by Kal Spriggs
Some of the men looked around in surprise. “What'd the lying bastard do for real though?” One of the men asked, his voice heavy with scorn.
“He tried to have me killed and his men put an entire village to the sword in the process,” Katarina said. She pointed over at Aerion, who stood near Arren. “Aerion there may be the only survivor from the entire village. My companions and I would have died there if not for a freak storm in Watkowa pass. The delay meant we arrived after the attack.”
“His butchers have killed others,” the only woman in the camp said. “They killed my husband and boy when they tried to defend me from a pair of his mercenaries.” Her hard face left unspoken what must have happened after that. From the snarls of the assembled men, they knew well enough what the Usurper's men had done and they had similar experiences.
“You all live here as outlaws and you've set yourself against Hector.” Katarina spoke over the mutters and growls of the crowd. “More, you've welcomed me, when no one else would. For that, I am in your debt. I'm afraid I must ask for more.” She let out a deep breath. “Bulmor is the last survivor of the Ducal Guard, he's been my bodyguard since he escorted me out of the Duchy. He's a veteran of many battles and he has a plan to force Hector to at least bargain with us.” She took a deep breath, “I want revenge for the death of my father, my mother, and my brother. I want justice for the crimes of Hector and his mercenaries. At the same time... I do not want a civil war.”
Some of them grumbled at that. They had suffered, some of them far more than she had. Many of them had lost everything. Even the simple Agram seemed upset.
Bulmor’s rough voice growled. “We cannot rush this. Too far, too much violence will weaken the entire Duchy, not just Hector. A civil war will leave the borders undefended. I would hate to see the Norics or Armen move in to take over.”
His words stilled the crowd. They hated Hector and what he stood for, but the Norics had raided out of their isolated mountain valleys since long before the Sundering, and they all had heard tales of the Armen that chilled the blood.
Katarina nodded. Hector was a dark man, self centered, and focused on power, but even he fought against such savages. “It is as he said, I'd rather the Duchy survive, even in the hands of that bastard than see it burned to ashes.” She looked around at the faces. “And those of you who still have families or friends understand what we all stand to lose if things get out of hand.”
“So what are you asking, my Lady?” Arren pitched his voice perfectly. The question seemed to resonate with the crowd. Katarina saw the anger and fear fade from their faces. Even the hardest faced of them showed curiosity. She saw hope on the faces of a few of them, hope that she had an answer.
“We fight Hector, best his troops, and spread the truth about him and his men. We put the countryside right on the very edge of insurrection. Then we offer him a deal. He talks with us, bargains in good faith.” Katarina stared at the faces around her, the small crowd of men and the one woman, who had lost everything. They had descended to hiding in a ravine in the woods. Slowly she saw understanding and hope begin to rise on their faces.
“I promise you all, that when this is over, if we survive, I'll do my best to return what was taken from you, to help you start over, if that's what you want. To those who want to stay on, the Duchy of Masov needs an army again, not an occupation force or a pack of rabid mercenaries, but an army to defend us. You'll become the core of that.” Katarina said. She saw surprise on Bulmor's face, but it seemed obvious now that she said it.
“If you can get us justice, my Lady,” Jansen said, “And maybe a bit of what was taken back from Hector, then you'll have my sword as long as I can swing it.”
Katarina let out a breath as the others took up the call. A moment later, the old man had stepped forward, arms raised. His patchwork cloak billowed as he stepped forward, “All right, lads, I think it's fairly unanimous. I'm sure that Lady Katarina has some specific plans in mind. You lot get back to work and we'll get ready to strike Hector a blow he won't see coming!”
The group gave a cheer and most of the woodsmen withdrew. Most moved about their camp duties with brisk energy and Katarina smiled slightly. She felt some of her tension ease. The smiles on their faces, the good-natured humor they had, she'd given them that.
The group condensed to herself, Gerlin, Bulmor, and Arren. Aerion stood nearby, as if uncertain of whether to stay or draw further attention to himself and leave.
