Nabera

Nabera

The Order of the Verdant Cloth

Greg Foss

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012 Greg Foss

Smashwords Editon, License Notes

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Prelude

The king of Nabera looked out over a city that was beyond his influence or control. The crown was new to his brow and he was more prisoner than sovereign in his own palace. These were the least of his concerns. He heard a knock and turned from the window to face the throne room door. Three women filed in.

It is certain, said the first.

The enemy has returned, said the next.

You must not delay, said the third. We need Verdamen.

The king looked back to the window. So be it, he pronounced. Let heralds bring word to the farthest corners. The Order of the Verdant Cloth shall be reborn.

One

Riders! hissed the wagon driver to his two passengers. I see five coming hard from the north. Kill each other another time.

Bael kept his eyes on the impetuous youth sitting across the empty cargo bed from him as a vulpine grin split his frosted black beard. You're in less danger now than you were a few seconds ago, lad, he mocked. Choose an easier mark the next time you decide to test your nerve. You just got lucky. Bael chuckled and turned his attention to the rear as his erstwhile adversary blew air through his cheeks and thumped the back of his head against the side of the wagon.

There were five of them all right, distinct against the backdrop of the distant Northern Mountains and the flat expanse of grass to east and west. The riders slowed their pace when they saw the wagon and then came to a full stop some distance away on the straight, rutted road.

Think they look dangerous? asked the youth, Arlan, without a hint of the belligerence that had led to the aborted showdown with the formidable Bael.

We'll know what their intentions are in a moment, the big man stated, squinting in the morning sun. No sooner had he spoken than two of the group cantered into the grass on either side of the road. The remaining three started forward. Cutthroats, Bael announced, getting to his feet and shrugging off his cloak. Driver! Stop the horses now. Unhitch the team and get underneath the wagon. Lad, you help him. Do it now.

The emaciated little driver yanked hard on the reins and the pair of blacks clattered to a stop. Bael grabbed Arlan by the loose fabric of his tunic and shoved him forward to help with the unhitching. When the young man got himself moving and vaulted the driver’s seat to land beside the fidgeting team, Bael turned his full attention to saving their lives.

The riders did not sport colors of affiliation - good. There didn't seem to be an archer among them - good. Their splitting up to occupy the flanks indicated either experience or good leadership - bad. He was on foot while they were mounted - very bad. The wagon's team was useless to him as they were draught animals; and besides, he was no horseman.

Stay with the wagon, lad, Bael commanded with a wink. I should be able to deal with this little situation myself. You'd only be in the way with that old wall-hanger of a sword you sport. He leaped to the road before Arlan could protest and began to stride towards the approaching brigands with his arms extended to show open palms and spread fingers in the universal sign of peaceful intent. He ignored the two who had swung out to the flanks and focused upon the remaining trio that now approached abreast at a disciplined walk. They looked much as Bael had expected them to, nondescript and a bit tattered but by no means squalid. Mercenaries from up-coast, he guessed, not highwaymen by trade but willing to take advantage of what might fall into their laps.

The three riders on the road brought their mounts to a halt when about fifty paces separated them from Bael, who kept walking in an effort to get as close as he could to lessen the effect of a charge should it occur. A very good day to you, my friends! he shouted with his heavy, scar traced arms still outstretched. Surely the fates have answered our prayers in sending you to us! We welcome your company. There’s safety in numbers you know! The riders looked stunned for a moment and then they burst into cynical laughter. Bael continued towards them with a smile on his face and a careless spring to his step.

Right you are, old timer, said the man in the middle of the three, the leader. My friends and I are in something of a hurry; however… Bael continued forward but a look of exaggerated concern had replaced his grin. …so we’ve only got time to relieve you of weapons, money, food, and anything you might have as cargo. The man then leaned forward in his saddle, the pretense of civility falling from his gaunt, sunburned face. Co-operate or die.

Bael was very close now and getting closer. The leader realized his mistake the moment he locked eyes with his prey. There was no pleading or terror in them at all, just rage. Kill him! roared the thief while spurring his horse forward and drawing a sword that fell to the muddy road a heartbeat later along with the arm that held it. The leader hadn't had time to realize that he was out of the fight before the charging Bael was past him and closing on the two men behind.

