When the walls of Kendruck finally came into view, it was met with great relief. The days of traveling through the wintry countryside had taken its toll. After leaving the copse of trees three days ago, the weather had begun to mellow. Sunny days raised the temperature to somewhere just above freezing, and the world began to thaw. At least until darkness came again and froze it solid once more.
The last few miles had been relatively clear of snow. It was due mostly to the warmer weather of the past couple days, and the traffic flowing along it. Some miles back, another road coming from the northeast had joined with theirs, and from that point on they were no longer alone on the road. They even encountered a lone caravan making its way bravely north.
Before them, the wall encircling Kendruck rose dramatically. They were about the largest walls any of them had ever seen. Guard towers were spaced every fifty feet and rose another thirty feet above where guards walked along the top of the wall. Each of the guard towers boasted a catapult positioned upon its roof which the defenders could use in the event an army was foolish enough to besiege the city.
“Kendruck used to be plagued by raids from the Tribes before they built that defensive wall,” Chyfe explained to them. “From what my father once told me, the Tribes made the mistake of trying to take Kendruck after it had been completed.”
“What happened?” asked Chad.
“It was a slaughter,” Chyfe said. “The catapults atop the towers rained stones the size of your head down on them. Between the hail of stones and flights of arrows, the Tribesmen were decimated. Ever since then, it has grown into a massive commerce center from which both sides of the border profit.”
“How far away are the Moran Tribes?” asked Soth.
Chyfe glanced to him and said, “That depends on who you ask. Both sides agree that for four miles south of Kendruck, Byrdlon rules. From what I’ve heard, Byrdlon claims another twenty miles as theirs, while the Tribes say the additional area is theirs.”
“Sort of a no man’s land?” asked Riyan.
“Actually, no,” Chyfe explained. “Many villages inhabit the contested area and both sides claim them for themselves.”
“Must make life hard for those who live there,” Bart observed.
“I would think so,” agreed Chyfe.
Kendruck’s gates stood open allowing an intermittent flow of people to make their way in and out. This close to dusk it wasn’t surprising that most of the people were leaving the city. The surrounding countryside was dotted with small villages and hamlets that owed their safety to the soldiers stationed in Kendruck.
Off to the east a score of cavalrymen appeared, patrolling the countryside. Even though Kendruck itself may be safe from the raids of Tribesmen, those living around it were not so fortunate. Situated outside the walls as they were, they would fall prey to Raiders and bandits from time to time. And so, regular patrols made their way across the countryside to keep the people safe.
At the gate, six guards stood watch over the citizens passing through. Four of them were off to the side near an open fire pit trying to keep warm. The other two stood on either side of the gate keeping an eye on things.
As their party approached the gate, the two guards by the gate focused their attention on them. Since they didn’t appear to pose a threat, they remained in position as Bart led the others through into the city.
Once they passed through the gates, Bart immediately relaxed. This was his environment, he was home. Maybe not Wardean, but a city was a city, and he knew its rhythm. When he turned to look back at the others, he couldn’t help but allow a grin to show.
“A warm bed and a hot meal,” he said.
“You better believe it,” Chad replied. He’d had enough of the cold and snow to last for quite awhile. Each day on the road seemed colder than the last. At least it hadn’t snowed or rained since they left the copse of trees, which would have made the journey even more intolerable.
Bart kept his attention focused on the people around them. Spying one of the children who called the streets their home, he caught the boy’s eye and held up a copper. The lad of twelve winters saw the coin in Bart’s hand and immediately came forward.
“Can you tell me of a good inn hereabouts?” Bart asked.
The boy bobbed his head. “Yes sir.” Pointing down the street in the direction they had been heading he said, “Go down to the statue of Phillip the Vanquished and turn to the left. Another two streets down you’ll find the Blue Osprey.”
“Phillip the Vanquished?” asked Riyan.
“Yes sir,” the boy replied. Then he looked to Bart for the coin.
Flinging it to him, Bart watched as the lad snatched the coin out of the air and then scurried away.
“Why would they erect a statue to someone who was vanquished?” asked Seth. “Doesn’t vanquished mean he lost?”
“Something like that,” replied Soth.
Seth shrugged and they continued down the road. It wasn’t long before they saw the intersection of streets where stood the statue of Phillip the Vanquished. It was of a man in fine attire standing with head slightly drooped. His left hand hung at his side and in it were clutched seven short sticks.
“Oddest statue I’ve ever seen,” observed Riyan. Bart agreed. As far as they could tell, it didn’t have any meaning.
