by Guy Antibes
After filling up, Lotto walked through the door to the kitchen and found the innkeeper sorting keys.
Heartwell looked at Lotto’s hand. “I can say I saw the very wound. I never knew you defeated the king left-handed. That’s not part of the story. My sister will be very impressed, as will her two sons.”
“The king ruled that badly?”
“And had become worse. If Captain Lessa hadn’t run into you Valetans, I’m sure civil war would have broken out.”
Dakkor and Emperor Daryaku had succeeded too well in stirring up Besseth. Lotto excused himself. “I came back here to thank you for the extra helping. I’m going to sit in the tavern for a while. Let me know if any of the men you think to be mercenaries show up.”
“There’s often one or two in the evenings, but I don’t let them stay the night!”
~
Even a constant flow of light ale still made one’s head buzz, so Lotto fought to stay awake. The fire, on a winter’s eve, seemed to make him even drowsier, so he shook his head. The innkeeper came up and took the empty mugs that littered his table. “On the other side of the fire, three men just came in. They look like the type.” He muttered and moved on.
Lotto took his half-mug of ale and drifted over to the fire as soon as the local men next to him began to sing. He made sure his face broadcast a look of distaste and sat on the other side at an empty table next to the mercenaries. They spoke in such low tones, he couldn’t make out a word as the singing continued. He took his little book of spells out of his pocket and found a little something that would enhance his hearing. Muttering the spell, he blinked as he could hear as if he sat in the middle of the table.
“…as soldiers. Never had to do that before.”
“Yeah, but for the money and the opportunity for prime Valetan booty, I’d stand a little taller and salute some muck-faced Happly sergeant. The pay is more than I can get thieving.”
“You two can go ahead and dream, but I’ll just wait and see when I get to Happly Keep before I commit…”
Lotto sipped his ale, hearing all that he needed; he left the men to their words and headed up the stairs to his room. He carefully wrote out a few lines on a pre-cut piece of parchment and put it in the carrier that would fit on a bird’s leg, wondering if that would be all that Mander needed to know. Would a recall notice for him be sent out to Crackledown? Lotto felt a flash of disappointment. He still felt the need to prove himself. How, he didn’t know, but he looked forward to working with an independent group of rangers.
He undressed and eased into bed. The listening spell had taken a bit more out of him than he thought it would. Fessano warned him that different spells affected wizards differently and that one surprised him. He still couldn’t get comfortable with magic, despite Fessano’s reassurance. He’d rather use his brains and then his brawn and then his magical power, in that order.
How did Gully fare working for Restella? Would he prefer to fight with his friend? He wouldn’t have relished soldiering in Restella’s army. Their relationship, although cordial, would be tested working in close proximity, but he wished her the best in her first command as a Captain-General.
Sleep ended his thoughts and they returned the next morning as Lotto woke up from, perhaps, a dreamless sleep. He wondered if he had dreamt of Restella, but couldn’t recall and that brought a wistful smile to his face.
The innkeeper sat down with him for breakfast. “Did you hear anything of importance?”
“They are headed for Happly, so you don’t need to worry about them spending too much time in Gensler’s forests.” That seemed to be enough for Heartwell. Lotto worried that once whatever happened in Happly, Gensler could be overrun with unsavory characters once all of the ruffians had mustered out. He’d relay that information to the Duke or whomever he would be reporting to in Crackledown.
Heartwell followed him to his horses and observed Lotto put a message in the band around one of the bird’s legs. “Reporting back already?”
Lotto flushed. “Beckondale needs to know what’s going on in Happly. I’ll be in Crackledown in a few days, right?”
The innkeeper nodded his head. “By nightfall, tomorrow.”
“Then I can tell the Duke’s men at that time.”
The man clapped his hands. “I never did fight in any wars, but thank you for letting me witness your work. It helps me be part of the fight.”
“What fight?” Lotto said. He had never read of any fighting in Gensler for generations.
“The fight against the evils of Dakkor. I hear the emperor is a devil and the proof of it is the way he twisted the king of Prola, not that the man needed much twisting, according to my sister.”
