by Daniel Casey
“That why you had a spearbow? For hunting birds?” Garner said confused.
Wynne shook his head, “No. The spearbow was more for salvage.” He paused, “Grabbing bodies, pulling them ashore to be buried.”
“You harpooned corpses?”
“Those that tried to break The Blockade. They deserved a burial.”
“I’ve never even seen a weapon like that.”
“Not meant to be a weapon. It’s used by whalers out of Paraonen. They used to throw the harpoons, used to have to drive them into the whales with their bare hands.” The civics were attentive, “I guess having to stare a whale in its eye finally got to them. So they made this, merging a crossbow with their smaller harpoons.”
“And you would fish out bodies with it?” Anders said.
Wynne pointed to a small metal loop at the tip of one of the spears, “You tie a rope here and then to the spearbow hilt, so when it shoots the rope follows with it.”
“Then you’d pull the people in.”
“The bodies, yes.”
“Don’t suppose too many would be comfortable with the idea of their loved ones being harpooned like whales.” Garner shook his head.
Wynne shrugged, “Comfort tends to leave consideration once a body has been burnt to meat and bone by flame tar, bloated three times its normal size and been fed on by crabs and sea worms, and when limbs and heads drift to shore along with the shards of the ships.” Neither of the civics spoke staring into the fire or off into the darkness.
“Behind the keepers’ den, I buried them. I buried probably…” he paused and looked off doing what appeared to be a casual mental arithmetic, “…a hundred or so. At least, one a week.”
“Damn.”
He wiped his bread around his plate getting the last of the lentils, then stared hard directly at the two guardsmen, “Less than half of that were whole or had a recognizable face.”
The Highroad, 30th of Lammas
The hinterlands hadn’t been a problem. The highroad rose up a good twenty feet above the surrounding land and was built in such a way as to wind between woodlands in open space while also through what few hills there were—literally through the hills, it was always astounding to gaze down the road to see it seemingly slice through hills like a knife. All possible cover was cut back a good hundred yards from the highroad. Raised and cleared as it was, every traveler could see anyone coming at them well ahead of time; you were not ambushed on the highroad, which was not to say highwaymen didn’t try. To further deter bandits and increase the speed of commerce, the Spires had established the Far Watch. Moving in groups of four over the highroad, you were guaranteed to run into the watchmen every three or four hours, staggered as they were to cross each other’s path going opposite directions.
It was often just too much of a hassle for criminals to deal with the highroad. Still, since the rise of the Spires the highroads had gotten more and more lucrative. Some organized gangs worked a handful of stretches but most highwaymen were solo or pairings neither was much of a threat to the escorts and watchmen from The Cathedral and Spires. It often took dimwitted or youthful thieves an experience of terror a time or two to learn this. However, not all guards were Cassubian or Silvincian. A good number of the guards from more remote towns were dodgy, the likeliness of their aid at about fifty/fifty.
Staying just inside the tree line, Declan had no difficulty maintaining pace with the paladin and alm while staying hidden. The hinterlands were rivaled only by the Essian plains to the west, which seemed to go on interminably until draining away to a cold, gravelly shore. He had a special affection for the hinterlands, a perfect mix of forest, hill, and plain, so much so he found himself having to snap his attention back to his charges. Their meandering pace gave far too much leeway to daydreaming, and Declan had seen better men lose their life for doing as much. He needed to focus.
Declan knew the paladin’s reputation. Goshen came from an honored family and had put in an impressive career of service to the Cathedral. He’d fought in relatively small skirmishes as the Cassubia helped establish mark states around itself and had gone on more than a few attrition campaigns to the south. But, it seemed as though this paladin was taking a rather lax approach to his ward’s care. It took the pair nearly two weeks to reach Havan, a journey that would have taken others half the time if they had dawdled. Declan felt he was going mad. The boredom seemed interminable, and he found it difficult to understand how the two were managing not to go mad as well.
