Garm nodded once when he saw Ryker, but said nothing. Ryker had the keen feeling that Garm didn't like him very much. He didn't take it too personally, however. For starters, he found the man extremely creepy to be around, and wasn't planning on trying to befriend him like he did with the others. But if he was being honest with himself, Ryker didn't take Garm's dislike too personally since Garm seemed to dislike everyone and everything.
“Let's get moving,” Ryker said as he mounted his horse. “Faster we get there, the faster we get back.”
Garm's only response was another single nod, betraying nothing. Ryker sighed inwardly. He'd get nothing fun accomplished with that man following him.
The trip to Coula took less than an hour at a gentle trot, and the two men spent it in a comfortable silence. The road was wide enough for them to ride side by side, flanked on either side by forest. The sky was a deep, clear blue, and the air was filled with birdsong and the angry chatter of squirrels. In such pleasant weather Ryker found it easy to keep his mind off of his dreams for once, and he found himself in a rare moment of inner peace. He focused on what he had to do in town, now that his plans to carouse were dashed, but realized he wasn't that upset about it. He had actual important tasks to take care of. There were arrows and bolts to pick up from the fletcher, Alek's shopping list, and an order Vegard had placed with the blacksmith too.
Coula had a modest trade in stone and ores thanks to nearby quarries. Local industry was small but growing, and the local magistrate seemed fair enough, and they had a town watch reputable for its dependability. Yet even so, the Outrider Legion had long had a barracks in the area for reinforcement. What had surprised Ryker was just how badly Coula had needed them. While the Outriders didn't concern themselves with what went on inside the town’s walls, they were responsible for patrolling the outlying areas. In the six months since they had been posted there, the Outriders had brought down a number of bandit groups, recaptured a handful of fugitives, killed a manticores, drove off a small sifar raiding band, and even stopped a cast of nighthawks from settling in the area. The lands of the Dominion were truly alive and active, especially in its farthest provinces.
As they rode into town, Ryker gave Garm a look. “Alright, we've got two stops to make here. Let's go get our gear. If we're quick, we can at least have a pint before we go. On me. I'd rather take a spear in the back on one of Toma's patrols with something strong in my stomach than without.”
Garm made an appreciative “hrmph” sound which Ryker took for agreement. This sudden overflow of emotion from the killing machine (for Garm at least) almost took Ryker by surprise. If that was the biggest event of the day, Ryker thought, he'd be a happy man.
Ryker and Garm, each with a tankard in hand, sat down in the warm morning sun outside The Rickets, the largest tavern in Coula. It wasn't yet noontime but the tavern keeper didn't treat it out of the ordinary when Ryker ordered them two pints of Hale and asked to sit outside. Garm sat on one of the tavern's chairs and stretched his long legs out, his eyes closed. The only movements he made were to take very slow sips of his beer, savoring it. Ryker, for some reason, was feeling a little tense, but the Hale was helping. The weather and the pleasant town around him helped as well. Occasionally, someone would walk past who recognized them as Outriders, and he would raise his mug in greeting. The townsfolk may not have known their names, they at least knew they were there to help.
Reaching down beside him, Ryker pulled out one of Toma's specially ordered arrows from the heavy leather bags on the ground between him and Garm. The youngest Outrider had ordered a lot arrows, most of them standard fare. However, when Ryker had picked them up from the fletcher, the fletcher himself made a big deal about the four custom arrows.
“Never tried anything like this before sir,” the small-framed man had said as they exchanged goods and coin. “It was an impressive idea, almost like making flint arrows. Did it to the best of my ability I did. Don't know what the young lad intends to do with them, though. They won't punch through armor. More'n likely they'll just shatter on impact. But they'll fly true. My honor on it, sir.”
