The Steel Lord: Book 01 - BannerFall

by Jason McWhirter

  Tangar was looking at him, this time his eyes reflected something different…maybe surprise, or even respect. “Good. You have fight. You will need it. And no try to break bonds. Leather thick and wrapped around strong rope. You not break.”

  The next day began with a chance for Brant to escape. But, as fortune would have it, he would not be so lucky. It wasn’t yet an hour into their travels when they were confronted by four men who were hiding behind one of the few copses of trees growing sporadically throughout the steppes. The morning, although brisk, was warming quickly as the waking sun’s rays sought the cool air, gently massaging it with a rising heat. Neither Brant nor Tangar missed the morning light reflected off the surface of drawn swords.

  “What do we have here?” a bearded man said as he stepped out from the trees to stand in front of Tangar holding a pitted long sword casually over his shoulder. Tangar pulled on the reins and his horse stopped ten paces from him. The brigand wore mismatched leather armor, scratched, rusty and dusty, mirroring his own worn and disheveled appearance. The three others looked similar. Two brandished long swords while the third held a spear.

  “Looks like a dirty shit eatin’ Schulg,” the man holding the spear sneered. His straight dark hair was trimmed short and he was unremarkable looking except for his large crooked nose, which looked as if it had been broken more than once, and not set correctly, if at all.

  Tangar, without a word, dismounted and stepped forward away from his steed. His horse stood completely still. Brant, secured to the packhorse which was tied behind Tangar’s horse, watched curiously. He was hoping that maybe they would kill Tangar and release him; after all he had nothing they would want.

  The bearded man lifted his sword off his shoulder and pointed it at Tangar. “Hold on there Schulg,” he said, practically spitting out the last word as if it were a bad taste in his mouth. Clearly these thieves did not hold the Schulg in high regard. “Don’t move another muscle.” Tangar obeyed, stopped before him, but Brant noticed his hand casually dropping to the hilt of his blade. “Who is that tied up?”

  Finally Tangar spoke. “Prisoner. Step aside and you not die.”

  The man with the spear looked at their leader with mock surprise and both started laughing. That was when Tangar attacked. Brant wasn’t expecting it, and neither were the brigands. Rushing forward the nomad drew his sword in one fluid motion, the mirror-like blade flashing in the sun as it took the astonished spear holder in the arm, cutting it cleanly in two. He fell screaming as Tangar continued his movement forward, his sword flashing as he blocked and cut, spinning and moving through the three men like a hummingbird. At least that’s how it appeared to Brant as he watched the Schulg nomad dispatch each of the other three men, dancing from one to another like a hummingbird to the flowers. Brant was stunned at how quickly it had all happened. Within moments three were dead and the one that had lost his arm was still screaming on the ground.

  Tangar wiped his blade clean on the shirt of the dead leader and casually walked back to Brant, ignoring the man whose howls were now becoming whimpers as he grabbed at the stump that was once his arm, trying in vain to stop the bleeding. He mounted his horse and they moved forward, the jerk of the rope snapping Brant out of his shocked immobility. They trotted by the dying man without a word.

  The next three days were a monotonous blur, during which the nomad had spoken maybe ten words to him the entire time. They walked, ate, drank water, and slept. Brant was tired, but the trek wasn’t grueling. The worst part, however, was the leather straps around his wrists. His sweat had soaked into the leather and during the day the sun would dry the bonds, and despite the supposed metal core, the leather shrunk some and cut into his flesh. By the end of the third day he could barely feel his fingers.

  Finally they arrived at a Schulg village. Hundreds of tents, that looked very similar to the bilts he was used to, were scattered across a flat plain. One end of the settlement was sheltered by an outcropping of rock. A small stream flowed around the huge stone outcropping and meandered through the village. Small bonet trees peppered the area. At full growth they were only as tall as two men, but their splayed branches, thick with tiny green leaves, spread out as wide as they were tall, providing shade for their animals.

