by Alex Aguilar
The two of them watched Sir Viktor Crowley ride away in admiration.
“Someday, I want to be a knight,” the boy said.
John smiled warmly down at him, for it was a dream they both shared.
“Perhaps you will,” he said. “What was your name, kid?”
“Thomlin, sir.”
“John Huxley,” the farmer replied, shaking the boy’s hand. “’Til we meet again.”
* * *
“Focus,” said Old Man Beckwit.
Robyn Huxley’s hand trembled as it gripped the leathered handle on her wooden bow. She held on firmly to the arrow with her right hand as she felt the tight string digging into the flesh in her fingers. One of her eyes was closed; the other was locked on the wooden stand where her brother John had painted a round black target.
“Don’t shiver,” the old man whispered.
She obeyed.
With a loud exhale she let go of the string and scowled at the sight of her arrow piercing through the wood almost a foot away from the center of the target.
“Now,” the old man sighed, pacing back and forth around her. “Where do you suppose you went wrong?”
“I let go of the arrow too quickly,” she said, looking down in disappointment.
“Wrong,” he replied. “In fact you held onto it for far too long. Anyone trying to kill you would have done it long before you shot it. Anything else?”
“My stance was wrong?” asked the young woman.
“Are you asking me or are you answering?”
“I’m answering.”
“Your stance was fine. Anything else?”
Young Robyn considered it for a moment, while Mister Beckwit continued moving slowly in circles around her. She had always wondered why the old man would insist on pacing when he used a cane, though she found it too rude to ask. Mister Beckwit’s loyal crow was resting on the wooden fence nearby, squawking at her every mistake as if it was laughing at her.
“All right, I know what it was,” she finally said. “I had an eye shut.”
“Did you?” the old man asked. “I didn’t notice. In that case, you did two things wrong.”
Robyn groaned with frustration. “What was it, then?”
“It’s simple,” he said, before coming to a halt at her side. “You doubted yourself.”
The old crow suddenly wailed and flew over to Mister Beckwit’s shoulder. In secret, Robyn hated that bird. More so, she hated how it seemed to only coo towards her or when in agreement with its master, as if having a conscience of its own. She found it oddly startling.
She also found it intriguing, however, to see a crow with only one eye. Not only was it missing, but there was a scar running vertically across the eyelid and down to the crow’s feathery cheek as if someone had sliced it with a blade. Often she tried to imagine how the crow could have gotten such a scar, but once again she found it too rude to ask.
“But I’ve hit the target before,” Robyn said. “I know I can do it. I’m just tired, that’s all.”
“Is that so?” Mister Beckwit asked. He reached down and dug through his rucksack. His black crow stood vigilant, as if anxiously waiting to see what its master would do next. Mister Beckwit pulled out two small sacks and held them close to his chest as he limped back towards young Robyn.
“I want you to hit these sandbags now,” he said. “While they’re in the air.”
“But I-”
“But nothing. You said you’ve got it. If that’s the case, let’s make it more interesting, yes?” The old man threw the first sandbag up into the air. Robyn swore she had it, but the arrow missed by about a foot.
She pulled out another arrow. Mister Beckwit allowed her a brief moment before throwing the second bag. When she missed again she threw the wooden bow angrily onto the dirt. She couldn’t help but turn and look at it when it hit the ground, as she did every time she tossed it angrily somewhere. Her sister Margot, lively as she was, called out the glance once and Robyn had said it was to check it wouldn’t hit someone or tip something over. In reality it was because young Robyn regretted every time she threw the bow and glanced with hopes that it wouldn’t break.
She turned to the old man, the resentment clear in her eyes.
“Now what did you learn there?” he asked her.
“You don’t have to humiliate me,” she scowled at him.
Odd as it seemed, she wasn’t nearly as angry about the sandbags as she was at the fact that if it hadn’t been for the old man, she wouldn’t have tossed her bow.
“Why of course not, young Robyn,” Mister Beckwit said. “I’m simply trying to show you what you fail to see. Any old fool can learn to hit a still target with practice; it’ll take ‘em a week or two at most. But when you shoot to kill, or to save your own life… why that is a whole new thing altogether, my dear. You’ll find that you don’t shoot where the target currently is. By the time your little arrow hits that spot, it will be there no more. You must aim for the spot where your target is heading to.”
Young Robyn said nothing. She gave his words a moment’s thought before picking up her beloved elven bow Spirit.
“You’ve got spirit, young Robyn,” the old man said.
“I know,” she smirked, wondering if the old man had caught on to the irony.
“It’s as clear as day, it is,” he went on. “But your greatest weakness is your doubt, girl. You can have doubt in many things, but let it never be in yourself.”
He paused as he heard the incoming sounds of a mule and carriage.
“Speaking of self-doubt,” the old man spoke softly, just loud enough for Robyn to hear. Once again the crow squealed in agreement, causing the young girl to chuckle. “Greetings, John.”
“Mister Beckwit,” John hopped off the cart and turned to his sister, “And the queen of sloth herself! Bit late for your training, isn’t it?”
“Is it sloth if the reason you’re late for training in the first place is that you were up late training on your own?” Robyn replied as she aimed another arrow at her target.
