The Mercenary's Path part 7

“Next up is Herbert and M’kesh,” Lady Matilda announced.

M’kesh was from a tribe to the south. He had been orphaned early in life and survived by stealing. One day he managed to sneak into a merchant’s caravan and ate some exotic fruits before being caught by a guard. The merchant took mercy on the boy and offered him the chance to make up for the theft by becoming his adopted son and doing chores. The merchant’s wife was barren and they had wanted children so badly. M’kesh agreed. After a few years of living the life of a caravaneer, he told his father he wished to become a knight one day. His father decided it would make his reputation all the more important if he was the father of a knight, and he agreed.

Herbert was the son of a minor noble and worked hard to prove he was not some spoiled brat. He sometimes looked down on others, and often apologized to his fellow squires for his behavior. Still, he took his training seriously and had the callouses and bruises to prove it.

The fight dragged on for nearly ten minutes. Herbert had extra experience with the sword as a result of training in his childhood. But M’kesh was fast, and often stepped out of the way the sword as if he were avoiding running into someone on the street. He did not need to move hurriedly or very far, and the seeming casual nature of it served to infuriate Herbert. Herbert’s swinging became erratic and he left himself open to attacks. M’kesh seemed to be in no hurry to win, in fact he had put his sword in its scabbard and was unarmed. This caused Herbert even more anger, and his swings were now unbalancing him. Finally, after one such overswing, M’kesh calmly pushed Herbert over. He then dropped down onto Herbert’s swordhand, pinning it in place, and raised his shield high in the air as if to smash his opponent’s head like a grape.

“Halt!” called Lady Matilda. “M’kesh wins.”

M’kesh lowered his shield, stood, and walked away. Herbert remained on the ground for several minutes, crying. The knights did not wait for him to stop, but just continued calling names.

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Several fights passed. Nance won her second battle handily. M’kesh fought with his sword in his offhand and his shield in his good hand, still winning, though he did not take his time to do so. Lady Matilda drew two more chips.

“Thom and Grace!” she called.

Grace was a skilled archer, but Thom could not remember how she was with a sword. He took his regular stance and waited. Grace took a standard stance, but something about it seemed off.

“Begin!” yelled Sir Franklin.

Thom decided to take this fight slower, let her style reveal an opening. Grace raised her sword arm behind her and squared her shield against her shoulder. Thom was unsure of what to make of it. She began moving toward him in a slow and deliberate manner. Thom watched her feet and saw she moved with total control. He tried to circle around, she adjusted her walk to always face him and continued. Thom broke into a run; she stopped moving and watched. Just as he came far enough around, she swung to face him. Thom stopped. They stood, staring. She began to move in again. Thom decided to let her. He would just deal with her attacks. She was within striking distance and Thom swung for her forward leg. She lowered her shield completely to block, catching his sword. He tried to pull away, but it was stuck. He saw her sword flash down, and he managed to deflect it with his own shield. Again he pulled at his sword, but it would not budge. He blocked another swing of her sword. When the third swing came down, he decided to abandon the sword. He blocked and aimed the blade of his hand at her throat. She lifted her shield arm to block, and his sword went up with it. Lodestone? But how did it not pull at their armor or his shield? He reached for his sword again and kicked her in the stomach as he pulled on the handle. It finally wrenched free. He took to the offense, swinging again and again, rattling his arm as she blocked. She slowly withdrew with each block. There was no time for her to counterattack, if he could just keep this up she would eventually back herself over a low wall and victory would be his. If only he could keep this up long enough. The springthyme answered his call for now though. This continued for five long minutes.

“What’s the matter? Afraid of my sword? Don’t worry, I’ll be gentle,” he taunted.

Just a little further he thought to himself.

Grace was within inches of the barrier. Suddenly, she stepped backward, onto the lip of the wall and jumped up and over Thom. She turned quickly when she landed and struck him across the back.

“Halt!” yelled Sir Franklin. The judges gathered to confer. They took quite a few minutes, discussing very quietly. Sir Franklin said, “Grace, please come here.”

Grace walked over to the knights. Sir Franklin asked for her sword and she handed it over. He asked for her shield. She hesitated, and he requested more sternly. She finally handed it over. He set the sword against the face of the shield and removed it without issue. He then placed it against the edge and found he was unable to pull the sword away.

“Explain this,” Sir Franklin said to her.

“It’s an alchemical mixture. I applied it to the rim of my shield to catch my opponent’s sword,” Grace sheepishly admitted.

“I see. Please step back to where you were,” Sir Franklin said. The judges resumed their conference. After some minutes, Sir Franklin announced, “Grace wins! Please come retrieve your equipment.”

“The next contestants will be Grace and Adem,” Lady Matilda announced. “We will wait two minutes, per the rules.”

Grace used the time to separate her sword and shield. It was much harder to do by herself, and no one would help her. Her opponent smirked, seeing that she might start at a disadvantage.

“Begin!” announced Sir Patt.

