by Emmet Moss
Much has changed with our absence, the man spoke as if he was alone. This close to the stranger, Alessan realized that the man not only favoured his left arm, but that it was wrapped in a sling fashioned of vines and leaves. Dried blood covered his shoulder, the heavy stains old and brown.
“You’re hurt,” Alessan commented. Turning to dig into his pack, he pulled out a small root and offered it to C’Aelis. “Here take this, it will help to clean your wound. My father used to bring them home whenever mother hurt herself in the kitchen. Just chew a piece —”
Mash it in your mouth and apply it to your wound and it should deaden the pain as well as speed up the healing process, smiled C’Aelis. I may have spoken out of turn. Perhaps things have changed less than I first believed.
Carefully shifting his damaged arm, the man exposed a terrible wound. All along the jagged edge of the gruesome tear, Alessan recognized the light purple residue of the F’elan root.
“You know of the F’elan root? I thought it something of a secret within the Guild,” questioned Alessan.
Gently replacing the dressing, he nodded. I know not of your Guild, but of the root I am well versed in its properties. C’Aelis’ slight smile seemed to hide some deeper meaning.
“You must be from a faraway place if you know nothing of the Lumbers’ Guild,” Alessan exclaimed nervously. “Come to think of it, that wouldn’t surprise me in the least. Where are you from, anyway?”
Lumbers’ Guild? C’Aelis wondered, ignoring the question about his origin.
Suddenly a peculiar light shone in the entrancing eyes of the small man. Slowly extending his good arm, he reached towards a small sapling that grew at the stream’s edge. His long spidery fingers spread out like a fan, lightly brushing the young tree trunk. An almost imperceptible shiver rippled through the earth and trees in the area.
Alessan watched the serene expression that had settled over C’Aelis’ features dissipate. It was replaced with a look of such sadness that Alessan unknowingly reached out towards him, aching to ease some of the burden that this strange man obviously carried. Why he cared, Alessan could not say, but rarely had such strong emotions swept through his soul. As Alessan touched his arm, C’Aelis flinched and his hands broke their contact with the small tree.
They slay the woods. They kill the brothers and sisters of the earth, yet they know not how much pain they cause. They do not understand that it is not their fault. They only fight for freedom. Repeatedly nodding his head, the shaken man seemed confused. What have we allowed to happen? C’Aelis stumbled backwards. Alessan watched in stunned silence, as a tear slid down C’Aelis’ smooth cheek.
Finally finding his voice, Alessan asked, “Understand what, C’Aelis? What do you mean?”
But C’Aelis had vanished.
Alessan’s return to the Black Boar that evening brought a slew of queries from his mother. The coin he brought back served only to increase the barrage of probing questions about what had transpired at Oakfeld Patch that day.
“I worked on his accounts, Mother. After he realized I knew my numbers and was honest enough for his liking, I checked and rechecked his totals,” he lied.
Alessan was never comfortable being dishonest, but his visit to the Aeldenwood had to remain a secret. The members of the Lumbers’ Guild would surely enforce a harsh penalty for such a transgression were they to find out. He had no desire to face those consequences, and truth be told, he had enjoyed his adventure with Master Praxxus. Yet, his encounter with the strange woodsman had left him puzzled, and that worried him much more than anything his mother could say. Of the stranger, Corian Praxxus knew nothing.
“I don’t like feeling bought, Alessan,” his mother said. “But if you were doing honest work, I can’t very well be mad at the man.”
“Even if he needs help again?” Alessan added.
“We’ll see, son,” she answered. “For the moment you need to earn your meagre keep from this old woman. Get changed and help Varis clean the upper floors. A second merchant caravan is set to arrive early tomorrow morning, and I’ll not have the place looking like a sty.”
“Yes, Mother,” Alessan smiled while making a hasty retreat.
