Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Prologue
Eight grim faces looked at one another, perhaps for the last time. A day passed since the stone walls of the Burzina Monastery, an outpost of the Faith of Indalos, had been breached. This group of steadfast defenders, recently much larger in number, retreated to one of the few buildings which initially escaped the bombardment of siege engines. An incessant chipping of chisels and hammers continued throughout the night but took on a renewed frenzy at daybreak. Concussive sounds rippled through the building’s exterior walls.
The country of Ardalencor was at war and again the victim of foreign invasion. Less than a month before, the invading armies of Tavuron crossed the border and encountered only paltry resistance before besieging the monastery. The crown army of Ardalencor had yet to arrive, and hope of temporal deliverance amongst the Burzina defenders rapidly faded.
This group of survivors fortified themselves in a pair of rooms at the end of a scorched and rubble-strewn corridor. Piled stone, splintered furniture, and tangled webs of flesh and steel: bodies twisted together with wide stares marking the delivery of death blows, formed the last line of defense. After midnight probing attacks were foiled, the defenders gained a brief reprieve, but the air swelled with rank stench, and a red-black slime spread and congealed on the mosaic floors.
Above the din of quickened chisel work, the hallways reverberated anew with the torturous screams of captured defenders and then gentle offers of safe passage if the remaining defenders surrendered.
“Why do they keep coming?” screamed a young woman as she covered her ears to block out the mad swirl of sounds.
“They are searching for the relics and sacred tomes. The Tavuros want to consume their power,” replied a thin, elderly voice.
“And they’re butchers. Their blood is up. Hundreds of their dead lie across our holy grounds. They’ll chop us up and strew the pieces around the fields,” said a male voice with jaunty despondence.
With that morose remark, roof beams shifted, and another ray of light stretched into the bleak room to reveal slate fragments splashing to the floor.
“Shut your mouth!”
The sudden crash of heavy slate set teeth chattering to signal another shift between resolute tranquility and despair. Means of momentary escape found several forms: whispering prayers, scratching limbs raw, or ripping hair.
“Forgive me,” beseeched the elder monk. All eyes searched for him in the shadows of the corner. He was old but looked to have aged another ten years since the retreat to this final holdout. He struggled, moment upon moment, to maintain a protective field which kept several crossbeams in place and prevented the entire roof from collapsing.
“I can help you,” offered another voice from across the room.
“No, it’s all right. Save your strength. I have maintained and protected these walls nearly all my life. In full view of my ancestors, I will honor my vows to Indalos.”
A familiar voice pleaded for the remaining defenders to surrender.
The elder monk exhaled deeply. “That is not the voice of our blessed sister. Her soul is already free and on its way to the Starry Fields.”
The outside wall shook as stone flecks and dust pulsed from multiple points. The strides of armored men and shields scraping along the walls were heard approaching down the corridor. The defenders nearest the barricade threw stones as the footfalls quickened, and a war cry was raised.
A portion of the once three-foot-thick exterior wall was punched through with an iron chisel. Hurriedly two glass phials were pushed into the room followed by a spear shaft. A defender lunged but was unable to catch the phials, and they shattered on impact.
“Sulfur!”
Another defender quickly conjured a gust of wind, and the suffocating vapor was deftly directed out through the crevice from which it came. Coughing and sputtering was heard on the other side, and the spear retreated.
The elder monk tenderly put his hand on a nearby cheek to still a quivering lip. He addressed the group. “Let fear pass from your heart. Give the Tavuros no satisfaction. You have the blessing of life. Do not let it pass cheaply from you. Duty is yet before us.”
Chapter 1
“It never felt natural to me. Never quite right. Predation with a bow, I mean. I never got the touch for it. I do most of my gathering with neck snares and dead falls. Maybe a basket trap. Catch them alive, if I got the time and mind to, but make quick work of it when the time comes. Don’t let the animal suffer in an iron trap all twitching and frightful, you know?”
The big half-orc glanced up from sharpening his double-headed axe more to see if the man was done talking than to agree.
The man continued, “Having the poor creature sitting there struggling and waiting for the end or trying to chew its own leg off to get away.” He shook his head. “We are blessed to have the animals. They permit us to survive, give their lives for us. They don’t need to suffer.”
Clad in a gray homespun shirt, jerkin fringed with elk fur, scuffed leather pants and boots, and a tattered deep green cloak, the wiry, middle-aged man set down his carving knife and added another log to the campfire. He gave the two skewered hares a quarter turn on the spit. “The others will be back soon.”
Amongst the silence and receding light of the forest, the half-orc scanned the narrow hallows between pine and pale birch. He sniffed twice and looked at the man.
The man smiled wryly. “Even with your orc eyes and smell, you can’t locate them? Maybe they are coming in from upwind? Maybe you just smell yourself?” He smiled genuinely to soften his earlier words and through eroded teeth spit a glob of chewed brown leaf. “Listen for them, Dronor.”
Dronor, a towering, green-gray boulder, man and orc, gave an incredulous look and turned his fevered head. “There’s no one here. How close are they?” he challenged. “Did they find anyone else?”
“I didn’t say they were here. I said they would be back soon.” The man put his finger to his lip to quiet Dronor and remind him of their three companions sleeping by the fire. “How is that poultice working on your leg?”
“Smells like shit.”
“Cow dung from the pasture we walked through. And hot ash. Heal you up good. It’ll keep the rot away. I’m cap and carriage impressed you were able to walk all this way with such a nasty gash. That would drop any man.”
Feeling the attention on his splinted left leg, Dronor shifted uneasily, grimaced, and slumped back against a stout birch tree. “What did you say your name was?”
“Bambenek. Some call me Bam. Others Ben. Your pick.” Bambenek gave a look at the firewood pile. “This white birch is tough to burn. Got to strip the bark. Get rid of some of the moisture, especially during this time of year, but it’ll be alright. Tell me again. How did you get that gash?”
“Cavalry lance. I tried to sweep with my shield but still got gouged pretty good. Ripped the muscle open.” Dronor simulated the movement with his hand and looked off blankly into the thicket of birch and pine spindles. “The first line did not stand against the charge, and the mess was on. Battle lost as soon as it began.”
“I was in the second line and tried to rally men to stand. Don’t have a spear; I needed a few to stay with me to slow down the horses so I could take some good whacks and clear saddles.” The half-orc wiped his slick brow. “I’d grab some by the arm or shoulder and get them to reform. Run, and you’re dead. Stand and live. I stopped a sergeant and a flagbearer, too; that helped rally more of the boys. How did you come to join this bunch?”
“I deployed in the skirmish line. Slinger. As any man, I’ve been tossing rocks since I was knee high to a goose, but I stuck with it. We traded a few volleys and then withdrew behind the infantry when the enemy cavalry advanced. First line in their chain mail and shiny helmets got spooked like deer and started to force their way back into us and the second line moving up.”
“Now the second rank got eyes wide like holiday wafers with a tangle of panicked boys plowing their way. I was between both lines. With the trample of men and mounts, we’re all starting to get the feeling of the ground giving way and starting to walk that old, thin line towards the horizon.”
“Where was our cavalry?” Anger washed across Dronor’s broad, angular face.
“Some boys were saying the left wing deserted. Duke Padazar went over to the Tavuros. That son of a bitch called the coiling snakes right to the nest and left us for dead.” Bambenek slammed one hand against the ground. “And our right wing wilted like an autumn leaf.”