Grace had not yet yanked her sword free. She equipped the shield and hoped to maybe disarm Adem as well. Adem walked over, sword in scabbard. He attempted to repeat Thom’s maneuver, but Grace was ready. She bashed into his hand, causing Adem to scream in pain. He retreated a few steps and drew his sword. He then charged, shield first. Grace rolled out of the way and then resumed trying to pull her sword free. Adem turned tried to rush her again, and again she rolled out of the way. Adem had checked his charge though and quickly turned to strike before she was ready. She blocked, but it threw her off balance. He swung again, knocking her to the ground. She tried to kick his feet, but he hopped back and then struck her in the leg. She yelled in pain. He swung again, but this time she pulled back and regained her footing. She was limping though, and he sought to overpower her again with another powerful swing. She managed to catch his sword on the side of her shield. Adem was not expecting the entire shield to have been encircled with her trickery. She jerked her shield back, pulling the sword from his hand. He lurched forward with it and she smashed his hand for the second time. He cursed her ancestors. Grace managed to push through the pain and was back on both feet equally. She retreated a few feet and attempted to pull Adem’s sword free. All of the rolling had dusted the adhesive, reducing its effect. She managed to pull it free. Now she was armed and he was not. Grace charged, knocking Adem back. She swung at his foot and connected, then jerked the blade up between his legs, causing so much pain that he vomited his potatoes and goat milk from breakfast. Before he could regain his composure, there was a sword at his throat.

“Halt!” called Sir Patt. “Grace wins!”

Thom was glad to have lost to Grace without her resorting to kicking his egg basket. He watched as Adem struggled to recover, and secretly hoped the two of them would fight next to capitalize on the man’s disadvantage. It was not to be, as Lady Matilda called two other names.

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I hope you're enjoying this story. I also have a zombie e-book on Amazon that I'm rather proud of.

The Mercenary's Path part 6

There were sixteen squires in total eligible for their second trial. Most were around Thom’s age, sixteen or seventeen, though there was one older boy. Boy really wasn’t the best term, as Mannfred was their senior by at least five years at twenty-two. He had started later than most when he was nineteen, and he had already failed the foot combat trial once, the year before. Squires were allowed to try three times, starting two years after they began service. Mannfred’s size advantage was significant. Thom wondered how he had lost the year prior.

In addition to the squires, there were three knights who would serve as judges, as well as Queen Contessa, who just loved to watch young men and women spar. The official reason for her presence was that some member of the royal court needed to approve of the outcome. Generally this would have been some minister’s duty, but the queen insisted she oversee the events.

The knights present were not renowned for their glories in battle, at least not as far as Thom knew. He marvelled at their polished armor, the intricate detail on their ceremonial shields, and the beauty of Lady Matilda in particular. Despite not knowing of a single adventure she had undertaken, Thom was keenly aware of her due to his youthful crush he had harbored since he was twelve when she was still a squire from his neighborhood. Female knights were not as common as their male counterparts, but roughtly one in four riders of noble steeds were women.

Thom hoped to cross swords with Lady Matilda one day, as equals (and hopefully lovers). He kept his eyes on her as the queen gave her address.

“My dear servants, I thank you for your dedication to the protection of our realm. As you know, this is the second trial. You will be off against three squires in one-on-one duels. Those of you that win at least two duels will have passed your second trial. Your swords are dull, but they are still steel. Death is a real possibility. In the event you kill your opponent, the knights present will convene and determine if the killing was dishonorable. Those found of a dishonorable killing will be punished. If you should be killed today, regardless of the honor in it, your families will receive remunerations from the crown.” The queen then turned to her knights and asked if she was leaving anything out. She addressed the squires once more, “Fight valiantly, honorably, and with fortune on your side.”

Thom was aware of the dangers in undertaking the trials to becoming a knight. Some squires died while trying to break their horses. Some died from practicing swordplay, though wooden swords were generally less dangerous. Some died in their foot combat trial. The armor protected them, but it did not cover everything. The neck in particular was not protected. The third trial was to escort a caravan or other such procession through dangerous territory. A successful defending would complete the third trial. This was usually completed within ten such escorts, and often fewer. These trials grouped four squires, along with standard caravan guards - often mercenaries or city guards, and possibly a knight if the mission were especially important. Death was much more common when dealing with real swords, arrows, and unknown assailants. Still, nearly 70% of squires on their third trial passed. Deserters were subject to punishment, including the possibility of death. Those killed in the line of duty were sometimes knighted posthumously, though not all.

Lady Matilda stepped forward to explain the selection process for the combat.

“Behind me is a board with all of your names. Each of you are assigned a number and your number has been painted on three chips. I will reach into this box,” she motioned to an attractive polished box with the royal crest etched in its surface, “and pull out two chips at a time. Those two selected will duel until a winner is declared or one of them is dead. You will listen to our commands to be begin and halt, as needed. After the battle has ended and a winner declared, I will pull two more chips. If one of the chips is for a squire who has just fought, the match will be delayed for two minutes. Should I pull two chips with the same number, I will pull another chip until finding another number, and then return the remaining chips to the box.”

She stepped back and another knight, Sir Franklin stepped forward to explain the rules for combat.

“As her majesty has explained, death is a possibility. You are not encouraged to kill each other, but we understand it can happen. Our judgment is final in deciding if the kill was honorable. You are otherwise free to fight as you see fit. You have been trained in various methods of fighting, though obviously you are only provided sword and shield today. But do not let these restrict your creativity. A good knight is more than just his sword. I will now reiterate that you are to listen to our commands to begin and halt.”

