Valor and Violence

“Give me some more water,” Oliver said.

“No,” Erwell replied, ignoring the spymaster’s groan. They were sitting side by side, their backs pressed against the wall as the sun beat down on them from above. Dalion and his ilk had done little but consolidate their position below, establishing a crude camp and bringing up more fighters. They numbered well north of fifty last time Erwell checked.

As it was, half a company of bandits and men at arms storming their tiny haven was the least of his worries. Erwell and Oliver had less than a couple of litres of water between them. In their already weakened state, the elements would see them dead within a day or two.

“Oh, come on. We’ve got how many mouthfuls left? There’s no sense dragging this out.”

Erwell rounded on Oliver, the temptation to choke him to death returning in full force, before deciding he probably lacked the strength to do it, anyway. Instead, he settled for yelling.

“Don’t be so flippant! It’s your fault we’re here in the first place!”

“Depending on how far back you want to go, it’s actually yours. If you’d scapegoated Olic-”

“We are not discussing this again.”

“Suit yourself, but still… give me some water. This argument is making me thirstier.”

Erwell shook his head and turned away, spotting Oliver’s stool lying on the ground just in front of them. He rubbed his prickly chin as he pondered the seat.

“Is each leg a Resonance Weapon?” he asked.

“Don’t you worry about that,” Oliver replied sharply, tensing up. Erwell glanced at the spymaster. Their eyes met, the men reading each other for a moment.

Then they dived for the stool.

“That’s not yours!” Oliver shouted as they wrestled over the furnishing.

“I’m not sitting around here waiting to die. I’m taking those legs and blasting my way out!”

“There were too many when we first arrived, let alone now. You’ll be dead in moments!”

“It’s a better death than withering away on a cliff!”

“I said no!”

“I don’t care!”

A shrill screech interrupted their bickering, and the men froze, peering up into the painfully bright sky.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Erwell said.

Oliver seized the opportunity and wrenched the stool from the marine, protectively cradling it and glaring at the captain.

“I told you I had friends coming.”

A shadow passed over them, accompanied by another screech as a wing of griffon riders soared overhead.

“I think I’d rather die of exposure,” Erwell muttered.

Oliver rolled his eyes and crawled to the lip, staring at the camp below. Erwell refused to move, before a small voice in the back of his head pointed out he was acting like a petulant child. Probably on account of the lack of sleep, food, water, and the encroaching heatstroke, but still. With a groan, he followed the spymaster to the edge to check on the mercenaries. They were in a flurry of activity, buckling on arms and armour, the lucky ones with bows hastily fitting arrows. But they weren’t fast enough.

Before they could form up, the monstrous creatures plunged, the wind from their passing buffeting Erwell as they flew past. Despite their size, they were remarkably nimble, spinning and banking as arrows rose to meet them. A few birds screeched in pain when the archers found their mark, but weapons designed to wound and kill humans weren’t as effective against bird-lion hybrids the size of a grizzly bear. The griffons fell on the archers first; the riders lashing out with giant lances, while the beasts tore them apart with beaks and talons or crushed them under their paws.

“Took them long enough,” Oliver said as Erwell settled beside him. “They should have been here hours ago.”

“Damn fly boys. They’re always late to the battle and then have the nerve to swan around after like they single-handedly won the damn thing.”

“Justified, in this instance.”

“Hardly. This isn’t even battle, it’s sport. What are a bunch of bandits and conscript farmers going to do against griffons? By the Pantheon, if any of the riders gets lippy after this, I’ll-”

“What? Rough and tumble with the men? Doesn’t seem your style, Captain.”

Erwell stiffened. His physical condition was making him volatile. “Perhaps not. I won’t dissuade Groth from beating some sense into them, though.” He paused, his eyes narrowing as he saw something move in the treeline behind the camp. He pulled out his eyeglass, sweeping it over the area. “Speaking of…”

His marines broke from the trees and surged towards the battle. Though it looked like a disorderly charge, the complete silence as they moved betrayed their discipline and skill. Distracted by the riders above them, the mercenaries had no warning before the company fell upon them.

It was a slaughter. The bandits weren’t trained soldiers, the few among them with actual military training had long since abandoned their oaths and grown soft preying on helpless travellers. The men at arms were little better. Aderathian citizens pressed into service, taught the basics of formation movement and not much else. Outnumbered and caught between the two branches of Calandorian special forces, they were massacred.

Groth was leading the charge, Lance Corporal Olic by his side, the giants ploughing through their foes, literal armed and armoured men slowing them little more than knee deep water would. The rest of the marines swarmed through the breach, tearing them apart.

Erwell smiled sadistically as he watched his enemies brutalised, savouring the sight of his tormentors becoming the tormented. But it felt like something was missing from the spectacle.

He shot to his feet when he realised Dalion was missing from the melee.

“Damnit, where’s that worm?” he growled.

Oliver was searching as well. “If I’m not mistaken, I believe that’s him hightailing it into the bush.”

