Blackguards

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Blackguards Page 63

by J. M. Martin


  As Redshat had said, very like his own.

  #

  When the benediction was complete, Odius Khan lowered himself to the saddle of his warbull and led the ork lords in a line down the center of the Black Army, which opened to receive them. The orks rose and hastened out of his way, clearing his path, yet straining to reach across the entourage of marching janissaries and touch his knee as he rode past, like pilgrims venerating. He cradled the helm of the Iron King in his elbow and reached down from his mount to touch the heads and squeeze the hands of his soldiers.

  Then his bull stopped short, and snorted.

  A single ork obstructed his path. No, not quite an ork. It was one of these half-caste, fatherless muttwhelps, with the unnatural eyes of a human, so unnerving in the otherwise handsome, olive green face of an ork. The tusks were not so prominent either. Another way to tell a pureblood from one of these pitiful, corrupted bastards. He was dressed in a dirty woven blue shirt of human make, and a boiled leather hauberk and greaves. There was a heavy black iron cleaver in his fist, the hand and a half handle of plain oak.

  A little black goblin clutched his knee with one arm and dug deep in his nose with the tip of his finger.

  Odius gave his spurs to his bull and urged the lumbering animal forward.

  The muttwhelp put up his open hand and stopped the warbull with an insistent shove that made the animal snort.

  Several orks stepped forward, cursing, to pull him out of the Khan’s way.

  The muttwhelp mashed one’s nose with the butt end of his weapon and kicked another in the balls. When the offended ork dropped to his knees, groaning, the muttwhelp put his foot to his face and kicked him away.

  A third ork tried to intervene unseen from behind, but the little goblin spun with a snarl and drew an elbow spur across the back of his leg, leaving him howling and rolling in the mud.

  The muttwhelp stared up at Odius, saying nothing.

  “Stand aside, muttwhelp!” he commanded.

  The half-ork said nothing, but unhooked something from his belt and let it uncoil to the ground like a long black snake.

  “Father Khan,” said the ork. “This is yours. I return it to you.”

  With that, he pulled back his arm, and the whip cut the air. It lashed around his throat, the cruel popper winding around and splitting his upper lip.

  In the next moment he was pulled from his saddle, and landed with a crash and a huff of surprise in the mud.

  #

  Mogarth held the Khan at the end of the whip like a dog on a leash. He waited till the stunned Odius, his mouth awash in blood, got slowly to his feet.

  The janissaries moved in, growling unintelligibly, brandishing their weapons, and behind them the ork soldiers leapt and bellowed, but the Khan held up his hand and they all halted.

  Odius drew the single-edged yatagan at his side and cut the offending whip away with one swipe.

  Mogarth circled the Khan, warily checking to see that none of the janissaries swept in to intervene. The mud sucked at his boots.

  “Do you think to challenge me, you miserable castoff nothing?” The Khan laughed.

  “Here, great father,” said Mogarth, holding up the handle of the whip. “You forgot the rest.”

  He tossed it lightly across the distance, and the Khan snatched it out of the silver slashed air. He was about to fling it down when he glanced at the silver handle. Then he stopped short, and turned it over in his hand. He snorted and looked at Mogarth appraisingly.

  “I left this trifle knotted around a pinkskin whore’s throat a long time ago.” He grinned and patted the whip at his side. “I’ve replaced them both since,” he said.

  Mogarth’s fingers flexed about the cleaver handle, trembling at the slight to his mother.

  The Khan opened his hand and let the handle roll from his palm into the mud. “Bastards are due no birthright,” he said.

  Mogarth shook his head, his lip curling, baring his tusks. His fingers flexed on his cleaver.

  “It’s not your birthright I want.”

  The Khan nodded. He turned to the janissaries, and for a moment, Mogarth expected him to give the order to kill him.

  “This rape-spawn is mine,” he said.

  The Khan whirled and rushed in, eager to end the fight with a swift downward stroke.

  Mogarth slipped the attack and landed a blow on the Khan’s back that rang against his armor.

