That was Kiln’s plan, to attract the thieves. From the accounts of survivors of attacks, there were several large groups roaming the lands around Finarth. They needed to end the thievery, and they needed more good men to fight. Kiln hoped to solve both problems together.
Kiln believed that most men were good, or at least wanted to be good, and that few desired the hard road of a brigand, but in many cases that mantle was thrust upon them by circumstances not of their making. He had known several such men, men who eventually came to work for him at his homestead deep in the Tundrens. Many were men who had lost their farms to drought or their families to sickness or war. There were many men who could not get work and resorted to stealing to fill their stomachs. There were countless stories of men, and women, who were generally good, but in Kiln’s mind, too weak to fight off the tantalizing pull of crime when the alternative was starvation and despair. Some were good men who needed to feel the strong pull of hope again. Kiln gave the men at his ranch that chance, and now they took care of his home while he was away. He had turned them into proud men, and now he planned something similar, on a larger, more dangerous scale.
He reached under his cloak, feeling his long dagger. They were more than ready to deal with any threat, but he hoped it wouldn’t come to that.
Kiln’s eyes narrowed as they came around a corner. In the road, no more than a stone’s throw away, were four men standing casually. From the distance Kiln could see that they were covered in travel worn clothes and heavy wool cloaks. They held no weapons, but he could see swords dangling from their belts.
“Stay alert, more are sure to be in the woods,” Kiln whispered to Dagrinal, who slowly eased back on his mule’s reins, positioning himself just behind Kiln. He did not want to be too close to the men when they stopped for he feared they would see his true identity.
Kiln slowed, stopping five paces away from the men. He kept up the act, his fidgeting eyes giving him the appearance of a scared farmer.
Several of the men were just past middle age, but even the younger ones looked tired and thin. Their skin was pulled tight to their bones but their scraggly beards helped mask their hungry look. Kiln could tell that the winter was hard for them. More than likely they had a camp somewhere with women and children and the meager rations they took from travelers did little to curb their hunger.
One man was older, and his beard was more gray than brown. He stood tall and firm with his legs out wide and his arms crossed. Kiln noted that his sword and belt was an old cavalry issued weapon from when Kiln had been commander twenty years ago. Either this man was an old soldier or he had stolen the weapon. Kiln believed it to be the former considering his casual and confident stance.
“Evening, farmer, my name is Gaal and today is not your lucky day,” announced the man calmly, just as more men emerged from the brush. They too wore old wool clothing, and their breath emerged as clouds in the cold air. They were undisciplined and clearly not experienced, but there were enough of them to make them feel confident. Kiln glanced left and right, counting over twenty men as they surrounded the wagon and cart. He didn’t say a word, which seemed to unnerve Gaal a bit. But he quickly masked his unease by announcing loudly, “I hope that you have plenty of supplies in those carts for your life will depend on it.”
Kiln counted six bows in the crowd surrounding them, and most of the others had old pitted swords or woodsman’s axes. It was a sorry looking lot, but they did outnumber them two to one. Still, Kiln hoped it wouldn’t come to a fight. Now was the time to unfurl his plan.
“Let’s just kill them!” yelled a skinny man to Gaal’s left. The man’s shrill voice grated on Kiln’s nerves and his shifty eyes gave Kiln the gut feeling that he could not be trusted.
“I would not try that if I were you,” Kiln replied softly from under his hood, as he slowly drifted forward.
The casual calm advance of the farmer further unnerved the bandit leader, and his eyes darted left and right with uncertainty. Usually the farmers became frightened and pleaded for mercy. But this man was not afraid, and he was advancing on them even though he was surrounded.
“Don’t come any closer or you will soon look like a pin cushion,” threatened the man.
Sure enough, the closest bowmen, who already had their arrows nocked, drew back on their long bows. The sound of the tension on the wood as the bows were slowly drawn back seemed to echo in the tense silence.
Kiln stopped several paces away from the men. “As I said, I would not do that if I were you.”
