No Strange Land: Chapter 1
"Not a bad day for it."
"Have you packed the harness and bag like I said?"
"Not like the ride to Leilon last month. We shoulda taken canoes along the roads instead of horses."
"Don't like the state of the surface between the tenth mile post and the start of the pass at Old Owl Well. It's wasn't a highway anymore, last time I was there – more of a paddling pool for orcs and lost cows."
"Got it."
"What about the mosquito nets?"
"Got them."
"You don't want to know what that road up there's going to do to your hind-parts...after I went that way, they were-"
"I don't want to know, you're right, so keep your trap shut, my darling!"
"What about the silk cushions for the Captain? Did you bring them?" Lila came out of her doze on hearing her title, and was puzzled.
"Silk cushions? The Quartermaster didn't say anything about silk cushions."
"Coz he expected you to know, didn't he?"
"And the druid's magic attack rabbits, Luan? Don't tell me you forgot those?" Ah. It was the Baiting Luan game again. She let herself drift off. Her horse was doing the work. Perhaps she could delegate Knight Captaining in its entirety to Sorrel the black mare.
"Yeah. The ones that grow wings and fly at the King of Shadows going, "Kree! Kree! Kree!" like eagles."
"What's lovely Nell doing with us? She's not coming to the ruins, for sure."
"Not likely. She might break a nail."
"Or put her golden locks out of curl, Tyr 'vert the day."
"Who's Nell?" Snorts of illicit laughter.
"So what's happening? Who really is going to the ruins? Am I going?"
"No, fathead, you're going to Highcliff with Sir Casavir."
"Flying attack rabbits? You bastards."
"Had you going for a while there, didn't we?"
"Was any of it true?"
"Nope."
Lila's attention fell on a scarecrow in the kitchen garden of one of the new farmhouses that Shandra had designed, and whose foundation stone she had laid the previous summer. A broad baldric, red cloak and cap studded with a trail of seven stars suggest the uniform of the Flaming Fist, the half-civil half-mercenary guards of Baldur's Gate. One gauntlet hung loosely from the wooden arm on the right; its twin had fallen off altogether. Despite that, it was a rather debonair scarecrow, inclusive of the frilly underwear that, in a daring fashionable coup, it wore on top of its breeches.
Only in these lands, Lila thought, would armour be so cheap that it could be put out in the rain and wind, where it would fail to intimidate any birds whatsoever. Only in this corner of the world, afflicted by spite of gods and Luskans, open to the mountain tribes and the westerly storms, would the inhabitants rejoice in pillorying a representative of Neverwinter's single reliable ally. But then, old rivalries on the Sword Coast never die, they simply become pantomime.
A trumpet blew a complicated sequence of blasts in a major key. The straggling company had been spotted by the lookout at the watch tower near the crossroads from which the keep took its name. She hummed the notes of the call to herself, enjoying their crooked melody. Really, it was a pleasant little tune. A pity she had no idea precisely what it meant. The Grey Cloaks had over a thousand trumpet calls, and many of them dated back centuries – a few, they claimed, originated during the Illefarn Empire. She had once suggested to General Callum that at most twenty were really necessary, and wouldn't it be more economical to train his soldiers to fight rather than to blow raspberries of wonderful accuracy into beaten silver tubes? He had given her a measured look. 'You're not a bad lass and you can handle yourself well enough in a set-to," he'd said. "But you're not military in here." He'd tapped his chest. "So you leave the soldiering to me, and I'll leave you the fireworks and glory."
She was looking around for someone to bother about trumpet signals, when a pale hand appeared on her horse's bridle, presumably readied to give it a wrench if the human burden in the saddle said the wrong thing. "A moment of your time, 'Knight Captain'."
"Good morning, Ammon." If he was bothering with irony, his temper must have improved since last night.
"Are you still resolved to lead this mission?"
"Yep." She kept her eyes on the twitching ears of her horse, while Ammon kept his hand on the creature's cheek piece. They were both mounted on placid mares as usual, and no doubt to the despair of Neeshka, who, with the aid of a piece of charcoal and a linen napkin, had developed a Theory of Horsiness in the tavern one evening. According to the theory, every person chose the steed that would most accord with their desired persona. Thus Kana rode an elegant bay, which was haughtily indifferent to flies, the weather and the clash of arms; Elanee perched bareback on a half-wild chestnut pony; Casavir and Khelgar had both chosen geldings, though Khelgar's stood over a hand taller, and preferred jumping fences to waiting for the gate to be opened. Most subject to discussion and smirks – potentially libellous smirks, in Neeshka's case- was Prince, a swingingly uncut stallion with a high neck, hot temper, and a disapproving expression it that had learnt from its owner, Sir Nevalle, the present from His Highness the Lord Protector of Neverwinter His Grace the Lord Nasher that no one wanted.
Ammon nudged his horse, which should have been a dragon, into a trot and circled Lila, so that he was riding on her right side and was at liberty to direct his remarks away from the ears of the troop, and straight into Lila's.
"You should reconsider," he said flatly. She opened her mouth to argue. "- But clearly you're set on this foolish course -"
"-it's not foolish -" she hissed back to him. "I've told you why it should be me – you admitted the reasons are valid -"
"I did nothing of the sort. What I recall saying is that those reasons of yours might appear valid to a naive barmaid with a limited flair for playing the hero. Send Casavir. Or Khelgar. Better, send both, and it will keep them usefully occupied and out of my way. Or ask me."
"Ask?" Lila raised an eyebrow.
"What?"
She sighed. No point trying to have two arguments with him at the same time. "Never mind. But listen, if I shouldn't go, then neither should you. Without you the ritual won't work, anymore than if I don't come back." She felt her palms prickle in discomfort. By now, she should have accustomed herself to speaking about the outcome she was most keen to avoid; still, the most basic reflexes of her body wouldn't go along with the lie of serenity. "Besides," she said in a tone of practised lightness, "I've completed far more dangerous tasks. Fought demons. Fought shadows. Fought you. And I've never yet failed to get back safely, and make sure my friends do as well – except once. There was this one time I couldn't bring them all back."
She held her breath, rather hoping that he'd let rip. Instead, he let go of his hold on Lila's horse, and stared straight ahead at the horizon. A muscle flickering near his left temple was his only response for several moments.
Lila rubbed her horse's flank. Despite his ruthlessness, paranoia and questionable taste in body art, he was occasionally capable of showing a strange kind of grace that she half-envied, half-pitied. She waited till he made eye contact again.
