by D. M. Murray
“It’s a city guard building,” Bergnon whispered. “Think it’s an armoury. If I remember right, there are two armouries placed at each side of the outer walls.” He paused for a moment and thought, scratching at the dried blood from his injured ear before turning to Brostoff. “This is perfect.”
“Perfect?” Brostoff hissed. “You’re just done telling me you don’t want anyone to die tonight. How can we remain unnoticed and not kill anyone if we take up lodgings in a damned armoury?”
“Trust me. I know what I’m doing.”
“Don’t know about that.”
“How soon can you get your men here?” Bergnon asked.
Brostoff hesitated in the darkness, his heavy brow knitting. “Can be here within the hour. What you thinking?”
“There’ll be men in there. A quartermaster and perhaps a pair of guardsmen. Go and get four of your men and bring them. I’ll wait for you here. When you arrive, we’ll enter. They’ll not be expecting an officer to descend on them at this hour, so they’ll be taken aback. Chances are they’re drunk anyway. You follow me with your men after I’m in a few moments. Wait a short while and then enter. We’ll overwhelm them and take charge of the building.”
“Risky,” Brostoff muttered. “What if they get loose? The whole plan is undone then.”
“They won’t get loose. I think you understand my meaning.”
Brostoff’s ape-like jaw split the darkness, his rotting, tabac-stained teeth fouling the air between him and Bergnon.
“Changed your tune. So much for no one dying tonight, eh?” The brute laughed, “You’re a real treacherous bastard, aren’t you? Was wondering when you’d start to play my way.”
Bergnon ignored the comment. “Go now. Be back with the four within the hour and make sure the rest of the men are dressed as militia with a mix of city guard uniform when they come to the encampment in the morning, just after sun-up. They must bring the naphtha and, for Dajda’s sake, make sure they’re subtle. They’ll have to be registered with me when they arrive. I’ll make sure they know where to break from the rest of the troops they get assigned with.”
“Leave it to me,” Brostoff grunted. “I’ll be back within the hour.” With that, the mercenary checked the street and dashed off into the blackness.
Bergnon stood alone in the shadows with nothing but the reek of piss and the shitty taste of his betrayal.
*
The hour dragged, leaving Bergnon to wrestle with a maelstrom of emotions. His unflinching love for Natalya, his betrayal, and the rising aggression as he grew more and more to hate the man he was transforming into. The man he had transformed into. He hunkered down in the darkness, surrounded by the stench of piss, and wept for the things he had done and the things he had yet to do.
As he dried his face, Bergnon heard a subtle shuffle of feet coming towards him. He drew his sword and primed himself, ready to spring into action. His caution was unnecessary, as the frame of Brostoff slid into the recess, followed by the shapes of four others.
Bergnon relaxed. “I was just getting worried,” he whispered.
“No need; the guild’s reliable,” Brostoff replied. “But then, you know that already. That’s why you came to us.”
“Quite,” Bergnon responded as he tried to make out the faces of the four new men hunkered before him, their gentle breath the only really sign of their presence in the blackness.
“No need for introductions,” Brostoff whispered. “Best be getting on with it, hadn’t we?”
“Quite,” Bergnon found himself repeating. “Remember, follow in a moment.”
With that, Bergnon shifted out of the stinking recess and slid towards the armoury, his sword sliding back into its scabbard. He stepped up towards the door and listened. There were no sounds within. Taking a deep breath, he raised his gloved fist and gave a solid knock, before leaning his ear against it. Muffled voices. Stepping back a pace, Bergnon adopted an authoritative look and made his uniform and emblem of rank clearly visible. As the door opened, gentle lamplight flooded Bergnon’s face.
“Who the hell are you?” the faceless silhouette in the doorframe asked.
“Major Bergnon. I command this city and, by consequence, I command you.” His tone left the man with no room for doubt. “Now step aside before I have you on charges.”
The startled guardsman’s jaw dropped as he regarded the uniform and registered the name.
