The Cold Ones

by A M D'Addabbo

  A brusque, bestial bark of laughter ripped from the captain. “Wrong! That is far too close to my own. I have no desire for my good name to be soiled by yours. You shall be named Cur. Understood?”

  “Aye, Captain,” Pell said without pause, both in push-ups and conversation.

  “If by some miracle, the Synod blesses you — and you survive the Quest — then, and only then, shall you have earned that name. Now, recover.”

  Pell jolted to attention.

  Captain Krell walked away.

  “You have exactly one minute to retrieve your waterskins, return to formation, and hydrate. Now, move!” Krell lashed the air like a whip, pointing in tent city’s direction.

  With desperate movement, hundreds of trainees raced toward their billets.

  Once out of earshot, Hess looked at Krell, eyebrows quirked. “You realize it will take them far longer than a minute, don’t you? Tent city is half a mile distant.”

  A sadistic half-grin creased Krell’s face. “Aye, Hess, I am fully aware. And as punishment for busting the time limit, they’ll race Lochmire yet again.”

  Hess’ eyes of undefinable color glinted with amusement, and a melodious chortle passed his lips.

  ◄►◄►◄►

  Daunting, looming, and ever motionless, Lord Kaide sat astride his destrier and soaked in the scene without emotion. The Lord Commander held fast to his granite countenance, silent and imposing.

  Countless hours passed, slow as a glacial advance, and the sun’s run began its fall. Captain Krell and Hess assailed the hapless applicants with the unrelenting brutality of a starving beast.

  At long last, the trainees were permitted to break for a meal. The cadre flitted among them, haunting like phantoms. The aspirants rested on the muddy banks like beached fish, gasping for breath which resisted like a hesitant lover. With only dried meat and hard bread for sustenance, the mood was as somber as a farewell wake among the would-be cohort.

  Beaten like mutts, the candidates winced as — less than five minutes later — Krell and Hess attacked, castigating their slothfulness. These twin specters solidified into patrons of torment — tangible, vicious, and biting. Racing through the ranks, the cadre spat and hissed their disapproval.

  “Taking too long!” Hess railed. Lithe and fleet, he sprinted between the formation. “You have thirty seconds to fit whatever you can into your mouth! Thirty, twenty-nine, nineteen, twelve-”

  Exasperated at the injustice of an ignorant manservant, yet unwilling to waste precious time with complaints, the hopefuls shoved choking amounts of bread into mouths. Enmeshed with Hess’ counting, Krell’s harsh commands of, “Hurry up!” undulated over the mire.

  Overwhelmed Flakes drowned in anxiety borne from the unattainable time-frame. It became clear, there would be no success for anyone. Noble or otherwise, none could please these juggernauts of discipline.

  “-ten, five, two, stop!”

  “Attention!”

  The beaten gaggle jolted upright, their exhaustion made evident as many wobbled atop jelly-like legs.

  “Hydrate!”

  The trainees obeyed, stealing gulps of water in hopes of satiating their thirst; shaking hands returned waterskins to the ground with haste.

  “Hydrate!”

  Swift as pickpockets, they complied.

  “Hydrate!”

  Again, they obeyed, guts near to bursting. Drenched in sweat, clothes hugged their flesh, heavy with the white chalky grime of exertion-born salt.

  Surely, we must be finished for the day; they cannot expect more from us.

  This collective thought drifted over the host of aspiring soldiers like a mist.

  They could not have been more wrong.

  “Who here has visited a menagerie?” Krell asked, voice loud, yet without a scathing edge. Only confused and tired looks answered. “By raise of hands,” he reiterated, teeth gritted, “who has seen exotic animals held captive?”

  Hesitant as a virgin in a brothel, a dozen hands rose. The finely dressed — albeit tarnished — men stood grouped together.

  “Ah, yes,” a maniacal glint touched Krell’s dark orbs, “of course the gentry has. Who else would possess such time to waste? Such excessive amounts of jewel bits and links to spend?” The captain stalked to Pell, glowering into the baron’s haunted, pale blue eyes. “I imagine you’ve been countless times, eh Cur? In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if your manor possessed a collection of beasts. It does, doesn’t it?”

  Krell’s whispers bore the weight of a hammer striking an anvil.

  “Aye, Captain.” Pell’s rasping voice cracked.

