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| Durant's Yellow Jackets |
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| Episode Six: For a Few Barrels More |
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| Part Two of Two “Duke Girard de la Montagne,” echoes Jurgenvoch. “Don’t worry Durant, these men are not our enemies.” Macon calls out to the approaching Bretonnians, and waves a strip of yellow and blue silk. After a few moments, the lead rider waves a similarly designed banner. Macon rides forward to meet the knights. The Yellow Jackets watch quietly, dazzled by the pristine plate armour and spectacular heraldry adorning the shields of the Bretonnian nobility. By far the most outlandish designs belong to the Duke. A pair of unicorns in yellow face each other on a background of sky blue. The Duke’s steed bears the same design on its caparison. Wilhelm is not the only mercenary who feels underdressed by this unexpected aristocratic appearance. “Typical Bretonnian flashiness,” grumbles Wilhelm. “Always want to put one over on their opponents.” “We’re supposed to be working with them you know,” says Dieter. “We’re here for trade, remember.” “Then it seems they’re equally keen to show up their allies too,” says Wilhelm. The comment is allowed to hang in the air, as the Yellow Jackets watch Durant and Jurgenvoch move forward to parley with the Bretonnian duke. Macon makes the introductions in the Bretonnian language. “Monsieur le Duc, this is your old acquaintance, Captain Jurgenvoch. The other man is Captain Alm Durant of Marienburg.” “Marienburg, eh?” sneers the duke. “You must work for Arbach.” “He has employed me in this endeavour, yes.” It has been a while since Durant last conversed with the nobility, in any language. He has to wrap his tongue around half-forgotten Bretonnian phrases. Even if the Duke appears to be rude, a slip in etiquette on Durant’s part could prove disastrous. “We were hoping to do some business with you Monsieur Duke.” “Arbach wants more of my wine, does he?” ask the Duke with a raised eyebrow. “That is correct,” replies Durant. “Well, as you can see,” says the Duke with a sweep of his arm, encompassing the forest, “my vineyard has gone. So, I’m afraid that you have made a journey for nothing. You will have to return to your little city, and tell Monsieur Arbach that his business is no longer appreciated in Girard de la Montagne.” “May I ask what happened here?” says Durant. The Duke falls silent. Durant examines the Bretonnian’s face, and realises that while on the surface, the Duke may seem haughty and dismissive, there is no mistaking the sadness in his eyes. The glimpse is revealing, but only lasts for a few seconds. “I’m sorry Captain Durant, I think you have wasted your efforts on this trip. I must insist that you leave my lands immediately. You have an hour before sunset, and I suggest you use that hour to put as much distance as possible between yourselves and my domain.” “Monsieur le Duc, I think you have been too harsh,” says Macon. “We have ridden all day. We are wet and tired, perhaps a little hospitality would be in order.” The Duke’s face changes instantly. There is a palpable anger which Durant has seen before. To insult a Bretonnian noble is to invite serious consequences. The Duke’s hand is immediately on his sword. His knightly escort follow suit a second later. Durant notes that the Duke’s sword has a hilt of a peculiar shape and colour. It almost looks like a unicorn’s horn. The Duke is seething, and Durant fears there may be bloodshed. Macon appears startled, and raises his hand in a gesture of peace. “Please, Monsieur le Duc, forgive me,” Macon says. “It was not my place to make such a request. I meant no disrespect.” The two Bretonnian stare at each other for a long, drawn-out moment. Durant can hear the sound the rain pattering off the Duke’s plate armour, the sound of tense breathing. He waits for the Duke’s reaction. “Very well,” says the Duke finally. “I accept your apology. But I repeat my insistence that you leave, immediately.” The Duke relaxes his grip on his sword hilt, and allows it to slide back into the scabbard. Macon bows deeply, and everyone breathes more easily. When Macon rises from his bow, Durant is shocked to see a blackness has descended in the Bretonnian’s eyes. Macon is chanting words that chill Durant’s blood. He opens his mouth to shout a warning, but the air is crushed from his lungs, leaving him gasping for breath. Macon’s chanting continues, and Durant feels a pounding in his brain, as if an ogre were jumping up and down on his head. Through tear-stricken eyes, Durant watches in horror as Macon extends a hand towards the Duke. Macon speaks a few more words, and a flash of brilliant purple light streaks through the air, and strikes the Duke in the chest. The Duke is hurled violently to the ground, his half-drawn sword flying out of its scabbard and the Duke’s hand. A column of purple smoke drifts up from a gaping hole in the Duke’s chest. Macon’s chanting stops, and Durant is able to breathe more easily. Durant reaches for his pistols, and draws them. He aims them towards Macon. The Bretonnian spurs his horse forward, making straight for the fallen sword. Durant fires, but his first shot is wide. He squints down the barrel of the second pistol, determined not to miss his remaining shot. When Macon reaches the sword, he leans across his horse, and scoops the weapon up off the floor. Durant has to wait, Macon is moving around in the saddle too much for a clean shot. When Macon recovers his balance, Durant takes aim and shoots. He watches in disbelief as the bullet, heading straight for Macon’s head disappears in a shower of sparks. Macon rides on, unharmed, and urges his horse on faster. Durant curses, grabs hold of his own steed’s reins and gives pursuit. Macon has a good ten yards head start on Durant, and is less than a hundred yards from the forest. Durant clings tightly onto his horse with his legs, and reloads his pistol. He loses ground as he is forced to slow, but once the