Blood Mercenaries Origins

by Ben Wolf

  Unintelligible shouts sounded from behind them, and Kent finally looked back. Halfway to the manse, the bronze armor of about a dozen soldiers glinted under the sunlight.

  The soldiers looked up at him.

  “My father has been murdered,” Kent told them, “and I am personally riding north to Lord Frostsong’s estate to petition him for aid. My brother Fane is the culprit.”

  “My lord!” said the soldier who’d helped him onto the horse. “Please allow me to gather a proper escort for your journey.”

  Kent couldn’t allow any of them to come with. Based on the tingling in his hands, it was only a matter of time before his magical curse manifested again, and then he’d have to fight off more of his own soldiers. All he could do was flee.

  “There is no time. I will be fine on my own.” Kent checked the gate— almost wide enough to fit the horse through. “See that my brother is arrested for the murder of my father, and have him executed before I return.”

  I can never return, even if that should happen. But they didn’t need to know that.

  “Yes, my lord,” one of the soldiers said.

  The gate was close to being open wide enough. Kent urged the horse toward it.

  The shouts from behind him crystalized in his ears.

  “Don’t let him out! He killed Lord Etheridge!” someone yelled. Kent glanced back at the soldiers around the gate.

  They stared up at him, as confused as they’d been when he’d come running.

  The pursuing guards shouted the same directive again, and the soldiers at the gate turned toward Kent. They were putting it all together, making sense of the scenario, Kent’s injured hip, the sword in his belt.

  “My lord,” one of them said. “You need to come down off that horse.”

  Kent kicked the horse’s sides and cracked the reins, and the horse bolted toward the gate.

  “Close the gate!” someone behind him shouted.

  The gate stopped opening and started closing, but Kent was already close enough. The horse squirted between the gate doors and carried him into the expanse of hills and trees beyond.

  He disappeared into the forest to the north of the manse, then he curled east, and finally, he turned south.

  Kent didn’t stop riding until the walls of Ranhold Fortress, Muroth’s southeastern border fortress, loomed on the horizon, just before the setting sun. He looked back. So far, no one was following him that he could see.

  He’d calculated his options during the ride away from his estate—well, what was his estate—and decided that he had to keep heading south. He would go to Inoth, the one place where they could not follow him. Not without risking a full-fledged war.

  Kent urged his horse forward.

  He’d told the soldiers at the gate he was heading north, to Lord Frostsong’s estate. But even though the Etheridges and the Frostsongs had maintained comfortable relations for decades, Lord Frostsong would undoubtedly have Kent killed upon learning of his curse.

  That was Muroth’s law, and it was inescapable as long as he remained in the country. No one in Muroth would help him.

  Ranhold Fortress was about two miles away now, and Kent took solace in knowing that his arrival would far precede any news regarding his cursed condition or of his father’s demise.

  As such, Kent would still command some measure of power, respect, and even privilege upon his arrival, and he intended to parlay all of that into a good meal and possibly some rest.

  Fane… that bastard.

  Kent exhaled a shaky breath. He’d hardly taken time to breathe, much less to process what had happened. Sorrow racked his chest, and tears stung the corners of his eyes.

  I swear… by the gods, I swear I will have my revenge.

  Kent blinked away his emotions and refocused on his plans.

  He’d entertained the idea of fleeing to Urthia or Govalia, two countries that bordered Muroth to the northeast and due east, respectively, or of heading due north toward Xenthan, the continent’s largest country, part of which bordered Muroth in the north along with the neighboring country of Etrijan.

  But he’d dismissed those ideas just as quickly. Any of them would mean spending far too much time traversing now-hostile territory.

  Aside from Inoth, his only other option was finding a ship on Muroth’s western coast and boarding it.

  But where would it take him? Plus, that path would lead him through even more of his home country along the way, and any soldier with a scorallite crystal could quickly identify him as being cursed.

  As much as he hated to admit it, Inoth was his only viable option—and in some ways, his best option.

