"Darkmoon Ridge (Ch 6 - 8)" by James K Bowers

 
 
    A cold, grey dawn shrouded Southgate in a lifeless pallor.  Though the temperature was cause of misery enough, it now appeared as if more winter storms could be expected.  Sylnia noted with some dissatisfaction that the nagging soreness in her joints was a good indication that those storms might be expected very soon.  She stood, wrapped in warm furs, trying with little success to roust the chill from her bones.
    The short journey from the warmth of the abbey to the safety of the Earl’s castle would not have kept her out of doors for long had it not been for her two patients.  Though they had not yet regained consciousness, Sylnia had pronounced them fit enough for transport to the castle.  What hadn’t been expected was that the Earl would insist on moving them to the castle in the dead of night when all should rightly be fast asleep.  And so it was that Sylnia found herself accompanying her patients and wishing she were herself unaware of the gnawing cold.  The lady and the royal guardsman were easily carried on pallets from the abbey to a horsedrawn cart.  With blankets heaped upon them, they were then taken to the castle at a dreadfully slow pace, a sensible but discomforting precaution taken to avoid causing them further harm.  It was that slow pace that chilled Sylnia unmercifully and it reminded her of her recent and growing fondness of a warm hearth.  All in all, the move to the castle was uneventful, though Slynia was certain that she would take a week or more to completely thaw.
     As unusual as some of her cures were, Sylnia’s skills were such that they could easily be plied from a light sack of supplies.  This, of course, was dependent upon the assumption that the correct medicinal herbs and roots were either in the sack or readily available in a nearby wood or dale.  Thus, the relocation of her makeshift hospital to this chamber in the castle was of no great consequence, though now her patients were removed to separate but adjoining rooms.  With their gradually improving health, it was doubtful Sylnia would be needed again, but the Earl simply did not want to take any chances.  Such an uncharacteristic display of concern on the Earl’s part, Sylnia decided, was evidence enough to justify her earlier suspicions regarding the identity of the lady in green.
    Sylnia watched from the dizzying height of a chamber in the castle’s southeast tower as several heavily cloaked horsemen made their way from the bailey, through the main gate.  The riders clip-clopped over the drawbridge and passed through the great stone barbican that guarded the castle’s entrance.  A hasty tally put their number at nearly two dozen, but the view from this distance gave Sylnia little satisfaction as she tried to mark the identities of the individuals in the group.   It was difficult to tell who the knights and soldiers were, but the wooden staff carried by one meant that the Earl had somehow coaxed Valzuur from his tower and his wizardly studies.
    Once the riders passed through the barbican, they picked up their pace and were soon gone from Sylnia’s view. She mulled over the ramifications of Valzuur’s presence with the departing troop.  Most certainly his departure was directly linked to the arrival of the wounded riders.  If the Earl’s advisor was involved, she would have a great deal of work ahead of her to gather the details of this story.  She returned to her chair by the bedside and wriggled down into the mound of furs.
    From nearby came the soft and steady sound of the lady as she slept.  She was still a mystery to Sylnia but, she thought smugly to herself, not as much of a riddle as the Abbot and the Earl would prefer.  It was simple task to deduce who she was, but Sylnia’s curiosity would not be sated until she also knew the all the whens, whys, and what-fors.
    She reveled in the warmth of the furs and closed her eyes, cat-napping while she waited for the abbot’s return.  It would not, she reflected, be a very lengthy or restful nap, but sleep had been all too scarce since the arrival of these riders from the Reach.  Sylnia was also certain that she would welcome wholeheartedly any little bit of sleep she could pluck from time’s greedy clutches.  Before she could fully appreciate such a luxury, though, there was a stirring and soft groan from the bed.
    “What luck!” Sylnia thought to herself as she realized T’ralex had not yet returned.  She guessed he might still be with the Earl.  It wouldn’t be like him to have gone back to the Abbey without checking on the lady and her King’s horseman companion.  The lady’s eyes were open.
