The Call of the Crown (Book 1) (8 page)

CHAPTER 5

The three men rode out of the woods and across the clearing. Their horses whickered, struggling against the loose dirt, as they climbed the steep gravel slope to the Salrian camp. They stopped at the makeshift gate. A Salrian guard, clad in dull half
armour, stood in front of it. He had watched them since their horses broke from the tree line and started across the clearing, never taking his eyes off the lead horse, never releasing the firm grip he held on the hilt of his sword. The three horsemen were expected but hardly welcome.

“Tell your commander Faelen is here,” said the first horseman. He looked impatient, arrogant maybe, or perhaps insulted by having to wait. He flicked his grey-green cloak over his shoulder, revealing the hilt of his sword, impressing upon the Salrian that he didn’t care how hard the guard held on to his own, or that he was entering an enemy camp with nine more armed Salrians inside.

The guard reluctantly released his grip. He turned and pulled the rail back from its brace. “He’s expecting you. Go straight ahead.”

The three horsemen trotted slowly through the gate.

The guard never once took his eyes off the equally vigilant horsemen. He flicked his head towards the slope. “We normally
walk
our horses up there,” he said quietly but loud enough for Faelen to hear. Faelen looked down at him with an arrogant grin on his lips. He gave the guard a contemptuous snigger before turning to one of his compatriots and shaking his head in mock amusement. They carried on into the camp, ignoring the guards’ stare.

The Salrian camp was small, just three dark canvas tents pitched on a small plateau, ten spans up the side of the Speerlag
cliff. Where not shielded by the cliff, bushes, trees, and boulders provided camouflage. A pegged tarp covered the exposed side of the cook fire and another awning with a table setup underneath, pitched under a convenient overhang. A small corral was set up towards the back for the ten horses and three cart mules they had brought with them.

Two more Salrians met the horsemen. They took the reins and led them to a halt in front of the largest tent.

Si’eth, the Salrian captain, was standing hands on hips and feet apart, waiting. He never once broke his fierce gaze from the lead horseman.

Faelen dismounted and allowed one of the Salrians to lead his horse towards the corral—the other two horsemen followed his lead. He walked slowly towards Si’eth while meticulously removing his riding gloves, as though setting his own pace gave him some control over proceeding. He looked down at Si’eth—Southern Surabhans are generally a good six inches taller than their northern neighbours are, though Salrians are much thicker boned and every bit as strong. Faelen bowed to the Salrian commander, keeping his head down for as long as it took Si’eth to acknowledge him, as per the Salrian custom.

“You are so welcomed,” Si’eth said, though his tone belied his forced hospitality.

Faelen raised his head and took a pace forward. He extended his hand in greeting. “I offer my regards to you and to your family, Captain Si’eth. May you prosper and enjoy good health.” His remarks sounded equally strained.

Si’eth bowed as he shook Faelen’s hand.

In all honesty, either would just as soon shove a knife in the other’s throat rather than show respect, but each had their own master, and their duty was clear.

The two men could hardly look more different…

Si’eth was short, bald—all Salrians were bald; they didn’t shave their heads but were born that way, al
though for some reason they could still grow a beard and a moustache—and pale-skinned. His eyes were a pale grey, another common trait, as were his small ears and narrow brow. He wore the same half armour as his guards. The insignia of his command was a golden strip on his left shoulder. The armour was mostly of thick leather, with vital areas, such as the heart and groin, plated with dull sheet metal. His belted tunic flared slightly in the middle to just over his knee. He wore soft leather on his legs and studded leather boots. All the Salrians wore a broad leather belt with a pouch, knife, and barbed scimitar attached.

Faelen, on the other hand, was tall. He looked every bit the pretentious Kalidhain noble. His hair was shoulder-length, combed back from his forehead, and set in place with what looked like goose
grease; it shined more than hair should. He had the hooknose synonymous with the eastern regions, his chin was proud, and his eyes were dark. He was thin but broad, with a lengthy stride and long arms. His clothes were mostly a grey-green colour, a mixture of silks and velvet made his tunic, and dark, woollen breeches covered his legs. He, too, had a sword, though it looked ornate and pristine, as though it hadn’t seen much in the way of action. With the rings on his fingers and the ornate broach on his chest, Faelen looked better suited for court than the backwoods of Ealdihain.

