The Roads to Baldairn Motte

by Ahimsa Kerp

  His orchards lay in the other direction, toward the Stone Road, the great artery that led south to North Port and to Fairnlin beyond. In the north, the road split into a maze of hunting trails known as the Elk Roads. Heavily trafficked by trappers and stonecutters, the Near North bled into moorland before giving way to the lands of the Marchers.

  Trask had seen a caravan of Marchers once, stonecutters who had come to Burn Gate with polished moonstone for the lord of Thurmwood’s keep. Though they weren’t the hairy giants of the skalds’ tales, they towered over him and had shoulders broad enough to make Hem’s appear slight. Legends spoke of the early Hairng kings carving out their dominions from the hands of the Marchers, but Trask didn’t put much stake in the tales. Raiding did occur every odd summer, but the disputes were over hunting rights, not conquest.

  The gentle rise and fall of the hillocks gave way to steeper fells littered with hunks of granite. A dense bank of clouds hid the moon, but there was light enough to pick their way along a ridgeline, though the depressions below were left in pools of black.

  Hem whistled as he trudged along, his natural gait shortened to keep pace with Trask’s limp. The hood of his cowl trailed to a point that swung across his back with each stride. A purse bounced at his hip. Trask wondered if the man felt the weight of the storm gathering in the north—the aggression from the south and threats from the west. He pushed the question from his head. Hem had suffered enough loss in past winters to warrant freedom from any troubles the Passions might heap upon him now.

  As they reached the banks of the Sprite, Trask shivered. Cold gripped his spine, and he tugged his cloak closer for warmth.

  “The Fairie are about,” said Hem. His whistling stopped. An old superstition held that when the air turned to ice the Green People emerged from their dank lairs to dance under the moonlight. It was then you could catch one and make it give you its luck.

  Trask glanced at the cloud-filled sky. He wondered what the Green People did when the moon was hidden. “Some say the House of Ordryn invented the tales of the Green People to scare children into obedience.” He chuckled. “But how often did you run out in the night as a lad, hoping to catch one?”

  The large man grinned. “I may have once or twice. Tales of creatures with fangs and evil eyes would’ve worked better, I suppose.”

  “There are those, too. Do you remember the elder histories Master Daerin used to tell? The hoof-beasts and trolls he spoke of were once called Fairie, though they aren’t anymore.”

  Hem grunted. “Too many tales and too many histories. I like the ones with the hearty wenches. Ordained cunnies can take the rest.”

  Trask laughed and tried to steel himself against the cold. How had the air dropped so near to freezing so fast? The answers unnerved him, and he peered up and down the banks of the Sprite in fear of a lurking fiend. But there was only the calm and steady current, and he chided himself for being a fool.

  The Sprite burbled over a scattering of moss-covered rocks. After summer rains, the stream could rush as high as a wagon, but now it flowed only to Trask’s calf. He splashed into the water, partly to break the silence, and partly to shock his senses. Tiny icicles poked at his toes. The pain brought the night into focus, though his leg would not stand such cold for long without stiffening.

  He was halfway across when he saw the yellow glint of eyes staring at him. The pair were askew, one slightly higher than the other, as if their master had its head cocked as it regarded him. The cold hand that had gripped his spine before tightened anew. He wheezed, suddenly unable to take a full breath.

  Hem didn’t see the beast. The miller sloshed onward through the Sprite with his head bent. Trask tried to call out but his throat had seized shut. He wished he had his bow. He was a fair shot—though not nearly as good as either of his boys—but he had left the weapon in his croft, almost as a promise to Gleda he’d return.

  Feeling naked, he picked up a stone. He could at least make enough noise to warn Hem. But then the clouds broke above, and moonlight shone down upon the Sprite. The silvery reflection blinded Trask for a moment, but when his vision returned, he saw the beast for what it was—the carcass of a stag, half-fallen into the stream. It lay upon its back like a human might, its head slightly too large for its body.

  An omen. But would it bring him good fortune or ill? He dropped the stone.

  Hem turned at the splash. The miller followed Trask’s gaze and started when he caught sight of the stag. He slogged through the mud of the embankment and bent over the fallen creature.