    “So, yer awake then, Missy?  For a while we was feared yer days was done, but a strong one ye are.”  Sylnia, nearly hidden by the furs, rose as the Khurda stirred.  She picked up the glass of water from the nightstand, helping the woman to take a few sips.  “That is good news, indeed, though too late we was ta save one o’ yer companions.”  As she swallowed, the Khurda’s eyes shot to meet Sylnia’s, then she pushed the glass away.
    “No,” said the Khurda softly.  Her gaze seemed focused on some distant place.  “Not companions.  He -- they were all much more than that. They were soldiers.”
    Sylnia’s sharp mind clamped down on the words “they” and “all”, capturing them as surely as a bear trap, but she continued on as if numbers were of no consequence.  “So, soldiers be more than companions?  ‘Tis an odd way to look at it, Missy.”  In a vain attempt to keep the woman from dwelling on death, Sylnia smiled more broadly as she winked.  “Anyways, the other’s lookin’ much better than he were when he rode in.  Dark-haired fellow -- and a handsome one he is.  Makes me wish I was a few years younger, and just never you mind how many years that might be.”
    “My sword?”
    Sylnia smiled her best gossip-gathering smile at the young woman.  “Eh?  An’ wot’s that ye say, young lady?  A sword, is it?  Well, now ye did ride in with those guardsmen, but I was of a mind they was soldiers set to guard yer ladyship.  Mayhaps not, then?”  If Sylnia’s appraisal of the situation was correct, Khurda Penzand and a detachment of the King’s cavalry had been attacked and in the ensuing battle the unthinkable had happened ¾ the Khurda’s sword had been lost.
    Sylnia’s brow creased momentarily as she absorbed this newest bit of information, squirreling it away for whatever future use it may have.  Surely the abbot knew more than he was willing to tell her, Sylnia thought to herself.  Then her smile returned along with her light manner.  “Hmmmph.  Anyways, I ain’t heard nobody tellin’ ‘bout no sword, an’ if it's told in Southgate, I daresay ol’ Sylnia hears of it sooner than most.”
    The Khurda’s eyes flashed with a hawklike intensity.  “Southgate, did you say, my dear woman?  Then I am but two days ride from Beldar?”  She tried to rise, but Sylnia held her gently in place.
    “Whoa there, Missy.  If you undo all wot myself an’ our tight-lipped Abbot done to keep ya ‘mongst the livin’, the good Earl will roast me ol’ hide over a slow fire for sure.”  With a scolding wag of her finger, Sylnia tugged and tucked the furs and blankets until satisfied the young woman was again adequately protected from even the slightest chill that might find its way into the bedchamber.  “Aye, Southgate it is, an’ safe in the castle, as well.  Guests of Earl Ulthrond we are, least ways until yer ladyship is better mended.  An’ pardon, where’s my manners anyhow?  My name’s Sylnia an’ I’m right pleased to make yer acquaintness, Miss...”
    “I... you may call me Shiira.  I, too, am pleased to meet you, Sylnia.”  The Khurda hesitated, but apparently seeing no other choice, plunged on.  “If I’m not allowed out of this bed, might you arrange an audience with the good Earl?  If so, at the soonest possible moment?”  The Khurda’s voice was steady and her manner calm, but the anxiety in the Khurda’s eyes did not escape Sylnia’s notice.  Sylnia was also of the notion that Shiira had not been truthful about her name, and it seemed odd that someone without title would be so adamant about an audience with the Earl.
    “Well now, Miss Shiira, I ain’t but an ol’ herbwoman an’ don’t rightly know as ta how to ‘quest an audience.”  Sylnia, seeing the disappointment flood unchecked across the Khurda’s features, tried to keep the Penzander’s hopes high.  “Now, that don’t mean ol’ Sylnia’s done give up, missy.  I ain’t sayin’ it ain’t ta get done, but I’ll be havin’ ta ask aroun’ a bit.  Could be th’ Abbot will be back soon ta check on yer health afore he heads back ta th’ abbey.  When he does, I s’pose we can ask ‘im ‘bout seein’ th’ Earl, but ye shouldn’t set yer hopes too high, dear.  Abbot duLaine was a might fidgety ‘bout movin’ ye here to th’ castle firstoff.  Can’t see as he’s like to be fond of the notion of ye wanderin’ abouts in the castle ¾ tol’ me to keep yer ladyship in bed if ye woke, he did.”  The small bit of promise carried in Sylnia’s words brightened the Khurda some and Sylnia took this as a sign that she should change the subject before the lady’s mood changed once more.  “So, while we’re waitin’ fer th’ abbot, what say ye tell an ol’ woman ‘bout yer travels, Shiira?  Wouldn’t mind hearin’ a bit o’ current history from somebody what knows...”
