by Kal Spriggs
“...has a wealth of experience and has skills you don't even know about. And Aerion, the poor boy, has come to view him almost like a father or perhaps an eccentric uncle,” Eleanor said. “If Arren hadn't become so focused on his little obsession, he would have realized that he's essential to your long term success.”
“But...”
“Then there's the wizard, who you need as a matter of course. Or Bulmor, who's guarded you from childhood and whose knowledge of warfare and tactics makes him your main general?” Eleanor shook her head, “Gerlin is a thought, but he acts as your scout master and you'll need him to sail any kind of boat out of here. Then there's me, his own mother... do you think he could accept me taking that mission?”
“You've thought this through,” Katarina said.
“Of course I did... and honestly, it was my plan as well, but Arren didn't drink the drugged wine I gave him and Aerion went down there with them so I didn't have the opportunity do what my son did. He would have stopped me if I had,” Eleanor shook her head. “Honestly, I wish I had realized that his thoughts mirrored mine, I might have been able to stop him.”
“You would have died for me?” Katarina asked, surprised.
“Not for you, girl, for my son,” Eleanor said. “Now, though, now you're stuck with me. I can be a real bitch, when I mean to be and I will, until you become the woman you must be, the leader you must.” Eleanor gave her a vicious looking smile, “Until you're worthy of my son's life.”
Katarina stared at the other woman for a long time, unable to find a response.
***
Chapter Twenty
Chieftain Marka Rusk
Ryft Peaks, Duchy of Masov
New Cycle Day, Cycle 1000 Post Sundering
Marka Rusk awaited the scout's report, even as he rubbed the fresh scar that ran from his cheek to his chin. The mercenary who'd given it to him had proven a skilled fighter, which was why he had killed him quickly, rather than leave him to the Norics.
“The trail continues, Great Lord,” the scout said, a moment later. “Still the tracks of only one man.”
“There are no other tracks?” Marka Rusk demanded.
“No, Great Lord, none but those of the man and still several hours ahead,” the scout reported. “The Norics continue their pursuit, as do the Breja Clans.”
Marka spat on the ground, “This is a fool's chase. The others must have headed in another direction, either down the road south... or west towards our ships.” He turned to where his messengers panted, many of them winded from runs all across the damned mountains to carry his orders. “We move back to the fortress. Send out all scouts. Look for a group on foot or with horses. Search them out... The man who finds them will receive first pick of loot from after the battle.”
They saluted, and he watched them run off with impatience. He looked at the warriors from his own clan, his chosen bodyguards. “And we climb back down out of these damned mountains.”
***
Chieftain Shir Breja
Shir Breja gasped for breath, and stared up at the towering peak above him. He and his men had stayed with the Norics and their demons, able to keep pace only because of the terror he infused in them. He heard the news from the lead Norics, at how, under the light of day, they saw only one set of tracks.
But his shamans had reported a great source of power, carried by that one man. A treasure, a distraction, he realized, but one not without value. The Norics I can kill once they have hunted the prey down. Then he could have that power... and the Breja Clans would regain their rightful position, with him as their leader.
“Warlord Shir Breja has a nice sound to it,” Shir Breja said with a grin.
“Chieftain?” one of the shamans asked, his face puzzled.
“Get moving!” Shir Breja snapped. “If those savages reach him first, I'll have the last thirty men who arrive staked out in the sun!”
He watched his men rush ahead and his smile grew as he saw how they ran the narrow trail with more fear from him than from the risk of falling to their deaths.
Soon, he thought, soon more than my clan will feel that same terror.
***
Lord Admiral Christoffer Tarken
Ryft Peaks, Duchy of Masov
New Cycle Day, Cycle 1000 Post Sundering
“Admiral, the Marine scouts report a group of horsemen approaching,” Lieutenant Steffan called.
Christoffer looked around at the loose column of sailors and the tight professional lines of the Marines. He glanced over to where two lines of ten sailors had lowered the heavy bulk of the war golems to the ground. He hoped that the war constructs would prove worth the effort to bring them. “Very well. Form them up.”