“Kill him, Gaal,” whispered the skinny bandit again.
“Shut your mouth, Waylin,” barked Gaal, keeping his eyes on Kiln. “What is your name, farmer?”
Here was Kiln’s opening, and he hoped it would work. Kiln reached up, pulling back his hood revealing his face. “My name is Kiln, and I believe you have heard of me.”
Gaal took a step back, looking into Kiln’s steady gray eyes. The men near the leader looked at him nervously, their eyes darting back and forth.
“Yeah, and I’m the king!” laughed Waylin. The others near him laughed as well, taking his lead.
But Gaal stood still, staring at Kiln.
“This man is crazy and I’m done talking,” said Waylin, stepping forward suddenly, trying to skewer Kiln with his long sword.
Kiln, expecting the move, side stepped the sword while drawing his concealed blade. His body was a blur as he spun, his polished sword leading the maneuver, glowing momentarily just before it sliced through the man’s throat. The move was so fast that no one even registered it.
Kiln quickly stepped back; his bloody sword held low as Waylin’s body hit the ground, followed a few seconds later by his head landing nearby. “I am Kiln!” he yelled loudly.
As he spoke, he spun quickly, addressing the bowmen, hoping that none would release their arrows. Just as he spun he heard the unmistakable sound of a bow string being released. Kiln dodged to the side while whipping his blade in a protective arc. The archers were close and he only had the blink of an eye to catch the blur of the arrow and angle his blade towards it. He just caught the end of the arrow, but it was enough to deflect it to the ground. The sound of his blade hitting wood was quickly followed by another twang and a grunt.
Kiln glanced up, seeing an archer fall to the ground with a crossbow bolt protruding from his neck.
“Hold! Lay down your arms and no harm will come to you!” Kiln demanded again.
Dagrinal had jumped from the saddle, drawing forth his long sword that was hidden on the mule’s side. Simultaneously he tossed back his hood, throwing the wig on the ground.
Graggis dropped the crossbow he had fired, hefting his mighty axe from under the blanket. He jumped from the wagon and landed firmly on his feet, the bandits near him scattering from his dangerous presence. They were deer surrounded by wolves, and they knew it.
The knights in the back of the wagon poured from the opening, flanking both sides of the wagon and cart. They each carried loaded crossbows and they were also armed with sword and dagger. Their armor gleamed like the snow in the sun’s rays.
“I am Kiln, commander of the armies of Finarth! Lay down your weapons!” he demanded again. “There need be no more bloodshed!”
Kiln ripped off his traveling cloak revealing his magnificent plate mail beneath, the Finarthian symbol proudly resting in the middle of his armored chest.
Dagrinal and Graggis followed his lead and the bandits backed up slowly, unsure of what to do against such splendid opponents. Few of them were warriors and very few of them wore any armor at all. They all looked to Gaal, their leader, for support.
“Do as he says, lower your weapons!” bellowed Gaal. The men did as he ordered and Gaal stepped toward Kiln slowly.
“Is it really you? Are you Kiln?” asked the bewildered leader.
“I am,” replied Kiln, looking into the man’s eyes. Kiln saw recognition there. The sword the man carried, the knowing stare, he must have fought under Kiln many
years ago.
“I recognize you. I only saw you a few times those many years back, but I could never forget your eyes. You are he, you are Kiln. Why are you here? What is the meaning of this deception?” the man asked, as his men looked around with apprehension.
“Deception? It is not I who have been reduced to stealing from my own people, people that I swore to protect many years ago.”
Gaal’s eyes narrowed in anger but he held his sword. He knew that any action on his part would mean his certain death. “It is not that simple, sir. I was injured in service and cast out to fend for myself. My wife and boy died of the scratch fever when it swept through here years ago. I could not run the farm on my own and after the crop failure two seasons ago I had all but exhausted my money and food. I did not want this, but it was all I could do, it is all we could do,” added Gaal, using his hand to encompass the rest of the men around them. “But you did not answer my question, why are you here disguised as farmers?”
