***
Mercius approached Griffin. Sophia and Keira had greatly aided Darius and Peter in organizing the surviving villagers, as well as dealing with the corpses. They knew, of course, that this place wasn’t safe for long, but they decided to send out scouts and remain here overnight anyway.
Griffin and Mercius hadn’t spoken since the battle that afternoon, and Mercius was eager to talk to him. When he approached, Mercius detected a haunted look in Griffin’s eyes, deep beneath the usual intensity of the man himself.
They stared at each other, not knowing exactly where to begin. When Griffin spoke, Mercius detected little of his own enthusiasm and excitement mirrored in his friend's voice. “I did it, Mercius,” he said quietly. “I did it, and I know how. I could do it again. Right now. I could, I know it. And you did it, too, didn’t you? You controlled it?”
Mercius nodded. He had controlled it, and knew that he could do it again. And, on top of this, he had the idea that it was directly related to Griffin being close to him. He didn’t know this for sure, or even where the idea came from, but it was there all the same.
“Mercius,” Griffin said with the same tone of quiet wonder in his voice. “I know what it is. It was her. Her voice anyway. It came to me in the middle of it all. She called it the Arka. Other than that, I know nothing, but I know that's what it is called. In her world, or whatever. By her kind. Arka.”
Mercius repeated this word awkwardly. Wrapping his mouth around it strangely at first. But, he couldn’t deny that the word held power in it. And it made sense. “She called us Arkarum. Do you remember?” Mercius asked. The black man nodded. “Arkarum.” He repeated it several times, then nodded as if he was satisfied.
When everything had calmed down and been organized to the best of everyone’s ability, Mercius learned the numbers of the villagers: all told, there were about three hundred men and women that had joined battle. Their spirits were as high as they could ever remember them being, for they had taken part in beating back a horde of demons. Over half of their population had fallen during the slaughter, but they were not all dead, and the three hundred that remained were nearly overjoyed, their grief overshadowed by their pride. It was the first time, Mercius found out, that they had ever fought for their lives instead of just fleeing.
The village itself had never been attacked before that day, but all of the villagers themselves had suffered from demon encounters before. It was a relatively new settlement, and had been growing for the past year or so. Apparently, the demon lords had finally found its population worthy of the taking.
Griffin and Mercius sat in a small building that was scarcely more than a hut, eating dried meat and drinking some sort of locally brewed ale that was harsh but satisfying.
Griffin looked up from his meal and said, “I believe that, if we played our cards right, we could use this village, and what happened here today.” They had spoken no further about the use of the Arka; the time would come for that later. Mercius raised a questioning eyebrow at his friend, who continued: “The people here are elated; overjoyed with pride and enthusiasm. All we would need to do is a little gentle persuading, and I think they would join us. Nephilia said that our numbers are not enough for the tasks we hope to accomplish, and this seems like a perfect opportunity to increase our numbers. You agree?”
Mercius did, and said so. “I do. We need to move on from this place as quickly as we can. Perhaps tonight you can speak to the villagers. Gently persuade them, as you put it.”
Griffin shook his head. “No, Mercius, it has to be you. My manner is not as eloquent as yours.” Mercius didn’t agree with this at all. Griffin saw the doubt in his eyes, and said, “Besides, there is something about you. I don’t know what it is, but you are a leader. People follow you, whether you want them to or not. Just like when you left Drurador: people left with you even though you argued with them not to. No, these people will follow Mercius. Not Griffin.”
Mercius frowned and said, “They will follow the Hammer and the Blade, if they follow at all. And may fate have mercy on them if they do.”
That night, after running his plan by Jax and Sophia, the villagers were assembled in what was left of the burnt-out courtyard. It was a very large space, and the three hundred remaining civilians fit into it conveniently. The Hammer and the Blade were camped just outside of the village proper, for all members of Mercius' party believed that having the shaken villagers intimidated by hard and weathered soldiers would do their cause no good.
There was a small stage that had been erected in the courtyard for festival occasions. Mercius stepped onto it. His knees were a little weak as he saw the gathered crowd looking up at him. He wasn’t nervous, exactly, but he had become very sure over the past couple hours that this was a crucial moment: if he couldn’t convince these people to follow them, the consequences would be great.
After taking a deep, head-clearing breath, he began: “Greetings people. My name is Mercius. I stand before you tonight not as a hero, but as a supplicant.” There were good natured shouts of “No!” and “Hero! Hero!” but Mercius continued before they could turn it into an all-out, undeserved cheer. “The journey that we are undertaking, my friends and I, is a dangerous one. We seek not to find a better or safer place to live. No, the Hammer and the Blade, who came unasked to your rescue tonight, seek to wash this world clean of Hell-spawn. To rid this planet of their filth and their evil.”
Murmurs of disbelief and incredulity rippled through the congregation.
