Chapter 3

Things are about to get a little more complicated...

Chapter 3

By Ben Campbell

 

            The convoy slowly rolled to a halt just inside the gate. The silence that had dogged them since morning now seemed to descend upon the convoy like a quorum of ravens. Only the horses dared to break it by stomping and snorting nervously. Aran slid carefully down off the lead wagon and landed with a thud. The slow crunch of his boots on the gravel was deafening to the sound-deprived ears of the rest of the convoy. His hand unconsciously crept to his sword as he paced the perimeter of the wagon. Behind the wagon, Hugh stood staring and chewing his bottom lip. Aran walked up beside him.

            “What are you thinking, dragonslayer?” asked Hugh, still staring. Hugh had decided that that was what he liked to call Aran.

            “I was wondering how this could happen. Just like everyone else.”

            “Except me, apparently. I was thinking more along the lines of ‘What are we gonna do now?’ We don’t have the supplies necessary to get to Kisheen.”

            “We could travel half the day and hunt and forage the other half. Slower, but we’d get there.”

            “What about the horses?”

            “They can graze.”

            “You ever seen a grass-fed horse pull a wagon? It doesn’t work. They need the oats and grains for energy. And a bit a sugar doesn’t hurt, either.”

            “You’d know better than me. But let’s look around, see whether the people left anything. I’d rather not steal, but...”

            “...I’d rather eat. Agreed.”

            “Let’s eat what we’ve got first, but find out where to get food if we need it. You and your men check the town; I’ll take the mercenaries and search the keep. There’s probably a cache of food there, and a stable.”

            “I think we should all check the keep. If we have to steal, I’d feel better if we stole from the rich than from the poor.”

            “No. Even if we don’t want to take food from the commoners’ homes, we should know where food is anyway. The taverns and such.”

            “Okay. How is it that now we BOTH seem to be in charge of this convoy?”

            Aran smiled.

            “Knowing how to take command is just one of the skills I’ve learned over the years. Being in the right place at the right time, with the right words, the right bearing, people unconsciously think of you as their leader. Kind of like that saying, ‘If you act like you’re in charge, people will think you are.’” Aran turned to face Hugh. “And we should investigate what happened. I can’t just leave this here. I know it can’t be good, and I can’t leave knowing I left an entire town to whatever fate threw at them this time without even trying to do something about it.”

            Hugh looked at Aran skeptically.

            “Something that can empty an entire town overnight is not something to be taken lightly.”

            Aran smiled again.

            “I make my living doing things like this. I’ve told you before, I'm not a mercenary.”

            “How’s that workin’ for you?”

            “Pretty well, actually.” Aran patted one of his pockets, and there was the satisfying clink of coins.

            “Well, if you want to find out what happened, do it quick. I don’t want to leave you here.”

            “I’d be able to walk, but I want to get to Kisheen as soon as possible.”

            “Suit yourself.” Hugh turned away and clapped his meaty hands thrice. “Assemble! Mercs too!” The rest of the convoy trickled in in a rough blob. The mercenaries, just six in total, stood off to side slightly. The civilians, all Hugh’s family, were twelve total. Add Aran and Hugh, and that made the whole troop a neat twenty. Aran liked the number twenty. He took it as a good sign.

            Hugh’s bearing reminded Aran of a sergeant giving orders to his troops, one accustomed to giving orders and having them carried out quickly and efficiently. Which Aran supposed he was.

            “Okay, here’s the situation. We don’t have the supplies to get us to Kisheen. So we’re gonna search the town and keep, find where the food is. We’re not going take it, just note where it is. Aran here will lead the mercenaries searching the keep, the rest of us will fan out and search the town. I need three people to stay with the horses.” Several hands went up. “You, you, and you. The rest of you find a buddy. Stick with your buddy. Rosalin, you’re with me.” Hugh pointed to his wife. “Oh yes, find a well, too. When we return to the wagons, we’ll move ‘em over to it. Aran, you organize the mercenaries how you want. Let’s move, people!”

            One mercenary opened his mouth to protest, but Aran cut him off.