Nights spent on the highroad were unpleasant, there wasn’t really the option of settling in comfortably for it was meant for travel, not camping. The Cathedral had forbade the establishment of inns believing that doing so would create waysides that would exploit pilgrims. The law infuriated more than a few trade guilds, but the alternative was exactly what the Cathedral had feared. Travelers typically wanted to spend as few nights on the highroad as possible, but it seemed as though the paladin and the alm didn’t mind.
The two would rise obscenely early to engage in some kind of ritual and then ramble until the light died. Declan couldn’t complain really, the job was appearing to be far too easy. But it was beginning to annoy him—he wasn’t a simple tail and if this task turned out to be such, he’d seriously have to reconsider working for the Kyria again. Impatience killed, it had become his mantra. Declan knew he needed to settle himself, take the task at hand for what it was and meet its needs. As the highroad rose up over the foothills hemming the Siracene Highlands, the Anhrathid lowlands open up.
The descent into the lowlands running between the small cities of Rautia and Anhra had been a passage though mists trapped by the Glen Mark hills to the east and the Siracene to the west. The air was rich with the scent of sea kill and salt; it curled its way into your nostrils as the air thickened. Below the cloudbank, the highroad revealed its true worth, all around it the marshes and moors seemingly stood still. The trapped clouds made rains a constant.
The ever-present hum of insects and the churn of smaller creatures slithering through wet earth took center stage as visibility fell away. You only knew the road in front of you. Unlike the hinterlands, the lowlands proved to be difficult for Declan. He shadowed the pair closer than he would have liked and highwaymen were now an actual threat. The wetlands were far enough away from the larger cities that the Far Watch couldn’t be relied upon since Anhra was lax, to say the least, believing too much policing was bad for business.
The second day in the lowlands, Declan realized the pair were being stalked. It was clear these new shadows had been waiting for them, biding their time until the two appeared on the road. Declan stood over the remnants of the third camp he found of theirs—not more than seven men, no horses, but they were well armed as their tracks sunk deep into the soft peat. The camp space all looked the same, a small fire pit surrounded by the pressed ground of four small tents. This group wasn’t from the region, Declan figured, since they’d started a fire using tinder and wood. It must have driven them crazy trying to get a flint to spark with how damp it was. Most Anhrathids used the deep black peat for fire as it burned continuously giving off the necessary heat but without a revealing and easily doused flame. Their weapons weren’t too heavy, but they certainly weren’t lightly armed. Yet the tracks revealed soles more suited to sailing. Declan guessed it had been at least two days, if not more, that they had been here waiting, probably came up from the harbor.
“Couple days at each,” Declan muttered, “so at least a week waiting around.” He knelt and poked the charred ground around the fire pit, “Anything like me, must’ve been itching. But who? And why?”
He now had questions, which meant he had a new task. Declan smiled and looked around taking in the wild, the contract just got more complicated. Mircha Crossing was the one point where the highroad tapered down to join with the old Northern Road, which headed off up into the Siracenes. The junction would be the most opportune place to strike; it’d be where Declan would strike out at them if he were looking t
o do so. He stood and left the camp, making his way through the trees and brush.
“Maybe two days,” he whispered to himself as he climbed over a mound of stones. He moved deliberately as the rain began to fall again, “but more in this piss.” Declan drew out his monocular from his chest pocket as the rain came down harder. It had been on and off for the last few days but now the rain fell more constant. He spied the alm and paladin on the road huddled under an open side canvas tarp they had set up, their horses standing forlorn near them.
In the small circle of his monocular, he entertained the idea of interceding, of coming down to them and letting them know what he had found. The thought was quickly quashed. Tobin had said to follow and report, he said nothing about engagement.
He put the monocular down and continued to stare towards the pair, “I could just scout, tho,” he mumbled, “couldn’t hurt. I get nothing if these twits die.” Nodding he furrowed his brow, “But these brigands,” he slide down the boulders with ease, his feet hitting the sponge-like earth, and his hooded cloak slapping against his leathers with heavy with water. He hadn’t realized just how soaked he had gotten. He scanned the woods again, “Sure they wanna snatch ‘em,” he let out a long sigh then let his head drop. “Yep. Gonna have to poke around a bit.”
