The Roads to Baldairn Motte Read online

  The Roads to Baldairn Motte by Ahimsa Kerp, Craig Comer, & Garrett Calcaterra

  First Published in 2011 by L&L Dreamspell

  Published in 2013 by Reputation Books

  Copyright © 2018 Ahimsa Kerp, Craig Comer, Garrett Calcaterra

  All Rights Reserved

  ISBN: 978-0-359-20757-2

  Cover Art by Ben Thornton

  Cover Design by Ahimsa Kerp

  Published by Knight Owl Publishing

  Table of Contents

  REVIEWS

  PROLOGUE – PLUM GROVE

  DUTY

  ON THE BLACK WIND TO BALDAIRN MOTTE

  A CALL TO ARMS

  THE SHADOWS OF BALDAIRN MOTTE

  HONOR

  A MORNING STORM

  THRALLS OF THE FAIRIE

  TRASK

  THE CHRONICLES OF CYNRIC

  BETRAYAL

  A MESSENGER IN ETONBREEN

  APPENDIX

  About the Authors

  About the Publisher

  Additional Titles

  REVIEWS

  “I was drawn into the world of Baldairn Motte at once by the rich prose and the promise of high adventure, but it was the characters and the fast moving story that held me literary hostage. I hope there’s a sequel!”

  — James P. Blaylock

  “The Roads to Baldairn Motte is a grand adventure of political struggle interlaced with religious intrigue, as the most powerful men in Fairnlin fight for the throne left empty after the death of the king’s only daughter. Whores become heroes, farmers become freedom fighters and healers strike down the unjust against the backdrop of a land in turmoil. The authors have created a rich world that leaps off the page, and characters whose desires and drives carry the reader along with them.”

  — Misty Massey

  “Most interesting to me was the different ways the characters acted heroic. We tend to think of heroes as larger than life figures who commit acts of great valor. The authors amply demonstrated that often the greatest heroes aren’t the ones who commit great deeds…. All in all, The Roads to Baldairn Motte contains some of the best and most thought provoking studies in heroism at the individual level that I’ve seen in quite a while.”

  — Rogue Blades Entertainment

  “The Roads to Baldairn Motte is an interesting tale, both in terms of structure and content, and definitely worth a read.”

  — Beauty in Ruins

  —The Road to Roads

  The major inspiration is Kurosawa’s Rashomon; a tale that changes with the teller. We originally wrote this book over a decade ago and this is effectively the third edition of it, although the contents are largely the same as the second edition.

  The Roads to Baldairn Motte is a mosaic novel composed of three long tales interspersed with short scenes and historical documents. Events are sometimes told out of sequence, or are told multiple times from different vantage points. Characters central to some stories, completely disappear from others. This is done with the intent of providing a broader understanding of what befell at the ruins of Baldairn Motte. It is left to you, the reader, to determine the heroes and the villains, if any truly exist.

  If you enjoy this book, we’d love to hear from you. Leave a review on your favorite site or get in touch via social media.

  Prologue – Plum Grove

  A cold breeze whistled through the plum trees, flapping cloaks and rattling the chimes that were strung across the window of the dowager queen’s carriage. It buffeted Narlan’s exposed ears, biting with cold, but he suffered it. There were worse things than a chill, and the sting kept him awake. The man riding next to Narlan was more vocal in his discomfort. Grint had griped for three days, from the moment they lost sight of the city walls of Fairnlin.

  The great city of Fairnlin. Great city—Narlan shook his head. Full of thieves and whores it was, teeming with schemes and gluttony. Full of, well, southerners. Men of Gaulang and Kiln; men who didn’t know one end of a plow from the other. He’d never seen so many soft hands. Even the city guards had hands smoother than a baby’s arse. Not a one of them could fight, either. When they got into a scrap, they just called more men. It wasn’t surprising when the usurper came, they laid down their arms and bent over.

  “Ripe and juicy for the plucking, they are.” Grint was eyeing his other favorite topic, the plums hanging heavily from the trees. He scratched the side of his nose. “Wouldn’t take too long to snatch a few. I’m sure his young majesty wouldn’t mind.” The boy king, Borkyr Ernmund, rode at the front of their column alongside his father, Audwin Ernmund, the Duke of Hairng and Lord of the North. Both were exiled when the usurper claimed the throne.

