《The Heart Of Mana》 Chapter 1 - A Wizard and a Swordsman walk into a bar... Here''s my first attempt at writing something other than critical essays for school >.< hopefully, I didn''t do too bad. Now that I look at it, it''s rather short. This is NOT a light novel style fiction, nor will it have any MMO elements. It will be VERY slow paced, compared to some other fics on here, Expect long descriptive passages, and chapters where nothing will happen at all. This is western fantasy, pure and simple. I''m aiming for a grimdark kind of feel, but who knows where it''ll go from here. Cheers! _______________________ The fire crackled gently. The Hanged Horse was the only tavern in miles, and was a frequent stop for travelers going through Crusal. Tables and stools were spread out unevenly across the main hall. The place was dimly lit by haphazardly dispersed candles. The Horse was by no means large, but it was cozy, and had the reputation of carrying the best apple cider in the county. Its notoriety attracted many alcohol lovers from the surrounding towns. Someone had set up a circular arrangement of logs near the fireplace, and a pair of damp socks and leather boots laid near the flames, drying. The inn was empty, save for a lone man, sitting at the counter. ¡°Here¡¯s your meal!¡± said the innkeeper, a plump, red faced man in his forties. He set the food in front on the customer. ¡°Sorry we don¡¯t have anything better. Winter¡¯s rough this year. Barely any hunters goin¡¯ ¡®round in this cold, so we¡¯ve got no fresh meat. You¡¯ll have to settle for vegetable stew and terrales jerky. The bread is freshly baked though, so eat it before it gets cold.¡± ¡°Thank you,¡± replied the customer, ¡°I don¡¯t wish to come off as rude, but¡­would you happen to have to ale, perchance? I¡¯ve come from afar, and some good brew would go a long way in relieving my weariness.¡± Pulling his hand out from underneath his cloak, he gently put down a gold coin onto the counter. The customer was a tall and almost scrawny man. His face was covered by dirt and grime, an unwanted gift from the rough roads. His traits were nearly indistinguishable under the filth. Barefoot and wearing nothing but rags save for his thick fur cloak, he could have been mistaken for a tramp had he been begging on a city corner. ¡°Ale? HA! Of course we have ale, you¡¯re in an inn for Viher¡¯s sake, what do you think we serve, milk and apple juice? FALKA!¡± the innkeeper called loudly after pocketing the coin, ¡°Go in the back room and fetch this man some ale! And be quick about it! You¡¯re not here to sit around looking pretty!¡± The sound of frantic scrambling and footsteps came from the room behind the counter. Finally, a young woman unceremoniously kicked the door open and stepped out, carrying a foaming mug of ale. She walked briskly, her long black curls bouncing behind her, help up by a leaf green headband. Modestly dressed, she wore a white blouse underneath a crimson bustier. Unlike a typical tavern wench however, she donned a pair of khaki green trousers, a garment usually reserved for men, along with studded leather boots. A cloth pouch laid atop her generous bosom, attached to a long and narrow piece of leather tied around her neck. The girl had a rectangular face riddled with freckles, a strong jawline, high cheekbones and a pointed chin. "Tanned skin, a fine round button nose and dark lips...a foreigner?" a fleeting thought ran through the customer''s mind, "no...a relative?" Her bright green eyes, set beneath thick eyebrows, scanned the room as Falka moved towards the only occupied seat in the inn. ¡°Here you go sir! Our finest brew for a most treasured patron! Now that my oh so important task is accomplished, dear Ohsmald, may I please go back to my oh so useless effort of practicing magic?¡± she implored to the innkeeper, with a fake smile. Her voice bled of sarcasm. ¡°Yeah yeah, you go and do that¡±, groaned the big man while Falka was returning to whatever task she had been doing before being interrupted, ¡°I swear, someday I¡¯ll kick that that spoiled brat out of here for good¡­¡± ¡°Is she your daughter?¡± inquired the patron, ¡°she seems like a nice child.¡± ¡°Hmm? Yeah, she¡¯s my daughter all right. How¡¯d you guess? We don¡¯t look alike at all. Takes after her mother, especially her attitude, heh. Wants to study magic, be a big shot, see the world. Gah, I keep telling her to stop dreaming, and that her place is here, beside me. Dukor is a dangerous place. She wouldn¡¯t last a day out there. What if she doesn¡¯t come back? What if she dies? Who will I give my inn to? Ahh, if only her mother was still alive. She¡¯d convince Falka to stay¡­if only¡­¡± ¡°You¡¯re¡­similar, in some aspects. Now, please excuse me as I indulge myself in your wonderful cooking before it cools.¡± ¡°Ah, you¡¯re right, I shouldn¡¯t be running off my mouth. I¡¯ll leave you to your eating. Ha, keeping you with conversation when I¡¯m the one who said to eat your food before it gets cold¡­¡± muttered Ohsmald, walking towards the back room while wiping his hands on his apron. ¡°Magic, eh?¡± the cloaked man chuckled to himself, scooping a spoonful of stew into his mouth, ¡°damm, its gone cold¡­¡± It was the middle of winter in Dukor ¨C the coldest winter anyone has seen in years. Even worse, it had struck early, and many of the farmers had not harvested all their crops, their livestock and fields freezing over before they could act. Water supplies turned solid ¨C to drink, one had to melt snow or ice over a fire, and timber was scarce. Logs, usually carried by water, had to be transported by hand. Lumber mills, powered by the flow of rivers, could not be operated, and cutting the wood using manual saws only resulted in shattered blades, the metal having turned brittle by the cold. During a usual winter, gatherers would wander, collecting stray twigs and deadwood and reselling them to the populace. However, no soul was brave enough to voluntarily go out this season. And so, the towns and cities started destroying homeless shelters, telling the tramps and beggars to go out and collect firewood in exchange for temporary lodging and a warm meal. There is only so much wood one can collect before it runs out, and those who could not bring back anything were stuck outside, to the mercy of the weather. Deprived of shelter from the elements, the homeless died in droves. Their corpses had to be carted out of city hubs ¨C usually by other homeless ¨C and hastily dumped on the side of