Under the early rays of Ortus’ light, Ferron and Valentin departed from Verbosc under the guard of Yvonne. The only companions on the cobbles of the Aranelle Quarter were those preparing their shops for the day. Those that saw the Matriarch offered a quick bow of respect before continuing their work. A trickle of entrants from the nearby villages began to move through the north gate while the trio passed through the other side.
“Where will you be going this cycle?” Yvonne asked Ferron.
“We will be mustering at Arven Hill,” Ferron answered. “I received some letters from Tiarna Celfor requesting my support in his campaign.”
Yvonne raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t think someone with so much pride in his own abilities would come to you. Considering your rates.”
“He’s a cautious man who refused to outright state what it was he needed. Though, I have a few ideas as to what it could be,” Ferron responded. “I am more than willing to trade for things other than just money, Yvonne, if you fear for his coffers.”
“It’s those other things that should scare him,” Yvonne answered.
Ferron shrugged as they approached the Guerros’ bridge. A small queue had already formed of people wishing to cross the other side. Waiting to the side of the line were two carts hitched to donkeys. Two men stood in front of the animals and held the reins to keep them from wandering. A girl stood to the side of one of the carts.
Valentin’s attention moved towards the girl. She had two lines marked onto her face compared to when he last saw her. She still stood aloofly off to the side and didn’t directly engage in conversation. If he didn’t know her better, he’d have been slightly hurt that she didn’t even look at him.
“Good morning, Zalavo,” Ferron greeted his healer.
“There are few ways that are worse to spend the day than traveling,” Zalavo responded.
“I see you have company,” Ferron remarked, gesturing towards the man in front of the other donkey cart.
The man next to Zalavo offered a bow to Ferron. He was a shorter man of athletic build. Toned muscles were outlined on thin arms covered with runic tattoos. Three lines were tattooed on his face in a similar pattern to Elder Eudes.
“I am Leith, I am here to support you on request of the Tionól of Verbosc,” the druid explained with a bow. “I hope to learn much from these travels.”
“Likewise,” Ferron replied. “Were you waiting for us?”
“I heard you were leaving this morning and thought it was a good idea to go together,” Leith answered. “I knew you had a healer in the temple and invited Zalavo to come with me. If you don’t mind, of course.”
“I do not mind. Let’s depart now, it will be a long couple of days.”
With the additional travelers now in tow, Yvonne led the group into the fort. The existing line of people waiting to cross moved out of the way at the sight of the approaching noble. The guards straightened their posture to greet their superior.
The interior of the fort was smaller than the imposing exterior led Valentin to believe. The stone fortress hosted a small courtyard and barracks that could house around a deg. At the other end of the courtyard, a massive iron gate was pulled up to allow travelers purchase to the other side. A wide stone bridge sprawled behind the maw of the gate. A smattering of silhouettes dotted the bridge into the horizon.
Yvonne pulled her horse to the side and brought it to a halt.
“This is where I leave you,” the Matriarch spoke to Ferron in a voice that would not be easily overheard. “I wish you well on your travels and your campaigning. Oh, and try not to get my nephew killed.”
“I’d be an unfit tiarna if I were to allow my best asset to die before his prime,” Ferron reassured.
“You’re no tiarna,” Yvonne corrected. “You’re just a brigand that pretends he still has a crown.”
Valentin shrunk in anticipation of Ferron’s reaction to the slight. However, the pair instead laughed heartily to each other.
“Take care, Yvonne.”
Yvonne offered Valentin a smile and a small wave as Ferron’s horse continued forwards to the bridge. Valentin gave a meek smile and returned the wave.
The hooves of the draft animals drummed upon the stone surface of the bridge while the wooden wheels made an incessant rattling. Ferron pulled his horse to the middle of the bridge and forced all those that he crossed to move to the side to allow him to pass. The edges of the bridge were precarious with only a short stone lip preventing the misfortunate from plummeting into the deep waters of the river below. Ferron plowed his way through the crowd and back into the relative safety of the fort.
