The Fires of Cerran

Chapter Sixteen

In the dying light of the evening, and the rain beginning to slowly fall, Ceraborn fell strangely quiet. The courtyard, which mere hours before had seen over a dozen carriages come and go, and with that also perhaps a hundred men, now was scarce of sound, except for the occasional neigh of a horse within the stables or the striking of iron against molten metal as the blacksmith worked into the evening. A few men patrolled the battlements now, with torches lit at intervals along the place that filled the misted evening with balls of bright warm light, but the roads were now derelict and the perimeter of the place seemed dead to all life. The men, who sat seemingly uninterested in what might lie beyond the walls, stood in quiet conversation or in small groups huddled beside fires that had been lit in the fire pits, with a few barrels of ale beside them for warmth in these cold nights. The thunder now rattled across the Eastern borders of the forests, and from the Castle it could be seen that the storm was approaching with great ferocity upon the City and Castle. Against protocol, a few of the men had chosen to lock off the doors to the parapets, and instead reserve the patrols to the lower battlements during such weather. Rats scuttled along the walls now, often lurking in doorways between the protection of the darkness and the warmth of the firelight, in search of food scraps that the men left beside the pits. Bread and chicken were the main diet here, washed down with a few good pints of ale or brandy wine to keep them warm. A few games of Cragg’s Pass were played, with three men to each team attempting to gain points above the opposition through playing a card against once another. And in the misted visage of the horizon, kept almost as a secret against a blanket of now fierce rain, came the final carriages towards Cerran. There was no bannerman riding ahead, no grand entrance. Instead a small procession made its way along the dirt road, was halted at the drawbridge before being quickly allowed to pass into the place. Men watched from above, carefully studying the carriages, seeking an emblem or a sigil, but in the darkness they found none. A small band of men scurried along the side of the carriages, covering the mares in large warm blankets as they were led towards the stables. Soon after the large main doors of Cerran were pulled open, and a great creaking bounded around the courtyard and wound up the spires into the evening air. A warm light escaped from within the place, and equally inviting smells steadily swam across the wind and out into the night. Brodon stood, illuminated as if he were a living incarnation of a stained-glass window, and waited. From within the carriages there seemed to be little movement, and the King heard little in the way of conversation. He scowled, focusing his eyes upon the crest and growing weary as he then heard a growling command. It was a voice he knew well, though time had deepened and cut at the cords of that once soft and rather gentle tone. Lord Tharandal emerged from the carriage, his small dark eyes darting from one corner of the yard to the other, surveying like a hawk. The man stood alone, his bannermen, if indeed you could call them that, stood with bowed heads and solemn expressions.
 ‘Greetings, my Lord.’ Brodon exclaimed in a loud, welcoming tone.
 ‘Good evening, my King. Such fine weather, it seems to have followed us through every field and pass.’ Tharandal returned, his own voice seemed dry and harsh against the rains.
The Lord was followed by a small band of men, three on each side, and to a passer by it might have seemed that he was King and that Brodon were the Lord, for the King stood alone.
 ‘I trust we are the last to arrive.’ Tharandal said after a few steps, looking up at to Brodon as he climbed the stairs to meet him.
 ‘You are, though not by much. Lord Elmorc arrived only an hour or so before you.’ Brodon returned, extending his hand to clasp the cold, shrivelled hand that Tharandal offered him. Tharandal, just as every Lord had done, kissed the ring that sat upon Brodon’s finger and bowed before him. Behind them men stood in silence, as if they were men of stone, unmoving and expressionless against the cold of the evening. Brodon saw this, and he was troubled, Tharandal could be cruel man to those who served him, though he was true to every word he had every spoken. If a man dealt with Tharandal, then Tharandal would honour that agreement to the letter. The men’s eyes met for a moment, and Brodon could not help but see something beyond what those eyes now conveyed to him. There was something behind them, something more. But in a flash the moment was gone, and Tharandal bid his men to bring forward his chests. Six were quickly brought to the steps of the castle, thick oak that was tightly packed with leather straps that wound around the chests like a boa with its prey.
 
The Lord stood with the King, not for any sort of company or conversation, more so to ensure that his luggage was properly cared for. The Lord was meticulous in every sense, every item was accounted for and never was something cast away without his approval. Once satisfied, the old man turned towards the King and took a quick step forward.
 ‘I have something of interest, my King.’ He said, his voice quiet, soft.
 ‘I assure you that gifts are not necessary, though I thank you all the same.’ Brodon replied gently, smiling as he did so.
 ‘Oh, but this one is, especially if we are to solve your problem…’ Tharandal returned. The Lord took a step back, and signalled to his carriage, a short stout man promptly opened the door furthest from them, and Brodon could make out only the silhouettes of a tall and smaller person as they clambered out of the wagon. The two visages began a slow, almost unnerving advance through the courtyard, and the weather seemed now to crescendo as a thick mixture of rain and swirling winds protected the oncoming masses from all that surrounded them. The Lord watched his companions carefully, but his eyes flickered to Brodon as he waited for the inevitable moment. What is this? Thought Brodon as he watched the two, as he now saw clearly, women walk towards him.
 ‘Ladies, please introduce yourselves.’ Tharandal exclaimed.
 ‘I am Nemara, Yellow Sister of Arisen.’ Said the older woman, her blonde hair damp and frizzy and her robes blotted with dark splashes of rain. In her hands, Brodon saw, she clasped a small leather book.
 ‘Welcome Sister, you will be pleased to hear that another of your…type, is here.’ Brodon returned, his smile wearing thinner with every word that passed his lips. He turned his head and squinted, she could not have been older than eighteen, bundled tightly in robes that were discoloured and torn and with a pale and almost vacant face.
 ‘And to whom do I now speak?’ The King asked.
Melran looked towards the King, she shivered slightly in the cold evening air, and as the winds wrapped around her, she wished nothing more than to be carried far away from this place. To where she would be taken, she had no thought, just so long as it were not here. She turned her gaze to the men that stood atop the parapets, silhouetted against the black starless sky, they flickered and seemed to dance with the flames that came from the lanterns and fire barrels that dotted the walkways.
 ‘Girl, have you no respect? Answer your King!’ Tharandal hissed. For a brief moment the dagger that hid within her bags seemed to call to her, and she wished nothing more than to slice at the Lord’s throat and watch has grasped for air and gargled in the bubbles of his own blood. A sweet moment, but for another time perhaps.
 ‘My name is Melran, my King.’ She said softly, her head now bowed but out of fear or tiredness she could not tell. A crackle of lightning illuminated the figures on the steps, and the winds seemed to wrap themselves tighter than they had before. She lifted her head, and as she did so the men on the parapet disappeared into darkness. Her eyes met with Brodon’s, though they were not his own, and from inside the doorway that stood quiet, a dark mass formed. It did not step beyond the darkness of the doorway, and neither did it speak. It simply stared, a man taller than any Melran had ever seen before, clad in armour that was scratched the dented, with a longsword to one side and an axe to the other, gripped by hands that bore cracked flesh that was dotted with thick white bone. And it stared, and only now did she realise how dangerous Ceraborn had become.