The Mercenary Code Read online

  EMMET MOSS

  THE

  MERCENARY CODE

  The Shattering of Kingdoms | Book 1

  Text copyright © 2019 Emmet Moss

  The characters and places in this book are entirely fictional. Any resemblance to actual places or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author.

  www.emmetmoss.com

  The Mercenary Code: First printing

  Covert Art, Map & Book Design by Matthew Ward (mattward.com)

  Edited by D.Maas

  To those who stood by me, family and friends alike, whose support was unwavering and without judgement, I can never thank you enough. You know who you are. I am blessed to have found your company.

  To my wife. You are my rock. You never wavered in your support. I am a truly lucky man.

  To Maas. You are the hardest working editor I know. Many times your passion kept this project alive.

  The Mercenary Code

  “Upon the wind your voice whispers. Among the trees you walk within. Never will you abandon me, Aeldenwood.”

  —Gorimm prayer

  Prologue

  The forest leaves rustled softly and a young wolf padded lightly across the clearing. Pausing to sniff the air, she detected a nearby scent too faint to be carried upon the wind.

  Pacing in a small circle, she settled on her haunches and tilted her head towards an imagined sound. The air was suddenly quiet, and a feeling of apprehension arose in the ancient Aeldenwood.

  A small grey squirrel crept forward with a large acorn bulging in its cheek. Glancing around suspiciously, the skittish creature nestled itself alongside the wolf’s flank. Moments later, a large noble buck sidled up to join the pair, its healthy coat glistening a deep chestnut brown. The buck stared at the wolf while entering the grove with a majestic grace. Moving proudly to the center of the clearing, the stag waited patiently.

  Ignoring the new arrivals, the wolf focused her large almond-shaped eyes on the thick undergrowth. Faintly at first, a stiff breeze began to stir, and the stoic trees of the old forest started to sway with the strength of the wind. Branches cracked violently as the rushing air increased in ferocity. Before long, a whirlwind swirled under the tall, wooded canopy. All three animals faced the torrent of air unflinchingly and remained steadfast.

  Suddenly, at the height of its power, the windstorm ceased. Shattered branches crashed to the ground and clouds of leaves drifted back to earth. A flash of light penetrated the grove and illuminated the area with a radiant white glow. Expanding slowly, it grew in size and formed an oval-shaped archway. Completely opaque and standing no taller than an average man, the sculpted shape came to rest next to the wolf.

  Sniffing the air once again, the animal stared expectantly at the portal while a figure emerged from within the bright depths of the strange shape. The large stag bowed its antlered head as the visitor brushed a long-fingered, greenish-brown hand along the animal’s coat. Bending down on one knee, the stranger gently scratched the squirrel’s furry chin. The squirrel chattered with excitement and darted up his arm, scurrying beneath the grey hood of his cloak.

  He brushed a stray strand of white hair from his face and turned to acknowledge the excited wolf standing patiently by his side. A broad grin stretched over the delicate features of his face.

  Calia ‘na Brendwien. L’os delia Tel’ni, Greiyfois.

  His lips did not move, yet the strange words could be heard by all gathered in the clearing. In response, the wolf raised her snout skyward and let loose a spine-tingling howl that echoed clearly throughout the ancient wood. The heartfelt cry had a musical tone that carried with it a tinge of sadness.

  Overwhelmed by the greeting, the figure knelt down and embraced the wolf. Excited noises echoed from the edges of the clearing as forest dwellers, big and small, crept forward and welcomed the visitor. Turning a moment and whispering under his breath, he raised a hand towards the bright archway.

  T’avoris na ‘Geltilde. The clearing was plunged into semidarkness as the portal disappeared in a flash.

  Without warning, distant wolf calls full of alarm rang out and an undercurrent of dread froze the members of the peaceful gathering. The she-wolf stood among the woodland animals and returned the call. With hackles raised, a menacing snarl replaced the warm, welcoming look she had displayed moments earlier.

