Authors: Brian Fuller
“May I ask why?” Gen said. “It seems it would be better if I were on the wagon.”
“You will still be close to the wagon and in some ways better prepared to protect the Chalaine. A man on a horse has the advantage over one on foot, as you well know.”
Gen nodded in deference. “As you wish, Highness.”
The rest of the preparations were finished in a chaotic rush, people running in all directions and shouting reminders and instructions to each other. A cadre of squires fitted Gen into the new armor Chertanne had commissioned. The silver breastplate, arm and leg greaves, and pauldrons were burnished to a high shine, each decorated with golden filigree. The breastplate bore the symbols of the lioness and the rose, devices of the First Mother and the Chalaine. Black leather gloves, sword belt, and scabbard completed the ensemble. Gen had ordered the armor fashioned as light as possible, wanting to retain the advantage of speed, and he pulled his brown hair behind him, securing it with a leather thong to keep it out of his eyes.
The First Mother watched him approach and mount Crescent with a pleasantly speculative smile on her face. Gen tried to ignore it. Fenna returned just as the Chalaine was about to despair of her arrival. Gen smiled at Fenna from atop Crescent, and she winked in return as she climbed inside the carriage. Jaron locked her and the Chalaine in before climbing up to sit on a small platform fashioned on top of the wagon for the Protectors. Gen nudged Crescent over by the First Mother as men opened the rear doors of the building, a large train of wagons pulling up from behind.
“What kind of protection has been arranged for Chertanne?” Gen inquired of Mirelle over the din.
“Nothing extraordinary. He will be surrounded by a detail of his soldiers. That is all. It has always been felt that the Ha’Ulrich should not be hidden, as it would make him appear weak and fearful.”
“Who won the argument over which nation’s soldiers will be in the vanguard?”
“We did,” said Mirelle. “Regent Ogbith is in command of the train. Our soldiers and our flag will march at the front. As a compromise, Chertanne and his colors will be the vanguard on the return journey. Of course, at that point there will not be a separate kingdom called Rhugoth. Speaking of Regent Ogbith, he told me of your idea for traveling to Elde Luri Mora. Do you really think this caravan is a bad idea?”
“I do,” Gen opined. “While the scouts have returned little notice of danger, a lumbering caravan is slow to move and easy to find. I recognize that the people need ceremony, but what wisdom I have tells me a small group should have left in the middle of the night two weeks ago and let the caravan follow as bait.”
“And what did Harrick say to that?”
“That I was too young to know anything about such matters.”
“Did you tell Maewen of your plan?”
“No.”
“She suggested much the same. It worries me that you both agree on this point.”
The First Mother frowned pensively until the building’s front doors swung open. The driver of the Chalaine’s wagons, a weathered horsemaster named Ulney, urged the horses forward, and the wagon emerged into the sunlight. It took nearly half an hour to get the caravan situated in the castle courtyard. Rhugothian horse soldiers, two hundred and fifty strong, led the procession, though Chertanne’s smaller company of soldiers came directly after, in front of the Chalaine. The full complement of Aughmerian soldiers brought up the rear after the supply wagons, a formidably equipped horse regiment dressed in red with burnished bronze breastplates.
“Gen? I mean, Lord Blackshire?” Gen turned to see Marna at his stirrup, the plump cook flushed from exertion.
“Marna.” Gen grinned. “It is good to see you.”
“I’ve barely caught ya, but I wanted to give ya something afore you left. I know the food they pack can wear on the tongue a bit, so I baked you this to give you a bit of sweetness when the meals get dull.” She handed him a loaf of sweetbread wrapped in a light cloth. It smelled delicious and was still warm from the oven. “The crust’ll get hard, but the rest will keep if you don’t leave it uncovered!”
“Thank you, Marna!” Gen said. “You are most thoughtful and kind.”
“You’re welcome, sir. All of us in the kitchen love you! Take good care of yourself and the Chalaine and remember us when you come into your own at Blackshire. Some of us have always wanted to live in the country!”
“No you don’t, Marna!” the First Mother said, leaning over. “You will not escape my kitchens that easily! Gen deserves whatever we can give him, to be sure. But he shall not have my cook!”
