“Miestri,” Folkes said with the look on his face as if he’d eaten a bad onion. “She’s a Sorian, Hate thank him. How he got her to support him, I would pay in Aralonian pieces to find out.” He gave Dujahn a sidelong look. “You still haven’t been very useful there yet. Maybe I should hire someone else.”
Dujahn chuckled. “Inlanders,” he laughed, rolling his eyes. “King don Rion could pay me three times what you do. We could have your rebellion crushed before the first winter snow. But,” he added comfortingly, “The Gray Legion wants Ballinaire to win. He’s getting old, though. I’ve heard General Dairron will take over then. Is that true?”
Folkes shrugged. “That has not been decided yet. Maybe I will take over, Dujahn. It’s true that Lord Ballinaire depends on Dairron the most. Without the soldiers he’s recruited and his defensive tactics, the Bandit Rebellion would be half its size right now.”
“Or dead,” Dujahn pointed out. “Wasn’t Dairron’s father a regimental knight also? Like Ballinaire?”
“He was,” Folkes replied, annoyed. “Served him during the Purge Wars, then rebelled with him too. Stanjel Dairron is a first generation Bandit, Dujahn. It’s in his blood to hate don Rion. But that doesn’t mean he could take over the Rebellion,” he said in a warning voice. “Not without a fight.”
They approached the outer wall of Landmoor and stopped talking. It was too dangerous now. Their horses grunted as they followed the base of the steep hill. Near a bend in the river, Dujahn stopped. There was a blackened inlet in the face of the hill, darker than the night. There was some old shrine buried under the hill that led to the catacombs beneath the city. Nudging his mount forward, he reached the edge of the entryway and swung his leg over the saddle. The smell of thistle and moss was thick in the air. In moments, several Bandit soldiers emerged from the shadows and took their steeds. There was a gap within the tiny entryway leading to a small ingress with a stone stairwell at the far end. Some old Shae markings were chiseled in the stone on the inside, but they had faded and crumbled to the point that Dujahn couldn’t read them. His grasp of Silvan writing was still mediocre. The horses were left below as they started up the stairwell.
“The garrison commander would have a seizure if he knew about this,” Folkes muttered. “Does the Governor know?”
“Haven’t met the man,” Dujahn replied with a shrug. “Would you like me to?”
Folkes gave Dujahn an angry look and ignored the question.
He doesn’t know when I’m being serious, Dujahn thought blackly. What an oaf.
Within the shadowed alcove of the inner bailey, a detachment of Bandit officers met them. The officers had neatly trimmed beards and short hair, common for the humid Shoreland region. They wore the black plate mail and gold trim of Bandit Rebellion officers. Dujahn noticed how none of the common Bandit soldiers were armored the same way – only the officers. It was a remnant, he knew, of Ballinaire’s own days leading don Rion’s army. Long, long ago. Dujahn already kept a mental note of the twists and turns of the tunnel. He knew where to go. Torches glared from racks mounted on the walls, offering smoky light to the dark, broken corridors. After walking some distance, they arrived at a huge cellar that had been fortified with beams and stone – a fortress beneath a fortress. It was cool in the tunnels, and Dujahn sighed with relief. If Ballinaire didn’t want him as an advisor, Dujahn hoped his next assignment took him to the milder northlands. Or maybe the Bronnfisher Islands. That would be interesting too. He remembered something about a plague jewel there…
The Bandit officers opened the door and allowed them both to enter. Dujahn inhaled the smell of burning cloves and peered around Folkes. He saw General Dairron leaning against the far wall, but the smoke came from an older man in dark robes. He stopped short, trying to remember who the old man was. That’s right. The other Sorian.
Between the Ravenstone and the Kingshadow there lived two of the Sorian order. He knew that Miestri – Dairron’s supporter – lived with some renegade Shae in a valley cut into the Kingshadow Mountains. He had never met her, but had heard she was very beautiful. Some said she looked like a Shae, except she had ebony hair and dark eyes. The other Sorian in the valley sat right in front of him, smoking a pipe. He had been told the man called himself Mage. He wore simple black robes with a patterned green hem. He was of medium height and, by the wrinkles around his eyes and cheekbones, between fifty and sixty. But it was whispered in the Gray Legion that he was older than the world – that all the Sorian were. The Gray Legion had sent plenty of spies to learn more about them, but none had ever returned…not even the Sleepwalkers. Dujahn didn’t think he was in any danger as long as he stayed near Folkes.