All's Fair Chapter 17

All's Fair in Love and War
C h a p t e r 17
Glory
Frozen winds bit through layers of leather and fur as if they weren't even there; the men huddled around small fires and did as best as they could to keep warm. They were, for the most part, not very successful.
When Erhuidt told him he'd be going up to Nevarra, Jedediah forgot to consider how very cold it would be, given the time of year. He packed accordingly, of course, but the last time he'd been up in the northern ranges of Altarea had been near the beginning of the Four Years War. That was just too long after living the southern life, and now he cursed the circumstances.
The Nevarran Range was a fairly unforgiving territory; it was a natural barrier between two Larsan provinces, and some of the peaks were so high that they were shrouded by clouds. Luckily, they were about as high as they would need to go, but still, it was high enough for the snow to come down in flurries sometimes. And the cold and snow were not their only worries; animals, wild and savage, lived in these passes. So far their journey had been safe, and he knew that with their vast numbers, they were mostly protected from anything feral.
And, of course, the last dragon sighting had been a hundred years ago.
That didn't mean, though, that there weren't any wyrms or wyverns in these territories. Wyrms were nasty things—cousins of wyverns—that tunneled through stone and earth just as well as Rylaen could manipulate it. Some, it was said, could spit venom hundreds of feet, venom that would eat their Audhildr in a heartbeat and corrode the flesh straight from Jedediah's bones. He heard they mostly kept to the underside, though.
Jed shrugged these worries away. He had never seen one, so he didn't know.
And wyverns were like dragons; they were much, much smaller, though, but they could still fly and the more mature ones could breathe fire. Jedediah was more worried about encountering one of those, especially since they weren't like wyrms in that they didn't keep to themselves so much. But would wyverns live up here in these frozen reaches?
It wasn't like Jedediah knew. So, he did his best to throw that notion to the back corners of his mind.
We have been on the road for a month now, Jedediah wrote. He felt—as did many experienced soldiers—that it was important to keep a record, a log, a journal of sorts when on a trip for war. Hopefully, if he was killed, someone would find it one day, and they would know what happened. The cold is sharp here, sharper than any blade. Our furs and leather do little to protect us, and the fires suffer as well. We have seen nothing unusual yet, and within the next week or two we should be taking up comfortable lodging in Nevarra. As of late I've been thinking more and more of the tales of old—dragons may be no more, supposedly, but the wyverns and wyrms still exist. I wouldn't suspect to encounter any wyverns up so high, but wyrms, they dwell within the mountains…
"Commander Jedediah!" one soldier shouted as he ran through the camp, tripping over rocks hidden here and there by the freshly fallen snow; Jed closed his journal and signaled to the man. "To the north is a storm—far worse than any we saw before. And, and…" The scout now had trouble getting the words out. "…We saw… saw wyverns, sir… To the north. They were, they were flying and such… things we've never, never seen before! It was terrifying. One of 'em… sat up above the rest…" He was still catching his breath. Jedediah rolled his eyes and motioned for the man to sit beside him. "Thank you, sir. Now, he, he was sitting there… like he presided over them or something like that. Every so often he'd spout flames up in the air like he… I dunno, commander, like he approved, or didn't approve, or…"
"How many of them?"
"From what we saw, four—but they may have more…" Panic in his voice sparked Jedediah's curiosity.
"What's the matter? Did something happen?"
And suddenly the scout almost looked as if he were about to cry. "It was Jeggers, sir. He said he'd never seen anything so grand, and, and he ran straight to them. Like he didn't think they were dangerous, sir."
Jedediah's face became grim. Jeggers had always been a little eccentric, but this was not something he expected from him. "What happened, Ghaddon? To Jeggers, I mean."
The scout, Ghaddon, kept his eyes trained on the ground as he spoke. "Jeggers ran out there, smiling and grinning, like they were pups or something, and we called to 'im, but he wouldn't listen… and when he got out there, well, the big one saw 'im first. He roared. Loud. It hurt our ears, too. Jeggers stumbled when that happened, and then in an instant the big one was down on 'im, and in a second Jeggers was, he was cooked… just like that… and before the life had even gone out of him, he was picked up and eaten."
