Landmoor

by Jeff Wheeler

  Dujahn wiped his mouth, trying to count the number of months he had been on this assignment. His true employer, the Gray Legion, was a ring of mercenary spies that snooped into just about every kingdom’s affairs east and west of Dos-Aralon. They had a few well-placed spies in the court of Dos-Aralon, mostly women, and so far King don Rion had refused to hire any or even try and purge them from the realm. Dujahn didn’t exactly enjoy working for the Bandit Rebellion, but at least a Bandit commander was better than counting gnats for some regiment weasel. He smirked. The Bandit Rebellion needed spies and the Gray Legion needed a foot in the politics from these lands. He hoped that Lord Ballinaire would eventually ask for his services. Now that would be an interesting assignment! he thought.

  In the distance, Dujahn heard the trample of hooves coming down the Iron Point Road. It was the only road through the Shadows Wood and so overgrown in places that wagons had to waddle just to get through. Plunging from the thick cedar trees came a huge roan, its hooves clomping against the paving stones marking the old Shae highway. Dujahn shook his head, wondering if Folkes was a fool or if he just didn’t care how much noise he made. Gripping the handle of the hooded lantern he had secured around the saddle horn, Dujahn lifted it and pointed it towards the inbound horseman. He raised the shutter quickly and then closed it. A single wink of light went out.

  The noise of the hooves slowed and hissed into the grass. Commander Folkes eased his horse up to where Dujahn waited for him. He was big – nearly as tall as General Dairron, the commander of the Kingshadow regiment who had arrived earlier that day. Dujahn was always comparing people, sizing them up and matching them against others he knew. It was how he kept things straight in his mind. As a Gray Legion spy, he needed that. Always look for the unusual. With Folkes, that wasn’t hard to do. The Bandit commander’s mismatched suit of armor showed an almost absent-minded laziness instead of tokens of his battles and opponents. A breastplate taken from a vanquished Knight of the Blade. His sword from a Vale Shae. The greaves and gauntlets were of different design, all scratched and marred beyond polishing. Unique – Folkes liked it that way. Dujahn suppressed a smile. The Provost Marshals of the East Kingdoms would have laughed at the Bandit commander with scorn. But then again, they were more known for fastidiousness, not their battle sense.

  “How long...you’ve been waiting?” Folkes asked, trying to catch his breath. He lifted a leather flask to his lips and took a long drink. It smelled like ale.

  “Sunset,” Dujahn answered simply. “How was the ride from Anikesh, Commander?”

  “Long and thorny,” Folkes answered, wiping his mouth. “I saw a few patrols of knights, but none of them saw me.”

  “Well…they would have been banned surprised to catch you out all alone.” Dujahn sat back and smirked. “Now, do you think they would have hung you right there – or bothered dragging you all the way to Owen Draw for a trial first?”

  Folkes frowned and corked the flask. “I don’t pay you for jokes, Dujahn. I pay you for information. Why were there so many patrols?”

  Dujahn shrugged noncommittally. “The Kiran Thall have been busy down here, Commander. Whenever they raze a village, don Rion sends down the knights to chase them away. It’s that simple. Word in don Rion’s court these days is that he wants to send the dukes of Amberdian and Cypher on a march down here to hang some Bandits.”

  Folkes nodded and let out a big breath and snorted with contempt. “That rumor again? It costs too much and it takes too long. Amberdian is spineless and Cypher won’t go it alone. Nothing before year-end at least. Let’s go in,” he said, nodding towards the fortress of Landmoor.

  Dujahn turned his horse around and spurred it forward lightly. He led them off the main road, about a mile or so from the fortress, veering off into the grasslands just before the hill jutted out of the valley. Steering around a pond, they pressed towards the bottom of the hill that Landmoor crowned.

  It was certainly a privilege to be invited into the Rebellion’s council. The other two commanders had special advisors who joined them when answering Ballinaire’s summons. Folkes had decided it was time that he had an advisor as well, so he insisted that Dujahn be allowed to represent him. Ballinaire was distrustful, of course, but even he recognized the value of having one from the Gray Legion handy. He needed every ally he could muster.

  “What did you learn about this meeting?” Folkes asked, his voice low and his eyes riveted on the torch fire high on the walls. “Do you know what Ballinaire wants?”