“Lazy and a liar. This one’s promising, Mister Beckwit. Hang on to her,” John teased.
Robyn’s arrow struck the hard wood, only it was nowhere near the target. She turned to her brother with embarrassment and said, “Don’t you dare say a word. I’ve got this.”
Her brother kissed her forehead and hugged her, before turning to Mister Beckwit and his loyal crow.
“Brought something for this one,” John said, reaching into his satchel and pulling out a small piece of cloth tied by a thick thread. He unwrapped it, reached in, and pulled out a handful of dry crickets. He held his palm out at the crow, which paid him no mind. It squeaked a few times and moved further away from John’s hand, standing nearly at the edge of the old man’s shoulders.
“What’s the matter? Does he not like crickets?” John asked.
“Oh, he just has a hard time trusting others,” Mister Beckwit replied. After allowing John to pour the dry insects back into the bag, he took it from his hands. “That’s very kind of you,” he said.
“Have you done your chores yet, Robyn?” John asked his sister.
“I will in a moment,” young Robyn replied, aiming another arrow at her target.
“You know how mother gets, now…”
“I’ll get to it. Just let me concentrate.”
Upon gazing at the arrow a foot away from the center of the wooden target, John chuckled softly, turned to Old Man Beckwit and said, “At this pace, the wolves will have eaten all our sheep by the winter.”
There was the swift sound of wood being struck. John, the old man, and even the crow turned their attention towards the arrow, this time sticking out only a mere inch from the center of the board. Robyn smirked and squinted her eyes. Rather than pride, the girl felt an overwhelming need to break down the boards and shoot strictly at sandbags until she never missed one again.
“Maybe not all your sheep,” the old man said with a subtle grin, his cro
w once again squawking in agreement.
II
A Test of Valor
Nearly a hundred miles west of the kingdom of Vallenghard, deep in the heart of the Woodlands, a mercenary captain sat in his tent biting into a piece of half-cooked venison, slobbering all over his ragged shirt as he washed down the meat with ale. He was a large man and some could even call him intimidating, but through it all one could still see that he had the bearings of the soldier he had once been.
He was a killer, of course. But he was a killer with honor, something many of his men lacked. His most major flaw, aside from his bent nose, was the trust he gave his company; the man was oblivious to the extent of their greed. He was well aware that some of his men had joined merely to quench their dire thirst for blood, and still he tried to place his morals aside for the sake of the gold. Little did he know, however, that on this particularly misty night he would come to the most inopportune realization that his merry little band of sellswords was never his to begin with.
The Rogue Brotherhood, they called them; a network of mercenaries that existed for nearly a century. They hid within the Woodlands, where no civilian would dare enter, and there they raided until a company in need of numbers sought them out. Those that knew of them feared them, for the rogues cared not for who they killed, only how much they’d be paid to do it. There were nearly a hundred men in the camp that night, most of whom were resting while others kept watch, huddled near a dimly lit fire.
From a distance, an even larger company was approaching them, and when the captain’s second-in-command caught sight of them he rushed to the largest tent in the camp, the only tent marked with the symbol of the Brotherhood; a red scorpion with its pincers aimed up and its sharp tail curved upwards. Every member of the Brotherhood had the same mark tattooed on his or her left wrist, and it was a mark that struck fear in the hearts of many in the realms of Gravenstone.
“A company approaches, captain,” said his second-in-command.
The captain raised a brow. It was well past midnight, which meant no sane man should have been leading his troop through the Woodlands, not if he cared to keep the numbers.
“How many?” the captain asked, wiping his lips with a handkerchief.
“Two, maybe three hundred.”
“Banners?”
“None, sir.”
The captain rose from his seat. He left his red captain’s coat by his tent’s entrance, next to his weaponry, and when he walked outside the frosty night air hit his chest like a dagger. The sash he wore as a belt and the leather sheath of his dagger were the only red things in his attire. His second-in-command, on the other hand, was fully armored in thick leathers dyed a dark auburn red, the known color of the Brotherhood.
“Shall I call for reinforcements, captain?”
Through the fog, the approaching troop was merely a sea of shadows, but it was large enough that the captain grew nervous. “Gather a squadron. Tell the rest to stay on alert.”
“Aye, sir.”
Suddenly, the captain caught sight of the sigil… There was only one flag at the very front of the march, but one was enough to send shivers up the man’s spine. The symbol was of two hands locked in a handshake, with a pair of crossed blades behind them.
“Malekai…?” the captain called nervously.
The captain’s second-in-command glanced back, his hand placed on the handle of his curved blade. “Yes, sir?”
There was a look of subtle distress in the captain’s eyes, as if he had seen a face from the past that he preferred had gone unseen. “Stay near my tent,” he said. “And whatever happens, don’t try anything unless I give the word.”
“Aye, sir,” Malekai said with a head nod, before the captain rushed back to his tent and started acing his leather armor back on.
