by Kal Spriggs
He shook his head at those thoughts and forced himself to clear his mind. He adjusted the disguise that hid his features. The familiar disguise had proven to be a comfortable one, and one that often left him underestimated by both friend and foe alike.
Even so, he realized that the time neared when he must discard it, much like a snake shed its skin. Best to prepare other disguises and to arrange for other personae to become a part of the group soon, the better to maintain his presence.
He wondered if he had time to do so, before he would be forced to discard his current disguise. The many hazards that Katarina and her companions faced had only begun. Forces beyond the Duchy of Masov would focus on her and if the spy proved right, on her companions.
The spy knew only a fraction of their capabilities, but he had a suspicion that Lady Katarina's actions would not go unnoticed. And the thoughts and ideas that her companions spread through their deeds and actions... those would be viewed as a threat greater than her own ascension to her father's title.
No, a Duchy at war with itself might even have begun as their intention, but they could not understand her own desire to preserve her lands and for that, they had underestimated her. Moreover, her companions willingness to follow her, their loyalty to her leadership and their own intentions to preserve the Duchy of Masov...
The enemies that the spy had fought for so long would seek to extinguish those flames before they could catch elsewhere. A part of the spy wanted to warn her and to tell the others what they faced, but that part the spy silenced with the ease of practice. He had not intended for this to happen, but he knew better than to expose himself. That course would lead, inevitably, to his death.
***
Cederic of the Shrouded Isle
South of Crystal Keep, Duchy of Masov
Twenty-Third of Igmar, Cycle 999 Post Sundering
The brisk morning air refreshed Cederic as it blew across his face and hands, both still wet from his morning wash. The water had felt almost painfully cold, but the feeling was one he had welcomed. Everything on the Shrouded Isles was mild. The air was neither too cold or too hot. The water was the same. The land was covered in a haze... the product of Noth's workings to protect the Isle.
The spirit and runic magic leached the color from everything that wasn't shielded. Cederic's hair was white when he was born, as was the hair of everyone born upon the island. It was a price that he didn't mind, not compared to how other lands had suffered. Still... Cederic loved the colors of these lands. He loved the vibrancy and vitality he saw here... which before now he had only ever found in the form of one person. It always comes back to Seraphai, he thought.
His wash complete, Cederic walked back up the slope to the cold camp where he had spent the night. Seraphai was still awake, still seated on her bedroll, her legs folded beneath her. As far as he could tell, she had not slept at all, nor had she eaten. He knew she didn't dare to sleep unless she drugged herself to the point that she could not dream.
As if on cue, she pulled a glass vial out of her belt pouch. With practiced ease, she tore open the wax seal and pulled the cork out. She knocked back the potion and, only then, grimaced at the taste. Part of Cederic wanted to know what this one involved... part of him did not. Her prodigious skills as a mage had begun to see fewer results, he knew. Some of what he had seen her do made him suspect that she had moved dangerously close to sorcery. He knew that a proficient mage might push the boundaries of that line... but only someone given to blind ambition or absolute desperation would cross it. And we are well past desperation at this point, he thought.
Whatever the mix of the potion, Seraphai seemed to have drawn some strength from it. She stood from her bedroll with new-found strength and grace. “Ready?” She asked and quirked one red eyebrow at him.
He gave her a nod, “What now?”
She gave him a gentle smile, “Cederic... always so brave and strong for me.”
“What else could I be?” Cederic responded. He reached out and rested a hand on her shoulder. Part of him longed to embrace her... the rest of him feared what her response might be.
Even at such a light touch, he felt her quiver and a wave of uncertainty flashed across her face until Cederic withdrew his hand. She gave him a smile again, but he saw the sadness in her eyes. “We'll have to part,” she said.
Cederic felt a shard of ice go through his stomach. “What? Why?”
“We've two goals here...” She let out a tight breath. “You must find the man who sent the message. I must go to my kin, the Wold. They've been attacked, in such a way as to play to their... darker natures. It was a blow meant to provoke them and I might be able to help steer them away from that. If nothing else, my appearance will force them to heed Warden Ivellios and will strengthen his resolve.”
