Her steps creaked and Mirian stopped when she heard the Wanderer’s voice beyond the door. Her curiosity took over and she couldn’t help but to peer through the keyhole.
The Wanderer stood arms crossed while Sir Brose laid in his bed as usual. Her grandfather’s white hair was greasy, why hadn’t he bathed?
“I don’t agree with you D-”
“Don’t call me that!” the Wanderer interrupted.
Brose was quiet. On his belly laid the lazy cat Fiskir, purring.
Brose took a deep breath before pointing his finger at the Wanderer. “You must make peace with your fate, and your name.”
“Never.”
“You must.”
“You were with me that day, when my family burned. You among anyone should understand why I promised myself to never look back. You should know why I refuse to remember my name.”
“But remember you do. For a man who’s sworn to forget you remember surprisingly well. You haven’t moved on, despite all the passing years.”
The Wanderer stormed out and pushed Mirian aside before she had time to move. His face was tense, his eyes filled with bitterness.
*
Dawn’s light fell on the brown-grey snow and Mirian was with her townsfolk as they looked on the Wanderer galloping down the main road. He left Norrtmark in an awful hurry, as if the giants of Helimner had come for him. Mirian wanted answers. She hurried back to her keep. To her grandfather’s bedchamber.
“Come inside,” his voice said from inside the bedchamber.
She opened the door. “Grandfather?”
Brose smiled. He was an old man with white, scrubby looking hair and a forehead beset by wrinkles. His light blue eyes glimmered. Fiskir laid on his belly, purring, something he did often. Brose had an old tome by his side. He loved to read in bed and did it often, when he wasn’t drawing maps, or pondering things.
“How are you?” Mirian said.
“It’s better now.”
“The Wanderer?”
“Yes … ” Her grandfather turned his head from her, looking through the window. He stroked his cat.
“Who is he?” The Wanderer was almost a friend to her at this rate, although a mysterious friend.
Brose frowned, gave a sigh. Looking through the window for a long time before replying: “He’s an old friend. A man of faith and ex idealist, like me. He … He is who he is.”
“How is he?”
“He’s a good man.”
“What’s his real name?”
“That … I can’t tell you. It’s not because of you, but him. I feel like I’d fail him if I told you, even though that may seem silly of us.”
“I understand.”
“Sometimes you remind me of both of them. My daughter. And Simon.”
Mirian shook, and Brose smiled.
“Soft … ” he said. “And strong. Never let the world put you down, Mirian, or turn your heart to a stone. But never be so soft so others can trample you to dust.”
Mirian nodded, filled with thoughts.
“By the way, I have something for you: Take my maps. I’m too old for them now. They only fill me with grief-filled longing. Longing for all the traveling I can’t do anymore, for old adventures, old friends long gone. Besides, I have a hunch you’ll need them soon. The cats are whispering to me.”
Fiskir yawned.
“But you only got them a few months ago,” Mirian said. “Are you certain that you studied them enough? I’ll thank you for your gift of course.”
“That’s why I want to give them to you. You mean something to me, and I know you’ll take good care of them.”
Mirian smiled. “Can’t argue with that.”
“Good. Take the maps, Mirian.”
Mirian rose, strolling up to the bookcase, she found The Jungle of Basilisks and Savanna of Chimaeras – A Traveler’s Journey. Brose had authored it himself a good ten years ago or so. In it she found the maps he had given her. A map of Norrtmark, Engsmark and the three world maps. Mirian also took the map made by Brose’s old friend Masoic Ibni, the cartographer at the Abbaness’s court. With the book in her hand she turned to Brose. “I’ll seat myself here, at your side. I want to read to you, from your book.”
*
The palisade was rotten in many places and Mirian peered at her cousin. “Lots of work,” he said.
“We’re going to make it.”
Stocks laid next to her, and the townsfolk awaited their orders. Maeghin turned around. “You heard her, let’s get a move on.”
With saws and axes they started working. The sun rose and after a few hours Mirian led her cousin back to the keep. It was time for dinner.
“Mum,” her daughter said a while later. “Tell me about the gnolls.”
“Are you frightened?”
Johanna nodded and Mirian calmed her down, stroked her hair. They sat in the Lecturing hall with the fireplace crackling. Outside the window, the snow winds howled. Mirian could barely see through the window, and she didn’t want to think about Hakkon and the other fools who’d left Norrtmark.
“Mum?”
