Bellator: An Anthology of Warriors of Space & Magic

by A. L Butcher

  “Gavin,” Eleanor sighed. “I thought I said I wanted to travel unnoticed today. How are we supposed to do that if you’re flashing the castle’s colors about the town?”

  “Ah, ye of little faith, my dear lady.” He smiled and winked as he slung a grey cloak about his shoulders and donned a wide brimmed hat with a large plume on one side. “Now, I am merely a handsome young buck escorting two lovely ladies on a stroll, who just happen to be followed by a wagon of goods. Set that cloth of yours on top and we will look like we’ve been shopping and decided to wander about with our purchases in tow.”

  “Hmm,” murmured Lynette as she held a black cloak lined with ermine out for Eleanor. “I’m not sure I see you as a young buck, more a roguish rake likely trying to gain our favor. Or the hired sword of our master protecting two ladies and his goods.”

  “Truth be told, I’m more interested to see if anyone says anything when I open that gate,” Eleanor replied as she fastened her cloak, smiling grimly at her two companions as Gavin held Lynette’s cloak and kissed her lightly on the cheek.

  * * *

  They traveled as far as the city’s heart, the great central gardens already bursting forth with color from the many exotic plants gifted from the faraway lands whose traders visited this city of artistic and scholarly endeavors. As they passed through the gardens, pleasantries were exchanged but a few people gave curious glances at the wagon and its goods. No one expected the lady of the land to be wandering the streets and thus no one seemed to realize who greeted them that morning.

  “Someone’s been to market early today, I see,” one passerby remarked to another. “You’d think they’d at least send the lad and the wares on to his master instead of flaunting them about.”

  “If I were the lad, I’d be certain not to arrive home without my mistress. All the better to have her loveliness distract from the stamped notes that are sure to arrive later to claim a fair share of coin from her husband,” the other snickered as Lynette paused, pushing her hood back just enough to smile coyly at the gentlemen.

  A cough behind her ear and a hand on her elbow drew Lynette’s attention away from the gossips. “Now there, none of your tricks,” Gavin said a little louder than necessary. “Right in front of the lad you would look to pick someone up? And with your mistress at hand...” He tisked loudly at her, masking his smirk as the elder gentlemen hurried away.

  “Must you two carry on so?” Eleanor questioned as she rolled her eyes at them. “I thought we were trying not to draw attention.”

  “Just shooing the gawkers away before they started wondering which husband had been fleeced of his coin at the market this fine morning.” He smiled as he winked at her.

  They passed without further incident to the wide, main street that bisected the city. At one end the southern gate opened to the Golden Way, the great caravan highway paved in the worthless stones from the mountains that glimmered like gold and fooled the untrained. The Way snaked across the high ground of the plain to the only large mountain pass known to those from the lands beyond. This would be the way the refugees from the great war had traveled.

  Reaching the spiked iron gate, they saw a chain the width of a woman’s wrist binding the bars. The lock was the size of a dinner plate; hefty, old and stiff. Eleanor was relieved they had not brought down the thick inner portcullis, but said nothing. She strode over, as though she owned the town, which technically she did, and struggled with the large key until through force of will the lock clicked open. Gavin pushed the gate, hearing the rattle and creak of old, badly maintained ironwork.

  Two beefy men ambled over from the guardhouse beside the gate. Their accent belied the fact that they were mercenaries from the lands across the sea and not the usual city guard. “Here now, what do you think you’re doing? How’d you get that lock opened? Nobody exceptin’ the captain is supposed to have a key to that!”

  “Your livery is soiled,” Lady Eleanor replied quietly as she looked the men over. “You do your master no credit when you represent him dressed such. How far the city guard have fallen while their master has been away.”

  Pushing the gate wide, Eleanor turned to Gavin and handed him the iron ring of keys. “Stay here and ensure the gate remains open. We may not be alone when we return. I will send word if you are needed.”

