“Don’t mention the wrongful capture of Bobbin and Gariff to the tower guards,” said Fyorn. “They confuse easily, and it might prompt them to incarcerate the two of you on orders long stale.”
“If someone gives us trouble,” said Holly, “I’ll just say ‘too late, the search is off ‘cause they’ve already been found – ask anyone.’ And that I’m a girl; they’re not looking for a girl.”
“You’re not even a Stout,” added Kabor.
Fyorn smiled and nodded, going on to insist that Janhurl return and carry us to the edge of the woods. After that, Holly and I would be on our own, but not unwatched. In the mean time, Fyorn would see Kabor to Webfoot, as promised, check up on Paplov, wait for word from Janhurl, gather news and act accordingly when the time came.
The thing about plans is they never quite seem to work out, at least not when Hurlorns are involved.
Chapter XVII
Second thoughts
I had a few minutes to tidy myself up before departing. I would have to leave my cloak behind though, tattered and soiled as it was, and ask the Hurlorn to stop at a good swimming hole on the way. Holly was presentable enough to pass as my aide.
Janhurl arrived and the time had come to embark on our well-intentioned journey. Holly and I said our goodbyes and parted ways with our good friends. I was glad to see Kabor up and about, drinking tea and complaining that we didn’t know what we were getting ourselves into. In the end, he thanked us. After all, Gariff was his good cousin. I wondered when we would see them again.
The morning sun had disappeared into dark grey clouds by the time we abandoned the cover of Deepweald. From our perch upon a high branch of Janhurl, leaves still dripping wet with the morning dew, we crested the first hill overlooking our destination. The vale that cradled Dim Lake opened up beneath us. Cobbled streets sloped down to the lakeshore on the outskirts of Harrow. Low and crowded stone-block buildings lined both sides. The Iron Tower loomed in the distance; one curtain wall outlined the city proper and a second, the royal grounds. Janhurl could go no farther. She fluted an incomprehensible farewell and gently set us to solid ground. We both thanked her and wished her well.
Down the hill were the piers that jutted out into Dim Lake, lined with floating workhouses. The shipyard was the closest building, where Men were already hard at work to beat the inevitable rain that would wash away the afternoon. Gulls waited impatiently on nearby pilings, crying incessantly for entitlements. Harrowians cut and hammered at planks in dry docks carved into the lakeshore. Occasionally, the usual talk of work, snippets of song, quick and clever rhymes, and bellows of frustration billowed up the hillside as we made our descent toward Harrow. Farther west near the city proper, scores of small fishing vessels were moored along the lakeshore, while a handful of oar-driven dories glided across the calm, grey-lit waters amidst sparse puffs of thin morning mist.
A large vessel sat dormant in its slip, next to three smaller, black schooners all moored in a row. Dim Lake was a fair size, but not big enough to justify the presence of a full war galley. The vessel could only be intended for travel to the south shore, where the lake’s clear waters drained into the wide and deep Dim River. The Dim ran south to meet the Lower Malevuin, which hooked into Abandon Bay. The Malevuin’s cool waters sourced from mountain springs to the north and west.
The east gate of the outer curtain wall marked the entrance to Harrow proper from the town’s outskirts. On nearing it, the aroma of smoked fish filled the still air, and a lively fiddler sawed out a sailing and whaling tune that drew a small morning crowd to his wagon. The guards let us pass easily enough, once I showed them my colors.
“Here for the festival or for business?” one said. I nodded, nervously.
My stomach twisted in knots as I made my way through the entrance passageway and into the open square that defined the marketplace. Business was already picking up for the shopkeepers. Open-air tents and colorful banners painted a festive atmosphere. Holly scanned this way and that, taking in the sights. She had never been to such a grand place. For once, she seemed at a loss for words. We strode casually towards the inner gate that barred passage to the protected royal grounds of the Iron Tower.
I could hardly believe that I was actually going through with the plan. The words I had said in the grove had taken on a life of their own, and were converging to consequence. I hadn’t really imagined myself there at the gates, being scrutinized by intimidating tower guards and begging my way into the hall of a dead king. But that is where I was heading and by my own volition. I had said the words, and they came to be. I wondered exactly how I would call upon the laws of inter-state diplomacy, should the need arise.
