The way Aldric figured it, heading directly back to Metzcal was probably a terrible idea. There were a few reasons for this; the fact that they hadn’t exactly left the Anglish authority on the best of terms was certainly one. The uncertainty of their reception was another, but the main reason Aldric didn’t want to return was that some of his remaining troops were green, raw recruits. They’d see it as a thing of coming home after their mission was over, and it’d be nigh impossible to dig them out again. They needed to understand that they didn’t belong there anymore; their home was the Seventh Seal.
After a small bottle of brandy and a long careful deliberation across the seas from the Shaper’s homeland, he offered Orelia Daveth’s position as a commander. Her immediate refusal grated on him; the other Silver, Arcene, likewise turned down the commission.
Admittedly they’d only signed on for the single mission, but they were skilled.
He was saddled with a combination of skilled veterans and wet-behind-the-ears recruits, but none of them with the dynamic quality that made a good commander. Morrell had had it, though he wasn’t smart enough to keep his head attached; Daveth had it, though ... he was dead, too. Morden had the tenure, but he repeatedly and emphatically claimed he was happy right where he was- and none of the other remaining file leaders were in any way qualified.
Still, the ship sailed where it had been told; and Aldric had no way of controlling where it went. He was able to control it after they disembarked; a slow-burning fuse loosely coiled on a barrel of lantern oil was a final, albeit petulant act of defiance against the Shapers.
Metzcal was a mess; it seemed like all the hard work the Seal had put in had vanished overnight. In a way it infuriated Aldric; the transient nature of the business, in a way it terrified him; the kind of fear that comes from trying to rail against the inevitable. Overall he was just assailed with an overwhelming sense of weariness.
There was a ship willing to take them up the coast to Philippa though he had to haggle dearly for it; two men made two small splashes over the gunwales as the ship pulled out to sea; the small satisfaction at reclaiming his coin faded quickly as quickly as the docks vanished behind them.
It was strange to see so many horses and so few of his troops; the loss of most of his cavalry was a crippling blow. Aldric had to consider whether it was necessary to sell some of the excess horseflesh in order to better make the trip to Tannit.
He contemplated the Seventh Seal’s engagement with the Shapers as they moved up the coast to Philippa. What a cock-up that’d been. He’d been too eager, he decided. It was necessary to gather what intelligence you could before accepting a contract, and for some reason he’d gotten into the habit of neglecting that part of the job.
*****
Philippa was worse than Metzcal; they were in civil war again, with various warlords trying to assert dominion and hold together their wavering principalities.
Daveth would probably have laughed and suggested that the Seal drop their Metzcal recruits in the thick of it in order to get some real training. In another time and place Aldric might have done just that, but Philippa was much too volatile to try.
It seemed like only anarchy could rule there. A man might set himself up as a warlord and acquire a small bit of territory, only to be overthrown by his wife, or his brother, or a fucking peasant with a crossbow- who in turn would then declare themselves and in turn be overthrown. No one wanted to be ruled by anyone, no matter how benevolent or tyrannical.
There had to be a percentage in Philippa, though Aldric couldn’t see a way to it, since most of the petty overnight dictatorships never lasted long enough to mint any coin.
A problem- or a challenge- for another time, he supposed, as he bid farewell to Orelia and Arcene.
Very few ships had the balls to dock in Philippa; either they were swamped with people trying to leave, or they were overwhelmed with soldiers from despots trying to grab everything they could, so Aldric opted to head overland to Blackwall, which lay to the east.
In Philippa he came to be known as ‘The Trader’, a moniker of monikers, buying cheap and selling dear; those that tried to catch more than he was willing to offer caught jacketed lead, instead. Small towns, usually closed to outsiders, would open their stake walls (or gates, if they had them) and allow him to trade, and a few even asked him to dispense justice.
After the war-torn Philippa, navigating Blackwall was a breeze, and a ship to Einsamkeit was easily procured. The trip upriver was without problems, and the arrival at Tannit was about as smooth as expected...
*****
The two mercenaries stared down from their vantage on one of the towers and eyed the pitiful camp of the Seventh Seal; a single tent, a horse, and a banner.
