by Emmet Moss
“Aye, Captain, my kinsmen would tear down the walls of Imlaris with their bare hands if that were the case,” spat the older warrior.
Visibly frustrated, the Fey’Derin captain pulled on his leather gloves and adjusted his cloak. Rubbing his hands together for warmth, he let his gaze travel through the room, resting for a moment on each of his trusted companions.
“Well, we may as well resign ourselves to the fact that we have no idea what is going on in that scoundrel’s mind. We need only concern ourselves with the contract at hand. Once we hear from the scouts, we’ll decide whether we hit our targets in the pass tonight or tomorrow. Sergeant McConnal,” Gavin turned to the towering man who still teased the ashes of the dying fire, “set up the watch rotation for the evening. If necessary, Ethan will relieve you and your men come dawn. For this evening, double the watch, standard sentries and perimeter as if for a wartime situation. One can never be too safe.” Pausing for a moment, the young captain motioned to two of the men. “Caolte and Ethan, I want you both with me. We have time to review the plans for the Lady Farraine.”
In mid salute, the Fey’Derin officers paused as two men ducked under the tent flap. The older man saluted the young captain and said, “Pardon the interruption, Captain, but word had been passed that you were to be notified once the scouts had reported in. Bider has sent word that everything is clear.”
“Excellent,” answered Gavin. Turning to his officers as he stretched his tired muscles, he continued. “Gentlemen, a change of plans. Assemble your teams immediately. It’s time we pay the Lady Farraine a surprise visit.”
“Arne’s fury!” hissed Bider. His body tingled uncomfortably, just as it had earlier in the night. “That damn mage must be awake again.”
“Aye, I feel it as well,” replied Orn. “Let’s head towards his wagon and see what we can come up with. If he shows any indication the spell is one used to search the countryside, we move now.”
“Understood,” nodded Bider.
Staying low to the ground, he followed the tall and lanky Orn Surefoot, the company huntsman and lead Fey’Derin scout. Bider’s dark eyes probed the surrounding shadows. Based on the encampment’s arrangement, he was confident that Pier’s Brigade was not expecting any unwelcome visitors this evening. Only two pairs of sentries had been posted to each side of the trade route, and both were spending their respective watches chatting nonchalantly and playing cards.
The western sentries had paid dearly for their lack of discipline; their lifeless corpses now lay stashed in a dense thicket near the side of the road. Clustered close together, the groups of tents and supply wagons were easy targets for any nighttime invaders. A small group of men could easily contain any attempt by the slumbering soldiers to break free of an attack. Near the center of the campsite only a handful of men remained on guard duty. They remained huddled miserably around a small burning fire.
Only an oddly decorated wagon stationed near the edge of the site was reason for concern. Covered in a myriad of arcane symbols, strange in the eyes of the Fey’Derin scout, the wagon left Bider with an uneasy twinge in his stomach. It could only belong to a user of magic; a rebellious mage in this case. The Silveryn Order, long removed from the political arena of Caledun, had not sanctioned any involvement in this year’s warfare. They rarely concerned themselves with the affairs of the greater world. Renegade mages were a rarity and their presence certainly meant trouble.
“There he is!” came Orn’s urgent whisper.
Bider squinted as he scanned the edge of the brush behind the wagon. Although it took a moment for his eyes to adjust, he had no trouble picking out the shambling gait of a tall man wearing a dark robe. The small scout shook his head in disbelief as he watched the mage hitch the robe around his waist and squat down to relieve himself. The two Fey’Derin point men exchanged a knowing glance; Thaal, Elder God of Luck, had surely turned his eyes their way.
Crawling forward on his stomach and careful to conceal his movements and weaponry, Bider closed in on his quarry. When he was but a scant few feet behind his target, he rose stealthily from the grass and padded forward with speed. The sorcerer failed to hear the approach.
