by A. C. Cobble
“Uh, Ben,” said Rhys. “I know you just gave that big speech about avoiding violence, but—”
“Fine,” snapped Ben.
In one smooth motion, he drew his longsword and shrugged out of his pack. Rhys drew as well and stood by his side. Prem took the other flank. Amelie and Towaal fell back.
“Last chance!” shouted both Ben and the leader of the bandits at the same time.
Ben glared at the man and then sighed. If there was going to be bloodshed, then they may as well get it over with. When the bandits were half a dozen paces away, Ben sprang into action, his friends a step behind. He lunged at the leader, feinting low and then thrusting high.
The bandit, used to outnumbering and intimidating his foes, wasn’t prepared to be attacked. His wood axe dipped to parry, but the tip of Ben’s longsword stabbed over his weapon and punched into the bandit’s face, slicing through skin and crushing bone.
Beside the bandit leader, two men leapt at Ben while he was engaged, but he’d been anticipating their attack.
He ducked a sickle and caught the first man in the gut with his shoulder, shoving the bandit back before pivoting on his heel to parry a strike from a poorly sharpened shovel. He knocked the farm implement from the stunned bandit’s hands.
Ben shook his head, angry that the men were forcing the confrontation. Growling to himself, he whipped his longsword around. The dark Venmoor steel cleaved through the shovel wielder’s neck, passing through flesh and coming out in a spray of blood to catch the sickle bearer in the eye. Ben leaned into it, pushing his weapon deep and piercing the man’s brain. He drew back when the man’s movement stopped. He raised his longsword, ready for the next attacker.
There were none.
Eleven of the men lay dead in the dust. The twelfth was pelting down the road a score of paces away from them, shrieking a high-pitched whine and tossing his pruning shears to the side.
Prem took a step and hurled a long knife at the man. The blade spun, end over end, until it smacked into the fleeing bandit, burying to the hilt in his back. The man stumbled and collapsed onto his face, unmoving.
Ben spun to face the former guardian. “Was that really necessary?”
Prem shrugged.
“After everything we were just talking about?” complained Ben.
“Sorry,” mumbled Prem. “I forgot.”
“I like her,” declared Rhys.
Prem smiled at him, and the rogue flushed, glancing away.
“We know you like her,” grumbled Ben, kicking the hand of a dead man in disgust.
Amelie placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay, Ben. They were bandits, and they attacked us.”
“They were farmers,” argued Ben.
“Were,” said Towaal. “They were farmers, but not any longer. They chose the life of bandits.”
“It’s not like they couldn’t find anything to eat,” offered Rhys, gesturing to the fields around them. “Towaal’s right. They chose the life.”
“If we hadn’t stopped them, who knows how many people they would have robbed,” added Amelie. “Who knows how many they would have killed. It’s possible we just saved dozens of innocent lives.”
“I’m sorry, Ben,” said Prem, glancing at the dead man down the road. “I was always trained that once a fight starts, you finish it. If you don’t, they will. I’ll try to not kill them all, though, next time.”
Ben, frustrated at the situation, declared, “All right, after today, we don’t kill anyone unless absolutely necessary.”
“After today, so until midnight—”
“Rhys!” snapped Ben. “After this moment, no more killing unless we have to.”
“Only if we have to,” agreed the rogue.
Ben eyed him suspiciously, then cleaned his longsword and slammed it into the sheath. “Let’s go.”
3
Pass and Provisions
A nervous tingle crawled down Ben’s spine, refusing to go away even as he reassured himself there was no reason to worry, no reason they should expect anything other than a place to stay and a chance to restock their provisions.
“Snowmar Station,” said Rhys, glancing at the sharp peaks that framed the western edge of the Blood Bay. “A day’s hike up and we’ll be there.”
“There’s somewhere else we may want to stop first,” mentioned Ben.
Rhys raised an eyebrow at him.
“Meredith.”
