by D. M. Murray
Arrlun’s eyes searched through the branches of the trees and brush ahead of him for any sign of Bergnon. He rubbed at his eyes, sure they were playing tricks on him, when, like a falling shadow, the major stepped out from behind the trunk of a broad pine and into the dappled sunlight pouring in golden beams to the forest floor. Arrlun froze as he saw him.
“What are you doing here, lad?” Bergnon asked of his young companion.
A lump rose in Arrlun’s throat and he quickly answered. “Major Bergnon, sir, I was just making sure you were safe. I saw you ride off alone and, well, I thought I had best watch your back, what with the assassinations recently.”
“You’re watching my back, lad?” the major responded with a thin smile.
“Yes, Major Bergnon, sir.”
“Then why is your hand upon your sword? And tell me, why do you shake? It’s not especially cold,” Bergnon challenged him.
Arrlun felt his breath rasp quickly in and out. He felt fear.
“Tell me your concern, lad,” Bergnon continued, slowly stepping towards the young soldier.
“I have no concerns, Major Bergnon, sir. I only followed to make sure you were safe.” Arrlun’s voice wavered as he spoke. He inwardly cursed exposing his fear.
Bergnon approached a little further, his pace measured and exact. “Yet you still have your hand on your sword, lad.”
Arrlun looked at his hand and towards Bergnon. He wanted to remove it, but he found he could not.
Bergnon spoke again, “You weren’t asleep on the boat that night, were you, lad?”
“I don’t know what you mean, Major Bergnon, sir.” Arrlun’s heart thundered.
“You watched me. I know. The pilot asked me if the young lieutenant had spoken to me. Your fine northern accent gave you away, lad.”
Arrlun’s hand tightened on the hilt of his sword.
“You’ve gotten too close, been too clever. Haven’t you, lad.” Bergnon approached slowly as he placed his hand on his sword hilt.
Arrlun stepped backwards as he spoke, “Why did you throw away the key? The City Guards said that the chief administrative officer was locked inside his room, and that whoever killed him did it to stop him talking.” Arrlun felt the sweat sticking under his arms and its cold touch on the back of his neck. “You murdered your own people, your own friends. You tried to kill Captain Kalfinar and Captain Broden. Why?” Arrlun was emboldened by his fear.
Bergnon’s face was struck with regret. “Lad, you cannot understand. Dammit! You’re hardly more than a boy! You’re too green to understand this world.”
“I’m enough of a man to understand betrayal. I’m old enough to see a traitor when he stands before me,” Arrlun spat his words with venom. “I looked up to you, Major.” Arrlun steadily stepped back towards his horse. If he could reach it, he could make an escape, for the major was walking further away from his own mount.
“And I am fond of you, lad. Very much so.”
“But you betrayed your nation. You murdered your commanders, friends, that officer, and now I suppose you mean to murder me too. Shit on you, Bergnon, you fucking traitor!” Arrlun cursed.
Bergnon laughed, but it was tinged with a mournful frown. “Always so formal, my lad, and now you call me Bergnon. I wish it were not this way. I truly do.”
Arrlun heard rustling behind him. He spun and found a group of four armed men approaching from behind, cutting him off from his horse. They rushed him.
“Fuck.” The word tailed off in a ragged grunt as his muscles tensed.
Arrlun’s sword flashed from its scabbard. In a wide sideways arc, his blade slashed out the throat of one of the approaching men. The moment seemed to slow down and the spray of blood caught a beam of sunlight and sparkled for a moment like a scattering of rubies. The throatless man stumbled with a wet gurgle and fell to the ground face-first, tripping one of his colleagues and sending him crashing to a heap.
The remaining two men spread out and engaged Arrlun. Bergnon remained at his distance as the fight unfolded.
Arrlun spun and parried a deft blow from a one-eyed man, before kicking the tripped man in the face, preventing him from rising. The grounded man’s nose made a satisfying, squelching crunch.
A roar sounded from the left. A big man with a flat face swung a spiked mace at Arrlun’s head. He ducked under the hefty swing and aimed a swipe of his sword at the man’s leg. It bit home along Flat-face’s thigh, causing him to stumble back with a pig-like squeal.
