by RW Krpoun
The Inner Line came into view by early afternoon, a long dun-brown grass-covered embankment studded roughly every mile with a fort. These forts were identical to the Outer Line forts except that the walls were thicker. The Road-fort and the roadside shed were unchanged, although there was no camp ground.
The Doralon at the Inner Line was dressed like the other, and was equally aloof, although this one was female, a bit shorter, and had hair the color of a dying fire. She was much fuller of figure than Lanthrell usually were, although no more so than the seafaring breed of Threll. She read the letter from the Outer Line, exchanged the party's peta for a slightly smaller square one, had the duty section check the wagons, which they did with competence, and gave Maxmillian another sealed letter for the Gatemaster at the south gate. She repeated the instructions he had already received, warned the ‘Den’ to be at the South Gate before nightfall, and sent the Badgers on their way.
The Dead Zone, a two-mile wide belt between the Inner Line and Alantarn’s outer walls, appeared to be nothing more than common grazing land; in the distance Alantarn's walls could be seen. The only oddities were the deep ditches on either side of the well-maintained roads, and the man-made, stone-lined trenches that cut the road every few hundred feet, crossed by timber bridges.
Seeing Maxmillian's interest, Janna explained. "It takes a road to move heavy siege gear; the Direthrell will burn the bridges while the foe batters away at the Inner Line. To mount a siege, the attacker would have to spend time and timber to re-bridge them all, and to bridge the ditches where he wishes to go right or left. Timbers for bridging are timbers that cannot be used in siege towers or war engines."
"And sallies could attempt to burn the bridges again, should they be left unguarded," Maxmillian nodded, eyes bright. "Clever."
"That it is. Taking this place would require a vast amount of blood and determination."
The fortress walls drew close; Janna was familiar with fortifications, and saw nothing out of the ordinary with the layout of Alantarn’s defenses despite the odd construction material, save for those who manned them, as she doubted there was any other fortress in the world so filled with various races as a Direthrell hold. The thorny wall, liberally studded with vine-coated fighting towers, loomed over them like a frozen avalanche as they approached the south gate, seven feet thick and heavily shored up from within by hundreds of extra timbers; as they entered the wall’s shadow the Silver Eagle stiffened involuntarily, gripping her saddle horn with a sweating hand. She had taken part in many a charge and assault in her years as a Warder and Eagle, but none had chilled her as this unopposed ride to the gates of Alantarn.
At the Gate the ‘Den’ surrendered their peta and sealed letter, were subjected to the same questions again, and their cargo was gone over with elaborately engraved staves. Satisfied, the caravan was assigned a Remur section as an escort and sent on its way.
Janna sat motionless on her horse while the security precautions were made, keenly aware that one mistake, one careless slip, and they would die here. The South Gate was a fortress in miniature, a square three-story vine-walled blockhouse that bulged out from the wall, with two sets of gates thirty feet apart separated by a portcullis. To traverse its thorny maw any traveler must pass under a timber ceiling liberally studded with murder holes and archer’s slits, and halt while massive counterweights creakingly opened the inner gates, which were not opened until the outer gates were closed. The whole made Janna think of dragon’s jaws, or the steel fangs of a killing trap.
Maxmillian was somewhat stunned by the variety of sights and sounds within the Outer Keep: while nowhere near as busy or bustling as even a medium-sized trade town the sheer variety of the fortress’s inhabitants and construction more than made up for volume. First was the twisted, green-brown mass of the living fortifications rearing up overhead, vines on top of vines in a swirl of growth that twisted the eye, liberally coated in dagger-like thorns, followed by the usual barracks, armories, stables, children’s schools, workshops, slave compounds, warehouses, and administrative buildings.
The latter were far from ordinary in appearance, however: more than half were built of the glazed bricks unique to the Direthrell called oekao and decorated with ornate tile work; others were of cut stone designed and built by Black Dwarf Thanes, mixed in with wooden structures that would not look out of place in a Human city.
