The Lord
1185 Words
The Lord~
Sethlyan Callan
Glenayre, Aleron
“Ashlon was more than he seemed. Knew more than he let on. I took to him well enough, though. Our paths were entwined from the start.”
The day Rogart left him the new Lord of Glenayre, Seth felt responsibility’s weight shift onto his shoulders. The hours his brother spent drilling him in the endless details of managing the estate left Seth daunted but eager. Whatever went wrong from here out was his to mend.
Cows got sick. Tenants feuded. Crops failed. Camrans reived.
He never felt more alive.
He washed, dressed, and strapped on his sword. He grabbed a bun from his kitchen on the way to his practice yard.
Glenayre was a proper hawk’s nest, perched on a promontory jutting from a craggy peak in the Redmist Mountains. The river flowing down the mountainside cleaved when it hit that solid fist of rock and sent whitewater rushing down twin rapids. There, between the twin branches of the River Jess, nested Castle Glenayre.
The mountain defended Glenayre’s back. A crescent wall of salmon-hued stone guarded its front. Tall watchtowers flanked sturdy red gates. Inside the gates, the obligatory stable, rookery, barracks, armory, chapel, tannery, and laundry clung to the rocky ground. Malting barns and the distillery claimed the prime ground beyond the walls. Waterwheels powered nearly all the estate’s mechanics, for Glenayre had little need for windwheels with the Jess rushing past.
The manor house grew out the mountain itself, a four-storied crescent echoing the wall’s hue and curve. Red clay tiles covered every inch of roof. Terracing created any flat ground of use. Stacked fieldstone stairways, overlooks, and walkways laced through Glenayre like bits of yarn woven through twigs in a nest.
“Ashlon,” he yelled. “Show yourself, you ring-necked coward.”
Ashlon stepped from the shadows into the bright morning light, swinging his sword in limbering circles. He met the new Lord of Glenayre with a feral sneer.
Seth charged with his sword raised double-fisted. Steel met steel, and the clang echoed off the stone walls. A robust counter staggered Seth backward. He grunted and drove the nene-man across the practice yard with more brawn than finesse.
They parried around columns beneath the observation deck. Ashlon ducked a swing, and Seth’s sword drew sparks from stone instead. Ashlon disappeared behind a column, and Seth spun, waiting for him to emerge.
“Come out and face me.”
Steel flashed under Seth’s elbow and knocked the hilt from his grip. A blade’s cold bite pressed against his back, and a predator’s menacing snort sounded at his shoulder.
“Yield,” Seth gritted out grudgingly.
Ashlon gave him a cuff on the back of the head for good measure. Then he stepped around and buried his blade’s tip in the dirt, both fists on the hilt, smirking all the while.
Seth laughed. “Well fought, Keeper.”
Seth pried the blunted practice sword from the ground and bent to retrieve his own. Ashlon claimed the win today. Seth had taken both days prior. They were well-matched, and he’d come to look forward to their morning bouts.
Seth would have to admit, though never to his father, he didn’t mind Ashlon’s quiet presence. The nene-man didn’t offer endless advice or condescending instruction. He just listened. Not that he had much choice.
“One of these days, I’ll introduce you to Aengus Gruder. He’s the only sword in Aleron better than the both of us. You could use a lesson in humility.”
# # #
A month later, they set out for Castle Monaughty. Gaven rode lead, and Ashlon trailed behind as the path wound through a mountain pass.
Gaven glanced over his shoulder. “If we take off, we can lose him. Want to show up at Monaughty without a nanny?”
“He’s mute, Gaven. Not deaf.”
Gaven grunted and kept riding. They stopped midday for a meal of bread and dried beef from their packs, then trekked on. As the afternoon wore on, they entered a thick stretch of woods
Gaven pulled up abruptly.
“Piss stop.”
Gaven slid off his saddle and disappeared behind the nearest tree. Ashlon dismounted and walked into the woods. Gaven came scrambling back, leaped on his horse, and dug in his spurs.
“Sweet Mother,” Seth muttered and reined around, chasing after him. He rode hard, swatting away branches and catching glimpses of Gaven’s big bay stallion galloping ahead. Soon enough, he and Gambit caught up to them.
“Stop already. You lost him.”
Gaven pulled up and grinned. “That, my friend, is how a man gets rid of his keeper.”
“Your intention, not mine. Ditching Ashlon makes him look bad.”
“Hmm.” Gaven c****d his head in thought. “Arrive at Monaughty like grown men or protect the poor nene-man’s feelings?”
“Not a mutually exclusive choice.”
Seth chose a lifetime of Aleron kinship over the nagging sense he was betraying someone who deserved better. At least Ashlon could manage on his own. He rode on with Gaven as the day waned, listening for hoofbeats that never came.
“I imagine they’ll be tall, with dark hair,” Gaven mused to pass the time. “The rhi’s tall.”
“The rhi’s got a long, serious face, too. Have you imagined how that might look on a woman?”
“Not a pretty picture.” Gaven grimaced. “The uncle said they’re pretty.”
“Both sides did a bit of exaggerating if you recall.”
With the betrothal contracts signed, the visit was merely a formality, a polite gesture meant to allow them to choose for themselves which Hawk would wed which Iverach. Whether he found either sister appealing was irrelevant. He’d soon be taking one of them home to Glenayre. They’d either come to care for one another or learn to tolerate living under the same roof.
Dark cures ugly. He hoped she could carry on a decent conversation. A sense of humor would help.
The trail left the forest and snaked through another mountain pass. At dusk, they left the rocky cliffs behind and meandered toward a lightly wooded glen. A campfire’s glow flickered ahead.
“Veer off or ride on?” said Gaven.
“Ride on. No point wandering in the dark when there’s a friendly fire to share.”
“If it’s friendly.”
“Think a couple of Hawks can stand their ground?”
“Sure, I’ll protect you.” Gaven grinned. “Come on, smells like dinner.”
They approached the beckoning campfire. A man crouched beside the fire, turning rabbits on roasting sticks. Shadows danced around him as sparks chased the last daylight from the sky. He rose at the sound of their horses. He turned around.
“Well, piss,” said Gaven.
A vow of silence didn’t keep Ashlon from laughing out loud.
# # #
Ashlon led them beneath the gnarled branches of a sycamore tree and up a winding lane that forked away from the Iversport trade road. Windswept yew trees lined the approach to Castle Monaughty and wove a dark green canopy over their heads.
The incline grew steeper, and trees gave way to belt-high stone walls. Beyond the walls was naught but a sheer drop to the sea. As the lane leveled again, Seth caught his first glimpse of the alabaster leviathan known as Castle Monaughty. Grand and imposing, its sweeping porticos and colonnades stretched between elaborate towers and turrets beneath roofs the color of the pale blue sea.
The castle rose from a rocky fist thrust defiantly out into the ocean. The lane they traveled was the bony wrist attaching the fist to the mainland. On all sides, the castle’s foundation melted into steep, craggy cliffs like candle wax. A thousand feet below, a pearly strand of beach traced the shoreline where the fist struck the waves of the Atlassia.
For all its towering might, Monaughty seemed a lonely place.
Chapter 13
- Writer