            “If you have issues with that, take it up with me. You’re still on his payroll.” Aran motioned for the mercenaries to follow him. He spun on his heel and was satisfied to hear them following him. He headed for the castle, but turned around and stopped once they were out of earshot of the convoy. He pointed to the mercenary who started to protest.

            “What were you going to say?”

            The mercenary opened his mouth, hesitated, and stuttered,

            “I'm not sure.....”

            “Think before you speak.” He looked at who he thought was the boss. “You’re the commander, Geoffrey, correct?”

            “Yes. I wasn’t going to argue. I think Hugh trusts you for a reason.”

            “I'm going to let you take command again. I am going to look for evidence as to what happened. I'm going to start at the keep, so I’ll go with you till then. I'm looking for magic. I think that we would have noticed something earlier if it wasn’t magic. Anyhow, search the keep and report what you find to Hugh. Find the stables in particular.” The captain nodded. “Alright, moving on.” He turned and kept walking.

            When they reached the keep, the gate was left open and the portcullis raised, so they got inside with no complications. The keep was fairly small, so searching it wouldn’t be much of a problem. Aran split from the rest off the group here. He had a hunch as to where he might find some answers. He simply followed his nose.........

            ......and found himself at a solid oak door, annoyingly padlocked. Aran reached into one of his cloak’s hidden pockets and retrieved a small set of thieves’ tools: picks, probes, a wedge, and various other things. He took a pick, left the rest and set to work on the lock. The lock was actually a good sign. After a bit of jiggling and probing, he pulled on the lock, and it held. He messed with it some more, and it still held. He backed up step and gave the lock a hefty kick, and it clicked open. Aran shrugged, replaced his pick, and opened the door. He was hit with the musty smell of a dungeon. Perfect.

            He stepped inside and immediately heard the rattle of chains. More good signs. He called out,

            “Is anyone here?!” and received some muffled groans as an answer. He drew his sword, muttered a word, and it lit up. Its light revealed a short hallway with eight small cells, and a hallway branching off both ways at the end. All the cells in this hallway were occupied. Prisoners looked up from their cells. So, Fyrna wasn’t completely abandoned. He pointed to one of the saner looking prisoners, a boy of perhaps fifteen. “Are you aware of what has happened?”

            “We haven’t gotten our breakfast. Hardly unusual. Why?”

            “This town has been suddenly abandoned. We don’t know why. I can get you food, though. You didn’t notice anything odd last night?”

            “There’s not much to notice while you’re locked in a cell......”

            Another prisoner spoke up.

            “I was havin’ weird dreams last night. This raspy voice was tellin’ me to leave town, go out somewhere in the woods. Not like a normal dream, like a vision, I guess. Woke up pullin’ at my chains, tryin’ to walk.”

            Other prisoners murmured about having similar dreams. Aran asked the man,

            “Could you tell me where this place was?”

            “Reckon I could take you there, but...” He lifted his shackled hands. “...I'm incarcerated.”

            “Sorry, can’t help you there.” He could, but he didn’t fully trust the man, for obvious reasons. He decided to return later with the mercenaries, after he’d checked the rest of the town and the surrounding area. “I’ll see what I can do about feeding you.” Aran turned and left. No definite answers, but a lead at least.

           

            Miara was working in the back of her apothecary that same day when she heard a hard, determined knock on her door. Miara had once convinced herself that you could get a feel for customers based on their knocks, but she had long since refuted this theory. Based on her previous system, this would be a guard. She set what she was working on to a simmer and walked to the front room.

            “Come in!” she called.

            There were actually two of them, a young couple. A very good-looking young couple. The man was well-built, with square shoulders and an angular chin, a clean-shaven face and short, black hair, while the woman was somewhat short, slender, freckled, and with a...cloud of very thin auburn hair. Miara could tell by how close together they stood that they absolutely adored each other. But they were dressed as peasants. Miara had no bias against the poor, but she was unused to seeing them in her shop. Apothecaries were not cheap.

            “Can I help you?”

            “Can you keep a secret?” Miara was perhaps a bit surprised that the woman spoke, but she didn’t show it.

