all the wrong reasons (narrative)
"What do you think?"
It was ten kinds of a viper's pit. Every conceivable exit had a man posted outside, his blade already drawn. They were expecting trouble. And white was not the best color for sneaking around in shadows. Eragos Feareborne squinted at the wooden structure for a long moment and thought to himself very carefully. It was no wonder that a group of Riders, passing through the city, would find themselves drawn into this. The civilians weren't up to the task of wiping out an entire cadre of well-armed, professional slave smugglers. Eragos was not entirely certain that the Riders with him were enough to handle the job either. But as he stared into the inky black all he could think of were the tattered, frayed human beings that were huddling together in hopes that their new master would be kinder than their former. That Trone sanctioned slavery was to him a barbarism that had no place in the 'Free' Cities. He would take any pretense and any life to see it ended, if only for a night, and to whisper in the ears of every slave that they were free. This was no way to live, and no way to make a living.
"How many of them are there?" this voice belonged to one of the Walkers, who were heartily sick of trudging along dirt roads for no visible gain.
"Does it matter?" another gruff voice demanded. "We've got twelve."
"Five," Eragos corrected stonily. "The Walkers are going to sit this one out."
"But-"
"If you were really being honest, you would admit to being terrified and go look after the horses," Eragos informed him.
They were supposed to be taking the Riders to Oisea to meet their instructors, who would be urging the young men to do a great deal more walking. It was supposed to be something for him to do to keep him from getting cabin fever. Literally and figuratively. The Lady Vera seemed to have forgotten that he existed, and if there was something happening Eragos wasn't aware of it. After everything that he'd put at risk to back her plays he felt like he deserved better. Then again there was probably something he was missing. There usually was something he was missing. Torchlight distant as it caressed the surface of the building. Muted torches, spread out in between the guards. Wouldn't want that naked steel to catch any light - it would be difficult to explain why slaves were being kept under armed gaurd to even the most simple of citizens. Everyone knew it was illegal to sell slaves anywhere in the Free Cities.
So there they were, five White Riders and seven White Walkers crouched behind a thicket of trees and observing the building. None of them had been expecting a visit from the city's civil guardsmen, asking for help on something like this. There must have been a chest full of gold changing hands right now. The seized funds would be a welcome addition to the war chest in Simanel, but it was about more than that. It was about doing the right thing. That was what all of them were wondering at that moment - at least, the Riders were. The Walkers were caught up in the excitement that comes before a battle. If the Riders stormed the building, would they kill the slaves? Hard to prove that they were selling corpses, after all. Eragos had seen it before, and it disgusted him every time. So what were they supposed to do? Charge in as though it was nothing and hope for the best? He wanted nothing more than to bury his blade in the chest of every man who sold human life.
It wasn't to be.
"Did you wet yourself?" one of the Riders asked in a mocking tone, though hushed.
"I didn't-" the trainee practically squealed.
"Don't yell."
"I didn't wet myself."
"Your lips say no, but your trousers say yes."
"They're coming along," Eragos finally said grimly. "Tirad, take them with you. The rest of us are going to open up a door for you. Get in, and make sure that every slave gets out. The Walkers will bring the slaves back to the horses. Once that's done you can help us subdue them."
"Subdue?" Tirad rubbed his hairy chin with a gloved hand, and even in the darkness Eragos could see his eyes narrowed. "They didn't bring the swords to pick their teeth, Lord Feareborne."
"If we kill every man in that house they'll retire us all. I'm too young to hoe potatoes."
"And I'm too old."
"Then it's settled."
"As long as we're doing it for the right reasons," Tirad's eyes glimmered with suppressed mirth.
"Drop your gear. Everything that you don't need. You've got two minutes."
Tirad, like Eragos, had already discarded his extraneous gear. The two of them sat, brown cloaks draped over their shoulders and hoods pulled down, staring at the structure. Tirad was one of the old guard, who wasn't convinced that meddling in foreign affairs was the right thing to do even if he couldn't help himself from doing the right thing whenever a situation presented itself. They were too much alike to be enemies, but they weren't exactly friends. Tirad knew his strengths, and knew that Eragos carried with him a certain legend that was difficult to ignore. That was the reason he let Eragos take the lead. It was also the reason he lingered, while the Riders and Walkers began discarding their gear. Eragos fingered the hilt of his flambard and waited patiently for Tirad to make his thoughts known. The tough grizzled Rider hesitated for a long moment, and when he finally spoke, it was in a hushed tone - so that Eragos barely heard him.
"They weren't wrong about you, but they weren't right, either," Tirad finally said.
"Who is they?" Eragos responded wearily.
"You know who."
"And you?"
"If we live through this, I imagine my tolerance for slings and arrows cast in your direction might decrease."
