by Matt Thomas
“I doubt they’d see it that way,” Lars said doubtfully. “This Kryten has no orders to admit us, let alone move on Ancaida. I met him once. He’s a Redshirt to the core. Viamar gave him charge of the south for good reason. No one outside of Vandil and Imrail outrank him. But here, perhaps not even them if he chooses to ignore his oaths. Now with the news . . . who knows which way the sword will fall?”
“He’d deny the king?” Lenora said incredulously.
“I doubt that,” Imrail said. “He’s always been a staunch Viamar supporter. No, he’s being cautious. I worry more about his men. We need those men.” Hard to say for sure, but Luc thought he detected a hint of worry in the man’s tone. “Still, a pity your mother or father weren’t here. Now, there’s nothing for it.” He glanced at Avela, whose narrowed eyes suggested some spark of insight had come on her. The two looked at each other a moment before Imrail nodded slightly.
“Let’s get on with it,” he said crisply. He glanced at Luc. “Had we come under heavy escort it would’ve made little difference. If someone’s suppressed the news the Lord Viamar and your mother stepped down in your favor, we’ll know it’s not just the Furies we have to contend with.” He exhaled, almost bitterly. “Damn Vandil for leaving this mess for me to clean up. Come on. Now would be a good time for you to tap into that luck of yours, Anaris. We’re going to need it.”
CHAPTER 18 — TRIAGA
Flanked by Lars and Urian, Imrail proceeded south. He had that set look on his face again, a touch grim now. He’d pulled back his cloak, revealing the finely cut silver and black uniform and insignias of his office. No disputing he was someone of select rank and importance, not that he needed the added display. On his black stallion he made for an imposing figure all by himself, the lines of his square jaw and short-cropped hair matched by a noticeably muscled frame, emphasizing a robustness Luc had witnessed firsthand on more than one occasion. Alongside Lars and Urian, both men holding torches aloft, he doubted any Redshirt would be fool enough to cross them. To their rear, Altaer had his bow in hand. They still had a great deal of ground to cover. Urian’s hawk-like eyes were that good, able to make out movement on the horizon no matter if it was dark or high noon. A shame they had to enter the southern bastion of the realm in uncertainty. No one’s fault really. Just the current political climate. But while they sorted matters out here, their enemies were free to pursue their own ends. He had to convince Imrail they could not afford a prolonged delay. The time was coming when there would be no hiding, no quarter for either side.
At least another half hour passed, the night ominously still, quiet. With only the sound of horse hooves clip-clopping across the paved highway, they continued at a trot. Despite the hour, Luc managed to summon the alertness to keep a sharp eye out. He expected some resistance, but hoped it fell short of open opposition. Not the best way to begin. If Triaga did not rival the fame of Alingdor, she soon would—that was, if her masters permitted it. His grandfather had counseled him some. Now it was just a matter of finding out if these southerners’ oaths and loyalties would extend to Imrail and the son of the Warden and the White Rose.
It was likely sometime just short of midnight when they reached sentries standing watch over this section of the highway. Imrail approached them openly. From the rear, Luc eyed them carefully. Redshirts. A handful stood watch over the road itself, while others moved in and out of the surrounding darkness. One was seated on the back of a lone wagon. From what he saw, to a man they looked fully alert. Not just common sentries then. Not these men, he judged, arrayed in red coats, white crests patterned after a crescent moon, and armed with axes and short bows that made for easy draws. No, hardly ordinary. These men were something more.
Imrail came to a halt just short of them, the surrounding terrain still with a hint of air shifting in from the east. Somewhat casually, the man seated on the back of a wagon barked a command, bringing the others to attention; he waited for them to form up in short ranks before springing down. Pulling a sheathed sword from the rear of the wagon, he turned to face them. Seeing a dangerous glint in the man’s eyes, the general dismounted, though no one else made another move. One word and there would be bloodshed.
