by Ari Marmell
She and her knights slept in shifts, after that.
Days droned on with nothing but the pounding splash of the paddlewheel, the whine of the engines, and the hateful shouts of the boatmen. The lieutenant found herself torn between huddling alone in her closet-sized bunk, or freezing in the soaking spray above.
It was enough to try the patience of an ascendant.
On the penultimate day of their journey, not far from where the Black made a sharp bend to became the Oldwick, it all proved worthwhile.
Knight and sailor alike had hunched below decks, or at least ducked out of sight behind the upper stretch of hull, as the world to port erupted.
Khador’s incursion had reached the city of Riversmet.
Bloodred heavy warjacks, taller than two grown men together, flattened trees and pounded at the city’s walls with fist and cannon, knocking great divots into the stone. Smaller, swifter, but far weaker ’jacks—some in bright, even garish, Llaelese patterns, most of Cygnar’s blue and gold—flitted amongst their larger counterparts, striking, retreating, striking once more, seeking any chink in the Khadoran monstrosities’ armor. One or two heavier machines rumbled from hidden posterns, ready to go head-to-head with the Khadoran ’jacks, but these were few and far between.
Flames raced across the earth, melting frost and searing what tiny lengths of brush still managed to survive the winter. Even on the river, hundreds of yards away, Katherine had cringed from the wash of heat. Bursts of smoke stained the sky, and artillery thundered from both sides, the sound so thick and heavy it somehow dampened the wind. Greylord arcanists and Cygnaran stormcallers hurled the furies of nature at one another; stilettos of lightning stabbed from on high, layers of frost crawled across men and metal alike.
Several eyes and several barrels turned to track the Whitewater Caress as she passed, and a few ranging shots were lobbed, almost casually, in their direction, but overall the Khadoran forces were too engaged in surrounding Riversmet to devote much attention to a passing civilian vessel.
Katherine couldn’t help but think back to her own recent riverside encounter, and offered a heartfelt prayer of thanks that the enemy were less curious, or at least more thoroughly occupied, than she had been.
More than once on their upriver run, Captain Cottswell’s craft had been forced to either kick in a burst of speed nearly enough to kill the engine, or scurry to shore and hide in the brush and the shadow, to avoid the attentions of Khadoran advance patrols. But this? An entire division, or more, of the Khadoran army?
Had they passed by Riversmet only a few days later—as they would have, had they kept to the captain’s preferred pace—Khador would have held the terrain far more thoroughly, and the Whitewater Caress would assuredly have been stopped, or worse.
For the last day of the journey, Cottswell and his sailors didn’t argue with the Storm Knights anymore—though they still hadn’t been at all sorry to see the trio disembark. Katherine felt a swell of sympathy for her mechanik, who still had to make his way back home without a friendly soul as company.
After a quick consultation, Katherine, Sadler, and Pruscott chose to don their armor for the brief ride from the riverbank, across a hundred yards or so of well-maintained road, to Leryn’s gates. Khadoran forces hadn’t come so far, as of yet—at least not in any great numbers—and there were few points from which to launch an ambush. Still, after what they’d seen on their travels, none of the knights felt comfortable riding exposed, even over so short a span.
Had Katherine not been so exhausted and numbed by the journey, so irritated by the chill winds that stuck her face, slipped between the joints of her armor to breathe across still-damp underclothes, she might have realized the problem with that approach before it was too late.
Beneath clouds so low they appeared to be grazing, sleet pinging and sloshing against their own armor and their horses’, their breath steaming in the air, the trio of Storm Knights finally, finally approached Leryn.
They were still some bowshots distant when they heard, sulking behind the ambient sounds of the weather, the brass blat of a trumpet or horn.
“Oh, Morrow damn it!”
Her two companions apparently came to the same realization at the same moment. “Well,” said Pruscott, a cheerful, baby-faced sort and a third--generation knight, “it’s not as though people weren’t going to notice three Storm Knights wandering around the city, Lieutenant.”
“No, it’s not.” Katherine shook her head, dislodging a few stubborn ice crystals from her visor. “Still, I wish I’d thought up some way for us to arrive unannounced. Even for us, a fanfare and formal welcome is a bit . . .”
