The chest of the enemy expanded, and a staccato of coughs erupted from his mouth. He hawked, spat, and wiped his mouth with the back of a hand. The flow of piss stopped, and he re-tied his breeches, his eyes sweeping the forest before him with indifference. The noise of his comrades, blundering through the forest were fading in the distance. The soldier sniffed and started to turn before he froze. He looked back at the forest near Rone as if he’d unconsciously detected something abnormal. Rone’s heart quickened, and he took up pressure on the trigger, the sights still hovering over the chest of the enemy.
The eyes of the tall man drifted at the patch of woodland directly behind the King’s Own officer, then descended until they rested upon Rone. The man’s brow creased, then his eyes bulged, lines in his forehead deepening. His eyebrows shot towards his messy fringe. His lips parted, and his mouth opened wide. As the first shouted word left him, Rone’s musket roared to life, and the enemy soldier disappeared behind a cloud of burned gunpowder.
The officer dropped the musket, unholstered his blunderbuss, slung it across his back and ripped free the spear. He was on his feet and running. Distant shouting echoed between the thick forest. The sound of confusion breached the gap of any language. Boots thudded towards Rone. The dead soldier’s comrades were returning to check on him.
He threw a glance over his shoulder at his destrier. “Hold!” The animal rolled onto its stomach, and with a powerful blur of movement was on his feet. Ears pointing forward, he watched his master depart. If he needed assistance, the warhorse would be by his side fast, fighting alongside him.
Rone dodged a tree, jumped over the enemy corpse, leapt, and grabbed hold of a thick branch above his head. The spear almost caused his grip to slip, but he tightened his clutch of the branch. Hauling himself up, he stood and padded towards the huge tree trunk from which the horizontal branch had sprouted. He crouched, waiting and watching. He was located above the newly dead soldier. His destrier still stood in place, watching him with keen interest. Boot falls grew in volume, as did the shouting, and the group of enemies appeared behind a juvenile Ghost Oak, running toward him.
They formed a circle around their deceased friend, some of them breathless. One of them took a step away, hand covering his mouth. Another crouched and touched the hole in his comrade’s chest where the musket ball had ripped the life from him. A third pointed at the destrier and shouted. The crouching one stood with one slow, smooth movement and muttered, “Deesak glodta.” Rone knew what those words meant, at least. It was another Huronian name for the King’s Own.
Death riders.
Rone’s mouth widened into a grin. The soldier who’d so recently spoken, and obviously the leader, blurted a command, sweeping his arm around at the forest surrounding them. The others, their eyes wide, took a step back, but were hesitant to move away from their group in search of their enemy.
A dull thud echoed around the woodland as the destrier stamped a hoof upon the ground, his eyes boring into the group of soldiers. They offered no threat, yet. But when they did, the warhorse would be amongst them before they could react. One soldier unclamped his hand from his mouth, bent over, and vomited at his feet. Hissed words from his comrades followed, and they moved away from him. One of them stepped back several paces, so that he was standing directly beneath Rone. He noticed the soldier carried a large haversack over one shoulder. It was filled with berries and roots. A foraging party, looking for food for the main army. There’re probably hundreds of these patrols dotted around the forest. He cursed. Not as untouched by humans as I’d thought.
He clamped the spear with both hands, pointing the metal tip downward, and waited. The leader shouted a string of words, his soldiers flinched at the obvious command and walked away in different directions in search of their adversary. His heart sank toward his boots.
They won’t leave until they’ve found and killed me. He clenched his jaw and snarled. Only two options remained. Fight or die.
He jumped from the branch, the weapon clenched in a vice grip, the ground racing to meet him. The spear smashed through the back of the man’s neck and slid on to cut down through his chest and into his guts. The weapon was ripped from Rone’s hands as the soldier fell face first onto the dirt, dead. No way he was getting the spear out of the body, it was embedded too deep.
