Swordsmans's Solace Chapter 1 part 1

         Between the countless heavily armed soldiers, trained sorcerers, and veteran mercenaries, it would take them maybe a week to die. In another position, Argere would be hedging his bets on who it’d be first and last to go. Right now, he was chained up and waiting to die with them against his will.

         It would have been easy, he supposed, to give in to his curse, and then break free of his bonds. Maybe the scene would convince some of the less decided souls to change their minds and seek another journey. But Argere would still die, and he didn’t feel that selfless today. Even he could fear death, much to his surprise. He couldn’t lie to the trembling in his bones, or the pulsing in the deep reddish scars on his right arm and cheek, buried beneath the skin.

         Perhaps another opportunity to escape would present itself on the road. Ha! He’d have better odds when they crossed the mountains into Cer Dunal, the line of no return. His scars burned at the thought. And here he was, his best chance of escape tied in a journey he knew would kill him. A gamble no man, sane or insane, would knowingly take. But how could they know, when no man came back from Cer Dunal?

         In any case, Argere detested gambling more than anything.

         Before him the most loathsome, detestable woman stood on her balcony, gazing out into the semicircular temple atrium that opened up to the sky, while sheer, three-story granite walls with inlaid marble columns stretched just high enough to block out the half-risen sun. Her captive audience, some metaphorically speaking and a few—like Argere—less so, waited as she began her speech.

         “One hundred years ago, our world changed. The demons cut deep, a scar in our world which has never since stopped bleeding. They still come upon our homes in the dark of night, into our towns, and pick off our loved ones. All the while our friends and families suffer, from the mightiest Galdinian to the most unfortunate Turgian. The demons have made us equals in our suffering. Until now.”

         Easy for an umpteenth princess to spout off that sort of tripe. Argere, who would bet on nothing, would have staked his daily bread that she’d been chosen as a figurehead and not as the sort of leader she seemed to think she was. The way she talked about hardship revealed how little she’d faced, and the only reason she could stand before the expedition now was that her family didn’t consider her influential or important enough to stop her from pledging herself to the temple.

         She was right, though, at least as far as the expedition was concerned. Corpses felt no envy or iniquity, and Cer Dunal would make corpses of them all.

         “We are standing at the forefront of a generations-long preparation, and it is us who will have the honor of Helica’s will. Hundreds of scrolls and books of histories, compiled from all eras, all cultures. All in our pursuit of a weapon which could smite the demons once and for all.”

         Argere did not shake his head, scowl, or spit. He wouldn’t waste the effort, better spent on checking his emotions and gauging his fellow convictes. Perhaps someone among them was crazy enough to attempt escape with him, or smart enough to realize it was the only chance they’d get.

         “We have found that weapon, and it lies over the mountains, in Cer Dunal. Together, with Helica’s blessing, we will do what no one else has done. We will brave the uncharted wilderness, and return home the heroes who saved not just Helvia, not just Galdin, but the world.”

         She hung on those words for several seconds, with a glimmer in her eye and that certain spark of excitement that belonged in a child, not in a young woman already over the threshold of adulthood.

         “So I ask the world of you. Together, we will make it through, should you give me your loyalty, your duty, your determination. And I will give unto you the glory of a lifetime. What say you? Shall we write our names in history as cowards, or as victors?”

         None of the the slaves cheered, but pressed between the soldiers who had long dedicated their lives to the temple, and mercenaries who didn’t care how dangerous it was or who died, long as they got their pay, no one noticed the scattered chain-bound men and women who kept their dour mouths shut. The cheering echoed off the walls and into the sky until they couldn’t tell where where it was coming from.

         Argere wondered where Nilo was in all of this. No luck spotting him now, which was just as well because Argere’s scars already burned at the mention of the adept’s name.

         A simple job, escorting a caravan of goods to the temple. Argere had always known better than to take a job that paid too well, but he’d always been told the temple’s money was good. Lo and behold, it wasn’t, and now Argere had been paid nothing at all, while sentenced to certain death.

