by Jon Kiln
“We all owe our lives to your mother,” he had concluded. “I will personally see to it that King Heldar decrees an order of peace between the humans of the kingdom and your kind.”
After a long and tense moment of silence, the largest of the ogres spoke. His name was Talfor, and his voice shook the earth.
“If our mother fought by your side, then you are a good and righteous little one,” Talfor said to Rothar. “You freed her from her bondage and gave her the chance to settle a score with her captors, and for that, we are eternally grateful.”
Talfor looked at Peregrin before turning his gaze back to Rothar. The sadness in the ogres huge eyes was obvious, but he smiled slightly as he spoke.
“Know that Waya, mother of the towering ones, is smiling down on you from her place in the heavens,” he thundered. “We will aid you in any way that we can.”
The mourning ogres agreed to watch over the freed children as Harwin helped them out of the cliff city. Rothar marveled at what a surreal sight that would be in the King’s City. A small throng of children, white robed like the pilgrims, coming down from the Yawning Cliffs, led by a blacksmith, guarded by ogres, each child descending to the jubilant and relieved cries of the broken hearted families in the City. A part of Rothar wished that he could be there to see it, however, he had more pressing matters to attend to, and matters of justice must never be postponed.
Stormbringer and Garnett were excited to see their handlers again. Rothar sent the borrowed horse back to Harwin. The Southlanders had a good head start on them, but they had gone off in their usual fashion, blazing torches and leaving a trail that a blind man could follow. Additionally, Peregrin had dispatched his falcon to help track them down.
With darkness falling, the falcon had been trained to fly out ahead and continuously circle back, calling out to the trackers, leading them with it’s shrill cries. The riders cut a neat trail through the high forest and misty swamps, and shortly the falcon was no longer necessary. Overhanging branches steamed in the moonlight, telling where the Southlanders torches had kissed them in the damp evening. Deep hoof prints were easily visible at every juncture in the trail, and before long a distant flickering of torchlight shone at intervals through the trees.
By the time the last vestiges of sunlight had disappeared beyond the horizon, the two of them had closed much of the distance on the fleeing Southlanders. The dancing torchlight was now constantly visible ahead on the trail, and it became clear that the fugitives were heading for Twistle, where they would probably try to lose their pursuers, either in the dense streets of the city or the meandering fields around it.
With the city approaching, the torchlights vanished. Stormbringer and Garnett passed the smoking torches. The riders had tossed them to the muddy trailside.
Rothar and Peregrin slowed their horses, wary of an attack from anywhere in the surrounding darkness. Straining to hear and squinting to see, it was the huntsman who spotted the riders.
“There!” he called, pointing towards the edge of the city. “Among the monuments!”
Barely visible among the statues of snarling wolves, quick shadows darted darkly on horseback, skirting the city and heading east.
“I will try to steer them towards the cliffs,” Rothar told him. “You ride into the city and enlist the help of the townsfolk.”
“There is not time,” Peregrin protested. “The devils will be gone when we finally manage to gather the willing.”
Rothar grinned at him. “I have a plan to get the townsfolk out. And in force.”
Chapter 38
Rothar parted ways with Peregrin at the place where the haunted forest gave way to the plains of Twistle.
Bearing down hard on the line of ferocious monuments that bordered the city, he glanced to his left to see the horse carrying the slim hunter, streaking towards the heart of Twistle.
Rothar had lost sight of the Southland riders, but he headed in the direction he had last seen them traveling. He threw caution to the wind and abandoned stealth. The devils knew they were being chased, that was why they had extinguished their torches well before they reached the city.
At the horizon, the entire sky was a hazy green that reached all the way to the edge of the cliffs in the distance. If the mercenaries turned back to face Rothar on this open plain, he would see their silhouettes from afar, framed against the sky thousands of feet above the King’s City.
