by Emmet Moss
With a snarling ring of twisted flesh slowly skulking all around him, Alessan felt something ripple in the recess of his mind. Confused by the sensation, he shook his head in effort to clear his thoughts while holding up his sword in a futile act of defense. Knowing death was so close, his thoughts turned dark. So much of his life had been without hope. A life spoiled by the circumstances of his birth — his curse. He had lived with so much pain and ridicule that only a few bright lights had ever managed to keep the darkness in his soul at bay.
Without warning, a blinding flash of light illuminated the gigantic room. The Gath, suddenly confused and afraid of the inexplicable glare, whimpered and shrank back towards the exterior walls. A sudden clap, like that of a ringing crack of thunder, echoed in the room and along the halls of the old keep. Staggering as if struck by a harsh wind, Alessan dropped his sword and frantically grabbed fistfuls of his hair, his eyes glazing over from the pain. The chamber began to swim in his vision as he watched the Gath succumb to an unseen force, their snout-like faces twisted in agony.
As the feeling intensified, darkness began to overwhelm him. Dizzy and confused, Alessan fell forward and knew no more.
SPRING
3AE338
Listen to all proposals, but be wary. As much as you would like to believe that your services are indispensable to an employer; mercenaries can be, and are, easily replaced.
—Captain Draven Shane
Chapter XXVII
The Ca’lenbam, Protectorate
The Protectorate had selected a small valley north of Imlaris to hold this year’s Ca’lenbam, their Gathering.
A tall cliff to the north blocked the possibility of any passage by troops from that direction. Only a small trail, large enough for perhaps two men walking abreast, climbed up into the rock face, cutting a sharp path through the rugged terrain. To the east and west, the valley walls sloped lazily upward, the boundaries on either side obscured by the southernmost eaves of the Caeronwood.
The southern approach was packed with long columns of men and wagons winding snake-like into the distance. The dust kicked up by feet and hooves was enough to obscure the view for more than a league in the direction of the Protectorate’s capital city. The mercenary companies approaching the meeting site were easy to distinguish from the rest of the crowd. Standard bearers held their company crests aloft on tall poles and the flags created a vibrant mosaic of colour as they flapped in the wind.
Slowing his chestnut brown mare to a canter as he exited the western forest line, Gavin Silveron took in the majestic scene below. The sheer number of soldiers, tradesmen, wives, children and diplomats covering the valley floor would shock any inexperienced recruit. Although having attended many over the years, he could never look upon a Gathering without a great sense of awe.
Gavin turned to look at the many younger Fey’Derin riding in the vanguard and noticed various expressions of amazement on their faces.
“That all there is, Captain?” A booming voice called out from further down the line. “Small Gathering, I guess?” The hulking Ossric McConnal chuckled as he spoke.
“Careful now, Sergeant,” Ethan Shade grinned broadly. “No need to scare the new recruits.”
“You have a problem today, Sergeant Shade? If so, my boot to your arse might be of some service.” Ossric called back, the enormous smile of his creasing his thickly bearded face.
“Enough,” said Gavin, turning to stare at both soldiers. Both men nodded and whispered quick apologies. Gavin’s voice had clearly been heard down the line and the other soldiers stopped their chuckling and stood at attention.
“Orn?”
“Yes, Captain?” replied the lanky veteran standing at Gavin’s side.
Dressed in weather-beaten leathers, the disgraced scout’s appearance was a stark contrast to the rest of the company. Most were armoured in various types of studded leather and chainmail with a smattering of heavier plate. All were adorned with a dark grey tabard complimented by a steel blue sash. Orn Surefoot wore only a decorative cloak in the same grey and blue company colours. The Fey’Derin symbol, a large crescent blade next to a smaller four pointed star, was sewn into the front piece of the mantle. That morning Gavin had designated the Eagle Runner as company herald for the Ca’lenbam.