Bider’s dagger sliced soundlessly across the man’s throat and his leather-gloved hand closed over the unsuspecting mage’s mouth. Gently cushioning the dead man’s fall, he spun into a ready crouch with his eyes scanning once again for any unanticipated movement. Seeing nothing, he paused briefly to wipe his stained blade on the hem of the mage’s robe.
“Must have been a heat spell that he was using,” whispered Orn as he joined Bider behind the late mage’s wagon.
“By Arne, as long as he didn’t hear my approach, I really don’t care.” Bider replied. Sheathing his blade in a bandolier that crossed his chest, he peered cautiously around the corner.
Shrugging, Orn took a swig from a silver flask taken from a small pouch hanging on his belt.
“Put it away, Orn,” warned Bider with a scowl, “you know what the captain thinks of that habit of yours.”
“Yer no priest yourself, Bider,” countered the veteran with a stare of contempt. “Just let me be.”
“You know damn well that Gavin will see things differently. Put it away,” replied the Fey’Derin soldier, a dangerous tone lurking behind his simple words.
Bider knew Gavin’s opinion on the matter was important to Orn Surefoot, more so than the veteran scout would like to admit. The two Fey’Derin owed their loyalty to the man who paid their coin and both knew it would take a calamitous event to shake their devotion to him, coin or no coin.
Gavin Silveron had saved more men than he would ever take credit for. He had created his first company with little more than the castoffs from almost every company in the north. The veterans recounted stories to the new recruits, testifying to their own decrepit lives until rescued by the captain or his lieutenant, Caolte Burnaise. Even the greatest could fall from grace, so said Gavin.
Most men in the Fey’Derin remembered times when they had slept alone in alleyways or lay naked and bruised as they were beaten by ruffians. In this company, men were not ashamed by the past and Gavin ensured that they learn from it. Captain Silveron was hard and unyielding, yet fair and trustworthy; a combination that seemed to favour the men of the Fey’Derin.
For a long moment, both scouts locked gazes. Then, without another word, Orn Surefoot placed the flask carefully into an inner pocket and turned his attention towards a second wagon, this one quite ornate and obviously belonging to nobility. Delicate magenta fabric swirled softly near a curtained window and light music drifted idly from within.
After studying the disposition of the center guards, Orn seemed satisfied. Whispering over his shoulder, he crept forward. “Come on, Bider, the company will be here any minute and we wouldn’t want to keep a lady waiting.”
“Ethan, you and your remaining Eagle Runners will be our support this evening. Stay mounted on the western side. I don’t expect much resistance,” said Gavin. “But stay sharp regardless.”
“Aye, sir,” the officer replied and slipped out of the tent.
“With their mage out of the picture, this should be routine, Sir,” offered the large veteran Sergeant McConnal as he lumbered forward. Encased in a thick hide of steel plates, the officer shouldered his heavy broad axe and eyed his own assembled command. Ossric’s Axemen were an imposing group. Armoured much like their commander, these grizzled and hulking men formed the backbone of the company’s heavy infantry.
Nodding in agreement, the captain replied, “Aye, routine.” Then, pausing for a moment, he raised an eyebrow as he tightened his worn leather belt and scabbard. “I thought routine a word that veterans frown upon, Sergeant?”
Grinning viciously in the moonlight, the big man laughed. “You must be listening to our campfire conversations lately, Captain. From now on I better mind what I say about you and Lieutenant Burnaise
.”
“Too late for that, you great lummox! But don’t worry, we’ll continue this conversation after tonight’s engagement,” added Caolte with a grin of his own. Turning to Gavin, the older soldier sketched a quick salute. “Everyone’s in position. Once Brock’s archers hit their tents, the smoke should cover our own advance. With Orn and Bider taking care of Lady Farraine, that’ll leave Ossric to finish up. Those lazy sots will never know what hit them.”
Keep my weapon safe, its edge sharp. Let my eyes not wander, focused must I be. Let the woods be calm, my enemies asleep.
—Lumber Oath
Chapter III
Briar, Northern Council
Morning came far too quickly to Briar, at least for the sleepy-eyed Alessan. His body rebelled as the light of dawn crept through the sides of the drawn curtains in his bedchamber.