The group of departing enemy warriors paused and turned towards the thump behind them. Rone unslung the blunderbuss, brought the weapon to bear and roared, fury filled hatred lining his face, veins pushing against the skin of his neck. He pulled the trigger, and the blunderbuss added its voice to the bellow. He was immediately immersed in a thick cloud of gunpowder. Throwing the weapon into the air, he caught the warm barrel and reversed the blunderbuss, ready to use the wooden butt stock as a club, then sprinted forward through the acrid, grey mist.
When he broke clear of the cloud, soldiers were dead or dying at his feet. Four remained standing, one clutching his shoulder, blood streaming between his fingers.
“Obragarda!”
Rone brought the blunderbuss down in a savage sweep, the thick wooden stock smashing into the man’s head, knocking him from his feet. The second followed in a similar fashion. But the other two, swords now in hand, charged at Rone. He blocked the sword of the first with the blunderbuss, but the second stepped to one side and brought the blade down towards Rone’s neck, the razor-sharp steel whistling through the air. Then he disappeared in a thundering blur of brown, the destrier knocking him to the ground and striking hooves upon his face until his skull burst.
Rone stepped into his enemy and slammed the stock of the blunderbuss into the Huronian’s face. Blood exploded from his ruined nose, and he dropped to the ground, unconscious. Rone reloaded the blunderbuss with practised speed, slung the weapon, and jogged back to his deceased comrade. Stooping, he retrieved his musket, and with the same smooth skill, readied it to fire.
Gesturing at his destrier, he clicked his tongue, and the animal walked to him with brisk strides, stopping to nuzzle his hand. He sheathed the blunderbuss and musket, then flicked the reins, once more asking the horse to drop to the ground. The warhorse did so. Rone dragged his dead soldier to the horse and with a grunt, lifted the corpse onto the horse. Tying the deceased man in place to avoid him slipping off, the officer straddled the lying horse, placed one foot in a stirrup, and with the other, tapped the destrier’s flank.
“Up.” He tapped his boot against the animal’s side once more. “Up you get.”
The horse complied, and with a loud snort, pushed himself to his feet. Rone settled into the saddle and placed his free boot into the remaining stirrup and guided his mount to the north. Only one enemy soldier, lying face down, blood leaking into the leaf litter around him, still moved. Well, at least his left leg still moved, but it was difficult to know whether it was death spasms or if the man was still alive. Either way, he was no threat.
Rone cast his eye upon the soldier in whom his spear was embedded. He felt foolish for the slight pang of sadness that passed through him at the thought of leaving his trusty spear behind after all these years. He’d been issued the weapon on the day he’d been selected as a successful candidate for the King’s Own. It had seen so many deployments. The weapon had been by his side so often that it felt like a part of him.
“Goodbye, old friend,” he whispered and urged the warhorse into a canter. Distant shouting pervaded the forest. Many voices added their urgency.
Time to leave. The destrier picked his way between trees. The yelling increased, and the noise of boots drifted to him. A main patrol. No way in the Gods I can fight them off. Rone realised he’d taken on a small foraging party, which had probably separated from the main patrol as the hours endured. He pushed the horse faster, allowing the beast to pick his way through the forest but ensuring they always moved north. It wouldn’t have been the musket shot which drew the attention of the main patrol, or the shouting, screaming or dying. It was the deafening roar of the blunderbuss that alerted
them.
He patted the blunderbuss. You saved my life, but by fuck, can you make some noise. He smiled, turned in the saddle, and looked over his shoulder. But the forest was clear, and the sound of enemy movement had faded to near silence.
* * *
Sunlight danced across the leaf littered ground, strong winds battering the forest’s canopy. Great boughs and small branches swaying and rocking in time to the rhythm provided by the assault. Light twinkled upon the surface of the babbling Therondale River to their left. But the sky remained bright blue and clear of any clouds.
We are in Wendurlund.
“And how do you know that?” muttered Vyder.
His arms grew numb, and they stretched out horizontal either side of him.
The forest, she welcomes us home. Well, she welcomes me home.
The silent chuckle rattled around Vyder’s mind.
He turned in the saddle and stared at the pair sat on the King’s Own destrier behind. “We grow closer to Lisfort with each passing day.” The animal’s ears flicked forward at his voice, its attention drawn to Vyder. “I believe we have now passed into the land of Wendurlund.” He focused upon Henry, mounted in front of the Kalote warrior. “You are almost home young prince.”