  Narlan ignored the man’s blathering. When hooves sounded behind them, he stiffened, only to relax when he realized it was Cadby Ernmund who bore down on them. The duke’s elder son’s armor was fashioned from hundreds of overlapping plates sewn over thick hides. His hair fell in a thick braid at the back of his neck. Narlan straightened in his saddle. He had spoken with Lord Cadby only once before.

  Spring rains had turned the ground soft, and the horse’s iron shoes kicked up clods of muck that stunk of decaying weeds. Oblivious to the chill or the stench, Cadby Ernmund pulled off his gloves and let them hang from his sword’s pommel. It was a magnificent sword: old and tattered, not like the shiny gold-inlaid things the southerners wore like part of a mummer’s costume. It was a weapon meant for battle.

  “Father says the small folk around here are worried. They flee from sight as we pass.”

  “Aye, my lord,” Grint said. “Men hear of the troubles in Fairnlin and mourn for the royal dead. Two kings, a princess, and an unborn heir all taken in just over a year. A boy king claims the throne, an usurper sits on it: the simple folk take it as a bad omen.”

  Narlan cringed at Grint’s words. They held a note of mocking; one that could get a man flogged.

  “My half-brother is the rightful king,” said Lord Cadby, sternly. “The Ordained have proclaimed him thus in the halls of their Order. It is not for the small folk to worry over.”

  The duke’s Hairng bloodline was old and powerful, said to come from the ancient kings of Baldairn, but King Borkyr’s throne came to him through his mother. The Dowager Queen Mildrine was the widow of King Dermid the Wanderer and mother of the late Princess Ana. Poor Ana, who died in childbed along with her issue. Narlan wondered if it bothered Duke Audwin to have his son’s royal claim spawn not from his ancient line.

  Another rider reined in next to Cadby Ernmund, breaking the tension of Grint’s offensive mutterings. Bjorn Blackfend’s armor was as fine as the duke’s son’s, but more worn from use. The captain led the rear of their column, some twenty heavy horses and thirty mounted spearmen. Young in age, close to Narlan’s own, Blackfend was already a favorite of the duke. Some spoke of him leading the Titan Guard once Borkyr was crowned, as captain of the king’s royal protectors.

  Narlan dreamed of joining the Titan Guard, with their giant maces and fearsome reputation. He enlisted in the duke’s guard just for the chance of that honor. Not that he’d had occasion to use the warped spear he clutched, with its dull tip that wouldn’t sharpen no matter how many days he spent grinding at it. Mucking stalls and spending the long hours of early morning staring at the darkness had been the extent of his life for the past four years.

  “Do you think the war will last until winter?” Lord Cadby asked Blackfend. “Will the southern lords put up such a fight? They aren’t as hardened as those from the north, not those lords who hosted fetes at their palaces in Fairnlin, anyway.”

  Blackfend smirked. “But there are many more of the
m, my lord. We will need to stake three to a spear, like the rats they sold in Balin’s Cunny.”

  Lord Cadby wrinkled his nose. Narlan couldn’t tell if it was from the offensive term those in the city used to refer to the poor district of Fairnlin, or the thought of eating fire-roasted rat. Blackfend glanced behind them. His brow tensed, staring at something in the distance. He dismissed it and turned his attention back to the duke’s elder son.

  “Sturm Galkmeer may have taken Fairnlin, but his hold is weak. Otherwise our heads would already be resting on spikes. He will spend weeks making promises to Gaulang and Kiln, and they will do their best to hold him over the rack for as long as possible. Once those theatrics are finished, it will take time for the lords to muster their armies. All the while your father will gather the north to his side, those from North Port and Baardol.”

  “And then we can march on Fairnlin, slay the usurper, and scare the southern lords away from my brother’s throne,” Cadby stated, with his father’s conviction.

  “Sounds like a lot of marching,” spat Grint. Narlan winced, but Blackfend laughed.

