by Damien Lake
Marik meant to intercept an armored figure who circled a pine tree. Dietrik got there first. He wielded his rapier and dagger with merciless skill. His first thrust darted faster than either Marik or the foe could see. The blade skimmed off the shoulder guard.
Though obviously startled, the soldier kept his reactions honed. He quickly lashed out with his sword, a longer blade akin to the hand-and-a-half Marik had once wielded.
Dietrik knew not to block the heavier blade directly. His rapier would lose such a fight. Instead he directed the opposing blade sideways, then slashed with his dagger. Clutched in his left hand, the main-gauche had enough guard that Dietrik punched the steel sword rather than meeting it blade-to-blade.
This left a large opening with the soldier’s sword forced to one side. Dietrik slashed from the side, since the defensive maneuvering made a slice easier than a thrust. It looked like a sure kill.
Except the black soldier displayed an interesting trait of his armor. A flat protrusion from the couter armoring his elbow extended upward eight inches. When his arm was rigid, it fit snuggly to his upper arm’s backside. The soldier lowered his arm while bending the elbow, extending the long, thin plate.
Dietrik’s blade rang off the steel. The impact forced the soldier’s lower arm forward as the odd plate was pushed back. His rapier arced over the man’s shoulder. Interesting.
If Dietrik thought so, it only sharpened his battle instincts. He uncorked his speed, using both blades to put the black soldier on the defensive. Marik watched blows deflect off his blade, his armor’s steel portions and from the elbow protrusions on both arms.
The soldier proved a fair fighter, returning blows by taking advantage of slight opportunities the moment they appeared. Dietrik dodged three and deflected a fourth. Still, despite the man’s skill, he only returned one attack for every five or six of Dietrik’s, and would have quickly fallen but for his strange armor.
When Dietrik thrust squarely into the leather-covered chest, Marik believed the battle won. Surprisingly, the soldier only grunted harshly, rotated so the blow’s remaining force slid across his chest’s surface, then reached for his adversary.
Dietrik dashed back several steps, his face a mask of concentration Marik recognized and understood. His friend loathed surprises in a fight. This fight especially. After feeling useless since their first encounter with the beasts, Dietrik had been questioning his value as a fighter. He refused to fail against this human enemy. This battle would prove, one way or the other, his place as a warrior in future fights to come.
After a fast battlefield evaluation, Dietrik charged. His rapier thrust in an impaling stroke, his dagger held near his throat, ready to block any movement from the enemy’s sword.
The soldier, winded, swung for Dietrik’s head. Dietrik crouched with his final step and the wider blade passed inches above his head. His rapier point struck hard, piercing the leather with only minor hesitation this time.
Dietrik rammed the blade home with a twist, only withdrawing it three inches when the soldier fell. Pulling it free required significant strength. The body’s suction and the tough leather were reluctant to loosen their grip on the steel. He stepped on the corpse’s shoulder, tugging until he recovered his rapier.
Marik smiled at him briefly before both glanced around. Fifteen black soldiers were clearly dead. Four Kings lay on the ground nursing injuries that looked minor from what Marik could see. That declared one truth about these strangers. They may control fearsome beast-monsters, but their soldiers were no better than Galemar’s. Man-for-man, the Crimson Kings were the best fighters to be found.
The five remaining decided they were unlikely to prevail. They fled. Two were cut down from behind while a third received a crossbow quarrel through his thigh. He fell, screaming.
Marik jumped after the other two. He could not allow them to escape! They might be running to join a larger force nearby.
Before they ran ten steps, Colbey appeared from thin air. His sudden materialization from the empty forest shocked the two into stumbling. Fast as a diving hawk, Colbey sliced with his blade. He took both in the same breath with wild slashes that hacked into their less protected areas. While they hit the dirt, he reared back, chopping down on them as though he wielded an axe rather than a sword.
He chopped twice with a savage fury that shocked Marik. His eyes were wide, sweat rimming them, and his lips pulled back in an animal snarl.
