The Call of the Crown (Book 1) (7 page)

Daric and Grady braced up against the cart, one on either side of the broken wheel. “You get ready to jump,” Daric shouted. Grady just nodded. Both men had shoulders pushed hard against the cart rail. Daric could see what was happening
. If the horse didn’t calm down, the poor thing would follow the cart down the bank. “Gods, why haven’t you got that bloody horse free yet?” He grabbed the spokes, Grady took hold on the other side, and both men heaved with all their strength. It had little effect; still the cart slid closer and closer to the edge.

Suddenly the cart stopped sliding and lifted away from them. Daric and Grady tumbled to the ground as the broken wheel spun free. Quickly, they got to their feet. Daric’s jaw dropped at the sight of Gialyn’s “giant” standing at the rear of the cart.

The giant’s face was expressionless, as though the weight of a cart full of raw pig iron had little effect on him. He simply nodded at the two of them. Daric and Grady looked to each other with disbelieving smiles.

The other man—the older one with the cane, the giant’s companion—walked casually forward. Stopping by the side of the horse, he ran his hand gently along its flank, whispering quietly as he moved forward. He passed his cane to Gialyn and laid his hands
on either side of the horse’s head. Slowly, the old man moved closer until his brow touched the horse’s nose. All the fear appeared to flow out of the animal. It whickered gently and stood calm. Its eyes blinked; its breathing levelled to a steady pant.

The older man looked to his friend and pointed to the verge across the path. Slowly, the two of them led the horse and cart away from the riverbank. “You can unhitch him now,” the older one said, calmly looking at Harnon while stroking the horse’s
muzzle.

“Thank you, sir, thank you.” Harnon bowed almost to his knees as he moved to unhitch the horse’s straps. “Harmon Gaulman is my name, sir. I’m in your debt. If there is anything—”

“No need for debts, my friend. It was our pleasure to help. This is my friend Arfael”—he gestured towards the “giant”—“and I am Olam.

Arfael bowed to Harmon.

The cart-man nervously bowed back. “He’s a handy one to have around,” Harnon said to no one in particular.

Olam laughed. “Yes, I suppose he is at that.”

Arfael smiled, showing two rows of dog-like teeth.

Olam turned and started to walk towards Daric and the others. “Hello, my friends, I’m Olam, and this is my friend Arfael.” He bowed deeply with his open hand placed on his chest. “Good that you were here. I feared we would be too late. If you hadn
’t stopped it sliding…”

Arfael lumbered up beside Olam.

“Gods, it
is
him. It’s the giant.” Gialyn’s muffled whisper was louder than he expected. He quickly put his hand to his mouth and swallowed hard.

Daric greeted Olam and the giant with a friendly handshake. “I think the thanks should be all yours.” He looked over the two men.

The lumbering Arfael was huge, probably over eight feet, maybe more, even with his slouch. The long, light-brown linen cape he wore barely reached around his immense shoulders. It clasped at the neck with a thick iron ringlet that attached to two lengths of cord woven in and out at the collar in a most sturdy fashion. He had arms the thickness of Daric’s leg, with hands the size of coal shovels and fingers the thickness of tent pegs.

Arfael slouched forward, looking down on Daric from inside his hood. Staring passively, the giant had cat
-like eyes—yellow with oddly shaped pupils. There appeared to be no profile to his face; all was flat, yet distinctive in feature. A thick, barely shaven, jaw protruded like that of a wolf or dog from inside his hood. A thickset forehead, lined with bushy eyebrows, and a flat nose took up much of his face, completed the stranger’s unusual facial features. Despite the curious qualities, he had a striking look, not ugly at all, but clearly, he was
not
Surabhan.

Daric tried not to stare
. He quickly turned his gaze back to the older man.

