The forces met in a storm of steel, the discipline of the seasoned guards being tested as the savagery of the sudden ambush threatened to throw them into disarray. Belios surveyed the melee, his unit of guards were faring well, their discipline and experience fighting together was lending them the advantage and the attackers were losing impetus as they failed to break the shield wall. Unfortunately, the same could not be said for those who had been separated on the flank. The beast leading the assault ran unchecked through their flank, men screamed as they were cut down like wheat before the scythe.
Tyrion charged toward the isolated warriors as the beast raised its axe again. It was painfully apparent that he would not make it in time. With a howl, the beast brought the weapon down. The guard raised his sword to deflect the blow, but the heavy axe brushed it aside and cleft the guard in twain from shoulder to hip in a singular savage strike. The axe bit deep into the earth, and seeing his opportunity, Tyrion launched himself at the beast, stepping nimbly on the weapons blade as he leapt toward the creature. With his best guess as to where its heart might be, Tyrion drove his blade through the creature’s chest. His impetus buried his sword up to its hilt as he slammed into the creature.
The orc grunted its displeasure as it let go of its axe and grabbed the half-elf and raised him high above his head. Grunting in rage, the beast unceremoniously threw Tyrion into the cluster of warriors he had sought to protect. The impact drove the wind from his lungs, and as the half-elf got to his feet, pain shot through his side. “Must have cracked a rib,” he thought as he gingerly touched his side.
Seeing his quarry rise from the dirt, the orc bore down on him. As the creature strode purposefully forward, an arrow struck it in the chest, the fletched shaft lodging itself inches from where Tyrion's blade still rested. In quick succession a second and third arrow struck the beast. Not content to rest while the beast remained a threat, Hiejie continued the barrage with two more arrows hammering into the creature.
The orc’s gait began to slow as it staggered unevenly toward its prey. With his remaining blade raised, Tyrion charged at the creature. The outraged orc swung his axe viciously at the half-elf. Tyrion ducked under and past the blow. As the orc’s momentum carried him forward, Tyrion sprung up and swung his remaining blade with both hands. The blade struck the orc in the neck, its keen blade parting flesh and sinew in one smooth motion. Time seemed to slow as the beast’s head rolled off its shoulders and struck the ground.
At the beast’s fall, a cheer went up from the remaining guards. The defenders surged forward pressing their advantage. Without their leader, the attackers lost their direction and faltered. Belios staggered into the fray, still bleeding from the wound in his stomach. A vicious blow from his hammer crushed the skull of an assailant who lingered too close.
The other remaining guards made their presence felt, and soon the bandits were dead, dying or fleeing for the hills. The guards moved through the wagons, tending to their wounded and dispatching any of the assailants who yet clung to life.
Tyrion moved through the wagons to where Belios stood. The heir to the Mercer stood leaning heavily on his hammer, blood seeping out of the wound in his stomach. In front of him the bandit who had wounded him lay against a wagon wheel, nursing the bloody stump that had been his hand.
Belios hefted his hammer ready to put the wretch out of his misery. “Belios, wait!” Tyrion shouted. “He may know something.”
The heir to the Mercer paused and let his hammer down. Tyrion closed on the crippled bandit and crouched beside him; the man was bleeding out quickly and trying to nurse his arm. The bandit almost snarled as he addressed Tyrion.
“Bloody Heirodius the fool, he said nothing of elves...My master will not be pleased with this defiance.”
‘”What do you mean defiance? You attacked us, we simply defended ourselves. Speak plainly, rogue, your time amongst the living is almost spent.”
“This is the last caravan of autumn; it bears my Master’s tribute. Heirodius always pays the asking price; as a result, his other caravans are left in peace and given safe passage.”
“If Heirodius was paying your tribute, why attack the caravan at all?”
“Not all tribute is silver and gold, you idiot, you were never expected to make it out of this alive. I imagine when Heirodius learns what you’ve done, he’ll find you and kill you himself. Whether your corpses are warm or cold it matters little to my master.”
