by Alex Aguilar
“Strange? Unfamiliar?” Thaddeus suggested.
“Sickening?” Jossiah scoffed.
“…remarkable,” said Cedric.
“Remarkably sickening.”
Viktor, realizing he had been gawking for what must have been minutes, turned his gaze away from the elf in the tree. “Gentlemen, I’m going to have a word with the knight commander.”
“I’ll come,” Jossiah leapt to his feet.
“I would prefer to speak with him alone, old boy.”
“Viktor,” Jossiah lowered his voice, his face hardening. “You can’t be serious… This place is mad.”
“Mad?” Viktor raised a brow. “Because it’s a Halghardian troop?”
“Because it’s…” Jossiah paused as an elf and two gnomes casually walked past them. “Because it’s crawling with freaks,” the man finished with a whisper.
“There are more humans here than anything else, old dog,” Viktor said to him. “If you feel that threatened, then… I don’t know. Try making a bloody friend for once, perhaps?”
With that, the golden knight walked away, leaving Jossiah Biggs to frown all on his own.
On his way to the knight commander’s tent, Viktor’s eyes wandered about at the abundance of life. Elven recruits drank and huddled around a boiling cauldron next to human raiders, rambling and laughing at one another in the same way a group of drunken peasants would do in a tavern in Val Havyn. It baffled him and brought an odd warmth to his chest all at once.
He entered the knight commander’s tent, which was old and tattered, not at all a tent fit for nobility. And instantly, he felt the discomfort overtake him… Not only was it quiet inside the tent, it was astoundingly cold, as if he had stepped foot inside of a frosty wet cave.
There were three figures inside…
Sir Percyval Garroway sat in an old wooden chair, leaning in attentively.
A sickly-looking grey-haired woman sat in front of him, lost in a trance, eyes pale and ghostlike and staring down at nothing.
And the last figure was another man in armor, tall and brown-skinned, possibly also a knight. He stood behind Percyval, guarding his back as they both listened closely to the old woman’s feeble whispers.
“How many?” Percyval asked, a bit impatiently.
The woman’s voice was gentle and frail, and her neck was swaying back and forth as if she was sitting at the top of a hill, gazing down at a landscape.
“Thousands,” she said, her wrinkled lips dry and purple. “Four… Maybe five.”
“Five thousand?” Percyval felt his heart speed up. “That can’t be.”
“Maybe he sent word to the north for reinforcements?” the other knight suggested.
“Not possible,” Sir Percyval replied. “The north is neutral. Bunch of cowards just waiting for the storm to pass. Maybe they’re men from overseas?”
“No…” the old woman spoke again. “Peasants. Common men.”
“Yes…?”
“And children…”
“Children?!”
The other knight placed a hand on Percyval’s shoulder, which the man shrugged away as he leapt to his feet. “He’s a madman!” he growled. “A heathen! A heartless bastard!”
Suddenly the old woman began to blink rapidly. The color returned to her eyes and her movement was no longer as gentle. “I lost him,” she said with a sigh, and this time her voice was more natural and much less deathlike. “He must’ve gone too far…”
“That’s all right, Zahrra. Have a rest,” Percyval said as he rubbed his temples and sighed. When he began to pace, he noticed Viktor standing by the entrance to his tent. “Sir Crowley… I didn’t hear you come in.”
“I didn’t want to interrupt,” Viktor said, still somewhat uncomfortable.
“You didn’t,” Percyval slouched into his actual knight commander’s seat, not that it was any less old and tattered than the wooden chair, just more comfortable. “Sir Viktor Crowley I would like you to meet my second-in-command, Sir Antonn Guilara the Tenacious… Antonn, my friend, meet the Golden Eagle of Vallenghard himself.”
Sir Antonn gave Viktor a head nod and a handshake, but no smile. He was of average height, strong and broad-shouldered, with skin brown as mahogany, thick black hair that reached his back, and a beard that was graying at the chin. “I’ve heard about you,” he told Viktor. “I thought you’d be taller.”
