Chapter Eight: Setting Sail
Jerrod
Father Jerrod expected many things to receive him as he materialized, but one thing he had not expected was to be attacked without warning.
Teleportation had never been Jerrod's forte. The way it worked was still not fully understood; Jerrod knew that it involved using magical energies to temporarily morph the human body into pure energy, which was absorbed into the Anima Mundi and deposited at the appropriate destination, where the morphed energy was turned back into flesh, blood, and bone. At least, that was the general concept.
Whenever Jerrod teleported, he almost always felt nauseous at the other end. He did not know why; other wizards and magic-users he had spoken with on the matter had never had any complaints of nausea. Perhaps it simply came down to the randomness of birth.
Father Jerrod, for some reason he did not know, did not materialize in the market of Port Sarim, as he had originally planned. He had not been to that city for over fifteen years; perhaps his aim had become rusty over time. The Cleric shrugged; he recognized the countryside. He was only a league or so away from the port city. Not a very long walk; probably an hour at most.
What Father Jerrod didn't remember about this part of the country was the still-burning campfire which he had materialized next to, and the six men who had built it were sitting around the flames, roasting their breakfasts.
The nearest man let out a surprised yelp, accidentally dropping his bacon into the fire. The next two men leapt to their feet and all-out tackled the Cleric, taking him down. Jerrod grunted as he was slammed into the ground, knocking his head back on the earth. His staff went flying as he went down; clattering to the ground, out of reach. For a moment he saw stars, but he shook his head, clearing it.
Jerrod lashed out at one of the men holding him, kneeing him near the groin and rolling him into his companion, heaving both men off. One soldier drew his sword and executed a clean, swift thrust aimed at Jerrod's leg—not a death wound, but an injury that would certainly make Jerrod stop.
The Cleric sidestepped the swipe and delivered a sharp blow to the attacker's wrist. While the soldier was temporarily fazed, Jerrod seized the man's hand and arm and tore his sword free. Jerrod whirled the sword through the air in an intricate pattern of twirls and cuts, almost like an entertainer with a baton.
With one soldier still clutching the fork of his legs and another cradling his fractured wrist, the other four soldiers all drew their own weapons, fanning out and circling the Cleric.
Jerrod raised his word and rested it laterally across the back of his neck. It was the Qaresh—a Menaphite defensive fighting stance. The Cleric carefully kept all four soldiers in his field of view, watching the subtle movements of their legs and fingers that unknowingly betrayed what their next moves were going to be.
When all four of the soldiers leaped forward to attack, Father Jerrod tightened his grip on his sword and reciprocated. The soldiers ended up cutting through empty air. The Cleric wove his way around the soldiers, moving from one foot to the other in a fluid dance. His sword flashed in the morning sun as he slashed and parried the soldiers' blades.
The Cleric had obviously trained with a sword for several decades; he moved almost too fast for the human eye to follow. In less than ten seconds, the Cleric had disarmed the four men, and was holding one of them at swordpoint, touching the tip of the blade to the soldier's neck.
Shouts and cried arose from the woods as others heard the sounds of Jerrod's fight. Within a minute, three or four dozen men had sprinted out of the trees, all of them armed to the teeth. Ten of the men sported longbows crafted from yew wood. They all knocked arrows and formed a ring around the Cleric, keeping at a safe distance.
"Drop the blade," one of the archers commanded. "Drop it, or we'll shoot!"
"I am not your enemy, gentlemen," Father Jerrod grunted. To back his earlier statement up, he lowered the blade and dropped it onto the ground, where it landed with a dull thunk. "I don't need steel to defend myself, anyway."
"What the hell is going on here?" a distant voice shouted through the trees. Murmurings and replies were hollered out in response, but the owner of the voice paid them no heed. A man clad in battered, grimy armor that had once been polished and smooth stepped into the clearing that Jerrod had teleported into. The red plume cresting his helmet identified him as a centurion.
The centurion took in the situation in a single glance, seeing the battered and bruised soldiers who had attacked Jerrod, and then seeing the Cleric himself, standing in the centre of the clearing without a scratch. The man's hand fell to the pommel of his sword, but he did not unsheathe the weapon. Instead, he spoke to the intruder. "State your name and purpose."
"My name is Jerrod. My purpose is my business, and mine alone."
The centurion now drew his sword and took a step towards the Cleric. "I do not believe that you are in any position to be calling the shots, Stranger. If you refuse to cooperate with me, then I shall have you bound and interrogated by our Paladin."
