The Chimaera Regiment (6 page)

The marching mob was almost in range; attack too soon, and they could pull back beyond his reach, but too late, and they could rush his archers. It was a delicate balance; he only needed a few more seconds.

“Milord! Our flank!”

The shout spun Einar around to look for the speaker. One of the swordsmen pointed to the west, their army’s right flank. There, over a hundred men charged down a ridge that had blocked them from view. Einar cursed; Derek had taken advantage of his singular focus on the marching army from the south. A fraction of Derek’s forces, barely noticeable when missing, had gone far out of their way and double-timed it to crush the village from behind.

Which meant that their ambush was anticipated, and had little chance of success. “Archers, open fire!” he roared. Immediately, the archers began launching a barrage into the oncoming mass of men. “Swordsmen,” Einar ordered, “Move to the right flank!” Lord Borsun and his guards charged to the west.

Einar snatched up his sword and prepared to descend the tower when he glanced to the eastern flank. His heart sank; Derek had surrounded them. Another hundred men tore down the eastern ridge toward them. Worse, that army had likely found Duncan in his hiding place and killed him. There was no one to warn the Alkimites about the Regiment.

Conflict gripped Einar’s heart. He was torn. He could either fight alongside the brave men of this town and die with them, as was honorable, or he could flee the battle and report to his own lord, as duty demanded.

At last, in the most shameful moment of his life, Einar knew that one more death here would make no difference, but his warnings could save lives back at the Valley. He resheathed his sword and descended the tower, then sprinted north to where he had left his horse a few hours earlier. She was disturbed by the sounds of battle, but she waited for him still.

He untied the reins and gently slapped the horse’s hindquarters, sending her trotting northward. Running alongside her, he gripped the stirrup bar and vaulted onto his saddle. He spurred her up to a canter, still headed north.

He had ridden a quarter-mile before a troop of halberdiers blocked his path. The ten Leonites must have been sent around to stop exactly the sort of escape Einar had planned. They surrounded him and menaced his horse with their halberds, forcing him to stop short.

One of them stepped forward; he was wearing a green tunic where the others wore brown. Einar thought that he must have been their captain. The Leonite said, “Who are you, and why do you flee this battle?”

“It’s not my fight,” Einar lied, “I am simply a traveler who had stopped here for the night. I am returning to my home in the north, and I wanted no part of this.”

The Leonite captain was suspicious. “Where is this home in the north? A great valley, perhaps?”

Einar worried that their spy had spotted them after all, if a common soldier like this was pressing for information about the Valley. He knew that he could not say that he was an Alkimite; instead, he lied again. “I am one of the Annali, but I know the valley you mean. The Alkimites, no friends of ours, live there.”

The captain neared Einar’s horse with his halberd. “I still can’t let you leave. You’ll have to talk to Lord Derek and Lord Fero.” When Einar did not move, he added with a sneer, “Get off your horse, or it stays here.”

With a sigh, Einar obliged them. He dismounted and walked with them back to the town, now sacked by Derek’s armies.

*

The 2040th year of the Sixth Era

The nineteenth of the month of Anthemen

During the night

Night had fallen. The Leonites had ushered Einar into a huddle of prisoners, collected from the countryside. Einar thought it good fortune that there were no locals among them, or Derek might discover his true identity.

They were led into a large tent. Four guards stood at the opening, their spears gleaming in the moonlight. The inside of the tent was murky, as there was only one small torch in its center. Misers milled about aimlessly, some bemoaning their lot, others conspiring against their captors. Still others sat in acquiescent silence, knowing there was little they could do. Einar shuffled over to two such men, near the south wall of the tent, and sat down beside them.

“My name’s Outis,” he said, “of the Annali.”

“Azos,” said one, his voice grave with age, “of the Sundans.”

“Fintan,” said the other, a much younger man, “also of the Sundans.”

“How did you boys come to be prisoners of Derek?” Einar asked.

