Legends II

by Ian Whates

  A desperate dive carried the bandit away from Naldros’ sword, but not far enough to escape completely. The tip passed through jerkin, shirt and flesh, leaving a clean cut through all three. The brigand cried out and rolled away, slithering through the undergrowth like a serpent as Naldros followed up.

  A grunt of effort warned the priestess-knight to turn, a fraction of a heartbeat before a dagger rang from her right pauldron. Spinning, spear-tip a blur, she met the other bandit with a hand’s span of steel, plunging the lance head through his heart.

  Naldros was about to go after the wounded brigand but a cry from behind called her attention back to the main fight. She turned in time to see Gaitlin overpowered by three attackers, cut across the face and punctured in the chest by multiple spear and sword injuries. Suppressing a shout of anger, Naldros sprinted along the track to aid her beleaguered brothers and sisters.

  The way of Erod turned fighting into an art, and when more or less equally matched in number there were none that could contest with the holy knights of the order. The brigands were far more numerous, though, and simply rushed the priests, ganging up on them in fours and fives, heedlessly battering and slashing, overcoming speed and finesse with numbers and raw aggression. Already three of the priests were down, though perhaps four times that number of bandits had also been slain.

  A tall, lean man loomed over Karlia, battering a maul repeatedly into the knight’s head, turning his flat features into a bloody mess. Naldros drove her sword between the shoulder blades of the brigand but it was too late, Karlia was beyond saving. Leaping over his body the Castigator cut the legs from under another attacker, coming face-to-face with the heavily scarred face of Skaios. The Redeemer’s armour was splashed with crimson, some his own blood, some belonging to slain foes. The Redeemer’s eyes widened in warning and Naldros dodged just in time to elude a spear thrust from behind.

  She turned quickly, spear flashing out to open the man’s throat. A last reflex of dying muscles slashed the brigand’s spear toward Naldros’ gut, forcing her back a pace. She stumbled, seeing Skaios’ dead face as she fell backwards over the Redeemer’s corpse.

  Three outlaws converged on Naldros as she struggled to regain her feet, but not one of them made it to the priestess-soldier.

  Emerging from the anarchy loomed a massive warrior with thick furs over studded leather armour, a bastard sword in his hands chopping down the priests’ attackers. On his head was a simple basin helm, a row of spikes forming a crest along the top. Where the knight-monks had used guile and skill the newcomer ploughed a bloody furrow through the outlaws with raw strength and bullish determination.

  Naldros rolled to her feet as another brigand tried to skewer her with the tip of a spear. She used her foot lance to puncture the woman’s ankle. Tendons severed the bandit collapsed with a cry, the priestess’ sword rising to meet her chest as she fell.

  Without intent, the knight of Erod found herself by the side of the burly stranger, weapons at the ready. There were only a handful of outlaws left and a glance confirmed to Naldros what she had feared; her priestly companions all lay dead upon the track. The brigands eyed the two surviving fighters warily and then, without any word of agreement, turned and fled, disappearing amongst the rocks and shrubs.

  Stifling a cry of pain, the bandit Calgallun tried to get to his feet. He managed to roll sideways onto his knees and pulled himself up with the aid of a low branch. Panting heavily, he leaned against the tree. He could feel the warmth of blood slowly dribbling down his left leg from the wound in his side and as he tugged at his shirt the cloth stuck to his skin. Glancing down he saw a red stain spread from just under his lowest rib to above the hip and across his belly button.

  “Not good,” he muttered. He risked a glanced out to the road. There was one priestess still alive – the one that had come for him at the outset of the fight – and the unknown warrior. Everyone else was dead or had run away. The priestess looked towards the trees concealing Calgallun, head cocked to one side as if listening. “Not good at all.”

  The holy warrior started down the road towards him, the other man a step behind. The bandit pushed himself upright and tottered a few steps away from the road before his legs gave way, toppling him into the long grass. He crawled a few more paces until he felt a shadow fall over him.

