by Ben Cassidy
The nobleman reached for his horse’s saddle, and pulled out a wheelock pistol. He turned and fired.
The bullet struck Torin directly in his chest. He toppled backwards.
Kara screamed, then broke free of the hold of her startled guards and ran to her brother.
Joseph took a step forward, his eyes wide.
“Torin!” Kara cried, throwing herself onto his fallen form.
The bandit leader choked for a brief moment, as if trying to breathe. His eyes closed, and he went limp.
“Torin!” Kara buried her face in his bloodstained shirt, weeping uncontrollably.
Several men from the campsite came running up, their weapons out and ready.
Joseph looked over at Reginald with a livid glare. “You killed that man in cold blood.”
Reginald replaced his smoking pistol unconcernedly. “He was going to die anyway,” he said diffidently. “Perhaps this way his sister will learn a valuable lesson in respect.”
Joseph stared at the man.
“What’s going on here?” demanded Bathsby, pushing his way through the growing circle of onlookers. “What happened?”
“One of the prisoners attempted to escape,” replied Sir Reginald easily. He mounted his horse, rubbing his throat again. “It’s nothing of consequence.” He shot Joseph a challenging glare.
Bathsby looked up at the man skeptically, then over at Kara, who was still sobbing over her brother’s fallen form. “All right,” he said in a steely voice, “everyone back to their tents. Move!”
The crowd started to slowly dissipate.
With a last parting glare at Kara, Sir Reginald rode off, his horse winding its way through the tents.
Joseph looked over at Lord Bathsby. “There was no escape attempt,” he said firmly.
Bathsby put a hand on Joseph’s shoulder. “With a man of Sir Reginald’s bearing,” he said quietly, “it doesn’t matter. There’s nothing you can do about it, Joseph. Best to let it go.”
He turned, scattering the remaining soldiers back to their tents.
Joseph stood silently for a moment, watching Kara as her sobs became soundless, her face on her brother’s chest.
Then, at long last, he turned and left.
Chapter 3
The morning dawned bright and clear, with a steady breeze from the north. The convoy was quickly on the road again, marching steadily towards the rising sun.
Serentha sat quietly in her carriage for most of the day, uninterested in cards or even conversation. Twice Lord Whitmore rode by the window of the carriage, and both times the princess looked quickly away, pretending not to see him. Maklavir noticed it all, but said nothing.
In the rear of the column Kara walked forward with her gaze fixed on the ground and her shoulders slumped. Her eyes seemed vacant and lifeless, as if all hope had been drained from her. Joseph rode past the prisoners several times, and each time glanced concernedly over at Kara. She never looked up.
By noon they had stopped for a brief lunch, though Bathsby passed the word down for the men not to take more than half an hour. The capital was close, and he hoped to reach it before dinner. In exactly thirty minutes the column was once again on the road, following the winding path even further to the east.
In the late afternoon, shouts from the head of the column caused Serentha to lean out the carriage window, peering up ahead. What she saw took her breath away.
Balneth lay just a couple miles ahead, the glistening white walls of the city stretching around to the north and south. The towering pinnacle of the city’s cathedral rose above the top of the walls, its bell tower reaching up towards the heavens. At the far eastern end of the city was a long rocky outcrop that stretched up towards a bluff that commanded the entire area. On top of it was the squat shape of Castle Dunhill, its banners drifting lazily in the morning breeze. A narrow winding road led to the castle gate, snaking up the steep hill from the city below. To the south and east of the city the low brown shapes of the Dagger Hills swept away towards the Shadow Mountains, whose peaks broke ominously into the skyline far to the south.
As they got closer horns began blowing from the city wall at the sign of the column’s arrival, and the tiny figures of soldiers gathered around the great western gate.
From the rear of the column, Kendril looked with quiet awe at the sight before him.
“Magnificent, isn’t it?” came a sudden voice to his side.
Kendril turned his head to see Bathsby riding alongside him. The lord slowed his horse to match the Ghostwalker’s pace.
