"Real daggers 'neath her garters, that one," Thalden growled, shaking his head in disgust. "Not that her mother's far behind her. So these Lyrose serpents reign over southwestern Ironthorn. Which is three vales that flank monster-roamed Harstorm Ridge, where none but Lyrose's bravest foresters dare go. And none of them set boot near haunted Stormcrag Castle, atop Harstorm."
"Tell me," Rod said quietly, as the old knight sat back to reach down a cupped hand to the spring by his feet, and drink. "The Lyrose sons who were slain; what did you do with their bodies?"
"Burned, and the ashes scattered," Syregorn snapped. "No wizard or priest will be bringing them back."
"And that's the real power behind Lyrose," Thalden said urgently, swallowing hastily so as to lean forward again, to be sure Rod heeded him. "The Doom Malraun is Lord Lyrose's spine and fire. When our lord slew Melvarl Lyrose and came after Magrandar, seeking to slaughter the whole family and take Lyraunt Castle, the wizard offered Lyrose his aid. Now, Magrandar is a snake and a wallower in cruel pleasures, but he is not a fool. He accepted. It made him a slave to come, aye, but kept him alive then. The wizard's spells hurled back our lord's forces, felling many brave knights. Yet, mark you, Malraun did not hound us, or seek to scour out Hammerhold; he is no great friend of House Lyrose or their aims. He gave them magic, though, to keep them alive. Little things, shields that heal and banish poison and the like. Then he vanished again, and has seldom been seen in Ironthorn since."
The old knight drank again, cleared his throat, and added, "Yet Ironthorn has a third lord. Lord Irrance Tesmer, who dwells in his castle of Imtowers, holding sway over the valley of Imrush. The largest, most lush farms in Ironthorn; the River Imrush winds through them, down to join the Thorn at Irontarl."
"Uh, ah, does he matter?" Rod asked, more to try to make Syregorn think he was still babbling helplessly than to goad Thalden into telling all.
"He is the reason Hammerhand and Lyrose didn't hurl themselves at each other and into death long ago. The reason we skirmish and glare instead, and Ironthorn staggers along wealthy and crowded, with three lords, rather than being a graveyard ruled by one."
Well, that was emphatic enough.
Thalden wasn't done, though.
"Tesmer's arms are a purple diamond on a light gray field. That diamond shape represents gems, for every rock crevice in the Imrush was once full of gems, and they are still to be had to this day, albeit scarcer, and only in deep crawl-mines."
Rod frowned. "So why isn't Tesmer the strongest Ironthar lord? Why didn't Malraun aid him?"
"Well," the old knight said slowly, "there you have hit on a mystery. There's some as say another Doom was lurking in the minds of the Tesmers already-a trap for Malraun, belike-and others hold that Tesmer's wife Telclara-who rules him as harshly as he lords it over the Imrush farmers-is set against Malraun, and has some power or thing of magic he fears, to keep him at bay. I know not, and I doubt any jack or knight of Ironthorn does, whatever truths they may claim to know."
"And Tesmer's heirs? How well does she rule them?"
"Well, now," the old knight growled. "That's the part that's worth listening to me ramble, to hear. Lady Telclara, they say, no longer admits Tesmer to her bed, but herself selects bedmates for him from beautiful slave-girls she buys off traders who come in a steady stream to Imrush-vale from the cities of the Sea of Storms. They get them in raids from more southerly cities across that sea."
He took another drink, shook his head at what he was about to say, and added, "And after they bear him a child, she slaughters them. The sickly or defiant babes she kills, too. Those she deems acceptable are named heirs of the blood Tesmer, and trained to war. Wherefore there are now three Tesmer daughters, followed by six sons, all gained by this means. From eldest to youngest, they are-"
He counted them off on his fingers as he listed them, to be sure of missing none.
"Maera, a cold and haughty one who never lets anyone forget she's foremost; Nareyera, a scheming beauty whose eyes actually flash when she's raging; the tall, quiet one, Talyss, and then the sons.
Thalden cleared his throat again, and went on. "Belard, the handsome master swordsman; Ghorsyn, who's big and loud and a bully, so of course witless lasses love him; Kalathgar, who just might be the smartest of them all, and doesn't think much of his kin; and Delmark, a lazy cheat and spy who'd slit your throat for an idle instant's amusement."
He shook his head, waggled the two fingers still upthrust, and added, "Two more. Ellark, who's ugly and clumsy. His brothers sneer at him, but he's strong as an ox and perhaps the only Tesmer who knows how to be kind. Last and youngest: Feldrar, another coward, liar, and prankster like Delmark, but busies himself being the dashing swindler instead of lie-a-bed lazy. Quite a House, hey?"
"By the Falcon, I don't want to rule Ironthorn!" Rod said feelingly, by way of reply. "I take it House Tesmer has few knights?"
"Aye, and we take care to keep it that way. Poisoned arrows from the trees, if need be. Not that we often see the need; Lyrose usually has his archers in there slaying, first."
"I cannot help but see," Syregorn said firmly then, "that your fit of talking has passed, Lord Archwizard. Sunset is not all that far off, now, and it will take us much of what's left of the day to work our way around and into the Lyrose lands unseen. They are not unguarded."
"Patrols like swarming flies," one of the knights commented, earning himself a sharp look from the warcaptain.
Ah, yes, Rod thought. This was supposed to be when the Lord Leaf's little powder made me yield up answer after answer to you. Not a time for me to ask and ask, and so hear all that befalls in Ironthorn.
The hard, steady stare Syregorn gave Rod then made the Lord Archwizard of all Falconfar wonder if the warcaptain could hear his thoughts.
Perhaps magic was among the secrets the Hammerhands were still guarding.
After all, it wasn't as if he was wizard enough to find out.
"There goes the sun," Garfist grunted. He turned away from the castle window like a restlessly prowling bear. "Can't help but feel this's not going to be a restful night."
Iskarra nodded. "So my bones tell me, too." She made a face. "I am beginning to hate one thing most of all."
"That is?" Gar rumbled, flexing his fingers as if a handy throat was waiting for them.
"There's not a glorking thing we can do but sit and wait," his lady said bitterly. "'Tis like being a sworn soldier again."
"Ye were a sworn soldier?"
Even after all these years, Garfist was used to Iskarra being able to surprise him.
"No, but after you've killed one for his cloak and armor and put them on, one idiot who can march, dig shit pits, swing a sword, and die is enough like another for a warcaptain not to care. Especially when he can thrust his little warrior into you whenever he pleases, under threat of revealing what you've done and having you put to death slowly and painfully. With all your fellow soldiers helping."
Garfist grew a slow grin. "What'd ye do to him, in the end?"
"The short tale? Put him to death slowly and painfully. With all the other soldiers helping."
Garfist waved one large and hairy hand. "Tell me the longer tale. 'Tis better than just waiting."
Isk gave him one of her more twisted smiles. "Well, farther away and longer ago than I care to remember, I was born in a muddy field during a lightning storm…"
"No talking, now," Syregorn murmured into Rod Everlar's ear. "We are well inside the Lyrose patrols. No noise, whatever befalls."
Like a ghost in the darkness-it had grown dark amid the trees with frightening suddenness-the warcaptain rose and moved along the line of Hammerhand knights. Rod could barely see the nearest of them, ahead and behind, even though he knew exactly where to look.