Clearly disgruntled, Boen merely nodded. “Very well, but we need to leave now. There is no time and I don’t trust the path ahead to be clear.”
“We could be riding into a trap,” Nothol added.
“A chance we must take,” Bahr said. “Bring in the others. We make for the ruins.”
“It’s no use. We’re cut off,” Rekka announced after returning to the wagon. Slightly out of breath, her brown skin coated in a fine sheen of sweat, she bore a worried look.
“How many?” Bahr asked, quicker than he intended.
“Scores. Perhaps a hundred. Captain, we’re going to have to fight.”
Damnation. So close. Only to have the Black Guard catch us. I should never have returned here. Delranan doesn’t need me and I don’t need this. “How much time do we have?”
“An hour, maybe less.”
“It’ll be dark by then,” Dorl chimed.
His mood darkened at the prospect of having to claw through yet another battle. Killing turned his stomach. He lacked the necessary conviction required to do his work properly and it was starting to show. The others gradually backed away as he battled his demons. There was only so much a man could take before breaking or changing into something altogether different.
Bahr caught his worried look and decided there was no time for complacency. Dorl Theed could wait. Or die in the process. “Making it easier for us to defend. They have to look harder and I’ll wager Rekka, Ironfoot, and Boen will take a goodly number out long before they get within range of Groge and the wizard. I want the wagon ready to move. Keep the horses with Skuld and Anienam. The rest of you break off into teams and form a defensive perimeter. This is going to get ugly.”
They moved the wagon under cover of large pine boughs. A small hill blocked the southern approach with a field of boulders that peppered the landscape to the east. Bahr felt the position offered the best, most realistic chance of defense without exposing them needlessly to enemy scouts. Covering their tracks as best they could, the group settled into the mindset that their night was about to get interesting.
Each group was in position just before the sun dropped over the edge of the world. Lost in half light and shadow, they waited. Boen and Ironfoot took the eastern road, fully expecting the main attack to come from ahead rather than behind. Harnin’s forces were largely incompetent but these were the Black Guard. The very best, and worst, the Wolfsreik had to offer. Nothol and Dorl headed west, despite Dorl’s hesitations. Nothol feared his friend was going to get them both killed, but it was a risk he had no alternative to taking.
Groge took the northern flank. His inexperience was enough to seal off that sector of the perimeter. Bahr didn’t expect more than a feint from the north or south. Even should the enemy come in force down from the north they would run headlong into a Giant. Not even the Black Guard had been tested against such. Bahr slipped to the south, allowing Rekka free range further out. At his age and physical impediments he’d only be in her way. She was young yet and agile enough to kill a dozen men on her own.
An owl hooted from the distant tree line. The call was deep and raw as it floated across the snows. Bahr idly thumbed the keen edge of his blade lightly enough not to get cut. He hated waiting for a fight. The prospect that the Black Guard would bypass them was minimal, though he couldn’t be certain they weren’t being toyed with. Badron’s assassin corps was shifty enough to string the group along all the way to Arlevon Gale without forcing a decisive engagement. No, he decided. His gut told him the enemy was crawling through the undergrowth even now, coming to kill them all and recover the hammer for Harnin One Eye.
A twig snapped. Bahr slowly raised his eyes in the direction of the noise. The owl had stopped hooting somewhere in between. The old man’s heart quickened. This is it. Come and show yourselves to my blade, murderers. Let’s end this. Light wind blew loose snow softly around his ankle, obscuring any sounds in the process. Bahr tensed. The first black-clad assassin stalked into the perimeter, intent on making it to the wagon. Bahr paused, trying to discern their goal. His lips pursed when he realized the assassins were going to try to kill the wizard, thus cripple the quest immeasurably. Gripping his sword tighter, he readied to push off of the tree to attack.
He was too late. Rekka appeared out of the night, sword swinging harshly across the back of the assassin’s neck, severing his spinal column. The Black Guard collapsed with barely a gurgle before Rekka stabbed into his unarmored heart. Jerking the sword clear, she gave Bahr a crisp nod before returning to the night. Message understood, the Sea Wolf carefully made his way back to the wagon. The southern approach was secure better without him getting in the way.
Ironfoot clenched and unclenched his meaty fists a hundred times since taking up position among a group of small boulders. His axe resting within reach against a boulder, the Dwarf used his superb night vision to continually scan his area. Others in the group were growing tired of fighting. Tired of constantly being hounded by one villain or another. He didn’t mind. It was a far cry from the relative boredom of living in Drimmen Delf. At least here he got to fill his thirst for action.
