by Anton Le Roy
“So did you see anyone a bit… odd passing through?”
Gregor adds more, “All in grey. Bit weird.”
“Two of the bastards.”
Sephan shakes his head and almost loses his oversized helm in the process. “Didn’t really notice, sorry. Oh, but Miller might have, you know? He’s Lance Corporal in my platoon and is in town waiting for me.”
Good. “Then let’s go see Miller.”
Sephan wasn’t kidding, aside from a few streets of poor residential buildings, a knackered tavern and a couple of drab market stalls clustered outside a general store that looks half empty of goods, there isn’t much else here. As is the norm so far in this country a few people mooch about looking poor and downtrodden.
“Not even a whorehouse,” moans Gregor, “What kinda shit hole is this?”
Sephan chuckles, “Yeah, they all moved on a couple of months ago, not enough action for their liking they said. Oh, but there is Shelly who works the fur stall just there though. She part times now they’ve gone.”
Surrounded by her wares is a little old lady hunched over on a stool. When I say old, I mean decrepit. She hawks and spits a black blob of something out onto the cobbles while proceeding with skinning a rabbit, her arthritic hands and arms slick with its blood. Noticing us staring she offers a wink coupled with a toothless smile.
Gregor is incredulous. “Her?”
Sephan shrugs. “Well, she’s not my type, but Private Ned never complains,” he says with a smirk.
I nudge Gregor in the ribs as I stifle a laugh. “I’ve seen you with worse.”
“By the gods she’s waving us over,” he hisses, “I know I’m getting on a bit but, fucking hell, she’s ancient! Quick, where’s this Miller of yours, lad?”
“Probably in the tavern,” Sephan answers, guiding us away from a disappointed Shelly.
While we tie our horses up outside Gregor glances over his shoulder to check we’re not being followed and as we enter the Dancing Cow I can hear her singing out, “Cooie!” followed by Gregor’s muttered cursing, which amuses me greatly!
“Least I can get an ale,” he moans. “This place does sell ale, right?”
Sephan chuckles, “Yeah, of course it does!”
Without many customers in here it’s easy for Gregor to order some booze while we sit down with Lance Corporal Miller, a man of middling years who also doesn’t really seem like the soldiering type either. Looks more like a professor to me. Eiseggar drafted up as many able bodied men as possible I bet. Not enough armour to go round either judging by his mismatched set.
Introductions out of the way we get to the point, that being ‘if a pair of weird-looking-don’t-fuck-with-us-priests has passed through town recently’. And the answer is, ‘yes, they have and as a matter of fact I can show you where they went now Sephan has done his jobs’. To which we all down our ales with a couple of quick glugs and make our way outside again with a couple of burps. Leading our horses (and ignoring old Shelly with a few open laughs from me and Sephan, a confused look from Miller and a face like thunder from Gregor) we are guided up a road out of town that loops up an ever growing gradient into the mountains. We’re all on horseback, so, the journey is quickened and before long we traverse through a short pass between sheer rock faces with obvious signs of rockfalls. Dead Man’s Pass, Miller calls it.
Through to the other side is a flat area blasted by icy winds, bordered by a ground level battlement overlooking a steep incline, the only way down into another small valley puffed by forests and snow. A ramshackle shell of an outpost sits to one side of the battlements and houses the only way through to the slope. It’s a big two cart wide archway that doesn’t even have a door, let alone a portcullis. Sephan’s small platoon of fellow soldiers mill about there, sheltering from the bitter cold by huddling around a fire pit in the shadow of the fort while only one or two man the battered battlements. Curiously a large amount of steam rises from behind the outpost to the sound of running water. Despite all this, we’re going by foot in the opposite direction up a small, yet safe, footpath looping round and around the cliffs until we reach a high ledge occupied by what appears to be an old temple of basic architecture hued out of the rockface.
“It’s disused,” begins Miller, as if giving a guided tour to his students, “Difficult to ascertain from what age. At a guess I would consider it a good few hundred years.” He runs a hand over the chiselled stone. “Perhaps close to a thousand. One would assume the founders of Cort were monks who erected this sanctuary as a place of secluded worshipping.”