Azos shrugged. “More accurately, I don’t think we are,” he answered, explaining, “We were prisoners of Fero when he and Derek forged their little ‘regiment’ here.”

“How about you?” Fintan asked. He had dark hair and an unkempt beard, but his bright eyes defied his captivity. Einar kept Fintan in mind as he began to develop his plans for escape.

“I was passing through Ritkan,” Einar lied, keeping up his story, “the market town, when the Regiment attacked. I was caught trying to escape. Just wasn’t my fight.”

Azos nodded. “I’m surprised they let you live. Normally, when they aim to kill everyone, they do just that.”

Einar frowned. “You mean they don’t always aim to kill everyone?”

Fintan shook his head. “Oh, no. That’s how we came to be Derek’s prisoners. He and Fero fought a Duel of Lords; Fero won, but let Derek live. Now they’re on a march after some tribe in the north. The shiny man, Drystan, he’s guiding them, like he knows something they don’t.”

That was Derek’s Guardian, Einar realized. These men seemed to pay attention to their surroundings. Einar decided to press them for more information. “I was in Ritkan because I was pursuing a horse-thief. I don’t suppose anyone like that met up with the Regiment?” he asked.

“Actually,” Fintan replied, “I did see someone ride in from the north on a pretty exhausted horse. I don’t think you have to worry about bringing him to justice, though.”

Einar was quizzical. “Why’s that?”

“Because,” answered Azos, “Derek had him killed. It seems your horse-thief was a spy from the northern tribe the Regiment is hunting. He told Derek and Fero all about their goings-on up there, and then Derek executed him for treason. Derek has a saying: ‘Once a traitor, always a traitor.’”

Good for him, Einar thought in admiration. Enemy or not, the man had a code, and that meant he had a sense of honor—even if that sense were sorely twisted.

“Did they tell you anything, Outis of the Annali,” asked Azos, “when they brought you here?”

Einar shrugged. “Only that the two lords would want to speak to me.”

“Well,” Fintan advised, “don’t expect to get a full night’s sleep. They might come for you anytime. And don’t expect a lot of charity, either. If you’re no use to them, they’ll either kill you or enslave you.”

Einar smiled weakly. “Thanks for the tip.”

The three men settled down to get some rest, and soon were fast asleep.

Across the camp, a troop of soldiers was preparing to depart. They were a scout troop under Captain Martin, and the ten men were being sent northeast. Their mission was to find a group of Alkimites and ensure their deaths, especially a boy called Hector.

Lochan, the troop’s tracker, did not like the mission. He loved to hunt, so tracking four people on a journey hundreds of miles away appealed to him, but executing children was offensive to the gods. But when they found the boy, that duty would fall to Martin, and the man’s blood-thirst was infamous. Lochan would happily leave such butchery to his captain. In the meantime, he was a soldier of the Chimaera Regiment, and he would do his duty.

His reluctance did not especially delay him. He was the eighth man to arrive at the rendezvous, right after Aeilous, the runner. Dyseg, a swordsman, and Kineage, an archer, arrived after he did. When all were present, the troop set off northeast, disturbing the stillness of the night.

*

The 2040th year of the Sixth Era

The nineteenth of the month of Anthemen

Shortly before the first hour

The next morning, just before dawn, Einar was roused by rough hands. “On your feet!” someone spat in his face. He was pushed out into the creeping light of early morn, and as his eyes adjusted, he was glad of the auroral time.

Two guards prodded him repeatedly toward the largest tent on the field. It could only be the lords’ meeting tent. There were two more guards standing at its entrance; they pulled aside the flaps to admit him. No one spoke to him, and he did not break that silence.

The three lords of the Chimaera Regiment awaited him inside. Derek sat forward in a throne near the center of the tent; Fero paced idly next to him; and Drystan stood silently in the corner, almost in shadow. The spoils of war surrounded them in the huge tent, making them look all the more majestic.

