by Kal Spriggs
“It'll be difficult to drag any answers out of him,” Aerion grinned. “I did have a question, the blade lit up when I laid hands on it... is that normal?” He remembered again how the cold, clean light had flared up... and how it had redoubled from the blood of the demon.
Bulmor drew out his own sword and said something under his breath. The blade lit up with a cool blue light and Aerion gasped as he saw the dull iron appearance fade, to be replaced by the same mirrored finish. “Some weapons, like mine, have that capability. If you know the command or activate the runes.”
“Yours... it is starmetal, too?” Aerion asked.
“Aye, that's how I recognized it on yours,” Bulmor said. “Made with High Magic weaves rather than Dragon Runes, though, for all that matters.” He shrugged, “You've mageblood. If you had any cuts or wounds, the sword might have activated from the energy in your blood.”
“Really?” Aerion asked. He hadn't known the two forms of magic were compatible. That thought, in turn, made him remember that Aramer knew some about runic magic as well as a bit of blood magic. He wondered if the Herald would know why the sword had activated.
“Yes, that's how my father introduced me to my blade,” Bulmor said.
He lowered his sword and the light faded. “But I wanted to get you alone, and talk to you about Lady Katarina.”
Aerion looked away.
“She offered you a position on the Ducal Guard, didn't she?” Bulmor said.
Aerion looked up quickly. He felt his face burn from embarrassment, “How did you know, did you listen–”
“No lad, I just know her well enough that I knew what she'd think,” Bulmor said. He shook his head. “Women don't understand, I think, not really, how deeply we feel, or how well we learn to hide our emotions as we grow to be men.”
Aerion swallowed, “I don't really want to talk about it.”
“Then listen, boy, and hear why I cautioned her to send you away, rather than keep you close where it will be a torture for you both,” Bulmor growled. He sheathed his sword and turned to face out the open door, his eyes on the night sky. “Listen to why I am the only surviving member of the Ducal Guard.”
“When I was younger, just assigned to the Ducal Guard, I received an assignment to Duke Peter's betrothed, Lady Alexia. She was sixteen, not yet old enough to marry and Duke Peter wanted some of his men to make certain that she survived any plots by other nobles to kill her.” Aerion frowned, about to ask why this mattered, but Bulmor continued. “I was young and proud and I followed her everywhere, guarded her room while she slept, rode with her when she went out to ride in the forest... I lived with her on her father's estate in Marovingia for almost two cycles.”
“You fell in love with her,” Aerion whispered.
“Worse than that, boy,” Bulmor's gruff voice turned harsh. “I did what is unforgivable in an armsman, I allowed her to come to love me. When I realized how she felt, I should have asked for a transfer, should have told Duke Peter immediately, but I couldn't. I wasn't strong enough.”
“She turned eighteen and I escorted her to Castle Emberhill. I guarded her on her wedding night and on the nights after,” Bulmor lowered his head. “And I knew that whatever appearance she and the Duke put forward, neither was happy with the marriage.” The armsman stood with his head low for a long while. “And I should have requested relief, but instead, I became her confidant. I listened to her talk of how she had grown unhappy, how the Duke saw her as a bride of necessity, and how she longed for someone to look at her as a woman... a lover.”
“And then one day I slipped from confidant and friend to... more than that. I betrayed my Duke, I betrayed my beliefs, because of love. And a man I considered a brother betrayed me and reported my transgression to Duke Peter,” Bulmor grimaced.
“What happened?” Aerion asked.
“I'd served him for decades and he was a better man than I deserved. He told me to resign and I went back to my father's farm. I married a woman of my station, raised a family, and tried to be a farmer.” Bulmor turned around. “And I accepted it. The pain faded, the emotions of that attraction faded. I loved my wife and my sons. I was happy.” The old guardsman ran a callused hand over his face. “And then she sent a letter.”
“A letter?” Aerion asked.
