The Wandering Duelist, Chapter 4: The Black Tower

Voslo and Kory get a noble invitation, and the master duelist must decide whether or not he wishes to accept an offer for a duel.

Transcript

Chapter 4

The Black Tower

            The first rays of purple were rising in the eastern sky by the time Voslo managed his way through the announcements and courtesies that run ahead of entering any lord’s estate. When at last they made their way through the portcullis, the garrisoning station, and across the dull, sandy courtyard, a young man appeared with a face full of apologies. The duelist, in a glance, knew he must be a steward of the House. He wore a tan velvet tunic, secured by a fashionable leather belt at the hips with a large green opal set in the buckle. His hands weren’t covered in grime, and his face wasn’t stained by dust, though he bore the tan skin of anyone in the Southern Reach. Green eyes matched the jewel in his belt, and he bore no sword or armor. He wore a necklace of small silver skeletons, linked head to toe with one another.

            “I am afraid our Lord of Bradhall still rests in his chambers,” the young man announced with practiced distress. “He wishes to break fast with you when the sun is over the eastern wall, however, and invites you to rest in his guest suite until then, or to make yourself comfortable otherwise anywhere in the castle.”

            Voslo leaned back and stared up at the towering dark rectangle of a building in front of him, it’s top already starting to catch some feint signs of orange light. The famed Black Tower of Bradhall. He wondered if the guest suites were high in that building or, mercifully, at ground level instead. 

            “Sir?” The steward asked.

            “It’s even uglier when you’re right up on it,” Voslo said, bending forward a little to pop something in his back. “I’ll take some water and whatever room is close. I’ll not be climbing to anywhere, if you get my meaning.”

            The steward nodded, then brushed his blonde hair back over his ears. “There is a page’s room that should fit your needs well. I shall have water sent, and fresh clothes.” He said the latter with a slight twitch to his lips.

            “Send what you like,” the duelist said. “And send a man to the Inn at Eastcross, to inquire about a fellow, Kory Rush by name. He is my traveling companion, and if Lord Bradan means to keep me, he’ll need to provide for Kory too. Have him brought and given a suitable room. Fetch my weapon belt as well, from the guards at the eastern gate.”

            The steward bowed dramatically. “I will send a man on horse, and shall alert our Lord when he awakens as well. There should be no problem in accommodating your friend, and the gatesmen know me well enough.”

            “Traveling companion,” Voslo corrected, then eyed the eastern horizon for a moment. “And maybe give it an hour before you send someone.”

            Kory arrived in time to change clothing and to wash his hands and face before the two were called to break fast with the lord of the castle. The very first thing out of his mouth had been “I’ve never met a lord,” excitedly, without so much as a question about the locket that had interrupted their evening. Only once they were walking down the long hallway did he think to ask about it.

            “Who is it?” Voslo asked, dropping the silver locket into his hands. 

            “Who is….?” Kory raised an eyebrow, then it struck him. “You opened it?”

            The duelist cleared his nose into a small kerchief. The south always gave him dry boogers that grabbed onto his nose-hairs as though they understood the great height they would fall from otherwise. It took him a moment to find a pocket for the rag, as these were not his clothes. The steward had provided a yellow sleeveless tunic with red breeches that fit much too snug for comfort.

“Wanted to see what all the fuss was about,” he answered.

            Kory slipped the leather necklace over his head and tucked the silver behind his own blue tunic, which he looked far more comfortable in than Voslo. “My father,” he said.

            “You’ve lost him, or?” 

            The merchant nodded. “He is lost to me some fifteen years now. Gone to peace.”

            “Gone to peace,” Voslo said thoughtfully. In the south and east you went to peace, and in the north or west you took the longsleep. No one anywhere ever plainly said that a man had died. Death seemed a fitting subject though, in the shadowy halls of the great keep they were walking through. Light came from braziers and torches, and sometimes gleamed in through an arrow hole that opened to the outside world, but it was otherwise ominous, like the sigil of the family that ruled it.

            “I was very young,” Kory continued, though that had been obvious to Voslo. “Not a youth of ten when he was killed.”

