by Kal Spriggs
Captain Elias gave a slight shrug, “Honestly, I don't really care. It keeps him out of sight and it means I don't have to deal with him making trouble or causing crewmen unhappy with his actions getting him into trouble.”
“Understood,” Admiral Tarken said. “Doctor's Assistant Pall went to work the day after her punishment, as you know. Some of the documents she translated included a message from the commander of the Ryft blockade, a chieftain by the name of Jarka Rusk.”
“I seem to remember him...” Captain Elias's eyes narrowed in thought. “Isn't he one of the chieftains from the Lonely Isle?”
“He is... and in particular he is known for his brutality in general and his hatred of 'Southern weaklings' in particular,” Admiral Christoffer said. “Of interest to me, however, is his note and a reference to a Southerner, a wizard who apparently provided the concealment under which they drew close without facing our casters.”
“A wizard from Boir?” Elias asked. Their previous discussion about possible traitors returned to his mind and he wondered if this would be the link they needed to identify such a traitor.
“Unknown,” Admiral Tarken said. “He does, however, seem somewhat impressed by the wizard's utter ruthlessness and total viciousness. He also mentions that under his guidance, he conducted the raid of the Citadel and that several of his men went with this wizard in a raid into the Eastwood not long after.”
“That's...” Elias frowned. He thought of the many tales of the Wold and their tendency to kill any intruder on sight... and the rumors of worse things that they did to those who harmed their lands or people. “I would say that it sounds like suicide, but clearly if this wizard had brains enough to mousetrap our Fleet and coordinate a raid on the Citadel, he may have pulled it off.”
“Indeed, the main part of the letter is a note to Turan Khal, that this wizard has informed him that he has succeeded in his task, though the Armen who went with him into the Eastwood are dead,” The Admiral shook his head, “He clearly uses and disposes of people like tools. I wish Jarka Rusk mentioned a name, but he simply refers to him as 'your wizard friend.' Parts of the message are sufficiently cryptic that I think Turan Khal doesn't even want his own people to know who this wizard is or what other powers they made alliances with.”
“They pulled in a large number of Norics, sir,” Captain Elias said. He had fought Noric galleys both on the Boir Sea and in the Southern Sea. He remained impressed by their savagery, but he doubted, somehow that they had the logistics or organization to remain with the Armen forces for long. “Those demon-worshipers are bad enough.”
“The Semat Armen have always had a kinship with them,” Admiral Tarken said. “I'm more worried about ties with the Darkstar... and possibly the Vendakar.”
“The Vendakar?” Elias grimaced, “I'll admit, I trust them about as far as... well, I don't even trust one of them as far as I could throw them. But what you suggest has no precedent. The Armen have worked with the Darkstar before, we all know that. The Norics often work as hired muscle for the Armen here in the south. But the Armen hate the Vendakar almost as much as everyone else does. And the Darkstar... well they hate the Vendakar more than we do.”
“Yes, but the Norics sell the Vendakar slaves, often enough. And the Vendakar Houses hate our dominance of trade and our control of the seas. We may trade with them... but they know that we would burn their cities down if we could. And their gods...”the Admiral pursed his lips, the frown on his face showed his disgust, “Kaliva is a foul perversion and Shivenkaru is an abomination. The Vendakar must know exactly how we view them and they have every reason to seek our downfall, especially if it means they take over our trade.”
“You think that they might have something to do with the Norics?” Elias asked. He could not see it though, the Vendakar were too calculating for such an open operation, though it did fit their preference to use others to fight and bleed for them.
“I suspect they might have given the Armen the coin for it. Your men did find the one chest of Vendakar Rajputs aboard the Mircea.” Admiral Tarken said in reference to the triangular gold coins, marked on one side by the image of Shivenkaru, and on the other by her brother Kaliva. It was commonly held in the Five Duchies that the coins were cursed, still there were always some folk willing to accept them. “It doesn't prove much, but it does suggest that they may be involved. Coupled with this mysterious wizard and how he seemed to know how to breach both the defenses of the Citadel and those of the Eastwood, I suspect that we face a serious threat and an alliance that, quite frankly, terrifies me.”