“There were rumors and unease. Hector had murdered his cousin, the Baron of Longhaven. Lady Alexia had heard rumors from her father, of mercenaries, of quiet discussion about what should happen if Duke Peter and his family were to die.” Bulmor shrugged, “At the time, it seemed impossible, but she feared for her children and so she requested the one person she thought would guard her eldest child... me.”
“Why you?”
“Because she told me of the timing, how young Lady Katarina came to be born some eight months after my exile,” Bulmor said, his voice hollow.
“She's...”
“She might be,” Bulmor said. “Though I pray to my ancestors that she's not. I could never forgive myself for that, if it was the case. She looks much like her mother, the same height and the dark hair. I don't know anything else for certain.” He let out a shaky breath, “So at her request, I returned to Castle Emberhill. I left my wife and my three sons, left my farm, left my happy life because of my mistake in judgment that might yet destroy the Duchy.”
“Does anyone else know?” Aerion asked.
“One man that lives,” Bulmor said, and his voice turned to iron. “The only other surviving Ducal Guardsman, the man who betrayed me and the man who betrayed the Duke and led the assassins who killed Duke Peter, Lady Alexia and young Peter. The same bastard who commands the south now in Lord Hector's name: Covle Darkbit.”
Aerion shook his head, “That's... I'm sorry.”
“Don't be sorry, boy. Learn from my mistake,” Bulmor said. “Don't torture yourself and her by staying close. It will make you both unhappy and sooner or later one of you will lose the strength to resist. Go away, get far away, and live a life that won't be a torment.”
Aerion met Bulmor's eyes, “You know exactly how hard that is.”
“Yes... but–”
“Alright,” Arren's voice called out from the doorway, “All ready. Gerlin has returned from scouting the tunnel, Aerion and he said it's clear. They've already got the wounded down there and Lady Katarina has joined them. Just us three remain up here.”
“They've got all the treasure out?” Aerion asked.
“Yes and between the pack horses and the spare mounts, you should have no issue moving with speed,” Arren said. He glanced at Bulmor, “Might I have a minute with the boy?”
“We don't have much time,” Bulmor said. “But I'll open the side gate and make certain the Norics don't have any sentries along the road up here.”
“Thanks,” Aramer said. He waited until Bulmor stepped out, and then turned to Aerion. “You want to tell me why I shouldn't go?”
“Because they need you.” Aerion said calmly. “And because I don't want you to die. Or how about because I've lost enough friends tonight? You already realize all of that. I know I can't convince you, so why should I try?”
Aramer's eyes narrowed, “You've taken this remarkably well, Aerion. I don't trust that.”
Aerion smiled, “We've already established that one of us has trust issues. I would venture to say that it's probably the one who wears a full disguise every day of his life.”
Aramer gave a laugh, “Yes, true enough.” He sobered, “I hope you understand why.” He held up the ring and the pendant and patted the horn that hung over his shoulder. “But even with these, I'm probably not coming back.”
“What about your mission?” Aerion asked absently and glanced out the doorway. He saw no sign of Bulmor or anyone else. We're as alone as two men can be when they're surrounded by an army, he thought.
“Well, that's the thing, Aerion, you see, the sword you–”
Aerion's fist hit him in the jaw and Aramer dropped like a felled ox. He reached down and pulled th
e horn off his shoulder and then Aerion put the pendant around his neck and slipped the ring on his hand. The ring was a tight fit. He looked up just as Bulmor stepped back into the room.
“Aerion, what have you done?!” Bulmor demanded.
“What needed to be done,” Aerion said. He looked out the doorway and gave a nod, “Look, he will be out for some time, I hit him hard enough he'll be stunned when he comes around. We don't have time to argue about this. Take him back to the keep. I'll be the distraction.” New Cycle Day was the summer solstice, the longest day of the cycle, which meant he didn't have more than a few hours of darkness left.
“You...” Bulmor shook his head, “This isn't about what I said, is it, you don't need to throw your life away!”
