The Chimaera Regiment (5 page)

Brynjar stopped suddenly. His brow was furrowed. He seemed confused. “Did you,” he asked hesitantly, “really think that I wanted to kill you?” He lowered his sword as he straightened his back. His mouth hung open slightly as he stared in amazement at the boy.

Hector swallowed his fear. “Well,” he answered, breathless, “Yeah, I rather did.” He shrugged as he explained, “Yesterday, you sounded so—angry. I thought you blamed me for her death.”

Brynjar’s jaw clenched. He was silent for a few moments as Bronwyn came over, concern evident on her face. At last, the warrior said, “I blame Derek for her death. And I blame Drystan. And I blame myself.” Looking at Hector, he shook his head slowly. “There is no one else to blame. Don’t be a fool.”

After a few moments more, he seemed to remember the primary task set to him by Aneirin. “Is this how you will respond when someone really does wish to kill you?” he demanded. “Because I promise, when you face Derek, he will seek that end—and he will have far better reasons than I ever could.”

The wretch looked at the ground between them as shame reddened his cheeks.

“Eyes up!” Brynjar ordered. “Don’t let dishonor control you. Use it like oil to set your heart aflame. Take courage, boy. Before you can ever control a battle, you must first control yourself.”

Hector took a deep breath. Giving up was easy, he realized. Strength lay in overcoming difficulties, not in avoiding them. Raising his sword, he forced a small smile. “Defend yourself,” he commanded.

*

The 2040th year of the Sixth Era

The thirteenth of the month of Anthemen

Halfway through the twelfth hour

As the sun fell behind the horizon, the party finally neared the edge of the huge forest. These woodlands stretched from this point all the way to the mountains in the north, Fornein had told them, almost one hundred fifty miles. It was one of the largest forests in all the lands, and it was said that some parts were so thick that the soil never saw the sun.

The five companions settled down next to a half-ring of trees that would shelter them from the wind. Bronwyn and Fornein collected some local berries to eat while Hector and Doc collected firewood. Brynjar cleared the brush and kindling from an area three paces across to prevent the fire from spreading.

Once the fire was burning comfortably, Brynjar moved to the edge of the camp, keeping a wary eye on the plains. Doc marveled that the man never stopped suspecting danger everywhere. He and Hector lay down to rest, but he did not sleep immediately. For a time, he listened earnestly to his sister and Fornein, who sat up into the evening.

“What do you think of the gods, Fornein?” Bronwyn was asking.

The hermit seemed surprised by the question. “What do you mean, dear girl?”

“I mean,” she said, trying to phrase what exactly she meant, “Are they really helping us? Lord Aneirin was convinced that they would lead us through all of this.”

“Of course they’re helping us,” Fornein answered promptly.

“How can you be so sure?” she demanded. “What if the gods are really on Derek’s side?”

“Tell me, my dear,” he replied indirectly, “have the gods not provided for you at all? Have they given you no direction, no assistance, no encouragement?”

“No,” she shot back, “We have gotten nothing from the gods. Lord Aneirin has directed us, and Lord Brynjar has helped us, and you have guided us and encouraged us. But I’ve never seen any evidence that the gods were involved.” She paused sadly. “To be honest, I haven’t seen any evidence of the gods since my parents died.”

A few moments passed. Doc thought he heard Fornein take Bronwyn’s hands. When the old man spoke again, there was a softness to his voice that expressed great sympathy. “I am sorry for your loss, my dear. To lose a loved one is terrible. Yet even so, it does not mean the gods are against us. If I may ask, how have you expected them to appear?”

“I don’t know,” she answered sourly, “The old legends tell of how they used to descend from the skies and walk among us, like great warriors and heroes.”

Fornein smiled. “It has been many eons since the gods walked among men, if indeed they ever did,” he replied.

“You don’t believe the tales?” she asked, incredulous.

The hermit laughed. “I believe them well enough,” he said, but he did not explain. Instead, he continued, “The gods do not appear in beams of light and perform parlor tricks for our amusement, nor do they do everything on our behalf, lest we become vicious. Neither our lives nor our tasks are easy, but the Divines give us their agents and servants as friends and aides. They work through us, too, to provide help to those around us.

“What is most difficult for us is that they ask us to suffer for them, too. It teaches us to be strong, so that we can serve them properly and complete their goals, and so that we can be virtuous, as they are virtuous. We suffer for their sake and for ours.”

Bronwyn sighed. His answers challenged her, but they were not yet satisfactory. “Why,” she asked at last, “do we suffer when the gods don’t?”

