Chapter 27

   

They gathered in the mountain hall, a vast cave over which the fortress itself had been built and which save it its name. This was the heart of the stronghold and right now it was in a festive mood. Flaming torches lit the path down to the main arena where many dozens of trestle-style tables had been set up. There was no central fireplace; instead several scores of clay ovens with their cunning flues burned small fires around the edge of the hall, keeping its guests warmed. Countless numbers of the exquisite lantern flower, peculiar to the north, had been cut and strung across the hall, high above the heads of the gathered. In the bell of each flower a tiny candle had been lit and the flames made the lanterns’ pink cups glow magnificently, scenting the air as they warmed and released their fragrant vapors. It was a truly beautiful and majestic setting. The more self-important southern realms had much to learn from these “barbarians.” Wyl mused yet again.

The center of the hall had been left vacant and right now it was filled with dancers performing a traditional wheel. It was energetic and lighthearted; the music was loud, bouncing strongly off the walls and intensifying the atmosphere of the party. Dressed in brightly dyed garments, the dancers moved through their complex, fast-footed steps in time with the rhythmic beat of the great Mountain drum attended by two burly tribe members.

Cailech, seated on a dais, was resplendent in a charcoal-colored outfit that set off his height and contrasted with his light golden looks. He wore a linen shirt beneath his short jacket and a thin silver circlet replaced the leather thong around his head. In the elegant simplicity of his presentation he looked every inch a King. The gentleness of the lantern light softened his angular features and permitted Wyl to glimpse an echo of the young idealist Romen had known previously. The King looked proud this evening and oozed the strength and charisma that made him such a persuasive leader. He was in high spirits, too, singing along with the music and loudly enjoying the festivity and happiness of his people.

Wyl was seated at his right—as one might expect an honored guest—yet he knew himself to be little more than the Mountain King’s prisoner. He noticed Elspyth, pale and quiet, further down on another table. She acknowledged his arrival with a nod but said nothing and hardly smiled. She was seated near Myrt. Lothryn was nowhere to be seen.

The music died to wild applause. led by Cailech. A troupe of children filed in. They were to sing for their lord King and needed help arranging themselves so he could see all of their sweet faces. Wyl took the moment to inquire after Lothryn.

“Ah. Sad it is. His wife died today birthing their child,” Cailech whispered back, while still smiling for the children. Then he looked at .Wyl. “It is a son, though—strong and proud—another warrior to wage war on the south.”. He grinned just for Wyl and there was something extra in that smile, something secretive, but Wyl had no intention of pursuing it. “I expect Lothryn will join us soon enough,” the King added.

“How can you sound so callous over his loss?”

“No loss,” Cailech replied abruptly. “They were a bad match, those two. Never suited and destined to be unhappy. I told him that before he took vows with her but she was with child and he was determined to be father to it. The child died days after birth, as did the next one. She never recovered her smile—going through life as though each day was a trial for her. Loth hoped this third child might bring some joy into her life—as did I for she came from excellent stock. Her father and his father before him were tribal leaders.”

“So her death is a blessing, you mean?”

“I didn’t say that, Koreldy. He will feel it no doubt, for he loved her in his own way. Lothryn will recover. I must help him find a mother for the boy.”

Wyl shook his head. “And you. Cailech. No woman has ever touched your heart?”

Something passed across the King’s face at this question. For a moment the man’s eyes seemed to darken…and then it disappeared.

“I don’t want Loth to miss tonight’s special event” was the King’s only response.

Wyl left it. It made no difference to him whether Cailech’s heart ever warmed enough to love someone. “What special event?”

“Hush, the children are ready.” Cailech said, turning back to the arena.

The youngsters sang sweetly—it was a moving ballad of the plight of the Mountain People from the early ages when tribe waged war on tribe. Wyl did not pay much attention although he noticed that Cailech was rapt with the words as well as the performance; the King clearly enjoyed the young members of his people. Instead Wyl turned his focus to what lay ahead for him and how he might argue his release. He had to win Cailech’s trust again and the only way to do that was to somehow assure him that they shared the same dislike for Morgravians. The children had finished their song and were taking their applause. Cailech was on his feet and clapping loudly.

