Cinders on the Wind

by Louis Emery

  Off in the distance, something caught her eye. She walked past the trail of shoe detritus and bent down. Two tiny droplets of blood lay close to the stonewall. It seemed irregular to find blood this far from the body. She checked the wall and found nothing. Taking a knife from her hidden cloak pocket, she scraped at the droplets. When she acquired some crimson residue, she put it into a vial she pulled from another pocket. Sealing it with a cork, she replaced the container to her cloak, rose, and walked back toward the center of the alley.

  Her assistant Abera approached. “The Bailiff says the viscount must have been dragged back here, beaten, then taken up to the second story and thrown from the window, which ended his life. Whether he was ganged up on is not yet known. As there are no punctures from bolts or knives, it seems likely it was more than one person. If it was one person, he or she must’ve been incredibly strong to manhandle someone like that.”

  “Our victim was manhandled, alright,” Sho said. “What’s the news from the tenants on the second floor?”

  “None of them heard any struggle coming up the stairs or in the hallway. The crash came in the middle of the night followed by a man’s scream. That’s all they heard. About three in the morning.”

  Sho rubbed her jaw, thinking.

  “What’d you find over there?” Abera indicated down the alleyway beyond the skids.

  “Something revealing.”

  “Revealing good things, right?” Abera sounded hopeful.

  “Yes and no,” Sho said, stepping closer to the gaping window, thinking how the aperture resembled Raskin’s open mouth. One let air in, while the other didn’t.

  “What do you mean?” Abera asked, eyebrows raised.

  “I want to go back to my rooms to confirm with a spell,” Sho said, quietly, looking around at the watchmen, who were pretending not to listen. “But we’re not dealing with an ordinary killer. Viscount Raskin wasn’t tossed out that window. He was dragged into the alleyway, slammed against the right wall, then slammed against the second story window from the outside. He fell hard but was still breathing… until a spell of blood magic strangled him to death as he lay helpless. The person we have been seeking all along is a sorcerer.”

  10

  The weeks following the tournament went along as normal until King Greenvale received word from his northern outposts that the Ballardians, done with their skirmishing in Sarcragg, drew their attention to Alorens. This was a lesser Backland border kingdom they’d battled over for decades. Again, Ballardians were fed up with the higher tariffs the Backland lords imposed on their merchants, and with their armies fresh on the march, they began taking over towns and villages one at a time.

  Generals were summoned along with Malcolm and his other captains into the king’s council room.

  “We strike quick and hard,” the king said at the head of the table. “According to word from the outposts, the Ballardians have annexed Sarcragg’s army, having subdued their lord and worked out an alliance. This means they are much stronger. Our spies already relayed their military might has grown, and with this Cragg wing added, they are a prominent threat, more so than the rebellion in Prestonpan Isles.”

  “Your grace,” General Beric spoke, sitting next to Malcolm. “It would be wise to attack the eastern Alorens perimeter. The Ballardian numbers are smaller there, and I don’t think the Craggs there would fight as ardently as they think.”

  “Yes, General,” the king replied, “take Ser Malcolm, Ser Jantlan, and your other captains to the east.”

  General Beric nodded.

  “I want Generals Ryers and Huntson to head to West Alorens and push back the Ballardians there—an attack on two fronts,” the king said. “Sers … if we retreat, who’s to say our enemy doesn’t encroach further past Alorens? Our lesser kingdoms and Em Regis are depending on you. The Backlands depend on you. Honor above all.”

  “Honor above all,” Malcolm said in unison with the others.

  Soldiers wearing mail and plate tread lightly through the wood, the soft crunch of the earth commingling with chirps of birds and a nearby brook. The green of their tunics beneath armor matched tones of the trees and grass. In the middle of their chests was the sigil of the Gray Keep of the Backlands. Everything they fought for was in defense of their homeland. This was the reason they were out there this morning.

  Kingsguard and captain to King Greenvale, Ser Malcolm Longstride, led his men closer to the village, the sound of rustling water increasing. He let out a breath realizing he and his men would have to cross the brook. Fortunately, it wasn’t too deep, and passage wouldn’t be too difficult.

