The High King: Book Two of the 'Riothamus' trilogy (7 page)

“Whatever
for?” Darven was confused.

“To provide
cover for our troops and for scouting work,” she explained. “When
we were away, father talked to some of the Legions garrisoned in
the southern cities, and I got the impression that their infantry,
cavalry and bowmen work closely with each other. If we tried to
pull out a company for our own use, we would find that they would
be too rigid…too used to Legion ways and manoeuvres.”

Darven nodded,
“That sounds very true of what I’ve heard of the Legions. In this
war we will all have to work together, but they seem to have their
own ways of doing things.”

“Exactly,”
Alissa agreed. “If we can make up a company of civilian archers,
then we will be able to mould them to our needs. I can envisage two
archers accompanying a scout as he rides out to survey the land
ahead. Most of these men learnt their bow skills through hunting,
and I am sure they can be turned effectively to our needs.”

“You certainly
are your father’s daughter,” commented Aran admiringly. “Although
Alissa, I would make one qualification. I would bet any amount of
money these civilian archers probably have no taste for military
life or discipline, else they would have joined the Legions long
ago. You must appeal to their love of stalking, hunting to get them
interested. Otherwise they won’t listen.” He grinned, “If they are
anything like Sed, then you will need to pay them well. They won’t
risk life and limb for little pay.”

Darven nodded,
“I will speak to Captain Taran about this. He may see merit in
it.”

Aran sat back
and stretched out his long legs before the fire, “Have we thought
of inviting the mounted archers from the horsetribes? I remember
reading that Andur used them quite effectively in his battles
against the Serat.”

Darven
scratched his head, “I don’t think so. They are a secretive, remote
people who mix with the townsfolk only when they come to sell their
yearlings and trade for goods.”

He studied the
calluses on his hands, “I will speak to Taran also about the
plainsmen. It may be well worth our while to send out a delegation
to speak with their Clan Chief, or better still their Bowleader
since I’ve heard he commands the warriors.”

Aran stared at
Darven, “I know little about the plainsmen. Will there be danger in
bringing them so deeply into the province? Will they hinder us
instead of aiding us?”

Darven
shrugged expressively, “I was born and grew up in Eastling, and in
all my years there I never spoke directly to a single plainsman.
However I have heard many stories about them…”

Aran drummed
his fingers on the carved wooden arms of his chair, “What sort of
stories?”

Darven shook
his head, “I cannot vouch for their accuracy, they may be just
hearsay or tales elaborated at the tavern or fireside…”

“I would hear
of them nevertheless,” Aran interrupted abruptly.

Darven glanced
at Alissa, “My pardon Lady Alissa, some of these tales are not fit
for a lady’s ear.”

Alissa
grinned, “Do not let me hinder you Wolf Leader. You know that I
grew up in the company of soldiers and am well used to coarse
language.”

Darven nodded
and shrugged, “One tale I have heard many times is that the
plainsmen, after killing a blood enemy, will cut out the heart of
the victim and eat it. Also I’ve heard that they disembowel their
enemies so their shamans can interpret the future from the way that
the intestines lay within the gut cavity.”

“If they
intend to eat all the hearts of their enemies,” Alissa interjected
dryly, “Then they will be plagued with indigestion during the
upcoming battles.”

Aran shot
Alissa a strange look then turned back to Darven.

“What else do
you know of these people?”

Darven gave
Aran a considering look, “Traders and merchants from Eastling who
deal with the plainsmen say that the horsepeople are quick to
anger, and take offense at the smallest thing—sometimes reading
deadly insult into a gesture or look that would be overlooked by an
ordinary citizen of Andur.”

Aran shook his
head at that, “Do you think they can be kept under control if they
are invited deep into the settled part of the province? I don’t
want murder or a massacre on my hands.”

Darven
shrugged helplessly, “Only if we win the total support from the
Clan Chief. He alone would be able to talk the other leaders over.”
Darven pulled a face, “If the stories are true, and the plainsmen
do have these barbaric customs, then the leaders will need to
control them before they are invited deep into the province. If we
do not achieve the full support of the Clan Chief then we are in
very real danger of the plainsmen running amok and hindering our
mobilisation.”

