Of Gods and Warriors ✓

Chapter 60

All of Marches' sorcerous intuitions were going haywire, and the cause was, as the sorcerer preferred to put it, multifactorial.

In other, less fancier words: he didn't know why.

As of right now, as the party marched along through the plains beyond the woods of Kinallen beneath a clear sky, the fresh, crisp air of dawn caressing their faces, the wind resonating with the rhythm of many pairs of boots and clattering hooves, breaths of both men and beasts alike steaming into the air-- a distinct sense of foreboding nagged him incessantly.

All in all, possessing sorcery too strong was more a curse than a blessing. Wine worked well to smother it down somewhat, but all these mercenaries had was tart mead. Thus every little thing from ravens across the border or the alchemist riding alongside the carriage, triggered it.

And so here he was, overthinking and missing out on a perfect opportunity to doze off for a good few hours, for the Dark Saints carriage moved at a much slow pace to match the mercenaries and a small detachment of soldiers from Kinallen, among which there were two apprentice healers.

Perhaps the odd feelings had something to do with the black-clad sergeant who tailed them astride a dark horse that was a perfect match for its master, looking like the harbinger of death with vigilant eyes trained on Dion, the captive assassin and a valuable witness. Under Sergeant Linder's watch walked a Council Mage as well, face pale in terror.

Or maybe it was the gigantic wooden box which Sergant Wolturs of Kinallen garrison insisted on hauling along but refused to tell what was inside it, just like Sergeant Linder chose not to elaborate why he was dragging along a frightened Council Mage. So far both of them were keeping secrets.

Such sorcerous intuitions were not always correct, of course. Xenro, the golden-haired new recruit, for example, gave off the unnerving aura of an ancient being at least a few millennia old--which was obviously a mistake. Everyone knew none except Lord Atruer bothered to meddle in mortal affairs.

And speaking of Atruer...

"So were any of you going to tell me, or was I supposed to figure out myself why that corporal has two souls apparently?" he asked.

Princess Lysandra, who lazily gazed outside the window on the opposite seat, turned her eyes on Marches.

"You can track crows halfway across the kingdom. This is but child's play for you, isn't it?" she said. "And to answer your question: no. I had no idea."

Marches peered outside. A few squads of the mercenaries marched alongside them, the total two hundred of them broken into smaller units and spaced out to avoid attracting too much attention.

The mercenaries looked no longer like The Silverhaarts.

A few days ago, the night they had embarked on their journey from the hideout, preparations began swiftly with the end of the council, yet the snowstorm didn't subside until the dead of the night. Supply carts were readied with steeds, weapons honed upon whetstones and armours mended and repolished.

The only thing more astounding than their underground fortress housing anything from horse-drawn carriages to cellars of mead, was how much two hundred pairs of hands could achieve within ten bells.

And within that time, the company had assumed a whole new identity with which to set foot into the heart of the kingdom.

Dusty grey livery replaced the azure and gold, plain leather scabbards sheathed Sacred Blades. Banners the colour of woodsmoke now rippled overhead, emblazoned with the symbol of a skull wearing a horned helm, its face a snarling grin.