  When he straightened, he shook his head. “It’s days dead. The meat is spoiled.”

  “What felled it?” Trask found his legs and made for the embankment, though far away from the stag. Hem pulled at the antlers, inspecting the carcass. He shrugged.

  “Leave it, then. Don’t bring the Passions’ eyes down upon us. The night is already foul enough.”

  Hem shrugged again. There was movement in the trees. Both men’s head whipped about Trask’s heart thumped so hard he felt it in his throat. Dead needles crackled under footfalls, and a pair of voices spoke in hushed tones. Trask released his breath when he recognized the husky tenor of one of the speakers.

  “Ho, Alric,” he said.

  The whispering stopped, and two figures emerged from the darkness a short distance away. Both were tall and lanky, but where one had only a gray rim of hair, the other had a black mane tied back by a leather thong. Each had a large sack slung across their back.

  “Trask,” said the older man. “Didn’t expect you to be heading off so soon.” He peered about. “And without your family, it seems.” He nodded at Hem. “Didn’t expect you to be heading off at all.”

  “Heading off where?” Trask asked.

  “To the White Hills,” said Alric. He scratched at his bald scalp. “An army’s coming from the south, and the fool lords mean to fight it without waiting for spears and horsemen from Hairng, without waiting for Lord Hairng himself! I don’t mean to die at the hands of a southern sheep-forner just so the lord of Thurmwood can kiss Ordryn’s hairy arse. This is all about a crown in the south, isn’t it? I say, who cares who wears it as long as they leave me be.”

  Hem spat. “Doesn’t matter what lord’s done what. The blackspurs will set fire to our fields and crofts and villages if we don’t stand to push them back. This is coward’s talk, Alric.”

  Alric’s jaw worked.

  The younger man, Orren, placed a hand on the elder’s chest. “Some might call it that,” he said. “Dead men, or soon to be.”

  “I don’t care either way. It’s my boys I’m after.” Trask didn’t have time for bickering; Alric and Hem would never see eye to eye on any matter, war or no. “They were headed for Burn Gate this morning.”

  “Haven’t seen them,” said Alric. He spoke to Trask but kept his gaze fixed on Hem. “If it’s toward Burn Gate they went, then you might hurry to find them. Word is the Ordained have passed through the village trying to scare folk into joining their army.”

  Trask cursed. The Ordained were the marshal arm of the House of Ordryn, fighting men who swore vows to the Passion of obedience. If they were in Burn Gate, then the burghers and bailiff were no longer in control.

  “Aye,” said Orren. “A southern Order sending good northern folk to die for a southern crown.”

  Hem stepped forward and balled his fists. “Still your tongue. Off to your White Hills, if that’s where you want to scamper, but don’t be expecting a warm fire when you return, unless it’s one you’re standing in.”

  The men stared at one another. Alric broke his gaze first. As he turned to leave, he said to Trask, “Balin’s blessings for your family to find its way through this.”

  “For us all,” said Trask.

  HEM

  Hem snorted as he listened to Harlow’s account of the taking of North Port. The cooper was a known braggart, and his current tale held no limit to its fancy. Still, Hem had to admit it wasn’t wildly different from
the rumors spread by a dozen others. He sat in Master Bulware’s public house where the local farmers and crofters had gathered to gossip like women at the washing boards. Sipping at a stout, he kept only half an ear open to the chatter. He had no patience for such things. He didn’t care what lord had gone where or marched with whom. If the southerners had truly come, all he needed was a good spear and the blackspurs before him. Let the captains and bailiffs worry over the rest.

  Not that he’d found either in the village. He and Trask had reached Burn Gate as the morning sun crested the horizon only to find the village burghers all but fled and the bailiff and master brewer off on some errand for the Ordained.

  He’d searched with Trask, for Nat and Bren, for the better part of the morning, but to no avail. No one had seen the boys since the prior evening. Hem felt sorry for Trask. He’d had a child himself once, and he knew the pain on his friend’s face was from more than a tender leg. He knew that pain all too well.

  “Sturm Galkmeer hisself was on the first ship, so they say,” said Harlow.