“Yes, sir.” Lieutenant Steffan began to snap out orders. The Marines responded to the commands of their non-commissioned officers and their column folded out into a staggered line, with gaps for their sharpshooters to fire from. The sailors formed up in ranks to either side of the hundred Marine front.
The Admiral glanced over at Carpenter's Mate Brussels, “Spyglass?”
The big earthblood passed him the heavy brass tube and Christoffer brought it up to peer ahead. He had carried the damned thing for the past weeks and it figured the first time he needed it would come only a few minutes after he asked Brussels to carry it for him. The march up the mountains had reminded him why he chose a career at sea. The steep road had quickly winded him. The weight of his own kit, food, weapons and a blanket for the cold mountain nights had seemed to grow with every step The large group had kicked up a cloud of dust on the old trade road and just about the only thing missing from a truly awful road march was the mud.
And then, once committed, the worry had come to the forefront. What if Christoffer was wrong, what if the Armen fell on them in strength? What if he threw away two hundred of his men and his own life, on some foolish idea of revenge? Yet as he waited for the riders to come into sight, he felt the doubts and worries fade away. For good or ill, things had begun to happen and Christoffer welcomed that.
The horsemen finally came into view and Christoffer frowned as he tried to make sense of what he saw. He counted over sixty horses, but fewer than thirty riders. They were not Norics, nor were they Armen, but a motley group of men and even some women, many of them in patchwork armor. His confusion grew at the sign of wounded, many in very bad shape, some tied into their saddles.
When they drew into sight of the formation, they halted. Admiral Tarken studied them through his spyglass. He saw no sign of panic, though the group certainly seemed surprised at the sight of the Boir sailors and Marines.
He saw one of the women, a tall, dark haired beauty, speak to one of the men, either a halfbood or an Armen, the Admiral couldn't tell at the distance.
A moment later, one of the riders pulled a white cloth out of a saddlebag and put it on the end of a staff, and rode forward. The tall woman rode forward with him, and a moment later, a man who carried himself as her bodyguard.
“Lieutenant Steffan, I will go forward with Coxswain Jenkins and Carpenter's Mate Brussels,” Christoffer said, his voice calm. “If they show any signs of hostility, have your sharpshooters bring them down.”
“Yes, sir.” Steffan frowned, “Sir, perhaps you should send me, instead.”
Christoffer raised one eyebrow, surprised that the Lieutenant had questioned his orders. He saw only concern and consideration, so he gave the younger man a smile, “Lieutenant, I have the utmost confidence that you and your men will deal with any betrayal. Besides, I have these two ogres to look after me.”
He heard Jenkins snicker behind him. Brussels, as usual, remained stoically quiet.
The Lieutenant sighed slightly, “Very well, sir.”
Admiral Tarken stepped forward, and a glance behind him showed that Jenkins had hoisted a white handkerchief on a boarding pike and followed only a few steps behind. As he walked closer, he took the time to study the apparent leaders of the riders. The old man slumped in
his saddle, a large bruise on the side of his face. His patchwork robes, long gray beard, and floppy, broad-brimmed hat made him look like some eccentric hermit. The woman, tall and pale, had bloodstains on her chain shirt and she carried one sword sheathed at her hip, with a longer blade slung across the pommel of her saddle. The last man, who looked to be a bodyguard, had an iron mask of an expression and Christoffer felt certain that this man would be the most dangerous.
Christoffer stopped fifteen feet away and raised his hand in greeting, “I am Lord Admiral Christoffer Tarken, of the Boir Ducal Navy. We are here hunting a group of Armen raiders who made landfall near the Ryft Watch.”
The old man laughed, “Well, Admiral, I hope you have more men. When we last saw them, there were over a thousand Armen left, and around six hundred Norics. Kind of hard to tell in the dark, of course, but I think they might have you outnumbered.”