  The guards started to move forward, as though thinking to intervene, one hand on their swords. Gavin just shook his head, the index finger of the hand holding the keys wagging at them as he tossed the hat aside. The shadow beneath his feet began to spread, slowly rising as a purplish-black cloud about his legs. He let the cloak casually fall, revealing his colors. “I believe Her Ladyship would prefer that you go clean yourselves up, but if your captain would like to speak with me, he’s welcome to wander down to the gate. Of course, if you wish to challenge Her Ladyship’s personal guard and Her Ladyship’s tour of the town…”

  The two men began to back away slowly, one shaking his head vigorously as the shadow reached out and grabbed his arm. “Before you go, perhaps you’d care to tell me what may have become of the old guards?”

  * * *

  Thomas and the servant led the wagon through the gate in the wake of the two determined women. To their left, a veritable shanty town existed in the shadow of the wall all the way to the water’s edge. Shelters built of discarded refuse housed an untold number of refugees, banished and forgotten by a city of plenty. Thin goats bleated, moving among the carts and tents, foraging for food. Udders barely providing enough to feed the few kids among them. Small wild-eyed fowl pecked at unseen scraps, competing with pigeons and rats, all of whom could be on the menu for those hungry enough. Feral dogs watched like wolves until scared away, lurking beneath the ramshackle dwellings, awaiting their chance to grab something.

  Hearing the rumble of the wagon, a few elders exited the nearest hovel and approached. “You are not of the lost.” The first elder smiled as she bowed to them. Her hair was grey, and the stick upon which she leaned was naught but an old tree branch picked up along the way. About her shoulders was a moth-eaten blanket worn as a shawl, and Lynette was shocked to see her feet were bare and bandaged.

  “And you do not look to be the sort that would be considered of no use to those within the walls,” said a second old man. His garb was rough, patched in more than a few places, but Eleanor could see it once had been fine. He held himself erect, even in such a dire place. A man of means, fallen as many others had to the specter of war. These folks were too old for arms, too old for laboring and of no ‘use’ to the city, mere bellies to feed.

  Eleanor nodded to the elders, and gestured to the wagon. “Elders, we come to offer what comfort and aid we can this day. Foodstuff, blankets and herbs, minor potions and salves. It is not much but perhaps it will help to ease your burden. We have some knowledge of herb lore, perhaps you have sick to attend?”

  She looked around the myriad of faces, some dark and swarthy like the eastern men, others fair-haired and appearing more like the local folk. How far had the tide of war flowed and how many had it taken?

  “How come such a variety of souls come here?” Eleanor asked, seeing a mix of faces and wondering how they all came to such a state as this.

  Another elder shook her head. “We hail from many places, and all have traveled far to escape the hardship and famine left in the wake of the flowing tides of war. Those who gather here simply search for a place to call home and food to fill their bellies. Many of us have lost everything to the pillaging forces and the dark magic. Those guards atop the walls bid us wait for the coming ships to take us to the warmer lands, or away from here, but no ships have come these past two full moons. More refugees come every day and the situation worsens.”

  “Come.” One elder smiled, holding out her hand. “Share our meager hospitality. It is the least we may offer for your generosity. Then you will see.”

  A dirt floor and ratty boards covered with old, threadbare rugs and skins greeted them as they entered. Thi
s hovel was barely large enough to contain them all. They took seats on the floor around a small circular table, which was little more than an old barrel. A young girl brought in a small wooden bowl of frothy goat’s milk while a lad carried a wooden tray of slender golden oat-cakes. A thin wedge of yellow cheese and a tiny pat of butter followed, supplies hoarded, perhaps the last, but offered to guests in friendship.

  “Please partake. We have not much, but what we have we share in good hospitality. We look out for each other here, for it takes the diligence of all to ensure survival outside of the walls.”

  The oat-cakes were surprisingly good, perhaps sweetened with honey, and the milk was rich. Both women were touched by the generosity of these folks who had so little. “These are lovely,” Lynette told them politely. “They remind me of a treat Mother used to make when I was small.”

  Suddenly a haggard looking, middle aged woman burst into the hovel, dropping to her knees beside the elders. “Help us! Oh, please, you must help! It is my daughter. The baby is coming, but it is too soon. Our wise woman had given her herbs before to try and delay things, on the road when we were traveling, but she did not make it this far with us. The guards would not send for anyone last I asked. We’ve no coin for bribes nor aid. They were...unkind and uncaring. Perhaps they will listen to you, or you may send for help?”