As the two hares roasted and a soup of leafy greens threatened to froth over the walls of a hollowed log, Bambenek stood and nudged the three convalescents crumpled and caked in bandaged blood. “Lads, time to get up. Get some food. Our friends will be back soon.”
Dronor flared his nostrils slightly and tilted his head as if to give more credence to Bambenek’s assertion.
“Friends returning,” called an approaching voice, familiar but still obscured within the forest dusk and falling shadows.
“Welcome, friends,” Bambenek called back.
Within a few moments, a wounded and winding column of about forty armed men closed in around the makeshift camp. Bambenek anxiously studied the arrivals, a swirl of drained and dirty faces, some known and some strange. His search met the eyes of Humphrey Cotterill, a major of the Chartered Cities militia. Within the country of Ardalencor, the Chartered Cities were a confederation of eight primary cities and dozens of villages and hamlets which had been able to secure and maintain a degree of representative and guild self-government outside of noble control. The Cities were answerable only to the High Lord of Ardalencor.
Cotterill was Major of the Everhall militia column, the largest of the Chartered Cities, and second in overall command of over a thousand men at the start of the day. His command nearly evaporated as sun and stirrups surmounted the battlefield. Cotterill, a virile orator and respected merchant, in his early sixties but still gifted of hue and health, a man proud and protective of his station and city, lowered a face heavy with despair.
Cotterill’s dented breastplate, a patchwork of muck, elegant ornamentation, and faded parade ground luster gave off a disconcerting reflection in the campfire light. Rage and sorrow wetted his eyes. The gauging stare of Dronor’s slate-colored eyes brought Cotterill back to his duty.
“This is what remains.” Cotterill forced an air of control and detachment. “No sign of Commander Jerris. Maybe he was captured?” He paused. “Knowing Jerris, he may already be negotiating his own release,” he said with the shallow trace of a smile.
Bambenek nodded in acknowledgement but offered, “Others got away. Have to be more units who escaped. We’re a way out here in the woods, and you found some more of ours. There must be many more scattered or already reforming at Thavodyn. Did the High Lord survive the battle?”
Major Cotterill just shrugged his shoulders. “If fate and fortune oblige him.”
Turning to the group, Bambenek called out, “You all must be hungry. There is enough soup to go around. Were the village folk forthcoming?” As he finished, a few of the soldiers lifted some small sacks, a bushel of turnips here, a wheel of cheese there, and four strangled ducks.
The men with Cotterill started to make room for themselves near the campfire. Those farther back began to prepare new cooking fires and scratch out a place to bed down for the night. All the men looked at Dronor in a blend of reverent fear and then quickly turned their heads as soon as they felt Dronor’s gaze.
When standing, Dronor would be nearly two heads taller than many of the encamped men, but even when seated cast a towering presence. Whispers of the half-orc and the day’s battle went about the men. Most were truly boys and of an age that the horrors of the so-called Orc Wars were only tales and the actual existence of orcs a spinster’s yarn.
All of the arriving men allowed for a wide space away from Dronor, at least battle axe length and then some, just to be sure. One soldier, after seeing to his men, approached Dronor without trepidation. “You saved my life and that of others here. You gave many more a fighting chance. I would be honored to drink with you.” The soldier shook his head. “It has been a great while since I have seen fearlessness and guts like that.”
Dronor accepted the pale blue bottle and took a long swig of some unknown sour village brew.
“Sergeant Kellin Farrior. Line infantry. Eighth Broadshield, Armstead’s Roamers. Twelfth Banner Company,” he said with the formality of countless repetition but accented with the dignity of career service.
Now better recognizing Farrior without his helmet, Dronor asked, “Your flagbearer make it?”
The man with short sandy hair and bushy mustache let out a sigh. “He died of his wounds on the way here. We left his body with some villagers to give him a proper burial. He was a good kid. He protected that banner. Valor,” Farrior said defiantly and then gave Dronor a departing nod.
Between the campfires, the men more or less freely shared their provisions, although most had some square of hard biscuit or bite of greasy sausage squirreled away in a belt pouch or inner pocket as precaution against future hungers.
“Friends,” said Farrior, “we will all be fed with what little there is to go around, but,” the veteran sergeant pointed to Dronor, “this…” He paused. “This warrior,” Farrior recovered, “deserves a hero’s portion of tonight’s food, not only to help him recover from that brutal wound, but in recognition of his bravery and indomitable will to fight.”
The spattering of claps and cheers for the half-orc faded into silent remembrance of the fallen and the shared disaster.
“Thank you, Sergeant,” said Cotterill, his eyes dismissing Farrior, as he now stepped closer to the center of the men and firelight. With the help of his aides, Cotterill had removed his breastplate and chain mail to reveal a grimy doublet of refined orange and vermillion brocade and a simple pewter talisman of Indalos about his neck. “Sons of this land.” He suppressed a wheeze and puffed out his chest now free of the protective weight.
Cotterill raised his hands and swept them in an arc across the men as if to gather their attention. “As night descends upon us on this dark day: a day of betrayal, a breach of sacred oath, and a breach of honor.” The merchant-soldier statesman, whether for effect or to calm himself, ran his hands through his silver-blond locks. “We are still here. And while we grieve for those fallen, we must fortify ourselves to carry on to defend our lands and drive out this menace. Tomorrow we must go and form up with forces still bound by honor and duty to High Lord Eadolan.”
Voices leapt forth from around the flames.
“Find the High Lord? Where?”
“How do you know he is still alive? Probably dead.”
“Captured.”
“We need to defend our homes and families.”
“He lost his throne. We don’t need to find him another one!”
“Watch your loose words. If the High Lord is dead, there will be greater tragedy, and what of your families then? I don’t intend to spend the rest of my life lurking in the forest. What kind of disgrace and cowardice is this from you?” Cotterill exclaimed, eyes ablaze. “The High Lord may still be alive and fighting on. I know he is! His family assuredly is. Loyal units must rally to him. You are still soldiers and sworn men under his standard.”
“How do you know you won’t get a better deal from Tavuron and Padazar as the High Lord?” called an inquisitive voice.
“What!” Cotterill shouted back, his face starting to match the color of his doublet.
Men started to reach for their weapons as a nobleman stood.
“There’ll be no need for that.” The nobleman stuck out his palms to show he only wanted to talk. “Calm yourself, old man. We are merely discussing today’s events and, more importantly, what to do next. I have no intention to stay in this waste any longer than necessary, but let’s be clear. We all fought for the High Lord and under flags raised in loyalty to him. So, while you are a distinguished merchant, I must say, I am a bit surprised by your reaction to even the mere mention of striking a deal, because isn’t that how you’ve made your way?”
The square-jawed man in his twenties gave Cotterill an inquiring and penetrating look but again raised his palms to restate his intentions. “Indeed, you are a successful coin counter, but you are not in command of line infantry, like our dear sergeant here, nor of me and my knightly companions. You have charge of your venerable militia, so when we discuss obligations and duties, let’s all abide by the existing terms.”
The nobleman turned his attention. “To all friends gathered, you must forgive me, for although the Major and I became acquainted on our leisurely wooded trek, I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure to meet all of you. To those in our present brotherhood of the campfire,” he said mockingly and then changed his tone, “my name is Sir Dallen Portnay, guardian of and heir to the fertile estates and stronghold at Amberfield. The knightly Evret Hufyn and seven squires are here with me.”
