by Alex Aguilar
“That’s a beautiful mount ye got there,” the woman spoke again, her eyes admiring Viktor’s white horse. “Where’s she from?”
Viktor’s mind was preoccupied searching for a window of opportunity. But somehow, any possibility for their survival would end with the death of their young squire. He considered it. For a moment, he nearly gave in to the impulse to kick the raider behind him and risk Cedric’s life. Instead, however, he cleared his throat and calmed the twitching of his wrist.
“Raven’s Keep,” he said, his voice deep and croaky.
“Ah,” the woman snickered. “Best horses in the world, they are. I’d recognize one anywhere. Always wanted one…”
Viktor felt a rage building up in his chest.
Twice, he had been disarmed that week. And both times by a miscreant.
He’d be damned if he allowed them to take off with his mount, that much he was sure of. Just before he threw the kick behind, however, another voice stopped him.
“At ease!” it said, followed by the sound of boots sliding over shrubs.
A man stepped out of the trees, and Viktor felt a great relief in his shoulders when he saw him. He was dressed in black steel armor, neatly laced and polished, and a stylish green cape, hardly the uniform of a raider. The man’s hair was trimmed almost to the scalp, a thin layer of fuzz it was, and he had ebony-colored skin. His left ear was damaged; there was only a hole and the upper earflap sticking out, while a deep brown scar marked his skin where his earlobe should have been.
“Well, cursed be my eyes if they deceive me,” the man said. “Is that really the Golden Eagle of Vallenghard in the flesh?” He was smiling, but it was a much warmer smile than the raider woman’s.
“That depends. Who asks?” Viktor replied.
The man chuckled, a friendly kind of chuckle, as if he was an old acquaintance.
“I’d recognize you and that white steed of yours anywhere,” he said, before glancing at the elves and the two blonde raiders. “Lower your weapons, all of you. These men are not our enemies.”
Cedric felt himself able to breathe again, as the woman lifted her knee from his back and slid her dagger back into its sheath. And immediately, Jossiah Biggs snatched his sword from her hand and wiped it, despite the fact that her hands were cleaner than his. She gave him a devious grin, then puckered her lips and shot a kiss into the air to mock him.
The man in the dark armor approached and gave Viktor a slight bow.
“Sir Percyval Garroway of Wyrmwood,” he introduced himself. “Do forgive my new recruits. They’re quick with their blades but not so much with their minds.”
“Piss off,” the woman said, before the man that looked nearly identical to her patted her on the back and they disappeared into the trees.
“You can have a rest,” Sir Percyval shouted at the two as they walked off. “Have Skye take the next watch.”
There was no formal reply, except for a chuckle and the faint sound of the woman’s voice saying something along the lines of ‘thank the bloody gods’.
“Sir Viktor Crowley of Val Havyn,” Viktor shook the man’s hand. Something like anguish tugged at his chest when he introduced himself, knowing he could very well be hanged for using the word ‘Sir’ when he no longer was one. “This is my company,” he said. “Or rather, what’s left of it.”
Sir Percyval chuckled. “You lot look like you’ve seen better days,” he said.
“Any day outside of these cursed lands would be a better day.”
“Aye,” Percyval nodded and smiled. “Come. You must be starving. Our camping grounds are not too far from here. Let’s get you a warm meal.”
Viktor locked eyes with every man in his company one at a time, a look that he hoped would be encouraging but came across as more guarded than anything else. He threw a nod at them as well, hoping it would reassure them. And so they followed, one by one, pulling their horses into the trees.
Cedric, still startled and shaken, brushed the dirt from his clothes as best as he could.
“That was, um,” he cleared his throat. “That was quite close…”
Jossiah Biggs shot him a glare. For a man that was supposed to be on the same side as him, he always seemed to look at Cedric more as a pest than an ally, a look that reminded Cedric of his old guardian Mister Nottley.
“You gave us all away,” Jossiah said with a grimace. “You give us away to anyone again, boy… And I’ll cut your damn tongue off myself.”
