Beyond the Bulwarks

by K. J. Coble

  Ulfun staggered back to the cave mouth, sword drooping at his side till the point nearly dragged. Stricken, he met Anzo’s eyes. “I’ve seen Greaus like this before. We will have to go to him.” He stared dumbly at his blade and then sheathed it.

  Anzo looked over the man’s drooping shoulder, to the far side of the falls. Plans that had been blasted to pieces were sliding back together, reforming into something different, something much bigger. He had to hide a smile.

  “What have we done?” Ulfun asked in a voice devoid of hope.

  Anzo didn’t have an answer for him. Yet.

  ***

  Ulfun lead the way to Greaus’ cave hall, hands dangling loose, resigned apparently to whatever waited them in that tight, sooty place. Flinarr parted without words as he passed, Anzo trailing behind. None would look at them. A pair of spearmen flanked the opening to the cave, hands tight at their weapons. Ulfun stepped by into the dark without acknowledging either.

  The scrape of sandals on rock drew Anzo’s attention just before he followed. Varya scrambled to the fore of hollow-faced Flinarr to meet his gaze. He shook his head before she could call out. Heathen loped up behind her, a grimace pinching at the edges of his face but obvious pain held in check. He put a massive hand on her bony shoulder.

  Anzo smiled in thanks. If he didn’t come out of the hall, at least some one might look to her well-being.

  Shouts were already echoing from within the cave and Anzo hurried to their source. In the fluttering torchlight with skull sconces staring in empty-socketed anticipation, Ulfun faced Greaus. The chieftain stood spread-legged atop the stone slab table, fingering his axe. Ulfun, head bowed before him, looked to be the condemned before the executioner.

  “Think you to challenge me, Ulfun?” Greaus roared. “Are you such a coward that the Hamrak’s pretty words rot your heart?”

  “Perhaps there is something to those words, my lord.” Ulfun’s head remained down. “But know that I am still yours.”

  “Liar! You would have proved that by painting your blade in that whelp’s blood.” Greaus’ wild, feverish stare lifted to Anzo. “And you, Slayer, you who are still new to us think to join him in his treachery?”

  “No such thing, Lord,” Anzo said. Behind him the cave scrawled with footfalls as Flinarr warriors crowded in to see. “I merely thought to prevent the waste of one of our best.”

  “You flatter yourself, Slayer,” Greaus snarled. The chieftain’s quick glance to the rear of the cave told Anzo he’d noted his growing audience and was playing to it. “Think yourself so much smarter than me? The death of their leader would have shattered the others—” he jerked his axe helve at Ulfun “—had this mewling babe done as I commanded.”

  Anzo shook his head, remembering with a sickened twist of red memory how this kind of mad courage had been bludgeoned to bloody oblivion before cool heads, discipline, and steel. “With respect, Lord, the Hamrak would not have let Ulfun touch their boy leader.” He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. “Were you not there? I counted at least thirty of their warriors.”

  “Numbers,” Greaus snorted. “Now you sound like an Aurid.” The accusation rang clear in the name. “Numbers mean nothing to Orkall, mean nothing against courage.”

  “Nevertheless, Ulfun would have died and we would be one less against them.” Anzo came to stand at Ulfun’s side, though he did not, would not bow his head. I’ve seen your kind before, you swollen, blubbering lout. Violence trumps brains and everyone dies.

  Greaus’ knuckles blanched about his weapon. “Oh, and I suppose you are bewitched by the pretty words, too, aren’t you?”

  “Talk, at least, might have bought us some time,” Anzo said. “Again, with respect, they have us cornered in here, my lord. They can bide their time while we starve with no way out.”

  “No way out...” The chieftain’s grip on his axe relaxed and his voice dropped to a cajoling note as he smiled. “That shows what you know. There is another way.”

  Ulfun’s face shot up to his leader. “The narrow stairs?”

  “That’s right.” Greaus puffed out his enormous chest and took in the Flinarr gathered into the hall. “We will attack them when they bed down tonight. And since it seems I have no war leaders I can count on now, I will—”

  Fingers tapped on a drum head and the maniac light quivering behind Greaus’ twisting visage fluttered. Anzo turned to see the Flinarr squirming aside to admit Henna into the hall. The feathery figure passed through with twitching steps, a stained, clawed index finger beating a regular tap-tap-tap on stretched hide that Anzo began to think was human skin. She sidled by him and his nostrils stung with an oily, acrid reek almost like bird feces left to fester.

