by Kal Spriggs
“Huh, that's interesting,” Gerlin said, a tone of surprise in his voice. The scout had knelt in an alcove near the fire and his position blocked her view.
“What?” Katarina asked.
“Shrine,” Bulmor grunted.
Gerlin stood and dusted the knees of his breeches. “What my succinct friend means is that there's a shrine to the spirit of the mountain.” He turned to look at Katarina, “What is interesting about it is there's sign that it's an active shrine, and that the spirit has a name, Akaros.”
Katarina knew that that meant something, but she couldn't remember the old lessons of her childhood off hand. Marovingia didn't hold with spirit worship, not when they had their own pantheon of gods and demigods to revere. Her tutors there had waxed eloquent upon their own faiths, but hadn't explained much about spirit worship now that she thought about it.
Gerlin gave a sigh, “That means that it is powerful enough to leave its name where people can find it. With the lack of protective runes around this shelter, I'd guess it protects this place for those who give it offering... and so,” He pulled a wineskin out of his pack and knelt near the shrine. “An offering, Akaros, for your shelter and protection from the storm.” He sprinkled some drops of wine on the stone at the base of the shrine. Perhaps it was her imagination, but the drafts through the shelter seemed to ease somewhat and fire seemed to grow a bit warmer.
Bulmor gave a grunt and moved over to his horse Brave. A moment later he came back with two thick fur-lined sleep sacks. He passed one to Katarina without a word and laid the other out in front of the door.
She knew that Gerlin and Bulmor would split the night in watch, in a tradition they followed since they met on the night that Lord Hector had killed her parents and her little brother. It didn't matter what she said, or what other guards they hired, the two trusted no one else with her safekeeping. Gerlin would take the first shift and Bulmor the second. That had irritated her at times, and sometimes had even angered her; she never had a moment to herself.
In the cold stone shelter, high in the Ryft Peaks, it gave her a feeling of comfort. The cold night reminded her of how alone she'd felt when she fled for her life... and her first night spent here in what should have been her homeland, she had the two men who had never failed her. Katarina climbed into her furs. Just before she fell into an exhausted sleep, she gave silent thanks to whatever spirits watched over her that she had such men to protect her.
***
Aerion
Watkowa Village, Zielona Gora Barony of the Duchy of Masov
Aerion ducked low as he entered the tavern door and wrinkled his nose at the mix of smells that assaulted him. Familiar was the smell of wood smoke and his mother's cooking. Less so was the stink of stale sweat, horses, oil, and rusty metal.
A glance towards the crowd near the stairs showed the source of those new smells. Aerion's eyes narrowed at the six men who wore Lord Hector's colors of yellow and black. They must be the new arrivals that I heard about, Aerion thought.
Confronting Lord Hector's men were a cluster of three men on the stairs. They wore unadorned armor, and Aerion recognized the leader, Iatus. They were part of Lady Katarina's escort, and they'd arrived four days earlier. All three of the men wore armor of overlapping steel plates, which Samen had said was the armor of the Legion of Marovingia, and typical for mercenaries of that land. Iatus had paid Aerion to repair some buckles on his horse tack and Aerion had just finished the work.
Aerion shrugged his shoulders a bit as he approached. He wanted no trouble, but it looked as if there might be some. If worst came to worst, he knew who he would side with, and Hector's men would find the villagers outnumbered them.
As long as this is all they have, anyway, he amended. But he hadn't seen any others outside, besides the one man who held their horses. A part of him itched to fight. The Usurper's taxes were harsh, far harsher than those of Duke Peter. His mentor, Old Taggart, might have had the coin to hire a healer or even a mage to fix his cough if he hadn't had to pay so much in taxes. Aerion's hands clenched in anger at the memory of how the coughing had wasted the old blacksmith throughout the winter. It had sapped his strength and stamina until finally there was nothing left.
Part of Aerion blamed himself, for he'd let the old man continue to work, when he should have forced him to rest. Even so, he knew that if they'd even a few Solar, they could have brought in a healer from Zielona Gora or even further afield. Coins that Hector uses to pay his bullies, Aerion thought, darkly.