"I'm not here to fight with you, Farlong. You've clearly made up your mind already – or had it made up for you by the zerth priestess-"
"-Ammon-"
"- and you need to be aware of the risks. His power is growing everyday. The last time you travelled to those ruins was a year ago or more – you must be on your guard. If you drop it – if you become complacent, even for a short time - then there will not be a second chance."
"I'm not sure that terrifying me before I properly start helps. It's thirty miles, most of it on the main road to Old Owl Well." She remembered the arena gates closing behind her, locking her into a trap in which Lorne Starling waited, falchion drawn, as trapped as her and determined to find an escape through her death. Just one mistake... "I will be vigilant. But there are limits to how much I can focus on invisible, undetectable enemies that might be lurking behind the next tree, or might be a hundred miles away in the Mere."
"Our enemy has not confined himself to his territory in the Merdelain for some considerable time. And you will know if you're sufficiently watchful – because you'll still be alive. Now pay attention and remember what I tell you, since I do not care to repeat myself: the King and his forces are most powerful at dawn and dusk. Travel for you is thus safest at night and in day when the sun is high in the sky. Don't light any fires unless you plan on using a flaming torch as a weapon. Otherwise eat your food cold and tell your men to sleep in their cloaks, if they must sleep. Stay away from the outskirts of forests where mixed light and shade cover the floor, and walk on the northern sides of hills. Avoid the southern. And keep away from ruins."
"The entire point of this mission is to visit the biggest fucking group of ruins between the sea and the mountains!" She felt balanced on the point of a pyramid, whose base was formed by laughter, exasperation and – yes, there it was, her old friend – fear.
"Which is why you must not linger for longer than absolutely necessary. And – though no doubt it could not have escaped the notice of such a true hero as yourself – the hills and valleys between you and your target were Illefarn heartlands once too. The whole area is pock-marked with grottoes, towers and old trading roads that date from that era. You don't know about them, Lila, but I assure you – they know about you."
He fell silent.
Rue for her earlier behaviour stung her conscience. She reached out and stopped a little short of touching his white wrist. His skin seemed almost transparent seen against his horse's dull coat. "I will remember. Thank you."
His eyes narrowed. "Keep your thanks. And try not to die on a fool's errand." He pulled his horse around abruptly, and cantered back towards the gates of the Keep. As soon as he was gone, she regretting not inviting him to join the party. He was staying behind to work on the castle's defences, along with Grobnar, Sand, Khelgar, and the acting deputy Knight Captain – since Kana was of the opinion that Crossroad Keep needed an official leader at all times apart from her, and no one dared argue with Kana. Though Neeshka might not be quite who the seneschal had expected.
She looked back over her shoulder at the familiar bend in the road that led up to the Keep's plateau, and at Ammon Jerro about to disappear round it. His horse slowed as it approached the pot holes and rocks that had been causing problems on that section of the track since the spring rains; she saw Ammon straighten his back, adjust his position in the saddle, pull on the reins. And, losing sight of him, in the same moment she saw another rider trot into view. Armoured from head to toe, the only clues to the rider's identity were the blonde strands of hair lying unevenly on the gorget, and the feminine set of the hips. Lila's pulse accelerated, then slowed, and she admonished herself, "It's just Katriona. There're no ghosts in my army."
But what was Katriona doing out here? As far as Lila could recall, Katriona was supposed to be busied with refining the ability of the latest gaggle of juvenile cadets to point a crossbow in the right direction. Well, she would find out soon.
The front of the troop, with Sir Nevalle at its head, was already at the crossroads. They reined in their horses. A flurry of movement. Braying and bucking. Nevalle's stallion was annoyed at the halt. It brayed again, and the bray turned into a lunge as it tried to nip the shoulder of a neighbouring gelding. Its master's arm rose and fell sharply; from the back of the procession, the sound of the tanned leather of a riding crop meeting the unworked hide of Prince. The stallion quieted, pacified.
Still, Lila took care to give both knight and mount a wide berth as she set her mare trotting up past the line of freshly-minted cavalry.
"Nice weather for a day at the seaside," she said to Casavir after locating him in the group at the crossroads. "Don't build too many sandcastles while you're at Highcliff," she said, remembering too late that levity just made Casavir depressed, as, in fact, did almost everything under the sun.
"It is, indeed, a pleasant morning," said Casavir, looking like a rainy day at the wrong end of autumn. Poor fellow.
"Sure you've got everything you need?"
"We are amply provisioned, and I have enough men to do a far more difficult task than the one you allotted me. More than enough, truth be told." He hesitated. Lila was fairly sure she knew what was coming. "Zhjaeve is fully capable of overseeing the safe migration of the lizard folk to the Keep." She looked around, noting the gith's absence, before it dawned on her that the priestess would most likely use her powers of teleportation to reach Highcliff. Githezerai didn't approve of equestrianism. The bridles, saddles and bits made the animals look too much like slaves. "I think a better use of my abilities would be to support you in your mission. Zhjaeve agrees – would prefer you to stay at Crossroad Keep, in fact."
That meant that Zhjaeve and Ammon for once had a common opinion as well as a common cause. Both would undoubtedly be distressed if they ever learned of it.
"This journey is important," said Lila. "Sand and Aldanon think that even a small fragment of one of the statues could be enough to work with. Imagine if we were able to thread the enchantment through the curtain walls..."
Casavir shook his head. His long eyebrows sank downward like the plunging necks of cormorants. "But why must you...-" he broke off.
"Captain!" It was Katriona. She had taken off her helmet. A scarlet line stood out on her chin. Not a terribly deep scar, it was perhaps the result of an overenthusiastic sword drill. Dramatic, all the same. "At your service." She didn't salute, but gave a clipped nod.
"Katriona!" said Casavir. "I thought you were with the recruits."
"I was. Sergeant Bevil has charge of them at present. I believe they can do without me for a few days, if necessary. Though Bevil is too gentle with them," she said, not disparagingly or humorously, but with flat honesty. "Captain," she said, turning again to Lila, "Please let me go on the mission."
"Casavir was just saying that he had plenty in the way of men..."
"Not with him," she replied, not looking at the paladin. "Let me go with you."
"Well – I already -" began Lila.
"I think this idea has much merit," said Casavir.
