A handsome payment was made, and for Lord Aquila that was enough, considering the ease of the work (the peasants by and large went home when faced with hardened professionals.) But the lancorail’s wanted more. Once the fighting was over, they turned their fury on the villages on the countryside, one of which was barely a quarter mile from where Lod Aquila’s men were encamped. Fenn could remember the screams to this day, the Avexiner’s goinging from house to house, looting and raping at will, torturing the inhabitants so they would reveal where their valuables were hidden and murdering them for sport afterward. Many in Lord Aquila’s regiment wanted to go into the villages - some to stop the lancorail’s from their butchery, others to take part in the looting. Lord Aquila ordered them to stay put, enforcing the discipline that made his company so feared in battle, and forbidding his men from interfering or taking part...
The Red Fish was full of the bastards. A few gazed on him as he walked by, but most were focused on a table in the center, where two of them were engaged in an arm wrestling match, while their fellows shouted and placed bets.
A harried-looking fellow stood behind a bar at the back of the room, slinging out cups of wine as fast as they could be poured. “What’s your pleasure?” he said as another loaded tray was handed to a servingman to carry out.
“You have a room for rent?”
The innkeeper laughed. “You must be new! Else you’d not have bothered with the asking!” Sensing a break in activity, he leaned against the bar to catch a moment’s rest. “Every room is spoken for, stranger! I have Avexiners packed two a bed!”
Fenn looked at the lancorail’s, still engrossed in the armwrestling content, which to his surprise remained undecided, the combatants locked in struggle. “Is there a war on I haven’t heard about?”
“Not yet.” The innkeeper wiped his sweaty brow with a rag. “The Council of Four has brought three regiments of mercenaries into this city, barbarous fellows from the north and the west. They’ve commandeered every spare room in the city for quarters, without compensation. Every bed I have is spoken for!”
Fenn watched the armwrestlers, one of whom seemed to be wavering, his fist slowly moving bac. “Do they drink for free?”
“No, praise the Suns! They have a mighty thirst, and I have to make my profit somehow.” A shout rose up from the back of the room, as several men called for more wine. “Drinking my cellar dry...my apologies stranger! The Red Fish is closed, I fear!”
“Is there anywhere else I can go?” Fenn asked the man’s back as he butlsed away. No answer came.
The arm wresting content was still on, the waverer finding new strength and pushing his arm back up. Fenn noted the way the veins on both men’s necks were popping out and wondered if one might drop dead from a burst heart before it was over...and if anyone was taking bets on that.
More inns lined the waterfront, and in every one it was the same. Avexiners packed the next two establishments. In a large tavern further on down he found a large number of men from an Oscanak free company, dressed in black and brown in contrast to the lancorails. The sight filled Fenn with a wave of nostalgia, as he heard the clipped northern accents in their voices. He’d spent much of his childhood among men like these, and for a moment felt homesick for the chilly (in every sense of the word) city where he was born.
But there was no room there as well, and appeals to his countrymen didn’t result in a free cot or even a corner in the common room to be down for the night. He went back out into the street no nearer to a bed for the night.
Middle of the afternoon now. A constant breeze came off the lake cutting the late summer heat. He looked out onto the water of Balendaas for a moment, wondering if he would ever get back to Galadorn. Then with a sigh he turned around and headed deeper into Kirondaal.
Four blocks in the harborside district ended, marked by a low wall separating it from the area beyond, the tiles on the other side blue as opposed to the green by the water. Gates pierced the wall every fifty feet or so, wide enough and tall enough to allow fully-laden wagons to pass through. Marked above were symbols of coins and scales, indicating the area beyond was the Merchants Quarter (though Fenn later learned that most of Kirondaal’s traders preferred either places right by the docks, where they could deal with incoming ships directly, or by the city gates so they could have access to the roads. The Quarter of the Scales, as it was called, was frequented these days by artists, students, aspiring poets and anyone else in need of cheap lodging and cheaper wine, and thus had gained a raffish air that was fashionable among a certain set.)
Yet here too the story was the same. Inns, lodging houses, every room for rent was taken. After an hour of fruitless searching, Fenn sat on the edge of a fountain, splashing some water on his face and wondering if he should try and find a somewhat dry alleyway to sleep in. “How did it come to this?” he muttered sourly, wiping the wetness on his forehead
He looked around the square. Mercenaries strutted about in clumps, their bravado only partly hiding their nervousness. Citizens went about their business, stood in the shade of buildings, none of them moving about singly, always in groups as well. They looked on the mercenaries with undisguised suspicion, and Fenn noted that all the men on the street bore a weapon of some sort, even if it was only a belt knife. Few women were around, and those in sight were accompanied by male escorts, and were themselves often armed.
Many of the citizens sported armbands of different colors - red, blue, black or green - and those sporing one color looked on the others with open hatred, which was returned with the same intensity. Different factions, staying with one another, avoiding their opponents, while those who sported no colors at all did their best to stay out of the way of those who did.
