by R. S. Ford
At one point a troop of soldiers passed them by, their livery showing a golden lion upon a red field. Ermund stood to the side of the road to let them pass, and Ctenka followed his lead.
‘King Stellan’s men,’ Ermund told him, as the knights rode their powerful-looking steeds down the road.
They were an impressive sight. Ctenka had heard of the heavily armoured warriors of the Suderfeld, but only in stories. He had to admit they were more fearsome in the flesh and he took some solace in the fact they now travelled in protected lands.
When finally they reached the city of Northold it stood at the eastern side of a wide, fast-flowing river. A great feat of engineering had seen the river diverted via a tributary that enclosed the city’s western half, creating a moat to protect the entire perimeter.
Surrounding the city for miles was a wide flat plain interspersed with the occasional copse of trees. This was beautiful country, that Ctenka could not deny, but it did nothing to allay his sense of foreboding as he approached the city. The further he made his way through the beautiful green fields the more he yearned for the arid landscape of his home.
‘A veritable fortress city,’ Ctenka said as they made their way over a wide stone bridge that led to Northold’s eastern gate. ‘Doesn’t rival Kantor for its magnificence, but I’m sure it would be as difficult to besiege.’ His eyes were drawn up the sheer stone walls surrounding the city on every side.
‘It’s the greatest city in Canbria,’ Ermund replied. ‘A hub for trade throughout Suderfeld. Before the War of Three Crowns merchants came from beyond the Ebon Sea exchanging silk and wine for steel and wool. Now the war is over I’m sure it will have returned to those days of prosperity.’
At the other side of the bridge stood the main gate. It rivalled any of the gates of Dunrun for its size and splendour, two great stone warriors flanking it on either side. The pair weren’t challenged as they made their way in, and Ctenka found himself holding his breath at the opulence that might await them.
He needn’t have bothered.
The first thing that hit Ctenka was the smell – pig shit mixed with rotting vegetables – which almost made him gag. The second was something flung by a street urchin. Ctenka ducked, then stared angrily at the little shit as he ran by, chasing a mangy cat that he was clearly never going to catch.
No sooner had they started along the street than Ctenka was ankle deep in mud, though from the smell there was likely a fair amount of dung mixed into it. To strike a contrast with the impenetrable walls that surrounded the city, the dwellings within looked dilapidated to the last, crumbling wood and brick holding up roofs of chipped slate and unkempt straw.
Ctenka looked at Ermund. ‘Mmm, those days of prosperity really do look just around the corner.’
Ermund stared about him as though he barely recognised the place. ‘Even in the darkest days of the war, Northold never looked this bad.’ He moved aside as someone walked by, coughing their lungs up, face riddled with pox. ‘I don’t understand how Stellan has let the place fall to such ruin.’
‘Well I don’t know about you, but my legs are killing me from the walk and I’m parched. Any chance we can stop at an inn before you reacquaint yourself with this King Stellan, who may or may not be pleased to see us?’
Ctenka was surprised when Ermund nodded in agreement. He was even more surprised when Ermund began asking passers-by where they could find the most expensive hostelry in the city.
They made their way through the streets until they eventually found the place – the Gorgon’s Rest. It wasn’t the palace Ctenka had been expecting, but considering the state of the rest of Northold he was sure it would do.
When they walked inside Ermund asked for two rooms and a bath for each of them, slapping enough coin in the innkeeper’s hand to keep the pair of them fed and watered for the next week.
‘Where were you hiding that?’ Ctenka asked, before they were led to the bathhouse.
‘Let’s just say our stay is courtesy of Tarlak Thurlow.’
Ctenka stifled a laugh. Clearly Ermund had found more than weapons and supplies when he’d been ransacking the bandit corpses. Ctenka could only wonder what other secrets his friend was keeping.
The two met up again when they had bathed. Ermund suggested they would make a better impression if their uniforms were cleaned and the innkeeper had arranged for a washerwoman to launder their attire.
‘Might be worth having a quick drink while our clothes dry,’ suggested Ctenka, and once again he was taken aback when Ermund agreed. It was as though his usually taciturn friend had changed into a different man, and it was good to see he’d taken the flagpole out of his arse for once.
