by David Adams
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
