Warbringer

by Aaron Hodges

  “Stop hesitating,” Romaine said, setting the butt of his stave to the earth and offering the recruit a hand. “The Tangata won’t wait for you to make up your mind.”

  “Sorry,” Lukys muttered, accepting Romaine’s assistance.

  He gathered his stave with a groan, lifting it slowly, as though in great pain. Romaine sighed and was about to offer a break when Lukys lunged forward with his weapon. Taken off-guard, Romaine struggled to get his own practice spear into position. Wood clacked upon wood, but he failed to completely deflect the strike. The stave connected with his shoulder, forcing a grunt from the axeman.

  Stepping back, he brought his weapon around, prepared to fend off another strike from the recruit. But Lukys did not follow up. Instead, he stood staring at his weapon, as though surprised by what he’d done. Romaine grinned.

  “Well done, lad,” he laughed. “We might just make a soldier of you yet!”

  Lukys looked up from the spear. “I…sorry! I thought you would stop it!”

  Romaine only shook his head, still grinning, until laughter came from nearby. Glancing around, he saw Cara’s eyes dancing with mirth.

  “You’re getting slow,” she said. “I am not sure the running is working.”

  The grin slipped from Romaine’s lips. “Even the greatest of warriors can be taken by surprise,” he said, scowling. “Now, are you going to let us practice?”

  Cara nodded quickly, moving her finger across her lips in a strange gesture. Shaking his head, Romaine faced Lukys once more.

  “That was good,” he said again, ignoring the eyes on his back, “but you almost overbalanced on the strike.”

  “What do you mean?” Lukys asked, running his fingers over the stave.

  Romaine gestured him forward. “Try that again, I’ll show you.”

  Lukys nodded—then thrust out with the makeshift spear. This time Romaine was ready for the strike and he twisted easily from the path of the blow. Then he swung out with his spare hand, snatching at the wooden staff and dragging it forward. Lukys cried out. His attack had thrown his centre of balance forward, and now Romaine dragged him beyond the tipping point. He struck the ground with a thump.

  “That is what I meant,” Romaine said.

  Grumbling, Lukys picked himself up off the ground. Brushing the mud from his clothing, he flashed a glare at Cara, though the woman remained silent this time. She only raised her eyebrows at Lukys. Scowling, he turned back to Romaine.

  “What am I doing wrong?” he gasped, his frustration clear.

  “Patience, lad,” Romaine responded, stepping forward and patting the man’s shoulder. “It’s only a matter of balance.”

  “Oh yes, only,” Lukys replied with a scowl.

  Romaine chuckled. “You seem upset.”

  The recruit shook his head. “If you hadn’t noticed, I tend to fall down occasionally.”

  A snicker of laughter came from behind them and Lukys’s cheeks reddened.

  “You think balance is a talent you lack?” Romaine asked, pointedly ignoring Cara.

  “Isn’t it?”

  “For some it comes naturally,” Romaine admitted. He shifted so he was standing up straight, feet directly beneath him. “But not everyone is so lucky. Here, try to push me over.”

  Lukys looked him up and down, obviously expecting some trick. Tossing the stave aside, Romaine spread his arms, indicating he was defenceless. Even so, Lukys approached cautiously. Romaine could hardly blame the lad—he had some fifty pounds on the young recruit.

  Suddenly Lukys darted forward, palms connecting hard into Romaine’s chest. With his legs directly beneath him, Romaine was unable to brace for the blow. He toppled backwards, feet staggering in search of purchase but unable to find it, and went down like a sack of bricks.

  Stumbling to a stop, Lukys gaped down at him, open horror on his face. “I’m so sorry,” he gasped.

  Grunting, Romaine picked himself up off the ground. Sensing the nervousness in the young man, he took a moment to calmly brush the mud from his clothes. Then he darted at Lukys in a sudden rush.

  “Argh!” Lukys shrieked, leaping back, arms raised, face going white with terror.