“General Imrail, I presume?” the man said, tone neutral. Perfunctory. Standing a little taller than a man of average height, the Redshirt appeared of an age with Imrail, bold-featured with a dominating nose, slick-backed chestnut hair, and a no-nonsense look that reminded him somewhat of Vandil. His greeting was hardly welcoming. No wonder Imrail looked so cold. Perhaps a larger detachment would have wiped that challenging look off the man’s face, but they wanted to appease these men, not provoke them. Not getting a response, the man went on, crossing his arms, sword still sheathed in his left hand. Left so he could draw with the right.
“We weren’t sure if you would come yourself. Not unescorted, or at this hour. On the off chance, Commander Kryten advised me to secure the roads. He sends his regards.” The last came out grudgingly.
Imrail acknowledged the statement with the slightest inclination of the head. “Your name?”
“Kain Gantling.”
“Orders?”
The soldier sized Imrail up and down. By now he’d had ample time to look over their small party. A glance at Lars and Urian made him wipe that surly look off his face. One look at Trian and Avela and he frowned. Luc remained well behind as Imrail had advised. Insisted really. “We’ve been instructed to extend you every courtesy, General. Commander Kryten asked to be advised the moment you or your subordinates arrived. Is General Vandil here? I am afraid I do not know—”
“These are the Companions.”
Gantling nodded as if he had already deduced it. “I am to accompany you into the city, General.”
Imrail narrowed his eyes. “I think we can find the way, Captain Gantling.” Well, there it was. Imrail knew the man, if not by face then by reputation. “I presume you have taken steps to ensure the roads remain secure.”
“My orders are to see you to Commander Kryten,” the soldier said somewhat coolly. “Anything beyond that and you will have to speak to him.”
Imrail maintained a controlled expression. “Very well,” he said. “Lead the way.”
Making a signal to the others, Captain Gantling turned stiffly. No mistaking the indignant look on his face. The strange thing was not all of his men appeared to share the sentiment. In fact, by the look several did not know what to make of their arrival. If he was able to decipher one thing about them it was the worried looks they exchanged. Close up their uniforms were disheveled and on the discolored side. Some had dust and dirt stains. Something about this did not quite fit or sit well.
“I think we have a problem,” Avela whispered at his shoulder.
“What?” Luc asked somewhat warily.
“I . . .” The woman’s soft features took on a concentrated look. With the Redshirts forming up around them, she appeared to study each intently. Her glances went beyond probing. He remembered what it had been like—some ability she had to see straight into a man’s soul. Nothing more disconcerting than having your most intimate thoughts plucked out. She was unable to do so with Luc or Trian now. Continuing to regard the men, she sat up, face immediately going pale.
“Imrail,” she hissed urgently. “Wait.”
The general glanced at her. That grim look had turned to stone. “What?” he demanded in a whisper.
She stole a glance around her, twin braids flying. “These men have engaged the Ardan,” she whispered. “Recently.”
That settled it. Keeping his sword within reach, Luc gave Rew a warning look and hitched Lightfoot forward. He did not care that he rode astride a man who likely wanted them gone and forgotten by daybreak. So much for planning. The enemy appeared to have their plans already laid out and in place.
Touching the Ruling Rod, he felt a distant sensation of strain. A searing within him. His vision clouded. He ignored both sensations and urged the bay on.
Before long t
he city of Triaga rose up before them. It did not have the feel of a city, having little to no evidence of a general populace. It was a dark, dreary place, stonework uninviting with none of the signs of a thriving community to boast of. No, this was a military post, if on a larger scale. When not making some sign to one of his men or fingering a scar on his left cheek, he caught Gantling glancing at him sideways. Luc had a hard time shaking the grating sensation the man sparked in him. He looked competent enough. His men certainly appeared capable, if nowhere near the size of an escort deserving of Imrail’s station. No, something was not right.
Just within sight of the northern entry point a detachment of men held watch huddled together around a make-shift fire set within a cluster of stones. Gantling exchanged a few words with one, gesturing towards Imrail and their company. The lead soldier made a motion to his men who quickly scrambled to their feet, saluting sharply. Something in their collective stances and expressions gave off an immediate impression of relief. Imrail acknowledged their looks with a grave nod and a promise to check in on them early the next day. Plainly he was shocked at what they had found. The men on duty were even more haggard than those they had met on the highway. Most looked as though they had not seen a bath in days, weeks. Plainly something had humbled the famed Redshirts. Imrail took another look at them before motioning their party forward.
