Torrin's Sword

Unease at Dawn

Torrin opened his eyes and lifted his head from his saddle.

The still air was cold and smoke from smoldering cook fires lay heavy on the camp. Nathell, still snoring softy in his blankets, was an indistinct hump, and the forms of their horses, tethered close by, were dark shadows.

What had awoken him?

Scanning the disorganized camp, Torrin looked for the sentries. He could see two of the five that kept watch through the night. One man looked like he was asleep, sitting upright and leaning on his spear.

Torrin narrowed his eyes. His hackles were up, and the gooseflesh crawled over his shoulders. Something had awoken him.

He sat up and let his blanket slide down. He was fully armored and he reached for his scabbarded sword lying beside him. Torrin nudged his brother with a toe, waking Nathell.

Rubbing his eyes, his brother sat up and frowned at Torrin. "What? I was having a nice dream."

Torrin shook his head. "Not sure," he whispered, "but I think something is wrong."

The silence of the sleeping camp was almost complete, save for the occasional snort or murmur from the sleeping warriors. Unlike the disciplined army camps Torrin and Nathell were used to in Pellar, the Ren warrior coverts were more akin to a rabble, commanded by the strongest warrior, who was not necessarily the most intelligent. Torrin and his brother had been hired for their swords. Although he often disliked how things were done, they were here to fight, not to reform Rennish warrior society.

In a way, Torrin welcomed the chaotic structure. Ren warriors were savage and without remorse when it came to battle and killing. Raiding was their way of life, the only thing they lived for, well the men at least. It matched his own inner turmoil and he felt strangely at home, despite how far they were from Pellaris.

He knew Nathell would go back north in a heart beat, but his brother refused to leave him here, even when Torrin ordered him to go. Torrin couldn't go home. The thought of being surrounded by the ordered civility of his homeland, with sympathetic expressions and words from the well-meaning, made him sick with anger and shame.

Here, no one knew his past. No one knew the tragedy that led him to go as far south as he could, abandoning his homeland in self-imposed exile. They knew only that he was a Northman, and good with a sword, very good.

Already many of the men in the cohort looked to Torrin for direction, something that had not gone unnoticed by the Ren commander.

Nathell sat up and looked around, his peevishness gone. He knew Torrin's instincts were rarely wrong.

Torrin stood, quietly buckling his sword belt around his waist and loosening the blade in its scabbard. He stepped carefully toward the sitting sentry, scanning the edge of camp. The man did not move as he approached.

"Hey," Torrin whispered as he drew near. The idiot was sound asleep. Torrin shook him by the shoulder. Then jumped back as the man slid from his perch, his head lolled to the side, revealing a gaping wound in his throat.

Hissing Torrin drew his sword with a ring, shouting, "Up! Awake! The camp has been compromised!"

Men gasped, scrambling out of blankets and drawing weapons, their wide eyes darting to and fro in the muted dawn light.

"Look to the sentries," Torrin called. 'Watch the perimeter."

Several men nodded and ran toward the outer edge of the camp pulling others with them.

"Here! What is the meaning of this noise?" A large barrel-chested warrior in overlapping disc armor – the only complete set among the cohort, save for Torrin and Nathell's – strode from the tent at the center of the camp, scowling and jabbing a finger at Torrin. "You presume too much, Northman," he snarled.