The Mercenary Code

by Emmet Moss

  Stunned, Alessan’s legs nearly gave out with relief as Corian, accompanied by four Sylvani, strode up to meet him. By their grim looks and bloodied tabards, he could tell the soldiers had already seen their fair share of fighting.

  “H — how?” Alessan stammered, numbly accepting a bloodied long knife as a new weapon and dropping the makeshift one.

  Corian smiled sadly and replied. “The gods must be watching over us, lad. I was in no better position myself until Sergeant Holt found me. I watched Grianne and Ella torn apart and could do nothing. It makes no sense to me why I was spared.”

  “But…”

  “All that matters, Alessan, is that we are still breathing, and I mean to take full value of this opportunity,” Corian replied, a large meaty hand coming to rest briefly on Alessan’s small shoulder.

  Sergeant Holt, a man who looked as gnarled as any of the ancient trees that stood in the Aeldenwood, took no chances as the small company entered the forest. He sent the two scouts ranging ahead to scour the area for any signs of the attackers. Screams continued to filter through the trees as they made slow but steady progress along a narrow path that followed the contours of an eastern shallow gorge.

  As the sounds of battle finally grew faint, the Sylvani officer called a short halt. Only intermittent screams pierced the weighty silence as the six men huddled together to keep warm. A quick survey of their supplies produced little in the way of sustenance. Food and water had been the least of their concerns while fighting their way free of the creatures. The thought of grabbing supplies had never even entered Alessan’s mind.

  “We wait only to catch our breath,” Holt uttered, obsessively wiping down his sword. Although the veteran soldier had dealt relatively well with the events of the last hour, even he could not hide his discomfort completely. “Come morning, we’ll find our bearings and look to do some hunting. Small game should be enough to keep us alive, and I’ll warrant not one of you fancies stopping for a longer hunt,” he continued.

  “Not with those demons chasing us, sir,” Arin replied.

  “Then our course is clear,” Corian agreed. “We move on in a steady pace and stop only when necessary.”

  “Aye,” muttered the others, silence once again settling over the beleaguered group.

  Hours would pass before any sound of a possible pursuit would reach their ears. At first, only a faint rumbling was felt in the ground, nearly imperceptible. As dawn broke, and a slight lessening of the darkness enveloped the tall trees, the distant tread of heavy feet soon became clear. Pursuit, it seemed, was not going to be easily shaken.

  For the second time in less than half a day, Alessan struggled to his feet and forced all thoughts of his body’s limitations from his mind. To slow the group would mean death for everyone. He was still distressed by his failed rescue of the young servant girl and shook his head in an effort to clear his mind. Yet he forged onward, with eyes focused intently on the large back of the master merchant.

  Heartened by the quick progress the small group was making, Holt called a brief halt with the hope that both Corian and Alessan could find some measure of renewed strength before continuing. Corian looked positively ill, his face flushed and breathing laboured. The man’s extravagant clothing was torn and stained, while sweat poured down his forehead.

  Surprised, Alessan realized that he was making out better than the large merchant from Innes Vale. Although aching severely in both legs, his fear of the Gath pushed him forward. The thought of being overtaken by the terrible creatures was enough to keep his exhaustion at bay and his feet firmly moving.

  Regardless of their pace, it soon became clear that the Gath were rapidly closing the distance. With dawn finally bringing a dim light to the forest, the group sensed that their time had run out. Frustrated at the inability to shake their pursuers, Sergeant Holt stopped the group near a series of large boulders.

  The terrain led to a sharply cut ravine that seemed a worthwhile place to make a stand. Two men could block the entrance to the gulley while a large outcropping would allow a third man, armed with a bow, to take advantage of the higher ground. And so, with the sounds of pursuit drawing ever closer, the Sylvani took their places, each man’s face painted with exhaustion.

  Long agonizing minutes passed before a scream of pain broke the silence. Arin came running into view, his bow and quiver held tightly in his hands.

