The Mercenary Code

by Emmet Moss

  Cursing under his breath, Orn braced himself for the inevitable. Sliding both of his long knives from their sheaths, he stretched his taut neck muscles, adjusted the heavy cloak, and moved forward.

  “Not today, Surefoot,” came a soft voice. A hand tugged lightly at his elbow, the pressure slight yet unyielding.

  Turning around to look at the speaker, Orn frowned when he saw the man who had been shadowing him. “They have no right to hold back companies, Bider. You know that as well as I.”

  “We are not in the north,” Bider reminded his companion. “The Northern Council holds no sway here in the Protectorate. You know the Captain’s orders.”

  Orn chuckled and slowly returned his weapons to their leather casings. Putting an arm around the smaller man, he headed towards one of the drink stalls. “Thirsty?”

  “For water, you mean?” Bider deadpanned.

  “Damn you,” Orn replied with a sigh.

  The Fey’Derin mercenaries continued to push their way doggedly through the large crowds streaming towards the center of the valley and eventually found a clearing not far from the northeastern edge of the Caeronwood.

  Gavin enjoyed the relative quiet on the fringes of the main assembly even though Ossric and Ethan both groaned at the distance that lay between themselves and the nearest tavern. Gavin had long ago lost his enthusiasm for the seedier side of the Ca’lenbam, but he smiled when thinking about how far the big sergeant would have to walk in order to find his bedroll that evening.

  The camp went up with astonishing speed; it always did when a night of cavorting was on the horizon. As long as Gavin considered the work to have been completed adequately, the men were permitted their freedom. With the company very much on display over the next week, each and every soldier was held accountable not only for their behaviour, but also for the cleanliness of their squad’s area.

  The camp was divided into three sections: one for eating, one for sleeping, and one for training. The reputation of the Fey’Derin would surely bring about some excellent contests in the training yard once word spread that they had arrived. Freelancers often pitted themselves against his men in an effort to prove their skills. It was accepted by most that the Fey’Derin’s prowess on the battlefield had been earned through hundreds of hours of diligent training. They were not wrong.

  The first day had passed quickly. As the shadows lengthened, Gavin sat quietly with his senior officers while listening to Brock speak about what he had learned that afternoon. Upon arrival, the sergeant had been swiftly dispatched to make contact with a few of the companies known to be friendly with the Fey’Derin.

  “The Sisters, Falconers, Helmsmen, and Iron Guard are all in attendance, but few other northern companies,” Brock reported, his frosted breath clearly visible as the sun passed behind the valley wall to the west.

  Only the Sisters of the Sword, a company of hardened women led by the tiny Dyana Fairwind, were considered true allies. The Sisters had made a name for themselves after arriving in the Protectorate the previous spring. They had aligned themselves with Duke Berry and successfully defended Matanis alongside the Delan Fere.

  “Strange though, that so many of those are rumoured to have been hired out earlier than usual by the city of Delfwane,” continued Ossric. “I’m sure Herod could shed some light on that subject. He, of anyone, would know the truth behind any of the rumblings.”

  “Aye, but the Delan Fere are nowhere to be seen. That in itself is cause for concern. It’s no secret that Herod has been well paid for his services. Lord Berry has always been generous,” Gavin nodded, “but without some sort of confirmation or preliminary report from either Orn or Coren, we can’t assume that the Northern Council had its companies contracted earlier than usual.”

  Frustrated by the news, Gavin’s eyes rested for a moment on each of his trusted men. “Well, nothing can be decided until the others return. I would like to speak with Duke Berry, though,” raising an eyebrow, he turned to look at Brock.

  “Aye, he’s here, Sir. Near the center of camp where the nobles usually set up,” the officer responded.

  “Good,” Gavin nodded. “And knowing Bider he’ll be back by sun up, so we do have some time to prepare. Sergeant McConnal?” Gavin turned to the towering man who stood teasing the scraggly ends of his beard.

  “Your orders, Captain?”

