The Godlost Land (26 page)

His visitor was a soldier from the fort and he had been riding hard to reach him. His horse was breathing heavily as he pulled up. As was the spare horse he had with him.

“You're needed at the fort.”

The rider didn't even dismount as he told him his news. Actually he didn't tell him the news so much as shout it at him, and while Harl didn't know what it was about he knew it sounded urgent. Urgent enough that he was expected to ride back immediately with the soldier.

“What's happened?”

“A wizard is seeking passage through the southern way and the commander has her doubts as to whether he is friend of foe.”

That could happen Harl knew. Wizards caught up in the battles to the north could be fleeing south, and while some of them might be like him – survivors who had lived in hiding for five years – some could be with the Circle. There was no way of knowing who was who. And of course Whitebrook, and more specifically the old Whitebrook fort, was located directly on the main south road. It led all the way from Midland Heights to the southern wastelands and the lands beyond.

Anyone heading south would use the road unless they wanted to travel a much more difficult path through forests, hills, scarps and small cliffs, not to mention fording several large rivers. That was the main reason why he had ended up where he had.

To try and make their way around the fort would require a major diversion through thick forest on both sides. Wagons wouldn't be able to travel that path. Horses would have difficulty. Even on foot there were places where the scrub was so thick and the land so broken that it would be a hard march. Most people, even wizards, would use the road. And therefore they would be stopped at the blockade outside Whitebrook and questioned.

The doubts the commander had about the wizard were easy enough to understand. There weren't a lot of wizards around, and there was no reason that one would be travelling south – potentially fleeing the five kingdoms – when the Rainbow Mountains were slowly being freed of the false temple. Not for an outcast wizard anyway. But why she had sent for him wasn't so clear. He understood that she doubted the wizard's story. But not so much that she imagined he could somehow divine the truth from the wizard. After all, it was unlikely that he knew the wizard personally. It had only been the luck of Tyche that he had known Geron. There had been hundreds of wizards in Lion's Crest before the attack. There were hundreds more in each of the other cities in the five kingdoms. And he had only been an arcane smith, a wizard who wasn't generally regarded as a true wizard by the rest of the casters. It wasn't as if he had spent his days rubbing shoulders with the high and mighty of the magical realm.

Nor did he have another bonds of truth lying around, or any other devices enchanted with truth spells on them. He had had only the one, crafted purely to see if he could master the complex magic and craftsmanship involved. And if Geron had known what it was he would never have put it on. Others, knowing its magic might even have been able to overcome the spell. So how was he supposed to know if a particular wizard was an enemy?

Still, he guessed it wasn't a choice. He had agreed to help, if only by crafting enchanted weapons. This perhaps wasn't so far removed from what he had agreed to. And it certainly wasn't as if he was being asked to head into the battle itself, though part of him still wanted to. But it would have been a mistake. Though he had the skill with weapons, he simply wasn't a soldier. Besides, his skill as an arcane smith was more valuable than however many chimera or enemy soldiers he could bring down with his great sword.

“All right soldier, let me change and I'll join you shortly.”

Harl had to change. He was covered in sweat and filth. Even though his forge did not use coal, just handling the ores and metals was a dirty job. And while he might be immune to fire, that did not mean he did not get hot and sweaty. At the end of each day's work he was as filthy as any blacksmith. But this time he decided, as he poured a barrel of water over himself to wash away the worst of the grime, he would change into something more appropriate for a fort. His armour. He might not need it, but it was always best to be prepared.

It only took a few minutes for him to dress and straight after that he had mounted the spare horse the soldier had brought for him and they were off, cantering down the track. That sent Harl's heart racing.

It was of course faster to ride than to walk. But it wasn't something Harl did a lot of and he didn't like it. He clung a little more tightly to the saddle and reins than he probably had to, and his hands turned a bloodless white as they gripped the reins. Maybe next time they needed his help they could bring a wagon of some sort he thought. Then again, maybe he wouldn't mention it. Some days he felt he was on swampy ground with the commander, never quite knowing what he would say that would trap him in the bog. She needed his skill but would never forget his theatrics as she had called them. He suspected she thought he'd been making a fool of her. Perhaps he had been.

They made better time on the main track. Though it wasn't kept in perfect condition by any means, mostly just knocked down by wear and tear from the occasional travellers using it, it was still wider and flatter than the newly beaten track to his home. And maybe he was a little more relaxed on the horse by then. Just a little. So he let the reins loosen slightly and let the horse have her head. He even tried to look relaxed.

Somehow, by good luck or maybe even a tiny amount of skill, he didn't fall off and twenty minutes later the fort came into sight. He had to admit that riding was a lot faster than walking. But on the other hand it was less comfortable, and even by then the ache in his legs from having gripped the saddle so tightly was growing. He was relieved to be able to dismount. More relieved still not to fall off as he did so, though he did somehow get his foot caught in the stirrup and had to be helped out of it by a couple of soldiers. They didn't laugh at least but he decided as he shook the cramp out of his legs that he'd walk back.