They drank well into the night, and Ermund was more comfortable than Ctenka had ever seen him. When a band of minstrels entered the inn and regaled them with a tune or five, Ermund even began tapping his foot and throwing coins at them like he was a prince of the realm.
Ctenka took to his bed feeling sated and happy, but the following morning saw him cursing the foul southern ale for the bastard it was. When he managed to materialise from his chamber, head fuddled and stomach churning, Ermund was already waiting, fully dressed. Some things didn’t change.
The two of them made their way across the city to Stellan’s palace. It leered over the rest of Northold like an oppressive bully, and the closer they came the more Ctenka’s nerve began to falter. He looked to Ermund for reassurance, but his friend’s previous good mood seemed to have withered overnight. Now the southerner’s face was set with his usual grimness, stone-jawed and heavy-browed.
They reached the palace gates. Where the entrance to the city had been open, here it was heavily guarded by more men bearing the golden lion livery of Stellan’s knights. Ermund walked forward, holding himself imperiously. Ctenka knew his friend usually had a noble bearing but here he somehow seemed to hold even more authority.
‘We seek audience with the king,’ he announced to the guard. ‘We are envoys from the court of Kantor, beseeching aid.’
‘The king sees no one,’ said one of the guards when Ermund had barely finished his entreaty.
‘What do you mean the king sees no one? Stellan invites audience from anyone who needs help. He always has.’
The guard shook his head. ‘Not now he doesn’t.’
‘Is he taken ill?’ Ermund seemed nonplussed at the rebuttal.
The guards fell silent, glancing at one another as though they didn’t know quite what to say. Then one of them walked forward. He had the look of a commander about him though his dress was the same as the rest of the guard.
‘King Stellan has given orders that no one is to be allowed into the palace. If you need to make any petitions I can take a name and arrange for you to speak with his counsellor.’
‘His counsellor?’ Ermund was growing annoyed, and Ctenka could sense the rising unease. ‘Stellan needs no counsellor. Tell him…’ Ermund paused, as though reluctant to give a name. ‘I must speak with Stellan himself.’
‘It’s his counsellor or nothing.’ The guard seemed to be growing impatient.
Ctenka took Ermund’s arm. ‘Maybe we should come back another time. When it’s more convenient?’ He half expected Ermund to shake him off and begin railing at the guard, but instead the veteran took a step back as though defeated. Silently he turned and walked away from the palace gate. All Ctenka could do was follow.
They made their way back to the inn in silence, Ctenka not daring to ask what they would do next. When Ermund ordered a flagon for them, Ctenka didn’t complain. They sat at a table and Ctenka watched as Ermund downed his drink before quickly refilling it. Had his friend forgotten the urgency of their mission?
‘We should try again tomorrow,’ Ermund said finally.
‘You heard what they said. We should leave our names and meet with the king’s counsellor.’
‘No. I have to see the king. It has to be Stellan. I have to tell him…’
Ctenka waited for Ermund
to finish but instead his friend drank more ale, gulping it down like he was dying of thirst. Ctenka had never seen him so much as smell alcohol before, and this new side of him was becoming a concern. Not that Ctenka was averse to getting shitfaced, but they had a job to do, and Ermund was supposed to be the responsible one.
‘What is it between the two of you?’ Ctenka asked. ‘Why don’t you just tell me what the fuck is going on?’
Before Ermund could answer, the door burst inwards. A dozen knights in red rushed inside, swords already drawn, and Ermund stood slowly to greet them.
‘There he is,’ said the guard Ermund had spoken to earlier at the gate. ‘I knew I recognised him.’
From behind the knights came a solitary, unarmed figure. She was slender, walking with the regal splendour of a queen. Her hair hung in black tresses, dark piercing pupils set in her jade eyes. Ctenka was hard pressed to remember when he had seen a more beautiful woman. She rivalled even Queen Suraan.
‘Hello, Harlaw,’ she said, a wry smile teasing the corner of her mouth. ‘It’s been a long time.’
