The Sword to Unite

by Peter J. Hopkins

  The man smiled wide. “Why to rape, pillage, and cause an amount of general chaos.”

  There was silence as the two groups had been fully absorbed in suspense. Blades were ready to be drawn, and throats to be slit. The suave man broke into laughter, soon followed by his entire party, who removed their hands from their swords and returned to their drinking.

  “I am Tarquin,” the man said extending his hand to shake Cedric’s, who steadied his hand and relaxed. Cedric’s party unwound and breathed a heavy sigh of relief, and the tavern keeper poured a whole mug of ale down his gullet to calm himself before returning to his work. “These men here are the Dogs of War!” He shouted with pride as each of his men raised their cups in toast of their name.

  Alfnod pushed past some of the brutes to where Tarquin was sitting, his long ears perked by the mention of their title. “The mercenaries from Kruithia?”

  Tarquin was polite to the elf and answered while nodding his head. “The one and only. Yes, we’re up here on business to King Malcom, promising a lord’s fat stash for service in his name. We’ve been helping this village gather up their grain, and making sure they get to Prav without any harm. Can’t well win a war but not have anyone to farm next year’s crop. Come, we’ll have room enough for your party.” Tarquin said as he pulled up more chairs, and ordered another round of drinks. “So, what brings you on the road to Prav?”

  Cedric alone answered for the others did not know if it was wise to reveal their mission. “I am Cedric, and this is my retinue accompanying my way to that city, where I will take counsel with Malcom.”

  Tarquin was pleasantly surprised by this news and downed another flask of drink. From the kitchen, a faint scream could be heard, and the tavern keep scurried away to investigate. “Oh yes, the southern bastard as his grace so eloquently puts it.” Cedric turned dour; he was already on poor terms with a man he had yet to meet. “But I’d prefer the company of a bastard to some high-born dandy. Less frilly rules to follow.” Cedric and Tarquin drank to those terms, and the rogue leapt over the counter to procure another bottle.

  As Tarquin leapt back to his seat, the back door to the kitchen burst open, and a member of Tarquin’s group came rushing out, getting cutlery and pots thrown at him. The screaming from earlier was from the tavern master’s daughter, who had been preparing pies and meats for the guests in the back room. The girl was not yet a full woman, and she had flour in spots all over her face and in her stringy and frizzled hair. The tavern owner protectively held his hand over his daughter, and he was wielding a butcher knife.

  “Back you scoundrel before I take your man bits off!” The bald and sweaty man said as he swung the knife in wild fashion. The scoundrel in question was red-faced, and he carried a great sword at his side. The man reached for its handle, and pulled in out menacing the tavern owner.

  Just as blood appeared as good as spilled, Tarquin stepped between the two groups, holding out his hand to calm his frenzied companion. “What’s the meaning of this?” He implored both men.

  The innkeeper answered first, spewing out his words quickly. “My lord he meant to take my daughter in the cellar, he’s a savage I tell you, I won’t serve him again.”

  “A lie!” The companion shouted, his cheek had been bloodied from feminine nails.

  “Now Grif,” Tarquin said soothingly, “we don’t take what our hosts haven’t offered.” Tarquin patted him on the back. “Apologize now, and I’ll let you sleep in one of the tents outside.” Tarquin turned and face the innkeeper. “My good sir this man won’t be problem for tonight. He will forfeit his room and board, he will sleep in the tents in the field, and by my honor will not step through this establishment’s doorway.”

  The innkeeper nodded in approval, though he did not take his eyes off Grif until he had departed with his gear. The daughter was sent scurrying back into the kitchen, curtseying to Tarquin as she passed. The men returned to their drinking, for it was a common thing for one in their party to be scorned by their commander, for discipline was the Elnish way of war.

  The night was passed with drinking and stories, tales from the small city-states of Kruithia and the Elnish people. The sellswords were quite welcoming when properly drunk, and they treated their guests like members of their own band. Slowly the Dogs of War exited the inn, each left when they had had their full fill of wine and food, returning to their tents and campfires. Traquin’s group of captains left for their beds in the inn, mats of hay that appeared like the silk sheets of a noble’s bed, compared to the sleeping sacks outside.