  It was mid-day when they had arrived and Brant was first paraded through town before they finally stopped at one of the bilts, a tent-like structure similar to what they used in the mining towns. Brant got the feeling that he was being presented to the village, and that their stares were somehow appraising him, for what he had no idea. The bilt had been set up along the western edge of the rock outcropping. The roof of the structure was made of animal hides stitched together and smeared with some sort of fat or oil for weather proofing. The base of the bilt was formed with rocks stacked up to form a round wall that was about as tall as an adolescent child. There were hundreds of Schulg about, performing their afternoon tasks, chopping wood, tending to their horses, and preparing food for their suppers. Most of the villagers looked up from their tasks, briefly looking at Brant as they walked by, seemingly unconcerned that a stranger was being escorted into the village with his hands bound and tied to a leash.

  Tangar removed the rope from Brant’s neck and shoved him into the bilt. Stumbling through the opening, Brant moved away from the nomad, backing up against the far wall of the structure. The interior was simple. The floor was dirt, but much of it was covered with animal hides. There was an unlit fire pit in the middle of the room and on one end was a pile of furs, probably Tangar’s bed. There were three wood tables covered with odds and ends, cooking utensils, knives, cups and other utilitarian possessions. Near the fur bedding was a weapons rack. It was mostly empty except for a bow and quiver, one curved sword, and a belt with a long knife. Tangar removed the quiver holding his bow and arrows from his shoulder and laid it against the weapons rack. Next came his sword, which he placed onto two pegs that held the sword upright. The only visible weapon that he now carried was his knife.

  “Sit,” Tangar ordered, pointing to a pile of furs near the fire ring.

  Brant sat down on the furs while Tangar went about preparing a fire. Once it was lit, he tossed Brant the water skin and sat opposite him.

  “You fight for me,” he said again, his Newain choppy but understandable.

  Brant shook his head, not understanding him. “What do you mean?”

  “Schulg villages fight other villages. We win,” he said pointing to himself, “we make coin. You fight for me.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  The nomad smiled. “Then fighter kill you. I find new fighter.”

  “I have to do this for a year?”

  The nomad smiled again. “No, as long as I say.”

  Brant had a feeling there was no such agreement. “I am your slave?” he asked, knowing the answer.

  “Yes.” Brant looked over at the weapons on the rack. Tangar noticed his glance. “Go,” he grunted. “Grab weapon.” Brant new he was taunting him.

  Tangar stood up and slid the knife from a scabbard at his side. Moving next to him, Brant eyed the silver blade with uncertainty. But Tangar motioned for him to put out his hands, which after a few moments he did, the desire to rid himself of the constraining bonds overriding any fear of the blade. Several flashes later and his hands were free. Immediately the blood rushed back to his fingers and his hands burned from the pain. Rubbing them, he slowly massaged the pain away until normal feeling returned to them while the nomad returned to his seat.

  “What do I fight with?”

  “Start with fists. Move to weapons. I train you so you don’t die. I make money.”

  “Who determines the winner?”

  “Winner not dead.”

  Brant had a feeling he was going to say that. “Where do I sleep?”

  “Not here. Outside village. I take you in morning. I make food now.” With that, Tangar stood and went about preparing supper. Brant looked about and noticed that very little light was shining th
rough the cracks between the leather flaps that blocked the entrance to the bilt. It must be getting dark. He knew he had to try to escape. There was no way he was going to fight for him. He would be killed. Now he knew what Borgan and Thea were yelling about when he was dragged out of town. They knew he would be thrown into the ring and more than likely killed. He had suspected that the magistrate had something like this planned for him, and sure enough, he was right.

  Tangar was paying him little attention as he went about preparing the meal. Brant figured that if he ran for it that he might be able to escape into the night. He did have an advantage. Tangar had no knowledge of his Aurit abilities. Maybe he could kill Tangar, or knock him out, and escape the village with no one else the wiser.

  He glanced over at the weapons rack. The closest weapon to him was the belt knife. It appeared to have a bone handle of some sort. The blade was long, about the size of his forearm. Brant was a little worried though. His wrists were sore and his fingers were still tingling from the loss of circulation. If he couldn’t hold onto the knife then he would have to resort to his fists. He was confident there, but he knew Tangar had a knife and his altercation with him a few days ago showed that he was no stranger to combat. He would have to take him quickly.