This section of the city held several one and two story buildings, most apparently in use; here Triaga had the look, if not the feel, of a city. Further on, though, several other structures of some import appeared to have been completed but stood vacant. Those no doubt were meant for official administrative use. As they picked their way forward, he had the distinct impression the feeling of completion was somewhat deceptive. Just a few streets over it became evident many more had been started without any additional attention in months. Sometimes it was the simple outline of a foundation or stone slab, sometimes a wood framing. Several columns and supports stood in isolated areas. He saw a fountain here and there, a section of green grass choked by weeds. Other than that and the distinct walls, little about it resembled any city he had ever seen, not that he had seen many. There were no homes, for one. Sections just stood empty. In only a few minutes his skin began to tingle. Under the cover of nightfall the city had an eerie feel. A mist seemed to wind through the air, particularly along the eastern and southern sections. More and more the place reminded him of the Third Plane. Not at all what any of them had expected. Not in the least.
“I think it time you explain this, Captain Gantling,” Imrail said softly. “We’ve neither the time nor the patience to read this riddle. We were under the impression the city was in reasonable repair and defense, already settled in some parts.”
The man avoided looking at the general directly. “Your information is outdated.” He kept his voice even. “Things have changed. This,” he gestured at the gloomy city, “this is all there is now. We labored for years—our sweat, our sacrifice. I had wages set aside for my own holding. Then the Ardan came. This mist is their doing. It masks their movements by nightfall. Best to keep your eyes open and your weapons close at hand. We lost some of our best men that first night.”
After exchanging a long look with Altaer, Imrail motioned for the man to continue. “I’ve argued—and been censured—for demanding we quit the place,” Gantling admitted, bitterness showing on his face. “At least we were able to get most of the people out. We have camps set up at the base of Pinewood. There are still losses some days. We won’t be able to hold out long.
“Promises—guarantees—were made by the Crown. Triaga was to be the crescent moon beside Alingdor’s sun. Well, you asked. This is no city, General. It’s a tomb. In a few minutes you will see. Several weeks ago Kryten received orders to secure the borders. Well, they are secure, at the price of making the city uninhabitable. We’ve lost the eastern and southern gates. Now our men will have nothing to come home to. Kryten and his daughter are loyalists and will not abandon their posts. They sent me to watch the roads more to keep me from spreading discontent as they call it. But tell me this, Imrail.” Perhaps he deliberately excluded the man’s title. “Who looked to our lands, our needs, while this new lord we hear of was raised? Where were the famed Companions when we needed them?”
“You were given a task of vital importance,” Altaer cut in, the long-haired bowman riding up between them. “I was there when the Lord Viamar detailed his plans. A haven for the peoples of western Valince. A thriving center of commerce. If the results missed the mark of his intent, you cannot blame him for the vision he had.”
Gantling shook his head. “As I said, you will see for yourself what has become of his vision. I will say no more.”
* * * * *
Reaching the edge of the rising mist was one thing; riding into it proved another. No one hesitated to enter, but doing so stretched the nerves. “Not again,” Lars muttered, the strident man glancing around them guardedly. Imrail said nothing, face a blank mask, continuing to scan the barren city. No missing the point of reference. Not that this compared to the pall of the Third Plane, though by nightfall there were similarities. This had a cloying feel. He did not think it was meant to just be off-putting. It had disturbing ebbs and flows, like currents, that beleaguered the mind and wooed the soul. Shapes sometimes came into focus, dread creatures he had once questioned could even be real. He had to tap into some inner sanctum to keep the disconcerting sensations at arm’s length. He wondered how the others managed it. A film of perspiration overlaid Trian’s glass-like features. He kept his bay close. Imrail did the same for Avela, though it was hard to say if she noticed. At this hour there was relatively little to no movement in the city. A few patrols was all. A crescent moon. Viamar’s vision turned against them. Now they had little if any time to repair it. In the end such a task might require calling in two or three squads of border patrols or one of the outfits out of Alingdor. Flushing out a handful of Ardan was not something he imagined any armed company would find easy. Whatever they did, it would likely result in several days of waiting, waiting they could ill afford. He tried to curb a flash of frustration. There were undertones of rage. The others let him be.
