by Emmet Moss
On the appointed night, sleep, as Leoric knew it most assuredly would be, remained elusive. Hours after he had finally settled down upon his old cot, he could barely contain a rising tide of nervous excitement. From the moment his head had touched the uncomfortable pallet, his heart had started pounding. It took some time before the feeling passed, and although he had found a way to keep his nerves under control, he was by no means calm.
To pass the time as he waited, Leoric continued to go over each item that was needed, each movement that would be made, each part that they would all have to play if the escape attempt was to be successful. The food had been well secreted, and the ropes, torches and extra clothing carefully hidden within bales of hay. The crucial maps were safely held by Auric, but Leoric’s mind mulled constantly over each and every detail.
Only the tinder and flint remained absent from the list of items they had painstakingly hoarded and secreted away. That it remained in Joram’s house only further aggravated the situation. It was not so much that Joram had access to an essential tool that infuriated Leoric, but rather that the man continued to fawn over their goblin overseers.
After Leoric’s heartfelt confession, Kieri had bravely offered to steal the tinder and flint, but he was adamant that she remain uninvolved. The last thing he wanted was to put her in any danger, and a return to that dark house could only end in tragedy.
They spent the rest of the night together, speaking about life and all of their possible futures. Leoric would remember the evening for the rest of his life; so perfect were the stars, the warm breeze, and her company. They had slept outside, risking the wrath of their goblin captors, and found comfort in holding one another. Leoric had vowed to return and rescue her once his mission in the Iron Shield was over.
Kieri insisted that he not change his plans for her sake. She trusted him, and believed him when he said he would return for her. Leoric could do little but fret over her future. He had entrusted Finn Callum with her continued protection, but he was still worried.
Lying there in the deepening gloom, Leoric was struck by how much he was going to miss her. Somehow Kieri had penetrated the walls he had so painstaking built around his heart, bringing him so much joy in so little time that he wondered if it was all just a dream. Alanna would have really liked her, he thought sadly. And Maya too...
In full darkness, and with the exhausted snores of the other men surrounding him, Leoric quietly slipped from his bed and crouched patiently on the floor. He listened to the heavy breathing and waited until he was completely sure that the others were sound asleep. Passing the cot that held the large sleeping shadow of his good friend Angvald, Leoric paused and reached out a hand. Immediately it was clutched by the iron grip of the big Kaleenian.
As they had practiced numerous times before, the two men swiftly crossed the open compound, careful to avoid any of the patrolling guards. They staggered their departures from the homestead in order to keep activity to a minimum. Leoric had ordered everyone to keep to the routine. It had worked up until that point and to alter it in any way seemed foolish.
The plan was simple. Auric would meet them in the field with the maps. Cara and Benoit would collect the stolen food supplies, meet up with Auric, and wait until Angvald and Leoric arrived with the ropes, torches, and clothing. Once together in the field, they would do a final check of their supplies and immediately head west, hoping to reach the defensive battlements before dawn. At the base of the wall, they would quickly decide whether a roped descent was possible. If not, the group would swim the river located two leagues to the north.
By morning they expected to have put enough distance between themselves and their captors to allow for a chance at freedom. Leoric felt that if they could shirk pursuit long enough to reach the large river crossing, the group would have a fighting chance.
The warehouse door creaked noisily as Leoric and Angvald slipped in through the entrance. The darkness was so complete that Leoric needed a moment to fight off a bout of disorientation. Walking briskly through the pitch black area, he barely contained a curse as he tripped over a soft bundle on the ground. Curiously reaching down to see what was in his path, a muffled sound from further ahead caught his attention. As his hand came to rest on the object at his feet, he knew instantly that it was a body.
The hiss and sputter of torches being lit immediately followed his discovery. Backing up and away from the body, Leoric watched in horror as the light slowly illuminated the garish countenance of Joram and his goons. The borderman’s heart sunk even further when he realized that a half dozen goblin guards stood stoically in the shadows. A quick glance at his feet confirmed his belief. On the ground lay the motionless forms of both Cara and Benoit.