Merrin, a woman of the Red Rocks Company, watched the Seventh Seal’s site just as curiously as her compatriot Tolfdor, from the Black River Band.
Well, technically those of the Red Rocks and Black Rivers were considered mercenaries; their contracts were always renewed, even though neither band of soldiers had sallied forth since the War of Liberation. They took Tannit’s coin, they followed the tenets of war, just the same as any other distinguished mercenary band, but Merrin was pretty sure that if Tannit ever decided to cut loose their contract with the Red Rocks, the company would collapse and die. They weren’t trained or equipped to deal with the world as professional soldiers anymore. She was reasonably certain that Tolfdor knew it the same for his own company.
She considered bringing it up to him, but as she opened her mouth, he cut her off.
“Tradition is just as important as law.” He stated flatly. She threw him a confused look.
“You were going to ask me if we should consider letting him into the city.” Tolfdor anticipated, flapping his hand. “And the answer is no, we stick to tradition. If he wants to enter the city, he’s got to pay the dues and follow the rules. No invitations.”
“I wasn’t going to invite him in; I had a different question altogether.” She gave Tolfdor a withering look, and then pointed north. “I was wondering if we should let him know about that.”
Tolfdor pulled out his spyglass and followed his compatriot’s pointing finger.
Warbands of the Carrion Crows, a mercenary company that was more bandit than mercenary. As far as anyone knew, there were roughly six or perhaps eight different bands of the Carrion Crows, each roughly fifty to a hundred in strength.
“Why?” Tolfdor asked curiously.
“It’s common knowledge there’s blood feud between the Crows and the Seal. Figure he ought to know the hour of his own death.” She replied.
“If he’s smart, he’ll pay his dues and hole up in the city. If not, well, he’s made his choice.” Tolfdor replied dismissively. “But sure, send a runner to him, if it pleases you.”
She nodded and called for a page.
Daveth listened to the boy’s message and nodded.
“Will you pay the fee to enter the city?” The page asked. “I’ve been authorized to accept your payment.”
Daveth shrugged. “Ain’t got a coin.”
“Could take your horse as payment.” The page offered, eyeing the giant beast.
Daveth barked a laugh. “No, I don’t think so.”
The page gave him a bleak look. “Well, I guess... luck in battle, then?”
Daveth chuckled darkly at that and turned away from the pageboy.
He tried to count back the days since Audra had left, but couldn’t quite recall the number, so he replayed their parting in his mind as he left his tent and headed north, towards the Carrion Crows.
She’d talked with him over breakfast, he remembered that much. She’d formally requested a leave of absence. A quick trip across the river and to the mountains of the northwest, where her village was. She wanted to check in with her family, so Daveth had given his approval with a casual flip of his hand. Not like anyone else was able to approve it.
He wasn’t sure exactly how long it’d take for Aldric to show up at Tannit, but Daveth wasn’t in a hurry to get anywhere in particular. According to the messenger from Tannit, He had a couple of hours before the Crows showed up.
He bounced a fence post he’d tugged out of the ground in his hand. He figured he had enough time to set up a surprise for them.
*****
“Any idea what the fuck he’s doing?” Merrin asked curiously as she watched the giant repeatedly pound a fencepost into the ground, yank it out, and do it again.
“I got no fuckin’ clue. Your message boy said he was alone and unarmed. Just him and his horse.” Tolfdor replied. “How far away are they?”
“I imagine the Crows have about four hours at their speed.” Kerrin replied.
“He knows, right? He has to know.” Tolfdor argued. “We’re not going to help him. Our responsibility is to the city.”
Merrin nodded wordlessly and watched the giant man pound the wooden stake into the ground over and over. What could he be up to, creating row after row of post-holes?
She puzzled it over in her mind and eyed the approaching warbands. They were too far away to see the young Commander of the Seventh Seal, even their outriders. Briefly, Merrin considered sending her messenger out, but this time with a pouch of coin. She’d offer to pay the fee. One man alone against that many troops? Absurdity.
