by D. M. Murray
Surely you’d have taken clothing, or at least your whetstones. You’d never have left without these.
Dropping the whetstones onto the cot, Thaskil regarded the notebook. It was about the size of a block of butter, bound in blood-red leather, and wrapped shut with a braided hide band. He undid the tight knot. As he picked at it, Thaskil noted the craftsmanship in the leather: a blazing sun surrounded by rows of tangled vines and flowers. As he opened the small book, he saw page after page of tightly scrawled writing. Arrlun’s flowing script tattooed every sheet of parchment. Thaskil read a few lines.
‘neath the stillness of my hand,
my love,
rages the tempest of my heart,
my dear,
you send the waves of your spirit,
a crashing o’er the rocky shores of my barren soul,
and breathe life into it,
breathe life into me,
and take me into your poppy fields.’
“Your poppy fields,” Thaskil muttered before he heard someone approach the tent. His heart leapt; what if Arrlun caught him rummaging through his belongings? He shoved the items into the bag and pushed it under the cot. When he looked up, the red leather book remained on the blanket. He crammed it inside his jerkin before turning to his own cot and making himself look busy fixing the tightly made folds of his bedding.
“Ah, Thaskil,” Bergnon said.
The major’s voice caused Thaskil’s heart to drop. In the same moment, he felt an unusual flush of alarm.
“Bergnon,” Thaskil returned the greeting. “I was just making sure our quarters were in order should there be an inspection.” He smiled towards his major.
“Now, now, lad.” Bergnon put his hands on his hips and smiled. “I imagine you’ve not had an inspection since Hardalen, isn’t that right? And besides, you’re an officer now, on merit too. And in case you’d forgotten, we share these quarters. I’m not likely to spring a surprise inspection on myself, now am I?”
“Old habits, suppose,” Thaskil replied, matching his smile. There was a moment’s pause as both stood in silence, smiles burning out as each waited for the other to speak.
Bergnon broke first. “I was thinking after we spoke that it may be best to check Arrlun’s belongings to see if anything was missing. You know, in case he has fled.” He held Thaskil’s eyes, as if prompting the young man to follow his lead.
“Sensible enough, suppose,” Thaskil responded without reservation, glancing to Arrlun’s cot. “His stuff should be under there.” He nodded his chin towards the cot.
Bergnon crouched beside Thaskil, reaching under the cot and pulling out the leather bag. He placed it on the cot and opened the neck wide to reveal its contents.
“Not a very tidy job,” Bergnon tutted as he peered inside the bag. Reaching in, he drew out its contents onto the cot.
“Not like him,” Thaskil added, crossing his arms to obscure the notebook beneath his jerkin.
“No, it’s not,” Bergnon said without looking around. “He left his whetstones. Seems strange he would leave without these.” He turned around holding the stones up before Thaskil.
“He can’t have left,” Thaskil replied. “He’s forever sharpening his blades.” Thaskil coughed out a feeble chuckle. “He keeps me awake at night grinding on those stones.”
“It’s strange, for sure” Bergnon said, refilling the bag with Arrlun’s possessions. He stuffed the bag under the cot and turned to Thaskil. “I’ll ask around, see if he’s been seen anywhere. If not, I’ll make sure they keep an eye out for him.”
Thaskil nodded. “I need you to take some further commands for Major Metvani. They’re orders for the city guard, running out tactics in response to being besieged.”
Bergnon reached inside his jerkin and pulled out a rolled leather envelope before handing it to Thaskil. He stuffed them within his own jerkin, not uttering a word.
Bergnon continued, “I’m placing you in charge of the training of these men.”
Thaskil nodded again.
“Metvani won’t interfere; he’s not got the stomach for this. You’ll need to run the men through the tactics today and tomorrow. Drill them hard.”
“I will, sir,” Thaskil replied.
“No need for the sir, lad. Only in front of others, remember?” Bergnon smiled. “Now, you know the city better than any officer. That’s why I’m sending you. You may find some of the older hands cause you difficulty, so I’m sending Sergeant Birch and Corporal Arroch with you.”
