The Free Kingdoms (Book 2)

by Michael Wallace

  The day was warm. They found a cart-rutted road with thick briars of wild berries on either side. The air held the rich scent of fertile fields, while bees and other insects bustled about to finish their business before autumn. Meadow Down was a small free kingdom, mostly farmlands and a few villages. They met men pulling carts or repairing the stone walls, who invariably greeted them with a “Ho there, lads!” and a friendly tip of the cap.

  “You wait here just a minute,” Markal said when they reached the edge of a small village. “I can move faster on my own.”

  Darik sat in the shade of an apple tree and ate a few pieces of fruit he found lying in the grass. He’d drifted off to sleep in the warm sun by the time Markal returned leading two horses. “Now we can make some time,” Markal said.

  Later they passed three small girls picking blackberries from a hedge. They passed the girls’ mother around the next bend and the woman stopped them and gave them a heavy cloth of blackberries. “To sweeten your travels, friends,” she said.

  Darik turned to Markal after they left her behind, munching happily on the berries. The berries were just the right mixture of tartness and sweetness. “Don’t they know they’re about to be invaded?”

  “Most have heard something by now, but nobody takes it seriously. When you have a hundred different kingdoms, each one thinks it might escape the fighting. It doesn’t help that King Daniel has made no move to gather an army.”

  This news alarmed Darik more than the king’s illness. “So the enemy walks into Eriscoba and nobody stands in his way? Then the war is already over.”

  “So we’re out for a pointless stroll today, are we?” He shook his head. “You forget the Order and the Brotherhood, both bitter enemies of the dark wizard. Picture five hundred men like Whelan riding into battle backed by two score wizards, many significantly more powerful than myself. We’ll make Montcrag look like a tavern brawl. That’s why the enemy hesitates. He wants to bring every possible weapon into position.”

  “You don’t think he’ll return to Balsalom?”

  “Hard to say,” Markal said. “But I would guess no. Controlling the mountains will cost him dearly. If he retreats, he risks losing that advantage and giving the Free Kingdoms a chance to organize.”

  They spent the night in a farmhouse in Fairhaven, a small kingdom of millers and grazers north of the Citadel, but south of Meadow Down, nestled in a single valley between two hills. Wind chimes hung in rows outside every house throughout Fairhaven. Indeed, throughout Eriscoba. Some chimes were carved wooden tubes, others polished brass, still others rows of glass circles. When the wind blew, the air rang with the sound of them all. Darik missed Balsalom’s crickets, but found the chimes comforting.

  Memory chimes, Markal explained. Each chime represented a friend or family member who’d died. People often made their own memory chimes, putting in the details for which they wanted to be remembered.

  Fairhaven stood close to the Wylde, and the forest sent tendrils of trees into the valley. Darik heard snuffling outside the barn that night. A strong animal smell trickled beneath the doors. The horses neighed nervously, but not in terror, and Darik thought it likely that such creatures often came sniffing from the forest at night.

  He didn’t know if the creature came back because he slept too deeply. Markal finally roused him at midmorning and they left, passing from Fairhaven. They reached the Citadel that afternoon. It rose from the far side of a city at the center of its kingdom, a cluster of towers and buildings. A single tower of brilliant gold stood above the others, faced by a second, slightly shorter tower of black granite. Golden Tower and Sanctuary Tower, Markal told him. Both were visible for miles before the rest of the Citadel and Arvada itself came into view.

  The city itself was called Arvada, but in the last hundred years people simply called the city, and the whole kingdom for that matter, the Citadel. Only residents still called it Arvada, and only to each other. The city had stood since the Tothian Wars. Its name came from an ancient clan of men from the north, white-skinned and blond-haired.

  The Arvada had been driven south by other warring tribes. They were mammoth hunters from lands of rock and ice, but when they came south, they found no big game, only warm, fertile valleys. With the blessing of the Forest Brother, they cut freeholds from the Wylde and founded a city that bore their name. By the time invaders came over the mountain a thousand years later, Arvada had grown as powerful as any city on either side of the mountains and spread across the land. And even though the newcomers conquered the Arvada, teaching them how speak and read their own tongue, the city retained much of its power.