  “Set up the watch rotation for the evening. Ethan will relieve you and your men come dawn. Keep an eye out for Herod’s arrival as well. For this evening double the watch, standard sentries and perimeter. One can never be too safe.” Pausing for a moment, he motioned to the other men. “Caolte and Ethan, I want you both with me. We have some time before we retire for the night to meet with the Duke and his men. He might be able to shed some light on the present situation.”

  Saluting, the Fey’Derin officers took their leave and got to work.

  “Arne be damned!” hissed Bider. His body tingled uncomfortably, just as it had several times that day.

  “Aye, I feel it as well. And it’s much stronger this time,” replied Orn.

  The pair had spent the better part of their time at the Gathering in the makeshift taverns set up within the sea of tents that had sprung up around the enormous site. Their aim was to cover as much ground and speak to as many company soldiers as possible, all while hoping to separate fact from fiction. The Ca’lenbam was a breeding ground for tall tales and rumours and it took a special talent to discern the kernels of truth that could often be found in each conversation. The information gathered on their sortie would enable Captain Silveron and his officers to make more informed decisions in response to the usually plentiful contract offers that poured in.

  The two Fey’Derin had found the time to return to the registration area and formally register the company. Afterwards, they had made short visits to two taverns and a brothel as they continued their search for useful information. Upon entering the current tent, their skin began prickling almost immediately, a sure sign that magic was being used in the vicinity.

  Gavin Silveron had taken great pains to protect his men from the arcane arts. It was a company pastime on cold nights while huddled around the campfire, to wager on how much it cost the captain each year to visit the mages of the Silveryn Order. With the alarming increase in renegades that refused to follow the rules and practices of Dragon Mount, Captain Silveron had deemed it wise, no matter the cost, to guard his men against the usually undetectable attacks.

  “Let’s take a seat near the fire. We can observe from there,” whispered Bider, pulling Orn through the crowd and closer to the fire ring.

  Those in attendance were a diverse lot. Most were soldiers, and from the looks of their attire, men from companies down on their luck. Dirty tabards, rusted armour and ragged boots marked them as mercenaries down to their last few coins.

  It didn’t surprise Bider that so many soldiers could toss away what small fortune they had left in such a place. A demoralizing loss on the battlefield could scar a man. Years of death and destruction, torture and mayhem could darken a mercenary’s outlook on life. Both Fey’Derin soldiers had been there at one point, and only through some strange twist of fate did they escape the downward spiral that had threatened to overwhelm them. Bider and Orn knew all too well the temptations that these men struggled with.

  Seeing an open table nearby, Orn motioned to the other scout and surveyed the rest of the patrons in the tavern. Besides the men, the customary women of pleasure fawned over anyone who showed the slightest interest in their attentions or carried a heavy purse. The two Fey deftly fended off the advances of a few ladies who had pushed their way across the floor, immediately taking notice of their serviceable clothes and cleaner appearance.

  Orn was delicate in his rejection of the advances, preferring to use his charm. Bider, on the other hand, had no time for such dalliances. Rude and somewhat hostile, the smaller man ignored the w
omen as best he could and found a small table near the fire pit. Its copper chimney piped smoke out of the tent. When business needed tending to, there was little time for games. Pulling up a rickety wooden chair, he motioned to the closest barmaid to bring him an ale, two mugs and a pitcher of water.

  “Two of them are sitting by the back entrance. I believe another is speaking with the bartender,” Bider grunted as Orn arrived at the table, the two women dangling off his arms. They reminded Bider of leeches sucking on skin, ready to devour their host.

  “Ladies, you’ll have to excuse me, I have business to attend to,” pleaded Orn, his arms held up in mock surrender as he sauntered to the table.

  “We can both be your business. One for you and one for your friend,” purred the closer of the two women. “He’s a sweet one, isn’t he?” she giggled.

  “Stay any longer and I’ll toss both of you out on your pretty little arses,” Bider replied icily. Not sparing them another glance, he accepted the two mugs and tossed the barmaid a copper coin from his belt pouch.

