“Vultures, the lot of them,” Ferron shouted without a hint of irony. “They think they can invoke the honor of the first contract in a situation like this?”
All the deggan were silent at Ferron’s outburst, none wishing to be the first to speak. Ferron had stormed back into the new camp after his audience was requested by other warbands in the region. He had barely been back before he summoned Julianna and all the Deggan to discuss strategy.
The babe in Julianna’s arms began to wail at Ferron’s booming voice and the strategist shot the warlord a dirty look. The infernos that raged in Ferron’s eyes were doused by the cries of the newborn. Looking around at the faces of the deggan, he sighed and recomposed himself. He opened his mouth to speak again, however, he went for a drink instead.
“Apologies,” Ferron said remorsefully.
Julianna gave Ferron a slight nod and attended to her child. After a few coos from his mother, the baby returned to a peaceful silence within the gentle embrace.
“What are you blustering about, Ferron?” Hrost asked. “What did they say to you?”
“Three warbands already established themselves long before us. They’ve decided to divvy up the contracts and try to say that they have first rights to the entire region. Moreover, those brazen bastards decided to invite me to threaten me and tell us to turn around.”
The looks on the faces of the deggan darkened. They exchanged angered looks amongst themselves in a silent conversation.
“So who are these diligent and honorable warriors of Strettia?” Barth inquired, derision dripping in his voice. “I’d like to take a close look at them and see if they are truly up to the task of making such requests.”
“They are just a bunch of nameless opportunists,” Ferron answered. He took a deep breath before rage overtook him once again. “They are well informed on who we are and what our reputation is.”
“And what do they hope to accomplish by threatening us?” Arthus joined the conversation with a more tranquil tone. “Does their confidence simply stem from numbers?”
“I would not consider their numbers to be overly intimidating. They certainly won’t be dislodging us by force,” Ferron said thoughtfully. “There are too many unbloodied swords in their ranks for that to be the lynchpin of their confidence. It must be something else that bolsters their position.”
“It is clear that they possess connections,” Julianna elaborated, her voice smooth in an attempt to not stir her child. “The real question is the affluence of the clans that support them. Did they introduce themselves with their clan name or did you spot any heraldry that may give us an idea of who we are facing?”
Ferron placed a finger to his right temple and rubbed it in a circular pattern, massaging it quite roughly. It was as if the man was attempting to physically conjure the information from his mind.
“No clan names,” Ferron answered with a sour face, unsatisfied with the information his ritual procured.
“Not uncommon for upstart warriors to lack a clan title,” Arthus commented. “They could still be foolish fledglings that lack experience and respect.”
“What of their banners?” Julianna pressed.
“A boar on a black and yellow checkered background, an impalement of a red chevron on white with a bronze sword on blue, and a golden bow on white,” Ferron responded with confidence, a grim expression on his face. “I was taking good care to commit them to memory. If not to repay the favor now, then unquestionably in the future.”
“We will need to investigate each of them closely. I will order Archard to visit the nearby villages and gather whatever information that we can find in addition to seeking out information about Sothin’s whereabouts,” Julianna offered. “I recommend we dispatch at least one more deggan to help in the search.”
“Of course,” Ferron responded. “Darcy, you gather up some warriors and go find information on the other mercenaries and Julianna’s brother. Specifically, find any rumors on their affiliations.”
“Why me?” Darcy complained. The introduction of a plan and direction loosened the negative atmosphere that had been choking the tent. “Why not Elane? Isn’t she better at these more discreet tasks?”
“Elane will be tracking the enemy’s movements,” Ferron explained. “Besides, you’re more personable than Elane. No grievance intended.”
“You speak the truth,” the harsh eyed woman responded with an unbothered shrug.
“I also want you to take Morna with you, Darcy,” Ferron ordered.
“Morna?” Darcy asked with mild surprise. “Don’t you think that woman may be a bit too intense for such a delicate task?”
“Just tell her to smile and nod,” Ferron advised. “Morna has a face that will make any drunk spill every secret they’ve ever obtained in a hope to get in bed with her. Just keep an eye on her to make sure she doesn’t start any fights.”
Hubert raised his hand to interject while Darcy nodded in understanding of her instructions. The man had been listening quietly for the entire discussion. His wolfish smile long since faded once Ferron’s rage had subsided and was replaced by one of boredom. He was mid yawn while Ferron gave his last order and now an expression of annoyance was on the warrior’s face.
“Ferron, I can’t help but notice that you are gifting my Vice Deggan without so much as a discussion with me,” Hubert expressed in a cordial tone that effectively masked his natural hostility.
