Banehal’s grip tightened beside him. “You did well to escape. My order has long quarrelled with demons, a task made much more difficult by the Godsdeath. I will dispatch our few golems to find and destroy them.”
“They are all dead,” said Brea, fighting a shiver that ran down her spine. She had fought a flesh golem, once, and it had terrified her. “As is their leader, a fiend-blooded human.”
Banehal smiled, although it was the tired, wounded smile of a man pushed too far for too long. “Then that comes as some comfort. We are but reinforcements to the main push on Irondarrow, and our presence is sorely needed; by dusk tomorrow we shall be joining with the Army of the Steel Sky and the Army of the Frozen Fang, and then pushing into the dwarven stronghold. We can ill afford distractions, especially ones of demonic origin.”
“Agreed,” said Brea. “The sooner we take Irondarrow, the sooner my contract will be fulfilled.”
“You will be paid,” said Banehal, his tone even but sincere. “Freelanders settle their debts.”
“I always settle mine,” Brea agreed.
The implication was seemingly not lost on Banehal. He considered. “This news is troubling, regardless. I will have extra men assigned to border patrols; our troops will need their rest, certainly, but we will do nobody any good if we are slain in our sleep.”
“I’d prefer to avoid it if possible.”
“As would I.” Banehal put his hand to his chin, rubbing his stubble. “And yet, it makes no sense. Forgive me, Lady Fleethand, but while the two of you were…doing whatever it is you were doing on the outskirts of the camp, you are not high value targets. What would a gaggle of demons stand to gain from attacking you? They risked exposing their presence for little gain.”
Brea’s temper rumbled inside her, a voice that cried out for blood and vengeance for the slight against her strategic value, but the voice was quietened by the knowledge that he was right. “I agree,” she said. “Then again, demons are not well known for their foresight.”
“A common misunderstanding.” Banehal shook his head. “They think and reason just as we do, and while they tend to be…shall we say, impulsive, they also have wit enough to employ strategy to what they do. These are no feral marauders, Lady Fleethand, and their actions are as mysterious as they are deliberate.”
It was a position she found difficult to refute. She had seen demonic entrenchments in the Shadowlands with her own eyes, seen them work in tandem to assault their foes, even retreat when the Open Fist’s forces repelled their assaults. They were fierce, certainly, and ferocious, but they were not heedless of their surroundings.
Even a frenzied beast wanted to live.
“Wise words, Paladin Commander,” she said. At his grimace, shook her head. “My apologies. Wise words, Banehal.”
“It is not in my nature to berate someone for something they cannot control, but I do thank you for acknowledging my preference in this regard, Lady Fleethand.”
Paladins despised titles. It was something she did not claim to understand. No kings, no titles, no laws. That was their creed.
She admired that last part, certainly. There was a certain freedom in moral flexibility that she wished, in some way, Kozog could experience: being able to be live one’s life unbeholden to others.
The fact that a paladin was willing to even work with their forces spoke highly of the nobility of their cause, but she knew Banehal would abandon them the moment they no longer served what he perceived to be the greater good. This made her less inclined to trust him.
Not that she truly trusted anyone. Kozog’s words drifted back into her mind. You can trust me with your life…
It stung her, in some way, that the reverse was not true, but the thought was quickly banished. They had business to attend to.
“Anyway,” she said, her hands throbbing. “I am in pain, and I must see to Kozog. May I be dismissed, Banehal?”
“Of course,” he said, dipping his head politely.
Brea wasted no time in leaving for the white linen tent dedicated to the wounded.
Chapter II
Kozog
KOZOG HATED BEING SICK. HATED being injured. Hated being weak.
Still, it was better than the alternative.
Eventual death was something all creatures accepted, and half-breeds like him were no exception. The orc in him instilled a willingness to endure suffering to reach his goals, whereas the human gave him the cunning and the tenacity to see them through.
