The Chimaera Regiment

by Nathaniel Turner

  “Eyes front!” Veither ordered. His sword hilt slammed into Hector’s shoulder, turning him away from the obelisk. He saw that his fellow captives were turned likewise, all to face the only structure in the clearing besides the obelisk: a stone hall, all gray and brown and muddy, entirely unseemly beside the glorious spire.

  Veither marched them near to it. “Halt!” he ordered; the travelers obeyed immediately. Hector stumbled at the suddenness. The bindings on his hands kept him from regaining his balance, and he fell flat on his face. The ground was soft, but dry, and smelled strongly of dust.

  “On your knees!” Veither shouted at them. One of the other guards hauled Hector roughly up to his knees, still facing the door to the hall. The door looked the same as the rest of the chieftain’s court: dirty and dull.

  The thick door, rotted in spite of the awning that shielded it, creaked open. A color guard marched out, wielding the conquering banner of the Keldans. The banner was deep red, but it was interwoven with paler threads. Hector could make out the image of a winged horse and an angular script that he did not recognize. He saw strange lettering under the horse’s hoofs, and interspersed with those letters were a peculiar pair of points, one directly over the other. He had learned the script of his own people, but seeing a new one fascinated him; for a moment, he forgot where he was as he stared at that banner.

  Then a guard jabbed his shoulder, and he remembered vividly.

  A distinguished man followed the color guard, and three more soldiers followed him. Hector had no doubt that this was the ruler of the Keldans. He was tall, but spindly; his wiry limbs were more appropriate to a spider than a man. His countenance was sharp, and keen; his eyes betrayed the brilliance of his mind, and the means by which he ruled his tribe. His back was straight as an arrow. He walked among the captives with his hands clasped behind his back. He looked down his long, pointed noise at each of them. His chin was like a quivering stalactite, hanging precariously from his jaw; he aimed it at each captive, threatening to let it fall and crush them.

  At last, he returned to stand between his warriors and his color guard. “Who are these people?” he asked Veither, “What are they doing in my forest?”

  “My lord Eitromal, they are trespassers and vagabonds,” Veither answered, deep and booming; Hector wondered whether the exchange were a formal means of introducing criminals for the Keldans—or perhaps Veither simply enjoyed maligning guests. “They interfered with our hunt and attacked us unprovoked.”

  The chieftain, Eitromal, looked over the captives once more. He pointed at Fornein, and looked meaningfully at Veither. The huntsman nodded. Eitromal crouched before the kneeling hermit. “Fornein,” he said, “Why have you returned?”

  The old man did not raise his head, but stared fervently at the dirt. “As I once helped you, Lord, I seek to help another,” he replied. “We meant no harm.”

  “Are you the leader of this band of miscreants?” Eitromal demanded disdainfully.

  “I am,” Hector interrupted, raising his face to look the lord in the eye. In his periphery, he saw Brynjar glare sharply at him, but the warrior said nothing. “These are my companions, and they follow me on my quest.”

  Eitromal raised a suspicious eyebrow. “So you,” he mused, “are responsible for these crimes against my people. A boy.”

  “If any crimes have been committed,” Hector retorted, in as genteel a voice as he could muster, “they were committed in ignorance. We are without food, shelter, or protection in a strange land. We are your suppliants, my lord, and we request your benevolence in the name of Anthea.” He was quoting the suppliant’s prayer from the Code of Lords, although he was sure he had misplaced a few words. Even so, obedience to Anthea demanded kindness toward suppliants, and refusal threatened the eternity of a man’s soul.

  For a long time, Eitromal said nothing. His cruel nose twitched as he pondered his options. Hector suppressed a smile; Eitromal would be required to release them, even help them in their quest. In spite of the shackles, and in spite of Brynjar’s lack of confidence in him, he had saved them. Eitromal had no other choice.

