The Sorcerer's Vengeance (The Sorcerer's Path)

by Brock Deskins

  Most of the men followed the experienced minotaur’s words, but all were men accustomed to fighting and made improvisations of their own, some simply did not have their cutlasses close to hand. A big man named Tom thrust the heavy spear into a man who looked normal with the exception of the impressive rack of antlers jutting from his head. The monstrosity paid the wound no attention and shoved itself down the length of the spear until the crosspiece stopped it. Tom was sure that the beast would have forced the spear all the way through its body until it could reach its wielder and rip him apart with its bare hands.

  With a shout of defiance, Tom set his feet in the packed snow and shoved the creature back onto its heels, forcing it to backpedal until he reached the conflagration that was once the tent and shoved it into the blazing flames. It was the first time that any of the monsters had made a sound. Green flames wreathed the beast as it struggled against the spear that kept it pinned within the dreaded fire. Tom bore his weight down onto the pike haft, pinning the flailing creature down into the flames, ignoring the heat that singed off his own facial hair until its screams died and the beast stopped moving.

  Farley cracked his personal hunting spear across the back of the knees of another of the macabre creations then pinned it to the ground when it fell while Derran used an axe to sever the head from its shoulders. More and more of the creatures approached from out of the mists toward the horribly inadequate wall that surrounded the camp. Zeb cursed angrily as he saw the large numbers of creatures approaching the feeble barrier; far more than his men could shove back with the pikes no matter how furiously they tried. Zeb knew it was only a matter of moments until all was lost and they were overrun.

  A hard blow from behind sent Zeb crashing onto the icy ground and felt as if he had been trampled by a horse. Ignoring the pain that lanced through his body, the aging captain rolled onto his back, bringing his cutlass across his chest, bracing the back of the blade with his free hand in a guard position. Another of the four-legged stag men had leapt the wall and caught him in the back with its hoofed forelegs. It wielded a spear, and unlike most of the others, had a look of rage and hatred on its once human face.

  The monstrosity raised the spear over Zeb’s heart, preparing to launch a thrust that the captain had little hope of dodging or deflecting. He was staring up at the hate-filled eyes when over the beast’s human shoulder he saw the dark silhouette of another, more human form, leap high from atop the low wall with a huge battleaxe, similar in every way to the one Toron favored, raised above its helmed head. Zeb thought that the beast had come to steal the other’s kill until the axe flashed down and split the torso of the stag creature nearly in half, the stroke of the blade not being arrested until it lodged deep into the intersection where the human pelvis joined its stag torso.

  The big, blond-haired, shaggy-faced human wrenched his big double-bladed axe out of the body of the creature he had just slain, using his foot to apply leverage as if he were pulling the axe out of a stubborn log, except that no log over made the sick squelching sound that followed the weapon’s violent removal from the monstrosity’s carcass.

  The mighty Eislander raised his gore-covered axe high over his head and shouted, “Modi!” before racing off and burying this axe into the spine of another of the creatures.

  All around, Zeb began hearing shouts of men, real men not that of these foul creations. Shouts of Gullantanni, Magni, Modi, Wuldor and many others echoed through the fog and across the chaotic battlefield. Zeb was certain they were the names of the Eislanders that had appeared out of nowhere, seemingly to their rescue.

  Zeb forced himself painfully to his feet. “Ware the Eislanders, my lads! They be friends, at least for now! Check your swings and be sure it’s the monsters ya cut down!”

  “Rick, follow me, I got an idea!” Matt shouted and pulled his friend along with him toward the two scorpios.

  “What are you doing? These things aren’t going to do much to these beasts!” Rick shouted.

  “They will if we hit em with these!” Matt returned with a wicked grin and holding up one of the cloth-wrapped, oil-soaked flares.

  Rick laughed and grabbed up one of the flares and lit it with the flames from the burning tent before sticking the butt of the wooden stake into the snow atop the low mound where the scorpio was set up. Both men worked the windlass to draw the thick cord back and bend the powerful arm. Once cocked, Rick touched the oil-saturated canvas of another of the flares to the one stuck into the snow next to him before setting it on the track of the big crossbow.