Olam was more common in appearance. It looked to Daric as though he may be a teacher or perhaps a man of letters. He certainly spoke well enough to be a learned gent. He held himself proud. There was no slouching here; he was standing as straight as a plumb line, even when he leaned on his long cane. He was clean-shaven and had smartly combed golden hair
—long, with just a touch of grey at the temple, and kept back in a ponytail by a thin leather tie. The cut and style of his clothing led Daric to conclude he was no labourer, miner, or farmer—those were the common trades in Ealdihain. Otherwise, he looked quite average, especially when compared to his friend. However, he did have a strange sense of calm about him, as though he had travelled far, seen much, and had come away the wiser for it.

Daric looked over the two men with his guardsman’s eye. Helpful or not, he wasn
’t a man to accept strangers easily, no matter how gracious their first meeting may have been. Something about the two unsettled him, most notably, their weapons!

“Why are you so at arms?” Daric pointed at the weapons he carried. “Sword, knife, bow, axe—are you expecting trouble?”

Olam laughed. “By Ein’laig, no!” he said, taking up the sword and knife by their hilts. “These belong to my friend here. I carry them in exchange for him carrying my pack, a fair trade I would say. The bow is mine; the axe is for cutting firewood.”

His reasoning settled Daric a little.

Olam continued. “No, sir, we are most certainly not looking for trouble. Arfael and I are here in hopes of finding travel companions. We heard a group might be journeying east. In my experience, it is always better travelling in a group.”

Daric nodded and eased his stance a little, feeling, as it were, calmed by Olam’s manner and explanation. Still, his surprise at coming across such a man as Arfael left him ill at ease. He knew nothing of his race—if indeed there were such a people.
Maybe it is just him. Perhaps he is Surabhan and just born that way.
As was with most folk, Daric had a tendency to worry about what he didn’t know.

He was, however, a curious man and not a bit rude. The two were an interesting pair, to say the least, and they appeared, on the face of it, genuine in their intentions. He certainly had no reason to doubt their character too much.

“I think you mean us,” Daric said. “We’re travelling to Bailryn for the recruitment festival. My son may wish to apply.”

Daric gestured over towards Gialyn, who had barely taken his eyes off Arfael. Daric gave him a disapproving gaze. Shaking his head, he silently mouthed,
Stop staring!

“A worthy endeavour, young man,” Olam said, nodding approvingly at Gialyn. “Service to your country is an honourable endeavour if ever there was one.” He turned his gaze back upon Daric. “I do not mean to impose on you, sir. I realise it may seem an u
nusual proposition, but I would appreciate it if you would give some thought to my request. It could be to your advantage. We know the road well and would be glad of the company.”

Grady—who was listening intently while also staring at Arfael—moved up to Daric’s side
. “Can I… uh… have a word?” he asked. He looked at Olam. “Would you… just a moment?”

“Of course,” Olam said, bowing. He backed off, respectfully waiting just out of earshot.

Grady waited for Olam and Arfael to move. He turned his back on the two. “I’m not sure about this. They look an odd couple. I know they came to the rescue, but… that… that… err… what
is
his name? Alf—Aufrea… the big man! I have never seen the like. And I don't mind saying that it bothers me."

Daric paused a minute to consider. “Let’s not judge too quickly, Grady. He is right! It is safer travelling as a group. I think they have proven themselves friendly, strange or not.” Daric gave a sideways glance at Arfael before continuing. “Let’s be honest. Would you argue with
… Alfred is it?” Daric laughed.

“I suppose not,” Grady said. “It may just be that I prefer
not
to travel with a man who could beat me to a pulp in less than a blink.” Grady laughed as well.

The two men were pondering their thoughts when Elspeth and Ealian wandered up the last few steps of the rise—Elspeth leading, of course.

Elspeth was once again in her huntress garb: a well-pocketed brown jacket, cut tight to her waist; similar coloured, strong linen breeches with soft leather around the knee; thin blouse and soft leather boots. Her dark hair, tied in a loose braid, hung over her shoulder. She had a good elm bow strapped to her pack and a skinning knife sheathed at her waist. She didn’t wear the six-knife thigh-garter she had bragged about last week. Maybe that was for later, when they were out of the valley.