Truly, though, Kozog knew somewhere in his green heart that his death would probably be in battle. He had seen enough of war to know that the suffering of the dying was typically profound. The occasional faint groan or whimper heard through the canvas attested to this.
“Hey,” came a familiar voice. Brea smiled warmly as she slid up to his bed.
Thoughts of death and misery evaporated, and Kozog could not resist a smile in return. “Hey. Not dead yet.”
“Good,” said Brea. “We’re so close to Irondarrow. It would be a shame to have come this far and die right before the gates.”
“Agreed,” he grunted. “Although our part in the battle to come can only be minimal. I can walk, even if I shouldn’t, and you can fight, even if you shouldn’t…so in all likelihood our weapons will be sheathed for the initial engagement.”
“A siege is long,” said Brea, the usual levity in her voice dampened by the cold truth of her words. “Weeks. Months. War engines will do most of the work; when they are whittled down to nothing by attrition, then flesh will take its place. We will have our fill of blood and slaughter yet.”
“A mollifying, and yet equally sobering, thought.”
Brea ran her hands through her hair. “Right, well, on to business. Let me take another look at that wound. I’ll check your stitches.”
“Right,” said Kozog. He and Brea had worked together before, and had sewn each other up plenty of times.
Brea peeled back the green-stained bandages, the corners of her mouth falling as her sharp eyes took in the work. “I would have done better.”
“I know. But you had to give your report. It will heal, fear not.”
She folded his bandages back, the gentle touch enough to make him wince. “Girls dig scars,” she said. “You’ll be fine.”
Kozog nodded in agreement. “Scars show you have morals. Principles. Show you have stood up for something; better that than to be a weakling doormat, always underfoot.”
“And women find them especially attractive,” said Brea, her tone gilded with…something.
Did they? He had no idea. “If you say they do.”
“Well,” said Brea, “I would know.”
A silence fell that, for some reason, Kozog found mildly uncomfortable.
“Do you think we’ll ever retire?” asked Brea.
“Mmm?”
“Retire,” she said. “You know. Like I said—go back to Valamar, settle down, raise a family.”
Kozog laughed politely. “Do the thing with orclets? I don’t think so. One day, one of these wounds will be too deep to scar, too savage to survive, and that will be the end of me. You too, if you keep this up.”
“Live by the sword,” said Brea, “live a good, long time.”
“Until someone with a bigger sword comes along.” Kozog winced and rubbed his bandages. “That’s why you always need to carry the biggest sword.”
“More talk of strength and might.” Brea rested her chin in her hands. Why did she keep talking of such things? “Is power so important to you?”
For a time, Kozog didn’t know how to answer. Brea was not ready for the truth; not yet. He answered as simply as he could. “I think that if you dedicate your life to war, every day is a risk. Eventually your risks don’t pay off. So if you’re going to fail at something, it might as well be something you love.”
She seemed to accept that; Brea’s smile revealed her white teeth. “Sounds like good relationship advice, in another context.”
He la
ughed. “I wouldn’t know. Life in the church has not left me with many chances to engage in…extracurricular pursuits.”
“I suppose not,” said Brea, tapping on her chin. “That’s a shame. My own upbringing was, well…I’ve experienced many such things. You really are missing out.”
Kozog knew Brea had needs, but this was something else. His discomfort grew, and not just because of all the exposure his stitches were receiving.
“If you say so,” was all he could say.
Brea just shook her head and he could sense frustration coming from her. “Well, you need rest.” She seemed to want to say more, but instead, patted his shoulder in a comradely fashion. “Sleep, you big oaf. We have a busy day ahead of us tomorrow.”
“That we do,” he said.
Kozog watched as Brea left, walking amongst the wounded, and he smiled at her back until it was no longer in his sight.
Brea
In the calm quiet of her tent, with the pre-dawn light filtering in between the stitches of the canvas, Brea readied herself for war.