Henry’s brow furrowed. “Should we not then increase our pace?”
“Not yet, lad. Soon, we will be beyond the Likane Forest, and only flat plains remain between us and home. It is then we must press hard for Lisfort. Hiding in a forest is easy. If the Huronian Army catch us in the open, they will destroy us in moments.”
“Or recapture me.”
“No, Henry.” Vyder turned to face front. “They will kill you this time. This thing is done. War is inevitable, and your worth to them is now nothing.”
A thin veil of protection remained to them in the form of the tiny King’s Own patrol providing a rear-guard action. But skilled as they were, outnumbered and outgunned, Rone’s soldiers could only do so much to hold off the enemy torrent.
So, what you’re saying is I get to kill more little humans?
Vyder heard the smile in Gorgoroth’s voice.
“It’d seem so,” he whispered under his breath. “Just make sure they are deserving of death’s touch.”
All humans are deserving of death.
Vyder drew in a long breath and rolled his eyes. “Gorgoroth –”
I jest, Vyder, I’ve learned so much about you monkeys since I’ve been alongside you. I once thought you all a blight upon the earth. A virus to be eradicated. But it seems not.
“Good, because if the Huronian Army is victorious, do you think your precious little Waning Wood will stand a chance against their flame?”
They wouldn’t dare!
“They wouldn’t think twice, Gorgoroth. I’m sure their version of ancient myths and stories of that section of forest are even worse than those whispered into the ears of Wendurlund’s children.”
Then we shall stop them!
“All thirty thousand of them?”
Wendurlund has an army do they not?
“I don’t know, you and your children were the last to attack them. Do they?”
Silence pervaded Vyder’s mind.
“Gorgoroth?”
If my knowledge then was what I know now, I would never have summoned my children against Lisfort.
“Not what I asked.”
We did some damage, I admit. Exact numbers are bereft of me, but it would be in the thousands.
Vyder’s mouth retracted into a tight line, and it was his turn to remain silent.
* * *
Henry sat astride the King’s Own warhorse, aware of Ahitika’s body pressing against his back. The breastplate she wore dug into his skin, but he didn’t mind. He knew how much it meant to her. He often caught her touching it and whispering something to the wind. A smile stretched his lips. He’d much prefer feel her breasts pushing against him. A rapid tap on his shoulder broke his thoughts, and the pressure of Ahitika’s body against him increased.
“Crazier than I thought,” she hissed into his ear. She pointed at the highlander.
He focused upon Vyder sat upon his horse. The animal walked in front of them, patches of late afternoon sunlight able to pierce the forest’s canopy glistening against its coat. The highlander muttered to himself, occasionally gesturing with his hands. Sometimes, Henry was able to make out a few stern words, but mostly his voice was a burble.
I have to agree.
It became increasingly evident the highlander was arguing with himself. “Crazier than I realised, as well.” Henry swung in the saddle and stared into Ahitika’s eyes, her face mere inches from his own. “But–” his eyes were drawn to her lips. He licked his own and felt the skin of his face grow hot. He looked away from her soft lips and focused upon a nearby log instead. In his peripheral vision, he noticed a slight smile tease one corner of her mouth.
“But?” she asked, her voice almost inaudible.
“But as long as he gets us,” he returned his attention to her face, her dark brown eyes boring into him, and he stammered. His voice trailed away. He cleared his throat and her lop sided smile grew wider. “What I mean is, as long as he gets us home, that’s all that,” he took a deep breath. “That’s all that matters.” He exhaled in a rush and turned from her, his erection pressing against his breeches. He swallowed and shifted in his seat.
The pressure of Ahitika’s body against him reduced, and he knew she’d leaned back in the saddle. He heard her quiet chuckle. “Indeed,” she replied.
Gods, she drives me to insanity. Another breath of fresh air filled his lungs, and he let it out slow, regaining control of his body.
“Not what I asked,” Vyder’s voice drifted to him.