  “Arne’s grace, Bider! Can you just try and be cordial for once in your life? I never thought I’d rather be entertaining with Ossric McConnal, barbarian that he is. When the Sergeant comes within spitting distance of a woman, it’s like he’s forgotten how to speak, let alone act,” Orn chuckled as he took a long pull of his water, grimacing when he realized that it wasn’t something stronger.

  “Two of them by the back entrance, another by the bar,” Bider repeated, remaining focused on the task at hand.

  Adjusting his position, the older scout glanced nonchalantly in the direction of the rear tent flaps. Two figures, both dressed in nondescript clothing and light armament, slouched in the semidarkness. At first glance both men seemed no different than any other non-guilded mercenary in the tavern, except for their hands. Delicate and slender fingers, pale and unmarked, rested at their sides. The smooth ivory skin was in vivid contrast to their darkened roughshod uniforms. A typical warrior’s hands, at any given time, were cracked, scarred, swollen and often bandaged.

  “I see the two fools in the back,” Orn nodded.

  “The one at the bar isn’t even hiding his nature. He’s wearing a dark grey robe and attempting to blend in,” added Bider.

  “Gatherings don’t necessarily frown upon mages, even renegades, but for a mage to be out in the open?”

  “I know. Something’s not right. Three establishments with mages… and that counts only the one’s we’ve visited,” Bider replied. “Renegades don’t work together. Cursed Arne, they can’t even coexist in the same city without some battle for power erupting.”

  “And now possibly three in the same tavern, at least one of them casting some sort of spell,” growled Orn, scratching furiously at his chest in a vain attempt to stem the itch beneath his tunic. Bider glanced at the scout, knowing exactly how his friend felt. His own chest burned painfully as well.

  The only downfall of having minor protection from magecraft was that the tattoos, in the vicinity of a spell, itched and burned as though a stray spark from a fire had landed upon the skin. The more powerful the spell, the more pronounced the sensation. It took time to get used to the feeling, but Bider and Orn had long since become adjusted to the sensation, and yet it was all he could do to stop himself from tearing at his tabard.

  “Powerful magic for a tavern, don’t you think, Orn?” Bider asked.

  “Aye, haven’t felt this bad since the Siege of Shand when that pack of renegades decided to tear each other, as well as the city’s outer wall, down around our retreating vanguard.”

  “Let’s wait for the robed one to leave,” Bider smiled. “I think it’s time we delve a little deeper into this mystery.”

  “You needn’t ask twice, friend,” answered Orn, the scout had already downed his first mug of water and poured himself another.

  Bider had figured that one of the mages, preferably the one alone at the bar, would leave while the night was still young. Mages were notorious when it came to rest and relaxation. As the night progressed, none of the three suspicious characters showed any indication that their night was close to being over, and Bider began to feel uneasy about the whole situation. That three possible mages, undoubtedly renegades due to their lack of Silveryn robes, seemed oblivious of one another was a coincidence too impossible to ignore. If, with minor charms, the two company soldiers could detect the use of magic, then it was a certainty that three magicians would have felt the magecraft from across the camp.

  Once again, Bider glowered at his friend, knowing the scout would not mind remaining in such an establishment, especially since the situation did warrant them blending in with their surroundings. Orn had taken the charade to heart even though his mug contained only water and he had downed the better part of eight mugs. Not surprisingly, he knew how to play the role of a drunk quite well.

  “Take it easy, Orn, the last thing I need is a drunken lout on my hands,” commented Bider with a sarcastic grin.

  “Never you mind about me, I’ll be fine,” Orn stared balefully in return. “It seems I can hold my liquor tonight,” the veteran’s voice dripped with envy.

  “You know the Captain’s rule is your own fault. Charade or no charade, he’ll strip you of rank like he did last year if you even think of touching any of my ale. You’d be a lieutenant by now if you could have controlled yourself.”