“Find out who is in charge, make our presence known, and formally register the company. We’ll set up camp near the north side and wait until we receive confirmation of our registry,” ordered Gavin. “If you can confirm any rumours you might overhear, do so, but be warned,” the captain added darkly, “I’ll not have a repeat of last year’s debacle. Understood?”
“Aye, Sir,” Orn saluted. Pausing a moment to adjust his cloak, the huntsman headed down into the writhing mass of people gathered below. Within moments he was lost from sight.
Turning towards his men, Gavin waved over a small dark-cloaked rider. Clothed in black with only a small clasp at his throat displaying the Fey’Derin colours, the soldier’s piercing eyes settled upon the captain.
“Coren, follow Orn and keep him out of trouble.”
“Permission to remove the company crest, Captain?” asked Bider as he dismounted, his fingers fiddling with the clasp at his neck.
“Aye, but be careful. And try to find out if Khali’s Reavers are in attendance,” Gavin added.
At the mention of the Reavers, a collective breath of tension rippled through the men all along the line. More than a few fingered their weapons and grim faces replaced the awestruck expressions from moments earlier.
“I’ll do some chopping if they’re anywhere near, Captain,” Ossric warned, brandishing his heavy axe with a look of murder in his eyes.
“They know well enough to stay away, Ossric,” Gavin commented.
“Anything else, Sir?” Bider asked with a salute. Before leaving, the small man hesitated before adding, “Orn’s on to you, Captain. He knows I’ll be coming behind him.”
“That’s the point, Coren. It keeps him honest and afraid of the consequences. He may be an Eagle Runner once more, but I have by no means forgotten Dragon Mount,” Gavin replied.
“Understood,” grunted Bider as he handed the Fey’Derin clasp to his captain. Then, following Orn’s lead, he entered the teeming crowd and immediately passed from view.
The Fey’Derin had weathered the last of the cold months in relative peace. The captain had spoken little about his harrowing adventure, although in a brief meeting with his senior officers he had disclosed some of the details. Caolte and Tel’Andros had kept silent about the journey as their captain had requested.
Gavin needed time to deal with everything he had seen, from the abundant Gath to the strange rescuer who could be none other than a member of the lost Gorimm. With the Earth Fiend’s actions and Ir’Wolien’s information and advice also fresh in his mind, he allowed his mind to slip back to a conversation that had taken place late one night after arriving back at the Fey’Derin encampment…
Caolte, with his arm heavily bandaged, and Tel’Andros still sporting an immense headache after waking, were sitting quietly in Gavin’s quarters. The lieutenant was absently smoking his long pipe, his knife and usual block of wood absent for once.
“Are you sure of what you saw, Andros?” Gavin asked.
“For the third time, Gavin, it was a renegade, one of the Fallen. He was near the edge of the clearing, standing in the shadow of the trees and flanked by two enormous Gath armed with weapons. Highly irregular,” Andros replied with a wince.
Puffing little circles of smoke from the side of his mouth, Caolte looked at both men. “Fallen or Silveryn, you can be sure I trust none of you,” he commented.
“I fear it might be wise to change that attitude, Lieutenant,” Andros answered somberly. “If the Fallen are in fact in league with the denizens of the Aeldenwood, the political troubles concerning the north and south wi
ll be as nothing compared to the terror that union might generate.”
“Legends speaks differently. According to the histories, the Gath are little more than creatures that travel and hunt in small packs, much like wolves,” Gavin shook his head. “If it was a Fallen that struck you down, then we must determine the extent of their control over the creatures.”
“Those beasts could tear apart most mercenary companies by sheer force of numbers and a lack of tactics of any kind. They care little for their own lives and we are not accustomed to such savagery,” Caolte interjected. “Unleashing an army of Gath upon the city states of Caledun would be disastrous.”
“Would the Silveryn Council react to such a threat in time?” Gavin asked Andros directly.
