Songs of Ademar

Author's Note: This is a sequel to my storyThe Squire and the Baronessbut it can be read as a standalone. This story catches you up on everything you'll need to know, so reading the first installment is not a requirement.

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During his youth, Ademar had dreamt of grand and daring deeds: duels against wicked kings, hunts for feral dragons, valiant charges against hordes of barbarians. None of those dreams had included a night-time raid alongside a band of mutinous mercenaries.

Shame dug its fangs into his heart as he scurried alongside the mutineers. While the forces of Jadewall were invaders who deserved to be thrown back across the border, he'd expected the war to be fought in the open, with gleaming lances and fluttering banners, not knives in the dark. He'd certainly not expected it to be resolved by bribing a mercenary company to betray their employer.

No bard in their right mind would ever sing of such a deed.

"I know it's grim and ugly business," Sir Cheron had told him. "But if a few slit throats in the night save a thousand men from death on the field, then it's a price I'm willing to pay."

Ademar glanced over at the other knight, who kept pace beside him. Like Ademar and the other infiltrators, Cheron was armored only by a simple gambeson. The rustling of chainmail or the clatter of proper armor might have caught the notice of the sentries on duty. Many of the wretched mercenaries likely couldn't have afforded proper armor anyway; thus the shoddy gear of the knights helped them blend in.

Cheron caught the glance and gave Ademar a small, reassuring smile. Though Cheron was only a few years older than Ademar, he'd been fighting for Duke Anton of Asparra for over half his life.

An owl-like hoot sounded from further ahead, serving as a signal to halt. Ademar crouched down in the tall grass alongside the dozen mercenaries. To a man, they were hardened and greedy killers, who had been Ademar's enemy a few days ago. Ademar had even slain a few of their comrades during the first few skirmishes. Promises of silver and the machinations of Duke Anton's spies had shifted their allegiance, though Ademar wondered if it might shift again like a leaf on the wind.

Over the low hill rested the enemy camp. Great banners displayed the burning green tower of Jadewall. Mounted sentries with torches moved in a slow circuit around the camp. Ademar swallowed and his hand tightened around the hilt of his blue-gray blade; the mere presence of the blessed sword was enough to sooth his soul. Even more soothing were the memories of the alluring baroness who had granted Stormbane to him along with his knighthood. In the darkness he saw Selinora's silver-streaked hair and her heaving, ample bosom. The aches of his body faded as he recalled the gentle warmth of her touch. For a fleeting moment, he pondered disappearing into the darkness and riding all those leagues back to Selinora's side.

Yet he had sworn a vow to aid Duke Anton in the defense of his lands against the invaders from Jadewall. Abandoning the cause to sate his own needs would spit in the face of the knighthood Selinora had granted him and would make him unworthy of the legendary sword in his hand.

True knights kept to their vows. But what if such vows led them down dark, treacherous paths? What good was a knightly vow if it meant helping oath-breakers?

And yet such a mutiny would save many lives, as Cheron had reminded him.

Dilemmas on the nature of his chivalric vows would have to wait. One of the patrols veered away from the camp and the lead rider flicked his torch back and forth.

"That's the signal," rasped Wymark, the leader of the mutineers: a tall, large-nosed man with a wild head of black hair.

"Are you certain those sentries can be trusted?" Cheron asked. "If we rush across open ground and they raise the alarm, we won't stand a chance."

"If you trust us, you can trust those sentries. The same silver which swayed our hearts also swayed theirs."

Cheron and Ademar shared a long, tense glance.

Wymark and his men rose, loping like wolves across the plain. After a soft prayer to Saint Ecfirth to steady his soul, Ademar rose to follow, with Cheron close at his side, blade and shield at the ready. The mounted sentries fell in alongside them, greeting Wymark and his men with wide, greedy smiles, which faded at the sight of Ademar and Cheron.

"Who are they?" asked a sentry. "Wasn't part of the arrangement."

"Sir Cheron is Anton's man; the duke insisted he come along to ensure the deal was honored. Aderic is Cheron's squire or something. I don't know."

"It isAdemar," he replied with a low growl. "SirAdemar to be precise; I am no squire."

Low snickers rippled through the cutthroats but Cheron laid a hand on Ademar's shoulder.

"Easy, easy." Cheron then smiled up at the sentry. "Just get us to Lord-Captain Folcard's tent."