Aran ran his
fingers distractedly through his hair, “I will talk to Maran about
it tomorrow. He should be able to see if the benefits outweigh
these obvious disadvantages.” He stood up, “We need to increase the
size of our army, but if size means bringing additional problems in
then we will have to think very carefully about the inclusion of
the horsetribes.” Aran looked at the others, “I must beg your
indulgence and ask you to leave now. I plead tiredness from such a
long and wearisome day.”

Alissa took
one look at the dark circles and fatigue etched on Aran’s face and
nodded.

“Come Darven,
I’m sure we all would benefit from an early night.”

Darven stood
and inclined his head, “Do not worry my lord Prince. I am certain
that we will soon resolve these issues.”

Aran smiled
wearily, “I hope so Darven, and I will bid you a good night and see
you both on the morrow.”

They nodded
and left him to his contemplation of the fire.

*

Later, after
Alem had left, Aran lay on the bed in the darkened bedchamber and
thought over the day’s events. In the space of several short hours
he had gone from Guard and Warriormage, to the heir apparent of the
Andurian throne. Aran stared up at the heavy drapes of the
curtained bed, and in the moonlight caught the gleam of gold thread
which had been worked into the design of the spreading oak tree. He
had not yet been told the significance of that particular design,
but he believed that it was the symbol adopted by his ancestor
Andur. His ancestor Andur! He still could not believe it possible.
Briefly he wondered at the vagaries of fate to thrust him into such
an exalted position, and wished, not for the last time, that
matters might have worked out otherwise. He wondered also about the
likelihood of Alissa becoming his queen and lifepartner, and wished
he had been brave enough to broach the matter to Maran earlier in
the evening.

Despite what
Darven had said Aran knew that in reality he had very little say in
who was to become his queen. Aran knew from his reading, that
alliances with the Old Families were critical, and only the sheer
force of Andur’s will had forced the Council into letting the
Warleader choose as his bride his childhood sweetheart, Baranta.
Aran was certain that the other generations of the Andurian line
had not been so fortunate. Instead they were obliged to choose
partners from the Old Families of Haulgard rather than having the
luxury of choosing their own partner. Aran did not like the idea of
arranged marriages, and he suspected that the mysterious young
woman who rode in with Alissa from Haulgard may well the Council’s
candidate for Queen.

Aran sighed
heavily, for he knew in his heart that he would never be happy with
any other woman than Alissa—for to be with any other would be a
deception to his heart, and he hoped hers.

“No,” he
whispered aloud, in answer to the silent spirits of his ancestors,
“This cannot be borne! I must put forward Alissa’s name to Maran. I
don’t care what the Council or mages have decided. If Alissa will
accept me I will claim her for my own. I will not accept any other
of lesser worth.”

So resolving
he turned his back on the night and succumbed to the insistent pull
of sleep.

*

In his
quarters on the floor above the royal rooms, Archmage Maran felt
the great Keep of Andur cast instinctively its ageless protection
around the last living heir of the Andurian line. The soul of the
Keep had been absent for five generations, but finally it had
returned. Maran thought about the dark and troubled days ahead and
shook his head in weary dismay. This was not an auspicious time for
a new king to begin his rule—unfortunately in this matter, the
fates had decided otherwise.

Maran believed
that in Arantur, Warleader Andur walked again. Sighing, he shook
his head and hoped belatedly that his gut instinct was right on
this matter. If it wasn’t, then the province would suffer and be
overwhelmed by her enemies as a result. Staring sightlessly into
the candle flame, Maran knew there was rightness and strength in
Arantur. He knew that there was no other man living who could have
taken on this demanding role. From the first moment he had seen
Arantur at Glaive, he knew that the tides of destiny were pulling
that young man ever forward. The blood and heritage that was the
Andurian line was clearly evident in every gesture and look, and
obvious in every word Arantur spoke. Maran inexplicably knew that
he was seeing the spirit of Warleader Andur live again in the mind
and body of his young descendant. Maran sighed again, and offered a
brief prayer to the Goddess to look kindly upon Arantur and favour
him with honour and good fortune.

