Landmoor

by Jeff Wheeler

  An answering whistle replied in short crisp tones. Dujahn knew it meant he didn’t appear threatening and that someone with a crossbow was tracking him closely. Maybe more than one. He continued forward, dragging the horse after him. From the south pickets, a detachment of sentries carrying torches approached. Their mail vests looked insufferably hot. None of them had drawn weapons yet. There wasn’t a need to.

  “Hold there, friend,” the sentry captain announced warily. “Shine some light on him, Vison. I don’t see a uniform.”

  The torches were raised, and Dujahn squinted as the light stabbed his eyes. He held the reins out so they could see his hands, and he took a step forward. “Good evening. My name is Dujahn of the Gray Legion. I’m here to see Commander Phollen.”

  “You’re Gray Legion?” the sentry captain asked skeptically.

  “Is Commander Phollen here?” Dujahn repeated. He looked to the right and left and studied the soldiers. They wore simple tunics and makeshift armor, not the black and gold of Bandit officers. Wearing drab brown and gray clothes himself, Dujahn looked more like a peddler. The sentry guards edged closer. They were scrutinizing him, as were the two or three Kiran Thall lurking in the trees. He stared at the sentries calmly, waiting for them to get over the fascination.

  “What is the pass?” the sentry captain demanded.

  “It’s the name of Commander Phollen’s ship…”

  “And what is that?”

  “– the Khariidawn,” Dujahn continued.

  Three Kiran Thall appeared from the trees. Dark streaks painted their faces, making their mud-colored uniforms blend better. They were certainly more skilled than the soldiers in front of him. Each held a black-iron crossbow mounted on wooden stocks, but they raised them deferentially and nodded to him.

  “If he’s Gray Legion, escort him into camp.”

  Dujahn didn’t recognize the Kiran Thall who had said it, but the soldiers obeyed him at once.

  That was much better.

  “Commander Phollen hasn’t arrived yet,” the sentry captain explained as they fell in around Dujahn, leading him into the warmth and firelight of the Shoreland Regiment. “We expect him soon. Our orders are to mobilize and be prepared to march on the fortress, but to wait until he gets back.”

  “Who is in command then?” Dujahn asked, handing a sentry the reins.

  “Colonel Hallstoy.”

  “I need to see him immediately.”

  “Of course, we’ll take you right there. Is there something the matter?”

  Dujahn planted his hands on his hips. “Nothing I can discuss with you. Take me.” He nodded to the ring of fires. Sentry soldiers were the same the world over, Dujahn thought. They were intimidating behind a picket line with twenty other soldiers pressing about them stupidly, but as soon as they realized you weren’t impressed with their authority, they turned into sniveling weasels. The sentry captain ordered the rest of the watch to gather back at the pickets. Extending his arm, the captain pointed the way through the lines and started off at a brisk walk. The buzzing from the insects was drowned by the clank of pots and the hiss of campfires. Smears of mud and drying ruts made the ground uneven. Mashed bootprints were everywhere, marring the stone-cut road of the old Shae highway. The Shoreland Regiment hunkered across the only road through the Shadows Wood and stretched deep into the forest on each side. Dujahn shook his head, surprised that King don Rion hadn’t heard about it yet – or sent one of his Dukes down with an army. His defense ministers deserved to have their eyes stabbed out. The Bandits wouldn’t dare mobilize so close to the Inland! It’s all a bunch of nonsense and frightened merchants trying to keep the roads clear for trade. He knew what they would be arguing. But they were wrong. So very wrong.

  “As I said, we’re expecting the Commander any day,” the sentry huffed, dodging pit fires and mule carts. “Mage warned us to prepare to march, so we’ve broken camp and pulled onto the main road to cut off any riders to or from the north. We’re building scaling ladders and bringing in grapnels and knotted ropes…”

  “You should post more sentries in the darkness farther south,” Dujahn suggested. “The Kiran Thall spotted me too late because I was riding without a torch. I would hate for the governor of Landmoor to find out you’re blocking the Iron Point Road.”

  “That’s true, I guess,” the sentry captain mumbled. “I’ll take it up with Hallstoy. Say, are you working for Commander Phollen or Folkes, or was it General Dairron?”

