Sorcerers of Argorilium

The Chronicles of Ferantiana

Volume One - Book One

THE SORCERERS OF ARGORILIUM

W. H. Cann

W.H. Cann asserts the moral right to

be identified as the author of this work

Copyright 2021 W. H. Cann

Published by W. H. Cann

First Edition May 2021

Cover Illustration

Copyright 2021 W. H. Cann

ISBN: (Smashwords) 978- 1005851231

All Rights Reserved

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, or organisations are entirely coincidental.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Contents

Title

Copyright

Contents

Chapter 01

Chapter 02

Chapter 03

Chapter 04

Chapter 05

Chapter 06

Chapter 07

Chapter 08

Chapter 09

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Books by W. H. Cann

Chapter One

Morgaron castle, Kingdom of Argorilium, Spring 2,203

Morgaron castle, situated on a low hill in the southern region of Argorilium, stood like a monolith in the snow-covered land. A low-lying mist carpeted the ground, whirling and eddying in the breeze. Threatening storm clouds drifted lazily across the sky. Despite being well after sunrise, it was still dark and dreary, and the temperature remained below freezing. Nobody from the nearby village was about undertaking their morning tasks, all of them preferring to remain indoors rather than venture out. No creature stirred, and no bird-song could be heard above the rustling of the trees. Not even hunger could drive the hardy snow fox out of its den on this particular morning.

High up in the north tower, which was commonly known as the Sorcerer’s Tower, Davit, the ageing sorcerer, was sitting at his desk copying scrolls. Katriana, his young apprentice, was practising her magic. It was a time of excitement for the young woman, whose skills in the art of scrying was surpassing her Master’s expectations. Scrying was a particularly difficult spell to perform, a skill many took years to develop.

She stood beside a brazier fitted to the top of a four-foot metal stand that was engraved with vines, flowers, animals, and birds. Katriana rubbed her hands together to restore the circulation in her numb fingers, wishing the heat from the fire in the brazier would warm her body sufficiently to stop her shivering. Her fingerless woollen gloves did little to prevent the cold from penetrating her flesh, but she had nothing more suitable for the task she was attempting to undertake.

The chamber was as dark and dreary as it was outside, and almost as cold. The heat from the fires in the hearth and brazier was fighting a losing battle against the icy draught coming through the ill-fitting window shutters. Katriana gazed at them and scolded herself for not having made the effort to replace, or repair them herself, something she was competent enough to do.

The light from the four candles and fire cast flickering shadows that danced over the walls and ceiling, shadows that formed strange shapes and distracted the young maiden. She knew she should not let them do so, but it was not easy when she was so cold. Katriana would have lit a few more candles to increase the light and banish the shadows, but her Master forbade her from doing so. He had assured her on more than one occasion that the spell she was to perform worked more efficiently when the light was subdued, something she disputed, but would never argue the point.

She knew if she did not focus and concentrate on what she was doing, the spell would fail and her Master would be most displeased with her. She sighed lightly and turned her gaze back toward the flames just as a strong gust of wind rattled the shutters. A speck of dust blew into her eye causing her to blink rapidly, forcing her to stop what she was doing to remove it. Her eye watered profusely as she carefully used her long nail to draw out the offending intruder. She then wiped her eye in the cloth she kept in her jacket pocket, blinked a few times to ensure there were no other offending irritants, and returned her attention to the task in hand.

Katriana took a deep breath as she closed her eyes to calm her spirit while attempting to brush aside the thoughts pervading her mind. Taking a pinch of powder from the pouch attached to her belt, she sprinkled it over the flames. As the fire crackled and sparked, she cast the spell. Once cast, she allowed her magical power permeate her mind and body. Only when she felt its power flowing freely through her did she open her eyes. To her surprise, the flames turned pale green for a few moments before returning to their normal colour. Katriana smiled. She peered deep into the heart of the fire, all the while allowing her inner magical sight see beyond the boundary of normal sight.

An image formed within the flames but was too small to see any detail. As the magic continued working, the image solidified and grew in size until it was sharp enough to see clearly. She saw two big burly warriors with extremely muscular bodies circling each other. They were at least six-feet tall, maybe taller, and from what she was able to discern, had numerous scars about their torsos. It was obvious even to her that they were preparing to fight, and the prospect of seeing her first sword fight excited her.