Ademar tore his wary gaze from the mercenaries to sweep along the quiet camp. More than a thousand men rested within the tents, some no doubt in a drunken stupor, others wallowing within the grip of their wounds. Faint singing wafted through the night.

"Hurry it up," hissed a rider. "Next patrol will be coming around soon and they aren't with us."

The riders led them to a gap in the makeshift fence of sharpened stakes around the camp. Beyond awaited another conspirator: a lad in his teens carrying a longbow. He greeted Wymark with a fond smile and beckoned deeper into the camp.

"Try to blend in," said Wymark, looking pointedly at Cheron and Ademar. "We're just mercenaries returning from patrol to make our report."

It was no simple task. Ademar towered over most of the other mercenaries and his clean-shaven face set him apart from the ragged, bearded cutthroats. He did, however, share the signs of a bloody life; an old wound ran from beneath his cheekbone and back towards his ear, where his mentor's blade had nearly claimed his life. The ghastly injury had eventually healed into a rakish and savage scar, which he supposed might help with the ruse.

Wymark rested a hand on his axe and marched purposefully into the camp. Sweat coated Ademar's palms as he stuck close to Cheron. They passed by dozens of tents, each one filled with levies, knights, or mercenaries who would have cut them to pieces had they known what was happening. His hand nearly unsheathed Stormbane when a burly man stumbled from a tent and bumped into Wymark.

"Sorry mate," Wymark said with an amiable grin, before giving the bigger man a friendly clap on the shoulder.

The big man grunted, yawned, and mumbled something about needing to take a piss.

Tension coiled around Ademar's throat as they pressed further into the camp.

"Steady, steady," said Cheron in a soft whisper. "Remember: Duke Anton has his knights waiting just beyond the trees. Once the chaos erupts here, all we need to do is keep our heads down."

They arrived at a large tent, where two mercenaries stood guard. The pair were better-equipped than the rest: shirts of mail, breastplates, half-helms, kite-shields, and long axes.

"Wymark?" one of the guards asked. "Thought you got captured on the flank this morning."

"Aye, but you know me. Slippery as a snake."

Wymark spread his hands wide and smiled.

"Wanted to give my report to the Lord-Captain personally. Overheard some very interesting whispers during my brief captivity."

A guard glanced past Wymark, his eyes settling upon Ademar.

"Don't remember this big bastard," he said.

"New recruit," Ademar said quickly, earning a faint, brief glare from Wymark.

No doubt he'd blundered right past whatever lie Wymark had prepared.

Suspicious eyes drifted down to Stormbane.

"Damned fine-looking sword for a new recruit."

"You can stay out here and gawk at the new man's fancy sword if you like," Wymark said quickly as he approached with slow, steady steps. "But I need words with the Lord-Captain."

"He's busy," said the other guard with a faint snicker.

Laughter echoed through the other mercenaries.

"Oh, he's with his whore?" one asked.

"Don't let Folcard hear you call her that," said the guard with a soft laugh. "But aye, he's in there 'relaxing.'"

"Well, the Lord-Captain might be inclined to loan his fancy whore to me once I tell him what I learned," said Wymark.

The tension tightened even further around Ademar's heart. Treachery, perfidy, and mutiny were bad enough...but now an innocent bystander was caught in the middle. Of course, a mercenary's whore was not akin to the damsels and princesses of the chivalric tales, but that changed nothing as far as Ademar was concerned. Their goal was to capture Folcard, not to steal his plaything.

The guard sighed and looked over his shoulder at the tent. The simple little movement was the last act of his life. In one fluid movement, Wymark drew a dagger from his belt and raked it across the man's throat. The mutineer's hand rose to clamp over the dying mercenary's mouth before he could cry out. More mercenaries lunged with the speed of vipers, skewering the second guard with their spears and daggers.

Cheron and Ademar cursed, drawing their swords. Farther down the row of tents, a man pissed and stared up at the sky, while two others drunkenly shuffled back to their tents.

Wymark whistled and stepped into the tent. The others dragged the bodies in behind them.

"Almost done," Cheron muttered.

Together they followed, stepping over the bloodstains left by the mercenaries who had remained true to their Lord-Captain.

Within the tent was a table covered in maps and empty cups. A flap beyond led to another section of the tent, from which emanated sharp cracking sounds.

"You two," Wymark said, pointing to his men. "Don the armor of the dead and get out there. Play like good little sentries while we finish up here."

