by A. C. Cobble
Ben winced, thinking about the score of men putting the merchant train to bed.
“Ale is good then,” murmured Amelie, glancing at her companions. “Five of them.”
“Six,” coughed Rhys.
“Seven,” said Ben with a wink.
Amelie rolled her eyes, but the barmaid merely dashed off to fill their mugs. They settled around a table and Ben and Rhys started work on their tankards, watching and listening to the other patrons in the station.
It had been weeks since they’d spent long enough around strangers to learn any news, and just a few days hike from Whitehall, it was important they found out what was going on in the city. They meant to confront the new king and convince him that the war the Alliance had been heading toward for the last several years was a mistake and that he’d be better off bringing his men home and declaring a truce with the Coalition. The more Ben thought about it, the more ridiculous it sounded.
“When we get to Whitehall,” asked Prem under her breath, “will we be able to just walk in?”
Ben shrugged. “I don’t see why not. None of the soldiers there know who we are or would have any reason to stop us. We can claim we are just travelers on our way to the port to get passage across the Blood Bay.”
Rhys sat down his second mug, already empty, and nodded. “Hide in plain sight. As long as we don’t look suspicious, they won’t have any reason to suspect us.”
“Is Whitehall similar to Venmoor?” asked Prem.
“Well, it’s much larg—”
A loud crash and a string of startled curses cut through the murmur of voices in the room. Ben looked toward the off-duty soldiers and saw one man, red-faced, standing above a flipped-over table. Liquid dripped down his front. He raised a trembling finger to point at a man across from him.
“You spilled my ale!”
“Nathan, calm down,” pleaded a third soldier. “It was an accident.”
“Three nights in a row!” shouted the soldier named Nathan. “Three nights in a row this jackass has accidentally spilled an ale right in my lap? No, this is the last time. I’m done with him and the entire 17th Company.”
“What are you going to do, ask us to return to Whitehall?” snapped the ale-spilling soldier across from him. “Believe me, I wish we could. I’ve asked the captain over and over, and every time, he says we’re needed here. It’s too bad the Snowmar Company is so soft that you can’t handle your own business without the 17th playing chaperone.”
A low growl emanated from Nathan. “You ever face a demon swarm, Jonas? Until you do, let’s not talk about who is soft.”
Snickering, Jonas taunted, “Soft or dead, that’s what all you Snowmar boys are, aren’t you? You’re soft, and your alternate company is dead. It’s no wonder they can’t find any permanent recruits to replace them. No one wants to be a loser.”
“Now, hold on,” demanded the third man, the one who had been trying to make peace. “This is going too far. A lot of us lost friends when the demons attacked. I’d appreciate it if you don’t talk bad about ‘em. Let’s get Nathan another ale and—”
“How about Nathan gets me an ale?” barked Jonas.
Ben couldn’t see the man’s face, but he could see Nathan and the third soldier’s. They were glowing red, simmering with building anger. Near the men, soldiers were shifting, forming a loose ring around the confrontation. The civilian side of the room had fallen dead quiet, all eyes fixed on the feuding soldiers.
“This isn’t good,” murmured Rhys. He tapped on his shoulder.
Ben blinked and realized that half the men wore a black snowflake badge on their white tunics. The other half had a simple relief of Whitehall. Two different companies, squaring off on opposite sides of each other.
“I sense something,” whispered Prem. “A manipulation of energy. It’s subtle…”
Towaal frowned, and glanced at Amelie.
She shrugged.
“I don’t feel anything,” murmured Towaal. “Nothing like what we’ve learned in the Sanctuary, at least.”
“I think it’s best you leave, Jonas,” said the third soldier, rising slowly to his feet, and drawing Ben’s attention back to the feuding soldiers. “You’ve had enough to drink tonight, and in the morning, I’m putting in a formal complaint with your captain to have you removed from Snowmar. It will be back to the barracks in Whitehall for you, after a short stint in the gaol for conduct.”
