#Riagan of Glenduff

[laqualassiel]

Ash on the Wind

    Even in the dead of night, the world was never silent. The breeze whispered through the trees, leaves rustling and branches groaning. An owl called out a question in the distance. Crickets chirped a song in reply. Snaps and cracks punctuated the soft roar of the campfire, all but drowned out by Bradhach’s mighty snores from the other side of camp.

Shadows danced to the flickering fire. With the sky above hidden by clouds, it was their only source of light, and a poor one indeed. Walls of sable loomed at the edges of the clearing.

Fingers ran across wood and bone and steel. Ash gently traced patches worn smooth over the years. The wood was a flute. Ash didn’t know what wood her mother had carved it from. She never thought to ask. The steel belonged to the small blade of the knife her brother had bartered for with meat off one of Ash’s kills. The large antlers of the stag had fashioned the knife’s handle as well as her father’s smoke-pipe.

In the dim lighting, Ash could almost bring herself to place her hands like her family would have. She could allow herself to imagine smoking with her squad around the fire. Or joining Domnhall’s tenor with the soprano of the flute. She thought of strapping the knife to her belt. Ash imagined it might feel like home. And there it was; the all too familiar ache in her chest that yearned for her village near the mountains of the north.

But home was gone. All that remained were ashes on the wind.

As the sky lightened in the beginnings of false dawn, Ash returned the memories of her family to the small bag she carried. This life was all she had now. Dwelling on impossible dreams wouldn’t change that.

The first order of business upon settling into the outpost barracks was the maintenance of their equipment. Everyone had served on Squad Three long enough that Domhnall no longer needed to remind them. The man’s reputation for taking chewing out slackers was infamous. Training sergeants liked to set Domhnall on unsuspecting new recruits. It discouraged the necessity of remedial lessons.

He said the same words to every recruit. 'The state of your equipment can mean the difference between life and death. If you’re too lazy to care about the lives of your team, get out. We don’t want you.'

Squad Three got to work. Chain mail clinked as it was degreased and hung to dry. Cloth rustled over steel, cleaning away dirt and oil that would pit and rust. Steel ground against stone. Ash inspected her bow for signs of wear, glancing up every so often to glare at a fidgeting Marcas.

“When do we get the rookie?” Marcas finally asked.

Ash leveled a fierce scowl at the widening grin on Alistair’s face. He held out a hand. “Pay up lass. I told ye Marcas has the curiosity of a cat.” 

“And far less patience.” Ash grumbled, flipping Alistair a silver coin. Marcas couldn’t have waited another ruddy two minutes?

Marcas’s question stirred everyone’s interest. Six pairs of eyes turned towards Domhnall.

Domnhall didn’t look up from sharpening his sword. He ran the stone over the edge in smooth strokes, the rasping rhythm a steady hum through the room. “Sir Riagan of Glenduff is to arrive with the reinforcements from the capital.” He said. “If the weather holds, they should be here tomorrow.”

“The rookie’s a noble?” Marcas sputtered. His lip curled in distaste as the other men sneered. Ash’s scowl deepened. The squad held a universal and deep dislike for nobility. Ash didn’t know the story behind it; what ever happened, it happened before she joined the service. But the entire company knew how poorly Squad Three handled nobles. What in the name of the gods made their lieutenant think this assignment was a good idea?

“He is our new squad leader.” Domhnall reproached. 

Marcas swore as Alistair buried his face in his hands. 

“Gods spare us.” Bradhach and Fearghas wore matching looks of horror. For good reason, Ash groused. We’ve a gods-forsaken greenhorn for a sergeant. The idiot was going to get them killed on their first mission!

Nobles. Any other rookie started out at the bottom of the chain of command, with a mandatory year of service before any possible promotion. It gave young hot-blooded idiots a chance to learn under the more experienced. No need to raise the mortality rate higher than it already was.

But no; gods forbid nobles have to take orders from commoners. Just ignore the fact Domhnall had been acting sergeant since Sergeant Niall’s death, and none of them were dead yet!

Maybe if Ash prayed enough, the gods would arrange for a lightning-mage to fry their new sergeant.

Ash eyed the man Domhnall introduced as Sergeant Riagan. He was short for a man. Ash guessed that only she and Coinin stood shorter. He had dark hair and a beard trimmed short, contrasting with skin light enough that indicated Riagan spent a fair amount of time indoors.

He was a trained knight at least. The longsword strapped to his waist was far better quality than the Hunter-issued arming sword. Emblazoned across his shield was what Ash assumed to be the crest of Glenduff. Again, much higher quality than what a mere soldier could afford. They didn't have to worry about him getting run through.

That was an unfair thought. Ash might not like Riagan, but the Hunters didn’t take anyone but the best. Noble or not, the lieutenant wouldn’t put an idiot in command.

Hopefully.

Green eyes scrutinized each of them. From the pursed lips, Ash wagered Riagan was as impressed by his new squad as the squad was of their sergeant. In other words, not at all. She almost smirked. Not what you were expecting as the elite warriors of the King’s Fist, are we?

“We have orders.” Sergeant Riagan said shortly. His voice was deep, but it carried in a way Ash knew would cut through the mayhem of battle. “A group of mages were last seen in Haulwyd, heading south towards Niwlcreek. At least one is a suspected fire-mage.”

Ash suppressed a shudder. Fire-mages were terrifying to fight. Mage-flame burned hotter than almost anything else, and it burned everything it touched. Nothing short of the mage’s death could douse the flames, meaning fire-mages could wreak unthinkable havoc. 

Hollowed husks where buildings once stood. Ash blanketing the village like dirty snow, crops razed, the very soil charred beyond chance of nurturing seed again. Smoke lingering in the air, burning with every breath.

Ash could go her entire life without seeing that again.

