1 || Ambush

“Tighten up that scabbard, private,” Captain Gorsch grumbled as he walked down the line of soldiers. “If I have to tell you again, you’ll be cleaning every blade and rifle before bed for a month.”

The red-faced private quickly saw to his kit while those around him grinned and hid laughs. Gorsch allowed himself a small grin as he approached two of the men watching the exchange. The taller of the two men had shoulder-length sandy blond hair, pulled back into a tight braid. His face was young, but had the weathered look of a man who had spent years fighting on the southern border. His green eyes shone brightly against the tan skin. The man beside him was a head shorter. He had broad shoulders and a lean frame. His brown hair was shaved close to the scalp and his beard was cropped to a neat goatee.

“Have to keep the boy in his place,” Gorsch said, heading off any commentary. He was a balding man with a thick, but well-groomed beard. He looked at the shorter man of the pair. “He may be your nephew, Sergeant Rost, but he’s still a soldier in the Duke’s army.”

“Rookie mistake, Captain,” said the man standing beside Rost.

“One you’ve made more than once, my lord Elas,” Gorsch replied. “And I made you shine boots for a month before you finally learned.”

Elas laughed as he watched the young private. The boy wasn’t nearly as green as he might seem. Scars on his chin and above his right brow showed the signs of battle experience. His brown hair was cut short in the military style and he was clean shaven, owing more to his lack of real facial hair than anything else. This was the first long mission for several of the soldiers picked by Gorsch for the special assignment. Maintaining gear in the field was something learned through experience, especially for soldiers who spent most of their careers inside of forts and border garrisons fending off goblin raids and the occasional troll incursion.

“We’ve got another day’s ride to the outer city, and then perhaps another half day to get into Solveim,” Gorsch said. “Once we have the prototype, we take ship and make for Freeport.”

“Freeport?” Elas asked, rubbing his chin, coarse with blond stubble after nearly two weeks on the road. “That takes us away from Traerheim, though.”

“Your father had explicit instructions, my lord,” Gorsch replied. “We’ve got a contact in Freeport who can get us back.”

“Who is this contact?” Rost asked.

“I’ve no idea,” Gorsch said, shaking his head. “They’ll find us when we arrive in Freeport. All I know is we are to meet him in Hangman’s Square and that he’ll be wearing a blue cloak. He will escort us to our safehouse and help us get back to Traerheim. Seems like a flimsy plan, but I’m just following orders.”

“Why not just slip out in a small boat and head back through Serasco?” Rost asked, running a hand through his short brown hair.

“If Serasco joins with Varesta, we’ll be cut off by land from a route home. A ship is likely our best option,” Elas said.

“Whatever the plan, we need to get to Solveim as quickly as possible,” Gorsch said. He pulled a grenade out of his saddle bag, the small explosive about the size of an apple. “I want rifles and grenades stashed. No reason to draw unwanted attention until we’re into the city. With any luck, we’ll get there without issue, but better safe than sorry.”

As if summoned by his sentiment, the twang of a crossbow sounded from across the clearing and a bolt slammed into Grosch just below the left side of his collarbone. He rocked back from the force and toppled off his horse as a second bolt hammered into his torso above his left hip.

“Ambush,” Rost shouted. He sprinted into the brush to the side of the trail, leaving Elas staring at Gorsch on the ground, blood running from between his lips. He pointed over Elas’s shoulder. Elas dropped to his knees as another bolt hummed past him and burried itself into the flank of the nearest horse. The animal bolted and the smell of blood sent the rest of the mounts into a frenzy. Men sprinted for the trees, but half a dozen were brought down before they could reach the relative safety of the treeline. Elas looked glanced at Gorsch. He nodded once, then lay back. Elas snatched up a bow from the ground and ran.

He crashed through the brush as he sprinted away from the trail. A bolt slammed into a tree scant inches from his face. He lunged left and caught his toe on a root. He careened further sideways, glancing off a tree. As he righted himself, an arrow whipped past his face, back toward the sources of the bolt. A voice cried out and cursed behind him. Elas slid down a small embankment into a creek bed, dry in the summer heat.

“You could have given me a shout, Rost,” he said, panting.

“What, and warn the swine with the crossbow?” his sergeant replied, shaking his head. “Besides, I like seeing you soil your pants once in awhile.”

“Well, you’ll be disappointed to know my pants are still clean.” Elas glanced back up the hill toward the trail. “How many of them did you count, I only saw four when they hit us.”

“Nearest I can tell, there’s at least a dozen, maybe twice that total.”

“Is anyone else nearby? Rex took off down the trail on his horse, I think he may have drawn a few of whoever attacked us after him. Owens, Jerik, Dayal, and the Captain are all down. A few more men got into the trees across the trail.”

Two more bolts whipped through the brush a dozen yards to their right. A pair of arrows flew back in response. More cries echoed through the woods.

“At least a couple more of us are out here,” Rost chuckled. “That’s probably three dead or injured. If some gave chase to Rex, we may have equal or better terms.”

“That’s a lot of ‘ifs’,” Elas murmured. “There’s nothing for it. You take the left flank, I’ll go right.”