“So good of you to join us, D’Athgaran,” Joram gloated, his eyes flitting across the fallen bodies. “Your friends have already arrived, although I’m not sure they intended to arrive like this.” Without faltering, he casually motioned towards the rear of the group.
In horror, Leoric watched as Kieri was carried forward, her mouth gagged and her arms bound tightly behind her back. Her face was pale with several large bruises visible. Fighting a murderous rage, Leoric was calmed by Angvald’s firm grip upon his arm.
“Control yourself, Leoric, or she’ll be dead before you know it,” Angvald whispered.
Joram walked over to Kieri, removed her gag, and kissed her roughly on the lips. Revolted, she valiantly struggled to escape.
“If you needed tinder and flint why couldn’t you just have asked?” he said with a devilish grin. “For the right price I might have even conceded to the request.”
“Leoric, I’m sorry!” Kieri wailed. Apart from the bruises, the stricken look on her face told the tale. “He made me tell him. I just wanted to help!”
“I know Kieri, I know,” Leoric shouted.
“I love you, Leoric. Know that I love you!” she called out.
Hearing the exchange, an angry flush darkened Joram’s features. With a cry of rage, he turned and backhanded the defenseless woman. Shocked by the blow, she cried out in pain.
“Shut up, woman! You’re mine now, and you will love me!” Joram shrieked.
A wave of outrage overcame Leoric, and he lost all control. “You bastard, I’ll kill you!” he roared while unfurling a cocked fist. He caught Joram standing flat footed and sent him sprawling backwards.
Even as the blow landed, two goblin guards attacked, their axe shafts striking his ribs and dropping Leoric to the floor. The blows continued to fall, each one sending ripples of pain through his battered frame. Dimly, through the agony, he could see Angvald valiantly struggling against his own guards and paying a severe price for his courage.
With his senses reeling, Leoric was eventually dragged to his feet. Unable to support his own weight, he hung limply between the two goblin guards, their expressions a mix of disgust and hatred.
“You would do well to know your betters, Leoric,” Joram sneered as he threw a hard right.
Leoric spat and locked eyes with the leech. “It looks as though you’ve been in a fight Joram, one that wasn’t going too well either.
Sputtering with fury, the man rained down a series of blows, but Leoric barely felt them. His body hurt enough without the added attack. Instead, he focused his gaze upon the sobbing form of Kieri. She had once again paid the price because of his actions. Had he just been able to keep the secret of his impending departure she would never have attempted to retrieve the insignificant item. She had only tried to help and now she would be tied to the bastard once more, for Leoric had no doubt of his own fate.
“Do what you will with me, Joram. If you plan on killing me then get it over with. I’ve had enough of you and will welcome a break from that ugly mug of yours,” Leoric said wearily.
Joram laughed. “Oh, death would be too easy a fate for you and your friends, Leoric. Killing you would end your pain, a
nd I want you to be tormented for the rest of your long, hard life. I want you to remember that from this day forth, Kieri will be spending her nights in my bed. I want you to know she will be pleasing me, and my men, and there is nothing you can do about it.”
Stunned by the outburst, Leoric said nothing.
“That’s right you fool, it’s off to the Shalo’k Mine for all of you. Goodbye, Leoric, I hope I haunt your dreams,” he finished in a quiet whisper meant only for Leoric’s ears.
As he was led away, Leoric felt an overwhelming sense of failure grip his spirit. Sending a final stoic glance towards Kieri, he could do little to hide his dread. And yet, through the pain, one small thing kept his spirit alive; pushing aside the despair, he clung to it as a doomed swimmer might to a piece of flotsam.
They had not captured Auric.
Pay your soldiers on time. It’s the most important advice I can give. If you don’t, they will seek their just retribution. I speak, of course, from experience.
—Duke Roland Caldwell
Chapter XXXIV
The Caeronwood, Protectorate
Caolte was speaking with some of the Eagle Runners from the rearguard when the news that Gavin had returned reached his ears. Breathing a deep sigh of relief, the clansman ignored the courier’s worried tone of voice. He was so relieved that the Fey’Derin captain had returned to them unharmed that all other concerns were secondary.
