The men exchanged nervous glances. “The army’s vanguard is here in Ketania?” the lieutenant asked, clearly astonished.
One of the veterans pointed out a spot on the map and traced his finger down from it. “Oostberg is here, and if the vanguard is but a few days south…” His eyes widened, and he exchanged glances with the other older man.
“Then Helmsfield Keep must have fallen.” The lieutenant let out a long breath, eyes flicking to the map and back to Creel. “And you know all this, how, exactly?”
“I was there. I personally put down six of their men in the mud. The rest fled Oostberg back to the south.”
“Good riddance,” grunted one of the veterans, nodding in approval.
“I’ve traveled all across the riverlands and heard nary a word about any local lords raising a muster,” Creel continued. “Nor have I seen any signs of Ketanian patrols. Is your commander not aware of what’s occurring?”
Lieutenant Mons exchanged another look with the veterans. When he looked back at Creel, he had a pained expression. “We’ve only heard from our spies in Nebara that they are marshaling their forces. The commander of Helmsfield Keep’s last missive assured us all was well, with only one recent sortie on the walls, and that was crushed easily. Captain Palam hasn’t received any orders from the crown other than to hold position here and conscript a number of the locals to swell our ranks in the event this is more than just bluster.”
He looks like he’s barely seen a score of summers. I hope this captain of his is more experienced. “Well, it’s more than bluster now that the enemy is marching an army inside our kingdom, their patrols harassing and killing travelers and townsfolk. Before he died, the officer of that unit confessed to being ordered to root out magic users and kill or capture them, depending on if they fit a certain criteria of one they were searching for or not. And he claimed this was by order of the Inquisition.”
Their shocked faces turned even grimmer.
“I’d recommend your captain get word to the crown at once. The common folk are suffering, with no patrols to keep the roads and towns safe. I imagine a flood of refugees is already on its way here as well.”
“Aye, I’ll inform Captain Palam at once, sir,” said the lieutenant. “I thank you for your news, bleak though it may be.”
Creel nodded and walked back out into the rain. “I bet you’d like a nice, warm stable and some fresh hay, wouldn’t you?” He patted the flank of his horse then led it from camp and across the hundred paces of muddy ground into Ammon Nor.
The streets were practically empty of townsfolk, due to the weather, but soldiers and conscripts were everywhere. He passed by several of the larger, fancier inns, hoping the Disarmed Bandit would have an available room. He could already taste its spiced potatoes and dwarven spirits.
When a stableboy came out to take his horse, Creel tipped him a couple coppers. “Take good care of her—she’s traveled a long way, and her right forehoof is sore.”
“Aye, sir.”
The Disarmed Bandit was a medium-sized inn located off a side street. A carved wooden sign hung over the door, with the likeness of a sinister-looking one-armed man with a hood pulled low and a kerchief tied around the lower part of his face. Creel stepped into the inn, his drenched cloak dripping water in the mud-caked entryway. The common room was half filled, but it was warm and cozy, and the scent of the inn’s specialty, the spiced potatoes, made his mouth water.
“Master Creel, you’ve returned!” Enna, a friendly barmaid, flashed him a grin as she came from the kitchen carrying a platter of food. She was young and buxom, with a pretty smile and curly brown hair.
“Aye, and it’s been a long road, the weather miserable.” He hung his cloak on a hook near the hearth so that it could dry out and took his usual seat toward the rear of the common room. Even out of the chill rain, a dull ache had settled deep in his bones. “Time to fix my special brew,” he said to himself.
Enna came over a moment later. “What can I get ya?”
“A mug of hot water, dwarven spirits, and a plate of whatever smells so enticing, piled high with the spiced potatoes, of course. A room and a hot bath after that, if you aren’t full up.”
“Aye, we’ve a few rooms to spare yet. Have you come from up north?”
“Nay, down south. War is coming—you can bet on that. Nebaran soldiers on the roads and nobody to greet them with steel. What’s been happening around Ammon Nor?”
