Shard

by Wayne Mee

  A fawning smile flashed across Nelock's clean-shave face. "I suppose so, my lord. But when I heard that you were leading this expedition, I put in for a transfer for a place on your ship!"

  Nex's own smile suddenly vanished. During the last two days he hadn't had much sleep, for the ridiculous little Wee'ns had put up a much tougher fight than expected. Nex and the rest of the Slathlanders had killed and killed until they had to lay down winded from all the killing.

  And still the little bastards had fought back!

  "Slath strike them!", Nex had cursed as he lay gasping for breath after nearly being brained by an old female Wee'n with a fire poker. It had taken him two blows to hack off her leathery old head.

  Now, back in his tent, the strong, rich wine coursed like liquid fire through his veins, easing his muscles as it always did, yet something the young dragoon had said had brought back his foul mood.

  "You wanted to join this expedition because I was leading it you say?!"

  Seeing that he had touched a raw nerve, Nelock decided to press the point.

  "Why, yes, my lord. Your name is well known throughout all Slathland, and even beyond!"

  Nex drained the rest of the flask and banged it down on the table. "But I no longer command this 'expedition', boy," he growled. "Gnash Alexus, in his infinite wisdom, has seen fit put his faith in Slath cursed foreigners! First that slimy bastard Halfhand and now this 'other' one!" Nex, now almost beside himself with rage, banged the camp table again. "Tis not I, but 'Lord quiffing Skatha from Jarlish-Xyx' that commands now, boy --- curse his quiffing soul to Slath's fiery pit!"

  The young dragoon helped the none-too-steady captain into his camp chair. "As I said, sire, there are many who think as you do. They chaff under this new foreigner's yoke. First the half-handed cripple and now this other outlander with the silver hook!" Nelock leaned closer, his whispered words like a silken caress in the older man's ear. "The men but await someone to lead them, my lord. Someone of daring; someone with a reputation they will flock too!"

  Nex raised his heavy eyes. "Fetch us another drink, lad."

  Camp wine this time, but Nex was too far gone to notice.

  "Down with all quiffin' foreigners!", Nex slurred.

  "To a pure Slathland, my lord," Nelock grinned; "and to the brave man who will soon us of all foreigners!"

  Moments later Nex was snoring, but Nelock was well pleased with himself, for the seed had finally been planted. All the ambitious dragoon had to do now was wait for it to take root in the old fools' mind. Then, using Nex as a puppet, he could orchestrate the 'coup' and end up being the 'real power' in the 'New' Slathland!

  And then? Who can say what might happen? 'High Gnash Nelock the First' he said to himself and smiled. 'It has a certain 'ring' to it that I like!'

  ***

  They had gone again. Vanished into the bloody trees --- for the moment at least!

  Ragnol sat down heavily on a fallen log. Winded from the fight, he leaned on his sword and sucked in the cool, pine-scented air. Bodies lay about in scattered heaps on the forest floor. Slathlanders and Wee'ns both, but by Ragnol's reckoning, far too many of them were Slathlanders!

  They had been chasing this band all morning, with little to show for it save sweat and sore feet. The dragoon's horses were of no use in the thick forest, and so the hunt had to be on foot.

  Ragnol snorted in disgust as he gazed around the small, blood-drenched clearing. 'The hunters have become the hunted!', he thought bitterly.

  Up ahead he could hear the High Gnash bellowing orders and again Ragnol grunted in disgust. He had known that the leader of Slathland enjoyed killing, for in his time at court he had seen this deranged monarch inflicting pain and suffering on the guilty and innocent alike. He had watched as bound, helpless victims had had their eyes dug out, limbs lopped off and every conceivable orifice on their bodies probed with hot irons. Often Alexis V would take an active part in these tortures, when he wasn't violating some terrified maiden to the sound of the victim's screams.

  All this Ragnol knew and, in his own way, accepted. Pain and torture were facts of life, and on such foundations were kingdoms built. That the High Gnash did it for mere pleasure however, sickened him. Yet, Ragnol reg Das was, above all else, a practical man. Outcast from his own native country of Toman-Glith, he had come to cold, cruel Slathland to rebuild his future, and if that meant putting up with a insane, effeminate despot for a master, then so be it.

