by Unknown
“Do you really want to go toward a nest of assassins that want us dead?” he asked. I waved his concerns aside.
“You worry too much, Phargas. They can’t possibly be everywhere. As long as we avoid the city, we’ll be fine!”
“As we’ve been so far, of course,” the priest grumbled.
Once we reached the western road and the city was safely out of sight, I raised both my arms. “Vermillion,” I cried, “as you will!” Whooping, the column scattered in all directions. A few did head along the western road, but many jogged toward us, or north into the woods. A few even headed south, back toward the city. I smiled broadly at Phargas and said, “See how happy nobles can make common folk when they trust our judgments?”
“If only they knew how well your judgment has served you so far, milord,” Phargas grumped.
∗ ∗ ∗
Three evenings later found me, Phargas, and Khurris, along with several dozen others who had refused to give up my guidance, standing on a hill on the Tymon-Daggermark border, looking out over a sea of lights to the west.
“You must admit,” I said to Phargas, “they’re quite pretty.”
“That they are,” he said. “They’re also gaining on us.” His tone was mild, but I could sense the reproach. Who could have known that one company’s desertion would bring out half of Tymon’s army? Clearly, Champion Ullorth had no sense of proportion.
One of the men who’d been sent ahead as scouts came puffing up the hill, interrupting our reverie.
“Sir,” he said, “we have a problem.”
“That should be obvious,” Phargas said.
“No—” the man insisted, but he was interrupted by the blast of a horn. Several miles to the east, the spark of a flaming arrow shot into the air. On cue, the far side of the valley lit up as a hundred torches caught fire.
“It seems,” Phargas noted, “that Daggermark is expecting us after all.”
Chapter Six: Running for Cover
by Jay Thompson
I must admit, I’d hoped our military camp of weedy old men, emaciated bondsmen, and general riffraff would have held up better in a skirmish. Instead, they’d scattered as soon as the first Tymon spear thudded into our camp. As well, I’d hoped Tymon’s soldiers might have greeted our little expeditionary force with more courtesy. Instead, they came with shackles.
“What would you say, brave soldier of Tymon,” I asked the brutes bearing the pole from which we hung like trussed deer, “to loosening these ropes, so that we might tell you of our offer?”
From where I wobbled upside down, I could pick out the distant line of Daggermark’s army to one side of me, and smell the stench of Tymon’s gladiator forces to the other.
“A fabulous offer!” I clarified.
The soldiers carrying the pole said nothing. Then, all at once, my nose was buried in a bootprint in the black mud around us. I pried myself up and saw that one of the soldiers had cut my bonds after all. He’d even deigned to cut the bonds of Phargas.
The dirty swarm of gladiators and soldiers around us parted. Two beat drums, and stepped aside to reveal Makoa, the gladiator who had officiated over our chariot race in Tymon, now with a heavy, expensive sword at his hip.
“Tell me,” Makoa said, conversationally, “you sons of vermin, why I shouldn’t have you both flayed alive, bathed in salt and acid, and fed to razorcrows in the arena?”
I like a man who gets to the point. I opened my mouth, but before I could explain, Phargas butted in.
“Generous and clever commander of the Tymon host,” Phargas said, falling to one knee, “you have honored us by sparing our lives thus far, and we truly apologize that our—carelessness—has led to this misunderstanding with your most undignified neighbor of Daggermark. May the blood of the great bull burn in your veins.”
There went Phargas, laying it on again. Makoa, I was surprised to see, paused to frown at my companion.
“What did you say?”
“May the blood of the great bull burn in your veins. May all false friends flee the sheen of your blade, and the Lord in Iron harden your will.”
Makoa leaned close—not the freshest-smelling of sword-swingers, him.
“Slave,” he asked, “why did you not mention that you and your companion were adepts of Gorum?”
“Commander,” Phargas said, inclining his head once more, “my companion and I only wished for a moment wherein your warrior’s heart might recognize the fact.”
Gorum—of course. The god of battle and slaughter was no doubt a favorite among these lowborn warriors.
Makoa gave a bass-drum rumble I realized was a laugh. “So. The rumors of magic that traveled with you from the Sellen pleasure craft have some truth.”
