There was little purpose for Górin to remain with the rest of the caravan once they had completed their entry with the city guardsmen. After all, he had made no secret of his reason for going to Elbregn, nor did he try to convince them with anything other than a swift payment. Being merely a group, almost two-score large, of merchants and entertainers that were coming for Brannaht and little else, the company of a trained and armed man was not only welcomed, but appreciated. It must have been so, for Górin was not the only ranger that the caravan had allowed to accompany them. Six others like himself were headed to Elbregn.
“You're some of the last to arrive,” the guardsman had said to the six rangers, as he lifted the worn roll of parchment. “Your names?”
As each of the rangers named himself, the guardsman's eyes sped across the page before suddenly stopping and looking up at the next. In the end, he rolled the page back and placed it within his belt. “Alright, then. I'll have your blades, and then you're free to enter.”
The caravan that the men had traveled with eyed them enviously, as they were no less eager to get away from the memories of the long journey from Dormedon, and get closer to a meal house within the safe walls of Elbregn. They knew that the tasks that lay before the rangers was nothing at all to be envied, but in the moment, if it took them away from the endless grey-green rolls of the Silver Hills, then there was some envy to be had for one so lucky to be allowed in the city first.
The rangers themselves held no particular attachment to the members of the caravan. In truth, most of them had only just met the travellers some few days ago, requesting to walk with the group in exchange for a keen eye and strong arm if trouble should be near. Actually, the rangers themselves did not even feel all that connected to one another, for they came from three different counties, and only a few had previously known each other. And yet, each had been summoned in the same manner by lord Móð of Dormedon who in turn announced their summons by lord Gráðir of Elbregn.
As the men, packs in tow, stepped through the gates of the city, some took a long look at the sea of buildings that had come up since their last visit, and others merely continued straight ahead for the castle. One of these that cared not for the sight was Górin of Dormedon. Although he had come to the city only a handful of times in the past, Elbregn held litte interest for him. After all, it was only a few moments ago that he and the others had passed through the forest-grave of the city, where the tall and broad Stékkr trees grew.
Górin was a tall man with long legs to more than make up for it. Though he was slowly coming to his second score of years, he could still run faster and longer than many of the younger rangers who had just passed their first score. Like the landsmen in the western fields of Þerge, his head was shaved except for a long length that was left at the crown, and his was a dark red, sprinkled with grey. He wore plain but toughly-made clothes and oiled boots cobbled with no small skill. A thin shawl about his shoulders marked him as a man in the employ of lord Móð. As he passed through the main road that led through the southern part of Elbregn, the trace groups of people began to grow thicker as both the inhabited buildings grew more frequent and the day waned into evening. Men, women, and children strode through the city to their homes, some exiting houses and some entering.
The city itself was not so different that he would not have recognized it, but it had changed. Many of the old ruins by the walls had been cleared away, the outer regions did not seem so overgrown and forgotten, and the citizens themselves were of a much different collection. Four years ago, in his last visit, he had seen numerous men going about the city, working or moving tools. Occasionally, he saw a witch or a wife, but for every one woman, there must have been at least ten men. Now, there were nearly just as many women within the walls of Elbregn as there were men, and what was more, there were children. Some walking upon their own legs, but some were so young that they were carried by a mother or father. That was to be expected, Górin figured. The Stékkr trees were more than enough to cleanse the nearby lands enough for a handful of farms to grow, but for those farms to be tended, safety in living within the fields would be needed. As it seemed, the seers and witches had not been idle. Even two days out from Elbregn, Górin could sense the air becoming cleaner and the grass becoming greener, though for Þergic fields, even that was a surprising and pleasant occurance, even without the miasma that poisoned the soil.
They are getting ambitious, Górin said to himself, taking a deep breath in and closing his eyes. City air. A different kind of stench. The smell of animals, people, and smoke. It was almost a relief from the stench of the roads or what he expected was waiting for him within the Silver Hills. Uncleansed land...The smell of rot and festering. I'd almost prefer the smell of animal waste and smoke. He knew it was not a good way to think, but it had been long since he had travelled along the roads. His territory was that of the woodland and the bush. Land that had been burnt and cleansed years ago by both Stékkr and the hearts of good men. He was a ranger who patrolled and gave escort through these lands. Not an explorer who specialized in navigating through regions that had not been inhabited since before his grandfather's father was born. Or rather, had not been safe to inhabit. There were rumors, of course. A motley band of colonists would attempt to regain a foothold within the plagued lands in which their forefathers had once thrived, and would most likely return some time later with fewer numbers and with a weakened spirit. For long, the Plaguelands, as they had come to be called almost as soon as the safe parts of Þerge began to regain inhabitants, had seemed to be a matter of time. For surely, the citizens of the cities had recieved the bulk of the wicked necromancer's poisons, and as such, the disease of those regions was less dangerous than in the more sparsely-inhabited portions. This was the common thought for many years, until the seers and witches of Elbregn began to perform ritual with the holy Stékkr trees.
