Braxton was with the horses when things went as belly up as a trout in a bowl of brandy. He had been a stableboy before he joined the Kings Army, some thirty-five years ago, and he hadn’t lost either the skills, or the love for the majestic creatures. The horses, predictably, weren’t particularly fond of being cooped up on the barge, with such little space. His and Robert’s horses were not happy, but they had also made this type of trip several times before, and were used to it by this point. The other horses, however, were not as well-versed in this mode of travel. Caj’s placid carthorse seemed to do well enough all things considered, and its tendency to just remain completely unruffled regardless of circumstance was admirable, but the other horses were raising quite the fuss. Braxton was more than happy to help, as it gave him an excuse to be away from the others. Robert was still working through his traumatic experience from the week before, though the boy was doing an admirable job of holding it together, all things considered. Being around Lord Patrick was just a pain in general, and further exacerbated by the fact that he felt somewhat awkward, knowing that he had threatened the lad’s father into behaving himself not even a week before. The Noblis’s had the type of bond and exclusivity that only family can have, and Caj, as their bodyguard, was sucked into that, and by extension, his wards Rai and Emma, and his friend Lewis MacDonlevy. It left Braxton with no real group, not that he minded. He preferred books to people, and horses to even the most interesting treatise.

At the moment, though, he was engaged with none of these three things, looking over the railing at the sharp bend in the river that they were coming up to. It was a particularly difficult twist in the river, as rapids bordered the opposite side, but Braxton wasn’t particularly worried about that, as the polemen and rowers were experienced men, well used to this journey. No, he was watching for a different, more sinister reason. This was the perfect place from which to launch an ambush.

Thirty years ago, not long after Braxton joined up, the peasant revolts had broken out into a rebellion that led to a brief, bloody civil war. Most of those tensions were healed now, as the nobility tended to pay a bit more mind to how they treated the common folk. Braxton had been on a barge then, much like this one, save that it was stuffed chock full of food and medical supplies being brought to the battlefield up Knottgant’s way, in one of the few areas in Whoid Stria’s geography that was dominated by plains instead of mountains and alpine forest. It was winter then, and he had been a member of the platoon tasked with guarding the barges contents, led by none other than Dougal Donovan himself. It was a curious thing that the young lord (at that time his father was still among the living), had deigned to lead a mere platoon, but he had insisted, saying that he had to ensure that this critical shipment made it to Knottgant. They had come around this very bend then too, only to find 100 men split between three barges of their own, ready and waiting. The battle had spilled out into the rushing water, and more than one man was swept away by the freezing cold water that ran through the rapids. The Dupandover was not known for being kind in midwinter, when it was fed by snowmelt as well as myriad different springs.

It was dumb luck that they had survived really. Pure chance had it that the Two Bastards, as Lord Noblis and Norman O’Brien were known at that point in time, happened to be coming down river from the opposite direction with twenty of their best men, to gather more men for the battle at Knottgant. It had been a bloody slaughter, by the end of it only fifteen men were left standing, and less than 6 of those being men from Braxton’s own platoon. Facing 100 men with less than 50 of your own was generally not tactically sound at the best of times, let alone on the Dupandover at night in midwinter. Braxton had personally had his life saved several times by O’Brien and Noblis, as had Lord Donovan, who was a skilled swordsman in his own right. Braxton touched the scar that ran down his cheek like a tear from his eye. If not for O’Brien’s axe intercepting a falchion, Braxton would likely not be here now.

Braxton’s mind was so locked into reminiscence that when he saw the two small barges waiting just around the bend for them, filled to the brim with men armed to the teeth, he almost thought he was imagining it. He realized he wasn’t when he heard them start to yell. With a start, he realized that they were not speaking Strian, but instead Okkean, the language of the Vencheng Empire. His mouth dropped slightly open and his mind quickly went through a dozen different scenarios, and he swore loudly.

“Shoot me full of arrows and call me a porcupine’s arse.”

***

Sven Asplund was the first of his crew aboard the target vessel, as was only right; A skirl doesn’t lead from the back after all. Sven did not count himself a good man, by much of any standard; he had stolen, cheated, lied, murdered, and even betrayed more than once in his lifetime, and he would probably do each of those again. However, there were some things a man simply ought not to do. One of those things was to issue an order you would be unwilling to carry out yourself. As his Pappy Erik would say, ‘A matter that has a poor beginning, is destined for an ending all the worse’. The poorest beginning for work like this, dark work, as Sven saw it, was for a skirl to lead his men from the back. Thusly, he was the first of his crew aboard the target vessel, as was only right.

He swayed with the motion of the boat as he boarded, breathing deeply. Sven was deeply familiar with the feeling of attacking another vessel, as piracy was something of a tradition for the denizens of the Vencheng Empire’s northern reaches. It was part of the reason that he was appointed Gu Min’s second for this mission. As the boat rocked unsteadily with the motions of battle on open water, he started issuing orders.

