Farmers & Mercenaries (7 page)

The guarder captain raised the spear, drew back, and let it fly. When he released, the beast darted to the side, deeper into the tilled field, and toward Arderi. The spear kicked up dirt as it struck the ground where the beast had been a hare’s breath before.

Turning, Arderi ran. A jolt of terror shot through him as he tripped on a mound of tilled earth and went down hard. Wind forced from his lungs, Arderi looked back toward the tree line. The cat-thing charged directly at him. Flinnok rode hot on its tail, yet losing ground every moment. Scrambling back on hands and feet like a wounded crab, Arderi’s heart seemed to stop as he watched the creature draw near where he lay. Letting out a scream, he curled into a tight ball, covering his head with both hands.

The beast kicked up dirt as it launched itself over Arderi. It landed some three or four paces beyond, toward the road. Scurrying around the wagons—panicked fielders scattering in an attempt to get out of the way—the creature raced across the gravel road. It tore through an adjacent field faster than any horse could possibly run, and vanished into a copse of trees on the far side. Staring after it in stunned silence, Arderi did not hear the horse trot up behind him, nor the man dismount.

“Are you all right, boy?” Arderi turned a blank stare up at Flinnok Nime who held down a helping hand. Three large rips traced their way across the guarder captain’s leather jerkin.

Arderi took his hand, allowing the guarder to pull him to his feet. “What was that?” His voice quivered with the fear that was still pulsing through his veins.

“That, my boy, was a Krugour. And a might big one at that.” Flinnok turned, took hold of his horse’s reins, and started back toward the group of guarders who had gathered around their fallen companion.

Arderi tensed when a hand grabbed him by the shoulders and spun him roughly around. “What in all the Planes of Hell were you thinking, boy?” A look that Arderi had never before seen plastered his father’s face. The man was obviously mad, yet he looked frightened as well.

“Papa, I—” Tanin crushed him in an embrace. Upon his release, Arderi saw the seed of a tear welling in his father’s eye.

Tanin quickly turned his face and his anger to Flinnok. Mir’am Cor trotted a few paces to catch up with the guarder captain. “How did a Krugour get this close to the stead, Nime?” The anger in his voice shocked Arderi. He had never known his father to lose his temper.

Flinnok Nime came to a stop and turned to face the fielder. “Not sure.” He rubbed his chin in frustration. “We missed the bugger on our first patrol. Truth be told, it found us—or at least me.” He fumbled with his ruined chest armor. Blood visibly stained its torn edges. “Came out of nowhere, it did. Knocked me off my horse before I knew what was happening. If not for Ralin over there, I would not be talking to you now.” He looked back to his men and let his eyes linger. “If you will pardon me, Tanin, I have my own to be looking after.” Flinnok crossed the field and joined his men.

Tanin strode back to his son. Snagging Arderi by the arm, he led the boy in the opposite direction to where the rest of the fielders stood. All of the men gathered in a tight knot around the wagons.

“Do you think that guarder will be all right, Papa?”

“We shall find out in due time, son. They are Militants. They will tend to their own. For now, let us see to ours, shall we?”

He watched his father, who again had become the same easy-going man he had known all his life. Arderi tried to stop the shaking that filled him. Unable to calm down, he let Tanin guide him as they walked.

Masstin Wilt, a worn, thin man, broke from the group of fielders. “The boy all right?”

Tanin glanced over his shoulder at Arderi. “Fine, I think. A little shaken.” He made a motion with his arm to the far side of the field. “Anyone know who the fallen guarder is?”

“Nix, not as yet.” Mir’am Wilt’s answer was accompanied by a scowl. “What say we break for halfmeal, huh, Tanin?”

Tanin reached over and planted a hand on his son’s shoulder. “Arderi was just talking about being eaten—I mean… eating.” He made no attempt to hide his grin.

Several of the men gave out laughs and muttered agreement. Mir’am Wilt pulled out the food baskets and passed them around. Basket in hand, Riln caught Arderi’s attention and motioned for him to follow. Gathering up his own food, Arderi fell in step behind his friend.

“Oiy!”

Arderi froze. He knew that tone in his father’s voice all too well.

“And where might you be going, lads?” His father’s voice had his do-not-mess-with-me tone.

Both boys looked back at the group of fielders. “Just a walk, Papa.” Though Arderi still shook inside, he hoped it did not show in his voice.

