Chapter 206: Crossroads of Honor

Book 4, Chapter 47 - Crossroads of Honor

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Commander Arhad Calthus found himself at an impasse. “How many?” he asked one of his implants —a grey robed man sitting at the mouth of an alley with a panhandling tray. Just one of many Eagles placed among the refugee population residing in Heira.

“Some two hundred,” answered the pretend pauper. He had the appearance down well, ragged beard, ruffled hair, and dirt stained robe. “Wounded, most. Multiple reports confirming.”

Wounded… Arhad dropped a copper and the man expressed exaggerated glee.

“May Trillia bless your kindness,” the soldier said.

Arhad nodded and walked away. It was the early hours ere dawn, yet city arms and Trillian watchmen stalked the dark streets. The commander drew near the hood of his cloak, but never lifted it to veil his head entirely. He wore plain garb, a simple dagger hidden at his back and a skinning knife in his pocket. He turned into a narrow walkway with loose cobbles, tilting his head to the side in time to catch two in Trillian white and gold follow him from a measured distance.

Arhad paused midway in the narrow street and kicked aside a broken shard of the road. Half a year, and he figured he could run this city with the men of House Serene he'd brought with him. Half a year, though, was too long a time. Two men in guardsman maroons stepped out of a hidden pass in the narrow road. One lay his hand on Arhad's chest and gave an angry scowl. Arhad smiled. “Soldier,” he said.

“Commander, Sir,” the man saluted. The other man saluted too, but offered no words. He was without tongue, for he'd bitten it once in the heat of battle.

“Spread the word,” Arhad said. “Lord Galadin is sending aid to the city in form of food and medicine by caravan. Two hundred guards, most of them wounded.”

“Just like the bastard to send ill prepared men on errands like this,” the soldier cursed.

Arhad nodded. The Trillians might have a proper network of spies and armsmen of their own in the vicinity of their grand temple, but Arhad was betting they did not know the names and faces of the city guard well, for the guard was mostly kept to the richer quarter of the city, while the Trillians managed the rest of it. A couple of slit throats earned Arhad and his soldiers the uniforms of Heiran officers.

“How many do we get?” the soldier questioned.

“Half of three hundred. Get them out of the city at dawn with the going merchants. I'll be there to lead the raid. Our objective is burning all supplies.”

Both soldiers nodded and left down the opposite end of the narrow street. Arhad turned back to face the Trillians that had now entered the same walkway he'd come through. Enough light was in the sky for him to make out the dull shine of their shoulder pauldrons. One stepped in a muddy puddle and cursed. These men were large of stature, their shadows stretching long to reach Arhad's feet. He continued with a meek gait, hands positioned near his weapons should he need them. Arhad offered a nod as he passed them by, knowing they could see the men in Heiran colors walking opposite.

A hand gripped his shoulder from behind. “Any report we should know?” came a crack voiced question. A voice burnt and rotted by smoking too much tabac.

Arhad shook his head. “Seen some suspicious activity among the refugees,” he answered calmly. “But they're all suspicious, damn pests. Any more of this, and we might start getting reduced portions.”

“Hah, that's for sure. Heard we're getting supplies in today,” the Trillian thug said.

“Reduced portions my rear,” said the other thug. “I hear old Bernestur has the guards of his quarter eating fat and well.”

“Not us that were transferred to watch the temple,” Arhad said.

“Tch. Look at you. Seven days out of your quadrant and you're already missing your fancy meals.”

Arhad threw up his hands. “Fine, fine. Catch me in the streets in the evening and I'll pay for a round of drinks.”

The Trillians nodded and continued on their patrol. Arhad heaved a sigh of relief once he was far enough. Lord Serene had entrusted him with this task. Infiltration, raiding, and reconnaissance was his area of expertise. But one thing remained unchanging no matter the operation —nerves could never be truly stilled.

Arhad walked back to his inn, taking a roundabout way to get there, informing select soldiers among his spy network of the raid plan. Herein was the impasse he found himself at. Certainly he was prepping for a raid, but honor bade him not to. He bore Lord Serene's Silver Eagle sigil with pride. The duke's first and foremost responsibility was always to the people of the kingdom. Aid was on the way for the sick and impoverished refugee and citizen population of Heira, and he planned to burn it all down to agitate the city even more.

