Chapter 27

Day Twelve – Afternoon

Shadows lay over the entrance of yet another valley. Clouds and the peaks of the Elbian mountain ranges blocked the glory of Father Sun – the perfect weather for shady folks and their dirty deeds. The King's Road followed a pass along a small river. Neither Zaber nor Torm knew its name. They took cover behind a mound of earth in the surrounding conifer woods. Elevated above the cobbled pathway, padded with patches of grass and moss. Browned needles were everywhere except for the pavement that was about forty yards away from the duo. There was no need for heavy armor beyond their everyday attire; gambeson and a jerkin.

“How long did you say again?” asked Torm, hushed and snarky at the same time. “Sun’s gone soon.” With crossbow in hand, the boy lay on the ground with his head peeking out every once in a while to look down the valley. His bauernwehr was stuck hilt-up next to him in the ground. The earth mound looked natural from one side, but was dug up and modified where Torm and Zaber hid.

“Can’t be long anymore, or they took a different path,” replied Zaber and kept an eye on the position of the sun. “Last town, Rottem, is too big for them to stay. Too many travelers, too many strangers, too many risks.” The greasy and unkempt man kept his lange messer unsheathed as well, close to his hands.

A candle or two must have passed already. The unreasonably tall man and his bald companion were on the other side of the road, ready with another crossbow. Both positions were roughly ten or fifteen yards uphill above their target. Two fortifications loomed on the peaks of the valley. West of Buron’s and Breg’s side were two castles. These had easy access from the other side of where they laid in waiting and down the river. Behind Zaber and Torm, to the east, was a simple keep, and the King’s Road made a turn south.

“By the Firebird, I’m dying,” sighed Torm, rubbing his eyes. “This is so boring. Please, run me through it once more. If these castles wouldn’t make me so nervous I’d be snoozing off.”

“’aight, one more time,” said Zaber, and looked around to find a suitable twig. “I’ll draw you a map. This is the valley we’re in. Elbmarch’s a wrinkly fuck, full of nooks and crannies to exploit.”

Drawing one thick, curvy line into the ground, Zaber piled up some earth on the sides. It represented the mountain peaks the King’s Road was running through. He placed two stones where the castles were constructed and a pebble for the keep. After running a couple smaller lines to make the river and diverging paths, a broken pine cone got placed into the valley.

“We’re a mile south of the next hamlet after Rottem, Sonhain,” said Zaber, crouching behind the mound and taking another peek. “Road split, down to this monastery. About a furlong behind that turn, along the creek.”

“I still don’t get why they made camp at Sonhain,” replied Torm, scratching the measly hair on his chin. “You know, same as before they entered the mountains.”

Always keeping an eye on the road, Zaber’s neck cracked when he stretched and turned towards Torm. “Sonhain’s too busy. King’s Road runs straight through, and the crossing behind it splits to the Archduke’s own paved road. There’s also that big arse river from the glacier that’s melting right now. Town on the yester was peaceful and had nothing going on. Three hundred folk at best.” Zaber’s gaze twitched back and forth between Torm, the valley and irritating noises around them. He didn’t know if there was anything special living here, as he’d only been twice into these mountains; a long time ago. “Rottem has at least a thousand or two, and hamlets like Sonhain are too close to it. Travelers all around; too big of a hassle. I bet it’s the main income of this earldom.”

Torm felt the wood of the crossbow. He stretched his wrists to rub them, but went straight back into position. The stock pressed into his shoulder, flat on the dirt. His chest felt constricted like on his last day in Teblen. “They drafted local men into guard duty last time, why not–”

“Too many. They kept half the village up and under control,” said the mentor, looking at his own map. “They ain’t showing up before sundown, we’ll backtrack and check. But I don’t wanna be forced to knuckle down a peasant when we sneak to the cages.”

“Got it,” nodded Torm. “I’m just–, uhm… real–” He looked up at the mountains, focusing on the castles on the other side. “Scared? Is that bad?”

“You’ve always got good instincts. One of these two–” Zaber pointed at the stones instead of the castles at the horizon. “Has to be the residence of the local earl, with a small banner. The other one’s probably where the Auror, or even Archauror, lives. Maybe the abbot of this,” said Zaber and pointed at the pine cone. “Or both. Airich often ranted about the petty quarrels of local authority. This looks like one of these power plays where you build a shinier castle right next to another one. To show how much more coin they can raise.”

“And the one behind us is a landed knight?” Torm pointed behind them, even though the keep wasn’t visible from their position. “Like that captain and his lieutenant?”

