And given the circumstances of her birth, perhaps Rhoanna would manifest powerful magical ability. Calliande’s illness before the premature birth and death of their daughter Joanna had left her unable to bear any more children. The Guardian Rhodruthain had given Calliande a shard of crystal that contained the final wisp of lingering power from the Sword of Life, which had allowed her to conceive and bear one more child. At the time, Ridmark hadn’t wondered if that would have lasting effects on the child, but he feared it might have done so.
The hell of it was that the hillock on which the tree stood really did look like a circumvallation wall, a fortification designed to encircle a castra or a tower. The hillock seemed to encircle a low pile of boulders and had Ridmark been inclined to poetics (he wasn’t), he might have said that the hillock looked like a weathered earthwork wall encircling a crumbled tower.
“That,” said Antenora, “is a remarkably advanced vocabulary for a two-year-old child.”
Rhoanna looked at Antenora, her face solemn, perhaps even pained.
“Poo,” she announced, and then promptly soiled herself.
Brilliant or not, she was, after all, only two years old.
Calliande sighed and held out her hands, and Ridmark passed her the suddenly fragrant child. “Rhoanna, you need to tell me when you have to do that.”
“Did she just fill her diaper?” said Joachim. “She did, didn’t she? I never used to do that.”
“Yes, you did,” said Calliande. “We’ll get her cleaned up. We can’t ride into Castarium with the daughter of the town’s lord smelling bad, can we?”
“Speaking of that,” said Ridmark. “I suppose I had better have Vegetius run up the banner. I don’t want Flavius or the men of Castarium thinking that bandits have come to attack the town.”
“They’ve probably had enough scares of that sort over the last few years,” said Calliande, dropping down from her saddle with fluid grace. It was impressive that she managed to do that with Rhoanna in one arm. She glanced at Octavius. “Take my reins, will you? I’ll get Rhoanna cleaned up in one of the wagons.”
“Yes, my lady,” said Octavius.
“I never had to be cleaned up like that,” said Joachim.
“If you keep telling lies, Joachim,” said Calliande, climbing into the back of the nearest wagon, “I’ll make you clean up your sister.”
Joachim’s horrified expression showed just what he thought of that.
Ridmark left Calliande and her maids with the children and rode to the front of the column. At his command, Vegetius ran up the banner. After Ridmark had become the Comes of Castarium, he had been obliged to select a personal sigil for his men to wear as a badge. Gavin had suggested, half-jokingly, that he take a gray banner with a wooden staff and a dwarven battle axe for a sigil. Ridmark had given that some thought, but in the end, had settled on a blue banner with a silver shield. The realms of Andomhaim and Owyllain knew him as the Shield Knight, which made identification easier.
An hour later, the road turned to the south, and the town of Castarium came into sight on its peninsula.
Ridmark had become lord of the town and its surrounding lands partly to support his family, and partly as a favor to the High King. Castarium was in Taliand, the ancestral duxarchate of the Arbanii, Ridmark’s family, and Taliand was the oldest duxarchate in the realm. Ridmark’s eldest brother, Dux Tormark Arban, was one of the most powerful noblemen in Andomhaim. But the High King stood above all noblemen, and he held lands in every single one of Andomhaim’s duxarchates. The Arbanii ruled in Taliand, but for centuries the High Kings had also held the town of Castarium, and the Comes of Castarium was sworn directly to the throne, not the Dux of Taliand.
The previous two Comites of the town had come to bad ends. The first had been killed when the Frostborn had laid siege to Tarlion. After the defeat of the Frostborn, Arandar had appointed a new Comes, and the man had proven untrustworthy. He had turned to stealing cattle and valuables from the neighboring villages, and finally, the nobles of southern Taliand had banded together and killed him while Ridmark and his family had been in Owyllain. The entire affair had brought turmoil and bloodshed into Tormark’s well-ordered duxarchate, and Tormark had threatened to claim Castarium for himself if a trustworthy man could not be found to hold it for the High King.
