His eyes closed, he sent her a lonesome farewell. “Be safe, my love. I hope happiness finds you.”
Chapter Two
Once the party emerged from the cleft between the peaks, tall cairns guided Whitt across the barren terrain of the Fangwold pass. Behind him, his companions’ steeds plodded along in single file. Knee-high snow, crusty with grit, blanketed the rough track. It would have swallowed the thick-boned horses if the ceaseless winds didn’t blast it from the treeless rock.
The ride down the far side proved easier than the ride up but only by fractions. At the lower elevation, the air began to warm, and water trickled as the Far Wolds’ frost-laced world melted beneath the Springseed sun. In the foothills, the Whiprill’s headwaters sluiced alongside the trail in a tumbling cascade. The whitewater spilled into a man-made reservoir held in place by a timber dam, a new addition and source of contention between Ellegeans and Farlanders.
“There it is.” Whitt glanced over his shoulder at Tavor and Cale. He pointed beyond the blue lake to the valley. The largest of three Ellegean settlements in the south, Tor enjoyed its central location beneath the pass. Outlyer lay to the east and Falcyn to the west. Unlike the Founder-made cities of the north, the settlements weren’t limited to a single structure of towering tiers. Man-built, they sprawled across the countryside without constraint.
From the height, Whitt garnered a view of the design and expanse. The original settlement comprised a third of the city, the stone structures and its precise grid of streets enclosed within a gated barrier. Before the Far Wolds War, the settlers relied on a stockade wall. They’d replaced it with stone over the past decade, enlarging its area. According to reports, with rare exception, only Ellegeans with guild status lived and worked within the inner city.
Beyond the gates, the outer city rambled, covering twice the territory with a maze of twisting roads. A smog of wood smoke rose from a hundred chimneys, and except for an area southwest of the city, the surrounding land had been denuded of trees.
Twilight glimmered in the east before they reached the outer fringe of buildings, and locating the bricked quarters of Guardian’s warriors took the remaining hour before dark. They stabled their mounts and carried their gear into the two-story dwelling by the light of two moons, Misanda nowhere in sight.
A knock on the door brought a tall guardian with a furry face and a hook nose to rival Tavor’s. He eyed them beneath bushy brows that met in the middle of his forehead. “Tavor, Whitt, and Cale is my guess. We heard by bird to expect you. Enter at your will.”
“I’m Whitt.” Whitt edged into the warm hearth, followed by Cale and Tavor who introduced themselves.
“Lodan, out of Kar-Aminia originally. I’ll show you to your room and heat up some mess. Stirred up a decent stew this morning.”
The room was a bunkroom with six beds, four available. “Not much privacy.” Lodan shrugged at Cale. “We moved the worst of us into the other room. Your other option is renting a place at an inn.”
“This will do,” Cale said. “I sleep in my armor anyway.”
“With her knives,” Tavor added.
“I’ll spread the word.” Lodan chuckled and led them back to the hearth where he set a cauldron above a low fire. “We have twenty of us in Tor. I’m on home duty; half are patrolling; the rest are getting spiked at the Hangman’s Hound. A good place to mingle with the Farlanders if that’s your preference.”
“Twenty isn’t many.” Whitt took a seat at the table, and Cale and Tavor slid onto a bench.
“Ten each in Falcyn and Outlyer,” Lodan said. “Useless, if you ask me. We need thirty more boots in Tor alone if we’re going to manage this fiasco. I send reports to the commander saying the place is skunked, and I get three, pardon the griping.”
“The queen doesn’t listen to him,” Whitt said, defending Jagur. “That’s why we’re here. To layer another set of opinions on top of yours and report back.”
Lodan raised his eyebrows. “You got that kind of clout with the queen, I’m charmed to know you. We keep some cold tipple on the sill if you’re thirsty.”
“Sounds good to me.” Tavor rested his forearms on the table. “What’s High Ward Antoris say about the unrest here?”
“The man’s a mean old piff.” Lodan poured tipple into four cups. “And as ambitious as a king’s bastard. He keeps his justices twisting the law into knots whenever it serves him. You’d think they wag two tongues the way they talk out of both sides of their mouths.”
“The city guards?” Tavor asked.
