The High King: Book Two of the 'Riothamus' trilogy (24 page)

Aran sniffed,
and to his dismay caught the unmistakable smell of snow in the
air.

“It’s going to
be an early winter,” he commented to Darven who was riding with the
banner at his shoulder.

The Wolf
Leader looked up and his nostrils flared, “Aye there is snow away
in the distance. Not here and not yet…I’d say the first snow
flurries are falling over Mount Solstice right now.”

Aran stared
ahead at the bleak grey sky and wished, not for the last time that
this campaign had taken place earlier in the season.

“Will it
hamper the fighting?” he asked at length.

Darven
shrugged, “It will be cold, slippery and damn uncomfortable.
However the Thakur picked this particular fight…it is certainly not
our doing.”

*

The grey
overcast had deepened by late afternoon, and the column was now
riding almost in semi-darkness. The mages had brought with them
some of the ever-burning lanterns of Glaive, however even these few
lights seemed to enhance the darkness rather than alleviate it.

“How far is
Haul East?” Aran asked of Captain Taran when the older man rode
forward to join the leaders. “If it’s still leagues away then we
should stop now while we can still see where we are going, and
there is light enough to make camp.”

The Captain of
the Guard peered ahead into the gloom and tried to discern the
distant township. Finally he shook his head in bewilderment.

“It’s almost
impossible to see in this murk my lord,” he said unhappily. “As
much as we’d all like hot baths and warm beds, I’d not risk a scout
for fear of him coming to grief on the road.”

“My lords…I
was born in this district.”

Aran turned
around to stare at a helmeted and hooded figure riding a weary
horse up from the ranks of the Guard.

“Aye man, have
you any idea where we are?” Taran asked twisting about in his
saddle.

Aran peered
through the heavy darkness, to finally recognise young Ban as the
speaker.

“Aye my
lords…we are barely half a league from Haul East.” He pointed
ahead, “You may not see it for the gloom, but there is a copse of
trees ahead. Directly after the copse the road swings to the
left…the town is a mere twenty minute ride after that.”

Aran smiled at
the young Guard, “Our thanks Ban. You have saved us a cold and
uncomfortable camp.” He turned to look ahead at the trees which he
could now make out, “Will there be accommodation enough for us?” he
asked.

Ban grinned
“Last time I came home, I noted three inns and taverns. Besides I
know most of the town, those who can’t be accommodated I’m sure
will be found beds and lodgings for the night with the local
families.”

“Then in that
case I only hope the Haulgard Legions did not come this way, else
we will be still camping out in this damp cold,” said Darven
resignedly.

“No fear of
that,” Captain Taran replied, “For I asked before we rode this
morning. They took the southern route through Helmsgard… we will
almost certainly have the town to ourselves.”

“Good!” Aran
said, turning his horse’s head to the road. “Let us be on our way,
this is as uncomfortable a night as I’ve known in a while. The
sooner we ride, the sooner we are warming our bones in front of a
fire.”

*

At first
glance Haul East seemed closed and shuttered against the cold and
the night, however Ban’s friendly face and voice soon had doors
opening, and with word quickly spreading that the king had ridden
in, hostels and inns were hurriedly readying rooms to accommodate
all the travellers.

The Trout may
not have been the finest of the inns of Haul East, but it came with
Ban’s recommendation, and Aran was pleased only to be seated on a
comfortable chair in front of a roaring fire. The warm friendliness
of the place was no illusion, and the creeping chill outside had
been long banished by the warm mulled wine and lashings of roast
duck and vegetables. Slipping off his boots, he wriggled his toes
in front of the fire, and for a moment wished never to leave. Leigh
was very like this place he mused, small and homely, and full of
honest, farming people. Although he was now the king, he knew that
he felt most at home in the small towns and with the ordinary,
everyday folk of the province.

“Looks like we
two will be bunking together my lord.”

Aran looked up
and smiled at Darven who took the opportunity to sit himself down
on a vacant seat near the fire.

“Seems we’ve
overstretched Haul East’s accommodation by our numbers and we will
all have to bunk two to a room.”

