Aichlan was on edge as he entered the city; it was far too quiet, too clean for a town ransacked. His hand gripped his sword hilt with white knuckles as he took in the ruination around him. His eyes peeled for an ambush, each sound caught his attention. The city bore the telltale scars of a bandit raid, from the bodies on the streets to the rampant evidence of looting and wanton destruction seen in broken glass and ransacked shops. Several doors hung off their hinges and heaps of the townspeople’s belongings lay piled in gutters, likely awaiting collection from raiders in hiding. He had seen far too many similar scenes when he traveled the borders of Aes Sidhe with his father so many years ago. The silence and desolation was meant to convey that the attack had come and gone, yet the unfinished card games, ale still cold in its mug and the scent of lunch cooking in the air told him otherwise.
“Looks like whoever was ‘ere is long gone. Whaddya think, Aichlan?”
Aichlan shook his head as he scanned the ruined storefronts. “No, they want us to think that though.”
Eth nodded his approval. “There’s hope fer ye yet, laddie.”
Aichlan ignored the comment, though offended that they thought it necessary to test him in such a simple way. The group abruptly drew their swords as something exploded in an apartment above a pub. A plump brunette burst out onto the street trailing a very angry, very confused blonde, a mage from Asketill judging by her manner of dress; a black pinafore dress and dirty white blouse. The brunette’s tunic was drenched in perspiration. Her pleated skirt and greaves were both made of studded leather. She did not look like a bandit or mercenary, her outfit looked like a military issue for a common foot soldier.
The blonde was equally miserable in appearance; her pale face was streaked with grime. She was slight of build and fair in complexion, likely a noblewoman. Her sharp features and dazzling green eyes also gave her away as being of the fey. Upon seeing Aichlan and the elves, the brunette drew her sword and shielded the mage, they appeared to be fleeing from something r someone. The brown haired soldier had a pretty, if not common face, robust and round as was typical of the Sornish people. The woman was also quite young, she could not be more than nineteen or twenty. But her eyes, though showing fear, were determined. Aichlan was somewhat surprised to see her wielding a bastard sword; women, at least human women, did not usually favor such large weapons.
“Hold! We’re not enemies!” Aichlan called, though he did not fully lower his own sword, wary of ambush and subterfuge.
A great deal of shouting and confusion ensued from the apartment, followed by heavy footsteps upon the stairs. The brunette eyed the doorway, and then bolted in the opposite direction of Aichlan and the approaching bandits. A large man with grnaled face and bulging pot-belly blundered onto the street clutching a breastplate, and frantically scanned the street. He did a double take and his jaw went slack upon noticing Aichlan and the elves with weapons drawn. Two other men burst out after him, one patting his smoldering crotch as tears streaked his dirty face.
“An’ who the bloody—!” The big man abruptly stopped as realization dawned on him. “To arms, men! To arms!” He yelled as he fled through the streets, still clutching the piece of armor.
Men sprang from behind counters, doorways and alleyways. They leapt from balconies and popped up on rooftops. Aichlan made a quick count and estimated their numbers around a hundred to a hundred and fifty. It was more than a little surprising that such a large band of cutthroats could exist. The kingdom of Sorn was known for its highwaymen problem, and too few soldiers and too little coin to effectively put a stop to the practice. Aichlan cut his wonder short however and rushed the brigand with the smoldering crotch, cleaving him from shoulder to hip. With a fluid motion, he spun around and disemboweled the second bandit who had attempted to flank him. Hacking and slashing at those who leapt out from hiding, Achlan took off after the leader. To his surprise, several elves managed to overtake him, Eth, Kielan and Ashe among them.
Eth and Kielan charged through the fray wielding their ungainly blades with an effortless grace almost unbecoming of the burly men and their sharpened, iron slabs. The familiar twang of an arrow leaving its bow snapped Aichlan from his musings; he turned just as the missile was incinerated in mid-air. He whipped around with his sword at the ready, and was met with Ashe’s smiling face, residual flames dancing across her fingertips. He nodded his thanks as she raised her hammer and squashed a man’s head like an overripe melon. Aichlan gave her handiwork an uneasy glance as he raced to catch up with Eth and Kielan, confident that Ashe had his flanks covered.
