“By Mishtan, this place seems like a divine palace of the gods,” Damicos laughed. “The only point you haven’t touched on is the women. They must be prettier and more gracious than Bequissa herself.”
Meldus’ face colored at that. “Aye, they’re nice. But the high king himself would be thrown out on his head for disrespecting the proprietress or her staff. And it’d be the townsfolk doing the throwing. They all love Brannon and Haila as much as I do.”
“Point taken,” Damicos replied. “But perhaps in time, when we’ve established some rapport with these people…”
Meldus grinned. “In that case, watch ye. The women of Dura, for all their graces, can be forceful and demanding when they want something. You wouldn’t be the first soldier to find himself converted suddenly to a farmer by a Duran bride and her kin. Nor the hundredth, probably.”
As they made their way down into the town, barns could be seen in the surrounding hills, which sheltered the town like encircling arms. Livestock fed on the rich grass that covered them, and young grain rose thick in fenced fields near the river that hugged the western edge of the little valley, snaking over to run through the town and then out through a rocky gorge beyond.
Keltos smiled; he knew enough of agriculture to realize that land like this made all the difference between hunger and plenty. And he knew enough of battle to see that the gorge, with heavily timbered ridges rising on each side, offered a defensible pass where people could fall back and hold the way against marauders. Not a bad place at all.
Turning, Keltos saw that Captain Damicos was smiling too. It could have been merely the anticipation that Meldus had inspired along the way, but Keltos swore he felt something change as they descended into the valley where Dura lay. What, he could not have said exactly, but he sat a little straighter in the saddle. And Hetta, his mare, breathed deep and whinnied now and then in appreciation of the fresh air, the good road, and the smell of ripe forage.
He looked at Makos, riding at his side, but his friend’s face was bored. So was Captain Pelekarr’s, fixing his eyes on the town ahead. Keltos looked around at Arco and Somber. The lanky trooper was as stony as his nickname made him out to be, of course, and Arco stared around with the same lively interest he showed wherever they went. But over all of them a peace had fallen, and he didn’t hear a single murmur of complaint in the ranks behind, which was rare indeed among marching infantry.
Keltos nodded. That was it. For the first time since leaving Kerath the year previous, he felt at peace. Almost like he was… home.
But the home he’d known in Kerath was no place of peace, not anymore. Keltos’ father had seen to that when he’d incurred the wrath of the high king. Sparing a man his majesty had ordered dead wasn’t quite the definition of treason, but it was close enough. Close enough to lose one’s estate and one’s head.
And the beneficiary of old Varkuros Kuron’s mercy had quickly suffered the same fate, once the king’s men hunted him down, making it all for naught. How quickly a family fortune vanished on the wind, when all lived and died at the whim of a single ruler.
Keltos shook his head. He wasn’t the only one of the sons of Telion, God of War, who’d come to this land to escape a sorrowful past. There were few besides Makos that would spare him a sympathetic glance, let alone listen to his aching for things lost.
They rode into shadow as the sun sank behind the western ridge. A warm evening breeze sighed through the young grain, laden with the scents of earth and leaf.
On a grassy hillside not far away, a shepherdess was starting her flock homewards, her bare arms gleaming in the setting sun, a fleecy vest and woolen skirt her only garments. Her long hair stirred in the breeze, and she waved at them, or perhaps at Meldus, whom the townsfolk had no doubt been looking for all that day. It was a gesture that managed to be both confident and innocent.
Makos nudged Keltos. “That’s what I’ve been waiting for. Comely maidens in sheepskin who’ve never seen a brave cavalryman up close before.”
Keltos knew Makos well enough to sense his friend’s mingled interest and sarcasm. Interest in the girl’s undeniable beauty, but disdain because Makos was a Vipirion. The sons of Kerathi noble houses couldn’t acknowledge peasantry.