    Sylnia’s gossip-gathering smile lit her old face, accompanied by the bright twinkling in her soft grey-blue eyes.  No, the Khurda wouldn’t tell much, but maybe just enough...
 
 

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    The nearest outpost to Southgate on the western half of Stonedown Reach is home to a well-armed and armoured garrison of some seventy heavy infantry known as Hammer Corps.  To the east, another garrison of equal strength, Anvil Corps, keeps its constant vigil.
    Each outpost was just over half a day’s ride from the crossroads at which Sir Rothmore and Valzuur now paused.  At mid-afternoon and with daylight shortened by winter, reaching either outpost before nightfall would not be possible.  Of this, Sir Rothmore and Valzuur were certain, and so were all twenty of the accompanying scouts and soldiers.  It was an inescapable fact accepted by all, but welcomed by none.
    “It is here we must part ways, Sir Rothmore.  It would be to our mutual advantage, though, to review our immediate plans before we travel further.  I suggest we do so over a light meal.  In any case, we must decide how best to divide this force, though I am certain you have already given it much thought since last night’s council.”
    “There’s wisdom in that, Master Valzuur.  The men and the horses would surely welcome the rest.  But I have in mind a small change to our plan.  Since leaving the castle this morning, I’ve been mulling it over, but your opinion on the matter would be most welcome.”
    Sir Rothmore turned and his voice rose above the stamping of the horses and the murmurings of the men.  “Company! Dismount!”  The knights, soldiers, and scouts that comprised the band did so without question or complaint.  They welcomed the opportunity to stretch their legs and, once given leave by Sir Rothmore, took full advantage of these few short minutes: some chewing on smoke-dried meats, bits of bread and cheese, or nuts and dried fruit, others checking their mounts, their gear and the various straps and ties.
    Off to the side, Valzuur and Sir Rothmore quietly conferred.  The knight squinted at the northern skies then nodded as he spoke.  “I’m sure you’ve been watching the weather as well, Valzuur.  I fear this storm will overtake us.  No matter what course of action we take, I don’t think we will be able to outdistance it.  And, unless I miss my guess, this coming storm will not be as kindhearted as the light snow of a few days ago.  The wind has been picking up over the past few hours and the temperature has been dropping steadily even though we’re barely past mid-day.”
    “Yes.  I agree,” said Valzuur.  “That is precisely why I thought it necessary to discuss our plans and divide our troop as soon as possible.  I think we should put as much road as we can behind us, camping as near our two destinations as we are able.”
    Sir Rothmore shook his head ever so slightly.  “I’m afraid this is where our opinions differ.”
    “How so?” queried the wizard.
    “If we go our separate ways from here and head directly for the outposts, neither group will reach an outpost before nightfall is upon us.  In that we already agree.  But, if the weather turns out as bad as I fear, we might be better served to stay together and head southward over a less-traveled route.  There is a hamlet known as Kirri Knoll which may be within our range.”  Sir Rothmore pointed down the southeastern branch of the road.  “The trail to Kirri Knoll lies some two or three miles from here, a branch off the main road to Outpost Hammer.  We might, with luck, reach the hamlet before nightfall.  There is no inn, but we might ask shelter in its few cottages and barns.”    He pulled at his cloak, trying with little success to keep the wind from chilling him even further.  “Leaving Kirri Knoll at dawn tomorrow, weather permitting, we should reach the main road that connects Hammer and Anvil by mid-morning and there separate our force.  If all goes well, either outpost would then be less than half a day’s ride.  If my thinking is correct, none of our troop would be forced to camp in this bitter cold.”
