Dragongate I

The Fourth Room …

Higher, larger, lighter and more opulent was a fourth chamber. A young woman, golden-haired, with fine if haughty features, was also regarding herself in a looking glass. She stared critically at her reflected image with hard cold green eyes, which stared back, green, hard and cold, with marked disapproval. She had cleaned her face in the ice-cold water of the basin before her, but otherwise remained travel-stained, in the dour and dusty mannish garb of her travelling clothes; more woodsman than lady. She had seen what she needed to, and it did not do to linger in the glass. She sighed and turned aside.

By her side sat her companion, auburn hair put up and dressed, and richly garbed in an opulent damask green gown. She lounged easily on the rich canopied bed. Beside her lay a discarded gown of infinite richness, raw red silk and gold brocade. In an adjacent chamber a servant was to be heard weeping.

“Lady ….,” began the woman in the green gown.

“I know,” said the other, turning again to regard herself harshly in the mirror, “it is not that poor child’s fault, she was just trying to do her job,” she paused and, frowning at her reflection, added, “Amora, I should be better than I am.”

“So should we all,” replied the other, “but we do not all face what you now do.”

“Yet I made my bargain. My father has honoured it fully all these years, and my bartered freedom ends now.”

“It is a bargain you made when you were but thirteen, a child, and you know your father would never hold you to …. all parts of it. Did he not say so at your last meeting?”

“It is a bargain that gave me years of freedom that one in my position had no right to expect. It was never forever, I knew that, and it has run its course.” There was a pause. The Lady Amora, knowing there was more, remained silent and presently her companion continued, “The things we saw on the road north … I felt we were followed, spied out as never before. Ragged doomsayers ranting in marketplaces. Bands of men abroad on the roads, sullenly furtive, yet purposeful they seemed. The arming at Eoforwick. The attack… It seems to me these are times that recall me to duty. We must add our news to the King’s counsels ere we feast.

“Yet now the time has come to give it up ….. it is hard. I know cannot pick and choose the terms of my surrender. If this is what my father needs, what the North needs…. well, it is part and parcel of duties long evaded. In fact, I’ve seen the merchandise; honey will sweeten the bitter draft! Yet, I wish it were not so. It is not my choice or my desire to do this now.”

She sounded selfish in her own estimation, which made her cross, which caused the girl in the glass to pout, which made her crosser. Annoyed at her worst self, she finally turned again to her companion speaking softly, “Knowing the right thing to do does not made the doing of it any easier.”

“Then ride,” said the other, “let us take up our saddlebags and ride. Let the night wind take us where it will. You have been content to live the life of an outlaw, and you know your father would forgive you.”

“You would counsel treason? But yes,” said the other, suddenly grave, “I daresay he would. He always has. Yet, the knowledge that he would not rage at my defiance somehow takes the savour from the wilfulness of my desires. He loves me truly, and I am the only happiness in his life. How could I grieve him so?”

Sombre as a mourner at a graveside, she stepped to the bed and managed a smile of sad resolution as she picked up the dress, “Here, help me with this, would you?”

But before the other could return her smile, the quiet of the chamber was suddenly broken by loud and deep metallic note, then another. Boom, sounded the stern notes, like brazen strokes of doom. Then they became faster, an insistent clanging.

“The alarm bell!” the stern lady cried, her cheeks flushed with colour, her emerald eyes shining bright. She strode to a cupboard and took out a sword, bow and quiver, turning to her companion as she did so, “Amora, get out of that dress and back into your boots and breaches, while I rouse out that good-for-nothing page of yours!”

“Of mine?”, said the lady in the green gown, blushing fiercely.

The other woman simply winked at her in response, then, as she swung open the door to the passageway, she added, “and please give that servant the week off. I don’t think I’m going to be needing one after all.”

***

The armoury ….