  “Here they come, men,” Caleb Holt growled. “If we’re to go down, let’s make them pay dearly for every inch of ground they claim.”

  As expected, the Gath showed no qualms in launching themselves into the waiting blades of the Sylvani. Strategy aside, the ferocious creatures nearly trampled one another to reach them. As Arin reached his position on the high ground, the sergeant and the tall, lanky Lorne brandished their blades. Clutching his own long knife, Alessan stood beside Corian, both of the inexperienced men on the watch for anything that managed to elude the others. If all worked according to plan, Daghan would begin a quick rotation between the seasoned warriors.

  With unmatched fury, the Gath swept into the area, their assault relentless and merciless.

  “Hold steady! Watch your flank, soldier,” the Sylvani sergeant instructed as the wave hit.

  In those first few chaotic moments, it was a marvel that the two Sylvani did not fall under the solid wall of fangs that threatened to overwhelm them. Alessan was impressed by their poise under the tense circumstances. Both Sylvani held their own, and their blades bit deep and often. With a steadied calm, Arin fired missile after missile into the tangled mass of attackers from his position overlooking the entrance to the gulley. The mercenary focused on landing strikes that would either debilitate the enemy or kill them outright.

  “Three moving towards the rock face!” Daghan called out, the perceptive soldier carefully picking out movements behind the lines. With alarm, Alessan spied the targets moving quickly in an attempt to bypass the small group’s defenses. A few seconds later, Arin had dealt with the intruders, each corpse sporting blue-shafted arrows.

  As the men switched positions, they began to tire. Daghan, a sure-footed scout, slipped on the blood-soaked terrain and barely avoided a gruesome fate. With sweat pouring off all four men, their confident parries became strikes of sheer desperation. Only their training and reflexes allowing them to survive for even a moment longer. The Gath numbers did begin to dwindle, and Alessan’s hopes were rekindled. He realized that with only a score of the creatures left alive, there was a chance that the small band could survive.

  But as the toll of the fallen began to mount, the bodies further blocking the incoming Gath, Lorne cried out in pain, his blade falling to the ground. In a flash, Daghan leapt forward as a stopgap and Corian pulled the wounded soldier back to safety. With a grimace, Lorne peered at the long gash. That it bled heavily wasn’t the only problem, for without another warrior to help hold the line there would be little for the defenders to do. Grunting in pain, the seasoned mercenary directed Corian’s placement of a makeshift bandage.

  “Ware the sides, Alessan! It won’t be long now before they flank us,” warned a voice from behind. Arin jumped down from his perch, his now empty quiver of arrows lying discarded on the rocky ledge.

  Alessan nodded and tore his gaze from Lorne and Corian. As if on cue, the forms of two small Gath, spider-like with skin the colour of ash, clambered along the side of the natural rock formation. Shouting a warning of his own, the young man from Briar braced himself for an attack. With shrieks of rage, both creatures leapt towards them. Awkwardly twisting to the side, Alessan grimaced as his blade slid across the side of the nearest creature. Black blood flew wide as Arin also reacted to the attack, his long sword embedded deep into the second Gath’s chest.

  “Cursed Arne… what is that?” breathed Corian, staring out across the battlefield.

  Turning to follow the big man’s gaze, Alessan nearly lost the meagr
e contents of his stomach. The creature now striding into the clearing had not been present during the massacre at the Crossroads, or if it had, Alessan had surely never set eyes upon it.

  It was taller than the other Gath by a good four or five feet, had unsettling beady eyes, and its thickly corded body was heavy in the chest and neck. It had strangely swollen and clawed hands and feet, along with a glinting row of bloodied teeth. These were as nothing compared to the sharp needle-like spikes that adorned the creature from top to bottom. The mammoth creature’s skin was a different hue than that of the smaller Gath, pale and white as opposed to ebony. The small group watched in fascinated dread as those Gath that could not get out of the beast’s path were trampled outright, their crushed bodies left twitching on the ground.