“’aight,” replied Zaber with a curt nod. “This valley’s an important hub. That’s at least one more knight, but they often have some sons, brothers and squires around.”

“Why, by the Kraken, wait here?” asked Torm, fixing his felt cap and hair to not obstruct his aim. “That’s a dozen or more mages, not even counting the three we’re about to fuck with.”

An unsettling smirk formed on Zaber’s lips. “I want them to feel safe. We ain’t fighting them here, we’ll just study them. How they respond; what’s their composure.” The grip on his blade tightened. “They got me last time, that’s not going to happen again. We ain’t up against the city’s watch, this time we know their numbers. They’re well trained, but the element of surprise is ours.”

Torm remembered the days in Teblen and felt torn about his mentor’s expression. Plans like this were his strength. The boy knew that Zaber had succeeded with tactics like that against the Morells and members of the Sellsword’s Guild that made their move into Westwatch. Damned they be, he and Asher even bailed out the Red Mob from the guards once. His mentor had helped Marghe’s girls over and over by coming out of nowhere.

Thinking about all of this, Torm shut his eyes, and gloom filled his mind. What were all of their friends in Teblen doing now? Neither he nor Zaber had much time to say their farewells. Zaber decided to leave… as if they meant nothing.

“Do you ever think of Teblen?” asked Torm after staring at the map for too long.

The painfully enthusiastic expression Zaber had when thinking about his plan gradually changed after this question. “No,” he lied. How could he not? Everything that went wrong was in Teblen. Asher… died in Teblen. It was in Teblen where he and his best friend fucked up and got Ceyhan killed. Teblen was the place he came the closest to a feeling he had lost a long time ago. The good folk of Westwatch, the Red Mob – even the Morells in an unsettling way. Every day he thought about the Yesilians he made a promise to. These faces that reminded him of the prisoners they took and never returned. Hanifa’s words were haunting Zaber, and drove him forward. Teblen… Westwatch was his home. Ever since he stepped into The Red Carpet, he had felt something returning to him that he thought lost.

“No?” repeated Torm, turning around from his position to face Zaber directly. “Horseshit, I don’t believe you. Not even Marghe?” The apprentice’s brows were raised as he stared at his mentor in disbelief.

“The fuck do you even know,” uttered Zaber and concentrated even more on the road below. “When the transport comes, we–”

“I know every single rumor and lie that these idiots tell about you,” interjected Torm. He and Zaber used to have a lot of time for themselves, to talk, joke, train, everything. If the boy wasn’t going to say it now, there might be no other chance anymore. Breg and Buron made the greasy and unkempt man relax, but whenever Zaber didn’t want to talk about something, these two were siding with him. “I know which of them are true, and which aren’t. Nobody knows you better than I do, not even–” He halted, as Zaber’s gaze twitched over to him. “All I’m sayin–”

“Boy.” The veteran lifted his hand slowly and clenched it to a fist. “This is not the time. Also, this is none of your damned b–”

“No, fuck you,” interrupted Torm yet again, struggling to keep his voice down. “They say you sleep around – with the Yesilians, horses, and even me. That’s what these folk do to folk they hate. But you know what they say about Marghe to make her look bad? Someone whose job it is to sleep around?”

“Stop it,” ordered Zaber with a trembling fist. “Keep your eyes on the road. I don’t want to talk about any of this.” He pointed downhill with two fingers and turned away from his apprentice. If he looked at him any longer, he might… “It’s over. We’ll start over when we get Sagir back to his home; in Yesilia.”

“Are you going nuts?” the boy responded, but did as he was told, watching the road. “I mean, actually insane. That might have worked with Kovada and Yaris on our side, but they’ll kill our pale arses over there.”

“It’s what I promised to Hanifa.” Zaber’s voice rasped up. “Now stop, or–”

“Or what?!” Torm’s voice rose, but no other word followed. It wasn’t a hard punch that smacked the boy in the face, but enough to roll him to the side. He looked at Zaber, dumbfounded, holding his face. Not because of any pain, but he had never been hit outside of sparring.

“Boy,” repeated Zaber with an iron glance. “I have to fix this, then we’ll figure this out. First, we got some killing to do.”

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“You…” Torm switched from rubbing his cheek to rubbing his wrist before returning into position. “You know how much I hate being called a boy.”

“When the transport reaches this spot here–” Zaber ran his finger over the map drawn in the dirt and put down two crosses on opposite sides of the road. “I’ll give you and Buron a signal. You’ll take a shot at the foremost rider, or whoever you can see the best on our side of the wagon. If you can, shoot at the line magician. Or the officers.”

