Chapter VIII

Little children: the spawn of evil itself. When Ardal was told to teach the “larva” he thought Deidra simply meant young adults or adolescents, nine-years-old at the youngest. He had no problem teaching young people the spiritual truths of the Void, or teaching them how to make poisons and medicines from herbs, but he did have a problem with baby-sitting. The Inquisition had left behind many children without parents. Some were recruited into the Inquisition as soon as their parents were executed, while the lucky ones were sent off to one of the many orphanages that the Agalmite church had built in Nihilus.

Now Ardal was called upon to watch after these orphans; children as young as six, the oldest being only eight, and how he hated them. Even babies were more likable than these worms. They insisted they knew everything when they knew nothing, wouldn't sit still, wouldn't stop hitting each other, and wouldn't listen. Ardal honestly wanted to teach them the oral traditions and discipline the way he learned it, by whacking the backs of their hands with a switch, but Caiaphas forbade him to do so.

So Ardal was forced to put up with their misbehavior. “Stop hitting her!” “Hey, stop that!” “Don't put that in your hair!” “Put your clothes back on!” “Pay attention!” “Children shouldn't use those words!” “Get down from there!”

When Caiaphas finally came at the end of the day to escort the children back to the orphanage Ardal fell on his knees before him, “Please! Please, you have to get me out of here! I'll do anything, whatever it takes to help the cause, so long as it's not watching these little monsters!”

“You're one of the last professors from Leti Academy,” Caiaphas said, “We need you to teach the younger generation.”

“They're beasts! Insufferable! This morning I saw that the crystals on my hand had spread and I actually felt relief in thinking, 'at least it's only four and a half months until I can die!'”

“You did not truly feel that way.”

“I did, I swear it! I can't stand little children! Nine years or older, not these brats! I'm sorry, but I don't want to spend my last few months in misery! Give me something rewarding to do!”

“Fine, then. I'll find someone else to take up the menial task of teaching our young people the gospel,” Caiaphas rolled his eyes, “And I'll have you act as an ambassador, of sorts.”

“Ambassador?”

“Before the Arxians invaded the Hobbe family owned the richest silver mines in Nihilus. Brigid Hobbe, their youngest daughter, betrayed them when the Arxian soldiers arrived, opened the main gate of their fortress to the Arxian soldiers. Since then, she's supposedly converted to the Agalmite religion, and worships their idol. I want you to go to Brigid Hobbe and bring her back into the fold. War is expensive, and with her support we can afford it.”

“That is a much better idea than making me...a warden. A warden of these little criminals.”

“You were once just as little as they were, Ardal. Someone had patience with you, that's why you're here today.”

“I know that, but I also know I have no patience for their insanity. Thank you, Caiaphas. I'll bring Lady Brigid back into the fold.”

“One more thing, the Hobbe manor is guarded by Arxian soldiers. Lady Brigid is allowed to keep her land and retain her status as a noble, but only if she continues to cooperate.”

“So if she is to turn on the Arxians she needs ways to do it secretly. Understood.”

“If you do well with this one I may have you-”

Caiaphas' words were cut off when the children all began screaming in fright, rather than hyperactive joy, and running towards Caiaphas and Ardal. Standing over where the children had been playing and rough-housing just moments ago, was an angel.

The angels who served the Agalmite God had bodies made of diamond, with light refracting through them, and wings with feathers shaped like blades. The children, some of them climbing over each other or pushing each other out of the way, scrambled for the back door. They were shrieking so loud Ardal was sure he’d just lost hearing in one ear. Caiaphas picked up one of the children who'd fallen with his good hand and began running for the exit with them.

Ardal, glancing at the ground, saw that several more children were still knocked down. They were bruised and crying, screaming for their mothers. Ardal raised his hand toward the approaching angel and shouted, “Kamwi!” His familiar, the giant bear with a golden coat appeared before the angel and swatted it with one of his paws. The impact cracked the angel into the nearest wall. As it hit the wall the feathers of its wings cut through the wood, tearing it to splinters.

Ardal didn't waste another moment; he scooped up the remaining children in his arms and started running. Behind him he heard a loud thump, followed by a whimper that distinctly sounded like Kamwi's. Just as he made it out the back door he heard the sound of many blades tearing flesh, and Kamwi's cry. Once through the door, Ardal kicked it closed behind him, as if it would even slow the angel down.

Ardal, Caiaphas, and all of the children emerged from the cellar of the old, abandoned house, at first blinded by the sunlight. While they were still blinded, they felt hands clad in metal gauntlets grabbing their shoulders. The children were hoisted up off the ground, flailing, and when Ardal's eyes adjusted to the light he found himself staring down the length of a gleaming, steel short-sword, the cold mist wafting against his face.