Phargas nodded. “We came like any other indentured servants to Lord Ungin’s city. Yet could we have eluded your soldiers as long as we did, Commander, without the favor of he who watches over all warfare? And, without his favor, could we have the confidence to unveil this proposal?”
I wasn’t sure I liked where this was headed. A famous name and a swift double-cross might be the best way out of any tight spot, but I’d have preferred to take the lead.
I chanced a look around. The ugly Tymon force that pursued us and the slaves we’d freed had swelled in number. Several hundred soldiers surrounded our little camp of recaptured servants. Some of Makoa’s gladiators looked at us as if any spot of dirt would do for a pit to polish us off. Others sharpened tridents, spears, and broadswords; smithed their armor; or just watched the opposite horizon. Where their eyes pointed, the single black line of Daggermark’s own army waited, its signal fires sending even columns of smoke up to a murky sky.
“My terrifying and noble commander,” Phargas went on, “though we came as captives and departed in secret, my companion and I may yet signal great blessings for you—and for Champion Ungin’s kingdom.”
“Blessings?” Makoa raised an eyebrow.
“Clearly, my lord, aged and corrupt Daggermark sees hostile intentions in your massed force.”
“This we can sort out later. But you stung my lord with your betrayal.” Makoa gave a knife-wound smile. “I came to convince you to return and make amends properly.”
“But my lord,” Phargas continued, undeterred, “their army watches you as you watch theirs. If Gorum wills the bull’s blood to burn in your veins, what better moment than right now to finish what unnumbered others have sought in vain—the conquest of Daggermark!”
A wire-thin old human pushed forward to Makoa’s side. “The conquest of Daggermark?” He snorted. “You, slave, have lost your wits, or are playing us for fools!” He turned to Makoa. “Commander, surely you see the foolishness of such an attack. Daggermark’s militia has held this land for generations. The pranks of these slaves, charging the border as if the outriders of an invasion, have brought us to the brink of war. You see Daggermark’s legions massed on the horizon. And we are to make this absurd aggression a reality without the Champion’s orders?”
Makoa tapped a long fingernail on his sword hilt. “You speak prudently, Caziar.”
Caziar cringed. “You never mean that as a compliment.”
Makoa laughed again.
I glanced at Phargas. For a man who’d just sent us all to our suicides, his face was downright serene.
∗ ∗ ∗
“What was that about you being a priest of Gorum? Last I checked, you were a priest of Desna! Or was it Calistria?”
Adding insult to injury, you see, hadn’t seemed quite enough. Commander Makoa had been so persuaded by Phargas’s speech that this time, he and I really were to lead the way: to scout a path through the abandoned peat farms and fens separating Tymon’s force from Daggermark’s army. If Makoa had any doubts about Phargas’s sincerity, our deaths in battle would settle the question.
“If you can think of a better way to save our skins,” Phargas said, “I’m all ears.”
We crept our way slowly under the shadow of a recently emp
tied farmhouse toward Daggermark’s line. Makoa had given us until dusk to determine how many soldiers the opposition had fielded, then report back. At sunset, he’d attack, then send word to Tymon of the new territory it held and press on toward the city of Daggermark itself.
I peered from behind an abandoned peat farmer’s cart. In the distance I saw lines of footmen and bowmen, and, winding among them, the strong, sharp-edged outlines of the women—never accuse a Daggermark swordswoman of being less than a man in battle.
“For all we know,” I said, “we’ve already been spotted.”
“If we had, we’d no longer be breathing.”
“Phargas, old friend,” I said, “wasn’t it the great Pathfinder Durvin Gest himself who said that no hero ever died by a wound to his retreating boot heel?”
“If he did, it wasn’t in the Chronicles.”
“What would you know about the Chronicles?”
Instead of answering, Phargas tugged me behind the cart. “Foot soldier,” he hissed. “Don’t move.”
I ventured a look around the edge of the cart; a silhouette, some score of yards away, was making straight for us. “Too late. He’s seen us.”
I reached for my knife. In that instant, the cart burst into flame and toppled over on its side.
“What in the Kingdoms...?”
“Never be without a small incendiary.”
Just like him to keep secrets from me. “Where did you get alchemical fire?”
