Angry fists banged against the wooden camp gates even as a host of Midaelian guards swung them close. A trail of angry villagers had followed the emissary and the mages all the way up from Kinallen, hollering at the top of their hoarse voices for justice, until the soldiers had but no choice the shut the gates at their infuriated faces.
Attacks on the Drisian emissary would further complicate this situation, even though the soldiers shared much the same sentiment.
Captain Reylan couldn't care less, head held high as he stood within the circle of mages who were obligated to give him protection.
✦✧✦✧
Lieutenant Evander's arms remained folded behind his back, ignoring the hand Captain Reylan had offered. He withdrew it with a seething look, and as he did, Farren caught the glimmer of the silver ring around his index finger.
"This must be a Drisian royal custom I'm not aware of," said the lieutenant.
Reylan's eyes narrowed on him. "Pardon?"
"To first burn down a village, then send condolences to its people," he said, "I'm wondering if we Midaelians should adopt such a custom as well. Perhaps we should send your severed head back to your king with our deepest and most sincere apologies."
"Threats directed at the emissary will not be tolerated!" One of the Council Mages led his mount forward, and regarded Lieutenant Evander with a glare, his hand hovering over the jeweled rapier at his belt. Captain Reylan dissuaded him with a gesture of his hand.
"Well then," said Second Lieutenant Audryn to the mage, "tell your emissary that words of condolences don't mend gutted homes and soothe scalded flesh."
A crease formed between the captain's pale eyebrows. "If your king is indeed incapable of providing shelter and relief for his people, do not hesitate to reach out to us," he said, tilting his head with a grin, revealing perfect teeth. "King Krugmann is most generous."
Farren had half a mind to shatter those teeth with a blow of her axe-handle, but seeing the six powerful Council mages the captain had as escort, she decided against it. Glancing at Rendarr, she figured he was holding himself back for similar reasons. Then, someone else answered on their behalf.
"Kinallen's folk would rather spend their nights 'neath the sky and eat dirt than accept your help!" Spat a peasant who was hauling in carts of hay for the stables some dozen paces far. The others accompanying him gave affirmative shouts and hollers.
Captain Reylan looked at them with only mild disdain, then turned to the lieutenant with his ghastly smile once again. "Well, good for them, they know their place," he said, "but better I come to address the matter I am here for, because I have no desire to tarry here for long."
"Speak," said the lieutenant curtly.
"Despite the vile accusations hurled at my king and my people, I bring you assurance that we are not responsible for the attack on Kinallen and the casualties resulting from it. Yet we figured, from the nature of the attack and involvement of Firemounts, the blame is sure to fall on us-- soldiers of Calbridge Division, simply because we are stationed nearest to the eastern border of Midaelia."
"In the woods, my squad ran into a skirmish with soldiers of your division, Captain," said Klo, her voice measured and calm. "Drisian soldiers, who admitted to having assisted the bandits who raided the village that night."
They also admitted something else. The abduction of Commander Karyk.
Farren sighed in relief, seeing that Klo didn't reveal that. This captain must not know how much we know.
But the question still nagged her. Where have I seen him before? Bastard speaks fluent Midaelian like a native.
"I will answer all your questions, if only you would grant me the chance," said the captain through gritted teeth. As his temper swelled, his Midaelian gave way to a countryside accent common in eastern frontier villages-- an intonation familiar enough to take Farren several years back...to Larton.
"A group of deserters of the Calbridge Division recently ganged up with a local bandit lord. The renegades then set about looting farming settlements along the border area," the captain went on, "rewards have been declared for their capture, but none succeeded-- and perhaps that's why they grew reckless enough to steal a firemount from the castle. We have indeed suffered losses similar to you."
Ah, so this is why you sent forth bandits to burn our homes.
His smile sent shivers down Farren's spine despite the anger boiling her blood.
This man had allied his own soldiers with bandits to achieve a goal-- abducting Commander Karyk.
Yet when accusations hurled themselves at him, he did not hesitate for a moment to write them off as renegades and severe all ties.
Yet who was there to prove otherwise? That farce of a Council?
Years of her experience in the Silver Knife Square made it too easy for her to imagine what fate must have befallen the allied bandits as well.
Headless corpses rotting in some dungeon of Calbridge Castle, probably.