“They’re more like hyenas than men, twisted and evil. Man-eating beasts. Strong. Fast. Acrobatic … ” Mirian realized what she was doing. She didn’t want to scare her little wolf cub. Her hand went to her daughter’s hair as Mirian started twinning it. All to calm her down.
“My Lady?”
Mirian met her gaze. Marja gave her a shy smile. She was one of the chambermaid’s two daughters. Svanhild was well liked and so was Marja, although her singing voice left much to be desired.
“Shall I sleep with her, my Lady?”
“You shall.” Mirian kissed her daughter’s forehead and left her to Marja.
Maki, the guard captain, stood at his usual post in the hallway, unusually pale this evening. “Is it the gnolls you’re worrying about?” Mirian said immediately, for she didn’t want to waste any time.
“Yes, My Lady. I don’t see how we can defeat them.”
“Keep your doubts to yourself, and a brave face outwardly, don’t let anyone notice your lack of morale.”
“My Lady.”
“We’ll win, Maki. We have to.”
Johanna slept with Marja that night. It was a sweet sight. Mirian’s daughter snored against her pillow, her eyes closed, sleeping like only a child could, reassured that the grown-ups would protect her.
*
Two days later he stood before her.
The wind played with his brown hair and his scaled armor was black. A two handed sword hung on his back, along with the shield, and he had a morning star in his belt. His beard was well trimmed. Karn Strongarm, the mercenary captain of the Grey Wolves mercenary company. He’s handsome.
“It is my honor to welcome you all to Norrtmark.” Mirian bowed.
Karn did the same, bowing deep before her. “It is our honor to be here.”
“I want all of us ready for a fight. We have to survive this.”
“Trust me and my men, we know how to do battle.”
“Good,” she said, turning to her townsfolk. “From now on I want weapons training from dawn to dust with breaks for food each day. Spread the message.”
Mirian started walking, stopping to turn her head over her shoulder. “Does Sir Mercenary want to join the Lady of the Keep?” She wanted to get to know him as a man and discuss battle tactics with him.
“I wouldn’t say no.”
Mirian led the way to her keep. Against her will she started thinking about Magnus, the church burning tyrant who ruled the Vale. Despite her already sending him three pigeons with pleas for help he hadn’t replied. What was he doing? Why didn’t he reply? She got angry just thinking about him. Didn’t he understand how concerning it was that a gnoll horde had invaded their country and that the only chance for survival lay in uniting against them? By all the gods, the gnolls had already burned down Hooftown!
She steered Karn past the curious townsfolk, crossed the streets and the town square. People nodded, bowed before her and Mirian gazed up at her keep, she led him there.
Svanhild put two pints on the long table and Mirian took one of them, heaved the lovely beer, a dark one from Orroth, imported of course.
“So, Karn Strongarm, what do you know about Norrtmark?”
“Not much,” he admitted.
“My father Earl Simon founded this town as a refuge for all those who were repressed by the nobility after his rise to earldom. A reward for long and faithful service as the grandmaster of the One-Hundred-And-Ten.”
“Your father sounds like a man I would find much agreement with.” Karn gave her a smile and Mirian interpreted it as genuine.
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“He was … a good man.” She took a sip and looked down. The black beer comforted her somewhat and that was enough. Mirian forced herself to stop thinking about her father and met Karns gaze. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m not used to small talk you see.” She did her best to give him an encouraging smile.
“No worries.”
“So might I ask you where you’re from?” she said, mostly to have something to talk about.
“Well … I have a simple background, son of two peasants as I am.”
“That doesn’t have to be bad. Without peasants we would starve.”
Karn smiled again. “Indeed,” he said. “I was made a noble for my accomplishments in the battle of Hymlegard.”
Mirian was quiet.
“A terrible battle,” she said at last.
“All well with you?” Karn took her hand and she let him hold it for a while. His hand was warm, and she didn’t know what to feel.
“I was thinking,” she said.
“As we all do sometimes, we who have experienced war.”
Mirian finished her beer, wiped the foam from her lips and drew a deep breath. She ordered Svanhild to give them both another round.
Two beers later the time to show him around had come. It was important to give Karn an understanding of Norrtmark’s layout so they could devise a battle plan. Karn’s right hand man was a centaur named Eiron. Faithfully he trotted along, beside his captain when Mirian showed them around.
“You’ve seen the town square,” Mirian said.
“It’s large.” Karn took a few steps, looked around. “The Green Road goes all the way to the keep and outwards to the north, through the northern gate.”
