by Damien Lake
Dietrik led him around the storehouses to the main building. No grand doorways or halls or parlor rooms were to be found in this noble’s abode. This holding had started life as a fort to defend against neighbors who viewed the land as a resource waiting to be carved up and redistributed rather than as a neighboring kingdom. That the Stoneseams Mountains cut between this area and Tullainia offered only limited protection against annexation to Atcheron’s ancestors.
In the first room off the entryway, they heard Riley talking. They entered as he told a man, obviously having only then arrived, that he was free to bunk in the barracks with the guardsmen. The captain looked amused at seeing who Dietrik had fetched in response to his order, yet made no comment.
Marik waited for Riley to say his piece. Instead the captain nodded at the new man to finalize his statement before walking past the two mercenaries without further comment.
Dietrik shrugged. Marik started to leave. The new man spoke. “Ah, uh, ah yes. You would be the mercenary mage, yes. Yes?”
Marik faced his addresser. The man was dressed in white breeches with a soft blue tunic that hung so low it threatened to be classified as a robe. A massive pack rested beside his feet, which were clad in brown slippers of thin leather. Too long a walk in those and his feet will never recover, Marik thought.
The stranger shifted position, and Marik noticed a second pack that his hanging tunic had concealed. Actually, it looked closer to a fat satchel with a steel clasp handle.
Marik nodded at this person, warily admitting, “I suppose I would be. What do you want?”
The stranger started to raise a hand to shake Marik’s. When Marik made no reciprocal move, he instead reached into his tunic. “I have been assigned to this detachment by the army. I am also supposed to—whoops!”
He had withdrawn a flat package. The wrapping twine snagged on an emblem pinned to his collar. His hands fumbling for it and knocked it away rather than securing their hold.
Dietrik plucked the package deftly from the air when it sailed to him. The terrified look on the strangers face melted to relief as Dietrik handed it back. “Oh, thank you! That was…that would not have been good!” He flipped the package over until he located the words scribed on the wrapping vellum. Having found them, he rotated it until they were right-side-up. “Delivery direct to Marik Railson.”
When the stranger cast a silent question with his eyes, Marik nodded. “Yeah, that’s me. What’s this?”
“I was asked to deliver this straight to you.” He extended the parcel.
Marik took it. “And who are you?”
“Ah, yes. I am Glynn Allegra Eyollandish the Third.” He straightened while he said it, tugging his tunic tightly so the emblem on his collar shifted into prominent display. He noticed them glance at the Blue Hand pin, and also noticed their blank expressions. “I am,” he added, a trifle impatiently, “a Healer assigned by the knight-marshal to your detachment.”
“A chirurgeon?” Dietrik asked. “Are they dividing up the medical corps among the different stations this time, then?”
The annoyance on Glynn’s face deepened. “A Healer,” he enunciated. “Not a chirurgeon. And I am hardly privy to the decisions made by the knight-marshal,” he added, in a tone that clearly stated his assignment here was a bitter matter. “Now, I must find my…my bunk, and see to my duties.”
Dietrik called after Glynn when the man followed Riley’s footsteps, “Welcome to the border then, Glynn Allegra Eyollandish! It is a great comfort to have a genuine Healer close at hand!”
“The Third!” echoed Glynn’s voice from the entryway.
Dietrik clapped a hand to his forehead and chuckled merrily. “I knew he would say that. What’s under your skin?”
Marik gazed down at the parcel in his hand, eyes narrowing further with each moment that passed. He disliked this strange delivery, disliked the hand his name was written in and disliked the feel of the object within the vellum wrapping. His speculations with Dietrik had not included this, but he felt a cold certainty creeping over him the longer he stared.
He rotated it so Dietrik could read the few words. “You see that?”
“Delivery direct to Marik Railson, Crimson Kings Detachment under Baron Atcheron,” Dietrik read aloud. “They certainly knew where to find you.”
“Yes, didn’t they.”
“A female ‘they’, at that. No man I have ever seen scribing wrote with such an elegant hand. Is this a token from your lady love?”
