The wall surrounding the town was simple. Thick and sharpened stakes were planted in the ground at various angles along ditches and earthen mounds. This is how all walled cities started, Krieger told them. Relin was fascinated and wondered out loud where all the trees had come from, because despite the deforestation outside the city, it was obvious much of the wood here was from larger trees, and from more than had been cut nearby. His question was answered from a guard who had stepped out of his shelter to meet them.
“The wood is a gift from his grace, King Wynter,” the man said, straightening as he invoked his monarch’s name. “He pulls it from the ground with his hands and loads it into carts without so much as moving,” the man supplied. “I’ve seen it…well, I know those who say they’ve seen it. Who are you then, and where do you go?” The guard quickly shifted to his task of guarding the city entrance.
“We travel from south of Bayside, having heard of a great new kingdom to the north where we can work as free men and be treated as such,” Krieger said, perhaps a little too loftily for Lydria’s thinking. “May we find lodging here for an evening before making our way east to Solwyn?”
“Aye, that you may,” the guard said. “But I will have to inform the governess of your arrival. She likes to welcome travelers who make for Solwyn. But I warn you, after you meet her, you may well stay here and travel no further. Least wise, that’s what has happened to many who now call Brookfield home.”
“The governess will meet us?” Krieger’s voiced went uncommonly high in surprise and wondered when the meeting could be arranged. “But whatever will we wear, we are not attired to meet with the nobility, certainly,” he threw the guard a look that served as an honest plea for advice.
“Go to the Ice Pillar and there you’ll find rooms and there the governess will find you when she’s ready,” the guard supplied happily. “Don’t worry about your clothes, all kinds come through here and none are better dressed than yourselves.”
With a perfunctory discussion of town rules, the guard rubbed Kimi under the chin and waved them on their way.
FORTY-TWO
As the season progressed, Wynter’s informants from the south reported Ahlric was on the move, slaughtering what remained of Eifynar and reaching the first of his earldoms along the southern rim. Nethyal did not seem surprised or concerned when the destruction of his home was announced so casually, and he motioned for the informant to continue as he looked concerned he would be punished for bringing such news.
People from the south were already arriving with carts and crops. Wynter smiled. The earls he had chosen had done well and the people arrived with everything they could carry – denying all sustenance to Ahlric and his men. At first sight of the advancing army they had destroyed the wells and killed the animals they couldn’t bring north. He smiled inwardly when the report concluded that there were no soldiers among the refugees.
Wynter dismissed the short, thin man and as his grey cloak disappeared from the doorway to his hall, Wynter said, “they fight, Nethyal. You see, they fight because they believe.”
“Yes, sire. But their deaths in small groups will serve no purpose. Would it not be better that they gathered here to face the forces of the south?”
Wynter smiled and shook his head. The Eifen, for his formidable bravery and skill as a fighter, did not understand the tactics and strategy at the foundation of human warfare. “They buy us time, and as importantly, they buy us heroes.”
The statement left no impression upon Nethyal and so Wynter tried again. “The people will hear the stories of those few soldiers and how they valiantly defended their homes against overwhelming odds. That will make them stronger, and they will fight even harder to be as worthy as their countrymen.”
Nethyal nodded his assent and agreed the plan was sound in theory before Wynter sent him from the castle to find someone to make a song about the dead.
“I still don’t trust him, husband. He is using you.”
“For what? What could he possibly use me for? Safety, security, power, wealth? That is what I offered him. He does not use me. I use him, and I will hear no more of this.”
Wynter sat back against his low backed throne of ice. It was covered with furs and comfortable despite its material. For more than a week before news of Ahlric’s movements had reach him, Wynter had taken a daily walk around his town, past the crude stone walls taking shape and the guard posts. He went alone, despite the pleadings of both Nethyal and Sir Keldon, and now he smiled, knowing the defenses of Solwyn would be ready.
