Chapter 42

  Day Twenty-Two – Sundown

  The peasants had held a sermon at noon, to praise Father Sun at his peak. They asked the Lion for bravery and the Stallion for success. Soon enough, all light was gone, and the Fire Bird would present itself above all. Youth, Life, Hope, Progress, Liberation, Renewal, Passion and Exhaustion. Fire Festival was here. And it would be celebrated like no other.

  They were armed with iron-bound flails, scythes fit for war, as many crossbows, bows and slings as they could muster, and every knife and axe they had. The wagons got transformed into rolling fortresses. With just enough shields to close the gaps. Those who were too frail, too young, or otherwise unfit for war had been left behind. They were tending to each other, including the child brought back by Torm and Ludi. The good folk of Luphton, Penram and Bromwich had made peace with what they’d done. There was nothing to gain but a better future.

  Only Torm and Thyra attended their newfound allies’ spiritual preparations. Franque and his men were joking each other into a good mood. Nancia studied the battle map in full armor, her flamberge planted into the ground next to her. Under a tree, Buron and Breg rested upon each other with their eyes closed. Zaber was with them, giving his body a last break. These battle-hardened men and woman knew that the Stars didn’t answer calls, but stood atop of results.

  At sundown, the first phase of Franque and Zaber’s plan was about to begin. Positioned above the mining camp, at the fringes of the surrounding woods, the brigands and veterans, and Torm and Thyra, had the dusking sun in their faces – to not cast any long shadows. Torches on horseback closed in on the torches behind the walls. Seventeen beasts total, none bred for war, were going back and forth before the palisades, barraging them with slings. Aim didn’t matter, nor any punch behind them. For now, annoyance was all these peasant men had to do. Come in waves, get repulsed by crossbows and threats at a safe distance, and retreat again. Until the stones became flasks of oil and live coals.

  “It is time,” said Thyra and pulled the cork from the last vial of thick blackish-red tincture. “Here.” She handed it over to Zaber. The villagers had lent her trousers. Her shoulders and chest were protected by an old, thick gambeson from Nancia. Kneeling on the ground, her sword and buckler were ready. Her wild hair was tamed into a tight braid.

  The greasy and unkempt man was able to walk upright again, but every step felt like a jab in the side. With Torm away, Zaber had spoken very few words, lost in thought and preparations. “I’ll get the most out of it,” he said, sparing her no eye contact. “I’m–” he uttered. “If this is the last time, I–”

  “Don’t say something you don’t mean,” interrupted Thyra, as she looked down at the mining camp. “Are you sure this is going to work? How long will this take?”

  “I didn’t know what kind of officer and soldiers Beobold and his men were,” replied Zaber, without thinking twice. “From what intel we have, I know the kind that’s in charge of a starforsaken place like this. This ain’t a combat post. They didn’t even believe Beobold.” He gave his scar a good scratching. “They’ll fuck up when shit gets hot.”

  Suddenly, the Stars aligned and a flash of light opened the festivities. Several yards of palisade were set ablaze, accompanied by the howls of horseback slingers. Their torches were easy to spot from afar, and easy to follow.

  “You think Beotold broke his word?” asked Torm, his hazy blue eyes fixed on his mentor. He wore Zaber’s gambeson and langes messer again, with the same hauberk and skullcap.

  “No, he’s a different breed of stupid,” said Zaber. Memories of old were causing turmoil in the back of his head, today more than ever. “Airich dueled Mur ad-Din for his freedom, no matter what the King wanted.”

  “That was right before we met,” said Buron. “The King was furious about it. Some would do everything to get what they want, beyond reason.” He knelt right next to Breg, who lay on his belly instead of just staying low. Both wore their usual armor. The scrawny veteran gave his crossbow to the peasants, armed with only his falchion. The unreasonably tall man had lost his bardiche, but Roda gave him an excellent replacement. A gold-hilted longsword with scripture on it, similar in size to what Zaber carried.

  Zaber’s armor was still that of Ermin, the cavalrymen they’d captured. But the plackart was too dented to be mended by a common toolsmith, nor could the vambraces be saved. Below the red coat of plates was only maille to protect the greasy and unkempt man’s lower parts. The rest was properly tinned.