Keltos sighed. Time was, he’d have acted the same. The Kuron family had been every bit as ancient and proud as the Vipirions. But those days were over, and now he could look at any woman and know that if his family honor was broken, at least it opened up the field. He wasn’t sure which he would have preferred; the silk-shrouded noble girls of Kerath came with dowries, but only if you were tied to the correct bloodlines and walked a circuitous political path. He didn’t have the choice anymore, though, so the sight of the Ostoran maiden and her sheep held his interest unreservedly.
A tree-covered hillside sloped right into town on one side of Dura, and the river could be seen glimmering in the dying light between buildings as they approached. Torches were being lit in the town, and more drivers of livestock had their flocks moving through the streets on the outskirts toward corrals that held them close to market and safe from nocturnal predators in the hills.
“Come,” said Meldus, turning to address all the soldiers. “It’s been a long march, and there is rest and refreshment ahead.”
“Welcome words,” Damicos answered. “Lead on.”
CHAPTER 12: THE INN AT LAST
Smoke from many chimneys floated up and mixed in a haze over the town. Farmers, woodcutters, and hunters returning home from the day’s labor waved, seeing the column led by their fellow townsman Meldus. But none smiled, and Keltos was reminded of the company’s purpose here. Some folded their arms and glared as the column marched by, muttering grim words to each other.
The troops crossed the first stone bridge and entered the town. Here, next to the hills, the river was a wild thing, foaming and cascading over a boulder-strewn bed. Its roar was a constant backdrop of sound, and a fine cool mist hovered over the bridge as they crossed, hooves clopping loudly. Townsfolk came out of their houses to stare as they passed.
Meldus led the way through town to a central plaza, and here they got their first close look at the Tooth and Blade and its surroundings. A wide, cubit-deep pool took up the center of the plaza, lined with a low stone wall and fed by an underground spring. A few tall shade trees arched overhead. Runoff from the pool exited through a stone-lined gutter that fed into the river a street away. Torches in bronze staffed sconces guttered and flared at each corner of the pool, making the water dance with firelight.
The plaza was bordered on three sides by various shops and warehouses; the eastern side, closest to the hills, was dominated by the inn. It was everything Meldus had said it would be. Huge rocks, almost boulders, formed the ground floor, smaller stones well-mortared formed the second floor, and great timbers thereafter. The roof slanted steeply on each side, the center ridge beam was high above them, capping a small fourth floor.
Balconies on each floor overlooked the plaza, and window boxes hung with flowers were attached under each window. Shuttered oil lamps hung from the balconies and overhangs of the massive structure, and the great front door, thrown wide to the evening air, emitted a welcoming light and the smells of cooking. A broad wooden porch fronted the inn. On the steps leading up to it and on stools and benches, two dozen of the townsfolk loitered. The inn seemed to be a gathering place, but whether it was this way every evening or just on the occasion of the company’s arrival, Keltos couldn’t tell.
The cavalry reined in at the pool, tired mounts thrusting muzzles into the cool dark water. A few goats and sheep scattered away at the sight of the tall cavalrymen on their horses, flags flying. The infantry filed into the plaza behind them, eyeing the inn with interest. The horsemen dismounted, following the example of the captains, who followed Meldus forward to meet a delegation descending the inn steps.
Meldus gestured. “Captains Pelekarr and Damicos, of a newly formed free company that has come to aid us in our fight. Captai
ns, these are the Elders of Dura.”
Keltos couldn’t pick out a single authority among the men and women coming from the inn to greet the new arrivals. One, a tall matron with dark haired streaked with gray, introduced herself boldly—far more boldly than Keltos would have thought a woman would speak when confronted with Kerathi soldiers.
“I am Ireth Lantia. It is well that you have come. Meldus, I commend you. You said you’d get through and bring us an army. It seems you’ve done it!”
Meldus grinned widely.
Ireth’s companion, the other woman in the town council, was half her height and easily the oldest woman Keltos had ever seen, a wrinkled crone with snow-white hair and toothless gums. There was sly intelligence in the beady black eyes, however, and her hands, gnarled old claws, curled and clenched at the air without seeking the support of those standing near her.