“He won’t have to find me. I plan to find him when we are through with you.”
“All the more foolish, better to run and hide, at least you will live a little longer that way.” “That vermin sold out my wife and put her in harm’s way. Justice demand he answer for
his actions. I will see it done.” “You are a naive fool...”
“Foolhardy perhaps… but not a fool. I am a man of principles, without them you have nothing. Something for you to ponder as your life expires. You’ve lived as a thief and vagabond, murdering for your own gain and yet today, in this moment, you have nothing, and tomorrow you will have less. All that will be left of you is the carcass that feeds the crows.
Your life will have been wasted, and no one will even remember your name. It is you who are the fool.”
Tyrion got to his feet and made his way over to Belios. The burly captain was clutching the knife still buried in his chest. As Tyrion reached him, Belios turned to face the half-elf. “Are you serious about confronting Heirodius?”
“No...” replied Tyrion evenly. As Belios face sunk, Tyrion finished. “...I am serious about killing him.”
“I wish I could be there to see it; years I’ve slaved away guarding his caravans and that mongrel sold me like a chattel. Who knows how many of my brothers have died here, because of him.”
“You will see it, Belios, fear not.”
“You don’t have to coddle me, Tyrion, I’ve seen it many times. A knife in the guts is a slow and painful way to die.”
“Hiejie, would you take a look at Belios?” Turning to the wounded warrior he gestured, “Belios, lay down, my friend. It will be difficult to do anything with you hunched over the wound.”
The elf maiden sheathed her bow and bent over the injured warrior. “Belios, I’m going to need to remove that knife if I am to do anything.”
“If you do... I’ll bleed out.” The injured man exclaimed between labored breaths. “Trust me,” was her simple response.
Gingerly she removed the knife, Belios grunted in pain. As expected, the flow of blood increased. Without hesitation Hiejie placed two hands on the wound and began chanting in elvish. “Ed' i' me'a en' i' ithil amin fallana lle.” Hiejie’s hands shone radiantly. When the light faded Hiejie removed her blood-soaked hands. Belios gasped in surprise where a moment earlier blood had flowed freely from the wound. Now in its place his flesh was knit together, and the wound sealed as if it had never happened.
“By Axorra, what is this?”
“Among our people I am a Healer, this is my art. Careful though, inside of you will take longer to heal, but Tyrion is right...you will not die today.”
“I am in your debt...” Belios exclaimed. “We are all in your debt. That ambush would have killed us all.”
“Fortune smiled on us today but we are not safe yet, Belios,” Tyrion spoke quickly. “You heard the rat, Heirodius will be anxious to finish us off. News of what becomes of those he has employed will be bad for his business. He will seek to silence us quickly.”
“What do you have in mind?” Belios asked expectantly.
“We will play into his hand, we’ll return to Shallowtide with news of the attack, we will be given passage into the keep and then we will strike at him from within his walls.”
“We must gather whatever weapons you can scavenge. We’ll trade the rest of the caravan’s wares for gold. We’ll use the gold to raise an army that will wield them. When the time comes, we will conceal them within the wagons. If we are swift, we will kill Heirodius before they can rais
e an alarm. Are you with me?”
“Certainly, you saved my life today.” Belios responded quickly, turning to his men he asked, “What about you lot?” The newly revived Captain bellowed at the remaining guards and teamsters. A chorus of ayes rang out in response. “Well Tyrion, it seems you have the makings of your army. What you do with it is up to you.”
Chapter 5
The battered caravan made its way slowly toward Shallowtide. In an effort to avoid anyone else that may have been lying in wait, the caravan took a circuitous route through southern Vantacor, stopping at a number of small towns along the way. Discreetly, the bulky wares the caravan had carried were sold off in exchange for gold.