“Apologies, Hubert, I should have given you more consideration.” While it was not said in a condescending tone, the message of Ferron’s sentiments were clear. “If you do not wish to be separated from Morna, I can always give you the task of hunting rumors.”
Hubert locked eyes with Ferron before turning to Darcy and offering a small bow. “I leave this delicate task in your care.”
Darcy scoffed at Hubert’s unsurprisingly impudent theatrics and the meeting seemed to be moving towards a natural conclusion. However, Julianna seemed to have returned from a deep consideration.
“I do find it peculiar,” the strategist spoke up, returning attention back to her. “Don’t you think it’s odd that one of the symbols references the bow?”
“It is certainly an uncommon choice among favored warriors,” Ferron concurred. “It is more common to reference weapons that allow us to more effectively showcase our abilities. A bow is one of the worst weapons for us to express ourselves and that’s without taking into account how long it takes to master.”
“I only ever see it employed by the unfavored garrisons or foreign forces for those reasons,” Hrost added.
“Perhaps it is a reference to their origins before the Uprising,” Elane proposed.
“For a person from an unnamed clan?” Julianna asked quizzically.
“So, by that logic, we are either dealing with a well-trained group of unfavored bowmen or the leader of that warband has deeper connections,” Ferron concluded.
“If it’s just a bunch of unfavored, then I don’t see any point in being patient. Let’s just ride in and stomp them out,” Hubert proposed. All the talk of prudence and caution did not play to his strengths. “If we show up in force, they would surely run at the risk of being butchered. What fools wouldn’t?”
Expectant looks wandered over to Julianna, but the strategist did not react externally to the provocation.
“In that case, you would certainly win the battle,” Julianna answered, drips of frustration leaked into her voice. “But what about afterwards? What if they are related to a tiarna and they seek retribution?”
“Then we break them too,” Hubert replied casually. “Unless we are dealing with a High Tiarna, we have little to fear.”
“And when you return from your victorious campaign, you will find that you have given High Tiarna Potent Martelle all the reasons in the world to hunt you all down,” Julianna spat. “I know all about your precarious situation. How all of you are tolerated due to your connections with the local tiarnas and your distinctions in the east. Will that goodwill last if you indiscriminately slaughter?”
“Julianna speaks the truth,” Ferron interjected. “We must be on our best behavior if we have any ambitions of living long, wealthy lives. We know nothing about our adversaries and we must rectify that before we enact any true plans.”
“What are we to do in the meantime?” Hrost questioned. “The warriors are already restless.”
Ferron opened a chest and revealed a handful of parchment scrolls. “The region is still disorganized and multiple villages and tiarnas have made requests for the same, smaller task. We split into groups and take these tasks away from our fellow warbands. We show the proof of completion to each issuer and collect from every source.”
“That I can get behind,” Hubert assented with a grin. He hopped from his cushion and took several of the scrolls from Ferron before heading towards the exit of the tent.
“Hubert,” Ferron boomed towards the departing warrior. “If you come across any of their degs, do not attack unless attacked first.”
“And if I have no choice than to strike first?”
Ferron’s eyes narrowed before giving a knowing look. “Then make sure that there is nobody alive that can say that you struck first.”
“It will be my pleasure.” Hubert left the tent in high spirits, he whistled a tune that could be heard by those still inside.
“What do the rest of us need to do, Ferron?” Hrost asked.
“One more of you will leave as a war party. The other two will stay and defend the camp. We will switch roles as required.”
“Then I’d like to be the other war party,” Barth requested. “I have a younger deg and all are desperate for achievements.”
Arthus and Hrost nodded their consent to the arrangement and all three along with Elane and Darcy left the tent soon after Hubert had.
“So what should I be doing?”
Ferron and Julianna looked at Valentin, who had been silently observing the meeting for the entire time. He had mostly obscured himself towards the back to avoid being a distraction and it seemed that even Ferron had forgotten that he had been there.
“You will stay here and continue your training,” Ferron ordered. “You should understand that this is a delicate situation, one that we cannot afford having one so inexperienced entering without absolute confidence in their skills.”
Valentin sighed and went to leave the tent. He was less disappointed that he was not going to be of any use to the warband than he was exhausted from the tedium of his training.
“Valentin,” Ferron said as Valentin walked by. “I am going to replace your spear with a longer one more befitting of your current stature. In the meantime, I think you are the right size to start using that longsword. Take it with you and find a practice sword of a similar shape. See if any of Gilles’ lessons made an impression on you.”
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
“Would Hrost not be displeased that I am not devoting myself to the spear?” Valentin asked apprehensively.