With eyes fixed on Faelen, Si’eth turned his head slightly and gave a faint nod. The guard stationed at the door swept his arm back and opened the drape. The Salrian captain then took a step back, and with an exaggerated flourish, he waved Faelen into his tent. The three Surabhan entered, but only after Faelen let out a long sigh of exasperation.

Once inside, Si’eth dispensed with the mock formality. He threw his cape onto a ladder-backed chair and sat behind his makeshift desk. He nonchalantly waved at Faelen to take the seat in front. The Surabhan declined his offer.

Si’eth had furnished his tent as well as any other that stood on the border between An’aird Barath and Aleras’moya—that is to say, hardly furnished at all: a simple desk, a few trunks, a small table, and three ladder-back chairs. Hardly fit for a Surabhan ambassador, the whole lot would pack up onto a small cart.

Si’eth appeared unperturbed in the presence of the ambassador—if he were bothered, he certainly wouldn’t let it show. In all honesty, he didn’t care
who
Faelen was; doing deals with Surabhans is what irked him so. He wanted their business concluded and Faelen, along with his two compatriots, gone from his camp.

“Do you have it?” Si’eth snapped. He gazed expectantly and held his breath while waiting for the ambassador’s reply.

Faelen stood in front of Si’eth’s desk, feet apart, arms folded, and brimming with unabashed arrogance. “A drink first, perhaps?” he said. He looked back at his own guards and tsked, blatantly mocking his host’s scant hospitality. His guards mumbled their agreement, and Faelen turned back to Si’eth with a haughty grin on his face. He loosened the clasp on his cloak and let it fall—knowing one of his guards would catch it before it hit the ground. “I’ve come a long way. A little refreshment would be in order, don’t you think?”

Si’eth gave the southerner a pensive stare while drumming his fingers on the desk, as if contemplating Faelen’s request. In that moment, he looked ready to leap at the Surabhan’s throat. Begrudgingly, he ordered one of his guards to serve wine. The guard splashed the contents of a wine skin into three goblets and then handed them—very unceremoniously—to the Surabhans.

Faelen made a meal of his gratitude, bowing and thanking the Salrian guard twice. He turned to his own guards, bowed and gave cheer to them, and then finally saluted Si’eth before drinking the wine straight down.

He licked his lips and lowered the
goblet to his side. “Quite a place you’ve made for yourself here,” he said. “Nice tents, a little corral for the horses, a kitchen. I bet you have even dug a latrine, all contrary to the Brion accord, I might add.”

Si’eth sat back in his chair and folded his arms. “You know, Faelen, they teach us to read up north. I know the border treaty—no more than ten men, no less than twenty leagues apart.”

“Yes, the
border
treaty.” Faelen looked to his men. “Shame you are not on the
border
, Si’eth. You appear to be three miles on our side!”

Si’eth slapped his palms on the table. “What would you have me do? Hang by my nails from the Speerlag?” He laughed as he leaned back into his chair. “Trust Surabhans to put a borderline halfway up a cliff!” he said, looking to
his
men. They all laughed.

“I would expect you to follow the law! Be it three miles or thirty. You shouldn’t be here, Salrian.” Faelen slammed his goblet down on the desk.

The three Salrian guards put hand to hilt and moved a pace forward. Si’eth raised a hand to them. He could barely contain his own anger and would have liked nothing more than to let his men have at them, but he was mindful—as always—of his orders. “As I was saying… Do you have the scroll… sir?”

“Ah, a little civility, how refreshing.” Faelen waved forward the guard carrying a small chest under his arm. Eyes front, the guard passed the ornate box to Faelen. “Yes, I have it.” Faelen lifted the lid while it was still in the guard’s hands, revealing the contents—a small ochre scroll with a royal seal lay inside on top of a plush purple cushion. He closed the lid and passed the whole item forward.

