The Chimaera Regiment (4 page)

They stopped briefly for a drink from its cool, fresh waters, but Brynjar’s urging led them onward. Bronwyn took the lead, eagerly skipping out ahead of the group; the foreigner took his brisk, imperious strides apace; Hector and Caradoc, growing weary, lagged behind in commiseration. They followed the river northeast for almost half an hour when it wended sharply to the south around a grassy monticule.

“It’s a house!”

Bronwyn’s exclamation of the obvious brought Hector and Doc hurrying to catch up with her. As they rounded the bend in the river, they saw what was indeed a house beyond the hill, on the far side of the rushing naiad. Pressing on, they saw that it was walled with stones and mortar, unlike any house Hector had seen. It had a stone smokestack on its northern side, abutting the sloping thatched roof. It stood alone, but even so, Hector thought it looked homely and comfortable. On its eastern side, he saw a garden and orchard; he imagined a wide variety of fruits and vegetables sprouting there.

“Can we get over there?” Hector wondered aloud, dreaming about biting into a juicy apple or sipping hot vegetable stew.

“Not likely,” Brynjar shattered his fancy.

“Do you have to ruin everything?” Doc complained angrily. Apparently, he had been having a few daydreams of his own.

“Don’t blame me,” the foreigner retorted. “That place would make perfect shelter for the evening, if it’s abandoned.” Gesturing at the river separating them from the house, he explained, “But whoever built that house knew what they were doing. Even a horse couldn’t ford the water here, and we certainly can’t swim it. We’d be swept away, and probably dashed on rocks downriver.”

Bronwyn frowned. “It looks peaceful enough,” she said uncertainly.

“Looks can be deceiving,” Brynjar answered, “The current is fast here, and continues down this slope toward the sea. You may not see it, but we would all drown if we tried to cross it here.”

“Can we cross somewhere else?” Hector asked hopefully, “Somewhere the current isn’t so strong?”

Brynjar shook his head. “We can’t afford to waste any time looking for a good spot, and we have no idea how far down we would have to go. I don’t know this country; do you?” When all three teenagers returned downcast glances, he snorted. “I thought so. We’d best just keep moving.”

Leading the way, Brynjar marched out boldly. The three youngsters ambled lazily behind him; their frustration was echoed in their lumbering footsteps as they wished dearly that they could cross the callous and careless flume. As they passed by the house, almost close enough to smell an imagined vegetable pot pie, Brynjar caught his foot on something and tumbled headfirst into the riverbank.

His three companions burst out laughing. He rolled over and glared fiercely at them. They tried in vain to contain their jocularity, but after nearly a week of solemnity, the smiles creasing their faces were a great release. Brynjar did not look amused.

“Hey, hey, hey!” someone yelled; his booming voice quivered with emotion. “Are you trying to wreck me ferry?” His speech was slurred and brutish, as though the winds of age and solitude had worn away the fine edges of a chiseled accent. Hector imagined that the man had been well educated and respected in an old life.

Seeing the hermit confirmed that suspicion. He was tall and solidly built, though time had hardened his joints and arched his back, leaving him with a hunch and a hobble unbecoming a man of his stature. His clothes were ragged from wear, but purple dyes still hinted at their old finery. His thick hair and beard were gray, fading into white. His eyes were dark, intelligent, and at the moment, very angry.

“Well?” he demanded. “What do you have to say for yourselves?” He pointed at the ground where Brynjar had tripped. Doc knelt beside the place and examined it; a stake, once driven into the ground, was lolling loosely in the dirt as an attached rope tugged it toward the river. The boy followed the rope with a pointed finger until it entered the rushing water, which obscured it from view.

Brynjar picked himself up and began to dust off his tunic. He called back, “You have my apologies, man. It were an accident, and it won’t happen again.”

The stranger harrumphed haughtily. “See that it don’t!” he yelled. They stood in silence, watching each other across the river. The hermit crossed his arms and glared, first at Brynjar, then each of the youths. His expression seemed to soften a little, but he did not budge.

Brynjar gestured for his young companions to move along. Sighing audibly, Doc stood up and began to trudge eastward, kicking a clump of dirt as he went. The older warrior sneered and started after the boy, intending to fix that impertinent attitude, but Hector stepped in front of him.

Doc felt an elbow jab his ribs sharply. His temper had been seething, and the strike nearly put him over the edge. He spun on his tormenter, prepared to attack, only to find that it was Hector, not Brynjar, who had hit him. Trying to control a sudden rush of adrenaline, Doc hissed, “What?”