  The brigands’ heads were clad in skull caps in kettle helmets, with maille and colorful gambesons beneath. Franque didn’t wear a helmet, and neither did Thyra. But his coat-like gambeson was closed. The brothers Ludi and Asti also gave their polearms to the peasants. A wild collection of knives and shabby falchions spread through all of them. The leather knot that kept Franque’s spiked mace from getting lost was wrapped around his wrist.

  As time went by, the guards down at the mines tried to quench the fire. A horn sounded from behind the gates as it opened, and hooves accompanied it like drums. Three rows of ten riders formed a wedge. Chants echoed through the mountains, as they thundered down the valley.

  “Let’s go,” nodded Zaber with newfound vigor. His hands and feet were swift again, gone was the pain and sorrows. From now on, everything was ahead of him. Nothing was left behind. “There were two or three officers. Maybe one stayed behind; the rest are only enchanters. Y’all know what’s to do.”

  “Wait.” Torm closed in on Zaber and held him back at the shoulder.

  “There ain’t much time before reinforcements–” Zaber walked on, but his apprentice’s grip was firm.

  “Thank you,” interrupted Torm, and hugged his mentor. “Thank you for everything.”

  “Aww–” Franque restrained his laughter and voice, but his whole gang had a good chuckle.

  “Please don’t make this icky.” Thyra shook her head at the highwaymen. She pulled her sword half-out, but nobody else was doing so. Thus, she pushed it back in. “It’s sweet. You don’t need to act all tough, I’ve seen you and Nancia do the same.”

  Franque mustered the witch, clothed in his sister’s spares, with a half-decent grip on her sword. He smirked, raised his hands in defeat and stepped back.

  Zaber stopped when he felt Torm’s embrace. His hands moved on their own, wandering towards his apprentice’s arms. “B–” He halted. “Torm, all I’ve wanted for you is to have it better than any of the kids I grew up with. All the fun, without what made us… like this.” Zaber didn’t dare to turn around, but his words were no whispers. “I failed you. I wish I–”

  “No.” Torm walked around Zaber and looked him in the eye. “This is all I ever wanted. You gave me what you could,” he said, keeping himself from choking up. “Let’s do this. Let’s get Sagir and make it out together. Can you promise me that?”

  The worn-out veteran’s eyes wandered down, without a response. He held the gauntlet of his hand where a scar mirrored one that Asher had. Zaber looked at Buron and Breg. They initially smiled at Torm’s behavior, but couldn’t do so anymore when their friend faced them. They nodded in unison.

  “’I only made it this far because of you,” uttered Zaber. “I–” When he looked back at Torm, his eyes went past him into the labor camp. “I regret ever meeting you,” he said and glimpsed at Thyra. “You too. I didn’t want it to end like this.”

  “You folk have to stop being like this,” interjected Thyra before Torm could find the right words. She strapped the buckler to her hand pointed at the flames afar. “Revenge first. We’ll all meet again after this and talk, alright?”

  “’aight,” said Zaber with a curt nod and left Torm behind.

  Everyone put on their helmets and marched on, with Ludi at the helm. Ten men and one woman; a unit. They fanned out when they reached the edge of the woods, in sight of the palisades. Spearheaded by the three strongest among them, Breg, Franque and Zaber, a charge was readied. Armed with pliers and a ladder.

  “Intruders!” yelled a pair of guards. More torches and voulge polearms appeared far and wide. “A dozen men from the east!”

  Torm kept close to Thyra, as he watched Zaber and Franque run ahead with the ladder. As his mentor and Breg had the best armor, they were climbing up first. He and Thyra waited to go last.

  “Everyone fall in line behind me!” yelled Breg, getting hit in the head by a polearm.

  Ludi and Asti had moved to their leader’s flanks to deflect the other guard in his attempts to poke down on them. The unreasonably tall man grabbed the voulge and pulled himself up on it instead of the scales. The guard had to let go and reach for his sidearm, but Breg was as fast as he was strong. Their enemies wore surcoats on top of good maille and solid helmets. When the giant grabbed the cloth of the man that had hit him, he pushed and pulled the man around like he was a doll. One guard was pushed into the other, creating an opening for Breg to swing himself over the palisade. A punch to the guard’s helmet followed, before the colossus threw him down the wooden walls.

