The man’s fingers bit into his calf. Yhalen winced, but before he could jerk his leg out of the stirrup to escape the grasp, Dunval let go, backing off as if he’d offered no threat.
The company left a few moments later, trotting out of a small gate at the back of the hold, breaking into an easy canter on the dirt track outside it as they made subtle haste past the surrounding village of shacks and tents outside the walls of Keis Castle.
They kept this pace as they entered the forest, a sea of dark riders in the darker shadows of the 112
wood. It was hard to make out any individual in the night save for Bloodraven, whose bobbing head topped all the others, in the center of the group. Yhalen was also surrounded by riders, with no easy avenue of escape. He supposed they’d gone to pains to make it so, trusting his loyalty to this venture no more so than they trusted Bloodraven. They should have trusted him less, for he had no reason to see it though, unlike Bloodraven who had gone to lengths, Yhalen thought, to parlay with men of power.
He didn’t think Bloodraven had agreed to anything out of desperation and fear of his life. His bargainings, whatever they might be, were no spur of the moment thing.
They rode well into the night, stopping twice along the way for fresh mounts that waited in the darkness under the hands of silent, grim-faced men. Yhalen had a good seat. He rode well, though not often enough to prepare himself for the trial of an all night, fast-paced ride. He felt it in his muscles the first time he had to dismount and remount a new horse. By the second change of mounts, his legs had gone watery and weak, and his thighs were cramping so bad that he ground his teeth to endure it as the horse bolted into motion under him. Even if the opportunity to flee on foot into the thick wood had presented itself, he doubted he could have outrun even the most sluggish guard. As the hours wore on, he cared for nothing so much as reaching the end of this journey, escape or no escape.
The sky had lightened with dawn by the time the forest they rode through, began to thin. They had, of necessity, reduced their pace to a ground-eating trot that jarred the bones and numbed the backside.
When they topped a last hill, the brightening sky of the horizon silhouetted the distant teeth of mountains. The land between them and those far away peaks undulated with hills and valleys. In the vale below them, neatly plowed fields could just be made out, as well as small clusters of cottages that lay beside the tracks intersecting the fields.
On the far rise, overlooking the fields, was a vast stronghold. The pale light of dawn washed the walls powder gray. It was low and blocky, and unlike Keis Keep, no outbuildings or shacks had been built up anywhere near its outer fortifications. Nothing close enough to allow an enemy to vault up to the top of the wall, or allow burning to damage those same stout walls. As they rode through the vale and up the winding path towards the keep, two banners could be made out, flapping lazily in the early morning breeze. One held the colors of Lord Tangery, the other was black and red with a gold stylized lion. The same colors that Sir Alasdair wore. Yhalen had little enough knowledge of the provinces outside the Ydregi forests, but he did know enough to recognize the emblem of the King of Suthland.
So the ‘man’ Sir Alasdair had said they were going to meet was no mere man, but Valeran, King of Suthland and all the outlying provinces.
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The walls of the keep, when they passed beneath the jagged teeth of the portcullis, were aged and thicker than two men laid end to end. The guards that had ridden out to escort them in all wore the same colors that Sir Alasdair did. The colors of the king.
So many of the guards in Dunval’s service looked as if they might have been conscripted from field work scant weeks prior, but there was nothing to these men that suggested that they had not been whelped and reared to the life of soldiers. Nothing that suggested that they were not mercilessly adept at the seasoned weapons they sported. Dangerous men, but it seemed less likely that some stray bolt would be loosed from nervous hands at some careless movement on Bloodraven’s part.
They walked tired horses into the yard, dismounting with a symphonic clatter of armor and squeaking of leather. Yhalen sat a while longer, surveying the lay of the yard from the vantage of the saddle, noting nothing that indicated this keep housed anything but men of a military mind set. There was no clutter along the walls, and no splotches of greenery to break up the harsh line of stone. No gathering of curious servants watching the arrival of unusual guests.
