The Ambersham

by Greg Ricker

  Nerol approached the door, and opened it two inches, a foot planted behind it to prevent it from opening more. He saw Curic Montclaire, and Carmon Blayke standing behind him, looking down from over the General's head.

  "Forgive me, my Lord." Curic spoke. "I hoped to find you awake this early."

  "Your Queen is not, however." He whispered the lie, but not to hide it from Yudora, just to make it more believable. "If this can be seen to later..."

  "Please, your Highness." Quickly, before Nerol could close the door, Curic thrusted a folded sheet of paper through the gap. "This letter was found only moments ago, in the castle kitchen."

  Nerol snatched the paper from Curic's hand. He was not amused. Letters addressed to the King had been showing up frequently, as of late. "I suppose this one will tell me how to run my kingdom, as well."

  "No, my Lord." Carmon's booming voice demanded attention, and always received it, but someone sleeping nearby would not appreciate it.

  "This one is quite different." Curic finished for the Lord General.

  Nerol unfolded the letter, and read what was written.

  To the Great King Blanford, of Mynnorah.

  Your Highness, I have taken it upon myself to apologize for the actions of my - so called - patrons. I did not promote, nor did I support, their doings. I hope, the same as you, that justice will come to all responsible.

  I have personally began to question everyone in the city, and if proven so, the guilty men will be delivered to the proper authorities.

  I would like you to know that I seek a peace between us, without the use of violence to achieve it. I fear that some, do not believe that to be possible.

  I pray that you are not one.

  We do not wish to run your kingdom for you. We wish to live here, with the freedom, and respect, that you take for granted, every day.

  Send my sympathy, and my regards, to the family of the soldier killed.

  I am, truly sorry.

  "This is different." Nerol agreed. He had forgotten about whispering. So he stepped out into the hall, closing the door behind him. He wished he had not seen the look on Yudora's face, just then.

  "What do you make of this?" He asked, not caring which one answered.

  "One of the chefs found it in the pocket of his apron." Curic replied. "I believe he knew nothing of it before."

  The King knew two of the chefs personally, but he shook his head, and excluded them. In fact, when he remembered the day ahead, and the look Yudora gave him, he decided to dismiss the matter altogether.

  "We have no time for this today, General." Said Nerol, strongly. "It will be looked into immediately upon our return."

  He handed the letter back to him, and opened his bedchamber door.

  "My Lord, I..."

  "And see to it that no one interrupts the meeting this afternoon." Nerol did not allow Curic to address the subject any further. "I am holding you personally responsible, if anyone does."

  The General sighed. "Yes, my Lord."

  He groaned, as the King closed the door and left him staring at it. He had been waiting for another clue of any kind, and now they were all too busy to follow on it. Perhaps that was the reasoning behind the letter showing when it did. To let them know someone would be investigating the recent murder in their absence.

  He turned to Carmon, with a long frown on his disappointed face.

  "He is right, you know." The Lord General placed a heavy hand on Curic's shoulder. "We can do nothing, for now. The Advancement will still be here, when we return."

  "I know." Curic said, anger boiling inside him. "That is exactly the problem."

  Carmon then frowned. "Perhaps you should consider what is more important, General. Catching these rodents in our streets, or saving Lynnwood from destruction? I fail to see a contest."

  Curic paused a moment before speaking. "Nor do I, which is why I have no wish to stay behind, but I swear, Carmon. If I ever find this man...he will pay for the damage he has done."

  He worried what damage the Advancement could do to the city with the Mynnorah army away.

  The Lord General’s longer legs had to work to keep pace with Curic, for once, as he led the way down the dark hallway.

  "Soldiers?" Asked the Dwarf, quietly, to the other who sat across the table from him. They both glanced at the two males approaching.

  "No." The other replied, as a portly waiter passed their table. "That one has a soldier's sword, but I wouldn't believe them old enough. Probably the sons of some rich merchant."

  He turned back and smiled. "What's the matter, Carlin, do you want to throw more eggs at them? Here?"