Rost moved off without a word, a hatchet in one hand and a knife in the other. Though they were soldiers by trade, growing up in the woods outside Traerheim had bred forestry skills usually reserved to the pathfinders or trailbreakers employed by other royal garrisons in the kingdom. Elas had to look carefully to see Rost, but soon even his eyes couldn’t track his friend in the brush.

Elas whistles a low note, not unlike a snowy owl’s. Two hoots answered him and he crept forward through the leaves of a low-hanging branch. Sure enough, Hoight and Sarma, his newest recruits, crouched with their bows.

“Rost is cutting up left, I’m heading right,” he said. “When you hear my shout, I want you up and running with an arrow knocked. Drop the first men you see.”

“What then, sir?” they asked, almost in unison.

He grinned and said, “Improvise.”

Elas set off, leaving the youngsters shivering with anticipation. The forest around them was dense and relatively undisturbed. The nearest towns were two days west or north. Perhaps a hamlet or two were scattered throughout these woods, but most of the area was still wilderness with a few trails cutting through for travelers moving between the Duchy of Traerheim and the Royal Duchy of Solveim.

He slid to the ground, crawling on his hands and feet like a cat ready to pounce on an unsuspecting mouse. Mice don’t have crossbows or guns, though, he thought as he slipped behind a tree and slowly rose to a crouch.

The road was a stone’s throw away. Their horses had mostly bolted aside from a few wrangled by them who had ambushed them. Rex and his horse were nowhere to be seen. A dozen men occupied the road. Two were down, one with an arrow in the gut and another with one through his thigh. A third man had a bandage around his sword arm, but seemed no worse for wear.

Four against nine isn’t great odds, but we’ve managed with less, Elas thought. If any of the other soldiers had survived, that might help even the odds if they were close enough to fight.

He drew his bow from over his shoulder, knocking an arrow from the quiver at his waist. After a few steadying breaths, Elas stood and drew a bead on the nearest bandit. One of his companions shouted at the sight of Elas standing only yards away. Elas adjusted his aim and let loose. The arrow flew past his original target. It punched through the shouting man’s throat, silencing him in a gurgle of blood. The force of the arrow spun the man around and down to the ground, dead before he hit the dirt of the trail.

Two more arrows flitted in from Hoight and Sarma, one catching a horse and the other glancing off the breastplate of the man riding it. The horse bucked, throwing the man even as he tried to catch his breath from the force of the arrow. He fell to the dirt, thrashing for air as he crawled away from his horse. A hatchet flipped out from the vegetation and caught him mid-neck, stilling his crawl. Rost bounded out of from the trees, roaring, sword held high overhead.

Elas fired another arrow, taking the man closest to Rost behind the knee. The man fell screaming, but was quickly silenced by Rost’s sword. The few arrows in his quiver used, Elas tossed his bow into the nearest bush and drew his sword, sprinting onto the trail toward the nearest standing opponent. Three bandits were dead, but six men still faced Rost and Elas. As he stepped out onto the trail, he caught movement in the corner of his eye. He dove into a roll that saved his life. The sickening sound of a mace cleaving the air his head had just occupied sounded in his ears.

Elas rolled to his feet. Three horsemen passed him, two mounted archers and the one who had tried splatter his brains across the trail.

“Leave children to do a man’s job and this is what you get,” one of the arches shouted in rage. “Nine men against two and this is what happens?”

“Sir, there are more -” started one of the men, but his reply was cut short as an arrow hammered into his neck just above the protection of metal gorget. A second arrow took the other horse archer out of his saddle just as Rost was dispatching another of the bandits on the ground.

“I’ll kill these bastards myself,” growled the lead, leaping off his horse. He fired two arrows into the woods while the remaining bandits on the ground turned to face Rost. Someone cried out, from the voice it was Sarma. “We kill these two, then the two in the woods. Jock’s men are supposed to meet us here at sundown, they can help us find the stragglers.”

The remaining rider charged Elas, mace held nearly parallel to the ground and back, ready for a strike. These men weren’t cavalry; they understood the speed and height advantages of their mounts, but not the fact that horses could also be used as weapons. He faced down the charging horse, then stepped sideways and ducked. The mace passed harmlessly overhead. Elas turned and threw his dagger. The blade sunk deep into the horseman’s exposed back, just under his shoulder blade. Elas didn’t wait to watch him fall from the saddle.

He charged the leader of the group, who screamed as Rost cut down another soldier then bolted into the woods, leading the rest on a chase. The trail was suddenly quiet as Elas faced the leader of the bandits. Elas advanced, sword held with both hand, point forward and up toward his opponent’s face. Rex and Sarma stepped out of the brush, arrows knocked, while Daven helped Hoight who had an arm bound tightly to his chest.

“You can’t win,” Rost said to the man. “Five on one is bad odds, friend. Once Rost finishes off your men, and he will, it will be six on one. Put down your weapons and we’ll give you a clean death.”

“Surrender!” The leader laughed. “You misunderstand. This isn’t about raids or booty. You’re just supposed to die. I was told not to reveal myself, but at this point I’ll take the risk.”