Einar sized up each lord as he saw them. Fero was a simple warrior; he wore plain armor and had a great longsword sheathed across his back. His black hair had been tied back and he was clean-shaven. Drystan looked almost identical to Lord Aneirin, but where Aneirin had silver eyes, Drystan’s were solid black. He stood apart, alone, where he could see everyone in the room; Einar imagined he held no trust for anyone.

But Derek was the most barbaric. His eyes were wild, his brown hair and beard more so. His throne was the most daring thing of all. Carved from wood, it had steel trim; appended to the armrests were two animal skulls, perhaps from dogs or wolves. On the surface of the wood and the purple-dyed cushions were etched images of Derek himself; in each, he was conquering some person or tribe. In the most prominent, just above his head, in the center of the back cushion, he was depicted crushing Aeron Himself, the god of life and death.

Einar reevaluated his admiration for the man’s sense of honor. Derek had no respect for the gods or the Code of Lords; such a man had no ethical limits, and was greatly to be feared. Almost too late, the old warrior remembered where he was, and bowed before the lords. He held the pose, waiting for their allowance.

He did not have to wait long. “I understand,” said Fero, “that you are one of the Annali. From the north.”

Einar stood straight and nodded his head. “Yes, my lord,” he said, “We live northwest of the great valley there.”

Fero and Derek exchanged a glance, then Derek exchanged another with Drystan. They were not as subtle as they seemed to think. “The valley,” Derek intoned casually, “What do you know of it?”

Einar shrugged slightly, maintaining his ruse. “I know that a tribe called the Alkimites lives there,” he said, “We have battled with them before. They are very many, next to us, but nothing before your might, my lords.”

Another glance was exchanged. “This we know,” Fero continued, “But we are asking whether you are aware of any... weaknesses there.”

Einar wondered that a man like Fero would euphemize his deadly work. He wanted to know if he could ambush the Alkimites, slaughter them all with minimal casualties; why not simply ask? Why dance around the question with implications and half-sayings? Einar sensed that Fero was more honorable than his daring counterpart, but the hoary Alkimite was frustrated by the lord’s double-speak. “It may be, my lord,” Einar offered conspiratorially, “But I am not certain why I should speak of it to you.”

“Do you not value your life, man?” Derek sneered.

“I am a captive of a foreign army, lord,” he answered, “My life is forfeit already. I ask not for me, but for my people. I will not betray the Annali.”

Derek smiled at that. That smile was a crooked, wicked thing that chilled Einar’s old bones. “What would you ask of us, then?”

“Do not go to war with my tribe,” Einar answered, “And let me and my friends fight beside you in the coming battles.”

“Friends?” Derek mocked, “What friends? You were captured alone.”

“Two Sundans that I met in the tent last night,” he explained, “Brave and hardy men.”

Derek looked at Fero, who nodded noncommittally. The barbarian lord turned back to his captive. “You have a deal, man. What is your name?”

“I am Outis,” Einar lied again.

“You are now Outis, soldier of the Chimaera Regiment,” announced Derek, “Swear your fealty.”

Fero drew his sword and handed it to Einar, hilt first. Einar took it and drove the point into the ground. He knelt beside it and promised Ariane in silence that he would make sacrifices in her name to atone for his falsehood. “I swear,” he recited, “my sword, my name, and my life to you, lords, and to your banners.”

He stood, and returned the blade to Fero. The burly lord said admiringly, “Go, Outis,” gesturing toward the open tent flaps, “Gather your fellows, and join the troop of Mort and Umbra. You will find them at the south end of the camp.”

Einar bowed and left the lords behind. Dawn had still not broken over the horizon, and Einar found himself alone as he returned to the prisoner tent. He had no escort now, and only the chirruping crickets entertained his ears.

As he passed a thicket, a heavy hand clamped down over his nose and mouth, and he was dragged into the underbrush.

