The Cold Ones

by A M D'Addabbo

  “How’re ya gonna fight with them blades?” Boor inquired, his tusks split with a smile. His friendly demeanor, mingled with the ease in which he wielded the two-handed axe created a juxtaposition that gave Krell a momentary pause.

  “That is my concern,” Krell stated, voice chilled as ice, quiet as shadows.

  Boor’s baritone cackled as he horizontally swung his weapon, faster than a man his size should be able. Lightning quick, Krell ducked, planting his knee in the snow in front of Boor’s foot. Without pause, the captain pivoted to the opposite and outside of Boor’s arc. Krell’s right karambit hooked behind Boor’s left knee and, as the captain stood, the keen blade traced across the joint, light as a breath of air. Simultaneously, Krell’s left karambit flashed under Boor’s armpit, where the Grunt’s armor met. Fluid as a brook, that selfsame claw dagger whipped about, coming to an abrupt halt before it slashed Boor’s carotid.

  Surprise sparked like flickering embers inside Boor’s chestnut orbs. His breath caught as if choked.

  “That was great, Cap’n!” The Grunt Sergeant busted a gut-wrenching laugh.

  Krell retracted his blades, breathing harsh, eyes studying the ice-crusted ground.

  “I’m glad that was just sparrin’. I don’t fancy bein’ hamstrung with me arm tendons slashed. Nor, me throat cut! HA!”

  Krell withheld a smile, nodded, and stalked away as if a predator on the prowl. The angry beast within nearly escaped in those moments. Krell snarled in subdued outrage, exerting his willpower with all his might in hopes to shackle the daemon into submission.

  Suffice to say, the captain refrained from sparring for several days. But as was his nature, he was unable to stay away for long. After word spread of his hasty defeat of Boor — who bellowed, swearing on Meltore’s balls, that a flare of the sun’s run blinded him — men wishing to prove themselves requested bouts with their captain.

  Hesitant, he ceded. Brutes, Sneaks, and Grunts sought him out, each seeking to usurp the captain’s supremacy in skill ranking. Like the fisherman whose nets returned emptied, each found themselves disappointed. Krell thanked the Greater Gods of the Synod none of the Cav Squad wished to spar. He had no idea whether or not the hate in his soul could be contained in such a trial.

  Alas, like false spring, Krell’s gratitude was not to last.

  “What do you want, Cur?” the captain snapped, his glower darker than a raging storm. The day’s maneuvers ended, and Krell desired a meal. Only the two remained on the snowy field.

  “Captain,” Pell began, somber as if in Lord Vinganz’s court, “I request you spar with me.”

  Krell looked into Pell’s grave eyes, incredulous. “You lack the skill to contend with me, mutt.” Krell pivoted, intending to push past this infernal noble.

  “Aye Captain, that is true.” Pell bowed his head. “Alas, I request it all the same. I cannot imagine the lessons I will learn from one as skilled as you.”

  Without waiting for an answer, Pell drew the hand-and-half bastard sword from the sheath on his back. As the blade scraped free, a tinny ring echoed as if it sang of freedom. Pell spread his feet, gaining a sound base for his footwork. Held in high-guard, Pell held the bastard sword over his head, both hands grasping the hilt to form a triangle.

  Krell glared at Pell’s unwavering form. Boiling hate seethed from the mountain-like heart of the captain, a flow of death in epic proportions inevitable. Like a volcano, his righteous fury reigned supreme. An icy breeze whispered into Krell’s soul, and he knew that he would kill this man.

  There could be no halting the wrath pouring from his heart. Black-hot hate coursed through his veins like searing venom. What gall this Cur possesses, Krell thought, to bare such a weapon at me!

  Captain Krell held no doubt that Pell chose a bastard sword as a jibe at his birthright.

  Like a cavalry charge, contempt surged inside Krell’s mind. Karambits flashed, slashing the air before the captain. Alas, he was forced to redirect the blades as Pell chopped his sword downward. A resounding clang erupted as the captain slashed both karambits into the descending brand, forcing it to miss him.

  Krell lashed out, a swiping riposte, yet Pell was ready.

  The noble, holding the bastard sword in one hand, deflected the captain’s claw with a steel vambrace. Knowing his blade to be far too cumbersome, Pell shouldered into his commanding officer.