The fort itself was much as it had always been. A run down compound with ancient wooden palisade walls that had seen better years, and thick log buildings within. As a military structure it barely qualified as a fort. There was too much wood and not nearly enough stone. The walls weren't high enough, and shaping them into points at the top as someone had apparently decided to do would do little to stop enemies from scaling them. But worse than that, they would burn. As would everything else. In fact everywhere he looked there were rough sawn tree trunks fashioned into buildings and walls.

But at least since the soldiers had moved back in, much of the four or five years' worth of overgrown weeds and scrub that had started claiming the fort, had been chopped back. Windows had been cleaned and even the doors had been oiled. There were even archery targets and straw dummies set up once more for the soldiers and recruits to train on. That impressed him. The fort might not be in perfect working order, but it was clearly much improved over the ruin it had been for the last five years.

More impressive than that however, were the recruits going through their paces. Drilling in the compound with their weapons as their sergeants yelled orders at them. That had not happened in a very long time and it was a good sight to see. It reminded him once more that the days of the false temple in this land were numbered. He hoped.

Harl followed the soldier into the main building and was immediately caught by surprise by its roughness. Most log buildings at least had the insides of the logs chamfered smooth to give clean walls. Not here though. The logs were still logs simply laid one on top of another and the gaps where they met were filled with wattle and daub to keep the wind and the rain out. Even the bark was still on the logs. The dirt floors were a surprise as well. He had seen stables better appointed. But he supposed that this was not the time to be wondering about the crudeness of the structure. Not when Marni was just ahead, along with a couple of her soldiers, and the man he assumed was the wizard seated just across from them.

His first thought when he saw him sitting on a pew was that the man didn't look like a wizard. He wasn't anyone he recognised. And he showed none of the signs of affluence that Geron had. He wasn't overweight or overdressed. He had some dirt on his face and even under his nails. And he was of a solid, muscular build while his hands showed callouses suggesting he had been doing some sort of physical work for a while. Based on that maybe he could be another wizard in hiding. And at least he seemed peaceful. He had voluntarily drunk the tea so he had been told. Not many would do that.

“Commander.” Harl greeted Marni with a polite nod, hoping that this was going to be one of those days when things between them were more relaxed.

“Harl.” She stood to greet him and even managed a short nod.

“This is Avan of Midland Heights.” She indicated the man on the pew before her. “He claims to have been in hiding for the past five years. But he escaped with his mother.”

That Harl figured was his cue to ask the man some questions. Questions that had probably already been asked.

“I am Harl of the Elder Fire. Do you claim no other name than Midland Heights?”

That the man apparently did not surprised him. Most people, whether wizards or not, would claim another name than the city they called home for their surname. Midland Heights was a large city, a hundred and fifty thousand people and Avan was not an unheard of forename. There could have been quite a few of them in the city. And a wizard always liked to claim a name that stood apart from others. A name that would be remembered.

Besides, a surname was special. A forename was chosen by a child's parents and given to them on their naming day. It represented their parents' hopes and dreams for them. But a surname was chosen by the man for himself when he reached the age of adulthood. It was a symbol of who he was. To use a town or a city seemed unimaginative at best. And for a wizard, a man of status, a proper surname was considered as part of how he presented himself to the world.

“Not as yet. My master threatened to name me as Avan the Unsteady as I kept dropping things, but I had not completed my apprenticeship when the beasts came.”

His master would name him? That surprised Harl. It did happen in some places, the name being given in part as a reflection upon the character of the apprentice. But he hadn't thought it was a common practice. In the Kingdom of the Lion men chose their own names when they reached the age of such things. When they no longer lived within the family home and had started out on their lives.

He had decided upon his own name as a sort of family jape. The elder fire was a plant found on the banks of rivers in Lion's Crest. It flowered with a bright yellow bloom that was unlike any of the other plants around it, which was what his parents had thought about him having magic. Then again he had been born and raised in Lion's Crest, not Midland Heights. A different city in a different kingdom. Things undoubtedly differed from one kingdom to another.

On the other hand what mattered was less what he said and more how he said it. And the commander was right, there was something odd about how he spoke. Something that didn't feel quite natural.

“Who was your master?”

“Master For Tan the Sturdy.”

It was another name that Harl did not know. But he did know that For Tan the Sturdy was not one of the Circle. But then again, if he was from Midland Heights as he claimed, he wouldn't be.

“And your calling?”

“Earth, mostly metals.”

Immediately he heard that Harl felt a little warmth for the wizard. It was the most honest of the magical callings in his view, though as an arcane smith he might be a little partial. But it unfortunately also explained the callouses on his hands and his physique without the need for him to have been living rough for the last five years. Those of his calling usually ended up working in the mines, their magic helping them to draw the metals from the ground at will. It was hard work and they were among the most physically robust of wizards because of it. Only they and arcane smiths usually had any great physical prowess. And typically other wizards looked down on them because of it. Traditionally wizards were of a less robust build, choosing to spend their days lifting books rather than tools.

“So, when the beasts came what did you do? How did you escape?” Harl started to ask the questions he guessed the others had already asked. It wasn't that he thought he would get any different answers to them or that he might notice something else in them. It was simply that he couldn't think of anything else to ask.