The Chimaera Regiment

by Nathaniel Turner

  But his hopes were in vain. “She was killed,” Brynjar replied, his voice a little colder than Hector expected. “Slaughtered by Derek and his armies with the rest of my people. I would have been by her side, but Lord Bayl ordered me to seek out your Lord Aneirin.”

  Hector frowned. “Why would he do that?”

  “I don’t question my orders!” Brynjar snapped. “He told me to warn Lord Aneirin about Derek.” He glared at the boy, the usual hardness in his eyes once more. His tone was full of unfettered disgust. “I can only assume that was for your sake.”

  “Oh.” Hector fell silent. In a way, it seemed that Brynjar blamed him for the deaths of his people, and especially for the death of his wife. Hector pitied the man’s loss, but it rankled him that he should be guilty of it. He thought it best to let it alone.

  As the day passed, the heir noticed that their pace had slowed, due to Fornein’s age and weak constitution. Hector spoke softly to Brynjar, asking, “Why did you allow Fornein to accompany us? No doubt the man means well, but he’s not strong enough for this journey.”

  Brynjar looked at the boy with mock surprise. “Do you mean to say that you’re familiar with these lands and the people in them? I, for one, have never traveled this far northeast. I know the coast is nearby, but I certainly don’t know how to deal with any tribes that live in this area. But by Kyrou, if you already know all this, then we’ll just send the old man home!” He rolled his eyes, admitting the sarcasm in his tone.

  Hector frowned. He supposed that the knowledge Fornein had was essential to their success, but couldn’t he have just told them about the Keldans? Having him along seemed dangerous. “What if this journey kills him?” he asked Brynjar. “Will you still be so light-hearted then?”

  “He chose to come with us,” Brynjar retorted, “We told him the risks; we told him who’s pursuing us. And if that tribe at the obelisk is the sort of people he describes, then he knows the danger ahead of us better than we do.” He shrugged his shoulders, saying, “He wants to help, and I’m not about to refuse him just because I think he’s too old to do anything of use.”

  Hector had no answer to give.

  When that night came, they camped on the open plains. The nearest cover was a pair of hills they passed early in the afternoon. No trees were in sight, and they had no wood for a fire. As the evening chill came on, they lay down close together to preserve their warmth; they spent a rough and restless night trying to hide from the wind.

  *

  The 2040th year of the Sixth Era

  The thirteenth of the month of Anthemen

  Shortly before the first hour

  Hector was wakened by a gentle shaking.

  “Get up.”

  Hector rubbed his eyes, trying to cast the sleep from them. The sky was dark gray; the sun had not yet crept over the horizon. “It’s too early,” he mumbled back.

  Now someone kicked him in the sole of his foot.

  “Get up,” Brynjar repeated, more forcefully.

  Hector suppressed a yelp at the sudden pain. As it faded, he climbed to his feet. “What is it?” he asked, worried that someone might be attacking them.

  Brynjar shoved a sword hilt into his hand. He took the opportunity to grab the boy’s wrist and lead him away from the camp by two dozen paces.

  “This again?” Hector complained, “We have a long day ahead of us.”

  Brynjar nodded. “That’s why we have to get started early,” he responded. He stepped back three paces, then settled into a defensive stance, his own sword point raised. “Prepare yourself.”

  Hector did not move. His shoulders were slumped. His head sank so low that his chin nearly touched his chest. “I’m tired,” he moaned, “Can’t we do this later?”

  Brynjar lunged at him, sword first. Hector leapt back a pace. “Hey!” he shouted, “Are you trying to kill me?”

  The warrior’s eyes were like flints of steel. He did not answer, but stepped forward and swung in hard from the shoulder. Hector barely brought his own sword up, but he was pushed aside by the power of the blow. If he had not blocked it, Brynjar might have beheaded him.

  “Defend yourself!” the Drengar spat.

  Hector looked past him at the camp, where the others had been roused by the noise. He wanted them to come to his rescue; he was terrified that Brynjar wanted to kill him, blaming him for his own suffering.

  But Brynjar followed his gaze and stepped between them. “Eyes on me!” he ordered, “On your guard!” He lunged again, this time with a short cut and twist from his elbow.

