The Mercenary Code

by Emmet Moss

  “What’s that you’re singing, Angvald?” he asked, remembering that Angvald had shown some talent for song while at Darkenedge.

  “‘The Floating Flagon Barge of Ellan Reen’,” Angvald answered with a chuckle. “It’s an old favourite of mine. Would you like me to stop?”

  “No, no, by all means continue. Sing the words if you’d like.”

  Beaming, Angvald cleared his throat and sang:

  Was sixty years ago today,

  that old barge went floating past.

  The merriment and drunken jests,

  we thought would never last.

  Ellan Reen, slave to the spirits,

  Yes, he was indeed!

  And on his barge, the Floating Flagon,

  the barrels were piled high.

  Drunkards welcome and drinks poured,

  What more did we need?

  So raise your glass and drink,

  a one, a two, a three, or four!

  The Barge’ll keep you floating,

  when you’ve hit the floor.

  Oh, Ellan Reen, that man of legend,

  drank us all to shame.

  The Floating Flagon, that rousing boat,

  no better one to name!”

  As the tune ended, Leoric closed his eyes and fell fast asleep.

  It was no surprise that upon being awakened for his shift, the tune still floated about his head. Humming the song, Leoric watched the sky lighten overhead. The peaceful night brought back memories of the outdoor nights spent in Kieri’s company.

  “I will return and find you…” he whispered in the dark.

  At a moment such as this, hope seemed not so far away, the lingering promise no longer so unattainable.

  For two days the small band continued to push their way westward. With stamina renewed, the four men covered much ground, the innumerable trees passing by in a blurry haze as they ran. After a short trek through broken ground, the area showing clear signs of having been the victim of a large fire, the far off sound of rushing water could be heard. Benoit noticed it first, the scholar visibly excited by the prospect of reaching their first goal.

  Using Auric’s maps, Leoric and Angvald guessed at where they may have crossed the previous winter. If they continued on their present course, they would reach the water further south, hoping in part to avoid the river guards both men had seen at the crossing. Although there was the possibility that the goblins had assigned no one to watch the eastern shore, Leoric deemed it unlikely after their encounter with the patrol. All they could hope for was a clear stretch of shore.

  With the fire ravaged area now far behind them, they returned to the welcome cover of the trees. The land gently started to rise as the group pressed onward, becoming far rockier and with the dense underbrush thinning considerably. As with the brief jaunt across the treeless field, Leoric couldn’t shake the feeling of being terribly exposed. Up ahead he could see the land continuing to rise, great boulders laying across their path. If anyone were to be standing guard within that natural cover, the four travellers could be spotted a league in advance.

  With mounting concern, Leoric sent Auric ahead, Angvald taking up the man’s heavily laden pack, map case and all, so that the old man could better maneuver. Watching his friend disappear up the slope, Leoric gazed backwards once more, his apprehension giving rise to a momentary sense of panic. Breathing deeply, he calmed his fears and scanned the forest.

  Nothing… I’m just jumping at shadows.

  Soon after, everything changed. Auric suddenly came bounding down the slope through the thinning brush, his arms frantically waving at the others. The man’s features were enough to terrify Leoric. Racing upwards and into the jumbled set of boulders, Auric stood waiting, panting heavily from the exertion.

  “Come quickly,” he gasped. Reaching for his pack, he turned and sprinted back across the rocky ground.

  He led them up onto a small shelf of rock that overlooked their destination. Down below flowed the mighty river, rushing forcefully southwards. Following Auric’s outstretched arm, Leoric laid eyes on an incredible sight - an unguarded ferry lay docked on the shore.

  “By the gods, fortune has truly blessed us!” Angvald breathed. “Blessed be Arne,” Benoit sank to his knees.

  Auric shook his head as he carefully placed his pack on the ground. “The ferry is good news, but I also have bad tidings to report,” he said, clambering up a large boulder to his left.

