by Anton Le Roy
Jones scoffs, “And why should we just surrender – our numbers are more than double yours. You think just you eleven can take us on?”
The Herald raises an eyebrow as thick snowfall threatens to bury us all and casts a critical eye over Blackwater Platoon. I know what he’s thinking. “The question of whether our fewer numbers can prove victorious is a moot point,” he thumbs over his shoulder at the large mass of soldiers emerging from the woods into the valley below, “Should we fail then the modest battalion following us shall destroy you and Cort utterly.”
The Captain views his men with nothing other than anguish in his eyes. I’m almost trying to will the man into surrender because then we can be on our merry way.
“What, so this is it, Capt?” Ned howls, striding forward, face screwed up like a squashed tomato, “We just turn our blimming backs on our country? Our homes? Is ya insane?”
A dejected Captain wipes settling snow from his face with a tired sigh. “I have to consider the lives of my men, Ned. Of those in Cort...”
“There is little to worry about,” pipes up the Herald, “I am certain most of you will still retain your domiciles once these lands are-”
“Oh, will ya just shut it, ya peacock lying slimy bastard!” screams Ned wildly as Jones grabs his arms to calm him.
The group of Ellen soldiers stiffen and I get a bad feeling. Casually I loosen my sword a little in its scabbard and shuffle forward with Gregor unnoticed. The blizzard is now getting so thick we’re all starting to become just vague human silhouettes.
Herald sneers, holding back his anger. “Might I suggest you keep this yapping dog on a leash, Captain?”
Oh you went and bloody well asked for it, frog boy.
Ned, that slippery eel, sends a pointy elbow into Sergeant Jones’s ribs and then, much to my dismay, everything turns to shit.
With a wild scream, Ned’s sword is swinging across the Herald’s face followed by a burst cheek and a smattering of vibrant blood. As the Herald staggers backwards in shock, that muddy handkerchief in one gauntlet hand swiftly staunching the wound, an Ellen soldier runs Ned through with a pike. Those few members of Blackwater Platoon not gawping or staggering back in surprise are slowly unsheathing their weapons while a few others shout for everyone to calm down before more people die. It’s way too late to stop and chat about things now!
I’m already in the thick of it before they can blink, Gregor close behind me, slipping through the frozen men of Blackwater and wading into the tight Ellen unit, hacking and slicing as we go. Years of fighting experience enable us to fight half blind in the snowfall, weaving and twisting in tune with each other’s next move, sometimes finishing off a kill or starting one for the other. I have a vague awareness of other allies in the mix (Razor, the Captain and Jones) and then it’s over and we’re standing over ten prone bodies in bloody sludge. Wrenching my blade from an exposed armpit of a dead Ellen my attention is not enticed by dead eyes but by movement below.
Staggering and sliding back down Dead Man’s Drop the Herald is fleeing in obvious panic with big white eyeballs glancing over his shoulder. Must have turned tail right at the start, the coward. He passes Ned’s awkward heap of a body, which has slid down against a small boulder, and in a second or two will be lost in the blizzard.
“Who said they were good with a bow?” I ask without taking my eye off the Herald.
Someone stammers a response from behind.
“Well don’t just stand there gawping like a dead fish! Take him down!” orders the Captain.
Gurny, a drafted local with no real combat experience, steps forward and aims his arrow at the Herald who is some way away now and in poor visibility. Twang goes the bowstring and the arrow flies, fading in and out of existence as it passes through the snowfall. Then it thuds home and the shape of the Herald is pitched from his feet to land face first in the snow. He doesn’t get up again. We can’t tell if the army down there have seen what’s happened, although at least the Herald can’t give them any intel about what he saw up here.
“Nice shot,” approves Gregor.
Indeed, that was very impressive. “Where’d you learnt to shoot like that?” I ask the gangly man with a stretched head and a cleft lip.
“Um, well, my da always took me hunting, so...”
“Aye that's a lovely story, Gurny,” interrupts the Captain, “But I’m more interested in you two,” and he points accusingly at Gregor and I. “You ain’t just a normal couple of travellers, merchants, or whatever else you claim to be.”
