Ahead, the road forked and the two slowed with caution. The right fork bent slightly as it followed a slight incline, but maintained its western course. The other angled southwest and gently downward.
The spring storm in the area had not extended far enough north to bring precipitation here, but dried dirt from recent runoff showed rain had been a visitor recently.
“It catches in the old cobbles as the runoff ebbs,” the elvan ghost-bird whispered, pointing down the left fork. “A sizable group passed here recently.” Kneeling to look more closely, he amended his comment. “Quite recently. Within the hour.”
Erie pointed up the west fork.
“That’s right,” the ghost-bird said. “Do you hear something?”
Josip nodded. “Voices,” he whispered.
The two men signaled those trailing them to stay in place before creeping up the road. The voices grew in volume as they closed, at first snippets of words and peaks of laughter, but soon they became coherent enough to understand.
Pausing their movement to listen, it became clear the group they heard was a rough bunch and likely exclusively male. Listening further, they learned the men were mercenaries.
Creeping forward, they found the road bent ahead to pass around a rise on the right. Before they reached this turn, they found a cut in the brush where the men went and a look through the greenery revealed the remnants of a small stone building, now mostly walls, loose blocks, and rubble. An opening on the facing wall revealed flat ground beyond, but little else. Not seeing the men, but knowing they were within the walls, the two backed out slowly and made their way back to the others.
Detailing what they found, an argument began.
“We cannot simply bypass them,” Dech said. “We would run the risk of them coming on us from behind.”
“Mercs I can deal with,” Erie said. “I would rather face a mercenary than another basilisk.”
Lauril nodded. “We can help.”
“If they were in the Brosalean, I would agree,” Wherow said. “We are not.”
“The council believes what these people are doing is important. That should be reason enough to aid them.”
Wherow growled quietly. “Fine. Who is best with steel?”
“Ferras.”
“He will join me. We’ll go with the knight. Two of our archers should follow.”
“No more?” one of the ghost-birds said.
“Walls likely mean tight quarters. More would not help, only hinder.”
Dech nodded in agreement. “Dissy, you cover Josip and me with the bow. A vicious and sudden attack will make their numbers advantage meaningless.”
“The rest of us will be near should more be needed,” Lauril said.
The seven going after the mercenaries crept in avoiding detection, the men occupied with talk and boisterous laughter.
While Lauril stood at the cut near the edge of the road, Dech and Josip moved to the wall left of the opening, Wherow and Ferras right.
Gaps in the stones showed the mercenaries had little care for security. A large brown jug made its way from man to man, an even dozen at that, reclining on the ground or leaning against stone blocks.
“This is the life, yeah?” one said.
“Beats patrolling,” another said.
“Aye,” a third added. “So long as Sergeant Morlix don’t come down off his mountain and give us a boot up the arse.”
“He won’t. He has his duty and we have a jug to empty.”
“Where did you scrounge this up anyway?” a mercenary asked holding the jug by its loop handle.
“Off the woodcutters we slaughtered. A dwarf someone shot through the neck.”
The mercs laughed.
“That was some fun,” one commented. “Only those fools who ran into the Brosalean escaped us.”
“Aye, and I’d wager they wished we’d killed’em rather than Brosalean nasties.”
Erie leaned close to Dech and whispered, “I guess we won’t need to fret about a clear conscience when this is done.”
Dech looked at Wherow and received a nod. Tapping Erie on the shoulder he hissed, “Let’s go.”
“On your heels,” he replied.
Dech rounded the corner of the opening, Erie just a step behind while Wherow and his comrade mirrored the move to Dech’s right. As the four closed, Dissy and the two ghost-bird archers stood and took positions to fire through the opening and between the pairs. At the first sign of alert from the mercenaries, arrows flew.
One of the sell-swords stood and opened his mouth to yell as he reached for the short sword at his belt, but a pair of arrows piercing his neck staggered him and alerted the rest to the threat.