The gold served two purposes: First, while heavy it occupied less space in the wagons, which would be crucial in the coming days. Secondly, it was a commodity most appealing to the sell swords and soldiers of fortune that infested the south of Vantacor. Strife and turmoil had plagued the land since the King's death; constant conflict had brought their professions to the fore. Scouts, hunters, apothecaries, healers and scores of warriors flocked to the caravan.
First to the cause was Daylor. The stealthy scout shadowed the convoy night and day as it wove its way westward toward Shallowtide. Three days after the ambush the caravan woke, the scent of cooking meat filled their nostrils as the camp came alive. The embers of the evening fire had been revived, and a boar turned slowly on a spit above the fire. When Tyrion woke, he found the scout patiently tending to breakfast surrounded by several bewildered sentries. When it became apparent that he had infiltrated the camp, stoked the fire and prepared a meal before his presence was detected, Tyrion laughed and motioned the sentries away. “If he had meant us harm, I have no doubt we’d already be dead, leave him be. Let us hear what he has to say.”
The scout smiled. “I am Daylor, I’ve come to offer my services. I think we can both see the need for them.”
Tyrion laughed heartily. “As a chef or a scout? For we sorely need both, my friend.” “Anyone can turn a spit, Tyrion, but few stalk the shadows as I do. I’ll see none enter your camp unbidden again.”
“Consider it done, Daylor.”
Upon reaching Alnwick, a small town in the south of Vantacor, the remainder of the provisions and precious stones were sold. Tyrion found himself in possession of a small fortune. Hiejie examined the fortune and spoke quietly. “We could take this gold and never return to Shallowtide. Heirodius could never reach us in Aethel Asari. We would be set for life.”
“Indeed, we would be safe in Aethel Asari, safe from Heirodius anyway, but we would be as those before us. Holed up in a mountain hoping our enemies will not reach us. I will not do it. I cannot bury my head in the dirt and wait for death to find me.”
“But why walk willingly into its jaws, my love? Why tempt the gods in such a manner?
Think about it, Tyrion. Please…”
“I have, Hiejie, for the last week it’s all I’ve thought about. This gold is the price Heirodius put on our lives. He traded us like a chattel to those creatures, and for what? For his own gain, a few more measly pieces of gold are what our lives were worth, and I will not stand for it. It is the embodiment of everything that is wrong with this world. In the thirty years since the King died we have known nothing but war. Divided by race or clan we struggle endlessly among ourselves for gold or gain, all the while darkness gathers in the East. It’s time to break the cycle.”
“Many lives will be lost, ours perhaps among them.”
“Perhaps, but should we win out, we will control Shallowtide. In times past the men of old sought alliance with our people against the darkness. It is the very reason I am even here. If we control Shallowtide, we might see that reality brought to pass. I will not flee from the storm that is to come.” Pausing, Tyrion gazed into the eyes of his beloved. “If I stay the course, will you stand with me?”
“Always, my love, but we will need more men, many more.”
“Then we best put this gold to use.”
Steadily the caravan grew. As the caravan moved eastward, they encountered an elven merchant, Elang. Sharp-eyed and shrewd, the elven entrepreneur brokered an arrangement, his own soldiers and services in exchange for a substantial parcel of gold. Knowing his gold would mean little in the event of failure, Tyrion agreed. The caravan moved west, strengthened considerably by the addition of Elang’s forces.
The caravan drew near its destination; by day’s end they would reach Shallowtide.
Wending through the forest leading to the city, the party found its path blocked by a fallen bough. Wary of another ambush, Daylor was dispatched to survey the surroundings.
Finding no sign of foul play, the caravan moved cautiously onward, as the caravan drew near the fallen tree, a figure materialized from within the foliage. The newcomer was clad in leathers and fur with a bow slung over one shoulder, long brown hair failed to conceal the long pointed ears and graceful features of an elf. Without a word, the elven woman raised a hand and began to chant. Above her outstretched hand a ball of flames coalesced.