“It was a good speech and a good plan, Lady Katarina,” Arren said. He leaned on his battered wooden staff and his floppy, wide brimmed hat hung low over his face. “I just have one question. You mentioned your preference to avoid a civil war. You also said you'd do everything you could to force Lord Hector into bargaining, to talk with you.” He paused and looked at all of them, “What do you plan to do if he refuses, and leaves you with the choice between war and death?”
Katarina swallowed. She'd already discussed it with Bulmor, and it was the part of the entire plan that left him with the most worry. “Ideally, we'll withdraw. Those who fought for me will go into exile in Marovingia.” She met Arren's eyes, “If that's not possible and it's my death or the destruction of the Duchy of Masov... well I'll surrender and hope that the spirits of my ancestors forgive me for getting us all killed.”
***
Aerion
Aerion watched a couple of the men train with Jansen in a cleared area of the camp. Bulmor had given them the captured weapons from the guards, and they seemed almost as enthused by that gesture as Lady Katarina's speech. Her final words to the smaller group disturbed him, though. The actions of Hector's men had gone beyond what might be acceptable, they'd been evil. He wondered if he had it in him to accept some compromise with the man responsible for such hideous crimes.
“Know anything of the use of a blade, boy?”
Aerion stood, surprised to find Gerlin and Bulmor behind him. “What, me?” He looked over at the four training. “Not really. I've handled an ax for woodcutting. I've handled knives and such, made and repaired a few...” he trailed off as Bulmor stared at him with his mask-like face. “I've done some bow hunting, not a great shot, but I generally came back more often than not with something.”
“Woodcutting, eh?” Gerlin said. The halfblood nodded sagely, “I'll let you know if any violent trees attack.”
Bulmor just grunted. “We'll start you with a sword. I wouldn't want any habits from woodcutting to carry over to ax work. You've plenty of muscle and you seem quick on your feet. Plus these fellows have a spare blade that might fit you.” He shook his head, “By the High King, put a greatsword in your hands and the skill to use it and you'd be a terror.”
“A greatsword?” Aerion asked.
“It's a big, two-handed sword,” Arren's old voice spoke from nearby. The old man walked forward, and pulled the sword in question out from under his patchwork cloak. “I thought the armsman would have such an idea. It's a shame the blade is such poor craftsmanship, though.”
Bulmor took it, “I hadn't had the chance to inspect it, yet.” He pulled the four foot blade out of its sheath in a smooth motion and tossed the sheath to Gerlin. Bulmor looked the blade over for a moment and then took it in a two handed grip. He moved the blade in a series of sweeping strikes. Aerion watched with some awe as the stocky man whipped the heavy sword through a series of violent motions.
After a couple minutes, Bulmor lowered the sword and wiped the sweat off his brow with his left hand. “You're right. It's iron, which would be acceptable, but it's weighted wrong, feels like it's been reworked or possibly repaired.”
He reversed the sword and passed it over to Aerion. “Good enough to train with, though.”
“It'll have to be good enough to fight with, for now,” Gerlin said. “Looks like this group is short on weapons, even with the ones we brought from those guards back at Zielona Gora.”
Aerion took the blade cautiously. He adopted the same two handed grip as Bulmor and felt a b
it of surprise at the lightness of the blade. “I thought a sword like this would have more weight.”
Gerlin laughed, “Oh, trust me, boy, that sword will seem plenty heavy after a few hours swinging it around in practice.” The halfblood frowned, “Though I'd imagine you're used to such things working in a forge. You've a good natural stance, I think you might do better with a lighter blade.”
Bulmor grimaced, “You and your skirmishing style. He's a big lad, I can teach him proper fighting, none of your dancing about.”
Gerlin shrugged, “Any idiot with a cleaver can slam at someone until they fall over. But I'll leave you to train the boy the basics.” He turned to Master Arren and Aerion saw his eyes narrow. “Old man, I wanted to talk with you about scouting the woods around here. You don't seem to have any patrols, I think that would be better...”