As useful as Nethyal was, Wynter believed Keldon extraordinary. Since taking over as commander, the forces of Solwyn had grown steadily in both numbers and efficiency. The giant studied and absorbed all he could from Nethyal about Eifen fighting styles and he listened to his men. He had created a training regimen that produced competent soldiers from farmers in a relatively short time.
Being a new town, trade was still in its infancy and so able-bodied men were put to work building, farming, or hunting, but only after they had first spent time learning to fight. The women were taught to pull a bowstring or perform tasks that would be useful in combat. Many women carried short swords, and all were given basic instruction in how to hold and use them. Those men and women who were especially adept stayed as soldiers while the rest carried on with their appointed jobs.
When Ahlric’s army came, they would be met by the entirety of Solwyn. To reach the castle they would have to be prepared to kill women and youngsters along with the men. These thoughts kept Wynter occupied as he made his daily walks around town after receiving the news of the advancing army. He retraced his steps along the arc of the city and stopped often, kneeling and touching the ground and smiling. When he got tired he would rest, and then carry on until he was ready to return to the castle, greeting his people as he passed.
Despite Wynter’s recent disfigurement, his people still smiled at him, and would often ask him questions about Ahlric, or just to thank him. They did not, he noted, still smile as they once did. There was a pause now as they surveyed his scarred face. Only his blue collar showed no signs of damage, further highlighting the reddened and burned flesh above and below. Perhaps they saw the burns as a weakness, that he was not impervious to injury. Or perhaps it was pity. Wynter hoped it was the former. The former he could deal with, for he was sure there was no weakness in him. Pity, however, he could not stand. It was the weak, mewling, fops like Grummond who hungered after pity.
“Sire.” It was Keldon who pulled him out of his reverie the day before after making his rounds outside the boundary of the city. Keldon knelt and waited for his king to acknowledge him. Keldon was used to the injuries caused in battle and had not once averted his eyes away from his king. Of all the nobility gathered in his arena the previous year, none came close to the nobility of the giant knight.
Wynter nodded and indicated Keldon should rise, which the man did, but not to his full height. “Sire, I have word from our scouts. Ahlric’s forces are advancing and will be here within a fortnight. It appears, however, that a group of them have split off to the west; for what purpose we don’t know. It’s thought that perhaps they go to Brookfield.”
“What do you think, Sir Keldon?”
The man hesitated and rose fully to tower over his king. Wynter smiled inwardly at the knight, who alone of his advisors knelt rather than bowed. It was the soldier’s only way to not stand above his king. Indeed, even kneeling Wynter barely saw above his head. But Wynter made it clear that he should stand after making his report.
“It makes no sense, sire. The group was not large enough to take even Brookfield, and the tundra that surrounds us means no force will flank us unseen.”
Wynter considered his commander’s position and wondered to himself the reason for the detour when he spied Nethyal walking toward him from behind Keldon. When Keldon repeated his thoughts to Nethyal, the warrior said nothing while considering the report.
“They seek to hunt down th
e remnants of Eifynar,” Nethyal said coolly. “Or they seek the men of Steven’s Folly to take Brookfield and deprive us of their trade.”
Wynter studied Nethyal’s face and found it stoic, as always. Turning to Keldon, he told his commander to send a small party toward Steven’s Folly. “Don’t send too many, though, Keldon,” Wynter said with a smirk, “The Folly is only worth keeping an eye on, not fighting for. Send only fast men with good eyes.”
The two soldiers took their leave and Wynter continued across the hundred yards of empty space between the village and the castle. A single flight of steps separated the town from the castle and the arena to the east, but in the flat space around the lake, a dozen stairs may as well have been a cliff. As he approached, a guard labored to open the massive black door enough for Wynter to enter. Inside was bathed in a blue-green light as the sun reflected off any surface not covered – including much of the roof, which made Wynter’s stronghold vibrant and light.
Wynter walked past a servant offering refreshment and into his main hall. He needed to visit each of the Fourteen Pillars.