Doc thought he heard a smile in Fornein’s voice. “Why indeed?”

“Hist!”

It was Brynjar. He was motioning for everyone to be silent. Fornein quickly scooped dirt onto the fire, snuffing it out. Doc kicked Hector’s shoulder, rousing his friend. He was disoriented, but quickly came to realize the gravity of their situation.

“Remain still,” Brynjar ordered. Doc wondered what could have happened.

For what seemed an eternity, no one moved. Brynjar kept a weather eye on the plains. At last, he seemed to start breathing again. “Quickly,” he whispered, “Gather your things. We can’t stay here. We need more cover.”

No sooner had they hefted their packs than a rustling in the grass drew their attention. Doc looked and saw something glinting in the darkness. Not just one something, but several. They looked like… eyes.

“Wolves!” Fornein hissed.

“Don’t,” Brynjar said through clenched teeth, “run.” Slowly, he drew his sword. For a moment, they stood their ground, staring down the hunters. From what he could see, Doc estimated four or five in the pack. If he recalled correctly, wolves would not attack prey that stood its ground.

But either he recalled incorrectly, or the early onset of winter had left the wolves hungry and desperate.

The canines charged. The first lunged at Brynjar, who ran it through with his sword. The jig was up. Looking at those snarling yellow teeth, the youngsters lost their nerve. All three took to their heels and ran straight into the forest.

Eager for the chase, the wolves skirted around the camp, leaving Brynjar and Fornein behind as they pursued the easier prey.

Within moments, Doc was panting for breath. Night had well fallen, and there was a chill in the air that burned his lungs with each breath. Trees flew by him full tilt. He could see Hector and Bronwyn out of the corner of each eye. He could hear the growling and snapping of the wolves behind him, but he dared not look back.

Then his foot caught an upturned root, and he fell with a yelp.

He heard indistinct yelling. He tried to scramble to his feet, but only succeeded in twisting his ankle. He looked back to see it held tight by the tree, refusing to release him.

He also saw a wolf rushing straight for him.

He shut his eyes and hoped the end would be quick.

But it did not come. The wolf yowled briefly and landed heavily beside him. He opened his eyes to see Hector standing over him, with his father’s hunting dagger bared. The two other wolves began to circle them, too hungry to be daunted.

“Leave me!” Doc yelled at his friend. He had promised, sworn to Lord Aneirin that he would protect Hector. “I’ll hold them here!” he ordered. “You’re too important!”

As Hector tried to face both wolves at the same time, he answered sharply, “I won’t rule a world where men leave their best friends to die.”

The wolves had waited long enough. They charged again, one after the other. Hector gritted his teeth and faced the faster one. It snapped at his arm. He dodged back, drawing it close enough to stab his dagger deep into its neck. It howled and wrenched free of the blade, drawing out the wound. It fell away, whimpering.

The other wolf never reached them. Brynjar came hurtling through the trees like Kyros’ thunderbolt. Both his swords were drawn, and both tore into the last attacker. Its whinging only lasted a moment.

There was a long silence while the travelers caught their breath. Fornein stumbled through the trees, nearly falling atop them in his haste, but Brynjar caught him. Then the warrior turned on his young fellows.

“I told you,” he reprimanded them, “not to run!”

“That’s good advice,” someone called out.

Hector spun and Doc tried to turn over to see the newcomer. He, like the troop with him, was dark-haired and fair-skinned, with the sort of musculature one expects from a seasoned hunter.

Doc realized that one circle of threats had been replaced by another. The man who had spoken stepped forward, ostensibly the leader of the group. He gestured with his javelin toward Hector and Brynjar. “Lay down your weapons,” he ordered.

“On whose authority?” Brynjar demanded. Fornein sheepishly tried to catch his gaze and warn him off, but to no avail.

The man straightened his back a little. “I am Veither, of the Keldans,” he declared, “This is my hunting troop, and you are trespassing in our lands.” He gestured again, more menacingly. “So you will lay down your weapons and come with us.”

When Hector and Brynjar continued to hesitate, Veither sneered. “Disobedience would be unwise,” he cautioned them, and motioned to one of his men. The troop pulled Bronwyn into their midst, javelins at her throat.

Hector immediately laid his dagger on the ground. Veither looked meaningfully at Brynjar. The warrior sighed and reluctantly followed suit. Hunters stepped in and retrieved the weapons, prodding the captives closer to Veither in the process. Two of them smashed the root fastening Doc’s foot to the ground and wrenched him upright.