“I am Misca, and by Mishtan’s golden beard,” the crone cackled, “it’s good to see real fighting men here. Oh, to be young and pretty again!” She eyed Pelekarr and the cavalryman nearest him, Makos, with such a brazen look that Keltos had to stifle a giggle.
Ireth gave the crone’s shoulder a brief, hard squeeze. “What she means is that we welcome you to Dura! Your spears may make all the difference in our coming fight.”
“Not what I meant at all,” Misca sniffed, “but she’s right about the spears. May the gods curse Black Tur and his wolves! Time was when we knew how to deal with outlaws in Ostora. These new royal governors are all spineless catamites. Not like you young lads.”
One of the men stepped forward, putting a hand up to his eyes in a gesture of mortification. “I am Argaf, and this is Tamero, and Vacius there. We welcome you to Dura, sirs.” He shook hands with the captains while Ireth furiously whispered at Misca, and then quickly went on. “A place has been provided for your camp, where we have begun to stock a measure of grain for your mounts. Honestly, we did not expect Meldus to have such success in bringing so many here. We will need to send more. But first, you will sup with us here at the inn so that we can discuss the situation in earnest.”
“Yes,” the older Tamero agreed, brushing a wisp of long gray hair back. “Battle plans! There is little time, and much to do.”
“We thank you for your hospitality, elders of Dura,” Pelekarr said. “And we pledge our good conduct while we are here. But we do have a small army here, and I fear the inn cannot accommodate us all.”
“More than you might think,” another man called out, a gray-haired fellow with the build of an old warrior. “But some will have to eat out on the porch, it is true.”
He had a gimp eye, and the brow above it was cleft deep by an old scar. His apron hinted at his position with the inn they stood in front of.
“This is Brannon Caithrie,” Meldus confirmed, with a nod of respect to the man. “Owner of the Tooth and Blade, along with his good wife Haila.”
“Your officers inside, perhaps, and the rest to mingle freely out here in the plaza?” Brannon suggested.
“That is most generous,” the captain replied with a bow of his head.
“Then hobble your mounts where they are,” Argaf said, “and our people will see that they do not stray. Follow us inside when you are ready, and we will talk—and eat!”
The cavalry officers handed their reins off to other men, and joined the more important townsfolk and the soldiers who were senior enough to warrant a place of honor as they entered the inn. Keltos and Makos, as bannermen, went along, as did the quartermaster and a few of the others in their troop.
“Brannon was a captain in the king’s infantry at one time,” Meldus said as the group passed through the wide doors. “One of those I mentioned who courted a local girl and soon found himself permanently rooted down in Dura. Perhaps you’ll be able to get him talking about his own time in the military.”
The man with the scar grinned as he shook the captains’ hands. “No, these gents have more to do than sit and listen to an old campaigner spin lies about what he’s seen. Anyway, Haila needs me in the kitchen. I’ll check on you later, my friends.”
They passed through the entryway and into the common room. As Brannon hurried away, Meldus saw the men gaping at the spacious interior of the inn’s central area, and explained. “He and Haila have spent the last twenty years renovating everything, making the old fortified manor house into what you see now.”
Keltos marveled at the workmanship of the place that rose about him. Every beam was straight, every rock well-fitted in its place. The plank floor was strewn with sweet-smelling rushes, and lamps glowed on the walls and from the ceiling. A great fire roared on the hearth, with a chimney that reached up to the very roof.
The central room, he saw, took up the entire core of the inn from floor to ceiling, all four stories. The rooms were built around the walls, each floor overlooking the central dining area below, with wooden rails for safety. Only the outer edges of the dining hall were tucked away underneath lower ceilings. Cooking smells mingled with the scent of ale; a bar was built along one wall, and a few locals still lingered there, studying the soldiers over foaming flagons.
As the soldiers sat at the tables offered them, a small contingent of well-organized serving girls and boys began distributing trenchers, bowls, and mugs. These volunteers obviously had practice from the festive days and town gatherings Meldus had spoken of, each knowing already their assigned places and tasks. Others carried food and drink outside to those waiting on the steps and resting in the grass.
