Empire of Bones

by Christian Warren Freed

  He added her to his council, reluctantly, and after much debate from his lords. She gave the one-eyed madman new life, hope he hadn’t experienced in months. His only condition was in having Inaella prove her loyalty. She dispatched him with Jarrik and a full company of Wolfsreik with the task of rooting out the rebellion from the middle of Chadra. Failure constituted near immediate execution. She didn’t let that bother her. Lord Death had already tried to claim her and failed. She still had purpose in this world. The fires of revenge clashed with hatred, keeping her warm on those cold winter nights.

  “Surround the building! No one gets out,” Jarrik bellowed and his soldiers deployed with the heightened precision the people of Delranan expected from the Wolfsreik. He turned to the hooded Inaella, “You had better be right about this.”

  “Our enemies are within,” she replied confidently.

  “If not, you die.”

  The wild look in his eyes left no room for doubt. Jarrik intended on killing her for the most minor reason. All he needed was the catalyst. Soldiers rushed past, torches in their hands. There were no calls for surrender. No urgency to have whoever occupied the ruined inn to escape while they could. No. Death was the only viable option for such dangerous enemies of the state.

  Inaella watched the Wolfsreik with guarded interest. She bore no love for the army loyal to Harnin. They were as responsible for plunging her life into ruin as Ingrid’s betrayal. Best case scenario involved both sides obliterating each other, leaving Delranan wide open for her to assume the mantle of leadership. Inaella harbored illusions of grandeur. She no longer viewed herself as a minor aristocrat struggling through daily life. The future of the kingdom was wide open. Why not a woman on the throne?

  “We will all die, Lord Jarrik, I merely seek to have my enemies die before me,” she replied tartly.

  Something in her tone unsettled him for reasons he couldn’t explain. She was a dangerous woman. Killing her now would isolate whatever nefarious plot she had and bring up his worth in Harnin’s opinion. Desperate to escape the pack, or rather what remained of it, Jarrik needed to come up with a way to inflate his importance. Killing the new head of the rebellion and the former head in the same stroke would ensure his proper place in history. Ever the one to think of tomorrow, Jarrik stood on the precipice of greatness.

  Torches were thrown into windows. Flames sprouted, timid at first. Jarrik ordered his soldiers in. Two soldiers kicked the doors open and stepped aside to let a full squad charge in. swords drawn, crossbows loaded, the Wolfsreik began clearing the inn. The looks in their eyes told Inaella all she needed to know. There would be no survivors from this raid.

  * * * * *

  Ingrid rounded the corner to the back alley and came face to face with a lone soldier. Startled, he stared wide-eyed at her. Orlek snarled and leapt, driving his blade down between the neck and shoulder until the tip pierced his heart. Dark red blood squirted across Orlek’s tunic as he snatched the soldier and eased the dying body to the ground before he fell. He dragged the body into the shadows and hurried Ingrid away. The dying soldier’s legs continued to twitch for a few minutes longer.

  “We’re not going to make it,” Ingrid whispered.

  Orlek didn’t have time for foolishness. “Not with that attitude. Now keep your lips together and run. We can escape but you must do it my way.”

  She obeyed, wordlessly following the fighter through the skeletal remains of Chadra. A stray dog barked. Crows cawed over the corpse of a cat. Ingrid could only hear the sound of her heart pounding in her ears. She was frightened, yet exhilarated. She’d never felt so alive as right now. Ducking from Harnin’s thugs with the future of the kingdom at stake. The sounds of armored soldiers rushing down adjacent alleys pushed her faster.

  Orlek grabbed her by the shoulder and jerked her into a small alcove. Pressed against each other, she felt the heat from his body. The urgency of his breath. Ingrid started to question but his finger placed on her lips kept her quiet. Her eyes swept back towards the alley in time to see a pair of Wolfsreik march by. They’d clearly been given precise orders and now rushed to get into position to block the rear exits. Ingrid exhaled slowly once they left her sight.

  “This is only getting more dangerous,” Orlek whispered in her ear. His breath was hot, intimate. “We are bound to run into others.”

  “Our escape is finished,” she added breathlessly.