Shrugging, a resigned look came across the mage’s eyes. “I have to be honest, Gavin. The Council would debate and argue, then debate some more; but I wouldn’t expect a swift decision.”
“Even with the Fallen confirmed as the puppet masters?” The Fey’Derin captain asked in disbelief.
“Ir’Wolien and the Council voted a long time ago to remain aloof from the greater world. Barring a clear threat to Dragon Mount itself, I can’t see them bending one bit.”
“And the deaths of your young novices wasn’t proof enough?” Gavin questioned, his voice rising up in anger.
“Easy, lad, he’s not your enemy,” Caolte cautioned. Gavin noticed that the man had come to the defense of the mage and found that reason enough to take heed of his retort.
“There is no proof that a Fallen did indeed breach the Shield. Some believe that the magic inexplicably failed, as preposterous as that sounds,” Andros explained.
“I’m at a loss then as to what I should do, if anything,” Gavin pondered. “You should probably send a summons to Dragon Mount, Andros. Then we can only wait and see if the learned of the Order can shed some light on this situation.”
“And the mention of the Gorimm?” Caolte asked quietly.
“We keep that knowledge among us three. Until I know exactly what story lies behind that man’s appearance I want it kept secret.” Gavin turned his steady gaze from his officer to the young mage.
“I am oathbound to report it,” Andros hesitated.
“But in truth you were not conscious at the time and therefore saw nothing,” Gavin said with a deceptive look.
Shaking his head in resignation, the Silveryn mage slowly nodded. “For the moment I’ll omit your recollection of the rescue, but if pressed by the Council, I could lose everything.”
“Just keep it quiet for now, Andros. I have a feeling that events are coming to a head, events that will shape the land for years to come,” Gavin replied with a faraway look in his eyes.
“A feeling?” Caolte broke the silence.
“Aye, a feeling,” the captain replied ominously.
The jingling harnesses on the horses of the column shook Gavin from his memory. He thought about Orn Surefoot and his new opportunity as spokesman for the company. The troubled man had made great strides in staying sober. Although now cranky at the best of times, he had worked diligently as a recruit and had been reassigned to his old unit. The Eagle Runners had welcomed him back enthusiastically.
Gavin supposed that the veteran’s biggest challenge would now reveal itself by the numerous temptations lying in wait at the Gathering. Makeshift taverns, each and every one teeming with drunken men and women trading stories, were far too numerous to count. A Gathering of this size provided enough ale and spirits to satisfy even the most devout of drinkers. If Orn, with the threat of expulsion now resting heavily on his mind, could deny his dark urges, Gavin would know that the man had finally turned a corner in his life; truly a breakthrough years in the making. Sending Coren as chaperon could only improve those odds.
Tel’Andros, on the other hand, was nowhere to be found. After sending his summons, the mage had then been summarily recalled to Dragon Mount to present a more detailed report of their findings in the Aeldenwood.
Although Gavin desperately needed advice, even from those he had spurned, he was already suspicious of any information that would be sent in return. Ir’Wolien’s fingers were bound to have touched anything of note. Politics aside, ignoring the return of the Gorimm was not an option; contact had to be made again and questions answered.
Giving his word that he would return to Galen’hide before summer and handing everything of import to Eör and his recruits, Andros had taken leave of the company and headed north. Gavin couldn’t help but wonder when next he would see his childhood friend. They had changed so much in the past few years, but he still believed in their friendship and saw the mage as a critical link to his past.
For over three hundred years, the mercenary companies of Caledun met yearly to discuss the terms of their new contracts. Spring was the time when employers set out to recruit soldiers for a myriad of reasons, ranging from simple patrolling and escort duties, to full on city sieges. All mercenaries would arrive at the annual Ca’lenbam and sign on to represent specific employers for the upcoming summer of warfare.