"But -"
"And you are short of one person owing to Qara's ill health," Casavir continued. That was true. Qara had been supposed to accompany her to Illefarn, however, the teenager had fallen victim to one of the violent, sudden and unpredictable fits of general unwellness she suffered from whenever asked to do something she didn't want to. Bishop might have been useful too, but was out scouting near the southern edge of the Merdelain.
"I need to get away from the Keep for a while, Lila," the blonde urged. "My strength, my sword arm- they're getting weaker by the day. I can't train recruits if I've forgotten what the world is like beyond the walls..."
Lila tried not to sigh. "Fair enough. You're welcome to join us. No one else is coming, right? You don't have Grobnar hidden in those saddle-bags?" She'd better damn well not have.
Like her former leader, Katriona understood humour, but preferred not to participate in it. "No, Captain. I've packed my own provisions, and know the lands between here and the old Illefarn city better than most. With your permission, I will go and inform the soldiers and Elanee of the change." She paused, and scanned the gathered confusion of infantry on horseback. She seemed almost alarmed. "Where is Elanee? I understood that she would accompany you."
There was no sign of the slight druid. While Elanee could be very discreet, she was rarely actually invisible.
"She left the Keep earlier this morning to visit the Farnhowe woodlands," said Casavir, volunteering the information almost eagerly. "There is a shrine there that is revered by her kind. She said she would be waiting for you at the first milestone."
Katriona nodded in acknowledgement. Briefly, in the gap between one heartbeat and the next, Lila had thought she saw the sergeant's face flicker from blankness into something else. But the moment was gone, and she might have imagined it.
"Glad to hear we haven't lost any more of the group to that deadly midsummer chill of Qara's," said Lila. "I never know when or how it's going to strike. Are you planning to break the journey anywhere?" she asked Casavir. "I don't think the landlord of the Cuckoo's Nest would be happy to find a hundred or so giant talking lizards in his kitchen garden."
"The Cuckoo's Nest has been closed for some time," said Casavir. "The landlord felt it would be prudent to go and stay with relatives in Lantan."
"Ah."
"But I do not expect that a stop will prove necessary. The lizardmen are a hardly folk, and have no more wish to tarry out in the open than I do to encourage them to it."
"Good," said Lila, feeling her words starting to become detached from her mind and emotions, as they often did when speaking to her more rigorously sensible and mature associates. "We can't afford to lose them. Or provoke them into blockading Highcliff again." Not that a blockade would have much effect. All but the most stubborn inhabitants had left. At least the destruction of West Harbour had proved to be an effective scourge for driving the most threatened populations into safer territories. Or, as Ammon would probably have put it, into 'safer' territories. If the lizard tribe were to resume hostilities now, they'd be lucky to find an old woman, a lame sheepdog and a few angry chickens in arms against them.
"You need have no concern. about that. Elanee has taught me about their culture, manners and traditions. I will give them no offence, nor reason to doubt our good faith."
"I know you won't," said Lila. "There's no one I trust to do this more than you." She made an effort to pay Casavir compliments on a fairly regular basis; he had tolerated her sporadically zealous bouts of leadership for almost two years without complaining very often, and without trying to take control of the group, of the castle or of her. Which reminded her...
"Sir Nevalle! Parting is such sweet sorrow."
"I take it that you're ready to go then, Captain?" The knight swivelled himself round in the saddle. He must have decided that it was easier for him to turn a quarter circle than to persuade his horse to do it for him.
"Ready and eager. And I'm sure Lord Nasher will be delighted to learn of the state of the Keep and the garrison. We could repel all the hosts of the upper and lower planes from behind those walls."
Nevalle gave a pale smile. "His Lordship will no doubt rejoice to hear it, but only expects that the walls are sufficiently strong to resist the one army."
"And so they are. Go well, Sir Nevalle. I'm sure that fine horse of yours will have you carried to Neverwinter and back before the geese in the bailey have noticed you're missing." Unkind to bring up the castle's resident gang of bad-tempered geese. One of them once shat on Nevalle's gloriously expensive boots, then tore off a strip from the back of his tunic for good measure. Khelgar still liked to open dinners with a toast to Nipknackers the Goose, while Sand wanted to make it Captain of the Guard.
Nevalle dragged his horse's head round towards the north road, which would join the great High Road after a mile or so. The way was secure enough these days; much more secure than the first time Lila had traversed it. That was several years ago. With his four mounted bodyguards squared around him, he'd be an unattractive target for bandits, and too fast for most of the undead. In response to his waved glove, Lila raised her hand. She fought the reflexive desire to turn the gesture into a flamboyant blown kiss. Sometimes knightly decorum comes with a cost, but she had sworn to herself last year that she would act the part that had been practically thrown at her. The likes of Nevalle wouldn't cause her to fall out of character.
As soon as Sir Nevalle had departed with his escort, it was time to bid adieu to Casavir and his dragoons, newly trained to sit a horse without clamping their thighs to the flanks out of nerves.
"Zhjaeve said something strange to me yesternight," said Casavir. "She said that she did not know your reasons. She feared that your heart did not believe in them."
"Zhjaeve says a lot of strange things."
"But if you listen closely, there is often much of worth in her thoughts. She said that the sword will break again if the heart and mind and soul of the wielder are not in harmony with the blade." She shivered. The thought of the sword breaking terrified her; she couldn't recall the first time it had happened, yet dreamed of it so often that the event was always there somewhere in her head, ready for the curtain to rise on a grim spectacle. Houses burning in the distance. Her mother, dark and long like her, slumped next to the body of her best friend, and between them a baby, crying and crying, a spot of blood on its chest.
She closed her eyes, and opened them again on bright sunshine and blue skies. "Are you thinking of becoming a paladin of Zerthimon?"
"Such paladins cannot exists. But there are many equivalences between the Tyrran faith and the teachings of Zerthimon. That to act well, one must first know yourself, for example." Casavir paused, and frowned. "Where is the sword?"
His eyes darted down to the old sabre that Ammon had lent her from one of his not-very-secret secret weapons stashes. It wasn't the sword that Casavir had in mind. What he was thinking of was a blade that could make poets tongue-tied, a blade hovering between existence and non existence, between one dimension and another. Shadows melted away in its presence; humans too were easy prey. Its wielder need have no fear of man, or beast, or monster. "Ah, yes. The Sword. I'm leaving it behind."
"..."
"It's in safe hands."