  Amidst the din, the stranger motioned to the assembled host and urged them to scatter. As quickly as they had appeared, they hastily returned to the safety of the dense brush. Only the wolf and stag remained by his side.

  An ominous sound echoed to the north; the heavy tread of a great multitude moving at speed could be heard. Pausing only long enough to free a pair of long knives from his belt, the visitor bounded from the grove. Keeping pace by his side, the wolf returned the calls of her brethren. Attuned to the same howls, the figure turned sharply as if guided by the cries.

  The thunderous rumble continued to intensify and followed in their wake as they fled. Branches cracked, trees splintered and animals scurried away as the horde continued its march. With the unholy sound in pursuit, the stranger proved himself fleet of foot as he soared nimbly over a number of sharply cut gullies with ease. His animal companion kept close upon his heels in full stride as they made their way unerringly to the east.

  Yet still did the hunters close the distance.

  Dark shapes appeared along the edge of the forest, and a rotting stench emanated from the darkness. Approaching a large clearing, the white haired figure paused to catch his breath. The young wolf growled at the nearest treeline, her teeth bared in a naked snarl.

  With weapons in hand, the visitor murmured under his breath and a soft green glow filtered through the grove. His daggers reflected the light and illuminated the mass of shadows crouched on the edge of the clearing. Determined eyes surveyed the menacing creatures laid out before them. The shadowed beasts were barely visible as they moved along the periphery of the grove. He could see brief glimpses of their twisted bodies and gaping maws full of sharp glinting teeth.

  Standing fearlessly, the strange man narrowed his eyes, lifted his blade, and beckoned his adversaries. With a roar that shook the foundations of the ancient wood, the horde swarmed forth from their hidden positions, a mass of heavily-muscled flesh with razor claws. The stench of putrid breath washed over him in a nauseating wave. Confronted by such a wall of mindless ferocity, he remained poised as his defensive position was overrun.

  He cut a swath through the first row of shadowed hunters. Moving swiftly, he gracefully parried blows from all sides. The long daggers cut deep and many of the dark creatures fell with tendons severed and throats opened. Enraged by such an elusive quarry, the attackers trampled their own in a berserker rage. Only a single-minded hatred remained, and a determination to destroy the being that evaded their frenzied attacks.

  At his side, the wolf fought in beautiful symmetry with each of his movements. With a violent ferocity, the animal attacked with the same calculated precision. Crimson stains marred her beautiful white coat as she fought defiantly against the bloodthirsty throng.

  For one brief moment, when the visitor’s bloodied hands lost their grip on one of the blades and gore-splattered boots slipped on the growing pile of corpses littering the forest floor, the fate of the battle hung in the balance. The hunters found an opening and advanced on their prey.

 
The warrior struggled to maintain his balance as a hideous horned beast clamped its teeth down on his left shoulder. With jarring force, the creature’s bite crushed bone and muscle alike. Grimacing in pain, the man drove his remaining weapon deep between the creature’s dark eyes. Spinning to avoid another attacker, he tore his shoulder from the jaws of the dead beast.

  Blood gushed from the wound and spilled to the ground. A dark stain soaked through his tunic. Grunting painfully, he paused to reclaim his fallen weapon and launched himself toward the remaining enemies with an unwavering look in his bright green eyes. Although pained by the fresh wound, he dealt death with every blow, and what had once seemed like a doomed final stand, became an unlikely victory. With practiced ease, the man silenced the wounded, his death strokes guided by mercy, even though his enemies would surely have shown him none.

  Breathing heavily, the victor staggered towards the treeline holding his hand tightly against the gaping shoulder wound in a vain attempt to stem the bleeding. Falling to one knee, he tried desperately to regain his balance. After a moment, he too succumbed to darkness, his body crumpling to the earth in a motionless heap.