  But the High Gnash had changed of late!

  Since the moment he set foot in this strange land of the Wee'ns, Alexis V was behaving as though he were a different man! Gone was the cowardly, scented fop he had served in Slathland, and in his place was a savage war-chief that personally led his men into the fiercest combat! The High Gnash had retained his taste for blood, only now he seemed to relish the danger as well!

  When the High Gnash had suddenly replaced Nex with this new Lord Skatha, Ragnol had been delighted --- at first. Anything to see the hated Nex 'fall from grace'; yet this 'hook armed ambassador' with the shimmering armor loved killing almost a much as the High Gnash Himself did! Together the two of them made a bloody pair indeed!

  "Halfhand!", the commanding voice of the High Gnash bellowed from the center of the clearing. "Get off your ass and get those men moving! Crossbowmen to the front! I want the lot of this Wee'n scum caught or killed by nightfall!"

  Ragnol forced himself to stand and move forward. The frowning 'killer-king' was braced with his legs spread, his naked longsword dripping gore. He was dressed in a sliver knee length ring-shirt, with a gold embossed breastplate over it. His waist was bound with a glittering belt made from the tail skin of a 'wayrin' or 'flyer'. A crimson, hooded cloak trimmed with black mink hung from his broad shoulders. At his iron shod feet lay his crowned helm and a shield baring the Slathland coat-of-arms. All were spattered with blood. The hacked bodies of Wee'ns littered the field, yet thrice their number in Slathlanders also lay in the trampled grass.

  And as always, the ever-present Lord Skatha stood off to one side, methodically inspecting the fallen Wee'ns for those still fit to work as slaves in their own mines, casually killing all he felt not up to the task.

  'What a pair they make!', Ragnol thought again to himself, taking care to keep the loathing he felt from his face. Instead he bowed low before his lord and master. "Does Your Grace wish to rest awhile here before returning, or shall I order the men to assemble now?"

  Alexis V turned his terrible stare on the overdressed foreigner. Ragnol, as usual, wore a costly brocaded cloak over his formal armour, though both were now besmeared with mud and drying blood.

  "Rag-Das you sound like a pampered old woman! I shall neither rest nor return till every last one of these stiff-necked rebels be either captured or killed!"

  "Captured might be best, my lord," Skatha said sweetly. "We're killing far too many as it is. I have need of slaves to dig for your precious Black Gold."

  The once weak features of the High Gnash creased into a wolfish grin. "Those that resist shall be killed. If need be, my own Slathlanders can work the mines!"

  "My lord!", Ragnol said, the shock clearly sounding in his voice. "Sons of Slath were not meant to grub in the earth like animals!"

  An iron-like fist swiftly closed on Ragnol's windpipe. "You dare, little man, to dictate what I can or cannot do?!"

  Halfhand, choking under the gauntleted grip, shook his head. The killer-king released his hold and Ragnol sagged to the ground.

  "The men will do what I bid them and when I bid them. As will you! Now, get up and look to your group. I myself will lead the point and I want you right along side of me! Now go!"

  ***

  From their perches high in the interlaced branches of some pines, Norgi and a group of Kirkwean watched the hated Slathers approach. Their faces, tired and drawn after three days of fighting, were smeared with mud and a green stain from the roots of a certain plant. Leaves and clusters of pine needles sprouted from their mud-sp
lattered clothing, making them blend in all the more with the forest that had ever been their home. Slings, short bows and javelins were clutched in their hands, while about their small bodies hung slender knives, dirks and daggers. Of shortswords there were few, the weapon being no match for the Slather's longer 'shims'. Besides, the Kirkwean strength came in the swift, sudden attack from ambush and not from any the strength of arms. In an open, pitched battle the little people would be slaughtered outright!

  Norgi had been dozing in the crotch of a tree when one of the others nudged him. He had been dreaming of a time, seemingly long ago now, when he and his two closest friends, Bramblethorn Higgs and Timin Goldenberry, had first seen the hated Slathers. They had been fishing on the Nal Vag-Loth when the legendary Glitch-Slath had suddenly appeared out of the mist. He and Timin had wanted to paddle ashore and sound the alarm, warning everyone in The Root that the long dreaded 'Dragon Boats' were once again in their beloved Wold.