"Did you give the sword to Neeshka?" Casavir really thought she might have given the Silver Sword of Gith to Neeshka. Lila was all for offering her friend a chance to prove herself, and demonstrating her trust and belief in her abilities, but she knew where to draw the line.
"Oh no. No." She bit her lip. The part of her that didn't much like Knight Captaining was giggling madly behind a closed door in her brain. "It's in metaphorical hands, in fact. In a closet. A real closet with a lock."
"..you must wield it soon, Lila."
"It's not a weapon suited for every day wear."
"Perhaps not for me, or for the others, but the piece of it lodged in you has made it yours."
"It's the piece of it lodged in me that makes me reluctant to wield it." Lila rubbed her temples, noting that Casavir looked if anything even gloomier than when their conversation started.
"Have you brought your gauntlets at least?"
"I'm not completely insane. They're in my pack." She wasn't strong. The enchanted gauntlets that Grobnar had gifted her helped make up for that. "Anyway, I shall hope to see you in two day's time. With the lizard folk behind you. Behind you in a friendly way, of course."
"I wish you well in your own mission. And please – take no fooli- forgive me – no unnecessary risks. It's not just your life that stands to be lost."
Before Lila could vocalize her surprise at the unpaladinlike parting sentiment, he had turned and trotted away. His little troop fell in behind him.
"That leaves us then." Lila looked back to the thick, familiar walls of the Keep. Her Keep, if only on paper. Perhaps the Gods themselves didn't know how long it would stay hers. She breathed in and out slowly. Not the time to show weakness. "Everyone ready? Did you bring the flying attack rabbits, soldier?" The latter question was addressed to Luan, who had charge of the wagon.
"No, Captain." Luan appeared deeply worried. He was seventeen. Too easy to pick on. It was unfair and, besides, the older men – Chantler, Draygood and another, a grizzled ex-farmer with an eye-patch whose name she couldn't recall – they wouldn't respect her for it, no doubt viewing it as an invasion of their territory.
"Have to manage without, in that case. Got food in those sacks?"
For a moment, he looked panicked. Then his face cleared. He leant right and tapped a sack that was bulky with promise. "Oh yes, Captain."
"Good!" He beamed, then swayed as he lost his balance on the narrow driver's seat. Chantler grabbed his arm and held him upright. Gods, have pity on us.
"No more of this hanging about then," she said, and hoped very much that she sounded bolder than she felt. "Let's be off." And she walked Sorrel round to the west, and nudged and clapped her into what was almost a gallop. The last few years might have considerably sapped her adventure lust, but on a fair summer's morning atop a reliable horse, and with at least five miles of well-surfaced road ahead, the misgivings, which Ammon and Casavir and almost everyone else had implanted, began to fade. Though the open road might not call to her, it was beginning to whisper. She willed herself to listen.
The air was sweet, and neither chilly nor humid, and blossoming elder trees stood here and there along the road's southern border. A mile further on, and they were crowding down on both sides,with mature birch and ash behind them. Farnhowe. It was the last coppice of southernmost end of the south-eastern leg of Neverwinter Wood.
As she let her horse slow to a trot, the soldiers and Katriona came up around her.
"How far is it to the ruins?" asked Eyepatch.
"Thirty nine miles,"said Katriona without expression.
"And on good roads?" asked Chantler.
"Tolerably good. We follow the Great East Road for around thirty miles, then dive off to the north on a track between two hills, and follow the bank of a stream for the remaining distance. We should be back at the Keep in time for dinner tomorrow." Although her voice showed no warmth, she did smile faintly as the soldiers cheered.
"Sounds like my kind of expedition." Chantler took a dim view of special missions, and never bothered to hide it.
"All you ever want to do is have dinner, Chants," said an unknown with curly red hair. Lila wondered how to find out his name without revealing that she didn't know it already.
"Can't fight a battle on an empty stomach. Didn't someone famous say that?"
"You do, Chantler – every single day," said Lila.
"Ah, but I'm not famous."
"Nonsense" she said. "Every cook in the Keep's kitchens has your face in their memory. You're a living legend in the pantry of every inn between Highcliff and Neverwinter."
"It's that way with words that made Nasher drop that blue tunic over your head for sure. 'Living Legend'. You're making me blush, lassie."
"Captain," correct Katriona, speaking crisply with the effect that everyone in the group heard her admonishment. "Her title is Captain."
Lila felt the focus of ten pairs of eyes solidifying on her back. She gripped the reins hard. Katriona was just doing her job, in her own colossally tactless, badly-timed way. And she couldn't side with the men in preference to her sergeant over something trivial like this. She kept silent.
"Yes, of course, sergeant. My apologies, Captain."
Lila nodded. Chantler didn't make eye contact. Both she and Katriona were barely half his age.
No one spoke, and the remainder of the journey to the first milestone was unrelieved by chatter amongst the soldiers. At least there was birdsong. Not the strange hoots and wheets and ghostly sighs of the creatures from her reed-and-willow homeland, nor the wailing of the seagulls above her uncle's tavern in Neverwinter's docks district, but the songs birds should sing, which travellers spoke about with longing. Scales and whistles, bubbling and peeling notes and melodies, whose singers perched just out of sight in the highest branches.
The first milestone came and went. Then the second milestone.
On either side of them, the forest pressed in. When she had visited the working party near this spot last year with Shandra, she'd watched two men sawing through the trunk of a ten foot birch that had seemingly forced its way up through the remains of a layer of gravel, and through fragments of paving stone. Now the road formed a reassuringly clear line between the walls of fluttering green and white, and was filled with the sweet odours of elder blossom, and the less sweet yet still pleasant smell of horse, leather and mail.
"Elanee should be here by now," said Katriona. The sergeant had wanted to stop at the first milestone, and been overruled. Elanee was unlikely to have got into serious trouble on such familiar ground. The druid would show up when she wanted to show up.
"So, Knight Captain," said the anonymous Eyepatch, "why are we going out there again? Her Grace the Seneschal said you'd been there before and got what you wanted. And that's what they say in the barracks too, so I reckon there's truth in it."
She glanced at him. He reminded her a little of Bishop. A Bishop who'd lost his right eye, and gained twenty-five years and a level of equanimity in return. "It is truth. We went there last summer to acquire the ritual of purification."
"The what of what?"
