Darkling Fields of Arvon

by James G Anderson

  Twenty-Six

  Woodglence lay sprawled along both banks of the upper Winfarthing River, its buildings, in varied states of decrepitude, leaning against one another as if wearied by the fret of trade and industry that absorbed the town. The group of men passed without drawing undue notice through the rabbit warren of filthy rutted streets and narrow alleys. Occasionally, they were caught in a swirl of children at play that would burst around one corner only to disappear noisily around the next. Old men and old women sometimes looked as the group passed and either scowled at them or smiled toothlessly. Once a cur leapt from a shadowed doorway and stood to challenge the men, its hackles bristling as it growled and barked. Its mistress emerged from the same door, broom in hand, and berated the creature, calling it to heel and begging the pardon of the startled men. For the most part, however, the men were simply ignored as they made their way through the town. The whole time, Kal noted, Tromwyn kept a hand not far from the hilt of his sword.

  There were beggars there, too, many of them, both young and old, and all wore the same drawn expression that openly advertised their plight. To each beggar they passed Tromwyn gave a small copper piece, with a nod and a smile or a brief word of solace.

  "It usen't to be like this," he said to Kal as he walked on after giving one old crone her coin. "I grieve to see what has happened to the folk here."

  "What do you mean?" Kal asked.

  "I'm sorry. I shouldn't worry you with my own concerns."

  "No, please, I would know. What has befallen your people?"

  Tromwyn cast a quick glance to either side. "I'd not say this openly, else my neck might get stretched," he said. "But to a highlander such as yourself . . . Well, it angers me. Thirty-so years past, this was a thriving and wholesome town. Pride of the marchlands, without doubt. But in the last years of the king, with the rise of the Mindal's power, and since then . . . Well, few here rose with the Mindal, you might say, only the few that control the flow of trade by road or river. Or the handful of mill owners, millwrights, and leading timbermen. They did right by themselves, I'd say. But the rest fell. Aye, and fell hard, too. Many took to smuggling simply to survive, though that proved to have an even higher cost in the end. But a man does what he can, or sometimes what he must.

  "Me, I went for the Guardsmen as a youngling—honour, glory, prestige, and the like. A young man's dreams, eh? But when the Mindal disbanded us, I saw what was coming, so I came back here to do what I could. I do well enough for myself. The shop is busy, a steady bit of mill work. Something's always broken at one of the mills and in need of mending at my forge. Aye, but there's not much left for most folk now, naught but work in the forest, if a body's able, or in the mills. Most of the wealth leaves the town. Aye, and so does most of the hope of life, it seems."

  The marchland smith continued to speak to Kal, but the Holdsman's mind wandered. Indeed, the townsfolk had the air of a people broken by the vagaries of life under the iron fist of the Mindal. But there was more to it, Kal knew. Life was resilient. It could be seen in the flash of a coin given by a blacksmith in solidarity with a beggar, and in the nod and smile in recognition of the gift and the message it conveyed. No, hope was a hard thing to kill. These folk would survive, even as his own had, though it might be an even harder road ahead.

  Glancing down a broad side street, Kal caught a glimpse of the grey stone dome of the glence from which the town had gained its name. The noble structure had at one time stood just outside of the village in an ancient wood along the river. The forest, however, had long since been pushed back, its trees felled and turned into a clutter of buildings that surrounded the glence and crawled away in all directions from it along fetid and muddy lanes. These structures in turn fell down to be overgrown by yet another generation of narrow houses, shops, and hovels. All around him, it all looked the same—the great sagging piles of the latest growth mounded over the remains of the past.

  They turned another corner, and it occurred to Kal that he had lost all sense of direction in the maze of lanes beneath the overhanging dwellings. A young man stopped as the group passed him by and fixed Kal with a hard-edged stare of, or so it seemed to the Holdsman, defiant malice. Kal shot a glance back over his shoulder. The young man remained still, watching the group's progress, a cruel-looking dirk thrust in his belt, his hand restive upon its grip.