That there would be war between city states was a constant. The citizens of shattered Caledun warred; and they warred with all of their souls. Since the fall of the High King during the Shattering and the subsequent creation of the Mercenary Code of Conduct, the kingdom had never seen a summer without war. It was bred into the lifeblood of every citizen, be they a commoner or of noble birth. It was a rite of passage and a dream for many a young man to join a mercenary company and rise up the ranks while surviving year after year on the field of battle. With prowess in arms came social standing; with social standing came the opportunity for wealth and power.
Only small standing militias were allowed per city, and until now only the rebellious people of the Drayenmark and the Dwarven nation of Alerond were not subject to the binding Code of Conduct.
Orn slipped noiselessly through the packed crowds covering the valley floor. The bustling mass of citizens churned like a whirlpool, surging violently and heaving from every direction. With a thick layer of dust and human stench floating noxiously in the air, Orn decided to tie a wet cloth over his nose and mouth. Breathing without protection in such a claustrophobic environment was nearly impossible. More than once the nimble scout nearly lost his footing. To fall in such a crush of people could mean death, but Orn pushed on.
Glancing over his shoulder, he scanned the area for any sign of Bider. After last year’s events at the Gathering, as well as his failure at Dragon Mount, Orn expected he’d be watched. His ongoing battle to stay out of the improvised taverns was made somewhat easier by the fact that there was company business to attend to. At least that will give me a chance to shake Bider, thought the Fey scout with a sly grin.
All manner of soldier was present at the Gathering. Veterans wore expressions of calm annoyance, yet they were also masterfully patient, an important skill in in battle as well as surviving amidst the organized chaos of another Ca’lenbam.
Newly promoted men, fresh from their officer’s training camps, were barely able to contain their excitement and sheer astonishment at the scale of the proceedings.
Those unattached to a formal company, freelancers by trade, slouched against small tents containing their life’s possessions. They displayed their smaller individual banners proudly and marked them for inspection by any potential employer. No one could predict who would be hired by the nobles each spring. Chances were high that even most of the sell swords, an untrusted lot by reputation, would be bought by the Gathering’s end.
The line for registration was painfully long. A series of plain wooden tables where scholars sat armed with parchment and ink were the only markers defining the recording area. As with the rest of the valley, men jostled for position near the front of the line. Very few companies had any influence based on their colours alone. It was their standing on the field of battle that had garner
ed respect and favour with the high ranking diplomats of the Ca’lenbam.
The reputation of Gavin Silveron’s Fey’Derin was not lost among those assembled in the valley. Flourishing his cloak as best he could under the circumstances, Orn pressed forward and nodded slightly to those company heralds that moved aside for him. He made note of the colours and standards of those who showed respect, and pointedly, those who did not.
With the formation of the Fey’Derin five seasons prior, and having recently completed their third campaign in the south, significant rivalries had flared up with the other mercenary companies of Kal Maran. At each of the spring Ca’lenbams in the north and south, these rivalries often took center stage. Leaders paid close attention to those who were present as well as those who were conspicuously absent.
Over the years, Captain Silveron had forged strong bonds with only a select few. He had tried to remain aloof from the greater politics of the nobles who played at war. Many had called his stance a foolish one; others looked upon it as a testament to his courage and conviction. With the encroachment of Gadian Yarr’s faction, even the determined Fey’Derin captain had been forced to pick sides. It was either that or return to the more comforting Northern Council territories of his early campaigns.
Although the company was paid with coin, even before fighting for Furnael Berry,Captain Silveron had never fought for the highest bidder. Only the Fey’Derin’s exceptional skills in battle kept them among the top tier of the invisible mercenary pecking order and such respect, Orn noted with disdain, was in short supply among those gathered. Not enough northern companies… he pondered.
Orn was allowed to push his way forward close to the front of the line, but an unmistakable crimson and black standard ahead ruffled prominently in the light morning breeze. The dark red tabard, held aloft by a small contingent of well-armed men, owned the front rank of the registration. At the command of a young blond-haired guardsman, certain companies, regardless of their place in line, were pushed to the rear.