“No, Bulmor, I don't,” Aerion said calmly. “But Lady Katarina needs you, she needs Gerlin, and she needs this man. And I swore, to the spirit of this place that I would do everything I could to support Lady Katarina, to protect the treasures of this place, and to help restore the High Kingdom.” Aerion took a deep breath, “All of you, everyone from the wizard to Gerlin, you are all vital to that.”
Aerion let the breath out in a rush, “I am not.” So this is what being an adult means, taking responsibility for my actions, he thought. He felt a sick dread in his stomach and at the same time he felt confident, he felt like he had made the right decision. Aerion was the master of his own fate, for better or worse.
Bulmor stared at him, “This is madness, Aerion. You're just a boy.”
Aerion shouldered Aramer's travel pack. He hoped the man had packed enough food and water. “I'm all that is left to do it. I'm going down there. Make sure my sacrifice is well made, get Lady Katarina out of here and make damned sure that Hector pays for what he's done,” Aerion said. He gave a nod at Bulmor and then stepped past him. “Do your duty, Ducal Guardsman and I will do mine.”
***
Chapter Nineteen
Aerion Swordbreaker
Southwatch, Ryft Peaks, Duchy of Masov
New Cycle Day, Cycle 1000 Post Sundering
Aerion walked down the road, grateful for the light of Aoria that allowed him to pick his steps with care. The badly damaged road had not taken the assault well and the simple repairs that they'd done the previous day had collapsed under the traffic.
Worse, he had to navigate over bodies, where the Norics and Armen had trampled their own in their rush to escape. In places they lay where they'd fallen from higher up, their bodies mangled and broken. Below him, he heard the occasional wail and scream, either from the wounded or perhaps from the Noric's spirits and demons feeding.
It felt nightmarish, but Aerion pushed his unease to the back of his mind. He could not afford to have his thoughts anywhere but on his mission, not if he wanted to give Lady Katarina and his friends the best chance to escape. He stared down at the camp below, and tried to map out how he would move through it.
He saw some pattern to it, one that he assumed must rise from the different factions. Though the campfires clustered together in an almost random fashion, he assumed the small clusters would be the tribes or clans. He saw open, dark areas, however, which separated the groupings, the largest between two groups. That gap ran in a crooked fashion from near the base of the mountain and around to the southeast. It seemed to match where he remembered the old road. A single, separate and orderly square of fires lay in the middle of that gap. Aerion assumed that would be the mercenaries who had survived the battle.
As he reached the base of the mountain, he saw the first live enemy. A pair of Armen stood where the road reached level ground. Aerion saw their watch fire first, and as he crouched a hundred feet away, he felt thankful for their fire. The cool air of the night had a mountain chill, one that felt comfortable to him.
The pair of Armen, though, had clustered close to the watch fire. Though they stared out at the night, their eyes must be affected by the light and they had not yet seen him. He glanced up at the stars to try to estimate the time. Dawn was probably only a couple hours away, at this point. Aerion would have a long day ahead of himself.
Aerion took his bow from over his shoulder and bent it over his knee to string it. He fitted an arrow in it and stared down at the further of the two guards. The Armen didn't seem to wear armor beyond a simple leather jerkin.
Aerion released the arrow and drew another. The arrow caught his target in the chest. He could hear a grunt of surprise and pain, even over the distance. The second Armen turned, to see what had happened.
Aerion released the second arrow and raced forward. He kept the bow in his right hand and drew his new sword with his left. He had rushed the shot, though, and it struck the Armen in the right arm. This one let out a scream of pain.
Aerion covered the hundred feet in only seconds. He saw the Atman try to get a bugle to his mouth with his left hand. Aerion's swing caught him in the throat, and the Armen dropped to the ground, his scream of warning and pain cut off into a gurgled moan. Aerion paused, just past the fire, and looked for any sign that someone realized what had happened. Just then he heard another wail from the camp, which rose to a scream. The scream lasted for what sounded like an eternity, before it trailed off into silence. He shook his head, certain that he had no desire to see what caused a man to sound that way. Aerion hoped that anyone who'd heard the guards had assumed it from the same source.