            “What sort of secret?” she asked a touch warily.

            “Marcus has a...condition that is...frowned upon. It would be best if people did not know he had this condition. We want to get it cured, so we don’t have to hide anything anymore, plus the condition is...problematic in other ways as well. So, if you were to cure him, could we count on you to keep it a secret?”

            Miara smiled, and in response recited the entirety of the Hippocratic Oath.

            “Apothecaries take the same oaths as any healer. I would never dream of exposing any of my clients. What is your condition, Marcus?”

            “I am a lycanthrope, madam.” he answered softly.

            Miara went cold. She had to cure him whether they could pay or not. That would be under the ‘protecting public health’ part. She only hoped she could.

            “I can see why you didn’t simply go the church. They would have burned you alive. And probably you too.” She pointed to the woman. “I do not know the recipe by heart, but I have a formulary. Stay here.” She needed them here because such specific medicines often required part of the patient to work.

She returned to the back room and slid a very thick book off of a shelf on the wall, Galaeus’s Formulary. Galaeus had traveled the world over, asking alchemists, apothecaries, healers, shamans, wise women, monks, nuns, whoever might know anything about putting magic in a bottle, about their recipes, tricks, and methods, and he had put it all into one book. It had the recipe for a love potion, the elixir of youth, and how to transmute lead to gold (although alchemists still pursued this last one because Galaeus’s method actually cost more than you would make from using it). It was probably the most comprehensive guide to alchemy ever written. It was certainly the heaviest. If there was a cure for lycanthropy, it would be in there.

            Miara schlepped it back to the front room and set it on the counter with a thump, which startled the woman.

            “Hush, Anna.” Marcus whispered.

            “One moment please. As you can see, the book is somewhat voluminous.” Miara opened the Formulary to the index, located ‘Lycanthropy, cures’, and flipped to the appropriate page. She read for a moment, and commented, “Oh. Well, that’s simple enough....and that’s very interesting.”

            “What?” asked Anna.

            “Apparently a lycanthrope that is killed and then resurrected is cured of lycanthropy. I'm assuming that’s not the course you want to take.” She looked back up at the two of them.

            “There are two recipes listed, but they have different effects. One cures the condition, no transformations, no bloodlust, just a regular human. Or elf. Or dwarf. Whatever. It doesn’t require much work, and the ingredients are not particularly expensive. It has been tested and proven effective.” Miara looked back down at the page.

            “The other one is somewhat different. It does not cure the recipient, per se, rather, it lets them control the disease, allowing them to transform at will, and keep their head while transformed. The author has noted that this recipe is not well known and he does not know if it actually works.” Miara raised her eyes to the couple. “It is much cheaper than the first recipe. Should I let you think about it? Do you want to risk that it’s untested?”

            The pair turned to each other and conferred quietly for a moment. Anna turned back to Miara.

            “What do you think of the second cure?”

            “I do not know how lycanthropy works, but it looks okay on paper. The main difference is that it changes wolfsbane to nightshade. I don’t think the potion would hurt you, if that’s what you mean, but with no precedence, I can’t be sure.”

            “Nightshade is poisonous...” Marcus frowned.

            “Raw, yes. It will undergo processes that will extract the poison. Same for wolfsbane in the first.”

            They conferred a moment more. Anna spoke again.

            “We will consider it.”

            “Okay. Either way, I will need a tuft of his fur. Can I expect you back at any particular time?”

            “Noon tomorrow?”

            “All right. I’ll make sure no one else is in the shop then. Should I worry about you going on a murderous rampage through the city tonight?” Miara added with a hint of trepidation.

            “Anna can calm me if she is with me when I shift. Do not worry.” Marcus reassured her quietly.

            “Okay then. Noon tomorrow.”

            “Goodbye.” waved Anna as she turned to leave.

            “And thank you.” added Marcus warmly.

            After they had left, Miara closed the Formulary, picked it up, and shook her head as she went to replace it. A soft-spoken werewolf. That was a first.