the streets. Only the most imprudent of merchants or foolhardy travellers would take to the road in these times. It was snowing. The wind blew relentlessly, whistling into the poorly insulated inn. An empty inn, save for a lone soul enjoying a meal at the counter. Suddenly, the door slammed open with a resounding crash, and heavy steps reverberated throughout the tavern, as a burly man walked in. He was so tall he had to bow down to enter, lest he hit the door frame with his forehead. His hair was a deep chestnut brown, and was tied into a ponytail underneath his iron helm. A deep scar ran down his left eye and past his chin, cutting through his lip, giving the impression of a permanent snarl. An unevenly shaved beard garnished his square jaw, a beard that had turned white from the snowstorm. He wore a rusted chest plate that hung loosely on his shoulders by some most likely improved hemp cords, contrasting with his beige cloth pants. A thick fur cloak laid on his wide back, and a plain steel sword was sheathed at his waist. He tapped his greaves near the entrance, removing the ice, and walked into the inn, shaking the snow off himself with a pass of his gauntleted hands. ¡°Oi innkeep! Get out here! Me an¡¯ my men are needing some food and wine! And women if ye¡¯ have any!¡± he roared, seating himself at a table near the fire, ¡°come on boys, get in ¡®ere and close the damned door, my fingers are gonna fall off!¡± ¡°Yeah, yeah, we heard you Rumlar, now pipe down, I think my eardrums are frozen,¡± replied one of the men entering the inn, ¡°man this place is tiny. Y¡¯think we can all fit in ¡®ere?¡± ¡°If it don¡¯t fit we¡¯ll make it fit. Oi! Inkeep, where you at? I¡¯m tired of waitin¡¯ ¡®ere!¡± Rumlar called again. ¡°Coming, coming!¡± Ohsmald yelled back while stepping out from behind the door, rubbing his hands together. Visitors were rare during winter, and customers ever rarer, ¡°what can I get you gentlemen¡­.¡± His voice trailed off as he realized exactly had paid his modest establishment a visit. A mercenary band ¨C loud, obnoxious freelance warriors who had absolutely no intention to pay for what they took. ¡°I hope you can accommodate all of us, and find it in your heart to donate food and drink to us poor travelers,¡± urged the mercenary leader, his voice dripping with venom. He pulled a jeweled dagger out from underneath his cloak. A sleeping serpent, eating its own tail while coiled around a stack of gold coins was engraved on its blade - the coat-of-arms of House Belnar. If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation. ¡°O-o-of course, anything for friends of the Duke¡± Soon enough, around fifty men and women fully dressed in battle ready garbs covered with thick furs, filled the remaining tables. The stench of sweat and piss filled the air, as the fire melted their previously frozen body fluids. None of them had washed in weeks, due to the frozen rivers, and the long march had not been generous to them. A few were missing ears or fingers; one of the men was even missing his nose, no doubt lost to the cold. They conversed noisily about previous battles, kills and conquests ¨C both romantic and military, while Ohsmald scrambled clumsily through the sea of swords and legs, setting food and drink onto the tables. ¡°And BAM, I hit the bitch right between the eyes!¡± boasted one, shooting an imaginary bow. ¡°Gods, poor mayor never saw that coming!¡± said another, sipping from his mug. Unceasing and unimportant banter filled the inn. It was sunset when the troop first arrived. Nearly two hours had passed, and the Sun had long since crossed below the horizon, yet the mercenaries showed no signs of leaving. Ohsmald kept bringing out supplies from his stores ¨C if he didn¡¯t, the consequences would be dire. The Kingdom¡¯s law didn¡¯t reach this far out, and backwater towns like Stagmore were often subject to the whims of whatever military force happened to cross the area. The cloaked man at the counter kept to himself, and silently drank his beverage. ¡°Gah, if only there was a brothel in this shithole, I haven¡¯t had a good lay in months!¡± Rumlar yelled loudly,¡±Oi! Inkeep! You got any serving girls I can escort to one of yer rooms upstairs? I¡¯ll give ya some good coin if ye do.¡± Unhooking a leather purse from his belt, the mercenary leader turned flipped it over, and let the coins slowly trickle onto his table. Hearing the echo of money, Ohsmald could not help but turn towards the warrior. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, b-b-but we have nothing of the kind h-here,¡± he audibly gulped while nervously his rubbing bald scalp, ¡°I¡¯m the only one that works here. Nobody else.¡± ¡°Ah, that a damned shame,¡± Rumlar sighed, ¡°and all this coin I was about t-¡° The door to the storage room slammed open, and Falka stepped out, staring at the crowd with a disapproving look. ¡°Hey be silent out here!¡± she yelled, wildly waving her arms, ¡°I¡¯m trying to practice and I can¡¯t concentrate with all of you screaming like that!¡± The inn had gone silent. Surprised by the young woman¡¯s outburst of anger, the mercenaries were at a loss for words. All eyes were on her. Their gazes slowly went from Falka towards their leader, from whom they were expecting guidance on how to react. Rumlar stared wide eyed at the girl, then slowly leaned back, closing his eyes. He started to chuckle softly. His laugh spread to the rest of his troops, and soon, the whole inn was mocking her, pointing and giggling. Falka stood, facing their insults without saying a word, her nose wrinkled in disgust from the smell. Suddenly realizing that she had just told four score armed men and women to shut up, she was paralyzed in fear. ¡°Falka!¡± Ohsmald cried desperately, turning around to face his daughter, ¡°I told you to stay where you were!¡± The chubby man tried to gesture towards his precious child, telling her to leave, to run, but before he could do anything, a thick arm had wrapped around the innkeeper¡¯s shoulders. ¡°Well lookie ¡®ere, seems like you lied to me old man,¡± Rumlar smirked, running his tongue over his lips, ¡°this a fine girl you got ¡®ere, I hope you don¡¯t mind I take her for a spin, do you?¡± ¡°Please, no, don¡¯t hurt her, anything but that!