“Poles!” he shouted, his voice easily heard over the din of battle, “I want Xu Ming here, Bai Jing here, and Cai Lo here!” he gave his directives and six men split off, the three he mentioned by name and their guards. They braced the long poles they carried against the riverbed, holding the barge away from the rapids, that it had been rocking towards. That done he turned in place, careful not to knock into his other men who were crammed on the side of the barge where there was minimal space. He didn’t bother giving encouraging words or a battle-cry. These men were professionals, and they knew their business well enough as it was. He marched forward, unslinging his axe and shield from his back, and settling them into place with well-practiced ease. His squad did much the same with their weapons and they were ready within a second and a half, which was well, as that was the time it took Sven to get around the cabin and witness the bloodshed that was taking place on the deck. It looked like they had picked a poor target after all, as Sven expected. This group was too stubborn to go quietly. He watched as a man who was obviously a servant swung an oar towards the head of a soldier, who was distracted by another servant wielding a sword. The oar made contact, knocking the soldier off of his feet, and giving the man with a sword opportunity to strike. Unfortunately for the oar-wielder, a young soldier had come up behind him and casually stabbed him through the back, before moving on to the other serving man and ending him too. Other battles waged across the deck as well; in one place a dumpy older woman in maids clothing threw the contents of a chamber pot into one soldier’s face, before beating him over the head with the pot itself, only to accidentally impale herself on his sword that he had raised instinctively. On the left side of the barge, the side Sven was on, the rowers of the barge were being methodically slaughtered. Men like these would not possess information useful to the Empire, nor were they women or children, so they were destined to become casualties of war. Sven grimaced at the necessity, but their camp could only feed so many mouths. He scanned the barge again and took special note of the fight on the far side of the vessel.

There was a grouping of three men there, who fought in a circle around two women and a girl. One of the women, the older of the two by his guess, was also armed but seemed to be acting as a last line of defense, pushing back any soldier that made it past the three men. One of the three men was obviously a young lordling armed with a curved blade similar to the Dao that Sven had seen used by other Vencheng soldiers, but thinner. The young lord seemed to fight well, but was obviously not used to the true rigors of battle, as he had already received several gashes. Within seconds after Sven’s men arrived, the lordling was relegated to defense along with the armed women, unable to keep up with the rushing battle and his wounds. There was also a man in military uniform with bright red hair, armed with a straight bladed sword that was slightly longer than a Jian, who was holding his own, and demonstrating respectable skill with his chosen weapon. Of course, the only reason he was still alive was that there were orders that he not be killed as he was marked for having potentially important military information. This point was highlighted when the man beside him, a gangly man with the gait of a sailor, who was fighting at about the same level, was struck down with a sword through the throat less than an instant later, his axe sent flying. That was the difference between a skirl and a member of the crew, Sven thought grimly, one was more expendable than the other. As the gangly sailor with the axe collapsed, young lord and the armed woman stepped towards the gap he had left, while the other woman drew a dagger and pushed the young girl behind her. Sven found himself nodding approvingly, one should always protect the young first, that way if you died, there was still someone to get revenge on your behalf. The love of a kinsman and all that.

Sven eyeballed the situation from where he stood. His men had long since gone to join the fray, but he felt his presence wasn’t necessary at this point, not unless something drastically changed. There was still a fight going on up towards the bow, with just enough crates and debris in the way that Sven couldn’t clearly see it, but he had faith that it was well under control. A vessel of this size and type wouldn’t be holding too many more people than he had already seen. As for the fight on the starboard deck, well, he didn’t give them odds of lasting long. The sailor had been a critical part of their defense and he was now gone, and the rest were fading fast, soon they would be done for. As he thought, he would not be needed unless something drastically changed. Just then, the unarmed woman in the center of the gathering let out a shout in their language, one which Sven only knew minimally.

“Caj, cabhrù! Tà Lewis marbh!”

Sven frowned, he only recognized two words; cabhrù, which meant help, and marbh, which meant dead, or death, or dying… something along those lines. Who was she calling for help though? Surely there was no one on the ship who could- suddenly, there was a roar, and he was there. At first glance, Sven could’ve sworn the man was a messenger from the Konungur Svikanna himself. At second glance, he was convinced that this was the case.

The man’s hair was a muddy red, cut close to his head but still long enough to be fashionable, although it did not look so now, encrusted with blood and sweat as it was. His eyes were an uncanny yellow, like that of a cat’s, but that was not the most disturbing thing about those glowing orbs. No, most disturbing was that the man wept blood. Two flowing rivers of it arced their way haphazardly down his cheeks, like pathways to the hall of the Betrayer himself. Blood sprang from his nostrils too, staining his mustache and chin a deep crimson, and making him look like he truly had feasted on the life-blood of those who dared betray their kin, as the Konungur had once done himself.