Arhad closed his fists. Queen Emeria was in the grand temple, making appearances in the prayer hall, but none yet outside. The temple's entrances were watched with hawk-like vigilance. The city needed to be in chaos for an opportunity to present itself to nab the queen. And the kingdom direly needed their monarch in a seat of power to be set back on the right course from which it was pulled. The suffering of a single city for the betterment of the entire kingdom and its future populations…

Yet having been in the city, having walked among the ailing women and children living off scraps and hiding beneath damp and moulding cloth tents, he felt the barbs of his actions spread their thorns in his breast. It was one thing to raid an enemy's supplies and know they starved from afar, it was entirely another to walk among those Arhad was sworn to protect, see their ails, and steal from them the smallest threads of hope that might lead to their continued survival.

This pain we feel in our chest, this nausea from our actions, is our reminder that we are human and not yet lost to the darkness of our deeds . Lord Serene's words. A soldier is to always be prepared to do the darkest of deeds, but never is he to revel in it. Always he is to hate it, for the blade is not wielded to kill, but swung instead to protect those that cannot protect themselves.

The cracks of dawn spread across a spotted sky. Brilliant red rays were caught upon the edges of the clouds. Light filtered into Heira through the haze of toxic smoke still lingering here and there. “We do what we must,” Arhad uttered to himself.

***

West gate, Arhad confirmed, lowering his monocular. The aid caravan approached the road leading to Heira's western entrance. Less than a league of travel lay between those wagons and the city, and between that league lay in wait the Eagle raiders, crouched or flat upon their bellies, hidden in lush, knee height sedge and fescue blanketing the rolling plains around the city.

Arhad raised a whistle to his mouth and blew into it twice, producing two, short and high pitched sounds easily mistaken as the wind or a passing bird. Half his company lay in wait by the road leading to the south gate. Confirming whistles were blown a hundred paces from his position, and further down until they reached the appropriate place.

A half hour went in counted seconds before Arhad heard a new round of whistles in his surrounds. All raiders were in position and the aid caravan —stretching some forty generous wagons long— were but two hundred paces from his position. Low rising hills were on either side of the road. There would be no escape —not for those guards who bore bandages around their heads and slings over their arms. Men sure enough to be glad to not be guarding the iron mines of their foolish lord. Good, honorable sons of Xenaria some might even be. Alas, mercy was not Arhad's place to decide. Complete the mission, and complete it as well as can be.

Flying notes of trumpets pierced the open sky.

Arhad's jaw set. He rose to a crouch and raised his monocular to his eye again, turning it due east of himself. The road to Heira had been cleared of travelers. A troop in Trillian livery were marching out the gate to meet the caravan. “Ashes,” the commander breathed.

Arhad raised his whistle to his lips. Three short notes were blown into them —three meant to convey ' burn everything, flee fast, kill anyone and everyone in your path , in that specific order. Killing was last, for killing was not necessary. Better to burden the city with a new round of hungry and wounded men than not. One long blast into the whistle signified the raid's beginning.

First came oil slicked arrows lit aflame. They soared and fell like a flock of kingfishers diving into a pond. Several seconds passed before the caravan guards realized they were under attack. Several seconds long enough for the next unit to close in from their low crouched position and aim crossbows at the wounded guards. Last to follow were the camouflaged melee squad —coming a full minute after the arrows had been allowed to sow chaos among the enemies.

Dozens of Galadin's guards fell to projectile fire. Six minutes, Arhad thought, as he blitzed down the hill, sword drawn with oil vials and tinderbox bouncing up and down in his pockets. It took six minutes for hardened soldiers to run a half league. Six estimated minutes, of which one had gone, before the well-equipped troop from Heira reached this position.

A young man in Galadin's maroon colors, great oak crest on his leather cuirass, limped backward toward a spreading fire in a wagon. He leveled a spear at Arhad, but the experienced commander swatted it aside with the flat of his blade. Arhad raised his blade again to bring the boy down, but alas, his eyes met with that of his fearful foe's, and he found in his hands mercy. Arhad, unable to stop his momentum, spun and rammed the pommel of his weapon into the boy's head with a hideous crack . It wouldn't kill, but it would leave an ache for months.

A one eyed guard screamed as he approached Arhad's position. Arhad turned in time to see a crossbow bolt puncture the man's knee. Without thought, Arhad severed the arm holding a weapon and kicked the wounded man in the chest. This one will never fight, and perhaps never work again .

Foolish thoughts. The second minute was withering fast. The caravan had no capable commander leading it. No rallying cries were made. No defense was formed around the wagons still unlit. A quick glance showed more grey cloaks of the Eagles than maroon coats of the Great Oak. Arhad dashed his oil vials against boxes of supplies. He then used his tinderbox to light the wagon aflame, turning down the road to see his unit do the same. Not a single tincture jar was to be spared. Not even a morsel of bread.

