Hawk the Slayer

by Terry Marcel

  Horses screamed and reared.

  A warrior smote at Hawk but it was a weak blow. Hawk’s blade whined down and took off the unfortunate man’s right arm at the shoulder.

  Swords screamed around the smoke.

  Gort charged into camp, hotly chasing three men. He used his hammer like a battering ram, driving them before him like sheep. Like a sprite in the fog, Baldin leapt from waggon to waggon and cracked their heads with his trusty cudgel. A wink passed between giant and dwarf.

  Weapons lashed out at Ranulf but his crossbow spluttered a spray of red bolts which maimed and killed. And when his clip of bolts was empty he used his weapon like a club and belaboured the first raging brute into insensibility with a backhand blow.

  Cloven metal, the clangour of smiting, rent flesh and the hawk-scream of the mighty mindsword.

  Hawk pushed furiously towards the large pavilion. Sword met sword in a shower of sparks. A guard pressed close to smash at his head. Hawk leaned sideways and with a whirling cut almost hewed the man in half.

  He sprang through the canvas flap into the pavilion with Ranulf in close attendance.

  Voltan crouched by an iron cage, a glinting knife at the throat of the imprisoned Abbess.

  “One more step and her throat will be slit,” he threatened.

  They stood there, the two brothers, the hate bubbling in the deadlock between them.

  Ranulf came up behind Hawk.

  “The smoke thins, we must go,” he shouted urgently. “We have done enough!”

  He pulled a reluctant Hawk back out and into the ever increasing clatter of weapons.

  Crow harvested men, cutting them down with a white wind of arrows. He and Gort gave the five cover to retreat from the battle’s din. The giant revolved his mighty hammer and had Voltan’s men backing up in disorder.

  But as Meena’s smokescreen lifted, the odds began to tilt heavily in favour of the enemy. A final furious exchange of arms and Hawk’s men escaped into the fastness of the surrounding forest.

  There was no sign of Meena as they raced to recover their horses and head for the refuge of the monastery. She did things in her own mysterious way, thought Hawk. No doubt she would be there when the next emergency arose. That it would arise he had no doubt.

  Back at the chapel of the sisters, their wounds were tended by the anxious nuns.

  Gort had collected three broken shafted arrows which had pierced his armour but had only punctured his flesh a little. He grinned at the lissome Crow who had escaped unharmed.

  Ranulf had been cut about the face and he nursed a fairly nasty gash on his thigh.

  When it came to ministering to the dwarf, he appeared the worst injured of all. But several bathings of his “wounds” revealed that the congealed blood which gave him a gory aspect was, in fact, that of his enemies.

  Hawk had only suffered minor cuts on his forearm and was relieved that his tiny force had come out of the battle as unscathed as they had done. They may not have succeeded in setting the Abbess free but they had inflicted considerable casualties to Voltan’s army of louts.

  “They will come soon enough,” he warned his companions. “Let us rest. This is where the final struggle will be.”

  Sister Monica heard this statement. She knew its implications. It was obvious to her that these fighting men had forgotten why they had been asked to come here. The only thing they thought about now was the next battle and the tales of strength they could boast about in the aftermath.

  She waited for them to settle down for their evening meal.

  Baldin took his platter of food and placed himself on the sill of a mullioned window. He cut slivers from an apple, chewed them pensively but did not notice Sister Monica slipping out the side door of the monastery and skirt around the church to be swallowed up in the darkness of the forest.

  Voltan brooded in front of a brazier which gave out sufficient body warmth but did little to lift the icy fury his whole being felt for his enemy, Hawk. But even in this passion a part of him urged caution.

  Hawk was not alone. From the reports of his men Voltan had sketches of those who fought by his brother’s side. A motley lot but highly dangerous as opponents.

  Yet something or someone was missing.

  There had been magic or sorcery at work this morning and that was something which struck cold dread in Voltan’s heart.