  He shook his head defiantly. “Not until I take my last breath. We will find a way out of here, alive.”

  She doubted that but admired his intensity. The rebellion needed good fighters like Orlek if they were going to wrest their kingdom back. Ingrid inhaled his scent just before he leaned out into the alley. Piles of trash lined the walls. A few corpses, long frozen in various poses of anguish, looked up guiltily. The plague had struck with such fury many were caught unaware and left to perish in the cold. Ingrid found it hard to swallow, but such was the way of things. All she could do was hope to survive long enough to make a difference.

  “Come on, it’s clear,” he said and dragged her back down the alley.

  They made it only a handful of meters before a gravelly voice bellowed, “Halt!”

  Orlek shoved her. “Run! Get to the rally point.”

  Drawing his sword, Orlek turned to face his attacker. Three Wolfsreik soldiers formed a line across the alley. Their swords were drawn. Winds funneled into the alley blew their hair wildly. The pelts draping their shoulders were raw. The soldiers were angry and wanted retribution for matters even they weren’t sure of. Orlek dropped into a low guard and waited.

  The Wolfsreik sergeant gestured with his head, “I want that woman taken alive. Lord Jarrik needs a prisoner. Kill this one.”

  “You can try,” Orlek taunted.

  Enraged, the Wolfsreik attacked, two abreast. Within the confines of the alley they wouldn’t be able to maximize their capabilities, giving him the temporary advantage. Steel clashed. Snow tumbled down from the rooftops, cascading onto the dueling soldiers. Orlek blocked, parried, and lashed out when he found an opening. The soldiers, while reservists, fought with the intensity of a lion. He was hard pressed to keep up. Blocking a wild blow aimed at decapitating him, Orlek stepped back and tried to catch his breath. Sweat dripped down into his eyes, stinging him.

  “Rebel scum,” the Wolfsreik sergeant snarled. “You’ll be food for the rats soon.”

  Orlek grinned savagely. “That doesn’t matter. Even if you kill me you won’t win this war. We are stronger than you could possibly imagine.”

  Snarling, the sergeant said, “Enough talk. Now you die.”

  They charged, crashing into each other like two bulls. Both swung and hacked, desperately searching for a way past the other’s defenses to end the duel quickly. Ingrid was the real prize. Her description matched what the strangely scarred Inaella told them. Any who captured her would live the rest of his days like a king. The sergeant renewed his assault, stepping back only long enough to let his counterpart attack.

  Orlek was sorely outmatched. His death seemed an inevitable conclusion to a poorly thought-out plan. Not that it mattered. He was expendable. A minor player in a much greater game. Until recently he hadn’t even been recognized by anyone in the rebellion. Ingrid’s takeover changed that, made him into someone of greater importance. It wasn’t enough. He was going to fall in an abandoned alley and be forgotten by history. Such was the way of hard men trapped in desperate times. He raised his sword to block a pair of quick overhand strikes. The force nearly drove him to his knees.

  No one saw who fired the arrow or from where. The feathered bolt took the sergeant in his exposed throat, killing him instantly. The remaining Wolfsreik turned to stare, an impossible mistake. A second bolt took him at the base of his skull and penetrated downward to come out in the middle of his throat. He fell with a gurgling sound. Orlek looked up in time to see a handful of haggard rebels racing out of the shadows to claim him. Today wasn’t his day to die after all.


  TWELVE

  Revenge

  League after league rolled by in an endless trail. The army wound like a mighty armored snake almost a mile long. The pungent odor of hundreds of horses and soldiers that hadn’t bathed in weeks permeated the air. Snow melted underfoot, transforming from pristine white to melancholic brown and gray sludge. For the soldiers marching alongside the horses and war machines it was just another day in the life. Soldiers were constantly exposed to harsh weather conditions, miserable chow, and a decided lack of sleep. Add the constant threat of ambush or the trauma of seeing friends die horribly and many weren’t right in the head. The soldiers of the combined army were tired of war. Tired of watching horrors unfold around them. Tired of not having a warm home to go back to at the end of the campaign. War is many things, forgiving not among them.

  “We’re making good time,” Piper Joach commented after drinking from his canteen.