For the past ten days, this had been his routine – walking an arc around the town and retreating to his throne room and stopping for several minutes to speak with the men and women encased in pillars of ice. He looked into their faces, their eyes open and mouths closed, and he could sense the awareness buried deep inside the ice. Just as he had been aware but unable to do anything while lying upon the ground after leaving the crater, so the Fourteen stood now. Rooted to the spot by ice and magic, giving up a very tiny piece of their essence each day to maintain the fortress around them. The Fourteen would not last forever, Wynter knew. A hundred years, certainly, perhaps two hundred, but as mere shells of the men and women who stood before him now. Three hundred years from now the castle would fall in upon itself. “That’s right,” he said to a woman in the middle pillar along the right side as he walked toward his throne. “You will stand here for another two hundred years until there isn’t enough of you left to maintain the magic.”
Wynter thought for a moment that the woman’s bright blue eyes widened in surprise or terror, but certainly, he knew that could not be.
Wynter looked past her dark hair, which still grew, he noted, and now included a streak of white that reached from her right eye to the back of her ear, in a single line. It was, he thought, a rather pleasing look. Over her shoulder, however, he noted the pillars continued to change – losing their clarity as a vibrant, blue-green wrapped its way up from the floor and was now about waist level with the occupants of the pillars. The colors appeared solid from the back only, still making its way around to the front of the pillars in wisps of sky blue that reached out their tendrils toward the front of each pillar, preparing to hug their occupants in a dark embrace. Soon the Fourteen would be lost behind a wall of blue-green like the rest of the castle.
Sitting on his throne, Wynter looked down the corridor made by The Fourteen. Wooden beams and stone were lying in well-organized piles in the aisles between the columns and the main walls. After his war with Ahlric was over, Wynter would have craftsmen come and build wooden walls and ceiling buttresses next to the ice, and floors of marble and stone. When the ice failed, the castle of Solwyn would continue to stand, needing only to be mopped dry.
Wynter wasn’t sure how long it would take before he could no longer see or show off his prized Fourteen, but it wouldn’t matter. His plans for the Fourteen didn’t involve them staying in their icy prisons. He had already started the incantations to reveal his true intent and it required only a few more words and a single item to set in motion. Until then, he waited for war to reach his gate.
FORTY-THREE
The Ice Pillar was a stunning achievement in a town so utterly devoid of trees. It was a two-level wooden inn that, like most buildings in Brookside, was built very recently. From the narrow mud track that passed as a street, the Ice Pillar filled Lydria’s vision. Inside it was comfortable, clean, and busy. A stable boy took their horses to a shelter nearby and Krieger gave him a copper piece for his trouble. The boy looked at the coin and thanked Krieger before moving away with the horses in tow.
“Well, at least Wesolk money is still good here,” Krieger said as he opened the well-oiled door into a bright and fragrant common area. Meat, stew, and fish all made an appearance on waves of odor coming from patrons’ plates. Fresh vegetables and bread were in evidence and beer, apparently, was consumed far more moderately than in many taverns Krieger had visited.
“They have venison, and rabbit, and … moose.” Kimi was nearly standing on Lydria’s shoulder now and several tables were looking toward them and smiling at the orange cat as it strained its nose in the air.
“Sit, down, Kimi. You’re very heavy. We’ll get you food – maybe even some moose.” The bobcat did as he was asked but not before drooling down the back of Lydria’s tunic for good measure. “Hurry,” he added.
Krieger and Branch were already at the bar as Relin, and Haidrea made their way to an open section of a long table. “This is good. It reminds me of home, where we sit together to share food.” Relin was looking around the room, as if he were searching for someone, while Haidrea sat quietly beside Lydria.
Haidrea leaned to her friend and whispered. “Does this not seem odd to you? This place is so clean and light and with so little drunkenness and so many women.”