Oh. She'd forgotten that no one outside of her associates and Lord Nasher's council had been kept abreast of developments. By now the garrison probably had some strange ideas about how she passed the time. Hopefully they thought she wrestled the King of Shadows every morning and afternoon. It would nicely complement the rumour about her being the re-embodied spirit of Lord Halueth, the founder of Neverwinter. She liked that one. Sometimes she charmed her eyes to glow an otherworldly blue just to give it legs.
"The ritual of purification..." she said, hesitating over how much to tell him, for the story was a long one, and she could never quite settle on the best starting point,"...was a kind of enchantment designed to give special powers to the person who completed it. The ritual was divided into five parts, and the parts were interwoven into the fabric of five statues. The magicians of the Illefarn Empire created it long ago when they realized the Guardian would return."
She registered the incomprehension on his face.
"We call him the King of Shadows. He was human, once. Some say from Netheril. He volunteered to have his identity destroyed as the first stage in a spell that would turn him into the all-powerful Guardian of the Illefarn. The spell worked, and Illefarn was safe – for a while. Then he drew on the shadow plane for power when the Weave failed, and the Guardian became the King of Shadows. The Illefarn attacked him – from fear or guilt, I don't know – and were broken. And that's why we're in this mess, and on a two day trek to the middle of nowhere.
"Jerro and me – we completed the ritual last year. Our enemies broke the statues after that, but Sand and Aldanon think that if we can get hold of some fragments we might be able to learn something about how the enchantment was woven. It could help the Keep defences."
Eyepatch's look of incomprehension started to diminish. "So the King of Shadows isn't a demon prince summoned by Luskan to destroy Neverwinter?"
"No. He'd like to destroy Luskan too. Unfortunately, Neverwinter is between him and the Luskans, so we can't just leave him to it."
Eyepatch was chewing his lower lip and frowning. It was a lot of information to absorb at once. She really should brief the garrison properly when she got back to Crossroad Keep. Assuming that someone else was doing it had been a mistake. Someone else had clearly assumed that she was briefing them. "You all really think he's a demon prince from Luskan?"
"Not all of us, Captain," Chantler interjected. "I was told it was a kind of dark spirit of revenge, come back to punish us for what happened to Aribeth and the Hero of Neverwinter, saving your presence, Captain. The last one."
Lila gave a carefully exaggerated shudder. "Urgh. That's worse than the reality of the threat. Still, whatever he is, demon or wildman, spirit or pirate, shadow or scarecrow – he's for us to fight and for us to make rue the day he woke up now, and not a hundred years from now – when we may not be as handy with a sword as formerly." As inspiring speeches went, it wasn't one of her best. But it had the virtue of being short. She had listened to a great number of inspiring speeches over the last year, and had quickly concluded that the majority of speakers were only capable of inspiring a kind of numb torpor.
"Don't know about you, Cap -" he shot a look in Katriona's direction "-tain, but if I make it through the next big battle, I'm sticking my sword in the earth and training sweet peas around the hilt."
"Really? Why sweet peas?"
"Coz I pray for sweet peace in Neverwinter every day."
She groaned. "That's a terrible, terrible joke. If you were an officer, I'd have you court martialed on the spot. "
"But you can't, coz I'm not. Can't tell you how many times I've had Lord Nasher on my doorstep begging me to take promotion. But I'll have none of it. I'm a soldier's soldier, Captain."
"Well, soldier's soldier, if you want to grow sweet peas, you can borrow some proper canes from their current role as public servants of Neverwinter in the Keep's potting sheds. We can afford you so much to stop you putting a good sword to waste."
"Aw, that's generous. Makes the last year of carrying your swag up and down the coast seem worthwhile now that I think about it."
"Kana wouldn't let me carry my own loot for fear I ran away with it to start an import-export business in the Moonshaes. You can't take all of the canes, mind you. I want to hold on to some in case I can figure out why Shandra bought so many of the fucking things. You can have the rest if you defeat the King of Shadows for me."
"Har har. You're hilarious, you are. A real jester." One day Lila would find out why Chantler had enlisted. Since asking other Greycloaks had elicited family tragedies that dwarfed her own – Medir, the solemn Cormyrian, possessed one such – she preferred not to make a direct enquiry.
"Shandra? The blonde lass with the temper who planted all those apple trees? Haven't seen her round lately." Lila decided that she'd handed out enough truths that day, and summoned up the usual lie, asking herself as she did so how often now she'd lied for Ammon Jerro. This time, Chantler saved her the bother.
"Holy bleeding Ilmater, man, is that eye-patch just a distraction to stop anyone realizing you're deafer and dumber and stupider than a ninety-nine year old bugbear that was raised by Amnish donkeys."
"What?" said Lila.
"What?" said Eyepatch. "First, Amnish aren't stupid. How do you think they got all that money? And second, what's the problem? I was just asking about the girl coz of not having seen her, nothing wrong with that."
"The grandfathers of the Amnish got them their money. This lot now just sit about on their hindmost-parts all day drinking wine, or go to their big parks to hunt sheep with horns stuck on their forehead painted with tiger stripes. And Shandra's dead, poor thing – been dead for almost a year."
Funny how those words, hearing them again though their information was far from new, made some part of her feel raw all over again. Grief or shame, or grief and shame. Whatever it was, it hurt. That name came pierced through with slivers of so many uncomfortable feelings, too fine to pick out individually.
"Why, Chantler, you're a regular encyclopaedia. You could rival Volo," she joked weakly. Eyepatch had fallen silent.
She looked around. The soldiers behind them were listening as one of them – Olly or Rowly or Wally or something like that – recited an old story about the fateful love of an elven warrior for a kobold maiden. The tale had been a well-known one in West Harbour, so much so that she could anticipate each line before it was uttered.
"She smiled at him
Her fangs all pearly white
She looked at him
Her eyes so serpent-bright.
'Oh Ugleg, dear, you are my fair one.
And no other girl but you
Do I so fondly view
My lovely rare one.'"
Lila shook her head, and trotted away to draw level with Katriona, the small and select vanguard of one. Her mood, after the mention of Shandra, felt equal to speaking with her sergeant. She examined the woman anew. White-blonde hair, wide forehead, full lips. An ex-farmer, ex guerilla warrior with a heavy frame.
"No sign of Elanee," the woman said by way of acknowledgement.
"No."
"Perhaps she has encountered trouble."
"I doubt it. So close to home and in these woods? She's in her element."
"Crossroad Keep is not her home."
