The wagon sped along the road, cutting through the night with nary a concern for where the horses, broken now into a terrified sprint, were going—only one thought drove the driver forward...
escape
.
A single lantern, mounted atop the wagons' barrel, sent a halo of golden light a few feet up the path, just enough to illuminate the way back to camp; he needed to warn the captain before it was too late!
Warn him that Hell had come to the kingdom of Azania.
* * *
Captain Fvelt folded a scroll of parchment and placed it neatly atop the ever growing pile on his desk. Another report, another unexplained disappearance at the southern border, with the locals laying the blame at the feet of demons. Demons!
"Damn superstitious southerners," he growled.
In truth, the news was terribly frustrating for him. The south had proven to be a much greater headache than he had anticipated—every few days news would float into camp that more people were missing across the territory; a month prior, when he had taken this post, the number of missing persons had been normal, you expect some in a region this big, but over these last few weeks the incidents had grown at an alarming rate, triple what was expected.
The captain walked stiffly to his balcony and leaned against the stone battlements, watching the forest canopy sway in the breeze of a sweltering, arid night. The moon was lost amidst a sea of dark clouds, her light barely able to wind its way between the tangle of branching tree limbs.
He had been given the south because of his youth. It was a region made up of vast wilderness and farmers; as far from glory as glory could be. The brass was hesitant to promote someone so young to a true command, like in the north, but they couldn't ignore the heir of a great house either, so a compromise had been reached: he would secure the south as a test of his ability. If he succeeded and showed the brass what he was capable of, he would be promoted to lieutenant-commander and moved to the northern holds, where the greatest military minds of his generation were stationed. After that...maybe a place in Azania's history books?
Fvelt smiled at the thought and turned his eyes back to the present and to the men of his command—his current band of forty-five; a mix of soldiers, laborers, masons & carpenters.
The craftsmen had performed a miracle in getting this overgrown, abandoned fortification back in serviceable condition; the camp was looking neat and orderly too, with tents erected in straight lines, trenches dug about the perimeter with wooden walls still to come. Mneo Keep, as it was called in the days of old, would serve well as his central hub to southern order.
"A light—a light on the road," a watchmen yelled! The chime of the alarm bells began to ring, high and frantic.
The bells set the entire camp to motion; squad leaders yelled commands, soldiers scurried, donning armor, grabbing pikes and shields from the weapon racks—preparing for battle.
Captain Fvelt turned from the battlements, snatching up his sword belt as he did, before quickly running to the lichen coated door of his chambers. The hinges groaned in protest as it swung open; the lieutenant was waiting for him in the shadowy hall, full silver plate gleaming in the torchlight—the man snapped a quick salute against his breastplate
"Sir, wagon approaching, Skelt tried to flag it down at the guard-house, but it barreled right through the barricade."
The captain nodded and the pair began a quick descent down a spiraling stone staircase to the bottom floor of the tower.
"Did they spot the driver, Moore?"
The lieutenant shook his head.
"Skelt barely got an eye on it before it crashed through the check-point...two horses, moving like they were being whipped by the Devil Himself."
Fvelt groaned and bounded across the long stretch of stone hallway, out into the encampment.
"Don't you start with that Devil shit again, lieutenant. I have to take it from the locals, I don't have to take it from you."
"Just keeping with southern tradition, captain," Moore laughed. "One of the scouts nearly broke his damn horses' legs just getting here to warn us."
The chaos of the camp had turned into an exemplary model of discipline and order, all in the time it took to get downstairs—thanks to the constant, rigorous drills he'd put them through this past month; twenty soldiers stood at the ready, organized into neat rows of five.
Lieutenant Moore broke step with the captain, positioning himself in front of the formation. Fvelt folded his arms behind his back and stood a fair distance away.
"Alright, you green bastards," Moore shouted! "The captain wants a word."
Silence fell like a stone—the laborers, masons and carpenters rushed by, headed for the protection of Mneo Keep. They would stay within the confines of the basement until the threat was dealt with.
"I'm sure many of you have already heard by now, but we have an unknown rider coming from the south. The scouts report a single wagon, but we need to be prepared for a potential enemy ambush. You've all heard the rumors—be vigilant, be smart, call out anything odd, but don't approach the wagon recklessly or go anywhere alone. Is that understood?"
The men roared in answer.
"Absolutely dickless, the lot of you," Moore yelled. "Your captain just asked you a question, answer him like men, not pants-pissing boys!"
The men did not disappoint—their answering cry shook the camp.
"Squads one, two and four, line up along the road—take torches and pikes to the front, if that wagon doesn't stop on its own, bring it down," Moore called, his voice rang like thunder, "squad three, defend the keep, if anything approaches the trench, call out and give them hell, but keep an eye on our craftsmen, they're the priority. Squad five, you'll sit in reserve at the top of the hill."
The soldiers roared and slammed gauntletted fists to plates chests.