There was a feverish quality to the crowd’s festivity, Wyl sensed. It was Romen’s sharpness that picked this up. noted the glazed look in people’s eyes, the laughter so quick and too loud. He dismissed the thought as the King sat down again and looked towards him.

Wine was poured and a course of steamed fish was served as a group of musicians struck up.

“I hope you’re up to a long night of feasting…two in fact,” Cailech said. “It continues on tomorrow. These fish were caught in my rivers today. Enjoy.”

Wyl figured it was best to go along with the King’s happy mood. After the fish, a delicious press of combined meats was served, their simple flavors enlivened with herbs and spices.

Now he decided it was time to make his first attempt. “Are you satisfied that I am no spy for Celimus?”

Cailech sipped his wine, again unperturbed by a sudden question. “Do you have more to tell that might convince me?”

“There is no love lost between Celimus and myself…this I promise you on my own life.”

“And yet you worked for him, joined his ugly schemes—”

“Yes! For gold, Cailech—nothing more complicated than money.” Wyl had to lower his voice for fear of attracting attention.

Cailech said nothing, although his gaze made Wyl feel uncomfortable as the big man weighed him up.

“What do you want?” Wyl tried a new approach. “How can I prove that I have no loyalties to anyone but myself?”

“Oh, I believe you have grievances against Celimus. We all do,” he said. “But what about you and the Queen of Briavel?”

“If I can destabilize Celimus by helping her, I will.”

“Why bother at all. Romen, if money is what drives you these days?”

“Revenge.” he replied.

“Why do you care?”

Wyl sighed. “Celimus goes beyond craving power. I understand that. It is in a man’s nature to want more land, more wealth, more power.” Cailech nodded but said nothing. Wyl continued. “If someone doesn’t help Valentyna, Celimus will invade Briavel. The Legion is strong and she has no experience with battle. I may be a Grenadyne but after his betrayals I would hate for him to get another yard of land, another piece of gold to add to his coffers.”

The King considered this before speaking. “It would be folly for Celimus to underestimate this new Queen, however inexperienced she may be. Sometimes all it takes is passion.”

Wyl agreed with the sage comment, particularly recalling how stubborn and determined Valentyna had appeared to him. If any young Queen could lead an army, he reckoned, she was most likely the one to do it. “Still,” he countered, keen to take the conversation away from Valentyna, “if my service can assist her against Celimus, I give it gladly, although my prices are higher these days.” He added the last deliberately to keep up the pretense that deep down he cared little for either realm.

“So that’s where you’re headed, Koreldy? Back to Briavel? To offer your expensive blade at high cost to the young Queen?”

“Yes,” Wyl answered, hoping this was the response the Mountain King wanted. He noticed that someone had just signaled a message to Cailech. Romen’s ever-alert eyes missed little.

“I see. Then all that stored hate for Morgravia will ensure you enjoy my surprise.” The King gave Wyl no further opportunity for discussion. Instead he rose and banged his mug loudly on the table. “Good people,” he hushed the crowd. “My people,” he emphasized in a more patrician manner. “I have a surprise for you tonight. To honor our dead… those who had their innocent lives taken by the southerners last moon, I have asked our kitchen to prepare a special dish in commemoration.”

He paused dramatically. Wyl felt a twinge of fear knife through him, unsure why. Perhaps because he knew this King to be unpredictable.

Cailech continued, his smile not touching his eyes this time. “Enjoy something very new and different on our menu tonight.” He banged his mug again and encouraged his people to follow suit.

They did. The Mountain drum was sounded mournfully and the crowd fell in time with its beat. Wyl had no idea what was happening and nothing from Romen’s memory yielded what this ceremony might signify. He imagined it was to present the King with a fabulous dish—someone had mentioned swan was on the menu, which in Morgravia was served only for high-ranking dignitaries and royalty. Could it be that?

The haunting Mountain horn sounded over the drums.

“Watch over there.” Cailech whispered, a savage bleakness in his voice. “They come.”

Wyl followed the King’s avid stare and encountered a sight so powerfully shocking he felt immediately unsteady. He immediately looked toward Elspyth, whose hands covered her mouth, eyes wide with disbelief.