  With sinking hearts, Leoric, Benoit, and Angvald scrambled up to join their companion. Leoric’s fears from that afternoon returned; from this distance, in such cover, a man could spot an enemy a league away.

  Scrambling through the thinning woods near the river’s edge were hundreds of goblins. They raced across the earth as though they had been traversing this untamed land every day of their lives. Unlike the wearied pace of the escaped prisoners, the goblins of Lok’Dal hie ran hard and at an astonishing pace. They were heavily armed, each soldier carrying a spear, axe, or sword on their belts, and a bow slung across their backs. The four men stood no chance against such odds; fleeing was their only option.

  Assessing the dire situation, Leoric decided that they must move now. If they could reach the ferry, they might be able to survive. “Take only what is necessary. Angvald, uncoil the rope and tie it to that boulder,” he motioned to a large rock nearby. “We need to get off this ledge. If we’re to have any hope of escaping, we must be quick!”

  The intricate and often complicated manipulation of Aer remains the most guarded secret of the Silveryn Order. Each member of the Order must swear a binding oath of fealty upon entry, a safeguard against any perversion of their magical lore.

  —The Silveryn Doctrines, Volume I

  Chapter XLIII

  The Drayen Plains, Protectorate

  Bider felt strange in the soft leathers the Drayen had generously provided once they realized that both he and Gavin wore almost everything they owned on their backs. The leather was supple, far softer than his old company armour that tended to chafe and irritate his skin. The tunic he now wore was light yet remarkably strong.

  Gavin was amused by his obvious discomfort when first donning the new clothing. Bider could say little in return as the captain seemed quite at ease in the Drayenmark garments. That he had spent time living with the remnants of Caledun’s old ruling families was itself something of a surprise. It was no secret that the clansmen of the east thought ill of almost all those living in the rest of the shattered kingdom.

  The wounds left behind by the slaughter after the Shattering simply refused to heal. Visitors were rarely accepted, even in the outlying villages and towns of the Drayen holdings. The Aeldenwood had grown so far out of control that the eastern edge of the forest effectively cut off any safe land travel between the Protectorate, the Northern Council, and the Drayenmark. Bider had no doubt that these circumstances were very much to the liking of the rightful heir, Serian Rhone.

  Bider was grooming his horse when two of the Drayen approached him, their braided hair and ornamental feathers swaying gently in the breeze. With a smile and a nod, one of the men dropped a large sack slung over his shoulder to the ground.

  “You carry only your crossbow?” the second Drayen asked.

  Unsure of himself, Bider took a moment before answering. “Aye, that’s correct.”

  “Tinaes and I don’t believe that you’re proficient with the weapon,” he continued.

  “I don’t care much about your assessment,” Bider snipped.

  Laughing, the other Drayen, this one much younger in years, raised his hands and hastily replied.

  “Remus meant no offence by his comment, friend. We are both scouts in the Ca’lafi, our Lord Prince’s war party. It was obvious by how you surveyed the environment as well as your habitual glances to the surrounding countryside, that you are
trained to be perceptive.”

  “You are a scout like us,” Remus commented briskly.

  Intrigued and impressed, Bider grunted. “Go on, I’m listening.”

  Smiling, Tinaes crouched and opened the large sack on the ground. “One of our companions would love to trade for your weapon. I have here an assortment of weapons that you may find more to your liking.”

  Bider watched as the bag was overturned and a number of weapons, ranging from small daggers to long swords, spilled out. Dropping carefully to his knees, the Fey’Derin fingered a black leather bandolier.

  Lifting his eyes, Bider grinned. “I think we might be able to bargain.”

  The negotiations were lengthy but good-natured. Remus spoke little, whereas the younger Drayen scout debated each and every item in which he showed interest. In the end, the crossbow exchanged hands and Bider thankfully slipped the new bandolier across his chest and inserted six blades that he had worked hard to barter into the final exchange.

  “Can I ask you a question, Coren?” Tinaes spoke, the weapons now returned to the heavy sack. The three men now sat quietly across from one another, sharing a large piece of hard bread and a cup of ale.