He drew a small pouch from his belt, cinched closed by a small string. He opened it and inhaled the contents deeply, screaming as his eyes went wide, the bag and sword falling from his hands. His back arched back, arms wide as he raised his hands to the sky. Fire danced across his skin. He turned to Elas and held out his arm, palm up as if telling Elas to stop. A stream of fire erupted from his hands. Elas dove toward the side of the road and scrambled behind the broad bole of a towering oak tree.

“Oh, he’s an arcknight,” Rex said. “Just when I thought this day couldn’t get any worse.”

He and Sarma didn’t wait for a command. They fired their arrows. Before the shafts reached him, the arcknight turned to face them. Jets of flame lashed out from his hands like infernal whips. Both arrows disintegrated in mid-air, their arrowheads tumbling harmlessly into the brush. Both men rolled back, firing another pair of arrows in near unison. The arcknight thrust both hands at them and a wave of fire exploded toward them, sending the four men diving for cover.

“Your mission ends here, Elas von Traer,” the arcknight shouted. “And when a true king sits the throne, your father, your sister, every one of those filthy traitors, will know death.”

Elas stepped out from behind the tree.

“At least make it quick,” he said. “Let my men go home.”

“You first, then your men,” the arcknight grinned, turning to face him. He held his palm back toward the others, maintaining the wall of flames. “If they run now, they might live. Now, die!”

He dropped the wall of fire and slammed both hands forward. Fire exploded from his hands, like water through a hole in a damn. Elas raised his shield. The force of the arcane fire propelled him off his feet. Even as he fell, he saw movement at the feet of the arcknight. Captain Gorsch rolled to his side, spitting blood. He rolled the grenade he’d been holding toward the arcknight, the fuse catching as it came to rest against the man’s leg.

“See you in hell, hope you don’t mind sharing it with traitors,” Gorsch grunted.

The arcknight looked away from Elas’s tumbling form. He stared wide eyed at the grenade, then briefly at Gorsch.

“Gods above,” he whispered.

The grenade detonated. The arcknight flew back, the force of the blast launching him a dozen feet down the trail. Elas watched in horror as the arcknight, groaning, slowly rose to his knees. His face was misshapen, one eye a wrecked mess of shrapnel. He tried to speak, but the only sound that came out was a high pitched mumble. Even from a dozen yards, Elas could see the rage in the arcknight’s eyes.

The arcknight staggered to his feet and held both hands together in front of his chest. A ball of fire grew, drawing energy as it burned brighter, from red, to orange, to yellow, and then nearly white. The arcknight gurgled something again. As he tensed to release the energy gathered in his hands, his expression suddenly changed, to one of surprise, staring at the space to Elas’s right. Rost charge out of the brush, not twenty feet from the arcknight. He threw his hatchet mid-stride. The blade flipped and over end twice before burying itself in the arcknight’s skull. The arcknight rocked sideways, the energy in front of him exploding with a force much greater than the grenade which had injured him.

“Rost, down,” Elas shouted as he turned away. Rost dove behind a tree, barely escaping the explosion of fire that seared every tree within a fifty foot radius. The blast rang in Elas’s ears. He glanced up as he felt the heat recede. A crater was all that was left of the arcknight, nearly a foot deep. Most of the bodies in the vicinity, including that of Captain Gorsch and several other of the men, had been incinerated in the blast.

Rex trotted over to Elas and pulled him to his feet.

“Take the back roads, the duke said,” Rost grumbled as Rex, Daven, Hoight, and Sarma emerged from their own hiding places. “It’ll be safer, he said. I’ll have you know that was my favorite hatchet, Elas. It was a gift from Garret, so I’ll be needing a replacement when we get home.”

Elas managed a laugh and a nod, though his ribs hurt a little as he did so.

“Safer for the mission, Rost,” he said through clenched teeth. “When has my father ever been worried about your personal wellbeing.”

“Point taken,” Rost said with a grin. Then more seriously, “Gorsch was a hell of a captain. He’ll be missed if this war comes to real battle.”

“Are we really all that’s left?” Rex asked, looking around for any other survivors.

“Warrik, Rin, and Veldt are all dead,” Rost said. “Warrik and Veldt from arrows. I saw Rin fall into the ravine. Broken neck.”

“Owens, Jarik, and Dayal, too,” Elas said, looking around for any shred of the men whose bodies had been there moments before.

“Shit,” Daven said, making a holy sign on his forehead.

“We could do this with a dozen men, six is going to be tight,” Rost said. “We can rest at Hawk’s Creek, there’s an inn a few hours ride from here. Then continue on to Solveim?”

“We make straight for the city. With no horses, we’ve already lost time,” Elas said, shaking his head. “All arcknight missions are sanctioned by Lord Vetrus. If he’s using them as part of this coup, we need to get this prototype and get to Freeport as soon as possible. The sooner we get back to Solveim the better.”

“You heard the Captain,” Rost shouted, not that he needed to with all six of them standing so near. “Fall in, and move out!”

Next Chapter: 2 || The King’s City