The only place to hide was behind the towering monuments to the Lupine Rain, when the huntsmen had driven the wolves out of Twistle. The massive statues of sneering wolves could provide cover for maybe one rider each, and Rothar was prepared for that possibility.
As he reached the first in the line of monuments, Rothar ducked low on Stormbringer’s back and drew his broadsword. Holding the sword out to his right, he veered to pass the first statue tight on his right. The sword all but sparked against the granite edifice. Rothar and Stormbringer blazed past the statue in a deadly streak of muscle and metal. No one hid behind the monument.
Shifting the sword to his left hand, Rothar steered Stormbringer to pass the next statue on the left side. Once more, sword cutting fiercely through the air, finding nothing. No attack came from the shadows.
Again and again, man and beast weaved between the giant statues, finding nothing, until finally, at one of the last monuments in the line, something snagged Rothar’s sword. The tip dragged suddenly before it flashed with sparks as the blade touched the metal breastplate. Rothar heard no cry of pain as he blazed past, but the sound of pursuing hoofbeats told him he had merely wounded the devil.
At the next statue, Rothar steered Stormbringer wide and did not switch sides. He kicked one foot out of the stirrups and slid sideways off of the saddle until he was seated on the horse’s side, gripping Stormbringer with his legs. As he passed the statue, an arrow whizzed through the space where his head would have been, had be been sitting upright.
Now two riders pursued Rothar. He wondered how Peregrin was faring.
***
Plunging into the city of Twistle, Peregrin pulled on the reins to slow his horse to a canter.
The city of Twistle had begun to fall asleep. Lanterns were burning low and most doors were closed. Very few people walked the black dirt streets of the cliffside town. Peregrin was there to awaken them.
“Wolves!” he screamed, at a pitch that would wake the heaviest of sleepers. “Wolves at the cliff!”
He raced through town, repeating the mantra at the tops of his lungs. Lights came on in windows, doors flung open. Suddenly, there were people in the streets. The city was coming alive. The most encouraging sight was that every man who stepped out of his home was armed with some manner of implement. Pitchforks, torches, spears, axes and swords. Each man was armed with steel and anger.
Fortunately, the residents of Twistle had not forgotten the past, and clearly did not plan to rely upon the huntsmen to rid them of this pestilence. At the far edge of town, Peregrin reined in Garnett. He turned back towards the streets of Twistle to see a beautiful mob following him. The city was dotted with torchlights that flowed like rivers down the streets. Scores of angry shouts melded together into a roar. The city was headed to the cliffs. Peregrin hoped he would be forgiven for deceiving Twistle.
***
Rothar had collected four pursuers in total by the time he reached the end of the monuments. Now there was no place left to hide. Not for Rothar, and not for the Southlanders.
The rest of the fugitives would be waiting for him up ahead, there was no doubt of that. The Southlanders did not know how many people they were being chased by, but they likely assumed it was a larger party than two men. They also had no way of knowing that Peregrin had split away into the city. At any rate, the devils would be surprised to find Rothar alone, hunting a force of mercenaries.
Surprised they were. Rothar pushed Stormbringer along the strip of land that separates the city of Twistle from the edge of the cliff over the King’s City. Ahead, he saw
a line of horsemen, blocking his way. With the four armed devils behind him and the impenetrable wall ahead, Rothar slowed Stormbringer to a stop.
The Southlander that he assumed was their leader rode out from the line and approached Rothar with an incredulous look on his face. He held up a hand to halt the pursuing mercenaries and keep them from beheading Rothar outright when they reached him.
“You come after us alone?” the leader asked in Caltanian. “Even you, great assassin, should know better. I am known as Jorda, and I will be the death of you.”
The way he said “great assassin,” seemed to leave a bad taste in his mouth. He spat on the ground.
Jorda continued, “What did you expect to do once you caught us, I must ask?”
Rothar let silence reign for a second or two before replying.
“I intend to kill you,” he said.
Jorda looked around and began to laugh gently. “Well, perhaps me - if you were lucky, but what did you suppose to do with the rest of my men?’