When grandpa Brose made his map showing Norrtmark with surroundings the road had been broken in the middle of the town square. Faithful to reality as he was, Brose had depicted that on his map. The damage was repaired now, thank the gods.
“We close off the side streets with barricades and cover them with longbowmen and pikemen. No gnolls will reach the town square.”
The northern wind howled. A storm was brewing, and Mirian shivered despite her thick, winter clothes and coat of plates.
*
“Mirian!”
She turned around when Maeghin rushed into the hallway. “What now?” she said.
“Mirian, you have to come. Arnau tried to take all the chests we gave the mercenaries!”
“What!?”
“He … I don’t know what he was thinking. When I talked with him yesterday, he was his usual self but now … ”
Arnau. Norrtmark’s one and only banker. He’s always been sensible. A little hard sometimes on loan takers, but all in all a good man. This is serious. “Take me to him.”
The poor man was in chains. His black hair filthy like a beggar’s, his clothes torn to pieces. Mirian hurried forward, sitting down next to him where he was bound at the town square.
He looked at her, not saying a word.
“Arnau?”
“We’ll lose, Mirian. The gnolls will slaughter us all.”
“Why, Arnau? Why?”
“I thought that if I offered them what we gave the mercenaries … they would leave us alone. The gnolls would just pass us by and plunder the Vale. Be Magnus’ trouble.”
Mirian met Karn’s gaze. He was calm, standing with Eiron, but two other men were beside them. A fat man in a gambeson, his face red like a reddish, and another man … all in chain mail he was, licking his teeth. Mirian shivered.
She arose, walking around on the snow covered cobblestones, deep in thought. Townsfolk and mercenaries looked on in silence. A crowd was gathering, and Mirian looked again at the man in chainmail. He licked his brown, rotting teeth.
*
“My Lady, I understand this will be hard for you, but you have to judge him to death.” Maeghin put his arm around her where they stood by the window, looking out. The snow blew hard outside.
“It won’t be easy.” Mirian sighed. She walked past Maeghin, to the table where she took a goblet of water. Slipping it all down she coughed. “I’ve always liked Arnau.”
The Great Hall was cold, rugged. The firewood depleted Maki had sent two of the goods to the woodhouse.
“He tried to steal everything,” Mirian said while facing Karn. “All we’re giving you, all thirty chests.”
“So what’s your decision?” Karn asked.
Mirian held his gaze. She hesitated, didn’t want to say the words, didn’t even want to think about them … And yet … She had to. She gathered her breath.
“I’ll judge him to death. I’ll kill him myself.” Poor Arnau. Mirian almost wanted to cry. To put him down, it was almost merciless. At least by killing him herself she would give him a swift death. That was the only thing she could do for him.
Karn nodded.
“The Law is hard,” Thoran said. He looked sad, tired and strained. His skin giving way too many wrinkles. The master armorer and blacksmith had served her father as long as she could remember, and now he served her, if serving was the right word. He was the major of the town.
The Law was hard, unforgiving sometimes, but always fair. Her father had seen to it. Her house wasn’t ruthless like the rest of the nobility, with knights slaughtering peasants in the civil war five years ago. In Norrtmark they were fair, but now fairness demanded that Mirian execute a friend. All to satisfy mercenaries who were strangers to her. Strangers that would save their lives.
Hopefully.
Mirian knew what mercenaries were capable of. She had made precautions, hoping she wouldn’t need them. In case of betrayal she had secret scouts and informers placed in the mercenaries’ camp. They were mercenaries themselves, men she had bribed to spy on their own comrades. They reported directly to Mirian.
*
“Give me the sword.”
Maeghin brought Mirian her father’s two handed sword. A perfectly made and feared blade, known as Wrath of Norrtmark. Her father had said that it was because the harsh climate fostered sturdy folks and Mirian agreed. She looked down on Arnau, bound to the stocks, and gathered her breath. “Any last words?”
“God, save them all.”
“Farewell, Arnau. I’ll give you a swift death.”
Mercenaries and townsfolk stood side by side in silence, Mirian looked at Karn who nodded, watched Maeghin who looked down in sadness, peered at Thoran who tried his best to be supportive.
“For crimes against Norrtmark and the Grey Wolves I hereby condemn you to death through beheading.” Mirian raised her sword, closed her eyes and cut.
When she opened them Arnau’s head laid where it should, blood covered his throat.