Thaskil feigned a shudder, causing Bergnon to laugh.
“Aye, they certainly aren’t going to stand for any trouble. Right then,” Bergnon said as he patted his stomach with both hands and sighed. “I’m overseeing the finalisation of the fortifications this morning and receiving the men called to arms this afternoon. If they don’t arrive sooner, that is. I’ll not be able to come to Apula until tomorrow midday at the earliest. I’ll catch up with you then.”
“I’ll have the men in order by then.” Thaskil saluted as Bergnon moved to leave.
“For Dajda’s sake, always so formal, you lads,” he tutted and left the tent.
Thaskil exhaled a breath he didn’t realise he was holding before being caught by surprise as Bergnon’s head popped back into the tent, causing Thaskil to jump.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you,” he said.
“No, not at all, sir.”
“I just wanted to tell you not to worry about Arrlun. I’m sure he’ll be around.”
“Yes, of course, sir.” Thaskil lied.
Bergnon left the tent, leaving Thaskil alone.
He puffed out his cheeks, exhaling deeply. Turning his thoughts to his duty, Thaskil gathered his belongings and headed out towards his horse. He mounted and rode off towards Apula, still uncertain as to where his friend was.
*
Bergnon slid like a shadow along the outer wall of Apula, his long dark coat rendering him invisible to the searching eyes of city guards on the battlements above. He paused, pushing his body tight to the wall until the guardsmen moved along, finding the idle chatter of a companion. He broke from the wall, his feet falling silent as his movement entwined with the night’s shifting darkness.
Upon reaching the southern face of the city walls, Bergnon crouched between clusters of exposed bedrock out of which the expansive walls rose, embedding himself within the blackness they cast. If all was going to plan, his man should be waiting for him upon the battlements.
Bergnon’s heart thundered in his chest. The blood flushing around his ears seemed so loud it could betray his presence to the night. The pressure also brought a great throbbing pain to his ravaged ear, though it was not the wound itself that pained him most. His mind cast back to Arrlun’s face when his betrayal was exposed. Those eyes.
I’m sorry, poor lad. I’m sorry. Sorrow gripped Bergnon and his eyes surrendered tears to the ground below.
The signal sounded. The call of a whoop owl.
The mournful sound broke off Bergnon’s regret and he remembered his duty, steeling himself to his task. He clasped his hands around his bearded mouth, creating a horn, and returned the call from the darkness far below the battlements. A short moment later, a knotted rope unfurled and slapped him on his shoulder as it made its way to the ground. Exhaling a heavy breath, Bergnon moved out of the shadows. Gripping the rope in front of him, he climbed up the south face of the outer wall of Apula. The unseen owner of the whoop owl call aided his ascent, pulling as Bergnon climbed. Swift and quiet he progressed towards the battlements, ready to greet the faceless person above. Within a matter of moments, Bergnon grabbed a proffered hand and was hauled the final few feet by brute strength.
“Major Bergnon, welcome.” The voice was like a whisper poured over gravel. The man’s face peered out from the shadow of his hood. He had an ape-like face; jutting jaw and beady black eyes. His thick mane of black curly hair all but merged with the densely haired ridge that made up his eyebrows.
Bergnon scanned the battlements around him for bodies. They were alone. “We should move fast. The watch will be back any minute now.”
“Hold your horses, Major. I ain’t leaving no rope lying ‘bout up here,” Brostoff whispered over his shoulder. “We’ll be on our way soon enough.”
“Sooner the better,” Bergnon muttered, pulling his own hood over his head.
“Follow me,” Brostoff hissed as they set off, his footsteps falling soft as he nimbly darted along the battlement.
Bergnon followed, amazed at the stealth displayed by the big man.
Brostoff peered over the edge of the battlement, checking for guardsmen on the level below before leaping the distance and landing into a crouch.
Bergnon followed suit, landing with an awkward stumble. Brostoff wasted no time and moved onward, leaving Bergnon to hobble after him. His ankle throbbed after his clumsy landing. The big man moved with the practiced furtiveness of one given to a life of creeping and shadows. Bergnon regarded the careful movement of Brostoff and was glad that the mercenary guild did not entertain politics; he knew otherwise he would be hard pressed to find someone else capable of sharing such a wretched betrayal with him.