They were surrounded by men and women in the blood red robes of the inquisition's witch-hunters, who all had blades pointed at them. Standing in the midst of them was Sister Clove, the same inquisitor who had caught Caiaphas last time, the one who had a reputation for driving nails through her victims. The back of Sister Clove's hand was marked with ancient writing, as was her forehead, in the space between her eyes.

The children continued to struggle and fight as the witch-hunters held them, at least until the witch-hunters gave each of them a sharp, hard tug on the arm, jerking them around. Some of the witch-hunters even gave the children a slap in the face with their steel gauntlets on to get them to cooperate, which had Caiaphas screaming every profanity he knew, and a few he didn't even know he knew, at these killers from the inquisition.

“If either of you attempts to call for a demon's help we'll slit their little throats!” said Sister Clove. The angel that had interrupted the lessons in the cellar emerged from underground, its bladed, crystal wings dripping with black blood. Seeing this, Ardal knew that his familiar, Kamwi had been slain. True, this meant Kamwi had simply been forced to return to the Void, and that he could be conjured again later, but certainly not at the moment. Sister Clove made a gesture with her hand, pressing her index and middle finger to the writing between her eyes, and the angel nodded before turning into crystal dust and drifting away in the air. Ardal had heard rumors that some inquisitors were researching ways to conjure angels on command the way that the warlocks of Nihilus conjured daemons, but he always thought this was just wild speculation. Sister Clove turned back to the witch-hunters, “Put them in manacles and collar the children,” said the inquisitor.

The witch-hunters forced Caiaphas and Ardal's hands into manacles behind their backs. Leather collars were placed around the children's necks pulled just tight enough to be uncomfortable, so tight that if you held your head wrong you couldn't breathe. A single, long chain was linked up to all of their collars, with a witch-hunter at the front holding the other end of the chain.

“Move!” shouted one of the witch-hunters, pulling the children along.

Sister Clove loomed over Caiaphas, a sneer crossing her face, “Should have known it was all part of your plan, you despicable shyte! Nothing you heartless blasphemers say can be trusted!”

“Heartless? I'm not the one slapping children and forcing them into choke collars!”

“No, you're the one speaking abominations against God, and trying to bring about an end to the beautiful world he created, an end to all life! If you had your way we'd all be dead! Even those children you say you love so much! Gag them, before they speak any more of their lies!”

The witch-hunters tied cloth gags around Caiaphas and Ardal's mouths, tying them tightly enough to strain their jaws.

. . .

The air in the tent was rank, the iron smell of blood mixed with the bitter stench of bile and waste. Tyson was clearly not long for the world, and anyone who looked upon his pale sweaty face and heard his groans could tell. The wound was from a Saburan warrior’s curved blade, an attempt to disembowel Tyson, and it was green with infection. It was said that Saburans often soaked their blades in either poison or waste before battle, to ensure that any enemies who received even the slightest cut would surely die. The Saburan may have lost his head, but it was unlikely that Tyson would survive the night anyway.

The officers of the Dunn Banner Mercenary Company all stood around Tyson’s bed, waiting to hear his last words, each hoping he was to name them head of the company from now on. Sure, whomever was chosen would be challenged to single combat by many of the other hopefuls, but there was enough gold in heading the company to be worth the risk, and these sell-swords were certainly no strangers to killing for coin.

“Mahla,” Tyson choked out, “Where is she?”

“On her way, sir,” one of his officers answered.

“Sir, don’t strain yourself!” one of the other officers said as Tyson pushed himself up in his bed so that he was nearly sitting upright.

“If I was afraid of death I wouldn’t have become a sell-sword, would I?”

“Tyson! I just heard, came as fast as I could,” said Mahla, as she rushed in the room. She had certainly grown since the day Tyson rescued her. Now a lady, 19 years of age, she had short, blonde hair and a muscled build. Her face was pretty, if you looked at it long enough to see past the scars and the rough, almost leathery nature of her skin. She wore a suit of studded leather armor, with a round shield on her right arm and a short sword at her hip, and stood a head taller even than most of the men in the tent.

“My girl! My sweet girl!” Tyson said. Mahla couldn’t decide if she resented being called “sweet girl” or if she simply thought it was funny. She’d grown up with the Dunn Banner Mercenary Company, and from the time she was thirteen had been fighting in battles alongside the others. Even when she wasn't driving her sword through an enemy's chest on the battlefield, or raising her shield to stop incoming arrows, she still drank, sang bawdy songs, and told crass jokes with the rest of the sell-swords. But Tyson would always see in her the little girl he'd pulled out of that fire that day, fifteen years ago.