Abruptly, Daveth finished his work, and nodded, seemingly pleased with what he’d done, and then strolled to one of the farmsteads; apparently to return the fencepost he’d jerked from the farmer’s yard.
What was the point of all those holes? They were much too small for a man to fall through and a horse would simply-
“He thinks he can win.” Merrin breathed in sudden realization.
“The fuck are you on about? Commander Daveth is bent in the head? Of course he is.” Tolfdor replied irritably.
“You don’t see the point of all thost post-holes he’s dug?” Merrin asked.
Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.
“There is no point. The man’s clearly unhinged.” Tolfdor replied simply.
“So you don’t see it. Why are you even a Black River man?” Merrin frowned at her interlocutor.
“It’s a bloody easy job, the pay’s good, and the easy respect is nice, too.” Tolfdor replied simply. “Not like him out there. How many times we seen the Seventh Seal back here, recruiting the terminally stupid to fill their ranks alongside every other mercenary band on this gods-forsaken land?” He gestured. “Let them go out and die for hopeless causes. All’s I’ve got to do is break up a barfight now and again.”
Merrin shook her head wordlessly and watched the giant circle around the pothole-filled field he’d created, and begin tossing something that glittered into the air in the same way someone might scatter seed over a field for planting.
“He’s bloody brutal.” She breathed suddenly.
“What? Bollocks.” Tolfdor replied. “He’s gonna get ridden down like the fool he is.” He tapped his chin thoughtfully. “We can claim his tent and horse for burial expenses when the Crows are finished with him, I suppose.”
“I’ll wager you two years pay he comes out ahead of the butcher’s bill.” Merrin stated flatly. It’d taken her a bit to grasp what Commander Daveth was doing, it was true. It was also true she probably wouldn’t last a minute out there, and neither would anyone from the Red Rocks Company, for all their vaunted bravery and heroic tales of past exploits- all before the War of Liberation. But she had grasped it. The man wasn’t just picking his fight, he was controlling it before it even started.
“What sort of fool bet is that? One man, against...” Tolfdor whipped out his eyeglass and scanned the approaching crows. “Two hundred or so men? He kills one of them, he comes out ahead of the butcher’s bill. No one would take that bet.”
Merrin eyed the prepared field. A ground riddled with holes to catch and snap horse legs like kindling, plus caltrops scattered like seed. What else was the man preparing? It seemed he was kneeling on the ground here and there, though what he was doing she couldn’t say. It seemed like he was betting on one charge to set the stage.
“All right you pussy. I’ll bet you ten years pay he comes out the victor, according to the Brightblade Tactics and Rules of Engagement.”
“Two thirds dead or wounded, forcing a retreat?” Tolfdor replied, raising his eyebrow. “Bollocks.”
“You clearly haven’t any, else you’d take my bet.” Merrin replied stoutly.
“You really think he could kill or drive off two hundred of the meanest fuckin’ bandits this side of the Mirras?” Tolfdor eyed Merrin as if she were some strange curiosity.
“I think he believes he has a chance.” She replied. “He’s planning on making that chance for himself. Look at him! Look at what he’s doing!” She urged.
“Oh, I’ll watch, all right. I’ll watch him get cored out and fucked to death by one of their horses. I hear they do that, you know.” Tolfdor replied smugly.
*****
His preparations were as complete as he could make them. Ground covered in hooked caltrops. A separate field prepared if they charged with horses. Another ground covered in daggers. Caches of arrows, assuming he ever got a chance to use his bow.
“All I need now is a miracle. I wonder if you might be willing to give me that miracle, Eleven.” Daveth spoke without turning around.
“I’m tempted. What stories could you give me, man of a hundred swords? What hot and ferocious battles have you waged in lands unknown? What delights have you experienced, what rages, what pleasures, what sorrows have crushed you?” Eleven spoke behind him. “But even I am subject to rules, you know.” Her voice carried sadness. “I could have worked a miracle for you. A dozen miracles, and all of them for you.” She murmured sadly. “But you chose another, Daveth. Ask her for a miracle if it pleases you. See how well she looks after those that have sworn themselves to her flame.”
