Chapter 45
Day Twenty-Two – Codetta
While flames and turmoil devoured the prison camp, Zaber’s was quenched. Running along the palisades, Zaber felt nothing but what was ahead of him. The pain was gone, his breath and mind free of burden. All he had punished himself and his friends over was about to end. Four years without battle, without an enemy, had been glorious. But that day in Teblen when Zaber knocked on that patrician’s door and drove cold steel inside him… When he scouted through the mountains and woods to lay ambush after ambush. The planning with Franque. And finally – this day. This night. The former mercenary resented what he had felt all this time. Neither the highs of the poppy juice flowing through him nor the taste of victory were what drove him. It was something deeper; more primal. The time had come to stop resisting, and let Brenz and Airich have what they told him. As a good soldier does.
“Over there!” yelled a guard. Zaber was well aware of them. “Shoot him.”
The veteran kept moving, making the first bolts whir past him. But one hit him right on his tinned shoulder, ricocheting into his helmet. Showered in splinters, he stumbled to the side. Zaber had no plan on fighting anyone but that knight. But if anybody stood between him and Sagir…
“Forget him!” yelled another one. “They’re coming.” Five soldiers, geared up, were more than a match for any number of convicts. No matter how many picks, shovels or looted polearms they brought.
Knowing how prisoners were treated, Zaber averted his gaze from them as often as he could. In war, there was no camp for them, and they had to be controlled even harsher. Decisions had to be made about who to feed and who to get rid of. Only those of value were treated well – for ransom and negotiations. The best thing to happen to a prisoner of war was to be let go without equipment. And able-bodied men had it the worst. Especially Yesilians like Sagir.
Keeping away from the heat of battle and fires for as long as possible, Zaber kept Ludi’s map in mind. Nobody was guarding the main complex, which might very well be Beotold’s only order. Without any sign of slowing down, Sagir’s barrack was within the former mercenary’s grasp. Zaber expected the knight to await him, but he was wrong. He slapped the drawbar up and threw his weight against the door, breaking inside in a way that nobody could miss. Looking down the mineshaft, he grabbed the pliers from his belt and rattled them against the metal bars towards the quarters. Beotold wasn’t here either.
“Sagir!” screamed Zaber. “Sagir!” Every man was already up on the other side.
“I’m here,” said Sagir hectically, and came to the front. “Be careful, that maniac is lurking somewhere.” He grabbed the pliers and put them to the lock.
“I know,” replied Zaber with a curt nod. “I’ll kill him next.”
“No, don’t try again,” said the young man with the shaven head. Looking up again, he halted from using the tool. “Your chances aren’t better now. Why try a second time? We can just run.”
“Third time.” Zaber’s face was hidden behind the visor of his sallet helmet. “Y’all go, Torm and my other friends will pick you up. Run towards the center, not the gate,” he said, and reached behind the bars with his free hand, without a gauntlet from the previous ambush. Grabbing Sagir’s arm, he guided him back with the pliers, and offered him the arming sword that Torm had looted before. “Don’t turn around.”
The lock snapped and the door sprung open. “Let me help you. I saw your fights, a single man can’t defeat–”
Pulling the gate open, Zaber opened his visor and hugged his friend. “I’ve wronged y’all. I promised Ceyhan that I’ll make right to y’all,” interrupted the greasy and unkempt man commanding. Not apologizing. “Your time to fight has come. All of you have to fight for your life now.” He stepped aside, and a prisoner squeezed himself past the two. “But not here. Not against him.”
Murmurs behind and around them arose, impatient for their freedom. But the first man stopped.
“He’s right,” sounded a perfect cavalier baritone, waiting outside. The exit was not blocked, but running past the imposing figure was still a matter of courage. “You all have to fight for your life now. I’ll give you a head start,” said the Captain in full armor, drawing his sword. “Until I’m done with him.”
Zaber turned away from Sagir. The young man with the curved scar on his forehead, and several beatings in his face, held him back at his pauldrons. “Please,” he whispered. “Let me help you.”
“Leave,” ordered Zaber, shaking off his friend’s hand. He snatched the glass flask dangling from his belt and walked outside “Now.”
The veteran felt another encouraging jab on his back before Sagir ran past him. Zaber waited for the prisoners to leave, while he waited outside the mining hut. Beotold pointed his sword at the Yesilian while he was still in sight, as he stared at the former soldier through the slit of his own sallet.
“I have to admit…” Beotold’s immaculate voice rang towards Zaber, who pulled the cork of the flask with his teeth. “That you’re able to stand is nothing but impressive. You try very hard to make it look like you are more than a measly peasant’s son.” The knight swung his blade back, resting it over his shoulder – ready to snap forward. “But you’re running on the Kraken’s juice, aren’t you? You think you have a better chance drunk?”
“Shut up,” said Zaber, pulling out Airich’s sword in one swift motion. Sparks danced across the edge. “Involucro igni!” he yelled with a bland undertone, devoid of rhythm. Yet, the blade was set ablaze on every inch that left its scabbard.
