by Sandell Wall
He looked up and down the line—it was in shambles. At least half the prisoners were out of the fight. The rest were anchored down by the dead weight of the dying or useless.
We have to get free of this chain!
Remus dropped to a knee and felt for the link that had been clipped through in his chain. His searching fingers found it, slipped its joining link through the gap, and he was free. He sprinted to the far right of his cellmates’ chain. The man on the end was astonished to see him moving freely.
“Your shield,” Remus said. “Toss it on the ground!”
The man hesitated, obviously thinking Remus was mad. But something in Remus’s eyes convinced him to do as commanded. As soon as the shield hit the dirt Remus pushed it under the chain that linked his squad to the next. He slid the dirty iron links onto the metal boss of the shield and then smashed them with his Volgoth axe. They shattered like brittle wood. He ran to the other side of his squad and repeated the process. Free from the shield-wall, his men could move as a unit.
“Grotius!” he shouted. He pointed his axe towards where Pikon was fighting for his life. “Help Pikon, I’m going to free the rest!” Remus did not wait to see if they obeyed. He moved up and down the shield-wall freeing the captives who were still able to fight. Working fast, when he freed a man he shoved him towards the fight and moved to the next. When he was almost done a vague sense of warning started to tickle the back of his mind. It was not until he struck the chains from the last group of men that he realized what his sixth sense was trying to tell him.
Where’s Omen? He was not among the men I freed.
From his position on the far edge of the battle Remus scanned the clearing, trying to find Omen. He did not for an instant think the fanatic veteran was dead. Most of the prisoners had joined the battle, but fifteen or so were heading in the opposite direction. Running away. The only thing standing between them and escape was the promost.
Clad in his dark armor and cape, wearing his black crested helmet, the promost looked like some ancient warrior of myth made flesh. He carried no shield. Instead, he wielded a menacing looking two-handed mace. Lacquered ebony, the weapon shined in the weak sunlight. The last two feet of the mace was a long barrel-like head the width of Remus’s thigh. Embedded in the mace’s circular head were a hundred glinting points that looked like animal claws. His cloak billowing behind him, the promost stood with the weapon grounded in front of him, waiting for the cowards to make their move. They were not at all eager. And they seemed to be waiting for something.
Remus saw movement in the woods behind the Ethari leader. There was a man creeping up behind the promost.
Omen!
Remus started to run the same time the prisoners facing the promost charged. His shout of warning was lost over their battle cry. Remus was still fifty paces away when the promost dropped the first attacker. The Ethari pivoted on his heel and swept his mace around his body and up into a devastating swing that hit his running target square in the face. As long as Remus was tall, the mace’s reach was deadly. Head crushed, the prisoner pinwheeled past the promost like a sack of bones. The promost followed the momentum of the swing and spun again, dropping the angle of his attack to break shins and shatter ankles.
He’s going to take down fifteen men before I can get to him!
Omen realized the same thing and gave up any attempt at stealth. He sprinted from the trees and was on top of the promost before the Ethari could react. Omen crashed into the promost, using his full weight to drive the pommel of his sword into the back of the Ethari’s neck. Stunned, the promost dropped to his knees. Poised to plunge the tip of his blade into the back of the Ethari leader’s neck, Omen raised his sword in a two-handed grip. But then he looked up in surprise, just in time to see Remus bearing down on him like a missile launched from a siege engine.
Remus did not slow down. He raised his shield and plowed into Omen with bone-crushing impact. Remus felt his teeth rattle as he threw his weight into the smaller man. His shield hit the other man dead center—Omen was flung backwards and away from the promost.
There’s no way he gets up from that.
But Omen was on his feet before Remus finished the thought.
“I’ll kill you. I’ll kill you and eat your eyes, you miserable maggot,” Omen raved, spitting blood. “You should have run off with your Rune Guard nanny, because I’m going to make you suffer.”
