by Damien Black
Just before that they had caught a glimpse of Hell’s Fortress. That was the nickname given to the blackened ruins of the vast and ancient tower that had stood since the Dawn of Time at the summit of the loftiest peak in the Brekkens. The perfects and friars said it had been built by an ancient warlock-race that had ruled all the Known World long ago, before even the coming of the Exiled Tribes to the shores of Thraxia. There were said to be many others like it, scattered across the latter-day realms of lesser men. Even the Island Realms had one, built aeons ago before the Moon Goddess had visited the shores of Skulla during the First Age of Darkness.
It wasn’t a piece of history Braxus cared for. In the histories he had learned wizards came to grief more often than not, or else served mortal kings: like Orthan, the witch-druid who had advised High King Celtigorm in the days of Bendigedfryn and his ilk.
There was little left of Hell’s Fortress – the well travelled said the warlock-kings’ other towers were mostly better preserved. Even so, gazing on its gigantic shards as their sloop plied the waters of the Burryn, Braxus had felt a chill run down his spine. It had been dusk, yet the ruin had been suffused in an unearthly orange light of its own, as though the sun were setting behind it, to the east. Naturally, the highlanders shunned it like the Red Plague, although in times past it was said they had practised human sacrifice beneath its shattered walls.
Gazing out to sea he shuddered at the thought. Who knows, they might even be reviving that custom. He wouldn’t put it past Slánga, and would be genuinely surprised if the idea hadn’t already occurred to his sadistic and devilish lieutenant Cormic.
At least they had not come under serious attack on the way to Port Grendel. A handful of highlanders had appeared on the slopes of one overhanging crag to hurl a clutch of axes and spears at them, but they had been too far away to pose any real threat. Thank Reus those savages hadn’t learned to use longbows yet. Thinking this, Braxus felt uneasy again: that was another thing he wouldn’t put past Slánga.
That was why, he supposed, his mission was so important. All the same, he could not help but doubt its chances.
Having had time to mull over his father’s plan, he had concluded it was unlikely the King of the Northlendings would come to their aid. Surely the cost of a war would outweigh the trading concessions they were offering? In the short term at least – and it was a risky venture. If it failed, the Northlendings would lose much and gain nothing. Freidheim was a wise king, they said. This did not sound like an offer that a wise king would accept.
But then, as his father had said, what choice did they have?
Leaning down heavily against the rail, the young knight stared at the slapping grey waves, and brooded.
Captain Conway proved true to his word, and the Pincers were every bit as rough as their cruel name suggested. In fact, Braxus thought it a most apt name for two horns of land that jutted out from the northernmost tip of Northalde and curved inwards to cradle the most ship-hating, capricious, vile-tempered stretch of sea put on the Almighty’s good earth. That ordeal lasted for two days, during which the roiling surf made him sick on more than one occasion.
His poor squire Paidlin fared even worse. Twice they had to take him up and lash him to the rail, trusting to the cavorting winds to assuage some of the pain they had done so much to cause. For a while Braxus feared the lad really would die of seasickness. Even Vertrix looked pale, and the four knights and their squires picked queasily at their grubby food at mealtimes.
Their cordial captain could not have been more different. Blithely holding court at his table, he refilled one cup of grog after the next as he regaled them with one far-fetched yarn after another on the last evening of their journey before reaching the Farov Isles.
‘Did I ever tell ye about the time we saw a Sea Gigant’s hand emerge from the waves off the coast of Caercilly?’ he enquired jovially over his sixth cup. ‘The size of a house it was, the fingers were like chimneys, only a bilious blue-green they were, much like the colour of a shark’s innards, heh heh!’
Paidlin heaved, pushing back his seat and fumbling for the wooden bilge bucket that had been placed next to him.
‘Ah cap’n, lay off talkin’ so,’ admonished the mate, Cullen. A wiry fellow in early middle age with spiky tufts of black hair, he was thankfully less given to garrulous tale-telling than his boss. ‘You’ll make the poor boy sick with all your stories – and they’ve already heard this one yestere’en.’