Ermund did not respond.
‘Who?’ said Ctenka. ‘Ermund, who is this? And who the fuck is Harlaw?’
‘Throw down your weapons,’ said the commander of the knights. ‘No one has to get hurt.’
Ctenka could see Ermund tighten his grip on his sword, knuckles whitening.
‘Are we fighting?’ Ctenka asked, hoping against hope they weren’t about to die here in this shitty inn.
‘No,’ Ermund said. ‘Just…’ He stared at the woman who had called him Harlaw. ‘Just put it down.’
When Ermund dropped his own weapon, Ctenka did the same.
As the knights came forward to secure them both in chains, Ermund pleaded with the woman, ‘Selene, let him go. He has no part in this.’
That smile never left her lips. ‘He was a part of this as soon as you brought him here,’ she replied.
As they were dragged from the inn, questions clamoured in Ctenka’s head. If Ermund never told him anything else in his short life, Ctenka was damned sure he owed him an explanation for this.
HARLAW
I
IT was an old keep, some wreck from the Age of Penitence. Duke Harlaw didn’t even know the name of it, but names didn’t matter right now. All that mattered was it served its purpose. The building hunkered at the apex of the three kingdoms of the Suderfeld. Neutral territory. Or at least that’s what he hoped.
They sat in the only room that was still held up by four walls. There were five of them, each sworn enemies, shut in around a table of rotten wood. Their knights and bannermen were outside and Harlaw could only hope that this business was concluded before someone tried to settle an old score, inside the keep as well as out.
Harlaw was at the head of the table, but that was only fitting since he was the one who had arranged the meeting. It had been hard for him to persuade King Stellan that it was time for talks, let alone the four envoys who had come to attend. This was a risk. But then the War of Three Crowns would never end unless someone took a risk. The chance for peace, to end the slaughter, was a slim one but worth it.
To his immediate left sat Clydus, consul of King Ozric and his father Leonfric before him. It was no secret the old goat was the real power in Eldreth. He was a wizened skeleton of a man, who reminded Harlaw of the stories he’d been told of the Crown Sorcerers of old. Harlaw could well believe the man held Ozric under some kind of enchantment, but everyone knew there was no magic in these lands anymore. Clydus’ power was in his poisoned words, not in any sorcery he might spew from his wrinkled lips.
On Harlaw’s right was Manssun Rike, champion to King Banedon of Arethusa. He was a hulking brute, arms wrapped in iron bands and tattoos, face a mass of scars. His red hair and braided beard were as fiery as his temper, and it had taken all Harlaw’s powers of persuasion to make him leave his huge broadsword outside the room. Not that it would stop him killing everyone here if the mood took him.
Beyond those two was even more trouble – two individuals Harlaw hated more than anyone. They represented the real reason the War of Three Crowns had lasted so long.
Mercenaries.
Castor Drummon was a lithe snake, all sinew and leer. His right hand drummed on the chipped wood of the table, restless now it no longer held the knife he used to constantly pick at his teeth. He was leader of the most ruthless mercenary company in the Suderfeld and had spent the past year harrying counties in Canbria at the behest of King Ozric. Of everyone at the table he was the one Harlaw would have most liked to see hanged at the end of a rope, but this was not a time for settling scores. Harlaw had to remember that.
Beside Castor was an equally lean woman, head shaved at the sides showing faded tattoos in concentric patterns around her head. Maud Levar sat in silence but she was likely the most dangerous of them all. Her mercenary company had fought for all three kingdoms over the course of the war and she held no loyalty to anyone. Harlaw suspected she would rather have slaughtered every man here than see peace prevail in the Suderfeld, but her company was the largest of them all. If Harlaw had to persuade anyone that reconciliation was the answer then it was her.
‘King Stellan wishes peace in the Suderfeld,’ said Harlaw. There was no point dancing around it. ‘There must be an end to this slaughter.’
‘I’m sure he does,’ Clydus replied, his croaky voice grating on Harlaw’s nerves like a knife on a mirror. ‘He is losing this war.’
