His legs were trembling as they carried him up the last, long flight of steps and under a high overhang supported by narrow rock arches. There was a massive oaken door that was pierced all over with rivets and reinforced by thick wrought-iron bands. Kyel followed the line of men in front of him through the open door into a circular room under the tower. The wind ceased as soon as he passed across the threshold. As it did, Kyel sagged visibly in relief. He felt weak and dizzy, his face stinging and his cheeks moist with tears that had been wrung from his eyes by the angry gale. He tried wiggling his fingers, but found them unresponsive, completely numb and stiff.
The room he found himself in was empty, without even a shield or banner hanging from the coarse, gray walls. A stair wound all around the outside of the room, spiraling upward along the wall into the shadows of the tower. When Kyel looked up he could see faint flickerings caused by lightning outside coming in through narrow slits that were set into the walls, following the spiral of the stair. The only other light came through an open door at the other end of the room. Kyel wanted to stop there; it was at least a little warmer inside, and he was utterly exhausted. But the men who had been his guards all through the long leagues between Rothscard and the pass were merciless, forcing the line of men across the dim room and through the open doorway ahead.
The large room Kyel entered must have been the main hall of the keep at one time. But if there had ever been a ceiling, it had long since collapsed. The hall was completely open to the elements, although it did offer protection from the wind. The walls were a good four stories tall, at least in the places where they were not broken and crumbling away. There were no windows anywhere, only more narrow slits. There were glowing hearths at each of the four corners of the room, where a few groups of men wearing tattered gray cloaks were standing, keeping warm by all appearances. A couple of the men looked up and remarked the entrance of the long file of convicts, but there was no surprise on any of the stern faces that Kyel could see. Apparently, their approach to the keep had been noticed, probably long before they had even gained the steps.
The guards called for a halt only when the last man was through the door, and they were ordered to turn to the right. The group of prisoners made a single-file line that stretched half the length of the open hall. The guards looked up and down the line, surveying each man with hardened eyes. Kyel waited with a growing sense of unease. He didn’t dare make a move or even rub his hands together, now that they were starting to ache. He tried not to sway on his feet, but it was all but impossible. His legs were numb and shaking, and he couldn’t even feel his toes. Beside him, Traver leaned and almost fell over, earning himself a sharp look of reproach from the nearest guard. The silence in the room was almost palpable, only broken by the throaty howl of the wind overhead.
At last, a tall and stern-faced man entered the room flanked by two others. They walked in crisp, long strides beside the row of convicts, coming to a halt halfway down the line. The man in front regarded them harshly, running his narrow blue eyes up and down the line. He had the look of a hardened soldier, standing pristinely straight with hands clasped behind his back, feet shoulder-width apart. His forehead curved back into a high widow’s peak over arching eyebrows. His long, graying hair was collected neatly in a leather thong at the nape of his neck. He wore no beard, unlike most of the other men in the room. His lips made a straight and narrow edge on his face, reminiscent of the sharp thrust of a blade.
“Welcome to the front,” the soldier announced in a tone that was scarcely welcoming. His strong voice resounded through the hall of the keep, echoing off the stark walls before falling off with a grim undertone of finality. There was a long pause as he continued to survey the face of each man in line.
“Make no mistake, gentlemen; every man of you is here to die.” The statement was hardly anything Kyel hadn’t known before, but hearing it uttered with such certain promise sent a shiver up his spine. The man continued sternly, “One and all, you’ve been convicted of crimes that warrant execution. That sentence yet stands; it has only been deferred. Every man here will be dead within a year; much likely sooner. So, go ahead. Look around.”
Kyel did as the man asked, looking sideways at Traver, who returned his gaze with eyes widened by fear. Kyel had to look away, his stomach suddenly queasy as a vision of Traver lying dead on the black rocks of the pass rose vividly to his mind.