  “Ignorance of the law is no excuse,” Eitromal said peremptorily, “for the law is written on the stones of the earth. Thus says our Goddess of Clarity, Ariane. And Kyros, mighty King of the gods, tells us that he will draw near for judgment, and he will be a swift witness against the unjust.” He sneered, but only for a moment. “But I am not without compassion. Taking your circumstances into account, and given your companion, the Sage, I will not execute you. You will be housed, fed, and tended, as suppliants. And you will not be as slaves, but as hired men and sojourners; you will labor for us until your debt is paid.”

  “Labor?” Hector echoed. “What kind of labor?”

  Eitromal smiled. It was a frightful expression; it twisted his angular features into knots. “We have no mines, and no wheat-fields. Our hunters are too proud to suffer competition. But we have many hired men, and many foreign warriors, given to us by the gods.” The chieftain pointed at Brynjar. “You will fight those men, for freedom and for glory, until your debt is paid.” Turning on his heel, he waved at Veither. “Take them away!” he ordered as he disappeared once more into his cold hall.

  *

  The 2040th tear of the Sixth Era

  The eighteenth of the month of Anthemen

  Late in the first hour

  Four days later, and far to the southeast, Duncan and Einar kept a wary eye on the dust trails of rider and army. For a fortnight, they had traveled south in pursuit of a spy.

  Two weeks earlier, Affet, young Hector’s tormentor, was given his first post at the stable. He shared that post with a senior guardsman, named Fagan, who spent all spare moments training the newest member of the warriors’ guild. When Affet stepped away to relieve himself, he returned to find Fagan murdered by a horse-thief. The thief nearly trampled the boy in his haste to escape, and then traveled south.

  As soon as Affet reported the crime, Draus sent Duncan and Einar in pursuit. Every day for fourteen days, they pressed on, following the spy’s obvious trail. Either the villain did not expect to be followed, or he did not care. At long last, they had caught up to the rider—when he met the approaching Chimaera Regiment.

  “By Kyrou,” Einar spat, again taking the god's name in vain, “I can't believe an Alkimite would sally out to the enemy like this. Whoever that fool is, I want to wring his neck.”

  Duncan looked back the way they had come. There was a village there, a marketplace for local farms; they had avoided it when they passed by, just as their quarry had, but it lay on the path between the Regiment and the Valley. “You may get your chance,” he said as a plan formed in his mind.

  Einar raised an eyebrow at him. “What do you mean?” he demanded.

  Duncan pointed to the town. “That market is right on Derek’s path, and with an army that size, he’ll need to collect food every so often.” He gestured to the horses. “You and I backtrack to the town and warn them, so we can set up a defense. We may not stop him, but we'll slow him down, and we may get a crack at that traitor.”

  Einar looked between the Regiment and the market. He nodded slowly. “It could work,” he said, “depending on what kind of soldiers they’ve got down there.” He scrunched up his face in thought. “But we can't both go. If we fail, and we die, no one can warn Lord Cyrus about how far the Chimaera Regiment is—or that the horse-thief was a spy.”

  Duncan nodded in reply. “Fine,” he answered, “I’ll do it.”

  “Ha!” Einar laughed, “Not likely. You’re too nice to whip those farmers into shape in time. I'll get ‘em set up. You watch from nearby. If things go sideways, you ride hard for the Valley and warn ‘em.”

  Duncan sighed in acquiescence. “Alright,” he said, “but watch your back.”

  Einar nodded. He hurriedly secured his sword belt; his scabbard was attached at his left thigh and a knife was stuck in his belt at the back. He mounted his horse and set her facing nor
th. Taking a last resolute glance at his friend, he set off for the village at a quick trot.

  From the hilltop, the village had seemed small and distant, but on horseback, the journey took only three hours. Keeping an eye on the horizon, Einar made his way to the town square. Over a hundred farmers were milling about the markets, paying no heed to the strange rider.

  Once in the market, he dismounted and cast about for a makeshift podium. The old warrior climbed onto the roof of a shop near the center of the square, ignoring the complaints of its keeper. “Folks!” he called out. “I need your attention!”

  He did not get it. It was a busy day at market, and no one wanted to be interrupted. They were blissfully ignorant of the danger that loomed over them, and Einar resolved to make them aware. “Who here has heard of the Chimaera Regiment?” he shouted.