"You're too kind."
"My mother said I was born this way."
When the Riders assembled once more it was in a line, each of them dropped to one knee. Gloves and tunics, hoods lifted. Masks firmly in place. The Walkers looked on with a sort of awe as these five men prepared themselves for battle not by tightening gauntlets and drawing swords but bracing themselves with all the trappings of their position. Eragos wanted them to see white when the two-story house was charged. Rock was at their backs, so the only way out was through this thicket. The cliffs too high, and the thicket shielding them. Eragos resisted the urge to say a prayer, as he did before every battle. The day he didn't think to resist the urge was the day he gave up his sword. What point was there to fighting if he didn't remember his obligations? Something about his pride couldn't let him say the prayer, actually speak it aloud, but it was there. In his heart. The Dragon Knight led the way, stepping out of the heavy trees and onto the grass. At first they were not noticed even in the darkness, five White Riders with a disorganized sea of Walkers trailing after. They must have been blind.
Then he saw the glowing orange eyes in the darkness.
They were smoking cloves.
Perfection.
Eragos' charge was silent, a whisper of worn leather boots as they stormed across an army of grass. Something alerted them. Maybe a sound, maybe a stray gleam of light as it reflected off the blade of his sword. Whatever it was, the alert didn't matter. Eragos never slowed down. He just dropped his shoulder and drove it into the chest of the guard before the fellow had a chance to raise the cry, let alone draw his sword. The alarm was raised, however. A heavy thud against the exterior of the house would not go unnoticed. Nor would the collapsed and gasping form of the guard which Eragos had knocked nearly into unconsciousness. The Riders slipped toward the door like practiced thieves as Eragos turned and crept toward the southern corner, where the help was most likely to come from. Shouting like the death of joy filtered through the hood. Eragos ignored it. They would succeed or fail on their own, at least for the time being. More Riders behind him. A man in chain mail leaped around the corner with murder in the grim set of his jaw. One hand gripping the hilt of his flambard Eragos threw a heavy punch that shattered every dream his opponent had ever contained.
There was more shouting as men streamed out of the house. Fleeing slaves, with one Rider leading the way. Must be Tirad. The Walkers were urging them along as men with swords began to appear. Dotting the landscape like insects, with wings of glittering steel and the malice not of hunger but of bloodlust. Every human being who was fleeing toward the thicket of trees was a gold mark to them, and more than that property which was being stolen. Eragos hardly needed to say it, so quick were the Riders behind him to respond. Instantly they moved to cover the retreat of Tirad and the walkers as their opponents coalesced into a fighting group of fifteen. So some were hidden, and waited for the din of battle to appear. Eragos could respect that. But he didn't move, not in a forward-facing retreat as his comrades were doing. Let them if that was what they wanted. For his part Eragos could only think of the Lady Vera, letting him languish in this cottage or that cottage while she risked her life depending on men that would as soon see her dead as help her. The blood in his veins was boiling with the rage he felt at that prospect.
So he was reduced to fighting slave traders.
A hideous animal roar issued forth from beneath the mask as he raised the flambard with both hands, point aimed for the sky. Not backward but forward. Always advancing. His legs churned beneath him as he rushed to meet the wave of his opponents which would find not a man to wash over but a rock upon which to crash and be broken apart. And the closer he drew the hotter his blood became, until presently the scream was a sustained bellow of rage. Their progress across that shadow span slowed, and then came to a stop. Almost as one the men flung their swords aside and dropped to their knees. One or the other begging for a life which he freely admitted he did not deserve. Eragos' boots ground to a sudden halt, and it was only when they did that he realized. His sword, erupted into flames as it was, cast a bright orange pall on the proceedings. He'd been trailing flame behind him, rushing across grass and flinging flame in his wake with the cry of a dragon as his battle call. The flames died down, but the cowering men were still spread out before him. It never occured to him to kill them.
Well, it did.
The moment passed.
"All of you are under arrest."
Tirad appeared at his side, flushed with exertion beneath his mask, and stared at the cowering fellows on the ground before Eragos. Steam was still rising from the blade of the flambard but he hardly noticed. She was up to something. She had to be. And he didn't want to admit that it stung, sitting in a cottage and watching old men grow older while she danced with vipers. It stung that he couldn't provoke an honest fight no matter what the quarter and the time or place. He should have died charging them. Their terror had overcome them. So now here he was, thinking about a woman that he used to care a great deal about. Still did, he admonished himself. Still did. Only she was hell-knew-where.
"Subdued," Tirad told him with a gasp of a mock. "I think you and I were talking about two different things."
"Maybe we were."
"No maybe about it, son."
"Yeah."
Damn.
It was fairly well impossible to be more miserable than this.