Steel Wolves of Craedia (Realm of Arkon, Book 3) (10 page)

"Gvert, take your people and go to Xantarra," shifting my gaze to the elder, I waved my hand westward. "Things are going to get hairy here before long. Leave the extra horses in Xantarra—you have greater need of them now."

The elder didn't argue—smart man. Turning his horse around, he started back for the caravan, barking orders as he went.

"Are we sticking around?" there was a hint of a smile on the head archeress' lips.

Apparently, my formerly docile clanmates were quickly turning into adrenaline junkies.

"Got any other suggestions?" I arched my right eyebrow at her.

Despite the hood covering her open helm, Salta looked equally stunning and enchanting. There was a playful spark in the archeress' eyes, and her cheeks sported a rosy glow.

"And miss all the fun? No way," she smiled back at me.

"I haven't decided yet," I said evenly, looking over my fighters. "There's not enough information. We'll see how things are looking on location."

"I'm not saying goodbye, dar!" Gvert waved at me from a distance. "I expect to see every single one of you alive and well in Xantarra!"

I nodded farewell to the elder, then touched the boar's sides with my heels, steering him toward the Farot gates...

Our party entered the fort just as the tail end of the departing caravan was leaving. We found ourselves inside a square courtyard of impressive proportions, at the center of which a stone well jutted out of the ground. Piles of boards and beams were stacked along the perimeter—evidently, the fort's commander had ordered the dismantling of all internal structures to accommodate all the refugees flooding into Farot. Work was buzzing, but there was no fuss about it. A few dozen demons were closing up a couple of breaches in the eastern wall, gaping on either side of the guard tower like open wounds. Several legionnaires were carrying water toward an elongated squat structure; two more were napping in the shade of a woodshed. There were no smiles on their faces—not that I expected them to find them bubbling with joy, what with an army of undead closing in.

"There's an inn over there, past the barracks," Iam gestured toward a small complex of structures enclosed by a seven-foot-tall palisade, and spurred his horse in that direction.

Gloom was pacing back and forth along the pebbled road, twitching his muzzle occasionally—no doubt the scoundrel was trying to sniff out a puddle like the one in Feator's main square that he had been his favored hangout spot. One time I had tried to lock up the boar in a stable—praise Hart, my valiant mount obeyed my orders without question—but one look at his miserable mug, coupled with Salta's and Reena's indignant wailing, and I had capitulated at that very moment. Besides, Gloom preferred sleeping out in the yard anyway, and come morning the muck that covered the razorback from head to the end of his tail would magically vanish, so I wasn't much bothered by his lacking hygiene habits.

The legionnaires encountered along the way would stop and stare in disbelief at our procession. But no one pestered us with any questions, so we just continued on without any trouble.

The local inn was called
Old Yeller
, its signboard bearing a wrinkled geezer with a gap-toothed mouth opened wide, ostensibly yelling. I chuckled and at once felt a pang of nostalgia, reminded of my last job in the real world. There was no shortage of funny guys working for the company, and being that deadlines were always pressing, requiring plenty of OT and sacrifices to social life, the brass would occasionally let slip harmless jests such as this.

Enclosed by a solid fence, the squat stone building with an adjoining stable and wooden annexes was located near the very center of the fort. A massive sow lounged regally in the middle of the yard, a flock of motley hens rambling around her.

"Look, Gloom, there's a bride here waiting for you!" Reece hopped off his horse, his armor clinking, and turned to me while holding the reins. "I doubt anyone's going to be checking us in, dar. The folks are probably on the road to Xantarra—we'll need to settle in ourselves."

At the sight of my valiant mount, "the bride" leaped up to her feet and and trotted away toward the nearest wooden structure with verve belying her ample dimensions.

"Figures," the mage declared with reproach, watching the sow's hasty retreat. "They all play hard to get at first..."

"You just keep talking," dismounting near the young mage, Salta shot him a nasty look.