“Oh,” gasped Amelie. “I-I’d forgotten…”
Ben pointed at a twisted pine, standing alone in between split chunks of granite. “I remember that rock. This is where we left the road to lay her to rest.”
“Who is Meredith?” asked Prem.
“The first one to pay the price for our quest,” answered Ben.
“We should keep going,” responded Amelie.
Ben glanced at her.
“Issen was her home, too. Last I heard, her family is still there. Her mother, her father, her sisters… If she knew what was happening, that two armies are marching on her home, she would want us to continue.”
“If you think so,” said Ben, unsure.
They continued to hike, entering the sinuous confines of the road as it passed through steep ridges on the way to Snowmar Pass. Out of the corner of his eye, Ben watched Amelie. Her face was blank, but her eyes glistened. Meredith, her companion since birth, lay just one bell’s walk off the road. What Amelie had said was true. Meredith would want them to hurry, but they had two months of hiking and sailing before they reached Issen. A two-bell detour was insignificant in the scale of their journey. No, Amelie didn’t want to visit Meredith’s grave for another reason. Ben watched her, walking close, offering the comfort of his presence, but not speaking and interrupting her thoughts.
Finally, she said, “I never think about her, Ben. After all that we’ve been through, it seems like a different life. I was a different person, but how could I forget her? Why do I not want to visit her grave?”
Ben reached out and clasped her hand. He didn’t have an answer.
The next day, they neared the top of Snowmar Pass. Ben kept his eyes upward, looking for the cylindrical watchtower that he knew presided over the road. The last time they’d been through Snowmar Station, the towers had been empty. They’d found the bodies of the guards on the road where they’d tried to flee, the first sign of the demon swarm which had swept over the place. This time, Ben’s breath caught when he saw the tower. As he watched, a dark-haired head poked out of the window for a moment before disappearing back inside.
“Looks like we’re not a threat,” declared Rhys.
“How do you know?” asked Ben.
“There’s no bell ringing,” responded Rhys. “If the guard felt we were dangerous, he’d bolt his door and ring the bell, alerting the station to close up and prepare to defend.”
“Two men and three women aren’t enough to storm the walls, I guess.”
“What is this place?” asked Prem as they made their way through the last narrow gap in the rock and saw the open gates of Snowmar ahead of them.
“Originally, it was a defensive position for Whitehall. There are upward of one hundred soldiers stationed here. With those walls in these mountains, they could hold ten times their number for a week or more. Plenty of time to light a signal fire and receive help from Whitehall, or at least prepare the city for attack.” The rogue gestured to the road around them, “Not that you could even get a significant force through the mountains. You could move fifteen abreast at the most. You’ll need more men than that to get over Snowmar’s walls.”
“It’s been centuries since there was a serious attack,” added Towaal. “These days, the place serves primarily as a waystation for travelers who need to restock while in the mountains. During the winter months, it can get quite cold up here. It’s not unusual for parties to spend a few days in shelter while inclement weather blows over.”
“There was at least one attack recently,” reminded Ben. “Last
time we were here, a swarm of demons overran the place. We found everyone inside dead.”
“A serious attack by man, I meant,” replied Towaal.
Ben grunted. He was glad to see men moving about on the walls that spanned the pass. As they entered the wide-open gates, it appeared a long merchant train had arrived just before them. Wagon men were swarming over their charges, making sure canvass was tied down over the contents of the wagons, putting chocks under the wheels, unharnessing and tending to the horses, and squaring their gear away for the night.
“We’d better get into the tavern before they do,” advised Rhys.
“Worried they’ll drink all the ale?” jested Amelie.
Rhys grinned. “Well, the thought crossed my mind, but if they order food before us, we’ll be waiting two bells until the kitchen catches up. If you want to eat before full dark, we’d better hurry.”
Amelie gestured to the low-slung mess hall at the side of the courtyard and bowed for Rhys to lead the way. The rogue ambled to the stout wooden door and ducked inside, Ben and his friends following close behind.