  Greaus’ eyes, gone heavy-lidded and filmed with an almost dreamy detachment, followed her. She paused at the curtain to her side chamber and glanced over her shoulder at him before vanishing in a flutter of loosened down.

  “Ulfun.” Greaus’ voice took on a distracted lack of inflection. “Since you have covered yourself in shame this day, we will let you redeem yourself by leading the attack.

  Ulfun blinked and let his head bow again. “If...if my lord would honor me so.”

  “And you...” Greaus burned Anzo with a resurgent glare that still did not quite seem to be his own “...you can go back to your bitch and your lamed giant boy. If he is well enough, we might consider letting him die for us, too.”

  Anzo thrust up his chin. “No.” Gasps filled the chamber. “If there is to be battle and redemption, I would be at its forefront with my brother Ulfun.” He forced himself to kneel. “And if it pleases my lord, I will gladly put my sword and my life at his disposal.”

  Whispers rasped in the cracks and twists of the hall. Greaus’ face folded into a tight smile, even as a finger pattered against the helve of his axe. Loosely, he nodded his satisfaction. “All right, Slayer. All right. We will let you prove that you are our man.”

  “And if I may suggest...?” Anzo looked up, waited until the chieftain shrugged. “Lord, maybe I have spent too much time amongst the Aurids, but from them I learned much of war. Do not strike tonight. Every hunter knows to expect attack from a cornered boar. Let a day pass. Let the Hamraks grow bored and careless and drunk. When their patience is worn and their guard has slipped, then we hit them.”

  Greaus’ eyes widened and began to smolder anew with the rage of being challenged. But the tap-tap-tap started again from behind Henna’s curtain and the fire dimmed, the pattern drawing his eyes to fogged slits. His lips twitched and a fleck of drool escaped the corner of his mouth to bead in his whiskers.

  “Very well, Slayer from the Aurid West. We agree.”

  ***

  Henna’s drumbeats meandered through the lair of the Flinarr, their rhythm especially broken with the deepening of night.

  Anzo drew back the curtain of their little camp to eye the cavern. Glow from the mouth of Greaus’ hall was a sullen red slit. The fires of the rest of the Flinarr were notable for their decreased number, shadows allowed to thicken beyond bunched groupings. Across the gorge, the fires of the Hamrak glimmered through trees in cheerful mocking. Firewood would be amongst the first things the Stone Folk would run short on as the siege dragged. The brands Varya fed gingerly into their own blaze were the last available to them.

  The drum cadence sped up and Anzo winced, each beat like a slap to the temples. “Damn...does that ever stop?”

  Heathen, wrapped in animal skin blankets, chortled. “I think I hear it in my dreams, sometimes.”

  Anzo joined the boy and Varya in the circle of the fire’s warmth. “How are you feeling?”

  The huge Vhurr looked up at him, Varya doing the same, her hand darting defensively to his massive shoulder. “If you’re asking can I fight, the answer’s yes.”

  “Greaus wants to attack.”

  “Of course, he does.” Heathen shook his head. “It’s all he knows.”

  “I’ve convinced him to wait until tomorrow night.” Anzo met t
he youth’s stare. “That gives us time.”

  Heathen shared a glance with Varya. “What do you mean?”

  “Do you know anything of the Hamraks,” Anzo asked, “or this Durrim?”

  Heathen shrugged. “They were amongst the peoples pushed west when the wars started. They are sometimes friends of the Erevulans...sometimes not. There is old animosity between Durrim’s father and Greaus. Treaties were broken.” He snorted. “They are always broken.”

  “Do you believe Durrim is interested in putting an end to that?”

  The huge Vhurr smiled as though he’d been given an order already expected. “I think I’d like to find out.”

  Anzo returned the smile. “Me too.”

  Drumbeats cut off with a flat-palmed smack. Silence thickened behind the thrum of the falls, was broken by distant laughter amongst the Hamraks, terse calls down by the stone bridge a counterpoint. Ulfun had the watch with his enforcers.

