In addition to the offer of coin, Delfina had also asked him to stay on as captain of the guard. However, Creel had no desire to work as a guard any longer, for that belonged in a past life to a man who had died long before, so he declined that offer as well. He had stuck around long enough for her to hire a score of men, whose potential he’d helped evaluate, for guarding the walls of the keep. He figured as long as they weren’t part of that corrupt and sadistic lot that had previously served under Thalko’s rule, that was a good start. Most of the hires were locals with no experience at wielding a sword yet were happy to sign up since Lady Nakire had regained control of her lands. Several were men well past their prime, and a couple were beardless boys. Fortunately, five men among them were from the region and had soldiered or worked as sellswords in the past. Creel paid closest attention to that latter group. Satisfied they seemed relatively trustworthy, he’d approved of the hires. Soon, the experienced men were drilling the others under Creel’s watchful eye. By the time he was ready to leave, a solid veteran from a nearby hamlet had distinguished himself and been promoted to captain. Despite what may have been going on in the rest of the kingdom, that small corner of the realm was a better place than when he’d arrived, a fact he could take pride in.
On the third day after leaving Nakire Keep, Creel reached a crossroads and came across the scene of a slaughter. A wagon, likely a merchant’s, had been overturned and set to the torch. Eight corpses lay where they had fallen, bloated and rotting in the afternoon sun. Blood flies were thick in the air, and maggots squirmed in the discolored flesh.
“Bandits?” he wondered aloud.
The lands in the distant south of Ketania, within fifty miles of the mountains separating the kingdom from Nebara, could be fairly lawless, far from the capital city and the long arm of the king’s law. In those parts, local lords were responsible for keeping the roads safe from monsters and brigands. If they were in similar or worse shape than the Nakire lands, then the locals would be left to fend for themselves. Hence, the farthest reaches of Ketania were ripe for a monster hunter’s business and kept Creel employed.
He pulled a kerchief over his nose and mouth to muffle the stench. Deep tracks of men and horses covered the ground, dry presently, but rain had fallen two days past. Thus, the attack occurred within the past two days while the ground was muddy. The men hadn’t been taken unaware—quite the contrary, for several swords and a couple bows remained where they had fallen. Other corpses still wore armor.
Bandits would’ve scavenged the arms or armor to use or sell. Monsters? Not likely.
He followed the convoluted series of tracks around the scene, and after a short time, a vision of what had occurred formed. The merchants had been traveling east along the same road he was following and set camp there near the crossroads. A troop of mounted men, roughly a score, rode up from the south, came upon the merchant caravan, and fell upon their camp. A struggle ensued, but the merchant and his guards were quickly overwhelmed. The attackers had then continued on the road, traveling westward.
A bad feeling sank into Creel’s gut. Why attack the caravan? These weren’t brigands, but perhaps they wanted it to look as such. Nebarans? He’d heard rumors throughout the southlands of the empire mustering its troops and posturing for war, but if that was true, the purpose was yet unknown. How would a party of Nebarans have gotten here, with Helmsfield Pass not far, the way protected by a formidable keep? Unless these were scouts and had found another route through the mountains. He looked over the corpses, lying where they had fallen around the remains of a campfire, and then realized why they had been slain.
They were killed to ensure nobody witnessed the presence of the armed band here, well within Ketania.
“Gods, they really are planning to invade. But why?”
The emperor was an old man and likely passing into senility, based upon what Creel had heard over the years.
“This makes little sense. A sortie as a precursor to invasion. Why invade Ketania at all? There’s no bad blood, to my knowledge, and Ketania is a powerful kingdom—a war would be long and costly for both sides.”
Creel remounted his horse, able only to shake his head while he speculated. He decided to ride for Ammon Nor, the largest southland city and also the nearest army garrison. It was a few days’ ride, but he meant to deliver the tidings so the call to arms could go out. With any luck, the garrison commander would mobilize Ketanian army patrols to drive the Nebarans back whence they came. With a sigh, he turned his mount along the western road, following the tracks of the armed band.