“What is it, Ty?” Mahla asked, holding his hand.

“First of all, when death claims me...I want you to lead the Dunn Banner.” At the sound of this many of the other officers in the room groaned in disappointment. All their skill and loyalty over the years meant nothing, because Tyson was soft for this girl. “More importantly, I want you to have this.” Tyson reached over to the bedside table and picked up the small, wooden box sitting on it. He'd long since sold the golden box that originally held the letters inside, but the wooden box had done just fine preserving the letters.

“What's this about, now?” Mahla asked, taking the box.

“It's a secret I've kept from you for years,” Tyson said, “On the night that I pulled you from the fire, the night your mother died, these letters were in her house, they were all that survived the blaze.”

“What do they say?”

“You'll want to read them for yourself. Now, I must ask one more thing. This wound, the infection in it, it will take hours, maybe days to kill me, yet we've not enough time to get to a town and find a priest to heal me. I don't want to suffer.”

“I understand.” Many would have thought his implied request too much to bear, but having seen enough men and women bleed out or die of infection over the years Mahla had always thought that if she were in such a situation she'd want someone nearby who loved her enough to give her a quick death. “Open your mouth.”

Tyson did as she asked, opening it as wide as it would go. This was hardly a dignified way to die, but it was better than the slower way he was doomed to otherwise. Mahla drew her short sword and gently placed the tip of it inside Tyson's mouth. As a mercenary, part of her training involved being taught to let go of those she cared about, being able to accept that people were gone, and that she had to go on living without them. But that didn't make that moment any easier. Tyson would never laugh, tell obscene jokes, or fight by her side again. This man, the closest thing to a father she ever knew, would be gone.

Mahla closed her eyes, and then thrust all of her weight down on the short sword. She could hear it cutting through the flesh and separating the bones of his jaw as it pierced through the back of his head. There was no scream, barely more than a gagging sound for half a second, as she gave him the quickest death she knew how to give. She didn't look upon him after her work was done. She wanted to remember him as he was when he was alive, she couldn't handle the last memory of him being his blank, lifeless eyes staring up at her, and so she looked away and cleaned her blade before sheathing it.

“Merit does us no good, eh? So long as Tyson loved you he says you're worthy.”

“Shut your mouth, Qadir! You could at least wait until his body's cold before you start questioning his last wishes.”

The one called Qadir spat at the other one's feet, “The Void with that! I killed more people than this little bitch, bled for Tyson more times too.”

“If you got something to say speak plainly,” said Mahla, “And once you've said it I'll decide whether or not you can keep your tongue.”

“Ooh, ain't that cute? Little girl thinks she's all scary.”

Again with the titles and nicknames that made no sense, Mahla may have been younger than Qadir, but she was hardly a “little girl.” She was quite a bit taller than Qadir, though admittedly he had far more muscle tone. “You're still not speaking plainly. You seem to be forgetting who's in charge here.”

“If you're too dumb to get it then fine, I'll spell it out for you. I challenge you to single combat for the right to lead the Dunn Banner.”

Mahla could refuse him, their rules allowed for her to say no to the duel and go on leading the company, but she'd hardly gain their respect that way. If she refused him now then others were sure to see this as a sign of weakness and disobey her in the future. If she refused everyone who challenged her it wouldn't be long before everyone stopped following orders completely while she stood around screaming that she was in charge. She'd seen the way undisciplined mercenary companies got. After a while they were little better than brigands. On the other hand, if she challenged him and didn't win the fight quickly it might encourage others, who considered themselves better fighters than Qadir, to challenge her, in hopes that they would succeed where he failed. Killing him wouldn't scare them enough, none of them were afraid of death. The way they saw it they were mercenaries so that they could seek an end to their troubles through either gold or death.

“I accept,” said Mahla. It was customary for the one challenged to a duel to choose the terms of the duel, and Mahla already had a plan forming. Given how strong Qadir was it would make sense for him to choose a halberd or a pike as his weapon in their duel, giving him the reach advantage, she would need to deal with that right away.

Stepping outside, she began drawing a large circle in the sand, one with a diameter of roughly twenty-five paces. “The duel will take place within this circle,” she said, “Leaving the circle means you forfeit, otherwise the duel is to the death. You may choose whatever weapons you wish.” She hoped that Qadir might miscalculate the distance and choose a pike as his weapon. It would give him an advantage for only the first half-second of the duel, after which Mahla could get within its range and her short sword and shield would give her the advantage.