The Keldan captain looked them over before glancing at the wolves. “He’s right, you know,” Veither said to Hector, “You aren’t supposed to run from wolves. They live for the chase.”

Hector stood tall before his captor. “And what do you live for, Veither of the Keldans?” he asked imperiously.

“Me?” he responded, his tone rife with mock innocence. “I live for the same thing.” He jerked his head toward Bronwyn. Leaning close, he whispered conspiratorially, “How long do you think she would run before I caught her?”

Ire burned hot in Hector’s breast. He drew back and slammed his fist into Veither’s cheek. The blow spun the Keldan’s head to one side, but he held his ground.

Straightening his back again, he began to laugh. “Thank you, boy!” he said, spitting out a bloody tooth, “You have trespassed on Keldan land and attacked us unprovoked. Now no one can say we did not offer hospitality pleasing to the gods once we have killed you.” Turning, he gestured to his men.

“Wait!” Fornein interrupted.

Veither turned. “Is that you, you old hermit?” he asked, his voice dripping with malice. “What an unexpected pleasure that you will die also.”

“You can’t!” Fornein objected. “Your lord promised me clemency in exchange for my services. You can’t kill me or my friends.”

Veither mused on that for a moment. “I suppose you’re right,” he answered thoughtfully. “I can’t have you all killed.” After another moment, he finished, “But your crimes are sufficient for imprisonment, and my lord will see to that.” He made another gesture to his troop, meaning for them to gather. “It’s about a day’s hard march. Let’s be quick about it.” He set out at the head of the group; his hunters fell into line, and the five companions were dragged along with them.

“I’m sorry,” Hector said softly to his friends. He ached to think that his behavior had caused their predicament.

“Don’t blame yourself,” Brynjar replied in an unexpected moment of compassion. “They probably would have killed us anyway.”

The 2040th year of the Sixth Era

The fourteenth of the month of Anthemen

Late in the sixth hour

Hector glanced anxiously back at Bronwyn, who forced a smile for him. They trudged reluctantly past a tribe of stares, either bewildered or angry. Fierce orbs watched them from wooden cottages, which were intermingled with the trees that had born them.

At last, they had reached the home of the Keldans. They had been allowed a brief and fitful sleep shortly before dawn; apart from that, they had been forced to march the whole night and now half the day. Hector was exhausted, but the thought that civilian ears heard his shackles reassured him that their journey neared its end.

They had spent the whole trip in the depths of the forest, barely able to see the sun, even at noontide. But now, Veither and his hunting party forced the five travelers out into a clearing. The bright sky startled them, and Hector shielded his eyes from the glare.

As he became accustomed to the light, he lowered his hand, and there—through half-lidded eyes—he saw it. The obelisk towered above them like an ebon sovereign, too proud to show his visage to unworthy subjects. The black stone rose sharply, each of its three faces tapering slowly toward the pinnacle. Hector knew that it was ancient, but its edges were keen, and the whole of it was unweathered.

“Eyes front!” Veither ordered. His sword hilt slammed into Hector’s shoulder, turning him away from the obelisk. He saw that his fellow captives were turned likewise, all to face the only structure in the clearing besides the obelisk: a stone hall, all gray and brown and muddy, entirely unseemly beside the glorious spire.

Veither marched them near to it. “Halt!” he ordered; the travelers obeyed immediately. Hector stumbled at the suddenness. The bindings on his hands kept him from regaining his balance, and he fell flat on his face. The ground was soft, but dry, and smelled strongly of dust.

“On your knees!” Veither shouted at them. One of the other guards hauled Hector roughly up to his knees, still facing the door to the hall. The door looked the same as the rest of the chieftain’s court: dirty and dull.

The thick door, rotted in spite of the awning that shielded it, creaked open. A color guard marched out, wielding the conquering banner of the Keldans. The banner was deep red, but it was interwoven with paler threads. Hector could make out the image of a winged horse and an angular script that he did not recognize. He saw strange lettering under the horse’s hoofs, and interspersed with those letters were a peculiar pair of points, one directly over the other. He had learned the script of his own people, but seeing a new one fascinated him; for a moment, he forgot where he was as he stared at that banner.

Then a guard jabbed his shoulder, and he remembered vividly.

A distinguished man followed the color guard, and three more soldiers followed him. Hector had no doubt that this was the ruler of the Keldans. He was tall, but spindly; his wiry limbs were more appropriate to a spider than a man. His countenance was sharp, and keen; his eyes betrayed the brilliance of his mind, and the means by which he ruled his tribe. His back was straight as an arrow. He walked among the captives with his hands clasped behind his back. He looked down his long, pointed noise at each of them. His chin was like a quivering stalactite, hanging precariously from his jaw; he aimed it at each captive, threatening to let it fall and crush them.

