Tarn returned to the stream to retrieve his pack while old friends discussed the changes to Mycenar. He evaluated the men against his village's standards; the only standards he had. Only Lord Landrew and his son, Sir Tarl, had the trappings of seasoned warriors. If the display that Sir Goth presented was his best effort, then he was certainly no swordsman of great value; and the two brothers appeared weak and pampered, raised to never want for anything. Sword practice to them was no more than play, something their retainers did on their behalf. Neither one had drawn their blades until the end, and then only sluggishly, arrogantly assuming there wasn't any reason for them to become involved; that three armed and trained noblemen could quite easily overcome one outlander and his pet wolf. Be that as it may, each showed themselves ready to lay down their lives if need be. What more could a warrior ask of his brethren?
Although Lord Landrew possessed a veteran's confidence and carriage, he was long past his prime. Sir Tarl, on the other hand, had inherited his father's size and was in all likelihood, accomplished in battle. Tarn noted the calluses on Sir Tarl's sword hand, the right wrist thickened by countless hours of sword drills, and the numerous scars on his wrists and forearms. Sir Tarl possessed the self-assurance of a warrior familiar with battle; confidence that didn't need external reassurance and false flattery from his subordinates. And when he moved, catlike agility lent him a deadly grace, all supple muscle ready to unleash.
Still, if Lord Landrew owned land and a holding, perhaps he also garrisoned men-at-arms. Barath had been uncertain regarding Landrew's strength. Too many months had passed since Barath had lived in this land. The absence of wars and feuds would reduce the number of soldiers Landrew employed, just as the presence of such would fill his barracks. From Barath's description of the temple and its fortifications, only two methods of assault occurred to him: an assault by a strong force or a small force of three-to-five men under the cover of darkness. A third option came to mind, but he needed to undertake a stealthy reconnaissance before giving that option further consideration.
By the time he returned to the glade, the twilight hour had ended. Sir Goth rode behind Nogeron's brother, the buck lashed across his saddle. Tarn shook his head. No one had bothered to gut the carcass and lighten the extra burden on the horse. Should they require speed, the added weight might mean the difference between life or death. These civilized men were far too overconfident for his liking; and though Barath was of noble blood, imminently civilized by their standards, he did not demonstrate the same traits. To be fair, they were a modest party that probably need not fear an attack on familiar land so close to home. Torrocka's teachings and philosophy tempered his rush to judgement. He missed his teacher.
"Tarn. Ye may ride with me," Sir Tarl offered.
"Ye won't be running thy mounts with Sir Goth doubled. I'll no slow ye."
"'Tis nearly two leagues to our hold and ye carry a pack. Allow me to bear that burden," compromised Sir Tarl.
"Let us away. Lead on," Tarn said, ending further discussion.
For emphasis, Barath barked, and then trotted off to a destination well known to him. And though night had fallen, Tarn ran easily behind Barath, who navigated the darkness-shrouded wood without effort, wolf eyes glowing like lupine lanterns in a tunnel. Barath followed a game trail that wound its way through coppice and glade. The riders, whose mounts were denied the narrow game trail, were forced to take a less direct route. The forest grew dark and the footing unsure for the horses. Until the partial moon appeared some hours later, they were forced to walk their mounts through the thicker sections.
In less than half a sand glass the mounted group emerged from the forested canyon. Tarn and Barath awaited their arrival beside a rolling grass field. Lord Landrew canted his head to the west and kicked his heels back. Sir Tarl beheld Tarn and Barath for a moment, and then followed his father.
Beyond the sylvan canyon, the wood suddenly ceased, having been recently harvested, as denoted by new tree stumps scattering the ground. Heavily burdened wagons and their iron-rimmed wheels cut the tender ground, crisscrossing the earth with deep incisions. Fresh cedar scent thickened the air. Axe chips and saw shavings made the ground spongy where they fell. Adjacent to the tree stump field, sections of cleared land came into view, replete with furrowed rows sprouting slender green stalks of wheat and corn and rapeseed. Once they turned onto a rutted cart road, Tarn sighted the lights of Lord Landrew's hold and the dim outline of the buildings.