  “Please call me Bider,” he insisted with a shy smile. “And yes you may ask of me anything.”

  “You are a strange man, Bider,” Tinaes hesitated when saying the name. “But I would like to know the truth of the tale we have heard circulating around camp this morning.”

  “And that would be?” Bider raised an eyebrow.

  The young man leaned forward and whispered. “Is it true you fought a Sciloc? The legends of my people say it is a thing of darkness that can never be defeated.”

  “Oh it is a thing of darkness, friend,” Bider answered seriously. “But it is also flesh and blood. It was Captain Silveron who defeated the creature. I was just there to lend a hand.”

  “Your Captain is also a strange man. He is someone with a purpose and a presence,” Tinaes replied.

  “He carries himself like a lord,” Remus added sharply.

  “He is fair and honest,” Bider said. “And he’s always treated everyone with honour and respect. He isn’t a lord, Remus, but he often behaves much better than those who were born as such.”

  “He is a leader of men,” the Drayen soldier declared.

  “How long have you followed him?” Tinaes asked as he finished his ale with a healthy swallow.

  “It has been almost three years now with the Captain, and I would never consider leaving the Fey’Derin,” Bider replied.

  “Never?” Tinaes asked skeptically. “Never.”

  “I am not offering you a choice in the matter, Captain Silveron,” Kaimon said for the third time, his tone attempting to dismiss any rebuttal. As far as the prince was concerned, the decision was final.

  “You’ll be in need of every soldier possible should you to find yourself in danger while crossing the Protectorate, Kaimon. Coren and I will be fine on our own, I beseech you,” Gavin pleaded.

  “The loss of six men would be of little consequence,” Kaimon repeated. “And in any case, they will be travelling east after you arrive at the border to the Silveryn lands. My father needs to be briefed about this past month’s events.”

  “Will it mean war for the Drayenmark?” Gavin pressed.

  Kaimon was silent for a moment. The Drayen prince stared off into the sunrise as he contemplated his answer. “My father may raise our banners, but he won’t act until he knows where Gadian Yarr stands in respect to the kingship.”

  “How do you mean?” Gavin frowned.

  “If the Protectorate wants to avoid my father’s wrath, Gadian Yarr has only to acknowledge Serian Rhone’s legitimate claim to the High King’s throne,” Kaimon replied boldly.

  A look of understanding swept across Gavin’s face. “He would leave the south under Yarr’s control if it meant having an ally who would proclaim him king…”

  “For the moment, there are far too many outcomes to consider,” Kaimon said. “It is impossible to predict the actions of someone in my father’s condition.”

  “You speak the truth, Kaimon, but will your father look to the Northern Council for aid, or the Iron Shield for that matter?”

  “My father will do what he thinks is best for my people. Unfortunately, I know he’ll not hesitate to sacrifice soldiers in the name of his own glory,” Kaimon replied mournfully.

  “By the gods, then stand up to him!” Gavin exclaimed. “You are old enough now to speak for your people. Who, if not you, will do so?!”

  Kaimon stared icily at Gavin. “He is my father, Gavin, and I am his son. While my father still breathes, it doesn’t matter what I wish, but only what he desires. It is the curse of my people to have a leader who lusts only after power and kingship. For two hundred years we have somehow survived with such men and women as lords, and there’s nothing anyone can do to help! Do you not think that I will be the same once Serian Rhone is dead? I too, Gavin, will go insane.”

  “No! I don’t accept that!” Gavin replied angrily. “You are not your father!”

  “Leave me, Gavin. I want to be alone,” Kaimon said, turning his eyes back to the sunrise.

  Seeing no other choice, Gavin turned and headed back to the camp.

