by Adam Collins
"Much better. Nice and dark, the way I like it," he thought. Coming to a bend he pulled out a small mirror and held it so that he could see around the corner. 'Good there's the door to the master bedchamber,' he whispered, 'and not a guard in sight.'
Slipping the mirror back into his pocket he quietly crept down to the door and listened. The sound of snuffling snores carried through the heavy wood. Trying the handle and finding it locked, he retrieved a lock-pick from his belt probed the workings. "This is where the skill comes in," he smirked. It only took a few seconds. The door lock was not a very good one. "A two year old could have opened it with a swaddling pin. Not really much of a challenge at all," he thought as he slipped inside.
On the bed lay a fat balding man in his mid-fifties. He was snorting and snoring in deep sleep. By the dresser lay an empty wine-jug. Brinn saw the man's face clearly in the flickering half-light of the dying fire. It was Lord Darrik, Defender of the North, cousin to the King. Brinn could feel his blood rise. This was the pig responsible for taking his woman. "My beautiful Sherii," he remembered. A large lump started to form in his throat. With great effort he forced it down deep inside. Turning his heart to black marble, cold and hard. He clamped his hand over Darrik's mouth. The Defender of the North immediately awoke and tried to fight off his attacker, but the man had inhuman strength. Outmatched and powerless to resist, Darrick quickly surrendered.
'Do you know who I am?' asked Brinn.
Darrik shook his head vigorously.
'I am going to remove my hand. If you call out you die! Is that clear?'
Darrik nodded his understanding.
Brinn removed his vice-like grip.
'Who are you? What do you want of me? If it's money...I'm not a rich man, but you can have whatever I've got,' whined Darrik.
'I don't want your money you scum sucking toad!'
Darrik blinked in shock at Brinn's venomous tone, 'The King would pay a mighty ransom for my safe return. I...I am his cousin. He would not forsake me. After all...we are family.'
'If you mention the King's name again I will tear out your tongue with my bare hands! Do you hear me?' Panther hissed.
'I don't understand,' whined Darrik, 'what then is it that you want with me?'
Brinn remained silent for a long moment, staring blankly at the dying embers in the fireplace. 'What I want...you cannot give.'
'So why then are you here?'
'I'm a lonely traveller of the night in search of answers. Give them to me and I will be gone.'
'Answers to what? Tell me. I will happily help you my friend.' Darrik was feeling a little more relaxed, and sat up in the bed.
'To life...and death. I have recently lost a loved one.'
'Ah, then we are kindred brothers. For I have also had a loss...you see...my wife...she also passed recently.'
'Really...please tell me more. It may help me in my grief.'
'It's a tragedy...she jumped from that very window there.' Darrik pointed to the long slit window in the wall.
'A sad loss. How many years were you together?'
'Oh not long. It was our wedding night.' Darrik laughed nervously
'How truly terrible. Were you in the room when she jumped, friend?'
'Why, yes I was...but not conscious, you understand. It had been a very vigorous night,' Darrik winked.
'Of course. It was your wedding night. She must have been very...enthusiastic?'
'No, not really. But some wenches need a firm hand. You know the type. You would do likewise I think, eh? he laughed again.
In a movement that was a blur. Brinn drove a knife into Darrick's mouth right up to the hilt and pinned his head to the ornate wooden headboard. Darrik died with a look of shock and fear frozen on his face.
Brinn looked into the dying man's eyes and watched as the last sparks of life died away. 'No, I wouldn't,' he whispered at last.
He paused, looked at the window for a long moment, and then left.