Christoffer's eyes narrowed, “You speak rather casually to an officer who has greeted you with respect.”
The woman drew herself up, “I apologize, Arren has... taken a blow.” She took a deep breath, “I must admit, I am surprised to find men from the Duchy of Boir here, in the lands of the Duchy of Masov.” Her blue eyes searched the ranks of his men, as if to confirm they were who they said. She finally let out her breath, and sat taller in the saddle, “I am Lady Katarina Emberhill, daughter and heir of Duke Peter.”
Christoffer stared up at her and he couldn't keep the shock off his face. “That's... quite a statement.” He couldn't outright call her a liar, yet he didn't know what Duke Peter's heir was doing in the most remote part of the Duchy of Masov. For that matter, the Usurper Duke hated the Armen... so perhaps the two of them agreed on that much, at least.
“I realize that my... credentials are questionable at this time,” Katarina said. “However, I am certain if we take the time to set down and tell you our story, and show you the proof of it, you will be convinced.” She glanced over her shoulder, almost as if she expected to see an army appear. “But I think time is limited. We... one of my followers arranged a distraction for the Armen, but with the sun up, they must have realized that we made our escape. It will only be a matter of hours before they find our trail.”
“I see.” Christoffer looked between her, and her followers. “I will offer you passage through our lines and defer your story until after we have more time.” He took a moment to think. “Three miles to our rear there is a bridge over a ravine. We would be able to fight the Armen better there... if you and your people are willing.”
She gave him a fierce smile, “Admiral, I want nothing better than to kill them all.”
Christoffer found himself matching that smile, “Well, then... shall we?”
***
Aerion Swordbreaker
Aerion stumbled down the hill and then waded through the icy stream at the bottom. He splashed some of the cold water on his face and gasped for breath. The afternoon sun beat down on him, and sweat poured off his skin. He had found the trail that Gerlin mentioned, yet he lost it after only a few miles. Since then, he'd forged his way west, though the current valley seemed to run more north than east.
He pulled out his water skin and gulped the remainder down in a few seconds. A glance over his shoulder showed no sign of pursuit, though he had heard Noric horns in the distance all morning. Aerion pulled himself out of the stream on the far side. His legs ached and his hands trembled with exhaustion. He had not slowed his pace since he slipped out of the chaos of the enemy camp.
A part of him judged his job finished. He had to have given Katarina enough time to make her escape. After his headlong flight, that part wanted nothing more than to curl up and die. To welcome the end and to know that he had done everything he could.
But as he caught his breath, he realized that would be a lie. He could do one last thing, even if it meant he would die. He could find some place to make a stand and take as many of them as he could with him in death. As if that were a sign, he heard the horns again. Their harsh notes sounded close, far closer than before. Aerion looked up, and he picked out the trail he had followed over the ridge. A moment later, he saw the first Norics spill over the ridge.
Aerion gave a nod, “Come to me. I need to pay you back for Josef.”
He stood and stepped onto the trail He felt certain that he would find the right place soon and then the Norics would regret their chase.
***
Commander Kerrel Flamehair
The Lonely Isle, Duchy of Masov
New Cycle Day, Cycle 1000 Post Sundering
Kerrel stepped down the dark staircase. She glanced down at the map on the scrap of parchment and her eyes fixed again on the eight pointed star on the corner of the map. She raised her lantern to look around the ancient cellar. The Lonely Keep's deepest levels clearly saw little use, her every step kicked up columns of dust.
After the previous events, she had found it difficult to slip away, especially given the short warning. Hector, despite his assurance of trust, had several men appointed to keep an eye on her. Worse, Attrimar's men seemed to be several steps ahead of her, and she normally only found privacy in her own camp, surrounded by her people.
Then there's the Vendakar assassins who I'm certain long for the opportunity to bury a dagger in my back or slip something special in my next drink, she thought. It seemed that she managed to create enemies wherever she went.
