Chapter 2 Continued
The light of dawn crept slowly into the room. It slid across the walls, over the closed eyes of the exhausted travelers, and across their bed sheets. By the time they awoke, it was a midday sun warming the clean, well-worn barracks floor. Pushing aside his sheets, Khamal turned to his backpack and opened it. Procuring a fresh set of clothes, he started to change beside his bed. The shirt he had slept in was soiled from battle, caked in long dried blood, little of which was his own. By the time he was tying his bootlaces, the others had awakened as well and were beginning to dress.
When Graddock was finished hastily clothing himself, Khamal chimed “Lets head out. It was nice meeting you all.”
Graddock looked at the others, nodded his head a bit and turned to Dalen. “Take care of yourself.” He smiled and walked out the door after Khamal.
Dalen looked at Anton, then at the door again. “What was that supposed to mean?” he frowned slightly.
Quickly buttoning his shirt, Anton turned. “Well, you were the only one of us who…”
“No need to remind me.” Dalen grimaced. Looking down, he saw Rove padding across the floor, its eyes intent on a small mouse that was standing stock still underneath Graddock’s bed.
Anton rose, and lifted his spear from the floor along with his pack, and slung each over his back. “It happens to the best of us. All that matters is that you can feel the sun on your face today.” Anton nodded his head with a slight smile, and walked out of the barracks.
Dalen slowly stood up from his bed, and looked at the black cat as it became motionless, feet from the mouse. “I know you were planning to put it in my bed if I weren’t up so soon. Give up and c’mon. We’ve got work ahead of us.” Rove turned and looked at Dalen with emerald eyes. With the aloof motions only a cat is capable of, Rove turned from the mouse, and followed Dalen outside.
The chill of a winter breeze was offset by the warmth of the sun as Dalen walked out of the building, and although the barracks yards were full of activity as Leel guardsmen trained and marched, his eyes focused to four familiar men standing together across the training grounds. Khamal, Graddock, Anton, and an officer were speaking to each other, and as soon as Dalen saw them, they saw him as well. The officer beckoned to him with a hand signal.
Dalen approached them.
“Glad to see you up, ser. I’m Captain Armin of House Leel.” The man stated.
Dalen bowed slightly to show respect. “Dalen.”
“If the four of you could follow me into my office, we’ve some business to discuss.” The officer turned. The four, looking at each other with curious glances and puzzled looks, followed him into a large building, down a hall, and into the Captain’s Office. Sweeping aside a pile of papers left on the desk by the Captain of the previous shift, Armin gestured to four wooden seats arranged around the room. “Please have a seat.”
Khamal, Graddock, Anton, and Dalan each found a seat, and looked intently at the captain.
“So, please describe to me exactly what happened last night.” The Captain requested.
The four men worked together and created a timeline of events from the riders leaving the forest a few miles up the road from the tavern to their eventual escape. With their story complete, Graddock asked who they were.
“Well, they obviously aren’t as large or reckless as Wildmen. Based on the outfits of the three riders you killed, we have reason to believe that they are connected to a provincial faction.” Armin leaned forward. “Most of the populace is still ignorant of a growing organization that wishes to overthrow House Leel. They are mostly peasants.”
“They do not fight like peasants.” Khamal interjected. “They were not easily routed, and even when wounded, they continued to attack. They’re either fanatics, have military training, or both.”
Captain Armin nodded. “Agreed. Last night we believe they were targeting the two officers who were at the tavern. I will be frank with you; currently, with the onset of winter, we don’t have the resources to commit a wide scale sweep of the area to root out these traitors. Everyone is either north guarding against the Wildmen, guarding the cities, or training in Illuvia.”
Leaning back in his chair, Anton chimed in “And why are you telling us all of this, exactly?”
“Well, we want you four to find the remaining riders. Normally we would post such a thing on headsmen and mercenary boards at the Militia Office, but right now the last thing we want is to bring this faction to the attention of the public. When it starts getting colder, people stay inside by fireplaces. They talk, and they talk where we can’t hear what they say. Secrecy is of the utmost importance, at least until the Thawing—when we’ll be able to send out a contingent to deal with them.”
