by Kal Spriggs
“Nice story,” Bulmor said. The stocky warrior glanced at Gerlin.
The scout grimaced, “A lot of lies, told better than most, I'll admit.”
“Not lies, not at all, my young fellow,” Arren responded. “And I've the tattoo to prove it.” He paused in his drill for a moment to roll up one sleeve. Sure enough, tattooed across his forearm was a large 'A' with the number twelve below it, and a large eagle above. “And the medal, I carry every day as a reminder of how a bit of courage can change the course of even the most hopeless battle,” he pulled a shiny bit of gold on a cord from out of his belt pouch and tossed it to Gerlin.
The scout stared at the medal for a long moment, and slowly he pulled one that matched it out of his own tunic. “I served in the Twelfth.” He tossed the medal back to Arren and the silence in the clearing was such that the smack of the medallion as it struck Arren's palm seemed loud. Gerlin slowly gave a wry smile as he rolled up his sleeve to show an identical tattoo. “And I guess I can forgive you for the lies, everyone knows that it was the Seventh Cohort that led the charge and the Second Cohort that followed! ”
Arren stroked his beard and gave back a smile, “Well, far be it for an old man like me to argue with a young buck like you... though I'm sure we should talk it over some drinks. And we'll need some women to listen and judge who has the right of it...”
Bulmor snorted, “You two lecherous drunks can go reminiscence some other time.” He squinted at Arren, “Very educational, the boy seemed to improve from it anyway. You didn't press him to hard did you?”
“No,” Aerion said, he felt tired, but his stiff muscles seemed eased by the movement. “I think I'm alright.”
“Excellent.” Bulmor let out a deep breath. He looked at Arren, but his gruff voice was pitched loud enough to carry, “Jasen has trained your people well. And I think they're a solid bunch, ready to strike a blow against the Usurper.” The men who'd gathered for Arren's story gave a cheer. A moment later they dispersed, and Aerion saw many of them with smiles on their faces.
Bulmor stepped closer to Arren, “I've thought a bit about where to hit Hector's people first, but I wanted to hear your perspective, since you've worked with them the longest.”
Arren nodded, “And your friend Gerlin as well, I presume?”
Bulmor nodded, “If the two of you can avoid swapping stories about the Legion long enough to attend to business.” He looked at Aerion and hesitated a moment. When he spoke, his voice was even more somber than usual, “What we discuss should not be shared, but if you'd care to watch, boy, you may learn something.”
Aerion nodded, “I'd like to come.” He wanted to know as much as he could. His life as a smith had ended when Hector's men destroyed his village. Arren's story of his time in the Legion seemed to ease the pain a bit. His mention of the friendship and sense of belonging he found in soldiering seemed to open a new world in Aerion's mind.
Aerion would do what he could to become a soldier. Just like when I started at Taggart's forge I must learn everything I can, he thought. Soon enough he'd have a chance to use it on Hector's men.
***
“We're here in the Tucola Forest. To the south we have Zielona Gora,” Gerlin said. He pointed the town out on the map. Aerion had seen a couple of maps before, but he marveled at the quality and detail of the one Gerlin had produced of the southern areas of the Duchy of Masov. He recognized it must be Starborn style, though he could not figure out the details of what many of the lines meant. The grid overlaid allowed them to measure distances, much like some of Taggart's more detailed schematics, Aerion thought.
“To the north lies the town of Lower Debica, Hector's southern commander 'Baron' Covle Darkbit has most of his forces there,” Gerlin pointed at the town. For some reason, Lady Katarina looked upset at the name, Aerion noticed. Her armsman, Bulmor, grimaced at the name as well. “North of that we have the Ducal Seat, Ember Castle.”
“The Eastwood lies to our Northwest, and the Ryft Peaks to our west. The Olzstyn Peaks border us to the east,” Gerlin finished. “We have a number of small villages that border the Tucola Forest, none of which are large enough to require a garrison. Most of them are independent, yeoman holdings without any nobility. Hector's men visit them only to collect taxes.
“What about the noble houses to the south? The Earl of Olzstyn Castle, the Baron of Zielona Gora, and the Baron of Nine Peaks?” Lady Katarina asked.