“That is no
problem,” he assured the Wolf Leader. You have my thanks for
arranging the accommodation. Did you find a bed for everyone?”

Darven nodded
and with a sigh, stretched out his long legs, “Eventually, although
we have had to put a few in with local families. Ban is of course
staying with his folks here. It was good luck having him knowing
the town. He did a lot to help ease the way with some of the more
obtuse locals.”

“I will thank
him tomorrow,” Aran replied, “And of Alissa? Did you find her a
room?”

Darven pulled
a face, “Aye, she is staying with Kiaia. These middle Andur towns
seem to be a lot more prudish about men and women sharing rooms.”
He stared regretfully down at his hands, “Only those who have the
marriage tattoo upon their hands are allocated rooms together.”

Aran grinned
and clasped his friend’s arm, “Cheer up. The girls will most likely
gossip together all night, and we men will sleep and try to ignore
each other’s snoring.”

“You
snore?”

Aran laughed,
“No, at least I don’t think so.” He laughed again, “However enough
of this. Have some of the mulled wine…it’s warm and sweet and has
done my chilled bones no end of good.”

*

With the inn
warm, and crowded with locals and the party from the north, the
inn-keeper and his workers soon recovered from the shock of the
royal invasion and immediately set to serving out heaped platters
of meat and vegetables, with the local mulled wine being a
favourite amongst all present. Soon a local harpist was roused out,
and set up beside the fire to entertain the gathering with local
songs and ballads. As soon as he put hands to his harp, the
background hum of conversation died away, and everyone strained to
hear the lilting melodies. Sitting back with mulled wine in hand
and feet propped up near the fire, Aran was feeling the most
content in days. For a while he could relax and forget that he was
a king leading an army to war. Forget the demands of power and
office. Forget even the constant presence of the sword and
Abilities. Cocooned within this haven of warmth, comradeship and
pleasant atmosphere, Aran for a while returned to the simple
country man he originally was.

“He’s a fine
harpist,” a voice murmured at his shoulder.

Aran half
turned and encountered the intent grey eyes of the Archmage.

“Aye Maran,”
Aran replied, “It’s been a while now since I’ve heard a skilled
bard and musician.”

“Should I ask
him if he would consent to be the king’s musician?” the Archmage
asked

Aran shook his
head, “What, and deprive these good people of their entertainer. No
I think not. Perhaps we should instead ask if he would like to
visit and play at Andur’s Keep for a week or two. I would guess
that it has been many generations since a harpist has played at the
great hall.”

“Not since
Queen Alicia’s reign,” replied Maran remembering. “I recollect that
she was very fond of music. There was always a welcome at court for
any travelling bard or musician. Aurac and Alexi were less fond of
music, and so the practice fell away, perhaps it would be good for
you to reinstate it.”

“We have to
get through this war first,” Aran said, his mind always turning
back to the practicality of the future. “However once we are though
fighting we might have leisure again to foster the arts. I would
very much like history to see me has a man of peace, not a soldier
king.”

Maran nodded,
“The war. Even here it is impossible to forget it.” He looked about
him at the fire, the musician, and the happy gathered crowd. “Yet
this is what we are fighting for,” the Archmage said softly, “Our
lives and the liberty of the province.”

Aran smiled a
grim smile, “So much we all take for granted. Yet you are right in
that. It’s not just the high and lofty ideals for which we fight,
but equally the small common and honest things as well, values and
ideals which the ordinary folk trust and believe in, ideals that we
must fight to keep our own.”

*

It did not
take long to rouse the men from their various inns and hostels, but
Aran stamping his feet against the early morning cold, wished only
to be already in the saddle and again on the road. Overnight
yesterday’s overcast had deepened, with the ominous threat of first
snowfalls for the season. Light, overnight rain too had succumbed
to the plummeting temperatures, and had quickly frozen upon the
ground, leaving the cobbled road covered with thin sheets of
treacherous ice. Aran, hunched into his fur-lined cloak, walked
carefully about the icy square and waited for his small army to
assemble.

