“How could I not,” Callis replied with wide eyes. “It is nothing but murder. He would do better to cut their throats the minute they stepped foot on his soil than send them to Antolika with no training!”
Callis slammed his fist against the table. The candle’s flame sputtered, and the dim shadows around the room shook like a thousand black butterfly wings fluttering all at once.
“Peace, Callis,” Darius said, putting up a gauntleted hand. “You speak the truth, and with care and emotion. I appreciate that. So, why do you think the Messenger of the East travels to Finlo? Please, sit.”
Callis wiped an errant black hair from his face, bowed, and took his seat.
“We intercepted a letter meant for a known criminal living within our city’s borders,” Amado explained. “We believe the Lord of the East is calling for a gathering of mercenaries in Finlo and disguising it as a simple visit to his soon-to-be loyal soldiers. We do not know why he calls for this gathering, but it certainly cannot benefit us, whatever it is.”
“No, it cannot.”
Darius spoke to himself more than he did to anyone else. He rubbed his strong chin with his right hand, his elbow propped in his other hand. His hand now moved to his eyes, with the heel of his palm knuckling them as if tired.
“What shall we do?” he finally asked, but his voice was neither weary nor weak.
“Before decisions are discussed, that is not all, Lord Marshal.”
The bearer of this news was a bald-headed man with no real neck. As he pulled at the collar of his shirt, he inadvertently revealed the black ink of a sprawling tattoo that crept around to the back of his head and ended in the carefully etched tip of a spear that stopped just at the crown of his scalp—the symbol of the Dragon’s Teeth.
The crow’s feet at the corners of the man’s eyes lengthened when he squinted in the dim light. Premature gray peppered the stubble on his face, and dark circles rimmed his hardened eyes.
“Am I so lucky to receive even more good news?” intoned Darius sarcastically.
“I am sorry, Lord Marshal.”
Marcel, the Commander of the Dragon Teeth, bowed apologetically and diverted his eyes to the table in front of him. Darius put up a hand, and a small smile crept along his face.
“No fault of yours,” he comforted. “Please, speak Marcel, and tell me of this news.”
Marcel looked back at the General Lord Marshal.
“News comes to us that the Old Guard is there. We have spotted Patûk, Lord Marshal. We know not how many men are with him, but he is there nonetheless.”
“As I suspect he would be,” Darius said. “Any place where the Lord of Fen-Stévock might make some gain, Patûk would be there to try and foil his plans.”
“Perhaps this is a good thing, Lord Marshal. Perhaps he can help us in this,” Marcel stated. “An enemy of our enemy is a friend.”
Darius quickly shook his head.
“No, my friend. Make your bed in a den of wolves and, eventually, you will be bitten. We would only postpone the bite. He is to be avoided—for now.”
Darius paused for a long while, tapping his gloved fingers on the crown of his helmet. He looked to each man around the table, and then at the flickering flames of the torches in the room and the rolling, inconsistent light of the candle at the center of the table. Inconsistent. The world proved as much.
For once, he would like to live a year, a month, a day even, in relative peace. However, such proved not the life of a man sworn to his country’s duty. Such proved not the life of a man who made his living as a warrior and soldier.
He looked back to each of the men at the table—Amado, Marcel, Callis, and Fabian. As would he, each would willingly, gladly, give his life for the Northern Kingdom of Gol-Durathna, for the Golden City, and its king. He chuckled silently. For all the inconsistencies of the world, their sacrifices proved the most consistent. That one constant would make all the difference.
“We must send someone to Finlo, to gather more information.”
The other men in the room nodded.
“But who?” Darius muttered.
“The Atrimus, Lord Marshal?” suggested Amado.
“No,” General Darius snapped, his voice the crack of a whip.
The Atrimus—the Shadow Men. Darius did not even like admitting that Amentus, the Golden City and capital of Gol-Durathna, employed such men. Agents, spies, assassins—these were the Shadow Men’s specialties.
“No,” Darius repeated, his voice softer this time, “no, they are not needed yet.”
“Ranus and Cliens, sir,” said the fourth man, Fabian, speaking for the first time.
A shorter, slightly chubby man, his thin beard of dark brown whiskers stretched from ear to ear, while his upper lip sat devoid of hair. Sweat collected on it and dripped onto his thin lips. Darius nodded, and Fabian sighed with relief and scratched an ear that seemed just a bit too small for his round head.
“A good suggestion, Fabian,” the General Lord Marshal replied. “Cliens and Ranus are perfectly suited for this task. You will send for them.”
Fabian bowed. The General Lord Marshal touched his right fist to his breast and immediately, chair legs screeched across the stone floor, and all four men stood, saluting Darius in the same way. He smiled and nodded, turned on his heels, and knocked hard on the heavy oak door that served as the only entrance and exit to the room. It opened and, with a final look over his shoulder, he closed the door behind him.
Chapter 16
“TIA!” ERIK SHOUTED AND JOLTED awake from his latest dream.
