The Road To Sevendor - A Spellmonger Anthology (31 page)

There was a rousing shout from the people, men and women alike.  Everyone looked excited – for their entire lives they had been looked down-upon by the rest of the vale as ignorant backwoodsmen .  While that might have been true, the woodfolk saw the farmers of the vales in bondage to the earth and at the whim of the castle lord.  To be suddenly thrust into the highest esteem in the vale’s social system was like strong wine.

But they were a capable people, and I liked them a lot.  A proud people, compared to the cowardly Genlymen or the subservient folk of Gurisham.  A fell people, too – the Westwoodmen had been among my most effective soldiers, in the Gilmoran campaign.  Giving them the pass would put a howling wolfpack at my back door – that was a comfort I needed.

I didn’t stop there, though – half the chests and trunks we’d brought were stuffed with other presents.  In some cases they had been specifically picked out for the receiver, like the beautiful steel greatsword I gave to
Kaman, to bear in defense of the domain – it had a beautiful silver wolf’s head on the pommel.  I’d seen the sword on a pile of battlefield loot from a sacked castle and fancied it for him.  The prior owner – a Gilmoran knight with a similar lupine fondness – wouldn’t be needing it anymore.  Nor did he have any surviving heirs. 

The cross
guard was strong and silvered, and there were three bright blue semi-precious stones in the guard.  A pretty sword . . . and it inspired a unexpectedly tearful reaction from the Yeoman.

In other cases, we’d brought a selection of gifts from our treasury – what Lady Estret had informed my wife was known as the castle’s Gifting Closet.  Gift-giving was a major element of feudal life and economy, and nearly every friendly interaction included some token gift.  A wise Lady of the castle was always prepared to bestow a gracious gift to anyone – from Duke to villein, tradesman or pauper, minstrel or favored retainer.  We’d spent lavishly at last spring’s Chepstan Fair, as well as bringing back a pile of well-earned loot from Gilmora, partially to stock our Gifting closet.

There were thick woolen blankets and brass candlesticks, copper goblets and pewter ewers, a dozen sturdy daggers, statuettes of Trygg, Ishi, Duin, Luin, Huin, and others for their altar, a few flasks of spirits, and some delicacies the Westwood had rarely seen: orange preserves from the south, bolts of silk from Merwin, and a jug of excellent red wine from Gilmora – which Kaman had taken a strong fondness for.

The Hall was overcome at our generosity, to the point where I was becoming uncomfortable.  My wife ate up the attention, especially when she presented brave young Kyre with a huge black hunting horn, tipped and strapped with silver, scrimshawed with oak leaves and forest animals, and hanging from a heavy, intricately-tooled leather baldric.  She’d added one of the snowstone snowflake pendants we gave to favored retainers to the end of the baldric, I saw.

“Blow it at need, and all Sevendor will come to your aid,” she promised.  The young man was overcome with emotion – it really was a beautiful horn, and it suited him well.  At our urging, he went outside into the darkness and winded it for the first time.  The deep, mournful call echoed into the chasm and around the cliffs, and I was told it was easily heard as far as the castle.

The exchange of gifts called for more drinks, and there was plenty to go around.  I heard some of the older folk tell me the tales of the Westwood, the history of the first settlers of Sevendor, and how Westwood Hall was the oldest dwelling in the vale.  I learned of their ancestors’ fascination with wolves – and their fondness for their particular breed of shaggy black dog, which seemed to carry a fair measure of wolf blood in them.  They seemed more intelligent and astute than other curs, hounds of an excellent temperament.   I said as much, when half of Kaman’s bottle of red was gone.

“You like the brutes?” he asked, fondly.  “They’re smarter than most men, I’ll wager.  And loyal as you could ask.  This mutt has been with me near twelve years, now – I got her in sorrow, after my Gessi died.  As faithful as my wife, she’s been – if not more!” he said, with a sad little wink.  “A hound is a comfort to a man in grief, it is.  And no better breed than the Westwood hound.  That reminds me,” he said, grinning drunkenly, “if your lady has no objections, I’d like to show you a bitch who’s whelped while I was away – a fine, strong litter,” he said, proudly, “grand-pups to my girl, here,” he said, rubbing her shaggy ears.