“And if that spear is removed from your hands for any reason, do you intend to allow yourself to die to avoid upsetting Hrost?” Ferron rebuked. “I am not requesting mastery, just competence.”
Valentin returned to the far end of the tent. Leaning against the rest of his belongings was Killihan’s longsword. The familiar serpentine pattern on the scabbard made Valentin’s mouth dry with the memories of the day that he obtained it.
His fingers wrapped around the scabbard and the feel of the cured leather allowed the beast depicted upon it to wrap around his heart. The guilt that he felt over his actions were as raw now as they had ever been. He still felt that the blade was not truly his. He had stolen it along with a man’s life. Yet, in some way, holding the man’s sword made him feel as though he were taking responsibility for his actions. The blade deserved to be used and those who knew who owned the sword would know who took his life.
The weapon was still around half the height of his body, however, it felt significantly lighter after a cycle of growth. He awkwardly tried to secure the blade to a part of his body. If he secured it to his belt, it would barely clear the ground.
Ferron viewed the boy’s thoughtful actions towards the weapon. “You need one more cycle and it will fit naturally on you,” he observed. “Get used to how that feels.”
Valentin nodded and strode out of the room into the wider camp. He moved with purpose through camp. He would offer brief nods to any that made eye contact with. Some would return the gesture while others would respond with a raise of the hand. Some would ignore the boy entirely, a gesture that Valentin wasn’t unfamiliar with. His run in with Durant last cycle had earned him as many fans as it did detractors.
However, most of the warband did not have time to consider the boy. They were busy organizing themselves by their new assignments. Those that would be attending Hubert and Barth seemed to be in the highest spirits. Their role would provide them with the most glory.
Valentin approached a rack full of wooden sparring weapons. Mock swords and spears and javelins invited the firm hand of a warrior to take them. Valentin looked around, there was nobody near the training area. They were all too preoccupied with a more fulfilling war to be spending their time here.
Valentin held his blade up to the various swords before finding one of a similar shape. The weight was unbalanced and unwieldy. He frowned in disappointment but took the weapon anyway.
He found a secluded spot away from the rest of the camp. He held the weapon in both hands and closed his eyes. Reaching deep within him, he tried to evoke the memories of the sparse training sessions that he had with his uncle.
The blade arced forward and stopped at his waist, pointing at an invisible foe. It felt wrong. The swing was clumsy and graceless. Valentin tried again from whatever stance that he could remember seeing or performing himself. Yet, in the end, he was left out of breath and unsatisfied with the results. He would not be a threat at all how he was.
He touched the hilt of Killihan’s longsword. Perhaps it was only the practice sword that was the issue. He would be fine if he were using a real weapon. He grasped the hilt, however, he hesitated to pull out the weapon. Did he have the right to use this sword? Had he honored the man properly before using his weapon so carelessly? Could he possibly use the blade in a way that would live up to his estimations of the warrior that died by his hand?
Valentin grabbed the weapon by the scabbard and held it out before him with one hand. “Killihan,” Valentin spoke privately in a low voice, as though a conduit that would connect him to the long dead man still existed within his weapon. “How do you wish for me to use your blade? Where shall I point it to earn your blessing?”
No answer emanated from the blade. There were no words spoken from the soil or the sky that would elucidate the boy. Killihan was dead, dead and eaten. The rest was burned to ash and scattered in the wind. He was irrecoverable now, leaving the burden of his possession’s purpose to his killer.
The boy sighed. He knew there was but one purpose to a weapon such as this. Killing was all that this weapon had been used for. Yet, Valentin could not help but delude himself into thinking that this weapon was only used nobly because the man who wielded it died nobly.
Just then, an idea shone brightly in Valentin’s mind. He may not know what type of person Killihan was, but he knew of people who did.
Valentin tucked the blade back into his belt. He returned the wooden blade to its resting place and returned to camp.
His head swiveled as he strode through the rows of tents. Trepidation over an expected rejection filled Valentin’s heart now that he committed himself to the task. He anticipated only hatred towards him or, at best, apathy.
Valentin spotted one of them with a shovel in his hand. He was digging trenches to fortify the camp with others that were tasked to remain behind for now.
A lump formed in Valentin’s throat. It was not too late to choose a different path and spare himself. He steeled himself. It cared more about understanding Killihan than he feared the possible hostility. He suppressed his guilt and the memories of the despair that those that Killihan protected showed.
His approach was not stealthy. The work group paused their work and observed Ferron’s ward walking towards them. They exchanged some brief words that Valentin was not close enough to hear.