  Romaine threw back his head and laughed, bellowing his mirth out across the town. He would never admit it, but he hadn’t had this much fun in a long time. Fighting, slaying Tangata, marching through the open wilderness, practicing with the blade, that was one thing. But by the Gods, he’d missed this, the camaraderie of the army. Why had he avoided others for so long…

  A pale face, blue eyes, staring up from a bed of white.

  The laughter left him. Letting out a sigh, he nodded to Lukys, who still looked like he half-expected Romaine to throttle him.

  “Sorry, lad,” he said, adopting a serious tone. “A joke. But you see now? Even a big man like me can be knocked down by a smaller foe if he adopts the wrong stance.” As he spoke, he moved his legs so that they were shoulder width apart, left foot slightly ahead, right slightly behind. “Now,” he murmured, “try again.”

  Lukys narrowed his eyes. The laughter had angered him, but he was cautious now of a trap. His chest swelled as he drew in a breath, then he leapt. Romaine did nothing to defend himself, but this time as Lukys connected, he was able to brace. With a grunt the recruit stumbled back, eyes widening as he saw Romaine had barely budged.

  “Again,” Romaine rumbled.

  Hesitation showed in the recruit’s eyes, but he obeyed, coming at Romaine in a rush. This time the axeman softened his stance, so that when Lukys struck the blow pushed him back. But with his feet correctly aligned, he simply stepped his left foot back, maintaining balance.

  Lukys, meanwhile, had thrown too much of himself into the blow. With Romaine’s sudden withdrawal, he found himself overbalancing once more. His arms windmilled and he tumbled forward—

  Romaine caught him by the shoulder and set him back upright. “Easy now,” he said with a smile. “I can only stand to watch you plant your face in the mud so many times in one day.”

  Shrugging off Romaine’s hand, Lukys shook his head. “What am I doing wrong?” he croaked. He quickly lowered his head, though not before Romaine saw the glint of tears in the young man’s eyes. Then he swung around, locking sights on Cara. “I’d like to see you do any better!”

  Shocked by the outburst, Romaine took a step back. Across the palisade, a stunned look showed on Cara’s face, her eyebrows lifting into her fringe of copper hair. Her mouth opened, as though to shout something back, but after a moment she closed it again. She rose from the barrel and stalked off without another world.

  “Well that wasn’t very gracious of you,” Romaine commented.

  Lukys sighed. “Sorry,” he murmured, eyes to the ground. “I just…I’m no good at this, Romaine!”

  “Lad, you gotta walk before you can run,” Romaine replied. “Or in this case, you need to know why you fall, before you can figure out how to stay standing up.”

  “And that means?”

  Romaine sighed. “I see this is going to be a long lesson.” He gestured to the ground. “Look, a warrior’s strength, his balance, his mobility, it all comes from his feet.” As he spoke, he shifted so that his legs were rigid and directly beneath him. “A man who stands like this balances all his weight on a narrow base. He cannot move quickly, and is easily toppled.” He moved his feet to the basic fighting stance. “But stand like this, and suddenly you’re able to brace against an attack, or move easily from offence to defence.” He leaned forward then backwards in demonstration, always keeping his feet in the same position.

  Frown lines creased Lukys’s forehead as he watched. When Romaine finished, he did his best to adopt the same stance. Romaine shifted his feet a little, placing them closer to shoulder width, and then stepped back with a nod.

  “This is what we call a forward stance,” he said to Lukys’s questioning look. “It’s how you avoid ending up on your ass in battle.”

  This time, Lukys didn’t seem to noti
ce the gibe. His eyes were on his feet and concentration was etched across his face. Romaine smiled.

  “Now, step forward with your right foot. Keep this stance in mind as you move, so when you place your foot down, you remain in the position.” Romaine mimicked the instructions as he spoke, his right boot becoming the forward foot. He waited for Lukys to copy and corrected his stance again before continuing. “Now left foot forward.”

  They continued in that fashion, advancing and retreating across the palisade to the amused glances of the soldiers on watch. But Romaine did not see Cara’s face among them, and he made a mental note to remind Lukys to apologise later. No point in letting animosity grow between those forced to live inside the walls of Fogmore.