Its size impressed him. His whole village could easily live within the walls and not want for space. The battlements soared forty feet high and ten feet thick. Towers, whose conical pinnacles were taller again by twenty feet, graced the four corners of the compass. Alert sentries wearing Landrew's orange and blue coloured tabard belted at their waists patrolled the ramparts, looking out and down over a deep ditch surrounding the fortress on three sides. Sharpened stakes were driven into the ground, barbed and deadly, carpeted the dry moat; a moat that could be flooded by opening a watergate. The forth side, the back of Landrew's holding, enclosed a set of docks on Lake Pinta. Building next to a lake not only provided a convenient escape route, but also allowed a steady supply of drinking water to wait out sieges, an alternative means by which supplies might be delivered, and a gate through which an offensive might be launched. Lord Landrew built well.
Two guards stood attentively at the front gate, having walked to the head of a drawbridge extended across the moat when they sighted the part returning. The sentries drew stiff, into defensive stances as Tarn and a black wolf stopped at the end of the drawbridge. Sir Tarl called out to assure them all was well. When Tarn passed between the guards, he noted their armour and battle-hardened looks. Each sentry warily watched Tarn and Barath pass, alert, but not aggressive.
So, Lord Landrew hired seasoned warriors, he discerned, filling in a variable of his blossoming strategy to take back Barath's home. When they entered the courtyard, stablemen materialized to collect the mounts and the stag. Lord Landrew issued a set of orders that went unheard by Tarn, who stood in the courtyard turning slowly in a circle, taking in the breath and size of the walled area. Men-at-arms raised the drawbridge. Castle attendants scurried to comply with their Lord's bidding. An iron drop grill, and a set of steel-plated, double-thick wood doors, reinforced the main gate. However old Lord Landrew might be, he maintained a heightened state of battle-readiness.
It was a few moments before Tarn could bring order to his thoughts and the scope of what he was seeing. It felt as though he stood within a small city. Tarn appraised the organized state of the grounds and the people who staffed the castle, who at this very moment ran to and fro fulfilling their various duties.
Set back and to the side was a long, two-storey building. The stables. Grooms and stable hands materialize from the stables that could easily house a contingent of one hundred horse. Several small corrals sat off to the side. Silos reaching twenty feet high, built adjacent to the stables, were undoubtedly filled. On the opposite side of the main building, a twin set of long and low buildings, the soldier barracks, were built close to the outer wall. Beside them, Tarn noted a building out of which a familiar scent arose. Coal. Lord Landrew staffed a forge and employed a blacksmith. But it was the central structure that won Tarn's final appreciation.
The main building stood three storeys high with four towers reaching above five storeys. Stones impossibly large had been shaped and cut and fitted together until he doubted if his dagger would slide between any two blocks at any section. The time and manpower required to achieve the results he witnessed, the sheer mastery of stone craft left Tarn speechless. He never imagined that anyone could produce such structures. Each of the four towers commanded an excellent field of vision in all directions. However faint, he detected bitter odours that belonged to a forge and the crisp scent of freshly cut wood. Given what Tarn had thus far observed, he was willing to bet that Lord Landrew kept an armoury. Tarn surmised that a well-provisioned and competent force might withstand an attack from three times their numbers as long as food and water held out.
Lord Landrew dismounted and turned to Tarn, "Be welcome. My man will escort ye to suitable quarters, where thou may wash the trail away. After that, we will eat and discuss our options. My home is thy home."
"I give thanks to ye. Accept the stag my brother felled. May it strengthen thy sword arm and fuel thy judgement," Tarn intoned, bestowing Lord Landrew with the traditional response given to the headman of his village when gifting tribute.
Recognizing Tarn's words as being some type of formal reply, but ignorant of the correct response, Lord Landrew said, "I am honoured by thy gift."
Barath eyed the two men with an amused expression, before barking to alleviate the awkward gulf that unfamiliar customs breed, and nudged Tarn's leg. As previously agreed upon, Barath accompanied Tarn. Servants talked, and it would be less than prudent if word of a wolf, who transformed into a nobleman, reached the temple prematurely. Tarn followed the castle attendant through the door, into a long vestibule. Square lanterns illuminated a row of oil paintings, whose subjects bore an amazing resemblance to Lord Landrew and Sir Tarl. A more in-depth examination of the main floor was lost to him as the servant led them up a set of stone stairs, then down a short hallway to another set of stairs leading up into the South Tower.