  “Lord Cedric, it appears you and your illustrious companions have space in the inn for tonight. For we have left many of our company in the tented field,” Tarquin said as he motioned upstairs. The knights stood and shuffled up to the common room, for they were tired of resting on mudded meadows.

  Eadwine, being one for jests, did not give his new ally any quarter. “Fancy yourself some noble born Tarquin? Talking like some flowery tart in court?”

  Tarquin responded as he reclined in his chair and crossed his arms. “None more than yourself master elf, practice with such words is but a means to an end with those flowery tarts.”

  Cedric was last to climb the stairs, but he was stopped by Tarquin, who sat with his legs on a now emptied table, pouring another glass of wine. “Lord Cedric, do have one last drink with me.” He said politely as he gestured his arm to the number of freed chairs of the inn. Cedric took him up on the offer, and pulled up a chair to the table, and took a glass of wine to both their health.

  “So how does a band of Elnish mercenaries end up in the frigid tundra of Midland, fighting for a foreign king?” Cedric said as he took his first sip of wine. He realized it was a Kruithian vintage, and reduced the taste of Iceberry Wine to that of foully made moonshine. “You brought this all the way from Kruithia?”

  Tarquin nodded. “Yes, my favorite winery that place, the Magi’s Elixir.” He twirled the half-filled cup in his hand. “Well since Malcom still has so many connections in Kruithia, thanks to his heritage, he naturally found out about the great Pit Fighter this side of the world.”

  “You fought in the Pit?”

  Tarquin reminisced. “Oh yes, for what was about a full year’s time. The Pit…that ultimate example of Kruithian justice.” Tarquin referenced the lowest level of Kruithia, as the city stands by itself in a ring moat, which stretched down near seventy stories. At the lowest level, now called the Pit, prisoners are made to fight for their freedom or the other option of enlisting in the military. “I was a merchant’s son you see; we had a spectacular villa overlooking most of the city. I just happen to find myself in the bed of the wrong noble’s daughter…completely by her choice no less. Her father had none of it, bribed damn near every official until I found myself in the Pit without a trial.” Tarquin smiled and brushed his fingers across his blade’s handle. “If it were not for this steel by my side, I would have wound up at the bottom of the moat. I won every match I was in for that year until I was finally granted my freedom, but not without trophies.” Tarquin revealed many slashed scars across his chest, gifts from his most worthy opponents.

  “I was not always from that cesspool of a city, the mercenary continued, “My family is of southern Elnish descent, from where the fields are golden and the histories filled with noblemen. I was born in Modelo, along the shorelines which were perfect temperature for swimming all year round. It was by sheer luck I immigrated to Kruithia. My father was embroiled in a scheme against the Dux of Modelo, how you say, Duke, in my tongue. He was exiled, and took my family north to Kruithia where he still had a few allies…” Tarquin paused, he had spilled his entire life’s story to a stranger, and his face began to turn red from the silence.

  “And this brought you up north?” Cedric burst to break the silence. He had been enthralled in the story the mercenary had woven. Cedric eagerly awaited the rest as he poured another glass of Kruithian wine.

  “Aye, the Crawe’s have many who serve them in
the free city, with plenty of coin as the incentive for such a long journey.” Tarquin leaned in and bragged his lump sum of wealth. “I’ve already been given near king’s fortune just to guard these vineyards and peasantry; I can’t imagine what riches Malcom has stuffed in his coffers of Prav.” Tarquin reclined and placed his hands on his head as though he had not a care in the world. “Who knows? Perhaps I will return to that fair southern city; I’ll be richer than that noble who imprisoned me…maybe even bribe his passage to the Pit, see how long he lasts.”

  Suddenly there was a great shouting from outside, muffled by the wooden and thatch walls of the inn. Grif burst through the door, and the cries came amplified with the slamming of the door against its post. “Riders from the other side of the village! Nearest the windmill!” He was clutching his blade, his aketon dangled on his chest, for he had not had time to properly fasten it.

  With this warning from Grif, the knights and captains, along with Cedric’s friends, leaped from their rooms with their weapons. Tarquin took a brisk walk out of the inn, taking survey of the village, now partially engulfed in raging flames which had spread from the half-emptied grain fields.