The spymaster stood beside Erwell and pointed behind the battle. Sure enough, there was Dalion, sporting a limp and missing his tabard, but frustratingly whole. The duelist stopped at the edge of the vegetation belt and turned. He looked up, shielding his eyes from the sun, until his gaze found Erwell. He snarled and made a rude gesture as he backed away into the bush.

It seemed their feud wouldn’t be settled today after all.

*

“Greetings, Wing Commander,” Oliver called as he and Erwell finished their descent from the ledge. The leader of the riders reclined against the side of his mount, waiting for the marine captain and spymaster to approach, while Groth stood beside them, alternating between casting uneasy glances at the massive beast and contemptuous glares at the rider. Olic waited a respectful distance behind the sergeant major, reinforcing Groth’s glares with his own.

“Greetings, Spymaster,” the rider said with a lazy wave. “Glad to see we made it in time.”

“Barely,” Oliver said, shaking his head. “A few more hours and we would have been done for, either from the sun or the mercs getting bold.”

“Eh, all’s well that ends well, as they say,” he replied, producing a pipe from his pocket and packing it with tobacco. Erwell tried not to stare at it too intently. He had lost his own pipe somewhere along the way during the hunt. His craving for a smoke had been almost as severe as his craving for water these last few hours. The rider noticed, and after a few content puffs, straightened and walked over, holding it out in offering.

“Wing Commander Waldmer Highpeak, at your service. We would have been here sooner, but we stumbled across your men in the forest. Figured it’d be smart to marry up with them first and coordinate our rescue efforts.”

Erwell hesitated briefly before accepting the pipe and taking a deep drag. He felt the weight of the world lift off his shoulders as the fragrant smoke percolated through his lungs, his energy and good mood stabilising slightly.

“Thank you.” He exhaled a dense, purplish cloud. “Waldmer is an odd name for a Calandorian,” Erwell replied, thinking of the Aderathian knight he’d killed a few days prior.

The commander chuckled, though there was no mirth in it. “My family comes from a small, no-note-province down south. My folks thought giving me an Aderathian name might bestow a little prestige and class on the household.”

“I see,” Erwell replied, taking another drag. Although it was frowned upon in more cosmopolitan families, he had heard of the trend in the southern rural areas. “Did it work?”

Waldmer scoffed. “Hardly. Paps made it clear I wasn’t welcome around home for a while since I accidentally started a riot on my last leave break. Some local farmers versus the household guard.”

“You picked a fight with a bunch of farmers?”

“I picked a fight with a bunch of guards. Fell in with a young lad celebrating his engagement. Apparently, we got a tad rowdy, and the guards hate anyone having fun, so…”

“You picked a fight… with your own household guard?” Erwell asked, cocking an eyebrow while Groth shifted his feet a little, surprise written much more clearly across his features.

“Paps’ household guard, not mine… yet. Besides, they were being flogbags,” he said with a small smile. This one, Erwell noted, was genuine.

The captain laughed, offering the man both his pipe and a handshake. “You don’t seem so bad for a rider.”

Waldmer gripped Erwell’s hand and shook, his grip firm, bordering on crushing. He grunted approval as Erwell crushed it back. “And you seem fairly capable for a marine. We found your handiwork scattered throughout the forest on the way here. You’ll need a couple more belts to fit all the notches.”

“I gave up on counting a long time ago,” Erwell replied as he turned to Groth. “Good to see you, Sergeant Major. But aren’t you supposed to be with the Royal Army?”

Groth shrugged and threw a lazy salute. “Politis and his cronies were running interference down in the capital, throwing feasts and holding committee meetings and shit to delay our forces pushing into the hills. We got sick of waiting and headed out early. A barkeep in one of the mining towns told us where to look, and then these ‘gentlemen’ here,” he said, gesturing to Waldmer who acknowledged him with a slight nod, “dropped out of the sky and asked if we were looking for a pair on the run from an army of ne’er-do-wells. Figured it could only be you, sir. You always seem to get yerself in grief when I leave you alone.”

Erwell ignored the jibe while Waldmer discretely chuckled behind his hand. “What’s the company’s status?” the captain asked.

“Minor injuries from the skirmish, but no one lost. The poor buggers were out of their minds with panic; it was a slaughter, not a battle. We’re ready to move.”

Erwell looked at Oliver, his brows creasing into a frown. He was grateful for the riders’ intervention, but still confused as to exactly why they had come. They didn’t answer to anyone except the Crown, but here was Oliver, summoning them from the sky like magic.

Well, with magic, anyway.

“What?” Oliver asked. “I hope you don’t expect me to take charge here?”

The marine snorted. “Absolutely not.”

“Then what was that look for?”

“Something else. Commander Highpeak, are you comfortable following my directions for the time being?”

Waldmer too looked at Oliver, before he shrugged and nodded. “Sure, if the Spymaster here has no objections.”

“So, you would defer to him? Since when did griffon riders bend the knee to anyone other than the Crown?”

Waldmer glanced at him, his placid features briefly contorting in rage before he wrestled his emotions under control. “We serve the Crown, and only the Crown. But we have a… close relationship with the Crown’s Intelligence. I’m here as a favour for the Spymaster, to back him up until this matter is resolved.”

