Toma stared at the stone in his hand for a few seconds before putting it in one of his pockets. He then walked out of sight of the other men and heaved up his lunch, dinner, and seemingly all the water he had that day. After wiping his mouth on his sleeve feebly, he joined the others, trying to keep the quaking of his legs hidden.
Ryker was bent over the one with no hands.
“Stumpy here won’t be any help to us. He’s out, and he’s probably not going to wake up from it.”
Johan, sitting on his haunches next to the last surviving assassin, gently held the man by his head and turned it to face him, removing the man’s black hood as he did so. “Okay friend. Stomach wounds are the worst way to go, you know it and I know it. We have no extra horse to bring you with us, and no one is going to want to ride with you behind them. But this doesn’t have to be the end for you. Tell us who sent you, give us details, and I swear we will do all we can to save you.”
The assassin was a pale, nondescript man in his early thirties. His stringy brown hair fell over his eyes. The only thing that stood out to anyone, other than the trail of blood leaking out of the corners of his mouth, was the tattoo below his left ear. A blade with a single drop of blood falling off of it. He simply closed his eyes and turned his face away from Johan.
“He won’t talk, sir,” Garm said. “That tattoo is a marking, I’ll wager. He’s a professional. He failed his mission, which means he’s dead no matter what. No one wants an assassin who can’t get the job done.”
“Is this true?” Johan asked.
The assassin was silent for a minute, but eventually he opened his eyes. “Your friend is right. Even if I wasn’t mortally wounded, I wouldn’t tell you anything about my employer. I couldn’t even if I wanted to,” he pointed weakly at his tattoo. “All I will say is this. You have some powerful and wealthy enemies. We don’t come cheap.”
“Well, looks like your employer got ripped off,” Ryker said. “That shows us whoever hired you is a poor judge of character. Or that they thought of you as disposable, considering they failed to inform you we have a Weaver with us.”
The assassin grimaced at that. “Perhaps.”
Johan stood up. “This is your last chance. You don’t need to die today.”
But the assassin had closed his eyes again, refusing to acknowledge them.
Johan looked at Garm. “Dress his wound as best you can. Then tie him to a tree. And gag him.” He looked back at the assassin. Maybe someone will find him, maybe not.” He looked around at the gathered men. “I think from this point on, we’ll keep watch in two-man shifts.”
The next day was completely uneventful. In a full day of traveling, all they encountered was one small merchant caravan (which yielded no news of import after Vegard spoke to the caravan leader). They were left alone that night as well. Toma had even half-heartedly suggested that since they had killed one group of assassins, they would be left alone by any others. That idea was, sadly, not taken to heart by the men as they tried to resume their sleep.
The morning sun was just starting to creep over the edge of Newcomb Square, a pale yellow sphere in the morning haze. Aleksander sat on the front stairs of the Outrider barracks, inhaling the last buttery delicious scents coming from the Mechers’ District. The fumes also reminded him of the full pantry in the house behind him. That thought inspired a mighty roar from his stomach, and Aleksander knew who was in charge of this operation. He stood up, stretched his hands up into the sky, and turned to go back inside.
His long slumber, both in the cell and out of it, had given him a monstrous appetite. Thankfully The City knew that its top fighting men needed hearty food to eat, so there was plenty for him to “borrow” from the Outriders’ pantry. Almost everything had been left in a large pile in the kitchen area. Much to his own amusement, Aleksander found himself stocking the pantry before he began to eat. There were other sorts of oddments in the pile besides food, so he had placed them off to one side as he dug. Once the pantry was stocked, and he had eaten, he set about putting away the other things. There were a number of plain wooden chairs, tables, and desks left in a jumble in the large main room of the house. Wanting a place to sit and eat, he went about setting them down in functional (to his mind) locations.
He had found the Outriders’ roster sheet amongst a pile of papers left by the door, and quickly placed names to the faces he remembered from the night of festivities. He had also found their requisitioned articles of clothing, each in bundles with their assigned Outrider. So he took them and distributed them to different rooms of the house, with the exception of Vegard’s. The big Outrider was the only man in the group close to Aleksander’s size, and Aleksander needed new clothes. His were rank from his time in the cell. He chose a simple tunic and breeches set, the tunic having the Outriders sigil on its right shoulder.
Aleksander still didn’t know if he should leave or not. He had never been arrested and have his jailor’s disappear on him before, so the protocol of behavior was unknown to him. When he went out to the backyard for water he saw bed frames and bed rolls piled up. Almost automatically, he started organizing those as well. In this manner of discovery and placing things where (he supposed) they belonged, Aleksander had spent the entire day of the Outriders mission doing their chores and eating their food. That night, while elsewhere Toma and Leonid were proving themselves in combat, Aleksander lay sprawled on a large couch in the main room, a half finished keg of Hale on the floor.