“By the Stars, you have to be kiddi–” Beotold cut off his own incredulous words. “This is not how this works!” he said, rising in melody, as he watched Zaber drink from the flask. “You insolent little pretender, stop trying to–”
Suddenly, a common man, the son of a peasant, interrupted the nobleman. Zaber hurled the small bottle at the knight’s helmet. Beotold flinched as the shattered glass spread around him. A familiar, yet unrecognizable stench seeped through the gaps of his armor and through his visor, enraging the knight. His feet shifted into a fighting stance. He watched Zaber remove his own helmet and cast it aside.
“This is how you want to do this?” said Beotold, tasting the fluid thrown at him on his lips. It wasn’t strong, but awfully smoky. “This is how you want to die?!” He grabbed his own helmet and ripped it off to show his angry visage. His combed hair, and shaven jaw, both soaked. A perfect set of teeth, tainted by a chipped fang.
Not a single sound left Zaber when he leapt forwards into a charge. Holding Airich’s blazing sword high above his head, the attack was powerful and foreseeable. The combatants’ faces were illuminated by it when steel collided. Anybody could have blocked this attack. Beotold’s following counter was broken by the impossible. The flame of the blade overtook Beotold’s face, and spread over his upper body when Zaber spewed out a gulp of lamp oil. Everything that the fluid touched ignited.
The nobleman’s body opened up with a bawling roar. The former mercenary’s intentionally failed attack was still deflected. But Zaber pushed forward with his shoulder. His lips were as burned as Beotold’s face and body when the knight stumbled backwards. A kick brought him to the ground for good. The veteran raised his sword to thrust it down on his flailing foe. Zaber had not come to fight fair, and he didn’t believe in honor. He came to wage war.
“Ego tonō!” The arcanium in Beotold’s armor lit up under a booming verse between the screams. Unable to control the volume, but dampened by improper form, the cracking voice thundered Zaber off his feet, hurling him into the air. The man-at-arms crashed back into the mining hut. The roof tiles and planks collapsed under the weight of a fully armored man.
Fueled by Thyra’s magic tonic and the ghosts of his past, Zaber was a stranger to pain. But he heard more than just wood break. His body didn’t follow his orders at first, but soon enough his muscles twitched again and he got back on his feet. Bracing himself on the burning longsword he’d inherited, he stumbled back through the door to the mines.
Beotold rolled around to quench the last of the flames. The shock wave from his spell had taken away the air around the fire. But his chest, neck and half of his face were severely burned. The wet sensation and reek of a roast made his blood boil as he gasped for air. Coughing and gurgling, he dragged himself back onto his feet as well. For the first time in his life, he felt that if he stayed down he would die. That this man would kill him. That this lowly peasant son was about to…
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
“How does it feel?” Zaber leaned against the door frame, hunched over. A sharp piece of wood stuck out of his forehead, right above his brow. Blood colored half his vision red. Far from straight, he walked towards the knight, whose gait was just as shaky.
Wheezing, Beotold replied with unintelligible hoarse words. He coughed and cleared his throat, but Zaber didn’t even try to understand him. When the two men reached each other, the knight failed to sing another verse – but the humming alone invigorated him. Striking his sword at Zaber’s face, a sloppy parry was enough to defend himself. The man-at-arms’ own follow-up attack couldn’t pierce the knight’s armor.
With each attack, parry and block, their heads spun a little less, and their movements regained grit. Their training overtook their bodies, and Zaber closed in for a half-swording clinch. Neither of them wore a helmet, and Beotold smashed his forehead into the peasant son’s nose. The wet of his burned wounds mixed with Zaber’s blood, as the knight was thrown to the ground. Both lost grip of their blades and fell onto each other.
The former mercenary knelt on top of his foe, and punched his face over and over. Half the strikes hit Beotold’s cuirass or pauldrons instead. With his unprotected hand, Zaber searched for the Captain’s neck.
Forsaking a guard, Beotold grabbed the veteran’s hand before he got strangled. He pushed his other hand forward. “Dā mihi vīrēs!” he sang with a croaked baritone.
Even though the spell didn’t feel as strong as Zaber remembered it, the earth seemed to shake when he careened across the ground. His body felt sluggish. Too slow for what he needed. Too slow for what he had planned. He got on his knees, panting, and saw Beotold’s sabatons and greaves step in front of him. The knight had gotten up on his feet and found his sword. All Zaber could do was raise his hands in a surge for survival. The flash of a blade came down on the beaten veteran and sliced through the unprotected flesh of his right hand. His tinned left hand was enough to swat it to the side, ripping his hand open between his middle and ring fingers.
The mere leather glove stood no chance. The blade only stopped when it hit the bone of his wrist and arm further down. For pain to break through the enchantment of the poppy juice, it had to be… another tremor went through the ground. There was nothing left but screams. Zaber did not know if this was still the same earthquake, or if any of this was even real. His arm was drenched in blood, and he knew that this was it. He had fucking lost it. The former mercenary heard another weak “Dā mihi vīrēs,” with a kick that sent him flying and pulled the sword out of his hand. His head jammed against the wooden planks of the mining hut. For this brief moment, he heard, smelt, and felt everything. The smog, the smoke, the cries of battle and the cracks in the flames. All for what he had fought for on this day. On Fire Festival.
