The Mercenary Code

by Emmet Moss

  A shiver swept through Leoric as he peered down over the edge of the tall escarpment where they were perched. Far below, sprawling across the entire length of a massive clearing, was an armed goblin camp. Hundreds of figures were spread about the area. All were hard at work.

  Some trained with bows, others at close combat, and from a distance the bordermen could make out two large tents where the distinct clanging of metalwork rang out. The trainees wore an assortment of armor types and had adorned their protective pieces with slashes of bright colors. A simple detail, yet Leoric noted it immediately, sensing that it could be the most telling observation gained from their discovery.

  For ages, the goblin tribes of the north remained fractured and divided, spending as much time killing each other as they had raiding the human settlements in the south. Over many years of warfare, the men of the Iron Shield had learned to discern goblin tribes by the colours they displayed in battle. Never before had any boderguards discovered a settlement or raiding party that consisted of mixed tribal members. Yet here in the camp beneath Sergeant Alleran and Leoric, were hundreds of the creatures wearing a variety of different shades.

  “The markings, sir,” he whispered, carefully pointing towards the vast open area that served as the main combat arena. “At least a dozen, if not more.”

  “Fourteen, D’Athgaran,” Sergeant Alleran answered. “This does not bode well for the Shield.”

  Again Leoric felt as though they were being watched as he continued to stare down into the clearing. Scanning the surrounding forest proved futile; as far as he could tell, the two men were alone. The feeling remained and glancing towards the trees, he was startled as the sergeant grabbed his arm.

  “Relax, soldier, we’ve seen enough. The Marshal needs to hear our report and learn what we may be facing this coming spring.”

  “Spring?” Leoric asked as the two men slowly backed away from the edge of the cliff, disappearing into the thick brush from where they had emerged.

  “Attacking in the winter wouldn’t make sense. And besides,” the sergeant added, “they aren’t ready. They aren’t working on tactics down there, only the basics. I gather they have only just started their preparations.” Catching Leoric’s puzzled expression, the officer continued, “The edges of the clearing have been freshly cut, I could see the new stumps even from this distance. The grass in their main training area is still green, hardly what you would expect if hundreds of goblins had tramped across the earth for any length of time. I doubt they expected the Marshal to send out a patrol this late in the year and assumed they would have little trouble keeping the camp safe from detection.”

  Impressed by Alleran’s keen eye, Leoric slipped the mace back into the loop on his belt as he followed the borderman south back towards the measured pace of the travelling column.

  Marshal Aram was incensed that the goblin tribes had begun preparations for war. That the long-time commander of Darkenedge was surprised by a unified force of the savage creatures was call for concern. For well on thirty seasons, the Marshal had defended the settlements near his keep. Never had any inklings of a tribal alliance surfaced among the savages. The goblins, simply put, were never expected to exude any kind of civilized behaviour. To Marshal Aram, a man who had crushed many a war party, the thought seemed preposterous.

  The numbers to the north also dictated a harsh new reality — there would be no raiding on this patrol. Their numbers, well-trained or not, were far inferior to what the border commander needed to safely attack. Even a disturbance of the goblin training program could cost the Iron Shield far too many lives. With the certainty of war laid plainly before him, the Marshal knew that every man who could wield a weapon atop the walls of Darkenedge would be worth far more than a man riding into battle in these accursed woods.

  With regret, Marshal Aram ordered the column south, and deeper into the woods, in order to avoid any chance of discovery. Sentries would be posted that evening, their numbers doubled as an added precaution, and the entire patrol would head west the following day. The safety of the keep was of paramount importance, as was the responsibility to alert the other border keeps regarding the perilous situation. A unified goblin nation with months of preparation time may not match the Shield’s battle prowess or discipline, but their numbers alone could tip the balance.

  The company increased their travel speed, but the need to cross a few deeper streams caused serious delays in their movement. By nightfall, the patrol had gained far less ground than planned. Even Leoric agreed that to remain so near the goblin camp was tempting fate.