  The soldier screamed before he hit the ground. “Don’t!” He was surrounded by Franque’s men and their blades. “No! Don’t–” were his last words.

  Breg drew the gold-hilted longsword and engaged the other guard. Too close for a polearm. More guards were already running towards them. Zaber was the first to follow, closing his visor before jumping over the palisades. Next was an infectious laughter, followed by the brothers, and then the rest. Asti and Ludi picked up their enemy’s polearm, as Breg slammed the next one into the ground.

  The last were Thyra and her bodyguard, whose eyes were glued to the man that fell in front of her feet. Her chest tightened and she gulped, looking at the bleeding face of that guard. Torm gently pushed her forward, away from the dead man. “Turn off your head,” he whispered to her. “We gotta go.”

  After hopping down the ladder on the other side, Thyra’s heart pumped so hard that she could hear it. The men had fallen into a circle formation. They fended off the first arrivals with ease thanks to the elevated pathway. Buron picked up the next available polearm, and Zaber was the only one who fell back without drawing his weapon.

  “Squadra due, dividetevi,” yelled Franque, and the brunt of his brigands branched off. “No time for them to regrouper!”

  Torm looked at another murdered guard at his feet and knelt down to pull his arming sword out. “Here!” He flung it next to his mentor, who took it with a thumbs up. “We stay back until we get the order,” said Torm to Thyra. “Get started.”

  “Huh?” Thyra twitched, perplexed. She didn’t know what to watch out for, everything was happening at the same time. There was no feeling in her knees anymore. There was no feelings at all, except for her heart and breath. “What?”

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  “Sing,” ordered Torm. He led her down the elevation, following the moving circle of protection in front of them. “C’mon, get going. Do your thing!”

  “Y–, yes,” uttered the witch and closed her eyes. One last, deep breath, thinking about her home. About Skratty, the bog and the animals around. Thinking about her mother. She pulled out her sword, joining the buckler in her other hand, and her dramatic mezzo rose. Anything to distract her from what she just saw. “Warmaz at dagaz, stillī in ta nahts…”

  Chaos had erupted around them. Many guards were looking for more intruders, some were working to extinguish the fire at the gate. Few were running towards the conic huts and barracks. Revolting screams came from the buildings, accentuated by violent coughs. Orders were going back and forth between the soldiers, and it was clear that nobody was in charge right now.

  “Move out!” commanded Zaber before another wave of guards could pin them down. More polearms came into their possessions. They knew that they could only repel small units. Drill and experience made all the difference when they split up and outmaneuvered the charging soldiers.

  Franque made his way towards an unguarded hut, defended by Ludi and Asti. Zaber had Buron and Breg at his back, and Torm and Thyra at his side. The greasy and unkempt man kicked the drawbar up and the door in. With a warm song and his friends behind him, he rushed to the latticed gate with rioting bald men behind it. An arming sword in his right hand, a plier in his left, and Airich’s longsword resting at his hip.

  “Furi ta flut?z rinnan? drūgiz anti ta fōr rinnan? wiltijaz…” sang Thyra, as loud as she could. Torm squeezed his waterskin over the wooden structure and pulled out a flint. The flames were hungry on this holy day, as the walls of the mining huts were set ablaze and Breg and Buron kept more soldiers at bay.

  The first prisoners were breaking out of their burning huts, led by Franque’s men to free even more of them. Be it with wooden planks, picks, or shovels, the mob used what they had. Zaber could hear their angry voices, as he handed the plier to an old bald prisoner in the front. “Kill them,” he said. “Fire Bird has blessed us with one last chance. Kill as many as you can.”

  Filled with rage and liberated, the captives screamed their lungs out. At least those who still could. The couple guards that were pressing onto Breg and Buron were stormed by men in rags. They died and they lived, and they took weapons from them.

  Zaber stepped out from behind them and nodded at his friends. “Y’all know your targets,” he said. His neck burned as hot as the barracks behind him, and Thyra’s beautiful song was drowned out by Brenz screaming him down. “Kill them.”