The variety of races within would not have found a place in any city of the West, however: in the short distance between the gate house on the Outer Wall and that of the Inner Wall the scholar saw patrols of Direbreed and Centaurs, Goblin mercenaries, Orc traders, mixed-blood Nepas, Human merchants, and Thanes of every race: Black Dwarf, all varieties of Goblin, Orc, Human, half-Orc, and the rarer half-Goblins. There were slaves of every race present as well, their status marked by a black bar tattooed on the backs of their hands and on the left side of their neck. Some stumbled along clad in filthy smocks, worn and hungry-looking as they toiled beneath heavy loads, while others trotted about on errands for their masters looking as well-fed as the Thanes.
And there were large numbers of Dark Threll moving here and there, stalking through the press as if the fortress existed for themselves alone; Maxmillian found that the two he had met were accurate representatives of the breed: tall, graceful, and more robust of build than the Lanthrell. Skin and eye colors were pale, as were their hair; it seemed to Maxmillian that they were more Mist Threll than Dark, physically. But while they were fair of form the darkness within them shone like a torch in a shadowed room: in every one he saw the terrible fire of ambition, the ruthless glow of power-hunger, the scorching heat of the stamp of the Dark One. They glided through the thorny reaches of Alantarn like the blue flame riding the crest of a wave of burning oil, bright eyes ablaze with dreams too terrible to contemplate. The sight of each Direthrell hammered home the realization that he was in the midst of an outpost of an empire that was not merely power-mad, but was actively immersed in evil, immersed by choice and design. As the chill of his realization sank in, the scholar slunk deeper into himself, and concentrated on the backs of their half-Orc Thane escorts.
Durek plied his reins with an expertise born of hours of careful practice, one booted foot braced next to the brake-lever, eyes busy beneath his shaggy brows. He noted the Dwarven craftsmanship in the stonework they passed, seeing the differences between slave-work and that wrought by Fortren, Darklings, those Dwarves who embraced evil and the Dark One. More importantly, he studied the wall and gate guards, and examined the passage of roving patrols. Careful attention was given to the arms and actions of the slave overseers and the security points scattered throughout the hold. The Direthrell had been slave-masters and vassal-troop users for millennia and knew well the risks involved in either course: security was thick and the guards alert. Durek nodded to himself; tough, but the Badgers were tougher. Give him some darkness and a bit of surprise and he would show these pointy-eared bastards what a fight was all about.
Home again: it numbed Elonia to the bone to be back to where she had been raised. The Outer Keep had changed very little over the decades. It made her skin crawl and sent sweat trickling down her spine; she kept her head down and watched out of the corners of her eyes, keenly aware of the glass ampules she had secreted in her collar, wrist cuffs, and hair, each containing enough fast-acting poison to kill any two people. The amulet that safeguarded her from poisons and venoms rode in her pouch, its powers inert without her wearing it, so that if she were taken she could save herself from the Direthrell’s torturers. It was all on the table now, everything she had was bet on this one roll of the dice.
Every Nepas that passed was carefully and covertly scrutinized, as there had been scores of students in her Academy, and while the danger that one might recognize her face after several decades was slim it was still a risk as an old classmate might recognize Skink after all these years, especially a classmate who had not heard of Skink’s ‘death’. She drew a shuddering breath and tried
to compose herself after each potential encounter passed, but it was very difficult: the others were better off with their ignorance of the depth of the dangers that surrounded them, secure in the knowledge that any raider taken alive would simply be enslaved or executed, but the fate a rogue Nepas would never be so quick or easy. Worse, a decades-long childhood here had left deep-seated insecurities and an abiding feelingly of inferiority that was tormenting her again.
