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Along the Darnkilden Border
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Grumbling to himself, Baldor pulled up and spied the trailhead suspiciously. The track through the gloomy forest ended at a stable with a cramped paddock and a lowly stablehand’s hut. A group of men, four or five, maybe more, loitered near the paddock rail. The paddock was full, and another ten or so eenus were saddled and tied to hitching posts spread around the confined opening in the forest. Baldor had been riding east toward the Drakan frontier for two weeks, searching for Drakans. His butt was sore, and his purse hurt from buying supplies.
A stable hand came up and offered to take his mount; Baldor shooed him away. “Money grubbers,” he grumbled, “I can tie my own eenu.” Roping the reins around a hitching post, he eyed the men hanging about the paddock. Nakish, he surmised from their dark skin and coiled hair. I’m in the right place. It was odd, though not wholly uncommon, to find so many Nakish together in one place this far west, but then he was looking for two centuries of them, Drakan hoplites specifically, the survivors of the Battle for Wedgewood. These men were definitely soldiers, dressed as they were in their mish-mash of armor and clothing. When they had attacked Wedgewood, they came dressed and equipped as free mercenaries, not as imperial Drakan troops. The subversion was an attempt to lull Western Alliance attention.
A series of cracked and moss-covered flagstones wound up the hill beyond the paddock. The stones were slick from the recent rain, and Baldor’s mood matched their condition as he was soaked through. Making to climb the steps, one of the soldiers intercepted him. The soldier’s short sword, a Drakan gladius, poked him in the chest. “State your business, Doroman,” said the soldier.
Baldor swallowed. The soldier made no attempt to be subtle or oblique; the hand holding the blade was scarred, and the vambrace behind it was worn and scarred as well. “I was told I can find Larech here. I have information for him,” which was a calculated lie.
The sword lowered, and the soldier waved to another Drakan.
Baldor followed the second soldier up the stone stairway and came to the foggy courtyard of an inn. A sign hung above the main door, and in gold lettering, it read Hatchet Sisters. Leading Baldor into the dim interior, the Nakish grunted, “He’s in the corner.”
A fire burned in the hearth, and Baldor made his way past the cramped tables and warmed his hands at the fire. Slowly, the cheery radiance penetrating his soggy rain slicker and leggings, he became aware of the quiet in the nearly full taproom. He sneaked a glance at the table nearest him; the three Nakish men sitting there were silent. One had his hand on a mug but made no move to lift it.
A man, approaching from the left, caught Baldor unaware. “You’ve got some cheek coming in here, Timmy. What do you want?”
“I’m not a Timmy,” he shot back. “I’m Plains. And I have something for Larech.”
The challenger glanced back to the corner, got a nod, and told Baldor to come with him.
There were three men at the table. Baldor took the empty chair.
“Baldor Prairiegrass,” said Agent Larech of the Drakan Empire’s secret service, the Washentroufel. “You are a long way from Wedgewood.”
“Oi, and a hard time it was finding you too. I’d thought you’d run all the way to Stith Drakas.”
The man sitting next to him pulled a dagger and slammed it point-first down into the table between two of Baldor’s fingers.
Waiting for the blade to stop vibrating, the third man, the one sitting beside Larech, said, “That’s a hello greeting.”
After almost shitting his drawers, Baldor wanted to say they were being sore losers but bit his tongue.
“Whatever it is you’ve come to say, it had better be important. I’d hate to see you leave empty-handed, or maybe no-handed,” Larech said.
“What I’ve got to say is worth gold.”
A snort came from the dagger-man, and he grasped the weapon and began working it back and forth until he could pull it free.
“I need to see the gold first,” insisted Baldor.
The dagger angled for Baldor’s jaw, and its owner said, “And why should we pay one silver sliver when I could just take your left eye and leave you with your right. That would be a good deal for you.”
Larech gave a bare shake of his head. “Not yet. You’ll spill our drinks. We’ll take this outside.”