  “Are you sure this isn’t another of your jokes?” Lukys asked suddenly after half an hour of marching up and down in forward stance.

  Romaine raised an eyebrow. “Let’s see, shall we?”

  They were back where they’d left the staves. Romaine swept one into his hands and leapt at the recruit. A yelp tore from Lukys and he jumped back as the wooden tip lanced for his face. The makeshift spear missed him by an inch.

  Gasping, Lukys lowered his hands. “What The Fall was that?” he shouted at Romaine.

  Romaine grinned. “You didn’t fall.”

  “What?”

  He gestured with the baton at Lukys’s feet. “You kept your feet in the forward stance.”

  “I…” Lukys trailed off, looking from the stave to his feet. Realisation dawned in his eyes and a grin split his face. “I did!”

  “Good work,” Romaine said. Then he tossed his stave to Lukys and swept up the second. “Now, guard up!”

  Lukys was still staring at the makeshift spear in his hands when Romaine attacked. This time he didn’t move with the same speed, his mind obviously tangled between using the spear and moving his feet, and a muffled thud followed as Romaine’s stave struck the recruit on the shoulder.

  A grunt came from Lukys as he stepped back, losing his stance. Romaine advanced, stave flashing out to prod him in the chest. With a cry, Lukys’s feet went out from under him, and he slammed into the packed earth.

  Romaine towered over the young man.

  “What?” he said, a grin on his lips. “You didn’t think you’d become a warrior in just one day, did you?”

  13

  The Archivist

  Erika’s spirits lifted as her horse topped the hill and started down the other side, cutting off her view of Mildeth and its host of refugees. She had spent the night in luxury, bathing in the royal saunas, sleeping in private apartments reserved for the most important of foreign dignitaries. But despite the extravagance and her aspirations to make such an existence her reality, Erika had felt stifled, trapped by the towering walls.

  She felt almost excited to be on the road again, setting off towards distant horizons. There was a freedom to this life, especially now that she rode alone. The queen had offered another assistant to help with her work, but after her experience down in the darkness, Erika had declined the offer. There was no telling who she could trust now; better she ride alone and have faith that the magic would defend her.

  There was one drawback to this journey—every mile she rode carried her deeper into the frozen south, back towards Calafe and a past she had thought left long behind.

  A shiver ran down her spine and Erika forced her mind to her surroundings. The road ran straight from Mildeth along a valley that cut through the rolling hills of lowland Flumeer. The terrain would provide for easy riding the first day, and regular waystations along the Queen’s Highway meant she should not need the canvas tent stuffed into her saddlebags.

  Which was just as well, for it had always been Sythe who’d set their camp each night.

  That would change once she crossed the Illmoor, but then she would have a full regiment of soldiers to perform such menial tasks. The queen had provided her documents to sequester the force from one of the border cities. By Erika’s calculations, the journey would require a total of five days in Calafe land—two to reach the site, one to explore the ruins, and another two back. Surely they would encounter no problems with the Tangata in such a short time. Not in the wide, untouched wilderness of Calafe, at least.

  In the meantime, riding through the snow-sprinkled farmland of lowland Flumeer was a far sight more pleasant than her prior excursions.

  She rode hard through that first day, stopping only occasionally to eat or walk her horse. The road was well-used and well-kept, and she encountered plenty of other travellers along the way. Some were farmers with wagons loaded up with wares, others merchants from further afield, though these were fewer now that Calafe had fallen.

  Many more, though, were refugees—not from Calafe now, but people of Flumeer. They were obvious from the carts they brought with them, loaded up not with wares for sale, but ordinary goods—tables and chairs and kitchenware, the items of worth they had been able to carry away with them. These were the wealthy of the south, those with the power and resources to leave behind their former lives and set out in search of safer pastures. They were leaving now, before the Tangata came. Those who were left behind would not be so fortunate.