Alya was well-occupied, as were the other members of my party – and I was the Magelord, after all.  “By all means, my friend, show me these pups.”  He smiled and then caught Kyre’s eye and then his brother’s and we all lurched out of his back door, into his compound proper.

It was a moonlit night, but the clouds conspired to obscure her, so I conjured a magelight, much to Kaman’s amusement.  He took us down the slope and out of a hedge gate, less a defense than a means of keeping the sheep and deer out of the manor’s vegetable and herb gardens.  The Yeoman stumbled across the yard, stopped to take a piss, and then led us to a small stone shed built right up against the base of an overhanging cliff. The doorway was low, lower than was comfortable, but the floor of the tiny shack was dug down so that standing upright inside was not difficult.

Nor was the shack as tiny as it seemed, as it was built around a depression in the cliff-face.  On a thick bed of tree bark, covered with an old blanket, was a large black bitch with a full complement of puppies struggling to find the Perfect Teat at her side.  They looked to be about two moons old, and they were adorable.  Three of them immediately started barking at my magelight, making me laugh.

“A fine litter,” Kaman said proudly, as if he’d sired them himself.  “The pride of the Westwood, are these hounds.  None better for hunting . . . or guarding,” he said, knowingly.  As if to affirm her master’s assertion, the bitch raised her great shaggy head and sniffed me once before offering a single, alarmed “woof!”

“That’ a girl, you treat this gentleman right . . . he’s our master now,” he said to her, kindly.  “Give ‘em a lick, and remember him as a friend,” he murmured.  The dog looked up at me with her great black eyes – almost thoughtfully – and then favored my hand with a lick.  Her tongue was wider than my palm.  Her tail gave a contented pattern of thumps as she reclined again while her litter fed.

“Aw, she likes you, she does,” the Yeoman chuckled, like a kid with a puppy.  Would you like one?” he asked, suddenly?  “Duchess, here, we only expected five, but we got eight.  They’re right good hounds, Magelord, smarter than the gods sometimes I swear, and loyal.  It would be my pleasure to gift you three, to keep a watch on my girl, up at the castle,” he said – the first real trace of concern he had shown over his daughter leaving his home. 

“I . . . I’d be honored,” I said, genuinely touched.  Considering the high value the Westwoodmen placed in their dogs, it was an honor, indeed.  “In fact, if Dara’s talent for Beastmastery extends beyond her bond with Frightful, then I think a dog would be a natural extension of that . . . and I admit, I covet one, myself.  But the third . . . I have a particular home in mind for that, if you don’t mind.  A gift for an old friend.”

“With my compliments, Magelord,” Kaman said, hairy hand on his breast and a hint of a bow.  His son likewise looked pleased. 

That’s when the Yeoman stopped, raised his good hand to comb through his silvery hair, and came to a decision.  “Magelord, it weren’t just the bitch that made me ask you here,” he said, quietly.  “I’ve thought about this long and hard, and I’ve even discussed it with my kin – we don’t hold with lordly manners here, in the Wood, we act as a council, no matter my title.  But we are in agreement,” he said, as if it was definitive.

“About what?” I asked, curious.

He looked serious.  “For nine generations, we and the vale folk have lived here together,” he began.  “And at the first, Lord Lensely treated us with especial respect and trust.  It was then that my sires entered into the agreement that gave us our Yeomanry – though I dare any man or army try to wrest it from us.  In return for our Master running the forest and holding its frontier, we would hold the Lord of Sevendor’s secret trust.  When he could depend on no other counselors, he knew the Westwoodmen would be true.”

“I cannot fault your loyalty to the valley,” I said, carefully, “and I’ve never had reason to fault it to me, either.”

“Aye, I swore my words, it was true,” he admitted.  “But those are just words.  ‘Lord’ is just a title, begging your pardon, Magelord, but so is ‘magelord’.  Any man can claim the title, and many have. 

“But that first Lord Lensely of Sevendor, Lord Rarin, he and my sires had an arrangement.  We would keep the Lord of Sevendor’s last refuge, and his treasury, and defend it to the last man if need be.  It was a special trust to him, not because of the man, but because of how he treated his folk and the land.  He was a lord in deed as well as in name.

