by Kal Spriggs
“Tell you what,” the mercenary said, “you like the bottle, young prince, maybe I'll see if I can get you some more?”
The mercenary's purpose became suddenly clear to Jonal. He probably acted as a supplier for some of the more wealthy mercenaries in camp, providing them with luxuries that they couldn't otherwise obtain. A useful person to gain friendship with, Jonal thought. He knew something of building a network of allies and business partners, it was impossible to avoid it back in the Duchy of Asador. One thing, he had heard, that the Vendakar shared with his homeland. “Sure,” Jonal said, “I'll try some of your wine.”
The mercenary grunted, “Good, young prince, you'll enjoy it immensely.” He reached out a hand to the others and snapped something in their language. A moment later, one of the others produced a bottle from under the table. It was one of their oddly shaped bottles, wider at the top than the bottom and made from a dark, almost black glass.
One of the other Vendakar shifted along the bench to give Jonal room to sit at their table. He did so gingerly. Up close, he could smell them. They wore an odd, cloying perfume, which didn't, quite, mask the rank scent of unwashed, sweaty men. There was another smell to them, one that seemed to carry with it the rot of their jungle nation. The scents were a far cry from that of his home. The Duchy of Asador smelled of grass and horses and now and again, the brimstone scent of the volcanic highlands.
The mercenary cracked the wax seal and poured some of the wine into a pewter cup, then sniffed it and gave a smile, before he passed it to Jonal. “Fine vintage, from House Rajdahar, our own House. Delicate aroma, you like, young prince?”
Jonal took the cup and smelled. It did, indeed, have a heady perfume, with an earthy musk that made him salivate. Jonal hesitantly took a sip and felt his eyes widen at the various flavors. “This is good,” he said, after a moment.
The mercenary's eyes narrowed, “Yes, expensive, but what are we if we do not indulge ourselves in these little things, yes, young prince?”
“Why do you call me that?” Jonal asked, after he took another sip.
“Are you not a scion of a Noble House?” the mercenary said. “One from the Duchy of Asador, yes?”
Jonal nodded. He frowned, though, for his head felt suddenly muddled. Distantly, he heard his own voice speak, “Yes, I'm of House Ingail.”
“Ah, Lady Kerrel Ingail's cousin, yes, young prince?”
Jonal nodded, even as he took another sip. He realized with shock, that he had drained the entire cup with just the three sips. How had that happened, he wondered. He swayed, a bit, and one of the Vendakar mercenaries caught his shoulder. “You like the wine?”
“Yes...” Jonal shook his head, “But I need to go. I've got a patrol.”
“Young prince, we'll make sure you get where you need to go...” the mercenary smiled. His face looked suddenly sinister. “Just tell us where you'll meet the men from your patrol, we'll handle the rest.”
“I should go,” Jonal pushed himself up from the table. He lost his balance and stumbled back. Strong hands caught him.
“Yes, we'll help you,” the Vendakar said.
Jonal tried to shake his head, to shout out, but he couldn't get the words out. He found himself nodding, helplessly, as they carried him out of the tent, into the dark night.
As they left, he heard a distant voice telling them about the patrol route. He didn't recognize it as his own until just before the world faded to darkness.
***
Aerion
The Tucola Forest, Zielona Gora Barony, Duchy of Masov
Twenty-Ninth of Eoban, cycle 999 Post Sundering
Aerion peered through the gloomy rain and wiped water off his face again. It did little good, for his clothing had long since become entirely soaked. The warm rain had turned most of the trails into streams and the one road they crossed into a muddy mire.
The dreary morning had dawned after another late night spent in preparation. The sixteen men chosen for the ambush had brought the entire camp's worth of horses, both those captured and the handful that some volunteers arrived with.
He glanced over at Josef, who squatted nearby. The other young man gave him a slight nod. A big man, wider of shoulder and taller than even Aerion, Josef projected a sense of patience that Aerion envied. The big man wore a leather vest and his brown, shaggy hair hung down almost in his eyes. They hadn't spoke again, not since Quinn had introduced them. The older man spoke, his deep voice pitched low, “You fought before, Aerion?”