  Scouts had spent the better part of the day disguising their travel as best they could. Regardless, they all knew if the trail were discovered with such little distance behind them, they could be overrun that night.

  Leoric was thankful to have pulled first watch. After spending so many late nights staring into the frigid darkness from the Crow’s Tower, he found the enclosed woods almost comforting. The cold wind barely pierced the thick tangled growth of the forest, and he remained far warmer than he ever would have believed. His sentry duty passed by quickly and uneventfully. He had heard no break in the eerie quiet of the night, and had detected only one brief glimpse of movement — a small red fox running nimbly atop the thin crust of snow.

  After his replacement arrived, Leoric stopped by the center of camp and greedily gulped down a steaming mug of hot cider. He was surprised when the Marshal had given permission for a small, albeit well-sheltered blaze to be built for their comfort. The Marshal, as always, seemed to fear little, even with the gravity of the situation so clear after today’s unexpected findings.

  Finishing his cider and a small meal, Leoric sank gratefully into his bedroll. Pulling his woolen cloak tightly around his body, he listened to the soft murmur of the men on duty near the fire, as well the strange creatures chirping and rattling in the night. He was soon fast asleep.

  “You know this place isn’t so bad. I mean, it’s eerie and a little unnerving at night, but all in all not so menacing as the stories have told. It was actually quite beautiful when we rode beside that river this afternoon with the sun glinting off the snow and water. I could al —”

  “Oh shut your mouth, Darius,” whispered one of the men dicing to his left. “And keep an eye out there. If you’re talking, you can’t be watching.”

  “So shut up!” added another. The men around him laughed.

  The perimeter guards were stationed a good distance from the main camp. Marshal Aram had posted four sets of men for the evening, but at this moment, two pairings were embroiled in a low stakes game of dice. Staring deep into the forest gloom, Darius Morten returned to his duty, doing his best to ignore the continued chuckling and barbs sent his way.

  He was a recent arrival to Darkenedge and the younger bastard son of a minor noble from the south. Most of the men were aware he had been sent away as a form of exile, keeping him far away from the prying eyes of his father’s estranged wife. Darius, on the other hand, believed that he had been sent north in preparation to one day inherit the command of his father’s armies. Darius Morten was not known for his intelligence.

  He did, however, take the responsibility of his profession quite seriously. Standing guard in the darkness, he stared intently into the forest. His eyes had adjusted quite well to the night’s gloom, and for the second time in the last few minutes, he thought he had detected movement directly ahead. A large ancient and gnarled tree might offer great cover had someone been attempting to sneak up on the borderland guards.

  “Warren! Warren!” he whispered out of the side of his mouth. “I need your advice on something.”

  The large soldier looked up from his game and sent Darius a look of hatred. Swallowing nervously, he tried a second time. “Warren! There is something moving out there.”

  “Bloody hell, Darius! If you’ve interrupted my game for nothing, you’re dead,” came the reply
. Reluctantly, the big soldier pulled himself to his feet and came to stand at the young man’s side. “What did yo —”

  In quick succession, three arrows penetrated Warren’s body; one in the neck, leg, and chest. Gurgling with pain, the man collapsed to the ground. As Darius raised his voice in alarm, a second volley whipped through the night air. Shocked, he fell forward, pierced through by three black-feathered shafts. As his lifeblood slowly leaked out on to the forest floor, Darius watched in horror as dozens of black shapes ran past him towards the camp.

  Two long ragged screams interrupted Leoric’s dreams. The borderman immediately bolted to his feet, kicking his bedroll aside and frantically diving for his weapon. His defensive instincts, ingrained through countless hours of training, took over. Taking a deep measured breath, his hand closing over the worn leather grip of his mace, he joined a gathering of men in the center of the camp. Wearing little more than his leather breastplate, leggings and boots, he gazed sheepishly at the fully armoured Sergeant Alleran standing confidently in front of the uncertain men.