  “Who I work for is none of your business.”

  The captain gave him a wounded look and walked the rest of the way in silence. The bulk of the force was still on each side of the Shadows Wood, but the command staff had moved into the center where the road was flat and wide and the perimeter guard around it was defensible. But vulnerable, too. Dujahn shook his head and muttered an oath. Without a strong leader, a regiment could easily fall apart all by itself. He couldn’t understand why Commander Phollen would try to organize a siege without being there to direct it. And here he was, Dujahn thought cynically, to help Miestri rattle the regiment and make it even more ungainly. That wouldn’t be too difficult…

  “There’s Hallstoy’s tent,” the captain announced, pointing towards the command pavilion. It was ringed with Kiran Thall and officers, each dispatched with the evening orders. The smell of roasting boar and black-feathered jackdaw lingered in the stale air. It was muggy and fetid – Dujahn hated the Shoreland swamps. He was introduced to the chief officer on duty and then escorted into the pavilion where he could hear the Bandit colonel swearing.

  “I don’t care that he’s a banned merchant! Take his cart, lock him in irons, and tell him to join the Bandit Rebellion. If he doesn’t, let him wear the chains for a few days! Get out. How are the supply lines? Are we ready for the march? Good. It’s banned time. Now what do you want, Bonner? Fetch me more ale.”

  Dujahn stepped past the tent curtain. It was stifling inside, and he tugged at his collar so he could breathe the air instead of swallow it. Hallstoy was just as tall as Commander Folkes, and he was built like a bear. A white scar went from his bottom lip down the side of his chin, and he had three more criss-crossing along his scalp where the hair had never grown back. Sweat glistened on his face, but he still wore the heavy chain tunic and black and gold-lined armor of the Rebellion. He argued with a colonel about where the Kiran Thall should tether their horses and muttered an obscenity. “And what do you want, Komsin?” he asked the duty officer, giving Dujahn a look of contempt. “Caught another merchant on the road? Did you hear what I told Captain Shokle? Arrest them all. They’re fools, Sons of Fire, all of them! This is a war!”

  “This is Dujahn,” the duty officer announced, getting the colonel’s attention. “He’s Gray Legion.”

  Hallstoy’s eyes narrowed and he grabbed a towering goblet of ale half a cask deep. Taking a long drink, he wiped his stubbled chin and squinted at the new arrival with more than a casual interest. “So you’re Dujahn,” Hallstoy breathed, obviously having recognized his name. That was flattering. “What does Folkes want?”

  Dujahn shook his head and stepped forward. “Presently, I’m representing Miestri of Vale.”

  “You work for that tyke?” Halstoy smirked. “I don’t envy you.”

  Dujahn shrugged. He leveled his gaze at the tall Bandit soldier. “In that case, you certainly won’t like my news. She’s coming to the Shoreland Regiment, Colonel. Tonight.”

  Hallstoy coughed as he tried to suppress a laugh. “Like Hate she is, Dujahn. This is Tsyrke’s camp, and she has no right being here. And don’t tell me she doesn’t know that.”

  “You can tell her yourself when she gets here. I was sent to secure a pavilion for her and two companies of Kiran Thall.”

  Hallstoy’s eyes went wild and he laughed out loud. “Sweet Achrolese, you were sent to do what?” The scar on his cheek burned. “You can’t come into my army and start giving orders. I don’t give a ban who sent you. Only Tsyrke or Mage or Stroth Ballin
aire can make orders in this camp over mine. And in that order, too. I don’t care if she’s a Sorian – this isn’t her camp!”

  Dujahn shrugged. The half-smile he gave the colonel was forbearing. “The Sorian can do whatever they want, Colonel. Honestly, do you think you can stop her from coming here tonight? Do you think this entire army could stop her?” He gave the colonel a wry look. “Be reasonable. She’s not here to take over your command.”

  “Then why is she coming?” Hallstoy demanded.

  “She hasn’t revealed that to me. I need a pavilion and a few companies of scouts. She asked specifically for Kiran Thall. That’s all.”