 

            Aran was walking through the woods outside of Fyrna. He had settled the food situation for the prisoners, and exhausted all his ideas in town. He had checked the keep, the church, the wealthier homes, all the shops that had anything to do with magic, enchanters, doctors, apothecaries...nothing. Aran had found that the people had left most of their belongings behind, and hardly anything was out of place. He had looked for trails outside the town, but there was so much that the trails got tangled to the point that Aran couldn’t glean anything useful from them. He was just wandering now.........

            He sat down under an ancient oak tree, its boughs reaching up and out into the sky like a mother embracing her child. He drew his sword and examined it. It was a beautiful sword, a long, straight, narrow blade, with a very thin fuller; Aran thought it highly amusing that people referred to this as a ‘blood channel’; why would you want to channel the blood towards you? The guard looked to be woven of narrow strands of gold, though Aran knew it was not, the grip was metal and fitted perfectly to his hand, small enough to use one-handed and big enough to use two-handed, and the pommel was a woven mesh of the same golden wire, that spiraled to a point where a deep green emerald was set; he had no idea what the blade was made of. Certainly not steel. It looked as though it should be at a noble’s side rather than someone who would actually use it. But Aran knew from experience that no matter how pretty it looked, this sword meant business. He had seen it cleave straight through other swords, shields, and bones, all in one lethal stroke. It was very light, almost like a rapier, but inflexible, like a longsword. This made it excellent for parrying. And then the enchantments...........it could control wind, form the air into a blade he could use to attack from afar, it glowed.......Aran had a sneaking suspicion that there was more to this sword than he knew.....the sword vibrated slightly in his hands. Aran could swear it was trying to talk to him sometimes. Maybe it was. It was magical, after all...he looked at his reflection in the blade.

            “What’s your name?” he asked it absently. “You seem like I need to find your name, rather than give you one.” His mind wandered off...he thought of Miara. Of all the women he could fall in love with, why her? Why one tied down in one place? He could only visit Broden, what, once every other month? Sometimes less if he got tied up somewhere. He tried to center his travels around the city, but...it wasn’t particularly central. And HE couldn’t get tied down too long either. He didn’t like it. He had tried a couple of times (usually after he had almost gotten killed on one of his escapades) but his good heart would keep making him use his skills to help the people where he had settled. Then he would start building a reputation, and people would constantly come to him for help....and then they would be heartbroken when he finally decided it was too much and he left. Once, someone had asked him to take their son under his wing as an apprentice. Aran had flatly refused. Not that Aran hadn’t liked the kid, but....if he ever did that, it would be with his own son......

            ......which brought his thoughts back around to Miara. He looked into his blade again....

            .....and was surprised to see Miara’s face in it, not his own. Not just her face; he was looking down at her from in front, slightly above, and to her right. She was standing behind the counter in her apothecary, evidently speaking to someone he could not see. Aran realized the sword was letting him scry. Miara’s eyebrows rose slightly. She started to speak, and Aran read her lips, another skill he had found useful. Five pegasi per month she mouthed, and somewhat skeptically if Aran knew anything about body language (which he did). He turned the sword in an attempt to see the person with whom she was speaking. The picture remained on Miara, who was nodding slightly. I’ll think about it. she replied to whatever the other person had stated. She nodded absently, then shook her head. Not noon. Sometime later. The other person apparently left, because Miara did something distinctly unladylike, turned and went back the back room, shaking her head, and probably muttering something under her breath. Aran turned the sword to look at the edge, and turned it back. The blade was blank. He looked away, thought about Miara, and looked back at the blade. Miara grinding something in a mortar and pestle. He turned the sword again, looked back...blank.

            “Fascinating.” He thought about who else he could scry on. Marson he thought, and looked at the sword. There stood Marson, sitting at a laden table and looking rather bored in Culbert’s grand hall. Mother he thought, and there was his mother, dozing in an armchair. Aran smiled. Despite everything he put her through, Aran loved his mother. He did try to visit once in a while, but his mother lived in a nice, safe corner of the world, where his lifestyle rarely took him. Prince Ardent he thought, and was unsurprised that the image was covered in a magical fog. He thought harder, Ardent. The fog grew thinner, and he could make out a figure. He focused on the figure, but the fog thickened and blocked him out. Aran shrugged. He hadn’t expected it to work. He thought for a moment. Hugh. And Hugh appeared. He was walking with his wife, talking; Aran didn’t read his lips, for privacy’s sake.

