Scions of Nexus

by Gregory Mattix

  Just outside the cluster of pavilions was a table with a recruitment sign manned by a bored officer and a pair of men-at-arms. The officer straightened in his chair at the cousins’ approach and nodded in approval when he looked Elyas over.

  “Here to join the army?” the officer asked.

  “Aye. I’ve watered the dirt with the blood of a few Nebaran dogs on the road traveling here. Those bastards are roaming free over the southlands! When will the king put a stop to it?”

  “Should be any day now. Rumor has it the king’s full might will be reinforcing us within a couple days. Already, we routed the dogs an hour’s march south of here. Once King Clement and his army get here, we’ll be able to deliver a knockout punch and send these whoresons crawling back over the mountains to Nebara for good. Gods know how they even managed to get past Helmsfield Keep in the first place.”

  Elyas nodded. “I’d heard battle has already been met. I trust we taught them a hard lesson?”

  “Aye, about a week past. ’Twas a near thing at first, but once Colonel Krige arrived with the king’s vanguard, the vermin got unmanned and fled the field. But they’re still camped to the south, so the colonel won’t tolerate any slackin’ off among the ranks. Once the king’s full force arrives, shouldn’t take much to destroy those curs for good.”

  Elyas swelled with pride. “And I mean to be in the thick of it when we do. Where do I sign up?”

  The officer smiled and unrolled a scroll. “The pay for a recruit is two silvers a week. If you stay on longer than six months, your pay will be bumped up to three silvers a week along with a bonus of a gold crown for each additional six months. Sign your name here, lad. What about you?” He looked at Taren.

  “Nay, my cousin isn’t joining. He’s got his own business to take care of.” Elyas scribbled a signature on the line without reading the text of the scroll.

  “Welcome aboard, lad. Koll, will you see the recruit to the quartermaster and then to Sergeant Tynes for assignment?”

  One of the men-at-arms stepped forward. “Well met. I’m Koll.”

  “Elyas.” He looked at Taren and shrugged. “Guess this is farewell.”

  “So it is.” Taren smiled and gripped Elyas’s arm. “May Sabyl watch over you, Elyas. Spill our enemy’s blood, and may we meet again in more peaceful times.”

  Elyas felt a sudden melancholy descend on him. Although Taren wasn’t particularly religious, he had always held Sabyl in some esteem, the goddess whom his mother served. Elyas and Wyat had always favored Anhur, the god of warriors, but he reckoned he’d take the favor of whichever god would grant it. He embraced Taren, his cousin who was in actuality a brother in all but blood, and Taren smacked his back enthusiastically.

  “Take care of yourself, Taren. Find a room, and rest up to get your strength back. And get some good meals in your belly. Best of luck finding your mother.”

  “I will. Be well, Elyas.” Sudden emotion struck Taren, and his words choked up.

  Elyas felt his own eyes on the verge of watering. He clapped his cousin hard on the back, slightly concerned at feeling the pronounced vertebrae there, but he could no longer help Taren, for he would be on his own thereafter. He’d left their extra coin with his cousin, so he should be able to afford a room and some hearty meals. Elyas turned to follow Koll to get his gear issued from the quartermaster and meet his new sergeant. Excitement swelled inside him, for he was finally fulfilling his dream as a soldier defending the realms, and in the kingdom’s time of direst need, no less.

  ***

  Taren had left Elyas and the army camp behind, but Ammon Nor was still crowded with soldiers at any given time. Patrols marched the streets, keeping the peace, and veteran soldiers and officers caroused at the bars and brothels. Taren tried five different inns, but all were filled to bursting. He was exhausted and ill and was about to give up looking and go camp in the woods outside of town when he chanced upon a back street, where the merry sound of music drew him. A steady drizzle was falling again as he made his way down a side street.

