by Brian Murray
Zorain sighed when he reached the modest-sized white house owned by Emyra. She did not stay in the palace, but had servants in place cleaning and making sure it was ready for when the royal family returned. Zorain smiled to himself, remembering the title she had given herself. They sat in the City Watch office when one of her former bashers entered the room. He bowed towards Emyra and called her the “First Lady of Teldor.” From that day, the title stuck. She did not want any formal title like Duchess or Baroness. She said to Zorain that only the king could bestow such a rank.
Zorain walked up the path to the tall wooden door. Before he could knock, a small plump maid opened it for him, smiling.
“Evening Zorain, my lady is waiting for you in her study. Mind you wipe your feet before coming in,” she ordered gently.
Zorain wiped his boots on a coarse brown mat and removed his red overcoat. He then followed the woman into Emyra’s study.
Emyra rose from her desk to greet her guest, her friend. The two had not become friends until they spent a week in the sewers of Teldor when Zane tricked the Dark One. They had enjoyed each other’s company in those dark, dank, and extremely foul-smelling conditions. The Mistress, head of all contraband and crime in the city, and the Captain of the City Watch together and friends. This evening, Emyra wore a simple blue dress, her neck and hands unadorned with jewellery. She moved around and greeted Zorain warmly, pouring the man some fresh hot tisane sweetened with honey.
“How are you, my friend?” asked the woman.
“Tired,” replied Zorain, sipping his drink and smiling at the woman. She was in her mid-forties but still looked beautiful. She had dark bright eyes, full red lips, and raven black hair now streaked with silver which only added to her beauty. Returning to her seat, she looked at the thoughtful man.
“What are you thinking?” she asked.
“I was thinking why have you not married?” answered Zorain honestly. “You’re a handsome and powerful woman. You should have a man with you.”
“Aye, there’s some truth in that, my friend,” said Emyra, sipping her drink. She smiled sheepishly. “I think the right man is out there somewhere.”
“I hope he is and you find him.”
Emyra was momentarily lost in thought, thinking of the kindest man she had ever known and whether he was safe. She thought of the man who had unknowingly raised her daughter as his own. He did not know that the whore who had left him her baby had become Emyra, the Mistress. Rayth had raised Aurillia like she was his own blood and now she was betrothed to Zane—one day her daughter would be Queen of Rhaurien.
“Thinking of Rayth,” said Zorain with a wry smile.
Emyra met the city watchman’s eyes, but did not answer. She had already answered the man with her expression. But immediately her shield went up and her worried eyes changed. She was now Emyra, First Lady of Teldor.
“Any news?” she asked, her voice strong.
Zorain immediately recognised the change in the woman’s posture. “No major problems in the city. All remains quiet. I think Admiral Rendel’s idea of having your men as City Watchmen is working very well.”
“There’s a ‘but’ coming, I can feel it.”
“Aye, there is a ‘but’ coming. The men are good and steadfast. I could not ask for a better squad of men. But . . . ” He paused and sipped his tisane. “But they need to be more discrete.”
“Discrete?” asked Emyra, trying to play the innocent girl.
“Discrete,” was all Zorain said and Emyra knew exactly what he was trying to say without having to say it. Some of her men still carried out work of a dodgy nature for her.
Emyra smiled sweetly. “I will ensure that there is no conflict.”
“No conflict, how can there be no conflict, they’re the City Watch. They have to rise above any corruption.”
“They may be law enforcers, but they are still bashers.”
“No Emyra, they were bashers, they’re not anymore.”
Again, Emyra smiled. “You’re quite right. I will ensure that their extra activities are such that you will not know.”
“I know everything,” said Zorain and it was his turn to smile.
Emyra chuckled. “I will sort it out,” she promised.
“Thank you. I don’t want it said that Zorain’s City Watch is corrupt. Can you understand that, Emyra?”
Emyra’s face became stern. That was the first time Zorain had put it in such simple terms. All the time he had been beating around the bush toying with the subject, but now she knew. Zorain was probably the most honest man she had known, and she threatened to corrupt everything he held dear. The City Watch was the man’s life and she could destroy his life.
“I will make a deal with you. There are a few men in your ranks who want to return to being bashers. I will have them removed and you can recruit more ‘stable characters.’ I will make sure that no corruption infiltrates your watch.”
“You can never have any corruption. Men take bribes and that I know, but you know what I’m trying to say.”
“Yes, I do, and you have my sincerest apology.”
“Good, subject over.”
“Would you like a stronger drink to toast our new understanding?”
“That would be pleasant,” responded Zorain, downing his tisane.
The two talked over city matters for another hour, then Zorain left to return to his wife and child.
After Emyra escorted the man out of her home, she returned to her study. She felt hurt that she had miscalculated the problem facing the Watch, but she would fix it immediately. Then her mind wandered and she pictured Rayth’s face. He was smiling broadly and drinking tisane on a couch in her study.
“Where are you?” she whispered, looking out of her window into the night.
