Both guards stammered an apology. Though their words dripped
sincerity, they looked at Lhors with pure hatred. When they had finished, the
man let the silence hang until both guards began to eye one another nervously,
obviously wondering if their apology had been accepted.
“Very well,” the man said. “Efoyan, dismissed. Do as I have
ordered you. Doneghal, resume your post.”
The two of them complied, and the man turned his attention to
Lhors. “So, you’re Lharis’ son, are you?”
“You… you knew my father?”
“I met him once or twice,” the man replied. “But come. You
have urgent news. Best we get you inside so Lord Mebree can hear it. I’m Vlandar
by the way, captain of one of the hill companies.”
Lhors stared. He could feel his face heating. “Captain? I’m
sorry to be so much—”
The older man merely laughed, wrapped an arm around Lhors’
shoulders, and drew him through the palace doors into a broad, high ceilinged
hallway. “Trouble? You’re no trouble, lad. And I’m merely a captain, not the
lord’s commander. My job is to ride the hills between here and the Yeomanry,
making sure the villages are safe from bandits and the like. It’s only fitting I
should escort you to the lord’s council chambers. He should be meeting with his
council now, but if not, there’ll be men to whom you can give a full report.
I’ll need to hear what you have to say in any event, if we’ve more to fight out
there than bandits and river pirates.”
As they walked through the passageways, Vlandar kept a hand
on his arm, which Lhors suspected kept anyone from asking what business a grubby
peasant had in such vast halls. And they were vast. Corridors branched all along
the main hall. Now and again, he could see staircases spiraling up to upper
levels of the keep. There were people, most in servants’ garb, carrying trays or
bundles of clothing, stocks of linens, and other things. The place was
surprisingly plain. No statues or fine hangings graced the walls, and the floors
were plain polished stone. Here and there, black wrought lamps hung from chains.
What doors he could see were closed, and the view beyond the windows was all of
dirt courtyards.
A few guards glanced at Vlandar but made no attempt to stop
him. The warrior must be someone of importance, despite his modest remarks,
Lhors thought. Father told me about men like that. The best fighters don’t need
to brag.
A boy came running up behind them, swerved around Lhors and
his companion, then pelted down the hallway, a small leather pouch slapping
against his back. Vlandar turned down yet another hall and stopped before
massive double doors. Two more guards stood here, but these were older,
grim-faced men who stood at attention with drawn blades before them.
Vlandar gripped Lhors’ shoulder and murmured, “They know me,
and I’ll vouch for you.” He spoke to the guards, and one of them nodded. They
both stepped back and held the doors open.
The room itself was much smaller than Lhors would have
imagined from the size of the doors. The ceiling was barely higher than the
lintel, and a long table surrounded by a dozen high-backed chairs took up most
of the chamber. Thick curtains in a muted green covered one wall. The opposite
wall was almost completely taken up by an immense fireplace. High, small windows
along the back wall let in light, but the room was still dim, warm, and almost
stuffy.
Vlandar tugged at Lhors’ hair and leaned close to murmur
against his ear, “This is the lord’s private audience chamber. Let me go first.
When I beckon, you come forward, kneel, and bend your head. Do not rise or look
up until the lord or I tell you to do so. Can you remember that?”
Lhors nodded again.
“You will speak when he tells you and answer his questions as
briefly as you can. Good manners say you must address him as ‘my lord’ each time
you speak.” He smiled as Lhors swallowed hard. “Buck up, lad. It’s not so awful
as that. He’s a busy man but not an unfair one. You’ll do.” He clapped the youth
on the shoulder and went forward, easing to one knee as he came around the near
end of the table.
Vlandar spoke to the men briefly, but Lhors was so caught up
in studying those seated around the table that he didn’t hear a word. Now that
his eyes were adjusting, he could make out a wizened little being of uncertain
sex, his or her robe and close-fitting cap nearly the same shade as the dark
wood of the chair. Opposite, a dark-skinned man in black suddenly leaned
forward, drew an open scroll across the table and began rolling it up.
Vlandar stood and beckoned to Lhors. The youth drew a deep
breath and walked over to join him.