  Krell spat, the gob barely missing Pell’s muddy boots. Like rivers of magma, searing blood raced through the captain’s veins; his hands shook as they inched toward the small of his back — to his sheathed karambits. With visible effort, Krell choked down his wrath. A barked cackle rent his lips as he backed away, once more addressing the entire horde.

  “Wonderful tidings! One and all, you are going to visit fabled menagerie today!”

  Disbelieving chatter erupted, yet Krell noted Pell’s restraint. The captain allowed the excitement to ripple along a few moments before he recalled attention.

  “Or should I say,” Krell amended, “that you will become the beasts.” Ignoring the confusion plaguing the trainees, Krell pressed on. “I am a powerful Linguist, and I will use my magic to transfigure you into animals.” Wide eyes met his harsh chortle. “Cur,” Captain Krell pointed at Pell, “come here. I’ve just uttered in the Arcane Language, and you’ve now turned into a…a cur.” The captain sneered. “Well, what are you waiting for? Get on all fours like the mutt you are!”

  Teeth clenched, yet without protest, Pell sank to his hands and feet, hunched like a dog.

  Non-too-softly, Krell patted the baron on his flaxen cropped hair, muttering, “Good doggy. Now, Cur, jaunt like a mongrel!”

  Again, Pell complied. He loped on his hands and feet between the men at attention.

  “You are a beast, Cur!” Krell snapped, voice cracking like the whip of a beastmaster. “Pant and bark like one!”

  Pell shot the captain a glare, lips downturned in a heavy frown, yet he lolled his tongue in mock panting and then barked. A single, jovial laugh ripped from someone behind him — it was too deep to belong to Krell or Hess.

  “Who did that?” The captain stomped through the host, frantically searching for the perpetrator. “By the Realm of the Damned, who did that?”

  “That was me, Cap’n,” a deep voice rumbled. The man owning that voice was enormous, chorded muscles mantling his entire body. Short, curly, inky shocks matted his pate; thick chops covered his cheeks, yet his upper lip and chin featured mere days old scruff.

  Once again, Krell and Hess stormed over, hollering. Inches from the man’s face, the cadre berated him over and over, yet he grinned wider, his pearly-whites on display.

  As the giant candidate chuckled again, unaffected by the shouts, Krell ceded, looked into his chestnut orbs and asked, “Your name?”

  “Boor, Cap’n.” The man tilted his head to showcase his chops, “N’ these are me tusks. Do ya get it?” He rumbled with gaiety.

  Krell stared, face going slack. “Ah, yes…clever. Well, since you enjoyed Cur’s performance why don’t you join him. As a boar.”

  “Aye Cap’n!” Instantly on his fours, Boor barreled through the ranks, grunting and squealing.

  No one else dared titter.

  Despite Boor’s enthusiastic beginning, he had little left to give. As the large man heaved and gasped, halting in the muck, the captain recovered him along with Pell.

  Krell stalked throughout the men, searching as if looking for someone specific. He stopped before a skeletal-thin man swathed in a gray and black cloak. Cowl resting on shoulders, salt-and-pepper hair tautened in a pony-tail.

  A savage jeer curled the captain’s lips. Krell stretched his arms, fingers splayed and waggling, he shouted gibberish. His mock spell finished, Krell roa
red.

  “You’ve all been transfigured into toads! Hop into Lochmire and out again!”

  They did so. Muck squelched as hundreds of these ‘toads’ bound into the bog, sediment swirling in tendrils. Splashes and grunts of displeasure accompanied the toads. Trainees gagged as they returned, blanketed in thick grime; a pungent aroma clutched at them with the desperate need of a drowning man.

  Afterward, newly enchanted ‘hounds’ raced after their ‘kennel-master’ — Hess — as he sprinted to tent city and back. Next came ‘crabs’ hailing from the Last Oasis. Unfortunately, as the captain put it, the men then turned into dead bugs and assumed the proper position — lying flat on their back, with legs and arms skyward. With aching muscles, they remained dead bugs for a miserable length of time. Afterward, ‘ducks’ waddled home to the lakes of Linguist Circle. And finally-

  “Worms!” Krell shouted. “A favored, and oft sought after animal within the houses of nobility.” Viscid sarcasm oozed from his words like cloying honey.

