The Cerberus Rebellion (A Griffins & Gunpowder Novel) (4 page)

Lord Raedan Clyve, Baron of Broken Plains, let his horse slow to a trot as he crested the last set of hills on the road to Orintown. The large beast breathed thick white plumes of steam into the air and Raedan patted his neck.

At six and a half feet tall, Raedan was one of the tallest nobles in Ansgar, but it was his mass that required him to ride a draft horse rather than a smaller, faster charger. He shaded his emerald eyes against the light as he looked back at the column behind him.

His brother Kent and his captain of the guards, Sir Mathew Howard, led a mounted party of thirty guards clad in thick greatcoats. Embroidered on their chests was the sigil of Broken Plains: three white boulders clustered at the center of a black shield.

Raedan removed a sweet leaf cigar from his jacket, struck a match against the pommel of his saddle, and pressed it to the end. He inhaled sharply to make sure that the cigar was drawing properly and exhaled a thick plume of smoke into the air. A hint of cherry mingled with the sweet leaf as he inhaled again.

In the valley below them, the West Road wound for almost ten miles, past a small set of farms and a stream, and finally ended at the of Orintown, sprawled out beyond the stream. Though small compared to the cities of the East, it was still a modestly wealthy establishment. The city was surrounded by an eighty-foot high curtain wall, marked by towers every hundred feet, and open only at two gates: one at the north end of the city and one at the south.

In the center of the city sat Castle Garand. The large square stone keep, surrounded on all sides by stone walls forty feet tall, stood out among the low houses and hovels. Eight massive turret towers in the keep’s walls marked the eight cardinal directions.

A thick blanket of fresh snow covered the lands below them and had slowed their return to Orintown.

Raedan’s inspection of Fort Smallwood had gone well. The earthen fort, named for the nearby village of the same name, had replaced the wood keep that had been razed by Clan Lord Jared Terrell as his forces retreated from the Broken Plains.

The Broken Plains Barony had been a part of the nation of Franta for nearly six months after the last baron had died childless. With no direct heirs under the law, the family of the baron's wife had claimed the lands. As the nearest male relative to Lord Garand, Raedan's older brother Hadrian was the rightful heir.

Despite the elder Clyve's claims, Clan Lord Jared Terrell had marched his armies into the barony and no one had bothered to try to stop him. There had been no one to call the levies and the small guard that had protected Castle Garand had been ill-prepared to withstand a siege. The Frantan troops had raided villages and burned the crops in nearly half of the barony. Its economy had been neglected and trade routes closed.

Raedan had put off the fort’s construction for as long as possible, choosing to spend his limited funds on fortress more integral to the barony’s defense and on projects to revive the economy.

Brenden Willis, Lord of Smallwood, had not been happy with that decision, but his territory was small and Raedan had needed the money elsewhere. But with the local economy on the mend, Raedan had finally authorized the commencement of the work. The earthworks had been completed and Lord Willis had invited Raedan to inspect the fort at his convenience.

The sun was nearing its peak and Raedan took a moment to check his pocket watch. It was nearly noon and he had set an audience for two o’clock. A deadline they would have to ride hard to meet.

“Cutting it close, brother,” Kent observed as he reined up his charger. The younger Clyve stood half of a foot shorter than Raedan; the difference was made more noticeable by the size of their steeds.

“The winters here are worse than when we were children,” Raedan said. His hair, once merely black, shone blue in the brilliant midday sunlight. “There aren’t any trees to break the wind. Besides, it’s not as if they can start without me, and no one is likely to get too angry at my absence."

“True,” Kent conceded, shaking snow from his auburn hair.

“Though I suppose we’d best make time. I’d like to get something to eat before I have to suffer through another afternoon of marriage proposals.” Kent laughed but Raedan turned in his saddle. “I’m of a mind to find someone entirely unsuitable and marry them to you. See how you like it then.”

