Broken Stone 02 - Warlock's Sun Rising

by Damien Black

  Good move. He’d have to get his guvnor to teach him that one. It looked like less work than cutting a man to red ribbons.

  The two of them leaned against each other, recovering their breath. The woodfolk had rallied somewhat since their huts had stopped exploding: that and the slaughter they’d made had evened up the odds somewhat, giving them a brief respite.

  It was all too brief. A pair of outlaws cut down another couple of woodfolk and turned to seek new foes, a murderous glint in their feral eyes.

  Vaskrian and Braxus exchanged a brief look, nodded, and charged as one.

  Blood was running down the fuller of Vaskrian’s blade, making the squire’s hand slick, and his grip was unsteady as he crossed swords with the outlaw, an ugly man with a bald head and scar running across his upper lip. He nearly let go of the hilt – the outlaw pressed forwards on the counter but Vaskrian moved agilely back, remembering the footwork Braxus had taught him.

  He waited for the brigand to press him, then stepped nimbly to the left and in. Regaining his grip he aimed a downwards thrust at the brigand, who only had time to gape as the blade punctured his thigh and severed an artery. Vaskrian wrenched the weapon free and watched with satisfaction as his foe fell screaming, a fountain of blood pouring from his leg.

  Was that four or five he’d killed? He hated losing count.

  Braxus was still engaged. Vaskrian was about to help him but his guvnor had things under control. Blocking an axe swipe with his shield he pushed quickly back: the outlaw, a burly man, was clearly surprised by the slim knight’s strength. He took a couple of steps back, allowing the Thraxian to come at him, sword raised high. The brigand steadied himself, anticipating an overhead strike… but at the last moment Braxus switched directions, bringing his sword round and down in a powerful cut. The brigand staggered back on one leg, the other one staying where Braxus had severed it just below the knee. The outlaw crashed to the ground, his eyes rolling up into his head.

  Vaskrian scanned the skirmish, hungrily seeking another foe as his second wind blew fast upon him.

  Sir Torgun’s blade was a blur as he clashed with three brigands; the squire gawped as he stabbed one in the mouth, transfixing the back of his skull, while knocking another senseless with his heavy kite. The third outlaw scarcely had time to press his own attack before the blond knight whirled to face him, using the momentum of movement to slice him across the top of the face. The man fell in a wash of blood that spurted from a wide slit where his eyes had been.

  Torgun’s footwork was rock solid, his face a mask of concentration. In fact he hardly seemed bothered at all, as if the fight bored him. Vaskrian had never seen a man his size move with such speed. His hero was truly astonishing to watch.

  Not that he’d be watching him much more tonight. There was always a turning point in any battle, large or small; that one last casualty that broke a side… and this was it.

  Thule’s deserters had come expecting easy plunder, to butcher a bunch of frightened woodfolk: they hadn’t expected six of the best swords the Free Kingdoms had to offer. Even the timorous woodfolk had found their courage, fighting ferociously to save their homes and kin, clearly inspired by having great warriors in their midst. And the archers remaining on the walls picking them off had helped the cause too. Vaskrian supposed the strange fires had been useful like that – but what in the Known World had caused them?

  The squire didn’t bother to cut down any more as the remaining outlaws turned tail and fled. The memory of Derrick’s death still haunted him, truth to tell: he wanted to avoid dishonourable killings wherever possible.

  Besides that, he was exhausted.

  Sitting down amidst the corpses he let out a satisfied sigh. All in all, a good day for him. More valour to his credit.

  The wailing of women drifted through the smoke. Maybe not so good for these poor woodland folk, but still you had to look on the bright side – at least they hadn’t shared the fate of their dead family and friends.

  His rest was rudely interrupted by his guvnor, telling him to come and help douse the fires. With a sigh Vaskrian heaved himself back on to his feet.

  It really was hard work, being a hero.

  CHAPTER IX

  After The Slaughter

  Adelko awoke to darkness. Where was he? He had dreamed strange dreams. He had walked through blood-soaked fields, beneath a foreign sun. Armed men rode at him on all sides. Some cast spears at him; others levelled crossbows and fired. But none of the missiles hit him, glancing harmlessly away as he calmly deflected them one by one…

  That was all he could remember.

