The center ring of Kor Kowmor was empty, save Fyken and Methias. Several archers stood a nominal watch on the walls, and a few non-fighting folk could be heard inside the hall that served as Kowmor’s main mess, but otherwise, they had the open area to themselves.
Methias took a bumper of brandy from Fyken, saluted him with it, and smiled. Bringing the wooden goblet to his lips, he stopped long enough to take a rather indelicate sniff of its contents.
Ahhh, just about my favorite drink in the wide world. The realization gave birth to a small suspicion. Rather than dwell on it…
“Katxsel, have you been saving this?”
The aged soldier snorted. “Aye, but not for you, Lord. As to why you find it here? You’ve yourself to blame for introducing me to it.” The man sketched laughter over the crisp autumn air. “Did you suppose you were the only person in Dereek khn to appreciate the taste of pear and cinnamon brandy?”
Methias blushed, shaking his head. How very self-important of me. You’re quite right, Fyken. How to reply without proving myself any more the fool… Ah!
Grinning, he took a small sip of the sweet fire before speaking. “Well, of all crimes to be guilty of, improving your taste isn’t one I expect to lose much sleep over.”
Fyken arched his brows, then chuckled. “Aye, well… fair enough.” He cocked his head to one side, then nodded. “Sounds as if some of them are almost here. Likely the Ban’ze Ruun’s third of the two-two with the necessary others in tow, if I were a betting man.”
Methias nodded, taking a longer sip before speaking. “You’d win that wager. I hear Apiné’s voice—I’m all but certain.” He’d been standing in front of Fyken. Now he moved to stand beside him. “Tell me, before they arrive.”
“If you’re asking about Apiné, she’s proving me right, Lord. Her men are well-trained and shouldn’t lose a step while she’s learning from you.” He scratched at his chin in an absent sort of manner. “As for Sir Jastar, he’s got skill and to spare. Honestly, he’s taken to the training far more readily than most. He may be exactly what he says he is, or something more. He’s not boasting about his skill, though. I’d trust his sword arm. As for his motives … that’s for you and the Fellhammer to judge.”
“Thank you for that, truly. It wasn’t what I’d meant to ask, but it’s good to hear.”
“Oh…? What then?”
“While it’s just we two, I’d ask how you really are, Fyken Presh?” Methias did his best to scrub any sense of placation or patronization from his tone. Still, Fyken was called the Old Man for good reason. At seventy-five, the soldier was one of the realm’s secret treasures, as far as Methias saw it. “Outside of that limp, you present yourself as being in better physical condition than almost anyone I’ve ever met. But if there’s anything you need…”
Fyken eyed him, then bowed his head. “I bide, Lord. And with fewer than my share of age’s aches and pains. Willows willing, time won’t drown my bones for a goodly while yet.” A pointed draught from his wooden goblet made it clear that he wished that particular avenue of conversation to be left at that.
Methias gave a nod, then finished his brandy with a mixture of delight and disappointment. Such a drink should be savored, not swallowed as if it were a dipper of water, but never mind. He placed the empty vessel on a nearby bench with as little fanfare as possible. Best the others not see him lording his privileged position over them.
He saw a quintet of the Ban’ze Ruun walking in his direction from the innermost gate. They were chatting in an amiable sort of way… right up until they first caught sight of him and Fyken. All obvious chatter ceased, and—he’d swear to it—several of them seemed to make a conscious effort to measure their strides so that they moved in step with one another.
Apiné led them with untroubled strides. Her short, red-gold waves were plastered to the sides of her head—a product of the day’s training. She cut an unremarkable figure in her hauberk and pauldrons. Such gear of war hid the curves of her body, as proper armor should. Still, she projected a calm confidence that’d helped her rise both within the ranks of the Dereek khnderath and to Methias’s personal attention.
“My lord,” she began as they crossed the final ten feet, “may I present Bachsel Morric and Mosel Kujin—both of my lance,” She gestured toward the two men to her left. “Mosel Yarison, and Gilsel Edani—first of the two-two.” She indicated the man and woman on her right. Turning to Fyken, she bowed her head before adding, “Katxsel, reporting as ordered.”
As they came to a stop, Apiné stomped her right boot once, then came to attention. The other Hammers reacted to the stomp, standing at attention as well.
Fyken sipped his brandy as if he had all the time in the world.
