Chapter 10
"The records of Caledonia around the time of the Colonization are sparse and often contradictory. The Wizards' Guild guards the archives with an almost fanatical zeal. They claim that their security is impregnable. However, the documents I now possess testify otherwise. Provided, of course, that they are authentic, and not the hoaxes Father takes them for ..."
- Troy Franklin, 5 Novendre, 1787 AC
The next two weeks were a blur of training, raids on merchants under Meadows' protection, and purchasing decisions. He read his family's journals whenever he had time, but since he turned down Hauser's offer to betray the one group of people who had shown him kindness since his return, he was growing increasingly invested in the Redtail outlaw band.
Most of the raids hadn't been peaceful. Aidan had fought hard, and in a few cases had to kill. This didn't bother him when he was dueling with two Kannitick Plate Guards on equal footing. But his sense of chivalry still burned remembering the raggedly-dressed commoner who refused to yield even after the rest of his caravan had knelt. He tried to reason with the man, but his battle fury transformed him into a wild animal, swinging a longsword back and forth with one hand and jabbing a makeshift spear with the other.
Aidan had holstered his pistol, intending to take the man alive. He had done everything right, parried an overzealous jab and moved to his opponent's side, elbowing the back of his head as he spun. The man stumbled and dropped his pike, but twirled around with the longsword and smacked Aidan hard on the side of his helm. Aidan's next swipe with his mace was meant to be defensive, but the farmer had already committed to stepping in, and the flanged weapon struck him square in the face, collapsing his bone structure and killing him on the spot. His choice, not mine.
That was three days before the sentries gave one long blast with their horns to signify the approach of friends and a band of Shrikes led by Sir Gary walked into the camp. Aidan emerged from his tent, regretting staying awake so late into the night reading his sister's journal.
Since he had killed the poor unarmored peasant, those journals had become his escape. Katisha's in particular served to dull his shame, and he had become so enraptured by an epic poem that spanned two weeks' worth of entries that he simply had to come to the end of it. He'd never been fond of poetry before, and suspected that his sister's authorship had more to do with his interest than the content. That being said, it was a good poem. Brave Knights, Noble Ladies, warfare, betrayal, bright-shining heroes and black-hearted villains, powerful oppressors, and scrappy revolutionaries. What had inspired the piece he could only guess, but he felt like he might be ready to find a clue in either Father's or Troy's Journal that afternoon.
"Good morrow, Sir Aidan," Sir Gary greeted him as he emerged from the tent clad in his finest yellow-green woolen doublet held firmly to his chest by a crimson velvet vest, "and may I say what a pleasure it is to see you again?"
They clasped hands, and Aidan wondered at such a warm greeting from a man he barely knew. "I thank you for saying so. Such a host you bring - may I ask its purpose?"
"Did Charlene not tell you?" The Shrike leader twisted an end of his gray-and-brown mustache, which had become frayed in the journey over. "We've been planning a joint raid, our people and yours. A merchant deep in the pockets of Meadows is on his way to the Capital with more fine goods than we can reasonably carry off."
"Won't such a grand treasure be protected?" Aidan couldn't conceal his surprise at the bandits' sheer audacity. Merchants of significant means didn't often travel without veteran Guards who ate bandits for breakfast.
"Undoubtedly. Which is why we're joining forces. And plenty of elemental bolts and Plaz muskets. Overwhelming force, shock and awe, that sort of thing. Should be a lot of fun," he looked around the camp as though looking for something specific, "provided everyone does their jobs."
Charlene waved some distance away, and the Shrike leader took his leave. Aidan wondered what the plan was behind the attack, whether they considered things like flanking and what they intended for the scouts who rode ahead looking for people like them. He had heard of Nobles setting traps; tempting the bandits with a target they couldn't resist and then loading the carts with Kannitick-outfitted thugs instead of crowns, food, and wares. Something smelled, and it wasn't the cesspit.
He approached what he figured for the council - Charlene, Rodrig, Connel, Quincy, a few of his other higher-level students, and the Shrike leader and his advisors. Ignoring a nearby sentry's plea to wait for permission, he stomped up to the table where they had several papers and figurines no doubt representing their battle plan.