Ealian, on the other hand, looked like he was about to attend a ball: white frilled shirt, heavy tunic
in lush dark blue and silken black breeches. His shin-high soft leather boots were his only item of clothing sensible enough for walking, and Gialyn didn’t think they would last long.

Elspeth paused for a second as she took in the larger than expected group.

“What is happening here?” she enquired. Her brow creased and jaw clenched as she darted her gaze between Grady and the two strangers. Shuffling off her pack, she steadied herself and waited for an answer.

Grady whistled under his breath. He turned the other way, leaving Daric to deal with her.

Elspeth was a beautiful girl: tall, slim, with an appealing face. However, her moods were often not so appealing.

Her brother was average. Although his manners were the mirror of Elspeth’s—they were twins after all, if not remotely similar in appearance—as he, too, had an arrogant reputation. He was quite tall, slightly shorter than Gialyn but with a heavier frame. His hair was short and combed straight forward. A bowl cut they called it.

Daric took a few paces towards them while scratching under his ear. He creased up his lip and sucked a breath through his teeth. “Well… we seem to have picked up some guests. You know Grady, of course. This is Olam, and the large gentleman is his friend—” Daric paused with hand outstretched, waiting for the big man to fill in the gap.

Olam moved forward. “Arfael,” he said. “His name is Arfael.”

Olam bowed at Elspeth as he walked purposefully towards her with an outstretched hand. Elspeth shook his hand politely while turning to Daric for more explanation.

“Don’t look at me,” he said with his hands raised in the air. “It is a public road, and apparently, we are all going the same way!”

“If you ask me, this is a bad idea,” she whispered.

“We shall see how it goes,” Daric said. “Are you and your brother ready?”

“Yes… uh… sorry we’re late. Father turned into a wailing old woman and wouldn’t let us leave.” A disapproving scowl came over her face. “I have never seen him like it. It was pathetic. Gods… it's not as if someone died. We’re only going on a trip.”

Daric grinned at the thought of tough old Theo getting so emotional. He had some sympathy for the man, particularly after the way he felt when leaving Mairi. “One day, you may be glad there is someone who will miss you when you leave.”

“I certainly hope not!” Elspeth said. She looked around at the troop and gave a quick nod to Gialyn.

He nodded back as casually as he could. His heart raced at her greeting.

Grady picked up his pack.

Gialyn had finished repositioning his bedroll and was now standing with his pack in front of him.

Ealian waited behind with Elspeth in front of him—as usual.

Daric nodded in approval at their readiness. The many unexpected twists and turns of the day had Daric a little turned round. He scratched his ear while looking at them all lined up and ready to go. For a second, he wondered what to say.

Olam stepped up and suggested a plan. “There is a copse of trees four hours down the track. It is a mile past the first ridge, near to the bottom of the Serath’alor Valley.” He pointed east, where a low-lying ridge of the Speerlag cliff met the horizon. “If I may suggest, it would be a good place to make first camp. It is by a stream, and there should be plenty of kindling in this fine weather for a nice little fire.

Daric was impressed
. Olam wasn’t lying about his knowledge of the road. “Well… if no one has any objection or needs to speak for whatever reason… I think we should go with Mr. Olam’s idea.” Daric paused and waited for a response. There was none.

“Sir, if you don’t mind me asking, what is your family name? I think it best if the children
… All right, Elspeth, you’re not children… so the younger amongst us can address you properly.”

“It is O
’lamb,” Olam said with a cheeky grin. He’d had this conversation before.

“No
… I meant your
family
name, sir, not your given name.”

“It is O
’lamb,” insisted Olam, laughing. “My name is Olam O’lamb. Spelt slightly different but sounds the same. Don’t ask! My mother was a torturous woman.”

“Oh,” Daric said.

Everybody laughed.

“So, my
friends, shall we be off?” Olam O’lamb said.