The knight and squires nodded to the group. The foot soldiers did not return the courtesy and looked more interested in a fresh meal and famishedly eyed the troopers’ horses tethered to nearby trees. Portnay continued, “I am a cavalry bannerman serving with the honorable Esselrig Gidlock in pledge to Duke Urric who commanded the right wing and stood loyal to the High Lord.”
A flurry of denouncements struck the air.
“You caused this!”
“Where was Urric? Where was your attack?”
“You abandoned us! You left us for dead!”
One of the line infantrymen slowly got to his feet. “We’re all busted and bleeding, and you look like you don’t have a scratch on you. Where in the righteous name of Indalos were all of you? Watching the ass end of the horse in front of you as you ran away!”
Portnay rolled up his honey-colored silken sleeves to reveal bruises and minor cuts on his forearms. “We did not exactly run away, you short-sighted fools. Many fell who were under my command, so mind your disrespectful tongues!” The infantryman quieted instinctively at the sound of a nobleman’s reprimand.
Portnay assumed a more measured, rhetorical tone with his next words. “What has come to rest in my mind is that the Tavuros did not equally divide their cavalry. While plainly I was not on the left wing, it is evident to me that Padazar’s move was pre-arranged. We were outnumbered on the right wing and, you are correct, could not stand the weight of the charge. The Tavuros must have placed only a token force to create a veneer on our left and overloaded on our right side.”
Mumbles rippled through the men as they considered this option.
“Padazar is a traitor and deserves to kneel at the block,” remarked Portnay. “My point is whom do you trust? We are a fraction of a proper army. When we emerge as a sliver from this forest, if we encounter a group of any number, have we found a friend or foe? Cotterill, your Chartered Cities collect scales and curled parchment, but the nobility control land, and that is the real power in this realm.” Portnay further fixed his attention on Cotterill. “You want to rally men? Who will they follow? You?”
“I led you and your men to the safety of these woods, and I will lead you back to your duty and the defense of the country. You’ve spent far too much of your life with your balls cradled in a soft saddle! You left us in the cauldron, but we pious crafters and keepers fought our way out of that roiling blaze which your noble eminence did little to prevent from happening in the first instance! You created this catastrophe but now graciously offer your service to no doubt make worse the misfortune that has befallen us.” Cotterill gasped and wheezed deeply. He started to bend forward and several men, including Portnay, rushed to steady him. The men helped Cotterill sit and handed him a cup which seemed to calm the old man.
“Enough of this bickering,” said Bambenek as the lone figure still standing around the central fire. “Pointless barking in the dark. Look to your wounds. Look to your brothers. Get some rest. There will be enough to do tomorrow.” He agitatedly threw two more logs on the main fire. Seeing no one else exercising command, Bambenek asked, “Sergeant Farrior, may I trouble you to set the watch for this evening?”
Farrior rumbled an affirmation through a mouth swollen with bread and cheese. Cotterill nodded a ceremonial approval to Bambenek’s proposal as one of Cotterill’s aides helped steady a piece of food in the Major’s hand. Portnay’s light blue eyes glanced scornfully at Bambenek’s impromptu sorting of affairs as he wheeled around and walked back to his companions.
Dronor’s lips moved, but no one seemed to notice as he slurped the last of his soup and then sat almost imperceptibly still. Few of the men had cloaks or blankets. None had tents. All of the heavier gear and packs were left in the camp before the battle, now likely in the possession of the victorious army or sifted and strewn about the field by local foragers. Some men, within the safe confines of a campfire’s aura, tried to cut and gather a bed of boughs to carpet the half-dry ground. In a haze of smoke, dull moans, rote and improvised prayers, others just huddled in the damp as close to a fire as they could manage.
Dronor closed his eyes to the sight of Sergeant Farrior instructing line infantrymen to keep watch and to tend each campfire through the night.
Chapter 2
As a bleak and growing darkness covered the battlefield, the Duke of Delun, Horace Padazar, was comfortably back in his war pavilion: an opulent tent of red and blue silk ribbed with pine and skinned with a sturdy, featureless canvas. The massive pavilion dominated the concentric circles of smaller tents and wagon parks which formed the rest of his camp. A shallow entrenchment had been hastily dug around the camp the evening before.
Padazar, much to the displeasure of High Lord Eadolan, was slow to join the army on the eve of battle and established a separate camp a long mile west of the main camp. Padazar had explained to Eadolan and the other members of the war council that he had done so as the main camp was improperly laid out to accommodate his soldiers, and he needed proper grazing space for his horses.
Duke Urric of Vryvond, Padazar’s counterpart as the commander of the Ardalen army’s right wing, had to acknowledge that Padazar’s banners accounted for over twice the number of knights and retainers that Urric would have under his command. Duke Urric’s demand that Padazar, as one of the most prominent nobles and leader of the left wing, stay in the encampment came to naught as Eadolan demurred on the issue.
“Duke Padazar is here for the council. Battle will be before us tomorrow. This is not the time to be moving tents and wagons,” High Lord Eadolan had said to close the discussion. “What matters is that we defeat the invaders and drive them back across the frontier.”
Padazar smiled deeply as he recalled the preceding night. As he had departed the war council, he bowed slightly to Eadolan and said, “Orders are clear. We need not wait for Silverface. Victory tomorrow is assured.”
The victory today, for Padazar and the Tavuros, was a crushing rout. Padazar looked up from the map positioned on a wide table, motioned for the cups to be topped off, and looked at the men before him who had abandoned one oath for a deeper fealty.
“A toast, to a new era and the revitalization of our country. For too long have we tolerated the decline and erosion of our lands. We ascend to take our rightful places in Ardalencor. With the good fortune and favor of Indalos, you, distinguished and victorious Brothers, have done great service for our families. We hold these lands dear as any man, and while some in other provinces may question the alliance with Tavuron, know that these interlopers are merely tools at our disposal. They can never hold these lands without our assistance and therefore are dependent on us. The other lords, even Urric and the like, will soon see the wisdom of deserting Eadolan, returning peacefully to their homes, and acknowledging me as High Lord.”
Horace Padazar, foremost nobleman in Ardalencor’s Southwest, was a man consumed by the wrenching humiliation of his family and the injustices done to the people of Ardalencor’s southwestern provinces. He, and many others, had laid responsibility and the rotting corpse of betrayal at Eadolan’s feet four years ago. Now Padazar had the long-sought moment to settle accounts fully and permanently.
Despite having recently seen his forty-second summer, Padazar’s mid-length hair, moustache, and goatee were still a deep black. He wore a yellow robe with iron gray embroidery and had about his waist a sash sewn in his family’s heraldic red and light blue. The sash was adorned with peregrine falcons in heavy black thread. His feet were studded with polished crimson boots. He enjoyed another sip of golden mead and tapped the map twice at Ravalas, capital of Ardalencor. “We take Ravalas, and the whole affair is resolved.”
Three of Padazar’s sons accompanied him to this battlefield. He marveled at them with paternal joy. The three teenagers looked back in the youthful meld of pride and uncertainty.
“Today was a thundering testament to the justice of Indalos,” Padazar said gravely, intertwining thoughts of mortality and posterity.
“Indalos, protect us. Guard soul and soil,” intoned a man in clerical vestments.
Padazar turned to his friend of many decades. “Ray, you Sharp Spur, I’ve seen your earlier dispatches, but recount for me and for those now gathered the course of our victory. Tell us a valiant tale.”
“May it please Your High Lordship, I trust you did receive the thick stands of captured banners.”