The two walked away and Aerion lowered the sword slightly as Bulmor paced around him. “You're tense, boy. Relax. Bring your left foot out slightly. You're left handed, right?”
Aerion nodded. He turned his head to keep Bulmor in his field of vision as he came around his right side. “The eye will be a handicap. You can turn it to your advantage though. Men that see that will work to your right, but that will leave them open on their left side. One on one, they'll be weaker on their left side, the ones who are right handed, anyway.”
“Alright.” Bulmor said. He came to a stop in front of Aerion. “Gerlin was right, you have a good, natural stance, good weight distribution. And you do seem light on your feet for your size, which is good. Much as I hate to admit it, Gerlin may be right about the sword length too. I just remember my old arms-master, a man a little bigger than you used to wallop me every time with a sword like that.” The stream of words startled Aerion, for he hadn't heard nearly so much come from Bulmor until now.
“All right, boy. We'll start things slow. I'll demonstrate what I want you to do, you just follow my lead....”
***
Aerion stretched his sore muscles and drank from the bucket of cool water. Despite the healing magic, he felt exhausted after only a few minutes, much less the two hours Bulmor had kept him at it. His stomach rumbled to show the healing had not come without a price, nor had he recovered from days without food or water.
The water felt good, but a part of him longed for the hot springs near his village. The ache of cramped muscles and the shakiness in his legs made him feel weak in a way he never felt before. Even when he went to work at Taggart's forge he had strength.. He could not force his mind to settle. Each movement that Bulmor had shown him had become mixed. At the end, Aerion had stumbled through the motions, lost, confused and tired. His flashbacks to his punishment and near death did not help either, for they seemed to come on him without warning.
“Tired, boy?” Arren asked. Aerion looked over. The old man stood and his attention seemed focused on the others still training. His broad brimmed floppy hat hid most of his face in shadow. “No shame in it, you still need to recover.”
Aerion shook his head, “I... even as a boy I had my strength. It seems silly, but what if I don't recover? What if I never gain the strength I had or if I can't learn to fight. What if my eye...” Aerion clamped down his jaw. “All I am right now is a burden and I've put Lady Katarina at risk already. What if my failures make me a further burden?”
The old man sighed, “We all have doubts, Aerion.” He nodded in the direction of Bulmor, who'd joined Jasen in his drills. “Even the Ducal Guardsman. He doubts this path and even now he wants to take Lady Katarina back to Marovingia where she'll be safer in a gilded cage.” Arren laughed softly, “I've fears of my own, Aerion. It's something we all must live with, unless you find some way to hide from it or give into your fears.”
“What do you fear?” Aerion asked.
The old man spoke, “I fear failure the most, but mine is a life filled with fears, some of which would surprise you.” He looked sharply at Aerion, “And a loose tongue might be something to fear as well.” He picked up a nearby stick, “Now, you need to recover, but we can drill with a lighter weapon than that blade.”
“A stick?” Aerion asked. He felt his face flush again and he thought, I'll look like a child at play.
Arren tossed the stick to Aerion. “Did I ever tell you about when I served a tour in the Marovingia Legion, boy?” Arren swung his own walking stick at half speed.
“No...” Aerion brought his 'blade' up to parry. The old man gave a faint nod of approval.
“When you join, they put you through six months of training,” Arren continued his slowed attacks, in a series that Aerion thought he remembered from earlier in the morning. “You must prove your skill with their practice blades, wooden swords with a lead core to weight them down.”
As they continued, the old man continued his story. “When I went to Marovingia, I was on the run from an angry nobleman from the Duchy of Asador, the Baron Artar of the Iron Fortress, due to a misunderstanding, of course. He had a certain grudge against me, quite without reason, I assure you. Even so, I felt it best to leave, and to avoid more civilized lands, such as Boir. I made my way down through the ruined Duchy of Taral, to the northern border of Marovingia. This being a military border, and there being some misunderstanding of my role in certain events in the Duchy of Asador, I thought it best to avoid bringing myself to the attention of the border patrols, of course.”