The men were too close together and knew it, but there was no time to separate. Instead, they reared their horses in unison to try and trample the sudden menace. Bael's sword flashed as he leaped forward. The horses screamed and fell with savage cuts to vulnerable bellies. One man was thrown clear and the other was pinned beneath his thrashing mount.

Bael sidestepped to avoid flailing hooves, his head snapping left and right to locate the outlaws on the flanks. They were almost upon him, galloping in from either side...

Arlan hadn't followed orders. How could he cower under a wagon and let one man, even if he was a cantankerous stranger, face five? He waited until Bael was a short distance away and then he slipped into the tall grass to move out in a crouching hunter's stalk. He was puzzled when he heard Bael's meek words. It was obviously a ruse, but he had no clue where the trick might lead. What about the outriders? Should he try and deal with one of them or should he get as close to Bael as possible? Arlan thrust his head above the grass to assess the lay of things. Bael’s bald boulder of a head was much closer to the outlaws than he would have guessed. The outriders on the flanks were moving in at a walk. What was the fool doing? He was heading right into their clutches!

Kill him! The outlaw's bellow shocked Arlan to stand erect and the sudden violence that followed set him off at a sprint, but he was too far away to help. Bael charged into the first three like a bull into sheep, and for a moment, Arlan dared to hope. The two remaining riders thundered into the melee; however, and Bael went down under the hooves of one after hamstringing the mount of the other.

No! Arlan's cry was ill advised as it alerted the enemy to his presence. The leader was in shock and senseless while another lay pinned under his dying mount. That left three still in the fight if the two men unhorsed could pick themselves up. They did. The horse that had trampled Bael paid for it with a twisted shoulder that led to a fall when its rider attempted to wheel around at the sound of Arlan's cry. That put all three brigands on foot. They formed up as Arlan sped towards them and then fanned apart to engage him.

Arlan slowed his rush, seeing the peril that waited if he charged headlong into the triangle created to ensnare him. He came to a full stop, drew his sword from the scabbard across his back and held the long blade on guard to beckon the foe. He struggled for calm amidst the horror of screaming horses, the shock of spilled human blood and the approach of his first true test as a swordsman. Stay loose, his grandfather had admonished a thousand times during their daily practice sessions. Let your essence flow into the steel; allow the steel to flow back into your core. The marriage of man and weapon is your goal. Stay loose. It will save your life. Arlan swallowed fire and hoped his training would kick in.

The three thieves moved with confidence and, curse them, looseness. One of them wore a lurid grin, the other two sneered and all three were scarred and weathered though perhaps not quite as seasoned as Bael. Bael! Was he dead or just hurt? No time to find out now. The enemy closed with him, testing and taunting as they circled. Arlan had to improvise a twisting sort of dance to keep his attackers at bay once they started cutting at him with purpose. To have his unarmored back still for more than an instant would spell disaster. His foes seemed content to dance along with him, secure in the knowledge that a risk-free opening would present itself eventually.

Arlan felt some stability dribble past raw emotion as it became clear that he was faster, smoother and maybe even stronger than any one of his adversaries. He seemed to know which of the three would attack next and when. His parries were clean and decisive enough to please even his grandfather. He felt safe. His sword, so light in his hands, really did respond before conscious thought could hope to, and he hadn't had a crisis of balance despite gyrating and whirling about like a madman. Steel rang on steel while his precious flesh remained unscathed and his breathing remained easy. He felt a temptation to let go, to throw caution aside for a bid at glory. It was clear that he had to break free of the triangle he was in, but how? There was always a man behind him. If he committed himself to any real attack, that man would have a chance to strike. Unless…

Arlan let out a great cry and sprang towards the two men more or less in front of him. They gave ground in surprise. Instead of following through with his charge, Arlan spun to parry a blow aimed at his head from behind. He then launched a furious series of cuts at the foiled killer that succeeded in disarming the man. As the sword went pinwheeling off into the grass, Arlan twisted to defend against the other two, who…were dead. The one who had worn the grin was just toppling over with hands to throat and the other was already on his back. Bael bowed and then held the hilt of his sword to his forehead in mock salute.

You're alive! Arlan enthused, eyes still aflame with battle's focus.

