Water cascaded out of the skies, pouring across the southern lands of Radregar and flooding the countryside around Eastpoint. Drenched, Mavri and Esevar hurried along the valley behind the battalion. Their boots, full of water, sloshed through the muddy streams. Mavri pushed a drifting branch aside, leaving it swirling in the eddy of her passing.
Ahead, Velend’s Grove rose around the hills as dotted, dark shapes. When the curtains of rain parted, or when the lightning—mostly a brief glow, whisked away by storm—crackled, they saw wet cedar logs or moss-caked stone roofs. Greenery was torn away by the wind, exposing brighter sections of walls or eaves. The unweathered constructions were quickly soaked with water and cast into the shadows of the typhoon.
A man stumbled out of the third house, fighting with a lantern and cursing as he saw the East Storm mercenaries splashing through the river where the town’s main road used to run. Three arrows flew—two struck. The man, hacking up blood and shrieking, died against the wall of his house and the door was swiftly slammed shut. Even from her vantage twenty paces down the rise, Mavri could only hear a muted hum from his death cries. The storm drowned out his end.
The door of the house had slammed shut in advance of the four mercenaries sent to secure it.
Ahead, other doors were opening and closing. Rebels hurried along the crests of hills, or swam through the rivers of hurricane water in adjacent valleys. Though Sergeant Cardan had informed the battalion that most of the rebels had been caught by the storm miles out of town, it seemed Velend’s Grove still housed some of the resistance. For now.
Mavri unslung her bow from her shoulder. Even with a fresh coat of beeswax, the bow was drenched. It would work, but not well. The hammer—a heavy, familiar weight at her hip—would have to do the work if the bow did not suffice.
Soon, they were surrounded by rows of houses, shops, and taverns. In the wider valleys, now flooded with rain-pelted waves, some structures had been built; in other places, all the development had been done atop the slopes and accessed by stone stairs or dirt paths. Windows—nailed shut hastily—hid most of the light from those families that had not joined the resistance—as well as the children and wives of many of the rebels.
Sharp clanging metal announced that the battle had begun. Half a valley ahead of Mavri, the bulk of the mercenaries clashed with a growing force of rebels. Blood joined the rain.
“Watch the flank!” bellowed Quartermaster Nothedar, the voice of authority in the “non-combatants” behind the main force. Mavri and Esevar were with the workers and servants. Everyone in the East Storm carried weapons and fought with them, too, but the main force played a protective role to their craftspeople, scouts, and healers.
Mavri notched an arrow in unison with Esevar. There were stragglers still emerging from side-roads and dark, boarded-up houses on their sides. Mavri’s first arrow dropped one man face down into the moats of storm-water. She squinted and wiped her brow of rain for the thirtieth time. Her dark hair clung to her neck and tickled her wrist as she grabbed another arrow from the quiver on her back.
The storm left her ears ringing more than the din of battle. She saw a man with an axe finishing off another rebel, while one mercenary had been seized by two rebels and was being held under. Esevar loosed an arrow in unison with Mavri, and both went down during their distraction. Gasping for water, the mercenary emerged from his would-be watery grave. Blood was smeared around his wide eyes.
Mavri turned back to the rear and picked off another townsperson. These rebels were fools, to stand against the strength of Mavri and her comrades. Still, there were casualties. An arrow zipped by and took one of the servants in the neck; coughing, the poor fellow floundered forward into the red-brown water of the storm’s wrath. Mavri’s was one of two arrows that hit the rooftop sniper. Three other arrows dotted the eaves near the toppled rebel.
Esevar grabbed one of the packs from the downed servant, while one of the tanners claimed the other. Water splashing from light-brown curves, the tanner gave them a friendly nod before turning his bow back on the enemy. Still, the worst of the fighting was unfolding deeper into the valley. Othus was in there somewhere, carving his own way through the melee with his famous axe. The better armed rebels fought with swords and wore shirts of metal mail; the worst wore goat wool and fought with spears or sticks. The East Storm cut through them.
