The Black Keep (The Chronicles of Llars) (21 page)

The door was closed, the music played on, and the hubbub of the crowd filled everyone’s ears again. With no threat presenting itself, Carym began to relax and enjoy himself. The room was full of people, and though at first he didn’t understand their particular tongue, he could tell the language was rich and warm; he was beginning to feel at home here. A sense of purpose claimed him. A purpose becoming all too clear as time wore on.

Carym began to mingle some with nearby patrons, as did Kharrihan, and was surprised to find that these folk could speak to him in what they called Isle Cklathish, a common tongue among the Isles which was very much the same as Hybrandese Cklathish with only a few twists. It didn’t take him long to pick up the nuances of the tongue and he was conversing happily with many of the people. Mostly they talked of things like the weather and the fishing industry of the isle, and how the farmers were doing. Of course, the subject of the brigands who roamed the woods came up, but Carym got the sense that they weren’t as much a problem as he had thought they were. Seemed like the locals in this Shire had formed a militia of sorts and patrolled their own lands as the Sheriff should have been doing. There was talk, too, of the encroachments of the various Earls owning allegiance to the Arch Duke of Sargan. And of the suspicious absence of the Vaard who were always fond of raiding the smaller island settlements.

Carym took it all in, but had hoped to hear some rumors of the Tomb. It was foolish, really. Why would anyone be openly discussing a tomb hidden away and lost for centuries in the common room of
this
inn, simply because he had hoped to hear of it? He knew he could not ask and risk tipping off anyone else who may be seeking it. The last thing he wanted was a band of adventurers looking for gold to muscle their way into the tomb before he got there.

Soon the others retired to their rooms and Carym found himself alone among the Ckaymrish people in the inn, wondering if the earlier fear-filled flight from the woods had been in his head. He moved to a smaller table to avoid attention and listened to scraps of conversations. Mostly what he heard made him a bit homesick. Good folks discussing their plans for spring harvest, work that needed doing on a leaky roof, someone was going to be new father, and someone else was getting married. He took a long pull from his mug and forced away the thoughts. He was in a foreign land, a dangerous one, and he needed information.

Finally the bards stopped playing. One of them walked through the common room performing sleight of hand tricks, asking for tips. While the second sat down at a large table nearby. He strained to listen, hearing only scraps of the conversation. More talk of the doings of this man Yerkses, calling himself the Steel Emperor. He wondered of the significance of it all. Carym took another pull from his mug and was surprised to find a decidedly Cklathish looking man suddenly sitting across from him. He eyed the man questioningly, expecting him to introduce himself.

“And who might you be, sir?” asked the man in his distinct, sing-song, accent. He wore a big smile and Carym saw that the man had a wooden staff which he promptly disassembled into three separate pieces; one of which happened to be a flute while the others hid rapier-sized blades! “Oh, don’t mind me, just a bit ’o cleaning to do, I have!” Indeed the man went about busily wiping the blades down with a rag and then began to lovingly polish his flute with some resin he kept in a bag.

“Carym, of Hyrum. But, who are you?”

“Bart O’Donnel, I am!” he said, extending his hand enthusiastically. “Ayresman from Ringsy! Pleased to meet you!”

“You’re from Ayre?” he wondered what the place was truly like, having heard so much from travelers.

“Aye. Ringsy is a wee town, so it is. Doubt you’ve heard of it. Where’d you say you came from?”

Carym was enjoying the man’s mannerisms and accent, it reminded him of what little he knew of his mother. He had not known her well, as she died when he was very young. But the man’s personality triggered fond memories, warmth, and his mother’s love tugging at his soul.

“From Hyrum,” he said thickly. “A small village in Hybrand.”

“Great Heavens!! Hybrand!” the man exclaimed, a bit too loudly. He must have realized it, though, as he lowered his voice and nodded to Carym. “I am a bard, good sir. And there are two things a bard is good for, singing and telling tales. Glad I would be, if you would share some of the news from Hybrand.”

