Read Online The High King: Book Two of the 'Riothamus' trilogy by Rosemary Fryth - Free Book Online Page A

only man I’ve got who knows
anything about these people.”
    Darven shot
him a glance, “My knowledge is scarce indeed.” The Wolf Leader’s
dark eyes grew troubled, “Aran, I’d advise utmost diplomacy and
courtesy in your dealings with them. Until we know where we stand
I’d not risk their anger.”
    “Aye”
    Aran and
Darven walked quickly across the training yard.
    “Where are
they?”
    Aran and
Darven had arrived at the gatehouse, and were looking around
anxiously for the delegation.
    “Outside,
Lord,” one of the Guardsmen walked up. “They refused to come in. I
think they are making camp outside the walls of the Keep.”
    “They refuse
our hospitality?” Aran was astounded.
    “It is
generally known that they dislike walls,” Darven interjected, “They
come readily into Eastling only because we don’t have defenses,” he
explained.
    “So where do
we negotiate?”
    Darven walked
to the open gate and stared out at the distant figures quickly
erecting three small conical skin tents.
    “Somewhere
between their camp and the Keep,” Darven advised, “For we must not
be seen to be bending over backwards for them. I believe they
dislike overt displays of friendship,” Darven mused.
    “Touchy
people,” Aran commented sourly.
    Darven stepped
outside the Keep walls, “Come my lord. We need to greet them.”
    Aran touched
for reassurance the pommel of the King’s Sword, and received an
answering flare of light from the weapon. Whatever happened out
there, he was certain that at least he and Darven would give good
account of themselves.
    “Greetings,
plainsman,” Darven walked up to the nearest man, and inclined his
head. “We offer you greetings and thank you for coming so
quickly.”
    Aran stared at
the plainsman in wonder. Tall he was and dressed completely in
leather and bronze scale armour. He wore a bronze helmet on his
head and a few strands of horsetail flowed from the top of it. His
face and hands were sun-darkened almost to the texture of old
leather and brilliant blue eyes stared back at Aran with a mixture
of curiosity and apprehension. He was clean shaven except for a
luxuriantly flowing moustache of the brightest red-gold hair Aran
had ever seen.
    On his back
was a quiver bristling with arrows, and slung from his shoulders
was a short curved bow, made entirely of bone and sinew, by his
side hung a short, stabbing sword. The young warrior’s armour and
clothing had been liberally decorated with beads, plaited horsehair
and feathers in ornate curving and knotted patterns. Aran had never
seen anything quite like it, and he guessed that the designs were
meant to be spiritual symbols and marks of initiation. The man, who
Aran guessed to be in his early twenties, took off his helmet and
shook out a great mane of red-gold hair which had been intricately
plaited and limed into shape. “We come to this high place,” the
warrior said without preamble. “We look for the new king.”
    Aran stepped
forward and held out his hand in greeting, “I am Arantur…Prince of
Andur’s Keep and last of the Andurian line.”
    The warrior
stared at Aran then briefly inclined his head.
    “We are
surprised that you came so quickly,” Aran added, “For it is barely
a week since we sent our delegation to find you.”
    The warrior
frowned, “We received no delegation.”
    Aran and
Darven exchanged startled glances.
    “Then how did
you know to come?” Darven asked.
    The other two
young warriors wandered over, both were dressed identically to the
first.
    “Our
SpiritDreamer has seen an Oak sapling growing in the plains. This
meant that we must go to the high place,” another warrior stated,
“So we came to see if the omen spoke truth.”
    Aran turned to
Darven, “Have you any idea what they are talking about?” he
murmured quietly.
    Darven
whispered back, “They are highly superstitious. They read omens in
the fall of a leaf, the movement of water, and the flight of a
bird…this Oak sapling may be