They eventually reached a canyonesque intersection that branched into five different streets. Kielan placed his hands upon his hips as he caught his breath, a grin upon his face while Aichlan searched the streets; looking for some sign of what he assumed was the leader of the bandits. Eth seemed oddly placid, though his expression was no less severe, as he poked his head into broken storefronts and kicked down doorways. Aichlan kept his eyes on the windows above them, ready at any moment for some fool to leap down upon them, or take a pot shot with a bow.
“Where to from here, lads?” Kielan called out rather cheerfully.
“Lost ‘is scent,” Eth grumbled.
“His scent?” Aichlan asked breathlessly, more than a little perplexed.
“That breastplate he carried was a specific type o’ iron from a town near here, Auld Ferrons.” He clarified.
“Well which way then?” Aichlan asked, still not comprehending.
“Whichever way ya want,” Eth said as he took the left path.
“Such an ornery bloke that one,” Kielan rebuked. “Aichlan, mind coverin’ his arse? I’m goin’ down the middle.”
Aichlan nodded. “Sure, you gonna be fine alone?”
Kielan chuckled and slapped Aichlan heartily on the back, nearly knocking him over. “Should be!”
With that, he took off down the center street, leaving Aichlan to follow Eth. The street was empty, and Aichlan became disheartened at the fact that they may have chosen the wrong path. He was tempted to suggest they turn back when the sounds of battle became audible again as the street started to widen. A smirk crossed Eth’s lips, and he broke out into a sprint. Aichlan swore and took off after him.
The smell of immolated flesh soon filled the squalid air. He sidestepped an axe-strike as he passed Eth. The tactless elf had a grin upon his face from ear to ear, as he chased down fleeing brigands, cleaving and roasting them with sick glee. Aichlan dispatched of his own sparring partner and scanned the battleground for the leader, ducking as a man was hurled into a nearby storefront. He finally spotted him making a break for the town square, weaving through battle on his way to the city hall.
“Don’t tell me yer tired already!” Ashe teased.
Aichlan smiled and clasped the hand she placed upon his shoulder. He was relieved that she had followed him as he had long since lost sight of Eth. The breather was short lived however, as half a dozen bandits slinked out of hiding and slowly closed in on them. Aichlan took a deep, steadying breath, and searched the faces of the robbers. They carried themsleves with confidence, and their caution in approaching was rooted more in discipline than fear, odd given their proffession. It would not be an easy battle, though hardly a concerning one.
“No, just finding my victim!” he shouted as he sprinted through the square, slicing and dicing his way towards the city hall.
Ashe finished off the wounded with a strike from her hammer or a blast of flames as they made a mad dash towards the town hall. Aichlan hurled himself into the door, but bounced off despite the doors having been previously breached. Rubbing his tender shoulder, he took a few steps back and shoulder rammed the door repeatedly until he finally broke through the oak double doors of the city hall. He stumbled in as the heavy doors burst from their hinges and hit the floor with a loud thud. He cursed and clutched his sore shoulder, regretting his decision to make a ram of his body. The leader of the brigands spun around and fumbled for his axe upon Aichlan’s dramatic entrance. He got his weapon entangled in his belt, forcing him to abandon his task of loading a chest with plundered treasure.
“Who are you people?” He demanded as he tugged at the weapon.
A screaming bandit smashed through the window and landed with a loud crash that knocked the air from his lungs. The man struggled to sit up and draw breath as Eth leapt through the window in pursuit and impaled him with his sword. The angry elf leaned cruelly on the blade, driving it in further as he stood.With a subtle flourish, Eth removed the weapon from wood and carcass with ease and next set his glare on the leader. The boss threw several chairs in front of Eth, in an ineffectual effort to slow him down. Eth swatted the debris from the air and opened his stride as the bandit finally freed his axe from his belt.
“Who the fuck are you?” He cried as he puffed out his chest and attempted to flex his axe arm. “Stay back you pointy-eared bastards! I swear I’ll chop that pretty lil head clean off!”
Eth chuckled ominously and the brigand deflated. “Ye threatenin’ me, boy?”
“Stop it, Eth, that’s Aichlan's kill.”
Eth spun around with a snarl, looking from Ashe to Aichlan then to Ashe again. Aichlan was equally startled by her assertion and shrugged innocently under Eth’s gaze.