Bulmor frowned, “Hector killed the old Baron of Zielona Gora when he took power. His eldest son disappeared, either hidden by another family or quietly killed by the Usurper's men. His younger son is the current Baron there.” He nodded towards Aerion, “The lad there knows exactly where the young Baron's loyalty lies.”
Aerion put a hand up to the eye-patch that covered his empty eye socket.
“The Baron of Nine Peaks might throw his lot in with us, though it would require a solid chance at success,” Arren said. As everyone around the map turned to look at him, the old man shrugged, “I've met him before, and while he's an independent sort, he bears no love for Hector. Have I ever told you all the story about when I went on a hunting expedition with his son, Lord Jack? We encountered a sorcerer's get, and had quite a fight with some fearsome beasts–”
“Yes, thank you, Arren,” Lady Katarina said. She clearly hoped to steer the conversation back on track. Aerion wanted to hear what had happened on the hunting expedition.
“There may be... an issue with Earl Joris of Olzstyn,” Bulmor said. “I'd like to keep things simple for now and avoid dealing with him at the moment.
“Agreed,” Arren said. He shot a quick glance at Lady Katarina. Aerion looked between the three of them, confused at the byplay. Lady Katarina didn't seem aware of it.
“As far as targets, my Lady, I see the patrols from Zielona Gora and Lower Debica as the best,” Gerlin said. “They maintain the roads against banditry, and no doubt have orders to search for us as well.”
“Ten to fifteen men per patrol,” Bulmor grunted. “Be a tough fight, with them mounted and better equipped.”
Aerion looked down at the map again, and at the small villages clustered around the forest. He frowned at the winding roads that connected them. They seemed similar to Watkowa Village, though lower in elevation and he imagined they lived similar lives to his own. The only influence they felt from Hector and his mercenaries would be his tax caravans. Aerion looked up. The others continued their study of areas to ambush Hector's patrols. “What about his tax caravans?” Aerion asked.
“What?” Gerlin asked.
“Hector sends out small caravans to the villages, normally six or seven men and a couple wagons to collect taxes, usually in early and mid summer and early fall,” Aerion shrugged, “Tax time is something no villager will forget... and if we really want support, giving a bit of that back to them will really build goodwill.”
Aerion flushed as the others stared at him. “Look, I'm not saying we can't attack these ambush patrols you mentioned, sir.” He nodded at Gerlin. “It just seems that the taxes are what most people see and attacking the folks patrolling against the bandits will just make us look like bandits.”
“I like where the lad's head is,” Arren said. “Brilliant.”
“You say they only have six or seven men?” Bulmor asked.
Aerion nodded slowly, “Seemed that way the past couple cycles. Most of them dismounted other than one or two on horses. They also had a couple of drovers to move the wagons and care for the oxen, but they probably won't fight, will they?”
“That's pretty clever,” Gerlin said. “I'd thought of the big tax caravans, but I didn't know that they ran small ones out of the villages. That makes sense, though, it would take forever for their main caravans to visit every village.”
Arren nodded, “I should have thought of it. I suppose I haven't enough experience with that end of things, not paying taxes and all. I'll talk with some of the men, see if they know the timing. We will have to scout out, talk with some of the villag
ers to find out exact dates.”
“Well, we have a target, then.” Lady Katarina smiled, “Thank you Aerion.”.
***
Covle Darkbit
Lower Debica, the Duchy of Masov
Covle Darkbit nodded brusquely at his guards as they snapped to attention outside his office. He gestured at the other two who'd accompanied him to move to join the others and drew out his keys and began opening the locks. It took him a few minutes, but he didn't begrudge that time. Nor, once he had his door open, did he mind the dark, windowless room he'd selected for his office, much as he didn't regret the similar room he kept as his quarters.
He valued survival far more than any view.
He closed the heavy wooden door behind him and moved over towards the nearest lantern. He lit it with a taper from his own and turned to light the second one near his desk when he froze.