2. Stolen
541 Mur-ro
An alliance of eastern nations under the leadership of Sulan AL-Imri was sweeping west subjugating all before it. The western nations of Amaran and Anvar had already fallen and Jarro was next in line. The war had raged for almost fifteen years. E'Ben was neutral but Prince Raltu, heir to the throne, had been secretly negotiating behind his ailing father's back. His price to aid Jarro, marriage to the beautiful Princess Megan. Though unhappy about the arrangement, King Fredrik Elamere had little choice. He desperately needed E'Ben's army. Both Jarro and the Eastern Alliance armies were locked in a death grip from which only one side would emerge victorious. Princess Megan's carriage sped along the Deel to Roat road on her way to a meeting with the prince heir of E'Ben. Two hundred lancers of her personal bodyguard assured her safety. A terrible weight had been placed upon her young shoulders. This meeting had to be a success. The fate of tens of thousands of her countrymen's lives depended on it.
'Column halt!' said Colonel Artam. Thirty years of military experience gave him a sort of sixth sense about situations, and he didn't like what he was presently feeling one little bit. It was his responsibility to get the princess to the town of Em'Ben, just inside the E'Ben border, and back home again safely.
'Sir, orders?' a voice just behind his left shoulder inquired. It was Major Udal, a tough and competent officer new to the battalion, handpicked by Artam himself.
Ahead the road cut through the densely wooded hills known locally as The Belt. The Belt ran in a semi-circle east and west of Deel. Of course they could go around, but it would mean backtracking for twenty miles and add another day to the trip. Not an option, Artam decided.
'Major, take a patrol ahead and scout the way. The column will follow.'
'Sir!' Udal snapped off a crisp salute and wheeled away, 'Captain Ilan, Lieutenant Kallen, with me! First twenty-five, by the twos, forward!' snarled Ulam as he set off at a trot immediately followed by his twenty five man patrol, pristine in their gleaming ceremonial breastplates.
Artam waited until the patrol was almost out of sight before ordering the column to advance. The road ahead disappeared into a wooded valley. 'That's where I would do it,' he mumbled to himself, shuddering at the thought of being attacked in such a desolate and lonely place.
The polished black exterior of the carriage reflected the mid afternoon rays, highlighting the gold leaf and trim of the royal coat of arms on its delicately engraved doors. Inside, Princess Megan and companion Lady Anabel N'Dhun sat wearily looking out the windows at the unending and seemingly unchanging view.
'Thank goodness we're moving again. We've been cooped up in this carriage for so long, I can no longer feel my bottom,' Anabel moaned.
'How much further do you think it is to Em'Ben, Highness?'
Megan stared blankly out the window, lost in thought, her mind firmly fixed on her meeting with the Prince Regent of E'Ben. She had met him once before and cared little for him. He was small, not very good looking, and boorish. He treated his court officials and hangers-on in a rude, offhand way, and was much too fond of his hunting and drinking.
He was not the type of man she would have normally accepted as a suitor, but these were not normal times, and she had no choice. Her father had made it clear. Jarro was in serious trouble, and the war was not going well. Too many lives had been lost and now there was no-one left to replace them. If the situation did not change soon, the front-line would collapse within six months.
The consequence did not bare thinking about. AL-Imri would wreak a terrible revenge on Jarro for resisting for so long. He was a fanatic with a lust for conquest who had gathered his great army and set them loose against Jarro, the only free nation still unwilling to submit to his rule. They would not be happy until every city, town, and village lay as smouldering rubble, and the survivors sold at the slave markets of Mabak-Var.
'Highness?'
'What's that? I'm sorry Anabel. I was miles away. What were you saying?'
'I was just wondering how muc
h further it was to the town?' Anabel smiled, flicking her long hair back from her face.
Anabel was an exceedingly pretty young woman. She had long blond hair like Megan, though not quite as long or full, and blue eyes to Megan's green. At a distance it was hard to tell them apart, but up close there was no comparison. Megan had a stunning natural beauty. She was kind and good hearted, but could be as sharp and hard as steel if the need arose. She was her father's daughter and a worthy heir to the throne.
'Another half day. Ten hours at least,' answered Megan.
'Oh divine heaven, no! Don't say it's so. I don't think I can take much more of this jigging about,' huffed Anabel, while stuffing another of the perfume-scented cushions under her bottom.
'It's best to keep your mind busy, Ana. Read your book or watch the scenery.'