“Not hardly! But I’m willing to bet I know the lady who wrote it,” he declared, teeth grinding. “How convenient that we suddenly have a Healer close by, isn’t it?”
“Mate? I don’t follow you.”
“And a true Healer at that! Straight from the court, unless I’m completely wrong!” He untied the twine and pulled at the vellum. “The knight-marshal, is it?” he muttered, ignoring Dietrik’s inquiries. “I bet he had as much to do with assigning mister the Third to us as he does with deciding which horse the captain will ride tomorrow.”
Inside the vellum wrappings, he found the shape he had felt. It was a mirror, as he’d thought. A small hand mirror suited to ladies at a tea party, round, a six-inch handle and silver framework. He tossed it to Dietrik without much care if his friend saved it from a shattering fall.
Dietrik juggled for it while Marik unfolded the parchment that had also been inside with the mirror. The writing was the same feminine hand.
Without established supply lines fronting Tullainia, communications will be tougher than during the Nolier war. If orders must reach your region quickly, they will be passed through this mirror, and we expect you to pass on any urgent developments in your area.
This mirror has an established affinity with my own. Simply set the energies in place without contaminating them with conflicting intentions. The seeker will naturally want to establish a connection to my mirror unless forced otherwise.
-Celerity Ridgecomb
Chief Mage of the Royal Enclave
“Gods damn it!” Marik cursed vehemently, grasping the parchment and making ready to rip it into shreds.
“Whoa there, mate! Hold up!” Dietrik clasped his wrists, stopping Marik from indulging his anger. “What is the matter?”
“This,” Marik hissed through clenched teeth. “This bald-faced lie!” He threw the note into Dietrik’s face.
Dietrik, seeing the raw fury in Marik’s expression, held onto the mirror. He plucked the fluttering note from the air and read. “I assume that all makes perfect sense among mages, but I don’t see her challenging you to a deathmatch duel.”
“It’s horseshit, Dietrik! Lines of communication? I’ll tell you what she wants! She hasn’t been able to find my father or this red-eyed man she’s so convinced knows what’s going on! Until she does, I’ll always be her strongest link to him. She wants me to run and tell her if I find him or somehow scrye him again, and she must have pulled strings to have a Healer dogging my steps. She intends to make sure I stay alive until she doesn’t need me any longer! She even said as much the last time I saw her!”
Dietrik listened, the folded note tapping his lips. After a silent moment, he clucked his tongue and mused, “Her deeper intentions aside, are you going to turn your nose up at having your own personal Healer stowed in your pack?”
“Personal Healer? He’s assigned to the whole squad. Or to Atcheron, actually, I suppose.”
“If you have the right of it, then Mistress Celerity probably gave him orders to watch out for you in particular.”
“Probably,” Marik grumbled. He glared at the mirror when Dietrik handed it back to him. “But I don’t like how the ‘Chief Mage of the Royal Enclave’ is keeping such a close eye on my search for my father.
* * * * *
:The sleeping quarters or back to the outlanders? Which…which…? The sleeping quarters! The Oathbreaker and his friend make ready to leave! Follow him!:
Yes, Colbey agreed with Liam. The lying mage was headi
ng that direction. This sudden summons had instantly made him suspicious. What other dealings did the mage engage in when he should be keeping the oath he willingly bound himself to by accepting his instruction? What self-serving outland schemes did he work at when he should have been helping Colbey avenge the slaughter of his people?
:Hurry!:
Yes. Colbey leapt from the manor roof, landing cat-light atop the closer storage building. He ran along above, keeping the mage and his friend in sight. Nothing else hindered his vision; the dark fog framing the selfish Oathbreaker obscured all that was unimportant…keeping the two outlanders focused in his sight.
He came to the roof’s end and leapt to a nearby pine. Colbey caught the thick branches near the trunk and swung down fifteen feet to the snowy ground. Once his feet touched down, he dashed around the last supply building to the barracks. A second tree made an easy route up to the roof, then a quick run along the path already cleared by his feet numerous times previously brought him to the skylight closest to the mage’s bunk.