“Yes,” Aerion said.
“I've been in fights before, broke up a few brawls back in my village, once I broke a man's shoulder when I punched him too hard.” Josef said. “I didn't like that, I don't like hurting folks. Strong men like us should protect people. What's it like, to take a life?”
“It's odd.” Aerion said. He remembered the sick feeling he had felt as his sword cut into the archer who'd tried to kill him. “For me, it was like a snake swimming in my stomach. I just wanted to throw up.” He remembered the blood and the stillness of the bodies afterward. “Yet at the same time, I never felt so alive. The fact that I lived while the men who tried to kill me did not. The world seems brighter, sharper somehow.” Aerion felt a shiver of anticipation and dread as he spoke. His chaotic memories of the previous fight seemed terrible in the day. He felt his stomach clench as he remembered the passage of the arrow that had so narrowly missed or the mercenary captain whose mace had nearly killed him.
Yet... he felt his pulse race as he faced this new fight. The feel of the rain on his skin and the soft smell of the moist earth seemed more real, more amazing somehow. Josef didn't answer. The big man sat in silence, as if contemplation of Aerion's words. Aerion wondered if the other man thought less of him for his admission.
He heard a squelch of a footstep in the mud and turned. One of the other new men, Walker, had moved up to stand nearby. “Bulmor said to pass along that they just came over the hill. He said to remind you that a single horn is to signal the attack, and three blasts to retreat to the horses and to take whatever horses we can capture quickly.”
Aerion nodded. Bulmor had briefed them all on that before, the reminder right before the battle, however, seemed wise. Walker stood silent for a moment, and Aerion took the time to study him. The short, pudgy young man had changed out his brightly colored finery for what appeared to be hunting leathers with a steel breastplate. He still wore his long riding boots and he'd slung a long slender sword and a long dagger on his belt, one sheathed next to the other on his left hip. He also carried a finely made crossbow, the rich wood of the stock carved to fit his shoulder.
“I heard that Hector's men killed your family,” Walker said. He had a light, high pitched voice. His accent was strange, like he put a sharper edge on certain words.
Aerion nodded, “My entire village. Hopefully some made it into the woods, but... I have no way to know.”
“I'm sorry,” Walker said, his voice somber. Walker seemed about to ask something else. Whatever it was, Aerion turned away at the sound of voices. He could only hear parts of words, but it came from ahead, from where Hector's men would come.
Aerion squatted down behind the rock he chose as his cover. He noticed that his hands had started to tremble slightly as he took his bowstring out of its pouch and strung his bow. He heard a click behind him, and saw that Walker had loaded a bolt in his crossbow. The other man gave him a slight smile.
Aerion looked over at Josef. The big man didn't have a bow, but he held a large two handed hammer. Aerion suddenly envied Walker and his armor. They had captured some from the caravan fight, but none that came close to fitting him. He had a shorter sword now, and a wooden shield with an iron rim that he had practiced with over the past weeks. He flushed a bit as he remembered how Lady Katarina had bested him. Hopefully this fight would go better, especially with more time to train.
Aramer had provided most of that training and once again, Aerion wondered at his own decision to remain silent about
his discovery the previous day. Aramer's knowledge of every plan, all their resources, and his involvement in every task that Katarina ordered gave him tremendous access to do harm. Aerion did not think that Aramer would do that, but he never would have expected to find that Arren Smith did not exist.
The betrayal hurt the most and with it the knowledge that every conversation, every word of advice came as part of that deception. How could he call that man a friend when the man he came to trust, to see almost like a father, never really existed? The roiling emotions and chaotic thoughts, the internal struggle all vanished as Aerion heard a sharp blast of the horn.
Aerion stood and drew his bow back, even as he sought out a target. Thirty feet away, he saw a line of mercenaries. A white badge on the breast of one caught his eye, and Aerion sighted down the arrow with that as his target.