“This weather
does not bode well for the war,” a distant voice floated clearly
into the still, freezing air.

“Aye…it is
shaping for a very early cold winter,” another said in reply.

“We have so
many Weathermages riding with us,” the first voice stated, “That
it’s a wonder that they don’t do something to improve the
situation.”

Aran stopped
his pacing at that and stared into the distance, trying to identify
the speakers.

‘That is
true,’ he thought to himself. ‘Surely the Glaive mages should be
able to break this early, unseasonable cold. Maran has himself said
that the Mages are along to aid the army…’ Aran immediately turned
mid-step to search out the Archmage.

*

“Oh aye, we
could certainly break this weather.” Maran was carefully adjusting
the girth strap on his mount. “But I ask you Lord…why should we?”
He gave the strap an extra pull and it tightened another notch.
Pulling it into place he straightened and looked up at his
king.

“We will be in
Leigh for the next night or two, and all of the army will by then
be under canvas,” the Archmage explained. “It would be foolish to
waste the magepower of the Weathermages so early on, when we will
need the fullest extent of their powers in the battles to
come.”

“The army will
travel much more easily if it is not so cold,” Aran replied
shortly, irritated that Maran had reckoned the plan foolish.
“Besides the roads are hard and icy, and the horses will slip and
lose their footing and we will lose many hours and imperil the
mounts.”

Maran stared
at the sky, “I may be Archmage lord, but under this white robe I am
still a Weathermage of Glaive. This bitter weather is driven by
masses of cold air which only days ago cast first season snowfalls
over the Trident Range.” He closed his eyes and his nostrils
flared, “There are a number of days of warmer weather following, I
can sense it behind the snow, but this cold will not yet break for
a week or two.”

Aran frowned,
“Then nothing can be done?”

Maran shook
his head, “To reduce the cold now would mean using our mages here.
Our power is not so great that we can heedlessly throw it away at
the first opportunity. We do not know what lies ahead of us that we
can afford to waste the mages now.”

“Very well,
you have made Glaive’s position clear,” Aran growled turning away
in some disgust. “I was only hoping to keep the army fresh for the
battles to come. I warn you now that we will soon have tired and
sickening horses and troops if they have to labour though all this
cold.”

“Then it will
have to be borne!” Maran replied with some asperity. “We have both
Healer and Earthmages who can attend to any illness or injury, but
I will
not
reduce the power of the Weathermages when it is
not necessary.”

Aran’s face
was set hard as he walked away towards his men, his mind filled
with the now familiar hard anger. The Archmage stared after the
young king and shook his head in perplexion. Every day Arantur
seemed to be growing ever more like the long dead Warleader Andur.
Casting back through his long memories, Maran recalled times when
that same cold, hard look would fill his father’s face, and
everyone from the highest to the lowest of the court would walk
quietly about the King. Maran too was not wholly immune from the
Andurian temper, however years and mage-training had tempered and
controlled it, until it only was revealed in the most trying of
circumstances. However Arantur was young and new to his kingship,
and as much as his previous life had taught him a peasants’
stoicism, the Andurian blood was in him and it seemed that the same
temper was beginning to reveal itself.

Maran
shrugged, centuries before he had endured his father’s outbursts.
Now it seemed that he would have to weather new ones from Andur’s
descendant. Shaking his head at the strangeness of it all, Maran
only hoped that Arantur had enough sense in his young head to
realise that Glaive was his friend, not his enemy, and that the
decisions that seemed so unfair now, in the fullness of time would
be understood to be the correct ones after all…

*

The
uncompromisingly grey day did not improve, but grew only duller
with the clouds lying heavily overhead, increasingly threatening
snow. A westerly wind had quickly picked up; a wind that blew loose
secured cloaks and hats, and reduced the temperature of the day to
a bone numbing few degrees above freezing. For the first hour of
the morning, the horses slid and slew their way across the town’s
icy roads, each step threatening injury to either horse or rider.
Finally Aran ordered the column off the road until the day warmed
enough to melt the ice.