Chasing Down Glory: The Outrider Legion: Book Two

by Christopher Pepper

  Alek found that despite the bittersweet memories it dredged up, he liked the farmhouse. Even though the memories were there, lurking like shadows at the edges of a dream, the house also reminded him of the better parts of his childhood, like learning to cook. Sometimes, when Grigs had had a few glasses of something strong, he would even bring out his old legion gear to try and teach Alek how to use a sword. The genial old man trying to drunkenly stand in his armor while barking slurred orders to Alek still made him chuckle to himself.

  But he was also growing to hate the farmhouse for much of the same reasons. Sometimes he would catch a certain smell in the cellar, or hear the wooden timbers creak just right, and he would be transported back there. And when that happened, he couldn't control how the memories flowed from one to another. Sometimes the dark parts of his past would reach out for him, like a monster chasing a child. Alek shook his head, as if he could scare the memories away like gnats. The memories refused to leave, so Alek buried himself in the kitchen work. He was opening a small keg of short beer when someone called out to him.

  “Hey Alek! Why the sour face?” Vegard's voice ripped his thoughts back to the present.

  Aleksander looked up sharply, blinking a few times before looking for the source of the voice. He still hadn't opened the keg, he saw. How long had he been standing there? Vegard and Garm were just coming in, weaving around Royalt's men at the table. The three men were so large the kitchen area immediately felt claustrophobic. Garm looked around at the the different foods, his face just barely registering approval. Vegard, however, looked concerned. He put a hand on Alek's shoulder.

  “What’s wrong, little man? You need a hand feeding these brutes?”

  Alek brushed the arm away, his easy smile back on his face.

  “What? Oh, yeah. Yeah I'm fine, but there's a casualty to report.” He pointed at an opened keg shoved off to the corner of the kitchen. “The metal rings rusted. Lost the whole keg. Still seventeen left though.”

  Vegard eyed Alek for a moment.

  “You seem pretty broken up about one barrel, man.”

  “A wasted barrel is a waste of time, and time is the most important thing we've got.” Alek shrugged. “No worries though.” He bent down and pulled up two large bottles. “Here, this will do for your midday ration, I think. Give one to Commander Royalt, keep the other for us.” His grin was infectious as he handed the bottles to Garm, and the two men sat with their fellow Outriders to cheers as they began pouring drinks. Those were Grig's words, not his own, he had to admit. He had hoped the old man would forgive him, in whatever afterlife he was in now. Alek knew he had already wasted plenty of time. Years, if he was being honest. Years where he could have been readying himself, preparing himself. Instead, he had wandered aimlessly, unwilling to make the commitment. Even now, he didn't know if it was fear that held him back, or shame, or even apathy. Either way, the longer he stayed with the Outriders the deeper his guilt became. It was as if he had unwittingly trudged into a quicksand bog of his own making, and he was thrashing about. He looked around the kitchen at Garm and Vegard. At Commander Royalt and his men. He saw Toma re-stringing a new bow in the common room past the dining area, and Johan and Ryker were just walking in from outside. Maybe he still had time. Maybe now, with these men, maybe now he could learn to keep the promises he made long ago. Maybe, someday soon, he could find a way to put his memories to rest.

  Ryker sliced off a bit of cold meat from the rapidly dwindling boar they had killed the day before and, making sure none of the grease fell onto his armor, handed it to Johan. The smell in the kitchen was delicious, and had lingered throughout the night. Whatever strangeness surrounded Alek, Ryker had to admit the man knew his way around a kitchen. The man may have been easygoing, but he protected the “sanctity of the kitchen” like the harshest Legion cooks Ryker had ever met. Earlier that morning, just before the sun had crept up over the treetops, the aroma of bacon had woken him up from a particularly strange dream. When he made his way down to the kitchen, he found it locked. Locked with a key he did not have. At the time he had mumbled curses and profanities at Alek, all cooks, and whatever deity lorded over them, but as he watched the rest of the men devour their breakfast, his anger faded quickly. There would have been much less food if he had been able to get to it before them.

  Johan took the meat from him and sat down next to Royalt, and the two of them began discussing Outrider business. Ryker hesitated for a moment, unsure of what to do. Official Legion business was always boring. Before he could decide on where to sit, the smell of the meat took him back to the dream it had saved him from hours before.

