1. News from the Storm The rain lashing through the interlaced branches filled the depressions on the forest floor with dirty water. The sudden storm quietened the animals that made their home among the Eryon Hills. A few small rodents hid among the underbrush, while a lone grey fox, its bushy tail sodden, passed, alert for any sign of its prey. Simon Belmore, the High Glastion of Mneamornim, pulled his cloak farther over his head. He liked the rain, he found the gentle sound of the water hitting his hood soothing, and in time his eyes grew heavy. A sudden jolt as his mount jumped over a rain fed stream brought him wide-awake. The giant Kashac Cat did not share his opinion of the storm; the grizzled cat growled constantly and skirted open glades in favour of the denser areas where the trees offered some respite from the downpour. Simon tightened his hold on the Kashac’s white mane as the cat snaked around an ancient wood. Concentrating, he entered the mind of his mount to enjoy the feline’s heightened senses. Smelling the electric in the air, he realised the storm would worsen before it would break. Chat’s heavy shag coat hung in damp twisted ropes. Tangled within the black and white hair were burs and small twigs broken from low branches. Intending to have the coat of his mount brushed once they got under shelter he extended his new senses. Sharing the cat’s sight lit the world silver, turning impenetrable dells into places alive with ferns and clumps of flowers. Rocks and thick roots carved out a rugged landscape. However, the greatest advantage with joining his mind with the Kashac came from the cat’s sense of smell. Although he could not see the life teeming among the hills all around them, he could now smell them. Every one of the hidden creatures carried its own particular scent, with each becoming familiar over the years. A badger with its filth-ridden coat assailed him first, and he located its burrow amongst the roots of a willow. From within a near field a warren of rabbits made Chat’s mouth slaver. Taking a firm hold, Simon guided the Kashac away from its prey. Once they crested the next rise, he caught the scent of his destination. Chat roared as the smell of the city clouded the trees and the game he cherished. Patting the powerful shoulder of the Kashac he guided them toward the walls of Makorn. On every side trees pushed close to Makorn’s famous defence. Stone, laid down centuries before, dwarfed even the tallest firs that stretched no higher than halfway up the resolute barrier. Lighted brands, their flame protected from the downpour by copper hats, crested the crenulations every twenty yards, painting the grey stone deep amber. Patrolling shadows lined the top of the wall, while more soldiers peered from within the square guardhouse. He counted three men through the narrow lancet windows, and no doubt others crowded the room. A gigantic gate, near as tall as the wall, barred access to the city beyond. The image of the One Tree spread like white flame on its thick beams. Bands of studded iron crossed the sign of Mneamornim. Slipping his hand beneath his cloak he traced the tree on his chest, wishing the aged symbol still held meaning inside the walls. A metal plaque, bearing the name of the city, covered the silver letters spelling Mneamornim in ancient script. Don’t look for a warm welcome here. He knew that much before leaving Abel, still the affront against his god stirred old anger in his chest. Chat sensing his switch in mood roared into the night. The head of the cat lifted high and its black lips pulled back to reveal long sabres as men rushed to the window of the nearest guardhouse to see what had made such a terrifying sound. ‘Quiet,’ said Simon. He couldn’t risk Chat scaring the guards behind their wall, or they would never let them into the city. The prospect of that happening held more appeal than he liked. Creaking wood and rustling leaves beckoned him - retreat under the branches and disappear - leave these godless men and their lords. The sound of scraping metal drew his attention to a spy hole set within a small iron cast door at the foot of the immense barrier. An old man, hooded and suspicious, pushed his face through. Dark eyes, Simon thought, this one has seen much, and done more. ‘Who’re you?’ With his cloak tight about him the guard would not see his armour, or the insignia lying beneath. Though the Kashac should be ample evidence to his identity, the old man refused to speculate. A shame. Have they forgotten my Order? Despite years having passed since the Glastions had vacated the city he had expected them to remember. ‘Simon Belmore,’ he answered. ‘I have travelled from the Northern fort of Abel, to see the Satrap’s brother.’ ‘Abel lies beyond the Eryon Hills,’ squawked the man, incredulous. Tossing his head, Chat shook the water from his mane. At the hole, the man visibly shook as the grizzled cat fastened impatient golden eyes on him. ‘Drop your hood so that I can see you,’ ordered the man. He raised his lantern with an impatient jerk of his arm. Urging Chat forward Simon pulled back the soaked wool to reveal his long brown hair to the elements. The man gasped. ‘Your eyes,’ he murmured. ‘You must be blind!’ ‘I can see perfectly,’ said Simon, accustomed to people’s assumption that his eyes were useless without colour. ‘But they are just white, not even a pupil.’ ‘Mneamornim marked me,’ he replied. ‘I assure you my eyes are keener than your own; though this downpour is drenching us both equally while we stand around discussing them.’ He’s not going to let me through the gate. Indignation flashed as he waited for the Watchman to come to his decision. Finally the man surprised him by tipping his head. ‘Dangerous times to travel these hills, even with that beast of yours. Especially at night,’ he spat. ‘I’ll let you in; my father was a godly man.’ He slammed the metal back into its home. His father had faith; obviously that belief did not follow to the son, mused Simon as he listened to the muffled sounds emanating from the gate. First the voices of men and then the groan of a metal bar running along the brackets that held the door shut. The squeal of the hinges as the doorway opened startled Chat, who sprang back producing a deep-throated growl. Calming his mount he watched the metal door swing open to reveal packed houses crowding a cobbled street. Around the Watchman stood a knot of armoured guards fingering the hilts of their swords. Rust speckled the half helms they wore. They eyed the Kashac with wary reproach before swapping their attention to the woods. It’s not me or the Kashac that frightens the men, Simon thought. Casting his gaze over his shoulder he scanned the darkness under the trees. Nothing moved out there; if men hid amongst the foliage Chat would have smelt them. Something spooked the soldiers though; he wasn’t imagining their impatience to secure the city. As soon as he and Chat were inside, the guards pushed against the metal entryway. Though the door would only allow one mounted man through at a time, the effort to close the door was evident by how the men strained to move the barrier. The old man who had allowed Simon entry urged them with urgent whispers. ‘Who would travel these hills during the night? Damn fool will get us all killed,’ the Watchman muttered into the hood he had pulled tight against the rain. If he thinks I can’t hear him he knows nothing about a Glastion’s hearing, thought Simon. Even without sharing the cat’s senses he would have heard the curses spewing from the aged man’s thin lips. A wide road, its cracked cobbles flooded with rainwater, threaded its way into the city. Tall white houses with slate roofs and balconied windows crowded the street. Though tall the narrow build of the homes would afford little room even for a small family. Copper hooded street lamps lit the way before a dip in the road took them from view. ‘It’s the Satrap you want to see,’ said the old man raising his voice. ‘Follow Baker Street,’ he indicated the road leading down the hill, ‘it’ll take you to the Town Square, where you’ll see the Bloody Hand on a far rise.’ Lords dislike late visitors as much as grouchy Watchmen. If he went now the Satrap would see him as a vagabond, someone he could ignore. He could not give such a poor first impression. ‘An inn will suffice.’ Looking like a crooked crow the man began to rub his jaw. Simon had little doubt the man knew every drinking hole in Makorn. Both the good and those inns you would send someone you never wanted to see again. ‘The Lion’s Head is down the road,’ the Watchman finally said, ‘it has a stable for your beast. Maccon serves ale as thick as soup.’ With a glint in his small eyes, the man added, ‘Don’t expect a friendly welcome. Makorn doesn’t trust your Order.’ ‘I am sure more godly men, besides your father, still dwell within these limits.’ ‘None that I know of,’ remarked the Watchman in genuine astonishment. ‘My father was the last I knew, and he died twenty years back.’ Feeling around in his pocket Simon located two coins. They were unlike the coins used in Makorn. A likeness of the northern fortress of Abel built into the Lamedian Mountains marked them. As with all currency in Rhodeum, King Aliestian’s youthful face adorned the flip side. He tossed them to the guard. ‘For your father’s faith,’ he remarked. Snatching the coins from the air the man pocketed them without looking and hurried to join the others inside the guardhouse. Simon had wanted to ask the man what concerned him about the Eryon Hills. Bands of thieves could not trouble the Wall. Craven men dwelling in the wild chose to attack only those they could outnumber. Something else lay at the heart of the men’s anxiety. Turning he regarded the men huddled in the guardhouse. Either the rain coaxed them inside or his presence hastened their steps. Retreating from Chat’s mind, before the stench of rotting vegetables, unwashed bodies, and faeces, could overwhelm him, he urged the cat forward into the city. Yellow flickering flame from sheltered streetlights danced across his white corneas, twinkling like burning embers. His mount’s displeasure rose up in a snarl. ‘We won’t be here long,’ Simon promised. Chat chose to ignore his placating assurance and followed the snarl with a chest deep growl. A few faces pressed themselves against leaded glass at the sudden noise; their frightened stares accompanying him down the hill. Waving at a young girl had her bring a clenched fist to her mouth. Night makes ghosts of us all, he thought as each face faded from view. Over the rooftops he spied the Satrap’s abode. Stark against the cloud heavy sky, the keep rose. Its silhouette raised high on the hill. Even in the poor light the crooked towers and steeples looked like warped fingers reaching for the tumultuous storm. The fortification should have bolstered his heart, instead it only allowed in a deep disquiet. Castles and walls looked inward, stationary objects of power; what he needed, what the realm asked of Makorn, was action. Would the Satrap leave the protection of his city, to save the Kingdom of Rhodeum? His thoughts turned once more to the frightened guards at their station. How could he counsel men without faith? He shared nothing with these people. Most had forgotten Mneamornim and his knights. ‘We should not have come. I will bring nothing but derision to our cause.’ Chat bared his teeth. ‘You, old cat, want us to fail.’ Simon bared his own teeth, an imitation of a smile that had a street urchin rush for the cover of a narrow alley. Even the homeless wanted nothing to do with him. Small chains creaked when the wind blew, moving the inn’s sign over a door twice as wide as the portal that had allowed Simon to gain entry to the city. Bemused as to why an inn calling itself the Lion’s Head had a depiction of a goat standing beside a bucket, gave him pause. Swinging down from the Kashac he approached the inn and struck the door with a closed fist. Waiting a few heartbeats he repeated the knock, harder, so that the lintel groaned. Light bloomed in the dark room. Seems the only person Chat hasn’t awakened in this infernal city was the one man he wanted. Shaking off his impatience, he reminded himself that dawn was only a few hours away. Any good man would be in bed at this hour. Still, he fought the temptation to bang his hand against the wood, to speed up the ponderous innkeeper. ‘I’m coming,’ cried out a voice from inside, pre-empting Simon from carrying out his silent threat. ‘Who wants a room at this hour?’ When he opened the door the balding man stood rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Taking one look at Simon he rubbed them again with more fervour. ‘A Glastion,’ he said with astonishment. Soaked, Simon did not want a drawn out conversation. ‘Have you a spare room?’ He edged closer to the narrow overhang that provided some protection from the downpour. Only then did the man become aware of Chat. His disbelief turned to horror when the silhouette of the great cat moved closer. The upraised lantern cast enough light to pick out the yellow gaze of the Kashac, as well as to limn its huge fangs. ‘Chat stay,’ ordered Simon for the innkeeper’s benefit; he did not need to speak his command. ‘He won’t harm you,’ he said, worried the balding man would faint. ‘The guards at the gate told me you have a stable.’ ‘For horses,’ said the man, withdrawing half a step into the room. ‘If the cat ate one, the owner of that horse will expect me to pay for it.’ Simon felt Chat bristle at the innkeeper’s words. ‘A Kashac is better trained than any horse,’ he said. ‘At Abel we keep them penned in with horses - they have yet to eat any.’ ‘It’s a long way from Abel, he will be hungry.’ ‘We both are. If Chat harms a mount, I will buy the owner a new horse. Now, can I enter? This cloak is so sodden it weighs as much as a cupboard.’ ‘Are you alone? I only have one spare room.’ Striding into the common room, Simon nodded. A residue smell of a roast hung in the air awakening his hunger anew. After watching him enter the innkeeper turned his attention to the long room. Aged chairs lined beer stained tables. Spilled alcohol made the floorboards tacky underfoot; sucking at Simon’s soles like sap. At the back of the room stood a wooden staircase leading to the first floor; carved autumn leaves decorated its banister. Simon could only guess as to the number of upstairs rooms, but he saw two downstairs, one behind the bar, and another which the innkeeper rushed too. With the flat of his hand he hit the door twice. The guests sleeping upstairs must stuff cotton wool into their ears, mused Simon. ‘Malcolm, get up!’ The innkeeper snapped. ‘You’ve got work.’ Wincing at the rude awakening the boy had just suffered Simon took a seat. Shrugging out of his cloak, he stretched. Blackened leather creaked across his shoulders. Feeling the pull of the leather against his aching muscles made him curse the long leagues he had travelled to get here. ‘Are you awake?’ asked the balding man of the closed door. A muffled voice answered from the other side. ‘I’ll be right out.’ Not waiting for the owner of the voice to show himself the innkeeper raised his hand to strike the door. Before he could land his blow a boy with a mop of sandy hair threw it open. ‘We’ve got a guest.’ The innkeeper said, turning his upraised arm toward Simon. ‘Are you a blind beggar?’ ‘If he was a beggar he wouldn’t be paying for a room, would he!’ cursed the man. ‘Now, stop wasting time, his mount is waiting in the rain. Take it to the stables.’ Yawning, the boy gathering his coat stumbled to the front of the inn. Cold air buffeted the single lantern light as he left. Malcolm took one step into the storm when the giant form of Chat brought him to a halt. ‘Is that a Kashac?” he cried. ‘It’s the only cat that large,’ he said, answering his own question. A genuine smile parted Simon’s lips as he heard the exaltation in the boy’s voice. ‘No need to take hold of him he’ll follow.’ ‘He’s even bigger than I imagined,’ said Malcolm, lost in his excitement. ‘And getting wetter by the minute,’ said the boy’s father. ‘Now, make sure you put him in the end stall. I don’t want him by the black stallion. Bad tempered brute,’ he said to Simon, ‘near bit my boy’s fingers off earlier today.’ The balding man turned to his son. ‘What’re you waiting for – Spring? Get moving.’ Preparing himself against the wave of unpleasant stimuli that oozed from the city Simon entered the Kashac’s mind. A familiar silver cast lit the world, making the rain appear as milk. Watching the boy close the distance, he warned Chat to behave. The innkeeper stood watching his son march ahead of the monstrous cat until both had turned the corner and entered the adjoining courtyard. ‘That boy has more guts than ten guards. Not many would’ve gone willingly into the night with a Kashac.’ ‘He’s safe. You are right though; I’ve known men who could wield an axe like a dagger to grow ashen when confronted by Chat.’ ‘You’ve got coin?’ A time was when a Glastion would never have to reach into his pouch for anything but tobacco. Those times were relegated to history. He gave a curt nod. ‘Well then, I’m guessing you’re hungry.’ ‘Could eat a horse,’ he said, hoping for some of the roast he could still smell. ‘I’ll see what leftovers are in the kitchen. The cook had a piece of mutton on a spit, perhaps there’s some left.’ ‘Best keep some for the cat. He’ll smell the meat through the storm.’ Lines creased the man’s brow. ‘Mutton is expensive. Not right sending good food out to the animal.’ ‘I’ll pay you well for his share.’ Without making a reply the innkeeper wandered behind the bar leaving Simon alone. Reaching into a deep pouch resting on his hip he retrieved a long stemmed pipe. Opening the lantern casing he used the wavering flame to light the crushed leaves. Settling back he savoured the smooth taste of the burning weed. Listening to the storm crash against the window, he allowed the aches from the day’s ride to drift away. Feeling content he looked forward to his supper and resting in a proper bed. A troubled thought raced through his mind, robbing him of his brief contentment. Raising his hand he touched an inner pocket and felt the parchment hidden within crinkle at his probing. Impatience to see the Satrap swept through him. Fighting against the urge to immediately seek out the man he forced himself to remain seated. His earlier reasons to wait for the proper time for a meeting remained the surest course of action. He could not allow tiredness to factor into the important talks ahead. The sudden reappearance of Malcolm, swinging open the door, looking pale and shaken, spared Simon from dwelling any longer on his troubles. The boy stood with his back braced against the hastily closed door. Panting, he clutched his torn trousers. Appraising the rips that spread from the boy’s waist to below his knee, Simon said, ‘Did he cut you?’ Malcolm did not answer. A shaky breath wheezed through his clenched teeth. Simon was about to ask him again when the boy looked over and shook his head. ‘I was only trying to be friendly. I’ve never seen a Kashac, so after putting him in his stall, I…I petted him. I wouldn’t have done it if I knew he didn’t like it, but…you see, well, I always brush down the horses when I take them to the stables.’ ‘Chat can be very sensitive about who he allows to touch him. He was wrong to lash out at you. After such a long ride his coat is as filthy as an old rug, it could do with a good brushing. I’m sorry he scared you.’ ‘It’s my fault, I should’ve realised that I couldn’t handle him like a horse.’ ‘What happened to you?’ cried Malcolm’s father as he returned from the kitchen. ‘It’s not the boy’s fault; my cat can be temperamental.’ ‘You told me my son would be safe with the cat. That beast of yours ruined his clothes.’ ‘I’ll pay for a new pair of trousers.’ Promising himself to reprimand Chat, he fished out three copper coins from his pouch. ‘Two should cover the cost, the third is for you.’ He extended his hand to the shivering boy. ‘Thank you,’ said Malcolm. Before Malcolm could retreat Simon produced a length of string. ‘Tie this around your waist.’ Hurriedly the boy secured the string about himself. ‘Is that for the Kashac?’ Malcolm asked, noticing the bone covered in white meat his father carried like a club. The innkeeper thumped the leg bone against the bar, rattling a few upturned glasses. ‘You are not going out there again.’ He used the bone to indicate the night outside the inn. ‘If the Glastion wants his mount fed, he can do it.’ ‘No problem,’ said Simon rising to his feet. Not much meat on the bone, Chat will have to be content with the marrow. Malcolm rushed to the bar, his skin regaining some of its colour. ‘I’ll be careful,’ he called, snatching the leg from his father’s hand. ‘If he wanted to hurt me he could’ve! He didn’t touch my skin.’ When Malcolm was halfway across the room, his father called after him, ‘I’m not going to run into the storm after you. So if you insist on feeding the beast make sure you don’t get too close. Next time he may do more than shred your clothes.’ ‘I promise,’ said the boy running into the downpour. ‘A brave lad,’ noted Simon. The boy’s father grunted. ‘Headstrong, young and stupid. You haven’t got enough coin to pay me if anything happens to him.’ Simon remained quiet as the man left the room. Returning from the kitchen the innkeeper carried a small plate over to Simon. A piece of mouldy cheese and a slice of stale bread wobbled as he handed over the food. ‘Your cat had the last of the meat. Would you like to wash this down with some Callorn ale?’ He waved his hand over the food. ‘It’ll drive away the chill.’ ‘I hear it’s as thick as stew,’ replied Simon, noting the pleased look pass over the man’s heavy face. ‘Alorian Juice will suffice, I no longer drink.’ ‘A shame, the ale will fill you up more than what is on your plate.’ He moved to a row of bottles behind the bar. Eyeing the bread and cheese Simon knew the man did not lie. ‘I’ve had smaller rations.’ There was a time when a High Glastion would feast every day. Lords; merchant princes; common folk brought out all they had. Times change, and that era had passed long before he had taken the faith. Sniffing the cheese he let it drop to the plate, preferring to wait for the juice. ‘Who else is staying here?’ Eyeing him with suspicion the innkeeper returned and handed over the juice. ‘Hope you’re not looking to recruit people for your Order? People don’t care for religion, even less when they are in their cups. I don’t want any trouble.’ ‘You won’t get any from me.’ Taking a seat the man shrugged. ‘There’re a couple of merchants, ready for the Friday market. Being so close to the Square makes this a favourite choice. Most of their kind think they are above staying in my inn, but they pay what I ask so I don’t care what they think. A mercenary is with one of them. They had an argument,’ he whispered, pointing to the staircase. ‘Don’t know what about.’ Dropping his voice further he said, ‘Not my concern, you understand. Still, if I were that merchant, I wouldn’t want a bad name with the hired guards. These are hard times, and without protection for his wagons the merchant will soon be out of business.’ ‘Thieves are a problem around here?’ ‘Thieves,’ he blew air through his nose. ‘If they were only thieves we would manage. String a few up on the wall by their necks and the rest stay quiet. No, it’s the Menk.’ Simon sat forward, forgetting about his plate in his alarm. ‘I’ve heard about Menk attacking lone parties, but to go up against mercenaries is crazy.’ Menk were cunning beasts that lived out in the wild. Why would such creatures start attacking merchants? ‘I know,’ said the innkeeper. ‘It’s the talk of the city. No one goes beyond the wall if they can help it. The Satrap sends out patrols; but they’re like smoke in those hills.’ He dropped his voice. ‘It’s the farms they mostly hit,’ he said. ‘Soldiers sent to investigate the attacks tell how the beasts have taken whole families into the forest.’ Worry lines creased Simon’s brow. ‘The Menk only raid during times of draught when food is scarce. It has been a mild season; I saw plenty of fattened game on my way here.’ ‘It gets stranger,’ said the man, growing pensive. ‘After raiding the farms they torch the place. In my youth I lived on a farm. I boasted more than once to know everything about the Menk.’ He shook his head in confusion. ‘We always used fire to drive them away, so how are they now using it? Even in the heart of a city the size of Makorn I fear these stories. Callorn is our nearest neighbour, and that lies over four hundred miles to the south. There’re far more of those beasts out there than anyone suspects; far more than the city garrison, that’s for sure.’ Simon contemplated the innkeeper’s words in silence. The news boded ill for his plans in Makorn. No doubt the Menk attacks in the country would prove to be an unwelcome hurdle when he saw the Satrap. ‘You were fortunate to get through the hills.’ ‘Chat must’ve kept them away,’ he answered. His mind reeled at the unexpected news. Returning from the stable Malcolm stopped the conversation. He looked at both of the troubled men at the table. Perplexed by the sombre mood between Simon and his father the boy opened his mouth. ‘Did he leave you alone this time?’ asked Simon, before the boy could word his question. With his attention snatched Malcolm closed his mouth. He kicked the door shut and shrugged out of his wet coat. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘After he had gnawed on the bone he settled down. I guess he’s asleep by now.’ ‘He’s stronger than a horse, and more bull headed than a donkey; any other mount would have dropped with exhaustion before we reached the city’s curtain wall.’ Simon spoke absently, brooding over the news. Could a connection exist between this sudden uprising and the reason for his coming to the city? Planting his hands on his thighs, Malcolm’s father, with an exaggerated groan, got to his feet. ‘Well, we have an early rise ahead of us. Finish your food; leave the plate, the boy will get it in the morning. Your room is upstairs, second on the right.’ He indicated the staircase. ‘Would you like us to wake you?’ Simon gave a curt nod. ‘I won’t be much longer.’ Both the innkeeper and his son left. Alone with the sound of the rain, Simon considered the news. It seemed more than chance that the Menk should start attacking now, when the north was in dire need of aid. How the Empire could make the Menk attack eluded him, but he was sure they were behind this new trouble. |