At the heart of the dead city, they came on a sprawling compound gated and surrounded by extensive grounds. This area was well lit if still not entirely free of the rank, creeping vapor. At the center of a series of flanking buildings, a hold rose up in the night. Likely one of the first constructions completed, it was impressive to say the least—a compound not meant to serve as a military post, such as it was now, but as the seat of their southern base of power. The architecture was distinctly “southern”—tiled and garden rooftops, glass windows three or four times the span of any he had ever seen, and overhanging balconies. By day the grounds were no doubt serene. By night with the rolling mists it had a strangled feel. A full complement of men held the night watch. An inner courtyard was well lit, too, as if to hold off the Ardan vapor. Captain Gantling had them admitted immediately, horses ushered off by grooms. Men greeted the Redshirt with salutes but had eyes only for Imrail and the Companions. After a few glances, it was evident more than one held to the disaffected views the man had made no secret of.
Moving towards the entrance, two men pulled back a pair of ornate doors with brass handles and intricate carvings incised into the stained wood. Four more men stood guard in a carpeted entryway. A series of cushioned chairs lined both walls. Gantling continued and paused just short of a set of even larger doors.
“Is the Lord Kryten available?” he asked.
“I believe so, my Lord,” one responded.
“Good. Tell him General Imrail and his Companions are here.”
The four men shuffled their feet uncomfortably. One’s eyes noticeably widened. Two exchanged whispers while the fourth darted off at a run. Not waiting, Gantling made a curt motion for Imrail to follow. The next hall boasted a high ceiling and was as long as it was wide; he judged it could have comfortably held hundreds at a
pinch. Likely a room for audiences and petitioners then. Lanterns on mounted wall brackets had been set to low, but the lack of light did not detract from the intended opulence. A crescent moon had been inlaid into the center of the hall’s glossy floor. The surface had a honed finish. Branching corridors led to a series of side-rooms and spiraling stairwells. At the far side a third and fourth set of stairs stood at mirror ends. The narrow door standing between them was guarded. No throne or high seat to speak of. The only thing that spoiled the display were the stockpiles spread out throughout, row after row of blankets, bedrolls, weapons, armor, and other supplies. At least they were generously provisioned, he thought.
After a slight pause Gantling started forward. His gaze turned to frost whenever he glanced at Imrail. That did not sit well with some of the Companions. Urian muttered something dark and Lars had his familiar sneer on his face. Luc did not think things would end well for the man if he kept this up.
Led to the far end of the hall, Gantling made a motion for the guards to permit their entry. Beside the grandeur of the previous hall, the next set of chambers looked noticeably stark. A desk with a pen and inkwell, two chairs, bookshelves, and not much else to speak of. The quarters were cramped with all of them filing in.
“We will wait here,” Gantling said. The blunt-spoken man’s eyes were hard. “A word of warning, Imrail. There are rumors you’re moving into Ancaida. If you intend to use our men for fodder, it will not be forgotten. Or forgiven. There are some among us who have little love for the First City.” He made the title sound an expletive. “Or her lords,” he added.
Imrail just looked at him. “Anything else?” the general asked softly.
“Just this. Krytan may yield to your authority, but not all of the Redshirts follow his lead. Best you remember it.”
Imrail folded his arms, one hand resting beneath the chin. He never blinked. Lars and Urian were not about to let that pass, both stepping forward, but the general gave them a glance that stopped them in their tracks. Slowly, deliberately, he stepped up to the brash man. His face was a veil of thinly contained fury. “I think we’re done here,” he whispered. “Perhaps in the morning after you’ve sobered up, the light of day will return you to your senses. We did not brave a stand against the Legion and endure the leagues south to be insulted by you. Unless you mean to side with the Furies, hold your tongue. You do not yet know why we are here.”