by Ahimsa Kerp
It was nearly midday when she finally heard footsteps approaching. Her pulse quickened and she stood with anticipation, but the man who appeared from the trees was not the man she hoped to see. It was Everild.
Basilides came to where the battle had been waged between the creek and brambles, but did not see the Earl nor any living amongst the bodies, so he kept moving on, following the footsteps in the mud past the brambles and up the hill toward the village and Lord Ryndor’s keep. He heard the first of the screams as he passed between the thatch hovels. They grew more pronounced as he continued, and at the gates of Ryndor’s keep he discovered the source. Four men—two of the Earl’s men and two of Terryll’s sailors—sat, bound and gagged on the ground, and another—the Earl’s squire—was strung up by his feet, hanging upside down between the open gates.
Lord Ryndor stood in front of the squire along with an Ordained—a brother of House Ordryn. The Ordained wore a black cloak with a chainmail mantle. He was cutting at one of the squire’s ears with a curved dagger. What remained of Ryndor’s troops, a dozen men-at-arms and common foot soldiers apiece, mulled about, watching.
“What’s the meaning of this?” Basilides asked.
The men all turned in shock, not having realized he was there. They were visibly relieved to see he was only a leech, and several of the men jested and laughed at themselves for having been startled.
“Be gone, leech,” the Ordained said. “This affair does not concern you.”
“But I am a healer. Are there not injured men here? Are you not further harming those men there? I thought Ordryn demanded obedience, not torture.”
“He’s following my orders.” Lord Ryndor stepped forward from the other men. “Tend to my men if you wish, and I will be grateful, but these five traitors are none of your concern.”
Basilides stared at him for a moment then turned to where Ryndor’s injured men sat away from the others. Lord Ryndor and the Ordained went back to work on the squire.
“Where were we?” the Ordained asked. “Ah yes, your ear.”
The squire screamed as the Ordained carved the outside edge of his ear off. “All you have to do is talk. Tell us where Toli Verk is camped, tell us where he means to go next, and I will release you into the sweet veil of death and the Passions will let you rest. Just speak.”
The squire only gritted his teeth and groaned, so the Ordained jabbed the knife beneath one of his collarbones. The squire cried out again.
“Tell me!” the Ordained yelled.
“That’s enough,” Basilides said, his voice cutting through the squire’s screaming. “I will not allow you to further harm these men.”
Lord Ryndor snorted a laugh and one of his men advanced on Basilides with his spear, but the Ordained waved him aside.
“Let him approach.” The Ordained brandished his bloody knife and pulled a black pendant from beneath his mantle to hang so all could see it. “The Passions would be angry if you were to strike down one of their chosen ones, even a lowly follower of Balin,” the Ordained remarked to the soldiers. “I on the other hand am of the House of Ordryn, the highest Order of the Passions, and I may distribute whatever punishment I deem fit, to whomever I see fit. Come to me, brother.”
Basilides halted two steps away from him and stood unmoving.
Lyrie gripped the dagger close to her waist, tucked in the folds of her gown, and waited. Everild walked out of the tent after a long moment and stared at her, his face blank.
“You killed him.”
“He deserved it…for what he did to me, and for betraying the Earl.”
“You killed him,” he repeated.
“What does it matter to you?” Lyrie asked. “He was as mean to you as anyone else.”
“I swore to protect him. I gave my oath to his father that I would keep him alive and see him on the seat at Gaulang.”
“Oaths? What of the oath you gave to Lord Verk? Oaths seem to mean little enough to everyone these days.”
Everild narrowed his eyes and looked at her as if he was seeing her there for the first time. “What did you just say to me? Did you lecture me, whore?”
He was on her so fast she never saw it coming. He backhanded her across the face, and she lurched sideways and fell to her knees, the side of her face hot and pulsating with pain. Before she could stand up, he was at her again. He grabbed her hair and yanked her head up.
“Don’t presume to speak to me in that tone ever again, slattern.”