  “Not as treacherous as the Grimberg Fjord,” Artemis, his friend and sergeant, acknowledged in a whisper. “I’d much rather be fighting here, instead of in the snow and cold in the Outer Northlands.”

  “Can’t argue with you there,” Malcolm said. “Though these Ballardians are a might better trained than Orwinian raiders.”

  The two companions crossed the water first, soldiers closely behind. The woods appeared before them just above a rise. Beyond the trees, Malcolm could make out the thatched roofs and chimney smoke of the village. Backlanders cooking their breakfasts, fortifying for a hard day’s work. Hard day indeed, he thought.

  The armed men kept a hundred paces from the end of the tree line. Malcolm and the other captains signaled them to hold their advance. A rooster crowed, echoing amongst the surrounding trees. The attack would commence soon. Not from them, but their enemy. The Ballardians were set to raid this village early with the dawn. At least that’s what he’d heard from a captain whose troops caught a deserter.

  The Ballardians were to attack from the northern plains that lay before the village and Malcolm and his troops. Led by Lord Varick and Lady Leora, this portion of the Ballardian Army had been conducting raids against King Greenvale’s periphery holdings in Alorens. Years prior, King Kieran Reed of the Ballardians had a falling out over trade and allegiances with the Backlander king. A few battles were fought, and some territory was gained, and that was all. Until a few months ago. When the Ballardians amassed their forces—along with Sarcragg, troops they annexed by treaty—and began their warpath to retake territory lost to them and to acquire new lands.

  It was said King Kieran came across some wizards who had blessed his daughter Leora and nephew Varick with special fighting abilities. To Leora, it was said the wizards had given her a necklace and sword, and when she wore the jewel, the sword would vanquish any foe who drew against her. To Varick, it was said he was gifted a potion giving him cunning strategy in battle planning as well as heightened hand-to-hand fighting abilities. There was no doubt, with Lord Varick and Lady Leora, King Kieran had a family that could give his kingdom victory.

  King Greenvale had no alternative but to assemble his forces to defend the Backlands, and he sent Ser Malcolm, his favorite knight and captain, to aid in the counterattack led by General Beric.

  “Such a quiet morning,” Malcolm’s breath showed in the chill air. “It’s a shame we’re to ruin it.”

  “Well, they started it,” Artemis replied. His black hand rested on the pommel of his sword, next to one of two knives he kept at his belt.

  The water rustled softly behind them, adding a calming effect to their surroundings. All was too quiet until Malcolm made out the trampling of hundreds of boots on the ground. Another tree line spread out on the opposite side of the village, viewable from Malcolm’s vantage point. It was around this bend in the woods where Ballardian forces emerged with their surprise attack. Shouts of charging men-at-arms echoed across the field in front of the first thatched houses. Atop their horses, the knights leading the infantry wore the sabretooth lion head sigil of House Reed upon their chests.

  “Steady,” Malcolm and the other captains directed their men. They wanted to wait until their opponents reached the first structures. The soldiers who hadn’t unsheathed their swords began to do so quietly, the smooth sound of steel exiting scabbard a purr to Malcolm’s e
ars. The enemy drew closer.

  “Hold,” he said in a low voice, drawing his longsword, sharpened only this morning. Malcolm nodded to Artemis and the others. “On me, lads.”

  Malcolm and the Backlanders crept over to the edge of the trees. Malcolm thought he saw the mounted Lady Leora reach the first dwelling, her drawn sword aglow. “Now!” he yelled and surged forward, the cries of his fellow bannermen blowing the hair beneath his helm.

  His first opponent was half his size. Malcolm cut him in two just before dodging a side blow. Using his considerable height advantage, Malcolm chopped down on his new foe who fell with head cleaved. Using his long arms, the man with the long stride scraped metal and flesh as the battle continued. Artemis kept close to his friend, his sword crimson.