Wheeled in on special presentation tables were people, still alive, but prepared as though they were dead animals ready for the coals. There were five of them, Wyl counted slowly; four men and a woman—all naked. The woman was spread-eagled on the table dressed with seasonings, hands nailed in place and feet bound. All but one of the men were trussed like pigs, hands and feet together and hung from poles carried in by the burliest of barbarians. The final man, his head hung low, was chained around his neck, hands and feet. He shuffled behind, a pathetic figure, a sorrowful finale to this disturbing array.

Wyl’s chest felt suddenly heavy; he could not drag in sufficient air. “Cailech?” he croaked but the King ignored him.

“Behold!” Cailech yelled to his people. “Morgravian meat for your bellies!”

The people, whom Wyl had admired as creators of such sophisticated beauty, now began to chant and hurl abuse at the victims. Wyl took full measure of the atmosphere in the hall. If he had not known better he would have assumed that the people had been drugged. His attention was caught by a man in dark robes.

Small eyes, black almost, they seemed to Wyl, watched the proceedings with a hunger. His hands were clasped before him and a wild beard hid the shape of his mouth, while equally untamed hair curled wildly about the face. The man’s eyes darted between ‘the prisoners and Cailech. Wyl saw him nod and then heard the King give the order.

“Oil them up!” Cailech roared. “Fan the flames!” He swallowed the contents of his mug, banging it down and wiping his mouth, his eyes now burning with a passion Wyl could not read. “Take them and wait for my signal.” the King commanded. “All but the chained one. He remains. Tie him at the back of my hall so I can gloat before him.”

Wyl searched for the strange, dark man but he was already gone. However, Wyl was sure he had been orchestrating events here tonight. Who is he? Why would Cailech do his bidding?

The tables were wheeled out and the single man, whose long, greasy hair streaked with gray covered his grimy face, was pulled roughly by his chains to the wall, where he was restrained as one might a dog.

“Music!” Cailech called and a happy jig started up. He turned and then conversationally said to Wyl. “Swan is next. It’s our specialty, you may recall, Romen.” The King smiled grimly, seating himself again.

People began to talk loudly and laugh with one another as though what had just occurred was a perfectly normal interlude to any Mountain feast. But Wyl’s original curious thought—that these folk were drugged—took on high possibility for him. Just watching them dance the jig, it struck him that their energies were too frantic, too out of kilter with one another.

Wyl, still unable to talk coherently, looked over to find Lothryn had finally joined Elspyth and Myrt. Obviously he had not missed the proceedings, for his face was a mask of undisguised contempt. Meanwhile, the shock of what she had just witnessed was etched on Elspyth’s face.

Wyl cleared his throat, his nerves still betraying him. “Cailech,” he said softly, “who are those people?”

“Morgravians. You should be rejoicing with me rather than preparing to hurl up your fish.”

Wyl had to clench his fists beneath the table to remain calm. Morgravians! The horror of it.

He had to know more, forced his voice to be steady. “Soldiers?”

Cailech nodded, chewing on bread. “The woman is their whore.”

“How did you…”

“Fergys Thirsk was always shoring up the border patrols and now Celimus takes the offensive, sending in parties of spies, perhaps with the intention of becoming raiding parties.” He scoffed. “They think they know the Mountains…they know nothing! The fools we captured were peasants, not even soldiers.”

“And will you eat them?”

“Perhaps. Who knows the whims of the barbarians who eat the flesh of their own kind.” the Mountain Kins said, loathing in his voice.

“Why are you doing this? To prove a point?”

“Precisely!” Cailech said, low and angry. “Celimus has ordered the killing of any Mountain People on sight. He is not choosy about whether they are children either. They slaughtered a dozen innocents not so long ago. At least I restrict my capture to soldiers!”

Wyl had not heard of this new law from Celimus but it rang true; nothing should really surprise him. “Cailech. most people in the southern, more populated regions of Morgravia would not even know what a Mountain Dweller looked like, or even that you personally exist,” he tried to reason.

