The High King: Book Two of the 'Riothamus' trilogy (25 page)

Finally, with
the frost now just chilly puddles on the paved road, the column
remounted and successfully navigated their way out onto the less
treacherous dirt road to Leigh.

Despite Aran’s
forebodings about the weather, the group made surprisingly good
time on the road. The horses impatient and cold, proved eager to
keep the pace set by the leaders, and soon clouds of steam were
seen rising from their warming bodies. The riders unfortunately did
not have this exercise to keep warm, so they sat huddled on their
mounts, trying to avoid exposure to the biting wind, and inwardly
cursing both the weather and the mad Thakur who would war in
winter.

*

Aran rode
silently, enveloped in his thoughts, and tried unsuccessfully to
quell the anger which churned within him. In the past he had
thought himself to be a mild man, slow to anger and quick to
forgive, but now it seemed that everything that he had known
himself to be was changing, and Aran was understandably concerned.
He guessed that it was partly due to the responsibilities of
kingship, and he remembered with a grimace that his ancestor Andur
had been known to have a temper, but that kinship was centuries
old. Surely he could not be so like the long-dead Warleader? Aran
guessed that this new side to his personality had always been
present, but quiescent, dormant in the quiet, peaceful existence
before Glaive had claimed him.

“You’re very
quiet today? You’re not set to sickening, are you?

Aran looked up
from his melancholy thoughts, and met Alissa’s concerned face.
Briefly he shook his head.

“No…I feel
fine. I guess that the weather is getting me down.”

Alissa pulled
her hood closer about her face, “Aye…there seems no let up from
this cold.”

She glanced at
Aran’s tight face, “I hear you and the Archmage had an argument
this morning.”

Aran’s face
grew bleak, “I suppose it’s all over the column by now. What are
they saying about me? That I am a fool I expect,” he finished on
grated breath.

She shook her
head at that, “You only asked what the rest of us have been
thinking for the past twenty-four hours.” She grimaced, “Since
you’re the only one here with the rank to command Glaive.” She
frowned at the memory. “I think I understand why the Archmage could
not commit the Weathermages to breaking this cold, but he could
have been a little more diplomatic about it. Calling the king a
fool is not a good idea. Not even for the Archmage of Glaive.”

“I expect
Glaive thinks itself a kingmaker,” Aran replied bluntly. “Although
my blood is of the Andurian lineage, and thus the crown rightly
belongs to me, I cannot thank Glaive for its actions in all this.
They had no choice I expect, but this has all been too fast. It is
all very well knowing how to behave as a king if you are born to
it, but having it suddenly thrust upon one…” his voice trailed off
bitterly, then he looked across at Alissa. “Don’t get me wrong,
there have been huge benefits to being king. You, the Keep, the
Guard, my new friendships…I would not renounce a single one of
those things. Yet with it has come this hardness and anger…”

He looked out
and his grey eyes grew bleak, “In all honesty, I do not like what I
am becoming.”

“I will love
you whatever you are,” Alissa said simply, then she stared hard at
her betrothed. “However if you do not like what you are becoming,
then you will have to fight it…there is free choice in all
this.”

“Aye, free
choice,” Aran’s laugh was self-deprecating. “It seems to me that I
have been given precious little free choice since meeting the mages
of Glaive.”

“And yet it
brought us together,” Alissa immediately reminded him with a laugh.
“The Goddess only knows what my life would have been if I had not
met you. Most likely have mouldered away as my father’s
keep-daughter, or married to someone I did not love…”

Aran chuckled
at that and suddenly he felt his mood lifting, “As always Alissa
you make me see the good in things.” He turned his head and met her
green eyes with the beginnings of a smile, “You know that you will
always be my strength and certainty. However far it seems I fall,
you are always there to pull me back up again. I really do not know
what I would do without you.”

Alissa smiled
and sidled the black mare over to Aran’s mount, “Oh, you can be
certain that I will keep you in line. You may be a king, Arantur of
Leigh, but you are my friend and love too, and I have never been
known to fail my friends.”