  Steel meeting steel rang all around. Grunts of the embattled and screams of the struck filled the air. Shields clashed with mace, axe, and saber. Thuds reverberated in every direction, each man advancing—trying to find a chink in mail and armor.

  With no foe before him, Malcolm took a look around to gauge the attack. General Beric on his right flank had sent reinforcements his way, the man having a better view of the situation to the east. The Ballardians seemed to be driving them back to the woods. They’d gained little ground and were almost at the tree line from which they came. Ahead he could see Lady Leora making quick work of whoever obstructed her path. There was a chain around her neck, but Malcolm could not make out any jewel. And that sword. He’d never seen steel move so swiftly, never in a man’s hands at least.

  Their forces faltering, Malcolm, Artemis, and the other officers pushed forward to rally the men. Malcolm heaved his shield knocking his foe down trying to get to Lady Leora, the thorn in the side of his king.

  Distracted, he didn’t notice the tall knight ride up to him. He barely had time to block the attack. Taller than most of his compatriots, the knight still did not make it to Malcolm’s height. He struck down, and Malcolm had to use his shield and agility to avoid being cut. One of his fellow soldiers smacked the man’s horse and it reared, causing the knight to fall from his saddle. The knight and Malcolm were now on even ground. His strikes were strong and sword skills tempered, but Malcolm found his chance and thrust his blade through his enemy’s heart.

  Just as Malcolm withdrew his blade, he was forced to raise his shield. A devastating blow shook his entire shield arm, and he fell back down the small slope next to the brook they’d crossed. The battle was now raging in the forest. Malcolm looked up the slope to see his attacker.

  Lady Leora stood dismounted. She’d been knocked from her horse. In her hand was the sword with the subtle glow at its edges. Her long hair swept underneath her helm down onto her back. She glowered down at Malcolm while her knights hammered away at the remainder of Malcolm’s forces.

  He got to his feet. Artemis and a few other captains were still rallying the men to continue the melee. Malcolm met the woman’s eyes. She charged at him swinging hard. Malcolm used his shield, but this time the stroke wobbled his entire body. Leora hacked again and again, wearing him out.

  With sheer force of will and size, Malcolm shoved his shield into Leora. She fell back, dumbfounded. She regained her footing, sliced a figure eight with her sword, and continued her attack.

  Malcolm swung his sword and parried each new strike. He’d been in many swordfights with many champions but never felt such power behind a stroke. She was adept in swordplay yet somehow it seemed the sword was doing most of the work.

  She’d almost cut him three times, but each time he evaded her swing. Her attacks were strong, forcing Malcolm to bump into his compatriots battling the enemy beside him. She was wearing him down, and Malcolm had the rarest feeling. He felt tired.

  Mustering his remaining strength and fighting skills he learned when he was of knee height, he predicted and parried Leora’s trained thrusts. He went on the offensive, throwing Leora off balance, her eyes widening, confusion marring her dour expression.

  Though Malcolm was gaining advantage, his forces were not, with the arrival of more Ballardian troops under Lord Varick’s banners to his left. Malcolm saw fresh knights step forth from the enemy lines. Still, he fought, never wavering.

  Malcolm launched a strike he knew was a mistake. He exposed his side and braced for the sword slash. Instead of hitting flesh, it hit metal, for Leora was thrown off balance with a leg wound. One of Varick’s knights had scraped her calf with his blade, while another used a mace partially smashing against her helm. Leora dropped her blade. The Ballardian knight with the sword rose his weapon for the deathblow, but it never came. A knife had pierced the eye slit of his helm, and he fell over dead. Malcolm skewered the mace-carrying knight with his own sword. Looking over, he saw Artemis coming to his aid, one of the knives missing from his belt.

  Leora cried out in pain. He had to think fast. His forces were retreating as well as the other captains. He knelt down and pulled the silver chain from Leora’s neck. “No!” she wailed, dazed from the blow to the head. Hiding under her armor and attached to the necklace, was a vial wrapped in dragonscale and in it looked to be blood. Leora reached for her sword, and Malcolm grabbed her hand. Stuffing his pocket with the necklace, he motioned to Artemis. “Grab the sword. We’ll take her captive.”

