2

The light waned when they found Count Aldermont in his tent, sitting under candlelight at the head of an elongated wooden table. The white tree of his house hung on the tent’s canvas along with the twin interwoven serpents of King Manthyr. Behind the count stood in silence an Ellthian priest with his hands hidden in his gray tunic’s sleeves, and to his right sat the duke of Ashtenford and the count of Orstenshore. Mordan made a small bow with the head as a greetings and K’aldrick mimicked.

K’aldrick Vaan examined the nobles, one by one. Orsten was no more than eight and ten, with a clean-shaved glass jaw and eyes that had probably opened him the way to half of the women’s cunts in the county. He wore a jerkin that could cost almost as much as the whole tent he sat in, with a golden chain hanging about his neck. Young and careless, as all unripe men were. Ashtenford, on the other hand, was a short and sturdy man. His gray hair well cut connected with a trim beard marked by many little scars. He did not take his eyes off of K’aldrick.

Aldermont rose an eyebrow as he examined the newcomers. The other two shared some silent words.

“M’lords,” Mordan began, “If I may introduce myself, I—”

“I know who you are,” Aldermont severed Mordan’s words. He was a man with a bony structure and a smug look on his face. Even someone a head taller would feel looked down upon with such a glare. His chased chest-plate shone with a dark green under a heavy woolen cape. “Your men brought us word. You are the leader of the group of farmers and crooks our king hired. How many men have your brought?”

K’aldrick saw Mordan’s neck color and his words falter. In all his years, no one has ever talked to him in such a way. On the other side of the table Aldermont waited with a tapping finger. Mordan decided to take a breath.

“Five hundred, m’lord. All well fed an’ armed, m’lord. An’ a hundred horses.”

Aldermont scoffed.

“Did you hear? We have five hundred more to our numbers. We thank you. Now, we have some important matters to discuss. You can take your leave now.

Mordan bowed his head and turned to leave, but K’aldrick remained in place.

“Each of our men is well trained,” K’aldrick could not bear stay silent. “Each is as good as two or three of yours. If only…”

“Silence.” Ashtenford demanded. “Know your place, Azbanthyllian. You are not under your savage rules any more. Here we treat nobility with respect. You will speak when you are asked to.”

K’aldrick smiled slyly with a hand reaching for his dagger. Mordan took notice on this and clasped his shoulder with one of his big hands. K’aldrick relaxed and emptied his lungs of some air he had been holding in.

“My lord,” he said, “I will treat with respect those who treat me with respect. Besides,” he felt the glares of the nobles on him, and he returned the gesture one by one. He let a humorous scoff. “I find it a little… odd. Coming from you who are quite outnumbered, speaking to those who add to your forces in such way. Perhaps my lord here knows not the position he is in? We could, if we wanted, leave you to face Arnor and Langarde. Would it not be quite a bad decision to offend those who could turn such tides in battle?”

None of the lords moved an inch. In the dim candlelight K’aldrick saw the Ashtenford’s eyes seethe with anger. His upper lip twitched.

“Are you deserting?” he said with a clenched jaw.

“No,” K’aldrick stretched his neck. “I am only telling of how things are, and mayhap teach my lord something useful for the future.”

Mordan grabbed K’aldrick by the shoulder again and pulled him back. “It is enough, Vann.”

K’aldrick wrenched out of Mordan’s grasp and took a step forward.

Ashtenford was to speak but Aldermont rose a hand to stop him and nodded, conceding K’aldrick the word.

“I shall be frank, my lords. People in the garrisons talk. It has come to my knowledge that Galdwein is missing in the fields, leaving you even shorter in numbers. We are here now by express orders of his majesty to aid you and bring you a well deserved victory. Yes, we are a short number too, but as my captain here said, they are all well fed and armed. They know the bow, the sword and the lance as well as any knight they should fight. And if we are to fight alongside I find it best to include us in what plans you might have for our men to fight as one. There is no worse enemy for an army than insubordination.”

Asthtenford’s kept his keen glance fixed on him. Aldermont rested his chin on his interwoven fingers as an amused child. K’aldrick’s heart pounded as the silence stretched. Somewhere in distance a thunder roared shaking the inside of the tent. Finally count Vorick Aldermont sighed and let his shoulders fall. “Please,” he said as he signaled the empty side of the table with one of his delicate hands, “take a seat. Some wine?”