  Erika nodded politely to those travellers who offered greetings, but her mind remained in the darkness beneath the earth. Now her discovery was known, there would be those who sought to take it from her. She imagined in each of the strangers the eyes of a killer, waiting to slay her on behalf of a foreign king. Whenever they came close, she would raise her gauntlet, ready to defend herself if necessary.

  Only when the sun dropped towards the distant horizon did she start looking for place to sleep. The road had begun to wind between the hills now, cutting off sight of the way ahead and behind. She continued on, eyes alert for an inn, but unconcerned by the empty land around her. The queen’s steward had assured her that inns were in plentiful supply on these southern passages.

  A half hour later the first traces of worry began to form in Erika’s mind. There were no travellers on the road now and she realised she hadn’t seen even a farmhouse for quite some time. The sun was already disappearing beneath the horizon, its glow fading by the minute. Without its heat, the temperature plummeted. Pulling the coat tighter around herself, she kicked her horse into a canter.

  It was almost dark when she found herself beside a stream. Alone on the road, she cursed winter and its short days. It seemed there would be no feathered bed for her tonight. Out of options, she dismounted and led the mare from the road. At least the creek would provide fresh water.

  Directing her horse upstream, she walked a hundred yards through a neighbouring field, until the curve of a hill hid her from the road. If she was going to camp alone in the open, she didn’t want her presence known to every rogue and bandit in the area.

  She found an old willow tree overhanging a section of riverbank, its twisted limbs stretched far out over the river. Tying her horse’s reins to one of its branches, she then rummaged round in her saddlebags and pulled out the canvas tent. Above, the sky was clear, the first twinkling of the northern star just beginning to shine. She hoped that meant it wouldn’t snow that night.

  The tent was so heavy Erika almost dropped it when she finally dragged it from the saddlebags. Cursing, she stumbled away from the horse to an empty patch of grass and tossed it to the ground. Then she stood staring at the bundle, and for the first time, began to regret not bringing at least a porter. She was unaccustomed to the day-to-day tasks of preparing a camp, and while she’d occasionally watched Sythe…she hadn’t really been paying much attention.

  “How hard can it be?” she muttered to herself.

  An hour and several ropes jerry-rigged to the willow tree later, she finally admitted to herself that pitching a tent was perhaps slightly more difficult than she’d thought. Nearby, her horse snickered and she rolled her eyes. The tent looked like a strong breeze might knock it down, but with only the light of a half-moon for guidance, it was as good as
it was going to get. She would have to pray the night remained clear.

  Returning to her horse, she struggled to remove its saddle then threw a blanket over its back. By the time she was done her teeth were chattering and her fingers so numb it hurt to move them. Clenching her fist, she sighed as warmth ignited in the gauntlet.

  Only then did she recall Sythe had usually lit the fire before it grew dark.

  Swearing, she fumbled at the saddlebags for tinder and flint. Thankfully there were plenty of fallen branches beneath the willow, and with little rain the last few days, they were mostly dry. She knelt and gathered the twigs into a pile, the tinder at the centre. Then she took up the flint and struck it towards the wood…

  …and cursed as she struck her hand instead. The stone tumbled from her fingers as she leapt to her feet, cursing loud enough to wake the ancients. The cold only seemed to make the pain worse, and she balled her uninjured hand into a fist, wishing in that moment for an enemy she could take her anger out upon—

  “Looks like you could use a hand.”

  Erika’s heart twisted in her chest as a woman’s voice spoke from the darkness. Pain forgotten, she lurched to her feet and swung around, gauntlet raised as she searched for the speaker. But whoever it was, they stood just out of line of sight—which wasn’t far, admittedly, with only the half-moon for light.

  “Who’s there?” she hissed. “Show yourself!”

  “Easy, Archivist,” came the response. “I mean you no harm.”

  The breath caught in Erika’s throat. Whoever the woman was, she knew who Erika was. That meant…

  A soft glow emerged from the gauntlet, not enough to illuminate her foe, but it gave her reassurance.

  “I said, show yourself,” she hissed.