She put her hands on hips, annoyance on her round face. “These soldiers are good for business, I reckon, but they make more trouble than whatever good they do. Lots of drunken brawls and other nonsense all the time.” She sighed. “I wish it would go back to how it was last summer. Just the small garrison and no dark rumors carrying on the wind.”
“Aye, so do I, lass.” He met her eyes and smiled as reassuringly as he could. “I would expect the king to lead his army afore long and send the Nebarans fleeing back to whence they came.”
Enna nodded but didn’t look as if she believed it. She went to bring his food and drink.
When he got his food a few minutes later, a big bread bowl of mutton and vegetable stew, along with a heaping stack of fried spiced potatoes on the side, Creel wolfed it down like a starving man. He had added a few pinches of some reagents from his satchel to his mug of hot water, allowing them to steep. Once his belly was properly filled and his concoction properly prepared, he drank it down swiftly then turned his attention to his cup of dwarven spirits.
“Everything to your liking?” Enna gathered up his plate and empty mug. “I’ll get you a refill of your drink.”
“Aye, delicious as always. How’s your husband?” He recalled her mentioning during his past stay at the inn that she was newly wed to a young carpenter in town.
Enna’s face fell. “He got conscripted a couple weeks past. They’ve had him drilling and training with the bow. Said he was more liable to hurt himself than the enemy with a sword or spear.”
“That’s probably for the best. With the contingent of archers, he’ll be out of the thick of the fighting that way. If it even comes to fighting at all.”
Her gaze slid over to Final Strike on Creel’s hip. “I just hope the gods are watching out for him. For all of us, should it come to war.”
Creel nodded agreement. When he was finished with his spirits, he went to enjoy a hot bath, scrubbing the grime from his skin and letting the hot water loosen his tired muscles. His concoction had soothed the aches in his bones, and he felt years younger by the time he climbed out of the bath. He turned in early and slept like the dead.
***
Creel remained at the Disarmed Bandit for the next couple days. Having nowhere in particular he needed to be, he was enjoying sleeping in a dry bed under a roof and having good food in his belly. Also, he wanted to allow his horse time to recover. When refugees began streaming into Ammon Nor, carrying word that the Nebaran vanguard was three days’ march south, he decided he’d leave on the morrow.
This war is not my concern. I did my duty to the crown. Now, the king and his commanders can take charge of this. Mayhap I’ll head northeast toward the Azure Sea and see what contracts are available in those parts.
The thought of stopping in Llantry, the nearest thing to a permanent home for him, brought mixed feelings. On the one hand, relaxing and seeing his friends again in familiar surroundings would be nice, but on the other, he had neither the energy nor desire to get into another quarrel with his sometimes partner, Rada. Their relationship had been hot and cold for many years, and he wasn’t sure which he would face if he returned.
He pushed those thoughts aside and was just digging into his dinner when the tavern door burst open and a trio of Ketanian army officers swaggered inside. Their silver buttons gleamed on their starched blue-and-white uniforms, their boots shiny and polished, thanks in part to the drier weather and less mud.
“A tankard of ale for myself and my friends!” The lead officer, a captain, judging by his
rank insignia, snapped his order at the barkeep and strode across the common room, eyes passing across the crowd as if challenging anyone to meet his stare. He was tall and blond, with an arrogant manner, likely some minor lordling. He walked with his back as rigidly straight as if he had the shaft of a spear rammed up his arse all the way to his shoulder blades. His two crony lieutenants puffed up their chests as they trailed in the wake of their superior officer.
Creel, taking a cue from the other townsfolk, focused on his plate of sausage, spiced potatoes, and boiled cabbage, and tried his best to ignore the officers. He was heartened to see that Lieutenant Mons, who had seemed a decent young officer, wasn’t with this lot of preening peacocks.