  Sergeant Holt turned briefly to make eye contact with Corian. “Master Praxxus, I believe it’s time you took your leave. Take the boy with you and don’t look back. We Sylvani will hold for as long as possible.”

  “You’ll do no such thing, Sergeant,” Corian replied emphatically.

  “It’s in accordance with our contract, Master Praxxus,” Holt gasped, preparing to face the monstrosity that approached. “I’ll be damned if with my dying breath I don’t uphold the Code.”

  “He’s right, sir. It’s our duty,” Lorne agreed, his long knife clutched firmly in hand.

  “Forget the Code, men. We need to run, and run now!” Corian shouted.

  “There are far too many who die without honour in our profession, and I’ll not be one of them,” Sergeant Holt proclaimed.

  With a disbelieving shrug, Corian caught Alessan’s eye. “May Arne watch over you all,” he said before fleeing into the forest. Alessan followed, taking one last look at the valiant mercenaries.

  Arin let out a defiant cry as he launched himself towards the waiting arms of the huge monstrosity.

  Silent streets and cobblestone roads, Darkness reigns where light did shine. Only an empty hearth remains, Where music once played.

  —Shenro Taleweaver, ‘Fallen Farraine’

  Chapter XXI

  Lok’Dal hie, The Wilds

  Angvald Helmmarson was born into a family of fishermen and sailors. Although most of the land in Kaleen was barren desert, the coastal areas next to the sea were lush and bountiful. Those who didn’t farm the land worked the water instead.

  He grew up in modest surroundings but never found reason to complain. There was always plenty of food to go around, although it didn’t compare to the variety he would enjoy later on his many travels. Life wasn’t always easy, but only fond memories remain of his childhood.

  His people were divided into fiercely loyal clans, born of distinct family lines. Dozens of these tribes held sway over the vast land. Kaleen was unfettered by the trappings of nobility, and begat no kings in its long and bloody history. Instead of noblemen, family patriarchs quarreled incessantly over land, food, and simple luxuries.

  Frerr Helmmarson, Angvald’s grandfather, ruled over the familial lands for as long as he could remember. It would remain that way until his passing, when Angvald’s father would assume the mantle of leadership. Frerr fought bitterly with rivals from nearby holdings in his youth and had made something of a name for himself. He also built the seaside home where three generations of the family still lived. As the third eldest son, Angvald had the freedom to pursue his own interests, and although a keen fisherman and astute warrior, he decided to leave the family stead before his fifteenth summer.

  He spent time in many of the lands of Kal Maran, with stops in far off Valence, ruled by a council of Lords, to the Shattered Isles, a collection of disparate islands that many believed were the remains of an ancient and powerful empire. The young Kaleenian had studied the arts and loved music, especially his beloved lute. He even spent a year in one of the strange monasteries of the Kann, a reclusive religious sect.

  He eventually settled in the northern reaches of Old Caledun, making his way to the fortresses of the Iron Shield and enlisting for three years of service at Darkenedge. With his thirty-eighth summer fast approaching, he met Leoric D’Athgaran.

  Something in the other man’s nature had drawn the exuberant foreigner to the quiet borderman. The sadness behind Leoric’s eyes struck Angvald deeply, as he had grown up knowing the importance of family. It took some time before the guarded Leoric opened up to him about his past, but Angvald eventually learned about the heartache his friend tried so hard to keep hidden.

  As their friendship deepened, Angvald discovered how determined Leoric was to move on. Although still reeling from his devastating loss, Leoric began to shed the heavy burden he had carried for so long. During this healing process, Angvald realized that Leoric D’Athgaran had become part of his family and part of that special circle he could call on regardless of the need.

  Leaning heavily against the doorway to the farmhouse the prisoners called home, Angvald covered his yawning mouth with a large hand. Whether his friend Leoric wanted to admit it or not, the man had made himself a target in the camp. Only a fool could miss the besotted glances that he exchanged with Kieri. That she was embroiled in an ugly relationship with Joram was not his business. Rather, he thought grimly, it had not become his business yet…

  Prideful bastards like Joram didn’t take kindly to such insults to their manhood. Leoric, whether by choice or not, had drawn Joram’s ire the moment Kieri had first waved in his direction. Cara was perhaps the only other person to see the look of hatred that crossed the drunken man’s face.