  Hallstoy kicked one of the table legs, sloshing the ale. “No.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I said no. I’m not giving her a thing. I will not let Tsyrke or Mage come back and find out I’ve been catering to her. You tell that…”

  Dujahn reached inside his tunic pocket and withdrew a red-glass orb. A queer orange fire burned inside of it. The other Bandit officers stepped back, recognizing the shape and color of the orb. He heard one of them mutter something about dark magic.

  “Why don’t you tell her yourself?” Dujahn said coldly.

  Hallstoy froze.

  “Come, Colonel. Explain to the Lady of Vale why you won’t greet a fellow member of the Rebellion. One who certainly has more authority over you or your officers. Go on, sir. Tell her.”

  “I don’t have time for this,” Hallstoy grumbled. He stared at the orb fearfully.

  “I really don’t think she cares,” Dujahn advised. “The Lady of Vale is coming tonight. You know how they can be when they don’t get their way.” The orb gave off a wicked flash and a red mist began to creep from its shimmering glass. The other officers started to back towards the tent door. “She’ll take your tent, Hallstoy. She’ll be here in a minute if I invoke her.”

  The Bandit colonel gave Dujahn a deep frown and looked as if he was about to draw a weapon, but he tightened his mouth and shook his head. He looked ready to kill if they had been alone. “She’s only daring this because Tsyrke and Mage aren’t here,” he whispered. “I only hope -- by Achrolese! -- that one of them returns before she can disappear.” Hallstoy straightened his sword belt, summoned a spoonful of dignity, and looked towards one of his officers. “Tell Grimme to get out of his tent.” He turned back to Dujahn. “It’ll have to do. Secrist is out roving with two companies of Kiran Thall right now. She can use them when he gets back.” He gave Dujahn a delighted smirk. “I would truly like to see her try and threaten him.”

  Secrist’s companies? Dujahn thought dryly. “Thank you, Colonel,” Dujahn said with a small bow. The red mist retreated back into the orb and he stuffed it back into the pouch. “The Lady of Vale will be pleased at your obedience.” Without waiting for a response, he turned and followed the officer out of the stuffy pavilion. He was a little disappointed. Miestri had said she might have let him use the Firekin to rip the skin off of Hallstoy’s skull. It would have been fascinating to see that – and to see the looks the other officers would have given him when he did.

  Colonel Grimme went into a fury when he was dispossessed of his tent, but the order had been given, and not even he was brave enough to challenge a Sorian for it after Hallstoy had backed down. Dujahn stepped inside the musty tent. It reeked of sweat and ale. The fabric blotted out some of the noise and he stood quietly for a moment, feeling his entire body race with the heat. He had felt the power in the orb as he held it in his hand. He could have done anything with it! He wiped his forehead and paused, listening to the sounds of the camp rumble around him. Reaching into the pouch at his waist, he withdrew the fist-sized sphere again. The smoky orange light pulsed inside it, giving the orb a throbbing dull red glow. It was like staring into smoking coals, but the orb was cool. There were shapes in the mist, but she had warned him not to look at them. It was dangerous to do so. Dujahn looked away and set the orb on the tent floor. He backed away from it.

  The flickering magic danced in the orb and the shapes began to take form. The reddish light grew brighter, yet darkening the tent as well as it covered his boots and hands and then the tent wall all around. The churn of magic came inside the pavilion, and Dujahn felt it grip and twist his stomach. It was like dancing on a hill during a lightning storm. A cool breeze came from the red-hot orb, and suddenly Dujahn found himself shivering.

  There was a rustle of velvet robes and Miestri stood before him, holding the sphere in her palm. She smiled and raised her eyebrow, as if asking him why he was shaking. Two Shae appeared behind her, gripping their ash longbows. As the red light jumped back into the orb, Dujahn saw gorgeous woven rugs and dangling crystals within the tent. It smelled like cinnamon and sage. A soft bed with three pallets filled nearly the entire space, but there were also stone animals – ravens, sparrows, and vultures – and wooden puppets suspended from leather strands coming from the tent poles. He stared at the dangling ornaments, but recoiled when he saw the leering and tortured faces.