He stared at the highlander in front of them. Henry’s eyelids drew closer together, and he cocked his head, but Vyder fell silent. What in the hell was he saying? And who was he speaking to?
The pressure increased against him again, and Ahitika’s voice whispered into his ear. “He made of two people, highlander okay, other one crazy. Other one I don’t think person. Other one I know not person.”
He swung in the saddle and stared into her face again. Ignoring the increasing discomfort in his breaches, he held her eyes. “You don’t think the second one is a person?” His brow furrowed.
“Person.” It was her turn to stammer. “Uh.” She licked her lips, her eyes drifting to the sky. “Not sure of Wendurlund word.”
“Human?” a chill drifted down his spine.
“That the word I mean! Other one not human.”
Gods. The hair on the nape of his neck stood on end. “What is he…it, if not a human?”
“I know not, Henry. Not to be angered though. Very violent.” She snapped her fingers. “Change from calm to killing like that.”
He faced front again, and his guts lurched into his throat. Vyder was looking back at them over his shoulder, that piercing blue eye scorching through him like a seared spear.
“Could be demon,” Ahitika whispered. Her fingers brushed against him, and he knew she’d clutched a hold of her breastplate. “But handy in fight.”
The highlander coughed. “Soon, we’ll be out in the open.” He looked away. “We’ll stop shortly for one last night to rest,” he called over one shoulder. “Then the next destination will be Lisfort. We’ll only be halting to briefly feed and water the horses after tonight.”
Sections of sky visible between small areas of thick forest canopy was streaked with hues of light pink, the bright blue of daylight fleeing before the gloaming’s onslaught. But on they walked, following the path paralleling the Therondale River. The river’s soft burble, accompanied by the intermittent twitter of birds and buzz of insects the only noise pervading the mounted trio. When the sun’s light failed and night’s power splashed their surrounds in gun metal grey, they halted.
The horses were led to the river and allowed to drink their fill. Once done, they were tied with a loose rein so they could
feed upon what pick was available. Henry lowered himself to the ground and sat. He suppressed a groan and leaned against a tree, stretching his legs. The dull forest disappeared as his eye lids closed. A slap on his arm, and his eyes snapped open.
Ahitika knelt beside him. “We need firewood, lazy. You help.”
One thing he liked about the Kalote warrior, was she spoke her mind and did not molly coddle him. He may have been through a less than desirable experience, but she treated him the same as any other, and he respected her for it.
“You’ll be okay by yourself.”
She slapped him harder. “You up, now.”
“Alright, alright.” He gathered his legs beneath him and stood, arresting another groan before it broke free of his lips.
Inside an hour, the small campfire flickered, casting warmth upon them and setting shadows dancing from the nearby forest. A pot sat upon the coals on the outside of the blaze. Steam drifted from the mouth of the pot, water occasionally spilling over the edge sliding towards the glowing coals where the water hissed in protest. Ahitika had hunted another rabbit, cut it up, and added the meat to the water. Mixed with various roots, the meal promised to be a tasty stew. Henry caught a waft of the meal, and his stomach tightened, growling.
“Have you exercised yet, young prince?” the highlander’s voice was quiet.
He tore his gaze away from the flames and fixed them instead upon Vyder. “Not yet, no.”
“There’s time before dinner, lad.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “There are plenty of branches to choose from.”
I’m too sore, I’m too tired. He hesitated, but before the thoughts had faded to silence, anger swept through him, warming him. Get your sorry arse up!
Henry stood, stretched his legs, ignoring the twinge in the muscle of a thigh as a cramp threatened, and walked away from the camp. The flickering orange light illuminating the forest around him with intermittent persistence was enough for him to spot a thick, horizontal branch above his head. He leapt and pulled his body upward until the wood slammed into his chest. He held his position for a moment, and then lowered himself until the ground touched his boots. He repeated the process again. On the third repetition, the heat of the campfire seemed to have entered the muscles of his back and shoulders. When his chest touched the branch for the seventh time, sweat beaded his forehead and his breathing came in short, rapid rasps. He dropped to the ground and released his grip of the branch.
Warlord Page 4