  General Vajna, sitting on a slightly smaller roan mare, shielded his eyes against the glare of the sun reflecting off the fields of undisturbed snow stretching out before them. “Aye. We should be at the city before the end of the week.”

  “Provided there is no delay,” Piper added. The young commander took his work seriously, regardless of which side he fought for. He didn’t like the idea of turning mercenary in the middle of a war but was honor bound to follow Rolnir down whatever path the general thought necessary for the survival of the Wolfsreik. “Have you noticed how curiously empty this part of the kingdom is?”

  Vajna dismissed the apprehensions. “We practically destroyed the Goblin army in that last battle. They can’t have that many troops left. I don’t foresee much issue with our current course of action.”

  “Goblins are notoriously foul creatures, Vajna. Don’t underestimate them. Grugnak had tens of thousands of warriors under his command. That force is what finally broke the siege and conquered the city. You’d do well to recognize their ferocity in battle. I’ve seen them in action. They are a capable opponent. Retaking the city will not be easy.”

  Vajna bristled at the mention of the sack but held his thoughts private. Joining forces with the Wolfsreik, his enemy, was difficult enough to accept, knowing they were responsible for killing thousands of his countrymen. He often wondered why King Aurec sent him to make contact. At first Vajna considered it a great insult. How could his liege denigrate him before his sworn enemies so casually? The question stole many sleepless hours. He didn’t trust Rolnir or the smooth-faced Piper. Their execution of the battle of Grunmarrow loosened his attitudes, slightly, and opened the path for him to think clearly.

  He looked at the slender Wolfsreik commander riding beside him. Dark hair and a handful of scars complimented Piper’s demeanor. He wore a haunted look, as if he’d seen too much. Vajna didn’t particularly care what Piper had seen or done before now. A month ago the two had been fervently trying to kill each other. War was fickle at times. Vajna had stopped trying to figure it out long ago. Better to just strap in for the ride and see where it ended.

  “You forget we have the advantage,” he finally said.

  Piper eyed him quizzically. “How so?”

  “Many of the soldiers in our army are from the city. They know the streets and buildings. Once we gain the walls we should be able to sweep through and take it back with little effort,” he said proudly.

  Piper felt immediate sorrow. “Vajna, I’m not sure what you’ve been told but Rogscroft is not what you remember. Grugnak and Badron have all but destroyed the city with their madness. You will not be pleased when next you look upon her.”

  Vajna opened and closed his mouth quickly. The possibility that Rogscroft was thoroughly destroyed always lurked in the back of his mind but he was loath to admit it, or even think on it. War demanded his focus on the present. Each action consumed his thought process, driving all else to the haze. Now Piper had dispelled his illusions. All of his fantasies of a triumphant return crashed like broken glass upon stone. He tried hard not to let hatred take control but the urge was almost too hard to resist.

  “Cities can be rebuilt,” he replied. “No matter what violations the Goblins have committed King Aurec will see them set right.”

  “I pray you are correct, my friend,” Piper said slowly.

  They rode on, drawing ever closer to the ruin that had become Rogscroft city. Halfway through the day a lone rider came charging back to the column. His eyes bore a wild look. Sweat covered his face and hands. His horse was breathing hard, speckled with frothing sweat. Piper’s guard immediately raised and he ordered the vanguard into defensive positions. If there was any major-size force coming at them he knew they’d never deploy in time to stop them.

  “Commander! The scouts are under attack!” the rider explained hurriedly. “We were ambushed by Goblins.”

  Vajna resisted the urge to draw his sword and attack. Too many details were still missing for that course of action.

  “Where?” was all Piper said. He’d been involved in too many skirmishes and battles to let raw emotion overcome strategic thinking.

  The rider took a deep breath, trying to calm down. “Less than a league ahead. We are sorely outnumbered.”

  “General, deploy the vanguard. I want us in combat order and ready to fight upon arrival,” Piper ordered the senior Rogscroft officer. “Trooper, lead us to the fight.”

  The thunder of hooves echoed across the plains with the fury of the gods.

