Chasing Down Glory: The Outrider Legion: Book Two

by Christopher Pepper

  “Then you know that all of my patients died,” she said, sadness entering her voice. “Slowly. And painfully.” Her gaze became sharp. “Is that the type of person you want in your 'organization'? Sloppy, disobedient, and a failure?”

  “From what I was told, they would have died regardless,” Kinnese replied, that knowing sympathy again creeping into his own voice. “You did nothing wrong by trying. The wrongdoing was on the part of the Magus and her policies. Maybe your cure would have worked with the proper materials, maybe it would have failed. But you have them a chance, a glimmer of hope, no matter how small. If the Weavers had their way, those people would have died without that hope. Your dismissal and subsequent exile here only reinforces the goals of me and my associates.”

  Suspicion was written on Naria's face.

  “What goals?”

  Kinnese smiled, and let the smile add weight to his voice.

  “Honestly? We are trying to create a sort of humanitarian organization. One made up of those who know the risks and the dangers that people face across the continent, and who are willing to do what it takes to safeguard and protect them. Even when their kings, their lords, and their gods do not. We follow no flag or banner, and allow no borders to stop us from acting when we are needed.”

  The witch was silent for a long while, her head cocked to the side as she thought. Her gaze slowly swept around her library. There was no sound except for the occasional pop and crackle from the fireplace. Eventually she leveled her blue eyes at Kinnese. The intensity of her eyes almost rocked him backwards.

  “I don't even know who you are,” Naria said, the suspicion in her voice fading a bit.

  “Well we don't exactly have a catchy title yet,” Kinnese said. “Or an inspiring-”

  “No, not your group. I mean you. You.”

  “Oh,” Kinnese said, taken aback. He had been so focused on how he would recruit the witch that he never thought she'd care about the messenger. “Jurgund Kinnese, at your service,” he said at last, slightly bowing in his seat.

  “The traitor?” Naria asked, “Sorry, but I don't believe that story. No one escapes the Judicators once they have you. 'Kinnese' was just one more monster dreamed up by the Praetorian Militant as a cautionary tale to idiot soldiers.”

  Without saying a word, Kinnese rolled up his sleeves to his elbows and displayed his forearms to her. Both of his wrists were charred almost black, with a thick, jagged ring of scar tissue around the wrists.

  “When I was first captured, a Weaver bound me with shackles that kept me unconscious with nothing but nightmares to pass my time. Those were, sadly, far more enjoyable than the ones the Judicators put on me. Those stopped me from even collecting my thoughts. Just the attempt to focus myself burned my mind. These,” he gestured with his wrists, “were a parting gift when I burst free from their control.”

  Naria's eyebrows lifted ever so slightly, the intensity in her eyes never leaving. Her hands took one of his. “May I?”

  “Of course.”

  Naria stood up and leaned over the table. Kinnese did his best not to look down her robe as she leaned, it suddenly offering a good view of her pale cleavage. Instead he looked away, her lavender perfume working its way around him in a light embrace. She pulled his right wrist closer to her and stared at it intently, turning it a few times, muttering quietly to herself. At times, Kinnese felt his wrist grow cool, then hot, and at the end as if a thousand needles prodded, but without pain. Eventually released his right wrist and took hold of his left, with similar results. Finally she let go of him and at back down. Her eyes lost none of their intensity.

  “It's true then,” she breathed. “I can still feel the after effects of what they did to you. The Manacles are beastly, cruel things. The physical aspect of the Manacles is to incapacitate you, yes. But they have a secondary effect, which is to keep one from channeling the Art. That secondary effect can last for a day or two even after the manacles are removed and your thoughts restored.” She eyed him. “It would also appear that you have some Power, although the magic in you is...very strange.”

  Kinnese grimaced at her words. He didn't think she would be able to divine that just through his scars. But the grimace came at the memory of the pain lancing through his wrists, the stink of burning meat he knew was his own, and the fear that rushed through him in his cell knowing his power would kill him if he used it.