“Most aren’t bad, but they aren’t the sharpest blades in the belt either. They follow orders, a dandy thing if the orders are worth following. Captain Pike’s in charge but doesn’t give a solid shit about anyone but himself. He doesn’t question, doesn’t care, and does as he’s told.”
“A coward.” Cale tipped back her cup.
“Worse.” Lodan scooped out the stew. “The man has no heart. He’d tramp on the body of his own mother if it kept his boots clean. Antoris demands unlimited territory; the justices reinterpret the law, and Pike sees it done.”
“What have you tried?” Whitt asked, suspecting the worst.
“Every trick up our sleeves,” Lodan narrowed his eyes. “We can’t be everywhere, and we’re outnumbered. And if we stir up too much trouble, there’s a good chance one of us will end up eating mud.”
***
Mid-Springseed, Whitt bent over a gaming table at the Hangman’s Hound. His third cup of spike dulled his skills, assuming he boasted any to begin with. The tavern teetered outside the city walls, frequented by Tor’s laborers, thieves, and whores, Guardian warriors, and tall Farlanders. Cale and Tavor, his bald head shining in the lamplight, lounged at the next table, gambling for copper with a pair of bearded timbermen.
Shafter made a nonsensical move, and Whitt sipped on a tepid cup of spike, ruminating over the board. The tavern smelled of rank bodies, stale tipple, and frying fat. The noise echoed between his ears, making it hard to think. He was losing the game, his army disconnected and vulnerable on the flanks. He’d advanced the wooden pieces forward in the middle, and Shafter circled, nearly decapitating his force. The vanguard was safe but ineffectual. His next move would save one of his flanks but sacrifice the other. He could take his pick.
Across from him, Shafter grinned, his ice-green eyes gleeful slits, his flaxen hair in a long braid. The runic scars on his face and cuts in his pointed ears gave him a brutal aspect. Bigger than Whitt by half, the clansman held his drink better too. “Bad choices, Ellegean.”
“Gracious of you to say so.” Whitt rolled a wooden die and moved a warrior to the fortress gate, out of range of Shafter’s bowman. “I don’t know how you do it. The game has too many variables. I can’t look far enough ahead to avoid the traps.”
Shafter reached across the table and tapped two of his three long fingers on Whitt’s forehead. “Need to think like a Farlander.” Instead of attacking Whitt’s warriors, he used his turn to rearrange the river, bringing the jagged course closer to the fortress wall. Strategically changing the game’s landscape was a skill Whitt had yet to grasp. Shafter sat back and downed his tipple. “Don’t look here and there, at this opening and that challenge. Free your eyes and see the whole board as one dance.”
The shift of the river changed the entire game. What was left of Whitt’s strategy collapsed, and he blinked like a drunkard without a sentient thought. “I’m never going to learn this game. It’s hopeless.”
“I will conquer you in two moves,” Shafter informed him.
Whitt sighed and glared at the board. Too tired to figure it out, he randomly moved the trees into the middle of the lake. He bobbed his eyebrows and quirked a smile. Let Shafter reason that one through.
The noise level increased as Cale polished off a bawdy jest and the timbermen broke into roaring laughter. They raised their empty mugs for refills. The tavern door swung open, slapping a tray from a serving woman’s hands. The smashing crockery
added to the general chaos, topped by the barkeep’s cursing.
“Raven,” Shafter murmured. “Her name alone speaks trouble.”
Whitt peered up from his doomed game. The offender, a tall Farlander woman with her telltale milky hair, scanned the room and made straight for his table. Shafter rose at her approach. She stepped close, lips to his ear, her voice lowered to a breathy whisper, “You must come with me.”
Shafter’s eyes thinned. “Where is Sim?”
The woman regarded Whitt and his Guardian greens, the lieutenant’s crescent stitched to his shoulder. He returned the attention and awaited her reply.
“Raven,” Shafter ordered. “Where is Sim?”
Her gaze switched to the scarred man. “They force her to the gate.”
Shafter reached for his hilt, and Whitt bolted from his seat, his body blocking the path to the door. “Who forces her?”
Raven sneered, “Who do you think, Ellegean?”
“Why? What did she do? Why did they arrest her?”
“You ask too many questions.” She beckoned to Shafter. “We must hurry.”
