All at once, he could see the shrine—a small stone building
with a massive lightning bolt and fist of shining black stone. Lhors felt
suddenly very peasantlike and out of place. He hurried on, passing through a
sprawl of stone buildings, small huts, and a few open-sided tents. This must be
the armory, he decided, though other goods were sold as well—furs, wrought
metal jewelry, and a variety of armor. The noise was incredible here. A massive
brute of a smith on his left was beating red-hot metal, and just beyond him, two
younger men were battering horseshoes and dipping the finished products into a
vat of water.
He caught the familiar reek of a tanners—rotting hides
soaking in salt brine—and stopped short.
Bregya.
His throat tightened.
He’d helped her this past year with the scraping after she’d become too ill and
weak to do the heavy work. Upper Havens master tanner had become something of a
substitute mother to Lhors, instructing him in proper manners, helping him to
understand girls, and knowing when he needed to talk about things that he
couldn’t tell his father. Lhors swallowed hard and moved on quickly.
Do not think about Bregya! To come this far, only to weep in
the city streets or worse, before the guards! His father’s shade would be
horrified, and he himself would die of shame.
Lhors had rehearsed the tale often on the journey here. A boy
of his class would be given little time for an audience with a lord, however
important his message. The more he ran the words through his mind, the less the
words themselves would hurt.
You must tell what happened as quickly and
clearly as you can, and if the lord permits, you must ask his help.
He ran through the words once again as he turned the corner.
“They must be stopped. They destroyed our village and now are more confident. If
they burn every village in the hills, then they will believe nothing can stop
them. Then they will turn on the plain, perhaps even the king’s city. Better to
end their terror with Upper Haven.” He stumbled over a badly angled cobble and
glanced around furtively. No one was watching him, fortunately. “Upper Haven was
small, but honest,” he continued to himself. “We paid the king’s tax every year,
and we provided goods for the baron’s hunting lodge. Perhaps the coin is small
compared to that of a town like New Market, but join our tax to that of the
other villages…” And there I pause, Lhors told himself. Let Lord Mebree see
the answer himself, as my father would say.
He bore south at the wall, fingers trailing over its greened
stones. The way was narrower here and the wall very tall and sturdy looking. On
his right was a long row of joined buildings that might be houses, but they had
few windows or doors, and there was no sign of people anywhere.
As the wall curved away to the left, he came upon a small
baker’s shop where the smell of fragrant bread filled the air. His stomach
rumbled, and he fingered the twist of fabric that held a silver and three copper
pieces in his right pocket. He’d left the hill garrison with three silver pieces
the captain had pressed upon him—more money than he’d had for himself in all his
life. It appalled him how quickly it had gone, frugal as he’d been and as little
as he’d eaten. And there was still the return journey. But it would be foolish
to come so far and faint from hunger at the king’s feet. He eyed the display,
finally choosing a plain roll for a single copper.
The baker’s wife eyed him appraisingly as she took the coin,
then split the roll and spread a generous dollop of runny cheese on it for him.
“You’re too thin, lad,” she told him severely and waved him away when he tried
to pay for the extra. “Most young ’uns as lean as you are would try to steal
their bread. I appreciate honesty in a boy.”
He thanked her as graciously as he knew how, suddenly
grateful for Bregya’s lessons. Odd, though, he thought as he walked away with
his mouth full of soft bread and spicy cheese. It would never have occurred to
him to
steal
food.
The tough little loaf would have been almost enough by
itself. With the addition of the cheese, his stomach was properly full, and he
felt alert for the first time in days.
He drank from a fountain where water poured from the mouths
of oddly shaped stone fish. There were more guards here and the long row of
houses gave way to a series of pens and stables. Two horsemen, helmets eased
back off their faces, rode past him at a slow amble, heading in the direction he
was going. Some paces on, they dismounted, handed their reins to a barefoot boy
who led the horses into a fenced enclosure close by and began unsaddling them.
The men vanished, and moments later, Lhors could see the broad opening that
breached the innermost wall and beyond that, the high wall.
