Sandun stumbled back to his blanket and fell into a deep sleep. He did not wake until the sun was high in the sky. When he woke, one of the rams had pulled its tether stake out of the ground and was licking Sandun’s face.
“Let us leave this accursed place,” Sir Ako said. On that, no one disagreed. They pushed hard that day and were twenty-five miles south and east of the ruined city when they finally halted for the night.
That evening, Sir Ako led them all in the simple service of prayers. Everyone gathered in a circle, heads bowed, as Sir Ako read the prayers and they repeated after him. Sandun found it hard to retain his composure, but he mastered his emotions and thanked Sir Ako afterward.
In later years, the expedition members would sometimes gather and reminisce about their adventures, but they almost never talked about the city of the dead. Other travelers doubtless returned to the lakeshore, following the old route, but if they met with an army of ghosts, no rumor of it came to Kelten.
Four weeks passed as the expedition made its way across and between more snowcapped peaks. Unlike the clearly defined ridges of the Kelten Alps or the first range of the Tiralas, the peaks in this area were usually isolated, independent from each other. The trail lazily curved around the peaks, going up a bit and then going back down again, offering less challenge than crossing the hills east of Tebispoli.
The lack of physical challenge did not prevent the group from fraying and bickering over ever-more-insignificant issues. Basil and his hunters barely spoke to Kagne and his group of plant finders. Kagne had introduced his team to his seemingly endless supply of dream weed. This made for tense hours during the daily march when he and the “Rooters” would be laughing at the most trifling things while the others most definitely did not share the joke.
By now, Sir Ako and Sandun were coleaders, with Basil as the unquestioned master of meat and Kagne the master of vegetables. All things considered, the expedition was working well, but the strain of daily travel had forced Sandun to call for a day’s rest every five days instead of the usual rest on every seventh day that they had maintained for months until the city of the dead. Part of the reason, in addition to the wear on bone and feet, mind and soul, was that the land was less suited for human travel.
The land was dryer than the area around the dead city. The trees were shorter and more sparse. Less cover meant fewer deer or mountain goats. Streams were less frequently found and naturally, plants that humans could eat were harder to find beside the waters.
And still the land remained empty of humans. When they did find the occasional building, it was in ruins from age or burning. Whoever had cleared this land of its former inhabitants had done so with ruthless and determined efficiency.
Once in the hills far south of the trail they saw smoke, but it was most likely the remains of a recent forest fire. As the summer heat wrapped its arms around the earth, forest fires started easily. Lightning blasts a dead tree one time out of a hundred, starting a blaze that sets a mountain afire. Everyone in Kelten, even in Seopolis at the sea’s edge, knew the sight and smell of it. All towns were surrounded by fields and cleared acres. The towns that failed to keep the practice paid a dear price.
Another time, far to the north, they spied a cloud of dust, without doubt made by riders moving with some haste. The team halted and deployed as for battle, but soon Basil reported the riders were heading due north.
“What could you see?” Sandun asked.
Basil was thoughtful and slow to answer. “I deem that a creature like a shaggy bull was being ridden. But I’ve not heard of such a thing before.”
Sir Ako replied, “I have. Part of the training when command of a hundred was given me. A day with the minister of war and his staff at the armory in Huripolis. At least some of the Sogand tribes ride an animal called a buffalo, which looks very like a shaggy bull.” He paused. “We need to be more careful. I made out that group as near fifty strong based on the dust they stirred. I do not like our chances against fifty mounted Sogand warriors.”
No one thought his fears unfounded. Although Sogands had never crossed Kelten’s borders, their raids had destroyed many towns of eastern Issedon. Thessagon, farther north, had been reduced to a third of its size from the time of the empire’s height; some ambassadors reported that Thessagon had lost all lands fifty miles east of the sea. What remained was a string of grimly defended walled cities. The losses had not improved their people’s dispositions toward Kelten, though, for reasons that remained as cloudy as the forest-cloaked coast of Thessagon.