As the ‘Den’ rode past a school barracks for pre-academy Nepas children a memory surfaced unbidden: a young Skink, in that stage of development that would equal a Human child at age seven, cowering beneath the thin blankets on her little bed in her school’s barracks hall, clutching a rag bear and trying desperately not to make a sound as adult Direthrell, most smelling of alcohol or drugs, prowled up and down the rows of beds, dragging a child or two off with them, or simply taking a sobbing victim there on the child’s own cot. The red and green scarf that she never removed, with matching cloths tied to her bedposts to warn of her ‘disease’ to any who might be interested in her always seemed to be scant protection on the nights when the tall figures stalked the aisles in the thin bluish light of the night-lanterns and children cried and begged for mercy that never came. She remembered the looks on the girls’ faces the next morning as the classes were convened and the way not a month passed without finding a classmate who had hung herself or slit her wrists rather than face another night.
They had called it the Lottery amongst themselves, whispering in tones of dread and helplessness, and coped as best they could. By the time they were assigned to academies they had either come to terms with it or had taken their own lives, and as graduation drew near many of her classmates were slipping out of the barracks at night to visit the nearby children’s quarters to play the Lottery from the winning end, or to the troop barracks for adult entertainment.
Back at her quarters in Oramere there was a worn rag bear wearing a green and red scarf stitched together with childish care, an old and battered toy sewn by Star Brightchild and carried by her daughter ever since. Bear had backed her every move since she was old enough to walk, until this mission: no matter what happened here, Bear would survive.
The biggest danger, Arian decided as he played the role of a cultist on his first trip to Alantarn by staring at everything like a farmer in a city, was running into real Golden Serpent cultists. While fooling outsiders, even those who regularly dealt with this cult, was not all that difficult, the monk had no illusions as to how they would fare in any but the most casual encounters with the real article. Their saving grace, however, was that the various Dens operated in considerable competition with each other, making it not uncommon for groups to snub each other in places like this. Additionally, the lateness of the year should ensure that there were few other traders here.
Dmitri watched an Eyade haggling with a non-warrior Human Thane over a mound of yalla hides, a half-dozen nomad warriors lounging around nearby as escorts to the haggler. The Eyade might belong to the Hand of Chaos but they obviously had no qualms about doing a little trading with their masters’ enemies on the side. A short distance away a party of slaves consisting of six Humans (including an Eyade) and two Goblins spread wet, stinking fertilizer around the base of the wall to feed the vines, carefully watched by a burly half-Orc Thane armed with a sword, club, and whip. He estimated that very nearly half the population were slaves, with a sizeable percentage of the non-slave population tasked with nothing more than the duty of supervising the slaves. The methods used to enforce the slave’s obedience were obvious: welts and whip-scars were common, and he saw more than one severed ear and the marks left from a hot poker.
The presence of so many of her racial enemies chilled Starr to the bone; even the rock-crawling in the mountain-guts of Gradrek Heleth hadn’t oppressed her spirits as badly as this ride into Alantarn. The war between the Threll of the Light (the forest-dwelling Lanthrell and the sea-faring Harthrell) and the Dark Threll (Direthrell) had gone on since the War of the Gods had shattered the world thousands of years ago. No quarter would be given or asked, no mercy extended in any case when Threll of the opposing sides met; Starr was convulsed with revulsion for this place, and an abiding, bone-deep hatred for the occupants and their bloody ways. Keeping her gaze set on her donkey’s ears, she did her best to ignore her surroundings and to keep her face untouched by the emotions swirling within her. She risked a glance at her cousin, and was reassured by Elonia’s rock-calm demeanor: no nervousness there. The Seer’s example stiffened Starr’s own resolve, and she rode on a bit easier.
Alantarn’s Inner Keep was encircled with a wall that was a twin to the outer defenses, complete with a heavily fortified gate blockhouse and the detailed entry procedures. The andern coatings on the Gate egrans they were carrying continued to perform as promised when the staves were passed over the cargo, and their disguises remained convincing. After their cargo had been checked with the carved staves each Badger was issued a small triangular peta on a cord, were warned that they would have to leave the Inner Keep no later than the third dawn from the day of their entrance whether their business was finished or not, and given a list of rules to abide by that boiled down to stay away from everywhere not escorted to, and obey all Direthrell.
