The Chimaera Regiment (12 page)

The three battalions on the field were rapidly losing ground. Over a thousand men had fallen to the constant barrage of arrows and spears, and another thousand had fallen to the swords of the Chimaera Regiment, and still more joined the dead.

Fintan held shield and sword high as he stood next to Einar. They had been pressed back as the enemy advanced, and now they fought alongside Wellyem, Tate, and Gregory. The two lords and the general were debating their next steps as they slew another wave of Leonite warriors.

Gregory shouted to Tate, “Sound the signal!” Before the battle, Fintan knew, the Guardians had agreed upon a signal that only they could reproduce. It was an effective means of limiting miscommunication.

“It’s too soon!” Wellyem interrupted, “There are still too many of them!” While he spoke, two muscular Ferites charged him, one swinging high and the other low. Wellyem was surprisingly nimble; he tucked his waist back, dodging the lower thrust, and bent over to avoid the upper. Using his own momentum, he impaled the lower enemy through the chest. The other man, expecting resistance to his heavy swing, carried on past the Wellite chieftain onto the waiting blade of a young Alkimite. Fintan recognized him as the one named Affet.

“Well done, boy!” Wellyem called as he dispatched another foe. Affet looked pleased by the praise.

“We’ve given as good as we’ve got, and more!” Gregory answered Wellyem’s objection, “Three thousand of the enemy are dead—we won’t get any more chances.”

Tate was not as powerful as Aneirin, but he held his own against the rising tide. The Guardian was surrounded by the corpses of friend and foe alike, opening a gap in the Alkimite force. The Regiment flocked there like a moth to the flame, eager to break apart the defensive line, but they met strong resistance in the blade of the Guardian lord. Without missing a step, Tate surveyed the battle, and he knew that Gregory was right. “Lord Wellyem,” he said calmly, “Distract them for a moment, would you?”

The Wellite chieftain roared a battle cry, “By Astooorrr!” The man cast away all restraint and let the full force of his warrior nature take control. Throwing himself amidst the enemy, he struck out with such ferocity that the whole Leonite line fell back. Tate took advantage of the lull to let out a great horn-like bellow.

Fintan and Einar did their best to support the wild Wellite warlord. They pressed the enemy back with their splintered shields and chipped blades, but both men felt their gaze drawn to the east and to the west, where forests hid the remaining two battalions of Alkimite soldiers.

The Guardian’s great bellow seemed to signal a hiatus. Soldiers on both sides backed away from the battle. Arrows stopped flying. All eyes turned expectantly to the forests. As warriors stepped forth from among the trees, the rousing cheer of the Alkimites shattered into a cacophony of distressed murmurs. The newcomers wore the colors of the Chimaera Regiment, and they flew the banner of Derek from their spears.

Those same spears bore the fruits of their grisly labor. In the west, two spears carried aloft the severed heads of Liam and Alastair, metal wire hanging uselessly from their broken necks. In the east, a third spear impaled the mutilated head of Lord Cyrus XI. The Leonites had sliced off his ears and gouged out his eyes; the lolling mouth showed that his tongue, too, was missing. Fintan would not have recognized the Alkimite chieftain if not for the lord’s pendant that was pinned to the dead man’s forehead.

As the murmurs faded into cold fear, the Regiment replaced them with laughter. The Leonite soldiers parted, letting their illustrious lord through to the front lines. Derek stepped into the circle that his soldiers had formed around Wellyem.

Fintan and Einar both edged their way forward, eager to end this object of their hatred. But Wellyem put out his big hands, holding them back. He pressed more firmly, and they stepped back into line.

Wellyem held his head high, though he was wounded in at least a dozen places. He stood favoring his right leg, as his left was pierced through by half a spear. Cuts on his face and arms continued to bleed as his heart pumped the red flood of life into the open air. All that remained to be seen of a short sword that had been thrust into his side was the hilt.

Derek was a man of less girth, but no less power. Tall and strong, he had no injuries; he had not even a single bead of sweat crossing his brow. If not for his armor and sword, he might as well have been at dinner as commanding an army in battle.