Corian had concocted the story hoping that Shani Oakleaf would allow her son the freedom of a few more visits out to the camp that month. So far, the wealthy merchant’s plan seemed to have worked beautifully. By the end of autumn, Corian would be heading northeast towards the capital of the lands ruled by the Northern Council. After resupplying in Glenvale, the master merchant planned on braving the long overland route south to sell his wares far from the semi-frozen trade routes of the north.
By nightfall, every bone and muscle in Alessan’s body had decided to complain. Not used to such physical exertion, he could barely keep the orders on his carrying tray as he served the many guests in the common room. He put on an energetic and cheerful outward appearance, as he did not want his mother to grow suspicious of his behaviour. A man who spends his day working on accounts is not someone who should be physically exhausted. Quietly thanking the gods that the Sylvani had not been given leave to drink in the inn this evening, he finished his chores relatively early and headed up to his room. Collapsing on his mattress with nary a thought to undressing, he fell asleep instantly.
Alessan Oakleaf dreamed that night. He did so almost every night, often about his hopes for the future. He would sometimes be a Lumber, or even fighting as a mercenary captain in the summer wars. With increasing frequency, he had also started to dream about some of the young ladies who lived in or around town. A small notebook at the side of his bed held the memories of everything except those particular dreams. This night, the strange visitor named C’Aelis was the focus.
He found himself in the Aeldenwood, striding purposefully along a marble path that he knew did not really exist. The trail was flanked not by wild and twisted branches, but instead by straight and proud trees that stood like guards on either side. In his hand he held a jeweled dagger, the golden blade glittering brightly in his grasp. The soft-spoken voice of the mysterious C’Aelis whispered inside his mind. Falling to his knees, Alessan clutched his head as pain ripped through his thoughts, much like it had earlier that morning. His vision clouded over, and he was threatened with a loss of consciousness. As darkness descended, he thrashed about, and the golden weapon fell from his tingling fingers.
He awoke in a small stone chamber filled with candlelight throwing shadows playfully against the ancient stonework. Glancing around the room, he was struck by the sad disrepair of the furniture. Old parchments covered by thick layers of dust sat on sagging shelves, and a grand oak desk was arranged in the center of the room. Alessan stretched his taut muscles and strode over to a small window. Staring through it revealed an impenetrable darkness, and he was taken by the smooth stonework ledge that rested beneath his fingers. Straining to see something in the gloom, he missed the soft tread of footsteps closing in behind him. As a hand came down to settle on his shoulder, he spun around and loosed a scream.
Opening his eyes in a panic, Alessan sat bolt upright in his bed. He heard his scream tail off into the air. Shivering uncontrollably, he peeled off his shirt. Damp with sweat, he tossed the top into the far corner of his bedchamber. Clutching his sides, he tried to stop the shaking as he reached for his notebook. He took a moment and scrawled a brief description of the unsettling dream.
Getting up, he made his way across the cold wooden floor and donned a new shirt. Still shivering, he turned away from his bed with sleep far from his mind, and trudged downstairs towards the now empty common room.
Hoping that Mallory had left a pot of stew out near the fire, Alessan glanced out a side window as he tiptoed quietly down the creaky stairs. He judged that it was still a few hours before dawn. As expected, the common room was empty of any customers. The fire in the great stone hearth sputtered weakly and, with minimal effort, he was able to
ignite a healthy blaze that was soon crackling. Disappointed that no pot hung from the iron ring above the hearth, he was content to place his feet close to the comforting warmth.
Why had he been so rattled by such a dream?
There were no creatures of darkness, no beasts with fangs, no wolves, or bloodthirsty hounds. Besides the incredible pain that had pierced his mind, a pain that he attributed to C’Aelis’ strange speaking talent, his dream had been somewhat unremarkable.
So he had walked on a forest path and looked about a small chamber. What of it? Confused, he leaned back against one of the wooden tables in the room.
“Can’t sleep, Ally?”
“What? —” he stammered. For a brief instant, he had been immersed in the dream once more. The startling voice jogged his memory, setting him on edge for the second time that evening.
