The Siege of Macindaw

6

Cullum Gelderris, innkeeper at the Cracked Flagon, wasn't altogether happy about his most recent, and, in fact, his only guest.

The young warrior had arrived late the previous afternoon, seeking a room for a few days. His bay battlehorse was bedded down in the inn's small stable. The young man had lugged his weapons and armor up the stairs, along with a saddle roll containing a change of clothes and washing items, and settled into the inn's largest room.

As he had entered, the landlord noted the blue fist symbol painted on his white shield. A free lance, he thought. There was only one place in the fief where a man like him might find employment, and that was at Castle Macindaw.

The new castle lord, Sir Keren, was recruiting fighting men, Cullum knew. His inn had already been visited several times by Keren's second in command, the ill-tempered John Buttle, who was scouring the surrounding countryside in search of men with some skill at arms. He seemed disbelieving when Cullum had told him that all his customers were simple farm folk. There were a few yeomen in the area who could put up a decent showing with a pike, but they, like the innkeeper, tended to view recent events at Macindaw with the deepest suspicion and stayed well clear of Buttle when he was on his recruiting trips. Cullum was glad to maintain their anonymity.

There were a lot of questions being asked by the folk who lived in and around Tumbledown Creek, the small village several kilometers from the Cracked Flagon.

First, there had been the mysterious business of Lord Syron's illness, then the rumors that the black sorcerer Malkallam had returned from the past to wreak vengeance on Syron's family. Next, word had spread that Orman, son of the castle lord and temporary commander of Macindaw, had escaped into Grimsdell Wood, where he was in league with Malkallam.

Escaped? Cullum asked himself. Why would a man escape from his own castle? And if he did, why would he join with the sorcerer who was sworn to destroy his family?

Then again, why was Keren looking for fighting men? The castle under Orman and Syron had maintained a perfectly adequate garrison of professional soldiers. But many of these had been weeded out and sent packing when Keren took control. And the villagers had seen the quality of men that Keren had replaced them with. Soldiering was no gentle trade, to be sure, but the men now serving Castle Macindaw seemed to be particularly rough, unruly types. Most of them, Cullum guessed, were former criminals or brigands.

Buttle himself was a good example. Surly and ill-tempered, he was also authoritarian and arrogant, demanding the best seat in the house and the finest food, wine and ale when he visited, then waving the bill away with an airy gesture, telling Cullum to present it at the castle, a good day's ride away.

Buttle also had assumed the title of Sir John – an obvious pretense. "If he's a knight," Cullum told his wife, "I'm the Dowager Duchess of Dungully." His wife agreed, but urged him to be cautious.

"We want nothing to do with those people," she said firmly. "We keep ourselves to ourselves, and we don't interfere."

Good advice, Cullum thought gloomily, as he set the table for the midday meal. But now this young free lance was here, asking about events at the castle.

It seemed strange, because he was unlike the type that Buttle had been recruiting. He had paid for his room in advance. And he seemed quite well mannered, always referring to Cullum's wife as "Mistress Gelderris" and speaking politely to the few customers who came in contact with him. Not that there had been many of them last night. Word spread quickly in a small community like this, and people assumed that the free lance's presence would draw Buttle to the inn to recruit him. Most people sought to avoid "Sir John" whenever p ossible.

"Good afternoon, innkeeper. What's on the menu today?" The voice, coming from so close behind him, made him jump nervously. He turned to see the young warrior had entered the room and was standing a meter away, smiling.

"No menu, I'm afraid, sir," he said, trying to recover his poise after the nervous start the young man had caused. "Just lamb shanks braised with winter vegetables and gravy."

The young man nodded appreciatively.

"Sounds excellent," he said. "And d'you think there might be some of your good wife's delicious berry pie remaining from last night?"

"I'll set you up a table, sir," he said, hurrying to clear a smaller table closer to the fire. But the young man cheerfully declined.

"Don't go to any fuss," he said, dropping onto the bench along the main table. "I'm happy to eat here. Come and join me for a moment."

Cullum hesitated. "Ah, well, sir, it's the busy time of day, you see…"

The warrior nodded, looking around the empty taproom and grinning at the innkeeper.

"So I see. The place is packed to the rafters. Come on, Cullum, I'm a stranger in these parts and I'd like a little local information."

Cullum could think of no way to refuse without offending him. And offending trained warriors was not a good idea. Reluctantly, he agreed.