“Sounds simple enough. Fine, but I expect we’ll be well paid for our efforts.”
Captain Armin nodded. “We’ve set the bounty for them at the same rate as Wildmen. Twenty Settorins each, if brought in alive; unlike the Wildmen, we expect our interrogation methods will work on members of this faction—fanatics or not.”
“Done.”
“For now, simply scout their base, and return with information. We need to know how many horses they have, and how many men they have. If they use runners or ravens, we’ll need to know that as well, not to mention what directions their messages head and arrive. Report back, and we’ll formulate a plan of action.”
Khamal nodded and rose to his feet. “We’ll set out at once.” Turning, he walked out of the door with Graddock following closely behind. Dalen nodded to the officer and bolted out the door behind Khamal.
“What in the Shadow are you doing getting me involved in this?” he asked Khamal’s back.
“Hey, you didn’t have to dive out the window after me.” Khamal’s responded, continuing to walk out of the militia yards.
“What?”
“Back at the tavern.”
Dalen walked, thinking. “Well, I… You should have at least gotten a consensus or something.” He stopped, waiting for an answer.
Khamal kept walking. “If you don’t want to come, don’t. Otherwise, meet us at the southern gate in one half hour.”
Anton and Graddock walked past Dalen, who stood at the edge of the bustling street that Khamal had finally disappeared into. Graddock patted him on the back as he left.
Turning, his head and shoulders above most of the crowd, he shouted to Dalen. “It’ll be fun!” He laughed, and moved southward towards the main plaza. Anton vanished into the crowd as well.
Dalen sighed. Despite himself, an hour later he found himself standing at the southern gate, waiting for the others. Anton, Khamal, Dalen, and Graddock appeared from the crowds that shuffled through the snow covered streets, and they set off southward along the road.
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By midday, they found the forest that the riders came from. Horse tracks wound into the barren, icy trees, and the silence of their slow march from tree to tree was broken only by the soft crunch of snow beneath their feet. Putting his hand up in a “Stop here” signal, Khamal moved forward to scout ahead of the group, the steel of his scimitar and dagger glittering from the bright snow.
Several minutes ahead of the group, he came upon one of the riders, who was watering his horse by a partially frozen brook. Khamal froze in place on the periphery of the rider’s vision, and slowly placed his scimitar in the deep snow beside him. Reaching to his belt, he produced his bolos, and with a soft thrum they found their target around the ankles of the rider. Reacting, the rider fell on his back as he attempted to move. Before he had his sword from his sheath, bits of snow were dripping onto his nose from the tip of a dangerously close blade. Above him, Khamal smiled, and the rider laid his arms out straight, palms down on the snow as a sign of submission.
“Get up.”
He got up.
Khamal gave a brief whistle that resembled birdcall, and Graddock came with the others in tow shortly thereafter. By the time they arrived, Khamal had the rider’s hands and feet securely tied.
Anton smiled. “Impressive Khamal. So this is a rider eh? He looks a bit young.”
Khamal took a moment to closely examine the man, who was indeed almost a boy. He could have been no more than seventeen. Regardless, Khamal’s blade did not waver from the rider’s neck.
Dalen, stepped beside the rider and put his finger on the side of Khamal’s scimitar, pushing it slowly away. “What is your name?” he said.
“I’m not telling you anything.”
Dalen put his finger on the other side of Khamal’s scimitar, and pushed it back. “Let’s try this again. What is your name?”
“Orren. I’m Orren,” the young man said, swallowing hard as he strained his neck away from the blade.
“Excellent Orren. Now tell us—where is your camp, and how many are there?”
“I’m not allowed to tell you, I’ll be killed if I do.”
Khamal moved his blade closer, till it’s sharp edge pushed into the boy’s neck. “Northwest! One mile!” the boy yipped with pain as a single, slow trickle of blood crept down the scimitar.
Dalen sighed, and moved for a different angle. “What do you do when you aren’t burning taverns, Orren? You don’t exactly look or act like the type to be involved in such things.”
“I’m a farmer’s son. We have a small plot of land to the south near the border of Illuvia.”
Dalen nodded, and his mind formed a plan even as he spoke. “So why did you burn a tavern that was filled with farming folk?”