The intersection was full of people and they were forced to slow as they made their way past the statue and entered the street on their left as the lad had directed them. Sure enough, two streets down they found a two story building bearing a sign depicting a winged bird in flight clutching a fish.
Bart dismounted, then he and Riyan went inside to see about rooms. In short order they were back with the others and taking the horses around back to the stable. “I paid for two nights,” he told the others. “That should afford us sufficient time to locate the merchant.”
“We could make inquiries about the family crest as well,” suggested Soth. “Never know, in a town such as this they may have a trading concern of one kind or another.”
Riyan nodded. “You may be right.”
Around back at the stable, they were greeted by a stableboy who aided them in settling in their horses. “Who is Phillip the Vanquished?” Seth asked the boy as he was helping him remove the tack from his horse.
“Was, you mean,” the boy replied.
Seth gave the boy an annoyed look at correcting him. Where did a stableboy come off having such an attitude? He was about to teach the boy a lesson in manners when he caught sight of his brother’s grin. Deciding it wasn’t worth the trouble, he finished removing his saddle and placed it on the shelf at the rear of the stall.
“He was a noble hereabouts a century or so ago,” the boy replied. “As the story goes, he and another minor noble by the name of Lord Tillen, were rivals for a lady’s affection. For seven months, each man courted the fair Charmaine.”
As the boy related the story, the others finished with their horses and gathered round to listen.
“Each month, their rivalry grew more intense. By the second month, the betting houses around the city got wind of what was going on and began placing odds on who was going to win. It became quite the spectacle, though I’m sure the lords in question didn’t care that their endeavors were becoming public knowledge.”
“But the notoriety only seemed to fuel each lord’s determination to win the fair Charmaine.” He picked up a brush and began currying Seth’s horse. The boy glanced around at his audience listening to his narration and inwardly grinned. It wasn’t everyday a stableboy was the center of attention like this.
“What happened?” asked Chyfe. “I take it Lord Tillen won?”
“Yes he did,” the boy replied. “But for a while the odds were going in Phillip’s favor. You see he had lavished her with expensive jewels acquired from down south. It was a necklace made with those rare, pink diamonds that are so highly sought after. The whole town thought for sure that Lord Tillen had lost.”
“From that time on, she spent all but a small portion of her time with Phillip.” Glancing again at his audience, he could see that he had them. They were hanging onto his every word. “They would be seen walking arm in arm, her head lying on his shoulder. Whenever she was with Lord Tillen they walked at arms length and barely spoke to one another.”
“Finally, the seventh month came. Rumors began to emerge that the time was near and that she would be announcing her choice. People ran to make last minute bets but the betting houses had made the odds such that to bet on Phillip would barely earn you anything in return.”
“Speculation continues to this day as to why she chose Lord Tillen over Phillip,” the stableboy said. “But when it came time to choose, she spurned the man whom everyone thought was a sure thing and chose the lord from a minor house.”
“Why in the world would she do that?” questioned Chad. “Spend all your time with one only to chose the other?”
Bart could see there was more to the story. “Why did she choose Lord Tillen?” he asked.
The boy shrugged. “No one knows for certain,” he admitted. “But several of the betting houses went out of business shortly after this. Seems that in the last few weeks before she made her choice, several rather large wagers had been placed on Lord Tillen. Some say she had spent so much time with Phillip just to improve the odds for Lord Tillen. Then she had an agent make the bets on her behalf.”
“There’s also another story which states that someone forced her to make the choice she did so they could win. But whatever the reason, Phillip was heart broken. He left town the day she spurned him and never returned.”
“What about the statue?” asked Kevik. “Who had it built?”
“No one knows,” he replied. “A year later to the day of when she made her announcement, a wagon rolled through town.” The boy pointed off in the general direction of the cross street where the statue stood. “It came to a stop at the crossing of streets back there and four workers riding in the wagon erected the statue, then departed. After they left, townsfolk came to look at the statue and saw the name ‘Phillip the Vanquished’ engraved at the base.”
“Most of the town stands divided as to who built it,” the stableboy explained. “Some believe it to be the Lady Charmaine and her lord, while others believe it to be Phillip himself.”
“Why would he build the statue commemorating his loss?” Riyan asked.
Again, the boy shrugged. “Don’t know.”
“Interesting,” Chyfe said. “How do you know so much about it?”
“With the statue not two streets down,” he replied, “travelers such as yourselves ask about it all the time.”
Riyan reached into his pouch and gave the boy two coppers. “Thank you,” he said. “It was a good tale.” As the boy took the coins, he asked, “By the way, do you know of a wine merchant nearby?”
