Chapter 29

Day Fourteen – Forenoon

“D–, don’t you think this is rushed?” asked Thyra, holding the reins all by herself. The lack of confidence in her posture was unrelated to riding on her own. Her voice was nearly drowned by the hooves on the cobbled pavement. “Don’t you have more–” She halted with an unsteady breath. “Scouting? Probing to do?”

“No,” replied Zaber, his unbreakable gaze cast forward. “Y’all saw them on the yester. There’s no more intel.”

“Yes, Zaber,” butted Torm in. “Yes we saw them.” His hazy blue eyes were like steel, glued to the road. Unlike Zaber's, they lacked determination and were filled with questions. “How, under the Stars, can we even fight that?”

Nothing too unusual was discovered by the three veterans. They’d talked about what they saw, shared their thoughts about it, and had come to a conclusion. This captain was indeed something else, as was his lieutenant. But not more than what Zaber, Breg and Buron had seen before – nothing out of the ordinary. They were no Airich. But Torm and Thyra had never seen anything like that before. For the rugged woman, her entire world had been her mother, a hut in the bogs, a bunch of animals and a nightskrat. The younger ones among the five companions felt a crawling under their skin. The show of force they’d witnessed left a shock in their guts and gnawing in their bones.

Thyra wasn’t there for every step of the previous day. As she was a working gal, she wanted to have a break from all the studying and help with the digging. Building roadblocks didn’t sound too dangerous. And was she damned wrong.

They’d dug a hole into the King’s Road first, out in the open, rather amateurishly. The real traps were the hidden trenches to the side of it, with wooden spikes inside and sods of grass to cover it up. Best outcome would’ve been a couple horses lost, maybe a wounded soldier or two. Beotold, though, decided to halt and drive fear into Torm and anger into Zaber. The veterans recognized that this knight was filled with as much low cunning as he called them out for – as much as any good officer should have. He let Sagir and his fellow prisoners out, chained, and instructed them to push the cart without horses. Off the road to the side, breaking the patches of grass and sticks that hid the trench as the first wheels rolled over it. Beotold made them work it, pull it up, and find a spot they could use. This knight didn’t care about the Margrave’s quota if he could take Sagir hostage for it.

What provoked the visceral reaction of Torm and Thyra was the second roadblock though. With open trenches to the side and a mound of ridged soil on the road. The inexperienced boy and young woman were not prepared for what they saw. Full trees, uncleaned of branches and needles, were peppered over the barricade. A big mess that was impossible to bypass, with thick forest to the sides. Enough of a mess to even get the knights themselves involved. A show of force, well aware that they were watched, the two officers unsaddled and dealt with it. To those who never went to a proper war, there wasn’t a clear picture of what the nobility was capable of.

The same spell that shattered the remaining glass in Teblen, back in the temple, thundered away the logs. Splintering them all over the King’s Road with his perfect cavalier baritone. His second in command was barely less impressive. He split the earthen mass in two, helped by the movements of his arms, and pushed them into the trenches. Both of them put their backs into it, breathed properly and prepared themselves beforehand. It was the upper mark of their strength, and the lieutenant had the Constellation of Bear on his side as well, explained Thyra later. Without that, there was most likely a gap between them, justifying the difference in rank. Most importantly, it demonstrated to Torm and Thyra why war revolved around them. Mere foot soldiers were expendable.

“I–” Thyra was still dumbfounded. “I don’t think I’m cut out for this. I haven’t even figured out the spell yet, and you can barely hold a note. We–”

“Don’t worry.” Buron cut her off. “We do the heavy lifting. Torm keeps you safe,” he smiled.

“No, serious!” Torm looked at the veterans, then through the conifer trees around them, and lastly at Thyra. The rugged woman was just as stumped as the boy. “How do you fight that?”

“Not,” replied Zaber, dryly. “You haven’t even seen the worst. Under the right Constellation, Airich scorched a way more competent roadblock to ashes.” Remembering the day, the greasy and unkempt man could see the flames. Feel the flames. Hear them. “Commonfolk like us ain’t fighting them on equal footing. We need our own officers to do this disharmony horseshit. Or strengthen and support us with their spells. So we can fucking die for them.”

“We need to be swift,” said Breg, who hadn’t said a single word for miles. Before a big battle, he became even more withdrawn. Thinking about what lay ahead, his voice was filled with thrill. The ghosts he had to deal with weren’t as loud as his friend’s, and the only way to shut them up was to fight. “Disrupt their breathing, prevent them from speaking aloud.” The unreasonably tall man looked at his bald companion, who returned the smile. “Grab the blackhead and get out.”

“And Thyra fills the air with magic. You do nothing but this. Sing loud – as loud as you can. Push yourself as far as it gets,” said Zaber, his eyes weighing heavy on Thyra. “I work best under pressure. I’ve heard this spell a hundred; a thousand times. I will hit the right notes. Because I have to.”

