Exile to the Stars (The Alarai Chronicles) (22 page)

Jeff
heaved an internal sigh of relief when the young man who had taken his sword
hurried into the room, saluted and laid it on the desk. Shaking his head ever
so slightly, the trooper saluted again and marched from the room.

The
guard captain withdrew the saber and examined the scrollwork on the blade. “I
am Rengeld, Captain and Commander of the City Guard. Tell me why I should not
hang you.”

Expecting
something along that line, Jeff took a few moments to study Rengeld. About
thirty-five or forty, he decided, and hard as nails. No bluster, no dummy, one
serious honcho.

“I
journey south hoping to find a mercenary unit that needs recruits,” Jeff stated
with an elaborate shrug. “The last bunch nearly got me killed, so we headed
north to rest up and winter over. That fool by the gate would have forced us
over the embankment. My horse might have broken a leg. He’s worth a better end
than that.”

“Ah,
yes. Morgat. Every captain must have at least one like him to complicate life.”
Rengeld put the saber down and locked eyes with Jeff. “While your desire to
collect a little booty and remain alive while doing so strikes a note I am
acquainted with, there are aspects of your person and arrival that I find
intriguing.” He leaned over the desk with narrowed eyes. “Although I have
served in this position for many years, you are the first ‘mercenary’ to enter
Rugen from the north in that time.

“Now,
I ask myself, is this not strange? I was many things before becoming guard
captain and traveled this country widely in my youth. But not to the north. The
yellow-hairs do not welcome travelers from the south, and few return who choose
to test their hospitality. Furthermore, these ears have never encountered such
outlandish accent.”

Holding
the saber out at arm’s length, Rengeld gazed along the blade and tested the
balance. With no more than a gentle push he shaved a thick splinter from the
edge of his desk.

“Well,
now. And this is a mercenary’s sword?” He shook a finger at Jeff and laughed.
Dry and rasping, there was no humor in it. “Oh no, my friend. A good tale, but
one, withal, lacking credit. Now come, tell me of your homeland, your people
and your sword.” Rengeld rested his boots on the desk and looked at Jeff with
the smile of one ready to be amused.

Maintaining
a bland expression, Jeff thought, Now what? He was about to answer with a quick
fabrication when Rengeld held his hand up.

“Do
not bother—I tire of this game. There is only one people with whom you and this
weapon belong, and none have been reported or rumored for over fifty years.
When they were last abroad, so was war. Once again the suspicion of war looms
large and what am I confronted with? The Redhairs of myth return.”

I
don’t believe this, Jeff thought with amazement. The Alarai again. Has to be!
Before he could get his thoughts together for a reply, Rengeld continued.

“You
are most fortunate that I am a student of history. Had you encountered anyone
else, you would already be dead or in our dungeon’s darkest cell.”
 

“I
am no more than stated,” Jeff ventured. “I have no…”

Rengeld
slammed his fist on the desk. “Let us be done with tall tales! What is your
mission and intent?”

Thinking
furiously, Jeff reevaluated Rengeld. Here’s a man who seems to have no brute
stupidity about him, and of all things is interested in history! Every
historian I’ve known would go to any length to gather unpublished information,
everything else be damned. If he is a student of history, killing me will be
the last thing on his mind. The odds of meeting such a person right off are
dicey, but what choice do I have?

Before
attempting a reply, Jeff toyed with phrasing. Although the language was similar
to the Northman’s tongue in structure, it was much more formal in usage.

“Too
rarely do I meet by choice or happenstance with men who understand the
importance of history in our daily lives. Yes I am of the Redhairs, but have
long been separated from their company wandering strange lands.” And that’s no
joke, he thought wryly.

“Urged
south by powerful circumstances that defy comprehension, I seek to discover if
the broodings and misgivings that consume me are true: that war once again
reaches out in an attempt to crush the North. I have been sent. I am here.”

