by Brandon Barr
“Maybe you’re just sweet on me,” she crooned with a smile. “Happens all the time with old ugly goats like you. Confusing my chest for my head and your dicks for your brains.”
Her words dazed them for a moment, and she knew she had to make a choice on where to concentrate. If she chose the branch or the bird to focus on, and they shot the arrow at such close range, she’d be dead before she heard the hum of the bowstring. Tension ran through Payetta’s body.
Her focus dropped from the eyes of the two men, down to the tips of their arrows. They were metal. She still couldn’t do a damn thing with metals. Something to remedy in the future. She fixed her mind on the wood shafts.
“I want to see the trick again,” she heard one of the men say, but it was just a whisper on the wind, for her mind was absorbed between the two deadly tools.
She was straining to focus when one of the arrows pulled back suddenly
Her entire focus shifted to the threat and the arrow shaft exploded in the man’s hand. Her focus jumped like lightning to the second arrow as its handler prepped a quick fire and it burst into splinters.
As the men cursed, Justen charged past her, sword carried high by his uninjured arm. The men were still a good distance off and already reaching for another arrow from their backs.
Payetta saw the branch and spoke to it with her mind. An ear splitting CRACK tore the air and it fell, crushing one of the men’s heads and knocking the taller man back on his heels. It was enough for Justen to get closer.
The tall man abandoned his bow and drew a sword, rendering Payetta powerless to help directly. She glanced up at the trees and found the raven, it swooped down immediately upon her mental call, but it was too late to help.
Justen met the man’s defensive thrust with a sword blow that tore the man’s weapon from his fingers, then his elbow struck full force between the man’s eyes, plowing the raider into the ground.
Her husband ended it mercifully fast and the tall man lay still beneath her husband’s red-slicked blade. Justen stood there, his wounded shoulder sagging as the arrow hung from it.
Payetta rushed forward and met her husband with a gentle touch to his chest, examining his wound. It would take a day for her power to fully heal it, and would require extreme focus. Already she felt the tug of weariness from the intense magic use against the two raiders. But her anger was hot and the blood coursing through her body told her she still had enough magic to rip Titannus from ankle to earlobe.
She looked at Justen with half-crazed delight. “I love you so damned much, you chivalrous hotass.”
“You’re welcome,” replied Justen, wincing as he smiled. “How’d you do that? Two arrows at the same time? I thought you gave up on practicing that.”
Payetta grinned. “I never give up on anything, you know that. Still, it was a good time to finally succeed at it!”
Justen laughed, then gritted his teeth against another wave of pain. The raven swooped down with its large wings spread and landed at Payetta’s feet. It hopped over to one of the dead men and began pecking curiously at the man’s earlobe.
“Are you all right!” called a gruff voice from behind.
Payetta turned and spotted Old Ferren tromping out of the woods followed by three other familiar faces from the Heroes Brigade. They all wore faces of concern, eyeing the arrow hanging from Justen’s right shoulder.
Payetta scowled at them as they approached. Three! That was it? Following Old Ferren was Kirk, Jax, and Ian. Exactly two-thirds of the members were nowhere to be seen. “Where’s everyone else!?”
Old Ferren grunted out a sigh. “You sent a red stick, so I came with everyone I could quickly muster. The rest will be here eventually.
Payetta turned to her husband and cocked an eyebrow.
“We don’t have time to wait,” frowned Justen. “We’ll do what we can with who’s here.”
“Follow me,” she commanded, turning for the meadow. “There’s plenty more of Titannus’s dirtbags to kill.”
She reached out to the bird with her mind and the raven took flight. A flying pair of eyes would prove useful. Justen fell in behind her.
“How many of the ugly brutes are left?” asked Ferren, his feet crunching along with the other three volunteers.
Payetta shook her head. “Not going to say. You’d wet your pants again if I told you.”
“Dammit,” groused Ferren, “you’re never gonna let that go, will ya Payetta.”