  “Tell me more of this massacre at the riverbank,” Varya asked.

  Anzo began to answer when he realized the words had been spoken in nearly flawless North Branch Vhurrian. “When did you start—” He launched to his feet, anger flashing like steam from heated steel in ice water. “Damn it, Varya,” he snarled in Aurridian. “More magic?”

  “The First Circle is Sight,” she replied in kind. “Sight is knowledge.” Her chin jutted in defiance. “If I have the capacity to learn faster than others, who’ll be the wiser?”

  “Why don’t you just give away everything to him, then?” He retorted, flinging an exasperated hand Heathen’s direction.

  “You mean the way you are doing right now?” She rose to her feet, trembling in outrage.

  Anzo glowered at her across the fire, face burning with a flush.

  “I am with you, if that’s what you’re arguing about,” Heathen said into their tense silence. “And I know some Aurridian. The priest, you remember? So, you’re wasting your time keeping it from me.”

  Anzo peeled his gaze from Varya to regard the youth. Switching back to Vhurrian: “You can’t know what you’ll be attaching yourself to, boy.”

  “I don’t care. I am with you.” He flung back the hides and rose to his feet, towering over Anzo. “I have no one else. I haven’t for a long time.” He held out a hand and a forearm the width of a young tree trunk.

  Anzo shot Varya a glance, saw some vague flicker of triumph in her hard grin, and had the infuriating feeling he’d just been set up. He snorted and shook his head. “Sorry, kid.” He clasped the other’s hand, his own practically disappearing. “Trust comes slow to old weasels like me. I mean, my steel was planted in your gut two days ago.”

  “And thanks to the lady’s art, I’m managing not to take that too personally.” His hard, callous-ridged grip released and he looked back and forth between Anzo and Varya. “The witch whose touch brings life, not darkness, and the old weasel who I think knows a bit more of the Aurid west than he has shared.” He gave his chest a thump. “Now what strength I have joins your circle.”

  Varya rested a palm on his shoulder blade—as high as she could reach. “And we are glad for it, aren’t we Anzo Severnus?”

  Anzo shook his head and kneaded his brow. “You’re crazy, kid.” He chuckled, was surprised at the welcome looseness in his chest. “I figure you’ll fit right in.”

  Fluttering like the crows that nested amongst the nooks of the cavern startled to flight filled the cave above. Anzo searched the darkness bunching in the hollows of the ceiling and the night sky beyond their perch, recalling the fear just before uncovering the riverbank scene. Their campfire dimmed abruptly and he found his fingers trembling about his sword handle.

  Varya knelt at the coals, began stirring them with a stick. “Now...the massacre by the river?”

  Anzo relaxed his grip. “Something tore them apart. I mean literally ripped them to shreds.” His voice cracked and he crouched at the fireside, let his eyes play across crackling embers rather than relive what they had beheld. “And it was more than murder or any kind of ritual mutilation. It was like...something ravenous had fed...gorging itself. Like I’ve seen people driven mad by starvation do, stripping rats, eating even the bones.”

  Varya tugged her cloak more securely about her shoulders and pointed the smoking tip of her stick at Heathen. “Tell Anzo what you’ve been telling me.”

  “Strange things have been happening for some time.” Heathen didn’t return to his hides, rubbed his arms over him for warmth, or perhaps comfort of some other kind.

  “Ulfun told me much the same thing,” Anzo said.

  Heathen nodded. “Ulfun would know. He’s been with Greaus longer than most. People have disappeared. We had children with us once.”

  Fluttering beat the air again. Anzo’s skin writhed, pinpricks of chill speckling its surface as his gaze shot skyward. Stars winked above. Some deeper blot of darkness might have passed across the sky. Then there was only the crash of the falls. Anzo cleared his throat. “Go on.”

  “And Greaus...you’ve seen him.” Heathen’s eyes were lifted to the stars, too. “He is very ill.”

  “Ulfun said he is a changed man,” Anzo said.

  “Ever since we settled here and he took Henna as his woman.” He met Anzo’s gaze. “We found her here, did you know?”

  A scream tore the night. Deep-throated fear rose to a high-pitched shriek of agony. For all its inhumanity, it was recognizable as Ulfun’s

  “Stay with her!” Anzo ripped his sword free and lurched for the curtains.