The warriors in the caravan’s vanguard leapt from the wagon and scattered. Seeing the flames, Tyrion too dismounted and approached the stranger. The flames grew as the sorceress chanted steadily. Seeing Tyrion approach unperturbed gave the stranger pause.
“You are either brave or foolish, I am not sure which. Take another step and it will matter little.” The elvish woman exclaimed.
“You would kill another elf in cold blood, without so much as a word as to why? I know our folk are distant kin, but they are kin nonetheless. Explain yourself.” Tyrion responded without flinching.
“I have no need,” the stranger declared.
“You have every need, be quick about it too; Daylor over there is starting to look like he is tiring.” Tyrion responded gesturing his head to the side.
The sorceress glanced to her right and spotted the scout. Arrow nocked and at the ready. “Sorry, milord, I should have seen her the first time.”
“Don’t beat yourself up, Daylor. The wood elves are without equal in their craft.”
“Be that as it may, I can see her now…very clearly.”
“To what end,” the sorceress spat as the flames broiled over her outstretched palm. “Fire that arrow and your lord is dead. Likely you along with him, the collateral damage to your friends will be severe.”
“There is no need for any of us to die today. I still can’t understand what would possess you to accost us as you have.”
“I’m here to send your master a message. For too long his agents have torn down the forests of my people. We will tolerate it no more. There is a price to be paid for his arrogance.”
“You must have me confused with another, I have no master,” Tyrion replied.
“Do not lie to me, these wagons bear the mark of Heirodius, I would know it anywhere.” “Indeed they do. They were once his but…have recently come under new management. If
it’s Heirodius you seek, get in line. You are not the only one who has an account to settle.”
“You mean…”
“I plan to kill him. If you wish to help, your assistance would be a most welcome aid. If not, permit us to depart, we wish to be in Shallowtide before dark.”
The sorceress closed her fist and the fireball dissipated. “If you will put a stop to the destruction of these woods, I will aid you. If you betray me, I’ll ensure I do not die alone.” The wood elf spoke menacingly.
“I understand. Rest assured, before the sun sets this night, Heirodius or I will be dead. I am not one for half measures.”
“Then I will join you and lend my strength to your cause. Short and ill-fated though it might be.”
“What is your name?” Tyrion replied. “Shiva,” was the curt reply he received.
It was dusk before the caravan meandered into Shallowtide. At Tyrion’s direction, signs of the ambush and subsequent battle had been enhanced, the canvas torn and wagons battered.
Loosening
the axel fittings generated extra noise and conveyed the impression of a convoy barely able to make its way forward, grinding loudly as it threatened to fall apart at the seams. Concealed behind the charade, warriors lay in wait where Heirodius’ wares had once been.
As the battered company moved through the city, agents of Heirodius sent word to their master of the caravan’s return. By the time survivors reached the citadel of Heirodius, there were a host of attendants assembled to meet them. As Tyrion surveyed the courtyard, Heirodius was noticeably absent. A troop of soldiers had positioned themselves by the gate. Others stood guard at the door to the citadel itself.
“Are you ready, Belios?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be, Tyrion. We’re in the lion’s mouth now, any moment those jaws are going to come crushing in on us.”
“Let’s not wait for it then, let us take the battle to the beast. On my signal, storm the stairs, if we can gain access to the citadel we have a chance. If we are caught in the open, the guards on the wall will cut us down. Elang and Daylor will secure the gate; they will ensure no one can come to his aid.”
“The stairs it is, Tyrion. Careful of Heirodius, he’s a wily old bastard. Don’t give him any quarter.”
“He’ll get what’s coming to him, Belios, do not fear.” As the lead wagon reached the base of the long stone stairway leading toward the citadel, Tyrion’s hand went to the blade at his side. Taking a moment to calm his nerves, the half-elf took a deep breath. Then at the top of his lungs Tyrion shouted a singular command...
Rise of The Mercenary King Page 3