pistol is cocked and ready, he surges forward again. Durant tries to draw a beat on Macon, but the motion of the galloping horse proves difficult to master. They are within twenty yards of the forest, and Durant knows he has to shoot. He sees Macon sit up straighter in the saddle, reaching for something within his jacket. Durant squeezes the trigger, and watches as Macon explodes in a flash of orange light. Durant reels from the sudden brightness, but when his eyes clear, there is no trace of Macon or his steed. Durant brings his horse to a stop. He stares bemusedly at the trees. He catches movement out of the corner of his eye. He aims his pistol, forgetting it is not loaded. There is a blur of green and brown, a hint of pale skin, the nothing. The forest is silent and dark. Durant hears shouts and cries of pain from somewhere behind him. The noises cause Durant to turn. He sees that his men are under attack, from Jurgenvoch’s troops. The grass verge is being torn up into a muddy quagmire as the Yellow Jackets try to fend off the surprise attack. Durant reloads his pistols and gallops back towards the fray. Karl and Franck are on foot, standing over the prone body of Heinz, who is unconscious. Karl wields his flail with a ferocious urgency, while Franck covers Karl’s blind side. Jakob and Wilhelm are fighting off three of Jurgenvoch’s men, and holding their own, to Durant’s paternal pride. As he draws closer, Durant sees that the Bretonnians have fought their way through the traitorous Reiklanders, and are engaged in a fierce battle over their fallen duke’s body. To the left of the Bretonnians, Dieter and another mercenary are struggling against two Reiklanders and the two wagon drivers. Durant decides to lend his weight, and gallops towards the fighting. He lowers a pistol and fires at the nearest Reiklander. The bullet spews forth in a gout of flame and smoke, before striking the Reiklander in the side of the neck. He topples into a lifeless heap, as Durant reaches the fighting. Durant thrusts himself off his horse, draws his sword and charges forward. Only when he gets closer does he realise that the man fighting alongside Dieter is Jurgenvoch himself. Durant has not time to question this turn of events, and lunges forward to engage one of the wagon drivers. Only now, instead of driving a goods wagon, the man is wielding a four-foot blade, and is clearly no slouch in the swordsmanship department. Durant and the wagon driver exchange blows, which clatter noisily off the other’s sword. Durant slips on the wet ground, and the wagon driver catches him with a glancing blow to the side of Durant’s breastplate. The blade draws blood, causing Durant to wince with pain. He blocks another swing with the butt of his pistol, and then brings his own sword around, cutting a deep gash across the wagon driver’s enamoured chest. The man screams, and drops his weapon. Seconds later Durant plunges ten inches of steel into the man’s stomach, and the wagon driver doubles over in agony. Durant kicks the man and he falls to the ground. After a few belaboured attempts at breathing, the driver lays still. Durant looks around for another opponent, but the rest of the Yellow Jackets have bested their foes. Jurgenvoch and Dieter stand over their vanquished opponents, their faces flecked with blood. They are breathing heavily following their exertions. Durant snarls at Jurgenvoch, he brandishes his sword menacingly. Jurgenvoch tries to stop Durant’s rush towards him, but in a second he finds himself knocked onto his back. He stares up into the wild eyes of Captain Durant. “Give me one reason why I shouldn’t gut you here, you treacherous swine!” shouts Durant manically. “Why did you turn on my men?” “I didn’t. I don’t know what happened here,” pleads Jurgenvoch. “They attacked me too!” “Liar!” shouts Durant. With a flick of his sword, he open a cut on Jurgenvoch’s belly. “Tell me what you did.” “Sir, he’s right,” says Dieter. “He was with us when the others attacked. No warning, nothing at all. One minute we were watching you talk with the Bretonnian duke, the next thing we know, blades are out and pointing at us.” Durant listens, but is not convinced. His sword remains pointed at Jurgenvoch’s throat. Suddenly there is a hand on his shoulder. He whirls around to meet this new challenge, nearly severing Karl’s arm as he does so. Karl is covered in blood; his own, his opponents, Heinz’s. Durant relaxes slightly. “You can let him go Cap’n,” says Karl solemnly. “Captain Jurgenvoch is no traitor. Macon must have paid off the rest of the company, but I don’t know why.” “He took the duke’s sword,” replies Durant. He finally lowers his weapon. “Where is Macon anyway?” asks Karl. “Did you catch him?” Durant shakes his head. He offers a hand to Jurgenvoch, who eventually accepts it. “Macon’s gone. I chased him to the forest, and he just vanished in a blaze of orange light. When I got back here, everything had gone to hell.” The mercenaries look at each other in confusion. Wilhelm steps forward, awkwardly, due to the twisted ankle he has suffered. “What colour was the light?” Wilhelm asks quietly. “Orange. He disappeared in a flash of orange light.” The significance of his words hits Durant almost immediately after he speaks the words. “Just like…” “Just like from Arbach’s coins?” asks Karl. “Exactly like that,” says Durant. The Yellow Jackets stand in shocked silence. “Do you think Arbach planned this?” asks Torval. “What was he trying to achieve?” Jurgenvoch clears his throat noisily. “The Duke’s sword was a potent magical item. That wasn’t an imitation unicorn’s horn in the hilt, it was real, imbued with powerful magic. I don’t think Arbach was interested in the wine at all. He wanted that horn, and he wanted all of us dead. But I can’t say why.” Durant sheaths his sword and looks into the faces of his men. “Then let’s get to Marienburg and find out.” To be concluded… |
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| Episode Seven: The Damned City |
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