Settle down, boy. It's over. Of course I'm alive, stated Bael, the very image of calm. You thought that the hooves of a beast could put an end to me? Bah! My head cleared a short while back and I watched while you played with these cretins. Why didn't you fight? he asked, turning away from Arlan. He moved with some discomfort despite his bluster.

What do you mean by that? Arlan demanded. I was holding my own against three, one of whom I had just disarmed before you showed up.

Are you referring to him? asked Bael as he pointed to the fleeing form of the only brigand to escape. He's a most fortunate fellow. You've given him the opportunity to go on stealing and murdering for a while more before getting what he deserves. As if to underline his statement, Bael set about the grisly chore of dispatching the wounded men and horses.

It was late morning by the time they had collected what they wished to keep of the outlaw's belongings, rehitched the team, and boarded the wagon. The poor driver's rattled nerves were salvaged by the gift of the horse with the pulled shoulder. It was a quality animal that would heal given rest, so it represented a windfall for a man of simple means. Bael had been moved to generosity on this count for two good reasons: first, this was the beast that had trampled him so he loathed it; second, the brigand's bags contained a tidy sum of gold pieces.

The sun was hot but there was a nice breeze that hissed in the wild grass to keep the men comfortable as they sat with their backs to opposite sides of the creaking and swaying wagon. Bael forced his thoughts away from the dire contents of the letter in his cloak pocket to regard Arlan with active interest for the first time since they had met the previous night by chance in the middle of the Table, the vast plain they were traversing. The lad appeared to be in his late teens or so, old enough for battle but just. He was sand-haired and well made, his large featured face and good size calling old Naberan blood to mind. His eyes were a strange green tinged blue and they held a perpetual glint of impending recklessness. Where exactly did you say you were from, lad? Bael asked with a poke of his chin.

Farvale, Arlan answered as he brushed mud from his tall boots with a hand, it's a small village at the northern edge of foothill country. My grandfather's house is a half-day's walk from town along a timber trail.

Parents?

Sure, but I haven’t lived with them for years.

Sorry to hear it. Sounds like you left your old grandfather on his own then.

Oh, he can take care of himself. Believe me.

Hmm. Off seeking adventure then, are you?

Well, no not really.

Not after adventure? You are heading for Nabera City to compete for a commission with the Order of the Verdant Cloth like every other hothead in the land, are you not?

Of course I am. Who doesn’t want to be a Verdaman?

But why if not for adventure?

Arlan took a while to answer. Duty, I guess you'd say.

Ha! Duty! The word has lost its meaning in this kingdom. You are a romantic child. Bael paused to consider for a moment. Go back home, lad. Nabera is no place for the likes of you just now.

What do you mean by that? demanded a ruffled Arlan as he sat up straight. I am no romantic and I am certainly not a child.

Oh really? How much do you know about Nabera, then? Have you ever even been there?

Well, no, the young man conceded, I’ve never visited, but I do know her history. I also know that the palace has been weak for some time and that the streets and parks are ruled by several military Orders. So what? Nabera is home to countless thousands; why shouldn’t the likes of me get along there?

Because of this. Bael’s blunt features hardened as he pulled a folded document from his cloak. This letter is from a very high ranking friend of mine at the heart of affairs in the city. There has been a coup.

The driver’s ears pricked up and Arlan’s eyes grew wide. The new king has fallen? he asked in disbelief.

No, but it’s probably only a matter of time, Bael sighed. The balance of power between the Orders you mentioned has been shattered by the sudden and brutal rise of one of them. At the time this was written, the Golds had all but consumed the other Orders and instituted a reign of terror over the people in much of the city. Only the Blues, Reds, and a few Browns remained defiant.

All the more reason to rally to the king, the young man insisted.

There’s more, Bael continued. Why do you think the king has called for the resurrection of the Order of the Verdant Cloth?

To fight these Golds, I guess.

Your guess is wrong. The big brawler seemed to search for words. Think of the tales you’ve heard and told since you were a babe about the Verdamen of ages past. What ties them all together?

Arlan’s brow furrowed with skepticism. It can’t be, he said with a shake of his head, most people I know think that Thrall Kings and their sorcerers were added to the tales for dramatic effect. The great wars of the past were more than likely just conflicts between ordinary men.

