by Tim Stead
“Happy to stay here tonight, then?” he asked.
“Of course. We’ve done them no wrong. One night of food and sleep is just common hospitality.”
Delf grunted to himself. Hospitality or not, he would be taking all the food he could carry with him tomorrow.
When the meal was finished it was dark. The Kalla Tree rustled its leaves over their heads, the fire danced and the empty houses gaped at them in the firelight. Delf didn’t care. He rolled over and in a few minutes was asleep.
* * * *
Breakfast was fruit from the orchard. Wulf had been searching again, and had turned up a pot of honey and some jaro root, so they put honey on the fruit and drank hot jaro with a little honey dissolved in it.
Delf felt it was the best breakfast he’d ever had.
The sun was well up by the time they left, and though their packs were now quite heavy with food they didn’t feel the weight.
“We’ll follow the road east from here. There looked to be another village about ten miles distant.”
They walked at a comfortable pace. Ten miles was not much, and by mid day they began to detect the first signs of settlement. Trees had been cut down, and the track began to look more travelled. It took another twenty minutes to break out of the scrub into the fields around the village. They were in good order, but nobody was working them.
The village itself had been fortified. A palisade of tree trunks had been raised around the houses. It didn’t look very impressive until Delf realised it was ten feet high. Quite a climb if someone is throwing rocks at you. They must have heard or seen them coming and retreated to their home-made fort.
They approached the main gate through the fields, and were within fifty paces of it when something flew through the air and thudded into the ground just short of them.
Delf picked it up and examined it. A crude spear. The point was sharpened and fire hardened, and the tail had been roughly fletched to make it fly straight. He hefted it. Whoever had thrown this must have a good arm, he decided.
A few heads were visible above the top of the palisade.
“Go away!” a voice shouted.
“We’re looking for work,” Delf shouted back. “You must need help with the harvest.”
“Don’t want it, don’t need it,” the voice shouted back.
“We need the work. We don’t mean you any harm.” He took a couple of steps towards the gate and three more makeshift spears were launched at him, all clattering harmlessly short.
“I’m glad they haven’t got bows in there,” he said to Wulf.
“Oh I think they have,” Wulf said. “Probably saving the arrows for when they’re sure they can’t miss. Those spears are pretty useless. A thick leather jacket would stop them.”
“How are we going to make them listen to us?”
“We won’t. I’ll bet some of the survivors from the first village came here. They’re scared and that palisade isn’t going to keep out anyone determined enough. It’s rubbish.”
“But we’re only looking for work!”
“Look at me,” Wulf said.
Wulf was dressed in an assortment of military looking materials. A dagger was stuck in his belt and a sword stuck out both sides of his pack. He wore a light mail shirt and a thick leather helmet.
“We look like bandits.”
“We are bandits.”
Delf swore under his breath. “It’s fifteen miles to the next village. We won’t get there tonight, and I guess we have to do something about the way we look.”
Wulf nodded. “Which way?”
“North.”
They headed north. Because they wouldn’t make the village before nightfall Delf kept an eye open for a good campsite.
He was still troubled by what they’d seen at the first village. It made no sense to him. The only thing in that village would have been people, and the ease with which they’d found supplies meant it hadn’t even been searched thoroughly.
It was as if someone had gone there to deliberately kill everyone, and what was the point of that? Whatever the reason, something wrong was happening. More than that, he was shocked by his own reaction, or lack of it. He could not believe that he felt nothing for so many dead. Yet that was the truth. Perhaps he had seen too much death, accepted it. Even so, the dead village was a mystery.
He puzzled over it while they walked, but had no greater insight by the time they came to a clearing with a bright, clean stream running through it. Afternoon was well advanced, and they’d covered ten miles, so they stopped and enjoyed the last of the afternoon sun. Wulf vanished into the woods around them, and came back with handfuls of herbs. He lit a fire, cut up a couple of deerfruit and started making another stew.
If they ever separated he’d miss Wulf’s cooking.
They ate, finished the bottle of spirits and slept easily under the stars.
* * * *
Morning was sharp and bright with a clear blue sky. It was going to be a hot one. Delf dug a pit about a foot deep and three feet long, and they wrapped their swords and most of their other militaria in a blanket and buried it, keeping just a dagger each. He replaced the turf carefully and marked the pit with a rotten tree stump.
They looked each other up and down.
“You look like a peasant to me,” Wulf grinned.
“You’ve even got the accent, farm boy. No one will be scared of you looking like that.”
They gathered what was left of the food into their packs and set off to the north again, trying to get most of the distance behind them before the heat of the day built up. They were lighter and more comfortable without the trappings of banditry and it was less than two hours before they came out from the trees into open fields.
Here it was different. The fields were busy with people, and from the look of it the harvest was just beginning. People stopped working to look at them suspiciously, but nobody challenged them, and nobody threw anything. The villagers seemed healthy but poor. Their clothing looked worn and old, but none of them was thin or weak.
