The Mercenary Code

by Emmet Moss

  “You could be right, but we can’t lose sight of our goal. It is all well and good that we’ve found shelter and some small measure of comfort here, but I believe this place is no less dangerous than the rest of this damned wood. We should only loiter here briefly before continuing south.”

  Pausing to wipe a hand across his broad forehead, Corian looked pensive for a moment and said, “You know, Alessan, of all the places I’ve visited over the years, the small kingdom of Farraine was never one of them.”

  “Any particular reason?” Alessan asked curiously.

  “Well, truth be told, the country was in a bad state. What with the trees growing in the farmers’ fields and tales of disappearances in the woods. Farraine never struck the Vale as an important buyer of our luxury items when it was all it could do just to make ends meet,” the big man answered.

  “Isn’t there always something that people want, or need, for that matter?” Alessan countered.

  “My business is about profit, Alessan, not need. In my youth, the people of Farraine were preparing to leave their homes and livelihood. They made very poor buyers under such circumstances.”

  “So they had no money. Is that what you’re implying?”

  “Lad, you make it sound like I’m heartless,” Corian shook his head emphatically. “It was business, that’s all.”

  Sitting there by the fire, Alessan couldn’t fight the momentary revulsion that he felt towards the rich merchant. For people to have had to abandon all that they knew, all that they owned, and all that they had built was such a tragedy. And that Corian Praxxus made no mention of their personal sorrows, but only saw fit to deem them unworthy of his business disgusted him. Alessan guessed that his family’s plight in similar circumstances would be insignificant to the wealthy entrepreneur.

  “Do you ever consider anything else besides business, or is that why your daughter won’t speak to you?” Alessan shot back bitterly. “Or would it not be profitable to form a bond with her?”

  A scarlet flush crept across Corian’s face. Alessan wondered if he had not pushed the man too far, but the moment was fleeting.

  Dropping his eyes in chagrin, Corian sighed heavily. “Alessan, I’m…” his words trailed off as he stood to his feet. Without another word Corian Praxxus, heedless of the drumming rain, quietly slipped out the broken door, his immense shadow flickering briefly upon the bare stone walls.

  Sitting alone, Alessan fought the urge to follow the man. Although embarrassed by his outburst, his mother had often acted in much the same way, her reasons for doing so, her own. Knowing that being alone with his thoughts was as important to Corian as it had once been with Shani Oakleaf, Alessan kept still and stared quietly into the flames.

  Blood washed away by tears of the gods.

  Wounds cleansed, they will never heal.

  Flashes of faces, memories of old,

  they will never leave this cursed field.

  We walk on and remember them.

  —Rhaec, The Journals of Rhaec

  Chapter XXIV

  The Watchtower of Al’Taers, Aeldenwood

  Sitting cross-legged on the ground and whittling away on a small piece of wood, Caolte sensed something in the air. “Feels like a storm’s brewing,” he said.

  “It mightn’t be more than a light dusting of snow. The forest covering does a good job at keeping us sheltered,” Gavin looked up at the maze of branches covering most of the sky.

  Caolte grunted and turned his attention back to his crafting. “Is that fool of a mage still playing with those strange markers we found?”

  “They’re warding pillars, not markers. If Tel’Andros’ theory is correct, finding a way to activate them will enable us to set up a magic barrier around the area. I’m not sure about this magecraft, but with three nights behind us already, the Gath might be closer than we think,” Gavin responded.

  “Then why are we still here, Gavin?” Caolte stared darkly into the woods. “You have a feeling there may be enemies about, and you’re seldom wrong. What’s our visit proving?”

  “By the absence of anything out of the ordinary, Caolte, it may very well be proving much,” Gavin answered cryptically. “In any case, we’re not leaving, at least not for another day.”

  “No matter how hard you try to explain it, it makes no sense to this skeptic. That I’ve come to trust these strange feelings of yours is proof enough that maybe this old clansman is ready to settle down.”

