His bandaged right hand was like a badge of honor to the others, proof of his heroism. It was funny, Gahspar thought, the gods had given him the malformed hand and he was pitied. They had taken his fingers and now he was admired.
Gahspar rode all of the next day. He found a farmer who let him sleep in his barn that night in exchange for some stable work the next day. He completed his chores in the usual thorough fashion, enjoying the familiar smells of the barn and the animals. At heart, he would always be a farmer. By high sun, he was on the road again. By late afternoon he could see the sprawling mass of Stonehelm in the distance.
Marek watched as the longship was loaded. Like all ships of the northern kingdoms, it was long and large with a massive single sail and oar ports on the sides. It was seaworthy on the open seas, but also built to travel shallow waters, inland bays and rivers. It was a perfect raiding ship.
Marek thought back to the time he and his army had sailed all the way up from the Southern Kingdoms. He had hated the smell of salt and fish, the relentless squawking of the sea birds, and the way the boat rocked on the waves. Sailing was not something he enjoyed, but it was a necessary evil. Soon they would be in Orngaart, taking the coastal towns by surprise and the others by force.
Men went back and forth, loading crates and barrels, very careful not to make eye contact with Marek. In fact they avoided looking at him all together. Marek felt nothing. No anger, no sadness. Since he had been resurrected, so many things didn’t seem to matter anymore. The living worried about so many things, made problems where there were none. Marek had only one focus now: vengeance. He would get even with those who had betrayed him. He would destroy all who opposed him. He would be king, and then his name would be known forever.
The men loading the ship were stowing gear, stacking boxes, tying things down. A nervous man in green breeches and a faded blue tunic supervised the crew. Ingo Sarnesen was in charge of the boat, a responsibility which he took very seriously. He stepped in here and there, giving orders to one man or another. He had dark, thin eyebrows and small eyes that were constantly sweeping the ship. Nothing happened that he didn’t know about.
Ingo chewed on a thumbnail. He was a natural worrier. One day this dark necromancer and his army show up and take over his small village, disarming all the warriors and erecting his black altar. A few days later, the necromancer hires him, and his ship, to take his army to Orngaart.
Ingo was a nervous man, and now he had plenty to be nervous about.
When the ship had been loaded, Ingo spoke words of encouragement to the crew and watched most of them return to shore. Only two men would sail with him and the horrible dead army, those two being necessary to help with sailing and navigation. Ingo regretted his decision, though the large sum of coin he had been paid was plenty of justification. His family would be taken care of, something that was a near constant concern of his, and he had paid off his debts. He was sailing off free and clear; money was no longer a problem. He glanced over at the dead warrior who was eyeing him suspiciously. Beneath the man’s armor he was all decaying bone and moldy sinew. He smelled like death and he scared the wits out of Ingo. This one called Marek, he worried Ingo just by his presence.
The necromancer stepped onto the gangway. Ingo gave the ship one more glance to ensure that nothing was out of place. He made an effort to stand up straight.
“Everything is ready?” Vorus asked, planting his feet on the deck of the great ship.
“Yes, sir,” Ingo replied. “Your men can come aboard. We can leave whenever you’re ready.”
“You can set off as soon as the army is on board. The other ship is still being loaded. I’ll be on that one, Marek will go with you. We’ll follow as soon as we can.”
Ingo nodded. The tall, lanky necromancer also made him nervous. He radiated an aura of power, a bleak, chaotic force that frightened Ingo. At least he was still human though, and that put him a step above the others, in his book.
The skeletons filed onto Ingo’s boat and it was all he could do not to jump in the water and swim for it. They were dead, hideous things with blank eyes and rotting bones. They smelled terrible and looked worse. The very sight of them made Ingo’s skin crawl. The fact that these dead men were walking, talking, sitting on his boat, it was almost enough to drive Ingo mad.
When all the dead men were on board, Marek nodded to Ingo. He and his two mates began shouting to each other, casting off the lines and slowly drifting away from the dock. Ingo kept his hands busy with one task or another, anything to keep them from shaking. Within a few minutes, Ingo’s little village disappeared around a bend. He was underway with a boat full of dead men. One thought kept going round and round in his mind: By the Gods, what have I done?
CHAPTER TWENTY
Audience With a King
Stonehelm was the type of town that spread out to meet approaching travelers. On its outskirts there were grime-covered tents where families shared little yards with their animals. Chickens clucked, pigs snorted. Men and women worked at their crafts, mended clothes and cooked meals. A pall of smoke hung over these encampments, the snow beneath them all churned and muddy.
Closer to the town, the houses started, small houses of wood with thatched roofs and little rail fences. They were poor houses, patched with bits of wood and bark, most managing to stay just one step ahead of the elements. They were on rockier ground, with sparse garden plots gone dormant in the late season.
Within that was a tight ring of larger houses made of wood and stone. Some had wooden roofs, porches and plank walkways. Just inside of that was the business district. Gahspar saw a wheelwright’s shop, a large place that sold cut lumber and shops full of tools and axes. People and carts crisscrossed the streets and two little boys lead several sheep down the middle of one road. Stonehelm was a bustling town, thriving.