“Have some dignity,” Hector said softly, “It was our carelessness that damaged that man’s ferry, after we intruded on his privacy. Don’t make things worse with a sour look.”

Doc frowned. Hot shame filled his cheeks as he averted his gaze from his friend.

“Say,” the hermit called out to their backs, “Do you folks want to stop over for a bite? It’s about suppertime, and I have some stew over the fire.”

“Would we ever!” Bronwyn cried out, unable to contain her excitement. Hector and Caradoc laughed from merriment; even Brynjar cracked a smile. The tension between them faded away as they set about crossing the river.

The hermit, whose name was Fornein, departed to retrieve the ferry-boat. Meanwhile, Hector and Doc set about securing the stake that Brynjar’s stumble had loosened. Using a nearby rock with a flat edge, they pounded the stake deeper into the earth until a tug on the rope did not dislodge it. When Fornein returned, he was carrying a small craft carved from a single trunk of some dark wood. The original tree must have been huge, because the oblong vessel measured from Fornein’s shoulder to his knee in width, and half that again in length. And Fornein was not a small man.

The hermit attached the vessel to the line and rowed across. The company entered the boat to be ferried across the river one at a time. Soon, all four travelers had crossed safely and were sitting in the cottage’s modest parlor.

As they settled in, a fierce cawing drew their attention to the ceiling. A raven sat on one of the rafters, glaring down at them. The dark-feathered avian made it clear that these strangers were not welcome in its home.

“Calm down, ye bird!” Fornein objected. He apologized to the visitors, “You’ll have to forgive Tarroth. He’s very protective of me, and he doesn’t care much for unexpected guests.”

Smiling cautiously, Hector looked up at the creature, which was now rapping its talons against the beam on which it stood. “What, uh,” he asked, “does Tarroth normally do with unexpected guests?”

“Normally,” Fornein joked, “he eats ‘em! But you’re a bit big for that, now, aren’t ye?”

Amid the laughter, Fornein began to ladle bowls of stew for each of them. “’Fraid there’s no meat in it. Never could raise cattle myself. But there’s a good variety of veggibles in here: carrots, leeks, broccoli, taters, topped with some chopped onions. I’ve got wheat flatbread on the side, with fresh apple cider to wash it all down. And there should be a good apple cobbler all cooked when we’re ready for dessert!” The older man seemed to enjoy entertaining company, but Hector wondered how long it had been since he had last done so.

The youths needed no bidding to enjoy the well-concocted meal. They dove into their stew with gusto. Hector and Doc managed to get some on their noses as they went to sup the last in the bowl. The boys sucked down the stew and guzzled the cider as if they had lived through a seven-season famine. Brynjar, on the other hand, took his time, spooning the stew into his mouth little by little; he knew well the dangers of wolfing down food carelessly. He seemed suspicious of every morsel.

Bronwyn was the only one who maintained even a modicum of dignity during the meal. “How long have you and Tarroth lived here, mister Fornein?” she inquired.

“Tchah!” the kindly man snapped, “Don’t call me ‘mister,’ nor anything else fanciful and lordly. I wouldn’t deserve it even if I still had a tribe of my own.” He smiled at the girl. “But to answer your question, me and Tarroth have been here many years. Many years. Before we settled down, though, we were travelers, journeying round-abouts, ‘til I got too old and too slow to catch the edible critters, or to outrun the ones that could eat me.”

Hector and Bronwyn exchanged knowing glances. If Fornein had traveled so much, then surely he knew about the obelisk and where it could be found. Hector turned to look at Brynjar, who nodded slightly; he had heard the comment also.

Fornein settled into a big armchair with his own bowl of stew. As they ate, Bronwyn asked him, “Fornein, you said that you know the surrounding lands very well?”

The old man nodded. He answered around a mouthful of flatbread, “Oh, yes, little miss. I’ve been all up and down this river, and north to the woodlands, and south through all the hill country.”

Hector gnawed his lip anxiously and asked, “Do you know of an old monument called an ‘obelisk’?”

Fornein popped his head up to look at Hector. Surprise registered on his face, but he quickly covered it up. Taking another spoonful of stew, he said casually, “No, I don’t think so.”

Caradoc furrowed his brow. “Are you sure? It’s in the woodlands you mentioned, north of the river here.”

“I said I’d never heard of such a thing!” Fornein snapped.

The rest of the meal proceeded in silence. When it was over, Fornein passed out small plates, filled with apple cobbler, one to each of the travelers—except Brynjar, who refused to take any.

The tension in the room was palpable. Hector and his friends ate the dessert slowly, trying to consume the time they had here with silent mastication. At last, Fornein blurted out, “What would you want with such a place, anyway?”