“The Lady is resting, she took a chill as we came over the pass,” Iatus said. “She'll take no visitors, not until she feels better.”
“She'll meet with me,” the leader of Hector's men said. He was a tall man, with shaggy, unkempt black hair and a scraggly black beard. He wore a breastplate and had a chain hauberk underneath. Aerion vaguely remembered some merchants guards who'd come through with similar armor. “I'm the Duke's personal emissary.”
Iatus shook his head, “The girl is sick and we don't know who you are. Anyone could dress up in Lord Hector's colors. You haven't given us any proof that you are who you say.”
“I'm the Duke's Hound,” the shaggy man said, “I'm Captain Grel.” He lifted a medallion with the Hound's Crest on it from around his neck.
Mutters went up from the other villagers in the tavern. Aerion felt a scowl form on his own face. They had all heard of the Usurper Duke's Hound. Grel was said to be the Usurper's most vicious tool. His nickname had become Hector's Dog. Rumor had it, the man did the worst of Hector's deeds, assassinations, interrogations, torture... Some rumors said that it was Grel who'd murdered the old Duke.
Grel shot a glare at the villagers who stood in the inn. “This is none of your business. Get gone, and let us do our work.”
More than a few of the other men, to include the innkeeper, backed away under that glare. Aerion stood his ground though.
Hector's Dog turned his glare back on Iatus. “Now, let me past.”
The mercenary paused and Aerion saw him hesitate. “Look, friend, we got off on the wrong foot, I think. My men and I are from Marovingia, so we don't know exactly how things work around here...”
“I said let me past,” Grel snarled. “The time for talk is through! Move, or I'll make you!”
Iatus straightened. When he spoke, his voice was level, but Aerion could see a cold anger on the other man's face. “You watch your words, scum. I served five cycles in the Legion, I'll take no threat from any man.”
Grel stepped up the stairs. “All I see here is a coward... and a liar. I don't think you've got Lady Katarina. You're hiding something and I'll know what it is!”
Iatus held up a hand, though whether to strike or merely stop Hector's Dog, Aerion couldn't guess. Grel struck the hand away and then drove a dagger up under the other man's armor. “Take them!”
Hector's men moved without hesitation and Aerion felt a sick twist in his stomach as he watched Iatus fall. It was a trap and the Usurper's men would kill Lady Katarina, the rightful heir to Duke Peter. As he watched, two more men surged up the stairs behind Grel.
“Protect Lady Katarina!” The cry came from, of all people, Solis the innkeeper, as he swung his wooden mallet. It struck one of the Usurper's men in the side of the head and Aerion saw the man stagger.
Aerion jumped into motion. He caught one of the soldiers by the back of his armor and pulled. The man flailed and lost his balance and landed on his back. Aerion kicked, hard, at the man's head and felt his boot connect. The blow made his foot ache, but the soldier went limp.
Up on the stairs, he saw Grel had paused. One of his men still struggled with one Lady Katarina's escort, but the rest of his men were either down or entangled with villagers. The big man jumped off of the stairs to land on the bar. Aerion saw him kick Solis in the chest and then jump over him and run out the door. A surge of rage washed over him and Aerion ran after him. He wouldn't let the murderer escape.
Outside, he paused as he found that
Grel had already mounted, as had the other man with him. For a moment, Aerion thought that Grel would flee, but instead he brought a horn to his lips and blew out several loud blasts before he drew his sword.
Aerion saw the other villagers stare around in confusion.
“He tried to kill Lady Katarina!” Aerion shouted. Behind him, several other villagers boiled out of the inn. He hoped that none of the others were hurt and he sincerely hoped that the fighting hadn't worked its way into the kitchen. He had few doubts that his mother could look after herself, but still, he worried.
Aerion snapped back to the present as Grel stood high in his stirrups. “You have attacked the Duke's Hound, in the course of his duties. That means you're all guilty of treason. Surrender now or I'll raze this village to the ground.” The other man with him, the one who'd held the horses, was also mounted, and with sword and shield drawn.
One of the villagers behind Aerion snarled, “Big talk for a–”
Grel blew once more into his horn.
