an interesting journey.”

  Thranding looked at them both while he thought. “Very well then. How about this? I’ll stay in the tent but the both of you shall remain as my guests. That should satisfy the needs of etiquette, and anyway, I would rather have someone to talk to than fret by myself.”

  Talon felt the keen eyes of Thranding turn to him. “Will that be all right with you?” It was a strange feeling to be asked if he minded sharing a tent with a king and Arell, especially as he would be considered a commoner by both, but he was pleased with the arrangement as it was likely that at some point a chance would come along to talk about his mother out of Arell’s earshot.

  “Of course, Your Highness.”

  “What then shall I call you,” asked the king.

  “My name’s Talon.”

  Thranding seemed interested in the name. “That’s unusual – I would say it’s not of the Northmen yet I see by your looks that you’re a northerner.”

  “I’m a Northmen, but I was raised as a child among the Chung after the party I was travelling with was destroyed by Goblins. A Chung master, Chow by name, adopted me as his son.”

  Thranding looked at him with sharp attention. This was a subject that Talon desperately wished to avoid talking about in front of Arell. No doubt there were several boys lost over the years on merchant’s ventures but no one had yet made a link between his story and the one that would have circulated about the missing son of the Seamark’s Duke. He didn’t like the speculative look in the king’s eyes and knew he had best change the subject quickly.

  “We may have met a Wizard on our way here. He didn’t say as much but he was heading to Thromdar and seemed to know all about me and Arell though neither of us had met him before.”

  The speculative look in Thranding’s eyes intensified and Talon suspected his attempt to change the subject had only made him more suspicious, yet
when he spoke he didn’t pursue the subject.

  “That at least is good news. The Wizards have the sight and as it seems a Turgil is involved perhaps it’s not unexpected.”

  Talon sensed some relief in Thranding’s words. He was still hiding an intense worry but at least not everything was going against him. He knew that he hadn’t deceived him about his background though. There was knowledge in the king’s eyes, little more than a guess perhaps, but he would have to speak to him soon about his mother and ask him to respect his choice to build his life anew. Thranding seemed such a man as would do so and keep his confidences but he must talk to him before he the king voiced any of his guesses in front of Arell.

  Chapter 21

  Talon woke from a deep sleep with the feeling that something had disturbed him. He strained his eyes in darkness that was like a long-forgotten tomb but all he could see was a hint of starlight near the tent flap.

  He’d shared the evening meal with the king and Arell before retiring to sleep, and though he could see neither of them now, he could hear Thranding’s steady breathing close to hand and knew Arell was near the back wall.

  He was normally a light sleeper but had succumbed to tiredness and a feeling of safety encouraged by the surrounding army. Was he imagining things now? Surely there could be no danger amid such a host? And yet something had alerted him.

  His eyes were adjusting to the dimness. Everything was still and no noise seemed out of place though the glimmer of starlight was troubling. His mind sharpened and the last fog of sleep slipped away. The tent flap should be closed, so how could he see starlight?

  Just then there was a suggestion of movement and the faint light vanished. Talon knew with cold certainty that someone had entered and now closed the flap behind them.