“Memorize each face you see, for these are your brothers in death,” the man continued relentlessly. “You will dig each of their graves with your own hands. When it comes your turn to die, it will be these men around you that will dig your own grave and pile the stones on top of it. How long you live and how well you die will depend exclusively on these men here. So look around at each of them. Learn their faces well. They are all that stands between you and your grave.
“My name is Garret Proctor, Force Commander of the garrison here at Greystone Keep. The order that sends you to your death will come from my lips. I’ll not even think twice about it.”
He paused then, allowing his words to sink in. There was no stir all along the row of prisoners. Each man was doubtlessly feeling the same as Kyel, utterly petrified by fear.
“There is no escape from the front, so don’t even consider it,” the commander spat in a deadly tone as he paced down the line of men. “Every crack and crevice of these mountains is guarded by experienced sentries. If you are ever found even ten steps from your post, you will be slain on the spot. No questions. No one will care that you just walked away to take a piss.”
Kyel blinked at the harsh language, which elucidated the commander’s point remarkably well. He swallowed, vowing silently to himself that he’d never so much as scratch without specific permission from someone in charge.
Again, the commander allowed his gaze to slip ominously down the line of terrified men. When his stare fell on the face of a darkly bearded man to Kyel’s left, his blue eyes narrowed. “There is one of you here that won’t heed my warning. It happens every time, without fail. Someone always thinks they can manage to escape, and will try to make a run for it in the night. I can promise you this, gentlemen: at least one of you will be dead come morning.
“On my right is Captain Devlin Craig. Half of you will be under his command. Captain Craig has been charged with holding the bottom of the pass, and he has kept that charge for over three years. On my left is Captain Sutton Royce. Captain Royce has been charged with the defenses of Greystone Keep.”
Captain Royce stepped forward with a toss of his head. He was a robust man, garbed in interlocking chain mail covered by a tattered gray cloak, worn leather gauntlets enveloping both of his lower arms. His brown eyes were just as stern as the commander’s, though decisively more brutal. His face was covered by a thick growth of beard that was a shade darker than his light brown hair.
“Greystone Keep holds the Pass of Lor-Gamorth,” he informed them severely. “If it should ever fall, then we will lose the pass. If we lose the pass, then we lose the North. And if the North should ever fall, the Enemy will sweep southward like a storm until every last city, town and village of the Rhen looks just like that.”
He pointed toward the back of the hall, where the entire wall had crumbled and fallen away. Through the gaping hole, Kyel could at first see only darkness broken by occasional flashes of a queer, muted light. But then a particularly strong fork of lightning illuminated the land far below, and for just an instant Kyel could see a large expanse of scorched and smoldering land that stretched out into the distance, as far as the eye could see. Kyel gasped as he realized that he was staring down at the Black Lands. What was more shocking was the fact that they were actually, utterly, consummately black. Nothing could live there in that barren, shattered waste. Nothing...but the Enemy.
Royce continued, completely nonplussed by the view below them. “These walls have stood for over five hundred years. As you can see, they have been breached many times in the past, but they have always held. It is my
duty to make certain they continue to hold, and I will not hesitate to sacrifice as many lives as it takes to see that they do.”
“So,” the commander intoned deeply, “I will leave you with these final words: fight well and die well. And always remember that while you live, you are all that protects your homeland from the fate that befell Caladorn, the kingdom to the north you’ve probably only ever heard of as the Black Lands. If this keep should ever fall, everything you know will be desecrated by the Enemy, and everything you love will be destroyed.”
With that, he turned crisply on the heel of his boot and let his long strides carry him out of the hall, his gray wool cloak flapping behind him in his wake. Kyel supposed he should have felt relieved as the commander disappeared through the doorway. But, somehow, he felt his situation had not improved. He almost wished the grim man would come back again. Kyel did not like the malicious glint in the eyes of Captain Royce.
It was Captain Craig that stepped forward then, surveying the line of convicts with a look of distaste. He was taller than Royce, surpassing even Traver’s lanky frame by half a foot. His arms were heavily gauntleted, and he wore an enormous sword at his back. The armor that covered his body was rough, boiled leather, heavily scored and bruised. His long, straw-gold hair was coarsely disarrayed about his bearded face. He said nothing, but merely waited, hands clenched behind his back in a somewhat casual facsimile of the commander’s polished stance.