“I do not be thinking so, lad. I allow the beasties only one chance a day to eat one of my young.” Chuckles resounded through the group. He pointed off to the other wagons. “You boys can stay near us if you need to talk.”

“Yes, Mir’am Cor.” Riln chimed in with a quickness that Arderi found discouraging. Pointing toward the furthest of the wagons, he pulled Arderi to it by the elbow.

Hopping on the back of the wagon, Riln unwrapped his meal. “That was wicked!” He kept a low voice so no one except Arderi could hear. “What were you thinking when that thing charged you?”

Arderi looked at him as if he were an idiot. “What in all the Planes of Hell do you think I was thinking?” Keeping his retort low, it came out more as a harsh whisper. “I thought I was going to die!”

Riln bit into the piece of flatbread he pulled from his basket. “You did look rather silly flinging dirt all around.” His giggle barely made it around his mouth full of food. A large piece of dried beef came to Arderi’s rescue and followed the bread into Riln’s mouth, forcing him to chew instead of talk.

Tearing off a piece of his own flatbread, Arderi placed it in his mouth. It tasted of ash.

There is no way I can eat anything just now.

He wrapped up the rest of his meal and set the food bundle in the wagon behind Riln. “We got a Crystal from Alant this morn. Came in with that caravan yesterday, I suppose.” Arderi stared off toward the woods into which the Krugour had disappeared.

“You all right, Arderi?”

Arderi glanced at his friend and noted the concern on his face. He nodded his head. “Why?”

“I was with you this morn when your Papa told you about the Crystal, remember.”

“Aye, right. I meant about the caravan.” Arderi let his eyes drift back to the tree line.

“Aye… and?” Riln continued to eat.

“You remember when we were younger, how we used to always say that one day we would leave on one of them caravans? Just hide in one of the wagons and go wherever it took us?”

“Aye, yet Arderi, that was just boy’s talk. Why bring it up now? What are you getting at?”

“It is just—” Arderi let out a sigh. “I do not know any more, Riln.” He hopped onto the wagon and sat down hard next to his friend. “I have thought a few times of doing that here recently. Jumping on one, you know. Going wherever it takes me.”

“You got a lot of nerve, Arderi Cor!” Riln threatened him with a half-eaten piece of dried beef as if it were a knife. “I ought to sock you one right here and now.” He turned and gestured toward the trees. “It is a shame that cat did not whack you a good one!”

The anger in Riln’s voice took Arderi by surprise. Arderi did not try to keep the heat from his own. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“You! That is what it means.” Riln slammed the remainder of his flatbread down into his food bundle. “Look, I may not know much about things, due to me being a
fielder
and all, yet you!” He poked Arderi’s chest with the knife-of-beef for added punctuation. “You are special! We all know it. We knew it about Alant and we know it about you. This is just you being scared of being Tested soon, huh?”

Arderi rubbed his chest where Riln had jabbed him. “Mayhaps. I am a man grown now. I should be Tested soon. Yet, so what?”

“So what?” Riln looked as though his head was about to explode. “Alant has been taken to Hath’oolan! By the Twelve, Arderi, Hath’oolan!” He flung his arms into the air. “That is incredible! I do not think our stead has ever produced a Shaper who has been taken there. Ever! And you are next, Arderi! I only wish I had that opportunity.”

Shaking his head, Arderi ran a hand through his brown hair. “You act as if I have already been Tested, Riln. Remember, Siln Tested and was found to have nothing. No ability with the Essence. There is no guarantee that I will be any different.”

“Siln!” Riln snorted to show what he thought of that. “You think you are like your brother? No one expected anything different of him.” He cocked his head and gave an inquisitive look. “Did you?”

Arderi hated thinking negatively about his brother. Despite all of Siln’s faults, Arderi loved him. Of all his siblings, they were the closest in age as well as spirit. He paused before answering, guilt welling inside. “Well, no, not really.” He was only being honest. Looking over at the other fielders eating a few wagons away, he eyed his brother, shame at feeling the way he did getting the better of him. “Alas, it does not work that way, Riln. The Essence owns its will, as the saying goes. You cannot possibly believe I will have any ability with the Essence just because Alant is my brother.”

“Why not? You do.” Accusation filled Riln’s words. Arderi shook his head in protest as Riln continued. “Really? You have always believed. You have always known!”

