by Osku Alanen
“Agreed.”
Arin felt his vigor renew and a burden lift from his heart as he heard Nijakim’s comforting words. How could he have a friend this good, this loyal? It made him tear up a little—to have someone he could count on, no matter what. They had remained inseparable since they were children, and often enough, Arin had felt at home when he visited Nijakim’s house. Nijakim’s parents had always welcomed him with open arms, treating him like a second son. Then there was Elder Kelmunir who had taken Arin under his wing. He, too, had been like a father to him. His good mood soured as he remembered that Nijakim’s parents were truly gone. And here he was, speaking of his parents, whom, no matter how unlikely, might yet live unbeknownst to Arin. He felt hopeful, yes, but guilty. How would Nijakim feel like if Arin was to discover his parents yet lived, while Nijakim’s were dead, never to come back?
He would feel happy for me, Arin thought. That was how good a man Nijakim was.
“Look. Over there! That must be the tavern Totemar was talking about.”
Arin’s eyes brightened when he heard the music coming through the door. It sounded foreign to him, strange. Yet, there was a peculiar rhythm to it, almost addicting. Nothing he had ever heard before. Nevertheless, it reminded him of the festivities they had held in the village. Arin had never considered himself much of a dancer, but he had always liked to watch others perform.
The music came to a sudden stop, the crowd erupting in whistling and clapping.
“You gents like that, eh? Willem Birdsong is what they call the lad with the harp. The best damn bard in the kingdom. You two truly picked a good night to visit the city. It is not often you hear him sing here. The word is he’s got a nice position at the King’s court, I hear. Lucky for you—this might’ve been the last time you hear this man’s golden voice among us regular folk, that is.”
“I see,” Arin muttered, confused why this stranger was talking to him of all the people in the room.
The bard bowed before the audience, and he was showered with another round of applause. He then disappeared behind the curtain.
Nijakim yawned, pointing towards the innkeeper who was eying them suspiciously. They might have had new robes, but their ragged faces and beards still made them look… different to other men here.
“I think we should find a room for the night. Totemar said to meet him at dawn, I believe, and I would like to have a good night’s rest.”
“I agree.”
The innkeeper frowned at the coins they showed him. He said it was enough for one night and one night alone. Arin had the distinct feeling he wasn’t too happy to grant a room for the two of them, but then again, it would take a special kind of fool to turn aside coin, no matter who it came from. Much to Arin’s surprise, Nijakim even convinced the innkeeper to deliver them a basin of hot water for no additional free. They really smelled, didn’t they?
The room itself was not much larger than a closet, and Arin got a distinct feeling they might have overpaid for it. After all, they had no idea of the true value of the currency they held in their hands. Arin let his eyes close for a moment, and in no time at all, fell sound asleep.
A sudden shout was all it took to awaken Arin. He jerked awake, one hand ready to draw the weapon he still at arm’s length. The loud noise woke up Nijakim as well. He looked alarmed, fragile, while he searched for his spectacles. Arin listened through the wall but could only hear muzzled voices. It sounded like an argument between two men—and a woman?
“Do you think we should interfere?” Arin whispered, frowning.
Nijakim shook his head. “We should stay out of it, I think. We gather enough attention to ourselves as is.” He pressed the spectacles closer to his eyes, blinking.
“Put down the knife, lad,” a man said with a stern voice, voice carrying well through the paper-thin walls.
Arin pursed his lips, fingers curling around his blade by instinct. Nijakim shook his head, but the temptation was too much. Whatever was happening next door had nothing to do with him, but he sure as hell wouldn’t let an innocent person get hurt. Not if he could do something. He had waited too long to interfere with Ricken already.
“I’ll slay you where you stand, boy, if you don’t let me go this instant,” the same voice shouted through the wall.
Arin couldn’t take it any longer, and he ran for the door, Nijakim following suit. He looked around, searching for the source of the shouts.
True enough, a single door stood ajar; a bloodied man laid there, hands reaching towards Arin.
