by Kal Spriggs
“Alright, old man,” Katarina said. “I get the picture.” She sighed and shook her head. Aerion could see the uncertainty on her face. “Is there some other way?” Katarina asked. “Can't you,” She waved her hands, “Make the spirits back off?”
“Uh, can I just suggest that making thousand cycle old spirits angry with us is a good way to come to a bad end?” Eleanor said. “They may not be very powerful, but it doesn't take much for an angry spirit to drive normal people crazy.”
Cederic gave a nod, “That's a point. Also, the spirits are those of good men, who swore to defend something for a good reason. What you suggest is thievery, worse, it is assault, in a way, little more than robbery.”
“So if I appease these spirits, even in a way that may mean nothing, it's alright, but if I confront them, it's wrong?” Katarina shook her head. “Alright, I'll take that into consideration. What other problems are there?” She didn't sound convinced, but she did sound as if she were considering it. Aerion looked back at Aramer, who, in his guise of Arren, showed no sign of satisfaction. Still, Aerion knew the other man had worked at this and that there must be some ulterior motive in going to Southwatch.
“It's north, along the old trade road, which might have held up or might have fallen into ruin, we can't know until we go that way.” Gerlin paused and studied the map.
Aerion thought back to what he knew of that area. Most of his people had never gone there, though the occasional smuggler had risked the road. It led up to the old Ryft Watch towers, at the north entrance to the Ryft, he remembered. Treasure hunters had journeyed that way before, most often foreigners from Boir or Marovingia. He thought he remembered one group of them three or four cycles ago. They had not returned.
“The area is infested with Norics,” Gerlin said as he looked down at one of his maps. “There are ten or fifteen of their villages along the way. We would have to move in strength to prevent an attack. Even then, if we give them time to band together they could try to overwhelm us.”
“Violent savages and ancient spirits,” Katarina gave a sigh. She looked at Cederic, “The wealth and weapons you mentioned... you are certain they are worth the risk?” Aerion looked over at the wizard and part of him wondered what the powerful man saw in helping Katarina. Does he do it, Aerion wondered, from a desire to bring down a tyrant, for his stated purpose of restoring the High Kings, or something more sinister?
“Absolutely,” Cederic said calmly. “I would not have suggested it otherwise.”
“It will give the others time here to recover, especially some of the new recruits,” Bulmor said. “Also, some time to train.” The last was said with heavy emphasis. He had not seemed entirely pleased with the local's levels of training. For that matter, half their own band were either in a pitiful state or just arrived and of no real use in a fight.
“Yes,” Katarina said. “I realize that. Does anyone else have any other suggestions?” Aerion felt a sudden urge to reveal what he knew about Aramer, yet he held silent. He had kept the other man's secret until now. For that matter, his mother seemed to know as well, yet she had not revealed his true nature either.
No one at the table spoke. Aerion looked between Cederic and Arren. He wondered at their stated purpose and what other, unsaid, treasures they might seek at Southwatch. He hadn't seen them together to plan this discussion, yet, no one had managed an argument against their combined decision.
Katarina stood and Aerion turned his attention back to her, “Very well. We'll make preparations to ride for Southwatch.”
***
Chapter Thirteen
Aerion
The Hidden Valley, Duchy of Masov
Fifteenth of Tremarn, cycle 999 Post Sundering
Aerion awoke early in the morning. He rose from his blankets and he walked through the camp. The past few days had been hard for him to focus. The preparations had begun for their ride and Katarina's group had begun furious labors. Aerion had spent the past three days sorting through equipment and weapons and helping to pack saddle bags. Yet after that, Katarina had told everyone to rest and take the next couple days to prepare themselves for the journey. He really didn't know what to do with himself. Every now and again he stopped and spent a moment to stare at someone he thought dead. The fact that so many had lived gave him hope, in the face of the enemies that opposed them.
“Good morning, Aerion.” He spun, and found his mother stood nearby. It took him a moment to find his voice, “Good morning, mother.”
She gave him a smile, “Always so serious... It is good to have you back.”