Durek was concerned that his Badgers would not be up to the task of acting normal as they passed through the checkpoints, but he quickly realized that while none save Kroh and Elonia were able to act unafraid, the Direthrell and Thanes on guard found this apprehension to be unremarkable; apparently few outsiders rode into the fortress for the first time with a confident air.
Inside Inner Keep they saw the hub of the Hold: government buildings, armories, quarters for the elite, barracks, and massive thick-walled treasury storehouses. Near the center, on a low hill surrounded by yet another thorny wall studded with fighting towers was the Site, the fortified heart of Alantarn and the reason for all the troops, defenses, and weapons: the future anverax and the personnel and material needed to create it.
Their escorts led them to a guest complex and turned them over to a Human Thane who instructed slaves to tend to the group’s mounts, wagons and goods while he escorted the Badgers to the their guest quarters, which consisted of a suite of rooms arranged around an attractive atrium. The bustling human Thane explained that meals would be served upon request, that a wide variety of drink and drugs were available for their relaxation, and that slave courtesans of both sexes and several races awaited their pleasure; ordinary foodstuffs, drink, and the use of the slaves was free, while the more exotic viands and substances carried a tariff. Representatives of the various 'Mana interested in their cargo would arrive early in the morning.
Chapter Fifteen
“Another slab of ham, Den Brother?” Rolf asked Kroh with exaggerated courtesy. The Waybrother, mouth full of roast beef, bobbed his head in assent before swilling down a pint of vintage wine. The big half-Orc obligingly sawed an inch-thick slice off the roasted ham. “And you, good lady?” he inquired of Starr.
“No, thank you, this beef onion soup is superb, and the herbs in this roast chicken cannot be described.” The little Lanthrell dunked another chunk of freshly-baked bread into her bowl with gusto.
“Sister?” Rolf nodded towards Janna, who was busy building a massive sandwich within a crusty loaf of fresh-baked bread.
“Yes, several thin slices, please.” The Silver Eagle sniffed a piece of baked fish, then cautiously nibbled at it. “Hmmm, seems to be trout of some sort.” Shrugging, she added some to her construction.
Maxmillian waved away the ham before Rolf could ask, being fully engaged with a plate piled high with pork kebabs, dumplings, and fried potatoes, all swimming in rich brown gravy.
Kroh mopped the grease from his mustaches with a linen napkin and nodded towards Henri as the wizard entered their suite, a lovely young woman in a skimpy silk dress in tow. “His third; Dmitri and Roger were content to settle for one girl, but Henri has to sample the lot.”<
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“With Arbmante footing the bill it seems almost a waste not to indulge,” Janna compacted her completed sandwich with long sections of thin wooden kabob skewers and hefted it admiringly. “By the...Den, that’s a sandwich.”
While the rest of the Badgers set about abusing their hospitality, Durek, Bridget, Arian, and Elonia drew aside for a small-scale council of war.
“How close do you suppose our hosts are watching us?” Durek muttered, cutting up his roast beef.
“Not as close as you might think, I believe,” Elonia shrugged, nibbling at the roast pork on her kabob. “I’m sure at least one of the ‘ladies’ that have wiggled in here is either a Pargaie agent or reports directly to one, as well as at least one of the servants, but beyond that I wouldn’t expect too much. We’re here to trade andern, with an introductory letter from Era Ludio, and are only a dozen people in a fortress that could, and has, stood off tens of thousands. Our ‘Den’ is only one of dozens that trade here.”
“Good, I hope you’re right. Anyway, the time limit’s a nasty surprise, as this gives us only three evenings to choose from. Tonight’s the second night our ‘friends’ are standing to, with eight left to go, or so they suppose.” The Captain split a roll and buttered it. “Do we move now or wait for Ludio to contact us?”
“Wait,” Arian suggested, putting a well-gnawed pork chop bone onto his plate. “My, the cook got the frying right with these. We should trade off the andern and whatever else of our cargo, both to help build our ‘reputation’, and because we may obtain items that could be of use. Good food and a solid night’s sleep can only improve our performance.”