Conway fixed his mate with a squint-eyed glare. ‘Reus damn ye, Cullen,’ he hiccoughed. ‘This is my ship, and I’ll damn well tell tales whenever I see fit! I’m a man o’ the sea, and the ocean is my kingdom!’
Downing his grog he launched into a completely different story. ‘Anyway, as I was sayin’ before I was so rudely interrupted,’ he slurred, ‘we were becalmed on the Tanagorm. A foul and dreadful sea that, full o’ water spirits that’ll drown ye soon as look at ye! But ‘twas the spirits o’ th’air that were our worst enemy that time...’
He paused again to refill his cup unsteadily. Even without his drunkenness to unsettle him the ship was still tossing, although the seas had calmed somewhat since they’d left the worst of the Pincers behind.
Cullen glanced at Braxus and rolled his eyes. The knight did his best not to smile as Conway continued: ‘Fifteen days we stayed rooted to the same spot! Miles out to sea, with barely enough provender to last us a week! We were reduced to eating rat meat and drinking our own - ’
Paidlin lurched sideways, aiming for the bucket and only partially succeeding. The bile spattered over its side as he choked up the scraps of a meal he’d hardly touched.
Braxus seized his opportunity. ‘Thank you for another most entertaining evening, captain,’ he said pleasantly. ‘But I think I’d best see my squire safely to bed. Vertrix and the rest of you – that goes for all of you, too. We’ll be back on dry land for a while tomorrow, so let’s try and get a good night’s rest.’
The others lurched to their feet gladly, hurriedly thanking the captain and his mate before beating a hasty retreat. As Braxus closed the door behind them he caught a last glimpse of Cullen staring reproachfully at Conway, who was staring off into space and mumbling something about wyverns.
He was no seafarer, but it seemed to him for all the world that someone was in line for a promotion.
It was when they finally put in at the Farovs that they had their first real piece of bad news. The Jolly Runner was in Caldeshavn, the islands’ only town, to pick up supplies and offload some of its cargo. Most of it was mead and furs – the very trade his father hoped to expedite under terms of the agreement now stashed in the hold with all his other belongings – and most of it was bound for mainland Northalde. But the hardy islanders were never ones to say no to a warm cloak and a no-less warming drop of Thraxia’s finest. Given they lived in a place where the winds blew fierce and raw most of the year, one could hardly blame them.
Gazing at the sparse hills that ringed the shoreline as the Runner approached the dock, Braxus thought it an ill place to call home. The Farovians were for their part a tight-knit bunch, even more reclusive than the highland inhabitants of mainland Northalde.
Musing on the latter, he wondered at the strange games the Almighty played. The Northlending highlanders were mostly a pacific folk, devout Palomedians who shunned war unless absolutely necessary. The King of the Northlendings had even granted them rule of their own lands, so long as they contributed in times of war and didn’t trouble the lowlanders. True enough, their stock wasn’t as pure as their barbaric cousins to the west, but they did share a common ancestry. That was about all they shared, luckily for the Northlending lowlanders.
The envy he felt towards this peaceful arrangement was soon dispelled.
He was sitting in Caldeshavn’s only tavern by the waterfront with Vertrix, Bryant and Regan and their squires, enjoying the first barrel of mead that had been brought in off The Jolly Runner.
Spirits were high. It was good
to be back on dry land, even if it was only for a day, and a drop of Thraxia’s finest beat the living circles of hell out of Conway’s tarry grog. Even Paidlin was starting to look lively again, enthusiastically playing at dice with the other squires while their knightly masters sat at the next table, sparring and jesting over their stoops.
‘Braxus, I thought we’d be dumping you with the cargo here in Farov, the way you looked!’ laughed Regan. He was a lithe dark-haired man in his mid twenties, a couple of years younger than Braxus. A rakish fellow with devilish charm to match, he shared his passion – and aptitude – for wenching.
‘And let you have all the fun with those Northlending beauties when we get to Strongholm?’ Braxus shot back. ‘Not on your life, Regan! You’ve yet to match my total, and I’ll not see it passed, by Reus I won’t!’