Jedediah nodded, patted Ghaddon's shoulder. "Thank you. You're dismissed. Recuperate." Ghaddon stood, bowed, and left all in silence. Jed sighed. They would need a way around those wyverns—for there was no way he would run his men through that nest.
Then again, when was the last time a man had returned from war with the head of a wyvern?
"Hector," Jedediah said to another scout who hadn't been on the previous expedition, a scout he trusted implicitly; he had definitely earned the position of head scout on many ventures. "Go find Ghaddon. Tell him—orders straight from the commander—tell him that he is to take you and a small party out to the wyvern nest. Do not approach them, but look for a way around it. We can't go through."
Hector nodded and removed himself from the circle around the fire. "Aye aye, commander," he said in a voice that sounded rougher than he looked. "Wyverns, eh? Ain't that just grand..." he mumbled as he traipsed away to find Ghaddon.

"'Ey, you, Ghaddon! C'mon, commander's given us direct orders to take a party to scout a way around the wyvern nest." Hector nudged the man's shoulder; he was sitting near a fire in silence, whilst the men around him talked and jested with light hearts; he sought company like this in the hopes of easing his spirit. So far, the results were meager.
"Really? He wants me to go back out there?" Ghaddon's face was all dismay.
"He trusts you, and you know what's what out there. So come on, grab a couple of these louts and let's go." A wind blew by and Hector shivered against the chill. "Come on, before I freeze standing here." Ghaddon rose and pulled another couple men to their feet. Hector gestured to them—twins, by the look of it. They were both fair-skinned and fair-haired with matching blue eyes. "They any good?"
Ghaddon nodded. "Varris can creep like no other—I wouldn't be surprised if he could get through the pass walking right by the wyverns without them seeing him. And this is his brother, Vakkis. You'd be hard pressed to find eyes like his; these two were the pride of the Delmoore guard before they joined the Larsan army." Hector nodded, grinned. Delmoore was a valued province of Larsus. If they came from there, they were good.
"Guess that'll have to do."

The winds were stronger and bit harder once they were out of the camp; Hector pulled his furs tighter around him. Varris and Vakkis, however, moved nimbly through the snow and over the rocks; Ghaddon led the party, as he knew where he was going, but he still seemed nervous about the approach. As they crested the rocks that they were traversing, the leader knelt low to the ground; the twins joined him, and finally Hector followed from the rear. The scouting party looked down on the wyvern territory, where three small wyverns, purplish in color, seemed to be wrestling.
"They play like bear cubs. Or something like that," said Hector. "But what's with that one? Up there, yeah," he said as Ghaddon pointed to a larger, black wyvern perched atop a spire.
"That's, well, that's the one that got Jeggers." Ghaddon bowed his head. "All he ever does is watch those ones." His voice was considerably quiet.
"You afraid they're gonna hear us through the wind and the snow, Ghaddon? You're awfully quiet." Hector knelt beside him now. "I know you lost a man up here. Pull yourself together." He gave him a soft pat on the back and stood up again. "We're tasked with finding a means of getting around these wyverns—not through them. What's it looking like, boys?"
Vakkis was the first one to speak; his voice was light and soft, at ease. "The carved path is straight through the wyverns' home. It's no wonder the Nevarrans fell out of touch with the rest of us. No one else has bothered finding a way, but that might be because there isn't one. At least not that I can see."
"If Vakkis can't see it," Varris said in only a slightly lower voice, "there isn't one. We might as well go back—"
"Hush, brother. You know that's not true. Look at the left side; do you see the shadow of a path?" Vakkis pointed.
"And you know I can't see like you—"
"And that's why I told you—"
"Both of you, shut up!" Hector struggled for a moment to preserve the strength in his voice. "Now is not the time for sibling bickering. Varris, go down there, where Vakkis is looking. See if you can't find a suitable pass. Ghaddon and I will traverse the right side while Vakkis keeps an eye on all of us. Get going."
And in a second, they all jumped to their assigned tasks.

Varris snuck along the mountainside with little to no noise in response to his movements; he kept as close to the edge as he could, safely, for that was a better fate than alerting the wyverns. The snow tried to make him slip, but it was generally unsuccessful; his handholds were secure and his boots were endowed with steel spikes for this sort of work.