  “He’s managed to keep that secret,” Dujahn muttered in response. “But I have managed to find out what he’s done down here so far. As you saw coming down the road, the Shoreland Regiment is bunched up together in the Shadows Wood – less than a day’s march away. Looks to me like Ballinaire is preparing to lay siege.” He nodded to the keep as they started up the rugged slopes. “He has some troops in one part of the wood, but I couldn’t get close enough to see what they were doing. I’m a spy, not a Sleepwalker – sounded like they were digging. Making trenches, maybe. I don’t know.”

  “Trenches? Ballinaire won’t sit still long enough for trenches. Not if don Rion sends more than a single duke’s army.”

  “I agree with you. So, in addition to the regiment, we have the Kiran Thall roving the woods and blocking the road.”

  “Hmm,” Folkes murmured. “Who else is here?”

  “Dairron, of course. The General came in on his Dragonshrike before the sun had even set. I asked a contact in Dos-Aralon about him. He told me that Dairron flies over Avisahn regularly – trying to catch a peek at Silverborne’s daughter, no doubt. Wants to abduct her, I’ve heard. Who knows for sure. Now, what about that advisor he’s always with? I couldn’t get much on her.”

  “Miestri,” Folkes said with the look on his face as if he’d eaten a bad onion. “She’s a Sorian, Hate thank him. How he got her to support him, I would pay in Aralonian pieces to find out.” He gave Dujahn a sidelong look. “You still haven’t been very useful there yet. Maybe I should hire someone else.”

  Dujahn chuckled. “Inlanders,” he laughed, rolling his eyes. “King don Rion could pay me three times what you do. We could have your rebellion crushed before the first winter snow. But,” he added comfortingly, “The Gray Legion wants Ballinaire to win. He’s getting old, though. I’ve heard General Dairron will take over then. Is that true?”

  Folkes shrugged. “That has not been decided yet. Maybe I will take over, Dujahn. It’s true that Lord Ballinaire depends on Dairron the most. Without the soldiers he’s recruited and his defensive tactics, the Bandit Rebellion would be half its size right now.”

  “Or dead,” Dujahn pointed out. “Wasn’t Dairron’s father a regimental knight also? Like Ballinaire?”

  “He was,” Folkes replied, annoyed. “Served him during the Purge Wars, then rebelled with him too. Stanjel Dairron is a first generation Bandit, Dujahn. It’s in his blood to hate don Rion. But that doesn’t mean he could take over the Rebellion,” he said in a warning voice. “Not without a fight.”

  They approached the outer wall of Landmoor and stopped talking. It was too dangerous now. Their horses grunted as they followed the base of the steep hill. Near a bend in the river, Dujahn stopped. There was a blackened inlet in the face of the hill, darker than the night. There was some old shrine buried under the hill that led to the catacombs beneath the city. Nudging his mount forward, he reached the edge of the entryway and swung his leg over the saddle. The smell of thistle and moss was thick in the air. In moments, several Bandit soldiers emerged from the shadows and took their steeds. There was a gap within the tiny entryway leading to a small ingress with a stone stairwell at the far end. Some old Shae markings were chiseled in the stone on the inside, but they had faded and crumbled to the point that Dujahn couldn’t read them. His grasp of Silvan writing was still mediocre. The horses were left below as they started up the stairwell.

  “The garrison commander would have a seizure if he knew about this,
” Folkes muttered. “Does the Governor know?”

  “Haven’t met the man,” Dujahn replied with a shrug. “Would you like me to?”

  Folkes gave Dujahn an angry look and ignored the question.

  He doesn’t know when I’m being serious, Dujahn thought blackly. What an oaf.

  Within the shadowed alcove of the inner bailey, a detachment of Bandit officers met them. The officers had neatly trimmed beards and short hair, common for the humid Shoreland region. They wore the black plate mail and gold trim of Bandit Rebellion officers. Dujahn noticed how none of the common Bandit soldiers were armored the same way – only the officers. It was a remnant, he knew, of Ballinaire’s own days leading don Rion’s army. Long, long ago. Dujahn already kept a mental note of the twists and turns of the tunnel. He knew where to go. Torches glared from racks mounted on the walls, offering smoky light to the dark, broken corridors. After walking some distance, they arrived at a huge cellar that had been fortified with beams and stone – a fortress beneath a fortress. It was cool in the tunnels, and Dujahn sighed with relief. If Ballinaire didn’t want him as an advisor, Dujahn hoped his next assignment took him to the milder northlands. Or maybe the Bronnfisher Islands. That would be interesting too. He remembered something about a plague jewel there…

  The Bandit officers opened the door and allowed them both to enter. Dujahn inhaled the smell of burning cloves and peered around Folkes. He saw General Dairron leaning against the far wall, but the smoke came from an older man in dark robes. He stopped short, trying to remember who the old man was. That’s right. The other Sorian.