  With a fleshy thud, Krell was flung to the snow. He performed a backward somersault to land on the balls of his feet, like a hunting cat. Scowl-crowned brows knitting told of the rage which possessed the man like a poltergeist. Consecutive slashes struck at the trainee, fast as vipers.

  Pell ducked, parried, chopped, slashed, and spun with all haste. To his delight — and Krell’s fury — Pell defended the barrage. Yet, the captain was unrelenting; speed increased as Krell’s fury crescendoed.

  Haggard breath ripped from Pell’s lungs; his shoulders and back roared with the fiery pain of exertion. He knew he would be unable to ward off the attacks much longer, yet he croaked with laughter. Honestly, Pell lasted far longer than he anticipated.

  Unfortunately, Pell’s laughter fueled the captain’s collared beast. Krell growled with tempestuous wrath, his savage visage manic — a mask of a volcano about to erupt. Arms pumping, karambits slashing, Krell threw everything he had at the infuriating noble. Shackled for years, the beast of rage within him roared, triumphant as it snapped its chains, and set its gaze upon the hated enemy: Nobility.

  “Yield,” Pell said, a smile on his lips. Yet, when the captain’s attacks continued, his face strained in concern. “Captain, I yield!”

  A harsh, guttural scream rent Krell’s gullet, his dark orbs wide with ire. He did not relent, and his claws flashed this way and that.

  The monster inside would have its prize, no matter the cost.

  Try as he might, Pell could not contend with the speed or ferocity of his captain, and as suspected, he paid for it.

  Bastard sword, heavy and sluggish, came too slow to parry as a karambit caught him. The keen blade slashed Pell’s face, diagonal from nasal to the mandible notch.

  Scarlet fluid splashed hotly into the snow as Pell cawed in surprise. His customary hoarse voice oozed with undisguised anguish as he tumbled to the ground with a spin.

  It was such a cry, coming from this particularly stalwart man, that wrenched Captain Krell from his sanguinary revelry. Orbs wide, Krell glanced at the karambits in his hands; blood lined the recurved claw in his left. Horror ambushed Krell’s features. Mouth dry as if full of sand, Krell attempted to swallow.

  “Are you alright, Cur?” Krell asked hollowly, sheathing his daggers.

  Unmitigated anger exploded from Pell in a growl. “My name is Pell, Captain.” The baron staggered to his feet and turned to face Captain Krell. Crimson streamed from the gash marring Pell’s face. Cheek rent in two, red teeth could be seen as he pressed his gloved hand to the dire wound.

  “I apolo-”

  “Save it, Captain,” Pell snapped, bloody flecks spraying the captain’s brigandine. “I will hear no more false words from you!”

  Krell’s face darkened. “Meaning?”

  “You know exactly what I mean,” Pell gurgled. Rivulets of scarlet fell like a waterfall, escaped his mouth. “You preach brotherhood; how we must set aside prejudice of society’s caste, and work as one. We must fight, protect, even die for the man next to us, no matter his birth. Yet, your rage blinds you, Captain. The only one unable to forget titles is you! The Cav Squad has fully assimilated with the other Squads. We love the Cold Ones as brothers! This cohort is forming into something remarkable. It is far greater than you and your anger, and it deserves better!”

  Pell jabbed a bloodied finger into Captain Krell’s chest and spat. “You’re going to be leading high and lowborn men into battle, Captain. If you can’t get your head out of your arse, then you don’t belong here!” Face bloody and marred, Pell saluted with his hand to his chest, about-faced, and stormed off.


  Captain Krell stood poleaxed. Cur is — no — Pell is right. Plagued by sudden fatigued, Krell thought, The Cold Ones deserve better than me.

  ◄►◄►◄►

  Unbelievable pain wracked his entire body as Pell sat on the cot. He was alone inside the physician’s tent, aside from the laech himself.

  Slender, with a sallow complexion, Herb nodded as he clipped the last of the silk sutures. “Finished, Pell,” Herb said, gentle and kind. His accent denoted his foreign birth.

  “My thanks, Herb,” Pell rasped, eyes blinking. His cheek puffed with swelling, causing the words to slur.

  “Aye,” The laech nodded. “Still not going to tell me what happened?” Herb smirked, eyes alight with knowing.

  Silence.