The young apprentice was intrigued, never having seen men fighting before, with or without swords. Master, she said calmly. I have located the one we are seeking. He is muscular, broad shouldered, has a long scar across his back, and is marked with an eagle upon his left arm. It is likened to that you said mercenaries were marked with.

Very good, Katriana, said Davit nodding in appreciation of her skill. Your skill is improving considerably. Have you any thoughts on why an eagle, or which one it is likened to?

Davit was copying an ancient scroll onto one made from paper, his quill scratching noisily across the harder material. Tiny flecks of ink splattered here and there, but it was minimal and acceptable. It was the one drawback when using the thicker paper. The main advantage was that it lasted much longer than the other types he possessed in his cupboard, it absorbed ink more efficiently, and dried more quickly.

His favourite writing medium was vellum made from the hide of young calves, or deer, which when protected in a pouch of the same, far outlasted even the best quality papers available from the lands beyond the southern sea. Unfortunately, vellum of sufficient quality for his purposes was scarce now the tradesman who prepared it had recently died of a fever.

Copying his scrolls was almost as important as the magic he performed. Many of them were between one and three hundred years old, but several of the more important ones were over a thousand years old. These were only removed to check their condition and rotate them, rarely unrolled or carried from the cupboard wherein they were stored. Every scroll he possessed had been meticulously re-written, the copies being stored in a different cupboard and used instead of the originals.

He stopped writing to gaze at his apprentice, whose expression betrayed her delight. The old man smiled as he placed his quill in the inkpot. He then clasped his hands together and placed them on the desk.

Does it mean freedom, to choose their own path in life?

Very good, Katriana. Anything more?

The freedom to journey where they desire, or where they need to. I am unable to discern the bird it is likened to. It is too small.

Davit nodded. There are many eagles nesting in Ferantiana. However, they chose the greatest of all eagles, the White Eagle, known as the Teragon Eagle here in Argorilium. It nests high in the purple ice-capped mountains farther north, and rarely flies south beyond the Huskino Valley.

Have you seen one, Master?

Yes, on a few occasions, but not for many, many years now. There was a definite tinge of sadness to his voice.

Katriana was intrigued by this great eagle and hoped she would be fortunate enough to see one. Turning her thoughts back to the matter in hand, she asked tentatively, Is he the one we seek, Master?

Davit stood up and moved nearer to the brazier to view the image within the flames. It is indeed, he answered, and then returned to his chair.

Katriana tilted her head sideways, gazing at her Master. When she saw him smiling, it made her feel much happier. The flickering flames of the two candles on his desk accentuated the wrinkles on his face, making him appear much older than he truly was. Although much of his face was enshrouded by a long silvery beard and moustache, it did not hide the appearance of great age and wisdom.

Katriana did not know his age, only that he was very old. None would believe he was actually one hundred and twenty-five years of age, except Sortar, her father. His body was worn with age, and yet his unusual dark blue eyes were as bright and sharp as they were when he was a young man.

She looked at her Master, her face creased in a deep-set frown. Will he defeat the one he confronts?

It is not possible to know for sure, but I truly hope he does.

The mercenary was an essential element in Davit’s scheming. The sorcerer had worked tirelessly, carefully manipulating events that would ultimately draw the two warriors together. There had been no other way of achieving what was required, and now those events had reached a critical point. With so much depending on the outcome of this one fight, the last thing he needed were complications caused by the intervention of a third party.

The Master’s reply puzzled Katriana. If what is revealed in the vision is of the future, is the end not decided by destiny and will happen.

Not for certain.

Katriana was even more confused. She wondered if what her Master said made any sense, was sure it did not, but had to trust him. Please explain, Master.

Davit turned to face her, his clasped hands resting in his lap. He took a deep breath and exhaled through his nose while he considered his answer. "When we see what appears to be a future event in our visions, what we are seeing is only one possibility, one that relies on events continuing in a particular way. The future is highly unpredictable and quite volatile. The slightest action, or even a single word can change the course of events considerably, regardless of the influence destiny has on one’s life.