At last, he returned to stand between his warriors and his color guard. “Who are these people?” he asked Veither, “What are they doing in my forest?”

“My lord Eitromal, they are trespassers and vagabonds,” Veither answered, deep and booming; Hector wondered whether the exchange were a formal means of introducing criminals for the Keldans—or perhaps Veither simply enjoyed maligning guests. “They interfered with our hunt and attacked us unprovoked.”

The chieftain, Eitromal, looked over the captives once more. He pointed at Fornein, and looked meaningfully at Veither. The huntsman nodded. Eitromal crouched before the kneeling hermit. “Fornein,” he said, “Why have you returned?”

The old man did not raise his head, but stared fervently at the dirt. “As I once helped you, Lord, I seek to help another,” he replied. “We meant no harm.”

“Are you the leader of this band of miscreants?” Eitromal demanded disdainfully.

“I am,” Hector interrupted, raising his face to look the lord in the eye. In his periphery, he saw Brynjar glare sharply at him, but the warrior said nothing. “These are my companions, and they follow me on my quest.”

Eitromal raised a suspicious eyebrow. “So you,” he mused, “are responsible for these crimes against my people. A boy.”

“If any crimes have been committed,” Hector retorted, in as genteel a voice as he could muster, “they were committed in ignorance. We are without food, shelter, or protection in a strange land. We are your suppliants, my lord, and we request your benevolence in the name of Anthea.” He was quoting the suppliant’s prayer from the Code of Lords, although he was sure he had misplaced a few words. Even so, obedience to Anthea demanded kindness toward suppliants, and refusal threatened the eternity of a man’s soul.

For a long time, Eitromal said nothing. His cruel nose twitched as he pondered his options. Hector suppressed a smile; Eitromal would be required to release them, even help them in their quest. In spite of the shackles, and in spite of Brynjar’s lack of confidence in him, he had saved them. Eitromal had no other choice.

“Ignorance of the law is no excuse,” Eitromal said peremptorily, “for the law is written on the stones of the earth. Thus says our Goddess of Clarity, Ariane. And Kyros, mighty King of the gods, tells us that he will draw near for judgment, and he will be a swift witness against the unjust.” He sneered, but only for a moment. “But I am not without compassion. Taking your circumstances into account, and given your companion, the Sage, I will not execute you. You will be housed, fed, and tended, as suppliants. And you will not be as slaves, but as hired men and sojourners; you will labor for us until your debt is paid.”

“Labor?” Hector echoed. “What kind of labor?”

Eitromal smiled. It was a frightful expression; it twisted his angular features into knots. “We have no mines, and no wheat-fields. Our hunters are too proud to suffer competition. But we have many hired men, and many foreign warriors, given to us by the gods.” The chieftain pointed at Brynjar. “You will fight those men, for freedom and for glory, until your debt is paid.” Turning on his heel, he waved at Veither. “Take them away!” he ordered as he disappeared once more into his cold hall.

*

The 2040th tear of the Sixth Era

The eighteenth of the month of Anthemen

Late in the first hour

Four days later, and far to the southeast, Duncan and Einar kept a wary eye on the dust trails of rider and army. For a fortnight, they had traveled south in pursuit of a spy.

Two weeks earlier, Affet, young Hector’s tormentor, was given his first post at the stable. He shared that post with a senior guardsman, named Fagan, who spent all spare moments training the newest member of the warriors’ guild. When Affet stepped away to relieve himself, he returned to find Fagan murdered by a horse-thief. The thief nearly trampled the boy in his haste to escape, and then traveled south.

As soon as Affet reported the crime, Draus sent Duncan and Einar in pursuit. Every day for fourteen days, they pressed on, following the spy’s obvious trail. Either the villain did not expect to be followed, or he did not care. At long last, they had caught up to the rider—when he met the approaching Chimaera Regiment.

“By Kyrou,” Einar spat, again taking the god's name in vain, “I can't believe an Alkimite would sally out to the enemy like this. Whoever that fool is, I want to wring his neck.”

Duncan looked back the way they had come. There was a village there, a marketplace for local farms; they had avoided it when they passed by, just as their quarry had, but it lay on the path between the Regiment and the Valley. “You may get your chance,” he said as a plan formed in his mind.

Einar raised an eyebrow at him. “What do you mean?” he demanded.

