1-- First Between (Part A)
FIRST BETWEEN: SHADOWS AND LIGHT
“They are in the forest now,” Oran said with a smile that never reached his dark eyes. “You won't catch them.”
Before the mercenary captain could reply Oran turned his back on him and helped his companion to her feet. The young maid appeared unhurt by her fall. Shaken, but basically unhurt. She dusted herself off, swatting at her torn clothes with a shaking hand. An elbow poked through a sleeve. Her riding pants were ripped, the white skin below bloody.
“Perhaps you are right,” the mercenary captain said, wiping a large, calloused hand across his shaven scalp. He looked at the point where Heather and the rest of the group had disappeared, less than a hundred yards away. The Uplands started there, the land rising sharply. The forest started suddenly at the base of the slope. “I've already been paid enough to live for a year. Of course, that's also enough to make me think I won't live long enough to spend much of it.” He smiled ruefully through his short black goatee beard. “But I have been paid.” He shrugged, as if it did not concern him, one way or the other, and looked about at the men he led. There were almost a hundred in all.
While the man surveyed his surroundings Oran pulled his black hair away from his face, tying it back with a leather thong. When the mercenary turned back, Oran was ready, for whatever might happen.
“Who are you anyway?” the captain asked, absently pushing his cloak aside so he could scratch at his chest.
The action revealed a badge-- a grey wolf on a yellow field. Oran felt he knew the badge and wanted to smile, but as with so many other things, did not know how or why.
“You aren't one of Heather's people.”
“I am just a concerned citizen.” He shifted his halberd from one hand to the other, wondering when he would have to use it. The young maid looked at him as if he were crazy-- chatting to the man who would kill them. “My name is Oran. And my companion is…”
The girl looked about, much as the captain had earlier, her knuckles white on the hilt of a small dagger. “My name is Lissa.”
But the leader of the mercenaries did not seem to notice. He had stopped smiling, was suddenly still and alert. “Your name is Oran?” he asked, as if he did not know what he wanted the answer to be.
“Yes. So?”
“Well, do you know some codes or something that you want to tell me?” He rubbed his hand over his scalp again, bringing it away glistening with sweat.
“Codes?” Oran said.
“Codes.”
“Sorry, I have a bit of amnesia actually.”
“So you don't remember any codes? Well can you tell me something of your past? A friend's name perhaps.”
“Ah, no.” Oran shook his head and wondered what was happening. “Sorry. I can't remember anything before a couple of weeks ago.”
“You remember nothing at all?”
“Not really. No details, certainly.”
“Nothing?”
Oran shook his head again, wondering if the conversation would go anywhere.
“I can tell you something,” Lissa said.
Oran and the captain both spun to look at the girl.
“You know something of my past?”
“What is it? What do you know?”
Lissa licked her lips, tugged absently at a lock of her shoulder length blonde hair. “He was… an assassin.”
“An assassin?”
“Yes.” Lissa was only small, but seemed to shrink even further under the penetrating glares of the two men.
“How do you know that?” Oran asked.
“Because you killed Heather's father.”
“Damn,” the mercenary said. He glanced about again, obviously trying to gather his thoughts. “My name is Rohan,” he said eventually, scratching at his chin through his beard. “And it seems that I work for you. That may not actually be the truth, but I will assume it is for now.”
“What?”
“This mercenary troop is run by the Grey Wolf Mercantile and I believe you own that company.” The mercenary, Rohan, turned to look back over his shoulder, rubbed at his scalp.
Oran followed the other's gaze and saw that more men had arrived and were mixing with the mercenaries of the Grey Wolf Mercantile. The newcomers were a motley group, though rough and surly to a man. Oran had cut a swathe through them earlier as he and Brad led Heather from the city, so he supposed they had reason to be mad.
“I guess we are supposed to be fighting with Heather then?” Rohan asked.
“Ah… well… yes. You don't happen to know these others, do you?”
“I know them, but I don't command them.”
“Damn.”
