Warlord

by Keith McArdle

  “Father will be proud of what you have done, Vyder,” Henry said.

  “You will take the credit, Henry. I will tell him as much as well.”

  If he still lives when we arrive.

  King George would not be king of Wendurlund for ever and it was important to Vyder that the successor would be a friend to Shadolia.

  Ahitika grinned. “Yes, you take credit, I take Huronian scalps.” She patted the varied lengths of hair tied to her belt. “Three more Huronian scalps and my initiation is at an end. I will be a fully-fledged Kalote warrior.”

  The thunder of a horse's hooves broke their chatter and Rafe reined in beside him.

  The berserker stood in the saddles and looked over his shoulder. “A fine sight, my lord!”

  Vyder did likewise. The road upon which they marched was only wide enough for four horses to walk abreast. The Highland Army wound along the path as far as the eye could see. At the rear were the smaller clans. Many of them did not own horses, so proceeded on foot. But he'd heard no complaints from them. Vyder expected none, either. The Highlanders were a warrior race, bred to a more robust quality than their southern neighbours.

  A solitary, distant bagpipe droned a sad lament about the end of days. The tune picked up pace and volume when Thros was introduced and how the goddess saved the world from certain doom. Vyder sat in silence, listening to the song, his thoughts dampened and body relaxed. He stared at the horizon where a group of clouds hung suspended. A second bagpipe joined the first, and then another added its voice. Soon a small army of pipes were in perfect tune, blasting songs old and new across the marching army. Many warriors added their voices. Some simply enjoyed the musical stories woven by the haunting instruments.

  “Anything from Bulvye?” Rafe's voice jarred Vyder back to the present.

  He blinked and focused upon the dark-haired chieftain. “Nothing yet, no.”

  He'd sent Bulvye ahead of the army almost a week ago in order to advise Clan Steelforge of the approaching Highland Army and to prepare longships in order to transport them across the Shadolian Sea.

  A furious glint entered the berserker's eyes. “Mayhaps he has met with ill fate.” He stood in the stirrups again and shielded his eyes from the sun, staring to their front as if he'd be able to see his friend. “Should I go after him, my lord?”

  “It would be pointless, Rafe. We'll be at the port in another few hours, anyway.”

  Rafe dropped back into his saddle. “Aye, lord, you are correct.” He nodded. “We'll kill all of Steelforge if he has met with death.”

  And I thought you were mad, Gorgoroth.

  The nature spirit's laughter boomed in his mind.

  “I'm sure he's fine, Rafe, and Thros willing, he'll have a fleet of Steelforge longships ready to take us over to Wendurlund.”

  Her name is Thoron.

  Well, the highlanders call her Thros, so I'll call her Thros if it's all the same to you, Gorgoroth.

  Rafe grunted, turned his horse, and galloped back towards his clan a half mile behind the front.

  “Good talk,” said Vyder.

  “I like him,” Hyglak jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the retreating berserker. “Madder than a cut snake, of course, but he's handy to have around in a scrap.”

  “Definitely.”

  A chuckle caught his ear. Henry and Ahitika were talking quietly to one another, riding so close together their legs brushed. The young prince leaned into her and whispered something at which she threw back her head and laughed.

  Vyder smiled and returned his attention to the horizon in front of them. The clouds had moved slightly, but they appeared to be closer. Or was it his imagination?

  He called a halt on several occasions to rest the horses and give those at the rear time to rest their feet and legs. When the sun reached its peak, he called a longer rest stop to give them time to prepare a midday meal. He left Storm to graze and walked through pockets of the army, stopping here and there to talk, to show his face, and remind them that their warlord was not disconnected from them. Vyder wanted them to know although he led them, he was still a highlander at heart.

  When it seemed most people had finished their meal, he returned to the front, mounted Storm and called for those in the huge column following to do the same. Within five minutes the Great Highland Army was once again on the move, marching southward towards the port.