            “Your mother had it difficult then,” Voslo said, still fussing with his breeches to see if some string or clasp might help him loosen it just a little. He arms and shoulders were still lean enough, but with greater years had come a greater belly.

            “She died in childbirth,” Kory said grimly, his lips pressing into a straight line. “I was raised by my father’s serving woman, who I kept at the estate until I was sixteen.”

            Voslo never knew what to say to such things, so he took his preferred course of saying nothing. Only a moment later they followed the steward through two large wooden doors and into a small courtyard, different than the one he had walked through when first entering the castle. Relief washed over them with the morning sunlight. He had been somewhat worried that they were going to eat in a room as dimly lit as the halls had been. Instead, they now found themselves in a well-watered courtyard, with blooming yellow and white and red flowers, and a single tall date tree sprawling its limbs across the western side. A servant girl was plucking the beige fruits from a low branch and dropping them into a woven basket.

            The steward moved towards a tall and long-running pergola, whose bowers were draped in thick vines with dark green leaves, ornamented by small red flowers. In its shade there was a wide and dark stone table, and sitting on its far side, eating a plum greedily, was a middle-aged man flanked by a comely woman. He wore a tan summer’s tunic, sleeveless like Voslo’s, with the Skull General emblem embroidered over the left of his chest. A great chain of gold hung about his neck, and his head was covered by a gray cap. The woman with him was in a green silk gown, and with her bright red hair, almost seemed like a part of the nature that surrounded them. 

            The steward cleared his throat and adopted a heraldic tone. “You have the honor of meeting His Lordship Olney Bradan, Lord of Bradhall, Master of the Black Tower, Landbarron of Kemp, of Lorn, of Rikeras, of Ulusaan, and Steward of the Orlac River and its Mouth by the grace of the King. You also have the honor of meeting our Lady of Bradhall, Surrenee Soln Bradan, daughter of Grand Duke Dezra Soln .”

            Voslo thought the skinny man might never finish, but then he gestured towards he and Kory. “My Lord, the duelist Voslo Stettman, and his, uh, his friend.”

The courser took his blue cap off and held it over his heart. He bowed in the Belmaran fashion, and eyes on the ground, said, “I am Kory Rush, my lord and my lady. Voslo’s business partner. It is an honor indeed.”

Olney Bradan wiped dark plum juice from his lips and clean-shaven chin. “Sit,” he gestured towards a series of bowls, each containing different fruit or else dried dates. “Eat something.”

Everything about Lord Bradan seemed middling. He was of middle height, average weight for a lord, somewhat tan, and neither handsome nor entirely plain. His voice was not high or low, and his eyes seemed almost, but not quite, blue. It was a striking contrast to his wife. Lady Bradan’s neck stretched too tall, and atop it was a face that seemed too small for the large blue eyes that were set in it. Her nose was long, her lips were thin, but her red hair was thick with swooping curls that were gently listing in the morning breeze. 

Kory immediately grabbed a fistful of dates and started working at them with a fury, tearing their pits out with his teeth and spitting them onto the grass. Voslo was too tired to be hungry, though. His tiredness had reached that point where the eyes hurt, the face hurts, the stomach is nauseous, and one fights to keep his eyes open.

“Some fresh water will do for me,” he said, sitting. “My lord,” he added quickly. 

Lord Bradan raised a hand and motioned a serving boy over, who carried a copper pitcher and a plate of similar copper cups. He poured a cup for Voslo, and when the duelist tasted it, he was grateful for its coldness.

“The castle is built over a cold spring,” Lady Bradan said with a smile, perceiving the relief that must have been plain on his face. “We have no want for cold water here except that it is satisfied.”

Voslo swallowed it all down, and the boy refilled his cup. “That was a smart idea someone had.” While he drank, he could not help but remember the blonde innkeeper from Eastcross. She had told them that water was harder to get than wine. 

“Konrick Bradan,” Lord Bradan said. “My ancestor. He built Bradhall out of nothing. Everyone said he was mad, but he said that where there was water, there would be people. He was right. And now I’ve done it too. The Purge left Bradhall a smoldering ruin, and I’ve turned it into the trading hub of the entire Southern Reach. Try to find fresh water a dozen leagues either direction, I tell you, just try.” As though to accentuate his point he held his cup up, his fingers covered in plum juice, and the serving boy poured fresh water into it.