Jerrod cocked an eyebrow. "Well, your Paladin is welcome to kiss my-"
Jerrod's potentially profane suggestion was cut short by the sound of pounding hooves. Another figure galloped on horseback into the clearing. The horse was a lean, supple stallion, dappled gray and white in color. Its rider was clad in steel alloy armor that was a reddish rust color, made so by the expert craftsmen who had forged the armor several decades ago. The man was broad-shouldered and thick-chested, built like a brick. He had a strong, square jaw which was obscured by a gray beard that was starting to become bushy. The man's helm covered most of his face; the Y-shaped opening in the helm's faceplate exposed only his eyes and part of his mouth.
Even so, there was something familiar about the man. His posture, the way he walked, his eyes…Jerrod was certain he remembered those stormy gray irises from some point of time in his past. Who was this man?
The man on horseback asked the centurion his name, and the man in the red-plumed helmet replied, "Orestes, sir. Royal Knight of the Eighth Order. First Company, First Cohort."
First Company, First Cohort. That made Jerrod's other eyebrow slide up to join its partner. This meant that the centurion, Orestes, was the second-in-command of his legion, whichever one it was.
"I know you. General Sinclair's Number Two," the bearded man on horseback remarked. The two men continued their conversation in hushed tones. Jerrod could tell that the older man on horseback was asking who he was and what he was doing here. What else would he be asking?
The two men seemed to get into a brief argument for a second—the man on horseback said something to the centurion, but the centurion, Orestes, hesitated, turning back to the man on horseback and no doubt asking him to repeat his order. The man on horseback cleared his throat and murmured a reply. Whatever it was, it was enough to make the centurion stand up straight at immediate attention.
The centurion gave a quick, curt nod, and turned back to his men. He took a breath and barked, "Alright, boys, put 'em down."
With that, the ring of archers surrounding the Cleric warily lowered their longbows, removing Jerrod from the imminent threat of death by hail of arrows.
The man on horseback scrutinized Jerrod for the first time. The Cleric did not even twitch under his gaze. The man on horseback folded his reigns and dismounted, swinging himself down and out of the saddle, landing on both feet. He strode past the archers and approached the Cleric, coming to a stop several feet away.
Jerrod, in turn, relaxed from his defensive posture, lowering his hands and standing up straight.
The bearded man in the rust-red armor was silent for at least a full minute, studying the Cleric, seeing what he could glean from the Saradominist warrior through sheer observation. After he had had his fill, however, he began to speak.
"If I were to say to you that I am a stranger traveling from the East, seeking that which is lost…" the man said, his voice trailing off after he said 'lost'. He did not say anything after this; he obviously wanted Jerrod to speak, to see if the Cleric knew what to say.
The words lanced straight through Jerrod's mind, cutting through his years spent in the Virid Swamp. Suddenly, Jerrod knew this man. He recognized him, remembered his name, and all the adventures they had had together, back before he had become Warmaster and before Jerrod had become a Priori. Those words were the first words that man had ever spoken to the Cleric when they had first met many years ago, on a joint mission between the Centralian Army and the Church of Saradomin. It had been a two-part code; the first part would be given as an interrogative, while the second part would be the confirmation.
Jerrod knew exactly what to say as a response. "…then I would reply that I am a stranger traveling from the West, it is I whom you seek…" the Cleric murmured in reply.
The red-armored man gave a wide, toothy grin, displaying two rows of yellowish-white teeth. "You still remember, Jerrod," he remarked.
"Took me a while, old friend," the Cleric replied, his own mouth curving up in a smile as well. "Ten years in a swamp didn't do wonders for my memory."
"You…er…you know this man?" Sir Orestes asked, incredulous of this new turn of events.
"You and your men are dismissed, Orestes," Athellenas waved the centurion away. "You and your men's swift reactions to this situation are laudable, and I shall instruct the quartermasters to give each of you an extra ration of rum. Go, now; go and pack up your gear. It is time to leave this place."
"Warmaster," Sir Orestes bowed his head, clasping his fist to his heart in a salute before turning on his heel and marching off back towards the encampment. His men all saluted Athellenas as well before filing away after their senior centurion.
Athellenas was left alone in the clearing with his old friend. "I thought you were dead," the Warmaster finally said, breaking the silence.
"Sorry to disappoint," Jerrod chuckled.
