Chapter 1 #2
Their armor catches the afternoon light as they move, and Evran realizes it's not the crude leather and iron scraps he'd imagined.
It's well-forged steel, probably better quality than what his father's guards wear, the metal polished to a shine that speaks of pride and proper maintenance.
Even from this distance, he can see that the guards move with the disciplined precision of trained soldiers rather than the chaotic energy of raiders.
The gates themselves are enormous things that dwarf even the impressive entrance to his father's keep.
They're made of oak that must have been centuries old when it was felled, bound with iron bands that have been worked with intricate designs.
The wood is carved with elaborate knotwork in winding patterns that seem to tell stories—Evran can make out what might be battles, or hunts, or perhaps legends passed down through generations.
The craftsmanship required for such work speaks of artisans with time and resources to dedicate to beauty as well as function.
As their small party draws near, close enough that Evran can make out individual faces on the walls above, a horn sounds somewhere high in the watchtowers.
He flinches instinctively, expecting a harsh war cry that will signal attack, but instead it's a musical note that echoes off the surrounding peaks like a greeting.
The sound is almost beautiful, carrying across the valley with surprising clarity, and it's unlike anything he's heard in the south.
"Hail, southerners," calls a voice from the walls above, and Evran is struck by how clear the words are despite the distance.
The accent is far different from what he's used to—harder consonants, a rolling quality to the vowels that makes the common tongue sound almost like a different language—but the words are perfectly understandable and, more surprisingly, unthreatening. "State your business."
There's no hostility in the greeting, no immediate suspicion or aggression. Just a straightforward request for information, as if southern parties show up at their gates regularly enough to warrant established protocol.
Captain Frederick urges his horse forward, though his discomfort is evident in the rigid set of his shoulders and the way his hand hovers near his sword hilt.
"Captain Frederick of House Ashworth," he calls back, his voice carrying less well than the guard's had.
"We bring an offering of peace and alliance from Lord Callum Ashworth. "
There is a pause, then the sound of voices conferring above.
Evran tries to make out the words, straining his ears to catch the discussion, but the wind carries most of it away before he can decipher anything beyond occasional syllables.
He catches what might be laughter, which seems like an odd response, but perhaps he's misheard.
After what feels like an eternity but is probably only a minute or two, the great gates begin to swing inward with a deep, resonant groaning of hinges that must be enormous to move such massive doors.
The sound reverberates through Evran's chest, and he realizes his heart is hammering so hard he can feel it in his throat.
"Enter and be welcome," comes the call from above, formal and ritualistic. "But know that you enter under the laws of clan hospitality. Any who break our peace answer to the Warlord himself."
The words carry weight, like an oath or a binding contract.
Frederick nods curtly and gestures for his men to follow, though the tension in their group hasn't eased at all.
If anything, the warriors seem more nervous now that they're about to enter the stronghold itself, riding into what could very well be a trap.
Evran feels his heart hammering against his ribs as they ride through the gates, passing beneath an archway so thick that their horses' hoofbeats echo for several seconds before they emerge into sunlight again.
The walls must be at least twenty feet thick, he realizes, built to withstand siege warfare on a scale he can barely imagine.
The interior of the courtyard steals what little breath he has left.
It's vast—far larger than it appeared from outside—paved with fitted stones that have been worn smooth by countless feet but show no signs of cracking or disrepair.
The space is bustling with activity, alive with the sounds and sights of a thriving community.
Instead of savage warriors sitting around a crude campfire sharpening weapons with stones, preparing for their next raid, he sees people going about their daily business with the same organization and efficiency of any well-run settlement.
Perhaps even more efficiently than his father's keep, where politics and posturing often get in the way of actual work.
Children play near a large fountain carved from what appears to be a single piece of dark stone, their laughter carrying across the courtyard as they chase each other around the basin.
The fountain itself is a work of art—carved with the same intricate knotwork as the gates, water flowing from what looks like a carved mountain peak into a pool below.
The children are clean, well-fed, dressed in practical but well-made clothing, and they play with the carefree energy of kids who feel completely safe in their environment.
Women tend gardens that somehow thrive in the mountain air despite the harsh conditions, their plots arranged in neat rows between the buildings with a precision that speaks of careful planning and agricultural knowledge.
He can see herbs and vegetables he recognizes, but also plants he's never seen before, perhaps species that only grow at this altitude.
The gardens are terraced into the mountainside itself, taking advantage of every available space and catching sunlight at different times of day.
Men work at forges and workshops built into the mountainside or constructed as freestanding buildings within the courtyard.
The ring of hammers on metal creates a constant rhythm, and Evran can smell the sharp tang of hot iron and coal fires.
Through open doorways, he catches glimpses of craftsmen at work—a blacksmith shaping what looks like an intricate sword hilt, a leatherworker tooling patterns into armor, a carpenter fitting joinery so precise it looks like the wood has grown together.
This is craftsmanship on par with anything produced in the southern cities, and in some cases clearly superior. The weapons he can see being worked on look deadly and beautiful in equal measure, the armor both functional and artistic.
The people themselves look nothing like the half-feral barbarians of his imagination, and the disconnect between expectation and reality is so severe that Evran feels slightly dizzy.
They are tall and strong, certainly, with the kind of build that comes from living and working in a harsh environment.
But their clothing is well-made and dyed in deep hues of gemstone colors—emerald greens, sapphire blues, rich purples and deep crimsons.
The dyes alone would cost a fortune in the south, yet here they seem commonplace.
Their hair is clean and healthy, often braided with small ornaments of bone or metal worked into intricate designs.
Many of them bear tattoos on their arms and faces—intricate designs that seem meaningful and purposeful rather than crude markings.
The patterns are beautiful, flowing across skin like living art, and Evran realizes they're probably clan markings or personal symbols with cultural significance he doesn't understand.
What strikes him most is how content they all seem.
In his father's keep, the servants and common folk move with the wariness of people who know their position is precarious, who understand that a lord's displeasure can mean dismissal or worse.
Here, people work with confidence, laugh freely, call out to each other with easy familiarity.
It's the difference between people who are owned and people who belong.
"Welcome to our lands, southerners."
Evran turns to find a man approaching their group, and if he'd seen this warrior in the stories, he might have believed the legends.
The stranger is perhaps in his mid-thirties, tall and broad-shouldered with the build of a man who's spent his life training for combat.
His auburn hair is braided back from a face marked by intricate tattoos that spiral across his left cheek and down his neck in patterns that seem to tell a story.
He wears leather armor studded with metal, clearly functional but also decorated with the same attention to artistry Evran has noticed everywhere in the stronghold.
His shoulders are adorned with a set of layered steel pauldrons that catch the light beautifully, and a deep green cloak trails behind him like a shadow.
He strikes an imposing figure—exactly the sort of warrior Evran had been taught to fear. But there is a gentleness to his eyes, a warmth in his expression that puts Evran instantly at ease. Or as at ease as he can be, given the circumstances.
"I am Bran," the man continues, his accent carrying the same rolling quality as the guard's voice but with an added note of authority that suggests high rank.
His eyes are a startling green, unusual and striking, and they fix on Evran with curious interest that feels more welcoming than threatening.
"Second to Warlord Vaike. You are from House Ashworth? "
The directness of the address catches Evran off guard. In the south, there would be layers of formality before getting to introductions, especially between someone of Bran's apparent rank and a group of foreign visitors. But here, it seems, they value direct communication.