“We came for you, to find you. I have a proposition for you.”
Gaal hesitated for a moment before speaking. “I’m listening.”
“How many men do you command?” asked Kiln.
“We have two hundred men who are spread between two different camps, and half that many more are women and children. Why do you ask? I will not give you their whereabouts,” he said firmly.
“You have been raiding the refugees as they come to Finarth. That we cannot have. Besides that, we need more men, strong men, to help fight when Malbeck and his armies arrive!” stated Kiln loud enough for all to hear. Kiln saw Gaal’s eyes widen at Malbeck’s name.
“So it’s true? We have heard rumors that Tarsis was destroyed. Does he march his army here?” Gaal asked.
“Yes. We are bringing in all able bodied men, but we need more. We need you,” Kiln stated flatly.
“And why would we do that? What is in it for us?”
“I will pardon you of all crimes. You and all that follow you will be given food and shelter. You will gain your honor back. What is a man without that?” Kiln asked.
He could see that his words had hit home with the brigand. And he hoped that it had with most of the others as well.
“But what happens after the war, if any of us survive?” asked Gaal sarcastically.
“If any wish a commission in the army then it will be granted. If not, then each man can leave with ten gold pieces.”
“Why would we trust you?” asked a heavy set man to Kiln’s right. He was carrying a large woodsman’s axe and wearing old leather armor that was too tight for his round belly. “The word of an oath breaker means nothing to me.”
“Hold your tongue or I shall cut it out,” snarled Dagrinal, advancing toward the man.
Kiln, impressed with the man’s courage, showed no anger toward him. After all, he was right, and Kiln was well aware that few knew the entire story.
“Stay your blade, Dagrinal,” Kiln ordered, stepping towards the man. “What is your name?”
“Toban,” he replied, locking eyes with Kiln.
“Toban, you are right. I broke my oath many years ago. But know this!” Kiln said, raising his voice so all could hear. “You do not know the whole story, and what you have heard whispered in taverns is not the truth of it! The dead king, Uthrayne Gavinsteal, and I had a disagreement, that is all, and the circumstances required that I leave his service! That is all you need know!”
Kiln turned to address all of the men.
“The way I see it is that you have two choices! One, take my word and join us to combat a great evil! An evil that will find you regardless of the choice you make! In doing so you will receive full pardons and walk away with honor and gold! Two, stay here as a thief and struggle to live off the meager belongings that you steal from your own people! But know this, if Malbeck doesn’t kill you, I will personally hunt you down and kill you as a criminal.”
Kiln paused to let it all sink in. “So, what say you?” Kiln asked them all, turning to face Toban. “You have courage, Toban. You spoke your mind when few would. I could use a man like you. What say you?” he asked again.
All but three joined that day. Kiln spent another week searching for brigands, and he was able to gather a hundred more bandits, not including Gaal’s group. All in all it was a success. The roads were safer and the very threats to the refugees’ safety were now their allies.
Seven
The Hallows
The party moved at a swift pace. Time was of the essence. They had to reach the gateway to the Hallows as quickly as possible. The sooner they made it through the Hallows, the sooner the king would be with his queen and their son. At least that is what they hoped. Jonas knew that the only way he was going to get the king to go to Finarth was to find his family and reunite them as quickly as they could.
They had a brief argument before they left, but were forced to settle it quickly. There was no time to quarrel. Hagar was still unconscious and he seemed no better. Myrell did not want to leave him, but they had no choice. Besides, many of the men did not want to waste more time over an ogrillion, a beast that by their reckoning would just as soon rip them apart. They had not witnessed Hagar killing the demon hound. If Jonas had not confirmed that the ogrillion was not a threat, they may have killed him while he was unconscious, simply to bury any fears they had of the beast waking up and attacking them. Jonas, exhausted and still weak, did not think it wise to push his energy and attempt to heal a beast so large, not when so much was at stake. They would likely be facing more challenges in the Hallows and he would need his strength to survive them.