Heat radiated from the snaking blaze that had been lit down the curving road. Shouts were few and only coming from the felled enemy guards. Arhad raised his whistle to his lips again. Beads of sweat rolled down one side of his face too near to the flames. He blew a sharp note meant to convey retreat .

The unified battle cries of enemies down the road informed him otherwise.

Six minutes were up. The Trillian troop were here. Fleeing was not an option.

There was nowhere to run to on these open lands. Nowhere to hide, or conduct ambushes from. If Arhad allowed a chase to ensue, riders could sally forth from the city while these on foot pursuers harried him and tired his company. No. He had to make a stand here and disappear into the wind once enemy lines were broken.

Arhad again blew notes from his whistle. Crossbowmen retreated up the low hills for a high ground advantage while the melee squad —making up only fifty men— formed up along the road before the burning wagons. Higher Baelor , Arhad thought, seeing the mighty Trillian man lead the enemy van with a great broad bladed sabre and a rectangular board for a shield. The one to whom most of the Trillian thugs were beholden, Arhad had quickly learned once arriving at Heira.

Two bolts thunked into Baelor's black-painted shield. He sneered from behind it, raising it above his shoulder and charging straight forward. A quick glance told Arhad the Eagles were outnumbered two to one. He wheeled around Baelor's charge, meaning to stab at the large man's back, but Baelor's size betrayed his true speed. The Higher stopped abruptly, swinging his shield into Arhad's face. With a mighty swing of his sabre, he cut down one soldier, and forced a dent into the tight-knit line of Eagles. Seconds later, the Trillian line crashed into Arhad's company.

Baelor wreaked havoc on the van, swinging both shield and sword in crazed, brutish fashion. His every move saw an ally soldier caught unawares and cut down. The line would've crumbled if not for the archers on the hills picking enemies off.

Arhad sniffled blood rolling down his nose. He drew it back inside, and felt it dribble down his throat, a coppery taste slipping onto his tongue. He weaved around his attackers with the space created by his archers, cutting down his enemies with the use of his deft feet and quick, lethal slashes to joints and vitals. Screams hammered his eardrums, both of enemies and his own solders.

The exchange lasted but half a minute before Arhad found himself overshadowed by a figure from behind. He spun and raised his blade in time to parry an overhead swing from Baelor. “Puny man,” the Trillian spat.

Arhad fell upon his back from the force of the attack. Baelor did not hesitate —he stomped down on his foe. Crushing pain shot through Arhad's torso. Amid them, smaller crackling vibrations told him several ribs had been broken. There, pinned beneath Baelor's boot, he saw his life flash before his eyes. Baelor raised his sabre to stab down, but a bolt caught his shoulder and he stumbled back.

Arhad kicked at his foes legs, tripping him. In a flash, the Eagle commander rose again and swung his blade, tearing into his enemy's face. Too shallow. Blood leaked from a hideous gash beside Baelor's mouth. Arhad meant to deal the finishing blow, but instinct bade him turn, for enemies there were still aplenty behind him. Fatigue seeped into his arms as he cut down two men, and suffered scores upon his own arm. Pain pulsed in his torso, adrenaline keeping him standing. Another few sword exchanges, and Arhad found himself face to face with an enraged Baelor once again.

Baelor raised his shield in defense. Arhad gripped his blade with both hands and howled, swinging with all his might to blow Baelor's guard wide open. Arhad used the momentum of his attack to spin, raising an elbow, driving its point into the wound on Baelor's face.

The brute barely flinched.

Baelor dropped his weapon and shield, and grabbed hold of Arhad in a tight hug, crushing him in his arms. Pain arced up one side of Arhad's chest —the side with the broken ribs. He screamed in an unbecoming high pitch. Sheer grit allowed him to lower his head and snap it back into Baelor's nose. With a roar, Baelor lifted Arhad off his feet and tossed him aside.

“Retreat!” the bloodied Trillian commander then cried. “Retreat!”

Arhad groaned and crawled to the roadside, grabbing a dead man's sword, and using it as a crutch to rise again. He squinted through the pain blurring his eyes, seeing dozens of enemies fleeing down the road. What remained of his archers fired at their rear, picking off a few. Baelor survived.