He stepped back and allowed the third knight, Sir Patt to speak.

“Look around you. These are your competition. You may be friends now, but once you hear the command to begin, they will be your enemy. There are no winning ties. You can, however, both lose. Bear that in mind. Also, a knight does not flee. If you turn and run away, you lose. There are no boundaries marked, the battle can take place anywhere within this courtyard. If you are not fighting, do not interfere. Do your best to make room for the competitors. Lady Matilda, please select the first two competitors.”

Thom didn’t bother to look around. He had known long ago that these were not his friends. Not yet. He would have no love in his heart to get in his way. The first numbers were called. He would fight first. Taking a deep breath, he swallowed his fear and his springthyme.

The other squires stepped back to make room for Thom and his opponent Nance. She was his age, and from what Thom has seen in practice, a capable swordsman. His only immediate advantage was a few inches in reach. She was just as fast as he was, possibly faster. He would not underestimate her.

They took ready stances and locked gazes. Thom’s muscles begged to leap into action, but he had to stay still until the knight yelled start. Nance had a hard glare in her eye. Thom returned it.

“Start!” yelled Lady Matilda.

Finally! Thom wasted no time taking the offensive. Swinging for Nance’s sword hand, he managed to take her by surprise. He hoped to knock her weapon to the ground and leave her unable to attack. But she managed to parry, countering with a shoulder bash which sent Thom back a few feet. She followed it with quick footwork, bringing her around to his left. Thom blocked her thrust. He turned to swing his sword, but she was already sweeping his feet with her leg. Fighting from his back was a bad place to be, but her sword came into fast for him to regain footing. He blocked, blocked, blocked. Finally he had a chance to kick out, which she dodged, but it gave him time to stand. As he did, Thom grabbed a handful of dirt. He transferred his sword to his shield hand as he charged. When they connected, he threw the dirt in her face. Momentarily unable to see, Nance was a sitting duck. He grabbed her swordarm and pulled her off balance, kicking her to the ground face down. He dropped on top of her and put his sword to her neck.

“Halt!” called Sir Patt.

Thom stayed where he was, waiting for an announcement that he won. The knights conferred, with some level of loud disagreement. Thom saw no reason they had to discuss anything, he had Nance in a death grip. Finally the judges stopped discussing the match. Lady Matilda announced that Thom won. Some squires spoke out about his dirty tactics.

“It is best to win with honor. But which is worse: to die with honor or to win without honor? I will not give you the answer, you must decide for yourself,” Sir Patt told them.

Thom got off Nance, and offered her a hand to get up. She wiped her eyes clear and glared, refusing his help. She stood and walked away from him.

The Mercenary's Path part 5

Thom woke up feeling groggy. He had been too excited the night before to sleep, and now that was taking its toll on him. No time to worry about such trivialities though, he would just swing by the apothecary and pick up some springthyme and be on his way.

He ate a quick breakfast of dried goat meat and a glass of goat milk. While he didn’t mind eating goat all the time, he was looking forward to not having to eat it daily. He pulled on his clothes and boots and ran to the apothecary before going to the castle. He didn’t want to be late.

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Just before entering the main gate of Riverrun Castle, Thom gave his springthyme a quick chew and then let it sit in his cheek. He learned last time to not swallow it right away, else he’d be calling on the gods all night from the outhouse. It only took a minute and suddenly he felt refreshed, as if waking from a pleasant nap. The feeling would last several hours. Hopefully he would be done with his trials by then. If not, he could swallow the herbs, but there’d be pain later.

He made his way to the stables and fed his horse, Jenkins. It wasn’t really his horse, they belonged to the king, but squires were permitted to train with and ride a horse that was not in active service. The horses were not broken when they started, and it was his first trial. Thom had been working with this horse for two years now. Once fresh hay was in the feed box, Thom scratched Jenkins behind the ears and rubbed down his back and legs.

When he was done, Thom was quite in need of a bath and a nap. No time though. He gave the springthyme a small bite and extracted a little more juice. His eyes popped open and he shook his head spastically. Time to get his gear on for the foot combat trial. He walked toward the quartermaster’s shack as calmly as he could.

Stark the quartermaster was a stern old man. He had been a squire in his youth, passed all of his trials, and become a full knight. For many years he served his kingdom faithfully and had his share of excitement on the fields of battle. But it was not to last.

While riding back from a mission to retrieve the taxes from the city of Must, his party was ambushed by a troop of goblins, and his horse was struck with poisoned darts. Goblins were too small to successfully fight from horseback and so Stark had dismounted, thinking the battle was winnable. It might have been, had two of his accompanying squires not fled. To his credit, he successfully felled four goblins and wounded at least two more. Unfortunately, the strong box was their target and six of the bastards ran off with the gold. Stark tried to give chase, but the poison coursed through his steed’s blood too quickly and both fell to the ground two miles away. When Stark finally managed to right himself, he found his trusted steed frothing at the mouth and unable to stand. He thanked her for her service and then slit her throat. He made his way back to the site of the battle and collected the goblins’ ears. It was a long trek back to the castle and he had bad news to provide. The ears proved his battle, and a cart was sent for his horse. He was given the choice to step down as a knight permanently or to fight for his redemption in the coliseum. He chose to step down and was allowed to become quartermaster, which he had been for close to fifteen years now. Many days he wished he had chosen the coliseum. He likely would have been killed, but he would have died a warrior. Better than this survival as a glorified shopkeeper.

