Trenloe the Strong
Hernfar, the Ru border
It was still dark when they gathered the next morning for the ride east.
Thirty Companions of Trenloe, a few bodies shy of half the company’s full strength, walked out their horses, looking more like dangerous vagrants than soldiers in their mismatched leather wargear and full beards. Meanwhile, up and bored, a third that number again of Nordgard soldiery sat slouched in the saddle, wrapped up tight in their purple cloaks with their faces covered.
Even the presence of the Lady of Hernfar, Dame Ragthorn herself, did not seem to enthuse them much.
Her dappled warhorse trotted about the courtyard with a nervous energy it shared with its rider. The powerfully muscled animal wore a heavy caparison, baronial purples made black by the pre-dawn, silvers and golds brought to life by the contrast, and by the damp fingers of the mist. Despite the unholiness of the hour the castellan must have arisen several hours earlier still to be fitted into an elaborate harness of golden fretwork and enameled plate. Her mood, at least, was undimmed by the weather.
A large ironclad wain rounded out the company. It rode low on its bed, laden with all the goods and baggage necessary to keep the Companions in their garrison for a month. Four strong horses waited in their traces. That the two Borderland Knights remained alongside the wain at all times while Dame Ragthorn clattered about the courtyard at whim told Trenloe all he needed to know about the blight, famine, and brigandry that had afflicted Kell. Of the order of the Borderland Knights, Trenloe knew almost nothing, and nor had they spoken to any of his company except to issue Dremmin a rebuke after wandering too close to their ward. Their heavy armor was quartered yellow and green with a sapphire trim. Demonic heraldry adorned their rondel pieces and visors, and their shields, pennants streaming from their upraised lances.
Spying Sergeant Marns amongst the impatient riders, Trenloe raised a big hand in greeting as he went to claim his own horse.
The young girl holding the reins surrendered them with some reluctance. Rusticar was an amiable beast and appeared to have spent the night working his charm.
Giving the horse a pat, he then took a quick rummage through his saddlebags. Ragthorn’s people had prepared them, but he didn’t want to be the one caught out without a blanket or a cloak in a pinch. Everything seemed in order. Reaching to the bottom of the bag, from inside an oiled wrapping, the spiced scent of Dame Ragthorn’s bread wafted up in reward of his diligence.
He leant in closer and, in spite of the cold stinging his nostrils, breathed in deeply.
“Fine day for a picnic, all things considered,” Dremmin grumbled.
Trenloe looked over his shoulder as he repacked his bags. The dwarf was already mounted, bringing her almost level to Trenloe’s height. The stiff plates of her armor were covered in a thick cloak, her braided hair glittered like a bed of nettles with pricks of morning dew.
“If we were in Lorimor you’d be complaining it was too windy.”
“Sea air dries out the skin.”
Trenloe laughed. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you happy.”
The dwarf scowled. “I hate that you’re a morning person.”
Across the square, Marya Ragthorn loudly cleared her throat.
“For many of you this is as far east as you have ever been. No doubt you are looking forward to an unpleasant ride ahead!” Dremmin opened her mouth as if to comment, but at a look from Trenloe left it unsaid. “Hernfar Isle is no more than three miles across, as the birds of the Lothan might fly, but the going can be treacherous, and there is no real road as such. That said, Runemaster Garlon predicts that the day before us will be dry and fine. If you ask me the fog already seems a little thinner than it was yesterday evening and the wind from the east has a late touch of summer to it.” She took a deep breath, her harness creaking as she filled her lungs, and then shook out her reins. “All right then. Chop chop. Get a move on now and all things being well we should make the eastern ford by midday.”
Dremmin muttered under her breath.
It looked as though as she was chewing on fog.
“You were saying only yesterday how you wanted your own castle,” said Trenloe.
The dwarf’s glare was ice. “Be lucky that the lives of the dwarves are measured in centuries rather than decades. Were it otherwise then I might be extraordinarily bitter about now.”
With the company ready and as willing as they were likely to get without a hefty rise in their pay, Dame Ragthorn led them out.
The east gate was far smaller than its counterpart to the west, dedicated fully to defense with little thought to its usefulness as a thoroughfare. It was wide enough for the supply wain, but only just, and its metal hubs shrieked along the tunnel’s sides more than once. Traversing it became quite the operation, and getting everyone through took most of what was left of the night. The sun was just beginning its steady climb over the distant Ru when the last Companions across emerged to a chorus of sardonic cheers.
But the coming of day put things into a different light. The sun remained a pallid blur, as bright as a coin at the bottom of a wishing pool, but the warmth of it was already beginning to burn off some of the fog. A chain of hummocky atolls extended out towards a river Trenloe couldn’t see yet but could definitely hear; bulrush fronds and stagnant pools, trees sticking out from lumps of ground like broken fingers. Somewhere deep in the fog, birds chattered and cawed.
Trenloe had a feeling that Dame Ragthorn’s runemaster had called this one right.
“Trenloe!” Ragthorn called, waving furiously from further along the boggy trail. “Ride up front with me. I have lived in this castle forever. If anyone can guide you better then let them be castellan for a day, I say, and I shall put my feet up in Kellar.”
“Get on then,” said Dremmin. “I’ll be sick of you in a few days and by then there’ll be nowhere to be rid of you.”
With a nod and a smile, Trenloe spurred Rusticar into a canter until he had caught up with the column’s van. Dame Ragthorn smiled brightly as Trenloe reined in alongside to match her walking gait. The expression took a decade off her face. The armor already appeared to have removed another. “Your dwarf friend is exactly as I pictured her.”