“There were Leelmen in there. We were supposed to kill them, it’s the only way to bring freedom to the people of this land!”
Graddock grunted, “You kill your own people to bring them freedom?”
The boy opened his mouth, but fell silent—seeming almost disturbed by the actions of the previous night.
Dalen nodded at Graddock. “Alright Orren, we’re going to give you two options. You can take off your armor and weaponry, get on that horse, and ride it all the way home, or we can take you and tie you up onto yonder tree until your friends come for you. Given the fact that your friends will be in chains before night falls, I would not feel too safe with the second option.”
Orren looked into Dalen’s unwavering eyes and shook his head. “I’ll leave. I’ll go home and never burn another tavern. Never look at another tavern!”
Dalen nodded to Khamal, who untied the boy. “Strip.” He ordered. The boy complied, and moments later rode off in the farmer’s outfit that he wore under his armor.
Graddock scooped up the boy’s armor and weapons, securing them to his pack. That done, the group moved northwest through the forest. Half a mile later, Graddock stopped and pointed upwards. “Look.”
Above, empty tree-stands dotted the trees. Graddock slowly climbed up to the nearest empty stand, and found a quiver with three arrows, each wrapped with oil-soaked cloth. Sliding down, he presented them to the group. Anton nodded, “For lookouts. Good thing these are empty, they’d have spotted us for sure already if they weren’t.” Scanning the treetops further ahead, he pointed. “That one’s not unoccupied!”
The four moved to hide behind trees, and slowly worked their way under it. The man sat in the tree with a shortbow in his hands, looking away from their direction. Khamal moved under the tree and threw his bolos up. They sailed past, and the guard looked down with a surprised look on his face. As Graddock started to climb the tree, the guard was busy lighting the oiled strip of his arrow. Graddock managed to say “You better not” before the arrow was loosed into the camp. It embedded itself mere feet from a large metal gong that was in the center of the campsite.
That done, Graddock grunted, and punched the man in the side of the head. He groaned, and moved to shoot another arrow at the camp. Below, Anton began to chant, and a celestial eagle appeared before the man, attempting to grab his arrows. It snatched his arrows, and he tried to hit Graddock with the bow.
At that point, Graddock decided to stop being nice, and took a heavy mace from his belt. Wood chips showered down to the ground as the guard ducked under the barbarian’s blow, and the man punched Graddock in the head again as he shouted at the top of his lungs to the sleeping camp below:
“FIRE ARROW! FIRE ARROWWW!”
He was cut off before he could shout again, as Graddock’s mace found his jaw. The man went limp, and fell into the snow a broken heap, forty feet below.
Anton looked up at Graddock as he climbed down the tree. “Well, if flight of arrow, snap of tree, cry of pain, and roar of Graddock fail to wake the camp, we should have no fear of disturbing them.”
Despite his optimism, the group crouched in the snow to devise a plan. At Dalen’s request, Rove moved into the camp and counted tents for them. They then drew a rough sketch of the camp, and made a plan of action. It went as follows.
Moving quietly, Khamal hustled to the gong and quickly cut it down, laying it gently down on the snow. Anton moved to a covering position watching the entrance of the first tent as Dalen and Graddock moved to the tent’s side. Using his dagger, Dalen poked a hole into the tent, and peered inside. One of the riders was sleeping inside, unarmored. Khamal moved in, and without a grunt, the rider moved from blissful slumber to blissful unconsciousness with the promise of a large headache in the future.
The group then moved from tent to tent, repeating the process—slicing holes into the tents to count sleepers, then moving in and knocking them out as the slept, then tying them up. Within the span of an hour, ten riders were tied in the ropes that had earlier been used to support their own tents.
As Khamal triple checked the ropes, Dalen was busy slicing off a large portion of a tent, and writing words on it with broad strokes of a quill pen. As the group left their “recon” mission with every rider bound as a prisoner, he stopped at the nearest tree and tied the tent fabric to it, as warning to those who would come upon the broken camp.
“Let this scene bear witness to any who would dare stand in defiance to the sovereign right of House Leel.”
With prisoners in tow, the group returned to the barracks, greeted by a wide eyed Captain of the Guard.
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