Declan stood and made his way through the thickening woods that climbed up towards the Glen Mark hills. The trees lightened the rain a bit but not enough to provide any real relief. His own camp was well back into these woods. He stopped after he had passed a wide dead stump and stared up at a nearby tall thick tree. Declan began to climb and found his pack untouched where he had stashed it about twenty feet off the ground. He pulled his monocular from around his neck for another peek at the pair.
The alm was now sitting alone around a fire. He panned along the road until he found the paladin tending horses. The canvas tarp was now more of a proper tent but the two still looked like specters in the rain as their dark forms moved against the grey backdrop. They were settled for the evening. Now would be the best time for him to get eyes on the newcomers. Declan drew his coat tighter around him whispering as he shimmied back down the tree, “Corsairs in a storm on a moor…hope they’re land sick.”
42nd of Lammas
The muddied road slowed the pair’s pace to Mircha Crossing, but Declan was glad for it as it allowed him to set up a more comfortable tree stand to monitor the two from a safe distance. The week before he had found the camp of the bandits easily enough, it seemed as though they had given up any attempt at genuine stealth. Still he had kept his distance and hadn’t been able to get a confident count. What he did have confirmed was that the men were definitely corsairs, so not casual or workmen seafarers. Declan was mystified why someone would hire pirates for this, it just seemed ham-fisted.
He brought his monocular up to his eye, “Well,” he sighed, “Let’s see tha dance.”
Hidden in plain sight, the bandits had covered themselves with a brush blind. Once the paladin was nearly on top of them, it was tossed aside and three men sprang out in an almost comical manner. Declan couldn’t help himself and snorted as he watched. It would have been a joke, if it hadn’t been painfully real. And painful it was, almost instantly the paladin was down off his horse mace in hand in a stance that shocked Declan it was so commanding. The crusader was reacting with a stunning quickness whereas the alm and her steed seemed frozen in time.
Even from where he was, Declan could hear the paladin bellow—a harsh piercing voice telling her to run. It was enough to snap her back to the present situation, but not enough to jar her good sense. The girl leapt from the horse and ran off. Declan had never seen anyone run so fast, one moment she was there and the next gone. She bolted, a combination of long strides and falling as she flew down off the highroad and into the marsh cutting a sloppy path through the unknown morass. Even though the soft ground slowed her pace, she was moving at a good clip. Soon she’d be out of his line of sight; Declan seemed to realize this at the same time as the bandits.
Two corsairs pressed the paladin, while the third tried to cut away after the alm; he wasn’t successful. Looking like he was hardly encumbered by his steel armor, the paladin’s agility was shocking. He did two rolling tumbles; when he rose to his feet, his first motion was extending his mace with enough force to collapse the back of the man’s head. For a moment, a ray of light fell on the paladin and his gold-tinged armor shone as he held an inspiring pose. It was short-lived. Though the other two bandits were doing a poor job of keeping pace and reacting as the now-brained bandit fell, they were upon the paladin.
“Needles.” Declan mumbled as the bandits closed in on the paladin with their thin sabers. He shook his head slightly, “I doubt that.”
The men were skilled; each had a lunge that found the breaks in the paladin’s armor but he seemed to take no notice. In fact, he moved in closer with his mace swatting their rapiers away. Declan watched as the paladin’s mace blow broke one of the rapiers and before the corsair could react his face was smashed by the paladin’s opposite hand in a mitten gauntlet. A final blow to the chest then sent him flying back landing sprawled out unbreathing. The third was able to land a slice on the paladin’s unarmored mace wielding arm, but the paladin grabbed the corsair, yanked him close, and twisted him to one side as he shattered the bandit’s knee with his own armored knee.
“Damn,” Declan muttered, “Either…ah, there it is…”
Three more men joined the melee. Apparently, they had been hiding on the highroad back where the two had come to prevent retreat. The paladin saw them and started to back away down the side of the road into the marsh. He took off after the alm. It wasn’t more than a few moments after the three bandits had disappeared into the marsh pursuing the paladin that a lone man emerged from the brush blind. Lean, he wore a red bandana around his face and held a handbow. This masked figure moved deliberately surveying the scene. Declan watched as the last man the paladin had fought tried to stand, he was reaching out to the masked figure for a hand up.