I believed the same until I received this letter, Bael pressed as he leaned forward a bit. The woman who wrote this is wise and her judgment is above question. She states that sorcery from the lands across the sea is behind the Golds’ sudden successes and that Nabera’s freedom could soon be lost without even fighting a war. Can you fathom what’s at stake? If the old tales are even close to being accurate about a Thrall King’s abilities, Naberans face the actual enslavement of body and mind. Stay at home in the hills, lad. With luck you’ll keep your life and freedom both.

I can’t, Arlan affirmed without hesitation, and besides, you’re going aren’t you?

Those high-borne few who still stand against the Golds are my friends, Bael explained with a curt edge to his voice. If they are to go down, then it is my place to go down with them. You don’t have any such ties.

Arlan stared hard into Bael’s overbearing eyes and he set his chin. You see this? he demanded as he drew his sword and held it flat across his palms. The king presented this sword to the first of my line to carry the Name of Heldt during the last great war. Every Heldt since has used this weapon in service to the king – until my father, that is. Arlan paused to spit out the open back of the wagon. My father shamed our Name by refusing to leave home to join the palace guard when he came of age.

A wise move, countered Bael, a bit surprised that the boy had some noble blood in him, given that the palace guard fell into disrepute more than a generation ago and then disbanded altogether.

Arlan hadn’t listened. My grandfather refused to pass the sword on to my father, and unless I earn it by bringing honor to the Heldts in service to the king, he has promised to take it to the grave along with our Name.

It was Bael’s turn to be amazed. He has threatened to bury the Name? To deny you or any of your progeny its use?

My grandfather doesn’t make threats, Arlan Heldt stated, his look implying that he didn’t either.

Well then, Bael said with gallows deadpan, I guess you’ll be coming with me.

By early evening, the landscape had begun to change as the flat of the Table gave way to a definite roll that tended ever downwards, sure evidence that the travelers had entered the immense coastal valley that gave the city of Nabera protection from the winds of the highlands and formed its natural harbor.

The city walls aren’t far, stated the driver without looking back. He had no desire to befriend his violent passengers despite the gift of the horse.

Good, rumbled Bael as he scratched at the black stubble that shadowed the sides of his head. He was troubled by the relative emptiness of the road so close to the city, but a full-mouthed grin bloomed on his face, setting his exceptionally blue eyes even further into their bone guarded sockets. He turned towards Arlan, who was lost in reverie, and slapped him on the back with gusto.

Only the fates know what we’re about to tangle with, lad, he enthused but we’ve got to get something straight right now. You are what Naberans call a dove, a young newcomer with no urban sense or instincts. That is why you are going to follow my orders from now on. You don’t question, you don’t hesitate – understand?

Arlan had seen this coming and had a ready reply. I pledge here and now to be as much help as I can possibly be to you and that I'll adhere to your orders when I can.

Bael caught the qualifier at the end of Arlan's pledge and his left eyebrow rose at the corner as he fixed the young man with a cool look. Oh, you'll follow orders, lad. Believe me if not yourself. You'll do as you are told in Nabera or trouble will find you faster than a sail finds wind. Anyway, stand up. I believe that we should be just cresting Lookout Ridge.

Arlan got to his feet and let his eyes follow Bael’s pointing arm. The breath caught in his throat and his stomach filled with feathers. The road dropped away in front of them and it was surprisingly steep. In the near distance, so near all of a sudden, lay Nabera City and the sea beyond.

It was the sheer size of the vision that first made impression upon Arlan. The city stretched far away in either direction along the coast and its walled inland limits were a very long walk from the water's edge. Even in his wildest imaginings, he had not considered such grandeur to be possible. Were there enough souls in the world to fill such a place?

From his high vantage point, Arlan could make out the patchwork design of the city's layout in the fading light. Blocks of green alternated with clusters of wood and stone in a mad pattern whose whole was pleasing to the eye. The green pieces of the puzzle were the fabled parks, of course. The city of parks was Nabera's name of affection because there was as much space dedicated to grass and trees as were occupied by buildings and streets. The city had always expanded rather than consume its common space in times of growth, mandating new parks and walls as it progressed.