Keltos had assumed the inn’s name came from the teeth and eating knives of its hungry patrons, and indeed the wide room was now filled with the clank of cups and the tinkling of knife and skewer. But now he saw, flanking each end of the huge fireplace, a pair of tusks larger than any he’d seen curved upwards to wrap around the chimney, and the decorative centerpiece over the fire was the skull of a long-toothed cat with a display of spearheads underneath. He assumed those bronze blades were the very same that had delivered the trophies surrounding them.
The rafters angled high overhead, supported by massive tree trunk pillars in the corners. Along one end of the common room a wide flight of steps led upward with a finely-carved pine-wood bannister to guide tired guests to their beds on the second floor.
Makos grinned. “I like this place,” he whispered. “I had guessed the guide that brought us here was half-full of lies, but I must give him credit now.”
Keltos had to agree. “Everything as he said, and freshly cleaned and polished. See these tables? As if we’re the guests of honor at a rustic palace.”
“Well, it makes sense,” Makos replied. “They need to impress the captains tonight, or they’ll be on their own.”
It was Makos’ way to point out the practical reasons behind things, but that didn’t diminish Keltos’ wonder at the place. Although not as grand as the king’s palace, or even some of the manor houses of the nobility, the Tooth and Blade was filled with a cheer and a homey charm that touched a chord deep inside of him.
He realized with a rueful wince that it was the first time he’d felt completely at ease since leaving Kerath. Belsoria and the barracks he’d stayed in during his brief time in Ostora were raucous, smelly places where you had to keep your wits about you to avoid trouble. The Tooth and Blade was the far opposite, a refuge and an oasis where a man could drop his cares and close his eyes for a while. It was nothing like his home, but it felt like it could become one for him.
And that thought cut at his heart. He realized that he’d stopped thinking of his ancestral estate as truly his anymore. In truth there was nothing left: the entire home and all the Kuron lands were confiscated, property of the crown, to be gifted to ambitious courtiers that pleased the king better than its last owner had.
In his mind he wandered the familiar hallways and chambers, the sunny gardens, the stables… but they were distant and faded, no longer his. He had no place there, and his mind was adjusting to it.
He should feel deep guilt at t
he separation, but after breathing the air of Ostora and stepping into places like this cheerful lodge… Keltos wasn’t sure he wanted to keep alive the memory of his old home at all. Would his dead father despise him for it? Was it truly his task to spend a lifetime regaining ownership of those halls so he could raise his own sons in them as countless generations before him had done?
The thought wearied him worse than ever before, the immensity of the burden. One in a hundred deposed families ever found their way back into prominence, and it could easily take three generations of struggle to finally achieve it. Was that the path he should be steering his life toward, once his time in Ostora had come to an end, or was there another way? Already he was out of the legion, signed to a free company that might end with little enough in the way of honor, even if he amassed some wealth.
Makos would say he had no right to be weary, that it was his ancestral duty to restore the Kuron fortunes, and his friend would support him in it all the way. Indeed, Makos already had done much to aid the Kuron family and to get Keltos a place next to him in the cavalry.
But he had no heart for it. The stacked betrayals of an entire social stratus against his father took the soul out of the whole arrangement. Keltos had never been a grasper or a climber, not in the way so many in Kerath’s noble lines chose to spend their careers.
He thought of his mother, Tassenia, and his sister Nealtha, and missed them with a sudden fierceness that made his eyes water. Would they censure him if they knew his thoughts, sitting here in a pleasant hall across the sea?
Keltos knew he was no coward; that much he had shown by coming to Ostora in the legion and taking hold of every opportunity to distinguish himself so far, as he would continue to do. He knew that his father had raised him to walk the world a man, nothing less, and to make his own decisions and abide by them. For a moment he brought to memory his father’s voice, longing for some counsel, some sign. But there was only a vague echo, nothing he could take hold of.
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