'My book is dull and the scenery is twice so. Except--' she stopped. 'Except for that handsome captain of the guard back there,' she winked then craned her head to try to get a better view of the young man riding close to the carriage in all of his sparkling finery.
'Hmm, sits a horse well don't you think, Meg.' The young women were cousins and had been friends since childhood, so when alone their conversation had that natural informality that closeness brings.
'You're a bawdy letch, Anabel N'Dhun!' squealed a laughing Megan, hitting her friend with one of the many cushions that were lying about.
'Whatever do you mean, Highness? I'm simply an admirer of good form and military correctness!' Anabel feigned indignation.
'Hmm...of course,' Megan gave Anabel one of her - I don't believe a word you are saying - looks.
'Big strong thighs, I bet,' Anabel grinned mischievously and shrieked as she ducked another flying cushion.
The column slowly made its way along the wooded road. It was not a very wide road, and the trees on either side were closely packed, causing an unnatural darkness. Sweet smelling pine-sap infused the tranquil air with a rich, succulent, fragrance. An eerie silence had descended making the itch between Artam's shoulder blades insufferable. Something was amiss and he didn't like it. The road wound on and on. As they turned each new bend he expected to see the patrol returning to make report on what lay ahead. But there was still no sign, and he was getting concerned.
Midges and Blackfly swarmed the troops and their horses, driving both to distraction. The air was thick with them. There was simply no refuge from the biting little pests as the torment continued unabated.
'Gods be damned, but they are the devil's own creation,' swore Captain Mor while feverishly slapping his face and neck.
'This? This is nothing! Just a momentary inconvenience. You should have been with us in Gantu in 511,' smirked Artam. ' Six months of pure hell. Trekking through swampy hellholes cleaning out slavers and pirates. The Midges and Mosquitoes attacked in military formation. Battalion after battalion. Great big black clouds--' His words were cut short by the impact of a crossbow bolt.
Artam flew backwards over his horse's rump and onto the ground. The first volley killed half the troop. All around him his men were dying. It was a massacre pure and simple. The bolts, at such close range, sliced through the lancers breastplates like glowing embers through parchment.
The normally deadly efficient lancers were trained to fight at the gallop and in open country. Not on a small, confined, heavily wooded road. All of the officers were either dead or mortally wounded. Artam lay in the ferns at the side of the road watching in horror as his men were cut to pieces. The sergeants tried to rally those still left standing and sallied on foot. But now heavily outnumbered they were easily beaten back. A few brave men tried to turn the carriage around so that the Princess might escape. But one of the horses was killed, stranding the coach diagonally across the road.
The last thing Artam saw just before he died was a bear-sized man with a big black beard, dressed in dark leather armour and furs, stepping from the undergrowth and roaring in triumph. Artam lay on his back looking up at the swaying branches of a pine tree feeling his life slipping away.
His last thoughts were for his princess, and the shame that he felt at having failed her, "You old fool!" he thought. "You should have gone the long way around--"
3. Treason
Major Antillus Brok was a tough and uncompromising commander who led his men from the front, and could generally be found in the thick of the most frenzied fighting. Fierce grey eyes 'neath thick graying hair, set him apart from most. Few held his steely gaze for long. Those who knew, likened it to the cold fixed glare of a large predator, a snow leopard or a half tame wolf. A strong square jaw and heavily built shoulders gave pause to even the toughest. If that was not enough, a deep frown now darkened his normally dour countenance, further twisting his features beyond what could be described as human. He should be at the front with his men, but instead found himself making for the Pathfinder headquarters in Kan-Ta by order of General Chael.
The message he'd received had been short and succinct. "Return to headquarters immediately. Bring three of your best men. Signed General Drogo Chael." Something was up and it must be important to drag him all the way back to the capital when every man was needed at the front.
Less than 48 hours and four horses later, here he was loping up the steps of the Pathfinder officer barracks. The guards at the Main door, resplendent in their Pathfinder dress uniforms of green and blue, snapped to attention as he approached.