Arhad gazed around. Less than a third of his men stood tall, a few dozen more rolling around in pain. The skirmish was won because of the archers. But the battle was not over yet. “Quick,” Arhad cried. “Retreat back to the city. Enter through a different gate before word of our raid spreads among the guards of the wall.”

The soldiers offered quick salutes and pulled up those still alive among their fallen brothers. Arhad slowly rose to his feet with a groan, clutching at his torso. This was but a fraction of his mission. He'd give his life if it meant breaking the queen out of the city. He hobbled down the road, adrenaline still pumping through him and stifling some of the pain he knew he'd feel in force once he stopped moving.

Behind the company, the wagons still burned, sending undulating plumes of acrid black smoke rising skyward.

***

“Galadin and his Flaming incompetence,” Odain spat. He slammed a fist down upon the rich, mahogany wood of the table before him. It cracked, teacups on its surface rattling and toppling over. Governor Bernestur sat opposite him. A shriveled old man with a long beard, and sunken eyes rimmed with the black of insomnia.

Tea spilled onto the floor and dribbled toward the carpets a few paces next. Bernestur quivered in the face of Odain's might. He clapped his hands once, and two serving boys, fog-eyed children below age ten, scuttled into the room and began cleaning up the mess.

“I, ah, I'll send for Lord Galadin to send forth his aid again,” Bernestur said with his crooked baritone.

“And what good does that do?” Odain demanded. “It'll take several cycles before another aid caravan arrives, and I'm doubtful your miserly lord will spare much more. No. I'll send word to Lord Caranel instead. Consider your allegiances, Governor, and consider them well. Galadin will pay for this foolish mistake once things are in order.”

Bernestur bowed his head, a mop of greasy grey threads surrounding a smooth, balding surface. “My allegiance is ever to the Goddess, and her faithful, your brilliance.”

Odain sucked in a deep breath. Losing his temper so close to his goal in sight would not do well. An error in calculations, nothing more. He'd expected ineptitude from Galadin's side, but he'd prepped for it too late. And of course, Higher Baelor had survived the encounter when Odain was hoping he would perish. Forty wagons of food and aid reduced to cinders…

An underestimation of the honorable Eagles of High House Serene. Whoever the duke had sent to Heira came ready to make hard decisions.

T'was timeless tale of humanity's true nature. Pushed to the edge and all qualities associated with goodness were washed away. Lord Serene had given his honor. What would come next, Odain wondered. Dignity? Justice? Or perhaps honesty?

Whatever the answer, all that would remain at the end was hope, until even that Odain snatched from the Eagle's talons. “Open your storehouses, Bernestur.” No use punishing Lord Galadin. He was useful still.

The governor flinched. “Your brilliance, but that would leave Heira's actual citizens in risk of starving. And the nobles here in my quarter—”

A glare was enough to silence the wretch. Odain twisted his lips. He rolled over the crumbs of a tea biscuit between a thumb and a finger. There was a ceaseless twitch in the veins of his arms. This fanciful manor of Governor Bernestur, well-furnished with scarlet carpets and soft cushioned seats, was a place of depthless malice. The only servants here were young orphan boys picked off the streets to suit the governor's fancy, and to appease him in his nightly activities. Vibrant paintings hung from walls, white luminite chandeliers dangled off the ceiling, yet lightless were the servants' eyes upon which was the glaze of the narcotic shase. I should kill this man.

Would that there were more useful tools around, Odain would not hesitate. Some actions were too degenerate to allow continued life. “You will open your stores, Bernestur. I do not care if the pigs living down the street from here are given smaller portions to eat for a month or two. Lord Caranel will show with aid at my behest. Else your refugees will burn this city down.”

That could not be allowed —not yet. Heira was the birthplace of the Trillian faith. The faith had yet to reach all corners of Xenaria before the city could be allowed to fall to ruin. People would lose faith in their Goddess elsewise.

Slowly and carefully, Odain decided. Only once High House Serene was starved to its brink could the collapse and rebirth of Xenaria truly begin.

Bernestur began rubbing his hands. “If you but give me time…”

“How long?” Odain asked.

“Five days. No, four. I'll have everything ready in four days to distribute to the refugees.”

“Four days to hand out food?”

“Er, to organize the proper rations and medicine kits, as well as gather our physicians and such…”

Odain crushed the biscuit crumb. Four days. Emeria's speech to the people would have to wait until then. “Very well,” he said, levelling a threatening stare that promised consequence in the event of failure. Four days . Time enough to tighten temple security further in the event the duke's men made another play.