by James Silke
Gath caught their blows on his shield with his arm slightly relaxed. This softened and deflected them, but the blades bit chunks out of the wood while their impact drove him backwards, allowing no counterblow.
Without breaking stride, they rained blows on him from right and left, gave him no time to do anything but block, duck, and bleed. Finally Gath’s back slammed into a wooden stable wall. He worked there awhile, blocking blows as the wall rubbed his shoulder blades and elbows raw, stitched his flesh with splinters.
Methodically Red Helmet trimmed Gath’s shield down until half the wood was gone and the iron belts looked like chewed meat. Steel Suit, with a malignant grin, let his mammoth sword play with Gath’s axe head. His blows mangled the blade and sent reverberations up, the shaft, through the Barbarian’s grip and into his arm and shoulder. Numbness spread back down his arm and into Gath’s grip. Sensing this, Steel Suit discarded his grin and struck Gath’s axe where the head joined the handle, ripping it out of the Barbarian’s numbed grip.
The huge Kitzakk chuckled huskily, shifted his weight and brought his sword blade down at Gath’s unguarded right side. Gath let it come, then squatted in place. Steel Suit’s sword sliced into the wooden wall behind him and came to a sudden shattering stop inches from the Barbarian’s hair.
Gath charged forward, drove his head into the huge man’s gut and knocked him to the ground. He kept driving, stepped on the Kitzakk’s thigh and chest, then tripped and fell into the middle of the yard.
Red Helmet leapt over his fallen comrade and raised his axe, but Gath rolled onto his back, threw dirt in his face. The Kitzakk was not blinded long. Seeing the metal of the Barbarian’s shield through the dust, he brought his axe down on it. The blade sank into the shield, split it, then buried itself deep in whatever was under it. Red Helmet almost laughed but snarled angrily instead as his vision cleared. His axe was buried to the haft in dirt.
Gath was now five strides off, backing away in a low crouch, eyes moving from one commander to the other. His dagger was in his hand.
While Red Helmet tried to remove the remnant of Gath’s shield from his axe, Steel Suit ripped his sword free, then backed Gath up to a shallow door. There the huge glittering man laughed out loud and began to play more seriously with his victim. He hammered the dagger from Gath’s hand, kicked him in the chest spinning him around. Then, deliberately using the flat of his blade, he struck him across the back driving him face first into the door and laughed again.
Gath, stunned, hung against the door supporting himself on the latch handle. The impact of the huge Kitzakk’s blow had popped the leather thongs holding his armor in place. It dripped off him like old flesh and fell to the ground. Steel Suit spit a rope of blood, and, without a trace of play in his small eyes, raised his sword over his head with both hands.
His sword blade glittered in the sunlight, slashed down. At the last moment Gath reeled backward, opening the door and bringing it with him. The sword cut into the top of the wooden door and did not stop until it had cleaved it in two.
Gath, finding half of a door in his hand, swung it at the mass of glittering steel. The door caught the Kitzakk flush from the base of his skull to the base of his spine and drove him back into the yard, mouth spread wide, gasping for breath. It did not come. Steel Suit dropped his sword and grabbed for his throat. This also did not help. He hit the ground hard, shuddering and heaving.
Gath, gasping and crusted with dust, splinters and blood, gathered up the Kitzakk’s sword in two hands and turned on Red Helmet as the short, thick Kitzakk commander finally ripped his axe free of the remnant of Gath’s shield.
Gath and Red Helmet, two-handing their weapons, moved for each other. Their weapons met with a resounding clang, then kept on meeting until they were more than well acquainted. Then the Kitzakk got in low and scooped out a cup of flesh from Gath’s side. Gath replied by bringing the sword around in an arc and caught the Kitzakk flush on the mask of his helmet. The helmet did not give, but the man inside did. A little. He dropped his axe and staggered back in a low crouch fighting for balance. He caught it about fifteen feet off, then started back for the axe he had left behind.