Gahspar tied up his horse and just walked along, gawking at all of the things for sale: food, herbs, spices, flutes, daggers, trinkets. There were precious stones buffed to a high sheen as well as candlesticks, carved horns, drinking mugs and steins. There was one whole stall full of different colored dyes and yarn, more colors than Gahspar had ever seen. He saw knives with handles of exotic wood, intricate leatherwork and spices from places he had never heard of.
In the center of the city Gahspar saw a clump of long houses and other sturdy buildings ringed by a high wooden fence topped with sharpened stakes. The buildings were made of big beams from old, sturdy trees. They were solid, permanent, built to last the ages. There was no fortress, no tower, but he was sure that this was the king’s complex. Armed men walked back and forth on a high ledge along each wall, bows on their backs.
It was nearing time for the evening meal and it occurred to Gahspar that it was the worst time to try for an audience. Better to return in the morning, when the king was ready for visitors. To be truthful, the city and all the people moving about made Gahspar feel lost and small. He wasn’t going to shirk his task, but he didn’t have to stand in the center of this swirling chaos of people, either.
Gahspar rode out toward the edge of town and found a rundown inn that didn’t cost much. He stayed in his room that night, not willing to face a common room full of strangers.
The next day, Gahspar was up early. He ate some food from his pack, washed his face and hands, ran water over his hair. His hair and beard were combed. He was ready to go.
Gahspar walked the town in the early morning light. Vendors were just setting up their stalls, unpacking and arranging. A stray dog angled across the street, following its nose, ignoring Gahspar. From a high point, Gahspar looked off to the north at a long row of jagged mountains that stretched off into the distance.
“You there, with the sword; a moment of your time?”
Gahspar turned to see a man beckoning him toward a couple of large wagons with cloth tarps over them. He walked over.
“We have goods to unload, and we need some … protection. I’ll pay four silver.”
“I ha
ve another meeting in a few hours,” Gahspar said.
“An hour of your time. Once we’ve unloaded, my men can watch the goods and you’re free to go.”
Gahspar took the job. Four silver was a lot of money, and he didn’t want to get to the king’s door too early.
He took out a strip of leather, unsheathed his sword, and began tying it to his right hand.
“You can fight like that?” the man said.
“Absolutely,” Gahspar said.
The man shrugged and walked away. He and some other men began to carry boxes over to one of the stalls.
“You stand here and watch the goods until it’s all unloaded.”
Gahspar stood there with his sword tied to his hand and wrist. A blonde woman walked by, blue eyes shining, her head wrapped in a colorful scarf. One sketchy looking man approached, eyes darting over the boxes at Gahspar’s feet. When he saw Gahspar, he crossed the street and kept walking. In the meantime, the men brought more boxes.
Two men in medium blue tunics and cloaks walked up. They had silver metal helmets polished to a shiny luster, and long swords on their belts. Each had a silver dragon head embroidered over their left breast. Gahspar saw that the dragon was recreated on their shields.
“No weapons unsheathed in the city center,” one of them said.
Gahspar tried to resheath the sword with it still attached, but the angle was all wrong. He undid his belt, moved the sheath to his left side and tried again. It took some wriggling, but he got the sword back in the sheath, his hand still tied to it.
“Okay?” Gahspar said.
The two guards looked at each other, eyes saying what they didn’t want to say out loud.
“See that it stays sheathed. A second offense is punished.”
Gahspar walked back and forth near the boxes, his right hand across his body and tied to the sword handle. It was awkward, but if he had to grab the shield off his back and fight properly, he’d need the sword in his right hand.
The men he worked for began to put long planks of wood between two tall stumps to make the stall’s table. They started to unload the boxes, arranging items carefully on the table. There were fine pewter plates, knives and forks with staghorn handles and jeweled carving knives.
“We’re hoping one of the royals sees something they need,” one of the men said, winking at Gahspar.
Soon everything was unpacked and the man gave Gahspar his pay. The sun was a bland yellow ball fighting to shine through a hazy gray sky. Even a king should be up by now, Gahspar thought. He untied his sword, resheathed it, and rebandaged his hand.
He walked over to a gate in the wall surrounding the king’s compound. Two guards stood in front of the gate in the same blue uniforms with the dragon symbols. Their eyes remained fixed forward, even as Gahspar approached.
“I need to see the king,” Gahspar said. “It is of utmost importance.”
The men stared forward, past Gahspar.
“The king is not seeing visitors,” one guard said.
“I demand to see the king,” Gahspar said, stepping very close to one guard.
The guard gave Gahspar a quick glance, then his eyes locked forward.
“On whose authority?”
“I come from Surgaart, across the mountains. I bring urgent news to your king.”
Gahspar’s face was now inches from the guard’s. When a man walked on dangerous ground, Siggrun had told him, he had best walk with conviction.
The guard’s eyes flicked to Gahspar’s face, then slid down to Gahspar’s bandage.
“Why don’t one of you go and find someone who can help me, since it seems that my situation is beyond your authority,” Gahspar said.
There was a tense silence, then the guards exchanged glances. One of them stepped forward, looking back, up and over the fence. He signaled to a guard in a high tower.