  The past nine days had passed by in a blur. He recalled the constant exhaustion and weakness from days of walking, made even more miserable by getting ill, although he thought he was on the verge of getting over it if he could manage to keep warm and dry and get some decent rest. The worst of all, though, were the nightmares that plagued him, along with the anger and guilt and shame. He had failed to save Yethri, and her face and screams haunted him every night, causing him to wake in a cold sweat. Had he plunged that knife into Tellast when he’d had the opportunity, she’d still be alive, or so he thought. The Nebarans had taken everything from him: his home, his uncle who had been the father he’d never known, and even the girl he had been taken with.

  The magic, when he’d finally accessed it, had been intoxicating, burning in his veins like purifying fire and making him feel invincible for the first time in his life. The drawback was that he was a danger to himself and others, his magic wild and untamed. He had managed to seal his wound with it, and he suspected control would come with practice, but he was almost afraid to keep trying to use it for fear of others getting hurt like the townsfolk of Ryedale. He didn’t know how many had been wounded or killed by his magical outburst, and Elyas hadn’t wanted to speculate.

  I must reach Nexus—Mother will help me learn to control my magic. He didn’t want to consider what he’d do if she didn’t want anything to do with him, for after all, she’d sent him away in the first place. Uncle Arron said that was for my safety and she wants what is best for me. First thing first—I need a place that’s warm and dry to sleep. One step at a time—every journey begins with but a single step, as Uncle Wyat would have said.

  From out of the rain ahead appeared the soft glow of lamplight through windows. A sign with the caricature of a one-armed man hung overhead. Disarmed Bandit, the sign read.

  “Guess I’ll try this one last place before I head for the woods,” Taren muttered though he wasn’t holding out much hope. “A cup of mulled wine would be wonderful right now.” He pushed open the door and was met by both the appetizing smell of roasting meat and merry music.

  A trio of minstrels played in a corner of the inn’s common room, a flutist, a lutist, and a drummer. The common room was as full as the other inns’ had been, but at least it wasn’t overflowing. He had some space to stand out of the rain and dry off for a moment.

  The tables were crowded primarily with cloaked figures, well armed and with heavy packs, likely travelers and mercenaries. Taren leaned against the wall, letting the warmth and music wash over him, but figured he was out of luck for either a room or meal. He would’ve liked to get some mulled wine, hot food, and listen to the music for a time before heading back out into the rain. Might be best off just rolling up under a tree in the woods and trying to sleep off this illness.

  Just as he was about to turn back toward the door, a man stood up at the end of the bar. He wobbled on his feet, face flushed with drink, then got his bearings and tottered toward the door.

  Taren slid into his vacated seat, relieved to be able to sit down. He was exhausted from the road and trudging through muck all day.

  “What’ll it be, lad?” the barkeep asked. He was a portly man with a balding head.

  “A cup of mulled wine and a plate of food, please. I don’t suppose you have any rooms available, do you?”

  “Nay, been sold out for a week or more now with the war and all.” He walked over to a pot on the hearth and scooped out some wine with a dipper, filling a ceramic mug. He placed it before Taren, who gratefully warmed his hands on the mug, delighting at the spiced aroma.

  “How goes the war?” he asked.

  “Not much happening right now. The Nebaran dogs are lickin’ their wounds, waiting for reinforcements. Fortunately, the king’s army will be here any day to deliver a smashing victory.”

  “Good to hear,” Taren replied. He took a cautious sip of the wine then, finding it not too hot, took a much longer swallow. A
fter a few minutes, he started feeling sleepy from his pleasantly warmed belly, along with the heat from the hearth and the music, which had become a slow, melancholy song.

  “Enna!” a voice called near Taren, rousing him.

  He looked over to see a scrawny young boy with a dark mop of hair standing beside him at the end of the bar. He was waving to catch a barmaid’s attention.

  The barmaid, Enna, came over after a moment. “You again? Let me guess, you’re looking out for our friend?”

  “Aye. He’s in need of his elixir, as he calls it.”

  Taren realized the boy was actually a girl dressed in baggy clothes and with a boyish haircut and dirty face.

  She caught him looking and glared at him. “Something you need?”

  Taren shook his head with a wan smile. “No. Just enjoying being out of the rain for a bit.”