“If you suggest that the Darkstar, the Armen, and the Vendakar are all secretly allied together in a plot to destroy Boir, then, yes, you frighten me too,” Elias admitted grimly. “It makes me wish for the times of the High Kings, when we had the other Duchies at our back.”
The Admiral looked over at him, and Elias saw a measure of surprise on his face. “I had not thought you to be a Restorationist.”
Captain Elias shrugged, but he met the Admiral's eyes, “My father in law is a member of the Order of King Gordon, sir. I am a loyal son of Boir... but I am also a believer that the High Kingdom should be restored. And if your suggestion has any connection to reality... well then it would be our only chance at victory.”
“I had not thought about it like that,” the Admiral said. He wore the slightest hint of a smile, “But I think it more likely that we'll recover Boir's Ducal Blade than either of us have any role in the restoration of the High Kings.” He quirked a smile at that, and Elias knew that the Admiral had used that reference on purpose. The Ducal Blade had been lost since Duke Gustav had fallen at the side of High King Haden and it was presumed as lost as the Starblade itself.
Elias shrugged, “It is as much about faith as anything else, sir. And while I send my prayers to my ancestors, I also say one to the spirits of the High Kings... just in case.” Admiral Tarken stared at him, and for a moment, Elias almost thought he might agree with the sentiment. The moment passed, however, and the Admiral gave him a single nod before he headed below decks.
***
Lady Katarina Emberhill
The Tucola Forest, Zielona Gora Barony, Duchy of Masov
Second of Tremarn, cycle 999 Post Sundering
Katarina absently chewed on a lock of hair as she waited for the patrol to near. The habit had driven her mother to distraction as a child, and for that matter, it annoyed Katarina when she caught herself doing it.
She pulled the lock away and forced herself to stillness. She should worry about the upcoming fight. She should look at a map and plan out their movement after they broke free from the trap.
Instead, she looked over her shoulder, as if that would bring the distraction force. She absently tucked the lock of hair back in the corner of her mouth and chewed on the end. So much could go wrong. The enemy might react sooner than expected. They might have expected such an attack and have already positioned men to cut off their retreat. Aerion could already be dead and I would have no way to know, she thought.
She shook her head. She forced herself to still her thoughts, pushed all of her worries to the back of her mind and then dragged the emotions she had so far refused to face out into the open where she could see them.
Perhaps only moments before a fight for her life was not the best timing, yet Katarina felt an icy certainty that she must decide how she felt, or she might never see Aerion again. She felt... something for him, she could not deny that, not in the privacy of her own mind. Something about him brought out a protective instinct, yet something of his seriousness and his quiet competence brought out a very different feeling.
This is impossible, she knew. She had felt crushes before, on her oratory tutor, when she was little more than a child and then later on the boys of noblemen in Marovingia. She got over those... even the ones where the boy in question felt the same.
And this felt different. She worried, almost obsessively, that Aerion would be hurt. She remembered his
brush with death and the thought of what Hector's men did to him made her ball her fists in sudden rage. She liked him because he was good, honest in ways that she couldn't afford, and loyal, not just to her, but to the cause she had claimed. And his rapidly developing skills, his intelligence, and his calm manner all seemed to make him more attractive.
She was older than him, she knew, but not by much. And more, he was of Starborn descent, which while it did not confer nobility, did at least grant a long life and a tendency towards good health.
A part of her wanted to seize on that, for she knew her father had struggled with his arranged marriage while his wife aged while he remained young. She thought that some of his distance between her parents came from that and certainly it was hard to allow oneself to fall in love with the certainty of loss. She had heard many tales of such tragedy, particularly in Marovingia where Starborn blood was even more rare.