“Ah. Well, sad news from there I’m afraid. The Arnathians have Hybrand under their heel and have gone to great lengths to persecute locals for failing to assimilate into Arnathian culture. Some good men have been arrested and others have become outlaws, simply because they do not acknowledge Qra’z as their god. As for that you probably already knew. There is much tension there, now. The people seem on the verge of rebellion.” He paused, wishing he was there to help. But he knew his presence had already caused them undue harm. “A band of outlaws is fomenting resistance against the Arnathians, and war could be very real there. The bastards razed my village to the ground.” The bard nodded, saying nothing, seeing Carym’s pained expression.

“Truly sorry to hear that, I am. Much I’ve heard of them bastard Arnathians. ’Tis a sad way. Where are you headed? Might be I’ve some news for you.”

Carym was silent a moment. Unsure whether to trust the man, he had been too free with his tongue in Dockyard City and now he was being hunted because of it. “Away from here, possibly Myrnwell,” he replied, feeling that was a general enough answer. And it was the truth, as the group must get as far as Myrnwell before trying to go on to the Tomb.

“Myrnwell is a right enough place, it is. Ruled by a goodly Rhi. Alas, war is coming and the Mrynwellians prepare their defenses.”

“From what?”

“Why, the Nashians, do not doubt! A great host from a far off land called Ilian Nah, named after their oddball god, invaded the lands of the Vaard. Brought the Vaard under their control and now the Vaard fight for them, if you believe that! Who ever heard of the Vaard fighting for anyone other than themselves?” The man was positively scandalized. Carym shook his head. It confirmed the mumblings of others in the common room.

“What else do you know of them? Why do they come to this part of Llars?”

“Power, glory, riches? Who knows? But the man who leads them, a dark fellow is he. Claims to be a holy man, Prophet-General they call him. Very powerful magic he wields.”

Carym looked glum. “Do you think they aim to take the Ogrewall Mountains?”

“With the help of their Vaardic savages, these Nashians have spread west and south across the independent city-states, swallowing them up with their hordes of troops before deep winter.”

Carym nodded, not sure what to make of this. “I see.”

“I don’t think you do, lad. I don’t think you do,” said the bard, sadly. Carym looked at him quizzical.

“You see, Ilian Nah is the name of their motherland. But it’s the name of their god, too. Ilian Nah is known as a god of justice and war to these Nashians. But to us, we know him as the Shadowfyr, Umber himself!” As Bart told Carym of the deeds of the Nashians as they pushed across the broken and weak city-states, an image of a black tide rolling across these beautiful lands formed in his mind. Inexorably, it was making its way toward the ancient homeland of the Cklath, killing, razing, and enslaving towns and cities as it went, all in the guise of righteousness. Because as they conquered, they restored order and law to the lawless lands of the city-states. They built roads and fortified towns. They put people to work and paid them well for their labor. But they were intolerant; nothing less than total disruption of local culture, total assimilation to the Nashian way, total fealty and allegiance to the Prophet-General by the new subjects. Even the Vaard.

Pride and power fueled this juggernaut and Carym wondered how it would be stopped. Carym was certain that if the Prophet-General was seeking the Tomb of the Dark Paladin, then the answer to stopping him must lay hidden there. Carym knew they could not stand in the path of such an army. A foe capable of instilling such a compelling sense of righteousness in those who were performing acts of great evil must be a powerful foe indeed. They could expect little help from the weak and divided local city-states, and the lands of the Cklath were too far for immediate assistance.

“You look pensive, friend.”

Despite Carym’s misgivings about trusting the man, he did seem oddly endearing despite his shaggy hair and scraggly beard. The door to the inn opened and a tall man in a dark cloak stepped in. The wind had picked up outside and snow was falling, flakes drifting slowly into the inn.

“What of Caelambra? I’ve heard there is some unrest there.”

“Unrest?” the man was shocked. “They’ve been taken over, they have. Nashians invaded the city and took over all of the islands and estates.”

“Empire,” Carym said dully; he’d had his fill of those.