Behind Klo, Rendarr and Farren exchanged glances.
"Lies," muttered Rendarr, voicing her own suspicion, "teamed up his own men with bandits, so he can tell this story now and shrug off all responsibilities. Deserters, my ass."
What the Drisian soldier said back in the woods only confirmed those lies further. From the looks on their superior's faces, it was evident that they shared the same disbelief.
Yet, could they challenge him? Or the Drisian Crown? The Council who instead of remaining a neutral entity, bowed to power and gold-- a time old tale ever rewriting itself through Stromvale's history ?
Captain Reylan only smiled-- with the confident air of a man who was certain no one could lay a finger on him, despite him being surrounded by war-hardened warriors with murder in their eyes and fire in their veins.
One simple reason.
He had chosen the right side. The side of power, where justice and loyalty could be bought, neutrality shattered.
"His Majesty King Forthwind has been provided with all required proof of my statement and the many ravaged villages in west Drisian frontiers stand witness to the raids of said renegades and bandits," said Captain Reylan, "my arrival here was naught but a gesture of courtesy, and it has been delivered."
He turned to gather the reins of his horse, ready to mount. Then his hands froze on the reins and he looked over his shoulder, eyes on Klo.
"You mentioned your squad faced the renegade soldiers in the woods..." he trailed off.
"Aye, what about it?" said Klo, her eyes thin slits.
"Did your soldiers... survive?"
Farren's hand trembled upon the dagger beneath her cloak. He must not know about the dagger--
"Not a single one of them," lied Klo in a solemn voice. "Ambushed and slaughtered-- all of them."
"May Draedona watch over them," he said softly.
An ominous silence hovered between the emissary and the squad leader-- a fair exchange of lies, both being aware of each other's. Yet the captain could prod no more into the matter, or he would be revealing his foul deeds of sorcery in the Drisian army.
Good thing they already knew. The entirety of the encampment knew of the black-blooded ones. In that knowledge alone, Farren felt empowered.
Captain Reylan swung onto his saddle. "I will take my leave now."
"Clearstrike, Tonlin," called Second Lieutenant Audryn, "if you would show him out."
Captain Reylan's wide eyes flitted to Farren at the mention of her name. A look of surprise swept across his face briefly, which he soon masked with aloof indifference.
The mere hundred paces to the gate stretched like leagues. Not sparing Farren another glance, the captain sat upright in his saddle, looking ahead with his back erect, yet his shoulders were tense.
Farren and Rendarr led them to the wooden gates, from where the Council mages would escort him to the border post.
"May the roads fare you well," Rendarr said in a drawl, and his face said he wished quite the opposite. Run into an ambush and die.
The captain halted, reining in and allowed the mages to ride ahead of him. He twisted in his saddle, and his eyes came to rest on Farren. "Clearstrike."
She nearly jumped, about to rear back a step. But she steeled herself, assuming the most deadpan voice she could muster. "Mhm, that's my name."
"Finnian's little sister, eh?" he asked quietly, an emotion in his voice she couldn't quite comprehend. "All grown up."
Farren froze, her legs heavy like ice rooted to the ground. She sensed Rendarr tense up beside her.
A forlorn look, and what looked like pain crossed the captain's face for a moment, but Farren did not believe he was capable of such emotions. "A great path you've chosen," he said, "I wish you well."
Next, he nudged his horse into a gallop. Off he went down the stone-studded road, sending plumes of dust and faded memories in his wake.
She recognised him now, as he became a blur beneath the shadows of the trees afar.
Rendarr's hand gripped her shoulder, his voice uncharacteristically quiet. "Gods, who is this bastard? You know him?"
To that, Farren had no immediate answer. She was not sure she recognised this version of Emric from the one who remained in her timeworn memories of Larton.
For though this man was Midaelian by blood, he was a Drisian by choice.
✦✧✦✧
She might have stood there for some more time, but a voice behind her snapped her out of it.
"Come with me for a moment," said Klo. Behind her was Lieutenant Evander, his expression unreadable.
"Did... I do something wrong?" said Farren, thinking of every single thing she'd ever messed up.
"A long list, that one," said the lieutenant, "but this is not about them. Follow me."
They made their way back to the camp and halted before a nondescript door to one of the barracks.
