To my wife Mckenzie.
Who believed in me when even I didn’t.
Cover Art by Samuel Deats
http://poojipoo.deviantart.com/
Prologue
It was difficult to be a turncoat. It really was. Not for the moral hang ups most people would think, though. He had none of those. He was a believer in the cause. He may not have been a zealot like some others, but he believed enough to forsake his oaths. No, the moral reasons weren’t the hardest to cope with. It was the more mundane things that became a pain. And above all others, the hardest part of living the life of a traitor was scheduling. The most mundane question a person asks themselves upon waking up in the morning, ‘what do I have to do today?’ suddenly became a question fraught with pitfalls. One small scheduling error and you could find yourself gored through the chest by one paymaster or the other.
For instance, today he was scheduled to report in to his superior, Legion Commander Atrarch, at 1pm. However, his new “employer” required a meeting an hour before that, and fifteen miles away from Outrider Headquarters where he needed to report. He couldn’t be late to the meeting at OHQ, nor could he miss it. His commander was departing for the city immediately after, and would be both angry and suspicious if he didn’t show. He suspected juggling his dual lives was some sort of twisted test from his new master, who of course was running late.
He sat in a pre-rented room at an inn in the middle of nowhere. He was wearing the clothes of a modest merchant. It would do no good going dressed in his Legion sigil and mail. He hated not being in armor, especially considering his change in professions. It was as if he was always under threat now, and the mail would shield him from all the lies. He knew it wasn’t true, but every little bit counted. That and the breeches he was wearing were itchy in all of the wrong places. The room was plain, some empty shelves, a table, some chairs, the usual. On the table was a decanter and two dusty wooden cups. He had smelled the wine. It would have been straight vinegar if it wasn’t watered down so much. So he sat there, facing the door, his anxiety building with every minute his master was late. It was difficult to be a turncoat.
“Greetings Kinnese. Pour yourself a glass of wine on me. I believe its good fortune to begin a new venture with a drink.”
Jumping almost out of his chair, he turned and saw his master seated at the opposite side of the table. Well, it sounded like him. But it didn’t look like him in the slightest. The face was all wrong. Bigger nose, higher cheekbones, different color eyes. “Trap!” his mind screamed. As his hand went for his blade, the new arrival saw the confusion and held up his hands.
“Yes, I know. I look different. I always will. I can’t always be dressed in hooded black robes, cackling like a madman, now can I?” The false face smiled a playful grin. “Honestly, do you think all great conspiracies are carried out by withered, undead fiends who never leave their towers? Look past the face and think on what you see.”
It was true, the man had to admit. His master’s aura was unmistakable when it was allowed to slip through the disguises. And the very relaxed, confident manner was telling in its own right. While he may not yet know exactly who or what his new employer was, he was incredibly powerful. Doing as he was told, he poured two cups of wine and passed one over. His master smelled the proffered cup and his fake face wrinkled up like a child being handed a plate of vegetables.
“Hells, this won’t do at all.” The seated figure made a quick gesture with his free hand and then took a sip. His eyes closed in satisfaction. “There we go.”
The man took a hesitant sip, and almost finished the cup in one gulp. It was delicious.
“Alright, let’s make this quick. We both have places to be,” he said, his voice quickly becoming businesslike. “A heavily armed caravan in the neighboring country of Melcara was attacked and looted a few days ago. I’m quite confident that our old friend is behind it, but I can’t prove it yet. The bandits were highly informed, hitting the entire caravan but only taking one small box. After the successful raid, they retreated across the border here to the Dominion. They are making their way to the forest of Oberon, where they will meet their buyer. You are to intercept the bandits and recover the box.”
“What’s in it?”
“It’s called the Phaedra. It’s a rather rare and valuable substance created as a side-effect of certain rituals. It acts as a specific conduit for scrying, but as its function really isn’t vital for the mission, don’t worry too much about it. You already know enough to understand its value, and your latest round of enhancements should ensure you can handle any sort of cock-up that may happen in transport, so we won’t need to go into details about that.”
“Oberon is rather far from here. It’s going to arouse suspicion if I go, both from my men and from OHQ.”
“Indeed. However, my sources tell me that you are going to be sent there anyways today, in a more, ahem, official capacity. So that should work in your favor.”
“That is indeed good news. It’s also much too coincidental for my tastes.”
“Mine as well. I’m pretty sure this is a thinly veiled loyalty test for you, so it appears that your time within the Outrider Legion is nearing its end.”
“I don’t understand,” the man said as he helped himself to another cup of wine.
“I’m pretty sure that the Citadel is going to dispatch another Outrider unit to recover the box as well. A rather gut check move on the Praetorian’s part. I find myself approving of his balls even as I want to cut them off and shove them down his throat.”
“Aw Hells. What unit is it going to be?”
“I don’t know yet. It won’t really matter though; I’m sending enough firepower with you to take down five units. You’ll meet up with them on the way to Oberon.”
“What about my men? I doubt they are going approve of traveling and working with your mages, let alone helping them to kill brother Outriders.”
“Your men will never make it to Oberon. Unless there are any you think would work with us, that is.”