  Since Muroth and Inoth refused to trade or negotiate in any manner, he’d had no contact with anyone of significance within the country. No one there would know him, and in anonymity, he could begin a new life.

  What’s more, as a fellow cursed magic-user, he would no longer have to hide his abilities, meager as they were. At least the tingling in his fingers might finally normalize once and for all.

  Kent muttered curses anew upon Fane. Were it not for Fane’s lifelong jealousy and deceit culminating the way it had, Kent would be ruling the province instead of trying to flee it.

  Father hadn’t needed to die, particularly the way that he’d been killed.

  Murdered by his own son.

  Rage boiled in Kent’s chest, but he had no way to release any of it. He wished Fane were there with him. Then Kent could wrap his glowing blue hands around Fane’s neck and squeeze the life from his body.

  Someday. Someday, Fane will pay for his crimes.

  Within minutes, he’d closed to within a half-mile of the fortress, and in the waning sunlight, he could make out the shapes of soldiers patrolling atop both the border wall and the fortress.

  The sight filled him with nostalgia and sorrow simultaneously. And then the sorrow took over.

  Kent pushed it all aside. He could deal with his emotions once he was truly safe.

  A few minutes later, his horse approached the fortress’s northern gate. He identified himself to the soldiers on duty and requested that they send General Calarook to the wall to confirm his identity.

  Shortly afterward, a stocky man about Kent’s age with black-and-gray hair and wearing dark bronze armor emerged from the now-open portcullis at the gate—General Calarook. Four soldiers clad in white-iron armor flanked him, two on each side.

  Kent urged his horse forward but didn’t dismount. If they somehow knew what had happened, he wanted to be ready to bolt away without any delays.

  Furthermore, forcing General Calarook and his men to look up at him projected a useful air of superiority that he could leverage.

  “My lord,” General Calarook rasped. He bowed. “We weren’t expecting you.”

  When Calarook straightened up, Kent noticed the thick scar that traced from his left cheek down his jaw and down the left side of his throat. Long ago, something or someone had carved a remembrance into Calarook and damaged his voice in the process, but Kent had never heard the entire story.

  “Of course not,” Kent said. “Otherwise you would have been prepared with a proper welcome. But that is the nature of surprise inspections, General. They are meant to be surprising.”

  Calarook grinned and nodded. “I’ve been known to execute surprise inspections myself from time to time. You can expect to find everything in good order here. I run a tight ship.”

  Kent matched his grin. “I know you do, General. Will you escort me inside?”

  “It will be my pleasure.”

  The portcullis soon closed behind them, sealing them inside the fortress.

  Kent passed off his injury as a minor wounds he’d sustained while riding to the fortress. He claimed he’d scraped against a low-hanging tree branch that gouged his hip.

  General Calarook had given him a curious eye upon hearing it. He had certainly seen his fair share of wounds throughout the years and likely doubted the veracity of Kent’s tale, but he did
n’t question it openly, and he made sure Kent received proper care for it.

  The “inspection” went well. The soldiers demonstrated attention to detail and thoroughness. Their dedication to developing and maintaining the fortress’s rich history of defending against Inothian attacks made Kent proud, albeit a proudness laced with sadness.

  They prepared a hasty feast in Kent’s honor, and all the while General Calarook asked him gentle questions that pinpointed the holes in Kent’s story.

  What happened to your escort? Where are your personal effects?

  Did you not think to bring warm clothes for your journey?

  What inspired your choice to carry a common soldier’s sword instead of your own?

  What led you to dress so well for a simple inspection?

  Kent tactfully answered them all, but he sensed that Calarook understood that something was off. After all, he hadn’t risen to the rank of general by being stupid.

  After the meal concluded, Kent excused himself and allowed Calarook to escort him to the private chambers they’d prepared for him for the evening. They stopped at his door, and Calarook paused with the skeleton key in the lock.