“Well, Morgravia’s King seems to be taking us seriously enough. I have lost almost a score of lives since he took the throne, too many of them children, Romen, who accidentally crossed an invisible line. Children!” He was just short of shouting now and his people began to look up and wonder what might be making their King so anxious.

Wyl moved quickly. He could not risk Cailech’s blood boiling up. Romen’s memories told him the man became unpredictably dangerous if his temper was stirred. “Hush, my lord. You will make your people anxious. This is a celebration, is it not?”

The King gulped his wine, forced himself to remain silent as he calmed down.

Wyl filled the pause amongst the swirling noise of the festivities. “Truly, you don’t mean to eat those folk.”

The King remained silent.

“Cailech, you said yourself these people are peasants, not soldiers! You cannot punish them thus—even in war there are protocols observed. It is Celimus who is guilty; these people are innocents!” Wyl noticed there was pleading in his voice…and so did the King, who turned his intimidating gaze upon him now.

“And the people I lost were not?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“It is implied.”

“I beg forgiveness. It was not my intent. Soldiers at least deserve an honorable death. The woman doesn’t deserve to lose her life at all.”

“For a Grenadyne you seem very concerned about Morgravian lives.”

“As I grow older. I am concerned for all life.” A woman with a lovely voice began to sing a soft, haunting ballad and Wyl was relieved that it seemed to calm the listeners.

“But I thought you killed without remorse, for money?” Cailech asked, looking back at the woman.

“I don’t have to like it though.” Wyl replied, and at this the King finally smiled, genuinely amused. Wyl felt relief.

“You never fail to surprise me, Romen. It’s probably why I let you go on living.”

“I am grateful for your indulgence, my lord,” Wyl said gravely, lifting his cup to the King. “May I speak with the prisoner?” He was relieved that Cailech had not answered his question about eating the prisoners. Perhaps it was all plain theater—something to stir the blood of his people.

“Go ahead. He’s tough, that one. We’ve tried breaking him but his spirit is strong.”

“Who is he?”

Cailech shrugged. “Who cares? Someone of rank by the way he spoke up on behalf of the others… and accepted their pain.”

It was a cryptic statement. Wyl left it. “What is your plan for him?” he asked: suddenly afraid of the answer.

“Rashlyn suggests we cook him bit by bit. We’ll cut off his hands and feet first and slice off fresh bits of meat from his sorry carcass each day. And perhaps I can take a leaf from your book, Koreldy. I shall send his head—baked, of‘ course—to Celimus, so he can no longer perpetrate a lie that we eat our enemies. He will know it to be truth!”

Wyl ignored the rhetoric. “Who is Rashlyn?”

“My barshi. He advises, you could say.”

The word barshi meant nothing to Wyl. He stored it away to check with Lothryn, though, and he had a very good idea who the barshi was. “Was tonight his idea?”

Cailech ignored him. Wyl had no doubt that Cailech was a ruthless ruler but he sensed he was too intelligent to lower himself to this horrific deed without being influenced in some way. Obviously this Rashlyn fellow wielded some power with the King. He turned away from the table, bowing to Cailech as a stuffed, roasted, and artfully refeathered swan was presented at the royal table to much applause. Trying to regain some composure as he left, Wyl paused by Lothryn to offer his condolences on the loss of his wife.

The Mountain Man only nodded before moving onto the matter at hand. “I’m sorry you bore witness to this dark deed tonight.”

“You don’t agree, obviously.”

“I don’t believe the King is even speaking to me after I had my say about it.”

Wyl nodded. “Was that man with the beard and long hair Rashlyn?”

“Yes. He’s very dangerous.”

“I gather this is his doing.”

“Unfortunately.”

“Where’s Elspyth?” Wyl asked, noticing she was not present.

“I think Cailech’s surprise was too much for her.”

“His course of action is unwise,” Wyl said, knowing Lothryn to be a reasonable man.

“I don’t like it any more than you. but I have said all I can on the subject. He is determined to retaliate in this contemptuous manner. You know what Cailech is like. We have lost many lives recently and, in spite of anything I advise, he is immovable. He is also wrong, of course. This will simply provoke more killing of our own people but he is proud and he is hurting over the children who died. They killed them for sport, you know…Mountain Dwellers are less than animals in Morgravian eyes.”