“The closest one is Filgrit’s over on Cobble,” he said. “Follow the street toward the center of town and look for a sign with a bottle that has a vine around it.”
“Appreciate it,” Riyan said. Then he and the others left the boy to his work and headed over to the inn.
“Wonder where the statue actually came from?” questioned Chad.
“I would think it was Lord Tillen,” offered Seth. “That’s the sort of thing you would expect from a lord.”
“Maybe,” replied Soth.
Once back at the inn, they deposited their equipment and packs in their rooms before going in search of the wine merchant whom the boy had mentioned. Following the lad’s directions, they walked down the street toward the center of town and scanned the buildings abutting the street. Several blocks down they saw a sign depicting a bottle with a vine coiling its way around to the top.
“That’s it,” Riyan announced when he saw it.
Bart nodded agreement and made for the front door. Sitting along the front wall of the shop were six empty barrels, three on either side of the door. Bart glanced into them just before opening the door and found nothing of interest. Then he opened the door and walked in.
Shelves lined the walls of the shop, most of them held stacks of wine bottles while others bore various paraphernalia one would expect in such a place. A counter ran the length of the room, separating the outer area from a smaller area that held two desks. The wall behind the desks had a single door that was slightly ajar, through which voices could be heard.
Bart and the others moved to the counter where he said, “Hello?”
The voices in the back immediately silenced. A moment later a middle aged man standing no more than five foot emerged with a smile on his face. “Can I help you gentlemen?” he asked.
“Are you Filgrit the wine merchant?” Bart asked.
“I am he,” the man said.
“We were told you were the man to see,” Bart stated.
Beaming, the man’s chest seemed to puff out slightly. “I am the foremost wine merchant in Kendruck,” he said. “None other has the stock on hand, nor the ability to acquire the rarest of
wines, as do I.”
Riyan set his pack on the counter. “That’s what we heard. A friend of ours recently came into possession of a bottle of wine,” he explained as he drew the wine bottle from his pack. Setting it down before the man, he added, “We would dearly like to learn more about it.”
The man’s eyes widened slightly when he saw the bottle. That he recognized it was clear. He reached out and took the bottle and held it up. Then he turned it around to inspect it in its entirety before setting it back down on the table. “Where did you get this?” he asked.
Before Riyan could reply, Bart asked, “Why?” He glanced at Riyan and shook his head slightly. Riyan understood and nodded.
Tapping the top of the bottle he said, “This isn’t widely circulated. In fact, it’s rarely seen this side of the border.”
“Like we said,” Bart explained, “a friend of ours was given this by a merchant here in Kendruck. The merchant said that he was looking to see if there would be a market for it in Byrdlon.”
“Do you sell it?” asked Chyfe.
Filgrit shook his head. “No,” he replied. “But I can get my hands on some if needed.” He looked to Bart. “Are you looking to purchase more?”
“Not at this time,” he replied. “What I’m interested in finding out is who makes it?”
“That’s easy enough,” said the man. “The Orack Tribe to the south is the sole maker of Guerloch.”
Feigning ignorance, Bart asked, “Orack Tribe?”
Filgrit nodded. “It’s one of the largest Tribes,” he explained. “They have a trading house here in Kendruck. They’d be the ones to contact if you are interested in regular shipments of Guerloch.”
“Where could we find them?” asked Riyan.
“Their trading house is located not too far from the southern gate,” Filgrit said. “Just go down to the gate area and ask directions to Kell Plaza. There you’ll find the Orack trading house.”
“Thank you,” Riyan told the wine merchant. “You’ve been most helpful.”
“Not a problem young man,” Filgrit told him. “If you are ever in need of wine, come back and see me.”
“We’ll do that,” Riyan assured him.
Turning about, he and the others were soon back on the street. The day was waning, but there was still an hour or so left before nightfall. They decided to make their way to the southern gate, and from there locate Kell Plaza. After asking directions to the gate from a passerby, they were soon on their way.
“What’s the plan once we get there?” asked Seth.
“If we can, try to find out exactly where to locate the family whose crest is on the wine bottle,” Bart explained. “After that, we head south.”
Ten minutes of walking along the streets of Kendruck found them nearing its southern gate. Bart inquired of another passerby and they were soon on the way to Kell Plaza.
Kell Plaza as it turned out was one of the larger plazas located within Kendruck. It boasted three separate fountains, four statues and an expanse of grass with a gazebo-like structure situated in the middle.
“I bet in the summer this place is pretty lively,” observed Soth. Now though, it was fairly empty and the fountains were dry.