Even that which appears certain is not guaranteed, which is why we must be careful in all that we do. A simple word spoken out of place, an action that is contrary to one’s personality and character; either of these might alter the reaction of another person, or even an animal such as a horse.

The young apprentice turned her gaze back to the flames. The world she entered years ago was vastly different from what she expected, and so was the teaching she received from her Master. Her father was a sorcerer, a well-known and respected sorcerer named Sortar, but she had not seen or heard from him since he walked out of her life four years ago.

A few days afterward, and in a burst of anger at his disappearance, Katriana recited a spell she had overheard when a young child. She did not know what it did and was shocked when the fire in the hearth suddenly flared up. It crackled and spat viciously for a few moments and then died down, but it remained burning more brightly and furiously than was natural for the amount of wood piled in the grate. It opened her eyes to the fact that she too was adept in the art of magic, but it also made her wary and fearful for the future.

Shortly after that event, Davit took her under his care and tutelage.

Katriana had always thought he was a close friend of her father and grandfather, but soon discovered he was her father’s uncle: Her great uncle. As a result, the bond between the two grew rapidly. Even though she called him Master or occasionally uncle, he was more like a grandfather to her, one whom she had grown to respect and trust.

Katriana was now approaching her twenty-fourth year, had been practising magic for four years and was advancing very quickly, much more so than Davit was aware of, or both of them expected.

The image in the fire, which had faded while her attention was partially averted, returned to full clarity when she refocused her attention on it. She watched it carefully, trying to anticipate what was going to happen. Her excitement grew moment by moment as the two warriors clothed only in long trousers and black boots continued circling each other, neither appearing to be in a rush to engage.

Katriana watched with bated breath, the tension increasing the longer the warriors circled. She longed to see the first strike, the blades crashing together, the skill of swordplay. Then, faster than she thought possible, the soldier attacked, but the mercenary was just as fast and blocked the strike. She was enthralled by the scene unfolding before her, expectant and hopeful.

Chapter Two

Northern Province, Kingdom of Heltronia

Far to the south, the Kingdom of Heltronia was basking in glorious sunshine. Spring had arrived early in the southern kingdoms of Ferantiana, and the temperature was already rising, banishing the early morning chill. Wisps of mist drifted across the ground near the stream and low-lying ground near to where two men prepared to fight. Crows flew overhead, honking loudly at each other. Small birds perched in the bushes and trees sang cheerily, hopping from one branch to another in search of grubs and insects. Two honey buzzards perching on the low bough of a nearby oak appeared as if they were watching the two men, unperturbed by the noisy crows that came swooping at them, hoping to drive them from the area wherein the tree their nests were built was growing.

The two men flexed their muscles and began circling each other. This was not just a test of skill, but of nerve and patience. They were skilled swordsmen, experienced and battle-hardened fighters. One was a soldier in the Heltronian army, a sergeant, the commander of a hundred, whereas the other was a highly paid mercenary, who had been fighting since he was big enough to wield a sword.

Silus, the soldier, fought for King, but Alayn, the mercenary, fought for money. However, Alayn was unlike most mercenaries that roamed the land called Ferantiana. He was an honourable and loyal man, but his loyalty to those he fought for usually remained only as long as coins flowed into his pocket. His moral stance always prevented him from being drawn to the enemy of those he fought for, even if the monetary offer was more substantial than he was already receiving. If payment for his services ended for any reason, he stopped fighting, and either remained as a visitor to the kingdom, or travelled elsewhere and a different conflict. Alayn and his men had earned a formidable reputation and were highly sought after, but also hated by many who were jealous of them, their skills, and their freedom to come and go as they pleased.

Alayn, knowing the soldier’s intent, waited patiently for him to make the first strike, being in no rush to begin or end the fight. This situation came about by Silus’ plotting and scheming, the sole purpose to discredit him and his fellow mercenaries. He had hoped to avoid this confrontation, not out of fear or concern, but because he did not want to be drawn into political scheming.

Their thirty-inch double-edged broadswords glistened in the sunlight, held low as if coaxing the other into attacking. Both men stood six-foot-two inches tall, with bronzed flesh covering bodies of solid muscle developed over years of hard training and fighting. In regard to their physical stature, they were equal, but in every other way, Alayn was the better man. He possessed greater swordsmanship, and was lighter on his feet despite his size.