  “It's true,” he said, rubbing his wrists. “I wasn't born with magic. I have been, ah, enhanced by my associates. Just a few tricks, that's all. Not even the merest fraction of what you bring to the table, Naria. Which is why we need you. We have fighters, and merchants, and even a few small-time mages. But what we need is a healer. And you're the most celebrated one out there.”

  “Why did the Judicators lock you up?” she asked, ignoring him. “Why didn't they just send you to a more mundane prison?”

  He grinned, despite himself. “I guess the Praetorian Militant did not like the manner in which I tendered my resignation.”

  Naria chuckled dryly. “Yes, I’ve heard that a blade to your boss's throat will do that.”

  “Look,” Kinnese said, his smile disappearing. “We are where we are because of our choices. I can't get you reinstated within the Weavers any more than I could go back to the Outriders. Those doors are closed to us now. But that isn't the life I want anymore, nor do I think it's the one you want either. Come with me. You don't even have to think of yourself as working for us. We'd almost be your patron, really. In between assignments you can do whatever you like with the resources we provide. And we won't question your means or methods, so long as you're doing what you know is right.”

  “Alright Jurgund, you've got me interested at least. Let's see what you have to offer me.”

  Kinnese smiled as he rose to take her hand, as a lord would take a lady's.

  “Excellent. And please, just call me Kinnese. I hate the name Jurgund.”

  “Of course,” she said. “Will you be showing me to these facilities right away, or will I meet you there for the tour?”

  “Actually I did have a job for you now, if you'd like. I have an appointment with another possible candidate, and I would like to have your input as a consultant. From there we can travel to Nilbin, where our headquarters are. It is a few days ride, altogether. I can then have my associates arrange transport of your belongings if you do indeed join us.”

  “Hmmm,” she replied. “I'll have to take a look at my schedule.” Naria picked up a wine bottle and peered into it. “You're in luck,” she said at last. “Today happens to be wide open. Do me a courtesy and wait out in the hall while I change. I can't very well be a productive member of society in my smallclothes, now can I? And I will pack what I can.”

  Kinnese bowed slightly. “I'll be right outside.” Looking up, he noticed again the two angry looking girls to either side of Naria. He had almost forgotten about them. That was strange. Turning towards the door he saw the other two that he had heard behind him when he first arrived. He cursed himself for letting four armed bodyguards slip his mind as he spoke. At least, he conceded, it may have been Naria's doing all along. A former Weaver who left on poor terms with her employers may do a few things to ensure her safety. Forgettable bodyguards may just be one of them.

  Closing the door to the library behind him, Kinnese smiled at the young girl who had brought him upstairs. He also held his hand out expectantly. The girl gulped slightly and handed back his sword, which he re-fastened to his belt. Waiting only a few moments, he turned when the library door opened. The four surly looking girls walked past him and headed downstairs without so much as a nod in his direction. Each one, Kinnese noticed, had a large backpack on, as if for traveling. Naria was closing the door behind her, now changed into dark leather riding breeches with high boots and a black tunic with a shawl and hood. She finished with the door, picked up a small bag next to her, and turned to Kinnese. Her makeup had been changed slightly, and her black hair was in one long braid,
hidden in her hood. She held up the bag.

  “There,” she said, “all finished packing. And I hope you don't mind, but my ladies will be accompanying us.”

  “Just those four I hope,” Kinnese said. “I didn't expect to hire a whole house of...'specialists' when I recruited you.”

  “Don't be silly, of course just those four. I don't run this establishment. I merely rent the one room. As you no doubt expected, I wished to stay out of the way. Well, shall we be off?”

  Kinnese nodded and extended his hand for her to take the lead. He walked a step before stopping. Something tickled the back of his head.

  “Wait, what did you mean by 'finished packing'?”

  Naria turned to look, a smile on her face.