  "Very funny, Randor." Carlin frowned, and dropped his eyes to the table.

  Randor chuckled. "I told all of you how senseless it would be, and what did you gain? How many arrested? A dozen? How many injured? You have a lump yourself, under that ridiculous hat."

  The hat was dark green, long, and narrow. The crown was pointed, with a large pheasant feather pinned to one side. Carlin needed something to cover the knot on his head, and it was the only clean hat that he owned.

  "Lucky you're not in a castle dungeon with the others." Randor continued. "I bet they’ll beat Traft's name out of some of them."

  "They would never confess to being members," Carlin threw in quickly, "and they could easily deny knowing his name."

  "Killing a soldier is serious business, my friend." Randor went straight for the throat with that subject again.

  Carlin's mouth gaped. He looked about the room, but no one was looking back. He never could keep Randor from speaking about such things in public. The man was as fearless as he was reckless. Still, he could not change the fact that his doings had led to a soldier dying, which was serious business, indeed.

  "Time you start listening to me," Randor had become angry, "and stop this nonsense, or we'll never get what we want."

  What they wanted, was for life to stay exactly the way it was, only minus the Advancement.

  Traft was going to ruin everything.

  Him, and his foolish letters!

  Randor happened to like all the night bars, and the sin for sale in dark alleyways. Soldiers themselves, would often enter such establishments, and afterwards, stagger down a dark alley with a strange woman.

  All the harder it made Traft's job, when the men he wanted help from, were joining in on the problem.

  Both men knew, that as long as they made the Advancement look bad, Traft would never get his way, and the King would continue to blame them for the problems within the city.

  Carlin's problem, however, was bad judgment. He frequently walked the streets with a few of the toughest men in town, who all loved trouble. Carlin, perhaps, loved it a little more.

  Randor was a good friend, but he took no part in such activities. Getting arrested, was not his idea of a good time. He liked games, and deceit. Keeping his prints off of the evidence. He was a thinker, and that was the only reason Carlin did not occasionally punch his face in, as he did his other friends.

  "No one meant to kill anybody." Carlin whispered.

  "The knife in his back, was an accident, eh?" Randor knew better. “Slipped, and fell backward on the point, did he?”

  Carlin sighed. He knew better, as well. "What if we turn Traft in for it? We could..."

  Randor snatched Carlin's hand just as the Dwarf was reaching for his mug. "Then it will all be over for us. He would reveal all he knows, and you could kiss our lives goodbye, you idiot!"

  He had caught the attention of a few Dwarves sitting close by, but they did not stare long.

  Of course, Carlin knew that before he asked, but he longed for an easier way to get rid of the man. There was, however, one way to make a man disappear, that would ensure he could not say a word to anyone. That had been an avoided subject, until the soldier was killed.

  Now it seemed easier. The wall of fear had been broken, and perhaps it was time to move on across the rubble.

  Maybe they could get r
id of Traft, after all.

  Randor released Carlin's hand, though Carlin could have pulled it free with little effort, and grabbed his own mug. He drank it to empty. So early, and the two of them were having ale with their breakfast.

  "Just keep out of trouble for a while." Said Randor. "Your friends can break plenty of arms and legs, without you."

  Carlin trusted that, but he hated to miss out on the fun.

  "I think I know a way to get them to slip up right in front of the King." Randor whispered. The only sentence he had bothered to keep carefully private about.

  His muscle-headed friend smiled, with an upper front tooth missing. He could tell Randor was thinking again.

  Two Dwarf soldiers dressed in chainmail entered the tavern then, laughing at the punch line of a good joke.

  Nodding his head toward the door, Randor signaled for Carlin to take a look.

  Carlin was ready to leave.

  Sliding their chairs back across the floor, was noisier than expected, and drew the attention of the two soldiers.

  Thinking fast, Carlin stuffed his mouth with a hot roll, hiding the lower half of his face.

  He also grabbed another, for later.