His axes already had more nicks and dulled edges than ever in his long career, save perhaps the civil war against the dark Dwarf clans. His muscles ached from exertion. His mind sharpened with each new engagement as the enemy continued to show new facets. Ironfoot knew he was starting to enjoy their running battle with Harnin’s forces. It gave him something to do during the seemingly endless leagues of open roads he’d been forced to travel since joining the quest at Bode Hill.
Night vision second only to Groge, Ironfoot immediately picked out the handful of men slinking towards the wagon. He struggled not to grin as his hand grasped his axe. Glancing right, he spotted Boen with his back pressed against a tree. The Gaimosian wasn’t moving. Only the faint glow of his eyes could be seen roving. The Dwarf couldn’t risk alerting Boen, however, without raising the alarm for the assassins. A slight scrape announced the axe coming free of the boulder.
Ironfoot crouched, shifting his center of gravity to leap forward. His last true engagement was against the river men. The Black Guard were professionals, bereft of the clumsy incompetence of the murdering thieves. The Dwarf knew he was about to be tested. He allowed a savage grin to spread across his weathered face. Ironfoot hefted his axe and attacked.
The assassin had time to swing his head in the direction Lord Death approached before dark and cold claimed him. Headless, the body flopped onto the snow while three others reeled back in surprise. Ironfoot bellowed an ancient Dwarven battle cry and leapt into the middle. His axe wove intricate patterns. Cutting. Hacking. An arm fell. Blood sprayed. Entrails spilled out of torn-open bellies. The Dwarf pressed his assault until all of the assassins lay dead in a circle. Breathing hard, he chanced a look to Boen. The Gaimosian had his own struggles.
Towering over the field, Groge narrowed his eyes to slits as cold winds caressed his face and hands. Such simple gifts reminded him of Venheim. Thoughts of home left him melancholic. He enjoyed seeing different kingdoms, visiting strange and unusual places, but the young apprentice began to think it was past time to head home. He belonged in the heat of the forges, not striding aimlessly across endless fields of snow.
Unfamiliar sounds reached his ears, breaking the pull of distant memory. The hammer strapped across his back vibrated slightly, suggesting immense reserves of power. Ancient memories flooded into the young Giant through the awesome power of the Blud Hamr. He witnessed long forgotten battles play out. Armies of his kin marching to war. Visions of past and future collided to distort his reality. The one constant was the whispering of the weapon. It soothed him. Calmed his nerves and warned of battle.
Groge looked down to see dark figures heading towards the wagon. Rage took him. The Giant attacked. His boot caught the nearest assassin in the chest and propelled him through the air. Tulwar in hand, Groge waded into the others. Each swing bore enough force to shatter an oak to kindling. These
killers had come for his friends. He refused to allow them. Stunned at the sight of a being many thought imaginary, the Black Guard froze long enough for Groge to slaughter them all.
Their swords barely nicked his leathery skin. Not a one drew blood, even as he brought his tulwar down on the last assassin’s head. Bones snapped with sickening crunches. Two managed to escape, already the rearguard. Their tales would reverberate across Delranan within days, though few would give them credence. Groge continued to hammer away at the dead until they became bloody smears. Wicked laughter filled his ears.
“I hate this.”
Anienam suppressed the grin he felt. “Be patient, young Skuld. I’d have thought you would have had your desires for action sated by now.”
Skuld offered a confused look. The wizard was normally off center, but since losing his vision he rambled ceaselessly about matters few understood. “I’ve earned the right to hold my own, Anienam. Sitting here guarding the wagon should be another’s job.”
“Not to mention babysitting a blind, old man? Who else is going to do it? The others are warriors, whether you choose to accept that or not. They are trying to fight off our enemies before they can reach the wagon. Don’t be so quick to rush into battle without knowing all of the facts first.”
“I’m not a child anymore,” Skuld protested. “I’ve been through just as much as the rest. What more do I have to do to prove my worth to Bahr?”
“You can start by keeping your voice down,” Bahr’s voice called from the surrounding darkness. He stalked out of the night to stand beside the wagon. “The Black Guard have found us. Rekka’s already killed one and I’m sure there’s been movement on the other approaches.”
Dorl and Nothol were the first to return. They were just in time. A score of assassins burst from the surrounding trees, swords bared. Bahr rushed to meet them before the sell swords had the chance to react. Steel clashed as the old man struggled to hold his group. Assassins streaked by to attack the wagon. Skuld stabbed one in the eye before his sword was jerked out of his grasp. A pair of assassins crawled up, knocking him over the head. The boy was in the way. It was the old man they wanted.
