“Yes, they can be made, though Master Moure has not revealed the exact formula. Two years gone, the alchemists of Erithofeld discovered that a small portion of the wondrous rock is made of a different metal entirely, undescribed by any text. At first it was called Black Gold, but Master Moure has changed its name to Heliosium, or Sun Stone. He also discovered that one type of colored glass glows when placed in proximity to Heliosium. As you noticed, there is a small black eye in the center of each orb. That eye is a piece of Heliosium.”
The king sighed, “These are quite rare, gentlemen. If, or perhaps when, the wondrous rock is mined out, the supply of Heliosium will be exhausted as well. As you can well understand, what I have told you must remain a secret, but you need to know we can make more. If these meet with approval by the King of Serica, then there is a basis for trade in these goods, at least for several decades and hopefully longer.”
The king placed the stones back in the pouch and gave it to Sandun, along with the key. “If you do not reach Serica, I command that you bring the orbs back to me or see to it that they are returned by any means possible. No one knows what price these would bring in the great market of Pella, due to their remarkable nature and rarity, but I daresay you could sell one and, with the proceeds, buy a castle. Do not betray my trust.”
On the muddy island, Sandun shuddered in the darkness. He did not want to carry the orb pouch and so draw attention to it, nor did he wish to not carry it and so lose it to a sneak thief who searched his bags. He did not want to think about the consequences of incurring the king’s anger by losing the glowing orbs in an accident or from highway robbery, but his mind would not stop thinking about all the steps he should take to avoid losing them in every scenario. After half an hour of playing out ever-more fanciful circumstances and strategies in his mind, Sandun steeled himself and resolved to cease thinking about the glowing orbs.
That night, Sandun made his bed near Basil and his dog. As he drifted into the land of sleep, he resolved to tell Basil about the gift for Serica if they ever found the path into the Tirala Mountains.
Sandun’s duty, other than finding the path and following it across the Tiralas, was to create a record of the expedition. Every day he updated his log with miles traveled, weather, and notable events, if any. He also made it a point to learn something of his new traveling companions.
Sergeant Torn, Age: 39. Served in the king’s army more than 20 years. From his accent, he is from the north coast. Taciturn and with a melancholic disposition. Enjoys singing sad songs in the evening about faithless women and fishing boats that fail to return from storms at sea. He has a good voice, deep and soulful.
Padan, man-at-arms. Age: 31. A tall man, brown hair, with a ready laugh. Joined King Pandion’s rebellion and fought at Agnefeld. Born in the foothills near Mount Lefkoati. Rarely misses with his longbow.
Damar, scout. Age: 26. Born and raised in Sun House Valley. Light-brown hair and a lean build. A cowherd who grew tired of herding cows. Curiously, he knew me by sight from the year I spent as a scribe working for Baron Griflen, though I had only a vague recollection of seeing the young man. Said he regretted not following me and some of the other men that left in the night to join Pandion’s rebellion.
Olef, scout. Age: looks about 18. Very thin and boyish in looks, short dark hair, dark complexion. Talks rarely and then with a strong southern accent. Said to be good at hiding unnoticed amid the trees, which I can well believe.
Farrel, man-at-arms. Age: 28. Average height, stocky build, reddish hair. Born in Betholferry. Says he worked for two years as one of the king’s messengers. Claims to have won an archery competition in Hippoliada, and judging from the fact that I have never seen him miss a target’s bull’s-eye, it is likely no more than truth.
Wiyat, scout. Age: 21. Brown hair, tall, and handy with weapons. Born on the estate of the Earl of Agnefeld, the son of one of his lordship’s guards. Clearly idolizes Sir Ako. Says he joined the scouts to “see the world.”
Gloval, scout. Age: 25. Born near Stenston. Like Damar, a cowherd. Would not explain why he joined the scouts other than mentioning “trouble” at home. A good singer of “cowherd laments.”
Jon, scout. Age: 24. Born near the border of Fiodroch. Average height and build. A typical Kelten man; friendly, honest face. Appears to be the only man that Olef enjoys talking with.