“Sir Antonn the Tenacious, eh?” Viktor remarked, having heard a thing or two about the man.
“Well,” Percyval said with a shrug. “It didn’t feel proper to call him Sir Antonn the Stubborn.”
“Piss off,” Sir Antonn grunted.
Viktor was not insulted by the knight’s lack of reverence; in fact he had grown tired of being worshipped, if he was being honest. And their more casual demeanor he had expected as much, for this was not Vallenghard, nor was it even Halghard for that matter. In the Woodlands, every man and woman was more or less equal… Equal in name, equal in power, and equally disposable.
“And this… this is Zahrra,” Percyval aimed a palm at the old woman. “One of our new recruits.”
“Another noble,” she said, eyeing Viktor up and down.
Viktor nodded at her and made his best attempt at a smile.
“Ahh,” she said, squinting intensely as she fixed her gaze on his worried blue eyes. “Though not as noble anymore, it seems…”
Viktor’s heart began to race as he felt a cold pressure in his chest. He cleared his throat loudly and uncomfortably. “Sir Percyval, may I have a word with you in private?”
“I’m afraid I can’t allow that,” the man replied. “The sight can hit Zahrra at any moment. I need her by my side at all times, should the enemy get any funny ideas.”
“The… sight?” Viktor asked, raising a brow.
“Well, in case you haven’t noticed, she’s a witch,” Percyval chuckled at him. “Not to worry, she’s on our side. She’s already proven herself worthy. Hell, we’d be dead in a ditch right now if it weren’t for her.”
Sir Antonn dragged the wooden chair and placed it across from Percyval’s desk.
Viktor took a seat. “I’m not sure I quite understand,” he stammered, then turned to the old woman directly. “You can… see things?”
“Only brief glances,” she said, sweating and resting her back against her seat as if she had just walked a hundred miles. “Thoughts, conversations, dreams, that sort of thing.”
Fascinating, Viktor thought. And then he took a risk.
“We lost a few members of our company a night ago,” he said. “Is there any way you can figure out if they’re alive?”
Zahrra smirked. “It doesn’t work that way, I’m afraid.”
Of course it doesn’t… Why should anything ever work in our favor for once?
“I need a link of some sort,” she explained. “A strand of hair, a fingernail, something… Otherwise, I’ve no way to tell a man from a dog, really.”
Viktor hesitated for a moment. Then he asked, “And what’s the link to the enemy?”
Zahrra smiled, revealing her less than pleasant teeth. She held out an arm, and within her ragged grey sleeve she held a small jar. It was full of a light brown fluid, and floating inside of it was a finger…
Viktor stammered, sweat building up in his face and vomit rising up his throat. “By the gods…”
“Leave her be, Sir Crowley,” Percyval said. “She needs rest. And, with respect, we’ve a war to think of. Can’t waste good talent on searching for runaways.”
“They’re not runaways,” Viktor remarked.
The old woman set the jar down on the floor. She then sighed and closed her eyes, as if she was getting ready to sleep while sitting. Viktor looked away. He couldn’t bear to look at her eerie figure any longer.
“F-Forgive me for being blunt, Sir Percyval, but…” he stammered, then lowered his voice to a thick whisper. “Is an expedition like yours… acceptable in Halghard?”
Sir Percyval grinne
d. He was known to be rather direct. Sarcastic sometimes, even. But he appeared more a friend than an enemy. And Viktor knew too well from experience the differences in conducts between the two.
“As I said, Sir,” Percyval leaned in and crossed his dark callused hands over the table. “We are in the midst of war. And I believe we both know that times of war are desperate. Often, desperation leads us to question ourselves. Question our decisions, our ancestors’ decisions, even our very nature.”
Viktor kept his stare. He wasn’t intimidated by the man, nor did he feel Percyval was trying to intimidate him. And still, he was feeling more out of place by the second.
“Let me ask you something, Sir Crowley, what do you think makes something acceptable?” Percyval asked. “What does the word even mean? Looking back, it’s rather remarkable what has been considered acceptable throughout our history… Did you know dismembering a man in broad daylight was acceptable three hundred years ago? Now, at least, they’ve the decency to do it behind closed doors and even then it’s nauseating to think of… Five hundred years ago, it was acceptable for children to marry. Hell, at one point, even kilts were considered acceptable.”