This time, several more horns answered his call. Aerion looked over to the south just as dozens of horsemen boiled out of the trees. Aerion felt his heart stop as the men in Hector's colors rode into the village, weapons bared. His stomach fell as he heard Grel call out, “Burn it all!”
Around him, some men and women started to run. Aerion saw the riders run down Terial, Samen's uncle, even as another cut down Terial's wife. Aerion rushed over to the woodpile and grabbed a sturdy length of firewood and then ran towards one of the men. The rider saw him coming and swung his sword. Aerion dodged to the side and swung his makeshift club. Cycles of work at the forge and his height let him put all of his considerable muscle into the blow. The stock of wood connected with the rider's chest hard enough that Aerion felt ribs shatter.
The rider toppled limply from the saddle and Aerion didn't stop to think as he rushed at two more men. Both had dragged Jessia out of her house and one had ripped her dress open while the other held her down. Aerion swung his stock of wood at the back of the first man's head. The connection sounded like he'd stuck a log, and the soldier's helmet went flying. As the man dropped to the ground, Aerion swung at the other man, who had let Jessia go and fumbled to draw his sword.
A horse rode in between them and Aerion ducked just in time as a sword whistled inches above his head.
Aerion looked up, and met the dark eyes of Grel.
Aerion's vision seemed to go red. As Grel brought back his sword for another swing, Aerion grabbed the other man's foot and gave a shout as he heaved. Grel flipped out of the saddle and landed on his back, his sword flew clear.
Aerion hefted his stick and the target of all his anger and rage lay helpless, only a few feet away.
And then another horse rode in front of him and a saber poked at his chest. “Hold there, boy,” a light voice said.
Aerion looked up and felt a shock as he stared into the face of a woman, her red hair in braids that just stuck out around the edges of her helm. Her green eyes met his, and the empathy he saw there made some of his anger drain away. She wore a chain shirt and carried a saber and shield. “He's killing innocent people,” Aerion gasped.
“I know,” She said. She looked over at Grel, who had staggered to his feet. “Captain Grel, recall your men.”
“Kerrel, what are you doing here?” Grel snarled.
“I'm on patrol... and I came across your men and decided to investigate. Recall your men, now.”
“I don't have to listen to you!” Hector's Dog spat on the ground.
“Recall them, or my men will put them, and you, to the sword,” Kerrel snapped. “It's the least I should do. You know what I think of this kind of thing. Think very, very, hard about what I'm going to do about it.”
Grel scowled, but Aerion saw him draw his horn and blow two times.
Aerion looked back at the village and he felt his heart go cold. Most of the village was in flames, with the inn behind him, entirely engulfed. What had seemed like only seconds had been long enough for the Usurper's men to do their work. People he'd known since childhood lay in clusters, slaughtered by Grel's men.
The inn, he thought, mother is in the inn... Aerion fell to his knees with a gasp. He felt tears run down his face, but he didn't care, not after he realized that everything he'd ever known was gone... destroyed in moments. He looked up at the woman who had stopped his attack on Grel. “Why?” He demanded.
She met his eyes with a sad expression, “I don't know, but I have my suspicions. I'm sorry.” She looked around at the carnage, and Aerion noticed a few tears in her eyes. “Some of your people might have escaped. Grel's men started looting and raping before they really got into the fight.” Her lips twisted, “You and whoever else we find we'll have to bring back.”
“What?” Aerion asked, suddenly too overwhelmed to even think.
“We're some of Lord Hector's mercenaries,” Kerrel said, her voice hard. “Which means we'll need to bring you in, you fought Duke Hector's men, so you'll have to answer for it. Don't worry, I'll put my word in, and if there's any justice, Grel will get the hanging he deserves. You have my word on that.”
Aerion didn't meet her eyes. “Grel was here to kill Lady Katarina.” His voice felt hollow. “She was in the inn. And that bastard killed all these people, just to get her. Aerion spat, “A pox on the nobles and a pox on your justice.”
This time, it was Kerrel who didn't meet his eyes.