In the reign of King Maklinos, the Kelten army had gone north to fight the Sogands in Issedon, led by the murderous Ors Divar. Kelten arms had, of course, carried the day. Kelten archers outranged anything the Sogands carried. Sogand efforts to trick the Kelten army by feigning retreat were ignored. Finally, a massed charge met with bloody defeat as the screaming Sogand horsemen ran into wooden stakes and unbreakable Kelten knights standing shoulder to shoulder in front of the archers.
Maklinos the Great went on from that victory to conquer most of Fiodroch—a glorious time in Kelten’s history, but long years gone.
Here, in the middle of the empty lands, their band would be poor sport for fifty mounted Sogands, even if the buffalo were not as agile as horses. For the next week, they traveled slowly and with more care to leave no trace of their passage.
The Piksie goats continued to rise in everyone’s estimation. Their hoofmarks and the scat they dropped were native to the land, and they were as quiet as mice when their bells were taken off them. They seemed to have learned something about their new owners; this time there were no sad looks from the animals as Sandun and Kagne packed their bells away.
One evening, after his sword practice with Sir Ako, Sandun broached the idea of trading weapons.
“You are much better with a sword and shield than I will ever be. You should use Skathris until we return to Kelten.” Sandun made the offer with Skathris’s blade wrapped in a long rag.
Sir Ako waved his wooden practice blade in the air and smiled. “A kind offer, but no. My fine blade is a beautiful weapon, but it’s just a weapon. I’ll tell you a secret I learned many years ago when I was a squire.”
He came and sat down on a fallen tree. They were camped inside a forest that was thick for this part of the Tiralas, half a mile off the trail. “Sir Killis—the bastard, I called him, though only in my mind. He trained me from when I was ten till I earned my knight’s sword at seventeen. Looking back on it with the passage of years, I still hate him for his cruel buffets, his mean remarks. Here I was, an earl’s son, being treated in such a fashion. Oh, I burned, Sandun. Every night for years I seethed with hatred.
“Anyway, he taught me this: the true knight fights and wins with whatever he has. Whatever he has! A knight wins with a blow to the face with a mailed fist. Or with a swift kick to his enemy’s groin. Or by tripping, or throwing sand in his eyes. A knight wins by using a dagger through the armpit, or a mace to the back of a helm, or an axe splitting the enemy’s shield. Or with a bowshot from atop a castle wall. And yes, a knight wins when—dressed in full plate armor—he charges out into the night with a sword in one hand and a shield in the other. All of this and more. A knight trains body and soul for battle every day of his life, until he is too old to swing a sword for two hours solid, and then he can train a squire of his own.”
Sir Ako leaned back and looked up into the sky. A few clouds were fading into darkness; Ares and Zeus were already visible in the heavens.
“I won the melee held in Agnefeld when I was nineteen. Already two years a knight. Quite young for a champion, I thought. My father comes up, slaps me on the shoulder, and then goes over to old Sir Killis and he tries to take his hand and shouts for all the world to hear, ‘You did it! You trained him well, you old bastard!’ And Sir Killis stands there, very uncomfortable, and then finally takes my father’s hand, and then he walks away.”
At this, Sir Ako stated to laugh, and he kept on laughing till tears ran down his face. Everyone but the guards on duty came over, but Sir Ako simply continued the story.
“So, that evening, I learn from Baron Barstown, one of father’s oldest friends, that my father and Sir Killis have held a grudge for years. Years! Tree-cutting property dispute, some such. However, ten years ago, my father asked a few of his barons who might be the best man to train a knight, meaning me. Barstown, and perhaps others, ‘suggested’ Killis. And that is why I spent seven years with that cold, dour man and his unsmiling, penny-pinching wife and his children. And yet withal, a master of the art of polemarchy.”
Everyone waited in silence to see if Sir Ako would continue. As a rule, commoners in Kelten knew nothing about being a squire; it was not talked about. They knew the legend of Sir Garris, who spent years as a kitchen scullion but was so strong he defeated a knight using just a stick and so saved Queen Wen the Fair. But that was just a fairy tale from the age of the Lake King.
