by Stuart Daly
Sara squealed with joy and hugged Caspan. He had never felt so proud in his entire life. Examining the shadows where the Master had been hiding, Caspan noticed another figure, and focused his lantern light towards that direction. So who made it through first? he wondered.
Leaning against a wall was the black-haired boy, arms folded across his chest and grinning wolfishly.
Huddled in their cloaks, the five recruits guided their mounts along the trail as they followed Master Scott towards the Brotherhood headquarters. It was a massive manor house, rising stark against the night sky. Several fires were set in iron braziers near its porticoed entrance, giving a flickering orange tinge to stone walls stained black with age. Other sections were covered in ivy, through which projecting gables peeped, like bulbous eyes peering from beneath an overgrown fringe. A large perimeter of cleared ground surrounded the manor, and a gently sloping field ran down the rear to a dark wall of trees.
Caspan rode his mount to the stable next to the main building. He blew warmth into his hands, grimaced and, for about the hundredth time, shifted into a more comfortable position on his saddle. He’d only ever ridden a horse once before, when he needed a quick escape during a foiled robbery at a property on the outskirts of Floran, and he dreaded to think of the pain he would have in his backside for the next few days. His four fellow recruits, on the other hand, seemed to be experienced riders. They sat relaxed in their saddles, sometimes even directing their mounts with the pressure of their knees.
With a sigh, Caspan drew rein and climbed gingerly off his mount. He winced against the ache in his legs and tried to rub life back into his lower back and thighs.
Sara dismounted, gave her mare a pat on the neck and grinned at Caspan. ‘You’re not used to riding?’
He looked at her askance and muttered through the corner of his mouth, ‘Is it that obvious?’
She smiled wryly as she untied her pack from her saddle. ‘Just a little. I find a hot bath always helps after a long ride.’
Caspan peered out from beneath the stable eave at the manor house. A hot bath was a luxury he hadn’t indulged in for a very long time. He warmed at the prospect. ‘Let’s hope I can get one here.’
‘Something tells me that won’t be an issue.’ Sara dropped her bag at her feet and gestured at the building with a grand sweep of her hands. ‘Just look at this place. It’s a big step up from the cadet academies. We’re going to live like kings and queens.’
Caspan suppressed a grin and nodded. It was certainly a great step up from the gutters of Floran. He was surprised that this was the Brotherhood headquarters, as he’d previously thought that it may have been hidden deep in the heart of Briston, perhaps in some twisting warren of laneways, or behind a secret door in the city sewers. That’s where the hideouts of the Black Hand were located back in Floran. A country manor house seemed incongruous for a band of thieves, and Caspan found himself wondering again exactly what it was that this mysterious order did.
While a young stablehand came out to tend to their mounts, Master Scott clapped his hands to draw the recruits’ attention. ‘Collect your belongings and follow me. It’s late, and I need to get you settled in for the night.’ He waited until they were ready before leading them across to the main building.
Apart from Sara, Caspan had not yet been introduced to the three other recruits. Not long after he and Sara had completed the test, another girl and boy had raced into the courtyard to be greeted by the Master. Then they had all been escorted to a broad, lantern-lit street, where six mounts had awaited them for their journey to the Brotherhood headquarters.
Nobody had spoken during their hour-long journey, primarily because the fast pace set by the Master made discussion impossible. But Caspan doubted that any of the cadets knew one another – he had observed that they all bore different academy insignias on their cloaks. Caspan was keen to get to know the people who would become his companions. Although he had always worked solo, it had become clear during the test that he would have to become part of a team. His athleticism and thieving skills would only get him so far in the Brotherhood. Perhaps, he mused, it was time for the lone wolf to join the pack.
Master Scott strode up to the nail-studded door and gave two raps on its iron knocker. They didn’t have to wait long before they heard footsteps from within. A bolt was drawn back and the door creaked open on rusty hinges.
A tall, barrel-chested man stared down at them. He wore a long grey cloak and carried a broom, which he dusted at a spiderweb that had formed in a corner of the doorway. The man had great bushy eyebrows and enormous sideburns, which looked like furry, grey lambchops stuck to the sides of his face. His beady eyes looked past Scott and darted over the group. The man smiled. ‘Now, you must be our new recruits? Just in time, you are. By my reckoning it’s almost nine o’clock.’ He motioned for Scott and the recruits to step inside. He gave another brush at the doorframe, closed the door and led the way into the foyer.