"My Lady, My Lord, I insist on leading a detachment in the coming raid." Everyone at the council looked at him as though he were insane, but he felt like he should explain himself. "It's almost certainly a trap."
"I should hope so," Queen Charlene said, scoffing as though he were some random simpleton, "since that's what we're planning for."
"What do you-"
"Charlene, I beg your pardon," Sir Gary chimed, shoving himself firmly between the Knight and the Queen, "but I also insist Sir Aidan join us, and lead a platoon."
"If the two of you are finished," she gave them both looks of severe annoyance, "I was about to pause our discussion until Sir Aidan could join us. May we proceed?"
Aidan and Sir Gary nodded sheepishly and took their seats around the large map. The ground they'd chosen was good, a spot in the road where workers centuries before had cut through a hill, surrounding the road with short but steep cliffs on either side easily climbed from the forest.
Aidan felt as though his input was heeded and while he didn't agree on every point, the plan still felt complete enough to give him as much peace as he dared ask before a battle. And he had no illusions about what was coming: it would surely be a battle.
They took up positions; two large squads of about fifty each on either half of the broken hill, shooters on the top and melee-armed platoons on the slope ready to intercept a flank attempt. Between them were about ten bandits who would supply the shooters with fresh-loaded muskets. They waited until finally their scout returned around midday with news: the caravan was perhaps half an hour down the road, approaching at a trot.
One of the shooters designated as a spotter gave a birdcall signal when the carriages were within their sight. Everyone but the spotter was strictly ordered to stay hidden behind the hill. Aidan listened to every horse's snort, every squeak of a carriage wheel that was either poorly maintained, or carrying more weight than normal. Twenty men outfitted in Kannitick Plate would be much heavier than their normal load.
The birdcall changed to a rapid, high-pitched scream, and Aidan now realized that it was the call of the Shrike. The top of the hill-cliffs twanged as elemental bolts launched onto the armored men unfortunate enough to ride escort. Screams, explosions, and return fire soon erupted behind them, Aidan stopping the bandit who squatted on the hill next to him from charging out the side to counter the approaching armored men whom they heard charging in from the rear for a flanking maneuver.
"Lie low until you see the glint of their helms, then act quickly," he said. As he spoke, they rounded the hill, Plaz muskets held upright across their bodies just as he'd expected. Like lightning, he and his men struck, pouncing on the armored Musketeers and probing with their daggers until they found empty spaces between plates to stick their deadly blades. Aidan stuck one through the neck and felt his life drain away in a heartbeat. He removed his dagger, but held the body and charged into the mass of enemies who now found their charge broken and their ranks in chaos.
As he threw the body at a few stragglers, he saw about ten squatting into a line, sighting down their muskets to fire. No time to think, he charged at them, swinging his mace savagely as he broke through their line. Their weapons discharged, but most fired into the air as those who were bumped by Aidan's tackle grabbed onto their fellows for stability. He heard shouts and screams from the far side of the other half of their di
vided hill, the explosion of Plaz coming almost rhythmically as those inside the carriages returned fire and took fire in turn.
He peered around the corner at four wagons, only three of which were firing Plaz. The fourth, much larger than the others, had opened to allow for the attempted flank by the Musketeers, and now lay empty and useless. The horses that pulled the carriages were all dead, some burnt from Plaz, some with frozen bits from the initial burst of elemental weapons. Aidan saw the muzzle of a musket emerge from the barred windows at the back of the third carriage and quickly ducked his head behind the hill-cliff as Plaz burst into its side right where his head had just been.
His armor was charged fully, and he could probably take three direct Plaz hits before it was compromised. No rush. He remembered something about carriages - they usually didn't have windows looking out the front, since that's where the driver sat and all you would see was his rump.