“He got here first. Fair is fair.” She added matter-of-factly and turned her beautiful smile on Aichlan.
Eth growled, but it did little to discourage Ashe, who stood her ground. After what seemed like minutes, Eth nodded to Aichlan and stepped back. He did not know what was stranger, her defending his right to claim this man’s life as if it were an everyday occurrence, or Eth relenting.
“Go fer it,” Eth snorted as he planted his sword in the ground and took a seat. “Nae like I give two shits.”
Ashe flashed her smile again and motioned for Aichlan to claim his prize. “There ye go, honey.”
“Oi! You lot can’t be fuckin’ serious!" The Bandit bellowed. "Don’t I get a say in this?”
Eth spat another ball of fire, setting a pile of papers alight. “Nae likely.”
Aichlan advanced; he was not accustomed to duels of the prearranged kind, as he preferred to let the flow of battle dictate his next move. This sudden and strange turn in events was slightly disorienting for him. He half bowed out of some notion of convention, and swore to himself for the idiocy of the wasted gesture. He took up a ward, realizing even more how awkward the situation was with the absence of his buckler. Aichlan steeled his gaze and changed his stance; his opponent took a step back and raised his axe in an attempt at a defensive posture.
“Wait!”
Aichlan spun around to see the brunette burst in, followed closely by her blonde companion.
“Fer fuck’s sake jus’ kill ‘em already!” Eth growled and flung a chair across the room.
“No! Wait, please!” The woman approached Aichlan breathlessly; blood stained her blouse and sword.
“Please, I have claim to this man’s life for”—she looked at the bandit with unmitigated disgust—“I just have a claim.”
“Oh c’mon now, poppet! All I did was grab a lil’ titty. Is that such a crime?”
The woman’s face flushed red with rage and embarrassment as the brigand laughed at her. Aichlan really wanted to kill him himself by this point, if only because everyone else kept jumping in trying to claim his head. Something about her gave him pause, she could have easily fled, but instead she searched and fought her way through a city overrun by brigands for this single man. Whether all he truly did was grab a lil’ titty or not was immaterial, she wanted him to suffer.
Aichlan lowered his blade and stepped aside to let the woman pass, she gave him a quick once over and passed with a curt nod. Though he was grateful to be free of the awkward encounter, his sword arm was still sore from ramming the door, it did not make this whole affair any less odd. His only hope was that she was up to the task.
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“Alice?”
“Gladly,” The blonde replied as she scurried around the benches to flank the bandit. “Be sure to make this cur suffer greatly for his transgressions.”
Aichlan recognized her accent as being from Briartach, and a noble at that, only serving to further his curiosity regarding the pair. Eth retrieved his sword and walked out, muttering expletives in Elvish. Aichlan briefly glanced back, but remained silent, he must have led a troubling life to be so bloodthirsty. If Aichlan hadn’t known any better, he would have categorized Eth with the rest of the brigands.
The bandit readied his axe, suddenly more confident in his chances for survival. Alice drew a glowing red glyph in the air and launched several errant fireballs from her palm. Her partner dodged a few as she closed in on the bandit. Aichlan winced and took a step back from the action. An old tapestry went up in flames, threatening to spread to the rafters.
“Oops! Sorry Fiora!” Alice called, halting her spell with a bite of the tongue.
Fiora yelled out and rushed the brigand, her sword crossed with his axe, causing him to retreat a step under the unexpected ferocity of the blow. He pushed her back effortlessly and she struck again. They continued to dance around each other, the bandit brushing aside Fiora’s attacks, Fiora keeping up a frantic pace to prevent counter-attacks. The outlaw shoved her to the ground and raised his axe to finish her. He paused just before striking and began to frantically stomp his foot and pat his head, feeling the burn of the fireballs that at least grazed their target.
“You whore!” He roared as he swung his axe like a madman.
Fiora rolled out of the way and scrambled back to her feet, clutching her arm, his blade had nicked her shoulder. The brigand charged and swung, and she shuddered under the impact of the blow. She prepared to parry when he unleashed a flurry of blows, sparks flew as he hammered away at her defenses. After spotting an opening, she thrust, slicing into his oblique as he sidestepped.