The planning took most of the night. They were to wait for Galdwein two more days. Arrived or no, there were marching north. Orsten was unexperienced in the field and he showed it time to time, but he also showed fresh ideas, too. Careless, but quick-witted and willing to bring something new. But Ashtenford was silent most of the time, making clear his distrust on the Azbanthyllian. When the meeting ended and they all were dismissed, Mordan was the first on to take his leave. K’aldrick followed him.

They walked in silence through the windswept encampment. Tent after tent, brown tents, green tents, yellow, turquoise. All topped with a small pennant flapping in the cold and damp wind.

Beside K’aldrick, the towering mercenary grunted.

“Next time you talk only when I. tell you.”

“And let a group of pretty men trample all over us?” Replied K’aldrick, adamant.

“Those pretty men paid us to follow orders.”

K’aldrick made a dry stop and Mordan turned on his heels. His one eye dark under his brow’s shadow.

“We sell our services, not our dignity, Mordan. You should know that by now.”

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“You imply I sold our dignity?” He asked slowly.

“Only yours. Among your men you act as a king, but among nobles you act as a dog begging for scraps. You could break them as a twig with one of your hands and they still treat you like a worm.”

“Careful there, K’aldrick…” K’aldrick saw Mordan’s chest heave in anger. “You are not to talk to me like that.”

“You are marking my point now. Why didn’t you get angry as that in there? You just lowered your head and cowered. If it were not for me we would be dying in the front lines two days from now. We now have a chance.”

“Silence.” Mordan said sharply. “Know your place, kid.”

K’aldrick sighed.

“I know my place. I am your second. But there are many other places, and no matter who is in the way, noble or no, we must make our way however we can.”

Mordan stared at him and, without saying a word, he turned and kept on walking, disappearing amongst the congregation of tents.

K’aldrick stayed behind. His head throbbed and his shoulders felt as hard as stone and his throat was parched as a dry river in high summer. He had two more days to clear his head with wine, and he had heard some moaning coming from inside the tents earlier. A wench keeping his bed warm did not sound half bad. But as much as K’aldrick tried his thoughts returned to Mordan. He was his captain, he acted like one. But he still had a lowborn’s thoughts. Five hundred men and women were under his orders, and he knew it. Many expected greatness when they joined, but in two years they have only fought small battles. Hired to guard caravans, hired to drive bandits from villages, hired to protect sheep and cattle from prowling wolves. But now this was different, and Mordan did not know how to handle it.

K’aldrick sighed. But at least now there is a change of real growth. Not only for the company, but for him as well.

He kept on walking, passing tent after tent, brown tents, green tents, yellow, turquoise. All topped with a small pennant flapping in the cold and damp wind. The Olmant plains were well known for their strong winds. Far, very far to their left K’aldrick saw the Arrion peaks. The jagged dark line cut north to south through big part of Lorvanar. Above them the clouds lit and a few seconds later the rumble came.

Without noticing he was now in his companion’s side of the camp. A big contrast next to the motley of colors. He found Ormo, Rethe and Veryanor sitting next to a small bonfire, outside Veryanor’s tent. They were passing a skin of wine around. He sat with them next to Ormo.

“Ormo, friend, hand me the skin if you please. I am in dire need of a drink.” Ormo winced and did as he was asked. K’aldrick took the skin from the big southerner’s hand and took a deep sip. “Many thanks, Ormo friend.” Ormo was Mordan’s youngest brother. Were it not by him keeping both of his eyes and being almost a head taller, Ormo could have been Mordan’s twin. He wore a hauberk and raw hide breeches and leather pauldrons rested on his shoulders. Some years past a lucky strayblow slashed him under his jaw and left behind what now was a fleshy scar. Now the big mercenary could not let out any sound other than growls and grunts.

“Are we fighting any time soon?” Rethe asked dryly over the fire’s crackling. He carefully picked the rust out of an old chainmail with a nail he had found.

“You are not to be finished with that before, if that’s what you’re asking,” Veryanor said, indifferent, from the fallen tree she sat on, her delicate arms resting gently on her knees, her dark hair flowed over one of her shoulders. She had her eyes intent on the fire. Ormo chuckled silently and Rethe scoffed.

“I’ll be finished before the morrow,” the tall smith retorted. “I know what I am doing. Have done it hundreds of times before.”

“Relax, young Rethe friend,” K’aldrick said. “You still have two days from now. We are to wait for Galdwein and his men.”

“Have we finally received news on them?” For a moment Veryanor’s green eyes seemed to shine as she lifted her view. He felt a cold sting in his chest urging him to flinch, but kept staring into those deep green eyes. “They used to call me Summertwig,” Veryanor had told him when they met.