Lying on his back, it took a considerable effort to instigate his terminally weak muscles into motion. Even the chill of the morning failed to invigorate his weary body. Thankfully, Varis had risen early and given him a much appreciated hand with the inn’s daily chores.
A full cup of honeyed tea, and a large helping of eggs later, he felt much better, although it still pained him to move about. Such was the curse of his frail condition, not that he had grown up knowing anything different. He often wondered whether anyone else in Briar had ever experienced the same daily discomfort.
The gods certainly know how to play cruel jokes on some of us, he thought.
Spooning up the last of his eggs, Alessan watched as a nervous smooth-faced soldier strode in through the front entrance. The boyish mercenary looked barely old enough to enlist in a company, and seemed genuinely ill at ease. While he wore the colours of the Sylvani, his armour and company tabard were in immaculate condition. Alessan had met enough battle hardened veterans, with their well-worn regalia of often mismatched pieces picked from the field, to recognize a new recruit when he saw one.
The soldier was clenching a small scrap of folded paper in his right hand. From only a few tables away Alessan could see that it bore the official trade symbol of the Merchant Union of Innes Vale.
More out of curiosity than friendship, Alessan made his way over to the soldier. “New to the Sylvani?” he asked.
“Yes, I just finished training last week and with our numbers so low, well… here I am,” the new recruit replied sheepishly.
“Has Captain Pragg given you a day of rest? I haven’t seen any other Sylvani lurking about,” Alessan asked. “It’s a little early, but I’m sure our cook can have a hot plate of sausages ready in a few minutes.”
“Oh no, I can’t really,” the mercenary replied. “Thank you all the same for the offer, but I’m not looking for a meal.”
“Oh?” Alessan raised an eyebrow.
“I have been tasked with an errand for Master Praxxus. The company is drilling on the outskirts near Oakfeld Patch and I’m already running behind schedule,” he replied hastily. “I’m to find a man named Alessan here at the Black Boar and deliver this message. Any chance you might know of him?”
“Aye, I’m quite sure I know who he is,” Alessan chuckled. “I am the man you are looking for.”
The recruit was somewhat taken aback, his eyes flitting over Alessan’s stunted form. Alessan did his best to ignore the look, but in his heart he knew the difficulty in dismissing the constant barbs and stares often directed his way.
Offended for a brief moment, a touch of anger threatened to bubble to the surface. Somewhere deep within his spirit, those secret feelings were seething as never before. He turned his face away from the soldier, hoping to hide any evidence of his momentary inner struggle.
“Is there a problem, soldier?” Alessan asked after a lengthy silence had stretched out between them.
“No… no!” the messenger sputtered a reply.
“Did you expect someone different, maybe a Lumber, perhaps?” Alessan retorted.
Flushed with embarrassment, the young recruit thrust the folded missive into Alessan’s outstretched hand. Then, mumbling a hasty apology, he fled the common room of the inn as if being chased off by wolves rather than a frosty stare. Watching him run off, Alessan shook his head in frustration.
At least he apologized. That, in itself, is a rarity.
With the encroachment of the Aeldenwood, some of the oldest settlements now lay within the boundaries of the dark forest. Its steady advance was now a concern to all who inhabited the lands that were under guardianship of the Northern Council in Glenvale. Even with increases in the Lumber population, still did the trees of the Aeldenwood appear each morning, seemingly unstoppable even against the valiant axes of the trained woodsmen.
This had not always been true. For years, the annals of the Guild documented a slow, yet steady decline of the northern eaves of the forest. Since Alessan’s birth, the imposing trunks had shot even higher into the sky. What had been but a pinprick on the horizon as a child, was now a tall black shadow as menacing as the darkest storm clouds.
