The Barrow (64 page)

“The
Cyr Faira Mal
are rumored to be immortal and ride with the Black Hunter when he comes calling, and are possessed of magics that would make most men piss their fucking pants,” spat Leigh. “Besides, technically they did not
cross
the wall from one side to the other, they entered it from here at Mizer and used the wall-walk as a road.”

“And Madog?” asked Gilgwyr, one eyebrow raised.

“All the available evidence suggests that Madog did not cross the Wall, but rather like Carghita and Illigdir before him, he cut through the Bale Mole into the Uthed Wold and turned south from there, and only cleverly made it
look
like he'd crossed the Wall. I shall not allow you to spoil my enjoyment of this Wonder of the Known World,” Leigh said icily, eyeing them both from under bristling brows.

“Magister,” Stjepan and Gilgwyr said respectfully in unison, and bowed.

“But don't think the curse of Lost Uthedmael is the only thing to be worried about up in the Bale Mole,” said Leigh. “Those hills didn't need the curse to be dangerous; they were dark and haunted long before the return of Githwaine to Uthed Dania, having been the gateway to the Vale of Barrows since the Golden Age. Every king and queen of the ancient Danias and Daradja is buried up there in the Vale, whole necropolises of the dead that were brought up the ancient sacred roads for burial.” He pointed just to their north, where a trail led off into the hills from the north front of the Watchtower. “In fact in those days the Mizer Road was one of the paths of the dead, along which corpses would be brought up to the Vale.”

It did seem to Erim as though the hills were filled with a foreboding watchfulness that she did not remember from their experience in the Manon Mole. “So we've been walking a dead man's trail,” said Erim, a shudder going down her spine.

“Aye,” said Leigh. “A road carved to carry bodies to their graves.”

“Our own little funeral procession,” said Gilgwyr lightly, with a wicked grin. “Marvelous.”

They all stood silently on the terrace, taking in the vista.

“Right!” Leigh said finally, rubbing his hands with enthusiasm. “Let's get something to eat! A last meal for the condemned, before we start the most difficult leg of our journey.”

The evening meal was simple but hearty. As the lands nearby were difficult to farm, the Watchtower relied on supplies brought in by merchants under contract to its king, from greener lands either south near Warwark and the foothills of the Pavas Mole or east from the Hinterlands and the Volbrae river valley. Breads, a bean soup with onions and root vegetables from cold storage, dried sausages and hard cheeses, and roasted chickens from the coops. All with a strong touch of spices and herbs to make sure the palate wasn't bored, and perhaps to cover any staleness that had crept into the food.

But Erim could find no delight in the serviceable meal, her thoughts still filled with the image of the Wastes, and the dark hills of the Bale Mole that awaited them. Finally she turned to Stjepan. “I thought that burial was considered all proper in the Old Religion,” said Erim. “So why are the hills and the Vale so dark, if everything was done according to ancient rite?”

“Death may be the First Law: that all born of Geniché's Earth must follow her into Death and the Underworld,” Stjepan said. “But the rites of the dead are still infused with the sadness and grief of the living, and mourning leaves a permanent mark in the world, where so many of the dead are interred. Particularly when they have been forgotten. Some say that's what the dead hate more than anything. That's why they come and visit us on the Day of the Dead, to remind us that they are waiting to greet us at the Hall of Judgment when our turn comes to obey the First Law.”

They come and visit you
, she thought glumly.
But not me. Should I feel lucky
?

“I begin to understand why the Divine King brings his followers up into the Heavens,” she said. “Going to the Underworld's too fucking gloomy.”

“Fourteen centuries of religious quarrel explained in a nutshell,” laughed Stjepan. “Who wants to stand in judgment before the dead in the shadows of the dark, if worshipping the King of Heaven will lift you to a great reward in the brightness of His palace in the stars?”

The main hall of the Watchtower could easily fit several hundred men, though with several patrols out along the wall and two shifts for the meal, there were only about seventy-five with them at the tables. The king's table at the head of the hall was empty in his absence, with Sir Orace and his other chief vassals taking the head of a table on their right. Stjepan was a bit relieved that they were allowed to find their own tables, and so they filled two tables down at the far end of the hall, one with Arduin and most of his household knights, and the other with Godewyn's crew. Gilgwyr and Leigh were at another table, mixing with some of the locals; the Watchtower employed several enchanters and alchemists to prepare magics and amulets for their patrols, which sometimes marched out into the Wastes, and Gilgwyr was intent on purchasing some for use in the hills.

After some discussion, Annwyn and Malia had taken their meal in their rooms, brought to them by the squires and watched over by the Urwed brothers. Stjepan was relieved that there had not been any strenuous objections. Despite the absence of their liege lord, discipline did not seem to be lacking amongst the Watchtower guards, and the Watchtowers were old-fashioned in their courtesies, so Stjepan hadn't necessarily expected there to be too much potential for trouble, despite his warning to Erim. Unless there'd been too much drinking going on.

But still, better safe than sorry.

After their meals were done, Arduin and his remaining knights left the hall for the guest chambers, and Stjepan finally relaxed a bit. He saw Sir Orace beckon to him and excused himself, leaving Erim to fend for herself with Godewyn and his men. He made his way over to the knight's table and took a seat as several of the men-at-arms there got up and left, leaving him with Sir Orace. The gaunt man poured out a bit of harsh apple brandy for Stjepan before downing his own glass of the stuff.