“Such a grim mood in here!” the captain shouted jovially. “Where’s a bloody minstrel when you could use one?” He stopped beside the table of a dining family, likely farmers, judging by their rough garb, who eyed him with trepidation. “Cheer up, folks, for the valiant Ketanian contingent shall march across the Black Channel on the morrow and win a great victory against the approaching Nebaran curs!” He clapped the father on the shoulders, causing the man to start and spill a portion of his stew.
One of the lieutenants snickered, and the captain strode to an open table. He kicked the chair out and threw himself down in it, resting his polished boots on the edge of the table. His two minions joined him, joking about the farmer’s misfortune with his stew.
“Prancing dandies,” Creel muttered under his breath. So the vanguard has pushed north faster than expected.
He took a long swallow of dwarven spirits, grimacing at the burn of the strong booze—not quite the quality he normally favored, but it was what was stocked. The thought crossed his mind that he might be better off leaving Ammon Nor that very night, but he decided against it, choosing instead to go with his original plan of leaving in the morn. Another night’s rest for himself and his horse would do them both good.
Enna delivered the tankards the captain had demanded, setting them on the officers’ table. When she turned away to leave them, the captain reached out and caught her by the wrist. He pulled her backward with a startled squeak and onto his lap. His arms quickly encircled her waist.
“Where you off to in such a hurry, sweetheart? Me and the lads could use a bit of more pleasant company for a spell. This town is short on available maids, and planning a war is tiring work.”
Enna’s eyes were a trapped doe’s as she sought a way to escape without angering the officer and starting a scene.
Gehrt, the barkeep and owner, scowled at the situation but made no move to interfere.
“Well I’m not available, sir,” Enna said with as much dignity as she could muster. “My husband is sure to take issue.”
“Is that so?” The captain laughed before taking a long draught of his ale. He slammed the ceramic tankard back on the table. When he returned his hand to her waist, he brushed it across one of her breasts. “I think he won’t have too much to say. A man of age to be wedded to you ought to be fighting for his kingdom, eh?”
The barmaid flushed. “Aye, sir, he’s among the conscripts who’s been drilling the past couple weeks. I hoped to see him off tonight afore the battle.” She wiped away a tear.
“I doubt he’ll mind if you spend some time with me first.” The captain grinned, a nasty gleam in his dark eyes. He nuzzled the barmaid’s neck and squeezed her thigh. “In case you didn’t know, I’m in command of this garrison. Whether you get to see him again depends on you, darlin’. Mayhap he’ll find himself shoveling shite at the latrines all night before we march at first light.”
Creel looked around, waiting for Gehrt or any of the locals to intervene on Enna’s behalf, but nobody did. He knew Enna was well-liked around town. She was cheerful and hard-working, always with a kind word to spare for someone else. The locals all knew her—they had been chatting freely the entire time Creel had been in the common room, at least until the officers stepped foot in the tavern. Suddenly, everyone in the place was studiously ignoring Enna and her plight. Gehrt looked ashamed but was likely worried about the impact to his business if he pissed off the officers on the eve before they went to war. The other men were too cowardly to intervene, not wanting to chance being press-ganged into service.
The two lieutenants watched in amusement, joking and rapidly draining their ales. The captain, pleased at Enna’s deflating resistance, took another long draught of his ale.
Creel finished his spirits in one long gulp, barely noticing the burn as the liquor went down. He pushed aside the remainder of his plate, no longer hungry. His gaze was locked on Enna’s face, and the sudden resignation filling her eyes sickened him.
Ah, gods. I’m always reminded how monsters come in many forms, some of them even those that should be protecting the innocent, not preying on them.
His chair squealed loudly against the floor in the uncomfortable silence as he got to his feet. Final Strike and the rest of his gear were up in his room, probably for the better. He noted the two lieutenants’ eyes latch on him as he stepped around his table. The captain paid no mind, intent on running his hand up Enna’s thigh, slipping beneath the hem of her dress.
“Shouldn’t your time be better spent planning how to defeat the enemy, Captain?” Creel asked. He stopped a couple paces away.