Since the meeting, they hadn't had time to set down and talk. Aerion impulsively stepped forward and gave her a hug. She felt so small in his arms, yet he felt so much more certain about life with the knowledge that she would be there to talk to and listen. “You too.”
She cleared her throat and stepped back, “Now then... I think there are some things we need to discuss, about you and about this rebellion.” She had a tone he recognized for when she thought he hadn't thought things through.
“What about?” Aerion asked. It seemed obvious that he be a part of this fight. If nothing else, he was already a condemned man.
“I have heard, from various sources, that you have become a fighter, a soldier.” She said. “That is your choice... ancestors know I can't stop you. I just wonder if this is what you want to do with your life.” She looked worried for him, like when he'd come back from Taggart's forge with a burn down his arm.
Aerion looked down at his feet. It took him a long moment to find the words he wanted, “It started as revenge. I wanted to punish those who destroyed our village... and I wanted to avenge you.” Aerion looked up and he searched her face for understanding with his one eye. “It changed for me, though, after that first fight. I saw how... terrible it could be. But at the same time, these past few days I've felt something I never had, not when I worked the forge, not even as a child.” He looked at his hands and noticed the calluses he'd gained from training with a sword. “For the first time in my life, I belong. I have friends, men and women, who put their lives in my hands. It's dirty, dangerous, and sometimes I have to do things that are terrible. I've taken lives, but I have saved them too. I've saved those who trust me.”
She nodded and he saw she understood, “I thought you might feel that way. I... when I was younger I left Watkowa behind. I traveled, and eventually I found friends, found a group that I felt at home with.”
“That's where you met Aramer?” Aerion asked. He had questioned her, as a child, about her past and about his father, but she'd always turned those questions aside.
“Yes, though he was just a boy then, younger than you are now,” his mother said. “It was thirty cycles ago, I was younger and so sick of the village that I wanted to burn it down myself.”
Aerion shook his head, at that. “But...”
“But I never spoke of it?” His mother gave a laugh, “Oh, that's because it was something I didn't want to see happen to you. To travel, to see the world... it changes you, and not always for the better.” Her voice turned bitter for a moment, “Sometimes even with the best of intentions, you can become embroiled in the worst of things.”
“What happened?” Aerion asked. “Aramer says he doesn't know, but clearly something changed. Why did you come back to the village, leave it all behind?”
“There comes a time, my son, when the wonders of the world no longer impress, when you long for a cup of soup from home or to see the sun crest over the peaks,” Eleanor said. “For me, that day came when I knew that I was pregnant.”
“Me?” Aerion asked, the idea that she'd given up the greater world for him left him stunned.
“You,” Eleanor gave a smile. “After fourteen cycles of roaming, I gave up my friendships, I gave up the causes and the ideas, because I wanted you, my son, to grow up in a real home, among good people, and to give you the childhood you deserved.” She shook her head, “I didn't do the best job and I know, looki
ng back, that things were rough for you, without a father. But I think you turned out alright.”
Aerion shook his head, “Then who... who is my father?” He frowned, “Was it Aramer?” He said the words with an uncertain feeling in his stomach and he couldn't quite help the quiver in his voice.
Eleanor gave him a stern glare, “Thank you for that low estimation of me.” She shook her head. “No, though he fancied me then, it wasn't him.” She sighed, “Your father... he was special. You deserve to hear about him... but he had enemies, Aerion. Powerful enemies, men and women who would kill you just for sharing his blood.”
“Did they kill him?” Aerion asked. He wondered if he should ask Aramer about it, then, since the man seemed to know everyone who had ever lived.
“I don't know. Maybe,” his mother said. “And maybe he still lives.” She met his gaze, “I never told him about you. For better or worse, I kept you a secret, because I didn't want you pulled into that world, his world. And now, now I almost wish I had prepared you for it, just in case.” She sounded both sad and somewhat resigned.
“What... please, tell me more,” Aerion said. He felt like she had shown him just a glimpse of some part of him that he hadn't known existed.