  They stood, and left The One-Eyed Archer, as the soldiers were taking their same table.

  Five hundred and fifty mounted soldiers, along with two lines of seventy-five trained archers, appeared as a glowing army of shining armor. They proudly held their large shields, longswords, lances, and halberds, donning blue capes. Their banner held high just behind the lead. It was a vision that would make any king proud.

  Perhaps for High Lord General Malkyr, it was even more so.

  He shared the lead with Lord General Jakard, but did not share his command. With impressive uniformity he led his men toward the entrance to Derimon Pass. They alone, would be the protectors of Lynnwood, and the true defenders of peace.

  They were the Foebanners.

  It was a name centuries old, used by the Bowenn army in past battles, before the unity of the Kings' Peace Oath.

  When kingdoms defended themselves.

  The way it should be.

  Their banner was even the long since retired flag of old, with a roaring lion's head on black and gold. The old ways could become new again. Victor had to claim something in his name, and there had been no Talbarond men in command during the time of the Foebanners, which was all the more fitting.

  He wore his fine uniform, golden shoulder and chest plates, over a black shirt tucked into loose-fitting, red trousers. His matching red cloak, hung over the shoulder opposite of his four golden knots.

  Nyol's uniform only differed from Victor's, because of his black trousers, three knots, and damaged chest plates. He was most upset about the scratches on his Golden Lion Seal.

  Not as upset, however, as Victor had been, during their visit at Tylas.

  They found the village nearly emptied of all young men, and they knew well the reason. Victor had pressed many poor souls to the point of crying, to tell what they knew.

  Turned out, even the wives and mothers the men left behind, had no clue to their whereabouts. They all said, it happens all the time. Men disappeared from Tylas on a daily basis. Some returned. Some did not.

  The villagers expected the same this time.

  Perhaps someone had discovered gold in the Dorol Mountains again, and could not keep a hold of his tongue.

  Victor did not tell them the reason for his interest, and that led the villagers to believe that the young men of Tylas, had probably fled from the Foebanners.

  He rather liked the rumor.

  He did not like, however, having to leave the Lieutenant Commanders, Lin Kothar, and Palad Grimm, in charge of matters back at Bowenn. He could trust Lin to follow rules straight from the book, but Palad was trouble. An arm in a sling could not swing a sword, though, so they had become simple choices. He settled for the aid of Flan Gildmon, Rohn Ferrel, and the Bryer twins.

  Flan and Rohn rode side by side in the middle of the lines, while Baril and Blayne took the rear. Their positions had been assigned, but Rohn would have preferred the end of the lines. He was not as willing as the others to go on this journey. It was not the traveling itself, or that they were going to fight a Dy'Shan Lord. He feared the judgment of the High Lord General.

  It was a common feeling among many of the men, but it was new to Rohn. Something about Victor's state of mind made him unsure about the General's decision to march to the Blaskies without the aid of another army, and without the leadership of a royal noble. Without the skills of well-trained Dwarf officers, and the benefits of Dy'Shin powered Elves.

  Even without a day of rest since the attack.

  Looking about, he wondered how many men were asleep on their horses. He was close to doing so, himself.

  Flan was sitting tall atop of his heavy muscled bay. Though, for a man a head taller than those about him, there could be no other way. He had been busy thinking the entire journey to Derimon Pass, but he had noticed the worry on Rohn's face, as well as the weariness. The sun had only just risen, and Rohn had sweat dripping from the ends of his grizzled black hair.

  It was to be a long day for Lieutenant Ferrel, indeed.

  "I don't like this one bit." Rohn whispered suddenly.

  Flan was reluctant to reply, it was against the rules to speak during their march. He simply made eye contact with Rohn, to show that he had heard.

  "What defense do we have?" The whispers continued. "Shields can not stop magic."

  History books would argue that statement, Flan knew. It greatly depended on the magic itself. Shields were, however, hardly a comparison to thousands more men, and Dy'Shin protection. In the days of the Foebanners, though, kingdoms fought for themselves, and Dy'Shan Lords had still fallen to them.