The place was filled with smoke from a goat turning over the fire, dripping fat and juices on the smoldering coals below it. It made Ben’s eyes water, and his stomach growl. A handful of soldiers, off duty from protecting the station, clustered on one end. They were sipping ales and joking loudly amongst themselves. On the other side of the room, there were a few groups of merchants and other travelers. None stood out, and none seemed an overt threat to Ben. He and his friends made their way to the back of the room where a harried-looking woman stood behind an unvarnished, splinter-studded wooden bar, taking orders for food and ale.
“Do you have any wine?” asked Amelie.
The woman pursed her lips and looked Amelie up and down. “We do, girl, but it’s a mite expensive. It’s for the highborn who are passing through. I don’t got any bottles open now, and I don’t got time to open one unless there’s something in it for me. The other barmaid’s sick, you see. Just me tonight.”
Ben winced, thinking about the score of men putting the merchant train to bed.
“Ale is good then,” murmured Amelie, glancing at her companions. “Five of them.”
“Six,” coughed Rhys.
“Seven,” said Ben with a wink.
Amelie rolled her eyes, but the barmaid merely dashed off to fill their mugs. They settled around a table and Ben and Rhys started work on their tankards, watching and listening to the other patrons in the station.
It had been weeks since they’d spent long enough around strangers to learn any news, and just a few days hike from Whitehall, it was important they found out what was going on in the city. They meant to confront the new king and convince him that the war the Alliance had been heading toward for the last several years was a mistake and that he’d be better off bringing his men home and declaring a truce with the Coalition. The more Ben thought about it, the more ridiculous it sounded.
“When we get to Whitehall,” asked Prem under her breath, “will we be able to just walk in?”
Ben shrugged. “I don’t see why not. None of the soldiers there know who we are or would have any reason to stop us. We can claim we are just travelers on our way to the port to get passage across the Blood Bay.”
Rhys sat down his second mug, already empty, and nodded. “Hide in plain sight. As long as we don’t look suspicious, they won’t have any reason to suspect us.”
“Is Whitehall similar to Venmoor?” asked Prem.
“Well, it’s much larg—”
A loud crash and a string of startled curses cut through the murmur of voices in the room. Ben looked toward the off-duty soldiers and saw one man, red-faced, standing above a flipped-over table. Liquid dripped down his front. He raised a trembling finger to point at a man across from him.
“You spilled my ale!”
“Nathan, calm down,” pleaded a third soldier. “It was an accident.”
“Three nights in a row!” shouted the soldier named Nathan. “Three nights in a row this jackass has accidentally spilled an ale right in my lap? No, this is the last time. I’m done with him and the entire 17th Company.”
“What are you going to do, ask us to return to Whitehall?” snapped the ale-spilling soldier across from him. “Believe me, I wish we could. I’ve asked the captain over and over, and every time, he says we’re needed here. It’s too bad the Snowmar Company is so soft that you can’t handle your own business without the 17th playing chaperone.”
A low growl emanated from Nathan. “You ever face a demon swarm, Jonas? Until you do, let’s not talk about who is soft.”
Snickering, Jonas taunted, “Soft or dead, that’s what all you Snowmar boys are, aren’t you? You’re soft, and your alternate company is dead. It’s no wonder they can’t find any permanent recruits to replace them. No one wants to be a loser.”
“Now, hold on,” demanded the third man, the one who had been trying to make peace. “This is going too far. A lot of us lost friends when the demons attacked. I’d appreciate it if you don’t talk bad about ‘em. Let’s get Nathan another ale and—”
“How about Nathan gets me an ale?” barked Jonas.
Ben couldn’t see the man’s face, but he could see Nathan and the third soldier’s. They were glowing red, simmering with building anger. Near the men, soldiers were shifting, forming a loose ring around the confrontation. The civilian side of the room had fallen dead quiet, all eyes fixed on the feuding soldiers.
“This isn’t good,” murmured Rhys. He tapped on his shoulder.