“Seriously,” replied Payetta stoically. “You know I can’t help myself.”
She heard Old Ferren mumbling as he tromped behind her and Justen.
“You know I love you, Payetta,” grumbled Ferren. “Love you like an unruly step-daughter. But you’ve got a wolverine for a tongue and a spirit like an unbridled stallion.”
“You’re wrong on one count,” snipped Payetta. “Justen bridles me nightly.”
“Payetta…,” came Justen’s embarrassed whisper.
“Well,” sang Payetta, “as often as I can get him to bridle me.”
She could feel her husband’s eyes roll.
“Your husband’s got an arrow in his shoulder!” hollered Jax from the rear. “You going to ride him too—I mean. Never mind. Sorry, Justen.”
Payetta grinned and reached back and took Justen’s hand. She diverted some of her focus to the wound in his shoulder. No sense delaying a little healing right now.
“No,” said Justen, taking his hand from hers. “You need your strength for the fight.”
“So do you,” she pleaded softly, just for him to hear.
“How many men?” demanded Ferren.
Payetta smirked, her wolverine tongue swallowing any trace of softness in her. “Last chance to whip your twig out before you spoil another pair of cottons.”
“Young lady, I’ll have you know—”
“Two hundred men,” she cut in, stopping him mid-sentence before he went into one of his rants about her mouth or her youth again.
Old Ferren was quiet for a moment, then grunted. It was all the noise he made for a long while.
CHAPTER NINE
Daeken Zee Walton watched the black smoke drift over the treetops in the distance. It was the first thing of interest he’d seen in a long while, the last being a row of six bodies drying out in the sun impaled on sticks.
He’d seen a lot of things since leaving his home. None of it was good.
Whether these six dead men were murdered by a mage’s soulless raiders, killed by brutals, or awaiting consumption by a pack of ravers, he couldn’t tell.
A small rise in the distance blocked the source of the fumes. Daeken hurried along, cloak whipping in a foul northern wind, his great sword, Wickedbane, strapped to his back yearning to be drawn.
He swore the sword could speak to him sometimes.
There were two things that had kept Daeken grounded his entire life. The first were the stories, told to him by his grandmother, of his legendary great-great-grandfather Terry Henry Walton, the man who brought humanity back to civilization, bringing justice from the Unknown World. The second thing that had grounded him was his wife, Farrah and their seven-year-old son, Aldon.
If not for these people in his life, there was no telling what kind of man he might have become. Even as a child he had a mind that wandered naturally toward darker ends. Some remnant of the Age of Madness flowing through his veins. If left to his own tendencies, he might have become a soulless monster as dark-hearted as the mages.
The heroism and heart of his legendary ancestor had changed all of that. Terry Henry Walton was to him the light of revelation in his life, breathing purpose and meaning into a ragged mind, turning his eyes toward the many suffering people crying out for justice and hope.
Daeken stumbled up a ravine, his legs getting ahead of his nose which smelled the promise of blood and cleaving ahead for Wickedbane. The acrid smoke drifting through the trees made his mouth pant salivate like a predator chasing down a prey.
The smell o
f retribution and justice.
Cresting the top of the small hill, he came to a clearing in the sparse woods and looked out at a vast swath of green land.
Beautiful green land, just like the land his home had stood on in the grasslands beneath the crumbling ruins of the City of Wind.
He stared in momentary shock out at the farmland sprawled before him and breathed in the sulfuric fumes of homes burning along with crops.
Suddenly Daeken fell to his knees, consumed by the sight. His tears slid down past lips curled in rage. It was the same sight he’d glimpsed months ago—like a memory reborn—the day he’d returned to his own home from a three-day hunt only to find his neighbors’ homes burning alongside his own.
This was what he’d been seeking out these many months. Some last refuge of humanity. To find hope in that place. And to warn them of the danger.
Daeken stood, eyes zeroed in on the leather-clad men moving from home to home. The blood of his great-great-grandfather, whipped like a tempest through his veins.