  It had been a simple dream at first. He had found himself in their muster barracks in Tethis. That had triggered his recognition that it was a dream almost right away, as that place had burned down quite spectacularly half a year before. But knowing it was a dream was a far cry from being able to dictate how it went, and Ryker was pulled along for the ride. In the dream he had heard a very light knocking sound, and he hurried from room to room placing his ear against the walls trying to find where it was coming from. Eventually he had made it to the large double doors. They were closed, but unlocked. The knocking sound was much stronger now, and he knew it was coming from outside the front door. He put one hand up against the door, and the knocking suddenly stopped. The dream became deathly silent, and his surroundings had begun to blur and shift, as is so common in dreams. Ryker knew he was home, even though there was nothing now around him but a large door, different from the double doors in Tethis. And he had distractedly wondered what “home” was now. He glanced around and saw nothing that reminded himself of any home he had ever had. Not his childhood home with his parents, not his old Legion tent from his time in the Hammer Legion, and not his current barracks. Yet that sense of home did not abate, and being pulled along like all dreamers are, he couldn't question it.

  The door in front of him was solid, but that was all Ryker could determine. Its surface twisted and contorted so that the harder he tried to look at it, the more indistinct and mutable it became. As he stared, the knocking began again. Softly. There was no sense of urgency to it, just a gentle knocking. He took one slow step forward, and then another, until he was almost pressed against the door. He placed both hands on the door as if to push it open, and again the knocking stopped. In its place came a soft murmur, a voice whispering so low he could barely hear it.

  “Ryker...” the voice began, “Your door is locked. Why do you not open the door for me? You invited me, yet the door is locked.” The whisper seemed to be joined by other whispering voices now, all speaking in unison. “I can wait, Ryker...”

  Ryker stood there at that swirling door transfixed. Not with fear, but with indecision. The voice did not frighten him, and he saw no reason to keep the door closed. Especially not if he indeed invited whoever it was. That was rude, and he was never rude. A part of him rebelled at that thought, though, because yes, he knew that he was indeed a rude man, and he didn't recall inviting anyone into his home, and they could pike themselves if they were trying to trick him. The first part of his mind tried to calm the other while it raged. As he debated with himself, a thick mist began to rise around him, and he backed away. The voice was still silent, but the knocking began as soon as his hands left the door. Both sides of his mind were quiet in trepidation as the mist rose, and the knocking increased in volume and intensity. The mist had completely enveloped Ryker now, and just as his fear began to grow, he smelled something...delicious. His dream shifted slightly now, and he noticed the door was gone, but the mist remained. Only it wasn't mist, he knew. It was delicious, delicious meat smell. But it wasn't just any meat, he knew. It was bacon intertwined with cooked sugar smells. Johan's mother used to make bacon on special occasions, and he could almost hear her strong voice calling the two boys to supper.

  “Oh gods,” he said, “I can't miss that. Come on Johan,” he cried, as if the two were boys again, “I'm coming ma'am!”

  An
d with that, he had awoken, his stomach rumbling louder than any timepiece. But the dream of the door, and the voice beyond, remained fresh in his mind. And his right shoulder and arm were all pins and needles. He must have put a lot of weight on them in his sleep, he reckoned.

  Ryker shrugged his shoulders and cut himself a small piece of meat and he sat next to Vegard at the table. He did his best to keep up with the banter, but the clarity with which he remembered his dream nagged at him. Brandy would help, he thought. She was his favorite tavern girl in Coula. Maybe he could con Johan into letting him head to the village for a few hours. Next to him, Vegard, his mouth full of meat and turnips, broke out into a choked belly laugh, food flying everywhere. Ryker must have missed a joke. He gave a grin and joined the rest in laughter, but it was halfhearted. It seemed lately that halfhearted laughter was the best he could do.

  “So it looks like war is on the horizon after all,” Royalt said, sadness in his voice.