“No one wants to marry the lesser brother of nobles,” Kent pointed out, not without merit.

“Perhaps one of these poor lesser lords will have two daughters. I can marry the older and you the younger.” Raedan rubbed his chin with his thick black gloves. “I’m sure Damon could arrange something.”

“Oh come on now, you know I was jesting.”

“Of course I do. But there is a kernel of truth to the matter. Hadrian has been on my case about getting married, but he has seemingly forgotten that we’ll need to find you a suitable match as well.”

Kent shook his head and glared at his elder brother with bright blue eyes.

“We’ll see about that.”

He put his spurs into his horse and trotted ahead, a pair of guards behind him. Raedan spurred his own horse to keep pace.

***

Raedan held court in the great hall of Castle Garand. Most of the tapestries and paintings had been burned five years before under the orders of Clan Lord Terrell, so its high walls were sparsely decorated. Ornate marble statues, still black with soot and smoke, lined the back walls, and the slate floor was painted with mosaics. Long, thin windows slashed the walls every few feet, just large enough to easily fire a musket through. Wooden beams larger than a man crossed between stone pillars and supported black iron chandeliers.

At the north end of the hall, Raedan sat on an ornate wooden chair raised on a dais a few feet above the floor. The various rings of office adorned his fingers and his thick black cloak was draped over the back of his chair. He wore the symbol of his office around his neck: a golden griffin amulet with a chunk of onyx clasped in its claws.

Raedan’s left elbow rested on the broad arm of the chair, his first two fingers pressed to his temple, and he held an ornately carved staff in his right hand. A chiseled chunk of ruby, larger than Raedan's fist, was held in the head of the staff by an iron setting and prongs.

Damon Kor, his longtime mentor and advisor to the Clyve family for generations, now sat at the foot of the small dais and wrote Raedan’s commands on scrolls and papers to be sent out to the far reaches of his barony. His silver hair was held in a long ponytail that draped halfway down his back. The elf wore a red silk robe with sleeves that extended just past his long-fingered hands, and a staff of his own, much less ornate than Raedan’s, leaned against his chair.

Stacks of books, a full bag of scrolls, and more papers than Raedan could count were strewn across the table, along with half a dozen ink wells, a wax jar, and a small candle. Damon listened intently to each petitioner and scrawled their request onto one of the larger books. When Raedan passed his judgment, Damon would add that to the petition and then write out a separate piece of paper with the orders on it and pass it to a page.

Raedan had no end of petitioners whenever he held court: merchants who sought to sell him goods, farmers who ceaselessly complained that this river needed to be diverted or that bridge needed to be rebuilt, magistrates from his towns who looked to him for final judgment on matters of grave importance, and his lesser lords with a request for this or that. Their favorite request, of late, was for him to marry their offspring.

Raedan saw three of his lesser lords, with their wives, eldest sons, and a daughter in tow.

Lord Franklin Talbert of Rivertown’s daughter wasn't unattractive, a short girl with auburn hair and green eyes, but she was young. She could not have been more than thirteen.

Lord Joseph Brodie of Caton’s daughter was older than Lord Talbert's, but she still could not have been more than twenty years old. She was also an attractive girl, nearly as tall as a man, with fiery red hair and sharp blue eyes.

Wymar was Lord Foxborough’s daughter; she closely resembled a small horse. She could not have been more than five feet tall and had a nose that would make a hound jealous.

Another half-dozen lesser lords from neighboring territories, and their daughters, were present as well. There were also a dozen merchants, half again as many farmers, and at least three messengers bearing the sigils of two barons and an earl. They were probably going to offer him a marriage proposal as well, Raedan reflected.

Raedan turned his head. The youngest Clyve stood at his brother’s left elbow.

Raedan nodded and Kent lifted a hand. The next petitioner stepped before the dais: Lord Talbert. His wife and daughter stood behind him, eyes on the floor in front of them. The man struggled to kneel, assisted by his son.