The 2040th year of the Sixth Era

The nineteenth of the month of Anthemen

Early in the first hour

Einar could not see anything as he was hauled bodily among the trees. The hand that smothered his nose and mouth stank of sweat and mud. The old warrior clawed at the meaty arm wrapped around his neck, trying to pry it loose, but his assailant just bore down harder.

Panic began to set in. Fears flitted through his mind like a swarm of gnats. They must have caught him in a lie. They must have captured and tortured someone else from the town, maybe even Duncan. No one at the Valley would see them coming. Everyone would be slaughtered.

He had failed.

His vision narrowed as darkness filled his eyes. He was about to pass out when he was suddenly released! His captor set him gently on the ground, then slapped his back as he coughed past the bruises on his face and throat. As his vision returned in the gloom of dawn, he made out a face he recognized.

“Hello, Einar,” Duncan said with a smile as his friend awoke.

“Duncan!” Einar managed to gasp past a fit of coughing. Eventually, he was able to suggest, “You could have just said that back at the camp, you know.”

As his eyes adjusted, Einar got a better look at his fellow. Duncan was disheveled, dirty, and bleeding from many small cuts on his face and arms, but he did not seem gravely wounded. His hair was wild and his clothing was covered in muck. A quick glance at their surroundings let Einar know that Duncan had lost his horse somewhere along the way.

“I couldn’t risk alerting anyone at the camp,” Duncan explained, “I wanted to get you away as quietly as possible. I assume they have your horse?”

Einar rubbed his neck gingerly, and he shot a sour look at Duncan. But he answered, “Yeah, I’m not sure where. What happened to yours?”

“Felled by a spear,” said Duncan, “They would have got me, too, but I took the opportunity to roll into a pond and play dead.”

“Hence the stink,” Einar replied, pointing at Duncan’s hands.

Duncan sniffed his hand and recoiled with a grimace. “Sorry about that,” he said breathlessly, “I figured, if they’re going to let a prisoner walk about unattended, I should take advantage.” He gestured northward. “Now let’s get out of here before they notice you’re gone.” Einar frowned; Duncan noticed. “Oh, what now?” he asked.

“I lied about who I am. They’re letting me join their army with some of my fellow captives.” Duncan shook his head reluctantly, so Einar persisted, “I can find out what they’re planning, and when we get close to the Valley, I’ll escape, free all their prisoners, and report to Lord Cyrus. We’ll have more soldiers to fight them with, and we’ll know how they plan to attack.”

“I don’t like this, Einar,” Duncan warned. “It’s too risky. Let’s just go now. We can stay ahead of the army if we—”

“It’s too late for that now,” Einar interrupted him. “I identified the men I wanted in my troop. If I disappear now, they’ll be executed.”

Duncan sighed. He could not allow innocent men to be killed over this. He said at last, “Fine. But I’m going to stay a few steps ahead of you. Report to me as often as you can, and I’ll try to minimize the damage ahead of the army.”

Einar slapped his shoulder and shook his hand. “Good idea, man,” he said, “Now I’ve got to get back, before anyone gets suspicious.” They bade their goodbyes, and Einar ducked into the underbrush, headed again for the camp.

He reached the prison tent in short order and without incident. The guard recognized him. Evidently, he had been informed of the change in Einar’s status. Einar wondered how quickly the lords had sent that report after he left. “All set to release those men to you,” he said.

“Good,” Einar answered with a curt nod. He gestured toward the open air and made a face at the guard. “Well?”

The man pulled open the tent flap and called out Fintan and Azos. “What took you so long?” he asked Einar while they waited.

“What do you think?” Einar shot back with an incredulous expression. “A man can’t have a moment’s privacy in the woods anymore?”

The guard shrugged, a little sheepish. A moment later, Fintan and Azos stepped out into the morning sun, now peeking through the trees. Einar nodded sharply at the guard and led the two Sundans out of earshot.

