The Bringer of War

After traveling over wooded, rocky terrain for several days, Hector was glad to have the hooves of his mule back on an actual road. A dirt road, to be sure, and one marred with many deep ruts from wagon wheels, but an road nonetheless.

They were still many miles from Fort Drakken, and their lives had taken on a kind of routine that the squire found comforting. Wake up at dawn, travel until it was too dark to see, then make camp. Life on the road may have lacked comforts, such as a hot bath or cold spirits, but there was a certain sense of freedom that came with having the sky as your ceiling.

He had even begun to warm up the the assassin. Crown may have had a heart as black as pitch, but the man could carry his end of a conversation. Hector found him to be witty and charming, with at least a cursory knowledge of a wide variety of topics.

While Bruno and Aven often rode a bit ahead of them, often discussing plans they considered too important for Crown to hear, Hector found himself thinking more and more of his prisoner as a companion. During one of their moments of relative privacy he remarked as much to Crown.

“You are a pleasant man to travel with,” said the squire.

“Why thank you,” said Crown, seemingly honestly flattered. “Civility is the hallmark of good breeding.”

“And is your breeding good?” said Hector.

“You think me to be noble?” said Crown, enjoying the double meaning of the word.

“I don’t know,” said Hector “you are obviously educated, and quite knowledgeable about matters the nobility.”

“Perhaps it is because I ply my trade upon them that I have taken their mannerisms,” said Crown with a chuckle.

“Perhaps,” said Hector with a laugh “and I know better than to try and get a straight answer out of you.”

“And your own family?” said Crown “Brandywine is a name that draws a great deal of water in some circles.”

“Cousins to the king, actually,” said Hector “or should I say, cousin, as I am the last of my line.”

“I had heard,” said Crown, his expression somber “that the Brandywines had a run of bad luck.”

“If by bad luck,” said Hector bitterly “you mean the blades of highwaymen, then you are correct.”

“I see,” said Crown. “So you were taken in as a ward of the Templars-”

“Taken in?” said Hector incredulously. “Taken in? I had to get on my knees and beg to be a squire!”

“But you were a lad, all alone-” said Crown.

“Younger men than I have ruled the noble houses before,” said Hector “no, I petitioned for a place within the Knights.”

“Can I ask why?” said Crown. “Why give up a life of luxury to be put between sharp pointy things and the place where folk want to stick them? Did you grow up idolizing the knights, wishing a life of adventure for yourself?”

“Not really,” said Hector “of course, when one is a lad one looks to the knights in their shining armor, at the way the maidens swoon at their merest wave, one wishes to be a knight. In my case, I don’t know...perhaps I was simply tired of being alone. Though their training is harsh, and their life even harsher, the Templars gave me a sense of, well, a sense of...community.”

“I see,” said Crown, his tone carefully neutral. “So, just out of idle curiosity, if the king is corrupt and you must execute the Thirteenth Duty, who is next in line to be crowned?”

Hector frowned, staring hard at the dirt ahead of them.

“I do not like to think of such things,” said Hector. “Bruno says the crown shackles you more tightly than any chains, makes you cautious of every breath you draw.”

“Does not the thought of power thrill you?” said Crown.

“I am uncertain I want the responsibility of rulership,” said Hector. “Knowing that every decision I make will affect hundreds, perhaps thousands of people...what if I am wrong? What if I give an edict that leads the kingdom to ruin?”

“Such thoughts are those I would have in the head of my king,” said Crown. “Sadly, the Drakken line would not agree with you. They think the king must have no doubts, that every decision he makes should be made with the utmost certainty that he has made the best possible decision of all possible decisions.”

“So they are fools, then,” said Hector with irritation, the talk of his heritage not something he was comfortable with. Crown threw back his dark head of hair and laughed heartily.

“Quite right,” said the assassin.

“Then why do you serve them?” said Hector “You don’t seem to sort to stick a knife in someone for sadistic pleasure.”