  Through soggy mud, an army of ‘worms’ inched forward in several lines. Krell and Hess weaved through the host, cursing all. The captain spied Pell, dutifully submerged in the inky muck, and called out.

  “How does this menagerie hold against yours at home?”

  “Mighty well, Captain,” came the muffled croak.

  “Indeed?”

  “Aye, Captain,” Pell intoned. The ‘worm’ ahead of him retched with wracking spasms, spewing everything within. The bile gagged Pell, who made as if to crawl around the vomit puddle.

  “Did I order you to alter your direction, Cur?” Krell seethed, froth spitting from a snarl.

  “Negative, Captain.” Gnashing teeth, breath held, sunken eyes clamped shut, Pell slithered into the rancid slop. Halfway through the sick, the ‘worm’ army was called to a halt. A dejected sigh escaped Pell’s throat, unbidden, as his once beautiful gambeson drank in puke.

  Krell heard and ambushed the noble. “What what that, Cur? Had enough? Why don’t you do us both a favor and eliminate yourself from the Quest, heh?”

  “Negative, Captain.” Pell’s cheeks bulged as he held his breath. He lifted his pale gaze to Krell’s, indicating to the bile and said, “I am fine right here, Sir. The sick is doing wonders for my top’s coloring.” Indeed, vomit and muck mingled to taint the baron’s clothes.

  Krell harrumphed and marched away. “Everyone, put your faces in the mud! Good, now bring your hands to cover the sides of your eyes.”

  They did so, and despite being drenched and coated in muck, they thanked the Synod for the reprieve. Labored breath rode the wind, and a chill danced up their spines as the sun’s run bade farewell.

  “We’ve yet many, many hours ahead of us.” The captain was momentarily interrupted by a bloom of groans, yet he persisted. “I would like to give everyone an opportunity to quit without peer reproof. Those of you who would prefer a warm meal, a steaming hot bath, and a soft cot tonight — raise one of your legs into the air.”

  As Hess and Krell swept their gazes over the candidates, the captain noticed Lord Kaide leaning forward with anticipated interest. Alas, nary a foot stood erect.

  Hess locked eyes on Krell and shrugged.

  A shake of Krell’s head jostled his locks around his shoulders. He growled, rumbling low in his chest, stopping as he roared in triumph. “Oh! There’s one!”

  Hess pivoted, searching for the first self-elimination. There was none to be found. With an arched eyebrow, he looked at Krell, who placed a finger to his lips, the meaning all too clear.

  “And another!” Krell lied.

  “Captain, there’s a third and forth over here!” Hess joined, a sly grin on his angular face.

  And suddenly, someone rose a foot.

  “They just keep quitting, Captain.”

  “Excellent,” Krell replied loudly. “We don’t want their weakness tainting the rest.”

  Within quick succession, over a score of candidates held a leg high. As the final quitter identified himself, Krell called, “Those of you terminating your position in the Quest, stand! Everyone else, remain where you are, eyes covered.”

  Numbered just under thirty, those who failed the Quest stood, looking abashed and ashamed.

  Krell continued, “Hess will lead you to tent city, you will retrieve your gear, and as promised he will lead you to a hot meal.”

  “Keep up!” Hess sped away. Slowly, the failures took up the pursuit.

  “Attention!” Krell bellowed. At once, as one, the remaining trainees popped to their feet. “Congratulations, you survived the first day.”

  Relieved laughter and clapping scattered among the ranks, swiftly quenched as Krell put them in front leaning rest. Several minutes and groans later, the captain recovered them.

  “This was day one, you scum!” Krell spat through gritted teeth, eyes cold as a viper’s. “I’ve never before seen such an egregious display of weakness. Stop that mouth breathing and bleating, your not sheep. And stand sharp, Lord Kaide will address you now.” The captain turned to the Lord Commander, bowing his head.

  Atop the magnificent palomino destrier, Lord Kaide towered over the ranks, looking like a magistrate about to pass sentence on doomed men. His pauldrons enhanced his commanding presence. Lord Vandyr Kaide spoke then, voice loud enough for all to hear, possessing a balmy quality.

  “This cohort will disrupt standard operating procedures of warfare, and not only for House Vinganz. It will redefine the method of command and structure within armies, focusing on the abilities which foster from all backgrounds. If any of you pass the Quest, you will have successfully joined an unstoppable and elite brotherhood, capable of accomplishing any mission. You will become the frigid blade of vengeance. You shall be the Cold Ones.”