  Three hours after the completion of their midday meal, they mounted a small hill leading down to the port. Vyder leaned back a little in the saddle so as Storm was able to easier maintain his balance. The bright blue of the Shadolian Sea swept out into the distance before them. Lining the port was a navy of longships. There must have been near seventy of them, rocking and weaving in lazy movements, slaves to the gentle, sheltered sea beneath them. Twenty or so were moored at the port's berth. The remainder of longships anchored out at sea, waiting their turn to navigate into the port in order to load their share of warriors.

  “Gods above,” Hyglak breathed.

  Waiting near the berthed ships stood a massive group of who Vyder could only assume were Steelforge clansmen. From this distance it was difficult to see because they looked more like ants than people. A few tiny dark figures clambered across the decks of various ships, tugging on ropes, carrying supplies below deck, or climbing up the pole mast to check on the sail. One man mounted a horse and thundered up the hill towards them, a thin cloud of dust trailing him.

  Saigh ran forward a few steps, staring at the oncoming horseman and barked, her tail a blur.

  “Yes, it's Bulvye isn't it, lass?” Vyder called to the war hound.

  She looked back at him, whined and then refocused upon Bulvye. She offered a high-pitched bark.

  Bulvye swept by Saigh, leaned down, passed a hand along her back and reined in beside Vyder. “Steelforge were open to your offer, lord.”

  “So I see. Well done, my friend.”

  “Their chieftain has spread his sailors thin. There are only ten men per ship, so he's expecting that our people can help where and when required.”

  “Makes sense. Once we're down there, I'll call a meeting with the officers so they can disseminate the instructions to the army.”

  Bulvye nodded. “Aye, lord. There'll be one hundred warriors per ship.” He checked Saigh was not beneath the hooves of his horse and turned the animal around to face the same direction as the rest of the army.

  Vyder nudged Storm forward, and the army followed like some giant caterpillar. The bag pipes petered away to silence.

  “Hyglak, gather the officers and bring them to the front.”

  “Aye, lord.”

  Inside a few short minutes Vyder's officers surrounded him. On one side, in between he and Henry, rode Rafe. “It is good to see you, Bulvye!” Rafe grinned, leaned over in his saddle and slapped the man on the shoulder. “I worried for your life. I feared I would have to put Clan Steelforge to my sword.” The berserker laughed at his own words, but Vyder knew the man wasn't joking.

  Bulvye shrugged. “It was easier than I thought.”

  On Vyder's left was positioned Hyglak and on the far side, upon a huge highland warhorse sat the flame-haired Bordrog. Just to the assassin's front was Holrik.

  Vyder explained the situation and that the highlanders would be required to assist the Steelforge sailors if necessary.

  “If they require us to row, bind your hands!” Bordrog said. “Make sure you pass the word, we'll be useless at the other end if we can't even hold a weapon because our hands are blistered and bleeding.”

  Rafe scoffed. “It'll do your soft skin good to grow tough.” He held up his own hands. “Do these look like they need binding?”

  Bordrog rolled his eyes. “Don't come complaining to me when you're holding back tears, and the skin of your palms are peeling off the flesh.”

  “Bah! Won't happen.” The berserker chuckled.

  The jaw of the red-haired chieftain bulged. “Maybe not, but spread the word to your section of
the army anyway, Rafe.”

  “Aye, I will.” Rafe sniffed. “It's pointless, though,” he muttered.

  Bordrog swung in his saddle. Vyder held up his hands. “Knock it off, you two. Rafe, pass Bordrog's advice on. It is good thinking.”

  Rafe nodded and grunted. “I will, lord,” he said finally.

  Vyder took a deep breath. “I'll speak with the Steelforge chieftain, but I'm of the thinking that the mounted highlanders should be loaded with their horses first. It'll be less waiting around for the animals.”

  “And the horses?” asked Bulvye, flashing a grin.

  The group chuckled.

  “Well, well, if it isn't Vyder Ironstone.” It was Snarri. The Steelforge chieftain pointed at him. “And I see you're wearing a tartan again.” His brow creased. “Although I'm not familiar with the colours.”

  Vyder smiled and dismounted. He clasped hands with the warrior. He gestured to the tartan. “It is the colours of many of the clans who've joined us. More are joining us all the time, so it doesn't represent all of our tribes. But most of them.”