“The answer is simple, my boy,” said Crown “It’s all about survival. I survive by making myself useful, and by making sure that my death would be most inconvenient for those who might wish it. I serve Drakken because he has wealth and power, and nothing more.”

“So you have no loyalty other than to yourself,” said Hector with a scowl. “No ideals, no honor...”

“I have plenty of ideals, boy,” said Crown, a rare sneer crossing his face “I celebrate loyalty, compassion and mercy as much as the next fellow...perhaps more. But I know the truth about ideals.”

“And what truth is that?” said Hector.

“That when an ideal is in your head, it is perfect,” he said “but once you let it out into the real world, it becomes corrupt, twisted by the selfish desires of mankind. Humility is a fine idea, boy but in the real world you may find it a great hindrance.”

“So what are you saying?” said Hector, waving away a pesky fly. “That I should go about life assuming that I have made the right decisions?”

“Not at all,” said Crown “I simply think you should know the difference between the idea and putting it into practice.”

The squire grew silent, mulling over the assassin’s words. It had been some time since anyone had talked to Hector like an equal, and Crown seemed to genuinely want him to reach is own conclusion. It was easy to forget, looking at the man’s serene, smiling face, that he was a paid killer. One who had attempted to smother the life out of him while he lay helpless.

His thoughts were invaded by Bruno’s hard stare as the knight slowed his mount to allow the other two to catch up. Bruno had made no illusion of his distaste for the burgeoning friendship between his squire and the assassin. Hector swallowed hard and tried to force a smile to his face.

“The sun seems not so terribly hot today,” he said “and I detect a whiff of rain on the wind. Perhaps it shall cool the dusty ground.”

“More likely,” said Bruno “it will only cause us more misery by making the air more steamy.”

“Oh, Sir Cromwell,” said Crown, his voice eager and insistent even as a smile stayed plastered on his lined face.

“I have nothing I wish to hear from your devious mouth, killer,” said Bruno crossly.

“Very well,” said Crown “but I thought that you might be interested to know that we are riding towards an ambush.”

“What?” said Hector, turning to strain his eyes at the road ahead. The path was winding through the woods, and he saw only a sparrow as it darted from the canopy to shimmer in the sun.

“Don’t stare, my boy,” said Crown “and give us a smile and a laugh, as if I just said something that amuses you.”

“I see nothing,” said Hector, his voice strained while he attempted to grin as if in mirth.

“I see them,” said Bruno, dismounting and dropping to one knee in the dirt. He checked his horse’s hoof as if he were searching for an errant rock while he subtly scanned an area ahead of them.

“The king’s men?” said Aven, squinting her green eyes intently despite the men’s subterfuge.

“Unlikely,” said Bruno “possibly bandits. The kingdom is plagued with them of late.”

“Do you want me to get your armor ready?” said Hector, patting the bags slung over his mule’s stout back.

“They shall set upon us if they witness the good knight trying to don it,” said Crown.

“So?” said Aven, causing all eyes to turn to her. “There are only seven of them.”

Crown whistled, as Bruno shot her a skeptical glance.

“I saw but one man,” said the knight.

“I saw three,” said Crown “but I underestimated the faerie maid once; I’ll not do so again. If she says there are seven, then I have no reason to doubt her.”

“What are we waiting for?” said Aven. “When the bandits see they are dealing with a Templar, and not simple country folk, they will surely turn tail and flee.”

“Desperate men make for tenacious adversaries, my...Aven,” said Bruno. “We should expect them to fight to the death.”

“Or they could be more assassins,” said Hector “since Crown’s former masters no doubt realize he has failed.”

“No doubt?” said Crown with a grin. “You must have done many assassinations, young one, to be so knowledgeable on the time frame!”