  He had been a fool! Here he had entrusted himself, his life, the lives of his companions, and, for that matter, the lives of every free man, woman, and child in all of Ahn Norvys to this blacksmith, this stranger, who was, for all Kal knew, a rank impostor leading them to their very ruin. His heart skipped in his chest, and, in his agitation, he lifted Rhodangalas in its sheath beneath his cloak. Tromwyn caught the movement beside him and looked at the Holdsman quizzically, but before Kal could say or do anything, they moved around another corner and out into the bright early evening sunshine of the riverside.

  "Ah, here we are, then," the marchlander said. "It's up this way a piece." He set off to the left, along the broad cobbled street that edged the river.

  The air was washed clean of the town's stench by a breeze blowing downriver from the mountains that bore the strong scent of freshly sawn lumber. Even this close to its source, the Winfarthing River was broad, fed by both the Radolan and the Bowstaff mountains, and deep enough to harbour river craft. Colourful banners snapped in the wind from the mastheads and lines of river sloops docked nearby. Kal looked to his right. Just upriver, on the opposite bank, a massive structure overshadowed the water, a huge waterwheel slowly turning beside it and a jumble of sluices, spillways, and slips running this way and that around its sides. Farther upstream, there was another mill on the near bank, just visible as the river bent away beneath a long bridge set on high, arching stone pillars. Kal knew that there must be other sawmills along the river out of view, for moored across the green water was a vast fleet of barges, their loads of squarely stacked lumber gleaming golden white in the evening sunlight, ready, no doubt, to be floated downstream through lowland Arvon to Dinas Antrum.

  Kal strode quickly to catch up with the others. People pressed about him on the crowded riverside road as they moved about their business—pedlars, tradesmen, boatmen, merchants, townsfolk, and small knots of travellers, some of whom wore the distinctive livery of their homeland keverang or clanholding. Horses and carts rattled along the cobbles in either direction, and men shouted orders, insults, and curses at one another as they tramped up and down gangplanks or swung bulging nets from makeshift derricks, lading small ships for the downriver run.

  "How much farther is it?" Kal asked as he caught up with Tromwyn.

  "Not much. But a minute or two's walk."

  "The Mourning Crown?"

  "Aye, not the best inn in Woodglence, mind, but the safest. The keeper's a good man, one of a mind with me—and with you, I'd wager," Tromwyn said and grinned. "Come, you needn't be crabbed. There's naught to worry—"

  "Master smith, a moment of your time, if we may." A soldier stepped in front of the group of men, blocking their path. Three others stepped smartly in behind him, pikemen, all in the dark green tunics of Glastanen, though the leader's voice had no hint of the marchland accent in it. Kal exchanged anxious glances with his fellow Holdsmen as Tromwyn lifted his hand away from the hilt of his sword and addressed the soldier.

  "What do you want, then, Kyven?"

  "Only that you state your business, and that of your friends here." The soldier looked slowly from one Holdsman to the next.

  "What? Are strangers to Woodglence no longer welcome here? If it be so, Kyven, then you'd best look to yourself and your men—"

  "And you'd do well to look to your tongue, smith. There are many strangers here, and all must give an accounting. The thanes travel through Woodglence, and we must ensure their safety. So, please, state your business."

  Tromwyn raised a hand in gesture of peace and bowed his tousled grey head to the side, then discreetly winked to Kal. His black eyes sparkled, an
d he looked to Devved.

  "This is Devved, a fellow blacksmith and a guildmaster from the Clanholding of Pelogran. He has come with his apprentices"—the marchland smith sidestepped with a sweep of his arm—"one even from as far as Telessar, as you can see, to lodge at my forge—an honour by which I am more than humbled—on his way to Dinas Antrum. He has been summoned by the Mindal's smithmaster to present himself and receive honour for the excellence of his craft, even at this most significant moment in our history." Out of the corner of his eye, Kal could see Devved pull himself to his full height and swell his chest. The soldier looked discomfited at the news but was committed to his course and had to play it out as best he could. He hastily surveyed the group of men again.

  "You are armed," he ventured in a tone of authority that lacked conviction.

  "Aye, what of it? These are dangerous times."

  "But . . . bows—"

  "Aye, bows. And any highlander worthy of the name wouldn't be caught without one, not in these days. Particularly highlanders who enjoy the favour of the Mindal."