  Hem snorted again. He hoped Trask would return soon, before he cracked his knuckles against Harlow’s nose to quiet the man. He’d agreed to wait at Bulware’s public house and keep an eye out while Trask searched the woodcutters’ cottages at the edge of the nearby forest.

  “Of course,” Harlow continued, “it could be he marches with his army from Fairnlin up the Stone Road. The Gallopers, his mounted lancers and all, could get here almost as fast as a ship. They say he trained most of them when he was the old king’s Master of Horse.”

  Hem planted his fists on the table and leaned over them to glare at Harlow. The other man swallowed, and they sat in silence. Harlow gestured toward someone across the room and left with a parting nod.

  Hem thought about leaving himself. He wanted to go and visit Caulder and Tillon, the village’s chandlers. The brothers would know what was really going on, if any did. But by the time he’d downed the last of his stout, another had come to take Harlow’s chair.

  “It was the Earl of Gaulang who landed at North Port with the lords Forester and Toll,” said the man, “not Lord Chancellor Galkmeer.”

  Hem’s eyes narrowed. He’d never seen the man before. “Not many in the North name Sturm Galkmeer by that title.”

  The stranger was short, with silken hair a shade from copper and bony cheeks that gave his eyes a sunken appearance. “Ah yes, I suppose they don’t. It’s just, I overheard your friend telling you, and ah, I’ve been trying to gather the news myself.” He turned and gazed around the room, then pointed. “That man at the door had it from one of the Ordained. They were here yester-eve.”

  “Aye’ya,” said Hem, “and with an eye out for strangers, I would guess.”

  The man slunk back in his chair. “I’m called Cynric, Cynric Audley of Mason’s Vale.”

  “That so? And where might that be? Near Baardol?”

  Cynric blanched. “No, not really. Not without a horse. It’s actually much farther,” he paused to wipe his hands on his trousers, then finished with a faint whisper, “to the south.”

  Hem glowered, and a rumble started in his chest.

  “But I’m of the North,” the man stammered. “I’ve been traveling with a caravan of silkmen, on the Elk Roads in the Far North. Been up there for almost the whole of the past year, and living in Etonbreen a year before that.”

  “Cold up north.” Hem’s tone held more than a hint of mockery.

  Cynric tried a chuckle, but it came out more of a gasp. “Yes, but the silkmen have wagons full of cloth—russet, silk, cambric, and freize. A pile of layers is as good as any fur, though the mulled wine helped as well. They’re an interesting folk…”

  “And now you’re in Burn Gate overhearing things. Perhaps you could hear better from a pillory.”

  The stranger jerked as if stuck. His face paled, and Hem thought for a moment the man would try to flee. But instead, Cynric said, “Did you know this village has its name from a time when the southerners invaded?”

  Hem frowned. He’d never heard that before. The burghers of Burn Gate often spoke of a sheep pen that had burned in a village fire, but none knew exactly when, or where the gate had stood.

  “That time, the spearmen of Gaulang marched the whole length of the land in a single season to lay siege to Hairng castle—a great feat before the Stone Road was founded. They failed, of course, but razed almost the entire North in their defeat.”

  “Never heard of Gaulang fighting in the north before,” Hem scoffed.

  Trask’s voice cut through the din of the public house. The crofter hobbled toward them with lips pressed together so tight they almost disappeared.

  “The woodcutters haven’t seen my boys.” Trask gingerly lowered himself into a chair. “Nor Tillon or Caulder. Chert Potter thinks they’re headed toward the ruins of Baldairn Motte with Jaren Bulware.”

  “Why there?” asked Hem. The boys knew the country around the village well, but it was rare that the brewer allowed his son to roam so far, especially when trouble was afoot.

  “Lord Thurmwood has planted his standard near the old keep,” said Trask.

  “A wise choice,” said Cynric. “The motte overlooks half the surrounding dales. There’ll be good ground to hold.”

  Trask raised an eyebrow at the stranger, then shifted it to Hem.

  “He’s from the south,” said Hem.

  “From Mason’s Vale, actually. Which is west…”

  “You’re the skald Tillon spoke of,” said Trask. “The one with tales of times before the Passions.”