Wyl sighed. It seemed impossible that men under his command would perpetrate such horror. Except they aren’t under my command, he reminded himself. He looked at the pathetic, chained figure squatting naked against the wall. Something was nagging at his mind; something he knew he should pay attention to but his thoughts were too fractured.

“Would you keep an eye on Elspyth? She doesn’t deserve to be a part of all this.”

Lothryn nodded, suddenly silent again and Wyl thanked him, walking now toward the Morgravian, whose head was hung between his knees. He was a tall man, Wyl could tell. Slim and hard-muscled, clearly one who had trained hard. As he drew close, again Wyl felt the nudge against his mind. What is it? What are my thoughts trying to provoke?

Now he could smell the grimy, unwashed soldier. It reminded him of how he had found Ylena and anger surged. He wondered how much punishment this man had taken upon himself to protect the others. Wyl made to bend down to talk with the man but a guard prevented him.

“It’s all right. Bore,” a voice came from behind. It was Lothryn.

“Cailech’s leaving nothing to chance, then,” Wyl said, a hard edge to his voice at being trailed by Lothryn.

“He never does. Romen. You should know that.”

Wyl nodded, his fury mingling with despair and a small surge of wisdom advising him against responding to that comment. He ignored the guard and squatted. The overpowering smell of the soldier almost made him stand up again but he reached out his hand and lifted the head to look into the ruined face of a man he knew all too well.

“Gueryn!”

“Is that you, my boy? Is it you, Wyl?” the man croaked, clearly in some sort of stupor. He was blind; his eyelids had been sewn together.

“You know him?” Lothryn asked, surprise evident.

Wyl could not respond to either Lothryn or, more importantly, Gueryn. He could not bear to see the state of his mentor—this brave man of Argorn, so loyal to Morgravia, so dedicated to the Thirsk family.

“Wyl?” the battered man asked again and then hung his head into its same cowed position.

“He’s always asking for someone called Wyl. Must be his son,” the guard commented. “Wish we’d got him too.”

His malicious laugh was poorly timed. Wyl moved fast. In a blink the guard’s throat was being crushed by the large hands of Romen Koreldy. The man’s flailing limbs managed to send one server’s tray of roast swan high into the air before it came crashing down onto the stone floor, causing quite a commotion. Wyl was grabbed from behind and a more powerful strength than he owned fortunately prevented him from doing any further damage.

“Are you out of your mind?” Lothryn exclaimed, pinioning Wyl’s arms.

It was too late. Cailech had leapt from the dais and arrived quickly at the scene. “By Haldor’s hairy ass! What happens here?” he roared.

The cavernous hall had become silent, save the sound of the serving woman moaning over her tray of swan meat.

“Koreldy!” Cailech yelled, forcing Wyl to look at him. “You would assault one of my men in my own fortress?”

“I took offense at something he said, my lord,” Wyl replied, his mind racing, knowing he would need a watertight reason for this latest act.

“He knows the prisoner.” Bore croaked.

Cailech’s jaw was working furiously. “Out!” he said and Wyl was manhandled by Lothryn, away from earshot of curious bystanders.

They left Bore coughing and massaging his bruised throat.

“Who is he?” the King demanded.

“His name is Gueryn le Gant,” Wyl said, glad to be away from his old friend as he began to wield Romen’s inimitable skill at spinning a web of lies. “He is originally from Grenadyn. I grew up with him.” Gueryn was only about ten years older than Koreldy, Wyl realized. He would have to be careful.

“Then what in Haldor’s name was he doing wearing Morgravian colors?”

Wyl’s gaze flicked to Lothryn, who stood expressionless behind his King. There would be no help from that quarter. He played for time instead. “I can’t answer that until I’ve spoken with him. I haven’t seen him in years,” he lied.

“Fetch him,” Cailech said over his shoulder and Lothryn obeyed.

Wyl realized that Romen’s normally easy smile failed him now. And Cailech knew it too as he took a threatening step forward.

“If I find out you’re lying, Koreldy, it will be for the last time. You will suffer the same fate as your naked friend here.”