Si’eth half stood and quickly took the box from Faelen’s hands. He set it down on the desk in front of him and opened it. An annoyed expression creased his brow upon seeing the royal seal. “Why is it so protected?”

Faelen pulled in a sharp breath and stood almost at attention. “I don’t know what is in it
… I don’t want to know what is in it… and neither, my little friend, do you.”

Si’eth ground his teeth. “You realise, now that I have this, I could just kill you and be done with your insolence.”

Faelen laughed. “We are both puppets in this, Si’eth, toiling at the belly of a serpent.” Faelen looked vacantly to the ground. “If you knew what I know, if you knew what lay at the head of the serpent… you would welcome death.” Faelen stared at the wooden chest; he bit his lip, then raised his hand and began scratching at his neck as though suddenly uncomfortable in his own skin. “Mark my words, my Salrian friend. Death is the least we deserve.”

Si’eth sat with eye’s wide and mouth open, staring at Faelen. He closed the little box and looked at the guard to his right; he, too, held a similar gaped expression. Si’eth gazed at the polished, wooden chest. He followed its gilded edge with his fingertip.
What is the general up to now? What have I gotten myself into, now?

Si’eth raised his gaze from the small chest, a faint crease of sympathy creasing his brow.
Is the man arrogant, or is he scared of something and trying to hide it?
Whichever it was, to him, at that moment, Faelen looked like a man lost, a desperate pathetic soul with no more control over his destiny than he himself possessed. He suddenly felt quite a kinship towards his apparently arrogant counterpart.

“We are having dinner soon. You and your men are welcome to stay,” Si’eth said. His comment was more matter-of-fact than a cordial invitation—he may have found some sympathy with the Surabhan, but he didn’t want to appear weak.

Faelen stared a moment. He pondered between the lines of the Salrian commander’s offer of food. He, too, saw a connection between them. He would have liked to stay, liked to have some company for his own misery, but thought better of it. Best to have it done with. “No, I want to get back to the main road before dark, but… thank you for your kind offer, sir… friend.”

Faelen bowed to Si’eth, flicking his gaze between the Salrian captain and the small wooden chest, as though stressing some unspoken warning.

Si’eth stood, bowed, and then turned to his aide. “See that their horses are watered and they have drink and food for their trip.” He walked to the front of the desk, hand outstretched to Faelen.

Faelen took Si’eth’s hand as a friend might. The guards on both sides glanced at each other with faint, quizzical expressions on their faces. Si’eth led the group out.

As soon as the ambassador’s horses were ready, Si’eth had one of his men bring Faelen a bag of supplies: fresh bread, cheese, cold meats, and a good-sized skin of spring water. After another round of bowing, he watched the three horsemen ride off down the slope, across the grassy clearing, and on to the path through the woods.

Rae’tar
, Si’eth’s aide, joined him at the gate. “Your orders, sir.”

“Put the chest in the east tent and post a guard.” Si’eth turned back to his own tent. “We have over two weeks before it need be delivered, but
I
want it gone. We will set off for Taris as soon as Bre’ach returns—if that fool son of mine
ever
returns. He’s probably lost in the Am’bieth.” Si’eth huffed at the thought of his son getting lost. “Even so, make preparations. I want no delays. The general can deal with whatever had that Surabhan so nervous.”

“He did look nervous, didn’t he? Do we even know wh—”

Si’eth interrupted him. “I’m well aware of what we don’t know, Rae’tar.” Si’eth stopped and wiped down his face with his hand. “Like the man said, we all have our masters. I only hope Alaf’kan knows what he’s doing.”

Rae’tar
muttered something inaudible to himself.

“What was that?” Si’eth asked.

“Uh… nothing… Sorry, sir.” He bowed an apology.

“You can speak freely,
Rae’tar.”

“I said, ‘He knows how to line his own pocket,’ sir
… the general, I mean.”

Si’eth laughed loudly. “Indeed he does, my friend. Let’s just hope he knows the cost of his comforts!”