Aidan ran, his speed increased by his Kannitick Plate, signaling his men with a wave of his hand to hold their ground. He came to the other side of the hill-cliff and looked carefully around its corner to see that he was right; there was no front window. He could approach unseen, relatively safe from enemy Plaz fire. He clambered up the hill on all fours, quickly coming to Connel, who commanded this firing line.
"Give me cover, but make sure no one kills me!" he yelled as loud as his voice would permit.
Connel nodded, staying typically terse as he relayed the command to the nearest shooter. Aidan sprinted down the hill, gaining speed, and leapt across the gap between the edge of the halved hill and the nearest carriage. He landed right in front of the lead vehicle, whose driver and escort were lying dead. He hoped his intuition was correct and that one of the dead men who surrounded him would have armed themselves with the weapon he had in mind. He searched those nearest him, nearly getting hit by Plaz fire from the hill opposite the one Connel commanded.
He turned to the shooters and raised his faceplate to identify himself and gave a shrugging motion, angry that they hadn't recognized the distinct dark maroon tint of his plate, which stood in sharp contrast to the bright blue of the bodies around him. Charlene, who he assumed was commanding the other side's firing line, shouted a command to the nearest Musketeer, who passed it along. She gave him a wry smile and a wink, and he just shook his head.
The third body he searched had what he was looking for. Strapped across his chest, some of them still white with the elemental frost from a frost bolt, were five fist-sized grenades. He stuck his body as firm as he could to the side of the first carriage, careful to stay out of the firing arc of the Plaz weapons. He came to the first window and waited for a lull in the firing.
"Yield or eat a grenade!" He tossed a grenade in the air, but only as a warning. It passed in front of their window and came back down in his hand.
"Fuck yourself, shitstain!" The metal cabin echoed with mocking laughter, and Aidan admired their courage and refusal to admit defeat. Honorable. But not wise.
He gave the small cylindrical grenade a twist, and its red arming light gleamed steadily and menacingly for a moment and then started blinking rapidly. At first flicker, Aidan threw the grenade into the window at an angle, bouncing it off the inner wall. There were a few bouncing clangs, urgent panicked shouting, and then flames and smoke burst from the windows. Aside from a few whimpers within, the coach was silent as a grave.
The other two armored trap coaches, upon hearing the blast and seeing Aidan's grenades as he tossed them near their windows in warning, surrendered sensibly, throwing their weapons out of the windows and kneeling with their helms removed after they opened the vehicles' large swinging rear doors. The outlaws came down and around the split hill, whooping and holding their weapons in the air. They clapped Aidan on the shoulders, and a few embraced him outright, and he smiled. They dragged the armored men out of the carriages while Aidan looked for his platoon. He came around the sheer wall of the half hill and saw some of his students stripping armor off dozens of dead Guards. Someone behind him put a hand on his shoulder, and he whipped around.
"Well fought, Sir Aidan," Connel said, yelling loud with his faceplate propped open. "You saved half our ammunition, at least!"
"Happy to help. Your shooters can apparently hit the wide side of a carriage, but little else, I'm afraid." Connel's platoon of shooters laughed at his jibe, shaking their heads and helping the others tend to the spoil.
Charlene walked past him to survey the carriages, grinning with approval at the Guards stripping their own armor at swordpoint as her bandits piled and sorted various goods, wrapping bundles of weapons by type for easy transport. Aidan took up stride beside her, observing with similar approval.
"They can't leave this unanswered," he said, casting a nervous glance down the road in the direction the carriages had come from. "Lord Meadows, the Merchants' Guild, hell, the King Himself will probably all send posses. Graydon Forest is about to receive some unwanted guests."
"The King Himself has sent posses into the woods every winter for the last seven years," Charlene said flatly, and shrugged as though making some trivial observation. "Every spring, our numbers are replenished by those whom this world leaves behind. At least, those who refuse to starve in the gutters while fat pig merchants and landborn Lords eat five times their fill."
Aidan, being landborn himself, wasn't sure how to answer. At first, he wanted her to take it back, to acknowledge that not all landborn are so greedy and wicked. He wanted to recount for her his family history of taking up the peasants' cause and seeking to improve their condition in this life. But something told him that would be wrong. Something told him that she knew all of this, but still needed an outlet for her rage. He let it pass.