It was not that the poison had been taken in by the countless dead, as had been thought. The dead burned the poison away. During the time of plague, there were hardly enough living to bury the dead, and by the worst of it, some towns or cities might have had less than a dozen still alive. With so many dead piling, the only thing the survivors could do was to take the ever-growing corpses, and pile them in mounds outside their town gates. These mounds, they would burn and send the souls of their loved ones away from the world. Some thought that the Stékkr trees had simply appeared near the outskirts of townships and cities. Those who were aware of Þérge's tragic history knew otherwise.
Górin had almost not realized that he had been standing still in the same place, were it not for a light tap upon his shoulder and the familiar voice of one of the other rangers who had taken passage with the caravan. Górin never learned the young but weather-worn man's name, and he saw very little of him during the journey, even less so than the other woodsmen.
“Are you looking for Gráðir's halls, as well?” he asked, before Górin had even fully turned around to face him.
Górin shook his head. “I have just been in many places for many nights since last coming within the walls of Elbregn. I am on my way to the castle now, but I was merely impressed by what all has changed in four years.” He readjusted the pack upon his shoulder and gave a hoarse laugh. “Had you not come by to break my stupor, I might still be in this spot by the coming of Leaflay.”
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“Ah, that is well indeed then,” the man replied with relief in his face, “I have not before set foot in Elbregn, summoned with urgency though I might have been. The fields south of Cérsedd and west of Nahtkroínen are my territory, and Dormedon is the furthest I have ever come into the heartlands.” He paused. “I would prefer to be guided by good company than to risk being mislead by one local to this city who might shun an outsider.”
The older ranger shrugged as he continued his walk with the younger following not far behind, “The people of Elbregn are proud, and rightly so, but they still hold kinship to those of the Þergic race. What we may hear in Dormedon might have cause to frighten us or give hesitation to our coming here, but so long as the blood of those that endured flows through your limbs, you need not worry about being an outsider.” Knowing his destination well enough from a previous journey, he let his feet guide him while his eyes wandered throughout the streets. It truly was a wonder that such a change could have come to the city in such a short time as four years. For a place like this, it might have been expected.
On the times Gorin had come to Elbregn before, his visits were always upon the more mundane of days. Never had he been within her walls on a day more busy than market, and he had certainly never been so on Brannaht. As a ranger of Lord Móð, his work seldom took him so far as Elbregn unless it was some task of escort. In the branches leading up to the high holy days, Górin always gave a thought to be close by Dormedon so that he might spend the time with his woman. True, when Lord Móð had summoned him and detailed the nature of such a request from Lord Gráðir of Elbregn, Górin was closer to decline than to fulfill the role propositioned by the high king. It was only when Móð had made note of the price that Gráðir was offering that the ranger began to weigh the task in his mind with any serious consideration.
“Where have the others gone to?” Górin asked, looking around for his travelling companions for the first time since passing through the gates, “Are they also coming to meet with Lord Gráðír, or have they prior engagements at an alehouse?”
The young ranger laughed. “You are not far from the truth. I was going to go to the castle with Rolf and Brükks, but they were drawn by the sweet words of a serving girl sweeping the doorstep of an alehouse. I have little doubt that they and the others are accompanied by tall cups of brew, right about now.”
“Lord Gráðír will certainly take amusement to that,” Górin said with a sigh, “If not later this evening, then surely tomorrow morning.
The day was moving from the afternoon into the evening, though there was still a long way to go before it would get dark, as far as could be judged by guess. The thick layers of cloud prevented any indication of the sun’s location aside from a general and unvarying light upon the land. Although Górin knew that he was in no need of time to make his arrival known to the king, he still preferred to do so sooner rather than later. The prospected time to depart with his party was just after sunrise upon the first day of Leaffall. Quite a fitting occasion, he thought of it, a journey of burning begun the morning after a night of burning. It was only appropriate, he figured.