Cederic nodded slowly, yet in his heart, he wondered if she hoped that they would kill her. Some part of her must hope that, he knew.
“If the messenger wants what he claims, then I must at least try,” Cederic grimaced. The series of messages that had prompted this journey had given Seraphai some new visions, yet Cederic still did not know if he trusted the messenger. Certainly, Noth had questioned the accuracy of the information. For that matter, even his methods of messaging them on the Shrouded Isle had given them reason to distrust him. “How long until we meet again?”
She shrugged, “I don't know. I know this is essential... if we want to change what is to happen. If we stick together, I feel that one side or the other will fail. Beware the messenger, he's more dangerous than he seems. He'll kill us both if he must.” She pursed her lips, “I would suggest that you meet with this heir of his, first.”
Cederic nodded. “I'll do so. I wish you luck with the Wold... but the time of their exile may be coming to an end.” He grimaced, “If you ask me, they should have rejoined the other races of man long ago.”
She snorted, “I don't remember them asking you.” She shook her head, “I think I agree, at some level. Yet what they did... what some of them still want to do, is something that my people cannot forgive.”
It was an old argument, one that they had debated for cycles. Still, Cederic knew that she agreed with him, despite the arguments that she gave otherwise. The story of the Wold was one that she felt a deep empathy with, especially now. He gave her a smile, “In the meantime... be careful.”
She gave him a nod, but her violet eyes seemed closed, as if she wanted to hide her thoughts even from herself. She wrapped her bedroll in one quick motion and tied it off to her pack. She picked up both, then and gave him a final smile. “Kargad Zauroba, travel well, friend.” Before Cederic could respond, she broke into a ground-covering lope and headed towards the East. She did not look back.
***
Aerion
The Tucola Forest, Zielona Gora Barony, Duchy of Masov
Twenty-Third of Igmar, Cycle 999 Post Sundering
Aerion took a deep breath and tried to bolster his confidence. Finally, he moved over and took a seat on the log near Quinn. The stocky, brown haired young man normally kept to himself, as well, Aerion had noticed. “Afternoon.”
Quinn glanced at him, “Uh, yeah, good afternoon.”
Aerion took a bite of his stew. He had worked up all his courage to talk to the other young man here at lunch and now he didn't know what else to say. He struggled for a long moment, even as he felt a flush climb his cheeks. Come on, he thought, why can't I think of anything to say?
Luckily, Quinn spoke, “So,” Quinn said, “You've a Starborn name, where you from?”
Aerion took the offered topic, “Watkowa Village out west, up in the mountains near Watkowa Peak. It's a Starborn village.”
Quinn gave him a nod, “Sounds like a nice place.”
Aerion felt tears well up in his eye, “It was. Hectors mercenaries sacked it and killed everyone but me.”
Quinn winced, “Sorry.” He dug into his own stew for a moment. The moment drew long, the silence almost painful.
&
nbsp; Aerion changed topic, “Where are you from?”
Quinn looked up, “The city of Longhaven, it's up north. Trader's town, we get lots of merchant traffic, plus a lot of Hector's mercenaries coming through on their way north for Lord Hector's campaigns.”
“I thought they liked Hector up north,” Aerion said, confused. He wasn't certain, but he thought he remembered hearing that Hector was the Baron of Longhaven before he killed the Duke.
“The nobility do, most of the merchants too,” Quinn said, his voice bitter. “It's somewhat less clear cut with the rest of us.” He gave a sigh, “My family were servants to the old Baron, Lord Estrel. After his murder, Lord Hector dismissed them, because they didn't like what he'd done.”
“Wait, Hector murdered the Baron of Longhaven?” Aerion asked.
“Yeah, his own cousin,” Quinn said. “For that matter, he tried to put it on Lord Estrel's own armsmen. No one who knew them would believe it. My mother... well, she spoke up a little too often about it. She was Lady Rinata's, that is, the previous Baron's wife's, personal maid. One of Hector's men arrested her.”
