by A. D. Green
“Yes Kronke?”
“Pardon me Captain,” Kronke said, “Only thing north of Redford is the wilds, mountains and the Norderlands. But we bin at peace with the Norders longer’en I kin recall.”
“You have a question in there Kronke?” Anders said.
“Sorry Sir.” Kronke growled. “Just you ain’t said who attacked Redford. Do ya know?”
“Message says hostile forces,” Anders replied. It was true enough, but Anders knew more. Kronke’s question gave him pause as he considered how much to tell. Lord Bouchemeax was wily as an old fox. The messenger might not have been told and the missive unclear but Anders knew the hostiles. Well if’n the old bastard doesn’t know me by now it’s his own fault he thought, deciding. “It’s not the Norders,” he said, firmly taking the lid off the can of worms.
“If not Norders then who?” Sergeant Berinn asked.
“Urak,” Anders replied, holding a hand up for silence. He saw the mix of question and incredulity on their faces. “Yes they’re real and no they’re not old tales come to life. It is happening gentlemen.” He glared at each to show he was serious, before continuing.
“Redford is thought lost but the Black Crow will send scouts to be sure. Truth is we know nothing of what we face.” Anders shook his head in frustration. “We don’t know where they are, why they’re here, in what numbers or if they march on Thorsten. I didn’t inform you before but we patrol here because a source reported urak in the Old Forest. If they’re right, and I suspect they are then that’s five days from Redford.” Anders didn’t explain the implication, the sergeants grasped immediately that they faced an enemy on two fronts.
Anders frowned, his face grave. “We need intelligence. We need to know what we face, from where and how many. As to their intent, well you don’t need to be a greenhead to know it’s hostile.”
Captain Sir Anders Forstandt cast an eye over his camp. The sun edged the horizon to the east and in the burgeoning light of a new day he contemplated the men and women of his command.
All were up and about, eating or packing bedrolls away. The sergeants were nearby organising their squads, cajoling and threatening in equal measure. Anders smiled at the grumbling he heard; one night of sleeping rough and you’d think it the end of the world. It was a familiar sound and oddly comforting considering the news he’d delivered earlier.
Before breaking there fast he’d called his company together. The camp was expectant, filled already with rumours despite the sergeants remaining tight-lipped. Anders told of the missive from Thorsten, what was known and setting out their new orders. It rightly drew a lot of talk, some heated, which the sergeants were quick to stamp on. The mood was sombre after that and Anders was mindful to keep them busy giving them little time to brood.
Satisfied he’d planned as well as he could Anders turned to his own preparations. Saddling his horse Marigold, he strapped on saddle bag and bedroll. Finished he patted her flank affectionately and listened as Kronke chivvied a few of the newer recruits along.
His command was a mix of seasoned guards, those who had seen service of three years or more, all the way down to greenheads, men and women in their first year. This though didn’t tell the full tale. Only a handful had ever seen meaningful action and that against the Grimmers in the marshlands and wolds to the south. If they came against urak it would be the first real test in combat for most of them. He prayed to the trinity their training would be sufficient.
Anders mounted and as he did the sergeants called out. The company were ready and almost as one, leaned on their stirrups pulling themselves up onto their horses.
“Safe journey,” Anders called as they passed him. He’d split his company into its five patrols. Each would take a different path covering the River Fossa to the west and north all the way east, towards Redford. Their orders were twofold, to warn holdsteaders and get them moving south to Thorsten and to find the urak.
Anders’ company had brought three birds north with them and he divided them up as best he could. They were the best means of getting word quickly to Lord Richard. As the last of the companies headed out Anders looked to Kronke. “Guess I better start with the holdsteaders here. What was his name again? Albert I think…”
“Encoma,” Kronke supplied.
“Take them out I’ll catch you up,” Anders said.
The big sergeant acknowledged and, turning, shouted at his squad to form up. Kronke nodded at a couple of grizzled veteran’s and they cantered off to scout ahead. Next went pairs of outriders who would screen the squad north, east and west.