“This looks a likely place. They have a lot of crop planted,” Delf observed.
An old man sat by the gate in the sun.
“Good morning, father,” Wulf greeted him, but the old man scowled and shook his head, looking past them to the harvesters.
They carried on to the centre of the village and sat down under the Kalla Tree. The tree was the traditional centre of any northern village. Village meetings were held under it, marriages, funerals and celebrations of all sorts took place here. Outsiders seeking work were also expected to wait beneath it for anyone who wanted to employ them, so they waited.
There had been a tavern back in Samara called the Kalla Tree. It was owned by a northerner, and you could be sure of hearing northern accents if you went in. That had been Delf’s first acquaintance with the name, and come to think of it, it had been Wulf who had first taken him there after they met on one of the few building jobs still happening back then.
After a while a few prosperous-looking men drifted over in ones and twos to where they were sitting and looked them over.
“Who are you?” one of them asked.
“I am Wallace san Banison Kalee,” Wulf replied. It was a long time since he’d used that name. “This is my friend Delf Killore. We were builders in Samara, but there’s no building there any more, so we have come north to seek honest labour.”
“Did you see anything of bandits on your journey?” another asked.
“We saw their sign. There was a walled place to the south of here, and another village that had been wiped out.”
This was apparently news to the men. Some seemed startled. Others looked grave. They were questioned further and a debate started about how the village could protect itself.
One of the men detached himself from the debate. He was about fifty with grey in his hair and beard, but well fed and better dressed than most.
“We would expect an honest day’s work in return for food and bo
ard,” he said to Wulf. “We have no money.”
“We must eat after the harvest, father,” Wulf replied. “A small share of the harvest would permit us to live.”
“It is fair,” the man said. “There is much to be gathered – more than we need, but keeping it is another problem.”
“Bandits?”
“Them, and the ones from White Rock, though the latter generally don’t kill. You said you were builders. What did you build in Samara?”
“Houses, a guild hall. We worked on repairs to the citadel.”
“Not much building here, but I’ll wager you have some fine stories to tell.”
“Several winter’s worth, without doubt,” Wulf replied.
“Then you may work for me, Wallace and Delf. My name is Tarbo. The agreement is food and housing while you work, one fifth of what you gather, and you must eat with the rest of us come evenings. Take my hand to seal the deal and I will arrange accommodation for you, and show you where you are to work today.”
They shook hands. One of the other men broke from the conversation about defence and berated Tarbo.
“What is this?” he said. “You are shaking hands with these strangers before we have had an opportunity to question them.”
“You have missed your opportunity, Palan. They are not strangers, but my two new field hands, Wallace and Delf.”
“You know that we all need more labour, Tarbo, our crops will wither else.”
“I’m sure I can spare them some of the time if I get a third of what they gather in return,” Tarbo smiled.
“A third? You are a bandit yourself, Tarbo,” one of the other men said. It was clear that the deal had been done, however, and in a short time they found themselves out in the fields and issued with crude digging tools. Tarbo introduced them to a young man who was digging out deerfruit from the earth.
“Brono,” Tarbo said to the young man. “I have two new field hands for you.”
“I saw them go by,” Brono said. “I wondered if you would hire them.”
“This is my son,” Tarbo said to Delf and Wulf. “He will be your task master. I will see you again come evening.” With that he turned and strolled back to the village, leaving others to get on with the work.
“Your father is shrewd,” Wulf remarked.
“He is the wisest man in the village,” Brono said. “And you are among the luckiest to be working for him. You will not find a more generous master.”
He quickly showed them the method of digging up the fruit, which proved simple but energetic, and showed them the limits of their work area and his father’s plantings. It was a very big plot.
It was soon apparent that they were in no condition to work a full day, and laboured on at about half Brono’s pace until evening came. At that time they helped to carry in the day’s harvest with Brono and two other hands who had been working the fields. Delf reckoned that they had dug out about one hundred and fifty fruit each, and so had earned themselves thirty apiece. There were many more days’ work ahead of them.
By the time Brono led them back to his father’s house it was quite dark and Delf ached in every muscle that he possessed. Tarbo was waiting for them by the door and ushered them in to sit around his table, which was large and already piled high with food. The house was filled with an excellent smell, and even Wulf looked expectant.
Tarbo set cups of ale before each of them, and Wulf laid his hand on Delf’s to stop him drinking.
“The custom is to first drink two toasts,” he whispered.
One of the other field hands stood and raised his cup.
“To the mistress of the house,” he declared, and drank down the cup in one draught. All followed suit, and Tarbo filled their cups again.
“To the master of the house,” the man declared, and all the cups were emptied again.
Tarbo filled all the cups a third time and placed the jug in the centre of the table.
“Now you may drink as you wish,” Wulf said.
“Now I do not need a drink quite so much,” Delf replied. “I like this custom.”
“It is only at harvest meals. Most of the time the meals are simpler and less.”