Just behind them stood the officer of the watch. 'Good evening, sir. Can I be of assistance?' inquired the lieutenant.
'Evening. Major Brok to see General Chael. I'm expected,' Brok handed over his identity papers and orders to the young lieutenant.
'Very good, sir. Everything seems to be in order. The General is waiting for you. Do you need directions?'
'I know the way.'
The Lieutenant saluted again and opened the door.
Chael's office was up the stairs and to the left. Outside its solid grey doors stood two sentries. Brok walked to the door. The two men snapped to attention as he turned the brass handle and pushed the door open. Inside, the general's secretary was sitting at his desk. He immediately stood and saluted as Brok entered the room.
'Sir, it's good to see you again,' Sergeant Mangra had served under Brok until losing a leg.
'Sergeant, it's good to see you too. It's been a while,' Brok casually returned the sergeant's salute.
'Yes, sir. Three years since this,' Mangra rapped his knuckles against his leg. Its dull report like a rat-a-tat on the a cheap wood. 'I got the Silver Falcon for it, sir.'
'I recommended you for Falcon with gold arrows. But I suppose they only give those to those who are severely injured in the line of duty,' Brok couldn't hide the smirk.
The sergeant knew his old commander was gently ribbing him and there was no offence intended, 'Thank you, sir. In fact I've been thinking of requesting a posting back to the front. I fancy another crack at getting those gold arrows,' he laughed. 'If you will just take a seat for a moment, I'll let the General know you are here,' he indicated a line of chairs against the wall.
Brok sat and crossed his legs.
The sergeant opened one side of a set of burnished oak double doors. 'Major Brok to see you, sir.'
There was a muffled response.
'You can go in now, sir,' the sergeant held the door open and closed it behind Brok after he had entered the general's office.
'Antillus, it's good to see you again,' the general walked over and warmly grasped Brok's hand.
'And you, sir.'
'Care for a brandy, Major?' Chael sauntered towards a well-stocked drinks cabinet.
'Thank you, sir.'
'I imagine you've had a long trip?' added the general. 'Take a seat, I'll bring it over.'
'Yes, sir. The roads are busy of late. Many are abandoning their homes and fleeing to the west. It would seem, bad news travels quickly.'
'Indeed. There is little cheer these days. You can't blame them really, I'd do the same in their s
hoes, if I'm honest,' Chael passed a half-filled brandy glass to his friend, and sat on the edge of his desk. There was a short silence. "How bad are things at the front?"
'Very bad.'
'Go on.'
'The troops are surviving on half rations, and have been for a year. We have little or no supplies. Sickness stalks the rear areas like a ravenous beast. Cholera is so rampant that the injured men feel they are better off staying on the lines rather than chance going to the aid stations. The enemy is getting stronger, while we get weaker. Even the Pathfinders is filled with new young faces. Most of the old guard are dead or crippled. Frankly, it's a complete mess, sir. We need a miracle,' Brok downed the brandy in one gulp and stared at his feet.
Chael shifted uncomfortably on the desk. 'I knew it was bad, but... Let's just say, you know how to paint a picture, and it's not a pretty one.'
'No, sir.'
The general stared silently into his brandy.
'Sir?'
'Yes, Major.'
'If I may be direct. Why was I ordered back?'
The general took a deep breath, 'What I tell you now is a supreme secret. What you hear next must go with you to your grave. Understood?'
'Yes, of course,' Brok sat up in his seat.
'Three days ago a diplomatic mission to E'Ben was attacked on the Deel to Roat road by Gantu slavers. The reason for the mission, to finalise a treaty that would ally E'Ben and Jarro. Prince Ralto and Princess Megan were to be married thus uniting our two nations under one banner. Princess Megan is missing, believed captured by the marauders. Prince Ralto, to his credit, has mobilised his army and shut down all border crossings into Anvar from E'Ben. But we suspect that the raiders have retreated back into Gantu through the Benteer Pass.
Though we have no proof at present, we strongly suspect that Sulan AL-Imri is involved.'