Ben blinked and realized that half the men wore a black snowflake badge on their white tunics. The other half had a simple relief of Whitehall. Two different companies, squaring off on opposite sides of each other.
“I sense something,” whispered Prem. “A manipulation of energy. It’s subtle…”
Towaal frowned, and glanced at Amelie.
She shrugged.
“I don’t feel anything,” murmured Towaal. “Nothing like what we’ve learned in the Sanctuary, at least.”
“I think it’s best you leave, Jonas,” said the third soldier, rising slowly to his feet, and drawing the Ben’s attention back to the feuding soldiers. “You’ve had enough to drink tonight, and in the morning, I’m putting in a formal complaint with your captain to have you removed from Snowmar. It will be back to the barracks in Whitehall for you, after a short stint in the gaol for conduct.”
“A formal petition. Is that what all your dead friends put in before the demons ripped out their throats?”
A combination of gasps and groans rose from the pack of soldiers.
Nathan, evidently deciding he was done discussing the matter, stepped forward and swung his balled fist straight into the face of the seated Jonas. The man and his chair flipped back, and Nathan pounced on him, raising his fists and raining blows on the stunned man below him.
All around, soldiers started shouting encouragement or curses, but none made a move to interfere. Finally, the third soldier – the original peacemaker – stepped forward and caught Nathan’s arm, halting a blood-covered fist from descending again.
“That’s enough. That’s enough, Nathan. We’ll lodge a complaint and get him out of here in the morning.”
The group from Whitehall looked angry that their fellow had been beaten in front of them, but he had been the antagonist, and Nathan was being pulled away by his own man.
Nathan met the third soldier’s eye and then slowly nodded. He glanced around the assembled men. “This bastard never drinks in Snowmar Station again, you hear me?”
Below him, Jonas moaned and shifted.
Nathan’s fists clenched.
One of the Whitehall contingent stepped forward, his hands raised, palms out. “Jonas disrespected you. He shouln’ta said that about your friends. It’s not right to talk about the dead that way. None of us’ll interfere with what ya done, but he’s had enough. Let tha man up. He’s married ta my cousin, and he�
�s just wantin’ to get home. You know how it is with a long stretch away from the missus. Come on, I’ll buy you another ale. Let’s forget about all this talk that’s been going around. We’re all on tha same side still, right?”
Nathan nodded and dragged one knee up. Before he could stand, between the wall of bodies, Ben saw a flash of steel. Nathan grunted and looked down in surprise. Sticking out from his ribcage was the wooden hilt of a knife.
“Dead, just like your loser friends,” cackled Jonas through a blood-soaked smile.
With a howl of rage, the third man jumped on Jonas, drawing his belt-knife and thrusting. The man from Whitehall who’d claimed Jonas was married to his cousin drew his knife as well and charged into the fray.
The knot of soldiers exploded into chaos. Whitehall’s 17th Company and Whitehall’s Snowmar Company fell on each other like rabid dogs. Fists and knives flew, chairs shattered, and shouts went up for reinforcements.
Ben, his friends, and the others on the civilian side of the room all scrambled away and backed toward the wall, unsure what was happening, but knowing they didn’t want to get involved.
A man went running to the door and kicked it open, shouting outside, “We’ve been betrayed. Everyone to arms! The 17th is—”
The man’s warning was cut short with a gurgle as another soldier wrapped an arm around his neck and slid a blade across his throat.
“The window!” cried Rhys.
Ben’s companions and the other civilians bolted to two windows that let light into the front of the mess hall. There were two other windows, but they were inaccessible due to the growing brawl between the soldiers.
A shattering sound and a high-pitched scream drew Ben’s attention while he waited to evacuate through the window. He grimaced in horror. A lantern had been smashed against a pile of debris, and as he watched, the oil spilled out over broken tables and chairs, quickly catching into a merrily burning fire.
“Hurry,” he shouted. “Fire!”
The civilians in front of him needed no more incentive, and quickly, they were streaming out the window and into the cool night air.