This time, someone had bound and gagged her, and she knelt in a stone cell with nothing but a pile of straw in one corner and a small, barred window to provide a memory of light. Her tattered clothes left her half-naked. Two men laughed at her, cracking lewd jokes as they suggestively jabbed at her. The rag stuffed in her mouth muffled her cries, and the salty tracks along her gentle, rosy cheeks told of an exhaustion of tears.
Erik shuddered and shook his head before he lifted it to see the caravan still asleep. Slowly, he put his head back down and tried closing his eyes, but he saw a movement in the light mist of the dawning morning.
At first, it looked an errant shadow, the undulation of a swirling breeze in the dew-filled fog, but then the shadow took the form of a man. It moved slowly, wraith-like, from the corner of the camp where most of the young men slept, to another carriage, disappearing behind the dwelling of a gypsy and then reappearing on the other side only moments later. Then it crept to another, and another—a hunter stalking its prey, a stalking fox . . .
“Fox,” Erik mouthed as a single strand of sunlight caught the blazing hair of the man who called himself by that name. He stopped at the last wagon before the edge of the Blue Forest and, looking behind him, seemingly checking to see that no one saw him, disappeared into the trees.
Erik blinked and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. He wondered at first if he was seeing things but decided he wasn’t. What was Fox doing? What do I do?
Erik stood, looking down at Befel who was snoring softly. He wondered about waking his brother but shook his head. If it was no
thing, he’d never hear the end of it. He’d just accuse Erik of seeing ghosts.
He walked quietly over to Marcus’ carriage, tentatively knocked on the ornately carved door, and stepped back. The door opened and, despite Erik expecting a fuming giant, a bare-chested Marcus emerged with that typical smile on his face.
“Erik, my friend.” Sleep muffled Marcus’ words, and he yawned. “I would expect a young, hard worker such as you to relish the opportunity to sleep a while longer. What wakes you?”
“I’m sorry for disturbing you,” Erik apologized, but the gypsy put up his hand.
“It must be important.”
“A bad dream woke me, but that is not why I came to see you. When I awoke, I saw the man called Fox behaving very sneakily before he disappeared into the forest. It may be nothing, but he was skulking around like he was trying to hide something. He went from wagon to wagon, looking over his shoulder each time, trying to avoid watching eyes.”
A pensive look crossed Marcus’ face. His brows furled, his lips pursed under his bushy beard, his arms crossed his chest.
“You did well to come get me. The Blue Forest bodes no ill will for us, or a group this large, but for a lone fellow in the mistiness of the early morning, nothing but trouble lies in those woods. If not from wild animals, then from bandits or slavers.”
Marcus hastily walked past Erik and to another carriage. He rapped on the door hard, and it quickly opened, revealing a tall, thin gypsy with his hair tied into two tails. The man rubbed his eyes and looked rather perturbed, but when Marcus whispered something into his ear, his eyes shot open, and he retreated into his carriage momentarily, only to reemerge with a medium-sized, slightly curved blade.
As he stepped down to the ground, he tightened a red scarf around his neck, buffering out a bit of the cold, and followed Marcus to another carriage. The same chain of events happened; this time, a broad fellow with a bull’s neck appearing in the doorway, leaving and then returning with a long boar spear.
All in all, Marcus gathered up five men. Bull Neck and Red Scarf were the first, then he grabbed a younger fellow who carried a bow, and a gray-haired man with wrinkled, slightly sagging skin and a gnarled oak branch for a cudgel. Finally, a fat gypsy without the clemency to wear a shirt who carried a long staff of smoothed wood joined the small group. The gypsy leader sent the five men to the edge of the forest while he returned to Erik.
“Wake your brother and cousin and also Bo. Tell him what you saw. I will rouse the other men.”
“What if it’s nothing?” Erik almost stammered. “What if I’m just being superstitious?”
“Then we get an early start on the day,” replied Marcus with a smile before he walked to another wagon.
Erik obeyed Marcus, waking Bo first. He nudged his brother, who grudgingly sat up, eyes half closed. He smacked his lips, yawned, and looked up at Erik through one eye. “What?”
“Wake up,” Erik whispered, “Marcus’ orders.”
Erik walked to the small cluster of young men sleeping in the corner of the caravan. Bryon slept there often, spending time with other men hoping to find fame and fortune in the ranks of Golgolithul’s army. As he approached his cousin, Erik watched Red Scarf sniff the air with his thin nose. He stepped gingerly past the first of the great elms that made up the majority of the Blue Forest, peering cautiously through the mist of the dawning morning.
The slowly rising sun cast weird shadows across the man’s path, and at every step he stopped, stooped to touch the ground, and then smelled the air again. Bull Neck stood just behind him, the long blade of his boar spear hovering just above Red Scarf ’s shoulder. The young bowman stood just behind Bull Neck, arrow nocked, and bowstring half drawn.
Erik kicked Bryon’s boot. His cousin grumbled, head rolling to one side. He kicked the boot again.
“Get up.”
“Go away,” Bryon hissed.
