Author's Note: "Pride" is a stand-alone story written in the same world as my Talos of Evora stories, and can be enjoyed without reading my other works. It is a long, long, long tale of romance, with a twist. It takes place four years after "Elan".
As per my other works, if you're looking for a story of gratuitous sex I'd humbly advise you to look elsewhere. While there are sexual scenes within this story, they are used primarily as plot devices and are not the story's focus, which is ultimately of romance in a brutal medieval setting.
The Hunter
----
A cold, autumnal air emanated through the forest this evening. The trees, once awash with bright greens, were now showing their patterns of golds, oranges, and reds as the carriage made its way along the lightly-traveled dirt path.
The carriage's occupant, Countess Jasmina of Heurbon, sighed to herself as the stiff wheels bounced along the road. She pressed a silken-covered hand gently against her back to relieve a minor pain, a trifle really. She should have been used to the sensations by now, having ridden in carriages all her life since she was a little girl growing up in Beaumont. Yet the pain persisted, and Jasmina found at least some sense of deliverance in being near her home of Heurbon. Her husband, Count Marco of Heurbon, must be awaiting her arrival patiently.
Jasmina frowned, realizing her wishful notion was very likely false. Marco cared of nothing in the end except for his own ambition, as men of power so commonly did. The Count's primary directive when greeting Jasmina was one of contractual obligation, a polite but loveless affair. A mere stepping stone on his path to greater power.
She ran her hands along the sides of her dress, happy with her garb's elaborate design and expensive material. Her neck and hands held some of the purest golds and diamonds of the world, glimmering exquisitely in the lamplight. The lands of Santaria were the richest of anywhere, after all. It's nobility was used displaying that fact in turn.
Suddenly, the carriage jerked to a halt along the dusty road. A moment of silence held in the air before horses whinnied, men yelled, and steel clashed with steel. The carriage moved once more, the driver urging his horses to move with utmost haste. Jasmina looked out her window, gasping when she saw the blood on the ground. Strangers and soldiers alike littered the ground, almost a dozen in all. She soon heard a wail from her driver, his body falling from his seat and thumping onto the dirt path. Jasmina shook as the reality of the situation made itself known, a loud banging on her carriage door frightening her.
At twenty years of age, Jasmina had never known an ounce of danger. Now, it seemed the world was out to test her.
~~
Almost one-thousand collected souls ran into the trees in tight formation, their haphazard collection of armors and weaponry swinging and clanking in the summer light. Most of the men wore shields painted with a blood red moon, yelling as they charged to test their fate in combat.
At the edge of the forest, just about four hundred elves wearing nothing more than leathers or furs rained arrow upon arrow into the mass of bodies. Aleron saw nothing but the danger ahead of him, his sword and shield raised above his body as he screamed. Men fell around him, taking arrows to the chest or neck that somehow pierced the shield wall. And yet, many more soldiers continued the attack.
Shields clamored against sword and flesh as the mercenaries of the Blood Moons company found their foes. Half of the elves stood and fought while the others retreated further up field, and out of the woods to continue their relentless onslaught of missile fire. Aleron's sword slashed into an elf before him on instinct, his shield meeting the elf's own as his ripped through flesh and bone. Blood splashed on his face with an iron taste as he turned to face another elf, his friends falling around him as the rain of arrows persisted.
A trumpet sounded twice in the woods beyond and to the left. A hundred horses were arrayed at the treeline, their riders shouting encouragement to one another before the beasts began to gallop in formation toward the line of elven archers. Aleron spotted the boy-captain Talos at the center of the charge, spear pointed forward as he rode atop his black stallion.
Aleron already knew this was how the day would play out. The captain and the noble-borns beside him would win the day, riding in on horseback as the poor died on foot. Most battles played out in roughly the same manner, the only differences being the amount of poor that had to die before the day was won, or the rich riding in on siege towers instead as the poor charged through the gates of some doomed city.
An arrow glanced off of Aleron's shield as he turned to face his next foe, the elf before him swinging his sword gracefully at him. Aleron had no room behind him to avoid the strike; he had to raise his shield to deflect it, thrusting his own as steel clashed with steel. The elf danced gracefully away, his sword striking horizontally towards Aleron's gut as he awoke with a cold sweat.
~~
Aleron rose from his bedroll, gasping for air as he dropped his sheathed sword to the ground.
Just a dream,
he thought.
He'd had the very same for two decades now, a recurring nightmare which made itself known at least once a month. He had been but a boy then, a foolish one who believed a couple years in the service of some little lord's band of hirelings would make him rich as a king.