Lotto laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “We all must do our part. I’ll get a message to you telling where to send any tidbits of information that you might come across, okay?”
The man’s chest swelled. “Anything I can do, sir, Captain, sir!”
Lotto mounted up. “Look for my note.” He rode off, not happy with Heartwell using his temporary title, but he would certainly get Heartwell in the loop. Perhaps Gensler needed some more sources of information in these perilous times. Did Mander have such a network in Valetan? It was too good of an idea for him to be the first to think of it and that gave him a twinge of disappointment.
~~~
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
~
CRACKLEDOWN, THE TOWN, REMINDED LOTTO OF WALKINGTON, but with a massive castle looking down from a crag above it. He rode down through a gap into the city, bounded by a river that ran north to the Fargo. A set of bluffs echoed one side of the river’s path and the snow-covered castle sat on a knob that rose a bit higher than the bluffs. On the other side of the river spread rolling hills dotted with fields and woods. Perhaps those were the ‘downs’ in the city’s name.
Lotto looked back to see the gap in the bluffs that led to slightly higher plains. He wondered how he would get to the castle, when he spied a road cut into the rock walls leading gently up the crag. Hunger gnawed at his stomach, but he would put off a meal until he reached his destination.
“Lotto Mistad, from Beckondale.” Lotto reached the top and leaned over his saddle to give the guard identification papers that Mander had included in the sheaf he had given him.
“Go to your left to leave your horses and I will get an escort to accompany you from the stables.”
Lotto entered the large courtyard, examining the dark stone walls of the castle. They could march six men abreast on the battlements. Metal cranes, ones that would not burn like the wooden cranes at Mountsea Castle, towered at various places along the castle walls, even those that looked out over steep cliffs. The castle at Crackledown smelled worse than any others he had been in. The mystery ended as turned a corner. He identified one of the sources of that odor, extensive stables. As he dismounted a groom took his horse. He heard the snuffling of pigs and the cackle of chickens and on the other side of the stables were a series of pens, holding more livestock.
The groom laughed a bit. “Most visitors react like you just did. Four hundred years ago, the castle surrendered after a siege. Not a man had been killed with a weapon, but starvation had done the work of a thousand men. Ever since, the castle has its own well, a granary and livestock. We’re proud of the smell. It means our independence.”
Lotto nodded, but then turned around as a guard tapped him on the shoulder. “Lotto Mistad? I’ve come to take you to Duke Jellas.”
After a few steps, Lotto twisted around and called to the groom. “The birds are not livestock. Take care of them, they will carry messages to Valetan.” The groom’s mouth turned to an ‘O’ and nodded. Lotto continued walking with a smile on his face behind the guard. Mander Hart wouldn’t be pleased if the birds ended up on Duke Jellas’s table.
The Duke had a throne room of modest size, but it seemed to suit the castle’s severe air, decorated with lightly stained wood paneling. Lotto liked the more utilitarian feel.
> “Lieutenant Mistad.” The Duke stood, alone, at an open window looking down at the town far below, clutching his credentials. Lotto felt the swirls of cold air fight the heat from a large fireplace. He stood nearly as tall as Lotto and was probably in his fifties, with short dark hair going gray. His clothes were only a little more stylish than a uniform. He seemed to fit the more stark surroundings of Crackledown.
“Duke Jellas, I bring greetings from the king of Valetan and messages from Mander Hart, who serves as an advisor to King Goleto.”
“I know Mander. Come with me.” The duke led him into a room behind the throne. It seemed to be a smaller version of King Goleto’s war room. “Sit. We will dine tonight in this map room with a few of my subjects tonight. Your presence isn’t an official embassy therefore we can dispense with the usual tedious ceremonies that such encounters seem to merit.” The duke motioned Lotto to a chair at a table set for eight. He poured them both green glass goblets of a pale wine and put one in front of Lotto. “From our vineyards to the northwest. You will like it.”
