by Emmet Moss
Reaching the archway only a few minutes later, he braced himself for what he feared was yet another confrontation with the Gath. Instead, he pulled up as he saw C’Aelis down on one knee carefully inspecting the young wolf’s left flank. Alessan breathed a sigh of relief when he noticed the twisted bodies of two Gath crumpled on the earth only a few short paces from his friends. Fascinated, he watched as one of the corpses twitched, its throat torn out and one of the creature’s arms nearly torn off. Greiyfois had not been kind.
She is a warrior, our Greiyfois. C’Aelis sent in response to Alessan’s silent thought. That the strange Gorimm could seemingly read his mind at will was still somewhat disconcerting. She slew both forward scouts, but you can be sure that a war pack hunts nearby.
“Where shall we go?” Alessan gasped.
The Vale would mask our presence, and with the wards now activated, we have two choices; hide or run. Motioning towards the mangled corpses C’Aelis frowned. I don’t believe the creatures would suspect anything other than a wolf attack, but we can’t be sure…
“The thought of being trapped in the Vale doesn’t exactly warm my bones. I feel better than I ever have, so I’m ready for a run,” Alessan replied, flexing his right arm and realizing that the Lumber Axe was still clutched tightly in his left hand.
C’Aelis’ frown only deepened. I see you have already grown attached to the weapon.
“Don’t you find it the least bit curious that it is feather light to me?” Alessan reacted. “You yourself have often said that the gods work in mysterious ways. This could be such an event!”
You are more stubborn now than you were when healing, Alessan, the Gorimm nodded his head. The blade has shown an affinity to you, and you alone, so I can’t disagree. It does not mean that I need enjoy its presence.
“Agreed,” Alessan replied with a curt nod of his own.
Then we head north. There is an old tower six leagues ahead where we can rest. After that we will strike east and into the foothills of the Druine Mountains. Scholaris lies in that direction, although it is still a long ways off, C’Aelis said, petting Greiyfois on the head. Are you ready, Alessan?
“I’m ready,” Alessan replied.
C’Aelis grudgingly helped Alessan attach the weapon to his back using makeshift straps of leather. Setting a slow but steady pace, C’Aelis loped off into the forest, Greiyfois fast on his heels. Alessan broke into a shambling jog that kept him within sight of his two companions.
And so, the strange burial vale of the Gorimm was now behind them, the crumbling stone archway once more forgotten amidst the veritable sea of trees surrounding it.
The summer campaigns shall begin no less than twenty-one days after the conclusion of the spring Gathering. Companies must report to their designated posts as determined by their employer within that period or risk a breach of their contractual agreements.
—Mercenary Code of Conduct
Chapter XXXVII
Ca’lenbam, Protectorate
Gavin walked nonchalantly through the teeming makeshift arteries of the Ca’lenbam. He was still boiling with anger over his encounter with Gerald Armsmater, but somehow managed to maintain a calm outward appearance as he made his way through the crowd. The ability to harness his emotions was one of the critical skills he had learned while serving with the Silveryn Koriani. Failure in this regard could result in rash decisions that might very well end one’s life.
Gavin had no intention of dying without first taking revenge for Orn’s death. Caolte had often warned him about the seduction of vengeance, but there was no denying the burning coal of anger that had settled in his breast. Gerald Armsmater had broken the Mercenary Code. It was a serious offense that revealed how arrogant Gadian Yarr had truly become, but the meaningless death of Orn Surefoot belied any explanation.
I was sober, Captain…
The words echoed in Gavin’s mind as he moved closer to the center of the large Gathering. He preferred not to fret over how long those words might haunt him. Instead, his priority was the safety of Coren D’Elmark.
Out of uniform, Gavin looked no different than hundreds of other freelance mercenaries milling about the various taverns and company pavilions. The Fey’Derin tabard was well-known, and it was only through discretion that he would stand a chance of reaching an area relatively close to the new general’s purple and black command tents. It was impossible to know how long Coren would be left alive once word of the Fey’Derin’s flight to the Caeronwood was reported. Gavin refused to leave anything to chance; if a daring late afternoon rescue was the only option, then so be it. He would not leave Coren behind to die like a defenseless animal.
