Authors: Mark Anthony
It was late one particularly foggy afternoon when Beltan came cantering back to the group on his roan charger. The knight wore a grave expression on his face, but there was a gleam of excitement in his eyes as well.
“I’ve got some bad news,” he said. “About half a league ahead, the road passes through a narrow gap between two hills. There’s a band of outlaws camped on top of one of them. It’s a convenient location if you plan to ambush people traveling on the road below.”
Falken swore. “So how many of them are there?”
“Oh, only a half dozen or so.” The blond knight grinned and gripped the hilt of his sword. “I should have no trouble handling them.”
Melia folded her arms across her chest. “Really, Beltan?”
He squirmed in his saddle, chain mail squeaking. “All right. So there might be a
little
trouble. But I still say I can handle them.”
Melia reached out to pat his hand. “Of course you could, dear. But why don’t we try it my way first?”
Beltan heaved a breath of disappointment, then nodded.
“Now,” Melia said, “did the brigands notice you approaching?”
The knight shook his head. “I’m fairly sure they didn’t. I could hear them as clearly as if they were an arm’s length away, but I don’t think they could hear me at all. Sounds carry strangely in the fog.”
Melia nodded. “We’ll just have to hope they don’t already know we’re coming.” She gazed around at the foggy air, then let out a resigned sigh. “I’m much better with shadows than with mist, but I suppose this will simply have to do.” Her tone became crisp and commanding. “All right, everybody gather around me. And do stay close. I’m going to have to concentrate, and I won’t be able to pay attention to make certain none of you are wandering off.”
Travis nudged his shaggy gelding near Beltan’s charger. “What’s she going to do?”
“You’ll see.”
Melia shut her eyes, and a furrow of concentration marked her forehead. At the same time she held her hands close to her body and made small movements with her fingers which reminded Travis of someone knitting. The fog closed in around them. It grew thicker and more opaque, as soft and gray as Travis’s cloak. Melia opened her eyes.
“Is this really going to be enough?” Falken said. The fog seemed to absorb his words even as he spoke them.
Melia urged her horse into a slow walk. “There’s only one way to know for certain.”
The four moved down the road, their horses huddled in a close knot. They proceeded by sound rather than sight, for the fog remained thick as they went. Except, after a while, Travis started to think they weren’t moving
through
the fog at all. Rather, the dense cloud of mist seemed to be moving
with
them. On impulse, he leaned forward in his saddle and blew against the fog with all the breath he could muster.
“Please don’t do that, Travis,” Melia said.
Travis jumped in his saddle, then glanced at Melia. She was not looking at him, but instead continued to frown into the fog. He hunched down in his saddle and after that did not attempt any more experiments.
They rode in near-perfect silence. The footfalls of the horses, the creak of the saddles, the jingle of Beltan’s mail shirt—all were muffled by the preternatural fog.
A voice cut through the gloom. Travis clenched his jaw to stifle a cry of alarm. It sounded as if the speaker were no more than ten paces away.
“Sulath’s Balls, it’s cold today!”
Another rough voice answered the first. “You think you’re cold now? Go back to camp and tell Guerneg you’re too chilly to keep a lookout for travelers to rob. Then you’ll be cold all right. Stone cold, and with his sword stuck in your stinking guts.”
The first outlaw spat in disgust. “There’s nothing on the road today except this blasted fog. Look, there goes a whole cloud of it, just floating by. It’s not normal, this mist. It has
the feel of the Little People about it. We’re probably being cursed just breathing it.”
“Better cursed by fog than skewered by steel,” the second outlaw said.
The first grunted but did not argue with this bit of wisdom.
The voices of the outlaws fell behind and faded away. Only when he let out a tight lungful of air did Travis realize he had been holding his breath. The group came to a halt. With a weary sigh, Melia waved a hand. The cloud of fog that surrounded them broke into ragged tatters and melted away on the late-afternoon air. To the north, two shapes rose dimly in the haze. Those must have been the hills where the highwaymen had waited to ambush unwary travelers. Somehow the four had passed by the outlaw encampment unseen.
Travis looked at Melia in wonderment, but he did not even consider asking her how their safe passage had been accomplished. Sometimes answers could be far more disturbing than their questions.
“It looks as if the fog is lifting,” Melia said in a bright voice.