“Rise, Lord Talbert,” Raedan instructed quickly.

The lesser lord’s son helped his father rise.

“Milord, what petition do you bring before the court?” Damon asked without lifting his sapphire eyes from the parchment.

“My lord.” The old man's voice was soft. “I wish to offer—”

“Milord,” one of Raedan's guardsmen interrupted. “A messenger from His Majesty the King!”

“Bring him forward.”

The guardsman strode forward. The crowd parted before him and a smallish man followed.

Raedan’s palms were sweaty and there was a knot in his stomach as the man approached. His griffins had brought him their vision of the trains and riders leaving the Ansgari capital of Aetheston nine days earlier. A King’s Train should have arrived three days ago.

Under his thick black cloak, lined with white fur, the messenger wore a green frock-coat and trousers. He was much shorter than most of the men in the hall, though not so short as some of the women. He clutched a fine leather satchel in his gloved hands; the King's sigil was embroidered on the flap.

“My lord, I am Sir Albert Hagan, messenger of the King.” The messenger inclined his head. Raedan frowned.

Who is this messenger that he thinks that he doesn't have to kneel before a Noble of Ansgar?
Raedan felt a flush of anger creep up his face.

“In these lands, it’s customary to kneel before a noble.” Raedan leaned forward, elbows on knees, and intertwined his fingers. “Especially in that noble's own keep.”

“I am weary,” the messenger explained. Somewhere in his heritage there must have been at least one ancestor from Steimor or Nordahr, because his blue-green eyes were not a common trait among those native to Ansgar. “I have traveled far at the King's command.”

“I see.” Raedan nodded and sat up against the back of his seat, his fingers still intertwined. He didn't care for the man's invocation of the king’s name.

The messenger had the look of entitlement that was common among the nobility of the East. The eastern nobles and lords had larger populations, higher incomes, and often had servant staffs twice as large as the nobles in the West. A noble in the West sometimes had to get his hands dirty, as Raedan had done when he reclaimed this territory from a hostile force. An eastern lord would have likely sat back in his keep and let his knights do the work for him.

“Be that as it may, you will not be heard until you take the knee.”

Several petitioners inhaled sharp breaths.

“As you command, my lord.” The messenger's voice dripped acid. He knelt before Raedan and inclined his head. His arms swept back in a grand, overstated motion. “I kneel before you, oh Lord of the Broken Plains.”

Damon caressed the massive ruby ring on his right hand. He might have been a Master Shadowmage, but the elf knew several Deathbringer spells that would have turned the messenger into a quivering pile of flesh.

“
Peace, Master
,” Raedan whispered under his breath in elven. The elf removed his hand from his ring.

“My lord?” the messenger said as he stood.

“All I asked was the respect due to me,” Raedan said without sign of insult. “What message do you bring?”

“I bring this satchel.” The messenger presented the pouch to Damon. “It contains orders from His Majesty that are to be completed immediately.”

Damon inspected it. “The seal is intact,” he announced.

“As if it would be any other way,” the messenger huffed.

Raedan wasn't sure where this man's unwarranted aggression had come from, but he had tired of it quickly.

“Open it,” Raedan instructed. He studied the messenger for a moment while his advisor cut the heavy wax seal. The man watched the elf open the satchel and retrieve the stack of papers from inside.

“My lord—”

“What is in that satchel is for me to read. But do you really think that I'm not going to discuss its contents with my chief advisor? Does it really matter, then, who reads it first?”

“No, my lord,” the messenger bristled.

Raedan decided that he was through with the man's attitude. He rubbed the onyx stone in the amulet about his neck and reached out with his mind. Manipulation of the mind was one of the staples of a Shadowmage.

“
Calm down, boy
,” Raedan hissed in elven, barely loud enough for the messenger to hear.

“Yes, my lord.” The messenger nodded dully, his eyes suddenly cloudy.