Four men entered a dark room. One tossed a leather pouch onto a small wooden table. The pouch landed with a heavy thunk.
The man seated at the table emptied the pouch absently, obviously displeased at the interruption. His eyes were fixed on an open window. The sounds of clanging steel could be heard clearly from outside. “There are entry fees for four, but no burial fees.”
“We do not intend to be buried,” grunted the man who had thrown the pouch.
“Burial fees are standard. The carts were full of the dead every day last year.”
A second coin purse was thrown onto the table.
“Late arrivals are not normally accepted, but this year we do lack for the sparring rounds. Names?” The attendant readied quill and ink.
“The sparring rounds,” objected one of the men. The original speaker put a heavy hand on the man’s shoulder.
“Sparring rounds all I got open. Should’ve come earlier. You still have a chance.”
“A slim one… I had hoped for the secondary rounds.”
“Secondary rounds,” scoffed the attendant, “for newcomers without announcement? Who do you think you are? I ought to…”
The man raised his hand with an open palm. “We accept.”
“Names?”
“My associates and I prefer to—”
“Names?” repeated the attendant.
“Name’s Greer. My companions here are… Tenman, Viller, and—”
“Seth,” completed the last man.
“Not from these parts are you?”
“He’s from the far north,” said the original speaker. The man who had identified himself as Greer.
“Origin?” asked the attendant.
“Origin?”
“For the marker. Do you know nothing?”
“We won’t need markers.”
“Look, friends, I’ve got things to attend to. If you don’t mind, let’s speed this along.” The attendant gave a longing glance to the window.
“Great Kingdom.”
“Kingdom’s got no participants this year.”
“Well, it does now. And enter us in the trios as well.”
“You won’t make it that far,” the attendant replied offhandedly.
“Just do it,” grunted Greer angrily.
“All right, all right, if you’ll let me return to my business, I’ll do it, but you aren’t going to make it that far.”
* * *
The caravan train lumbered toward the city with slow persistence. Emel rode with the advance party. It seemed Ebony Lightning was excited as he was. Soon they would be within the shadow cast by the city walls—walls that towered over everything, seeming to dwarf even the mountains in the distance.
Emel wondered at the expert workmanship of the wall. It had three levels, each with its own parapets. Men and beasts moving along the upper ramparts looked like ants. And, like ants, they marched in fixed lines, moving back and forth along the top of the wall.
Emel knew this show of force was meant to send a not-so-subtle message to the thousands of men in the caravan train that approached: Gregortonn is the mightiest city in the land, remember your place.
Emel rode quietly, sure that even without the show of force the men of the caravan understood that they were no longer in Great Kingdom. For some this was good as it meant they were getting close to home after many months or years away. For others, most of the Kingdomers included, it meant they had arrived in a foreign land where everything they knew and everything they represented would be questioned and put to the test.
The true Kingdomers in the caravan had planned for this day, wished for it. They were in the Southlands. Now they could begin to do what they had set out to do. Emel had his part as well, though his task would have been far easier if the prince and the elf had joined the caravan. He didn’t know what had kept them away, but knew that whatever it was, it was equally as important as what he had to do.
He rode under the great wall of Gregortonn. He clutched the orb in its leather pouch, thinking it odd that he sought answers to things he didn’t understand in a place he knew little about. He did know one thing: Dnyarr, Elf King of Greye was a genius. No other could build such a city as Gregortonn was.
Designed to withstand full assaults by giants, titans, and dragon’s kin, the city’s fortified towers were dense along the walls. The towers could house armies and store everything needed to sustain those armies during campaigns and sieges—something Dnyarr had proved over and over. Right then, Emel knew he had been right to confide in Keeper Martin, and that the keeper spoke the truth. If Dnyarr’s secrets were to be found it would be here in these lands.
Ebony snorted excitedly as they entered the city. Emel leaned forward, stroked the stallion’s mane.
Smelling something strange, he turned. He caught sight of a king cat and its rider. Ebony reared as the king cat approached, nearly throwing Emel.
“Rein in that beast!” the kingcat rider shouted out.
Emel was thinking the same thing, but held his tongue. The rider appeared to be wearing an official uniform and she carried a long-bladed javelin openly. As a king’s messenger, he had been to the far corners of the kingdom, seen strange and wondrous things, but he had never been beyond Great Kingdom’s borders. He had never seen a city such as Gregortonn, and he had never seen a king cat. He had heard stories about them yes, how they could take down a horse and rider with their powerful jaws and claws, how the cat would continue a fight even if its rider died, how the cat would sometimes turn on its rider.
“The caravan?” the rider asked when she saw the strange look in his eyes. She didn’t give him time to respond before adding, “Untrained beasts are not allowed in the city.”
Faylin Gerowin reined in his mount next to Emel. “The cat,” he said, steadying his horse as he talked. “Most of our animals have never seen a king cat before.”
“Kingdomers?” the rider asked, spitting out the word as if it were a curse.
Faylin nodded.