The upper chamber proved to be surprisingly spacious. A newly lit fire warmed the hearth and a bearskin rug sprawled lengthways at the foot of a wide bed. Besides the room's solitary window, which looked out over the east castle grounds, stood a writing desk and chair. Ink, quill, and parchment sat atop the mahogany desk. Silk-threaded tapestries graced the walls. A shield mounted above the hearth displayed Lord Landrew's Standard. Ball-and-chains crisscrossed the top of the Standard.
The servant poured fresh water into a basin, and then showed Tarn the clothing closet, saying, "There is fresh attire inside, good sir. If ye would change and leave thy travel clothes outside the door, they will be cleaned and returned."
Tarn grunted his reply and leaned his pack against the wall. The servant departed, pulling the door shut behind him. He looked to Barath, who sprawled luxuriously on the bearskin rug, grinning ear to ear.
"What be the root of thy mirth?" Barath barked a couple of times, his impossibly large grin, widening. "I'll no garb myself in nobleman clothes if that's what ye be amusing thyself with thoughts of."
On his way to the pitcher and basin, he scowled at Barath good-naturedly. Once refreshed, Tarn removed his hip sword and attached Kalen's sword to his waist. Before Tarn reached the door, Barath barked twice, sharply, then trotted over and nudged the scabbard.
"No brother. I'll make an apology to Landrew if I must, but I'll not let it out of my sight," said Tarn, striding out of the room.
Barath took the lead at the bottom of the stairs and guided Tarn into a grand room filled with chairs, lounge benches, and beautifully crafted tables. Three hearths heated the chamber, and a chandelier lit it brightly. The ceiling rose three times Tarn's height. The room stretched twenty of his paces across and almost half as many wide. Colourful tapestries adorned the rough walls and plush rugs covered the stone floor. A woman, no more than four years his senior, outfitted in buckskin pants and shirt, tall riding boots, and a slender sword strapped around her waist, strode through an arched doorway on the far side.
She stared at Tarn, the rest of the room and its furry occupant unseen, appraising his exotic northern looks, overcoming the surprise of finding a stranger in her home. Tarn met her blue eyes and held them with unabashed frankness. Barath barked. The woman's face flushed red. She took heed of Barath, partially hidden behind Tarn, for the first time.
Her hand began its trek to the hilt of her sword when Tarn's voice stopped her. "Stay thy hand. This wolf be my brother, and companion," then as an afterthought, he added, "Worry naught, he is housebroken."
Barath growled at the grinning youth. The woman crossed the room, walking on the balls of her feet, moving with the grace of a swordswoman. Her auburn hair held back in a braid that reached her waist swayed in synchronized rhythm with her hips as she approached.
"He doth not enjoy thy companionship overly much, whoever ye be," she observed.
"'Tis past his feeding time. I am Tarn, son of Connor, Landrew's guest," he introduced and received another growl in reward.
"Does he have a name?"
"Aye. He calls himself Barath."
"Surely ye don't expect me to believe he speaks!" she exclaimed, thinking that he teased her.
"Aye, he boasts brief moments."
The young woman gave him a skeptical look. Barath padded over and nuzzled her hand. She reached down hesitantly and then petted his big head with more vigour.
"Why, he's nothing but a big puppy," she said scratching Barath's ears and ruffling the fur on his head.
Tarn's laughter thundered across the chamber. Lord Landrew and Sir Tarl entered the room to view the woman's perplexed expression, and Barath baring glistening canine teeth.
"I see ye have become acquainted with my daughter, Aliesha," Lord Landrew said when Tarn regained himself. "Let us retire to the banquette hall and speak further whilst we break our fast. I have assembled the captain of my guard, and took the liberty of inviting Lord Renaldo, a fellow nobleman who's visiting."
"Come on boy, I'll fix ye a bowl of food in the kitchen," Aliesha remarked, and headed across the room to exit through a different door than the one in which she arrived.
Her innocent comment evoked new laughter from Tarn and another throaty growl from Barath.
"Daughter, he will sup with us. Thee will also attend. Grave matters require our immediate attention."
Aliesha appraised her father's serious expression but held her counsel, knowing that he would make himself clear in his own time. She felt certain that Tarn and Barath played a central role in her father's forthcoming explanation. Never before had a stranger been invited to attend the council chamber. Moreover, and perhaps of more significance, Tarn wore his sword indoors and her father had said nothing. Though she knew not what, great changes were brewing. Change, she thought, frequently meant upheaval. Upheaval carried fighting and death in its handbasket.