  A gusted sigh rippled from Herb, yet he inquired no further. Hands slick with Pell’s blood, Herb itched his epicanthic eyes with a shoulder. He began collecting the gossamer bandages strewn about the tent – once crimson, now coagulating into russet brown.

  “Take your seat!” Herb barked like a guard dog’s warning as Pell tried to assist with cleaning. Herb’s break from his friendly character shocked Pell into obeying. The baron returned to the cot.

  “Lord Kaide tasked to care for you Flakes, and by the Synod, I will. A laech of my skill can bring men back from Death’s clutches, but only if my instructions are obeyed.” Herb paused, his mind slipping to the past, eyes glazing. “It has long been my desire to care for the elite warriors of the Realm, and finally, here I stand. I won’t let some western noble undermine me. So when I say sit, you will sit! Do you hear me, Lord?

  “Once I’ve sanitized my hands, I’ll fetch you something for the pain.”

  The stitched noble nodded, only to regret the action. Though gentle, the movement jarred Pell’s sewn face, pulsating agony from the wound.

  Pell was lucky, Herb had said when he first saw the wound, that his jaw had been spared. The laech didn’t find bone shards as he rinsed the trauma area with vinegar. After the quick clean, Herb non-too-softly pressed the gossamer dressing to the noble’s face. In a solemn tone, Herb instructed Pell to apply as much pressure as possible.

  Pell complied, his teeth gnashing, while Herb boiled wine over a small fire. Once the wine reached the appropriate temperature, Herb doused a bandage and daubed Pell’s face.

  Tears welled behind the depths of the noble’s pale-blue orbs. The wine seared, forcing Pell to clench his eyes shut. Only superb fortitude allowed the man to hold fast to consciousness. His eyes remained shut until Herb declared completion.

  “How does it feel?” Herb asked, eying his hands as he scrubbed them with an oily solution. Once white, a crimson-tinged mixture coated the laech’s blood covered hands.

  With the care of a new mother, Pell ran a forefinger along the sutured laceration — from nose to jaw. He repeated the action three times before Herb caught sight.

  With a gasp, Herb’s angular eyes bulged. “Stop! That’s not what I meant! Don’t touch it.” As the words passed his lips, the laech suspected he had just created a life-long habit in this spirited baron.

  “Oh,” Pell grunted. He pulled his finger from his marred face. “Sorry.”

  “I understand you have swelling and an egregious amount of pain.” Herb flung the tent flap aside, bent, and buried his hands in a snow bank. Vitae tainted the flakes, and when Herb stood, his hands were clean. “But do you feel any stretching flesh?”

  Cautious as a hare, Pell shook his head. No matter. It was agony, and he winced. Determined to be as motionless as a gargoyle, Pell wheezed, “Negative. It’s painful, yet there’s no tugging.”

  Herb nodded, once more inside the tent, drying his hands on his cloak. He strode to a cabinet and rummaged through it. “Excellent. Now for pain, unfortunately, I don’t have my full stash of herbs. This is the best I can do under these circumstances.” The short man tossed a bulging leather pouch, closed with a strapped thong.

  One-handed, Pell snatched the sac from midair. “What is it?” Although not unpleasant, an overwhelming aroma of mint assailed his senses.

  “Mint tobacco. It’s the best pain-deadening herb in my possession at the moment,” Herb said. “You can crush the leaves and mix them with hot water in a tea, but the best way to enact its relieving properties is by smoking it.”

  Pell glanced to the leather bag, then returned to the laech. “How should I-”

  Herb lobbed an object to Pell, who caught it with his tobacco-occupied hand. The noble brought it close to his face: A wooden pipe.

  “Do you require my aid to your billet?”

  Gritting his teeth, Pell arose from the cot and said, “Negative. Thank you again, Herb.” He tottered from the tent, casting the flap wide, and stepped into the cold night. Howling wind whistled in his ears, and Pell pulled his winter cloak as tight as he could with one hand.

  With the trainees having considerably shrunk in numbers, the journey through tent-city was swift. Pell found his cloth manor as he left it that morn, pristine and everything in its proper place. With a groan, he lowered to the cot.

  Clamping his teeth on the pipe’s wooden stem, Pell unwound the leather thong and pinched a wad of baccy with thumb and forefinger. With his fine-motor skills diminished by the ordeal, it took Pell three nips to fill the bowl with dry leaves. Shaking hands found flint and steel. Sparks flung every which way, yet Pell was victorious. Several puffs later, embers flared while thick smoke, tainted with mint, filled the confine.

