by J. K. Swift
MORGARTEN
Book 2 of the Forest Knights Duology
J. K. Swift
Published by UE Publishing Co.
Vancouver, Canada
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2012 by J. K. Swift
All rights reserved.
http://theforestknights.com
Cover design by Chris Ryan, collecula
www.collecula.com
Edited by Vincent Hillier
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.
Table of Contents
Map of Morgarten
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Author's Notes
About the Author
Chapter 1
Erich stood over Gissler’s body and absently stroked the three stumps on his right hand that had once been fingers. A crossbow bolt protruded from Gissler’s upper chest. Erich took a moment to admire the unknown archer’s skill, for if the shot had struck a fraction of an inch lower, Gissler’s chainmail vest may have spared his life. Or, perhaps it was merely luck. That was far more likely. Luck, or rather, its absence had killed far more people than skill ever would.
Erich’s brows furrowed and he crossed his arms. There was something odd about the angle of the bolt. And the entire shaft was crusted in dried blood, all the way to the tips of its leather vanes....
A crash and the sound of splintering wood caught his attention. He turned away from the corpse and saw Reto climbing down from the top of the cage wagon. The bald, leathery-faced man cursed as he dropped to the ground.
“Nothing here. Found a strongbox but no coins,” Reto said.
He pulled something flat and heavy that was tucked under his arm and tossed it into the trees.
“What was that?”
Reto shrugged. “Parchment. Maybe a book. That one got anything good on him?”
Erich nodded. “A fine sword. Take it and the mail vest, but leave the clothing.” They were too stiff with old blood to salvage.
Reto scurried over and picked up Gissler’s sword. He whistled in appreciation and tucked it into his belt. His small eyes darted over Gissler’s corpse. “And what is wrong with those boots? Look broken in and comfortable to me. Might be my size, too.”
Erich held up his hands. “Take them. But if you do, you offer up your own boots to one of the other men, if they want them. And you can carry that sword for now, but when we get back to camp it goes into the pool.”
Reto flashed his teeth for only a second before bending to pilfer Gissler’s corpse. Erich watched as his man tugged off the corpse’s boots and ripped off his tunic to get at the chainmail vest.
Erich told himself he should be enjoying this moment more. This was, after all, one of the bastards who had killed most of his men those many months ago. The past half-year had been beyond difficult. But that was nothing new for him.
Erich’s father had been a grain farmer until his wife died when Erich was ten. Life had been hard while she was alive, but with her passing, Erich’s father and even the land itself seemed to give in. The crop shriveled and the next year blight finished it off. They starved for a season, earning what they could by begging, and, unknown to his father, some minor thefts. The next year the community hired Erich’s father as an alper. He was to take everyone’s animals up high into the Alps to forage for summer pasture and would not return for three months. He left in early spring, leaving Erich alone on their rocky land to fend for himself. When his father returned in late summer, Erich was gone.
He fell in with rough men, and realized that to survive, he would need to be rougher yet. After ten years, and many a hard lesson learned, he formed a brigand band of his own. They did well, flourished even. Until he lost half his men when they made the mistake of ambushing Gissler’s group.
Erich had built his band back up to twenty men, but he needed half again that number if he had any hope of seizing even the smallest merchant caravan. Especially considering the quality of his current followers.
He looked at the sword sticking out of Reto’s belt and wondered if it was the same blade that had cut off his fingers. He could not remember the look of the sword, for it had happened too fast. The man behind the weapon, however, was another story. Erich could still hear the contempt in his words: He will not be any good with a bow for the rest of his miserable life.
He was right, of course. Erich also could no longer grasp a sword handle in his right hand, and had resorted to practicing with his sinister hand. It was still clumsy and awkward, but he knew with time he would adapt. What other choice did he have?
Erich wandered to the side of the road and peered into the trees at the leather-bound object Reto had discarded. Turning his head to protect his eyes, he squatted and retrieved the book from beneath a prickly bush. He turned it over in his hands, surprised by its weight.
So, this is a book.
It was the first time in his life he had ever held one. He unfastened the intricate buckle and fanned through the first few pages. He grunted with disappointment at the lack of pictures, then squinted at the flowing script and wondered at its meaning.
Reto was right. The book was worthless to men like them. He closed it and ran his hand once over the smooth cover. But there were others who valued these curiosities more than gold.
Erich tucked the book under his arm and walked over to a horse grazing at the side of the road. She cast him a sidelong glance as he approached and snorted, but did not consider him enough of a threat to give up the sweet tufts of grass overflowing into the road from the forest floor.