  “You, settle down?” Gavin smiled. “You realize that you’d have to stay home with all of those children you’re breeding. What excuse would you have to get out of the house then?”

  “Bah! You sure know how to ruin a man’s dreams, Captain…” Caolte chuckled.

  Wary of the upcoming storm, Gavin decided it was time to track down Tel’Andros. The mage was far too consumed with his findings in the Aeldenwood to pay proper attention to his surroundings. Struck by a familiar sense of foreboding, the safety of his childhood friend was now a priority. Gavin grabbed his scabbard and dagger, belted them into place, and walked swiftly across the clearing.

  Three days had passed since they had gained access to the old watchtower, and the suffocating presence of the forest was wearing heavily on the three men. They had adequate supplies, warm clothing, and suitable quarters considering their surroundings, but finding an easy night’s rest was difficult. Gavin’s dreams had been a confused jumble of nightmarish visions, and Caolte had witnessed his friend’s uneasiness grow over these last few days.

  Tel’Andros, on the other hand, was practically childlike in his curiosity and enthusiasm. The mage had spent his days eagerly examining the various Gorimm runes and wards put in place long ago. Truthfully, he did have some difficulty adapting to the unkind environment, what with his experience being relegated to the lush comforts of the Silveryn stronghold. He too, had slept poorly.

  Although the search of the watchtower itself was interesting, without a doubt the Aliendal warding posts were the most significant find. Gavin could feel the considerable power residing within the strange markers even from a distance. There were four posts in all, each depicting one of the four cardinal points, and they all differed in size. Two were barely three feet in height, while the third one easily towered eight or nine feet from top to bottom. The fourth was about Gavin’s height, and yet was twice as thick as the other three. Strange runes and markings covered the wood, but Andros, a scholar of some renown among the Silveryn mages, had no success in deciphering any pattern or instruction.

  Oddly, it was the older Drayensoldier who showed the greatest understanding of some of the symbols etched into the pillars. Caolte was quite adamant that some Drayen words from the old tongue, specifically those meaning ‘shield,’ ‘arm,’ ‘shelter’ and ‘light’ were present. Intrigued by the revelation, Tel’Andros returned to the four pillars for long periods of study following the discovery.

  Caolte’s comments did nothing to help create any bond of fellowship between the two very different men, as Gavin had at first hoped it might. Caolte’s advice regarding the runes had instead driven a larger wedge between the two, and both men were far too headstrong to initiate any sort of reconciliation. With such bad blood and tension part of the history between both factions, Gavin was at a loss as to how to deal with their behaviour.

  Gavin found Tel’Andros sitting near the northern pillar, large tome in hand and a pensive look on his face. The silver-trimmed robes of the Silveryn representative often evoked an inkling of rage in the young mercenary captain. Ir’Wolien and the manipulative members of the Council were to blame for that.

  “Storm’s rolling in, Andros. You might plan on returning to the tower before long,” Gavin called out as he approached. Engrossed in deep thought, the mage merely mumbled his acknowledgement.

  “If you really are interested in finding out what lies beh
ind the meanings of these pillars, I don’t understand why you won’t speak to Caolte about it,” Gavin commented, leaning against a nearby trunk.

  Andros looked up in alarm. “The Drayen is only speculating about my findings. His people are not scholars just as mine are not bloodthirsty warriors.”

  This animosity between his two companions had done little to increase Gavin’s enjoyment of the trip. Caolte and Andros had had nary a kind word to say to the other. The Drayenmark had long held a grudge against magekind and did not hide this fact. In general, the contention harkened back to the days immediately prior to the Shattering and the resulting aftermath. Countless lives had been lost after the Silveryn mages reneged on the pact they had struck with the High King. The mages were steadfast in their belief that with Darion Lordares’ death, any existing treaty had died with him. Caolte was of another mind.

  “You know, I expected more from you, Andros,” Gavin said.

  “What? In the matter of these pillars? It is no simple chore to work swiftly when a nearly forgotten language is involved. To experiment with the forces of Aer, even latent ones, can be dis —”

  “I’m not speaking about the Aliendal markers,” Gavin calmly interrupted.