“It’s only me, silly,” giggled Kayla. His sister gave him an exasperated look as she walked towards the table, two steaming mugs of cider, and a long piece of hard bread balanced precariously in her arms. “Well don’t just sit there, Ally, grab the mugs, please. Careful,” she added, “they’re very hot.”
“Sorry,” Alessan apologized sheepishly.
“Why are you so jumpy tonight? You looked like you were on your last legs before you even started working this evening. I notice these things you know,” she said, taking a seat beside him and pulling a woolen shawl tightly around her shoulders. Cupping the mug of cider between both hands, she sighed and closed her eyes.
“Just a bad dream is all,” he replied, carefully sipping his own drink. “Yourself?”
“Every once in while I just can’t sleep,” she shrugged. “Seems the harder I try to sleep, the harder my mind works at keeping my eyes open.” Kayla gave him a sidelong glance. “So tell me about this dream. It’s been a long time since you’ve been unable to sleep because of a nightmare.”
“You’re right, but back in those days, father was always…” Alessan
trailed off. An awkward moment of silence followed his reply. The death of
their father had been hard on both of the Oakleaf children; but if it had
served any purpose, Darren Oakleaf’s children had grown extremely close. Leaning her head against his shoulder, Kayla closed her eyes.
“It wasn’t really a nightmare, Kay, just one of those weird dreams that can leave you feeling different.”
“I have those sometimes. You probably wrote it down in that silly notebook of yours though, right?” she chided him. The notebook had been a fiercely contested item when the two siblings were younger. Kayla was forever finding new ways to discover and hide the cherished book. Had she not kept a small journal of her own thoughts, Alessan may never have seen his beloved journal again.
“Kayla, do you believe in the old legends?” Alessan questioned.
“The ones I sing about?” she replied.
“I mean all of the legends. Bael, Gort Greatwood, the Under Wars, or even the stories of Queen Eris of Magnach,” he answered. “I used to think they were all real people at one time or another, but now I wonder if they are only fanciful tales.”
“I know that when I sing about Bael, Eris or even the Gorimm, I can feel something channel through my body. It’s an energy, and I take strength in those powerful feelings. I like to believe that it is the audience and their belief in the story being told that gives me such a sensation.”
“But do you truly believe in them?” Alessan pressed.
Kayla took a moment to consider her answer. Alessan smiled as he watched his sister’s round face crinkle as she weighed the matter carefully.
“I believe they all have some form of truth to them. I hope they are real. I know they can’t all be stories simply made up to entertain children.”
“No, I guess they can’t,” Alessan whispered and hugged his sister close. Sharing the shawl with her brother, Kayla snatched the last bite of bread.
They chatted quietly about a great many things that night, but Alessan found it hard to push the dream completely from his unsettled mind. As the feeble grey dawn heralded the coming of a new day, he crawled back into his bed. And though he slept, a deep and restful repose remained elusive.
Companies must be registered at the onset of every season. Failure to comply will result in the refusal of contract rights for the upcoming Ca’lenbam. Grievances proving that unforeseen circumstances delayed registration can always be submitted at said Gathering.
—Mercenary Code of Conduct
Chapter VII
Garchester, Protectorate
Darkness… impenetrable… menacing…
Once again, the nightmarish terror assaulted him as he slept.
Spinning, Gavin could feel the hot breath of his pursuers through the tangled maze of undergrowth, yet he could not see them. There was only darkness, and it beckoned him from beyond. He could sense his thoughts being shredded like fine parchment. His muscles were cripplingly contorted, and he lost his balance as he tried to run. The creatures arrived, filled with unyielding hate, and with deadly fangs exposed. He screamed and was consumed by the black void…
Gavin awoke with a start, his heart hammering in his chest. Breathing heavily, he assessed his surroundings in an instant, sighing softly once he realized he was safe. He had escaped the horror for another night.