That battle in the now-called Tardian Interregnum marked the end of Aleron's career as a mercenary. Even once his wounds had healed, he would never again return to a battlefield. He found pitched battles undeniably unfair, death being dealt to those who had made all the right moves. A stray arrow here or a spear glancing off of a suit of armor there could end a man's career, regardless of their personal skill in combat.
And you never get an ounce of gods-damned recognition for it all. The glory goes to the rich, who only get richer as they loot the best of war's spoils. Sure, to a lad that had been tending potatoes the year before, obtaining a suit of plate would be like discovering your own personal goldmine. But eventually your luck would run out, and you would have nothing to show for it but a stone grave surrounded by endless others.
But if you're rich... If you're rich, you get first pick of the wagon train. You get titles, renown, glory, and hell, even land if you're at the top of the food chain. Aleron now had thirty-nine years of age, and shared none of his youthful enthusiasm. He promised himself he would never again shed blood in the service of another. He would only work for himself.
Aleron equipped his gear and packed up his tent, placing most of his belongings on his horse and the rest on his person. His trusted long sword and kite shield were placed on his back, a well-oiled and loaded crossbow at his hip, and a half-a-dozen daggers sheathed appropriately on the small of his back, wrists, and boots. Lastly, he fastened a long length of rope over his belt, a grapple tied at the end, before he set off on horseback towards a carriage he hoped still existed.
Aleron sighed, realizing what he had given up in Catriona to take this job. To leave the comforts of city life and a decent woman for a pile of coin that may only last you six months? It's always a tough decision.
He was now an entire day's ride from Count Marco's castle in Heurbon, the rotund, haughty noble giving Aleron his latest hunting contract over hushed words. The count had nervously explained the details behind locked doors, not wanting his court to become aware of his young wife's obvious disappearance. As if they hadn't noticed.
Aleron had chuckled when the count had ordered him to retrieve her untouched, as if the missing countess would ever be so lucky. A kidnapped woman on the side of the road was either gang-raped by bandits, or dead. The countess' position may save her innocence for a time, if there were coin to be had. However, there hadn't been a bounty letter received, and Aleron knew that only meant one thing. So, he had declined that the contract should be held to the standard of an untouched woman, and the count reluctantly agreed.
Aleron had seen it all before. He'd had six or seven similar contracts, the only difference this one presenting was the fact that it was the kidnapping of a countess, and not one of a lower lord or commoner. But the details remained the same. To Aleron, the fact that Count Marco hadn't received a ransom notice implied that the countess was already dead. Bandits wouldn't turn down the opportunity for such a payout, otherwise.
But hey. Sixty golden Imperials is sixty golden Imperials, enough money for Aleron to live lavishly for half a year. A decade if he lived like a commoner, not that he would do such a thing with sixty clinking golden Imperials in his pocket.
Aleron the bounty hunter rode onward, day-dreaming of everything yet nothing at all.
--
Half the day had passed by the time Aleron found the ditched carriage on the side of the dusty path. Bodies had been buried by now, yet the footprints of the skirmish seven days past were still readily visible to Aleron's experienced eyes. Years as a hunter had trained him well, divining facts from evidence few others could see. He was glad that the rains of autumn hadn't yet begun, which would have made his task all that more difficult.
Aleron dismounted from his mare and scanned the battlefield carefully. The highwaymen had ambushed the convoy along a bend in the road, hoof-prints of the countess' guard scattered amongst the path and the carriage's tracks stopping soon after. A tree trunk, now rolled to the side of the road, appeared to be part of the bandit's attack strategy in halting the carriage. Aleron noted that the ambush appeared well-planned, and any bandits capable of fighting a noble's guard, even if they were surprised in the dead of night, would be worthy adversaries for a single man to combat.
He moved to the carriage next. It was a small vehicle, suitable for no more than two occupants for any long stretch of time. Much of the countesses clothing were strewn about the cabin, rich, delicate fabrics that few commoners could ever hope to obtain. Aleron found no jewelry, which a countess of Santaria would have had in droves. The fact didn't surprise the hunter, but he was pleased that the attack had indeed been performed in the search of wealth and not for a more sinister purpose.
To an untrained eye, there was nothing more to survey of the site. A battle had taken place, a carriage run off the road, its occupants and assailants were missing, and a dozen graves had been dug.
Aleron, however, noticed that sections of grass underfoot were a pinch more flattened than elsewhere, which matched up to footprints of those not born by soldiers. A branch was broken by the carriage, which had likely been grabbed during a struggle. That, combined with the fact that no blood had been spilt in the carriage, signified to Aleron that the countess had lived through the initial fray.