Wellyem sneered. “Leading your men from behind, I see,” he said, spitting at Derek’s feet.

Derek smiled and stepped over the bloody mess. “Well,” he said with amusement, “You’ve convinced me, friend. From now on, I shall leap into the fray until my blood flows faster than the River Neth—just like you.” The soldiers nearby laughed at their lord’s jest.

The Wellite lord laughed, too, in a harsh, broken noise of spite. “You have trained your men well, Derek the Small and Frightened,” he mocked, “You are a gutless, honorless coward, but they praise you for it. You send your men to their deaths by the thousands, and they cheer you on. When at last your enemies have fallen, though they killed more of yours than you did of theirs, you arrive to gloat over the dead and dying.” He shook his head, pitying the Regiment’s warlord. “It is surely a great victory for you, scum,” he continued, “No one else could have accomplished so much by doing so little.”

The Leonites held their breath, looking to their lord for his response. Derek was still smiling. He stepped closer and spoke softly, so that his own soldiers could not hear him. “Don’t you realize,” he said pedantically, “that was by design?” Then the Leonite chieftain reached for his hip. The flash and sing of steel lasted only for a moment. Wellyem never got his blade up in time, and never would again. He was decapitated by the swift stroke.

Slowly, the Alkimites and their allies laid down their weapons. Fintan was about to charge the enemy, but Tate caught his hand and forced him to release his sword. They were outnumbered twelve-to-one, and they had no support; any more fighting would be a waste of life.

The battle was finished.

*

The 2040th year of the Sixth Era

The twenty-first of the month of Ennemen

Halfway through the ninth hour

Later that afternoon, when the surviving Alkimites had been rounded up and tied into lines, Derek paced in front of them, shaking his head in disgust. There were five hundred and eighteen survivors; others had been mortally wounded, so Derek had ordered their execution. He had no patience for natural deaths.

The remainder were groaning from their injuries and whinging for mercy. Fintan was disgusted with them, too; they had spent that morning fighting for their lives, and they had spent the afternoon begging for them. It was unbecoming, and distasteful to Kyros, the King of men’s fates. The Sundan maintained a stoic stare at the dirt, trying to ignore the men around him. Einar sat beside him, doing likewise.

Like the two friends, Gregory was one of the few Alkimites left with any spirit. He called out to Derek, “Do you want something, you arrogant, asinine ape, or do you intend to stare us to death?”

The Alkimites looked uneasily at the young general. They feared for their lives, and provoking the vile warlord would only make matters worse. But Derek surprised them: he guffawed. The Leonites seemed as perplexed as the Alkimites; a few soldiers chuckled in mimicry, but there was a general air of confusion hovering over them.

At last, Derek offered the rejoinder, “You have spirit, boy, that is for certain. As a matter of fact, I do want something from you.” He leaned toward Gregory conspiratorially. “Information.”

Now it was Gregory’s turn to laugh. He said haughtily, “You won’t get it.”

As Derek approached the general, he exhibited an aura of superiority; even when he crouched in front of the kneeling prisoner, the warlord seemed to tower over him. “I do not think your people are quite so strong,” he said, his tone pregnant with pity. “Where is the boy called Hector?” he asked casually. When Gregory answered with a sneer, he persisted, “Where is the Guardian, Aneirin?” Still Gregory did not answer. Derek allowed a menacing edge into his voice and repeated, “Where are they?”

Gregory spat the last of his saliva at his interrogator and struck his cheek. The air was thick with tension as Derek’s soldiers prepared to obey a kill order. But Derek maintained his calm demeanor. He reached into Gregory’s tunic and withdrew his kerchief. It was made from faded pink linen, with lace on its edges and a beautifully embroidered letter B in one corner. Derek paused, furrowing his brow in confusion. “This isn’t yours,” he said, “It’s too... feminine.” He looked again at Gregory, whose face was contorted in fury. “Whose is this?” he asked, “Why is it so important to you?”

