by S. Nileson
Khatar took a sip of his mead and considered his options. He had little to go on, not finding any sign of Archer’s arrival save for Kari’s instincts. He knew she could not be trusted, but he did not know the extent of her deceit and if she had any motivations beyond that which she shared with him earlier. He could wait or return back to Stonerift, but that could prove fatal and the trail could go cold. By the time he dropped his mug for the second time Khatar made his mind.
“You said he came here with a woman. What makes you so sure it was a woman?”
“Because she kept asking about someone called Keteus and another called Balta. It’s difficult to hide such a thing when speaking with others. Do these names mean anything to you?”
“None. But judging from their names one is Parthan and the other Kolian.”
“We don’t know that,” Kari said. She looked at the old woman and asked of Khatar, “I believe I’ve earned myself a drink on your expense.” When Khatar refused she gestured the old woman anyway.
“Have you gotten the woman’s name?” Khatar asked.
“She never introduced herself or even spent the night. There was no record of their arrival and departure save for the words of a few folk here.”
“What else?”
“That is all there is to know about them here. The rest we can find out on our way to Partha. If we leave now perhaps I can find a fresh set of tracks.”
“In the night?”
“At any time. I’m a pathfinder, Varangian, and a good one as well. I can track you anything that came through here within a week.”
Khatar nodded. He noticed the last grain from his hourglass fall and took it, stowing it back into his vest where it rested near his ribs. “A week you say. Then we move at the break of dawn.”
Kari chuckled. “I thought Varangians didn’t rest till their mission’s done.”
“That would be absurd, pathfinder, for many of our missions last for months or years. Even us Varangians must rest during such times and a lack of sleep will do us little good when the time for thinking or fighting is at hand.” In one large gulp he emptied his mug and bashed it on the table, nearly cracking the container and earning himself much attention. “Meet me here at dawn.”
5
Khatar waited patiently for Kari, well after dawn, and as he was about to depart and venture on his own, reflecting on how poorly he had judged Kari, she appeared, wearing an additional piece of leather armor covering her torso and the upper part of her thighs and a brown hooded cloak that bore colors blending well with the surrounding land. “I’m ready to move when you are,” she said.
“You are late, pathfinder, and you would do well to lose the habit.” Khatar stood and left with Kari. His cold, stale meal and two mugs of mead paid for and settled long before Kari’s arrival.
The old woman serving the drinks shot a glance at the travelers’ backs and silently prayed that they never return.
The road towards Partha was long, for it was paved with crude mud bricks around the landmarks scattered between Partha and Salvation. Mountains, hills and abandoned castles and forts were scattered all around the area. The mountains proved too troublesome to level or carve for a path, so the ancient builders avoided the chore and paved around it. The hills were too steep for the wagons and caravans to cut through and it tired the mules, horses and donkeys, so they too were avoided. And the abandoned forts and castles were teeming with looters and bandits and their strategic value had long been lost, so they were decided not worth leveling or clearing from their unwanted inhabitants and were marked outside of the boundaries of the path.
But some parts of the path remained well and untroubled, neither by beast nor by outlaw, and were large enough and with good land for settlers to farm and bring their cattle to. These places were chosen by settlers as their new home and small villages were raised along the path between Gallecia and Partha.
“I see many tracks,” Kari said well past the gates of Salvation. She looked intently at the mud bricks covered with many layers of dust and dirt that spoke stories of those who traveled on the road. But only one set of tracks belonging to two travelers weighed heavy by gear prepared for a long journey.
“How can you tell they’re not simply the tracks of armored men?” The Varangian looked behind him at his own tracks and leaned down for a better look. “I travel light and my tracks dig deeper into the earth than those two.” He pointed at the travelers’ tracks.
“How many have you seen in Salvation wearing armor as thick as yours?”
Khatar gazed blankly at his own tracks and drew upon whatever images he had stored in his mind from his brief visit to Salvation and remembered none who were dressed in anything heavier than a single layer of hardened leather armor. He hummed in agreement as he stood up and turned to resume his travels.
“That’s the best we have to go on, boss.” She continued to follow the tracks, even when they led them away from the path and towards the nearby woods, where she guessed the travelers rested by the disturbed surrounding. “Either they’re very clever at leaving a false trail just good enough to fool me, or they don’t care about who pursues them.”
“I vouch for the latter.”
“It’s not prudent. Anyone on a pregnant mare could catch up to them.”
“Not before they get the chance to hear them approach and hide in the woods with enough time to prepare for a costly ambush.” He remembered the guard he ran into when he had started his investigation at Fort Pax and how he spoke of Archer having disposed of seven of his men. Of course they weren’t as difficult to dispose of as a Varangian would have been, but certainly even a Varangian would find it challenging to stand against an adversary such as Archer’s companion – whom he suspected to be the real threat - especially with the element of surprise stacked against him.
“Do not underestimate our target,” Khatar said quietly, speaking to Kari but sounding as if he intended to speak the words to himself as he often did.
The tracks led them back to the muddy road. Time was gained, Kari thought and smiled at her realization. It was easy to follow the fresher tracks and Kari grew bored at the simple task, provoking her mind to wander and pose an endless stream of questions directed at her mysterious companion.