  “Anzo—”

  “Stay!”

  Anzo dashed into the dark. The Flinarr cowered about their fires as he weaved through them, mewling like piglets stirred from their mother’s teat. Calls of alarm went from one cave to another, feet battered stone. Anzo nearly collided with another warrior in the shadows. “Get the others!” He looked to the mouth of Greaus’ cave, saw no movement. “Get our lord!”

  Ulfun’s cries fell to gurgles. He was begging, pleading, barely heard over the now-familiar flutter, like great wings hammering air, stone, and flesh. A flurry of soggy breaths gave way to another scream that wheezed out into horrible nothing.

  Cursing savagely, Anzo sprinted through the cavern, shouting madly, a battle cry, a demand to someone, anyone to find their courage and join him. He stumbled on the stone tiers that formed stairs to the cave opening at the stone bridge, half-fell the rest of the way down. He hit the floor in a tangle and scrambled back to his feet with a bellow of challenge and his saber ready.

  Shadows clumped together on the near side of the bridge. At Anzo’s clamoring arrival, they parted, one falling away to be lost in the spray of the waterfalls and the night, the other left in an oily smear on the stone walkway.

  Anzo stalked forward, the point of his blade shivering as speckles from the waterfall cooled the back of his neck. To one side, the watch fire of the post lay in a splash of kicked coals, some of the embers scattered out onto the bridge, their fluttering arrangement giving some story to the path of the struggle. The stink of bird feces wafted into his face, coupling with the coppery tang of blood.

  Ulfun lay in quivering ruins. Crying out, Anzo dropped to a knee at his side, gore fresh and warm soaking through his legging. The other man’s leather corselet had been slashed away, one of the iron plates sewn into it bent aside at a wild angle. Shards of bone gleamed from the crater that had been his chest, bright-colored pulp of organs glistening, still twitching. Streaks of blood painted his clenched features in an almost regular pattern, a mockery of war paint. Eyes mindless with pain and terror shivered as they settled on Anzo.

  “It’s all right, my brother.” Anzo forced his voice to a comforting purr. He touched the back of his free hand to the other’s cheek but could not make himself release his weapon. “I am with you.”

  Ulfun’s face wrenched, mouth flopping open as ripped lungs starved for air. A hand shot up to grip Anzo’s shoulder. The forearm was in tatters, muscles slashed and hanging fre
e all the way up to his shoulder. He hadn’t gone down without a fight.

  “What?” Anzo leaned over, his ear close to the other’s mouth. “Tell me, brother.”

  A tremor wracked Ulfun, set to his back to arching once before the whole of him stiffened against the rock. Blood boiled up from his outstretched mouth to pour down his face, pool about Anzo’s knee. Terror faded from his eyes but remained etched across the ruin of his features.

  Anzo looked away, pinched his eyes shut. He recalled the butchery of the morning and knew the same hand had been at work, this night.

  Clattering in the cave mouth jolted Anzo back to awareness. He spun on his haunches, saber at the ready. One of Ulfun’s spear-armed enforcers was there. “Orkall....Orkall...” His eyes blazed. “What did you...?”

  “Don’t be a fool!” Anzo snarled. “What happened?”

  “I didn’t see anything.” The man started towards them then backed away, head shaking in disbelief of what his bulging eyes told him.

  “Idiot!” Anzo shot his feet and cornered the warrior. “You left him alone?”

  “He sent me to get more wood.”

  Flinarr clamored from the cave mouth, shouts of alarm stilling as the warriors saw the wreck of Ulfun and horror quieted their wound-up courage. Labored breathing and the tingle of chain links betrayed Greaus’ approach before his mass appeared amongst his warriors, forcing them aside as he trudged out onto the bridge.

  “My Lord, wait...” Anzo began.

  Greaus shoved by, came to stand over the man who’d been his right hand. Slowly, he knelt, shoulders quivering. A low warble began, sounded like something that might have been a snatch of a song. Cautiously, Anzo approached.

  “Bastards...” Greaus muttered. With a grunt he lifted his bulk back to its feet and held up his axe to the opposite side of the gorge. “Bastards! Your treachery is known to us now!”

  “My Lord—” Anzo reached out a hand.