“Good morning, Stark,” Thom said to the older man. The quartermaster held no greater position than squire, as both were servants in their own ways.

“Good morning, boy,” Stark grumbled back. To be spoken to as an equal by someone so young was a constant reminder of his shame. “What do you want?”

“Today is my second trial. I will need-” Thom was cut off.

“Sword, shield, helmet, breastplate, gloves,” Stark rattled off as he turned to the armory to retrieve the necessary implements of mock battle. Real steel, but the blades were dull.

“...Yes, thank you, Stark,” Thom put emphasis on his name, driving at their equal station.

Stark noted the equipment in the ledger and then proceeded to ignore the younger man. Thom didn’t care anymore. Soon he would be this man’s superior and it would be his honor to forgive him for such rude behavior. That would really burn Stark’s heart.

***********************

Thom still had some time before the trial would begin, so he headed back to spend more time with Jenkins. They had spent much time together in training. It would still be another year before his mounted combat trial, assuming he passed today. Still, they had made good progress.

“Hello again Jenkins, how do I look?” Thom asked, not expecting a reply.

He had donned, but not properly secured the breastplate earlier. Now he had the time to get better situated. He set everything down on a blanket and set to snugging his armor into place. It was fastened with leather cords, which Thom snugged tightly. He practiced moving around, and it kept in place. Next, he put on his helmet. The chin strap was not comfortable, so he left it undone for now. The gloves were rough leather with metal plates sewn into the back of the hand and lower forearm. Flexing his fingers, he decided they would do for today. He then put on the shield, slipping his arm behind one strap and grasping the other. This allowed for it to be worn on either hand, as well as on the back when retreat was necessary. Lastly he picked up the sword. It had a good weight, though it was not balanced specifically for his use. He had heard a proper balance would allow the swordsman to fight as if the sword were part of his own body.

He put the sword back down and walked to Jenkins’ side. It was important for him to be used to the change in sight in his rider. The added weight would be addressed on another day after the trial, but for now Thom wanted to conserve his energy.

“Jenkins, I want you to wish me luck. Today is very important. If I pass my foot combat trial, I will be that much closer to becoming a knight. Once that happens, you will also benefit. You will be a knight’s noble steed and will have a larger stable and be more comfortable. You will also be quite the stud with the mares for sure. They will be impressed by your bravery,” Thom spoke fondly of the future while stroking Jenkins’ neck. The speech was as much for his own benefit, to settle his nerves before the trial.

A bell sounded in the distance, signalling the squires to assemble in their courtyard.

“I’ll be back later with tales of my glory!” And with that, Thom fetched his sword and headed for the squires’ courtyard.

The Mercenary's Path part 4

When day broke three hours later, Zand’s nerves were shot. Every little sound had set him on edge. He ate a large breakfast and washed it down with an entire flask of water. He then gathered together dried rations for two more days of travel and water for three days, as he knew the extra weight would make him thirstier than normal. Once he had his food and water in place, he proceeded to pick up Tink’s sack of implements and Clink’s pack of components. That was about all he could carry, and even this seemed pushing it. He lifted his hood over his head and neck and set off toward Must.

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On the second day of his trek back, Zand came across a jagged landscape. They had originally gone around it, as the likelihood of snagging their gear on a sharp rock seemed too high. But now that he was alone, he wondered if he might be able to float over the tops of the rocks and save himself considerable time. He decided to stop and have some food and water first beforehand. The rest would focus his mind and allow his to maintain the necessary concentration.

Securing his gear, Zand stood facing the outcropping of rocks. He raised his head just so while breathing deep and envisioning himself growing lighter. Slowly he floated up, until he was higher than the rocks closest to him. Satisfied, he willed himself forward. The uneven ground caused his travel to be similarly bumpy. It was only somewhat better than climbing over the rocks on foot. Looking around, he saw a gap that he could safely land in and moved toward it before descending.

Zand remembered the giant flame and wondered if he could similarly charge his floatation spell. He closed his eyes and let the magic build in him until his skin startled to tingle. He then went through the normal motions and shot up several feet. Moving forward, he found the topography below him did not seem to interfere with his elevation.

“Excellent!” Zand exclaimed to himself.

Zand made his way toward the far end, enjoying the growth of his powers. About halfway across he he started to descend. It was so gradual that he didn’t notice. The suddenly he fell sharply, like a bird struck in flight by an arrow. He tried to remain aloft, but managed only to slow himself somewhat before scraping along the rocks below. He finally came to a complete stop when he slammed into the side of a small boulder.

Zand tried to comprehend what happened, but fell unconscious before it all sunk in.