Thyra felt Zaber’s piercing gaze on her. Ever since they’d saddled up, the veteran’s gaze was on the road – until now. And that made her gulp. “What the–” uttered the rugged woman.

Far ahead of them, just after the next turn behind more trees, a blazing bonfire had been built on the pavement. The wind had blown into their backs, thus the smell hadn’t reached them and the smoke had been broken up. The four men’s faces turned humorless and their horses slowed down. Breg sniffed the cinders, as his and Zaber’s face turned dark.

A single man stood in front of the blockade, without cover or shame. He was meager stature, except for the pot belly that stood out even from afar. Roughly the same height as Buron or Torm, he wore no armor except for a coat-like gambeson with open buckles. It presented his dirty, wide undercoat, cut to show the hair on his chest. Knee high riding boots and a thin, cheap leather belt with a sole mercy dagger on it, not unlike Zaber’s own stiletto. Coming closer, his face and built became more evident. Jet black hair with many small craters in his face, marking him a survivor of the pox. The patches left by the scars were barren of hair, but he was otherwise unshaven. At best, he was in the midst of his thirties. But he looked far from weak, with a grandiose smile that radiated at the five companions before they were close enough to speak without yelling.

After everyone came to a halt, ordered by a raised fist, Buron circled his horse around to screen the tree lines. “What now?” asked the scrawny veteran.

“He ain’t here to surprise us,” said Zaber raspy, staring at the smiling man upfront. “But he ain’t peaceful for sure.”

The man in front of the burning obstacle wore a big wooden mace like a yoke. Reinforced with metal fittings, brutal spikes were driven through it. His hands wiggled around it, as he waited with much patience.

“Can’t trample him like that,” said Breg, petting his horse’s neck. “I say we break through; sprint around.” The grip around his reins tightened.

“No,” answered Zaber. “There might be pitfalls. And he sure ain’t alone.” Swinging his legs around the horse, Zaber’s feet hit the cobbled road. “Get the crossbows out, cover me. I’ll size him up, he obviously wants to talk.” He turned around and looked at the boy and the young woman. “Torm’s on guard duty; you warm up your voice. If you get one of your old songs out, we can play this safe and avoid injury.”

“I’ll come with,” said Breg and unsaddled as well. He straightened his beard once before grabbing the bardiche axe from the side of his horse. “If they shoot one of us, the other one takes him hostage.”

“’aight.” The greasy and unkempt man nodded and walked towards the highwayman. The closer the two veterans came, the stranger did the man in front of them look. His hair had an unnatural darkness to it and he slightly bobbed back and forth. His feet were shaking and he played the air with his finger, like an instrument.

“Is he–” Breg stumbled over his words. “Is he dancing?”

“Mes amis!” A scratchy voice rang towards the unreasonably tall man and his tense leader. “You have nothing to fear! I have come to parler.”

“To what?” asked Zaber, brows narrowed, and came to a halt at three lengths of Breg’s weapon. “We ain’t scared, but what’s with that stick of yours? And the nice warm fire there.”

“How many are hiding around us?” added Breg, building himself up to full might.

“Quoi?” asked the man amused, forming a cone with his hand to better hear. “You do not tremble in fear?” He slapped his belly and swung his mace to the ground. “My nom is Franque, and I command a frightening force of eight. We have observé you over the last days. You and your camarades have something in commun with me and my merry men. I need to demander of you–”

“’aight, shut up.” Zaber looked at Breg and shook his head. “You need to talk real words or this ain’t going nowhere,” said the tired veteran, rubbing his eyes and nose. “Let’s start by you telling us straight why the fuck you’re tailing us.” Drawing his blade, Zaber took one small step closer. “Or else.”

“Or else?” repeated Franque, cackling to himself. “Mes étoiles, what does that mean? You have three on your side…” His speech slowed down, looking past the angered veterans in front of him. “With two arbalètes loaded, if I compte right? That truc sauvage has no sign of battle on her.” The highwayman smiled at Thyra, showing that his front teeth were chipped off. “Trust me, you do not know how many fléches are aimed at your hot heads.”

Breg raised his bardiche over one shoulder and grabbed it with both hands, ready to strike. Placing his free hand on his hip, close to his stiletto, Zaber put forth his blade as well. Their usual tenseness made way for another kind of suspense. One might say, they finally looked natural, cocked and ready to fire.

“Ain’t be a fool,” said the greasy and unkempt man, snorting and spitting onto the ground. “Your blood will be all over the King’s Road before the both of us go down.” Zaber’s threat was accompanied by a melodic creak of the wooden pole in Breg’s hands.

“Mes amis–” The brigand opened his body up, reaching left and right. “I am sure one of you will reach me,” he said, winking at Breg, flirtatious. “I bet it will be this magnifique monstruosité. But you are right, I am not a fou.”

