Tides of Blood and Steel

by Christian Warren Freed

  Skuld cocked his head. “The path?”

  “Aye. The path is the way of the warrior. It is the unending road that we forever follow. The only way to leave the path is through death’s gates where you will be judged by your ancestors. If they deem you worthy, you will be accepted into their mighty company.” A twinkle entered his eyes. “I shall be glad when it is my time.”

  Skuld had raw potential. Boen and the sell swords took turns trying to refine it into a useable tool, but it took years to make a warrior. Any fool could swing a blade, but it took an artist to use it properly.

  He smiled as the boy yawned. Cold ate away at their strength, making them more tired than usual. “Go and get some rest. The hard part has not even begun yet.”

  Skuld barely heard him as he stumbled back to his bed roll. Boen ensured the boy tucked himself in before going back to his sword. Neither of them noticed the three birdlike figures drifting in high circles overhead.

  Nothol Coll rode hard back to camp shortly before dawn. A worried look strained his face.

  Bahr pulled up his breeks. Steam rose from where he had just relieved himself. “What news?”

  “We are in for a fight.”

  Dorl reached up and took the reins. “You always say the nicest things in the morning.”

  “How many?” Bahr asked.

  “Twenty, maybe thirty with scouts.”

  Bahr winced. It was not what he needed to hear so early. Reservations from their battle in Praeg were returning to haunt him. Worse, they had been gone from that town for more than a week now. Being chased so far was troubling.

  “I thought we would have lost them by now,” he said and frowned. “How much time do we have?”

  Nothol slid from the saddle. “An hour at the most.”

  The Gaimosian, disturbed awake, drew his sword with a wicked grin. Old fires flared back to life at the prospect of battle. Maleela stared back at him, an incredulous look of fear etched on her face.

  “What?” he asked after noticing the others all staring at him.

  She said in her most diplomatic voice, “We should be running, not fighting.”

  “No. That is what they want us to do. If we run they will hunt us down and set upon us like wolves once we exhaust ourselves. We fight now or get slaughtered later.”

  Dorl ducked to the back of the wagon and returned with a long bow. “Let’s be about this if there is no choice. I don’t like to feel hunted.”

  Bahr reluctantly agreed. His old nerves could only stand so much and he was well past the breaking limit. The mountains were still a few days off and with the wagon and building snow; he knew they would never make it. The choices had all been taken from him.

  “Take Dorl and Nothol,” he told Boen. “Slow them enough and get back here before dusk.”

  “What about the rest of us?” Maleela asked.

  “There is still a defense to be prepared. Boen is right. This is the only way.”

  She glowered as the trio quickly saddled and raced off.

  The snow fell a little harder once the sun rose. It was heavy and wet, just foul enough to make the day miserable. Heavy flakes landed in Boen’s grey hair and instantly melted. He failed to notice. His hawkish eyes focused on the path ahead. An arrow hung loose in his bowstring.

  “Shhh,” he hissed. “They are coming.”

  He halted the line and directed them into the thin tree line. The first few riders came into view moments later. Boen snorted. There was no order amongst their enemy. Men moved in a disorganized rabble that suggested no formal military training, or common sense for that matter. The Gaimosian smiled brightly. Advantage was his. He patiently drew back and took aim as the unsuspecting riders came on. Boen slowed his breathing. He let fly when the first rider was fifty paces away.

  Boen wasted no time in seeing if the arrow struck his target. He renocked and fired again. A pair of thrums joined him from the right and four enemy riders toppled from their saddles. There was a natural pause as horses bucked and men tried to figure out what just happened. Boen fired again. A high-pitched cry told him his aim was true.

  “Over there! Get him!”

  The Gaimosian pushed his mount hard, not waiting for the sell swords to fire one last salvo and follow. The ambush worked better than expected. It was a simple “L” shape, a tactic used by most civilized armies and perfected by Gaimos. The success of it against a score and a half of peasants heartened him. More than ten men were dead before the three defenders disengaged and scampered off into the light forest. The first raid proved more successful than Boen had hoped. He led them towards the second ambush position.

