In the High Pass
by Alcuin Fromm
|
Table of Contents parts: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8 |
Uncertainty rules in the Empire. Strange tidings from beyond the Harrun Mountains fill the men of the Western realms with apprehension, and a renewed Imperial tolerance of the Magician’s Guild divides the Great Families. Nowhere is the seething anxiety more apparent than in House Ælliri.
Some of the wise and honorable Ælliri can see the gathering storm. Others are not so wise, and still others are not so honorable. Accompanied by his three sons, the Duke of Ælliri brings the Second Army to camp in the High Pass, occupying the strategic entry into the Duchy.
But there is another reason for the Duke’s campaign in the mountains: a dangerous gamble that has more to do with legend than with politics. He sets out from camp one day with the eldest of his three sons. The remaining two will have to deal with the consequences.
part 2
“How are you?” asked Doustian as Pavill walked up to join him outside the palisade gate.
“I’m alive,” said Pavill.
Bathed in warm, morning sunlight, both men shone in their full ceremonial regalia to receive their countrymen. They stood in awkward silence for a while and watched two separate groups of riders approach, both bearing the crimson and silver banners of House Ælliri. Fourteen military men comprised the nearer group. They wove deftly between the melting snow drifts and boulders and progressed rapidly. The further group of another dozen men lumbered up the valley at the plodding crawl of the accompanying carriage.
Doustian glanced at Pavill, opening his mouth, then turned away, shutting it again. Finally he spoke: “Did you—” He cut himself off.
“Did I what?” asked Pavill. “Did I go visit the rotting corpse? Did I raise my arms in supplication to the heavens and beg for the safe deliverance of Cenn’s soul?”
Doustian pursed his lips and frowned, chiding himself inwardly for not leaving the matter alone. I must stop trying to change Pavill, he thought.
“No,” continued Pavill, “I did not. Nor will I. There is no point. You would do well to pull your head out of the mystical fog and think of reality for a change.” He paused, then added, “Margrave.”
Doustian sighed. “Who do you think is leading this group?” he said, trying to change the subject.
“Oluumber-Lenn,” said Pavill without hesitation.
“What? He would never leave his duties in Vayria in Father’s absence.”
“No, he would not,” said Pavill, considering the words. “Not under normal circumstances. But he would leave for Cenn.”
A sad pause followed, neither brother saying anything until Pavill finally broke the silence. “And Læynolde will come.”
Doustian snorted and turned an incredulous gaze onto Pavill’s stoic face.
“Now, Brother,” he said with the air of a teacher instructing a pupil, “I thought you had more social wits about you. Læynolde would never waste her time to come up here, not even for the death of her husband. Especially not for the death of her husband. She hated Cenn, and she hates the Ælliri.”
“I grant you the last two points,” said Pavill. “But hatred can be a powerful motivation.”
Doustian’s expression turned to one of confusion.
Pavill returned his brother’s stare with a sigh of impatience. “Doustian, you may be a poet and a philosopher, but your ideals and virtues are about as far away from the realities of courtly life as the sky is from the land. You must look underneath the surface and seek out what people want, not what they say.”
“Indeed. And what does Læynolde want?”
Pavill frowned. “I wish I knew. But it cannot be good.”
A coded shout of greeting rang out from one of the riders, interrupting their conversation. Pavill, as camp Major, yelled back the appropriate coded response. The riders of the first group stopped not far from Doustian and Pavill. The lead man dismounted and removed a helm that had obscured his face. It was Oluumber-Lenn, Chancellor of House Ælliri and the uncle of Doustian and Pavill.
The stout man ran a hand through his ruffled, graying hair as he tucked his helm under one arm and walked with downcast eyes towards the brothers. He looked up, peered at each man in turn, then placed his arm firmly on Doustian’s shoulder in the military salute of condolence.
They locked sad eyes before Oluumber-Lenn pulled Doustian to himself, embracing him with a sorrowful frown. “I’m sorry, lad,” he said in Doustian’s ear.
Doustian nodded somberly to the old man, his lips pursed tightly. Oluumber-Lenn turned to Pavill and made the same military salute, but did not embrace him. Something in Pavill’s face made it clear that he neither wanted nor would offer any show of emotion.
“Well met, dear uncle, and welcome to the High Pass,” said Doustian. “Come, we have a tent prepared for you, then we must reconvene as soon as you have refreshed. There is much to discuss that—”
“My lord,” said a female voice.
Two horses trotted out from behind Oluumber-Lenn’s riders. On the first sat a woman. A translucent, black veil covered her from head to foot and draped over the flanks of her horse. Under the veil she wore a long, flowing black gown, trimmed at the neck, waist, and cuffs with intricate, ivory lace. A slight breeze pressed the veil flush against her right side and caused it to billow gently and lazily to her left.
The woman’s ashen-grey complexion highlighted her startling blue eyes as well as the deep red, almost purple, of her overlarge lips set in a strong jaw. Long, jet-black hair, parted meticulously in the middle, clung to both sides of her head before disappearing into the voluminous folds of her gown. The Lady Dowager Læynolde of Ælliri possessed an uncommon beauty, striking for its singularity and unlikeness. All eyes turned to the woman.
“I would be shown to the body of my late husband, immediately, Lord Margrave Doustian,” she said with a resonant, breathy voice. “And my attendant shall be taken to his lodging forthwith.”
The second rider, a figure dressed in a black cloak, his face obscured, swiftly dismounted and began leading his horse towards the three men. He threw back his cowl, revealing a rugged, aged face framed by grey, shoulder-length hair. Along the right side of his neck ran the intricate green tattoo of the Magician’s Guild, which spread out around his right ear and eye like the branches of a tree.
Doustian’s eyes bulged and Pavill unsheathed the common soldier’s short sword at his waist. “Since when does House Ælliri have dealings with warlocks and demon worshipers!?” said Pavill in a furious roar.
The Guildsman raised a hand above his head. A loud cracking sound tore through the air as if an enormous tree had been snapped in half by the hands of a giant. His hand glowed dark blue.
“Stay your blade,” said the Guildsman, slowly emphasizing each word with deadly menace. “The Lady Dowager is not bound to the primitive, restrictive customs of House Ælliri.”
Oluumber-Lenn, as soon as he saw the glint of steel in Pavill’s hand, placed himself between the young man and the Guildsman. He raised his hands in a placating gesture for Pavill to back away. Doustian could only stare in shock.
“Precisely as I suspected,” said Læynolde with cold contempt, rolling her eyes. “If you don’t run each other through, you’ll incinerate yourselves.”
“My lords, my Lady Dowager, Master Guildsman, please, please, let us remain calm,” said Oluumber-Lenn. He moved to the middle of the strange company and turned in a circle, looking at everyone alternately with his arms outstretched.
“We are all wearied by sorrow and anxious for the days ahead. We shall find good solutions to all our disagreements. But for now, let us please go to our lodgings to rest and recollect ourselves after these trying days.”
Pavill and the Guildsman continued to stare at each other with icy hate for a few, long moments before the Guildsman relented first. The blue flame vanished and he lowered his hand to adjust his cloak. The hint of a smirk plied his lips.
Pavill remained motionless. Then he sheathed his sword slowly and deliberately.
“Finally,” said Læynolde, in aggravation. “Now, who is to accompany us?”
* * *
Copyright © 2022 by Alcuin Fromm
