“Just you?” The guard looked them over, but this should be a formality. Typically the border soldiers were much more interested in checking those travelling into, rather than out of, the kingdom.
“Just us,” Gerrin confirmed. “Though we’re looking to move on these two horses.” He pointed out the pair that Harden was leading on the stallion.
The guard gave them an appraising look. “That one’s only got one eye.”
“He still has four legs, thankfully. I would say that’s more important.”
“He looks starved.”
“Yes. Food usually helps correct that.” Gerrin smiled easily, in that way he had, an avuncular side that Jonik had not seen a great deal of during their days in the Shadowfort, as master and apprentice. Now it came out often. “Your choice. We will be happy to give them to the Vandarians instead.”
The man scowled. “No. They’d only starve them some more or eat them. They eat horse over there, you know. In Vandar. Barbarians.” He spat to the side. There was no love lost between the border guards here at Tukor’s Pass, though the rivalry was mostly in jest, Jonik knew. The chuckling of the men behind made that clear enough.
“We’ll all be eating horse soon,” Harden said, morosely. “That’s what happens when you run out of mutton and beef.” He dismounted his stallion, landing heavily in his armour, which rustled beneath his cloak. That caused the guard to raise his eyes.
“You soldiers? Sellswords?”
“The latter,” Gerrin said. In a fashion it was true. They had sold their swords to Ilith now, for the price of trying to help save the world. “Looking to lend our efforts to the war.”
“I see.” The guard looked at the piebald palfrey, bearing the sickly form of Sir Lenard Borrington, swaddled up in that great black cloak. “And who is this? He looks in poor shape.”
That was an understatement. The man had been at death’s door since they’d found him, and would surely have perished already were it not for their intervention. Those deserters…Jonik closed a fist, trying not to dwell on their vile cruelty. Trying not to think about Devin.
“He is wounded,” Gerrin said. “We will seek medical aid across the border.”
“Why not here?”
“He’s Vandarian.”
“Ah. Well, I’ll not delay you, then.” He waved a hand, causing the other soldiers behind to part and let them through. As they moved past, the soldier called out, “You watch your backs in there. Those Vandarians. You cannot trust a single one of them! You hear me. Not a single one!”
That provoked more laughter from his friends. Harden, a Vandarian himself, only rolled his eyes and led the horses on.
They entered the Valley of the Gods. The border town was positively teeming. They veered at once to the side of the road, squeezing past the smallfolk making their way north, through the wagons and carts, past frightened children and noisy animals, men arguing, women shouting to be let through. Many had been here a while, Jonik sensed, all packed in tight as the soldiers made their checks. He wondered if he might take this opportunity to leap up onto some stall or shop roof and shout out to them all about the portal. Make for Ilithor, he might say. There is a portal that will take you into the mountains, and the safe refuge of Ilith’s sanctuary. The Worldbuilder will protect you.
But that would sound preposterous, and they would think him only mad, so he just said nothing and kept on walking, leading his horse along.
Most of the stalls and shops were closed, Jonik saw, but as they continued south, they found that a small amount of life still lingered here. One stall was selling roasted nuts, another soup from a pot, and they saw a whore standing on the balcony of one of the brothels, scantily clad despite the chill, beckoning them to employ her services. “You three look like you need ten minutes of fun. Half an hour, I’ll have you all. One after another or all together if you prefer! Give you a nice discount too.”
They politely refused, Jonik hastening past her, barely even giving the woman a glance. Jack would poke at me and tease me for that, he thought. The big, redheaded marshlander had always made fun of him for his chastity, a matter of annoyance to Jonik, but he missed it all the same.
The statue of Vandar filled the view ahead, a work of unsurpassed magnificence. Bearded he stood, with his great blade planted into the ground at his colossal feet, a huge rippling cloak trailing heroically behind him. Jonik craned his neck up, meeting the Steel God’s gaze. It was looking right down at him, in that mysterious, inscrutable way, with an expression of surpassing authority etched into his eyes. The eyes were judging him, he deemed, following him like the statue of Thala in the refuge. Help me win my war, they seemed to say. Help restore my Heart.
Jonik stopped a moment, letting the others go ahead of him. Standing there amid the bustle, he inclined his head into a bow, and said, “I will, my lord,” before continuing on…and as he did so, the face seemed to change again. He saw approval in that great stone face, a look to stir the soul.
The guards at the border were judging them as well, watching as they made their approach. There were two gates here also. The layout was much the same as on the Tukoran side, with one for passing north and the other for passing south. As before, only one gate was being used for the refugees, though the wagons and carts were not being so thoroughly checked. For the most part they were being waved through without so much as a glance.
“They’ll ask more questions here,” Gerrin said, as they approached. “We’re entering Vandar, so…”
Jonik understood. “Will Amilia’s seal work?”
“Hopefully we won’t need it. Sir Lenard should suffice.”
A soldier stepped forward to bar their way, several others standing behind, watching. The guard wore a silver breastplate and blue cloak, stitched with the sigil of his kingdom. Banners of the same flapped against the walls. A wind was picking up and the clouds were thickening in the skies.
“Your business entering Vandar?” the man asked.
Manifold, Jonik thought. He let Gerrin do the talking.
“We mean to seek medical aid for our friend.” He gestured to the horse. “Sir Lenard Borrington, son of Lord Randall. He is wounded and needs urgent relief.”
The man looked at Sir Lenard, a single eyebrow rising. He knows something, Jonik sensed at once. “Sir Lenard, you say?”
Gerrin nodded.
The guard stepped forward. “Do you mind?”
“By all means.”
The man drew up to the palfrey, peering closer to get a look at Sir Lenard’s face. There appeared to be some recognition in the eyes of the soldier, a purse of the lips, as he nodded and stepped back. “You may pass,” he said. “My men will escort you to the Undercloak. Lord Ghent will want to speak with you.”
A pair of soldiers came forward. “This way,” one of them said. He led them on, south through the gate, past the great throngs ambling north. That went easier than I thought, Jonik mused. A path led them over to the fortress built behind the Steel God’s statue, in the shadow of his great trailing cloak. The gate here was a portcullis, and behind it they entered a courtyard of grey stone, with barracks, a stable, an armoury, storehouses, a small prayer house, and a kitchen about its border. Ahead, some steps led up to a keep of modest proportions.
“Wait here,” the soldier said. He moved up the steps, as the stableboys came over to take their horses, the other guard staying with them. A few moments later the first soldier returned. “You may enter. Follow me.”
The fort commander was awaiting them in a spacious, draughty hall, standing at a table at the far end looking over some papers. He was a man of stout build, with a hard face made for frowning, fifty if he was a day. He wore a grey jerkin with a blue cloak at his back, fastened by a pin in the shape of a sword. He looked up as they entered. “I’m told you have brought Sir Lenard Borrington with you. Is that so?”
Gerrin spoke. “It is, Lord Ghent. He is badly wounded. We hoped you would be willing to…