Kinot, scout. Age: 23. Says he was born near Hepedion, but I place his accent as from Zanthos. Good looking, light-colored hair, and friendly but unusually skilled at cards.
Norris, scout. Age 25. Dark hair, average height. Solid build. Born in a small town called Coalton (which I’ve never heard of—he says it lies due west of Miloalos on the other side of the great valley). Another cowherd who says he “got sick one night after spending two days in the cold rain and vowed he’d never herd an animal again for the rest of his life.” I’m not sure if the life of a scout is much of an improvement, but he is a cheerful fellow and well liked by everyone.
Eki, scout. Age 22. Brown hair, tall. Grew up in a small village just north of Agnefeld. Won a local archery competition and was recruited into the scouts. An excellent shot, though not as good as Farrel.
Days of travel brought the Archives Expedition into the foothills of the Kelten Alps; they took the king’s road, which followed the Stradom River. A day had been spent in Opomos unloading the boats, making sure the horses and mules were packed and ready for the trip, replacing a couple of worn horseshoes.
Navigable waters went north and south from Opomos. Their destination was north and east, but to act their part of looking for an old library east of Sirosfeld, Sandun choose to follow the king’s road to Triconpoli and thence to Sirosfeld.
Not even the most agile canoe could go up the Stradom River, where they were on this day, in early Triomon, the third month of the year. Snowmelt was starting to fill the riverbed, but huge boulders studded the river’s course like iron bolts set in a castle’s door. At whiles, the water careened past the stones in smooth, glassy sheets of pale green. In other places, the main force of the current ran straight at huge stones, throwing white spray up and about, covering the surface of the water with swiftly dissolving foam.
They had passed Agitebus the day before, and now as they climbed ever higher, the trees changed from great twisted oaks to a sea of tall pines. No trace of snow could be found on the ground, but the wind blowing above them through the thin green needles was chill and sounded like rain, though no clouds could be seen in the narrow sky between the looming peaks.
A shrill bird screamed like a red-tailed hawk, and it put Basil on alert. He asked Sir Ako to halt the company and send out scouts. Four men dismounted and went off into the woods on either side.
“A good place for an ambush, Sir Ako,” said Basil quietly as he strung his carefully wrapped bow.
“I was thinking the same thing, but who would attack fifteen well-armed men this close to town?”
“If they thought they could distract us while spooking away some of our well-laden mules, they might count the candle worth the risk of burn,” replied Basil.
At a word, all dismounted and readied their weapons, and the remaining scouts took up positions in a large circle about the horses. Sandun, Basil, Sir Ako, and Sergeant Torn took up positions in an inner ring. Scribe Maklin held his axe in one hand and the lines to all the mules in the other.
Sandun had practiced archery as a young man, but he had no great love for the bow. Of late, he had taken it up, when time allowed, as very little food would be gained with swordplay, and his life might well depend on shooting rabbits and other small mountain game. He had not fought in a battle since Agnefeld ten years past, but war is not something you forget. He rubbed his sweaty palms on his leather chaps and inspected his sword and dagger.
One scout, Farrel, returned and reported, “A large group, at least fifteen bows, three spears, up the slope to the left.” T
he slope Farrel pointed at was sunny, but the trees climbed all the way to the top of the ridge, casting deep shadows. A hundred men could easily stand under the greenery, unnoticed by travelers on the road below.
“Should we attack?” Sir Ako asked the sergeant.
“I want hear the news from behind us,” Torn replied. The sergeant was an old campaigner; scars on his face and arms and chest gave proof of a life spent in the company of sharp iron.
They waited in silence. The delay before a battle was maddening; Sandun hated it almost as much as the actual fighting. Sometimes one or even both commanders would find the enemy overstrong or decide the weather was against them and so order a retreat. But sometimes the battle call would sound, and then there was little time for reflection or even thought until after the fighting was over.
Scout Padan returned and reported from the road behind them: “Four or five young men we found. No weapons ’cept knives. Hidden at the stream side by the rocks. Very agile I guess, but I doubt they can dodge arrows. We’ll stick them when they come out of the riverbed.”