He let his breath out and released the arrow. Aerion could feel the perfection of the shot even as he drew another arrow. As he sighted on the next of his enemies, he saw his previous target fall loose from the saddle.
The mercenaries seemed frozen and Aerion used those precious seconds to fire three more arrows. One he saw glance off a shield, and another stuck in a chain hauberk, but the other caught the troop's bugler in the neck as he brought his instrument up.
The mercenaries seemed to shake off their shock, but Aerion saw other men charge out of the brush and he dropped his bow to follow suit.
Ahead of him, he saw Josef close on the nearest mercenary. The big man gave out a bellow as he swung his hammer. The blow flipped the mercenary out of his saddle. Josef stood, frozen in shock. Aerion broke into a full sprint as he saw another mercenary move to throw a javelin at his exposed back.
He barreled past Josef, his shield extended. The impact of the javelin against his shield jolted his arm. Aerion continued his dash forward. He saw a blur whip from behind him, past his face. The mercenary, who had drawn another javelin gave a scream as the dagger caught him in the arm.
Aerion closed the distance in what felt like a blur. He whipped his sword up at the mounted man. The mercenary caught the blow with his own sword. Aerion twisted his own blade and pushed. The mercenary toppled back as Aerion shoved him right out of the saddle.
Before the mercenary could get up, Josef's hammer flashed down and caught him in the chest. The hideous crunch signaled that the blow had shattered his ribs. The big man paused, gave Aerion a nod, and then rushed towards another clump of fighting.
“You're welcome,” Walker said as he dashed forward to grab his dagger out of the mercenary's arm. Aerion saw the other man had his long, slender sword in his right hand, and held the dagger in his left.
“Thanks,” Aerion said. He spun at a motion behind him. He saw a rider with a lance bear down on them. Aerion gave a shout of warning to Walker. He waited a long moment and then dodged around the left side of the rider. He saw the man try to correct his aim, but the horse's speed meant his attack missed. Aerion swung hard with his sword. It rebounded from the rider's shield, and Aerion's arm stung all the way up to his shoulder from the impact.
He turned to keep the rider in his view. The rider toppled to the ground as the mount continued its charge. Aerion saw Walker give him a small, sardonic grin and a sharp salute with his slender blade, still red with blood, “Thanks for being bait.”
Aerion shook his head. The ambush had disintegrated into chaos. He saw riderless horses race about and men on foot beat at one another as anything that might resemble order vanished. “They need help there,” Aerion said, and pointed towards a pair on foot that fought against three more mounted mercenaries.
Aerion ran forward and he could hear Walker's steps match his own as they rushed to this new fight. Aerion recognized Quinn as he drew closer and he saw that the stocky young man's left arm hung limp at his side, a smear of blood stained the leather vest he wore. Aerion swung hard at the armored back of the nearest of the three riders. His blade bounced off the chain shirt, but he saw rings explode out as well. The blow almost sent the rider forward out of his saddle.
He saw Walker duck under the horse and come up near the second rider. His thin blades seemed to find gaps in the enemies armor better than Aerion's own blows, and that rider pitched from his saddle after a flurry of attacks. Aerion hammered again at the rider. The mercenary caught the blow with his shield this time and Aerion gave a shout of dismay as his sword shattered where it struck the iron rim.
His opponent swung back and Aerion barely got his own shield up in time.
The rider swung his own sword twice more in overhand strokes that hammered Aerion's shield. Aerion staggered back, his arms ached as the rider spun his horse to press the attack. The rider drew up to swing two handed. Aerion gave a shout and threw away his own shield. He reached over and caught the lighter man by the front of his armor and lifted him out of the saddle. The other man gave a panicked scream. Aerion slammed him to the ground as hard as he could.
His opponent's sword flew out of his hands. Aerion drew back and kicked the man in the head. He looked up as he saw movement. Quinn gave him a wave, then tossed him a sword from one of the fallen mercenaries. “Don't make a habit of that.”
Aerion realized he still held the stump of his broken sword somehow. “Yeah.”