I’d better try to determine where these bastards have gone. The thought of getting sucked into a military matter soured his mood further.
As if in accord with his darkening disposition, a gust of wind stirred the air carrying the smell of rain while thunder rumbled in dark clouds gathering on the horizon.
***
The sound of a weeping child reached Creel’s keen ears over the ambient patter of raindrops and the splashing of his horse’s hooves in the mud of the road. He reined in the horse, listening to try to pinpoint the source of the sound.
A ramshackle barn was barely visible from the road. Ahead through the curtain of rain, the huddled forms of homes in a village could be made out: Oostberg, if memory served him right. He nudged his horse, guiding it toward the barn.
“Will be nice to get out of this damned rain for a time, anyway,” he muttered.
A sudden spasm of pain down his back made him clench his jaw and hold on to the saddle horn lest he lose his balance. Fortunately, the spasm was relatively minor, yet it indicated worse was on the way.
“This cold rain seeps into the bones and aggravates the pain.”
Creel dismounted and dragged the barn door open with a rusty squeal of its hinges. He led his horse inside out of the rain, and the smell of fresh hay filled his nose. The grateful horse walked over to a filled manger and began contentedly munching away on the hay.
The sobbing had stopped, and Creel listened. All was silent save for the horse’s chewing and the rain drumming on the roof and dripping from leaks, yet he could smell the child’s faint scent inside the barn.
“It’s all right, you can come on out of there,” he called. His eyes were focused on a pair of stalls at the rear, each filled with large haystacks, the only hiding place available in the ramshackle barn.
After a moment, a young boy of eight or nine summers stepped out from the stall on the right. He regarded Creel silently, his eyes red and face streaked with tears. He made no move to approach or flee, simply staring fearfully.
“I won’t hurt you, lad. I just needed a few moments to get out of the rain.” He patted the horse’s flank and went about removing the saddle and bridle, thinking the barn would be as good a place as any to bed down for a few hours, at least until the rain let up. “What’s your name?”
“Osgar, sir.” The boy met his eyes for a moment then looked away again.
“Well, Osgar, can you tell me what’s making you so sad?”
“Those bad men took Abigale!” He broke out bawling again.
“Who’s Abigale? And which bad men?”
The boy sniffled. “She’s nice… Mama says she’s a witch but a good one. She helped my papa when he was sick last winter. Mama says he woulda died if not for Abigale. Those mean men said they’re fixin’ to hang her from the big ash tree! They hit her, and she fell in the mud, then they kicked her and dragged her away by her hair.”
“Are they bandits?” he asked although he suspected not, based on their singling out the witch.
“I don’t know who they are. They wore black-and-yellow clothes, like bees.”
Creel paused then refastened the horse’s tack. Seems that war band has come to this small village for some odd reason. He knelt before the boy, but before he could say anything, Osgar threw his arms around his neck and blubbered into his shoulder.
“I don’t want Abigale to die,” he mumbled between bouts of tears. �
�Please, sir, can you help her?”
He patted the boy on the back awkwardly then held him at arm’s length and looked him in his teary eyes again.
“I’ll see what I can do to help Abigale, all right, Osgar? But I want you to promise you’ll run along home to your parents right away.”
“Yessir.”
“Now, where’s this tree?”
A few minutes later, Creel was circling past the town at a canter, heading toward the big tree at its eastern edge. The hood of his cloak blew back, but he ignored it, the cold rain drenching his hair and chilling him, save for the fire of anger burning inside.
These Nebaran bastards can’t just swarm the countryside and kidnap and kill village folk at their whims. Where’s the damned local militia? Why haven’t they mustered their forces if enemy troops are here in Ketania? Word needs to be sent to the king at once.
Through the curtain of rain, he saw a number of Nebaran soldiers shouting commands and forcing villagers back into their homes. For the time, they didn’t appear to intend harm to anyone save the witch.
A woman’s cry met his ears moments before the group appeared out of the rain. The witch, a plump, middle-aged woman with a kindly face frozen in terror, was being restrained by a pair of soldiers while a third looped a noose around her neck. Blood leaked from a split lip, and bruises marred her cheeks. Three other soldiers, one with the plumed helm of an officer, stood by, observing.