  He had been promised power by those who called themselves the Black Wizards. In return he swore allegiance to their cause—the downfall of the old Order, its replacement with Chaos and finally the rising of a new dynamism which would subjugate and control the disassociated fragments of struggling humanity.

  Then would his star be in the ascendancy. No longer would he be just the master of an army of marauders in some backwater but lord of a continent feared and answerable to no one.

  He sat alone save for the encaged Abbess.

  “Who helps him, old woman?” He asked of her but expected no answer. “He uses some power unknown to mortals. Something gives him strength.”

  “God never shows Himself to man, my son,” said the Abbess. “But His Power manifests itself in ways which are mysterious to us.”

  “This is no spiritual power, woman,” he growled. “There is no invisible God. Strength is here and can be seen. The gods I follow stand before me and reveal their might to me. They are not like your puny charitable fool of a godhead fit only for beggars and weaklings.”

  “Then why do you fear my God?”

  “I do not fear, old woman. I despise those who would follow blindly a mindless promise of glory in a world the dead inhabit. What I do fear is the manifestation of unknown power, of some secret sorcery which I can see but cannot touch.”

  “You talk in riddles. I am a simple woman of God. To me there is only good and evil; a simple choice between two courses of action—one which will inflict pain or suffering and one which will alleviate it.”

  “Thus do you conclude your judgements of us all,” mocked Voltan.

  A commotion broke loose without the tent and Chak entered pushing a cowled figure before him.

  It was Sister Monica.

  “Why have you come?” Voltan asked her indifferently.

  “I have a plan that will gain you the ransom … and Hawk,” Sister Monica rushed the words emotionally. “I ask only that you spare the Abbess and the church.”

  “Sister, I forbid you to speak further,” interrupted her superior.

  “I must,” answered Sister Monica brazenly. “Your life and the church are all that matter.”

  “The end cannot justify the means.”

  “Then let tomorrow be the judge of my actions,” replied Sister Monica dully.

  “Enough!”

  Voltan signified, by a wave of the hand, that he desired no further argument. He leaned towards the sister.

  “Tell me the plan!”

  A little nun replaced a spluttering, dying candle in a hollowed niche, kneeled in obeisance and withdrew to the cloister.

  Hawk and Crow lay against a pillar, facing away from one another. They had tended to their weapons and now let the solitude of the place creep over them.

  “We have sat waiting like this many times before,” said Crow. “Sometimes I tire of the fighting and the killing. At night, I hear the call of my race. They wait for me. Once I join them we will be forgotten.”

  Hawk pondered on the elf’s words. He could understand his feelings. Often he felt himself to be the last of his kind. He had lost so much that was dear to him. So when he answered Crow he was also attempting to dispel his own apathy.

  “No, Crow, your people will never be forgotten, nor will Gort’s or Baldin’s. They were here long before the race of men came and brought their wars and diseases amongst you. And their legends will remain long after men have left the land.”

  While they talked, Sister Monica crept back into the monastery, her absence undetected. Her timing was fortunate because a moment later Baldin, in checking the doors, found th
e one she had used still open and barred it tight.

  “All is secure,” he informed Hawk. “It would take a thousand men to enter here.”

  The dwarf yawned, saw a promising spot to sleep and tucked himself up against the giant’s ample and soft stomach, patting the paunch to make a pillow.

  “Gort!” commanded Hawk. “Take the first watch.”

  The giant sighed, raised himself and sent the newly-settled Baldin sprawling against a cold and unyielding wall. Gort spread his hands in mock apology and the dwarf, with a scowl and a grunt, turned away, curled up in a ball soon to be snoring as if to show how little a soft bed mattered.

  Ranulf had found a nook close to the altar. His crossbow he placed across his middle. Exhaustion flooded through his limbs after the excitement and dash of the morning’s affray and he was quickly asleep.

  Their conversation at an end, Crow sat cross-legged, his head drooped, eyes closed. The amount of energy he had expended in the battle made him particularly vulnerable and sleep would quickly replenish his resources.