“That's terrible,” Aerion said. “What happened?”
Quinn looked away, “They didn't kill her, but they did things to her...” He spoke in a low voice. “I was a printer's apprentice. I had a profession, had a future, but I threw that away and I found the mercenary scum that attacked her. He was drunk, on his way back from a tavern.”
“You kill him?” Aerion asked. He tried to think what he would do if a mercenary had done something to his own mother. Come to think of it, he knew quite well what he wanted to do, if he ever found Grel and his men again.
Quinn looked down at his feet. “Tried to. Even drunk he thrashed me. I had to run away. I left Longhaven, been on the run since.” He sounded miserable. “I don't know if they even knew who I was... but I was too afraid to go back. Arren found me in Zielona Gora.”
Aerion clapped him on the shoulder, “It was the smart thing to do.”
“What?” Quinn asked. The look on his face was mixed shock and hurt, as if he thought Aerion were making fun of him. “I don't know what happened to my family and they probably think I'm dead. Plus there's no one to protect my family, now.”
“Well, if they were after you, you led them away from your family. Even if they weren't, they probably would have figured it out, if you hung around town,” Aerion said. He pointed at the eye patch he wore, “Trust me, you don't want to be caught by them, you wouldn't help your family much by being executed.”
Quinn nodded thoughtfully, “You're right... and you're smarter than you look.”
Aerion raised an eyebrow, “Thanks?”
Quinn shrugged, “No offense, but I always figured most village folk were pretty dense, you know? Besides, you're a big fellow, so there's that part too. I just assumed you were big and mean.”
“Mean?” Aerion asked. That statement gave him pause. He was eight cycles of age, not even an adult. How did he look mean?
Quinn seemed to understand his confusion. “Well, you're big, you've got a ton of scars, all across your back mostly, but also some on your arms and legs. Your hair is shaggy and you're wearing an eye patch. You're over six feet tall and you've put on so much muscle that I think you could wrestle anyone here to the ground if you had a mind to it.” Quinn cocked his head, “And up until now, I don't think I've heard you talk to anyone besides Lady Katarina and her guards and Arren.”
Aerion shrugged uncomfortably, “I just... well, when you put it that way, I guess I could kind of look mean.”
Quinn smirked, “Imposing, I'd say. Especially to any of Hector's men we come across. Big man with a big sword and one eye coming at them...”
“Imposing... I like the sound of that,” Aerion said.
“I thought you might,” Quinn said.
***
Captain Kerrel Flamehair
Fort Isolation, The Lonely Isle, the Duchy of Masov
Twenty-Third of Igmar, Cycle 999 Post Sundering
Kerrel had just finished her brief to her people and taken a seat in the solitude of her own tent when she heard raised voices from outside. She felt her feet complain and she wanted to just hide in her tent. Kerrel forced herself to her feet and stepped outside.
She found a short, dumpy man the source of the noise. His closely cropped hair and beard shone silver under the light of the stars. Baran saw her, and the other man turned to face her a moment later. “There you are.”
“Yes,” Kerrel said, “Here I am. Now who are you and why do you raise such a noise on the night before a battle?”
“I am Commander Zabilla Nasrat,” the older man said. As Kerrel stepped closer, she recognized him from earlier. She saw the lines of age that had eroded his face and how cycles in the sun and rain had weathered his skin. “I came here to see what preparations you've made for tomorrow.”
“I've already briefed my troops,” Kerrel said. “And I dismissed them to get a good nights rest, which you are disturbing. My people are more than capable of this, and Lord Hector has entrusted the mission to us.”
“I don't care,” Nasrat said. “Until I've seen your people on the field, I don't trust you. I've seen too many southern mercenaries who talk well until the Armen come pouring through the lines. Until we have a chance to blood you, you and your men stay here where I can be certain you won't be headed for the nearest boat off this island.”