  Cedric and Tarquin ran to the tents, where the sellsword gathered his men to mount a defense. Suddenly a rider came out from the night’s veil and rode hard towards the suave commander. As though it were an effortless thing, Tarquin picked up an angon from a pile of weapons nearby and threw the barbed javelin with such grace that it appeared as an arrow flying through the sky. It struck the chest of the rider with such force that he was thrown backward from his horse, and Cedric stood in awe at the warrior’s prowess and calmness in battle.

  Tarquin turned and faced his men that had gathered their gear for battle, each carrying a beaming grin of pride for their company. Tarquin smirked and drew his blade to the starlit night, and rallied his men to battle. “Live up to your name, Dogs of War!” They raised their various weapons and gave a great shout as they charged through the village, taking the riders in small groups, so the horses became overwhelmed, buckling back in fear of the savage-faced men.

  The Knights of the Eternal Dawn mounted their horses in full chainmail and with their lances in hand, rushing to aid the mercenaries. Their bannered spears scored many a death that night and gored upon both the horses and riders of those that burned the town of Harfield.

  Cedric and his band found themselves rushing to the defense of the villagers and farmers, who had gathered at the town square and cowered in their barns and halls. Coming out from the red smoke, a man with two spiked skulls upon his shoulders rode atop a black horse, accompanied by full escort of men with the blood of the innocent upon their blades.

  It was Sibi the Brother, chiefest of reavers to Azrael, and the scourge of the peaceful towns of Midland. He bore a wild look, and his hair and face were covered in a thick brew of warm blood and dry dirt. In his hand, a huge axe, double-sided, and sharpened to a shine, was dipped in a black sludge, which dripped from its edge. The raider has not expected a host of sellswords, and he realized his mounted party, no matter how brave or fast, were heavily outmatched in this battle.

  He whistled to his sergeants, who quickly waylaid orders to round up whatever villagers they could, tying them to the backs of horses, or a worse fate of being dragged along the dirt behind the steeds. As Cedric and his companions were occupied with some bandits by the square, Aderyn found nothing but empty night air between her and Sibi. Drawing back her bow, she aimed true, and struck at his shoulder, just below where his brother, Sven, had his head spiked.

  Sibi reeled in pain, clutching at his shoulder which bled profusely and spilled over the visage of his brother. With a kick, Sibi ushered his horse forward, and raised his axe to Aderyn. He took a mighty swing, nearly taking her head off. By mere chance, Aderyn had been grazed by the blade, though it plunged deep through her thin neck. She spun through the air as the blow threw her from her feet, landing with a thud against the hard stone floor of the town square.

  Cedric went deaf as he rushed to Aderyn’s side, and the world around him seemed to slow and fade into the dark of the night. He knelt beside her and laid her head in his lap, and pressed his loose cloth of his clothes to her gashed neck, which was covered in the black ooze of Sibi’s axe.

  “Gore and searing death upon you Cedric!” Sibi shouted from his horse, just as he rode along the horizon of the hill. “I will burn your false gods! My brothers demand blood, and I will give it to them!” His black horse bucked and reared against the night’s black veil.

  Sibi beckoned that his riders follow his lead back out of the town. As quick as the raiders had come, they had too left, leaving nothing but burning fields and scatters clumps of the dead or near death. Tarquin and his sellswords were quick to gather the remaining villagers, who huddled together like a flock of sheep against the fangs of wolves in the night. Many were missing, hogtied and taken by Sibi’s lot.

  Dawn was not far off now, and a light hue of orange had begun to pierce the furthest corners of the sky. Cedric stayed by Aderyn’s side through the remainder of the night, for her breathing had become shallow and the wound had turned a black red, darkening the whole of her neck. Her face had become pale, covered in a layer of cold sweat. Her eyes were bloodshot red and slowly rolled round as she lay awake.

  “She’ll need to rest while we travel,” Cedric said to his companions, “prepare a place for her on the carts.” And so Beorn lifted the pale-faced Aderyn into his arms, and gently let her down on a bed of carpeting and bags of grain that were gathered on one of the carts being driven out of the village.