"Well, this is what I needed you here for, before the emissary turned up," he said to Klo, and swung open the door.
Inside, around a wooden table were seated sergeants and captains of nearly all of the squads of the camp and of those who arrived from Brittlerock, Linder among them. At the other end of the table sat a man in the ornate, crimson and gold uniform of the Royal Guards, stroking his beard. His was the only face that looked content among the crowd of sullen faces.
The Royal Guard was the younger brother of Sir Troth. From the look on his face, it was evident he recognised Farren as well, but chose not to comment on it.
"The dagger," he said without preamble, stretching a hand toward Farren. She looked around the table, but didn't get much of a response from the dour looking faces, except the lieutenant who gave her a nod.
She handed the dagger to the Royal Guard, feeling like giving away a cherished thing close to her heart.
He observed it with fascinated eyes for a moment, turning it over in his hands, testing its weight.
"I would take this extraordinary blade and present this before His Majesty," he said, eyes glittering. "The Royal Sorcerer would like to take a look-- find out more about its origin."
No.
So many things could go wrong on the way from Kinallen to Byton.
Farren wanted to scream, to yank it back from his hands and dash out of the door.
It must've shown on her face, because Lieutenant Evander pressed down on her shoulder, rooting her to her seat.
"We've already discussed it, Miveresk," said one of the captains, "we-- or Corporal Clearstrike herself-- would take it to the capital if need be."
"Or, the Royal Sorcerer may come here himself, if he is indeed eager to examine the weapon," Klo said, "but I doubt we should trouble him without consulting the academy of magic at the capital first."
The Royal Guard named Miveresk bristled as his eyes travelled down the table. "You need not warp your words, because your meaning is clear," he said, "you do not trust us--His Majesty's own elite soldiers!"
The hesitant looks that passed around the table were that of indirect affirmation. Without King Forthwind's direct order, there was little reason to send the weapon away with a Royal Guard who had just arrived without notice.
"The carriage driver tasked with the job of delivering the dagger to Commander Karyk was attacked," said Karles, as though only to mask the awkwardness. "We are simply afraid it might endanger you."
"Enough of this. I see how it is." Miveresk stood up, tossing the dagger across the table, his glare set upon Farren. The dagger slid down the length of the table, and came to a halt before her.
"I do hope you do not come to regret who you choose to trust," he said, narrowed eyes set on Farren.
--"We won't."
All eyes turned to the other end of the table, where sat Captain Willa Rivera, the sole survivor of the Culling, who had led the squads of vampires from Brittlerock. Her crimson eyes regarded Farren for a moment before swinging their gaze back to Miveresk. "She has handled the weapon well, and demonstrated her capabilities at the time of need. I believe she ought to be given the chance to present it to His Majesty, should the need arise."
Farren's throat was dry, eyes darting between them. The praise her squad leader had given her had been difficult enough to digest, and now someone like Rivera was standing up for her. Farren was more terrified than elated.
How long until I disappoint her...like everyone else?
"Very well, if that is indeed your decision," said the Royal Guard, collecting his cloak from the back of his chair. "Although you might have to change your mind, once I am back with His Majesty's order-- and that, I assure you, I will be."
Farren crossed her arms. I think I know a way to deal with that.
Without another word, the man strode out of the door. A collective sigh of relief issued from the others with his departure. One by one, they began to take their leaves.
Captain Rivera left her seat, and strode to Farren.
"If you wield it well," she said as she placed the dagger in Farren's trembling hands, "claim it, soldier."
And despite the weapon's unnerving aura, Farren accepted it once again. If a warrior such as her deemed her worthy of trust, she might as well embrace it.
"Clearstrike, do another thing..." said Lieutenant Evander.
"Absolutely, sir!" Farren was on her feet at once. She felt like she could armwrestle a forest troll if he asked.
He handed her a sealed envelope. "You are to inform the Henris family of the capture and arrest of Alastair Henris. You leave for Byton, tomorrow or tonight, if it suits you. But I want the news delivered personally to the head of the family."
Farren's face paled. Fighting a forest troll seemed much more preferable than striding through the front doors of one of the most powerful noble houses. Heavens know what the rest of his family is like.
"But, sir-- couldn't we inform them directly..." she fumbled for words, "via the, er-- Dark Saints mail service--"
"Clearstrike." The lieutenant's brows rose, and kept rising until she gave in.