“Nix! That is the problem. I have always wanted to be different, to get away from this stead. I am terrified of growing to be nothing more than a fielder—like my Papa before me, and his before him. I lay awake sometimes and ache. Ache with the desire to run. Escape what I am going to become. What I am becoming.” Letting his head droop to his chest, Arderi stared at the tilled dirt around him.

“You think we all have not dreamed those dreams—dreamt of the adventure, the excitement? Aye! I have! Yet you, you are going to do it, Arderi. We all have known that, not just from what happened to Alant, either. I have known since we became house mates. You
are
special, Arderi, and once they Test you, the whole Plane will know it.”

“What if I do not pass? What if I am not special? I do not think I can live life knowing I will never be more than a fielder.”

Arderi flew from the wagon and found himself lying in the dirt for the second time this day. He looked up at Riln who stood over him staring down with fists clenched.

“And what is wrong with being a fielder, Arderi?” Riln looked as angry as Arderi had ever seen. “You love to sit there and feel sorry for yourself, even though we all think you are bound for something more. Yet what do I have to look forward to, huh? I do not have a famous brother gallivanting around the Plane! I did not pass the Test when I took it! Remember! I am a fielder, plain and simple. Do not try and…” Kicking dirt at Arderi, Riln stormed off toward the other fielders. “Nix, forget it.”

Arderi watched Riln stride toward the other men, the remainder of his food held tight in hand. “It is not that…” He spoke under his breath, then raised his voice. “Riln, I am sorry!”

Riln simply waved a dismissive hand over his shoulder and hopped into a wagon with a few other men.

Rolling over on his back, Arderi stared up into the clear-blue sky.

It is not that! It is this… gnawing in the back of my mind that something is not right. And it scares me. I do not understand why, yet by the Twelve, I am scared!

T
he day had turned out to be a good one for Clytus Rillion. He had spent much of the morning in the bazaar procuring the last of the items needed for his trip—filling some five or six wagonloads of supplies for himself and his men. Very little else needed to be done. All stood in readiness.

“I will give you three Pynes per stone, Grilmire, and I will take all you have.” Clytus waited for the fat merchant sitting in front of him, sweating even in the cool breeze of spring, to mull over the offer.

“Three Pynes is a bit shy. Still, if you take the full two hundred stones worth…” Grilmire whipped a multicolored cloth across his brow. A grunt escaped his lips causing his multiple chins to jiggle. “I do not even know why I bother haggling with you, Master Rillion! You come to me knowing what you will pay. Fine, all will be ready come morn. Everything we have agreed on will be loaded and waiting for you outside my warehouse in Gatetown.”

Shaking the merchant’s ringed hand, Clytus pulled out a small sack containing coins and bounced it in the palm of his hand. “Aye, mayhaps you lose the ability to haggle. Still, you know where you stand with me.” He tossed the bag onto the wooden counter between them. “And I always come to you first for my supplies.”

The merchant, Grilmire, eyed the list of items he had written down. The sleeve of his tent-like silken robe—red covered in green and yellow embroidery in swirling patterns—billowed in the slight breeze of the Bazaar. “I think it will all fit on two wagons. You say you also need dayhires to drive them?”

“Aye. I have four wagons already loaded at my villa. I have men that can drive them to Gatetown, yet only one of those will be accompanying me on my journey north, so I will need five men to drive up to the Wartin’alan stead. I will pay for their lodging there and they can return home on the morrow.”

“Who will drive them on the morrow after that?” The merchant squinted at Clytus.

“My merc troop is camped near Wartin’alan. I will pull men from their ranks to drive the rest of the way.”

“Two hundred stones of dried beef, half hundred of salt, a veritable wagon load of dried fruit, and the list goes on. All this will last even your troop of hungry men for quite some time. I have never known you to travel out so far.” Grilmire did not bother counting the coin and simply moved the bag from the table to a lockbox on the floor.

“Aye, this one is personal. We will be heading off into the Nektine.” At the puzzled look from his old friend, Clytus sighed. “The Nektine Mountains. North, past the Artoc River.”

“What? Up near Stillwater way?” Grilmire looked shocked.

“Aye, we will be crossing the Artoc at Stillwater.”

“What in the name of the Eternals would drag you up there? Are not those the lands of the wild O’Arkins?”

“Aye, yet it is not O’Arkin we hunt, it is something much, much worse. And more precious to me than you will ever know, my old friend.”