It was finished. Mirian gave the sword to Maeghin beside her who took it solemnly. The townsfolk didn’t as much as give off a peep and the mercenaries respected the silence, being quiet themselves. Mirian understood her townsfolk. Arnau had been one of them, a good man from Norrtmark. He deserved a better fate. His wife was grief struck, her two daughters beside her, tears streaming down their cheeks.
*
Delgared sharpened his two handed sword when the messenger rode past the hastily constructed palisade. The messenger let her horse trot between the legionaries’ tents and the colorful pavilions that showed the crests of their owners. The Third Battalion had their share of knights and cataphracts.
“I have important words for your commander, can someone take me to him?” She spoke, white smoke coming out of her mouth, evaporating, her face red from the cold.
“I’ll help you, rather than this hard work,” Delgared said, pointing at his sword.
The messenger gave him just the hint of a smile. She dismounted her horse and waited for the two stable boys. While they brought her horse to the stables Delgared started to show the messenger the way through the encampment. She carried on with a stiff upper lip, following Delgared past tents and fireplaces. It was understandable and Delgared suspected why. She shivered, just like he did. Their clothes were thick. I think Bordos would like her.
The sounds from the smiths’ hammers, legionnaires talking; laughing, cut into the silence of winter. The tents were everywhere, with ropes knotted tightly around poles hammered into the ground. Snow fell and the wind howled into his ears despite his winter hat.
“Shall we?” he asked.
The messenger nodded.
“Now that I think ‘bout it I haven’t introduced myself. I’m Delgared Rindarron, captain, Third Legion, Third Battalion.”
“I’m Freivir Thoransdaughter, advisor and representative of Norrtmark.”
He showed her into the red-blue pavilion, the largest of the whole encampment, as fitting a colonel.
“Sir: Freivir Thoransdaughter from Norrtmark.”
Sir Dalan nodded. Despite his weathered looks he was the kind of colonel a legionnaire could take a beer with and still respect. Sir Dalan introduced himself to Freivir. Delgared had seen this many times before. He used to accompany his colonel on all types of meetings and counsels. Especially the audience with the minotaurs in …
“That’s why I’m here, Your Grace,” Freivir said. “You see Norrtmark will soon be attacked by a large gnoll horde.”
Delgared noticed his colonel’s surprise. It turned into bewilderment.
“I understand,” Sir Dalan said at last. “Can you defend yourselves?”
“Maybe for a few days … We can gather around four hundred and fifty men and women, few of them trained for combat. We’re more than desperate, good colonel. I almost killed my horse, riding that fast. I only stopped for one short night at an inn, then I rode the whole day and night. I’m exhausted, not to speak of my horse … ”
Delgared embraced his courage. “Sir, if I may?”
His colonel nodded and Delgared took a deep breath. “Sir, we’ve come here to help the King of Engsmark. Is there any better way than to help him defend his lands? Let us assist Norrtmark, for then we help all of Engsmark, Sir. Then we stop the gnolls and win the peoples’ gratefulness.”
Freivir’s hard mask cracked into a smile, her eyes glittering. “I see that your captain is a man of the word.”
Sir Dalan gave just the hint of a smile. “Yes, in good and in bad. The young fellow is dear to me, and I served his father once. Delgared, I understand how you think, but as you know we have priorities.”
“Does that mean you say no?” Freivir’s eyes no longer held their spark, her arms crossed.
Sir Dalan raised his hand. “Not at all. We will give you our support – I promise – but it will take time. It may take us several days before we reach you, with the weather and all. I am sorry.”
“I hope we will be alive when you reach us. Our Lady of the Keep has hired a mercenary company. You seem like a busy man. I’ll leave you to your affairs.”
Freivir had almost left the pavilion when Sir Dalan rose. “Wait. What mercenary company? What’s the name of their captain?”
“Karn Strongarm of the Grey Wolves.”
“Tell your Lady that she has our support, but that it’ll take us a while to reach Norrtmark. Good day.”
When she had left them Delgared raised the question he had thought about: “Sir, I recognize the expression you got when you heard the names. What worries you?”
His colonel looked up from his maps. “Your attention is useful, Delgared. Mercenaries are a bad bunch. That I learned when I wasn’t much older than you. Gold is their master, not those who hire them. You’ll understand?”
“If we say in the case of Norrtmark … That if the gnolls would offer the mercenaries more gold, that they would switch side.”
“History is filled with the cases of betrayals from mercenaries.”
“But what has this with Karn Strongarm personally?”