  Veyre and Arvada were the only cities to survive the Tothian Wars intact. The latter’s survival was even more surprising considering that Toth had built the Way right through the heart of the city, thus lending it enormous strategic importance.

  A system of defensive walls surrounded the city, each hundreds of years old. Protected by ancient magicks, the center of the defense was the system of gates on each of the four edges of the city. Passing beneath a series of barbicans, an attacker must go through the heart of the towers, exposing himself to hundreds of murder holes and other nasty surprises. It would be easier to smash a breach into the walls themselves.

  But for all of Arvada’s power, it was simply a city. It wasn’t as beautiful as Balsalom, with its gardens and fountains. What captured Darik’s imagination was not Arvada, but the Citadel itself. Twin towers reached magnificently into the sky, one of black granite with dozens of tiny white flags snapping in the breeze at its top. The second was taller and more slender and glimmered with tons of gold leaf pressed into its surface by devout pilgrims. As they grew closer, Darik found himself gawking upward in amazement.

  At one point, he simply stopped his horse and stared. What kind of king dreamt of such towers and had the might and wealth to see them built?

  “What kind of king?” Markal asked, smiling slightly when Darik voiced this question. “King Steven, the second great grandfather of King Daniel. When I first heard his plans, I had only recently left the cloud castles to walk on Mithyl again. I thought Steven mad to attempt such a thing when much of Eriscoba still lay in ruins and most roads remained in a tangle of overgrown vegetation.”

  “Was he?” Darik asked. “Mad, I mean.” He couldn’t take his eyes from the two towers.

  “Not in the same way as King Toth, no. But men like Steven see things differently than you or I. An ordinary man might imagine the Citadel, but only Steven could have built it. Toth was a great man, too, imagining the Way and how it would bind Mithyl together. Alas, he let his arrogance bring him to madness. King Steven had the teachings of the Martyr to remind him of his own frailty.”

  Markal continued, “But there is no question that Steven was a great man. He took the creed of an obscure hermit and infused a body of knights with that creed and made them swear sacred vows to protect its precepts. He took a group of wizards, many far more cynical than myself in the wake of the wars and the subsequent chaos, and gave them new purpose.” He shrugged. “Of course, he didn’t do it alone. He had the teachings of the Martyr, after all.”

  Darik said, “I heard that the Citadel took a lifetime to build.”

  “About twenty years.” He snapped his fingers and smiled. “A blink of an eye, if you’ve lived as long as I have.”

  Markal said, “The truth is, I hadn’t been within a hundred miles of Arvada for more than a decade and was stunned to see the Citadel rising fresh and new and full of the majesty that Steven had promised. The king, his eyes old and watering, called me to the King’s Room, high in Sanctuary Tower. He walked to the window, drew open the curtains with shaking hands—he would die in less than a month—and gestured over the fortress.”

  Markal looked into the distance and hesitated, as if losing himself in the memory. “‘What do you think of the Citadel now, oh doubter,’ Steven asked. ‘It will make a magnificent ruin some day,’ I replied.”

  Darik s
miled, although the story left him with an odd sense of longing. The spell was broken at last and he urged on his horse, eager to reach the city.

  “I lied, of course,” Markal added after a few minutes, when they approached the walls and joined the jostling line waiting to enter Arvada. “The Citadel is much more than a future ruin, for it represented Steven’s hope to spread the Martyr’s beliefs, to heal Mithyl after Toth had nearly destroyed it.” Markal’s smile faded suddenly. “But remember the Dark Citadel my friend, and imagine its shadow stretching across the land until it blots out the Citadel. There is someone who would just as soon destroy those nascent hopes.”

  They passed through Northgate and into the city. The people appeared no more concerned with Cragyn’s army than had the farmers in Meadow Down or Fairhaven. The markets bustled with venders and customers, and carts of produce clogged the streets. Everywhere, new buildings sprouted from the ground or old, wooden shacks were torn down to make way for tall brick homes and market buildings.