“Unsubtle?” This from Sadler; tall, thin, hawk-nosed, and determined to prove his family’s worth.
“Sure, let’s go with that one.” She reached out, tousling Arius’s mane. “So be it, boys. Formal manners and chipper smiles. We’re about to represent the Cygnus, like it or not, so let’s at least make an honorable show of it.”
While the citizens of Leryn might have been excited, heartened by the arrival of Storm Knights proudly garbed in full armor and livery, they weren’t so overwhelmed as to turn stupid. The gates of the city remained firmly shut, rifles and artillery tracked the riders from emplacements within and atop the ludicrously thick curtain wall. A pair of brightly painted Vanguards—one of Llael’s own signature warjack models—closed from either side, crescent-bladed halberds and shield-mounted cannon leveled.
“I’d hate to see how they greet visitors they don’t like,” Pruscott muttered. Katherine shushed him, though she couldn’t repress a melancholy smile; it was the sort of thing the late Blevins might have said.
Behind the rightmost warjack trailed a team of pikemen and riflemen, like enormous, metal-clad, and truly disturbing ducklings. Adorned in gleaming breastplates and crested morion helms, only their choice of weaponry distinguished one sort from the other. Frost cracked beneath their tread, and only after a long moment of examination—not merely of the three knights, but also of the open ground back the way they had come—did the soldiers marginally relax.
Katherine removed her helm, holding it firmly under her left arm, and waved for her knights to do likewise. Trying to ignore the light sleet and not-so-light wind pelting her face, she rose in the stirrups.
“I am Lieutenant Katherine Laddermore, Storm Knight, Second Cygnaran Army. I offer greetings to our friends, neighbors, and allies of Llael, and humbly request passage through Leryn’s gates!”
Chains clattered; steam hissed; cogs ground; and the massive, steel-banded gate swung outward. Katherine knew that Leryn was considered the most heavily fortified city in Llael—possibly in all Western Immoren, Caspia excepted—but still she was taken aback at the breadth of the curtain wall. Had she and her companions rode single file, their horses nose to tail, the first would only just be starting to exit the gateway while the third had fully entered. It ran around almost the entire city, never thinning except where it gave way to the stone of Mount Borgio—a more natural but no less imposing bulwark.
Weapons continued to track them as they passed through, the warjacks and soldiers following close behind. Beyond the barbican stretched broad avenues, running throughout the relatively modern shops, crafthouses, and the wealthy-but-not-too-wealthy estates of the Outer Ward. Most of those roadways finally ended at the second curtain wall, and though she couldn’t see it from here, Katherine knew that a third loomed beyond even that; the most ancient of the three, surrounding Old Town, the heart of Leryn’s wealth, history, and government.
Standing before them, cast in an almost ghostly aura by the alchemical street lamps, were another team of pikemen. Arranged in rows, they were clearly intended as an honor guard. At their head waited a tall, slightly corpulent figure whose thick, fur-lined coat couldn’t begin to conceal the green and yellow courtly garb beneath, any more than his attempt at a stylish, close-trimmed beard could conceal the rounded jowls on which it sprouted.
“Lady L
addermore, welcome!” The Llaelese accent flavoring his Cygnaran was notable, but not remotely thick enough to impede understanding. He reached up, offering to help her from the saddle; she accepted, despite needing no such assistance. “I hope,” he continued once both her boots touched cobblestone, “that you won’t think our examination discourteous, but under the circumstances . . .”
“Under the circumstances, you’d be foolish not to take every precaution. No umbrage taken.”
“Excellent, excellent! I am Minister Chalerynne. Foreign Minister di la Granzio sends his abject apologies that he couldn’t greet you in person, but I fear other duties currently occupy him. If we’d only known your Ladyship was coming, we’d certainly have rearranged his schedule.”
They’d begun walking as they spoke, falling into that steady, slightly formal pace common to all official proceedings across all nationalities. The pikemen marched in columns, beside and behind; the knights between them, leading Arius and the rest of the horses.