  Dark figures were already writhing on the outskirts of the camp, and Leoric strained to discern friend from foe. The inhuman screeching of the goblin raiders pierced the night, and more than a few bordermen cringed at the horrific sounds. Clearing his thoughts long enough to pull a leather breastplate over his bare chest and place a helmet upon his head, Leoric hefted his mace and joined the battle.

  The outer perimeter defenses had fallen. Goblins swarmed under the trees in a mass of chaotic movement. It reminded him of a boiling mob of angry ants streaming forth from their hill to attack unwanted visitors.

  Leoric dodged to his left as a dark shape leapt at him from the abyss. Spinning to face his adversary, he balanced his mace lightly in his grip. The goblin wore a crimson pelt, and its skin was covered with a black soot that made the large whites of its eyes gleam. In its hands, it carried a long, thin serrated blade. Leoric paused for a brief instant as he realized the weapon was already dripping with human blood.

  With an ear-shattering scream, the creature lunged forward. Allowing the goblin’s momentum to carry it too far, Leoric sidestepped the charge and swung his mace down upon the back of the monster’s head. The resulting crack at the base of its skull left him no doubt that this enemy was dead.

  As he turned back towards the fray, a heavy blow landed squarely across his back, driving his feet out from under him. He managed to remain on his knees, but was stunned as he dropped his mace and tried desperately to reach towards the assailant on his back. Pain lanced through his side as the creature slashed into his hastily donned leather armour. Realizing his dangerous predicament, Leoric bucked and spun, furiously trying to dislodge the beast before its next blow landed.

  He felt a burst of strength as his fingers gained purchase in the thick hide of an animal pelt. Even as the goblin sank sharp teeth into his neck, tearing at the muscle, Leoric dove forward and sent his enemy sprawling over the very top of his head. The goblin was quick to recover from being flipped onto its back, but Leoric had already moved in for the kill. With a crushing blow, he bashed the goblin’s twisted right leg. As the creature screamed incoherently in pain, he swung his mace in a wide arc, making contact directly with its face and pulverizing the bones with a loud crunch.

  The camp was quickly overrun. Only a small circle of soldiers fought as a cohesive unit. Not surprisingly, Marshal Aram was in the center, his loud commanding voice barking out orders in a vain attempt to repel the attackers. With relief, Leoric spotted the giant Angvald among the defenders. His friend’s large frame was bare except for a loose pair of breeches and his boots, but with his double-bladed axe in hand, Leoric was certain the man was better protected than most.

  Quickly dispatching two more goblins, Leoric knew that his life might depend on whether or not he could reach a stronger defensive position. Ducking quickly into a tent, one of the few that was not aflame, he corralled a set of leather greaves for his exposed legs. Adding a discarded shield from the corpse of one of his comrades, he finally felt adequately protected.

  Unfortunately, the battle looked grim. Although the main body continued to hold firm, it was obvious to Leoric that his friends would soon be overwhelmed. Even now, at the edge of the fighting, he could see the terror in the eyes of those that remained. The Marshal had underestimated the goblins and was paying dearly for his arrogance.

  Realizing that a significant part of the engagement had passed him by, Leoric knew he faced a difficult choice. He could either attempt to wade through the frenzied ranks of the enemy and reach the temporary succor of the defensive circle, or he could slip into the forest and attempt to bring word to Darkenedge that foul things were afoot in the Wilds. The training camp they had seen earlier that morning was proof enough that the goblins could be massing on the northern front for the first time in nearly a century.

  Weighing the two options, Leoric looked grimly towards his companions and silently wished them well. Then, hefting his mace in one hand, the shield in the other, he slipped into the trees. Above all else, Darkenedge needed warning.

  The sound of the battle carried loudly through the forest. Even with the camp long behind him, Leoric could still hear screams and the clash of arms. With pride, he realized the Marshal was putting up an epic fight against the nearly insurmountable odds. Once again, a swift pang of guilt struck him in the pit of his stomach. Shaking his head in the hopes of dispelling the feeling, he calmed himself by believing that the others would understand. If the Iron Shield fell, the lands of the North would be ripe for the plundering.

