Worthy Partners

A killing blow. That moment the eyes go nearly white, looking to the heavens as if that’s where their soul is heading. Not this one, Deacon thought, nocking another arrow on his black bow. The enchanted runes glimmered lightly in its upper and lower limbs. With every draw, he could feel the bow’s power easing the resistance, focusing the arrow. Loose. The arrow flew straight, as it always did. Another caravan raider dropped to the hoof-trodden ground, face tasting that disturbed soil.

“Ha! A pedigree, a pedigree!” Deacon’s partner, Jarek Defiler, called out to the raiders surrounding him, taunting their futile efforts. “You truly cannot expect to triumph over such worthy opponents, won't you say? The score is five to two, our favor.”

“We’ll see ‘bout that,” one of the brigands spat, rotating his shoulders. “Get em boys!”

Do they not know I'm here? Another arrow’s whistle sung from the tree where Deacon sat perched on a lofty branch. This time, it plucked the life of the man attempting to pull one of the women out of the third wagon. He frothed at the mouth, blood mixed with spittle, as it does when the arrow pierces one’s throat. Six to two now.

Jarek’s sword held that familiar red sheen. It fed well this day, with three raiders lying in a pool of their own essence. No wonder the others were so reluctant to approach the menacing mercenary.

“I didn’t sign up for this,” one grumbled before turning heel and running back into the forest.

Deacon had him in his sights, all that need be done was to open his black fingers. But this man had resigned himself, and he hadn’t touched anyone in the caravan, not even the other hired guards who stood back holding the front and rear. Jarek would be irritated if I ended one that’s no threat. Best leave him be. Deacon’s sights returned back to his mercenary commander and those surrounding him. There were still another eight. Deacon had picked off those who strove to harass the caravan workers and guards.

One of the raider spearmen thrust in, trying to catch Jarek off guard from behind. Foolish. The Defiler seemed to know what the man was thinking before he even moved. With a slight sidestep and simple—at least simple for Jarek—swing of his sword, the raider’s spear went sailing in two pieces, along with one of his hands.

The man simply stood there, looking at his bloody stump, confused. Then his head followed his hand. Two more raiders fled.

The rest of the spectacle proceeded as it always did when Jarek and Deacon fought vagrant ruffians. A flurry of Jarek’s sword, a storm of Deacon’s black arrows, and the will and motivation of the forest raiders drowned in a sea of their shortcomings. Particularly one of combat.

By the end, Jarek stood among three more corpses, with two of the raiders on their knees, weapons dropped and surrendering. We are merciful.

Deacon hopped from branch to branch before his black boots finally met solid ground. The eyes of one of the raiders grew wide upon seeing his black bow and coming to the realization of why his comrades on the outskirts of the main fight were dropping like flies.

“A curse, a demon? What is a demon doing all the way out here in the mountain passes?” The raider was dumbstruck, as one of the caravan guards began expertly tying his hands behind his back.

“We’re a crafty lot,” Deacon grinned at the groveling man. The fear in the ruffian’s eyes spoke of never having seen a demon before, especially a Kumzik.

“Aye, that we are,” Jarek smiled that toothy smile, cleaning his blade on the tunic of the fallen spearmen before placing it in his back scabbard.

A rather rotund, well-dressed man rushed forward, nearly out of breath. “By the gods you men were well worth the coin. This time we only lost two guards, and one of my workers a finger. Blessed are thee!” The caravan owner clasped his hands together, shaking them in front of his chest. “Although it pains me to have to inform their wives. Every journey through the passes, more difficult conversations. At least this time only two. I have ye to thank for that. And our other brave warriors!” He heartily slapped one of the remaining guards on the back.

“Our pleasure,” Jarek bowed slightly.

The guards looked at him with an air of disgust. They weren’t subtle in their disdain for mercenaries. In their minds, Jarek and Deacon were taking their jobs, and in this case, showing them up. Wouldn’t be necessary if you succeeded in your task. This caravan lost over a dozen guards and workers in half as many months. But Deacon kept his thoughts where they belonged in that moment—in mind rather than mouth.

However, the captain of the guard was genuinely appreciative. He walked up to them, clasping each of their forearms in hand, a traditional soldier’s greeting. The man was a veteran. “I must be honest. I was skeptical at first, hiring mercenaries for the caravan.” He looked Jarek and Deacon up and down. Not with disdain, but rather piqued interest. “My time as a soldier, most mercenaries hired for my company were nothing more than thieves, taking the coin and running the moment the battles get heated. Perhaps my experiences were poisoned with a few rotten pears.”

“Not at all.” Jarek didn’t hesitate. “Our profession gets a bad reputation due to corrupt men and women. Unfortunately, I suspect that is the norm rather than the exception. Something we strive to change. We long for the occupation of ‘mercenary’ to be one of pride again. A long road ahead on that journey.”

“Indeed.” The captain put his hands on his armor-plated hips, looking around at the devastation of the small battlefield. The road was much redder than when they first arrived. “We best bury the bodies, lest wolves and bears migrate in and make trouble for other travelers and caravans. This road is well-traveled and should be kept as safe as possible.”

