by J. M. Topp
Korhas opened his mouth in shock.
‘You knew it was us! You could have—’
‘Killed you? Yes, I could have,’ said Rebecca, turning from him and walking to the edge of the tree line. ‘When you arrive in Flodden, search for a man named Theyllyn. He will help you cross the Kingsoul River into the Khahadran and from there, Aivaterra.’
Rebecca stood at the tree line and turned to stare at Bendrick.
‘It’s good to know that some legends are true…Rovulgad Reaper.’
Korhas looked at Bendrick, closing his mouth and raising an eyebrow.
‘The Reaper?’ whispered Korhas.
Bendrick frowned momentarily as he watched the elf disappear.
‘That’s a story for another time, Korhas.’
Korhas turned to the elf’s shadow and frowned. ‘We’re just letting her go?’
‘If you want to detain her, be my guest. I happen to like my head on my shoulders.’ Bendrick smiled at the lord. Korhas shook his head, muttered something, and sheathed his sword. The elf disappeared into the thick undergrowth.
‘Everything in order, Father?’ Sieglinde stood by the cart, hand on her sword hilt. Korhas turned and let out an audible sigh.
Bendrick placed a hand on Korhas’ shoulder and laughed.
‘Come, Korhas. We have a long way to travel.’
THE SMALL ENVOY arrived at Flodden without much interruption after eight days of rigorous travel. Flodden was a border town in-between Eldervale and the Khahadran. Sitting on the muddy banks of the Kingsoul River, Flodden was a hub for travelers, merchants, and mercenaries. Flodden had gained the reputation of being a cutthroat society. Often, the town guard, also known as mud-men, would find corpses floating in the river. The town had such an enormous nomadic population that any form of investigation was useless, and containing all suspects was an impossible task, as no one residing in Flodden was innocent of crime. The town guard would seldom look into murders unless they witnessed them firsthand—that is, if they hadn’t committed the crime themselves.
Icy winds from the Kingsoul blew through the town, chilling Flodden. The sun was beginning to set in the west. Bendrick didn’t want to spend any more time than he had to in this rotten river town. They found a small inn, Rickert’s Rest, in one of the many alleyways leading to the river. Its sign above the door looked very much like a man behind bars. As they tied the horses to the hitching post, Bendrick noticed that there were torches lit, but there were very few people inside.
Good. One night in this godforsaken place.
The heavy wooden door creaked as the troop entered the inn. The hearth fire in one corner heated the entirety of the first floor of the inn. Tables were placed around the room with tall candles in the center. The candlesticks themselves had designs of women dancing and holding tiny trumpets to their lips. The innkeeper glanced at them and grinned. She wore a patched blue dress and a white neckerchief.
A bloodshield with the Black Bull was hung behind her, polished and without a scratch. Bendrick glanced at it and smiled at the name. It was called a bloodshield due to the dark-red colour that made it look like someone had spilled blood on it. It was a true depiction of Weserith and, as such, was adequate as its crest.
The innkeeper approached the travelers as they took a seat around a small corner table.
‘Good eve, and welcome to Rickert’s Rest. Would you be drinking ale or wine?’ she piped delightfully at the trio. Korhas grimaced and asked for the meal of the night along with a large tankard of ale.
‘Hot soup and potatoes with pieces of venison.’ The innkeeper smiled. ‘Fresh venison from this morning’s hunt.’
‘Three of those for me and my friends here.’
‘Wine for me, please.’ Bendrick smiled and glanced at Korhas’ disapproving look. She nodded and went to gather the meal and drinks for the three travelers.
‘This morning’s hunt? She’s a perky little liar, isn’t she?’ Sieglinde said with a grunt as she loosened the straps on her boots. ‘Rat or dog, more like.’
Korhas scanned the room cautiously. Three farmers and a mud-woman were sitting at a table across from them in hushed conversation. Another man sat in a corner with a pipe, seemingly asleep, except for the occasional puff of smoke coming from the pipe. Satisfied that there were no immediate threats, Korhas slouched in his chair.
‘We’ve had good luck thus far; let’s hope it doesn’t run out,’ said Korhas.
‘Once we enter the Khahadran, we must change clothing. The Aivaterrans would recognize us if we came in Weserith garb,’ Bendrick whispered to them. ‘It’s not a prospect I much appreciate, but we have no other real choice.’