  “It certainly looks that way,” Johan said, looking up from one of the Legion missives he had received. “A lot of troop shifting going on. We’re sending a lot of meat to the eastern border with Melcara.” He reread the letter again. It was from his brother Jonvar, aide to Praetorian Militant Hauge, leader of the Dominion's military might. It wasn't anything improper, but it did have a note of caution to it, Johan felt. A lot of the focus would be in the Dominion's eastern reaches for the time being, so the Outriders stationed in the western provinces would more or less be riding solo. Some of the more daring brigands and unscrupulous types would no doubt seek to take advantage in the west.

  “We're going to get looser reigns for a time, that's for sure,” Royalt said, as if reading Johan's own thoughts. “Command won't be paying as much attention our way.”

  Johan looked up at his compatriot. He didn't know Royalt all that well yet. Their two units had only cooperated a handful of times over the past six months, despite being the closest support for each other. Johan wondered if it was because they were simply a new unit, or because the treachery of Jurgund Kinnese had gutted what sense of trust the Outrider Legion had with itself.

  “You don't sound too happy about that,” Johan said, sipping his ale.

  Royalt shrugged. “On the one hand, it is nice not to have Command hovering over you all the time. On the other, it does make it feel like it's just the six of us versus the West at times.”

  “There's twelve of us now,” Johan said. “We're never far.”

  A genuine smile broke through Royalt's weary expression. He picked up his own mug and toasted Johan's. “It's honestly surprising how good that makes me feel to hear it,” he said.

  Pieter, Royalt's lieutenant, spoke up. “Do you think you'll put in for a transfer to the border?”

  “I don't know,” Johan said. “We haven't really discussed it yet.”

  “Well if we're called on, we'll be ready to go hand Melcara its ass,” Pieter said, looking around the table. “No one should let those bastards hurt their own people. Only cowards would get pushed around by that nation of zealots.” Johan's Outriders quieted down a little bit at Pieter's words. Even Alek's commotion in the kitchen went silent. All of their eyes went to Vegard, who just sat there, suddenly frozen.

  “Yeah,” Ryker said, trying to change subjects, “but if we go there, who will-”

  “Me killing some poor conscript isn't going to bring Flavia back,” Vegard whispered.

  “What?” Pieter asked, suddenly aware that he had said something he shouldn't have. “Uh, hey I'm sorry. I didn't mean anything by that.”

  “It's not a problem,” Vegard said, his voice regaining some of its strength. “When I first signed up, I was all about revenge, you know? I was hoping like a madman to get sent to the eastern border. But it didn't happen. And now, working out here, my priorities kind of changed. I'm here to protect people. If we get sent to Melcara, I'll fight, sure enough. But my, ah, bloodlust faded a while ago. I'd like to think Flavia would have approved.”

  The table stayed silent for a moment. “My apologies. I meant nothing by it,” Pieter said again. He raised his mug. “To your Flavia, and the others that have been taken from us.”

  The Outriders all raised their mugs together, and after a handful of silent seconds of remembering, the table devolved back into the joking, easygoing chaos that had reigned moments before.

  Johan let out a breath he didn't realize he had been holding. Vegard acted completely fine most of the time, but every now and then he'd get a pang of melancholy about his wife. Johan couldn't blame him at all. None of them could. And since the moments were rare and fleeting, it hadn't become an issue. And yet, this could have gone bad in a number of ways, he realized. But thankfully Pieter, Vegard and the rest of Outriders, were good men.

  “We don't plan on volunteering to go out there either,” Royalt said quietly, and Johan turned back to him. “There may not be that many of us roaming the Dominion, but we're a presence, you know? We represent some kind of pro-active order out here, a reassurance that Tethis looks after her people. I'd hate to think what would happen if the Outrider Legion as a whole was recalled.”

  “Exactly,” Johan said, taking another drink. “Oh, how are your guests liking their arrangements?”

  Royalt chuckled. “After your cook personally chained each one of them to each other, to each beam and rafter in the stable's cell, and then to those floor brackets, I think they got the picture they weren't escaping. I still think we should have guards posted.”

  “They won't be able to run anywhere,” Alek laughed from the kitchen. “That’s our monster cage. Vegard and I made that room solid. I'm the only one who can open or close that door.”

  “If they can break those chains, we're in trouble anyways,” Ryker said. “Vegard requisitioned the chains from the Bulwark Legion. It's moonsteel. Strong enough for spearing and bringing down manticores, trolls, giants, that type of thing.”

  “Goff's throne, why would you need that?” one of Royalt's men asked.

