The Barrow (62 page)

With every passing mile out of the Hinterlands, the landscape of the Barrens had grown bleaker. The Mizer Road wound west-northwest and upward through what had once been rolling lush hills, and was now just mile after mile of long abandoned farms and castles, either dried out or overgrown with hardy desert brush. The landscape was not
entirely
barren—on occasion they could see small herds of roan antelopes, wild goats, and musk deer, and they tracked the spoor and prints of foxes and what Stjepan suspected were Daradjan wild dogs, come down from the Highlands. A variety of small birds passed by them, or observed them from crumbling stone perches, and overhead they often saw Éduins harrier hawks scouting or griffon vultures circling.

Nor was it in truth entirely abandoned. They were moving through a ghost landscape, the empty earldoms that had belonged to the Orenges and the Lews and the Jaines, once-great Danian families now reduced to being landless knights serving the landed lords of the Volbrae that had taken them in after Ravera's Mistake. But every now and then they'd spot a hardscrabble herder or a hunter in the distance, almost certainly an outlaw or a madman who had found freedom and some semblance of peace out in the bleak countryside. Their camp on the night of the 27th of Emperium was in a place Stjepan named Ushannon, a deserted village with the shell of a keep that had once belonged to a lord sworn to the Orenges.

“Is this what it's like in Lost Uthedmael?” Erim asked Stjepan that night.

He shook his head. “It's worse in Lost Uthedmael,” he said. “Nothing grows there. Nothing at all. The land is ash. Here there's still green life, even up in the Bale Mole. But in the Wastes the only things left alive are filled with poison.”

“Do you think anyone will ever come back here?” she wondered.

“Land's still too barren to be worth the effort for anyone but the desperate,” Stjepan said with a shrug. “Not enough return on the investment. But maybe someday. The Orenges send a group through every spring to test the ground, and have for centuries, waiting for the day they think it ripe enough to reclaim their ancestral keeps. But at this point the ritual is observed more for habit's sake than anything else, I expect. The only folks out here are madmen, hermits, and outlaws.” He laughed. “Our kind of people.”

The morning of the 28th of Emperium found them beginning the ascent into the foothills of the Bale Mole and the lands of the Watchtower Kings, following the Mizer Road on its last legs to the Watchtower of Mizer. After half a day of journeying, they spotted the Great Wall of Fortias to their west and then the Watchtower of Mizer to their north, and they were breathtaking sights; a thirty foot high wall, crenulated on both sides, with a small tower post about every mile or so that stretched along the tops of the western hill line, climbing up toward the massive keep of the Watchtower in the high distance, silhouetted against the high range of the Bale Mole and the blue sky. The post towers could only be entered from the wall walk, and served as temporary quarters and strong points for the patrols that marched the desolate demarcation line between the Middle Kingdoms and the Wastes of Lost Uthedmael. Every fifteen miles or so along toward the south and the city of Warwark would stand a great Watchtower, though from their vantage point on the Mizer Road they could not easily see the closest to their south, which would have been Derc Cynan, only Mizer to their north.

By late afternoon they were on their approach to that tower, a massive round citadel that anchored the north end of the Wall on a great rock outcropping with commanding views west over the Wastes and north into the Bale Mole. The hills of the Bale Mole ended in a great cliff, the
Greierkrag
or White Palisades, which ran from the rock base of Mizer toward the east, overlooking the Dunnbrae. It was effectively impassable for almost twenty miles until the palisades crumbled into hills above the Uthed Wold, and it served as a natural barrier for armies as effective as the Wall itself.

The road led up to a squat gatehouse at the base of the tower complex, and Stjepan and Erim rode up to the gates under the watchful eyes of dozens of well-armed men-at-arms. Mizer had seen more than its share of battles over the years, perhaps even more than any other tower in the Wall, and even though they were approaching from the safe side, a grim aura hung over the tower as they approached. The guards' armor tended to be in an older style than would be considered fashionable elsewhere in the Middle Kingdoms, particularly in Therapoli and the wealthy Aurian east, but was nonetheless serviceable: long brigandine coats or mail under a surcoat, plate bracers, cuisses and greaves, and simple
celata
helms. A grizzled Watchtower knight strode forward, slipping his Daradj-style
hounskull
bascinet off his head and cradling it in the crook of his arm, and revealing craggy cheeks and a bushy mustache.