He watched them a while, and then Hugh stopped, peering forward. His eyes widened and he began to run. Aran tried to move his eye further out, to see what he was seeing, but he couldn’t. Hugh was shouting now. A mercenary came into the picture. Hugh pointed to something, the mercenary looked, his eyes widened.  The mercenary drew his sword and began to run with him. Which meant they were in trouble.

            Aran sprang to his feet, tucked his torso down, and dashed off towards Fyrna. Then he stopped, no, he couldn’t get back in time to be of any help in a combat situation. He’d have to naturestep. He looked around franticly. Ummmmmm.............there. A pine tree. He could ride the pine pollen into the city. It’d be tricky, but he didn’t have much of an option. He muttered soft lyrical words, words that identified him as one aligned with nature, and the wind picked up the pollen, carried it over to him, and his form slowly dissolved into the yellow cloud, riding the wind back to Fyrna.

 

            Miara heard another knock on her door. She didn’t bother to classify it this time.

            “Come in!” She walked to the counter, bringing her mortar and pestle with her. The man standing at the counter was.......Miara couldn’t put her finger on it, but she knew that ‘dangerous’ was part of it. He had a pair of daggers at either side, a brace of throwing knives strapped to his leg, and a grizzled face with a mean disposition. Probably a mercenary, but somehow she doubted it. He made her uncomfortable.

            “...Can I help you?” she asked cautiously.

            “Perhaps, but I'm actually here to help you.” He replied in a deep, gravelly voice.

            That made her even more uncomfortable.

            “What sort of help?” Probably not the good kind.

            “Are you aware that a certain notorious organization of criminals has recently relocated to this area of the city?” Definitely not the good kind.

            “Yes, I am aware that the city guards flushed those pigs out of their little mud hole a week ago.” A little jab in the dark that should tell her a bit more about this man...

            He grimaced slightly, not hiding it. “Yes, I am referring to the Black Boars. You’re awfully bold in calling them that.”

            “Yes, I am.” Careful, Miara.

            “Then you are aware that their criminal activities pose a serious threat to you and your establishment?”

            “I think that you’d rather tell me yourself.”

            “The Black Boars are known for the burglary of countless merchants in the lower city, and also the murder of several of said merchants. I believe that you are in more danger than most, since your merchandise is not only valuable, but useful. While this might protect you from personal harm, it would not bode well for business.”

            “Useful?”

            “Any thief or murderer would love to have a potion of invisibility on hand, just in case a guard came in at the wrong time.”

            “And how does this protect me personally?”

            “Well, alchemy is not a commonly practiced art, and killing the only practitioner in the area would make it difficult for them to acquire potions.”

            “Why are you here?”

            “Have you taken any precautions against this new threat?”

            “I'm Lord Culbert’s personal apothecary. That grants me a fair amount of protection.”

            “That won’t be enough. You have no other precautions?”

            “No...” Not information to be given out freely...unless.....

            “Then allow me to offer my services.”

            “What sort of services?”

            “Let us simply say that I have friends in low places.” Hmmm.....

            “And you are willing to....protect me via these relationships of yours?”

            “Not for free, of course. But it would be less expensive than enduring repeated robberies.”

            Yes..... The framework of a plan was forming in Miara’s head.

            “Do you guarantee this would protect me from harassment by the Black Boars?”

            “Yes.”

            “And if I do not purchase your protection, I would be open to harassment from the Black Boars?”

            “Yes. In fact, they would likely make you a priority target. They dislike those who are arrogant.” The ghost of a smile crossed the man’s face. I thought as much.

            “And how much would your ‘protection’ cost?”

            “Connections or not, this would be a tempting target. Let’s say.....five pegasi per month.”

            Miara’s eyebrows rose slightly.