  Eleanor looked to Lynette, who gave a short nod. “My cousin is trained in herbs and potions. While we are not midwives, our boy can fetch one and send for the town apothecary. He will have the same sort of herbs and if he cannot delay, then our midwife here is skilled, she has saved many a child others could not. And should it be needed, I can ask for the aid of the Mother Goddess herself. She has been known to heed my call from time to time.”

  Lynette stepped from the hovel and motioned to the servants. “Run and tell Master Gavin that we need a midwife to tend to an early birth and have the master apothecary send a fast runner and a couple of apprentices with the proper supplies. He will know whom to call upon. Go quickly now, Thomas,” she told the lad, who scurried off to find Master Gavin.

  Eleanor followed the distraught mother from the hovel and paused before the servant. “Distribute the food and blankets. Perhaps one of the elders can advise who is most in need. Follow their lead in our absence. We will send for you if you are needed.”

  Grabbing a satchel of basic medical supplies and the warmest blanket, the ladies followed the anxious woman through the refugee encampment, past a gathering of battered, dilapidated wagons to the clusters of rag-tag tents crafted from scraps and cast-offs that barely fended away the damp chill blowing in off the lake. The pregnant lass was pale, shivering, and obviously frightened. Dropping her bag on the floor, Eleanor knelt beside the girl and took her hand. “We have sent for the midwife, she will be here soon. Try not to be too afraid, she is the best in the land. If you can manage some food, that will bolster your strength.”

  Lynette gently touched the mother’s arm. “What is your name, mistress? How many moons have passed?”

  “Etelka,” her mother whispered. “I am Etelka; she is Marla. Moons? More than six, perhaps seven…” She rubbed her face with her hands as she tried to think. “I can’t remember, but I know we’re not near to the eighth full moon yet. Everything has been so difficult, always on the move, never enough to eat. Our men, they died trying to protect the stores. The village had buried the winter stores in the forest, but the invaders came and...”

  “I know, good mistress, I know,” Lynette soothed. “Your daughter needed help, and you have found it. Now we need to think on the little one that may yet carry a lost name forward. I see you have no fire here. Where do you cook? Is there anywhere to find hot water or broth? I can make a tea that will help her relax.” Lynnette held out a small, cast iron kettle in which she had already placed a few herbs, but more advanced potions would require the supplies from the apothecary. She hoped the shop keep would not be stingy when he sent his youth with supplies.

  “Yes, there is always a brazier among the wagons. We take turns filling the pots by the lake, and the men keep a safe fire so it does not spread among the fabrics and dry wood. I have seen the black marks on the walls where a fire spread once before. Sometimes there is a communal cauldron, if there is any food to be had. Though the broth is meager and the bread is stale.”

  She knelt beside Eleanor briefly. “I have not the herbs with me to attend to this need. I can see what the apothecary sends when the apprentices arrive with supplies. Hopefully they arrive quickly or we will be past the point of a potion’s aid.”

  With a glance about the tent, Lynette shook her head. This was no place to bring a new life into the world. She grabbed the first woman she found and thrust a couple of coins into her hand. “Fetch soup, broth, anything nourishing and take it to the faded green tent at the end. There’ll be another coin for your trouble when you return.”

  Bustling off before the surprised woman had a chance to respond, Lynette returned to their supply wagon only briefly, giving orders to the servant to fetch a goodly swath of the clean linen to his mistress in the far tent, and to pay those kindly enough to bring food to the tired, pregnant lass. Word had spread about the donated food and so she had to weave her way through the poor and hungry. Want was everywhere among these lost and destitute. For a while she grasped the dagger at her belt while she walked, worried someone would accost her hoping for coin or other hand-outs, but most simply stared at the small figure with her good, warm cloak and her sturdy boots, or nodded in vague acknowledgement.