  He turned toward Kent and rasped, “My lord, forgive me for my forwardness, but I know there is more you are not telling me. I only ask you now out of concern that I may need more information in order to best prepare for any potential threats. Is there anything else I need to know?”

  Kent smirked. “General, your skills of perception are as sharp as ever. There is more to this story, but as my father and I are still developing a plan, we cannot share much more than what I am about to tell you.”

  Calarook turned the key and opened the chamber doors. “Perhaps it’s best we speak inside.”

  Kent hesitated. Of all the people in Muroth he didn’t want to be alone in a room with, particularly under the current circumstances, Calarook ranked near the top of the list. His fighting prowess and tactical mind surpassed that of the majority of the Murothian Army’s top commanders.

  What’s more, he had insisted on overseeing Ranhold Fortress personally, despite Kent and his father’s attempts to move him somewhere more comfortable. Calarook had refused to leave the protection of the southeastern border to anyone else.

  But Kent obliged him, entered the room first to get a sense of its size and the resources available should he need to make use of them. He saw a bed with simple wooden posts, a wardrobe in the corner, a simple writing desk with a chair, and little else.

  Calarook shut the door and locked it behind him. “Have a seat if you wish, my lord.”

  Kent tried to read Calarook, but he couldn’t discern what he was thinking. Calarook’s face remained hard but emotionless, like usual, and his damaged voice didn’t betray any audible cues one way or another.

  So Kent pulled the desk chair out and sat down.

  Calarook sat on the corner of the bed, tucked the key into his left gauntlet, and stared at Kent.

  “Thank you again for your hospitality, General,” Kent said.

  Calarook just nodded, interwove his armored fingers on his lap, and kept staring.

  “What I am about to tell you, you must promise not to share with anyone.”

  “I am bound by the blood covenant I swore to Muroth and her emperor to respect and obey your lordship.” Calarook gave a slight bow. “Your wish is my command.”

  “I understand. Thank you.”

  Kent took a breath and then launched into a fabrication about how his father suspected Inoth had sent spies into Muroth to discern their defense capabilities and to assess for weaknesses. Therefore, Kent had personally come to visit the most crucial intersection between the two countries.

  He’d developed the tale hours earlier while riding from his family estate toward the fortress, and it rolled off his tongue as smoothly as any lie he’d ever told, though he usually shied away from lying at all.

  “And my task tomorrow will be to infiltrate the kingdom of Inoth so we may glean what information we can about their plans concerning our great nation.”

  “Alone?” Calarook asked.

  Kent nodded. “Alone. I have been preparing for this day for months. Bringing anyone with me would risk damaging my chances for anonymity.”

  Calarook nodded.

  They sat there in silence for a long moment.

  Finally, Calarook sucked in a sharp breath and said, “You know, I had hoped it wasn’t true.”

  Kent’s heart started beating faster. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Of all the lords I’ve dealt with in this country, you were by far my favorite.” Calarook’s hands separated and rested on his knees. “You always treated me with fairness and respect. Your father was a good man, but I always knew you were better.”

  Kent squinted at him. Calarook had distinctly spoken of Kent’s father in the past tense. It wasn’t an accident. “Thank you.”

  “That’s why I found it so disconcerting when I received word by raven this afternoon of what happened at your family’s estate this morning.”

  The familiar tingle returned to Kent’s fingertips. He clenched his fists.

  “I was aggrieved to hear of your father’s untimely demise, and I was even sadder to hear of your brother’s succession as Lord Etheridge.” Calarook shook his head. “Between you and me, I’ve always thought he was a wretched, spoiled brat.”

  Kent nodded. “So have I.”

  “But unfortunately, if the story I read was true, what I think of him doesn’t change what I must do now.”

  Calarook reached for something at his belt, but he hadn’t brought in any weapons—at least none that Kent had seen. He still wore his full armor, minus his helmet. Kent doubted he’d been able to conceal any weapons within his bulky armor.