  Boen dumped cold water on his head. Blood and water ran down his armored shirt. His breathing was erratic. The muscles in his arms and back spasmed uncontrollably. The big man reluctantly admitted that he was finally growing too old to swing his sword with much regularity. He even felt old. Damn. But at least he wasn’t dead. Five corpses lay steaming in the snow, growing pools of blood cooling in the early winter chill. A quick glance showed him that Nothol and Dorl were in the same position, more or less.

  “That was too close. Is anyone injured?” Boen asked.

  Dorl cursed and spat. “One of the bastards got my thigh.”

  Bright red blood oozed from the top of the muscle. Nothol pulled out a field bandage from his pack and began treating the wound.

  “Relax, it’s just a scratch,” he chided as Dorl jerked at his touch.

  Dorl narrowed his eyes menacingly. “Easy for you to say.”

  “I’ve seen you cry more from a tavern whore’s bite. Keep quiet while I dress this. I’d hate to tie it too tight,” Nothol laughed.

  It was an easy sound, one that lightened the mood.

  “If you two are done flirting, we should leave now,” Boen grumbled.

  Dorl looked over the battlefield. More than a dozen bodies lay at broken angles in a wide circle. Arrows littered the tree trunks and the ground. A broken spear shaft dug into the ground less than a foot from where he stood. Dorl shook his head ruefully; seemingly amused any of the three were still alive.

  The enemy had come into them with a thunder of hooves and violent intent. Earlier losses spurred them on and fueled their hatred. Vengeance stained their eyes as they collided with Boen and his fellows. The battle was hard-fought and furious. It lasted just a handful of minutes. The survivors not only broke contact, they fled. All of the fight had been drained. Twenty-two of the thirty brigands lay slaughtered across a little more than a league.

  “Do you suppose that is the last we’ll see of them?” Dorl asked. He was still in mild shock from what they had done. He, Nothol, and Boen butchered their enemies without remorse. And for what? All for the revenge of one man, a man who happened to be one of the first ones killed before anyone had left Praeg.

  Boen shrugged. “It is hard to tell. We bloodied their noses well enough to make most men quit. They might have given up or they could be on their way back with every man they can possibly find. Either way we should get back to Bahr.”

  “We should fleece the dead. Take what we need and leave the rest,” Nothol suggested.

  “Agreed.”

  The rest of the day passed uneventfully. Boen led them unerringly back along the trail the wagon had taken earlier. No one bothered to speak of events that had passed. Battles were only a small part of a greater saga being sung. Each felt they were being pushed into a direction beyond their control. Boen saw no problem, though he did constantly look back over his shoulder. They entered the camp less than an hour later.

  “It didn’t take long for them to lose heart,” Boen said between bites of roasted meat from a pheasant Dorl had managed to kill along the way back. The meat was juicy and, more importantly, it was hot.

  Boen’s explanation was enough for Bahr. He’d been through enough scrapes to know when not to ask questions. Both sell swords bore haunted looks. Whatever had happened, it was violent and messy.

  “None of their actions
make sense to me,” Anienam interjected.

  “Plenty of things on this trip haven’t made sense,” Boen countered.

  The wizard waved him off. “Think about it. Why were these villagers, who have already seen your battle prowess, so eager to throw away their lives? There must be more driving them on than simple revenge.”

  “Possibly, but what?” Bahr asked.

  “If I knew that the hairs on my neck would stand on end.”

  They finished eating in silence and broke camp. The mountains beckoned.

  NINETEEN

  Winter’s Kiss

  The first true storm of the year was heavy and hit during the night. Horse and rider were battered mercilessly as sheets of snow and ice drove into them. Bahr pushed the group harder. They’d been caught in the open and couldn’t afford to stop. Shelter was elusive and the storm worsened with time. He cursed. A sailor should have been able to read the weather better, but battle and fatigue distracted him. Hours into the worsening storm, Bahr decided to take a risk and send Dorl and Nothol ahead to scout the land. They had to find some sort of shelter or the whole group would freeze before dawn.