As one, the group turned to regard him as he rode up on horseback. Taking advantage of their surprise, Creel raised a crossbow he’d scavenged from the slain merchant caravan. He squeezed the trigger, and a quarrel sprouted from the chest of one of the soldiers. Dropping the crossbow, he drew his longsword, Final Strike, and leaped from the saddle.
The Nebaran soldiers were startled by his unexpected attack against their greater numbers. Creel opened the throat of the nearest soldier before he could draw steel. He then spun and lashed out at the officer, knocking his clumsy parry aside and stabbing him through the gut. The officer fell with a cry, and Creel charged the other three, who were yet dealing with the witch.
Abigale pulled her arm free of the surprised soldier on her left, turned, and kneed the other man holding her in the groin. His sword was halfway free of its scabbard before she struck him, making the man groan and stagger backward, releasing the witch.
Creel came in quickly at the soldier on the left. The man tried to dodge away but slipped in the muck and paid the price. Final Strike bit into his neck and sent his head spinning through the air. The other two soldiers had recovered from their surprise enough to get their blades drawn. The man holding the noose swung his sword at Abigale. With a warning cry, Creel lunged in and shouldered the witch out of the way. She slipped and splashed to her knees in the mud. Creel deflected the blow meant for Abigale then, sensing the second man poised to strike his back, spun and drove his elbow into that man’s face, breaking his nose. A second strike from the first soldier struck Creel’s leather cuirass, but the armor turned the blow. Creel seized the man’s wrist and smashed his pommel into his opponent’s forehead then shoved the wavering man into his comrade with the broken nose. The two got tangled up and slipped in the mud, sprawling to the ground. Creel quickly finished them off with precise strokes of his blade.
Abigale stared at Creel wide-eyed. She had crawled away to place her back against the massive trunk of the ash tree, clutching her arms around her knees.
Creel extended a hand and helped her rise. “Easy. You’re going to be fine now.”
“Who are you?” she asked. “Why would you aid me, stranger, and risk the wrath of these soldiers?”
An image of Anissa, another country witch Creel had known, although she had been much more than an ordinary witch, flashed through his mind. He smiled at the memory. “I had a friend who was a country witch. She would’ve approved of my intervention. I’m Dakarai Creel, ma’am.”
“I’m Abigale. You have my thanks, Master Creel.”
The Nebaran officer groaned and cursed, drawing Creel’s attention. He walked over and pointed the tip of Final Strike to his throat.
“Why were you abusing this woman and intent on murdering her?” he demanded.
The officer coughed up blood. At first, Creel thought he wouldn’t reply, but then he groaned and pressed a hand to his gut wound. “The emperor has commanded all mages and witches be put to death,” he said in a thick Nebaran accent.
“Why? Is this a full invasion?”
“Aye, it’s coming, though we’re but a scouting party. The vanguard is a few days behind. I know not the why, only that the Inquisition seeks a youth of roughly a score of summers who possesses magical talent. A tool of Shaol and a threat to all of Easilon, or so they say. Male or female we know not. We are merely to capture any with that description and bring them to the inquisitors. All others are to be sent back to the dirt and an example set.” He coughed more blood and writhed in pain for a few moments. “Ah, gods, the pain… Will you show me a small bit of mercy and grant me a soldier’s death? I don’t want to die the slow agony of a gut wound.”
Creel looked over at Abigale. “Any mercy for you is entirely up to the lady.”
Abigale scowled at the officer for a long moment then turned her eyes toward Creel. He offered her a dagger, hilt extended outward. Abigale regarded it for a long moment before taking it in a trembling hand. She stared at the wounded officer and seemed on the verge of capitulating to his wish, but a glance at the noose still hanging from the bough of the ash tree changed her mind. She shook her head firmly and returned Creel’s dagger before walking away.
“We were simply following orders,” the wounded man moaned.
“Piss on your orders,” Creel snapped.