Athellenas's expression did not change. "You dropped off the face of the earth for ten years, Jerrod. Ten years. I had no idea what happened to you, and the Church kept mum about you. Not a peep out of the old bastards."
"Well, there's a good reason for that," Jerrod chuckled. "The Priori excommunicated me. Didn't exactly like me saying that Zamorak was coming back for a healthy helping of their asses."
"They what? They excommunicated you-"
"Oh, don't get your britches in a bunch," Jerrod harrumphed, giving Athellenas a dismissive wave. "That was ten years ago. I've been living in the Virid Swamp ever since."
"Then why come out now?"
"Oh, I wasn't planning to," the Cleric shrugged. "But then He gave me a job."
"You can't be serious."
"I'm completely serious," the Cleric countered, his expression remaining serious and solemn.
"You're telling me that Saradomin himself made a house-call to you?"
"Heh," Father Jerrod snorted. "Well, more of a hut-call, but yeah, you have the gist of it. On another note, what say we sit down somewhere and have a drink? I for one am not exactly intending to spend the next four years chatting in this forest."
Athellenas bent down and picked up Jerrod's staff, which the Cleric had dropped during his fight with the IV Legion sentries. "This the same old stick that you made all those years ago?" the Warmaster asked as he started to make his way out of the clearing back towards the encampment, shaking the staff for emphasis.
"That stick happens to be the very best elemental staff I've ever made," Jerrod retorted haughtily. "That, as well as the fact that it's one of the only staffs in existence that can invoke all four elements. I try not to boast, though."
"You dragged me to all four of those sodding elemental temples to charge the thing up; it had damned well better be the best staff you've ever made," Athellenas grunted.
"Well, it can accomplish much more than that blue piece of rust you've taken a liking to," Jerrod shrugged.
Athellenas drew his sword, angling it so that the blue runite metal caught the sunlight. "Insult me all you want, but leave my sword out of this," the Warmaster chuckled. He quickly inspected the blade while it was out and rubbed off a small spot of dirt before returning it to its sheath. He tossed the staff back to Jerrod once he was finished.
Jerrod caught the staff, twirling it into an offensive position. As the staff sliced through the air, Jerrod let out a guttural cry. The tip of his staff glowed red for a moment and a gout of flame burst forth from the Cleric's outstretched hand, incinerating some of the underbrush at his feet. The Cleric straightened back up, raising a questioning eyebrow at the Warmaster.
"Well, your time in the swamp doesn't seem to have dulled your old skill," Athellenas observed.
"Sharpened, actually," Jerrod corrected, stepping over the smoldering plantlife.
The woods cleared away as the two men stepped into the outskirts of the encampment of the 1st Element. A cacophony of noise was enveloping the whole place as the thousands of men who were camped there proceeded to break camp; tearing down tents, packing up gear, getting ready to move. Sir Derren had gotten them all moving, just like he had promised.
Athellenas and Jerrod picked their way through the mess of soldiers, exchanging a polite nod and salute every now and then as the men noticed their Warmaster walking by.
"So…uh…" Jerrod cleared his throat, "what's with the party?" the Cleric asked, gesturing to the scene all around him. "Going to the desert, I'm assuming?"
"Yes, we've heard reports of Zamorakian forces under Thammaron attacking the…" Athellenas was saying until he stopped suddenly, his brow furrowing in a frown. "Wait, how did you know we were going to the desert?"
"Friends in high places," Jerrod reminded the Warmaster, glancing up at the sky. "Very high places."
"Right," Athellenas nodded, remembering that Jerrod had spoken with Saradomin. The God of Light, Athellenas was sure, probably had a fair idea of what the Centralian Army was up to.
"I'm going to the desert as well," Jerrod told Athellenas. "Saradomin is sending me there to find someone in Ullek…I figure I'll hitch a ride with you."
"Why don't you just teleport your way into Ullek?" Athellenas asked.
"Can't," the Cleric shrugged. "Something blocks me every time I try. I can't get into the desert at all. I heard there were a handful of you brutes-I'm sorry, I meant soldiers-here at Port Sarim, so I figured I'd try my luck here and sail my way in."
"Can't fault you there," Athellenas shrugged, turning to step through the space in between two half-collapsed tents. "Though I must warn you; we are not going to Ullek. We are sailing up the River Lum and deploying into the northern desert. The Menaphites are being hit hardest there."