Instead of answering, Phargas dug frantically into his pack and came up with a dark bundle, which he slipped his chin into.
“What are you doing?”
He tossed another bundle to me. “Put it on.” He stood and shook the fabric out over himself, revealing one of the habits we’d worn back at the convent.
“Get dressed,” he whispered, “—Olive.”
I could hear the clink of the soldier’s chainmail as he ran toward us. Seeing little alternative, I forced my head through my bundle. Phargas stepped from behind the burning cart.
“Fellow soldier!”
How could he make his voice so high and so low at once? I scurried into sight as well, and the soldier froze. He squinted at us. “And who might you two ladies be?”
Phargas set his feet apart. “Mistress Francis of the Reckless Fireballs, servant of Our Lady of the Fiercely Virginal Order of Blessed Exoneration, and warrior—today—of Daggermark.”
The soldier’s face glowed red from the burning cart, and he pointed. “What happened to that thing?”
"To a gladiator, the whole world is an arena."
I looked over at the shattered boards and smoking wood, and tried my squeakiest, fiercest voice. “Does our target practice disturb you?”
“Well, I—”
“Soldier,” Phargas said. “Among our sisterhood’s holiest vows is that of the chastisement of the Hated Sex.” He reached to his side to clasp a splinter of wood that would do for a wand. “We nuns emerge to serve Our Mistress of General Slaughter alongside your gender only in times of great need, and Daggermark sent a messenger astride an immense avian mere hours ago, to plead just such a need in the face of Tymon’s unjust advance.”
The soldier looked ill at ease. Phargas pointed at me: “This is my companion, Mistress Olive of the Clumsy Castration. Perhaps you’re in need of her services?”
That did it. “Sisters,” he said hastily, unconsciously lowering his spear to guard his nethers, “allow me to lead you to my commanding officer—Lady Ommarra of the Broadsword. It was she, no doubt, who sent the call for your services.”
Lady Ommarra of the Broadsword, eh? “Not bad,” I whispered to Phargas, as the soldier turned and trotted—perhaps fled would be a better word—toward the front line ahead of us.
∗ ∗ ∗
Lady Ommarra turned out to be a tall, dark-haired, armor-plated beauty carrying a brass horn and a sword that justified her name. She was also happy to see two more troops. “Mistresses Francis and Olive, you say? Well, it wasn’t me who sent for you, but I’m glad the Order spared both a long- and a short-range fighter. Fireballs and…?”
“Castrations.”
“Superb.” Her eyes sparkled. “I never would have thought Ungin stupid enough to challenge Daggermark, but Tymon’s field commander is summoning the last of his forces, and it looks like he may have finally decided to try Daggermark’s mettle.” Surrounded by several hundred militia swordsmen and a company on horseback, I thought their mettle seemed decent enough.
“What’s more,” she continued, “rumor has it that two who’ve gravely offended our poisoners’ guild are serving as his counselors. In any case, I’m glad you sisters aren’t too proud to fight alongside men. And you,”—she patted my arm—“might just get to practice your specialty by sunrise.” A soldier hailed her, and taking her leave of me and Phargas—whom she looked over once more with that same sparkle in her eye—she jogged away over the darkening plain.
The next half-hour passed in a blur. As soon as we were alone, I politely reminded Phargas that our goal was escape, not fighting for either kingdom. No sooner had my words come out, however, than we heard the horns of Daggermark commanders gathering troops and the hum of arrows taking flight. The bulk of the force double-timed forward. Tymon had fired the first shot; we were suddenly surrounded by hoarse shouts. “They’re attacking from the southeast,” Phargas called, pocketing a silver amulet I’d never seen him produce before. “Come north, and we’ll skirt the lines.”
“What was that amulet?” I asked as we slunk along.
He glanced sideways at me. “Something any Pathfinder could tell me about.”
I was about to ask him what he meant by that little comment when a dozen Daggermark soldiers barreled up behind us. One soldier crashed into me, pulling me down in a tangle of arms and legs.
I stood up with battle fully pitched a dozen yards from me, ducked an arrow, and turned to face the little wretch who’d collided with me. All of a sudden, I realized I was looking in the eyes of the soldier who’d first found us.