It was easy to kneel. He wasn’t certain his legs would
support him, and he was much too shy to look up. The third man—presumably Lord
Mebree—spoke, his voice low and pleasantly resonant. “You are… Lhors, is
it? From poor young Baron Hilgenbrand’s holdings, Vlandar says. He tells me you
have a tale for me. Come, lad, let me look at you.”
Vlandar gripped Lhors’ shoulder reassuringly and aided him
to his feet. Lhors nodded then managed a shaky, “Yes, my lord. From Upper Haven
near the baron’s hunting lodge.” He glanced up. Cryllor’s lord was a small man,
his hair a blue-black, wavy mass barely restrained by a narrow band of silver.
His near-black eyes were warm though, and he was smiling. His hands moved
constantly, fussing with papers or his dagger, moving them about the table.
To Lhors’ surprise, Mebree chuckled quietly. “Go ahead and
look at me, lad. I like to see a man’s eyes when he talks. Tell me about these
giants.”
Lhors glanced at Vlandar. He and the two other men—councilors, perhaps—were smiling. Probably at my foolishness, he thought. But
the words were kind, and so were the lord’s eyes. He drew a deep breath and
plunged into his story.
It
had
helped, rehearsing it so often. He was brief
and to the point, and after so much repetition, it began to feel more like a
tale he’d heard than something he’d seen or people he’d known. When he finished,
Lord Mebree gestured, and Vlandar fetched two stools from beside the hearth.
Lhors sat with relief. He suddenly felt exhausted and light-headed. He scarcely
paid attention as Lord Mebree dismissed the other two and turned to Vlandar.
“Well, my friend,” he said mildly. “This is your warning come
to pass, isn’t it? Feel vindicated, do you?”
“No,” the older man replied. “Simply angry at so many senseless deaths. If
we’d gone after the Steading in force when I first heard rumors about the
giants—”
“If,” the lord broke in wearily. His hands seemed to have a
life of their own, running up and down the silver chain he wore, folding it into
one hand, shaking it loose again. “I am sorry for this young man’s people,
Vlandar, but even you couldn’t have foreseen an attack like that. It’s simply
never happened before. And you know the cost of sending an army out. I could
never have justified it to King Kimbertos.” He dropped the chain and folded his
hands. “However, this is no longer rumor, and with the king here to see how
things are in the Good Hills… Well, it may be time to do something about
the Steading after all, though I still cannot be certain the Steading is
responsible. It’s unheard of for hill giants to do such a thing. Thus far,
they’ve stolen a few cattle or some of their youth get drunk and raid a town.
Their chief, Nosnra, isn’t a warrior. He’s a thug—a clever one I’m told, but
still a thug.”
“I agree,” Vlandar said. “But the king will have little money
or many men to spare if he agrees to an attack—even if the Yeomanry allows one
to cross their lands. The king’s more concerned about the Scarlet Brotherhood,
or so I hear. He’ll keep his best fighting men ready to defend against attack
from across the Azure Sea.”
“I will speak with him when we meet after the feast tonight,
but I agree we aren’t likely to get much armed help.” Mebree’s fingers drummed
against the padded chair arms.
The king?
King Kimbertos was actually here
in Cryllor?
Lhors had never actually seen a king. Before his mind could wander any further,
he focused on the conversation at hand.
Vlandar got to his feet and began to pace. “A direct attack
is out in any event. Cryllor wouldn’t dare funnel all its armed men into the
mountains, leaving the city unprotected. And the Steading’s built to withstand
any attack. On the other hand, we don’t need an army to discover if the hill
clans are responsible for Upper Haven. Now a small but well-picked band of
fighters would be able to get inside the Steading, find out what we need to
know,
and
strike a counter-blow from inside the walls.”
“But Vlandar, how do you plan on finding out… ?” He let
the thought hang.
“Nosnra isn’t that smart. He’s clever and cunning, but not
intelligent. He would need written orders or advisers from whoever is behind the
attacks. Maybe we wouldn’t learn
why,
but we’d know who.” Vlandar resumed
pacing. “Remember, my lord, that I’m trained for that kind of fighting. I’m
skilled at sneaking in somewhere, learning things, inflicting damage, and
getting back out again. With the right sized band—fewer than ten, I think—it
could be done.” He paused. Mebree gestured for him to go on. “We’d need a few
good fighters, a magician or two. If it turns out the Steading’s alone in this,
then maybe we can hurt old Nosnra and his folk so they’ll leave us alone. We’d
need good support, of course. Food, horses or boats to get us into the
mountains, maps, the best armor and arms.”