“Much safer now with the brigands massacred, ha!” The caravan owner guffawed, his round belly bouncing with every heave. “You did us a great service, as well as all those who travel here. But the road is still ahead, and the journey incomplete. Let us be off then.”

“After we bury the bodies,” the captain said, looking down at the much shorter man.

“Yes, yes. Absolutely. Carry on. I’ll have my workers assist. I'm sure they’re grateful.”

“Not that grateful,” one worker blurted out beside a wagon, much to the laughter of the others.

“Very funny, Roul. Come now. Help our saviors with this most gruesome task. That’s what I pay you wretches for,” the caravan owner jested.

“Alright, alright.”

The workers stepped forth with shovels and linen rags to wrap the bodies. It’s as if they were prepared for this sort of thing. Deacon wasn’t surprised, given how often this particular caravan was attacked on this route. He looked to Jarek, who stood there smiling. Their eyes met, and Jarek simply shrugged with a tilt of his head.

Although it wasn’t asked of them, Jarek chose to assist in the burials. “I made the mess, might as well help clean it up,” he said with no regret. Deacon thought otherwise, opting to sit back on one of the wagons. No one questioned him. In their eyes, he earned his rest.

With the amount of the caravan’s manpower, it didn’t take long to see all the raiders wrapped and buried deep, leaving no temptation for wild animals. Deacon was impressed to see the workers come out of it with soiled clothes but bright smiles. Relief. Must be. These people were hounded for years on these roads. Must be sweet—that little taste of justice.

From then on, the journey back to Sluvjern was uneventful. When they approached the bustling mining mountain town, they were greeted with ecstatic children, and happy husbands and wives, joyous to see their own come home with all their bits and pieces. That brought some comfort to Deacon’s heart at least. So, this is what it feels like to help others truly in need. A little girl, no older than six waved at him with a big smile. She was missing a tooth. He grinned and waved back, a bit to her father’s discomfort. But the mother, one of the caravan workers, assured him Deacon was to be thanked.

Jarek and he were then ushered over to the town’s main inn—a large structure made of logs and built right along the river’s edge. Before they left the unloading of the caravan, Deacon spotted the owner speaking to a woman with two young children. One of the wives of the fallen guards. Poor thing. Her tears began flowing as Deacon passed the inn’s threshold.

The inside was boisterous and full of mirth. Mugs clashed together, splashing mead, beer and wine all over tables and floor. The serving wenches laughed with the patrons, skipping around and dancing to the music coming from the flutist, fiddler and lutist in the corner of the main room. Some were singing songs of triumph and home; others sat wide-eyed, listening to stories of the caravan’s travels from one of the workers.

And in a dark corner, sitting away from the rabble, was the caravan guards, quiet and sullen. They didn’t even take the time to get out of their armor; instead, choosing to nurse the journey’s woes with drink. Their heads hung low, each simply staring into their cups.

A splash of beer. One of the caravan workers thrust a giant mug into Deacon’s hands, splattering the hoppy substance on his tunic and chin. “Here you are, Kumzik! We thank you for saving our hides this round. No better archer me eyes have seen. Not a single arrow missed. Bravo!” the man held up his own mug in salute, before draining it in one go.

“Here, here!” others bellowed in acknowledgment.

“It was my pleasure,” Deacon grinned, setting down the mug. The caravan hand didn’t seem offended, only shrugging with a smile.

Jarek then stepped forth, handing Deacon a cup of pleasant-smelling wine. The man knows me too well. The lukewarm liquid slid down his throat with ease. Surprisingly sweet. Deacon nodded a thanks before stepping away from the loud crowd. His destination? The table with the caravan guards.

“May I?” he asked the sad-looking lot.

“By all means…” one of the guards grumbled, making room at the table.

Deacon sat down, sipping his wine. Only one of the guards looked to him, confusion in his eyes.

“You’re always a quiet one. Don’t care to take part in the celebrations?” the guard addressed him cordially, albeit someone reserved.

“I prefer to observe. Keep my distance. I suppose I'm not accustomed to loud crowds. Bless them.” Another sip of the red nectar coated his throat. Supple aftertaste.

“Understandable. We’re just remembering Kallub and Jorma.”

“Apologies. Those were the two that fell?”

“Aye. Good men. Well-liked.” 

“We’ve lost too many on this cursed route.” The youngest of the guards spoke, never looking up from his cup. “I been with the caravan for nigh on two years. In my time, we’ve lost over thirty men and women, I believe? I’ve slain but five bandits. Even a bear once with the help of Jorma. Speared it right through its throat.”

“Well fought,” Deacon held up his wine in respect. 

“Bah! Jorma had probably double my numbers. The man could wield a blade like no other. That is, until I saw your friend over there.” The young guard nodded to Jarek, who stood on a table dancing with two of the caravan workers and one tavern wench. All with mugs of mead in hand. “He fought like a devil. Never seen such footwork or speed.”

