by Peter Wacht
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?" Killeran 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.
"Good morning, father."
"Good morning, Kaylie. I didn't know you were getting such an early start this morning. It really isn't that far to Oakwood Forest."
"I know, father," she replied calmly, though her mind spun furiously, searching for a way to leave the courtyard as quickly as possible.
Her father had given her permission to travel to Oakwood Forest, but what was the fun of going there? There was no adventure in it. And that's what she wanted. She was a grown woman now, even if her father still didn’t know it. But changing her father's perspective would be difficult at best. So, she had decided that it simply would be easier on everyone if she didn't tell him what she was going to do, or at least not all of it. Besides, they would be traveling through a part of Oakwood Forest. You had to go through Oakwood Forest to reach the Burren, so it wasn't a complete lie. Was it?
"We just wanted to get going since the light is fading so early now."
"Uh, huh." Gregory looked at his daughter doubtfully. Kaylie normally didn't roll out of bed until late morning, and her friends were notoriously worse. He just couldn’t imagine that Oakwood Forest held such an allure that she and her friends would so willingly rise at the crack of dawn. He had a feeling that his daughter wasn’t telling him everything.
Kaylie maintained her smile. Her father's gaze made her nervous. It was the one he used on visiting emissaries who sought trade concessions. They rarely succeeded. She knew her father was recognized as a general. But most didn't realize he was a cunning negotiator as well. To get away from his gaze, she nudged her horse over toward her friends, biting down on her tongue as her father walked beside her. She had a tendency of chattering when she was nervous, a trait her father was well aware of.
"Good morning, my lord," said Maddan. The others members of the small group offered their greetings. Lissa, Nikola and Camilla had grown up with Kaylie, and also had quickly grown accustomed to having their needs taken care of. Lissa, tall and fair, had a pouty mouth that detracted from her beauty, though she thought it made her more attractive. Nikola was rather plain, but her wonderful smile made up for it. Camilla’s high-pitched voice matched her sharp features. All three enjoyed ordering others about, and they happened to be very good at it. The boys were no better. At least Eric had the makings of a good soldier, or rather the body for it, if not the brains. Rohn, with his unkempt hair and pointed nose, had the look of a trickster, though he came from one of the most powerful families in the Kingdom.
Maddan, son of Noran Dinnegan, had always enjoyed the privileged life. When Maddan had begun his weapons training the year before, he had assumed that because of who he was, he would be given a sword and then that would be it. Kael had had a good laugh at that, and then told the boy to get in line with the other students with a sharp whack of his sword on the boy's rump. Nevertheless, he was still as arrogant as ever. He now fancied himself as the best swordsman in the Kingdoms. If Maddan wasn't careful, though, his sword would get the better of him. Lissa, Nikola and Camilla stayed by the gate, obviously half-asleep in the saddle. Eric stayed with them, flustered by the appearance of the king of Fal Carrach.
"Maddan,” replied Gregory. “So where are you off to today?"
"To Oakwood Forest, my lord," piped in Rohn, moving his horse next to Maddan's. Gregory saw Maddan's face turn red with anger. Maddan didn't like to be upstaged. Rohn knew that as well, but it still didn’t stop him. No matter how hard he tried, he could rarely keep his mouth shut. "On a picnic." He pointed to the food basket tied to the back of Eric's saddle. "And Eric, Maddan and I were going to practice our woodlore skills to be ready for the Swordmaster."
Gregory examined Rohn with
a quizzical eye. Of all the young men, only Eric approached his training as a soldier seriously. Both Maddan and Rohn were known for their lackadaisical efforts. The idea of the two of them practicing on their own was preposterous. Gregory waited to see if Rohn would say more. The best lies were always the simplest. The more elaborate they became, the easier it was to make a mistake.
Kaylie tried to sit still on her horse, a look of alarm on her face. Why did men always think they had to handle things? She was doing just fine until these two oafs jumped in. She knew what her father was doing. She attempted to catch Rohn with her eyes, but he wasn't paying attention. Kaylie groaned inwardly. Rohn was opening his mouth to speak again. Luckily, Maddan saw her expression and nudged his horse to the left. It brushed against Rohn's dark grey steed, forcing him to steady the gelding. Annoyed by the disturbance, Rohn looked at Maddan in anger, who quickly motioned for him to stay silent. Seeing Kaylie's expression, he did.
"Well, we should really be going, father," said Kaylie, turning her horse toward the gate. Her friends followed after her.
Gregory smiled, shaking his head ruefully. Kaylie had hatched another scheme. Ah, well. Let her have her fun. If she could twist him around in so many directions he didn't know which way was up, just imagine what she would eventually do to her husband.
