Chapter 12
Eric was a pleased man. Four days after taking control of the Free Company they had their biggest score yet. As he had figured, if one caravan had passed through this area, surely another would follow. The leader had been an aging petty lord, but a wealthy one. Five times more gold carried in his wagons than they had been paid for their four years spent in service of the royal army, not to mention a fortune in personal treasures. And the best part, very poorly guarded. The only survivors now were the man’s three lovely daughters. Before his death the old lord had talked about a coming army marching across the lands at will. Sounded like another paying opportunity to him.
Before having them executed he had put the servants lucky enough to have survived the ambush to work erecting the great pavilion found in one of the caravan’s wagons. With the speed in which they accomplished the task Eric could imagine them having done so every night since setting out from where ever they had been from. Tonight they would dine on the nobleman’s rations, become drunk on his wines and enjoy the entertainment of his daughters in the comfort and warmth of his own pavilion. Tomorrow they would ride out and offer their service to these invaders. It mattered not to him who ruled these lands as long as he had his money and could live in comfort when it was all over.
Now it seemed fortune had brought him another present. A towering man wearing black plate armor with silver glyphs and armed with a vicious looking claymore slung across his back had been brought before him escorted by four of his men. In tow was a lovely young black haired beauty in dark leathers. While armed to the teeth with sword, dagger, and bow she had the look of a woman recently broken, yet somehow still defiant. Her gaze may have been downcast but he was sure she was seeing everything.
“I require two horses some food and a couple water skins,” the heavily armored man said, A helmet covered most of his facial features while shadows cast across his face obscuring what there was to see even in the well-lit tent.
This irritated Eric, he liked to be able to read a man’s face. “You ask for a lot,” he said casually enjoying his current position. “Can we get you some gold, silver, or my first born while were at it?” The gathered men all laughed.
“Just some information.” the man continued unfazed. “I am tracking a warlock, traveling with formidable company. I lost his trail a good many miles south of here along the river banks.”
“Could be we’ve seen such a person, but that kind of information isn’t cheap.”
“I can offer you your lives.” Mareth replied.
Once more the men broke out into robust laughter. Eric had to motion for several moments for the crowd to quiet down. Judging by the calm way in which the man said those words he was either a great gambler or truly believed what he had said. “Tell you what, we take the woman, your weapons and armor, and we consider letting you leave with your life.”
A barely visible smile formed on the man’s lips. “As you wish, Jillian I will not need your services for this rabble.”
Eric found his own smug grin disappearing as the woman backed away. “If it’s a fight you want I assure you it will be short and bloody. Men, silence this filth.” he ordered with a dismissive wave of his hand.
Eric had been right, it was short and bloody. Jillian watched the carnage in horror from her vantage point against the wall of the pavilion. Eric had been the first taken out of the fight, a short blade swiftly stuck into the man’s belly. The rest of the men immediately went to arms throwing themselves uselessly against Mareth. One on one, three on one it did not mater. Mareth simply destroyed anyone within reach wielding his massive claymore in a nonstop arc of death one attack leading into the next, the men’s own attacks simply deflected harmlessly off Mareth’s armor. Whatever Mareth was he was getting stronger with each battle. A painful truth struck home. The man was un-killable by any means available to her.
In short order the men of Eric’s free company were slaughtered or dying except the few smart enough make a break for it. The sounds of fleeing horses faded away from the carnage. The only things in the pavilion still moving were three well-dressed young women tied up in a corner whimpering and Eric himself crawling toward the exit on his side, Mareth’s knife still protruding from his belly.
Mareth casually walked over to the man, kicked him onto his back then placed one massive boot on Eric’s chest. “You are going to die, but I can make your suffering far more painful understand?”
Eric nodded.
“The warlock?”
“His name is Eertu, passed through here four days ago with a caravan of refugees.”
Mareth pressed down harder on Eric’s chest. “Lies, I fought the warlock a long ways from here on that day.”
Eric screamed until Mareth eased up. “That bastard Airasmau was bluffing,” then he chuckled despite himself. “I should have known when he and the barbarian did not ride out to parley with Dredrik and the dwarf.”
“Who is this Dredrik and why would this Eertu be with him.”
Jillian now stood on the opposite side of Eric after having cut the women loose. They were of no concern to Mareth. They had fallen upon their knees thanking her, but she urged them away informing them they were still in grave danger. Mareth paid them no mind as they scrambled from the tent.
“Dredrik is the leader of the outcast known as the lost that served King Argile up until a couple weeks ago. They were also known as the Dread legion by the Dukes army. I don’t know why, but three years ago that warlock for some reason pledged his service to the Lost.”
“Describe him to me.”
“Average height, well built, wears armor the color of yours but with red trim, a griffin emblazoned upon his chest plate and shield.”
Mareth’s mouth frowned and eyes squinted, it was subtle and brief, but Jillian had been taught to read such things. Then it hit her. That had been the warrior who had managed to knock Mareth down in Galnath. Had that been a hint of fear or just irritation?
“He will normally be in the company of a Dwarf named Wikkid, Eertu and a Northman named Hadrenn. Best guess is they were heading to Veegal’s Wall. Dredrik had given us a warning of some bad things to come. Guess he wasn’t lying about that.”
“Guess not,” Mareth snarled as he thrust the claymore through Eric’s chest. He watched momentarily as the life drained from the bandit. “Jillian ready two horses, pilfer food, water, and what coin you feel the need to carry. We travel north first thing in the morning.”
‘Not west’ Jillian thought. They could easily catch up to them before they reach safety, and it was an easy bet that Eertu would be heading to the same place. For the first time she realized she never bothered wondering why Vessa had lead them to the Sanctuary of the Black Rose. “Not west Milord?” she asked giving voice to her thoughts.
“No, if the timetable is still intact, we should catch up with the army on the northern road in a few days.”
“Milord,” she said before eagerly exiting the pavilion. She had to try and contact Kathrin. With any luck she would still be close enough to receive some part of what she had to say.