The beginning of the end for Quentin-Andrew (or so it seemed at the time) came in the moment that he stepped into the shadow of Capital Mountain and was assaulted by a stranger.
During the first seconds of the attack, all that Lieutenant Quentin-Andrew could feel, in the form of warmth in his chest, was unadulterated pleasure. He had been attacked like this many times during his seventeen years serving the Commander of the Northern Army, and the results had always been the same. It never ceased to amaze Quentin-Andrew how many men continued to adhere to the rules of fair fighting even when it became clear that such rules were of no interest to their intended victim. And once the assailant had been captured . . .
The warmth spread to Quentin-Andrew's extremities. The Commander had given him standing orders that he could deal with such men in the manner that he preferred, as long as the necessary information was obtained from them. Few men, it was said, fell into the Lieutenant's hands without ending their lives pleading for the mercy-stroke.
Unfortunately, Quentin-Andrew was about to become acquainted with one of the handful of men in the Great Peninsula who scorned the rules of fair fighting. Moreover, the man had friends. As the first moment of pleasure faded, Quentin-Andrew became aware of this fact and turned his mission abruptly from capture to escape. It was too late, though; too late even to weigh the benefits and costs of calling for help, for the first action his captor took, upon seeing him disarmed and secured, was to clamp his hand heavily over Quentin-Andrew's mouth.
And thus Quentin-Andrew, who until this day had been the most valued soldier in the Northern Army, found himself pinioned and surrounded by soldiers of the Southern Army.
These men were part of the desperate remnant of what had once been the armies of the Great Peninsula's two southern lands of Koretia and Daxis. Even now that he was their prisoner, Quentin-Andrew could not help but view them with northern contempt, as the soldiers who were too weak – too civilized – to fight by the methods that had allowed his Commander to capture all of the Great Peninsula except for the area surrounding Capital Mountain, which now lay under siege.
A dozen soldiers stood before him; the Southern Army had taken no chances in planning this capture. One, however, had stood apart from the fight, fingering lightly the dagger in his hand: a young man, half of Quentin-Andrew's age. He lacked the hard muscles of a warrior, yet he watched the scene with great care, as though memorizing valuable information. Some part of Quentin-Andrew, deep in the cold darkness that had filled his mind for many years, flickered with curiosity, and a deeper part still flickered with recognition. But the part on the surface – the only part that anyone had seen for seventeen years – revealed no sign of interest as the young man stepped forward.
He was dressed in civilian clothes, as were the other soldiers, who had been forced to venture dangerously close to the Northern Army's camp. Nothing about his clothing revealed whether he was an army official, like Quentin-Andrew, or simply a bottom-ranked soldier who had been placed in charge of this hazardous mission. Quentin-Andrew hoped it was the latter. With an army official, he would be constrained by further orders from the Commander, but a bottom-ranked soldier could be questioned at length, using any methods Quentin-Andrew chose.
It had not yet occurred to Quentin-Andrew that his time of questioning had reached an end, and that a new questioning was about to begin.
The young man paused a moment to push back his cloak. The weather was mild by northern standards, but here in the south it was wintertime, and southerners dressed themselves accordingly. The young man tilted his head to the side, his gaze fixed upon Quentin-Andrew. Once again, a faint recognition flickered in Quentin-Andrew's darkness.
Suddenly the young man smiled and touched his heart and forehead in greeting.
"Randal son of Glisson," he said in a low voice, by way of introduction. His accent was that of a Daxion. "It is an honor to meet you, Lieutenant. A man of your talents has never before come my way."
So disappeared any lingering hopes Quentin-Andrew had held that he would not be recognized, but those hopes had never been great. An army in its final gasping breath, stretched to its limits in the days before its greatest battle, does not waste a dozen men to abduct a minor soldier. And ever since the time that the Commander had released Quentin-Andrew from his duty of leading the patrol that watched over the outskirts of the camp – his other duty had become too time-consuming – he had been known to have a habit of wandering alone late at night, perhaps as an inheritance of his father's blood. The Commander had once remarked, in half earnestness, that such a habit would prove to be the Lieutenant's undoing.
Now Quentin-Andrew coolly, and without haste, ran his mind through the alternatives available to him. Dozens of northern soldiers were within shouting distance, but they all knew the Lieutenant's voice, and none of them, he was aware from experience, would come near him except with great reluctance. His old patrol unit was out tonight, guarding the camp against intruders such as these; a single whistle would bring them running. Or would it? Eight years had passed since the Lieutenant had been their official, and that had been before most of the long, bloody tasks that the Commander had assigned him. Such tasks were done for the benefit of the Northern Army, but even so . . . The Commander himself. There was no question that he would risk his life to save the Lieutenant. These days, the Commander trusted no other man with his thoughts, which had grown steadily darker over the years, until Quentin-Andrew found it difficult sometimes to remember the light-filled man to whom he had pledged his loyalty at the beginning of the war. The Commander would come; but the Commander was away from the camp tonight, supervising the final stages of the siege.
The hand dropped from Quentin-Andrew's mouth. He had one moment in which to make his decision, and then the moment was lost as a gag was stuffed into his mouth.
The young soldier, Randal, was still watching Quentin-Andrew closely. Now, as though Quentin-Andrew had spoken, he said softly, "No one will come, Lieutenant. No one cares about you. You are alone now in the pit of your destruction."
The words burned him like fire. He knew, without having to think further, into whose hands he had fallen. For a minute he remained still, feeling the bonds around his arms; then, with a sudden jerk, he pulled himself free of his captor and lunged straight toward Randal's dagger.
Randal raised the dagger with a short laugh, preventing Quentin-Andrew
from impaling himself upon the blade. He waited until Quentin-Andrew had
been secured once more by the soldiers before he said, "You won't receive
release that way, Lieutenant; you know better than that. We'll give you
over to the Jackal's fire in time, but not until you have given us what
we need. And should you delay your gift . . ." Randal's mouth twisted into
a wry smile. "Well, Lieutenant, I don't have your skills, but I can promise
you with honesty that, by the time you encounter the Jackal's fire, it
will seem cool in comparison to what you have endured."
This text was originally published at duskpeterson.com
as part of the series The Three Lands. Copyright © 2002, 2006–7 Dusk
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