“Think nothing of it, Minister.” I didn’t want any of this, and if I hadn’t been so foolish as to arrive under full colors . . . “I’ve no wish to tear the Foreign Minister from his duties, especially in days like these. For that matter, I apologize for calling you away from what I am certain are far more important tasks.”
“Oh, not at all!” Chalerynne turned a corner, directing them onto an avenue only marginally narrower than the first. Rapt faces stared from balconies and upper windows, watching the ad hoc parade, but nobody interfered. Civilians on the street stepped quickly out of the way, taking smaller roads or standing flat in doorways until the procession had passed. “Nothing is more important than our relations with our southern neighbors—especially, as you say, during days such as these. Will you be wanting to meet with Minister di la Granzio? We can, of course, arrange such an audience, but it may require—”
“Actually,” Katherine interrupted politely—a neat trick of etiquette that few non-courtiers could master—“I understand that Crispin Halcourt is guesting with one of your citizens?”
“Yes, indeed. Baron Surros.”
“I’d very much appreciate it if you could take me to see him.”
“Of course.” Chalerynne didn’t sound entirely pleased, but was clearly far too polite to refuse. Then, apparently recovering his equilibrium, “You faced little difficulty in getting here, I hope?”
So the conversation continued, Katherine offering an abridged version of their travels. She learned, with no small relief, that word of the siege at Riversmet had already reached Leryn; she would not have cared to be the bearer of that particular news. All the while, Chalerynne marched them through the streets of the Outer Ward, bringing them ever nearer the second wall.
Nearer, but not directly toward. Katherine noted the fact, then decided it wasn’t a warning sign of any sort.
Not yet, at any rate.
Neither, however, was she prepared to let it go ignored. “Minister,” she said, “I’m a stranger to Leryn, obviously, but I can’t help but notice that we’ve passed several roads leading directly toward the wall. Don’t we have to pass through New Town to reach Old Town?”
“Ah . . .” The minister signaled, halting his people, and leaned in close. “My lady, the Outer Ward and Old Town are connected by several tunnels that pass beneath New Town. It’s to one of these that I’m taking you.
“I assure you,” he added hastily upon seeing her face twitch, “these passageways are quite stable and spacious. Given that we can hardly see the sky anyway, for the winter weather, you’ll hardly notice the difference. Except you’ll be a lot warmer, of course.”
“Minister,” she said, hunting for the proper words, “there are—certain shared enemies of ours who may have noted our arrival. I’d be more comfortable remaining in the open, with more options available in case of ambush.”
“Oh, tosh! Lady Laddermore, I assure you there are no Khadoran agents within our walls!”
Either you’re a blithering imbecile, or you’re laying it on a bit thick, don’t you think?
“I’m afraid,” he continued, “that I really must insist.”
“Why?”
It was gauche to ask, and she knew it—but she also knew, now that the question was out in the open, Chalerynne had no legitimate excuse not to answer without appearing even more uncouth in return.
“My Lady, every city, even Leryn, has its . . . unsociable elements. In our case, the bulk of them congregate in New Town.”
“You think a group of soldiers would be endangered by a few neighborhood toughs?”
“Of course not. It’s simply . . . Well, it’s unpleasant, my Lady. I would be lax in my duties if I subjected you to it. And, if you’ll pardon me for saying so, I would hear about such a lapse at length from my own superiors.”
In other words, you’d rather we not see that Leryn has just as many poor, desperate, and destitute as every other city in the world. “Of course,” she acquiesced, squeezing grace and understanding into her voice like so much sausage stuffing. “I quite understand. Lead on.”
She pretended not to note the sigh of relief that he pretended not to utter.
The tunnel entrance, when they reached it, was a fortification unto itself. A great stone gatehouse, manned by a team of gunners, boasted a thick portcullis with only darkness beyond. A brief conversation between Chalerynne and the guard captain presaged a series of clanks and hisses: the younger cousins of those Katherine had heard at the city gate. The portcullis rose. More impressively, a long series of shutters opened in the shadows beyond, exposing an array of gentle chemical lanterns.
