by Kal Spriggs
“So... where do you draw the line?” Gerlin asked. The halfblood seemed uneasy by the discussion, Aerion saw. Then again, Aerion remembered that some Armen lived under the rule of their tribal shamans. Did that count, he wondered, or did Cederic's Conclave focus only on Eoriel?
“Things are rarely clear cut,” Cederic said. “It is often the flashy and impressive acts of magic that seem important, yet the small and hidden deeds can have far greater influence.” He rode in silence for a moment, “I must judge my own actions by my conscience and my beliefs. The most terrible tyrants in history are those who have seized power not from ambition, but from the mistaken belief that they have a right to rule and that others must obey their commands. That kind of arrogance is brought on by intelligence and knowledge, something most users of magic have in abundance. At the end of the day, I will have to live with my own actions... or not as the case may be.”
“You're saying you would die for those beliefs?” Katarina asked. Aerion saw surprise on her face and he felt the same. I could not set by and allow someone to kill me or those I care for, he thought, not if I had the power to stop them.
“In a choice between the corruption of my very soul and my survival, I will go to my ancestors with a clean conscience,” Cederic said.
***
Aerion
“What are they talking about up there?” Walker asked as Aerion dropped back in the column. Their discussion had left him a lot to think about. A part of him felt frustrated at the interruption to those thoughts, yet another part felt a sense of companionship to the man who had saved his life.
Aerion looked between him and Josef who rode nearby, “Wizards, magic, all kinds of things.” It seemed incredible that he traveled with such people, especially a wizard, like out of the old tales.
“Really?” Walker asked. The portly young man seemed to bounce in his saddle. “Sounds exciting!” His extravagant hat with the long feathers dipped and rose like a banner of sorts.
Aerion shook his head, “Mostly confusing. Lots of talk, and some of it very peculiar.” He shrugged his shoulders and he wondered if he would have felt better not to know what Cederic had told the others.
“One of the men said the new fellow is a wizard,” Josef said. “He doesn't look very impressive for a wizard.” The big man's voice was somewhat offended.
Aerion shrugged, “I don't know, he seems smart enough.”
“No,” Josef shook his head, “I mean wizards should be dressed like in the stories. Robes and impressive hats and that sort of thing, you know?” His voice was earnest.
Aerion gave a snort, “Sort of like Arren?”
“Yeah, only less patchwork and more colors, kind of like if we put Walker in a dress,” Josef said solemnly. He and Aerion turned their gaze to Walker, complete with his stolen broad-brimmed hat and its ornate plumage. A moment later he and Aerion both burst into laughter.
“Hey!” Walker squawked. “Just because neither of you have any taste in clothing...”
Aerion looked over at the other man, who still wore armor and leathers. “I wouldn't mind a set of what you're wearing now,” he said. “But that other stuff is hideous. You do know that red and bright green don't match, right?”
Walker shook his head, “Aerion, if I have to explain fashion to you, you will never understand it in the first place.” His tone was smug and confident.
Aerion frowned in thought. “Thanks... I think,” Aerion said.
“That wasn't a complement, friend,” Walker said, his high pitched voice offended.
“I know, I'm just glad you aren't going to try to explain,” Aerion said with another smile. The three laughed and Aerion felt relaxed in a way that he hadn't since the day Grel the Hound had burned his village. The thought brought a familiar pain to his chest, yet the knowledge that he had made friends gave him some solace.
He glanced over at Josef. The big man rode uneasily in his saddle, yet he seemed to have picked a steady horse. Josef had a solemn, thoughtful look on his face and Aerion remembered their previous conversation, “How do you feel about the fight?”
Josef frowned, “It isn't something I like. The first man I hit... I pretended it was butchering day and I was killing pigs.”
Aerion nodded slightly. That made some sense to him, though he didn't know how well it would work. “Did that help?” Aerion asked.
“Not really,” Josef gave a shrug, “Pigs don't try to kill you, well, sometimes they do, but most of the time they're not so bad. Thanks, by the way, for stopping that fellow who nearly got me in the back.”