“They are making their move,” said Bruno icily. All three turned to look up the road as a man came out of the underbrush. He was wearing a pair of gray trousers that may have once been white and a v necked sack cloth shirt that had likely once been a sack full of potatoes. Greasy, unkempt brown hair hung low over his eyes, which appeared friendly enough as he approached. Bruno noticed no obvious weapons.

“Hail, strangers,” said the man, who appeared to be a youth not much older than Hector. “I have need of your assistance, should you prove able!”

He continued to walk towards them, while Crown strode past Bruno with a smile on his face.

“Well met, stranger,” said the assassin, ignoring Bruno’s glare. “I don’t know what assistance an old man and his two children might provide, though my sun kissed bodyguard may seem able he is quite the coward and will flee from the slightest raised voice!”

“Bodyguard?” said Bruno, though it went unnoticed.

“Not much of a swordsman, eh?” said the youth. “It matters not, for all I require is a pair of strong hands. You see, my brother fell from his horse, and is much too heavy for me to bear back to our homestead. If you could come with me, maybe help rig a litter to bear the poor fellow back home-”

“Why,” said Crown, shooting a furtive, mocking glance at Bruno “I think this great oaf can assist you, if you provide plenty of encouragement by whipping him when he goes slow.”

Bruno made a strangled sound deep in his throat, his hands rasping into fists while he struggled to keep his face serene.

“What are you waiting for?” said Crown. “Hop to it, boy!”

The assassin slapped his hand firmly across Bruno’s rump. It was the stiff breeze that fanned the flames in the knight’s belly to an inferno. His hand snapped out and viciously struck Crown in the cheek. The little man went down hard, his face in the dirt.

The youth began running towards the thick copse that his fellows were hiding themselves in. The trees were close together but the lower trunks were bereft of branches. What Bruno did find when he tore into the thicket, sword naked in his hand, was the youth being pulled up on a hemp line by two ragged looking men. Their eyes were glazed with the madness brought on by long term hunger, their movements spastic and jerky. The boy was up into the branches nearly thirty feet over the knight’s head before Bruno had the sense to find cover from the men in the trees. Squatting behind a stout fallen tree nearly half his height, he was joined by Aven and Hector.

“Keep low,” said Bruno “they may have archers.”

“Poor tactical decision,” said Hector with a smug smile “they have treed themselves!”

“This is strange behavior for bandits,” said Aven with a frown “they have greater numbers, why not just set upon us on the road?”

“We’re not climbing up after them without a rope,” said Hector, squinting over the log.

“Get down, boy,” said Bruno, grabbing the youth by his tunic and dragging him back out of sight.

A high pitched, wheedling whistle caught all of their attention. Aven was particularly sensitive, gasping in pain and clasping her hands to her ears.

“What was that?” said Hector. Bruno attended to Aven, who waved off his attempted ministrations.

“Shhh,” said Bruno, craning his neck. Aven shook her head, her ears still ringing from the whistle.

“I hear it too,” said Hector, his eyes growing wide “it sounds like hounds!”

“They will cower in the trees while their hounds tear us to shreds,” said Bruno with a scowl. “Come down and fight us like men, cowards!”

Snarling, viciously barking dogs could be heard getting closer. Bruno was stunned when he first saw the lead hound, loping easily over thorn bushes as tall as a man. It bore the general shape of a mastiff or other large breed, but instead of sleek fur it had mangy looking patches intermixed with what looked to be oval shaped scales. The thing’s face had capable looking jaws that seemed to open much wider than a hound’s should have been able too, and only in a dragon or a shark had Bruno seen brutal triangular teeth. It’s head seemed a bit malformed and lumpy, with one of its eyes permanently shut due to a large spongy growth that bounced with each stride.

“These are no mere hounds,” said Bruno.

“Now I bet you wish we’d got your armor,” said Hector, drawing his own blade.