“His skill is unmatched in my experience. An experience that runs over six hundred years,” Deacon clicked his tongue before taking another sip of wine.

“Aye. And then there’s you.” The young man finally looked to Deacon, meeting his pale blue eyes. “Your arrows—never knew it possible. Such precision, from such distances. If you weren’t fighting for us, I’d have feared you.”

“As I said, six hundred years.”

“But it gets me thinking. What am I capable of? How can I even imagine competing with such skill? After seeing you men fight, I best hang up my spear for good. What can I do? I couldn’t even protect Jorma.”

“Come on Sfen, don’t think like that,” the older guard sitting with his back against the wall placed a hand on Sfen’s shoulder, gently shaking it. “You’re a fine lad with the spear. None better in the guard. None of us took out a bear before.”

“And you’re very young, Master Sfen,” Deacon tilted his head, attempting to look into Sfen’s now lowered eyes. “I suspect you’re no older than twenty years?”

“17,” Sfen bobbed his head. 

“Truly? When I was 17, I couldn’t even nock a bow, let alone hit a target. I was decent with daggers, but I’ve seen you fight. I wouldn’t have stood a chance against you at the same age.”

“You jest.”                    

“I do not. Your stance is strong, but you’re also versatile. In fact, all of you men here are good and capable fighters. You there,” Deacon pointed to the one who wielded mace and shield, “I saw how you handled that ruffian who climbed into the fourth wagon. You were patient, didn’t charge in swinging, risking the lives of the workers. No, you made sure you had the man out and on his back before you bludgeoned him. I knew I wouldn’t have to watch that side of the caravan so long as one as smart as you were there.”

The man sat up a little straighter, his face beaming with pride.

“And you,” Deacon now addressed the middle-aged man sitting at the table’s end. “Don’t think I missed how you sacrificed yourself, taking a blow from a raiders cudgel to protect that woman that was pulled from the wagons. And with broken arm and clenched teeth, you still managed to break the neck of that raider with one strong blow from one strong arm.” The guard smiled, looking down and rubbing his arm that sat in a sling.

Deacon then looked to the older man leaning against the wall. “Well, I don’t have to say anything about you. Your talents spoke for themselves.” The older guard simply snickered, a smirk creeping up the side of his mouth.

“Then there's you.” Deacon’s attention was back to the younger man, who was now looking him in the eyes once more. “You impaled that bandit straight through in the front of the caravan. Your spear splitting the wind itself.” Deacon reached over, turning the young man’s head with a gentle finger, exposing the burn marks on the side of his face and down his neck. “And not before putting out the fire he started on the front wagon, saving all those inside, including the caravan owner himself. And you have the audacity to question your skills and courage? You think you’re not worthy? I say folly. I say foolish.”

The older man put a hand on the young man’s shoulder once again, giving him a brisk shake. The young guard looked back down to his cup, a single tear sliding down his face and through the cracks of the burn scars on his neck.

“I say wear those scars with pride, young master. Not many your age can boast of such trials, and the success found within. I hold my cups to you—to all of you.” Deacon held up his wine.

It was then that he realized a few of the caravan workers stood around them, listening. Then each held up their cups as well, bowing their heads or nodding their respects to these brave warriors. The guards returned the nods, also holding up their cups, fighting back tears.

The workers dispersed, leaving the men to their thoughts. That part of the room somehow grew quiet, as if the atmosphere laid a blanket of contemplation and calm over the weary guards. Deacon took it as a sign and stood. But not before the older guard mouthed a ‘thank you.’ Deacon simply nodded with a grin.

Walking back into the lively crowd, he spotted Jarek leaning against one of the support beams on the other side of the hall. He was partaking of what was perhaps his fifth mug of mead, but somehow stood straight and didn’t slur his words. The man’s tolerance for mead is mindboggling. It was almost as strong as Deacon’s tolerance for wine, given his demonic blood that metabolizes alcohol with the speed of a charging lion.

“They look a bit brighter,” Jarek nodded to the guards.

“Indeed. I feel their efforts have gone mostly underappreciated,” Deacon sighed.

“I think I’ll have a word with the caravan owner. Some just don’t understand the plight of a warrior, especially when they’ve never walked in their blood-stained boots.”

“I also think they’ll have a newfound respect for mercenaries here on out. Had to show them we’re not all wicked.”

“An uphill battle, unfortunately.” Another swig of mead crept down Jarek’s throat. “But a battle worth fighting, nonetheless.”

Deacon agreed, then downed the remainder of his wine and placed the cup on a nearby bench before heading out the inn. “I’ll have a walk. The air is so fresh here, and the moon is full.”

“Enjoy. There is still much mead to be had.”

“Naturally.”

Deacon stepped out into the street. The busy goings-on of the day were now subsiding. He walked the path along the calm-flowing river, breathing in its misty air. His dark reflection in the cool waters caught his eye. The life of a mercenary. Our work is never done.