He was a hard and ferocious fighter, not because of his strength, but because he was a mercenary. Years before, he had cared little for himself, only for those who fought beside him and those he fought for. Now it was different, he was different. Alayn had good reason to remain alive: Rosann, his wife, and his two children. Silus, however, was ambitious, cunning, and was intent on proving he was capable of commanding not only a division, which he already did, but a legion.

I was awaiting this chance for many moons, admitted Silus with obvious delight. Just you an’ me, face to face, with no others to spoil the pleasure.

Things change Silus, so do folk.

Hah! blurted Silus. So, a wise one you are now, he added sarcastically.

Wisdom has nought to do with it. Deceit and treachery are dangerous vices. I know more than you think, and this fight is as worthless as your plotting.

The accusation cut Silus to the core of his being, so he decided to wait no longer. Without answering he sprang forward like a leaping cat, his blade flashing toward his opponent with deadly intent. Alayn moved and blocked the stroke with ease, the blades crashing together with such force, lesser blades would have shattered. They exchanged strokes for a short while, testing each other and looking for the tell-tale signs of weakness in their defences. After a while they broke apart and resumed circling each other, blades held low once more, waiting for the other to make the next move.

Some fighters always held their blades high like those who inhabited the lands far across the eastern seas, others about waist height, but Alayn and Silus were of those men who preferred holding their blades low. It helped them to remain in a more relaxed and calm state, finding it easier to move sharply when required. As they weighed each other up, Alayn noticed Silus had changed since the last battle. He could see it clearly in his stance, the way he held his head and the tension in his shoulders. However, Silus had also betrayed his one true weakness; he was easily angered.

Silus sneered at his opponent. What do you believe you know, mercenary?

Most of what is happening in your kingdom, admitted Alayn smiling, knowing it would infuriate the soldier.

You think you know, do you? He laughed derisively and then launched into an attack trying to catch Alayn off guard, his anger slowly heating within.

The mercenary blocked the stroke and counter attacked. As I said, more than you think I know. Blades flashed furiously in the bright sunlight, steel ringing on steel, the force of each stroke reverberating up their arms. Perspiration glistened over their bodies, the occasional droplet trickling down bare chests, dripping off into the dust or soaking into their trousers. Alayn felt good, very good. He felt more alive than he had done in many years.

The adrenalin flowed through his body, the thrill of combat filling his soul. This is what he trained for, what he lived for, what he desired most of all: To fight one-on-one with someone who was equally skilled in sword fighting, not for coin, but because his very life depended upon it. This was different to fighting an enemy when paid to do so, different to meeting a foe on the battlefield surrounded by friends and comrades. This was for personal honour, for reputation. Even though the sergeant was highly skilled with the sword, he lacked self-control, self-discipline, and that one element that made a fighter truly dangerous: To care not whether one lived or died.

Come on Silus, you can do better than that. Alayn taunted him, smiled, and then made a few rapid strokes that broke through his defences, startling the soldier with his speed.

Silus backed away sharply and felt blood trickling down his arm. He looked and saw a wound about two inches long across his upper arm. Drawing first blood don’t mean you will best me mercenary, he said as if it was a mere scratch. To the sergeant, it would be just another battle scar to wear with pride knowing how he came by it.

Without warning he attacked, and shortly afterward, returned the pleasure. He withdrew, a mocking smile spreading across his face. Now we are equal, again.

The mercenary took a swift look at his leg, knowing that Silus would not hesitate in attacking while his gaze was lowered. There was a shallow wound across the lower part of his left thigh. The blood began trickling down into his boot. That might be so, but only in small wounds. It was not deep and would clean itself adequately without assistance.

Alayn was impressed because few men ever managed to wound him. Those who had were now nothing more than decayed bones or dust. He looked up and inclined his head in appreciation. I was wondering why you waited so long to confront me. Was it because your courage was lacking?

Silus’ anger was beginning to rise more swiftly. I needed to pick the right moment, and to make sure your friends were not hiding to save your worthless hide.

You think me that dishonourable? Alayn shook his head in disappointment. If I was, I would have killed you long ago.

You think you are that good?