Fenn could sense the tension permeating the place, like a foul gas that crept up from an overflowing, unattended cesspit, infiltrating every room in the house, inescapable and unavoidable. All it needed was a spark to burst into flame…
Maybe I should take my chances in Galadorn… Fenn heard the sound of drums and whistles from one end of the square and looked over, where a palanquin entered from a side street. The poles extending from the front and back were borne by four burly bearers, and it took Fenn a moment to realize they were not men but wooden mannequins, like a child’s doll but much larger, the arms and legs carved to resemble that of men, the elbows and knees built as hinges. The wood was a brilliant red, additional lines of black giving it the appearance of a servants livery, the head painted with a smiling, obsequious face, topped with a helmet of brass, around which shone two lines of glowing runes, one above the other.
The palanquin held by the animated mannequins was painted red as well, with an elaborate gilded roof, with silver bells tingling from its corners. Seated inside was a man in red robes and black trousers tucked into crimson boots. On his head was a wide-brimmed red hat, with a peacock feather stuffed in the brim. Various bracelets glowing with eldritch runes were around his wrists. His narrow face was hidden behind a pointed, carefully trimmed beard that left his upper lip clear Marching behind and alongside was a mob of men with red armbands, most if not all armed in some way or another.
As the procession entered the square, another commotion began at the other end, where a mob of men with blue armbands entered, surrounding a man seated on a small open-topped wagon. No horses pulled it, the wagon proceeding under its own power - at the back was something that looked like a pot still, with puffs of multi-colored smoke coming out from the top, its surface glowing with runes. The man seated before it held a round stone orb in his hand, turning it slightly to the left, which in turn caused the cart to turn as well. He was a slender fellow with a underfed face marred by a nasty sneer...which had its counterpart in the red-garbed fellow across the way.
Arcanists. Fenn knew he should leave, but remained in place, transfixed by the scene taking place before him.This was a sight that would happen nowhere else on the continent, or indeed the world. While other cities were ruled by Princes, de
clared themselves republics (of varying degrees of actual liberty) or ruled by oligarchies of the rich and well-bred, Kirondaal was city ruled by those who wielded the Arcana. Four Arcanists Schools, ancient and deep in eldritch lore, conspired forty years earlier to overthrow the old collection of noble families, whose collective incompetence had brought all Seren to the brink of anarchy. And then, as those of a cynical bent would have expected the Schools turned on each other, in a decades long struggle that had its roots partly in scholastic disagreements on the nature of the Aethyr, and partly in the usual desires for wealth, influence and power.
The results of which were playing out in this square. Both processions stopped, the enchanted mannequins creaking to a halt, the magical engine hissing and popping as it slowed. The man in red poked his head out the side of the palanquin, his eyes narrowing at the sight of the rival Arcanist across the way. “Clear a path, I say!”
The blue in blue stood on the cart. “You clear away!” he shouted back. “The School of the Hyacinth will never give precedence to the School of the Rose!”
“The School of the Hyacinth is a pack of dabblers and hedge witches, frauds to the last man!” The red Arcanists dismounted the palanquin and strode forward, his face the same shade as his robes. The mob of supported trailed after him, closing ranks and shouting insults at the men on the other side.
He blue Arcanists jumped down from the wagon and went out to meet hs rival. “And I say the School of the Rose are a pack of criminally incompetent nincompoops and ninehammers who have less magic in their entire school than I possess in my smallest toe! Clear away, and let a better man pass!”
“Liar!”
“Fraud!”
“Fool!”
“Stand aside or stand your ground!”
Both men flung out their hands. A moment later blue and red flames erupted from their clenched fists, sparts flaring from their eyes and teeth.
Shouts of alarm went up in the square. Unaffiliated citizens ran away, while the mobs accompanying both Arcanists closed on, surrounding their champions and brandishing clubs, knives and even a few crossbows. They advanced, halting a few yards from each other, a narrow no man’s land forming. The magical flames surrounding the arcanists flared higher, both sides edging forward and back on the precipice of violence, just waiting for the final push.
Fenn was on his feet now, pulling the knives hidden up his shirt sleeves. Every instinct screamed for him to run, yet some deadly curiosity held him in place, waiting to see how it would turn out. He looked at one side, then another. His gaze fixed on a man standing in the front ranks of the red armbands, holding a heavy club. His nose twitched, his lips quivered as he inhaled, his mouth opening….
“Bugger all,” Fenn grianed, watching this and unable to stop it.
The man sneezed loudly and suddenly. The sound surprised the fellow standing next to him, who held a loaded crossbow and whose hand instinctively squeezed the trigger as he flinched. The bolt shot out, striking into the mob of blue armbands on the other side.
A shout of pain went out as a man fell, clutching his shoulder. “Murder!” someone shouted and with a road both sides rushed into each other.
The blue arcanist raised his hands and in a loud nervous voice began intoning a spell...them fell as a bottle struck him in the head. His partisans closed around, even as fellows in red armbands closed in, laying about with their weapons and taking wounds in turn. Within moments the cobblestones of the square were spattered with blood, and the air filled wit shouts and screams.
The red arcanist backed up, seeing shelter by his palanquin and its immobile bearers. Red faes gathered about his hand as he summoned a spell. “Burn you all!” he shrieked, the feather in his wide-brimmed hat reflecting the Aetnyric flame.