Omen lunged, thrusting his sword straight at Remus’s stomach. Remus got his guard up, but as soon as the blade touched his shield, Omen twisted his body and the thrust became a lightning fast overhead chop. Remus lifted his shield just in time, but the tip of the sword nicked his forehead. Blood started to leak down the side of his face. Omen drove Remus back with a flurry of feints and quick jabs. Fighting without a shield, Omen was fast, too fast for Remus to match. His shield and heavy axe started to feel like dead weights in his hands.
Remus retreated into the forest. He tried to keep Omen and the prisoners who had charged the promost in his field of view. They were fanning out to encircle him, lunging with feints and attacks of their own.
“S’matter, pup?” Omen said. “No one here to save you? No one you can cry to for help? You turned your back on the empire. And now you die for it.”
Blood and sweat poured from Remus. Minor wounds on his arms and legs were starting to take their toll. He could not block every cut and stab, and soon one of his attackers was going to land a crippling strike. Behind the line of his assailants he could see the runebound tearing into the Ethari.
I’m not going out this way. Not here, not now.
Defense was not working. If they did not wear him down enough to disable and kill him, he would die a death of a thousand cuts. Better to attack while he still had strength. Remus tensed, ready to launch into motion. Omen saw the change in Remus’s stance and was about to say something when one of the other men jumped at Remus with a raised weapon.
Remus did not wait for the attack to reach him. He stepped forward and lashed out with his Volgoth axe. Catching the man mid-stride, the powerful swing hit the attacker square in the chest. The blow did not injure the man, it obliterated him. The prisoner folded in on himself and crashed to the ground, mangled and lifeless. Remus stepped over the fallen enemy, screaming defiance at the top of his lungs.
Remus knew of the sword song. Legends told of blademasters who could slip into a trance and pass unharmed through an entire army, parrying and dodging every blow. In his brief time training to fight he had felt like a clumsy dancer learning to hear music for the very first time. His intuition told him that after years of work he might learn to surrender to the song of the sword, to embrace something outside himself. But this axe was not the tool of a dancer captured by someone else's song. It was an instrument of pure will. His will. Remus would surrender to nothing. He rejected the path of the blade and tore into the men in front of him like a berserker. Nothing could stand against his raw, elemental rage and the fearsome weapon in his hand.
Even Omen paused for an instant, uncertainty on his face. And then Remus was in the midst of them. Remus charged the nearest man, swinging his axe into an uppercut that would disembowel his foe. Terrified, the man tried to block the attack with his sword. The axe was too heavy to be stopped—it slammed the blade back against the enemy’s torso. The jagged edge of the Volgoth weapon carved a bloody gouge in Remus’s opponent. Bleeding from crotch to neck, the prisoner fell away.
Remus let the axe feast. He spun, cleaving flesh and smashing heads. His spinning slash split the skull of a man who was trying to stick a blade in his back. Dead in an instant, the man’s body hit the ground like a felled tree.
Remus stood in the bloody ruin of his enemies. Consumed by his bloodlust, the edges of his vision throbbed a furious red. “You would stand against me?” he shouted. “Come and die!”
Of the fifteen that had rushed the promost, only three remained. And Omen.
Remus pointed his axe at Omen. “Come tast
e my axe, you worthless traitor. You’re not loyal to the empire. You would have put a dagger in my back if I didn’t follow Lorent.”
“I was going to be a centurion in his new Legion,” Omen snarled. “I was going to lead my own century.” He lurched towards Remus.
Before the three prisoners could move to help Omen, one of them was knocked off his feet by a punishing blow from behind. There was a sharp whistling noise and then the promost’s mace smacked into the side of the man’s face with a brutal thud. The other two never stood a chance. The promost left the two men broken and moaning in the dirt.
Remus was aware of the promost dealing with the other men, but he was focused completely on Omen.
He’s a far more experienced fighter than I am. I can’t let him gain the initiative.