Blood dripped from his knife as he stalked forward. Another sharpcracksounded from beyond the next flap. Trembling, Ademar coiled his hand tightly around Stormbane's hilt and pressed onwards.

He and Cheron nearly bumped into Wymark's back as they emerged through the flap. Within was a large cot, upon which sprawled a short, muscular man with a thick moustache and bushy black hair. Red welts adorned his bare chest. Cords of silk entwined around his wrists and ankles, pinning him to the cot.

Beside the cot stood a tall woman in a night-black gown. The fabric covered nearly every inch of her body, leaving only a hint of her neck exposed. Long, sun-gold hair streaked down her back in a sharp contrast to the sheer black of her gown. Sparkling green eyes shifted from Folcard up to the intruders. Ademar nearly took a step back at sight of her startling, statuesque face, which reminded him of the marble statues in palaces or grand temples. She wielded a scourge of silk, which she'd apparently been using to rake across Folcard's chest.

Such sins were as unfamiliar to him as mutiny and perfidy. He'd only enjoyed the touch of one lover, and Selinora had never sought out any such degradation.

"By the cunts of the saints!" Folcard bellowed. "I told you lot to give me some damned privacy."

"Thank you," Wymark said to the tall woman. "Saved us a bit of work by tying him up."

She took a slow, graceful step back, jade-green eyes shifting across the intruders.

"Isabelica," Folcard sputtered. "Cut me loose. Quickly."

Long-fingered hands reached down but Wymark lifted his knife, from which dripped the bloody of the loyal sentry.

"No, no, no. He paid you to tie him up so leave him tied up."

Ademar took a slow, careful step forward, glancing between the whore, the mercenary captain, and the tent-flap behind him. Cheron moved in a wider arc: a practiced movement to watch over Ademar's flank.

Bloody knife still raised, Wymark approached his former employer.

"How much silver did Anton offer you, eh?" Folcard snapped. "I'll double it. Triple it. By the saints, you can have Isabelica too."

"My contract was with Folcard and him alone," the whore said coldly, twirling the flogger in her grasp as she took a slow step back.

"I'm the commander of the company now," Wymark said with a gloating smile befitting a tournament champion. "So any contracts and obligations pass from Folcard to me."

"While it would be a delight to bind and punish one such as you, I am afraid my contract was with the man, not the company."

Another step back brought her closer to the far side of the tent. Neither Ademar or Cheron moved to stop her; they had not come there for the fancy whore.

"Saints' blood," Folcard cursed. "Untie me at once and-"

"Easy with the curses, captain," Wymark said, wagging his bloody blade disapprovingly. "You know the saints disapprove of such talk and you're going to be meeting them soon."

With that, he plunged the blade into Folcard's neck. The Lord-Captain gurgled as blood surged forth, staining his bare chest and the cot. The woman shirked back, graceful poise faltering at the sight of her client's death.

"Spirits below," Ademar cursed. "Duke Anton wanted himalive."

"I know. But he thought he could offer me his whore. As if I could be bought so easily..."

He left the blade in Folcard's neck and stepped around the cot.

"Now come here," he hissed at the courtesan. "Let's negotiate your new contract."

His hand reached out, still flecked with the warm blood of his commander. Ademar stepped forward, blade at the ready.

Isabelica twitched her wrist. It was such a simple, delicate motion, like the flick of a painter's brush upon a canvas. But something in the angle of the movement caused the fronds of the flogger to rake forth with terrifying power and precision. The silk slashed across Wymark's face with the fury of an actual weapon. He sputtered and reeled back, bringing a hand up to his bloody eye.

"Filthy fucking whore!"

Isabelica turned to run, making for a gap in the canvas walls of the tent. Summoned by Wymark's cries, two more cutthroats stormed in from behind Ademar. The wounded mercenary tore his blade free from Folcard's gushing throat.

He made a wild lunge towards Isabelica, who was still fumbling with the canvas to find a way through.

Stormbane leapt forth as if guided by an unseen divine hand, blue-gray steel gleaming in the candlelight. The sacred blade slashed through Wymark's wrist. Bone and flesh parted easily before the ancient weapon. A hideous wail filled the tent as his severed hand flopped to the ground, still clutching the dagger.

"Saints take us," Cheron snapped.

Before Ademar could reply, two of Wymark's men lunged towards Ademar, axes seeking vengeance. Cheron, however, remained a true and proper knight. His blade darted forth to deflect one blow and allow Ademar to shift. He wheeled back, Stormbane trailing blood, and countered another axe-slash.