A fire was burning in a hearth, filling the room with much-welcomed warmth. Master Scott unclasped his cloak, slung it over a chair and made his way over to an adjacent door. ‘I have some things to tend to,’ he said to the man holding the broom. ‘See that the recruits are taken to the Assembly Hall.’ He paused as he opened the door and looked back at the group. ‘Welcome to the House of Whispers.’ The Master promptly left.
‘Now, if you’ll follow me.’ The grey-haired man gestured with his broom as he led them across the foyer and down a candle-lit corridor.
Caspan noted that the floor was of polished parquetry and the walls were lined with intricately carved wooden panels. The corridor looked like a historical archive, the walls full of statues, vases, weaponry and armour. Even the air had a musty smell to it, like a tomb that hadn’t been opened in hundreds of years.
Sara stopped to inspect a vase. ‘This place is called the House of Whispers?’
‘My goodness, I hope so,’ the man chuckled. ‘Otherwise I’ve been working in the wrong building for the past forty years. Imagine that!’
Sara smiled and hurried after him. ‘That would be a little embarrassing.’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘So this is the Brotherhood headquarters. How many of us are there?’
The man grinned. ‘Questions, questions, questions! You’re so full of questions you could pop, young miss.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Sara said. ‘It’s just that I don’t know much about the Brotherhood.’
‘It’s my guess that none of you do. Nobody does before they come here. But don’t worry, all will be revealed in time.’ He stopped walking and extended a hand in welcome. ‘That wasn’t very polite of me, was it? I’ve been so focused on taking you to the Assembly Hall that I completely forgot to introduce myself. Well, I’m Gramidge, and I’m glad to be at your service.’ The apprentices shook his proffered hand in turn before the group continued walking. ‘I’m the steward here. There are over forty rooms in the House of Whispers, and that’s not including the corridors, halls, staircases, kitchens, scullery, courtyards and training grounds.’
The boy who came first in the challenge whistled. ‘I bet that keeps you busy.’
Gramidge looked at him incredulously. ‘Busy! Now that’s the understatement of the century, young sir. Sometimes I’m so run off my feet that I don’t even get to sleep. One day I got so caught up in sweeping, dusting and mopping that I wasn’t aware that two days had gone by. I fell asleep when I was walking down a hallway – didn’t even know I’d done so until I bumped into a door. But do I complain? No, never. It pays to be happy in one’s work, you know.’ He glanced at the ceiling and whipped up his broom to remove a spiderweb. ‘Nasty things, spiders. Just the mere sight of them makes my skin crawl. They’re forever trying to make their way inside the House of Whispers, creeping about on their spindly, hairy legs. Ugh! It’s almost as if I’m under siege.’ He stuck out his chest proudly. ‘And if that’s the case, then I suppose I’m the brave knight, defending the parapets against the evil horde. It’s an
inspiring thought, don’t you think?’ He motioned again with his broom. ‘But come along, come along. There’s much to be done tonight.’
The black-haired boy and Sara grinned at each other, and they passed through several more corridors. Caspan and the other boy and girl paused to inspect a weapons rack containing rusty old swords, but Gramidge beckoned them to hurry along.
‘I know every inch of this building better than the back of my hand,’ he announced, before pausing at an intersection. He scratched his head in thought and chuckled softly to himself. ‘Now, aren’t we in a fine pickle? I’ve been so busy chatting I’ve forgotten where we are.’ He peered down each corridor until he finally nodded and clicked his fingers. ‘Ah, yes, this way. Come along, come along. We don’t have all night, you know. We don’t want to keep Duke Connal waiting.’
‘Is he the leader of our order?’ Caspan asked.
Gramidge tapped the side of his nose surreptitiously. ‘My goodness. Again, more questions. If patience is a virtue, then curiosity must be a teenager.’ He raised a finger and wiggled it at the recruits. ‘Now, please, no more questions.’
Eventually they arrived at a small hall. Finely woven tapestries of jousting knights and battles decorated the walls, and the ceiling was a crisscrossing ribcage of wooden beams. A great hearth blazed in one corner, around which were placed several seats and a table containing tankards and a large jug.