"...Yes, sir."
On the bright side, she would get a chance to visit home on this occasion.
✦✧✦✧
Later when Farren sank into a bench in the mess hall with a bowl of stew-- thankfully not cold this time, Rendarr and Gray were still busy training with Foxward, who spent more of the time up in the air and down on the dust than on his feet. Her eyes found the familiar figure, his cloak a dark smudge of black among the blue-clad soldiers.
Linder was seated at one of the long tables across the hall, and he was sitting very still. With his back to her, he sat facing ahead, without even the slightest movement. He appeared frozen in place.
With one bite, Farren tore off half of her rye bread and observed. When he still did not appear to move a muscle, she grabbed her bowl and made her way over to him.
Perhaps all that coffee had finally stopped his heart.
But he turned his face to look her way, proving he was indeed very much alive.
"What's wrong?" asked Farren through a mouthful of bread.
The look he gave her was an impossible combination of exhilaration and pain. He was smiling and suffering at the same time.
"I have made... a friend, it seems," he said.
The cook's tabby cat, Pickle, was curled up on his lap. Only his little face was visible, the rest of his body cozily tucked into Linder's cloak that fell like curtains over his sides.
Farren thought he had chosen the best place to nap on. She had never wanted to pull someone into a hug more.
"Wait." She had a sudden realization. "How long have you been sitting like this?"
"Two hours," he said. Then added helplessly, "I can't feel my legs, Farren."
Platters and bowls jumped as Farren pounded her fist onto the table and burst into laughter.
The row of soldiers sliding into the seats opposite to them joined in.
"Rude," said Linder, petting a peacefully asleep Pickle who purred in agreement.
"'Tis a good sign. Our Pickle's usually wary of strangers," said an old veteran among them, "but since he has chosen you, who are we to judge?"
The veteran let out a good-natured laugh and patted his shoulder. The others took his seats around Linder-- a rare sight, as most of the soldiers had been rather inclined to isolate him. But things had taken a different turn ever since Linder had shown them the possibility of Commander Karyk being alive, and with credible proof.
He also avoided voicing his suspicion about Dion, much to Farren's relief.
"Have you thought about what to do if the Royal Guard is back for the dagger again?" asked Linder once Farren had settled down.
"Very simple. I give him the dagger," said Farren, then leaned in to whisper in a conspiratorial tone. "Or make him believe I gave him the dagger."
Linder gave her a half smile. "This plan of yours... stinks of sorcery."
"Then cover your nose, sir," she said, "for I'm not letting go of this blade."
It was at this moment a blonde young woman strode through the doors, rolls of paper tucked under one arm. Farren remembered seeing her with the investigation squad dispatched from Brittlerock.
"Been looking for you everywhere, Sarge," she said, "you never picked up the autopsy report."
"Well-- I was in the woods that day, trying not to die," said Linder.
"No, you were taking notes most of the time," Farren chimed in.
"Find anything interesting, Skylar?" he asked the woman.
Without a word, Skylar tossed the rolls of papers onto the table. From a pouch strapped to her belt, she produced a small wooden box, and looked at them, her expression dark.
"The most interesting thing about Commander Karyk's autopsy report is that the body is not his," she said. "I believe this one specimen speaks for itself. Here."
Awakened by all the commotion, Pickle stretched, and dropped noiselessly down from Linder's lap, finally granting him freedom of movement.
He stood up, legs trembling, and received the box from Skylar.
He clicked it open and hissed in a sharp breath.
Farren and the other soldiers from the table looked over his shoulder. Inside the box, gleamed a single, milky white fang. A vampire's.
"Found on the upper jaw," said Skylar, "but Commander Karyk was not a vampire, was he? The body was most likely of a patroller or night-archer, unfortunate enough to be near his office when the Firemount went off."
Linder pondered over it for a moment, then turned to soldiers surrounding him. "Now, sirs, is this evidence enough for you to believe my words?"
"More than enough," said one of the soldiers, handing him a steaming bowl of stew. "Eat up, and tell us what we can do to rescue ol' Commander from wherever the Drisians have him tied up."
"All in good time," he said. "Let us be patient, and make sure a killer doesn't overhear us."