Someone had unhitched her from the wagon and left her to roam free. Her coat still bore harness marks, and unfortunately, a prominent Habsburg brand on her rump. Erich would have to leave her behind. No horse trader within a thousand leagues would buy a stolen Habsburg mount.
Four years ago Erich knew of another group of brigands that had been brazen enough to take three of Duke Leopold’s horses from a stable in Andermatt. Habsburg soldiers hunted them for weeks, and when they found them, the horse thieves were hung and quartered. Their torsos were dragged through Andermatt until they fell apart. Their limbs received a similar treatment in various villages to the east, and the thieves’ heads were sent to Altdorf to be placed atop poles in the town square. The Habsburgs placed a high value on their horses—much higher than the lives of m
en such as Erich.
He glanced around, wondering where the other half of the two-horse team was. If someone had been fool enough to steal one, why stop there? Why not take them both?
His eyes picked up two skid marks carved into the surface of the road. They were the width of a man’s shoulders and led from the wagon to the forest edge. Puzzled, Erich followed the trail a few steps into the trees where the dense brush swallowed it up.
Reto came to Erich’s side and scratched his stubbled head. “Looks like someone stole a horse and dragged something in there. What do you think it was? Another strong box maybe?”
Erich could see where something large had brushed aside branches to enter the woods, but then he could make out no further trail. He pointed to a single drop of blood on a rock at the road’s edge.
“It was a person. Someone on a stretcher made of branches. Someone hurt.”
“Should we follow them?”
“Follow what, exactly?” Erich said.
He stared into the trees. Their trunks swayed and creaked in the breeze. He swore he could feel them staring back.
He shook his head. Like the crumbled bits of a dried leaf on a windy day, the trail had simply vanished.
***
The whispers came for Seraina in sleep, as they often did. Some time ago, or perhaps only moments before, she recalled sitting down against a giant spruce and closing her eyes. Seraina could still feel the ridges of rough bark pressed against her back. That sensation was a tie to the waking world and she latched onto it, resisting the pull of the voices.
Her visions were rare and, so she was told, a gift from the Great Weave. Something to be treasured. But these voices calling from afar, differed from the ones she had heard before. They grew, both in volume and quantity, and as they became louder, they seemed to insist that Seraina listen. No, they demanded to be heard. Finally, Seraina understood.
They were screams.
Wails of terror, pain, fear, and rage. The realization tore Seraina completely away from the waking world. The comforting reassurance of the tree’s bark against her back was gone. She found herself hurtling through gray mist that clogged her nostrils and filled her mouth as she drew in deep breaths to ease the frantic pace set by her heart. The screams became louder, the anguish so unbearable, she clapped her hands over her ears knowing full well it would do little good.
She had to help them.
The mist cleared. Not gradually, but all at once, like the goddess Ardwynna herself had banished it from her forest realm with a clap of her hands.
Altdorf.
Seraina floated high above the ramparts of the Altdorf fortress. A great host encircled the keep, pouring through and over broken sections of the outer walls. In the distance, the sky glowed with the heat of a thousand fires as the town burned.
The winds carried Seraina lower, in an erratic swoop like a swallow chasing mosquitoes. But this bird had no control over her descent and Seraina soon gave up trying to direct her flight. She took a deep breath and surrendered herself to the Winds of the Weave, knowing full well where they meant to take her. She closed her eyes, but that only brought the gruesome images of war into focus. There was no way to shield one’s eyes while trapped within a vision.
She watched as a man with a two-handed sword cut another in half from shoulder to hip-bone, and he in turn was skewered from behind by another man’s blade. They fell, and other men ran over their bodies, howling, their faces red and twisted by the furies of battle.
Seraina winced as she felt their rage, their need to kill, and the great relief as a man slid his blade into the open mouth of another. His teeth dragged against the steel, ringing out a long, grating note. Tears filled her eyes and she tried to look away, but it was futile. The winds were merciless. They whisked her throughout the battle, from one gory scene to the next, like she was some wealthy patron of a macabre series of plays.
An old man sat astride a young soldier and pummelled his head with a bloody rock. A young girl, not yet in her teens, attempted to crawl through dirt muddied with blood, as two men tore the clothes from her back. Nearby, a group of soldiers laughed and passed around a wineskin. They watched a man grind against an unmoving naked woman, her arms and legs tied to stakes thrust into the ground. No sounds came from her broken lips, but Seraina could hear her screams. Shrieks that mingled with all the others, forming background music for the chaos.
Finally, relief, and no small measure of guilt, washed over Seraina as the winds took her away once more. They left her standing on top of a crumbled section of the outer wall.
In front of her, stood Thomas.
His tunic was drenched in blood, dripping with it, like it had been freshly pulled from a dying vat. He looked directly at her, and smiled. The scar, extending from the corner of his left eye all the way to his jawline, was so white it hurt Seraina’s eyes.
