The occasional girl who turned her attention upon him almost inevitably found his reticence daunting, but it was nothing more than his inability to think of anything clever to say. The prospect of any intimacy with a girl terrified Erik.
A familiar voice called his name, and Erik turned to see a ragged figure push through the press, using nimble quickness rather than size to navigate a path to Erik’s side. ‘Hello,’ said Erik in greeting.
‘Erik. Freida,’ said the youth in return. Rupert Avery, known by everyone in the village as Roo, was the one boy Freida had forbidden Erik to play with as a child, on many occasions, and the one boy Erik had preferred to play with. Roo’s father was a teamster, a rough man who was either absent from the village – driving his team down to Krondor, Malac’s Cross, or Durrony’s Vale – or lying drunken in his bed. Roo had grown up wild, and there was something dangerous and unpredictable in his nature, which was why Erik had been drawn to him. If Erik had no tongue to charm the ladies, Roo was a master of seduction, at least to hear him tell it. A knave and a liar, as well as an occasional thief, Roo was Erik’s closest friend after Rosalyn.
Freida nodded almost imperceptibly in return. She still didn’t like the youngster after knowing him all his life; she suspected his hand in every dishonest act or criminal event that took place in Ravensburg. Truth to be told, she was more often right than not. She glanced at her son and bit back a bitter comment. Now he was fifteen years of age, Erik’s willingness to be controlled by his mother was lessening. He had assumed most of the duties around the forge from Tyndal, who was drunk five days out of seven.
Roo said, ‘So you’re going to ambush the Baron again?’
Freida threw him a black look. Erik merely looked embarrassed. Roo grinned. He had a narrow face, intelligent eyes, and a quick smile, despite uneven teeth. Even further from being handsome than Erik, he had something alive in his manner and a quick intensity that those who knew him found likable, even captivating. But Erik also knew he had a murderous temper and lost it often, which had caused him to use Erik’s friendship as a shield against the other boys on more than one occasion. Few boys of the town would challenge Erik: he was too strong. While slow to anger, on the rare occasion when Erik had lost his temper, he had been a terrible sight to behold. He had once hit a boy’s arm in a moment of rage. The blow propelled the lad completely across the courtyard of the inn and broke the arm.
Roo pulled aside his ragged cloak, revealing far better-looking clothing beneath, and Erik saw in his hand a long-necked green glass bottle. Clearly etched into the neck of the bottle was a baronial crest.
Erik rolled his eyes heavenward. ‘Anxious to lose a hand, Roo?’ he said quietly in an exasperated tone.
‘I helped Father unload his wagon last night.’
‘What is it?’
‘Hand-selected berry wine,’ he said.
Erik grimaced. With Darkmoor being the center of the wine trade in the Kingdom of the Isles, the primary industry of Ravensburg was wine, as it was with most of the towns and villages in the barony. To the north, oak cutters and barrel makers labored to produce the fermenting vats and aging barrels for the wine, as well as corks, while to the south, glassmakers produced bottles, but the central area of the barony was dedicated to growing grapes.
While fine wines were produced in the Free Cities of Natal and Yabon province to the west, none matched the complexity, character, and age-worthiness of those produced in the Barony of Darkmoor. Even the difficult-to-grow Pinot Noir grape, originally imported from Bas-Tyra, flourished in Darkmoor as it did in no other place in the Kingdom. Lush reds and crisp whites, sparkling wines for celebration – Darkmoor’s finest product brought the highest prices from the northern borders south into the heart of the Empire of Great Kesh. And few wines were as highly prized as the intensely sweet dessert wine called berry wine.
Made from grapes shriveled by a mysterious sweet rot that occasionally afflicted the grapes, it was rare and costly; the bottle Roo held under his cloak was equal in worth to a farmer’s income for a half year. And from the crest on the bottle, Erik knew it was from the Baron’s private stock, shipped from the baronial capital city of Darkmoor to the Ravensburg guildhall for the Baron’s visit. While thieves no longer had their hands cut off, being discovered with the bottle could put Roo on the King’s labor gang for five years.
Trumpets sounded again and the first of the Baron’s guards rode into view, their banners snapping in the afternoon breeze, their horses’ iron shoes striking sparks on the stones of the square. Reflexively, Erik looked at their legs, for signs of lameness, and saw none; whatever else could be said of the Baron’s management of his estates, his cavalry always attended to their mounts.
The riders moved into the square and turned out from the small fountain that sat at its center, formed two lines, and slowly backed the commoners away. After a few minutes, the entire area before the Growers’ and Vintners’ Hall had been cleared for the coach that followed.
More soldiers rode past, each wearing the grey tabard bearing the crest of Darkmoor: a red heater shield upon which stood a black raven clutching a holly branch in its beak. This group of soldiers also wore a golden circlet sewn above the crest, indicating they were the Baron’s personal guards.
At last the coach rolled into view, and Erik suddenly realized he was holding his breath. Refusing to let his mother’s obsession control even the air in his lungs, he quietly let out a long breath and willed himself to relax.
He heard others in the crowd commenting. Rumors regarding the Baron’s failing vitality had circulated in the barony for more than a year now, and his sitting beside his wife in the coach, rather than astride his horse at the head of his guards, signaled that he must be ill in truth.
Erik’s attention was drawn to two boys, riding matching chestnut horses, followed by a pair of soldiers carrying the baronial ensign of Darkmoor. The cadency mark on the left banner heralded Manfred von Darkmoor, second son to the Baron. The mark on the right-hand banner proclaimed Stefan von Darkmoor, elder son of the Baron. Alike enough to appear twins, despite a year’s age difference, the boys rode with an expert ease that Erik found admirable.
Manfred scanned the crowd, and when his gaze at last fell upon Erik, he frowned. Stefan saw where Manfred stared and said something to his brother, recalling his attention to the matters at hand. The young men were dressed in similar fashion: high riding boots, tight-fitting breeches with full leather seats, long white silk shirts with a sleeveless vest of fine leather, and large berets of black felt, each adorned with a large golden baronial badge, from which rose a red-dyed eagle’s feather. At their sides they wore rapiers, and each was accounted an expert in their use despite their youth.
Freida gestured with her chin at Stefan, and whispered harshly, ‘Your place, Erik.’
Erik felt himself flush in embarrassment, but he knew the worst was yet to come. The coach stopped and coachmen leaped down to open the door as two burghers came forward to greet the Baron. First to leave the coach was a proud-looking woman, her features set in an expression of haughty disdain that detracted from her beauty. One glance at the two young men, who now dismounted their horses, confirmed that they were mother and sons. All three were dark, slender, and tall. Both youths came to stand before their mother and bowed in greeting. The Baroness scanned the crowd as her sons came to her side, and when she spied Erik looming over those around him, her expression darkened even more.
A herald called out, ‘His lordship, Otto, Baron of Darkmoor, Lord of Ravensburg!’
The crowd let out a respectable if not overly enthusiastic cheer; the Baron was not particularly loved by his people, but neither was he held in disregard. Taxes were high, but then taxes were always high, and whatever protection the Baron’s soldiers afforded the townsfolk from bandits and raiders was barely visible; since it was far from any border or the wild lands of the Western Realm, few rogues and villains troubled honest travelers near Darkmoor. No goblin or troll had been seen in these mountains in the memory of the oldest man living in Ravensburg, so few saw much benefit in supporting soldiers who did little more than ride escort for their lord, polish armor, and eat. Still, the harvest was good, food was in bountiful