  The column ahead stopped. Cadby peered forward with an annoyed scowl, but the front was too far away to see anything. Atop the dozen supply wagons trailing the queen’s carriage, some of the household servants stood and stretched. With a nod to Blackfend, Cadby kicked his horse into a gallop toward his father.

  Blackfend turned and studied Narlan. “You’re the tanner’s son, the one from Jarlapple.”

  Narlan’s stomach knotted. Of course the captain had heard. If there was one thing the other guards enjoyed more than complaining, it was spreading gossip. “Yes, captain. The one who shat himself on post after drinking that noxious swill Crid brewed.”

  The captain laughed again, a sharp bark from his gut. “I wasn’t going to bring that up. But someone who knows his way around small blades and skinning, that is an asset. Did you pick up any of your father’s trade?”

  Narlan beamed. “Yes, captain. I spent my whole life working the vats and stripping pelts. I know the makings of eleven different dyes, even the purple the queen wears.” He could talk about tanning for days. “The duke’s supple coats come from the underbelly of a stag, but this piece here,” he picked up a strap from his water flask, “this comes from the leg of a heifer.”

  “An old and gnarled one, by the look of it,” said Grint.

  Narlan ignored him and pointed at a nearby soldier shadowed among the plum trees. “The green of that man’s jack comes from a mixture of berries and salt, with a yellow paste. It’s not a common color because the berries are hard to find. Only in the forests of the far west can you—”

  “Ordryn’s cunny,” Blackfend interrupted, his hand darting to his sword. “Ambush,” he hissed.

  Narlan paled, peering closer. He’d assumed the man was another of their column, off to pick plums as Grint had wanted to. But the leather jack was wrong. None of their number would wear something like that. The cut of the leather was broad, fanning out at the waist to hang to the knees. The men of Hairng wore separate pieces for their legs, often studded around the seams. He’d seen the cut of leather before, though. The guards of the Duke of Baardol wore them. Narlan shook his head. Baardol had been Hairng’s ally for centuries. They were of the north. They could not betray their new king, the son of their liege. Not for Sturm Galkmeer, a usurper who had never crossed the fields north of Fairnlin. It could not be.

  “Baardol,” he whispered, the name ringing true.

  The man pulled an axe from a loop at his belt and waved it, a signal.

  Blackfend growled. “Aye, we are betrayed.” Drawing his sword, he bellowed louder. “Baardol betrays us! Slay the shite-eaters! For Hairng! For Hairng!”

  The men of Hairng fell quiet at their captain’s words, not understanding. Silence hung in the air, the final drawn-out note of a ballad. It broke in a whistling wave of death as a hundred crossbows twanged, bolts ripping through the column.

  Blood sprayed Narlan’s face. Grint toppled to the ground.

  Screams and curses rose from the column. Blades slid from sheathes and mounts bucked as they were pulled into line. Grint’s horse trotted away from the noise, snorting anxiously. Narlan slid down to where Grint had fallen. The crossbow bolt had taken Grint in the chest and punched clean through, leaving a gaping hole. His fingers like ice, Narlan wiped the man’s blood from his face with the back of his hand.

  Blackfend barreled down on the man amongst the trees. Only there wasn’t one man. Narlan could count at least a dozen. Half were bent over their crossbows, pulling up the strings to load for another volley. He struggled onto his horse, yanking the reins hard in his panic. But the mount knew his job and settled. They charged after the captain, leaping from the road. Narlan clutched tight to the saddle, screaming. His mind repeated over and over—betrayal—but what came from his lips was a guttural curse not even he could understand.

  Blackfend hacked at the enemy with his sword. The betrayer flew backward in a burst of blood and bone. Another rose up and took aim with a crossbow. Narlan hefted his spear and hurled it. The warped shaft wavered as it flew but knocked the man off balance. The bolt meant for the captain’s back sailed high into the trees.

  Narlan’s gut lurched into his mouth. Bloody sheep-forner, he was. All he had left now was a boot knife.

  And a charging horse.

  Clinging low in the saddle, he guided the mount straight at the man, who’d regained his footing. The betrayer tensed and dove aside. Narlan corrected. His horse trampled the man with a sickening crunch.