The man shook his head.
“Nah, they are all too loyal.”
“A pity. Well then, my men will replace yours, but you will still have overall command. They are heavy hitters, to be sure, but they are rather lacking in…strategy and tactics. They will need you to point them in the right direction. I do apologize for the lack of prep time, or any other solid information, but this opportunity just fell into my lap. It’s too good to pass up, so I’m making a play for it.”
“Fair enough, sir. I didn’t think I would be able to keep one foot in each camp, as it were. I’ll be glad to be done with it, so long as there’s a place for a former Outrider with your organization.”
His master raised his cup in a gesture of respect.
“I didn’t get to where I was by letting go of valuable people. Now, we both need to be elsewhere, so I suggest we get going. My men will have more information for you. Good luck, Commander.”
And with that, his master was gone. There were no sparkling lights, no sound of thunder, and no wind. Just an empty chair on the other side of the table. He poured what was left of the bottle in his mouth and promptly spit it onto the floor. It was vinegar piss again. He set the bottle down and glared at it. He was sure there was some sort of deep, philosophical metaphor in there somewhere, but he didn’t have the time to ponder it.
He had treason to commit.
Chapter One
“Initiations”
It was a cool morning in the old execution yard. The young man knelt on one knee, his head bowed low. Four of his compatriots knelt behind him. Their eyes, all turned toward the ground, where open and unblinking. A man clad in gleaming
silver mail stood over him, a longsword held to his chest with both hands. Two more armed men flanked him.
“Everything you’ve said, by the Planes, by your sword, and by your life, is truth?”
The young man never looked up.
“I swear it. By the Planes, by my sword, and by my life.”
“So be it.”
A weak breeze blew through the yard, its whistling the only sound to be heard. In one fluid motion, the man raised the sword up, its blade glittering in the pre-noon sun, and brought it down in an arc, the tip of the sword stopping just at the kneeling man’s shoulder, tapping it lightly.
“Rise then, brother. All of you rise! And rise Outriders!”
As one, the five kneeling figures stood up, tall and proud. Johan Else, the young man now standing in front of the other four, tried hard to suppress a smile. He reached out and clasped the hand of the man who had spoken.
“Thank you, sir.” Johan said, shaking the man’s hand.
The other man had no such inhibitions, and smiled broadly. “You’ve earned it, Johan. All of you have. You’re Legion still, but better. Elite. Enjoy the moment. Celebrate it.” Legion Commander Atrarch released Johan’s hand and moved past him to personally congratulate the other four men who graduated with him that day. The two other men who had been flanking Atrarch, fellow Outriders, now offered their own congratulations.
Johan let himself relax a bit and show his pride. He looked around The Yard. After almost seven weeks of punishment at this very spot, he couldn’t help but pronounce its name like some famous battlefield of myth. Little more than a large courtyard within a barracks, with a hard dirt floor and racks of equipment, The Execution Yard was hardly a glamorous place for induction into the prestigious Outrider Legion, but in seven weeks of intense training, it had soaked up enough of his blood, sweat, and tears for Johan to morbidly think fondly of the place. Like a former prisoner looking at his old cell with bizarre nostalgia, he supposed.
A hand slammed down on his shoulder. Johan turned, and saw the face of his brother Jonvar looking at him. Jonvar punched him lightly in the chest.
“Well by the Planes, they’ll take anyone these days won’t they?”
“I guess so. They took you, and you actually got promoted. The world is a more desperate place than I thought.”
Jonvar laughed and embraced his brother tightly. Releasing Johan, he looked him up and down. Johan was wearing the garb of an Outrider Commander. He had a steel barbute helmet, ringed with silver. Solid plate shoulder guards over polished mail armor with patches of studded leather, with a grey tunic covering the armor. His hands were encased in thick leather gloves, heavy enough to protect, but still light enough to leave the fingers nimble. As a Commander, Johan was allowed to wear shoulder guards with silver trim to signify his rank. Across Johan’s back was a longsword in a scabbard. At his left hip was a sheathed gladius connected to a leather belt. Jonvar nodded in approval.
“Looks good on you. Looked better on me, but that’s true about everything.” He grinned. “Still, I’m proud of you Joh. Damn proud. I wanted to- hey, Ryker! Congratulations to you too, man!”
Jonvar had reached out a hand for one of the initiates who had come up behind Johan. Ryker Draygos took the hand and shook it vigorously.
“Thank you, sir. It’s good to see you here.”
“Ryker, you don’t have to ‘sir’ me unless I’m busy yelling at you, you know better than that.”
Ryker smiled. “Hah, that never happens,” he said before turning to Johan. “So chief, what now? I mean, after this?”
“Well, we’ll linger here for a little while longer I guess. Let everyone bask in the moment a bit then tell them to gather up their gear and we’ll head to our temporary barracks. Atrarch wants us to report there by three this afternoon.”
Ryker snapped a quick salute, his right fist against his left breast. “Yes sir!” he said, a grin spreading over his face as he walked away. Johan couldn’t help but smile as well. That was his first actual order as an Outrider, and it felt good.