“In order to do so, we need your help. We cannot defeat the demon hordes as we are. We need men and women who wish to join our cause. I cannot promise victory, or even life, but I can promise you that no matter what happens, I will use my last breath to destroy the creatures that inhabit our world, to scream defiance in the face of evil!” Without intending it, or even noticing it, Mercius' voice had risen to nearly a shout. His green eyes blazed with passion and fury. The villagers that stood at the front of the assembly took several steps back, as if afraid that the intensity that boiled from his eyes would smite them.
Someone towards the back of the crowd shouted, but their voice was timid, carrying no real heart: “We will all be killed. This is madness.”
Mercius looked in the direction of the voice, then scanned the rest of the crowd. “I will not force this upon you, people. I simply ask that you look into your hearts and find what courage may lie there. If you are tired of being hunted, tired of seeing your sons and daughters and husbands and wives and parents and friends carried off to be slaves or worse, then stand with us and fight.
“If, however, you wish to flee this place and find another like it, one that is suitable and comfortable until the next time you are attacked and forced to run again, then that is your choice, and no one will think less of you for it.”
Again, a soft murmur went through the crowd, but Mercius could not decipher its meaning.
“I have stated my case, and the choice is yours: stand and fight, or run in fear.” Instinctively, Mercius pulled Illuricht from the scabbard at his back and held it, point to the sky, before him. “Fight or flee, people. Make your choice!” With that, he nimbly flipped the blade over and buried its point deep into the wood of the stage. As it stood there, the black blade swaying gently before him, the pommel coming up to his chest, he gazed over it and scanned the crowd.
Later, each of them would claim that he looked directly at them, personally, and that in his eyes the ultimatum was voiced again: “Stand and fight, or run in fear.”
Not all of the villagers joined the Hammer and the Blade, but the number that did was both exciting and terrifying to Mercius. Of the surviving three hundred, a full two hundred came to the camp the following morning. Mercius was glad to see so many. But he was dismayed that there were two hundred more people that would more than likely die for his cause.
A discussion was held
with what the troops had begun to affectionately call the Marshals: Jax, Sophia, Eliah, Darius, Peter, and Keira. Mercius and Griffin were of course part of the discussion, but their status was not Marshals, but Generals.
Jax began as they sat at the center of the camp, in Mercius' stained and weather-beaten tent: “These villagers are a blessing to our cause, I have no doubt, but they are untrained and untried. I wonder if they will help or hinder us when battle is upon them. They need to be trained, and I don’t think that we can accomplish what we must with them while we’re on the road.”
Eliah gave a grunt of agreement and said, “They fought bravely and fiercely yesterday, but they were encouraged. I doubt we’ll see much encouragement at Mor'denaa’s compound. As it stands, I imagine that their courage will fail once we are in the thick of things.”
Peter, in his normal, quiet, contemplative tone said, “I agree. They must be trained and armed as well as possible. There is a forge here that works, and the steel we need to make blades and arrows. The question is whether or not we stay here for a month to do what we must, or move on and hope for an accommodating place.”
Darius looked at his friend and said, “They are not well armed, by any means, but most of them have some sort of weaponry. Until this place became their home, you must remember, they were vagabonds and roamers. And no one roams this world without something that can shoot or stab. But arrows and more blades certainly couldn’t hurt. I vote we stay here, but not for a full month as my slow-witted friend recommends.” He grinned wolfishly at Peter, who simply rolled his eyes and shook his head slightly. “I would rather we stay here for half that time, with hard training regiments from dawn till dusk every day. There are several among the Blade, I know, that can work the forge during that time, and with any luck we won’t have to defend ourselves against another attack.”
Jax said, “Two weeks will not be nearly enough, but it should be enough to be getting on with, at least. As far as an attack is concerned, we can only hope. At any rate we’ll be better prepared for one than they were yesterday.”
Eliah picked up with a nod of his head, as if completing Jax’s thought: “Scouts out every day and night, with four shifts a day, in all directions. Unless the demons are far more cunning than they have proven themselves in the past, we’ll be prepared.
Mercius looked to Griffin to see if the man had anything to add, but he simply nodded. Mercius said, “Very well, that sounds like as good a plan as any. Furthermore, I suggest we plan, from the start, to rest in the glade or forest that Griffin spoke of, outside of Mor'denaa’s compound. At least a week. It will give us time to rest, and polish any training we feel we should.” He looked around the tent to see if anyone objected to this, but no one said anything. “Okay. Darius, Peter, and Eliah will be in charge of the training regiment. Jax, can you find every blacksmith we have among us and set them to work immediately?” Jax nodded. “Anything else before we part?”
Keira spoke for the first time, and Mercius was again struck by her strength and poise. “I am overworked, as it stands. I can hardly keep up with the medical needs of the troops when we’re on the march, let alone following a battle. There are scores of villagers with wounds both great and small. I need help.”
Griffin responded: “I have several men in the Hammer that have some experience in these matters. I will send them to you.”
“I thank you. However, I’ll need more than a few. I would like permission to take as many as twenty men and women and begin their training in healing. I have my eye on several, and most will come willingly, I believe.”
Mercius said, not unkindly, “Twenty is a substantial number when you have as few as we do. It will put a dent in our force, for certain.”