More gently rolling hills and flat farmland greeted Valentin on the other side of the bridge. Valentin watched shepherds lead their herds to the unkempt wild grasses and away from the budding grains planted before Faur. He spotted some villagers repairing a wooden fence. He viewed others filling large leather skins full of water from the numerous tributaries of Linnbeatha Lake to bring home for daily use.
Sights of the everyday toiling of people brought tranquility to Valentin’s frazzled heart. There was something that felt purer about the air that wasn’t shared by the packed populations of the large towns and cities. Tinges of melancholy danced at the periphery of Valentin’s reprieve and built feelings of longing within him.
Shortly after zenith, Valentin spotted large wooden boxes lined upon a nearby hill on the outskirts of a village. The boy recognized the punishment device as a common sentence for criminals around Roucotte. The sentenced criminal would be locked in a box with a slot carved into it. If the person survived the length of the sentence, they were forgiven by the spirits and allowed back into society.
“Bhaints,” Leith remarked, looking in the same direction as Valentin.
The druid placed his hands together and closed his eyes. After a moment of silent meditation, the druid opened his eyes again.
“What were you doing? Valentin asked curiously.
“I was offering a request to the spirits of the area to help those locked away to reflect upon their actions and survive their punishment. I wish for them to return to their village as better people than they left.”
“Do people change that easily?” Ferron wondered aloud.
“At the very least, everyone should have the opportunity to change. Why else would we have carved slots in the boxes if it was not to provide the offending’s loved ones to keep them alive? To prove to all that there is a person worth saving.”
“You speak much of the Way of the Mother for someone that hails from a temple famous for its traditional spiritualist views.” Ferron quipped.
Leith chuckled, “Verbosc Temple accepts many different perspectives. I happen to believe that there is a fine balance between honoring the animal that we all come from while accepting our uniqueness imparted upon us by our Mother.”
Valentin watched as the Bhaints disappeared from view and wondered if there were any occupants within them. The warmth from zenith started to beat down and it was likely sweltering within those small boxes. He wondered if anyone loved the hypothetical criminal enough to help them out.
Valentin dismounted at Ferron’s behest to allow the horse to rest. While Ferron used the opportunity to continue to learn about the druid, Valentin was focused on a different conversational partner. The boy shot furtive glances towards Maeve who had been walking behind Leith’s donkey cart. He hesitated on approaching her for a time out of concern of rejection. However, over the course of a couple minutes, he drifted his way back to the newly initiated druid.
“Congratulations,” Valentin said, pointing a finger at his own cheek.
“Thanks,” Maeve responded softly but curtly.
“Did it hurt?” Valentin followed up. If he had not known Maeve, her tone would have discouraged him from pressing forwards.
She reached up her hand and touched her cheek gently. “They rubbed a salve on my face that numbed my skin before they began. I’m fine but it’s a little sore.”
“I thought that initiates only received one tattoo,” Valentin continued his observations.
Maeve offered Valentin a blank look. It was as though she were deliberating if it was worth the effort to explain everything to the boy. She folded her arms and continued to be silent for another moment.
“I was told that if I managed to get my second line then I would be given a hut on temple grounds. The Elders had promised to look after the children as long as they’d be willing to work. It makes me rest easier to know they have somewhere to sleep,” she answered.
Valentin felt relief that the younger children would have some amount of stability returned to their lives. He knew that druids had to go through trials in order to gain another line and move up in the hierarchy.
“Was the trial difficult?”
“No,” Maeve replied plainly.
Feeling that pressing any further would just cause him to annoy her, Valentin walked forward and crossed paths with Zalavo. The healer gave off significantly more bristly energy than Maeve. Valentin scurried a bit forwards and walked by himself for a majority of the rest of the day.
He took the opportunity to return to manipulating favor. The entire cycle had not improved much. It took about the same amount of time to generate the favor and move it. However, the process involved much less spiritual strain than it had previously.
Valentin repeated the cycle while pantomiming some attacks and maneuvers. He had not been able to practice the day before and was not keen to face the wrath of his aged instructor. The flowing moves seemed to augment his internal harvesting more than placing his undivided attention. However, the constant walking had disrupted the crispness of his moves that he had felt pride in.