  When Cynric nodded, Hem studied the stranger anew. It wasn’t uncommon for a leech to wander from town to village in pursuit of furthering their healing craft, but it’d been ten summers at the least since the last storysmith came through Burn Gate. Their kind were found more in the larger cities where coins were passed freely and folk were interested in wasting time on tales of courts and kings and great lords.

  Hem’s thoughts caught and went back to Trask’s words. Eagerness rushed through his limbs. “Has the bailiff called for a marshalling?”

  “There was no need. Caulder says the Ordained and captains are riding through the villages rousing the whole of the North. It’s said ten score of levies have already rallied, and the queen has sent a train of food and arms from Hairng castle to meet them.”

  Cynric whispered absently to himself. “The hopes of the dowager queen and the fate of her son fell to the Lord of Thurmwood, and he answered where the heart of the North lay.”

  Hem frowned but let the strange words pass. “What of the bailiff?” he asked.

  “Gone, along with Master Bulware and most of the burghers and Ordained. They’re seeing to stores and building a holdfast for the families. He promises to send riders and gather them all.”

  “Then it’s settled,” said Hem.

  A panged look crossed Trask’s face. “I promised Gleda I’d return.” He dropped his head to stare at the table. “But without the boys I’d be a fool.”

  “The bailiff will see to them,” said Hem, though even he heard the doubt in his voice. He sighed and scratched at his beard. “You say Potter thinks they’re headed for the ruins? Harlow saw the boys in the village yester-eve when the Ordained were here, most like spreading word of Lord Thurmwood’s intentions. The boys must’ve left with others headed for the motte. I can’t say as it sounds like them, but where else would they be?”

  Trask grimaced as he rubbed at his leg. When he finally raised his gaze, he said, “Then I’m heading for Baldairn Motte.”

  Hem fought back a grin. He pounded the table, then helped his friend to his feet. “And I as well.” Turning, he raised his voice. “To fight for Hairng and the North, as any true northman should!”

  A great cheer came from the folk huddled in the public house, but from his own table Hem heard nothing but silence.

  TRASK

  The sun had reached midday by the time the wain trundled out of the village.
A cool breeze fluttered about carrying the sweet scent of spring flowers. Trask lay on a pile of straw that bounced and shook as the wain’s wheels found the ruts gored into the road. Like a man on his death pyre.

  The wain had been Tillon’s idea. The younger chandler had fetched it from the shop he shared with his brother, Caulder, and the pair now took turns pulling it along. Hem marched behind Cynric, keeping his attention fixed upon the strange skald. He’d suggested hurrying the man off to the Ordained, deferring to Ordryn’s judgment, but when Trask said he wouldn’t wait, the miller relented.

  “Our pines are heartier and longer than the trees of the south. They make for better spears.” Caulder was eldest among them and had seen battle before. He mimicked with his hands as he explained the makings of a proper spear.

  “Aye’ya,” agreed Tillon. “The tale of the Hound Hunt mentions how the spears of the North shattered those of the Beggar King’s footmen and were able to rout an army three times their strength.”

  “And we’ll do the same!” said Harlow. The cooper’s grin stretched the breadth of his face. He slapped Cynric on the back and started rambling on about how the southern folk were on the brink of rebellion.

  Tillon chuckled and shook his head. “Harlow will listen to the wind passing from a pig,” he said so only Trask could hear. He walked beside the wain, helping the wheels through the ruts.

  “I wish the rumors from North Port were such gas,” said Trask.

  The younger chandler picked up a piece of straw and gnawed on it. “I try not to think on it too much. I try to just follow my feet. The Ordained speak of righteous fervor, the bloodlust that lets a man know he’s doing good. I don’t know about that; seems I’ve had lusts before that turned out wrong.”

  Trask opened his mouth, then thought better of it and said nothing. He became aware of the deadened meat in his rump and shifted his weight. The numb flesh came alive with tiny pinpricks. With a sour face, he watched the wild grass and bramble of the dale disappear as they entered a stand of pine and spruce.

  “What of your wife and daughter?” he asked.