“Don’t say that, Sir Aelin.” Young Evan looked unexpectedly pale. “There are things . . .” He could not find the words he wanted, and only shook his head. “I grew up here. There are things in these hills, bad things. Not all of them are natural.”
“Natural or not, they will have several good men of Hernystir to deal with if they prove themselves awkward,” Aelin said, with more cheer than he felt. He was angry at Evan for sharing his peasant superstitions with the others, undercutting what should be a moment of relief. “And if your bad things try to keep any of us from getting warm and dry, well, they will spend the night on the Frostmarch themselves, and wonder how it happened!”
? ? ?
The main part of the storm was almost upon them now, its outrider clouds running before the wind, flinging down cold rain as Sir Aelin’s band climbed through the hills. As they made their way up the slope, through the thrashing, wind-rattled trees, Aelin heard a thin, continuous roaring from ahead of them, like the rumbling snores of some monstrous sleeping bear. When they reached the crown of the hill they could all see what made it—the mighty Inniscrich, its swollen waters dull pewter in the stormlight, busy with white wave caps as the wind made its surface froth and dance.
At the far end of the valley, still a good ride away, Dunath Tower loomed over the river, a rectangular mass of dark stone that seemed to have shrugged its way loose from the surrounding trees to take a better look. Once, long ago in the days of Tethtain’s empire, it had served as a nobleman’s house at an important boundary between the king’s land and that of the hostile northmen. Now there was peace between those two onetime enemies, but the north still offered a threat; Dunath Tower was a boundary fort now, a watchtower against the White Foxes of the Nornfell Mountains, alternately staffed by small garrisons from Hernystir and Rimmersgard.
The rain was punching down hard; the weight of the water thumping on Aelin’s hood felt more like a fall of hailstones. “One last ride, men,” he cried, “and then we will be under a roof!”
He spurred his horse, which slid a little as it found its footing, but then leaped away along the ridge of the hill. His men followed, the sound of hoofbeats on the muddy ground briefly louder than either the river or the storm.
? ? ?
As they drew closer to the fortress, following the course of the swollen river from a healthy distance up the hillside, Aelin was astonished to see lights burning in the tower windows. The wind and rain were too fierce to even rein up and consider, but he had seen the previous garrison return to Hernysadharc with his own eyes before he departed with Count Eolair’s message. He could only guess that the Rimmersmen had arrived earlier than he had thought they could.
The men were cheered, of course, to see signs of life in the midst of so much cold, damp, and darkness, but they were less pleased to discover the tower’s gate firmly shut and nobody answering their hale. Aelin could not guess how long they stood beside the narrow spot in the river, wrapped in the storm’s darkness, splashed not just by rain but also the floating white foam thrown up by the river’s force far below them, cold and soaked to the bone as they thumped away at the gate.
“Can no one hear me?” Aelin shouted, beating the iron-bound wood with the butt of his spear until it seemed louder in his ears than the thunder. “I am Aelin, knight of King Hugh, from Hernysadharc. Let us in, for the love of great Brynioch!”
At last a face appeared on the roof atop the guard tower.
“Ho, there! You say you are Hernystiri?”
Aelin was relieved but puzzled to recognize a countryman’s voice. “Yes. Sir Aelin, come from Hernysadharc. Will you let us in?”
The head withdrew without enlightening him.
“Are these people mad?” his squire Jarreth muttered. “They can see we are Hernystirmen like they are. Why don’t they let us in?”
At last, when it seemed as if they would be left on the desolate road outside the fort until the storm blew them away or froze them to the spot, the gate creaked open, spilling torchlight into their faces.
Aelin received another surprise when he and his men rode through into the tower’s courtyard. The armed men who surrounded them wore no insignia, not that of the Hernystiri borderers or the Rimmersmen meant to replace them, and for a moment Aelin feared they had let themselves be taken by bandits. “Who are you?” he demanded. “Who is your leader here?”
A man with a thin, weather-beaten face and a nose like the beak of a hunting bird stepped forward. “That would be me, Sir Aelin,” he said in perfect Herynsytiri.
“How do you know my name?”
“Easier to explain inside, under cover. You and your men are soaked.”
Aelin and his troop let themselves be led out of the courtyard and into the tower itself. The tower’s bottom floor was the stable; their horses joined the more than a dozen already tied up there. Then they climbed to the main hall, where a fire was burning in the great hearth and several more men waited. Here the light was better, so that Aelin could finally make out the insignia on the brooch that held the spokesman’s cloak.
“You are Silver Stags!” he said, surprised.
“Every man of us,” said the hawk-faced one. “I am Samreas, the lieutenant of this company. I recognized you from the court, Sir Aelin.”
“But what are the royal guards doing here?” Aelin thought he saw a few smirks among the waiting soldiers, which seemed a strange response to an obvious question. The Stags were King Hugh’s handpicked troop, most of them hardened veterans of the second Thrithings War. It was even said that some had remained behind in the grasslands when the rest returned to Hernystir, working as hired swords for various of the local thanes.
“The king’s business, of course. Sit down by the fire and warm yourselves. I will tell the captain you’re here.”
Aelin could only stare as Sir Samreas made his way up the stairs. Aelin’s men were already pulling off their soaking cloaks and pushing toward the fire, but their leader was disturbed. What would soldiers of the king’s elite guard be doing in such a remote place? Was the king also here? Surely Hugh would never travel with such a small force: judging by what he had seen, Aelin thought less than half an ordinary company were in the tower.
A few moments later Samreas returned with a burly, middle-aged man who wore his mustaches and sidewhiskers long in the grasslands tradition that many Hernystiri soldiers had brought back from the Second Thrithings War. Aelin recognized the man, but did not know him well.
“Baron Curudan,” he said. “Brynioch’s blessings for this roof and this fire. You command these men, then?”
“For my many sins, yes.” The baron grinned and stretched out his hand. “Welcome, Sir Aelin. I fought with your great-uncle at the Stefflod. How is he? Is he well?”
Aelin clasped his hand. The baron had a strong grip. “Count Eolair goes on like a man half his age. He has only recently returned from one long journey and now is off on another, all on behalf of the High Throne.”
“Ah, yes. I saw him at Hernysadharc only a month ago.”
“I beg your pardon, Baron, but what are the Silver Stags doing here?”
Curudan waved his large hand. “I might ask you something similar, sir—what brings kin of the famous count to this remote spot? Let us drink together and talk. I imagine we can find something to feed your men, as well as to wet their throats, eh, Samreas?”
“I think so, Baron,” said the hawk-nosed man.
“Well, see to Sir Aelin’s folk, then. Aelin, you come with me.”
Thunder rattled the skies outside as Curudan led him up the stairs to a wide chamber with a table and several well-made chairs. A few moments later one of the baron’s soldiers appeared with a platter of bread, cold meat, and cheese, and a beaker for Aelin already poured. The man refilled the baron’s own beaker from a pitcher, then set it down on the table before departing. Aelin had inherited more than blood from his great-uncle Eolair—he had taken some of his caution, too. In a strange situation like this, he did not like drinking something unless he knew he shared it with his host, so he only pretended to sip from his own wine as Curudan spoke.
“We are here because the king has heard rumor that someone might take advantage of the garrison being withdrawn,” the baron told him. “He wants to make certain it is handed over to the Rimmersman as the High Ward dictates.”
“Then why did he withdraw the garrison at all? Why not just wait for the northerners to get here?”
“Perhaps because King Hugh did not hear the rumor until after our troops had left.” Curudan shrugged. “You have many questions, sir. Why are you here? It seems strange that the illustrious Eolair’s nephew should arrive just when the tower was thought to be empty.”