  “Well done,” Miestri said approvingly, slipping the ball-sized orb into her robes. “You handled Hallstoy well enough. If he had balked, you would have used the orb on him as I showed you?”

  Dujahn bowed his head and stepped back, nodding. He’d killed men before. But never with magic. Never like that. Even though it was cold in the tent, he hadn’t stopped sweating. “What else do you need me to do, my Lady?” He tried not to look in her eyes, but he found he couldn’t help it. They were dark, almost black, and he couldn’t distinguish her pupils. Swallowing was a word he felt described them best. It was like staring down a cliff at night.

  She stepped closer, making the velvet robes rustle. “I want to know what is going on here, Dujahn,” she whispered in her low musical voice. “Where is the Shoreland Commander? Where is Mage? When will they return? See what information you can gather and bring it to me at dawn.”

  “Of course,” he answered and nodded. “Is there anything else?”

  “Yes. Go find where the prisoners are kept. I want a young man, the youngest you can find. Bring him to me when you return.”

  He looked at her quizzically.

  “Don’t think, Dujahn,” she warned. “Just bring him to me.”

  Dujahn felt something go black inside of him. Blinking, he thought for a moment he would faint. Stumbling, the Gray Legion spy left the tent, grateful for the soggy warmth that nestled into his armpits once he stepped outside. The buzz and the rumble of camp soothed him. There were men outside used to war and death and the thousand faces of pain in between. He understood them. He understood their motivations, fears, and desires. That was easy.

  But Miestri of Vale? He shook his head, remembering what it felt like to be around her. Understanding a Sorian was like trying to understand what made the wind.

  XIV

  The only thing Thealos would have dreaded more was Elder Nordain walking into the Foxtale instead. He couldn’t believe his bad luck. A Crimson Wolfsmen quaere! He knuckled his forehead, worry turning to panic inside his chest. There was no mistaking it. How long had they been following him? From the plains? Or had these been watching the streets of Sol for him to arrive? Desperation tore at him, making him want to bolt for the door. But they had already positioned themselves there. There was no escape that way.

  Where are you, Jaerod? Thealos silently seethed, hiding his face in his hands. Hiding his face wouldn’t help. If he could feel them, then they could certainly feel him. He risked a look across the tavern hall. They sat silently, waiting.

  “In trouble with your friends?”

  Thealos glanced up at the serving girl. He hadn’t heard her approach the table. He swallowed. Looking into her eyes, he realized that worry shone on his face and she could tell.

  She nodded imperceptibly, forestalling an answer. “I could send for the garrison. Or would that be even worse?” Her voice pitched low enough so that only he could hear.

  Thealos watched the Wolfsmen over his knu
ckles. He shook his head, cursing his own foolishness. “Do you have a way out the back?”

  “Yes,” she nodded, holding a tray in front of her. “But the last thing you want right now is a dark alley where they can get you alone. Doesn’t look like they mean any trouble right now. Probably waiting for you to leave.” She offered a pretty smile. “I’m Ticastasy.”

  “Thealos,” he replied, nodding. It helped to be talking to someone, though he knew she wouldn’t be able to do anything to save him. Not even the knight from Owen Draw in the corner of the tavern could defeat four Crimson Wolfsmen. It would take a whole company of knights. He doubted even a Sleepwalker could match that many.

  “Are you hungry? Why don’t I get you a plate while you mull this over.”

  He nodded gratefully, but his stomach was wrenching. The serving girl put a hand on his shoulder and gave him a gentle squeeze. “How about some Silvan wine, too. You look like you need it even more.” She gave him a wink and looked back at the bar towards the Drugaen. The earrings she wore gave off a musical sound as she motioned for him to join them.

  The Drugaen stared at her, nodded, and hopped off the barstool. He was a big fellow, thick around the wrists with big meaty hands. Approaching the table, he tossed the worn deck of Bones on the table and gave Thealos a warm smile. “Hello.”

  “Flent, this is Thealos,” the serving girl said, folding her arms over the plate. “Play a round of Bones with him while I fetch his dinner.” She nodded towards the table with the Crimson Wolfsmen, and Flent winked and pursed his lips, some silent communication passing between them.