“Give it up, lad,” One-eye croaked to Arrlun. “Yer gonna die one way or another. No point fucking us off, eh?”
One-eye set himself to attack again while Flat-face hobbled around to Arrlun’s left. One-eye pulled a throwing knife from his belt and flashed it towards Arrlun. He ducked, avoiding the blade as it sped through the air, being lost somewhere in the leaf litter behind. One-eye followed up with a lunge.
Arrlun quickly deflected One-eye’s sword point and, in the same moment, grabbed his dagger from his belt. One-eye stumbled forward, his momentum meeting Arrlun’s dagger as he thrust it forward into One-eye’s one good eye. The hilt met eye socket and One-eye wheezed and sagged onto Arrlun.
Flat-face shambled forward as Arrlun struggled to shove off One-eye’s corpse. Flat-face swung his evil mace, but missed Arrlun and tore into the trunk of a pine, wedging his weapon into the flesh of the tree.
Flat-face’s expression was one of slack-jawed surprise as Arrlun thrust his sword up and into the man’s chest. The big man stiffened on his blade as Arrlun twisted and heaved upwards, before withdrawing, leaving the man to drop on his knees. He vomited out a stream of dark blood before he hiccupped, and fell to the ground.
Arrlun turned to face Bergnon as he charged, meeting his thunderous blow and only just keeping his feet under the older man’s strength.
“I’m sorry it’s come to this, lad, truly,” Bergnon said through gritted teeth as he stepped back and thrust.
“Save your apologies. You fucking disgust me.” Arrlun parried the blow and slashed at Bergnon with his dagger.
“Disgust myself, lad, truth be told.” Bergnon grimaced, leaning away from the dagger slash.
“Bastard!” Arrlun spat at the major and launched a vicious flurry of overhead blows.
Bergnon conceded ground before Arrlun unleashed a hopeful kick at the major. His boot found its home in Bergnon’s balls and sent the major coughing to the ground. Bergnon spluttered and rose to his feet.
A noise sounded from behind. Arrlun turned, but already knew he was too late. Tripped-man. Arrlun tried to dive out of the range of the Tripped-man’s sword stroke, but the sharp edge buried deep into his thigh. The blood fountained from his leg in flashing jets of bright red. Arrlun roared before he swept the Tripped-man’s legs with his good leg, sending him prostrating on the ground. With a grimace of pain, Arrlun slammed his sword edge down onto the back of Tripped-man’s neck. Bergnon approached Arrlun as the young officer struggled to rise, blood spurting rhythmically from his wound.
“That’s a death wound that one, Major.” A fifth man appeared beside Bergnon, one Arrlun hadn’t seen. The fifth man pointed to Arrlun’s wounded leg with his sword. “Let’s just be leaving him and get on.”
Arrlun felt panic as his lifeblood fled from him with ferocious pace. He felt cold.
“No! Leave us!” Bergnon shouted to the man.
Arrlun struggled up, but slipped to the ground. His head swam and his vision faded to cloudy and back. He watched as the other man removed himself and stood across the glade from them. As Bergnon approached, Arrlun feebly tried to raise his sword, though he was too weak and so his grip faltered. His sword tumbled into the leaf litter. Bergnon caught him as his head fell backwards.
“Ach, lad. I’m sorry.” Bergnon gathered Arrlun into his arms, propping the young man’s broad shoulders against his leg.
“No. I’m not ready to—“Arrlun struggled to form his words between his laboured, shallow breaths. He glanced at his hand; the s
kin was pale and waxy. “I’m not ready to go.”
“Ach, lad. I didn’t want this.” Bergnon choked on the words.
Arrlun was sure there were tears brimming in the older man’s eyes.
“Didn’t want any of this.”
Arrlun pursed his drying lips together and tried to utter something, but Bergnon could not make out his words, so weak was his voice.
“What did you say?” Bergnon put his head closer to Arrlun’s mouth, his ear almost touching Arrlun’s lips.
“Fuck you!” Arrlun roared with all his might and then struck. His hands gripped Bergnon’s head as his teeth clamped shut on his ear.