These savages would pay dearly today, and with that last thought, he raced out of the trees.
***
“How long until they come crawling out into our loving arms?” shouted Rolf over the crackle of the burning house.
Thurston twirled a knife in his hand and grinned. “Another minute, I’d wager. They’re pretty girls and they know it. Even the old one!”
Rolf roared with laughter. “What do you say, Corbin? Do we have time to play?”
Corbin, the Elderhost, spat before eyeing his two men with a look that his master, Titannus, might have trembled at. “We kill and we move on to the next doomed home. We’re not pillaging today. Only destroying.”
Corbin watched through squinted eyes as the smoke poured through the open doorway. His men Thurston and Rolf held the opposite perimeters, making a triangular boundary of the squarish little farm home.
Rolf hooted from his angle. “Got one! No Two! Oh shit! Help!”
Corbin ran around the side of the house and saw a young woman climbing out a smoking window. Already on the ground were a man and woman who looked to be near forty years old. Each held a makeshift weapon—the two women held long carving knives, the man a rusty shovel.
“Put those nasty things down,” crooned Rolf, “and this will all go much easier for each of you.”
The husband waved his shovel like an outstretched torch, as if somehow the spade was a flame that could ward them off. Rolf and Thurston laughed loudly at the man’s effort.
Corbin moved steadily towards them, his sword drawn.
“Corbin!” shouted Thurston, and pointed his chin at something off to Corbin’s right, “Someone’s coming.”
Corbin stopped and half turned to look. At the edge of the woods was a cloaked figure running full speed towards them. The Elderhost gave a quick look back to his men, then peered at the family which was now huddled together, hemmed in by him and his men.
If he could have, Corbin would have liked to slaughter the family quick then deal with the mysterious incoming figure, but the speed with which the individual was closing on them didn’t lend them the chance.
“Careful,” growled Corbin, “You have my back while I deal with this newcomer.”
The cloaked figure slowed as he neared Corbin and flipped back his heavy dark hood. It was an older man, forties or fifties perhaps, with face shaved clean. He held nothing in his hands, but a long thick sheath hung strapped to his belt. The intruder continued to walk unflinchingly toward Corbin, and the Elderhost took a step back and raised his sword.
“That’s far enough,” called Corbin.
The cloaked man continued toward him without a word.
Corbin switched his sword to his left hand then reached with his right into his leathers and retrieved an amber colored stone. He held it out in his palm like a weapon.
This caused the oncoming man to pause.
A twisted smile formed on Corbin’s lips. “Ever heard of the name, Titannus? He’s Zarith Smith’s Master of War and he’s here with us now. You take one step closer and I’ll summon him. You don’t want that, trust me.”
The stranger cocked his head, and that’s when Corbin noticed the shade of purple in the cloaked man’s eyes.
“You ever hear of the legendary warrior, Terry Henry Walton?” called the cloaked man. The question was asked so calmly, it was as if everything Corbin had just declared had not caused the stranger the slightest amount of fear.
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m the man’s great-great-grandson, and I carry his mission with me.”
Corbin squinted at the man, then laughed. “I don’t give a shit about your dead grandpa. Not with a sissy name like Terry.” Corbin shot a quick glance over his shoulder at his two friends. “Do your jobs. I’ll take care of this little girl.”
The stranger’s eye darted over the Elderhost’s shoulder. The family, still huddled together, began to shout threats at his men who he knew were moving in to slay them.
Something flashed in the stranger’s hand and before Corbin could speak, it was thrown just wide of his head.
A blood-curdling cry spun Corbin full around. Rolf teetered for just a moment, sword frozen over his head, poised for attack. Only when the raider toppled forward did Corbin notice the silver handle of a knife jutting from Rolf’s right eye. Thurston’s face was ashen, and he made no attempt to pursue the family of three that rushed away past Rolf’s crumpled body.
“Get over here, Thurston!” called Corbin. “Help me carve this beardless bastard into steaks to feed to Zarith’s brutals.”