Aerion focused on the words and let his body walk through the slowed blows. He noticed, out of the corner of his eye, that some of the others had ceased their drill to listen. The old man continued to talk as they worked through the drill, “Unfortunately, I managed to stumble into one of their patrols anyway. The Norics commonly raid across that border and they send all manner of scouts and spies to find weaknesses. The Legion thought me one of them, until I assured them that I was a citizen of Taral and that I sought to join the Legion and slaughter Norics.”
“Taral?” Aerion asked, “I thought they're all dead, eaten by Kalamanath?”
“Or enslaved by the Norics,” Jasen said.
“There are many small villages where the men and women of Taral live, most high up in the hills. Their numbers are not so few that they are extinct, but they are not as many as when their Duchy was still hale,” Arren said, his voice quavering. Even so, he worked through the drill without pause.
Aerion felt his arms ache, but the movement seemed to ease the soreness and he felt as if he were getting better. “So it was, that I joined the Legion. I served there for six long months, digging latrines and carrying baggage, before they entrusted me on the line. There I was, a middle aged man, serving under men half my age.” Arren shook his head, even as he sped up the drill a bit. Aerion started to fumble, but then caught the new rhythm. “But things worked out. You see, the Legion is organized into companies, which the Marovingia call centuries, each made up of a hundred men. I was in luck, because they were short handed after a battle, and they needed men to stand in the front ranks. The Marovingia Legion drills rigorously, and they found that I picked up their drill very quickly. It was much like dance, you know, you just need to know how to move your hips and feet to the rhythm,” Arren did a pirouette and several of the men paused in their drill to laugh. Aerion managed a snort, despite the ache of his arms.
“So I was sent to the front line. No sooner did that happen than that legion, the Twelfth, received marching orders for a village named Artiga.”
Aerion heard Gerlin give a sharp whistle, “If you're going to tell me that you served with the the Twelfth at Artiga, I'm going to have to call you a liar. Do you know how many times I've heard that story?”
“But I was there,” Arren protested. “But I get ahead of myself. The legion marched, and my century was at the very head of the army. We arrived just at the wrong moment, for an entire horde of Norics had taken up residence in the hills and they emerged from their dark forests all around us. Ironically, in the vanguard, we initially saw little combat, for they fell upon the baggage train fir
st and the rear elements of our legion.” Once again, he sped up his pace and Aerion caught the change more easily this time, though it made his lungs ache as he tried to pace his breathing.
“The Noric hordes poured down on us and though they say that the Marovingia Legion has never broke, it came close that day, indeed. The forests were filled with Noric savages, ruthless and barbaric. Arrows, slings and javelins came from every side. We were beset by the Noric's demons and dark spirits. The Marovingia priests barely held their own and entire ranks of men perished at the claws and teeth of demonic horrors.”
Aerion felt captivated by the story and even as his hands and feet moved through the drill, in his mind he saw the Norics and the foul things they worshiped.
“The Centurion, the commander of our cohort, went down in the first seconds, slain by a cast stone. The Optio died only a few moments later, dragged into the horde and ripped limb from limb. At that point, the line wavered, as the men didn't know what to do... and that's when I stepped up!” Arren whipped his stick into a salute. “I called out the command to advance and we formed a line and marched right into the teeth of the horde.”
The entire clearing had gone quiet and Aerion lowered his own stick. His arms trembled slightly, though whether from exhaustion or excitement, he couldn't say. “Now, mind you, the Norics are a savage bunch, but they're not disciplined. Our Cohort, the Second, walked right into them and began to kill them. That stopped them good. And then the Seventh Cohort followed us, so that, in dribs and drabs, the Norics began to retreat. Soon we were at a fast trot, cutting them down as they turned to flee, until we had chased them right back across the border.”
“Well, let me tell you, it was accolades after that. I received a promotion, and all of us, of the Second Cohort, we got medals,” Arren said. “And that's how I became a Centurion in the Marovingia Legions,” the old man finished, and brought his walking staff up into a salute.