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When he finally came to, the sun was setting. Zand checked his body for injuries and found nothing to be broken, but he was covered in lacerations and bruises. The twins’ packs were torn, the containers inside smashed, and their contents mixed. Thankfully the bombs needed fire to explode, but it still sent a chill down his back thinking of what could have happened if they didn’t. As it was, he was now carrying two large bombs. Despite how valuable the components might have been, he would not carry them back now. He kept rummaging around and finally found a small first aid kit. It contained some bandages and a broken bottle of what was once an antiseptic.

“To the seven hells with this!” Zand screamed, hurling the broken bottle into the distance.

He removed the straps from his shoulders and set the bags away from himself. He looked down at his clothes and saw he had assorted powders all over him, potentially the right mixture to explode if he was near a fire. Dusting himself off, Zand resigned himself to a cold and dark night. He couldn’t afford to explode any time soon.

Zand removed the outer bandages and threw them away in case of glass shards. He used half of his water to rinse his assorted wounds, and then dressed them as well as he could with the rags. He hoped they wouldn’t become infected, but knew he should try to get to town as soon as possible and be treated. He stood, which caused his body to scream in protest. He attempted to float, but it caused too much strain on his body to tap into the magic. It was getting too dark to see well enough to navigate the field of stones, so he did his best to get comfortable and slept.

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Zand woke the sensation of insects crawling all over his body. He jumped up, despite the pain, and began swatting at his body. There was sufficient moonlight to show that there were indeed ants swarming over his body and along the drt. He clammered onto a rock, and removed his clothing entirely. He managed to brush the remaining ants off and stood there, naked, watching the colony march by.

It took an hour for their procession to pass. His nerves remained on edge and sleep would not come soon. He shook out  his clothing and inspected closely before dressing again. He tried to call on the magic, which came, but caused his wounds to itch immediately. Sighing, he tried to sit, but found none of rocks’ surfaces welcoming. He did not wish to be on the ground again until he could again clearly see. He would stand until morning.

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Zand awoke still standing. He was unsure when he fell asleep, or even how, but it clearly happened. He got down from the rock and retrieved his flask of water. The ants had found and eaten the remaining food in the bags, as well as a good portion of the components. He imagined the ants wandering too near a campfire and popping like fireworks at new year. He laughed to himself at the image.

Zand tried to float. It caused pain, but it was manageable. He rose a few feet and proceeded toward town. The bumps were less noticeable without the added weight of their belongings. With any luck he’d be free of the area in an hour and at the inn by dusk.

The Mercenary's Path part 3

It was nearly dusk when Grigor returned. He was covered in dirt and bits of plant debris. Scouting had taken its toll on many pieces of his clothing over the years, and he had taken to wearing very cheap clothing as a result. Burlap sacks were stitched together to make for coverings, underneath he wore patchwork cotton undergarments to protect his skin. An added benefit of his clothing was that he looked like a poor farmer and was left alone by bandits and soldiers alike, so long as he managed to keep his crossbow hidden underneath his ratty blanket/hooded robe. He even took to carrying a piece of wheat to chew on while on the road.

“Water,” was all Grigor could say. He traveled as light as possible, carrying just a small flask of water, piece of parchment, and a charcoal pencil, in addition to the hidden crossbow. He had drained the water an hour back.

Tink pulled his flask out, checked to make sure it was water, and then handed it over. Grigor drained half of it before handing it back.

“I followed a detachment back to a cave carved into the rock. They carried a large sack out and took it back to the main group. When they were gone, I went in and found it was a store of food. Mostly dried meat and root vegetables. I wished I had poison, but alas, I did not.” Grigor looked around for Davros, but continued anyway, “I did tear open one of the bags of meat and scattered it around the outside of the cave to lure wild animals. I pray something finds it before they can clean up.

“Where’s Davros, anyway? I don’t mind re-telling him what I told you, but it would be good to tell him at all.”

“He’s still not here?” Clink asked.

“He’s still not here,” Tink said.

Grigor frowned, and then his stomach rumbled. He decided to eat while waiting for the commander to arrive. He pulled out a piece of dried meat from the enemy’s cave and took a large bite. The flavor was strange, but good. He had expected goat or maybe deer. This was something unfamiliar. He decided to not think too hard about it and happily finished. He then pulled out a white carrot, also from the cave, and munched absent-mindedly while studying his rough map of the area.

In the center was where they had found the the enemy below. To the northeast was the food cave. West was left blank. He knew there was a forest, but no specific details. South was the city of Must, where they had received their mission from the local magistrate. Slightly east of the center was where they were currently. East was more forest, also largely unexplored. The area just outside of Must’s walls was not explored, as it seemed very unlikely the bandits would set up within range of the sentries’ arrows. They were three days outside of the city, so it seemed plausible they base might be anywhere in the unexplored areas of his map. He rolled the map up and decided to tuck in early. He would awake just before dawn and resume exploration.

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A couple of hours passed, and still no sign of Davros.

“Clink, get some sleep. I’ll take first watch,” Tink said to his brother.

Clink was not one to argue when someone else volunteered to take first watch. He secured his pack and found a large rock to sleep next to. It still radiated warmth from the day’s sun. He hoped they would be back in a proper boarding house soon enough. Or at least, somewhere they could safely light a campfire.

Zand looked at the trees and found a large branch that looked like it could support him. He floated up a foot or so before grabbing onto the lowest branch and pulled himself up before scampering onto the best looking branch. He pulled his cloak around him and listened to the night jays chirp away before finally succumbing to sleep.