“You’re not an outspoken one?” Kari asked of Khatar and continued after a brief moment of silence. “I have to say it’s an honor to meet a Varangian. I myself am one fourth Kolian, from my father’s side. Of course I never met my father and only knew my mother for the first five years of my life after which I was sold by her to a wealthy Sennan slave trader. My memory is a bit hazy, but I believe he was an outlaw.”
“I have no interest in your history,” Khatar said coldly.
Kari ignored him and continued, “After a sizable amount of slaves had been collected the slave trader ventured forth to Senna by sea, not that there was any other way to get there, and somewhere in the voyage the ship was attacked by pirates, also Sennan outlaws, and we were freed and offered to join their ranks.
“It wasn’t really an offer, for no child of five has the intellect to weigh such options with any sort of accuracy, even one as gifted as I am.” Kari paused for a moment to gauge the effect of her perceivably well-crafted joke, which Khatar once more ignored, and continued, “So for the next decade I was a Sennan Pirate, until one day they were attacked by some unknown young Sennan captain hoping to prove himself, and I managed to escape with a few others. We spent a few months on a deserted island building a rudimentary raft, the ropes took most of our time and so did the secret stash of rom we had discovered buried on the island, and we eventually caught the tide and sailed back to Nosgard. I’ve been a mercenary since then, with Salvation being somewhat of a home to me.”
“Kari,” Khatar said, “I really have no interest in your story.”
“Well, at least it helped me confirm how very rude you Varangians are. The rumors were true.”
Khatar sighed. When night had fallen and when it was
time for the travelers to make camp, Khatar had developed a painful headache and quickly went to sleep, using a Kolian technique of mediation that induced a rapid, deep sleep. For a brief moment before he slept he considered abandoning Kari at the first opportunity, but for some reason he never got to know about Khatar dismissed the idea entirely and allowed himself to be immersed in his pleasant dreams where he could truly be free.
Chapter 8: Seeking Salvation
‘A broken warrior is nothing more than a shadow of his former self, dependent and incapable of being put to use.’ Varangian Code.
1
In the early days of Kol there were many short-lived Warchiefs. Whenever one came to power he was quickly challenged to a duel in which the defeated was often killed. The duels where at first an honorable contest between honorable men, but the Kolian way back then often rewarded acts of dishonor and treason, for those strongest where given a much higher station and Kolian strength could be achieved in many a way; honorable and not.
Thus it was by Varang, one of the first Warchiefs to die of old age, that a special group of guards were chosen to protect their leader and indoctrinated into a new Kolian code where not only strength was prized, but honor too. Each Varangian Guard was handpicked by the Warchief from the strongest and most accomplished of his warriors. Upon joining they made an oath to Rostam that they would protect their Warchief from all those who seek them harm and act as his shield before his sword was raised. Thus many a Kolian intending to challenge the Warchief fell by the blade of the first Varangians. In time the tradition of duels was all but gone.
Varang’s new troop was not accepted by many when they were first formed, and the Warchief had to ward off many attackers, winning countless duels before he proved to the others that none could best him unless he could best a Varangian, and it was true for the Warchief was a formidable adversary, both in intellect and in physical prowess.
The new generations of Kolians came to accept the Varangian Guard and the new tradition of having to best one of them before challenging the Warchief. Thus by this change not only did the Warchief protect himself from endless duels, but he insured that his Varangian would always be tested, and their ranks stay strong.
In time joining the ranks of the Varangian Guard became an honor in itself and the few Kolians privileged enough to be counted amongst them were well remembered by their peers and recorded on the stone pillars of Kol, standing high by the gates of the Kolian palace.
Khatar, being a decedent of a long line of Varangian Guards, could trace his lineage back to his first ancestor who joined the very first wave of Varang’s infamous guard. No true Kolian did not know his name and that of his ancestors by heart, and so his true name was never used outside the confines of the Kolian palace and the name of Gorab Layl was uttered by few lips.
2
Two days into their journey Khatar and Kari were halted by a small band of Silver Stags. It was at a forking path where two signs led the travelers to Partha and to a nearby town, much closer than Partha, bearing the name of Blossom.
“Halt!” one of the Silver Stags ordered, not recognizing Khatar as a Varangian Guard with his hood and cloak hiding most of the landmarks that would Identify him as such.
At the command Khatar paused and unhooded himself, making certain that he spread his arms wide enough to reveal his Varangian armor. The gesture was well received by the Silver Stags as their captain dismounted and bowed respectfully.
“Forgive me, Lord Varangian. We’ve been told that Warchief Starkad sent one of his finest to capture the outlaw. I am Qella, captain of this small troop.”
Khatar hummed and scanned the dozen Silver Stags accompanying the captain. The warden women were frail by Kolian standards and Khatar judged that none of them would be able to stand against any of his Varangian. But he knew that they were specifically chosen to appear as such to give them the advantage of surprise, for in reality the Silver Stags had an arsenal of tricks and tools at their disposal. Yet the extent of their corruption after the Demigod Emperor Servak’s death was unknown to him.