When Omen was two paces away Remus lunged with his shield, trying to body-check the charging veteran. Omen stopped short, avoiding the clumsy attack. But Remus anticipated Omen’s reaction. Obstructed by his body and shield, Remus held his axe straight out behind himself. As he lunged at Omen, he pivoted on his toes—his shield bash turned into a spinning slash that caught Omen flat-footed. The reach of the Volgoth axe was too great to dodge. Omen managed to get his blade up, but Remus’s axe slammed the lightweight sword aside. Omen cried out, his arm nearly severed at the elbow.
Remus circled his opponent. “It’s over, Omen. Throw down your sword. You don’t have to die. Behind you is the true enemy.”
There was only pain and fury on Omen’s face. No fear, doubt, or regret troubled the man even at the end. “You pathetic worm. You get propped up by those grey demons and you think you have strength, you think you have power. You have nothing. You are nothing.” He charged at Remus again, reckless and uncaring.
Remus’s axe met him halfway. Its serrated edge split Omen’s face and lodged in his neck. Remus had to put his foot in Omen’s chest to wrench the weapon free.
“Idiot,” he said to the corpse. “Why throw away your life?”
He looked up to see the promost charge into the runebound ranks. Up and down the battle-line the thralls were breaking through. Remus saw the dead bodies of Ethari soldiers trampled underfoot. The promost launched himself into the thickest fighting, laying into the enemy with overpowering strikes from his ebony mace. It was not enough.
From the far side of the glade the enemy still poured from the trees. The promost was an unstoppable killing force, but for every thrall he crushed, two more took its place. However, his assault was taking the pressure off of the exhausted prisoners. Eerie runelight strobed through the clearing as every runebound circlet pulsed brighter, once, twice, and then as one they turned and converged on the promost.
One of the Ethari pointed back towards where Remus was standing and shouted, “Back! Retreat!”
Pikon’s still alive!
Pikon grabbed the nearest captive and shoved him towards the forest to emphasize his command. Once the message was clear, the Ethari and the surviving men started to back away from the runebound horde. Remus ran forward to help cover the retreat.
As they edged away Remus stared in wonder at the promost, who was being swarmed by hundreds of thralls. Nothing but a black blur, the Ethari’s mace thrummed through the air as he kept it in constant motion. No blade could touch the dark soldier. When Remus and the other men were at the tree line the remaining Ethari formed a wedge and charged in to rescue the promost.
Swords rising and falling, the Ethari hacked their way towards their leader. Two died in the attempt, pulled off their feet and torn apart by the horde. But the knot of Ethari soldiers fought like champions and won free of the enemy ranks, bringing the promost with them. When the Ethari reached the glade’s edge, Remus and the surviving men turned and ran into the forest.
After several hundred paces the Ethari slowed and then stopped.
“What are you doing?” Remus said. “There’s hundreds of them back there!”
“Runebound do not pursue after battle,” Pikon said. “Scared of ambush.”
Before Remus could respond, the promost stepped in front of him.
He’s not even breathing hard.
They stared at each, unspoken acknowledgement passing between them. Remus was in complete awe of the Ethari leader, but he met the promost’s penetrating gaze. Finally, the promost nodded once at Remus and turned away.
“You have proven yourself,” Pikon said quietly from behind Remus. “Promost will not allow you to remain captive.”
While they talked, the Ethari had been unlocking the manacles from the surviving prisoners feet. “We move fast now,” Pikon said. “Runebound don’t chase, but when they form up, they will come hard.” The Ethari started off into the forest, breaking into a quick jog. Remus and the other men followed, running easy without their fetters. He looked for Ellion and Grotius and found them bringing up the rear, limping and bloody, but alive.
Remus sensed that something momentous had happened in the clearing. He had crossed a threshold from which there was no return. Remus, the boy on the cusp of manhood had entered the glade, but Remus Ironborn, the warrior, was leaving it.
Chapter 28
AVENTINE SAT IN THE boat and cradled her wounded arm while they rowed through the night. When they left the harbor, the darkness closed in like a shroud. The rebels were adamant no torches could be lit, so they navigated by brief flashes of moonlight. It was a stroke of good fortune that the moon was visible at all through the dark clouds.
