They had been riding at a good pace for the last few leagues, over rolling hills and under the tallest trees. Thoma rode beside his wounded friend, who lay in the back of one of the carts, on top of a few sheets of now blood-soaked linen. I honestly should have thought about the possibility of that happening, he thought. I now know the reason why they always warn us never to use an untested spellsign in battle. You're a fool, Thoma Fayren. Just like your father.
Bernar pulled up next to him. “He'll be alright,” he began to say after seeing the worried look on his little brother’s face. “He's a strong boy. Well, stronger than you anyways, but then again that's not hard to be now, is it?” he said, in an attempt to cheer Thoma up in his usual way. Thoma slightly raised his eyebrows and grinned from the corner of his mouth. “You're an asshole,” he said with the same expression. “Like I said, though, I wouldn't worry about him. He'll heal in about two days,” Bernar said comfortingly. “It was my fault,” Thoma said, his line of sight moving from his brother to his Celer's nape, where his eyes began to water.
“I know I should’ve tested the spellsign before today, and now my friend has paid the price for my stupidity,” he said with a slight lump in his throat. “You managed to save him from being outnumbered,” Bernar said. “I'd be focusing more on that fact, if I were in your shoes.” Thoma looked back at his brother with bloodshot eyes, the red greatly contrasting the green of his irises.
“Thanks,” he said with difficulty. “Bah, no need to thank me. Just remember to always try to focus on the positive side of things,” Bernar said. “Otherwise, you'll get lost whilst wallowing in your own self-pity, and nobody likes a whiner now, do they?” he said, expecting an answer. “No,” Thoma said, and sniffed back a small string of snot, wiping the remainder on his sleeve. “Good. Glad we got that cleared up,” Bernar said. “Now, clear your eyes and get that slime out of your nostrils. We're almost at the castle,” he finished and rode ahead to be at the Master's side once more.
They rode over the last hill, and at its peak, they saw it. Coltend Castle. Thoma almost couldn't believe his eyes. They were still full of tears, making his vision a little blurry as a result. Nevertheless he looked out towards the blurred figure in the distance, blinking and rubbing his eyes to clear up his sight.
He'd never seen anything that large that wasn't a mountain. The walls were forty meters high, and made of solid granite slabs. On top of the walls stood guard-posts made from the trees of the nearby forest, and were placed at regular intervals along the circumference of the wall. The Western Gate stood tall and mighty. At twenty meters tall, and made of steel and cedar, the gate was a formidable obstacle for any attempts of invasion or against almost any form of enemy.
The palace, where the king resided, stood in the exact center of the circular wall. Towering over the wall, the it gleamed in the late afternoon sun, reflecting the last rays out towards the countryside. It’s like a lighthouse. Although, instead of water, there is a vast expanse of land, he thought.
“We're almost there,” the Master called out. “Now pick your jaws up off the ground, and let's get a move on,” he shouted back. Everyone put their heels to their horse’s sides, and trotted down the hillside.
Irun and Batch rode up next to Thoma – whose eyes were only now clear enough that he could lift his head up and look around without being embarrassed – and trotted alongside him. “Have you ever seen anything like that? 'Cause I sure as shit haven't,” Batch began. “I have once or twice before being inducted into the synners,” Irun replied. “My mother was a trader. He and I would often travel together to deliver our village's goods as a form of taxes to the king. My father was a synner, and after a few trips with my mother, he decided that being a trader wasn't a life I should want or have. He was a very strong-willed man, and so I was induced into the synners. If I had to go back and choose between a trader's life and a synner's, I'd choose the synners any day,” he finished.
Batch glanced over at him with a look of surprise. “Your father was a synner? I’d always thought your mother was,” he said with no small amount of surprise in his voice. “Aye, he was,” Irun said, his tone falling with the last word. “Oh, I'm sorry,” Batch said. “I didn't know he..,” he stopped himself. “It's alright,” Irun interrupted. “The only other person who knew about that was the Master,” Irun replied, “so you don't have to say sorry. You had no way of knowing,” he said.
Thoma looked over at Irun and then towards the ground as though he had felt some sort of mirrored connection with his own story. “I can understand what you must feel whenever you talk about it,” he muttered. “I’m sure you do,” Irun replied, his head nodding. Thoma looked on, desperately trying to avoid focusing on his and his brother’s past. “Well,” he began, “at least now we don’t only get to hear tales of the Castle. We’re going to be able to live the details of those stories soon as we enter those walls.”