“You’re a soldier, aren’t you?” The officer gave a pained groan after a moment when Creel didn’t reply. “I saw how you fought… As one soldier to another, will you show mercy?” He looked surprisingly young, his face ashen and twisted in pain.
“The same mercy as you were about to show that woman? I’m no soldier—the man who was died long ago. I’m but a simple monster hunter, and monsters deserve no mercy.” Creel spat on the ground and turned away. He gathered his horse’s reins and followed Abigale back toward the center of town until the officer’s pitiful cries were lost in the patter of the rain.
Chapter 10
Finhalla, capital city of Vallonde, was a boisterous trading hub on the coast of the Shimmering Sea. Merchants and travelers, rogues and swashbucklers all packed the streets and squares of the city. Mira and Cerador’s journey had been uneventful, following their encounter with the dwarves and goblins several days past. They had made good time following a well-traveled road from the highlands down to Finhalla.
The city was a sprawling conglomeration of varied styles of buildings. A graceful, soaring tower with various spires and minarets thrust into the sky, towering above all Finhalla. The Tower of the Magi, the conclave of wizards who ruled Vallonde, were housed within. Large estates clustered around the great tower much like eager children awaiting treats handed out by a parent. The larger and wealthier the estates were, the closer proximity they had to the Tower of the Magi. Toward the outskirts of the city were clearly the homes of poor folk. Sturdy wood and brick buildings eventually gave way to modest wattle-and-daub houses and flimsy hovels. The wharf and markets were a ramshackle assortment of tents, stalls, and shanties that looked as if they could be swept away by a stiff breeze.
A rainbow assortment of brightly colored silk- and satin-clad passersby caught the eye. The scents of roasting food, animal dung, and perfumes filled the air in a pungent mélange, all of it overlaying the briny smell of the sea. Mira sneezed when she caught a particularly potent whiff of fragrance from a woman she took to be a noble, judging by her rich attire, haughty demeanor, and stony-faced bodyguards. Donkeys brayed, and oxen bellowed, pulling their wagons and carts along the tight confines of the streets. Throughout the marketplace, sprinkled among the prev
alent humans, Mira spied groups of both sturdy dwarves selling arms and armor and graceful elves selling fine bolts of cloth and trinkets. Voices were raised as folk shouted their wares and haggled in different accents and languages. Hawkers and barkers assailed them, trying to get them to purchase everything from roasted rats-on-a-stick to passage to the Starshield Isles aboard a ship to spending the afternoon in a brothel.
“Care for an afternoon of sensual pleasure, young miss? We’ve men and women both. Doesn’t matter which you prefer. With those pretty eyes of yours, I’ll even give you a special rate.” A painted courtesan dressed in silks that left little to the imagination glided her long fingers along Mira’s arm enticingly.
She blushed furiously at the offer, and Brother Cerador simply shooed the courtesan away with a placid expression.
“The portal is just ahead, Miralei,” he said. “Once we pass through and exit the next city, we can make camp.”
Mira couldn’t help but feel relieved at the thought of making camp in the serenity of the wilderness again. The long miles they were covering each day were nothing compared to the toll the bewildering crush of people and animals took on her, nearly overwhelming her senses—a sharp contrast to the peaceful, simple existence she’d always known, having lived in monasteries since she was a child. She recalled vague memories of a kindly woman who had taken her into her home to raise as an infant until she was a child of ten summers, when she had been delivered to Master Dagun. However, the memories were just that—vague and often dreamlike—and she could no longer picture the face of the woman who had first raised her. The Order of the Illuminated Path was the only family and home she’d ever truly known.
They wended their way through the crowds until they reached a packed square near the wharf. At the center of the plaza was an immense stone archway ten paces wide and half again as high. Caravans and lone travelers alike passed through the archway after paying tolls to collectors with heavy purses attached to harnesses on their chests. Plenty of armed guards shadowed the toll collectors, alert for pickpockets and those trying to sneak through without paying. The air within the arch shimmered like a soap bubble, and through the portal, Mira could see a similar scene of controlled chaos in the market in Hargelond, the southernmost city of Vallonde. A line was marked in the center to separate those arriving and departing.
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