When the moon was hidden, she couldn’t see more than three arm’s lengths in front of her. She had no choice but to hunker down and wait. No one spoke. She sensed that they were all lost in their own struggle to accept, or make sense of, what was happening. Only the squeaking of the oars in their locks broke the stillness of the night. The rebels rowed hard, trading places every quarter hour.
“Galleys will launch soon,” one of the rebels finally said, his voice hushed. “We have to get off the water.”
“We’re almost there,” another responded.
Soon they veered toward the shore. To Aventine’s surprise the coast had turned into rocky cliffside, and by the faint light of the moon she could see the lower peaks of a mountain range off in the distance. The rock face rushed out of the darkness with surprising speed—the boat crashed into it with such a jolt that Aventine was knocked off her bench.
“Sorry, sorry,” one of the rowing rebels said. “I do that every blasted time. There’s a rope ladder somewhere up ahead. Shout if you see it.”
They scraped along, hugging the rock. Any rebel that was not rowing trailed his hand on the cliffside, trying to snag the rope when it passed.
An instant later one of them shouted, “I’ve got it!” He reached out with both arms and braced himself against the side of the boat, pulling the little craft flush with the stone.
Ascending into the blackness, slapping against the wet, vertical cliff face, was a flimsy rope ladder. With practiced ease, the first rebel scampered up the rock wall and disappeared above them. The governor's wife was next. She looked terrified, but did not hesitate.
Aventine and Holmgrim were left in the boat with five rebels. One of them looked at Holmgrim and said, “You have to go last, mate. It might not hold you.”
“I’ll go last, but she goes next,” Holmgrim said, nodding at Aventine.
“That’s fair,” the rebel said.
Aventine flexed her injured arm, opening and closing her hand.
You can climb the ladder or row the boat. You don’t have any other options.
She started up, gritting her teeth and ignoring the pain shooting through her forearm. Every rung was agony. Her arm started to shake and her grip grew weaker as she climbed. Unable to stop herself, she shouted in pain each time she grabbed the wet rope with her bad hand. Her strength abandoned her before she reached the top. Suspended thirty feet above the water she clung to the rock, bouncing gently as the ladder swayed. She could climb no further. And then an open hand appeared in fron
t of her face, inviting her to grasp it. Relief flooded through her. She took hold of the helping hand and was hoisted up and over the edge of the cliff.
There was no room to rest and catch her breath; there was barely even room to stand. Carved out of the side of the precipice, the ledge she was standing on was only three feet wide. It was a trail up into the mountains. One of the rebels ushered her up the path to make way for the next man on the ladder. In the wet, slippery darkness she had to fight a dizzying sense of vertigo. The open air on the left seemed like it plunged into an abyss.
Aventine stayed near the ladder, refusing to go higher until Holmgrim had climbed up. One by one the rebels filed past her until Holmgrim was the only person left in the boat. She held her breath as he started his ascent. Lit by the weak moonlight, she could see the thin rope ladder strain under Holmgrim’s bulk. His climbing motion sawed the top of the ladder against the edge of the cliff, fraying the already fragile rope.
It’s not going to hold!
When Holmgrim was ten feet from the top, the ladder gave way with a wet snap and toppled into the water below.
“No!” Aventine shouted, lurching forward.
She looked down, expecting to see Holmgrim floundering in the water. Instead, she found him stuck to the rock face, anchored to the cliff with the sharp spike on the back of one of his axes.
He looked up at her. “Just making sure no one can follow us,” he said.
Slowly, painstakingly, Holmgrim unholstered his second axe and started to climb the cliff, carefully searching for the next safe anchor point. He was breathing hard when he climbed up and over the edge. Aventine moved up the trail to make room. Holmgrim barely fit.
“What about the boat?” she said. “Won’t it lead them to us?”
“The current will take it miles away,” a rebel said. “They’ll find it, but there’s no chance they trace it back here. Now come on, we need to get off this bluff.”