Grigor had already been asleep for the last hour. If one looked closely, he would see him nestled in a pile of leaves and earth. He would need to be up before sunrise, so he was exempt from keeping watch. As long as Davros returned before too long, everyone could still get a decent night’s sleep while making sure they weren’t ambushed in the night.

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Zand woke to find himself alone. There was no signs of the twins, Grigor, or Davros. It was night, and the moon was obscured by the clouds. Still, he would have expected to hear their breathing in the quiet of the night. He rose quietly and listened more deeply, attempting to augment his senses with magic. He held his breath and strained against the nothingness.

After a minute, he released the magic and resumed his normal breathing. He dropped down and made his way around the camp but found no signs of life. Their supplies were present and untouched. Zand hoped no one was watching the camp and decided to risk detection by creating a flame. The light illuminated the area around him and he saw no signs of struggle. If only he had learned to track, he could perhaps follow wherever his companions went.

“What do I do? What do I do? What do I do?” Zand asked himself under his breath.

He wasn’t sure how much time until morning remained, but he knew wandering in the dark was a bad idea. Even with the light of his magic flame, it would be easy to misstep and careen down an embankment. And what about bandits? This place was crawling with them. He shook out the flame. Better to return to town by the light of day. Yes, that would be his plan. His team had until sunrise to return. Then he would carry as much of their gear back with him as was manageable.

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I hope you're enjoying this story. I also have a zombie e-book on Amazon that I'm rather proud of.

The Mercenary's Path part 2

“Tink, Davros is gone,” Clink said.

“He’s probably seeing a man about a horse,” Tink replied.

“Why would he do that? We’re in a very thick forest right now. There’s nowhere to ride a horse properly. And it’s not like we need one to carry our provisions,” Clink said, confused.

Tink laughed. His brother was nearly as smart as he was when it came to chemicals and gadgets. But when it came to life, his brother was hopeless.

“No, I… You…” Tink sighed,  “It means he’s calling on nature. You know, watering the plants. Airing the cobra. Returning his mead to the gods.”

Clink finally caught on. Maybe. He pretended to, at the very least. He wished his brother would speak more plainly sometimes. He didn’t understand how someone almost as smart as him in the fields of chemistry and machinery could be so unclear in his communication.

Zand woke up. He had not been able to sleep very well anyway, and now those two were gibbering away ruining any chance he might have had at a good rest. Before rising, he practiced his spells from a lounging position. He started to float, but only a few inches off the ground, and then quickly sunk back down. His hand grew warm, but no flames appeared. He stayed quite visible as well. It would seem he would need to consider practicing from various positions. But first things first. He needed to reliably turn invisible. It seemed unlikely he would be caught on his back in the middle of a mission. Particularly if he could learn to use his spells while standing and ready.

He sat and contemplated other ways to imagine himself disappearing. After many minutes of nothing, he remembered an old stage trick he’d seen in a play.

“Tink, Clink. Have either of you something that makes smoke? Like for a stage trick?” Zand asked.

Tink started to speak when Clink cut him off, “We aren’t stagehands. I’m sure I or even my brother could whip something like that up for you, but we brought very specific components for this mission. Why would you want something like that anyway? You know actual magic. Why would you bother with parlor tricks?”

“What do you mean even I could make it?” Tink asked, but no one paid any attention.

“I’m just exploring all of my options here. Thanks anyway,” Zand said and went back into deep thought.

“Hey, what did you mean by that?” Tink asked his brother.

“That we have components for the bombs but did not bring a whole laboratory of ingredients with us,” Clink said, missing the real question.

Zand tried to explain himself, but honestly, he wasn’t even sure if his line of thought was reasonable. Plus the twins were now bickering with each other and not paying any attention to him. He bit his tongue and resumed his contemplation. Nobody noticed he flickered out of view momentarily.

Pickpockets snatching unattended coins. Candles being snuffed out. Rain stopping and the sun coming out. Water boiling away in a kettle. Zand pictured each in turn, wondering if one of them was the secret to invisibility.

He practiced swiping at an imaginary coin while trying to let the magic overcome his whole body. After several minutes his arm started to tire and his skin was itching from the raw magical energy. He tried to focus the magic into something else, resulting in a large gout of flame rising from his hands and catching some leaves on fire.

“Fork-tailed imps!” Zand exclaimed.

The twins stopped their arguing long enough to look over and see the fire. Tink pulled a flask from his belt, gave it a shake, and popped the cork off in the direction of the flame. A long stream of foam sprayed out and extinguished the fire, leaving a thick gunk behind. It was Clink’s invention, a mixture of water, carbonite, and the sap of an yggdr tree. The yggdr tree was unique among trees, in that its wood never burned. The sap is what made mixture good for putting out fires, and the gunk that remained kept the surface from catching fire again until properly cleaned. It was a miracle invention, and the twins would often smear it all over their work clothes and skin while working with new chemical mixtures. It was quite sticky, else they would coat everything they owned in it.

Zand was still in shock. He had never released so much magic in one spell at once. He didn’t even know he had the capability. He would have to find a safer way to release the magic buildup. He wondered if he had tried to float instead if he would have shot up in the air like an eagle. The thought tickled and scared him.