    Valzuur tugged at his ear as he thought.  Then, apparently satisfied with the logic of the plan, the wizard spoke.  “Yes, I suppose you’re right.  The weather suggests a grain of caution and demands a bushel of respect. Let’s make for the hamlet, then, and soon. We’ll be of no use to the Earl if we become casualties of our own overzealous blunderings.  If the weather turns out to be as bad or worse than our estimates, at least we can hope for some shelter from it in Kirri Knoll.”
    With the decision made, Valzuur, Sir Rothmore, and the small band of warriors quickly finished their respite and were again on their way.  The snow left by previous storms proved to be of little consequence yet travel was not as speedy as they had hoped, even on the main road to Outpost Hammer.  In some places it had drifted over, but progress remained steady if not swift.  As Sir Rothmore had pointed out, the wind was indeed gaining intensity but, with it at their backs, was more nuisance than hindrance.  They had traveled only a few miles when the knight called a halt near a winding strip of ice and snow that in milder days would be a small brook.  He pointed to the right and waved the troop to follow as he rode over the narrow bridge and onto a nearly unrecognizable path that wound southward past scattered, leaf-barren trees.
    Shortly after leaving the main road, the snow began to fall.  The troop rode single file on the narrow track, following the lead of Sir Rothmore and Marrix, a young scout who had lived near enough to the Kirri Knoll to know this trail well.  It was not a light snowfall and the stinging flakes, driven by the wind, made the journey miserable.  The snow swooped and dove at the riders like thousands of minute hawks.  Since turning from the main road, the frozen crystals came at them from behind and to their right.  The riders were no longer able to keep the wind directly behind them and they suffered the biting wind as It lashed at their faces, forcing them to turn their heads eastward to avoid its merciless onslaught.
    As the hours passed and miles retreated behind them, the storm worsened and light faded, though the sunset was unseen through the overcast skies.  Darkness crept in and travel became difficult and sometimes perilous.  The horses crunched onward through deepening snow and still there was no light from the hamlet Sir Rothmore knew should lie somewhere nearby.  Visibility was dismally poor, he thought, yet even through this relentless snowfall some light from the small collection of cottages should be visible in the darkness ahead.
    The troop struggled to stay together, shouting to each other over the wind’s howl.  Their progress slowed to a crawl as the storm grew in fury.  Just as Sir Rothmore was losing hope of reaching the tiny village a shape suddenly loomed large in front of him.  “Company! Halt!” he cried over the storm, hoping the men would hear him, then more to himself than anyone in particular, “I think we’ve found Kirri Knoll.”  Turning to Marrix he commanded, “Something isn’t right here.  Take a look around, but don’t go far and don’t take long.  We’ll gather here by this barn.”  Then, to the others, “Dismount!  Valzuur and Gherrin -- with me.  The rest of you, stand and defend!”
    The two knights and the wizard quickly located the barn door and with swords drawn, opened it to peer into the blackness within, listening for any sound that would signal possible danger.  Valzuur mumbled some unintelligible words and, with a flick of his wrist, a small but brilliant ball of cold emerald flame leapt out into the barn to hover in the air.  The glowing flame that was not flame gave off a pale light, enough to see no threat lurked inside.  Sir Rothmore, selecting those who seemed most affected by the weather, ordered half of the men inside to shelter from the frigid wind and stinging snow.  He and the rest remained outside in the dreadful cold, alert to danger.  Valzuur, not technically under Sir Rothmore’s command, also chose to remain outside, though not before speaking an incantation to allow his ball of ghost flame to provide heat as well as light.
    Marrix, taking his commander’s words at face value, was not long in returning and reported quickly his findings.  “Sir, nothing much living here but the darkness.  Three cottages, all empty, and several barns, stables, and storage sheds.  Most of them with the doors open.  A couple of the barns and stables still have livestock in them but none in good health.  Looks like folks left in quite a hurry maybe four or five days ago.  But there’s nothing I can spot in the darkness to tell me why they left or where they went.”