“You would do the same for me,” Aerion said. “Where is home for you, Josef?”
“The village of Capulin Vale,” Josef said. “Its up near the Red Coast, north of the Eastwood.” He said that with a tone of pride that made Aerion smile in return.
“You do any smithing?” Aerion asked.
Josef shrugged his massive shoulders, “A bit, we lived on a farm, so sometimes we just did the simple repairs there, rather than walk into town, my brothers and I.”
“You have family back there?” Aerion asked
Josef nodded, “My four brothers and two of them married with young ones. All older than me, couple of them bigger too,” Josef grinned.
“By the High King, what do they feed you folks then?” Walker said. “When I first saw you I thought you must be one of the giants of legend.” His tone was mocking, but in a friendly fashion that didn't irritate Aerion, unlike some of the teasing he heard as a child.
“Well... we don't eat as well as some,” Josef nodded at Walker's protruding belly. “But our farm had a pretty good yield. Capulin Vale has some of the best soil in the Duchy. We raised wheat and barley, mostly, and grazed cattle and pigs on the land we left fallow.” He took on a distant look and Aerion could tell the big man missed it.
“Sounds nice,” Aerion said.
Josef nodded, “It was. I'd still be there if I hadn't broken that man's shoulder.”
“The fellow you hit, breaking up a fight?” Aerion asked.
Josef nodded and his thatch of unruly brown hair bounced around, “Yeah, turns out he was the younger son of Lord Rannas of Castle Redcoast. Idiot was drunk and started a fight, but that doesn't matter. If I stayed back there, there would be trouble sure enough. So I left and I've been traveling a few months, working where I could. When I heard that Lady Katarina had returned... well I figured I might earn enough money to buy a farm somewhere and settle down.”
They rode in silence and Aerion decided he was glad that Josef had broken the nobleman's arm. He might be far from home, but Aerion found his calm and pragmatic nature a comfort.
“How come there's no villages out here?” Josef asked, with a wave of one of his shovel sized hands at the rolling hills.
Walker looked around the hills, covered in scrub and tall grass, “Doesn't look very hospitable.”
Josef shook his head. “No, but the soil's pretty good. And if you look over there, you can see where there used to be some fields, bordered by walls. It almost looks like civilized land gone wild.”
“It used to be, a long time ago,” Aerion said. He thought back to old Taggart's stories. “Back before the High Kings, this area had a large population and there were a couple of big cities at the base of the mountains.”
“What?” Walker said. He looked at Aerion skeptically and he sounded as if Aerion were making the story up. “How would you know, if it happened so long ago?”
“I just do, alright?” Aerion said. “I grew up not far from here and we'd come across ruins now and again in the mountains and there are... stories.” He remembered some of Taggart's oldest stories, the ones that he would only tell on cold winter nights at the inn, when the entire village would be snowed in for days or weeks at a time. Tales of heroes and legends, men and women who had lived and died before the rise of the High Kings.
“What happened?” Josef asked. He sounded interested, though Aerion couldn't tell if it was about the old cit
ies or the farms. From his eager look at the hills, probably the farms, Aerion figured.
Aerion shrugged, “I don't know. War, I guess. That was the time of the Dragon Kings, if I remember right, they ruled right up until the Starborn got here and maybe a little after.” Some of the stories had been too absurd to repeat in the light of the day, stories of men who tamed dragons, of dragons who became beautiful women... he flushed as he remembered how that particular story had gone.
“You're kidding, next you're going to say that you've seen ruined Pacenair!” Walker gave a laugh. The tone of his voice was slightly derisive. He mentioned the fabled lost city of the Dragon Kings off-hand, as if they were little more than legend. He's not far wrong, Aerion thought, they reigned almost three thousand cycles in the past, from what Taggart said.
Aerion opened his mouth to argue, but then he closed it, suddenly unwilling to tell more about his home. “Whatever.”