Marna curtsied. “As you wish, your Grace.”
“Farewell, Marna!” said Gen. Marna waved and walked away toward the castle.
“You will be sharing that, of course,” Mirelle said. “It smells lovely.”
Gen placed the bread in a saddlebag. “Share what, your Grace?”
“Don’t toy with me, Lord Blackshire. If you don’t share, I will let it drop within Padra Athan’s hearing that you taught my daughter to cheat at cards. She needs a bit more practice, by the way.”
At last the castle gates swung open, an enormous crowd of onlookers, barely checked by guards, thronged about the caravan clapping and shouting as Regent Ogbith led the long line of soldiers out. Gen shook his head at the folly of driving the Chalaine through a mob of people. Settling himself, he concentrated on sharpening his senses, taking in everything around him. Only when he passed through the castle gates did he realize the enormity of the danger.
More people than he had ever seen in his life crammed the streets and buildings to overflowing. Swarms of celebrants milled about the alleys, windows, and rooftops, all festive and carefree. The noise rose and fell in waves. Festive bunting hung from rooftops and windows, and performers were everywhere, singing, juggling, and blowing fire. Merchants sold every kind of trinket imaginable, from moon medallions and wooden shakers filled with pebbles to kites, beaded bracelets, and carved replicas of the luminary personalities of the caravan. Little boys held up small wooden Gens as he rode by, many sporting wooden swords at their sides.
As Chertanne and the Chalaine passed, great shouts of adoration rose, but Gen was surprised when he found his name chanted in company with “Long live the First Mother!” Young ladies from every walk of life waved sashes at him, leaning forward so that he might grab them if he would. Gen ignored them, keeping his eyes forward. Mirelle leaned close.
“You see that there is plenty of womanhood left for you,” she yelled. “You might want to wave or salute.”
The ebullient crowd swirled about them, but Gen didn’t dare let himself get distracted. His eyes roved everywhere. He hoped the Chalaine had enough sense to stay away from the windows of the wagon. As it was, the guards could not keep the onlookers from crowding the road, and the people seemed to take it as an honor to touch the wagon as it rumbled by. The mob forced them to stop several times to wait as soldiers roughly cleared the way.
Once they turned and left the city center, Gen hoped the situation would improve. Instead, he found the broad road leading east just as thick with people. As they crept slowly forward along the lane, Gen felt increasingly uneasy. The buildings here were lower and the crowd more rural. He caught sight of more than one bow among the crowd, along with the occasional spear and club. Beer and ale flowed freely from taverns lining the way, and drunken revelers reeled about, yelling in slurred voices. A commotion in the street brought the caravan to a halt.
“It will take us the better part of the day just to leave Mikmir at this rate,” Cadaen shouted from where he rode just behind Mirelle. “The mob grows more unruly.”
As the First Mother turned to address her Protector, Gen caught movement on the rooftop on her side of the street. Someone fell from the roof of a nearby house, hitting the ground with a thud. A similar sound on the opposite side of the street let him know that someone else had fallen. People screamed, and Gen snapped his eyes up to the roof. A man drew his bow and fired from the position vacated by the victim of his shove.
Grabbing the First Mother’s shoulder, Gen pushed her backward. She flailed, and the arrow passed inches in front of her face before sinking into Crescent’s flanks. Gen knew another arrow was coming from the opposite direction but could do nothing as Crescent reared in pain. Gen heard the second arrow impact the horse’s shoulder, and he threw himself from the saddle before the floundering horse could fall and crush him. His head hit the stones and his vision blurred for a moment. The people shied away as he threw off his disorientation and jumped to his feet. Drawing his sword, he scanned the rooftops. The men had vanished.
“Gen!” Cadaen yelled to him as he helped a pale Mirelle from the saddle and toward the wagon. “Unlock it!”
Gen sprinted to the wagon as the rest of the Dark Guard rode forward and surrounded them, swords at the ready, eyes darting about. Mirelle was visibly shaken. Cadaen practically threw her inside the wagon with her daughter, pulling himself in after and closing the door. Gen ran back to Crescent, finding him dead, two arrows protruding from his flesh.