The wine tasted, what was the word? Dry? He could detect flavor and alcohol and little sweetness. Lotto wasn’t a connoisseur and only knew the basics from his dinners with Mander and Lady Anne.
“So have you learned anything yet on your journey from Valetan to Crackledown?” The Duke obviously didn’t expect an answer.
“Mercenaries flow across your land from the south, west and north, headed to Happly. Mercenaries might be too kind a word for them, thieves and ruffians might be better. I overheard three of them in Harveston talking about the pay and the promise of Valetan booty. If there is a war with Happly and it is overrun, these men will likely prey on your citizens as they flee from the Valetan army.”
The duke’s amused expression vanished. “I heard rumors of mercenaries, but I put that to skittishness caused by the Valetan army conquering Ashdown and your remarkable accomplishments in the Prolan revolt.”
Lotto hadn’t thought of his work in Prola in quite those terms. He first thought to contradict the duke, but then decided that not might be the best way of introducing himself.
“I can tell you what really happened if you are interested.”
“If you can wait for a few minutes until our group assembles, we can save you from telling your story twice. I think we are all interested, especially of your personal role in Prola.” The duke looked at Lotto’s hand. “I’ve heard various accounts and perhaps hearing it all from an eyewitness, nay, a participant, would make our evening before we get down to discuss your role with us.” The duke rose and pulled on a thick silk rope, hanging by the door, and sipped his drink while Lotto became a bit nervous sitting under his gaze.
A knock on the door startled Lotto and he couldn’t help but blush at his skittishness. Six men walked into the room. One, a pudgy man, dressed like a courtier in a dark red silk coat and white suede breeches. The others looked more like soldiers. Their gazes weren’t hostile, but they weren’t friendly, either.
“Sit. We aren’t under court protocol, here. Speak freely since, now that I’ve talked to Lieutenant Mistad, it seems that our time has just about run out.”
Run out? Perhaps the duke knew much more than Lotto did. He took more than a sip of his wine and restrained himself from coughing from its alcoholic strength. He’d have to go back to sipping.
“Eberlo, please introduce yourself and our other guests.” The duke sat down.
The man in dark red stood, but the duke impatiently waved him back down into his seat. “I am Horas Eberlo, the duke’s Chamberlain, defense minister, if you will. These are five of our best rangers. Pillo Toras, Nark Sender, Anton Whisperwood, Creeden Halfround and Morio Jellas, the duke’s youngest son, if you must know.” Eberlo obviously didn’t like the son or really any of the other men. He looked demeaned as he said their names.
“And Lotto, would you introduce yourself and your Prolan adventures,” the duke said. All eyes swiveled to Lotto who opened his mouth, but shut it as dinner came, carried on two trolleys by serving women. He let them set out dinner and then took another sip of his wine. He took a deep breath and began to tell his story. He ended it by showing the scar on both sides of his hand. It worked with Heartwell and it worked with these gentlemen.
“Now it’s your turn to eat,” the duke said. Lotto ate hardly a bite during his story, but the other men had just about cleaned their plates. “Now that we know that Happly is raising a large army, our domain is threatened. I feel like we are threatened on all sides except for our border with Valetan. I will request King Goleto for forces to be stationed on the Valetan side of the Fargo ready to move south to protect us. With the Red Kingdom still quelling it’s own countryside, there might be some time to prepare, but we won’t let out the general alarm quite yet.
“I intended on sending the six of you out into the countryside, but with Mistad’s news, I’m afraid four of you will leave Crackledown tomorrow and head to Happly to join their forces in the guise of mercenaries and report back to me.” Lotto thought to contradict the duke, but kept hold of his tongue until the man had finished.
“Lieutenant Mistad and Morio will roam through Gensler and set up an intelligence network as soon as winter turns in a few weeks.”
“I can do that,” Eberlo said, half standing.
“You can, but you won’t. I need you to work to find the funds to pay for our own soldiers and then concentrate on recruiting an army and getting them armed and trained.”
Eberlo nodded his head. “Excellency, I will do as you command.”