“Across there,” Brostoff whispered as Bergnon crouched down beside him.
“The rooftops?” Bergnon asked while peering into the darkness.
“Aye, we’ll have to be quick. There’s a watch unit due on the street soon.”
Bergnon spied into the blackness, hopeful the faintest flicker of movement would herald the approaching patrol on the street below. The black night made things hopeless.
“Now!” Brostoff darted across the thin beam linking the battlement to the rooftop of the building across the street.
“Dajda!” Bergnon was caught off-guard by the mercenary’s sudden burst and tried to catch up. His first step onto the beam almost betrayed him, but his speed bought enough momentum to step forward onto the ankle he hurt in his earlier fall. He winced at the pain and felt the ankle go.
Bergnon’s eyes locked on the shadowy face of Brostoff ahead of him, hiding behind the building’s chimneystack. The moment felt like it lasted for an age.
But it didn’t and he was falling two levels to the street below.
Bergnon twisted his body and shot out an arm. He managed to wrap his arm around the beam, halting his fall. From his hanging position, Bergnon swung his legs and propelled one heel over the beam’s upper edge. The other followed and he knitted heel over foot. A shift in the blackness below drew Bergnon’s attention at the same moment he heard Brostoff’s ragged whisper.
“Don’t move. Below.”
The words crashed into Bergnon with terror and his face flushed and burned. His head craned backwards over his shoulder and he watched the shifting darkness form into a four-man watch party. They moved slow and without much sound, observing the sleeping city night around them.
Bergnon’s fear began to peak. His muscles burned and his arms trembled under the strain. He felt his wounded ear throb from the pressure of being upside down.
What if the wound bursts? What if it bleeds?
A shift in the darkness caused his eyes to dart towards the battlements he had moved from. Another watchman.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Bergnon hung tight, hoping the embrace of the blackness would conceal him.
The painful moments crawled by. Bergnon’s arm’s twitched and ached, and he felt his treated ear wound burst under the strain, causing a hot spread of fresh blood. The watchman on the battlements drifted on, but the party of four lingered below, having lit tabac pipes.
The four watchmen finished their pipes and walked far enough away for Bergnon to strain his weary limbs and haul himself along the underside of the beam. Reaching the end point, he was hauled onto the roof without grace by Brostoff’s calloused grip.
“You’re one lucky bastard, y’hear,” the big man whispered before scurrying along the rooftop.
You’ve got one part right, at least.
Bergnon stood and caught his breath before chasing the mercenary’s shadow. He followed, leaping after his man into the darkness of Apula’s rooftops.
A leaping, creeping bastard.
Sticking to the shadows between cramped rooftops, Bergnon and his ape-faced mercenary guide moved undetected towards their goal: the western limits of Apula.
Hunkering behind a rooftop shed, Bergnon surveyed the area, though the moonless light did nothing to assist his appraisal. “Are your men nearby?” Bergnon whispered over his shoulder towards Brostoff.
The man’s fetid cheese breath washed over Bergnon in waves as the brute breathed. “Close enough,” he grunted. “Once you’ve found your place and give me the word, then we’ll transport the stuff in. Until then, I’ll be damned if I tell you anymore.”
Bergnon felt his face flush with anger. He turned to face the man. “Now you listen here—”
Brostoff grabbed Bergnon’s jerkin with one hand and pulled him in close. So close the mercenary’s breath flooded Bergnon’s pores. The brute’s voice was deadly calm. “No, you listen to me. With a flick of my little finger, I could have the bones of your body broken and the milks of your eyes rolled. The guild is key to any success of yours, so mind who you’re speaking to or I’ll fucking kill you.” Brostoff released his grip and straightened out the creases in Bergnon’s jerkin. “There’s a good major, eh.”