***
No, thought Dax. It could not be Zorain or Emyra, but it could be one of their people. He tried to picture the other people in Teldor that he had got to know. There was Felix, his new wife Christie, and Conn second in command in the City Watch. There were so many faces whirling in his mind. I will see you and cut out your heart, thought the old warrior coldly. The companies broke camp, and he thought of his friends in Kal-Pharina. There lived the Chosen, Ireen, his daughter and Megan, his adopted daughter, not to forget General Gordonia, the Chosen’s warlord. No, it could not any of them, concluded Dax. So, who was it? The problem stayed with the old warrior when they changed direction and travelled northwest. The weather grew colder and he pulled his cloak tightly around his formidable frame.
Dax ordered the men to march throughout the night and they reached the outpost of Mandeville at dawn the next morning. Dax, along with Thade, had his men march closer to the pass and made camp just to the south of the valley—between the outpost and the pass. Thade started to complain about the cold, but Dax just slapped him on the back and told him that pain meant he was still alive. Dax left Thade in charge of the camp whilst he and Jayson rode towards the outpost. As they approached, Dax smiled. It looked the same as Ubert but larger with higher, thicker walls. His smile soon disappeared when he thought of the lives that had been lost at that outpost. The Dark One had marched his army, the Dread, and annihilated all of the men defending the outpost. Only the women and children had survived, and only because Commander Waid had sent them away to hide in Dashnar Forest before the attack. Dax said a silent prayer for Waid.
The two men passed through the gateway and Dax was impressed to notice that the iron and brass gate was well maintained. They entered the outpost and again Dax was taken aback. The outpost was very clean and the houses, shops, and workshops within the outpost all had the same flat roofs and small battlements on the roof for bowmen. All of the buildings were the same shape except for the large keep-like building in the centre. It was still early. The aroma of fresh bread filled the air and, in the distance, he could hear the hammering from an unseen forge. Jayson led the way to the large building in the middle.
A skinny lackey ran up to the tw
o men as they approached the large house. They dismounted and the lackey took the horses away to the stables. They approached the huge hard wood door and it opened before they knocked. The old servant Jermon beckoned the two men in, smiling broadly.
“The baron is expecting you,” said Jermon, taking the men’s cloaks before escorting them to the baron’s study. He knocked on the door and let the two men into the room.
The baron rose from his desk and met the men. “Greetings,” he said. His voice surprised Dax; for a small man his voice was powerful, belying his size. “Jayson, my friend, I see you have brought help for our little problem. Please introduce me.”
“Baron Daviton of Mandeville, please let me introduce Dax, warlord for King Zane.”
“Dax, my dear fellow, please sit down, sit. May I offer you a drink? Tisane or something stronger? It is mighty cold today.”
“Tisane will be fine.”
“Of course, of course. Jermon, can we have some tisane and warm honey cakes for my guests?” The old servant bowed awkwardly and backed out of the room, closing the door quietly. The baron looked fondly at the door. “He served my father, you know, and is part of the family now.”
Dax smiled. He had instantly taken a liking to the baron.
“So tell me, how is our young king?”
“Zane is very well, sir,” started Dax. “He sends his regards and will be here in a day or so. He travels with the main force.”
“Ah, there are more men arriving, splendid.”
“Yes, we will have a force of about ten thousand men here by dusk tomorrow.”
“Ten thousand—excellent. So, his Highness took my note seriously.”
“Of course, any threat to the Kingdom is treated as a matter of urgency and seriousness.”
“Is there anything I can do for you?”
“There are a couple of issues. I will need to increase the manpower on the wall but I do not want it to look like we have a major force here. Secondly, I am stopping all movements through the pass. I do not want any intelligence reaching the enemy concerning our situation here. All movement through the gate will be limited to scouting only and they must be men known to either Jayson or myself personally. Lastly, I need to have men camped in the outpost just in case the Pass falls. They will be here to defend the outpost.”
“You think the wall will not hold.”
“Sir, I have not seen the condition of the wall, but Jayson here tells me it is well maintained. But we need to have contingencies ready just in case.”
“Of course, yes.”
At that moment, Jermon silently re-entered the room with a maid who placed a tray of steaming tisane on the table. Jermon poured out three goblets of the hot fluid and backed out of the room again. Baron Daviton handed out the drinks and offered Dax a honey cake. Initially, Dax refused.
“They are very good. And the honey helps the body in these cold conditions. You will feel better, trust me,” said the baron, smiling.
Dax accepted a cake and was pleased he had. The warm cake had a soft squeegee centre and the honey was sweet but not sickly. He did, as the baron promised, feel better. Dax and Jayson spent another hour with the baron talking about logistics before leaving the outpost and returning to camp. From there, Thade joined the two men and they rode to Reach Pass and its wall. When the three men passed through the iron gate and across the ditch, a thick white mist rolled down the sides of the pass, swamping the men in whiteness. The men could not see more than two strides in front of them.
“How often do you get these fogs?” asked Thade, peering into the fog towards Jayson.
Thade almost fell out of his saddle when Jayson answered him from the other side. “Nearly every day at this time of year.”
“Could be a problem?”
“But it could also help,” said Dax grimly as water crystallised against his long, greying hair and coarse stubble.
