The Black Keep (The Chronicles of Llars) (37 page)

“Talking about me?” Carym griped as he stalked back from the woods and sat by the fire, his gleaming eyes reflecting his inner turmoil. “If you have something to say, say it to my face.”

Ederick glared sharply at him. “Paranoia doesn’t suit you, Carym. Your judgments, such as they are, might get you killed in battle.”

Carym’s eyes blazed and he looked as though he wanted to say something, but held his tongue.

“So, there is some sense left in you,” quipped the bard.

“Fine, bring it on. I can take it,” he growled.

“You are acting irrationally, Carym; we have all noticed it,” Hala observed. Carym had not expected her to jump in, and he felt stung.

“Well, I think Carym has been amazing!” said Gennevera angrily as she moved to sit beside Carym. “He has led this group through an awful journey, most of which you three were not present to appreciate. He has lost his home, his fortune, his best friend to this cursed quest. How dare you treat him so disrespectfully!”

“Indeed, we were not there,” agreed the knight. “And none of what must be said here will take away from the valiant efforts that led Carym to this point.”

“Carym, don’t just sit there! Defend yourself!” hissed Gennevera, angrily.

“No, Genn,” he said quietly, squeezing her hand. “They are right. I have not been myself. Something has rattled my wits, and I am not fit to lead this company. I don’t have enough control over this awesome power that I wield. You saw what I became, it nearly consumed me.”

Gennevera looked scandalized. How could he just quit like that? She was so incensed that she stalked away and wrapped herself up in her bedroll ignoring everyone, including Carym.

After a long period of silence Bart spoke. “Carym, I know how hard it must have been for you to admit your failure. It speaks to your character, it does. One must be humble in the presence of the Tides; lofty pride and ambition will kill you or someone else. And it will cause you to fail when you are needed most.”

Carym felt stung again. The bard was right, Kharrihan’s disappearance could have been prevented. Had Carym stuck to his own battle plans and not left the group....

“Whatever the case, Carym, you must not use the Tides of Shadow for any reason. It is very strange that you can use it at all.”

Carym nodded in agreement, feeling at once repulsed by his actions and tempted to try again. He remembered how readily he had been able to handle his enemies using the Shadow Tides as opposed to the Tides harnessed by the Sigil of Flames. The energy of the Shadow Tides felt so right and powerful, and that unsettled him.
How would Mathonry have counseled
?
He hadn’t said anything at all about the pervasive nature of the Shadow Sigil.

“And I am pleased that you have recognized your own mistakes, Carym. A knight must be above petty thoughts and matters of pride; he must control his emotions. Recognizing a fault is the only way to correct one,” said the knight. “You are the bearer of a great burden. The holy prophets have spoken of the return of the Sigils, and ultimately, the return of the First Paladin. You have my pledge of honor, Carym, to support your role in bringing about these prophecies.”

Hala nodded toward Carym, echoing the knight’s words with her simple gesture. Carym looked at them, speechless. Hadn’t they just condemned him for his foolishness? And now they were prepared to follow him again. He felt a renewed determination to resist the temptations of the Shadow and he cursed every moment that he would have to bear those damnable stones. What else, other than the Shadow stone in his pocket, could be affecting him so greatly? He wanted to tell them, then. But he couldn’t. No one must know of the stones lest they succumb to their baffling and conflicting powers.

“It is the duty of the Storm Lords to guard the one heralding the Return and aid him in any way. I too, pledge my service and my knowledge to you. But, I will not have any more of this foolishness with the Tides; accept my guidance or I cannot help you.”

“I accept,” he said, a lump forming in his throat. He knew then that he was surrounded by people of goodness. People deserving of his absolute best effort to accomplish this task. There was no selfishness here, not after the way he had treated them all. Their motivations were true. But, was it necessary for him to put them all through his pain, his foolishness, for him to finally understand? Was it worth the cost of Kharrihan’s capture?