“Yes,” Rohan agreed. “It seems the Emperor really wanted to make sure Heather didn't live.” He sucked on his teeth. “Why didn't you tell Coddle who he was supposed to be fighting for?”
“Amnesia, remember.”
“Oh.” Rohan looked around again, wiped another slick of sweat from his scalp. He wiped his hand on his shirt afterwards, making sure no moisture remained.
The leader of the recently arrived mercenaries made his way to where they talked, winding through the grey uniforms of the mercantile men, leading his horse.
“Have you found them, Rohan?” He was a dirty little man dressed in patched chain mail and the somewhat tattered remains of an Imperial soldier's surcoat. On his face, blood ran from several cuts that would turn to scars to match the others.
“No. They made it into the trees,” Rohan said, gesturing absently. “There is no way we can catch them now.”
“Who are these then?”
“They are Oran and Lissa.”
Oran had almost forgotten that the girl was there. He turned and looked at her. She still gripped the knife determinedly, but the fear was clear on her face.
“They are obviously not the ones we are after, Sarzac.” Rohan looked at the other man, a stark warning in his glance.
“We were told to kill everyone with the red headed wench. If these were with her, then we kill them.” He wiped his nose on a dirty sleeve of his tunic.
“But if you don't kill Heather as well it will all mean nothing, and the Emperor will come to get his money back anyway.”
“So? Heather has not gotten away yet. We kill these two and then go after the rest.”
“I say we don't.”
As Rohan spoke, Oran looked at the men surrounding him. Maybe a hundred men in grey uniforms and a hundred and twenty in rags and remnants of armour. Not very good odds. For comfort he touched at the ring he wore on a leather thong around his neck.
“I say we do,” Sarzac retorted.
Oran watched as Rohan reached out and casually cut Sarzac's throat. “I saw we don't.”
If the recently arrived mercenaries had been mad before, that did not help.
In the midst of the ensuing battle Oran found himself fighting with Lissa. Side by side or back to back they fought against the mismatched mercenaries. Oran felt Brek's mind envelope his and he let the wolf take total control, fighting like the cornered animal he had become, in mind if not body. His halberd, Ebon'ix, cut through air and skin and bone with blinding speed.
Lissa, with one small dagger against swords and shields and trained fighting men, ducked, dodged, wove and stabbed until sweat coated her face and blood coated her hand. She was obviously fighting on sheer determination, with luck and speed that left men gaping in surprise, and often in pain. But she was tiring quickly and would not last much longer. More and more often Oran found himself also countering blows aimed at her. He welcomed Brek's presence in his mind, for without the wolf he would not have been able to keep Lissa alive. His friend's superior reflexes and animal instincts gave him the edge he needed.
He sliced a man's throat open with a short precise swing of Ebon'ix, then with a quick reversal disembowelled another. Watching briefly as the man grasped at his stomach, he winced with regret. Then he turned to fight another and cut him down as easily. He blocked a sword stroke that would have removed Lissa's head. The girl finished the man off. Block. Slash. Dodge. Stab. Another died.
Through the tangle of men Oran could see the red surcoat of one of Heather's guards. Above the general noise of the fight he could hear the bell like tones of Brad's sword, Kair-Kazan, acting like a beacon to where the boy was. He hoped they all knew whom they were fighting. And that they had left someone with the women.
Slash. Block. Slash. Another.
Suddenly, Oran stopped in the midst of the struggle. He looked about and found that Lissa was on her own. She was more than five yards away. He watched, horrified, as she went down under the press of men and with a wordless cry of rage started to fight his way to the girl. With nobody to guard his back he was hard pressed.
Many men were left dead in his wake but Oran found himself surrounded by the enemy and tiring quickly, even filled with a strange animal energy that went beyond what his merging with Brek had offered him. He fought on wildly until he was standing over the still form of Lissa. She was covered with blood, probably much of it other people's, and utterly motionless.
When he reached that spot Oran found that some of the animal rage that had filled him was gone and he was once again in total control. But it was not enough. He went down just as Rohan and a small group of men arrived in support.