Gregory did not answer, but continued to glare angrily. Derek stood and held the kerchief aloft, proclaiming, “Someone tell me whose this is, or I will have ten of you killed on the spot!” He pointed at Affet, who was tied up in the row behind Gregory. “Starting with you.”

Sharian, formerly of Captain Brosne’s troop, had been promoted in the power vacuum that had followed the prisoners’ escape eight days earlier. Drawing his sword, he stepped among the Alkimite captives and placed the blade on the boy’s shoulder. Affet’s eyes widened with terror. As Sharian drew back the blade, he cried out, “I’ll tell you! I’ll tell you! Just please don’t kill me!”

Derek smiled at Gregory as if proving his victory. He waved Sharian off, and the captain stepped away, resheathing his sword. Derek looked at Affet and held up his hands in impatience. The boy said through gasping breaths, “It belongs to the girl he was betrothed to, Bronwyn. She left the valley over a month ago.”

Gregory tried to kick the whelp, but he only succeeded in losing his balance. He fell on his face, pulling his row of prisoners down with him. Derek knelt over him, filling his voice with mock pity. “I see,” the warlord said, “It’s his last memento, is it? Belonging to the girl who left him for the brat I’m looking for.” He looked back at Affet, who nodded. Examining the kerchief one last time, Derek wiped away Gregory’s spittle, then gripped the cloth by its edges and tore it apart. He tore it again and again, until there were only shreds remaining. “That is a shame,” he taunted the fallen general.

Gregory watched the pieces of his memory flutter to the dirt. But when the first shred dusted the ground, his blood was roused. Roaring in his ire, he scrambled to his knees, then to his feet. Dragging the whole row of prisoners with him, he charged Derek, who backed away nimbly. Captain Sharian and another Leonite stopped his attack, gripping his arms and threatening his throat with their blades.

“Tell me where Hector is,” Derek insisted, “and I will see that your girl is well cared for.”

“You’re a liar!” Gregory spat, “A liar and a coward, and you’ll die before year’s end. The gods will not stand for this!”

Derek laughed again. “Empty threats from a broken man,” he said. “Do you know how many times I have heard such things?” He leaned in close to the snarling youth and added, “Do not expect any mercy for your ‘Bronwyn’ now.” He stepped back and nodded to Sharian.

Gregory shouted to his fellows, “Tell him noth—” Then Sharian’s sword cut his throat. The Leonites dropped him to the earth as his blood pumped uselessly into the dirt.

As the dust settled and fear compelled the prisoners into cowering silence, Fintan saw Captain Cassus strolling into the camp with his whole troop. Drystan was not with him, Fintan noted. The evil captain walked straight to Derek and bowed. They exchanged a quick conversation that Fintan could not hear, then Derek turned to Tate, who was bound and guarded separately from the rest of the Alkimites.

“Tell me, Guardian,” Derek said, “Where is Hector?”

Tate replied, “I will speak only with Lord Drystan.”

His golden stare might have unsettled other men, but Derek was accustomed to the unblinking gaze of the Guardians; he had grown to hate it, not fear it. “Lord Drystan,” he answered, “is no longer in our company. He attempted to betray me, just as he betrayed you, and I cannot abide a traitor.” He smiled disarmingly. “You will speak with me or no one.”

Tate raised his head slightly, exposing his silver neck. “Then I will speak with no one,” he declared.

Derek nodded slowly. “Fair enough,” he answered, gesturing to his eager soldiers. They did not need a second word; they set upon the Guardian, wrenching him apart with blades and bare hands, taking his plating to make armor for themselves. They were ravenous.

Derek went again to Affet, who quivered under the lord’s penetrating gaze. “Tell me, boy, where has Hector gone?”

Affet looked at his companions, searching for hope or strength, but only found the fear that permeated his own heart. “East,” he said finally, “looking for some obelisk. It’s supposed to have a map to some... blessed blades.”