Voslo nodded, and wondered how much Lord Bradan was earning from selling water to the poor folk. The wagons of barrels coming and going from the castle, he realized now, were more likely water than wine.

“You’re not wearing your duelist’s pin.” Lord Bradan wiped the purple-red wetness from his hands on a tan kerchief. 

Voslo regarded his left shoulder and frowned. “It seemed a waste to put a hole into someone else’s shirt, and one so fine as this.”

Their host laughed loudly at that. “It seems to me you’ve no problem putting larger holes than that into other people’s shirts. Seems to me,” he coughed from the laughing, “Seems to me you’ve made rather a living out of it. Or have you? I have heard mixed opinions as to how duelists earn their shil. Some have called it a rich trade.”

“The richest, as what you are trading is your life,” Voslo said grimly. “It is an odd matter. The challenger wagers a certain amount to the challenged, who if he accepts, must do the same. The shil are handed over before the fight, either directly to the other duelist or else to their second if they have one. Obviously, the challenged duelist must also have the shil available, hence the negotiating. After the duel, the victor is entitled to both purses.”

“Fascinating,” the Lady of Bradhall said without any facial expression at all. “And do men lose their lives over coppers?”

Voslo shook his head. “No, my lady. The Justicant has rules that govern the entire process of legal dueling, and has minimums decided by rank. A novice duelist must be challenged for no less than an electrum shil. A journeyman duelist must be challenged with at least a silver shil, though most would not agree to a wager so low. A master duelist, like myself, can not be challenged for less than a golden shil. Out of respect to the challenger and to his family and estate, we rarely ask for more than that. Still, I will admit, because of my reputation, and because I am slow to accept a challenge these days, I am usually offered more.”

“A rich profession indeed!” Lord Bradan belted out, his eyes wide with surprise. “And you say family men engage in this art as well? That is hard to believe.”

Voslo agreed, but still, he knew the reason well enough. “If a duelist lives long enough to become a master, he will likely leave behind a fortune that outlives himself. A street orphan from the slums of Tijeras might, in time, win a fortune that rivals the wealth of a noble-born son. Might earn enough to have a family and leave them well off. Estates are made of this sometimes, and even lesser noble families.”

“Mmm yes,” Lord Bradan said with some distaste. “The so-called Blood Estates.” 

“A family estate that begins in so much blood is a dark omen, ill-conceived and ill fated,” the Lady said as a matter of fact.

Voslo grimaced, but then had the good sense to straighten his lips. “It seems to me, if you will forgive me my lady, that most estates and noble families have bloody beginnings.”

“Except our Lord of Bradhall,” Kory quickly added, “whose fortune and family stem from good business.”

“Yes indeed,” Lord Bradan affirmed. 

It was quiet for a minute then. There was the steady sound of trickling water coming through the mouth of a lion that had been carved into one of the walls, which gathered in a small pool and then ran out into various plant beds. Kory drank from his cup and wiped the stick of the dates from his fingers. Lady Bradan sat with her hands folded in her lap, looking agreeably at no one, with a practiced polite smile on her face. Olney Bradan looked like he was about to break the silence when, from the southern side of the courtyard, the large doors came open.

The steward, who Voslo had not even noticed leaving in the first place, entered from the dark hallway into the courtyard with two people flanking him. One was a tall knight with short brown hair and dark eyes. He wore a padded gambeson with squares of yellow and black patched onto it alternately, showing three yellow bundles of wheat on the black squares. A yellow cape was thrown casually over his left shoulder. He looked to be perhaps forty in years, and next to him was a young man of perhaps fifteen, who was no doubt serving as squire.  The younger man also had brown hair, and wore the same colors on a surcoat that covered padded leathers. 

Voslo didn’t know who the man was, but he knew he must be noble born, and he knew you’re supposed to get to your feet when a noble enters a room, so he did. Not as quickly as Kory though, who immediately offered a small bow. 