“They are in the forest now,” Oran said with a smile that never reached his dark eyes. “You won't catch them.”
Before the mercenary captain could reply Oran turned his back on him and helped his companion to her feet. The young maid appeared unhurt by her fall. Shaken, but basically unhurt. She dusted herself off, swatting at her torn clothes with a shaking hand. An elbow poked through a sleeve. Her riding pants were ripped, the white skin below bloody.
“Perhaps you are right,” the mercenary captain said, wiping a large, calloused hand across his shaven scalp. He looked at the point where Heather and the rest of the group had disappeared, less than a hundred yards away. The Uplands started there, the land rising sharply. The forest started suddenly at the base of the slope. “I've already been paid enough to live for a year. Of course, that's also enough to make me think I won't live long enough to spend much of it.” He smiled ruefully through his short black goatee beard. “But I have been paid.” He shrugged, as if it did not concern him, one way or the other, and looked about at the men he led. There were almost a hundred in all.
While the man surveyed his surroundings Oran pulled his black hair away from his face, tying it back with a leather thong. When the mercenary turned back, Oran was ready, for whatever might happen.
“Who are you anyway?” the captain asked, absently pushing his cloak aside so he could scratch at his chest.
The action revealed a badge-- a grey wolf on a yellow field. Oran felt he knew the badge and wanted to smile, but as with so many other things, did not know how or why.
“You aren't one of Heather's people.”
“I am just a concerned citizen.” He shifted his halberd from one hand to the other, wondering when he would have to use it. The young maid looked at him as if he were crazy-- chatting to the man who would kill them. “My name is Oran. And my companion is…”
The girl looked about, much as the captain had earlier, her knuckles white on the hilt of a small dagger. “My name is Lissa.”
But the leader of the mercenaries did not seem to notice. He had stopped smiling, was suddenly still and alert. “Your name is Oran?” he asked, as if he did not know what he wanted the answer to be.
“Yes. So?”
“Well, do you know some codes or something that you want to tell me?” He rubbed his hand over his scalp again, bringing it away glistening with sweat.
“Codes?” Oran said.
“Codes.”
“Sorry, I have a bit of amnesia actually.”
“So you don't remember any codes? Well can you tell me something of your past? A friend's name perhaps.”
“Ah, no.” Oran shook his head and wondered what was happening. “Sorry. I can't remember anything before a couple of weeks ago.”
“You remember nothing at all?”
“Not really. No details, certainly.”
“Nothing?”
Oran shook his head again, wondering if the conversation would go anywhere.
“I can tell you something,” Lissa said.
Oran and the captain both spun to look at the girl.
“You know something of my past?”
“What is it? What do you know?”
Lissa licked her lips, tugged absently at a lock of her shoulder length blonde hair. “He was… an assassin.”
“An assassin?”
“Yes.” Lissa was only small, but seemed to shrink even further under the penetrating glares of the two men.
“How do you know that?” Oran asked.
“Because you killed Heather's father.”
“Damn,” the mercenary said. He glanced about again, obviously trying to gather his thoughts. “My name is Rohan,” he said eventually, scratching at his chin through his beard. “And it seems that I work for you. That may not actually be the truth, but I will assume it is for now.”
“What?”
“This mercenary troop is run by the Grey Wolf Mercantile and I believe you own that company.” The mercenary, Rohan, turned to look back over his shoulder, rubbed at his scalp.
Oran followed the other's gaze and saw that more men had arrived and were mixing with the mercenaries of the Grey Wolf Mercantile. The newcomers were a motley group, though rough and surly to a man. Oran had cut a swathe through them earlier as he and Brad led Heather from the city, so he supposed they had reason to be mad.
“I guess we are supposed to be fighting with Heather then?” Rohan asked.
“Ah… well… yes. You don't happen to know these others, do you?”
“I know them, but I don't command them.”
“Damn.”
“Yes,” Rohan agreed. “It seems the Emperor really wanted to make sure Heather didn't live.” He sucked on his teeth. “Why didn't you tell Coddle who he was supposed to be fighting for?”