  But Thorn, ever the show-off, had bid them stay. Timin, Thorn's cousin, had reluctantly agreed, and 'No-Laugh' Norgi had been outvoted.

  Then the tall manling had suddenly begun his escape! Somehow free of his chains, he had struck a Slather and dove overboard --- and foolishly Thorn had decided to rescue him!

  Thorn had used his sling well that day, felling several Slathers while Timin and Norgi pulled the half drowned manling into their little skiff. Norgi had taken a Slath arrow in the leg and passed out. To this day he had no recollection of just how they got him back to The Root.

  Granther Higgs later told him that the manling had carried him.

  Norgi's dream had then shifted then to the time when Thorn was leaving. Somehow Narya, their Erg-Leath, had decided that the 'Time of The Wander' had come again --- and that hot-headed Thorn was the one chosen! The famous black Kirktooth Shard had been given to Thorn and a larger longsword had been made for the rescued manling.

  The legend of 'The Wander and the Watcher' was known by every Kirkwean, even by those as far away as their distant cousins in Del-Lingus.

  'The Wander again one day shall arise,

  And go forth with the Shard that all hearts do prize.

  The Watcher shall watch so the Chosen's not slain,

  While Wee'ns shall wait for His Coming again.'

  As Norgi readied himself for the third bloody skirmish that day, the last line of the poem went round and round in his tired brain. He rubbed the sleep from his tired eyes and thought that if ever 'The Wanderer's Return' was needed it was now! Then he pushed such foolish thoughts from his mind and set an arrow to his small bow.

  At his side hung the late High Warder Baily Broadbeam's most prized possession; a shortsword or 'kirktooth' made from the rare and precious metal Twain. A half vel of razor sharp blade, much like Silverleaf's famous 'Shard', the blade that Thorn had carried with him out of The Wold over a year ago.

  The High Warder had been killed shortly after the first wave of Slathers swooped down on them. Norgi had seen old Baily fall, cut nearly in half by a Slather's long 'shim'. He had pulled the kirktooth from the dead High Warder's hand, thinking it a better weapon for killing Slathers than the hoe he had been using. The battle, brief and bloody, had boiled over him. Somehow he and a few other Kirkwean had gotten away. They took to the forest and, along with other small groups that constantly joined them, had been harassing the invaders night and day ever since.

  Norgi glanced up at the sky through gaps in the green-black branches. Squeezing the hilt of the High Warder's precious blade, he whispered to the sighing wind. "I'll try to do you proud, Baily; but I'm so very tired." He didn't want to think about what was happening to Baily's wife or Fernleaf, his pretty, red-haired daughter.

  He had heard that the Slathers had taken over The Root, either killing all or herding them into pens like animals. Word was that they wanted the younger, stronger ones to work in the mines to dig for Twain. No-Laugh Norgi choked back a bitter chuckle. "Murdering fools!", he hissed to himself.

  "The stupid Slathers think we've got boatloads of the holy metal! Wait till they find out that Twain is harder to find than gold and that only the Erg-Leath knows where it can be found, and then only a precious little!"

  He knew that Narya, their Erg-Leath, would die before revealing where she found her small supply used in the Kirkwean rituals. He hoped she died quickly. Silently Norgi prayed to Erg either to guide him safely through this horrid day or gather him quickly to His Celestial Forge.

  Then the great, blundering Slathers were beneath them and it was time to spring the trap once again.

  ***

  Ragnol couldn't see them, only the damage they produced. All about him Slathlanders were falling from the deadly rain of arrows, spears and stones.

  Like Ragnol, the officers and the High Gnash's Royal Guard fared the best; their costly scale armour, worn over a thick, quilted padding, as well as their large, iron-rimmed shields and nasaled helms, stopped all but the heaviest of spears. A small number of lords were even able to afford an embossed breastplate like the one the High Gnash wore, but these, costing a king's ransom, were few and far between.

  The dragoons came off second best; their light, flexible, leather-studded armour and small, round bucklers, needed for fighting on horseback, either repelled or absorbed the piercing punch of an arrow so that only a slight wound or even a bruise was received.

