Free The Chimaera Regiment by Nathaniel Turner Page B

hall, all gray and brown and muddy, entirely unseemly beside the glorious spire.
    Veither marched them near to it. “Halt!” he ordered; the travelers obeyed immediately. Hector stumbled at the suddenness. The bindings on his hands kept him from regaining his balance, and he fell flat on his face. The ground was soft, but dry, and smelled strongly of dust.
    “On your knees!” Veither shouted at them. One of the other guards hauled Hector roughly up to his knees, still facing the door to the hall. The door looked the same as the rest of the chieftain’s court: dirty and dull.
    The thick door, rotted in spite of the awning that shielded it, creaked open. A color guard marched out, wielding the conquering banner of the Keldans. The banner was deep red, but it was interwoven with paler threads. Hector could make out the image of a winged horse and an angular script that he did not recognize. He saw strange lettering under the horse’s hoofs, and interspersed with those letters were a peculiar pair of points, one directly over the other. He had learned the script of his own people, but seeing a new one fascinated him; for a moment, he forgot where he was as he stared at that banner.
    Then a guard jabbed his shoulder, and he remembered vividly.
    A distinguished man followed the color guard, and three more soldiers followed him. Hector had no doubt that this was the ruler of the Keldans. He was tall, but spindly; his wiry limbs were more appropriate to a spider than a man. His countenance was sharp, and keen; his eyes betrayed the brilliance of his mind, and the means by which he ruled his tribe. His back was straight as an arrow. He walked among the captives with his hands clasped behind his back. He looked down his long, pointed noise at each of them. His chin was like a quivering stalactite, hanging precariously from his jaw; he aimed it at each captive, threatening to let it fall and crush them.
    At last, he returned to stand between his warriors and his color guard. “Who are these people?” he asked Veither, “What are they doing in my forest?”
    “My lord Eitromal, they are trespassers and vagabonds,” Veither answered, deep and booming; Hector wondered whether the exchange were a formal means of introducing criminals for the Keldans—or perhaps Veither simply enjoyed maligning guests. “They interfered with our hunt and attacked us unprovoked.”
    The chieftain, Eitromal, looked over the captives once more. He pointed at Fornein, and looked meaningfully at Veither. The huntsman nodded. Eitromal crouched before the kneeling hermit. “Fornein,” he said, “Why have you returned?”
    The old man did not raise his head, but stared fervently at the dirt. “As I once helped you, Lord, I seek to help another,” he replied. “We meant no harm.”
    “Are you the leader of this band of miscreants?” Eitromal demanded disdainfully.
    “I am,” Hector interrupted, raising his face to look the lord in the eye. In his periphery, he saw Brynjar glare sharply at him, but the warrior said nothing. “These are my companions, and they follow me on my quest.”
    Eitromal raised a suspicious eyebrow. “So you,” he mused, “are responsible for these crimes against my people. A boy.”
    “If any crimes have been committed,” Hector retorted, in as genteel a voice as he could muster, “they were committed in ignorance. We are without food, shelter, or protection in a strange land. We are your suppliants, my lord, and we request your benevolence in the name of Anthea.” He was quoting the suppliant’s prayer from the Code of Lords, although he was sure he had misplaced a few words. Even so, obedience to Anthea demanded kindness toward suppliants, and refusal threatened the eternity of a man’s soul.
    For a long time, Eitromal said nothing. His cruel nose twitched as he pondered his options. Hector suppressed a smile; Eitromal would be required to release them, even help them in their quest. In spite of the shackles,