Haidrea was correct, and Lydria realized that fully half the patrons were women. They were not only with their husbands, but on their own, wearing leather breeches and with dirt on their hands and faces like many of the men. Everyone, it appeared, was in work clothing, dirty and stained with sweat, but not ragged. People regularly came in and replaced those who had left, and all seemed to be on good terms with the man behind the bar. It was a brisk business so early in the evening.
“Is this not a good thing? Would you rather be in a dark, smelly hole of a tavern with filthy men belching and grabbing at you as you walk past?” Lydria pushed her friend with her shoulder and smiled, but the more she thought about it, the more she realized Haidrea was correct. There was something odd about the tavern.
Haidrea had not spent time in dark taverns like Lydria described, but she had been younger once among warriors or hunters who drank late at night and became loud and spoke with their hands. The Eifen were not prone to drunkenness, but it was not unheard of. “Perhaps I worry too much, but this place unsettles me.”
Krieger and Branch returned to the table along with a serving woman – all of them laden with plates and mugs which they distributed around the table. Kimi, who stood up immediately upon seeing the food, jumped to the table and snatched a piece of meat from the nearest plate and growled defiantly as he hunched over his dinner. The patrons nearby laughed good-naturedly, but none reached out their hand to pet him as he ate.
Krieger and Branch sat and soon everyone was enjoying the first hot meal they’d had in days not prepared by magic. “I have two rooms for us at the top of the stairs at the end of the hall. We’ll discuss our traveling plans after we eat. Until then,” he lifted his mug and raised his voice and shouted, “King Wynter!” The room echoed the sentiment readily and many people turned toward Krieger and raised their own mugs in appreciation of his recognition of their sovereign.
Throughout the meal, several people clapped Krieger on the back as they walked past, but none stopped to talk as the group ate. As they were finishing their meal and preparing to head to their rooms, the front door swung silently open, and a small, clean-shaven man stepped in and looked toward the barman and said simply, “Grettune approaches.”
The buzzing common room went silent and those who sat nearby the party quickly removed themselves to the far corners of the room so there was at least one empty table in all directions around them. Those patrons who moved quickly found places at other tables as diners and drinkers squeezed tight on their benches and made space for the newcomers. Several looked toward Lydria and smiled warmly. Whatever was going on
, she thought, did not seem to indicate trouble. In fact, more people were coming into the room from lodgings both above and below the stairs.
The barwomen quickly moved to the vacated tables and cleaned them, straightening the chairs as they left, while the barman selected a clear wine glass from a case behind his bar and retrieved a corked bottle from beneath its heavy wooden frame. He poured the glass half full of a deep red liquid and placed it upon a small silver tray he had taken from another area under his bar top.
Without a sound the man who gave warning of the Governesses’ arrival, for Lydria believed such a reaction could only result from the Governess herself visiting, opened the door again and stood to the side and within seconds a woman with long, red hair, curled at the ends, entered the room. She beamed as she came in and almost as one the gathered guests greeted her as a long-lost friend. “Madam Governess Grettune.” They almost sang it, so casually did it fall from their mouths, and Lydria could see they meant it as well. As Grettune moved about the room shaking hands and making pleasant idle talk with various people, Lydria watched, fascinated, by a type of ruler she’d never seen before.
Grettune was dressed in a tunic and leggings, much like Haidrea’s but far more finely crafted, with beautifully small stitching and flower patterns that largely hid the seams down each side. Her tunic was pulled in tightly around her thin waist emphasizing her relative frailty amongst the more sizeable women who were the norm in this harsh land. The tunic, however, didn’t open as Haidrea’s – tied by gut from mid chest to the bottom of her neck; it was tied up to her throat with a material that was wide like gut, but finer, and her sleeves extended down to her wrists where they were delicately tied with what looked like lace. The clothes, with minor modifications, would be suitable to work in if one didn’t mind dirtying expensive clothing. Grettune’s clothing was far more practical than anything Lydria had ever seen women of wealth or power wear in Bayside where colorful, ornate, and delicate dresses were the garments of prestige. Here, all it took was some fine needlework.
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