“Wallace, Delf, do not talk amongst yourselves,” Tarbo called across the table. “You have travelled in the south, and seen much of the world. Be so good as to tell us some tales of your past, such as may entertain us.”
“Master Tarbo,” Wulf replied. “I do not much have the gift of pretty speech myself, but my friend here can near cast a spell with his words.”
They all turned their gaze on Delf, who was caught with a mouthful of bread and a slice of deerfruit on his knife. He held up his hand while he swallowed.
“Master Tarbo, ladies, friends,” he addressed them. “My friend here means to starve me, but I will gladly ignore the urgings of my stomach to repay your most excellent hospitality.”
They laughed at this.
“Delf, you may save your stories for later when the food is finished, but tell us something of your home. Is it true that Samara is the greatest of all cities?”
“I have never seen greater,” Delf replied, “and I have travelled the coast from east to west. Tell me, how many people live here in this village?”
“Since you arrived this noon, one hundred and eighty-seven.”
“And how many in the nearest big town?”
“Simbaronne has at least two hundred houses. Perhaps five hundred live there. It is very busy.”
“So it is,” Delf paused. “But Samara, when I first went there had nearly one hundred and fifty thousand inhabitants. The buildings rise forty feet above the streets, making dark canyons of them. The great market had a thousand tradesmen selling wares on a market day, and there were four hundred people there who did nothing but sing and tell tales for a living.”
“I am amazed, it is true,” Tarbo said, “but you speak of Samara in the past. What of it now? Has it changed?”
“Much. It fell from greatness with the coming of the Faer Karan. It was once the seat of kings and the heart of the world. Nobody remembers how it was in those days, but in recent years it has fallen further into chaos and disorder. Less than a hundred thousand live there now. Factions fight over the scraps that are left, the markets have closed, and the soldiers from Ocean’s Gate bleed the city dry.”
“What is Ocean’s Gate?” one of the field hands asked.
“Another fortress, like White Rock, and another Faer Karan place.”
The table lapsed into silence.
“I apologise,” Delf said. “I have done the company a disservice with my doleful tale.”
“We asked,” Tarbo said. “You told us. No fault lies with you.”
“But I will make amends. I will tell you tales of a tavern called the Kalla Tree, where the second best ale in the world is served.”
Wulf snorted.
“Are you telling this tale?” Delf asked. “Or are you eating?”
They laughed again, and Delf began to entertain them.
5 Ocean’s Gate
Serhan walked the battlements, looking out at the wooded plains which lay far below him. It had become a habit since his first exploration of the fortress. It was here that the massive structure of the walls was most apparent. He could run his hands across the huge cream-coloured stones; feel their smoothness, their cool strength. They had been here longer than anything, longer even than the Faer Karan, and their ancient, worn texture excited his mind. They had been put here by men, and what men they must have been to build such a thing.
As a boy he had sometimes been permitted to play with the others, to run wild in the forests that darkened the slopes above the village. He had quickly discovered that he did not have the best head for heights. Others would walk along the sheerest edges above killing drops, balanced and composed. Dared though he was, Serhan could never do this. Always his weight shifted away from the cliff, and he became clumsy and awkward. Here he was higher than any cliff he had ever known, and yet it
was not the same. At the full, dizzy, arrogant height of the great walls he had the sensation that the world was a map, that he could see it all laid out and revealed, and he liked that feeling. It was as though he could grasp the entirety of the land and hold it intact and complete within his mind. He had learned the names of all the villages within sight, and knew the destinations of all the roads, but truly it was all just words. He had yet to pass through the gates a second time and yearned to explore. The roads called him to follow them to their hazy and distant mysteries and he waited anxiously for a chance to obey that call. The simplicity was an illusion, of course, but it was comforting.
His reverie was interrupted when a guard approached him purposefully.
“Er, Lieutenant Serhan,” he was uncertain – the rank was not real and Serhan was not a guard officer, didn’t dress like one, and didn’t act like one. The guard were all having difficulty with his status. He was something they hadn’t dealt with before; a civilian with guard rank.
“Yes?”
“The colonel says that the Faer Karan want to see you at once, Sir.”
“Thank you.”
The guard retreated and Serhan lingered for a moment, looking out at the plains. He loved the view. It was easy to see how it might go to a man’s head, being above everything like this, surrounded by strength and history.
He walked down the steps that led to the courtyard and crossed the open space to what he now thought of as the Faer Karan stair. He was aware that many eyes followed him, and he made his step lighter. They should know that he did not fear an encounter with their masters, even if this was not entirely true.
At the top of the stair in the torch-lit gloom he struck the door three times with his fist and waited for it to open. Although he struck it hard the door was very thick and his fist made a timid sound. Perhaps he should acquire a sword or a dagger to strike it with, as Grand had done.
A respectable time later the door opened and he stepped into the ante chamber, quickly kneeling. For all Gerique’s lack of formality he would take no chances with the doorkeeper.