Methias began mentally counting. He reached twenty-six before Fyken nodded and let them off the proverbial hook.
“At your ease,” said he. Turning to Methias, he arched a brow as if to ask if he wanted any sort of introduction.
He gave a minute shake of his head by way of reply, then turned his attention to Apiné. “Thank you.” He then addressed himself to the group at large. “I’ve asked Lanbachsel Apiné to bring you here to aid me—and indeed the realm as a whole—in translating something. Actually, several somethings. May I ask where you’re each originally from?”
“I’m from Koruna Všech, Lord.” The speaker had perhaps a decade on Methias. He was shorter than the other men around him, with a mouse-brown beard and bright amber eyes.
“You’re Morric, yes? Morric Bone Shroud?” Methias saw the man’s color rise at being recognized.
“I… I am, Lord. Though Morric will do if rank isn’t necessary.”
Methias resisted the urge to shake his head at the deflection. Yet there’s no hint of churlishness in your voice, nor does your humility feel … false. So this is not a backhanded cry for attention, then. Fair enough, but Havoc’s Horn! How you thought to remain anonymous after felling so many of the restless dead that night is beyond me.
“As you like, Morric. As I say, it isn’t your hammer or shield-arm I need just now. You’re from the Venzene capital. Good enough. Thank you.”
He turned to the others expectantly. The Sheshik man spoke up next. He was of average height, but his limbs were long. His skin was a deep reddish-brown—a color that seemed mirrored by his eyes when he stood still. His accent was somehow luxuriant. He rolled many of his Rs and made a meal of most of his vowel sounds. The sum total made him not only easy to understand, but an utter joy to listen to. Methias felt sure the fellow dabbled in storytelling or poetry on nights round the fire.
“I … have never lived in the Empire, Lord… I did, however, spend much time guarding the caravans that came south from the Last Grass. I would never pass for a native of Thorion, Traead, or the Empire, but I speak some of many tongues.”
Methias considered for a moment before speaking. “You are … Kujin the Viper, surely.”
Kujin beamed, displaying impossibly white teeth. “The same, Lord. You honor me.”
“You honor yourself, Kujin … and the realm. Fast hands make for fine hearth tales.” Methias waited a moment, then nodded. He turned to the other two with an air of polite expectance. They looked awkward and uncertain as to who should speak next. He thought they were from either Kovalun or Kamienalun, but time would tell. Apiné was drawing breath to speak when the sound of a single, deep bark warmed the air.
“Hello, Ire.” Methias reached a hand out to receive the hound, who readily trotted over. Forcing his eyes away, he tried to banish the grin that had flowered on his face, with minimal success. He saw Tharus approaching with a man in mail of a different style than that issued by the realm’s military. It was more a chain shirt than a hauberk, and Methias noted a steel mantle rather than pauldrons. As they crossed the last few strides, he marked the man’s warbraid and the telltale silver star adorning its end.
So this is Sir Jastar, is it?
“My lord?” Tharus ended his walk, standing to the woman—Edani’s—right. As Jastar came to a stop beside him, Tharus spoke on. “Sir Jastar.”
Jastar offered a brief bow. “Lord.” Then he gave a deferential nod to Fyken. “Katxsel.”
“You’re from Thorion, then. Have you traveled much outside of the county?”
Jastar blinked as if needing to process the question. “No, my lord. To a tournament at Schwalbenwald, once—in Gerstealun. And to Traead and the unclaimed hills in the south, but that’s all.”
Methias nodded. “No fear. You may yet be able to help.” He gathered his thoughts, then spoke anew. “First for those of you who’ve spent time in Venzene lands…” He reached into his haversack and, after a moment of concentration, pulled out a thin volume bound in slate and leather. Flipping toward the middle where he’d left a corner folded double, he glanced over his notes and read aloud. “De kommer. De marsjerer.” He then sought the eyes of each person in turn.
“Who, Lord?” Morric, sounding confused.
Well, that’s a good start. Methias addressed himself to Morric. “Bachsel, de kommer fra elven—de kommer fra elvens bunn.”
“Elven?” This was the woman—Edani.
Morric shook his head. “Not what you think, Gilsel. Elven is river in Havalunth.”
“Hold your translation for the moment, Morric,” said Methias. “For now, it’s enough that you can translate it. That, and the fact that you recognize it as Havalunth.”