  Matt took aim at one of the creatures. It was huge, with the body of an ice bear and the head of a man. It sent men tumbling with each swipe of its mighty paw. A dozen wounds marred the filthy coat of the creature but it showed no sign that any of them bothered it. The scorpio bucked in the sailor’s hands as he pulled the trigger and released all the pent up energy held in check by the thick cord of the bow.

  The arm of the crossbow snapped forward with incredible force, launching the flaming brand at fantastic speed. The scorpio, a weapon designed to fire a small spear more than four hundred yards, struck the brute in the chest just a scant number of yards away. Matt half expected the brand to be extinguished by the monster’s own innards and blood, but whatever foul magic or technique had been used to create it made it exceptionally vulnerable to fire. Instead of being drowned by the creature’s blood, the oily flame caused whatever was inside the beast to flare violently into green flames. The monstrosity howled in anguish as its animated form was rapidly and painfully consumed from the inside out.

  “Wahoo!” Rick and Matt shouted at their handy work. “C’mon, crank it back again!”

  The two men worked the windlass as fast as they could. Their former grimaces turned into evil grins as Rick set another brand onto the scorpio and sent it flying into another of the creatures that was trying to clamber over the wall, sending it toppling backwards in a flash of green flame.

  The battle was dying down, the numbers of the foul horrors finally dwindling until Zeb’s men and the unexpected arrival of the Eislanders had them outnumbered. The swifter creatures began fleeing southward, possibly toward the distant forests. When there was no longer a common foe, Valarian and Eislander eyed each other warily. The Eislanders had the southern men outnumbered by a good handful of men and the smallest of them was equal to any of the burly oarsmen, most far larger, and many nearly matching Toron in height, discounting the horns.

  Zeb broke the standoff by seeking out the man that had made the amazing leap from the top of the wall, cleaving the body of one of the creatures nearly in twain and saving his life. Zeb spotted him standing amidst several bodies of the dead creatures and one of his own fallen Eislanders near the dying flames of the tent remains where most had made their stand.

  Zeb had nearly reached the big man when several of them spotted a flash of movement nearby. Hands gripped weapons tighter as men from both lands spun to face the mound where Rick and Matt had used the scorpio to good effect. One of the stag-men appeared through the fog, leapt over the wall, and bounded atop the mound. The foul beast knocked Rick down one side of the mound with its forelegs, clubbed Matt senseless with a blow to the head from one of its powerful fists, before throwing the unconscious sailor over its broad shoulders and dashing off into the night.

  Zeb and every one of his men still ambulatory made to run after the creature, but the big Eislander grabbed the captain’s shoulder in a vice-like grip and shouted, “No, you will not catch the creature and would only die upon the frozen tundra if you tried!”

  “Damn it, man, I can’t just let that thing take one of my men away and just let it go!”

  “Then you must wait until morning and track it. It is tireless and can run for days. With luck, we can track it to its lair and master and end his vile sorceries,” the Eislander replied forcefully, then softened his tone. “They have taken many of my own men, Utgardr. Trust that I will not rest until every one of these abominations are destr
oyed and the vile witch’s skull that has created them adorns my lodge.”

  Zeb was so furious he spat on the ground, not knowing what else to do. “Toron, Derran, get me a head count and tell me how many dead, wounded, and missing we got!”

  The captain then turned back to the big Eislander that had spoken. “I’m Zeb, currently captain of the Iron Shark and I lead these men. I thank you on behalf of us all for your intervention,” the captain proclaimed sincerely, extending his hand as he looked up into the vibrant blue eyes of the seven-foot-tall northman.

  The Eislander paused before grasping the smaller man’s hand in his own, fully engulfing it. “I am Modi, meaning courage, leader of this war band.”