Bronwyn explained cautiously, “The obelisk is engraved with a map. We have to use it to find the blades of the Emperor. Hector is the last living heir of that royal blood.”

Fornein frowned. “You mean of the Fylscem Empire?” His tone was disdainful, maybe disappointed.

Brynjar cocked his head to one side, now invested in the conversation. “You know of it?”

Fornein snorted. “Of course I know of it! No self-respecting Storyteller would forget that den of corruption and waste! We exist to help the future learn from the past, and avoid repeating it.” He eyed Hector. “I had heard tales of hidden heirs to that throne, but I never really thought it was true. Why would you want to bring it back?”

Hector drew his lips into a tight line. He trusted Aneirin, far more than he trusted this stranger. “Because I can make it great again,” he said, sounding more confident than he felt, “And if I don’t, then someone else will use it to kill and destroy.”

Fornein took a deep breath as realization dawned on him. “The conqueror from the south. He wants to rebuild the empire, too.” He glanced among them. “Another one of your secret heirs, eh?”

Bronwyn nodded. “We can’t let him succeed.”

Fornein sighed. He was backed into a corner, and he knew it. “I relent,” he said at last, explaining, “The obelisk is in the land of the Keldans.”

“The Keldans?” Caradoc echoed inquisitively. They sounded like a foreign and interesting people to him.

“Aye,” Fornein confirmed, his tone making it clear that they were by no means friendly, “The Keldans. I’ve seen your obelisk there before, but they protect that land something fierce.” He sighed a little, reluctant to continue, “But I’ll take you there, on the morrow, if you’re bound to go.”

“That’s not necessary,” Brynjar cut in, “We can handle ourselves.”

“They know me, at least,” the hermit warned, “If it were you alone, they might kill you on the spot. You’d best let me show you the way.”

Brynjar could muster no further objections. When dessert was finished and the plates cleared away, the four traveling companions, now five, settled in for a long night.

The 2040th year of the Sixth Era

The twelfth of the month of Anthemen

Early in the first hour

The sun streaked through the cottage windows much earlier than Hector had hoped. He had passed the night restlessly. Worries and distractions cut through his mind, disrupting any chance of sleep. He especially wished Fornein would not accompany them; he did not want anyone to die on his account, and the hermit was certainly too old to go adventuring. But he did not know how to object, since even Brynjar seemed satisfied with the idea.

As dawn filled into day, his companions arose. Fornein had provided them with blankets and pillows aplenty to lie comfortably, and as he studied the bright and cheery faces of Doc and Bronwyn, Hector suspected that they had. When his gaze fell on his older fellows, he saw a closer reflection of his own feelings. He wondered if any of the three of them had slept a wink the entire night.

Fornein, however, was not one to let a bad night ruin a good day. Working quickly, he warmed the fire in his stove for breakfast. He baked a batch of oatcakes, which were both tasty and filling. There were enough for each traveler to eat one and pack two more. Hector was very grateful, and said so.

“It ain’t hardly a thing,” Fornein replied with a smile.

The hermit packed a sack as quickly as the children repacked theirs. Brynjar was already outside, waiting to go. As soon as they were all out and Fornein had closed up the house, the warrior asked, “While we have your ferry at our disposal, shall we cross now or travel downriver a ways first?”

“The Keldans are not near the river,” Fornein answered, “We’ll need to cross now, then head east, and a bit north.”

As they crossed Freewater, they left Tarroth cawing his goodbyes from the roof of the cottage. When they were all safely ashore again, Fornein pulled the ferry boat into a growth of reeds, hoping it would go unnoticed. He tied it down securely before the quintet set off eastward.

Fornein took the lead, since he was their guide. Brynjar lagged to the rear, as he usually did, to keep an eye on them and their surroundings. Doc darted forward gaily, forgetting his dishonorable attitude from the previous day. He chatted with Fornein constantly; the old hermit seemed to have a wealth of fantastic stories to tell.

Meanwhile, Hector found himself walking beside Bronwyn in the midst of the group. She had lost her early morning buoyancy, which had faded to a wilting determination. For a few moments, Hector hoped his presence would cheer her, but he soon realized that it was not enough. Finally working up a spout of courage past the uneasiness in his chest, he asked, “What’s wrong?”

She looked at him and he immediately wished he could take back his question. There was no escape now; the words hung in the air like an arrow, ready to strike him in his foolish heart.

But she said curtly, “Nothing,” and returned her gaze to the ground.