“Oi, Black-Heart,” he grunted. Erim's eyes rolled into the back of her head and she sighed.
Just once I'd like to go someplace where Stjepan doesn't know anybody
, she thought.

“Sir Orace Angeloss,” Stjepan said with a grin. “I was wondering if you were still alive and kicking. It's been a couple of years, yeah?”

“That it has, that is has,” Sir Orace said, reaching up to shake hands with Stjepan. “Who else was it that last time? There was a black-skinned Amoran, some other foreigner, and Harvald Orwain, and what was his name? The other Aurian with you.”

“Austin Ulefric,” Stjepan said as he dismounted. “The Amoran was Omar Valenti, and we had a companion from the Kessite Kingdoms with us, Mareesh Amaghan hag'Ghazi.”

“Right. With names like that I should remember them. A fun lot they were when you were last here, how are they now?” asked Sir Orace, smiling fondly.

“Omar and Mareesh signed on for a merchant venture into the Empire, to trade for silk and spices in the ports of Galia, but Austin is feared lost in Uthedmael, I'm afraid,” said Stjepan.

“Ah!” said Sir Orace, his smile disappearing. “Where'd Austin cross over into the Wastes? Not here.”

“No, he was aiming somewhere south and used the gates at Warwark,” Stjepan said. “He was supposed to be back two months ago, but not a word, and the divinations have been unclear.”

“As they so often are when it comes to the Wastes. There is still some small hope, then. I shall make offerings in our shrine to the Divine King to watch over him, as the Divine King shepherded the Kings in Exile through the Sea of Sands,” Sir Orace said.

“My thanks, Sir Orace,” said Stjepan. He turned and indicated Erim up in her saddle. “This is Erim, a companion from Berrina.”

“Well met, lad,” said Sir Orace. “And I see you have a small wagon train following you this time.” He eyed the approaching coach, with Arduin and his knights in the lead.

“Aye,” said Stjepan. “We're acting as guides for an expedition that wishes to cross into the Bale Mole.”

Sir Orace laughed. “Last time you were all headed to Geniché's Throne, yeah? That Harvald of yours wanted a glimpse of the future, as I recall. I don't remember him telling me if he saw something good when you came back through. So what's this lot want? Perhaps the Three Rings of old King Taran? We've had two crews passing through in the last few weeks to look for that haul, all secretive like, but I got it out of them. Someone must be selling maps back east.”

“Not the Three Rings, but something like that,” laughed Stjepan. He pulled out a bag of coin. “Our employers would prefer as much discretion as possible.”

“Luckily for you King Lewin is down at Pallanwyn treating with his cousin King Türaine,” said Sir Orace with a grin. “Makes it easy to skip the paperwork.”

“Lucky, indeed,” said Stjepan. And he began counting out coins into Sir Orace's waiting hand.

And so the guards and porters opened the gates wide, and Sir Orace led the way as the caravan passed underneath the gatehouse and through a series of steep-walled courtyards and further gates. The guards eyed the sigil-less knights and closed coach with calm intensity, but Erim supposed that none of the visitors to as remote an outpost as this were ever strictly speaking
normal
, and so despite their keen vigilance the guards seemed to take it all in as a day's well-paid work. A fine coating of dust or ash seemed to be everywhere, on the guards' armor and clothes, on the ground. She noted that the guards all had dark expressions, with a slightly haunted look to their eyes. At the sight of Godewyn in the second wagon, however, a ripple of good cheer went through their dour observers and a cry was raised. “Ho, Godewyn!” some of the guards shouted. “What have you brought us this time?”

“Sorry, boys,” Godewyn called out with a showman's wave of his big meaty hand. “I find myself lacking in entertainment this visit, as I am just a hired hand. Perhaps a game of dice, though?”

There was some disappointed grumbling as the final two wagons disappeared through the gatehouse. Stjepan remounted and he and Erim followed the train in through the gates.

“What was that all about?” she asked him quietly, nodding ahead to Godewyn as they passed under the dark mass of the gatehouse.