As he waited, four groups of soldiers entered the room, carrying between them four large sacks. They carried the sacks to the far corners of the room by the hearths and there dumped out the contents gracelessly on the rough wood floor. The clatter of falling metal echoed off the crumbled walls, ringing through the keep. As Kyel watched, the soldiers began spreading out what looked like garbage across the floor in front of the fires. It took him a moment to realize that he was looking at piles of rusted and battered weapons. Probably scavenged from the bodies of dead soldiers who had fought and died with those self-same weapons in their hands.
Devlin Craig smiled as he saw the expressions on the men before him. As if reading Kyel’s own thoughts, he proclaimed loudly, “You will now choose the weapon you will die holding. Whichever it is, be it sword, mace, bow or spear, you shall eat with it, sleep with it, care for it like a child, and love it better than a wife. The decision of which weapon you take will be the last choice you ever make. Henceforth, it shall be either myself, Captain Royce or Commander Proctor that makes every decision for you. You will forget you even know how to think. If you ever try to think again, you will die.”
Beside him, Kyel heard Traver whisper under his breath, “Are those the only two words these fellows know how to use? Death and die?”
“Shut up!” Kyel hissed at him, appalled. But it was too late.
Craig’s eyes fixed on Traver with a look of deliberate promise. He stalked forward until he was standing in front of Traver but a noselength away. Kyel saw his friend fidget as he tried to meet the intensity of the soldier’s gaze. The whisper of Craig’s breath in his face stirred a lock of Traver’s hair. They stared at each other a long, stretching moment, Craig’s blue eyes narrow and piercing, Traver’s widened and terrified.
Then in one quick motion, the captain swiped out and struck Traver across the face with a gauntleted arm. Traver slumped to the floor, bringing his hand up to cover his cheek as a trickle of blood flowed from a cut under his right eye. He looked up, wincing, as Craig bent down to gather a fistful of his hair, using it to wrench him to his feet and dragging him forward onto the toes of his boots. Leaning over Traver as if ready to offer him a lover’s kiss, Craig whispered in a sinisterly calm voice:
“Never open your mouth unless you’re told to speak. If you even so much as whisper again, I’ll have your lips sewn shut till you starve to death.”
He released Traver slowly, allowing the man to settle back onto his heels and attempt to recover his balance. As he moved away from him, Sutton Royce came forward, proclaiming in a ringing voice:
“Before you make your choice of weapon, be warned: you might be tempted to pick up a bow, thinking that waging war from a distance will keep you clear of the thick of battle. But before you think to become a bowman, remember this: arrows always run out. And when the line breaks in front of you—as it will—a bow is useless when you have an Enemy sword in your face. Now, choose your weapon and get back in line!”
Kyel walked toward the nearest assortment of arms. Unlike most of the boys he’d grown up with, Kyel had never experienced the yearning desire to wield one of those cold, sinister-looking blades that were laid out before him, scattered haphazardly across the floor. He watched Traver moving his hand over the collection, finally gripping the hilt of an enormous, rusted sword. But Kyel had spent his entire adult life calculating totals and carving wood. He didn’t think he would have the strength it would take, or even the sheer brutality, to drive such a blade home into living, blood-warm flesh. Just the mere thought of it made him want to gag. His eyes roved over the pile of weapons, instantly rejecting the mace, the sword, and the poleax. Instead, his hand went for what he knew best, the soft golden sheen of wood. He chose a longbow from the pile of scattered weapons, knowing well how the irony of it played on his surname. He didn’t care; the smooth length of wood felt good as he closed his fingers around it.