  Beside him, Hawk took a long time to sleep. An uneasiness bore away at him as he drowsed but when he examined it closely he could find nothing to substantiate the feeling. Eventually he slept.

  Gort stood by the great double doors, his hands resting on the shaft of his mighty hammer. He looked round at his sleeping companions with affection. A small sound had his eyes straining to peer into the passageway which led to the good ladies’ cells.

  In the shadows, Sister Monica emptied a cachet of powder into a jug of spiced ale, shook it and, calming her turbulent face, walked in to the chapel.

  “To warm you against the night air,” she whispered.

  Gort accepted the gift, sniffing it appreciatively.

  “Beer!” he said conspiratorially. “And by the smell of it, a fine brew. My thanks, sister; you and your ladies have been most generous.”

  He licked his lips and raised the foaming ale to his mouth. The entire draught disappeared in one mighty swallow which even surprised Sister Monica when the empty jug was returned to her.

  “Excellent!” Gort smacked his lips.

  For a moment nothing happened. Then the giant’s eyes revolved up into his head and ever so slowly he slid down the wall to lie collapsed and unconscious.

  Sister Monica unbarred the main door as silently as possible.

  19

  A HERO DIES

  The sword blade glittered an inch from Hawk’s throat.

  Some sixth sense made the young lord awaken to find the figure of Voltan looming over him. A sidelong glance quickly told him that his companions were similarly taken unawares. The church was thronged with Voltan’s men, expressions of gloating triumph marked on their faces.

  “Great warrior you may be, but against so many swords at your throat I fear the fight would be short.”

  Voltan couched his sword across his breast.

  The mindsword, thought Hawk. But his position was hopeless. Even that mighty blade would avail him naught.

  His seeking eyes made Voltan smile. He thought his younger brother sought out his watchman, the giant, who even now was still in a half-drugged state.

  “A little help from the good sister here,” nodded Voltan in her direction.

  Her treachery was beyond Hawk’s capacity to understand and he threw her a hard, questioning glance but she averted her gaze.

  “Tie them all up,” Voltan ordered. His time of revenge was almost upon him but he wanted to eke it out, savour it lingeringly before devouring it in one climactic moment.

  The savage way his men lashed Hawk and his comrades to separate pillars gave the sister pause to reflect that she had committed a dreadful mistake.

  “I kept my side of the bargain.” She tugged fruitlessly at Voltan’s cloak. “You said no blood would be spilt inside the church.”

  Voltan turned to her. He despised her traitorous actions and it showed on his face.

  “Unfortunately you will not live long enough to realise your mistake.”

  The dagger whispered from his belt and he pulled her on to the blade. She fell back on his supporting arm with a tiny, faint cry. He cleaned the knife redly on her robe.

  Two warriors bore her from the monastery, her death already forgotten as Voltan turned to face the bound Hawk.

  “First you took the woman I loved. Then you slew my son.”

  He fired the dagger which had killed Sister Monica into the trestle table beside him where it vibrated with an awful thud.

  “Your death will be slow and painful as will be your friends’. You shall know what I have suffered through the years with a face that no woman would look upon—forcing me to take another man’s child to call my own.”

  Voltan stood before his brother, his voice at shouting pitch.

  “You say you loved Eliane,” Hawk tried to keep his voice level but strong emotion glinted through. “And yet you killed her.” He swore at his elder brother. “You killed our father.”

  Voltan could not bear the thrust in Hawk’s voice and struck him across the mouth.

  “Enough!”

  He drew in a deep breath. He had nearly killed Hawk then and there. But it would have been too easy. And too quick. There was all the time in the world for him.

  “Where is the gold?”

  “Where you will never find it,” hissed Hawk.

  “Dear brother, I think you and your friends can be persuaded to tell me.”

  “They don’t know. Only I can tell you where it is.”