“Call Titannus” came Thurston’s quivering voice as he stepped up beside Corbin.
Corbin clicked his tongue against his teeth. “Not yet, let’s test what he’s made of first.” He turned to Thurston. “Flank him.”
Together they moved toward the cloaked man who had yet to draw his sword. The Elderhost was sorely tempted to call out Titannus’s name and draw the Master of War to his aid, but he knew the mage would not be pleased if he felt he’d been called prematurely.
“It is fitting that you should both die today,” came the cloaked stranger’s penetrating voice. “I see no redemption in your future. It takes a truly vile man to do what you intended to do to that family.”
“This is our land now,” taunted Corbin, creeping closer to the stranger’s right. “We can do whatever we damn well please with our property.”
“Is that how it works?” came the stranger’s rough-edged voice, his eyes shifting back and forth between them. “I guess that means I own the both of you then. You know, so I can…do what I want.”
Thurston’s forehead was drenched, and Corbin feared the man would be next to useless if he didn’t regain his balls. He’d seen it too many times before…once fear stole a man’s heart, every decision and movement was impaired by fear.
There was one way to get Thurston’s blood flowing again. “NOW!” shouted Corbin.
Corbin waited a half-moment behind Thurston, who slashed out viciously to split open the stranger’s chest.
The cloaked man pulled his sword from his sheath faster than anyone Corbin had seen, but he didn’t meet Thurston’s steel with his own, but instead rolled under the powerful arc and swung a blow of his own that passed through Thurston’s right thigh as if the bone were made of cheese. And like the stranger’s sword, the cloaked man didn’t stop his motion, but only spun again, this time bringing his blade up for round two against Thurston’s upper body that collapsed like a besieged tower missing half its support.
Thurston’s head spun through the warm, late morning air before bouncing to a stop at Corbin’s boots.
“Titannus!” shrilled the Elderhost, clenching the amber stone in his white knuckles. He opened his mouth to call on the Master of War again, but the shliink of the stranger’s sword cut him a head short.
***
Titannus frowned and gazed off to the southern portion of South Meadow. He
’d seen the face of the man that killed his Elderhost a second before the death blow was delivered, and in that moment he noticed something odd about the attacker’s eyes.
There was a purple tint within the blue. The eyes did not glow with magic, and yet, that color he’d never seen before. He considered moving in that direction and entering the man’s mind, for the stranger interested him. But the thought was fleeting.
As furious as he was that one of his three Elderhosts was dead, he couldn’t lose his head over the matter. The feeble walls of Hargstead were his main concern. They were the South Meadow’s only defense, for none of the four smaller villages in the Meadowlands had a wall around them. Entering the rest of the little hamlets that dotted the valley would be as easy or difficult as the farm folk chose it to be, but he didn’t expect many to resist after he was finished with Hargstead.
Slay their best hope, he thought, and their knees would buckle.
His men had managed to take out the entire North Eastern swath of the south valley. The only casualties he knew of so far were the three men who’d met the cloaked man with the purple eyes. They had died because they had lingered on the outskirts too long.
Titannus had been expecting these kinds of counter attacks. He needed to be more watchful. If there was an impure mage among the Meadowlanders, as his Master Zarith Smith had warned, he would deal with them swiftly. But he knew well that locals lived out in the woods and were eager to take out any of his men that wandered too far down the mountain. Those were mainly young vigilantes and a few surviving old-timers who remembered the days when madness had run like a plague throughout the land. The older folks still seemed to have a little streak of the crazies in them. His master Zarith Smith had a touch of the madness still, as did Zarith’s master, Overmage Krolan. He was, according to Zarith, the maddest, most brilliant Mage living between the two great seas.
As far as the troublesome forest dwellers concerned him, Titannus had left a few sentries about, but he wasn’t going to focus on a few flies picking off a couple of his men. He would deal with the pests soon enough, but not before he took Hargstead for Zarith Smith.