Colbey crouched and lifted the wooden frame an inch so he could hear inside. The two outlanders arrived.
“I don’t think that is the best idea you’ve ever had, mate.”
“Fine, you look after it then, since you seem so taken with it. It will help you pretty up in the mornings. You can keep your lovely face in prime condition to help you seduce Rosa.”
“It is of no use to me, and I have no desire to stand before her and explain why I was keeping it when she sent it to you.”
“It would take the ground cracking open and seas swallowing the Stoneseams before I’ll make use of it! I’m leaving it behind!”
“I’m not sure—”
“Then take it!”
Colbey lifted the frame higher, peering through and seeing the mage press an object into the other outlander’s stomach. His friend sighed in resignation before stooping over his bunk to store it away in his pack.
“For the record, I formally declare that I disagree with you on this matter.”
“Noted,” the mage snarled.
“You can be a hardheaded mule, are you aware of that?” When the mage made no riposte, he sighed anew. “So what next? You want to head out?”
Colbey’s fingers clenched on the frame. His fingernails clawed at the wood. The fog roiled until it obscured the skylight as well. Only the two men below filled his vision.
“Yeah. I need to work this off. And I need to exercise this new bruise before it stiffens. You want to join them or find an empty spot?”
“I don’t need to hear Cork explain to me the best way I should wield my own sword. Let’s find a quiet corner.” He pulled his rapier from under his bunk and they walked toward their door. Their voices fading, Colbey heard them comment, “I believe I know why his old friends gave him that nickname, by the by.”
“Yeah,” the mage grunted. “He’s always got to be on top, doesn’t he?”
:They go to spar,: Sylvia whispered. Colbey felt feathery fingertips caress his tightened shoulder muscles.
:This time,: Liam grunted. :That Oathbreaker will try to go his own way in the end. It is up to you force his steps and make him fulfill his oath.:
Yes, Colbey agreed. His friends’ restless souls were correct. The mage owed them a debt, owed his assistance to provide a distraction against the murderers. If the mage continued to renege, then Colbey would have to drag him kicking and pitch him into the Taur hordes headfirst.
:Whatever it takes. Whatever it costs.:
Yes, Colbey agreed, as he always did now that he could hear their voices once more. Yes, whatever the cost, I will see them dead by my own hands.
* * * * *
“Is that axle fixed yet?”
“No, sir,” came the tired reply. “We spent all the night working to—”
“One hour! You hear me, soldier? If we have to leave this load behind when we leave in one hour’s time, you’ll end up on the Missing in Action roster! Is that clear enough?” Jide jabbed a hard finger into the baggy-eyed soldier’s thorax, who rocked to ridged attention as best he could after a sleepless night.
“Y-yes, sir!” Fresh sweat formed to join the honest dew of hard labor.
Jide stomped across to a different wagon in the caravan, this particular one hauling extra tents and campaign furniture suited for displaying maps or holding meetings around. He succeeded in being obvious about inspecting every piece stowed within while looking as though he were being unobtrusive. Doubtless the supply thieves thought he arranged for certain items to disappear, which suited his purposes well enough. This ensured that the cargoes endured the hard trek while also keeping an accurate tally of what was where. Already several wagons were missing equipment that had been loaded when they departed Kallied. As soon as he had a few spare moments, he would need to find the rats nibbling at his bread.
These damned wagons! He had not been forced to travel with wagons since his second year in the army. Warehouses and treasuries and payroll offices and stockyards had been his hunting grounds since earning his lieutenant’s rank. Dark rooms and back alleys and ale hostels and unmanned storage depots had provided a fair thrill of the hunt after Adrian took him into his fold. Wagons!
This entire march was the greatest display of disorganization Jide had ever seen. The primary forces were ordered to advance at speed, with no care given to the details. Every wagon across forty different towns had been commandeered by the supply officers when given orders that simply stated, ‘advance with the forces.’