Unprompted, the man in front of the burning barricade burst into a loud, throaty laughter. Echoing through the entire valley, he grabbed his mace as a yoke again. The scratchy ring to it infected Breg and Zaber, making their fingers itch and lips curl into a smile. The sound of it alarmed Buron and Torm, pulling Thyra with them. More than the antics of a madman, a second figure stepped forward from behind the barricade. Clad in a complete set of dented, battle-marked white armor in the style of Southern Galázion. A couple generations older in style, the man-at-arm’s face hid away under a frog-mouthed helmet. Similar in size to Franque, he was armed with a two-handed Flamberge. His steps weren’t threatening, but the way the oversized sword was handled sure was.

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“Nice tourney armor,” said Zaber, mustering the extra foe as they came to a halt next to that bastard. The stance was solid, aggressive, and rivaled Breg’s leverage and reach. “What you gonna do? Joust us?”

“No, no, no.” Franque spoke for his silent companion. “You misunderstood. I am no match for your compagnon, but I assure you–”

“’aight, that’s it.” Zaber’s and Breg’s feet slowly shifted closer towards the highwaymen. Their stances lowered on their own. “If you insist on talking like that, we’ll gotta talk a language we all know too well. Call out your soldiers, I’ll call mine. All weapons out.”

That infectious laughter rang aloud again. No words were needed between the unreasonably tall man and his juiced up friend. This bastardly brigand hit all the right notes to make Breg and Zaber forget, a welcome warm-up.

“Aïe, Asti told me you were–” Franque paused, gesticulating over Zaber with his mace. He raised his fist to comically shake it in anger. “Tendu. A magnifique monstruosité in your own right,” he said, putting two fingers into his mouth and howled. “Impeccable, this moment is too pafrait to go to waste,” uttered Franque to himself, gleefully, and yelled more foreign words into the woods.

With a raised fist, Zaber signaled his troops to move. He didn’t expect them to arrive so quickly, but the clip-clopping of hooves reassured him and Breg. Four men left and right of the road stepped out of the tree lines, making Franque out to be a liar about their strength. All were armed with crossbows and goat’s feet levers.

What darkened Zaber’s face was another fella coming forth behind the bonfire. Armed with a torch and a tin oil flask, or alcohol, a familiar face revealed itself. The same man that he and Torm had met around the monastery two days ago. He wore a round kettle helmet and some mailled gloves, with a dirty gambeson split in a red and tan side. Every single one of these bastards had a big smile on their faces, except for the frog-mouthed one.

“Tu voir, this is my merry ba–” laughed Franque, but stopped right in the middle.

“Boy, what’s the arsehole saying?” asked Zaber without looking back.

“It’s a Western Galázian dialect,” replied Torm, aiming his crossbow at Franque. “And, uh–” The apprentice needed a moment. “That just meant ‘see’.”

Buron looked annoyed, where his two friends were filled with anticipation and bloodlust. They focused most on the armored man, but Franque’s posturing was far from unknown to the veterans either. The robbers left and right to them were mostly serious, some whimsical. But Zaber had a special spot in mind for that fella with the torch.

Torm was mentally preparing, trying to mimic Buron and his mentor. But he couldn’t let Thyra leave his mind. The boy had one order, one duty. And the rugged woman didn’t look like she belonged in this crowd, unarmed and constantly looking left and right, at everyone. Overwhelmed.

“Haww, this keeps getting better!” Franque signaled his men to halt their shots. The signs he used were well-known to the veterans on the other side. “Your petit garçon even speaks the langage des étoiles.”

“Don’t call me boy,” said Torm, and pressed the cocked crossbow harder into his shoulder.

Franque’s hands trembled. So much, he had to wave them around a little. “Even the boy! Don’t make me regretter this, all of you are so–”

“You heard him,” interrupted Zaber again. “Don’t call him boy.”

The brigands’ leader sighed, regaining control of his hands. “Enough,” he said. “I wanted to parler, not fight.” With another show of his fist, changing to an open hand, Franque lowered his men’s weapons with a sign. Even the armored warrior next to him switched into a casual stance and lowered his Flamberge. It was still there. A sword of that size was never really not a threat when wielded like this. “I mean… now that I saw you all in action, I want to have combattre with you. But we have to discuter before we can massacre each other like–”

“Get to the point,” ordered Zaber. “We’ve got something more important to kill than you.”

The more this man spoke, the harder wanted Zaber to punch him into his joyous teeth. And Breg felt the same. Their three companions might not share this feeling, but at least Torm and Buron knew their friends well enough. This Franque had something to him. Something the colossal and the tired veteran would love to punch out of him.

“Ouais, ouais. To the point it is,” replied Franque, with Torm translating every word the moment it was said. “I can’t let you have your little embuscade.”

