Artorian's Archives Omnibus

by Dennis Vanderkerken

  The laughter that erupted from the trader was raw and unfiltered, “*Ah, ahah, aaah*. Now I finally understand what Hakan sees in you. Of course. You are correct, Grand Matron.”

  His greedy hands readily accepted the signed vellum, seating it in a prime position inside his favorite satchel. “I shall go inform your men that they may come to collect payment and begin their work.”

  The sour Elder kept silent a moment. A pruned glare settled on the man as she gave a single, accepting nod. To Boro’s great delight, she spoke bitterly as he began packing his unsold wares, “I look forward to finally being at peace.”

  His fingers took a moment to trace over the incredibly ornate, now empty box that had once contained his robe. It left a void within him. Boro felt that he had grasped a sensation the raiders had learned many moons ago. His acidic voice spat out a word, finally buying what Hakan had been trying to sell him all these seasons. The traitor’s voice was as dark as his new outlook on the value of other people’s lives.

  “Soon.”

  Chapter Nine

  The bonfire dance was a total success. Excess wood that had been stuffing the storage site was retrieved from the mound with drunken enthusiasm. Of course, neatly chopped logs spilled out when a few zealous drunks pulled from the bottom of the pile instead of the top. Ignoring the fact that the stack would need to be arranged properly the next day, the villagers simply knew that a continuous feed made for quite the blaze.

  “Oh no!” Most of the villagers were happy; Choppy wailed in panic and ran over to properly re-stack all the fallen wood. His well-organized towers!

  Pots were improvised as drumming instruments, and an ad hoc tune was brought to life accompanied by offbeat laughter. The villagers just didn’t know any better tunes or actual music. What they came up with wasn’t fantastic or noteworthy, but the extra noise added to the good spirits people were already in.

  The event provided an excellent excuse for some conveniently misplaced alcohol to resurge into availability, and it filled cups faster than even gossip could spread. The Elder gleefully fetched the cup with his status carved in on it but lost it due to being tackled by a horde of children that cried in defiance. They wrestled him en masse in an attempt to deny him the chance to get a sip of booze.

  “No head-pain juice! Drinking that means sleeping late! You promised!” The old man couldn’t quite remember what promise they were on about until he weakly laid face first in the grass. After both the kids and his cup were gone, of course. Face streaked with dirt, he was now one cup short of having enough cups to enjoy a drink with.

  “Oh. Right. The forest.” It was an unimpressive set of words that he mumbled into the dirt. Hit with the clarity of recollection, some help from an adult or two allowed the Elder to get back on his feet. Furious robe swatting ensued in an attempt to get the dirt and dry grass clumps off.

  To an insulted seamstress’s surprise, it took nearly no effort to get the robe clean again. She began fuming and threw her knitting needles on to the ground. Such a high-quality robe didn’t allow the grass to stick to it, and if the ground had caused stains, they couldn’t be seen in the bonfire light. How could she hope to compete with such work?

  The Elder sighed in defeat. His zealous horde of kids was not going to let this go, so he decided right there to finish the rounds and provide cordial ‘goodnights'. When he’d finally made it back into his home, his back was complaining and his spine was more difficult to ignore than a displeased murder of crows.

  Setting the door panel back in place, he could nary describe the relief that being alone and laying down brought him. Prized and precious relaxation welcomed him as he flopped back into the floofy folds of his blankets and pillows.

  Heavens did he enjoy being comfortable. His calm return to peace was interrupted by the appearance of several small heads in his window. The Elder nearly jumped out of his skin as a small finger pointed at him, and a hidden face whispered a message, “First light!”

  The owner of the voice scampered off after passing along the notification from what must have been the oldest girl. A tired smile settled over his features, and the old man felt everything grow heavy just before he slipped into the darkness. Undisturbed by the ongoing sound and light of the festivities, exhaustion quickly won out.

  Time for the best part of the day.