The fat merchant grunted. “I hear the ruckus in the coliseum has finally subsided.”

“You should have seen it! The Kith beast was a terror!” Clytus could not help except grin. “It slew Ginnius Mulma’Asion before he could even make his first attack!”

“Ginnius?” Grilmire hrumphed. “I never liked that pompous fool. Twas about time someone put him down.” He again wiped the sweat cascading down his brow. “Who killed it then? The Twins?”

Clytus leaned back in his chair. “The Twins did not fare any better.” He raised a hand to forestall the merchant’s interruption. “Oh, they lasted longer. Alas, both now have met the Twelve in the aftermore.”

“Nix! Keep me in suspense no longer! Who felled the beast?”

Shaking his head, Clytus answered after a moments pause and a grin at the merchant’s boyish excitement. “No one. It came down to old Salmik. Yet by that point, I did not envy him his task. He made a good showing—wounding the thing and almost ending it—only the beast’s strength remained too great. He also dwells with the Twelve now.”

“Live in the Games, Die in the Games.” Grilmire made the sign of the Twelve in front of his chest. “What of the beast? What of it now?”

Pushing his seat back, Clytus stood. “Who knows? The Julitans will think of something, I am certain. They will have to recoup some of the losses from this day. The amount they spent in death tax alone must have been substantial.” He turned and mingled with the stream of people passing through the Bazaar.

“Be careful up north, Clytus!” Grilmire’s shout rose above the din of the crowd. “I would hate to lose one of my best customers!”

Clytus chuckled.

Aye, old friend, I would hate to short your bank vault as well.

The main thruway of the Bazaar led in the direction he needed to go, so he let the current of people sweep him along. The Bazaar in Mocley, much like any market area of the major cities he had seen in his day, sat near the main entrance gates. Permanent stone and mortar shops surrounding temporary wooden stalls, intermixed with tents sitting next to farmers on wagons where people criss-crossed, hawking the wares they carried on trays or bags or boxes. They sold a variety of items from every corner of the known Plane. A mixing of colors and sights and sounds and smells that never failed to impress Clytus.

He considered leaving the Bazaar south by way of Main, past the Great Palintium—the Temple of the Twelve Gods of Man was the first sight one saw when coming from the Bazaar through the gates of New Town. It was a huge building, some thirty stories high with many spires and steeples. Its large, grandiose staircases led past massive statues of the Twelve Gods of Man to spill onto wide patios bedecked with finely crafted columns and frescos. Unfortunately, it was nearing midday, which meant priests standing along Main with incense braziers burning, holding the artifact of their God, taking in offerings and doling out prayers for the midday worship session.

It never ceases to amaze me how much people need to believe in something.

This inevitably slowed traffic to a crawl as it crept past the Great Palintium, and Clytus had no time for such.

Instead, he continued east through the Bazaar coming out at Narian Way.

Narian, ha! As if
this street was paved with gold.

He passed by the Boulevard of the Gods at an intersection where a large center fountain stood—one of many fountains scattered throughout the city. Water flowed over statues of Mermidians at this one, depicting the sea folk who lived in the waters of the Glonlore Bay. Each one appeared frozen in time, as if caught while playing and splashing in the fountain’s water. Their nakedness, spackled with scales and fins at strategic locations, accentuated the allure of the water creatures.

Though I would wager that only a handful of people in this city have ever laid eyes on one of the creatures that live in the waters at their very doorstep.

Continuing down Narian Way, and closer to the gates of the Merchantillian, he found the crowd thinning. With a grin, he noticed that not only did the dress of the people around him improve, so did their smell. Reaching the small gates, he stepped around two people the city watch had stopped. The guards questioned the dingy clad men as to what possible business they had with any merchant of the caliber housed within this particular section of the city. A few of the guards glanced Clytus’ way, though none made any motion to hinder his progress. Passing under the main portcullis, which protected the Merchantillian and separated it from the rest of Mocley, the captain of the merchant guard, Faztilmin, nodded at Clytus from his perch on a tall stool sitting next to a gatehouse door. It still astonished Clytus that the merchants in this section had their own guard separate from the city watch.

The merchant’s guard—or merkswords, as the locals refer to them—are better trained, that is for sure.

Inclining his head toward the man, Clytus continued on his path. Since many of the men who employed him owned shops in the Merchantillian, his was a face the merkswords had seen many a time.