Squad leaders broke rank and called out a frenzy of orders, urging the men to task with sharp cadence calls and clear voices.
The entire encampment was built atop a large hill, set against a mountain. Mneo Keep was the only forking pathway the road south could take until you got closer to the border and it began to branch off into dozens of tiny villages. If you followed the road north for ten miles you would run into the town of Stivers, a logging colony of five hundred or so people, and the path to the capital of Azania would open up. If the wagon was carrying anything dangerous and managed to slip by, the town of Stivers would pay the price.
Squad's one, two and four formed rank at the fork, shields and pikes at the ready—a motley assortment of torches burned along the road. As they finished setting up, the captain could hear the beat of frantic hooves and the clack of the wagons' wheels along the road. The noise echoed through the entire valley.
"Lieutenant," the captain said, almost under his breath, "join the pike crew on the road, I want your eyes down there."
"Aye sir!"
The big lieutenant took off at a sprint towards the fork, moving so easily in the burdensome plate that Fvelt couldn't help but be impressed.
The captain walked, hands clenched behind his back, to where squad five had taken position at the entrance to the camp. He could see the tension, the anticipation of what was to come, written on the soldier's faces.
The wagon came into view. A light, like a surging comet, hurtling towards the lieutenant's group with no sign of stopping—Moore's voice trumpeted above the rattling of pikes and the metallic clang of shields being hefted into position.
The horses met the shield-wall. A great crash of steel erupted, like the pounding of a giant blacksmith's hammer. The terrified horses screamed. Wood splintered. Moore shouted something the captain couldn't hear and then the light of the wagon toppled.
The wagon's canvas caught fire and it wasn't long before it spilled over to the frame; the lantern must have broken during the fall and spilled oil.
Moore's voice cried out once more and his commands were echoed by the squad leaders. "Pull back to safety," they yelled! A lone horse, galloped past the men and followed the fork towards the encampment road.
"Squad five, at the ready," Captain Fvelt bellowed.
The squad-leader's voice echoed the captain's command—the men of squad five fell into formation; three men at the front with shields at the ready and two men behind, using the shields to keep the pike tips steady.
The blaze at the road grew and sent crackling cinders of gold into the midnight sky. A thick column of black smoke poured from the wreckage.
It must have been carrying barrels of pitch
, Fvelt thought.
Reckless. Stupid
. He would have words with the driver, if he survived.
As the horse from the wreck made its way up the hill it began to slow to a trot, its flanks pumping like bellows—barely able to catch its breath. Fvelt finally caught a good look at the beast for the first time, as it entered the circle of torch-light at the top of the camp.
"Squad five, at ease," Fvelt hollered. He recognized that spot of white for at its neck. The chestnut colored draft-horse snorted.
Fvelt's stomach heaved—it was Merro's horse, Rickard. Merro was a civilian that had been commissioned to ferry soldiers and craftsmen to the southernmost strategic keep, Earth's Hold. Fvelt sent them three days ago to prepare the fortification for his arrival. What had happened?
Fvelt stepped forward cautiously, Rickard, was a gentle horse, but even the most placid horse would kick if it was scared enough...Rickard was petrified, the captain could see it in his eyes.
"Calm down, Rickard, it's me—it's Fvelt."
Fvelt placed his hand in front of the draft horses' snout. Letting him catch his scent.
The horse snorted and stepped against the captain. Fvelt caught the bridle and ran his fingers soothingly along the stiff white patches of hair that dotted Rickard's nose.
Every muscle in Rickard's neck was trembling. Draft horses weren't bred to sprint, something must have spooked him good to get him to run like this.
"Herod, get him to the stables—let him drink and eat all he likes."
A member of squad five fell out of rank, took the bridle and led the horse to the stables. Fvelt had to see the wagon for himself—he ran at a sprint towards the wreckage; thick gouts of hellish yellow flame and black columns of acrid smoke poured into the night's sky, obscuring what little starlight they had. As the captain closed the distance to the burning wagon, Moore fell into step beside him.
"The horses hit us head-long, captain, strangest damn thing I've seen in my life. Before I knew it, one of the men had put a pike through the poor beast's chest—then the wagon tipped. Forgive me captain, but unless I'm blind, that's Merro's wagon and those are Merro's horses, ain't it?"
The captain nodded. The body of Abel, a willful, stubborn black horse, lay in the dirt with a broken pike shaft through his chest.
"I didn't know it was Merro's wagon till the entire thing was on fire, captain. I should have stopped them, tried to calm the beasts down."
"You did the right thing, lieutenant. If these horses got past us and hit Stivers, we'd be pulling burnt corpses from the town's ash-heap in the morning."
Fvelt put his hand on Abel's head, kneeling down to whisper a soft prayer. He had lost men in combat before, but for some reason the death of a good beast always cut him the deepest. He'd grown up raising horses at his family's villa and he'd always loved them—people were complicated, always hiding behind subterfuge, waiting to show you who they really were, but horses? They would always show you exactly how they felt.