The advance remained one of the land’s most enduring mysteries. It was even recorded that eighteen years earlier, the archmage Tel’Caldron of Dragon Mount led an expedition into the heart of the forest. It was said he had been in search of the fabled Gorimm city of C’aisil-Chro. Tel’Caldron had entered the forest from the east with an impressive force of mercenaries numbering close to one thousand. They were never heard from again, nor would any trace of the doomed expedition ever be recovered.
The Silveryn Order has since refused dozens of similar appeals to explore the interior of the fast growing Aeldenwood. The mages of Dragon Mount contend that they continue to do all that they possibly can to find answers from their lofty perch in the Erienn mountain range. And yet for years now, no word has come from them, and still does the Aeldenwood grow.
Everything in a Lumber camp is built from the fallen trees of the Aeldenwood. It serves as a reminder to all who live within the stout wooden walls that the trees will pay dearly for every acre of land they swallow while the Lumbers still have breath.
Walking under the gates of Oakfeld Patch, Alessan craned his neck and took in the sights and sounds of the camp. The steady rhythmic chopping of the Lumbers was much louder than the distant continuous pops heard while in Briar. Long timber houses circled the perimeter with their walls touching the sides of the large settlement. A smithy and stables had been built near the center of Oakfeld Patch, with both buildings flanking a small church and meeting hall.
The outskirts of the Lumber fort were covered with bright and colourful tents belonging to the Sylvani. The mercenaries barely spared a glance as the young Alessan strode through their area. Most of the men were relaxing near campfires or tending to their equipment. One large officer was barking out a string of profanities as he supervised a training session near the center of the site.
Although the Black Boar often housed the officers of a company, the regular mercenaries were discouraged from staying directly in town. The people of Briar had learned over the years that drunken soldiers sleeping in town often caused problems. The well-mannered men of the Fey’Derin were an exception. With their base camp situated a day’s ride to the north, they had always shown themselves to be a cut above the common soldier. Their officers, and especially the brooding Captain Silveron, had always expected exceptional behaviour while in town. Such respect did not go unnoticed.
Surveying the camp with wide eyes, Alessan could do little to stifle his excitement. Striding purposefully into the compound, he reveled in the earthy smell of freshly cut wood, the warm breeze on his face, and the incessant pounding of the Lumbers hard at work. Closing his eyes for a moment, he imagined himself carrying the weight of an axe in his hands. Breathing deeply, he lost himself in the wondrous vision.
His left hand clutched the missive that had arrived by courier that morning. It was an invitation to meet with th
e venerable Corian Praxxus here at Oakfeld Patch. Intrigued, and somewhat mystified by the offer, Alessan had begged his mother’s permission to allow him to fulfill the summons. She was quite skeptical about the whole affair, but begrudgingly allowed her son to skip his chores and depart. She knew that it was not every day that a wealthy merchant from the Vale showed interest in a commoner from a small northern village.
Grabbing his favourite walking stick, Alessan headed out of town with his heart beating excitedly at the prospect of such an interesting rendezvous. He took the better part of the morning to arrive at his destination, as he preferred to stop and rest on a few occasions. His legs were far stronger than his arms, but they still required much coaxing.
Two Lumbers passed him at the gates, as did three mercenaries who were each carrying a large keg of ale. For once their reactions, or lack thereof, mattered little to Alessan.
“Alessan, well done! I’m glad you could make it,” called out a familiar voice from the entryway of the meeting hall. “But had I known you would need to make the trek on foot, I would have sent a horse for you,” Corian Praxxus frowned.
“It’s no trouble, Sir. I enjoyed the walk,” Alessan replied courteously.
The master merchant was dressed in a long burgundy robe trimmed with silver thread and lined with thick fur. Belted at his ample waist was a jeweled dagger, the ivory handle an obvious work of great craftsmanship. Alessan marveled at the rings the man wore on his thick fingers. More gold than he had ever seen in his lifetime rested upon those pudgy hands. Corian’s greying hair and thick beard were heavily oiled with a heady perfume. Although not an unpleasant scent, the strong aroma made Alessan somewhat uncomfortable as he shook the merchant’s proffered hand.