He raised his hand to smack her again. She screamed and thrust the dagger up into his belly. The blade hit metal with a sickening grinding noise and twisted from her grip. She’d forgotten about his chainmail. He stepped backward, momentarily stunned, and stared at the dagger lying on the ground. She turned to run, but he caught her by the hair again in two strides and threw her to the ground. She spun onto her back kicking. He flung her legs aside and backhanded her across the face again. A tooth fluttered out of her mouth; blood gushed from her nose and split lips. She scratched at his arms, but he was too strong. He forced her arms up above her head with one hand and ripped the front of her gown open with his other.
“Is this what you want, whore? Is it!”
He smacked her again and forced her legs apart. She drove her knees into his sides, she scratched at his hand holding her arms up, she bit at his arms, she spat blood at his face and screamed, but he seemed to feel none of it.
The Ordained stepped toward Basilides with a smile on his face. “Sleep well, brother,” he said and then swiped the knife at Basilides’ chest. There was a snapping noise, like a dried branch breaking in half.
The Ordained stepped back, staring in disbelief at his shattered arm. Basilides waited for him to look back up before thrusting his fingers into the Ordained’s throat. The Ordained collapsed, his windpipe crushed and his face turning blue.
It took a moment for the soldiers to fully comprehend what they had just witnessed. The man-at-arms closest to Basilides lunged at him, but Basilides merely turned his body sideways and the spear tip passed harmlessly past him. Basilides grabbed the stumbling soldier by the neck with one hand and pushed up with his thumb beneath the ear. The man collapsed to the ground, dead. The next two men met a similar fate. They charged in, he grabbed them by the hands and arms and they fell dead.
“That’s enough!” Lord Ryndor yelled. “Surround him. Together.”
Soldiers circled around Basilides, and yet he did nothing but stand there with his arms at his sides. A sound like thunder rose in the distance. “I believe you may have more pressing enemies than a lowly leech, my lord,” Basilides said, nodding his head toward the northeast.
Lord Ryndor looked at him with a confused look, then followed Basilides’ glance in the direction of the noise just as the first cry went up from the villagers that they were under attack. Ryndor’s men shouted in alarm and rushed past Basilides to the outskirts of town with Lord Ryndor behind them, yelling out orders.
Basilides went to the squire, cut him down with the dagger from the slain Ordained, then cut loose the other men. They thanked him, took up what weapons they found lying about and watched as the Earl’s cavalrymen ploughed through the ranks of Lord Ryndor’s troops, not as the Earl and Chancellor Bennson had planned, but nonetheless, right on time. Once the horses made their first pass, the five of them joined the fray. Basilides stood aside and watched, ready to tend the injured when the fighting was done.
Terryll lunged and kicked Everild in the head, sending him sprawling off of Lyrie. The Earl shoved through and fell upon Everild, wrapping his hands around the man-at-arms’ throat. Terryll moved forward to aid the Earl, but stopped realizing Everild would not break free of that grip. Toli Verk was old, but there was strength in his wiry hands, and he was a man who would not let treachery go unpunished while he still had a breath in him. Instead, Terryll went to Lyrie and helped her up. Her dress was torn to shreds; blood oozed from her mouth and nose. She bent over and retched out all the blood she had swallowe
d while pinned down on her back.
“Are you alright?”
Lyrie slowly stood upright and forced herself to smile between missing teeth. “You’re alive,” she mumbled, barely conscious. Anger welled up in Terryll as he looked upon her battered face, but when he turned back to the Earl he saw that Everild had already gone limp even as the Earl continued to wring his neck. Terryll took off his cloak, still wet from his swim in the creek, and wrapped it around Lyrie. “Sit down, Lyrie, and tell me where Lord Klaye is. Did the little blackspur run off, or is he still sick?”
“Dead,” Lyrie said.
“Dead?”
“I killed him.”
Terryll peeked his head into the tent to see that she was telling the truth. When he looked out again, the Earl was standing over Everild’s dead body. “Klaye?” the Earl asked.
