Tales of the Vangen: The Siege of Middengard (Book 2)

Chapter 8: Intention

{Honor is a virtue the Vangen does not take lightly. As their former Chronicler, I have witnessed tragedies, atrocities, and other acts of cruelty that have left better men in colder, darker places, but never by the hands of a guardsman. Of course, I have seen my fair share of killings, massacres, and other similar bloody affairs, but that's just the nature of men. Anything beyond that is intolerable, lest you share the same tree with the enemy.}

-Chronicler Dicus, an excerpt from "Death Before Dishonor."

Regis rode slowly up the hill, his horse's hooves chopping and slurping into the slush scattered by last night's snow. Flanked on either side of him was Cent and Moss with Fig pulling at the rear, leading the two spare horses meant for their guests. The three of them were on high alert, eyes glaring into the mists for possible signs of danger, the damp, opaque curtain as thick and heavy as it had been since they'd first set foot into The Medial.

Further ahead, Regis made out the first few rays of morning sunlight breaking through the mist. Fat fingers of luminescence spilled through the chinks in the gloom, fading and flickering as the wind picked up, like the god rays of Aurora hovering over Danic. Finally, they broke through the damp haze and found who they were looking for.

"Morning," Regis said to them.

The woman with the long black braid, Elba, greeted him with a respectful bow. The sight made him smile. At the very least, these natives were respectful. Better than the so-called rulers of this land. The Stelecasters.

"I remember you." The one who called himself Sigismund stabbed a finger at Regis. "You're the Northman who helped us not too long ago."

"Ah, and you must be the one who tried to pull a cripple off his horse." Regis shot back. The dark-haired native frowned and turned to his partner, his eyes bearing just a hint of unease.

"Where is your cripple, by the way?" Elba asked, her voice hinting at sarcasm. "I've words to speak with him."

"How ironic, so did he," Regis said. "And to answer your question, he thought it best that I should retrieve you. Better than waiting for him to mount his horse, after all. His words, not mine. Might have taken all morning if I'm honest." Elba snorted at the joke. "Besides, with how on edge the Guard has been lately, it would probably be a good idea if you had an escort, given that you did recently fire an arrow into the Captain's tent. You could have hit someone, you know?"

"But, I didn't," Elba added. "I was very deliberate not too."

Regis snorted. "Color me impressed then." He waved two fingers. Fig rode up beside the natives, pulling the spare horses close. Elba mounted the animal like a natural, one foot hooking into the stirrup, her free hand grabbing the horn for leverage. Soon she was pulled up into a sitting position, the reins clutched tightly with both hands. Sigismund, on the other hand, appeared to struggle as he clamored haphazardly onto his horse with the grace of a child.

"Goddess save me, but I've seen our Captain mount a horse faster than you, and he's got one bad leg." Regis motioned to Elba. "Do you people even have horses in this miserable place?"

"We did once," Elba said. She leaned over, brushing a gentle hand over the horse's mane. "When I was a child, our tribe met a trader from the eastern steppes. Sold us some fine horses at a reasonable price. My father and I used to ride them all the time."

Regis cocked a curious brow. "You said, 'used to.' What happened to them?"

"We ate them once winter came," Elba said simply. "Hard times, after all, in such a miserable place." With that, she snapped the reins, and the horse took off instantly down the hill, barreling straight towards the Vangen camp.