“Indeed! Yesterday was your birthday, and today you have given me quite the present.”
“Before I recount bright deeds of enshrined triumph and bravery, let us all raise our glass to the true High Lord of Ardalencor, Horace Padazar.”
“To High Lord Horace Padazar!”
Balian Latrobh and Drevell Swan grinned flatly as their peer began the performance.
Corneleo Ray flashed an impish grin and savored a long drink. His rings clinked on the goblet as he set it down and wiped the glistening twists of his moustache. “It was a delightful chase. It took Eadolan, that old goat, a while to realize what was happening. We crashed into his slow-footed Hearthguards, but his mounted crossbowmen put up a good rate of fire to cover the flight. Those damn elves, pale lynx, got to give them their due; they have ice in their veins and a steady eye. Lyjos is the best commander in their whole army.”
The stocky Ray, fresh into his forty-first year, grew more animated in the telling of the tale. “The air seemed to buzz with hornets, stinging and slowing our advance which allowed the Hearthguards to extricate themselves from a tight spot. Our rear echelons did rightly capture more than a few Hearthguards, it would be right to note. They aren’t much when it comes to real fighting, but the horses they ride are fine breeds. I’ll have far better use of these steeds; maybe hitch up some new stallions at Swiftmane.” Swiftmane Races, hereditary possession of the Ray family, was the most famous racetrack and horse breeding farm in Ardalencor. Every year in early summer, Swiftmane Races hosted a great festival replete with races, tournaments, and jousts.
“The boys and I gallantly leaned into the swarm and braved our way forward to keep the fright on. We spied the outskirts of the camp and could see panicked carters and bullwhackers,” Ray laughed recalling the sight, “trying to get the oxen hooked up and mules loaded to get away with Eadolan’s wardrobes.”
“The camp was guarded by some archers and militia formations, but we netted most and a number of convalescents in the camp. These wounded men said they were involved in the initial skirmishes when the Tavurite armies crossed the frontier. They are mostly border guards who were pushed out of the custom house at Duskwall and secondary points down the main road. Anyway,” Ray dismissed the thought with the wave of a fleshy, ring-studded hand. “I left some men to secure the camp as well as sent word back to our camp infantry to march over in strength lest any stragglers from the main line try to reclaim their packs. Back to the scramble, I spurred on the boys and surged around the edge to try to block Eadolan and his fleeing rabbits spilling onto the road.”
Ray paused for effect. “The spellbinders. Remember, Horace, when you said just a few were in camp last night? Well, they were coming up the road late and lethargic as ever. A whole train of carriages and wagons and schools of apprentices at the ready with fine parchment to copy down spells or wipe their ass or whatmayhaps. Now there is a jam on the road. I think we can nab the whole lot. Just then the wizards start to lay down a barrage of bolts and blasts which charred man and beast alike. A ghastly sight. It would have been reckless for me to advance my men any farther, even in the numbers we had, but we made true that they kept up the retreat and hazarded no attempt to retake the camp or join the central fray. My boys did a fine job. Did their fathers proud.” He scratched at his razor-short hair and looked pensively, hoping Padazar approved of his martial achievements.
The clergyman looked at Padazar, but Padazar pretended not to notice.
“Well done, Sharp Spur! I would not expect us to bag all the foxes in one go.” Padazar patted Ray on the shoulder. “We’ll follow them as they run back to the den and that will be the end.” Padazar threw some half-eaten beef bones to his two faithful black and tan bloodhounds who were lounging close to a brazier.
“A stirring description, Ray, of your exploits on the periphery of the battle. There is no need to chase after a tiger when its neck has been sliced. My Lord, Brethren, let me now relay to you the decisive moment, the jugular strike, to Eadolan’s army,” said Latrobh as he pushed back a strand of flat, lanky hair. A single, hazel eye peered out from a glowering face. His left eye had yielded to an arrow bequeathing a shallow socket now concealed by a taut eye patch.
“Better an eye than a life,” the long-limbed Latrobh would often say when recounting the flight of the arrow from an orc’s bow that pierced his helmet’s visor and lodged just beyond. He was fourteen at the time. Nearly four decades later, Latrobh, called the One-Eyed Buzzard for his sweeping, deliberate way of surveying a swirling battlefield, was one of the most methodical killers on the continent.
The master tactician’s family seat of Latrobh was a modest settlement on the banks of the Antler River. The people along its watershed were impoverished, subsisting on trapping and fishing or scratching a crop from rocky soil. While the stream-creased land was barely fertile, the region’s women were the opposite. The reality of a thin and overstretched resource base and bleak prospects for surviving second sons created the Antler River basin’s greatest export crop. Hungry and hardened young men found ready employ and their surest path to social advancement as line infantrymen in the royal army, in retinues of Southwestern nobles, or as soldiers of fortune under a foreign banner.
At times, Latrobh himself had served as an officer and military advisor in far-flung lands. His outward appearance reflected the unique blend of hardscrabble rustic, ambition, and opulence. He wore a sapphire blue tunic, a luxury item imported through Ardalencor’s lone seaport of Floriana. Along with the tunic, he wore simple, loose fitting brown pants and the plain boots of a freeholder. Doeskin gloves were tucked into his belt next to a jeweled saber worth the equivalent of several farmsteads.
The curved saber scabbard was inlaid with emeralds and pearls. The hilt of the elven-forged blade found shape as an elk’s head which began at the pommel. The elk’s neck constituted the grip. From the pommel, faint antlers twisted around and contoured the grip and then fully extended to form an intricate hand guard. Latrobh adjusted the sword belt; the hilt and the scabbard shimmered preternaturally among the pavilion’s multitude of candles and braziers.
“The Tavuros did their part in forcing the movement of the skirmish line and shield wall. I led my steel-fisted knights to link up with our infantry in the center.” Latrobh motioned at two men around the table. “Barrett and Gerdeon did their part in detaining the fleeing skirmishers and convincing others not to resist.” Barrett Drummond and Gerdeon Bune, Southwestern nobles, commanded line infantry broadshields largely drawn from their home provinces.
“The coordination of infantry and cavalry is paramount,” instructed Latrobh. “It has an unnerving effect on even the sturdy man and showed others with the approaching glint of Tavurite cataphracts that immediate safety lay under our protection. Any reluctant sergeants or flagbearers were quickly dissuaded. Our men in the line infantry started collecting tiger standards like kindling sticks. With the Southwestern liners now flying the black falcon banners and moving in precision with my men, the nearest mercenary companies switched sides on the spot.”
“We secured the bulk of the center and permitted units still loyal to Eadolan to stagger into deeper contact with the Tavuros. The real fighting was on the right side of the line against Tavurite units. Our forces remain at battle readiness. Most of the killing can be attributed to the invader.”
“The men are being sorted, nobles and officers separated out. Our boys are guarding the nobles and officers. The mercenaries are guarding the rank and file,” Latrobh said. “We are trying to get units overtaken by the Tavuros transferred to our control. It’s promising that they’ll take the offer. They’ll be able to throw more men forward without the burden of watching prisoners.” Latrobh peered at Ray and then shifted his gaze to Drevell Swan. “Drev, perhaps you have news about this?”
“This has been arranged,” Swan said with detachment. More envoy in dress and manner than soldier, Drevell Swan commanded the portion of the left wing that made contact with the Tavuros at the start of the battle and rode to meet with Nabrensus, the Tavurite King. Swan was no stranger among the Tavuros. He had led the clandestine discussions over the past several months.