"Well, just a few minutes, then. The customers will be arriving soon."

His regular customers may have stayed away the previous night – people could always do without a drink for a night or two. But the lunch trade was different. They had to eat somewhere, and the Cracked Flagon was their only choice.

Cullum sat down, a little reluctantly. He preferred to keep his distance from strange warriors, no matter how friendly they might appear.

"I'm told there was a jongleur passed through here some time back. Perhaps two weeks ago?" the warrior said.

Cullum, suspicions instantly on the alert, replied cautiously. "Aye, sir. There was, I recall."

Last he'd heard, the jongleur in question had been heading for Macindaw as well – although there were rumors that he had been part of Lord Orman's mysterious escape.

"No need to call me sir. Hawken's my name. Now, about this jongleur, young fellow, was he? About my age – but not quite as big?"

The innkeeper nodded. "I'd say so. Yes."

"Hmmm," Hawken said. "Any idea where he might be now?"

Cullum hesitated. In truth, he couldn't say for sure. He decided he'd simply stick to what he knew.

"He was headed for the castle, sir – " He noticed the warrior tilt his head at the word and hurried to change it. "I mean, Hawken. But I've since heard that he might be somewhere in Grimsdell

Wood."

The young man pursed his lips at the news.

"Grimsdell?" he said. "I thought that was the lair of that fellow

Malkallam?"

Cullum looked anxiously around at the name. Malkal lam was not someone that he wanted to discuss. He wished fervently that his normal lunchtime customers would arrive and give him a reason to get up and go to the kitchen.

"Please, Hawken, we don't usually… discuss Mal… that person," he said awkwardly. Hawken nodded his understanding, rubbing his hand over his chin as he considered the innkeeper's words.

"Still," he said, "what would a jongleur be doing in those woods?"

"Possibly minding his own business. A practice I can recommend to you, Hawken."

Cullum felt the icy swirl of wind from outside as the main door opened. Both men at the table whirled around to see a cloaked, cowled figure silhouetted against the light from the doorway. The tip of a recurve bow was visible, slung over one shoulder. At the other, the fletched ends of a quiver full of arrows could be seen. Hawken slowly rose from the bench, stepping clear and turning to face the new arrival, left hand dropping casually to the scabbard of his long sword, angling it slightly forward to facilitate drawing the weapon.

Cullum stood up rapidly, tangling his feet and stumbling as he looked fearfully at the two men facing each other.

"Please, gentlemen," he said, "there's no need for unpleasantness here."

The silence in the room grew unbearable. He was about to add another plea for reason, thinking of the damage that would be done to his taproom, when he heard a surprising sound.

Laughter.

It started with the tall swordsman, Hawken. His shoulders began to shake, and in spite of a massive effort to suppress it, a snort of laughter burst from him. It was echoed by the silhouetted figure, whom Cullum now recognized as the jongleur, Will Barton – the jongleur they had just been discussing. The two now abandoned their threatening positions and moved forward, throwing their arms around each other exuberantly, hands pounding on backs in greeting. Finally the jongleur, the smaller of the two, pulled away, a wry grimace on his face.

"Careful, for pity's sake! Stop pounding me with that giant leg of mutton you call a hand! You'll break my spine, you oaf!"

Hawken recoiled from the other man in mock horror.

"Oh, did the big brute of a warrior damage the delicate little jongleur?" he asked. The two of them burst into more snorfles of laughter.

Cullum, totally puzzled, looked at them. The door to the kitchen opened, and his wife, hearing the noise in the taproom, peered through. Her eyes widened as she took in the two armed men, now standing back a little from each other and giggling in a most unwar-like way. She looked a question at Cullum, but all the innkeeper could do was shrug in bewilderment.

Hawken, however, noticed the movement from the corner of his eye and turned toward her. He placed a muscular arm around the shoulders of the jongleur and led him toward the bar as he spoke. He seemed to tower over the smaller man.

"We'll have another guest for lunch, mistress," he said cheerfully. "He may look like a midget, but he has an appetite like a giant."

"Of course, sir," she said, as puzzled as ever. She withdrew into the kitchen, shaking her head.

Hawken led his friend to the separate table that the innkeeper had been about to set a few minutes ago.