“Those are the Piker colors,” Kory whispered under his breath, and Voslo recognized the name. Voslo realized then that as a courser, Kory likely had to know the colors and sigils of many different significant families and lands in order to effectively work his trade. 

“Captain Jelwin Piker, my Lord,” the steward announced. 

The soldier offered the typical Belmaran bow, a curled fist held over his heart, bent at the waist with a straight back, his eyes cast down. “My Lord,” he said, standing back up. 

“Sir Jelwin,” Olney Bradan said, dipping his fingers into a small water saucer and then wiping them dry. “You were gone longer than expected.”

“We were intercepted on the road by a unit riding out from Beilas, flying the standards of the Grand Duke,” the captain explained. “There was an uprising in Fairglen, and as the Grand Duke’s forces are currently leant to the royal capitol or else stretched along the Thinash for patrol, he was undermanned for the effort of putting the uprising down. We were ordered to assist Captain Ulrick in the endeavor. As Fairglen borders your lands, my lord, I thought it would be useful to search the area for sympathizers of the southern heretic.”

“It was my lands I bid you patrol and search out, I’ll remind you, and not my father in law’s,” Lord Bradan said. “Still, I’ll allow that your reasoning was not unfounded. What is the report, then? Have the Lion’s heretics infiltrated as far as eastern Solmar? Are they at our doorstep?” He motioned to the serving boy to bring water to the captain and his squire.

Sir Jelwin shook his head. “As far as we were able to tell, my lord, the rioting in Fairglen was incited by some smith’s boy, and simply gained momentum from there.”

“Was he questioned?” Lord Bradan asked. 

“Yes, my Lord. We handed him over to Confessor Rallo, who put him to the question for an evening, and decided he was guilty of inciting treasons against the Concordant and the King, but that he was not a heretic, nor affiliated with them.” The captain took a copper cup and thirstily drank it down, his squire following in kind. After wiping his mouth he said, “He will be given thirty lashes, and left in the stockades for four days, but the confessor did not sentence him to death.”

Lady Surrenee Soln Bradan laid her long fingers on the hairy, thick forearm of her lord. “We have forgotten our manners, my Lord Husband,” she said sweetly.

Voslo and Kory had been standing there the entire time, since courtesy demanded only to sit once acknowledged. Lord Bradan cleared his throat. “Ah, yes, Sir Jelwin, we are honored to host the master duelist Voslo Stettman this morning, and his, um, his friend.”

“Kory Rush, good sir,” the merchant offered with another bow.

Sir Jelwin scanned them for a moment, before offering a simple head nod of respect. “Sirs, it is well to meet you.” He set his eyes more squarely on Voslo. “I saw you duel Sir Groun of Marshwater Keep when I was still a young man. He perceived that you had wounded his honor in some way, a claim which all men who were there call false. You conducted yourself both honorably and mercifully, choosing your wooden weapon against his steel.”

Voslo tilted his head a moment and thought. As he got older details became mistier, but after a moment, he remembered this Sir Groun of Marshwater. “No man deserves to die for having a delicate ego,” he said. “As he was not a duelist, he challenged me as one man to another, and so I was able to ignore some rules and fight him with my wooden sword, though he chose steel for himself.”

“A mercy,” Sir Jelwin again acknowledged, then turned his eyes back to Olney Bradan. “If there is nothing else, my lord, I aim to leave for your southernmost lands by the afternoon, and to search out as far as Ulusaan and the Orlac. We must be vigilant in our efforts against heresy.”

Lord Bradan winced at that and held a steadying hand up towards the captain. “That is well. I ask only that you be kind to the people of Ulusaan. Some still keep the old faith there, but they are a pleasant people and have never given me reason to be harsh. Save your ire and your pursuits of heresy for this Lion fellow and his ilk. Also, do not bring the Confessor there with you, he’ll cause problems.”

The captain offered another deep bow. “As my Lord commands.” He resecured his cape over his left shoulder, then abruptly turned and marched in a straight line from the courtyard, his squire and the steward trying to keep up.

“He’s got some iron in him,” Voslo said as he sat back down.