They rode in silence a bit. “If you don't mind me saying, those pants and that tunic barely fit you, Aerion” Josef said. He sounded almost apologetic.
Aerion flushed, “Sort of hard to find anything my size.” The tunic, especially was tight and it had grown tighter over the past weeks as he put on more muscle.
“I have a spare tunic and pants, I could give you a set,” Josef said. “But I'd ask a favor in return.” His deep voice was surprising hesitant.
“Oh?” Aerion asked. He wasn't certain he could afford much in return. They weren't paid anything, not yet, and he didn't really have anything to trade.
“Well, you're a big fellow like me. I'd like to train with you. It seems like Bulmor and Arren both spend a bit more time training you, so I'd like to see if any of that extra training would rub off on me.”
“Of course,” Aerion said. He looked down at the pommel of his saddle. “Shoot, I'm no skilled fighter, I think I need the extra training just to keep up.”
Walker snorted at that, “My friend, I think you've proven that false. How many men have you killed?” Walker turned in his saddle to meet Aerion's gaze.
Aerion frowned, “I don't know, I hadn't really thought about it.” The idea of keeping track of the lives he had taken, sort of like a game, made him feel ill.
“Seven, by my count,” Walker said, his voice solemn. “I heard it was three from the first fight and four more in this last one. Some others have taken note. You're a fierce fellow... if you stopped breaking your blade, you'd be an absolute terror.”
Aerion flushed, “I just try my best. Most of the time I'm just trying to stay alive.”
“And you have, and proved your skill along the way,” Josef said. “So, how about you practice with some of us who aren't quite certain if we're up to this fighting thing?”
Aerion nodded, yet the idea that others thought him skilled made him feel oddly self conscious. He knew it took time to develop true skill at any task. His ability at smithing had taken him cycles of hard work. Even now, he didn't consider himself competent for working on anything outside of what he had done before. He could make a knife, but he wouldn't even try to forge a real sword, not when he knew next to nothing about it.
They rode in silence for a time, until Josef turned in his saddle. “And where are you from, Walker?” Josef asked.
Walker's smile disappeared, “Uh, up north.”
“North's a big place, but I'd guess a city, maybe Longhaven?”
“He does sound like some of them rich folks from there,” Quinn said from behind them. Aerion looked over his shoulder at the stocky young man. He rode better in the saddle than before and Aerion saw someone had put his arm in a sling.
Walker gave a nervous laugh, “How would you know what a noble sounds like compared to anyone else?”
“I was a printer's assistant. I ran the press and, now and again, we had some noble come by and ask us to make posters for some party or another. They wore bright stuff like you, too, come to think of it. And I didn't say noble, I said rich.”
“Well, I'm from Longhaven,” Walker said. He looked down, “And I'm sorry I'm not a commoner like you lot. But I'm here to fight too, alright?” Walker looked away from the others. He had a harsh note to his high voice, one that sounded at odds to his normally jovial nature.
Aerion leaned over in the saddle and put one hand on his shoulder, “Hey, it's alright. It doesn't matter where you come from, you're with us now.”
“I don't want your pity!” Walker shouted and threw his arm off. The shorter man looked angry, more angry than their conversation should have made him. His blue eyes blazed and his face had gone flushed.
Aerion held up his hands, “I was just saying...”
“Look, lets just talk about something else, alright?” Walker said. He rubbed at his face, almost as if to wipe away tears.
“Sure,” Aerion answered. He looked over at Quinn, “How's your arm?”
“It hurts a bit, but not too bad. Arren put another bandage on it and he said it looks pretty clean.” Quinn gave a small smile, “At least I'm not left handed like you or I wouldn't be any use at all.”
“I'm sure a smart fellow like you would be of use,” Aerion responded. “It's the big lugs like Josef and I that are here for our muscle.”
Quinn grimaced. “Not a printing press in sight. Though I would like to ask that wizard fellow a question or two.” There was longing in his voice. Aerion remembered what Quinn had said about the mercenaries who'd attacked his mother. He imagined that the former printer's apprentice would find the idea of magical strength to oppose physical strength appealing. Not that Quinn was small. His stocky frame held muscle, but there was a softness to him that Aerion couldn't, quite, describe.