When the dagger wielder made to rise and follow, Larech said, “Centurion, you should stay here. You’re likely to kill my virolmir. I can let you do that later.” Then, to the other man, Larech asked, “Care to bear witness, decurion? In case I miss an important detail.” His smirk anointed his sarcasm.
Outside, across the cobblestone courtyard, Larech said, “Okay, Baldor, what is so important that you would risk your life? Even for gold?”
Baldor unfolded a piece of parchment and explained what the drawing was, to the extent he could, how it had been used during the battle, and where the Timmies were making more.
“A rifle?” the decurion asked.
“Hmm, yes,” said Larech. “He told Captain Irons the same story when we were in Wedgewood, but it appears he has more evidence. Larech handed Baldor a gold coin.
While Larech had not introduced the decurion, Baldor had seen him in the Paleowright command tent during the Battle for Wedgewood. It was widely accepted that Decurion Uloch and his two Drakan hoplite centuries were the only things that had saved the Paleowright army from destruction.
Then Baldor demanded more gold for his next piece of information.
Larech and Uloch listened.
“Captain Irons, you say?” asked Uloch. He’d met the Scarlet Savior captain and admitted the man was ruthless and suited for the mission that Baldor outlined.
“When is this supposed kidnapping to happen?” asked Larech.
“In a month, give or take. My source didn’t know exactly. He wasn’t going on the mission.”
“Did you know any of this?” Uloch asked Larech.
He shook his head. “Bloody Parrots are tight as a vice with information about Ancient technology. But I’m not surprised. Helprig has had a hard-on for this Achelous ever since his woman, Marisa of House Pontifract, spurned Helprig in Tivor.”
Baldor held out his hand, and Larech, with distaste, tossed him another heavy coin.
“And I have more information, and this one will take five gold.” Before either of the Drakans could react, perhaps violently, he pulled out the proof from inside his rain slicker. He dangled it in front of them.
Larech made to grab it, but Baldor pulled it back. “Uh, uh. Five gold first. Then you can have it. Even use it. I’ll show you how.”
After the agent had forked over the gold, Baldor led them over to what he assumed was a storage shed. They went inside, and before they closed the door, Baldor showed Larech how to use the device. Then he closed the door.
“Well?” asked Baldor. “Have the Paleowrights given you anything like that?”
“No,” answered Larech, fiddling with the controls. Then he gave the telescopic night-vision goggles to Uloch to try.
“You found that where the Ancient was killed?” Larech asked after hearing the story of Quorat.
“Yes. It was kicked under a log.”
Uloch wanted to be skeptical. He didn’t want to believe, but if the Ancients had come back to Dianis and were fighting amongst themselves, squabbling over aquamarine, then all the stories he learned in the church of Diunesis Antiquaria were true. Almost true. The Paleowright priests had always portrayed the Ancients as benevolent and wise, not the cold-blooded murderers that Baldor, the virolmir – Northwren for wisdom thief—said them to be. As he scanned the dark storage shed with the goggles, he could see as if it were day. Moreover, there were strange numbers along the inside edges of the goggles that changed depending on what he looked at. If only he knew what they meant.
Turning, Uloch moved silently to the left, watching Larech and the spy look to where they thought him to be, but they couldn’t see in the dark. He could. Going to the door, he pushed it open, and the device automatically compensated for the daylight. Fumbling for what Baldor called the ‘make-big’ button, he pushed it. Sure enough, everything far away suddenly leapt much closer, giving him vertigo. Scanning his surroundings, he practiced zooming in and out. The experience was amazing. The knowledge of what the device offered was exhilarating. He could see the smallest bird over a mile away.
Pulling the goggles off, he studied them. Somehow, knowing the Ancients truly existed and were not the saintly benefactors the priests preached them to be made him feel better. The Ancients were potentially just as weak and flawed as everyone else, and that made him believe even more. They were Human.
