The Heir To The North

by Steven Poore

  He carried himself with such confidence that even though he bore no weapon, she really did not want to provoke him into a fight.

  “You are awake,” he said in an oddly familiar voice. Cassia could not quite place it, but it sounded wrong coming from his mouth. “The way is clear and safe ahead. You may join us now.”

  “I would if I knew who you were,” she replied, more boldly than she felt. “And where is Malessar?”

  The man looked surprised, then dismayed and hurt. “Child, you clung to me last night as you might to a lover, and you say you do not know me? Think upon your lore! Are tales no longer told of noble Pyarre’s adventures amongst your kind? Or of Grist the Unfaithful, or even Gera the Unnamed, who ruled with a golden fist in the lands of the West?”

  Cassia’s jaw dropped wide in disbelief. “Craw?”

  The dragon affected to look offended. “It would seem the storytellers of this age do not learn their craft well.”

  Now that she knew, Cassia could see what appeared so wrong about the woollen robe he wore. It did not move at all in the morning breeze, but it rippled whenever the transformed Craw moved. It was tight against his torso and she suspected that it was in fact a part of his body, changed to resemble human clothing for modesty’s sake.

  She began to relax a little, forcing herself to take deeper, slower breaths. “I’m not a proper storyteller,” she told the dragon. “I wish I was. I’ve never been apprenticed to one. My father is a storyteller, but he’ll never accept me as one. I’m sorry I didn’t recognise you, but I’ve never met a dragon before.”

  Craw seemed mollified by her apology. He gestured back along the old road. “Malessar awaits further on. There are the remains of a pre-Hellean fort at the entrance of the next valley. In centuries past it marked the border with Caenthell. Malessar did not wish to venture past that point without study and certain preparations, and he did not wish to risk your safety. That is why you were left by the road, out here beyond those cursed lands.” A wry smile slipped across the face of the dragon’s human form. “But you were perfectly safe, have no fear. There are no wild beasts courageous enough to venture into this region.”

  “None save dragons,” Cassia muttered, struggling to keep up with Craw’s long-legged pace.

  Apparently that tickled Craw’s sense of humour, because the dragon laughed out loud and repeated the comment to himself, chuckling all the way to the ruined fort.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The road turned northwards to enter the deep valleys between the mountains, where the ancient and cursed lands of Caenthell lay. Wild bracken and grasses had encroached upon the untended road, although the route was still easy to follow. Cassia could imagine the High King’s feared legions marching out to make war on the lands below. It felt strange to be walking along a road nobody else had travelled in hundreds of years.

  If the place itself was unnerving, her guide unsettled her even more. Craw strode ahead, perfectly at ease. Cassia hurried to keep up with him, marvelling at his transformation. Fragments of stories and half-remembered lore rose into her mind, jostling for attention, but she could not focus on any of them.

  The one thought that stuck, circling around and around, was how solid the dragon was in his human form. She could feel his presence from several paces away, and his every movement spoke of immense power and weight. Dragons passed through many of the legends she knew, walking disguised and unseen in the world, but Craw’s obvious and otherworldly appearance made that hard to believe.

  Craw paused at the crest of a rise, waiting for her to catch up. He might have been an imperial lord surveying his domain.

  “Now we approach the borders of ancient Caenthell,” he told her solemnly.

  Cassia looked ahead, half expecting to see the massed ranks of an undead army arrayed before her, ragged pennants hanging limp from rusted spears. She was almost disappointed – almost – to find the winding vale deserted and still, with only the treetops stirring in the morning breeze.

  A short way down the vale, the road split to pass around a great mound, too regular in shape to be natural. At the summit of this steep-sided hill sat Caenthell’s ancient border fortress. Three circular towers formed a triangle, pointing out towards where she now stood. Centuries ago, it must have looked formidable and unbreakable, but while it still dominated the valley time had wrought savage damage on walls and towers alike. There were jagged gaps in both the walls she could see, and giant stone blocks lay half-buried where they had fallen on the hillside. The tower to the far right of the fortress sagged, pulling the wall out with it. It looked on the verge of collapse, held up only by the winding vines that had taken root in the cracks between the blocks.

  “Nature seeks to reclaim the land,” Craw said. “But the stone is strong, and memory persists.”

  Cassia shifted nervously. It felt like the fortress was waiting for something, biding its time until . . . she shivered and cursed her imagination, raising her head to look beyond the fortress.

  “Can you see the castle of Caenthell itself from here?” she asked.

  Craw shook his head. “No. And we will go no further than this fort. You should stay close to me.”

  She smiled, despite herself. “I won’t argue.”

  Craw led the way down the slope, glancing frequently over his shoulder to make sure Cassia was still with him. Although he said nothing, she thought he was being more cautious now, his attention focused on his surroundings. She felt the back of her neck prickle uncomfortably, and her heart raced no matter how hard she concentrated on keeping calm.

  She unsheathed her sword, hoping to draw comfort from its weight in her hand. That brought another of Craw’s careful looks, but the knife was absurdly tiny against the looming presence of the fort.