“So!” Sir Ako had his plan ready. “Standard flanking maneuver. Damar, go with Padan and put some feathers in the knife men behind us. Eki, Wiyat, and Farrel, follow me. Sergeant Torn, in fifteen minutes, make a deal of noise and get their attention. The ambushers will come to you, we hit them from the rear, and it will be all be over in half an hour. Questions? No? Then let’s ride.”
With that, Sir Ako and three scouts armed with bows and swords disappeared into the forest. Padan and Damar went back down the road and out of sight. The remaining six men, now under Sergeant Torn, took up positions close together but under cover.
“How do you suggest we draw their attention, Master Sandun? We don’t want to frighten them away. I doubt they would rush to greet us if we raise our battle cry, though it be common practice between armies.” Sergeant Torn was very respectful of the chain of command; he believed that Sandun was now in charge.
Sandun thought about what could lure bandits from an ambush. The usual enticements—wine, women, money—were not ready at hand. “Shame we did not bring a few of last night’s women from the Golden Horn of Agitebus on this day’s journey. Sending them to bathe by the river would do the trick.”
The men all laughed at that thought, breaking a little of the tension they felt.
“I think a good rousing song will work. Our forest friends won’t expect it, and natural curiosity will draw them in close. What about ‘Don Dory’? We will all join in on the rounds. If that doesn’t bait our hook, we can try ‘Saint Hurin’s Drums.’”
With that agreed, they made deceptive small talk about the tavern while keeping on high alert. At the appointed time, Sergeant Torn began an old drinking song that every Kelten man knew.
As it fell on the Holy Week, and on the holy tide,
Don Dory brought his ambling nag to Lygos for to ride.
When Don Dory to Lygos came a little before the gate,
Don Dory was fitted, the porter was witted to let him in thereat.
The first lord that Don Dory did meet was King Ago of Pell.
Don Dory did slip he tripped and spit and King Ago was wroth.
{All} And King Ago was wroth!
A pardon, a pardon, my liege and my king, favor me one more time.
And all the churls of Kelten I’ll bring them bound to thee.
{All} I’ll bring them bound to thee!
Sir Nichol was a fisherman, a little beside Batide,
and he manned a good black bark with fifty oars a side.
{All} With fifty oars a side!
Run up, my boy, unto the maintop, and look what thou canst spy.
Who ho, who ho, a ship I see; I trow it to be Don Dory.
{All} I trow it be Don Dory!
They hoist the sails both top and top, the mizzen an’ flag were tied
And every man stood to his lot, whatever should betide.
{All, with real gusto} Whatever should betide!
The fiery arrows then were plied, and dum and dum went the drum.
{All} And dum and dum went the drum!
The braying trumpets loud they cried to courage all nearby.
The grappling hooks were brought to bear, the oaken spear and sword.
Don Dory at length, for all his strength, was clapped fast under board!
{All} Clapped fast under board! Hey ho!
With the last echo of the song, a voice cried out from the nearby trees: “Stand and deliver your goods to us. We are robbers, and we are many. You are surrounded!”
Sergeant Torn shouted back, “You’ll get naught from us but cold iron in your bellies and arrows in your backs. We are scouts of Lord Arris’s Mounted Company. If you surrender to us, we may spare your worthless lives!”
This provoked murmurs from the hidden robbers. After a minute, the leader of the robbers shouted again, “You lie! Everyone knows that Arris’s company still patrols the southern border.” A small trumpet sounded three short notes; apparently, this was some signal from the robber leader. He then continued, “You surrender! You have entered our land, and your goods are forfeit.”
He was about to say more when his voice choked. There were several cries of pain, and shouts came from the bandits. Then Sir Ako’s whistle blew, and the sergeant ran forward swiftly but cautiously, a sword in one hand and a small shield on his arm. The others advanced into the forest, drawn to the sounds of confusion and growing panic from the bandits.