    Sir Rothmore sized up the situation in his mind momentarily.  “All right, Marrix.  We don’t have many options here, so let’s do what we can to weather this storm.  Take three men with you and get fires going in the hearths of those cottages.”  With a nod he dismissed Marrix to his task, then turned to Gherrin.  “Let’s get the horses stabled and fed.  Then I want you to take some men with you and see to the other animals as best as you can, Gherrin.  Maybe Jonnaren and Barth.  They’ve some skill with farm beasts.”  As Gherrin moved off to pass on these orders, Sir Rothmore smiled a grim smile at Valzuur.  “Well, let’s see what we’ve gotten ourselves into, shall we?”
 
 

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    The snow had been falling for hours and the furious wind continued its headlong race to warmer climes.  The Earl’s coach made its way to the Abbey, driver and coachman shivering in the cold.  They were quietly thankful that all that had been required of them was a quick trip to the Abbey and back.  The darkness, the wind, and the ever-shifting blanket of snow made the trip slower than they would have liked, but they did not complain.  The Abbot’s station demanded their respect, but even without his title they would have given the same respect freely.  T’ralex was a kind soul whose selfless compassion was well known in and around Southgate.  Some said the Abbot was as much a reason to settle in Southgate as their firm but benevolent Earl, though none were likely to speak it in the Earl’s presence.
    T’ralex had not intended to remain at the castle the entire day but, with the Khurda’s awakening and Sylnia’s ensuing “interrogation”, it seemed that he had little choice in the matter.  Early in the afternoon a messenger had been sent with instructions to invite Alorra to join him but she had politely declined, remaining at Abbey Tower.  T’ralex harbored little doubt her nose was buried in the crumbling pages of some ancient text.  As much as he loved his younger sister, he still sometimes wished that she would abandon her quest to become one of the Mages of Power.  Even Valzuur the Grey, with all his years of study and practice, had not yet been recognized with that title and accolade.  No matter how T’ralex tried, he simply couldn’t fathom Alorra’s insatiable desire for arcane knowledge.
    The carriage slowed as it neared the entrance to Abbey Tower, then stopped entirely, leaving just a few short paces for T’ralex to walk.  In the tower’s younger days the walk would have been greater.  It once stood as Southgate’s only true defensive structure and, until the church had purchased it from the Earl, it had a formidable moat to separate it from attackers.  With the tower now fully converted to ecclesiastic use, the moat had been partially filled, the road now made a closer approach, and T’ralex himself had built a simple stone walkway to the road.  The Abbot thanked the coachman as he was helped down to the snow-covered ground.  He then paused in the wind and swirling snow to shout his gratitude to the driver as well.  They were as eager as the Abbot to take shelter from winter’s wrath and in a moment they were gone, making their way back to the castle and its promise of warmth.
    The stained glass glimmered in tender hues of blue, red and gold as firelight caressed it from within the tower.  It felt good to be home in spite of all the stressful happenings of the past few days.  T’ralex made his way to the door, ever mindful not to slip on a treacherously hidden patch of ice.  He stopped short as he approached the door, noticing for the first time that it had been left ajar.  Thanks to the drifting snow no footprints were visible to tell of persons entering or leaving.  Little light shone through the small opening but as he pressed it open further still, the snow that had drifted in told a tale of how long the small crack had been allowing the wind and snow to invade the Abbey.  Entering quickly and kicking at the drift of snow blocking the jamb, T’ralex shoved the door tight into its frame.  He could count on one hand the times he had felt compelled to bar this door, and most of those instances were within the previous few days.  He slid the iron bolt home with a nerve-jangling hisssss-clank of metallic finality.  T’ralex felt a chill deeper than the wind could ever cause.  It was a feeling he hadn’t had since... since the morning in the stable with the shadow man.
    The fire was low but still warm in the hearth and would take little time to warm the air to a tolerable temperature.  He would add wood to it later, but matters more urgent were now at hand.  Alorra?  Now T’ralex truly hoped she was in her study, safely ensconced in her wizardly ponderings.  Nevertheless, the abbot armed himself with a stout wooden staff -- the one from his youthful wanderings -- and prayed he would not require it.  Then, with each step he took up the flight of stairs, T’ralex hoped he still had the skill to use the staff as a weapon if need be.
 
 

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