  He sat up. His body ached and his soul felt weary. As his eyes grew accustomed to the light he realised he was in a hut; a sliver of sunshine peered beneath a flap of hide covering the window overlooking the rickety cot he had slept in.

  A hut… of course. As memory flooded back to him he stumbled to his feet and pushed his way through a deerskin hanging across the low doorway. Bright sunlight stabbed his eyes. He blinked, a familiar stench filling his nostrils. As his vision cleared he realised what the smell was.

  Death. He had seen enough of it during the war, and now Azrael’s bounty lay sprawled across his line of sight again.

  The hut was on the edge of the meeting place. The fire had been cleared away to make space for corpses. At least fifty were there, most of them covered in fly-encrusted gashes and other horrible wounds, some no more than charred husks. Reaching inside his habit for a rag, he pressed it to his mouth and nose.

  Looking closer he saw that the bodies were piled on a huge pyre. Sat on the tree stumps ringing it were his companions. They were alive at least – though all of them except Torgun bore light wounds and every one of them was heavily bloodstained.

  Wailing and sobbing met his ears, coming from the other huts. The surviving woodfolk, mourning their dead. His eyes returned to the funeral pyre. One of the charred corpses looked to have been a small child, of no more than five summers.

  Letting go of the rag he leaned against the hut and was sick.

  ‘You’ll need to pull yourself together, lad – we must give these unfortunates their Last Rites.’

  He looked up to see his mentor standing over him. A rare but wan smile crossed his face. ‘Be of some cheer, Adelko – but for your help last night, it might have been us seeking the Heavenly Halls too.’

  The novice pulled himself upright, his stomach churning. He tried to take some comfort from Horskram’s kindly words.

  ‘So many of them… It’s not as bad as the war, but still…’

  ‘There’s a bigger mound outside the walls – we gave as good as we got, Adelko!’ Vaskrian had come over. His left arm was swathed in a bandage, but he could still move it and didn’t seem overly bothered.

  ‘I don’t think I need to see it,’ replied Adelko, surprised at his curtness. He was beginning to see Horskram’s point of view. A hundred people slaughtered, what was there to be so damned cheerful about?

  The squire must have sensed his mood. ‘Well, I’m off to see about breakfast, for me an’ the guvnor – fighting’s hungry work. Glad to see you’re on the mend anyway, Horskram says you did really well against those spirit things.’

  Adelko shook his head as he watched his controversial friend stroll off. He half expected Horskram to say something, but he held his peace. The novice’s sixth sense told him he was pleased, in his own way.

  ‘Here is your scripture book,’ he said, handing it to Adelko. ‘You know the passage we need. We’ll proceed as soon as the woodlanders bring the others back.’

  ‘The others?’

  ‘The murdered freeswords and merchant family we found on the road,’ Horskram reminded him. ‘I did promise them a decent funeral too, godless though they were in life.’

  Adelko nodded numbly. More corpses were the last thing he wanted to see.

  Gradually the meeting place filled up with woodfolk, many of their ashen faces streaked with tears. Hala had survived – thou
gh she looked as though she had aged twenty winters – but of Alfrech there was no sign. He was not with the party that returned with the bodies of the freeswords and merchants either. Adelko supposed glumly he was somewhere on the pyre.

  One face among the sortie did catch his eye though. It was the female woodlander who had saved his life. He was about to step forward and thank her when Sir Torgun sprang to his feet with a cry of dismay. The sortie had brought back the bodies from the road in two litters, one for the mercenaries and another for the merchants. Striding over to the latter, he pointed at one of the bodies.

  ‘Where did you find this one?’ he asked the nearest woodsman.

  ‘Not far off the trail, jus’ like ye sed, sir knight,’ he replied grimly, shaking his head. ‘Sad business, that an’ the girl. Boy couldna been older n’ eight summers.’

  Torgun rounded on Horskram, rare fury crossing his rugged features.

  ‘A boy of eight summers,’ he said accusingly. ‘A lad we could have saved from bleeding to death alone in the woods.’