Choosing an alley adjacent to the heavily guarded pavilions of the Protectorate’s upper class, Gavin set to work. He had already purchased everything he needed to cover his retreat. Shouldering his way to a spot between two smaller tents, he unfurled his new purchase and quickly set up a tent of his own. He placed bandages and two bedrolls, among other supplies, within the small space. To any who now passed by the location, his living space looked akin to any of the other freelancer tents assembled amidst the general chaos of the Gathering. Curious onlookers would see nothing of interest.
Pleased with his progress, Gavin ducked into the tent and unbuckled his long sword, tossing the blade on the nearest bedroll. Pulling a blanket over the weapon, he took three thick bandages and packed them in his backpack along with the C’Avenlok cloak. Slipping a small, thin blade underneath the left bracer on his wrist, Gavin rechecked his equipment one last time before exiting back out into the busy alleyway. Immediately swallowed up by the crowd, to any observer, he was now merely one mercenary among many.
Time had lost all meaning to Bider. He felt as if many days had passed since Orn’s death, but he would have most certainly been killed if this were true. He could feel a constant throbbing pain in his ribs and legs, and there was a distinct numbness in his hands due to his tightly bound wrists. There was a steady dripping of blood coming from his mouth and Bider was surprised he was still breathing at all. Gerald Armsmater may not even have to slit his throat to finish the job; a bit more time may very well accomplish the same result.
He lay with his head against the cool earthen floor of the tent, his face turned sideways and his body contorted uncomfortably. There was little chance that his muscles would respond to his attempts at movement. They had already decided that the searing pain was unavoidable, and any kind of struggle would only increase his discomfort.
A small breeze rippled across his exposed back, the cool air igniting a fresh round of biting sensitivity. Moaning in displeasure, Bider tried to turn in order to see who it was that had entered the tent. His ears, although partially blocked by blood and dirt, were still sharp enough to catch the quiet swish of a cloaked individual. Seized with a terrible premonition that his end was near, Bider valiantly struggled to escape his bonds.
The gentle touch of a hand landing near his wrists almost caused his heart to stop. Moaning loudly, Bider somehow found the strength to shift his body away from the searching hands. Please help! His mind screamed in terror.
“Shh… Coren I need you to relax. It’s me, Gavin,” whispered a calm voice in his ear.
Bider was speechless, once again the hands returned to his bound wrists, this time the action accompanied by the unmistakable ring of a weapon being drawn. Bider could see no one at his side and he watched as a floating pair of hands carrying a small dagger entered his vision. Flinching at the strange sight, he shrank away.
“Coren you must focus for me,” Gavin’s voice whispered once more. As the blade severed the bonds that had held him, Bider tried in vain to flex his tingling fingers. As the blood returned to his extremities, so too did the pain. With his fingers twisted in agony, Bider blinked in surprise as the floating hands placed the dagger on the ground, reached upward, and made a motion as if to
remove a hood.
There before him was the grim, determined face of Gavin Silveron. For a moment, Bider wondered if he was delirious and only imagining the ghostly appearance of the man he had prayed would save him. “Captain ... is it really you?” he managed to stutter.
Gavin nodded. “I apologize for the sudden appearance, but explanations will have to wait. Let’s get the rest of your bindings cut and ready ourselves to move.”
Bider winced as his legs were freed. “That’s the problem, Captain,” he replied dejectedly. “I don’t think I’ll be able to walk.”
Gavin looked up in alarm. “How bad?”
“I won’t lie, Captain. I have broken ribs for sure, I’ve lost some teeth and my nose is definitely broken. Also ...” his eyes trailed down to his ragged pant leg and Gavin cursed under his breath as he pulled aside the clothing. Coren’s left ankle was terribly disfigured, swollen and obviously broken. There was little hope the limb would be able to hold any weight whatsoever.