  Anienam aided him some. The wizard cast an old tracking spell that prevented the sell swords from getting lost in the snow. They glowed in a haunting shade of green to any friend that looked upon them. The pair exchanged dubious looks but left as Anienam began one of his minor rants. Two hours later they returned with good news. Shelter was less than a league away. The wagon ambled on and eventually arrived at a small copse of pine trees.

  “We couldn’t have done this in the middle of summer?” Dorl grumbled. He trembled from the cold. Not even the heat of their fire did much for him yet.

  Boen laughed. It sounded more of a bark than anything.

  Snow still in his grey hair, Bahr dropped an armful of wood and added another log to the fire. A quick look of their faces told him all he had missed.

  “What is Dorl complaining about this time?” he asked with a small smile.

  The sell sword held up his hands in defeat. “I need new friends.”

  “He thinks it is too cold,” Boen said, stifling a yawn.

  Bahr shook his head. “This is nothing. I can tell you stories about being on the deep ocean in the middle of winter. Compared to that, it hasn’t even begun to get cold yet.”

  “This is my kingdom,” Dorl bit back. “I know when I’m cold. This is cold.”

  Boen laughed again. Winter had only just begun and the tiny band hadn’t made it into the foothills yet. Boen knew winter as well. He cared less about the elements than for the enemy. The Gaimosian had fought in the desert, under the triple canopy of the jungle, and here in the frozen northlands. Each terrain possessed unique challenges and hardships and he cared for none. But war was war and he went where the combat was.

  “If my skin was the same as old leather, I would be just as comfortable as you, Gaimosian,” Dorl told him.

  “I doubt it,” Bahr answered before Boen had the chance to grow angry. “Besides, you are the humor on this trip. We need that.”

  Dorl bobbed his head slightly. “Humor. I’m going to try and get some sleep.”

  “Try not to freeze,” Boen chided with a grin.

  “We are all going to die anyway,” Ionascu snorted from the back of the wagon.

  They looked up at the hastily constructed shelter on the wagon bed. The broken man lay buried beneath a swath of bearskin cloaks. A wild look entertained his usually lifeless eyes, as if he knew a secret no one else did.

  Boen pointed a dagger at him. “Mind your tongue, old man. I’d forgotten you were among us. Let us keep it that way.”

  Ionascu laughed at him. “You don’t understand a thing do you?”

  “Understand what? That you are quickly proving to be useless?”

  “This is merely a diversion. Harnin won’t stop. We already died back in those cells.”

  Boen scoffed and sheathed his dagger. “You are insane. Bahr, we should not have wasted our time bringing him.”

  “He may yet be of some use to us. He knows Harnin better than I ever did. That knowledge will come in handy if the one-eyed bastard is still after us.”

  “I’ll believe that when it happens,” Boen remained unconvinced.

  Bahr looked back at Ionascu. He had no pity. The man plotted to kill them all from the very beginning and only changed his mind after being betrayed. Ionascu held the potential to be a powerful ally with his knowledge or a terrible foe with his silence. Bahr couldn’t take the chance.

  “Help us,” he asked.

  Ionascu glared at him sharply and buried himself in the cloaks.

  Boen grunted again. “Let me know when you want him dead. I can dump the body in a ravine and no one will be the wiser.”

  “Maybe later,” Bahr countered.

  The Gaimosian shook his head, ill with the decision. “Whatever you say. Don’t make me regret this later though. The mad are just as dangerous as traitors.”

  “We’ll be fine with or without him. Argis is the one we need to worry about. Hopefully he can get to the underground and keep Harnin busy.”

  * * * * *

  Joefke watched from the protective cover of darkness. The city patrol marched past without noticing him or the others. Their grey and black furs hid their bronze armor plates and sword belts. Not a one of the six guards appeared alert. Twenty men and women, all loyal citizens of Delranan, hid alongside Joefke. They were eager to get any measure of revenge on Harnin’s men. Joefke frowned. Matters had not progressed the way Argis and the council envisioned since the raid on the arms locker. More than fifty rebels had been captured or killed through a series of strategic raids. People said the screams could be heard deep into the night.