  Pausing for a moment with lips pursed, Andros looked away. “There’s a history behind our two peoples, Gavin. You wouldn’t understand.”

  “Understand? You’re right, because I care nothing about that past! I’m far more concerned with the future, and having two intelligent men acting as children needs no explanation,” Gavin fumed.

  “How you can defend those uncivilized barbarians is a matter of concern,” Andros muttered, meeting Gavin’s scathing look.

  “Is that the man in you speaking or the Silveryn Mage?” Gavin spat. “Or a combination of the two?”

  “Listen to yourself, Silvares,” Andros shot back. “You stand here in defense of a man who hails from a bloodline that was shunned by an entire kingdom, a bloodline that has shown itself corrupted by the taint of madness! Caolte Burnaise follows a maniac in Serian Rhone. You think he wouldn’t put his Drayen spear in your back if asked to do so by his self-proclaimed king?”

  Gavin’s hand strayed towards his sword hilt. “You would do well to remember that you speak of my friend, magus. Caolte Burnaise has been a truer friend than any I’ve met in my life,” Gavin glared defiantly. “Aye, that includes even you, Deowyn, and Brynne. And to speak of the Drayen taint seems doublespeak does it not, Andros? I would counsel you to curb your tongue, else I grow tired of your insults.”

  “My forefathers were advisors to the High Kings, mage!” a venom-laced voice came from behind the two arguing men.

  “Caolte —” Gavin tried desperately to intercede.

  Raising a hand to ward off his captain’s attempt to interrupt, the veteran soldier stomped forward. “I’ll remind you that my people, the Drayenmark, were betrayed en masse by greedy nobles that deemed it in their best interest to do away with a king and his entire bloodline. The Silveryn Order left us to die, as did the Gorimm, as did Alerond, and Farraine. In two hundred years of rebuilding our livelihood and our pride, only the Dwarves of Alerond have attempted to repair the damage done. Can you say the same, magus?” Caolte finished, his eyes ablaze.

  Tel’Andros did not falter in the face of such fury. “The Drayenmark sealed their own fate. I will not stand here and debate the histories with you, Lieutenant, or you would be quite embarrassed.”

  “Enough!” Gavin roared, his voice reverberating through the small clearing. “This little game the two of you like to play is no more. If you cannot be civil to one another then I expect you to sit here in silence!”

  Both men stared balefully at one another before backing away, their nods of agreement barely perceptible.

  “I did come here for a reason, Captain,” Caolte said. “The surrounding woods have grown deceptively quiet. I thought it would be best if we retreat into the tower until I can ascertain if any dangers lie in the area. If it is the Gath, we must be prepared.”

  “See to it, Caolte.” Gavin ordered.

  As the veteran officer started towards the tower, he turned back and spoke a final word. “I follow only one man, mage, and I would do so gladly should it mean even my death. Gavin Silveron is to whom I owe my loyalty. You would be well served to decide where your loyalties lie. And there’s one more thing, Tel’Andros?”

  “Yes?” The mage frowned.

  “You were right about one thing. I wouldn’t hesitate to use this spear on someone’s back, but it would be yours,” Caolte said with a cold finality, briskly turning and heading back towards the tower, his tall form disappearing into the trees.

  Waiting for Tel’Andros to join him on the ground level, Gavin paused to speak a word of safe fortune to his Fey’Derin lieutenant before firmly closing the black Aliendal door. Ignoring the mage, he swiftly climbed the tower stairs and removed the bow from his shoulder strap. Staring out of one of the high windows, he watched intently for any signs of danger as Caolte made his away across the clearing and into the surrounding brush. He was so focused on the nearest trees that he barely noticed Andros arrive at his side.

  “Well, I hate to admit it, but your lieutenant was right about the weather. A storm is definitely on its way.” A distant rumble of thunder accompanied Tel’Andros’ words and a light rain began to fall.