  It was while crossing a small, knee-deep stream that Leoric first detected a set of eyes upon him. A tingling at the base of his neck warned him that he may very well have been seen leaving the battlefield. In a small clearing up ahead, three shapes suddenly emerged from the dense shadows of the large trunks. Leoric felt all his confidence seep from his body as two more goblins stepped out on the path behind him. Blood dripped from their naked blades, yet he could also see that two of his opponents sported bloody wounds of their own.

  He was surrounded.

  Loosing a wild scream of his own, Leoric took the battle to them. Swinging his mace with vicious fury, he was determined to take as many of the creatures to the afterlife with him as possible. Savagely bashing aside the short blades and daggers of the goblins, his berserker attack was rewarded with the sickening thud of his mace crushing bone. With a determined scowl, he watched the stricken goblin collapse to the ground, cradling a shattered arm and shoulder.

  Leoric drew the encounter out, but the final outcome soon became evident. Although he had dealt severe damage to two of the goblin warriors, so too did their steel blades bite deep into his exposed flesh. Bleeding from more than a few minor wounds, Leoric felt the fatigue creeping into his muscles. The loss of blood made his mace feel heavier than the largest of axes, and his shield arm now drooped dangerously low. Spinning desperately to avoid a dagger thrust, he slipped to his knees. In desperation, he tried in vain to regain his feet. His legs, soaked now with rivulets of blood, refused to respond.

  In a rage of frustration, Leoric spat at his enemies. The three goblins grinned wickedly and swooped towards him like vultures ready to consume their prey. Raising his mace in a final attempt at bravery, Leoric barely felt the explosion of pain as it ripped through his head. Pitching forward onto his face, the darkness overwhelmed him.

  I have formed strong bonds with these men, having never forsaken my own company. Grudging respect I give to few, and in this business of soldiers for hire, I have learned to trust no one.

  —Captain Gerald Armsmater

  Chapter XI

  Garchester, Protectorate

  Gavin was standing atop the shattered ruins of the south gate when a tremendous roar threw him flat. Lying prone, he chanced a brief glance out across the enemy encampment. With a look of admiration, the Fey’De
rin captain watched a large plume of fire lift off high into the night sky. The smaller coil of flame that had ignited to the west was a tiny blaze compared to this mighty conflagration.

  A state of chaos reigned among the enemy soldiers stationed near the catapults. Gavin smiled with satisfaction as he pulled himself to his feet — the engines of war were burning. Some, it seemed, had exploded with many pieces now strewn across the battlefield. Far to the rear, the faint cries of battle could still be heard. His ears were still ringing from the blast that had shaken the walls of Garchester. He could only imagine how the soldiers in close proximity to the explosion were dealing with the aftermath.

  Catching the eye of the solid Ossric McConnal, Gavin gave him a silent nod indicating that all had gone well with their gamble. The plan had worked. How his Eagle Runner squad had devised a way to create such a magnificent blast, he knew not, but he’d be damned if he wasn’t going to ask Sergeant Shade the moment of his return.

  It was near dawn, and the long night’s sky was finally lightening to a soft grey, before anyone returned. The survivors of the small force stumbled through a guarded postern on the north side of the city. Gavin and Caolte had arrived earlier and were waiting patiently for the Fey’Derin to return.

  Orn Surefoot arrived first, the veteran scout clutching a wounded shoulder that was bleeding heavily. Word filtered through the team of messengers that a high-ranking captain in the enemy camp had been assassinated. With a tired but content expression on his face, Orn reported that his mission had been successful.

  Gavin greeted each man with hearty thanks and sent them immediately to the healing quarters; not even one had returned unscathed. Rayn returned alone, as did Garett. Their partners, Alec and Bron, had fallen in the fighting near the catapults. Lastly, faltering as he carried a man draped unceremoniously over his shoulder, Ethan Shade arrived. Covered in black soot, his clothing torn and ragged, the Fey’Derin sergeant grimaced as he passed through the small gate.