“That’s enough!” Oliver snapped, interrupting the conversation and turning to Erwell. “You have the wing, and your company, Captain. I suggest you give them orders.”

With that said, he stormed off, snatching a waterskin from a bewildered marine as he went. Erwell gazed after him until he disappeared among the throng of fighters, barely keeping a scowl from his face. Oliver’s behaviour since the fight with Dalion had been troubling, and was only getting worse. The secrets. The dismissive attitude. Erwell felt less like an ally than a tool, though to what purpose he was being used, he was unsure.

Things would come to a head, and soon. But whatever happened, he would be ready. His company was here now, Groth by his side. They had dealt with worse than the Spymaster. He turned back to Waldmer and his sergeant major. Groth’s face was a blank slate, patiently waiting for orders, while the rider wore an expression of feigned indifference to mask his curiosity.

“Well, Captain,” he said. “What’s the plan?”

What’s the plan indeed? Erwell thought. He was still hazy, his sudden rescue doing nothing to diminish the fact he had barely eaten, drunk or slept in days. He was in no condition to lead a combined force of professional soldiers, and yet Oliver had dumped him in the role. Ready or not, he had a job to do.

“First things first. Corporal Olic!”

Olic stiffened, his hands snapping to his sides as he stood at attention.

“Fetch me a map, a piece of parchment, and something to write with. Also, some food and water, please.”

The corporal’s eyes slid almost imperceptibly to Groth, who nodded, before he snapped a salute and turned on his heel.

Groth called out to his retreating back, “Go find Sergeant Kline, Third Squad. His boys are rustling up the food and drink already. You’ll have to ask around for the rest of the stuff.”

As the corporal sent a sharp ‘aye!’ over his shoulder, Erwell quickly caught his sergeant major and the rider up on everything they had missed. The skirmish with Dalion and the mage, and his concern over the Resonance Ore they had been stockpiling.

“I understand why they hired an earth mage to set up the fortress and excavate the tunnels through the mountain. But the fact they are holding onto him purely to pump Talent into whatever they’ve built with that ore is concerning me.”

“No clue what it could be?”

“None. The secrets of enchanting are closely guarded by the colleges, only a handful of their elites can do it. And this Phillip is of no note, as far as mages go. He can’t be an enchanter. He’s just the magic mule shifting power for someone else.”

“So,” Waldmer said. “We’ve got massive amounts of Resonance Ore, manufactured into a device that does Cael knows what, hidden in a mountain fortress carved by magic into living stone and defended by famed fighters from Tok Risim and Aderath, alongside an earth mage and a small, combined army of bandits and men at arms?”

“Nice summary, thank you, Waldmer.”

“My pleasure, Captain. My point, though, is that this whole situation is far too dangerous for us to do nothing, but doing something could very well get us all killed.” The rider took a deep drag of his pipe, then handed it to Erwell to do the same.

“Quite the predicament, isn’t it?” the marine replied. “Groth, thoughts?”

The giant nodded, scratching at his stubbly chin with his thumb. “Aye. March up and start bangin’ on the door.”

Waldmer laughed, then choked on the smoke still in his throat. He thumped his chest a few times to clear the blockage, then stared at Groth with watering eyes. “You’re having a laugh, mate!”

“No. No, it’s a good idea, actually,” Erwell said, his brain slowly kicking into gear despite the mental fog. “We can’t storm the place by ourselves. We’ll need the royal army for that and they’re, what, a week away still?”

“Give or take,” Groth grunted.

“Right. We also can’t leave them to their own devices. They’ll have gotten word from collaborators in Stonegrove by now, so they’ll know the deadline too.”

“A siege, then?” Waldmer asked.

Erwell nodded. “They’ve been extorting supplies from the local villages, which means they can’t easily get things from across the border in Aderath. My lads can wipe out small parties, and if they sally out in force, your wing can pick them apart.”

“A fair plan,” Waldmer said. “They’ll be in dire straits by time the army arrives. But what if this forces their hand and they activate… well, whatever it is they’ve been building?”

“Assuming it’s a weapon? We may all die. Us marines, that is. Your wing will be encamped in the mountains above and should be fine. You can carry warning to the army about what they’re facing.”

“You’re willing to risk your entire company?”

“It’s the company, or the entire army. We’re expeditionary. We’re used to risk.”

Waldmer grunted, his lips turning up slightly at the corners. “Very well, Captain. I sincerely hope it doesn’t come to that. I’ll depart with my wing immediately. We’ll clear out some space for you and yours, then set up camp ourselves. Rest assured, we’ll be watching over you the whole time.”

“Surprisingly, I find myself glad of your support, Commander,” Erwell said, grasping Waldmer’s hand again, then snatching the pipe for one last puff. “Save some tobacco. I’ll need it when this is done.”

“On my honour, Captain,” Waldmer replied with a small bow. He gave a cheery wave to Groth and Olic, ignoring the silent glares he received in return, before mounting his griffon and kicking off into the sky.