First Rider's Call

“Your brother is in a hot temper,” he told Teral.

The boy shrugged. “Sometimes he’s like that.”

“Sometimes?”

Teral nodded. “Sometimes he’s not angry at all but fun. He helped us build a tree fort, and gave me a practice sword.”

Alton supposed it was possible. Maybe it was just that he brought out the worst in Pendric, though he couldn’t imagine why.

Eventually the forest gave way to a tent village. Alton let out a low whistle—things had changed considerably since his last visit, when there had been but a solitary company of Sacoridian soldiers to keep watch. Now there were precise rows of tan tents belonging to the ranks of D’Yerian provincial militia. Their standards, bright with unit and company insignia, rippled and snapped in the gusty wind.

King Zachary had withdrawn all but a small detachment of Sacoridian soldiers, and they were set off by standards of black and silver bearing the country’s emblem of the crescent moon and firebrand. They took up but a small space in the tent village.

The inevitable camp followers, in their own patched and colorful tents, made their place on the outskirts of the military perimeter. No doubt a goodly number of wives had followed with their children, to “do” for their husbands.

Where there were soldiers and camp followers, there was commerce. Peddlers had set up stalls, and hawked wares from atop well stocked wagons.

“Master Wiggins’ cure-all for gout, foot itch, and other more, ahem, personal ailments, gentlemen.” A group had assembled around one such peddler’s wagon and listened as he extolled the virtues of his “magic” elixir.

There were more than just soldiers, camp followers, and merchants, however. Rising above all other tents were those bearing the colors of D’Yer Province’s noble houses, and even a few from out-province. Disconcerted, Alton walked right into a rope supporting the tent of House Lyle. In front of the tent, a minstrel strummed his lute for some elegant ladies.

The aroma from a food vendor’s stall made Alton’s stomach rumble. The boys were digging in their pockets to assess whether or not they had enough currency between them for a meat pie.

What was going on here? What had once been a stark outpost in the wilderness had become a—a festival. What insanity had lured these folk to come within throwing distance of the wall?

Alton’s gaze was drawn above the tents. The great wall loomed over the gaiety, above the tallest trees, to the roof of the world, it seemed. Amid the noise and festival atmosphere, Alton stood there awed, as awed as the first time he had looked upon the magnificent working of his ancestors.

Suddenly he understood why all these people had come; they had come to see this wall of legend. The breach had brought it to the forefront of their minds. Impenetrable it stood there, this great ancient working, impenetrable to the mightiest of armies, impenetrable to all but the gods. And this was the great fallacy, for this wall had been breached. Breached by one Eletian.

He took a deep breath, trying to break the hold it had on him. It wasn’t easy—the thing was overpowering. The crystalline quartz of the granite ashlars sparkled in the sunlight, and he was beguiled by it. His hand lifted from his side as though to reach for it, even beyond the many yards separating him from its granite facade.

“Ow!” Teral cried. “Alton, he punched me.”

“Did not.”

“Did too.”

Alton tore his gaze from the wall and sighed, grateful for the respite. Uncle Landrew’s tent was not difficult to find. It was the largest one, and centrally located. The blue, red, and gold standard of D’Yer Province with Landrew’s sigil of an owl in the center field flapped above it.

Alton passed the boys a stern look and headed for Uncle Landrew’s tent. Once there, he handed the reins of the ponies to a servant, and helped Teral and Marc slide off Night Hawk. The two tore off into the tent village before their nanny, Jayna, could even open her mouth for a scolding. With a determined expression, she hoisted her skirts and rushed after them.

Alton chuckled, silently wishing her luck, and passed Night Hawk’s reins to another servant. “Make sure he gets the best grain. He’s had a long ride today.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Alton pulled aside the tent flap and entered. His uncle, seated in a campaign chair before a pile of drawings, rose to greet him.

“Be welcome, nephew,” he said.

“Thank you, my lord.”

Landrew clasped Alton’s hand. Like his own, his uncle’s hands were large and callused, the wrists thick from working stone. From a young age the D’Yers were trained to wield hammer and drill. Marc and Teral had begun training about the same time they learned to walk. Building blocks, not of wood, but of stone were their first toys.

They were stoneworkers without compare, Clan D’Yer, the builders of Sacoridia. Among their great works were the academic buildings in Selium and the castle of the high king in Sacor City.

Landrew sent servants scurrying after food and refreshment, and uncle and nephew sat in chairs opposite one another.

“Do you bear me a message from the king,” Landrew asked, “or have you come to provide help to your clan?”

“A little of both. King Zachary wishes me to look over the wall with the eyes of one of his messengers, and to encourage you in your work. I am also to provide help as needed.”

Landrew nodded, appraising him, perhaps wondering if he were more a king’s man than the clan’s man. To Alton, the roles were one and the same. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">