K’aldrick cleared his throat.

“No, but we still march on the morrow, Galdwein or no.”

“Oh…” The sheen on Veryanor’s eyes vanished as fast as it had come. K’aldrick noticed her move uncomfortably and return to her sullen and huddled silence. She stood after some time and disappeared in her tent. The white mare pawed and snorted as she passed by.

“Well done, Vann,” Rethe muttered and put the mail he worked on in a leather sac. He rose, slung the bag over his shoulder and waded off.

K’aldrick shared one last drink with Ormo before the mute mercenary took off too. The cold air blew harder and the fire stirred, hundreds of fiery motes flew adrift. He rested his elbows on his knees and took a long, deep breath. He wondered if these winds were the same that blew in Azbanthyll. Blown by gods that had followed him across the sea to these strange lands. To protect him and guide him.

He pulled a small idol from his pocket, the last one of two. It was as big as his thumb, a small woman meticulously wrought in gold with her hair in spiral about her. Ra’Veleth was her name; the goddess of meetings. Her counterpart, the god of guidance and winds, Ra’Delath, had long been buried with the one who had gifted K’aldrick the small idol.

He held the idol tight with both hands and recited a short and low prayer in Mahedesi. He smiled as the fire crackled in answer and put the idol back in his pocket.

“You will catch a chill if you keep brooding all night.” K’aldrick turned to see Veryanor standing at her tent’s entrance, holding a flap with the back of her hand.

K’aldrick smiled. “The fire keeps me warm enough.”

Veryanor rolled her eyes and went inside Her tent. after a moment she returned, now bundled inside her sky-blue cloak, and dropped to K’aldrick’s side to share bonfire’s heat. Her green eyes glinted merrily as she stared into the flames. Veryanor leaned her head on his shoulder. The Azbanthyllian did not move as he felt her breathing fall into his own’s rhythm as Eyes warm and green as summer, K’aldrick Vann thought, and lithe and thin as a twig in the wind. Oh, sweet Veryanor. What you bring is not the warmth of summer, but the cold wind of regret. If only you didn’t look just like her.

“How did it go?” Said Veryanor. Her voice was frail and soft. “The meeting.”

“Just as you would expect,” K’aldrick said.

“Did Mordan get into trouble?”

“No,” K’aldrick scoffed. “But I almost did.”

Veryanor chuckled.

You should be resting what you can, while you can.”

I cannot rest,” she said, somewhat somberly. “I mean, how can I?” Veryanor let a moment go by in silence as they both listened the hiss in the bonfire as the first raindrops began to fall. “What were you mumbling earlier?”

“Earlier?”

“Just a moment ago. Was it a song? It sounded like one.”

“Oh, it was nothing, only a prayer of old.”

“Could you translate it?”

K’aldrick pursed his lips. “I am not very good at such things.”

“K’aldrick.” Veryanor said tonelessly yet demanding. K’aldrick could not help to look down to his side. For a moment he locked eyes with those green gems where the firelight glinted. But also he noted the soggy-red rims. “Please.”

K’aldrick shook his head and sighed, breaking the staring line.

He began.

As the sands blow a soul is never lost,

For the winds that cut the sky will always guide,

Through barren desserts and rampant tides,

Your breath will carry the noble man’s hopes,

And his soul give rest and keep from harm.

“It… is only a loose translation,” he said.

“It is pretty,” said Veryanor. “I never took you for a man of prayer.”

“I am not. It is a small rhyme I used to sing to my sister when she was little.”

“Oh?” Veryanor rose an eyebrow and straightened, hugging herself with the cloak. “You have a sister?”

K’aldrick remained silent, looking deep into the fire’s dancing flames. Yes, and she was warm like the deserts back in Azbanthyll, and as beautiful. She was always summer. He grunted as he pushed himself up.

“You must try to get some rest, Veryanor,” he said and made his way to his own tent, leaving Veryanor alone with a soon to be drowned fire.

When he reached his tent he sat in silence on his cot, staring out into the sleeping camp, veiled by the curtain water. He closed his eyes and leaned his head up. With keen attention he could hear a jest here and there coming from within the other canopies. Careless voices, restless voices, merry voices. Indifferent to the slaughter that would soon take place. It is always the same, he thought. They were either too used to war or too oblivious to it. He breathed deeply as the image of Veryanor’s scared glance drifted into his mind. Yet those that are afraid are the ones who live the longest.