Jones whistles. “Appeared out of nowhere!”
“Damned amazing!” blubs Sephan in awe.
Well it wasn’t that amazing, we just got lucky and besides they were already exhausted from their climb. Still, these guys may be right, I guess we did sort of kick arse just now. Even if we didn’t want to – I don’t know why I stepped in to help – we should have just let them all die like we were nothing more than civilian bystanders and then the Ellen wouldn’t have cared a jot about us wanting to travel down Dead Man’s Drop. To say I’m annoyed with myself is an understatement. Now we’re stuck up here with this sorry lot who are staring at us like we’ve just floated down from the sky and turned snow into gold. The Twins are different though, looking at us as if working out a puzzle and when it seems they have the answer we’re forgotten as they make for the littered bodies, picking up an extra fancy sword each and also looting pieces of armour. I find myself entranced by them. There really is something very… unusual there.
Razor scoffs. “This really is the arse end of nowhere if none of you’ve heard of Veteran? Never seen his face, but it must be him. I heard he travels these lands.”
Most of Blackwater shrug indifferently. Sephan is the only one who reacts by gawping like a dullard.
And then a rasping voice from the floor where an Ellen soldier lays. “Veteran? You’re not supposed to be alive...”
I wander over to the man. He lays on his back bleeding out and blood gathers around him in a pool so brilliantly red against the snow one would think it red dye. There’s a white Newborn symbol on his grey silk neckerchief and I can see a dot on his hands, just like Tolvik. You gotta be kidding. Another of these fucking priests?
“Well I’m sorry to disappoint you,” I respond plainly.
“You cannot stop Mother’s arrival,” he rasps defiantly, breathing heavily, as if that was my intention, the idiot. “She will shape this planet as she sees fit and… my family will be children to a new world.”
“You can shove your new world up your arse. I don’t give a damn about your hokey goddess.”
The man awkwardly pulls away his helm in anger and bares reddened teeth at me. “My brothers and sisters will find you!”
“Good.” I kneel to his side and eagerly grab his breast plate to pull him up closer to me. He smells of sweat and blood and his bowels must have involuntarily opened. “I want them to find me! Satipo: where is he?”
“Our High Brother stands in Mother’s embrace and he will lead us to glory.” A brief cough and crimson splatters from his lips. “My brothers… and sisters will find you… and you will be punished. Along with everyone else!”
Enough twaddle! “Where is he?” I roar, shaking him to rattle the answers out. Too late. The man is dead. Damn it! I let his head bounce back into the snow.
There is silence for a while until Sephan pipes up from behind. “I know you! My pa told me loads of stories from his time as a soldier. You were with the Red Dogs fighting for the Zulma Empire and armies like The Six!” You know your history lessons, kid, I just wish you weren’t telling everyone else about it. “You held the bridge at Curn Tattan and survived Harrad’s Trials.” Amongst other things. Funny what gets forgotten or unwitnessed. Or just plain made up. I look over my shoulder to see his eyes sparkling in wonder. He adds, “I guess now you roam the far corners of the world having grand adventures!” Hmm, I’m not so sure of that. “And you, the bigger one, you must be Gri...Gra…”
“Gregor,” growls my companion unhappily. He adds a couple of curses to that.
“Sorry, yeah.”
Ha, now that’s funny! I finally stand up and face the others, the bloody Newborn neckerchief in my hand for future reference.
The rest of Blackwater still don’t know our names, even though a few have heard of The Six. The suits me just fine.
Razor grins. “Surprised you old geezers can still fight so good.”
Despite the smile his body language is openly antagonistic and I shrug to hide my raised hackles. “Instinct doesn’t slow with age. I’m sure we can teach a pup like you a few things.”
Razor puffs his chest. “Oh, please just say the word because I’d love you to try that out.”
“Anytime,” Gregor laughs and steps in between us, perhaps sensing my bad mood. As the two of them size each other up Razor’s eyes sparkle at the prospect and I can just imagine those two big bastards going toe to toe. They wouldn’t stop until the other was a mound of bloody flesh and bone, just to prove a point.