Daveth turned around, a baffled expression on his face. “What are you talking about?” He asked, but Eleven’s figure went ashen gray and blew apart in a flurry of embers and ash.
*****
The word had gone out, traveling by pigeon and magic: “The Seventh Seal is at Tannit. Their numbers are few.” and four banners answered.
They bore an especially potent grudge against the Seventh Seal for a great many snubs. Aldric had carved out a reputation, taken the best recruiting spots. Snatched the sweetest jobs.
They were there at Rust, it was they who had sacrificed their own mage in a blasphemous and horrific ritual to unleash an unbound demon to turn the tide, but it was the Seventh Seal riding with the army of Thud that crushed them and brought the starfall that had sealed their fate.
They were the ones that had offered to reinforce the Dolomites in their desperate bid to take Garen’s Wall; it had been the Seventh Seal that had held the Wall and assassinated the Dolomite command staff, effectively and brutally cutting the Crow’s contract. Without the Dolomites’ command staff to vouchsafe for their performance on the field, the city-state of Dolom refused to acknowledge services rendered.
The sweetest contract of all: Return the Duchy of Nauders to the Anglish Empire. Simplicity itself. Work with the Fangs of the Serpent, and kidnap the Duchess Sybella. They would eventually elect a younger, more biddable Duchess that could be easily pressured into doing exactly as she was told. The Anglish Empire would have benefitted, the Crows would have regained their legitimacy, and the coin would flow.
But again, the Seventh Seal was there.
Vengeance heaped atop vengeance. That was all that was to be said for the Seventh Seal. They would be cut apart, crushed, beheaded, humiliated, shamed the way the Crows had been shamed.
The outriders called back; it was the big one, the giant, the man that had led the night-cutting party amongst the Dolomites. The man that had slaughtered one of their warbands seemingly by himself. The man who had baited the Crows into a bloody ambush, the man personally responsible for the capture of two of the Carrion Crow war banners.
They leaned forward into their saddles and savagely gouged their horses with spurs to gallop faster.
*****
Daveth raised his bow and nocked an arrow. After this, it was all down to guts. He drew the fletching to his ear and released.
Nock and release, over and over again. Thirty arrows into the air, and a dozen of the men dropped before they hit the caltrops. Most of the horses missed the caltrops; those that did threw their riders, screaming. As they crossed the pockmarked ground and even more horses went down, Daveth pulled out a metal pineapple and yanked at it, then hurled it as hard as he could.
The explosion was as ferocious as a mages’ fireball, bodies sailed each way, and still they came onward.
Daveth yanked a blade free and strode into the press of bodies.
*****
The charge of the Carrion Crows wavered a little as Daveth fired his massive bow. Merrin had met him once, the man was a giant. The bow was like a siege weapon; he was firing arrows as long as short spears into the Crows.
The charge splintered as they hit the caltrops; the charge shattered as horses stepped into two-foot holes punched into the ground by a giant with phenomenal strength.
The explosion startled her, but you did not rise to the position of Commander in an army without having some tricks up your sleeve.
Daveth tossed bodies around with his massive, mind-destroying strength, horse and man alike. Her heart thundered in her ears; the man was a terrifying engine of war, a massacre waiting to happen. She watched as he grabbed two men and slammed them together and watched as their helmets popped off their misshapen skulls. He stumbled over a dropped spear as an axe whistled over where his head would have been.
He grappled with men and tore their breastplates off their writhing bodies even as they struggled to hit him. He grappled a horse into an enormous headlock and Merrin fancied she could hear the thunderous crack of bone as he snapped its neck, jerking the rider off its back and hammering the man’s skull into the ground.
She could hear the screams of the men, the screams of the horses, even from here, safe atop her perch in the tower and she shivered at the rage baking off the man as he picked up a horse, turned, and heaved it at a man that had managed to draw his sword. He whirled about, seeking a new target, and she fancied she could see the light of madness in his eyes. He yanked a man off his horse, whirled him around bodily and then heaved with all his furious might; the man hurtled towards the tower shrieking in mortal terror. Merrin instinctively stepped backwards as the man slapped into the tower several feet below her with a brutally wet crunch.