¡± Ohsmald pleaded, on the verge of tears, ¡°I¡¯ll give you more food, more wine, anything you want! Just don¡¯t hurt her¡­¡± The innkeeper was pushed to the ground, falling on his backside with a loud pomf. The warrior brought his hand to his chin and stroked his beard, taking a pensive pose, smiling wolfishly. ¡°Well golly, whatever I want? Well this fine lady ¡®ere happens to be what I want,¡± the mercenary replied, turning towards Falka and running his grimy fingers through her hair, ¡°and I won¡¯t hurt her, I¡¯ll just make her feel reaaalll good, won¡¯t I, girl?¡± Trembling, she could only reply with an inaudible muttering. The lone customer at the counter, who had not spoken a word since the entrance of the troop, jerked his head towards the pair as the young woman whispered. None of the hirelings saw him subtly move his hands, his gaze fixated on the larger man, all of their attention being focused on their leader and his prey. ¡°Huh? What did you say girl?¡± lifting her chin, Rumlar put his ear closer to her lips, ¡°say that again?¡± Once more, she repeated the same incomprehensible murmur. ¡°What? Fire what? What about fir- GAHHH¡± He was interrupted by a fire suddenly erupting on his forearms. Cries of surprise went off in the crowd. Immediately letting go of his intended victim, Rumlar staggered back, arms failing. The large man tripped over a stool, hitting his head on the corner of a table, falling straight into a pack of his own party. Shocked, many of them just watched as their boss fell at their feet. After a brief moment of bewilderment, they snapped back to their senses and quickly poured whatever mead they could grab onto their leader, extinguishing the flames. Men and women were bunched around Rumlar¡¯s limp form, patting him down. Falka, whose knees had failed her, sat on the floor, leaning back on the counter, and brought a trembling hand to her lips. Tears ran down her face as she stared at the empty space above the mass of soldiers. ¡°T-t-that¡¯s never worked before,¡± her voice was shaking from the shock, ¡°t-t-that was a flame. I c-c-conjured a flame¡­¡± Rumlar¡¯s head was spinning. After a few seconds, he opened his eyes to a circle of faces, looking down on him. ¡°You okay boss?¡± ¡°Hey he¡¯s coming back to his senses. Hey snap out of it vice-cap!¡± ¡°Shit that was a spell. C¡¯mon boss get back on your feet¡± Slowly coming back from his confusion, he recalled what had just happened, and the embarrassment made him red with rage. His forearms were blistered and bleeding, but in his anger, he could feel no pain. ¡°GET YOUR DAMN HANDS OFF¡¯A ME!¡± roared the mercenary leader, pushing himself back on his feet and through the crowd, ¡°I¡¯M GOING TO GUT THAT WHORE!¡± Storming towards a terrified Falka, he drew his sword and leaned down to grab her by the throat, so fast that she barely had the time to cover her face with her arms. He lifted her above his head. The girl could do nothing to resist. She kicked and clawed, aiming for his wounded wrists. It was futile ¨C her blows barely fazed the man, so far was he in his fury. ¡°Fi-¡­ga¡­bu-¡­urh,¡± she tried to cast her spell once again, but Rumlar¡¯s grasp was too strong. She could barely breathe, lest chant an incantation. ¡°Oh, whats that?¡± he teased, bringing their faces closer together, ¡°having a hard time setting me on fire are you? ¡°L-let her go!¡± shouted Ohsmald, running towards the large man. In the chaos, he had picked up a broomstick, and was now swinging it wildly at the mercenary, ¡°get you filthy hands off my daught-¡° ¡°Shut it,¡± With a wave of his sword, Rumlar cut off the innkeeper¡¯s cries, as well as his right hand. A swift kick to the stomach sent him sprawling across the floor, ¡°stay there and watch, as I choke the life out of your little girl.¡± Ohsmald tried to pick himself up, but the feeling of cold metal underneath his chin convinced him otherwise. ¡°Stay put and shut up,¡± one of the mercenaries said, pushing the tip of his sword into his skin, ¡°you brought this on yerself old man. Nobody to blame but you.¡± The inn was silent, except for the Falka¡¯s tortured cries. Rumlar held her mercilessly in his grasp, making sure to not squeeze to hard, so much as to break her neck, but just enough, to asphyxiate her. The mercenary leader looked upon his troops to assess their reaction, before turning his gaze back towards his struggling victim. He smiled grimly. ¡°Ah, if only you had just let accepted my affection, things could have gone so much more smoothly,¡± Falka¡¯s face was turning purple, her lips gradually losing color. She no longer attempted to free herself, and her arms fell limply along her body. Her eyelids were heavy, and she was desperately trying to stay away; to not pass out. Tears ran down her cheeks, as her lips twitched in a desperate attempt to call for help. Just as she was giving in to the deep sleep of unconsciousness, a flash of silver and glimmers of red clouded her vision. She felt herself fall, and then the familiar feel of the cold wooden floor she had so many times scrubbed press against her cheek. Her world faded to black. Chapter 2 - Conspiracy and Conspiracists ¡°Argh! What the fuck!?¡± Rumlar yelled out, dropping Falka¡¯s limp body to the floor, ¡°who the fuck did that!¡± Grasping his right shoulder where he had just been stabbed, the mercenary spun around to face his assailant, swinging his sword in a wide arc. ¡°Clang!¡± the clear sound of steel on steel resounded throughout the inn. Rumlar¡¯s blow was veered off course, the blade flying out of his hands. It lodged itself in a nearby table, nearly chopping off a distracted mercenary¡¯s finger. ¡°Behave yourself you dumb mongrel,¡± said the newly arrived fighter, sheathing his saber, ¡°the Duke allowed us to take any resources we required for our task, but people aren¡¯t ¨Cresources-. She refused your advances, you should have left it at that. Now pack up, we¡¯re going.¡± He wore a full set of armor as black as night. His head was entirely covered by an intricately ornate helm, on the sides of which protruded two curved ebony horns. The metal was engraved with various patterns and designs, many of which represented the more powerful species of creatures that roamed the land. The golden hilt of the saber hanging at his waist had been expertly forged, and the cross-guard had been shaped into a large feline pouncing on its prey. The hilt was tightly wrapped with straps of fine leather, and an enormous ruby had been inset in the pommel. The sheath had been carved out of rosewood, and a gold filigree, made to look like a halberd and a glaive behind a shield that bore a roaring lion¡¯s head ¨C the insignia of Willdoak, had been inlayed on its sides. He was two heads shorter and half as wide as Rumlar, yet the latter¡¯s blow had been deflected as if he were swatting away a fly. The fiery look of his eyes was his only visible facial feature. As the masked fighter turned around to leave, the vice-captain laid a hand on his shoulder. ¡°B-but captain¡±, stammered Rumlar, ¡°she used magic, she burned me, sh-sh-she¡­.