  The exuberant noise of people and animals filled the air, clashing with street musicians. Gut pipes played on every corner while chimes hung from every door, mixing with the music in a strange harmony. Barkers hustled them toward buildings promising goods and pleasures. Used to the temptations of Balsalom’s Grand Bazaar, these men failed to distract Darik. What did catch his attention, however, were the flaxen-haired barbarian girls who smiled coyly at Darik and laughed when he blushed.

  “To watch you gawk,” Markal said, “I’d guess you were a peasant boy just stumbled from his farm into the city. Not a hardened survivor of the Balsalomian bazaars.” He grinned suddenly when another girl tried to catch Darik’s eye. “Ah, so it’s not the goods, eh?”

  Darik smiled at the barb, and said, “There is one thing that interests me more than the girls.”

  “Oh, really? I find that hard to believe.”

  Darik nodded. “Do you know where I can buy some good Eriscoban leather armor?”

  “So that’s what kind of nonsense Whelan puts into your head, is it? Flail around for a few minutes with a sword and you think you’re a warrior. And I suppose you want me to pay for it, too.” He gave an exaggerated sigh. “Very well. Come on.”

  Darik wasn’t overly concerned about making Markal pay for the armor. He figured it was the least the man could do to help him stay alive while he fought to protect another’s homeland.

  Markal led him from the Tothian Way and through a tangle of narrow streets. The souks weren’t gathered into clusters like in Balsalom, each area a focal point for a different guild, the guilds only coming together at the Grand Bazaar. But Darik noted a definite trend as they wound their way deeper into the city. Food stalls turned into carpet dealers, mingled with the bright colors of dyers. And then they entered a narrow, elongated square and leather sellers and hundreds of leather hides soaking in open vats. The sharp smell of cattle urine and pigeon droppings wafted up from scores of tanning vats.

  Darik stopped to admire one man’s wares, beautiful breastplates polished to a blackened sheen and inlaid with a dazzling array of tiny glass beads that caught the sun. The man gestured impatiently for Darik to come over.

  Markal put a hand on his arm to stop him. “Are you looking for something pretty to wear to a feast at the khalifa’s palace, or some real armor? That stuff wouldn’t turn aside Whelan’s hunting knife, let alone a Kratian scimitar.”

  Darik laughed. “I’m looking for real armor, I suppose.” He looked around the square and its bewildering array of leather goods. More leather shops continued on the side streets leading from the square. “But how do we tell the good from the bad?”

  “Come on, I’ll show you.”

  Markal led him past the square, down several more streets, all selling leather and leather armor. Several fair-haired boys about Darik’s age blocked off one alley, chasing a tattered bundle of leather bound crudely into a ball, shouting and jostling as they competed to kick it into an open barrel. Darik had never seen the game before, but felt an instant longing. For a moment, he wanted nothing more than to join the rough and tumble game, but then Markal tugged at his elbow and the moment passed.

  Markal had gleaned his thoughts. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Those days are past you now.” He led them further into the leather markets.

  When the wizard stopped at last, Darik looked into the chosen shop with disappointment. The inside of the cramped single room looked like a graveyard of old leather armor. The cuirasses and helms had once been fine pieces, but were all damaged, some to the point that they might very well find themselves made into balls like the one those boys had been playing with outside.

  The wizard must have caught the look in his eye, for he said, “When your favorite armor needs repair, where do you take it? The best leather worker, right? But we’re not here for used armor. Look over there.” He pointed to a table on one side of the room, on which sat several new coats of armor of various styles and in various stages of construction.

  A man stepped through a door at the back of the room. The skin on his face was as tanned and brown as the leather he worked. A faint sheen of yellow stained his hands. “Ah, Talebearer,” he said, spotting Markal. “I haven’t seen you for a spell. And with Whelan—er, away—my business has suffered.”

  “This is my nephew,” Markal said. “He’s got a few marks to buy some armor. I trust you won’t cheat him too badly.” He handed a small purse to Darik, jingling it once to show the man.