Dech heard the whisper of arrows pass him as he raised his sword to engage the nearest mercenary who reached for a light crossbow resting against his leg. Managing to grasp the weapon was all he accomplished before sharp steel split his skull.
Dech caught a blur of movement to his left and knew it was Erie launching an attack. By now, nearly all of the mercenaries were on their feet, but shock and alcohol slowed their actions and muddled any cohesive response to the assault. Another arrow hissed by Dech’s helm to bury itself in the shoulder of an axe-wielding man. The wound and a hard thrust from the warder’s sword sent man and axe to the ground.
For a few furious seconds, the patch of ground where the mercenaries drank became a swirling, dusty killing field and the archers held their nocked arrows ready.
Dech and Erie soon found themselves standing alone amidst dead and dying mercs, while Wherow and Ferras fought the last of their opponents, a trio of men.
Ferras downed one with a thrust through a mercenary’s throat, but stumbled over a large shield and fell as he dodged a sweeping dagger from another. Seeing his comrade in peril, Wherow charged the dagger-wielder, his axe-armed opponent soon pursuing.
Cutting the dagger-man down from behind, Wherow was in danger of the same fate befalling him. Turning quickly to fend off the attack, he realized time did not favor him, but time ceased to be a factor when the man’s face went slack and he crumpled to the ground with an arrow protruding from the back of his head.
Looking at the three archers, Wherow saw only Dissy’s bow lacked an arrow and realized she had downed the last mercenary. Walking past her and the other archers, he managed a “thanks,” on his way to speak with Lauril.
“There may be some hope for him yet,” Dech said as Dissy came toward him.
She sighed loudly. “Don’t count on it. He’s a bigot.”
“Who just had his hide saved by a half-blood castaside,” Erie said with a smile. “Maybe he takes a step back and looks a little harder at himself.”
Dissy shook her head. “I said it before. Don’t count on it.”
. . .
“This is as far as we go, human,” Wherow said when everyone gathered.
“It’s far enough,” Dech replied. “I thank—”
“Let us depart and leave petty kingdoms to their fate,” Wherow said. Turning abruptly, he stalked off in the direction from which they came.
Dech looked to Lauril and the others. “Your skills are most impressive and you saw us here without harm. You have my thanks.” His companions echoed the sentiment,
Lauril smiled and canted her head with closed eyes, a Brosalean elvan gesture of respect. “I will accept such with honor even if Wherow will not. Succeed and you’ll have ours.” Looking after Wherow and shaking her head, she turned to Dech once again. “I wish you well. May the Creator be with you.” Waving her arm, she headed after Wherow, the other ghost-birds following and uttering quiet goodbyes and well-wishes as they passed.
“That bard better come visit if he survives,” Lauril said over her shoulder.
Before Mayhaps could respond, Erie said, “I assume you want me in the lead?”
“There’s no one I trust more with the job,” Dech said. “No offense to Lauril.”
Erie laughed. “I doubt she’d take offense. We’
re on cobbled roads and headed for a castle. This is civilization after all.”
Thinking of the bodies strewn nearby, Mayhaps shrugged. “It is, and every bit as dangerous as the wilds.”
Erie moved up the road quickly and quietly. Not far ahead he entered the curve in the road, but slowed and then stopped after just a few steps. Retreating, he rejoined the rest.
“You recall the sell-swords talking about a sergeant?” he said.
Dech nodded. “The man on the mountain.”
“Exactly. There’s three mercs on top of a low ridge a short distance up the road once around the curve. I’d wager he’s one of them, this sergeant. Looks like they guard a passage through a wall. Might be the point the woodcutters mentioned back in Barrow.”
“What are they armed with?”
“One swordsman like we just faced, another with a glaive or halberd. The third has an arbalest, a large one at that.”
“Armor?”
“Leather with mail byrnies and kettle-hats.”
Dech stood in thought for several seconds before grimacing. “We could go back to the fork and follow it. It might lead to another path to the castle, but I do not care to leave armed foes at our back.”