Swan was a thin man in his sixties, clean shaven, with a white-brown trim of hair round back and to his temples. An unflappable man of cool words, many believed Swan to have the cold heart of a lizard. He frowned at Padazar. “As I have only recently returned, forgive me, High Lord, but I must interpose the valiant tale with troubling news.”
“Lord Ray pranced around this topic as he extolled his courageous trotters.” Swan scowled as flames licked over a nearby brazier. “As our present allies overran the custom stations at Duskwall crossing, some border guards and local gentry with their families, who did not retreat down the main road, sought refuge in the Burzina Monastery. As Your Eminence may well know, this is not a simple building but a well-maintained, walled complex. A respectable stone fortress in wars gone by.” Swan’s words became more inflected. “You may recall the living tales of the scarred and lamed elders who, in their dearly-traded youth, defended their sanctuary and drenched the solemn grounds in successive tides of orc blood.”
“Oh, get on with it, Swan,” hurried Ray. “This is one of a hundred sites of defiance to those eradicated monsters. We all know the stories. Stop distracting us with some obscure history lesson.”
Swan had lost an uncle and a cousin at the Burzina Monastery. No one else gathered likely remembered this detail, but for him the memory was a constant companion. His relatives, knights, along with other warriors, sworn monks of Indalos’ holy order, local ploughmen, and shepherds had defended the hallowed grounds against countless, frenzied orc assaults. Family stories had it that the sworn fallen, his kin, were interned in a common grave beneath a victory pillar outside the walls. Swan paused to consider the probable fate of that heroic rest since the Tavurite intrusion.
Hoping he appeared outwardly placid, but recognizing he would be seen as belaboring the point, Swan transitioned calmly. “The elder monks refused to surrender and determined to hold out once again. Rather than surround and contain the petulant node, the Tavuros stopped. Their infantry spent days investing and reducing the place to near rubble with siege weapons. After spending some time amongst the Tavuros, my men heard many wild whispers that the Tavurite force took heavy casualties as they went stone room by stone room, with chisel and torch, if need be, slaughtering all within. Our men placed in the Tavurite camp confirm this disquieting news.”
“Some of the invalids captured by Ray’s troopers are certainly aware of people seeking haven in the monastery but could not know of its fate. This has all barely begun, and the understanding to respect the faith has come to naught.” Swan was not a genuine believer but well understood its power and utility. “News of this will gallop faster than a fleet mare,” he said morosely.
“Burzina,” said a voice that let the name linger in the air. “Burzina was a brood of schismatics. The walls kept out the orcs and the wicked but not the untamed impiety of the wilderness,” said Donald Woolfolk derisively. Dressed simply in white cassock and green cape, the Conservator of Delun’s largest Starfield paced with a limp and cradled his lame right arm. In spite of the physical frailties, an inquisitive zeal animated his being and illuminated his piercing ice-blue eyes. Woolfolk’s wavy, full head of hair was a hoary white in challenge and reflection of his age. His wide face, otherwise shaven, was framed with bushy side whiskers to the jaw line.
He pointed an accusing finger at no one in particular. “That monastery was founded three hundred years ago to secure the name of Indalos in those lands. Without constant vigilance, rodents will defile any garden. While there are many weeds in this field, they can be removed, and the soil restored to proper bounty. The consecrated field endures.”
Woolfolk’s right arm started to twitch, and he strove to steady his arm and emotions. “The Tavuros have desecrated a holy site and must atone for this transgression. Despite all their peculiarities, the Burzina monks did proclaim Indalos as protector and defended their vows to the last! Warriors of Indalos deserve remembrance, but we must remember them in mournful silence for the time being.”
Woolfolk touched a pewter talisman about his neck and said a quiet prayer.
Padazar observed Woolfolk with a cautious unease. “Thank you, Conservator. Enough. Your words sorrow us all. This will be righted in time. We have spent many a contemplative night in preparation for today. Reevers brought calamity to our homes twice in a lifetime. We have persevered. Your piety continues to be an example to us all.”
Padazar swept his hand over the map and looked at his companions. “We all know this is no light undertaking. We have tremored the earth and must tread a mindful path. We are branded as traitors by many, but, in time, these very same will proclaim us the restorers of the land. Conservator, Lord Swan, I will address Burzina with Nabrensus at an opportune moment.”
A sudden noise stirred the bloodhounds as one of Padazar’s couriers walked in. Uninterested in the courier, the bloodhounds snorted lazily and drifted to sleep.
“Yes?”
“Apologies, Your Eminence. Nabrensus has requested your presence tomorrow morning at first light to plan the next moves of the campaign.”
Padazar nodded to acknowledge the message and dismissed the courier.
“Nabrensus intends to besiege Thavodyn and no doubt wants Barrett’s and Gerdeon’s infantry as dirt mules and breach fodder,” said Swan.
The two men blurted a worried “No!” in unison.
“Thavodyn is an unnatural place. It bears the witching mark of Silverface and his blasphemy,” said Woolfolk turning to Padazar’s sons. “Remember your lessons on natural deduction. The order put forth by Indalos has been interrupted there. The rocks remain a pristine black, unweathered and unchanged to a red or brown as most basalt in open air. This is the meddling of Silverface and his vulgar attempts to warp the creation of Indalos.”
Amos could not restrain himself any further and offered his own thoughts. In a voice between squeak and growl, he said, “Let the Tavuros try to force the gates of Thavodyn. They can spend the winter freezing before its walls. We’ll have captured Ravalas and pried the country from Eadolan’s hand before the walls come down.”
“A fine strategy and wishful thinking, Young Master, but we must see it through,” said Latrobh. “Thavodyn is a fine chicken coop but an empty one. Why would the Tavuros just not bypass Thavodyn when Eadolan is bone thin on cavalry? He can do little to check their movements. Nabrensus is a man of the saddle not the mud of a siege line. Do you think he would besiege the fortress and give us the free hand to claim the country for your father? Ally and enemy are one in the same with the Tavuros. They will not abide our agreement if given the chance.”
Latrobh added, “Save for the belt of plains west of the Thicket, all the good pasture lands are farther east. If the Tavuros are east of Thavodyn for more than a pipe and a piss, we‘ll also have to fight them, or they’ll ravage the central provinces.”
“The Tavuros despoiling the lands of Duke Urric and demonstrating for all our countrymen that he is little more than an impotent sot would not be a bad course of events.” Padazar relished the thought.
“If Burzina is any indication, they mean to subdue and conquer, not just gallop through. They’ll besiege Thavodyn,” said Swan.
“Drev, are the Tavuros moving on Thornhelm as well?” asked Gerdeon.
“While I was in their camp, I heard no mention of that rotten tangle of log and sod.”
“Ethan, have the homing birds been dispatched back to your mother and brothers?” said Padazar.
“Yes, Father, quite some time ago,” answered Ethan.
“Good.” Padazar nodded. “Your brothers will be in the saddle shortly.” Padazar turned his attention back to the larger group. “We’ll stay together a few days to sort through the nobles and see who may be of the mind to reconsider their opinion of Eadolan. In support of our allies, Lords Ray and Swan and a portion of the cavalry and infantry will remain with Nabrensus.”
Padazar returned his focus to his sons. “Ethan, Amos, you will also stay with Lords Ray and Swan. Asmund, you will remain with me.”
“What!” gasped Padazar’s three teenage sons.