He made his way towards the road, and kept to cover as much as he could. Aerion twice froze to stillness as he saw Norics move out from their campfires into the darkness. Once he stood close enough to hear the man grunt and the patter of urine a moment later.
But Aerion remained undiscovered and he made good time until he approached the juncture of where the road from Southwatch joined the old trade road. He nearly stumbled into an Armen sentry and froze, only a few feet away. Aerion felt his pulse race as he saw the other man, his shadowed form still. He felt his heart race and sweat bead on his brow as he waited for the alarm to go up.
Yet then, against the moonlight, he saw the other man turn his head and saw that the sentry had his back to him. Which, Aerion realized, meant he didn't watch the mercenary camp to protect them... he guarded it to make sure no one escaped from it.
Aerion felt an idea begin to form. He felt his face draw back in a manic grin. The idea seemed insane and he doubted he could pull it off. Even so... he looked to either side, at the large Noric encampment to the east and the larger Armen one, that spread up the west side of the valley well to the north of Southwatch.
He felt bit of a pang, not about what would happen to the mercenaries, but that a part of him found humor, even satisfaction at the idea. Josef wouldn't like it, he thought, and he remembered how his friend had admitted to hating the killing. Josef is dead because of these men, he thought and he heard no reply from his internal critic. He let out a deep, quiet breath and then drew his new sword and crept towards the enemy sentry.
***
Captain Grel, The Duke's Hound
Grel the Hound looked around the tent at the surviving mercenary leadership. “You know that we are dead if we don't run for it, tonight... now.”
“We know you got us to this point, Dog,” Sergeant Morris said. He had a blood-soaked bandage across his shoulder. Grel knew he could kill the senior ranker of the mercenaries, but he worried that the others would just attack him at that point, too tired to care if he killed more of them. He knew how to maintain a pack of killers like this, under normal circumstances. This had gone far beyond that.
As if to punctuate that thought, another Noric began to scream as one of their shamans offered him up as a sacrifice to their spirits. Grel felt sick from the realization that he had come to differentiate those sounds from when a demon fed on one of them to establish its status. “That will be us, if any of us survive the coming day,” Grel said, after the last echoes of the scream had faded.
“If we run, they'll attack us. The scouts have seen their sentries. If we so much as look like we're about to flee
, they'll fall on us and tear us apart,” Sergeant Morris grunted. “Not to mention we'd have to leave half the wounded. No, we're better off tomorrow if we switch sides. Call out that we'll serve Lady Katarina and then hope she'll realize we stand a better chance working together than dying separately.”
“You'd betray Hector?” Grel demanded.
“You can call it that, but you don't fool any of us,” Sergeant Fritz said. “Lord Hector would never ally with Norics... maybe some of their mercenaries, but not their tribals. And as for the Armen... well, we both know that it's far more likely that the next High King will visit our camp than Lord Hector would ever even tolerate an Armen force in the Duchy.”
Grel eyed the other man with distrust, “So, you doubt my loyalty to my lord?”
“Dog, you are well named, you'll serve any master who feeds you and your only loyalty is to yourself,” Sergeant Morris said. “And we'd kill you, except we need every sword at this point. Besides, if nothing else can convince Lady Katarina that we'll side with her, we can cut your throat in front of her. That might buy us some goodwill.”
Grel sat back. He could see his world crumble, yet his eyes narrowed in thought as he glanced around at the others, “Think of the price of betrayal. Xavien will–”
“Your wizard is dead,” Sergeant Fritz said. “Your bluff might have fooled those superstitious savages, but it did not convince us. You can't threaten your way out, just hope you retain value. Who knows...if we survive this, we may see profit in turning Katarina over to Hector, so we'll probably need you in that case.”
Maybe I could tell her that, Grel thought, but she'd probably demand my death, especially if these others tell her about Xavien and how I served him.
He looked around the tent and Grel saw that no matter what he said, the other mercenaries would no longer listen to him. The most he might accomplish is to get them to kill him quickly, rather than let the Norics or Armen do it later.