“What’s going on?” Fintan demanded, when they were safely away. “Last night, you’re dragged away to see the lords, and this morning, you’re giving orders to our guards?”

“I made a deal with the lords,” Einar explained, “We fight for their army, and they don’t kill us outright.”

“You’re a fool!” Azos spat, “I won’t fight for that madman! No matter what the stakes, I will not help him slaughter other tribes for his own gain!”

“Wait!” Einar interrupted them as they turned back toward their prison, “I have a plan, and if it works, we won’t have fought anyone but the Regiment when it’s over.” He jerked his head toward the southern end of the encampment. “Come with me. I’ll explain on the way.”

By the time they reached their new lodging, Einar had outlined his entire plot to Fintan and Azos. The two men were hesitant, but they knew it was their best chance to survive—and to rescue their fellow prisoners.

The campsite of their new troop, which, Einar gathered, had no official name, was disjointed from the rest of the army. Seven small tents stood alone in a semi-circle, facing the south. Einar wondered if these men considered themselves the first line of defense against possible pursuers. There was no fire, nor even a place for one. The tents were pitched with skill, but not permanence. This troop was always ready to move.

As they approached, two men exited their tents at the center of the formation. They were huge and brutish. Despite their ogreish size, Einar saw that they were soldiers of speed and agility. They wore only light-weight leather raiments and carried a foot-soldier’s sword, no mail armor or spears. Both men were dark-skinned; they sported thick beards and wore brown cloths wrapped around their heads. Einar had once heard tales of powerful men from the deep south, but he had never before seen one. Now he had seen two, and they were called Mort and Umbra.

The two men nodded their greetings in silence. They had been informed of their new recruits, but they were the sort of men who only spoke when lives depended upon it, and that varied based on whose lives they were. The remainder of the day passed in relative silence; the Regiment was staying in the vicinity one more night, then continuing its march north. Rest was their only task.

*

The 2040th year of the Sixth Era

The twentieth of the month of Anthemen

During the night

That night, when the sky was darkest, the camp was roused by sudden shouting. Einar, having no tent, was sleeping on open ground alongside Fintan and Azos. Awakened by the noise, he leapt to his feet and drew his weapon, but his hand was stayed by Mort, who was already awake. The big southerner pointed north, toward the lords’ tent; Einar looked, and he saw a man running wildly through the camp. He was the source of the shouting.

As he approached, Einar was able to make out the words: “Lord Fero is dead! Lord Fero is dead!”

Fintan and Azos rose to their feet, startled. Einar took them by the shoulders to calm them. “Easy,” he explained, “It’s not an attack.”

The shouting soldier was striving to wake everyone; he ran from tent to tent, yelling over and again his message. As he neared their location, Fintan went out to meet him. The man was hysterical; Fintan was forced to grab him by the shoulders and shake him to get a straight word out of him.

“What happened, man?” Fintan demanded.

“Lord Fero is dead!” he repeated, mad from fear or grief or delusion. “He’s dead!”

“I heard you the first time, man!” Fintan countered, “How did he die?”

“In his sleep!” the soldier screamed, “Like a coward! His hand was not on metal when he died!”

This raised a hubbub of activity from the surrounding tents. Soldiers throughout the Regiment spread the word: Fero, warlord chieftain of the ferocious Ferites, had died peacefully in his sleep. Rest was out of the question; the army had been roused, and it would not sleep again that night.

When morning came, the troops packed up their tents as planned. With rucksacks prepared and weapons sheathed, Drystan called them all into formation. Derek sat atop his horse before them, his sword held high to gain their attention.

“My warriors!” he called out, “As you know, our friend and fellow, Lord Fero, died last night. What you may not know is how he died.”

A murmur rose to a dull roar as the soldiers submitted their many opinions. He died in his sleep, of course; he was assassinated; he was dragged behind a team of horses before being wrapped up in his blankets again. The stories were as varied as the men telling them. Order was not restored among the army until Drystan sounded his signal horn. The bellow would be deafening at close range; Fintan felt sorry for the men near the front.

