Journal Entry 126
6th of Scythe, 1797 S.C.
Tlulanxu
Just before embarking upon my first assignment as an Archive Courier, I remember consoling myself with the surety of joining the Legion when I finished. I thought, “What could go wrong?”
The answer turned out to be, “Quite a lot, actually.”
Since that day, I have traveled the seas for almost three years as a Courier and had many so-called “adventures.” I sailed on many ships, almost always Dunarran, to many lands. We were nearly shipwrecked off the coast of Uanseach, beset and almost boarded by Sikassian privateers within sight of the docks of Hadezh on Mihal’j, and attacked by some great tentacled beast while at overnight anchorage near Crovae, the Irrylaish gutta-percha colony on the west coast of Solori. I stood ready in cuirboulli and with sword drawn each time. And each time, I was told to guard the portfolios bound for the Archive Recondite, at the cost of my life if necessary. It seemed a genuine command to address a genuine concern, but I cannot help but suspect that it also reflected a desire to keep a young, untested warrior out of the way of the seasoned soldiers already lining the gunwales or standing to the weapons mounted on the centerline pivots.
I have tallied all the places I made landfall and it turns out that I have seen and walked the streets of just about three dozen port cities beyond those of Dunarra and her three ancestral and closest allies (Teurodn, Connæar, Irrylain). In the course of doing so, I learned an average of three hundred words in a dozen different languages, was trailed by various thieves through various bazaars, and visited scores of scholars—all of whom demonstrated one constant despite personal or cultural differences: a stultifying obsession with their subject of expertise. In many cases, this focus became so myopic that any aptitudes they’d had for interacting with other humans had long since grown stiff and unserviceable with disuse. But they had not lost their appreciation for silver, and Dunarra is renowned for its generosity when paying for noteworthy tomes, artifacts, insights, or information.
In the course of securing and transporting those objects, I drew my weapon half a dozen times and used it only once. That occurred when an arranged meeting with a reclusive scholar in the Sqa’ene highlands of Solori turned out to be a ruse. It was arranged by a bandit-lord who dwelt just beyond the borders of Qu’unatliqlan and who possessed an ear in its court. The one prisoner who survived revealed to whom that ear was attached. It did not remain so after we made our report. In countries such as Qu’unatliqlan, where an autocrat’s words—and whims—are law, justice is often remarkably swift, and punishments are often fashioned to fit the crime.
I was two moonphases shy of twenty-one when my assignment as an Archive Courier came to an end and I eagerly tore off the wax seal on the back of my new orders. At last! A posting to the Legion!
Except that was not the order conveyed by the document. As Shaananca had assured me, my case had come to the special and particular attention of all manner of highly placed Consentium commanders and intelligencers. And, as she had also been certain, I was indeed made a soldier. But not with the Legions; I was assigned to the Ord Ridire.
I will admit that it is the most desirable military posting after the Legions. If they are the Consentium’s sword and shield, the Ord Ridire is its swiftest lance, both on and off the battlefield. It is they who patrol the areas along—and sometimes well beyond—Dunarra’s borders.
But there is a branch of the Ord Ridire that serves the Consentium in a very different role: as its ears, eyes, and sometimes, daggers. Operating in small groups, these are the Outriders, who rarely travel in teams greater than three or four. Certainly, I reasoned, shining service as either a cavalryman or scout would earn me an eventual transfer to the Legions.
But my first assignment in the Ord Ridire was in neither of those customary roles. Rather, no sooner had I unloaded my kit from one ship than I was sent to another. I was to be a subaltern aboard an Ord Ridire barquentine. Which must sound very confusing: Why would a horseman serve as ship’s crew?
The answer lies in the Ord Ridire’s ancient origins as a band of borderers who patrolled and defended the frontier for those peoples who dwelt in the lands between Aedmurun and Tlulanxu, which ultimately amalgamated into the nation of Dunarra. However, once that state evolved into a continent- (and then globe-) spanning Consentium, the Ord Ridire was tasked to detect potential threats well beyond the borders—including overseas. So although their mobility expanded to include hulls as well as horses, the name did not change.