"It's all she has."
"The druid sees it differently. A monument to human ingenuity such as your Keep can never be a home to her."
"Gnomish ingenuity," said Lila, weighing her current wish to form a better relationship with Katriona against her perennial desire to prickle the flesh of the sombre and grand, a thistle amongst camelias. She opted for the prickles.
"I'm sorry, Captain?"
"Most of the ingenuity when the Keep was first built came from gnomes. Humans just did the grunt work."
"Oh."
They dropped into silence. Conversations with Katriona often tended more towards it than not. The result was that Lila felt an emotion akin to stage-fright seize her whenever she saw Katriona's rounded face approach. She was that most difficult of audiences: one that distrusted laughter.
"Are you angry with me?"
Lila had been scrutinizing the magnificent trunk of an oak that grew like a gnarled old spring out of the northern bank. Now she jerked her head up. "Angry? Why should I be angry?"
"Because I forced my way into this mission – I wasn't properly invited -"
"But I'm glad to have you with us." She wasn't. "I may have not said it at the time – I was just surprised to anyone volunteered. Normally I need to twist people's arms to get them involved in this kind of thing. No prospect of loot for Neeshka, no glory for Khelgar, no – whatever it is Casavir wants – divine approval, perhaps."
"Oh, I think he wants more than that. I'm sure he does. And you do him an injustice, for he asked your permission to go with you more than once."
"He's more effective where he is."
"Yes. But I did not wish to talk of Casavir. I also thought I had angered you because I reprimanded one of the soldiers. Chantler. Tell me, am I wrong?"
There were many winding channels through which Lila could worm her way out of a frank answer. Unfortunately, all of them would make her sound as if she was worming her way out of a frank answer. She hesitated. She might as well have said, 'Yes.'
"I understand your displeasure. When I first joined the fighters up in the mountains by Old Owl Well, we had no ranks. Our leader was a true first among equals, elected by the fighters, each with an equal voice. For a while, everyone was still the best of friends. Ate and drank together, celebrated together, danced together. Then he ordered a party to scout out the enemy positions. All but one were caught. Those who were caught never returned. After that, he stopped drinking with the "lads" and they stopped calling him out to play ball games with them. You can't be friends with people and send them to die. You can't love them and let them risk their lives instead of you."
"What happened to your chief?" A warm breeze blew into Lila's face. She stared up at the pure blue sky, searching for clouds.
"He died a month later in battle against the Bonegnasher clan. And then we chose a new chief, and he fought, and he died too," she said, and added matter-of-factly, "They were both heroes."
"And then?"
"Not long after, Casavir arrived. Our Katalmach. I resigned so that the remains of our band would choose him as leader. They did, and you know the rest."
"What was he like, your first leader?"
"Brave. A terror to his enemies. A balm to the hearts of his soldiers."
"What was his name?"
Katriona's brow creased. "Talim. Or perhaps Talion. Something of the sort."
So much for him then. So much for the undying fame of the martyr. She remembered once how, on an evening of drunken self-pity, she had told Ammon to at least make sure Nevalle spelled her name right on the tasteless fake marble edifice he would no doubt erect in glorious memory, if given half a chance. Then the carnival float would move on to find some other dumb fuck to be hero of Neverwinter.
"I have never sent my men to die."
"Not yet," said Katriona. "Captain."
Silence reinserted itself between the two women. They passed the third milestone. A thrush was perched on its rough crest.
"Finally!" said Lila. "The troupe's all here. Hola, Elanee!"
"Elanee? Where?"
Lila pointed towards the thrush, just as a shaking began to run up and down its delicate feathers, and then, in place of a bird, a russet-haired elf was perched on the moss-covered slab, which looked as ancient as its burden looked young and blossoming.
She waited for the group without looking at them. Her hands lay lightly on the edge of the milestone, seemingly ready to bend and spread once more, to lift her into the air and away.
"We were expecting you earlier," said Katriona.
Elanee shrugged. "You have been in the territory of Crossroad Keep till now and had little need of me. I decided to circle the hilltop and read what the land could tell me. All was still, and peaceful. In truth, as long as your men are careful not to bring the wrath of the local orc tribe down upon us, I foresee few difficulties." She narrowed her eyes. Was that misgiving? Lila found it hard to judge. Few outward signs betrayed Elanee's inner life, if, indeed, she had one. It sometimes seemed plausible that she was really a laurel tree that some priapic god had transformed into the likeness of a beautiful woman, in a change from the usual procedure. "But it could all change between one breath and the next. Such is the way of things."
What an amusing journey this would be, spent wedged between the rock and the hard place, the frying pan and the fire. At least the soldiers were coming along with them, though they seemed to have fallen silent, the better to gawp at Elanee. The elf was an elusive presence at the Keep; most of them had probably never heard her speak.
"Such is the way of things," Lila echoed. "Does that mean I should have brought my oil-skin cloak?"
"I packed that, Captain," said Luan.
"Great job," she said. His apple cheeks blushed pink. He must be younger than Qara. If only the sorceress had his temperament.
Elanee mounted the chestnut pony that had been brought for her. It shook its mane, and trotted more proudly than Nevalle's stallion as it moved up to the head of the little convoy, and then still further, with its mistress astride its unsaddled back.
"We'll try that next year," Lila muttered to her genial mare; as if to object, the mare twitched its left ear so that it tickled nostrils. After the sneezing fit had subsided, Katriona raised her pale eyebrows.
"Bless you," she said unsmilingly.
"I wasn't brought up around horses."
"I know you weren't. You're from the Mere of Dead Men, aren't you? Like Lieutenant Cormick of the Neverwinter Watch."
Why was Cormick always the first person outsiders thought of when the talk turned to the old harbour towns? One day, she was sure, she'd visit the distant lands and distant planes that she'd seen pictures of long ago in Tarmas's study, and the first thing to come from the mouths of the indigenous inhabitants would be, 'So, you're from West Harbour? Do you know Lieutenant Cormick? He beat Lorne Starling in the Harvest Brawl back in the long summer of sixty-nine.' And he'd done nothing especially noteworthy since, unless one counted getting injured by Garius's thugs. His fame had such remarkable momentum that she was surprised he could walk down the street without being mobbed by admirers. She wasn't jealous. No. Well, perhaps a little.
"I'm from the Mere," said Lila. "We just used to call it the Swamp, though it wasn't – isn't – really. But I'm nothing like Cormick."
