Angus Wells - The Kingdoms 03 (54 page)

 
          
“It
seems peaceable enough,” Tepshen allowed.

 
          
“Do
we approach?” Brannoc wondered.

 
          
“Without
bows we have little other chance of eating,” Kedryn replied. “I think we must
venture it.”

 
          
“But
wary,” cautioned Tepshen. “Normal though it seems
,
we
are still within the realms of the netherworld.”

 
          
Kedryn
could smell the apples hanging from the well-tended trees that flanked one wall
and their scent aroused pangs of hunger in his belly. ‘The ant-creatures were
helpful enough,” he suggested. “Mayhap we shall find allies here, too.”

 
          
"The
ant-creatures delivered us to the domain of the spiders,” Tepshen reminded him.
“Mayhap they knew what they did.”

 
          
“It
seems,” said Brannoc, “that we have a choice between seeking the hospitality of
this hold and stealing apples. I say that we take the gamble.”

 
          
“Aye.”
Kedryn motioned to the wide track leading to the
gates. It was rutted and marked with the imprints of numerous feet. “It would
appear we have come upon some populated region, and to remain undetected must
surely be difficult. Let us approach.”

 
          
“So
be it,” nodded Tepshen, “but with caution.”

 
          
“As you say.”

 
          
Kedryn
stepped out from the trees, splashing across the stream with his comrades close
behind. The cry of alarm he had anticipated failed to materialize and they
reached the gates unchallenged, pausing within the shadow of the barbican.

 
          
The
courtyard had the appearance of some Tamurin hold, save that the folk he saw
wore costumes more fanciful than any of the Kingdoms, though in all other
aspects they seemed ordinary enough. Women in bright gowns of exotic cut, with
ornate snoods retaining even more elaborate coiffures, mingled with men dressed
in brilliant tunics and gaily patterned breeks. None bore arms and there were
no soldiers among them, lending the yard a semblance to some market square or
gala. A hay wain stood beside a well at the center of the yard, a minstrel
perched on the seat, plucking a tune from a many-stringed instrument in
accompaniment to his melodious baritone, and a knot of the brightly dressed
folk stood listening attentively. More wandered the yard in conversation, or
sat on wooden benches, supping from pewter tankards that were regularly
refilled by servitors in costumes only marginally less fanciful than those worn
by the drinkers.

 
          
None
saw the watching trio and after a while Kedryn stepped from the barbican’s shadow
into the sunlight of the courtyard, instinctively studying their surroundings
for sign of danger or routes of escape.

 
          
The
yard was a square contained by the curtains of the walls, a colonnaded walkway
running around the lower level, broken in five places by the stone stairways
that rose to the battlements and the postern. The walls were thick, containing
the chambers of the hold, which sported balconies and windows from which more
folk hung, calling to those below. None appeared to see the newcomers and
Kedryn walked toward a group of four men lounging about a table, tankards in
hands.

 
          
They
paid him no attention until he spoke, and then it was casual, as if the
appearance of three gaunt men, travel-stained and weary, was of no great
moment.

 
          
“Good
day,” he said, “might three strangers find welcome here?”

 
          
The
four men studied him with easy smiles, then -one, pale hair flowing in long
curls from beneath a scarlet cap decorated with an emerald feather, shrugged
shoulders decked in yellow and black and said, “Of course. Are we not all
strangers at one time or another?”

 
          
A
second, legs clad in harlequin breeks of red and white thrust out, motioned
with his tankard and said, “Sit, strangers. Join us in a flask of this good
ale.”

 
          
They
shifted on their benches, making room, and the three sat, still wary, as
tankards brimming with foam were brought. They sipped cautiously, unwilling to
let the ale take possession of their senses.

 
          
“Why
do you bear arms?” inquired a man dressed in a cerulean tunic cut with slashes
of jade, his breeks crimson and gold.

 
          
“It
is our custom,” Kedryn replied, wondering why they laughed at his response.

 
          
“It
was our custom once, Jerrold,” remarked another, his dress a riot of green,
scarlet, yellow, silver, and sable. “Do you not remember?”

 
          
“That
was so long ago,” smiled Jerrold, “and it has been so long since any found
their way here.”

 
          
“Where
is here?” asked Kedryn.

 
          
“Here?”
Jerrold’s smile grew broader, as though the question occasioned considerable
amusement. “Why, here is Lord Taron’s hold; the finest in all Magoria.”

 
          
“Magoria?”
frowned
Kedryn.

 
          
“You
are confused,” said the man in the scarlet cap, his feather nodding as his head
moved. “From whence do you come? Are you fallen heroes? Or was your journey
otherwise?”

 
          
Kedryn
was uncertain what he meant, but he smiled politely and replied, “We have come
from the Beltrevan. We found entry to the netherworld and trekked across a
prairie of orange grass, through mountains filled with vicious spiders, and
latterly across the gray plain that surmounts the slope above this keep.”

 
          
“The
Plain of Desolation,” the man nodded, his feather wagging furiously. “Few
survive that journey. Fewer still who travel in company.”

 
          
“It
was arduous,” Kedryn agreed, “and it has left us mightily hungry.”

 
          
“Forgive
us!” The feather shook as though tossed in a storm. “You will seek sustenance.”

 
          
“And
answers,” Kedryn said.