  Enna glanced over at Taren and smiled apologetically for the girl’s rudeness, it seemed. “Fine, Ferret, I’ll fix it up. You just wait there.”

  “Thirsty?” Taren asked, thinking the girl, Ferret, looked as though she too could use a hot drink, for she was soaked and shivering. “The mulled wine is quite good.”

  Ferret sized him up a moment then shrugged. “You buying?”

  “Sure.” He waved to the barkeep and ordered a mug for the girl. Elyas had left their remaining coin with him, and he was feeling generous.

  Despite her feigned disinterest, Ferret began making quick work of the wine.

  “Know any places in town that still have room?” Taren asked, figuring the girl was a local who knew what was going on around town.

  She shook her head. “So many damned people here of late, can’t lay down in a corner without some bastard stepping on you.” She snorted and took another gulp of wine. “Where you from?”

  “A farm southwest of here near Swanford. Nebarans ran us off our land. Been on the road ever since.”

  “Us?” she asked.

  Taren shrugged. “Well, my cousin just enlisted in the army. Now, it’s just me. My uncle was killed in the attack.”

  Ferret grunted. “Sorry to hear that. Thanks for the wine, by the way.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  Enna returned with a mug of what appeared to be a bitter-smelling tea. Ferret held up a battered wineskin, and Enna slowly poured the steaming tea into it.

  “How long’s he gonna be in that cage?” the barmaid asked.

  Ferret shrugged. “I offered to spring him, but he wants me to wait till the army’s gone. Reckon that’s so he can get his gear and get away afore the alarm is raised.”

  Taren wondered if they were speaking of the deserter in the cage he’d seen earlier that day.

  “Piss-poor way of treating a gentleman like that,” Enna muttered.

  Ferret stoppered her wineskin. “He’s a relic of the olden days. Doubt there's any like him left anymore. Thanks, Enna. From both of us.” She tucked the skin inside her cloak and raised her hood.

  “It’s nothing,” Enna said. “Stay dry.”

  Ferret turned away then paused and glanced over at Taren. “Try the hayloft in the barn. Anyone there, Enna?”

  “Not that I know of,” the barmaid replied. She studied Taren a moment. “There’s a party sleeping on the floor of the stable, but you’re welcome to the loft. ’Tis small, but the stableboy who used to sleep there doesn’t anymore.”

  Taren thanked them. A dry hayloft sounded like fine accommodations indeed, right then. Enna delivered his plate of food after another couple minutes, and the spiced potatoes proved to be the highlight of his lousy week.

  ***

  Ferret stepped out into the rainy night and made her way through the streets—streets she knew as well as the back of her hand. Her thoughts turned to the young man who’d shown her kindness and bought her the cup of mulled wine. He couldn’t have been much more than a year or two older than she, but she wondered what it was about him that had piqued her interest. He could have been handsome, she supposed, although he’d seen better days, as evidenced by the dark hollows under his eyes, and he looked too thin. His unusual rust-colored eyes were certainly striking yet seemed haunted, and he carried a palpable sense of melancholy about him, as if suffering some crushing loss. Without knowing why, she felt sorry for him. Perhaps she sympathized because he was homeless and alone, as she was.

  She avoided a patrol of soldiers and headed toward the front gates. They were closed tight for the evening, but she found one of the numerous holes in the palisade and sneaked through it when the guard wasn’t looking.

  Why the Abyss do I go out of my way for Dak? Certainly, she’d never felt obliged to help anyone else as faithfully as she’d been smuggling food and water and now the elixir to Creel. She had grown up listening to bards in the taverns, though, and their tales of heroes of old. In fact, she held a secret dream to one day become a bard herself, and Creel fit the mold of a hero in her mind. In this day and age, though, there was no justice, with the hero getting imprisoned by arsehole army officers for nothing more than aiding a barmaid in distress or fighting hard and miraculously surviving a battle when he clearly should’ve been dead.