  The priestess stood over Calgallun with stabbing blade poised. A moment before the sword descended the stranger appeared at the knight’s shoulder, one hand wrapping around her wrist.

  “Wait on a moment,” said the warrior. His voice was deep, with an accent from the northern provinces.

  The priestess did not move except to turn her head towards the fighter.

  “Wait?” There was a trace of an accent in the priestess’ voice too, from somewhere much further afield – Vasria, perhaps, or maybe even further east. This was at odds with dark skin that spoke of a different heritage. A former slave, perhaps. “I am the Castigator, it is my right and my duty to punish this murderer.”

  “Murderer?” sputtered Calgallun. “You killed more people than I did today. What gives you the right to condemn me, sister?”

  The priestess paused, eyes narrowing as she returned her attention to Calgallun.

  “It was you that attacked us,” she said. “This is vengeance for violence you initiated.”

  “I’ve surrendered!”

  “You have been caught. There is a difference.”

  Calgallun looked into the priestess’ face and saw no hint of mercy in her hard stare. The other warrior released his grip and stepped back.

  “The certainty of tyrants,” the stranger said, shaking his head. “I might expect better of a holy woman.”

  “He is already wounded, I would not expect him to survive the night,” said the priestess-knight.

  “So, a mercy, is it? If you might show such compassion to end his suffering, perhaps you might summon up enough to let him live.”

  “Why do you care so much about this filthy brigand? Your sword made short work of his companions.”

  “I recognise desperation, and I pity him. I spared those that ran away, and you can spare this one, surely.”

  “It doesn’t really matter,” said Calgallun. “You’re right, I’ll be dead afore nightfall unless someone stops this bleeding. And even then, we’ll all be dead afore sunrise.”

  “Really?” The priestess lowered her blade and knelt beside Calgallun. “That is an odd threat to make.”

  “Not a threat. Look around. You see where we are? Bleak Valley. This place is cursed. Worse, it’s haunted. Two travellers alone in these hills? You’ll be dead not long after me. “

  The priestess stood up, face twisted with a sour expression. “Myths, nothing more.”

  Calgallun grimaced as he sat up, feeling his shirt pulling at the dried blood scabbing on his wound. The priest’s gaze moved between Calgallun’s and the warrior, undecided.

  The outlaw was not wholly misguided. There was something about the Bleak Valley that felt wrong to Naldros. Few birds and fewer animals broke the still with their presence. The air was hotter than it should be, oppressive and close, though the sun had not once pierced the clouds. It was as if a storm was permanently on the verge of breaking, full of pent-up destructive energy not quite ready to be released.

  There was old power; what the heathens had called earth magic. There had been many sacrifices on those hilltop altars and the ground was steeped in the blood of those fallen in battle for control of the border passes.

  Naldros had little time for campfire tales, but the brigand had a point. Centuries of myth surrounded this place, and only so much could be attributed to exaggeration and time.

  “Three stand a better chance than two,” said the warrior who had arrived so unexpectedly. He extended a hand. “Call me Keldrik.”

  Naldros ignored the proffered handshake. The stranger made her wary, his motives unknown.

  “A timely intervention, for you to find us beset in such manner. What bus
iness brings a sword-wielder to the Bleak Valley? I might think that you are not such a lawful man yourself.”

  “I came across the tracks of the bandits this morning and thought I might be of service,” said Keldrik. “I admit that had you not been a lady of faith I might have sided with your attackers for a share of the spoils. As it is, I call it luck or fate, you might call it the will of the Creator.”

  “Your sword, show it to me,” said Naldros, sheathing her own and planting the butt of her spear in the dirt.

  Keldrik did as asked, drawing the long-bladed sword over his shoulder. The silver grip was fashioned as two serpents entwining, spitting heads jutting out as the crosspiece with emeralds for eyes. Naldros could feel the keen edge of the blade cutting the air, latent with energy. She reached out but the stranger pulled the sword away from his grasp.

  “A relic sword,” Naldros said quietly, admiring the craftsmanship. There were delicate runes engraved along the blood channel of the blade, in a language so old even Naldros could not read them. It was obvious that the weapon was the source of Keldrik’s ominous air.