  Her white coat tarnished with blood, the wolf raised her head and let loose a long, grieving howl. As night descended, the call was answered. Standing a silent vigil over the Aeldenwood’s fallen visitor, she waited.

  AUTUMN

  3AE337

  “With an ear-shattering shriek, the tree shuddered and fell forward, its limbs grasping for purchase, yet finding no succor. Gort Greatwood wiped the thick sheen of sweat from his brow and leaned upon his axe. A smile flickered briefly across his rugged features. For the fourth time that year, the Lumber had lived to tell the tale.”

  —Heartwood Tales, volume II

  chapter I

  Briar - Northern Council

  The inhabitants of the northern town of Briar slowly roused themselves after another bitterly cold autumn night. Frost rested lightly upon the earth in a thin sheet of immaculate white. Lazy smoke trails drifted from cottage chimneys near the center of town and early risers began tending to their daily chores. The pristine spire of the Church of Arne broke high into the crisp morning sky, and the Inn of the Black Boar stood proudly above the smaller establishments.

  In the distance, there came a steady chopping sound from an immense stretch of woodland to the south. As far as the eye could see, large trees towered over the landscape like silent sentinels.

  This was the Aeldenwood; and for as long as history in Caledun had been recorded, the forest had never seen a period of regress. Although merciless winters were common in the north, still did the majestic wood wear its lush canopy of leaves season after season. So it was and so it shall always be, said the people of Briar.

  Alessan Oakleaf rose from his small bed, tousled his thick mat of black hair and tiptoed quietly across the wooden floor of his room. Dressed only in a pair of loose-fitting trousers, he shivered against the cold and pulled a heavy wool shirt over his head. Heading downstairs towards the Black Boar’s common room, he paused to wake Wert, the boy responsible for tending to the kitchen fires for the coming week.

  The inn had been busy the evening prior; the evidence of this being quite visible by the state of the main room. At a quick glance, Alessan spied an overturned table, a few broken chairs, many splattering’s of food, and even a few items of clothing. He bent down and retrieved one of the cook’s large iron crockpots that had somehow made its way out of the kitchen.

  Mallory will be in a foul mood for the remainder of the day if she sees this mess, he thought as he set about his work.

  From about the time he was barely four summers old, Alessan had followed the same predictable routine. He would light a fire in the large stone hearth, set the tables for the morning patrons, and sweep the large room to perfection. Monotonous though it was, he took pride in his work and aspired to show his mother how capable he truly was. As the increasing light of dawn began to peek through the windows, he stood back and surveyed his effort. Satisfied, he made his way through to the kitchen and nodded a stifled greeting to Wert.

  Alessan donned his heavy woolen coat and headed out the back exit towards a healthy stack of logs that were partially stacked and ready to feed the roaring hearth fire. Blowing on his hands for warmth, he stopped to marvel at the tranquility of the new day. He rarely took the time to appreciate the unspoiled perfection of an early morning in Briar, but something about this late autumn day consumed him. The wind whispered gently in his ears, and he could hear the gentle cooing of the birds nestled high up within the inn’s eaves. His boots made a clear crunching sound as they broke the icy crust of frost on the ground. Closing his eyes for a moment, he tried to forget the melancholy in his soul and the daily torment that he faced.

  Curse this body, he muttered. What did I ever do to deserve such a fate?

  Alessan was unlike the other inhabitants of Briar. He was known as a ba’caech; an old Drayenmark word for one whose body is unformed and weak. He was barely over five stones in height and had delicate stooped shoulders on a thin, bony frame. Though approaching twenty summers, in many respects he still bore the appearance of a child with his large dark eyes, wispy hair, and smaller build.

  Underdeveloped though he appeared, it was his shriveled left arm that caused him the most anguish. During his birth, his father had struggled to free his mother’s cord from its serpentine grip on the arm. With the flow of blood restricted, it had turned a sickly shade of blue even as it withered. As the rest of his body slowly recovered over time, his arm struggled to regain its strength. It remained weak and frail even to this day.