  Ferret still couldn’t explain how he had survived, but whatever secrets Creel held, she would find out someday. One simply didn’t recover from a dozen stab wounds after lying dead in the mud for two days. She was certain his colorful life would be good material for a ballad.

  She waited behind a bush while Creel’s guard yawned. He stretched and scratched his arse then glanced around to make sure no officers were in the vicinity before sitting back down on the post and taking a sip from a flask in his pocket. The guard had it almost as bad as Creel, save for the fact he could leave after his shift and get drunk or dip his sword in one of the wenches at the brothel if he liked.

  Creel had been in the cage for a week, rain or shine. He was hurting without his elixir, and he needed it. He needed her, which made Ferret feel important though she’d never admit it to anyone.

  Seeing her chance, Ferret crept up to the cage without attracting the guard’s notice.

  “Evening, lass,” Creel whispered.

  “Evening yourself.” She could never sneak up on him and wondered if he ever slept. “Got something you might like.” She handed him the wineskin containing his elixir, still lukewarm from where it had been tucked inside her tunic. She also gave him a small packet of salted meat.

  “Ah, you’re a sweetheart.” Creel winced as he shifted position then popped the stopper off the skin and drank deeply. “You keeping out of trouble?”

  She shrugged. “Reckon so. Haven’t been chased off or beaten for a while now, so that’s a win, far as I’m concerned.”

  Creel chuckled softly. “Aye, that it is. Got enough to eat? Staying warm?”

  Ferret snorted, but inwardly she was touched by his concern though she’d never let him know. “Aye, Enna keeps me fed if I miss a few meals. And some boy bought me a cup of mulled wine before I came here.”

  “He trying to get in your breeches or something?” Creel teased, grinning at her.

  She smiled but didn’t take the bait. “Nah. Seemed a sad sort for a young man. The war hasn’t been kind to him.”

  “Nor to many of us, that’s for sure. And it’s only barely begun. By the time all is said and done, the scavengers will be gorged on their meals, and Shaol himself will be well pleased at all the suffering and death.”

  Ferret felt a sense of strong foreboding. She shivered, whether from the chill rain or Creel’s dark words she wasn’t sure, yet she suspected he spoke the truth.

  ***

  The stable was blessedly dry, and the scent of animals and hay filled Taren’s nose, making him think of home. A horse snorted nearby. A stableboy approached when he came through the door but looked confused when he didn’t have a mount.

  “Enna said I could take the hayloft for the night,” he said by way of explanation.

  The stableboy shrugged and pointed toward a ladder near the r
ear of the barn.

  A group that looked to be adventurers had already set up camp just inside the door, taking up the remaining free space but leaving a walkway where the stableboy could get through to the stalls with the horses. A couple men were already snoring in their bedrolls while a trio, two men and a woman, talked quietly in the corner. The woman was running a whetstone over a sword. She looked every bit as formidable as the two men beside her.

  Taren nodded a greeting and slipped to the back of the barn. He climbed the ladder and found a shelf as broad as his arm span. Bales of hay filled it nearly to the rafters, but Taren was able to squeeze into a cozy spot between a couple bales. He stowed his pack in first then lay down, wrapped his cloak around himself, and fell asleep within moments.

  Chapter 30

  Creel watched the steady stream of people passing by on the road: refugees, sellswords, travelers, traders, and whores. They came from all over the southlands as the Nebaran forces pushed north, flushing them out like a wildfire would game. They were the opportunists, the victims, and the ignorant. Traders, sellswords, and whores came to Ammon Nor to profit off the impending conflict while refugees fled the widespread patrols and scouts, seeking security and shelter. The occasional traveler also happened by, seemingly oblivious of what was transpiring.

  He shifted uncomfortably, the iron bars of the gibbet cage digging into his back. He stood up although he was about a head too tall for the enclosure, so he had to stand slumped and leaning on the bars. His back ached, his legs were sore, and he was sick and tired of being cooped up in a cage. He cursed Palam under his breath for the hundredth time in the past week. However, his cage did provide him a good view of the roads, suspended in the air as it was.