"Let's quarter the horses," said Reece, eager to change the subject, and started toward the stable, leading his chestnut steed by the reins.

"Can I help you?" a grim-looking fellow emerged from the inn, glowering. The chainmail shirt he was wearing was torn in two places, revealing bent metallic rings underneath; a curved matte blade hung at his waist. He looked to be in his early forties, and built almost like Aritor. In other words, he looked no more like an innkeeper than I did like a first string violinist for the New York Philharmonic.

"We're looking for a place to stay a little while," dismounting the boar and handing the reins to Reena, I turned toward the demon. "Got any vacancies?"

"That's complicated, dar," the innkeeper guffawed—his entire disposition brightened the moment he'd spotted the razorback. "We've got more folks here than at a barley festival—no room to swing a lizard. But I reckon I can find something for you and your people."

The mess hall had the look of being deserted. Only a single table was occupied by several legionnaires playing dice over beer; the remaining tables—about fifteen of them—were empty.

"I'll put everything out on the bar. This is a self-serve establishment now—I've sent all the servants to Xantarra," the innkeeper grumbled as soon as we entered the place. "Ale? Wine? Moonshine? It's on the house—dead people have no need for coin."

"And why didn't you leave, Schen?"

"I'm tired of running," the demon shook his head wearily. "I've served as the quartermaster for the first century of our dar's father. Don't judge me by my appearance, Krian. I've had my share of war, sure, even made it to sergeant. But as soon as the commander found out I knew how to count, read and write, I was instantly made quartermaster. Only the dar isn't here anymore, nor his first century. Nearly all of them perished in that battle by Xantarra, along with the centurion and Elnar Sr."

"And how did you end up here?"

"We've only been here a few months," said the innkeeper, placing a potbellied barrel of ale on the bar stand. "After that battle James dar Elnar brought the survivors here. Civilians fled the fort during the first great wave, though the undead didn't attack it then for some reason. I don't have family in Xantarra, or anywhere else for that matter, so I left with everyone else."

"You mean the Xantarrian satrap decided to install a garrison here and fill it out with his own people?"

"Not quite. James dar Elnar never swore fealty to the satrap. In fact, his grandfather was the satrap of Callehzia, which is just south of Xantarra. And the owner of La-Kharte Castle that's on the road to Gilthor. Satrap Quentil dar Elnar perished inside the walls of his castle in the Dark Ages, but his son was studying in the capital at the time, so he survived. After Erisjat's death he gathered up all the surviving legionnaires in the satrapy and tried to recapture the castle, which by then had been claimed by the undead swarming the princedom. Unsurprisingly, nothing came of it. That is how the Callehzian half-legion landed in Xantarra."

"And Gorm didn't mind having demons who hadn't sworn fealty to him living on his land?"

"The satrap was friends with our dar's grandfather, and nobody doubted the Callehzians' loyalty. You're not from around here, so I don't expect you to know this. Not that it matters, for tomorrow there won't be anyone left of the Callehzian half-legion," the demon gave a bitter smile. "And here you are talking of loyalty..."

"Forgive me, Schen, I really am ignorant of these things," I said. "Thank you for sharing your story, and I insist on paying for our meal. Who knows—maybe you'll still be standing after tomorrow?" I laid three gold coins on the bar, turned and headed back to my clanmates. Having moved two tables together in the corner of the mess hall, they were waiting for their commander to start eating.

"What's the plan, dar?" Iam asked the question that was on everyone's minds as soon as I pushed my plate away.

The conversation around the table died down at once. Under the stares of fourteen pairs of eyes, I took a sip of dark ale that tasted almost like Porter, lit up and sat back on the bench.

"I haven't decided yet, but we still have some time. It all depends on the arrangements we make with the local commander. Ah, speak of the devil."