Gavin remained in a silent crouch for a long moment, his stare determined and searching. A momentary flutter of despair swept through Bider and he wondered whether Gavin would be forced to abandon him there. I won’t be the cause of his death! Bider vowed.
“Stop looking so worried,” Gavin said. “This somewhat complicates matters, but I don’t believe it’s anything we can’t handle.”
“You should leave, sir. I’m just going to be in the way.”
Gavin turned and unclasped the strange cloak that kept most of his body concealed. “Nonsense. I didn’t send the company out under Caolte without reason. I’ll be damned if get this far and not manage a path out of this cursed place.”
With some feeling returning slowly to his hands and feet, Bider rubbed his legs in the hopes of stimulating the circulation. He was determined to escape, even if it meant hobbling his way out of the tent. Accepting a bandage from Gavin, he gently dabbed at the wounds on his face, clearing away much of the congealed blood and cleaning up his features somewhat.
Shouts of alarm suddenly reached their ears. Reacting with astonishing speed, Gavin tossed the cloak towards Bider and slid to one side of the tent entrance. As the flap was thrown open, Bider scrambled to cover himself with the strange article of clothing. Two purple and black-garbed soldiers entered the tent with weapons drawn. They instantly spotted Bider’s struggling form, his body only partially covered by the C’Avenlok.
Gavin attacked before they had time to register his presence. With practiced calm, he stepped forward and eliminated both men; the first with a dagger pulled across the throat, the second with a vicious twist to the neck. All told, the killings had taken barely a heartbeat. Silencing the choking man with a merciful stroke, Gavin cocked an ear towards the tent flap.
Reclaiming his blade, Gavin motioned towards the back of the tent. “We’ll go out the rear. It’s not far. We will be staying nearby tonight.”
“Nearby?! And how will you hide an injured man?” Bider watched Gavin cut a large slit in the heavy canvas. Pulling open the ragged slash, the captain peered cautiously outside.
“Have you ever noticed how people generally notice odd behaviour?” Gavin asked. “A skulking man in the shadows, a hooded stranger, someone walking too swiftly, or too slowly for that matter. What better way to remain unseen, than to simply act like we belong.”
“Cursed Arne, we’re just going to walk out of here?” Bider exclaimed.
“In a manner of speaking, yes. I’ll support you, and we’ll make our way to the freelancer’s area just a short walk from here. No one knows you’re missing; for the moment, that remains our greatest advantage.”
Agreeing to the plan, Bider slung his arm around Gavin’s shoulders and grimaced in pain with each step. The two men exited the ripped opening in the rear of the tent and casually made their way through the laneways between the pavilions. Bider could feel the grind of bone on bone, his broken ribs rubbing painfully against one another. They managed to pass through the area with few glances in their direction.
As they walked through the throng of people present on one of the larger thoroughfares, Bider couldn’t help but wonder if it was all but a dream. Was his ordeal truly over, or was he still lying unconscious in captivity? Shaken by the thought, he relaxed as they were swallowed by the crowd. They were now just another pair, albeit an odd one with his numerous injuries, amongst the soldiers and craftsmen attending the Ca’lenbam.
Limping along and bravely fighting the pain, Bider felt his hold on consciousness slipping away. Catching the pale look on the scout’s face, Gavin shouldered more weight and continued to speak words of encouragement. That Coren D’Elmark was alive and had mustered the strength to travel even the short distance from his prison tent, demonstrated extraordinary courage and resiliency.
With black spots dancing in his vision, Bider sighed gratefully as the captain pulled aside the flap of a nondescript tent and slipped inside. A sudden weariness, heavy and unforgiving, settled over his small frame. His knees buckled as he fought to keep his eyelids open. Sinking down on to the nearest bedroll, Bider closed his eyes and succumbed to his exhaustion.