  They kept to the road, passing around the base of the hill. Here Craw turned aside at last and they began to climb the far side, following the remains of a wide, winding track that looped back on itself several times. Parts of the curtain wall had fallen here too, ancient stones spilling like crumbs to be devoured by the grass and heather that clung to the hillside. Cassia looked up once and saw the two rearmost towers reaching blindly to the sky, leaning out at angles that pulled at her stomach. She kept her eyes firmly on the ground after that.

  At last the track levelled out on a promontory in front of the fort’s gateway. Cassia looked up at the slits in the walls of the two towers, visualising a company of archers silently watching their approach, arrows nocked and held steady. Any attacker would pay dearly just to get this close to the fort.

  The gates had long since gone, rotted or plundered, she could not tell which. The fort lay open. Craw, who had regained a little of his previous good humour now they had reached the gateway, smiled and gestured onward. Cassia hesitated for a moment, but as the breeze shifted she caught the tantalising smell of a cookfire, and hunger pulled her through the darkened arch into the yard beyond.

  The ground beyond the gatehouse was overgrown, strewn with weeds that tugged her ankles. The gutted remains of buildings lined both walls ahead as they narrowed toward the tower that watched over the entrance to the valley. Daylight filtered through their collapsed slate roofs to reveal hollowed-out interiors. The open-fronted building on her left had probably been a stabling block, while the garrison’s barracks had been built against the opposite wall.

  Malessar sat in the entrance to the stables, tending a fire banked with loose bricks that had fallen from the walls. A covered pot hung from a wire frame rigged over the flames. The warlock poked at the fire distractedly with a stick, but looked up and smiled as Cassia approached.

  “As you see, I’ve not lost all my talents over the years,” he said wryly. “I can still make a fire without servants to assist me, although finding dry kindling here presented some difficulties.”

  Cassia found a larger stone nearby that she could roll into position on the other side of the fire. Craw joined them, gazing up with great interest at the towers and the ram
parts that linked them.

  Malessar seemed content to stare into the cookfire, losing himself inside his mind while the contents of the clay pot warmed. The silence began to unnerve Cassia once more. Her imagination placed ghostly observers at the arrow slits high in the towers, and malignant spirits waiting inside the old barracks to ensnare her if she dared explore the fort on her own.

  Had this place died when the kingdom fell? Had its commander fought to the last, or had the garrison fled out of the mountains, leaving the fort to wither in nature’s grasp? Cassia suppressed a cold shudder, thinking of men chained in dank cellars, screaming desperately, but in vain for somebody to help them, their cries smothered by the empty towers.

  “What is this place?” she asked, unable to bear the quiet any longer. Her voice sounded too loud in the enclosed bailey.

  Malessar sighed. “The border fortress of Karakhel,” he said. “One of the great strongholds of the old kingdom. Solonel, son of Forochel, had it built. There was a town once, a little further down the road. Where you have soldiers, you have a need for ale and wine, and the town of Karakhel grew quickly, supporting the garrison and trading with the lowlands.”

  “There was an inn of some ill-repute,” Craw said, his gaze resting on the crenelations above the gatehouse. “A place for young men who thought they were immortal.”

  The words were softly spoken, but Cassia saw the warlock flinch. “The Dragon’s Cup.”

  She hesitated. “I didn’t see a town as we came up. What happened to Karakhel?”

  There was a long, awkward pause, and she wished she had not asked the question. When Malessar raised his head she saw the tumult of grief and anger in his eyes.

  “It died.”

  She shrank back, wrapping her arms about her to ward off the sudden chill. It had been hard to believe this was the man who had destroyed an entire kingdom almost overnight. Baum’s tales and memories had sometimes seemed exaggerated, or too remote. But now she saw the age-old fury under Malessar’s measured exterior, and for the first time she felt truly frightened.

  His face softened, as though he realised what he had done, and he lowered his head. “I am sorry. These are memories I thought I had locked securely away.”

  Craw leaned forward. “We are all here. What will you do next?”

  Malessar raised one hand to pinch the bridge of his nose as he gathered himself, and Cassia took a deep breath, grateful for the dragon’s intervention. She was so far beyond her depth now that all below was grim darkness.

  “This fortress is secure,” the warlock said at last. “Or, at least, as secure as even I can make it. I shall use it as a base for the work. I intend to anchor myself here while I make brief explorations towards Caenthell. To that end I will need both you and the girl to remain here to tend this fire.”

  Craw’s face was impassive. “You believe you are strong enough to confront this on your own?”

  “These are my wards. I know the feel of them. I will know if they break.”

  “You should have assistance,” Craw said. “I will go with you.”

  Cassia blinked. They were going to leave her here on her own, poking at the damned cookfire?

  Malessar shook his head firmly. “I am still not certain what I am looking for, old friend, and your presence will overwhelm my senses. Apart from that, if the wards are indeed failing, I may . . . have some trouble returning here.”

  As one, they both turned to regard Cassia, and she felt her indignation bubbling into anger. “Wait! Did you bundle me all this way just to watch a pot boil? Why can’t I go with you? Why won’t you tell me what you’re doing?”