¡± ¡°Shut your whore mouth!¡± the armored warrior yelled. In a flash, the tip of his sword found the underside of the larger man¡¯s chin, nicking his skin. Blood started to trickle down his neck, ¡°But this, but that, I don¡¯t give a fuck! You¡¯re a member of the Blackspear mercenaries for fuck¡¯s sake, act like it! I don¡¯t want no fucking excuse. Pack your stuff and get ready to leave!¡± Taken aback by their captain¡¯s sudden outburst of anger, the rest of the men and women were too dumbfounded to react. Every single member of the troop was staring wide-eyed at their leader, not too sure what to do. ¡°¡­That¡¯s an ORDER!¡± he shouted after looking at their puzzled expressions, ¡°what the fuck are you staring at me for huh?! Get moving!¡± Recovering from their initial shock, the mercenaries slowly picked up their belongings and made their way towards the entrance. Rumlar followed close behind, looking embarrassingly at the floor. ¡°Man, the captain¡¯s such a killjoy¡­¡± groaned one with a dejected tone. ¡°Shhh, don¡¯t want the big boss to hear you,¡± his neighbour hushed him, signaling him to lower his tone, ¡°don¡¯t wanna end up like Vana. Heard she saw hell when cap¡¯n took her away last time she stepped out of line. Poor thing hasn¡¯t spoken a word since. Last time I saw her she had this look, ya know¡¯, kinda like a dead fish.¡± The captain stood, chin up, glaring at his troops while they moved out. He had an intimidating air about him, despite his small stature. His subordinates avoided eye contact, preferring to look straight ahead, rather than to face his stare. One by one, they passed through the doorway. Only when Rumlar, who was the last to leave, was out of sight, did the captain move. ¡°Ahhhhhhhh, so tiring,¡± he sighed, hanging his head and letting his arms drop to his sides in exasperation. He sheathed his blade. ¡°I swear, the only way to make those dogs listen is by getting mad.¡± Taking off his right gauntlet, the mercenary captain walked towards Falka¡¯s listless form. His hand was rough and scarred, yet strangely delicate. Thick calluses, marks of swordsmanship, lined the insides of his fingers. Kneeling down near an unconscious Falka, he hovered his hand near her lips, feeling for her breath. ¡°Ah, she¡¯s still alive,¡± the captain said softly, with hint of dissatisfaction, ¡°that thick-headed Rumlar is fortunate. He gets to keep his bollocks this time around.¡± A creaking sound made him about-face. The innkeeper, dragging his wounded arm behind him, had managed to crawl behind the captain. ¡°Uh, urk, e-excuse me?¡± murmured Oshwald, pushing himself onto a nearby chair with his remaining hand. His voice was coarse and his face pale. In the ruckus, he had managed to sneak away and fabricate an improvised tourniquet from a wooden spoon and a dirty rag. His stump was still bleeding, but the flow had slowed down. He held the injured limb above his head to let gravity do its work. Blood trickled down his right arm, staining the sleeves of his tunic, ¡°t-thanks for your help, I¡¯m Oswald. I own this place.¡± ¡°Think nothing of it,¡± replied the armored man, ¡°rather, I apologize for my men¡¯s unsightly behaviour¡± He stood up, and walked towards the suffering Ohsmald. ¡°Usually, I would not give you a dime,¡± the captain continued, ¡°seeing as we are employed by the Duke, and have been allowed to take what we require from his subjects. But we¡¯ve done you great injury, both to your family and your inn¡±. The warrior unhooked out a hefty pouch from his belt, and nonchalantly tossed it at Ohsmald¡¯s feet. It hit the floor with a resounding crunch ¨C the pleasant sound of coins. ¡°This is a meager compensation, but please accept it. Now let me see that arm.¡± Taking off his remaining gauntlet, he gently lifted Ohsmald¡¯s stump with one hand, and lightly brushed the exposed flesh with the other. ¡°O-y-yowch!¡± the innkeeper exclaimed in pain. ¡°Stay still,¡± admonished the captain. A soothing light emanated from his fingers. Little white tendrils reached out of the glow and plunged into the wound. Ohsmald stared with incredulity as tiny bright strings mended muscle, skin and bone. The tourniquet, now loose, fell to the ground. After a short while, only a purple star shaped scar remained. ¡°I¡¯m sorry I could not do anything about your missing hand,¡± said the captain apologetically, ¡°but reattachment is beyond me. I¡¯ve done all I could. No harm has come to your daughter, and she should awaken soon enough. I must leave now and regroup with my men before they cause any more trouble for your town.¡± Pushing himself back to his feet, the captain put back his gauntlets made his way towards the exit. Though the wooden floor was old and creaky, his metal grieves did not make a sound as he stepped past the seated innkeeper. ¡°A-Ah!¡± exclaimed Ohsmald, reaching out to grab the captain¡¯s wrist his remaining hand, ¡°i-it wouldn¡¯t be too much to ask for your face and name would it?¡± ¡°Oh, how rude of me,¡± the captain answered, ¡°my mind was so preoccupied I forgot to introduce myself!¡± Slowly, the warrior reached into the lower back of his helmet, and undid the clasps holding it to his head. The leather bands hung loosely. He removed the helmet gently. Lowering it, he let it rest between his arm and waist. Ohsmald¡¯s jaw fell as he gawked in disbelief. ¡°A-a woman!?¡± Free from the helmet, her long flowing deep blue hair fell effortlessly over her shoulders and reached down past her midriff. She had a heart shaped face and soft features. Her skin was pale and without a single blemish. Brushing away a stray strand of hair, she fluttered her eyelashes for a moment before looking back as the innkeeper. Her almond shaped eyes were wide and bright blue, set below fine, well-trimmed eyebrows. Her pouty lips were dry and cracked from the cold, and had lost much of their color ¨C ¡°Yet,¡± though Ohsmald, ¡°they take nothing away from her beauty...¡± Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original. ¡°I am Avah of Willdoak, daughter of Count Jeremy of Willdoak and heiress to the county of the same name,¡± she stated formally, placing a fist over her chest, ¡°I¡¯ve been charged by the Duke of Belnar, in the wake of the Southern Uprising, to find and subjugate any that may threaten his rule.