“Get up,” Erik repeated. “Marcus’ orders.”
“I don’t give a rat turd what orders that gypsy has given. Now piss off.”
“Marcus told me to tell you to get up.” Erik backed away, just a few steps. Bryon was volatile, especially in the morning.
“Then he can come over here himself. Damn it, all I want is to sleep in peace and . . .”
Bryon’s voice trailed off as Erik’s eyes focused on Red Scarf and Bull Neck again. Through the dawning shadows and the golden glow of a half-risen sun peeking through the crevices allowed by the tall trees, sending threadlike rays to the ground and highlighting the many colors of fallen leaves, Bull Neck saw a gentle movement, a sudden gust of wind or tremble in the earth.
He moved quickly, especially for such a broad man, his spear trained on a spot just beyond a tree. Something moved again and then, with blinding speed, a little red fox danced from behind a thicktrunked oak and raced through the woods, away from the gypsies. Bull Neck’s shoulders dropped with a hearty sigh, and he looked to Red Scarf, a relieved smile on his face.
The target must have been irresistible. The space between Bull Neck’s collarbone, just above his chest, sat like a fat bull’s-eye. The arrow easily slid into his neck, and Bull Neck’s eyes widened with surprise. He gurgled and dropped to his knees, spear falling to his side. He grasped at the shadows in front of him. Another arrow thudded into his chest, and he fell sideways, dead.
A howl erupted from Gray Hair, and a corresponding scream came from somewhere in the gypsy camp. He turned to run, Marcus already heading to meet him, when two arrows thudded into Gray Hair’s back with such force that he lurched forward, arms out wide, and hit the ground, face first.
Erik stood, frozen. Bryon now beside him, jolted to his feet by the curdling cry of a dying Gray Hair. Erik saw movement, silhouettes of men just inside the forest who appeared from nothing, rising like specters from hidden graves.
The younger gypsy with a bow loosed an arrow. It harmlessly struck a tree, the sound of iron against wood rattling through the forest. He nocked another and again fired. He still hit nothing. His next arrow seemed to pass through the shadow of a man like rain through mist. Before he could let fly another, two arrows struck him in the chest, and he fell backward, eyes wide, blank and staring.
“To arms!” screamed Red Scarf. “To arms!”
Marcus was there, dragging both the fat gypsy—a mean-looking arrow with a black shaft sticking from his leg—and a dazed Red Scarf back to the wagons. Dropping them none too gently on the ground, he cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled in a thundering voice.
“Awake! To arms! We’re under attack!”
Chapter 17
BELLS RANG FROM EVERYWHERE IN the camp and, in expertly rehearsed fashion, the gypsies circled their wagons, women and children crowding the back while the men stood outside the circle, or just inside it, spears and swords, hatchets and clubs at the ready.
The element of surprise gone, the shadowy, ghostly attackers rushed from the forest—a gaggle of men armored in nothing more than leather jerkins.
“Bandits!” a young man standing behind Bryon and Erik cried, but these men didn’t have the look of forest bandits—or at least what Erik imagined them to look like. Lightly armored, the men looked well kept.
Those who wore beards kept them clipped, and they looked well-fed, strong, and organized.
Erik imagined men confined to a forest living a life of crime as disheveled and hungry, emaciated even. He also noticed their weapons. Some carried swords and spears, but most held thick cudgels neatly carved with faces of animals or angry-looking men. Others held nets, and some carried long poles with what looked to be a claw at the end.
While he and his cousin looked on, frozen in disbelief, bewildered at how a large group of men could sneak up on the group of travelers and attack them, Erik heard a cry rise up behind him. He turned to see one of the attackers, a tall, brawny man with long shaggy hair and thick arms, bludgeoning other travelers—men still thick with sleep and brandy—with a vicious looking club.
Before Erik could react, the man grabbed for his arm, his vice-grip clamping down on Erik’s wrist. Bryon already stood three strides away, making for the circle of wagons, but seeing his cousin in distress, he ran back. Just as the attacker raised his club in the air, ready to strike Erik over the head, Bryon brought a fist down on the arm holding Erik. The sound of bone breaking echoed like a thick branch cracking in a heavy wind, and the man cried out in pain, releasing Erik and dropping his cudgel to tend to his broken arm. Bryon grabbed Erik’s shirt collar, and half led, half dragged him away.
The two young farmers reached the protective circle as more and more cries of “bandits” and “brigands” rose around the camp.
“They’re no bandits,” Bo hissed, crouching low with a curved blade in his hand. Erik looked at him blankly, still dazed from the attack on him. “They’re slavers. They’ve come to steal away the young men and women and children and kill the rest.”
“How’d they sneak up on us?” Erik shook the daze from his head.
“Look, there,” Bo replied curtly, pointing to Fox struggling with a woman traveling with the miners, throwing her back to another man waiting to drag her back into the forest. “I’d say that they’ve been with us since Waterton. They’ve been following us, waiting for the right moment to strike when we wouldn’t expect them. Damned slavers!”
A Chance Beginning Page 9