Chapter XVIII
Interlude - Youth immortal
Time is pressing. Urgency is everything. Now that I am sheltered from the weather, I write with a pen fixed to every spare claw and to every spare branch. Masterful creatures Hurlorns are, slow and lumbering in the bulk, but quick-minded and coordinated in twig and bough. The paper strewn about me covers every flat surface beneath my leafy crown. Inkbottles sit upright and lie overturned about the chamber. I hear the wind howling above. If it ever reaches down this far there will be quite the mess to clean up… quite the mess indeed. I’ll leave that to the young ranger. Words come in a flurry now.
You have to understand I was fifteen and girl stupid. More than that, I was naive about the dangers of the world – especially the familiar world, which I insisted I knew. Clearly, from everything I could put together at the time and the state I was in, the return mission to Harrow never should have happened. And Fyorn never should have allowed it. The political engines of the Trilands and Gan were far better equipped to handle such delicate negotiations than the two of us ever could be.
And I cannot say with certainty why Holly and I supported one another with such willful determination in the cause. Pheromones, testosterone and adrenalin, perhaps, bringing on some measure of uninhibited irrationality. Or perhaps it was something more. But what is risk to an immortal teenager? – not to say that I was really immortal; it’s more like I did not fully appreciate the harm that could come my way or the harm that could be put on others as a result of my actions. As I said, Fyorn should never have allowed it – the notion of encouragement by his bark-skinned advisors must have clouded his good judgment. Who could expect a pair of Pips to divert the will of the Iron Tower? Harrow takes what Harrow wants.
Ahh… to be girl stupid, young and fearless again. Those were truly the glory days of youth immortal.
I feel nostalgia coming on. And as the end nears, I just want to enjoy everybody in being and in memory, and sip from the fine wine of life one last time.
Chapter XIX
The Iron Tower of Harrow
The Iron Tower loomed over the displaced ocean-side town of Harrow, a pale reminder of more glorious days when the noble forefathers of the townsfolk thrived on the shores of former Fortune Bay. They thrived and conquered, lived and loved, died and were raised. Some say giants forged the iron blocks of the tower out of meteoric ore from Gabber’s Bowl in the Western Tor. Others say the tower was raised by Karna herself to guard the entrance to another world that knows no death. None could argue the landmark’s practical construction. Besides being a royal house and a hub of activity for the town, it also served as a lighthouse, built in the extravagant manner of old Akeda with a royal beacon that cut through the night fog and stormy weather like a scimitar of light.
As we approached, like typical out-of-towners we turned our eyes upwards to gawk at the Iron Tower’s impressive height. At the top, six pillars supported an iron crow’s nest over the lantern room, some four-hundred and fifty feet above the courtyard. Standing within was a statue of the First King himself, holding his staff to the sky. His stony gaze kept watch over town and lake.
The inner curtain wall was of black stone and it protected the courtyard surrounding the tower. Intricate depictions of leviathans graced the wall’s corner towers: a white whale
with smoke billowing out of its blowhole, a kraken, a giant mollusk, and a sea dragon that sparked fire from flared nostrils. Sentries carrying crossbows patrolled the wall walk.
One of the two guards in front of the iron-bar gate bellowed out to us on approach, nonchalantly: “Who goes there? What is your purpose? State your names and state your business with Taeglin, Rejuvenator of this Iron Tower and Protector of the Lake.” He came off as abrupt and professional. The guard who spoke was the shorter of the two by near a foot.
Behind him, two tower shields served as wall mounts, and several more hung along the interior of the entrance passageway that tunneled through the wall. Each depicted the sigil of old Fortune Bay and now Harrow – a frothing wave gliding across ocean waters by night; one of the stars that shone in the backdrop was actually a lighthouse lamp, to guide wayward ships home again.
Using Paplov’s most polite diplomatic voice, I cleared my throat, and answered loud and clear, doing my best to sound authoritative.