  The unreasonably tall man and his bald companion lost no time and moved on. Torm looked at the young woman and raised his blade. “Stay next to me,” he said, looking onward. “If something’s wrong, tell me.”

  “Go,” ordered Zaber, before sprinting away, and Torm did as he was told.

  “He’s either in the center, or the main complex,” said Torm and pointed at the giant bloomery, which was the source of most of the smog. As he walked on, Thyra followed.

  “Or he’s there,” uttered Thyra and stared at a man far away, surrounded by guards. He yelled confused commands, and sent troops all over the place. His clothes were unfit for an officer. The witch thought she spotted him trying to hide behind the soldiers when faced with picks and shovels.

  “I think that’s the other enchanter.” The young man squinted to see better what came their way. He drew his own bauernwehr with his left and picked up speed. “Sing on, and keep up.”

  Never had Thyra sweated as much as today. Climbing those mountains had already pushed her to her limit. Only her pounding heart kept her going. Her song fueled every flame it reached. Smoke filled the area, and her eyes with tears. She and her mother had celebrated Fire Festival roasting apples. This was a nightmare.

  Torm’s pathing didn’t make it easier on his companion. He tried to avoid all fighting – their mission was to take out the big ones before they could join the fray. The riots were growing, and the soldiers had no mind for those that could easily be mistaken for their own. But when Thyra and her bodyguard closed in on the buildings in the middle of the camp, two guards ran straight towards a compound.

  “We charge them,” said Torm, stepping it up a notch. “Keep my back clean, I’ll handle the rest.”

  “Y–” Thyra halted her song. Her breath trembled and she grabbed her side with her buckler-hand. “Yes, understood!”

  The soldiers had the same goal as them, and didn’t expect a fight on their way. Too late did they notice Torm running into the one closer to them. Pulling his polearm to the side, their young assailant was already too close. He kept the voulge away with his mentor’s longer blade, and slashed at the soldier’s face with the shorter one – barely missing it. Torm followed up with a front kick, pushing the soldiers into each other. The first foe tripped over.

  Thyra was taught about threat ranges and distances. Everything happened so fast, but she saw the other soldier step in to attack her bodyguard. Her buckler punched the polearm to the side, but she didn’t dare to step closer and attack. However, Torm didn’t let an opportunity go by like that. He moved on, never stopped, and wrapped his arm around the pole of the voulge to trap it. Too close to swing steel now, he punched the soldier in the mouth with the hilt and tackled him to the ground. A quick scuffle later and the young man mounted his opponent. He pushed his blade under the maille on his neck.

  The wild woman’s legs did not obey her. Watching Torm, her heart and breath stopped. Her bodyguard wasn’t moving either. His whole weight rested on the hilt of his bauernwehr and he let go of the other blade for a moment. But that was already too long, as the other soldier had also let go of his main weapon, and leapt at Torm with a metal mace. The young man was hit in the head, rolled to the side and soon enough the guard and him were wrestling for control. Both lost their weapons, punched each other in the armor or face, until Torm was on top again. With his hunting knife pressed against the soldier’s lips.

  “I y–” stammered the guard. “I yielrgh…”

  Torm pulled the blade out of his foe’s mouth and fell to the side. His gaze was fixed on the Constellation of Fire Bird. With its wings spread wide and the prominent big Star in the middle of its chest – only to be seen on this day of year. He felt his guts moving and coughed to keep himself from throwing up.

  Thyra screamed to bring Torm back, stepping in front of his iron-clad head. “Zaber said–” she stuttered. “He said to never go to the ground. Hitting the ground means you’re dead!” She spoke fast, breathing uncontrollably. “Never do that again! Never!”

  “We gotta move,” replied Torm and rose up. He looked for his blades, and felt a stream of blood running down from his forehead to his eye. Right beneath where the helmet stopped, above his brow. “Move,” he repeated, feeling the wound with two fingers.

  The stone house right next to a smelter wasn’t far, and there had to be a reason for these men to run towards it. Thyra looked back at the two dead bodies one more time, as did Torm, before they ran again. Where she slowed down, before the door, Torm became faster. With a scream, he threw himself leg-first against the wood and broke a plank. His foot was stuck for the length of another scream, before he kicked the door right next to the lock. Splintered but open, he stepped inside with both blades in front of him.