Enna turned to him, face brightening with sudden hope.
“Who the Abyss you think you’re talking to?” piped up one of the lieutenants, a scrawny youth with a scruffy fuzz on his cheeks.
The captain waved off his crony’s question. He glared at Creel, cheeks flushed red from the ale. “And what would you know about war planning?”
Creel shrugged. “Not much, but the lady already stated she has a husband. I think you should unhand her and be on your way.”
“Captain Palam?” the other lieutenant asked, hand on the pommel of his sword.
Palam ignored the lieutenant and sneered at Creel. “I care not what you think, man. Piss off before you get a taste of my knuckles.”
“That’s the spirit—show that pluck toward the enemy on the morrow. Now, if you’ll unhand the lady…”
Palam released Enna and shoved her roughly off his lap.
Creel caught her arm and prevented her from falling. She shot him a grateful look before retreating to the kitchen.
“I’ve about had enough of your mouth, peasant,” snarled Palam. He shot up out of his chair, and his cronies scrambled to back him up.
“Why don’t we discuss this outside, Captain?” Creel gestured toward the door, taking a step toward it.
The angry officers followed.
Change in plans, then. Best to finish this quickly and be on the road before they summon the guard.
The sight of a squad of soldiers loitering outside the door threw a bucket of cold water on his plans. A dozen men who had been lounging about hurriedly scrambled to stand at attention and salute their obviously furious commanding officer.
“Damn it. No good deed goes unpunished.” Creel eyed the soldiers, noting they looked to be a group of hardened veterans. He sighed, resigned to losing this round.
“What was that you wanted to say, peasant?” Palam snapped. “You’re interrupting me from my ale and a nice pair of—”
Creel spun and, faster than the captain could react, drove his fist into the man’s face, breaking his nose with a crunch. The captain crumpled, falling into the arms of his underlings, sending the trio stumbling back into the tavern. The lieutenants squawked indignantly. Palam looked up dazedly, blood gushing from his nose.
That should take his attention off Enna at least.
“Oi there! Get that bastard!”
The squad of soldiers rushed Creel. He glanced around but knew he wouldn’t be escaping. Nor could he fight them all off with just his fists. Deciding not to resist, his goal of freeing Enna from the captain’s clutches accomplished, he raised his hands overhead peacefully. The shaft of a spear struck him in the chin, rocking his head back. A fist to the
gut folded him over, then he was knocked to the ground, curling up protectively against the repeated strikes of fists and boots. The barrage subsided after a couple minutes, but not until he’d received a couple cracked ribs, a bloodied face, and plenty of spittle and verbal abuse. He was dragged back to his feet.
“Take that bastard away to the gaol!” Palam screeched. He was clutching a kerchief to his ruined nose. “This peasant hero is gonna be on the front lines come the morrow!”
Creel, the newly minted peasant hero, was dragged off to the gaol.
Chapter 14
Taren was collecting laundry from the clothesline when the first soldier stepped out of the trees. It took him a moment to realize what he was seeing, at first thinking the man one of the folk from the neighboring farmsteads. He wore a conical helmet revealing a face with a neatly trimmed beard and a black-and-gold surcoat over a suit of mail. A black shield with a golden lion on it was strapped to his left arm. In his right was a crossbow. After a moment, Taren recognized the insignia on the shield as that of the Nebaran Empire.
He froze with one of his extra tunics in hand, for the sight of a Nebaran soldier was so unexpected. The soldier raised a crossbow and aimed it at Taren as calmly as if he were a rodent to be exterminated. The set of breeches hanging on the line a handbreadth to his left suddenly jerked, and a hole appeared in the leg.
He just loosed a quarrel at me. Taren felt his jaw sag open, staring stupidly at the soldier. The man called over his shoulder, and a couple more soldiers appeared with crossbows then a handful more. Before he knew it, at least a dozen men were at the edge of the woods, nearly half with loaded crossbows pointed in his direction.
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