The High King could not surrender the town. To do so would give a precedent for other lords throughout the realm to seize the lands of the crown, which would also give the ever-truculent nobles a pretense for civil war. Arandar had come to Ridmark and offered him the comarchate of Castarium. Ridmark had no wish to hold more lands. He already held a benefice with a small village on the western bank of the River Moradel and serving as lord there was headache enough. The town of Castarium alone was ten times larger, to say nothing of its surrounding villages.
Arandar’s arguments had been good ones, but in the end, Ridmark had accepted the title of Comes of Castarium for Calliande’s sake. Calliande took her duties as a mother as seriously as she took her responsibilities as Keeper of Andomhaim, and a year after their return from Owyllain she had given birth to Rhoanna. Small children required a great deal of time and attention, and Ridmark knew his wife. Calliande would turn her full attention to their children at the same time she turned her full attention to her duties until the strain exhausted her. Serving as the Comes of Castarium would give Ridmark the income he needed to hire servants to help Calliande.
So far, it had worked. Acting as the Comes of Castarium was a damned nuisance and a headache, but Ridmark had brought order to the town, and none of his brother’s vassals were willing to cross him. The new servants had assisted Calliande immensely, helping her bear the load of her various responsibilities.
The downside, of course, was that Ridmark actually had to govern the town.
And there was another problem in Castarium, one Arandar had asked Ridmark to help resolve.
That might prove trickier than the usual problems of judging the disputes of the townsmen.
But for now, Ridmark had to concede that the town did look beautiful from a distance.
A small peninsula jutted south into the sea, and the town of Castarium filled the space. Stone walls encircled the peninsula, and within Ridmark saw houses built of brick, their walls whitewashed, with roofs of red clay tiles. The drum tower of a castra rose on the southern tip of the town, and the peninsula curved to the east, creating a good harbor. The High King had built a castra there to guard against orcish raiders moving through Taliand, and fishermen had settled in the shadow of the castra, using the harbor for their boats. As the realm of Andomhaim had expanded, so had Castarium, and now five thousand people lived within the town’s walls.
And half of them, Ridmark thought sourly, seemed to enjoy suing the other half.
To the northwest of the town, at the junction of the coast and the peninsula, rose another curtain wall. Inside Ridmark saw a large stone church and the other buildings of a substantial monastery. The Monastery of St. Bartholomew had been founded not long after Castarium, and as the town had expanded, the monastery had grown along with it. The monastery’s curtain wall connected with that of the town, which had let their defenses reinforce each other in ancient days when Taliand had been more dangerous.
Ridmark felt a flicker of irritation as he looked at the monastery. He neither liked nor trusted the monastery’s abbot, and Ridmark would have to deal with the man soon. He wasn’t looking forward to the conversation, but he had promised the High King that he would do it.
But there was another, more immediate problem at the monastery.
A large encampment had sprung up to the north of the monastery’s curtain wall. Ridmark saw dozens of ragged tents, a score of wagons, and perhaps a dozen sickly-looking donkeys and mules. The inhabitants were mostly young men, but Ridmark saw women and children among them. What the devil were they doing here? They had the look of commoners who had been driven from their lands. Had one of the nearby villages come under att
ack? Taliand was mostly safe, but there were still entrances to the Deeps in the mountains to the northwest, and kobolds and deep orcs could have emerged to launch raids.
But Ridmark remembered all the rumors he had heard about growing unrest in the city of Cintarra.
Perhaps the truth was more serious than the rumors claimed.
“There seem to be more people camped here than our last visit,” murmured Calliande. She had come up to Ridmark’s side, Rhoanna still cradled in her arms. The girl had dozed off, her mouth hanging open, her arms and legs twitching from time to time as she slept.
“Aye,” said Ridmark.
“I wonder if there’s trouble nearby,” said Calliande.
“When isn’t there trouble?” said Ridmark. “Vegetius!”
“Aye, my lord?” said Vegetius.
“We’re heading into the town,” said Ridmark. “Tell the men to keep their eyes open, but not to start any trouble.” The people in the encampment didn’t look desperate or starving, only ragged and tired. Yet until Ridmark knew more of the situation in the town, best to remain cautious.
