The Roads to Baldairn Motte

by Ahimsa Kerp

  “No,” Ghazi said.

  For the first time, Barlow was truly shocked. “You are mad! We offer—”

  “Guards,” Lord Ghazi called. “Stab this man if he insults us another time.”

  Barlow stared at him.

  “You have come asking for my help,” Ghazi reminded him. “Your words contradict your actions.”

  “My actions? I came to request assistance, yes. Not to receive the barbaric treatment you present me.”

  Ghazi stood up from the table. “Let me be certain that I understand your offer. I commit my army to a war that has nothing to do with me, in order to help a side that would not win otherwise. The maples are sufficient, but we’d need all the ships at Northport.”

  “Done,” Barlow said, far too quickly.

  Ghazi looked at him for a long time.

  Barlow waited, patiently matching his look. Ghazi was damn hard to read. But it didn’t take a Shade to know that something big was coming.

  “Henry Barlow,” Ghazi said. “If I lend my aid to Lord North, pit my Marchers against Sturm Galkmeer and his cavalry, if I am to leave the children of my people here guarded only by women and old men, if we are to risk death far from our homeland, we need to have a suitable reward for a sacrifice.”

  “Ordryn’s cunny, Ghazi! We already have an alliance. I am here merely to remind you of the long friendship you share with Hairng town.”

  “That alliance does not entitle my men to die for your Duke,” Ghazi said.

  “Your men? My Duke? Who do you think you are? Your father was a gardener.” It was unwise to hurl that accusation at Ghazi, Barlow knew, but he was beyond caring.

  Ghazi was dangerously silent. Rage seeped from him, filling the space between them. The smell of violence hung heavily in the air.

  “You will not speak those words again,” the Marcher Lord said with restraint. “Or you will not speak again.”

  Barlow twice took long breaths. Another threat.

  Ghazi rose and approached Barlow. “What does Ernmund promise me?”

  Barlow blinked in surprise. The Duke of Hairng, Lord North himself, had not been referred to as Ernmund presumably since his childhood. Ghazi clearly saw himself as an equal, but his phrasing revealed his ignorance. Not even the late King Dermid would have referred to Lord North by that name.

  “Lord North,” Barlow was careful not to over-emphasize the word, “has given me terms. I have related them to you. Clearly, Lord Ghazi, you have other things in mind. The sooner you state them, the sooner we can come to an agreement.”

  Ghazi stared at him, his eyes narrowing. “I want all the ships at North Port and the seat at Baardol.”

  “Baardol? Impossible!”

  “Then you will not win the war.”

  “The seat at Baardol? For the Marchers? You’re mad.” Neither of the guards stirred. Good, at least they did not take his histrionics seriously.

  Ghazi strode back to his seat. “I know that you, Henry Barlow, helped us to become something greater than we ever were. But we have become more than even you envisaged. This upcoming war will prove that the Marchers are more than scattered tribes, more than savage, ignorant barbarians. We will emerge as a dominant power. The seat at Baardol will symbolize that change for us.”

  “I can’t ensure the Duke will live up to my promises,” Barlow said.

  The Marcher Lord was not fooled. “He will. You know he will.”

  Henry Barlow walked from the center of the town, away from Ghazi and his poisoned plots. Once he was outside, the cold hit. He wished he’d grabbed some dry clothes from his bag. His boots bit into the cold snow. Not much time had passed since he’d entered Ghazi’s fortress, but the dark was quickly growing. It was mealtime and only a few people were out on the streets.

  Consolidating power in the North had been a mistake, Barlow realized now. The risk was too great, as Ghazi was demonstrating. Now that the framework was laid, however, it would be difficult to entirely remove. The solution was clear: weaken the area, fomenting a constant state of rebellion. Standard Shade policy. With luck, they could have two or three civil wars a year. The Shades would supply weapons and leaders to whichever faction needed them more. Barlow could to make that happen. Yet he couldn’t let that happen. Not if his own plans were to come to fruition.

  Before any of that happened, though, Ghazi had to be removed. And until the outcome of the Succession War was determined, Barlow had to make sure Ghazi stayed alive to lead the Marchers.