“Your employer is a man of rank,” said Sir Orace. “Though I am confused as to why he has brought his wife along; the Bale Mole is no place for a woman. I am beginning to think I didn't charge you enough. They're clearly Aurian nobility.”

“My employer very much desires to remain anonymous,” Stjepan said with an apologetic smile. “Treasure-hunting is considered terribly passé amongst the Aurian nobility, they think it's something that only poor people do. He'd be quite the laughingstock, particularly if the expedition comes up empty-handed.”

“Did they hire you in Therapoli?”

“Aye, they filled up their expedition back in Therapoli a couple of weeks ago,” said Stjepan. “Cartographer, scout, quartermaster, enchanter. Then we added Godewyn and his crew at Woat's Inn a few days back for extra muscle.”

“If you've been on the road then you missed the excitement,” said Sir Orace, and Stjepan froze the instant he heard the word
excitement
, and a part of his mind became focused on the dagger on his hip. “A bit of news arrived two days ago, buried in the mix with the patrol dispatches. The High Priest of the Public Temple of the Divine King was murdered on the 17th of Emperium by an Aurian lord, the future Baron of Araswell, after the High Priest implicated his sister in the witchcraft that killed their brother.” He fixed Stjepan with a flat, unblinking look. “Their brother, Harvald Orwain.”

Stjepan held Sir Orace's gaze for a moment, a relaxed smile on his lips and a faint crinkle of amusement in his eyes.
Warwark is the last stop of the heralds on the West King's Road, and that's five days travel from Therapoli if the heralds hit their marks. Then the news would have slowly made its way up the Wall for several days, passed from patrol to patrol or by messenger, to likely arrive at the earliest . . . two days ago.
He nonchalantly broke eye contact with Sir Orace and glanced out over the dining hall. He scanned the Watchtower men looking for tension or preparation, and saw none. He turned back to Sir Orace.

“There's terrible news if it's true. I haven't seen Harvald for a while. I will have to offer a prayer for him later. As I recall, Araswell is just west of Vesslos. A man from Araswell would most likely flee into the Hada Wold or the Manon Mole, don't you think?” he asked. “He'd be looking to join up with the Rebel Earl. Like most other outlaws in that region.”

“Could be as you say,” said Sir Orace with an easy smile. “Hard to think of why a man like that would come all the way over to our far corner of the Middle Kingdoms. But like I said, I'm beginning to think I didn't charge you enough. A large reward was mentioned in the dispatch for the apprehension of this murderer and his witch sister, but you know, by my way of thinking, rewards always have to be shared when you're part of a company. A share to your commanders, a share to your underlings, and pretty soon you haven't got much left. A bribe, on the other hand, particularly a secret one that no one else needs to know about, doesn't have to be shared, and so needn't be quite as large.”

“I suppose that's true. Why don't we take a look at this dispatch, then, and at the reward that is offered within it for the murderer? Then you can name your price, Sir Orace, and I'll see what I can do,” said Stjepan. “Assuming that no one else will appear with hand outstretched, that is?”

“Lucky for you I'm the only one that has read the dispatch,” said Sir Orace.

“Lucky for me and my purse, you mean,” said Stjepan, smiling, as they stood. “Lead the way, sir.”

And they quietly stepped from the main hall, Stjepan's mind resting on the hilt of his dagger.

Early the next morning, the expedition slowly rolled its way out of an open gate underneath the north side of the Watchtower of Mizer. The gates on this side were twins to the ones on the southern side that opened onto the highest courtyard, and they were strictly managed so that if one set of gates was open, the other set would be closed, thus ensuring that the Watchtowers always presented an unbroken magical line of defense against the curse that had transformed the Wastes. A rough-looking path led up into haunted, forlorn hills. Several Watchtower guards held the gate open, waving them through, and a guard captain named Dylam Morbraece stood to the side with Stjepan. He was young for a captain of the Watchtowers, perhaps twenty-five summers. But he already had a grizzled look that would give experienced older veterans pause before questioning his orders.

“Well, say goodbye to Sir Orace for me whenever he wakes,” Stjepan said casually. “With any luck we'll be passing back through in perhaps a week's time.”

Dylam nodded. “We'll see you on your way back, then, with any luck,” he said. “The King's Fortune be with you, treasure-hunter.”

Stjepan smiled back, but his smile was cold and didn't reach his eyes. “The king's got no claim out here,” he said quietly.

“No, this land belongs to no god or king, so I suppose he doesn't, does he, Black-Heart,” chucked Dylam, and he gave a casual salute. “But there's a king watching over you still, whether you like it or not.”

Stjepan returned his salute and started walking to join the caravan, which was getting itself in order on the hill path. Rather than the coach in the lead, they had put it in the middle, with one of the supply wagons ahead of it and other behind it. As Stjepan rejoined the expedition, Gilgwyr and Leigh were going from man to man, handing each of them an amulet that they were pulling from a pair of ironbound boxes and indicating that they should wear the amulet about their neck. Leigh handed one up to Arduin, sitting astride Ironbound in his full harness and looking every inch an Aurian knight.

“An amulet to wear, my Lord: a ruby enchanted against curses and hexes, set in silver with a Labiran Rune to ward against magic and curses and ghosts,” he said, setting the box down. “The enchanters here do good work, and are long experienced in protecting the Watchtowers against cursed Uthedmael. I will tie one into your horse's hair, as well, my Lord, so that so fine a steed is also protected.” Arduin glanced ahead of him, and saw that others were tying amulets into the hair of their horses.