“Aye, my lads know their business,” said Vegetius.
With that, the column headed towards the northern gate of Castarium. Ridmark saw that the sentries on the wall noted his approach, and he approved their vigilance. The castellan of the castra and the praefectus of the town had not been lax in their duties. Ridmark felt the people in the encampment staring as his wagons and horses passed. None of them approached, but he thought they looked sullen and frightened.
A short time later they reached the town’s northern gate. Castarium’s wall was not the largest he had seen, but it was still fifteen feet high and built of stone, more than enough to keep raiders at bay. A pair of men-at-arms in his colors stood at the gate, keeping watch, and they straightened at Ridmark’s approach.
“Welcome to Castarium, my lord,” said one of the men-at-arms, a lean man of about twenty. He had joined Ridmark’s service during his last visit to Castarium. Ridmark could remember being that age, if barely.
“Marlon,” Ridmark said. “Why are all those people camped by the monastery?”
Marlon grimaced. “They’re from the valley of the River Cintarra, my lord. Came from a village called Ebor. Their lord enclosed all the fields for sheep and drove the villagers off their lands.”
“Has there been any trouble with them?” said Ridmark.
“Not yet,” said Marlon. “It’s time for the planting, and the freeholders always need extra hands to help with the work. So far there’s been no major trouble, but I think it’s coming. A couple days ago one of the men of Ebor got caught stealing some of the monastery’s sheep. The praefectus put him in the castra, and the abbot wants the man hanged.”
“I see,” said Ridmark. No doubt he was going to hear about that soon enough.
“It’s good you’re here, my lord,” said Marlon. “Things are unsettled, and the rumor is that the praefectus and the abbot have been quarreling something fierce.”
Ridmark nodded, beckoned to the others, and rode through the gate with Calliande at his side, the other horsemen and wagons following him. The town, at least, seemed in good order. There were no beggars on the street, and Ridmark suspected the praefectus had not let the villagers from Ebor into the town. He saw men and women going about their work, and the smell of fish and salt hung over everything. The fishermen would have already brought in the day’s catch and would be hard at work preparing and salting it.
A few moments later he came into the town’s chief forum, a large square at the southern end of the peninsula. The drum tower and wall of the castra rose to the south. To the east stood a large stone church, grim and solemn. Castarium had a bishop, which made the church a cathedral. To the west rose a four-story building of stone and timber, the Salty Fish, the town’s main inn. All that was customary, and little different than numerous other towns Ridmark had visited in his travels.
The stone rising from the center of the forum was not normal.
It was a menhir twelve feet tall, rough and irregular, and it leaned to the east at about a fifteen-degree angle. Symbols had been carved into its sides, and Calliande had told Ridmark that the symbols were glyphs from the high elven tongue, though she was uncertain what they said. Apparently, the stone had always been here, as long as anyone could remember, and had been standing here when the first stones of the town’s castra were laid upon each other. Ridmark suspected that the stone was a relic left over from the epochs when the high elves had still ruled the world. It was a harmless curiosity – Calliande had said that there was no magic upon the stone. Once, no doubt, it had been enspelled, but that had been long before humans had come to this world, and the magic had faded. As he had so many times before, Ridmark looked over the stone and forgot about it.
There were more urgent things to consider.
His arrival had been expected, so the chief men of the town awaited at the castra’s gate to greet him. There was Flavius, the praefectus of the town, a stout man who looked like a fatter version of his older brother Vegetius. There was Sir Longinus, a young knight that Ridmark had recruited to serve as castellan of the castra and the commander of the men-at-arms in his absence. Next to Sir Longinus and the praefectus stood a fat elderly man wearing fine robes and a skullcap, a crozier staff in his right hand. His name was Belasco, and he was the bishop of the see of Castarium. The bishop was more worldly than Ridmark thought proper for a high churchman, and Ridmark was entirely certain that the “nephews” whom Belasco had given various offices were, in fact, illegitimate sons from the man’s younger, wilder days. Nevertheless, Belasco had a generous heart, and he was a shrewd man who understood the ways of the world. Ridmark found that the bishop was a man with whom he could work.
