Trik - Betrayal in Rule

They traveled west, riding by day and camping by night. The weather was fair, and they made good time. In two days they crossed the Linden Plains, north of Gladden Lake. By the morning of the third day they reached the east banks of the Great River, a large vein of water that flowed from the Frozen North to the South Sea, cutting the Empire in half. At the river, they turned north and followed it upstream for three days, reaching the outskirts of the city of Rule on the third day. As they got near the city, the faint impression of the Stormdrake Mountains appeared in the north.

Trik and Durben stopped on a hill looking down at the city and the river valley before them. Trik pointed at the alabaster walls of the city of Rule in the distance. The city was on the far side of the river, a mere few miles from its west bank. A tributary of the river ran west from the river and connected to the city. “Tonight,” said Trik, “we will sleep under a roof.”

Durben turned to Trik. “I don’t see a bridge,” said Durben.

“Look there,” said Trik, pointing at a quay on the river. A ferry boat floated in the water beside the quay. “There is the ferry that will shuttle us across the river, for a small fee.” He tapped the flanks of his horse and rode down the hill toward the quay, and Durben followed him.

An old ferryman met them at the quay. His face was ragged, worn by weather and time. “My Lords,” said the ferryman, “you are far from your homes.”

“You have guessed well,” said Trik. “We are traveling from Baron Linden’s castle to Rule and request a ferry across the river.”

The ferryman’s eyes narrowed. “My Lords might consider another destination,” he said. “The Stormdrake Falls are a fair sight in summer.”

“We must get across now,” said Durben.

Trik glanced at Durben. “Let me,” he said. He faced the ferryman. “We will pay.” He took a silver coin from his purse and dropped it in the open hand of the ferryman. “We require passage for ourselves and our horses, nothing more.”

“As you wish,” said the ferryman. “I will make the ferry ready.” He turned away and walked down to the ferry.

Durben looked at Trik. “He was nervous,” said Durben. “Did you see the way he looked at us?”

“He was afraid,” said Trik. “Something is amiss.”

The ferryman prepared the ferry as Trik and Durben waited on the shoreline of the river. When the ferry was ready, the ferryman whistled to them from the boat. Trik and Durben dismounted from their horses and led them over the dock and onto the boat. The ferry was not a large vessel, but there was enough space for both horses.

“We’re away,” shouted the ferryman, as he released the vessel’s mooring line.

As the ferry floated across the river, Durben watched the west bank approach. The west bank of the river was some distance, even at the narrow point they crossed. But the current was strong and moved the ferry swiftly across the river.

“Look there,” shouted Durben. He pointed at a run of salmon beneath the clear surface of the river.

“Migration,” said Trik.

Durben watched with a broad smile as hundreds of migrating salmon passed under the ferry and continued upstream.

When they reached the west bank of the river, the ferryman tied the ferry’s mooring line to the receiving quay. Trik and Durben led their horses from the ferry onto the wooden planks of the receiving quay.

“Take care,” said the old ferryman.

Trik and Durben passed the ferryman as they made their way to the end of the quay. Before them was a cobbled road that led from the river to the city of Rule.

“Are you ready?” asked Trik.

“Yes,” said Durben.

Trik climbed onto his saddle and pointed his horse toward the city. “Let’s go,” he said, slapping his reins.

Durben mounted his horse and rode after Trik. They had not gone far when the east gate of the city towered before them. The gate itself was closed, and many people were being turned back. Red banners were waving outside the gate on wooden poles, and there were several guards wearing red cloaks in the road.

Trik’s expression darkened.

Trik and Durben halted before a group of guards. “We request entrance,” said Trik to the first guard.

The guard looked them up and down. “Who are you?” he asked.

“I am Trik,” said the elf, “and this is Lord Durben of the house of Baron Linden. We seek a council with the Emperor.”

The first guard grinned wickedly. He turned to the other guards. “They’re here,” he said. “You have your orders.” Six guards with spears and shields surrounded Trik and Durben.

“What is the meaning of this?” asked Trik.

The first guard drew his bastard sword and pointed its blade at Trik. “You are under arrest,” he said.

“By whose order?” asked Durben.

“By order of Duke Mortimer,” said the guard.

Durben glanced at Trik, his eyes widening.