Come morning, the rain was lighter, fewer and farther between, though aplenty to wash away the doziness and all sorts of nightly sentiments. Still the clouds continued to mount high, and the outriders kept an eye out for shelters should a sudden storm descend. The prospect of another night sleeping in a flooded camp had begun to weigh heavily on the band’s mind. But if luck would have it, they would be on their way back come tomorrow morning, for by noon the lowlands were already within sight. Marshes spread as far as the eye could see, quiet as a graveyard, though quietness alone was far from warranting a lack of enemy forces. A rocky ravine cut through land towards the north, affording the only grounds solid enough for horses, and it would be at the end of this natural chokehold, or from within the many wide fissures and caves dug into the ravine’s sides that an enemy force could likely lurk.
These treacherous terrains naturally formed a buffer zone between the Kingdom of Deogratias and the wilder peoples further north. But long had this border been unguarded, evident in the half-crumbled tower hung over the entrance of the ravine. Nor had the watch houses pyres for fifteen years past been manned or lighted, so throughout had been High King Gunther’s destruction of the barbarous tribes.
It was like to be as Esme’s guess, that the raiders who were seen coming this way were either bandits or another lord’s army employing this remote route to evade Kamaric’s watchtowers further south. All the same, the bleak land caught the warband in a solemn mood. And as their horse’s hooves echoed on the barren soil of the ravine’s bottom, the men looked out for axe blades lurking in the cliffs’ every niche and recess. Caution was the name of the day, for at last the climax of this miserable quest would be reached in this land, whether with a battle or disappointment or tracks long cold.
Periodically, the outriders returned with reports of an empty road ahead, and many old horse tracks. Their pace was cautious and torturously slow. It took until afternoon for the band to finally approach the other end.
And it was then that the first fresh tracks were sighed. The opposition force’s outriders, so it was reported. The battle lines formed. The spearmen went first, then the men-at-arms with Sir Kamaric, and last the ladies and non-combatants. For a brief while, the knight-lord had a mind to send his wife all the way back through the ravine, but there was no telling if the enemy had not positioned a detachment in the caves to rout them should they retreat that way. So the Marchioness stayed where it was safest on the battlefield: by her husband’s side.
Esme was grim upon her first real battle. Strange how these things were reckoned, as Cordelia had already witnessed her battle with that horde of feys who most men here would quake with fear to even think of. But only after her first fight with the band would Esme be officially initiated as one of Kamaric’s warriors.
The Hagborn snorted. Cordelia rode abreast of the blonde, who would not be on the frontline, charged as she was to be the only warrior to stay back with the women. There was little doubt, Cordelia observed carefully, that the blonde would readily take an arrow for her mistress.
This leisurely observation did not escape Esme’s sullen eyes. And she remarked with misgivings, “You are awfully calm.”
Cordelia shrugged. “Remember how I wept and ran away in the forest? I am not all that.”
“Then you came back,” the girl recalled with a measure of respect, “And charged right into the heart of those monsters.”
She had not seen it in person, of course, having already been knocked unconscious by then and had only been told by her brother later. So she did not know that Cordelia had mostly been running tremblingly while flailing her arms, and then ere a second had passed had been piled upon by the feys. It had been hardly a dignified scene.
“It was something like a rabid dog,” the familiar on her wrist offered helpfully, “And I meant that as a compliment.”
Cordelia ignored the thing. “Let’s say a witch has a few tricks up her sleeve,” she said to Esme, “a little foresight, I suppose, you may call it, is not beyond me.” A statement which bemused herself. Mayhap she would use again, if the need to explain her strange power and arcane knowledge should once more arise.
“Did you not tell the marchioness you are no witch? But foresight, eh?” Esme frowned and seemed to be thinking on it. “What see you this time then? Will it be bloody?”
“It may be bloody yet,” she replied, a hint of worry seeped into her voice, “but not in the way you fear.”
And she glanced over at Esme, reminding herself that the girl was both a nigh stranger and a friend. That there was no use reading too deep into the girl. But already her instinct and keen senses had done their part, and she saw that the blonde’s worries were neither what she had thought.
“You know,” she couldn’t stop herself, “they are raiders, who kill and rape.”
“So?” the blonde glanced over with a darkened mien, stubborn and unreasonable.
So, Cordelia wanted to say, you are foolish and naive to scruple at the thought of slaying them.
But the outriders returned then, bearing the report of a battle line of about two dozen horsemen at the end of the path. That was fewer than Kamaric’s band, but far from warranting a bloodless surrender. And the banner, for they did bear one, was nothing their outriders recognized.
This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
True as reported the horsemen were waiting at the entrance of the ravine, atop the slope. Even at first glance, the location proved a great disadvantage on their side. Kamaric glanced uneasily to both sides of the ravine. It could very well be that the number ahead belied their true enemy’s force. Many more could be hiding behind the line ahead and the cliffs were fitting places for archers to commence a slaughter.
Cordelia alone knew with surety that such was not the case. She had already tasted the air for aught ambush ever since they had entered the ravine, and these were the only number they would have to face, plus one - the einheri - who was hiding in the distance still.
