County Thorion
Wick
٣ Korunasykli: ٢٠ Days after the Red Storm at Westsong
Kaith’s party processed beneath the gate, beyond the wooden city walls, and along the main thoroughfare. The collective music of their hooves and wagon wheels clattering across the cobbles intermingled with the sounds of men, women, and children bustling about their customary mid-day madness—the sole purview of prosperous places.
Wick… it was said that there was more wealth concentrated in this village-sized settlement than any three townships in the county combined. Aside from cobbled streets, the buildings were nearly all stone—from their foundations to their flattened, shorn river stone roof shingles. The streets were evenly laid out and well ordered, wide enough for two carts to ride abreast with room to walk between them. There was even a sewer system that rivaled the one in Thorionden.
There were very few landowners in Wick. Nearly all arable land was owned by the ruling household. While it had modest tracts of rye, root vegetables, and berries of nearly every color, its chiefest claim to fame was its vast acreage of cotton.
It had long been rumored of every hand that touched the lord’s fields, from the simplest laborer to the most educated overseer… supposedly, all folk of Wick, regardless of their class or social standing, consistently received greater pay and security than nearly any other person anywhere else in Thorion County.
Sir Reginald, rest him, had been a generous man, although he certainly wasn’t so generous that he didn’t turn a tidy profit year after year.
Though there were occasionally persons of shortsighted greed who would attempt to cut costs by shorting the pay of those beneath them, that sort of thing was quickly rooted out, its perpetrators imprisoned, banished, or executed, and the balance restored. Lord Reginald spent the twenty-five years since ascending to the seat of his father, ensuring a level of pride and loyalty from nearly all of the people over whom he ruled.
The sun had finally ripped through the clouds with enough force to call their shadows. Kaith could see those of his party stretching out in front of him. He saw Huron’s head-turning this way, and that heard his occasional gasps of impressed surprise and came to the realization that at this moment, Huron was more or less all eyes.
The youth—Kaith now thought of him that way, although not quite three years separated them—had been in Thorionden for most of his life. Wick wasn’t impressive by comparison, but the fact that it could be compared to the capital on many levels was reason enough to justify Huron’s delighted surprise. Beyond the weathered wooden walls surrounding it, Wick was such a bastion of modernity and wealth, artifice, and achievement that it stood in stark contrast to nearly every other settlement in the County. Even Westsong, with its moat and irrigation system, couldn’t hold a—
Candle? Really? Was I about to say it couldn’t hold a candle to Wick, just as I pass under the—well… not shadow at this hour. The gaze then? Aye, that’ll do… the gaze of the braided tower? Really? Kaith chuckled at himself under his breath. Almost immediately, that chuckle turned into an internal war to keep the sobbing, wailing grief at bay. He won the contest, but it was a near thing.
Terrek seemed to sense something, despite his position behind Kaith and to his right. His shadow stiffened slightly before pointing up and ahead of them.
“…And that, lads,” Terrek sounded as if he were picking up the thread of a conversation recently put by, “is the Braided Tower.”
Kaith took the opportunity to reign in his mind before his grief could grow fangs. Inwardly, he thanked Terrek for the distraction and reminded himself to make note of those small acts of kindness. It showed the man’s character as well as his perceptiveness—two things that should not, he knew, be undervalued in an armsman.
The streets narrowed as they progressed northward toward the residence. The Braided Tower stood atop a modestly steep hill; its structure stretched perhaps five stories in height, with a footprint about the size of the capital’s throne room. It was, for all intents and purposes, like any other stone outpost throughout the county, with one exception: its exterior had been masterfully designed with colored stone depicting a knotwork pattern from door to parapet. It looked, from a distance and if the mind were allowed its artistic license, like an enormous candlewick.
Vilmocz laughed with obvious derision.
“Don’t care for candles, Vilmocz?” Terrek’s voice. It was mild, as ever, though Kaith thought he detected more than a hint of reproach.
“Just thinkin’ ’bout how the wealthy tend to build with an eye to the look of a place … and not the defense of it.”
“Some—hells, probably most,” Olshnak said. “But not those who built this place.”
Vilmocz laughed with obvious derision. “Once they get inside the walls, it’s over. Raiders would have their runna the place. Not much anyone could do ’bout it. Short order, they’d be able to surround and take that pretty little tower.” He spoke with the certainty that only a veteran of many battles could justify. Based on that assessment, however, urban warfare didn’t seem to be a specialty of his.