“A formal petition. Is that what all your dead friends put in before the demons ripped out their throats?”
A combination of gasps and groans rose from the pack of soldiers.
Nathan, evidently deciding he was done discussing the matter, stepped forward and swung his balled fist straight into the face of the seated Jonas. The man and his chair flipped back, and Nathan pounced on him, raising his fists and raining blows on the stunned man below him.
All around, soldiers started shouting encouragement or curses, but none made a move to interfere. Finally, the third soldier – the original peacemaker – stepped forward and caught Nathan’s arm, halting a blood-covered fist from descending again.
“That’s enough. That’s enough, Nathan. We’ll lodge a complaint and get him out of here in the morning.”
The group from Whitehall looked angry that their fellow had been beaten in front of them, but he had been the antagonist, and Nathan was being pulled away by his own man.
Nathan met the third soldier’s eye and then slowly nodded. He glanced around the assembled men. “This bastard never drinks in Snowmar Station again, you hear me?”
Below him, Jonas moaned and shifted.
Nathan’s fists clenched.
One of the Whitehall contingent stepped forward, his hands raised, palms out. “Jonas disrespected you. He shouln’ta said that about your friends. It’s not right to talk about the dead that way. None of us’ll interfere with what ya done, but he’s had enough. Let tha man up. He’s married ta my cousin, and he’s just wantin’ to get home. You know how it is with a long stretch away from the missus. Come on, I’ll buy you another ale. Let’s forget about all this talk that’s been going around. We’re all on tha same side still, right?”
Nathan nodded and dragged one knee up. Before he could stand, between the wall of bodies, Ben saw a flash of steel. Nathan grunted and looked down in surprise. Sticking out from his ribcage was the wooden hilt of a knife.
“Dead, just like your loser friends,” cackled Jonas through a blood-soaked smile.
With a howl of rage, the third man jumped on Jonas, drawing his belt-knife and thrusting. The man from Whitehall who’d claimed Jonas was married to his cousin drew his knife as well and charged into the fray.
The knot of soldiers exploded into chaos. Whitehall’s 17th Company and Whitehall’s Snowmar Company fell on each other like rabid dogs. Fists and knives flew, chairs shattered, and shouts went up for reinforcements.
Ben, his friends, and the others on the civilian side of the room all scrambled away and backed toward the wall, unsure what was happening, but knowing they didn’t want to get involved.
A man went running to the door and kicked it open, shouting outside, “We’ve been betrayed. Everyone to arms! The 17th is—”
The man’s warning was cut short with a gurgle as another soldier wrapped an arm around his neck and slid a blade across his throat.
“The window!” cried Rhys.
Ben’s companions and the other civilians bolted to two windows that let light into the front of the mess hall. There were two other windows, but they were inaccessible due to the growing brawl between the soldiers.
A shattering sound and a high-pitched scream drew Ben’s attention while he waited to evacuate through the window. He grimaced in horror. A lantern had been smashed against a pile of debris, and as he watched, the oil spilled out over broken tables and chairs, quickly catching into a merrily burning fire.
“Hurry,” he shouted. “Fire!”
The civilians in front of him needed n
o more incentive, and quickly, they were streaming out the window and into the cool night air.
In the open square, between the two walls of Snowmar and the mountains of the pass, more and more soldiers were gathering, some peering into the mess hall to figure out what was happening, some eyeing each other suspiciously. Clearly, the tension between the groups had been brewing for a long time.
Toward the eastern gate that led to Whitehall, Ben caught sight of a solitary figure striding away into the night. Moving the opposite direction of the rest of the people in the square, the figure seemed out of place. Ben watched as it approached the gate, but then an angry stream of curses drew his attention. He saw a middle-aged man storming across the square. He was furiously barking commands and shouting questions. The soldiers around him snapped to attention. The leader of the Snowmar garrison, guessed Ben.
“What is going on here?” snarled the man, stomping closer to the mess hall. “Who started this!”