He took a step toward Seraina but a man appeared between them. Thomas crushed his skull with a quick swing of his mace. More figures climbed onto the wall. Thomas stepped over the dead man at his feet and slashed with the sword in his other hand. Another man fell, only to be replaced by two more.
Seraina blinked. It occurred to her then, that of all the people she had seen thus far, Thomas was the only one she recognized. She had sensed the others’ terror and pain, felt their need to kill or maim, but, thank the Goddess, she did not know their faces. And while she knew Thomas’s face, when she quested out to him from within her own mind, she felt… nothing. No emotions whatsoever.
Thomas opened the throat of another and, when the dying man fell to his knees, Thomas brought his mace down upon his head. With every death, Thomas took one step toward Seraina. But he could never close the distance.
Seraina called out his name, and Thomas heard. He lowered his mace and sword and stared at her. He shook his head slowly.
Enemies flooded around him. A dozen swords pierced his body and he stumbled. His dark, almost black, eyes never left hers until he tumbled backward over the wall.
Seraina gasped and leaned out between two crenellations. She watched his body fall, and though she was too far away to see his face, she knew he wore a contented smile. A moment before his body smashed against the rocks below, she felt the first hint of emotion emanate from Thomas’s mind. It was only a simple pause, like a breath before sleep, and was gone in an instant. But she recognized it for what it was.
Relief.
Tears clouded her eyes as she stared at the blood-red form lying broken below. The Weave came for her then. Seraina shouted in protest and reached toward Thomas, but the winds plucked her from the walls and sent her spinning back into the mist.
Seraina woke with a start and she fought back a cough as breath poured into her lungs. She pushed her spine hard against the tree, and let it cradle her, as she allowed her senses time to recover from her vision.
The mist was gone, but now she was surrounded in darkness. Two sets of eyes stared at her, reflecting the glowing coals of a dying campfire. One set was blue and ancient, the other gold and wild.
“What have you seen, my child?” Gildas asked.
The violent images were still too fresh in her mind and they stole her voice. Suddenly cold, Seraina wrapped her arms around herself and shook her head. She stared into the hissing embers, jealous of their warmth. It took several minutes before she was able to answer the old druid, but Gildas waited patiently and did not press. He knew better. The wolf at his side, however, whined at her silence.
Eventually, Seraina forced words from her throat.
“Something is wrong,” she said.
Chapter 2
Duke Leopold rode at the front of a squad of fifty soldiers. Klaus, his ever-present man-at-arms, was at his side. The gray-haired veteran’s hooded eyes swept back and forth on the road ahead, like a wary bird of prey waiting for a field mouse to break cover.
The only sign of movement came when a cold wind pushed its way through the trees and breathed life into a scatterin
g of dead leaves, whipping them into a frenzy. They rose a foot into the air and hovered there for a moment. Then they began to turn in a circle, slowly at first. As the momentum built, they rose higher off the road and formed a column of spinning gold and tawny debris. The whirlwind floated back and forth across the road, in an erratic pattern that resembled a drunkard stumbling between taverns.
“Look!”
Leopold cringed as the sound of the Habsburg Fool’s voice came from somewhere behind him. Much too close.
“The carpenter’s fart!”
The little, purple-haired man sat sideways on a shaggy Norse pony. The Fool’s face was split down the middle with white and black paint, a design his clothing also followed. Every now and then, when his pony stumbled, the Fool’s pointed shoes tinkled with the sound of bells.
The Fool pointed at the twirling leaves. The soldiers nearest him laughed for everyone knew the story of the carpenter who had traded his soul to the Devil in exchange for two wishes. In a remarkable feat of balance and agility, the Fool stood on his saddle and acted out the entire story while standing on his moving pony’s back.
“For the first, he asked for riches,” he said in his best stage voice. It carried easily to the last soldier in line. “And the Devil made appear a kettle of gold coins! Far more than any man could spend in a lifetime. But the crafty carpenter paused before he made his second wish, knowing full well the Devil would own his soul once it was granted. ‘Make your second wish,’ the Devil demanded.”
The Fool lifted his leg, screwed up his face, and farted; a necessary skill for any respectable court jester.
“My wish is for you to catch that and return it to me,” he said, then he pointed at the spinning leaves. “And there goes the Devil now! Chasing the ever elusive carpenter’s fart.”
Most of the soldiers laughed, and more than a few crossed themselves when the Fool pointed out the Devil in their path. The Fool bowed in all directions, and then feigned to lose his balance. He fell split-legged onto his saddle, his eyes rolled up into his head, and he doubled over in mock pain.