  Peaceful, soft breathing. Rest was achieved, and the Elder secretly hoped he wouldn’t have any bad dreams… as he began to snooze.

  Hakan

  In the raider camp, Hakan’s smile spread across her face with all the anticipation of a sadistic genie. She impatiently eyed the path of a much smaller trading caravan returning late in the depths of night. It was against custom for a trader to travel at night; after all… there were many dangers abound, such as raiders who could ambush you at any time!

  The blade-clad torturer mockingly copied Boro’s finger steeple as she watched the process of his attempted dismount from the cart, hungrily lusting for the large vellum that he proudly flipped from his favorite little bag. How did that huge thing even fit in such a small satchel? That just didn’t make sense! He was twirling the document around with great enthusiasm, precious prize obviously attained.

  “You deny me the enjoyment of my favorite activity when you provide such splendid results, Boro. How could you! I’m almost disappointed.” Hakan’s lusty words allowed her a flash of pleasure as the gaudy man flinched.

  Boro merely dropped the vellum into her open hand. “Signed and without ever bothering to read the contents.”

  Hakan blushed pink and shivered from raw delight! “I adore this little plan our overlord put together. These backwater nobodies never even consider reading the fine print.”

  Her cheer was stifled when she unrolled the document and began to read, noting the lack of signatures. Hakan’s eyes flared as hot as fresh-forged knives to the trader, who was a calm and collected bundle of confidence while he fondled his mustache. “Only… one?”

  “Irrelevant without survivors. All that matters is that there is a signature the rest of the Fringe recognizes as an established Elder,” Boro sneered. The merchant’s countenance was slipping again, and he was visibly thinking that nobody would miss the walking meat in that village if it went missing.

  Hakan gasped, hands on her lips at the realization that he’d converted. “You let it in! Oh, Boro! I almost want to ask what caused you to see the edge of the blade.”

  She didn't care for a response, instead looking back down to the vellum. She rolled the prize up, the signed land acquisition deed more than enough to satisfy her superiors. Enough for her to enjoy a personal journey of indulgence, most certainly. Hakan flagged down a messenger with the barest effort, handing over the important, bound document. “See that this reaches my Mistress.”

  Her words didn’t specifically state that failure meant a slow death by flaying. It was well known that these small pieces of vellum held the weight of a thousand blades, and the saluting messenger gave it the appropriate care before leaving at speed.

  Boro cleared his throat, and a dangerous amount of attention quickly fell on him. “My end of the contract is completed. I’ll collect my reward and be on my way.”

  He gave a slight bow and turned to walk straight for his caravan… but Hakan halted him with a question. “Oh, Boro, one thing before you go?”

  The raid leader smiled as the words fell from her lips. She spent an inordinate amount of attention on the details of one of her knives, a knife that hadn’t been in her grip just a moment prior. Pausing in his stride to quasi-glance over his shoulder, Boro waited for her question.

  Hakan hissed her message, “Die.”

  “That’s not a question…?” Boro had many concerns—some of them superficial, some of them self-serving. The concern that currently held his attention was the set of arrows protruding from his back. They had whizzed from the brush and stuck him deep with a meaty *thwack*.

  The sensation of his knees collapsing to the gro
und was somehow more painful than the arrows. Agony raced across his back, and he finally felt the wounds burn. His tear-filled eyes asked why; they were wide open—shocked. Boro’s jaw dropped and remained unmoving as the creeping poison numbed his tongue, extremities, and vitals.

  This poison was truly nasty stuff, and Hakan delighted in the front row seat to savor what her new venom did to people. She even approached and clasped Boro’s paling face with both hands, studying the man’s death in exquisite detail.

  Hakan’s voice was a husky whisper as her fingers traced over his swiftly chilling skin as his breathing turned to gurgles. “How I ache that you can’t scream for me. You must want to ask me a thousand questions! Did I have you shot because you’re of no further use? Did I have you killed because a trader that knows the lust can no longer be trusted to work with my reapers?”