  As they waited, Gavin found himself preoccupied with his friend’s safety. Of all officers in the company, Caolte was the least reckless. If anyone was to take their time carefully scouting the terrain, it would be the Drayen veteran. His cautious thoroughness was one of the reasons he was still alive after so many years employed as a mercenary.

  As Gavin was pondering his faith in the man’s abilities, a series of loud howls erupted from the northeast. With a white-knuckled grip on his longbow, Gavin realized that there was little he could do to help his comrade. As the tension mounted and the cries grew ever closer, Caolte suddenly burst from treeline, bloodied spear in hand.

  “They’re very close, Gavin!” he yelled, running towards the tower as the trees erupted with a cacophony of noise.

  Without the slightest panic, Gavin reached over his shoulder and calmly notched a blue and grey fletched arrow. “Andros, I need you to shut the door behind Caolte when he arrives. Quickly now!” he ordered. The mage disappeared down the stairs and Gavin was confident that his command would be followed.

  Caolte was less than thirty paces into the clearing when the first two Gath bounded out of the woods. With calm precision, Gavin sighted and let fly the first arrow. The second shaft was notched and ready as the first missile’s steel tip pierced the chest of the nearest pursuer, stopping the creature instantly. The second Gath dodged to the side, but its effort was in vain. The second arrow penetrated its muscle bound right thigh. With a shriek of agony, the creature skidded and collapsed to ground in a heap.

  Aghast, Gavin watched as the ebony denizens of the Aeldenwood poured forth, their slavering maws dripping saliva as they caught sight of their quarry. Letting two more arrows fly into the mob, Gavin chanced a quick look down the edge of the watchtower tree. He breathed a sigh of relief as he spied Caolte slumped wearily against the side of the great trunk, the soldier’s eyes lit fiercely by the excitement of his escape.

  Catching his captain’s look of concern, the lieutenant smirked and called up. “Just need to catch my breath, sir. All that running has me wondering whether I should start training with the Eagle Runners again!” As he finished, Andros opened the door in a flash and pulled him inside. Moments later, the two men joined Gavin on the upper floor.

  “By the gods, there’s a lot of them,” breathed Caolte in disbelief. Below them a veritable sea of black twisted flesh crashed against the ancient stone walls of the tower. Countless Gath boiled beneath the lower windows, their piercing cries of frustration agony to Gavin’s ears.

  “I
guess this lends credence to the Lumber disappearances along the northern border of the wood,” Gavin commented dryly. He had been one of the few outspoken men in the north who had warned the communities along the perimeter. The Lumbers of Briar had listened, but only briefly.

  Turning to Tel’Andros, he asked, “Any forewarning of this in the studies of the Order?”

  “Not that I’m aware of. How could this be?” The mage stammered. It was clear he was unsettled. “The Council has for years believed that the Gath numbers were increasing, but if this is any indication, even Ir’Wolien never predicted so many.”

  “With the absence of the Gorimm, it seems as though the Gath have taken full advantage,” Gavin said, his voice filled with apprehension.

  Always the pragmatist, Caolte’s looked down on the horde. “Whether the two of you are surprised is of little importance as our predicament remains the same. The numbers below offer us little chance in close combat, regardless of our skill, and the defensive capabilities of this tower have waned. We need to decide on our next course of action.”

  “The warding pillars…” Andros offered.

  “If only you’d asked for my input on the matter —” Caolte added with a frown.

  Gavin ignored the comments and surveyed the scene. Little choice remained for the small group. By numbers alone, the Gath had effectively trapped them in the old watchtower. The door of Aliendal wood was strong enough to hold, but the integrity of the rest of the lower level was suspect. With the ease at which the smaller Gath bounded and leapt about, it was entirely possible that the creatures would find access to the tower.

  Gavin promptly led his companions down below. Then, with dread, he watched helplessly as two of their enemies crawled through one of the lower, second story windows. Pure hatred gleamed in their shadowy eyes. He could also see the outstretched claws of another of the demonic beasts reaching through the very same opening.