Her rapier and mithril dagger were first to be strapped to her hip, along with an array of spare daggers. Every pouch was stuffed with scrolls, spare magical reagents, bandages and supplies. Each piece of gear was carefully considered in terms of its utility versus weight. Every pound of equipment she bought would slow her down, and speed was life. But if she left a piece of vital equipment behind and later needed it, that mistake might be fatal.
Each decision was pragmatic and even, with no room for keepsakes, lucky charms, or emotional connections. Dwarven arrows and demonic hordes would give none of these things consideration.
Her fingers ached, both hands still bandaged. Banehal had assigned her to rear guard alongside him; a position less likely to be directly assaulted, but one where her music could carry over the battlefield, bolstering the troops. It was a sound decision. A safe decision.
And one that meant she was closer to Kozog.
Brea hoisted her backpack and tested the weight. Her load was less than it would be on the road, but she could feel the weight dragging at her shoulders. Her pragmatic human side, the inner voice that whispered it was better to take something and not need it, than need something and not have it, quarrelled with her elven need for grace and mobility.
A compromise had to be reached. Something had to go.
But what if you need to climb something? Her human half whispered.
Shut up, roundears.
Reluctantly, Brea took out her lantern oil, her thin length of coiled silk rope, and her flint and steel.
She could immediately sense the difference. The backpack now hugged her body, flush and even, the weight distributed properly. She jogged in a circle around her tent, the spring in her step returning. A perfect blend of form and functionality.
Satisfied, she dismantled her tent, threw the bundle and her remaining equipment onto her mule, and then strode across the muddy field playing host to the Open Fist warcamp, heading toward the command tent.
Her path took her past the white tent for the wounded. Kozog could have no part in this battle, even as rear guard. He was strong as an ox and tough as iron, yet a simple length of steel had laid him low. If it was not for his presence, she would be dead.
This time, if demons came for her, she was on her own.
Brea forced those thoughts out of her mind. She would be surrounded by armed soldiers, including Banehal and his command staff. If she was forced to fight, the battle would already be lost.
Her boots were splattered in mud by the time she arrived at the modest command tent. It had already been packed and made ready for transport, loaded onto a wagon with four oxen standing by.
Banehal smiled as she approached. “Good morning.”
“Am I late?” Brea asked. The command tent was significantly larger than her own. Had they packed it in the dark?
“No, I am early,” said Banehal. “And efficient.” He checked one of the straps on his imposing set of plate armour. “How is Kozog?”
“I haven’t seen him this morning,” said Brea, defensiveness creeping into her tone. She didn’t know why. “I came straight here. A good thing I did, as we are clearly ready to move.”
“Ready we are indeed,” Banehal answered. “Still. Our travel will be slow and tedious. When we are on the road, perhaps you should drop back and see him.”
“We only work together, nothing more.” Brea made sure her hair was tied back appropriately, but it also gave her an excuse to break eye contact with the paladin. “And he’s a big boy. He can take care of himself.”
“As you would have it,” Banehal said, and then with a grace that surprised her given his heavy armour, took hold of the wagon to climb aboard. “Come,” he said, raising his voice so the camp could hear it. “The Army of the Steel Sky and the Army of the Frozen Fang await our aid. Prince Galrum Duergirn of Thunderhelm consorts with dark powers, to the ruin of us all, and we have come to purge these abominations from this world. Friends, we have demons to kill!”
The army exalted, a wild, passionate series of cries that died down as the sun broke the horizon. They gathered up their possessions, made their last preparations, and then the war party’s wagons rolled away from the rest of the camp. Brea kept her eyes forward, on the looming peaks that signalled the end of the Shadowlands and the beginning of the Thunderhelm territories, mountains full of dwarves and demons, her green-skinned friend behind her and a prolonged siege ahead.
The journey was made in silence. Banehal didn’t speak except to give a curt order or to make suggestions to the driver. He seemed so grim, dark and sullen against his normal disposition. Paladins despised war but recognised the necessity of it.