Rothar waited even longer before replying this time. Time. All he needed was a little more time.
Finally, when the laughter of Jorda had ceased, he answered.
“We intend to kill you all.”
Again, Jorda looked around with animation, scanning behind Rothar for some invisible party.
“We?” Jorda asked, the laughter beginning again. “Who is this we? You and your tired old horse?”
Rothar did not need to let the question hang in silence, Jorda’s laughter filled the night, and was soon joined by hoots and chuckles from the assembled devils.
You can always count on Southland arrogance, thought Rothar.
The laughter began to fade, and quickly. It did not cease because of anything Rothar said or did, and it was not halted by any signal from the Southland leader. One by one, the mercenaries caught sight of the lights in the west. Countless points of flame were approaching, and approaching fast. With the flood of lights came a dull roar that was quickly growing into a thunderous clamor.
Jorda turned to Rothar, eyes wide with fury and surprise.
“Who is that?” he demanded.
Rothar smiled slightly. “The death of you.”
***
Peregrin trotted forward, fast enough to urge the mob but not so fast as to lose them. He could make out the place where the ground gave way to the sky at the cliffs edge. He could not yet see what awaited them, but he hoped it would prove to be as mortal as a pack of wolves.
Peregrin turned his head to shout over his shoulder. “There!”
The crowd surged forward with renewed fervor, seemingly pulled by each other's collective energy.
Moments later the torchlights of the men of Twistle began to illuminate the bronze breastplates of the remaining Southland soldiers. The mob slowed slightly and a murmur of confusion rippled through the crowd.
Whispers of, “What is this?” and “Have we been deceived?” moved through the throng from front to back. Peregrin turned Garnett to face the mob.
“Brave men of Twistle!” he called out. “These are the wolves! These southern devils have come into your land at the invitation of your nefarious neighbor, the Duchess Miranda.”
Another wave of murmurs worked through the crowd, this time carrying an air of anger. The people of Twistle had long since suspected that the mysterious Duchess Miranda was an evil scourge upon their blessed highlands, and the prospect of her bringing danger upon them was not surprising.
“We have chased the dogs to this place, but we are badly outnumbered,” Peregrin continued. “We call upon you brave and noble gentlemen to cleanse your land, just as we huntsmen did so many years ago. These devils poison the very ground on which they stand, so let us drive them into the air!”
He nudged Garnett with his heels and the horse seemed to know what he wished, turning to face the Southlanders in the near distance.
“Let us see if they can fly!”
An excited roar rose up from the mob. The surging crowd of farmers and merchants sounded like a mighty army, their chests filled with a battle cry and their fists filled with righteous anger.
The floodgates fell and the mob rushed furiously at the confounded Southlanders, who were now the ones badly outnumbered.
Chapter 39
The contingent of Southland soldiers, who had moments ago looked - and felt - so mighty, gazed at the approaching flood of villagers. Even Jorda had turned his horse to watch in awe for a moment before he shouted a command to his men.
“Ready yourselves!” he shouted. “Fight for the badlands! For Bakal! For your honor!”
Rothar brought Stormbringer up close to Jorda’s horse.
“You have no honor,” he said to the Southlander. “And your men will die when they crash down upon the King’s City.”
Jorda shouldered his horse into Stormbringer. Both steeds reared, and the two men fell to the ground. Rothar drew his broadsword, slowly beginning to circle the Southlander. At that moment, the battle reached them. Peregrin rode up, blocking the torrent of villagers from sweeping Rothar off the cliff, and in doing so they protected Jorda from the onslaught as well.
Rothar had seen many Southlander duels in the arena as a youth, and he knew how they fought. Jorda had never seen Rothar fight, and Rothar knew it.
The clattering of weapon against weapon was deafening, as the Southlanders formed a defensive knot to ward off the furious mob. Pitchforks and clubs struck fierce blows against the armor of the devils, and the mercenaries swung viciously over their guard. The screams of both the righteous and the evil filled the night.