Yet she could not afford to let her infatuation become anything more. Whatever her desires, both those of emotion and those of lust, she couldn't afford to give in to them. For one thing, she knew that her marriage would be a key tool in regaining control over the Duchy. Bulmor had hinted at it before, and she suspected that he already knew which nobles would put forward their sons, or themselves, for that honor.
For that matter, she thought, what's worse is if he doesn't feel the same way. What idiot would seek to marry her, when he could live out a quiet life as a commoner, raise a large family, and grow old with his love, never to worry about intrigue, plots, and conspiracies? Katarina gave a final decisive nod. It felt good to decide against that. Aerion would be better off without her, and she couldn't afford to come to care about him. She absently started chewing on a lock of hair again, and gave another glance over her shoulder.
***
Aerion
The Tucola Forest, Zielona Gora Barony, Duchy of Masov
Second of Tremarn, cycle 999 Post Sundering
Aerion clutched at the pommel of the saddle as his horse stumbled. With the captured mounts, they had just enough horses for the entire band, once they met up with them. The past three days had been exhausting. He looked over his shoulder, and winced at how the group had straggled out of anything resembling a formation. Some of the horses might not make it and Aerion assumed that several of the wounded men would not make it, not riding hard in the saddle. As it was, he wondered if any of them would make it. The response to their attack had pulled in almost all of the mercenaries, it seemed.
Twice, bands of mercenaries had boiled out of the forest and both times Aerion saw more of his companions fall. Bulmor had rode his captured mount with skill and Aerion felt that only his commands and skill had seen them through.
Aerion had nearly unhorsed himself the first time he swung his sword from the saddle. The blow had knocked his opponent out of his saddle, at least, which was fortunate, because it allowed him to drag Josef onto that horse, the big man's had gone down to a spear throw. Aerion glanced over at the larger man, “How are you?”
Josef grimaced, “I think this damned beast is about to split me in two. You?”
Aerion gave a laugh, “The same.” He had forgotten such things as the pain of his backside compared to the fear of pursuit. Still, at the reminder, his legs twinged and he shifted a bit in the saddle. His horse flattened her ears at him... clearly she didn't feel an unskilled rider such as him to be worthy of her.
“At least it's a good day for riding,” Walker said from behind them. The other man had acquired a broad-brimmed hat with towering plumage from a mercenary in the last fight. Seeing as how he had killed the man just before he would have put a lance in Aerion's back, Aerion figured he might as well indulge the other man's odd fashion taste.
Aerion just shook his head in response.
He heard Arren's voice from ahead, “It reminds me of the time I infiltrated a tribe of Sepak Armen. They are born to the horse and it took me some time to gain sufficient proficiency to ride with their confidence.” For the first time, Aerion wondered if Arren Smith had become a real person to Aramer and if that person had truly existed. “Their women train as light cavalry and they train with a bow from childhood. Their men wear heavy armor and with their lances and shields they act as heavy cavalry. They are a peculiar people, at once so savage and yet beautiful in how they ride. Josef, if you adjust your feet like so, you too could ride as the Semat do and it is much easier than you would think.” Aerion saw, out of the corner of his eye, that Josef adjusted and soon he did ride a bit easier.
“Their society is built entirely around their military command, for they value strategy and the orders of their appointed commanders are paramount. I once saw an entire clan ride directly off a cliff because their captain ordered it. I had rode with them for several months before I fought my first battle with them. They fought another clan of Sepak, for the Armen frequently fight among their own tribes and clans. In that battle, I proved my skill for when the enemy's captain rode at me, I managed to cut him from the saddle, and took his bracelet, a symbol of his rank.”
Aramer continued to spin the story and despite his distrust, Aerion found himself caught up in it. “Well, then, my friends, the clan leader of my adoptive tribe noticed my skill. And he honored me by naming me captain. At this point, of course, I knew that I must soon make my escape. I was certain that I must ride off late some night, much as we are now, or face that thing I dreaded most... to be wed to the clan leader's daughter.” Arren waited for the laughter to die down, “You hadn't seen her, a hideous, bow-legged, bucktoothed woman with hands like platters.”