Whitt raised his palms. “If she didn’t kill someone, I can help her.”
“Tell him.” The runes on Shafter’s forehead deepened. “Answer his question.”
“You want to know why?” She held her three-fingered hand to Whitt’s face. “Because she is native, and that is crime enough.”
Whitt gave up and turned to his friend. “Guardian holds authority outside the gate. Let us handle it.”
“No. Sim is my burden.” Shafter steeled his jaw. “I must go with you.”
“You’re right. She is and I understand, but it’s better if Guardian goes alone. I’ll help her. Trust me. I’ll bring her home.” He grabbed his staff from the wall and called to Tavor and Cale. “Your game’s over. We have work to do.” The two guardians gawped at each other as if contemplating whether it was worth their bother. They rose from their seats. Shafter shared a reluctant nod, and Whitt swung to Raven. “Which gate?”
“North.”
“What did she do?”
Raven glared. “She was born.”
“I’ll bring her to the camp.” He dropped a half silver on the table and jerked his head toward the scowling serving woman and her tray of broken crockery. “That will cover us and her.” Turning on his heel, he dodged the woman and darted between the tables for the door.
The fresh air cleared his head, still cold this far south, even in mid-season. Tavor and Cale showed up beside him, slightly off balance, and Whitt frowned at them. “We’re not fighting. We’re claiming authority and taking Sim off their hands. Are you up to this?”
Tavor belched. “Just don’t expect much more than that.”
“We’ll look dangerous,” Cale offered, raking back her short curls.
“Fine. Follow me.” He loped north through the dirt lanes avoiding the abundant mud from weeks of rain. Blue Misanda smiled at her rare dominance in the starlit sky. Darkest Night neared when she too would hide over the horizon.
He’d scarcely learned his way through the labyrinth of Tor’s outer city, the roads riddled with alleyways and dead ends, more tangled than they appeared from the foothills. If guards escorted Sim to the inner city, she was under arrest and had likely provoked it, no matter Raven’s claims.
Within sight of the gate, he slowed, his ankle bothering him when he ran. He pushed aside the corner of his short cloak, revealing his rank, and patted the belt draped at his hip, his knife and short sword reassuring. A step to his rear, Tavor and Cale flanked him with a scowling seriousness that bordered on impressive. Five city guards idled near the wicket. Not far from them, an iron cage housed a crag bear. Though modest in size, the tawny creature weighed as much as three men, and it plodded in endless circles. Whether displayed as a curiosity or warning, the bear’s captivity struck Whitt as cruel and soured his mood.
He swallowed his distaste and dipped his chin, “My respects.”
“Respects,” the guards mumbled in odd unison.
“We’re seeking a Farlander woman. She’s being escorted to this gate. Have they gone through?”
One of the guards chewed on a fingernail and shook his head. “Nothing yet.”
Whitt beckoned to his companions and lowered his voice, “Tavor, keep an eye on those five. Cale and I will deal with the escort. Let’s see if we can do this without creating a spectacle.”
“Fine by us.” Tavor bobbed his eyebrows at Cale. “We left a game half-played at the Hound.”
“I doubt we’ll wait long.” Whitt paced, grinding the end of his staff into the dirt with each step. The sound of the advancing party turned the corner before their bodies. Whitt paused and Cale joined him, her own staff planted like a sentry.
Four guards strode up the lane with a tall woman in their midst, her hands secured behind her. One man held a long knife to her back, while another gripped her stick, prepared to use it. The guards were soaked and splattered with mud as if the rutted puddles had leapt up and embraced them. A muttering guard bled from a gash in his forehead.
Whitt had seen Sim twice since his arrival, and neither time for more than a fleeting encounter. She was pure Farlander—her pearl-white hair cut short and tucked behind her tapered ears, eyes pale emeralds, and her gift remarkable. He’d seen her plant a stick in the ground and grow a tree before his disbelieving eyes.
She smiled as Whitt intercepted her captors. “I’m Whitt, Lieutenant with the Warriors’ Guild stationed in Tor. I’m here to assume custody of the prisoner and return her to the camp unless you can provide me with evidence as to why you’ve arrested her.
“She’s a rebel.” The lead guard, a wiry man no taller than Whitt, flicked mud from his cloak. The bear ceased its pacing and reared up behind the bars.