“Delgared, this is for your ears only. Karn Strongarm calls himself a knight, and he was dubbed by king Tyrimer after the battle of Hymlegard, the one that ended the civil war. But Karn has no noble blood, and he is a mass murderer. In the civil war five years ago, House Svitjar and House Fylking challenged House Birkur, the King’s House. Half the nobles of Engsmark saw their chance to depose King Tyrimer. In the battle of Hymlegard Karn and his mercenaries cleaved their way to Menved Eriksson, the leader of the rebellion. Karn chopped of Menved’s head, despite the fact that Menved was a noble, was supposed to be protected by the chivalric code. Many in Engsmark still whisper king slayer. But according to Tyrimer Menved had poisoned his father, King Bend the Mad.” Sir Dalan reached for an imported orange, kept well by magic, and began peeling it. “The point I try to make is that Karn has no scruples. He’s an opportunist that leads thousands of less moral freebooters than himself. Can you imagine what a man like that could do to Mirian? What men like those could do to Norrtmark? I shudder at the thought.”
Delgared could imagine it, no pleasant thoughts in his mind. “Why then hasn’t he been arrested?”
“Since Karn is the leader of a mercenary company he doesn’t belong to Engsmark juridically speaking thus no court or moot can sentence him. He’s also well-liked by King Tyrimer for slaying the king’s rival.”
“I see.” Delgared played with his red, blond beard.
“We march to Norrtmark.” Sir Dalan rose. Cold wind howled, blowing at the pavilion. His colonel gave him a bitter gaze. “We’ll march. It’ll take us time, but in the end, we’ll reach Norrtmark. I want you to lead the liberation of the town.”
“Me? But I’m just a captain, and many officers outrank me here.”
“They do, and yet I want you specifically to lead the charge. Besides, Sir Ectorian has already vouched for you if something like this were to happen, just after your duel.”
Delgared smiled. “So I’ll lead the three battalions after all. What an honor.”
“Don’t hold to the frightened look, it doesn’t suit you.”
“Noted, Sir. I must thank Sir Ectorian.”
“You do that. Delgared, this is your chance to prove yourself. Do this right and I’ll promote you major and dub you a knight of the Republic.”
“That’ll indeed be a sight.”
Sir Dalan smiled. He was handsome for a man in his late forties, with short, brown hair and piercing blue eyes. They saw through Delgared, saw something good in him, as usual. Delgared honored his commander with the fitting gesture.
“Dismissed.”
*
Snow roared all around them, eating their bare skin despite their thick winter clothing, and armor. They marched in the thickening snow on the ground as the blizzard accosted them.
“We’ve been at it for hours!” Taria shouted, to be heard in the storm.
Delgared forced himself to continue, to put one boot in front of the other. Stiff upper lip. It was important to be a good example for the eighteen men and two women of his platoon.
Delgared was indeed grateful for his padded boots, coat and winter hat, as well as the extra thick winter gambeson that he had underneath his chain mail and scaled armor. As officers and veranians – the two handed heavy fighters of the legions – him and Taria had the same type of armors, topped helmets with vizirs formed like glasses.
“We’ll rest soon, grunts!” Delgared shouted to his platoon. Just one more league!”
Winter was more terrible than he had ever imagined here in the northern parts of Engsmark. With the frequent snowstorms and the bloody cold that made him mad during the nights. He shared his bear furs with Taria just to keep warm during those hours, and sometimes they made love, embracing each other while the wolves howled; the wind roared outside their tent.
He fell.
“Sir!”
Taria.
Raising himself to his feet again he continued forward, barely being able to see – or rather, all he saw was white, and snowflakes falling in front of his vizir. “I’m all right!”
His scaled armor clanked, and he felt clumsier than ever. Still, he kept pushing forward, to lead his grunts. His legionaries. His family of war. Snow fog laid thick all around them and the northern winds tore through their thick winter clothing, as if they were only silk, clawed at his skin, reddening from the cold. Delgared crossed his arms and soldiered on, one boot in front of the other while hours came and went. He knew that the weather magicians kept the worse of the storm at bay – otherwise they would all lay there, dead. So they only needed to keep marching until rest, and then march again until night, and do the same the next day, and the next … He kept the thoughts of Feinar at bay. His warm, cozy home city. With olive trees and green meadows, and wineries with the most exquisite wines. He shared a favorite place with Taria, on a large, public meadow, just under an old olive tree. What he would give to be there with her again, enjoying the sunset with some good cheese and a bottle of wine …