Before he can waffle on any more I cut in, “And what did our priests do in here?”
Miller shrugs. “Prayed?”
Gregor steps through where a door should be. His voice echoes from within. “And this was when?”
“Yesterday afternoon. Early.” Miller turns around, squinting against blistering snowflakes. We can still see the outpost from way up here. It looks insignificant in comparison to the hugeness of the mountain range and dipping valleys. “Once they concluded matters here they returned to Dead Man’s Outpost and travelled down into the next valley, which eventually leads to the Ellen border. Funnily enough, people call that treacherous slope Dead Man’s Drop.” There’s a theme with these names. “That descent is quite steep and dangerous for most travellers to bother with, especially in winter. That’s why the outpost is positioned where it is.” I sense he’s about to give another history lesson and my deep frown helps change his mind. He readjusts quite quickly. “Ah, however, we let them go on their merry way.”
“Quickest route, right?” I reply. “Otherwise they’d have to take the long way back into Cord and then all the way around these mountains?”
Miller agrees: it’s several miles extra that way and would add a day or two. What the hell were they doing in here? It’s empty save from a few smashed up walls and a broken altar. Doesn’t matter though, we need to get back on their trail and the best way of doing that is going the same way they did.
Halfway back down the path and Sephan points something out in the distant valley leading up to the outpost. “Miller, look! A small party approaching Dead Man’s Drop – they’re gonna walk up!”
My eyesight’s not as strong these days – I can see the glint of metal on their blurred bodies and little else.
“Soldiers. Eleven of them,” confirms Miller grimly. “And they are not ours.”
Great, well this may put a pisser in the works.
Chapter 7
Clatter, clatter goes the dice. Skittering across cold flagstones in the shade of Dead Man’s Outpost. Not allowed to continue with our travels, me and Gregor have gotten bored of waiting for the Ellen soldiers to travel up Dead Man’s Drop, so we’re impatiently trying to enjoy a game of dice and sitting near the massive fire pit is a nice break from the chill. Most of Blackwater Platoon are at the battlements watching the enemy approach and I haven’t made my mind up about them yet. No one has a full set of armour and what they do wear is well used and a few generations old. They’re a mixed bunch too, all thirty odd of them and although one quarter are still pretty green around the edges they’re at least vaguely veteran (ha, and I don’t mean vaguely like me). Another quarter are mercenary thugs probably here for an easy wage and shifty enough to leg it when the pressure is on, while the other half, including our young friend Sephan, are clearly a bunch of freshly drafted newbies who don’t even know what way up a sword goes and they don’t look happy at all right now because they, quite rightly, don’t want to die. Miller, surprisingly one of the regulars, told us this place hasn’t seen any action for decades and as they watch the advancing Ellen soldiers I doubt any of these poor sods were ever expecting anything to happen either.
No one has said anything for a while until Bast, a heavily bearded mercenary in extra skins and mottled with fetishes, talks to anyone who is listening, “So who’re these guys we’re supposed to be fighting anyway?”
Another merc shrugs, “All I know
is they’re the ones with the bigger army and the better weapons.”
“Damned rotten mercs,” spits Private Ned, a scrawny regular I would have thought too old to get out of bed, let alone be allowed to enlist. “Can all walk away anytime ya damned well please wiv a pocket full of coins for ya troubles, but for the people what lives ere we worries about more than pay. Our homes can be destroyed an families torn apart an our country lost to tyrants, but what do ya care, eh? Bah! No loyalty to nothin.”
“Give it a rest, Ned,” warns Miller, “Be grateful these men are here at all.”
The old guy does have a point though. I know from past experience because I’ve been one of those mercs plenty of times before. And most of those times I’ve been happily ignorant to what side I’ve joined, just so long as we get the coin.
“Don't have to risk our necks for some tiny country we've never even heard of, Ned,” growls Bast, taken aback by Ned’s tirade.
Ned grumbles some more and then hacks and coughs into the snow.