Silence
settled over the room along with evening shadow as the men matched wills and
strove to auger intent and integrity. Neither gave an inch. The silence
continued until it seemed to permeate the small room. An orderly entered and
lighted tallow candles set in wall sconces. The orange light they gave off
succeeded only in adding to the tension already present.

Rengeld
abruptly let his feet clump to the floor and stood up. “For now, you are my
guest. You will remain so until this matter is resolved.” With that he left the
room.

Jeff
was escorted to a small cell on the second floor and his wrists cut free. The
door to the cell boomed shut and was audibly locked. Later, a small hatch at
the bottom of the door briefly flipped open to admit a platter of food.

The
night seemed to stretch on forever. Unable to sleep, Jeff restlessly paced the
room.

“Well,
at least they didn’t find the Colt. So far. Thank God Rengeld has my sword and
not some scumbag like Morgat.”

He
examined the cell but found little that would encourage thoughts of escape
unless he used the Colt to blast the lock. Reaching out with his mind, Jeff
located Cynic’s thought pattern.

“Are
you well cared for, old horse?”

His
call was rewarded by a mental snort of disdain.
“The stable is clean, the
hay may be eaten, the horses stupid.”

“We
may have to depart in haste. Be prepared.”

“When
it is time, call me. I will leave.”

Jeff
signed off for the night feeling much better. “That’s my boy!”

Shortly
after dawn, Jeff resumed pacing. Breakfast of sorts was poked through the door,
serving to break the tedium if not the anxiety. He was chewing the last
mouthful when a bugle sounded an urgent call.

“That
has got to be reveille.” Jeff hurried over to the barred window.

Foot
soldiers came running from the barracks. Some were still dressing; others
stumbled along holding their heads, apparently suffering from too much
celebration the night before. Jeff heard shouts and tramping from the stable
area. Turning his head in that direction, he saw a line of horses emerge lead
by grooms.

Attempting
to mount, one trooper fell backward and sprawled in the dirt accompanied by a
chorus of catcalls. Squads slowly formed and the mounted contingent got
themselves in their saddles. Another bugle call and an officer read the Orders
of the Day, followed by dismissal.

Stretched
out on the straw pallet that served as a bed, hands behind his head, Jeff
reviewed what he had witnessed. He shook his head emphatically.

“They
wouldn’t last fifteen minutes against a Roman force half their size. Some
discipline, but still more of a rabble than an organized military unit. There
is no way this bunch could be Gurthwin’s Iron-shirts.”

Jeff
was considering the implications when a key grinding in the lock abruptly
interrupted his train of thought. Rengeld pushed the door open and strode into
the cell. There were dark circles under his eyes and fatigue lines on his face,
but no evidence of sloppiness in his dress or carriage.

A
sardonic smile brushing his lips, Rengeld said, “I trust you had a restful
night?”

Disdaining
to address the obvious, Jeff got to his feet and did no more than levelly meet
Rengeld’s eyes.

“You
must know that our conversation of yestereve led me to solitary pursuits for
the balance of the night in search of the truth in this matter. As a
consequence, there is a man who wishes to converse with you. Prepare yourself
at once.” Rengeld snapped his fingers. An orderly brought Jeff’s saddlebags and
sword into the cell. “I trust you will find your belongings intact.”

Well
now, Jeff thought with great relief as he hurried after Rengeld. Progress!
Getting my sword back is a big step in the right direction. Saddling Cynic took
only a few minutes and they trotted into the city.

Narrow
streets widened as they moved deeper into Rugen. In addition, buildings were
cleaner and showed evidence of regular upkeep. Jeff saw no women, but men were
emerging from doorways in a steady stream. A heavy-paneled door swung open
nearby. A burly man leaped out in a vain attempt to catch it. The door crashed
against the wall drawing loud criticism from inside.

A
passerby stuck his head into the open doorway with a wide grin on his face.
“Have peace, Helda. Your husband is a lout, but a well-intentioned lout.”