Cedric gripped his trusty dagger, the only other thing he owned aside from the clothes on his back. And he was the last one to follow them into the trees.
Great, he thought worriedly. Guess I’ll add him to the list of things that’s likely to kill me.
Just around the river bend, two swordsmen dressed in red leathers observed cautiously. A third man in a red coat had his head submerged in the river, grabbing on to a heavy boulder so as to not let the current swallow him.
“You saw ‘im, did you?” the first man asked.
“Aye. Looks like he got ‘imself some new recruits. Never thought it’d be a bunch o’ rabbits, though.”
The third man suddenly lifted his head from the water, panting heavily from the pain as blood continued to ooze from his hollow eye socket. In his quivering fingers, he held a piece of red rag that he’d torn from his cape. He pressed it against his wound and tied it delicately at the back of his head.
“Cap’n?” one of the men called.
“What in all hells do you want?” asked Malekai Pahrvus as he adjusted the rag so it would hide the hideous wound.
“We spotted ‘im, cap’n,” the first man spoke again. “The Garroway bastard.”
“Give the word, cap’n. I’ll put an arrow in his skull.”
Malekai got to his feet and tried to gaze across the river, though it was mostly a blur. His vision wasn’t great to begin with, and now half of it was pure darkness. He shivered, half from the pain and half from the rage. “Do we know how many men he’s got?” he asked, the ragged patch becoming damper by the second as blood leaked from his socket.
“At least a hundred, cap’n. Not countin’ any scouts he’s sent out.”
“Piss on his name, the old bastard,” the other man said. “Last time we had a quarrel with ‘im, he killed o’er two dozen of us ‘n’ all he lost was a fucking ear.”
“We’ll make sure he loses more this time,” Malekai grinned. “Go find the bastard’s camp, both of you. Then report back to the camp.”
“You not coming, cap’n?”
“Do as you’re told,” the captain grunted. “I have a pending matter waiting for me in my tent.”
The two rogues grinned at each other and scurried off towards the Copperstone Bridge. Malekai remained where he stood for a moment, sighing and holding a hand against his throbbing face.
A bloody mess, he thought. A bloody fucking mess…
And it was. There was so much blood, he had to dip his head into the water again with the rag still on. It burned something awful, and he clenched his fists and grinded his teeth together. Then he walked back towards the Rogue Brotherhood’s camp, rage in his chest and mischief on his mind.
* * *
About two miles east of the Wyrmwood camp, a young woman with bloodshot eyes was being dragged against her will towards a camp that reeked of musk, ale, and red spindle. Her blank gaze was one of hopelessness and her cheeks were humid and stained with the tears she’d recently shed for her fallen companion. Her beloved bow Spirit was now in the hands of a stranger, one whose demeanor was repulsive and cruel to say the least.
She was defenseless, and her gutless captor looked pleased by his power over her.
The two of them walked along a muddy path in the Woodlands, with rows of brown tents set up on both sides. Robyn Huxley sighed and shut her eyes, telling herself she would make it through this somehow. She tried to ignore the pain in her wrists, which were roped together so tightly that it was beginning to tarnish her skin with rashes.
The commotion in the camp was loud and disorderly.
Robyn had heard many tales of the mercenary guild known as the Rogue Brotherhood, but she had never seen a single one of them in her life, at least none that bore the colors or the infamous tattoo of the scorpion on their wrist. She imagined large, heavily-built warriors, cold and menacing, willing to fight for the highest bidder yet still having a shred of dignity left. But she never envisioned what her eyes saw on that day…
She saw men… Neither special nor memorable, or even remotely pleasing to look at…
All around her, they circled in, their glares frightening and repulsive.
A tall man with a beer gut and wavy brown hair, and countless scars and tattoos all over his body…
A husky bald man with five or six rings on each ear and a large one hanging between his nostrils…
A man with a beard that reached his chest, another man with no hair at all, and a suspiciously-smelling lanky man with a nervous twitch.