“She is not as bad as she likes to look.”
“And I think that you are one of those people who determined to find only the best in people. Is it that, I wonder, rather than your strength and size, that makes you the hero you are?” When Trenloe simply looked at her, at a loss for words, she laughed. “Relax, Trenloe! I’m second cousin to a baron. Not a dragon.”
“I think I might be more at ease with the dragon.”
Grinning, Dame Ragthorn looked ahead, enthusiastically pointing out every sluggish rill or still pond that caught her notice. “A desolate looking isle is she not? But believe it or not, she works as hard towards the defense of the realm as you or I. The only credible ground is that which King Daqan built his castle on. Everything else winds through marshland from ford to ford, and can be remade by a single day’s rain. Only I and a handful of scouts know it well. Still, better to be watchful. Small groups of Uthuk Y’llan are forever looking to sneak across in boats. They tend to hide out in the hollows hereabouts to cause mischief and poach livestock and make the crossing west where the opportunity presents. I’m resigned to the fact that one or two will always slip the net. Fredric knows my needs and as he’s not sent the soldiers I need to meet them, I can only assume that he’s resigned to it as well. He’s a good sort, my cousin. He cares. Kell could do worse, but…” her gaze drifted across the marsh, and she went on, “we used to patrol the island regularly, but, as you know, I have not had the manpower to spend on that kind of exercise in some years. I console myself instead with the knowledge that the western ford is watched far more heavily. The Uthuk may cross in dribs and drabs, but not in any significant number and… Remind me, Trenloe, what was I saying?”
Trenloe smiled. “Be watchful.”
“Ah, yes. Ironically, the Greyfox and her brigands have probably done more to keep the east clear of Uthuk than General Brant and my cousin.”
“I heard rumors in the Downs that the Uthuk could be behind the Bandit Queen somehow.”
“Pish. Every spy and whisper I have says that the Greyfox is nothing more than a common girl from the Downs. Or was. Before she decided to make herself a queen. I could believe a lot of a young woman like that. Damn, I would like to meet her. But this is Kell, Trenloe. That might not mean a lot to you, free man of the south that you are, but we live every day with the Ru on our doorstep. You only have to face east and feel the danger on the wind. Even the light tastes differently at dawn. Believe me. No man or woman of my land would ever ally with the Uthuk. It’s unthinkable.”
Trenloe nodded.
“You’re a clever man, Trenloe. If you did not delegate all your dealings to Dremmin then you might surprise yourself.”
“I prefer to keep to myself, my lady.”
Dame Ragthorn regarded him slyly. Trenloe felt himself squirm. He was well accustomed to being the center of attention, but it was generally a case of folk wanting to stand back to back and measure themselves against him, feel his muscles in extreme cases, or ask him to lift or bend something. Dame Ragthorn’s determination to find something of deeper worth was unsettling.
“We’ll see,” she said at length.
Trenloe changed the subject. “How long has it been since you last heard from the garrison at the ford?”
“About six weeks.” Trenloe looked sharply at that, but Marya waved away his concern. “No news is not ill news, I assure you. We may not have soldiers to spare riding needless messages back and forth, but some of my fastest horses are stabled at the garrison, and the warning beacon burns brightly enough that you could see it at noon through the thickest fog.”
After a time, even Dame Ragthorn ran out of geography to talk about or past battlegrounds to draw attention to and the ride lapsed into silence.
As the day matured, the sun continued to peel away at the fog, leaving the copses looking spindly and denuded, but far less otherworldly than they had appeared at the ride’s outset. For a moment, Trenloe even fancied himself warm, and a discernable picnic mood came over the company. Warriors began to talk quietly amongst themselves, and after a while Corporal Bethan struck up her zither and sang “The Host of Thorns” twice through. Trenloe did not know if there was any genuine bardic magic in her, the very nature of it made it difficult to be certain, but, if nothing else, Bethan was at least exceptionally good. By the end of her second rendition even Dremmin was humming tunelessly from further down the column.
Trenloe turned in the saddle to see this miracle for himself, just as the dwarf paused, squinting into the fog where it still lay thick over the east. She rode ahead to join Trenloe. “There’s something up there.”
Dame Ragthorn leant aside from Trenloe to confer with Marns and one of her scouts. “You have a keen eye in fog. If ever you wish for a permanent commission as a Hernfar ranger, I will make you a generous offer.” The dwarf growled something without translation, and the woman went on. “That is the eastern watch fort that you have seen. We call it Spurn.”
“An endearing name,” said Dremmin.
“It has high walls, a thick gate, and a good hearth. There are worse places east of here to spend a season.”
Dremmin grunted something to the effect that she could imagine it well and would not wish to overnight in any of those either, but otherwise showed sterling restraint.
Trenloe was proud of her.
“Herald!” Dame Ragthorn called, and a liveried soldier who had been paying Bethan special attention sat straighter in the saddle. “Announce us.”
The soldier put his curling brass horn to his lips and blew. The long note lingered in the heavy fog. Trenloe waited for the answering hail.
He waited.
Nothing.
The horses walked stolidly on.
Trenloe shared a worried look with Dremmin.
“What did I tell you?” said Dame Ragthorn, seeming less concerned than embarrassed. “Excellent fighters and appalling soldiers. They’ll be drunk and passed out in front of the hearth, I shouldn’t wonder. Everything will look brighter once we are closer.”