“Commander Nasrat, you might be able to talk to mercenary dregs that way, but we have fought and proved ourselves to Lord Hector's pleasure. I founded my company from the best available from the Duchy of Asador–”
Nasrat spat. “Oh, I hear you've been of pleasure to Lord Hector alright... though not on the battlefield. No, girl, he might have sent you up here to play at fighting, but I'll not risk this mission or the lives of my soldiers, for some foreign whore.”
Kerrel's hand went to her sword hilt and Nasrat smiled at her. “Oh, now you'll draw steel on your assigned officer? Please, it would be my pleasure to have you dragged back in chains. Lord Hector might even like that look on you...”
Kerrel drew her hand back from her sword hilt. She stared at him and her own green eyed gaze met his dark brown eyes. “You're trying to provoke me, Zabilla. For now, you can hide behind your rank and position. When we finish here in the North, I'll settle my accounts with you.”
“Oh, I'm certain,” Nasrat's smile grew more broad. “But in the meantime, shut your mouth and soldier. I want to hear you brief your men again and I want to be certain that they understand what the threats are in an Armen raid camp. As part of the left flank, you fall under my command, so it is therefore my duty to ensure your force prepares for tomorrow.”
Kerrel's hand tingled and she felt her face burn with anger and embarrassment. “Baran. Assemble the men.” She knew that most of them hadn't yet gone to rest for the night. Fortunately, Nasrat had come in the evening, rather than after dark. It wouldn't interrupt their rest or make them tired for the coming fight... just irritate them.
Nasrat stepped away and a smile remained on his fat, wrinkled face.
Kerrel spoke in a low tone to Baran as soon as he returned. “What do we know about this man?”
“I know he's a local, native to the Lonely Isle and that Hector trusts him to command a battalion of the locals. Other than that...” Baran shook his head, “I'll ask around. I know some men in one of the infantry companies.”
“Do so,” Kerrel said. She walked forward to the assembly area where her company had fallen into a formation. She bit back another curse as she saw the looks of irritation and clenched jaws. She heard mutters and caught a number of nasty looks aimed at the local commander. Building a foundation for great relationships here with the locals, no doubt, she thought dryly.
“They're assembled, will you remain for the brief, Commander Nasrat?” She asked. He gave her a sharp nod. Kerrel looked around at her men. “Listen up. As I told you before, our mission tomorrow is to secure the Armen
camp, and to prevent their raiders from returning and killing any prisoners, as well as their women and children. Beware the Armen women, some will have military training and many will attempt to kill themselves and their children to avoid capture.”
She glanced around at the men. “Jonal, take the back brief from the men.”
She turned away as her cousin turned to hear her people rattle off their mission and the special circumstances of it. “Satisfied?”
“Very good. One last bit of advice to you, Captain,” Nasrat said. “For you especially and any females in your company. Don't let Armen take you alive. My daughters keep a small knife handy, a sleeve sheath works well, to cut their wrist if it looks like they'll be captured.” His smile seemed far too jovial for his words.
“I'll take that under advisement,” Kerrel said.
“You do that... my wife never got the opportunity, so I speak from experience,” Nasrat said. “But then, she wasn't as pretty as you are, so I'm certain you'd find the fate worse. Good day to you, Captain Flamehair.”
***
Chapter Seven
Lady Katarina Emberhill
The Tucola Forest, Zielona Gora Barony, Duchy of Masov
Twenty-Fourth of Igmar, Cycle 999 Post Sundering
Katarina glanced over at the others who lay behind the embankment and a part of her wondered if she had any real possibility of controlling the war she was about to start. She grew to adulthood in Marovingia, which had its fair share of war, civil and otherwise. Marovingia's nobility made certain their heirs, including her own status as an exile, knew exactly the terrible cost of those wars. Her uncle, General Menaos had helped to put down one of those wars and he and his sons had imparted on her the terrible cost of those fights. More, he had ensured she received the training necessary to make good decisions... both from a moral standpoint as well as a pragmatic one. It fell upon a ruler to decide if war's terrible cost outweighed the potentially greater cost of peace.