Lord Mebree nodded slowly. “To get the people
you
want, you’d have to offer more than arms and supplies, Vlandar. I know what kind
of fee your average adventurer wants—in advance, no less!” He grimaced.
“If
you can find them around Cryllor. We aren’t exactly the king’s city.”
“No, but with the king in Cryllor just now, there will be
those who’ve come with him or in his retinue. Now, you’re right about fees, but
the Steading is said to hold any number of hidden troves and treasuries. Let us
keep whatever valuables we find—tax free, of course.”
The lord laughed. “Tax free, the man says! Of course, I must
present this to our king! But it could work. Return tomorrow at this hour,
Vlandar. I’ll tell you what the king makes of all this. If he agrees, I’ll see
to it that my steward has funds for you to draw upon for whatever you need. And
don’t thank me!” he added sharply. “You may have just bought yourself an ugly
death, my friend. If you come through… well, I will find a way to show my
gratitude.”
Vlandar stood and inclined his head. His lips twitched. “But
one needs so little: ‘a small corner of the new barracks, a fire of my own,
perhaps a new skin of wine.’”
Lord Mebree got to his feet and clapped the warrior on the
back. “Quote my grandfer’s words at me, will you? Ha! Off with you, you old
rogue. I will see you tomorrow.”
“My lord.” Vlandar leaned down to whisper against Lhors’
ear. “You also bow when you leave.”
Lhors blushed a deep red as he went to his knees. Above him,
the lord murmured a question, to which Vlandar replied, “I’ll take
care of him, my lord. Come with me, Lhors.”
* * *
The corridors were even busier on their way out. To Lhors’
relief, two older men were on guard outside with no sign of the two who had
given him such grief.
“Well,” Vlandar stopped just short of the gates and gave his
companion a friendly smile, “you look like a boy who could use a good night’s
sleep under a roof—and before that, a decent meal.”
Lhors slowed. “Um, I’ve a little coin, sir, but I have a
long journey home yet.”
Vlandar was already shaking his head. “My treat. I trust your
father told you to accept a free meal and cot any time they’re offered? Come
on.”
Lhors smiled faintly and went with the warrior, who strode through a maze of
narrow streets into a market area. The youth was lost within moments. The inn
where they finally stopped was a pleasant little place behind a low hedge and a
well-swept courtyard. The food itself smelled plain and familiar.
Lhors’ nose twitched, and his mouth began to water as
Vlandar steered him to a bench in the corner where they could see the street. In
the paddock across the street, two goats and a swaybacked horse jostled for
place at a manger of hay and a pile of spotty cabbage leaves. He forgot about
that as a gaunt young woman in shapeless brown roughspun came bustling over with
two wooden bowls. A simple-looking hulk of a man came right behind her carrying
a heavy black kettle. He held the steaming pot while she ladled soup to the very
tops of the bowls. Lhors sipped the broth gingerly, then sighed happily, picked
up the bowl, and drank down the contents.
“Your friend has good taste,” the girl said as she refilled
the bowl. This time she added an extra scoop of vegetables and barley from the
bottom.
Vlandar gave her a copper coin for more bread before dipping
his crust in the broth. He ate absently as the boy finished what he had, then
took down another bowl of broth and two manchets of black bread. Finally, Lhors
shoved the bowl aside and sighed. “Thank you, Vlandar. I was hunting with Father
for days before—before the giants came. I barely recall my last true meal. If
there is any use I can be to you to pay back your kindness, sir…”
“I didn’t feed you simply for that,” Vlandar said, “but yes,
I do need to know everything you can tell me about those giants. If I could
question you… ?” He let that hang.
Lhors nodded sharply. His face was pale. He was about to
begin when a shadow crossed the table. The youth edged back nervously as Vlandar
leaped his feet, but he relaxed when the warrior began laughing. Vlandar clasped
a pale-haired fellow by his chain-mail-clad biceps and shouted, “Malowan! When
did you get into Cryllor? And what are you doing
here,
of all places?”