The feelings inside of Torm were conflicted. His lungs felt even more constricted than before, and he didn’t know if he wanted to punch back, cry or just stomp away. But there was no damn time for this. The boy knew that Zaber was right in that they had to finish what they began. But… just but.

Zaber broke some branches and positioned them as their enemies, still grinding his teeth. His fist hurt in a way that he had never felt before. “With a bit of luck, you might even kill or hurt one. But don’t stress it. I want to see if they unhorse to pursue and fight us, or if they try to take their horses into the woods,” said Zaber and moved the twigs around. “We’ll retreat as soon as we see their reaction. There’s no way they can follow us and the echoes and tree crowns won’t let their spells reach us up here.” The greasy and unkempt man smirked again, shrugging his feelings off in anticipation. “If you own the peaks, you rule the valley.”

“No reloading, just running,” said Torm, showing that this was just a refresher and he remembered the plan. “Got it.”

“’aight,” nodded Zaber, facing Torm. But he couldn’t look at him, instead scratching the scar along his jaw. “You move where I move. If they catch up, Breg and I might get a good stab at one of their horses. They’ll tire out on foot, that’s why we ain’t in armor.”

“Buron and I aren’t fighting?” The boy flung his hand against the bauernwehr that was stuck in the ground for easy access, making it wiggle around a bit. “At all?”

“No. I don’t want them to know how good you are. Only the line magician saw you fight a bit, and he knows jack shit about fighting.” Zaber smiled and bumped his fist against Torm’s shoulder. “Only reload if they curl up and take defensive positions. We’ll rain down on them until we run out of bolts or they make a move.”

Torm returned the smile. He knew he shouldn’t forgive his mentor for what just happened – but. Instead, he tried to spot Buron and Breg on the other side of the valley, to no success. This surely wasn’t the three veterans’ first time, there was no reason to not trust them. Especially after he was unable to spot a man of Breg’s size.

“Last night we found out that their security is tight,” said Torm, observing the road. “What if it’s the same today? What comes next?”

“Maybe we’ll slow them down. If he’s a pansy, he might seek aid from the earl and get denied. Skim the mountains for us if he’s really dumb,” replied Zaber, then paused to let his eyes wander, as if he heard something. “In the morrow, we’ll test their resilience even more. Fell some lumber, build some barricades. Dig a trench or two and cover them up.”

“Wait, on the road?” Torm shook his head confused. “That’s solid cobble, built deep by the Iridians. Maybe at the side, but–”

“Boy, have you seen Breg?” scoffed Zaber, still looking for the noise. “He eats cobble for breakfast.”

“Uhm–” The boy stumbled over his own words. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, he does.”

A faint, bashful smile flashed across both of their faces before they turned their attention towards the target. The tension was getting at Torm, as he deemed himself the weak spot of this operation. Little did he know that Zaber hadn’t slept for two nights straight. After the boy and Thyra went to sleep after a training session, Zaber needed time for himself – to calm down. Something his apprentice was used to and didn’t think about too much. It was Buron who administered small portions of poppy juice to keep Zaber afloat. The pain might have been over, but there was only one way to feel normal right now. The bald veteran and his colossal companion were concerned, but what else was there to do? This was war, and they needed to bring their best.

After a while, a “Psht,” from Zaber broke the silence. He raised his hand to halt a shot and Torm leaned into the crossbow to pick a target. There was a clean line of sight for the one with the most glamorous armor. The sallet of Beotold hung from the side, and his perfectly combed blonde hair stood out like a sore nail. Torm recognized him from the fight in their home, shield and all. His underling, a smaller man with smeared hair and a beard, wore kastenbrust armor.

Zaber opened his raised fist and put a finger and thumb into his mouth, waiting for the right moment. The convoy was fully visible and the greasy and unkempt man’s eye rested on Sagir. Behind wooden bars, he was surrounded by other prisoners. They looked weak and tired, dirty and beaten. Lingering on one long breath, an ear-splitting whistle echoed through the valley. Two bolts let loose from both sides of the transport. One splintered all over the captain’s armor, the other at the foremost rider in front of the carriage. The nobleman and his soldier had to cover their faces, but none appeared injured. The man upfront nearly fell from his horse, but the spurs saved him.

The escort came to a halt and the cavalrymen were positioning themselves outwards, skimming the area for threats. They were ready to fight, and their lieutenant raised a fist. “Hold!” he yelled and the valley was filled with a far reaching, booming bass. Everyone reached for their helmets, as they waited for an order. “Spread out!”