He moved to a clearing, hoping to avoid another fire. He pictured a candle being snuffed out, but thought better of imagining himself being extinguished without a cleric or healer nearby. Sure, maybe nothing would happen, but what if he somehow stumbled across death magic and cast it upon himself by accident.

OK, what else? Ah, the rain. Could rain stopping be misinterpreted? He didn’t think so, so that was his next attempt. Zand conjured a spring rain in his mind. He saw the drops fall upon the earth and cause the soil darken. He let the magic build within himself, warming his insides like soup on a cold day. He then changed his thoughts to the end of the storm, the rain slowing to a sprinkle and then stopping entirely. The sun came out and warmed the wet ground, causing it to lighten in color again. Looking at his hand, he thought it looked brighter as if illuminated by the sun on a clear, summer day. He looked up and saw that the clouds in the sky had reduced in number and the sun shined unobscured.

“Did I do that?” Zand asked himself out loud. He tucked the memory away to try on a cloudy day.

His last idea was the water boiling away in a kettle. That too seemed like an idea to try with some precautions in place. At the very least, he wanted to be near a cool stream.

Out of ideas, Zand headed back to his companions. The twins were no longer arguing, and instead having their lunches. Grigor was still off scouting. Davros was not there.

“Did Davros say where he was going?” Zand asked.

“He hasn’t returned?” Tink asked, looking around.

“He hasn't returned,” Clink answered, focusing on his apple.

Neither answered his question, but Zand was used to such things. They were intelligent men, but utterly foolish in some ways. He hoped their adventuring would teach them about life.

He found his napping spot from earlier and lay down. Sleep overcame him almost immediately.

The Mercenary's Path part 1

“Guys, this doesn’t look good,” Grigor called over his shoulder. Davros crept over to the ridge next to Grigor and surveyed the scene below.

There must have been fifty of them, wearing a hodgepodge of armor and weapons scavenged from fallen foes and trade caravans. The only common thread was their purple sashes. How bandits managed to obtain that much fine fabric was anyone’s guess. It seemed unlikely they would have purchased it. And who ever heard of a bandit seamstress? Grigor and Davros pulled back from the ridge to explain the situation to the rest of their party.

There were Tink and Clink, twin inventors from the countryside. Tink was older by only two minutes, but as they were born around midnight, it gave them separate birthdays. This rarely mattered, but it meant Clink couldn’t drink mead until an entire day after Tink could when they were turning nineteen. They were bright, but their poor station had kept their inventions from reaching marketable heights. Both hoped the mercenary work would pay well enough to fund a proper workspace and quality materials.

There was also Zand, a young sorcerer from the capital. He had stalled in his magical developments and was using his talents to busk when Grigor had come across him. The money didn’t matter much, but the chance for adventure sounded like a nice change of pace. And maybe the money would be nice after all.

Grigor was the scout of the party, due to his eyesight being better than any of the rest by a fair measure. He would have preferred to have become a royal guard, but he was too short and scrawny to make the cut. He saved a good portion of his wages from the tavern to buy his crossbow. It was custom made with a crank handle allowing the firing of multiple bolts before reloading. His hopes of showing he could handle the adventurer’s life lead him to making such a purchase. Davros had been in the same merchant’s shop and mistakenly assuming the purchase of such an exquisite weapon meant he knew how to use it, offered the young man a place in his band of mercenaries. Grigor leaped at the chance. That was four years ago.

Davros was the oldest of his band, and had the most experience in war, having been a soldier in a king’s army (not The King, mind you, some other land’s king). He had risen to the rank of captain by the time the war ended in favor of the other country. Davros fled, rightly assuming problems would come to his country after their defeat. He had disposed of most of his connections to the old country, keeping only his sword, which was like most other swords. He figured no one would recognize its foreign origins. Thankfully, many countries spoke a common tongue and he did not have trouble communicating in his travels.

Their mission was to clear out the bandits that had been terrifying travelers. The magistrate office assured them it would be an easy enough task and offered one hundred silver pieces per pair of ears brought back. The bounty had been standard, it was unlikely no one knew just how large the gang was. Had they known, Davros would have asked for double.

Davros figured they could get the drop on the bandits in their sleep, but even if they each killed five men a piece, they would still be outnumbered five to one. And he didn’t think the twins would be nearly quick enough with their bombs to be of much help once the surprise factor wore off. They had been working with Grigor on learning to use their own bowguns. They were smaller and had a shorter range, but at least they might kill a man each before he could run them through with a sword. And Zand’s magic was helpful, but still had not perfected his invisibility spell yet. Half the time it worked wonderfully. The other half the time, well, it tended to stop working at always the wrong time. If only he had known ahead of time how big this force was, he could have maybe hired on another merc or two.

“We’re outnumbered ten to one. This can be done, but we’re going to need to be smart. Grigor, I want you to continue to watch them. Find their base and then report back. Tink, Clink. how many bombs can you make with your current supplies? Figure it out and let me know in five. Zand,” Davros sighed, “how’s the invisibility spell coming? Can I do something to help you master it?”