“Tell me, Captain Qella, have you any news of Archer’s whereabouts?”
“Archer?” the captain asked in confusion. Before Khatar’s retaliation she managed to correct herself and said, “The outlaw’s tracks lead to Blossom. We cannot venture there without risking the wrath of the Parthans. This is as far as Commander Gullveig allowed us to pursue Archer. We’re awaiting further instructions.”
“It’s reasonable,” Khatar said. Momentarily he considered scolding the Silver Stag for her inaction then realized that it would be better for Kari and him to continue their investigation without their interference, who could in turn alert Archer as they were likely expected.
“Allow me,” Kari asked of Khatar for permission. An approving nod gave her confirmation to proceed, “Captain Qella, when were you first informed of the Varangian’s involvement?”
“Just this dawn. A Watcher Hound bought us news of the Warchief’s generous gift to Emperor Malus along with some other minor Silver Stag news.”
“How minor?”
“Periodic reports of our fallen sisters and new recruits. Nothing out of the ordinary.”
“Any news of new outlaws?”
“None. We have been focusing mostly on hunting down this Archer and his accomplices. Some of us were sent east shortly after having received reports of his other two companions who broke off at Fort Pax.”
“Boss, may I suggest a course of action?” Kari asked of Khatar.
“You may.”
“We should head to Blossom and keep contact with the Silver Stags via courier pigeons. There are plenty in Blossom who could be hired for a steep fee in return for absolute secrecy. It’s as good as whispering, I’m told.”
“I bear the Emperor’s approval with me,” Khatar said, producing no documents to support his claim. “You will send to Gullveig that from this day forth you are under my command until our mutual assignment is complete. Have you any objection?”
The Silver Stags shared glances of confusion amongst one another which did not go unnoticed by Qella. “Forgive me, Lord Varangian, but we will have to get approval from Commander Gullveig.”
“I outrank Gullveig. You may wait for your approval until you are called upon, but when the time comes I expect you to answer my summons, regardless of the answer you were given.”
Qella once, in a Gallecian tavern she often frequented, heard of how difficult it was to manage a Kolian Varangian Guard or to converse with them. The folk were rumored to show little patience to being ignored, even more so than regular Kolians, and expected their command to be uncontested, regardless of the authority they were given and by whom. In this case Qella was uncertain about the extent of the Varangian’s reach and thanked Pax for the little time she was allowed to confirm his authority. At hearing Khatar’s words she had already began thinking about how to phrase her message to her superiors to join Khatar’s party.
No more words were exchanged between Khatar and the Silver Stags and the Varangian simply hooded himself and marched towards Blossom, Kari following his every move like a shadow follows its master’s.
“Are you sure it’s a good idea to have them join us?” Karis asked of Khatar when they were a safe distance away from even the keenest of ears.
“It matters not,” he answered coldly.
3
Blossom, the town of honey and mead, was one of the most recently settled Parthan lands. The first of its settlers were attracted to the area because of the sweet smell its flowers drew them by. Nature had done a fine work shaping this small patch of land as a testament to its craftsmanship.
At first a single family dwelled in Blossom, before there was a town to name, and they were five, a married couple and their three sweet daughters. The man was a brewer and he had discovered early during his youth that the bees of the area produced sweet honey that made an excellent mead. His secret ingredient made him gain a reputation as a skill
ed brewers. In time he saw the value of building a home in the fields that were so kind to him and travel to the nearby towns only to sell the mead he had gotten famous for.
The brewer was a kind man and offered shelter and help to all travelers who came by his way, and even helped those who sought to settle nearby and share in the good of the land. A farmer came next, and he shaped the land to bear juicy fruit good for brewing and eating. Then a cattle herder arrived and he too contributed to the betterment of the land. Soon a small community of farmers, herders and craftsmen lived in Blossom, and by that time the brewer grew old and his lovely daughters got married and had had their own children.
Shortly after the brewer died, the man who was informally considered to be the mayor of the small town of Blossom, the other settlers went into disarray and each presented himself to fill the old brewer’s place as the town’s leader. For many a month the town grew troublesome, the fields and cattle tended poorly, until one day a mercenary came who was sheltered by the eldest of the brewer’s daughters, who had become a widow after her husband perished from a vile illness.
The widow, mother to two young boys, grew tired of the town’s disarray and the ugliness that was spreading by the infighting, and in the mercenary she saw salvation, for he was a man hardened and cultivated by many years of travel and strife. She proposed to marry him and help him find a home in which he could grow old and frail instead of dying violently for a cause not his own.
Persuaded by the attractive offer, and the widow even more so, the mercenary accepted and in time was brought into the fold of the townsfolk. The mercenary was wise, and the others sought him out to aid in the resolution of their issues. The mercenary was strong, and the others sought him out whenever bandits came dangerously close to the humble town. The mercenary was devoted to Pax, seeking penance for a lifetime of sin, and the others sought him out in matters of the spirit. Not before long they grew to respect him and rely on him and when his wife nominated him to be Blossom’s first mayor none contested it.