Kyel felt a moment of hesitation as the words of Captain Royce came echoing back into his head, but he chose to ignore the warning as he held up the gentle curve of the bow and tested the weight of it in his hand. The wood looked to be cut from a single, long-grained stave of yew. There was no bowstring, just notches in the whip-shaped ends where a string could be anchored. The bow was slender and tapered, and also quite a bit longer than it had looked on the floor; it was greater than his own height. Kyel guessed that the previous owner had rubbed some substance into the wood that had the feel of tallow or resin.
The last man selected his weapon and filed back into line. Beside him, Traver was staring down at the rusty sword he had chosen, drawing it from its scabbard and looking down at it with a perplexed expression on his face. Kyel had never seen such a wide and monstrous-looking blade. If Traver even had the strength to swing that awful mass of rusted steel, Kyel would be surprised. He couldn’t imagine his friend ever wielding such a vicious-looking thing.
“We’ll now divide you into two groups,” Craig announced over the nervous sounds of shifting weapons. “The first group shall be under my command. The remainder will be under the command of Captain Royce.”
The officers spoke together softly for a moment, turning to glance back over their shoulders intermittently to consider the line of prisoners with calculated shrewdness. It was Craig who made the first pick, selecting what appeared a random assortment of men who stepped forward to collect in an anxious but silent group in one corner of the hall. Kyel closed his eyes as the captain approached him. His fingers clamped tightly around the bow in his hand as he pleaded silently with the gods not to be chosen. He had no wish to be picked by that brutal man and be forced to follow him down into the dark bottom of the pass.
Craig’s eyes narrowed as he regarded Kyel for a silent moment. Then, with a slight lift of his chin, the captain signaled his choice. Kyel felt the breath squeezed out of him as he moved forward, walking resignedly across the room to take his place among the group of terrified men in the corner. Kyel had actually thought that his choice of weapon would have protected him from Craig; the longbow seemed much more suited to the defense of the keep than it did to the open field of battle. That showed how much he knew of the tactics of war. Nothing.
Kyel turned back to find Traver striding toward him, head lowered miserably and clutching the scabbard of that gruesome sword he’d chosen with what looked like a deathgrip. He felt somewhat shocked that Craig would have actually picked the man, after the way he’d lit into Traver. Kyel just hoped that his friend had learned his lesson. He wasn’t even sure if he was pleased that Traver was goin
g to be a member of his company. It would be good to have an acquaintance around, especially one from the same township as himself, a man he’d grown up with. But a small part of him was desperately afraid that Traver would perform one of his classic blunders, to the dire peril of them all. As the man stopped next to him, he raised his head and acknowledged Kyel with the slightest, crestfallen smile. Kyel knew it was an attempt at camaraderie, but he couldn’t manage to return the sentiment.
The sorting was finished quickly, the line of men now divided into two cheerless lots at opposite ends of the hall. Two soldiers walked toward Kyel’s group, piles of gray cloaks in their hands, and slung them out on the floor at his feet. Kyel bent down, selecting one from the top of the pile and cradling the rough wool against his chest as the others all around him did the same. They were then instructed to bed down right where they stood. There was to be no meal, no blanket; just a rough wood floor and an open roof overhead. At least the fire behind him shed a little warmth.
Kyel lay down on the cold floor, wrapping the gray cloak tightly around his body. As he lay there, struggling to get to sleep, he found himself doing exactly what Devlin Craig had promised he would. Kyel squeezed the shaft of the longbow tightly against his body, hugging the golden yew wood close, as if its subtle but graceful curve was the loving embrace of his wife. He closed his eyes, almost able to pretend that it was Amelia there beside him. He hoped, in his dreams, she would be.
The sound of shouts awoke him in the middle of the night. Kyel sat up, shivering, to find that the fires in the keep had burned low. Pulling his cloak around him, he tried to make sense out of the commotion that was suddenly going on all around as anxiety slid cold fingers into his chest. Soldiers were running by him, scaling rough wooden ladders up to a narrow ledge that ran all around the walls near the top of the hall. There, men were positioning themselves at regular intervals, peering out through narrow slits. A few drew longbows from over their shoulders, nocking arrows to bowstrings and sighting out through the slits.
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