"Well, that's no problem," Jerrod shrugged. "I'll have to split with you later on, though."
Athellenas grunted in reply as he reached his tent. The old Warmaster swiftly collapsed the tent, bundling the cloth up into a tight ball which he stuffed into one of his horse's saddlebags.
"Is that Onyx?" Jerrod inquired, nodding towards the dappled white and gray steed.
"Mm-hm," Athellenas murmured, circling around to Onyx's front and scratching under his neck, giving the horse an affectionate ruffling of the hair. "Though I'd imagine he's grown up a bit since you last saw him."
"Well, he's certainly not the freezing newborn colt we found in the woods all those years ago, anymore, no," Jerrod agreed.
Athellenas finished rolling up his gear, making sure it was all secured to his saddle. "Walk with me," the Warmaster said to his old friend. He turned and began to head back through what remained of the encampment, leading Onyx by his reigns.
Jerrod followed Athellenas as the Warmaster briefly met with the generals of the I, IV, and X Legions, finalizing their plans for moving the 1st Element to the desert. All of the infantry was going to be sailing with the Navy, as well as the non-combat personnel and the artillerists. The cannons would take too long to be hauled overland, so they earned a spot on the ships as well. The cavalry of all three legions, however, was going to ride hard and fast to the east. They would meet back up with the main host at the River Lum.
Sir Havarell, the middle-aged knight from the city of Avarrocka whom Athellenas had appointed as the overall commander of the 1st Element's cavalry, was busy rounding up all of the horsemen, preparing to set off towards the River Lum across the hills and forests that lay between there and Port Sarim.
By the time he was finished meeting with his subordinates, the huge encampment was finally completely broken down. A thin layer of smog hung over the area, a result of the extinguishing of hundreds of cooking fires. It was no matter, though; the wind would blow it all away in no time.
Athellenas and Jerrod were on their way out of the site of the encampment when they were stopped by a holler from behind.
"Hold, there!"
"Oh, hellfire…" Father Jerrod muttered. "I know that voice…"
"Hm?" Athellenas turned around, watching as none other than Paladin Anesti approached him and Jerrod on horseback.
"You," Anesti's brow wrinkled in a frown as he regarded Jerrod, drawing up alongside him.
"Ah, Anesti, old friend," Jerrod chuckled, flashing the Paladin a forced smile. "Out for the scenery?"
"You are excommunicatem."
"Really?" Jerrod's eyes widened and he covered his mouth in a mock-gasp. "I was excommunicated? My God, I nearly forgot!"
"Your attempts at humor do you no favors," Anesti replied, his voice remaining static. "You have sinned against Saradomin and therefore your words are as dust and ashes in my ears. Your deeds and actions are as smoke in the-"
Jerrod interrupted the Paladin with a loud, overplayed yawn. "Yeah, I know, I've heard it all before; I'm unholy, I'm unclean, I'm blasphemous, blah, blah, blah," the Cleric rolled his eyes and stopped, staring right into Anesti's eyes. "I'm here doing the bidding of Saradomin himself. He has spoken with me, Paladin. Has He ever spoken with you, I wonder?"
Anesti's eyes narrowed. "You lie."
"Do I, Anesti? Do I?"
Paladin Anesti pursed his lips, straightening up high in his saddle. "You mar His honor by invoking His name in your lies."
The Cleric tightened his grip on his elemental staff and steadily wielded it like a quarterstaff, holding it towards the center, turning to his side, and aiming the orb end at the top towards the Paladin on horseback. "Do you wish to challenge me, Paladin?" Father Jerrod asked calmly.
Anesti's eyes flicked between the Cleric and his staff. The Paladin hesitated, uncertain. The Cleric had been alone in a swamp for ten years, sure…but there was something about Jerrod's stance that unnerved him. The Paladin could tell from a single glance that Jerrod could probably kill him without even breaking a sweat. Wisely, Anesti decided to back down.
"I will have my eye on you," the Paladin warned. With that, he reigned in his steed and kicked off, galloping away into the woods, heading back towards the main host.
"Typical Anesti," Jerrod sighed. "Always needs to have the last word." The Cleric then shrugged and turned back to Athellenas, resuming their walk towards Port Sarim.
"Old friends, I'm assuming?" Athellenas chuckled.