¡± At the mention of her title, the innkeeper¡¯s eyes opened wide. ¡°A noble? In my establishment! Ha!¡± Ohsmald exclaimed with a smile, lowering his head as best he could in his seated posture, ¡°Never thought I¡¯d see the day. Your presence honors us. I¡¯ve heard great things about your father. A just and fair ruler, no doubt.¡± Ohsmald straightened himself back in his chair. ¡°But, the Southern Uprising, eh?¡± he continued quizzically, ¡°I¡¯ve nothin¡¯ but rumours about it. Rotten rumours at that. Say the rebels ¡®ave been dabbling in some foul arcane whatsamajig. Not anything an innkeeper such as myself would know much about. But hell, we¡¯re so far north, and it¡¯s the middle of the damned winter! What kind of danger could possibly reach us up here? Of course, if you don¡¯t mind me asking¡­eh¡­milady?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know myself,¡± answered Avah, ¡°but the Duke of Belnar insisted that I assemble a respectable amount of men and patrol the duchy in his stead. I doubt this fear is nothing more than the ramblings of a senile and paranoid old man. Even so, I am his subject, and I must comply.¡± Avah donned her helmet once again and redid its clasps. She walked towards the door. ¡°Now please excuse me,¡± she said turning back, standing in the doorframe. ¡°I must be going. Good night, innkeeper.¡± ¡°Yes, good night, milady. I wish you safe travel.¡± Avah stepped out into the winter night. The door slammed shut behind her. The inn was silent once again. Ohsmald sighed, looking dejectedly at his scarred stump. ¡°How am I going to work without a right hand?¡± he spoke to no one in particular, ¡°good thing I¡¯m left handed¡­¡± Feeling around his stomach, he found that the pain from Rumlar¡¯s kick had faded. He bent down to pick up the purse that Avah had given him. Pushing himself off the chair, he staggered to the counter, and held himself up with his remaining hand. He dropped the purse onto the counter. Ohsmald¡¯s severed right hand was still lying on the ground, hidden underneath the shadow of a table. The innkeeper stared and pondered for a second, before walking up to it and pushing it out into the open with his foot. He placed himself so that his detached member was between him and the fire. ¡°Hup!¡± he kicked the hand into the flames. The fire flared up for a second, then settled down. The smell of burning flesh started to fill the inn. ¡°Well, at least it smells better than those mercenaries, heh,¡± joked Ohsmald. He made his way towards his unconscious daughter. After struggling to get both his arms underneath her, a frustrated Ohsmald unceremoniously grabbed her with his left arm and tossed her over his shoulder. ¡°Sorry dear,¡± he grumbled while walking to the back room and up the stairs, ¡°kinda hard to get my hands under you when I¡¯ve only got one.¡± After laying Falka down on a bed above, Ohsmald made his way back down, bringing with him a moist towel. He got down on all fours and started cleaning away the bloodstains ¨C his bloodstains, from the hardwood planks. ¡°Clunk!¡± the familiar sound of a mug hitting wood drew his attention back to the counter. The cloaked man was still sitting there, and had just laid down a mug previously filled with ale next to four others. ¡°You¡¯re still here? Thought you had run off when them brutes came in. Skinny and dirty as you are, I¡¯d have thought you would be the type to run off at the first sign of trouble. Guess you¡¯ve got more balls than that, eh?¡± said Ohsmald, shifting his gaze towards the five empty mugs lined up on the counter, ¡°and looks like you¡¯ve had quite a share of drink too.¡± ¡°I can say the same to you,¡± answered the cloaked man, running a finger around the rim of a mug, ¡°about that first statement that is. Faced with ruthless mercenaries, a severed hand, an unconscious daughter and who knows how much lost food and drink, and yet you are here, nonchalantly cleaning your floor. I helped myself to some of the abandoned drinks. I hope you don¡¯t mind.¡± ¡°This tavern had seen its share of less than reputable guests throughout the years. Seen a lot of weird types like you too. This ain¡¯t the first time I¡¯ve had to deal with party happy soldiers or little too enthusiastic farmers,¡± Ohsmald shrugged. Looking down, he caught sight of his right arm, ¡°though this is the first time I¡¯ve had lost a hand, ha!¡± He peered back at the row of mugs on the countertop. ¡°Bah, and I wasn¡¯t going to get paid for that ale anyways. Not like I can pour it back into the casks. Knock yourself out,¡± he said, going back to rubbing the hardwood planks. ¡°I thank you,¡± said the cloaked man, standing up and moving towards a flagon of brew resting on a table. He downed it in one go. ¡°I will be leaving now. It would be rude of me to impose upon you any further.¡± ¡°Hmm? Yeah sure sure¡­¡± Ohsmald replied, busy wiping the floor, ¡°¡­hey, wait a second! It¡¯s the middle of¡­¡± The innkeeper turned only to see the door slam shut. ¡°¡­the night¡­winter too¡­¡± A pair of damp boots and socks still laid near the fire. * * * Back at the Blackspear mercenaries¡¯ camp, south of the town, preparation were being made for a prolonged stay. Stakes were hammered into the snow to establish a perimeter. Tents were raised, fires were lit, and a flagpole bearing the insignia of Belnar was erected in the center of the encampment. ¡°How¡¯d it go captain?¡± asked Rumlar to a silhouette through the canvas. He sat cross-legged in a tent, wrapping bandages around his burned forearms. ¡°I think he bought the act,¡± answered Avah, stepping into the tent. ¡°How are your burns?¡± ¡°Feelin¡¯ much better now. Good thing the girl showed up when she did. Saved me the time of going to get her. Didn¡¯t think she could use magic though,¡± he said as he put on his gauntlets. The large mercenary winced as the leather rubbed against his wounds. ¡°Ah well, things can¡¯t always go as planned eh?¡± ¡°Good. Time to move on to the next step. Are you men ready?¡± ¡°As ready as they¡¯ll ever be. They¡¯re holed up in a barn in the northern part of town. Had to kill the owners though. Buried them in the snow. With this cold I doubt they¡¯ll find the corpses before spring.¡± ¡°Perfect,¡± approved the captain, ¡°I¡¯ll be expecting the attack in two days, at dawn. Soon, all of Crusal will be heralding me as their savior.