Anders watched them go as he rode towards the holdstead. Almost half his squad would be scouting and on picket; more than he’d have liked but chances were the urak would find them first so it was a necessary precaution.
Albert Encoma saw Anders approach and was waiting for him as he rode into the holding, several of his sons at his side.
“You’re off then Captain?”
“Aye, thanks for the use of your field. And the food,” Anders replied. Albert Encoma’s disposition looked friendly enough but Anders thought he detected relief in him as well, although whether this was at their coming or going he wasn’t sure.
“It was nothing. I saw a messenger ride in last night and away this morning?” the old man queried.
“Lord Richard has received word of urak up in the old forest,” he replied, voicing what they had skirted around the previous evening. He watched the old man carefully. There was no look of shock or surprise, it wasn’t the first he’d heard this news. “Lord Richard Bouchemeax commands all holdsteaders make their way to town in haste and bring as much foodstuffs and supplies as they’re able.”
There was a snort of derision and one of the young men shouted out. “Don’t tell me the Black Crow believes that fool of a woman.” Albert tried to put a restraining hand on his son as he stepped forward. “Marron she’s called. Says she’s of the Order. We showed her the way out when we heard that you can be sure,” the young man said.
Anders slipped the tie on his sword and drew it smoothly, its crisp metallic rasp loud and ringing in the morning air. “You gainsay Lord Bouchemeax on this? You judge him a fool then. You don’t even afford him the proper respect his name deserves.” Anders lent anger to his words. “By rights I should run you through as you stand.”
The man paled and let his Father pull him back into line. “Forgive my son, Sir Anders. He’s young and foolish with it.” Albert wrung his hands anxiously. “Please, he meant no offense.”
Anders let the old man cajole him. He’d no intention of running his boy through. Heck, they might need him on the walls if things were as bad as the Black Crow's missive implied.
“Marron was right about the urak and she’s under Lord Richard’s protection.” A slight embellishment he knew, but necessary. “You’d do well not to malign her and spread rumours. If I hear tell of any Red Priest bothering the lady I will have your blood.” He pointed his sword at Albert’s youngest son.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t realise,” He stammered. “If the priests hear anything it’ll not be from me,” he promised.
“You’d best pray to the White Lady they don’t. It would be unfortunate for you, whether you tell it or no.” Anders stared at him making his meaning clear.
He cast his gaze over the rest of the gathered men. None could hold his eye. He sighed. “Well enough of this unpleasantness. It’s a bright morning. I ride north. When I pass on my way back I expect you to be gone from here.”
Albert nodded his assent. “We’ll prepare immediately. But Captain, what of our herds and harvest?”
“I’m no farmer. Take what you can. What you can’t, leave. They’ll either be here when you return or not. That is in the hands of the trinity,” Anders replied. “I’d ask that you inform your neighbours and any other holdstead on your way of Lord Richard’s orders. Impress upon them the urgency.”
“I’ll do what I can Captain,” Albert replied.
The
old man didn’t look so jolly anymore and Ander’s heart went out to him. It’d be a hard thing to leave your home with no idea when or if you’d ever return.
“Safe journey, go with the blessings of the three.” Anders pinched his left rein and pressed his right leg into Marigold’s flank. Shaking her head, she turned smoothly at his command and headed out.
As he passed the gate leading north he heard the holder berating his son loudly and colourfully. He urged his horse into a canter as they turned on to the road north, his patrol distant figures ahead.
Chapter 28
: High Chair
Krol stood at the dais gazing back at the central hall of the castle. Wrack and ruin was everywhere he looked. Tables that had been overturned and used as barricades were smashed. Wall tapestries had been ripped down, torn and now lay discarded amongst the viscera and gore of mutilated bodies. It was a wonderful, bloody mess with a stench to match. Breathing deeply he revelled in it.
Man has grown soft and weak he thought. They had fought hard when attacked, but they were not prepared for war. Once the hastily gathered line of defenders had been broken it had been a rout, a bloodletting unlike any he had known. He thought back on past raids and battles – urak never died so easily. He laughed loudly and several of his Hurak-Hin, his personal guard, looked nervously at him. He ignored them; let them stare.