Kerrel went through several twists and turns before she finally emerged into a large round chamber with a vaulted ceiling. She froze at the sight of several cloaked figures. They wore white robes over their armor and their cowls concealed their faces. The lead one stood shorter than the others. He spoke as she waited, “Welcome, Commander. I am glad you could meet with us.”
Kerrel let out a breath as she recognized his voice from their previous meeting. “As am I. Thank you for your help before. I'm not sure how much influence you have here on the Isle, but I know we could not have pulled it off without the locals lending their assistance.” She gave a grimace, “Though I did have to thank Nasrat for his help, I'm certain he enjoyed that.”
The leader of the local branch of the Luciel Order gave a dry chuckle and threw back his hood. The lights of the chamber revealed Zabilla Nasrat's close-cropped silver hair and dark skinned face, creased now with a broad smile, “Yes, I did in a way, Kerrel Ingail.”
Kerrel's jaw dropped, “You? But... you hate me, you've insulted me and all but insinuated that I'm completely untrustworthy!”
“The better to throw off anyone who might see us work together and wonder why. With the hate and vitriol I showed towards you, even the most jaded observer would listen when I spoke in your favor... and would never suspect our collusion,” Zabilla said.
His daughter pulled back her own hood, “And many would question a change of heart should we work with a mercenary and not complain. We do not feign our bitterness and mistrust about most mercenaries, though there are exceptions, such as the Mongrels, who have earned our trust.”
“So, it was all an act?” Kerrel asked. She shook her head, “Why not tell me? Why string me along?”
“You are known for your directness, not for your discretion,” Zabilla shrugged. “And we could not be certain you would be able to keep up an act. More, everyone has heard of your anger and to provoke it meant that within a few hours, everyone knew that we must be deadly enemies, though neither would cross the line and break Lord Hector's orders about fighting in the camp.”
“That's a very convoluted plot,” Kerrel said. She could not find it in her to be angry, not with how surprised she felt. If anything, I've got to admire their acting skills, I genuinely thought they hated my guts, she thought. “So what now?”
“We continue our efforts here in the north. We suspect that the time soon approaches when the Luciel Order may act more openly. The Restorationist movement in the Grand Duchy of Boir has grown, especially with their recent losses,” Zabilla Nasrat said. “Messengers from the fallen Duchy of
Taral report that they have marshaled forces to repel the Norics. The battle in the Duchy of Asador continues unabated, though the time may soon return when your mother calls you home, despite the political problems that will cause.”
Kerrel frowned, “So I continue my work here?”
“Guard Lord Hector. The Herald guards Lady Katarina,” Veruna Nasrat said. “Though we wish they would work together, we must settle for them surviving the attacks of our enemies. Something changed last night, on the thousandth anniversary of the Sundering.” The witch looked over at her father, then at Kerrel, “Something happened that has awoken spirits long dormant. I don't know what, yet, but we can expect that the enemy will react to it, so we must be ready.”
Kerrel nodded, “I felt it...” She frowned at the memory, of the note that woke her from her sleep before dawn, though none of her men had heard it. “It sounded like a horn.”
“Yes...” Zabilla said, his voice soft in memory, “A horn blast of defiance. We all heard it, though we don't know the source or the significance yet. But Veruna speaks of something that happened near midnight, something that has caused the spirits of the Lonely Keep to awaken.”
“Awaken?” Kerrel asked
“Last night, they stood guard over the walls,” Veruna said. “And when I spoke to them, they told me that someone had renewed their oaths, that an heir to Duke Ivan had sworn for the High King... and that the spirits of the High Kings called them to their posts once more.”
Kerrel looked between them, “But Lord Hector has made no such oath, and the spirits of the High Kings have remained silent since the Sundering.”
“As I said, something has changed,” Zabilla said, “and the Luciel Order await it.” The look on his face was one of both determination and hope.
***
Lord Admiral Christoffer Tarken
Ryft Peaks, Duchy of Masov
New Cycle Day, Cycle 1000 Post Sundering