Chivalric training and knightly strength far outmatched the wild, desperation of the greedy mercenaries. One died with Cheron's blade in his guts while the other crumpled beneath a furious pommel-strike from Ademar's sword.

On the ground, Wymark continued to wail and scream.

"Go!" Cheron shouted.

Isabelica continued to fumble with the canvas in search of a way through. Ademar sped up matters by making a precise slash through the fabric to clear a path into the night. Without a word of gratitude, she rushed out into the darkness, the two knights hot on her heels.

"I suppose we raised enough chaos and the mercenaries will be too confused to help defend the camp," Cheron muttered. "Duke Anton's plan can still proceed, I hope."

The screams from the tent had raised a general alarm through the camp. Bells clanged and horns howled. Drunken, sleepy men stumbled from their tents, gathering their wits and weapons.

"Foolish," Isabelica hissed under her breath.

"This man's foolishness saved your bloody life," Cheron snapped.

"I was speaking ofmyfoolishness, not his," she snarled back. "I should have gone along with it. A man like Wymark would have been easy to control."

"What's done is done," Ademar said quickly. "We need to get out of here. A tide of armored wrath will be coming into the camp before long and I they will make little distinction between Jadewall's men and us."

Isabelica glanced down at her flogger, still flecked with Wymark's blood. Her jade-green eyes darted between the two knights.

"I can make my own way."

"I am sure you can," Cheron said. "Come on, Ademar."

"Folcard's whore killed him!" someone shrieked from behind them.

Three mercenaries staggered out of their tents, clumsily donning tunics and strapping sword-belts to their waists. They looked past Ademar towards the commander's tent, then to Isabelica.

Vengeful rage drove them forward.

There was no time to sway them, no possible chance they'd see reason. Stormbane rose to batter aside the first blade and Ademar pivoted to make a wide sweep that tore open another man's face. Despite his misgivings, Cheron did not abandon Ademar and instead rushed into the fray. Brutal slashes and precise thrusts soon turned the three mercenaries into twitching, moaning heaps upon the ground.

When Ademar turned back, Isabelica was darting between the tents, her golden hair gleaming in the moonlight.

"Come on," Cheron snapped. "We need to leave before the duke's lancers arrive. We'll get caught in the middle and without Wymark to get the mercenaries under control, it'll be a night of madness."

"I'll catch up," Ademar said, glancing down the path where Isabelica had disappeared.

"Listening to all those bards' songs is going to get you killed one day, Sir Ademar," Cheron said with a snort.

A downward thrust of his sword ended the suffering of a whimpering mercenary. Ademar flinched but clasped the other knight on the shoulder.

"Go. And if you must, blame this entire mess on me."

"As long as Duke Anton spills enough Jadewall blood, he'll be pleased. Now go and save your damsel."

Cheron turned and sprinted in the other direction. Even as Ademar veered to pursue Isabelica, his mind churned with doubts and indecision. By the blood of the saints, what was hedoing? His mission had been to capture a mercenary commander so the company would switch sides and help take the camp. Instead he'd cut off the hand of Duke Anton's conspirator and upended the entire scheme, all for the sake of a whore, a woman who herself had admitted she could have gone endured Wymark for a time.

And rather than help Cheron escape the camp or help Anton's knights finish off Jadewall's forces, he was sprinting through the night like a madman after a stranger.

The long gown made Isabelica's escape a slow one. A mercenary, heeding the cries in the distance, grabbed her by the shoulder but she twisted with graceful ease, and raked her long fingers across the man's face. He yelped, reeled back, then yelped again as the flogger slashed across his lips, nearly tearing them open. Ademar caught up and shouldered the man into the ground.

The courtesan gave him a baffled look.

"Horses," Ademar blurted. "Where are they?"

She pointed with the flogger. Together they ran through the chaos, with Ademar occasionally fending off men who had heard the cries about her alleged attack on Folcard. Before long, however, the camp had greater concerns. Trumpets shrieked through the night as sentries on the perimeter noticed the incoming charge of the duke's men. Others privy to the plan had set tents ablaze or had already turned on their comrades. As he and Isabelica ran through the bedlam, two of Wymark's men tossed torches onto a large pavilion, while others used crossbows to cut down those who escaped.

It was a victory for chaos and insanity, not for the righteous cause of defending Asparra against the invaders.