"So what good does it do to stick a finger in the King's eye?"
"It lets him know that we won't be his quarry any longer." Charlene looked at Aidan, and he realized her eyes were welling with tears. "If he comes for us this winter, he'll be facing an outlaw band in which half of the members are in full Kannitick Plate and have well-made weapons and ammunition."
"Do you really believe that will make him think twice?"
"I don't care how often he thinks." She pulled up her hood, he was sure, as a signal that their conversation was over. "If they come, we'll kill them. If they don't, then that's progress."
"There you are, my good man!" Sir Gary walked over and clapped a gauntlet on Aidan's back, his armor clanking as though it might instantly rust and fall off at any second. "Good show, Sir, well done!"
"And to you as well," he said, keeping his eyes on Charlene who was pretending to be preoccupied with the logistics of the moment.
"Tell me, Sir Aidan, where did you learn such a devilish way of fighting? Throwing grenades into the windows of a carriage - most effective!"
"New Mongolia. Except we were trying to cram the grenades down the barrels of moving tanks."
"Tanks?" The man sounded the word out slowly, as though he'd never heard it before.
Aidan decided to be polite and explain. So many things about the War in the Heavens that his rustic countrymen would never understand. He was telling him about the carriages that move without horses and how the occupants operate large slug-loaded guns whose rounds explode on impact, when there was a commotion near the second carriage. Growls and screams and panic.
Aidan ran toward the disturbance and saw a pale, skinny, naked man pinning down one of the Redtails and snapping at him as he growled. His hair was overgrown and tangled, his beard unkempt and patchy, his arms sinewy but lean and determined. The man he'd trapped was screaming for help, and a dark stain grew across the front of his breeches. The men surrounding were fumbling with their daggers and crossbows, but Aidan ran at full speed and tackled the naked man right off of his quarry, pinning the wiggling, growling menace to the ground.
Even pressed to the ground, he continued to growl and even tried to bite Aidan's gauntlets, which barely even registered a sound at the attempt. Aidan tried to ta
lk to him, but he just screamed and howled and struggled. Please. Please don't make me kill you. The face of the poor farmer he'd killed once again flashed through his mind, and he fought to suppress it even as he reached for his mace.
"Give him the needle!" One of the captured Guards yelled. Rodrig came running over with a syringe full of some foggy-blue liquid and tried to jam it in the man's neck without getting bit. After a few close calls, he jabbed the needle in the man's neck and pressed its plunger until the blue liquid was gone. The feral man's head lolled to the ground, and he began snoring.
"Who is this man?" Aidan pulled the Guard who had yelled to his feet, the man glaring with menace and hatred despite looking very puny dressed only in his underclothes.
"A heretic," the Guard said, his voice thick with contempt.
"The Magic Tower is that way," Aidan thrust an impatient finger in the direction the carriages had come from, "so why are you taking him to Klauston?"
For a moment, the Guard pursed his lips as though refusing to answer, and Aidan almost hoped he'd give him a reason to remove some teeth with his armored fist. Thinking better of it, apparently, he finally answered. "I heard Doxil wanted him."
Doxil. Aidan scoffed and shook his head at the mention of King Ethan's Court Mage. Doxil Strongbow was a doddering simpleton who usually slept through Royal Council meetings and most court appearances. Everyone with an opinion about it agreed that the Wizards' Guild had sent him to King Ethan as some kind of graceful retirement. Why he would want to meet with a heretic was a question Aidan couldn't begin to answer. But he was certain he'd want an answer, so when a few of the men suggested killing the savage, naked man, he stayed their weapons.
"I'll take him with me. Rodrig!" The old horse master came at a jog, his scraggly beard now singed at the tips from too-close Plaz fire. "Can you make him a cell?"
"I'll get some of the lads to help me."
"If you want a pet, Aidan," Charlene said, marching to him with short, deliberate steps, "we can catch you a falcon. That man," she pointed to the unconscious heretic, "is clearly dangerous."