“What in the world,” Arin gasped, eyes wide open.
The man laid there on the ground, struggling for breath. It seems he was still alive, but whenever he gasped for breath, blood pooled down his chin instead. Arin rushed to the man, pressing his hand against the open wound on his chest. He looked at the room the man had escaped from, seeing one other man inside, looking at him with a cocked head.
He had the same face as the man dying in his arms.
“Impossible,” Nijakim gasped.
The man smirked. “Excellent timing, gentlemen. But not so fortunate for you, I’m afraid.” The man’s face suddenly twisted, churned, changed. His cheekbones flattened, along with his nose and chin. The hairs of his beard and mustache seemed to shrink and the lines on his face smoothen. Then, impossibly, Arin found himself staring at a timid, young maid. The girl shrieked.
“Murderers. By the gods, help me! There are murderers here.”
“Now wait just a moment,” Arin said, lost for words.
The hallway quickly turned crowded as multiple doors flew open.
“Did someone say murder?”
“Quick, call the guards.”
“There, do you see those two men—foreigners. Look! they are threatening that poor maid over there.”
The innkeeper rushed through the hallway, pushing aside the people. He gasped as he saw the dead man on the floor.
“I knew you there was something strange about you, you bastards. Don’t you dare move a muscle, you damn criminals. The guards are on their way.”
“Now hold on just a minute. This is all a terrible mistake,” Nijakim said, but he received nothing but hostile glares and disgusted looks.
“You there, what’s the meaning of this commotion?”
A group of five soldiers, dressed in full armor, marched through the hallway, pushing people aside. They were armed to the teeth, and Arin knew instantly that he would lose should he draw steel.
The five guards made way for another man—an officer, no doubt. He took a single, hostile glare at Arin and walked to him. He placed his finger on the neck of the man laying in Arin’s arms, searching for a pulse. He shook his head and sighed. “He is dead. The Captain is dead,” the man said, voice breaking with emotion. He then turned his gaze towards Arin, giving him a hostile glare. “You will hang for this, you bastard,” the man hissed.
“We did nothing.”
“Silence,” the guard shouted. He shouted orders to the guards behind him. “Arrest these bastards. Lock them up.”
Arin felt his cheeks redden in anger. He wasn’t about to let himself be imprisoned, certainly for something he was no part of. He drew his blade, and just as he did, so did all the guards around him.
Nijakim placed his hand on Arin’s shoulder. “Violence will not solve this.” He then looked at the shocked officer who had jumped when Arin had drawn his sword. “We give ourselves up, freely. But I must insist that we are innocent. We came here because we heard shouting. It is the maid here who has committed this terrible deed.”
“Maid? What Maid?” the officer said, frowning.
To his horror, Arin realized that somehow, the man he had seen transform into a young maid had vanished into thin air. Somehow, while they looked the other direction, the maid slipped through the window.
“Lunatics. A bunch of madmen,” the officer shook his head as the guards dragged Arin and Nijakim away in chains.
Chapter 12
Ronan
“Do you see them?” Rust asked, voice lowered to a whisper.
“Aye. At least five men. It’s hard to tell from this distance, but I reckon they’re armed.” Ronan stood up, confident they wouldn’t see him so far away. “What do you think they’re doing here, Raven?”
The man ignored the question, looking at the retreating men in silence.
“Raven?” Ronan asked.
The man startled back to the present. “Sorry,” he muttered.
Rose snorted. “Isn’t it obvious? It’s a scouting party. From the look of it, I’d say they’re from the Nubian Empire.”
“Good eye,” Ronan said.
“Nubian scouts. Here?” Rust raised in voice in anger. “That’s not possible. These lands belong to Eyria.”
“Raven?” Ronan asked. The man’s silence was odd—the man never stayed quiet for long.
“I’m afraid she’s right, my friend. Nubians always scout in a group of five,” Raven finally replied.
“Good to know,” Ronan muttered. “But I still don’t understand. From what Rust told me, they haven’t invaded Eyria in half a decade.”