“Tomorph,” said Aven, and before their eyes her form shimmered like heat rising off a metal roof. Gone was the beautiful barmaid Allison, replaced with the towering, strange-limbed faerie woman. She grabbed a branch thicker than Bruno’s leg with both hands and wrenched it off the fallen tree’s trunk amid a shower of splinters. Hector and the knight’s jaw’s dropped at the display, but they had no time to make further comment, as the first of the hounds were nearly upon them.

Bruno could count at least two more of the hideous mutants charging through the brush at them. As a boy, he and his foster father had been hunting deer when they crossed into the territory of a great brown bear. The bear had snapped branches and saplings in its wake to charge after them, and only the senior Cromwell’s wild blow with a wood hatchet saved them from being mauled. The dogs possessed similar fortitude, and stood as tall as Hector’s mule at the shoulder.

The knight crouched, prepared to receive the beast’s charge and skewer it upon his blade. Aven prevented this course of action by stepping up between Bruno and the strange hound with her crude club drawn across her body in a two handed grip. As she stepped down with her leading hoof, she swung the cudgel, connecting solidly on the hound’s nose. The beast was knocked to the forest floor, momentarily stunned. Aven brought the branch over the hound’s head, splintering nearly a foot off the end of her weapon. She followed it up with repeated blows, as the dog tried pitifully to avoid the savage onslaught. Bruno was taken aback by the wild glee in Aven’s green eyes, the Zeal with which she reduced the hound’s head to ground meat and pulped bone.

He had no time to muse further, as Hector was being beset by two of the hounds. The squire had managed to slice a portion off the ear of one of them, which had momentarily retreated to assess the harm done to its body. The other was bearing down on his apprentice, and the boy looked small indeed as the great beast lunged at him.

Bruno drew his dagger from the sheath at his side and charged at the hound bearing down on the squire. He planted the dagger solidly between the shoulder blades of the hound Hector had injured on the way past, then took his blade in a two handed grip. The Heartfire surged through his veins, fueling the strength of his blow as he thrust it forward. The tip speared into the hound, digging in nearly a foot deep. However, the dog’s momentum and weight were too much for the even the Templar’s strength, and his blade was wrenched from his grasp as the hound barreled into Hector, pinning the boy beneath it even as it shuddered and died.

Bruno turned upon the other hound, but it was loping away, tail tucked firmly between its legs. Aven had finished her gruesome work with her hound, her club splintered to a fraction of its former size. The knight had seen bloody corpses before, too many times, but the way that shards of wood were thrust into the hound’s flesh, their tops flattened smooth by repeated hammering, and he felt a bit squeamish.

Turning back to Hector, he assisted the boy in extricating himself from the hound’s corpse. The squire was none the worse for wear, though his shirt was stained with the hound’s blood.

“What are we to do with them?” said Hector, staring up at the pitiful men and boys trying desperately to conceal themselves behind the foliage. “They attacked a Knight. That is punishable by death.”

“Bah,” said Bruno “most of them will starve within a week, anyway. We have more pressing matters to attend to.”

“What manner of beasts are these?” said Hector.

“Drogs,” said Aven coldly “leftovers from an era before the faeries and Templars drove the sorcerers from the north. Twisted magic crossbred dragons and dogs, with the results you see before you.”

“And these sharecroppers, what, trained them?” said Hector.

“I don’t think they were all that trained,” said Bruno, staring up into the trees “otherwise, why run up a tree like a cat?”

“Where’s Crown?” said Aven, her face grown alarmed.

** *

He was taking the horses to safety, he told himself. Yes, he was going to gallop away with the horses and mule to keep them safe from the ambush. Crown’s hand reached for the reigns for the tenth time, and for the tenth time his hand erupted in the horrifically painful blue flame. He kept thinking that he could steel himself against it, that if he told himself that the pain was only in his mind he could overcome it. Every time he ended up panting in the dirt, his spit mixing with blood from his busted lip in a muddy pool.