Olshnak snorted. He took no pains to hide it.
“Something amuses you, tusk?”
“Aye, your clear skill and knowledge of what happens when stone clashes with sword and shield.”
Vilmocz seemed unsure as to whether that were an honest compliment or an insult. Clarity wasn’t long in coming.
“D’you know what a Bor knok is, boy? Sometimes called an Arabor?” Rather than condescending, Olshnak sounded patient.
Instead of answering the question, Kaith noted, Vilmocz decided to deflect with questions of his own.
“You speak Traeadish? That’s Traeadish, ain’t it? You one of them, are you?”
“I do. It is. I’m not. Now, as to answering my question?”
Vilmocz said nothing.
Olshnak sighed, then pressed on.
“A Koleno Země?”
“What?”
“Koal-len-no zem-nya,” Olshnak said, enunciating each syllable with exaggerated emphasis. “It’s the original Kovalunth.”
Kaith’s brows shot up, and while nobody could see them—he was in the front of the column after all—he could tell by his shadow that Sergeant Terrek was just as surprised by the exchange, and the orc’s shift in demeanor, as he’d been.
“Catch!” a high, unbroken voice trilled.
The laughter of children followed close behind this gleeful command. There were perhaps four of them in a yard, two houses down a side street to the party’s left. No doubt they were playing with a leather ball or some other such implement of the idle, but Kaith didn’t see, hear, or think about any of that. His mind was once again back in Westsong, hearing Lanian.
Catch me!
The leather of the reins creaked in his right fist, digging into his palm. Misery and rage mixed with feelings of failure and grief, trying to force their way to the forefront of his mind. All the while, Lanian’s voice kept rolling around in the back of his head. It was as if the boy’s ghost were trying to hold him down beneath the surface of a seemingly bottomless lake. Even now, he could almost see it, almost feel the water, the lack of footing beneath… Lanian, all the while, clinging to him, laughing, pulling him down to where there were no fires, no fighting, no—
After a protracted silence, Sergeant Terrek spoke up in a steady, clear voice in answer to the original question. “Bor knok.” He rolled the R and drew the O sound so that it rhymed with boat, “is the crown of the hill in Traeadish.” He paused only for a moment to flick his eyes back toward the cart, then looked back ahead and continued. “When speaking of fortifications, well, look ahead. A fortification on a tall jut of land, like a hill or pinnacle, often with walls of stone or wood—and usually a ditch—surrounding it.”
Kaith forced his mind to grab onto Terrek’s voice, pulling himself back, willing his hands not to shake, his chest not to heave. His efforts were rewarded with the relaxation of his right fist and the slow, steady reclamation of his self-possession. The further he’d gone from home—the closer he’d gotten to Robis’s home—the harder he’d had to work to keep his traitor mind in check.
“Almost, Sergeant, almost,” Olshnak said. He seemed pleased rather than condescending, offering the correction for the sole purpose of education, as opposed to ego.
Kaith’s self-control returned just in time to prevent lasting, irreversible damage within his fledgling retinue.
“Tusk, if you don’t mind your tongue when addressing—” Vilmocz’s threat was cut off abruptly as Terrek called a sudden halt.
Kaith had reigned up, stopping his horse’s progress and turning his disappointed gaze toward Terrek. He could see immediately that the Sergeant looked, for perhaps the first time any of them had seen, shamefaced.
Terrek, it’s been what? Three days since we spoke about Vilmocz. Did you think I wasn’t serious? Did you think it only applied to him addressing Huron? He choked down a long-suffering sigh as it tried to escape his lungs. Terrek’s older than I. He won’t see past the sense that I’ve belittled him. A sigh will lead him to think I see him like a troublesome child.
“My lord, forgive me. The fault is mine. I’ll see to it straight away. You needn’t trouble yourself.” Kaith’s disappointment and anger were somewhat muted by the grief this place had revisited upon him. “No, Sergeant.” He did his best to keep his voice neutral and detached. “I think it’s time I make some things clear.”
“I…” Terrek bowed his head in contrition, no longer meeting Kaith’s eyes, “Yes, my lord.”
Kaith dismounted and walked back toward the wagon.