He was off the hook! He had asked politely, and she had denied that anything was the matter. He told himself that he had done enough. He looked at the countryside, trying to distract himself from the darkening frown on Bronwyn’s delicate lips. At last, he could stop himself no longer: “Something’s wrong,” he insisted, “You can tell me.”

She drew her lips tight, as if trying to smile and failing. Her eyelashes quivered, and he thought her eyes dampened. “I keep thinking about Gregory,” she said softly.

Hector’s heart fell. But he replied, forcing the words around a fresh lump in his throat, “What about him?”

She shook her head, as if trying to say that it was nothing. “Just the way he said goodbye. I thought he was better than that.” Hector was about to answer again when she continued, more earnestly, “We’d been spending a lot of time together, you know, and I promised him that, before the next harvest season, I would marry him.”

Hector was heartbroken. He felt physically ill, and a pain crept from his gut, through his stomach, and up into his chest, where it clutched his heart in its fiery grip. He wanted to cry out, to scream his anger and defeat at the sky. But by some blessing of the Divines, he kept silence, and listened patiently.

“I don’t have a dowry, you know, with our parents gone, and I wanted to offer him something more than just my care. So I had planned on apprenticing to be a seamstress. But then Lord Aneirin came to town, and we were to leave on this quest straightaway.”

Hector claimed a quiet victory for being the cause of the dissolution of their plans; at the same time, he ached to bring her suffering.

“I don’t know what came over him,” she said, her voice tightening, “He had been so sweet and so kind, and we were so excited about the coming spring. But as we were leaving, he was so…” She struggled to find the word, but stumbled upon it at last. “Bitter.”

She fell silent. Hector sensed that he should say something now. Trying to be helpful, he asked, “So what now? Are you still betrothed?”

She shrugged. She let her gaze wander until it fell on a passing butterfly. The brightly colored beauty seemed to please her as it flitted in front of her nose, but her faint smile was whisked away with the wind. “I don’t know,” she answered at last. “You were there. He said I should forget it.”

Hector remembered. He had been there, of course. He had seen that look on Gregory’s face. How much he loved her. There was no question in his mind: whatever Lord Aneirin had told him, Gregory did not expect to see any of them again.

He tried to think of the right thing to say. He wanted to fix everything; but more than that, he wanted Bronwyn to realize how much
he
loved her, how much
he
wanted her in his life forever. He could lie, tell her that Gregory was worthless and foolish, that only he, Hector, could solve all of her problems and make her happy.

But then he would be lying to the woman he loved. After a few long moments of walking in silence, Hector said, “Bronwyn, you are worth caring about. And there are those who care about you. And if, by some chance, Gregory has lost sight of how worthy you are, then he is a fool. But if he hasn’t—if he still respects you—then he wants you to be happy.”

He gestured at the hillock they were descending; it was covered in wildflowers of every color, cascading down its side like a sweet-smelling rainbow. “Look around you! Look where we are!” he encouraged her, “When you’re in the presence of true beauty, you can’t help but… love it.” As he finished, he looked at her fervently.

As she spied the gentle wilderness all around them, a warm smile spread across her face. There was still pain in that expression; there was still the loss of her regard in Gregory’s eyes, nagging at her; but she was able to put it aside and enjoy the gods’ creation. She turned to Hector, to thank him for giving her perspective, but she found him taking his turn to stare fixedly at the ground. She placed a tender hand on his shoulder.

He started, but soon got control of himself. “Oh!” he said, “I was just…” He trailed off, unsure how to express himself. He tried again, “This is all so lovely. I can’t imagine what a war would do to a place like this.” He took a deep breath, then sighed it back out. “And I’m not sure I can beat Derek.” He paused, giving his head a small shake. “And even if I can, I don’t think I could kill him.”

Her smile became kinder. “I know you,” she said, “and I know that you’re strong enough to do what the gods are asking of you.” But his stare did not falter. If he heard her, he gave no indication of it. He seemed rapt in his concern. With the hand still on his shoulder, she shook him, throwing off his balance enough to attract his attention. “I trust you,” she reassured him, “to do exactly what is necessary when the time comes. But remember that a true hero shows mercy.”

He smiled his thanks. She darted ahead to join her brother in his gallivanting. When she was gone, his smile faded.

“She cares for you, you know.”

Hector spun, startled. Brynjar was now only a pace behind him. He wondered how long the warrior had been eavesdropping, but he calmed the ire that simmered inside of him. He had done nothing shameful. “Of course she does,” he replied, “We’re friends.”

“More than that,” Brynjar disagreed, shaking his head, “More than she’ll admit.”