“It certainly is,” Kendril agreed.
The nobleman glanced down at him. “You’ve never been to Balneth before?”
Kendril shook his head. “I’ve only heard of it. Never seen it in person.”
Lord Bathsby laughed. “Well, allow me to play the tour guide.” He swept his hand towards the long white walls that were drawing closer and closer as they rode. “The walls are made of white limestone, which is plentiful in the hills to the south of here. Some of our historians claim that Balneth has been settled as far back as the Rajathan Empire.”
The Ghostwalker looked back at Simon, who was plodding along behind them. “You believe that?”
Bathsby shrugged. “It’s hard to say where legend and myth leave off and history begins with Balneth. There are old Rajathan ruins to the south of here, in the Dagger Hills, but they’re worn down to almost nothing now.”
The city gate towered a hundred feet above them, and guards were visible on the high wall. The peacock banners of Llewyllan flapped from where they hung against the stone. Kendril gazed up at the white stonework of the gateway as they passed underneath.
“Impressive,” he commented.
“That it is,” said Bathsby proudly. “A hundred stone masons and carpenters work all year long just to maintain the city walls.” He glanced up, his breast swelling with pride.
They passed through the gate into the city itself. The main street ran through the center of the town, with buildings crowding in on every side. Women brushed dirt out of their homes with straw brooms while children played in the streets. Chickens ran loose over the cobblestones, squawking and flapping as they struggled to get out of the way of the marching soldiers. As the royal carriage clattered down the street, the castle grew larger to the east like an ancient giant surveying the land.
“This is one of the residential sections,” said Bathsby with a twinge of contempt in his voice. “The central market is a few streets over, to the north. Down that way,” he pointed to the southeast, “are where most of the armorers and blacksmiths have their shops.”
“I’ve heard impressive things about Balneth steel,” said Kendril as he looked over at the wooden houses and tight twisting alleys all around them. “It’s said there is no equal.”
Bathsby nodded. “The finest swords in Rothland are made here,” he said. “Each blacksmith hands down the secrets of his craft to his son, and they to their sons.” A dog appeared at an alley to their side, barking at the passing men.
They passed through a large courtyard, a fountain gurgling in the center. On all sides were small bakeries, clockwork shops, and tailors. Kendril glanced over indifferently at the wares displayed in the windows.
“Ah,” said Bathsby, “I had almost forgotten. Our Cathedral. One of the tallest on the continent.”
Kendril glanced up as the bell tower of the church came into view. He shaded his eyes against the sun. “It doesn’t look as tall as the one in Archangel.”
Bathsby gave a good-natured smile. “No, it isn’t. I suppose Balneth can’t be first in everything.”
The column reached the western end of the city, then began the slow climb up the steep incline towards Castle Dunhill. The path was carved out of the solid rock, with several switchbacks on the way to the top. Large statues of long-dead kings stood at each bend in the trail, carved out of white marble. Many were missing heads and arms, some were almost completely destroyed by the grinding pass
age of time.
“These are the past rulers of Balneth,” said Bathsby softly. “The kings are buried here, in catacombs that delve deep beneath the rock. Many of these statues date back to the Forgotten Years. Most of their names have been lost to us.”
Kendril glanced back behind them at the city, which was sprawled out in all directions. The sun glinted off the cathedral tower, catching the light of the stained glass windows set into its sides.
He looked up towards the castle. There were still several switchbacks above them. “Seems like an ideal defensive position.”
The nobleman nodded his agreement. “It is said that Castle Dunhill has never fallen to an enemy. Only once has a foe come close to breaching its walls.”
Kendril shifted the long rifle on his shoulder. “The Siege of Balneth, in 1762. During the Third Despair.”
“Why Mr. Kendril,” said Bathsby with a look of surprise, “I had no idea you were such a student of military history.”
“I dabble,” responded the Ghostwalker tersely. He gave Simon a warning tug on his bridle before the mule could stop to sniff at a plant growing along the road.
