Darkburn Book 3: The Gates of Kelvha by Tayin Machrie - HTML preview

Chapter 16

“Two thousand troops?” said Nerogun, with faint disdain.

“Two thousand Riders of the Vonn: not ordinary troops,” replied Huldarion coolly.

“Certainly not,” Rhadlun concurred. “I have seen them fight.”

Huldarion appreciated that comment. Although he did not care much for the Kelvhan captain on a personal level, considering him both over-lofty and somewhat over-confident, none the less he recognised Rhadlun as an able leader. Moreover, Rhadlun had the ear of the grey-haired Commander Jeveran – who ranked still higher in the army if not in the aristocracy of Kelvha, and who now sat at the table in the Chart Room with them.

Jeveran was a man of considerable acumen, Huldarion judged; and all the more to be respected because of his low rank. He was a commoner, unlike the Arch-Lord Marshal Shargun, the nominal head of the army who had led the Kelvhan troops up north. But Shargun, although he snapped out plenty of orders, had done little useful commanding. That had been left to Rhadlun and the other captains, who had shown a better grasp of strategy. Shargun was from one of the great families of Kelvha and had probably inherited his post.

Whereas Jeveran certainly had not, but had won his place through merit. Not high born but seen as capable enough: that had been Tiburé’s summary. More than capable, thought Huldarion.

He would have liked to know Meya’s opinion of him. She too was present, sitting a little apart from the large table; mainly as an ornament, but also as an unobtrusive director of the servants who topped up the ornate wine glasses and proffered delicate pastry tidbits that fragmented as soon as they were touched. Huldarion was very aware of her movements. He was very aware of everything about her. Her presence gave him a frisson of remembrance.

Her movements were few, however: she was the only woman in the room and she kept her mouth closed throughout the meeting. So did Thoronal and Solon, his pair of senior Riders, who were there for weight of numbers, not to talk. So too did the old Vizier, who looked as if he were nodding off. His sleepiness saddened Huldarion.

In truth, of the seven Kelvhan men around the table, Jeveran and Rhadlun were the only two whom he would wish to have fighting alongside him. But he needed the approval and consent of all the High Lords. Nerogun and Shargun were currently frowning over troop numbers: while the High Lord Brolgun, Keeper of the Swords, was more interested in the pastries. And young Prince Faldron was drinking too much wine. As Huldarion watched he drained his glass and motioned to the servant behind him to refill it.

“I too have seen the Riders fight,” announced the Prince, watching the wine rise in his glass. “They fought very well, in my opinion.”

Huldarion noted wryly how everybody ducked their head to listen deferentially even when Faldron was uttering such an inanity. For when had the boy ever fought in earnest? In the only battle he’d participated in, Faldron had been protected by his own men – and so inadequately that Huldarion had had to step in and rescue him.

He made allowances. Faldron was only twenty. But here at home in Kelvha he was not the eager, interested young man he’d been on the battlefield up north. The Prince seemed listless; castle life must bore him. Hence the wine. Here he was a sluggish, incurious youth, but not a rebellious one; for he agreed with everything Nerogun had to say.

Which was a lot. Huldarion composed himself to listen and to nod. Nerogun was laying out numbers of cavalry and infantry that might be allocated to his aid, although still under Kelvhan command. Huldarion did not argue with the quantity – time enough for that once the principle was settled – but he did take advantage of a gap to say,

“Whom would you ideally like to see designated as their General? Arch-Lord Shargun, I hope it might be yourself, although such a matter as Caervonn can be of little moment to you, and other demands on your attention may take precedence. In that case I would hope you might see fit to nominate Commander Jeveran in your stead.”

He was treading a fine line here. While he did not want Shargun, he did want Jeveran, but had a feeling that for reasons he did not understand, Nerogun did not. Possibly it was because of the commander’s relatively low birth. Rank complicated everything in Kelvha Castle.

Shargun shrugged as if undecided. “To march victorious into Caervonn, would, of course, be a glorious event.”

“But the march to get there may be arduous, and the fighting wearisome,” he pointed out.

“I expect Jeveran would be more interested in the fighting than in the fortunes of Caervonn,” said Shargun with a faint sneer.

“I take an interest,” said Jeveran, in measured tones, “not personal of course, but for the sake of Caervonn’s long heritage and history, which indeed are far more ancient than our own.” At that Nerogun drew a faint but sharp inward breath.

Huldarion thought that he was not the only one treading a fine line. But presumably it was a line that Jeveran had been treading for most of his career; and that career had been a lengthy one. He had the deeply lined weather-beaten face and the no-nonsense, active manner of a busy farmer. Nerogun would see no merit in the comparison, but Huldarion did.