Lord Bradan nodded. “He’s a hard man, a veteran of the war against the Darkland Coalition. His father is a hard man too, and the Lord of Summerwood, but a loyal vassal to myself and to his king. Still, we must not always be hard. Tell me master duelist, have you ever been to Ulusaan?”

“No,” he answered. “The deep south disagrees with my skin and my joints, even when I was a young man. Did a stint there during the Battle for the Badlands, as they call it now, and that was enough for me.”

Lord Bradan motioned for a serving girl who was in the shade off to the side, and she came forth with a silver pitcher, and from it, poured wine into his copper cup. He took a sip, and sighed. “When King Arik lead the purge some fifty years ago, it came only as far as Bradhall. My siblings and I had fled the city months earlier with our Lord Father and Lady Mother, in the aftermath of violent riots. Most of the king’s purge occurred without any resistance. It swept through small villages in the countryside where the old faith was still practiced quietly. It murdered women and children and old men, after catching them by surprise.”

“It was a dark happening,” Voslo agreed, though his tiredness made him wonder when all this conversation would end. “I remember it…,” then he said a little more grimly, “I remember it well.”

“I was too young to remember it well,” Lord Bradan admitted, and continued. “My older brother Topin, gone to peace now, he told me the story. He said in Bradhall, as a response to the Purge, many freemen came together and made something of a militia. They overwhelmed the guards who had been left by my Lord Father, plundered the armory and barracks, and secured the gates and walls. They fletched arrows and set bowmen. When Marshal Arron Belfor arrived with his forces and Confessors, he met a well garrisoned fort of rebels. They took the city and the Black Tower eventually, but were unprepared for a siege, and lost men both to battle as well as disease and exhaustion. Thus, right here at Bradhall, the deadly Purge ended. Before he could reform another army for it, the council successfully begged and convinced King Arik to end the bloody ordeal.”

“So it never reached Ulusaan, or the other towns and villages that run along the waters of the south Orlac river,” Kory said, as though he was familiar with the story. “I’ve been through Ulusaan with my wares before, and you speak right, to call them a good people. They do hold the old faith though, and unless my memory betrays me, they even still have a temple there.”

“Yes, um, Kory, was it?” Lord Bradan dug his fingers around in a bowl and pulled out a few dates.

“Kory Rush, my Lord,” the merchant said.

“Yes, you are quite right, there is a temple there. I can not know for certain, but some say it is the last temple anywhere in the Concordant. Not to the Seven, mind you, but to the Elrin Eight.” Olney Bradan snapped his fingers at the serving girl. “Them too, girl, go on now.” She bowed her head low and quietly made her way around the table, pouring both Voslo and Kory some wine.

“Kory Rush,” the Lord of Bradhall repeated the name. “I am unfamiliar with your surname, and you do not seem to bear any device or particular colors. Where did you say you were from?”

“I did not, my Lord. I am from Caldwell, a village perhaps ten leagues south of Evenbrook, on the Vulture Coast,” Kory explained. “My father gained some wealth as a mercenary in the war against the Darkland Coalition and fought at the Battle for the Badlands under the banner of our Landbarron, Lord Harrel Belendas, I’m sure you know him. Captain Vika Sedkase gave him first loot after the Battle at Tybar Hill for his heroic feats against the enemy.”

            “First loot is a great honor for a mercenary,” Lord Bradan said thoughtfully. “You are Solmaran, then?”

            The merchant took a deep draw from his cup and clearly relished the taste of the wine. “I am, my Lord. After my father went to peace, I took up the lifestyle of a Courser. I always had a head for numbers and merchandise, and a tongue for haggling. I thought this a better use for the last of his wealth than just drinking it away.”

            “Wise, enterprising,” Olney said. “Well then you’ve seen how the people in the far stretches of Solmar can be,” he continued. “The Bradan family is an ancient family. We were in Bradhall before the Nine Kings kneeled to the High King Eden Belrase. Centuries before that, my ancestor built the Black Tower here, and fought together alongside Beilan Elrin. Centuries before that, even, my ancestors served the last Queen of Oristan, in an era when the Southern Reach was a single distinct country. The antiquity of my line, I will admit it, gives me a weakness and a compassion for those who remember how to say the words that are now forbidden to say, in front of idols and images that are now forbidden to have.”