“Dead,” Terryll replied.
The Earl nodded. “Good whore,” he said and then plopped down on his rear and was overcome with a coughing fit.
Terryll sat next to Lyrie and held her close to him as he dabbed the blood away from her face with the sleeve of his tunic.
“By Ordryn’s cunny, I am a good whore,” Lyrie said, spitting out another globule of blood.
“You are indeed, Lyrie.”
Basilides returned to their camp some hours later with the men he’d rescued and the seven surviving members of the cavalry and their mounts. Of the original seventeen who had set out from Black Zefferus at the mouth of Gildan’s Sprite, only seven were still alive, and Palomo and Kipp, the only two surviving men of Terryll’s crew, had only survived their grave wounds thanks to Basilides’ care. Gone were Lord Klaye, Everild, Vinton from Terryll’s crew, and all of the Earl’s men-at-arms but two.
The Earl had meant to rush back to Ryndor’s keep, knowing his cavalry was on the way, but he’d been overcome by a coughing fit that caused him to pass out. Terryll tried splashing water on his face, but that did nothing to revive him, and even after the Earl woke on his own, he could hardly stand, let alone walk. Basilides tended to him and by nightfall he was able to speak without coughing and had Lyrie tell him all she knew of Lord Klaye and Sturm Galkmeer’s treachery.
In the morning, Terryll told the Earl he would be taking her back downstream with his two men; it was not a request, but rather a statement. The Earl granted him that without protest.
“I owe my life to you, Captain Payce. Go with my blessing and may the Passions watch over you both.”
“You still mean to head east?” Terryll asked him.
“I haven’t a choice. Galkmeer has my army with him, the traitorous bastard, and he no doubt has something in store to get Bennson out of the way and commandeer my army. We have mounts now, so we’ll follow Gildan’s Sprite and try to reach them at Baldairn Motte. If not there, I will meet up with them at Hairng. That boy will learn his lesson soon enough.”
“I don’t doubt it, my lord,” Terryll agreed.
So the Earl left to the east with his troops and Basilides at his side. Terryll and Lyrie followed Gildan’s Sprite west with Kipp and Palomo. They found Black Zefferus where they had left her tied up in the mouth of Gildan’s Sprite, and after some effort to get her off the rocks, they were back in the River Ordan, drifting downstream for North Port to pick up the crew they’d left behind.
“Where will you take me?” Lyrie asked Terryll, as they climbed the stern castle to man the rudder. “I’m not going back to the Minx’s Den. Mistress Nedra won’t want me back. Not now that my face isn’t pretty.”
Terryll looked into her blue and green eyes. “You’ll always be pretty, Lyrie. I’ll take you wherever you want. I promised the men a trip to the South Islands, but after that…”
Lyrie nodded. “The South Islands for now, then. I’ve heard you speak of them enough times. It’s about time to see them myself.”
Terryll smiled for her and yelled down at Kipp and Palomo to raise the sails. The lateen rigging boomed, as it caught the southerly breeze. With the wind and current in their favor, Black Zefferus raced downriver, away from Ryndor’s keep, away from Gildan’s Sprite, away from all the fighting. As much as Terryll tried to envision the sun drenched beaches of the South Islands, all he could think about was the poor fools—northerners and southerners alike—who were rushing to their deaths at Baldairn Motte.
For everyone else, this was just the beginning.
A CALL TO ARMS
Letter from Toli Verk, Earl of Gaulang to Captain Elver, Admiral of the Fleet of Gaulang, following the Attack at Plum Grove
Cpt. Elver,
War is nigh. Ready the fleet and seal off the harbor. Inform all private merchant vessels they are forthwith conscripted into the naval fleet of Gaulang. They are to remain at anchor until such time as they receive shipping orders from Chancellor Bennson.
I have rescinded my decision as to the fate of the pirates we discussed previously. The pirate ship will be conscripted along with the other vessels. I have signed the arrest warrant you prepared. Use it at your discretion. If the pirate captain proves unwilling to join our fleet, it may provide you leverage. However, again, I urge your discretion. If the pirates join willingly and prove to be loyal to Gaulang, consider them pardoned and destroy their warrant.