“I can't.” She shook her head, “There are secrets that are not mine to tell and others that I never learned. And don't suggest any of this to Aramer. His plots and schemes will draw you in and spit you out.” Her tone went bitter at the last, an old, tired bitterness that reminded Aerion how old his mother really was.
“So why tell me any of this at all?” Aerion asked, suddenly angry. “Why not let me continue to think–”
“Because you deserve to know that I loved your father,” she interrupted. “You deserve to know that he was a great man and that because you share his blood, you will always be in danger. And I ask you to leave it at that. Digging further into the past will only uncover things best left forgotten.”
Aerion sighed. His happy mood ended and he stared down at his mother as she ran a hand through her blonde hair. “Very well,” Aerion said and he didn't try to hide his disappointment.
“Don't look at me like that,” she glared. “You may have used that to swindle snacks from me at the inn, but I will not endanger you by telling you more. Not unless I have to, not unless I have no other choice.”
Aerion shrugged, “Alright. So what else is there to talk about?” He couldn't help the sullen note in his voice. It just seemed so unfair of her to keep such a secret from him.
“I have something for you,” She said. She dropped her pack on the ground and then dug out a large package. She tossed it to him and Aerion caught the surprisingly heavy package with a grunt. “Taggart made it for you, it was one of his last projects. I thought the old fool had lost his wits and it was just before... well I was angry with him for wasting his strength.”
Aerion unwrapped the cloth. The cloth looked like a faded tunic, the bright blue faded by cycles and dusty. Underneath, he found shiny metal. He held it up with one hand, and gave a whistle of surprise. “Armor? I thought Taggart didn't make weapons or armor.”
“He didn't, not any more. I wasn't the only villager to leave Watkowa in my youth. He spent decades as a soldier and he retired to his forge and to rejoin his family only after he grew sick of the bloodshed,” his mother gave a sigh. “The old fool said he had a feeling about you. He said he had a dream and that in his dream, you would need this.”
“Where was it?” Aerion asked.
“Hidden here. I figured the biggest threat was a Noric raid and we would have time to reach it. I never thought...” she shook her head. “Those bastards barred the door to the inn. I knew about the tunnel in the cellar, but by the time I got everyone out, and got to the exit, the mercenaries had pulled back. I heard from Samen that he saw one of them take you away with Fain and Laden. Then we heard the execution orders...” She shook her head. “But that's past. When you returned, I remembered it and dug it up. It took Taggart three months to make and I think it's the last thing he made, so you take care of it.”
Aerion held the heavy weight in his hands. “I will, mother.”
“Good.” He saw her wipe away a tear. “Now then, what's this I hear about you giving Lady Katarina looks?”
“What?” Aerion felt his face flush and he heard his voice break in surprise.
“So it's true then,” his mother shook her head. “No good will come of that, Aerion. Nobles and commoners are almost a separate species, son. Don't break your heart over the girl.”
“Mother, I–” Aerion felt his blush rise to the roots of his hair. “Look, there's nothing going on. I wouldn't dream of even suggesting to her...”
“And don't you think she's too good for you either,” his mother snapped. “Pretty as she is, she doesn't deserve you. By the High Kings, I don't think the world deserves you, but, if she thinks she's too good for you then–”
“Mother,” Aerion forced his voice to remain level and calm, “there is nothing going on between us. As you said, I'm a commoner, she's a noble. She has never even suggested an interest. Besides we are in the middle of fighting for our lives, I think that takes precedence.”
She frowned at him, and Aerion forced himself to meet her suspicious glare with as much confidence as he could muster. “Very well,” she said. “But don't think I won't have my eyes on you both. I know exactly how much free time young people can find, even in circumstances like these.”
Aerion felt his ears burn. “Nothing like that. If anything, she's just my friend.”
***
Captain Kerrel Flamehair
The Lonely Isle, Duchy of Masov
Sixteenth of Tremarn, cycle 999 Post Sundering
Kerrel dismounted with a groan. Nightwhisper gave her a weary chuff of air and she patted his shoulder. “I know. But we're here, and we've some time to recover.” His wounds had healed, thankfully, and she rubbed the black stallion's side fondly.