Which, in turn, exposed the passage itself.
A gradual slope, scarcely worthy of the term “ramp,” angled down to a tunnel broader than some highways. The floor was cobbled in stone pavers, and the ceiling lurked high enough overhead for all but the largest warjacks to pass without slouching. Columns in the classical style, half-built into the walls, buttressed the whole affair while adding an artistic flare to what was otherwise a coldly functional construction. Katherine figured they were probably carved of traditional white marble, though the alchemical lanterns cast just enough of an unnatural, ruddy hue over everything that she couldn’t be certain.
As they continued—feet, hooves, and words reverberating in the confines—Katherine noted that, roughly every hundred feet, large doors provided ingress to chambers built within the walls themselves.
“Guard shacks and maintenance,” Chalerynne explained. Although he elaborated no further, the knight harbored little doubt that those guards could trigger portcullises, sliding walls, or some other form of barrier—perhaps even, in the most extreme circumstances, a cave-in.
Little sense to Leryn’s massive bulwarks if the enemy had a readymade and unobstructed route beneath them, after all.
Minister Chalerynne continued his performance of unthreatening small talk and polite questioning. Katherine responded instinctively, falling back on skills learned in her father’s court, without paying the functionary any real mind. She knew full well he was trying to draw her out on the reasons for the knights’ visit, without being so rude as to ask directly, and she’d no intention of even acknowledging his efforts, let alone answering them.
Frankly, she didn’t think he’d care for her answers—whether the ones she was permitted to give, or otherwise.
The procession emerged into Old Town via a slope and gatehouse identical to the previous. The knights, their hosts, even the horses flinched as the cold draped over them, an overeager burial shroud, biting skin and scraping lungs.
Still, Katherine retained enough poise to appreciate Old Town. Roads, narrower than those of the Outer Ward but even more meticulously cobbled and cleaned, led past edifices that were the perfect offspring of the ancient and the contemporary. Pillars, statues, fountains, and bas reliefs—mostly showcasing physically flawless men and women clad in centuries-old styles—collaborated to form a façade of classicality over angles, buttres
ses, and load-bearing walls of modern design. Amidst such trappings, the colorful banners and vibrant outfits favored by the Llaelese people didn’t look nearly so ridiculous or out of place as Katherine normally felt them. Looming through the season’s hazy atmosphere, Mount Borgio formed a magnificent backdrop for this most ornate of cities.
Even the beastly fortress squatting like a tumor near Old Town’s center, and the dingy taint to the smoke-impregnated snow, failed to detract from the overall impression.
Katherine made no effort to hide her reaction—a reaction that drew a proud, even patriotic smile from Minister Chalerynne. The citizens in the streets, mostly servants of the rich and noble, occasionally the rich and noble themselves, courteously stepped aside for the procession while maintaining the impression that they saw more impressive sights every day, and acknowledged the visitors only out of graciousness.
At no point, so far as the knights could see, did their host send any sort of runner or messenger ahead of them. Yet somehow, by the time they reached the estate of Baron Surros—which no longer held the same aesthetic allure for Katherine, given that it was constructed and adorned in more or less the exact same style as every other they’d passed—word of their coming had preceded them. The baron himself, or at least an older fellow in silks and furs whom she assumed was the baron, awaited them at the manor’s outer gate. Accompanying him was a small army of servants, nearly as large as the honor guard of pikemen.
“Welcome to my home!” His accent was far lighter than the minister’s; had they not actually been in Llael, Katherine might have had trouble placing it. “I am only too happy to see yet more of my brethren from Cygnar, and I hope you find Leryn’s hospitality to be . . .”
And so on and so forth. Katherine and the other two knights stood at parade rest and weathered the fusillade of formalities for some minutes, interjecting only to introduce themselves when asked.
After which, of course, nothing would do but for Katherine—now ruthlessly castigating herself for arriving in full armor—to give an equally flowery, if somewhat extemporaneous, speech in reply. She never could remember, after that day, precisely what she said, though she was fairly certain she’d used the words “honored,” “delighted,” and “grateful” more in that one monologue than in the past two or three years combined.