Arms
thrust out, sending the man stumbling back. A rosy-cheeked woman in her
thirties stepped out into the street trying to look angry but laughing instead.

“Take
you care, Reggie. Lout he may be, but withal mine to hold.”

The
man in question swung a friendly blow at Reggie and they ambled down the street
in close conversation. Rengeld had drawn ahead while Jeff observed the
exchange. Chuckling under his breath, he gave Cynic some slack to catch up.

“These
folks seem so much happier than those I saw yesterday. Nothing of the serf
mentality about them.” Jeff nodded firmly. “Got to be freemen—maybe in the
trades and crafts—and that means a middle class.”

The
residential district rambled on for some time before the street, now quite
narrow again, wound up a hill in hairpin switchbacks. The hill was so steep and
the street so narrow, no more than steps chiseled out of living stone, that the
men dismounted to lead their horses. A pocket garden occupied the peak of the
hill and Jeff stopped to take in the view. Rengeld tied his horse to a bench
and joined him.

“A
most lovely view of Rugen, Captain.”

Rengeld
did not respond but also made no attempt to hurry Jeff away.

It
was a humid morning and moisture softened early sunlight into a misty glow,
lending an impressionistic sense to buildings that rambled over lower hills.
Jeff followed the course of the Vana River as it cut through the city in broad
curves. Even though shops and residences crowded the banks, he could see
slender boats plying the river. At other points boats queued up abreast waiting
their turn to pass under bridges that swooped across the Vana in high arches. A
round lake of good size surrounded by wooded parkland occupied a central
location.

The
air was still, allowing smoke from brick chimneys to rise straight up with
delicate whorls until the columns dissipated, forming a bluish disk. To Jeff,
it seemed he was suspended in a childhood fairy tale. Rengeld indicated it was
time to leave by unhitching his horse.

As
they descended, the homes gave way to a district of shops that seethed with
activity. Broom-wielding men and boys were sweeping debris away from shop
fronts while calling greetings to other shop owners doing the same thing. Jeff
caught a flash of reflected sunlight. He reined Cynic closer to the shop that
had drawn his attention.

“Well,
son of a gun,” he blurted out. “Glass, and good-sized panes at that. Not
distortion-free by a long shot, but still pretty damn good. Now that takes some
know-how.”

Rengeld
frowned over at Jeff. “You appear quite taken with amazement, but I fear I am
unable to comprehend your speech.”

“Please
forgive my rudeness. Yes, I am so captivated by Rugen that my native tongue
asserted itself.” Jeff waved an arm around, its sweep taking in the array of
shops and noisy crowd. “A most industrious scene.”

“Industrious,
but also troubling.”

Searching
in the direction Rengeld was pointing, Jeff saw two men flailing away at each
other with their fists. Look like drunks, he concluded. He noticed a sign
displaying a beer barrel suspended above the brawl and shook his head. Yep, has
to be a tavern. Lord, some things never change no matter which planet you’re
on.

Bushy
eyebrows coming together in a scowl, Rengeld urged his horse to the tavern side
of the street and spurred him into a trot. The crowd cheering on the drunks
scattered with cries of warning. Rengeld’s horse plowed into the men and sent
them sprawling. One of the drunks staggered to his feet with dirk in hand.
Reining his horse around, Rengeld stared down at the man.

Hardly
able to stand, the drunk seemed to be having a hard time focusing on Rengeld.
He was wearing a filthy smock caked with what looked like dried vomit. The
man’s rheumy eyes popped wide open.

“Run
fer it, Herk! It’s tha guard!”

Herk
wobbled to his feet and both took to their heels. Unable to resist temptation,
a bystander stuck a foot out to send one crashing to the cobblestones. Rengeld
stood up in the stirrups as the man scrambled away on all fours.

“Disperse
at once. This event is closed.”

Rengeld
glared around until the crowd scattered, growled something under his breath,
and nudged his horse into motion. As they continued on their way, Jeff was
convinced he saw Rengeld’s lips twitch into what might have been a smile.