  His words hung heavy in the air.

  ‘For all we know he might have bled to death long before we reached them,’ replied Horskram stoutly, though Adelko’s sixth sense told him his mentor was pained. ‘In any case what’s done is done. We’ve just saved a settlement from being slaughtered – why don’t you think on that instead, sir knight? Now if you’ll excuse me, I have souls to shrive.’

  Horskram beckoned Adelko over, ignoring Torgun’s burning stare. Sir Aronn glared at the old monk as he adjusted a bandage about his thigh, while the Chequered Twins muttered darkly to one another.

  Adelko tried to focus on preparing as they stripped the corpses and added them to the pile. His voice sounded thin and reedy in his ears as they gave them the Last Rites, Hala weeping silently as she lit the pyre.

  ‘What about the outlaws?’ Adelko asked his mentor once the ceremony was over. ‘Don’t we need to dispose of their bodies too?’ Thick black smoke from the pyre smeared the blue summer skies.

  ‘Such men deserve no help on their journey to Azrael’s shores,’ replied his mentor sternly. ‘The Angel of Death shall give them just retribution when he despatches them to Gehenna.’

  Adelko could sense his mentor was still upset about the dead boy.

  ‘I meant getting rid of the bodies is all,’ he added tentatively.

  But Horskram shook his head. ‘Nay, we leave them there – as discouragement to other outlaw bands. These poor folk have suffered enough.’

  Adelko pictured the pile of corpses rotting in the sun, and was thankful he did not live in the settlement.

  ‘So you see the value in what I was trying to tell you,’ said Horskram. ‘I am convinced the elementi who brought so much harm to your village were sent by the very warlock I am hunting. You must send a guide with us to seek the Earth Witch – this blasphemous duel of sorcerers must be stopped!’

  Hala nodded. She appeared to have recovered her composure, though the sadness had not left her face – she had lost two nephews and a brother.

  ‘Aye, I ken that right enough… just thinkin’ who to send is all.’

  A silence fell about the meeting place. The pyre had burned down, leaving naught but ashes and charred remains. These had been covered with a tarpaulin. On the morrow the woodfolk would scatter them across the forest, as was their custom.

  ‘I’ll show yon adventurers t’ Girdle.’

  All turned to look at the speaker. Adelko recognised her instantly.

  ‘Ah, young Adelko’s saviour,’ said Horskram. ‘Events prevented our being properly introduced. And you would be?’

  ‘Me name’s Kyra,’ replied the huntress, leaning on her stout bow of yew. ‘At yer service.’

  Horskram frowned. ‘Though I am grateful for what you did, I would fain not take a woman into danger,’ he said.

  ‘Beggin’ yer pardon, master monk, but ye’ve brought me enough danger as ‘tis, what wi’ this wizard ye’re on about sendin’ spirits to trouble us on your account.’

  The other woodlanders exchanged amused glances and comments at that. Clearly this Kyra had a reputation for speaking her mind.

  ‘Tek no offence,’ she continued. ‘It was only a matter o’ time ‘fore we ran int’ trouble anyway. Yer right – this mad war needs stoppin’. If I can ‘elp ye do that, I will. Don’t be worryin’ ‘bout bringin’ me no trouble, Brother ‘orskram – I ken the risks right well.’

  The adept nodded. ‘Very well, you’ve proved your usefulness already – so be it. I have not seen you before though… how long have you lived here?’

  ‘Long enough,’ replied the huntress. ‘But I’m not ‘ere often. I travel the forest more n’ most. A better tracker an’ marksman ye’ll not find for leagues around.’

  Dusk was gathering in. The woodfolk got up and made their way back to their huts to mourn the dead. Soon only Kyra remained, staring impassively at the adventurers she had now joined.

  ‘I haven’t had the chance to thank you for saving me,’ said Adelko, rising and approaching her shyly.

  Kyra nodded curtly. ‘Think nowt on it, young sirrah – an Argolian friar should always be spared, where possible. An’ we ‘aven’t even met any Woses yet – we’ll need your holy prayers all the more.’