Sandun passed by one robber, dead or dying with an arrow in his back. Another man stepped from behind a lodgepole pine with an arrow ready in his small hunting bow. He looked nervous, and Sandun used his command voice to call out, “Here is one—kill him!” He waved imaginary soldiers to the attack. The would-be bowman glanced nervously from side to side, and Sandun ran toward him, rapidly closing the distance. The robber looked half-starved, and his clothing was a mass of patches, poorly stitched. He turned and ran up the slope. Sandun followed him a short way and then, convinced he was not coming back, he turned and headed to the sound of metal clashing.
He arrived to see the final moments of a fight between Sir Ako and a large man, likely the leader judging from his unpatched clothing and the trumpet hanging from his neck. Sir Ako hammered at the man’s guard, beating down his defenses with a mix of power and skill. In a move too swift to see, Sir Ako twisted the other man’s blade to one side and, with his iron gauntlet, struck the robber below the man’s metal cap, a stunning blow that knocked him to his knees. The other bandits were either on the ground or fled. The big man grunted, “I yield, spare me.”
“There is no quarter for robbers on the king’s highway. As knight of the realm, I carry the king’s justice, and your sentence is death!” The bandit leader cried out and tried to struggle to his feet, but Sir Ako hit him again with his full strength, right on the man’s forehead. The bandit leader fell prone to the ground, as if struck by a thunderbolt. Suddenly, all was quiet save for panting and low groans.
“He should have surrendered when he had the chance. Now he will swing if he does not expire on the way back to Agitebus.” Sir Ako sheathed his sword as all sounds of battle faded. “Battle report, soldiers.”
One after the other, the men told of how they had fared during the fight. The three scouts who had gone back down the road came and joined them. The final tally: five of the bandits dead, three gravely wounded and not likely to live a day. Three prisoners, including the bandit leader. The rest fled. The expedition’s own injuries were of little note: several cuts, two twisted ankles. It was Scribe Maklin’s first battle; he had chopped one robber’s arm clean off, and the man bled to death while the battle continued.
“We could hang this ruffian now, but it would be better if we brought him back to Agitebus and let the local lord deal with him. However, it would delay us by two days.” Sir Ako o
ffered the decision up to Sandun. “As leader of the expedition, the decision is yours.”
Basil commented that the high passes ahead of them were likely covered with snow and a delay of two days would not delay their arrival at the south lake much.
Sandun said, “You can take the prisoners back to Agitebus. Scribe Maklin can go with you. The rest of us will stay here and wait for your return.”
After Sir Ako and his party departed downstream, Sergeant Torn set about gathering information from the wounded bandits. One older man, who had received an arrow that pierced his body below his ribs, proved quite talkative. Certain that the wound was fatal, he wanted to share his life’s grievances with the sergeant before he passed on to face the judgment of Sho’Ash. Sergeant Torn, about the same age as the bandit, listened without judgment, taking notes slowly on cheap, military-issue paper. Sandun, curious almost despite himself, listened to the man’s justifications for taking up life as a robber.
“Farmer, I was. Farmed on poor lands east of Rethinos. Lost my ox to the ‘collectors’ of King Oniktes just before he were killed by the new king. Lost my wife and eldest son to milk fever five years later. Two months on, me daughter, the only sweet thing in me life, she walked away one morn, said she be going to town. Never saw her agin. I searched, oh I searched. Some said they saw a girl fitted her description but going by another name, traveling south with a group of thieving actors. I believed it; she were a pretty lass.”
Torn said, “Rethinos…that’s a long way from here.”
The injured man coughed. “I be getting to that. One day, the priest comes by, said he’s sorry an’ all but I got to pay my tithe to the temple. I says to him, I got no money to pay. Then he says, this land belongs to the temple, and the tithe is a rent and I must pay. He says to me, ‘Rothgar, you’ve not been farming these last six months, you’ve been drinking and lying about.’ Well, that were true enough, but I were in no mind to hear it. I got it in my head that I were going to find my girl, bring her back home, and then we’d make a go of the farm again.”
The Burning Tower Page 4