  Hector stepped back and met the blow with his sword. This time, he was able to hold. “What are you doing?” he yelled, still panicking. “I didn’t kill your wife!”

  Brynjar stopped suddenly. His brow was furrowed. He seemed confused. “Did you,” he asked hesitantly, “really think that I wanted to kill you?” He lowered his sword as he straightened his back. His mouth hung open slightly as he stared in amazement at the boy.

  Hector swallowed his fear. “Well,” he answered, breathless, “Yeah, I rather did.” He shrugged as he explained, “Yesterday, you sounded so—angry. I thought you blamed me for her death.”

  Brynjar’s jaw clenched. He was silent for a few moments as Bronwyn came over, concern evident on her face. At last, the warrior said, “I blame Derek for her death. And I blame Drystan. And I blame myself.” Looking at Hector, he shook his head slowly. “There is no one else to blame. Don’t be a fool.”

  After a few moments more, he seemed to remember the primary task set to him by Aneirin. “Is this how you will respond when someone really does wish to kill you?” he demanded. “Because I promise, when you face Derek, he will seek that end—and he will have far better reasons than I ever could.”

  The wretch looked at the ground between them as shame reddened his cheeks.

  “Eyes up!” Brynjar ordered. “Don’t let dishonor control you. Use it like oil to set your heart aflame. Take courage, boy. Before you can ever control a battle, you must first control yourself.”

  Hector took a deep breath. Giving up was easy, he realized. Strength lay in overcoming difficulties, not in avoiding them. Raising his sword, he forced a small smile. “Defend yourself,” he commanded.

  *

  The 2040th year of the Sixth Era

  The thirteenth of the month of Anthemen

  Halfway through the twelfth hour

  As the sun fell behind the horizon, the party finally neared the edge of the huge forest. These woodlands stretched from this point all the way to the mountains in the north, Fornein had told them, almost one hundred fifty miles. It was one of the largest forests in all the lands, and it was said that some parts were so thick that the soil never saw the sun.

  The five companions settled down next to a half-ring of trees that would shelter them from the wind. Bronwyn and Fornein collected some local berries to eat while Hector and Doc collected firewood. Brynjar cleared the brush and kindling from an area three paces across to prevent the fire from spreading.

  Once the fire was burning comfortably, Brynjar moved to the edge of the camp, keeping a wary eye on the plains. Doc marveled that the man never stopped suspecting danger everywhere. He and Hector lay down to rest, but he did not sleep immediately. For a time, he listened earnestly to his sister and Fornein, who sat up into the evening.

  “What do you think of the gods, Fornein?” Bronwyn was asking.

  The hermit seemed surprised by the question. “What do you mean, dear girl?”

  “I mean,” she said, trying to phrase what exactly she meant, “Are they really helping us? Lord Aneirin was convinced that they would lead us through all of this.”

  “Of course they’re helping us,” Fornein answered promptly.

  “How can you be so sure?” she demanded. “What if the gods are really on Derek’s side?”

  “Tell me, my dear,” he replied indirectly, “have the gods not provided for you at all? Have they given you no direction, no assistance,
no encouragement?”

  “No,” she shot back, “We have gotten nothing from the gods. Lord Aneirin has directed us, and Lord Brynjar has helped us, and you have guided us and encouraged us. But I’ve never seen any evidence that the gods were involved.” She paused sadly. “To be honest, I haven’t seen any evidence of the gods since my parents died.”

  A few moments passed. Doc thought he heard Fornein take Bronwyn’s hands. When the old man spoke again, there was a softness to his voice that expressed great sympathy. “I am sorry for your loss, my dear. To lose a loved one is terrible. Yet even so, it does not mean the gods are against us. If I may ask, how have you expected them to appear?”

  “I don’t know,” she answered sourly, “The old legends tell of how they used to descend from the skies and walk among us, like great warriors and heroes.”

  Fornein smiled. “It has been many eons since the gods walked among men, if indeed they ever did,” he replied.

  “You don’t believe the tales?” she asked, incredulous.