The last blow bit deep into the twitching body. Colbey lifted his sword to strike anew. A bloody, vertical arc flew from the silver steel. He paused, as if suddenly coming to an awareness, or as if he listened to a conversation taking place in the next room. His gaze shifted to take note of the other men.
That pure hatred unnerved Marik. Colbey had always been the epitome of self-control, excepting that one occasion when he’d already been exhausted both mentally and physically from his long journey into Tullainia. Seeing him in such a rage, and then looking around as if only then seeing the others…his concerns regarding Colbey flooded back. How did this fit with everything else?
Again Marik realized he could do nothing until he talked it over with someone who knew more than he did. Nobody had appointed him Colbey’s guardian, after all. He only felt concern because the scout had become, not exactly a friend per se, but at least a close acquaintance. And because Colbey’s aura troubled him.
Nothing I can do about it. If Colbey is acting strange because his aura is suffering from an odd sickness, then Tollaf can explain it and fix it. Or if he can’t, then surely a Healer can. Why doesn’t that old bastard ever bother to teach me about things like this? Things I actually need to know!
He walked back to where Dietrik stood, examining his kill. Marik studied the corpse as well. A quick, cursory inspection revealed much.
The man’s armor was a peculiar blend of heavy plate and light armor. He wore a black leather jerkin and equally black leather pants. Bracers and rerebracers protected the arms, along with those strange plates protruding from the couter. Actually, Marik decided, the plates were really blades without edges that extended from the elbows.
The combed helm was what made them look vaguely like a badger at a distance. The helm had a hinged face plate that could be raised. Normally when the armorer added a keel-shaped ridge over the helm’s skullcap to increase defensive strength, he kept it under a half-inch in thickness. This helm sported three combs, all front to back, one straight over the top with the other two halfway from it to the ear holes, and all four inches tall.
The dead man also wore a steel collar that resembled an elaborate necklace instead of an oversized ring, as well as cuisses and greeves to protect both legs. His boots were similar to an armored knight’s, except crafted from numerous bands layered atop the previous like scales. Most curious, all in all. Why only cover the head, arms and legs in heavy armor? Why had all the steel pieces been painted black? To match the black leather, or did it represent a deeper meaning?
Marik could see that the bracers, greeves and other limb protections did not curve completely around to the back. Rather they were plates shaped to fit the limb’s front and held in place with leather straps. He started flipping the corpse, wanting to see how armored the soldier’s rear might be. A tortured scream stiffened his spine immediately.
He spun, as did every other man. What he saw made nausea roil through his stomach.
The crossbow-shot soldier remained among the living. Lying on the ground, with his sword fallen several feet away, he had ceased to be a significant threat. No one had taken the trouble to kill him since wounded prisoners make good information sources, and they had several hundred questions to ask. Everyone left him to his own devices through unspoken understanding while they tended to after-battle needs. When the sergeants were ready, they would take charge…until Colbey found him.
Marik saw the scout had plunged his sword through the man’s palm and stood over the screaming invalid, twisting the blade in cruel satisfaction. His ey
es were no longer wide. They were narrowed in angry intensity, his teeth grinding. A malicious light danced in his those orbs.
The scream devolved into sobs when Colbey pulled his sword free. Marik barely noticed how every mercenary stood transfixed. He could hardly believe what Colbey had done. Mercs were neither gentle nor refined, but he would never have believed anyone in the band would delight in such torture. Not even Beld.
Colbey plunged his sword into the man’s shoulder, his lips pulling further back into a feral grin while the man howled. From several yards away, despite the ragged shrieking, Marik could hear the sword tip scrape across the man’s bones.
Immobility froze Marik. Did he truly see such a perverted display? This was sickening, and yet he could no more have lifted a hand or raised his voice in protest than he could have moved in time to save Shalla. He watched as in a dream, trapped in helpless observation.
