Thanks for the posts, guys! And yes, we're definitely building to something.
Heh, I had to do a
lot of profanity-filtering for this post.
* * * * *
Chapter 117
THE BORDER LEGION
A small column of riders rode along a winding trail, little more than a track, that wound through a very difficult terrain of jagged hills and steep ridges. The trail rose steeply into the foothills, beyond which stood the impressive gray peaks of the Galerr Mountains. This nearly impenetrable range divided the continent in two. Technically, the mapmakers usually identified the mountains as the western border of the Grand Duchy, but the fact was that almost no civilized folk lived in these rough lands. Those few outposts in this region tended to be stark, heavily fortified, and occupied by hard-edged men with weapons close at hand.
The riders seemed to fit right in to the stark landscape, big, muscled men clad in heavy fur cloaks with armor visible underneath. All twelve carried weapons, ranging from swords to huge double-bladed axes, to spears and great recurved warbows.
The trail widened somewhat as it rose along the crest of a razorback ridge that navigated a treacherous drop of hundreds of feet to either side. Up ahead, the trail looked to be headed toward a gap between two of the huge peaks, a deceptively benign-looking gateway into the mountains ahead. At this time of year, snow already covered the slopes of the mountains at that altitude, and soon it would pack the passes as well. Three winters out of four, it would come as low as the trail that the armed party was now traversing. It was cold now, bracingly so, as it was only a scant hour since the break of dawn, and the early morning sun had not yet shone enough to warm the bare rocks of the hills. By the look of the riders and their horses, they had gotten a very early start this day.
The lead rider did not turn toward the pass, instead divering the column along a track that jutted off from the main trail, to the right. This route took them into a canyon with steep, two hundred feet walls of rough gray slate. The beat of their hooves echoed off the canyon walls, and the light of the early morning sun that had shone on them as they made their way up the ridge faded, replaced with a chill like that of fresh frost. Snow was visible in a few deep crevices in the canyon, in places where the sun never quite reached.
They passed down the canyon for about a quarter mile, then a small valley opened up before them.
The place was well situated for shelter against the surrounding mountains, with high, steep cliffs in all directions save the one facing them. The valley was an elongated bowl maybe a half-mile across. A stream ran through it, dropping off a cliff to the west, then running through the valley in a steadily descending course before disappearing into a cleft to the east. Most of the near side of the valley was denuded, but some trees still covered the slopes on the far side, in some cases even jutting from the vertical far cliffs in a display of natural persistence.
The valley was far from pristine. A stockade had been built across the canyon entrance, although the gate was open, and the two wooden watchstations looked deserted. Beyond the fortifications, at the nadir of the valley, stood a small gathering of pathetic-looking buildings, weathered one-story structures of stone and wood. But the valley was clearly occupied by more than the sparse population that the tiny village could have supported. At least two score rude shelters had been built into the sloping rises to the west and north fo the village, most of them cavelike excavations that had been dug into the hillsides, with entrances of heavy logs that framed narrow doorways closed off with curtains of thick hides. Other than a few wisps of smoke that rose from the buildings or from the hillside shelters, the place seemed deserted.
The leader of the riders rode slowly forward down into the valley. As they rode through the open gate, he studied the empty watchtowers, and the darkened gatehouse of plain logs just inside the gate. He pulled up his reins, and lifted his hand to call a halt. The other riders reined in behind him.
“Gods, it’s worse than I’d expected,” one of the riders said.
“How many you think are here?” another asked.
“The roster has three hundred and seventeen listed as active. But I don’t see how there can be that many here...”
“Depends on how big those caves are...”
“Complete breakdown of discipline...”
“What did you expect? The Duke—ah, the old Duke—he was dumping trash out here for years, and...”
“Wouldn’t have done much good if the orcs had come...”
“Orcs been gone for nigh on thirty years now. Folks got short memories...”
“Leavin’ the gates wide open, my mother could have taken this valley...”
“Yeah, I’ll bet your mother could have taken all three hundred and seventeen...”
“Ha, I heard your mother serviced the entire Fourth Legion...”
A short rider with a face as craggy as the surrounding cliffs spun in his saddle to face the two men who had just spoken. Under his heavy cloak, he wore a tunic emblazoned with the two black slashes of a Camarian non-commissioned officer. “Shut up, the both of you stupid bastards, or I’ll cut your balls off and feed ‘em to my horse.”
The leader had watched the valley silently during the exchange behind him.
“Stay here,” he told them.
The grizzled noncom said, “Ser, it might not be a good idea—”
“Stay here,” he repeated. “I’ll call you if I need you.” He dismounted, tossing his reins to the next rider in the line. After adjusting his cloak, and verifying that his longsword was loose in the scabbard at his hip, he walked down into the village.
The settlement was quiet, but as he made his way further down the trail, there were signs of it slowly coming to life. A man clad only in tattered breeches erupted from one of the hillside shelters, shivering as he drew out his member and urinated onto the stones outside his residence. Only when he was done did he see the intruder; he blinked at the man for several long moments, who finally turned away and continued on his way.