  That drew a few glances. Several of the youths came closer, eager to hear more about the foreign army. Derek might have been a hatemongering warlord, but any chieftain who led his soldiers to that many victories was admirable in the eyes of a boy. Einar used that to his advantage. “Derek and his army are four hours’ march south of here!” he warned them, “He intends to attack your village, to test your mettle! He has the strength of numbers and experience, but if you prove yourself, they will sing songs in your honor for generations to come!”

  “What is the meaning of this?” an officious voice demanded. The noise of the market died down until the only sounds were the shuffling of feet and hissed whispers.

  Einar turned to see a robed man approaching; he had a hoary face and gray hair. He was flanked by two guards. “Are you the chieftain here?” Einar asked him.

  “I am,” the man replied gruffly, “My name is Lord Borsun. Who are you, and why do you incite my people to war?”

  “I am Einar of the Alkimites,” he answered, “We had received word that the Chimaera Regiment was in the area, and I have confirmed it with my own eyes. They are marching for this place.”

  At this, the hubbub broke anew. “Silence!” Borsun called, then roared again, “Silence!” The people obeyed, albeit reluctantly. Borsun asked Einar, “Why do you tell us this? We are no match for such an army. It would be better for us to surrender.”

  Einar dropped from the roof of the shop and stepped in close to the warlord. His guards edged closer, but Borsun held up a hand to stay them. Einar said softly, so few could hear, “How would you rather die, Lord Borsun?” Borsun frowned. “In the tent of your enemy as a slave, or on the field of battle as a free man?”

  Borsun’s anger did not fade. He glared back at Einar, searching for an answer that would satisfy, but he already knew what he would prefer. Stepping back from the Alkimite at last, he called to his people, “We will fight!”

  *

  The 2040th year of the Sixth Era

  The eighteenth of the month of Anthemen

  Early in the eighth hour

  Einar’s prediction proved true. Nearly four hours later, the Chimaera Regiment was marching through the fields at the outskirts of the village. Growing in those fields were a variety of tall grains, untouched as yet by the wintry conditions that harried the Alkimite farmers far to the north.

  Einar and Borsun used those fields to their advantage. Archers were gathered in the fields nearest the town, waiting for the encroaching army to come within range. Nearly every man and boy in the town had known how to use a bow, and many had their own bows with them. Einar was glad for the expertise.

  Borsun had six cavalry serving him; these Einar had him send to neighboring towns, seeking assistance and delivering warning. Six horsemen would make little difference against an army like Derek’s.

  The remaining thirty men had their swords ready just inside the town. They waited with Lord Borsun behind several buildings, out of the sight of Derek’s scouts.

  Einar himself was at the top of the bell tower, where town meetings and emergency signals were tolled. He kept an eye on the enemy; it was his job to signal the archers to fire.

  The marching mob was almost in range; attack too soon, and they could pull back beyond his reach, but too late, and they could rush his archers. It was a delicate balance; he only needed a few more seconds.

  “Milord! Our flank!”

  The shout spun Einar around to look for the speaker. One of the swordsmen pointed to the west, their army’s right flank. There, over a hundred men charged down a ridge that had blocked them from view. Einar cursed; Derek had taken advantage of his singular focus on the marching army from the south. A fraction of Derek’s forces, barely noticeable when missing, had gone far out of their way and double-timed it to crush the village from behind.

  Which meant that their ambush was anticipated, and had little chance of success. “Archers, open fire!” he roared. Immediately, the archers began launching a barrage into the oncoming mass of men. “Swordsmen,” Einar ordered, “Move to the right flank!” Lord Borsun and his guards charged to the west.

  Einar snatched up his sword and prepared to descend the tower when he glanced to the eastern flank. His heart sank; Derek had surrounded them. Another hundred men tore down the eastern ridge toward them. Worse, that army had likely found Duncan in his hiding place and killed him. There was no one to warn the Alkimites about the Regiment.