In a moment, the gate began to open. The other guard stepped between Gahspar and the open space. Gahspar smiled a benign smile. He made sure to keep his hands away from his belt.
One guard scurried through the gate and it slowly swung shut again.
He and the remaining guard stood a few feet apart. The guard kept his stare fixed on Gahspar’s eyes. Gahspar made sure he didn’t look away. They stood that way for several minutes, then the gate opened again and a new man came out with the other guard. He was a thin man, who seemed to get lost in his heavy winter clothes. He had a lean, pale face and was bald except for bushy eyebrows.
“I am Wender Orloff, advisor to His Majesty. You wish to see the king?” the man said.
“I am Gahspar of Surgaart … and yes, I need to see the king. It is very urgent.”
The man’s eyes looked Gahspar up and down. Gahspar imagined a ray of sympathy in them.
“What is this regarding?”
“I recently braved the high pass between our countries, in a violent storm and at the risk of my very life, to bring a message to the king.”
“You were sent by whom?” the man asked.
“There is no one left in Surgaart to send a messenger. The jarls, the chieftains, they are all dead. The cities are burned, captured, enslaved. I, Gahspar, have come on my own, because I am the last chance that Surgaart has.”
“Follow me,” the man said.
Gahspar was led to a low wooden building with carved dragons flanking the entrance. The sturdy door was carved with swirls and designs, its handle wrapped in soft leather. Wender opened the door and Gahspar followed him inside to a wide hallway with a long bench along one wall. Gahspar sat. Wender walked away. There were four other men seated along the length of the bench. Three of them were dressed in fine clothes, silk, embroidered, bright colors woven into the cuffs. Gahspar had never seen such clothing, though he had heard that some men dressed that way in the southern kingdoms, across the sea. The fourth man looked like a Norseman. His trousers and tunic were clean and new, the edges sewn with small images of antlered deer. His round wool hat and coat were next to him on the bench, both decorated with matching metal knot work.
Gahspar was clearly out of place. He wished now he had bought something new, at least a clean tunic. The other men looked important, assembled and shiny. He was grimy and used. Well, what was done was done.
A servant came by with a pitcher of some kind of drink. Gahspar accepted a simple silver cup and the man poured him a portion. The drink was fruity and sweet, with a hint of sourness. Gahspar sipped at his drink. The three fancy foreign men glanced his way. The Norseman ignored him.
After a while, there was a great commotion as a door opened and two guards came in and rushed to the other end of the hallway. They took up positions, standing stiff, heads up, as three more men came into the hall. The first was a heavyset blonde man with his hair in long braids and a long mustache that flowed down around the sides of his mouth and curled outward into lean points. He wore a bright red tunic, dark trousers, and a cloak trimmed with expensive fur. Gahspar saw the glint of gold rings and a necklace of rare stones. The King. He approached the bench, followed by two more guards hurrying to keep up.
The king stood a few feet from the bench, the two guards flanking him, taking up positions between the king and the visitors.
The men on the bench sat up straight, absentmindedly brushing at their clothes.
The king’s eyes traveled over them.
“Potharin, glad to see you,” the king said to one man. “Serod.” He said, acknowledging another.
The king studied the Norseman next to Gahspar and nodded. His eyes moved on to Gahspar.
“Who’s this, then? A vagrant? A wounded warrior? A harried messenger?”
Gahspar was not sure if he was expected to speak, or if he was allowed to.
“Tell me your name,” the king said.
“I am Gahspar. I have ridden all the way from Surgaart, over the pass, through the storm. I need to speak with you, Your Majesty. It is urgent.”
The king smiled, his blue eyes shining.
“Well,
you look like you have the most interesting story. It’s not every day I get a messenger like you,” the king said, eyes shifting momentarily toward the other men on the bench. “You’ll be first. Then Serod, Potharin, then the one from Arkel. I’ll see if I have time for the last one.”
The king turned and started out of the room, his two guards following just behind him. The other two guards came over from the end of the hall and stood before Gahspar.
“This is how you dress to see a king?” one snarled.
“No weapons allowed in the audience chamber.” The other one said, reaching out his hand. “You’ll get it back when you leave.”
Gahspar handed over his sword.
One guard started toward the door and the other motioned for Gahspar to follow him. They led Gahspar out of the room.
Gahspar was led into a vast room with chairs and couches in one corner and a round wooden table near the middle.
King Reinvarr was seated at the table.
Gahspar barely had time to take in the tapestries on the walls and the decorations in the room as he was led to the table. One of the guards motioned him to a wooden chair across from the king and Gahspar sat.
The table was smooth and polished, its surface empty except for a goblet in front of the king. This was not what Gahspar had pictured when he thought of an audience with King Reinvarr.
The two guards stopped behind Gahspar’s chair. The king bid Gahspar welcome and waved a hand toward the guards, who turned and walked out. From another door on the far side of the room, a young girl walked in carrying two pitchers and a goblet on a wide tray.
“Ale or mead?” the king said.
“Uh, Ale.” Gahspar said.
The Brave and the Dead Page 15