  “Well, then,” Voltan gestured at Hawk’s friends. “They shall watch you suffer, and when I’m finished, they shall accompany you down the river of death. Fetch me fire,” he ordered of his followers. And, turning to some cowering nuns Chak had shepherded in from the hidden cloister, “Bring all the wine and food from your stores, counters of beads. I have thirsty work ahead.”

  Chak underlined the order with a sharp sideways movement of his head and the nuns scurried to their kitchen.

  Meanwhile Voltan, enjoying himself, inspected the other prisoners.

  “Little man with pointed ears,” he mocked Crow. “I shall trim them for you later.”

  The elf spat down at his feet. His expression never changed.

  Voltan poked Gort in the belly much to the obvious glee of his watching men. This was fine entertainment.

  “The giant! Felled by a pinch of powder. You shall give us great sport before you die.”

  “I shall give you a crushed head if I get my hands free,” bellowed Gort unbowed, but Voltan made a dismissive gesture with his gauntleted hand.

  He looked at Ranulf with recognition.

  “We have met before,” he murmured dangerously. “That time I let you live. You used your second life well, fetching my saintly brother. Now—”

  He seized Ranulf’s stump and squeezed the injured member, grinning all the while.

  “—you are of no further use to me.”

  The veteran tried to disguise the pain he felt and his stoicism irritated Voltan into one final crushing crunch which almost broke the veteran’s impassiveness.

  “And the dwarf,” said Voltan contemptuously, pointing down at Baldin. This caused a ripple of merriment. “You should never have been allowed to dig yourself out of the earth.”

  A gale of laughter burst from his men.

  “Fetch the Abbess,” pronounced Voltan. “It is fitting that such a holy woman be present to give them absolution before they die.”

  Chak chose a squad of men. Without further bidding they set off to the secret place the Lady Abbess had been left at in the event of another surprise attack by Hawk.

  A brazier of red-hot coals was set before Voltan, a poker already deep in its fiery belly.

  “See how it glows, brother. Soon you will feel its touch and together we shall seek out the hiding place of the gold.”

  Voltan drew the glowing rod of iron from the coals with his gloved hand, neared Hawk and let the white-hot tip touch his brot
her’s leather belt. The smell of the burning hide was acrid in Hawk’s nostrils and the heat even penetrated through his chain-mail shirt to scorch his skin.

  “Leave him, skull face! I can tell you where the gold is hidden.”

  Baldin’s voice took both Voltan and Hawk by surprise. Hawk watched, puzzled.

  “Speak then, misshapen one,” growled Voltan going over to him.

  Baldin muttered something which was totally inaudible to anyone in the church.

  “Where?”

  Voltan had to crouch down to place his helmeted head close to the dwarf’s lips.

  Suddenly Baldin lashed out with both his feet and kicked at the iron wolf’s head.

  Voltan screamed in agony at the lancing pain. Staggering blindly, he grovelled by the trestle table, groaning and clutching at things about him. His hand closed on the dagger he had thrown there. With a howl of revenge he jerked it out and ran at the dwarf, plunging it deep into his chest.

  A cry of anguish burst from Hawk’s lips although Baldin had uttered not a word.

  “Voltan! You will die by my hand,” swore Hawk close to insanity.

  But Voltan could not hear him for the tearing torment crushing his head.

  “Guard them,” he screamed, rushing blindly from the monastery.

  The nuns had re-entered with platters of food and pitchers of wine and the embarrassment of Voltan’s men at their leader’s weakness was forgotten in the rush to swill their stomachs with the wine and food.

  Without Voltan’s discipline to strike fear into them they behaved like brawling mercenaries who felt themselves the equal of any man.

  As they got progressively drunker and more drowsy, only one man remained sober enough to stand guard. He tested the prisoners’ bonds. Baldin let out a weak sigh as his ropes were prodded.

  “He still lives,” whispered Hawk to Gort. “We must get free.”

  Voltan swayed in front of the Black Wizard.

  “Quick, the crystal!” he screamed. “The pain is great.”

  But the tall, hooded creature would not be hastened.