  Even so, Kent remained on his guard; he’d given up his sword prior to dinner, so he was unarmed, too.

  Calarook extended his arm toward Kent with his hand closed, palm up.

  Then he opened it.

  A piece of vivid green scorallite lay in his palm.

  “I need you to take hold of this, my lord.” Calarook kept his eyes fixed on Kent, and Kent returned his stare. “Then we will know the truth.”

  Kent swallowed. He uttered, “I did not kill my father.”

  “That, I believe,” Calarook said. “But I need to know for sure about the rest.”

  Kent stared at the scorallite for a moment, then he refocused on Calarook’s hard brown eyes. “Please do not make me do this, General. Just let me leave.”

  Calarook shook his head. “You lords wrote the laws. I just enforce them.”

  The tingling in Kent’s fingers heightened and spread to the entirety of his hands. “Very well, General. Please forgive me for having failed you.”

  Kent leaned forward, reached for the scorallite with his left hand, and balanced himself on the edge of his seat by grabbing the top of the chair with his right hand.

  Then he stood upright and whipped the chair at General Calarook’s head.

  Chapter Three

  General Calarook raised his left arm, and the chair shattered against his shoulder and side rather than his head. The scorallite and broken pieces of wood scattered across the floor and the bed.

  Unfazed, Calarook sprung to his feet and charged Kent, who sidestepped a little too late. Calarook’s right arm caught Kent’s waist, and they both hit the floor in a mass of well-dressed and well-armored fury.

  Amid the scramble, Kent smashed his elbow into Calarook’s cheek, and it earned him a brutal head-butt to his chest. The air pushed out of Kent’s lungs, and he struggled to breathe as he found his footing and tried to back away.

  Calarook pursued him and lunged forward again. Kent tried to sprawl, but the force of Calarook’s attack kept him upright. Kent’s back smacked into the wall next to the wardrobe, and he grunted and moaned and sucked for air.

  They fought for positioning, and Kent managed to grab Calarook’s head with his hands and anchor it between his forear
ms.

  Kent pushed forward with his torso and forced Calarook upright for the first time in the scuffle, then Kent pulled him back and drove his right knee into the armor covering his belly.

  A dull clunk sounded, and Calarook expelled a sharp breath.

  Kent seized his chance. He yanked Calarook’s head to the right and kicked at his ankles with his right leg.

  The head motion set Calarook off-balance, and the kick swept his feet out from under him. Kent let him go, and Calarook hit the floor on his side with an armored clank.

  The wardrobe. Calarook was lying right in front of it.

  Kent grabbed the top of it and hauled it down. It slammed on top of Calarook with a loud crash, and Kent had to wonder if more soldiers might come to Calarook’s aid because of the noise.

  One thing Kent had learned in all his decades of fighting training was to press an advantage whenever he had one, so he did. Kicking Calarook’s armored ribs wouldn’t afford Kent anything except broken toes, so Kent aimed elsewhere.

  As Calarook hefted the wardrobe off of him, Kent delivered a hard kick to his exposed head. The blow struck hard, and it stunned Calarook for an instant—long enough for Kent to drop down and pin him to the floor.

  Pain smashed into Kent’s forehead, and he rolled off of Calarook to recover. Calarook had bashed him with one of the wardrobe’s doors.

  Kent hurried to his feet and dabbed at his head. His fingers came back red and wet, but he realized the tingling had subsided, just as it had during his fights with the guards and his brother back at the manse.

  Calarook got to his feet as well and flung the door at Kent, who dove to the side to avoid getting hit. When he reset, Calarook had reached him and wrapped his arms around Kent’s waist. The pressure pinched the bandaged cut on his hip, and he winced.

  Kent tried to squat down to counter, but Calarook proved too strong. He hefted Kent off his feet, twisted and arched his back, and drove Kent into the floor.

  The blow racked the bones in Kent’s arms and shoulders, and Calarook’s body weight kept Kent struggling to breathe.