“I remember,” Rust said, his face darkening.
Ronan flinched at his words. Without meaning to, he had reminded his friend of his captivity—a memory he no doubt wanted to avoid. Seeing their scouts here must have been especially hard for him. Ronan had seen his scars, and they were numerous. He was under no illusion that they ached from time to him; his own scars ached, too—constantly. And that was a pain not even Avalon’s powers could heal. The magus had healed his broken ribs, but his old aches remained.
“We should keep our distance,” Raven asserted, his old, commanding self slowly returning. “They are heading for the same direction as us, but their scouts always stick together. If we’re lucky, we won’t run into them at all.”
They shadowed the scouts, careful to stay at a safe distance. Ever since Nautilus had reached the port of Twisthorn, their journey had been uneventful. Ronan had questioned merchants and beggars alike, trying to find out if they had seen either Eira or Keran. And true enough, several merchants claimed they had seen a girl with bandaged hands inquiring for passage south—towards Eyria. It was all too big a coincidence for Ronan’s liking. What did Eira have in Eyria, for her to take Ronan’s son with her? It defied reason. Raven assured him that no matter where she was taking Ronan’s son, he would do everything in his power to help Ronan, for he was a part of them now. And, should their arrival in Eyria be delayed, it mattered not. Ronan had quietly wept that night, not out of sadness but of gratitude. It had been years since he had seen the kind of kindness this man had shown him.
“Raven, a word,” Ronan said. They had fallen behind, with Rose and Rust both leading the way, keeping an eye on the scouts. Avalon was there still, walking alongside Raven, but Ronan felt… comfortable in his presence. He could hardly call the man a friend, but he felt like he could trust him, too. After all, he had saved his life, hadn’t he? And that, if anything, made a man trust another man.
“Yes?”
“Back when you saw the scouts, you seemed awfully distant. Is there something on your mind?”
“Oh, it’s nothing. Seeing them simply took me back. I lived in the Empire for a short period, you know.”
“You did?”
“Oh, I did more than that to be honest. Much more….”
“Rust told me of his past. How you rescued him from their torturers.”
“I see.”
“What happened?”
Raven exhaled deeply. “It’s a long story.”
“We’ve got plenty of time, I reckon.”
“True enough.”
Rose and Rust had already gained a decent lead on them. Talking behind Rust’s back made Ronan feel… uncomfortable, but he wanted to know more of the man’s past.
“Back when I discovered Lieutenant Rust in that damned hole, I worked for the Eyrian Kingdom. But it’s not what I have always done, I’m afraid. As a mercenary, loyalty is often… complex.”
“I won’t judge you for that,” Ronan answered with honesty. “I have done things I’m not proud of.”
Raven nodded at that, smiling. “This was five years into the conflict between the Nubian Empire and the Eyrian Kingdom. Before that, I lived within the Empire. If you ask the Eyrians, they would all say that the Empire is nothing but a godless wasteland—a desert. But, that’s not the truth, not at all. It is an oasis—a beautiful flower blooming deep within their cruel and harsh deserts. Their capital, Arubinia, is breathtaking, Ronan. It has miracles of nature the like you’ve never seen. It is as beautiful as Galadia—if not more so.”
“Why did you leave, then?” Ronan asked. Having spent his entire life in the Northern Islands, he knew next to nothing about the lands here in the south. But he had grown curious, nevertheless. It was about time, he thought.
Raven flinched at the question. “I was… forced out. I never found myself satisfied staying in one place for very long. And the life of an outsider in the Empire is often perilous; my fair skin and raven hair brought me no friends there, not while the conflict yet reigned. I was loyal to the Nubians, but my loyalty didn’t matter to them. I was young then, and in my youthful arrogance, I decided to retaliate. I brought intel to Eyria. Minor details, mind you, but before I knew it, I became their spy. That is, until one faithful day, a woman I loved found out. She threatened to tell the Nubians if I didn’t leave Arubinia behind. And left I did. I then joined the Eyrians who welcomed me with open arms.”