Ordinary people saw squires at tournaments and at court: silent, anonymous, wearing their master’s coat of arms. Knights never talked about the time before they were knights. Instead, they seemed to spring full grown out of green grass, tall young men, striding up before a packed crowd, now kneeling, now being dubbed a knight and then given a ceremonial shield with a new coat of arms.
All we see, thought Sandun, is the glory, the lines of men in burnished armor, their flags flying behind them as they wait for the opening day of the yearly grand tournament in Huripolis. The bravest and finest warriors in the whole of the Archipelago, defenders of the realm. We never see the years of struggle, of loneliness, of pain and humiliation. Perhaps not seeing family more than once a year for High Holy Week? The method of training a future knight seemed strange to Sandun, but it worked and had done so for centuries.
Sandun asked, “Did you ever get any satisfaction against Sir Killis?”
“I beat him once: single duel, blunted two-handed swords, first to yield. Three years gone. He stood up, bowed briefly, and said, ‘Well fought, Sir Knight,’ and then limped off the field. I’ll tell one last thing, and then I’m for bed. A knight lives by the Philosopher’s Golden Mean in anger, as in other things.”
Sir Ako then quoted the famous maxim: “All virtue lies between evil extremes.” He continued, “Anger is a virtue. We hone it like a blade; we build it up and keep it burning throughout a fight. A fighter without anger hits weakly, moves slowly, thinks instead of acts. A warrior blinded by rage leaves openings in his attacks for deadly ripostes, or he strikes too hard and leaves his weapon wedged in the other man’s shield. Or, worst of all, he charges too deep into enemy lines and is stabbed in the back by some serf with a sharp stick.”
Sir Ako concluded, “A true knight teaches his squires the virtue of anger and how to wield it.” He looked at them all with an unreadable expression. “Now, go to sleep.”
Part Four
Gipu
Haligmon, the ninth month, was waning, and they were still several hundred miles from the border of Serica. Summer was pulling up stakes from the Tiralas, and the nights were chilly. Food was holding up well enough, though salt was beginning to be a worry. No doubt when people had lived in this land, they had located salt outcrops and were happy to trade salt to travelers in exchange for a few coins. But the expedition had no time to search for salt, and unless they blindly stumbled upon a salt lick, they were just going to have to make do with their dwindling supplies.
For several days they had been approaching a great range of mountains directly east of them, across another high valley filled with bunch grass and deer brush. The far range of hills seemed unusually green and then, in the still, early morning air, Basil said he could see smoke rising from several different locations.
This occasioned lots of speculation and opinion. Sandun got out the map and again, there was an indication of something at roughly the location Basil indicated. “The fact that there are multiple smoke fires indicates that whoever they are, they aren’t afraid of raiders.”
Everyone wanted to see someone new. They were all profoundly lonely, though Sandun would have denied it at the time.
So with hope held aloft by threads as thin as gossamer, they pushed on.
Marks on the trail and on hills gave further proof of human habitation. Fenced pasture fields, stones placed in streams to make them easy to cross, lean-to wooden shelters—all of these and more gave proof of active human life. Their spirits rose throughout the day.
“We are being watched,” said Basil that afternoon. He pointed toward some trees to the north.
Olef agreed. “And to the south,” she said. “They are keeping their distance, but they act like they don’t care if we know that they know.”
“How big is the town?” Sandun asked Sir Ako, who was studying the air and the hills.
“Big. The haze reminds me of Tricon. I’d say at least ten thousand. Is this not Serica?”
“No,” Sandun replied. “Serica is reported to end at the east edge of a great range of mountains, just as Erimasran ends at the western slopes of the Tiralas.”
“The Tiralas must be horrific in the winter. All the endless miles of land we have walked, but in wintertime, shrouded with a blanket of snow.” Sir Ako put away his farseer glass. “To speak plainly, Sandun, we need rest. We have been going at an incredible pace for months. We need at least a month to recover, and that puts us into Dyusmon. If the people here are friendly, we should consider staying through the winter.”