Carym and Zach hadn’t really discussed the next part of their quest since discovering the fate of Caelambra, having been absorbed with the task of escaping from the Underllars. And now that they had succeeded in doing that, they had come to find their way blocked, again. How long
had
they been underground? Time passed very oddly in the Underllars and Carym was not familiar with the seasons of this continent to know from the weather. How would they find the Tomb now? Was winter closing in? If so, moving through the mountains in the dangerous winter could be a fatal mistake. How were they supposed to find their guide now? Zach expressed doubts that there ever was a guide and suggested moving on to the Tomb anyway.

“Aye, Yerkses fancies himself the Steel Emperor now, so he does. It’s a bit presumptuous, isn’t it?” A waitress brought another round of brew for the men upon seeing the bard. Bart took a long drink and set his mug down. “I wouldn’t recommend traveling there now, friend. Sargan has that placed locked down for his looting, to be sure.”

“Close that damn door, fool!” barked a voice from the kitchens, causing him to forget the plight of Amberlou for the moment. The barkeep, Carym assumed. The man complied and closed the door, but the room quieted as he entered. There was a pall in the room, fear of this man was flowing in torrents from the other patrons. He was wearing a fur lined coat of black and red and his trousers were all black. His gloves were black with short metal spikes and he wore a long sword and buckler for weapons. Upon his chest was a coat of arms; a silver shield bearing a red serpent.

“Who is that?” asked Carym.

“That is the Sheriff’s lieutenant, Reks Hansen. And, you may be sure, there are a dozen of his men outside waiting for a signal from him.”

“Looks like a Vaard, though he’s much cleaner than one of those savages.”

“His father was a Vaard; your eyes tell you true. He bears his sire’s name.”

As the men watched from the shadowy corner of the inn, Reks sauntered over to the table where the rugged group of six were now seated. They certainly seemed a bit deferential to the man. He said nothing, just noted with satisfaction that they bowed their heads to him in acknowledgement. Then the Sheriff’s lieutenant moved on to another table, spying something more interesting. A lady.

“Well, well. Madam Gwensy, is it? A pair of gold coins you owe the Rhi’s tax man. Wouldn’t be that you have them on you?” the man’s voice was slick, oily. The woman bowed her head and said nothing. “Oh, I see. You spent your lousy earnings already, have you? Well, might be you could earn your money back from me!”

The patrons, not wanting to be drawn into what certainly amounted to a trap, went back to their food and drink and tried to pay no mind to the trouble the woman was now facing, the Sheriff’s man seemed disappointed. He had been hoping to bait someone into defending the poor woman.

“I know what you’re thinking, lad. Best not to dwell on it,” said the bard. Carym wasn’t pleased.

“I don’t know who’s worse; this guy or General Craxis!”

“Listen man. It’s a trap. Get it? T-R-A-P. He is daring someone to step out and confront him. When you do, he sends his twelve men in here to drag you out in the snow, rob you, beat you, and throw you in prison!”

“What about her?”

“She’s a professional. She can handle him.”

“Who were those men that Reks nodded to? Bandits?”

“Nope, watchmen, so they are. Militia. The Sheriff knows he cannot disband them, ’tis the right of a Cklathman to form a militia. But they are answerable to him, which isn’t so great a situation, is it? They do what they can, they do. But that’s little enough against this lout. I’d love to sing me a ballad of the one who took him down a peg or three!”

Carym was seething. He didn’t want to sit idly by while the man groped and shamed this woman. He knew he could probably best the man in a fight, but he couldn’t take on twelve more.

“One thing I’ve learned, young man, is that you can’t save the world. At least not by yourself. You have to pick your fights wisely, so you do.”

Much to Carym’s relief, the lieutenant lost interest in the woman and walked around the inn looking for someone else to bully. He wanted to help, but felt powerless to do so. He knew a greater evil was hunting him and his friends; challenging this lieutenant in his own land would needlessly call attention to himself. After browbeating a few more patrons, two of whom passed coin to the man, the lieutenant found a seat and began to drink heavily. For free.