  A long pole with a twisted metal hook blurred before Narlan. He ducked, and the hook bounced off his shoulder. The captain hadn’t been as lucky. Yanked from his horse, Blackfend struggled to his feet, one of the hooks pierced through his side.

  “To me! For Hairng, to me!” shouted the captain.

  Narlan answered the cry. He leapt from his horse and buried his knife in the back of Blackfend’s attacker. They fell together, landing hard against the trunk of a plum tree. Narlan recovered first. He drove the blade deeper until the betrayer fell limp. Ripping the small axe from the man’s belt, he searched the trees. Blackfend had torn out the hook from his side. Blood gushed from the wound, turning his armor red and silver like a jester’s motley. Their mounts were a dozen paces away, restlessly stomping the ground.

  They would not reach the horses in time. Four of the shite-eaters from Baardol rushed them, crossbows loaded. Narlan could hear the battle around him and spy flashes of mounted charges, the hacking of swords and thrusting of spears. But somehow Blackfend and he were alone.

  The crossbow bolts punched into Blackfend’s armor with a discordant clink of metal, like the ringing of a cracked bell. The captain of Hairng staggered but refused to fall. Raising his sword, he charged. Narlan ran at his side, deflecting a spear and swiping with the axe. He tried desperately to protect the flank of his captain, calling on the Passions to aid them.

  More of the enemy flooded from the trees. They were too many for two to hold against, but Bjorn Blackfend had accepted death. He raged as only a man already slain could, leaving his defenses open in order to rend and cleave. Where a spear caught his thigh, he returned with a hack that severed an arm. He gripped his sword in both hands and lopped off a head, spinning and thrusting through the gut of another before the headless corpse crumpled to the ground.

  Fear rose in the men from Baardol. Sturm Galkmeer’s gold would do them no good if they died. The betrayers turned and fled. Narlan gave a step in pursuit before reason won over his anger. He rushed to Blackfend’s side.

  The captain found a sturdy tree to die under. Resting his back against its trunk, he studied the hilt of his sword. “Forged at Baldairn, my family has always boasted,” he said. “Hundreds of years old, passed within my kin.” His gaze lost focus. His head dipped to his chest. “I have no son. I have no further use for it.”

  “I will take it to the duke,” said Narlan, rage filling him anew
. “We will raise the banners and put Baardol to the torch!” He pulled Blackfend’s fingers free from the sword. The weight of the blade was heavy in his hand, heavier than he thought it would be.

  Narlan cursed the name Sturm Galkmeer. Usurper.

  Hairng was now threatened from the west and the south, with only the sea to the east and mountains to the north. Sorely outnumbered, they had neither the stocks of food nor wealth of their enemies. It would be a hard year—a year of campaign; of marching long miles and laying siege; of charging the enemy lines and pulling back into the shadows; of subsisting on dried tack and boiled pine needles; of sleeping in the muck and freezing in the rain; of heroic charges and crushing attacks.

  Of sacrifice and death.

  DUTY

  ON THE BLACK WIND TO BALDAIRN MOTTE

  Terryll Payce half-slept in the arms of Lyrie, his favorite whore.

  “It’s almost time to go,” she whispered.

  He inhaled the scent of her almond perfume and held it in for a long moment before forcing his eyes open. She had her head propped up on one arm above him, her eyes a torrent of green and blue like the sea he loved so much, and her golden hair pouring over his face like sweet honey wine.

  “I knew you’d say that eventually,” he said. “That’s why I brought another thirty bits in my purse.”

  “Thirty bits,” she cooed. “What shall we do for your thirty bits?”

  “We’re not going to a do anything but lie here. Grab onto me tight—I want to feel your warmth on my skin, Lyrie.”

  She obliged him. “I wore you out, didn’t I?”

  “Aye, you always do, and don’t think I wouldn’t mind a little more wearing out, but right now I just want to feel you against me, see if I can’t stow away some of your warmth and your scent before I leave.”

  “Will you be gone so long?”

  Terryll sighed deeply. “Who’s to say? The Earl has already mustered his bannermen and troops. There will be fighting; it’s just a matter of who and where. My bet is we’ll be sailing troops to North Port.”