Walking briskly to the far end of the encampment, Caolte was curious as to the behaviour displayed by some of the men. Seasoned veterans, he noticed, wore masks of pain and sadness. There were too many men near the east side of the camp to warrant the return of only Gavin. Only the officers had been briefed about the currently volatile situation in which the company found itself.
Something was amiss.
Worried about the captain’s safety, Caolte pushed his way through the growing throng of soldiers.
Gavin was kneeling down at the edge of the camp. Ethan, and Ossric stood quietly at his side, their hands resting gently on the man’s shoulder. A half-dozen steps to their left stood the grim-faced Furnael Berry, with Ossric’s Axemen surrounding him protectively.
From the waist down, Gavin was covered in blood.
It had soaked through his company tabard, deepening the sharp colours and staining his hands. Dried flecks covered his forearms, face and boots. At his knees lay the lifeless corpse of Orn Surefoot.
“Gods no, what happened?!” Caolte cried, running forward and kneeling beside his friend. Turning to the nearest soldier he yelled, “Get some water and blankets, and hurry!”
Gavin’s face was devoid of all expression. His eyes were languid and dull, and his entire body trembled slightly. Oblivious to the questions thrown at him, Gavin slowly raised himself to his feet and shambled off in the direction of his command tent.
With deep concern for his stricken commander, Caolte took action. “Ethan, take your squad and tend to Orn’s body. The rest of you get back to your posts. This changes nothing, and I need you all, however hard it may be, to return to your stations and stand ready,” the clansman ordered. “We’ll honour him when, or if, time permits.”
Aware of the anguished expressions on the men’s faces, Caolte continued, “Orn would understand. He would be more concerned with our safety than with a solemn ceremony. That old scoundrel would wish us all drunk right now; sadly, we can ill afford such a luxury.”
Ethan and Ossric both nodded while some of the men smiled sadly at the comment. The fallen scout’s love of spirits had never been a secret. Calling out to some of his soldiers, the noble born Sergeant Shade ushered his men to Caolte’s side. One of the scouts immediately covered the body with his company cloak. Caolte approved of the soldier’s gesture and motioned for Ossric and the newly arrived Sergeant Brock to follow after Gavin’s retreating form.
They found Gavin peeling off his garments, the damp clothing becoming a bloody pile at his feet. His movements were slow and measured, those of a man lost in thought and sorrow.
“Gavin, we need to know what happened,” the Drayen asked gently.
In a quiet voice, Gavin recounted the events of the morning, glossing over none of the brutality when describing Orn’s execution.
“Gerald Armsmater? Are you sure, Gavin?” Ossric muttered in the stunned silence that followed the account. The big man was shaking his head and leaning on the back of a wooden chair for support. Ossric had once served with Armsmater, and had even risen to sergeant before an unfortunate series of events had led to his expulsion. Ossric had often recounted stories to his squad about the man who now stood accused of Orn’s murder.
“I’m sure Ossric… I’m sure,” Gavin replied.
“Has he gone insane?” wondered Caolte aloud.
“What do we do, Captain? It doesn’t sit well with my heart abandoning Bider — but my common sense says that it remains our only course of action. We must leave, and leave now,” Brock insisted, a flash of guilt crossing his scarred face.
“We will proceed as planned, gentlemen. Caolte will lead the vanguard, hitting any sentries hard and fast before they have a chance to sound the alarm. I trust you already know their whereabouts. Every second will be crucial, and one wasted minute could very well mean the lives of many,” Gavin declared, donning what appeared to be regular tradesman garb.
Reaching into the saddlebag he had packed, Gavin pulled out a strange black cloak. At first glance, it seemed quite nondescript and plain, but when Gavin pulled it around his body, the very nature of the article seemed to shift. The three Fey’Derin officers gasped, and Ossric rubbed his eyes in disbelief. Instantly, the cloak had transformed, chameleon-like, and matched the tent’s drab colourings. It was difficult for the men to follow Gavin’s movements as he strapped a sword to his back, hiding it well beneath the strange cloak.