“No!” commanded Beotold. “Break through, we’re nearly there.” Pointing forward, he shortened the reins of his steed.

“You heard the Captain,” barked Romund. “Cornet!” added the knight, driving a shiver through the guildsman that sat next to the coachman.

Genhard looked miserable. He was the only one without armor, wearing his nice gown that hadn’t been washed in a while. His blonde hair, flowing into wild sideburns, was unbefitting for a man of his status. With one arm in a sling, resting on his lap. The patrician bumped his shoulder into the pilot as he said something muffled to him. And then they moved fast.

The inmates were rattled by the pavement and the cavalrymen were too fast for a good aim. Only the Captain stayed behind a bit longer. He led his horse around itself to look in every direction. His eyes strolled through the woods as his cavalier baritone carried far and wide through the valley.

“I will not fall for your low cunning, peasant son!” yelled Beotold, pronouncing every word in self-importance. “If you want this to end, we can face each other as the men of war we are! Await me on the road and my men will lay no finger on you!”

“Reload,” whispered Zaber. “Fucking arsehole.”

Torm did as he was told with a wide grin. The next shot missed by a couple of inches, ricocheting off the pavement.

“There are no duels in war, you entitled, stupid–” yelled Zaber, as he got up and turned around, pulling Torm with him. They sheathed their weapons and ducked away, when they heard a full-throated laughter from the road.

“Til the morrow, peasant son!”

The duo followed an animal trail between the spruce trees. They only slowed down when their own view became fully obstructed by the shrubs and logs. Laying low, their horses were just a couple dozen yards away, tied under an overhang of the mountain.

“Back to the cave, or are we scouting the monastery?” asked Torm, casually stretching. He swung the crossbow around, and felt really good about himself again.

“Not worth running into a Brother,” said Zaber, rubbing his aching skin. His eyes were twitching at ‘clicks’ and ‘clacks’ around him. “Would hate to kill one. Let’s meet with the rest, see if Thyra figured out–” He suddenly stopped after rubbing his horse’s neck as a greeting.

“You sure the cave is safe? There might be bears or wol–” Torm also stopped.

A young man, somewhere between Zaber and Torm in age, squatted in a bush next to them. When he got spotted, he stood up and held his hands high. Frizzy hair, a sharp face and strong nose – his eyes popped out of his skull when confronted with the armed duo. He had a thin beard, well kept, and dirt on his knees. His hand slowly moved towards the lumber axe he wore with a cord on his belt.

“Do you want to keep that hand?” said Zaber emotionless, cracking his tense shoulders and neck.

“Scusa, nearly panicked,” replied the young man, and shrugged with a sheepish smile. He held his hands up again. As he scratched his hair, the small iron ring piercing his left ear tingled. “I don’t want any trouble.”

“That’s a galázian accent,” said Torm, putting down his crossbow and drawing his bauernwehr. “You’re not from here.”

“I’m just here to look for dry wood,” said the young man with wide eyes, pointing behind himself. “We’re from the Murm village over the mountain.”

“Stay back, boy,” ordered Zaber and came closer to the young man. He mustered him from head to toe. Noticing an old slashing scar across his fingers, the veteran’s eyes narrowed. He and Asher had similar ones – the kinds one wouldn’t get from cutting wood but from swordplay. Even blunt weapons in a spar could cause them. “Who are we?”

“Me and my brother,” said the man. His accent was thick, but his Albinian was otherwise without flaw. There was nothing remarkable on him. He wore simple striped chausses and a dirty linen tunic with a vest from sheep’s hide. Even the dirt in his face didn’t look like it was put on by hand. “We dodged the draft in our hometown on the other side of the border. Now we live here.”

Torm stayed behind and watched his mentor come face-to-face with their unexpected encounter. But he readied his weapon. Zaber stared the young man down, which did not change his confident posture. The way he became meek and avoided the veteran’s gaze felt off.

“Fuck off,” said Zaber and waved him away. “If you lied to me, I will hurt you.”

“Gr–, Grazie!” stuttered the man with a smile, adjusting his vest and running away.

The pair of mentor and apprentice followed him as long as he was in sight, after which they looked at each other. Returning to his horse, Zaber asked: “What does scoosa and gracy mean?”

“No clue,” shrugged Torm and packed the crossbow. “I speak the western dialect, that was High Galázian I think. Likely sorry and thanks?”