Gueryn was dragged shivering before the King. Perhaps he anticipated more beatings. Wyl supposed, as the brighter torchlight showed up livid bruising over most of his body. Lothryn’s expression showed that he did not agree with his sovereign’s brutal taste for revenge. Wyl assumed the sewn eyelids was Rashlyn at work again.

Wyl turned at a disturbance behind them: Elspyth was trying to break through the guards. When Cailech inquired with a single glance, Lothryn whispered something brief.

“Allow it. She can help.”

Elspyth was permitted to join them. She averted her gaze from the prisoner and glared at Cailech instead.

“Ah, Elspyth. I did warn you that tonight’s festivities might not be to your liking. Now you can assist us, please. Would you address this wretch here and ask him a question on my behalf? It occurs to me he may respond to a woman’s voice—we should have thought of that before, Loth, eh?” He grinned but his deputy did not respond.

Elspyth turned and caught a strange expression on Romen’s face. There was pain there and she was not sure what he wanted from her in this moment.

“Talk to him softly,” Cailech guided. “Ask him who Romen Koreldy is,” he added looking slyly toward Wyl. There was both menace and warning in his glance.

She looked toward the trembling man. It was not fear that made him shake. As far as she could tell he was sick, and little wonder, looking at his battered body. Elspyth’s heart ached for this brave soldier who had obviously kept his secrets to himself. If he stood to his full height he would be a tall man and no doubt proud. Her tears welled to see his eyelids so cruelly sewn shut. They had bled and the blood had crusted. Sores had erupted around the punctured skin. Death might be a kinder blow. She pushed that thought aside, realizing the three men were watching her.

“What is his name?” she asked, turning to Wyl.

Cailech did not permit Romen to answer, which she considered strange. They had seemed friendly enough an hour before—now suddenly there was a cloying tension between the pair.

“His name is Gueryn,” Lothryn answered, directing a ghost of a smile toward her, from which she took courage.

“Gueryn, can you hear me?” she asked.

Immediately Gueryn turned sightless eyes toward Elspyth. He nodded.

Cailech’s expression turned into one of grim pleasure. At last, the man would reveal something…all it needed was a woman’s touch.

“My name is Elspyth, Gueryn. I am Morgravian from the town of Yentro.”

A single tear oozed between the stitches of his lids as he recognized the lilt of her accent and Wyl’s heart broke. It was just too much for him to bear. “As one, Gueryn!” He shouted.

He should have anticipated it but he was so intent on reaching Gueryn’s blurry mind that Cailech’s fist connected unimpeded with Romen’s fragile ribs, which fractured again under such direct pressure. Wyl doubled and then fell to his knees, pain engulfing him in a haze of sharp, fragmented lights. He slumped in a corner, breathing with difficulty, desperately hoping nothing was punctured. He did notice that Gueryn stood just a little straighten a fraction taller; his mouth had found that firm line he remembered seeing as a child when Gueryn was displeased with him. Screaming out the family motto had achieved something far more important than a smashed rib.

It had happened so fast. Elspyth had not even the chance to scream.

“Make a sound, young woman, and I will do the same to you.” Cailech whispered.

“It’s all you’re good for then, my lord.” Elspyth rounded on him. “Hurting women. Torturing people. You had me fooled for a while but I see you are a barbarian in the truest sense of the word. You have no compassion, no empathy for your fellow man. Kill me if you must. I will not do your dirty work. I am Morgravian and proud of it. I will not bow to the Mountain race. I would sooner die than forsake my fellow countryman. Trust me when I say that I distrust my King but I love my people. I wish you and your tribe no harm but I will not allow you to torment me or my people any further. I will not join you in persecuting this man or humbling the mercenary. You can find out for yourself in your own barbaric way what you want to know.”

Elspyth’s a long speech took everyone by surprise, which was probably why she was allowed to have her full say. Her eyes blazed with passion and fury; her chest rose high with her heavy breathing. If Wyl had had the strength he would have cheered. He felt sure the King would strike her too after such high insult.

Instead Cailech sneered. “Take all three to the dungeon. Loth. They can share the same fate over the roasting coals. We shall have to do it tomorrow. Frankly. I’ve lost my appetite for tonight.”