he stopped to do so, he might never get his legs to start walking again.
Plenty of folk make this trip , he reminded himself. Ent nothing they did you can’t do too.
It was late in the day, with both Arlen and Dawn Runner on their last legs, when the small mining town came into sight. Brayan’s Gold was a mixture of semi-permanent structures, some of wood, and others built from the detritus of the mines, packed dirt and cut or pulverized stone. Most of the structures were poor; having tanned skins for doors and extensions made from tents, but there was a great wooden inn at the town’s center, dominating the plateau.
Some few people moved about, women and children mostly, the men likely at work in the mines. Arlen wet his dry and cracked lips, putting his Messenger horn to them and blowing a long, clear note. The act sent knives of ice down his throat.
“Messenger!” a boy called. A moment later, Arlen was surrounded by children, jumping up and down and asking what he had brought them.
Arlen smiled. He had done the same when he was a boy and the Messenger came to Tibbet’s Brook. He’d come prepared, and tossed sugar candies wrapped in twists of corn husk, small toys, and puzzles to the children. Their joy washed over him like a hot bath. Suddenly, climbing the mountain did not seem such an ordeal, and he found some of his strength returning.
“I want to be a Messenger some day,” a boy declared, and Arlen ruffled his hair, slipping him an extra candy.
“You’re a day early,” someone said, and Arlen turned to see a small man dressed in a fine wool coat, his suede boots and gloves trimmed in white ermine fur. Behind him were two burly guards with small pick mattocks hanging from their belts that looked as much weapon as tool. The man approached with a genial smile, extending his hand.
“Ran into some bandits,” Arlen said, shaking the hand. “Pressed ahead and skipped a wardpost to get some distance.”
“Talor,” the man introduced himself, “Count Brayan’s cousin, and Baron of Brayan’s Gold. What happened to Sandar?”
“Broke his leg,” Arlen said. “I’m Arlen Bales.”
Talor put his hand on Arlen’s shoulder, leaning in close. “I’ll tell you the same three things I tell every Messenger on his first run here. The climb is always hardest the first time, you’ll catch your breath by morning, and it’s easier going down than coming up.” He laughed as if it were some great joke, and slapped the back of Arlen’s armor with a clank.
“Still, I’m surprised they sent a first-timer here alone,” Talor said.
“Had Messenger Curk with me, but he turned tail when the bandits hit,” Arlen said.
Talor’s eyes narrowed. “The shipment is intact?”
Arlen smiled. “Down to the last crate-nail.” He handed over a wax-sealed tube pressed with Count Brayan’s pick and hammer sigil as well as Curk’s and his own seals.
“Ha!” the baron barked, his sudden tension gone. He slapped Arlen hard on the back. “This sounds like a tale for inside where it’s warm!”
Talor raised a hand and his guards took the cart. Arlen walked beside him as he popped the seal on the tube and took out the manifest, his eyes running across the lines listing every item on the cart, down to the last letter and personal package. There was a personal letter from the count included in the tube, but Arlen was not privy to its contents. The baron stuffed the unopened envelope in his jacket pocket.
They came to the stable, where boys were unhitching Dawn Runner as the guards unloaded the cart. Arlen moved to help, but Talor put out a hand to hold him back.
“You just spent a week and more on the road, Messenger. Let the Servants handle the back bending.” He handed the manifest to one of the stable guards and led the way inside.
* * * * *
Like the waystation, the inside of the inn was heat warded and quite warm. At its front was a general store, the only resource in town for the necessities of
Plenty of folk make this trip , he reminded himself. Ent nothing they did you can’t do too.
It was late in the day, with both Arlen and Dawn Runner on their last legs, when the small mining town came into sight. Brayan’s Gold was a mixture of semi-permanent structures, some of wood, and others built from the detritus of the mines, packed dirt and cut or pulverized stone. Most of the structures were poor; having tanned skins for doors and extensions made from tents, but there was a great wooden inn at the town’s center, dominating the plateau.
Some few people moved about, women and children mostly, the men likely at work in the mines. Arlen wet his dry and cracked lips, putting his Messenger horn to them and blowing a long, clear note. The act sent knives of ice down his throat.
“Messenger!” a boy called. A moment later, Arlen was surrounded by children, jumping up and down and asking what he had brought them.
Arlen smiled. He had done the same when he was a boy and the Messenger came to Tibbet’s Brook. He’d come prepared, and tossed sugar candies wrapped in twists of corn husk, small toys, and puzzles to the children. Their joy washed over him like a hot bath. Suddenly, climbing the mountain did not seem such an ordeal, and he found some of his strength returning.
“I want to be a Messenger some day,” a boy declared, and Arlen ruffled his hair, slipping him an extra candy.
“You’re a day early,” someone said, and Arlen turned to see a small man dressed in a fine wool coat, his suede boots and gloves trimmed in white ermine fur. Behind him were two burly guards with small pick mattocks hanging from their belts that looked as much weapon as tool. The man approached with a genial smile, extending his hand.
“Ran into some bandits,” Arlen said, shaking the hand. “Pressed ahead and skipped a wardpost to get some distance.”
“Talor,” the man introduced himself, “Count Brayan’s cousin, and Baron of Brayan’s Gold. What happened to Sandar?”
“Broke his leg,” Arlen said. “I’m Arlen Bales.”
Talor put his hand on Arlen’s shoulder, leaning in close. “I’ll tell you the same three things I tell every Messenger on his first run here. The climb is always hardest the first time, you’ll catch your breath by morning, and it’s easier going down than coming up.” He laughed as if it were some great joke, and slapped the back of Arlen’s armor with a clank.
“Still, I’m surprised they sent a first-timer here alone,” Talor said.
“Had Messenger Curk with me, but he turned tail when the bandits hit,” Arlen said.
Talor’s eyes narrowed. “The shipment is intact?”
Arlen smiled. “Down to the last crate-nail.” He handed over a wax-sealed tube pressed with Count Brayan’s pick and hammer sigil as well as Curk’s and his own seals.
“Ha!” the baron barked, his sudden tension gone. He slapped Arlen hard on the back. “This sounds like a tale for inside where it’s warm!”
Talor raised a hand and his guards took the cart. Arlen walked beside him as he popped the seal on the tube and took out the manifest, his eyes running across the lines listing every item on the cart, down to the last letter and personal package. There was a personal letter from the count included in the tube, but Arlen was not privy to its contents. The baron stuffed the unopened envelope in his jacket pocket.
They came to the stable, where boys were unhitching Dawn Runner as the guards unloaded the cart. Arlen moved to help, but Talor put out a hand to hold him back.
“You just spent a week and more on the road, Messenger. Let the Servants handle the back bending.” He handed the manifest to one of the stable guards and led the way inside.
* * * * *
Like the waystation, the inside of the inn was heat warded and quite warm. At its front was a general store, the only resource in town for the necessities of
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