The Fires of Cerran

Chapter Fifteen

Ser Ramon of Garth watched from the castle walls as the High Lords of the West began to pour into the courtyard of Ceraborn. There were five at his count, all flying banners that he had not seen for months, if not years. And yet he did not wish to see them too often, and he wished even less to greet the men who held these banners. Lord Rhaysar Mulmet was the first to arrive, High Lord of Fildron. Fildron was an ancient stronghold, amongst the first to be erected during the conquests and held tightly by the Mulmet’s ever since. Rhaysar, now a man long in years, looked weaker than ever Ramon had seen him. His skin was pale, blotted with light patches of bruising. He required a cane to walk, and even then, he gripped his bannerman tightly as they climbed the steps to greet Brodon. The man attempted a respectful bow, though it was in vain. Soon after, and with pleasantries duly attended to, the old Lord was shuffled across the entrance and into the halls to find his bed. He brought with him several guards, all in fine silver armour that bore the sigil of The Four Bears, each a representative of the four Mulmet brothers who had originally held that stronghold. Ramon watched keenly as a small boy was brought from a carriage, walking hand in hand with a nurse maid and only perhaps five or six in years, the future of Fildron and the only surviving heir to Rhaysar Mulmet, Rhayner. The boy was small, even for his age, but a tightly knotted mop of blonde hair showed his heritage proudly. Brodon greeted the boy in much the same way as the High Lord, and the boy bowed as he had been taught. Against his better judgement and sensing that Brodon would only keep on at him should he not do so, Ramon joined the King at the entrance.
‘I called for you nearly an hour ago.’ The King said, without so much as a glance towards the oncoming archer. Ramon stopped short of the King and looked out into the courtyard.
‘Aye, I heard.’ He replied. The King turned and looked at the man unapprovingly before gesturing him to join him at his side. The two men stood, like stone soldiers, with blank expressions and in awkward silence as they watched the Men of Fildron take large travelling cases into the castle.
‘Who else are we expecting?’ Ramon asked after a moment.
‘Fenkel.’ Brodon said quietly.
‘You seem thrilled.’ Ramon returned smugly. The two shared a knowing glance before returning to the outward gaze towards the busy courtyard. Brodon flicked his eyes upwards, focusing on the Gatehouse and the towers, he watched men hurrying around them, passing through the various doorways and into and out of the darkness that lay within. Brodon was not a man who was naturally wary of those within his Kingdom, though now he felt an odd uneasiness about him as he watched these unnamed men carry large trunks, supplies and weapons through his halls. In the distance, though not clear exactly where from, he swore he could hear the cries and shrieks of his own servants as they were brutally murdered. He shivered, re-focused his gaze on the drawbridge and tried to let the sounds fade away. They stayed, longer than he desired them to.
 
Ser Ramon welcomed several Lords to Ceraborn on that day. His mouth began to dry, and his smile slowly faded as pleasantry after pleasantry was exchanged. But it was his mind that wandered quicker than anything else, and soon his gaze glazed over as he began to think of the task that the King had set for the Archers. He stood, broad shouldered with his back to the winds on those swept and well-preserved stairs, and felt his palms begin to clam as he thought back to the cold knight with the Kludde. The snarling, low and harsh against the rainswept night, rang in his ears louder than any drum. He steadied himself as he stumbled slightly in his dream, Brodon caught his arm and held him softly.
‘I’m fine.’ Ramon said quickly, though his eyes betrayed him. The King kept his hand against the man’s chest, both with eyes locked on one another.
‘I’m fine.’ Ramon repeated, though this time with far more self-confidence in his voice. Brodon released the man from his grip, the two seemed to have frozen in time and as they looked around, not one man had stopped to aid them.
 
Brodon’s eyes wandered further ahead of the courtyard once more, and his ears strained to hear the distant but distinct three-beat gait of a mare.
‘Lord Louton of Arisen, My King!’ Yelled a watcher from above the drawbridge, as the iron gates were slowly pulled up and the echoing canter was lost for the scrapping of iron against stone. Ramon grunted, and Brodon duly held his arm tightly.
‘Remember your standing my friend. A simple pleasant welcome is all I ask.’ The King said through gritted teeth. A moment later and the first mare broke through the entrance and came to a halt at the head of the courtyard. A rider, dressed in fine furs, dismounted and patted the animal lovingly. The figure, tall and slender, began to walk towards the King and the Archer. Removing thick fur gloves to reveal delicate pale fingers, before also revealing her face, Saveen Al Nam, Yellow Sister of Arisen, stood before the King and offered little more than a nod in way of respect to him.
‘Sister, I welcome you to Ceraborn. I trust your journey was pleasant?’ Brodon asked, extending his hand out and delicately shaking the young girl’s hand.
‘There are storms towards the East, they will come soon. Ensure these men are kept warm and in safety.’ The Sister replied, her eyes evading the two men that stood before her, and to Ramon at least, her gaze focusing on nothing in particular.
‘Of course, there is no safer place in the West than Ceraborn.’ Brodon returned gruffly. The girl turned, to Ramon’s eyes she was no older than twenty and her copper hair ran thinly across her brow as the veil fell softly to one side. She looked around her, first towards the battlements and across to the barbican before resting her gaze towards the drawbridge. Her mare, a tall and thick snow-coloured Lipizzaner, was taken to a stable and she watched the stableman with an almost accusing regard. She had counted the men that stalked the battlements, to each side there were at least ten archers, most with arms folded and relaxed against the stone crenels as they looked out towards the township and across the horizon towards the Eastern Road. Turning back to the men, the girl removed her furs and displayed her cote, brightly decorated with sunshine coloured dye and patterned with woven symbols of the flames of The Sister. An amulet rested gently in her bosom, a thinly chained silver which at either side anchored to an equally fine Sun. Ser Ramon stood beside the girl, his hulking frame shielding her from the sunlight that danced around the courtyard as it snuck through the clouds that now enveloped the skies.
‘I am Ser Ramon, Guard to the King and Knight of the West.’ The Archer said, surprising himself with his own self-assertive tone. The girl nodded but did not look to the man.
‘I hear it is your party who will face the beast of Cerran, should the Lords approve of the propositions?’ She asked, her eyes still firmly fixed on the drawbridge.
‘Aye, that’s true.’ The Archer returned, though the previously held assertiveness had now almost entirely faded. He looked to Brodon, though the King denied him any comfort with a steely gaze that held in it its own judgements. And it was to some relief, not least to Ramon, that a cry was then heard from the battlements that a procession was now upon the Castle, flying proudly the banners of The Sun & The Sister.
‘The Lord is here.’ Saveen said proudly. ‘And he asks that only the King greet him.’ She said, turning now to cast a fierce glance at Ramon. The Archer flashed a look to the King who nodded his approval, and Ramon made his down the steps and towards one of the Towers. In the darkness of the tower the Knight felt his rage begin to burn within him, his fist clenched the hilt of his sword and the scrapping of the tip against the stone as he stormed through the stairway only served to further bleed him of any calmness. Stepping out onto the small quiet space of the parapet he stopped short of the edge and violently kicked a small barrel that stood beside him. He threw his sword to the ground, a small flash of light emerged as the tip ignited against the stone. He felt the scars on his burn, and his skin itch as he fought for breath. His past, like a spider from the deepest cesspit, crawled up his spine slowly. He felt the tears drop from his ashen face and fell against the wall, and there he stayed, weeping quietly, thinking only of what had been.