“We are six. They are three,” Erie replied.
“I can eliminate the three up there,” Dealan said.
“Could Mirkness sense your casting from here?” Dech asked.
“It is certainly a possibility,” Dealan said with an irritated grimace.
“I concur,” Granum said. “Any spell grand enough to bring three men down will be noticeable. If Mirkness isn’t looking though….”
Dech looked away in thought before shaking his head. “We cannot take that risk. You follow the path the mercenaries took and see if it leads to another passage through the ridge. It must since the tracks indicate they came from that way, unless they simply took the route to hide from the sergeant. If the patrol was as undisciplined as it seems, they probably didn’t bother to cover their tracks if the route is hidden. Even if it is, Diz and Josip should be able to find it. I’ll deal with the three up there. We can meet on the other side of the ridge.”
“You’ll go alone?” Dissy said.
“If Dealan and Adelbert cannot cast without betraying our approach, Josip, Mayhaps, and you will need to contend with any others that may be ahead. We must clear both routes before moving on to the castle.”
Dissy grimaced in worry, but nodded assent.
“If you face too many foes and can retreat without being seen, return to the road and we’ll consider an alternate course.”
“And what if you are unable to deal with the three mercenaries?” Dealan asked.
“I have a plan that I hope provides me with the initiative in the encounter.”
“Then we best get moving,” Erie said. “Time only goes forward.”
Dech walked with the others until they reached the dead mercenaries where he gave his shield to Mayhaps. Looking over the scene, he found what he sought. Taking the light crossbow, he drew back the bowstring and locked it rearward. Placing one of the bolts from the attached quiver into the weapon, he set it aside and lifted the large shield from the ground. A bowman’s shield, it was designed to provide cover to an archer or arbalest, especially while reloading. Far heavier and more unwieldy than those commonly carried by knights, the bowman’s version would suit Dech’s needs.
“Are you sure you don’t want your own arbalest?” Mayhaps asked hefting the crossbow he’d been carrying since the fight with the wyggar.
“No. You did well with that and this one is of lesser power. It will suffice for what I have in mind. I’ll see all of you on the other side of the ridge.”
“What an optimistic bunch we are,” Mayhaps said with a smile.
. . .
Dech walked down the middle of the cobbled trail, his sword in its scabbard and crossbow held in his left hand behind the shield. Keeping his right hand visible, he walked steadily, the three mercenaries at the top of the low but steep ridge watching him approach but showing no signs of hostility.
The path leading up the ridge was obviously built solely for foot traffic. Steep and stepped, a rapid ascent was not likely. Well made, but battered steps took Dech closer to the men until he reached the top, a relatively flat area once cobbled like the road.
Despite the direct approach to it, the position the three men held was an easily defended one. Archers would be able to loose many shots at even the fastest beings approaching up the stairs.
Thoughtfully placed by those who built the wall and wisely chosen by the men who now manned it, the arched opening through the structure was the only easily traversed point atop this portion of the sharp ridge.
As he neared the trio, Dech could see Erie’s sharp eyes assessed the men well. Armed as he said and armored with byrnies, leather gauntlets, padded coifs with kettle hats, the only detail Josip failed to mention was the tassel adorning the base of the glaive’s blade to prevent blood from running down the haft.
The arbalester appeared to be in charge as the two men with him glanced his way as if seeking cues. The man in the middle held a heavy arbalest, the windlass used to draw the powerful weapon hanging from his belt. Dech could see a bodkin head equipped the bolt, a head made to pierce armor.
“You’ve done well to get here alone, knight. You must have killed many a man and beast or be as stealthy as a cat, but it ends here one way or another. Depart and live. Otherwise…” he said with a gesture of his head toward his weapon.
Dech shook his helmed head and pointed beyond the mercenary. “My destination is there.”
“No, knight, it’s not,” the man said as he brought the weapon to his shoulder and cheek. The smoothness of his actions and steadiness in his hold said he was most proficient with his arm. “Your destination is the ground beneath you if you don’t depart. Now.”