“Yes, Yes. Ambush.”

“’aight, great talk,” said Zaber dryly and pulled back his blade. “There’s no way we ain’t doing this. Now retreat back into the forest.”

“No, no, no,” laughed Franque, shaking his head in a soothing motion. “Tu voir, you’ll just ruin my plan and die a mort inutile…”

“See, pointless death.”

“… You are merely four men and one peu importe.”

“Uhm–” Torm gasped and Franque gave him room to find the right phrase. “Little does-not-matter?”

“Hey!” Thyra’s voice pitched up. “I’ll have you know that I am the key to our success,” she said, gesticulating in playful self-importance. All that couldn’t overshadow the nervous rise in pitch at the end.

“Is that so, mon chérie?” The dirty brigand tilted his head to the side and eyed Thyra from head to toe. “Believe me, I am the most égalitaire man to ever live. But you–” His eyes rested on the middle part of the rugged woman’s body for longer than she liked. “Are soft and made for confort.” All his men nodded, except for the frog-mouthed helmet who was unreadable.

“Shut it,” said Zaber. “Believe me, she is. And what we have to do is more important than your horseshit. Feel free to pick up what’s left when we’re done.”

“My men here, Asti and Ludi–” Franque waved over the torchbearer and towards another man to the side. He wore the same gambeson and kettle, but with the red and tan reversed. Older than the man they had met in the woods, closer to Zaber and his friends, he also had a thin beard. However, within his armor, only a nasty cut at his mouth made him stand out otherwise. “They have told me about your méthodes. I do not believe you a fou, but you lack the manpower and connaisance du terrain we have. You’ll die and ruin our perfect opportunité.”

“He thinks they know the area better,” translated Torm, falling a bit behind Franque’s pace of speech. “Fool and–”

“We’re not playing the same game, snailman,” interrupted Buron, leaning forward on his horse. “My two friends here are worth three or five of your men. And given the time, she–” He pointed at Thyra, slightly behind them. “Will kill each and all of you as long as we stay on our feet. Take the offer, let us die a meaningless death and pick up the scraps.”

“Believe me,” repeated Franque, smiling with his chipped teeth. “You are not the only magnifique monstruosité around these montagnes.” He slapped the back of his man-at-arms, who remained motionless. “I have killed before any of you have grown hair on your culs.”

“Arses?” Torm wasn’t sure. “Or balls?”

“Don’t bet on that,” replied Zaber, returning Franque’s smile. “We fighting or not?”

“Wait!” Thyra raised her mezzo and clapped her hands above her head. “Why–” she uttered. “Why not ally? Am I the only one who sees the obvious? I’m a singer of the old ways, we can combine our tal–”

“Thyra?” Buron grabbed her shoulder, letting go of his crossbow. The bald veteran stared at her, as did Torm. He knew that Breg and Zaber were lost and that he had to step in. “We can’t trust strange snailmen in the mountains. They’ll only stand in our way or betray us.”

“I offer you Thirty-Seventy of their coffre de guerre,” said Franque and lowered his mace. Out of nowhere, he walked towards Zaber, showing no threat. Until they were nose-to-nose, with a big smile and terrible breath.

“War che–”

“I know that one.” Zaber did cut his apprentice short, and everyone fell silent. The two leaders radiated an unsettling calm at each other. Until Zaber’s smile returned. “You can have it all. We’re out for the prisoners.”

“Does she speak the truth?” asked Franque, tilting his head past Zaber and pointing at Thyra with his chin. “She’s a sorcière?”

“Did your scouts report on the beaten line magician?” Zaber turned around, showing his back towards the armored warrior. “That was her ma.”

The highwayman let his eyes wander around his potential allies, beginning and ending on the rugged woman. Some of his men became nervous, but not as much as Thyra. The cackling fire in the background, smoke was spread by a strong gust of wind.

“Allons-y!” Another round of Franque’s infectious laughter rang up, followed by a smack against Zaber’s upper arm. “Our camp is up there,” he pointed at the peaks, southwards, behind the trees. “I am curieux to learn how you were to kill yourself. Célébrons our alliance, combiner plans!”

The greasy and unkempt man did not offer any kind gesture back – no shaking of hands or anything. He saw Buron smiling and shaking his head, where Breg only sighed and made his knuckles crack.

Torm looked relieved, and Thyra had died a thousand deaths and was revived. This was too much for her – and too soon. She and the boy chuckled at each other for a moment. This was nothing new for Torm, and he was glad that his mentor was still there when it counted. It gave the apprentice a glimpse of hope that life would return to normal once they were done. Like back in Teblen.

Everyone saddled up and Zaber shrugged at his companions indifferently. “If we lose these bastards, they ain’t haunting me,” he said uncouth.

Breg nodded. “Aux’ troops to burn.”