When silence fell again, Derek resumed, “The truth is, Lord Fero had been hiding an illness from you for some time. A weakness in his heart was causing him great pain, and the Ferite healers believe this is what caused his death.”

“That’s a lie,” a Ferite muttered from behind Fintan. “Lord Fero was strong as an ox. No way he was sick.”

“In part,” continued Derek, “this was why he agreed to our partnership. He wanted to see battle again before his death, and he wanted a capable man as lord when he was gone.”

An especially bold man from the crowd shouted, “How do we know you didn’t kill him?”

There was a pause as Derek searched in vain for the speaker. At last, he raised his sword above his head and replied, “If I had done this, you would know it by the sword in his hand and the blood in his wounds!” He pointed the sword across the sea of faces. “And if anyone wants to challenge that, let him step forward to test his mettle!”

No one budged, and silence reigned. Derek might have lost to Fero, but by no wide margin; they knew he was a capable warrior. Still Derek waited; he watched for signs of anxiety, for anyone fidgeting or trying to hide from him, all to no avail.

When he grew tired of waiting, he finished, “Lord Fero was a great warrior, and a good friend. One troop will accompany his body back to his homeland, where he will be buried with the utmost respect.” With a signal wave of his hand, the forefront of the army began its march. Turning his horse, he led the advance, and Drystan rode up beside him.

*

The 2040th year of the Sixth Era

The twenty-fourth of the month of Anthemen

Early in the second hour

Four days later, in the northeastern woodlands, Hector was roused by a sharp kick. He recoiled at the light pouring over him. Their “housing,” as Eitromal had called it, consisted of a series of pits dug into the ground at the edge a second clearing, northwest of the obelisk. Once Hector and his companions were dropped inside, one person to each pit, they were covered by a row of wooden planks, blocking out all light.

Hector had lost track of the days. Food was delivered inconsistently, and usually rotten. Hector ate what he could and promised sacrifices to Anthea if Bronwyn were receiving better care than he. Normally, his food was tossed in quickly; never before had someone joined him in his pit.

He looked up to see Veither standing beside him. “Get up, you filth,” the Keldan spat, “Sounds like your friend could use some help in the arena.”

Weakly, Hector climbed to his feet. The full brightness of the morning sun was blinding after so long in the dark. Veither forced him up a rope ladder, lowered into his pit for this purpose.

An array of sensations filled his eyes, his ears, his nose; his pit had been black, muddy, and quiet, but the world outside was filled with light, the sweet aroma of late summer, and the sounds of life. He felt like a man deaf and blind being given all of his senses in full.

Once out of the pit, Veither shoved him toward the structure at the center of the clearing. Hector had seen it briefly when they had been brought here before; a stone wall, about seven feet high, surrounded a large, oval area. At the eastern end, where Veither was pushing Hector, there was a small gate; at the western end, an edifice stood above the wall, about thirty feet high in total. This was the arena of the Keldans.

The gate was wooden and ancient; its stale, musty odor contrasted sharply with the pleasant scent of the field. As the gate swung open and admitted them to the arena, Hector realized that the worsening stench was not a result of old pine. On the floor of the arena, intermixed with the imported sand, was a mess of gore and death.

Hector swallowed the rising lump of bile in his throat as Veither trudged him across the sandy ground. Veither saw his discomfort and laughed. “You’ve got a lot to look forward to, whelp,” he mocked.

The arena dipped sharply before reaching the edifice at the west end. This served two purposes: first, it kept the combatants from being able to reach the spectators, and second, it provided the underground entrance to the cells below.

That entrance was a heavy iron gate, rusted by the rain that flowed down from the arena. Inside, four Keldans, each armed with a long spear, stood near the door, guarding against the escape of their prisoners.