He clicked his tongue in frustration and tried to adapt to the added variable to his rhythm. He attempted to add the wide sweeping steps that he would employ for combat movement to his steps. It remedied his precision but felt awkward after prolonged walking.
As Ortus fell, the group pulled their animals into the next village along the road. A small tavern hosted them for the night and they supped on buttered bread, beets, and eggs. Valentin wasn’t overly fond of beets, but did not wish to appear the picky eater so he soldiered on. They fell asleep in a modestly sized room atop one large straw mattress.
Valentin found the small itchy stalks poking from the fabric abrasive to his ideas of sleep. He could not shift much to find a more suitable position as he was closely nestled between Ferron and Maeve. He lied on his back, staring at the ceiling until exhaustion took a hold of him.
The second through seventh days were in no way different than the first. The landscape was flatter than the farmlands around Verbosc. There was a scattering of hills and groves that felt somewhat noteworthy just by their ability to show something different in the seemingly unending swath of plains full of juvenile wheat crops.
To break the monotony, Valentin continued to train. From when Ortus was rising to long after it had reached its peak and began to descend again. He moved until his movements began to lose meaning. Even his dreams began to mimic the muscle movements of the strikes he practiced along the roads.
“Nobody could accuse you of lacking diligence,” Ferron commented. He gestured for Valentin to move closer to him. “Though I think you should stop before you catch a strange habit.”
Valentin obliged and joined Ferron by his horse.
“Before we arrive at camp, there were a few things that I wanted to talk to you about. Chief among them being your first impression.”
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“Confidence,” Valentin repeated from an earlier lesson.
Ferron nodded approvingly. “We can say you were timid due to starving in the woods and trying to maintain a cover to wash clean the impressions of the warriors who already know you. Which makes it all the more imperative that you impress everyone else.”
Valentin thought back to his introduction to the Guerros clan. “I think I can do that,” Valentin replied.
“Good, though you have already failed,” Ferron corrected, deflating Valentin. “Don’t say things like ‘you think’. Everything you say must be said with authority and confidence. You must treat them with respect but not reverence. You must conduct yourself as their superior or they will never respect you.”
Valentin nodded to show his understanding. If others did not believe him to be strong, he would be forced to once again rely on Ferron for protection and support.
“I can do that,” Valentin responded with more gusto, emulating how he will speak when it is required.
“Better,” Ferron responded. “That is how you must speak at all times in the presence of others. Act in that manner until it becomes second nature to you. One day, when you lead your own warriors, they will look to you for leadership and courage. If you ever waver, you will lose them all.”
Valentin started to walk with the same gait that Ferron used in an attempt to put himself in the same space as the imposing man. He wondered if he looked ridiculous in his performance as he felt akin to a preening bird strutting about.
“I want you to attend my negotiations with Tiarna Celfor,” Ferron said. “He is a powerful leader of this realm and it is important that he is impressed with us. The Tiarna is a man of great wealth and great impatience. He does not suffer fools. For this meeting, it is best to stay silent and observe unless spoken to by Celfor personally. If you have any questions, ask me afterwards.”
“I will,” Valentin confirmed, still with his chest slightly puffed.
“Good,” Ferron answered. “We will reach the camp by Ortus’ fall.”
The rest of the day was consumed with the thoughts of performing a proper first impression. Valentin balanced different phrases in his to practice the ideal thing to say to the warriors to make them respect him. Sometime during the day, he had lost the posture he had been trying to maintain and instead had slightly hunched forwards and muttered greetings to himself.
A hill that was impressively tall by virtue of the flat land that surrounded it protruded above the horizon. Flags and tents could be seen on top of it. The canvas flapped and rippled in the cool evening breeze. Ferron led the group off the road and down a dirt path in the direction of the hill.
They walked down the unkempt dirt trail flanked by juvenile wheat. Valentin reached out his hand and let it idly brush against his fingers. He looked forward but the hill was now obstructed by Ferron’s immense back.
They eventually left the farmlands and climbed the short ascent towards the top. Valentin could hear shots from the peak of the bump as the warriors recognized the approach of their leader.
Knowing that eyes were drawn to the group, Valentin took it as the impetus to begin his act. He stepped forward briskly to walk beside Ferron. His abandoned form returned to him and he mirrored Ferron’s movements to his best ability. Ferron did not offer Valentin any reaction to his change, however, he could not allow that to deter him.
