by Peter Wacht
The fortress had a rather simple design, with four corner towers made of stone connected to a thirty-foot-high wall constructed from the stoutest trees in the Highlands. A ditch filled with wooden spikes surrounded the fort, with just enough space between the two to allow his soldiers to shoot anyone foolish enough to come too close. Within the compound stood Killeran’s private quarters, barracks for his soldiers and the slave pens.
“It’s about time,” said Killeran angrily. “What took you so long? The trip is no more than a day from the border.”
“He was late arriving at the border, my lord,” said Oclan, wary of Killeran’s temper. Many had lost their heads during one of Killeran’s moods, and Oclan did not want to join them.
“Late. Late! If that bastard thought to slight me by—” Killeran gained control of his anger. A tall man had just exited the forest, followed by half a dozen of his own men and twenty of Killeran’s reivers. He rode on a tall, black horse with the confidence of someone accustomed to the saddle. For all his wealth, the man wore nondescript black riding leathers. The sharp eyes and intelligence could not be missed, though, and his baldness accentuated it. He resembled a hawk in search of prey.
“Good morning, Norin,” said Killeran, putting on his most winning smile. “I trust your journey was comfortable?”
Norin Dinnegan looked down contemptuously at the man standing before him in gleaming silver armor, a white cloak draped from his shoulders. He had dealt with men like Johin Killeran before, men who craved what he had.
“Killeran,” said Dinnegan, nodding perfunctorily. The tall man jumped down from his horse, then walked past Killeran and into the compound. “I don’t have time for pleasantries. Let’s get down to business.”
Killeran trotted after Dinnegan, his face turning an angry red. The man had the nerve to upstage him in his own fortress? When Killeran caught up to Dinnegan, he turned him in the direction of his personal quarters, a large cabin set apart from the others. Killeran watched Dinnegan out of the corner of his eye, taking in everything he could. He took some satisfaction when Dinnegan slipped to one knee because of the mud that prevailed throughout the inner compound. With the number of men and horses traveling through the area, even in the dry season the mud survived. Killeran detested it. He did not belong in this outland fort. He belonged in a palace of his own.
As Dinnegan regained his feet with Killeran’s help, ignoring the mud on his knee, he glimpsed a structure standing in the middle of the fort.
“What’s that?”
“What?” asked Killeran, his attention diverted for a brief moment by the return of one of his raiding parties, again with little to show for it. The twenty reivers churned up the mud even more as they led their weary mounts to the stables. Once again, they had failed to bring in new workers. Those Highlanders were a slippery lot. You could be standing right next to one up in the higher passes, and you wouldn’t even know it. He’d have to talk to Oclan about that. His supply of workers was getting low. If he didn’t find some more soon, he’d have to cut his production. And that was something he couldn’t afford to do.
“That, man! What is that?”
Killeran followed where Dinnegan pointed. “That is what happens when you try to escape from the mines.” His tone was one of boredom. In the center of the compound stood a large wooden pole that rose thirty feet into the air. Another pole crossed at its top. A man hung from the structure by ropes attached at each end of the horizontal pole to his wrists. Dirt and grime covered his body, as well as blood. It did not look as if the Highlander had much longer to live, yet he still smiled. “He tried to escape a few days ago. He actually made it over the palisade, but he didn’t go much further after a few arrows found him. It’s rather common really, the Highlanders trying to escape. We string up anyone who tries, and it usually helps to cow them for a few days.”
“And then?” Dinnegan was slightly sickened by the sight before him, yet a part of him was fascinated by it. He had ordered the murders of many of his competitors during the years. It was something that he had to do from time to time, viewing it as simply another aspect of doing business. At least that’s how he saw it. His victims were nothing more than obstacles to be removed.
“Then they try again. They’re a stubborn lot, these Highlanders. They don’t learn very quickly.”
Dinnegan mumbled noncommittally as he walked past Killeran into the large cabin. The door opened to an audience chamber. The remainder of the building was Killeran’s personal quarters. A finely woven carpet of green covered the floor and a dozen colorful tapestries hung from the walls. Off in a corner was a small writing table and chair. In the middle of the room stood a large chair placed on a dais. Carved from oak, it resembled a throne. Another, smaller chair had been placed before it. If Killeran was going to have to spend ten years in these uncivilized hinterlands, why shouldn’t he enjoy a taste of the luxury he so rightfully deserved? Dinnegan took it all in with a single glance. His initial assessment about Killeran was right. He was out for himself first, regardless of his allies. That made him either a dangerous man or a very stupid one. You didn’t play games with allies such as these.
Killeran motioned Dinnegan to the chair, then assumed his place on the throne. He enjoyed looking down on Dinnegan. It was something he could get used to.
“Why are you here, Norin?” So Killeran hadn’t been told. He should have expected no less. The High King kept his own counsel and told his subordinates only what they needed to know.
“It’s extremely risky for you to be here, as you well know. If Gregory found out about your part in all this, he’d have your head.” Killeran smiled wickedly at the thought, obviously pleased by the possibility.
Dinnegan sensed that Killeran’s words were more than a statement; they rung of a threat. He decided that he’d let Killeran enjoy himself for just a little longer.