  The hermit laughed. “I believe them well enough,” he said, but he did not explain. Instead, he continued, “The gods do not appear in beams of light and perform parlor tricks for our amusement, nor do they do everything on our behalf, lest we become vicious. Neither our lives nor our tasks are easy, but the Divines give us their agents and servants as friends and aides. They work through us, too, to provide help to those around us.

  “What is most difficult for us is that they ask us to suffer for them, too. It teaches us to be strong, so that we can serve them properly and complete their goals, and so that we can be virtuous, as they are virtuous. We suffer for their sake and for ours.”

  Bronwyn sighed. His answers challenged her, but they were not yet satisfactory. “Why,” she asked at last, “do we suffer when the gods don’t?”

  Doc thought he heard a smile in Fornein’s voice. “Why indeed?”

  “Hist!”

  It was Brynjar. He was motioning for everyone to be silent. Fornein quickly scooped dirt onto the fire, snuffing it out. Doc kicked Hector’s shoulder, rousing his friend. He was disoriented, but quickly came to realize the gravity of their situation.

  “Remain still,” Brynjar ordered. Doc wondered what could have happened.

  For what seemed an eternity, no one moved. Brynjar kept a weather eye on the plains. At last, he seemed to start breathing again. “Quickly,” he whispered, “Gather your things. We can’t stay here. We need more cover.”

  No sooner had they hefted their packs than a rustling in the grass drew their attention. Doc looked and saw something glinting in the darkness. Not just one something, but several. They looked like… eyes.

  “Wolves!” Fornein hissed.

  “Don’t,” Brynjar said through clenched teeth, “run.” Slowly, he drew his sword. For a moment, they stood their ground, staring down the hunters. From what he could see, Doc estimated four or five in the pack. If he recalled correctly, wolves would not attack prey that stood its ground.

  But either he recalled incorrectly, or the early onset of winter had left the wolves hungry and desperate.

  The canines charged. The first lunged at Brynjar, who ran it through with his sword. The jig was up. Looking at those snarling yellow teeth, the youngsters lost their nerve. All three took to their heels and ran straight into the forest.

  Eager for the chase, the wolves skirted around the camp, leaving Brynjar and Fornein behind as they pursued the easier prey.

  Within moments, Doc was panting for breath. Night had well fallen, and there was a chill in the air that burned his lungs with each breath. Trees flew by him full tilt. He could see Hector and Bronwyn out of the corner of each eye. He could hear the growling and snapping of the wolves behind him, but he dared not look back.

  Then his foot caught an upturned root, and he fell with a yelp.

  He heard indistinct yelling. He tried to scramble to his feet, but only succeeded in twisting his ankle. He looked back to see it held tight by the tree, refusing to release him.

  He also saw a wolf rushing straight for him.

  He shut his eyes and hoped the end would be quick.

  But it did not come. The wolf yowled briefly and landed heavily beside him. He opened his eyes to see Hector standing over him, with his father’s hunting dagger bared. The two other wolves began to circle them, too hungry to be daunted.

  “Leave me!” Doc yelled at his friend. He had promised, sworn to Lord Aneirin that he would protect Hector. “I’ll hold them here!” he ordered. “You’re too important!”

  As Hector tried to face both wolves at the same time, he answered sharply, “I won’t rule a world where men leave their best friends to die.”

  The wolves had waited long enough. They charged again, one after the other. Hector gritted his teeth and faced the faster one. It snapped at his arm. He dodged back, drawing it close enough to stab his dagger deep into its neck. It howled and wrenched free of the blade, drawing out the wound. It fell away, whimpering.

  The other wolf never reached them. Brynjar came hurtling through the trees like Kyros’ thunderbolt. Both his swords were drawn, and both tore into the last attacker. Its whinging only lasted a moment.

  There was a long silence while the travelers caught their breath. Fornein stumbled through the trees, nearly falling atop them in his haste, but Brynjar caught him. Then the warrior turned on his young fellows.

  “I told you,” he reprimanded them, “not to run!”

  “That’s good advice,” someone called out.

  Hector spun and Doc tried to turn over to see the newcomer. He, like the troop with him, was dark-haired and fair-skinned, with the sort of musculature one expects from a seasoned hunter.