Duncan pointed to the town. “That market is right on Derek’s path, and with an army that size, he’ll need to collect food every so often.” He gestured to the horses. “You and I backtrack to the town and warn them, so we can set up a defense. We may not stop him, but we'll slow him down, and we may get a crack at that traitor.”

Einar looked between the Regiment and the market. He nodded slowly. “It could work,” he said, “depending on what kind of soldiers they’ve got down there.” He scrunched up his face in thought. “But we can't both go. If we fail, and we die, no one can warn Lord Cyrus about how far the Chimaera Regiment is—or that the horse-thief was a spy.”

Duncan nodded in reply. “Fine,” he answered, “I’ll do it.”

“Ha!” Einar laughed, “Not likely. You’re too nice to whip those farmers into shape in time. I'll get ‘em set up. You watch from nearby. If things go sideways, you ride hard for the Valley and warn ‘em.”

Duncan sighed in acquiescence. “Alright,” he said, “but watch your back.”

Einar nodded. He hurriedly secured his sword belt; his scabbard was attached at his left thigh and a knife was stuck in his belt at the back. He mounted his horse and set her facing north. Taking a last resolute glance at his friend, he set off for the village at a quick trot.

From the hilltop, the village had seemed small and distant, but on horseback, the journey took only three hours. Keeping an eye on the horizon, Einar made his way to the town square. Over a hundred farmers were milling about the markets, paying no heed to the strange rider.

Once in the market, he dismounted and cast about for a makeshift podium. The old warrior climbed onto the roof of a shop near the center of the square, ignoring the complaints of its keeper. “Folks!” he called out. “I need your attention!”

He did not get it. It was a busy day at market, and no one wanted to be interrupted. They were blissfully ignorant of the danger that loomed over them, and Einar resolved to make them aware. “Who here has heard of the Chimaera Regiment?” he shouted.

That drew a few glances. Several of the youths came closer, eager to hear more about the foreign army. Derek might have been a hatemongering warlord, but any chieftain who led his soldiers to that many victories was admirable in the eyes of a boy. Einar used that to his advantage. “Derek and his army are four hours’ march south of here!” he warned them, “He intends to attack your village, to test your mettle! He has the strength of numbers and experience, but if you prove yourself, they will sing songs in your honor for generations to come!”

“What is the meaning of this?” an officious voice demanded. The noise of the market died down until the only sounds were the shuffling of feet and hissed whispers.

Einar turned to see a robed man approaching; he had a hoary face and gray hair. He was flanked by two guards. “Are you the chieftain here?” Einar asked him.

“I am,” the man replied gruffly, “My name is Lord Borsun. Who are you, and why do you incite my people to war?”

“I am Einar of the Alkimites,” he answered, “We had received word that the Chimaera Regiment was in the area, and I have confirmed it with my own eyes. They are marching for this place.”

At this, the hubbub broke anew. “Silence!” Borsun called, then roared again, “Silence!” The people obeyed, albeit reluctantly. Borsun asked Einar, “Why do you tell us this? We are no match for such an army. It would be better for us to surrender.”

Einar dropped from the roof of the shop and stepped in close to the warlord. His guards edged closer, but Borsun held up a hand to stay them. Einar said softly, so few could hear, “How would you rather die, Lord Borsun?” Borsun frowned. “In the tent of your enemy as a slave, or on the field of battle as a free man?”

Borsun’s anger did not fade. He glared back at Einar, searching for an answer that would satisfy, but he already knew what he would prefer. Stepping back from the Alkimite at last, he called to his people, “We will fight!”

*

The 2040th year of the Sixth Era

The eighteenth of the month of Anthemen

Early in the eighth hour

Einar’s prediction proved true. Nearly four hours later, the Chimaera Regiment was marching through the fields at the outskirts of the village. Growing in those fields were a variety of tall grains, untouched as yet by the wintry conditions that harried the Alkimite farmers far to the north.

Einar and Borsun used those fields to their advantage. Archers were gathered in the fields nearest the town, waiting for the encroaching army to come within range. Nearly every man and boy in the town had known how to use a bow, and many had their own bows with them. Einar was glad for the expertise.

Borsun had six cavalry serving him; these Einar had him send to neighboring towns, seeking assistance and delivering warning. Six horsemen would make little difference against an army like Derek’s.

The remaining thirty men had their swords ready just inside the town. They waited with Lord Borsun behind several buildings, out of the sight of Derek’s scouts.

Einar himself was at the top of the bell tower, where town meetings and emergency signals were tolled. He kept an eye on the enemy; it was his job to signal the archers to fire.