Derek smiled. “Thank you.” Standing, he gestured at the boy. “Kill him.” Sharian stepped forward to obey once more; before Affet could object, he was slain.

“Kill nine out of every ten survivors,” Derek yelled to his captains, “Take the tenth as a slave to replace those we lost.” He turned and pointed at Fintan and Einar, who were bound close together in the third row. A wicked grin filled Derek’s face. “Make sure these two are among the slaves.”

The 2040th year of the Sixth Era

The twenty-third of the month of Ennemen

Early in the fifth hour

Two mornings later, Hector stood patiently in the great hall of the Keldans. Eitromal was in his private chambers, leaving Hector to formulate his thoughts on their imminent encounter.

The previous day, when he and Fornein had arrived in Keldan territory again, their escorts had been waiting. Fearing the Termessians greatly, the five Keldans marveled that the two friends had survived. Dobro especially had begged to know what happened. Hector had said nothing in response; even though he thought that Folguen and his fellows were honest men, he had turned against their lord. He was not prepared to tell them that.

Fornein, however, had taken great delight in saying of Hector’s meeting with the Termessians, “It was the very mightiest battle among men that he ever entered,” and nothing else. Once they were back in the village, that claim spread wildly among the Keldans. Hector did not know if it had been Fornein’s intention, but as a result of that saying, the people had begun to fear him. As he walked through their village, they averted their glances and hid their children; one woman actually cowered as he passed, though he was disarmed and escorted by the Keldan warriors. The fear was almost palpable, and its taste made him sick.

Even so, he knew that it would be an advantage when dealing with Eitromal. He swallowed the knot rising into his throat and took a deep breath, steeling himself. He could not afford to look weak.

But as he waited, he grew impatient. He looked around the great hall again. The Keldans had kept Fornein outside the hall; aside from Hector, only two guards were in the long room, at the main entrance. He did not recognize them from his previous visits. The Alkimite began to walk slowly around the room, examining the tapestries on the walls. Most were depictions of the Keldans’ own victories over their enemies—here the Termessians, there a tribe of warrior-women, and there a tribe of archers that Hector did not recognize. Perhaps, he thought, the tapestries were meant to be prophetic, for certainly the Keldans feared the Termessians, and no conqueror fears his subjects.

As he paced the room, he came at last to a tapestry that had no relation to the Keldans, the most intricate of them all. On it, he saw towering monuments and impossible structures, buildings that dwarfed men a hundredfold. Suddenly, he recalled his dream from a month and a half earlier; the tall structures, the strange buildings, everything matched up. He had dreamt of the place in this tapestry. Looking closer, he saw men fighting one another with curious weapons like crossbows. From the symbolism, he could see that some men were the aggressors, attacking a central tower marked with a shape like an eye. As he scanned the artwork, he caught sight of a brightly woven man, standing near the tower; he had silver skin and an elongated skull. He smiled; here was depicted a Guardian.

His smile faded as he realized what was shown on this tapestry. It was no ordinary battle. This was the Wrack, as Aneirin had called it. It was on this field that the whole Fylscem Empire fell. “What place now, Aneirin,” he muttered to himself, wishing the kindly Guardian were here, “what region of the world is not full of our suffering?”

“Does that mean you’ve failed?”

Hector turned to see Eitromal sitting in his throne, with two guards flanking him. The Alkimite frowned, surprised he had missed the lord’s entry, and returned to his place before the throne. “No,” he answered, “I defeated the Termessians and commanded their survivors to depart for new lands. They should be passing through your forest in the next few days, never to trouble you again.” He let his voice take on a dangerous tone. “Now fulfill your end of our arrangement.”

It was clear that Eitromal had already heard the news. Perhaps that was why he had been delayed. The Keldan lord sounded condescending in his response. “I am afraid that won’t be possible,” he said, “since your work is not yet finished.”

Hector scowled. “You said that when I completed your task, my friends and I would be free to go,” he said harshly.

He thought he saw Eitromal pale in response, but if the lord hesitated, it was only for a moment. “Your task is not complete,” he countered, “until my people have been saved from all of our enemies.”

