by Emmet Moss
“Alright then,” Bider nodded his approval. “What’s our route?”
“We head east towards the trading town of Wickam,” Gavin responded. “It lies on the eastern edge of the Caeronwood. The town is larger than most, as it lies on the busy trade route from Matanis on the coast. Once there, we’ll replenish supplies and head north along the edge of the wood. I doubt we’ll meet many travelers, and with horses the journey will be relatively easy on you.”
Bider watched as Gavin grabbed the backpack containing the C’Avenlok and slung it over his shoulder. “Is it safe to go out?” he asked as the Fey’Derin commander prepared to leave.
“Get some rest, Coren. Come tomorrow, we depart from this place,” Gavin replied darkly.
“Captain, you’re risking too much.”
“I have an urgent message that needs to be delivered,” Gavin replied, swiftly pulled the tent flap aside. Without another word, he was gone.
The pavilions were abuzz with activity as Gavin pushed his way through the crowds. The setting sun brought welcome relief from the surprising heat of the afternoon. During his last foray into some of the taverns earlier that day, the warmer temperatures had almost been unbearable. The mass of people packed into the valley did little to add to the charm of the event. It was a wonder anyone felt the need to leave their private encampments for the chaos of the Ca’lenbam markets.
He had learned something of the fate of his friends and his company while drinking with two hard looking men from a southern company who had little chance of recognizing his face. They had divulged what little they knew of the Fey’Derin’s escape; the company had fought hard, there had been casualties, and the battle continued to rage in the forest.
For a man who had always taken great pride in how informed he had always been in matters concerning his men, it galled Gavin to have to rely on second-hand information. To appear overly interested or supportive of either the Fey’Derin, or the Captains Fairwind or Blackwain, would be dangerous, so Gavin could learn little more about the fate of the companies.
As he neared the center marketplace of the Gathering, he noticed that an unusual number of people were streaming into the area. Stumbling over a man’s foot, he muttered a quick apology. Following the steady flow of onlookers, he was herded towards a large open space that had been cleared by a significant number of men wearing the purple tunics of the New Protectorate. Curiously, he watched as workmen arrived with large bundles of wood, while others busied themselves with the construction of what appeared to be a large platform.
Tapping a young woman standing nearby on the shoulder, he leaned down and shouted above the considerable din. “Pardon me, but what’s going on here?”
“Where’ve you been the past few days?” she exclaimed. “One of General Armsmater’s new captains is holding a public execution for those captured yesterday. The traitors are to be hanged as a warning to those who might rebel.”
Gavin’s world began to swim. He knew that to betray his allegiances now would mean his end. It was apparent that many were content to throw their lot in with the new order. The whole affair made him sick.
Struggling to remain indifferent, he pursued the questioning. “Who’s going to hang?”
“Not sure, really,” she replied. “They’re all Northern company men, though. Some of those funny sounding names, as well as the Sisters.”
Gavin nodded amiably, even as he fought to quell a rising fury at the news. He was certain he would see some of his men paraded out in front of the crowd to die. And this time, there was nothing he could do about it.
You can’t save everyone, Gavin ... Caolte’s gruff voice came to him as he watched the final boards of the gallows being hammered in place.
Time slowed to a crawl as nooses were tied to the scaffolding. An expectant hush settled over the crowd and more Protectorate soldiers arrived to help support those that barely contained the heaving swell of spectators.
Gavin watched a small company of mounted guardsmen clear a path through the people, each mount pulling or dragging a man in its wake. In horror, he registered the defeated looks upon the features of those who yet struggled proudly to stand. The first dozen wore the torn and disheveled tabards of Herod’s Delan Fere. The next five were women; most of them staring stonily forward even with their uniforms in tatters, many of them exposed cruelly to the leering stares of ogling men. And last, one of the men helping another, came three soldiers who Gavin immediately recognized.
Gryn Stormeld, an Axemen, Robyn Squires and Liam Garivald, both Eagle Runners, wore expressions of quiet dignity as the crowd roared their approval when one of the women staggered and fell to the ground. All three men had been long-serving members of the Fey, and their loyalty had never been questioned while they served.
By the gods, Gryn has three children back home. Gavin agonized as they were pushed roughly up on the platform. The big Axemen was from Briar, his Lumber blood clearly visible by the nature of his towering frame. The two Eagle Runner scouts held their heads high and directed their eyes forward, impervious to the insults that were being hurled in their direction.
The lead rider, a powerfully built middle-aged man, dropped to the ground and held his hand up for silence. For long moments the crowd showed no signs of acknowledging his presence, perfectly content to continue screaming at the captives.
A quiet hush of anticipation settled over those assembled and little time remained if he was going to try something, but he knew it would be in vain. Only with the combined might of an army could he ever have hoped to free the twenty odd captives that faced death. For one of the few times in his life, Gavin felt powerless.
“There will be no quarter shown those who would defy the laws of the New Protectorate!” the man roared. “In the General’s absence, I have been given the power to grant life or death. Here before you stand men and women who have denounced Lord Gadian Yarr. Here before you stand traitors to order, soldiers who seek to plunge this land back into chaos and anarchy. They are traitors and their lives are now forfeit.” Pausing, the officer surveyed the crowd before continuing. “But it is you, the people of the south, who we protect, and so I ask of you, do you wish to spare the lives of those who stand accused before you?”