She didn’t dare look to Tolfdor. She didn’t dare look away.
A cadre of men on horseback wedged Daveth against a tree; Daveth tore the tree out of the ground and lay about himself with it like a club, knocking the men off their horses and shattering the sapling.
Daveth lunged into the press of bodies, seeking the fight, seeking the most targets. A blade appeared in his hand, one of the bannermen convulsed as it speared him through the gut. Daveth lay about himself with the banner like a pike, a brutal lance splattered with gore met those that had managed to come to their feet.
In the back, men with bows fitted arrows to strings. Daveth hurled swords, the bodies of their fellow soldiers, even a saddle stripped from the back of a horse. Everywhere that monster went, death followed him.
A blast from a horn pealed the air from the south; Daveth whirled and snatched up a spear and hurled it without hesitation.
Merrin jerked her eyes to the south; the hornsounder was a young man carrying the banner of the Seventh Seal.
Merrin blinked, confused, as the spear entered and exited the man. Wasn’t Daveth their commander?
Daveth took a few staggering steps forward as the rest of the Seventh Seal took the field, and now she could hear the crack of rifle fire. Daveth fell to one knee, and that was when Merrin realized he was covered in blood. She had no idea how much of it was his.
He struggled to his feet and howled a beastial roar of fury and rage she swore rattled the stones in the tower. He drew another sword, a massive thing with a wavy edge- where was he getting all of these weapons?- she wondered to herself as he sank to his knees again, and then toppled forward to collapse.
A dozen or so men and women went to inspect the remains of four banners of the Carrion Crows, dispatching them with a well-placed sword thrust or with a shot from a horn-nocked horsebow. They circled back around and approached what could only be Captain Aldric, who sat astride his horse a few feet from his fallen commander’s body.
*****
Too many fucking questions.
How had Daveth managed to escape the volcano? How had he managed to get ahead of the Seventh Seal?
...how had he managed to survive an onslaught of over two hundred men on his own?
Aldric eyed Daveth from the back of his horse as he impatiently awaited the inevitable report that the Tross had set up their camp. He pointedly avoided looking at the brutal splash pattern of blood on the walls of Tannit.
He’d borne witness to Daveth’s savagery before. He’d seen the apocalyptic ruins of a town subjected to his infamous black rage, his berserker fury. For all his simplistic trappings, Daveth was a man of many layers, but whatever else he was, something unrelentingly mad beat in the heart of the half-giant.
“Well, we know at least how he did it.” Morden offered delicately.
“Report.” Aldric commanded, eyeing the giant’s body.
“The forces came from the north. The whole ground there is littered with caltrops and holes clearly set up to trap the cavalry. Seemed like he at least had some foreknowledge of where they were coming from.” Morden reported.
“Go on.”
“Not much else to report. From what I could tell, they ran right into his traps, and while they were pinned down, Daveth.... Well.... You can probably guess the rest.”
“I can, at that.” Aldric replied, eyeing the giant’s body.
“You going to call for the healers?” Morden asked curiously.
“I wonder if I should.” Aldric replied meaningfully.
Morden opened his mouth to object, and then closed it again. Likely Aldric already knew what he was going to say.
“He’s one of us.” Morden finally offered.
“Is he? I saw him hurl a spear through our bannerman with zero hesitation.”
“Tannit reports he’s been here for months. He had no way of knowing that we were coming.”
“Did he? I think he came here, knowing we’d come.”
“Even moreso, then.” Morden argued.
Aldric tapped his teeth with his pipestem meditatively. “Imagine a world without him.”
Morden shook his head. “I’d rather not. Too many of our successes have been with his help.”
“Any sane man would wonder if he was possessed.” He waved his hand to cut off Morden’s rebuttal. “I know, I know. Any mage would be able to tell. Even normal people would feel the wrongness seeping from him if he was. But even so, I can’t help but wonder.” Aldric shook his head. “He’s too damned dangerous.”
“So what can we do?” Morden asked, patting his horse as it frisked.
“What else? Stick him in the healer’s tent and wait for him to wake up.” Aldric decided with a frown.