Padazar cut them off. “You will serve your family and country. Ethan, Amos, your presence demonstrates to Nabrensus our commitment to the alliance. Lords Ray and Swan will watch over you. The rest of our forces will return south with me to secure the towns and crossings along the line of supply. We will all be together again in due time.”
“We’ll keep the Tavuros here. When they’re nearly bled dry, we’ll capture Thavodyn,” offered Swan.
“How?” asked Latrobh skeptically.
Corneleo Ray just twisted the ends of his moustache and smiled widely at Latrobh.
Chapter 3
“Help! Help!” came the echoing cries of Cotterill’s two young aides. Men groggily peered around, but Bambenek was first to his feet and steps ahead of the rest. Bambenek saw panic in the eyes of the scribe and courier and motioned for them to move back. The sun had not quite risen, but, in the rose-gray dawn, Bambenek could see the clammy pallor of Cotterill’s face.
Bambenek lightly slapped Cotterill twice on the cheek and shook his shoulder. Cotterill’s muscles were unresponsive; his eyes greeted Bambenek with a vacant stare. Bambenek checked for a pulse on the neck and found none. Quickly glancing at the still motionless chest, Bambenek discreetly checked Cotterill’s mouth for obstruction. With the gathering crowd and no visible blockage, Bambenek did not want to linger but thought he noticed a slight discoloration in the back of Cotterill’s throat as he started to stand.
To be able to stand, Bambenek had to push back some of the Chartered Cities militiamen crowding in to see their leader. “He is too far gone,” said Bambenek. “Myron. Quinby. What happened during the night?”
All eyes turned to the two aides, both teenagers of well-appointed families in the Chartered Cities. “I don’t know. We just found him,” Myron bleated. “I woke up and checked on him. I slept through the night.”
Sergeant Farrior roused the men who were on watch during the night. “Report!”
“Nothing unusual, Sarge. Some boys more or less stayed awake than face the specters in their sleep. A few went to piddle now and then, but perimeter was secure. Quiet night really,” said one of the watchmen.
“You saw the Major’s condition yesterday. He was in distress,” Portnay offered. “I fear the weight of the day tipped the mortal scales. May he find peace in the tranquil fields of Indalos and have toll ready for the gates. Boys, if you will kindly step aside.”
Portnay swept his hand to request a pathway to Cotterill. He knelt down, recited a short prayer, and placed two gold crowned tigers on Cotterill’s eyelids. The nobleman then cut a silken strip from the hem of his tunic and tied the strip around Cotterill’s head and eyes to keep the coins in place.
Portnay stood and stepped away from the crowd gathering to pay their respects. As he passed through the crowd, he wiggled his fingers to send the trace of death scurrying away.
The men of the Chartered Cities led the singing of the prayer of passage.
The time has come to bid farewell
Tranquility in sweet repose
Gently travel to gracious fold
Rolling fields and blooming rose
Look kindly on fam’ly who remain
As we hold you dear in memory’s refrain
Hoping to prevent listening to another solemnity, Portnay returned to the crowd. “As the departed aptly reminded us yesterday, we must look to our duty.” To Myron and Quinby, he said with an air of piety, “Gather some men and bury Cotterill’s body.”
“No!” stammered Quinby. “We should take him with us.” He paused to summon words and courage. “He deserves better than to be buried here. He should be interned in his family’s crypt.”
The other militiamen backed the pensive Quinby. He stood a little taller at the sign of support.
“We’ll not disgrace Major Cotterill with some trench in the forest deep,” said Hodger Hill. “We are free men. As far as we are concerned, you tell us nothing!” Hill signaled to some of his fellow militiamen to find a cloak to cover Cotterill and to cut wood to fashion a litter for the body.
“I did not catch your name, but in any case, my position and privilege are manifest to tell you precisely. But, if you want to haul his fine threads and bones back home, you can carry him, but tell me this: when we encounter the enemy again, will you spend your time guarding a corpse or protecting the living?” Portnay wasted no time for an answer to his question. “Have your morning meal and make ready to break camp. We will be leaving this place before the day is too far along.”
Other than Hufyn and the squires, everyone ignored the order.
At the sight of Portnay’s sneer, the grizzled sergeant gave reply. “There you have it. The extent of your command. I can’t imagine you have seen much actual combat before today or are aware of soldierly protocol beyond the pomp that your tutor made you memorize. So, permit me, Sir Portnay, to give you a lesson from the soldier’s book. With the present absence of unified command and the current size of our group, what we have is an independent company. An independent company chooses its captain.” Farrior paused and cleared his throat. “Fellow soldiers, I declare for Bambenek Morley. He is the man best fit to lead us.”
“How is a scout the best qualified to lead any group?” Portnay gasped in rebuke.
“I thought he was a skirmisher?” wondered a line infantryman to those nearby.
Bambenek heard the remark. “Yes, that too. With the Tavurite army immediately in front of us, the need for my scouting acumen was much reduced,” he replied flatly.
“He’s a man from the regular army and born in the Chartered Cities,” said Farrior.
“He is of a lower rank than you, Sergeant. How irregular for a sergeant to listen to a subordinate?” Portnay challenged.
“Rank or not, I think he is the best man to lead us. We can sort out ranks another day.”
The infantry and militiamen, having seen Bambenek’s coolness in the battle fray and reassuring presence over the past day, shouted their approval.
With the noise subsided, one of the Chartered Cities militiamen, Simon Audley, a thin, peevish, erstwhile bookkeeper, could not resist returning a verbal thrust at the knight. “The gallant Dallen Portnay and his eight bent-legged saddle squatters. Here to save the realm. You would strike a chivalric image leading such a miniature host. Or,” he smiled, “you would be picked up so quickly by some cavalry patrol that your fretting father would be pressed to deliver up a huge sum for your safe return. Would he trifle to spare even a copper for your squires?”
Audley swept his eyes to each of the squires and nodded knowingly. “Well, seeing as how Padazar has already upset the natural order, he may not be in the mood for keeping the heads of current nobles attached to their shoulders for much longer. As you said yourself, Amberfield does have fertile soil. That would make a tantalizing reward for one of Padazar’s stable boys, don’t you think?”
Portnay glared at the grinning Audley but made no reply.
Bambenek waited a moment and motioned for the group to quiet. Possessing the moment, he hesitated and then shook his head. “Brothers, I don’t know that I am equal to the task and honor you are bestowing on me. I think someone else is better qualified.”
The soldiers shouted their adulation.
“You always looked out for us.”
“You led our poor hides to safety and will lead us out.”
A solitary, phantom gust seemed to slam into Bambenek. He rocked weightlessly, cautiously, on his heels. Returning to the still and present air, Bambenek recovered, gnawed his lip, and spat near his toes. He looked back up and hesitantly said, “I humbly accept the duty to be this company’s captain until such time that my service is no longer requested, or the company has disbanded.”
The soldiers cheered and patted Bambenek on the back and shook his hand. Over the congratulatory offerings, Bambenek said, “I nominate Sergeant Farrior and Hodger Hill as selected men to lead the line infantry and militiamen.” The men only nodded their heads at the formality as Farrior and Hill were already of rank and liked by their men.
“Sir Portnay, when we return to the army, proper standards and banners will reform. In the meantime, I ask you for your partnership and counsel as leader of the mounted wing. The men have not selected you to lead this company, but we understand who you are and what you represent outside these woods. It is a rare thing for a man to be training with a sword since he learned to walk. We understand the talents you possess.”