“Down,” said he, as he met Vilmocz’s eyes.
Vilmocz did as he was bidden, but did so with a countenance that was anything but resolute. Rage, confusion, embarrassment, and fear all warred within him, turning his face into a patchwork of blush and pallor. When he spoke, too, that patchwork was evident. His voice was jagged—as if he were close to tears, although whether those tears were a reaction born of indignance or self-preservation was unclear.
“My lord, please…” he began. “I’ve been silent for too long. Everyone seems to’ve gone mad. Everyone seems to’ve forgotten their place in the world, and that’ll reflect poorly upon you and the countess herself!” Rather than becoming louder, his voice became more plaintive.
Be the bridge. Greggor’s—now Sir Greggor’s—voice swam up from the back of Kaith’s mind. He was pleased to hear it—pleased he could still hear it, and that it came to him in as timely and useful a moment as ever. Moreover, he was pleased to hear any voices in his head beyond those of the dead. He seized on Greggor’s lessons as a drowning man seizes the line thrown from the shore.
Everything has to be in service to my ultimate goal. Each step I take, each decision I make has to be a means to that end. So what’s my ultimate goal?
He considered that for a moment. It was an important question.
In the short-term, I have to deliver the grim news, offer comfort if and where I can, assess and shore up resources, supply chains, and defenses. The long-term goal—I suppose that would make it the ultimate one—is to unify and prepare for what’s to come. I need to do what I can to patch the divisions, bring everyone on side, and have them ready when Marcza calls on them—which is to say when the countess calls on them.
All right, fair enough, but recognizing that was only half of it. The other half was, predictably, communicating it to the men who followed him. Had he done that? Clearly not, given this latest outburst.
I’ve explained it to the Sergeant, but Terrek hasn’t managed to pass it along with enough clarity. He did try, I know, but he apparently wasn’t clear enough for Vilmocz to understand the why of it, which means I wasn’t clear enough with Terrek. All right, that’s something that can be remedied.
“Kneel,” said Kaith. He made his voice flat—neither harsh nor cruel. His tone wasn’t so much commanding as it was a stone wall—implacable and useless to argue against. It was a trick he’d picked up watching Sir Valad.
Vilmocz spread his feet shoulder-width apart, then dropped to a knee in the position that spoke most clearly of fealty.
“Meet my eyes.” Once Vilmocz had obliged, Kaith’s voice softened to something slightly more conversational. “I recognize that as you see it, you are,” he paused, considering, “defending my name, reputation, and station. I believe you when you say that’s your motivation. What this comes down to, Vilmocz, is this: I wasn’t clear enough when I explained things to the Sergeant, which didn’t arm him to be clear enough to you.”
He could almost feel Terrek’s eyes on him. As for the others, they were impossible to miss. Huron was trying to look around, up, anywhere but at Kaith and the reprimand going on in the middle of the street. Olshnak, on the other hand, stared with frank interest, though his expression was difficult to read.
“Your actions, your words, the way you carry and comport yourself actually hinders the mission that I’ve been given.” Kaith paused to allow that to sink in and to let Vilmocz speak. Just before he concluded that the older man wasn’t going to, Vilmocz, at last, ventured a response.
“How…” He paused. “How is that possible?”
“I will explain, but not here in the street. Either tonight, as we sit at table, or as my first task in the morning when we break our fast, I will sit with all of you together and explain. For now, I need you to curb your tongue and trust that I do, in fact, fully grasp the way others see me. Understood?”
Vilmocz bowed his head, swallowed hard, and spoke in a soft tone of contrition, “Yes, my lord.”
Kaith nodded his acceptance. He made a gesture with his right hand, urging Vilmocz back to his feet. He could see sweat darkening the crown of Vilmocz’s light brown hair, as well as his beard.
“Mount up. We’re almost at the braided tower, and then you won’t have to drive the cart for a goodly while. That should please you.” Kaith offered the ghost of a grin.
Vilmocz obeyed. He offered his lord a cautious smile, voice betraying more than a hint of pleasure at the prospect. “Yes, my lord.”
With a brief nod, Kaith turned and walked back to his horse. In a single, swift motion, he swung back up into the saddle and resumed their progress northward. A few short minutes later found the party passing through the large, arched wooden gate that led on to the tower grounds.