“Get your gear.” Riagan ordered. “We ride out in an hour.”

The worst thing about outposts, Ash decided, was sharing them with the army. When civilians saw the dark blue of Hunter tunics they didn’t get in the way. Hell, the majority of civilians got out of their way as fast and far as humanly possible. Hunters had a reputation, and it wasn’t anywhere near as nice as the one they had with the nobles.

But knights? Knights were infuriating. They looked at her and saw a woman, not a Hunter. Oh, they saw the sword and bow, but never considered that the grueling training she went through was the same as the men.  

Ash ignored the boisterous laughter and the leering calls as she headed to the outpost armoury. She needed more arrows, and there wasn’t any time to make her own. She'd have to settle for army issue.

The quartermaster didn’t even blink when she handed him the requisition paperwork. He simply signed the bottom and disappeared past racks of swords and pikes to wherever he stored the arrows. Had he dealt with Hunters before? Odds were even either way. Hunters had made it clear they did not like wasting time, so he could have heard it from the army gossip.

The door creaked open behind her. Plate mail clanked. She didn't even need to turn to know it was a knight behind her. “I didn’t know the reinforcements had brought company.” Ash wrinkled her nose against the smell of whiskey. What self-respecting knight got drunk this early in the day? He'd be useless if they received orders.

“Come on, luv. How about you and me have some fun? Get to know each other?” The knight slurred.

He was drunk, Ash reminded herself. And likely a noble. She was not going to feed the cocky son of a swine his finger.

“Not. Interested.” She bit out.

More footsteps from the doorway. The knight suddenly backed away, and Ash glanced over to see who was so intimidating.

It seemed Hunter tunics made up for her new sergeant's lack of height. Thank the gods, Riagan could get away with telling this idiot to sod off -

“We aren't here to cause trouble, Hunter.” Riagan said.

Ash stared at him, speechless with fury. He could not be so blind to have missed that. Knight or not, noble or not, anyone else in the squad would have already launched to her defense. But she shouldn't forget Sergeant Riagan was also Sir Riagan. 

Ruddy entitled knights.

“Understood, Sergeant.” Ash said. She accepted her arrows from the quartermaster and stormed out of the armoury.

Niwlcreek was a village three days ride from the outpost. Ash would better describe it as a hamlet. There weren't even a hundred people living there. Mostly farmers and fishermen, perhaps a few self-taught craftsmen for the tools they needed. 

Coinin remained at the main gate, hefting his crossbow with a grim expression. Ash spurred her horse into a canter towards the southern entrance, where her faster rate of fire could guard that entrance better. The buildings there were too close together for Coinin's crossbow and they couldn’t risk a mage getting away.

Ash dismounted and surveyed her chosen battleground. She left her horse where she wouldn't catch the mare in the crossfire. Now it was a waiting game. Eyes and ears pricked for any sign of trouble, arrows staked in the dirt at her feet. The first arrow nocked and ready to draw.

The town was deadly silent. People had fled indoors at the sight of them, realizing that this was not a stop on the road for the Hunters. Her horse snuffed, a hoof thudding against the beaten path.

A distant scream, silenced almost immediately. The familiar tell tale crackle and whoosh that warned of fire. Ash forced herself to stay put. Her squad could handle it. They all had more experience than her. They’d handled worse.

She was not inclined to include their beloved sergeant.

A series of slaps against the dirt. The acrid scent of woodsmoke made her nose twitch. Ash’s grip tightened on her longbow. Not from the main road, she would have seen the person by now. A side street then, to her left.

Wood silently curved as she drew the arrow back, muscles coiled tight under the hefty pull. Goose feather fletching caressed her cheekbone. Wait for it… There. She released her bowstring with a soft exhale.

Her arrow ghosted through the air. It struck the shoulder of a young man, sending him crashing to the ground. Ash ignored his cries of agony and trembling hand over the wound. She grabbed another arrow, nocking it as eyes wild with terror and pain landed on her. Sparks flew.

Her next arrow found the fire-mage’s throat. His screams died in a choked gurgle of blood.

“May the Sea bear you forth.” Ash murmured. A horn call rang out, echoing through the buildings. Situation resolved. 

She waited at her post anyhow. Prior experience told her a mage could be hiding, patient enough to wait for her to leave an escape route open.

Sharp thuds and rustling chain announced the appearance of Domhnall. He spared the fallen mage a cursory glance, stepping around the congealing blood.

 “Any trouble?” He asked.

She gave him an unimpressed look. “Do you have to ask?” There was a reason she used a bow over a sword. She hadn’t missed a shot in years. “Orders?”

Domhnall’s face hardened. “The town is guilty of treason.” He said. “Kill any who flee.”

What?

Ash couldn't move. These were civilians. Mothers, fathers, and children under the protection of the King. She doubted more than a few knew of the mages. They were innocent of any crime. She stared, wide-eyed, at Domhall. He knew this was wrong, he wouldn’t condone this –

He wasn’t saying anything.

“Massacre.” Ash said, feeling somewhat weak. “Domhnall, these are innocents!”

Dark eyes hardened. Unfamiliar. Cold. Unrelenting. Ash reeled back. She couldn’t breathe. No. You can’t ask me to do this, this is wrong! Murder! Ash had known Domhnall for years. He’d protected her, mentored her. He recruited her. Vouched for her when everyone doubted her ability.

I never knew you at all.

Domhnall’s gaze did not waver. “Those are your orders, Hunter.” 

A choice. Obey, and go against every moral fiber she had. Or refuse, and risk treason.

She wouldn't face execution, not for disobeying orders like this. But Ash would be going against the orders of a noble. In the current political climate? That meant exile. Without exception.

She had already lost one home. Ash didn’t have anywhere else to go.

Hours later the wind carried the ashes of the dead. She didn’t look back.