“Apologies, Major. Just being vigilant an’ all, sir.”
The guardsman stepped aside, allowing Bergnon to pass into the armoury. He was greeted by the screech of chairs as three other men leapt from their card game and snapped to attention.
“Shut that door,” Bergnon shot over his shoulder to the guardsman. “I’ve come to inspect your duty. These are times of grave threat and I find you here playing cards! Disappointed doesn’t even cover it.” Bergnon’s voice rose to a growl, “What level of vigilance is this?”
The guardsman who opened the door fell into rank alongside his colleagues, his body locking in rigid attention.
Bergnon paced along the rank of four men, staring at them so hard they directed their eyes to some safe place in the wooden ceiling. “You’re not fit to wear that tabard. The crest of the Free Provinces should be worn only by men who are ready to die for her sovereignty.”
The guardsmen swallowed and shook.
“Take them off! All of you,” Bergnon barked as he came to a stop behind them. “Off with the mail also.”
As one, the guardsmen undid their sword belts and pulled off their tabards, and mail shirts, before standing in front of Bergnon in only their undershirts and leggings.
“Throw them in the corner over there,” Bergnon snapped, pointing towards the room corner piled high with chopped wood for the stove.
The guardsmen complied and tossed their tabards, chainmail and sword belts into a pile in the corner of the armoury. “Now, close your eyes and pray to Dajda for forgiveness,”
The guardsman who opened the door looked over his shoulder at Bergnon, his expression uncertain at such a command.
“Major,” the guardsman croaked, “you’re bleeding.”
“Do it,” roared Bergnon, kicking at the back of the guardsman’s knees and sending him crashing onto the floor. “All of you, on your knees.”
As the last guardsman’s knees met the floor, Brostoff and his four accomplices crashed into the armoury, their short swords drawn. It was savage and without mercy. Before the guardsmen had even let loose a cry of alarm, they were bleeding life out onto the floor.
Bergnon wiped his sword clean on the shirt of the guardsman he had just run through, the man who questioned him. He shook his head in regret and chased the emotion from his mind. All for you, my love. “Move the bodies upstairs and then put on their tabards,” he muttered towards the smiling form of Brostoff and his men. “You’re now employed as guardsmen of Apula.”
*
Bergnon slipped back into the night, leaving Brostoff and his crew to act out the roles of guardsmen playing cards, but ready to dispatch anyone who looked too close. The upper floors of the armoury had plenty of space for more bodies, should the wrong questions be asked.
With caution, he made his way back over the rooftops, limping due to the ankle sprain. He formulated an excuse for having incurred the injury as he slid from rooftop to rooftop, retracing his steps from earlier. There were still a couple of hours before sunrise, so Bergnon knew he could afford to be cautious. Realizing his ankle would slow him, he chose his moments to dash wisely, ensuring he remained unnoticed.
Reaching the rampart of the southern outer wall, Bergnon removed Brostoff’s rope from his shoulder and tied the self-releasing knot to a merlon. He climbed over the edge and, with slow and gentle movements, made his way down. After a short time, he reached the outcrops of bedrock he had hidden amongst earlier and, with two careful flicks of his wrist, he undid his knot, causing the rope to fall.
After recoiling the rope around hi
s shoulders, Bergnon set off within the shadows alongside the outer wall back towards the camp. Within the hour, he would be back in his tent, washed, and fed, sipping on a morning coffee. Within the next day, he would have the explosives placed and, before long, Grunnxe would take the city and Natalya would be free. Within the week, Bergnon would be with his love and he could forget all of his treachery, his murder, and his shame. In one week, he could start again.
One week. One week and this will all be over.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Harruld stood by his study’s window, peering out at the rank morning. Thick-spread grey clouds hung low and heavy in the sky, obscuring the weak sun and casting a cold light upon the slick rooftops of Carte. Thin, misty raindrops varnished everything with a slippery gloss.