  The caravans and wagons clustered against the wall were old and battered, and a few looked as though they had once been properly enclosed, but the walls appeared to have been chopped away. Others bore the rusted metal arches of canvas supports, no doubt the same ragged canvases that were strung above them from the wall itself, providing a canopy for those who huddled close to the fire pit. Nearby, the remnants of upturned wagons formed makeshift shelters for bodies bundled under old furs and dingy cloth. Lynette hoped none here carried any ailment that was sure to spread quickly through such a gathering of people. Plague was a real risk, but these poor folks had little choice.

  An old man, bent and broken with a cloth wound over one eye and a wooden peg strapped where his right leg had once been, sat on an upended log beside a large cast iron cauldron. He touched his fingers to his temple as she approached, much like a soldier’s salute. “Please’in to forgive my manners, miss, but as you can see, I’m not much for standin’ these days. If’n we were t’other side o’the pass, I’d say you were from the Ladies’ Aid, but’n this city hasn’t shown no mind for such acquaintance. ‘Tis a shame really, for’n it looks to me like they could certainly afford such.”

  Shaking his head, he ruffled the scraggle of grey hair sticking up above his bandage. “But there’n I go a’ramblin’ on, when you’ve come here with a pot in hand. No doubt you’re’n need o’ a bit o’ the hot water then? We just ask for a trade, a bit o’ this’n for a bit o’that. If ‘n you’ve got anythin’ that may be useful to the world weary, we’d be most obliged if you’d share it.”

  Lynette heard mumbling from the large figure lying in the shadow of one of the wagons, and she started to step closer, trying to make out his words, distracted by what might once have been a pattern on the dingy cloth, a hint of red and black among the grime and dried blood. She saw the edge a cloak, now little more than ragged shreds, and it looked strangely familiar, a hint of gold trim, and the barest flash of silver from something at his throat. The kind man took the pot from her hands and filled it as she stared past him. He inhaled deeply the fragrance of the herbs as the hot water rehydrated them.

  “An apothecary, is it? Well, now... When you’ve finished tendin’ what you’re doin’, perhaps you’ll come back by then, eh? I’m certain sure Himself over beneath the wagons and his friend might benefit from a touch o’ something. One’s a cripple, like I, and the other calls for someone in his fever. Old soldiers what fled the
war and has yet to find a welcome,” the old man said as he passed her filled pot back to her.

  “Leena,” a hoarse voice rasped from the shadows. Someone crawled from beneath the pile of skins beside another wagon and pulled themselves along the ground to his side. The lad’s legs were useless and sheer determination and love of his friend pulled him along to tend his companion, who moaned softly in the delirium of his fever. The young man, barely out of his youth with haunted eyes and haggard expression, gently stroked the prone figure’s hair. They had obviously endured much together. Beneath the filth on the crippled man’s garment, Lynette was certain she recognized the colors, and she swallowed the stirring she felt would choke her as she nodded to the kindly old man.

  Lynette caught the boy, Thomas, returning from his errand and said, “Run and fetch Gavin and a good sturdy wagon or cart. One fit to carry a man. Send him to Her Ladyship.”

  * * *

  The midwife was a large, no-nonsense figure in swirling skirts and sturdy boots. Those eyes had seen more than most, both of life and death and life again, and those hands had brought into the world more souls than she cared to admit. Arriving at the Caravan gate, she paused to take in the scene before her. A group of burly men huddled in the dust of the great roadway as misty figures swirled about them. The cries of the men mingled with the wails of those who tormented them, and the midwife rolled her eyes and shook her head. “I thought all the sorcerers had departed with His Lordship.”

  Before the gate, Gavin stood nose to nose with the new captain of the city watch, a young man who had barely made lieutenant when Gavin had seen him last. The guard tapped the circlet of silver he wore on his brow. A large oval of yellow agate was set upon a sliver of black obsidian and rested upon the center of his forehead, a warding against restless spirits and dark thoughts. “Your summons won’t work against me. The scholars know your business as well as you do, necromancer. I was the only man among the city guard that knew the Council to be right. There will be none of your old mates coming to assist you this day,” snapped the captain, tired with this charade.