Morric gave a nod of confused acceptance.
Returning his eye to the page, Methias turned to face Jastar. “Wo aaye. Kia. Wo…” he paused, then tried again. “Wo darya se aaye, wo pani…” He sighed through his nose. “Wo pani k neeche se aaye.” Looking up to find the man’s eyes, Methias saw a look of such perfect vacuity that he almost laughed. “Not a tongue you know, then.”
Jastar cocked his head to one side as if in thought. “Not one I speak… but it’s familiar to me.” He paused, then shook his head. “If we may, Lord, I’d like to circle back to it in a moment. Let me try and unknot the memory.”
Methias nodded. “Fair. I can do that.”
“Lord?” Tharus’s beard stubble voice lilted upward at the word’s end. Once Methias had turned his attention that way, he continued. “I’ve heard it. At the Last Bell, actually. It’s from the other folk of Thorion—the first people of Thorion.”
All eyes turned to regard Tharus, who shrugged a pauldron-covered shoulder.
Sir Jastar snapped his fingers, face brightening. “That’s it!” His eyes danced, “And we’ve someone in this very fortress who speaks at least some of the tongue.”
Methias waited for a name that appeared not to be coming. Finally, Fyken drew breath in obvious preparation to force the matter. Whether deliberate or unconscious, Jastar chose that moment to speak once more.
“I don’t know whose lance he’s in. Katxsel? I’m speaking of Pallith.”
Apiné turned to Kujin. “If you would?”
The Viper nodded, bowed to Methias and Fyken, and waited for permission to depart. Fyken gave it, and Methias turned back to Tharus and Jastar.
“You’ve my thanks.” He then turned back to the book he was still holding and read the final warning. “Sie kommen—Nebelblut, Herr! Sie marschieren! Sie kommen aus dem Fluss—sie kommen von unter dem Wasser!”
“It’s … Gerstealunth, Lord. I can tell you that much, but not much more.” This was Yarisan. He shook his shaggy head of black hair and pooched out his lower lip. “I’m sorry I can’t be of more help.”
Methias offered a grin. “Yarisan, you remind me of someone I recently met on the road. A boy who made his home near the Obserwatorzy Zmierzchu.”
Yarisan brightened visibly. “I was born in sight of those mountains, Lord. You’ve a keen ear. Though Lanbachsel Gurin grew up far closer to them than I—Auburg, if memory serves.”
“I’m surprised he isn’t here with you, then.”
“I know for a fact that Lanbachsel Gurin only speaks the Trade Tongue, Calyari, and Kamienalunth, Lord. When Katxsel Fyken asked for Yarisan…” Tharus trailed off.
Methias made a gesture of acceptance. After a moment of thoughtful silence, Fyken spoke up from his left.
“Lord? My Gerstealunth is still serviceable. Do you still want the translations kept in abeyance?
“If you please…” Methias did his best to hide his surprise. It was common enough for folk to know two—sometimes three languages. But most stopped after learning the Trade Tongue and whatever other language was in common use where they lived. Fyken hadn’t come from the duchy of Gerstealun, but rather that of Lesalun. He’d also learned a good deal of Calyari over the last year. His familiarity with yet another tongue wasn’t astonishing, but it was worthy of note.
Kujin appeared with Pallith in tow. A few moments later, the new arrival confirmed that he did, indeed, understand the words of the second warning.
“My father insisted on it, Lord. It was important that the old ways weren’t lost.”
When the entirety of all three warnings had been read aloud, and translated into the trade tongue, they made a grim proclamation, indeed.
“They come. They are marching—the mist-bloods. They come from the River. They come from beneath the River.”
Methias turned to Fyken and … froze. Ramud Ayumbra was seated in mid-air, floating just over Fyken’s shoulder.
“Ask,” said he. His voice was as frustratingly neutral as ever.
“And what, or who, are the mist-bloods? Do any of you know?”
One by one, they all shook their heads. When Methias looked at Ramud Ayumbra, the meoli gave a solemn nod. “In this anguish-ed age, Meth-hyoos Ar-thod, the empty-eyed world of man uses the word goblin … to name them.”
“Goblins,” said Methias. “Mist-bloods are goblins.”
Pallith and Jastar exchanged a look with one another, then turned back to Methias.
“Lord, they come from the mountains to trouble the unwary or unguarded at night. They live in the deep places, not the River.”
