One of the guards pulled the chain hanging beside the heavy iron gate. The thick oak doors slowly swung open, and the rusted hinges let out a deep groan.
Areth and the others crossed the bridge and entered the fortress.
The sight that greeted them beyond the walls was far livelier than it had appeared from outside.
This was not merely a garrison inhabited by soldiers. Within the fortress, between the outer wall and the inner keep, a small settlement had been built. Nearly fifty houses of stone and timber stood in rows along the inside of the walls. Most of them were two stories tall. Their ground floors were made of stone, while the upper levels were built from dark wood. Smoke rose from the chimneys, and dim yellow light spilled from the windows.
A few children ran through the narrow streets while elderly women sat in front of their homes, talking quietly among themselves. In one corner, a blacksmith was at work. The rhythmic ring of his hammer striking the anvil echoed throughout the courtyard. Farther ahead, several soldiers were drawing water from a large barrel and washing their horses.
When the people noticed them, their conversations briefly fell silent.
The foreign mercenaries drew attention.
Especially Areth.
The dark clothes he wore, his expressionless face, and the cold, measured way he surveyed his surroundings made both peasants and soldiers instinctively avert their eyes. Rosavelle walked at his side. There was likely not a single person here who had ever seen a woman as beautiful as she was.
A few strands of her pink hair, gathered behind her so it would not get in her way, had fallen across her face and only added to her beauty. The light yet finely crafted armor she wore gleamed beneath the sunlight.
With a mage's staff strapped across her back and a sword at her hip, she looked as though she wanted everyone around her to understand that she was dangerous. In truth, she could use neither the sword nor the staff particularly well, but an outside observer could never have known that.
The main road led directly to the inner keep.
The keep rose at the center of the outer walls. It was surrounded by a second stone wall, nearly twice as high.
Guards stood atop those walls as well, though they appeared better armored and more disciplined than the ones stationed on the outer ramparts. The banners bearing the black wolf's head were newer here. Their fabric moved slowly in the wind.
When they passed through the gates of the inner keep, they gained a much clearer understanding of just how wealthy the viscount truly was.
The place was not ostentatious, but it was rich.
On one side of the broad stone courtyard stood orderly stables. On the other were supply warehouses and a small armory. Everything was immaculate. The wood had been freshly oiled, and the stonework had clearly been repaired not long ago. At the center of the courtyard stood a small well, beside which rested a bronze statue of a wolf.
The manor itself rose at the far end of the courtyard.
It was three stories tall. The ground floor had been built entirely from gray stone. On the upper floors, dark oak beams had been set into the stonework. The roof was covered in dark slate tiles. The windows were narrow and tall. Rather than a palace of grand halls, it looked like the residence of a lord that could be defended if necessary.
Guards in full armor stood watch on either side of the staircase.
When they entered, they were greeted by a silent, cool hall. The floor was paved with dark stone. Old tapestries depicting hunting scenes and battles hung from the walls. Deer antlers and wolf heads were displayed in several places. Candles burning in iron chandeliers hanging from the ceiling cast a dim light.
A middle-aged steward with a narrow face came to receive them. His hair had begun to gray, and he wore dark green clothing, simple yet of fine quality.
"Lord Viscount Edric Vargan is occupied at the moment," he said in a calm voice. "Before he receives you, he has ordered that you be shown to the waiting room."
Areth gave no reply. He simply followed the steward down a long corridor.
The waiting room was located on the western side of the manor. It was a small but comfortable chamber. Carved wooden chairs lined the walls, and a dark oak table stood at the center. A fire burned in the hearth, warming the room. On a side table stood wine, water, and several plates of dried meat.
But the most striking thing in the room was the window.
The narrow yet tall window overlooked the inner courtyard. Areth watched outside for several seconds. Soldiers were patrolling below. There were not many of them, but their movements were orderly. Every ten minutes the watch changed. Two men climbed onto the walls while two others descended.
Rosavelle quietly stepped up beside him.
"This much security isn't normal," she said in a low voice.
"No, it isn't."
Areth's answer was short.
About ten minutes later, the door opened again.
The same steward entered the room.
"Lord Viscount Edric will receive you now," he said.
Areth rose to his feet at once. Rosavelle moved with him.
But after a brief hesitation, the steward raised his hand.
"My apologies," he said carefully. "The lord wishes to speak only with sör Areth. The woman must remain here."
The expression on Rosavelle's face turned cold for a moment, but she said nothing. She merely looked at Areth.
Areth turned toward the steward.
"No."
The steward froze for several seconds.
"Sir?"
"Rosavelle is my aide." Areth's voice remained calm, but it left no room for argument. "Everything I hear, she will hear as well. If your lord wishes to meet with me, she comes with me."
The steward cleared his throat, looking uncomfortable.
"It is Lord Vargan's order..."
"He was the one who summoned me," Areth interrupted. "I am not the one setting the terms, but on this matter I will not compromise."
Silence lingered in the room for several seconds.
At last, the steward looked away and let out a heavy breath.
"...Very well," he said reluctantly. "I will inform Lord Vargan of the situation. Please follow me."
The steward led them down the long corridor.
Old paintings depicting the history of House Vargan hung upon its walls. In one, a young knight could be seen fighting beneath banners bearing the black wolf. In another, a gray-haired lord was accepting oaths of loyalty from kneeling men. Most of the paintings, however, were old. Though the frames were of fine quality, the paint had faded in places.
It was obvious that the paintings were very old, yet the manor itself appeared to be remarkably new.
At last, they climbed the broad stone staircase leading to the manor's highest floor. Two guards stood before a heavy oak door. The steward gave a short bow.
"My lord," he said, turning toward the door. "The mercenary leader has arrived. He insisted on bringing his assistant with him."
There was silence from within for several seconds.
Then a deep, calm male voice answered.
"Let them enter."