Deep-Spire

by Sam J. Charlton

Dawn had not yet broken when Seth Falkyn rose from his bed. The candle next to it had burnt down to a stub. Still, it threw out enough light for Seth to distinguish the interior of his tiny, cell-like chamber. Damp walls, a lichen-encrusted flagstone floor and a few items of wooden furniture riddled with woodlice surrounded him. It was a depressing abode, but one that had been his for nearly a decade.

  Seth turned away from the bed, catching sight as he did so, of Matilde’s tussled hair peeking out of the blankets. He envied the girl her slumber. Matilde often shared his bed. She wasn't particularly bright, or half as pretty as most of the girls in the village, but she came whenever he sent word – and that gave her a certain appeal.

  The hiss of rain lashing against the tower made Seth grimace. Shortly, he would have to ride out in this foul weather. Rubbing sleep from his eyes, Seth reached for his leather breeches and pulled them on. The leather was clammy against his warm skin. He then put on worn leather boots that reached mid-calf before layering the top half of his body with an undershirt, a thick woollen high-necked tunic and a leather vest. Then, Seth took down the hooded mantle he always wore when escorting his master, from its hook behind the door, and fastened it about his shoulders. The mantle was a deep royal blue with Marshal Osforth’s crest, a white stag, on the collar. Finally, Seth buckled his sword about his hips, strapped a knife to his left thigh, and pulled on a pair of thick, leather gloves.

  Matilde did not stir as Seth crossed the room and let himself out into the stairwell.

  Stifling a yawn and struggling to clear the last remnants of sleep, Seth descended the granite steps that snaked their way down the tower. Candles lit his path, giving some warmth to the austere walls.

  Darin and Kal were waiting for Seth near the kitchens on the ground level. Behind them, warmth emanated from the open doorway; Seth could see the glow of the ovens pulsing like a hot ember in the darkness.

  “Here,” Kal Roarn, his blond hair rumpled with sleep, passed Seth a crusty roll. It was still warm from the oven. “That’s all we’re getting till Dunethport apparently.”

  Seth took a bite and glanced across at Darin Mel, the third of Marshal Osforth’s tower guards. A slender, sharp-featured man with piercing blue eyes, Darin was blinking, owl-like, at the stairwell behind Seth. Darin nodded brusquely at his companions.

  “Osforth’s coming.”

  Seth swallowed the rest of his roll, brushed the crumbs off his cloak and fell into line beside Kal and Darin. The three of them stood to attention as two figures descended the stairs; one portly and richly dressed, and the other whippet-thin and bent.

  Marshal Osforth and his manservant Garth reached the ground floor. The marshal sagged against his servant’s arm, favouring a gouty leg as he walked. He wore fine velvet robes and his long grey hair was brushed out around his shoulders. Looking upon his master, Seth was struck by how old and fat Osforth had become of late. If you were to believe the servants, the marshal had been handsome in his youth, but overindulgence in rich food and a sedentary, pleasure-seeking life, had ruined his health and looks.

  Marshal Osforth halted at the foot of the stairwell. His gaze swept over his tower guards before his face darkened.

  “The three of you look like you have slept in your uniforms,” he snapped, “you’ll have to tidy yourselves up before our audience with the realmlord. I’ll not have you disgrace me!”

  Seth bowed his head, so that Osforth would not see the derision in his gaze, and fell in behind the marshal.

  The only disgrace here milord, is you.

  There had been times, over the past months especially, when those words had been on the tip of Seth’s tongue. Osforth’s financial problems – the very reason they were travelling to Dunethport on this cold, wet morning – had made the marshal even more viperish than usual. Only fear of losing his position prevented Seth from giving the marshal a tongue-lashing.

  Together, the party crossed the entrance hall, their boots scuffing on the flagstones, and made their way down to the cobbled courtyard below. An assembly of servants waited next to the marshal’s carriage to see him off. Osforth never left his tower without demanding that his household farewell him. The rain had lessened to a thick drizzle but the servants still hunched, miserable, in their woollen cloaks. They held torches aloft to guide the marshal to his carriage.

  Oblivious to his servants’ discomfort, Osforth limped across the cobbles to where his gilded carriage awaited. At this point, it took all three of his tower guards to hoist him into the silk-lined interior. Seth gritted his teeth as he performed the odious task. At times, he felt as if he was minding an enormous infant rather than one of the most powerful men in the Realm.