  Taking a deep breath, he pushed aura energy into his legs and launched forward, reaching the knife quickly. But as fast as he was, Tangar was ready. In fact it looked as if he had been expecting the move the entire time. He spun with lightning speed as Brant lunged at him with the knife. But before he could reach the nomad, something struck Brant in the shoulder, causing him to stumble backwards. Brant looked down at his shoulder. A small knife was buried into it, no more than an inch in depth. But despite the relative superficiality of the wound, the stinging pain of it dropped him to his knees. He hadn’t even seen the nomad move.

  “It poison. Don’t worry, won’t kill. Just hurt.”

  Brant withdrew the knife and fell back on his haunches, the pain lancing through his body in what felt like stabbing electrical pulses. Tangar was right. It did hurt, a lot. Groaning with pain, Brant fell to his side, holding onto his shoulder and wishing the pain would go away. “How long…will…it…last?”

  “Half the night. You very fast. That is good. We eat soon.” Then Tangar went back to preparing the meal, ignoring the sounds coming from Brant as he tried unsuccessfully to shut out the pain.

  Tangar was right. About halfway through the night, Brant’s pain began to gradually subside and he was able to finally fall into a fitful sleep. The morning came too quickly, however, and after a quick meal of cooked oats and water, Brant was taken to another location outside the village. He felt tired and his body ached. He assumed it was due to lack of sleep, residual poison, or both.

  It took them an hour to get there and when they arrived Brant was greeted by a strange sight. A huge creature, easily two heads taller than he was, was stacking large stones from one pile to another. He was shirtless and wore only tan leather leggings. Three giant hounds sat nearby watching the beast move the stones. Behind the creature was a small cliff face, dominated by a cave entrance.

  Brant pulled up short, eyeing the creature with uncertainty. The beast, if that’s what it was, lowered a huge stone, squatting to use its massive legs to add the stone to the pile. Looking up, Brant made eye contact with it. The thing looked human, more or less, but was much bigger, and its skin was a light shade of mossy green. Brant could see that its eyes were green as well, though a brighter shade, almost iridescent. The beast’s large forehead was hairless all the way to the crown, at which point a thick mane of long coarse brown hair grew, tumbling in disarray down to the middle of its muscular back. Its features were human-like, but its eyes were a little wider apart than normal, and its head was disproportionately large for his body. But the most unique feature was its wide mouth which reached almost ear to ear. Dark green lips framed rows of small sharp teeth making it look ferocious.

  Brant’s attention was then directed to the three hounds, as each one stood, growling ominously as they entered the clearing. Tangar shouted something in Schulg and they immediately quieted, lying back down and watching the big creature. Each hound was nearly as big as a mule and their thick fur grew in hues of gray, with streaks of brown and gold highlighting their flanks. Brant could see how it would provide perfect camouflage when hunting the grasslands of the steppes, which he figured they would be quite adept at.

  “Move,” Tangar Grunted, pushing him toward the beast. “Gar’gon!” Tangar shouted into the cave. Immediately a large nomad ran from the opening carrying a long leather whip. He was big, round in the belly with a large head. His head was shaved except for a long thick tail at the crown tied with a leather strap. It hung to the middle of his back, flopping back and forth as he ran out to his master.

  Tangar yelled something to him in Schulg and they conversed for a few moments. Then Tangar went and stood next to the creature. It was then that Brant noticed the long scars that covered its arms and chest, some red and raised, clearly recent results of Gar’gon’s vicious looking whip. But what really stood out were the five sigils that had been burned into its flesh, the scar tissue slightly raised and puffy. Each was about the size of a child’s fist and uniquely different, spanning his wide muscular chest.

  “This is Uln,” Tangar said, addressing Brant. “He fight for me.”

  “What is he?” Brant asked.

  “I Varga,” Uln said, its voice a deep throaty baritone. He spoke in stinted Newain. “You are?”

  Brant was surprised that he could speak. He looked so animalistic. “I’m Brant. What is a Varga?”

  Uln snorted. Brant wasn’t sure if it was a laugh, or if he was angry. “You Dy’ainian, me Varga.”