The scout pulled his sword free, the mad glint in his eyes mirrored in his teeth when filtered sunlight reflected off the saliva-coated whiteness. He lowered the sword point, this time pushing the tip slowly into the crying man’s neck. Blood welled around the silver tip. Fingernail after fingernail pierced deeper through the tan skin. Screaming in pain, dirt smeared into the tear tracks wetting his cheeks, the soldier desperately tried to wriggle away. His struggles on the ground only forced the sword deeper into his neck.
Marik felt his gorge rising. He had never been sick on a battlefield, never suffered the violent shakes other men experienced during their first fights where men died. Watching Colbey’s excitement as he tortured a helpless man threatened to make him vomit.
It was worse than a dream. This was reality, and he would be forced to watch Colbey kill a man in the cruelest fashion outside of honest combat. Nothing would stop the atrocity.
Through the slow time, moving as though suspended in the syrup, Sloan barreled into Colbey. Sloan tackled the scout, knocking him sideways and the sword from his grip. The world lurched as it came back into focus for Marik. He could hear Kineta shouting, startling since all sound other than the victim’s had been smothered a moment before.
Colbey shoved Sloan off him to explode to his feet, glaring death at him and Kineta both.
An archer in the First Unit hastily knelt beside the enemy soldier. He glanced up at Kineta after probing the wound. “He’s gonna bleed out soon, sarge. Blood’s coming outta his mouth and the cut’s too deep to sew up. Bleeding inside.” The archer stood, hardly devastated by an enemy dying, but obviously displeased at the manner of his death.
Kineta, furious, rounded on Colbey. “You goat-loving bastard! You have a lot to answer for! How dare you kill a prisoner? Especially before we questioned him!”
“He deserved no better!” Colbey shouted back, on the verge of leaping on the sergeant. “He and his fellow vermin owe blood for all the people they killed! For their tormented ends, they must pay in kind!”
“We all lost shieldmates in that battle,” Kineta roared, barely holding her anger in check. She maintained a death-grip on her scimitar’s hilt, clearly restraining her hand from drawing it. “Every one of us! But we are not going to avenge them by killing the enemy before we learn about who they are, what their numbers are, and where they came from!”
Colbey stared at her as though she spoke a different language. After a short pause, he visibly calmed enough to answer, “Shieldmates. Yes. Yo—we lost many men…friends…in the pass. These…invaders…must be made to pay. Yes. We will make them pay for every man they killed. Revenge will be…ours.”
Kineta might be happy that Colbey had rediscovered restraint, though she had no intention of letting the issue drop. She continued her demands that Colbey explain what possessed him to commit such a horrendous act, whatever the damage they had suffered.
Colbey listened for about a minute, disinterested and finally turning to walk away. When he did, he found himself nose-to-nose with Sloan. He made to step around the Fourth’s sergeant, an idea vetoed by Sloan when, without warning, he smashed Colbey in the face with a punch that impressed Marik.
The blow knocked Colbey off his feet. Kineta halted in mid-yell, stepping aside to allow the scout to hit the ground hard.
For a moment Colbey looked stunned before the rage swelled within him. He scrambled to his feet, lips snarling and advanced on the sergeant. Sloan held his ground, arms folded.
When Colbey paused, wrestling with his desire to kill the sergeant, Sloan said, “You are a rabid animal. An animal that has tasted blood and continues to thirst for it. I have no need of a killer in my unit. Be off with you.”
The scout rocked, as if from a second blow. He echoed, incredulously, “Killer? A killer?” He laughed once with the sound of a bone snapping in a deep well. “We are all of us killers, Sergeant Mercenary, but that is ironic coming from you! You who loves nothing better than to wallow in a mountain of corpses slain by your own hand!”
Sloan bent forward with astonishing speed. His forehead came to rest only an inch from the scout’s. Colbey jerked back in surprise, then returned in a refusal to surrender ground. “I take pride in defeating an enemy, in facing a foe, skill against skill, and overcoming the challenge,” Sloan pointed out, his voice completely flat. “I take no delight in pain, suffering and torture. Get out of my unit.”