Johan went to find his men. As ordered, Ryker had rounded up the squad by the exit of The Yard. Every man was wearing the same mail and heavy leather combo, with the same type of longsword across his back. They all also wore small leather packs, each containing a few various personal effects and clothing. It was all they were allowed to bring with them to The Yard, and it was all they owned.
There was a bit of talking, joking, and otherwise good-natured ribbing. His three specialists, Garm, Toma, and Vegard, were originally soldiers from different Legions. But they had all made the cut to become Outriders, and they had bonded over the seven weeks of initiation. When Johan approached them, Ryker cleared his throat and the men settled down at once.
“Gentlemen, I trust you’ve had a nice morning of lounging around, basking in the glow of adulation from the throngs of grateful people for the services we shall render. But it appears it is time to get to work. Outrider Commander Atrarch has ordered us to report to our temporary posting immediately, with further orders to follow. One last march out of The Yard. Let’s put this place behind us.”
The men saluted and they set out. They marched in a straight line, Johan at the lead, Ryker at the end. They marched out of The Yard, through a large gate that led inside the barracks. As they made their way through the barracks, older Legionnaires and Watchmen lined their way saluting and applauding their new comrades. One Watchman called out to Johan as they passed.
“Where’s your posting, sir?”
“Newcomb Square.”
“Gods damned Outriders get the best postings,” the Watchman said, humor in his eyes.
It was true, they WERE lucky to get a posting there, even if it was just their temporary home. Newcomb Square, where their squad would be based out of, was located in the Art District. That alone did not elicit much excitement, as the savants and other commissioned artisans were a quiet bunch, and anything problematic that arose there was usually handled by the Guard. Newcomb Square was, however, a short walk from The Keg, the aptly named section of the city where the majority of the city’s taverns, bars, brothels (sanctioned and unsanctioned), dens, gambling houses, fighting pits (unsanctioned), and the like were located. The Keg, as Toma had put it, was where he was planning to deposit his pay on a weekly basis.
At first, Johan was somewhat hesitant that they were going to be located in the city itself, let alone so close to such mundane trouble. He didn’t want his men to get dragged into local Watchmen matters. They weren’t really supposed to be in the city at all. Outriders were tasked with patrolling the countryside, not being a stationary force. But Johan had been told that Commander Atrarch was going to be in the city for awhile, and he would be taking them with him when he returned to Outrider Headquarters.
They made their way through the barracks and onto the main thoroughfare. The building that housed the Execution Yard was a nondescript military facility, one of dozens throughout the city. It actually was a former execution yard, but it hadn’t been used for that purpose in years. The name stuck, however, due to the brutal initiation training the Outriders put their recruits through. It was located just a little north of Newcomb Square, in Centertown, the aptly named center district of the city. It was mostly housing, with a few storefronts or cafes along the way, so their walk was a peaceful one.
Behind the Outriders, to the north, the massive walls of the Royal Grounds rose up, like a monstrous tower. Leading out of the Royal Grounds was the Skyway, a stone highway exclusively for use by the nobility and high ranking military officers. It had gotten its name from the fact that it arched over Centertown and The Keg, hitting one hundred and fifty feet at its highest point before sloping downwards to its own private gate. It made sense in a wonderfully stratified way. The nobility did not need to sully themselves by wading through the common rabble whenever they entered the city, and the rabble didn’t have to wipe their faces and tuck in their shirts when the bluebloods rode past.
It was in the shadow of the Skyway that the men traveled that day. All of them were natives of the city, born and raised. Yet as they walked, they looked around them almost like tourists. For seven weeks they had been almost sealed away from The City. And before their time in the Execution Yard, some of them had been away for years with the Legion. The walls around them were so high that when they were training in The Yard, you could only see sky. And when they needed to leave The City for survival training, it was through a private tunnel out of a side wall. It was as if The Yard was on its own separate Plane, cut off from the outside world.
Ryker realized that, as they walked past a café, he was looking at the first civilians he had seen in seven weeks. To be more specific, he was looking at the first women he had seen in seven weeks. And, he noted with some satisfaction, they were definitely noticing him. He put his left hand on the hilt of his gladius, and bowed with some flourish at three young ladies at the café, never breaking stride with his squad. “Oh yes,” he thought to himself with a grin, “this was the right move for me.”
After around thirty minutes, they made it to Newcomb Square. The square was a large plaza with a number of specialty storefronts to cater to the artisan populace. Paint shops, woodworkers, metal workers, canvas stores, things of that nature. As he walked Johan noticed no Watch presence in the entire square, with the exception of one of the new artifice golems standing a silent vigil in the center of the square.
The men all stared at the golem momentarily. One of the new creations from the Mechers, these clockwork guardians were becoming more and more common. They were quite imposing, Johan had to admit. It was eight feet high, in the shape of a giant man. It “wore” solid plates of iron covering its internal mechanisms. Its large left arm ended in a grasping tool with four finger-like digits, while the right arm ended in a large piston. He knew they were more than just oversized wind-up toys, but the alloy of artifice and magic that gave them propulsion were beyond him.
The Outrider Legion: Book One Page 1