“Renne,” Valentin addressed the former Merciless Cur.
“Tiarling,” Renne sneered, unintentionally answering Valentin’s questions of forgiveness. “What brings you to me?”
“I need to speak with you,” Valentin answered with a tone that masked his nerves. “Can you spare a few minutes?”
“I cannot,” the man rejected gruffly, turning his back to Valentin.
“I wanted to talk about something important,” Valentin pressed on.
Renne ignored Valentin’s further advance. He took to his shovel and continued to move soil at a measured pace. The other warriors also returned to their work but continued to track the boy from their peripherals.
“It’s about Killihan,” Valentin said, undeterred by the silent treatment.
Renne turned his eyes back towards Valentin. A cold, sad anger spread on the man’s face and the faces of several other warriors reflexively stiffened at the name of the deceased deggan. Renne’s eyes drifted down to Valentin’s belt. The final memento of the man he admired hung amateurishly from their killer’s side.
“I see you have taken to your prize,” Renne commented.
“I have yet to unsheathe it since that day,” Valentin answered. “It is the reason why I wish to speak with you now.”
Renne’s dispassionate anger briefly broke away in surprise at Valentin’s answer. The humility displayed ran counter to the story that the man had built in his head and left him in a state of confusion. He then sported a complicated face as he internally debated as to whether he should accede to the boy’s request or continue to spurn him out of loyalty to his deceased leader.
“Just a few minutes?” Renne asked, rephrasing Valentin’s initial request.
“Just a few minutes, please.”
Renne sighed, “All right, but if the deggan reprimands me for slacking off-”
“Then I will speak to them,” Valentin responded confidently.
Renne and the other warriors looked impressed by the boy’s confidence, their estimation of him rising in their minds. In truth, it was because Valentin knew that Arthus was in charge of this area. The man had, on several occasions, proven to Valentin that he was the most reasonable and reliable of the deggan. If it had been anyone else, Hubert especially, he would likely let Renne return to his work.
“Fine,” Renne assented, following the boy away from the work group.
As most of the warriors had quickly departed after the meeting, it did not take long to find a reasonably secluded place near the tents. The emptiness of the camp felt oddly eerie to Valentin who had yet to be left behind during a campaign. The ghostly hands of the wind rustled the canvas tents as invisible spectral warriors passed by. The phantom sounds of laughter and shouts and the clacking of dice against wooden bowls echoed in Valentin’s ears, causing his eyes to dart around in search of the unseen source.
“So what did you wish to ask about Killihan?” Renne asked, pulling Valentin back to the moment.
“I feel as though I need to use the weapon in a way that would honor Killihan,” Valentin explained, touching the hilt with his fingertips. “I thought that if I knew more about who he was and what he fought for, I would be able to gain his blessing to use his blade.”
Renne half frowned at Valentin’s answer. “You are just a boy after all,” the man reasoned with himself.
“What kind of warrior was Killihan?” Valentin asked.
“A fierce one,” Renne answered, a faint smile on his face. “When I was just a few cycles older than you, I got to see Killihan at the end of his prime. What you need to know about Killihan is that he was relentless. Once he started his attacks, he kept swinging tenaciously until his opponent surrendered or died. When he was in front of you, you felt immortal. I know it first-hand. I couldn’t tell you how many times I left training covered in welts because the bastard never knew how to take it easy.”
“I see,” Valentin responded, his eyes cast downwards.
The boy couldn’t help but feel slightly disappointed. The warrior he killed died in a deeply touching way, with bravery and magnanimity. In a fashion unfair to Killihan, Valentin expected something more profound in an explanation of his life. There must be an ideal to emulate, to look up to, in order to help find his path forward. However, all he found was more reasonless brutality.
There was never going to be a satisfactory answer for Valentin. Anything short of Killihan being revealed to be an incarnation of a hero of old would have ultimately proven to be insufficient. What he ultimately craved was an honorable direction, something that would lift the burden from his inability to make a decision for himself and allow him an option that was guaranteed to bring him to the destination he sought.
“Killihan only had two rules when it came to his weapon,” Renne continued, oblivious to the boy’s thoughts. “He would never kill an unarmed person and he would kill anyone he believed was cheating him at dice.”
Renne chuckled at the second rule as he reminisced on a time where that rule was enacted.
“Why those two rules?” Valentin inquired.
“He told me that when he was much younger, he went to a temple to have his omens read. The druid told him that the blood of the innocent would suffocate his harvest. He was convinced that if he killed a defenseless person it would curse his own children to die,” Renne explained. “When they grew up and none of his children were favored, he worried endlessly over their wellbeing.”