He hesitated at the intricately wrought metal gates that gave
entry to the lord’s courtyard. There were two armored and armed men flanking the
opening. They looked at him sternly. To his surprise, once he’d stammered out
his name and village, they’d conferred by hand signal, then simply passed him
through.
Once inside, he slowed to look around, but there wasn’t much
to see. The grounds were raked dirt and gravel or sand—clean, plain, and
utilitarian. A few plain benches of hardwood or stone were scattered here and
there, but there was no other ornamentation.
The keep was smaller and much plainer than he’d have
expected, but then this was not a king’s palace. Still, it rose high above his
head—four sets of windows, one above the other with a guard-walk above that. The
walls went straight up, the stone dressed so smooth there were no visible
handholds anywhere. Two mail-clad men paced back and forth on the roof above the
parapet. The lower windows appeared to be set at random, but their sills were
deep and the openings so narrow that he couldn’t have squeezed through the
entry. Structures such as this were for siege fighting, his father had told him.
Archers could shoot from reasonable safety, and a small force could hold off an
entire army.
But there had been no such siege warfare in Cryllor in long
years and with the gods’ blessing, there would not be again. Lhors smiled as his
eye caught the large blue banner snapping in a suddenly brisk breeze. Lharis had
worn that same patch of blue on the breast of his jerkin. He had been very proud
of that bit of blue.
“I won’t shame it or you, Father,” Lhors whispered. “I swear
it.”
He could see a walkway along the wall he’d just come through,
with enclosed towers on the corners where guards could shelter from harsh
weather.
The grounds were busy. Someone was hauling a cart away from
the near stable. A boy steadied a nervous ass tethered to a wagon that was piled
high with dull green hay while two men in grubby leathers forked the feed into
tubs for other boys to carry inside.
Half a dozen men paced between the gate and keep. Three were
in full armor, but the rest appeared to be servants, clad alike in dark blue
trousers and shirts.
Four men lounged on a bench, and just beyond them, two
servants were working on a saddle. At their backs, a boy in roughspun clothes
sat cross-legged near a pile of stirrups. He was busily polishing one to a
gleaming bronze and audibly groaned when a middle-aged fellow wearing only
loose, greasy leather pants dropped another load of stirrups atop the pile. The
older man laughed raucously, then pulled a polishing cloth from his pocket and
settled down to help.
Other soldiers hovered at the buttery, drinking from leather
cups. Lhors eyed them sidelong. Many of them were older, hard looking, and not
all wore the blue patch. I wonder if any of them knew my father, Lhors thought
wistfully. But he felt suddenly shy. He wouldn’t know what to say to such men,
and likely they’d ignore him.
There were two guards at the broad step leading to the main
door—a massive, bronze reinforced slab of wood that stood open. Lhors swallowed
past a very dry throat and walked up to them. The guards drew two swords each
and stepped to block his way.
“Name, affiliation, and business,” one of them snapped.
“Affiliation—that means what village you’re from,” the second
added with an unpleasant grin.
“Be polite, Efoyan,” the first chided, but he was grinning,
too.
Efoyan simpered. Lhors blinked. He hadn’t expected their kind
in the lord’s employ—young men who were full of themselves and what little power
their duties gave them. Well, the trick was to keep his irritation in check. If
they couldn’t get him angry, they’d give over.
“I am Lhors, son of Lharis,” he said, “of the village Upper
Haven to the north. I bring the Lord Mebree word of danger.”
“‘Son of Lharis’, indeed!” Efoyan smirked. “Imagine, Doneghal!
Here’s a peasant who believes he can name his sire!”
Lhors decided to let the insult pass. He would never receive
an audience with the lord by quarreling with guards. He waited. Doneghal finally
waved him to continue. “Some nights ago,” Lhors said, proud that his voice did
not tremble at the memory, “Upper Haven fought giants—”
Both men broke into spluttering laughter, again silencing
him. “Giants?” Doneghal jeered. “There are no giants in Keoland!”
“What? Did you attack the brutes with torches and scythes, or
merely feed them bad village stew and ale?” Efoyan snickered.
Lhors set his jaw and grimly plunged on. “We did fight. My
father was once a guard here in this very city, and he trained us boys.”