Gath’s eyes were thin slices of disbelief. The blow should not only have pulped the Kitzakk’s helmet, but his head. Instead, it had only exhausted Gath. He staggered over the fallen axe blocking the Kitzakk’s path. Red Helmet kept coming. His march was unsteady but relentless. He kept his head low. When Gath swung his sword, the Kitzakk deliberately fed the blade his red helmet. The blow drove the Kitzakk back five feet, but he kept his feet and started forward again. Gath growled low in his throat and struck again. In this manner he drove the Kitzakk around the yard, hammering the defiant red helmet. Ropes of blood erupted from the cagelike mask with each blow. Spider trails leaked from the neck rim, trailed down the commander’s armor, turning its dull red color bright.
When it appeared that the Kitzakk carried more of his blood outside his flesh than inside, Gath sagged back gasping and dripping sweat. Mindlessly, Red Helmet charged without a weapon. Gath let him come, then lifted the sword, and the Kitzakk ran himself onto the point of the blade. The blade cut through his gut, drove in hard, jammed itself into the corner of the pelvic bone.
Glaring at Gath from behind the caged mask of his helmet, the Kitzakk staggered back. His weight ripped the sword out of Gath’s hands, and he went over on his back with the sword sticking upright like a steel flag. Blood puddled under him. Struggling, Red Helmet unlaced his helmet, pushed it aside, then attempted to rise but only managed to twitch.
Gath squatted and leaned back against the wall gasping. He looked about for something to staunch his wounds, and through half-closed eyes saw Steel Suit rise off the ground slowly and uncertainly, as if he had never done it before. Gath was stunned. So was the Kitzakk; one eye was filled with blood, the other blinked. When it found Gath, the huge man cursed foully and staggered toward him.
Gath drew a deep breath, erupted off the ground, caught the giant around the gut and drove him back into the side of a parked wagon. The side board splintered and they fell half onto the bed, grappling without much effect. Then the Kitzakk’s hands found Gath’s neck, began to throttle him. In desperation, Gath buried his fingers in the first things that came to hand, Steel Suit’s wrist and armpit. But they were of little help. Gath could not breathe. His mind grew dark, then again swam with the blood red world of howling death, and a terrorized surge of strength went through him. He spun in place swinging the huge Kitzakk around in the air, then, with an animal roar, threw him across the yard. Steel Suit hit the ground with a clang, rolled over, and came to a limp stop.
A moment passed before Gath realized he had not let go of Steel Suit’s left arm. It dangled from his right hand by the wrist. Gath lifted it uncertainly, then discarded it like an apple core.
Twenty
ROLL CALL
The supply wagon of the Kitzakk regiment was parked several miles up Weaver Pass on a knoll overlooking the village. Five chained maidens from Weaver were tied to the rear end of the open bed. Behind the wagon the surviving Skull soldiers sat their horses in a line as a sergeant called the roll.
Dang-Ling sat among the spare weapons, blankets and saddles at the front of the wagon bed. He had recovered from his terror and was coolly assessing his situation. He was certain his warlord, Klang, would be humiliated by the defeat, and he would have to appear to also be shamed even though he felt no shame. The scouts he had sent back into the village had verified that the Barbarian had met Trang and Chornbott in combat, and that the commanders had been killed. But the champions, even though unable to conquer him, had undoubtedly taught the Barbarian the lessons of false pride and mortality. Consequently Dang-Ling was certain he had served the Master of Darkness well. Now, if the Barbarian survived his wounds and was the man the Queen of Serpents claimed he was, he would be ready, even hungry for the extraordinary opportunity she would offer him.
Dang-Ling smiled to himself, then
turned to hear the sergeant’s report. There were twenty-seven present. Thirty-nine Skull soldiers, three temple guards, and two champions remained in Weaver. All dead or not, it mattered little to the priest.
Dang-Ling conducted a prayer for the deceased, then ordered the sergeant to proceed quickly up the pass and settled down for a nap.
Twenty-one
GOOD-BYE
Robin, who had watched the fight through a knothole and passed out at the sight of Gath ripping out the Kitzakk’s arm, now revived to find her face buried in tangled straw. Remembering gradually what had happened, she pushed herself up and peered out the knothole. A scatter of people had gathered in the yard. Villagers. She hesitated thoughtfully, and clutched fearfully at her throat. Hurriedly, she pushed the ladder down through the hole, climbed down and rushed out of the stable.