“Gregory will not be a problem, at least not for much longer.” Dinnegan settled himself into his chair. It had obviously not been selected for comfort.
Gregory will not be a problem, at least not for much longer? That had the ring of treason to it. Perhaps Killeran could take advantage of it in some way.
“Killeran, let me be brief,” said Dinnegan. That smug look almost hidden by the large nose protruding from Killeran’s face would soon disappear. “The High King is not happy with your efforts here in the Highlands. He needs more from the mines if he’s to put his plans into motion. He can’t afford any problems, yet that’s all there seems to be — one problem after another. It took you two years to get the mining operation up to speed, a year longer than it should have, and you still haven’t provided the amount of gold, silver and minerals required.”
Killeran’s confidence was replaced by worry. He should have known why Dinnegan had been sent here. He should have known!
“We’re doing the best we can, Norin,” he replied, his voice cracking with fear. “We don’t have the best workers, and believe me, we do everything we can to convince them of the need to work hard for us. There’s not much we can do, though. The Highlanders are a difficult people. They don’t adapt well to enforced labor. No matter how many times you discipline them, they still don’t listen. And the thought of being killed doesn’t bother them. Worst of all, the Marchers are a continual problem. No matter how badly we outnumber them, they continue to harass us here and at our other guardposts.”
“Enough with your excuses, Killeran. You sound like an old woman.” Dinnegan had been in the same situation many times before. Someone he had hired had failed in what he was supposed to do and tried to remove himself from blame. Dinnegan didn’t look kindly on people of that nature. He saw such people as obstacles. At least Killeran’s smugness was gone, now replaced by fear. Good, he wasn’t a total fool. The High King’s allies had a harsher view of failure than Dinnegan did. Perhaps Killeran would learn before it was too late. Then again, perhaps not.
Dinnegan continued. “No more excuses. Is that understood?” Kill
eran nodded meekly, though his body told another story. Well, well, well. The snotty lord had some backbone in him after all. The anger that Killeran was trying so hard to hide was plain to Dinnegan.
“That’s why I’m here. To fix things. The High King has made it clear that you will help me in this, doing everything you possibly can. Is that understood?” Killeran nodded again. It looked as if he had finally gotten control of his temper. Good. Maybe he wasn’t completely useless. Regardless of how this worked out, Dinnegan planned to make sure that if this business venture fell apart, it would fall on someone else’s head rather than his own. At the moment, Killeran was the likely candidate.
“Good. Now let’s get started. How much have you been skimming off the top?”
“What?” demanded Killeran, his shock at the accusation obvious. “You accuse me of—”
“I will have none of this, Killeran,” shouted Dinnegan, rising from his chair to tower over Killeran, who dug deeper into the throne as if the wood would protect him. “Don’t make the mistake of thinking I’m a country bumpkin. I know exactly how much the mines can produce to the ingot, irrespective of the labor. Now how much have you been skimming? Twenty-five percent? Thirty?”
“Thirty,” whispered Killeran. How could he have guessed? No one knew but himself and his most trusted men. Formerly most trusted men he corrected; soon to be dead men.
“Risky, Killeran. Very risky. If the High King had been paying more attention, he could have figured this out for himself. All right. Since he hasn’t, we’ll continue as before. From now on twenty-five percent goes to me, five percent to you.” With that split, the income Dinnegan received from the mines would more than meet his financial commitment to Rodric. The deviousness of the arrangement pleased him.
“Twenty-five percent!” Killeran jumped up from his chair in protest. Just as quickly Dinnegan pushed him back down on his throne.
“Twenty-five, Killeran. You’re not in a position to argue.” Killeran nodded glumly, recognizing the futility of his position.
“Then how are we supposed to increase production?” he asked. “We’re getting as much as we can as it is from the workers. I work them until they die. If I push them harder, they’ll die faster. Then where will that leave us?”
“Well, if we can’t get them to work any harder, we’ll get more of them.”
“How do you plan to do that?”
Dinnegan fixed Killeran with a cold stare. “I don’t plan to do it at all. That part of this business is your responsibility. I don’t care how it’s done, Killeran. Redouble your efforts at enslaving the Highlanders or put your own men to work. I care only about profits. Push them harder. Let them die faster. Just make sure you find more workers.”
“But, Norin. As I tried to explain before, the raiding parties have been less and less successful—” Killeran waved his arms futilely before him. Explaining something to the man was like trying to walk through a brick wall. Couldn’t Dinnegan understand? He’d tried everything, yet the Highlanders still escaped his traps.