The bandit used her momentum against her and clubbed her in the back of the head. She stumbled forward and another blow sent her sprawling on to the floor. The young knight barely had time to roll over and block a crushing strike. Aichlan could tell by her sluggish movement and the way she blinked and shook her head that she was on the edge of consciousness. The blow to the back of the head must have been savage.
Alice unleashed an arc of lightning in the bandit’s direction. In addition to striking several candelabras, curtain rods, fire pokes and Fiora’s discarded breastplate, a solid bolt struck his raised axe, and sent a current coursing through him. He fell, twitching uncontrollably to his knees, as Fiora regained her footing and placed her sword to his throat.
She sniffed audibly. “What’s that I smell? Fear? Death? Or the scents of your voided bowels after you’ve messed yourself?”
The still-twitching bandit managed to grin. “You haven’t the berries, lass. Go on home.”
Fiora frowned and drew back her blade. “You’re right.”
Without hesitation, she thrust it into the bandit’s mouth, shattering teeth as she shoved it out the back of his skull, pushing the sword in nearly to the hilt. The bandit fell over, dead, his liquid waste and blood pooling around him.
“But I don’t need them either.” She spat.
She placed a boot to his chest and wrenched her blade out as violently as possible, and with some effort, pulled it from his mangled skull. With adrenaline still coursing through her, she took several shaky steps back. She swooned and stumbled as exhaustion overcame her. The backdraft from a broken window caught her off-guard and knocked her to the floor.
The smoke had become thick and the fires Eth set, an inferno. The sound of cracking timbers became deafening as the roof continued to sag and collapse in some places. The ceiling fell in a burning pile of timber besides Fiora mere moments after.
“Fiora!” Alice called as she hiked up her dress and ran to aid her friend.
She was cradling Fiora’s head in her lap when Ashe and Aichlan arrived at their side. Fiora was still breathing, albeit labored. Ashe placed a hand upon the woman’s damp forehead and shook her head.
“Will she be alright?”
“She’ll be fine, a bit feverish an’ exhausted, but otherwise good.” She replied as she wiped away the filth of battle with Alice’s cloak.
Alice clutched her friend close to her bosom and cried, further streaking her dirty face. Aichlan let out a held breath and examined the carnage. Between Eth and the mage, the city hall had become a burning mausoleum. It seemed that the flames and debris had cut off all exits.
“We’d better go before we’re trapped.” Aichlan said as he wiped his brow.
Alice awkwardly tried to lift Fiora onto her shoulders, then her back. Alice was a petite slender woman of average height, a hundred and ten pounds at the most. Fiora was a bit more of a hardier build, with a good thirty to forty pounds on the young mage. Aichlan stepped in to help, but was stopped by Alice’s frigid stare.
“I can handle this.” She hissed.
Aichlan raised his hands in surrender and took a step back. He reluctantly allowed her to struggle with her friend, despite the roaring fires that now encircled them. He just hoped she was able to handle whatever she felt obligated to do before they were roasted or asphyxiated. He franticly scoured the inferno for some sort of exit; his heart sinking as more flaming timber fell. He turned back to Alice, ready to take up Fiora regardless of her objections.
“If only it wasn’t so bloody hot!” Alice exclaimed as she drew several glowing blue glyphs and muttered an incantation.
A deluge of frigid water dropped from the air above them. The fires were doused; a cloud of hissing steam rose as weakened lumber snapped and fell under the torrent. Aichlan spat and shook his head, flinging water from his unruly mane of hair. Ashe wore the expression of a very unhappy, wet cat as steam rose from her body, shock and irritation evident in her wide-eyed scowl. Alice finally managed to hoist Fiora onto her back and waddled out of the building with a contented smile. Ashe snatched at the cords of her apron and shook the extra water off; her wild hair was now slick but more manageable in appearance.
“It’s a good look for you,” Aichlan said with a laugh, wiping his face on his sleeve.
Ashe only gave him a puzzled look as she wrung herself out.