A man strode forwards to greet the approaching warband leader. He wore a well woven blue jacket and polished leather boots that shone in the dying light. His jaw was angular and strong and hosted the budding stubble of a face not shaved in a couple days. His eyes glistened with joy upon Ferron’s arrival.
“Father,” the man called, hustling up closer to Ferron.
“Durant,” Ferron responded firmly, clasping both hands on the man’s shoulders. “I see you are hale and ready for battle.”
“Of course of course, we all are,” Durant affirmed.
Durant looked over the companions that his father had traveled with. “You brought Zalavo with you, but I do not recognize the rest.”
Ferron removed one hand from his son’s shoulder to gesture to the other donkey cart, “Leith and Maeve are druids of Verbosc Temple.” He removed his other hand and grabbed Valentin’s shoulder with a paternal affection. “This is Valentin, treat him as you would a brother.”
Durant’s face soured when he looked down at Valentin before becoming mostly emotionless. He turned to walk with his father toward the large tent in the center of the camp, subtly cutting Valentin away from Ferron. The boy had to quickly scamper to the other side to avoid being relegated to a servant’s position.
Groups of warriors stoked cooking fires in front of their tents. The smells of roasting vegetables and meats filled Valentin’s nose. From what he remembered of his uncle’s stories, each deg would eat together for bonding and to share food foraged during long campaigns. They would fight harder for each other if they had shared a meal as equals.
“I heard from those that had spent Faur with you that you had taken a boy under your wing. I did not quite believe it,” Durant commented.
“This boy is the shining beacon that will drive us towards our dream,” Ferron proclaimed to his son, trying to involve him in an enthusiasm that would never be reciprocated. “Rejoice, boy, that I may offer you a throne and crown deserving of our name.”
Durant offered his father a weak smile but locked eyes with Valentin. “That’s wonderful, father.”
Ferron continued to chuckle and beam with joy, drunk on the improvement of his fortunes while his companions remained sober. He shoved through the canvas flaps of the command tent. With a strained grunt, he lowered his well-traveled body onto a cushion. After some digging around, he reached for a bottle of liquor from a nearby crate and drank directly from it.
“Here, take a sip, Valentin,” Ferron lifted the bottle towards the boy.
Valentin reached for the bottle and took a decisive swig of its contents. His mouth ignited and he choked up much of what he had drunk. What scant liquid that had made it down his throat burned a trail down his body before forming a warm pit in his stomach.
Ferron laughed heartily, “You were too ambitious, boy.”
“Shall I summon the deggan for a meeting?” Durant offered, seemingly put out by the attention that his father was giving this stranger.
“Please do, I’m sure they would love to have a drink for our reunion after such an eventful Faur. It would be good to introduce Valentin as soon as possible,” Ferron answered as he ran a hand through his beard.
“Yes, father,” Durant said, offering a quick bow before departing the tent.
Ferron sighed after his son’s exit. He took another swig from the bottle before pointing it towards Valentin who rapidly shook his head.
“As you can see, Durant doesn’t conceal how he really feels very well,” Ferron explained to Valentin. “Try not to let him bother you, he didn’t grow up with other siblings.”
“I’ll t-, I won’t,” Valentin corrected as he had been instructed earlier.
“Good.”
It was not long before new arrivals entered the tent behind Durant. Valentin recognized his gruff instructor and Hubert’s menacing joviality. There were four others who occupied the cushions around the boy. A stocky man with a scar that ended just short of his left eye, a burly Southern man with dense curls not dissimilar to Valentin’s, and two women around the same age as Euna. They appeared to be related to each other but Valentin could not be certain.
Ferron had fished out more bottles from his crate and had one set before each cushion. “My intrepid Deggan! It has been far too long. Please, have a drink with me to celebrate our reunion!”
“It’s not fair of you to have such a head start,” the Southerner jokingly complained as he uncorked his drink.
“Arthus is right,” Hubert agreed. “You’re at least a bottle in already.”
“As leader, it’s my right to have started drinking before you,” Ferron responded. “You should all feel grateful just to have a drink at all.”