It was not right, he thought, the cursed faerie wench treating him so. With conventional bindings or imprisonment, there was at least a slim if not sporting chance for escape. Ropes could be cut, locks could be picked, and bars could be squeezed through. If worst came to worst, he might be able to bribe a guard, or trade some information for his release.

With the magic, he had no recourse. There could be no struggling against the insidious magic worming its way through his brain. So long as his goals was even the most minor of treachery, the flame would erupt and he would feel worse pain than he had ever known, even under torture.

A rueful smile broke out on his face when the three harried companions came out of the woods. He stood up and dusted himself off. As Bruno approached he held his hand to his face and played up the minor injury.

“I was only playing in character, my boy,” he said, wincing at the pain.

“Sometimes I think you wish me to finish you off, assassin,” said Bruno.

“I wish you would,” said Crown with a touch of uncharacteristic bitterness “it would almost be preferable to being ensorceled by your faerie witch.”

Bruno’s blade hummed in the air as it was eagerly drawn from its scabbard.

“I did say almost preferable,” said Crown sheepishly.

Hector clapped the assassin on the shoulder and moved to get his mule from where it had wandered off to graze. Bruno reluctantly sheathed his blade, giving one last cold glance at Crown before he did so.

“And what manner of brigands did you encounter amid the elms?” said Crown.

“Not brigands,” said Hector “just starving, desperate folk driven to heinous acts by the gnawing in their bellies.”

“I heard much snarling, I had thought that you had come upon a nest of wolves,” said Crown, eying the dark red stain on Hector’s shirt.

“Of a sort,” said the squire with a grin “magic born mistakes, really. The Allfather be praised that they were not larger!”

“Unbelievable,” said Bruno, his sword flashing free of its sheath. He stared back up the road whence they had come, where a pair of the haggard men were running towards them.

“We are attacked!” shouted Hector, his hand going to his own blade.

“Calm yourselves,” said Crown, putting a hand upon the boy’s arm. “Look to their faces. They are fraught with fearful hopes. Likely they come to throw themselves on the ground and beg for food scraps. I have an apple core somewhere that they might glean some sustenance from...”

“Come no further!” said Bruno through clenched teeth. Aven dropped into a crouch and summoned up her reserves of magical energy. She shaped it into a hot, roiling mass of heat within her belly, and she had but to speak the word of power to release it as a blast that would turn the air around the men’s head to steam, subsequently flash boiling the men’s flesh.

“We don’t mean you no harm, sir,” said one man, the taller of the two. He knelt with difficulty in the dirt, hampered by a heavy leg brace. Most of the hair on his pate had fled, but he still had a ring of sandy blonde hair without much gray, indicating he was younger than his haggard appearance might otherwise suggest. His companion was a head shorter, with a head full of wispy blonde hair that was almost white. He had blunt features, a thick jaw and round nose. A heavy brow hung over eyes that alternately went from his companion to Bruno’s blade. Both bore crude weapons, farm implements that had been beaten into swords, but they remained sheathed at their sides.

“Don’t mean us harm?” said Bruno with a laugh. “Feeding us to your pets is hardly a way to win friendship, my good man.”

“The Hell hounds?” said the man, his mouth agape. “They are plague, not pets. They have eaten all our livestock, the precious little that we did not have to slaughter to pay Drakken’s cursed taxes, and when that ran out they started upon our fields! They devour the plants to the very roots, and befoul the earth with their spit so nothing can grow...”

“I am curious,” said Aven, shocking both men when she boldly strode forward and addressed them “where did you come upon that whistle? Is that what summoned the Drogs to you in the first place?”

“Aven,” said Bruno a bit stiffly “men are speaking.”

“Yes,” said Aven, putting her hands on her hips “foolish men, who know not what they trifle with! That whistle was no mere dog trainer’s artifact, but an ancient device that reeks of sorcery. I ask you again, man, where did you come upon the whistle?”

The man stammered a bit, looked to Bruno who nodded.