Bart brought them to a halt as they entered the plaza. Scanning the buildings bordering the plaza, he sought one that could be the trading house of the Orack Tribe. The buildings ranged from single story structures to ones rising four and five stories high. Centered along the north side of the plaza was a building that dwarfed all the others.
This one stood five stories high, and took up a good quarter of the real estate abutting the plaza on that side. From the looks of it the building held an official capacity, and was unlikely to be the trading house for the Orack Tribe.
Riyan spied an old beggar missing half his right leg sitting in front of a nearby bakery. “I’ll ask him,” he told the others as he headed toward the beggar.
The beggar quickly took notice of Riyan moving toward him. When Riyan drew close, the old man held out his hand for a coin. “Help an old warrior?” he asked.
“Warrior?” Riyan asked.
The old man nodded. “Back when I was younger. But they don’t have much use for someone with half a leg.” He looked up at Riyan expectantly, his hand still held out for a coin.
Riyan reached into his pouch and drew out a silver. “Are you a member of the Warriors Guild?” he asked as he handed the old man the coin.
“No,” the beggar replied. “I was never so fortunate.” Taking the coin, he quickly stashed it within the rumpled and dirty rags he called clothes. When Riyan didn’t immediately go away he asked, “Is there something I can do for you?”
Nodding, Riyan replied, “Could you tell me which building is the trading house for the Orack Tribe?”
The geniality of the old man quickly disappeared. “Why do you want to know?” he asked.
Gesturing to where the others waited, Riyan said, “We wished to inquire about a certain wine they may have available for trade.”
The old man gazed at Riyan in silence for awhile. He finally pointed to a three story building not far from where they had entered the plaza. “There,” he said. “Don’t expect too warm a welcome from those you’ll meet there.”
Riyan gazed at the building and asked, “Why do you say that?”
“Those from the Tribes don’t care much for us northerners,” he explained.
“So I’ve heard,” Riyan said. “Still, it can’t hurt to inquire.”
“I suppose not,” the old man stated. “Just watch yourself while you’re in there.”
Riyan turned back to the old man and said, “I will. Thank you for your help.”
The old man just nodded.
Riyan returned to the others. He indicated the building the old man had pointed out. “He said it was that one.”
Three stories tall, it wasn’t much different than any of the others bordering the plaza. It looked as much like a townhouse as a trading office. Four steps led up to a wooden door that stood closed. Five windows faced outward from the second and third floors while the ground floor held but two. All were dark save one on the ground floor.
“It might be wise to wait until morning,” suggested Kevik. “Doesn’t look like they’re open for business.”
“Perhaps not,” agreed Bart. “At least we know where it is for when we return in the morning.”
Just then the door to the Orack trading house opened and two men appeared. Slightly darker skinned than the average citizen of Byrdlon, they stood six feet tall and each had a sword hanging at their hip.
“Tribesmen,” Chyfe said.
“How can you tell?” asked Riyan. To him, they looked like run of the mill people one would find on any street in Byrdlon.
“For one thing, they’re darker than we are,” he said. Then he glanced to Seth and Soth. Both were just as dark as the Tribesmen. “Most of us anyway.” Turning back to Riyan, he said, “Also, look at their cloaks. Every Tribesman wears color designations that tell the world to which Tribe he belongs. They’re very particular about such things.”
Riyan gazed at the two Tribesmen who were walking across the plaza. A color pattern of red, green, red was worked into the design. If Chyfe hadn’t pointed it out, he may not have even noticed. “Think that’s the color of the Orack Tribe?”
“Can’t know for sure,” he explained, “unless we ask them. And that wouldn’t be the best of ideas. Like I said, they’re a bit particular about such things and get annoyed if they think they or their Tribe have been slighted.”
Nodding, Riyan turned his attention back to the building from which the two men had emerged. After a minute of searching, he failed to find a color pattern on any of the walls or door. “Back to the inn then?” he asked.
Bart nodded and they began heading back to the inn.
Chad was deep in thought as they passed back through the street. Finally, he asked the twins, “Are you two Tribesmen?”
Seth grinned. “When I saw them I thought the same thing,” he replied.
“Never heard any of our family mention a connection to the Tribes,” Soth explained.
“But you two do bear a striking resemblance,” Kevik said. “How far back do you know your family history?”
“I know our father’s grandfather lived to the east,” replied Soth. “His side is where we get our dark skin. Our mother is somewhat paler.”
“Maybe we’re long lost princes or something,” suggest Seth. Then both he and Soth began laughing. Turning to the others he announced, “Maybe you better treat us with more respect!”
“I don’t think so,” Chyfe said with a grin.
Laughing together, the companions made their way back to the inn.