“I’m innocent,” Sim declared. “They will convict me and lock me away for no reason but I am native to this land. I am in their way, my existence inconvenient to my conquerors. No one will see or hear from me again. Where is your Ellegean justice? Your laws are worth—”
“Shut up!” the guard bellowed. “This is Ellegean territory, and you don’t get a say. Get used to it.”
“That’s enough,” Whitt ordered. “I asked for evidence. Can you prove she’s a rebel?”
“Look at us,” the guard with the gashed head complained. “We didn’t do his to ourselves. She made the mud jump out of the road.”
“What happened to your head?” Cale asked.
The man’s face twisted. “I walked into a branch. I swear it wasn’t there until it hit me.”
Whitt rubbed a hand over his mouth erasing the urge to smile. He glanced back at Tavor, the hawk-nosed sergeant keeping an eye on the gate, for once doing as Whitt had requested. Satisfied, he squared off with the wiry guard. “I’ll ask again. Do you have evidence that this woman splashed you with mud and caused a branch to appear out of the night air?”
“You find this amusing, Guardian?”
“It’s almost Darkest Night. Perhaps your efforts are ill-omened.”
“I don’t give two teeth what night it is; she’s under arrest.” The guard snarled at the dainty moon and started for the gate. Cale stepped in front of him, her staff horizontal at her chest, her back foot braced for a thrust. Other guards shuffled forward. The group at the wicket straightened but didn’t challenge Tavor who snorted like a terran bull eager to charge.
The lead guard cocked his head at Cale, leering at her in a way that guaranteed an early death. “The prisoner’s a rebel, and we’re taking her in for questioning. If we can’t get anything out of her, she’s all yours.”
“She’s ours now,” Cale snarled in the man’s face.
“That so?” The guard licked his lips.
Whitt pivoted and flicked his staff, tapping the man behind the knee in warning and interrupting his confrontation with Cale. “The agreement between us gives Guardian authority outside the gate.”
The guard spun and closed the gap
between them as the bear growled and slammed against the bars. The man glanced over his shoulder and then shoved a finger in Whitt’s face. “You’re a little pisser, aren’t you? Got your trousers all tight up around your stones. That’s not how things work around here, Lieutenant. These people need to be controlled. We should run them off for good. They can go east or west, farther south if it suits them, and we can stop fighting over this land. It’s ours now, and that’s not going to change.”
“No one can own what he didn’t make with his own hands,” Sim countered, her defiance dangerous.
“There you go, Lieutenant.” The guard laughed in Whitt’s face. “She’s a rebel, and she’s your problem now. Watch yourself.” The man stalked past Cale and Tavor to the gate, the rest of the city guards behind him. Whitt grabbed Sim’s staff as they brushed by.
Left alone in the middle of the road, Sim lifted her chin and looked down her nose at him. A couple years older and a half head taller, she made him feel like a boy. “Are you planning to untie me?”
“I think so.” He drew his knife, strode up to her, and lowered his voice, “Tell me the truth, Sim. Are you a rebel?”
She smiled. “Of course, Ellegean. We all are.”
Chapter Three
Whitt escorted Sim to the low wall framing the Farlander camp. Their duty done, Tavor and Cale tripped over themselves in their hurry to return to the Hangman’s Hound. Whitt saw them off with a warm chuckle. For a man past middle life, Tavor behaved like a young lover when in the presence of Cale. She behaved like Cale—an ex-thief turned warrior and as tough as any veteran.
The sparse moonlight muted Whitt’s view of the rambling compound, but he’d explored there in daylight with Shafter, learning where to track him down and getting a sense of scale. The place resembled a crowded settlement more than the temporary quarters the name implied, and he wondered if calling it a camp had been intentional. Ellegeans could uproot a camp.
Cornerstones marked the boundaries, rock monoliths no mortal man could maneuver. The high ward designated the territory within the stones for Farlander use, everything outside defined as common ground. Yet, the Ellegeans slowly claimed the shared roadways, usurping homes and shops and squeezing the native population into tighter and tighter borders. They forced the Farlanders inside the compound or drove them altogether beyond the city’s sway.
Farlanders' Law (The Rose Shield Book 3) Page 2