“It is not my place to say, lady,” he said “but I can bring you to the man who owns it, and he can tell you the tale.”

“Walk into another ambush?” said Crown with a laugh. “You must think us preposterously stupid.”

“No ambush, sir,” said the man, going down to both knees in the dirt. His companion followed suit a second later, mimicking the acts of his companion. “Please, I beg of you. Those hounds were but three of a pack that numbers nearly a score. You must help us be rid of the beasts! I recognize the Heartfire on your wrists, sir knight, and beseech you to help us!”

“You are criminals,” said Hector. “You set us up to be devoured by the hounds that you might loot our corpses, yes?”

“That and...for other purposes, my lord,” said the man, his eyes downcast. “The Hell hounds slay men, but do not eat them.”

“Why would they not eat men?” said Hector, raising an eyebrow.

“The sorcerer Banabas the Cur first created the breed,” said Aven “he desired the corpses of his enemies to be intact for a truly sickening practice known as Necromancy.”

“Sounds like a personable fellow,” said Crown with a smile.

“Why have I never heard of this Banabas?” said Bruno.

“Because of the church of the Allfather,” said Aven harshly, giving the Knight a green eyed glare “your holy men burned many texts which bore stories that did not fit their version of history, and forbade the oral versions from being uttered on pain of death. Sorcery was not always illegal in these lands, Templar. Your own Drakken line...”

Her voice trailed off, her eyes growing hard.

“Never mind,” she said “we don’t have time for history lessons. The Drog are a blight upon the land and must be dealt with.”

“This has nothing to do with our cause,” said Crown. “I pity these people, I truly do but perhaps we should simply continue on our way?”

“This has everything to do with our cause, assassin,” said Bruno, his lips a tight line. “These people suffer, in part, because the king has not done his duty. If we are truly men, if we wish to honor the spirit of our task as well as the completion of it, we must help these folk.”

“More morality,” said Crown with a sigh. “I suppose I might as well join the Templar order, I am apparently so often expected to ride into almost certain death.”

“The order would never accept someone like you,” said Hector with a scowl.

“We are being rude,” said Bruno “this man has asked us for aid, and we will not disappoint! Up, man, and tell us your name.”

The man rose from his knees, getting an assist from the silent blonde man at his side. He grinned behind his thick whiskers, bowing at the waist.

“I am called Guthrie the Lame, sir Knight,” he said.

Guthrie gestured at the man by his side.

“I never learned this fellow’s given name, but he is called Toad,” he said.

The little man grinned at them, especially Aven.

“Toad?” said Bruno.

“He’s little,” said Guthrie “and much like his namesake, you can walk right by him in the woods and never spot him.”

“Why don’t you know his real name?” said Hector.

“An account of he can’t talk,” said Guthrie.

“He can’t write it down for you?” said Aven.

“No,” said Guthrie “on account of he can’t read.”

“A pleasure to meet you both, I am sure,” said Crown wryly.

“Lead on, Guthrie and Toad,” said Bruno with a grin “let us see what can be done about your dragon problem.”

“Sir Bruno...” said Hector, glancing at Crown.

“Twelfth duty, squire,” said Bruno.

“Twelfth duty?” said Crown.

“Slaying dragons,” said Hector with a sigh. “You know, you are not even allowed to be afraid of fighting them?”

“The Templar order is possessed of a strange mind set,” said Crown.

“Aye,” said Hector “one of their favorite percepts is “He who rides into battle expecting to live will surely die, while he who rides into battle expecting to die will truly live.””

“Not my philosophy,” said the Assassin with a grin.

“I suppose you would flee if things turned dire,” said Hector with a scowl.

“No, my dear boy,” said Crown after a chuckle. “I would simply endeavor to not ride into a battle in the first place. If I have a fast horse, you can be sure I will be riding away from battle and not into it!”

The Gray Death laughed heartily as the procession made its way into the woods.