Dech’s eyes locked onto the rearmost hand on the crossbow. Raising his shield, the trio laughed.
“There be no knight’s shield or mail in all of creation that’ll stop a bolt from this arm at such range. That archer’s shield is stout, but it won’t save you. Unless you be quicker than flight, weighted as you are with arms and armor, you best leave,” said the man.
“Be that as it may, I move forward and you are in my way.”
The mercenary sighed. “Knights. Best the world be rid of them and their stubborn ways,” he said. A practiced squeeze released the bolt, bound for the center of Dech’s shield and his chest behind it.
At the first twitch of movement in the mercenary’s hand, Dech sidestepped right and angled his shield as he brought up the light crossbow in his right hand. The merc’s bolt tore a gash over the surface of the warder’s shield, but with its flight path interrupted, it followed a new course past Dech.
“Deflected!” the crossbowman managed as Dech launched a bolt at the man. Surprised and without shield, the bolt tore into his left leg before his mind registered what had occurred.
As he fell growling, his companions charged as one, the warder tossing aside the empty crossbow and shield before drawing his sword from its scabbard.
The two men separated, the swordsman going to Dech’s right, the other left, both men obviously competent with their weapons.
Dech attacked the swordsman guessing the man with the glaive sought to circle around and attack from behind. Crossing swords, Dech drove his opponent back and turned to deal with the other, but found he was too late.
The man thrust at the warder’s midsection, an attack he narrowly avoided, but turning the head of the glaive on the return, the hook on the bottom of the blade caught the mail on Dech’s back. Penetrating and tearing both iron rings and flesh, Dech gritted his teeth and grabbed the haft of the glaive as he sliced the air with his sword. The glaive-armed man barely had time to register he was about to die.
The man’s head struck the ground with a metallic thud before his body followed it down leaving Dech holding the glaive in his lef
t hand. Pulling it free, he turned toward the swordsman who halted his attack at seeing his comrade’s death.
Reversing his grip on the glaive, Dech hurled it at his remaining adversary and closed. The swordsman managed to knock the thrown weapon away, but placed himself in a poor position to fend off Dech’s attack, a hard downward chop that cut through his mail byrnie at the top of the shoulder, a strike that split the man to mid-chest.
The warder turned to face the arbalester and found the man sitting up and maneuvering himself to the wall where he could rest upright. Pulling his kettle-hat off followed by his padded coif, he dropped them in the dirt nearby. Dech saw a long scar on the left side of the man’s face arcing from his forehead to just ahead of the ear and forward again until it ended not far from his chin.
Recalling the woodcutter’s account of their escape from the massacre in the forest, Dech removed his helm and cradled it in the crook of his left arm saying, “You are in Captain Terny’s employ?”
“I am,” the man said making no effort to draw the short sword on his belt.
“How long have you been with him?” Dech asked thinking of the broken man at the tavern in Fridley.
“Nearly two years.”
“Your captain is serving more than one employer.”
“It’s been known to occur in our line of work.”
“I assume he still serves Duke Philip.”
“He does.”
“Your mission here serves Malig.”
The mercenary’s eyes narrowed as he sought deceit in Dech’s statement. “We knew this wasn’t for Philip, but Malig? Playing opposite sides?” he said with a troubled shake of his head. “If true, that’s bad business.”
“It is that. Do you know what occurs at the Castle of the Dark Forest?”
“If I did, do you think I’d tell you?”
“You might.”
“Well I do not know. Ordered to prevent passage through here and not told the why of it. You have my word on that.”
“I’m inclined to believe you.”
“So no prodding at the bolt you put in me?”
“No.”
“So you’ll dispatch me quickly then?”
Dech shook his head. “Your wound appears quite survivable. Based on how you can move, I’d say there’s no damage to the bones. Given no reason, I’ll cause no further harm.”
The Warder Page 44