There’s silence apart from the click clack of our dice. A couple of the regulars glance over, perhaps wishing they could get back to relaxing instead of worrying about dying today. An unusual pair they are. Must be near identical twins who’ve not even hit puberty yet – they watch our dice in a trance.
“So who are we fighting for then?” asks another mercenary.
Sergeant Jones, the Captain’s young and handsome second in command, who surprisingly looks like the real deal and everything you would expect a hero to be, gives the man an unfriendly shove. “What kind of idiot takes a job without knowing all the details?” Gregor raises an eyebrow at me. So what? It’s easily done! As if to a simpleton Jones says, “We’re in Eiseggar and we’re at war with Ellen. Miller can give you the history lessons, pal.”
Scolded, the merc mutters, “Just figured this was all part of the Ellen Republic.”
Sephan laughs. “That’s what they think too.”
Old Ned again, “Well, they ain’t takin it! Eiseggar’s no one’s but our own. They doesn’t care much for us til we started those tin mines. Then all those shifty eyes of theirs lit up an greed set in, the dodgy bastards!”
“Actually,” adds Miller, “For centuries the protracted and violent history between Ellen and Eiseggar has always ignited for various reasons between each generation. And yet, if you find the very root of the problem, then it’s simple. We just bloody well hate each other.”
Some laugh. Sephan listens avidly to Miller’s musings like one of his pupils.
I pipe up. “The tin just gives everyone an excuse to fight.”
Now everybody looks round at me and Gregor, as if noticing us for the first time. The Captain gives us a once over, probably wondering what two civilians are doing encroaching in their affairs. Indifferent to his interest in us we continue rolling dice. He's a big man, both vertically and horizontally in a portly kind of way. Has the air of someone who has seen a lot of battles. Despite barely barking an order the regulars under his command appear to run like a tight unit and hold him in high regard.
Sephan clears his throat. “Erm, they’re the ones waiting to use Dead Man’s Drop... I told you about them, right, Capt?”
The Captain, or Capt, nods slowly, still staring with dark eyes. I nod back, shrug and then carry on playing dice without a care.
Miller acknowledges my previous comment. “Exactly, my friend. An excuse! It’s a little unfortunate that our last few Kings left this country in such a mess, war was the last thing we needed, which means that border patrols like us are under staffed, under-equipped and under-trained.”
“And underfed,” says Gurny, a local toying with his simple hunting bow.
“Underpaid too,” adds an unhappy regular.
Miller continues, “We need these mercenaries and the like, Ned, we just don’t have enough trained men to fight Ellen. We used to have a small army posted here and now look at how few of us can be utilised.”
Ned huffs. “Bah, ya blasted learned types is all the same, tryin to make us simple folk look stupid or somethin.”
Miller sighs and shuts up, as if he’s tried debates with Ned before. “Whatever you say, Ned.”
“Damned right.”
“Ganer’s balls!” spits the Captain, vocal at last, “You never give up, do you, Ned? I bet if I chopped your head off you’d still be nattering away like some batty old woman.”
Ned pauses, has a think and then finally laughs along with the others.
Gregor stares at me with hooded eyes and I know what he’s thinking – we should be getting the hell out of here pretty sharpish before things get nasty. Trouble is unless we get down Dead Man’s Drop soon then our best chance of finding Satipo will be removed. All we can do for now is wait until this Captain lets us through. Assuming matters don’t worsen.
A voice sounds from the fire pit across from us where only one other man remains sitting. A merc, hooded beneath a cloak of thick leather over furs, oils one of two rather large cutlass blades. From the shadows of this hood his bared teeth actually glare like demon fangs. “Well, maybe I’m the only one here looking forward to seeing some action at last. Been sitting here like a snowball for too long – that ain’t what I signed up for.”
“That’s because you’re a lunatic, Razor,” replies Bast with a comradery grin.
Razor stands. He’s a young man in his prime. Big like Gregor and definitely with that same insatiable desire for a good fight. In fact he does remind me a bit of Gregor’s younger self in physique and character. “I just know what I’m good at, Bast.”
“A man I can relate to,” approves Gregor.
Razor nods gleefully.