  Thirdly came the crossbowmen. Armored much the same as the dragoons, they carried a cumbersome crossbow instead of a shield or buckler. This weapon, though capable of sending a heavy quarrel through scale male and all but the finest breastplate, were both limited in their range and slow to load, needing the use of a crank or 'crannequin' to lever the bowstring back. A crossbowman, once his bolt was shot, needed a stout tree to hide behind while preparing his next. Caught out in the open, he often used the weapon as a club or tossed it away altogether in favor of his shim or Slathaxe. For such reasons the position of crossbowman was not much sought after, and the Slathlanders had very few of them.

  It was the common soldier however, that suffered the most. Those great, lumbering warrior-sailors were clad in a homespun tunic, a conical helm, a wooden shield and whatever miss-matched pieces of armour they had bought, found or stolen along the way. This mixture was covered over by a long, woolen tabard, belted at the waist and from which the head protruded through a slit in the middle. The common soldier's tabard, bearing the Slathland crest front and back, server as cloak, bed and blanket. So 'armored' they had little choice but to slog along through the storm of missiles, brandishing their long shims, Slathaxes and spears, and roar at the invisible Wee'ns to 'come forth and die like men'!

  Yet wisely, all the little Kirkweans sent were more of the arrows, spears and stones.

  Ragnol, his cheek bleeding, ran forward. Not so much out of bravery as a burning desire to get the solid trunk of a tree between himself and the deadly death that dropped out of the sky. A spear pierced his shield and dragged it to the ground. A stone pinged off his helm before he could pull the spear free and, dropping his shield, he bolted for the forest. Others, feeling much the same way, followed.

  "Bloody little quiffers!", a burly soldier cursed as he ducked behind the bowl of a towering pine close by Ragnol. "T'aint fittin' ta fight so! Slath's rod! Just let me get my hands on one o' --- " An arrow slammed into the tree and cut off any further oration.

  An officer was hot on the soldier's heels but took an arrow in the throat just before he reached Ragnol's tree. He fell at their feet, drowning in his own blood. The burly soldier scrambled over to the kicking body, stripped it of helm, sword and shield, then rolled back to the relative safety of the forest's edge. Finding the officer's helm too small for his own head, he tossed it away with a curse and hefted the long, well forged 'shim'.

  "Good blade, this!", he grunted. "Better'n the piece o' shit us regulars get!" His own sword followed the officers helm into the bushes. Looking up, he noticed for the first time that Ragnol was also dressed as an officer.<
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  "Beggin' yer pardon, sor, but a man's got ta look after his'elf says I!" The defiance in the bigger man's eyes dared Ragnol to say other.

  "Quite right," Ragnol replied. "I could use his shield though."

  For a brief moment the burly soldier eyed Ragnol, then, showing a mouthful of rotting teeth, he grinned and pushed the dead officer's shield over to Ragnol.

  "Here ya go sor! Share n' share alike, eh? Me ol' buckler'll do me fine!" He raised his scarred shield by way of a salute.

  As Ragnol was reaching for the offered shield, three small forms dropped out of the tree above them. From the corner of his eye he saw one land squarely on the burly soldier's back, driving a short javelin through the Eagle Crest of the man's torn tabard. An even thinner one yanked the head up by the hair and drew a wicked black dagger across the dying Slathlander's throat.

  The third one came at Ragnol.

  Lashing out with his feet at the mud-smeared figure, Ragnol felt his boots sink deep into the Wee'ns stomach. Without waiting to see the results, Ragnol scrambled off into the bushes. The dead officer's shield now forgotten in his panic to get away.

  Behind Ragnol the two Kirkwean helped their winded comrade to his feet, quickly stripped both bodies of any light weapons and melted silently into the thick forest from which they came. Before following his two friends, Norgi bent over the Slather whose throat he had just slit and carefully cleaned his kirktooth on the man's tabard.

  "This one's for you, Baily," he said, his voice but a whisper on the wind.

  ***

  Chapter 40:'THE BATTLE OF COOKING POT CREEK '

  "Balikie!", Kel hissed, leaping the gurgling stream and slowing to a walk so as not to spook the horses.

  "How many?!", Erin demanded, retightening his mount's cinch and turning to face the Chin.

  "Three, four hands. Maybe more. Hard to see through the trees."