“Why do you stay up here?” asked Thade.
“You get used to the weather. It becomes your friend after a while.”
“Friend?” whined Thade. “You call this a friend?”
“Aye, for now your enemy cannot see you.”
“But the opposite is true—you cannot see your enemy.”
“But that’s where I have the advantage, I know this area like the back of my hand,” responded Jayson proudly.
“That’s if you can see the back of your hand,” muttered Thade miserably.
“Just think of it like travelling at night without a moon or stars. It’s the same.” After a long moment of silence, Jayson stopped his horse. “You guys return to the camp, I want to scout ahead.”
Dax and Thade did not need telling twice and turned their horses. They plodded their way slowly south and found the ditch. They moved along the ditch until they found the crossing. Once across the crossing, they made their way to the camp, both of them longing for a warm inviting fire.
***
Jayson continued to move slowly north through the thick, soupy fog that flowed in gently undulating white layers. The fog did not deter the scout, for like he said, he used it to his advantage. He used his other senses; hearing and smell would help him. The scout stopped and listened. He thought he heard something. He carried on riding slowly north, meandering along the pass. Jayson stopped again. Something was definitely moving farther up the valley. Dismounting from his gelding, he walked his horse with caution. He heard a noise up ahead and stopped. He hunkered down and listened to the sounds. They were voices. He could not make out any words, but he knew men were whispering and therefore close. Jayson cut across the pass, heading directly east. He wanted to get behind the men. He was told at the gate that there were no Rhaurn scouts in the pass. This meant that some Rafftons had ventured into the pass.
Jayson heard another noise to his left. They were still in front of him. He stopped and waited for a while. The whispering stopped. He slowly walked forward and his horse knocked a rock that clanked noisily against a boulder. Quickly, Jayson moved to change his position away from the sound. If these scouts were any good they would find where the noise had occurred. Again, Jayson stopped and listened. He heard movement before him and to the left. Someone passed within a few strides of his position. He remained still. He heard whispers behind him. It was not the Kingdom tongue, but the Raffton language. His horse pulled on its reins and neighed. Realisation smacked him, but it was too late. A sword hilt struck him on the back of the head. Jayson crumpled into a heap.
The two Raffton scouts lifted Jayson’s body into his horse’s saddle and walked the gelding to where they had left their own mounts. Within minutes, they travelled north toward the exit of the pass that opened out into the Rafftonia.
***
Dax walked back to the gate on the pass wall. The mist was starting to clear, but not quickly enough for the old warrior’s liking. He walked through the gate and stared out into the swirling mist. He could see nothing. He did not hear Thade walk up next to him and nearly jumped out of his skin when the former gladiator spoke.
“He’s been gone a while.”
“Damn it boy,” snapped Dax. “Don’t you know not to creep up on people?”
“Sorry Dax, you were lost in thought.”
“True and yes, Jayson has been gone for a while.”
“Do you think he’s in trouble?”
“No way of knowing at the moment. We must wait until the fog clears. The guard told me that he might hold up somewhere until the mist clears, just in case his horse becomes lame.”
“That makes sense.”
“Aye it does, but something is itching my trouble bump. Something is wrong out there, but I cannot reach the itch.”
“Not another hunch, Dax.”
“Yes, I think there is trouble out there and maybe, just maybe, Jayson has found it.”
Thade cursed.
***
The lash cracked loudly and ripped into Jayson’s skin. He could feel the blood trickle down his back and pool at the top of his
leggings. He knew he had been captured and the back of his head throbbed where he had been struck. The scout braced himself. The whip slashed another bloody slither into his flesh.
“Have there been any changes to the security around Mandeville and the pass?” asked his torturer.
Jayson did not answer and waited for the lash to strike again. Not a man that enjoyed pain, he screamed when the leather again licked his back. He passed out. He awoke when a pail of water was thrown over his head. He found himself tied to a chair, his burning, bleeding back sliding against the wooden back. Jayson tried to move his hands, but they were bound to the arms of the chair.
“He’s awake,” he heard one of the men in the tent say.
“Good.”
Jayson was violently slapped by a man who had rings on his fingers that ripped into his cheek. He could taste blood and bile rose in his throat. He felt a course hand lift his chin. Then someone spoke to him in fluent Rhaurn tongue.
“My friend, you have a chance to live. Tell me what I want to know and we will let you return to your people.”
Jayson squinted through blurry, watering eyes at the man who faced him. The man’s face was only inches away, but Jayson could not make out the man’s features.
“You traitor,” whispered Jayson hoarsely.
“If I was a Rhaurn, I would be a traitor, but I am not. I am proud to say I am a Raffton.”
“Scum,” hissed Jayson defiantly, and the man slapped Jayson again. This time the power of the slap upended the chair. The chair was righted and Jayson smiled a bloodied smile.
“What do you find amusing?”
“Dax,” whispered Jayson.
“What about Dax?” asked the man, his voice rising in pitch.
“He’s going to kill you,” replied Jayson, chuckling.
“Ah, so Dax is there. Interesting, if Dax is there then there must be some kind of reinforcements.”