  Garth clambered to the front of the carriage, pulled up his hood and waited. With the marshal ensconced, Seth mounted his horse. He saw Kal blow one of the kitchen wenches a kiss. She was a giggling blonde known as ‘winsome Marta’. The girl tittered and blew Kal a kiss back.

  “Tis too early in the morning for this,” Darin swung up onto his horse’s back, and gathered the reins, “I swear it Kal, ever since that wench started sharing your bed, you’ve turned soft.” Darin urged his mount forward to flank the left-hand side of the carriage.

  Kal shrugged and mounted his own horse, his gaze still on Marta. He winked at Darin and took up his position to the right of the carriage.

  “I’ll have you know that if there’s one thing that Marta doesn’t make a man, tis soft!”

  Darin snorted and Seth stifled a laugh. A moment later, Garth flicked the reins, and the two grey horses pulling the marshal’s carriage moved off.

  Seth fell in behind as they rumbled out of the courtyard, under a stone arch and towards Weatherbay. To the east, the first light of dawn stained the sky, while behind them the shadowed bulk of Osforth Tower looked even grimmer than usual. It was a great stone edifice covered in moss and lichen, and wreathed in mist this morning.

  The bad weather had closed in, and a monochrome world enveloped the party. Sheets of rain swept over the travellers and banks of porridge-like mist obscured the ocean from view. They rode through Weatherbay, but there were few outdoors to note their passing. The hamlet was little more than a scattering of low-slung timber houses with thatched roofs stretching down a long, muddy street. Firelight burnt behind tightly shuttered windows and plumes of wood-smoke rose from stacked chimneys. Seth could smell onions roasting as he passed Weatherbay’s only tavern, reminding him of his own meagre breakfast.

  There were no fishermen out this morning collecting shellfish from the mudflats, or netting fish in the channel. Nor were there any farmers out in the fields. Spring was nearing, and once it arrived, the countryside would come to life. For now, nature lay dormant.

  Leaving Weatherbay at their backs, the party climbed the foothills of Mount Caligar. They passed no other travellers. The marshal’s carriage bounced and jolted over the muddy, pot-holed road and they were forced to slow their pace for the cumbersome carriage and its wearisome inhabitant.

  It was a long and tiring journey over the mountain, especially so in bad weather. As he rode, Seth let his mind wander. The spring would mark ten years since he had entered Marshal Osforth’s service – and yet it felt as if the decade had passed in an instant. Seth had departed Barrowthorne with hopes of high adventure. The reality had been far less exciting. Seth had arrived in Dunethport, before finding work at Osforth Tower shortly after – and there had ended any chance of journeys and discovery. He had often talked about leaving, to Kal and Darin, over a few ales in Weatherbay. Usually this talk came after a particularly frustrating day, but Seth had never carried his complaints forward into action.

  Yet now, with the marshal heavily in debt, fate was breathing down Seth’s neck. The three tower guards had spoken of what they would do, if Osforth let them go. With the war between Sude and Farindell, mercenaries were in demand. Rumour had it also that Omagen’s realmlord was getting twitchy, what with war on his doorstep, and was increasing the Dunethpo
rt legion – they could always find work there. Neither of those choices held much appeal and Seth eventually shut off his mind to thoughts of what the future held, instead, concentrating on the road across the mountain.

  By the time they reached Dunethport it was mid-afternoon and rain still cloaked the world. Seth, like the other two tower guards, was soaked, chilled and in a foul mood.

  As they rode down the long incline towards the city, Seth cast his weary gaze over Dunethport. Despite his ill temper, the approach to Omagen’s capital never failed to impress him. From this angle, on the southern slopes of Mount Caligar, the city appeared much bigger than it actually was. It spread out from a long harbour and climbed the folds of hills; a jumble of white-washed walls and slate roofs nestled amongst dense copses of rainforest with the purple shadows of mountains beyond. To the east, Seth could just make out the flat surface of the Ocean of No Memory, partially obscured by thick, rolling rain-clouds and banks of mist.

  As the Northern Highway wound its way down the mountainside, the trees receded and the road sloped steeply as they entered the city. They passed terraces of tightly-packed houses that spread up the hill to their left, while to the right the land fell sharply away into a rocky gorge. The River Lelith, swollen from the rains, bubbled through the gorge on its way to the ocean.

  The carriage began the tortuous journey down the hillside into the city centre. The bulk of Dunethport spread out on the flat land below, in the lap of the hills. The Northern Highway ended at the bottom of the hill, where they joined the Street of Lords.