  Looking down at his stunted body, he winced at the sight. He could walk, he could talk, he could sing and think as clearly as any, but he would forever be branded an outsider. Greater the anguish still, Alessan Oakleaf knew that he could never become a Lumber, and to the people of this small community, no greater shame could befall any son.

  I’ll never wield an axe.

  The thought pounded in his head louder than any thunderclap. Glancing at the distant forest line, he could already hear the men of the village working at the edges of the great Aeldenwood. The constant thwacking sounds struck him like an arrow to the heart as he worked diligently at stacking the logs he would soon struggle to carry inside.

  Over time, Alessan learned how to use his stronger arm to compensate for the weakness in the other and became quite adept at performing any physical task that he was given. These chores served to strengthen his good arm, allowing him to cast aside his doubts for small periods of time. Yet still he could not heft an axe.

  “Alessan?” called a young voice from the open kitchen door. “Your mother is awake and she needs your help in the common room.”

  “On my way, Wert,” he replied as he carried in the last of the extra fuel for the fire.

  Pushing his way into the front room, he caught his mother’s eye as she furiously scrubbed a side window. Shani Oakleaf had a welcoming round face and her long black hair was tied back in a tight bun. She had been beautiful in her youth, or so the town gossips often said, but the hardships of raising two children and losing a husband had taken their toll. Her skin sagged slightly under her cheeks and chin, while her puffy eyes didn’t sparkle as they once had when Alessan’s father was alive.

  “For Arne’s sake, Ally, you have to do better than this! You know the Sylvani arrive today and I’ll not have them eating here if everything isn’t perfect,” she scolded. “Were you sleeping this morning while you did your chores?”

  “No, Mother. I just knew we’d need a lot more firewood for the day, what with the soldiers arriving and needing extra in their rooms, and you know how it can take me a while…” He trailed off.

  “Well don’t just stand there gawking like a fool. Finish with the wood and go meet Varis at the stables. They need a good mucking.”

 
He started back towards the kitchen where he had delivered the logs and she

  called after him. “And don’t forget to sit for a moment and eat a good meal.

  Mallory will have a hot meal ready for you in a few minutes.”

  “Yes, Mother,” he sighed and returned to his work.

  High above the large stone mantle in the Black Boar Inn rested the axe that had once belonged to Darren Oakleaf. Sadly, it was a replica. The original blade had never been recovered. The immense head was double-bladed and etched with intricate silver tracings. Covering the thick oaken shaft above the handle was an elaborately carved mosaic crafted in the Lumber style. Woodland animals woven into tall trees travelled through the wood ending in the veiled face of a young woman. Next to this visage was a roving pack of wild dogs led by a beautiful she-wolf frozen in the tableau as she howled at a full moon. Within the moon, Oakleaf had placed the detailed carving of a small boy carried in the strong arms of his father.

  A Lumber’s axe is his legacy. It never leaves his side and, when needed, it could be handled with great force and precision. It hid nothing of the man who wielded it and was said to carry his loves, his fears, and even his dreams. Each was unique and was assigned to him for a lifetime. It was believed that each journeyman was granted the favour of Arne, for never in the recorded generations of Briar, had a master Lumber’s axe been broken.

  The crafting of each unique axe was a final rite of passage, granting its creator full status in the Lumbers’ Guild. A yearly midsummer festival celebrated the young men who completed their training and were ready to begin their new lives on the edge of the Aeldenwood. During the commemoration, the massive axes were only slightly less adored than the men that carried them.

  The Guild played an essential role in a region situated so close to the dreaded forest. The legendary woodsmen were revered for their dedication to their dangerous profession. The entire town of Briar revolved around the Guild and its members. The stores catered to their needs, many festivals celebrated their successes, and even the Church of Arne sang their praises. And when that unavoidable time arrived, the death of a Lumber was a mournful event shared by all.