“What a coincidence,” Falken said.
With that they continued on their way and cantered down the ancient road.
Two days later they came to a town.
The morning after their near encounter with the outlaws, the fog gave way to sunshine that gilded the rolling landscape between plains and mountains, and changed browns to russets and tans to bright golds. Despite the sunlight, the weather turned cold and sharp. Winter had not forgotten this land after all. Beltan’s mail shirt jingled on the crisp air, and the breath of the horses was white and frosty. Travis kept warm inside his mistcloak, but his hands seemed to freeze around the reins of his gelding, so that by day’s end it was almost impossible to unclench his stiff fingers.
They encountered more and more signs of human habitation
the farther south they traveled. From the swaying back of his mount, Travis saw thatch-roofed farms, muddy villages, and stone signal towers atop which bonfires could be lit in troubled times to warn of danger or invasion. They were deep in Eredane—although, according to Falken, the Dominion’s most populous lands lay many leagues to the west, along the banks of the River Silverflood. The eastern marches of Eredane, where they journeyed now, were considered rough and provincial lands these days.
The sun was high overhead when Beltan spurred his charger back toward the others. As usual he had ridden ahead to scout the way. Now he bore the good news.
“There’s a town just over the next rise in the road.”
Falken shot him a speculative look. “And just why are you grinning like that?”
Mischief sparked in Beltan’s green eyes. “Where there’s a town, there’s got to be ale.”
Melia clucked her tongue. “You know, contrary to popular Calavaner belief, one actually
can
survive for considerable lengths of time without ale.”
Beltan gave her a puzzled look. “Yes, but what would be the point?”
After a small amount of discussion, Falken and Melia concurred that, despite their need for haste, they should spare an hour or two to enter the town. Though generous, the foodstuffs King Kel had given them were beginning to dwindle, and Melia wanted to replenish their supplies. Also, Falken hoped to hear more news of affairs in the Dominions. The matter settled, they urged the horses into a canter. Minutes later they crested a low swell and came to a halt.
“I don’t remember Glennen’s Stand being a walled town,” Falken said with a frown.
Beltan shrugged. “Maybe they’ve had problems with outlaws or barbarians coming down from the mountains.”
“Maybe.” The bard sounded less convinced. “Regardless, I don’t think Glennen would be pleased to see what has become of his namesake.”
Travis lifted a hand to shade his eyes and studied the town below. Glennen’s Stand was situated in a hollow beside a small river, no more than three furlongs from the Queen’s Way. He guessed there to be about a hundred buildings in all.
Those upstream were of stone with dull slate roofs, while those downstream were little more than shacks thatched with dirty straw. A wall surrounded the entire town, and while a dark patina of age hung over Glennen’s Stand, the wall was pale and rough-edged, a testament to its recent construction.
Following Melia’s lead, they nudged their horses into motion and made for the town. As they rode, Travis guided his horse toward Falken’s.
“Who was he?” he asked the bard. “Glennen, I mean.”
The bard gave him a thoughtful look. “You remember the war I told you about, the one that took place long ago against the Pale King?”
Travis nodded.
“Glennen was one of King Ulther’s earls. When things looked darkest for Ulther’s army, Glennen rode south to tell Empress Elsara to make haste to Shadowsdeep. However, in this very dell Glennen was assailed by minions of the Pale King. He defeated them, and he reached Elsara to give her Ulther’s warning. Except after he spoke his message he died at her feet, for he had been mortally wounded.”
Travis sighed.
“Given its history, this town has always been welcoming to travelers.” Falken gazed at the walled town, his eyes sober. “Or at least it used to be.”
When the travelers reached the town’s gate they found it guarded by a pair of men-at-arms in greasy leather jerkins, hands on the stubby swords at their hips. Travis wasn’t entirely certain what a town on Eldh should be like, but he expected to see more people entering Glennen’s Stand: farmers with a late harvest of grain, merchants bearing goods to trade, herders bringing flocks of sheep to shear for wool. Instead, only a handful of peasants in ragged clothes trudged through the archway, faces grim and dirty, small bundles of rags or firewood on their stooped backs.