“How'd you get out of that?” Quinn asked. Aerion looked around and saw the the stragglers had somehow coaxed their animals into movement and even the wounded such as Quinn had perked up at the story. Aerion inspected the bandage on Quinn's arm, but it looked as if the bleeding had stopped. The stocky young man sat uneasily in his saddle, but he seemed more alert now, at least. After fighting at the other man's side, Aerion's previous nervousness in conversation seemed a foolish fear. Aerion figured he should make more of an effort to get to know him and some of the others close to his age.
Arren leaned forward and spoke in a low voice and Aerion noticed that the others brought their horses in closer to hear, “Well, let me tell you, my time as Captain was interesting. The Clan chief, a man called Tun Mat, assigned me bodyguards- for my protection, you see- but they also made certain I couldn't leave, and every day his daughter Yesalda came to my tent.” Arren gave a horrified shudder, “The woman had no shame, and so overcome by lust that I had to pretend illness and contagion to remain out of her clutches.”
“Her and her big hands?” Walker asked. “Was she so horrible?”
“A jaw like Josef's and hands to match,” Arren said, and the overstated terror in his voice brought a laugh from most of the riders. Josef, on the other hand, looked a little hurt as he felt his jaw somberly. “And you could plow a field with her teeth. The one time she tried to kiss me... she managed to bite my foot.”
“You sure she tried to kiss your mouth?” One of the others shouted.
“Well... there may have been confusion,” Arren said. “It was dark at the time.” He gave an embarrassed cough, “In any case, an opportunity for freedom came my way when the Clan Chief heard of a band of adventurers from Boir, who had come to capture some of their famous steeds. I immediately made a recovery from my terrible illness and volunteered to lead warriors to hunt these raiders down.”
“Now, Quinn don't look at me like that,” Arren said, “I could no more kill my fellow men from the Five Duchies than I wanted to marry Yesalda. But I had a plan, see. With the great scouts of the Sepak, we found these raiders quickly. And just as we rode up on them, I told the warriors that, as their captain, I had a plan.”
“What was your plan?”
“Since their entire society is built around their military caste, and since I had become a captain, they had no choice but to obey my commands,” Arren said. “Although t
hey knew I must be from Eoriel, and therefore their enemy, they followed my orders to surrender to the adventurers from Boir and so I ended my time as a rider amongst the Sepak Armen. Though, Yesalda never got over her love for me and I found out that she left her tribe in search of me.”
Aerion shook his head, “And how much of that is true?” Despite himself, he found a broad smile on his face, for the thought of how 'Arren' had outsmarted a band of violent militaristic nomads seemed ridiculous.
“Why, all of it!” Arren said. He drew an elaborately wrought silver bracelet out of his robes and held it up, “This was the bracelet I took from that Sepak captain, and which Chief Tun Mat said would mark my rank.”
The entire force had drawn close enough to see it. “Amazing what a bit of jewelry means to the right people, isn't it?” Arren said.
“What happened to Yesalda?” Josef asked.
Arren looked around sharply, “Not so loud! For all I know, she's with that bunch chasing after us.” He glanced back over his shoulder, “Say, do any of you lads mind if we pick up the pace a bit?”
***
Chapter Eleven
Lady Katarina Emberhill
The Tucola Forest, Zielona Gora Barony, Duchy of Masov
Second of Tremarn, cycle 999 Post Sundering
Katarina looked up as Gerlin waved to get her attention. By their agreement, she would start the attack on this patrol. He'd selected this one as it numbered the fewest men and it seemed to be the most distant from the other groups.
Katarina took the larger of her two wands in hand and watched as the patrol drew closer to the clump of trees that she and the others hid in. The Tucola Forest trailed off in this area as the highlands scrub and brush took over. Katarina knew that the scrub and hills stretched all the way to where the distant Eastern Ryft Peaks rose on the horizon. The lack of cover meant that they had to take the patrol down quickly and break contact with the enemy.