"My god, Horace! It's wonderful to see you!" Will exclaimed as they sat down. Then he couldn't contain his excitement any longer. "You're just the person I need! What brings you here? And what's all this Hawken nonsense? And since when did you become a free lance? What happened to your oak leaf?"

"Careful, Will! Mind what you're saying!" Hawken held up his hands to stem the flow of questions. He directed a warning look at Will as his old friend queried his name. He glanced meaningfully in the direction of the innkeeper, who was listening keenly, eager to know more about these strange young men and what they were doing in Norgate Fief.

Already, Cullum felt a stirring of interest. The name Horace and the mention of an oakleaf symbol struck a chord in his memory. Sir Horace, the Oakleaf Knight, was a legendary figure in Araluen, even in a place as remote as Norgate. Of course, the more remote the location, the more garbled and fantastic the legends became. As Cullum had heard tell, Sir Horace had been a youth of sixteen when he defeated the tyrant Morgarath in single combat, slicing the head off the evil lord's shoulders with one mighty stroke of a massive broadsword.

Then, in the company of the equally legendary Ranger Halt, Sir Horace had traveled across the Stormwhite Sea to defeat the Riders from the East and rescue Princess Cassandra and her companion, the apprentice Ranger known as Will.

Will! The significance of the name suddenly registered with the innkeeper. The jongleur's name was Will. Now here he was, in a cowled cloak, festooned with recurve bow and a quiver of arrows. He looked more closely and saw the hilt of a heavy saxe knife just visible at his waist. No doubt about it, Cullum thought, these cheerful young men were two of Araluen's greatest heroes! Trying to look casual, he turned toward the kitchen, eager to share the news with his wife. Horace saw him go and shook his head at

Will.

"Now see what you've done?" he said."Hawken is my cover name. I'm supposed to be incognito. That's why I'm wearing a free lance's blazon. After all, there'd be no point taking a false identity and then covering myself with oakleaf symbols, would there?"

Will shook his head, perplexed.

"A cover name? Who gave you a cover name? Who sent you?"

"Didn't you get the message?" Horace asked. "Halt and Crowley thought you might need some help – "

Before he could finish, Will interrupted, grinning. "So they sent you to tell me it was on the way?" he asked innocently. Horace gave him a pained look, and he was instantly contrite. "Sorry. Go on."

"As I say," Horace continued deliberately,"they thought you might need a grown-up to look after you, so they sent me along. They thought I'd better travel incognito until I saw what was happening. But… there should have been a message pigeon telling you all this at least a week ago."

Will raised his hands in a frustrated gesture. "We've lost contact with Halt," he said. "Things have been a little hectic around here lately, and Alyss's pigeon handler had to run for it."

"Where is Alyss, by the way?" Horace asked. Before he could stop himself, he looked around, as if she might suddenly materialize in the room. The moment he did it, he realized how senseless the action was. Will's expression darkened.

"She's being held prisoner," he said quietly. Horace started to his feet.

"Held prisoner?" he said."By whom? By Malkallam? Well, let's go and get her! What are we doing wasting time here?"

Will put a hand on his arm and drew him back down to his seat again. He couldn't help grinning. That was so like Horace, he thought. If he thought a friend was in danger, his first instinct was to charge to the rescue. And Alyss, of course, was a friend. The three of them had grown up together in the Ward at Castle Redmont.

"Settle down," he said."She's being held in the tower at Macindaw by Keren. Malcolm and I are working on a plan to get her out. Now that you're here, we might stand a better chance."

Horace frowned. "Malcolm?" he said. "Who's Malcolm? And who's this Keren fellow? I keep hearing about him. I ran into some character yesterday called Buttle who said Keren was running things at the castle now."

Will nodded."As I said, things have been a little hectic. Malcolm is Malkallam's real name. But," he hastened to add as he saw Horace about to interrupt, "he's no sorcerer. Just a healer. He's on our side. Keren has taken over the castle. We're pretty sure he's got something planned with the Scotti, but we're not sure what."

There was a bustle of movement and conversation outside the inn. The taproom door opened and four local farmworkers entered, looking for their meal. They noticed the two young men already seated and mumbled greetings to them. Then they took their places at the long table Cullum had set up.

"However," Will said,"I don't think this is the place to discuss it." He was conscious that country folk were notoriously curious about strangers. As a result, every ear in the taproom would be listening to their conversation. "Let's eat and I'll fill in the details on the ride back."