Arlan tried counting the green patches but got confused by the irregularity of the pattern; and besides, he was soon too far down the ridge for a good overview. The boundary wall began to dominate his attention now as the great stone barrier loomed larger and larger as they descended towards it. The wall was about five times the height of a man and made of cut stone fit without mortar. There were guard towers at regular intervals, giving it an imposing martial presence and it seemed to Arlan like one marvelous castle or a gigantic fortress capable of housing a hundred armies. His pulse quickened when he made out the North Gate at the end of the road.

Magnificent, isn't it lad, Bael offered. No one ever tires of seeing the seat of Naberan civilization from Lookout Ridge, no one.

After what I've just seen and continue to see, the idea that Nabera is threatened now seems ridiculous. One look from up there would knock the fight out of anybody. Don't our enemies know how great and huge this place is?

The king across the sea rules over seven mighty cities, lad, each one more populous than Nabera, answered Bael.

I…can't quite get my head around that.

Not surprising, coming from you. Get your gear together now and buckle that precious sword of yours a notch tighter. The fun begins at the gate, where the guards will try to make us pay for entry. They will assume that we are ignorant outlanders and they will charge as much as they think they can get away with.

It's lucky that we've got the thieves' gold then isn't it? Arlan pointed out.

What? burst Bael. I'm not parting with a single coin. You just stay close to me and say nothing. If I draw my sword, then you do the same. If I keep it sheathed, then so do you. Understand?

Yes.

If there is a fight, we are in it to kill or be killed. There won't be any room to play like you had out on the Table. It will be short and deadly. Remember that.

I will, Arlan assured, his heart thumping with anticipation as they drew closer to the gate.

Two

Though large itself, the North Gate was dwarfed by the imposing expanse of the gray granite wall, giving the impression of a dam with one tiny leak. Doors of age-darkened oak studded and strapped with iron hung open to the inside and a portcullis threatened overhead. A disordered queue of travelers had formed in front of the gate, but Arlan was still able to make out what transpired up ahead after their wagon creaked to a halt at the end of the line some fifty paces from the wall. There were four guards confronting and inspecting the arrivals and several more were visible in behind, standing immobile as toy soldiers. The guards waved some through when their turn came, but they stopped others with rough words of command. They even subjected some to an immediate search of their possessions and persons. These searches often seemed to end with seizure.

Arlan saw that Bael was secreting small bags of gold about his clothing and sorting his possessions into two bundles, one of which he stuffed into a shoulder bag. You can have the rest of this gear, driver, he offered after tapping the old farmer on the elbow. Sell it or keep it. I've no need for a traveler's kit now we've arrived. The lad and I will leave you now. We'll have a better chance of bluffing our way through the gate on foot.

Thank you sir, you are most kind, you are, answered the driver, polite but distant.

Come on lad; let's bring this game to a head. Bael slung his bag over his shoulder, checked the buckle of his sword belt, and jumped to the ground.

Arlan pinned his rough cloak and nodded to the driver as he grabbed his own small bundle to hop down beside Bael and was about to ask his companion why some were searched and others waved through, but he didn't get the chance. Bael set his rugged face and started elbowing his way through the queue like a man on official business. Arlan had to trot a few paces to catch up, and then he had to struggle to follow orders. Stay close. Keep your eyes on Bael's back. Say nothing. It was very difficult to do given the ire they created by muscling past so many impatient people. Threats, curses and even a few rough shoves came from either side. It was Arlan's natural inclination to retaliate or at least apologize, but he steeled himself instead and strode on in the wake of the swaggering lout his new friend had become.

Halt! shouted one of the guards as they closed in on the gate. I say halt Islander! In the name of the king!

Bael did stop his advance, but only when his face was within a few inches of the guard's. He looked the man up and down with exaggerated contempt. In the name of the king, did you say? he asked after a loaded pause. You don’t work for the king, my friend, even if you do sport the gaudy armor and clumsy halberd of his service. You are nothing more than an extortionist and I warn you to stand aside.

The guard did not stand aside. He took a smart step backwards into a crouch and leveled the razor tip of his halberd at Bael's chest. The other three officials joined their colleague in an instant, while those inside the gate stiffened with attention. You will not pass without stating your identity and business, the first guard stated, aware of the attention focused upon him. You must also pay a toll.

Bael had not so much as twitched or shifted his intense gaze from the man confronting him. A sneer of revulsion distorted his features. My Name, he began in a voice controlled but tight, "my Name is not something that I care to pollute by offering it to the likes of you. My business is