  “Why don’t ya have yer boys gather round our fire. It’s big enough for all of us now,” Zeb offered, glancing over his shoulder at the flaming remains of the tent and its contents.

  Modi’s face split into a grin before he barked a deep, heartfelt laugh. The big Eislander raised his hand into the air and made a rapid circling gesture with it. His men began crowding around him and the fire, taking a seat on the frozen ground, some using their fallen, deformed foes as a stool.

  “We have been watching you since you set anchor in the bay,” Modi said, as they all took a seat.

  Zeb nodded his head. “We figured as much. Toron smelled you close by a couple times but we never saw you.”

  “Nor would you have until we opened you up with our axes had you shown yourselves to be aligned with the evil that has befallen this and other lands. It is fortunate that the ragmen attacked you, proving your innocence.”

  “You know what those things are? What are they, where did they come from?” Zeb asked anxiously.

  Modi stared into the flames of the fire. “We call them ragmen because the bodies look like they were stitched together like rag dolls and brought back to life. Other than that, I don’t know what they are. They are not alive anymore, not in any sense you or I would consider life. As far as where they came from—many were once my people, some from my very own clan. I have looked into the eyes of what was once my own brother before I laid him to rest.”

  “How did this happen?” Zeb asked, feeling the remorse that Modi exuded.

  “Zeb,” Derran interrupted, “we have one man dead, two wounded, and two missing. One of course was Matt. We all saw that. The other is Ruben. Probably pulled from his pallet during the fight.”

  “I doubt that,” Zeb replied. “Knowing Ruben, he crawled out of that tent with a weapon in his hand before it collapsed around his ears and got himself snatched up.”

  “He was wounded before?” Modi asked.

  Zeb nodded. “Took a swipe to the chest from the ice bear that used to wear that big skin that’s folded up on the sled outside the wall.”

  “Your men fought bravely, like real warriors. I would imagine he was taken fighting no matter how dire his injuries.”

  “Aye, that’d be Ruben and most any man I brought with me. That’s one of the reasons I chose this lot. They may not all be experienced sailors and they sure wouldn’t fit in at the king’s ball, but by the gods they’ll fight for ten minutes after they should’a fallen just on pure orneriness.”

  Modi nodded his appreciation at the Utgardr’s praise of his men. He knew the feeling of leading good warriors into battle as well as anyone and better than most.

  “I still don’t understand what’s going on,” Zeb said. “What did you mean they were your people?”

  “For many months, Muspellheim, the northern forests, have been plagued with men and women crawling out of their graves. We have had to start burning our dead upon pyres to ensure that they return to stand next to Djev and add their own strength to the shining one’s radiant axe in his battle against his foul sister of darkness.

  “At first we thought it was the work of the Nonarun, or that something or someone was interfering with their weavings until the first raids by the walking dead and creatures like you saw tonight began stealing my people away. It was then we realized that a being was using the foulest of necromancies to create the beasts we slew or that ran off with our family, friends, and neighbors. When we began seeing familiar faces amongst the raiders, I decided to take a band of my most trusted and steadfast warriors after them.

  “We have been tracking the creatures and battling them for nearly two months now. The men you see before you are just over half the number we started out with and less than a quarter that demanded to accompany us.”

  “I don’t quite follow everything you said, Modi,” Zeb broke in. “Who is Djev and the Nonarun and what weaving could possibly have anything to do with these constructs?”

  “Djev is the shining one, the one you Utgardr, southerners, call Solarian. The sun is the head of his mighty glowing battleaxe with which he battles his sister Nachtella’s desire for eternal darkness. The Nonarun are the three sisters of fate. Upon their cosmic loom they weave the fate and the lifelines that are attached to every man and woman who walk the world. Even the gods’ own immortal lives are woven upon their loom. It is the three sisters, Urdra, Vervandi, and Skulda that decide the length and complexity of each being’s thread and how it is woven into the fabric of the universe.