“Myrell, I understand your feelings but I think Hagar will survive. His heart is strong and I think he can pull through,” Jonas reasoned with her.
“But Jonas, we can’t just leave him here, unconscious and bleeding. What will happen when he awakes and finds he is alone? I can’t bear that thought, not after what he has done for us.”
The rest of the party was waiting impatiently, adjusting their gear and glancing at them anxiously. They wanted to get moving. Nobody knew what had happened to the wizard that had attacked them, nor whether more of Malbeck’s minions were in pursuit. It was time to get on the trail.
“I cannot risk further weakening myself. Hagar will survive, I can feel it. Now we must go, Myrell,” Jonas pleaded.
Myrell looked at the others. They returned her gaze with eyes that could not hide their anxiety. She watched the king pacing back and forth, flexing his jaw muscles tensely. He, more than anyone, was anxious to leave, and she knew it wouldn’t be long before he ordered everyone to move out, whether she was ready or not.
It was time to go and she knew it. “Very well,” she said with a resigned sigh. Myrell turned to Hagar, brushing her hand lightly over his bloody shoulder. “Thank you, Hagar.” She wanted to say more but the right words could not be found. Finally she turned away in frustration, and marched down the trail. The rest of the party quickly followed her.
Allindrian led the group and Jonas brought up the rear. The group was small, consisting of fifteen Tarsinian warriors, Dandronis, Evryn, Durgen the dwarf, and the king. This allowed them to move fairly quickly over the rock strewn mountain paths. Myrell, Kilius, and Fil stayed near Jonas at the rear of the column. Their eyes darted from tree to rock as they moved at a jog, hoping to make it to the gateway without more of the trouble that seemed to plague them.
After several hours of hard travel they finally stopped at a small crystal clear pool centered in a little clearing at the base of a tall rock cliff. From the top of the cliff a powerful waterfall dropped the expanse, crashing into the pool with a roar and sprays of icy water. It was a beautiful sight, but they did not have time to take in the scenery.
The warriors drained their water skins, refilling them as Allindrian and the king gazed into a deep section of the pool at the far end of the waterfall. Everyone replenished their energy by ripping into pieces of day old venison. Jonas joined the Blade Singer and the king, refre
shing himself with a long pull from his water skin.
“Are we near the gate, Allindrian?” Jonas asked.
“We are, it is there,” she said, pointing into the deep water.
Jonas peered into the clear depths, and saw two large stone pillars rise from the bottom of the pool. It was obvious that someone, or something, had placed them there, a seemingly impossible feat since they were in the middle of nowhere
“We have to enter the water?” Jonas asked incredulously.
“Yes, I will open the gate and then we each must enter the water and stand between the pillars. The magic will do the rest,” she said.
“And our armor?” asked the king.
“Keep it on. You will sink to the bottom but have no fear, you will not drown. The magic will work and you will be transported to the Hallows,” she said, catching the worried expressions of the two warriors.
“Who put the gate here?” Jonas asked.
“I do not know,” Allindrian admitted. “We elves have long memories and yet we do not know how the gates came to be. There are others placed throughout the realms that go to different planes of existence. It is thought by some humans that the gods placed them here; others think it was an ancient people advanced beyond our imagination. We do not know.”
“Let us begin,” Kromm interjected impatiently. “How much time do you need to open the gate?”
“Just a few moments,” she said calmly.
It did not take long to get everyone through the gate. And Allindrian was right; although a bit strange, the process was simple and smooth. Jonas was the last to arrive. The hardest part was leaping into the deep pool wearing his full armor. He quickly sank to the bottom of the pool and, keeping his eyes open, stepped between the pillars. He felt a wave of power flow over him. His body tingled briefly and then everything went black.
The Cavalier Trilogy: Book 02 - The Rise of Malbeck Page 19