  In the end, six men were dispatched under Gavin’s command. The Drayen soldiers were to provide an escort for the two Fey’Derin, and eventually turn back southeast towards the port city of Dragomere in the hopes of boarding a ship bound for the Drayen lands. Kaimon remained steadfast in his goal to first lead Lord Helmstead, the Dwarven emissary who had recently joined their party, all the way to Alerond. Afterwards, they would head north and skirt the edges of the Aeldenwood in the hopes of avoiding any patrols sent out by the new Protectorate general. With luck, they would arrive in Delfwane within a fortnight.

  Gavin and the sons of Rhone spoke privately one last time, but little remained to be said. Kaimon had been properly informed as to the state of the south and Gavin wished him well. Soon after, he watched the large company of colourful Drayenmark stream off into the distance, the smaller Sheves trotting along beside the larger horses.

  “They’re still gaining on us, Captain Silveron,” Tinaes reported, his

  grey stallion trotting up next to Gavin’s. The Drayen clansman looked nervous in the bright morning sunshine, his youthful face wrinkled with worry.

  Scanning the horizon line, Gavin squinted into the sun. He muttered a curse when he realized the soldier had spoken the truth; their pursuers continued to gain.

  “I need to know their numbers before I commit to any action, Tinaes. I need you and Remus to act as my eyes. Put some distance between us and see what you can discern from that cursed dust cloud that hounds us,” Gavin ordered.

  “And once we know how many?” Tinaes asked.

  “Then get back to us swiftly. I’d judge them to number no more than two score. Either way, we may be in trouble if we can’t reach some form of cover,” Gavin replied grimly.

  Tineas immediately spun his horse around and thundered to the southeast, Remus riding hard in pursuit.

  Up until now, the days had passed with little incident as the small band had made their way north across the plains. Gavin had set a leisurely but steady pace, and the leagues had slowly passed beneath their mounts’ steel shod hooves. With ample supplies and stomachs full, both he and Coren found themselves with renewed energy.

  Coren was finding the going easier, but the travel was still draining. Gavin had noticed the scout favouring his injured ankle more than once. The healers at Dragon Mount remained the man’s only hope for regaining a semblance of the same movement and agility he was used to. Nothing they had tried so far had helped guide the healing of the shattered bones. Without arcane help, Coren D’Elmark would never again walk free from pain.

  Apart from young Tinaes an
d the tight-lipped Remus, Kaimon had attached four other men to the small retinue. All four were tough veterans of numerous battles along the frontiers of the Drayenmark lands, Gavin had been told. Rare were the years when selfish nobles weren’t attempting to claim and usurp more of the vast land area that had at one time belonged to the ruling families of the Drayenmark. The frontier wars had been bloody and ruthless.

  The senior most soldier was a tall man whose sun-browned face reminded Gavin of Caolte. Benias was one of Kaimon’s most trusted men. It was a distinct honour for the clansmen to have been given the responsibility of reporting to Serian Rhone, but Gavin could sense that he was a man who wished to still be at the side of his liege lord. Benias was also a cousin to the Rhone family, and as such could never be ignored by the old monarch. Kaimon, Gavin thought, had made a wise choice.

  Gavin sympathized with the veteran, but fretted more about the response that Serian Rhone would have concerning the events of the spring. Serian was erratic at the best of times, but the declaration of a new kingdom in the Protectorate could very well drive the man to actions beyond the advice of even his closest kin.

  The first signs of pursuit had been detected nearly a fortnight from when they had first met Kaimon Rhone. The young Drayenmark scout had been the first to bring word, Tinaes’ eagle eyes having caught sight of a slight disruption in his view to the south.

  At first they had believed, or more appropriately hoped, that the sign of another band of travelers was nothing more than a coincidence. It was rare that caravans travelled this far north in the plains, for few traded now with the mage town of Dragomere, let alone the mountain fortress of Dragon Mount. But some merchants, those daring enough, still remained in contact with those connected to the Silveryn Order. It was the speed at which the other company moved that worried Gavin and the others. In one day their pursuers had quickly bridged the gap between the two parties. Merchants, they knew, would never travel at such a reckless pace.