  “Just what I said. I finished packing.” And with that she continued down the stairs. Kinnese turned towards the library door and opened it. Peering inside, he saw nothing but a small room, no more than a closet really. A dingy wardrobe with one door half open was the only thing in there. He saw no sign of the small library he was sitting in moments before. Shaking his head half in disbelief and half in awe, Kinnese closed the door and hurried after Naria. He definitely had found the right woman.

  “Let's hope it all goes this easily,” he muttered to himself.

  He knew he wouldn't be that lucky.

  Chapter Five

  For about the tenth time in as many minutes, Johan wondered how he had gotten himself so deeply into trouble.

  The pain in his left shoulder was excruciating, and he was surprised it hadn't yet popped out of its socket. He struggled to regain some sort of leverage, but he was locked in place, and his foe was unmoving. His struggles were rewarded with more pain, and he hurled curses at his foe through grit teeth. His left arm was bent behind him most painfully, with his right wrapped around his enemy's grip on his neck. A large weight, probably a knee, was pinning him to the ground between his shoulder blades. It had happened so fast, he couldn't even recall how he had ended up on the ground.

  Suddenly, he was released, and the pain in his shoulder and back disappeared. He slowly and warily got to his feet, facing his opponent. The large man laughed at him. A good-natured laugh. Not at all the kind of laugh one would expect such a deadly person to possess. He glared at the big man while rolling his left arm around his shoulder. Nothing appeared to be permanently damaged.

  “Not bad, sir,” Vegard said, the grin never leaving his face. “You certainly take pain a whole lot better than the others. You should have heard Ryker weep!” He chuckled again. The two of them were wearing only pants, doing their best to throw the other down. Well, Johan was doing his best. Sadly, he was pretty sure Vegard was going easy on him.

  “'Not bad',” Johan repeated to himself. A very diplomatic compliment. Vegard had pummeled him, stretched him, and contorted him in a myriad of painful ways, none of which he was able to defend against. Johan would have been slightly embarrassed by getting so trounced by one of his men if the same hadn't been done to all of them in turn.

  The two of them were in a small fenced off area in the yard of their barracks. “Barracks” was perhaps too strong a word to use, but the nomenclature of proper Legion life stuck to them all. The “barracks” was little more than a wooden two-story farmhouse. Originally built for a lone farmer and his wife, it was a tight fit for the six men. Aside from the kitchen/common room area only Johan and Ryker had rooms to themselves, and they were small rooms at that. The others doubled up, with Toma rooming with Garm, and Aleksander with Vegard. It did have everything they could need though, so there were few complaints. There was a deep well with good, fresh water. Two anvils and assorted metal working implements next to a run-in for their horses. The house itself had a good-sized cooking fire and a hearthstone, so Aleksander's cooking skills wouldn't go to waste. But most importantly, the timbers of the house were strong and the roof didn't leak. As Johan told the men, a solid roof was more than what most Legionaries could look forward to at the end of the day. None of them had disagreed.

  Sitting on the fence watching the two men was Garm, cradling a small wooden bowl in one hand, and holding a spoon in the other. The scent of still-warm porridge wafted past Johan's nose and his stomach rumbled. The bald man had been focused more on his food than on being a spectator though. Seeing Garm do something as simple as eating was always somewhat strange to Johan, knowing that the bald, scarred man was a killing machine. He even ate his porridge violently, if such a thing were possible.

  “Care to step in, Garm?” he asked. Only slightly jokingly, of course.

  Garm didn't look up from his bowl, but his eyebrows raised slightly and he grinned his ugly grin, shaking his head. “No sir,” he said between bites. “I've already learned my lesson with him. The man may be rubbish with a blade and a spear, but with just bare hands...” he shook his head again and continued eating.

  Doing his best to hide his disappointment, Johan turned back to Vegard and braced himself for another lesson in pain management. Vegard rolled his own shoulders a few times and smiled.

  “This time, I'll tell you what I'm going to do before I do it. It's how I'm teaching Toma.”

  “Wonderful,” muttered the Commander.

  But before the two could lock up again, Ryker's voice cut through the air.