He came around a rocky outcropping and found a suitable path for perhaps two men to walk abreast. Varris looked up and saw the backside of the tower that the black wyvern had been sitting atop—and the long tail dangling down. Varris shuddered at the sight and thought, and continued along the path to see how long it went for.
Hector and Ghaddon's trail was fairly smooth; the snow was not terribly abundant and there was not much climbing or scrambling to be done. But their trail was also not very long; it came to a dead end, and they resolved to turn back and make their way up to Vakkis. From time to time, they could hear a wyvern give a mighty roar or see a plume of flame erupt from the one overlooking the domain; it sent chills down Hector's spine, chills the wind was not responsible for.
"You don't think we'll have to go through, do you?" Ghaddon asked suddenly.
Hector grunted. "If we have to, we may give it up. You want to fight wyverns? Just don't even think about it. I'm sure Varris will find a way around."
"What makes you so sure?" the younger scout asked curiously, grasping for whatever hope Hector possessed.
"What makes me sure? I don't want to have to carve a path through a wyvern nest. That's what makes me so sure." Hector signaled to Vakkis, who was now fifteen or twenty feet away; the young man came to help pull Hector up a small drop in the rock. Ghaddon looked crestfallen.
"Anything there?" Vakkis blurted. "I lost sight of Varris when he rounded that corner there."
"We came to a dead end on our side," Hector explained. "It's up to your brother now—either he finds us something halfway decent and safe, or we're cutting our way to Nevarra," said he as he crossed his arms.

The cave was not particularly large when it came to mountain caves, but big enough for men to pass through. The chill from the wind was gone here, and although he still felt an icy bite, Varris felt much more comfortable here than out on the cliff side. And the interior was a beautiful place—green and blue crystals were hanging from the roof of the cave and jutting up from the ground. In some places, they had even touched in the middle and created whole columns. Varris sat for a minute to rest and take in the splendor.
He was not long in his break when he started to hear a curious noise, at which he checked the two daggers and set of throwing knives he wore; Var stood, drew one of the knives, and began to take bearing on his environment in the way every combatant did. There was nothing, but the noise continued; it was high pitched, fairly inconstant, and reminded him of the way a stray mewling cat pesters one for food. Varris began to check around pillars and in holes, and in his searching, found that the cave was much deeper and much, much larger than he'd originally thought.
His focus, however, was taken from him almost the instant he saw the second half of the cavern, due to the large nest he saw in the middle of it; within were three, what Varris guessed were baby wyverns, making the noise he heard. They were small—much smaller than their counterparts out on the face of the mountain—but still the size of wardogs, big enough to easily pin him and tear him apart. The scout grinned as he watched the wyvernlings snap at each other, but then they saw him; all three craned their long necks to see him, and one of them tasted his scent with its tongue. They began to crawl from the nest of rocks, slinking towards Varris with only one intention that he could guess.
He cocked his knife and let it fly, and for a moment prided himself on the hours he spent practicing with the throwing knives as it buried itself in the lower neck of one of the wyvernlings.
But it did not stop coming. It slowed for a second, and then pushed on as hard as ever. They still had distance to close, but they were closing it quickly. Varris began throwing knives in quick succession after that, each one hitting home to one of the wyvernlings, slowing their progress only very briefly. Their blood was a dark purple, and smoked and bubbled when it touched the cold, hard, green ground. The one he concentrated on fell to the earth and stopped moving before the rest reached him, and by now the other two almost looked afraid to approach him. Nonetheless, fearing the worst, Varris drew the two long daggers that he valued so much, and suddenly became very glad that he took comfort with a whetstone regularly every night.
But the wyvernlings stopped entirely. They halted, looked at Varris, and then spun around and scurried back to their nest, where they lay and bled and licked their wounds. Cautiously, he turned and discovered a massive black wyvern watching him. Var felt hot liquid run down his legs as he dropped the daggers in his hands.
Move, he told himself: Move, move, move. He couldn't, though. Not until he saw the jaws of the beast open wide and lunge toward him; then he dove to the side, barely evading the razor blades that were the wyvern's teeth. It roared, furious, and Varris began sprinting for the exit of the cave. But what could he do once he was outside? Jump off the cliff side, he supposed; that would be infinitely better than being torn apart by a wyvern.