“Moreover,” Jeveran went on, “it is paramount that the stonemen should be so finally defeated that they can pose no further threat to Kelvha. I am prepared to lead the troops on to the battlefield, if your Highness and the Arch-Lords so command.” He bowed his head to Prince Faldron, who looked at Nerogun, waiting for his guidance. No, definitely nothing like the independent Faldron of the battlefield.

Nerogun played with his pen, frowning at the papers laid before him. “Twenty thousand troops is a great many,” he said. “I would have thought the matter could be settled easily with less.”

“Possibly,” said Huldarion, “but we do not know the numbers of stonemen we may meet. I plan to order scouts to be sent out as soon this meeting is over.”

“We will co-ordinate,” said Jeveran. “I like to send my own scouts.”

“Naturally,” said Huldarion.

“If the Arch-Lord is pleased to offer me command, I would request as deputies Lord Rhadlun here, and General Istard of West Vale.”

Huldarion was pleased by this suggestion, although he took care not to show it, because Nerogun was still frowning.

“I would be honoured if they were to accept,” he said without emotion.

“You don’t even know where to send your scouts,” said Nerogun, to nobody in particular.

“I have some ideas. May I, your Highness?” When the Prince nodded, Huldarion took up and unrolled the documents that he had brought with him.

“From your Scriptorium,” he said. “By the grace of the High Lord Keeper of the Archives and his assistant.”

“That little stammering mouse,” said Nerogun with disdain.

“More of a mole, I think,” said Jeveran, “one that emerges from its home blinking in the sunlight. A clever little man.”

“Indeed,” said Huldarion as if uninterested. After the information that Tamu had passed on about the spyholes scattered round the castle – one of them in the very Chart Room in which they now sat – he did not wish to draw any unnecessary attention to the man. “He transcribed these chronicles from the time of your august King Garean, some years ago.”

“Three centuries ago,” said Shargun dismissively.

“Quite so. There are within them references to what may have been an early form of darkburn: of great interest, but not directly relevant to this meeting. What is more relevant is a reference to the early stonemen – or rather, to the tribe that later on became the stonemen, and who built their temple at the Place of Terns far south-east of here.”

Nerogun sighed. It was almost a yawn.

“And?”

“I have heard a stoneman speak about the Place of Terns. It was where he had grown up, beside the sea. I did not think of it as a formal place name until I saw this chronicle, and read about a battle your King Garean fought there.”

“Map,” said Shargun to the servant standing behind him, who merely looked bewildered. Jeveran got up from his chair and went to search the wide shelves set along one wall and laden with layered maps, before plucking a large and somewhat tattered parchment from one of them. He spread it out upon the table.

“This is from the same period,” he said. Although attractively adorned, with details picked out in gold, as maps went it was rudimentary. However, Caervonn was clearly marked by a little carefully drawn picture of a fort, surprisingly accurate, which made Huldarion feel momentarily homesick. To the north of it the Darkburn Forest was an amorphous cloud with a threadlike river winding through it seemingly at random. But on the coast the bays and headlands were easily identifiable.

And the Place of Terns was named, in antique Kelvhan, some ninety miles or so distant from Caervonn. Huldarion pointed to it.

“There. Beyond this area called the Red Roads.”

“Hah! There’s nothing there,” said Rhadlun.

“At least,” said Jeveran more ruminatively, “it has never been explored. The Red Roads were, in my youth, rumoured to be rivers of blood. I went there once; the land is criss-crossed with waterways, although of course no blood flows in them. But they are difficult to cross and there is nothing visible beyond to make it worth the effort – only more wetlands, and then at last the sea.”

“Nevertheless,” said Huldarion, “that is where the stonemen of the time set up a monastery and temple. I believe it may still be one of their centres. Certainly it was named as their most important base back in King Garean’s day.”

“A temple to what?” asked Rhadlun dismissively. “I can’t imagine stonemen worshipping anything.”

Huldarion thought of a man with a golden face. But he said nothing of that. “Apparently they worshipped stones,” he said, “but not as they do now. Back then, they don’t seem to have adopted the practice of drilling stones into their skulls, although they may have worn them round the brow, set into headbands. The chronicles refer to them worshipping the spirits of the stones.”

“Standing stones, perhaps,” said Thoronal, speaking for the first time.

“No doubt those type of old stone circles,” Nerogun said with a smile, “where primitive people dance round naked and have their orgies.”

Huldarion was surprised but did not show it. “Possibly. Who knows?” He let his glance alight briefly on Meya. He could tell that she was not amused at Nerogun’s comment. Perhaps Nerogun had said it as an indirect reference to the other night... The following morning, Meya had evidently had to tell the Post-Regent of the successful consummation. And the Post-Regent had come along to ask Huldarion to confirm it; to which Huldarion had merely said, “I am happy to do so.”