“It doesn’t take long for his arrogance to bubble to the surface,” one of the two women remarked. Her brown hair was cut short, likely to prevent foes from grabbing it during combat. Her nose was slightly pinched causing her voice to have a slight nasal quality to it.
“Try not to become like him, Durant, you’ll lose your charm,” she followed up.
“Hm? Oh sure,” Durant spoke with his head drooped, staring at his bottle.
“What’s wrong with him?” The woman asked, clearly displeased by the lack of reaction provided by Durant.
While the deggan bantered and drank, Valentin noticed each of their eyes locking with his at some point through the evening. However, they did not ask their employer who he was, as though they were waiting for the introduction. The obvious exception to this treatment being Hrost, who hadn’t bothered looking at the boy since he had arrived.
The eldest Deggan drank modestly from the bottle unlike his rowdy compatriots.
Hrost stood from his cushion, straining slightly from the effort.
“Leaving already?” Ferron leaned forward and swung his massive arm forth, booze in hand.
“Age lowers your tolerance to late nights. Don’t forget the fact that I’ve been running around the region on errands for you,” Hrost recalled with a yawn and lifted the flap to the tent.
“I was going to discuss strategy tonight,” Ferron complained before downing the rest of the bottle.
“Whatever your inebriated mind would conjure would not be considered sound strategy,” Hrost dismissed with a wave of his hand. “Besides, no matter what you choose, I will follow it.”
Hrost took a step outside before stopping and looking over his shoulder. “I expect to see you first thing in the morning, boy. I pray that you did not slack off on your training,” he threatened ominously.
“I haven’t,” Valentin reassured the departing man, only leaving the flap swaying from his exit.
“The man had to have been born cantankerous, greeting the world with a scowl,” Hubert jested. He leaned towards the other woman, “I was fortunate that he spent much of Faur in Atch Killan or I may have forgotten to smile completely. I wish you had been chosen instead, Darcy.”
The blonde woman brushed him aside, “I have no interest in your love affairs. Besides, you already have a partner to warm your tent during the campaign. I wouldn’t want to get between you.”
Hubert bristled at the woman’s acidic tongue. He reached for another bottle but found the crate empty. He cursed his misfortune and slouched on his cushion. Hubert peered over at Valentin, his narrow eyes akin to a predator’s. An impish grin crossed his face at the sight of his target causing Valentin to shudder.
“If I am not careful, my bed will be barren at the hands of a modern day Clesarin,” Hubert joked. “My trusted second in command was already rendered helpless by his charm. If I was not wiser, I would guess that he was possessed by a spirit of lust. You should be careful, Darcy. I don’t know if my heart could bear to watch you be wooed as well.”
Valentin's mouth was arid. All the moisture in his mouth had suddenly accumulated on his hands. The reprieve from thoughts of the woman had been short and the unresolved feelings in his body stirred once again.
He couldn’t panic, he wasn’t allowed. He clenched a fistful of fabric from his trousers in an attempt to subtly transfer the nervous energy traveling inside him anywhere else. He subdued his breathing and attempted to maintain a cool exterior. Any deggan that followed Hubert’s gaze would have found him on the other end. Fortunately, no eyes traveled the bridge that connected Hubert’s words to the boy.
Darcy scoffed, “Your jests have worsened since I last saw you. I would like to meet such a man that could sway that notoriously difficult woman.”
Not receiving the reaction that he had hoped for, Hubert shrugged. “So what is this grand strategy, Ferron?”
“Secure a contract with Tiarna Celfor and earn his allegiance,” Ferron spoke with clarity and coherence that betrayed his inebriation. “Continue to gain support around the region for my rebellion. Kill Poten. Sit on the throne.”
“Inspiring,” the short haired woman remarked dryly. “Did you figure out a way to dispose of Poten’s Storm Heirs or have you decided that you wanted to die in battle?”
Ferron looked towards Valentin, “Introduce yourself.”
Valentin stood from his cushion to provide a short bow to the remaining deggan. “My name is Valentin Guerros. Pleasure to meet you and I hope that I can learn much from you.”