I cleared my throat and tried out my high voice. “Well, if it isn’t our old friend. Back to take us up on our offer?”
Instead of stepping back, the soldier narrowed his eyes and gave a nasty chuckle.
That didn’t sound good. I held up my knife. “We’re here to practice our blessed gift on our mutual enemies.”
“Well, I happen to know—Mistress—that Our Lady has nothing to do with this fight.”
I stepped backward, toward the skirmish.
“That’s right,” he continued. “I asked my commanders. No one from Daggermark sent word for any warrior nuns.” He lifted his halberd again. “You’re a spy for Tymon, and it’s going to be my pleasure to run you through.”
“A spy for Tymon?” Where was Phargas? I tried a hearty-yet-feminine laugh. One of the horses in the battle gave a short, screeching neigh as it went down. The two sounds were remarkably similar. “Absurd!”
“Then where’s your friend?” the soldier said. I heard a familiar bellow and glanced back; in the half-dark, I saw two horsemen locked in combat with a gladiator in full armor, heavy sword chopping deep into the flesh of man and horse. Commander Makoa. He was framed on either side by two more opponents, unlikely soldiers dressed in plain black and armed with thin staves, who seemed unable to do more than fend off his vicious blows.
The soldier inched toward me; I inched away. Screams and the splintering of wood were very close behind me now. Well, this was it.
“I’m no spy, soldier,” I proclaimed, pulling back my hood. “Ollix Kaddar’s the name—scion of Kadria, Pathfinder extraordinaire, and adoptee of your army.” Introducing myself, no matter the circumstance, gave me a touch of pride. “Now kindly let me pass and rejoin your struggle.”
I felt a shock through my feet and saw, at the corner of my eye, a Daggermark rider fall dead along with his horse.
I started to turn; the soldier looked up, and his eyes widened; an arrow struck h
im in the chest.
A voice thundered behind me. “Again? The wretch dares to betray Tymon again?” The voice broke off in a bellow of rage and all around me was a bristle of spears. I saw suddenly I was alone—no warrior of Daggermark still stood within eyesight.
Makoa broke through the line of his troops, swinging an immense broadsword, bloodshot eyes fixed on me. The Tymon lieutenant, Caziar, pushed along behind him.
Perhaps it hadn’t been the choicest moment to remove my cowl.
“Prepare to die, traitor!” Makoa called, and I found myself without a comeback. The big man sneered as he paced around me, sword point level with my chest. His other hand reached to his belt and drew out a short crescent blade. “The tide is turning on Daggermark. Tonight we take this land, and tomorrow we march on Daggermark itself. Lord Ungin’s flag will fly on its battlements, and I will hold it in his name. But I think I’ll start the celebration early by skinning you here and now.”
A cry went up from Makoa’s troops. Through the shine of armor and the flash of swords, I saw that Ommarra had leapt into their company, blade swinging. Another noise sounded beside me—Phargas. He shrugged off his cowl and stepped between Makoa and me.
“You won’t harm him.”
Above the noise and clash of blades, I heard Ommarra say, “Olive? Francis?”
Caziar, spiked mace raised, laughed involuntarily. “By Gorum’s eyes—it’s a woman soldier and our lying priest!”
Phargas lifted his walking stick. A flame lit the tip. “You will not harm the young one.”
Makoa pointed his broadsword at Phargas. His breath came in pants, but a hint of a smile played across his features. “Well—this is a little more sporting.”
Phargas murmured a few words under his breath, then said louder in a dreamy, hypothetical tone, “And what is sport for you, Lord Makoa?”
“Sport for you is an arena of slaughter!” The words jumped out of my mouth before I could catch them. “You call yourself a warrior, but your only taste of blood comes from watching undeserving creatures die in your pit.” As if pulled by a string, my knife leapt upward in my grip. I had never felt such a thing before—like the words were flying from my lips. “The weak and foolish are brought from across the River Kingdoms, but are never enough to slake your mad thirst. You organize death, but dare not deal it. And you call yourself a warrior!” My chest felt like it was on fire. “A warrior? A wart-riddled orc raider begot you on some peddler’s mother in a reeking ditch!”