"He'll be my responsibility." Aidan was surprised to see the glint of religious fear in Charlene's eyes. "Surely you don't believe those ridiculous stories?"
"Of course not," she said, glaring at Aidan defensively. He wasn't convinced. "It's just that ... he attacked poor Stinkroot, and he may have a disease or something."
"A disease he no doubt contracted during his blood-magic rituals, right?" Aidan tried to contain his laughter, but a few scoffs refused to be suppressed.
"I'll not be mocked by the likes of you, Sir Knight. You can take your heretic and the both of you can bloody well end up food for the demons, for all I care." She walked away in a huff, and Aidan shrugged.
He had first heard that the heretics sacrifice children and drink human blood for their dark magic when he was seven, and his father had wanted to horsewhip young Marke Deumar for filling his son's head with "ridiculous fireside stories." He had told Aidan the truth: The heretics were just washouts who couldn't pass muster as a full-fledged Mage for whatever reason. They couldn't be sent back to their homes; they knew enough to be dangerous. We can't have the villagers making muskets and grenades, now can we?
"Sir Aidan," Connel came at a run, armored up to his neck and panting as though he'd run as hard as he could, "there's someone here you should see. One of the prisoners."
Aidan followed him to the first carriage, still smoking and hot from the grenade he'd given it upon his arrival. There were a few survivors sitting on their knees, fingers clasped behind their heads. All around them were the bodies of their compatriots, all of whom bore the same Crest over their hearts: the clawed bear paw of House Meadows.
"Stand up, you." Connel pointed to one of the three men kneeling, and he stood. At first, Aidan had no idea who he was, but for some reason he pictured him sitting atop a horse, pulling on a helm, and charging another rider in a grand tournament. He remembered seeing this man fall from a horse when Aidan's own lance caught his gorget just right and dislodged him, and remembered the sound of his cursing his existence when the medals were awarded, being silenced only when his own father slapped him full in the face for his drunken conduct.
"Hello, Aidan," Duncan Meadows said, his mouth spreading in the condescendingly arrogant grin that Aidan had always hated, "and how are you on this fine day?"
"Better than you, it seems." Aidan couldn't help but smile. Any surprise at Duncan's presence quickly gave way to happiness at seeing his enemy wrist-bound and powerless.
"Stick around," Duncan said, looking meaningfully down the road. "Could be my fortune is about to change."
"I wouldn't count on it. Our scouts are already harassing and delaying your little rear guard patrol. They won't be here for another hour at least."
Duncan shrugged and leaned forward slowly, making Connel go tense and reach for his sword. Aidan waved him down, and he stood at ease. "Father always said the Franklins were a bandit house, but I never thought you'd take the insult literally."
Aidan shoved him to the ground, immediately regretting his anger but feeling nonetheless gratified by the gesture. "My family's land stolen, yet I'm the bandit?"
Duncan hunched forward, slowly and awkwardly making his way to his feet. "I thought you'd never give up your chivalry. Alicia and I speculated how the war might have changed you, but that is a surprise. Tell me, Aidan, how does it feel to assault an unarmed prisoner?"
Aidan nearly pushed him to the ground again, but he saw Connel reaching for his hip dagger and again shook his head. Duncan always had a talent for burrowing into his skin, making him feel like a pretender. Prove him wrong.
"And how is your Lady sister?"
"Are you trying to make a joke?" Duncan's nostrils flared, and Aidan felt for once that it was he and not his rival who was in control of the conversation.
"I have been gone for three years, Sir Duncan. If something has happened to Alicia, I have no knowledge of it."
"All right then." Duncan nodded, still glaring suspiciously. "Lish was married to a Heatherbrook Lord from up North. She's probably freezing her bony ass off as we speak."
Something about the way he glowered, practically simmering with anger at mentioning his sister's arrangement told Aidan that it was political. Lord Meadows had traded her for a favor, and it burned Duncan's pride to speak of it. Aidan was tempted to make an offensive remark, to twist the dagger into his rival's flesh just a little more, but his father's words, which he had read only days ago, came to his mind. It is better to show mercy than to kill. An indebted enemy is as good as a friend.