Jorda suddenly lunged towards Rothar, trying to jab his sword under Rothar’s outstretched broadsword. Rothar sidestepped the attack and swung at Jorda’s undefended side. The Southlander ducked the blow and parried with a brutal hack towards Rothar’s shoulder, which Rothar met with his own steel, stopping the blade and sliding steel against steel down to the hilt of Jorda’s curved sword.
Now in close, Rothar brought his knee up into the mercenary’s gut, bringing a grunt and causing the dog to stagger back a few steps. Before Jorda could recover, Rothar was upon him, slicing him across the stomach with a slash that could have easily disemboweled him, had Rothar chose to reach out a bit more.
Jorda looked down at his bleeding torso. “Do not toy with me, assassin!”
“Look about you, Jorda!” Rothar shouted. “There will soon be no one left with which to play!”
Jorda looked around. The mass of villagers had taken many casualties, and several from the front line lay dead on the ground, but the fighting was hellishly fierce. The remaining Southlanders fought with their heels at the edge of the abyss, mere inches between them and the sky over the King’s City.
As Jorda watched, his men fell one by one. Some were pierced by the crude weapons of the men from Twistle, and tumbled over the edge, trailed through the sky by streams of their own blood. Others were pushed over the cliff by the crush of the mob, and still others chose to leap to their death, preferring to spend their last few moments falling through the air unscathed, and at will.
A new rain was falling upon the King’s City. Where once there had been wolves falling from the heavens, now southern devils crashed to earth.
Jorda trembled with rage as he watched his mighty soldiers disappear over the edge of the Yawning Cliffs. When the last man had fallen, a triumphant cheer arose from the assembled mob.
“Your training could not prepare you for the fury of righteous men, Jorda,” said Rothar, over the deafening roar of the makeshift army.
Jorda set his jaw and spun, flinging out his sword in a desperate rage, but Rothar was no longer where he thought he would be, and the blade struck nothing but air. Rothar had deftly stepped around as he began to turn, and was now behind him.
“Back to hell with you,” Rothar said, and with a mighty swing of his broadsword, separated Jorda’s head from his body.
It was not the type of kill that normally satisfied Rothar, i
t being so quick and effortless, but something about the silence that followed gave him a a gratifying sense of peace and finality.
The mob had watched the last devil fall, and had gone quiet in the moment.
Without a word, four of the men of Twistle walked over to the body of Jorda and picked it up from the ground. A fifth man came over and picked up his severed head. They walked to the edge of the cliff and tossed the remains over.
After that, the mob quietly began walking back into the city.
Chapter 40
Never had such a strange assembly been gathered before the King. Rothar stood at the foot of the throne, rested and renewed. Behind him was Harwin, holding Esme's hand. Peregrin stood off to the side, his falcon perched upon his shoulder.
The thing that made the whole picture so exceptional, however, was the two sons of Waya, who towered over the gathering. It was absolutely unheard of for ogres to be in the King’s City at all, let alone in the King’s own sanctuary.
But this was no ordinary day. This was the day that Rothar, the royal assassin, was to set off on his next, and most important mission.
“Rothar, I implore you,” said King Heldar, “do not be gone for too long. What am I to do if I need your assistance?”
Rothar knew that the plea was born of affection from one brother to another as much as practicality, but the answer was the same in either case.
“Peregrin’s clan will be staying in the Banewood near your City,” he replied. “His falcon will come to you every day, if there is a need. You send word with the bird and the huntsmen will take care of whatever you ask. They are more than able. This is personal, and something I must undertake.”
King Heldar sighed. “Yes, of course. I understand.”
The King had personally thanked Rothar, Peregrin and Harwin for rescuing the children that could still be saved, and returning them safely to their families. The occasion was both joyful and sad, for some of the children were already lost, and a few families were left with naught but grief.