Several Cytherian warriors, and a scatter of women who had reentered the village, stood at the edges of the yard watching the mighty victor stagger toward a footpath. His stagger was impressive, but his entrance into the path was not. He missed the opening by a foot, hit the corner of the wall with a shoulder and spun around, taking down barrels, awnings and a stack of buckets before hitting the ground.
Robin raced to him. When she reached him, he was trying to get off the ground without much success. He was crouched face down, shaking, blinking with one eye. The other was swollen closed. Tears swam in Robin’s eyes as she kneeled beside him. She offered him her hand. He took it, obviously without knowing whose it was or even if it was a hand. His nerveless fingers spent a long time before they found a grip.
Using her hand for support, he tried to stand and this time made it to his knees. This put him face-to-face with Robin, and he hesitated, recognizing her. She murmured, “We must stop the bleeding!”
He was taken back for a moment, as if the resonant truth in her words was too much to bear, then said weakly, “We are finished.”
He pushed her away, staggered through the alley brushing its sides, and reached the clearing beyond. He shuffled through Forest Gate and started for the forest. He fell to his knees twice before vanishing within its greenery.
Robin slumped in defeat against the wall in Wagon Yard and several women moved to comfort her. Before they reached her, she jumped up and raced into a side street.
When she reached the small wooden building on the first tier where she had a room, she luckily found her horse and flatbed wagon parked in the stall behind it. She fetched satchels, fire pot and blankets from her room, threw them on the wagon, and hitched up the horse. Leaping into the driver’s box, she shook the reins and clicked her tongue, and the animal trotted down the street toward Forest Gate.
Robin was driving recklessly out of the gate just as Bone and Dirken entered it. They saw her and ducked out of the way, staring in dismay as the wagon plunged across the clearing to the edge of the forest. There Robin reined up only a moment, then whispered to her horse and the animal moved into the forest following a trail of blood.
Twenty-two
GENERATION
It was late afternoon when Brown John’s colorful wagon burst out of the forest into the clearing outside Weaver. His team, frothing and steaming, pulled up short of a cluster of empty, parked wagons as he reined up hard. A crowd of Grillards tumbled out and hurried through the wagons into the village, where the wailing of the grief stricken mixed with music and dancing. Brown John, head erect, remained in the driver’s box.
The wagons wore the marks, colors and totems of local forest tribes, and their owners crowded the terraces of Weaver. There were left-handed Wowells in furs, lean, round-faced Checkets, plain-looking Barhacha woodsmen, and Kaven money changers from Coin in three-belted robes. There were even savage Kraniks and Dowats, who had come all the way from the high forest.
The southern edge of the village still smouldered amid large puddles of spilled dye. At Three Bridge Crossing a group of Cytherians were hurriedly raising a finished gate to block the western bridge. Other villagers labored with shovels and picks, demolishing the other two bridges.
Brown John chuckled wisely and turned as Bone and Dirken came running through the wagons to him wearing proud smiles.
“We saw it all,” Bone said triumphantly. “And up close.”
“Splendid,” said Brown John, “I want to hear every detail, but first, tell me… did the Dark One play a part?”
“A part!” Bone blurted. “He was the whole bloody thing.”
Dirken indicated Weaver with the back of his head. “There are thirty-nine dead Skull soldiers in there, three temple guards and,” he hesitated for effect, “two commanders. Champions. And all dead. He drowned and scalded most of them by pushing over dye vats, the rest was hand work.”
“He tore off one of their arms,” Bone added with a grand gesture. “Ripped it right out of the shoulder.”
Brown John grinned. “Your sense of the dramatic is commendable, Bone, but when telling a tale, do not stretch the truth beyond its endurance. You’ll lose your audience.”
“It’s absolutely true, it is!” protested Bone.
Dirken nodded. “The commanders were the strongest bastards I’ve ever seen! But Gath was stronger. You couldn’t have staged a better show yourself.” Then with a whisper resonant with impending horror, he asked, “Want to see it?”