            “Five pegasi per month?”

            “I believe that’s a fair price.”

            “Hmph. I’ll think about it.”

            “You have one day. I’ll return at noon tomorrow.”

            Miara shook her head.

            “Not noon. Sometime later.”

            “Two O’clock, then.” The man turned on his heel and strode out the door.

            Miara flipped a finger at his retreating form. Damn their arrogant hides. She was not going to roll over and pay their tollman for ‘protection’. No, she would deal with this her own way. It would be pointless to call the guards to arrest him when he returned at two; he simply wouldn’t show up, would consider the bargain off, and she would be raided that night. She needed something more subtle, and a solution had walked into her shop just this morning.........

 

            There are too many of them. Geoffrey, the mercenary commander thought. There are only six of us and there are ten of them. His thoughts paused as he sidestepped an arrow. I hate archers he grimaced as he raised his shield to block his opponent’s mace, countering with a low thrust that impaled the man through the gut. Nine to six. Another arrow glanced off his shield. Damn, I wish Foxtail hadn’t left the team. He was the only one of us any good with a bow. A pair of panicked horses dashed madly in front of him, still attached to their wagon. The horses help though. He yanked his sword out of his opponent’s gut and jogged over to where Miles was battling two men at once. He came in behind them and swept down with his sword, but the man’s armor stopped it with a clang. The enemies turned slightly, so that now it was a square with Miles across from him and the enemies across from each other. Their little corner of the fight stood still for a split second, and then an arrow hit Miles in the left shoulder with such force that he was spun around before he landed heavily on the ground. Nine to five. The man on his left turned to him and raised his sword while the other stabbed Miles in the back. S**t. He spun to the right and between the two men, evading the sword blow and catching the other man on the back of the head with the edge of his shield. It made a dull clang and the man went down without a sound. Eight to five.

            He twirled on his right foot to face his foe, but he tripped over Miles’s body and fell heavily on his back in the dust. His enemy turned and pulled his arm back for a stab, but Geoffrey rolled to his right and pushed himself to his feet as another arrow whizzed past him. He heard a cry from behind him, glanced back, and saw Daenoch going down with an arrow buried deep in his chest, along with Curick’s bleeding body on ground near him. Eight to three he thought with dismay. Three enemies were rushing towards one of the wagons whose horses were frozen rather than panicked with fear. One of Hugh’s boys had a rough block of salt in his hand and he threw it at them. Geoffrey turned his attention back to the more pressing matter of the man trying to kill him before he saw whether it connected. He faced the armored man with sword and shield ready. The man feinted left then jerked his sword in a low sweep that hit Geoffrey in the right leg. He heard something snap and his leg exploded with pain. As he dropped to the ground, he twisted and stabbed upward and under his opponent’s cuirass, bringing him down on top of him. Out of the corner of his eye he saw an archer take aim at him, with a yellow cloud in the background, and knew he wouldn’t move out of the way in time with his broken leg and the armored man on top of him.

            But then the yellowish cloud flowed towards the archer and it.....coalesced into a figure, a figure with a sword drawn and a cloak billowing behind it. The figure hit the ground running, dashed up behind the archer and stabbed him in the back before he knew what happened. The arrow clattered harmlessly to the ground. The figure turned to the second archer and cut him down just as quickly. Then it began to run towards him. As it came nearer, he realized that it was Aran. Five to three, now?

            After slaughtering the archers, Aran rushed towards the three enemies charging the wagons and Jacob. When had reason to, he could move fast. And he had a reason now. As he ran, he fired off a wind blade at one of the trio. It brought him down with a cry of surprise. The other two didn’t even glance back; they kept right on charging. Jacob hefted a salt block and hurled it at them. They sidestepped in perfect unison and it shattered on the ground between them. Aran closed the distance between them in the meantime. They whirled on him and raised their swords. He blocked them both on his sword and shield, and instead of pushing them back as they were braced for, he threw one sideways at the other and they went down in a clumsy tangle. Aran shish kabobed them, quickly and mercilessly.