“Surely,” Hector replied with more than a little rancor, “that is a very long list.”

Eitromal sat forward intently. “If you think so,” he answered, “then you had best get back to work.”

Hector licked his cracked lips, perusing his options. He took a deep breath and dared to say, “If you want me to do even one more thing for you, old man, you will treat my friends as Kyros commands. Release them from those festering pits, put them in houses, and tend to their needs.” He narrowed his eyes, hoping he looked more daunting than he felt, unarmed and alone in the Keldan stronghold. “Do I make myself clear?”

Eitromal sat back again, ostensibly to think about his response, but Hector saw fear in his eyes, the same fear that all the Keldans held for the conqueror of their greatest enemy. At last, he said, “Very well. I shall render these things to your friends.”

“Swear to Ariane!” Hector said sharply.

“I so swear,” Eitromal replied reluctantly. “Now get out of my sight. Tell Folguen to take you and the Sage to the Emmetchae. Defeat them, and perhaps we can discuss your debt.”

The two guards from the entrance of the hall took him by the shoulders and led him out. He told Folguen their destination, and the five Keldans and two prisoners set off northeast.

*

The 2040th year of the Sixth Era

The twenty-third of the month of Ennemen

Late in the eighth hour

Bronwyn woke as the grate above her creaked and light streamed into her muddy cell. She frowned, squinting against the glare, angry to have been stolen away from her dreams. Sometimes the visions of her sleep were pleasant, sometimes not at all, but whether idyll or nightmare, waking up in this slime pit always seemed worse.

A rope ladder dropped into the pit. She kept frowning; they had not lowered a rope ladder since Fornein had visited her almost two weeks earlier. Was he visiting again? Were they bringing Doc to her, as she repeatedly demanded? Was it Hector, or Brynjar? Or were they coming to kill her at last?

She had been trapped in this pit for thirty-nine days, a number she tracked meticulously. Knowing the date helped her cope with what was happening to her; she feared that if she lost count, she would agonize over a perceived eternity. Instead, she prayed each day to Kyros, to Aulus, to Anthea, and to Carys, reporting the injustices performed against her. If she was going to die at the hands of these Keldan barbarians, she was going to ensure their condemnation at the hands of the gods.

She had tried to escape, at first. Scrambling up the walls had only degraded them further. The pits were deep enough that water moistened the ground at the bottom, but without rain, the walls were dry. The earth there crumbled under her weight, and there were no strong roots for her to grasp as she tried to climb. After a week, she had given up wasting her energy; without one of their rope ladders, there was no climbing out.

She had tried to dig a tunnel to her brother’s pit, or to Hector’s, or to Fornein’s, but when she had been dumped into her prison, she had been disoriented. Digging in any direction was short-lived; she had no place to put her new pile of mud and soil.

So she had waited. She trusted that they would come for her eventually; they continued to provide her with food and clean water, which meant they wanted her alive. They could not leave her here forever. Whatever their intentions, they had to take her out of the pit eventually.

And that was when she and Doc would make their escape.

Someone climbed down the rope ladder next to her. She opened her eyes cautiously; the sun’s intensity was still offensive to her tired eyes. As the other’s face became clear, she thought that she must have still been dreaming.

“Doc?” she asked incredulously.

“It’s me, sis,” Doc said with a smile. Overjoyed to see one another, they embraced in a tight hug.

When at last they came apart again, Bronwyn demanded, “What are you doing here? What’s going on?”

Doc shrugged. “They dragged me out of my pit and told me I had to get you out of yours. That’s all I know so far,” he answered.

Slowly, they climbed out of the mudhole. Bronwyn went up first, followed by Caradoc. In spite of her hopes of freedom, no sooner were they on solid ground than they were surrounded by Keldans with spears. Bronwyn recognized the leader of the group, Veither the hunter. He smiled wickedly. “Welcome back to the light, my pretty,” he said, “I’ve disliked our time apart.”