  "Yes, the, ah, Mindal . . ." The sergeant's eyes drifted to the cobbles at his feet as his men fidgeted behind him.

  Tromwyn coughed delicately. "I'm sure my friend would gladly provide you with papers in evidence of his . . . ah, business, if you desired to see them, Sergeant. Of course, obstruction of the Mindal's business . . ." The blacksmith paused a moment as the soldier's mouth worked silently at expressing some unformed thought. Then he nodded and said, "I was about showing my guests the town. We were just on our way to slake our thirst at the Boatman's Gaff. Perhaps you and your men would care to join us?"

  The soldier came to himself quickly. "Ah . . . No, Tromwyn, thank you, thank you kindly. We must be about our duties—"

  "And we ours. So, then, I will bid you a good evening, Kyven."

  "Ah, yes, yes. Briacoil to you," the soldier blurted and shuffled out of the way to let the blacksmith and his companions pass.

  When they had walked out of earshot, the blacksmith began to laugh. Kal glowered at him. "What were you thinking?" he demanded.

  "What? Ah, be not alarmed, Kalestor, I simply bluffed a bluffer—"

  "Aye, Kal," Devved said. The big man grinned broadly. "What's the matter? That was a fine jest. Just fine. To think, me the master smith, you three my 'prentices!"

  "And you, called to Dinas Antrum by the Mindal itself, too!" Kal fairly growled the words and rounded on the two smiths, stopping them in the middle of the road. "And what if he had pressed for some proof of those fine words so easily spoken? What would you have to show, Devved? Tromwyn?" He looked one to the other. "I don't think you—either of you—fully appreciate our situation. I think . . ." Kal faltered in his anger. Gwyn moved to his side, his expression stolid.

  "It was a brazen lie, and foolhardy," Kal said at last.

  "Peace, Kalestor, peace," Tromwyn said and raised his hands in a placating gesture, looking from Kal to Gwyn to Galli, then back to Kal. "Come, friends!" he said and laughed again. "Aye, it was a brazen lie, but the brazen got the beat of the lie! Kyven is a swaggerer, a braggart and a boaster. The one thing he is not is brave. And fear can be made a ready ally, if one but knows how to woo her." The marchlander winked suggestively. "Aye, at the first mention of the Mindal, he quakes like a leaf in a gathering storm. The sergeant wants nothing to do with that band of thieves—not any more than the rest of us here do. He'll not press you any further. Come, the Mourning Crown is just at this corner. We'll slip around back of the Crown and go in by way of the kitchens. We can see and not be seen that way."

  The blacksmith had a winning way about him, and Kal found that he was quickly mollified and reassured by the man's confidence. He had managed them out of a tight situation, that much was certain. Perhaps he was to be trusted. Either way, there was nothing for it now but to follow and watch and listen.

  Tromwyn led the four men farther along the row of shops that fronted the riverside road until they came to a narrow alley that flanked a building from which hung a heavy wooden signboard on an iron bracket. On the board was painted an ornate black crown, nothing else. The marchlander shot a glance up and down the road and, content that they were being ignored in the bustle of foot traffic, slipped into the alley, its shadows deepening in the gentle light of day's end. The Holdsmen followed him closely between high walls until the passage ended at a gate that gave onto a small courtyard in which a clutch of scraggy chickens and a pair of ill-tempered hogs scrounged through a scattering of kitchen scraps.

  The blacksmith lifted the latch of the gate and stepped gingerly across the yard to a rough lean-to structure, fenced off from the animals by another rickety gate. The blacksmith bade the Holdsmen leave off their weapons—swords, bowstaves, and quivers—and stow them out of sight in the shed to avoid attracting unwanted attention in the tavern. Kal felt vulnerable without the weight of Rhodangalas at his hip as he watched Tromwyn pick his way across the courtyard to a door, upon which he rapped loudly. The blacksmith did not await a response, but, grinning at his companions, allowed himself into the back of the inn. The sound of voices raised in laughter, the clang of pots and pans, and the sizzle of cooking, mixed with the savoury odour of roasted meats and frying onions, spilled out into the dirty courtyard. The Holdsmen piled into the bustling kitchen behind the blacksmith.

  "Tromwyn!" Half a dozen voices lifted in greeting.