“He’s well-mannered,” the scarred man observed. “There goes the rumor that he’s your bastard.”
“He’s my ward and, make sure that your deg knows it as such,” Ferron ordered. ”More importantly, this boy is a Storm Heir. This fact does not leave this group, understood?”
The jovial banter from just moments ago quickly evaporated to be replaced by a heavy atmosphere. The deggan seemed to immediately sober their minds and had calculating looks on their faces.
Valentin shrunk slightly within himself. Not since his Bloodstone Ceremony had he felt any sort of joy about his station. The looks of the mercenaries held thoughts of predation within them. How powerful would they become if they had found him instead of Ferron? Why weren’t they provided with that much power? He felt he was being measured from all sides as though his favor could be seen coursing through his veins if one stared long and hard enough.
There was no one that stared more intensely than Durant.
“And you know this as a truth?” Durant asked gravely, suspicion in his words.
“It is the truth. I saw it with my own eyes along with the Matriarch of Guerros. Unless you wish to travel to Verbosc Temple and accuse Elder Eudes as a fraud, you will have to trust me.”
“We are most fortunate then,” Arthus the Southerner commented. He extended his hand towards Valentin and offered a handshake. “My name is Arthus, I am pleased to meet you as well.”
Valentin accepted the handshake and felt his slender fingers enveloped and crushed in the powerful, calloused hands of the warrior. The interaction had only been a couple seconds, but Valentin felt entirely overwhelmed at the man who was smiling amicably.
The rest of the deggan introduced themselves. The scarred man was named Barth, the short haired woman was Elane, and the blond woman was Darcy. Each of them shook Valentin’s hand to mimic Arthus’ gesture. Only Darcy offered a gentle handshake which Valentin appreciated after the other three’s vice grip.
“I tell you this secret as you are all my trusted officers,” Ferron said after introductions had concluded. “You all have joined my employ over the cycles for varying reasons and have shown commendable loyalty through your service. I will be warring with Poten in the future and I wish to give you all time to consider whether or not it is in your best interest to follow me in a battle that will brand all of you traitors.”
The tent went silent at Ferron’s heavy words while Valentin was just happy that attention had shifted from him. Any who had drink left downed the remaining contents.
“Let’s focus on Celfor first,” Barth stated after his bottle was emptied.
“I’m too drunk for this, I’m going to bed,” Elane announced.
It was not long before the rest followed Elane out. They walked with their heads dropped from the heavy thoughts that resided within them. Becoming a traitor to the realm was not something that could be decided lightly. If they had relatives residing in the realm, they could be in danger if proper arrangements weren’t made. A reward fitting the risk they were taking would be required to spur their minds to Ferron’s side.
“Will you be retiring as well, Durant?” Ferron asked his son.
“I have not seen you since Killicia and I hope to catch up with you,” Durant responded earnestly. “How was your visit to Atch Killan?”
Ferron grunted, “High Tiarna Fidell offered me land in his region to rule if I renounce my claims to Martelle. He’s being pressured by Poten to drive me out of my retreat in Lutant. Our relative must be feeling more secure in his position to make demands of his more established counterparts.”
“How insulting to imply that you serve under anyone but the Sovereign,” Durant remarked. “I prefer the life of a mercenary.”
“The point is moot,” Ferron spat into a metal cup. “My arrangement with the village of Lutant was terminated after that business with the spirit Concasque. I don’t need it now that I have what I need to move forward.”
Durant shot a look at Valentin, “Father, are you sure it’s wise to place our futures in the hands of this boy?”
“Do not look at what he is now, Durant. Look at what he will be,” Ferron stood from his cushion and moved to his mattress. “It is becoming late, son. You should leave as well. If things go well, we will march immediately.”
“Yes, father,” Durant replied with a bow.
Durant provided Valentin with one final look of derision before disappearing into the night. Now that all the deggan had departed, a wave of relief washed over him. He felt as though he had done well during introductions and felt that the deggan viewed him as a boon to their efforts. Only Ferron’s flesh and blood had offered any sort of resistance to his admittance into the warband. It would be an uphill battle to win him over.
Valentin sighed and tried to sleep. Brotherly affection seemed very far away.