Tales of the Vangen: The Black Ministry's Betrayal (Book 1)

Chapter 1: A Change of Plans

Rain. Gods how Regis hated rain. Didn't matter if it was drizzle or a downpour, it was always the same. A constant cold drizzle down your back. Nose all stuffed up with damp. Clothes sticking to your body while your boots made that awful squelching sound. Hard to hear too.  He had to strain his ears just to listen through that dreadful din too. Like listening for thunder through a god's damned crowd.

Gods, it made Regis miss the snow. At least it left you cold instead of damp. Easy to brush off and let the fire take care of the rest. Silent as the grave, too. You never had to talk over a snowfall. The world would simply go still and you could finally catch a breath.

A fat drop of rain struck Regis across the nose. He scrunched his face up and sucked in a tight breath, would have bellowed out a curse too were he not meant to keep silent. Gods,  how he hated  rain. Made him miss his home country just a little bit more.

Across the clearing, Regis could just make out the legate's shadow in the  under brush. Civis sat squatting on his haunches, pressing into a nearby tree. His eyes were as hard as glass as he peered out, hand resting on the pommel of his sword. He met Regis' gaze for a brief instant before nodding over at the clearing.

Rebels emerging from the forest thicket, six in total,  dressed in tarnished splint mail and wielding blades just as shabby. They moved forward cautiously, eyes roaming over the tree line, jumping at every snapping twig and singing bird as if expecting something ferocious to jump out at any moment, which they had every right to, of course. In every regard, Regis considered himself quite fierce. The act of killing was, in his opinion, a specialty of his.

Regis met the Legate's gaze again and arched a brow towards the sky. Civis shook his head and held up a finger, mouth working silently on a countdown. Regis shifted uncomfortably on his haunches, the back of his hands starting to itch beneath his gauntlets. He squeezed the pommels of his axes, felt their sturdy leather grips groan out a prayer.

Civis dropped his finger as the last rebel passed by. In a flash, Regis burst from the underbrush, heart beating mad, teeth clenched tight, a roar of fury at the end of his lips. The first rebel to notice him turned in a fright. He opened his mouth to scream, but the axes took him before he could make a sound. Regis felt the impact jolt up his arms as both weapons bit through the mail, the rebel's body twirling head over heels as it tumbled into the thicket, blood spitting into the wet air. 

He moved on, his grip white knuckle tight against the axes. The second rebel saw him and this time was able to scream. A primal, screeching sound that died the moment Civis stepped out of the brush. His sword hissed from its sheath,  silver flashing in the dampness as he cut through the rebel's neck.

The third rebel had his weapon out now, a thin sword held in trembling hands. Regis charged at him,  snapping the blade in half with his first ax, the second one twirling up and over, burying into soft flesh. He sucked in a wet breath and wrenched his ax free, pitching the corpse over into the mud.

The remaining rebels began to scatter. One was shot full of arrows before making it past the tree line. Another had their chest caved with a mace by another hidden guardsman. The last rebel alive tried to run only to trip over a root, went tumbling to the ground, armor jingling like old coins, mouth wide and jibbering nonsense.

Regis ran and jumped on the man before he could scramble back up, pushed his face into the mud for good measure. He raised his ax, ready to put the rebel out to pasture.

"Stop!" Civis yelled,  one hand reaching out.

"Why?"

"He might know something!"

 Regis eyed him begrudgingly. "Make it quick."  He stepped back, wiped his axes clean on one of the corpse's trousers, and watched as Civis made his way towards the rebel