Harruld stepped away from the cool air and sagged into his chair. He poured himself a cup of water and drank from the glazed clay vessel. His shaking hands caused him to spill some onto himself and then the floor.
“Damn it!” he cursed, startling the hound dozing by his chair. Harruld sat up and brushed the beading water from his tabard.
“You need to rest,” Olmat said in a thin, tired voice.
“We all need to rest, old friend. Even one with such gifts as you must take a moment from time to time.” Harruld smiled to his companion. “How are you both?” he asked, directing his question to the two remaining brothers.
Olmat pursed his lips and nodded to Harruld.
“He was not deserving of such an end,” Sarbien grunted. “Though I’m sure he faced it with every ounce of courage he had.”
“Aye,” Olmat muttered. “A stubborn, argumentative courage. That was his way of it.”
The atmosphere in the room was heavy with the weight of burden.
Harruld broke the quiet. “The tactics of the enemy are as treacherous and dark as any we’ve ever faced. I can’t recall as comprehensive, as damned thorough, an attack. I fear with the convergence of all our woes, we’ll simply be overwhelmed when the time comes to stand fast.”
“Harruld.” Olmat creaked to his feet and moved towards the governor. “You must not—”
“Lose hope,” Harruld interrupted. “I know. I see it. It’s just that it seems with every step we take, we face yet another enemy; yet deeper losses.”
“It is war and with the highest stakes ever,” Sarbien chipped in. “We’ll each endure much worse before we see the end, I fear. We must shake ourselves and regain our focus. I’ll take a team of Tuannan and head for Shalima, and root out whomever, or whatever, is sustaining Bhalur.”
“You can’t go alone,” Harruld said.
“I won’t be,” Sarbien replied. “I’ll be accompanied by our brothers and sisters of the order.”
“You know what he means,” Olmat interjected.
Sarbien’s smile cut a faint crease across his thin mouth. “I know what he meant, brother. What other options have we? You’re too weak to travel and the road will be hard riding for two days, not to mention the passage in the mines, however long that may take us. As for you, my dearest governor, accept it. You aren’t just acting chief marshal, you are the only chief marshal of the High Command. Who else is going to stem the tide; repulse the enemy?” Sarbien’s smile faded. “No, there is no other way. Capriath is gone and so I must do this. I’ll leave as soon as I ready the party.”
Sarbien stepped towards the door of Harruld’s study, stopping short as Harruld spoke behind him. “At least take a body of troops with you,” he pleaded. “A half-dozen more or so will not hold you up.”
“As you command it, Chief.” Sarbien nodded, smiled towards his brother, and then swept from the room.
As the door clicked shut behind him, Olmat rubbed at his watery eyes and spoke, “Harruld, you’re going to have to tell him and tell them all.”
Harruld looked at the hound by his side, stroking the long, wiry hair on its neck. “I know.” He looked back up at the older man. “I just keep hoping if I stay busy, if I forget about it, it will just go away.” He smiled, knowing it was foolish. Sadness touched the faint curl in his lips.
“It won’t.”
“I know. I’ll tell them. I’ll make the arrangements.”
*
Anthony shambled towards the horse tied at the back of the tavern. The commanding voice ringing in his head encouraged him, guided him with every step. It praised him, honeyed words intoxicating to him, filling him with love, and redoubling his commitment to his master’s way.
Anthony hummed and gibbered to himself as he undid the bridle of the horse and heaved into the saddle. He was not aware of the efforts that were played out as he hauled himself up, nor the smears of dark, clotting blood and bits of flesh that were left on all he touched. To Anthony, all he saw was his own majesty, his rich strength, and his worth finally recognised.
He kicked his purpling, blistered, and peeling ankles against the flanks of the horse and trotted out from behind the tavern and into the open road.
“Yes, Master, to Shalima,” he muttered before kicking the flanks of the whinnying beast once more and speeding off unsteadily along the northern way.