Even if their conversation were not shameful, Hector could not lose the feeling that it should have been private. He let his bitterness slip into his words. “How would you know?”

“Being married teaches you a lot about women, if you’re willing to listen,” Brynjar answered. There was a softness in his voice that Hector had never heard before, and had never anticipated from the hardened warrior.

The boy walked in silence for a several long moments. Finally, he asked, “What happened to her?” He hoped that he had not already guessed the answer.

But his hopes were in vain. “She was killed,” Brynjar replied, his voice a little colder than Hector expected. “Slaughtered by Derek and his armies with the rest of my people. I would have been by her side, but Lord Bayl ordered me to seek out your Lord Aneirin.”

Hector frowned. “Why would he do that?”

“I don’t question my orders!” Brynjar snapped. “He told me to warn Lord Aneirin about Derek.” He glared at the boy, the usual hardness in his eyes once more. His tone was full of unfettered disgust. “I can only assume that was for your sake.”

“Oh.” Hector fell silent. In a way, it seemed that Brynjar blamed him for the deaths of his people, and especially for the death of his wife. Hector pitied the man’s loss, but it rankled him that he should be guilty of it. He thought it best to let it alone.

As the day passed, the heir noticed that their pace had slowed, due to Fornein’s age and weak constitution. Hector spoke softly to Brynjar, asking, “Why did you allow Fornein to accompany us? No doubt the man means well, but he’s not strong enough for this journey.”

Brynjar looked at the boy with mock surprise. “Do you mean to say that you’re familiar with these lands and the people in them? I, for one, have never traveled this far northeast. I know the coast is nearby, but I certainly don’t know how to deal with any tribes that live in this area. But by Kyrou, if you already know all this, then we’ll just send the old man home!” He rolled his eyes, admitting the sarcasm in his tone.

Hector frowned. He supposed that the knowledge Fornein had was essential to their success, but couldn’t he have just told them about the Keldans? Having him along seemed dangerous. “What if this journey kills him?” he asked Brynjar. “Will you still be so light-hearted then?”

“He chose to come with us,” Brynjar retorted, “We told him the risks; we told him who’s pursuing us. And if that tribe at the obelisk is the sort of people he describes, then he knows the danger ahead of us better than we do.” He shrugged his shoulders, saying, “He wants to help, and I’m not about to refuse him just because I think he’s too old to do anything of use.”

Hector had no answer to give.

When that night came, they camped on the open plains. The nearest cover was a pair of hills they passed early in the afternoon. No trees were in sight, and they had no wood for a fire. As the evening chill came on, they lay down close together to preserve their warmth; they spent a rough and restless night trying to hide from the wind.

*

The 2040th year of the Sixth Era

The thirteenth of the month of Anthemen

Shortly before the first hour

Hector was wakened by a gentle shaking.

“Get up.”

Hector rubbed his eyes, trying to cast the sleep from them. The sky was dark gray; the sun had not yet crept over the horizon. “It’s too early,” he mumbled back.

Now someone kicked him in the sole of his foot.

“Get up,” Brynjar repeated, more forcefully.

Hector suppressed a yelp at the sudden pain. As it faded, he climbed to his feet. “What is it?” he asked, worried that someone might be attacking them.

Brynjar shoved a sword hilt into his hand. He took the opportunity to grab the boy’s wrist and lead him away from the camp by two dozen paces.

“This again?” Hector complained, “We have a long day ahead of us.”

Brynjar nodded. “That’s why we have to get started early,” he responded. He stepped back three paces, then settled into a defensive stance, his own sword point raised. “Prepare yourself.”

Hector did not move. His shoulders were slumped. His head sank so low that his chin nearly touched his chest. “I’m tired,” he moaned, “Can’t we do this later?”

Brynjar lunged at him, sword first. Hector leapt back a pace. “Hey!” he shouted, “Are you trying to kill me?”

The warrior’s eyes were like flints of steel. He did not answer, but stepped forward and swung in hard from the shoulder. Hector barely brought his own sword up, but he was pushed aside by the power of the blow. If he had not blocked it, Brynjar might have beheaded him.

“Defend yourself!” the Drengar spat.

Hector looked past him at the camp, where the others had been roused by the noise. He wanted them to come to his rescue; he was terrified that Brynjar wanted to kill him, blaming him for his own suffering.

But Brynjar followed his gaze and stepped between them. “Eyes on me!” he ordered, “On your guard!” He lunged again, this time with a short cut and twist from his elbow.

Hector stepped back and met the blow with his sword. This time, he was able to hold. “What are you doing?” he yelled, still panicking. “I didn’t kill your wife!”