So it was that on the morning of the fourth day, as Aleksander was about to open the door of the barracks, a faint cry for help echoed in the Square. Aleksander hesitated for a moment, his hand on the door knob. A second cry came to his ears. A female voice, he realized. A young girl’s. Not in pain, but terrified. He turned and in one powerful leap, bounded off the stairs and landed some twenty feet away in a full run. The café owner in Newcomb Square stopped opening his storefront to stare at the quickly moving figure darting past him.
In less than a minute, Aleksander had found the source of the cries. Four streets down, an artist of some kind and his assistant had been unloading a large piece of machinery from a donkey-driven cart. Somehow, the machine had fallen on the legs of the artist. The assistant, a young girl of fourteen or fifteen, could not lift it. The artist, an older man with graying hair and bushy eyebrows, was groaning in agony.
Rushing to the side of the artist and placing his hands under the machine, he flipped it off of the man in one forceful motion. He looked at the stunned assistant.
“Go! Go find a medico! Quickly!” He made a shooing motion with his hands to get her going. He sat down on his haunches next to the artist and gave his friendliest smile.
“Hell of a morning so far, huh buddy?” He did his best not to look at the man’s crushed knees, or at the crimson pool growing around them.
In response, the man whimpered in pain, his eyes squeezed shut, tears streaming down his face.
“Uhh…oh hey,” Aleksander looked around and saw the artist’s hat on the ground. He placed it on the man’s head awkwardly. “There you go. Gotta look sharp for the, ah, medico I guess.” Standing up and suddenly feeling very self-conscious, Aleksander looked around. A small crowd of artisans and other people had gathered now, murmuring amongst themselves. The young assistant and a medico with three attendants were pushing their way through the crowd now. The situation resolved, with no more action to be had and the victim obviously going to live, the crowd dispersed, somewhat disappointed.
As the medico and his helpers began tending to the fallen artist, the assistant stood next to Aleksander, tears in her eyes. She gave him a quick hug.
“Thank you so much, mister, um, Outrider sir. If you hadn’t arrived when you did, I don’t know what would have happened to him.”
“Outrider?” Aleksander was puzzled momentarily, then remembered his borrowed clothes. “Oh, right. Well, we just happen to live in the neighborhood.” He gestured at the fallen machine, bristling with metal prongs.
“So just what is that thing?”
“That?” The assistant’s gaze followed Aleksander’s hand. “Oh, that is a new kind of machine that makes books. Or at least, that’s what we are trying to make it do.”
Aleksander grunted in disappointment. “Books huh?”
“Yes.” A concerned look crossed her face. “Oh I’m sorry, can you read?”
Shrugging, he turned to her. “I know my letters, and even sums. Just never see the use in it, most of the time. Well, ahhh, I’m glad your boss is going to be okay. Feel better sir!” he shouted, awkwardly waving at the artist now being carried away. Nodding and smiling at the assistant, he began walking back to the barracks. The pantry was calling. Several people nodded or waved to him in greeting as he walked. One young girl even curtsied for him in the Square. He smiled back at her and bowed theatrically. The café owner he had passed by before handed him a mug of coffee in thanks.
This Outrider thing was kind of nice.
In the early afternoon that day, the Outriders reached the first eaves of the forest of Oberon. The trees on the outskirts of the forest were so thick it would be difficult to ride a horse through. The road they were traveling on ran right through the forest, through the center of the village of Oberon itself, and out of the forest on its eastern edge. As they approached entering the forest proper, a large stone archway over the road served as a gateway of sorts. There was no sign of anyone waiting for them.
Johan called a halt and rode past the front of the line with Ryker. They rode on ahead until they were out of earshot from the others, a few paces from the stone archway. Ryker looked down each side of the forest, which extended out of his sight on both sides.
“I don’t like this,” he said. “If anything, the other Outrider contingents should have had someone here waiting for us. It is going to be hard to coordinate a search if we can’t speak to one another.”
Johan nodded. “I know. But I was hoping more for some indication of our contact here. After what Leonid told you and me,” he looked back at the Weaver as he spoke, “I find I’m almost hesitant to talk to the other Outriders before we find out what the Umbra’s agent has to say.”
“Fair enough. So we just make right for the village then?”
“Yeah. The forest itself is safe, surprisingly. It’s the people inside of it who are the real danger. We’ll get to the village, meet the agent, and figure out what we are doing from there. Go pass the word.”
“Got it, boss.” Ryker saluted and rode back to the men, organizing them before Johan rejoined them. In single file, they rode under the forest’s arch, and into the forest itself.
Their first surprise in the forest was that, despite how densely packed with trees it was, the treetops allowed a lot of sunlight. Shafts of white light sliced through the forest ceiling regularly, giving the forest itself an almost greenish luminescence as the light was reflected off of moss and bracken. As they rode down the road, Toma commented that the tree trunks were getting thicker and thicker, and then suddenly the trees would be much smaller, but then grow thicker again.
“It’s a type of crop rotation, you could say,” volunteered Leonid. “Timber is primarily how Oberon makes its livelihood. And they’ve been doing it for centuries. Their woodsmen only cut down pre-planned sections each year, allowing regrowth to happen constantly. It allows the forest to renew itself, as well as not impacting the wildlife, which is their second big source of income. Their methods are quite effective.”