‘Bendrick, I…’ Korhas hesitated as if trying to phrase something but not knowing exactly how. He rubbed his upper lip in contemplation.
‘It’s about what the elf called you: The Rovulgad Reaper. I’ve heard the stories. I wanted to know if they are true.’ Korhas stared intently at Bendrick. ‘What exactly happened at Rovulgad Bridge?’
Bendrick hesitated and bit his upper lip. He didn’t like remembering the events that had taken place there. As an untested lieutenant, he had thought that he was making the right call. It had proved to be anything but that.
‘Rovulgad Bridge was the only separation between Weserith and what once was the Kingdom of Uredor. The events that took place there were the catalyst for the Kingsfury War. I was in command of a thousand Weserith men—all highly trained soldiers. King Ayland saw fit to put me at the front lines that night. Rain poured from the skies, and thunder roared above us. We patrolled the Greenwood River, keeping our headquarters just west of the bridge. As I recall, you had to return to the Greenwood forest to protect your people from an attack from Arrowgarde Fortress.’ Bendrick sighed as the innkeeper brought their meal. She set their bowls of scalding soup before them and left to attend to other customers. ‘The sun had already set as the moon rose behind clouds. There wasn’t much light, except for the torches my patrols carried. The Uredor armies were camped on the other side of the river, their torches mirroring ours. A Uredoran diplomatic party arrived from their side to try and figure out a solution to avoid war. The flag of Halt of Arms was raised over both sides to indicate a ceasefire.’
Korhas ears were steeled to Bendrick’s story. He completely ignored the food and drink before him. Sieglinde nibbled at a piece of bread and stared at the table, also listening intently. Bendrick reached for his mug and drank from it, savoring the red wine. It was more oily water than anything, but Bendrick drank it, regardless. He set it down and wiped his mouth with his sleeve.
‘In the night, we saw an enemy military carriage and soldiers crossing the bridge without warning. The patrol guarding our side of the bridge raised the alarm. I still remember the captain entering my tent. Panicked, he informed me that the Uredor Army was mounting an attack, ignoring the current Halt of Arms. I commanded them to attack immediately and destroy the carriage on the bridge. But I wasn’t about to have my men do my killing for me. As the carriage set foot on our soil, I charged. Sword in hand, I cut off the head of the driver. I was much stronger then. With one swoop, I killed the man. One thing struck me as strange. He wasn’t wearing armour of any kind, nor did he have a weapon in his hands. He had them raised, in fact. But it was far too late. My men killed the people around it and set fire to the carriage. Screams were heard from within. I learned too late that it wasn’t a military carriage as I was told: it was a group of refugees seeking haven in Weserith. Those poor, unlucky Uredoran men, their wives, and their children, were defecting. How wrong they were in assuming that Weserith was safer. It was just too damn dark. The Uredor Army thought we were mounting an attack on their encampment, and they crossed the river en masse. The Battle of the Rovulgad Bridge occurred that night. We crushed them utterly. There I earned the nickname Rovulgad Reaper.’
Bendrick tossed the rest of the drink into his mouth and set the cup lightly on the table. Korhas sat stroking his long beard in silen
ce, digesting the story. Sieglinde slurped her soup quietly. She had heard this story before but not in detail as Bendrick had just described. She knew it took its toll on Bendrick to remember that story. The innkeeper gave Sieglinde a refill of hot soup.
‘Wonderful venison.’ Sieglinde smirked at the innkeeper flashing her most fake grin. The innkeeper merely mock curtsied and smiled as she continued to clean around the inn.
Bendrick’s appetite had left him, and he pushed the bowl away. ‘That night, I decided I didn’t want to live my life to take another’s away. Though I wear a sword, I will never again use it to kill another man.’
‘War stories are a dark business,’ said Korhas with a solemn nod. ‘Nevertheless, don’t drink to forget, only to remember.’ Korhas put his mug to his lips and drank deeply. He then took a spoonful of the innkeeper’s soup. The trio enjoyed their meal in relative silence.