Holding one up to the sun as he sat in front of the tavern, Ryker had to echo the fletcher's thoughts about the arrow's purpose. While the shaft and feathers looked normal, the arrowhead itself was something strange. At first glance it looked like it was made out of flint. It was thin, gray stone, almost brittle to the touch. But a closer glance showed that there was actually three layers to the arrowhead. A tiny strip of a dark red color ran through the center of the arrowhead, with the flint-like stone on either side. Ryker was a fair shot with a bow and had handled countless arrows over the years, but he had never seen anything like this.
“Hey Garm,” he said casually, “have you see these arrows Toma had ordered? Looks like our baby boy is dabbling in custom weaponry now.” He held out the arrow to Garm as he spoke.
The scarred man opened one eye languidly and looked at the arrow. Sitting up, he set his tankard on the ground and took the arrow from Ryker, appraising it slowly in his hands. He held it up to the sun, similar to how Ryker had done, and he grunted.
“Never seen this before,” he murmured. “You say the kid made this?”
Ryker nodded. “Yeah. Well, sort of. He designed it, I gathered. Probably made the arrowheads himself, then had the fletcher attach them or whatever with the rest of his million arrows we just picked up.”
“Hmm,” Garm said, his voice like the thrumming of a ballista string. A large gloved finger tapped the arrowhead. “I wonder what that red stuff is in there?”
“No idea,” Ryker said, leaning over now to look at it with Garm. “I couldn't tell if it was some kind metal or stone.”
“I wonder...” Garm said thoughtfully, “I wonder if it's meant to break on impact? There's no way this flimsy stone would punch through someone's...” Garm trailed off suddenly, his body stiffening, the arrow still held up in his hands. Again, Ryker was reminded of a ballista, and this time, it was Garm himself drawn taut. The scarred man's eyes narrowed, locked onto someone in the passing trickle of townsfolk with an intensity that made Ryker nervous. Slowly and deliberately Garm set the arrow down on the ground, and reached over and grabbed Ryker by the shoulder with one hand. He drew Ryker's face almost touching his own, and pointed into the crowd with his other hand.
“Do you see that man there, walking away from us? Blue tunic, blonde hair, slight limp in his step?” Ryker nodded slowly. “Good. Get up and follow him keep at least twenty paces away, but do not lose him. I'll gather up our shit here and I'll follow you.”
“Garm-” Ryker began, but Garm only shook his head.
“There's no time to explain it now. I will as soon as I'm able. Just know that this is important.”
The intensity in both Garm's voice and his eyes did all the convincing for Ryker. He nodded once, finished his Hale in one quick pull, bounced to his feet and followed Garm's target. The man walked past the taverns and inns and soon headed into the market district. At first this worried Ryker, but the man was easy enough to follow. In fact, Ryker found that the man was moving rather slowly, something he attributed to the limp in the man's right foot. But it wasn't just that. When he concentrated on the man, Ryker found that the man actually seemed to stand out of the crowd a little more. The color of the man's hair, his clothes, seemed to somehow become more perceptible. When the man stopped at a fruit stall and bought a small apple, Ryker swore he could almost hear the man speak, even though there was still some distance and a busy marketplace between them.
At one point, Ryker risked a quick look behind him to make sure Garm was following. He scanned the area and picked Garm out. Garm, to Ryker's surprise, had somehow produced a foolish looking green knit cap that he had put over his head. Much less conspicuous than raising his hood in the sun, Ryker had to admit. But when he turned back to his quarry, he couldn't find him. Forcing down a momentary pang of panic (not at actually losing the man, but at the rage Garm would no doubt fal
l into), Ryker focused again, unconsciously conjuring up a mental image of what the man looked like. After a few long seconds of concentration, the man again stood out of the crowd to Ryker's eyes, and the silent pursuit continued again.
After a few minutes of following him in the marketplace, the man turned down a side street and began walking through a quiet residential district. Coula was not a particularly wealthy town, and this residential area was like most of them, composed of small, squat, one-story houses with a narrow dirt path between them, with some of the “houses” little more than glorified wood huts. And while the path was almost empty save for Ryker and the man he was following there were housewives hanging laundry, young children and dogs running amongst the houses, and a generally pleasant bustle that would keep Ryker away from the man's notice. Garm, Ryker noticed, had seemingly vanished completely.