It had been politic for him to say it with some feeling. But the feeling had been real, not feigned. He had been very glad to have won such a response from Meya. She had a voluptuous body and his delight in it had caught him unawares. Now, sitting at the table opposite her, he thought about her body, its soft weight, the sense of luxury, of plenty. He would like to see as well as hold her. Though to hold her had been a privilege…

Nerogun coughed, and he became aware that he had been gazing at the object of his thoughts. Nerogun thought he was a lascivious fool.

Well, let him think it. I am no fool, mused Huldarion, but lascivious, definitely, at the moment. He dragged his eyes away as if reluctantly.

“Whatever the Place of Terns was for, I believe it should be visited, if possible,” he said. “There may be a path across the waterways. From there, if nothing else, we may well find roads leading to other Stoneman centres. But I expect to find more than merely roads.”

“What we need are one or two prisoners to give us information,” said the old Vizier. Not quite asleep, then, after all.

He noticed Rhadlun throw a quick glance at Nerogun.

“You had two, I believe,” said Nerogun to Huldarion.

“Yes. We had a pair of captive stonemen, for a short while,” he replied. “They proved almost useless as far as information went – apart from that one reference to the Place of Terns.” They had told him more than that: but the rest was not relevant just now, and he had no intention of mentioning the stonemen’s supposed youthfulness. One had been twelve, one fifteen – if they could be believed. But any revelation about their age would only muddy waters which Huldarion needed to be clear until his ship had sailed; or rather, until his troops, and Kelvha’s, had marched out. “They could not be kept alive for long,” he added.

“Ah, of course: the drugs. This athelid I’ve heard about. Did you discover what it was?” asked Nerogun, his head tilted in curiosity.

“A white paste: that was all that the prisoners could tell me. What its constituents were, I don’t know. Ethlon, probably, but the rest is still uncertain.” A sample of that paste, which three female Riders had found at the Outland Forts, was still in Shebel’s keeping, well concealed. Perhaps Meya would know of a discreet herb-master who could test it. He would suggest that to Shebel.

“Very well.” Nerogun did not pursue the subject. He began to put his papers together. “Twenty thousand men, then, if your scouts indicate that number will be needed. I hope it may be less. But time will tell. And Jeveran to be their commander on the field. Myself and Shargun will, of course, take overall command.”

“Of course,” said Huldarion.

“And as for the young prince here, no doubt he’ll want to join in, won’t you, eh?” Nerogun looked at Faldron with a smile and an eyebrow raised in friendly enquiry.

Again Huldarion was surprised. This campaign could well be even tougher than the first had been, up north. Why pitch the boy into such an unpredictable battle?

“Oh, yes,” said Faldron. “Definitely.”

So maybe Nerogun was merely anticipating an inevitable demand. Yet the Prince had shown no sign of pressing any claim to fight. As Faldron beckoned to the servant for more wine Meya made a small movement as if she would have prevented him.

“Enough for now, I think,” said Nerogun almost mildly.

“Yes, quite enough,” said Faldron. The servant withdrew the flagon but did not put it down. Instead he kept in in his hands. Huldarion realised that the Prince drank from a different flagon to the rest; he reproved himself for not noticing this before.

Now was not the moment to enquire about it. As Faldron stood up to leave, Huldarion stood too and bowed to him, as did the others, Nerogun last of all, with leisurely slowness.

Ah, thought Huldarion, he’s making the most of his year as Post-Regent. Next year when Faldron becomes High King, Nerogun will be left with nothing but the title. Will he really give up power so easily after so many years? But Nerogun had probably accumulated riches enough for a very comfortable retirement, he reflected, and would doubtless be retained as an advisor.

The Arch-Lords and the young Prince left, the old Vizier trailing after them. There remained only himself with his two silent Riders: the two Kelvhan commanders, and Meya.

“Right. Scouts,” said Jeveran, rubbing his hands together. “Let us look over the maps now. More recent ones. Are you agreeable, Rhadlun?”

They pored over the maps discussing the most profitable places to reconnoitre. Jeveran was as fully engaged as Huldarion had hoped. He knew the spy-hole in the chart room was just over Rhadlun’s shoulder; and guessed that while it would not have been manned before, while Nerogun was present, it probably would be now. No matter. These were no secrets that they were discussing. Nerogun was welcome to them.

He was also very aware of Meya listening in. Wanting to convey his satisfaction, he looked up at her, smiling, to say,

“Your father would have enjoyed this, I expect.”

“He would,” she answered coolly. “My late husband also.”

Well. Not much warmth there. None the less he found himself hoping that her next visit to his bedroom would not be too far off; and had to pull his attention back to the charts.

At last the plans for numbers and destinations of scouting parties were agreed. They all rose and with the minimum of courtesies left the chart room to go in various directions. Meya walked away without a word. Perhaps she did not wish to appear too enthusiastic about her coming marriage; all the same, he had expected some acknowledgement.