Maran sat back
and stretched until his old joints cracked in protest. He had done
all he could. It was now up to Arantur to do the rest. With a
caress of the magepower, the Archmage snuffed out the candle and
went to bed. Silence as heavy as night descended on Andur’s
Keep.

*

“My Lord! An
embassy has arrived.”

Aran put down
the spear he had been training with, and pushed back the helmet in
order to see clearly.

Almost a week
had passed since that fateful day when he had been hailed as the
last of the Andurian line. Slowly he was settling into a routine of
training, and then afternoons of lengthy lessons and discussions of
magecraft with the Archmage. Gradually he was accessing the
magepower more easily, learning to break through his barriers and
blocks with greater confidence. With the increasing mage knowledge,
the Guard training was taking on extra dimensions, with Aran now
easily out fighting even Captain Taran himself. With no one now to
match him, Aran could only set himself goals of increasing
quickness, accuracy and reaction time. He despaired every day the
loss of the ancient Warriormages, for he knew that he could go much
further in his power and fighting, yet he knew not how to do this.
Maran was helping him with the general uses of the magepower, but
even the Archmage himself could only guess how the ancient
Warriormages achieved their legendary feats of prowess.

“Who is it?”
Aran asked, pulling off his nasal helm, mail coif and arming cap,
and mopping the sweat from his brow. His fair hair was sweat
sculpted darkly to his head by the rigours of the training, and he
shook his head in the constant wind to free it.

“An embassy
Lord, from the horsetribes,” one of the Guardsmen on duty had
abandoned his post to alert his Prince.

“So soon…”
Aran breathed “We weren’t expecting word for many weeks yet.”

“Be that as it
may…” Darven had sprinted up as soon as he had heard, “We must meet
them immediately. To receive them later in the great hall may be
misconstrued as an insult.”

Aran nodded,
and pulled off his gauntlets, handing his armour over to Alem who
had been waiting nearby.

“Alem…can you
please inform Archmage Maran and the Captain that we have a
delegation newly arrived,” Aran asked distractedly. Aran’s bondsman
nodded, and disappeared back into the internal hall.

Aran turned to
Darven, “Come let’s go. You’re the only man I’ve got who knows
anything about these people.”

Darven shot
him a glance, “My knowledge is scarce indeed.” The Wolf Leader’s
dark eyes grew troubled, “Aran, I’d advise utmost diplomacy and
courtesy in your dealings with them. Until we know where we stand
I’d not risk their anger.”

“Aye”

Aran and
Darven walked quickly across the training yard.

“Where are
they?”

Aran and
Darven had arrived at the gatehouse, and were looking around
anxiously for the delegation.

“Outside,
Lord,” one of the Guardsmen walked up. “They refused to come in. I
think they are making camp outside the walls of the Keep.”

“They refuse
our hospitality?” Aran was astounded.

“It is
generally known that they dislike walls,” Darven interjected, “They
come readily into Eastling only because we don’t have defenses,” he
explained.

“So where do
we negotiate?”

Darven walked
to the open gate and stared out at the distant figures quickly
erecting three small conical skin tents.

“Somewhere
between their camp and the Keep,” Darven advised, “For we must not
be seen to be bending over backwards for them. I believe they
dislike overt displays of friendship,” Darven mused.

“Touchy
people,” Aran commented sourly.

Darven stepped
outside the Keep walls, “Come my lord. We need to greet them.”

Aran touched
for reassurance the pommel of the King’s Sword, and received an
answering flare of light from the weapon. Whatever happened out
there, he was certain that at least he and Darven would give good
account of themselves.

“Greetings,
plainsman,” Darven walked up to the nearest man, and inclined his
head. “We offer you greetings and thank you for coming so
quickly.”

Aran stared at
the plainsman in wonder. Tall he was and dressed completely in
leather and bronze scale armour. He wore a bronze helmet on his
head and a few strands of horsetail flowed from the top of it. His
face and hands were sun-darkened almost to the texture of old
leather and brilliant blue eyes stared back at Aran with a mixture
of curiosity and apprehension. He was clean shaven except for a
luxuriantly flowing moustache of the brightest red-gold hair Aran
had ever seen.