  "To see and be unseen, indeed," Kal whispered to Galli, who nodded and arched an eyebrow beneath his winding browmark.

  "Aye, Trom! Come to see me again, have you, my love?" said a short woman of enormous girth, holding a large wooden spoon. "Missed me, then, did you?"

  "Well, missed your cooking!"

  "You'll not be stealing anything from my platter," she scolded, patting him on the backside with her spoon.

  "Naught but this tasty morsel," the blacksmith said, plucking a bit of roasted chicken from a board, where it was being carved by a laughing man, and tossing it into his mouth. "But I will pay you for it," he said and leaned over to give her a peck on the cheek.

  The fat woman's flushed face glowed a deeper crimson and folded in upon itself, her immense bosom jostling as she chuckled. "Ah, Trom, you old sausage!"

  "Aye, sausage it is, Mearie. So, you'll fix me up something nice to eat? Something for me and my friends?"

  "And who have we here, then, Trom?" The fat woman turned to look at the four Holdsmen as if noticing them for the first time.

  "Just old friends passing through Woodglence—"

  "A bit young, most of them, to be old friends, eh, Trom?" she said, and smiled. "Come to see Paerryn, then, have you?"

  "That, and sample the best cookery in Woodglence."

  "Ah, go on with you!"

  "Is he about?"

  "Aye, Trom, you'll find him in the front. I'll send word for him to look for you—aye, Sahn . . . Sahn!" She called to a young boy who stood stirring a cauldron of stew at the hearth. "Leave off that and go tell your master that Tromwyn would like a word with him. And be smart about it." She turned back to the men. "You lot can go in and take your place. I'll send you along something shortly."

  "You're a dear, Mearie, a dear."

  "That may be so, Trom, but mind, my love, I've got my eye on you—"

  "And I'd not have it any other way!" The blacksmith stooped to kiss the jocund woman again. She received the kiss, giggling, then turned back to direct the order of her kitchen, issuing a series of good-natured commands to her staff as if making up for lost time.

  Smiling, the marchlander led the Holdsmen through an open door, along a short hallway and into a hall filled with voices, smoke, and mirth.

  Kal surveyed the room and its occupants. Most seemed to be townsfolk cheerfully engaged in talk, but here and there were groups of men in the habit and gear of various local courts—courts local, however, not to Woodglence, or even Glastanen, but to the scattered clanholdings and keverangs of northwestern Arvon. Among these groups, some men carri
ed themselves with an air of dignity, even haughtiness, and seemed, by their very presence, to command from those around them a respect and deference—thanes, no doubt, Kal thought to himself, or their appointed emissaries. There must have been four or five such figures, and Kal, by the livery surrounding them, identified Calathros, Tanobar, and Bengonnar, at least. And there was Pelogran, also. They would have to avoid that company if they were to maintain the soundness of their story.

  Kal followed his companions to where Tromwyn had taken a seat at a table, one of the few left unoccupied in the inn, in the back corner of the hall next to the cold hearth. An empty table stood between them and the nearest group of patrons.

  Tromwyn leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "Well, lads," he said in a low voice, "if it's news you'd be after, then there's naught better a place to be than in the Mourning Crown. And naught a better soul to get it from than Paerryn. A king's man he was, through and through, though that's a bit of knowledge he'd not want made too public. Mind you, most folk know it's so, and there's few who'd want to help the Mindal in any way at all. And those who might know full well that most folk in Woodglence would not suffer them to do so. Aye, Paerryn's a good sort. I'd trust him as I would myself—" Tromwyn glanced up. "Ah, and here he comes."

  Moving slowly through the crowded room came a tall, thin man, an apron tied around his waist and five clay pots of ale clutched in his two hands. He nodded to patrons as he approached the corner table, exchanging words of greeting or the occasional rejoinder and quick laugh to a proffered quip, until, at last, he laid the five pots on the table in front of Tromwyn and stood wiping his hands on his apron. The man had a narrow face, hooded eyes under bristling wiry brows, a long raptorial nose, and a mouth that, though ready to smile, did not find a smile its natural form.

  "Briacoil, Trom. A good evening to you."

  "And to you, Master Paerryn. Will you join us?"