* * *
The sound of men breaking camp had finally ceased, but with the newfound silence, Maleah found she was unable to get back to sleep. She threw off the covers angrily and rose with a great stretch as she tousled her wild bed hair. The couch Séverin had slept on the night before was still empty. She did not think he would travel with them to Therion, but she wished he had been more straightforward with her. Nonetheless, it had been a great day for her; she had awoken at noon to breakfast in bed, and then promptly had fallen back asleep after a pint of vodka, hoping to sleep until dinner. She would have been able to if it were not for all the noise—the shouting and hammering of men breaking camp. She was suddenly curious why no one had notified her.
Shedding her shift, she dressed in the outfit her maids had laid out for her earlier in the afternoon. It consisted of a black and white coatee with rank and unit insignia, half skirt with riding boots and stockings.
It had been an accepted practice, since time immemorial, for military officers to practice form over function. For many, the battlefield was a fashion parade, their weapons and armor purely decorative. She considered it comfortable enough and enjoyed the customizability their uniforms afforded to soldiers, so long as it was black she probably could have ridden out wearing just about anything.
Theirs had been an age of no major conflicts, where battles were nothing more than glorified duels between the nobility. When a cleric could heal most any grievous wounds, the need for bulky armor was diminished, and eventually abandoned. Wars were commonly fought with only a few thousand to as little as a few hundred soldiers, lords, and knights. The more decorated or brave soldiers boasted of their skill by donning less armor and dressing more elaborately. Kings and queens had been known to step onto the battlefield in full ceremonial dress with an entourage of non-combatant retainers.
Maleah had participated in several of those battles, where soldiers pair off for one-on-one or two-on-two combat. The whole thing had become a game, complete with spectators and after battle balls. She abhorred such useless displays and meaningless confrontations, they proved that the world was run by idiots and spoiled brats, who only obtained their positions because of some dead relative’s fortune of lineage. On the other hand, she did not have to roast in heavy armor up in the saddle all day, which was a plus in her book. She was sure Cookie, her mount, was glad to be spared the extra weight as well.
She donned her riding gloves with the cut-off fingertips, and borrowed her brother’s trick of binding the excess material of her wide sleeves with several small belts. She took the brush from her vanity mirror, almost as an afterthought, and brushed her bangs before running her hands through the rest of her hair to straighten it out.
She thought of Osric's unexpected involvement with the military, after he was so adamant about not following his other siblings into the profession. She also wondered how he obtained his rank in so short a time. There were also rumors that he somehow convinced the monarchy to change the centuries-old standard of warfare to gain control of over a hundred thousand soldiers. When Maleah joined, the Xanavien army had only consisted of fifteen thousand soldiers. There was simply no way he could have convinced the monarchy to draft so many men and women. Unless of course he had not needed to convince them as Séverin had insinuated.
Maleah stepped outside and stopped dead in her tracks. The field once filled with tents as far as the eye could see was now a muddy wasteland. The smoldering remains of campfires still smoked and glowed as the tail end of the main force was seen cresting a hill to the north. Several wagons lay abandoned in the deep ruts that crisscrossed the field, still laden with supplies. The black banners were fluttering in the breeze of the disappearing army; Maleah could have sworn she saw her own unit’s flag amongst the mounted knights and Calvary. She cursed and took count of the remaining tents. Only two units remained.
Fuming, she made her way to Osric’s tent, not bothering to acknowledge salutes, and pushing past her attendants. She flung open Osric’s tent flap and opened her mouth to vent her frustrations, but was overcome by the stench therein. A cauldron bubbled over a fuel-less fire. Several books lay open on the table and floating in the air with Osric busy checking each one. The table was a mess, covered with bowls of intestine and other organs, beakers of blood, blood blackened bones, and a fetus of unknown species floating in a jar of amniotic fluid. Maleah retched and buried her mouth and nose in the crook of her elbow. Osric bent over his mortar, vigorously grinding something into powder. He looked up without stopping his work.
“Please don’t track any mud, these rugs are difficult to clean and quite expensive.”
Maleah looked down at her muddy boots and considered taking them off, but decided against it. Osric had done these strange concoctions and brews before, only once in the same place he slept however. Though he often was open regarding what he used and its purpose, they had taken on more vile ingredients and uses lately, and she declined to ask.
“What is that smell?” Her voice came out muffled from behind the sleeve.
“That is putrefaction, and I’m afraid one never does quite get used to it.” Osric mixed blood and entrails with the powder and began grinding them into a paste. “One only learns ways to cope or ignore it.”