“That is… quite a story,” Ronan found himself saying.
Raven laughed heartily. “I know. It’s much to digest, isn’t it?”
“But that didn’t last, did it?”
Raven shook his head and laughed. “No. I serve no man now. My goals are… my own.” Raven cleared his throat. “Years passed, and I grew in their ranks. But by then, the war came to a standstill. We no longer had to directly battle against the Nubians, but we still had to secure our borders—and to help those who had lost everything in the war. And most importantly, we had to rescue those soldiers still held prisoner.”
“Rust,” Ronan whispered, looking at friend with saddened eyes.
“Exactly,” Raven nodded. “We scoured the battlefields, looking for men like our friend here. They had outposts within Eyrian borders, and we knew that the Nubians were ordered to burn them down—including the poor souls imprisoned within. The invasion force was led by a ruthless general, Rud’ak ner Aldruin, and he feared those held prisoner within these outposts might have learned something they shouldn’t, so he ordered them all executed.”
Raven sighed deeply. “So many souls were lost. We were often too late to be of help for anyone. That is, until we came across a stronghold near the border, the first and only stronghold still manned by a sizeable force. The battle was not without losses, but the amount of men we rescued was anything but small. And Rust was among them. As time passed, we became friends. And when one faithful day I realized I no longer wanted to serve the Eyrians, either, I became the mercenary I am today—and Rust joined me.”
“I see.”
“Did that satisfy your curiosity?” Raven asked, smiling.
“Yes. Mostly. But there’s something I don’t quite understand.”
“Ask away.”
“Why did you leave Eyrians? I reckon you were treated much better there.”
Raven sighed. “I was treated better, yes, but in the end, it was all the same, wasn’t it? An endless war—a needless war. Blood being shed for no reason. I couldn’t in good conscience participate in it any longer—no matter the side. There are… other things I must accomplish, things far more important than the endless feuds of men.”
Ronan frowned. “Does this have something to with the Daemoni you’ve been hunting?”
Raven pursed his lips, looking at Ronan strangely. “Tell me, my friend. What is the most important thing in this world for you?”
“My
family. My son,” Ronan answered without hesitation.
“Exactly. Everyone has something to fight for—a truth they value above all else. Family. Friends. A nation. As for myself, I want to leave something behind in this broken world of ours. There is too much… pain here—war, famine, injustice. Once, in the distant past, it was not so. Back then, we had a common enemy. Mankind worked together then, and together we overcame it. So, yes, Ronan, what I want is to fix this broken world of ours.”
“You cannot right every wrong, no matter how hard you try,” Ronan muttered.
“I know, but we must start somewhere, don’t we? And If I don’t start, then no one will.”
“Still. It’s a heavy responsibility to take, I reckon. Too much for a single man.”
“I must at least try,” Raven replied, voice colored by sadness. “Our world is worth it. Worth any and every sacrifice.”
Ronan saw Rust waving from a distance, motioning for Raven and Ronan to join them, interrupting their talk. Rust and Rose had clearly seen something. Ronan exchanged a look with Raven who nodded gravely. Whatever they had seen, it was not good. Their talk could wait.
When they arrived at the cliff their friends were waiting for them at, Ronan stumbled backwards, shocked by the sight unfolding before him. Those were men down in the valley. Hundreds. No. Thousands. Ten thousand men geared for battle.
“It would appear we now know the reason why their scouts are here,” Raven said.
“Really, now?” Rose snorted.
They stared at the sight, speechless. Countless men battling, shouting. There were at least a hundred tents set side to side, and men trained right by them. Ronan heard the clashing of hammer against metal and men hauling what appeared to be logs. He saw it then—a nearby forest with hardly any tree left standing. “What do they need all that wood for?”
“Siege engines,” Rust answered grimly.
“But why?” Ronan asked, swallowing. He knew the answer, but he still needed to hear it.
“Isn’t it obvious,” Rust growled, baring his teeth. “They aim to invade Eyria. Five years of peace—shattered—and for what? We have done nothing.”