Gramidge gestured at the fire with a tilt of his head. ‘Make yourselves comfortable. I’ll tell the Masters you’ve arrived.’ He crossed to the far side of the hall, hesitated then headed out the way he had come in.
Sara smiled nervously at the others. ‘We should take a seat.’
‘I suppose so.’ Caspan dropped his bag and joined the rest of the recruits sitting in front of the fire. Picking up the jug, he sniffed its contents. ‘Hmm, it’s warm mulled cider.’ He proffered the jug towards the others and they nodded.
Caspan poured them each a drink, and they settled back in their seats. This was the first real opportunity he had had to get a good look at the recruits, and he studied them carefully.
The black-haired boy who’d come first in completing the test was lean and wiry, just like Caspan. His lips were set in a permanent grin, and his eyes twinkled mischievously. He also had an annoying habit of picking fastidiously at flecks of dust on his cloak.
The other boy had short, cropped sandy-brown hair, and was tall and powerfully built. He had a serious look about him, and his face was bordered by a fine growth of stubble, except for where a thin, pearl-grey scar cut across his left cheek.
Beside him sat a girl who looked as though she was as fast and agile as a ferret. She too had short, cropped hair, full lips and the most amazing green eyes Caspan had ever seen. They glistened like emeralds in the light cast by the flickering fire.
The black-haired boy offered his hand in friendship to each of the recruits. ‘Glad to meet you all. I’m Roland. I like lazy walks along the beach, log-fires and sausages.’
Sara shook her head in confusion. ‘What?’
Roland grinned. ‘I knew that’d catch your attention.’ He leaned close towards her and whispered, ‘But seriously, I do like sausages.’
Everybody laughed, glad to have the tension broken. The boy with the sand-coloured hair cleared his throat and announced, ‘I’m Lachlan.’
The green-eyed girl raised a hand in salutation. ‘And I’m Kilt.’
It was Caspan and Sara’s turn to introduce themselves. Caspan was relieved that none of the cadets regarded him with the snobbish looks he had received back in the courtyard. Perhaps here he might be allowed to start life anew and leave the stain of the alleyways of Floran far behind. He took a long draught of his drink, smacked his lips contentedly and nursed his tankard on his lap.
‘So does anyone know anything about the Brotherhood other than that they’re professional treasure hunters?’ he asked, hoping the cadets might be able to shed some light on the mysterious order. They shook their heads.
Roland rubbed his hands together, his eyes narrowing conspiratorially. ‘It’s all very secretive, isn’t it? That’s why I’m so drawn to it.’ He glanced around the hall. ‘Now that’s one large map of the Four Kingdoms.’ He strode over to a tapestry hanging on the opposite wall. It was over a dozen feet wide and stretched all the way from the rafters to the floor.
‘I’ve seen many maps before, but never one so detailed. It must have taken a lot of people many years to make it.’ Sara pursed her lips, impressed.
Caspan wandered over to stand beside Roland, and marvelled at the detail. He didn’t know much about geography and geopolitical boundaries, but he knew a little about the three duchies of Andalon. The central and southern section of the kingdom comprised the duchy of Randerlonia, the largest and most prosperous of the three territories. Its capital, Briston, was represented on the tapestry by a flag of a running wolf rising from a castle, the symbol of the royal house of MacDain.
He carefully studied the land to the south of the capital and eventually found Floran. At least, that’s what he believed the black dot along the winding river indicated. It had been the centre of his world, and seeing it so small now made Caspan feel insignificant and acutely aware of just how little he knew about the Four Kingdoms.
Roland stood on his toes and pointed at a city to the east of Randerlonia. ‘There’s Darrowmere, the capital of Lochinbar. It’s the greatest fortress in all of Andalon. Its central keep, The Hold, is said to be impregnable.’ He took a sip of his drink and licked his lips. ‘I’m going to go there one day. Just you wait and see.’
Caspan nodded, but his experiences in Floran had taught him that nothing was impregnable. He knew thieves who could break into any stronghold, regardless of how heavily fortified and guarded it was.