“I request an audience with Taradin, the Old King of Fortune Bay,” I began. I halted in front of the two guards and fumbled through my pack. “Allow me to introduce myself,” I said, checking the front pocket, “I am Nud Leatherleaf of Webfoot, here on official business… ah, there they are – my colors.” I handed the shorter guard Paplov’s rolled up leather. He unfurled it, gave it a quick glance, and then handed it back. I gestured to Holly. “And this is my aide—”
“Holly Hopkins of Webfoot,” she interrupted, with as much of a curtsy as a girl wearing pants can pull off. The smaller guard nodded to her, and then addressed me.
“I haven’t seen you two before. You must be new at this. You mean Taeglin, right? Everyone gets the two confused. Go see Garond, the city master across the way, he deals with the little Triland folks.” He pointed to a building diagonally across the square, built into the side of a flat hill. The buildings there had an administrative look to them.
“No, I actually do mean Taradin. The city master won’t do.” Little folks? We’re not just little people, you big oaf.
“No one asks for Taradin.”
“I am asking for Taradin, the former King of Fortune Bay,” I said. He seemed taken aback. He just wasn’t getting it.
The larger guard spoke. “What would Taradin want with a couple o’toads like yous? He doesn’t see anyone. Go see Garond or git back to yer lily pads.” He stood as tall as a man and a half, but was plainly stupid, that much was evident. Toads don’t sit on lily pads, frogs do. Who doesn’t know that?
I stepped forward and looked straight up at the burly guard, clearly showing my agitation – something Paplov would do when confronting big oafs. Both guards were veritable giants to my pippish eyes, but I took one to be a runner and the other a lumberer. The runner was younger, shorter, but narrow and long limbed. The lumberer was more seasoned, had girth and height above his comrade, and his legs stood as thick as tree trunks. He won’t take any criticism himself, I thought, but he won’t mind me dishing it out to his subordinate either.
I turned to the shorter guard instead, and pointed to the tower. Using the same stern voice that Paplov used when he felt he was being disrespected, I verbally blasted him.
“Get in there and tell him that I am wasting valuable time waiting here for you to do your job. Taradin himself requested this meeting.” He took a step back.
“What’s your name?” I demanded.
“Clandt, sir,” was all he said.
“Now, if you can fit a second thought in that thick head of yours, tell him that I’m here to discuss artifacts from the bog lands – you might want to add the words unique and valuable, and how about last chance.” I raised my voice and enunciated the important parts: “U-NIQUE AND VAL-UABLE, LAST CHANCE… GOT IT?” The larger guard snickered at the scolding of his comrade.
I threw my arms up in the air. “And why not mention your belligerence towards his invited guests while you’re at it… it will save me the trouble, Clandt.”
Clandt looked to his giant companion, who, with a smirk, nodded his head and waved his hand to the guards inside.
“Just put the gates up for the day,” the half-giant commanded to the gatehouse.
“Clandt,” said the big oaf, with a sideways tilt motioning to the tower.
“Woe-woe-woe,” said Clandt, shaking his head. “I’m not going down there.”
Down? I wondered. Why down?
A loud clang initiated the rising of the two gates – one on either side of the wall – followed by a metallic grinding as they lifted off the ground. The larger guard raised his voice over the racket.
“What? ‘Fraid of a little spooks, Clandt? Git goe’n.”
“But—” With a slice of his hand through mid-air, the half-giant cut him off.
“GIT GOE’N!” he boomed, drawing the attention of a guard on the above walkway.
“Everything all right down there?” said the crossbowman.
“Just Clandt,” replied the half-giant. “He’s a’scared to see Taradin.”
The guard laughed. “He won’t bite,” he said, then went on his way. After a few steps he called back. “Better you than me, though.”
“I’m not afraid,” said Clandt. He huffed a protest, but once the gate was fully raised, he quickly started off for the tower.