  Orn’s demeanor changed drastically, as Bider knew it would. It was a risky plan to use against a man with a temper like the scout’s, but the tactic was needed. Bider had seen the looks of longing the older scout had sent towards his mug and could see the man was slowly losing the battle amidst such revelry. Orn had few friends and he trusted only half of them. Bider had seen him at his worst and still accepted him, a reaction not lost on the company scout. Casting his friend a scathing glance, Orn stared into the bottom of his watery mug.

  “I don’t need lectures, lad,” he finally said in return. Leaning back in his chair, the soldier became silent, seemingly lost in his thoughts.

  Bider kept a close watch on his friend’s response. With the situation still in doubt, he caught the anticipated movement out of the corner of his eye. “Time to go, Orn. Our quarry won’t be waiting up for us. We still have work to do this evening.”

  The two Fey’Derin slipped out of the tent and made their way through the shadows, following closely behind the supposed disguised mages. Using company hand signals, the two men split off to either side of the well-trodden path. As far as Bider could tell, the mages had no idea they were being followed.

  Still magic in the air, Orn signaled as they moved towards the command tents that belonged to the nobility and gentry at the Gathering.

  I see no reason for either of them to be casting while walking about, Bider signed.

  As if in response to his thoughts, the hairs on his neck began tingling, sending eerie chills up his spine. Spinning around, the Eagle Runner stared intently into the shadows that lay behind them. They had waited a few moments upon exiting the tavern, hoping to discern whether the third mage was connected to the pair they were tailing. No one had followed them as they had slinked off into the night, but something was not right.

  We’re heading towards the center of camp? Orn signed.

  Once again, a feeling of unease crept over Bider. Pausing to scratch his scruffy chin, it dawned on him. Cloaking! Another mage! He signed frantically to Orn, but it was too late.

  A wave of pressure hammered him backwards, throwing his body easily through the air as if he were no larger than a child. He came down hard and the breath exploded from his lungs. Pain ripped through his left side almost simultaneously. He knew at that moment that several ribs were broken.

  Orn, to his credit, reacted quickly. Launching one of his long knives at the closer of the two armoured mages, he put up a fight. Coughing up blood and attempting to drag himself towards the shadow
s, Bider heard the sickening crunch as the blade penetrated the first mage’s unprotected neck. The man began wailing in pain with a terrible cry that pierced the silence of the night.

  A second wave of air rushed past Bider’s broken body, this time hitting him squarely in the chest. Orn’s second knife flew aimlessly past the robed mage as a half-dozen heavily armed soldiers converged on their location. As the first spear butts landed, he watched Orn’s body crumple to the ground.

  The warding pillars of the Aeldenwood hearken back to a time of darkness and terror. Besieged on all sides by the forces of darkness, the pillars were created by the Gorimm and their allies as a warning system for those cities located near the borders of the realm.

  —D’aerias, Gorimm Keeper

  Chapter XXVIII

  The Tower of A’erinedor, Aeldenwood

  Alessan awoke to find himself alone in the middle of a barren plain.

  The hot sun blazed overhead and the sky was devoid of any clouds. He raised himself to a sitting position on the brown, brittle ground and took a moment to gather his bearings. There was a painful throbbing that hummed in the back of his head as he struggled to his feet.

  His memories were a chaotic jumble of fragmented images. He remembered brief flashes of being chased through the caverns of Rose Keep. A faint feeling of panic still lingered and although his memories were foggy, he did remember facing the terrible Gath in Old Telmire. He was surprised to find himself somewhere other than the ruined city within the Aeldenwood. His final memory was of the large chamber where he had been trapped by the Gath, their sadistic twisted faces imprinted in his mind.

  The sunbaked plain stretched as far as the eye could see, and not a creature stirred in the empty wasteland. Only a small dark outline to the east showed any kind of break in the flat landscape. Alessan could not tell what the silhouette was from such a great distance. He stood in a state of bewildered confusion with so many questions regarding his current predicament bouncing around in his mind. Forcibly, he refocused his unsettled mind and decided to head east towards the dark shape.