¡± Rumlar stood up as he applied the last of the bandages to his wounds. He then walked up to the tent flap and lifted it as stood in the entrance. ¡°I¡¯d better regroup with my men,¡± he said, turning towards Avah and saluting her. ¡°All glory to House WIlldoak.¡± ¡°All glory to House Willdoak.¡± Chapter 3 - The Buck and the Blade Hey anyone who actually reads this! It''s been a busy year for me. In the meantime, I''ve gotten into law school and found a girlfriend with whom I then broke up. Finally got the time to finish writing this. Didn''t bother with PR, so feel free to point out any mistakes. Enjoy! ----- It was a regular morning in the Staron household. Abigail had woken up early, and was cleaning the dishes from last night¡¯s meal. She yawned, rubbing her drowsy eyes with her sleeve. Her straight blonde hair was tied up in a ponytail behind her. She wore a plain white dress that hung loosely on her shoulders, showing off her generous bosom. The barest hint of sunlight filtered through the window, bathing her in a warm, soft glow. Her husband, John, was still in bed upstairs. They had eaten preserved pig¡¯s feet last night ¨C a gift from the mayor. Too stuffed to do anything, the couple had gone straight to bed. As she scrubbed the plates and cutlery with a wet rag, she hummed a soft song. She sang a few notes, a few words. It was a popular lullaby of the north. It told the story of a child that got lost in the woods and his journey as he ventured further into the forest until he fell asleep underneath the shade of a giant tree. Two days ago, John had gone go down to the town to buy butter, tobacco, and various other necessities. He also sometimes brought back rumours and news of the surrounding region. Apparently a noble of the Willdoak family had saved the life of the innkeeper¡¯s daughter. Right now, John was still sleeping soundly, and showed no sign of waking up. ¡°His birthday is coming up soon,¡± Abigail pondered idly, ¡°I wonder what I should get him¡­ Maybe a new pipe?¡± She looked down towards her bulged stomach and rubbed it with a gentle hand. She smiled. ¡°Well Frederique? What do you think we should get daddy?¡± Abigail was three months pregnant ¨C a girl. The child was going to be born in mid-summer. She had named him after her parents, Friedrich and Angelique ¨C a tribute to the years they had spent raising her and the sacrifices they made so that she could live the live they never could. They had died together, three years ago, from typhoid fever. She had met John soon after ¨C the fourth son of a prominent nobleman of the region. Their union was controversial at first, but John reached an arrangement with his father. He relinquished his inheritance, and in exchange, his father allowed the marriage and gave him enough money to go off on his own ¨C a paltry sum, by any standards. After years of hard work, the couple had finally managed to scrounge up enough coin to buy themselves a small plot of land and establish a farm on the outskirts of a town ¨C where they now resided. Abigail fondly recalled the tender moments she had spent with her parents and her husband, and intended to treat her daughter with the same love and care. A pot of boiling broth hung over the fire. Abigail had peeled and placed potatoes and herbs in the pot beforehand, potatoes being one of the rare crops that could grow in the rough and capricious northern climate. They bobbed up and down in the bubbling liquid. The pleasant smell of thyme and lavender permeated the kitchen. Abigail dried off the plates with a towel, and started to stow them away into the cupboards. Her bare feet padded lightly on the hardwood floor as she went to and fro between the water basin and the shelves, standing up on the tip of her toes when the stack of clean plates grew too tall. A loud banging, followed by a crash resounded across the house, startling Abigail. She dropped the plate she was holding. It shattered on the floor. ¡°John? John was that you?¡± she called out, as she walked out of the kitchen towards the main hallway. ¡°John? What was that nois-¡­¡± Abigail stopped speaking as she reached the hallway. Their front door had been kicked in. The broken door hung loosely on its hinges, swaying back and forth in the crisp air. ¡°John? John!¡± she cried out in a panic, ¡°John come down here! Someone brok-¡° She never got to finish her sentence. Cold metal passed through her heart as the bandit pushed his blade into her chest. She looked down, only to see the bloodstained tip of a dagger protruding from her breast. ¡°J-John¡­ h-help¡­¡± ¡°Abigail! Abigail what is it?¡± a recently awoken John shouts back at his wife, ¡°I¡¯m coming down!¡± Frantic footsteps came from upstairs as a he rushed down wearing nothing but his slippers. ¡°Abigail? Abigail what¡¯s wrong? Abigai-¡­¡± he stopped himself as he stood in the staircase, in shock. His wife¡¯s limp body fell to the floor as the bandit pulled out his dagger. He wiped off the blood on her hair and turned to face the newcomer. ¡°ABIGAIL!¡± John cried in desperation. He darted towards the backdoor and flung it open, running out into the cold snow. ¡°No, no, no¡­ this can¡¯t be happening.¡± But John doesn¡¯t make it far. Two masked men were waiting for him outside. One of them had his sword out, pointed directly towards the farmer. Unable to stop his momentum, John impaled himself on the blade. It passed through his body like a hot knife through butter, making a sickening crack as his flesh and bones were torn apart. John coughed up crimson fluid as his ruptured lung filled with blood. He looked up, clawing fruitlessly at the air. The last thing he saw was his killer¡¯s smile, whose scarred lips twisted into an unnatural snarl. The bandit lowered his blade. John¡¯s body slowly slipped off, falling listless into the snow and staining it bright red. * * * ¡°To arms men! We¡¯re being raided!¡± yelled a pitchfork wielding man mounted atop a pilobos. ¡°Get the sick, elderly and children to the church! Anyone who can pick up something to hit with, on me!