The wind and snow shocked him once he emerged from the relatively warm cavern; Varris halted for a moment and thought, and that was when his eyes were caught by Hector, Ghaddon, and Vakkis. They waved to signal their location, and Var started off for them, running at a surprising speed despite the snow, lack of visibility, and slippery rocks. He was halfway there, and the black wyvern burst from the cave in a gout of flame. Suddenly, no one knew what to do—but Varris managed some improvisation and dropped to the ground instantly, and lay completely still. Ghaddon, Vakkis, and Hector knelt down slowly and watched the scene. Did wyverns have good eyes? They didn't know, but now, they all shared the same silent prayer that this one would be blind.
But the gods would not be so kind today. The three scouts realized this as the black wyvern flew directly to where Varris lay, and snatched him up in its jaws; he screamed. The wyvern snapped its teeth. Silence.
Vak tensed, lowered his head, and then began to move forward, the look on his face contorted into rage, agony. He would slit that wyvern's throat from jaw to belly. He would cut his brother straight from its stomach. Hector and Ghaddon each grabbed Vakkis by the arms, trying to keep their movement to a minimum, and restrained him from throwing his life away.
Hector looked at Ghaddon as they knelt there, keeping Vakkis pinned to the ground, who was still struggling. "I suppose we should forget that method of passing." His face was grim; Ghaddon expelled a heavy sigh.
"I suppose you're right. Come on; let's get back to the commander. He'll be wanting to know what we found."
Vakkis fought them every step of the way.

"There's only three of you; four left, right?" Jedediah shook his head. "What happened?"
"Wyverns, commander," said Hector; he would be the one to report unless Jedediah specifically requested otherwise. This was one messenger Jed would not kill. "Sir, there is no other path. Straight through the pass looks like it's the best way to go."
"Huh. 'Best,' Hector, is not how I would put it." Jedediah rested his chin on a hand. "I'm sorry about your brother, Vakkis." The commander stood and gave the twin an apologetic look. "But it looks like we'll be traversing the pass the difficult way."
This wasn't a decision that Jedediah wanted to make. But it was a decision he must make.
Then again, killing a nest of wyverns wouldn't ever be frowned upon. Contrarily, they would be renowned for this—if they survived. And that was the only solace Jed could find.

Rylaen glanced at the map he held in his left hand as his right controlled the reins of his horse. He then looked out at the expanse that was the B'harat Plains, past which they would find Sempton, the border-village that was possibly the next victim of Velian treachery. The knight bristled at the memory of Damarius. Ry then looked at Derrick, who rode on his right side, now that Jedediah was no longer in his battalion.
"What do you think we'll find when we get there?" asked Rylaen of Derrick, who thought for a moment before saying:
"I'd like ta think we're not here for another Damarius, Rylaen, but, well, I s'pose it wouldn't be too surprisin' ta me if tha's what it was. But I'm all fer stayin' on the positive side." His face, however, seemed to show that the pessimism was overpowering. Rylaen, however, smiled at the sentiment.
"I'd imagine Sempton is fine—although, a lot can happen in a week or two." They had already been on the road for a week. Rylaen still wasn't sure how much longer it would be before they arrived at their destination. And, to be fully honest with himself, he felt a lot more uncomfortable without one of his most trusted allies and friends at his side. It was, though, all things considered, a bit comforting to have Derrick with him.
The force they rode with was large; larger than the expedition Jedediah had taken north. However, that was because Sempton was much more vulnerable to attack; if the Velians were to get to Nevarra, first they would have to traverse the Nevarran Range—something wholly complicated for one person, let alone an army. Ry was glad Jed was tasked with that, and not he, for he feared he would not handle it as well as his senior companion.
A rider from the rear of Rylaen's force slowed down as he caught up with the head of the column. "Sir!" he shouted. Ry looked, and almost instantly recognized the man; one he had spent dinner with the night before. "I wanted to give you my thanks, sir, for your good will and council last night."
His name, the knight-commander recalled, was Euward Tolson, twenty-seven years of age and married, with his two daughters and wife hopefully safe at home in the Gochoran Valley; that situation was painfully reminiscent of Rylaen's past, which was one reason Rylaen thought he found the man so amicable.