A man stumbled out of the mess hall, blood streaming down the side of his face, a glistening dagger clutched in his hand. The commander charged up to him and grabbed the front of the man’s tunic.
“If I find you bastards from the 17th started this,” yelled the commander, “then every one of you that was in that mess hall is going to hang!”
The bloody man blinked at the commander, and then slammed the tip of his dagger into the older soldier’s gut. The commander stumbled back, clutching the wound, his mouth hanging open in disbelief. Behind the bloody soldier, more men from the 17th started to appear out of the mess hall. Ben could see flickering flames growing behind them.
“No witnesses,” screamed the soldier, shoving the commander over and glaring at the scattered men behind him. “If even one of them lives, we all hang.”
“Oh damn,” mumbled Rhys.
The square burst into chaos. Civilians began running in every direction, soldiers started to attack each other, and Ben saw the men around the merchant caravan forming up, backs toward their wagons.
“There!” shouted Ben, gesturing for his friends to follow him to the caravan.
He led them toward the merchants, shoving a confused soldier out of the way. When they drew close, the wagon men raised their weapons, unwelcome glares painted on their faces.
“Give us a ride to Whitehall and we’ll watch your backs on the way out of here,” offered Ben.
“Do it!” growled a plump, frantic-looking man. His hair stood straight up from his head where he must have been tugging on it. He was trying to kick the chocks out from under the wagon wheels, but it was clear his skill was in the counting room instead of beneath the wagon.
The wagon men glanced at the chaos enveloping the square, and they broke, clambering over their wagons, hitching horses, knocking off brakes. It seemed none of them wanted to battle Whitehall’s soldiers on the way to Whitehall.
“That soldier was right. If they leave any witnesses to this, they’ll hang,” remarked Rhys, drawing his sword and turning to watch the chaos in the square. “It’s a fight to the death for every member of that company. Ben—”
“I know, I know,” grumbled Ben. “Next time, though, we’re going to avoid killing.”
“These taverns you like so much seem to be dangerous places,” commented Prem. “Down in Venmoor, here—”
“They are occasionally dangerous,” conceded Rhys. He winked at her. “That’s the fun of it.”
“Concentrate,” warned Ben as a cluster of soldiers broke off, heading toward his party.
Behind them, the wagon men were still furiously preparing to travel.
“We’re friends!” called one of the soldiers. “We’re with the Snowmar Company, unlike those murdering bastards from down the hill. Take us with you. Someone has to let King Saala know what happened here.”
As the man spoke, a second group, twice the size, closed on the approaching soldiers.
“Watch your back!” called Ben.
Cursing, the soldiers turned.
“We need information,” mentioned Rhys. “No one will know the troop movements better than a soldier.”
Warily, the two groups of men sized each other up, and seeing they had superior numbers, the men from the 17th raised weapons and advanced.
“Ah damn,” muttered Ben.
He charged forward, Rhys and Prem lunging to join him. Together with Snowmar’s soldiers, it was an even fight, numerically, but Ben had sparred with Whitehall’s soldiers before. He knew his friends would have little trouble with them.
He brushed past a Snowmar guard’s shoulder and spun his longsword, smacking it down on an opposing soldier’s blade, letting the impact bounce his own sword back to where he thrust it into the chest of a second man.
The first man’s weapon, forced down from Ben’s blow, caught in the dirt of the square. Ben felt a momentary flash of guilt and then slashed his sword across the man’s throat, opening it wide and spilling a waterfall of hot blood down the soldier’s white tunic.
“If you want to go, we’re going now!” called a voice from behind.
Ben saw his friends had finished the remaining soldiers, and the merchant was standing on the bed of his lead wagon, gesticulating for the driver to start moving. One by one, the wagons started to roll, and Ben and his friends raced after them, leaping to catch one and scrambling over the tailgate. Behind them, the soldiers they’d saved caught another, tossing weapons into the bed and then flopping over the sides. Three soldiers. Three men from the Snowmar Company. As Ben watched behind them, he wondered if those would be the only three to survive the night.