“A C’Avenlok,” Ossric exclaimed in awe. “How did you ever come by such a prize?”
“Don’t do this, Gavin,” Caolte pleaded, ignoring Ossric’s comment. It now dawned on the men what Gavin intended to do. He was not going to leave Bider in Gerald Armsmater’s hands to die.
“Coren won’t die tomorrow, nor will the company be involved in his rescue. I’ll —”
“He’ll understand, Gavin,” Caolte interrupted. “You have to let this go. Vengeance and hate are poisons to your soul; they will consume you.”
“I do not seek vengeance, Lieutenant; I seek to save Coren D’Elmark,” Gavin announced.
“Gavin, I can see it on your face. The last time you had such darkness in your heart was the morning we buried the dead at Parksya Ridge. I’ll not have you go through that again,” Caolte implored. “The Drayenmark have a saying, E’lie na hero’n mach, e’lie an ga’en — ‘A heart consumed by darkness, is a heart no longer’.”
Ossric and Brock watched the exchange with interest. Neither Caolte nor Gavin ever spoke of the infamous battle in which the young captain, a mere squad leader at the time, had gained his fame and Black Company was all but annihilated. For the first time in five years, both officers wondered at the ‘darkness’ of which their lieutenant spoke. A deeper story lay at the root of that ill-fated battle and both men, for once, looked at their commander with trepidation.
“I will go to Coren,” Gavin continued, a fire smoldering behind his eyes. “You are to win free with the Fey’Derin, Lieutenant. We will regroup at Galen’hide and then travel to Dragon Mount. I need to seek counsel with Ir’Wolien. He may know more of these recent events.”
“Gavin…” Caolte tailed off.
Gavin unclasped the cloak, folding it quickly and placing it in a small black backpack. Slinging the bag over his shoulder, he turned and faced Caolte one last time.
“That’s an order, Caolte. I’ll brook no further argument from you or anyone else. Safe journey to you always,” Gavin finished, sending a sharp look at hi
s remaining officers. Without looking back, the Fey’Derin captain left the tent and was gone.
Safe journey to you as well, Caolte thought.
Less than a quarter hour later, Lieutenant Caolte Burnaise, acting commander of the Fey’Derin, crouched beside two of Ethan’s soldiers. They were lying hidden in a dense growth of shrubbery, knee deep in cold, clammy mud, and desperately trying to track the three sentries Garett had spied earlier in the day.
The young scout had done well, ferreting out three hiding places that housed enemy soldiers spying for General Armsmater. If everything was going to plan, thought Caolte, Ossric should already be engaged with the enemy at a hidden site, a series of watchtowers discovered less than a league away, and Brock at a second encampment further to the north. Both watchtowers were thought to have ten soldiers stationed inside, the standard squad size of most mercenary companies.
The Fey’Derin had managed to slip into the Caeronwood, the wide expanse of trees located in the southland of old Caledun, without being noticed. Minuscule when compared to the mammoth Aeldenwood, the smaller forest did not hold the same reputation of being home to creatures of darkness. The Gath were not known to stalk under the eaves of the Caeronwood.
Reminded of his childhood, Caolte relished the smells and sounds of the wood. An earthy aroma, heavy and intoxicating, filled his nostrils. Breathing in deeply, he plunged into the woods with an elation that belied the gravity of the situation. Unlike the Aeldenwood, the intimate closeness of the trees did not feel suffocating.
With enemies stationed to the north, east, and west, Gavin had hoped to create difficulties for their pursuers by striking a trail northwest through the forest. Caolte had agreed that the company’s ability to travel both quickly and stealthily would enable them to gain enough ground to escape once they broke the forest line; still a long few days away.
Only time would tell what countermeasures General Armsmater had put in place for just such a defection. Caolte expected the general would have known that some companies would take the breaching of the Code, and his new title, as an insult. The Drayen veteran prayed that Gavin had not underestimated the more experienced commander.