Aran quickly
grasped her hand, and at that brief contact the last of his black
mood entirely fell away.

*

By late
afternoon Aran was starting to recognise the landscape through
which they were riding as being the fields and hills nearing Leigh.
Although still cloaked in the murky darkness of the slowly breaking
snow clouds, there was still enough light in the sky for him to
easily pick out familiar landmarks from previous hunting
expeditions with Sed.

“Where are the
Legions encamped?” Aran called back to Captain Taran.

The Captain of
the Guard spurred his weary mount to the front of the column. “Just
to the west of Leigh my lord,” he replied easily, “I understand
that there is some open land there that is not farmed. I’m not
certain how many of the garrisons and Legions will have arrived,
but I believe we won’t be the first there.”

Aran nodded as
he remembered the open land mentioned.

“Then we shall
be sighting it soon,” he replied. “We’re not far from Leigh now,
and I expect that once we pass by this hill we will see their tents
and the town itself.”

“Good,”
Captain Taran breathed, “We have been setting a cracking pace today
my lord, and it’s high time we rested the horses.”

“How far
behind us would be the Haulgard Legion and our wagons?” Aran
asked.

The Captain
shrugged, “If they made good time, then the Legion ought to be
marching in tomorrow sometime my lord, although the weather may
have slowed them. As to the wagons I rather expect we’ll be seeing
them tomorrow night.”

Aran nodded
again then stared across at his commander.

“I’ve been
thinking that I really ought to encamp with the army. Leigh may
expect me to stay within its walls but I should stay with my
men.”

Captain Taran
smiled broadly, “I fully expected you would lord. There should be
already erected a heated and floored pavilion for your comfort and
use. The Legions were informed that this would be a winter campaign
and have been instructed to bring with them all their spare tents
and pavilions. I have made absolutely certain that every one of the
province’s soldiers will sleep under canvas for the duration of the
war.”

Then Darven
came trotting back towards the column from one of his frequent
forays forward of their march.

“Look ahead my
lords!” he called out enthusiastically, “Leigh is sighted and the
mustering point is only a league or two away.”

At his words
the column quickened its pace, and hastened towards the now visible
array of distant tents.

*

The cheering
had begun as soon as the great blue banner of the Andurian kings
had been sighted on the road. Very soon the encampment was alive
with soldiers hurrying from tents and fires, running quickly
towards the road in order to see their new king. Word of the king’s
arrival was quickly relayed to Leigh, where soon the great bells of
the town began to peal, and the town itself began to disgorge
dozens of citizens eager to see the king, and welcome its returning
son home.

Still a league
away, the column was oblivious to this frantic activity, and did
not hear the bells for the sound was entirely carried away from
them by the gusting westerly wind. Aran was beginning to experience
pangs of homesickness, mixed with an underlying nervousness about
dealing with the tough-as-nails Legion commanders. Glancing towards
the still distant town, Aran’s stomach twisted a little more when
he thought about his return to Leigh and his changed fortunes, and
how his old friends and townsfolk were going to react to him being
the king.

“Glad to be
home?” Darven asked Aran, as he pulled his horse around and
reclaimed the Andurian banner from the Guardsman who had been
holding it whilst he scouted ahead.

“This is not
home,” Aran replied immediately. “Once it was, it’s strange but
once, not too long ago I was breaking my neck to get back here, but
now it’s just another town. It’s not home anymore.”

“I am sorry,”
Darven said simply, understanding. “It’s hard breaking old roots
and associations. I mean I haven’t seen Eastling in almost three
years now. I don’t know even if I’ll return there, so long I have
been away.”

He glanced
across at his friend, “So where is home now, the Keep?”

Aran nodded,
“I feel I have a kinship with Andur’s Keep. Even from the first day
I arrived I felt a strong sense of belonging there.”

Darven grinned
“That’s not too hard to understand. I mean most of your ancestors
were ruling kings and queens there. It would be less understandable
if you felt no sort of connection with the place.”