  And so, for the second night in a row, Angvald chose to keep watch over his sleeping friend. It was rare these days for Leoric to even fall asleep at all, and he would be damned if he would let anyone disturb his rest. Joram would make his move; Angvald was sure of it. Until that unknown moment, he would wait and ensure Leoric’s safety.

  On occasion, Auric would lead wagon trains from the surrounding camps into the strange city for trade. The trips would usually last a few days depending on the amount of supplies and how quickly the men could unload. Leoric decided that the prospect of staying at least one full night in the mysterious Lok’Dal hie was reason enough to join one of these excursions for the first time, regardless of the heavy lifting involved. If the bony Auric could survive the effort, he knew he would be just fine.

  Climbing into the driver’s seat of Auric’s wagon, Leoric took his place at the reins. Having experience on a farm helped enormously when dealing with the stubborn draft horses. They were likely acquired through raids, as Leoric had yet to see many of the beasts. The goblins had shown little interest in learning how to deal with the animals. They seemed perfectly content to allow their captives to train them as they saw fit.

  On this day, the caravan was headed out of the farm laden with meats from that week’s slaughter. Leoric had joined the wiry driver in the lead wagon, listening to his incessant banter with little interest. As they continued along the muddy path, he realized that he was nearing almost two months in captivity. With a mild winter wind blowing lazily in his face, he imagined what it would be like to be a free man.

  Leoric was hard pressed to rein in the swelling excitement he felt as the wagons steadily approached the colossal walls of Lok’Dal hie. The city walls towered over the carts as they moved under the protection of their long shadows. Leoric was astounded by the rampart’s perfectly smooth appearance. It was like gazing at a wall of shimmering purple glass. Up close, the walls appeared to be tinted red near the extremities and a far deeper purple within the solid mass. He had never seen or heard of such architecture in all of Kal Maran.

  The gates themselves were mammoth pieces of stone, standing a full ten men in height. They were the largest gateways Leoric had ever seen. Passing beneath the archway, the borderman couldn’t shake a feeling of insignificance.

  Entering the city proper did little to alleviate the sentiment. The city streets were broad
and made of smooth stones. Tree-lined avenues, wider than any he had ever seen wound throughout the city. White marble fountains dotted the cityscape with clear flowing water filling the pools. Most of the fountains were topped by animal statues of incredible detail.

  But it was the city buildings themselves that fixated his attention. Surprised, Leoric struggled to understand what he was seeing. The houses, many of them multi-storied, appeared more careworn than he would have expected. It soon became obvious, as the wagons wound their way through the outer city, that many of the buildings were abandoned, their exteriors showing wear not uncommon to some of the deserted towns of Old Caledun.

  The goblins are visitors to this place, Leoric thought. They are no more welcome here than is humankind.

  Until now, he had believed that the goblin tribes of the Wilds had created such a false impression of their people, a savage nature carefully crafted to hide brilliance unseen among humans. Now it was apparent that they were only scavengers, opportunists who had found a city long abandoned.

  But what of the people who had built this magnificent city?

  He then saw something that gave him pause. At first he believed it was a mirage, a trick that his weary mind must surely be playing. He stared at the tall form of a robed man.

  One human in a city of goblins? Leoric wondered.

  The man wore a silver-trimmed robe and carried himself confidently, almost arrogantly, in full view of more than a dozen goblins. Here was no culled and meek captive. Straining to keep an eye on his target, Leoric caught a glimpse of the man’s face as the stranger passed from view. A sharp-nosed profile was little to go on, but something to ponder. Who and how could a human have penetrated the city? Was he the last owner, the builder of the ancient city? Something altogether different?