“More than that, I imagine,” said the nobleman in a thoughtful voice. “You’ve seen battle before, haven’t you?”
It was Kendril’s turn to be surprised. “Yes,” he said carefully. “I have.”
Bathsby nodded grimly. “I thought as much. I can always tell a man who’s been in combat. I can see it in their eyes. Where did you serve?”
Kendril stepped around a fallen boulder in the path. “I’d rather not say.”
“Ah,” said the nobleman knowingly. He gave a wry smile. “Badera, then?”
The Ghostwalker grinned at the jest. “What about you?” he returned. “How long have you been in the army?”
“As long as I can remember,” Bathsby laughed. “I joined when I was still a boy, and I’ve been a soldier ever since.” He saw Kendril’s questioning glance. “My family was never very wealthy,” he explained. “My father was a shoemaker, in fact. A very good shoemaker, mind you, but a shoemaker nonetheless. I had to work my way up through the ranks, by tooth and claw.” He chuckled softly. “I earned my title from the King himself after a hard-fought campaign against raiders from the Spice Lands just a few years back.”
“Impressive,” said Kendril. “It’s no small thing to go from being the son of a shoemaker to a Lord.”
A hard look came into Bathsby’s eyes. “No, it isn’t,” he agreed. “I determined when I was young that my life would amount to something, something great. I had to work hard to get everything I have. Not like some of these other twits who receive a regiment and a title for their sixteenth birthday.” His face darkened. “There are far too many of those in Llewyllan.”
They had reached the summit of the rocky hill. The castle loomed above them. Its great stone walls stretched off to each side. There was a loud cranking noise as the drawbridge lowered over the deep ditch surrounding the fortress.
Bathsby snapped his horse’s reigns. “I should get back to the head of the column,” he said. “Perhaps later we can talk further. Two old soldiers like us should spend an evening reminiscing together.”
Kendril nodded. “Sure.”
Bathsby gave a parting salute, then kicked his horse, galloping off towards the front of the line.
The courtyard of the castle was larger than it looked from the outside. The royal palace was directly ahead, nestled against the eastern end of the yard. It was of obviously more recent construction than the castle itself, which looked far older. A gravel path led across the grassy lawn to the palace’s entrance, winding around a large statue of a knight on horseback slaying a dragon. From there the path was bordered on each side by pairs of well-trimmed trees that led all the way to the palace’s front steps.
A large garden stretched off to the left of the palace, all the way to the inside north wall of the castle. Several sparkling fountains and rows of brightly colored flowers were visible, along with the occasional stone bench for relaxing. In the middle of the expansive garden was a large hedge maze. To the right of the palace was a large pond, shimmering in the late afternoon sunshine. Two white swans drifted silently across its surface like majestic monarchs.
There were other buildings in the courtyard. Directly to the left of the statue was a squat and unimpressive building, made of stark red brick with long dark windows. In it were the war and administrative offices of the monarchy, along with the many other divisions of the Llewyllian bureaucracy. Beyond that was the low shape of the armory huddled against the northwestern wall, and alongside it the stables. To the right of the statue was a small chapel. Behind it, jutting up against the southern wall, was a storage buildings for food and other supplies. Beside that, just south of and adjacent to the western gate through which the group was entering, was the barracks for the Royal Guard.
As they entered the courtyard, the soldiers halted before the statue in the center, standing at attention until an officer finally dismissed them. The royal carriage lumbered up to the front steps of the palace. Several servants rushed forward to open the door and threw down a footstool for the princess.
Serentha emerged, blinking in the bright sunshine. She was followed a moment later by Maklavir. Lord Bathsby and Lord Whitmore rode up at the same time, then dismounted and handed their horses over to the servants. They both bowed before the princess.
Serentha motioned them to rise. “I’m sure my father is anxious to see me,” she said. “I would like to introduce him to the friends who have risked so much on my behalf.” She glanced behind her eagerly. “Where are Joseph and Kendril?”