He looked at the snow-capped mountains sewn into the tapestry to represent Caledon, the land to the north of Lochinbar, the smallest of Andalon’s duchies. This was home to clans of savage highlanders that wore war-paint and plaid kilts, and wielded two-handed swords into battle, to the accompaniment of their bagpipes and bone flutes. Fortunately for Lochinbar, Caledon was plagued by internal clan warfare. If the clans were ever to unite and look to the south, however, it would prove to be disastrous for Andalon.
Roland pointed at a jagged black line that ran across the northern border of Andalon’s northernmost duchy, Dannenland. ‘And I’m also going to see that.’
Caspan followed his finger. ‘The Scar?’
Roland nodded. ‘It’s supposed to be a hundred yards wide and stretches from one side of the country to the other. It’s a natural barrier that has kept the north free from the Roon for thousands of years.’
Caspan had always been fascinated by The Scar. It was believed to have been created thousands of years ago by a violent earthquake that tore a massive rip straight across the northern part of Andalon, filling up with water that had flooded in from the neighbouring seas.
‘Until now,’ Caspan muttered wryly.
‘Yeah, lucky us.’ Kilt shifted in her seat and pointed her tankard at the tapestry. ‘For over a thousand years the Roon have stayed north of The Scar. Now they’ve decided to head south.’
‘That’s not completely true,’ Sara commented, folding her arms across her chest. ‘The pelts of the white foxes to the north are much coveted by Andalonians, and there has always been trade with the southern Roon tribes. That’s why the people of Dannenland created the three great bridges across The Scar. Tensions have flared every now and then, during especially cold winters, when the Roon, desperate for food, have conducted border raids. There’s been nothing concerted, however, until around thirty years ago, when the giants united under the Sverker tribe. They managed to conquer all of the other Roon and bring them under their control. Then they turned south, took control of The Scar and are apparently intent on conquering Andalon.’ She took a sip of her drink and patted her lips daintily with a kerchief she produced from inside her sleeve. ‘You can
’t blame them. The lands north of The Scar are a frozen wasteland. I know I’d be heading south, into the rich, green pastures of Dannenland.’
Lachlan cocked an eyebrow at her questioningly. ‘You sound sympathetic to the Roon’s cause.’
Sara shook her head. ‘I wouldn’t say that. I just understand their motive.’
Lachlan leaned forward in his seat, resting his powerful forearms across his thighs. ‘And how do you know all this?’
‘I read a lot.’
Lachlan stared grimly at the map. ‘Well, let them come. The northern legions will meet them and drive them back.’
Roland turned and looked at him sceptically. ‘I wish I had your optimism.’
Lachlan shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘The Roon are nothing more than flesh and blood.’
‘Yeah, but they stand over eight feet tall and wield massive blades and axes made of black iron. I’ve heard they have no fear in battle and fight to the death.’
Lachlan flicked a hand dismissively at Roland. ‘Like I said: flesh and blood.’
The mere thought of encountering the Roon terrified Caspan, and he wondered if Lachlan was putting on a show of false bravado to impress his new friends. Caspan was about to ask him if he’d actually seen one of the giants, when Gramidge hurried into the hall, all aflutter, and beckoned them to put aside their drinks and form an orderly line.
‘Quick, quick! They’re coming.’ He adjusted a cloak here and there, and shuffled some of them an inch or two forward so that the recruits were perfectly assembled. Gramidge placed himself at the front of the line, facing the doorway, his stomach sucked in so far it looked as if he hadn’t eaten in days. Following his example, the recruits kept their hands rigid by their sides and held their heads high.
There was the sound of approaching footsteps, and two men entered the hall. The man on the right was perhaps in his late forties, and everything about him conveyed strength and authority. He was dressed in a grey tunic, beige breeches and dark leather boots and gloves. A sable-lined black cloak was swept over his shoulders, its hem swishing across the polished floor. The cloak was fastened with a silver clasp in the shape of a running wolf, the symbol of the House of MacDain, the royal family. His face was framed by a neatly trimmed beard, flecked with grey around the chin, and a massive broadsword hung by his side, sheathed in a scabbard of oiled leather, its polished ovoid pommel sparkling like a jewel. Hanging from a silver chain around his neck was a figurine of a wolf, fashioned in a strange black metal.