  Snarri looked beyond Vyder, his eyes sweeping along the huge column snaking up the path and disappearing over the distant hill. He whistled. “The Great Highland Army, eh? It lives up to its name. Bulvye said the Huronians have invaded Wendurlund and put Lisfort to the sword.”

  “Aye.”

  “If that's true, then the Wendurlunds deserve nothing more than the justice they're being dealt at the moment.” Snarri held up a hand. “But I do understand the concern that the Huronians will target us next if Lisfort falls.”

  Vyder looked at Ahitika nearby. “Or the people of Kalote. Either way, Shadolia will eventually be their target.”

  “Aye, I agree, Vyder. The Huronian king is a madman worth stomping on while we have the chance.”

  Hyglak nudged his horse forward. “With respect, but he is to be addressed as lord.”

  Snarri grinned and shrugged. “Then lord it is.”

  “Lord? You're still nothing more than a half-blood pretend highlander,” one of the nearby Steelforge clansmen shouted.

  Vyder looked beyond Snarri and stepped past him. Snarri had been astute enough to know that Vyder was a different man than the highlander who set off all those weeks before.

  The Steelforge clansman, a tall warrior, pushed forward of the throng, defiance shining in his eyes. Vyder didn't slow. He drew his sword.

  “And what are you going to do, lord?” he grinned, crossed his arms, and waited.

  Vyder swung the sword in a blistering side cut, the sharp steel whistling through the air. The blade took the man's head clean off. The headless corpse dropped to the ground like a ragdoll, his head striking the wood with a dull thud.

  “What in the gods?” a nearby Steelforge clansman shouted. He rushed forward, knelt by his comrade, and unsheathed the man's hand axe, pushing the wooden haft into the dead hand so that the deceased highlander might have a weapon on hand when he made his journey across The Frost River.

  Vyder bent down and cleaned the bloodied sword upon the fallen man's shirt, then sheathed the weapon. Stooping again, he snatched the hand axe from the dead fingers and gripped a fistful of hair from the decapitated head. He lifted both high for all to see.

  “Both of these belong to me now!” he roared.

  Blood dribbled from the severed neck down the underside of Vyder's forearm.

  Pushing the haft of the hand axe into his belt, he grabbed the dead man's shirt and dragged him towards the water's edge. “Make way!” he shouted at the throng of Steelforge highlanders. Rafe, Hyglak, and the other officers were by his side. He knew if any Steelforge highlander attempted to block his progress, or attack him, his men would kill them without question.

  “This man will have no ceremony!” The headless body painted the wood of the port with a trail of blood. “He shall know no peace.” The cluster of Steelforge sailors stepped aside, making a corridor down which Vyder pulled the corpse. First, he threw the head out into the sea, then kicked the body over the edge, where it met the water with a splash before sinking from view.

  Vyder turned back to the group of Steelforge sailors and pulled the hand axe free of his belt, the smooth, wooden haft felt good in his hand. “Does anyone else wish to question my authority to lead this army?” he gestured at the massive column of highlanders wending away from the port, making their way down towards the water's edge.

  “No, lord,” one man muttered.

  “What was that?” yelled Rafe. “I couldn't hear you.”

  “He said, 'No, lord!'” shouted Snarri. “And if any other Steelforge highlander disrespects the warlord or the clans under his command, I shall take your head myself!”

  * * *

  The first twenty longships were loaded with smooth efficiency, the handful of sailors aboard each giving instructions to the newcomers. Vyder seated himself in front of an oar and as Bordrog suggested, used a long piece of thin leather he found draped over the oar to wrap his hands. The leather was soft, and the dry stains of sweat and blood gave an indication it was well worn. Other men and women did likewise. Within minutes, each oar sported two people.

  One Steelforge clansman stood at the far end of the oar-room. “Wait for my instruction! When I say to push through, you highlanders seated on the right feed your oars through the slots and push against the jetty. You will be pushing us away from the port and out to sea. When I say to pull, you on the right start rowing forward, you on the left reverse row. Understood?” The highlander strode along the narrow walkway separating the two oar banks. “This is important. Are you sure you all understand? Any mistakes and we'll end up in the port and sinking.”