The last day of Leafsway had so far been as one might have expected, at least for the Þérgic heartlands. Cloud covered the land, but thankfully, no storm had come. Nothing was so bothersome or disheartening as attempting to light the bonfires of Brannaht with damp wood. Though such a blanket of cloud loomed overhead, rain was not always a guarantee, and the people of Elbregn gave it little worry, for they had come to welcome it just as often as the morning sun. Carts and wagons rolled through the street, laden with goods and tools, as well as with kindling and firewood. Many rushed, but most took their fair time. A Leafsway’s harvest was greatly welcomed at the Brannaht feastings, and by the middle of the day, or shortly thereafter, the people of the surrounding farmland were already within the city gates, come to sell and collect.
It was this also that Górin found strange about Elbregn. Or rather, not strange, but merely different. In times before that he had walked these same streets, those inside had with them sullen faces, dusted with dirt and toil. Never before had he seen men so exhausted or defeated, wandering and marching dejectedly amongst the ruins, chipping away at a heap of rubble that seemed to never diminish. Of course, each time he had come to Elbregn, the ruins seemed more rebuilt and the men seemed cleaner, but from his last visit four years ago, even that was oppressed by the dark mist of hopelessness that seemed to follow those he passed.
People seemed happy here. Perhaps it was when he first beheld a man and a woman carrying their newborn and walking to their home, or later on when he watched a weary old man pluck away at a harp and sing to a small group of smiling listeners, many of which aided him in harmony. For the first time in his life, Górin saw life within Elbregn. He saw hope rekindled. There was a long way to go, there was no mistake, but unlike what he came to see in the past, those that made the city their home seemed to have something to look forward to.
The center of Elbregn was where the bulk of activity occured, but once Górin and his companion made their way across and into the upper districts of the northeastern side, the amount of travelers upon the roads quickly decreased. Soon, all that they passed were the guardsmen or small groups of men headed about their business. When at last the pair reached the interior wall of the keep, the day had grown late, and many had returned to the streets to make their way home.
The four men seated at the gates of the keep kept the rangers standing there for no short time as one went back into the gatehouse to retrieve a list of names. After checking with Górin, the two were sent through, following one of the guards who escorted them through the well-cobbled road to the doors of the castle. Along the way, he warned them that it was getting close to the time that lord Gráðír woud be finishing up his time for appeals that day, but after another explanation from Górin, the guard shrugged and supposed that an exception might be made for those answering a summons.
Only one other person was really in front of the pair, for almost right as they entered the hall, the farmer who was speaking to the king was in the process of finishing up his appeal, and walked over to another room with a bursar. As the next man in line got up from his chair to approach the dais where the farmer had been standing, Górin found a seat by the tables near the entrance.
The hall was richly decorated, and many portals were adorned in paned glass that showed tales of Þérge, likenesses of her kings, and of course, the heroes that arose to save her. The hall extended deep to a long row of pillars beneath a high cieling, painted with a thousand twisting patterns and borders. Each of these pillars was deeply carved in like scenes of ages past, and of those that came before. Although no rays of sunlight streamed in through the great colored glass high above, the hall was brightly-lit, for many smaller portals opened to the exterior, which bore no glass, but were shuttered with small carven wood doors.
No sound other than the words between the applicant and lord Gráðír could be often heard in the hall, then, for the guardsmen kept to their business and held their words to a near whisper, given only to those nearby. For if any should have raised his voice to even a pleasant and relaxed talk, the hall would catch the sound and carry it throughout many times, as it did now to the two men at the dais. If one were to shout within the hall, his voice would ring out as though a hundred men were repeating his speech. The two rangers sat close and spoke seldomly, for they were wary not only of their words accidentally being caught up by the clever design of the hall’s echoing nature, but also wary of the decorum expected of the high king’s hall. Though both had been in their own king’s presence many times, and even distinguished guests at their tables, neither had yet spoken directly to the man whose reach extended west to the nOthair Moíla and east to the Thaid. In fact, before the two had even entered through the doors, they had suddenly the thought of how rangers might appear to their lord. The dust in the cloak that one in their rank might see as expected after a normal day, they billowed out to bring back the greens and blues. The mud along their boots was simply a second coating a ranger recieved after ten steps of good work, but scraping it off ensured they would not be thrown out of the hall after ten steps inside.