“Perhaps,” Keira replied. “But if every soldier dies from their wounds, no matter how small, then I fear that our numbers will decrease more rapidly than you expect. The more I have to help me mend their hurts, the more quickly they can be on their feet and back to fighting.”
Mercius smiled at her. He didn’t realize it in the weak light of the grey morning, but her face flushed slightly when he did. “You make a good point. Very well, take as many as twenty, if you can find people who are willing.”
The meeting was then adjourned, each of the Marshals striding purposefully off to their respective tasks.
The next two weeks were chaotic for most, and, at the very least, busy for all. The hundred or so villagers who had disdained to join the Hammer and the Blade left within several days of the attack. They were either ashamed to be seen by those who would stand, or feared that watching the training and the preparations would nudge them towards changing their minds. Either way, they trickled out with no fanfare and very few farewells. They had taken whatever supplies they needed, and the fighters granted them these graciously and willingly.
The training commenced immediately, and the reports that Mercius heard from the Marshals--already being called his Marshals--was that the villagers were fast learners and most of them would be sound in a fight, if not as hardened as the veterans of the Hammer and the Blade.
“In two weeks we’ll have this bunch whipped into readiness, and eager for a fight,” Darius told Mercius after the first full day of training. “They are stout and willing, and they have already made progress. Discipline will be the hardest to drill into them: they are more of a mind to scream and wail with no formation; but we’ll do it if it kills ‘em. The march will help, as well. They’ll get a taste for following orders before then, and learn to love it while we travel. You can put your mind at ease as far as they’re concerned, Mercius. They’ll do fine, I think.”
Mercius thanked him for his help and his report, and tried to put the training of the villagers as far from his mind as possible. He had his own training to do.
Griffin and Mercius spent nearly all day of every day of the full half month honing their skills in the Arka. It was slow going, like an infant learning to walk, but they found since the battle in the village, something had clicked, and they could summon the power within them without fail every time. They worked primarily on getting it to do what they wanted, which took time and great energy. They fell into their bedrolls each night and were asleep the instant their heads hit the pillows. But they made progress, and by the end of the two weeks, they felt almost confident in their abilities.
Jax had rounded up a full dozen men and women who knew the art of forming steel. Their hammers and forges could be heard at all hours of the day and night, the volunteers working around the clock in shifts. When the time came to begin their journey west, their arrows had doubled in number, and each soldier was carrying at least one decent blade or spear, as well as a shield of layered, toughened hide bound with iron.
Before any of them knew it, their allotted time was up, and the following day they were to depart. Mercius felt that if he had another year to prepare it wouldn’t be long enough, but he knew in his heart that they had done all they could in the timeframe they had set themselves, and were as ready as they ever would be. If they waited any longer, he knew, their presence would be found out and they would be besieged and destroyed.
With the rising sun, two weeks to the day after the attack on the village, the Hammer and the Blade left their camp behind. The villagers had been joined into the number of the troops, and while the soldiers of Griffin’s Hammer and the Merconium Blade retained their respective titles and allegiances, the forces were one.
The day of the march was just like any other: the sun shone weakly through the haze of the not-too-distant wastelands; birds singing in the trees; a light breeze whispering on the air. The troops were formed up with an ease that spoke of long practice: the Marshals had done their jobs efficiently.
After roughly half an hour of preparations, a horn sounded that was both noble and eerie in its deep reverberation. One of the villagers, by the name of Mikael, had owned this horn for years, and his father b
efore him, and so on, stretching back into a time lost from memory, and now he was assigned the task of using it. The power of the note was so great and heartening that it seemed to spur the gathered legion to life visibly.
As the sonorous horn blast faded, the march commenced.
For two months the Hammer and the Blade traveled through ever worsening terrain. They were back into the heart of the wastelands within a week of beginning their march from the village. The blackened earth became muddy, and a vile stench permeated the air with sickness. The sky darkened so heavily that there was hardly enough light to see, even at noon. The vegetation, gnarled and broken already, disappeared. When they did see plant life again, it was nothing that was meant to thrive on this planet: twisted things that could not pass for trees, with fangs instead of flowers; walls of what could only be the mockery of earthly hedges emitted the screams and wails of tormented, captured souls. The animals that they saw were likewise not natural. They were in fact--though none of the troops knew it, and none were inclined to ponder it--demons of a sort. As the dog is to man, so were these slinking, snarling creatures to demons.
When Mercius and Griffin were beginning to truly fear that the oppression of the wastes would begin to have a seriously negative effect on the troops, they spotted a copse of trees on the distant and shrouded horizon.
“There is the place I spoke of,” Griffin said, solemn and not a little uneasy. “But now I have my doubts as to whether it will be safe at all. It seems that nothing could be safe or protected in a forsaken land such as this.”
“We will find out, my friend, and what will be, will be,” Mercius said, although he, too, found this distorted, swampish unreality to be extraordinarily defeating even though he had lived his childhood in its like.
The march continued for another half a day before they came to the copse, which stood in a line about two miles long to either side, directly in their path.
With one lasting, final look at the troops assembled behind him, Mercius entered the forest alone.