“No, that won’t happen.” Declan muttered.
Without so much as a look to the wounded man, the masked one shot a dart into the wounded man’s head then started after the paladin at hardly a jog. Declan stared after them for a few more moments. Then he lowered his monocular and began to climb down out of his tree stand, “Damn it.”
Once down he put his hands on his hips and tongued his cheek. Shaking his head, he made his way through the woods to the highroad to inspect the bodies. When he emerged from the tree line, he saw the two horses of the alm and paladin indifferently grazing. One of them raised its head and watched him cross the open ground and climb up the slight incline to the crossroads. He looked into the blind but saw nothing but a hole. He turned his attention to the corsairs.
“Of course,” he spat as he patted down the freshly dead bodies. They had no pockets, no identifying items, or insignia. These were merely fighters.
Squatting Declan picked up the broken rapier and examined it. The hilt wasn’t ornate but it wasn’t normal—there was an etching, a line of script framing a ship. He held it gingerly, and then hooked it to his belt. He doubted it would be enough for his employers but it would have to serve.
He approached the body that the masked man had shot. The metal bolt looked like a silver coin pressed to the man’s forehead, held by a thick crimson that leaked around it. Declan knelt pressing his finger to the bolt base; it had an oily film on it. He brought his finger to his nose, the film smelled acrid. He licked his fingertip, and then spat. The bolt was covered in poison.
Staring out over the marsh, Declan tried to guess who would be coming out of it to meet him. He shrugged turning away heading down the highroad, “So on to Anhra then.”
Chapter II
The Lowlands, 42nd of Lammas
Roth leaned over his small cone of wood and kindling, repeatedly striking a worn flint. He knew another rain shower was on its way and his impatience made igniting the tind
er that much more difficult. The air was thickening, becoming damp, and soon the sky would crack and the rains pour out. Sweat beaded his brow as his hat slipped forward slightly. Roth pushed the brim up again with his thumb and sighed, returning to his work. Coaxing a spark to ignite the mess of moss, leaf, and twig was trying. The marsh air had cooled, and a beading fog hung gradually turning into a thin, needlepoint mist.
A gentle drizzle started to fall, Roth paused and removed one of his gloves to scratch his chin. His beard wasn’t wooly but it was unkempt, he hadn’t seen a town much less an inn since late Beltane. The rough beard, long-brimmed hat, and up-turned collar of his long brown leather coat out in a marsh being consumed by a lowland storm cast him as an obscure figure. A grey mood was settling over him and it set Roth to his task with more vigor; he would have a fire tonight.
Finally, a spark caught the kindling and he threw a few more strikes for good measure. Just as a true flame emerged, the top of his hat creased slightly releasing a small pool of rainwater. It traveled down the crown, across the brim, and poured over the edge between Roth’s eyes. He watched this trickle fall with a seemingly uncanny certitude toward his young flame dousing it with quick hiss.
“Well fuck.” He tossed his flint down hard in disgust. Just as he did, there came a thunderclap and the sky opened in earnest with a hard, thick rain. Roth sat staring blankly straight out ahead of him. Sitting motionless he was quickly soaked, “I hate this place.”
He caught the sound of footsteps just then, a rush bearing down on his camp. Roth turned toward the sound and began to rise as a large body crashed into him. His face found nothing but mud as he felt the other’s heavy body atop him. Roth quickly recovered his wits and rolled out from under the body, then spun around to be atop the stranger under him. His vision obscured by the mud he punched the body now caught under him twice in the ribs. His fists only found metal, he pulled his arm back to strike a third time when he realized a woman was standing near him staring at him in shock. Her face stunned Roth and in that instant, he felt metal slam against the side of his head. Roth crumpled to the ground; though his vision was blurred, he caught sight of the body that was beneath him disappearing into the marsh holding the woman by the arm. Rising up on all fours, he stared after where they had gone.