  Odius growled his frustration and spun. The Khan’s sword whistled just over Mogarth’s head as he came in chopping with his heavy blade. He dented the golden armor and broke the chain mail between the Khan’s neck and shoulder, sending blood trickling over the bright cuirass.

  Odius kicked Mogarth’s leg out from under him, and he stumbled back. The Khan slashed his arm and caught him again on the backswing, his sharp sword cutting into his hauberk and ploughing a shallow furrow in the belly beneath.

  Mogarth groaned and batted away the Khan’s stabbing sword. He gave ground, defending. The Khan hammered furiously away at him.

  A few swipes landed glancing strikes, and Mogarth answered with quick, clanging blows against that impenetrable armor, the two of them fighting back and forth, slipping in the mud, sending it spraying all around them.

  No one cheered, no one shouted. The Black Army stood stark still. Even the Ork Lords and the janissaries made no move.

  Mogarth didn’t know why those sworn to protect the Khan were not attacking, or why the droves of fanatic and undisciplined hero worshippers behind were allowing him to cross swords with their deity. He supposed the Khan’s word really was absolute. If a blow came from some unexpected quarter or an arrow flew out of the crowd and struck him down, so be it. Mogarth had enough to worry about.

  Their weapons clashed and locked together, exerting all effort each against the other, but there was no yielding in either of them. The face of the older ork was close, his skin beaded with sweat, his blood red eyes slits alight in his face, snout huffing excitedly.

  The face of his father, straining to kill him.

  Mogarth threw his head forward and swiped his tusks across Odius’ face, ripping the Khan’s left cheek wide open to the eye.

  The Khan stumbled back, shaking the blood from his face.

  Mogarth leapt at him, driving him down for all he was worth, frantic, landing a shuddering blow for every scar on his mother’s back.

  Odius Khan fell to one knee, jamming his own sword into the dirt to keep from pitching over.

  Mogarth started in low and swung upward. His heavy blade broke through the Khan’s lower jaw and struck it off. It turned high into the air, trailing his tusks and broken teeth with a splash of blood.

  Odius fell forward on his hands and knees, blood pouring from the grievous wound, his tongue hanging and twitching down where once it had nestled in the bottom of his mouth.

  Mogarth kicked him on his side.

  Odius rolled on his back in the mud. The rainwater had flattened his hair to his skull.

  Mogarth bled from a half dozen cuts, but the bright crimson washed away as fast as it streamed out of him.

  Odius gagged and shook his head, blood pooling and bubbling in his throat. His eyes rolled and darted wildly, and in them Mogarth read his befuddlement at this strange defeat from so unexpected a quarter at the pinnacle of his greatest triumph.

  The Khan looked up at the gray sky, blinked, tried to breathe, gargling and choking.

  Mogarth thought again of his mother and their myriad sufferings. He thought of the gobbos he had led to death. He lifted his blade and split his father’s face and the skull beneath it.

  He straightened then, fully expecting the horde to close in upon him like a ravenous mouth, too tired to fight them anymore.

  But the orks all shuffled in place, looking at him expectantly.

  The janissaries were impassive in their armor.

  The ork lords looked at each other. One turned his mount, and slowly plodded off to the north.

  A s
lew of orks broke rank and followed him. Members of his tribe.

  Another headed east, back toward the now smoldering plains, the inferno that had been Daroosh diminished beneath the increasing patter of the rain. The previously raging fire of Crossbow Hollow, too, was withering.

  Another followed the first. Another went south, both with their respective hordes. The ogres and the crag trolls wandered off toward the hills, jostling each other as they went, spreading out, preferring solitude to each other’s company. Each of the janissaries went his own way.

  None went down into the Golden Lap.

  Like a wheel without its hub, the spokes scattered to the eight directions.

  Mogarth stood over the dead Khan and watched them all go.

  Something tugged the bottom of his hauberk.

  It was Redshat.

  “We go now, Boss?”

  Mogarth lifted the goblin onto his shoulders.

  #

  To the west, Admiral Athkabode paced the rolling deck of his red sailed flagship and watched the rain washed coast impatiently.