Galkmeer has made a mess of the situation and we shall need every ship and seafaring man we can muster if we are to win this war.
-T. Verk
By the Authority of Toli Verk, Earl of Gaulang:
Resolved, that the person of Cpt. Terryll Pace of the seafaring vessel Black Zefferus be forthwith arrested and secured for the crime of piracy; and that all crew of the seafaring vessel Black Zefferus be forthwith executed upon sight.
Resolved, that the seafaring vessel Black Zefferus be secured and seized, and forthwith delivered for naval service under the direction of Captain Elver, Admiral of the Fleet of Gaulang.
Signed and Stamped, Toli Verk, Earl of Gaulang
THE SHADOWS OF BALDAIRN MOTTE
Letter from Basilides to Master Aldon, Order of Balin, Healing House, Fairnlin, following the battle at Baldairn Motte
Master Aldon,
By now you’ve certainly received word that I left my post in Gaulang. I was taken on to be the personal physician of the Earl himself in this war for the crown. I have found my new post to be more a hindrance than an honor, but such is the world we live in, and I have striven to be loyal to both the laws of the Passions and my own healing nature. Sadly, the two have been in conflict more often than not. Indeed, I must confess to taking part in the violence myself. I have committed a most foul act and slain a brother from the House of Ordryn, as well as three Northmen from House Ryndor. Our Ordained brother was torturing innocent men, and I could not stand idly by. I understand that in harming others I have betrayed my oaths to Balin, and I have since stripped away my robes and all other markings signifying myself as a healer of the Order—I am a leech no longer.
I mean you no disrespect in saying so, but I find myself little-remorsed at having removed the robes. As is my way, I have gone where I am most needed—in this case to the ruins of Baldairn Motte along with the Earl of Gaulang. Upon those ruins a heinous, final battle for the crown was fought. Or so I hope it was the final battle. There is much energy in this place. Blood has been spilled here before, many times. Amongst the crumbled castle walls and dead earth such atrocities of men against men have occurred that I have never seen—not even during the slaughter of Liraeus. The fighting is ended now, but I have remained here at the site of battle to help those I may, and I’ve found that I have more influence with the brothers of the Order by not being a leech myself. None of them have before witnessed the likes of death and suffering as they’ve seen here, and they are incapable of coherent action on their own. I found more than one of them binding the wounds of men already dead. But when I issue them commands they snap to action and prove to be perfectly capable. Perhaps they think I’m a physician left behind by Lord North, perhaps they merely need someone to tell them
what to do. Apart from myself, there is no one else here to give orders. The southern lords have all fled; Lord North has returned to Hairng, the local lordlings to their own lands, and even the Marchers have gone, leaving their dead and dying behind to march on Baardol.
The destruction here is beyond description. I think even you, having witnessed the battles of yore with King Dermid, would pale and be sickened at the sight of so many wasted lives. The injured number in the thousands, and the dead even more. You once asked me if I would ever weep again, after what I had witnessed in Liraeus. I told you then that I didn’t know. I know now—I have not wept, and if the madness here cannot break a man down to tears, nothing ever will.
In any case, my first task was separating the injured as you taught me. The leeches were hesitant to leave dying men unattended, but when I directed them to help those who could still be saved, they obeyed. Even so, there were more injured than we could help and with all the local flora trampled to death by so many feet and hooves, there was little in the way of herbs we could gather—the best we could manage was to bind wounds, set bones, and amputate ruined limbs. Even the reflexive healing techniques I learned from the elders of Lireaus proved useless to such mass destruction. For food we have been left with nothing to do but eat the hobbled warhorses left behind. Some of the leeches resisted at first. It is no likable chore to kill an injured horse in the first place, but to then butcher it and roast it on a spit proved too much for some of them. In the end, hunger won out. It always does.