Eventually, the man limped his way to one of the sturdier looking houses and let himself in. Ryker kept on walking, slowly passing by the house. He noted the house number, a crude “12” in a dark green paint on the steps, took a quick visual assessment of how big the house was and how many people could live inside it, and kept on walking. He was almost at a crossroads of sorts as the path ended perpendicular to a larger path going in separate directions when he saw Garm emerge from a side alley. Garm had brought all of the supplies they had picked up in town. Toma's arrows, two large sacks of provisions that Aleksander had asked for, and a number of implements they had all ordered from the town blacksmith. With so many bags and sacks strapped to him, Garm almost looked like a pack horse. If the situation was less strange, Ryker probably would have told him so.
“Did he see you?” Garm asked. “And more importantly, did you see where he went?”
“No and yes,” Ryker said, a bit impatiently. “Now, tell me why the hell I just spent almost an hour tailing this guy? We have to get back to the barracks, remember? The Commander has scheduled another sortie today.”
Garm grimaced slightly at the mention of Johan's orders. The man may be a killing machine, a brute, and a generally unhappy person, but Ryker knew that he held dear to the chain of command the Legion had instilled in him. And that Garm seemed to like Johan quite a bit. Well, perhaps it was safer to say that Garm disliked Johan the least out of all of them.
“Yes sir, I'm aware of that, but this is extremely important. Might change our mission in Coula for a while.”
Ryker narrowed his eyes. “How?” He was genuinely curious. As of the past few months, their unit's “mission” was simply to hold steady and keep the peace in the countryside surrounding Coula as they saw fit. Despite his strong sense of self-preservation, Ryker had found himself growing bored with current posting. Something else, even something dangerous, would be a nice change of pace.
Garm took Ryker by an arm and they walked back to the alley he had come from before. Casting a glance to either side, Garm spoke, his voice low.
“The man we just followed, his name is Kian. He's something like a scout. Or maybe a vanguard. I don't know the exact comparison to use. But he shows up to places ahead of time, checks in with the local authorities, both criminal and legitimate, secures housing and provisions, checks for weaknesses and avenues of attack, that sort of thing.”
“For whom?”
“For the Underking.”
Ryker's jaw dropped slightly, despite his best efforts to keep his composure. The Underking was the criminal mastermind of...almost everywhere. His empire was said to extend from Tethis, to the city-states of Bellkeep, Vonderhall, Sumnell, and beyond. Political tampering, extortion, strong-arm tactics, and outright assassination were some of his more pleasant methods of exercising control of his territory. In his employ were men, sifar, mages, even duskmen and priarps. Because so many other gangs and criminal enterprises owed at least passing fealty (or whatever criminals called it) to him across the continent, it was almost impossible for anyone, even agents of the Praetorian Umbra, to pin down his location. But if this man Kian is what Garm said he was...
“You mean that the Underking is coming here? Here of all places?”
Garm nodded slowly. “Yeah. Don't know why, other than Coula is out of the way. Good place for a meeting. Doesn't even mean they are meeting within the town, but they’ll be close.”
“Gof's Throne,” Ryker muttered, pursing his lips together in thought. He opened his mouth to speak, but he closed it right back up as a thought shot through his mind like one of Toma's arrows. He took a quiet breath. “Garm,” he asked quietly, “how do you know who Kian is and who he works for? That seems like some rather important information for a lowly legionnaire to have.”
The scarred man shrugged his shoulders almost imperceptibly, his face back to its usual unreadable mask. “Wasn't always in the Legion,” he said simply. “Wasn't important to talk about till now. Now that we seem to have ourselves an opportunity.”
Ryker nodded slowly. That would have to do, for now anyways. He knew Garm well enough that he'd get no more out of the brute on the matter. His mind raced. Garm was right about one thing. This was a serious opportunity. Capturing a high ranking member of one of the most powerful criminal syndicates in the world would be quite a prize.