  Doc realized that one circle of threats had been replaced by another. The man who had spoken stepped forward, ostensibly the leader of the group. He gestured with his javelin toward Hector and Brynjar. “Lay down your weapons,” he ordered.

  “On whose authority?” Brynjar demanded. Fornein sheepishly tried to catch his gaze and warn him off, but to no avail.

  The man straightened his back a little. “I am Veither, of the Keldans,” he declared, “This is my hunting troop, and you are trespassing in our lands.” He gestured again, more menacingly. “So you will lay down your weapons and come with us.”

  When Hector and Brynjar continued to hesitate, Veither sneered. “Disobedience would be unwise,” he cautioned them, and motioned to one of his men. The troop pulled Bronwyn into their midst, javelins at her throat.

  Hector immediately laid his dagger on the ground. Veither looked meaningfully at Brynjar. The warrior sighed and reluctantly followed suit. Hunters stepped in and retrieved the weapons, prodding the captives closer to Veither in the process. Two of them smashed the root fastening Doc’s foot to the ground and wrenched him upright.

  The Keldan captain looked them over before glancing at the wolves. “He’s right, you know,” Veither said to Hector, “You aren’t supposed to run from wolves. They live for the chase.”

  Hector stood tall before his captor. “And what do you live for, Veither of the Keldans?” he asked imperiously.

  “Me?” he responded, his tone rife with mock innocence. “I live for the same thing.” He jerked his head toward Bronwyn. Leaning close, he whispered conspiratorially, “How long do you think she would run before I caught her?”

  Ire burned hot in Hector’s breast. He drew back and slammed his fist into Veither’s cheek. The blow spun the Keldan’s head to one side, but he held his ground.

  Straightening his back again, he began to laugh. “Thank you, boy!” he said, spitting out a bloody tooth, “You have trespassed on Keldan land and attacked us unprovoked. Now no one can say we did not offer hospitality pleasing to the gods once we have killed you.” Turning, he gestured to his men.

  “Wait!” Fornein interrupted.

  Veither turned. “Is that you, you old hermit?” he asked, his voice dripping with malice. “What an unexpected ple
asure that you will die also.”

  “You can’t!” Fornein objected. “Your lord promised me clemency in exchange for my services. You can’t kill me or my friends.”

  Veither mused on that for a moment. “I suppose you’re right,” he answered thoughtfully. “I can’t have you all killed.” After another moment, he finished, “But your crimes are sufficient for imprisonment, and my lord will see to that.” He made another gesture to his troop, meaning for them to gather. “It’s about a day’s hard march. Let’s be quick about it.” He set out at the head of the group; his hunters fell into line, and the five companions were dragged along with them.

  “I’m sorry,” Hector said softly to his friends. He ached to think that his behavior had caused their predicament.

  “Don’t blame yourself,” Brynjar replied in an unexpected moment of compassion. “They probably would have killed us anyway.”

  Chapter Five

  The 2040th year of the Sixth Era

  The fourteenth of the month of Anthemen

  Late in the sixth hour

  Hector glanced anxiously back at Bronwyn, who forced a smile for him. They trudged reluctantly past a tribe of stares, either bewildered or angry. Fierce orbs watched them from wooden cottages, which were intermingled with the trees that had born them.

  At last, they had reached the home of the Keldans. They had been allowed a brief and fitful sleep shortly before dawn; apart from that, they had been forced to march the whole night and now half the day. Hector was exhausted, but the thought that civilian ears heard his shackles reassured him that their journey neared its end.

  They had spent the whole trip in the depths of the forest, barely able to see the sun, even at noontide. But now, Veither and his hunting party forced the five travelers out into a clearing. The bright sky startled them, and Hector shielded his eyes from the glare.

  As he became accustomed to the light, he lowered his hand, and there—through half-lidded eyes—he saw it. The obelisk towered above them like an ebon sovereign, too proud to show his visage to unworthy subjects. The black stone rose sharply, each of its three faces tapering slowly toward the pinnacle. Hector knew that it was ancient, but its edges were keen, and the whole of it was unweathered.