“Well, since then, the Lensely line lost the vale, and we’ve been at odds.  Even before that, when some held the title, they held not the deed, as it were.  We have no arrangement with a Steward, no matter his title. 

“But you, Minalan,” he said, smiling, “you we have watched, from the very first day.  Watched how you threw Erantal out on his arse, how you cleaned house, how you dismissed Farant and let that rat Ylvine go.  How you treated the common folk and released them from their debts, if not their service.  How you spent your own coin to see that none went hungry, or without a roof, though a blizzard howled.

“As a sign, we saw the Snow that Never Melted, and the birth of your son, gods save him,” he said, looking at his own eldest with a smile.  “That was a night to remember!  When we awoke to our white walls and white fields, we knew.  If we needed a sign, that was it.  We knew that you were the rightful lord of Sevendor, no matter what a slip of parchment said.”

“I’m honored that you favor me so with your trust,” I said, smoothly.  I still had no idea what he was talking about.

“I brought you here tonight not to see the bitch, though she be worthy enough, but to give that trust to you again, for the first time in generations.  You see,” he said, turning suddenly and going back to the cavity in the cliff side, where bales and bags of roots and herbs were stowed, “when we Westwoodmen came to the vale, so very long ago, we found these.”  Even with one arm,
Kaman managed to shove aside a crate of old baskets.  Behind them was a hole, almost invisible from the entrance of the shed, and within the hole was a great, rusty iron door, with a keyhole in the center.

“These mountains used to be home to the Stone Folk, it’s said,” he continued, as he fished a key out of his tunic where it was secured with a steel chain.  “They tunneled about the place like they were plowing a field, looking for whatnot. When my sires came here, they first took shelter in these caves,” he said, twisting the iron lock with the massive key.  It squealed in protest, but yielded to his grip.  He gave the door a push with his boot, and it swung open without further complaint.

“The Lords of Sevendor had a vault,” he revealed.  “A special refuge and treasury, against hard years and desperate times.  Being so close to the castle, but so difficult to find, this was where the lord kept his dearest treasures and his last desperate hopes.  But now it’s mostly just an old hole in the ground.”

I conjured a magelight and sent it ahead.  Getting through the diminutive doorway was easier than I expected – just inside it opened considerably.  Anyone coming through would be at the utter mercy of whomever stood on the inside – making it a good defensive structure.

The chamber on the other side was larger than the shed – at least twice as large, and was stocked with provisions: smoked hams, a rack of cheese, barrels of wheat and rye, oats and barley, a crib of maize and earthenware jar upon jar of preserves.  There was an entire barrel of pickled eggs.  “Enough to feed a hundred for a three months,” he said, proudly.  “We keep a little back, every year.  Especially from Erantal,” he said, his lip curling.

“Your foresight does you credit,” I nodded.  “And explains why your folk look so well-fed, compared to the other Sevendori.”

“Bah, they eat too much bread, not enough meat,” he dismissed.  “But the larder wasn’t what I wished to show you, either.  Follow,” he bade, and continued back into the mountain.

The next chamber was stacked with firewood, blankets, lamps and oil, and the other necessities of life, but that was not where
Kaman stopped.  Still further back was a wide, double-chamber, half as large as his own hall.

“This was where those Stone Folk did their work, when they weren’t a-tunneling,” he explained.  “And here was the last refuge of the Lord of Sevendor, and his family, in times of trouble..  They were secure here, safer than their own castle.  The ceiling is high, the air is sweet, and there’s a spring over there,” he indicated, where a rivulet splashed into a basin carved by nature or design, and then fell away through a hole.  “Fire
pits, latrines, even dice, if you’ve a game in mind.  But there’s more,” he said, motioning me onward.

I was speechless.  This was a complete, self-contained refuge, carved out of the living rock ages ago by the Karshak Alon.  It could house a hundred folk, easily, as many as a small keep.  I followed
Kaman and his son to another door, of ancient, oil-stained wood that opened with a second key.

“The armory,” he explained, as the magelight illuminated the room.  It was a long corridor, fifteen feet wide, and forty feet long, and old wooden racks covered each side.  While most of them were empty, nearest the door were a half-dozen battle axes, then a long row of ancient steel-tipped spears , a score at least.