“And I pledge the support of my people,” asserted the princess. “We are the guardians of the forests. Your destination lies within the land of my people. We will be able to guide you to the Tomb of the Dark Paladin.”

“Thank you, Princess,” he whispered. What was happening to him? Why would Zuhr choose him for this important mission? Didn’t He know Carym had such an awful history of losing control to his emotions? What did the Great Lord see in him? Carym shook his head ruefully. “You speak as though the outcome of this quest is all but assured; I hardly feel worthy of your support and confidence.”

“We have all been drawn together to support you in this mission,” began the knight. “Why would I end up on the very road you and your companions were traveling on at that very moment in which you benefitted from my aid, if not only to help you? Why would a Storm Lord just happen across our company in a crowded inn on a busy crossroads in Ckaymru? Why did we endure imprisonment in the Black Baron’s keep, if not to rescue this princess who could help guide you to the Tomb of the Dark Paladin? It is not by chance, I assure you.”

Carym nodded, unable to deny the logic. Yet, he wanted to lash out about Kharrihan. What purpose could there be in his capture? What purpose could there be in mentioning it, other than reliving the pain of that helpless moment? When he looked at the princess, he saw a distinct change in her eyes. He saw something there that unsettled him. He sensed an element of hope in her that wasn’t there before.
What was it?
Her gaze was penetrating, seeing deeply into him, assessing him. But she did not speak; she rarely did. She met his gaze confidently, something was passing between them but Carym could not put his finger on it exactly. After a moment, he sensed that the others were looking at him, expectantly. Did they ask him a question? Had he not heard because he was lost in Hala’s confident gaze? That unnerved him too, for his feelings for Gennevera were quite strong. He cast a quick glance toward her bedroll and was relieved to see her form had not moved. Then he brought his attention back to the matter at hand.

“I don’t know what to say,” whispered Carym. The others smiled, quietly looking into the flames. It was a good moment, one of a very few since this quest began. He was truly among friends.

Bart left the camp for Powyss in the pre-dawn hours and secured passage across the Straits to the mainland and Myrnwell. Due to the sinister nature of that city the bard felt that solitary movement would attract less attention. Upon his return, the companions broke camp and marched quietly through the Ckaymrish wilderness to a road which eventually led them to the Port of Powyss.

It was one of the larger cities on the isle, a place of bustling trade and high crime. A city ruled nominally by one of the Tywyss’ appointed lords. In truth, it was ruled by one of the more powerful bandit gangs on the isle: the Red Dragons. In fact, the Port had begun to be called the City of the Red Dragon by many more than those who stubbornly clung to the city’s true name.

The Red Dragons were a vile bunch, mostly human. Among their number were thieves, assassins, robbers, highwaymen, smugglers, shamans, and even a few magicians. They were the scum of the prisons of this kingdom and of many others, some freed from their bonds only on the condition of their service to the Red Dragons. They were well paid and highly skilled. The Red Dragons maintained harsh discipline among their ranks. They all wore the mark of the Red Dragon somewhere on their person, usually in the form of a sash or headband, when they patrolled the streets.

Apart from collecting taxes, tariffs and levies for the Rhi, the Red Dragons also operated their own money making endeavors. Checkpoints existed throughout the city and countryside to exact tolls from citizens as they moved about. They created artificial “days of tribute” forcing everyone on the street to pay an extra coin in taxes. They patrolled the harbor and exacted heavy fines for contrived grievances unless the victim agreed to pay a heavy bribe.

The port city of Powyss was very large and had a massive wall constructed around its perimeter with watchtowers interspersed along its length. The companions approached one of those towers on the road that led to the main gate to the city, Dragon Gate. A row of archers stood menacingly on the wall overlooking the gate and the road, fingering weapons as they talked amongst themselves. Osprey drifted in lazy circles high in the sky above.

