Chapter 185: Ten Days Away

The town of Merrowford sat on a bend of a slow brown river, ten days’ march south of the Wall.

It was a pleasant town.

It had a stone bridge, a market square, two inns, and a lord’s hall on a low hill overlooking the water. In the autumn, the orchards around it turned gold, and travelers on the northern road liked to stop there for a night or two before continuing on.

For the last six days, the Order of the Silver Crane had been one of those travelers.

Tobin Rell was fifteen years old and a squire of the Order, and he had never been so bored in his life.

He had joined the Order because it was supposed to be glorious. His father had paid a great deal of money to place him there. The Silver Crane was one of the oldest orders in the Empire. It had fought in the Southern Wars. It had carried the Emperor’s banner at the Siege of Vellmoor.

That had been ninety years ago.

Since then, the Silver Crane had mostly attended ceremonies.

Now, finally, it had been given a real task. To march north and reinforce the Wall against a Roamer horde.

Tobin had been so excited when he heard that he had not slept for two nights.

That had been two weeks ago.

They had left the capital fourteen days ago. They had marched for eight of those days. The rest, they had spent in camp. First outside a town called Gellis, because the Commander’s horse had gone lame. Then outside Harrowmere, because the Commander’s cousin lived there and had invited them to a hunt.

And now in Merrowford, because the Commander said the horses needed rest before the northern roads.

Tobin did not think the horses needed rest. The horses had barely done anything.

But Tobin was fifteen, and nobody asked for his opinions.

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On the evening of the sixth day in Merrowford, a rider came in from the north.

Tobin was on duty at the door of the lord’s hall when he arrived. He was a small, thin man on a horse so exhausted that it was trembling. His clothes were covered in dust, and his face was grey with it.

"Commander Fenwright," the rider said. "I have a letter for Commander Fenwright. From the Wall."

Tobin took him inside.

The Commander was at dinner.

The Order’s officers dined in the lord’s hall every night. Sir Aldous Fenwright sat at the head of the long table in a coat of silver-grey silk, with a jeweled pin shaped like a crane at his throat. He was a handsome man of forty with a well-trimmed beard. Tobin had heard the older squires say that Sir Aldous had paid four thousand gold crowns for his command.

He had never been north of the capital before this march.

"A letter from the Wall, my lord," Tobin said.

Sir Aldous held out his hand without looking up from his plate.

Tobin gave him the letter.

Sir Aldous broke the seal, unfolded it, and read it while he chewed. Around the table, the officers kept talking. Someone was telling a story about a horse race. Someone else laughed.

Sir Aldous finished reading. He folded the letter and set it down beside his plate.

"The Strategist of the Wall," he said, "writes that the horde has reached the stone. He says it numbers forty thousand. He says an Elder of the forest is walking with it." He picked up his wine cup. "He asks that we come with all possible speed."

The table went quiet.

"Forty thousand?" said one of the captains.

"So he says."

"Is that possible?"

"I’m sure it seems that way from the top of a wall." Sir Aldous smiled. "The Wall has been sending letters like this for two hundred years. Every time a few hundred Roamers come out of the trees, someone on that Wall writes to the capital and says the end of the world has come."

A few of the officers laughed.

"And who is this Strategist?" another captain asked. "I’ve never heard of such a post."

"Neither has the Crown." Sir Aldous took a sip of wine. "I’m told it’s the Duke of Gannon’s youngest son. The one they sent north in disgrace. I understand he has made himself quite important up there."

More laughter.

Tobin stood by the door and did not laugh.

He was looking at the rider.

The rider had not left. He was still standing at the end of the hall, exhausted, covered in dust, and he was looking at the officers around the table with an expression Tobin did not understand.

It was not anger.

It was something closer to pity.

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"We will march in three days," Sir Aldous said, when the laughter had faded. "The horses will be rested. The northern roads are hard, and I don’t intend to arrive at the Wall with half my cavalry lame."

"Three days, my lord?" said the captain who had asked about the numbers. "If the letter is true-"

"If the letter is true, then the Wall has stood against worse for two hundred years," Sir Aldous said pleasantly. "It will stand for ten more days."

He raised his cup.

"To the Wall," he said.

The officers raised their cups.

"To the Wall."

Tobin looked at the rider.

The rider had turned away. He was walking toward the door. As he passed Tobin, he stopped for a moment.

"Boy," he said quietly. "How old are you?"

"Fifteen, sir."

The rider looked at him for a long moment.

"When your order finally gets to the Wall," he said, "if there’s still a Wall to get to, look at the men standing on it. Look at them properly. And then decide what kind of knight you want to be."

He walked out into the night.

Tobin stood at the door for a long time after that.

Behind him, in the warm, bright hall, the officers of the Silver Crane went back to their dinner. Someone started the story about the horse race again.

Tobin did not go back inside.

He walked out to the edge of the lord’s hill and looked north. The sky was clear. The stars were out. Somewhere beyond the orchards and the river and ten days of road, there was a Wall.

He could not see it.

He could not see anything at all.

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