“Onions,” muttered Rhys, holding up one of the vegetables. “Why couldn’t we find an ale merchant?”
“Just be glad for the ride,” advised Ben.
Behind them, soldiers from the 17th Company noticed the wagons moving, and they ran to catch them. The merchant was driving his team hard, though, and the wagons rumbled across the flat dirt, picking up speed.
Soldiers shouted after them, but with arms and armor, they couldn’t move fast enough to catch up. Within moments, the wagons passed through the open gates of Snowmar Station and started down the slope toward Whitehall. Atop the walls, guards looked down, confused about what was happening. Moving downhill, the merchant was able to increase speed, and quickly, they left the soldiers behind.
Ben knew the wagons would have to slow once they made it into the narrow, twisting road that led down the mountain, but with any luck, they could gain enough distance from the soldiers that it wouldn’t matter. Above them, the moon hung in the black night sky. Stars shimmered in the clear air. Shouts of anger and pain faded as they pulled out of Snowmar Pass and moved into the winding canyons on the way to Whitehall.
He looked for the shape that had vanished through the gate before the fighting started, but he didn’t see anyone after Snowmar’s wall passed out of sight. Whoever it was, they were hiding, he guessed. Smart.
“It will be bells before the merchant allows a rest,” said Rhys.
Glancing behind them at Snowmar’s watchtower one last time before it disappeared behind a rocky ridge, Ben responded, “Let’s get some sleep then, if we can.”
“I’ll stay on watch,” offered Towaal.
“Wake me when you get tired,” instructed Ben. Then he settled down, shoving a pile of onions to the side to make a lumpy bed for himself.
Amelie curled up next to him, resting her head in the crook of his arm and staring up at the sky. “It’s a beautiful night.”
“Perfect night to sleep in a moving onion wagon while fleeing a gang of bloodthirsty soldiers,” murmured Ben.
Amelie smiled at him, and he laid his head back, glad to have her warmth next to him as they passed deeper into the cold night.
4
Whitehall
The thick walls and steel gates of Whitehall rose in front of them as they rumbled over the bridge that led to the only landward entrance of the city. On top of the walls, armed soldiers patrolled relentlessly
, moving beneath giant white streamers emblazoned with the red mastodon of the Alliance. The gates were wide open, but scores of armed men watched the incoming traffic and directed the long line of wagons that awaited entry.
“Provisions for the troops,” speculated Rhys. “They must be digging up every tuber and plucking every leaf in Sineook Valley.”
“They’ve a lot of men to feed,” responded Amelie. “Besides, we saw the farmers arguing with the soldiers. Those men would rather send their produce than their sons. I don’t blame them.”
“Do you think he’s still here?” wondered Ben.
“He was when Snowmar’s soldiers were last in the city,” answered Towaal. “Typically, though, a general would move with his advance forces and oversee the staging of his men. That’s the critical activity when mobilizing an army, and lieutenants can handle dispatching the materials. In this case, Saala just recently took command of the armies and the city. He’s an outsider, and while he may have gained the support of the majority of the lords, surely there are some who resent his rise. It would be dangerous for him to turn his back while his reign is so fresh.”
“Ignore the army and the upcoming battle with the Coalition, or ignore the potential backstabbers,” remarked Amelie. “Neither one is a good choice.”
In front of them, the soldiers from Snowmar Station had already clambered off the wagon and made their way up to the city’s gates. They were animatedly discussing their situation with the guards there.
“Maybe we should have separated from the merchant and those men before now,” worried Ben, watching the alarm on the faces of the guards at the gate.
“There wasn’t a way to slink away without raising suspicion. If we passed up a free ride, they would assume we have something to hide,” reminded Amelie. Men began shouting, and Ben saw several dart back inside the city. Worry passed up and down as nervous merchants and travelers tried to guess what caused the uproar. “Though, perhaps we should have risked it.”
From the gate, a squad of men was marching down the line of wagons, their eyes fixed on the merchant who led their train.