Everything seemed to freeze in Sven’s mind in that moment, and he could see it all so clearly. Something had drastically changed, and now he was going to have to get involved. Before he could, however, the demon moved. His movements were odd, jerking between smooth and graceful at some moments, and filled with power at others. He spun and twisted away from strikes true, but he also used brute force at opportune times. He seemed to know what would happen before it did. When his sword became lodged in the shoulder of one of his attackers, and the man fell overboard, taking the sword with him, Sven was sure that the blood-weeping warrior was done for. The man, however, didn’t even blink, smoothly letting the sword fall over the side with the soldier and be swept away by the rapids, then twisting and drawing his dagger, parrying an incoming Dao with just enough force to let him scrape by with just a slash to his arm, rather than a sword in his heart, and draw his short-sword. Sven realized that he had stopped moving, captivated by the display, and cursed himself. Around him, twelve other warriors did the same, and rushed forward as one. The bloody man saw them coming and grimaced, but braced himself, spreading his feet apart and raising his dual weapons for battle. But just before they reached him, he was distracted. He looked to the side for an instant and swore in his foreign tongue, before screaming;

“Teitheadh Rai! Cosnòidh mè Emma, gheobhaidh tù cabhair!”

Sven’s eyes flicked to the side, but he didn’t catch sight of whoever this bloody man was yelling to. No matter, the pole-bearers on that side of the ship would subdue whoever it was. His attention flicked back towards where he was running, just as four men managed to take down the bloody man, who was obviously exhausted. Just as one of the men drew back his sword to strike the finishing blow, Sven intervened. His axe weaved out and pushed the sword to the side, leaving the bleeding warrior with what would amount to nothing more than a bruise through his strange, foreign armor.

“Stop!” he shouted, his voice freezing everyone midmotion.

The soldiers looked at him incredulously, as the man had killed no less than nine of the thrity men they had allotted to take this ship, leaving only seventeen remaining when counting those killed by the other inhabitants of the ship, and that was not counting the heavily wounded who might die later if their wounds were not properly treated.

“Why?” one of the soldiers asked with disgust, forgetting that he was talking to his superior officer. Gu Min arrived on the scene then, looking as fresh as a spring chicken too, Sven noted. He hald back a grimace. Jarl Min of the Gu family had a… different outlook on leadership than Sven did, but he still respected the man, and was under his command. Gu Min cuffed the man sharply.

“Because he is an asset, idiot.” He said coldly. The soldier’s eyes widened, then his brow raised.

“An asset? An asset? All due respect sir, this man just killed a third of our forces, and you want to let him live?” the soldier’s tone was incredulous and angry, not that Sven could blame him given the situation. Gu Min sighed.

“First of all, you make it sound like he is a one-man army.” Gu Min gestured to where the man was carefully being restrained by three different men, although he was still struggling. Behind him, the other captives were being held with relatively little struggle. “It was under specialized circumstances in a specific environment, if we were elsewhere things could’ve gone very differently.” Sven begged to differ, but kept his mouth shut. “Secondly, anyone who can fight as well as that is not just a commoner. I would place money that he is important. And thirdly, soldier,” he continued coldly, “He’s an asset because I damn well said so. Understood?” There was a chorus of ‘yes chief’ from everyone aboard, Sven included. Just then, the bloody man got his left hand free and clawed at his one of his restrainers faces. Sven moved as quick as a blink, but not for the man on the ground. No, instead, he grabbed the girl who had yet to make a sound and dragged her towards him, putting a knife to her throat.

“Nà bog. Marbh.” He said, in what amounted to the total of his knowledge regarding the Strian language: Don’t move. Dead. The warrior immediately stopped moving, and become much more compliant, even when one of the soldiers elected to give him a black eye and spit on him. There was a tense silence, before Gu Min finally spoke.

“Okay boys, let’s move out.”

Sacks were placed over the heads of each of the prisoners, and their weapons confiscated, as they moved towards the bow, where their barge was waiting. Abruptly, the barge they were standing on shifted, and started moving port, towards the rapids. Sven and two other men with experience on rivers didn’t question it, but instead immediately grabbed poles to push themselves away. Unfortunately, one of those men was the one holding the armed woman, who took that opportunity to promptly dive over the side. Sven swore, but comforted himself with the knowledge that she would not survive the rapids.

As they pushed away from the churning water, the rest of the prisoners were shoved on board Gu Min’s vessel, and two men ran back to the spot where the pole holders were supposed to be. They soon dragged out two unconscious men, and one dead, who had been manning the poles. Another man, Bai Jing, came out with a busted forearm, while the other two were fine, but unable to retain control of the ship, distracted by trying to prevent whoever attacked them from escaping. Sven sighed. He had tried to talk Gu Min out of this whole endeavor, but no, like his Pappy would say, ‘The young pup never listens when the old dog barks.’ It served the chief right if this didn’t turn out to be more trouble than it was worth. Sven looked at the figure who had been such a thorn in the side of their operation, now huddled among the other captives, giving comfort to the little girl who still had not spoken, despite his injuries and inability to see due to the back over his head. Yes, indeed, Sven wasn’t a betting man, but he would lay his livelihood on the line that this was indeed going to be more trouble than it was worth.