Regan laughed again good-naturedly. ‘I’m close though, Braxus, after that brown-eyed beauty up in Lindis, I’m very, verrry close!’
‘More like you’ve just got your sums muddled again,’ said Bryant, deadpan as always. A tawny-haired fellow with a plain but honest face, he was a good man to have along – sense of humour drier than a Mercadian white wine. ‘And incidentally, horses don’t count,’ he added.
They all burst out laughing at this, Regan included. Seeing their tankards were nearly empty, Braxus turned and hollered for the tavern keeper, who was already glaring at him. They had been speaking in Thrax, but even so he felt sure the stocky townsman disapproved of their brazen banter.
But Sir Braxus did not care over much what a foreign commoner thought of him. Addressing him in flawless Northlending, he said: ‘Another four stoops of mead if you please, and four small ones for our faithful squires if you will.’
If Farovians believed in deference to their betters, they hid it well. ‘We don’t serve halves,’ replied the tavern keeper bluntly.
‘Fine,’ replied Braxus, unfazed. ‘Eight more tankards then.’
The tavern keeper nodded curtly, before motioning to the only serving wench to fetch the order. She was a flat-chested, shapeless thing, nothing like the Northlending beauties he’d heard about. But then Farovians were a breed apart; it was said their ancestors had arrived on the isles centuries before the Northland reavers settled the mainland, and there their descendants had stayed ever since.
Braxus knew enough about the islands to know that what kept them going was the unique thoroughbreds they reared. Farovian destriers were famed throughout the Free Kingdoms for their quality. The Northlendings were just as famed for guarding them jealously; a strict royal monopoly was kept on the fine horses, with their use reserved solely for the greater noble houses of Northalde and the elite Order of the White Valravyn.
Shame that. Farovian horses certainly interested him more than Farovian women, but it didn’t look as if they’d get a chance to see any during their brief stay.
His fluent command of the local language must have done something to abate the tavern keeper’s reticence, because just as the wench was setting down their drinks he sidled over and asked: ‘Heading down south to the mainland are you?’
Braxus looked up at him over his fresh tankard, surprised at his sudden friendliness, if you could call it that.
‘Aye,’ he replied cautiously. ‘We’re knight errants, seeking employ in Northalde. We’re sick of fighting highland tribes – we want something more challenging for our trusty blades.’
It was a simple cover story they had rehearsed well. No one could know about their mission – even their squires had been kept in the dark.
The tavern keeper’s reply surprised him. ‘Well, you’ve picked just the right time, I’d say. There’s war brewing in the kingdom.’
Braxus blinked. It took a few moments for the words to register.
‘Braxus, what’s he saying?’ asked Regan, seeing his look of surprise. Apart from Vertrix, none of the others spoke Northlending. The old knight’s face looked grave in the weak candlelight, which did little to augment the poor light from outside.
Holding up his hand for silence, Braxus pressed the tavern keeper.
‘War you say? Where – and with whom?’
‘Not rightly sure yet,’ replied the tavern keeper indifferently. ‘We don’t get a great deal of news up here. As far as we can tell it’s the southern barons up to something again – there’s been talk of civil war. Same thing as fifteen years ago – sure it’ll all end in much the same way, the King’ll see to ‘em and no mistake. Still, it’s lucky for you knights – doubt you’d have had much joy of your trade six months ago. Now it seems there’ll be fighting aplenty.’
Farovians were men of few words. The tavern keeper had just exhausted his daily stock. Without another syllable, he turned back to supervise the loading in of more barrels. He’d just bought enough to last a year, and his sons were busy rolling them in through the tavern’s crooked entrance.
Braxus leaned back against the cold stone wall. This wasn’t good.
‘Did I hear that right?’ asked Vertrix, speaking in Thrax. His Northlending wasn’t as good as Braxus’s, but all the same there was more hope than anything else in his voice.
‘I’m afraid so,’ replied the knight, translating the tavern keeper’s information for the benefit of the other two.