 
          
“Lord
Taron will doubtless provide both,” the man declared, and clapped his hands to
summon a servant. “Take these wayfarers to Lord Taron on the instant. Inform
him that Marul of Bolden Hold sends them.”

 
          
“My Lords?”
The servant bowed decorously. “Will you
accompany me?”

 
          
“Find
us, after,” suggested Marul as they rose, “and we shall share a tankard or
two.”

 
          
“My
thanks,” Kedryn nodded, and turned to follow the waiting servant.

 
          
Tepshen
and Brannoc fell into step beside him and they crossed the courtyard to a wide
door set beneath the colonnades. Their passage brought them close to many of
the strollers and past the group listening to the minstrel, but it was as if
they were invisible, for few heads turned at their passing and those that did
granted them no more attention than might have been given to an insect buzzing
past on the warm breeze.

 
          
They
paused at the door, on which the servant knocked before throwing it open to
lead them into a spacious chamber with windows at both ends. “Lord Taron,” he
announced, “Marul of Bolden Hold sends you three wayfarers.”

 
          
With
that he bowed and quit the room, leaving them alone with Taron.

 
          
The
chamber was
sunny,
the windows at the farther end
spilling light over a solar partially screened by folding panels of carved
red-golden wood and raised three steps above the main room.

 
          
A
deep voice said, “Come forward, wayfarers,” and they crossed the hall. It was
floored with polished timber, the walls paneled and hung with tapestries, a
great hearth to one side, long tables and benches set in rows as if in
readiness for a banquet. They mounted the steps and found themselves in a
semicircular chamber, deep embrasures occupying most of the walls, the floor
the same rich wood as the main hall, though spread with luxurious carpets. Five
deep chairs, high-backed and studded with brass, were arranged about a low
table on which stood a silver decanter and four glasses. The fifth was held by
the man seated facing them.

 
          
He
was small and bald, his pate gleaming yellow in the sunlight, his round face
hairless save for a short scalplock and the long mustache that trailed waxed
ends far past his jaw, dressed in a gown of black on which stars and crescent
moons glinted silver, drawn in at his waist by a belt of silver links that
stretched it tight over the mound of his paunch. His feet, slippered in black
velvet, were propped on a stool, and he made no move to rise, instead motioning
them to sit.

 
          
They
took the three chairs facing him, Kedryn first removing Drul’s glaive from his
back.

 
          
“You
carry Drul’s blade,” Taron remarked without preamble. “I presume, therefore,
that old ghost of war granted you entry.”

 
          
“He
did,” Kedryn nodded, curbing the impulse to ply the small man with the
questions that boiled on his lips.

 
          
“And
you have crossed the Desolate Plain. Few succeed in that. Few even reach it! I
must assume you heroes as you have obviously survived the kingdom of the
arana.” He clapped his hands, beaming at them. “And who are you, brave
strangers?”

 
          
Kedryn
gave introduction and Taron nodded thoughtfully.

 
          
“You
are hungry?” When Kedryn replied in the affirmative he clapped his hands once,
summoning a servant to whom he issued instructions that food
be
set out in the hall. “Meanwhile some wine?” he suggested. “And questions, I
imagine. Mayhap I can both answer and save time—I am Taron, Lord of this hold
and overlord of Magoria.”

 
          
He
paused, bending forward to fill three goblets with a ruby vintage, sipping his
own before he continued, “Magoria is one of the many realms of the netherworld,
and kinder—as you have doubtless noticed—than others.

 
          
“Perchance
you thought the netherworld a place of desolation and misery, but it is not so.
At least, not in all aspects.
Many are, indeed,
hostile, but others less so, and a few as delightful as my fair domain. Likely,
you thought Ashar lord of all beyond Drul’s gate, but neither is that
so—rather, a balance exists, established by a power greater than Ashar or the
one whose stone I see you wear about your neck, and whose cantrips I perceive
protect your companions.” He raised a hand as Kedryn opened his mouth to voice
a question, stilling it unasked. “There are few in the realms of humankind who
understand this, but even gods are bound by laws, by checks and balances that
hold them to a measure of order incomprehensible to men. It is simpler that men
believe in the basic concepts of good and evil—in Ashar and the Lady, both of
whom
are
real, but
themselves
contained within the cosmic balance.

 
          
“Ergo,
whilst Ashar’s strength waxes he controls greater parts of this world you have
entered, but havens still exist and Magoria is one of them. Should Ashar be
slain,” small eyes that Kedryn noticed were yellow as a cat’s flickered over
Drul’s glaive as he said this, “then more of the netherworld must become
benign. Now I see that food is ready—come, eat, and I shall talk whilst you
revive yourselves.”

 
          
He
rose, gathering the trailing hem of his gown and led die way from die solar to
the hall, where a small feast was prepared, servants standing in readiness.
Kedryn glanced at Tepshen, who shrugged slightly, and at Brannoc, who grinned
quizzically, and followed the dumpy little man to the table.

 
          
The
food was excellent, trout grilled with almonds and bacon, roasted lamb
garnished with rosemary, a soup of leeks, succulent vegetables, rosy apples,
cheese, white bread still warm from the ovens, and they ate heartily,
luxuriating in the comfort after the deprivation of the Desolate Plain.