Suddenly, from the windy night, the door blew open and three armoured men burst into the inn. They wore blue and white gambesons—the colours of an Aivaterran division. They were soldiers and drunk as well. The one who entered the room first had a thick red beard and a steel cap helm. The one to his left wore an eye patch and was frowning murderously. The man to his right wore only a burlap shirt, his muscles accentuated by the loose clothes. He was missing an eye, but unlike his other friend, he did not wear an eye patch, only an evil grin.
‘Bertha, da fock that still doing ’ere?’ said the one with the red beard. They had straight swords at their hips and devilish looks on their faces.
What the hell were Aivaterrans doing in Flodden?
From the looks of them, they frequented Rickert’s Rest often. They fanned out among the room, eyeing the inhabitants menacingly. Three of the men who were sitting at the table with the mud-woman rose and scurried out of the room. The mud-woman remained sitting at the table, staring at the soldiers. Her hand was on a small gladius at her side. Bertha nervously looked at them as they fled, pretending to clean the bar.
‘Are ye deaf, Bertha?’ The man approached the bar and leaned on it. He struck the innkeeper with his gauntleted hand. She gasped and tumbled behind the counter. She rose with tears in her eyes and hand on her cheek.
‘My lords, I have no idea what you mean,’ she pleaded and began to sob. Korhas reached for his sword, but Bendrick held his hand out shaking his head. He turned to study the situation before them. The other Aivaterrans erupted in laughter.
‘That fokin t’ing hanging ’ere.’ He pointed at the bloodshield bearing the sigil of Weserith. ‘I warned yous, take ‘at thing down.’
‘Alright, Eadric, I’ll take it down. You don’t have to be so upset,’ pleaded the innkeeper sheepishly, bleeding from her mouth and nose. She stood up and moved to take the shield down.
‘Don’t you fucking touch that bloodshield.’ The mud-woman who sat at the table across from Bendrick stood up, grasping her gladius. It was more a butter knife than an actual weapon, but she held it pointed at the men regardless. Her knuckles were white. ‘Flodden is an Eldervale town. Hundreds of men and women died for her to hang that shield.’ The woman’s voice commanded the authority of the town guard, but her shaking hands gave her away. The soldiers stood back in silence. The one named Eadric stroked his red beard and took a step to her.
‘No, please, don’t hurt her. She’s of the town guard. You would all rest in irons, and I don’t want to see you in chains. Please, have a drink. On the house,’ the innkeeper pleaded, with blood running down her face. She stepped from the bar and jumped in-between the mud-woman and Eadric, arms open. ‘I will take it down. Just please, don’t hurt her.’
‘Get out of m’ way, Bertha.’ Eadric shoved the innkeeper out of his way. He put his face directly into the mud-woman’s face and breathed heavily. His putrid breath made the woman cringe. ‘Care ta say ‘at agin, pretty?’
‘I’ve had enough for one day. You and your drunken friends need to leave right now,’ said the mud-woman, her brown eyes darting from Eadric to the other men. Her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘I don’t want to hurt you.’
Eadric reared back and punched her face as hard as he could. Blood and teeth flew from her crushed face. The woman fell to the ground hard. Her body twitched for a moment and then stopped moving.
‘Bastard,’ Korhas spat as he stood and unsheathed his sword. The soldiers turned to face him.
‘More sympathizers,’ growled one of Eadric's henchmen. Eadric turned to him and drew his sword.
‘We don’t like your kind ‘ere.’ Eadric spit at the ground. The innkeeper began pleading again, but Eadric kicked her stomach. She doubled over and fell to the floor, out of breath.
‘You’ve done enough harm. Leave now,’ said Bendrick, glaring at them. Korhas began to chuckle. Louder and louder. The men before him simply stared at him in confusion. Finally, Korhas hawked and spit at Eadric's boots. ‘What my friend means to say is that you are all fucked.’
The men looked at each other and began to laugh. Korhas was about to run at them, when Sieglinde stood up and unfastened her cloak.
‘I can handle this, Father,’ she said, setting her cloak on her seat.She unclasped her sword belt and set it on the table before her.
‘No killing,’ whispered Bendrick to his daughter.
Sieglinde turned to the drunken men. They laughed and jeered at her.
‘By Oredmere, you are tasty looking wench. I bet you can handle this.’ The man with the eye patch slipped his manhood from a hole in his pants and grasped it in front of Sieglinde. ‘We must test this bet. Come closer, bitch.’