  “Of course not,” the man said, sounding offended at the very idea. But Darik recognized the instant, predatory gleam that burned in his eyes. “I’ll take very good care of him.”

  “Good,” Markal said. “I’ve got some business to attend to.” He turned to go.

  As soon as the old man stepped outside, the man turned back to Darik, “Tell me, young sir. How much money do you have to spend?”

  Darik let a blank look wash over his face. Admit how much money he had and he may as well simply drop the purse in the man’s open palm and walk out with the scruffiest excuse for armor in the shop.

  But he had no idea how much money Markal had just handed him, and he didn’t want to pour the coins onto the table and count them. He’d have to trust that Markal had given him enough money. Neither did he know where to start in the negotiations. Was this armor worth ten marks? A hundred? Better let the man tell him, he decided.

  “I’ve got enough.” He walked over to the table with the new armor, picking up a handsome sewn cuirass overlaid with thin brass plates. He tried it on. It didn’t quite fit, but it was close. “I wonder how much it would cost to alter this to my size.”

  The man hesitated, giving a slight shrug. “I’ll do it for nothing, if you buy the armor. A lot of work in that piece. The plating is a new alloy from King’s Forge in Southron. Very strong, but also expensive. But unfortunately, I’ve got to get it off my hands quickly, because I need the money for a new shipment of plating coming to Arvada any day now. Give me a decent price and it’s yours, with alterations thrown in for nothing.”

  Darik nodded, turning the cuirass over in his hands. He didn’t believe for a moment that the man needed money in a hurry—that was just a ploy to get Darik thinking that he would get a good price if he moved quickly, and make him throw out a number

  “It must be that way all through the leather souks,” Darik said. “If a shipment of Southron plating is coming, everyone will be looking to move their goods. Tell me why I should buy yours.”

  “A very good question, my young friend. I can tell that you’re a discriminating buyer, and I’ll tell you why my armor is the best. Step in the back and we’ll discuss it over some mint tea.”

  It went this way for several minutes as they shared a pot of mint tea, neither side wanting to mention the first price. At last the man slipped, telling what he’d sold a similar cuirass for just two days earlier. Darik didn’t know if the figure was right or not—he suspected it was an invented sale under an inflated price—but
it gave him a number to work with. The haggling began in earnest.

  By the time Markal returned, the amorer had altered the cuirass to fit him, money had changed hands, and Darik now wore the breastplate over his tunic. They left the shop.

  Markal appraised his new armor with a single eyebrow upraised. He played at his beard for a moment. “How much?”

  Darik shrugged, trying to keep the grin off his face as he handed back the purse to Markal. He didn’t want to appear too smug, in case he’d misjudged the man in the shop and been taken for a fool.

  Markal looked inside, counting the unused marks. “Not bad. Not bad at all. Now all you need is a good sword, eh? Come on.”

  Darik followed. It took him a few minutes to get his mind off the pleasant weight of his new armor, but when he did, he noticed something else. Men loitered at every street corner, dressed in robes like they wore in the khalifates, rather than the shirts and trousers that the western men wore. They weren’t fat merchants either, but young, strongly built men who watched everything with a calculating gaze.

  He leaned over to Markal. “Those men,” he said, nodding casually toward one of these groups. “They’re Veyrians.”

  Markal nodded. When they were out of earshot, he said, “You’re right. No weapons that I can see, but that doesn’t mean anything.”

  “Why doesn’t someone do something?” Darik protested, growing angry at the sight of these enemy soldiers.

  “Nothing to be done until Daniel declares war.” He gave a bewildered shake of the head. “Sick or not, I can’t believe the king is so helpless. And what of Chantmer and the other wizards? Are they asleep?” His voice burned with indignation.

  “We are not asleep, Markal Talebearer,” a voice said. An old man materialized from the crowd, pulling his hood down from his face. He fixed Darik with a gaze that was vaguely familiar, although Darik would have sworn that he’d never seen the man.

  Markal looked startled at the man’s sudden appearance, but quickly recovered with a smile. “You look rather different than last time we met, friend.”