  “This is no mere cookfire, girl. These bricks are inscribed with bonds and glyphs of protection. While the fire is lit it will shield me as I walk in the old kingdom. The strength of this fortress will be added to mine. But only while this fire remains lit. This is your task.”

  She stared at the bricks laid around the fire, stunned into silence. Sorcery? So close at hand and she was commanded to watch over it?

  Malessar cleared his throat. Clearly he expected some kind of response. Cassia glanced sidelong at Craw, but the dragon had turned his attention to the skies again, having evidently decided the discussion was done.

  “Alright,” she said. “I’ll do it.”

  Malessar nodded. “Good.”

  “I shall remain here,” Craw said, as though it was his idea. The warlock shot him a sharp look, and Cassia hid her smile as the dragon ignored him. “I will assist Cassia in her task.”

  “How long will this take?” Cassia asked. “I mean – how long will we need to keep the fire burning?”

  “A good question,” Craw said.

  Malessar frowned again. Cassia wondered if he had forgotten to think on this more practical side of the sorcery. “A good question. And I admit I do not know the answer.”

  “Then we’ll need more wood,” she told him. “If you don’t mind, sir, I’ll go looking now, before you make a start.”

  The warlock’s smile was warmer this time. “This is why I requested your help, Cassia. But be careful. This place is not beyond crumbling around our ears. Watch your step.”

  She was already on her feet, eager to be away from the fire and the increasingly ominous conversation.

  She left the stables behind and headed back toward the gatehouse. She had spied a small building, with a thick chimney stack on one side, squeezed in a corner of the yard between the gatehouse and one of the towers. Any building with a chimney would need fuel, and a fort with stables would probably need a smithy. It seemed the most logical place to start; scavenging for firewood was a skill she had learned quickly while traveling with her father.

  Her father . . . What was he doing now? She had no doubt he had fled back to Keskor, but what kind of story had he told? Had he replaced her with somebody else? Did he think she was dead?

  Did he actually care at all?

  He was somewhere in the lands below these mountains, she thought, a hollow pang of something like homesickness tugging at her stomach. It wasn’t all that far really, not when she thought of the distance she had travelled in just one night.

  She glanced over her shoulder at the stables. Craw and Malessar were talking in low tones. They were so different, so beyond her comprehension – and so frightening. But even if she could wish herself back to safety in Keskor right now, she wasn’t sure she would. However this strange tale turned out, she was far too caught up in it to pull herself away now.

  “I’m a storyteller,” she muttered to herself. “I have to know how it ends.”

  The hut had indeed been the fort’s smithy. The forge took up the whole of one wall, opposite a collapsed pile of rusted and pitted blades and spear tips. A rotting mass that had once been a workbench sat between them, against the far wall. Cassia grimaced and stuck her hands into the pile, searching for something usable. The wood was almost too rotted to use, and she came out with barely an armful of fuel that was crawling with scurrying insects.

  When she returned to the fire she found Craw sitting alone, staring placidly into the flames.

  “Craw? Where is Malessar?”

  There might have been a hint of tension in the dragon’s voice as he replied. “He has begun his exploration of the wards.”

  Cassia dropped her wood by the fire and wiped her hands clean on her coat. Despite her disappointment at his departure she was getting used to the warlock’s sudden and often unexplained movements.

  “Will you stay here while I search the towers for more wood?”

  “Of course. But remember Malessar’s warnings, girl. And do not stray beyond the gatehouse.”

  She had already decided which of the three towers she wanted to explore first. The two on either side of the gatehouse had small, recessed doorways that made them look less important than the tower watching over the entrance to the valley. That third tower must have been the main watchtower, and there must be something worth finding in there.

  Thr
ee wide stone slabs led up to the thick door, which sat firmly closed. Cassia quickly discovered it had rotted into place, the timbers expanding with damp and the door’s hinges rusted. She did not have the strength to force it open.

  But to her left a set of steps had been built against the wall, climbing over the roof of the stables to the ramparts above. Another short set of steps led from the rampart to the top of the watchtower, and she wondered if there was a way down into the tower from there.

  There was only one way to find out.

  She climbed carefully, mindful of the warnings Craw and Malessar had given her. The steps appeared solid underfoot, but she tested her weight on each one. That aside, it was no worse than any climb she had made before, and her confidence grew as she reached the rampart with no difficulty.

  She paused to take in the view. This face of the fort looked out toward the northwest side of the valley, guarded by a long, forbidding ridge. Blotches of bold purple heather, hardy enough to grow even on the rocks near the crest of the ridge, shimmered in the sunlit breeze. It would be good land to graze goats upon, she thought, and tried to picture a few herders’ cabins dotted across the hillside, wood smoke drifting from their chimneys.

  This land might not be so bleak and unwelcoming if anyone still lived here, Cassia decided. Then a cloud drifted across the face of the sun. The air was suddenly colder, and the shadows upon the land much deeper than before. She felt an odd pressure build in her stomach, as though the hills themselves gazed down balefully at her.

  She shivered. Caenthell was cursed – how could she forget that?