Bergnon roared as Arrlun shook his head, teeth cutting into flesh and gristle alike. Bergnon screamed and punched out at Arrlun, striking him firmly in his wounded thigh, the pain of which caused Arrlun to release his hold on the major’s ear. Bergnon shuffled back from the dying lad and felt his ear burn.
Arrlun smiled at him with blood-stained teeth and blood streaked down his chin. He leered at his former mentor, and then spat the ragged chunk of ear at Bergnon with all the force he could muster. But there was hardly any strength left in him, and the chunk of ear flopped onto the ground, where it lay stuck to leaf litter. Succumbing to his wound, Arrlun fell back to the forest floor, caught a glimpse of a pocket of blood red winter poppies at the edge of the glade, and then slipped out of consciousness.
*
Bergnon held his bleeding ear and knelt into the leaf litter by the body of Arrlun. He regarded the lad as he lay before him, his lifeless eyes staring off towards a small pocket of winter poppies. He leant over him and closed his eyes, whispering a final apology to him.
As Bergnon rose, the other man walked towards him. He spoke as he approached, “That bastard put up a hell of a fight, didn’t he? Still, he got his in the end.” The man released a foul laugh and kicked leaf litter onto the body.
Bergnon’s shoulders and head began to shake. He felt his fury build as he stared at Arrlun’s pale face.
“What’s the matter with you, eh?” the man asked.
Bergnon turned towards the man and grabbed him by his gambeson, drawing him close into him, their noses almost touching. “He was a friend of mine. Mind yourself.”
“Get yer fucking hands off me!” The man shoved Bergnon’s grip and adopted a defensive stance. “Careful now, Major. If you harm me, who’ll deliver yer message to the old man, eh?” The man smiled a decay-filled grin. “The old king’s relying on you to ease his passage. Without my word, he’ll be most displeased with you, won’t he? In fact, he may even be so displeased that yer lady friend could find herself in some fairly permanent trouble, eh?” The man laughed wickedly.
Bergnon knew the man was right; there was nothing he could do. He dusted himself down and proceeded to pick up the scattered weapons. “You’ll have to lead the extra horses away.” Bergnon directed the man to assist him. “Lead them a good distance off and then slaughter them.”
“And what am I meant to do with them?” the man asked, pointing to the four bodies strewn across the forest floor.
“I’ve no time to bury them. I must get back to the city. You’ll have to tie them to the saddles, and when you’re done with the horses, burn them. Make sure it’s far enough away that we can’t see the smoke from Apula.”
“Yer the right bossy prick, aren’t you. Man like you shouldn’t be in the position to tell a man like me what he—”
Bergnon cracked a punch into the man’s face, sending him tumbling onto his arse. “Listen, you fucking nameless wretch, if you don’t do as you’re told, you can forget about whatever ego you have here and now. We are both dead men if you don’t do as I say. And if we are dead, she’s dead, if that murderous bastard king of yours hasn’t killed her already.”
The man looked as though he was about to protest, but then appeared to change his mind. He grumbled as he stood and dabbed at his bleeding lip with his cuff. “Name’s Mulan,” he grunted.
“I would say it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, but we both know that would be a lie. Just get on with it,” Bergnon continued as he dragged one of the dead men over towards Arrlun’s body. “Do you remember the message?” he asked Mulan.
“Course I remember,” the man snapped defensively as he hauled Arrlun’s body over the saddle of his horse.
“Then tell me.”
“Dawn, five days from now, yer going to set a signal fire atop the cathedral spire. That’s the signal to assemble on the plain. After the signal fire’s been lit, the outer western wall will be primed with charged oil. It’ll be ready to open up a breach as we approach. Yer going to foul the wells in the inner castle walls and make ready the surrender of the city, leaving the old man’s way clear to Carte.”
“Good,” Bergnon replied. “Now get the rest of the bodies out of here. I’ve got to be getting back.” Bergnon retrieved his water skin from his saddle and wet a rag. He wiped away the blood on his head and neck, as well as that which was hardening darkly in his fair hair.