Good enough to handle such as you. I know you hate and despise me and those who fight with me. Hatred is the rot that destroys from the inside, Silus. When it sets, the only way to be rid of it is to cut it out.

Everybody hates you mercenaries. Silus spat the words out contemptuously. Worthless scum to be discarded when not needed, filling the ranks only when we need more to send into battle first; fodder for the enemy to slaughter.

Alayn swirled his sword around, its blade flashing as it moved, and reflecting light into his opponent’s eyes. You are bitter, Silus, bitter and jealous.

The sergeant snarled.

If you are right about how hated we are, how is it we are still alive?

Good fortune that has come to an end. Silus’ eyes narrowed and his lips curled in a sneer. Soon, you and your friends will be out of my way, permanently.

The truth is revealed. You are afraid us mercenaries will stop you getting a position with the King’s elite division.

You would not be able to stop anything.

You are doing well enough on your own. Besides, you failed to get us killed in the heat of battle, so how could you do it now?

A sudden fit of anger hit Silus. His eyes narrowed and his heart began thumping in his chest. Then he launched a frenzied attack on his opponent, the one who could foil his carefully construed plans. Alayn, however, remained calm and controlled, deflecting and parrying every stroke the soldier made, fighting with equal ferocity.

Hit a sore point, have I Silus? In response he received a snarl, a scowl, and another vicious attack, which Alayn saw was less controlled than the previous one. I thought even you would know losing your temper will fail to advance your position. To press the point, he attacked with a few hard and fast strokes.

The soldier missed a footing, his growing anger preventing him from acting or thinking rashly. Alayn took advantage of the mistake, did a reverse sweep knocking Silus’ sword out wide, and then drew his sword back under his guard. Alayn’s blade sliced across the sergeant’s chest, leaving a long wound that bled profusely. It was not too deep but would weaken him quickly if untreated.

Alayn backed off several paces, kept his sword raised in readiness for the counter-attack and smiled, satisfied with the strike. He glanced down and saw the blood from the wound on his calf was congealing nicely. It would give him no trouble and he doubted an infection would take hold; the blood flow having cleaned out any dirt.

Silus staggered backward. The speed and ferocity of the mercenary’s attack had taken him by surprise. He knew his opponent could move swiftly, had seen it several times in battle and during training sessions, but being on the receiving end made him realise just how dangerous the mercenary was. He felt the stinging sensation as sweat trickled down his body and entered the wound. Silus grimaced as he moved his sword arm upward. He looked up and stared at the mercenary in disbelief.

Had enough Silus? Alayn smiled as he began circling the sergeant like a predator about to strike a cornered, weakened prey, his sword now lowered as if enticing his enemy to attack.

Never! replied the soldier defiantly.

Look at yourself Silus; you are beaten. Your life-blood flows from your body. Do you really believe you can defeat me now?

Silus stared scathingly at his foe without utterance.

It does not have to end here. Even though he knew the soldier had deceived and tricked him, Alayn was no longer elated at the prospect of killing his opponent. He had hoped to have settled their differences without having to resort to bloodshed, but the soldier mocked him as being weak and feeble, insinuating he was attempting to worm his way out of fighting. To defend his honour, Alayn had confronted him and accepted the challenge.

The mercenary had remained hopeful that Silus would back down, even though he knew he would not, for that would mean losing face among his fellow soldiers. That was no longer a viable option now the fight was nearing an end. Alayn saw clearly in Silus’ eyes and the snarl in his mouth, the hatred and contempt the soldier held toward him. The mercenary shook his head in disappointment. Admit defeat Silus and let us return to the castle where the chirurgeon can tend those wounds. You need not die for nothing.

Silus snarled, and then lunged at the mercenary before attacking with renewed vigour. With each stroke, his strength diminished until Alayn was able to deflect every stroke without effort, and still Silus insisted on continuing the fight. Blood running profusely from the wound on his chest now covered his torso, turning the tops of his trousers dark crimson as the blood soaked into the thick material.

Alayn shook his head when Silus paused as pain wracked his body. Enough Silus; this fight does not have to end in your death.

The soldier shook his head and attempted another pathetic strike. Even though Alayn had left countless numbers of enemy soldiers dying from their wounds, he was unable to watch this opponent do so.