Adrian had never acted so rashly before that Jide could remember. What had transpired, or what had he learned that prompted him to charge at full speed? Unfortunately, none of Jide’s innocuous notes bearing his personal seal had returned with an appointment to spar. Jide had sent four such notes, each only a simple status report on the areas under his command.
It made him uneasy, Adrian changing plans so drastically without informing him, though it had happened before. Adrian needed to do what was best for the army, and what that might be could change overnight according to the shifts among court intrigue.
His mad scramble to find wagons capable of carrying the supplies needed by the Eighteenth through Twentieth Regiments had interrupted his investigations on Harbon and Mendell. Not that he had gleaned much other than that they were as detestable a pair as he and Adrian had ever dealt with during their years-long cleansing. The two had reshuffled the men under their commands, transferring out the officers worth their salt and gathering the sort who thought feeding a village woman to a Taur patrol both justifiable and amusing.
That alone should have been enough to warrant their discharge…but for their patron. Jide rubbed his eye patch as he once again wished Adrian were slightly less patriotic. How the man could simultaneously know Xenos was rotten to the core and also refuse to believe the king had misplaced his faith in a villainous deceiver, Jide would never understand.
At least he kept Harbon on a tight leash, the mangy cur! The day Adrian had ordered the sudden march, Jide saw him ride out at the column’s head, leaving Kallied. Harbon rode at his elbow, the sidelong glances from the general making it clear that he only trusted the man as long as he stayed within his sight.
But why did Mendell then head the entire southeastern command? That worried Jide most, and he gnashed his teeth at his inability to approach Adrian without a prior summons.
His information fishing had uncovered the fact that Adrian met with both men immediately before the sudden march. Whatever had transpired, Adrian must have tied a noose tight around Colonel Mendell’s neck, and kept Harbon nearby as a check against his behavior.
It still made no sense! Why send either of those vipers anywhere but the nearest jail cell, let alone reinstating their commands?
He rubbed at his eye patch, hopping from a wagon bed. Gray dawn brightened the light imperceptibly as the sun crept nearer the morning horizon. Men were leading horses to be hitched while the guards saddled their mounts or checked their
gear. Waterskins were packed with the snow that had coated blankets in the night. They would be tucked between packs and saddle blankets so the animal’s heat would melt the snow as they rode into the afternoon. Safer by far to drink melted snow than this land’s water, which seemed to strike an Arronathian partaker with the flux as often as not.
Jide stormed through the camp, terrorizing soldiers into working faster, his shady reputation lending ominous weight to his threats of mysterious disappearances for any man who lagged behind. When true sunlight poured over the horizon they were ready to set out. Though running a supply caravan was a fall from his normal position, he took pride that he could still manage it as well as he ever had. No, better! His wagons stayed ahead of the Citadel since the mages finally had it moving, which could not be said of other supply officers. If he fell behind that lumbering behemoth while it continued to limp like a hamstrung deer, his pride would be forever wounded.
“Move that miserable piece of shit!” he barked at a wagon team waiting for orders to roll. They cracked their whip in the air over the horses, the sound signaling the beasts forward. Jide mounted his horse and waited beside the line while they followed the lead wagon.
The wagon with the broken axle apparently had been fixed on time after all, as the last rolling bed passed Jide with no castaways left in the empty field. He spurred his horse after the caravan, riding faster to take his place near the head.
Another long, cold day. If they were lucky and pushed hard, they might make fifteen miles if the snow did not bury the roadway. Jide rode, rubbing his eye patch in thought, stroking what information he knew in hopes of unearthing an overlooked fact, and reflecting on how uneasy the current situation made him.
* * * * *
After Baron Lysendra’s messenger ran into the manor searching for Baron Atcheron, Captain Riley emerged within moments, ordering the men to move out as soon as they could shoulder their packs. He wasted no time in explanations nor words other than quick orders. This came from no desire for secrecy, as the men soon learned. Once moving, Riley elaborated on the details to the men walking beside his mount. The news spread as every third man turned to recount the tale to those behind.