“Yes, I would.” Brown John laughed and dropped lightly out of the wagon.
The brothers led their father into the forest to a stand of birch trees surrounded by alder shrubs. They moved in among the bushes to a pile of fresh cut brush from which Bone removed a large branch. On the ground under it was a folded blanket of green moss. Dirken unfolded the moss, and showed its contents to his father. A very large left arm.
“My, my,” whispered Brown John truly impressed.
Bone pushed the rest of the brush aside as Dirken went on.
“The Cytherians laid claim to all the Kitzakks killed inside their village, but before they got around to it we had already hauled off the best of the bunch. If things keep going like this, we’ll be the richest men in the forest.”
Dirken helped Bone pull off the last of the brush to reveal the dead bodies of three men. They were short and thin, shrouded in black robes.
“Guards of the Temple of Dreams!” Brown John’s smile twisted strangely. “Now that is an intriguing sight.”
“We’ve got better,” Dirken said. “One of their commanders.” He removed another shrub, revealing a tall massive man glittering in a suit of chain mail. He lay facedown beside a huge sword and axe. A bloody hole at his shoulder and his other wounds were packed with moss.
The old stage master chuckled, “By Kram and Bled! This will send a message to the very corners of their empire!”
“And we’ve got a wagon load of weapons,” Bone added.
“Splendid! Absolutely splendid.” The old man gingerly lifted the empty, scalloped sleeve of the chain mail suit. Its arm had indeed been pulled out.
“Amazing,” he said. “Truly amazing. And fortuitous. Tonight, around the fires, and in the coming days, many will speak of the events of this day, and you and I will play principal roles in their tales. Count on it! We placed the central player on the stage.” His arm swept elaborately over their grim trophies. “It is we, the Grillards, the ridiculed and outlawed, who now stir the pot!”
He turned intently to his sons. “Now tell me, slowly and accurately, each detail. It is critical that I know everything. How did you convince Gath to come to Weaver? How did you know the Kitzakks would strike here?”
Bone and Dirken shared a sheepish glance, then Dirken said flatly, “We didn’t.”
“Didn’t what?”
“Didn’t know when the Kitzakks would strike.”
“Then how did you get him to come here?”
Dirken hesitated. His face reddened, then he grinned. “We didn’t. The Lakehair girl brought him.”
“That’s right,” Bone added quickly. “He followed her here, all the way from Calling
Rock.”
Brown John clapped his bony hands excitedly, then beckoned with long fingers to his sons. “Of course! Of course! She gave him the message. So what did he.say to her?”
Bone and Dirken shrugged. Then Dirken whispered, “We don’t know. We didn’t talk to either of them.”
Brown John’s wrinkled face surrendered to gravity with alarming speed.
“We’re sorry,” Bone blurted. “But we never got the chance. We waited for her on Summer Trail just like you said, but she just marched by us. Gath and that wolf of his were following her, so we hid ’til he went by. We followed them, you know, real careful like, and they came all the way here. Then all of a sudden, out of nowhere, came the bloody Kitzakks. You should have seen the people run and scream!”
“Enough!” Brown John’s arm cut the air like a sword. He closed his eyes with deliberation. When he opened them they were on Dirken and his voice was modulated.
“What precisely are you telling me? Why did Gath of Baal choose to defend this village?”
“He didn’t, not really,” Bone said, then Dirken explained.
“The Kitzakks tried to carry off the Lakehair girl in a caged wagon, and he killed a good half of ’em to get her out. Then after it seemed to be all over, he fought the two commanders alone. In the Wagon Yard. Nobody knows why exactly. It was weird. Sort of like a couple of kids going out behind a barn to see who’s toughest, but without the laughs.”
“I dare say,” muttered Brown John with a mocking laugh. “So, the pot surely does bubble, but we, just as surely, do not stir it… or even know what is in it.” He chuckled ironically, looking from Bone to Dirken. “I presume, then, that the tribes have not anointed the Dark One with flowers and offered him their jewels and their daughters?”