Sir Antonn Guilara cleared his throat. “They still are in Ahari, Sir.”
“Are they really?” Percyval raised an amused brow. “Fucking Aharians. We ought to learn a thing or two from them, y’know.”
Viktor couldn’t help but smirk.
“Regardless, Sir Crowley, my concern is not what is acceptable… My concern is looking after the good of Halghard. If we don’t give it all we’ve got, we’ll lose her to a bloody tyrant. A pig, who is more concerned about the good of the wealthy than of the majority. The problem is, however, we don’t have the numbers… By the order of King Alistair Garroway of Wyrmwood, rightful heir to the throne, we are scouting the Woodlands for recruits. Any soldier fit for battle, human or not, we will take, the arrangement being that if and when we win the war, they are promised proper accommodation. Most didn’t hesitate to join. The meals and lodging alone attracts them, I’d say.”
“Wait… Are you saying you’ve offered them… land?” Viktor’s eyes widened.
Sir Percyval grinned and nodded. “The realms of men are like spider webs, Sir Crowley. Connections are everywhere and rumors spread faster than the shingles. In here, there are no rules. One will fight for the highest bidder. Land is all we’ve got to offer, really. Luckily, in here, that makes us the highest bidder.”
“And you’re sure you’ve the land to give them?”
“This is war, Sir Crowley… Death is an unfortunate consequence that comes with it.”
Viktor hesitated at first. Then he took a deep breath and said, “You do understand what I’m trying to point out here, right…?”
Sir Percyval’s demeanor was calm but he appeared somewhat insulted.
“You think I’m a madman?” he asked.
“I did not say that,” Viktor remarked. “Quite the opposite, in fact, I think Wyrmwood fights for a good cause. And y-”
“I didn’t ask what you thought about our cause. I asked if you think I’m a madman.”
Viktor waited a moment… Then another…
Both Sir Percyval and Sir Antonn looked about ready to throw him out. Not only out of the tent, but out of the whole camp. And so Viktor had to choose his words quite carefully.
“I believe we live in an unfair world,” he decided to say. “I believe our laws are so far out of our control, it’s often degrading. But I also believe an individual should be judged by their actions… Rather than by the way he or she looks.”
“Mmm,” Percyval grinned. “And can you honestly look me in the eye and tell me you’ve lived every day of your life under these beliefs?”
Viktor hesitated… He hadn’t, and he knew it…
But he decided to answer the man with honesty.
“I’ve done many regrettable things in my life, Sir Percyval, more than I care to admit,” Viktor said. “I’ve seen men hanged for stealing a loaf of bread for their starving families. I’ve seen women burned for using exotic herbs to try and find cures for illnesses. I’ve killed men simply because they bore a different banner than mine… I’ve done wretched things, unspeakable things, because of one thing… Because it had to be done. But I have never broken the laws of our kingdom. Even talking about breaking our king’s laws can get a man killed, and we both know that. And what you’re talking about is changing a law that has existed for 250 years. You don’t seriously think it will go by unnoticed?”
Percyval allowed a moment of silence as he took Viktor’s words in.
“That is a matter we will deal with when the time comes,” was all he said.
Viktor’s heart was racing, and it only got worse when he realized the witch Zahrra had been sitting there listening the entire time. At least, he assumed she could hear him. He couldn’t really tell with the way she was sitting there in that sleeplike trance.
“Pardon me if I’ve offended you, Sir,” said Viktor. “Do believe me when I say my heart is in the right place.”
“I would expect no different from the Golden Eagle,” Sir Percyval said, with an emphasis on the name. He cleared his throat. “Did you know,” he went on, “There have recently been rumors, Sir, spreading all over our kingdom… They speak not only of the invasion and the missing princess, but also of your disbarment…”
Viktor moved not a single muscle. He kept his gaze firm and unmoving. He knew rumors in Gravenstone spread like wildfire, but this was more than impressive. And so, he swallowed back the angst and decided to deceive the man without actually lying to him.