“I guess so,”
Aran replied, and then he looked up as he finally heard the distant
shouts and pealing of bells. “It sounds as if they have spotted us,
Darven.”

Darven
laughed, “They have at that. I predict there will be little sleep
for us tonight my lord.”

*

To the waiting
and cheering soldiers and townsfolk, the king and his Guard seemed
to ride in with the setting sun. Despite the heavy overcast, the
sun managed to briefly break free of the clouds long enough to cast
a red-golden hue about the gathering dusk, dispelling for a short
time at least the creeping cold of the day. The road near the
mustering point was lined three deep in places, with both soldiers
and citizenry alike. All were craning necks, and shading their eyes
against the long crimson rays of the setting sun to pick out their
king from the mass of mounted men about him. Soon one sharp-eyed
townsman had spotted Aran in the small group at the head of the
column, and had clearly announced that fact to those who stood
about him. Almost immediately, heads swung in Aran’s direction, and
a ragged cheer went up. Aran threw back his hooded cloak and held
up a hand in greeting, his eyes quickly picking out remembered
faces from the months before. The cheering from the soldiers and
townspeople followed them as they rode in. One or two children ran
out from the crowd, and touched his horse or leg—perhaps for luck
or for a dare. Immediately those youngsters were reclaimed by
frowning parents, and hauled unceremoniously back behind the lines
of people. Aran smiled to himself, had he been younger and also
watching a king ride by, he too would have felt the same way. No
kings had been crowned in Andur for many generations—he could
easily forgive the excitement of youth.

Seeing the
cheering, waving crowd Aran thought back to Haulgard and shook his
head at the difference of welcome. The people of Haulgard had been
quiet and reserved, not forthcoming with their good opinion. Leigh
on the other hand was welcoming and exuberant, inordinately proud
and happy that a son of the town had come to such high fortune.

“My lord
king…”

Aran looked up
from his musings to see a mounted and armoured man ahead of him on
the road.

The man
swiftly saluted, “My Lord King, I am Captain Commander Sennar of
the First Helmsgard Legion. The camp is in readiness and food and
quarters await both you and your troops.”

Aran smiled
and nodded, “We will certainly all welcome rest and a meal, Captain
Commander Sennar. Perhaps you might ride with us and show us where
we are to be encamped.”

The older man
smiled and turned his horse about to ride at Aran’s left shoulder,
“Of course my lord. It is not far…just up the road and to the
right. You can already see the tents….”

*

The Andur’s
Keep column rode into the camp amidst a tumultuous welcome from the
gathered soldiers of the garrisons and Legions. Youngsters and aged
veterans alike clustered around the saddle-weary men, courteously
helping the tired riders dismount, and remove gear from their
horses. Immediately Aran and his friends had been welcomed by the
highest ranked officers, helped dismount and their horses led away
for feed, rub-downs and picketing by the Legion grooms. Glad to be
finally out of the saddle, Aran had been immediately shown to a
large circular pavilion which boasted a raised wooden platform
floor and a central brazier which was emitting gentle warmth into
the confines of the heavy canvas walls. A richly carved, yet
demountable wooden bed had been constructed, and upon it was heaped
a mound of thick wool blankets and soft-cured animal furs. A large
wooden bathtub sat on one side of the tent, and on the other was
placed a wooden table on which had been placed a pewter goblet,
water jug, and a pottery hand basin. Around the wooden table was a
scattering of wood and leather collapsible stools which comprised
the remainder of the pavilion furniture. Smiling and shaking his
head at such royal magnificence in an army camp, Aran could only
congratulate the Legion commanders.

“This is very
comfortable…in fact it’s almost as fine as the royal rooms at the
Keep,” he added. “You have done well.”

The soldiers
smiled and nodded at each other, approving this young courteous
king, and pleased that their efforts had not gone to waste.

“There’s not
been a campaign since High King Andur’s time, my lord,” one
commander explained. “Most of the gear you see here and the tents
we are using come from that time. Of course we have had to replace
the canvas since most of it had rotted away, but you may still see
some of the earlier goat skin tents from that period.”