Anienam remained still, his mouth innocently moving as words unspoken for generations flew past. His right hand began to glow deep vermillion. Neither assassin noticed. They reached down for him. Anienam opened his blind eyes, the protective wrapping long since removed, and touched each assassin with the tip of his index finger. Each man exploded in a cloud of ash. Exhausted, the wizard slumped back onto the driver’s bench.
Their wits recovered, the sell swords charged into Bahr’s helpless battle. An assassin was down, holding the stump of his right wrist, but the others circled Bahr, toying with him. Nothol blindsided the nearest assassin, knocking him away and exposing the man to his left in the process. Using forward momentum, Nothol skewered the assassin through the ribs. A gargled scream rippled across the battlefield as that man dropped.
Dorl struck from Bahr’s right. With the odds slightly less in their favor, the majority of the assassins recoiled to adjust tactics. Bright Mage light flooded the area. The smell of burnt flesh choked the air. Forced to parry an overhand blow, Dorl staggered back a step. A blade sliced across his ribs, grating the armor in a shower of sparks. He grunted and swung back. The strike missed and threw him off balance.
Bahr growled as his elbow connected with the nose of the nearest assassin. Blood and cartilage leaked down the man’s ruined face. The Sea Wolf propelled into him, crashing down on top with a bone-jarring crunch. Fists hammered. The assassin managed to bring his knee up and threw Bahr off. Dorl killed him quickly with a thrust to the throat.
The battle escalated quickly as Boen and Rekka charged into the assassins from behind. What had begun as a well-orchestrated assault devolved into a bitter contest of wills the Black Guard could not win. Boen’s sword reaped a mighty vengeance while Rekka moved much quicker than any of the assassins could anticipate. It was finished in moments.
Being helped to his feet, Bahr looked around at the carnage. What is it all for? Did these men understand why they’d been sent to attack us? Do we understand the gravity of what we’re trying to do? How many more need to die before the gods’ lust for bloodshed is slated? I grow weary of this life. So very weary. Even after this nightmare I cannot rest. The wounded need to be seen to. Plans needed to be remade. I’ve no doubt our enemies will return in even greater force. What fools we were to think we were up to this challenge.
He sheathed his sword and turned back to the wagon. No words needed to be said. The others paused to watch him, their minds scattered. After several months and dozens of skirmishes and battles, Bahr managed to walk with sternness. Pride wouldn’t let him falter. Not now. Not this close to the end. His strength would see them to the end, even if it killed him in the process. One by one they silently followed him. It was past time to move.
Bahr stood at the edge of the sloping hill. Delranan stretched out before him, an endless series of rolling plains untouched by horse or rider since winter began. The morning was still faint, night refusing to let go as easily as it once had. Shadows clung to the world as if sensing the coming conflict. He once found comfort in gazing upon untouched lands. Once, but no more. Delranan had grown wild, untamed since the end of summer. He no longer felt at ease. The peace of his solitude died the moment his brother became seduced by the fell powers of the Dae’shan.
Anienam confirmed their journey was nearly ended. A short, three-day ride to the ruins of Arlevon Gale was all that stood between the increasingly fatigued group of heroes and the end of the quest. What they’d find upon arriving was beyond any guess, even for the wizard. Dark clouds, perpetual as the days shortened, choked the far horizon. Armies were massing. The time of the final convergence was at hand and Bahr aimed to lead his haggard group directly into the heart of it. Only three days left until the final battle for Malweir began. Bahr sighed, crisp in the dawn air. Three days until we see who lives or dies.
END
Begin the next Northern Crusade Novel, Even Gods Must Fall, by following this link:
Even Gods Must Fall
Other Books by Christian Warren Freed
The Northern Crusade Series
Hammers in the Wind
Tides of Blood and Steel
A Whisper After Midnight
Empire of Bones
The Madness of Gods and Kings
Even Gods Must Fall
A History of Malweir Series
Armies of the Silver Mage
The Dragon Hunters
Beyond the Edge of Dawn
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About the Author
Christian W. Freed was born in Buffalo, N.Y. He recently retired from a twenty year career in the U.S. Army. Armies of the Silver Mage is his first book for sale and was written during his tour of duty in Afghanistan. Much of the experiences and battle sequences in his novels come from his three tours of duty in Iraq and Afghanistan and a keenly developed understanding of military tactics. He graduated from Campbell University with a degree in history and is pursuing a Masters of Arts degree in Military History from Norwich University. He currently lives outside of Raleigh, N.C. and devotes his time to writing and to his family and their two Bernese Mountain Dogs.
Table of Contents
Other Books by Christian Warren Freed
The Madness of Gods and Kings Page 31