  Conflict gripped Einar’s heart. He was torn. He could either fight alongside the brave men of this town and die with them, as was honorable, or he could flee the battle and report to his own lord, as duty demanded.

  At last, in the most shameful moment of his life, Einar knew that one more death here would make no difference, but his warnings could save lives back at the Valley. He resheathed his sword and descended the tower, then sprinted north to where he had left his horse a few hours earlier. She was disturbed by the sounds of battle, but she waited for him still.

  He untied the reins and gently slapped the horse’s hindquarters, sending her trotting northward. Running alongside her, he gripped the stirrup bar and vaulted onto his saddle. He spurred her up to a canter, still headed north.

  He had ridden a quarter-mile before a troop of halberdiers blocked his path. The ten Leonites must have been sent around to stop exactly the sort of escape Einar had planned. They surrounded him and menaced his horse with their halberds, forcing him to stop short.

  One of them stepped forward; he was wearing a green tunic where the others wore brown. Einar thought that he must have been their captain. The Leonite said, “Who are you, and why do you flee this battle?”

  “It’s not my fight,” Einar lied, “I am simply a traveler who had stopped here for the night. I am returning to my home in the north, and I wanted no part of this.”

  The Leonite captain was suspicious. “Where is this home in the north? A great valley, perhaps?”

  Einar worried that their spy had spotted them after all, if a common soldier like this was pressing for information about the Valley. He knew that he could not say that he was an Alkimite; instead, he lied again. “I am one of the Annali, but I know the valley you mean. The Alkimites, no friends of ours, live there.”

  The captain neared Einar’s horse with his halberd. “I still can’t let you leave. You’ll have to talk to Lord Derek and Lord Fero.” When Einar did not move, he added with a sneer, “Get off your horse, or it stays here.”

  With a sigh, Einar obliged them. He dismounted and walked with them back to the town, now sacked by Derek’s armies.

  *

  The 2040th year of the Sixth Era

  The nineteenth of the month of Anthemen

  During the night

  Night had fallen. The Leonites had ushered Einar into a huddle of prisoners, collected from the countryside. Einar thought it good fortune that there were no locals among them, or Derek might discover his true identity.

  They were led into a large tent. Four guards stood at the opening, their spears gleaming in the moonlight. The inside of the tent was murky, as there was only one small torch in its center. Misers milled about aimlessly, som
e bemoaning their lot, others conspiring against their captors. Still others sat in acquiescent silence, knowing there was little they could do. Einar shuffled over to two such men, near the south wall of the tent, and sat down beside them.

  “My name’s Outis,” he said, “of the Annali.”

  “Azos,” said one, his voice grave with age, “of the Sundans.”

  “Fintan,” said the other, a much younger man, “also of the Sundans.”

  “How did you boys come to be prisoners of Derek?” Einar asked.

  Azos shrugged. “More accurately, I don’t think we are,” he answered, explaining, “We were prisoners of Fero when he and Derek forged their little ‘regiment’ here.”

  “How about you?” Fintan asked. He had dark hair and an unkempt beard, but his bright eyes defied his captivity. Einar kept Fintan in mind as he began to develop his plans for escape.

  “I was passing through Ritkan,” Einar lied, keeping up his story, “the market town, when the Regiment attacked. I was caught trying to escape. Just wasn’t my fight.”

  Azos nodded. “I’m surprised they let you live. Normally, when they aim to kill everyone, they do just that.”

  Einar frowned. “You mean they don’t always aim to kill everyone?”

  Fintan shook his head. “Oh, no. That’s how we came to be Derek’s prisoners. He and Fero fought a Duel of Lords; Fero won, but let Derek live. Now they’re on a march after some tribe in the north. The shiny man, Drystan, he’s guiding them, like he knows something they don’t.”

  That was Derek’s Guardian, Einar realized. These men seemed to pay attention to their surroundings. Einar decided to press them for more information. “I was in Ritkan because I was pursuing a horse-thief. I don’t suppose anyone like that met up with the Regiment?” he asked.