  “Osdrik’s Fang,” Keldrik told them. He turned the blade one way and then the other, catching the light along its length. “Gifted to me by my father, and passed to him through the generations, bearing several names as took their owners’ fancy.”

  “Generations indeed,” said Naldros. “Such weapons were forged by the heathen ironmasters.”

  A cough and a groan drew their attention back to the bandit. His face was ashen, one hand holding the wound in his side, his other fist clenched in pain. Naldros fixed him with a stare.

  “Tell me, what brought you to a life of brigandage?” she asked.

  “I was outlawed by Lord Krieff’s marshal, DunFalcon. Just a labourer’s son, aged fourteen. He wanted our lands. I would have died if Leopard hadn’t taken me in. What did I know of hunting or surviving in the wilds?”

  “Your parents? Siblings?”

  The young man looked away. “Mother and father. They didn’t make it as far as Leopard’s salvation. My sisters, two of them, taken in service to the lord’s estate. Service? Bondage more like.”

  “If we had not been armed, would you have killed us anyway?”

  “No.” The brigand looked earnest as he shook his head. “No blood spilled of the defenceless. Leopard was a hard man but not a cruel one.”

  “Very well,” said Naldros, reaching a decision. “What is your name?”

  “Calgallun.”

  The other members of the shrine were dead. She was the last of their small but influential order. Naldros was not only Castigator, but now Chancellor, Armourer and, most pertinently, Redeemer. Had she not been accepted by the Redeemer when he had been brought in chains to the shrine, the blood of innocents on her hands?

  “I am Naldros.” She nodded to Keldrik. “Help him to the wagon.”

  The priest unlocked the gate of the armoured cart and pulled open the door.

  “See the treasures for which so many have given their lives,” Naldros told them.

  Held up by Keldrik, Calgallun peered inside the shadowed interior of the timbered frame. He thought to see strongboxes and chests, or perhaps ingots on shelves, but there were just a few sacks. Naldros used her spear to slit open one of the sacks. Red powder spilled forth, bringing with it a sweet fragrance.

  “Incense for the chapels at Derith and Gabordon.”

  “Worth much?” asked Calgallun.

  “Invaluable to us, as it has been blessed by the High Father at Cordoris. To the Unfaithful? Perhaps the same as its weight in grain.”

  The young bandit slumped in Keldrik’s grip, feeling weak at the thought.

  “Leopard had such big plans...” he moaned. “He told us there would be a lord’s ransom in here. Tithes and collections from chapels and shrines across the region. He was going to feed a dozen villages with this.”

  “Your leader was poorly informed,” said Naldros as she placed the spear to one side and pulled herself up into the wagon. She dug through a pile of smaller bags and boxes until she had retrieved a length of linen, a small box and a brown bottle. Jumping back to the track, she left the items just inside the door and retrieved her weapon.

  “Cleansing lotion, needle and thread, and bandage.” She looked at Keldrik. “You have the look of a man that has sewn a fair few wounds in his time.”

  “I can tend to him,” the warrior confirmed. “What are you going to do?”

  “I am going to give thanks,” Naldros replied.

  “For what?” Calgallun started to laugh but pain turned it into a harsh snarl.

  “My shrine-kin are dead. I am not. I should be thankful.”

  The priestess turned away from them, head bowed, and headed to the side of the road. Keldrik lowered Calgallun against one of the cartwheels and started pulling at the wounded man’s shirt.

  “Let’s have a look at this,” he said, glancing up towards the hills. “As you said, we need to be somewhere else come nightfall.”

  They had been walking steadily north for some time. Naldros had insisted that she would continue her journey to Derith; the incense had been abandoned but the missives she carried in her pack still needed to be delivered. She had scoffed at Calgallun’s talk of ghosts and haunted valleys and his pleas that they head south instead, and Keldrik had offered no argument.