  In her black pavilion on the blood-glutted fields of Bantilloy, the Witch Queen smashed her scrying mirror into a thousand shards and collapsed onto her pale, unicorn hide setee in an exasperated rage.

  Her generals in the command tent listened nervously to the reports of their scouts and her soldiers watched the rising dust in the far north with dread and wondered about their reinforcements.

  They glanced at their mistress’ silent pavilion and waited anxiously for word.

  Any word.

  #

  Mogarth and Redshat rode down into the Valley of the Golden Lap, hunched under the drizzling rain on a dead ork lord’s warbull.

  Its tail swished idly.

  The Lonesome Dark

  Anthony Lowe

  Anthony Lowe is a writer from Turlock, California, who, after working as a waiter and bartender for nearly a decade, is presently a full-time student working towards his B.A. degree in English Literature. He has been writing consistently for many years, but only recently attempted to get his work published. During lulls in classwork, he is given to gaming, writing obsessively, and scouring local used bookstores for novels he should probably get around to reading at some point.

  ~

  There was a storm beating at the windows, and Evaline Cartwright wondered if one death would be enough to stop it.

  “Not sure why you even bothered telling me if I never had a choice in the matter.” John Wilbur paced the length of his bedroom, sweat building on his forehead. Even in the flickering candlelight, Evaline could see the man's eyes paying special attention to the exits. “You've got no right, merc.”

  “No, you see, that's where you're wrong,” Evaline replied, easing herself down onto the bed. “I've got every right.”

  “You heard what the mayor said!”

  “That doesn't matter, John. None of that matters.” She removed her wide brim hat and set it upside down on the blanket chest. “I'm telling you because I'd like for things to be different. I'm letting you say goodbye.”

  “You heard the mayor! It was self-fucking-defense!”

  “None of that matters,” she repeated much more firmly this time. “Not to me, anyway.”

  Mr. Wilbur looked at the door again. His face was bright red and his eyes were bloodshot. “He was trespassing on my land. I have every right to protect my property and my family. He could've been a wicker.”

  Evaline had to laugh. Finally, she could speak her mind. “For what reason would a wicker ever have to come this far north? Longrove's a nice town, but it's not that nice.” She cleared her throat. “'Sides, most of the plants they use for their rituals can't grow here. And a wicker without some singroot to channel auras is just an average nothing with bad tattoos and worse teeth.”

  “I...” Wilbur's resolve was receding into grim acceptance. His hands started trembling. “He could've been…”

  “What's really funny about this whole thing is the Sharath are actually a very passive bunch. If you'd ever bothered to know one before killing 'em, you'd know that. They've taken it up the aft from us for so long, they've adopted an odd policy of indifference they're all sworn to follow. After all, their First Life begins in the spirit world, right?”

  She pulled back her duster, revealing a six-slug revolver and battered sword. “But once you clip off a 'rath's clan bracelet, their way to the spirit world is lost, and they're forced to wander endless roads forever. And that's a lot worse than murder in their eyes, John. Even still, they might have given you a pass, but I'm not.”

  “Do you hear yourself?” he pleaded. “Spirit worlds and endless roads. You're gonna kill me over heretical 'rathian bullshit like that?”

  “Yeah… Well, no. I'm gonna kill you because I had to haul that young Sharath's body all the way into the ass-end of Westfarleigh because of you. On top of that, you clipped off his clan bracelet, probably because you're a simpleton and thought it looked like gold. Bolt cutters are the only way to remove them, you know, and I saw the little slice you made. Like you were actually thinking of hacking his hand off to get at it.

  “You crossed the line between murder and desecration—and you inconvenienced me greatly—so now I'm gonna kill you, John Wilbur.”

  “Fuck you.”

  Evaline stood and Wilbur took a step back. “You're on my time now,” she said. “I'm giving you a chance to say goodbye to your family. If you don't wanna do that, I will gladly leave your headless corpse in this room for your kids to find.” She ran a finger along the hilt of her sword. “And won't that be a cherished memory?”