“Hello, Darkbit,” the cowled figure seated in his chair said. He had a high pitched, almost girlish voice. Covle's hand went to his sword and he started to shout out, but his entire body froze motionless as the figure pointed his staff at him and muttered a word. He strained to move, but the very air seemed solid in his lungs and Covle felt as if he'd been trapped in an iron mold of his body.
“Darkbit, hardly a way to greet your guest!” The figure kept his staff pointed at him. “Now, I'm going to give you a moment to think, to realize what you want to do. I'll also explain to you exactly what I'm doing so you don't terrify yourself into a stroke,” the cruel, mocking laughter did little to ease the icy fear that Covle felt in his stomach. “It is a simple spell, one that merely absorbs the kinetic force of your movement. An ingenious trick, one I learned how to make into quite an effective trap, actually. Right now, you cannot move, cannot draw breath... it must be quite terrifying, is it not?” The soft, familiar voice said.
Covle's lungs burned. He saw spots in his vision. His panicked mind seemed to race and he didn't care what it cost him... he wanted to live.
A moment later, the invisible bonds released and Covle dropped to the floor. He took deep, sobbing breaths, and closed his eyes against the apparition which had somehow slipped through his many defenses. “Who are you?” He managed to gasp out, though he pitched his voice low. He feared his men would come bursting in, and he had few doubts as to his odds of survival in that case.
“No,” the soft voice spoke. “You don't ask questions, I do.” The cloaked intruder gave a deep sigh, “I'm disappointed in you, Covle. After all, you know the answer.”
Covle swallowed and he barely dared to whisper the name that had haunted his nightmares for the past five cycles, “Xavien?”
The dark figure chuckled again as he threw back his hood, “Very good, Covle, very good. And I see that our previous arrangement has favored you. Commander of the South, powerful and... well not wealthy, but able to keep the debtors at bay a bit and to have the more aggressive ones imprisoned or killed.”
“I...” Covle shook his head, icy fingers of dread seemed to clench around his heart. “I heard you died.”
“Death is such a liberating event,” Xavien said. “And I encourage you to try it sometime.” The wizard stood from the desk and he stepped over to the shelves. Covle winced as he picked up a portrait of a girl. “Good likeness, must have cost you a pretty penny or did you just take it from her dead father's study? Still up to your old obsessions, then?” Xavien chuckled as Covle remained silent. “Did you ever really believe your marriage offer would even be considered?”
Covle stood up. A part of him longed to draw his blade and bury it in Xavien's back, but he knew better than to make the attempt. “Those bastards owed me, all of them. Fifteen cycles of service, I protected them, and they laughed at me.” He clenched his fists, eyes closed in memory. “Oh, they pretended to honor me, to value my skills, but at the heart of it, I was an unacknowledged bastard and Starborn blood or no, they refused to give me my due.”
“Have you seen a more recent portrait?” Xavien asked. “She's quite stunning now, but I don't imagine she holds you in as high esteem as she once did.”
Covle's lips twisted in anger, “I practically raised her, the little bitch would have been mine and my father would have had to eat crow over my rise in station.” He shook his head and walked over to tug the small portrait out of Xavien's hands. “No matter, she's dead, that idiot Grel bungled the entire thing.” He set the portrait on the mantle gently, not for the sake of the dead girl, but for the knowledge of what her death had cost him.
“Oh... so you believed Hector's Dog, then?”
“What?” Covle spun.
“He must have spoken quite convincingly, to have such effect as to dash your ambitions. Did he tell you he saw her corpse or that his men butchered her as they did the peasants of that little mountain village?” Xavien smiled and Covle thought for a moment that he saw something darker than shadow stir behind the wizard's eyes.
“He said he burned down the inn and that her soldiers said she was inside,” Covle said. He stumbled over to his chair and sagged into it. “His report to Hector said she'd died. An accident, he said.”
“Interesting to suffer such an accident... don't you think?” Xavien said. “Especially since Hector knew of your desires and both of them knew you read every report that comes through here.”
“No!” Covle stood, “He promised me! He swore that he would arrange it!” Covle slammed his fists into the desktop and papers and trinkets jumped.