  Brant had never heard of the Varga. But that didn’t surprise him either. His knowledge of the world around him was limited to what he had heard or learned at the mine, and he had no formal education. Brant was impressed with the Varga’s size and he had a hard time imagining fighting him. “Will I have to fight him?” Brant asked Tangar.

  Tangar laughed. “You hope not. This is Gar’gon, help train you. These,” he said as he pointed to the hounds. “My pets. Called nygs. You run, they kill you. Understand?”

  Brant looked at the nygs warily. They were formidable looking animals and he had no doubt that he would not stand a chance against them. “Why is Uln moving rocks from one pile to another?”

  “For strength. You join him.”

  “I don’t think so.” Brant was obstinate, not quite ready to give in to the nomad.

  Tangar said something in Schulg and suddenly there was a loud snap, followed by excruciating pain flashing across Brant’s back. He stumbled forward catching his fall with his hands, which had again been tied. Then he felt big hands on his shoulders, lifting him easily to his feet.

  “Do not fight. Just do,” Uln said.

  Brant gritted his teeth against the pain as Tangar withdrew his knife and cut the bindings that bound his hands. The Schulg hadn’t used the same bindings as before, just a simple rope, cinched tight and expertly tied. “Move rocks. Now. Use arms and legs, not back.”

  Brant stared at the two piles, the huge rocks taunting him. He had to find a way to escape, he thought. As if they heard his thoughts, the nygs growled, their deep rumbles destroying any thoughts of escape, at least for the time being.

  For an entire month Brant was put through one grueling exercise after another. He moved stones, ran for hours while the dogs nipped at his heels, swung big steel rods into trees, strengthening his arms and grip. But the worst exercise involved a steep grueling hill, buckets, and sharp blades. The hill was a short run from camp. Hammered into the hillside was a well-worn trail, dug deep by the constant and tedious foot traffic up and down the slope. Merely climbing the hill would be easy. But he was forced to carry two buckets laden with stones. And attached to his bicep, wrapping all the way around his arm, was a metal band with a blade as long as his forearm attached to
it, pointing straight down. The goal was to lift the buckets holding his arms out wide, while keeping the knife points away from the flesh at his sides. The exercise worked on core, shoulder, and grip strength. As soon as his arms lowered from fatigue, the knife points cut into his flesh. If he dropped the buckets, Gar’gon’s whip flashed, causing more pain than the blades. He was forced to do this exercise three times a day. As he grew stronger, more rocks were added to the bucket. Uln had started off with his buckets completely filled to the top with heavy stones. But no matter how strong one became, sheer exhaustion would eventually prevail, and the buckets would lower. The resultant cut of the knife or lash of the whip would somehow provide enough incentive for one to stumble on, with steadfast determination, for another short distance,

  Tangar worked with them both, training them in the use of various weapons as well as hand to hand combat. They worked on punches, blocks, throws, as well as wrist locks and submission holds that brought Brant back to his fight with the warden. Now he understood what Bargos had done to him. Tangar was extremely skilled and incredibly fast, and Brant realized that he could learn a lot from him.

  However, during every second of his training Brant was trying to work out a way to escape. But the nygs were always there, watching them, their eyes taunting him to run. He was convinced they wanted an excuse to devour his flesh. A month into the training, Brant began to realize that he had better take Tangar’s lessons seriously if he wanted to survive. If he couldn’t escape, he would soon find himself in the ring where he would have to kill or be killed. He really had no choice until an avenue for escape presented itself. In the meantime he worked his body harder than he ever had. He grew stronger, faster, and became a better swordsman. Along with the sword he learned how to use spears, axes, hammers, and a Schulg weapon called an oswith, which had two blades with a handle in the center. From the handle, the blade, sharpened on one side, extended in both directions. Near the point, the razor edge continued a hand span on the other side before melding into the back of the weapon. When one grasped the leather wrapped handle, the blade jutted forward the length of a short sword, curving up at the end. In the other direction the blade covered the forearm, curving a hand length past the elbow. It was a very unique design. One could use the blade as a shield, blocking attacks with one’s protected forearms. Offensive moves came from jabbing or slicing left and right like a normal sword. If a warrior fought with two oswiths, which the nomads generally did, he could block and attack at the same time. Anyone trained thus in the use of this weapon could become a deadly adversary.