  Osforth’s carriage bounced over rough cobbles, following the street through the heart of Dunethport. A group of blue-robed Sisters of Sial, their hoods pulled up against the misty rain, hurried across the street in front of the party like shadows, before disappearing into a lane. Seth watched them go with interest. There were many more Sisters in Omagen these days, ever since the war had begun. Until recently, the witch women rarely ventured from the forests and hamlets of Sude. Now, they just added to the swelling number of refugees from a war that showed no sign of ending.

  Further on, the travellers passed row upon row of mean-faced shops, protected from the elements by dripping overhangs. Despite the foul weather, townsfolk, huddled under hooded cloaks, went about their daily activities. Amongst them, wandered ragged and filthy refugees; dispossessed from the war between Sude and Farindell. Seth had never seen so many beggars in Dunethport. Many were in a desperate state, and few wore shoes or cloaks. He saw a butcher chase one of them out of his shop. Brandishing his meat cleaver, the butcher shouted insults at the beggar who slunk away like a beaten dog.

  Townsfolk and vagrants alike peered at the gilded, mud-splattered carriage as it rumbled by.

  Eventually, they reached the Sea Parade; a wide, paved road that ringed the port. Due to the murky day, the lamp-lighter had been out early and all the lanterns on the harbour-front glowed orange in the rain. Here, the carriage veered right, leaving the Street of Lords and the depressing shop-fronts behind. The road hugged the water’s edge. The tide was in and water foamed against the huge rocks that formed a breakwater at the harbour-mouth, spraying across the road. Behind them, to the north, lay the port, where the outlines of ships and fishing boats emerged, wraithlike through the mist.

  To the south, thrusting out its long arm into the ocean, lay Omagen Peninsula. Desolate and possessed of a stark beauty, the peninsula huddled under a bank of rain clouds this afternoon. Nevertheless, Seth caught sight of the great grey edifice that loomed over the harbour at the peninsula’s neck. Marshal Osforth’s carriage followed the Sea Parade to its end, before climbing the peninsula’s first windswept hill towards the realmlord’s fortress – Larnoth Castle.

  The castle rose out of the mist like a grey giant; a grim granite fortress. As they rode into the castle’s courtyard, Seth pushed his hood off his head and raised his face to the misty rain. He looked up at the walls rising high above him. Dark windows stared back at him like blind eyes. Seth had always found Larnoth an unnerving place, and he did not envy any who dwelt here.

  Turning his thoughts to the tasks expected of him, Seth dismounted. He handed his horse over to Garth before helping his master alight from his carriage. Staggering, as much from his thick robes and furs as from his gouty leg, the marshal leaned heavily on Seth and Darin, while Kal followed close behind. Together, they struggled up the stone steps and into the main entrance hall.

  The realmlord’s chamberlain met them, his face pinched with disapproval at the muddy, bedraggled party before him. He left them outside the doors to the reception hall and went to inform the realmlord of their arrival.

  While they waited, Marshal Osforth cast an eye over his tower guards.

  “You look like louts! Tidy yourselves up a bit!”

  Seth pushed his dark, wet hair off his face and raked his fingers through it. The others did the same, but they could all do little about their dress.

  “We have just spent the day riding through mud and rain milord,” Seth gave a sarcastic smile, “you cannot expect us to look as groomed as you.”

  Osforth’s gaze narrowed, before his face flushed. Seth waited for the blistering rebuke – however the reappearance of the realmlord’s chamberlain concluded their exchange.

  Moments later, Marshal Osforth and his tower guards entered Realmlord Thorne’s reception hall. Seth, Kal and Darin hung back, letting Osforth receive the realmlord’s gaze.

  Realmlord Vik Thorne was roughly the same age as Osforth, although any similarity between them ended there. A tall, muscular man, bald and hawk-featured, he wore black mink robes and lounged back in his seat with the loose-limbed ease of a man who had spent his life moving rather than sitting still. Two figures flanked him – a man and a woman wearing the green robes of the Esquill. The woman was tall and proud with high cheekbones and a mane of chestnut hair rippling down her back. She looked to be in her mid-thirties, as did the other Esquill; a lithe blond man whose chiselled good looks made him appear aloof.

  Seth had only caught glimpses of the Esquill during his life. They were a reclusive, secretive order employed in the service of Palâdnith’s realmlords as advisors. This role had once been the domain of the Sentorân, warrior wizards and witches who had vanished from the world nearly four decades earlier. The Esquill and the Sentorân had fought for supremacy at the Battle of Deep-Spire – and the Esquill had won. Yet, a few years after the battle, the Esquill lost their leader: a powerful witch named Riadamor. Her disappearance removed the Esquill as a threat to the realmlords’ power. Satisfied that the Esquill would serve rather than seek to rule them, the realmlords invited the order to send some of their best sorcerers as counsellors. These days, the rest of the Esquill lived in relative obscurity, holed away in Deep-Spire; their stronghold in Central Omagen. A rare sight, these sorcerers fascinated Seth.