Sergeant-of-Arms Bartaland was on duty in the royal armoury at the Gryphonhold. He’d had his hands full. This had proved his hardest half hour’s work in years, though, he noted with satisfaction, his system – he had brought it from the armouries of Dragongate - had run smoothly. Sergeant Radwin, the Gryphonhold armourer, and his lads, had worked well, and the men coming on duty had been equipped with commendable speed. After the first rush, his visitors had slowed to a trickle and then, apparently, ceased. He told Radwin to get off and get some rest; soldiers should take rest when they could. He saw off the last remaining soldiers and closed his inventory book. Clattering echoes died from his cavernous dungeon domain. All fell silent. He let the last of the armoury lads go. Well, they deserved to see some of the fun, didn’t they?

Bartaland was an old soldier, and he’d had his share of fun, oh yes, though never say never, as they say. He’d served the King since … well, since before he’d ever thought to be a king, back when he’d been a mere snot-nosed knight in his first command. Ambushed by brigands whilst on patrol in the glooms of the Morosian Forest, Bartaland had carried, dragged, and, at least at one point, rolled, the wounded young knight to safety. That young knight had survived Bartaland’s rescue and prospered, and that young knight had not forgotten him. When the expedition commander, Lord Selwin, commended Bartaland for his deed in front of the whole company, all the soldier could think to stammer was “well, ‘e was down on the ground, like, so I thinks I’d better just lug him home”. That turn of phrase had elicited a good deal of ribald laughter, which Bartaland recalled only too well. As the Keeper of Arms in the royal armoury, Sergeant Bartaland was a figure of great dignity, as well as responsibility, and the terror of young recruits. Only their royal Highnesses and select intimates of Bartaland, mainly grizzled veterans as old and ugly as him, knew, and could dare to apply, his nickname, Lug.

As the Keeper of Arms Bartaland never let anything out of his keeping without receiving two things in return; a mark in the ledger from the man drawing his weapons, and the answer to any enquiry he saw fit to make of him. This way, as the armoury had emptied, and men returned to all parts of the castle, Bartaland’s knowledge of the tactical situation had grown. Aside from the commanders, Bartaland sat in his windowless subterranean gloom probably knew more than any other soldier in the place about what was going on outside. This was his post in time of siege, but he need not keep it when there was no longer any need. He could rouse out Radwin, now off duty, handover the keys and join the fun. He knew some likely lads around the place who might join him. He was just considering where he might best lend his support, when he heard footsteps descending toward the privy door, from the royal apartments. He straightened, put on his helmet and turned to greet his latest visitors. It was four youths, two young women and two young men. He knew them well. He knew what they had come for. The taller of the ladies, fair and proud despite her dour ranger’s garb, carrying a hunter’s bow, stepped forward to address him.

Bartaland stepped forward in turn “Your ….” This elicited a sharp glance of reprimand from the tall, proud lady. “I mean,” Bartaland continued, “my Lady, how can I be of service?”

“Oh,” she replied, “my friends and I were heading this way when we bumped into the Librarian.” A very tall and very well-developed young man beamed greeting at this mention. “And we all thought,” continued the lady “we might take the evening air, see the sights and, well, kill some people. We rather thought you might equip us for our excursion.”

“Right you are, your ... my lady. Step this way and I daresay …”

At that moment there were other footsteps, descending other stairs, this time to the main entrance. Three figures stood in the gloom of the arch. Bartaland squinted. Light of build for soldiers, he thought, though dressed roughly enough. Young boys wanting to do their bit, no doubt. They stepped forward. Three girls was it? One dark, lithe and with a mocking smile dressed in black soft boots, breaches, tunic and cape, like an assassin, or a thief, simple clothes, yet elegant and of quality. Not a sight to inspire trust. Another in armour, slight, but in good boots, a mail hauberk no less, and with red locks incongruously escaping from beneath an iron helm. She carried a bloody great polearm and looked strangely dangerous. The third was, if anything, more outlandish, if only because she was an Elf in a blood red cloak and the light war-gear of the woods. She carried an Elf bow, casually, but, in his old soldier’s eyes, ready in an instant to nock and loose a shaft. Clearly, she was bloody dangerous. He knew none of them. And here he was, with Her in the room. Slowly, cautiously, he began to draw his sword.