It pains me for it to end this way. Alayn’s voice was tinged with genuine sympathy. I once respected you as a soldier and a warrior, but no longer. You have proved to be the fool. He knocked his opponent’s sword to the side and then swept his blade swiftly from side to side, decapitating him in one easy stroke. The severed head toppled sideways, fell to the ground and rolled away.

The decapitated body remained upright for a few moments before falling backward, hitting the hard, dry earth with a thud. The mercenary sighed as he shook his head. He disliked taking life without good reason, or just cause, not that this always prevent him from doing so. Although it could be argued he had good reason on this occasion, he still did not consider it truly justifiable.

Alayn may have fought for coin, but he chose when and when not to fight. On rare occasions, he accepted a challenge of single armed combat as he had done with Silus. This fight had been for honour, for reputation, even though he knew it would damage his reputation in the Heltronian army, not that he cared anymore. His days of fighting for the King of Heltronia were at an end. He wished he had made the decision to leave when he and Rosann had first discussed it. Now the choice had been made for him.

Well, Silus, he sighed, I live and you are dead. I know not if your spirit will find peace, but at least you are free from the burden of life. You were good, very good, but not good enough. Alayn lifted his sword blade upright, bringing it up to his face where he held it for a few heartbeats. He dropped the point downward to the ground, before raising it again in the salute of the warrior. After a few moments of silent contemplation, he dropped the point downward while staring at the decapitated body. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly through pursed lips.

Were his troubles over, or were they about to begin? Alayn did not truly know but believed it would depend on one person: Garoth, the King of Heltronia. He would soon find out there was far more in store for him.

The fight was demanding and challenging, although it was over too quickly for his liking. Alayn had indulged in many one-on-one battles in his early days as a mercenary, but few of them were fights to the death, unlike those in his gladiatorial days. Since that time there had been a few challenges with only one that compared to this one. To this day he had still not found another warrior that could test him to the limits of his ability and endurance. Not even his friend Barock was able to stand against him long.

You were a worthy opponent Silus. What a shame it is that you refused to listen, but you always were stubborn. He picked up Silus’ discarded shirt, which he used to wipe the excess blood from his sword. Retrieving his canteen, he poured some water over the blade and finished cleaning it, paying particular attention to the engraving near the hilt. When satisfied, he stood up and slipped the sword into its scabbard.

As he walked away from the body, several men appeared from among the bushes and trees nearby. They were smiling, obviously pleased at what they had witnessed. Alayn retrieved his shirt from the nearby rock, slipped it on, and looked at his friends. After shaking his head, he laughed aloud. I should have known you would be skulking nearby.

The big burly fellow at the front grinned. Well, we intended to be sure no foul-mouthed soldier got the better of you. Not that we expected him to beat you, but knowing how devious he was, we needed to be sure none of his friends planned to help him.

The others murmured their agreement.

You have my gratitude, said Alayn nodding his approval. Well, it please me to see you here. Now I need not waste effort seeking you out. We had better leave this place as I doubt it will take them long to discover he is missing, he said pointing at the body of Silus, and send someone searching for him.

What now, Alayn? asked Barock.

We leave Heltronia and journey as far away as possible. I believe our presence will no longer be accepted here, not now one of the King’s favourites is dead.

I will be pleased to see the back of this damned kingdom anyway, admitted Calen.

Barock nodded. I agree, Calen. He turned to face Alayn. So, you any ideas where we are heading?

Mattonia to start with, replied Alayn as he started walking west toward their village.

The mercenaries stared at their leader as he walked away. They were surprised he suggested the infant kingdom, not that it could really be called a kingdom. There was a castle which was reported to be the most impregnable of all those in Ferantiana, but no ruling monarchy. A group of wealthy families and landowners formed a governing council to run the land for the good of the people.

There may not be much work for us there, probably none at all, offered Calen.

If we ever get there, added Vernon sceptically. It is a long and dangerous trek around Heltronia and there is no chance of us taking the short path north-east.

Maybe fortune will be with us, replied Alayn. Anyway, who says we will not find another king who will need our swords. Maybe even Mattonia will need us for something. It is a fledgling kingdom, and no doubt Garoth has desires to conquer it, as well as those already suffering. Anyway, I am sure we could find other work to do to earn coin.