  The Esquill scrutinised the approaching party; the brightness of their gazes made Seth wary. He tore his own gaze away and focused, instead, on the man they had come to see.

  “Osforth,” Thorne rumbled, steepling his fingers in front of him, “do you know why I have called you?”

  “My Lord,” Osforth sank to his knees and bowed low before Thorne, “I come in supplication and entreaty. My district has suffered from last year’s poor harvest, I am plagued with a land full of lazy peasants and idle fishermen,” Osforth struggled to his feet, “I beg you to waive my taxes this year. I pledge to fulfil my fiscal obligations come autumn – I promise you I will.”

  “That’s what you said last year,” Thorne replied distractedly, “that’s what you always say.”

  Watching the scene unfold before him, Seth knew the realmlord was playing with Osforth. Observing his master’s pathetic display, Seth felt an uncharacteristic stab of pity towards the marshal.

  “My word is true this time,” Osforth wrung his hands together and cringed before the realmlord, “I will have my farmers beaten, my fisherman whipped and my wine-makers caned –
they will all be more productive this year, I swear it!”

  “Promises, promises,” Thorne’s voice rumbled through the reception hall, “what I want are dracs – gold, silver and bronze – not a mouthful of lies. For years, you have drained me Osforth. The other marshals do not spend their coffers on furs and jewels, on courtesans and gambling. They remember their duty and pay their taxes.”

  “I know I have been lax,” Osforth whined, “but that will change. From today it will change!”

  Thorne sighed. “I will not waste any more time on you. This year you are not going to wheedle out of paying your dues. In a week, I will send my bailiffs to Weatherbay. If you do not have my payment in full – two-thousand gold dracs – they will ransack your tower and take everything of any worth. They will strip your home clean. If you attempt to hide your valuables, I will have you arrested and thrown in Larnoth Dungeons. Do you understand?”

  “My Lord… please!” Osforth wailed, “I…”

  “Be gone Osforth,” Thorne waved him away, “or I’ll throw you into the dungeons now and be done with it.”

  Taking this as their cue to exit lest the realmlord decide to imprison them all, Seth and Kal grabbed hold of an arm each and dragged their master from the hall. Osforth’s wails and pleas echoed off the walls. Seth’s face burned at his association with such a pathetic creature.

  As Osforth’s party left the hall, Seth glanced back at the realmlord and his advisors.

  Like a striking adder, the female Esquill’s gaze seized his and held him fast. Seth stumbled, nearly causing himself, Kal and Osforth to go down in a tangled heap.

  It was as if a whip of lightening had just lashed across the room and caught him. Her gaze was magnetic and terrifying, but Seth’s reaction came unbidden.

  Release me! He gathered the power she bore down on him and flung it back at her. The woman jolted and stepped backwards, her eyes widening.

  A moment later, Seth was out in the corridor. The reception hall’s door boomed shut and Marshal Osforth sagged in his tower guards’ arms.

  “Take me back inside,” he wailed, “let me speak to Thorne. Give me some time and I can convince him to be lenient this year. I must speak to him!”

  “Milord,” Seth replied, taking a firm grip of Osforth’s arm and propelling him down the hallway, “if you go back inside that hall, tis likely you will never see your home again.”

  “The realmlord will not be swayed this time,” Kal added, “it would not be wise to anger him further milord.”

  Darin led the way to the entrance hall and down to the courtyard. Osforth’s protests had now dwindled to feeble threats as they bundled him into his carriage and retrieved their horses. Seized by an urgent need to get away from this place, Seth sent the carriage first out under the portcullis. Then, they rode out over the drawbridge and down the hill towards the city. A biting wind gusted down the harbour and rain lashed against Osforth’s party. If it was possible, the weather had worsened since their arrival. It would be dark within the hour; they would have to stay the night in Dunethport.

  Darin rode up alongside Seth, his thin face pinched.

  “That’s it then,” his gaze met Seth’s, “the marshal’s ruined.”

  Seth tore his thoughts away from the Esquill woman and her hypnotic eyes, and glanced back at the carriage.

  “Admit it, you’re not surprised,” he replied, his voice flat, “our days in Marshal Osforth’s service are numbered.”