“Right here,” said Kendril as he walked up, Simon sauntering along behind him. “Last I saw of Joseph he was back by the stables.” He looked over his shoulder, and shaded his eyes against the sun. “There he is.”
Joseph came up the gravel trail between the two rows of trees, his rapier jingling against his side as he walked. He bowed as he came forward. “Your Highness.”
A crowd of servants and nobles was quickly forming on the steps. All bowed at the sight of Serentha.
Kendril suddenly realized that one woman in particular, standing half-hidden amongst the mass of people, was staring intently at him. Her eyes were a mesmerizing golden-brown, glowing like two pieces of bright amber. Long raven hair fell down past her bare, pale-white shoulders.
As quickly as the Kendril saw her, however, the woman vanished, lost amid the milling crowd.
The princess smiled, looking down at the three young men. “I hope you will all join my father and I for dinner tonight. I would be most delighted to have your company.”
Maklavir gave a stately bow. “Of course, Your Highness.”
Joseph shifted nervously, and nodded his head as well.
Kendril’s eyes searched the crowd, but the mysterious woman was gone. He looked back at Serentha. She was looking at him as well, her blue eyes strangely sad.
“You will forgive me, Your Highness,” said Bathsby, “but I am afraid I must ask your leave to be excused. There are certain matters of state I must see to before dinner.”
She nodded. “Of course, Lord Bathsby.”
He kissed her hand, then hurried down the steps, joined by one of his captains as he walked across the lawn towards the administrative building.
Lord Whitmore stepped up next to Serentha. “Perhaps you would like to join me for a stroll in the garden before dinner, Your Highness?”
The princess’ face faltered for a moment. “Thank you, Lord Whitmore, but I am desperately tired after such a long day. I would like to freshen up a bit before we eat.”
“Of course,” said Whitmore with a slight shadow of hurt in his eyes. “Perhaps later, then.”
The princess turned, heading up the stairs into the palace. Her two handmaidens quickly followed her.
A stable hand stepped up to Kendril. “Your mule, sir?”
The Ghostwalker looked over suspiciously at him for a mom
ent, then reluctantly handed the reins of the beast over.
Joseph shook his head, coming over next to Kendril and Maklavir. “Dinner with the King of Llewyllan. This is pretty big.”
“I’ll say,” said Maklavir with a groan. “And my clothes are practically in tatters. I’m hardly in condition to be dining with royalty.” He glanced back towards the castle gate. “I wonder what time the tailor shops in this town close?”
Kendril patted the diplomat on the shoulder. “I’m sure you’ll work something out, Maklavir.”
Joseph glanced up at the palace before them, and whistled softly. “Now that’s a piece of work.” He looked over at Kendril. “You didn’t see what happened to the prisoners, by any chance?”
The Ghostwalker shrugged absently, removing his gloves. “Not really. Why?”
The scout shrugged. “Just curious.”
Kendril gave him a sharp glance.
Maklavir dropped his purple cape after giving it a cursory examination. “Well, I’m off to town. Eru willing I’ll find a tailor that can work a miracle or two. I’ll see you tonight.”
Kendril nodded without really listening. His eyes searched the finely dressed people scattered along the palace steps. There was still no sign of the raven-haired woman.
“I’ll come with you,” Joseph said to Maklavir.
“Keep yourselves out of trouble, both of you,” Kendril said in a low voice. “And be careful.”
Maklavir straightened his cap, smiling. “You’re not still worried about some grand conspiracy, are you?” He took a deep breath, looking around. “I suppose there may be assassins lurking all around us even now.”
Kendril didn’t smile. “Just keep your eyes open, all right?” He turned, walking slowly up the palace steps towards the door.
Behind him Maklavir and Joseph walked back towards the main castle gate.
Many of the residents of the palace were still out and about in front of the main doors, lingering after the arrival of the princess. Kendril shifted his eyes from one group to another, noticing the expensive clothes and fine perfumes that filled the cool evening air. He headed up the steps toward the palace doors.