Sieglinde grabbed her bowl of soup and tossed its scalding hot contents at the man’s dick. He screamed in pain and doubled over. Sieglinde turned to the man named Eadric and, as if in a dance, twirled and kicked his face, knocking him to the ground. The tall and thick man yelled and closed in to grab her, arms outstretched. An evil smile adorned his face. Sieglinde slapped his hands down, twisted, and elbowed him square in the face. The big man grabbed at his broken nose and screamed. Sieglinde kicked him in the stomach, and he doubled over, falling to the ground. The man with the burned member began to draw his sword, but he was too slow. Sieglinde kicked the hilt of his sword, slamming it back into its sheath, and she jumped on the bar above him. She grabbed the bloodshield from the wall and swung at the man with all her strength. Blood the same colour of the shield spewed on the ground as the man crashed on the bar. He slid slowly to the ground and remained there, knocked out. Eadric, having realized that he was alone, stood with dropped jaw, frozen in his place. Dampness began to appear in his breeches. Korhas’ jaw was on the ground as well as he watched the fight that had lasted only seconds. Two men lay on the ground unconscious. Eadric stood behind the innkeeper, silent and unmoving. His nose wasn’t broken like the thick man’s was, but it was still bleeding. Sieglinde jumped from the bar and dropped the heavy shield with a thud. The innkeeper, having found her breath, stood up.
‘Stop! I will not have any more violence in my inn,’ she snapped angrily at Sieglinde, tears and blood running down her face. Her mouth and cheek were beginning to swell. She winced at the pain in her stomach. Sieglinde raised her eyebrows and pointed to the mud-woman lying on the ground who had begun to twitch violently. The innkeeper looked at the woman and then back at Sieglinde.
‘She is fine, just a little dazed.’
‘She is dead,’ Sieglinde said, barely believing the words coming from the innkeeper’s mouth.
‘You and yours must leave now! You’re not welcome here. Never come back!’ she screamed at them. Eadric's cloudy eyes stared at Sieglinde in fear, and drool dripped from his mouth onto his thick red beard. Sieglinde stared at her for a moment in disgust. She snorted and shook her head as she grabbed her coat and sword belt. Without looking at Bendrick or Korhas, she stormed from the inn, red-faced. Bendrick sighed and walked out of the room. Before leaving, Korhas grabbed what little ale he had in his mug and drank the rest. He grabbed Bendrick’s half-full wine glass an
d tossed it at the innkeeper and Eadric, spilling wine over them. He shook his head, and with a cough, left the same way his companions had. The innkeeper knelt over the dead mud-woman in silence.
Outside, Sieglinde was sitting atop her horse, fastening her cloak and swordbelt. She frowned fiercely. To say she was angry would be a disservice to the word.
‘What the hell?’ she said through clenched jaw.
Bendrick held his tongue, knowing that very little could dissuade her anger. Korhas must have sensed the same thing, as he unhitched his horse and mounted it in silence. Bendrick was about to jump on his horse, but before he did, a hooded man stepped into the path. He was blocking their exit. It was the same man who had been smoking his pipe in the corner of the inn.
‘Are you fuckers from Weserith?’ The man’s voice sounded like an old crow’s. The man paused from beneath his cloak, staring sullenly at Sieglinde. She only stared back with a frown. ‘You are not the ordinary scum that roams this cursed village. You’ll need a place to stay, someplace where these…men…will not be looking for revenge. They will be searching, rest assured.’
‘How could they?’ Sieglinde said from atop the horse. She didn’t even look at the man. ‘I wasted them all.’
Bendrick cast a sideways glance at her and then back at the man.
‘What’s to stop you from slitting our throats in the night?’ asked Bendrick, probing the man’s reaction.
‘My lords, assuming I am quiet enough to place a blade on your necks without you noticing, which I am not, your beautiful friend here would have no trouble in dispatching me.’ He rested his hand on a dagger hanging from his hip nonchalantly. Then he bowed mockingly. His creaky voice rasped in their ears. ‘I would be honoured to house members of King Ayland’s court.’
Bendrick was caught off guard. This man knew who they were. He eyed the man suspiciously. The man wore mostly black and had a curved, beaklike nose. His dark eyes peered from beneath his hood.