When a few more uprisers organized another attack against the flank. A few made it through the line, closing the distance of their arrows. Mavri slung her bow around her shoulder and pulled her hammer from its loop. A spearman advanced on her, lunging twice. Mavri side-stepped and ducked as she could, searching for higher ground in the shin-deep water. When the man stumbled on uneven footing, Mavri splashed toward him. He nearly fell trying to keep her at bay—yet failing to do so. Her hammer smashed in his shoulder-plate on its first blow, and crushed his windpipe with its second. She left him to drown.
A swordsman got a graze through her attempts to dodge, while they searched for an opening on one another. She shoved aside the pain and broke his forearm with her hammer. A blow to his jaw ended him before he had hit the bloody water. Velend’s Grove was becoming a bloodbath.
Mavri turned to watch for her next attacker, but there was none. She checked her arm; pink water dripped down to her wrist but the gash itself wasn’t anything worrying.
Esevar was dunking blood off her weapon before sheathing it. They had survived.
“Round up!” came Cardan’s shouted order. The mercenaries gathered closer, while the heavens rumbled and continued to toss the ocean at them. “We secure the first six buildings out from this square!”
The battalion divided.
“You good?” Mavri asked Esevar, stepping closer.
“Winded,” she said, “but fine.” Her hair had come loose of its knot, running in chaotic patterns around her shoulders and neck. She helped Mavri search the bodies of those they had killed. Mavri pocketed twenty Grey Sea coppers and a well-made metal flask she might be able to sell.
Together, they searched for Othus. As they meandered through the troops, Mavri noticed that Master Kelren was still absent. This afternoon, he had led a handful of their best fighters out of the camp… a secret mission, apparently.
Othus was checking through the pockets of his own kills, chuckled at the jokes of another friend. He rose and waved animatedly at Mavri and Esevar. He had a few gashes on his forearms and a bloody mark on his forehead, but looked fine. “Finally, some action, right?”
Later, Mavri checked in with Quartermaster Nothedar. The overseer was setting up an outpost of sorts in a gutted home. He had only kept the table indoors—apparently, he had no plans of sleeping in this particular location. He was discussing the secured grid of buildings with a few others, it seemed. “…of them do sneak out of town, under cover of the wind and rain, so be it. We took the town and the rest can get lost in the storm.” It seemed they had a proper crowd of prisoners now.
Once the room had cleared a little, Mavri spoke up. “Nothedar,” she said. “How are we?”
“Good,” he said, without looking up from a report. He looked rather studious for just having fought a battle. “Lost eight, it looks like. A few more injuries. The infirmary is across the road. If there’s even a road under all the water.”
Mavri nodded. She wrung out her hair near the door, splattering water and a little blood onto the doorstop. It was a vain attempt as she’d soon return to the stormy realm beyond the door, but she would rather not ruin any of Nothedar’s work. “Saw Kelren leave this morning,” she said. “Is he still out in the storm?”
Nothedar looked up. “Ah yes, Master Kelren took some men to sabotage the rebels’ best option for shelter—not counting these streets. He should be back soon to offer healing…” He was looking at her cut arm.
Mavri shrugged. “Do I stake out my own place or do you have anything in mind?”
“Don’t set up shop too far from the middle of town. Keep your distance from the prison houses, of course,” Nothedar said. He rubbed his bald forehead and grimaced. “There’s a chance we might be trapped in the town for a while. Even if the hurricane doesn’t last long, we may need to defend our position here. Set up properly, in case it’s a long stay.”
“In that case,” Mavri said, “should I look around for a proper smithy or shop?”
The quartermaster blinked. His short black beard was still dripping with water. “Look for one, by all means, but if it’s outside the perimeter you’ll have to loot it and set up here.”
“As you say,” Mavri said. She could call him ‘sir,’ like most others did, but Mavri wasn’t on Nothedar’s payroll either. She enjoyed that privilege as much as she could. She returned to the rainy door and plunged back out into the storm. So, this flooded hovel is my home now? she wondered. Still, she always liked town in the hills. They seemed more quaint than the overgrown homes of her jungle origin.
Just her luck, the Velend’s Grove smithy was outside of the perimeter. She would check it out once Cardan could spare a few mercenaries for a raid beyond their perimeter—if they even stayed in town that long.
In the meantime, she had plenty of gear to re-oil and some to repair. After the fight, Mavri’s work always began in earnest.