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"I understand. Have you told anyone else about these findings?" Clay asked, his face devoid of expression as he addressed the captain of the guard who had just reported to him. The latter shook his head, his sharp gaze scanning their surroundings cautiously, as if fearing that someone else might overhear their conversation.
"No, young lord. How could I possibly tell anyone about this? I feel that something is not right here. I suggest you depart for White Harbor immediately. We shouldn't wait for the fleet; we should take the land route through Neck Swamp instead. Once we reach the North, no one will be able to do anything to us and our two hundred men."
Having survived countless battles, emerging from mountains of corpses and rivers of blood, the captain of the guard possessed a keen instinct for danger. In this eerie battlefield, his instincts had been set on edge, and he could feel something deeply unsettling in the air. His entire being tensed with unease.
Clay patted his shoulder lightly, as if telling him to relax. Then, in a calm, emotionless voice, he said, "And how would we leave? There is no order from my grandfather instructing me to return. If we depart now, would that not imply that our two hundred men are afraid?"
"It is not yet time. Right now, we could leave without consequence. But knowing the nature of the Freys, the fact that I, the heir of White Harbor, withdrew from their territory in such a manner would not bode well for my reputation. It would be whispered about in every hall they have influence over."
"I may not care about my own honor, but the Manderly family does. We value honor more than those southern lords."
After a brief pause, Clay lifted his gaze and pointed toward the western ridge. His voice lowered as he murmured, almost to himself,
"At the very least, I must find out who dared to lay hands on my men. The blood debt of House Manderly must be repaid in kind."
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After surveying the site, Clay found nothing on the surface, and though he appeared frustrated and dejected, he remained composed. He slowly urged his horse toward the western side of the hills. There, a crude burial mound had been hastily made. Clay had to see for himself how these fallen men had been laid to rest.
The soil had been freshly turned over, unevenly smoothed out. A crude stone marker, about half a man's height, stood alone in the open field. Carved into its surface was a simple, roughly etched sigil of a mermaid—the last trace of the White Harbor trading caravan in this world.
Clay did not know their names. Only after returning to White Harbor and searching through the city officials' records would he be able to find out.
So, for now, there was only one thing he could do.
Standing before the burial site, Clay drew the longsword from his waist and drove it into the ground. Behind him, two hundred cavalrymen dismounted, forming orderly rows. In perfect silence, they bowed their heads in a solemn tribute.
A sharp cry from a hawk shattered the silence, marking the end of the brief but meaningful moment of mourning.
As the last echoes faded into the wind, Aenys Frey approached the silent Clay from behind. He felt compelled to offer words of comfort to the young man, who had yet to reach twenty years of age.
But Clay did not need comfort.
It was not grief for the fallen that filled his heart, but rather frustration—frustration at having an army at his back yet no clear enemy to strike. The true culprits remained out of reach, shielded by circumstances beyond his control.
"Ser, when I return to White Harbor, I will send men to bring them all home. Though my house follows the Seven, these were common folk of the North, devout in their faith in the Old Gods. They should rest beneath the heart trees, under the watchful gaze of the Old Gods."
Clay's voice was calm, betraying neither sorrow nor anger.
Aenys Frey could not refuse such a request. Nodding in acknowledgment, he retracted the hand he had been about to place on Clay's shoulder and replied, "As you wish, Lord Clay."
Turning away, Clay cast his gaze over the assembled men, searching for the landed knight who had guided them here at midday. But the man was nowhere to be seen.
His brow furrowed. He turned to Aenys Frey and asked, "It seems the lord of this land has abandoned his guests. What poor hospitality, would you not agree, Ser Aenys Frey?"
Aenys Frey immediately understood Clay's meaning. He was referring to the landed knight who had disappeared.
Even though both Clay, the heir of White Harbor, and Aenys Frey, son of the Frey family's patriarch, were present, this minor knight had chosen to leave without a word.
"He said there was nothing more to be seen here and that we could investigate freely. He told me that matters in his domain required his attention, so he returned. I saw that we were unlikely to find further clues here, so I allowed him to go ahead. Lord Clay, did you need to speak with him?"
Aenys found it strange. Clay rarely spoke with such biting sarcasm. He usually carried himself with the graceful demeanor of a noble knight, much like those described in chivalric tales.
"It is nothing," Clay said indifferently. "Since our host has not extended an invitation to visit his home, and we have not been offered bread and salt, we shall not trouble him further."
A cold sneer flickered in Clay's heart. That knight had fled quickly. If it had been any other noble of the North—those with tempers as unyielding as the winter frost—his estate would have already been stormed by cavalry.
The Freys might have granted Clay guest rights, but if he wished to claim that the knight had failed to offer the customary hospitality and thus had no rights as a host, it would be difficult for anyone to argue otherwise.
Yet Aenys Frey remained puzzled by Clay's words. He did not believe for a moment that Clay was truly upset about missing the opportunity to tour some rural noble's estate. As the rightful heir of White Harbor, a city of such grandeur, why would he care for a wooden house standing in the middle of farmland?
At that moment, the sound of hooves reached Clay's ears.
Everyone had dismounted after the moment of silence—who could be arriving on horseback now?
Instinctively, Clay turned toward the direction of the sound. It came from the Kingsroad, at the base of the ridge.
Before he could speak, Aenys Frey finally registered the distant, faintly audible hoofbeats. His hand went to the hilt of his sword, and the guards nearest to them had already leapt onto their horses in readiness.
"Stay calm," Clay said, raising a hand to halt Aenys. "There are only two horses. They are likely from your house, bringing a message for one of us."
As he spoke, two banners appeared over the ridge, both bearing the sigil of the Twin Towers. Clay had guessed correctly—the riders were Frey men.
After a long, appraising look at Clay, Aenys Frey finally admitted, "Congratulations, Lord Clay. It seems your instincts were right. Come, let us see which of us they seek."
He called them reckless, but in truth, what they had done was sheer folly. If this were a battlefield, riding at full speed toward resting troops, even under the banner of their own house, would have been a fatal mistake. A competent commander would have given the order to loose arrows without hesitation.
"As you wish, Ser Aenys," Clay replied evenly.
They were intercepted by Frey and the White Harbor guards, already mounted on their horses. Two cavalrymen swiftly dismounted and exchanged hurried words with the guards. Clay and Inis, passing nearby, watched as the guards took off their weapons and strode toward them alongside the riders.
As soon as they approached, Aenys struck one across the shoulder with his riding whip.
"Who sent you?" he demanded.
The pained rider, recognizing Aenys Frey, dared not protest. Drawing in a sharp breath, he answered, "My lord, we were sent by the lord."
"For what purpose?"
"The lord sent us with a letter from the White Harbor, penned by Lord Wyman. It is for Lord Clay Manderly. The letter instructs him to travel immediately to the eastern port—his fleet is already waiting for him there."
One of the riders reached into his breast pocket and produced a sealed letter. The wax bore the mark of a raven. Without a word, Clay took it, broke the seal, and scanned its contents. The handwriting was unmistakably his grandfather's.
There was only one message:
Return to White Sea Guard at once.
..
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[Chapter End's]
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