  The dawn had come and with it a rainstorm which clogged and mudded the road ahead of the people. Now the people of Harfield were being led to Prav by Tarquin’s remaining men, whose spirits had downed from the sudden attack in the night. They marched only on the road, opting for a long and narrow caravan of people and carts, which stretched out across the hilly and forested landscape. Cedric and his band rode out along the front of the camp, keeping constant watch over the horizon. Tarquin’s sellswords marched on the outside, the first line of defense, along with any of the villagers able to carry blade or sharpened stick. These peasants were truly Crawe’s people, for they had not known such hardship in their life, always use to the delicate taste of wine and feel of luxury clothes upon their backs. War had come to them all the same, for it gave no prejudice by wealth or birth, for Crassus Baal did not care for such trivial things.

  They did not stop to take their lunch, nor to wipe the grim and muck from their boots, for fear that they would be set upon in their rest. At midday, Cedric turned his horse round to face the caravan behind him, where he trotted along until he came upon the cart where Aderyn lay. As her wound festered and turned darker, her skin became all the paler, as though it was sucking the life from her. Cedric turned grim as he saw this, for his hope was fading quickly. In the afternoon, they set up camp for only an hour, so the young and old could rest their weary feet, as their boots had been weighed down in heavy mud.

  “What can we do for her?” Cedric said as he brought Gaspar to look at her wounds. Gaspar peered and squinted at the black rot that had taken her neck. The magi took a small scalpel from his sleeve of tools, and snatched a sample of the foul-smelling ooze.

  “It is Basilisk Venom; these symptoms give away its source.” He said as he placed a droplet of the stuff on his tongue, before immediately turning to spit it out. “We need antivenin, and soon, for no medicine I know of can cure a case this severe.” Gaspar pointed to Aderyn, who had appeared to stop breathing, before finally taking in another shallow breath. “It will turn her insides to stone, and she will stop breathing.”

  Cedric grabbed Gaspar by his cloak. “What can we do?”

  “This is Northern Basilisk Venom, a good thing for us. In my studies at Prav I researched Sir Cantelot the Lore Master, he concluded many of these beasts reside in caves along the Belfas Mountains.”

  Cedric turned and prepared a sack of
supplies on his horse, and fastened his blade to his traveling bag. “We go there now; I’m not taking any chances with that venom spreading through her body.”

  Alfnod raised his head from the campfire where he was resting. “You can’t go alone, Gaspar and I will accompany you.” Alfnod raised a nod to the others in their group, for he knew their place was to protect these people and keep Aderyn safe.

  “Not without me you won’t.” Eadwine raised his voice as he sat arms and legs folded. “Who else will regale you with stories for the dreary trip, and who will sing of the firsthand account of Cedric the Basilisk-Slayer?”

  “I’m afraid the story would end up being how we had to pull an elf’s corpse from that creature’s teeth if you came along,” Alfnod said bluntly, but with a small smile. He rubbed Eadwine’s head and silently agreed to the bard’s decision.

  Cedric gave orders to his remaining companions. “Beorn and Leopold…” his face turned grim and pale, “keep her safe.”

  Beorn extended his arm, and the two shook as brothers. “We will.” Leopold sharpened his knives and gave a look of oath keeping.

  Gaspar poked his head up, and interrupted the sweet moment, for he appeared to turn as pale as Aderyn, “are you sure such bloody work is fit for a magi? I could certainly keep Aderyn safe as well.”

  “We’ll need you to make the cure Gaspar, and you’ll know where to find these creatures,” Cedric said in a pleading manner, he did not want to force Gaspar’s hand.

  Gaspar swallowed his fear and took a deep breath. “To the Belfas Mountains then.”

  Cedric then summoned his council of knights, whose tunics were damped and browned by the constant downpour. He placed his hand on Amalric’s shoulder and entrusted him with a sacred task. “Amalric, take half your knights and ride for Castle Zweleran, we cannot hope to win without them.” Next Cedric turned to Miro, who sat on a rock polishing his curved blade. “Miro, take the rest and double back towards Telfrost, from there you must ride to the Ithon. By now Pike will have gathered his army, tell them to march straight for Prav.”