CHATER 30
Arrival


Jester couldn't deny it. He had never seen the castle's equal. Imperious and commanding, the fortress seemed to appear all at once, as if from thin air. He heard someone gasp in awe. Then he realized that that someone was himself. Hewn of an impressive dark stone, the steep walls and the looming towers broke through the fog to stretch above the moat like some ghostly spectre. Scarlet pennants caught the wind, and the impressive battlements made his blood go cold.

Kippernia would have seemed pale and quaint beside such a stronghold.

As they crossed the black waters of the canal in a small ferry, quickly approaching what Maurus had called Moat Gate, Jester had an eerie sense of trepidation. At the stern of the craft, the hired longshoreman with the gaunt face expertly propelled them forward with a long pole. He wore a set of iron rings on one ear, and his scalp was grizzled and bare, save for the blue tattoos that covered it. A Dane, perhaps, Jester wondered. He didn't dare ask. Three of the man's fingers were lost, and the poor fellow was missing his tongue. But the expression of deference behind the violent gaze told Jester all that he needed to know.

These were dangerous shores at the very heart of Norrian power.

Ahead, arcing from beyond the sheer parapets, four huge, round towers surrounded what Jester could only assume was the central keep. It perched high on a rocky hill at the centre of the walled moat. Inside, the castle grounds would be enormous, Jester knew. Already, he could see plumes of smoke spiralling from within. But more nerve-wracking were the archers' murder holes – black slits like gaping eyes that ran along the structure's stone face – and the hint of the forms that manned them.

They knew they were coming, then, Jester judged by the lack of a barbed welcome flurry. Still, the sight made him nervous.

He fidgeted with the ropes at his wrists, glancing sidelong at Maurus. The man didn't so much as spare him a scowl.

His cousin hadn't said a word since leaving the encampment, save for a rare grunt and a gruff "Here," when he passed Jester a hunk of dried jerky the night before after the long march. He refused to comment on the sight of Maia, left behind in the care of Justus' handlers and the red-bearded man. It was as if, to him, she hadn't even been there. As if he could erase her from his memory.

Jester bit his inner cheek. All he could do was pray that she would be all right. It would take another day or two for the rest of the captives to arrive with such a large group. At least according to some of the guards he'd overheard before they broke camp.

The thought made him sick with worry. So much could happen in that time.

As the boat approached the gate, there was an indistinct shout. Jester couldn't make heads or tails of it, but the longshoreman raised his hand in an apparent signal. Without anther word, the figures manning the lookout tower started to crank a set of levers.

Slowly, the wide water gate began to creak open.

They passed from the open channel into the sealed moat without consequence. Save for the stench. Jester raised his bound hands to his face, half coughing against the rancid scent. It smelt like… like death, he thought. Even Maurus' eyes seemed to water. His cousin discreetly covered his bearded face and nose with one coarse hand, as if feigning deep thought.

The smell didn't seem to bother their silent ferryman.

Behind them, the gate shut with a clang, and Jester glanced back only to wish he hadn't. There were heads – human heads – caught on spikes above the inner wall of the entrance. He felt the colour drain from his face and his knuckles whitened. He forced his gaze forward, fixing it on nothing in particular, if only to quell the shaking in his knees.

If this Baltor knew one thing, it was how to make his visitors feel at home.

Jester shuddered.

"Haa-alt!" The cry echoed across the filthy moat waters, and Jester thought he caught a glimpse of even their stoic ferryman tensing. A comforting sign, he thought with a tight expression. The tattooed man was certainly quick enough to spear his pole down into the murky water's depths, and next something heavy plunked overboard – a small anchor of sorts, Jester realized.

Well. These Norrians are… cautious. That is... understandable, when amassing an army. It will be fine. Completely fine, he thought – if only to convince himself. At least they didn't seem hostile.

Yet.

But then, all at once, Jester felt his flickering courage wilt. Ranks of grim-faced crossbowmen appeared on the rocky shore ahead. Their weapons were notched and at the ready. A wiry man in a high-collared tunic and draped furs split their lines, strolling down to the sandy water's edge with languid confidence. His hair fell in a sleek curtain to his shoulders, pure white with a receding hairline. He was old, yet proud and strong. He raised a lazy hand and, with the flick of long fingers, signalled his men. At once, they fell at ease. They moved in perfect military unison.