*
The spirit rested atop the prayer tower, befouling the spire of the weak Cannan god as it watched the flames in the harbour grow tall and then recede, black water washing over the man-things’ vessels as they sank. It purred at the blood spilling and the pain being unleashed. The Master would be pleased.
The searcher was nearby. The spirit could smell his fear; could taste his essence still. The master wanted his soul and so the spirit needed to be closer, close enough to strike out at the trinket the searching one wore about his neck. Trinkets were weak, frail like the bodies of the man-things. Sooner or later, the trinket would be gone and the spirit would be there, waiting to claim the soul, ready to take it and gift it at last to the Master. And, once more, the spirit would be in favour and in receipt of its Master’s love.
It swooped down from the prayer tower and swept above the streets, sniffing and turning, flying high above the black and flame-red city below. The spirit tasted the scent again and hovered above, there was the searcher. He ran below, followed by others. None of the other man-things would do, they couldn’t be taken.
They were all too strong.
Except.
There.
The small one in front.
The servant of the Cannan god.
The spirit swooped ahead, sniffing at the air above the small man leading the way of the searching one. Perhaps that one would do. The spirit tracked them from above, sniffing, tasting for a way in, and waited.
*
Bergnon shifted his weight uncomfortably onto his other foot and winced. Damn it, but he could not find any way to stand that didn’t aggravate his sprained ankle. He shifted once more and settled in a crooked stance by the entrance to his tent. He felt more akin to a crippled wretch than an officer of the Free Provinces.
Probably closer to the truth.
He sipped at his coffee and watched the rain heaved down over the many tent roofs. Soldiers went about their business, saluting as they churned up the red earth underfoot.
Blood-red earth, how very apt.
Bergnon cast a glance toward the Field of Storms. The wheat was cast in a grey hue before him as the heavens expelled their contents. He sipped at his bitter brew and nodded at a passing group. A rider approached along the track from Apula and caught his eye through the sheets of rain. The rider sat tall in the saddle. The figure made Bergnon’s throat tighten for some reason.
You look like trouble.
He shifted his body and straightened up, taking a deep breath to settle himself. With some effort, he tried to lighten his demeanour. The smile he faked sat uneasy on his face.
The rider came closer, his hood drawn low over his face. Stopping before the tent in front of Bergnon, the figure swung down and tied off his horse.
“Major Bergnon,” the familiar voice of Thaskil greeted him, followed by a cr
isp salute. The young lieutenant pulled back his hood as Bergnon stepped aside to allow the sodden man into the tent, a look of surprise still etched on his face.
“What brings you back here, lad?” Bergnon asked, barely attempting to hide his shock. “Weren’t your orders to remain in Apula and train the city guard? Who’s with your men?”
“Yes, Capt—”
“Just Bergnon, damn it!” Bergnon snapped, his frustration getting the better of him. He regretted it in the instant. The reaction was over the top.
“Sorry, Bergnon.” Thaskil showed no concern by Bergnon’s loss of calm. “I left the men with Sergeant Birch and Corporal Arroch to run through a morning drill.”
“And what then brings you here?” Bergnon flicked his wrist and sent the rest of his cup’s contents out of the entrance of the tent and into the blood-red earth. “It can’t be the coffee.” He tried to force a weak smile.
“I wanted to update you on the guard’s progress. Let you know how they were getting on.” Thaskil’s face adopted tell-tale signs of guilt, his lower lip twitched and he blinked too much before staring at his feet.
“Sure it has nothing to do with seeing if Arrlun has turned up?” Bergnon asked.
Thaskil glanced up. “It had factored into my thinking, yes.” He looked hopefully up at Bergnon.
“I’m sorry, Thaskil. No one has heard or seen from him.” Bergnon stretched out a hand and placed it on Thaskil’s sopping shoulder. “Try not to worry,” Bergnon added. “Soldiers run off all the time. Come on, let’s get some of that filthy coffee into you.”