taken from the hands of giants (eithne)
The village was a shattered circle of rock. As though the same mighty god-hand they'd passed on the road had struck its first, mightiest blow here. Those shards of rock were towering spires that rose from the patchy earth in a loose circle around the village. Eragos could see why such a place was attractive. The spires were too tall to scale, and so to approach, you were forced to pass between them. Yet those narrow passageways between huge stone shards were little more than passages in which the village youth could riddle you with arrows. Eragos would not want to assault this place. He could see why, yes, they'd chosen this place. He could see it also with changes. A handful of mages to to assist in fixing a deer blind or ten to those spires. Perhaps some stone construction from the dwarves to the south, filling the gaps in those spires with strong and sturdy walls that could not be breached. If Areinh's wide, bright eyes were any indication - she, too, could see the future in this place.
This gave Eragos little hope.
"Your kind have come before," Orill's voice was quiet.
"White Riders often use that pass," Eragos replied steadily. "I am sure they meant no harm, Master Orill."
"Not White Riders. Dragonmen."
It was customary here to give guests a residence near the center of the city, well-shielded from the attacks of outsiders. So it was that Lady Areinh was the guest of the village's senior patron; his cottage was the end of all roads in this village - the village itself was Ufs, and the cottage Ufstead. The White Riders were to share accommodations one building away, across a narrow cobbled street, where an eye could easily be kept on Lady Areinh. At least, that was what Orill and Areinh thought behind their wide-stretched smiles. Eragos was certain that it was merely the method used to keep them out of Areinh's way. Not that there was a reason to want to be in her way. Whatever bargains she was making were no concern of his, or of the White Riders.
As long as they were willing bargains, of course.
"I had believed it was a priesthood," Orill's voice was unchanged, but his lips curled in a sneer.
"Of a sort," Eragos agreed.
"Then why do you wear the white?"
The cottage was one of stone. There were but two rooms. One was the necessary, secured by a heavy wooden door with strong iron hinges. The other was wide-open and multipurpose. Dual-tier cots had been arranged in one corner, away from the windows but close to the door. Eragos had ordered the women to sleep on the top level of the cots. Vargis' weight would bring him low, and Eragos did not sleep in high places. Such was the privilege afforded to the Rider in charge. There was a desk with ramrod-straight oak chair, an iron stove that burned coal or wood - as you like, they'd said quietly - and a circle of stools. In short, it lacked any manner of comfort, and Eragos was quite fond of it. Not so with the rest of his company.
Each piece of furniture, heavy in wood and rivets, was plain. Angular and hard. There was no adornment here, nor flourish of the artist's craft. These were assembled by journeymen for a role that was neither glamorous nor important. Eragos wondered if the Lady Areinh's furniture were so singular in craft and purpose. Surely you would not give a dignitary the sort of sparse decoration that had been given to her retinue. Eragos thought he saw notches carved into the desk. Or the remnants of them, rather, shallow wounds that had been sanded over and re-finished. How old, this desk? And why the knife's kiss? These were questions he might consider while he smoked his pipe. At least there was some character in this room.
If only a little.
"Not even a cushion for an old man," Vargis grumbled.
"Young or old, you're nothing but bones."
"The first thing I'm going to do when I retire is punch you in the mouth," the old man sounded more cheerful, now.
"They say the Dragonmen are masters of the sword."
"They say many things, only some of which are true."
"Perhaps you'll favor me with a demonstration, Master Feareborne?"
The report to Agrippa would not reach the Captain until it was hopelessly outdated. Yet of those present, Eragos was both the most responsible party and the best with a quill. Being expected to manage your father's estate when you came of age was both blessing and curse. In this case, blessing. He licked the tip of the quill before he sought out the ink, and began to write in swift and light strokes. The snoring of Covas was both gentle and striking. Such a bold snore, for a composed lady, even if she did complain at every opportunity. Vargis had called her "The Woman That Rides Like A Man", and Covas had not found it funny. For his part, Eragos was still fighting to suppress a smile.
As for Eithne, she was mostly silent. A strange sort of countenance for her; when Eragos had first met her, it seemed as though every livid thought in her head escaped the clutches of her teeth and passed through her lips into the free air. Vargis had called her "The Woman That Rides Like A Man" first. Eithne had punched him so hard in the face that Vargis sneezed blood for hours. His broken nose was a constant source of hilarity for Eithne. Every time she'd looked at him, she'd laughed, until Vargis had laughed as well. He'd quickly stopped when he remembered what agonizing pain his face was in. From that moment on, they'd liked each other, even if they pretended to barely tolerate one another.
When they united to annoy Eragos, the knight believed nothing in the whole of the world could be more powerful.
"What did you think of Lady Areinh?" Eragos asked, without looking up from his report.
It was clear for whom the question was meant, and that person was not an old man complaining about the comfort of a stool.
"I am not a teacher," said Eragos.
"I do not want a lesson," said Orill.
"Then out steel, if you want to see," said Eragos.
The mountain warrior only smiled. Who was to say what it meant?