‘We are all losing this war,’ Harlaw replied, desperate to keep his own temper in check. ‘How much has King Ozric wasted in coin and corpses over the past year alone? There will be no winners at the end of this. Only a kingdom of dirt and bones.’
‘So what does he suggest?’ said Manssun Rike, rumbling voice resounding through the small chamber. ‘A truce? We tried that once. You’re old enough to remember the Treaty of Iron. And how did that end?’
‘So we must try again,’ said Harlaw. ‘A new treaty. Stronger than iron. One we are all committed to.’
Manssun laughed. ‘And built on what? The last time the kingdoms united it was to fight a common enemy. Once that enemy was defeated the three kings were at one another’s throats again. We have no common enemy now. Only a common hatred.’
‘Then we must set that hatred aside,’ Harlaw insisted. ‘Unite the realms by other means than war.’
‘By what means, exactly?’ asked Clydus. Harlaw had a feeling the old bastard already suspected what the solution would be.
‘Stellan has sons. Ozric and Banedon have daughters. Join the three kingdoms by marriage and this hatred ends in a family united under a single banner.’
Manssun slammed his meaty hand on the table and Harlaw heard the wood crack under the blow. ‘So Stellan’s heir is the one who becomes king of the Suderfeld? And you expect King Banedon to accept such an arrangement?’
‘There can be no unity in the Suderfeld as long as three different kings rule. It is time to end this destructive feud.’
‘By handing Stellan’s line the key to the three kingdoms,’ said Clydus, his voice dripping with contempt.
Harlaw opened his mouth to argue that all three lines would inherit a single realm, when he was cut off by another voice.
‘And where do we fit into all this?’ Castor Drummon spoke quietly but it still silenced the room. ‘I have a host of bastard heirs. Will you offer one of them a crown?’
Harlaw had already anticipated this, but had hoped to broker the offer from a position of unity with Clydus and Manssun. His position was now weak but he had to try anyway.
‘You will all be compensated handsomely for a cessation in hostilities. The mercenary captains will each be offered manses and a generous stipend for retiring their companies.’
‘Paid for by whom?’ Castor asked. ‘I doubt Stellan’s coffers will stretch to compensating every company in the Suderfeld.’
‘The three kingdoms will contribute,’ Harlaw replied. ‘Each king wil
l donate an equal share.’
There was a moment of silence before Clydus and Manssun began as one, berating Harlaw for his idea, accusing him of trying to rob their kings of both coin and crown.
‘Enough!’ This time it was Harlaw’s turn to slam a fist on the table, only there was no crack of wood. ‘Those are the terms I suggest. Return to your liege lords and give them the offer.’
Manssun rose to his feet, chair falling back with a clatter. ‘King Banedon would rather gut Stellan’s heir than see his only daughter wed to that cow-eyed cunt. As for paying mercenaries for peace, the armies of Arethusa will ride over their bones before they see a single piece of gold.’
Maud Levar was next to rise, and Harlaw saw the glint of a dagger in her hand. They had all been checked for weapons before they entered the room – someone would pay for their lack of diligence.
‘You want to try and ride over my bones, you ugly fucker?’ she said.
Clydus and Castor likewise rose to their feet. The old man already had the blade of a punch dagger protruding from between his knobbly digits. Could no one check for weapons these days?
Everyone was shouting at once as Harlaw gently pushed his own chair back. They were still in the throes of screaming at one another as he opened the door to the chamber and walked out, taking a deep breath of the fresh evening air. Of everyone gathered, he knew best the smell of defeat when he tasted it.
Warriors still milled around the courtyard, every one turning expectantly as he appeared, and Harlaw took some solace in the fact that none of them seemed ready to start a fight. Sir Arlis sat astride his horse, waiting patiently.
‘Let’s get out of here,’ Harlaw said as he mounted his own white steed.
As they made their way from the courtyard, Harlaw could still hear the sound of argument pealing from within the old keep.
‘Things not go to plan?’ asked Sir Arlis, as they made their way down the long road to Northold.
‘You could say that,’ Harlaw replied, as they were joined by yet more of his knights. He took some comfort in seeing their familiar red eagle livery.