“They’re almost here!” hisses Sephan, obviously afraid despite his best efforts to hide it from his peers. In fact, anxiety hangs thick amongst the newly drafted locals and even the others appear unsettled. Fear is infectious like that.
“It simply makes little sense,” muses Miller, “Reports confirmed the Ellen forces were further south, so how have they now reached this far north?”
“How many more could be here?” asks Sephan, wide eyed.
No one answers. I doubt people want to think about that potentially disastrous detail.
“Eiseggar has never lost a battle at Dead Man’s Outpost,” growls Jones.
Ned chuckles grimly, “Eiseggar ain’t never not had a proper army here either.”
“Just our luck,” says Bast.
“Hopefully our own forces ain’t far behind, right?” suggests a local. Such optimism sits awkwardly in the air.
I slowly get to my feet (under the Captain’s watchful eye) and have a look over the battlements to eventually spot the eleven Ellen men still struggling to gain footing on the incline. While the snow and ice impedes their progress there’s also running water they have to contend with. It’s the source of the steam we’d seen earlier, caused by a natural hot spring bubbling out of the rocks behind us where various hot pools flood over into a river, which rapidly drops over the edge beyond the battlements in an angled torrent. It becomes apparent that where the hot river flows there is also mud and slush for them to contend with instead of snow and ice and even though the slope can’t be more than a few hundred yards it’s no wonder this way up and down is normally ignored. It’s really pelting it down with snow now too, so thickly you can barely see the valley. While we are waiting, a few ballsy mercenaries heckle the struggling enemy and a little tension subsides from the group.
Local man Gurny, enjoying the bravado, pipes up, “I’m, er, pretty good with a bow. Easy pickings!”
“Haha,” cackles Ned, “Aye, that would learn ‘em!”
The Captain provides a disdainful glance. “Come on boys, pipe down now. We talk first. And stand in formation! You look like a bunch of excited brats huddling around a hot pie.”
Finally the group of newcomers arrive at the outpost gateway and the Captain and Sergeant Jones step forward to greet them. If not for the snow, filth and mud s
plattered all over expensive cloaks and sumptuous armour and fittings or wedged into every available gap and crease, then these Ellen emissaries would certainly be quite intimidating, especially if those with pikes and a standard weren’t leaning heavily on their poles out of fatigue and out of breath. To be fair I think I’d be knackered after that little hike too – my knees would be aching like a bitch. The faces of these proud soldiers reveal no emotion at all because they’re fake silver helm visors shaped into mock human features. Only the eyes can be seen for real. The leader is obvious: his attire even more flamboyant with flourishes all over his gold and silver armour and a great green plume on his helm to match the colour of his tabard, cloak and that of the standard held by his bearer, which shows a golden mountain lion on a green background. His mask is golden and he lifts it up on a hinge to reveal a real face in obvious discomfort. A handkerchief emerges to dab his sweat away. I dislike him immensely already.
Snubbing the Captain and looking down at us all (despite his lack of height) a high-pitched voice drawls out of his pointed mouth. “I bear greetings from the godly King Mermode, his greatness who lords over all the lands from Dresgot to Gurnane. His simple request is that his loyal subjects do turn aside and allow his host to continue, forthwith.”
“His loyal subjects?” mutters Ned, doing a good impersonation of the Herald’s posh voice. Ignoring the Captain’s disapproving glare he follows that up with, “Does this bloody peacock mean us?”
The Herald gives Ned a sneer. “Correctly deduced, old one. All those whom the mighty King gazes upon are regarded as his subjects. Now, surrender your arms and no harm will befall you, or the town of Cort for that matter. All mercenaries present will be remunerated double any monies owed from your previous employer.”
Seems good enough for the mercs. Now hopefully the rest of this sorry lot will surrender too and we can finally get out of this dump.
“Marvellous,” delights the Herald, forcing out what I think should be a smile and ends up more reminiscent of a frog with constipation. “And what say you, soldiers? Do not consider surrender a cowardly act. Your actions will save many a life. The godly King wishes only a peaceful end to this dreadful conflict.”