“Thank you, I knew that you would,” the duke said, but Lotto looked at the expressions of the two men. They weren’t together in this. Could Eberlo have his own agenda? He’d seen it in Prola and heard of it in the barracks as the officers and men talked about the recent turncoat nobles in Valetan.
“Eberlo and I will leave you. Please treat Mistad as if he had the rank of Captain.” The duke winked at Lotto. “Give him a night of the glorious tales of Gensler.” The two older men left Lotto with the rangers as well as the duke’s son.
It appeared that the men treated Morio as one of their own and that made Lotto breathe a bit easier. The last thing he wanted was someone who would demand being treated as a noble as they insinuated themselves into the countryside of Gensler. Talk got around to the Red Kingdom.
“We hear rumors that one of the royal family got away. The heir, a princess, is missing and the court wizard escaped. The rest were killed when Histron took over. He’s crowned himself, but he doesn’t have the Bloodstone,” Anton Whisperwood said. He seemed the most talkative of the bunch. “Without that, he can’t officially become the Red Kingdom’s king.”
Lotto squinted and looked at Morio. “Do you mind if we started by heading to your southern border?”
“It might be a bit dangerous. Histron has his troops pacifying his northern villages.” Anton said.
“Aren’t you up to it, Morio?” Pillo said it as a playful challenge.
The duke’s son grinned. “I am, especially if we can play two bravos seeking our fortune.”
“Highwaymen?”
“Indeed. We can go around unshaven. It’s a bit lawless down there with all of the refugees from the Red Kingdom. Perhaps we can clean some of them out, if you don’t mind getting your sword a bit wet.”
“I’m not bloodthirsty by nature, but if we can do a bit of good, I don’t see the harm. Does your father have an intelligence arm in the south?” Lotto said.
The men all looked at each other.
“Eberlo does, but won’t admit to it,” Creeden Halfround said. “I’m not so sure what gets to the duke and what doesn’t”
“Perhaps a parallel effort then, reporting to the duke or someone who is more trustworthy,” Lotto said.
“My sister, Panny,” Morio said. “She’s married to the biggest, most boring wool merchant in Gensler and she’d be happy to get involved.”
Lotto endured the stories of his companions
for the rest of the night. He enjoyed the camaraderie and wished they would all travel together. Morio hadn’t been a protected son and he had as many stories as his companions and the evening started the kind of bond that fighting men can forge.
“If you ever meet up with the Valetan army, give Captain-General Beecher my warmest regards,” Lotto said.
Pillo nodded. “Beecher, right? You know him personally?”
“I do,” Lotto said not correcting him about calling Restella a ‘him’. The shock would do the scouts some good.
The next day, Morio and Lotto walked, down the road to Crackledown through cold rain and sleet and stood in front of a large stone house.
“My sister’s,” Morio said smiling. “She will be thrilled to see me since I rarely visit.” He rang the bell at the side of the courtyard door. The place seemed larger than a number of inns that Lotto had spent the night.
An old man’s eyes opened a tiny hatch in the door and peered up at them. “Your business?”
“Opee! Can’t you see it’s me?” Morio said.
“Mistress will not be interested in seeing you, Master Morio. Your behavior towards her friend last month was inexcusable, she told me, and added, most emphatically, not to let you in.”
Morio frowned and took a step back. He looked up at the wall. “I guess we’ll have to brave the broken glass on the top of the wall.”
Lotto stepped up. ‘I am a representative of the king of Valetan on a mission of great importance. I need your sister’s assistance. The duke’s son was supposed to have introduced me, but I see I will have to do so myself.”
“One moment, fine sir.” Opee closed the tiny hatch and then opened the door. “Aren’t you a little young for an ambassador?” He squinted one eye at Lotto.
“I convinced the duke to lend me his son, now I must convince his daughter to lend me her help.”
“The lady of the house will be notified.” The man shut the door.
Morio spoke with a solemn face. “She’ll not let you in with me here. I had a fling with an eligible young woman that my sister knows and the relationship soured. I didn’t think it would lead to this.”