"Like Bishop then. Another child of the swamps."
"I don't think I'm a typical product of the vigorous child-rearing customs of the Merdelain. I never fitted in. I never cared to." She fingered the Calim sash that she wore belted around her waist. A memento of a different time, and a different role.
"Elanee's from the Mere too, and Bevil and Orlen and that boy of yours – Kipp – they are as well. Each is very effective, in their way." She snorted in mirthless humour. "Even if Bevil is too soft during the drills. We could do with a few more typical products of the Merdelain – in my opinion, Captain."
"What about you? You said before we left that you know the area we're heading to."
"Somewhat. My family's farm is about ten miles east of the ruins. My father once found a diamond ring in the Illefarn style tangled up in the roots of an old damson tree that a storm tore up. He took the ring straight to the falls above the Illefarn valley, and threw it over. Said the Empire was cursed, and the ring might be too for all we knew. I'd wanted to keep it for myself." She gripped the long orcish fang that she wore round her neck on chain. Then she smiled, and shook her head. "A wise decision. I see that now -"
Lila tried to imagine Katriona as a young girl who wanted nothing more than a diamond ring to adorn her soft hands. It didn't work. "You said that your family farm is ten miles from the ruins. Does that mean the orcs didn't destroy it when their clans were attacking from the mountains?"
Katriona's expression remained unchanged, but there was something like amusement in her voice when she answered. "Of course, it still exists. My younger sisters look after it, along with the farm labourers. It's doing well, I believe. Why would I fight for a place that's already been destroyed? I'm not a lunkhead like the Harbourmen. In the dales we do what we have to, and not more."
"Should all the Harbourmen resign from the conflict then? Most of us have lost our land and families already."
"I don't know that you could ever have called the Mere of Dead Men land," scoffed Katriona.
"Lost our mudflats and water meadows then. For us – for them, I mean – the window of necessity closed last summer. They lost the war before it really started."
"The buildings are still there. The fields – or what passes for fields – only the people and the livestock were truly claimed by the King of Shadows. And they're quickly enough replaced. As soon as the King of Shadows falls, the survivors will tramp back to live again in their old haunts: the rats boarding the sinking ship," Katriona quipped with near relish. "And everything will continue as it has in the past. Or so I believe."
The ford of the River Dardeel lay ahead. In spate, even with the help of the newly paved causeway, it was a dangerous crossing. But the last months had seen scarcely any rain, and the bubbling, racing flow had been reduced to a trickle, which was collecting below the downstream side of the road in shallow pools.
Sorrel stooped her head to lick at the nearest of them; she snorted in displeasure and trotted on, the water not to her taste.
"You could at least pretend I'm in charge," Lila complained. The mare did not respond, merely continuing to move amiably up the road as it shifted from following the contour of the valley floor to climb up over a line of low hills. "Feeling closer to home?" she asked Katriona.
"With every heartbeat," replied the sergeant.
They rode together without speaking. An old barn stood behind a stone wall that had begun to line a series of rough meadows to the south of the road. It was built of solid limestone blocks; the barn had stood there for ages, probably pre-dating Crossroad Keep by centuries rather than decades. At the time of the defeat of Garius, it had been abandoned, and stayed so, until a collective of Highcliff refugees had taken it over; the sloe and cherry trees in the surrounding orchard were being tended once more, and a row of beehives were planted at the western end. Whether the endeavour would last or not depended on the Keep holding the shadow armies back. And on the price of honey and soft fruits staying buoyant, naturally.
Elanee reappeared at the level of the last sloe, where all signs of cultivation vanished, and spindly ash trees began to lean over the garth wall. "The way is clear ahead," she said, "though it will soon be rougher for the horses." Lila guessed it would be rough for the humans' backsides too. "The paving ends at the summit. From then on we will be riding on gravel."
"What can you see from the summit?"
"Many things," said Elanee solemnly.
"Hills?" suggested Lila. "Trees? Grizzly bears? A tavern with a selection of quality wines and ales, a good cook and a friendly conjurer whose sole hobby is teleporting groups of travellers to the Illefarn ruins and back without sending any of their essential body parts off into planar vortices in the process?"
Elanee stared at her; her lashes fluttered once. "I am sorry, Lila. I believe you are joking. However, I do not understand your sense of humour. I did not give you a detailed answer because I fear such an answer would weary you, and try your patience," she explained without malice. "Of what I noticed that is relevant to the journey, there is little to say, except what I have already: our prospects are good, the weather fair, the route straight and simple. Is this what you meant?"
"Uh...yes. Yes. Thank you, Elanee." She wished a tavern really were nestling in the next valley, though it would have brought her resolution to abstain from alcohol while occupied with Knight Captaining to a rapid close.
And so the first day's journey proceeded without difficulty as Elanee predicted. The druid would rush ahead of the group, sometimes disappearing for troubling lengths of time, before returning to inform Lila that the area was safe, but that the quality of the road was about to get significantly worse – again. They passed peasants, and rusted mercenaries, and were passed in their turn by a messenger wearing the colours of Waterdeep, speeding along at a gallop bound to Who-Knows-Where. For all that the track was pit-holed and superannuated, there was the small mercy of it being dry. When they arrived at the junction of the Great East Road, which was no longer either Great or a Road, with the greenway, where they had planned to camp, the sun was still high in the sky and shining in the way that suns at midsummer ought to shine and rarely did. Lila took a swig from her water-flask, and ruminated. If only all rides were like that! She could have done without the devout ones at the back singing quite so many Tyrran psalms, of course. Even if the one about the mighty rivers that are the power of Tyr, indeed, behold, they entangle the paths of his enemies, and destroy their fords etc. etc. had been satisfying. Perhaps she liked it because it went on and on about water, and she was so fucking thirsty. She had another drink from her flask, and wiped her brow. That was better.
"It's not late. We could press on to the ruins, get what we need, and start back long before sunset," she said to Katriona.
"I can see no reason to camp so early," the sergeant replied. "It's better not to linger out here for longer than we must. There may be no dangers round about, but still, to sit on the floor of a valley with vantage points above us to the north and west -" she gestured to a couple of rocky outcrops and hundred feet or so above them to the north and west, "-goes against all the instincts I formed in the mountains."
Gratified to have received Katriona's support, for she often had the impression that her sergeant's deference hid an extremely jaundiced view of Lila's strategic judgement, she next went to put her suggestion to Elanee. But the druid would have none of it.