Turning his head, he was comforted by the usual sounds of the company readying for breakfast. The clang of pots could be heard, as well as the voices of men who had pulled morning duty. Usually a chore delegated to the greener recruits of the company, this morning at least things had changed, and gruff veteran voices pierced through Gavin’s haze of sleepiness. Ethan had, as ordered, placed veteran warriors on the early shift, giving his squad a good night’s rest in case they were needed that morning.
Cocking an ear to the proceedings, Gavin heard nothing untoward, and walked over to the small wash basin Caolte had left in the tent. Splashing water over the entirety of his head, Gavin shivered as the cold shocked him fully awake. Donning the company tabard over expertly crafted chainmail and snatching a pair of leather gloves, the Fey’Derin captain stepped out into the sunlight.
“Morning, Captain,” called out several soldiers. Each snapped a sharp salute and returned promptly to their chores. Gavin sighted Caolte and Brock seated by one of the fires; the older clansman was whittling away at a piece of wood, the younger officer deftly sharpening his sword. He called out a greeting, accepting a mug of hot tea and a hard biscuit as he joined them.
“She’s getting colder these days,” said Gavin around a mouthful of food.
“Bah! If we were near Marshlair this time of year, you’d be slogging through ice and mud whilst freezing your toes off,” exclaimed Caolte.
“Still warmer down south than up near the Shield,” Brock added. “Does this look sharp enough, Captain?” he passed his weapon down to Gavin.
Thumbing a finger up and down the length of the blade, he nodded and smiled. “T’is fine, Brock. I also wouldn’t be familiar with the climate of the Iron Shield.”
“Why’s that, Captain?”
“Honestly never been there, Sergeant. Furthest north I’ve travelled would be near the mountains. I stayed there for a few days while running an escort for Black Company,” Gavin replied.
“Black Company was your first, eh Captain?”
“Yes,” he paused thoughtfully. “It was a long time ago.”
“Back in your younger days?” added Caolte, winking at Brock. It was an ongoing company ruse to heckle the captain about his age. Although most men deemed he had lived almost thirty summers, Gavin had never revealed the truth. It was common knowledge among the soldiers that when the Fey were founded, now five summers past, Gavin Silveron had been the youngest mercenary to ever lead his own company.
Shaking his head at the laughter that rippled aro
und the fire, Gavin finished his biscuit. A comfortable silence, one that only soldiers who have spent years campaigning together could appreciate, settled over the site. Even in the cold of the morning, somehow everyone was warmed by each other’s company. Such was how this strange collection of men, all failed mercenaries before rising to fame in the Fey’Derin, lived and enjoyed their second lease on life.
“Is Coren around this morning?” Gavin asked.
Scratching his moustache, the older lieutenant finished a long drink of steaming tea before answering. “Bider? I sent him out earlier than usual. You know how he gets when we approach the cities.”
“A little excited today, was he?” added the Fey’Derin captain.
“A little! Hah, he was practically humming with energy,” Caolte replied. “I told him we needed an idea of what we’re coming up against. He’ll be busy sniffing around every rock and pebble this side of the city. I don’t expect he’ll be around until we break at midday.”
“Are we anticipating trouble today, sir?” Sergeant Fearan inquired.
“No, no, Brock,” Gavin shook his head. “Garchester won’t be under siege until later this week. Not even Gadian Yarr can move men that quickly. With the Lady Farraine in Duke Berry’s pocket, we’ll have far less to defend against.”
With one hand shielding his eyes from the sun, Bider scanned the countryside. The sheer canyon cliffs had fallen off, only open fields, already harvested for the upcoming winter, greeted his gaze. Far off in the distance lay the outer walls of Garchester. From his vantage point atop a large outcropping, the Fey’Derin scout could make out heavy movement clogging the roads leading to the city. Large caravans, many overloaded with a myriad of household objects and supplies, crawled relentlessly forward. Families on foot were trying their best to slog through the muddied roads, parents urging their smaller children to keep up. For a city the captain expected to fall under siege, there seemed to be an urgency to the actions of all those seeking entry.