"You stand in the presence of the Lord Hywel of House Ulfricson, Lord High Steward and Warden of the Black Keep," a soldier at the lord's elbow called. "State your business."

Awkwardly, Maurus rose to his feet on the ferry. Jester felt his stomach lurch as the small ship rocked. Not trusting his legs, he stayed where he was. He didn't dare risk falling into these waters.

Calm. Stay calm. They could only shoot you now. Just a minor setback in the overall scheme of things, old boy. The thoughts whirled in his mind. You could only potentially die. It's not like these are the first bolts pointed your way in this mad quest.

And yet, they felt the gravest.

"Hail, m'lord," Maurus called from beside him. He bowed precariously. "I am Maurus of the… ahm…" He cleared his throat. "Of the Moor… lands? A trader of the Red Roads. I humbly request m'lord's permission to land. I come bearing a rare gift for His Grace." He pulled on Jester's lead. The blond boy shot his cousin a dark look, before begrudgingly rising to his feet with a scant wobble.

"Bow," Maurus hissed. "Bow, boy. Lest you want to die here."

Jester grimaced, before complying with a curt bob. It was barely adequate for a lord, he knew.

At the shoreline, the white-haired man, Lord Hywel, looked thoroughly unimpressed.

"A specimen, clearly," he drawled in a booming voice. "This is most unusual. I was clearly brought here on false pretences. This… boy," he spat the word like a filthy thing. "This boy will win our cause? Do you take me for a fool, gypsy, to waste His Grace's time with wretched maggots like this? You're scarcely the first wastrel to pass through these doors lobbing muddied children upon His Majesty's boots." He paused, before vaguely waving a hand. "Or mine for that matter. Commander. Kindly dispose of these wastrels."

There was the click of twenty-odd crossbows being reloaded, and for a moment, Jester seemed to see the scene in slow motion. The moat's water was still, flecked with all manner of unspeakable things, the colour of a murky emerald. He could see the soldier closest to the shore – the curved scar that cut across his tanned face, and the blank expression in his eyes. This was impersonal, merely business – no different than any other kill to him. Adrenaline pounded in Jester's ears as he scanned each face for mercy or a hint of anything beyond the repeated looks of soulless resignation.

His heart beat at his throat.

He didn't want to die.

He didn't want to die.

He did not want to die.

Not now.

Not like this – like a stray dog far from home, bound and killed like vermin.

Far from his Jane.

All he knew in that moment was he wanted to live.

The crossbows were raised. He could almost see the soldiers' muscles tensing to open fire. He could practically see their fingers on the triggers.

"WAIT!" Maurus bellowed in a thunderous voice, tinged with desperation. "M'lord, have mercy. HE KNOWS OF WHAT HIS MAJESTY SEEKS! I SWEAR IT. As sure as the messenger said."

Both Jester and Lord Hywel turned to Maurus, one with bewilderment, the other with renewed curiosity. The white-haired man raised his hand in a signal, and his men stilled.

"What are you playing at?" Jester muttered between gritted teeth. "What messenger?"

"Not now, boy," Maurus hissed back, before continuing in a loud voice. "Don't be deceived by his humble appearance, m'lord. Beneath the dirt of the road, this is the emissary that hails from Kippernium." He said the word like it was a thing of wonder.

For a moment, everything seemed to still. The pounding in Jester's ears was deafening, and the thick, cloying scent of the moat was almost more than he could bear. The uneasy feeling built and roiled in his gut, as he watched his cousin with an expression akin to helplessness.

At last, Lord Hywel spoke with the click of his fingers.

"Bring him."

And then he turned on his heel, taking long strides up the beach, back towards the path leading to the fortress above.

Jester threw Maurus a wild-eyed look.

"What are you doing? What did that mean, "What his Majesty seeks"?"

"It means we're playing dice with the devil now, boy," Maurus replied. "From here on in, it's like I told you – it's not my fault if you die."