¡± He was tall, broad shouldered, and wore a thick brown ankle-length fur coat along with a matching unshanka. His gloved hands gestured frantically, directing the fear stricken populace towards safety. He was in his fifties, with rugged traits and tanned skin weathered by the rough climate. His forehead and the corner of his eyes were wrinkled with age, and his thick mustache, usually grey, had turned white as snow from the cold. A humungous longbow hung at the side of his saddle alongside a variety of leather packs of varying sizes, and the corresponding quiver hung at his waist, filled with arrows. His mount, a massive lumbering beast resembling a crossover between an ox and a sheep, stood as tall as a man and was as wide as five. Steam came out of its nostrils as it breathed. Left and right, the weaker townspeople of Stagmore scrambled southward towards a wide brick building, huddling against each other to keep warm. Many of them had only just woken up and still in their nightgowns and undertunics. At the northern entrance, a few dozen volunteers were putting up a worthy defense. Hidden behind fragile barricades of haystacks and wooden planks, they harried the invading bandits by pelting them with whatever they could throw. A few had taken refuge on the rooftops, pushing loads of snow onto approaching marauders. Stones and rocks and glass bottles broke more than a few brigand noses. Any bandit that got close enough to jump over the barriers were met with a flurry of pitchforks and spears. However, the attackers were retaliating with actual weapons, and while the townsmen outnumbered them three to one, the bandits far were better armed, better armored and more proficient in combat. The defenders were falling fast. ¡°Mmfs-ter Ford!¡± a young boy shouted in a muffled voice. He ran towards the great woolly mount and its rider. Holding on to an oversized scarf with his mittens to prevent it from unravelling from around his neck, he strode clumsily across the thick snow, making his way through the small crowd of men and women gathering around Ford, finally leaning onto the pilobos¡¯ side. He looked up towards the large man. The child¡¯s face was red from the chill air. He pulled down his scarf. ¡°Mayor Ford!¡± he stammered on, out of breath, ¡°grandma told me to run to you and told me to tell you that everyone¡¯s at the town hall and that they¡¯re safe and that everyone is there and that there is people coming in from the other side and that he thinks it¡¯s the mercenaries and that they¡¯ve come back to ¡­¡± He stopped and inhaled sharply. ¡°And that they¡¯ve come back to help us and that you should be prepared for them to get here and that he wishes you luck and¡­¡± ¡°Whoa there Jehan, take it easy boy,¡± said Ford, reaching down to pat the child¡¯s head, ¡°you¡¯ve done a fine job. Now tell me that again, but slowly.¡± ¡°Church¡­everyone¡­safe¡­mercenaries¡­-ays ago¡­come back¡­help¡­prepare,¡± sputtered Jehan, gasping between every word. ¡°Ah, so everyone¡¯s gathered safely at the church, and we¡¯ve got reinforcements coming to help us. Is that it?¡± Jehan nodded vigorously. ¡°I see¡­¡± the mayor acknowledged, patting the boy¡¯s shoulder. ¡°Thank you. Now run back to your grandmother. She must be waiting for you.¡± The child ran off back towards the town hall. Straightening himself up, Ford turned to face the crowd that had rallied to his call. * * * ¡°Alright you dirty dogs, up! Get your filthy arses off the ground! We¡¯ve got bandits for breakfast!¡± she yelled. Back at the mercenary camp, Avah stomped and shouted around the tents of those who had yet to wake up, tipping them over if they persisted on not listening. Those who had awakened were lined up in a messy file in front of a flag bearing mercenary. The latter was using the flagpole to hold herself up, leaning drowsily on the standard. ¡°Erina! Our symbol is not a headrest!¡± admonished Avah, slapping the standard-bearer behind her head, ¡°And wake up! And clean that drool off your armor!¡± This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon. The captain, who had finished waking up her troops, had come to take her place at the head of the file, standing at the side of the sleepy girl. Avah was equipped in her full set of ebony armor, and stood resolute at the head of her small army. Facing her were nearly two hundred men and women, groggily lined up and swaying back and forth in their drowsy formation. She took off her helmet, giving it to the standard-bearer to hold, and set her gaze upon her troops. ¡°Ahem,¡± she coughed softly. They did not respond, busy making idle gossip to each other. ¡°Ahem!¡± she cleared her throat once again. A few of the recruits near the front responded, lifting their heads and rectifying their posture into a militaristic salute. Still, most of the mercenaries did not react. Annoyed, Avah scratched her head and let out an exasperated sigh. Ripping the flagpole out of the standard-bearer¡¯s hands, she slammed the shaft against the ground, making a loud bang. ¡°How many times do I have to rack my throat to get some attention huh?!¡± she roared, ¡°Wake the fuck up! All of you! Now tell me, who are we!?¡± ¡°The Blackspear Mercenaries!¡± they shouted in unison. This time, all the mercenaries answered. ¡°You¡¯re damn right we are! And what is our oath?¡± ¡°Blood and gold! My life for a coin and my soul for the blade!¡± they chanted even louder, like a rehearsed choir. ¡°To hell and back boys! Now march! After me!¡± * * * The bandits had broken through the makeshift barricades and were now making a beeline towards the center of the town, where the mayor and his followers were regrouped. Corpses, mostly the elderly and children that did not wake up in time to make their way to the church, littered the snow in their wake. Most had been killed swiftly and painlessly within their homes, and their bodies dragged out onto the cold outdoors ground. Of the fighting women and men that fell beneath brigand blades, most were left alive, but incapacitated or unconscious. In front of the barbershop, a townsman dragged himself across the freezing soil with his bleeding leg in tow. His Achilles¡¯ tendon had been cut beyond repair. He could no longer stand. He crawled forward, towards the listless body of a young boy, and cradled it in his arms. It was his son. His throat had been cut open, and blood still flowed out of the fresh wound, though his spirit had left long ago. Tears streaming down his face, the father held his dead child tight against his chest, silently sobbing. The bandits ignored the man, stepping over him as if he weren¡¯t there at all. This scene repeated itself all over the town. Injured and confused men and women cradling their dead loved ones, cursing the bandits under their breath, powerless to stand up against them. Forward they marched. They did not pillage. They did not steal. They did not rape. Any who did not fight were caught and killed, and those who did were maimed and left to bleed. The bandits were in sight of Ford and his followers now, and within the range of their arrows and slings. The townspeople had set up fortifications similar to those of their brethren that defended the town entrance. Morale was low, and some townspeople that had initially agreed to fight had taken flight under the disapproving glares of their peers. Nobody stopped them, as all understood their reasons. ¡°Stand strong! They¡¯ve got swords, they¡¯ve got blades, but they¡¯re still mortal, and they bleed red, just like you and I!