  Barlow knew this. He knew that Ghazi knew it too. He had learned much from the Shade, and more since he had risen to power. Ghazi knew he couldn’t avoid a dagger in the dark, so he would take careful precautions. Where will he cast his lance?

  He did not feel in control of the situation anymore, and that feeling was usually followed by something bad. It was time to head back to his men and discuss things, but first he had to make one stop. He needed to see her, to find out how events had progressed. Her coded messages had reached him, but were a poor substitute for actual human company. He did not know where she lived anymore in this expanding proto-city, but it did not take long to find a tavern owned by a contact of his and a few maples later he stood before her house.

  He hesitated at the door. She lived in a nice part of the town, though it seemed these days that the entire town was in the nice part of town. Part of him wanted to walk away, to return later or not at all. He opened the door to find it wasn’t as bad as he’d thought.

  It was worse.

  Ambrose sat across from the woman. He was not happy. Balin’s sac! How had he discovered her? What did he know?

  “We need to talk, Captain,” he said to Barlow. His tone was cold, formal.

  “Later,” Barlow said. The cold blew through the open door, filling the house, but Barlow did not move.

  Ambrose was not convinced. “Now.”

  “It seems you’ve had a chance to talk already.”

  Ambrose smiled at him, ever so slightly. “We have spoken of many things.”

  “Ambrose, leave now,” Barlow said. “We will talk when I get back to the camp.” It was the most authority Barlow could summon, and it almost wasn’t enough.

  At last, the elder Shade rose. “We will talk.” He grabbed his cloak and pushed past Barlow.

  Gjana came to him. Her dark curly hair was longer than it had been, but other than that she looked just as he remembered her. She began to shake and Henry wrapped his arms around her, marveling at how good it felt to be close to her.

  Gjana mumbled something, but his ear was pressed into her hair. Her hair smelled of summer berries.

  “What was that?” he asked.

  She pulled back from him and looked up into his eyes. She wasn’t crying, which was one of the reasons he liked her. “I didn’t tell him anything,” she said.

  Henry Barlow doubted that. He wondered again how Ambrose had even found her.

  “I didn’t tell him anything, but…” she said.

  “But?”

  “But he may already know. Talking to him is like talking to you. That same way you read between words, the same expressions, everything.”

  “Relax, not many could have done as well as you. Ambrose is…a powerful man.”

  “I didn’t tell him anything,” Gjana repeated. She crept back into his arms. She felt so soft.

  They did not speak again for some time.

  Barlow arrived at the Titan camp town a few hours later. When he had been taken in to see Ghazi, their camp had been simply the snowy ground. That untouched plain was gone now. The men had done a good job. The snow had been packed down by heavy boots and the tents were up, spaced correctly. There were seven tents: one for every two men, and one for Eugo. The pairings were determined randomly every night in order to provide better security. The leech had brought his own, but it was twice the size as the two-man tents. He did not need the body warmth of other men; his tent was imbued with cantrips of comfort and warmth.

  A small fire buil
t on a sheet of metal resting in the snow told Barlow that Ambrose had determined they were no longer in enemy territory. Interesting choice. Perhaps the message was meant for Ghazi, and perhaps it was meant for Barlow. Or maybe the old man was simply tired of the cold.

  Ambrose saw him and sprang up from the fire. Soon the two had left the field and were slowly walking through the snowdrifts beneath the canopy of pine. It was terribly dark. A good place for murder.

  “I have contacts in Etonbreen, of course. They’ve seen her letters to you. I’ve been planning on visiting her house for months now. But I did not search the house,” Ambrose said. “I did not have to. I know what I would have found.”

  Not that easily, Barlow thought. He was a little more careful than that.

  “Or if not there, she would have told me,” Ambrose continued. His voice was how-is-the-weather matter of fact. “It might have been unpleasant, but she would have told me.”

  Henry’s hand crept to his knife. This had gone too far.

  “I can guess where this is going,” Ambrose said. “But I won’t. I will forget it entirely.”