Aerion shook his head, “That's a danger I wouldn't encourage. Half the questions he answered up there just made me think of more questions.”
“Huh,” Quinn frowned. “Still, I would love to know more, especially why he's here. Rumor has it, he stopped a witch's familiar cold... and that she backed down from him.” Both Walker and Josef perked up at that. The three discussed what they had heard of the encounter. Aerion tuned it out a bit, some of it sounded flat out absurd, the rest just made him wonder why the wizard was involved.
Aerion rode on in silence for a bit. He relished in the feeling of companionship, the feeling of belonging. Even in his village, his lack of father had made him the outcast, and then his solitary work at the forge had consumed most of his time, especially after Taggart died. These men, though he barely knew them, were his companions, his comrades. He felt a lump in his throat at the thought. I could not ask for more than friends like these, he thought.
But then his eyes went forward to where Katarina rode and for just a moment he wanted one more thing in life.
***
Captain Kerrel Flamehair
The Lonely Isle, Duchy of Masov
Fourth of Tremarn, cycle 999 Post Sundering
Kerrel limped up to Hector's command tent only a few minutes late. The guards outside did not return her greeting, nor did they make eye contact as one of them held the tent flap open for her. She suddenly regretted the light meal she had while her medics patched her wounds. Her stomach roiled at the implications of the guards behavior. She did not need this stress, not with Jonal and his men still missing.
He followed me here, far from home, she thought, I need to find him, if he's alive. That he might be dead lay on her conscience like a heavy weight. She thought suddenly of Moira, her elder sister, the rightful heir... also dead because of her.
She ducked her head and stepped into the tent. She felt the tension inside the small space. It seemed to hum on the air like a wasp that no one dared to swat. Kerrel looked around at the other commanders, but none met her eyes.
“Now that we are all here,” Hector said, “I will introduce our guest of honor.”
The back flap of the tent swept open and two guards dragged a limp form between them. They stopped next to Lord Hector. Kerrel felt her heart freeze as she recognized her own color
s on the prisoner, though a burlap sack over his head made it impossible to recognize his face.
“This man orchestrated an assassination attempt this morning and my Vendakar allies torturers have revealed that he is the one behind the leak of information in our previous battle,” Hector said, his voice cold. He tore the bag off the prisoner's head.
Kerrel felt her heart stop as she saw Jonal's battered face.
“This man sought to betray his commander, to kill her, and to kill me,” Lord Hector said. His voice cut through the tent like a knife, hard and cold. “Therefore, by my judgment-”
“My Lord, I request that Jonal Ingail be tried by tribunal,” Kerrel interrupted.
Hector's dark eyes locked on her face. “This man, your own cousin, tried to kill you. Commander Pradjahdar's men captured him when he attempted to escape, a fat sack of coins gifted to him by the Armen assassins who bought his loyalty. A tribunal will find his guilt and will only delay his punishment.”
“All officers deserve a tribunal,” Kerrel said. She fought to keep her voice level. “If he did what you have said, they will find him guilty and he will be punished. But we all deserve the right to military recourse.”
Hector cocked his head. “Your principles are admirable.” He looked down at Jonal, and Kerrel saw his jaw clench. “I will accept your statement. The officers here will draw straws for the appointment, except for Commander Pradjahdar and his officers, as they are witnesses to your cousins treachery.”
Kerrel nodded. She shot a glance around the tent. Several of the other mercenaries gave her a nod and she realized that her stand for her cousin had also made their positions more favorable. Mercenaries rarely received treatment equal to personal guard or even conscripted soldiers. A trial by tribunal, even one with an almost certain verdict, set a precedent.
Of course, it also gave her a chance to find out what had really happened and to save her cousin's life. “I must excuse myself, as well,” Kerrel said. “I am his blood, and therefore I should not hold his life in my hands.”