Renne pointed at Valentin’s chest. “If you had gone against him on the battlefield, he would have refused to kill you. He never liked killing kids, even if they were armed.”
“How are his children now?” Valentin asked, uncertain if Renne’s last statement was meant to make him feel guilty. If anything, the guilt was relieved slightly after hearing Killihan was but a regular man.
“Last I heard they were all fine. Well, as fine as the life of an unfavored can be,” the warrior replied with another chuckle. “Perhaps the omens saved them, perhaps not.”
“I have no interest in killing innocent people anyways,” Valentin remarked, believing that something like that was the bare minimum to be a decent person. He was already well acquainted with the type of people that would do such a terrible act and had no interest in emulating them.
“As for the second rule, he generally did not like dishonest people and oath breakers. He said there was nobody more dishonest than those that cheated at dice. I think he was just a sore loser. I’ve never seen anyone worse at pas deg than he was,” Renne remarked with a laugh.
“Thanks for answering my questions,” Valentin said gratefully.
“It was nice to remember,” Renne replied with a faint smile. “Anyways, if you are giving so much thought as to how you should use his blade, I think you are the best one to have it. Knowing Killihan, as long as you live up to your own ideals, I think he would be at peace with that.”
Renne left Valentin with those words and disappeared amongst the tents. The boy lifted up the weapon again and cradled it in both of his hands. What were his ideals? To what end did he do any of the things that he did? The desire for survival could only take him so far. He needed something more to put behind every stab and slash he delivered.
Once again, he was left answerless. He had no choice but to follow the currents of life until he found something worth swimming towards, if such a thing existed at all.
“I will not murder, and you will leave me be,” Valentin said to the sword. It predictably did not answer.
Valentin stowed the blade at his side and moved back towards Ferron’s tent. Ortus had reached its zenith and the hard ground softened slightly under the warmth from above. Some warriors set aside their tools and squatted around small fires to prepare their midday meals. The smells made Valentin’s stomach stir sympathetically for a meal of his own.
His infant thoughts of his impending meal were interrupted by a voice behind him. Valentin turned to see Maeve walking from the druid’s tent and towards him.
“Valentin, I was looking for you.”
“Maeve,” Valentin responded in acknowledgment. “Have you been well?”
“I do not have time to speak pleasantries with you, Valentin,” Maeve responded curtly. A shallow frown stretched across her otherwise placid face. Dark circles shaded her eyes as though the last nights had been particularly restless. “I need your help.”
Valentin was taken aback by the straightforward request. The druid regarded him with piercing, impatient eyes. It was as if his brief hesitation was wasting even more precious time. Valentin cleared his throat and destroyed several more seconds.
“What do you need my help with?” Valentin inquired curiously.
Maeve pursed her lips, as she briefly deliberated on how to phrase her request. Doubt shadowed her face.
“There are some bodies nearby that haven’t been burned,” Maeve eventually answered. “It’s safer to have someone join me in case something goes wrong. You have experience with combat, do you not?”
Maeve made a point of focusing her gaze at the blade at Valentin’s side. He hadn’t considered the possibility he could be seen as a seasoned warrior to some.
“I do,” Valentin answered, his chest puffed out slightly from the unintended compliment. He tilted his head to the side in consideration. “If it’s serious enough, I can go to Ferron and request that he provide a couple warriors.”
“You can see if you receive a different answer by going to the leader,” Maeve replied dismissively. “I have already brought up the request to the deggan and I was told that we do not have the manpower to chase down a ‘few lost souls.’ Since I haven’t seen it myself they don’t seem overly concerned.”
“Is there anyone else that we can bring with us, then?” Valentin inquired, wondering if he alone was sufficient for this task.
“Dacin had agreed to go with me, but he rode out earlier with Barth,” Maeve grumbled. “And Darri decided he wanted to leave.”
Valentin brushed off the reactionary disappointment he felt to be revealed as the third choice for the task. He was just thankful that it didn’t appear as if Maeve had blamed him for Darri’s absence. However, that did not stop him from still feeling responsibility to help Maeve. Bassett had asked him to support the druid. He refused to let his friend down.
“I will help you,” Valentin answered. “When do you wish to leave?”
“As soon as possible. If we leave within the next hour, we should be able to be there and back before darkness falls.”
The prospect of an adventure, regardless of how short or trivial it may prove to be, enticed Valentin’s boredom that had yet to melt away since Faur.
“Wait for me by the horses,” Valentin replied confidently, pointing his finger in the direction of his steed. “I need to prepare a few things.”