“Okay, here's the plan. I'll wander around the neighborhood, make sure we know where our friend is at all times, and if anyone else joins him. You are going to haul ass back to town and pay for a messenger bird to take a message back to Johan. Write the message yourself, don't dictate it to the bird handler or the clerk, you got that?” Garm nodded slowly. “Good. Give the Commander a brief rundown on what you told me, then tell him to gather the men and get here as soon as possible.”
“Yes sir.” Garm spun on his heel and took off, the rattle and jingle of his bags and packs sounding like a small supply caravan as he ran.
After watching the other man hurry away, Ryker let out a deep breath as he felt the old familiar thrill run through his body. It had been far too long. Finally, he thought with relish, things were going to get interesting.
It is true that Sir Aldir wielded the Sword of Glass. But few possess the most basic understanding of the Sword itself. Did it confer to Aldir his power, or was it merely an extension of his own? Could there have been a Sir Aldir without the Sword of Glass, or was the blade merely a means to an end? I suppose that the same question could be asked of all men, really. Do our tools make us who we are? Or is it how we use them that defines us? You'll have to forgive me, but I do journey into cliché ramblings at times, especially with nothing but wine and a pen at hand.
Johan was sitting in his study, his old Tales of Sir Aldir book in his hands. He had to admit, somewhat embarrassingly, that he read this one book almost as much as priests read their religious texts. It was a collection of stories and deeds of Sir Aldir and Ilarion the Weaver from around the world. Most of the accounts in the book read were written by scribes who had interviewed people who had met, seen, or been saved by Aldir in his travels and adventures. And while there were a few tantalizing quotes from the Ilarion, Aldir's best friend and traveling companion, there was nothing direct from Aldir in the entire text. It was always second hand information.
The young boy in Johan that refused to go away completely was always disappointed by that. He wanted some words of wisdom from his old role model. He had grown up being told tales of Aldir's larger than life exploits around the world. He had been inspired to improve himself by the physical and magical prowess of Aldir. And he had been motivated to become the best man he could be due to the example Aldir had set. Protecting innocents, righting wrongs, and other such storybook stuff. As a boy, Johan ate it up.
Now that he was a man, and a seasoned soldier, Johan found his mind had shifted somewhat. It was no longer the grand adventures he pondered, though he still thought of them often. Rather, he wondered how someone of the fame and stature of Aldir handled the mundane in life. The day to day routines. Did Aldir cook his own meals? Did he shoe his own horse? What about taxes? Did he even pay any, a
nd if he did, to whom? How did he afford to live as a traveling adventurer? For all he knew of Aldir the Hero, Johan knew very little about Aldir the Man. How did Aldir treat his friends and comrades? Did he grow weary of the responsibility? What about him didn't make it into the story books? The more introspective sections of the book, like the one he just read, had become much more attractive to him of late, as opposed to the action sequences that captivated him as a youth.
There was a knock on his open door. Johan sighed, closed his book and looked up. He wondered, now more than ever, how Aldir would handle this particular situation.
“Hi Alek,” he said. “Thanks for seeing me.”
The large man smiled at him as he stood in the doorway, and Johan motioned for him to sit before pouring a cup of plain wine for each of them. Their unit “cook” was quite the mystery. He was capable of things that no man should be. Alek's...abilities had saved the lives of his men on a few occasions, so Johan couldn't really hold anything against him, nor did he want to. But still, his curiosity was about to get the best of him. He saw Alek eying the book in his hands, and he held it out.
“Want to read it? It's got quite a lot in here that I’m you'd like.”
Alek held up a hand, a slight grimace on his face. “Ahhh, no, thanks. I can read well enough to know that it's not for me.”
“Are you sure?” Johan smiled as he set the book down on his small table. “Sir Aldir is a pretty much the patron saint for the Outrider Legion, you know?”
Chasing Down Glory: The Outrider Legion: Book Two Page 11