In this section of the city, one could find the more expensive items that might be on one’s shopping list. As he walked its broad, tree-lined and flower edged cobblestone streets, he was greeted here and there by passers-by and shopkeeps he had come to know over the past decade. He waved or nodded to each politely, not pausing in his stride. It pleased him that his reputation was of someone who got the job done, and one that could be trusted as well.

Passing through the southron gates of the Merchantillian, nodding to the merkswords stationed there, Clytus entered the Sept district. At the next intersection, again with a large ornate fountain—this one depicting the Twelve Gods of Man in various poses atop a mountain, the water cascading down between them like miniature streams to form a lake in the basin—he picked up the tail end of the Boulevard of the Gods. Glancing down the road toward the Palintium, he shook his head at the mass of people who milled about the street. With midday prayers in full swing, he knew he had made the correct decision. That area of the street moved like chilled molasses. Making his way down this road and away from the Palintium, he found himself at the main gates to the Academy.

The front gates, always closed and locked, sat at the very end of the Boulevard of the Gods. He had never seen its portcullis raised on any occasion. He was not even sure if they could open. Turning southwards, through the small alleys that wound between the homes of workers and servants who made their living off the Academy, he skirted the school’s outer wall. Halting outside the small postern gate used by those who wished to enter the grounds, Clytus reached over and pulled a cord dangling from the right of the gate. Patiently, he stood waiting the arrival of an Academy Guard.

Unlike the merkswords, these hobbswords who work for the Shapers are merely errand boys and doormen, all prim and proper. The children of wealth found to have no ability with the Essence, yet whose parents wish them to be close to it anyway. Although, the elite guard here is a cut above.

After a fashion—a suitable enough time to show whoever waited they were not as important as those within—a hobbsword walked out from the gatehouse and strode up to Clytus. This one was a young man, no older than twenty winters. Like all hobbswords, he was smartly dressed. His red and gold stripped tabard with a large yellow starburst on the breast—the symbol of the Shaper’s Order—was spotless, pressed, and fit smooth and snug over his chainmail shirt. Matching breeches, tucked neatly into polished black calf-boots, completed his ensemble. Tall and fair of hair, the hobbswords showed good muscle for his age.

With long sword worn on the right hip, makes this one a lefty.

Without thinking, Clytus adjusted his stance to better defend against the off-handed fellow.

The guard came to a stop just inside the gate. “State your purpose, sir.”

“I have an appointment with the Council of Elders. My name is Clytus Rillion.” He always hated coming to the Academy.

With all its layers of formality, it is a wonder the Shapers control anything.

The guard turned and spoke into a small door off to the side of the gate. “Mir’am Clytus Rillion here to see the Council of Elders by appointment.”

A youngster around the age of twelve winters walked into view, nodded, and took off at a swift jog along a crushed-gravel path. The boy disappeared into the lush foliage which covered the outer area of the Academy grounds.

“If you would please clear the gate area, Mir’am Rillion.” The hobbsword gestured to a bench that sat against the outer wall along the street. “You may have a seat over there while you wait.” He took up his post again, ignoring Clytus.

Stepping away from the gate, Clytus walked to the bench the young man had indicated, sat on one end, and waited—his mind a whirlwind torrent of what he was about to do. Within a few moments, the young boy who had run off with the message hovered in front of him. Clytus cut his eyes to the gate and noticed that it stood open.

I did not even hear it. I
am
getting old.

Clytus raised an eyebrow and inclined his head.

“The Council of Elders will see you, Mir’am Rillion.” The boy had a country accent that Clytus pegged for one of the northron steads. “If you will permit, sir, I will lead you.” He stretched out a hand showing the gate that stood a pace away.

I know the way inside better than you, young one.

Standing, Clytus gave an over-acted motion for the boy to lead on. They stepped through the gate and proceeded down the main path leading to one of the larger buildings. The grounds themselves boasted some of the lushest plant life within the city. Never had Clytus walked these paths and not seen flowers in full bloom, trees dangling plump fruits, and the bushes decked out in brilliant green leaves.

They put the richest villa gardens to shame. Alas, being able to bend the Essence to your will should afford the Shapers some privileges.

Tall trees bathed the area in a cooling blanket of shade. Deep green grass covered any location not meticulously planted with shrubbery or flowering plants. The crushed white stone paths laid out for foot traffic were wide and smooth, easy to walk.