  “Perhaps you were put down because all your goods and wealth are finally in a singular location, or… just maybe… did I have you slain for the sheer joy of seeing what this new venom does to a person?” Her voice lowered, moderating to the barest whisper; her words were meant only for the suffering man.

  *Shinn*! The iron bubbling of his own freshly cut throat bleeding messily over the ground was the last sound Boro heard before his life came to an ignoble end, and Hakan was the only one to hear her words.

  “It’s actually just because I wanted to kill you.” The pink flush of enjoyment grew on Hakan’s features as she gasped and squeezed the corpse between her shaking fingers. This feeling was the single most thrilling fulfillment in existence, and she lived for it. Without further fuss, she stood. Mechanically dropping the lump, the executioner eased back into her cold, fluid, raid leader demeanor.

  “Raid the dead man’s goods. He has no further need for them.” A messenger jogged up to the bloodied commander and saluted. The sadistic leader barely spared the short-winded girl a glance. It appeared the boys had become too frightful to deliver any news to her. Good. That set a far more natural hierarchy which she strongly valued over this irritating, contrived system of ranks. “Report.”

  The messenger spared no moment as the leader was short with her. “The village has begun a bonfire and is currently in the midst of celebrations. There’s more activity than we planned for the night raid, and with that massive torch in the middle of their settlement, they’ll see us coming before we’re close enough to properly mount an assault. They’re drinking and wildly roaming the village. Corralling them would be a pain, and it gives the prey we seek ample chance to run.”

  Hakan bit her gloved thumb with a *tsk*, mulling it over as she restructured her slaughter plan. “We strike at first light. All that alcohol will make them slower to act, and their poorly timed festivities will drain them. Our targets shall be considerably less aware than we were otherwise expecting. Trap them in their homes, and burn the entire thing down if they don’t have suitable recruits that fit my tastes. Even then, kill those that resist and don’t leave survivors. I want a messy and dirty slaughter; it will serve as yet another ash site for the mistress’s wishes.”

  The messenger was giving her a worried look but didn’t comment. Hakan grit her jaw as she didn’t want to address this. “Yes, yes, the direct superiors won’t be pleased that we’re wrecking a potential source of income and profit. However, they're really not the main echelon I’m here to please. Not with clerics on our heels.”

  She hissed out the concern, “Speaking of…”

  The aspect of sadism turned her full body to face the messenger, expecting a follow-up report. The scout girl was nervous and clearly hoping not to be asked this but now was quite stuck. The messenger’s lips mushed shut as the grip on the inside of her gloves tightened. Leaving the raid leader waiting was a good way to regret any further living, so her lesser fear relented to a greater one. “They are coming our way. We have no word from the distraction group.”

  Hakan frowned hard on hearing that news. “None at all? Nothing about the cultivators?”

  The messenger paled, her reply a crippled mess that lacked any confidence. “The best guess we have is that the special clerics are responsible, far ahead of expectations. Some of the men are worried that the big line of smoke coming up from the village is going to give them a direct target to aim for.”

  The girl stepped back as Hakan waved her off, irritated and not in the mood for more. “Bah. We need not worry. Morning will come, we’ll snag the recruits, clean up by burning all in our wake, and leave for the main encampment right away. We’ll be gone long before those cursed clerics find our reaped crops, so long as it’s not the abyss-blasted Choir. The Phalanx Sentinels are slow, the Inquisitor Branch languishes, and there’s no chance it’s an order of paladins.”

  The stern movement of Hakan’s hand dismissed the conversation along with the presence of those around her that didn’t already have a task. The coy raid leader was terrible with orders she was required to follow and even worse with unwelcome pressure from superiors other than her mistress.

  Being cooped up so long on the edge of a forest just waiting for instructions was not her forte. It made her hands itch, and that made the craving for potion prevalent. This assignment was looking less and less savory as she tried to find what was wrong in all of this.