¡± Ford attempted to rally them, riding back and forth on his pilobos. ¡°If they break through here than we¡¯re as good as dead anyways, so fight! Stand strong and fight!¡± At his call, the fear stricken people tightened up their formation. Those still remaining at the front of the barricade had strengthened their resolve and their determination shone on their faces. Poised and pitchforks at the ready, the poor man¡¯s phalanx was fragile, but its members would die before letting a single brigand pass. Ford moved towards the back of the group. His large mount made him an easy target. The mayor pet the pilobos¡¯ head, and leaned over to its ear. ¡°Millie, stay¡±, he whispered. The beast took a deep breath, and racked the ground with its wide feet creating a shallow pocket in the snow, where it laid down on its stomach, immobile. Ford, after ensuring that the creature was still, stood up on his mount and secured his feet in its fur. He unclasped the bow from his saddle and pulled an arrow out of his quiver, nocking it onto the bowstring. Eyeing an approaching bandit, he pulled back on the string and raised his weapon. It creaked as the flexible wood bent and broke through the accumulated frost. ¡°Raise your weapons people of Stagmore! For our friends! For our families! For our kin! Today we fight! Today we die!¡± he roared. And the arrow flew true. * * * ¡°Daddy let me go!¡± Falka cried, struggling against her father¡¯s grip. ¡°You saw me cast that flame! I can fight! I want to help!¡± ¡°You¡¯re not going anywhere!¡± replied Ohsmald, jerking her towards himself with a tug of his remaining hand. ¡°You¡¯re going to stay safe with Aunt Lynda, and we¡¯re both going to get out of this alive!¡± ¡°You can go stay and hide with the others like a coward!¡± she retorted, yanking her arm free of his grasp, ¡°I¡¯m not going to hide when I can do something about all this! If mommy was here she would go and fight! What a man you are!¡± She stood resolute, arms to her side and breathing heavily. For a moment, Ohsmald was silent. Then, faster than Falka could react, he struck her across the cheek, sending her sprawling across the snow. She laid there for a few seconds, not realising her father had hit her. Holding her bruised face with her hand, she looked up at the innkeeper, astonished. He took her hand and lifted her back to her feet, brushing the snow off her beige coat. He started walking the trail towards the church once again. This time, he didn¡¯t bother pulling her along. Falka, still shaken, followed quietly. * * * The clash of steel rang throughout the town. ¡°What kind of raid is this?! This isn¡¯t a raid, this is an organised assault!¡± a man cried out while parrying an incoming sword strike with his own. He looked back towards Ford, who was letting fly arrow after arrow at the incoming attackers. This moment of distraction cost him his life. His opponent, taking one hand off his sword, drew a dagger from his belt and sheathed it deep into the townsman¡¯s skull through his chin. He fell dead on his back, eyes still wide from the shock. Raids were not uncommon in the northern reaches of the Kingdom. Deserters and defeated soldiers, remnants of Dukor¡¯s Nordic campaign, often banded together and assaulted passing caravans and unsuspecting travelers earning their livelihood through blood and steel. The Northmen, against whom the Kingdom fought six years ago, sometimes ventured southward when the hunting on the tundra was scarce, to plunder poorly defended towns. This, however, was no attack by a ragtag bunch of brigands, nor burly savages. The attackers were undoubtedly Dukorian, and while they were poorly equipped compared to the common soldier, they had organisation and discipline beyond any professional company. ¡°Is this kind of attack common around here?¡± asked someone standing next to Ford and Millie. ¡°No, we haven¡¯t been attacked in years, I was a kid last time we got raided. I remember it like it was¡­¡± Ford began to reply, but trailed off as he looked towards the man who asked the question. When did he get there? Millie didn¡¯t react either and she knows the scent of everyone in this town. ¡°Like it was?¡± ¡°Ahem, like it was yesterday,¡± concluded Ford. ¡°Who are you? I don¡¯t think I¡¯ve seen you around here.¡± The mayor lowered his bow in his left hand and put his right into his cloak, resting his palm on the hilt of a dagger. ¡°No need to be alarmed, Mister Ford, I¡¯m but a traveler,¡± replied the man. He held his hood tight around his neck, as if to ward off the cold. ¡°I spent the night at Ohsmald¡¯s place.¡± ¡°Ah, well welcome to Stagmore I guess,¡± Ford bent down slightly, craning his neck in an attempt to see the man¡¯s face. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, a bandit attack might not be the best hospitality we can give you, but I hope you enjoyed your stay.¡± He squinted. Ford was looking straight at the stranger¡¯s face, yet he couldn¡¯t make out his traits - as if the whole thing was a blur. From the corner of his eye, the mayor could make out a semblance of a beard and long hair, but if he looked at it directly, he couldn¡¯t make out anything; like the shadows in the corners of a room lit by a flickering fire. Damn my head hurts. Well he hasn¡¯t done any harm. And if Ohsmald let him stay at his inn then he can¡¯t be that bad. Old innkeeper¡¯s always been more perceptive then I was when it came to judging folks. ¡°Don¡¯t you worry my good man, I¡¯ve got news that help is on its way.¡± Ford did his best to smile. ¡°You should make your way to the church. The rest of the town is over there, or whoever could make it there in time at least. It¡¯s safe there.¡± He gestured southward, pointing down a trail mangled by footsteps in the snow. ¡°Oh no, no, no,¡± the cloaked man said nonchalantly as he crossed his arms. ¡°I think I¡¯ll watch,¡± ¡°What? But its danger-,¡± Ford got cut off as the faint sound of war horns echoed behind him. Help was near.