The sun rose, the chain of wagons ploughed through the damp strip of mud that served as this region’s road, and the mountains drew closer and closer. Excitement grew in her belly; the thrill of combat, the security of knowing their cause was righteous, and the promise of a purse full of gold on her return to the Freelands.
She smelt it before she saw it; a mix of ashes, mud and death. Banehal clearly smelt it too; he moved beside the driver as the wagon crested a rise, revealing the grand entrance to Irondarrow Keep, with their allies camps stretched before it.
The Freelander war camp had been burned to the ground.
Thin wisps of smoke rose from blackened tents. The ground was stained dark in splotches, as though water had been spilt there, although Brea knew the truth.
Demons always carried away the dead.
“The Prophets wept,” whispered Banehal. “What happened here?”
“Seems pretty simple to me,” said Brea, simply, as she surveyed the ruined and blasted war camp from atop the wagon. “We lost.”
Chapter III
Kozog
MARCELIN
CAPITAL OF VALAMAR,
THE First Kingdom of Man
Three weeks later
“Well,” said Kozog as he led Brea through the cramped streets of his home city of Marcelin, deftly stepping out of the way of a nobleman’s horse and rider, “at least we got paid.”
Brea had been in a sullen mood since Irondarrow. Kozog was sanguine about the whole thing. Coin was coin; his contract had been fulfilled, and his wounds had begun to fully heal, a process complicated by a stubborn infection. His wound leaked pus in the mornings, which concerned him, although it did not smell of rot and seemed to be on the mend. The pallor it cast over Brea, however, concerned him more.
She had chosen to come with him to Valamar instead of returning to the Freelands. That in and of itself was a strange choice. He had expected the opposite; to return to the Freelands with her, take another contract, and continue their adventures together.
Still, the opportunity to show Brea around Marcelin was worth it.
“The coin was good,” Brea said. “I still can’t believe Banehal paid us in full for a siege that never happened.”
“Paladins do that kind of thing.” Kozog absently r
ubbed his chest as he weaved his way through the cobbled streets. “Personally, I find it surprising the Irondarrow dwarves were able to crush the siege so quickly, even with the aid of demons, but such things are no longer our concern.”
“Mmm,” said Brea, her tone one of someone truly listening.
Kozog led her towards the well-kept, red-bricked street that was host to his family manor. It stood just as he had remembered it; tall and imposing, with wrought iron gates that were securely locked and barred, well-tended gardens full of fruit and flowers, and with a notice of foreclosure resting at the entrance.
It took him a second to process the addition. It was a heavy canvas parchment nailed to a wooden tripod. He tore it off and passed over it with a barrister’s eye.
It seemed legitimate. The watermark of the Marcelin Lords was thick and ran through the paper, the ink appeared to be of the proper type, and the signature at the bottom was practised and well formed, with no breaks or gaps where a forger may have lifted their quill to verify their work.
“What’s that?” asked Brea.
Kozog scowled and showed it to her. “I am uncertain, but it appears as though my family home has been reclaimed by a debtor’s agency. Strange, as my family has coin to spare and no significant debts.”
Brea briefly scanned the document and then shrugged her shoulders. “So? It’s still yours.”
“Not according to this document. The Lords of Valamar have seized the property for reasons which are entirely unclear.” He squinted, trying to read the glorious, holy fine print. “Something about the church’s authority or some such.”
“That’s not good.” Brea put her hands on her hips. “So, how do we break into the place?”
Kozog glared at her. “We are not breaking into my family home. This seizure notice is legitimate.”
“Right. Well, where to now, o’ fearless green leader?”
He placed the seizure notice back on the tripod and reattached the nail. “I’m not sure,” he admitted. “My mother owns several houses in the city, she may have taken residence at one of those. I’m not sure where the staff are. I’m sure she will know.”
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