“Easy now,” warns the Captain, snapping the two out of their staring contest. He casually hangs a hand from a belt loop and rubs at his stubble with the other. “Well, you chaps did good. Had I to rely on some of the other halfwits here, most of us would be corpses for the crows by now.”
A shifty demeanour ripples amongst the less reliable men.
Bast disagrees, “You crazy? This ain’t good at all! You fools just sentenced us all to death!”
Razor looms over the merc. Bast is big but Razor is a giant in comparison. “You and the rest of your pals are welcome to leave if you’re not up to it, coward.”
Bast shrinks back and no reply is forthcoming from him or the other mercs.
“Look, lads, what’s done is done,” says the Captain, “There was little choice once Ned flipped.”
“Ned fell down Dead Man’s Drop,” remembers Sephan, “Why ain’t he got up yet?”
Me, “Because he’s dead.”
Tears well up in the lad’s red eyes.
“Man was an imbecile,” utters Sergeant Jones, as we all watch Ned’s body flop over the boulder and continue sliding down until it’s lost in the blizzard, “Don’t waste too many tears on him.”
“Now, now, Sergeant.” The Captain provides a more compassionate response with a slap to Sephan’s shoulder. “He died fighting for what he believed in, kid. Can’t ask for more than that.”
Chapter 8
It’s surreal; my hand in the hot spring feels warm while all around us the snow falls.
“Go on then, take a dip,” suggests Gregor. To be fair it’s tempting. Then, “So, another fucking Newborn. What do you think?”
No idea. No damned idea at all. Does Tolvik and Vim know we’re following them and this siege is a way of covering their tracks? Princess Icromm (who we stole Loktie’s pipe for) is King Mermode’s niece, so, maybe Ellen and Icromm’s small province of Tore are officially getting together for nefarious means along with these priests. Except, why did Tolvik and Vim double cross and kill Icromm’s men before collecting the pipe? Of course this siege could just be coincidence. Or bad sodding luck: Ellen doesn’t attack Dead Man’s Outpost for years and when they finally do there’s only a skeleton Eiseggar platoon to defend it and we just have to be here on the same fucking day! Then there’s the dead Newborn priest – he was pretty surprised to see that we were still alive.
“Beats me,” I finally say, “Doesn’t make sense.”
That’s a puzzle I care little about for now. My main focus is Brother Vim’s trail and, although it’s fading already and in a few hours might be gone, I think taking the long way around still isn’t an option. We have to gamble that this is a fight the locals can win. If they can’t then we just make sure we survive and somehow get down that slope and past that army. Easy, right?
It’s then that I see something peculiar: through the haze of snow and hot steam is a tatty coyote standing on the opposite side of the bank. Surely not the Coyote? I’ve wondered why that creature turned against its master like it did. Perhaps it understood the madness that had consumed Loktie and was keen to help us eradicate it. The animal stares hard at me and I stiffen uncomfortably until it looks away towards the Eiseggar men. Then, in a blink of an eye, it’s darted off and blurred to nothing. Did I really just see that, and if I did, what the hell does it mean?
“And Blackwater. We’re staying with them,” states Gregor plainly, oblivious to what I just saw.
After a moment I nod, wiping my face with hot water. Maybe I am going mad. First visions of ghosts and now dogs. “We have to take that route down.” No matter how long this battle takes. No matter what the Newborn are up to. It’s all secondary to the real issue of finding Satipo.
“Aye,” he pauses, “But this ain’t just about tracking that priest’s stench.” He looks over at Blackwater Platoon. “I don’t know why but…”
Maybe he just wants an excuse to get his axe bloody, or make sure we can’t find Satipo, but, “I know, I feel it too.” My annoyance has calmed leaving me with an irritatingly warm feeling within: we’d done the honourable thing to help save those men. Doesn’t mean I have to like it though. “We stay and fight.”
Gregor is pleased. “Good. Even if it means facing death.”