The half-giant took on a kind and apologetic demeanor towards Holly and me. “Terribly sorry, sir, ma’am,” he said. “Clandt don’t know better. Grew up in the Tor wrestlen’ giants just for a bit’o rabbit ’n such. I think one’o’em picked’im up ‘n dropped’im on his noggin. He was always the runt’o dem…”
Nothing the guard said made much sense to me, but I nodded in acknowledgement anyway and offered a gracious, yet pitying smile. I caught Holly smirking at me.
In the intervening time, the guard asked about what was in my pack. I told him only some rare wood: “Bog wood,” I said, assuming he wouldn’t know any better. He rummaged through and didn’t make a fuss about the contents. “It don’t look like much to me,” was all he said. Indeed, only a few pieces of deepwood remained. I felt a little better knowing that Shatters was in there though. I never did recover Sliver.
Clandt certainly took his time executing his errand. While we waited, I could not help but to re-evaluate the rationale behind my decision to meet with the undying former King. Holly was on my side, at least. Back in Deepweald, her confrontational spirit had prodded me on, full of fire and fury about retrieving our friends and protecting the bog ecosystem. Where is that fire now? I wondered. Holly’s behavior had become far more timid since entering Harrow, sticking close and not saying much at all when we strode through the town streets, and shying away from the tower guards. Maybe she was intimidated; maybe she was having second thoughts. This is all new to her.
My own doubts, I put aside. If the Hurlorns really did whisper to me, then I should treat the words as a benediction. They had their reasons and I needed to trust in them.
The guard finally returned with a reply in the affirmative. He looked a bit gaunt for the asking. With a slight shake in his voice, he also offered a polite apology from the First King himself, for neglecting to instruct his gatemen to be on the lookout for anyone offering something “unique and valuable, especially from a bog.” It sounded like a slight, and his words lingered in my mind and imparted a sour feeling to the pit of my stomach.
Reluctance in his heavy footsteps, Clandt proceeded to escort us through the entrance passage. Midway, I noted a third portcullis, fully raised and easily overlooked. It could come crashing down at unawares.
Once through to the other side, Clandt led us along a slate path to the tower doors. Landscaped gardens, ornate statues, elaborate fountains, and private groves filled the yard, so visually pleasing and elegant that it put Proudfoot to shame. In stark contrast to the artful greenery, the black metal of the tower rose high above, bleak and imposing against the backdrop of overcast skies, not a single pit or streak of rust to mar its surface.
A wide, black hall lay beyond the oak doors. Although lacking in direct, natural sunlight, wall-mounted lanterns kept it bright. Our stroll through the hall was pleasantly hot and smelled of incense. The walls showed storm-driven ocean scenes on canvas. Wind swirled and water frothed as oared sailing vessels tossed about like toys on giant waves. The massiveness of the sea and the fierceness of the weather contrasted with the frailty of vessels on open water.
The arched ceiling hosted a nest of murder holes and a series of trap doors, cleverly worked in to the artful decor. At the far end of the corridor a gated archway, with the gate raised, led into another room.
“Are those originals?” I said to Clandt, gesturing to the paintings.
“Huh?” he replied, scanning the walls. He shrugged. “What else?”
Clandt took us through the arch and then swung to the left. The lighting beyond was far dimmer, and it smelled of torch smoke. I bumped into the wall once, before my eyes adjusted, and Holly stepped on my toes. We rounded another corner and came upon a long, red hall lined with torches and with a single red door at the end. Two female guards of the half-giant variety stood guard there, each holding a tall, black halberd and garbed entirely in a deep red suit of padded armor.
“Red Maidens,” whispered Clandt, on approach. “The King’s Guard. Don’t be fooled by their good looks, they’ll slice your heart out if you step out of line.”
He raised his voice on approach. “I present Taradin’s honored guests… a diplomat and his aide.”
“Did you search them?” one asked.
“I did, m’lady,” said Clandt.
“Did you inspect their passes,” the same woman asked.
“I did, m’lady,” said Clandt.
She called upon her comrade. “Khotahri,” she said.
The one named Khotahri sprung into action. “Raise your arms,” she told us.
SPARX Incarnation: Order of the Undying (SPARX Series I Book 2) Page 16