“Amnesia, remember.”
“Oh.” Rohan looked around again, wiped another slick of sweat from his scalp. He wiped his hand on his shirt afterwards, making sure no moisture remained.
The leader of the recently arrived mercenaries made his way to where they talked, winding through the grey uniforms of the mercantile men, leading his horse.
“Have you found them, Rohan?” He was a dirty little man dressed in patched chain mail and the somewhat tattered remains of an Imperial soldier's surcoat. On his face, blood ran from several cuts that would turn to scars to match the others.
“No. They made it into the trees,” Rohan said, gesturing absently. “There is no way we can catch them now.”
“Who are these then?”
“They are Oran and Lissa.”
Oran had almost forgotten that the girl was there. He turned and looked at her. She still gripped the knife determinedly, but the fear was clear on her face.
“They are obviously not the ones we are after, Sarzac.” Rohan looked at the other man, a stark warning in his glance.
“We were told to kill everyone with the red headed wench. If these were with her, then we kill them.” He wiped his nose on a dirty sleeve of his tunic.
“But if you don't kill Heather as well it will all mean nothing, and the Emperor will come to get his money back anyway.”
“So? Heather has not gotten away yet. We kill these two and then go after the rest.”
“I say we don't.”
As Rohan spoke, Oran looked at the men surrounding him. Maybe a hundred men in grey uniforms and a hundred and twenty in rags and remnants of armour. Not very good odds. For comfort he touched at the ring he wore on a leather thong around his neck.
“I say we do,” Sarzac retorted.
Oran watched as Rohan reached out and casually cut Sarzac's throat. “I saw we don't.”
If the recently arrived mercenaries had been mad before, that did not help.
In the midst of the ensuing battle Oran found himself fighting with Lissa. Side by side or back to back they fought against the mismatched mercenaries. Oran felt Brek's mind envelope his and he let the wolf take total control, fighting like the cornered animal he had become, in mind if not body. His halberd, Ebon'ix, cut through air and skin and bone with blinding speed.
Lissa, with one small dagger against swords and shields and trained fighting men, ducked, dodged, wove and stabbed until sweat coated her face and blood coated her hand. She was obviously fighting on sheer determination, with luck and speed that left men gaping in surprise, and often in pain. But she was tiring quickly and would not last much longer. More and more often Oran found himself also countering blows aimed at her. He welcomed Brek's presence in his mind, for without the wolf he would not have been able to keep Lissa alive. His friend's superior reflexes and animal instincts gave him the edge he needed.
He sliced a man's throat open with a short precise swing of Ebon'ix, then with a quick reversal disembowelled another. Watching briefly as the man grasped at his stomach, he winced with regret. Then he turned to fight another and cut him down as easily. He blocked a sword stroke that would have removed Lissa's head. The girl finished the man off. Block. Slash. Dodge. Stab. Another died.
Through the tangle of men Oran could see the red surcoat of one of Heather's guards. Above the general noise of the fight he could hear the bell like tones of Brad's sword, Kair-Kazan, acting like a beacon to where the boy was. He hoped they all knew whom they were fighting. And that they had left someone with the women.
Slash. Block. Slash. Another.
Suddenly, Oran stopped in the midst of the struggle. He looked about and found that Lissa was on her own. She was more than five yards away. He watched, horrified, as she went down under the press of men and with a wordless cry of rage started to fight his way to the girl. With nobody to guard his back he was hard pressed.
Many men were left dead in his wake but Oran found himself surrounded by the enemy and tiring quickly, even filled with a strange animal energy that went beyond what his merging with Brek had offered him. He fought on wildly until he was standing over the still form of Lissa. She was covered with blood, probably much of it other people's, and utterly motionless.
When he reached that spot Oran found that some of the animal rage that had filled him was gone and he was once again in total control. But it was not enough. He went down just as Rohan and a small group of men arrived in support.
posted by Scott | 1:04 pm
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