Grigor nodded and left to observe. The twins pullid out supplies and started making calculations. Zand just shook his head at his commander.

“It doesn’t work like that. I know it’s hard to understand, so I’ll try to explain it again. There are mages, like in the story books, that learn their magic by studying - usually under a master. They read, practice, read some more, maybe make some potions to temporarily amplify their magical aptitude while they study.

“I’m a sorcerer. There’s no school. There’s no studying. I simply have magic in me. When you were a boy, you were smooth faced. Then you grew old enough and hair started coming out of your cheeks and your voice deepened. My magic is sort of like that. When I was three, I sneezed and caught my blanket on fire. Thankfully my crying caused a strong gust of wind that blew it out. When I was eight, I woke up to find myself floating above my bed. It took over an hour for it to stop, and then I fell straight down. Sure, these days I can just make a flame,” Zand raised his left hand palm up and a small ball of fire appeared, then shook his hand to make it disappear. “And I’ve learned to control the floating,” Zand levitated a foot in the air, drifted over a couple of feet and landed,” though I can still only raise a couple of feet right now. But the invisibility is something that has only happened in the last few months. I’m still not sure how to reliably turn invisible or how to keep it going once I start. It’s just something I have to get a feel for. Even if I were to somehow find another sorcerer who would agree to help,” Zand laughed at this idea as sorcerers tended to keep the nature of their magical talents hidden from all but their most trusted allies and their soon to be dead enemies, ”his methods would not necessarily work for me.” Zand’s face contorted as he struggled to vanish. After a minute, he was gone, but returned to view a few feet away. “Damn it, that wasn’t even close to my record.”

Davros nodded, found a rock to sit on, and did so. He pulled a piece of dried goat meat from a pouch on his waist. Goats were easy enough to raise, making them the cheapest meat around. Barring hunting, of course, but unless one was a good shot, the wasted arrows might even be too pricey to bother. Grigor was a good enough shot, but taking the time to properly dress the animal was a luxury they could not afford. So goat it was.

Zand decided a meal was in order as well. Rummaging through his packs he found a black loaf of hard bread and a small, wrapped piece of goat cheese. He took alternating bites of each until they were gone. He felt for his flask of mead and took a swig, looked at Davros, then took a second, shorter drink before capping it. He hoped the mead would relax him a little and maybe that would help with learning the spell.

Zand muttered to himself while going over his knowledge of how he cast his other spells. With the fireball, it was the motion while picturing his hand catching fire that worked the most consistently. He tried imagining the fire appearing at other times to varying results. Floating required taking a deep breath in just the right manner while imagining himself growing lighter. It also tended to work best when he was standing, and he had yet to learn to do it while jumping or falling.

He wished that magic words worked for him. Zand had taken one year of courses at the mages’ academy and learned a handful of minor magic words. Lunarus created a soft glow of light. Well, for mages it did. Nothing ever happened when he said it. Not even in the darkest room. He thought maybe the light was just very faint, but no. There was also aquus that produced a small amount of water, usually just enough to rinse down a piece of bread. Also worthless in his mouth. There was talk of more powerful spells to be learned, but tests would have to be passed and actually casting the spells was fully three quarters of the score. The remaining portion was for controlling the intensity and whatever other marks the professors felt appropriate.

“Maybe if I… crouch small and… picture myself fading away?” Zand crouched low and intently focused on disappearing. After a minute, a light breeze kicked up. Whether this was related to his practice, he could not know. He had not decided to pursue creating wind as it seemed less useful in the adventuring world, but it could have been some latent magic. Or maybe just the wind. Wind existed independently of magic, too.

He then tried to picture himself vanishing in the blink of an eye. Nothing. He tried actually blinking his eyes. Still nothing. OK, how had he acted when he vanished in front of Davros? He remembered scrunching his face, but wasn’t sure of his thoughts. He scrunched his face, just to be sure. No, that doesn’t do anything on its own. He held his breath and thought of the moon. Nope. Defeated, he lay down under a tree to take a nap.

Davros had been watching his young companion and shook his head when nothing seemed to happen. Magic. It seemed so amazing in the tales he grew up hearing. Roffuss of the Crimson Robe always had the right spell for the occasion. Being surrounded by a hundred soldiers? Summon a cloud of fog and disappear into the ground while he couldn’t be seen and wait for them to leave. The king was poisoned at dinner? Cast a spell to reverse his blood flow and make the poison come back out of his mouth. Trapped in irons underground? Make them quick rust and then open a fissure in the earth to the surface. But it seemed Zand was a glorified torch lighter and occasional thrower of fireballs.

Davros looked toward the twins. They were still making calculations. He decided to give them another five minutes. It’s not like they were holding up the mission. It would probably be a few hours before Grigor came back with the location of the bandits stronghold. Hopefully not a real stronghold, that would be bad. Camp. Hopefully he would find their poorly defended camp, made of flammable hay. He finished the last of his goat jerky and got up to stretch his legs.

Tink and Clink had finally finished their calculations. Between the two of them, they had five bombs made and could create another eleven, if the eleventh one was kind of small. Clink turned to let Davros know but found him missing.

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I hope you're enjoying this story. I also have a zombie e-book on Amazon that I'm rather proud of.