  Summer, Year 4221 (F.E.) Bracken Grove, The Cold Ones' Quest

  Sweat ran down Pell’s face in runnels, stinging his pale orbs. Labored breath racked his ribs as his side twinged. With every aching bone in his body, hate for running blossomed within Pell’s chest.

  Yet, he ran.

  And ran.

  And ran some more.

  The past several weeks seemed to be nothing except sprints and long distance ranges, all at Captain Krell’s pace — or worse still — Hess’.

  After departing Lochmire, nearly two fortnights — and one hundred fellow candidates — ago, Captain Krell led them through the countryside. After crossing the Grodalry Hills, a journey Pell desperately strove to forget, the flatlands stretched for leagues. So, they sped along on foot, fleet as the wind.

  At least, so Pell enjoyed telling himself. He learned to allow mindless forays within his mind; it made the physical exertion bearable, and the mistreatment Captain Krell rained upon him sufferable.

  Pell did not despise Krell, despite the man’s lack of affable behavior. Before the selection course, if Lord Kaide had not visited Pell’s manor in Hevnkalt and told him exactly what to expect from the Quest — and indeed Krell — a grudge would have spread inside the nobleman like a plague. Alas, Pell bore his punishment with the stoicism of a mountain, and — as Hess loved to demand of them — suffered in silence.

  Without understanding, Pell found himself fostering a deep-rooted sorrow for the newly appointed captain. Lord Kaide praised Krell and focused on his accomplishments, yet Pell knew something heinous must have befallen the captain’s early life. Nothing else would explain the vehemence ingrained within the man.

  The nobleman permitted his mind to explore possible explanations for hours until they at last called to a halt. The trainees staggered to a stop, several bending at the waist to retch.

  Pushing through the sick, the Flakes formed-up. Pell glanced behind his position at the head of the four-man wide column. Stragglers scurried to keep pace, yet none were lost.

  This time.

  Captain Krell’s wrath had honed-in on Pell and his fellow nobles, yet the man held little empathy for the lowborn trainees as well. That was made abundantly clear from th
e beginning, as the injured and the weak fell by the wayside, answered by Krell’s sneer.

  Pell lent aid to everyone he could, yet he felt inadequate to the task. It felt as if a tsunami crashed around him, and Pell struggled to keep himself — and his fellow trainees — afloat.

  “Eyes forward, Cur,” snarled the captain.

  The recruit’s eyes, sunken and saddled with dark bags, seemed to glimmer in the lowering sun’s run as they found Krell’s own. The baron surveyed his commanding officer; the captain controlled his breathing, as he did everything, a harsh iron-will. Overlooking the man’s crass mien, and insurmountable rage, Pell found himself impressed.

  Captain Krell was young, very young, yet he demanded naught but excellence from himself and those in his charge. He held the air of a man who achieved whatever he sought.

  “We make camp here,” Krell said. “Set your hooches, and as always, no fires! Fires welcome unwanted attention, and I don’t feel like getting my throat slit tonight!”

  Pell waited and listened…nothing. No grumbling and murmuring, Pell thought with false joy, surely that must count for something. We might become hardened soldiers yet.

  ◄►◄►◄►

  Crepuscular light bled from the sky, welcoming the moon’s cycle, yet the silver rays and twinkling stars were blotted from sight. Overcast skies blanketed the ground with shadow, echoing the dour mood enfolding the trainees.

  Stringed music murmured a soothing tune in the air as Pell retracted his initial thought. Gripes chorused to the ditty in hushed tones; dejected men crumpled to the prairie like oxen after a murderous day at the plow. Unfolding his bedroll, Pell listened to the grumblings silent as stone.

  “By the Realm of the Damned, if that bastard snaps at me again, I’ll kill him.” The voice was dank with hostility.

  “Yeah,” seconded another trainee, “I’m liable to slit his throat.”

  “He’s no right to treat us this way,” the first voice groused.

  Pell glanced over his shoulder, caught sight of three men a few paces behind him. They huddled together, breaking the yellow grass stalks as they sat, hooches as of yet unrolled. Each face masqueraded vehemence, promising violence.