Poisoned,
Gen reasoned.
Working quickly, he pulled the shafts from the horse for evidence. By the time he had finished, Regent Ogbith, Ethris, and a large contingent of soldiers had pushed the people roughly away from the scene, curses filling the air from both sides of the altercation.
“What happened, Gen?” the Regent asked. As Gen told the story, Geoff came forward and dismounted. In moments he pulled his book, quill, and ink bottle from his leather bag and began writing, balancing the ink bottle on the opposite page as he wrote. Harrick ordered that a message be sent back to his son, the acting Warden of Mikmir, and that the two arrows be taken as well as descriptions of the men. Before the messenger could leave, Maewen arrived, bow in her hand, and asked to inspect the arrows.
“Do you think the other arrow was meant for you or the First Mother?” Regent Ogbith asked.
“It is difficult to tell,” Gen replied, “though I would wager it was for me. From the angle, it would have either hit me in the head or the First Mother in the side or leg. You may wish to inspect the horse. The arrows appear unremarkable, but any poison that can kill a horse that quickly would be rare. It was likely silverberry, dead thorn, or elver weed. None of them are easy to make. Was anyone else targeted?”
“I have not heard from the Aughmerians," reported Regent Ogbith, "but no one else from Rhugoth. Have you heard anything, Maewen?”
“No.”
“Very well,” said the Regent. “We need to get out of the city as quickly as we can. Let me have a few words with the First Mother, Jaron?”
As Regent Ogbith spoke to Mirelle through the bars, Maewen probed the horse’s wounds. Gen watched her, wondering what Samian would think.
“Dead thorn,” she said in Elvish.
“The wound turns black, then?” Gen asked in her language.
“You know your poisons as well as your Elvish,” she said, standing and regarding him gravely. “Yes. The wound turns black. It still could be something else, or a combination of things. This whole caravan idea is folly,” she said, fuming as she stalked back toward the head of the caravan.
Retrieving Marna’s gift from the saddle bags and thanking Eldaloth that the horse hadn’t fallen the other way, Gen waited until Regent Ogbith was finished before climbing up to join Jaron. Mirelle was assuring her daughter that everything would be fine.
“A quick piece of work there, Gen,” Jaron said as the caravan began moving again. “Cadaen owes you a debt. If the First Mother were hurt or killed on his watch, I don’t think he would forgive himself. At this rate, you will be a rich man when the time comes to call in favors.”
The caravan moved much more quickly afterward, the soldiers guarding the route brooking no interruptions or worshipful surges toward the Ha’Ulrich or the Chalaine. The Dark Guard remained in formation around the wagon, Captain Tolbrook unapologetically ordering them to attack anyone who got close.
At length—and to everyone’s relief—they passed out of the city and into the countryside. Their caravan was followed by another of equal or greater numbers. Provision wagons stretched back as far as his eye could see, and as they passed by less populated roads, others fell into the line, having assembled beforehand, prepared to follow the Ha’Ulrich and the Chalaine to Elde Luri Mora.
“Regent Ogbith won’t like this,” Gen said. “We can’t protect all these people.”
“He won’t protect them,” Jaron said. “He knew this would happen and had an announcement taken to the merchants and outfitting companies within the city. I doubt most of them have any idea what the road will be like. I don’t like the mercenary rabble they bring, either. Anyone could be in that caravan. After the assassination attempt, Regent Ogbith may order the Portal to Shroud Lake closed to everyone but those in this caravan.”
As the numbers of people on the side of the road dwindled and civilization gave way to open plain, Gen relaxed. The day was cloudless, bright, and warm. A stiff but soothing breeze blew in the smell of grasses and wildflowers, dissipating the dust from the passing of the horses. Sometime before the sun fell, they would arrive at the Pearl Bridge that spanned two large shard sections. They would camp before crossing. The journey to the Shroud Lake Portal in Three Willow would take a week.
“You had best get your rest,” Jaron said. “You will need to be sharp tonight. There’s no telling what kind of people are tagging along in those wagons behind us. You might want to get your forehead looked at.”