            The Lady’s lips pushed together into a terse thin line, and she seemed to squeeze his arm when she said, “What my Lord Husband means to say is that we uphold the light of reason and live by the Book of Proofs, and we order all of our countrymen to do the same. Still, even we can not root out superstition in all our lands, and in such cases, we prefer education to violence.”

            Voslo waived the thought off. “I’m no Confessor my lady. Live and let live, that’s my motto.”

            Lord Bradan nearly spit out his wine, and snorted a rough laugh. “Live and let live! Ha! What a motto for a duelist. I did not take you for a man of humor.”

            Voslo shrugged and finished his wine. “My Lord and Lady of Bradhall, I thank you for your hospitality this morning. I have been awake the entire night and until now. If there is nothing else pressing, I would beg your leave, so that I might rest and enjoy the chambers you have graciously allowed me.” The duelist was periodically invited to be the guest of lords and ladies, and when pressed, he could be properly courteous enough.

            “There is just one thing,” the Lord of Bradhall said. “I invited you here to ask if you might accept a duel in our great hall, not today mind you, but in a week’s time. You would be our guest until then and for as long as you might need rest afterwards. I will see to any mending your armor or weapons may need before then, and after, I will send you and your friend on your way with a gift of merchandise and water to last for weeks.”

            He looked over at Kory beside him, whose face showed plainly enough that he was badly in need of the help. They were both nearly out of water, and half Kory’s wares had been stolen by bandits a week earlier. Even so, he answered, “I am not inclined to, if I am being honest. It was only two days ago that I took a challenger in the town of Kippenton, and I usually do not accept challenges so closely together.”

            Kippenton was such a small town that Lord Bradan did not seem to recognize the name of it. He grunted, and washed his fingers in the bowl once more. “I will be forward with you, master duelist. We are all on hard times here. No, we do not want for water, but the people are restless. Riots pop up like wildfires. Heretics crawl across the southern reach. There is trepidation about the succession of our Lord Steward to His Grace, King Darron. And there are even stranger rumors besides, of shadows across the desert that move like massive beasts and then vanish.”

            His wife spoke up. “My Lord Husband does not imply that we believe –”

            “Silence, woman,” he barked, and pulled his arm away from her hand. “I can share the thoughts of the commonfolk without your constant punctuation. What I mean to say is that a performance from the country’s most storied duelist would be a very welcomed distraction. It need not be a lethal contest. Until yielded or until bloodied would suffice, depending on what you and the challenger agree to.”

            Voslo took a deep breath, and let it out. He knew that so long as he was in Bradhall, Olney Bradan could very well order him, if he wished. He also guessed that he would be asked to do this very thing. Against the great weight of other things, it was a small matter to get into a stick fight with someone, and well worth the water and gifts that would come with it. He looked over to Kory again, who looked like he was about to scream he’ll do it, and then bowed towards Lord Bradan. 

            “As you wish,” he said. “Five day’s rest would be desired first, if I may impose on your hospitality until then.”

            Lord Bradan stood excitedly. “Very good, most excellent master duelist. I will have you and your companion’s needs tended to. You shall have fresh food, wine brought to your rooms, and good linens which you may keep when you leave. I shall assign a servant to both your rooms as well to fetch whatever you might ask for. Master duelist, might you need any service from our armorer or smith? I am told your sword is in poor condition.”

            “My sword is always in poor condition,” Voslo answered. “But if you’ve well-worked linden wood here, the front disk of my buckler could be replaced. You must tell your man, though, that the same boss must be anchored back onto it. It is an heirloom.”

            Lord Bradan looked over to the steward, who nodded. “It will be done,” the lord assured him. “I give you my leave. The city, the lower quarters, banquet hall, and courtyards are yours to enjoy at your leisure.”

            “I will escort you back to your rooms,” the steward said, stepping forward. With that, and another courteous bow, Kory and Voslo left the blooming courtyard and returned to their rooms by way of the lengthy, dark hallways of the Black Tower. 

            And for a passing moment, Voslo thought of that body in the dusty road, left in the middle of nowhere.