“In the future, Killeran, for your sake, they better not be. Send more men out. Send more warlocks out. Make sure they succeed, Killeran. I don’t want to have to come back here. If I do, you’ll see the unpleasant side of doing business with Norin Dinnegan.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Shadow
A cold wind swept across the barren Northern Steppe, ruffling the tough brown grass. It was midday, yet a darkness had fallen across the plain, a darkness that stretched for leagues. Blackstone, the tallest peak in the Charnel Mountains, towered over the steppe, its shadow sweeping out over the wide expanse and placing the land under a coat of unnatural darkness. Minute by minute the shadow pushed farther to the south, inching closer and closer to the Breaker — and the Kingdoms beyond.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Foggy Start
The silky fog lay heavily on the bay as the first rays of sunlight brightened the sky. The sunrise in Ballinasloe never failed to lift Gregory’s heart. Situated just a few leagues from the southern tip of the Highlands, Ballinasloe was the northernmost trading city on the eastern coast of the Kingdoms. That was both a blessing and a curse, making the city the center of trade and business for the eastern half of the Kingdoms, but only at particular times of the year. During the winter, ice floes came down from the north, sometimes closing the harbor until spring. It was shaping up to be that kind of year, Gregory thought, as he surveyed the dozens of ships lining the harbor docks from atop the battlements of the castle. It was cold this morning. Very cold for a late summer morning. Hopefully the sun would do away with the chill.
He took stock of the city spreading out before him as he walked along the parapet. Known as the Rock, the castle stood in the center of the circular harbor, built on a large rock in the center of the bay. The reefs that protected the city from winter storms provided a small opening through which ships could pass, while also offering an excellent natural defense. An attacking army had never conquered the imposing fortress in its thousand-year history. Because of the surrounding rocks, ships couldn’t get close enough to unload soldiers. The only avenue for attack required traversing a bridge more than a half-mile long. The bridge connected the castle to the very center of Ballinasloe. Of course, because of the pins strategically placed throughout its length, which allowed sections to fall into the bay when pulled out, the bridge functioned more like a deathtrap than a causeway during an attack.
Gregory Carlomin, King of Fal Carrach, smiled as he thought of his defensive fortifications. A small part of him relished the prospect of repelling invaders, wishing for the excitement. A larger part of him, what he described as the more mature part — never old — recognized the folly of his hopes. He was thankful for the natural deterrents offered by the location of his city. It made governing much easier when you didn’t have to worry about the constant threat of attack. Still, with the High King growing more ambitious by the day, the excitement he craved might come sooner than he thought.
Gregory wasn’t a tall man, though he knew how to make it seem like he was. He wasn’t really very old either. His years as a soldier and general could not be disguised, as his broad chest and thick arms testified. It was just that his daughter kept telling him that his flowing mustache and short hair, now speckled with gray, made him look old, and he had begun to believe her. Gregory pushed the depressing thoughts from his mind, not wanting such a beautiful morning to get off to a bad start. Though the sun was barely up, the sounds of life traveled across the bay to greet his ears — the yells of the longshoremen working on the docks, the teamsters readying their wagons, the merchants opening their stalls for the early-morning shoppers. And the smell of cinnamon buns wafting up from the castle’s kitchen reminded him that he hadn’t eaten breakfast yet.
But first he had to attend to his daughter. She and her friends were going on a day trip to Oakwood Forest. It was another one of Kaylie’s ideas, and he didn’t like it one bit. Having reached her sixteenth name day, according to the law she was an adult. More important, she could now assume the throne if anything happened to him. Unfortunately, legally being an adult did not mean you actually were one in terms of common sense and good judgment. His daughter had the spirit of a stallion, when she needed the demeanor of a mare; the courage of a lion, when she required the cunning of a fox. He would have sent guards out with her, but last night she had somehow gotten him to promise that she could go alone with her friends. Even worse, he didn’t know how she had succeeded in winning that concession.
Looking down into the courtyard, his irritation melted away. Kaylie had just walked out of the castle. Her long, raven black hair flowing down her back and blue eyes the color of the sea reminded Gregory of her mother. A small smile from her could melt the heart of the stodgiest old man, and she knew it. She had the confidence of a princess in her step and a mischievous gleam in her eyes, which was why he worried so much.
Saying no to her had never been easy. On occasion he
had, just so she knew he wasn’t completely wrapped around her finger. He quickly considered several ways to have a troop of soldiers conveniently go in the same direction as his daughter’s party, yet discarded them all. He needed to show that he trusted his daughter, especially now, and having her followed wasn’t the way to do it. Gregory shook his head in bewilderment as he walked down the staircase. He had never thought that raising a daughter could be so much trouble. The challenges of ruling a kingdom paled in comparison.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Misled
Gregory felt at home in the disorder of the courtyard. The blacksmith was already hard at work pounding on his anvil, his fire blazing strongly. His apprentices were repairing the nicks in the blades of several swords and spears. A squadron of soldiers had just returned and was leading their horses to the stables while another squadron trotted out under the portcullis. It looked like chaos, but he knew there was actually some organization to it all.
The one group who looked out of place had just exited the stables. Seeing her father, Kaylie rode toward him on Misty, a tall brown mare he had given her just a few weeks before. She had wanted, even demanded, a horse of her own for more than a year. He was still surprised that he had managed to hold out for so long against her ploys, which currently ranged from tantrums to presents to a cold gaze to absolute silence. The mare suited her — calm and placid to her fiery temper. Her friends headed for the gate, many barely awake in their saddles. They weren’t used to getting up so early. Kaylie had wanted to be outside of the Rock before her father noticed so he couldn’t change his mind. She hoped that failure wasn’t a sign of the day to come.