“I–” grunted Beotold. His steps were unsteady. “You–” he corrected himself. “Stay down! Stay down where you belong… why don’t you stay down?!” yelled the knight, as a thin blade found its way into his flesh. It pushed deep between the plated leg and codpiece. Zaber was up and wrapped his bloody hand around Beotold’s thigh, while his good hand pushed his stiletto deeper.
The Captain kicked Zaber in the face, acting on reflex alone. While Beotold fell to his knees, holding his groin, the peasant son was pushed closer to the hole in the ground. Zaber saw the pulley above him. The soil underneath them moved violently, and the wooden beams above him cracked. Dust rained down on the two men, as the hut crumbled onto them. Through the fog, Zaber saw no stars except for the pale light of the red moon. Her sister was barely visible behind her. There was nothing under his head and shoulders anymore, hanging above the mine shaft. This was it. He heard the nobleman’s screams and closed his eyes.
He can’t hurt you anymore. We’re free now.
- - - - - - - - -
One breath after another, sweat ran down every inch of Thyra’s body. Her borrowed paddings were drenched, but she couldn’t stop moving. The young men were faster and in better shape than her, but she still saw them ahead of her.
“Over here,” said Sagir. “It was over here,” he repeated, leading Thyra and Torm to the rubble of his former prison. The barracks were partially intact, but the conic hut had collapsed into a pile of logs, beams, planks, tiles and bricks. When Sagir had joined them, and told them what happened, they had heard a thunder and followed it.
“Wh–, where is he?” stuttered Torm, skimming through the splinters. “Where is he, Sagir?”
“He–” Sagir moved around without aim, looking at the remnants of where he had worked relentlessly over the last days. “Dear Rukh, please be with him,” he said and raised his hand to the sky.
The young men burrowed through the wood. Most of the guards had surrendered or were overpowered by now, and the sound of battle toned down. But no matter if it was safe or not, Torm and Sagir had to give it their all.
With her heart running circles around her, and her blood boiling, Thyra looked around from afar. She saw Zaber’s and Beotold’s helmets. The grass around here smoldered. Walking closer towards her companions, her foot got caught on a sword. The witch picked it up slowly, as she realized what truth might be behind all of this. The blade was covered in soot, with old arcanium crumbling out of it. She threw her own blade aside, as well as the buckler.
“Femme!” yelled a familiar accent across the battlefield. “Woman!” Franque’s spiked mace dripped with blood. His men were scattered nearby, with Ludi bracing one of them. The younger of the brothers, Asti, burned another barrack. When he turned around, he flipped the torch into the air, caught it, and then rotated it between his fingers. “We have to move, renforts will arrive soon,” said Franque. He and his underlings looked excited, and ready to run.
Thyra rubbed her eyes. Sweat and smoke wore her down. These men were too much for her. She looked at the longsword, once in possession of a great general… now Zaber’s longsword. The least they had to do was try to find him, even if it was just for a moment. So she closed in on Torm and Sagir, rummaging through the wreckage.
“Vocō tonitrum!” A perfect cavalier baritone sounded beneath the ruins, and uplifted them. Debris was cast aside, hitting the young men. A wave of thunder made its way through, throwing them aside.
A burned and beaten figure rose, veiled in the remnants of glowing arcanium. The parting of his once immaculate hair was split open and his half-burned face colored red. A piece of metal stuck out from his groin, as he limped towards Thyra. “I–” Beotold’s voice was broken. “–am not done,” he said, looking down on the witch.
Torm looked for his blade, thrown to the side in search of Zaber, while Sagir had found a suitable piece of lumber. But before any of them, or Franque and his brigands, could come to Thyra’s aid, another spell echoed through the camp.
“Ignem voco,” sang Thyra. Her mezzo was meek, but her thrust wasn’t. The blade that once belonged to the greatest military mind of his era pierced the knight’s throat. The surrounding flames cauterized the wound, cluttering his wind pipe. Beotold clenched his own neck when he fell onto his knees, fighting for air. It was not a long struggle. His torn open eyes never let go of Thyra.
While Torm ran over to the young woman, Sagir stared down the opening from which Beotold came. A deep hole in the ground was right next to it. “He’s dead,” he muttered.
Disarming Thyra carefully, Torm held her at the shoulder at the same time. He felt her body tremble, and it jumped over to him. With the knight at his feet, and Sagir looking without hope, he sobbed without tears.
“Dobbiamo muoverci,” yelled Ludi from behind Franque.
“Aller! Go.” Franque waved at Sagir when he reached Torm and Thyra. He grabbed them and dragged them along.
“No,” stuttered Torm. “I have to get him,” said the young man and shook the brigand off himself.
“Torm,” said Sagir, blocking his path. His eyes were filled with dread, as he hugged his friend. “Please, don’t let this be for nothing,” he whispered into Torm’s ear. “Let me be free.”
~FIN~
~To be continued~
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