A man at arms waited at his knee, to take his horse to the stables along with the others. With a swallowed groan of discomfort, Yhalen swung his leg over and slid down the side of the patient animal, legs feeling oddly disconnected as his feet settled once more on solid ground. Having nothing close at hand to catch hold of, he stood for a moment, unmoving, gathering the shreds of his equilibrium as well as the will to move his legs. Traveling afoot, he decided, wincing at the twitching cramp in his thighs, was by far preferable to the back of a horse.
Bloodraven had dismounted and stood amidst a group of knights and soldiers closer to the broad steps that led to the tall, iron bound doors of the keep. Tangery and Alasdair spoke together, half way up the steps. No one seemed to be paying much heed at all to Yhalen. If it were not for the closed portcullis and the barred gates that took two men to close behind it, he might have easily slipped away from the yard, unseen and unnoticed. He was, after all, inconsequential compared to the half-ogre. A bargaining chip that had already spent its value, having gotten cooperation out of Bloodraven.
Cooperation, Yhalen thought, which would have been offered regardless, Bloodraven having had plans of his own to start with.
A hand skimmed his arm. The lady Duvera, silent as a cat despite the swing of her skirts.
“Wishing the gates open?” she asked. “There’s no forest to hide in within a reasonable distance.
They’d see you from the walls, and if an arrow didn’t take you in the back, they’d certainly ride you down before you could make shelter.”
Yhalen said nothing, chilled at the accuracy of her prediction. Both in what he’d been contemplating, as well as the probable results.
She laughed, walking away from him towards the group at the base of the steps. Another hand fell on Yhalen’s arm at a wave of her departing hand and her personal guard urged him forward. He shook off their hands indignantly, moving on his own. Simmering with temper that he’d not been so disregarded as he’d hoped and glaring at Duvera’s reed thin back with none too pleasant thoughts.
At the edge of the guard surrounding Bloodraven, Yhalen’s own escort halted, standing out of the way of the king’s guard. Over the heads of his own escort, Bloodraven canted his head, golden eyes flickering across Yhalen, and the corner of one side of his mouth twitched ever so slightly in what might have been satisfaction. Then the expression was gone, turned back to impassive stone as Alasdair clomped down the steps, making his way through the guard to stand before Bloodraven. He unlocked the manacles about Bloodraven’s wrists, and remained standing, recklessly close to the freed halfling, meeting the golden eyes and holding them with his own dark ones.
After a long moment, he said, “He does you a great honor in this meeting. Return it in kind.”
Simple words, but there was threat behind them. And the reasonable concern of a man charged with the safety of his king. There was little doubt that though he’d been freed of his chains, Alasdair and his men wouldn’t be remiss in their guardianship of him.
Bloodraven inclined his head, accepting the threat silently. Perhaps there was something in his 114
expression that satisfied the knight, for Sir Alasdair stepped back and gestured up the steps towards the doors of the keep. Bloodraven moved up the steps before the guards surrounding him did, but they were only a step behind, and Bloodraven only a step below Alasdair as they climbed towards where Tangery waited. A guard pulled one of the great doors open and the shadows and cool of the stone castle beckoned.
This keep lacked the strained opulence of Keis. Perhaps it was the absence of a woman’s touch. It was certainly not barren. Two stout pieces of oaken furniture flanked the doorway inside the entrance hall, obviously utilitarian in providing a place for cloaks, hats and filthy boots. Beyond the stunted rectangular entrance hall stood a longer, taller great hall with two arched stone portals leading to rooms along each side. A larger arched portal led to another large chamber at the far end. Tapestries softened the walls somewhat, their colors earthen and vibrant, showing scenes of the hunt and of battle. A masculine choice, most assuredly. There were two great hearths on opposite walls in the center of the hall and tables pushed up along the side walls, clearing the central part of the rush-covered floor.
They were halfway down the hall, when a group of men entered it from the last side doorway to the right—two knights accompanied by two men without armor. A hand on Yhalen’s shoulder halted his progress—not one of Duvera’s men, but one of Alasdair’s stone-faced soldiers. Tangery strode ahead of the others, holding out a hand for greeting and grasping the palm of one of the unarmed men in a sturdy handshake. That man put a hand on Tangery’s shoulder familiarly as they exchanged words.