“Battle axe,” Qadir said, “Double-bladed.”

A double-bladed battle axe created a different advantage. Qadir could throw all of his strength and weight behind the first blow and it would be hard for Mahla to block something like that. However, with how much power such an axe would give him it would also make him slow. She'd need to play this carefully.

The two of them entered the circle, both with weapons in hand, and the other sell-swords gathered around to watch the duel, betting on who would win.

“You could always surrender, little girl. It'd be a shame to lose one of our own. Just name me the leader and we can be on our way.”

Mahla said nothing. She knew he was just baiting her. He wanted her to waste breath arguing with him so that he could take advantage of her distraction and lop her head off.

When he saw that his offer wasn't going to get him anywhere, though, he lunged at her, axe pulled back. It was obvious what he was expecting her to do. He thought that either she would try to dodge out of the way, at which point he could throw his weight into her and knock her out of the circle, or that she would hide behind her shield and block the incoming blow. That would stagger her, make her vulnerable. Mahla had only a moment to react. His gut was wide open, but his armor was too thick for her to thrust her short sword into him. Likely the tip would break before piercing his armor. No, she had to fight dirty. She ducked low and swung out her shield, bashing it into his codpiece. Usually Mahla trained with a shield far heavier than the one she used in combat, which made her more capable of using the shield as a weapon. With the force she'd put behind that swing the codpiece caved in, and Qadir's privates were crushed. Qadir was no stranger to pain, but even he wasn't ready for that, and his shock gave Mahla all the advantage she needed.

All Mahla needed to do to win the duel was slash Qadir's face while he was stunned, or drive her sword into his under-arms, which were not armored at all, but this would not do. Again, a quick death would not scare off all other potential challengers. Even a slow death might not. The fingers gripping the axe were protected only by leather, allowing him enough dexterity to handle any weapons he could get his hands on, but not protecting them well. Mahla swung her short sword across twice and cut deep into both of his thumbs, causing him to drop the ax. With the tendons severed and the finger-bones wedged apart with Mahla’s blade it was unlikely he'd ever be able to handle a weapon again.

Qadir was caught in utter disbelief, shock, and agony. His groin was crushed, his thumbs sliced, and he was completely bewildered as to what to do next. How could he possibly win the fight at this point? In a panic, he began to look for the edge of the circle, hoping to throw himself out of it and admit defeat. He couldn't stand the idea of Mahla breaking him any further.

But Mahla wasn't done. Qadir was to be an example she'd make of what she did to those who defied her. She pulled back and swung her shield again, crashing the edge of it into his knees. His knees were armored enough to absorb much of the blow, but the force was still enough to dislocate both of his knee-caps. His knees were pushed backward, making Qadir fall to the ground. Qadir was now shouting in pain as he crawled to the edge of the circle. Even the battle-hardened mercenaries watching the scene unfold were cringing, some covering their eyes. Mahla placed a foot on Qadir's back, holding him in place. She wouldn't allow him to flee. She still was not done with him.

“Kill him already!” one of the mercenaries shouted.

“Or let him go! You've won!”

Mahla gave them all the coldest, cruelest look she could and shouted, strings of spit flying from her lips, “You dare to give me orders? I'm in charge!” Mahla stomped hard on his back, throwing her weight into it. It wasn't enough to break any ribs through the armor, but it was enough to wind him. By his ankle she could see a weak point in the armor, another gap in the plates. She cut through it hard with her short-sword, severing his Achilles tendon. As the tendons and muscles bunched up in Qadir's calf, he shrieked and howled again. The mercenaries already covering their eyes found themselves then covering their ears to block out the screams. “Who's in charge, Qadir?” Mahla asked.

“You are.”

“Louder! Louder, or I'll cut your other heel!”

“YOU ARE!” Qadir shouted, now openly sobbing.

“Well, glad I have your approval, little boy,” Mahla said, kicking him in the side and pushing him out of the circle.

Qadir wasn't sure if he should be thankful that she hadn't decided to kill him after that. To her, though, it made total sense to let him live. The implied threat she was sending out to anyone else who was thinking of challenging her was that she wouldn't kill them, she'd just cripple them. Gold and death were seen as an end to troubles, she'd leave them without either if they dared to defy her. She'd taken away both Qadir's ability to make a living and his ability to enjoy life, and then made him live.