  The lines stopped suddenly, to the raised right arm of the High Lord General. He continued a few paces, and then turned to face the army.

  His army.

  "We shall not leave Derimon Pass until nightfall!" He said, for all to hear. "We will pass Mynnorah in the dark, and camp at the Wetlands of Druln! Perhaps we can remain, a private party."

  He had mumbled the latter, but General Jakard had heard.

  Nyol only nodded.

  Victor was well in control of the planning. The rest were there to assist, both in the fight, and the glory of victory.

  High Lord General Malkyr had promised that victory.

  Both to the Foebanners, and to himself.

  XV

  Thorned Morning Flower

  Nerol began his busy day with a quick walk through the gardens, passed the Guest House, and to the stable at the eastern edge of the castle grounds. He traveled with two guards ahead, and two behind. All armed with short, golden hilted broadswords at their hips. Despite the day ahead, he found himself only thinking about the Advancement, and the letter found in the castle. It could have even been a trick.

  For all he knew, the writer may have been responsible for the murder.

  Approaching the open doors of the stable, he found Nolin Muldayr watching four stable boys rushing to obey the Commander's orders. There were still shoes to be replaced, saddles to be accounted for, and bags to supply and distribute. Everything would be finished by the end of the day, however.

  There would be no delays.

  Nolin saluted when the King and guards neared him. "Good morning, my Lord."

  Nerol motioned for the Commander to stand at ease, as he left his guards some four paces behind. "Things seem to be coming along fine, Commander. Nothing is behind schedule, I presume."

  "Nothing will delay our departure, sire." Nolin assured.

  The King smiled. "Do not make yourself late for the meeting this afternoon."

  "I have a replacement for my duties here if I need one." Said Nolin.

  No he saw fit, Nerol presumed.

  "By the way," he started, as Nerol was already beginning to leave, "Lord Talbarond was here earlier. Checking on his horse, I imagine. I can
see why he would fancy the animal."

  "Yes." Nerol agreed. "A most magnificent steed."

  "The other horses concern me, however. "Said Nolin. "Not one seems to be a practiced, or military trained horse. Just underfed geldings, that I doubt could pull an empty wagon a full league. There is Lord Levin's black stallion, however."

  He expected the King to say something in return, but he appeared to be thinking of something else. "Perhaps we could ask their riders to choose from our, more suitable stock."

  Nerol waved the matter aside. "We will be marching to Ayarlyn, Commander, not racing. There will be no changes. Keep the wagons behind the already assigned horses."

  He did not take Nolin literally. Nor was he angered.

  Nerol did not wish to risk embarrassing Prince Talborand.

  "Understood, my Lord." The Commander nodded.

  Still, Nerol would never understand why an army from such a great city, would show up with lame horses. He feared the worst for them, should the need to make haste arrive.

  He also recalled that the Bowenn army was completely in need of uniforms and weapons. He had simply offered these things.

  Had they lost everything in the attack?

  There had to be care taken not to insult his loyal allies unintentionally.

  Nerol heard a dog barking. "Ah, yes!" He slapped a friendly hand on Nolin's shoulder. "Let's see these Mastoks that you are so proud of."

  The Commander smiled. "As you will soon be, as well, my Lord."

  They walked around the south side of the stable to the back, where the dogs were kept. The guards followed close behind. After all, letters found inside of the castle, and on the castle grounds, meant that someone was slipping through his men. Somehow.

  A very uneasy thought.

  Inside of a single, large, wooden fence, sat the four largest dogs Nolin had ever raised. Called mastoks, they were once wild animals that roamed the Dorol Mountains in small packs. In time, their numbers began to dwindle. The winters, of late, had been continuously severe, and the weather had been to blame for their near extinction.

  Nolin was very young when he had found a mastok pup while hunting with his father, and if not for his persistent pleading, his father would have left it alone, to die. Many Dwarves had tried to raise lost mastok puppies, and most gave up after the first bite.