It was clear enough, even from half a hall’s distance, that these two shared blood. It was cleaved into their angular features, though the other was obviously older. Leaner, with lines of worry or stress graven into skin of his face. He wore no crown or circlet of kingship, no outlandishly elaborate tunic or vest, but there was a certain subtle regality to him. An air of quiet authority that drew every eye in the hall towards him. The King of Suthland.
The king moved forward, Tangery at his side and his two personal guards a step behind. Alasdair’s men stood, a protective barrier between their liege lord and their halfling prisoner that waited with hands on weapon hilts, ready for any slightest hint of aggression.
The king wasn’t as blatantly daring as Sir Alasdair, and stopped, content for the moment with the wall of flesh and bone between himself and Bloodraven. He studied Bloodraven and Bloodraven returned the blunt appraisal, unflinching.
“I’m counseled that this meeting is sheerest folly,” King Valeran said, though whether he spoke to his brother Tangery, who stood at his side or Bloodraven, Yhalen was unsure.
“I’ve been counseled the same.” Bloodraven’s voice only just reached Yhalen’s hearing, so softly did he speak. “But circumstance has seen to put me here, so the fates must smile upon this folly, King of Men.”
The corner of Valeran’s mouth twitched. He canted his head and spoke softly to Tangery, then turned on his heel and strode back towards the room he’d entered from. Tangery’s voice reached the entirety of the hall when he bellowed, “It’s been a long, hard ride for those of us from Keis. We’ll break our fast and catch our wind before more serious matters are attended to.”
There was a subtle release of breath. Men moved to undertake the task of pulling out tables from against the wall. Yhalen, for once, was quite keen on getting to Bloodraven’s side, desperately curious to discover the exact nature of his maneuverings. No one stopped him, but he had no time for talk as Alasdair and a group of his men led Bloodraven through one of the portals on the left and down a small hall. Bloodraven had no problem clearing the main portal out, but the door to the room Alasdair led them required him to bend to enter, where they found themselves in a small, private dining room with a stout oaken table and thick padded benches. The kitchens must have been close by, for the smell of fresh bread and roasting meat wafted in the air.
“We’ll eat here, and then water will be brought to wash off the dust of the road before we see his majesty again.”
With Sir Alasdair and five guardsmen in the room, there was little enough privacy for conversation of a delicate nature. Bloodraven moved about the chamber unmolested, but under the watchful eye of his guard. His large fingers skimmed the back of a chair against one wall, the top of which was carved with images of bounding hounds. He paused for a long moment, contemplating, it seemed, the simple carving on the back of a chair.
“What do you expect to gain here?”
Yhalen edged to his side, lowering his head so that the loose hair at his temples fell and obscured his 115
face. Some of the men in the room probably heard, but he was tired enough, and frustrated enough that it hardly mattered.
“Amazing, that your people put such effort into making art out of something as simple as a chair.”
“Yours don’t?”
Bloodraven chuckled softly. “Mine don’t. The hands of my folk are not so delicate, to render such elegance. Nor are they of a mind.” He held up his own hand, larger by far than Yhalen’s, but not so thick and clumsy as the hands of full-blooded ogres. “Those of us that might, have no luxury to waste on frivolous things.”
There was bitterness in his voice. Perhaps some hint of regret that made Yhalen draw his brows in curiosity. That Bloodraven had an eye for fine things, for art, somehow didn’t surprise him.
He was prevented from asking more by the arrival of food. Men in the livery of the king brought in bread, a kettle of thick stew rich with venison and vegetables, sharp cheese and fresh fruit. Simple fare, exquisitely prepared. The guards didn’t eat, ever vigilant and ever nervous in Bloodraven’s presence.
Bloodraven sat down with space to spare at the table, seemingly unaware that he was so avidly the center of attention. Sir Alasdair sat down opposite him, pouring himself a glass of golden mead.