“Oh, it gets better. His father a Cryllor guard, yet! And
he’s trained himself!” Both men laughed harshly, then Efoyan drew himself
upright. “Go away, boy. It’s a clever tale but we’ve heard many better.”
“Giants indeed,” Doneghal snorted, narrowed eyes fixed on
Lhors, who suddenly realized what a picture he must present after three days of
hunting in the hills followed by Upper Haven’s final, bloody night, and then
days of journey on short rations with no time or place to properly bathe.
“You, boy,” Efoyan said, “I know what you are. You’re a
grubby little market thief trying to get in to steal something or catch a
glimpse of the king and win a bet with your fellow grubby thieves, aren’t you?
Well, it won’t work! Not while we’re on guard!”
Lhors stared at him. “Steal?” he managed. The guards seemed
to find this wildly funny.
Efoyan swallowed laughter. “Look, peasant. If there really
were
giants about, we’d know it, see? The Lord Mebree’s steward would’ve
sent orders for us to pass anyone who could tell him about giants.”
“Yes, he would,” Doneghal added. “Because, if anyone was to
be told, it would be us, d’ye see? Because we two are the ones who’d have to
know it was all right for you to be inside, wouldn’t we?”
“But we haven’t been told one gods’ blessed word about
giants. So you see what that means, don’t you? Means you’re lying to us, doesn’t
it?”
“Lying!” Doneghal finished triumphantly. “So! Just you be
off, right now! You aren’t getting into the keep, not today or any day soon! Not
with a stupid tale like that!”
“Your pardon, sirs,” Lhors broke in sharply, “but Upper Haven is in the
foothills well to the north of here—many days’ ride. Until our village was
attacked, no one around there had seen giants, so I must warn the lord or get a
message to him—”
“You grow boring,” Efoyan said flatly. He set his spear
against the wall and gave Lhors a shove. Lhors fought for balance, managing to
right himself as the guards stalked toward him.
“Boring,” Doneghal echoed and tossed his spear aside so he
could grab Lhors’ shirt. Efoyan shoved him aside.
“Let me, friend,” he said flatly and slammed one open hand
against Lhors’ chest, driving him back into the courtyard. He drew a long,
braided leather whip from his belt. “I know how to teach a stupid peasant not to
waste my time.” He snapped his wrist. Lhors jumped convulsively as the leather
thong cracked just short of his ear.
Efoyan struck again. Lhors just managed to duck as it cracked
over his head. Behind him, a deep man’s voice snarled, “Why don’t you pick on
someone closer to your own size, Efoyan?” Lhors scuttled back as a dark, solidly
built man caught hold of the tip of the lash and yanked. The guard yelped as the
whip was torn from his grasp. The dark man slid the lash through his fingers,
gripped the handle and slammed it into the guard’s brow. Efoyan sagged, went
flat, and stayed there. Doneghal leaped across his companion, eyes narrowed as
he went into fighting stance, but the newcomer simply grabbed him by the
shoulders, spun him halfway around and kicked him, hard. Doneghal staggered and
slammed into the palace wall, head first. He slid down, dazed or unconscious.
Lhors gazed blankly up at the bronze-skinned man who turned
away from the fallen pair to give the youth a hand up and a smile. “Sorry about
your reception, lad.”
Before Lhors could fathom a suitable reply, the man walked
over and began to nudge the two guards, who were beginning to moan and look
around, obviously still dazed.
“Up!” the man shouted. “Up, the both of you! Up I say! Now!”
The two guards reluctantly complied. Outrage and
embarrassment played over their faces, though both of them had obviously lost
all will to fight.
“Do you know who I am?” the man demanded. They both nodded
dumbly. “Very well. You”—he jabbed at Efoyan with his finger—“will report to
Sergeant Storrs and tell him what has taken place here. You will leave
nothing
out, and I will know if you do. By the time your watch has ended,
I’m sure the sergeant and I will have come up with a suitable punishment for the
both of you.”
Glowering, Efoyan turned to go.
“Stop! I have not dismissed you yet.” The guard halted, and
the man continued. “Both of you will apologize to this young man… and make
it good, or you’ll both be mucking stables till next season’s snow melts.”