  “There’s only six,” Amendeas hissed.

  Joefke kept from smiling. The youth Amendeas was eager, an eagerness that had left Joefke. There’d been too many deaths for him to find any excitement in this task.

  “Quiet, there may be more,” he whispered.

  Amendeas shot him a foul look. “They killed our friends.”

  “They will kill us if you don’t shut your mouth.”

  The sudden call of a night raven jarred their nerves. Joefke looked up to the second floor window of the chandlery down the street. A single candle flamed to life. The enemy patrol was entering the ambush area. Joefke felt his heart quicken. It was time. He drew his sword and moved. Half of his force split off and sprinted down the alley while he took the rest and followed the patrol. Timing was everything. They had the numbers, but the patrol had the training. Only by attacking from three directions at once could he hope to defeat the patrol. Those the archers haven’t already killed or wounded. Startled cries announced the beginning of the fight. Joefke cursed and pushed his men into a sprint.

  They arrived in time to prevent the patrol from escaping, if barely. Four guards ran into them, eager to flee the hail of arrows behind them. Joefke’s rebels fell upon them with unmetered enthusiasm. Though surprised, the patrol was comprised of seasoned professionals. Once the initial shock wore off, they attacked. Joefke ducked under a wild swing and brought his own sword up. Steel sank into flesh. The soldier grunted and fell dead.

  Joefke looked for another target, but the battle was already over. With their sergeant dead, the other guards quickly became disorganized and fell apart. The rebels cut them down without skill. Only one of the rebels lay dead. Joefke walked over to the body and turned him on his back. Sadness welled in him. Amendeas lay skewered on a guard’s sword. Light blue eyes stared up accusingly.

  Joefke knelt down and gently closed the boy’s eyes. “Get his body out of here. He deserved better. The rest of you take the weapons and armor. More soldiers will be on their way. Hurry.”

  “Six dead and we lost one,” Joefke replied. His voice was distant, withdrawn.

  Argis, hands steepled in front of his face, offered a sympathetic look. All of the differences between them had been settled after their first
skirmish together. “When was the last time you got some rest?”

  “Last night.” Joefke was taken off guard by the randomness of the question. How could anyone think about sleep after one of their friends had just been killed? The concept of war was still as harsh as it was alien to him. He didn’t understand the unfeeling nature of it.

  Argis nodded. “Go and get some sleep. You and your men did well tonight.”

  “Thank you, but it doesn’t change the fact that Amendeas is dead.”

  Argis watched him go and sighed. The rebellion was taking a heavy toll on them all, the young most of all. Joefke appeared to have aged decades over the last month. His shoulders slumped and deep creases lined the corners of his eyes. Defeat was not far away. It was up to Argis to figure out how to keep it from happening.

  “Damnation,” he muttered.

  The elder noble eased over to where a detailed map of the city hung on the wall. The chamber was small, befitting their clandestine activities. A single, round window barely allowed enough light in for the leaders to see by. A pair of torches burned on the far wall near the doorway. The floor was coated with dust. Ragged cobwebs clung to the corners, the spiders long since gone. This was the command center, a far cry from the polished wooden halls of Chadra Keep.

  Argis studied the map, doing his best to forget how far he had fallen. The city polarized quickly once first blood was drawn. The burning of the iconic Dragon’s Bane as well as Bahr’s estate fueled a budding rage. The people were not happy. Half supported the rebellion while the rest stayed loyal to the throne. Stalemate gripped them all and the body count continued to rise. Argis reluctantly admitted that his best efforts to avoid an all-out confrontation were failing.

  Fenning, an elderly farmer and council leader, entered the chamber. “You seem troubled tonight.”

  Argis nodded. “Matters are not progressing as I had hoped.”

  “Wars are fickle. There is no way to control what happens over the course of one,” Fenning replied. He gathered his brown robes and sat closest to the map.