The resounding roar made Gavin’s heart sink and his stomach clench violently. Gavin watched a triumphant grin spread across the man’s face. Then, with a satisfied nod towards the crowd, he raised his hand and turned towards the men who stood poised near each of the condemned. With a loud cry, the Protectorate captain dropped his arm.
Averting his gaze, Gavin heard the strangled cries of the fallen. Closing his eyes, the Fey’Derin captain hung his head in shame. “I’m sorry ...” he whispered.
It’s too godforsaking hot to be out here. Knight-Captain Goran Perras thought to himself, trudging back through yet another deep thicket on the edge of the Caeronwood. Using his sword to push aside a low hanging branch, he fervently wished he was back in the wide open fields of the southern Protectorate. It was there, along with two thousand other men, that he had trained under the strict tutelage of the famed Gerald Armsmater.
Goran was a solid mercenary man, having served well in three companies prior to his invitation south to work as one of Gerald Armsmater’s officers. He had risen through the ranks, somehow impressing the general with his adherence to the man’s expectations and a brutality and cruelness Armsmater found likable. Now, as second-in- command of the entire army, respected and feared by his men, Goran found himself frustrated after the day’s running battle with the fleeing companies of the Gathering.
The general had warned of this possibility, and with only one real exception, the coup had been bloodless. In Goran’s mind, this boded well; what with an unavoidable clash expected between the supporters of that fool Berry and the esteemed Lord Yarr. How anyone could side with the foppish noble of Garchester mystified Goran. Berry’s city was in sham
bles, falling with little resistance only a week ago. The duke’s armies were defeated, his allies few, and his chances for survival slim. Goran had learned long ago to side with power, and Gadian Yarr held all of the power in the south.
Finally breaking free of the tangled brush, the veteran officer waved at some of his men and explained that he was heading in for the night. With the general personally leading the push against the troublesome Fey’Derin, he had been left in charge of the Ca’lenbam security.
His men had been thorough in searching out those who disagreed with the new order. Even now, more than a dozen members of various companies lay bound and awaiting execution. That evening had already seen the public hangings of several Delan Fere, a few Sisters of the Sword, and three Fey’Derin.
Altogether pleased at the ground gained after only a day, the Knight- Captain walked briskly towards his command tent. A nice steaming tub would do wonders, he thought, as he pulled aside the purple flap of his pavilion.
Cursing silently as he stumbled into complete darkness, he wondered at his two young pages’ dereliction of duty. How do you forget to light your officer’s candles at night? Goran shook his head in disbelief. In a slow shamble, the man crossed through the main room and slipped into his private bedchamber. With a little luck, he would have some time to entertain a lady or two after his bath. Expecting the general would be very late in arriving, Goran planned to take full advantage of his commander’s absence. The old general did frown upon his nighttime dalliances.
Unbuckling his sword belt, Goran reached towards his small bureau, anxiously searching for his tinder and flint. As his hands came to rest atop the furniture, he suddenly had the strange feeling that he was being watched.
Squinting in the darkness, he called out, “Werran, if that’s you, you’d best be bringing a light and a woman or I’ll take out my frustrations on your hide! Werran?!”
“I’m afraid I might not be who you were expecting…” a voice answered from the darkness.
Infuriated by the intrusion, and yet inexplicably terrified by the tone of the speaker, Goran Perras spun towards the voice. It was then that he realized his sword already lay discarded. As he frantically reached into his boot top for his dagger, the sudden flare of a torch filled the room.
“You!” he breathed in surprise.
It was the last word Goran Perras would ever breathe, and the intruder’s face, the last he would ever see.
“Cursed Arne, they fight well,” Gerald muttered as he leaned with his back against the nearest tree. Twice now his squad had been hard pressed to hold back a determined charge from the Fey’Derin rearguard.
“They are brave, General,” panted the soldier at his side.
Few men over his long heralded career had impressed him as much as this upstart captain from the north. The Fey’Derin fought cohesively and were extremely well trained. It galled the general even further now that the brash young commander had opted to defy his decree and flee.
The young Silveron was ruled by his emotions, a trait that would surely cripple any real commander. Soldiers signed up to fight for their officers, it was their duty and not one to lament over. Men and women had died in battle since the beginning of time. One captain could do little to change that fact. The sooner Gavin Silveron realized the truth about his profession, the better. Until then, his men may fight passionately in his name, but his self-doubt will eventually prove to be their undoing.
The stubborn defense by this one company had resulted in some defeats in the area. Both the Sisters of the Sword and the Delan Fere had passed through much lighter defenses on account of the respect warranted by the Fey. Armsmater was furious about this development.
Glancing towards the darkening sky, the old man shook his head and turned to the soldier at his side. “Private, I believe it is time this old soldier returns to rest his creaking bones.”
“Aye, sir!” the man replied smartly. “I will send for an escort.”