Bambenek’s words seemed to placate Portnay.
Bambenek now turned to the half-orc. “What say you, friend Dronor? Will you help us?”
“Mighty Dronor,” Portnay interjected. “Will you serve under my command? You have no ties to these lands, but I will pay you well. You shall not want for pay or whatever you desire. You would have the place as champion in my personal guard.”
Dronor grumbled and mindful of his wrapped and splinted leg, slowly, and with aid, rose to his feet. He scratched his jutting lower jaw edged with stumpy tusks and appeared to sort the choices for several moments.
“What say you, Orc?” said Hufyn, eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep.
Portnay immediately shot Hufyn an admonishing look.
Dronor just stared at Hufyn.
“Never mind his hasty words. He lost two brothers on the field,” Portnay said with a trace of an apology. Portnay’s face contorted, and he seemed to reconsider his offer as he saw Dronor’s quilted and crusted leg in plainer view.
Dronor cleared his throat to ward off any further parlay. “Well, I know that some scavenger has my pack, your High Lord has my money, and some horse boy has a drinking tale about how he dropped an orc. I’m owed a few things. I intend to collect what I can. I’ve taken payment from many purses, but I serve no one.” Dronor looked at Hufyn and Portnay. “I agree with the boys. Bambenek. With his help and some luck, I will keep my leg.”
“Old village cure. No luck to it. Keeps the blood from getting tainted. It will heal good,” Bambenek said confidently.
“I owe you a debt. You have my blade at the ready,” Dronor said to Bambenek and raised his axe, firelight flickering in his feral black eyes.
“He’s worth ten men,” said one soldier.
“Twenty,” said another.
Bambenek nodded and smiled. “Boys, I want a full roll call after breakfast. Need to sort the status of things including general vitality, provisions, and condition of weapons. And lastly, anyone know any spells? Any campfire magic? Any disciplined study of mystical forces? I know the wizards don’t like to hear of unregulated and sorceress ways, but with our present condition, we need any edge we can get.”
Everyone listened apprehensively, shrugged their shoulders, and looked at each other.
“Well, seeing as no one is offering up, hear me kindly. If we get into a pinch and you know how to fix a hex, launch a fireball, or even scatter a few cinders, do it.”
***
After a slim and motley breakfast, the men formed up in ranks, and one by one came forward to report. All men were wounded or damaged in their own way with Dronor being the worst off in terms of visible injury. The more severely wounded had been left on the field or succumbed to their wounds before entering the forested refuge.
All the line infantry stood abreast in their hauberks over gray gambesons with thick blue and orange cuffs. They wore shallow nasal guard helms and had swords whether from their original assignment or appropriated from the fallen. A few men had the spiked maces of dispatched enemy cavalry. Some had retained their shields despite the weight while fleeing pursuit. Most had abandoned their spears, whether splintered on the field or dropped in flight. Sergeant Farrior stood at the head of his men defiantly holding the ragged, blue and orange banner of the Twelfth Company.
The Chartered Cities militiamen were in a leaner condition. Their standard weapon was the thirteen-foot pike, but these were more cumbersome to handle at a quickened pace than the line infantry’s eight-foot spear, and even more so at a sustained run. All pikes were discarded. Most still had their iron kettle helmets, but a few tossed the iron brims to gain a step. These same men would have dropped their breastplates and tassets had a calm-fingered neighbor been willing to undue the buckles.
Among the militia, swords were not standard issue in the ranks, but a myriad of daggers, knives, hatchets, and even one sharpened entrenching shovel were counted. Both Myron and Quinby yet carried their ornate, vestigial dueling swords which were gifts of their respective fathers when commissioned as aides to Cotterill. No flag or ensign lofted above the militiamen.
The archers were nearly out of arrows, but to a man, had held firmly to their yew bows. Bambenek recalled that they disposed of their missiles with defiant, unhurried movement, rather than in a panicked scatter. The bowmen, in leathers or padded cloth, were all from the militia and had spare bowstrings in plenty and skinning knives, most being hunters and trappers in gentler days. As Bambenek passed them, he remarked, “Good, boys. No sense in marveling at quivered arrows after a battle. Better to give those screamers a ride.”
Bambenek craned his head up and gave Dronor a nod. Dronor stood, weary, but at attention in his full panoply. He wore a soiled, dark blue, long sleeve and thigh-length padded jack with a separate tightly-woven woolen collar and hood of roughly the same color seated atop. A double-thick, leather pauldron further protected his right shoulder and was buckled with straps across his chest. On a broad belt hung a wide knife and a dagger to the right and a giant arming sword to the left; this belt, lacquered in residue, had been cinched timely to Dronor’s leg to prevent him from bleeding out on the battlefield.
His drab linen pants were tucked into sturdy, massive mid-calf boots. The right pant leg was greased and flecked with blood and earth; the left leg above the knee was nearly concealed behind a crusted, weeping slag of poultice, moss, and snug cloth and leather wrappings. Despite the wound, he easily projected a dominating air amongst the men. In his near kettle-sized hands, he gripped a great double-headed axe and metal-studded, oaken shield.
After a few moments of esteem for the big half-orc, Bambenek gave an accounting of his own armaments. “Boys, I am flat out of lead shot, but I scrounged a few forest stones that will fly just fine from these slings.” He flipped the slings over his shoulder and pointed to his waistline.
A woven belt patterned yellow and green secured a horizontal leather sheath. The sheath sheltered a foot-long knife when measured tip to pommel. Bambenek touched the pommel with a knowing smile. “An efficient tool for several occasions.”
Underneath the woven belt, Bambenek had a second, plainer belt which supported a short sword scabbard. Bambenek removed the weapon: a curved, single-edge blade, narrowing towards the hilt and widening at the opposite end before concentrating at the point. The handle was formed in the shape of a falcon and leafed in a weathered gold. All of the militiamen and most of the other soldiers had not seen such a blade before.
“It was not forged in these lands. A relic I picked up on a distant field,” Bambenek said when he saw their expressions.
The earlier phantom gust seemed to return and then as quickly recede. Bambenek blinked and renewed his focus. “The shape distributes the blade’s weight to allow for a long slicing edge and also for similar impact to an axe blow; however,” he smiled and pointed to Dronor, “not with the viciousness that our friend can deliver.”
Bambenek did not mention his carving knife, now concealed in a sheath inside his right boot, and stood aside as Portnay presented his retinue. A black flag with a yellow fess and bundled wheat in the hoist presided over the review. The black field represented the fertile earth; the yellow stripe and symbol, the bountiful harvest of the Portnay family’s Amberfield estates.
As a member of the nobility, a self-isolating minority obsessed with dominating the broader society, even within his present diminished grandeur, Sir Dallen Portnay had been taught to manipulate every occasion; to use ostentatious displays as symbols of unbreachable wealth and power to the desperate, barefoot serf. “Men of Ardalencor, I present to you the chivalric knights and squires here assembled.”
Portnay and Hufyn cut a gallant image in freshly shined armor. Idleness, a fear for home, and a longing for routine in an unfamiliar place prodded the squires to scrub and polish the chain and plate. Most of the dried blood and carnage had been meticulously pried loose of ringlet, dent, and crevice. In his left arm Portnay cradled a sallet helmet finely etched with wheat sheaves and flourishes and theatrically raised a gilded, basket-hilted broadsword with his right. His lead squire, Talvert, held his lord’s alternating black and yellow eight-part gyronny shield. Talvert, like the other squires, was clad in chain mail under a yellow and black surcoat.
