Andrew Hartley - Act of Will

An hour and a half later, as we eased between the shipyard buildings of Shale, which rose up on each side of us, I still had no answer to that. I did have another question, though, and the moment I could get Orgos alone, I asked it.

“You going to tell me what happened there?” I demanded, nodding to where Orgos had held off the sailors. “That light. And don’t bother telling me that little gem in your sword hilt is just for decoration.”

Orgos frowned, hitching his equipment duffel over his shoulder. “What do you want me to say?”

“The truth,” I said.

“Before he died,” said Orgos, “my father used to say ‘Never ask a question unless you know you can handle the answer.’ ”

“Very touching and profound,” I said. “So. About that sword?”

“It’s magic,” said Orgos. “Enchanted.”

“Bollocks,” I said.

“All right.” He shrugged.

“What am I? Five years old?” I said. “Magic? There’s no such thing.”

“I told you, Will. You should have listened to my father.”

And that was that. He walked away and I stared after him, finally shouting, “Fine! Don’t tell me.”

He kept walking.

It was late afternoon by the time we got everything unloaded, and we were too tired to think or move. Finding a tavern, we settled there for the rest of the day and left the procurement of a pair of wagons to the innkeeper. I drank several pints of watery beer in big wooden mugs and followed them with a glass of what was supposed to be whiskey but tasted like paint thinner. By the time I stumbled off to my bed, the ground felt like it was undulating beneath me, coursing in great alcoholic ripples. It was, I had already decided, the closest I would ever get to being at sea again.

At eight o’clock that evening Orgos woke me.

“Come on, Will,” he said wearily, “we’re moving.”

“Of course,” I muttered. “After all, I’ve slept several hours already this week.”

Downstairs, Lisha and Mithos were waiting for us, and with them was a wiry man with a thin neck and grey stubble on his chin. His hair was short, straight, and silver. His eyes were small, which, in conjunction with his thin-lipped, unsmiling mouth, made it hard to tell if he was pleased to see us.

I had half guessed who he was from the black silk robe with its tiny filigree dragon embroidery, but Mithos introduced him anyway. “This is Dathel, chancellor to the county of Shale. He and his men will escort us to the town of Adsine, in the north, where the count awaits us.”

I couldn’t help noticing that as Mithos made this pronouncement, Lisha became one of us, and not even a conspicuous one at that. I wasn’t sure why, but I could see that this Chancellor Dathel was supposed to take Mithos to be the leader. Not that I cared one way or the other. Exhaustion and the beginnings of a slight hangover combined to make me thoroughly apathetic.

“Good evening,” said our death-suited host. “My lord the count, and, indeed, all the people of Shale have awaited your coming. Your wagons are packed and I have a twenty-man cavalry escort outside. If we leave now, we should reach Adsine by dawn. Hopefully, you will be able to sleep in the wagons.”

He spoke Thrusian like the rest of us but there was a lilt to it that squared with what I had gleaned from my dusty studies.

Once more I swung my pack onto my shoulders and followed them, mule-like, outside where the light was fading fast, the sky striped pink and amber.

There were two large wagons with four horses each, almost exactly like the ones we had driven across the Hrof. I clambered in, leaving whatever I was carrying where it fell. I glanced out of the back as the mounted troopers with their black dragon-pennanted lances and plumed helms drew up their formation around us. Two thoughts crossed my already-dozing mind.

First, why did anyone who could field soldiers like these need the likes of us?

Second, and more important: With such an escort, I could sleep soundly. For the first time since I left Cresdon I wouldn’t have to spend an hour or more on guard, and my sleep wouldn’t be scarred by fears of snakes, Empire patrols, or the murderous crew of the Cormorant .

I rolled myself up in two blankets, wrapped another into a kind of pillow, and, within seconds of feeling the wagon roll off, fell asleep.

I woke once in the night and lay still for a while until the sense of motion and the rhythmic clop of the horses lulled me back into slumber. When I woke next, light was pouring in through the half-open tailgate, where Mithos and Orgos sat, chatting quietly, absorbing something of this new land.

I caught the familiar sounds of an early-morning market and realized we were in Adsine.

“How is it?” I asked.

“The town?” said Orgos. “Poor,” he answered simply.

A few minutes later I could hear running water below us, and Mithos, consulting a map, said, “That must be the Wardsfall River. We are nearly there.”

A couple of minutes after that we stopped and climbed out, stretching and yawning, in the courtyard of Adsine Castle. By Empire standards it was small but solid. A perimeter wall with a single gatehouse dotted with regularly spaced turrets formed a hexagon around the courtyard, in the center of which was a single, three-storied keep. It faced south, its upper stories looking out over the perimeter wall and across the river to the town. Its foundation was cross-shaped so that its front stuck out and loomed over us, its barred windows hard and cold.

It wasn’t exactly welcoming. For some time we just looked at it and said nothing while the horses were led to stables along the insides of the perimeter wall. The keep was built of a light grey stone, but it was so purposeful, so utterly lacking in whimsy or creative imagination, that it seemed dark and sinister. Even with the guards and the chancellor busying themselves around us it seemed like it might be deserted, like the ghost castles you hear tales of in pubs on winter nights.

The chancellor ordered a brace of servants to unload our wagons and carry our belongings to our rooms. He led the way and we filed dutifully after him in silence. I had slept well in the wagon, but I couldn’t wait to get into a bed that didn’t move on wheels, waves, or insect legs.

The doors of the keep were of oak, a good four inches thick and reinforced with huge square-headed nails. On our way upstairs we got a glimpse of the ground floor: soldiers’ and domestics’ quarters, kitchens and storerooms, all plain and purposeful.

Upstairs was a different tale, of carpets and tapestries and, most strikingly of all after the bustle of breakfast downstairs, silence. But if the castle had once been opulent, those days were long gone, and the place was in need of serious redecorating.

A pair of guards stood at each corner, staircase, and doorway, dressed in the black-and-silver capes worn by the cavalry who had escorted us, but armed with pikes and shortswords. They clicked their heels together and stood to attention as Chancellor Dathel passed imperiously with the smallest nod of his head.

Everything felt square and the corridors were laid out like grids. We walked fifty yards down one and came to a perpendicular gallery running from east to west, where heavy teak doors stood under guard.

“Those chambers belong to the count and his lady wife,” murmured the chancellor. He indicated a line of doors in the north-facing wall.

“Your rooms,” he said softly. “I expect you would like to rest, wash, and change before you do anything else, as I would.”