‘Well that scuppers another fine quest,’ remarked Bryant dourly into his mead. ‘There’s as much chance of Regan swearing an oath of celibacy as there is of King Freidheim aiding us now.’
‘If I could persuade him by swearing one I would!’ exclaimed Regan, though no one believed him.
‘All right, knock it on the head, you two,’ growled Vertrix. ‘This is no time for japes. Palom’s blood, what do we do now, Sir Braxus?’
All three knights were looking at him expectantly. Braxus suddenly felt queasy again as he thought of his father scowling at him in his solar.
‘All right, peace a minute,’ he said. ‘Let me think for a bit.’
He took a few more slugs on his mead while the other knights did the same, uneasily making small talk. Behind them their squires continued to shout loudly over their game of dice, the mead fuelling their excitement. Vertrix turned around and told them all sternly to pipe down.
And that’s when the idea occurred to him. Bold, and not in the original plan, but it might just work…
‘The way I see it, we’ve no choice but to press on,’ said Braxus, breaking his silence. ‘Even if we wanted to turn back, there’s no saying how long it’ll be before another cog passes this way. And I for one am not running back to my father empty handed after falling at the first hurdle.’
‘Fair enough,’ put in Regan. ‘But if there’s a war on, what chances are there of persuading the King to help us? Reus knows they were thin enough to begin with!’
‘True,’ Braxus allowed. ‘But for starters we don’t know how serious this war is yet. They don’t get a lot of steady news on this godforsaken rock. So it’s best not to get too discouraged until we’ve struck the mainland and had a chance to learn more.’
The other knights nodded slowly. They seemed half convinced at least. Certainly none of them wanted to stay on the Farovs any more than he did.
‘But something else occurs to me,’ he continued, getting excited now. ‘If it’s true what they say that the southerners are rebelling again, why then that puts them almost in the same position as us! Oh the King might well crush them this time around, but who’s to say they won’t come back for more again – and again? Sounds to me that now’s the time to propose something that would’ve been unthinkable to our forefathers...’
He let his voice trail off. The other three stared at him expectantly. Taking another sip of mead he came straight out with it: ‘A standing military alliance between the Kings of Thraxia and Northalde – once we’ve dealt with that bitch who’s ensorcelled our Cadwy of course.’
Regan and Bryant exchanged uncertain glances. Vertrix frowned into his mug. He’d fought the Northlendings at Corne Hill, when he was a fresh-faced
squire. Clearly any kind of permanent alliance with his age-old enemies was a bitter draught to swallow.
‘I don’t know about any military treaty, Sir Braxus,’ he said slowly. ‘That wasn’t what your father authorised you to sue for. You can only speak for him and the other lords of Dréuth.’ He lowered his voice, mindful of their squires sat behind him. ‘What we’re asking for, technically it’s still treason – despite all the circumstances! Anything beyond that is speculative.’
Braxus flung his arms in the air in frustration. ‘Why, the whole damn thing is speculative, Vertrix!’ he cried, before remembering himself and lowering his voice again. ‘For all we know the King might not even honour the contract terms we’ve negotiated in his... temporary absence. How do we even know for sure he’ll come to his senses once Abrexta’s dealt with?’
They all fell silent, gazing uneasily at their mead. He had just spoken the thought all of them had been afraid to give voice to.
Braxus felt a sudden twinge of anxiety. He was losing them, and he needed them right behind him.
‘All right look, we’re probably getting ahead of ourselves anyhow,’ he persisted. ‘But for now one thing is clear to me – we press on regardless. Let’s see how this plays out, we don’t know what lies ahead. We have to try – what other choice do we have?’
‘None,’ replied Vertrix ruefully, draining his flagon. ‘No, you’re right Braxus – we need to take this thing by the horns, and see if we can’t bend it to our will. Whatever you decide, I’ll be with you.’
As one, Sir Regan and Sir Bryant voiced their assent. Braxus gave an inward sigh of relief. He felt as though he had just hurdled the first major obstacle in their mission: well, that and the seasickness.
Finishing his own mead, he allowed a slight smile of satisfaction to creep across his face. Perhaps he would make a good envoy after all.