Colbey’s hands twitched, and he snarled, “You are in a dangerous venue, Sergeant Mercenary! Enemies you cannot overcome surround you. You may be able to hide from them for a time, but you cannot hide from the trees. There is no way out for you or your men, except through me! I alone can guide you safely through.”
“Safely?” A slight tinge of anger crept into Sloan’s voice, mostly, Marik suspected, because Colbey had yet to run off. “Your scouting skills are lacking! You led us into an enemy force.”
“I was given the duty to scout ahead, and I am only one man! Do you believe one scout able to cover all quadrants for a group on the move? They came from the north after I checked this area. I returned as fast as I was able when I heard your battle.”
Sloan started to reply. Kineta cut him off with, “Sloan!” After they made eye contact, she faced Colbey. “Enough pissing around! Can you lead us to the mountains like you said?”
“I can.” Colbey still sounded affronted.
“You are the only scout we have who’s woodwise. We have to travel cautiously. You will lead us straight as you can.” She glanced at Sloan. “We can put him in the First Unit, if we must. You two can discuss matters over with Torrance as soon as we return to Kingshome.”
Sloan resumed his normal statue impersonation. “I will definitely meet with the commander when we return.” He gazed with weighty meaning at Colbey. “Assuming you are still with us, then.”
“In Kingshome,” Colbey sniped with a cynical inflection.
Kineta started in on Colbey’s hide, though with a trace less force than before. Sloan moved away. The other men also returned to whatever they had been doing, seemingly casual, yet none facing the direction in which Colbey stood.
Marik knelt beside Dietrik, who had watched the whole scene from where he sat. Neither commented about it. They were both glad to have Dietrik’s kill as a distraction.
The closer examination revealed only minor points Marik had not already surmised. All the limb guards were indeed single plates held in place with leather straps. Marik prodded the leather jerkin.
“Damn tough for leather. You think they make leather from the hides of those beasts they use?”
Dietrik, sounding closer to his normal self despite the lingering disbelief still evident in his voice, replied, “No, I doubt it, mate. It’s too thin to be that.” He fingered the seams on the edge near the belt. “This looks and feels like bull hide, if I’ve ever felt any, which I have.”
“Must have been a pretty tough bull.”
“Perhaps, but this reminds me of the boots and vests the gulf traders used to wear. They boil the leather in wax, I think.”
“Wax? You sound like
Cork!”
A rancid frown pulled at Dietrik’s mouth. “I trust I have never given you cause to doubt my word.” He fingered the leather with a harder pinch. “I am fairly certain wax was how they managed it. After taking the leather from the boiling vat, it would harden to a near steel-like quality while remaining somewhat pliable. I haven’t run into it away from the gulf. Then again, I hardly travel in circles that have too much coin for their own good.”
“Is this a clue, then? Did these beasts, and the men with them, come from across the Stygan?”
“I don’t know. I would guess this is not significant in and of itself. This kind of leather…I think it is called…cure belly? Cure belly, or close to that. It should be simple to manufacture, provided you are familiar with the processes. But this does not feel exactly the same as what I know.”
“Cure belly.” Marik shook his head. “That might be the most foolish name I’ve ever heard. I’m lucky it’s you telling me that, instead of having to rely on…other sources.”
He gave Dietrik a hand up when Kineta shouted to move. Colbey had vanished into the trees so he must be scouting the way. The men trudged after the First Unit’s sergeant, alert to the surrounding woods after the skirmish.
Conversations were muted. Nobody wanted enemies to overhear them at a distance, though everyone, it seemed, wanted to talk. Marik held little doubt what they were discussing.
He wanted to forget it the entire sickening incident, so instead asked Dietrik, “You feeling better? You looked like you were moving fast as your usual when you were fighting.”
Dietrik waited a dozen paces before replying, ignoring the surface question, answering the concern he sensed Marik harbored. “Yes, I am feeling better. Tomorrow does not look quite so dark any longer.”
Marik nodded. “We still need to come up with a strategy for the beasts, but we can deal with the men who will be coming with them.”
“The Kings can handle ordinary men. As for the creatures, perhaps a thousand crossbow men would be a good start.”