“There were also rumors that it was Alistair Garroway, your brother, who killed King Frederic in his sleep,” he said daringly. “Though what kind of man would I be to believe such rumors without any proof?”
Sir Percyval grinned again, finding Viktor’s audacious response amusing. “I suppose that’s true,” he said. “But that’s horse shit, all of it. My brother served King Frederic faithfully. After the queen and prince were killed by bandits, the king drank himself to death. Those are the facts. Anything else you’ve heard is a mere rumor spread by that bastard Balthazar Locke.”
“And yet it’s Balthazar that sits on the throne in Morganna, is he not?”
“Because he’s got the wealth and the connections,” Percyval said. “He says he deserves the throne by right, says the king would have wanted it that way. But firstly, the man’s a damn fool. He’d rather make himself a boar made of gold to place in his common room than to feed the people of Halghard. And secondly, it was my brother the king chose to rule as his successor… But as I’ve mentioned before, humans have the tendency to act rashly and stupidly. There were plenty that chose to follow Locke, all of which were only interested in making more coin. But the truth remains, Sir Crowley. My brother Alistair is the rightful heir. He was the king’s right hand knight and he served Halghard well for over two decades. He never wanted the throne, said he had no right to it. But neither does Balthazar Locke, for that matter, and that’s more important. Now the war is reaching its climax, and we are at our last resorts. We need any and every able body we can spare on our side, if King Alistair is to bring peace and order once more to the kingdom of Halghard.”
There was another silence. Viktor’s expression could only be described as one of respect and admiration for the Garroways. “I wish nothing but the best for your troops and the future of Halghard, Sir Percyval.”
“As I for you,” Percyval gave him a nod, and after a pensive moment he asked, “Where exactly is your company headed to, anyhow…?”
That was the question, indeed.
The company, or what was left of it, sat outside among the Wyrmwood recruits patiently. It was either Drahkmere or back home, and they wouldn’t know until their knight commander returned. Then, of course, there was the possibility of death along the way, regardless of the destination. And it made them all terribly uncomfortable.
The most u
ncomfortable pair of eyes, however, was Cedric’s. His eyes would glance around almost unwillingly, as he was far too frightened to stare at any one person for too long at the risk of being threatened.
His eyes came to an abrupt halt, however, when they came across quite a peculiar pair.
It was the two mercenaries that had ambushed them by the Copperstone Bridge. The woman with the golden braids sat on a wooden stool sharpening her set of knives. She had several scars here and there, the most obvious one running down her right brow, though most of it was hidden beneath the layer of black paint around her eyes. The man that looked a lot like her sat nearby, polishing his sword.
Cedric stared at the woman, his wooden soup bowl now empty. He became lost in her scars, having never seen a woman with so many of them in his short life. She must have been a mercenary for years before the recruit, Cedric thought, given the facet of brusqueness she invoked. From the way she looked, she may have been in her thirties. But there was no way for Cedric to be sure of any of this.
Before becoming a squire he was a tavern server. He hadn’t been in the company of many mercenaries in his life and he had not much to compare to, but he was quite sure that no one had intimidated him as much as she did, at least not this much without having even spoken a word.
Of course, when she finally did speak to him, she was as daunting as he had imagined.
“What’re ye bleedin’ lookin’ at, then?” the woman asked abruptly.
Oh… shit. Cedric stammered, realizing he’d been caught gawking. Say something. Anything!
“Um… p-pardon me, miss.”
“I asked ye a question, lad,” the woman said. “Ye got a problem?”
“N-No. No problem at all. It’s only…”
“It’s only what?!”
She rose to her feet in defense and gripped one of her knives. Normally, she would encounter men who had but one of the two following objectives: stealing her gold or forcing himself upon her. Cedric, however, did not strike her as either type of man, and she wasn’t sure how to feel towards it.
“I’ve just never seen, uh… well, I’ve never seen a mercenary like you before.”