Nightwhisper stared at her with a mournful look. “Don't look at me like that,” Kerrel said. “You know as soon as the fighting starts you'll be full of energy.” She passed her reins over to one of her troops. “Now go on, get some rest and dream horse dreams about some nice mare.”
Her horse plodded off and Kerrel stretched her sore muscles. She looked over at where Baran stood. “Have we heard back from Pargan?”
Baran gave her a nod, “Yes. He'll meet with you tonight at his camp.” Baran looked around. “Captain, I know that you feel bound to try, but there's nothing we can do to help him at this point.”
“Jonal didn't betray us,” Kerrel said. She saw Baran make a gesture to calm herself. She realized that she had clenched her fists and that her voice had grown too loud. She took a deep breath and forced herself to relax. She massaged the palms of her hands, “Look, we both know – by Andoral's Black Balls, the entire company knows, that Jonal didn't do what those Vendakar bastards said he did. For that matter, the scouts with him are dead, probably killed by the same bastards who set Jonal up. I know that we have little chance to prove that, especially with the make-up of the tribunal... but we have to try.”
Baran nodded, “I just don't want to see you do something that will cause Hector to see you as a threat. Bad enough if your cousin gets killed out here, if you die as well...” He shook his head.
“I know,” Kerrel said. “But this is a bigger issue than just Jonal's life. Whoever betrayed Hector did this to cover up that fact. And... I've reason to suspect the Vendakar might have a role in it.”
“But the Vendakar hate the Armen,” Baran said. “Why would they betray Hector? Especially with how well he pays them? By the High King, he gives them more authority and trust than half the other mercenaries.”
“I don't know,” Kerrel said. “But it strains my credibility to imagine that someone set Jonal up, and that the Vendakar just happened to be the dupes.”
“What about Nasrat?” Baran asked. “He hates your guts, could this be some attempt to brin
g you down or disgrace you? We already know he hates all mercenaries, this might be his attempt to make the Vendakar look bad too.”
Kerrel nodded, “That makes sense. It's convoluted, but I'm certain that someone with his rank could arrange the situation. I just hope that the infighting isn't that far gone. If the senior commander of the locals hates Hector that much... well then there's no way half the local units will support us in this fight.”
“We need everyone we can get, that's for certain,” Baran grunted. He looked out at the camp that sprawled out in every direction and then up at the walls of the keep that loomed above it. “How many do you think Lord Hector can marshal?”
“Two thousand, maybe three,” Kerrel said.
“This will be close, even without an unknown traitor... or worse, a conspiracy,” Baran said. He spat to the side, “I hope you can get some information from Pargan.”
She remembered the look of despair on Jonal's face and how helpless she felt when she realized that she could not protect him. It was like what had happened to Moira, only worse, in a way. Kerrel was the heir to her mother, but Jonal was her heir.
“Me too,” Kerrel said.
***
Aerion
The Hidden Valley, Duchy of Masov
Sixteenth of Tremarn, Cycle 999 Post Sundering.
Aerion lowered his practice blade and stepped back. He winced a bit at how his forearm ached from the last hit. Aramer gave him a smirk, but in his guise of an old man, Aerion couldn't call him on using undue force. Not without looking like a fool, anyway.
“Aerion, do you mind if we train with you?” Quinn asked from behind them.
Aerion turned, surprised to see Josef, Walker, and Quinn. “Of course,” he turned to face Arren, “as long as it's alright with you.”
Arren gave them a friendly smile, “Of course. If you don't mind, I'll just step back and let you younger folks do the heavy work.”
Aerion gave a snort of laughter at that. “I noticed that I'm the one doing the sweating. But I'll take a break from you whacking me with that practice sword.” Now that he knew Arren's true identity, he didn't feel as ashamed as he had before, when the 'old' man routinely beat him. He looked at his friends and noticed they all carried wooden practice blades, except for Josef who had somehow acquired a wooden mallet instead of his hammer. “Well, where should we start?”