A tall fair-haired tifling stood in the doorway. Hardly older than my soldiers by the look of him, the demon wore a hard shell of interwoven steel plates sewn to a durable base layer of thick chamois leather. Two legionnaires in cuirasses and cloaks of black and gold followed him in, then stopped on either side of the door. The tifling looked our way, and his gaze almost stumbled over Salta, sitting to my left. The young man blushed ever so visibly, and something blinked in his eyes that reverberated somewhere deep inside me as a pang of... jealousy. But his bemusement didn't last long.

"I'm James dar Elnar, Farot's garrison commander," he said, enunciating every word. "A word with you, dar?" the tifling nodded at the innkeeper without waiting for my word of consent. "Is there a room available, Schen?"

"Right here," the innkeeper opened a wooden door on the right side of the bar, and we followed him inside. The innkeeper disappeared and returned momentarily with a full tray—a full bottle alongside two silver shot glasses, and small plates with sliced veggies and meat. Laying the tray down on a nearby table, Schen gave a silent nod and left the hall, shutting the door behind him. The tifling began pacing around the room anxiously, then sat down on one of the two available chairs and motioned for me to take the second.

"Have a seat. Who are you?"

"Is that really important right now?" I gave him a hard look. "Are you ready to listen to a story that may take all day?"

"I heard that you belong to one of the light races, though you'd hardly say that looking at you. Then again, the absence of a tail and horns doesn't mean much," the young demon brushed his hand over the bone protuberances jutting out of his head. "I also heard that you were sent here by the Lightning God, who was worshipped by my father and his father before him. I too was ordained into his service, though the shrine where it happened was lost to the undead when they overran La-Kharte. Along with the priest. My father, however..." the young tifling's eyes flashed with a suppressed pain. "He remembered how the ritual went. Finally, I know that over the past month your party of simple farmers has wiped out more undead in the kingdom than my century has killed in a year. And now you turn up here in Farot, just as we're preparing to meet our deaths, like some kind of knight in shining armor riding Hart himself... Who are you, dar?! And what are you doing in our gods-forsaken land?"

"Well, at least the formalities are out of the way," I chuckled, pouring my shot glass full of whatever spirit was in the bottle. I took a sip—the drink tasted a bit like cognac—then took a long drag on my pipe and settled back in my seat. The chair's upholstery was surprisingly soft and pleasant. "What if I told you that I'm here by sheer accident? And that it wasn't Ingvar who sent me? Would you even believe me? The truth is that I need to get to the Derelict Temple in Gilthor. I have business with the locals there."

"Gilthor is quarantined because of the plague! The province's residents are slowly dying."

"The plague?" I nearly choked on the smoke.

"Aye, a homing pigeon brought the news the other day. Satrap Rumpel's men made a sally into the temple, and contracted the illness. Not that it matters now!" the tifling upended his glass, puckered his face and looked up at me. "What do you intend to do, Krian? Why didn't you leave for Xantarra with everyone else? I may not have all the answers, but I know for a fact that your staying here won't change anything for us."

"Why didn't you leave?"

"Nearly five hundred peasants with families, children... Do you think that sixty seven soldiers, myself included, is a price worth paying for their lives? For immortalizing Callehzian warriors in the minds and hearts of the civilians they rescued? We've already lived the lives the gods had allotted us. When Gorm receives our missive tomorrow, he will move out his troops to cover the refugees and smash the monsters pursuing them. All we need to do is hold out till evening. As for you, dar, you should keep going to Xantarra. This isn't your fight—you've already done a great deal for this satrapy. Gorm is expecting you, so go and meet him. We will manage here on our own..."

Now this was unexpected! For an NPC to be in a situation this dire and not offer a quest to defend the stronghold against the onslaught of the undead... But then, I could hardly regard him as an NPC—sitting before me was a young demon, driven by valor and fortitude, who also appeared to have taken a liking to my head archeress.
Wait!
I scolded myself. Could that be it? The tifling knew that if I stayed in Farot, she would stay as well, essentially signing her death warrant. Or perhaps he didn't want to share the glory of a heroic death with anyone else... I marveled for a moment how utterly insane either theory sounded in relation to what was supposed to be a computer program.