It was the girl’s first glimpse of the Brotherhood, a guild of mercenaries she had heard about since childhood, and yet all she saw were simple men… Threatening, as they might have seemed, they didn’t exactly have the bearings of any soldier in Val Havyn. They were disappointing and frightening all at once, the type of drunkards she would often see lounging around Dreary Lane back in Val Havyn.
“What have we got ‘ere now, Borrys?” a man asked, walking out of his tent half-nude.
There was mocking and whistling and about a dozen unpleasant stares shot at Robyn, and Borrys shoved her forward so she’d walk faster.
“Ain’t she a beauty, lads?” Borrys chuckled back at his comrades, caressing Robyn’s cheek unwelcomingly, to which the girl scowled with disgust. She kept her gaze forward and tried to breathe through her mouth so as to avoid smelling the men’s awful breaths.
“Could I keep ‘er?” asked the man with the earrings as he approached them and tried to catch a sniff of Robyn’s hair. “It gets rather lonely at night…”
“Sorry, lads. She belongs to the cap’n,” Borrys said, to which the men began to whine in protest and spat at the girl’s boots.
Robyn had only seen about five women since she was dragged into the camp and three of them were prisoners. The other two were mercenaries, she could tell from the red leather on both their outfits; one wore it on her boots and belt, and the other wore it on her vest.
Suddenly, however, Robyn’s attention shifted.
A towering figure was walking towards them… And she noticed it was no human at all, this due to his significantly larger stature and olive green skin. And when she saw the two sharp fangs sticking up from his jaw, her tearful eyes widened.
Is that a…?
It was the very first orc she had ever laid eyes on. He stood at about six and a half feet tall and had no hair on his head, but had a long black beard on the tip of his chin tied into a neat braid. His ears were pointy and twice the size of a human ear, and his hands were so massive he could’ve probably wrapped them around a child’s head. He was dragging an entire deer by its two hind legs and was carrying no weapon, giving Robyn the impression that he had hunted the deer with his bare hands. The only red leather he wore was in his trousers. His torso remained uncovered, and he had three long scars the size of Robyn’s arm running diagonally across his bare green chest.
“Where’s your axe?” Borrys asked the orc.
“Didn’t need one.”
“You bloomin’ tyke,” Borrys said, a bit astounded. “They don’t call you the Beast for nothin’, I’ll give you that.”
Robyn and the orc looked at one another for a moment, a moment that terrified her, before Borrys dragged her further along the path.
They reached the very last tent in the camp, the only tent bearing the mark of the red scorpion, and Borrys shoved her inside so harshly that she fell to her knees with her hands still tied behind her.
Then Borrys bent down on one knee and began tying her feet together.
She tried to resist, but it was hopeless.
“Now listen ‘ere, girl,” he said. “You’re to wait for the cap’n to return. For your sake, don’t try to run… Don’t try anythin’ rash… You don’t know Malekai like I do. Trust me,” he snickered like a madman. “You don’t wanna cross him…”
Robyn said nothing. She simply sat there, feeling the wet earth soaking through her ragged pants. And then the red mercenary smirked at her lack of response, blew a sticky kiss in the air at her, and headed out of the tent and towards a nearby fire.
It was then that the knot in Robyn’s throat returned…
She was terrified, but she wouldn’t dare show Borrys…
She began breathing heavily and grunting as the tears continued to flow out of her red angry eyes. There was even a sob, which was quite rare of her. But she couldn’t help it. The mere image of Nyx flapping for his life as Borrys stabbed him mercilessly was aching at her gut.
Stupid, Robyn, she repeated to herself. Stupid, stupid, stupid…
The guilt was unbearable. She should have shot him, and she knew it. If she had, perhaps Nyx would still be alive. She tried hard to fight the negative thoughts that were haunting her consciousness, for there was hardly any time to be morose.