  The novice cringed inwardly. So far as he knew, Wadwos – though the results of the Elder Wizards’ frightful experiments – felt no terror at the Redeemer’s words. Cold steel was what was needed against them – that and a lot of courage. He wasn’t sure he possessed either.

  ‘What made you decide to follow me?’ he asked the huntress. ‘Down into the village I mean.’

  Kyra shrugged. ‘Ye looked like ye needed some ‘elp is all. Ye’re over young to be in the thick of things, Adelko.’

  She looked at him, not unkindly. She was tall for a woman, and slender, though her plain hard-set features told of a rough life. She was in early middle age and her dark hair was already streaked with grey.

  ‘Maybe I am at that,’ the novice sighed. ‘I always longed for adventure… Then Horskram took me on as his second and I got what I wanted.’

  He stopped speaking, the sound of crickets suddenly loud in his ears.

  The woodlander cracked a humourless grin.

  ‘Not always s’good is it? Gettin’ what ye want.’

  Adelko shook his head. ‘No, not always.’

  Thanking her again, he went to help Horskram ready their things. His stomach growled as he realised he had not eaten all day. He was usually always hungry, but the stench of death had not left his nostrils.

  They left the settlement at first light. Their horses remained behind; the woodland paths Kyra now took them on meant journeying on foot. As much as he wasn’t looking forward to getting footsore again, Adelko was glad to leave the village. It was another clear summer’s day, and he gratefully buried himself in the verdant richness of the Argael, a welcome antidote to the horror and slaughter he had just witnessed. He wondered grimly if he would ever get used to seeing such things: he hoped he never had to.

  They marched in loose formation, following the huntress as she took them through the densely clustered oaks. The ground dipped after a while, falling in irregular shelves. That made for harder going of course: the novice glanced over more than once at the knights in their heavy mail, marvelling at their hardiness. They were carrying injuries too, albeit light ones, but not a word of complaint escaped their lips.

  Not a word – though his sixth sense told him Sir Torgun and the other ravens were far from happy. It wasn’t the rigours of the journey that bothered them either. He wondered how they were going to overthrow a warlock with a supernatural army at his beck and call when they could not even agree with each other.

  Around midday they stopped at a stream to take food and rest. The mood was still sour, and no one spoke.

  He found himself sitting next to the Chequered Twins. Doric and Cirod were a curious sight, exactly the same in every way but for their hair. Doric�
��s was jet black, whilst Cirod’s was a shock of white.

  His mentor had warned him not to befriend these men, but something had to be done to lighten the mood. It was more than his sixth sense could bear.

  ‘Your hair, sir knights… how did it come to be different colours?’

  He was half expecting them to ignore him, but both twins exchanged smiles.

  ‘Well,’ started Doric, ‘we used to be exactly the same.’

  ‘Our hair was brown,’ added Cirod.

  ‘But our mother could never tell us apart.’

  ‘We were so alike, you see.’

  ‘So one day she prayed to Reus…’

  ‘… asking Him for help.’

  ‘She went to the High Temple at Strongholm…’

  ‘… especially so she could do it.’

  ‘The next morning when she awoke…’

  ‘… my hair was lighter than Torgun’s…

  ‘And mine as dark as yon woodland wench.’

  Adelko blinked. ‘You’re joking… a miracle made you the way you are?’

  The two young knights exchanged smiles again.

  ‘Well yes, I suppose...

  ‘… you could call it that.’

  Aronn strode over from behind them, grasping both twins by the shoulder. The three of them were all tall after the manner of pure-blooded Northlendings, though Aronn was a shade bigger.

  ‘Their hair may be different, master monk,’ he said, his ruddy face creasing as he grinned. ‘But when I knock their heads together, they both bleed red right enough!’

  The twins shrugged him off, the three of them laughing.

  ‘He might try that,’ said Doric.

  ‘But he’d have to fight us both,’ added Cirod.

  ‘Perhaps I should put it to song,’ said Braxus, joining the conversation. ‘The Tale of the Chequered Twins, it has a certain ring to it…’

  ‘Aye, but you won’t get past the first verse, with these two,’ quipped Aronn. ‘Try me instead, Thraxian, I’m a finer sword than this pair of amateurs put together!’