His eyes glazed over momentarily. If any of his Hurak-Hin watched closely they would have seen a swirl of black clouding them. It was but a moment though and passed in the space of a few heart beats. Baring his teeth Krol laughed again sounding slightly manic even to his own ears.
“Bring me the prisoners,” he ordered, his voice reverberated around the room. One of his Hurak-Hin stepped away hurrying from the hall, disappearing through the large double doors that gave entry.
Krol waited. Impatient, he ambled down the steps of the dais making his way to one of the few tables left standing. On it laid a body. It had once been a man, now it was simply a carcass. It had been opened from belly to sternum. The liver, a favourite, had already gone as had the heart; but Krol was not interested in the remains. He found a goblet and the half empty wine bottle. He’d tried it earlier with the liver and was not sure of it. Now though, he decided, he liked the acidic but fruity taste. He threw the goblet away drinking instead from the bottle’s neck. Taking a long pull Krol smacked his lips in satisfaction, discarding the empty bottle back on the table.
Hearing footsteps, Krol turned as his Hurak-Hin entered the hall. Stumbling before him was a man and woman, a lord and lady of their people. They looked haggard and filthy. The man had a bloody rag tied across his forehead and tracks in his dirt smeared face. He looks weak and broken and young; too young to be a chief thought Krol. The woman on the other hand had a strong spirit. He could see and smell the hatred rolling off her. Krol smiled.
The woman shuddered as the big urak bared its teeth, before steeling herself. Eyes hardening she glared back in defiance.
Krol’s grin widened. She had fire in her and this pleased him immensely. She was old, probably the young buck’s mother, they had a likeness. Waving them forward they were prodded and pushed until they stood before him.
“Leave me,” he ordered. His Hurak-Hin glanced at each other. They offered no counsel, knew better, but Krol felt their reluctance as they filed from the room. He cared not. The heavy doors to the hall boomed shut.
Krol contemplated the woman, ignoring the man. She returned his stare unflinching. He moved, so quick she never saw the blow, backhanding her across the face. Crying out she collapsed against the table and across the carcass. Then, horrified scrambled from the dead body.
Knuckles stinging, Krol savoured the pain as he looked on, impassive. The woman’s cry turned to a moan. Hands shaking, she stroked at the dead man’s face.
“Rob, Rob oh no, no, no,” she crooned, smoothing his hair and wiping at the blood on his face.
The man staggered like a drunk to the table, “Gods save us mother that can’t be Robert.” He cried. Then baulking at the sight, he sank to his knees retching.
Krol shook his head in disgust. Their leaders are weak, he thought. The woman sobbed still but Krol saw the change, the subtle shifting of her shoulders and was ready. Turning she flew at him; madness in her eyes, screaming as she leapt.
Krol grabbed her by the neck, snatching her from the air. Her feet kicked as she hung, helpless in his grasp. He dwarfed her, his hand easily encompassing her throat and he laughed as she swung her arm at him. She was puny and a woman.
The empty wine bottle caught Krol across the temple staggering him. The bottle shattered, the glass shards slashing face and eye. Roaring in pain, Krol’s fist clenched as he threw her to the floor. A flap of skin hung, ragged and open on his cheek, gushing blood. Krol’s eye was saved only by the bony ridge that ran across his forehead protecting his eye socket.
The hall doors banged open and his Hurak-Hin charged in.
“Out!” Krol roared. “Out, now.” He was incandescent with rage and it stopped his Hurak-Hin in their tracks. Reluctant, they retreated from the hall, the last pulling the doors closed again.
Krol was furious. If word got out he would hang them by their cocks. The shadow inside fed on Krol’s anger, savouring it as he glared down at the woman. Her head lay to the side where he’d inadvertently snapped her neck. Krol grunted acknowledging her bravery. She was worthy in her own way.
Her son was a different matter. He was a wreck, shivering and mewling like a new born. He was surely the most pitiful creature Krol had ever seen. Moving to the table he casually flipped the body off. It landed with a thud making the manling jump.