“Of course he did...” Xavien said, his voice calm. “I'm certain the first thing the Usurper thought about was what would happen if one of his commanders married the rightful heir and how that must make his position that much more... solid.” He smirked at the end, to show just how amused he was at the thought.
“So he knows she's alive? Did that bastard Grel take her to him?” Covle snapped.
An arc of green energy lanced across the room and struck Covle in the chest. He thrashed and spasmed as his muscles twitched. “That was just a slight taste of what I can do now, Darkbit. You really need to remember that I am the one to ask questions and that your position, such as it is, remains precarious.”
Covle sagged back into his chair. He raised a hand to wipe blood from his lips where he bit his tongue.
“The girl lives and remains free. The Hound failed his master in that respect,” Xavien said. “And you owe me considerably, already, but I thought I would give you further incentive to follow my directions.” Xavien smiled, “You do as I say, become my faithful servant once more, swear fealty to me, and I will deliver the girl to you. More, you will be so powerful when we are done that she will come to you, begging for your leniency.”
Covle felt his heart surge, in his mind, he saw himself as he should be, as he would be, dressed in the richest of clothing, men and women forced to give him the respect that was his due. Finally he would have what his father had denied him at birth.
He felt a broad smile tug at the corners of his mouth. If the only cost came at following the commands of the wizard... well he'd done that before. Covle doubted that Hector's fate would be much better than that of Duke Peter when he last did Xavien's work. That thought gave him a warm feeling in his stomach. Indeed, the thought of Lady Katarina on her knees, begging him, sent a wave of pleasure through him as well. “Very well, my Lord, what is your will?”
***
Aerion
Tucola Forest, Zielona Gora Barony, Duchy of Masov
Twenty-Seventh of Silnak, cycle 999 Post Sundering
Aerion stretched his stiff shoulders as he woke up in the cool morning air. He frowned at the too-small tunic that was the only shirt in the camp that came near to fitting him. He decided against it as he rose off the pallet. He could feel the purple ropes of scar tissue pull, even as his sore muscles protested his movement.
Both made him want to get out and continue his training. The soreness felt good, like a day spent at work in the forge. The scar tissue merely reminded him of the vast debt th
at Hector's mercenaries owed him and his dead village.
He pulled up a pair of trousers, which Arren had provided from somewhere. They fit his waist, but they'd been sized for a shorter man, and barely reached to his calves. He looked absurd, but his trials had reduced his own clothing to rags.
Aerion crawled out of the lean-to he'd assembled the night before. Though Arren had offered to allow him to remain in the cave, Aerion had wanted his own space, and had felt that he lived off enough charity so far.
He smelled porridge and saw a small fire near the cooking area. The cool morning air felt good against his skin, but his stomach rumbled and Aerion remembered Arren' words about increased appetite. As Aerion strode over towards breakfast, he didn't see the smaller figure seated near the fire until he almost tripped over her. He halted, shock on his face, “Lady Katarina, my apologies!”
“Not a problem, Aerion,” She smiled. “Good morning, I take it there is a limit of shirts in your size?”
Aerion flushed, “Yes, Lady Katarina, there's one that sort of fits...” He glanced over at the pot of porridge over the fire and his stomach rumbled again.
“Go ahead and get food,” She saw his glance and clearly heard his stomach's complaints.
Aerion nodded gratefully and stepped past her towards the food. As he filled one of the wooden bowls he could feel her gaze on his back. He fought the urge to glance over his shoulder and instead kept his eyes on his hands as he filled his bowl.
“I hadn't realized the extent of the scars,” Lady Katarina said.
“My Lady?” Aerion asked.
“They...” she cleared her throat, “What they did to you, it must have hurt terribly.”
Aerion shrugged, the pain fogged time had passed. He had lived and the anger that had sustained him remained to give him purpose. He tried to keep that anger in check, especially since a big part of him still blamed her for his village's destruction. He knew she hadn't planned it that way... but still, some part of him wished she'd died there instead of his mother and the people he had grown up with. “I'm alive, that's the important part,” Aerion said finally, determined to at least be civil. “The scars, the pain, it's something I will remember, but what they did to my village hurts more.”