Gavin looked across at the sleeping form of his companion with relief. As he had hoped, the Fey’Derin push to escape into the Caeronwood had curtailed Armsmater’s efforts to use Coren as a pawn. It was unlikely that the general could ever have predicted that Gavin would attempt to rescue his captured man. By his lofty reputation alone, Gavin knew that Armsmater would never hesitate in sacrificing one man for the good of a company. The potential risks would have been assessed and the attempt steadfastly refused by the general.
The retired mercenary’s hard and unforgiving nature had unwittingly created an opportunity for Gavin. With relative ease, he had extracted the wounded man from an armed camp. As Coren slept soundly, Gavin checked the scout for any other troubling wounds. He detected a number of minor wounds, but only a thorough examination by a proper healer could discount any number of other possibilities. The general’s soldiers had not gone lightly on the man. In silence, he gently poked and prodded Coren’s exhausted body.
Finally content that the broken ankle and ribs remained the most serious injuries, Gavin carefully cleaned each gash, and with little resistance, managed to rouse the scout in order to properly bind his ribs and splint the broken limb. Satisfied with his work, Gavin leaned back on his own bedroll and closed his eyes. It would be a long few days, and he would need as much rest as possible. He also had a nighttime rendezvous to attend to…
“The cloak, is that how you killed the man who hired Khali’s Reavers?” Bider asked.
He had slept soundly for the entirety the day and well into the next. Now, propped up with against the wall of the tent, he carefully sipped from a large bowl of soup that Gavin had secured that afternoon. With a long night’s sleep behind him, his appetite had returned. He had regained something of his colour as well, and a healthy flush had returned to his cheeks.
“Lord Avery,” Gavin nodded, tearing a large piece of bread in half. “The cloak did play a role, yes.”
Bider accepted the bread and took a large bite. “Where did you get it?”
“The C’Avenlok was a gift,” Gavin replied.
“A gift?” Bider said, surprised by Gavin’s answer.
“Aye, a gift.”
C’Avenlok cloaks were something of a legend among the thieves of Kal Maran. Having once belonged to one of these loosely organized guilds, Bider had heard rumours about such magical cloaks of concealment. They were said to have been created by renegade mages during the early years of Caledun’s existence. The Silveryn Order had been recently founded and their near-absolute control over all things arcane and magical had only just begun.
The cloaks had been gifted to the best assassins in the realm, often members of the High King’s An’Darim, the personal company of the king. After the annihilation of that very
same command during the chaos caused by the Shattering, it was assumed that the artifacts had been lost.
Over the years, it had become something of a custom for thieves and assassins of great skill to be questioned about the use of a C’Avenlok. It was considered a mark of honour and respect to be so questioned, for it assumed their skill so high, and their successes so improbable, that only the aid of a C’Avenlok could explain it. The Thieves’ Guild claimed that they had two cloaks in their possession, but since no one knew how many, or even if any, had ever existed, the claim was considered to be false.
Sensing little more information would be forthcoming about the gift, Bider abandoned the train of questioning and pursued another. “How will we know if the company has won free? It will be hard to pick a place to rendezvous with them if Armsmater’s men get out ahead of them,” Bider asked.
“Lieutenant Burnaise will lead the company to where he believes they can more easily break through. Plans had been set in motion long before this day, Coren,” Gavin answered. “The Fey were given direct orders not to wait for us. I have a much different route planned,” Gavin replied with a smile.
“We’re not to rejoin the others then?”
“We’ll see them once we reach Dragon Mount. I’d like to give you another day to restore your strength before we head out. Armsmater won’t expect us to remain here at the Ca’lenbam, so I’m fairly certain we’ll be safe for another day or two.”
“And after that?” Bider asked.
Gavin shrugged. “The General will need to assert his authority after the loss of the Fey, as well as the Delan Fere, and the Sisters. He’ll curtail movement in and out of the Gathering and effectively silence any remaining dissenters among those captains still camped here. We need to be gone before that happens.”