  Unexpected. Barlow was partially relieved. He felt as though he could breath again. Until Ambrose said more, however, Barlow’s hand remained on his dagger.

  “I’m guessing,” Ambrose said. “That this is important to you. So I never heard anything.”

  “A generous sentiment,” Barlow said warily. What had changed?

  “You’re right to not trust me, lad. But something more important has come up.”

  “It’s less that I don’t trust you; more that I trust no one.”

  “I’m leaving,” Ambrose said. “Normally I wouldn’t be telling you, but considering what happened earlier today it will be best that you know.”

  Suddenly, Barlow knew where Ambrose was going. “Hairng town.” If North’s heir and wife were killed, Hairng would have nothing to stand on.

  “No,” Ambrose said. “I don’t know who is handling that. My concern is with Baardol. He won’t live to betray another man. I’m joining the Hangman to ensure that.”

  Henry felt a chill run through him. The Hangman was not a Shade but his services were often used by the Shades. He was an evil man, an unstoppable deadly assassin. But Baardol’s death, though necessary, was not as important as keeping Lord North’s heir alive. Someone had made a mistake. The Shades never made a mistake, but this time someone had.

  “I won’t be here when you wake tomorrow,” Ambrose said. “I’ll need to rest now to make that journey back.” The two men stood up, patting off the snow. “Henry?” Ambrose said. His breath smelled of dark beer.

  “Yes?”

  “I won’t pry into this little business of yours. In return, I need to stay alive. If I die, your secret is out.”

  In the dark, Henry could scarcely see the other man, but his tone left no doubt that he was not lying. Today was evidently a day for blunt truths.

  “Agreed,” Barlow said.

  “Then take your hand from your knife please, before I shit myself.”

  Henry was shaken awake the next morning by a Marcher he did not know. Judec stood next to him; the unlucky man on watch when the visitors arrived. A few minutes later, Barlow was back in Ghazi’s chamber. Nearly all the seats were accounted for already. Barlow knew few of the Marcher Lords there, other than Tomas who was seated near Lord Ghazi. The Titan sat down near the door, uncomfortable to have an opening in his blindspot but there was no other choice.

  The room buzzed with conversation, but Ghazi raised his hands into the air and instantly silence appeared.

  “Men. Marchers and friends. We have had news in the night.”

  Barlow grunted. This was a bit dramatic to announce an alliance that had long existed.

  “As you know, a war of Succession has begun in the South,” Ghazi said. His voice was rich and deep. “You all know of Baardol’s attack upon Hairng. But events continue apace, and not everyone here may be aware of what happened next.”

  Ghazi looked, for the first time, at Henry Barlow.

  “The boy Chancellor ordered Bryndon Thrand to support Baardol. He was in place before Baardol ever even struck.”

  Barlow hadn’t known that. It made sense; it was a good move. Thrand was a veteran of many campaigns and an accomplished strategist. One of the more capable commanders of his generation. He could present a real problem for Lord North.

  “We learned late last night that Lord North has outmaneuvered Thrand. The Southerners’ armies have been routed and he himself is a prisoner,” Ghazi said. Several Marchers cheered.

  That was good news, but Ghazi’s tone left no doubt that a qualifier was coming. “Either through design or luck, Galkmeer or one of his pet Earls struck well. With Lord North’s army away, the South is marching for Hairng.” Ghazi rose, his gaze sweeping around the room. “If they can catch it undefended, the Dowager Queen and North’s heir will be killed. The war will be over before it can begin.”

  There was silence. All looked to Ghazi, who presently returned to his seat. The silence stretched. A pivotal moment. Barlow clenched his fingers into a fist. Ghazi had to stick to their deal.

  “Well,” the Marcher Lord demanded at long last. “What are you waiting for? The Marchers have some Marching to do, and a war to win. Let’s go kill some Southerners.”

  Loud cheers erupted throughout the room, Barlow’s voice among them. Outside the room, in the town and through the forest and the mountains, the snow continued to fall, as it would for the next four days.