Batch and Irun looked at each other and then at Thoma who slyly grinned. “Be honest, Thoma,” Batch began. “Do you really think the Master, Master Garett and your brother will simply allow us to meander about, spending our small quantities of pocket money on taverns and women?” he asked, already knowing the answer to his question. He secretly hoped his friends would know it as well, however, Irun simply shrugged.
“I think after what we pulled off this morning, we should be allowed a little time off the leash they keep us on,” he said, with slight sarcasm in his voice. “I agree,” Thoma said. “I’ve never had myself a woman, nor ale to go along with her,” he said, and his eyes sparkled with a mental image of what that would be like.
“Best not get too far ahead of yourself, young one,” Master Garett said. The trio’s expressions were ghostly. Master Garett had overheard the entire conversation and now knew what their late-night activities would be, should they be able to leave their rooms. He looked at the three, and pushed his bottom lip out a little. “I suppose that’s what I’d do, were I in your boots,” he said, confidently. “Just pray your little arses are actually going to be allowed out at night,” he said, turning his head back towards the castle. The three looked at each other and wondered why there was even that possibility.
I can’t put my finger on it, but I can feel there’s more to him saying that than we think, Thoma thought as he looked over at the trio of riders. I wonder just how much they really know about the happenings of the world, and what our roles were within them.
About a quarter of a league away from the castle’s walls, Thoma could finally begin to see the details on the flags that flew above the massive gate. The square flag of Coltend Castle had sewn on it the image of a griffin devouring a sun, while crushing the moon with its talons, and he could only wonder what that meant, if anything at all. The sun was just about to set on the distant horizon behind the hills they had ridden over earlier in the day, and now the entirety of the castle’s face was illuminated by the orange rays.
“The size of these walls is starting to make my neck hurt from looking up at them,” Irun said, rubbing his nape. Thoma and Batch agreed with his statement, catching themselves also rubbing their napes. They were about fifty meters from the gate, when a voice called out from behind the large cedar and steel bar gate.
On the gate itself, there was a smaller doorway that appeared to be heavily reinforced so that it wasn’t the weakest point of the gate. On the doorway, there was a small steel hatch, just big enough to fit a man’s face. When the synners got close enough, the hatch opened quickly. “Hallo, there!” the voice called out. It was a man’s voice, and only judging by the sound, Thoma knew the man to be a fairly large one. Odd how he didn’t ask what our names were, or the classical “Who goes there?”. Not to mention the oddest way of saying “Hello” I’ve heard, he thought.
“Hello, there! I am the Master Synner of Codrean, and as you can see, I have a small party with me. “Ja, I can see them, Master,” the man on the other side replied. “Then I presume you know why we’re here,” The Master said. “Ja, I know why, and I already knew who you were even before I opened the hatch, Master,” the man said. “I’d seen you from the top of the wall, and recognized your armor shortly after. Took me a while to pinpoint where it was from, but I got it right. You simply confirmed it,” he said cheerfully, closing the hatch.
Orders were barked behind the gate, and the chains placed in the middle section of the gate became taut, and began to raise the gate. The chains creaked and strained to lift the mighty gate. Thoma, Batch and Irun tried peering under the gate to see who could get the first glimpse, but Bernar whistled softly and shook his head in order to prevent them from doing so.
The gate was fully raised, and the man stepped out from behind the nearby pillar of the guardhouse. He was a very large man indeed, as Thoma had guessed. Well I’ll be damned. He must be one of the descendants of the giant tribes in the North, he thought. The man stood at least a head taller than anyone present, had long fair hair, deep blue eyes, and a thick well-kept beard that grew all the way down to his medallion.
His armor was plate metal, not leather like the synners’ uniforms, since his was made for being able to withstand blows that could crush a man without it. It was polished bright, and his red cape split in two lengths just above knee height. His left pauldron had the Griffin of Coltend’s insignia. Thoma noticed his greatsword hung from the right side of his hip. That must mean he’s left-hand dominant. It’s difficult to fight against that, since their guards are all mirrored, he thought.
The Master rode up to him and nodded, gauging his size. “Gods above,” the Master said. “I’ve never seen one of your race in all of my years,” he said astonishedly. The man stood almost as tall as the Master on top of his horse. The man stared at him cheerfully, his flat face showing a large smile. “What is your name, guardsman?” the Master asked. “Sir Magnar Thorsen, Master,” the giant replied.
Thorsen? Sounds like someone descended from the gods themselves, Thoma thought, taking note of the name. “Well, Sir Thorsen, I bid you farewell and I am grateful for the hospitality,” the Master said with an air of respect. Thorsen gave a slight bow in response. “I take it you know your way to the palace, Master?” Thorsen sensed. “I do, indeed. Thank you, again,” the Master replied.
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