He started running over to where the two remaining mercs were locked in combat with the two remaining enemies. As he ran, he thought I shouldn’t have killed them. When he arrived he came crashing into a mostly unprepared enemy, staggering him back. The mercs focused their attention on the other one. Aran’s foe regained his footing and stepped forward, bringing his axe around in a haymaker-style swing. Aran darted his sword under its head and caught it there, jerking it out of the enemy’s grasp. Aran followed it with a kick to the stomach, bringing the now helpless man to his knees. Aran stepped behind him and clubbed him over the head with his sword’s guard, knocking him out. Aran turned to the two mercs on the last foe. The man had to be fighting with desperate, crazed ferocity, despite his obvious fatigue. As though something were forcing him to fight beyond his limits. This made Aran think........

            He had a hunch. He ducked behind his shield and bulled through the mêlée, briefly separating the combatants. Aran whirled to face the man, who was now panting hard, taking advantage of the brief lull. Aran assumed a non-threatening posture, sword down at his side. He shrugged.

            “Just give up already. We’ve won.”

            The man did not respond, just stood there. Until a block of salt crashed into the back of his head. He collapsed on the ground.

            Aran stood panting for a brief moment, and then his wits came back in a rush.

            “Hugh!” he called, as loud as he could. “We have wounded!” He wiped his sword on his pant leg and sheathed it. He ran to where two of the mercs were lying on the ground, one with an arrow wound, one with a mangled arm and a battered cuirass, probably a mace or flail responsible. Probably got knocked down, hit his head on the ground and was knocked out. He was okay, for now. The one with an arrow....he needed help. Now.

            “Hugh!” he called again. Hugh appeared at his side. “Get him help.” he ordered. Hugh knelt down and started to pull the arrow out of the man’s chest. One of the two functional mercs walked over, pulled him off, and started tendind to his comrade’s wounds himself. Aran moved on.

            Over here was another pair of mercs. One with another arrow wound...and a sword sticking out of his back. Aran checked him. He was dead. He checked the other.

            Geoffrey was barely conscious. Damn. That b*****d got me, all right. He could no longer feel his leg, which was itself a mercy. He could see his blood making a widening puddle around him. I don’t get paid enough for this. He heard boots clomping towards him, over to Miles...Miles. Damn again. Miles was the best friend I ever had. The footsteps didn’t pause by Miles long. There was no way he could have survived a coup de grace like that. They came over to Geoffrey. Someone leaned over him. Geoffrey took a moment to recognize Aran again. Aran turned his head and called something. Hugh’s little boy, Jacob, ran over, joining Aran peering down at his face. Aran’s lips moved, but Geoffrey could no longer understand him. Jacob ran off. Aran’s face disappeared momentarily, and the weight that had been crushing him lifted and rolled off to the side. Aran’s face reappeared, and with it, Jacob’s. Jacob handed something to Aran, a small blue vial. Aran took it, lifted up Geoffrey’s chin, opened his mouth, and poured the contents down his throat. The taste of the bittersweet liquid was the last thing he remembered before he lost consciousness.

            Aran stood up from the commander’s unconscious form. That was one of Miara’s healing potions he had given the commander. It had cost him four pegasi, but if it saved a life, even if it wasn’t his own, it was worth the silver.

            He turned to Jacob.

            “Come on Jacob. Let’s see if we can get a stretcher for the commander.” The boy came along energetically. He was handling this entire situation admirably. He didn’t seem the least bit scared; instead, he had helped in the fighting, somewhat. “That was a brave thing you did, Jacob. Even your father ran and hid, but you were out there with us.” Jacob beamed, not bothering to conceal his pride. “Although your father might not be pleased that you were flinging his valuable cargo at people.” Jacob stuck his tongue out, defying Hugh to do anything but praise him. Jacob didn’t say much, but he got his point across. Aran grinned. “You’re probably right. Let’s find your dad and figure out what happened.”

Author's Note

I've stopped trying to think of good titles.

Reviews

[Lindsey]

I liked it a lot! It was pretty interesting and it kept my energy flowing through reading it. If you ever get this published all in a book I am going to get.