Sandun thought about that idea for the rest of day, playing out different times and routes in his mind. He had hoped to get out of the Tiralas before winter. But really, what time pressure was on them? They weren’t expected back for three years. Sho’Ash knew they could all use rest. Though Sandun refused to complain, his feet pained him more and more each day. Kagne had twisted an ankle on a slippery rock while crossing a stream and had been manfully limping along ever since. Everyone was nursing some ailment, though so far, nothing had been serious enough to halt them for more than two days. But how much longer would their luck hold out?
That evening, Basil said they would reach the mountain town by the afternoon of the next day.
In the morning, they cleaned up more than usual. Sandun had to admit that they all looked more like savages from Issedon than soldiers of Kelten. Still, without knowing more about the inhabitants of the city, it made little sense to dress their best, especially if they were just going to try and kill you.
Sir Ako put out a line of scouts: Padan and Olef to the left side of the trail, Farrel and Damar to the right, and the rest walked along the path in single file. Sir Ako led the way with Gloval taking up the rear. The track was lined on both sides with tall pine trees, and it meandered between stony outcroppings and empty pastures.
By three in the afternoon, they could see the city. It had encircling walls, at least twenty feet tall, with high and, to their eyes, unusual square towers spanning the walls every quarter of a mile.
People were coming out of the gates and lining the road, apparently to greet them. Small boys ran up toward them and then turned and ran back down the road. There were lots of bright colors, and a large flag flew from the gate tower. Basil said it was a blue turtle; Sir Ako thought it was a black raven on a field of blue. Then he ordered the scouts in, and so the expedition walked the final mile as a tight group, gazing in wonder at the strange people who had come to see them.
The people of the town were unlike any collection of people Sandun had seen before, mostly dark haired, many short with round faces. Others were very tall and looked somewhat like the largest clansmen of Thessagon. He noticed that brown hair was uncommon and that the true yellow hair was even more rare than in Kelten. A few men, especially older men, wore beards. Many, but not all, had the distinctive ears of the Serice, pointed at the top.
Two groups of soldiers were seen, one to the north and the other to the south of the road. They were armed with tall spears and clad in thick-looking armor—padded leather perhaps. The soldiers didn’t seem to be worried or nervous, and this made the Kelten expedition more relaxed.
As they approached the gate, the crowd following along, they found themselves in a huge circle of people facing those who were apparently the city leaders: an assembly of some twenty men and two women dressed in very colorful garb, with lots of blues and pinks and some red accents—fine clothing, well fitted.
The man who was most important, judging by his bearing and the elaborate decorations on his robe, stood forth and loudly proclaimed something. He then said what might have been the same thing but in a different language. Sandun stepped forward when there was a slight pause in the languages and said, loudly and clearly, “We are from Kelten. Kelten.” He turned and pointed due west. Then he saluted in the traditional Kelten fashion by slapping his left shoulder and holding his right hand toward them, palm out.
As he’d hoped, the word “Kelten” was known to at least some of the people in the group. An older man with a yellow hat was brought forward from behind the dignitaries, and he held his hands out, trying to quiet the crowd. When he had some semblance of quiet, he said, “Hello. Greetings, Kelten men.” His accent was peculiar, with words that were strangely lengthened, but for that, it was intelligible.
Sandun’s relief was so vast that he staggered, but Kagne put an arm under his elbow, and he regained his composure.
“Greetings, sir. My name is Master Sandun Eiger. Is this Serica?”
The older man translated Sandun’s words to the other people and then replied, “This city name Gipu. To ask. Saying long years since Kelten men come to Gipu. Asking: Why come?”
Sandun loudly said what he hoped would be crowd-pleasing words: “We have come to reopen trade between Kelten and Serica. When we return home, many more traders will follow us.” He made great big gestures, trying to act and sound like the important merchants he had heard many times in Seopolis.
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