  A startled squeal gave Genhard away, sitting on a bed with a straw mattress. The room’s inside was sparse: a work table, a stool, a bed and a chest. Plenty of barrels and crates with engraving and mining tools. The blonde man with the flowing sideburns cowered behind a pauldron he held up. His armor was scattered around him, only the chestplate strapped on.

  “Wait!” he cried out. “Hear me out!” Genhard’s face was colored in fear and pain. He let go of the metal and held his collar bone, bending forwards with a distorted grimace.

  “Last words or song, you’re de–” Torm walked closer, pointing both blades at the patrician’s face.

  “Why should we?!” interrupted Thyra, waiting in the door’s frame. “You killed my–” Her song was paused, which she regretted the moment she thought about her mother. Deeper and more threatening than ever, the Song of Father Sun’s Wrath resumed.

  “I–” yammered Genhard. “Please!” he threw up his good hand, trying to keep the young man at bay. “Let me speak, I–” Seeing no mercy in Torm’s eyes, the enchanter opened his hand and thrust it forward. “Ego ventilō!” rang his sonorous tenor, and a gust of wind pushed Thyra against the frame and forced Torm to brace his entire body against it. He did not flinch though. “I don’t want to die for them. Please, I beg you, please. Listen to me!” Genhard slipped down from the edge of the bed, onto his knees. “I don’t want to fight anymore.”

  “Wha–” Thyra’s song came to an end. Once again proven to be the inferior magician. Lowering her guard, she entered the cabin. “Torm, wait. Let him speak.”

  “No,” said Torm, stepping in front of the enchanter. The tip of both blades grazed against Genhard’s neck.

  “Please,” Genhard’s tenor rose. “Ego–”

  “Torm!” yelled Thyra so loud, her mezzo shattering through her bodyguard, making him flinch. “What is happening? You are not like them,” she pleaded. “Give him a chance. Don’t become… please.”

  Looking down on Genhard, Torm lowered his blades. The patrician shivered all over his body, sweat rolling down behind his chestplate. But he stopped his spell. “I don’t have the time for this,” said Torm. “We need to finish this and join the others. Zaber’s about to–” He stopped. His eyes and the patrician’s were so close in color. “Speak up, guildsman. Now.” He had inherited them from his father’s side…

  “I’m not a soldier.” Genhard exhaled and his body collapsed. He tried to not touch Torm, but came close to it. “I’m an enchanter. I don’t want to die like a dog; not for that arsehole Beotold, nor anyone else. Neither do I want to poison myself in this camp, or fight any of you anymore. I am sorry for what I had to do. They made me. The witch, your friend… none of this. Please, just leave me be and I promise you that you’ll never see me again.”

  Thyra stood behind her friend, looking over his shoulder at her mother’s murderer. Tears of anger, sorrow and turmoil rolled down her cheeks, and her hands trembled until she let go of the sword and buckler. She was taught to not hide her true self. “Let him be,” she said. “Let’s move on. Rescue Zaber from himself.”

  “No,” said Torm once again. “You’re coming with us.” He grabbed Genhard at the straps of his chestplate and pulled him on his feet. “If you hate these arseholes as much as you say, you’ll help us against them. You’ll free these poor motherfuckers with us. And you will protect my friends from Beotold and Romund’s spells.” Torm held the patrician so close to his own face that the blood from the wound on his forehead left a mark on Genhard. “Do you understand me, or do you want to fight me?”

  The enchanter swallowed, twitching under a surge of pain. He looked past Torm, and Thyra nodded. Genhard nodded as well. “My bone’s still shattered from that monster. I don’t know any healing spells.”

  “His name was Skratty,” said Thyra and walked up on Genhard. “I’ll fix you if we survive.” She extended a hand towards him, which he took. “Let me help you.”

  “I am sorry,” uttered the patrician. “I’ve never killed before. It felt terri–”

  “If you mess with us, I’ll murder you,” interrupted Torm and turned around. He patted his clothes and armor, brought himself in order, before walking outside. He searched the battlefield. “We’re not slowing down for you.”