  Soothing relief spread throughout Pell’s body. The tobacco did not cloud his thoughts, which Pell deemed paramount, yet pain and anxiety both lessened. As such, his nerves settled.

  His reverie then shattered.

  “By the Synod, Pell! Ugh, that is strong.” Captain Krell batted the smoky air as he swept into Pell’s billeting quarters without invitation.

  Far from anguish-free, Pell’s face darkened. “What do you want?”

  Krell shifted, hands fidgeting, yet he bore a mask of a pained man. Agitation swirled about him, so palpable it compelled the injured candidate to glance Krell’s direction. The captain’s usual dour glare looked as if bile surged in the back of his throat.

  Captain Krell refused to look at Pell, yet when he spoke, his voice as harsh and sharp as a keen dagger. “You are correct in your assessment Pell, and for that, I apologize.”

  Shock rent Pell’s rage in two, making it difficult to digest what he heard. “What did you say?”

  The captain blurted in explosive outrage. “This isn’t easy. So listen, as I do not wish to repeat myself.”

  Pell refused to be cowed. Nonchalance steadying him, he pulled a deep breath of baccy and released the billowing smoke. “By all means, Captain, continue.”

  Krell snarled. “You are accurate in your accusations, of me refusing to evolve alongside the men. Again, you are correct in stating this cohort deserves a true leader. That’s why I have come here to ask you-”

  “Negative, Captain,” Pell interjected with a grunt. “I decline the invitation to take command. This is your cohort, these are your men, and they will follow you into the Realm of the Damned. If only you would put aside your contempt and lead them!”

  Silence met the nobleman’s verbal vomit. It cracked as Captain Krell jeered. “I’m not abdicating in favor of you, Pell.” Krell’s voice went soft as silk. “I’m promoting you to Lieutenant. I’m appointing you as my second.”

  “Oh.” Pell staggered, nonplussed.

  “I believe with you at my side,” Krell paused, looking as if he fought against spewing, “we can forge an unstoppable chain of command.” Trembling from the strain, the captain proffered an outstretched arm. “What do you say, Lieutenant?”

  Pell’s pipe tumbled to the ground, scattering hot ash upon the floor. Pell saw the fierce determination housed within the captain and knew it to be true.

  “Aye, Captain.” The lieutenant rose, clasped Krell’s forearm, and held the brotherhood’s embrace.

  “Excelle
nt,” Krell stated, blunt as a hammer. He retracted his grip. “I’ll spread the word this eve. On the run’s first light, have the men ready. Lord Kaide requests a show of skill. The scheme of maneuver will encompass the cohort in its entirety.”

  “Consider it done, Captain.”

  Krell nodded once and then about-faced. His departure was swift as a flash of sparks, unsullied by needless chatter. Krell bathed in the moon’s light as he stalked the encampment like a wolf.

  Slithering within his gut, Krell’s beast of fury sibilated, It would be better if we slash this cur’s throat!

  The captain seethed, his mountain-heart again challenged by the boiling rage seared into his being. Teeming magma churned as before an erupting surge, yet by sheer will alone, Krell grabbed the roiling rage with both hands. With a growl, he redirected it from Pell and the noble members of Cav Squad, releasing it on the daemon coiling around his heart. Chaos rent the lurking fury beast to shreds, into oblivion.

  No longer would Krell allow himself to be fettered by prejudice. Nor would he be controlled like a stringed marionette by the chords of contempt.

  No, Krell ruled his own destiny. He vowed to tap into his full potential. To be reborn as the commander this cohort deserved: Captain Krell of the Cold Ones.

  ◄►◄►◄►

  Lieutenant Pell stood beside Captain Krell, brazen as a mountain. The pair faced the assembled four Squads. Pell felt every eye rest on him and the sutured gash marring his face. He could taste their curiosity, thick as honey, yet he defied every inquiring look.

  Amassed into a crisp dress-right-dress formation, armed and armored, the men awaited orders. Anxious as a lad’s first battle, they wondered what was to come.

  Whispers of a final training operation flitted through tent-city the night prior. Those consumed by faith grinned, eager as merchants. Yet, as true brothers would, they battered one another with the memories of a thousand shattered hope. There was naught but to accept these wild rumors as psychological warfare fostered by the cadre.