  Between the Ravenstone and the Kingshadow there lived two of the Sorian order. He knew that Miestri – Dairron’s supporter – lived with some renegade Shae in a valley cut into the Kingshadow Mountains. He had never met her, but had heard she was very beautiful. Some said she looked like a Shae, except she had ebony hair and dark eyes. The other Sorian in the valley sat right in front of him, smoking a pipe. He had been told the man called himself Mage. He wore simple black robes with a patterned green hem. He was of medium height and, by the wrinkles around his eyes and cheekbones, between fifty and sixty. But it was whispered in the Gray Legion that he was older than the world – that all the Sorian were. The Gray Legion had sent plenty of spies to learn more about them, but none had ever returned…not even the Sleepwalkers. Dujahn didn’t think he was in any danger as long as he stayed near Folkes.

  The one called Mage sat in a high-backed oak chair, his green eyes studying the spy and the Bandit Commander.

  Folkes took one of the high thick-stuffed chairs around the table. Dujahn stepped casually into a far corner and watched. He had a good view of the room. Folkes grabbed a goblet and filled it with ale. He took a deep swallow and set the cup down with a thump. Looking up, Folkes seemed to notice Dairron for the first time, leaning against the far wall, his arms folded across his chest.

  “When is Ballinaire going to get here?” Folkes muttered at last, wiping a trail of ale from the day’s growth on his chin.

  “When he pleases,” Dairron replied. “You know that.”

  “Do you know why we’re here?” Folkes demanded, and Dairron shrugged and stood still, looking unconcerned and composed.

  “I thought it was obvious. He wants to start the war.”

  “And that doesn’t worry you?” Folkes challenged. “I’m surprised you’re not pacing and muttering about supply trains, sieges and sappers.”

  Dairron smiled. “I’ve rather been looking forward to it, Folkes. We’ve been baiting the bear too long. It’s time to call down the wolves.”

  “Oh cut your tongue for once, Stanjel. You know what we’re up against – what don Rion can put in the field. We’re in Landmoor for Hate’s sake! This is still one of don Rion’s cities. If he knew we were here, he’d have the knights swoop down so fast our heads would be spinning on a pike.”

  Dujahn studied the Bandit General for a reaction. General Dairron shook his head, chuckling, and unfolded his huge arms. His hair was the color of dark soil with a few wisps of gray. He wore the armor of the Bandit Rebellion with pride, the mail shirt encased in black plate. Four gold general bars, pinned to his thin traveling cloak, glinted in the lamplight. Dujahn remembered hearing how Dairron had earned them. Even in the Gray Legion, he was a legend for what he had done. Nearly every kingdom outside the valley had offered him a military command. He continued to refuse them all. Dairron wanted Dos-Aralon. He wouldn’t leave.

  “If is the keystone,” the General reminded Folkes, snapping Dujahn out of his reverie. “If he knew. I think the King of Dos-Aralon should spend less on his velvet court and polished knights, and more on intelligence.” He gave Dujahn a sidelong look iced with enmity. “Besides, Phollen’s Regiment is close enough. Quit fussing.”

  “Be assured, Commander Folkes,” Mage said softly. “We would not be meeting in Landmoor if it were not secure.” His voice was like worn leather gloves that fit perfectly. Dujahn saw his eyes pierce right through Folkes.

  “Where are the others?” Folkes asked the Sorian, trying to ignore Dairron’s mocking eyes.

  “If I’ve heard correctly,” Dairron interrupted with an etched smile, “the Commander of the Shoreland Regiment is heading to Sol.” He chuckled again. “Probably chasing a serving girl.”

  “Your ears listen that far east, General Dairron?” Mage said in his whisper-like voice. “That surprises me.” Dujahn caught the subtlety, but he saw that Folkes didn’t. No, Folkes never paid attention to the details. Dujahn understood that Miestri claimed the western half of the valley as her land. And Mage claimed the east. Dujahn thought a moment, trying to put it together. Dairron was a general and commanded a brigade – the largest force the Bandits controlled and he occupied the heights of the Kingshadow with it. Then there was Mage and Tsyrke Phollen, the Shoreland commander, who had a regiment of soldiers and the Kiran Thall. Folkes had the third regiment, the smallest, stationed in the Shadin Mountains. And all three of these men would start hacking each other to pieces if Ballinaire lost control of them. Dujahn had to cover a grin at their idiocy.