"Euward!" called Rylaen with a slight smile. "I take pleasure in getting to know my men. I feel privileged to serve many of you, and especially so to call fewer of you my friends. Is there a problem, though?"
Euward shook his head. "No, Knight-Commander Rylaen. There isn't. I was just wondering if it would be at all possible for me to ride here with you."
Rylaen smiled, complacent. "Please, do." Doing things like this for soldiers was one of the best ways to maintain morale. "How fare you?"
"Well, sir, all things considered, very well. And yourself, commander?"
He was silent for a moment, and contemplated his answer, finally deciding that honesty was supreme. "I am worried," Ry told Euward. "I have a very good friend who is leading another force north. Of course, you know him. His name is Jedediah Forstner."
Rylaen looked at the clear skies ahead of them, and the long, green carpet with a single winding road. He hoped Jedediah's journey was going as well as his.

"We will be the first men to slay wyverns since the age of magic!" Jedediah told his men as he stood before them, just behind the rising crest that would lead to the very place Hector, Ghaddon, and Vakkis had witness Varris's death. "Go into this battle and know, men, that these beasts will not keep you from that glory!"
If Jedediah had learned one thing in his years of combat, it was this: the use of glory as an incentive had two possible outcomes: the men would either take that and use it to keep themselves alive, and fight all the harder, or they would let it get to their heads and end up dead anyways.
He was hoping, in this instance, it would have the former effect.
And then, with longsword and axe drawn, Jedediah led the charge over the rocks.
What happened at first was confusing. The whole force managed to make it to the middle of what should have been the battlefield, but instead of clashing with the wyverns, the scaly beasts sat atop rock spires and watched the men run through with their weapons drawn. The army looked at the four wyverns perched around them and began to falter.
"Hold your ground!" shouted the commander. Why? They should be running through while they could.
That was when they were swooped upon with flame and claw and teeth; only the black wyvern, though, was assaulting them. The lighter, purplish ones sat and watched. Waited.
Archers were shooting for the beast's wings, seeking to bring it to the earth where it would be much easier to fight; their arrows went true and ripped through the thin, leathery skin of the wings, and yet the wyvern still flew, making the occasional pass, searing and scarring the earth around the humans with fire and talon alike.
Finally, it fell, and the men set in on it like a meal after being chained up in a dungeon for months. But the wyvern would refuse to die, and it began to claw and bite and tear men to pieces. The scales were like armor, but not impenetrable, and Jedediah began hacking mercilessly at a leg.
None of this, however, was enough; the lizard did not falter in its attacks. It pressed on even harder, it seemed, the more the men attacked it. Jedediah ran around the wyvern and leapt onto its tail, which began thrashing around violently; using the spines along the back of the beast, though, he was able to climb up onto the wyvern's back, where he began to cut at the throat. It let loose a thunderous roar and shot a stream of fire into the air. The throat was softer. The scales were not as thick.
Feeling the life drain from the wyvern, Jed sheathed his weapons and once more set to climbing the sharp spines up the neck. He found himself on its head, clinging for dear life. What was he doing?
Improvising, at best.
He drew his longsword again with his right hand and clung to a spine with his left. With great difficulty, he managed to plant the blade between two plates on the wyvern's head, striking flesh. It howled, flung its head upward, and launched Jedediah into the air. He would die, now, from this height; he would be splattered into the frozen ground and die.
At least, that's what Jedediah thought, but the height was not as extreme as it felt, and despite being incredulously hardened, wyvern scales proved to provide a fairly soft landing ground. He slid off of the belly of the dead wyvern and looked at the carnage his men had wrought. The carnage that was his men. The other three wyverns then roared a long, piercing sound, and Jed tried to ready himself for another assault. It never came, though, and as he stood there and listened to the cacophony, he heard words in their song: sad, angry words. Granted, he couldn't understand them, but he understood they were there.
And then they flew away.
Jedediah managed to don a smile as he looked at what was left of his men, which was nearly two hundred less than what it had been. His smile, though, was not widely returned. Vakkis ran forward, and began stabbing at the corpse repeatedly. Jed put a hand on his shoulder to stop him, and then turned him away from the body.
This was not even their war; this was a detour.