"There would be little opportunity for me to scout ahead, and those ruins are a draw for many dangerous beings with fickle loyalties. The spirits and orcs that helped us once may have switched allegiance. To say nothing of the portal that leads straight to the middle of the claimed lands. Riding there unprepared on tired horses would be – unwise. Anything might await us there, or nothing, or the song of a nightingale."
Lila hesitated. Not for long, though. It was the word 'unprepared' that decided her. Being unprepared got you killed very fast these days. It wasn't power, or strength, or genius that let her survive the combat with Lorne Starling in the arena: it was meticulous, obsessive preparedness. You don't go on stage without learning your lines. You don't play cards unless you know exactly where the Aces are. Well, Neeshka didn't. Hopefully the tiefling was enjoying her tenure as boss of Crossroad Keep.
"Make camp!" she shouted, and then felt embarrassed. Her normal voice would have been enough for the gang of twelve. The knighthood was clearly getting to her, as Bishop had wagered it would. "You think it won't make a difference," he'd said. "It will. Especially with someone like you." She wish she'd asked him what he'd meant. Who was someone like her?
"Aye-aye, Cap'n," said Chantler.
"This is not a man-of-war or an Amnish galleon," Katriona pointed out. Was that dry humour or just dry rot in the soul? Still hard to tell.
"As you say, sergeant." He saluted Lila behind Katriona's back and winked. It was clear which option he believed in. "For a start, there's no hammocks, and no sails, and no grog."
"There's hard grey biscuits," said Brackle. "If you like, I can go and find some weevils to put in 'em."
The soldiers whistled and sang and traded banter while they put out the sleeping rolls and got a fire going in a glade that lay in the angle made by the joining of the road to the east with the northern track into the old Illefarn valley. Chantler was whistling 'A Sailor's Life for Me!' with more zest than she'd have thought possible. He drew out the notes at the end of each phrase and made them quiver till they rivalled the song-thrushes and blackbirds.
A belt of elm trees and thick undergrowth gave some protection from any prying eyes that might traverse the highway. Lila would have to sleep with her feet a couple of inches lower than her head, since the glade lay at the base of a rounded hill; she hoped that the last month of feather-beds and thick mattresses hadn't made this kind of life impossible for her.
"Hey, Captain – look here!"
In a patch of ferns not far away, Luan was stooped over something. He sounded interested rather than anxious. Lila reminded herself of that, and took a deep breath to encourage her pulse back to a slower rate.
"What is it Luan?" She walked towards him.
"Some sort of carving..." She crouched next to him, and helped him tear away some of the obstructing ferns. They smelled powerfully of green, and their ridged fronds still felt damp with morning dew.
"I think you're right..." An old piece of limestone rested behind the ferns. On first glance, it appeared to be merely a rock that had been shaped by water and the years into an unusual series of lumps and points. Look longer, and...
"It's a face, isn't it?" said Luan. "There's the nose, and eyes. And it's got something wedged alongside it...it could be a harp..."
"I think it's a shield," said Lila. "But it could just as well be a harp. They're common in the villages near the Keep. A farmer may have put this here to watch over his land."
"Or as a gravestone," said Luan, his shyness forgotten. "Or as a monument to...something. In New Leaf, where my mother comes from, there's a great stone circle in the middle of the common, about two thirds complete. And whenever someone gets married, they put up another stone in celebration."
"What happens when the ends of the circle meet?"
Luan grinned. "I reckon they'll start another one! But there are all kinds of stories – my mother told me that a great serpent would awake in the centre of the circle, and turn all the stones to gold with its venom. My cousins think each stone will become mortal, and they'll pipe and sing all midsummer night long and that the dead will rise up and join in the dance."
"Nice tradition," Lila observed. "In West Harbour, if you got married then you were given a bunch of flowers, and Orlen let you stroke his prize pig for luck."
The young soldier laughed. He had a nice laugh for a seventeen year old with a voice not yet free of its growing pains. "Once for love," he said, striking the squat stone statue on its crown, where a few wavy lines filled with moss gave a suggestion of hair. "Twice for cheer." He struck it again.
Recognizing the doggerel, she joined in on the last line: "...And thrice for another bottle of beer!" He clapped the statue for a third and final time, and they both laughed. What an amusing fellow he was. She hoped she wouldn't ever have to regret knowing him as more than a battlefield statistic.
"Hey, boyo! Have you got the pegs for the canopy in one of those bags of yours?" Draygood called from amidst the flotsam and jetsam of the camp in its foetal stage. Five of the soldiers were hammering in stakes to form a rudimentary palisade under the guidance of Chantler. Sections of light fencing were piled up, ready to be tied behind the stakes to make the palisade complete. Katriona was inspecting the contents of the weapons chest. Her fingers drummed on the side of the cart as she held each armament up to the light. Nothing quite seemed to please her, to judge by the abruptness with which she turned over then let fall each shining dagger, each varnished crossbow. Harfer and Medir, the psalmists, attended to the horses.
There was nothing left for the Knight Captain to do save contemplate matters of great import and deep strategy. So, naturally, she shrugged, took out her knife, and drew the point along the carving's mossy lines and angles. While she worked, she considered the face. Was it a generic piece, the creation of a low-grade workshop that had churned out thousands such, and out of which undifferentiated mass, time had created something rare and precious? Or was it the face of some long dead individual, the likeness of someone once known well to the mason? Now standing clear of the ferns, and free of at least some of the organic accretions of years, in the high cheeks and small, set mouth a certain individuality seemed to be striving to assert itself.
The hooded eyes promised a refuge from the hammer beats and yodelling, yelling calls of the men. As she brushed her hand once more over the limestone surface, a snatch of verse reached her ears that was sung in a husky tenor. She turned and saw Luan, singing to himself as he pulled the canopy taut. When he grew out of the acne, and grew into his growing, he'd be quite a handsome young man. She mouthed along with the words, not remembering where she'd learnt them. They were just something you knew if you lived between the sea and the Sword Mountains.
"Won't you dig me a grave,
So very wide so very deep,
Put a marble stone o'er my head and feet,
And in the middle carve a snow white dove
Just to let the world know -
That I died for love."
Across the camp, a horse whinnied, and Lila's hand went to her sabre. But it was only Elanee's pony, carrying the druid back along the path that would take them to Illefarn.