  “The other team is the distraction?” she spoke her bothered thoughts out loud, squeezing her gloves. “We have likely been lied to in the older reports. The supposed distractions are not in place. Nothing at all is interrupting the path of the clerics.”

  The fresh report was likely true, and the annoyances were headed right for them. “Other team is the distraction my shiny rear.”

  They were being thrown to the wolves as the real distraction team. They’d been assured that they were going to be fine. Her teeth grit as the thought that it was her behavior and indoctrination of troops to her beliefs that caused this. What else would it be? It was not a secret she failed to play well with others—or even wanted to. So, if the upper rank and file desired to play little games with her…

  “Fine.” She’d play little games with them, too. The vellum was on its way, and she’d take enjoyment in defying worthless orders in the process. That annoying scrap of leather was all that mattered to the direct echelon above her, but Hakan’s lusts didn’t pay attention to that layer. Not anymore. Not after today. After today… it was her and her band against the world, and she was going to spread her influence far and wide.

  She’d abandon this nuisance called the Fringe and march right into dukedoms and bishoprics. The raid leader envisioned snatching them all away under the banner of her bloody dagger.

  Wasn’t there a castle in a grove that bordered the Fringe? Something for later, as she mulled over her short-term plan. Some new recruits, a party to her tastes, and she was all ready to go. Attack from the east via the trade route, preventing stragglers since the west just led to the seemingly endless flats, the local portion of which supported the production zone for the village. There was nowhere to run from there, as it led from the Fringe into the Unknown.

  If things did take a turn for the worst, she had standing orders in place to part from the village in waves. The first wave would soak up incoming arrows and serve as a distraction for the second wave, which was to assist and charge until the arrival of the third wave. Her personal selections for the third wave, however, included no such orders. The third wave was entirely designed to take all the goods and glory and retreat from the field of battle, leaving the others to buy time or struggle to catch back up.

  They’d take as many prizes as the wagons would carry! She’d had cages prepared and constructed, and they’d make a lovely box to carry her living treasures in, all packaged and ready for her to play with, to convert into properly raised adults. This new batch of children would be the first of many personally trained servants to carry her banner into future fields. That’s why it was important to get them young, while they were pliable.

  Anyone already certain of themselves would requir
e breaking, and that just led to mutinies, betrayals, backstabbing, and other unpleasantry she no longer had the interest or time for. She’d outgrown the practice of making torture a sport, and now was the time for bigger, better, and bloodier raiders. When Hakan had fresh guards posted, she decided to take a few hours to catch up on rest before her big day. Dreaming of glory to come.

  The advent of Hakan.

  Chapter Ten

  Crickets chirped in the dark when the kids snuck in through the Elder’s window. They each hopped on to the floor, in turn shushing the next one as their feet crunched on the popping shells they’d thrown a day before.

  The ruckus was anything but stealthy, and the Elder was long awake without moving a muscle or flinching an eyelid. He hadn’t decided what scheme to pull on them yet, but at the same time, he really didn’t want to get up. Any chance they’d forget mid-way and let him sleep? A firm nudge in his shoulder proved otherwise, his hopes shattered like the pleasant dreams he’d been having.

  “Elder,” a young voice impatiently whispered.

  “Elder,” it sharply repeated.

  The old man just rolled over in his bed, away from the poking. *Mmmmjjmm* “No~o~o.”

  The half-asleep response drawled out in a haze to the attempt to wake him. An unamused voice piped right up at normal volume, “Who has the pail of cold water we got from the well?”

  The oldest girl very plainly asked as the mousy voice—still outside—chimed up nonchalant conspiratorial banter, “I’ve got it!”

  The old man found this exact moment the perfect time to yawn wide and stretch with dramatic flair. What was so awfully cozy? It was soft and smooth. Rubbing his hands down aching sides, he was reminded of the Lazuli robe he currently donned. Oh dear. He’d let it air in the wind for some time while he did the usual morning routine. “Mmmsproutlings.”