  #

  The Sharath burial rituals last for seven days, and the Fires of Tan'shar continue to burn until the next full moon, when they are finally snuffed out. It's only then that the journey of the departed concludes, their spirit peaceably birthed into the First Life and the presence of their ancestors.

  Evaline covered the young Sharath's body with a dirty tarpaulin, watching as the collective torchlight of the small crowd played across its surface, giving the illusion that the dead had not yet passed on—and noticing the complete lack of a clan bracelet, that was almost certainly the truth. There would be no birth into the First Life for this boy, no ancestors to greet him. Only long roads and diseased forms conjured from fading memories.

  She met the eyes of the Wilbur family, took note of their complete lack of remorse, and then pressed away through the barley to meet with the mayor and his wife.

  The two were huddled around a lantern, their backs to the scene. The mayor was quietly dictating something while his wife, still dressed in her bath robe, carefully copied the words down onto a piece of parchment.

  Evaline thought it odd that the couple would know to bring a stationary set out here to the outskirts. As if they'd known they would be writing an apology to the nearest Sharath commonage.

  She sighed, quietly amending herself. Of course they'd known.

  “The city of Longrove offers its heartfelt condolences,” the mayor continued, “and a pledge to provide monetary reimbursement as well as any goods that will be required for the burial services.” He took a moment to ponder any further words, but just ended up shaking his head. “Sincerely, Johnathan Meeker. Mayor of Longrove.”

  “Very good,” Mrs. Meeker replied. “I think it turned out nicely, dear.”

  “Really? I feel like something could've been added at the end, you know? Don't want it to sound too official.”

  “Don't want it to sound too personal, neither. You know how they get.”

  “True, very true.” The mayor took up the parchment and rolled it up. “Terrance Dankin comes down from Mariposa with a new story about the commonage every season. It's a wonder we have any treaties still standing.”

  He handed the letter to Evaline, along with a small pouch of what would be silver coins. Evaline knew the drill. “Get going tonight if you can,” said the mayor. “It'll be better for everyone if you were on their roads
before the week's end.”

  “Everyone,” Evaline echoed, fixing the mayor with a stare.

  The mayor nodded in the direction of the body. “Save for the departed, of course. Goes without saying.”

  “What are you going to do about them?”

  “Receiving the body should be enough. I've never known them to push for anything more than that.”

  “I meant the Wilburs,” she said, motioning to the family. “Am I carting John off to the lawkeeper?”

  “Oh my, no.” The mayor snickered a bit. “It's an open and shut case of self-defense, my dear girl. No need to wake old Daniels, though he'd tell you the same thing I'm telling you now. The grief will be enough for the Wilburs, I think.”

  Evaline felt the coin in her hand, but it just wasn't enough to keep her from speaking. “The 'rath had no weapons.”

  The mayor tilted an ear towards her. “Excuse me?”

  “I said the 'rath had no weapons on him, Meeker.”

  He shook his head. “I don't plan on arguing this point with you tonight, Miss Cartwright. What's done is done. Please get the body to the nearest Sharath commonage before one of their rangers comes looking for it. Will you do this for me?”

  A number of arguments breathed and died at Evaline's lips, all of which would've gotten her in the kind of trouble that would make living in Longrove a chore, possibly even dangerous. The Wilburs were friends of the mayor, and that was that. But she wondered how long that excuse would stay her hand.

  “I suppose you wouldn't like the 'raths to know about the Wilburs,” she said.

  “That goes without saying,” he replied, pointing to the letter. “That says he was killed in a fight with a thief, and that'll be the truth from here on out. The details don't matter. Correct?”

  Evaline forced a smile. “The very words I live by, Mr. Mayor.”

  “Excellent. Good travels to you, Miss Cartwright.”

  Evaline turned without another word and made for her horse, a small wagon already attached. She led it over to the body. “You mind?” she asked Mr. Wilbur. He nodded and helped her carry the covered body into the wagon. He didn't set his end down gently. “You said you didn't know he was a Sharath?”

 

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