Maleah blushed as she recognized a black tome with black pages open on the table. The words only became visible when smeared with menstrual blood. Maleah remembered her outrage and embarrassment when her brother came to her with his absurd request, some years back. He said that the author wanted to limit the amount of times one could use the spells therein since most, if not all were potentially catastrophic. How or why he possessed such a book remained a mystery to her.
“Why did you send the army away?”
Osric moved to stir the contents of the cauldron. A thick fog emanated from the orange liquid.
“The King sent a messenger, he wanted it elsewhere.” Osric glanced up at her, a testing look in his eyes. “You did not think he would allow me to use so large a force on so small an operation, did you?”
She recoiled, the eyes that appeared to gaze through to her very essence were not those of her brother. While she could recognize features as Osric’s, the person before her was a stranger. She felt an intense fear and a fierce ager rising up within her the longer she looked upon him, this imposter.
“Where are my men?” Maleah stammered, opting to change the subject.
Osric returned his gaze to his work, dismissing her with a limp wave. “I sent them away under the command of your lieutenant.”
“You what!” She screamed, taking on a more commanding tone as she stepped further into the tent.
“I sent them away.” Osric replied flatly, not looking up from his experiment.
She could not contain her anger any longer, though was slightly confused as to why she felt so strongly. Those men trusted and respected her, and she them, and she was in fact their commanding officer. It was no secret that she was the master of shamming, often delegating tasks to other officers and noncommissioned officers in garrison; in battle, on the other hand, she was a demon with the lance, always to be counted on to look after her charges’ safety. It would take a lot of work to recreate such a relationship. She shuddered at the thought of more work.
“Why the hell didn’t you consult me first, Osric?” She demanded.
“You were asleep,” he said indifferently, meeting her gaze with his cold, golden eyes. “Captain Miroshnik.”
Maleah turned red and stomped her foot in anger. “You tryin' to pull rank with me, you arrogant prick!”
Osric pointed emphatically to the door. “Please Maleah, the mud—”
“Damn your rugs!” Maleah stomped, squelching mud onto his precious carpet and drapes. “You had no right!”
Osric advanced on her with unforeseen swiftness, seeming to slip through space itself. Fire and hatred filled his golden eyes, giving him the look of a wolf ready to devour her. She felt her blood run cold as her body stiffened in terror. She had only felt this way once before in her life, and try as she might, she could not banish the painful memories that flooded back to her in that moment.
“I have every right. I am in command here, not you! I allow you to leech and carry on as you will, so long as you don’t get in my way. Any other soldier in your position would have been drawn and quartered. You avoid this fate simply because of the common blood we share! Don’t you think for a second, Maleah, that I wouldn’t throw you to the wolves should you ever come between me and my goals. And don’t you ever, even for a moment, think that you can question me and walk away. Am I understood, Captain?” He coated last word with as much venom as he could muster.
Maleah’s terror subsided, replaced by intense rage, she wanted nothing more than to tear him limb from limb. She no longer saw her brother before her but rather some embodiment of pure malice. The thoughts terrified her more than the memories that now burned anew in her consciousness.
“I’ll get Séverin to come beat your ass, seems you’ve forgotten who the fuck I am.” Maleah glared at him and spat at his feet.
Osric looked down at the saliva on his robes and backhanded Maleah across the face. He grabbed her jaw, his hand quicker than a serpent’s strike, and dug his nails into her flesh drawing blood. All humanity was lost in his crazed expression. He tightened his grip, drawing pleasure from her obvious pain.
“Am—I—under—stood?” He hissed through clenched teeth.
With tears welling in her eyes, she managed to nod. Osric held on a moment longer before shoving her out of the tent.
“Leave me. I’ve work to do.”
Osric closed and fastened the tent flaps, leaving her in the mud. She stood and brushed herself off the best she could, determined not to show her shame and pain. Séverin would have skinned Osric alive had he seen what had just happened, she was sure of it. He had never spoken to her like that before, let alone struck her. She made her way hastily towards the makeshift stables, dismissing the stable hand as she saddled her black mare with chocolate mane and tail. She reared her mount and rode south towards the sea. She needed some time to clear her head. A ride on the beach would do just that. What she really needed at that moment was her brother, Séverin.