  Despite her scepticism about the supernatural, it seemed to Naldros that the sky was darkening earlier than he would have expected for the time of year. The arid air had not cooled in the slightest and it left an odd taste in his mouth, as of old blood. They had passed through the narrowest part of the valley, the steep-sided gorge Calgallun called the Snare, but the valley on the other side was even more devoid of life than to the south.

  One thing had not changed. The hilltops were littered with ancient menhirs and the jagged remains of ruins. Naldros could feel the old power clinging to them, rising from the blood-soaked stoned as the sunlight waned.

  Keldrik led the way, a dozen paces ahead, head bowed and shoulders hunched as though he was dragging a burden. His head constantly moved as he looked left and right.

  “What do they claim haunts these hills?” the priestess asked.

  “The shades of traitors,” Calgallun replied. He limped along, one hand constantly holding his injury. He had relieved his former companions of bow and a quiver-full of arrows and these were now slung over his shoulder. “In the time afore the True Word came, the lands to the west belonged to King Naisar. The kingdom to the east was ruled by Osdrik.”

  “Osdrik?”

  “Yes, the same as your saviour’s sword is named after,” said the bandit. His words took on the tone of a storyteller reciting a well-worn tale. “These were contested lands, ruled by thievery and raiding as much as laws and taxes. One of Osdrik’s lieutenants betrayed his master to a general of Naisar’s army, failing to arrive for a battle that saw Osdrik’s banner fall and his rule shattered. The king survived the pursuit just long enough to call his curse-weavers and sorcerers together for one final bane-bringing. The traitors were cursed to guard these hills for all eternity. To this day revenants come out at night and fall upon any traveller caught in the wilds between Norfurn and Derith.”

  “And your leader, Leopard, he did not believe these tales?”

  “He believed them all right!” Calgallun said with a laugh. “He didn’t plan on there being a fight though, and said we’d be back in the woods above Norfurn by sunset. I’m surprised you came this way at all, with all your learning and that.”

  “The Chancellor was dismissive of ghost stories, and we agreed with him,” explained Naldros. “We were spared the speculation and details.”

  “You don’t think the dead can come back?”

  “I believe many strange things are possible by the grace of the Creator, I just don’t think this valley is haunted,” said Naldros. “More likely it is just a tale told by your leader’s predecessors to sow fear in the minds of any that
might scour the Scatha Vale for hideouts. How is it that you thought we were protecting riches sufficient to lure you into such benighted lands?”

  “Leopard was always good to spread the spoils far and wide. We take what we need but the rest goes to people suffering from Lord Krieff’s abuses. That brings favours from every hamlet, ale pit and store station in the Scatha Vale. Eyes and ears everywhere. Your wagon drew much speculation. I suppose Leopard got carried away with imagining what was inside.”

  “I do not understand. You describe Lord Krieff as some kind of tyrant, but that has not been my experience of the man.”

  “That and worse. His attack dog, DunFalcon, does all the dirty work, stopping farmers getting their produce to market, locking up the storehouses, starving people into submission. Nothing gets bought or sold ’cept by his say. And then Krieff puts taxes on top.”

  “And the people you kill, that is justified? Rebellion against your lawful ruler makes it right?”

  Calgallun gave her a long look and after a while the priestess thought he understood his intent.

  “The good of the many outweighing the good of the few?” ventured Naldros.

  “Not as such. Though we’d sooner leave throats intact, it’s just a few lowlanders in return for hundreds of hillfolk. This is justice, not rebellion. You’ve killed afore. What do you tell yourself to make it all right?”

  Naldros had no easy answer to that – what would be the point explaining that her morality was derived from understanding the deeper nature of the Creator – and was spared the attempt by a call from Keldrik.

  “Less talking, more walking,” the bear-like warrior shouted back to them.

  His pointing finger swept along the hilltops to either side. An odd mist was coagulating about the standing stones – against all experience and nature it gathered on the summits not in the valley. There was an ochre tinge to the thickening fog and Naldros did not need honed senses to detect the energies being slowly set free by the rune-carved megaliths.