On the outskirts of the village, he encountered a mongrel dog, and a woman who’d emerged from one of the rude huts to grab firewood from one of the long, mostly-empty bins alongside the house. The woman, well past her prime, likewise looked at the newcomer with surprise.
“Galos,” he said.
She stared at him for a few seconds. “Galos,” he repeated, his tone brooking no argument. He took another step toward her, which seemed to shake her out of her lethargy; she pointed to the largest of the village buildings, on the far side of the small open space that served as a commons.
The man continued on his way, ignoring the woman, who dropped her burden and immediately rushed back into the house.
The expression on the man’s face grew darker as he walked across the open space, stone crunching beneath his boots. He could see a long structure that looked like stables off to the left, big enough to accommodate perhaps a hundred mounts. Beside it stood a darkened structure that might have once been a smithy. Now it was a sagging ruin, its thatch roof bent almost low enough to brush the floor inside.
He reached the place that the woman had indicated. The front porch had sagged so much that he had to duck slightly to get to the door. The door, not surprisingly, was stuck in its jam, but it gave before his shoulder, opening with a loud creak.
The room beyond was cramped, little more than a foyer with doors leading off to three side rooms. A table piled high with stained playing cards, empty bottles, and stuff that might have once been food was jammed into a corner, surrounded by rickety chairs.
A man appeared in one of the doorways. He had pulled a winter cloak over his otherwise naked body, but his eyes were bleary and thick with sleep. “Who the hell are you?”
“Get Galos,” the intruder said.
“
Colonel Galos is sleeping,” the man said. “I’m
Captain Valdes, what is this about? You the messenger from Fort Taledran?”
“I don’t care who the hell you are,” the other replied. “Get Colonel Galos out here, right now.”
The captain’s eyes narrowed, but there was something in the other man’s manner that was dangerous. He retreated through another doorway, heading further back into the house. There was a delay, an angry yell, then some muffled voices from the next room. The newcomer didn’t wait long, and pushed the door open, following after the captain.
The back of the house comprised a short hall that connected three doors. He followed the voices to the last door, which was open a crack. He pushed it open and stepped into the room beyond.
The place wasn’t large, the available space taken up by an old wardrobe, a small metal stove under the room’s only window, and a fairly spacious bed. A buxom, naked woman was in the bed, and dove deeper under the covers as he entered. On the far side of the bed stood the captain, and a giant of a man who was pulling a ragged Camarian legion coat over a muscled torso marked with several obvious scars. He’d already pulled on breeches, and had buckled a swordbelt sporting a broad legion shortsword around his thick waist. The man’s eyes narrowed as he saw the intruder.
“Who the hell are you?” he spat.
“Colonel Galos?”
“Yeah, I’m Galos.” The officer pushed the captain aside and came forward to face the intruder. Stabbing a thick finger at the other’s chest to punctuate his words, he said, “Now, who. The. Hell. Are. You?”
The man shifted slightly, opening his cloak enough so that the other men could see the uniform he wore underneath it. “I’m Corath Dar.
Colonel Corath Dar, and I’m your godsdamned replacement.” He drew out a scroll from the pouch at his belt and slapped it down on the bedcovers. “There’s your orders. You’re relieved, as of right now, colonel.”
The other man stared down at Dar—he had about five inches on him—for several long seconds, then he snorted. “Is that right, now.” He took the scroll, broke the seal, and scanned the contents. “Ah, I’d heard about this... new government in Camar, eh? Well, too bad fer the old Duke, then. You in on that bit of business,
colonel?”
Dar’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “As of this moment, your rank is captain. You and the other captains will bring my people up to speed on the disposition of the Legion, including numbers, mounts, arms, and supplies. And you’ll help get this crew ready to move.”
“Move?” Captain Valdes asked.
“That’s what I said. The Border Legion’s moving out, and it’s moving out
today.”
Galos had not shifted his stare from his replacement. “I’ll be damned by the gods if I’m going to turn my command over to some city prick with ‘orders’ from some pack of fake lords with dreams of grandeur.”
Dar returned his gaze with a steely look of his own. “Have it your way.”
As the small column sat their horses on the rise overlooking the village, they heard a loud crash from down below. One of the riders, a relatively young man clad in the blue-chased tunic of an underlieutenant, fidgeted with his reins. “Perhaps we should ride down.”
The old veteran noncommissioned officer shook his head. “Colonel will let us know when he needs us.”
There was another crash, and then a window on the side of one of the buildings exploded outward. A big man half-dressed in an officer’s coat flew through the window and laded hard onto the ground just outside, tried to get up, and then fell over onto his back. He didn’t move any further. A few seconds later, Dar emerged from the door of the house, and gestured to his riders to come down.
The noncom extended a hand, palm up, toward the rider next to him. Grimacing, the man handed over a silver coin, then both of them joined the column that followed the lieutenant down into the valley.
![:]](http://www.enworld.org/forum/images/smilies/devious.png "Devious :]")