“No need, no need,” Gerald shook his head. “I can find my way back.”
The trek back through the shadowy woods gave Gerald time to evaluate all that had transpired that day. Although pleased by the effort his new soldiers demonstrated, the escape of Silveron’s Fey’Derin was unfortunate.
Running through each and every order, engagement, ambush, and counterattack, Gerald Armsmater soon found himself closing in on his large tent. Saluting the alert guard standing at the entrance, the Protectorate commander ducked inside and headed towards his bedchamber. A quick change of clothes accompanied by a meal would still allow him a few hours to pour over the maps of the region. If there still remained an opportunity to catch the fleeing mercenary companies, a plan needed to be devised that very evening.
As he crossed the main chamber of the large pavilion and moved into his personal quarters, the general tensed, his senses screaming in alarm. Brandishing his sword, the veteran campaigner knew something was amiss. In the darkness he could smell something tainting the air, the faint trace of iron in the odor. Calmly lighting the candelabra that stood near the entrance, he gazed about the room.
On the bed, sightless eyes staring forward, lay the severed head of Goran Perras. In stunned silence, Gerald Armsmater unfolded a small piece of parchment that had been crammed into the dead man’s mouth. With a muttered curse, he read the carefully scrawled words:
Your Knight-Captain is the second unfair casualty of this war; Orn Surefoot was the first. I missed you in your tent this evening, but I can assure you, we will most certainly meet again.
I warned you not to make an enemy of me.
Silveron
Crumpling the note in his hand, the General of the new Protectorate looked over his shoulder and called for one of his servants. “Derius, fetch me Oriel! I have need of a mage. This man can only push me so far!”
With the presence of a far more organized resistance than anticipated near the southeastern reaches of the Wilds, the goblin savages have hampered our attempts at discovering a safe passage along that route. The reason for the increased goblin presence is not known, but remains a serious concern.
—Lord Crispin, ‘The Explorers,’ Volume II
Chapter XXXVIII
Lok’Dal hie, The Wilds
Leoric’s flight through the dark, twisted tunnels of the Shalo’k Mine was akin to something out of a nightmare. As he stumbled behind the steadfast Finn Callum, Leoric couldn’t help but wonder if the escape was some trick of his mind. Could it be only a vivid dream, a hallucination perhaps? Did it feel so real because it was what he had so desperately hoped for?
As they passed through a small guardroom at the end of the dark corridor just beyond their cells, Leoric gasped and came to a halt. The slain bodies of four goblin guards were strewn about the room, confirming Leoric’s hopes when he had first spied the black blood dripping down the length of Finn’s sword; goblin blood had been spilled this night.
Only a scant few feet behind him, Benoit rushed into the room, nearly crashing into Leoric’s back. Looking about the chamber, the scholar’s eyes opened wide as he wretched what little contents remained in his stomach onto the floor. Benoit then fell to his knees, sour bile burning his parched throat.
“We don’t have time to stop,” Auric gasped, pulling Benoit to his feet. “If we don’t flee this place before an alarm is sounded, we’ll all be dead. We’ll speak once we reach the surface, but until then we must press on!” Without another word, the old man uncorked a flask of water and passed it around to the three escapees. “Careful now, lads, drink deeply but slowly. Not too much,” he cautioned.
Benoit was immediately bolstered by the fresh water, the first taste in so long, and drank greedily from the canteen before passing it to Leoric. Lifting the container to his lips, Leoric was refreshed as the cool water quenched his thirst. Water poured down his chin, but he cared little. All he could do
now was to focus on keeping his feet moving. Angvald grinned mightily as he received the proffered flask, his dust laden beard shaking with anticipation. With a hearty breath, he tipped the container and drank deeply.
The large circular chamber acting as the central hub for the discrete sections of the mine was deserted, and the five men slid along the edge of the nearest wall. Although it seemed as though no one was in the vicinity, Auric was taking no chances. They walked carefully in the shadows, progressing in a single file as they slowly traversed the cavernous room.
That only so few could guard so many… Leoric was horrified. Such was the despair of this mine.
Leoric had no idea which passageway they had been ushered through when they had first arrived. He was embarrassed to think that even if they had devised some miraculous escape from their cells, it was likely they would never have found their way through the maze-like tunnels of the numerous shafts.
Thankfully, Auric showed no hesitation as he led them around more than half the circumference of the chamber and directly into a tunnel opening that appeared no different than any other.
The tunnel ran in a straight line for a hundred paces or more before sloping sharply upwards. It was not until the small party of fugitives had made what felt like considerable progress closer to the exit that Leoric allowed himself to breathe a small sigh of relief. With his memory still hazy, he could do little to shake his feeling of helpless confusion as their path began to curve sharply. The surface lay above them, and he was determined to see daylight once again.
Auric never looked back while leading the small procession. The enigmatic old man possessed a level of endurance that astonished Leoric. Whereas the rest of the men staggered through the tunnels short of breath and gasping for air, Auric never once faltered. Leoric couldn’t truthfully say that he understood the strange man, but he had never once doubted him. Leoric had trusted Auric with the original escape plan, and he trusted him now here in the depths of the mine.