“Once the lands behind the Wall were fertile, and the Watchtower Kings and their knights could have their families nearby working farms and herds. But after Ravera's Mistake, the lands became barren, and if they didn't scatter into the Danias the families from here moved south to Warwark, marking its transformation from sleepy seaside port into squalid, teeming city,” began Stjepan.

“So?” she asked, ducking her head under a portcullis.

“So after Ravera's Mistake, women aren't allowed to live in the Watchtowers anymore, yeah? A pointless rule, really, but it's become a bit of a superstitious tradition. And so their families are far away. They have to spend days marching back down to their families in Warwark, and the men of Mizer have the furthest to march. The knights and soldiers here don't get to see women all that often, maybe a few times a year if they're lucky,” Stjepan said. “Unless some enterprising procurer brings a passel of whores through.”

“An enterprising procurer like, say, your old friend Godewyn,” Erim said.

“Aye,” Stjepan said. “Be careful here.”

“As careful as I am everywhere,” Erim replied.

Past the gatehouse, they entered a series of interconnected courtyards and gatehouses, each one successively higher and bringing them toward the Watchtower itself at the summit of the crag. It was slow going for the wagons, as the pathway was designed to be narrow and easy to defend. The courtyards opened variously onto smithies, stables, chicken coops, workshops and storehouses, all finishing up the day's activities. Finally they reached a courtyard directly beneath the great Watchtower of Mizer itself, a massive keep of hewn stone that loomed above them. They stopped in front of a gate that led directly underneath the great edifice. The gate was made of enchanted bronze, patterns and runes woven into its surface, each door of the gate emblazoned with the figure of a rearing, armless wyvern, the symbol of Fortias the Brave and his descendants.

This courtyard was a bit larger than the others, and here they were able to draw in the coaches and wagons, unlimber the horse teams and stable them. Fresh water drawn up from wells and pumps filled the watering troughs, and dried oats filled the feedbags. Gilgwyr had the squires and some of the knights and a few of Godewyn's men start brushing the horses down, and then he began negotiating with a portly quartermaster for supplies and some quick repairs. One of the wagon wheels was running a bit wobbly after hitting a large pothole on the Mizer road, and there were frayed ropes and leather straps to mend and replace, and the stable hands and wheelwrights of the Watchtower were eager for some extra coin.

If Sir Orace was surprised to find two women in their caravan, he did not allow his face to betray him, but merely gave a formal bow when they stepped out of their coach. Stjepan watched the reactions of the guardsmen carefully with the women now out in the open; more than a few of them stole glances toward Annwyn in particular, craning their necks for a peek under the hoods of the women's cloaks, only to be met with the interposed bodies and stern visages of Arduin's knights. The women had returned to dressing in their customary mourning black, and while it was a severe look and Annwyn wore a mourning veil, it did little to hide the way she carried herself.

Sir Orace led Stjepan, Arduin, and Sir Helgi through one of several low stone doorways and up a narrow set of stairs into the belly of the Watchtower. They did not have to go far before he ushered them into a small complex of galleries with several offset rooms.

“These are the guest halls of the Watchtower, as Black-Heart knows,” he said. Stjepan nodded in affirmation. “The side chambers can provide privacy for those that require it, while the rest of your men can stay in the common chambers. We are not likely to receive other guests tonight and so the chambers are yours to allot as you see fit.” He pointed at an ironbound wood door at one end of one of the galleries. “Through there you may access the upper levels of the Watchtower. You are invited to dine with us in the main hall when the sun sets. But we will bar the door once the evening meal is done.”

“You have a shrine to the Divine King here,” asked Arduin, though it sounded more like a statement.

“Of course,” said Sir Orace with a nod. “In through the doors and across the lower gallery. I will leave you to settle in.” He excused himself and left.

Arduin stared around at the spare walls of the guest galleries. “Well, I guess this will have to do,” he said with a sigh. “Let my sister pick a room for her and her handmaiden, and place two men on guard over it.”

Sir Helgi nodded, and left with Stjepan.

Arduin took a deep breath, and unslung his travel cloak from about his shoulders. There was a small plain bench nearby and he let it drop there. He stretched his neck and shoulders for a moment, his back (and, in truth, his rear) sore from days of hard riding.
And still more to come, on roads and paths that will get ever worse
, he thought. It occurred to him that this was likely their last night in anything that resembled civilization.