"I know you were close. You should visit her this winter." Aidan was careful to keep his voice earnest and compassionate, but worried when Duncan merely looked at him with fresh scorn. A thin-lipped smile spread wickedly across his bony-cheeked face.
"And miss the chance to hunt you and these other bunnies? Never." He laughed as though watching a minstrel show. Aidan had moved past his anger and didn't rise to the bait. He could use Duncan to send a message to Lord Meadows and King Ethan, but thrashing him wouldn't send that message properly.
"Bring me his armor," Aidan said to the nearest armor collector, one of his students.
"Sir Aidan, begging your pardon, how will I know which one is his?"
"It's the color of wet moss, and its Crest is a red bear's paw with long claws."
The student went to work locating it in his piles, organizing the pieces as he found them. Duncan looked eager, and Aidan guessed his thoughts. This is no tournament, my cocky young enemy.
"Here it is, Sir, every last bit." The collector said, sniffling from misty lung.
"Thank you." The man returned to his duty, and Aidan dropped the armor at Duncan's feet. "I want you to give your father a message."
"And if I refuse? Are we to have a combat trial?"
"Your armor I leave you because I'm sparing you the dishonor of losing it by surrender. The next time I take it
from you, I'll strip it from your corpse."
Duncan sniffed at Aidan's bravado, but held his tongue. "Tell your father that Graydon Forest belongs to us, and anyone who enters unbidden will be killed from this day forward."
"You're letting me go?" Duncan spoke in a hushed tone now, as though afraid to upset the lunatic brute who stood before him. Aidan smiled, glad to answer his question.
"The patrol will get here eventually." All around them, members of both bandit gangs were already standing by the tree line, waiting to be dispersed. "One of them should be willing to part with his mount. We'll keep clear of the road for the next three hours, but ride quickly. We're not the only danger in these woods."
They hustled the prisoners into the third wagon and locked it from the outside. There was some talk of collecting ransom, but both Charlene and the plate-mailed Shrike leader agreed that the day's haul had been good enough, and that ransom would complicate matters. Aidan hid Duncan's armor under the wagon "lest some other thieves come and carry it off."
The two groups gathered some distance into Graydon Forest, far enough that they wouldn't be easily heard from the road. By nightfall that road would be full of Guards and Knights alike, searching for any clue where they might find those bandits who'd defeated their clever trap.
"Sir Aidan," the Shrike leader said, holding his hands in the air to signal the company's attention, "with 107 men we embarked, and with a hundred seven men we return."
Redtails and Shrikes alike gave a great cheer at the announcement. Aidan blinked in shock, realizing he had only noticed a few wounded among their number, but no dead. A slight breeze blew through the forest, and the leaves whooshed as though they, too, were cheering the accomplishment.
"We have never, in my seven years leading the Shrikes, had such a successful raid. At least one has always fallen, often more." The air became solemn, and the silence kept by the bandits felt reverent and holy. "Thanks to your bravery and skill, we are all returning with a great haul - soon we'll be the best equipped band in all of Caledonia!"
This time the cheer lasted longer, and Aidan's heart couldn't help but warm at the praise. He had grown close to these people, and it was clear from their enthusiastic cheering and adoring expressions that they felt close to him, as well. A few of the Mardoni bandits beat their shields, an old tribal custom that they used to elect a new chief. Aidan worried for a moment that the deafening thumps and savage roars would give away their position, then wondered what ten-man patrol would be stupid enough to confront the source of such a great conflagration of cheers.
"Sir Aidan, you are everything that Lady Charlene says you are and more." The Shrike leader offered his plate-mailed hand, which Aidan took and clenched as a sign of friendship. "Whenever you have need of us, we are yours to command!"
Again the Shrikes and Redtails thumped their shields, and the woods erupted in a great roar of celebration. Aidan closed his eyes as he took in the cheers, and for just a moment it reminded him of the cheers that greeted him when he took the tournament field.