Disdainfully, Krol reached down, grabbed the boy by the hair and dragged him upright. He gathered a fistful of tunic then lifted and slammed him onto the table. Leaning over him, Krol gripped his head and roughly slammed it against the wood. Not too hard, he didn’t want any more accidents.
The darkness within Krol eddied, insistent and compelling. Pinching the manling’s nose Krol bent, covering its mouth with his own. Smoke swirled again in his eyes, turning them black. The man’s feet kicked violently on the table top then lay still. Krol stood spitting onto the floor and wiped a hand across his mouth.
“Fucking hate that!” he muttered.
The man's eyes snapped open and he sat bolt upright before swinging his legs round and off the table. There was fear in his eyes, such fear. Krol recognised it; had borne it and felt it still. Shame ate at him. The darkness fed.
Turning Krol climbed the dais and sat on the high chair. With a finger he prodded the flap of skin back into place where the bottle had sliced him, blood still sheeting the side of his face. He licked his bloody finger clean.
“Tar-Tukh,” Krol yelled. The door to the halls opened instantly and one of his Hurak-Hin stepped into the room.
Tar-Tukh’s eyes surveyed the hall, taking in the dead woman and the man sat on the table. His warchief stared back from the high chair, his eyes wild. At Tar-Tukh’s signal the Hurak-Hin fanned out past him, taking position about the dais.
The blood coated face of his warchief was a mask, unreadable to Tar-Tukh. That he sat on the man-throne like a king was disturbing. We are urakakule, he thought, careful to keep his face neutral. Bumping his right fist to his left breast in salute Tar-Tukh waited.
“You are dis-pleased Tar-Tukh,” Krol said.
“We are Hurak-Hin. We serve. It’s easier to do in the same room,” Tar-Tukh growled back. Krol had changed much this past cycle, was much more volatile and unpredictable. Tar-Tukh knew he was on dangerous ground, but he was Hurak-Hin and first.
“I did not fear this pup or his mother Tar-Tukh.” Krol laughed. “They were lambs to me and I wolf to them.” Abruptly his eyes screwed shut, a faint tremor shaking his frame before moments later they snapped open again.
Tar-Tukh held himself straight, unmoved. His warchief’s eyes had looked black for an instant; his stare now though was clear and uncomfo
rtable. He felt a sudden itch between his shoulders.
Baring his teeth Krol grinned. “Take the man, give him one of their beasts if any live still and release him,” Krol said. “No harm is to befall him Tar-Tukh. See to it yourself.”
“I am Hurak-Hin and first,” Tar-tuk said. “Send someone else.”
Krol stood, glaring. “YOU see to it,” he growled barely containing his fury, fighting against the urge to gut his childhood friend. “Nartak!” he shouted.
An urak stood forward. “Krol,” he acknowledged.
“You are first.” Krol turned back to Tar-Tukh. “Go now!”
Tar-Tukh touched his right fist to left breast again. Grabbing the youth off the table Tar-Tukh pushed him ahead and out of the hall. He suppressed his anger as Krol laughed at his back.
“I feel your rage Tar-Tukh. Rage is good; mind you do not use it on the manling.”
Chapter 29
: Aftermath
The night lay heavy still, but most of the ilfanum had gone. There were a hand or two left with Darion and M’rika, a guard of sorts, but for which of them Darion wasn’t sure. The rest had forded the river to the east bank, hunting the urak remnants.
M’rika wanted to join them but R’ell had cautioned against it. She had declared responsibility for Darion and would have to stay with him. M’rika said nothing at that, instead walking to the edge of the river and gazing across to the far trees.
Knowing she wanted to be alone, Darion was left with the remaining ilf. A surly bunch, he sensed none wanted to be there. Well neither do I, he thought, disgruntled. Even the bear had crossed the river. Rawrdredtigkah or Rawr, as he’d taken to calling her, had simply gone saying nothing. There was only Ruith that he knew and who would deign to talk with him.