The blue mob surged forward, and pushed back their opponents, and a number of the red armbands were pushed into the palanquin, pushing it to the side and knocking the arcanist off balance. His hat was pushed forward and dropped down over his eyes, and he staggered away, waving his hands about and unleashing the spell. A bolt of burning red fire shot out, sizzling its way through the crowd and striking the magical engine on the other side of the square.
There was a flash, followed by a spray of multi-colored sparks that rained down across the square, causing yelps of pain among the mobs as they singed bare flesh The runes flared and with the screech of horribly stressed metal the engine rushed forward, barreling its way through the crowd, men diving out of the way, screams and curses marking the places of those who weren’t fast enough on their feet A great rush of sparks blasted out of a ragged rent in its side catching a pair of struggling men and sending them both running with their hair and shirts on fire.
The magical engine crossed the square and crashed into the wooden mannequins. As both devices touched their runes flared and then burst into flame. A moment later they blew blew apart in a great spray of sparks and fire balls that resembled a fireworks display gone horribly wrong. Spinning balls of flame shot out in all directions, bounding off rooftops and sipping down streets, while sparks showered down on the square. What had been a riot turned into a panic as both mobs fled for their lives running in all directions.
Yet even as they ran, both sides still went at one another, clubbing and stabbing even as they fled, ad attacking anyone who had the misfortune to be in their path, regardless of their affiliations. Two of them came barrelling towards the fountain. Of them went past Fenn and dive headfirst into the water, dousing the burning sparks laying across the back of his coat like a fiery blanket.
Behind him came another fellow, wielding a falchion and screaming bloody murder. He swing at Fenn, who stepped aside, the blade striking against the side of the fountain and raising up sparks of its on. Fenn struck out with a knife felt the blade strike flesh, and a moment later the man stumbled back, clutching his side and howling in pain.
At that moment a new group entered the square. From one side came a platoon of Avexiner mercenaries, at the other several squads of dark-clad Oscannaks. Both were armed and armored and clearly under orders to restore order regardless of the costs. They went about this with gusto, charging into the fray, heedless of the still smoking magickal wreckage, laying out with the butts of halberds, sword hilts and the working edges of their weapons for the truy recalcitrant.
“Lay down your arms!” a leather lunged sergeant bellowed above the fray. “Disarm now! Kneel and face justice, or die!”
However much they may have hated each other, the partisans of both sides feared the mercenaries more. One by one they fell to their knees, casting their weapons aside and placing their hands behind their heads with a practised efficiency that came from experience. The mercenaries to went about their business with brisk purpose. Wagons were summoned and men were loaded into the back, bound for the city jail. The wounded were taken away as well, while the dead were covered in cloth and left where they lay for their families to reclaim.
Both Arcanists were helped to their feet. The one in red pushed his hat back up on his head, its jaunty feather remaining untouched even as his coat was covered in soot. “This way honored sir,” said an officer, holding out a hand and helping the man clamber into a carriage. “Do you require the services of a physician?”
“What? No...I do not…” The red Arcanist blinked as he saw his blue-robed antagonist across the square, being helped into another carriage.
“Fraud!” he bellowed, pointing an accusing finger. “This is not over! The Masters will hear of this!”
In response the blue arcanist raised a hand and made an obscene gesture. The mercenaries all but threw both men into the carriages, which immediately clattered their way out of the square, before their passengers could get any ideas about continuing their quarrel.
Fenn turned away, headed for a nearby side street and away from the scene. He halted as a pair of Oscanak mercenaries planted themselves in his path. “Going somewhere?” one of them asked with a sneer, noting Fenn’s ragged appearance (now
worse for wear after hours of trudging about looking for lodgings.)
“I had nothing to do with this,” Fenn said. “I just arrived in this city. Let me pass.”
But the mercenaries remained unmoved. “There’s blood on your knife,” one of them said, pointing at the weapon in his right hand.
Fenn winced. He was so busy watching he didn’t sheath the bloody daggers… “Self defense,” he said. “One of the bastards came at me.”
“They’re all saying the same thing,” came the mercenaries reply.
Fenn grinned, unable to think of something to say. He turned around to run, then halted at half a step before impaling himself on a pair of raised sword points, held by two other mercenaries coming up the other way.
He heard swords rasp in their scabbards behind him. He sighed, and let the knives drop to the ground, then knelt down, placing his hands behind his head.
Welcome to Kirondall, Fenn thought bitterly to himself.
“Name?”
The clerk didn’t bother to look up as the question was asked.
“Fenn...wick.” Fenn cleared his throat “My name is Fenwick.”
“That’s it?” The clerk glanced up.
“All my mother gave me.” Fenn gave what he hoped with a disarming smile.
The clerk turned back to the book and scratched down the name. “You are charged with disturbance of the civic peace, damage to property and riot,” he said, repeating the same word he’d given to every other miscreant who’d crossed his path this afternoon. Thirty men were brought in by the mercenaries this afternoon to be added to the already crowded cells below the ancient fortress atop a low hill in the center of the city. A long line ran behind Fenn waiting their turn.
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