"Friend is an extremely generous term," Jerrod replied. "The two of us, we…well, let's just say we never got along. Just my luck that I'd find him here. Of course…" the Cleric's eyes lit up with a malicious gleam as a new thought presented itself to him. "Of course, I suppose he is in for a big slap in the face if he seeks to influence you."
"Oh, the Paladin and I have already had our first exchange," Athellenas assured the Cleric. "I made sure that it was…memorable for him."
"I'll bet."
Within the next ten minutes, the centurions had all of their companies organized and drawn into formation. Supplies were loaded up and gear was stowed away as the 1st Element finally started to move, beginning the hour-long march to Port Sarim. The 1st Element's cavalry, under Sir Havarell, had already departed.
Athellenas found a mule for Jerrod to ride. The Warmaster rode atop Onyx alongside the Cleric, keeping position at the head of the long column of the 1st Element's soldiers. Eventually, Sir Derren worked his way up to the head of the advance. The young knight exchanged a brief nod with Athellenas as he drew abreast of the Warmaster before he noticed Jerrod.
"Pardon me, but I do not believe we have met," Sir Derren said to Jerrod.
"Jerrod, this is Derren of Elris, Royal Knight of Centralia," Athellenas introduced Sir Derren to the Cleric. "He serves as my second-in-command. Well, more student than second-in-command, technically, but that is just a detail."
"The pleasure is mine, sir," Sir Derren offered Jerrod a polite bow.
"Is it really?" Jerrod cocked a quizzical eyebrow. "That's got to be the first time someone's said that to me in fifteen years."
When Sir Derren seemed at a loss for words, Athellenas jumped in. "He takes some getting used to," the Warmaster murmured to his subordinate. "He used to be a Priori of Entrana, you know."
"A Priori?" Derren's eyebrows shot up his forehead in surprise. The sharp-tongued, eccentric older man in the traveler's cloak did not seem anything remotely like those dry, solemn, serious old men who were in charge of Entrana. "You?"
"Don't exactly fit the mould, eh?" Jerrod grunted, gesturing to himself.
"Not at all."
"That's one of the biggest compliments you could have ever given me, son," Jerrod chuckled. "Thank you."
The citizens of Port Sarim did not live by a strict routine; theirs was a society that lived based on how kind Mother Nature chose to be to them each day. However, all semblance of routine was completely shattered by roughly ten thousand soldiers marching through their streets to the docks to meet with the score of naval vessels that had just made port.
Citizens gathered along the roads to watch as the soldiers and knights passed by. There were exclamations of "Good luck, boys!" and "Give 'em hell!" from the crowds. That amused Athellenas, mostly because he knew that a good portion of these men and women probably had no idea what he and his men were going off to fight.
Nevertheless, it did lighten the soldiers' spirits. The legionnaires waved back and grinned.
One small child—a girl of probably no more than eight or nine years—stepped out onto the street, gazing up at Athellenas. She held up a small flower—a spiritweed flower—to the Warmaster.
Athellenas reached down and took the spiritweed flower, a small grin emerging on his face as he examined it. In return, he reached into one of his saddlebags and drew out a speckled-blue Karamja apple from Onyx's feeding bag. They were rare fruits, but the Warmaster had more than enough of them to feed his horse. They would be a good treat.
"Thank you," the Warmaster said to the young girl. In return, he gave her the Karamja apple. "This fruit here will make the best pie you'll ever eat, and that's a promise."
Athellenas looked away before he could see the girl's reaction. He had never been good around kids; they made him uncomfortable. All the same, he tucked the green-blue spiritweed flower into his armor chestpiece so that it rested over his heart. Maybe it would bring him luck in the days ahead.
Athellenas was the first to reach the docks. A large frigate was moored at the very end of the pier, its crew hard at work preparing the ship for passengers. Dozens of other naval vessels were moored all over the rest of the docks, doing the same thing.
A shorter man with a long black two-forked beard stood on the gangplank, waiting to receive the Warmaster. He was clad in the uniform of a high-ranking officer, complete with silver epaulettes and a tricorne hat. He looked almost like the image of a pirate, minus the eyepatch and parrot.
"Warmaster Athellenas!" the naval officer called out to the Warmaster as Athellenas trotted up towards him. "A pleasure as always, my friend."
"Likewise, Admiral," Athellenas replied.
Admiral Straume, Fleetmaster of the Centralian Navy, smiled. "Well, don't just stand there gawking," he said, turning to walk back up the gangplank. "Don't you have a Demon Lord to kill?"