Erik stared at Alayn, his mouth agape. You mean give up being mercenaries?

Yes, but only for a while if it means surviving the coming winter. We could then leave Mattonia and seek another king who may be in need of our swords.

The others decided it did not sound such a bad idea after all.

Despite his victory over Sergeant Deveral, Alayn felt downcast as they walked toward their village. They had built half of the dwellings, and the other villagers welcomed them openly. They had even considered settling down permanently, discussed joining the Heltronian army, but finally decided against it. Alayn was now pleased they had not, having recently learnt of Garoth’s ambitions, which he did not agree with, and he certainly would not be party to the unnecessary murder of innocent people. If he had known the truth sooner, he would have disappeared from Heltronia long before this day. Now they were leaving because he knew they had no choice.

The mercenaries once numbered twenty-one, but the battles they fought over the years had reduced their number to nine. The twelve men they lost were all good friends. Their loss, although accepted as the price for being soldiers, was still hard to bear. Seven had died in one battle, which Alayn remembered vividly, although he wished the memory could be erased from his mind.

They had been fighting for ten years without losing a single man, and then the seven died in the one, with the other five in the battles while serving Garoth over the last two years. All nine of the remaining men were around six-foot tall, of big build, and very muscular. Their skins were bronzed and all bore scars of battle, some more than others.

The group, excluding Alayn and Barock, were fugitives from Gaslot, soldiers who had become discontented with army life. Some had deserted, others paid to be released, or were dismissed for brawling. Despite the reasons for leaving, they all had one thing in common: They were among the best sword fighters in the land.

Alayn’s reputation as a skilled fighter was known far and wide, and one by one, the fugitives sought him out. Alayn’s conditions for allowing them to join him were simple: They had to prove loyalty to him, whom he chose to serve, and be honourable in all aspects of their life. Not one had failed him.

Over the years, the group developed an unbreakable bond of friendship and loyalty. They trained daily, always fought side by side and back-to-back in battle, and always protected each other over and above anyone else. Each mercenary owned two double-edged broadswords, one thirty inches long, and the other thirty-six inches long, both having doubled-handed grips. They carried two twelve-inch double-edged hunting knives, and four balanced and weighted throwing knives at all times, as well as keeping several spare knives in their packs.

All of them were highly skilled in the use of sword, knife, and any other weapons they carried. Their skills and efficiency had earned them a fearsome reputation among the armies and divisions with whom they served, which, although they did not know it, would be of great benefit to them in the days to come.

Unfortunately, the demand for mercenaries had gradually diminished over the decades, and now there were few left in Ferantiana. It was a similar situation in Helvaniss, the land to the west of the River Marothos, commonly known as the Western Kingdoms. However, the use of hired soldiers was common among merchants travelling from one kingdom to another within Helvaniss, a sight that was now becoming more frequent in Ferantiana.

The other major factor in the demise of mercenary groups was the countless battles and skirmishes occurring between neighbouring kingdoms, usually over land ownership. There was also an increasing level of mistrust toward them in general, primarily because of the few unscrupulous individuals who changed loyalties depending on how a battle fared, or if enticed by the offer of more coin. Despite Alayn’s honourable behaviour, never having changed sides for these reasons, it did not prevent some people becoming suspicious and distrustful of him and his group.

A few years after he was crowned king of Heltronia, Garoth’s behaviour, and his ambitions changed radically. He became greedy and unscrupulous, coveting the lush and fertile lands bordering his kingdom. To fulfil his ambition, he sent spies to the outlying villages to spread rumours suggesting neighbouring kings were attempting to weaken him, and paid outlaws to kill Heltronian homesteaders near the borders. To quell the growing disquiet and fear among his people, he increased the size of his army and began building outposts near the borders to protect his kingdom and its people.

Once the outposts were fully manned and his army was of sufficient size, the annexation began. Mile by mile, he extended his borders, slaughtering any who resisted and expelled all who refused to swear allegiance to him. The neighbouring kings called their men to arms and defend their land, but they were ineffective against the might of Heltronia. Had Alayn not already committed to serving Garoth, he would have gladly served those kings. They had accepted Garoth’s coin to help deal with the outlaws, but when the annexation of land began, Alayn wondered