The forked tongue had long informed her of all this, but many of their enemy’s visual aspects only now could be seen, whose eerie natures thus revealed under the failing afternoon light.
Among the horsemen there stood out a swarthy man, face wholly encased by an impressive black mane and the tattoo of a wolf’s gaping jaws. “Barbarians!” some of the spearmen exclaimed. And barbarian he was, Esme confirmed, but only that one man, who seemed to be the raiders’ leader. For there was nary a trace of paint on the rest of the horsemen's faces.
The second thing of note was their banner: a black cloth inked with the silvery image of a grotesque creature. Only Sir Kamaric and some of his men-at-arms recognized it. But soon a name was muttered out loud by every man: the Boggarts. That very band of outlaws employed by neighbor lords to collect tithe from their villages for them, and the very ones who had been terrorizing the countryside to carry out this task.
With this name came also a disturbing revelation. As their shield wall drew near the opposition force, the men sensed something Cordelia had already been contemplating upon learning of their nature. For the Boggarts were nothing like in the rumors. To be sure, among their ranks there might be some outlaws, many a warm body to bolster the number. But the majority of them as they now saw were anything but. Grim and hardened warriors they were, and seated they so still on their horses, unstirring even as Kamaric’s shield wall approached, naught could think they were mere geared up masterless. But indeed their gears were well kept, each carrying a sword on their waist, a studded shield, and a spear of the length suitable for fighting on horseback. Save for a lack of livery, their horsemen’s uniform gears were more comparable to Kamaric’s men-at-arms than the lightly equipped warriors who fashioned their weapons in each’s own style and affordability. Such men even at a disadvantage of number could still easily make use of the terrain to devastating effects.
“Trained soldiers,” Esme remarked cooly, “Deserted conscripts, most like.” The nervousness from before had vanished without a trace from her face. It was set now, and she shifted her shield, grim and ready. The mercenaries were clearly waiting for them, had come for them. And this encounter had been all but planned down to the last detail, the location meticulously calculated.
And then their barbarian leader, who Cordelia knew to be the most dangerous man among the enemy, spurred his horse ahead. His gait was easy, almost leisurely. Slow, yet deliberate. One imagined his form could shift in a heartbeat to startling speed as soon as the bloodshed commenced.
He hid it well in his fur-trimmed boot also, but it had not escaped Cordelia that he had a clubbed right foot and should not be able to walk aright.
Sir Kamaric rode out to meet him. The spearmen reluctantly parted their defense for their lord to pass.
“Well met, Sir Knight Marquess of Argenton,” the Boggarts’ leader said in a surprisingly civil manner, inclining his head in the process. Even then, the corner of his mouth curled slightly, openly betraying a certain mockingness. “The people of this land call me Drogva. It, though being a little twist on my native name, will serve. And these here are my men, humbly they are named Boggarts after the sorry creatures of the swamps who must needs dwell in filth to feed. We are men of the Duchess of Eyrie, the Count of Cern, the Baron of Isarnton, and the Baron of Thornburg, and it is by their names that I now beg for passage through your land.”
“You are well-spoken for a barbarian,” Sir Kamaric remarked. “But my land is in unrest and I trust not men who travel a place so foul as this. Why go you this way, man? What quest serve you? And speak you plain, for I do not suffer courtly talks on the battlefield!”
“Nor I, sir,” Drogva said easily, betraying still no hint of hostility. “But you will soon find that our tasks are not only one and the same but also accomplished. Am I right to guess your quest is for the raiders of the border village?”
“I do. Do you mean to say you have encountered them?”
“Not only so, sir. For we came this way in pursuit of those very raiders. I see in your eyes that you guess aright, sir. That they are from our ranks, deserters to be precise.”
“Deserters, you say?”
“Aye, sir. Scoundrels who were not satisfied with loots and wages under my command, and so had run away to ransack your land. I had a mind to capture them speedily so as not to anger the March’s master, but alas I was too late and the deed had been done. Nevertheless, we found them trying to cross this path to the northern lands and apprehended them in time. Though belatedly, this trifling task you are thus spared, sir.”
“So you are saying,” the knight said with contempt, “that I should leave the raiders’s punishment to you and sue for wergild from your employers?”
“Is that not the peaceful and thus desirable course? I am sure yond women in your ranks would rather not besmirch their sight with needless bloodshed. Neither do I, sir. Neither do I.”
There was a moment of silence as men from both sides waited for Sir Kamaric’s response. The fact no fresh tracks had been found until nearing the ravine’s end was something the knight’s men recalled with dread. They also knew that Sir Kamaric was no coward, though he loved his wife dearly, and, without Cordelia’s knowledge, could not be sure if there were not more of the Boggarts waiting beyond the slope.
“You molested my land, man,” at last the knight said grimly, “And a commander ought to answer for the conduct of his men. I shall take you prisoner till the matter is settled with your employers. Disarm!”
“An unwise choice,” Drogva remarked easily. He was surprised, but not panicked, seeming to have already predicted the response. “And what misfortune, that. I would have come along soon enough, sir, for I trust you treat your prisoners well. And yet my charge has been long neglected enough that a sense of duty now compels me to return to it post haste. I must refuse your offer.”
At once Sir Kamaric turned his horse. “To arms!” he cried.