“What about yer ear?” Mulan asked. “They’ll sure be seeing a wound like that.”
“My hair should cover it,” Bergnon said as he withdrew an ointment from his saddlebag and smeared it onto the jagged edge of his ear. He winced as the thick, oily substance smothered the exposed flesh. “Just you worry about your own role in this rotting fucking design, alright! I’ll be bloody careful of mine.”
“Just make sure you are, aye! Remember, you fail the old man, she dies.” The man revealed a bloodstained smile, a hangman’s mocking grin.
Bergnon held the man’s stare coldly. “I won’t fail.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Harruld sealed his dispatches and handed them over to a newly promoted captain who stood solemnly by the governor’s desk, wolfhounds sniffing at his mud-spattered boots. “Make sure that Governor Abbonan receives these personally, do you understand?”
“Yes, my lord,” the young captain responded.
“I want you to make two copies of these orders and have them sent on ships alongside you. I want a full withdrawal from Hardalen and a fifty percent troop extraction from Terna to Carte. Governor Abbonan is to dispatch ten galleys to accompany our protection fleet for the Cannan grain ships.”
“At once, my lord.”
“And one last thing, make sure the governor knows Captain Merkham and Sergeant Subath are to come here to me at Carte without delay.”
The young captain saluted and left in a hurry, almost bowling over another messenger as he entered Governor Harruld’s study.
“My lord,” the messenger said breathlessly, “two more of the urns have just arrived from the lands in the north.”
Harruld nodded towards the messenger. “Make sure they’re placed with the others.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Once you have placed the urns with the others, fetch me Olmat.” He paused before looking up. “And best bring Capriath and Sarbien whilst you’re at it. They’ll be with him, no doubt.”
*
“What in Dajda’s name are we going to do with them?” Brother Anthony asked to the gathered crowd of Governor Harruld, Olmat, Capriath and his father, Sarbien.
He gazed over the near three dozen clay urns that had been brought to Carte from the surrounding regions of the Free Provinces. The urns pulsed with a cool, uneven light, casting an eerie glow across the faces of all as they stood around them.
“They can’t stay here, locked away in the basement.” Anthony scratched at the thin collection of brown whiskers that sprouted from his boyish chin.
“Why not? This is as good a place as any?” Sarbien replied.
“It just…doesn’t seem right. I don’t quite know why,” Anthony said.
“Well, perhaps when you can ascertain why you feel such, you can enlighten us,” Sarbien said with a grin. He clasped his son’s shoulder through his rough habit. “What is most urgent is that we learn what sustains them. We need to know what the power is,
and, if need be, nullify it.”
Capriath approached the neatly piled urns and crouched to his knees, groaning as his old joints creaked. “I probably have the most knowledge out of the three of us on charging inanimates. From what I’ve learned of remote charging, when dealing with multiple inanimates, whatever is sustaining them should ideally be placed equidistant between each object. In doing so, one can ensure a balanced distribution of charge. This, in turn, ensures a greater likelihood of success in one’s aim. So, what we need truly is the location that each of the urns has come from and we will be closer to the source. If indeed I am correct in my assumption, that is.” Capriath creaked to his feet and looked at his companions.
“Fair enough,” Harruld spoke. “It’s a worthwhile hypothesis to pursue, but we’ve no telling how many of these urns there are, and indeed the location of them all.” Harruld paced a short distance back and forth, his hand stroking his silver beard as he thought. “Without locating all of the urns, I suppose we have to be accept that we may not be able to establish a precise location.” Harruld considered his own words for a moment. “I see the strategy behind these strikes. Combine the loss of so many leaders amongst our ranks with the effects of widespread and sustained crop failure, and you have a military on the brink of collapse. I think we can assume that the urns have been placed strategically only to target the yields of the Free Provinces, and that Solansia remains free from blight.”
Harruld’s companions nodded their agreement as the governor outlined his logic.
“It is quite plausible that our main crop regions have been targeted and that some more outlying provinces have been untouched. That would narrow the range down further. Guard, fetch me a map and a quill, and hurry,” Harruld instructed the young guard who stood outside the door.