         Perhaps Nilo wasn’t even in the crowd, no doubt clever enough to avoid this death sentence. The clever bastard could choke on blackblood for all Argere cared.

         The princess stepped back, and another man took her place. Her second in command, from how he was dressed, which meant he was the arsehole running the whole affair. Some self-important Helvian ponce in Galdinian style full plate, with useless gold decorations riveted on. Pretty black hair and an unblemished face that made him look younger than Argere did not instill confidence.

         He raised his broadsword up, the fuller plated with gold, and Argere surmised he probably had neither future expectation nor prior experience of combat. No real warrior would be caught dead with such an expensive blade and useless blade, not before going into a place like Cer Dunal.

         He at least knew how to carry his voice like a man of authority. “Lady Mirillia has spoken. Commanders make ready, we begin our march today. Let us not keep Helica waiting!” One by one, groups of soldiers filed out of the atrium, though it looked like Argere’s turn would not come for some time.

         Argere rolled his eyes, and looked to the man tasked with commanding the slaves. His astounding height marked him as a Galdinian man—at least a head taller than most anyone else—with red sideburns and a square jaw, and hardened leather armor. By his side hung Argere’s sword, of all things, though it was doubtful he knew how to use it. Argere couldn’t blame him, the weapon a thing of beauty and functionality. The body gleamed with recent polish, Argere’s handiwork before Nilo showed his true colors.

         There were others with him, a few mercenaries with similar armor. Two spearmen, an archer, and an axeman. Save for the one, they were all Galdinians too. Would be a hard fight, and impossible in a straight melee. Argere would cross that bridge when he came to it.

         Argere judged the last one to be Turgian by the long braids of bronze hair that hung all around his head, a warrior tradition in some clans. Since most clans had long fallen apart after the Demonfall, Argere noted the hairstyle with mild interest.

         Then he took a look at his fellow slaves, two Turgian men and a Jaldori woman. All together for different crimes, none of which Argere knew.

         The Turgians cast their eyes down, without any spark of defiance. Argere wouldn’t fault them for it; they were smart enough to recognize the danger they were about to face. They wouldn’t be any help in an escape if they were already broken in, though, so he moved on.

         The Jaldori woman, as short as the Galdinians were tall, didn’t look at Argere. Her eyes were already darting about the room, taking in the iron and leather sights, the rowdy sounds, and the earthy smells that a horde of soldiers and mercenaries presented. He’d talk with her later, though she might not speak Galdinian clearly depending on how long she’d been out of the north.

         Then it was their turn to leave, and the mercenary holding their leash spoke. “Alright slaves, don’t fall behind. We’ve got five days to get to the foothills, and we are not falling behind. March!”

         With the sort of matter-of-fact orders that showed direction and awareness, Argere reevaluated his opinion of his new leader. At the very least, the man’s eyes were fixed upon the task at hand. The two of them hadn’t been properly acquainted yet. No, Argere had been unceremoniously dumped at the soldiers feet, alongside the others he’d been chained to. Starter gifts for those bold and brainless enough to go into Cer Dunal, no doubt.

         Perhaps some hundred convictes had been brought unto the temple, the unfortunates now bound in chains. Some might have been true criminals, from simple thefts to murder. For may others, their only crime would be misfortune.

         Argere did not yet know what his official crime was. He had not asked, and he did not care to. No profession of innocence would be met. There was no way out of the chains save for time, and sometimes not even that. It was only by the emperor’s godsdamned mercy that he’d not been killed. Someday the emperor deserved some of that mercy, but the day would never come.

         Argere steeled himself to bend before his new master. Some thought the path of defiance was to never bend nor break. Argere knew, as he watched his own sword sway in motion, that it was steel which bent and iron which broke.

         And he couldn’t let himself break until he’d cut the life from Nilo’s body.