For now, the nearby Wyrmwood army had gained her some time…
Time, which she would use sensibly to plan her escape…
* * *
Sir Darryk Clark of Roquefort found himself in King Rowan’s assembly room, sitting along the grand rectangular table, surrounded by faces he had never seen before who were all mumbling amongst themselves. He heard ‘Roquefort’ being whispered repeatedly, as well as his family name, and the anticipation of it all was causing him to sweat under the black curls above his brow.
The heavy door opened suddenly…
Some of the nobles in the room glanced over and prepared to stand, but then slouched back into their chairs when they realized it wasn’t the king that walked in.
Lady Brunylda Clark, Treasurer of Val Havyn, gave no one the courtesy of a smile. Hardly anyone ever gave her that courtesy, and she figured decades ago that she had no reason to give it back. There was only one pair of eyes acknowledging her and it caught her off guard.
Sir Darryk Clark sat there between the representative of the Merchants’ Guild and an empty chair. She was the only familiar name in the room to him, even though he hardly knew the woman. And though he found her demeanor far from amiable, he couldn’t help but cling to her like a desperate child amidst a crowd of strangers.
Lady Brunylda stared back at him for a moment.
He looks lost, the poor fool, she thought to herself.
Feeling a shred of pity, she took the empty seat next to him.
He gave her a coy smile, hoping to ease the tension. But she replied with a mere head nod, not even a friendly one, the kind of nod that someone would give to a guard for doing their duty.
On the table was a grand map with miniature wooden figurines of ships and soldiers set in place along the southern coasts, plotting the king’s plan of attack. Sir Darryk was in his mid-twenties, experienced enough in minor combat, but not quite poised for a war. Examining the map, he realized the amount of preparation it took for a potential war was far greater than the customary tactics he would use in battle.
The young knight’s hands were sweaty and unsettled, a feeling all too unusual to him.
He was unaware of the reason the king had requested his presence in the assembly room. Not only was he the only outsider in the room, he was also the youngest and possibly the most inexperienced in political affairs. And yet the king had asked specifically that he be invited to the assembly room.
He wiped his moist hands with his handkerchief, which was a rich yellow, the color of buttermilk. The ships on the southern end of the map, bearing the emblem of Roquefort, were tinted in the very same color. Even the emblem of the elk was there, a bright red head shining amidst all that yellow. Suddenly, he had to
dry his hands again…
Lady Brunylda Clark noticed his concern and couldn’t help but smirk.
Poor fool… Came to Val Havyn for a bride and now he’ll have to fetch her too…
Suddenly the doors swung open again.
King Rowan’s presence filled the room like a lit candle in a darkened cellar. Sir Hugo Symmond was by his king’s side, holding a rolled brown parchment in his hands. The king looked weary, that much was certain, but the ill look he had just an hour prior had vanished, replaced with the same red blush on his cheeks that he had whenever he shouted angrily, which was quite often indeed.
The entire room rose to their feet out of respect.
“Sit down, all of you,” the king said, quite obvious that his patience was short that day. “I thank you all for gathering on such short notice.”
Sir Darryk Clark removed his hand from the table, trying his best to appear casual, as if he hadn’t just been mildly distressed about the king’s plan of action.
“Your majesty,” the Merchants’ Guild’s representative bowed in his chair. “You bless us with your presence! I assure you I’ve sent word to all of my contacts for support w-”
“Shut your mouth and listen,” the king said abruptly. He had always been the kind of man to speak candidly and with a brusque honesty, much at the expense of others’ sentiments. And this day was no exception. “I can’t disclose too much, because quite frankly I don’t know very much. The facts are these… I’ve received word from Roquefort. There might still be hope for your future queen, but we must act now. The enemy has been spotted… We don’t know the fuckers’ names, only the direction in which they are sailing. I’ll need each one of you to send ravens to your connections in Roquefort and any neighboring city in the south… Inform them that my royal troop marches today, and we are to make sail for the Noorgard Islands at once upon our arrival.”
Lady Brunylda Clark felt her chest pounding all of a sudden.