They both looked up as Bulmor's horn blasted three quick notes. Aerion snagged the bridle of a nearby horse. “Quinn,” He said, and pointed at the horse. “You're injured, I can make it to the our horses on foot.” He saw the other man nod and Aerion held the horse while the wounded man mounted.
Aerion took a single moment to look around, and make sure that all those who still lived had begun to retreat. He saw Walker give him a wave as he mounted another captured horse. He saw Josef lope off in the direction of their horses. Across the small valley, he saw Bulmor mount up and the older warrior met his gaze and gave him a solemn nod.
Aerion felt himself stand taller for a moment at that. In the distance, he heard bugles and horns begin to blare. Aerion took a single deep breath, then he raced after Quinn into the woods.
***
Captain Kerrel Flamehair
The Lonely Isle, Duchy of Masov
First of Tremarn, cycle 999 Post Sundering
Kerrel reined in her horse as she saw Lord Hector and his escort approach.
She pulled off her helmet and wiped the sweat out of her eyes. Despite Hector's assurances that he trusted her, his orders had sent her company on several days of distant scouting missions, followed by this current patrol around the new campsite, not far from the Lonely Keep.
She didn't know why he had kept her so distant and she had come to wonder if Zabilla Nasrat had found some means of leverage against her. She learned only a few hours ago that Hector would make an inspection of her company and it had taken most of that time to draw in all but some outlying sentries left under the charge of Jonal.
Lord Hector reined his own mount to a halt only a short distance away. “Captain Flamehair.”
“Sir,” Kerrel nodded in return.
“How goes the patrols?” He asked, his voice cool and slightly distracted.
Kerrel studied his face, but, as usual of late, she found him hard to read. “Well. We've had no sign of serious Armen movement in the area. My men killed a couple scouts and we intercepted a small raid force during the second scouting mission.”
“Good.” Hector said. His gaze went to a clump of trees nearby, “Hopefully my coming out here hasn't proven a distraction.”
“No, sir,” Kerrel said. She noticed his guards had similarly focused on the trees. “Though I am confused as to the purpose.”
He gave her a distracted smile, “Which is comforting in its own way. You will want to don your helmet now.”
“Oh?” Kerrel asked, she looked between Hector and the clump of trees. “Why exactly is that?”
“As you will,” Hector said. “Ah, here we go.”
“What-” Kerrel broke off as a wave of arrows erupted from the woods.
/> “Shields up!” Kerrel shouted. She saw her men scramble to respond, many broke out of formation as they scrambled to ready for the fight.
The only thing that saved them, Kerrel realized later, was that the entire volley of arrows centered on Lord Hector's group.
Which was why Kerrel barely survived. Two arrows struck her breastplate and shattered. Another sliced across the back of her hand. One arrow struck her in the thigh and she gave a shout of pain. Two more arrows struck Nightwhisper, one pierced deep into his flank, while the other shattered on his chain barding.
Kerrel saw dozens of men boil out of the trees. They raced on foot towards their group and she felt a cold trickle of fear whisper through her as she realized that only a handful of bodyguards stood between Hector and the attackers. “Ambush!” Kerrel shouted, “South side, in the trees, form up!”
Hector's force had already responded. She saw three of his men had fallen along with their mounts, riddled with arrows. Two other men had jumped clear of their mounts. Horses, the larger target, had taken the majority of hits.
Kerrel saw her men react as quickly as they could, but not all the arrows had targeted Hector's bodyguards and here and there she saw a horse or rider down. Those fallen created confusion and the sudden attack made that confusion worse.
“Fall in on me!” Kerrel shouted. This time her men moved and she saw Baran and her headquarters element form around her as she wheeled Nightwhisper. The black horse surged forward under her, as she charged towards the ambushers.
The enemy drew close with startling suddenness. Kerrel whipped her saber forward in a slash that blinded one of the lead attackers, even as Nightwhisper trampled the man beside him. She saw her party slam into the assassins, followed only a few seconds later by the rest of her company.