Sacrissa stepped forward, “good sir knight, please, we mean no harm ….”

“Don’t call me ‘sir’, young lady, I works for a living …”

“Though hardly so hard as you used to, Lug, though I daresay you have been busy enough this eve.” This was the tall proud girl, stepping forward, her golden hair glowing in the lamp-light and her piercing green eyes alive with intelligence. Despite her woodman’s garb and weaponry, she had the grace and presence of a fine lady, “Come, it seems that some introductions are called for. The good sergeant does not know you and nor,” she added, with, the others noticed, a slight edge of steel to her voice, “do I.”

Sacrissa deferred to Elyssa, who in turn indicated to Sigird that she should speak.

“My lady, I am Sigird Siglaug’s daughter, and my father is Dravain of Tuttadale of the House of Duna.”

“And what do you at Gryphonhold?” asked the fair and graceful lady, not unkindly.

“I am to be a companion to the Princess, my lady.”

“Are you indeed? And is it customary, do you suppose, for a companion to the Princess to array herself like a warrior?” the lady’s tone amused, but still friendly.

“I suppose not, my lady, but it is fitting for a battle. The Princess I know not, but I know when a warrior is needed.”

“Then it seems you would be a fit companion for your mistress at such a time. You will be the spear that gives victory to your Princess.”

“If my lady thinks so.”

“This lady knows so,” and the lady turned to Sacrissa, “now I mark you, you have a likeness to your brother, my lady.”

“My brother?”

“Yes, Eric, Eric the Elding of Trenisslia. Tall, handsome. Not big on conversation. We met recently. We met in the town. He left for the castle. Matters of State, I understand. Your presence at the Gryphonhold thus requires no explanation, though your attire may do. Fortunately, there is not time for that.” Last, the lady turned to Elyssa, and bowed her head gravely to the Elf. Sacrissa saw a flash of something in the meeting of their eyes, but what might it mean? Recognition? Understanding? Something shared or some confederacy? What? Thinking thus, Sacrissa was surprised when the lady addressed the Elf, “my lady, I am honoured by your presence. I do not know you but feel that I should. Whatever brings you to the Vale, you are most welcome.”

“I am Elyssa Bloodraven. I have come to the Gryphonhold with great and grave purpose, though I can speak of it to none but the Princess or her father.”

“Interesting,” replied the lady, “let us both hope that you gain that chance. I will introduce my companions, though the time is not yet ripe to speak of myself. I am known by some as a huntress, you may call me that if you will.” After the slightest pause she added, “You must forgive that.” It did not sound like a request.

The lady then indicated her female companion, dressed much as she, like a woodman or a tracker, “This is the lady Amora, my attendant. She, like me, can fight at need. And this,” she indicated the most ordinary of the party, “is Trystan, my page-at-arms.” A slightly gawky youth, not yet full grown into his body, he was handsome in a slightly confused way and his ears stuck out. He looked tough enough, for all that, and was dressed in boots and a quilted jack, ready, it seemed to don a mail shirt and helm.

“And last,” continued the lady, “I present, fresh from the royal library at Dragongate, the court bookward, and scholar without equal, Conan.”

Sacrissa looked Conan up and down. Thoroughly. All six foot one from the shapely, muscled calves up to a chest sculpted like an antique breast plate and shoulders that looked as broad and powerful as an ox. “A librarian?” she uttered.

“Yes, my lady,” answered Conan, cheerfully, “I train, of course, because every man must be able to fight at a time of such need.”

“And every woman, it seems,” added Sacrissa, archly.

“Yes,” replied the fair lady evenly, “every gentlewoman not least. We must fight beside the men for our hearth and house, for what we have, we must hold. Now, if the good Sergeant can help us to arms, we may lend a little strength to the fray!”