On either side of the raised portcullis, were four armed guards, each wearing a burnished cuirass with a red sash across their midsections, each holding a wicked halberd. A line had formed to await entry and the companions took their place in it, expecting to wait at least another thirty minutes before their turn to enter finally came. Carym and Hala took the opportunity to mingle among the folk awaiting entry into the city, hoping to catch snatches of conversation, and news from other parts of the region.

As he mingled among the folk in line, Carym heard the familiar accent of someone whom he thought might be a fellow Hybrander and engaged the man in conversation. He was instead from the kingdom of Herkenberg, but considered himself a Hybrandese Cklathman like most Herkenbergens did.

“Glad I’m gone, says I!” the man said in earnest. Carym noted with small amusement that the man changed from the proper form of Cklathish spoken by most Herkenbergers to the traditional accent and way favored by the Ckaymrish. “Them hurkin are gaggling on the Plains, they are! They’ve already trounced all them Ashen barbarian tribes, says the king. And if they could do, whew, Herkenberg’ll be next! Took me wife and kids and heading north. S’long as we can get ’round this mess.”

“The hurkin have massed on the border of the Eastern Kingdoms? Are they planning to invade?”

“Thinks they’re planning to do just that, says I! Just that. No help from Arnathia, says they. What good are they, then?” the man shook his head, his singing accent making it difficult for non-Hybranders to understand whether he was making a statement or asking a question.

“I am sorry,” said Carym.

“For what?” asked the merchant, incredulous. “Got nothing there now. Me family and possessions ’re here with me, so they are. To hell with the king anyway, says I.” Carym smiled and nodded. The King of Herkenberg was a villain, and one whom many would like to see overthrown.

“Good luck and safe travels to you, sir.” Carym shook the man’s hand and continued to mingle, but most of the crowd in line were keeping to themselves and minding their own business. He knew that too much walking about would make him look suspicious, so he gradually moved back to his place in line.

Bart had been about gathering information as well and he shared what he learned. “It seems that Tywyss Rhi has aligned himself officially with the Prophet-General, and by extension Hessan the Headless Rider. It seems as though the Nashians have been busy. The rumors are true, they have settled at the base of the Ogrewall Mountains, preparing to wait out the winter, so they are. Might be that the Nashians have plans for the ogres, but that remains a mystery, so it does.” Bart lit a small pipe, puffed out a smoke ring.

Carym shared what he learned about the forces of Hurkromin massing troops on the Ash Plains to the east of Hybrand. That news disturbed him greatly. He had not truly given up thoughts of returning to Hybrand, and he worried fiercely what would become of it should the hurkin Horde invade; and the Arnathian Empire had become far less concerned with the plight of its outlying territories.

“This is too much of a coincidence,” said Ederick. “Hurkromin has been content to wage war with the other dark nations in the shadows beyond the Rift for so long it seems odd they should now decide to expand west. Arnathia will not help your people, Carym.”

Carym nodded, his thoughts far away. He knew Ederick was presenting an unspoken way out, a chance to return to his homeland. As much as the thought wrenched his heart, Carym could not shake the feeling that his destiny was elsewhere, his purpose greater.

Finally the companions had their turn at the gate, paid the exorbitant entrance fee, and entered with no questions asked. Carym found the Port of Powyss was much like modern cities in the Arnathian Empire with tall buildings, throngs of people, and wide avenues. A plethora of alleyways branched from the main avenue, incongruous with the city’s precise and orderly appearance. There were shops of every type imaginable from every place imaginable along their route to the port itself. Kharbandese vendors stood on corners assailing passersby to come into their shops for “special deals.” Volan weapon smiths sold their legendary arms and armor. There was even a shop selling fire ore from Alfheym. Fire ore was a metal found only in Alfheym, legendary for its lightness and strength used in the making the most magnificent and expensive weapons and armor available anywhere. Carym hoped one day he would possess the king’s ransom required to purchase a weapon made from such ore.