by David Adams
Kozog
WATER. SOMEONE WAS TRYING TO drown him.
Flailing wildly, Kozog calmed when he heard Brea’s voice.
“Hey, hey, calm down you big lump. It’s me.”
Brea wouldn’t drown him.
The world was brighter; the sun was climbing up the edge of the nearby mountain range, staining the edge of the sky a light gold.
“How long?”
“You were unconscious for hours. You lost a lot of blood. There’s green everywhere.”
He tried to sit up, failed, and tried again. His body ached. “Why didn’t you at least bandage the wound?”
She put down the cold cloth and held out her hands. They shook slightly; thick blisters had formed over her skin, red and inflamed. “Can’t. I was hoping you could fix us both when you woke up.”
Kozog reached for the holy symbol underneath his shirt. Both pieces. They were bent, twisted beyond recognition, beyond use. This was a sign from his dead master. “Tyranus gives, and Tyranus takes away.” He breathed a heavy sigh. “Even if he answers my prayers, I can’t cast without channelling my Lord’s holy energy.”
“Holy, mmm?”
The two stared at each other, and then exchanged a laugh. Tyranus had been the lord of obedience and service, along with contracts and binding; most considered him a malicious entity. “Same, same,” said Kozog, groaning as he stood, wobbling on his feet.
“I actually meant just bandages,” said Brea, sliding to her feet with lithe grace. “Thank you, by the way.”
“For what?”
“That demon would have finished me if you hadn’t grabbed it. I’m alive. That’s worth celebrating.”
He shook his head. “You owe me nothing; you are alive because of your own skill. Your courage in attacking him with your dagger forced him to burn you instead of me; if not for that, he would have repositioned and I would have fallen. You saved me, and in doing so, saved yourself.” He smiled. “You underestimate yourself, Brea Fleethand.”
She blew out her breath, flipping back her fringe. “I didn’t imagine you would ever say that.”
“Why would I not?” He used his spear as a walking stick, heading back towards the Freelander encampment. “You think I do not value your strength?”
Brea fell into step beside him. “I don’t know what you value. You’re a mystery to me. On one hand, we have fought together for over a year, and aside from attempts to coerce people into signing overly legalistic contracts, you don’t strike me as an evil soul. On the other hand…you serve the Lord of Papers.”
“I certainly do, even if the Lord does not answer prayers these days.”
“That makes no sense to me.” She rubbed her burned hands against her sleeves.
“Faith is its own reward,” said Kozog, eyeing her hands disapprovingly. “Are you in pain?”
“Yes.”
A simple answer, well stated. Kozog was still recovering also, but he found his strength returned with words. “How can I help?”
“Distract me,” she said. No easy task. “Tell me…how did you join Tyranus’s church?”
That was as good a topic as any. “As many who were raised in Valamar, I joined the state religion because it was expected of me. I had strength, and the church needed that strength.”
Brea looked at him out of the corner of her eye. “I don’t believe you.”
Kozog did not understand “Why would I lie about such a thing?”
“Because ideals like yours, like Tyranus’s…people aren’t born with them. They become that; over time, strong hands beat the love of freedom out of you, and soon, you start to love the lash.” She rubbed her burned hands against her forearms as though cold. “You didn’t join the church because of some preconceived notion of duty, did you?”
Kozog bit down on his lower lip to stop the answer escaping on its own, but the words tumbled out anyway. “No.”
“Then why?”
He said nothing.
Brea’s voice was gentle despite her obvious pain. “What are you afraid of? There must be more to life than the church.”
“The church is not life. A common misconception amongst those who see Tyranus’s worship from the outside. The church is one thing: Power. Power is power. Axiomatic it might seem, but from power flows other things. Protection. Influence. Wealth. All these things give one the freedom to find life’s meaning.”
She laughed, a loud, long trill sound that seemed to go on and on. “Freedom, freedom, freedom. Are you considering moving permanently to the Freelands? Having a nice house, settling down, raising some little half-orclets?”
“Hardly,” he said, although there was an edge to his tone that was somewhat less than totally dismissive. “It is an entertaining thought, though, I will admit. The Lords of Valamar are now so distant from the land I have sworn to serve and the voice of my patron so silent. I would be remiss if I didn’t admit it was a tempting offer.”
She leaned toward him as they walked, a wide smirk painted on her face. “Just imagine it. We could travel together, north to Everwatch, freeing slaves and being heroes. We’d be an amazing team. Just you and me.”
He considered, letting the thoughts tumble in his mind for a time, but he had seen the truth of the matter and found it not to his liking. “A pleasant daydream, and entertaining, but no more than that. Our responsibilities are not so easily discarded.”
“No,” she said, her voice becoming quieter. “I guess not.”
From ahead, a shout of alarm drifted across the empty land. Freelanders. They had been found; a small team crested a ridge, running towards them. They stopped walking and exchanged a look.
“Will you tell me one day?” asked Brea.
“Why I joined the church?”
“Yes.” She smiled at him. “You can trust me.”
“I know. It is a story full of pain and surprises; I will not burden you with it now.” He reached out and clasped her shoulder. “And I want you to know, Brea, you can trust me with anything. Your life if necessary.” He smiled, then took his hand back. “Just don’t sign anything I give you.”
She just shook her head, blowing out a sigh as the Freelander field medics surrounded them, bandages and ointments in hand.
“Oh, don’t worry,” she said, the stars overhead bathing their little section of the Shadowlands in their unflickering light. “I figured that part out all by myself.”
Brea
Paladin Commander Banehal—not that anyone would ever dare address the tall, imposing, dark-skinned human with his title—welcomed Brea to his command tent with a firm nod. Before him lay a wooden table covered in maps, scrolls, and orders; the parchments were layered so thick they overflowed onto the floor.
“What news?” Banehal asked, standing, his eyes falling on her wounds.
They stung, but her pain was numbed by salves and ointments. “We were ambushed on the outskirts of camp,” Brea said. “My companion, Kozog, is recovering in the wounded tent. His wounds are severe, but he will survive.” Her words came with difficulty; even discussing such possibilities rankled her. “If only by the skin of his tusks.”
“I am pleased your companion will survive,” said Banehal. “Less pleased that dwarven aggressors dare to strike so close to our heart.”
“Not dwarves,” said Brea. “Demons. Babaus. A handful or more.”
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 joinin
g 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.