A flash of boldness. Bad idea. Bergnon cooled his anger and smiled towards the heavy-browed man. “Sorry. I’ve much at stake and forgot myself a moment. Quite right you don’t tell me where your men are. Forgive me.”
Brostoff grunted his reply, “Shit on forgiveness. You’ll need more than that, fucking traitor.”
Bergnon felt the stab of the word. That’s rich from a hired sword. A murdering assassin. Mind you, what’s the difference between us? “We need to get to ground level and find a good location,” Bergnon whispered, diverting his thoughts.
Brostoff moved towards the edge of the roof, fixing the coiled rope from his shoulders to an iron ring in the masonry with a self-releasing knot before lowering it into the shadowy alley.
“Come,” Brostoff whispered to Bergnon before his massive frame slipped into the darkness.
Bergnon wasted no time springing towards the rope and was hunkered in the deep blackness of the alleyway in no time. Brostoff held the rope and gave a couple of flicks of his wrist, causing the rope to shift and snake towards him and clattering Bergnon on the side of his head. The explosion of pain as the wound dressing was ripped from his ear caused him to gasp. Instantly, the rough hand of Brostoff clamped over Bergnon’s mouth.
He looked up at the assassin, who scowled. “Silence,” he mouthed.
*
“Ahead there.” Bergnon pointed towards the outer western wall. “There must be a building backing onto the wall. We need to find the location tonight. We’ve little time if we’re going to be ready for them.” Bergnon reached out and gripped Brostoff’s thick forearm. “Remember,” he whispered, “we can’t have any guardsmen die tonight. We don’t want to draw any attention to ourselves.”
The big man shook Bergnon’s hand off and snorted. Brostoff spat chunky phlegm onto Bergnon’s boots. “You worry too much,” he grunted.
Bergnon’s face prickled as his blood rose. One chance, shit-eater, and I’ll cut your stinking head off. One chance.
Brostoff leaned around the alley corner and peered his beady black eyes into the night, scanning shadows for hints of movement. The alley and inner-side of the western wall were a quick sprint away. If they could make it across unobserved, they could stick to the darkness along the walls as they sought the most suitable building.
Brostoff whispered, “On my signal, we run. Don’t hesitate. If you do, you die alone.”
Bergnon waited for what seemed like an age
, his palms sweating. His body shook with a mix of night chill and nervous energy. Natalya’s face flashed before his eyes and his heart quickened. Her dark skin, the deep black and shining curls, and her bright green eyes. This is all for you, my love.
Having let his mind drift, he almost missed Brostoff’s signal. By the time Bergnon realised, the mercenary had sprinted almost halfway across the distance between the alley and the buildings of the western wall. Springing forward, Bergnon felt his ankle burn in agony. Despite the flush of pain and restricted movement, Bergnon made it across. He fell into the shadows alongside Brostoff.
Silence.
Made it.
The big man turned and pressed a knifepoint into Bergnon’s chest. The ape-like mercenary whispered into his face with the stale stink of old wine, “If you foul this up again, I’ll waste no time in killing you. Do you understand?”
“I understand,” Bergnon replied, pushing the blade of the mercenary’s knife away from his chest.
“Let’s move on,” he whispered before limping ahead of the mercenary and gliding along the shadows of the western wall. There had to be a suitable area to store the explosives that Brostoff’s men were holding in the woodlands.
A flash of slaughter, of sorrow and smoke to come, filled Bergnon’s thoughts as he pressed on through the darkness. I’m doing this is all for you, Natalya, all for you, my love.
*
For thirty minutes, Bergnon and Brostoff darted through the shadows of Apula’s western wall, searching for a place that would bring the wall crashing down and allow Grunnxe’s forces to storm the city.
At least this way there will be fewer deaths.
They came to a stop in the recess by one such building and appraised its structure and position. It was built directly against the inside edge of Apula’ outer wall. There were no windows at street level. The door to the building opened onto a small porch with steps leading down to the street. They were hunkered in the piss-stinking darkness of a recess between the gable end, the next building, and the inside edge of the western wall. The recess was covered with a timber roof and a ladder ran from the ground up through a gap in the roof and towards the ramparts above.