Thorion has lived with these Nebelblut on one side of the River and the Shivering Song on the other? I don’t know whether to pity them or parade them about as heroes.
“The warnings say otherwise.” Apiné shook her head. “If they’re wrong, so be it. Can we afford to take that risk?”
“A good question,” said Methias. “Another might be—do they have anything to do with the coming war?”
“We could send messengers.” This was Edani. “That, and send out mounted patrols along the north side of the River… With the two-two here on a training rotation, surely we can afford to send a lance or two of Foakhuleek, no?”
Fyken gave a slow, considering nod at that idea.
Methias hadn’t seen it happen, but the meoli had winked out of existence at some point in the last few heartbeats. Well, the goblins almost have to be related to the larger war. Their proximity to Yrxa castle, their apparent change in action, if Pallith and Jastar are correct… And the largest proof of all is the appearance of the old meoli himself. He came without warning or preamble and volunteered the translation. No, this has to play some part in the larger conflict.
He shook his head, then turned to Jastar and Pallith. “What’s the nearest settlement,” he looked up, found the sun, and pointed to the southeast, “along that path?”
The sons of Thorion looked at one another again, though this particular silent conference was mercifully brief.
Pallith delivered their conclusion. “Wick, Lord.”
Jastar then took up the tale. “It’s a good place, Lord. Well-fortified and well-peopled.”
Methias nodded. “Good.” He adjusted his stance to include Fyken in his regard. “Katxsel, I mean to take some of your charges.”
Fyken nodded. “How many?”
Methias saw Jastar looking confused, and perhaps unhappy, but paid it little mind. “I shall take Apiné’s lance, and the sons of Thorion, here.”
“Pallith is in my lance, Lord.” Apiné was grinning—clearly delighted with the situation.
“Good. That makes this simpler. Is… Who else is here from the Yebu Ke?”
“Cr ke Ibhroth.” Fyken’s voice had a comfortable, this is all just business to me, Lord, tone.
Methias sighed, grinning in spite of himself. He liked Ibhroth, though he had no idea why. Everyone seems to like him. And everyone seems to find him irksome.
“Well, no help for it. He’ll have to do. Sir Jastar? If you’d be good enough to fetch him?” Turning to Apiné, he spoke again. “Full kits. Gather your lance, help Sir Jastar and Cr ke Ibhroth, should they need it. I want everyone ready for field duty in half a bell.” Turning, at last, to Yarisan and Edani, he offered a brief but genuine smile. “Thank your commander for me. It’s… Denythis, now, isn’t it?” When they nodded, clearly surprised and gratified at the recognition, he continued, “Thank him for your loan, and thank you for the help.”
“The Gilsel made a fair point. I’m going to send out a mounted patrol, Lord. Best we not be blindsided.”
Methias nodded, then stepped back. As he did, he saw Fyken step forward, dismissing the assembled men and women. Tharus remained. He was, after all, at Kor Kowmor with Methias.
“May I speak my mind, Lord?” Fyken turned to face him.
“I think you’d better.”
“Is it wise to walk into Thorion with armed men—even if it’s only an oversized lance? Nobody who lays eyes on you will think you’re sellswords.”
Methias nodded. “Necessary. Jastar has the credibility to get a message through to whoever rules that town, but I can’t risk sending him alone. Not against a foe that can hide from even the weave.” He gave another nod in response to Fyken’s look of surprise. “I saw the places associated with the warnings. I saw the River part, as if many creatures moved through it toward the southern shore. I saw foliage part in much the same way. I neither saw nor heard them, though. If I cannot detect them at range, even when I know and am looking at where they are affecting the land around them…”
Fyken cocked his head to one side, then nodded. “Then you can’t leave it up to hope and faith that a lone rider can get a message through.”
“Exactly.”
He paused to look down at Ire, who had begun snoring. As he looked up again, he caught Tharus’s thin grin. He turned back to Fyken Presh, smiling.
“I’ll need one more thing from you, Katxsel. Find me a place in the courtyard that can be guarded, but won’t be in a place folk are likely to walk.”
Fyken arched his brows, grinning. “I know just the place. What are you planning?”
“Luck is a garden, Fyken. You have to select the right location, sow the right seeds, and protect them while they grow. Otherwise, you’ll be left with nothing to harvest.”