Hufyn, his armor lacking some of the detailed magnificence of his benefactor’s, was nonetheless expensively equipped. To signify the allegiance to the Portnay family, his shield bore the Portnay colors: halved into upper yellow and lower black portions but with the silhouette of a rearing stallion in the upper left corner to denote his own distinct noble standing. His shield was smashed, gouged, and draped in a bloody veneer but still maintained its sturdiness. As the squires cleaned the arms and armor, Hufyn held back his shield as legacy of his failed attempts to protect his two brothers who were unhorsed, hacked and trodden into an all too embracing ground. “In the name of Indalos, my brothers will be avenged,” Hufyn whispered and gripped the shield tighter.
After Portnay introduced each of the squires, the horses were paraded through the encampment. The dapple gray and sorrel brown war steeds were pristinely brushed with improvised birch combs. Most were remounts, simply saddled, but one was covered with a black caparison, densely patterned with wheat bundles sown in golden thread. In all, Portnay had eight men under his command and four horses. With two mounts between the seven squires, he begrudgingly had an orphaned infantry command of his own.
Moving his eyes across the congregation, Bambenek muttered, “Forty enduring souls.”
“Captain. Hey Captain! We got one more,” called one of the soldiers.
A few trees back of the sequenced men slumped a man plastered with fever and clutching his right arm. Between the shakes and whimpers, it took a few moments to figure out that the man could communicate with them only in an abridged military tongue utilized by mercenary companies drawn from multiple compass points.
“Why did no one bring this man to my attention?” asked Bambenek.
“He’s a mercenary. We didn’t understand what he was saying. Just a slap of words every now and then. He just kept to himself and only asked for something to drink,” one of the men said.
The mercenary had a scarred, olive complexion and deep-set, dark almond eyes. His studded leather shirt with reinforcing metal staves was mangled and rank. Bambenek motioned for the man to pull back the shreds of the upper sleeve. The man winced as did some of the other men when presented with the sight.
“That arm is all pus and fester,” said Bambenek. “Why did no one help this man?”
“He stayed back. Kept to himself. We didn’t know his arm was bad,” someone replied.
“He probably got the beginnings of that wound a few days back,” Bambenek stated. “That arm has curdled.”
“It will need to go, nearly to the shoulder,” Portnay said.
Bambenek nodded. “Anyone take off an arm before? I mean in a meticulous fashion. We first got to cut away the dead flesh, then saw the arm bone, and sear shut the mess of it. Get some of that village water and a proper stick for this poor traveler to bite on.”
Bambenek pulled his crooked knife and began to strop the blade. One of the infantrymen handed a bottle of sour mash to the man which he sniffed and roughly pushed back into the giving hand. The man now started to push himself away from the others. Farrior motioned for three of the line infantry and two of the larger farm boys from the militia to hold the struggling man down.
The outlander was strong and muscled. It took much effort to keep his arm straightened and elevated on a crosswise log they had placed underneath. The mercenary tried to wriggle free from the press of men as much as from the necrotic throb of his arm. One of the men poured some of the spirits down the man’s throat, most of which he spit back up. Another of the line infantrymen was looking around for some piece of metal large enough to heat in the fire to cauterize the wound. When the infantryman turned, Dronor stood next to the main fire, a side of his axe blade already deep in the flames.
“I’ll take the arm. One swing and seal the wound. Keep him calm for a little longer, and we’ll get this done.”
“It’s got to be precise, Dronor. This is not felling a tree,” Bambenek warned.
Dronor grunted. With one side of the axe warmed, the half-orc approached the panicked man who began to struggle again. Dronor grimly lifted the stout haft and great blade in one deliberate motion. The man’s shriek, even with the clenched wooden bit, seemed to rattle the leaves and curl the roots of the trees. Dronor pressed the fallen blade firmly against the stump.
One of the militiamen moved forward to remove the bit and offer a cup of cooled herbal tea. Another soldier covered the distressed vestige with moss and tied some cloth tight to keep it in place. The man was lifted up. He sat with his legs pulled close and moaned to the rhythm of a steady rocking.
Dronor patted the man on the head, picked up the rancid arm by its lifeless fingers, and disinterestedly tossed it in a nearby fire. The shocked man looked into the flames, entranced, as his livelihood, his sword arm, crackled and faded.
“Any more surprise amputations needed?” said Bambenek confoundedly. He spat. “Boys, explore these woods, but don’t go too far now. We need to find some materials for arrow shafts, javelins, and spears. Kindly ease out a bit and see what you find. Make what you can. We are leaving as the sun falls.”
Only Bambenek, Dronor, Farrior, Hill, Portnay, Hufyn, and the convalescent remained in camp as Portnay had instructed his retainers to try to locate forage for the horses.
Portnay looked at Bambenek. “What? Why the delay?”
While he would not have suggested the idea, Hodger Hill quickly grasped its sagacity. “We can’t be walking out of here with the sun dancing off your armor.”
“We’ll leave around dusk and hug the tree line as long as we can. Get a sense of things and who has what,” said Bambenek.
“Can’t get caught with our trunks out taking a piss on open ground,” chided Farrior.
“We can stay concealed for a while, but we’ll eventually have to cross open ground to get to Thavodyn’s walls much less figure out who will answer the gate when we knock.” Bambenek added, “Sir Portnay, we’ll need your men to do some scouting work in the dark and report back. Even with traveling at night, it may be after daybreak for the boys on foot to reach the fortress. Do your men know the ground?”
“Yes.”
Farrior detected the lie. “On the last breath of my ancestors, I am tired of this! I don’t care who you are!” The angry sergeant struggled to control his voice. “You’ll not get me and my men killed. You had your chance at that already. If you are planning anything other than to rejoin the army and stand with the rightful ruler, leave now. If you try to string us along, at any time try to double cross us, I will stick this spear so far in one end and out the other that I’ll roast you on the spit and eat your fucking heart!”
In an instant a wide-eyed Portnay had brandished his sword.
“Let’s have it out,” Farrior growled. “Let’s see what you got.”
Portnay flicked a lunging strike, but Dronor was there to interpose the face of his axe and swat away Portnay’s thrust. Bambenek steadied his calloused hand on the sergeant’s shoulder. Dronor gave the approaching Hufyn a tusk-filled snarl that seemed to stop his heart for a moment. Hufyn slowed his step.
“If you both are still so inclined, you can paint this pine cone when the Tavuros are driven out and Padazar is a head shorter. Until then, blades towards the enemy; but since we briefly speculate on the topic, if I had to wager,” Bambenek mused, “I’d say you, Portnay, likely have more nimble and alacritous swordplay than the Sergeant, but Kellin Farrior is a survivor. I reckon he would just as soon bite off your nose if spear and sword were not enough and smash his own face in just to smash yours. How would you present yourself to the courtly ladies then?”
Bambenek gave Portnay a moment to digest the thought and then continued sternly. “Sir Dallen Portnay, on your honor as a titled and esteemed noble, I need to hear you say that you will remain with the company at all times. At all times,” he stressed, “some of your men may venture to search and survey, but you will always remain with the main body.”
“I agree,” Portnay said slowly.
“On your word and honor.”
“On my word and honor.”
Dronor, Farrior, and Hill all gave Bambenek an unsettled look. Bambenek said nothing and walked into the surrounding wood.