The marching troop reached the Brotherhood’s camp within minutes. They were a mixture of men and orcs and perhaps a dozen goblins lounging in the back of some of the carriages. They did not wear any type of uniform, suggesting most of them had been recently recruited. The man that appeared to be leading them dismounted his horse and walked into the camp first. He was a monster of a man, thick and muscular like an orc, and though he was dressed in furs and brown leathers, he had little need for armor; his brute strength and chilling figure was enough to deem him menacing.
Malekai Pahrvus, the captain’s second-in-command, was standing at the camp’s entrance with ten men surrounding him, and there they waited until the giant man stepped into the light of the torches. When he did, Malekai recognized the man instantly.
Harrok Mortymer, the Butcher of Haelvaara, in the flesh. Many of the members of the Brotherhood felt the sudden impulse to take a bow.
“Greetings, good sir,” Malekai spoke first.
As Harrok the Butcher took slow heavy steps into the camp, some of the men couldn’t help but shiver. And then, as if he wasn’t menacing enough already, the Butcher spoke, his voice a frightening growl. “Who is your captain?” he asked.
The image of the Butcher was one that could petrify a man. He stood at six and a half feet in height, his eyes were pale grey, and his frizzed hair looked more like tangled threads of yarn rising out of a thinning scalp and falling over his shoulders. He wore a mask over the bottom half of his face, a piece of black leather that covered his disfigured jaw, and the leather was studded with the sharp teeth of a silver wolf. No one had seen the Butcher without his mask since the day he was struck by a warhammer to the jaw during the Battle of Haelvaara, or at least no one that did had lived to describe what remained underneath.
“Yes, it is a lovely night, isn’t it?” Malekai said dismissively, but the Butcher was not the least bit amused by the man’s banter. “The name’s Malekai Pahrvus, at your service. Second-in-command to the captain of the Rogue Brotherhood.”
“Your captain,” the Butcher took an intimidating step forward. “Where… is… he…?”
Malekai gave it a moment’s thought before deciding the numbers were not in their favor should a fight erupt. Instead he turned to one of his comrades, a bald man with tattoos on his scalp, and said, “Tell the captain Ser Harrok Mortymer is here to see him.”
“No,” the Butcher said.
Malekai and the rest of his mercenaries turned their heads.
“Not me,” he said. “My lord…”
Behind the Butcher, a ghostlike figure dressed in black smiled underneath his hooded cloak.
The captain knew very well what was at stake. When he laid eyes on the sigil, he knew that one man would fall on this night. He poured the last of the ale into his tankard and began gulping it down as he breathed heavily through his nose, his eyes glowing with angst and torment.
“Sir?” one of his mercenaries peeked his head inside the tent.
The captain didn’t even bother turning around.
“Let ‘im in,” he said, his eyes fixed on the dagger resting on his desk. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, ready to face whatever horrors were in store for him.
A dark figure stood at the entrance, examining the entirety of the tent with only his eyes. Without looking back, the captain could sense the man’s presence, only adding to his torment.
“Hmm… Is this how the captain of the infamous Rogue Brotherhood lives?” the man spoke, his voice confident and firm and eerily menacing. “I must say I’m rather underwhelmed…”
The captain set his half-empty tankard next to his dagger and took one last heavy breath.
The visitor began to pace with a demeanor so calm and a posture so fine that one would guess he was a man of nobility. The night was humid and misty, and yet the man’s clothes were dry and unwrinkled. He wore a long black coat made of wool and leather, decorated with a graceful silver design on the edges, collar, and wrists. His hair was just as dark as his clothes and it flowed neatly down his sides and back, and his facial hair was neatly trimmed with great precision, reacting sharply against his pale skin.
“It’s been a rather slow year,
” the captain responded, turning around and gazing into those startling black eyes.
“I’m sure it has been,” the visitor replied as he walked carelessly towards the captain’s chair and helped himself to a seat. The captain scowled subtly, having no choice but to sit on the old wooden chair on the opposite side of his own desk.
“But you’ll be glad to hear I’m here to change that for you,” the man continued. “You know very well who I am… In fact, you must have known for minutes now, considering your tankard’s half-empty and your armor looks like you laced it in a hurry, and quite sloppily I’m afraid.”
The captain’s expression was hard to read, as it always was, and though his dagger was closer to his visitor than it was to him, he tried his best to remain at ease. “I know who you are,” he said. “And I can imagine why you’re here.”
“Good,” the visitor responded, leaning forward and extending his hand over the table.
The captain felt a dash of adrenaline as the visitor’s hand brushed past the dagger and instead grabbed the tankard from the table uninvitingly.
“That ought to save me some time,” the visitor said, resting back comfortably on the chair and sipping on the last of the captain’s ale. “I must admit I am rather impressed by your work, captain. Your men are skilled, to say the least. And a good thirst for carnage is never something I can easily ignore.”
The captain’s attention was fixed on the man and nothing more, examining his every move and becoming more and more unsettled by the second. “The brotherhood is already under contract,” he lied, and his visitor saw right through it.
“I don’t want you to work for me,” he said. “What I am interested in is more of an alliance, really.”
There was a brief moment of silence, and the tension between the two men was starting to become rather obvious. The visitor leaned forward and placed his hands on the captain’s table, far too close to the dagger than the captain was comfortable with.