I: The Crow Among Birds

[Altiak 1648]

 

JACKALS

 

Chapter I

The Crow Among Birds

 

12th of the Sun’s Smile, 1536

Aftermath of The Battle of White Mountain, Northern Urguan

Edgar de Saltpans visits an old friend whose luck has run out.

 

 

Spoiler

 

 

 

True it may have been that Edgar de Saltpans was a new face to the storied lands of Vailor, but he was no stranger to the war that had plagued it for so long. A cunning and vernal young man of twenty-two summers, Edgar had bore witness to more bloodshed than some of Oren’s most grizzled soldiery. But as he rode onward towards the bleary mountain-top pass ahead, the cold winds of Urguan lashing at him remorselessly, a lingering realization took hold of Edgar:

 

The worst of what he had seen was yet to come.

 

Edgar had been to this frigid, unforgiving place once before, accompanied by the most unsavory band of ruffians he could dredge up from the slums of Savoie’s princedom. His ill-fated venture into the harsh peaks of the Dwarven mountains some years ago had culminated in his own capture, and for two miserable years he was humbled by the shackles and bindings of imprisonment. The unpleasant men he had come to know as his comrades were subject to much crueler ends - ends met at the pointed blades of half-man steel.

 

But fate, that dastardly mistress, could be subjugated by no man, and now, as the chorus of singing rooks reached his ears, Edgar feared that she had come for those that seemed to get the best of her. Loathsome and frank, this realization gnawed at Edgar as he crested a snowy hill and took in the wretched field of triumph that stretched far as the horizon before him.

 

The charnel stench of death hung heavy in the air, to the point that Edgar’s steed froze up in revulsion and would advance not a half-trot further. Unfettered by the foul odor, the man dismounted and continued onward by way of foot, purposeful but cautious in his tread. The chatter of a thousand carrion birds as they gorged themselves on flesh and offal rattled Edgar to his core, and his pace quickened as he wandered forward through the desolation left in the wake of the battle.

 

The carcasses left behind by the birds were so ravaged that he could scarcely tell man from dwarf. The very sight of this ugly feast made Edgar cringe and recoil, but upon remembering why he had come so far he forced himself onward. By now, he had reached the mound upon which the amorphous clutch of bodies was thickest, his steady march meanwhile eroding into a dazed stumbling gambol.

 

More corpses - some propped against each other, others arbitrarily cast to the side, touched with wicked and mortal gouges, arrows and bolts protruding from pale flesh and torn chain-link. The bleeding field was a dreadful jumble of men whose empty eyes saw nothing, and those poor fellows who seemed locked in a twisted embrace; an arm discarded here, a leg detached there.

 

Here, amidst a distinctly-savaged pile of Orenian bodies and jutting limbs, clenched tightly in a white fist, something caught Edgar’s eye: a worn and bronzen old coin that shone in the light and caused his gut to wrench.It was enough to bring Edgar to his knees, and he began to claw his way through the bloodied and brutalized cadavers as he squirmed towards the bronze piece. The crows perched upon the bodies cried their displeasure at Edgar’s intrusion, and flew off in retreat, leaving him alone in his trancelike crawl towards the coin.

 

The task grew more pressing with each passing minute for Edgar as he hauled aside man after unmoving man; recognizable faces of dead friends that he would dream of beyond a doubt for each moment he closed his eyes. But it was the mortal remains of one man in distinct whose image would engrave itself in Edgar’s mind forever - that of Edward Gambino’s.

 

Edgar’s friend lay with his back planted firmly to the ground, hands spread wide. A wayward arrow had lodged itself in his breast, and Gambino’s lifeless eyelids were peeled back to reveal colorless orbs devoid of sight. In his left hand, he held tight the worn old coin, unwilling to abandon it even in death. In this placid state, Gambino almost seemed like he had welcomed his final moments just as he would embrace an old friend.

 

At the sight of his dead associate, cast aside and broken, Edgar felt a tremor rise through his spine. He had known the ambition and vigor that once filled the empty body that lay before his eyes. He took a fleeting moment to examine the many wounds that marred his friend’s corpse, thinking back on Gambino’s cocksure demeanor as he drunkenly stumbled off to join the ranks of men marching for White Mountain. Shifting his jaw, Edgar scooped up his friend’s corpse and hoisted it up into his arms, looking skywards to the rolling clouds high above him.

 

“We got close.”

 

De Saltpans’ under-lip trembled as he spoke, voice barely above a whisper.

 

“We could’ve had fuckin’ everything!”

 

His bellow bounded across the bloody valley, over the vast and unsightly array of dead men and half-men that covered the snowy terrain. The cry of resentment was enough to scatter the remaining crows, who took flight under fluttering wings in search of quieter places to indulge their appetites. Edgar let go of his compatriot, who slumped upon the earth and stared blankly up at him with mouth agape. Eddie Gambino had survived for so long, relying on luck alone, but as fate would have it, his luck had run out.

 

 

Flip of the coin, Eddie.

 

Rest well. You deserve it.

 

Edgar’s digits curled around the frigid hand of his friend. With an air of tenderness and finality he settled Gambino’s closed fist and the coin within it over his heart, leaving it there as he rose to his feet. Looking down at the luckless hoodlum who had built with him a mercantile empire, Edgar let the harsh, acrid winds whip at his face before he turned away from the sight and began to pick his way back through the bodies to his horse.

 

The storied realm of Vailor held no more worth for Edgar than the coin that Eddie Gambino would hold for eternity. Slinging a foot into his stirrup, Edgar did not spare the horrors of White Mountain a final glance. He rode from the wretched sight of triumph, and he knew for himself that he would not stop riding for a very long time. Even after departing the slaughtering grounds, Edgar de Saltpans knew one thing for certain:

 

The worst of what he had seen was yet to come.

 

 

 

 

 

 

[CheekyNolan 5420]

Moved to the Archive. It shall be sorted into the appropriate category shortly.