The men-at-arms halted the peasants as they passed and questioned each about his or her business. Alarm surged in Travis’s chest. What would he say if the guards stopped him? However, the men-at-arms seemed not to notice as the travelers approached. Melia rode through the gate, regal aback
her pale mare, and the others followed. The guards did not even glance in their direction.
Travis leaned toward Beltan. “I don’t understand. Why didn’t the guards stop and question us like the others?”
Beltan snorted. “Commoners don’t question nobles.”
Travis glanced at Melia but said nothing more. Together the four passed through a rough tunnel and into the town beyond.
Outside the wall things had looked bleak. Inside they were worse. Gray buildings leaned together overhead, all but closing out the sky. A haphazard scattering of people picked their way through the narrow tracts of muck and sewage that passed for streets. All of them wore the same grim, furtive faces as had the peasants at the gate, and none looked in the direction of the travelers. As quickly as they appeared, the townsfolk vanished again into shadowed openings or peeling doorways.
“Cheerful place,” Beltan said under his breath.
Melia’s nose wrinkled. “Fragrant as well.”
They rode on through the town. Soot streaked walls and roofs like a taint of disease, and windows stared out of abandoned houses like blind eyes. They were near the town’s center when they came upon the remains of a small wooden structure, smashed to bits. Melia brought her mount to a halt, her expression one of outrage. Travis saw the fragments of a statue half-trampled into the mud: a slender arm, a white foot, the corner of a serene, smiling mouth.
“What is this place?” he whispered to Falken.
The bard shook his head, his eyes sad. “This was a shrine of one of the mystery cults. It’s hard to be certain from what’s left, but I would guess it was sacred to Yrsaia the Huntress, as well as those who follow her mysteries.”
“Yes,” Melia said. “It was.” A dangerous light glinted in her amber eyes. “And I would give much to know who it was that committed this act of sacrilege.”
Falken clenched his black-gloved hand into a fist. “This doesn’t make sense. Granted, it’s been some years, but last I knew, Glennen’s Stand was one of the busiest towns in eastern Eredane.”
“Things change,” Beltan said. “And not always for the better.”
They were silent. Then Melia said, “Let us not linger in this place any longer than we must.”
Falken nodded. “If I remember right, the town market is this way.”
They came to a halt on the edge of a barren square. The ground was a mire of churned mud, and in the center of the square steamed an open cesspool. Travis covered his nose with the hem of his cloak. Had Falken misremembered? Then he noticed a handful of disheveled stalls set up on the farside of the square.
Beltan let out a melancholy whistle. “I suppose it’s too much to hope there’s any ale in this place.”
“If there were, I wouldn’t suggest drinking it,” Falken said. “Unless you happen to think a few floating rats impart a pleasant tang to one’s beer.” He turned toward Melia. “I’m going to wander off for a while and try to learn something about what’s happened to this place. Why don’t you see if there’s anything worth buying here in the market?”
“That shouldn’t take long.”
Falken guided his stallion down a narrow street and disappeared from sight. Melia, Beltan, and Travis rode toward the scant collection of merchant stalls, then climbed down from their horses. Cold mud squelched up around their ankles.
Melia sighed. “I’m really not going to enjoy this, am I?”
Travis held his tongue. It was one of those questions that did not require an answer.
Melia lifted the hem of her gown out of the muck and picked her way toward one of the stalls to examine the pitiful collection of moldy turnips and worm-eaten apples.
A quarter hour later, Travis helped Beltan pack the few things Melia had bought into their saddlebags, and they mounted their horses. Just then Falken returned, a scowl on his wolfish face.
“Did you learn anything interesting?” Melia asked.
Falken grimaced. “I didn’t even learn anything
un
interesting. Nobody in this town would speak to me. They’re all afraid of something—so afraid they won’t talk about it. But what it might be, I can’t say.”
Melia swept her blue-black hair over her shoulder and adjusted her cloak. “We might as well be leaving, then. I don’t think there’s anything else for us here.”
The others did not disagree, and they started off through the grimy streets. They were nearly to the town gate when they turned a corner and came upon a group of men and women clad in black robes. The robed ones had just stepped from a doorway some distance off, and they turned to walk down the street in the direction of the four riders. As they did, Travis saw that each one’s forehead had been marked with a symbol drawn in ashes. His heart caught in his chest, and with terrible certainty he knew he and the others were in danger.