  “Tried to catch one last month,” Toma said in between bites of food. “A manticore I mean. The chains held it fine, but the damn thing fought like crazy. Couldn't keep it without it destroying the stables, even with the reinforced pen.”

  “See?” Royalt said, laughing. “Just one more reason not to send us to the front. If we're gone, what crazy pikers are going to try catching manticores, or dragons, or fairies?”

  The rest of the meal went by almost too quickly for Johan's taste. He had almost forgotten what it was like to talk to people other than his men. That wasn't a complaint, of course. But he used to be a Commander of a few dozen men, in a Legion of a few hundred. It was still an adjustment after a few months to be so small-scale.

  Royalt's men finished packing up while Alek, Garm, and Vegard unchained and released the prisoners from their monster cage. It was a warm summer's day so, on Garm's suggestion, they stripped the bandits down to their smallclothes before binding their hands and feet and loading them into the stolen wagons. There were quite a few of them, and Royalt could attest to their skills, so no chances were taken. Johan shook Roy's hand in farewell, doing his best to ignore the pain in his shoulder from Vegard's lesson that morning, and saw them off. He then gave his men the rest of the day off. He wanted to go read and nap. And since he was the Commander, that is what he would do. Every now and then, he and his men deserved some respite.

  Yes, Johan repeated to himself, he truly loved his job.

  Chapter Six

  As Nerthus had expected, it hadn’t even taken a single day before local merchants had approached her and her group posing as members of the Mecher's Consortium. They had come tentatively at first, almost timidly, but they came. Some came asking about becoming members, some came looking to trade, but the majority came to scoff and tell them in no uncertain terms that the Mecher's Consortium was a parasite, a means of reining in progress, and that they were not welcome in Bellkeep. Regardless of what they had to say, Nerthus, or “Cecilia”, h
ad directed all of them to speak with “Cecil”, the Weaver Egveny's moniker for the mission. The poor man had been stuck with the job of acting as convoy leader, and it was up to him to spread the word that the Consortium was thinking about opening a branch office in Bellkeep (false), that they were looking for new recruits (also false), and were willing to look over any plans or schematics that the denizens of Bellkeep were willing to sell or trade (technically false, but Egveny had made it clear that if he saw anything worth his time we was going to buy it). Nerthus and Edda, meanwhile, spent the first full day and night simply waiting in the common room of their inn, playing cards, reading, and generally looking like the harmless sisters of a Consortium caravan leader. Although in reality, the two women had been hoping against hope for some word from the missing agents. But there was no word sent, no signs given, and no information about them. Which meant the passive phase of their mission was now over. It was time for the search to go active.

  Edda was waiting for her in the common room late that evening, standing by the door and wearing a lighter colored variation of the same clothes Nerthus herself was wearing. Nerthus had insisted on similar clothing to cement the familial appearance they were trying to keep up, and Edda grudgingly agreed. There was also the comforting fact that each of their outfits were rigged to conceal any number of small blades and tools they might require in their search. Edda gave a small wave to get her attention as she walked down the wooden stairs.

  “Over here, sis,” Edda said, softly but firmly. A look in her eye made Nerthus hurry her steps, but she did her best not to appear to.

  “What is it?” she asked, once she got within safe conversation distance.

  “Oh, nothing major,” the taller woman said softly, “only I've got some clue as to what happened to our friends.” Nerthus raised an eyebrow in interest but said nothing. “I grabbed one of the more friendlier craftsmen who had just talked to Cecil. Asked a few questions, pried a little, you know. Which, by the way, is a little difficult in these clothes,” she grimaced. “I feel sealed up like a barrel of ale in this outfit. Makes it so I can't utilize my full range of, ah, persuasion skills. Anyways, there was a damn big fire last month in one of the craftsmen neighborhoods, the one which happened to be where two of our friends were living. I'm told that fires are a somewhat common occurrence in their craftsmen quarter, which is pathetic in its own right, but this one happened to be caused by some alchemical solutions mixing and was quite, uh, explosive. A dozen or so dead, a few times that number missing. Granted, rumor usually exaggerates figures, especially when it's a horrific accident, but I wouldn't be surprised if it's still a large number. These houses are packed together pretty tightly.”