However, the definition of “threat” changed considerably, expanding beyond strictly military matters. Disruptions in distant dynasties, shifts in power among continent-spanning guilds, regional impacts of new alliances or old grudges: monitoring these events fell to the Outriders, whose emphasis upon small numbers and the ability to blend into different cultures made them a natural fit for the Consentium’s evolving needs. Consequently, even as their numbers grew, they evolved too, becoming intelligencers as well as scouts—but still carried on Ord Ridire ships.
I suppose it was inevitable that I was tapped to serve aboard such vessels. I had more time at sea than any recruit except for those who had come from harbor towns, but also had grown up handling animals and riding. So whether at sea or on land, I knew how to get around quickly. Also, my time both as an assistant in, and Courier for, the Archive Recondite had acquainted me with where and how one goes about getting needed information.
The ships I served on mostly sailed the Sea of Kudak, a great inland pocket of the ocean. For almost two years, we crisscrossed those relatively calm waters between Silvallash, Sanâllea, Leannedor, the free city of Menara, and our own ports. We carried news, delivered sealed orders, and transported factotums and agents of the Propretoriate—sometimes out of harm’s way at the very last second. Or a little bit later than that.
Six months ago, upon porting in Tlulanxu, I found new orders awaiting me. Surely, I had finally been posted to the Legions! But no, I was still in the Ord Ridire. I was simply being transferred to the Outriders. I had never sought solace at the bottom of an ale mug before, but I did that night.
Understand: To be made an Outrider is a great honor and a noteworthy compliment to one’s abilities. Their missions are at such remove and the consequent need for independent action is so high, that the military Pretors consider it one of the most demanding of assignments a soldier may be given. But inasmuch as my desire to serve in the Legion continues undiminished and unwavering, I consider it just another detour.
Since then, my duties have been light and largely uneventful. I am the youngest of our three-man team and we have ranged up and down the western border of both Dunarra and Connæar, watchful for incursions that never come. We venture further over the border, from the open town of Steppney all the way down to Menara on the coast, when we have information or informers to pick up.
The most important are those who come bearing report of the antagonistic rulers of Khassant, just to the west. On several occasions, we were compelled to stand off Khassa riders that meant to either retrieve or silence a fleeing informer. On one occasion, they loosed a few arrows at us, probably more out of annoyance than intent to start a skirmish. Most of their shafts missed, one hit my shield, another caught the horse of one of the other Outriders in the meat of its haunches. While he controlled and drew his shaken mount out of range, we let fly arrows in return.
Our bows are not as handy as the Khassa pony shortbows, but ours have greater range and power, being slightly longer and of composite construction. One of the pursuers slipped more than fell from his horse: the Khassas use no saddles and only primitive stirrups. Recovering their motionless comrade, they withdrew, shouting as they did. No doubt it was some of the extraordinarily colorful Khassa taunts about the lascivious nature of all our female ancestors, but I was too far to hear much of it clearly.
That was three weeks ago. With winter nearing, we were withdrawn from our patrol circuit, replaced by a larger but less wide-ranging Ord Ridire unit. The other two Outriders in my group immediately returned to their families. I was at loose ends and put in a request for any missions that might want filling; I had no desire to sit idle, although I have accrued an immense amount of leave time.
It turned out there was a job that needed doing up north, in what is called the Plain of Grehar, or to adopt the corrupted version, the “Graveyard.” It is a stretch of open land beyond the western frontier that starts in Connæar and continues along the contiguous border of its northern neighbor, Teurodn. Its ominous nickname comes from being one of the places where the Bent most frequently raid, even in the winter months.
Once I heard the destination, I also guessed the nature of the job: to help a lone, but more experienced, Outrider to observe and report on Bent activity in the region. The Graveyard attracts particular attention in this regard, since an increase in raiding there is one of the most reliable barometers of when their numbers are approaching what is called either a horde-mass or a “Hordeing.”
Having asked for an assignment, I could not then reject this one. So, I will be spending the next two days in the Archive, learning more about the Bent and then departing on what is roundly held to be one of the most miserable missions that any Outrider can be given. My destination is a small camp, or possibly blockhouse, of bountiers: men whose gruesome profession involves tracking and killing Bent to trade their thumbs for coin. To say that I am traveling to a place that might well be as squalid and unsavory as it is unsafe would be an understatement.
So this time, as I prepare to face another new challenge, I am not thinking, “What can go wrong?”
Creeds and cruppers, I’ll be happy just to get back alive.