The road they were on was made out of laid stone, hundreds of years old. And while it was smooth, the riders were careful to avoid snags or holes where stones were worn down or missing. The last thing they wanted at this stage of the mission was an injured horse.
Now that they were in the forest, they had all begun to get a sense of urgency about their mission. They had a sense of foreboding every since the assassin attack of course. But that didn’t seem mission specific, almost as if it was a bad dream. None of them wanted their first assignment as an Outrider to end in failure. So they moved with all care and haste possible.
After one more hour of silent riding, they finally reached the village of Oberon. The forest abruptly ended behind them, as if they had walked through one room and into another. The village that greeted them was their third surprise that day. All of the Outriders were City men by birth. And even though most of them had campaigned afield, or visited other large towns or small cities, they all had some preconceived notion of what Oberon the forest village would look like. Mud. Dirty huts with thatched roofs, livestock wandering amongst the people. Brats chasing dogs. Nothing could have been further from the truth.
The stone road they were using widened to almost twice its size. Along it were dozens of large houses with walls made out of interlocking logs, and tall, angled roofs ending in points. Each house also had windows hewed out of the logs, and each window was filled with a single pane of glass. Some homes were single level, others had multiple floors, with wooden staircases leading to large wraparound porches that overlooked the main road and village.
The sun was also shining brightly down on them. There was no treetop canopy over the entire village. Trees within the village itself were trimmed to be no taller than the house it belonged to. This sort of tree art was a local custom. Every home had a tree, either next to it, or within it. The inhabitants of the house would decoratively trim their tree in their own way, and then maintain it like it was a pet. The shape of the house tree also doubled as the sigil of the more affluent families within Oberon.
About half a mile from where the Outriders had emerged from the forest stood a large stone structure, square and squat. Two large flags draped its walls. One was the flag of the Dominion, the other was the Standard of the Fifth Legion, the Lancers. The garrison building, despite its ugliness, sparkled in the sun. It had glass in its windows. The abundance of glass came as a shock to most of the Outriders. Every building they saw had glass windows, homes and shops alike, no matter the size.
As they rode into the town itself, two Legionnaires with the sigil of the Lancers stopped them. They both had large halberds in their hands, with Legion gladii at their waists. These men were obviously veterans, rotated into a garrison posting as they neared their discharge. One raised his empty hand at Toma, who was the lead rider and appraised them all matter of factly with his eyes. His face looked like it had been chiseled out of obsidian. It was weathered and scarred, the face of a campaigner on his final posting. Toma wondered if he used a battle axe to shave.
“State your business here in Oberon, please.”
Johan rode up to him, keeping his hands in plain view. “Have we done something wrong, sir?”
“Not yet, no. But we aren’t in the habit of having such heavily armed men arrive out of nowhere.”
“Ah, yes, I see. Well sir, we-“
“Quiet, you! Let me handle this!” Leonid suddenly spurred his horse up next to Johan’s, his horse knocking Johan’s over a step. As Johan looked over at him, he feigned being startled. It wasn’t too hard. He noticed that the Weaver’s clothing had changed. His blue robes now resembled a dark brown tunic with many pockets, and he had a tri-corner hat on, in the style of the Mechers. Leonid looked down at the Legionnaire, a look of slight annoyance on his face.
“My apologies, sir. I don’t hire help based on their conversation ability, as you can see. I am Gustav Hier, a merchant in the employ of the Mechers’ Consortium.” He fidgeted with one of his new pockets and produced a metal pin, which he showed to the Legionnaire. “Primarily I’m in the proactive acquisitions business. My men and I are here to scout around for promising sources of materials for my employers. Silks, ores, glasswork, things of that sort that they may need in the future.”
The Legionnaire looked at Leonid dubiously. “You need five armed escorts for this?”
“Ahhh, now I see the problem. Yes, I actually do need five armed men. For starters,” he grabbed his belly with both hands and smiled, a gesture the Outriders had
grown quite used to seeing. “I am not one built for any physical exertion. So they double as labor in addition to security. Also, I am carrying a rather large amount of currency. You see, I have been empowered by the Consortium to sign new trade partners unilaterally, to ensure that there are no unanticipated shortfalls in materials. As such, I need to be able to place a down payment on any goods or raw materials I procure immediately upon finding them. The Consortium is a furnace, and needs to be fed what it requires constantly, and any delay in securing new sources of materials is not tolerated.” As he spoke, he gestured to the two large chests strapped to the back of his horse for the Legionnaire to see. He lowered his voice a bit, his tone changing to one sharing a secret with another. “I’m honestly surprised you haven’t had more of us here lately. There is a growing demand for precision craftsmen. I am also to headhunt for any skilled wood and metal workers I find, and Oberon is renowned for them. I can easily arrange a finder’s fee to you and your comrades if you know of anyone who may be interested.”
The Outrider Legion: Book One Page 9