  “You know plenty about chasing tykes, Dairron,” Folkes blurted out. He planted his elbows on the table with a rattle. Dujahn closed his eyes, knowing what was about to come out of his mouth. Ban it¸ Dujahn swore to himself. I shouldn’t have mentioned the Princess of Avisahn.

  “At least Phollen can get the women he dotes after, Dairron,” Folkes blundered on. “What about the bleeding Princess of Avisahn? You fly over Silverborne’s castle on your pet Dragonshrike just to peek at her. Have you even seen her yet, or only in your dreams? Silk socks ready for the dance? You dote after the Shae like…”

  General Dairron took several slow steps forward, his blue eyes cold and menacing. His shadow fell on the table. “Rather than using your tongue to spite me,” he whispered acidly, “You might learn better ways to use your brain instead. If you mock the Princess of Avisahn or the Shae again, I’ll cut out your tongue.”

  “You may frighten my spy, but not me,” Folkes warned. “Don’t cross me Dairron. Or you’ll be facing the end of my sword.”

  Dujahn saw granite resolve in General Dairron’s blue eyes, and he silently fumed. He wouldn’t get a higher position in the Rebellion if Folkes got himself killed so quickly. Folkes was a seasoned battle commander, but Dairron was stronger in every way that counted. That man fears nothing. Not the Shae, not Dos-Aralon, not a Sorian. Dujahn knew it was the ruthlessness of Dairron that Folkes coveted – which he found lacking in himself. It was jealousy, and it was poison to Folkes.

  “Face the end of your sword? Trust me, Commander, it would take a bigger sword than yours,” Dairron answered. “You’ve had your warning. Another taunt, and you’re a dead man.”

  The cellar door creaked open and a woman wearing velvety black robes entered. Her eyes were black and sparkling and a sly grin spread across her mouth. Dujahn stared – she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Not one in a thous
and harlots in Zhoff could have matched her flawless face. And Dujahn had seen the harlots of Zhoff. The feeling in the room cooled with her presence. She smelled like cinnamon and bitter herbs. Midnight hair, inky and smooth, spilled down from the cowl as she pulled it down. She was a Sorian. Dujahn could feel it as she passed by him. Her voice was soft.

  “I hope I have not missed any bloodshed.” She smiled playfully, but her eyes betrayed her contempt for Folkes. Folkes stared at her, and Dujahn could see the passion rise up in his eyes. He was half-drunk anyway, but not even he would dare to touch a Sorian. Not if he wanted to live.

  “Choose your enemies wisely, Folkes,” Dairron warned, backing away. “We are equals only so long as Lord Ballinaire stands over us. When he falls, you will answer to me. I do hope you remember that.” Turning to Miestri, he added respectfully, “Welcome, Lady of Vale.”

  The Sorian gave Dairron a sultry smile. Her face was beautifully cold and compelling. Dujahn thought it strange – ageless but young. She wasn’t the blossom of youth – not really. But was she just as ancient as Mage? Were all the Sorian alike in power, or were some greater than others? These were questions the Gray Legion would pay handsomely to have answered. It was one of the main reasons he was there on assignment. The Sorian were not found in every kingdom, yet this land had two. So strange…Dujahn wondered where her Shae escorts were. She supposedly never went anywhere without them. Or was that another false rumor?

  “Welcome to Landmoor, Lord General,” she answered Dairron with a smile. Her eyes passed quickly over those in the room. “Lord Ballinaire will see us now. And I think he’s angry enough to kill one of you.”

  Dujahn swallowed.

  VII

  The well-oiled shudder of armor sounded in the stillness of the underground tunnels along with the thud of marching boots. There were easily twenty men coming, Dujahn reasoned, cocking his head and listening. He had started to sweat again. The cellar door opened and the leader of the Bandit Rebellion entered – Lord Stroth Ballinaire. His white-plumed helmet was cradled in the crook of his arm, showing his long snowy hair down to his shoulders in the Inland fashion. His face was hard aged skin, split by wrinkled crags. He was easily seventy years old, but he wore his Bandit armor well. Five gold general bars and a golden star were pinned to his cape along the shoulder. The star, Dujahn remembered, signified the rank of Champion of Owen Draw. A title no knight had held since Ballinaire rebelled against King don Rion. Bloodshot blue eyes stared at them from beneath bushy black eyebrows flecked with gray. A thin white beard garnished his lower jaw. His voice was strong.