  Malcolm sheathed his sword and scooped her in his arms. More knights approached from the edge of the tree line. He looked at Artemis. “Let’s get out of here.”

  11

  Early morning sea fog spread before them like an enemy expecting their attack. Waves crashed against the rowboats, each carrying some thirty soldiers, disciplined to withstand monsoon winds, fist-sized hail, sideways torrential showers, and remain undaunted to face their foe. They were one of the Backlands’ most elite fighting forces—God’s Burden. Fortunately, none of those conditions were present. The weather so far maintained its qualities of the past week when they navigated the Prestonpan Isles: hot, humid, breezy, with occasional rains.

  The troops grew eager to go ashore and have their feet on solid ground again. Not to mention, fresh meat awaited in the form of wild boar, island deer, and the native peachickens, twice the size of peacocks back home—and twice as better tasting.

  As soon as they landed safely and cleared the area of rebels, his soldiers could forage for food, he thought. Gavin Fayne surveyed the rugged, slim picking of a landing strip ahead, barely discernable beneath the rising silvery specter of mist that clung to the shores. His rowboat bobbed as more bad-tempered waves jostled the sides. The Prestonpan Isles were some of the most rugged islands known to the continent of Retha, and the one that stood before him, Kontera, boasted black volcanic shoreline of three-hundred miles, dangerous for any galleons or smaller ships to anchor too close. Jagged rock and forceful currents tended to lay too many to rest at the ocean floor.

  But Gav knew these shores well. He knew this island well—better than any commander in King Greenvale’s armies. And that’s why he was put in this position, specifically recruited to lead the Burden to quell the residual rebellion and arrest its leaders before its influence could spread to the Backlands’ other holdings.

  “That’s some god-awful terrain, sir.” Sergeant League had sidled up beside him, and the two men peered out at the least abysmal portion of beach, if it could be called that. League, smelling of pipe smoke, spat into the water and turned around, a fishhook scar running down the left side of his lower lip, under his chin to his neck. A good sergeant and friend, the man struggled to look un-menacing. It dawned on Gav, since most of them were enlistees, he needed to get some better-looking friends.

  “It gets more manageable two days’ trip inland,” Gav replied. “There’s boar for hunting, sugar and fruit fields, some of the finest citrus you’ll ever have.”

  “Now you got my mouth watering.” The sergeant smirked grotesquely, parts of his teeth matching the jutting rock looming before them. “It’s too hot and sticky for this early in the morning. My clothes are already clinging to me skin.
And the armor isn’t helping.”

  “Get used to it, Sergeant.” Gav removed his half-helm and wiped his forehead with the side of his green tunic, the color standing out in stark contrast to the gleam of his plate and mail. Yet the green befitted the scheme of landscape before them; they blended in with the shades of canopy jungle—the trees, the brush, the leaves, the grass. That is why they were chosen. The Backlands’ Royal Army prided itself, like other kingdoms, on pomp and ostentatious display. Presentation of lavish uniforms went hand in hand with the show of honor on battlefields, or in tucked away corners on dueling grounds.

  Gav turned back and gazed at the massive galleons anchored behind the small fleet of rowboats. The flags of the Backlands danced in offshore winds. He could make out one with the Grey Keep sigil and another with the red fist with raised index finger, the sword to the left and the rose to the right. The second banner flapped as if the kingdom he served were shaking its finger at him.

  Looking out over hundreds of soldiers behind him, he wondered how many would fall under his command, how many would not make it back to their wives and lovers, children and mothers, and fathers and siblings and friends. This is what was hard: the training. Not the military training, but the Cylarnti combat training he received as a child on this very island. From his master he learned not just the ways of combat, but ways to think, of not just fighting and winning, but of life and learning, of love and loss, something all too familiar to him.

  “Getting contemplative in your old age, sir.” League’s slap on the shoulder brought Gav’s gaze back to the front.

  “I’m younger than you, and you’re not that old,” Gav said.