If in death I will have failed Satipo then at least I’ll die doing something right. I smirk, “Aye. I’ve seen death’s face many times.” It’s like he’s an old friend.
Gregor chuckles. “And still we live. You could’ve at least picked the better side to fight for though. They’re pretty hopeless.”
“I like the challenge.”
“Always a sucker for the mangy old dog with the gammy leg.”
True. “Where’s the fun in an easy fight?”
“When’s there ever an easy fight?” He surveys the area. “I think your instincts are right as usual, Vet. This spot, it's defendable. Doesn't need many of us to do it neither. We can hold out, for a while at least.”
Go out in glory more like – I hope it doesn’t come to that.
He's right though, it's a good spot up here. Defendable. No way can anyone flank us with the natural vertical walls of rock to both sides and any paths leading to those summits many miles away. The fort will provide shelter from enemy arrows. The only way up here is Dead Man’s Drop: a gradient of snow and ice and a fast moving river causing further difficulty with melted mud. Sharpened stakes prevent any cavalry charge, if that were possible. A narrowing of Dead Man’s Drop means that any infantry will be funnelled towards the outpost gateway a few men at a time. Also, as we speak, the platoon are blocking the gateway with extra boulders, thus forcing any attackers to climb over the obstacles. It’s apparently true that Eiseggar has never lost Dead Man’s Outpost in battle because they usually also have a decent sized army posted here, and even with our small numbers (there’s none spare in Cort, only a handful of guards) the battle site will be a killing ground with heavy losses on Ellen’s side. We'll be able to hold on long enough to do some damage before we’re eventually tired out and overrun. Just need enough men with sound skills and hearts to stand strong and not break and maybe we’ll have that too. When all looks hopeless then perhaps reinforcements will finally arrive: a beacon has already been lit and message birds sent out asking for help.
Gregor stares blankly and a wide grin emerges. “You know, these springs remind me of the Bathhouses of Conagh. I ever tell you about that redheaded slavegirl I rutted in there?”
“Numerous times. In detail.”
“Ha! And then I had a fight with two big bastards, I don’t even remember the reason why. One of them had a chin like an anvil. Damn near broke my hand when I knocked him down! Now that was a good day!”
“You always conveniently forget that I was happily dozing in the baths before I was thrown out because of your indiscretions.” Thrown outside naked without even a towel! “You do remember when the city guard then arrested me for indecent exposure?”<
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Gregor roars with laughter. “Like I said, a good day!” He claps a hand to my shoulder in a fit of hysterics. “You were locked up for two days!”
Yeah, that was hilarious. I still remember the feel of curious rats on my skin.
Another voice from behind, “Lucky sods!” The platoon Captain approaches with Jones and Miller in tow. “I can only dream of travelling to somewhere swish like the Bathhouses of Conagh,” grins the Captain.
“Well, it helped that we beat someone influential at dice,” I say. And that was only because we were all pissed on cheap wine.
“A couple of resourceful men, then,” Jones replies.
Gregor shrugs. “The dice were on our side that day.”
“Look,” begins the Captain, “What you did back there and what you did for Sephan in Cort, well that’s far beyond what any foreign stranger need do. So, thank you again, lads.”
I stand and dry my hand on my leggings as the man feels the need to shake out his thanks too. “Sometimes you just gotta follow your instincts.”
“Aye, something like that.” The Captain scratches his chin. “So what’re you boys doing now? I’m sorry to say that now we’re knee deep in a shit pit of a situation you ain’t getting down Dead Man’s Drop anytime soon.”
I glance into the steam wondering if I’ll see that damned Coyote again. “We’re going to stand and fight with your lads. If that’s alright with you, Captain?”
The Captain laughs, “By Ganer’s holiest balls! You must be suckers for punishment! I don’t understand why you’d do such a thing…” he shakes his head in disbelief. “Aye, we’d be honoured.” He thumbs over his shoulder, “It’s not much but we have a couple of spare shields you can use.”
That’s handy. “Thanks.”
“Got no spare armour though,” Jones adds.
Gregor waves a dismissive hand. “Don’t need it.”