  “The not dead are anathema to the Nonarun. All things, except the gods, that have a beginning must have an end to be properly woven into the celestial fabric. When one is created like those we have slaughtered this night, it has tampered with the threads of those men and women and disrupts the weave. My men and I have sworn to not rest until we have ended whoever is responsible for this sacrilege or until we are slain and join them. The question remains, what are you going to do now, knowing what you face?”

  Zeb cast his eyes about the fire, looking into the faces of every man present, his own as well as the determined countenances of the Eislanders. “I don’t quite rightly know what to do.”

  “It depends on what kind of man you are and the type of men you lead. If you are smart and wise, you will pack your things, return to your ship, and flee this cursed land. But if you are brave to the point of recklessness, honorable to the point of foolishness, and angry to the point of unyielding vengeance then you and your men will take up your weapons and fight, and possibly die, next to mine and purge this vile evil from the land for all time!” Modi declared, his moving speech reaching a defiant shout.

  Every man in the camp was shouting oaths of vengeance by the time the northerner’s proclamation reached its crescendo. Zeb saw before him a leader of unparalleled confidence, ability, and charisma and could not help but raise his own cutlass and voice in defiance at whatever evil had defiled the bodies of decent men and women, killed, and kidnapped his own.

  “I won’t leave good men in the hands of that kind of filth. You can count on me and every able-bodied man I have to chase down whoever is responsible and destroy them.”

  Modi clapped Zeb on the shoulder with a huge open hand. “That’s the spirit! I knew there were real men somewhere in the southern lands.”

  Few men slept that night, those that did were the envy of those who could not. The Eislanders had the least trouble catching a few hours sleep, having been on the war trail and battling the ragmen for weeks. Zeb cooked up a large portion of the bear meat to break their fast, for which the Eislanders were extremely grateful. The big northerners were some of the most fearsome fighters in the land and decent fishermen, but generally not that adept at hunting and all of them were underfed.

  Bear meat was some of the least desired of meats, and Zeb had no qualms about giving out as much of it or any other food they had. They had salt and pepper in abundance as well; another valuable staple the northmen had run out of some time back. Zeb would have given Modi and his men the finest cuts of veal if he had such for what they had done last night. His men had done well defending themselves against the mindless and enraged creatures but they had been just moments away from being swarmed and would have started losing men quickly without the unexpected aid.

  Zeb gat
hered his men about him as they ate next to their newfound friends and allies. “Brandon, I want you and William to take John back to the ship on one of the sleds. Take a tent, a stove, and as much food as you think you’ll need. Do you think you can do that?”

  “Aye Cap’n, but my head’s mostly better now. I can still fight,” Brandon assured Zeb.

  “I know ya can, lad, but William’s got that arm in a sling and John ain’t able to walk on his own. You’re the strongest of our walking wounded and I need to know that you’ll get William and John back to the ship and let Balor and the others know what we’ve come up against. You tell him to wait as long as he can but get the Shark out of that bay before it freezes solid and crushes her.”

  “Aye, sir, that makes sense. Just get yourself and the others back all right?”

  “I’ll certainly do my best. As much as I’ve always wished for a second pair of hands at times I ain’t ready to pay this kind of price for em,” Zeb said in disgust as he looked over at one of the dead ragmen.

  “Captain Zeb,” Modi rumbled a few paces away. “I would have a word with you if you’ve a moment to spare.”

  “Of course, Modi,” Zeb replied as he stepped nearer the big battle jarl. “Is there a problem?”

  “A concern. I have wounded who are not able to continue on with us. I have seen far too many of my men die to leave any more behind now.”

  “Leave them behind? You have been fighting these things for weeks. Surely you have had wounded before now. What did you do with them?” Zeb asked, afraid to hear the answer.

  “Those with injuries that would heal in time were carried on litters or a travois. Those whose wounds would only slow or weaken the party were given a warrior’s death,” Modi answered, stifling the regret in his voice and covering it with pride for the bravery and sacrifice of his men.

  Zeb’s face paled at the thought. “What would you have of me, Battle Jarl?”