***
Lady Katarina
Watkowa Village, Zielona Gora Barony of the Duchy of Masov
Twelfth of Silnak, Cycle 999 Post Sundering
Katarina looked around at the signs of destruction. “What happened here?” She wrinkled her nose at the stink of death and soot. “Was it the Norics?” She thought the carnage looked like what the mountain savages would do. She had seen similar violence from them back in Marovingia. Her life at her uncle's estate had not been entirely sheltered. As both a nobleman and a general in Marovingia's Legion, he had duties that brought him to such sites before and as his ward, Katarina had also seen those sites.
“No,” Bulmor shook his head. “None of their signs.” He looked over at Gerlin.
The halfblood scout didn't speak yet. Instead, he walked the ground and then pulled out his dagger to pry loose an arrowhead out of a charred timber. He examined it for a moment, before he tucked it into his belt pouch and moved on.
Katarina found it easier to focus on him than the rest of the destroyed village. Bodies, some of them pitifully small, littered the site. None of the wooden structures were left standing and most of the stone ones had toppled, whether as a result of the fires or the attack, she couldn't guess.
“Two bands, both mounted,” Gerlin finally spoke. “Total, I'd say around two hundred, maybe two fifty.”
“Survivors?” Bulmor asked.
“Maybe,” Gerlin shrugged, “Though the ground is so torn up, it's difficult to say. First band, they did most of the killing. Second group...” He paused. “I'm not sure, but it looks like they rounded up the others. No fighting from the second group, not that I can see.”
“Bandits?” Bulmor asked.
“Maybe...” Gerlin absently patted the pouch where he'd placed the arrowhead. “Or maybe not.” He looked up at Katarina. “They burned the inn. Your escort...” He shrugged. “I recognize what's left of their armor.”
Katarina looked away. The handful of deaths in addition to the entire village seemed trivial, yet it hit her harder. If not for her, they would have been back in Marovingia, safe. They were her responsibility. She took a deep breath. “We need to get to Zielona Gora and notify them of what happened.” She saw Bulmor scowl and shoot Gerlin a glance. “What?” Katarina asked. “What am I missing?”
“Could be Lord Hector's work,” Bulmor grunted.
Katarina felt ice shoot through her veins. “You can't be serious.” She barely held back a surge of nausea. “He couldn't kill the entire village just to get to me.” The idea was ridiculous
. She'd spent the past four cycles learning everything she could about her cousin. He was driven, some said obsessed, with the defeat of the Armen raiders. Assassination was a tactic he had used before, either through his subordinates or by his own hand, but to murder an entire village?
“Couldn't he?” Gerlin's soft voice seemed too gentle for the terrible sights.
Katarina forced herself to look, to really look at the destruction. She felt tears well up and she barely swallowed back her gorge. It took her a moment to collect herself so that she could speak. When she did, her blue eyes had gone cold and her face had assumed a determined expression. “If Hector's men did this... then they did it to get me. If that is the case...” she swept her cold gaze from Bulmor to Gerlin, “Then we will find a way to make things right.”
She left unspoken her true intention. If Hector had descended to allowing his men to partake in such atrocities, or worse, if he had ordered such atrocities, then there was only one way to make it right. The Usurper would have to be removed from power. Rulers had a duty to their people to prevent this kind of thing... and if Hector didn't realize that then Katarina would have to do something.
***
Captain Kerrel Flamehair
Zielona Gora, Zielona Gora Barony, the Duchy of Masov
Captain Kerrel Flamehair looked over at the three prisoners as the gates to the city of Zielona Gora came into view. The two older men had despair on their faces. She could see the certainty that they probably would meet their deaths there.
The youngest, a big lad, but probably not an adult, had only anger on his face. Kerrel thought she remembered one of the others calling him Aerion. Kerrel remembered he fought well in the chaos of the sacking of the village. He had seriously injured two of Grel's men, even unarmed. And she saw him knock the Hound right out of the saddle. Kerrel stared at him for a moment and she could not shake the feeling that he looked familiar somehow. He stood tall, six and a half feet in height. From his age, she doubted he reached his full growth yet. His blonde hair and blue eyes stood out against the other two, as did his muscular frame and panther-like movement. He might be a blacksmith, but he moved with the grace of a lighter man. Under other circumstances she would have recruited him.