  “Chief! Mail call!”

  The two men turned to look at the second in command walking towards them, already in his mail and steel pauldrons. The polished metal glinted in the morning sun. If there was one thing Ryker excelled at, it was looking good in his armor. Johan saw a small sealed letter in his friend's hand. Something from a messenger bird, then. Johan was intrigued and walked to meet him, taking the letter with a nod of thanks. Ryker looked at Johan, then at Vegard and back to Johan, suppressing a chuckle. Judging by how dirty and battered Johan looked when compared to Vegard, it shouldn’t be difficult to determine how the training had gone.

  “Morning punishment, is it? I hope you're at least learning something from making us all endure this, Joh. A few more weeks and Vegard will be appointed Commander of a unit of cripples by virtue of being the last man standing.”

  “I'll take that compliment and be on my way then,” Vegard said, wiping his brow with a towel. “Come on, Garm. Let's go take a look see if Roy's men have left any breakfast for us.” With a grunt, Garm hopped off the fence, spooning the remaining bits of porridge from his bowl as he did so, and followed the larger man back to the barracks.

  Johan unsealed the wax binding on the first letter and began to read it. Ryker watched as his friend's face brightened almost immediately as he read, a small smile forming on his face.

  “Your dear friend and spy, I take it?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

  As quickly as it had appeared, the smile vanished, and Johan was back to business, even though Ryker noticed the twinkle in his eyes. He continued, mock formality entering his voice. “Does our esteemed colleague abroad bring detailed intelligence on the world around us? Perhaps she has found another life and death struggle for us to become entangled in? Or, perhaps she is swooning for a noble Outrider Commander to charge forward, unsheathing his swo-ahhh, who am I kidding? That imagery is lost on you, Joh.” He winked at his friend, whose cheeks were reddening even as his eyes promised pain.

  “Stuff it, Rye,” he said. “It's just a friendly letter. Except for the part where she calls you an ass.”

  “What? She does no such thing!”

  Johan handed the letter to Ryker.

  “See for yourself.”

  Ryker was silent for a moment as he read. His brow furrowed in concentration. Eventually he looked up.

  “I can't understand this gibberish at all. What nonsense is this?”

  Johan laughed. “What, did you think a Commander and an Umbra would write in plain language for anyone to read? It's written in a cypher. Nert and I made one up for each other a few months ago. One of the perks of knowing a spy is learning all sorts of ways to communicate. Much simpler and inc
onspicuous than having to use a messenger pouch. It keeps things safe. You know, ah, for the Legion.”

  “Really. 'For the Legion.' That's why you do it.” The incredulity in Ryker's voice was hard to miss.

  Johan was silent for a moment, his grin growing larger.

  “Okay, I get kind of a kick out of it,” he said. “Adds a little excitement to an otherwise mundane day spent talking to you.”

  Ryker raised a hand over his heart, a pained expression on his face.

  “Such barbs! From my best friend! Truly this woman pours poison in your ear. I think I liked you better before you discovered women and sarcasm. Things were better when I was the insufferable one.”

  The two men laughed as Johan gathered his clothes and they walked into the barracks. Johan would reread the letter soon enough. He usually read one of Nerthus's letters a few dozen times. But for the moment, he too wanted to know what Alek had brewing in the cellar.

  In the kitchen of the barracks, Aleksander moved like a tornado of knives, ladles, and plates as he kept a steady supply of meats, vegetables, and breads flowing onto the table for Commander Royalt's men. This unit of Outriders ate even more ferociously than his own, Alek soon realized, and it filled him with no small joy to see them eating his food and drinking the booze that he and Vegard had distilled.

  He had learned the sacred arts of cooking and brewing at a young age from a man who had helped raise him. Grigs, his real name was Greogory, had run a very small winery, mostly to cater to the other local retired Legionaries who had also settled in the area after their discharge. Alek had thought of old Grigs and his farmhouse often since he and the Outriders had moved into their new barracks.