The same could not be said of the abbot of the Monastery of St. Bartholomew.
Ridmark noted that no one from the monastery had come to greet the returning lord of Castarium. A small insult, to be sure, but no doubt a calculated one.
He did note that three additional men stood with the bishop and the praefectus and the castellan, and a surprised smile went over his face.
The first man was a Swordbearer, a Knight of the Order of the Soulblade. He was approaching fifty, and he had the lean, wolfish look that Swordbearers (those who survived, at any rate) gained as they aged. He had cold blue eyes and black hair that had gone mostly gray, and the soulblade Hopesinger hung in a scabbard at his belt. He was Sir Valmark Arban, Ridmark’s older brother.
The second man was a towering orcish warrior at the beginning edge of middle age. His skin was a deep green shade, and his head had been shaved bald, save for a black warrior’s topknot bound in a bronze ring. The orcish man wore blue dark elven armor, similar to Ridmark’s own, and carried a greatsword of the same metal slung over his shoulder. Hard black eyes watched the world behind his white tusks. When Ridmark had met Kharlacht of Vhaluusk nearly thirteen years ago, he had been an outcast, with all his kin slain. Now he was Kharlacht of Rhaluusk, one of the headmen of King Crowlacht of Rhaluusk, and Crowlacht’s strong right hand.
The third man was a dwarf, one of the khaldari kindred, and he seemed almost comically short standing next to Kharlacht. The dwarven man wore a friar’s simple brown robes, a wooden cross hanging from a leather cord around his neck. A mace of bronze-colored dwarven steel rested in a loop at his belt, and his marble-like blue eyes seemed stark against his granite-colored skin. Like Belasco, he wore a skullcap, for he was also a bishop. He was Bishop Caius of Khald Tormen, the first bishop of the dwarves, at least those dwarves who had chosen to worship the Dominus Christus instead of the ancient dwarven gods of stone and silence.
Ridmark had expected to see Flavius, Longinus, and Belasco. He had not expected to see his older brother and two old friends.
“Welcome back to Castarium, my lord,” said Flavius with a bow. The praefectus straightened up with a grunt. He wore a long tunic, belt, trousers, and boots, and a bronze chain of o
ffice hung around his neck. “We are glad you have returned. There is much business to discuss.”
“Indeed,” said Belasco. It wasn’t all that hot, but he produced a handkerchief and mopped his brow. “Many troubles, I fear.”
His eyes strayed to the monastery as he spoke.
“I’ve not been back as soon as I should,” said Ridmark. He beckoned, and both the welcoming party and the horsemen moved away from the gate, letting the wagons roll into the courtyard of the castra. “But I’m here now, and no doubt there are many things that require my attention.”
“Quite a few, my lord,” said Flavius. “We can go over them tonight. Several cases need your judgment, and a…ah, there is a dispute with the monastery and some of the folk from Cintarra.”
Ridmark nodded. “Get everyone settled in. We’ll discuss it tonight. First, though, we will have dinner.” He looked at Valmark, Kharlacht, and Caius. “It seems we have guests.”
“The hand of the Lord was upon us,” said Caius. “I was traveling back from Tarlion, as was Kharlacht, and we decided to journey together until Rhaluusk. Sir Valmark was on his way back from Tarlion with a message from Archbishop Caelmark, and we all chance-met here. Then we heard that you and Lady Calliande were about to arrive, and it seemed that tarrying an extra day to greet old friends was hardly a wasted day.”
“As ever,” rumbled Kharlacht, “you take too many words to say a simple thing. We all chance-met here.”
“Just as we all chance-met in the Northerland back in the old days?” said Calliande with a laugh. She dropped out of the saddle with ease. Ridmark was still impressed that she could do that while holding Rhoanna. Even more impressive, Rhoanna slept right through it.
Dragontiarna: Knights Page 2