She scowled at him. “That makes one of us,” she retorted.

“Tsk, tsk,” he responded, “I’m doing you a favor. You’re being moved to a Keldan house instead of your proper home.”

Disgust filled her as she guessed at what he meant. “I’d rather be in the pit than spend any time as a ‘guest’ in your home,” she spat.

Veither laughed. “No, wench,” he explained, “Your boyfriend demanded this, as part of his arrangement with Lord Eitromal.” He flashed his yellowed teeth at her in another wicked smile and said, “But you will always be most welcome in my house.”

She spat at him, but her spittle fell far short of the Keldan hunter. He laughed again, then gestured for the guards to lead them away.

Bronwyn kept searching for avenues of escape as she and Doc were escorted through the forest, but the Keldans had them well-covered. Even among the trees, they would not make it far before being cut down—and she did not know the area well enough to escape the forest before being tracked by a hunter like Veither. Reluctantly, she allowed herself to be led to an empty house on the outskirts of the village.

Veither escorted them inside as the other guards took up a perimeter around the house, to ensure their captivity. Veither explained, as if loath to obey an order, “There is a pond in the fenced area out back. You may bathe there. There are clean clothes inside the house, and fresh food. You will remain here until the brat, Hector, has finished his tasks for Lord Eitromal.” He leaned close to Bronwyn, his hot breath full of a stench that made her recoil. “But between you and me,” he added, “that boy will never survive what he’s been ordered to do.”

Then he left.

Overwhelmed, Bronwyn and Caradoc stood in silence for a long time. Doc was the first to speak. “I guess we could use a bath,” he said, looking at his clothes.

Bronwyn looked him over, then herself. As if the muck and stink of the pit had not been enough, the flow of her womanhood had stained her clothes in the absence of any hygiene. She nodded in agreement. “I suppose so,” she answered, “though I hate to think of those guards watching me bathe.”

Doc shrugged. “I could stand in their way,” he said, “if you like.”

She forced a smile, still saddened by their imprisonment. If she were at home, she could bathe in privacy, without fear of guards or enemies. But home was so very far away, and she was here, and she had no choice. Taking clean clothes with them, the two siblings went and bathed, one at a time.

Bronwyn was unable to get rid of the memories of the Valley, flooding up through layers of worry and anger, adding a sense of despair. She feared that they would never see their home again. If they did not die among the Keldans, they would surely be too late to stop the Chimaera Regiment. As part of her wondered what Hector’s “task” from Eitromal was, and another part feared for their lives, she tried to focus the rest on a plan of escape. If they could find Hector, Fornein, and Brynjar, they might stand a chance of overpowering these guards and getting free of the Keldans’ clutches.

*

The 2040th year of the Sixth Era

The twenty-sixth of the month of Ennemen

Early in the eighth hour

“We will go no further,” Folguen said, “as before.”

Three days had passed since leaving the Keldan village for the second time. Hector turned back to look at his escort. “What can you tell me of these Emmetchae?” he asked.

“They are great warriors,” Salech said.

“Like the Termessians?” Hector pressed them.

All of them, even Fornein, looked concerned. “Not like the Termessians,” said Zadok.

Hector frowned. “What does that mean?” he questioned in frustration.

Evan looked about to answer, but Folguen cut him off. “The Sage knows them,” he interjected, “Let him tell you.” As the four other Keldans turned to retreat from the frightful border, Folguen added, “If you are not back in three days, Alkimite, then we shall return to our own lands, and Lord Eitromal will take your girl for his new wife.” As he had at the Termessians’ border, he drew his sword and held it out to the Alkimite.

“What?” Hector demanded. “That was never part of our arrangement!”

Folguen shrugged. “He needs an heir. He will see this as sufficient cause before the gods to take what he sees as yours.”

Hector looked away, disheartened. “She’s not mine,” he said softly.

Folguen shook his head, saying, “That won’t matter.” Then he buried the point of his sword in the ground, leaving it for Hector, and he turned to follow his fellows, farther away from Emmetchan lands.