  He was met with an army of nodding heads.

  “Good! Then the command all forward will be given. Can you guess what that means?”

  “We all row forward?” one woman said.

  The Steelforge warrior shrugged. “Pretty simple isn't it?”

  “Anchor comin' up!” a distant voice shouted.

  The Steelforge sailor walked back the way he'd come. “Prepare yourselves!”

  A wooden clunk echoed through the hull.

  “Anchor's up!”

  “Push through!”

  Vyder grabbed the oar and push it through the oar slot. He slid it no more than a few feet before it connected with the wooden uprights of the Shadolian port and its progress stopped. He gritted his teeth and pushed against the resistance. The oar slid further through the slot, and the longship moved inch by inch away from the jetty.

  “Push harder!” the sailor roared.

  Those seated on the right side of the bank of oars leaned into their work, the longship's sideways movement gaining speed. Sweat beaded Vyder's brow, his arm's burned and ached.

  Take a rest, brother.

  Gorgoroth stood, gripped the oar and pushed with inhuman effort, propelling the longship fast away from the port. The standing Steelforge warrior stumbled and almost lost his balance. He watched Vyder with a new respect.

  “Well done, my lord.”

  Vyder sat down and coughed to alleviate his itching throat. His hands and feet tingled.

  Thank you, Gorgoroth.

  Always welcome.

  “And pull!”

  The oars dipped into the sea together, and the longship surged through the water. The highlander on the upper deck controlling the steer-board, turned them to the south. Soon twenty longships in close formation cut through the sea towards Wendurlund. Behind them, another twenty moved towards the port at a snail's pace, preparing to berth and accept more members of the Great Highland Army.

  And do your animals still live, Gorgoroth?

  Thoron! What a pleasant surprise. I know not. Time will tell.

  Sweat streamed down Vyder's face and his muscles screamed, but he was working in a rhythm with the others seated in the oar-room. The resistance against the water started to ease and his shoulders recovered.

  “I could do this all day!” one highlander
laughed.

  The Steelforge man, still standing at the front of the oar-room was frozen in place, his brow creased.

  The next stroke Vyder performed felt as if the sea wasn't there at all. It was then he heard the strong wind above decks, blustering across the longship.

  Then allow me get you home, my friend, so that you might save them.

  “Drop the sail,” a distant voice called from above. “Thros be praised! The wind is behind us, drop the sail!”

  * * *

  Tork's hand slammed upon the table, his open palm hitting the polished wood with a crack. “We are useless caged in Lisfort. We should be out there!” he shouted. “Fighting the Huronian Army.”

  “Tame yourself, Commander Tork! This is the third time you've asked this of the king and thrice he has returned the same answer,” Jad roared, a thick vein threatening to burst from the skin of his neck. Jad's face was flushed, his dark eyes flashing with fury. “And do not presume to raise your voice to me!”

  The muffled boom of Wendurlund artillery vibrated through the War Room bringing both men to silence.

  Jad sighed and dropped his quill into the pot of ink near his hand. “The king has decreed the King's Own is to remain inside the city to assuage any assault should the enemy breach the walls.”

  “I already know this,” Tork clenched a fist, his knuckles turning white. “I've known this for the past two days.”

  The adviser pushed the parchment away from him and shrugged. “Then you have your answer, Commander.”

  Tork's eyelids met, and the room disappeared from view. He relaxed his hand and inhaled a deep breath of cool air. “Jad, we will lose this fight if we're not careful. The soldiers holding the walls are doing a fine job, but they can't hold out forever. They'll be overwhelmed by sheer weight of numbers.” His eyes peeled apart, and the room came back into view. “Come on, Jad, you know this. Surely?”

  “There are more than twenty thousand enemy soldiers out there. What do you expect two thousand King's Own warriors to do?”

  Tork leaned back in his chair. “More than you think. We are an unconventional force by our very nature. We are highly mobile and can strike fast and hard where it's least expected. My soldiers can do nothing cooped up in Lisfort. Nor can we do much on horseback when...when the eastern wall falls.”