  PART II

  Henry Barlow, shivering in the cold rain, watched the raven fly over for the third time. They were less than a day away from Hairng, though that was not their destination. He had had enough of the cold. Enough of mountains, of rocks, of climbing, of descending, and of thin air. But especially of the cold.

  It had taken a mere two days for the Marchers to assemble following Lord Ghazi’s pronouncement. Two days was an unheard of time, achievable only by semi-savages who were already largely nomadic. Nonetheless, those two days dragged for Henry Barlow. Stuck up there, helpless and isolated, while the fate of kingdoms played out below the passes filled him with impotent rage.

  The compensation had come from long talks with Gjana. He had twice made his way back to her place, far more warily than before. He had not seen anyone watching him, or anyone following him, but he knew almost to certainty there would be. Ambrose had found a place that even Barlow had to search for and his pretty words aside the elder Shade would be a fool to turn his back on this business entirely.

  Henry had underestimated the man. It wasn’t that he hadn’t known Ambrose had watchers and informers in the city—the man wouldn’t have been doing his job if he hadn’t—but that they were good enough to catch Barlow, even to anticipate him, and that worried Barlow a great deal.

  But Gjana made the risk worth it. They made few qualifications to the plan—even half a decade later, it was a good plan. He did not go to see him, however. It was possible—though unlikely—that Gjana could die from her exposure to Barlow. He made sure that could not happen with the child. There would be much upheaval throughout the land soon. If everything went correctly, what emerged would be far better than the present status quo. And soon, he wouldn’t ever have to worry about Lord Ghazi any more.

  That thought got him back over the mountain passes, back into civilization. And finally the snow had ceased. Or, rather, had been replaced by rain. Which had turned out to be worse in its own sodden way. The ground had softened to mud and neither the Titans nor the Marchers had been dry since they began their march.

  They had left the horses behind and marched fifteen-hour days. The Marchers were freakishly strong and could seemingly push themselves past the limits of mortal man. They had jogged over the mountain trail, their baggage following behind on loaded guanacos. But Henry was glad to see that the Titans had found their pace. Though at a much slower rate than the Marchers, they went back over the mountain passes without comp
laint and seemed far healthier than when they’d set out. Even the leech was toughening up, though he’d never be confused for a Titan or a Quarrelman.

  Barlow scanned the sky. The raven did not fly back again. Three times. It couldn’t be coincidence. Ordryn’s bollocks, this would not be good news.

  As he expected, the Shade was gone by the time he got to the tree, fighting his way through the damp underbrush. The tree where the raven had thrice landed. It didn’t even have to be a raven; any dark animal crossing his path three times was one of the Shade recognition signals. The message was not in sight, so Barlow carefully climbed up the tree, its bark wet and slippery in the rain. These trees were more common farther north but Barlow had grown up climbing them. The trick was to step on the branches nearest to the trunk. Slowly, he made his way up the tree, hands and eyes questing for some sort of message.

  It was near the top, carefully hidden in a waterproof cylinder and even more carefully written in cipher. A small, detailed map accompanied it. It took a few moments before Henry translated it. He had been right; it wasn’t good news. Henry read it, cursed and then reread it. He returned the paper to the cylinder, and touched the bottom of it. Inside, the message would crumble to ash, to dust. The cylinder would be picked up shortly after, presumably by the Shade or its pet raven. He wondered if some Shades did nothing else other than deliver and retrieve messages. He thought again of Ambrose. He must be nearing Baardol now, with a two-day head start and most likely a steed waiting for him on the other side of the pass. Ambrose, along with his ally, might be able to kill the Duke of Baardol and still return in time to battle.

  Barlow slowly climbed down the tree and returned to camp, his mind racing.

  The camp was an impressive, sprawling sight. No one would dispute that the Marchers knew how to go to war, but this was something different. It was on a larger scale than had ever been seen before. For once, it was not a raid or a skirmish they were preparing for, but an actual battle. Henry estimated the Marcher forces at over two thousand men. Passions preserve them, two thousand armed Marchers was a scary thought and a scarier sight. At nights, they camped in a ring, with Ghazi in the middle. The Marcher Lord was surrounded by both his Ashmen and the Titan Guard.