“Do I have a volunteer to get him to a priest before his wounds fester?” Mahla asked. Even with healing he'd never be the same again, probably never be able to be a warrior. Honestly, it was likely he'd have to become a beggar, and would starve, but if he didn't find healing within two days' time his wounds would likely be the death of him. Mahla honestly didn't want him to die. If he died the threat of permanent disablement wasn't as strong. Besides, she was still haunted by the image of Tyson dying from infection.

“I will carry him,” offered one of the mercenaries.

“As will I,” offered another.

“Good. The nearest town is due north of here. The priest there will probably charge you for his healing, since he's not one of the faithful.” Mahla produced three gold coins from her pocket, “Here. This should cover it.”

After the two mercenaries dragged off Qadir and Mahla helped the other officers bury Tyson's body, Mahla retreated to her own tent with the box Tyson had given her. It was locked, but Tyson had taught her how to pick locks, so it didn't take her long to get it open. Inside were two old letters, the seals long since broken, and the paper somewhat wrinkled. Mahla opened the first of the papers and read the contents.

“Dear Tabor,

The young lady who presents this letter to you has total access to account number 121073614. The gold I have deposited in that account is hers, as well as her daughter's.

Sincerely,

King Othniel.”

The name Othniel sounded familiar, but Mahla got the distinct impression that she was missing something. It seemed obvious enough that the letter to this “Tabor” was referring to Mahla's mother, and that Tabor was apparently the owner of some very rich bank somewhere. Maybe the other letter would shed more light on the subject.

“Dear Uri,

“While I do appreciate your loyal service all these years as a servant in my castle, I'm afraid I must demand that you leave at once. You will go to the village of Mamzar, where you will make a new life for yourself. Not far from Mamzar is a bank owned by a man named Tabor. Present him with the other letter enclosed in this box and you will have access to enough gold to live out the rest of your days in peace, never having to work again.

“I know that you love Amasi, but my son, though he may want to, cannot marry a commoner. I intend to marry him off to the princess of one of the Western city-states in order to secure a permanent alliance with them. For this reason, your child must remain a secret. The child born of Amasi's marriage to one of these princesses must be the heir to the throne, or the marriage alliance will not last. Already I suspect that the kingdom of Nihilus is plotting against us, this marriage alliance may be the only thing that can avert war, for Nihilus would hardly want to fight both us and one of the city-states of the West.

“I understand that this is hard, your heart must be broken that you cannot be with the man you love, the father of your child, but it must be so, for the good of the realm. I know gold can't but happiness, but it is the only consolation I can offer you.

“Best wishes to a dear friend,

“King Othniel.”

Now Mahla remembered where she'd heard the name before. King Othniel, many years ago, was the king of Arx. His oldest son, Amasi, inherited the throne shortly after King Othniel died, but was shortly thereafter assassinated, allowing Hadar to take the throne. Then Hadar became the martyr king, sacrificing himself to save the kingdom from Cory, Nihilus' champion. Three kings dead in the span of a few years, it was as if the throne was cursed. The current Queen of Arx was Hadar's daughter, so King Othniel was her grandfather. Mahla's grandfather too, apparently. He must have written these two letters very shortly before he died.

First Mahla let it sink in that she had royal blood in her veins; she was a princess of Arx. A bastard, maybe, but a princess nonetheless. Had King Othniel not had her hidden away she could have been heir to the throne, due to inherit after Amasi had been assassinated. Then another thought occurred to Mahla, she was in line for the throne before Queen Aryn. When Amasi died the throne should have passed down to Mahla, with her mother acting as Queen Regent in her place until she was old enough to assume the throne. It was only because her very existence was kept secret that Hadar inherited the throne and then his daughter by extension. Mahla, by the kingdom's laws, was the rightful queen.

Mahla quickly folded up both letters again and placed them back in the box. She'd need to find a new box for these letters, one with a lock to which she actually had the key, and one less likely to let moisture in. Both letters bore the king's signature, and were more valuable than gold. She rushed outside to find the officers, “Brethren! I have wonderful news!”

“Aside from the wonderful news that you're now our fearless leader?”

“Yes, aside from that. We need to go to the village of Mamzar right away, we need to find a banker by the name of Tabor. Our fortunes have just changed!”

“What about the job Marquis Husam hired us for?”

“If Husam wants warriors to keep marauding the Saburans he can either send his own or hire a different mercenary company. Besides, the young marquis made a serious mistake picking a fight with the Saburans, they'll know well enough to appeal to the Queen of Arx for help. We'll be out of a job soon enough if we stick with Husam. What I have in mind for us will bring us more gold than we've ever seen!”