  * * * * *

  Mahn fired his last arrow and slung his bow across his back so he could draw his sword. Already at exhaustion, the older scout realized the use of close-quarter weapons would likely result in his demise. Dozens of Goblins already lay dead or wounded across the battlefield, as well as several soldiers of the combined army. He cursed his lack of foresight for allowing them to walk into the now ridiculously obvious ambush. More lives were lost in a fruitless cause.

  He looked across the engagement area and was relieved to find Raste still alive. The youth still had much of the fire from the beginning of the war but was more evenly tempered. His hatred of first the Wolfsreik and then the Goblins kept him going when lesser Men were forced to take a knee. Raste had killed more than anyone else Mahn knew during the long winter war, but at a cost he refused to admit. Each new death stole just a little more from what he was. Raste raked his sword across a Goblin’s chest and spun to find a new foe before the body hit the ground.

  “Raste! We need to find a way to retreat until the main body gets here,” he called over the din of combat.

  The Goblins attacked in force the moment after Mahn’s scouts entered the light forest. Scores of the dark, barrel-bodied warriors burst from the tree cover with weapons bared. Three scouts fell before anyone recognized the threat. Mahn organized a hasty defense and stopped the tide before it swept them under. It was paltry at best. He knew it wouldn’t be long before they were completely obliterated by the Goblins. Unless help arrived.

  Raste barely had time to push his matted hair from his face before the next Goblin charged into him. Man and Goblin crashed to the ground. Raste’s sword skittered across the unbroken snow, leaving only his hands. He hammered blows into the Goblin’s face. The nose broke. Blood spattered. The Goblin warrior fought, but was on his back and at a considerable disadvantage. Raste brought his knee up into his enemy’s ribs. The second blow broke a rib. The Goblin raged.

  Managing to get his forearm on the Goblin’s throat, Raste pushed down with all his might. Saliva frothed, bubbling on the Goblin’s lips. His gnarled fingers desperately tried to push Raste away. The Man was too strong. Slowly darkness crept into the corners of his vision. His breath was hard to come by. His heart pumped slower, faster. The Goblin swooned as unconsciousness rushed forward to claim him. His arms and legs jerked and kicked. He slapped Raste’s thigh repeatedly, each blow losing strength. Finally darkness won.

  Raste rolled off of the dead Goblin and vomited. He was a scout, trained to watch and observe. Close-quarter combat was new
to him, even after months of guerilla fighting. What he lacked in experience he made up for in zeal. Every Goblin killed was one closer to liberation. One closer to a renewed Rogscroft. That didn’t prevent his stomach from rebelling on the snow.

  Mahn rushed to his side, clearly distressed that his friend and partner through many misadventures was seriously injured. Relief washed over him upon seeing the bile coating Raste’s chin. The joy, he feared, was to be short lived. A horn sounded off in the depths of the trees. Deep and ominous, it could only mean one thing. Enemy reinforcements were on the way.

  “You should have kept your lunch, Raste,” Mahn chided gloomily. “It seems we’re about to go to our graves.”

  “We can still fight,” the younger scout replied hotly.

  Mahn shook his head. More than half of his force already lay dead or wounded. The end was inevitable. He slid down from the saddle, determined to meet his end like a soldier of Rogscroft.

  Piper spied the carnage and felt his anger boil over. He was tired of seeing wanton death for reasons no one understood or endorsed. The Goblins were a stain on Malweir. As far as he was concerned the only way to excise them was to eradicate the entire race. Seeing so many surrounding a handful of Men cemented Piper’s reaction.

  “Swords!” he bellowed to the vanguard.

  The world sang with the crisp sound of steel being freed from scabbards.

  Piper didn’t bother looking to ensure all was ready. He brought his sword forward and pointed towards the Goblins. “Speed of horse!”

  The cavalry charged. Horses snickered. Men roared the battle cries of two kingdoms. Snow kicked up in clumps. Three hundred light horses converged into a tight wedge, Piper at the point. First blood belonged to him. Goblins turned, surprised by the sudden arrival of enemy cavalry. The one hundred Goblins were no match for a massed cavalry charge and they knew it. A few managed to gather their wits to fire arrows at the approaching riders. The bolts landed harmlessly in the snow.