Never mind that now, Huldarion told himself. He had begun to cross the courtyard with Thoronal and Solon when Tiburé came walking swiftly towards them. She curtseyed low to Huldarion – that was quite a feat, he thought, to get Tiburé to curtsey – and then greeted Solon, her husband, in a much more affectionate manner than usual.

“What do you want?” said Solon.

“To talk to Huldarion. But the only reason they would let me into the castle was because I said I needed to talk to you, dear husband.”

“Well, here we are. Spit it out,” said Solon.

Then Huldarion remembered. “The darkburn. You said you’d found it?”

“Yes; that and the Temple of Borgun,” answered Tiburé. “There’s something that you need to know. But I haven’t been able to reach you when you’re free until today. You’ve been busy.”

“I have indeed.” He glanced around the courtyard. Any listeners hidden in the nearby buildings would need very long ears indeed to make out any words spoken here.

“Tell us your news, now, quietly,” he said.

She spoke first about the discovery of the darkburn hidden in the bath-house, and then about Yaret’s exploration of the temple of Borgun. In a grim, low voice, she related what Borgun’s priest had said – that a man looking exactly like Huldarion had visited the temple.

He was alarmed. “We are watched. Laugh,” he said. So they all did, as if he had just made a joke. “What did Yaret think? Did she believe the priest?”

“Does it matter what she thought?” asked Thoronal.

“Yaret has good judgement,” said Huldarion.

“She’s a village archer. How would she know anything about what goes on in a place like Kelvha?” objected Thoronal. Huldarion had to raise his hand for silence to allow Tiburé to continue.

She said, “Yaret didn’t know whether to believe the priest or not. She said he did not seem like a man that would be easily deluded – unless you regard all priests as such. He was convinced that you had visited the temple the first evening we arrived. He had seen you previously, when the Vonn entered the city, and recognised you.”

“Did Yaret tell him that it was impossible?”

“No. She thought the priest might be misled by his own yearnings. Then the priest told her that you bore the marks of Borgun, and that he hoped that you might rise up in Borgun’s name and fight for the people. Or words to that effect.”

“Dear stars.” Huldarion was appalled.

“Quite.”

“We have been huddled here too long. Laugh, and then disperse a little,” he commanded. They all dutifully laughed again before Thoronal and Solon wandered apart from him. Only Tiburé remained at his side.

“One last thing,” she murmured. “Just in case, Yaret gave the priest a code word. She told him, if you see this man again, and he claims to be Huldarion, ask him for the Vonn’s secret word and then you will know if he speaks the truth.”

“We have no such word.”

“Of course not. She made it up.”

“What word did she give him?”

“The sea.”

Huldarion caught his breath. The sea. He saw and heard it in his memory: the long dim coastline, a few miles from Caervonn. The sighing grey. Once so beloved. Still so beloved.

And somewhere far along that coast, the Place of Terns. He heard their cries against the ragged waves, that long chirring fall.

“A good word,” he said. An idea was forming swiftly in his mind. He started to stride back across the courtyard, retracing his steps. “Tiburé, what I will say to you in a moment in this room is not for you to act on, but is for other ears that may be listening – spying on us. So do not tell the priest of what I say. But first, I need an excuse to lead you in…”

He beckoned the other two over and they all re-entered the Chart Room together. He looked around: not for the spy-hole, because he did not want to give away his knowledge, but for the maps.

“Now, where is it? I believe Jeveran put it back upon this shelf. Ah yes. Look here, Tiburé, this is what I wanted to show you. See how beautifully the map-makers drew our city of Caervonn, in miniature, three centuries ago.” He showed her the antique map and Tiburé expressed suitable amazement.

“Now, that other matter,” said Huldarion distinctly, “while we are private here. Tiburé, I do not approve of any of us entering the temple of Borgun. It is a place of superstition, not for us to visit or give credence to. But since your servant did enter – and learnt from the priest that someone claiming to be me had been there – I have decided that I need to take precautions against any such imposture.”

“Indeed, sir,” said Tiburé gravely.

“Therefore some messenger must go back to the temple and say this to the priest: that if any man enters claiming to be me, the priest must ask him for a code word.” He paused. “The word is Ruby. Will you see to that?”

“I will, sir.” She curtseyed.

“Good,” said Huldarion. “And now it must be nearly time for dinner. Come.” He found himself disliking the peremptory way in which he spoke.

What is happening to me, he thought, that I find myself adopting Kelvhan manners? It may be necessary in some circumstances. But it must not become a habit.

So once they were half way across the courtyard for a second time, he spoke more courteously to Tiburé.

“One last thing, if you don’t mind. If the priest is right about the imposture, there is a man who might know about such things. Or, rather, there is a wizard. I haven’t seen him since we arrived here, and I don’t know where he’s lurking in this city; but I would be grateful if you can find Leor.”