by Damien Black
The woodlanders surrounded the Wadwos in groups of four and five. A couple of groups had thought to use ropes to bring their huge opponents down: two or three sturdy men pulled on a lasso about a Wose’s neck while the others took advantage of the distraction to hack and stab furiously at its legs. One fell to its knees, letting go of its mattock… only to smash the men holding the lasso with a great sweep of its arms, scattering them like rushes. The others cutting at it panicked and ran as it picked up its weapon and got to its feet. It loomed over the men it had knocked down, pulverising the head of one as he struggled to get up, squashing it into his body like a concertina and sending bloody shards of skull spattering across the nearest hut wall.
The second Wadwo didn’t fare so well. As it struggled with its lasso another woodlander on the wall jumped onto its back, stabbing deep into the monster’s neck. Pale ichor burst from the deadly wound, and the Wadwo fell to its knees expiring. The man paid bravely for his courage: reaching back the dying Wose grasped him by the arms, pulling him over its head and smashing him to the ground with a sickening thud. He cried out and lay still.
The rest of it was carnage. Blood and brains spattered the Wadwos as they felled one woodsman after another with crushing blows. Balthor normally enjoyed watching a good fight, but this was a sickening spectacle.
Two beastmen broke off from the melee and stalked towards them, leaving a dozen dead and dying men in their wake.
Now it begins, he thought, clutching his sword and shield more tightly.
‘Four on two, not bad odds for true knights of Dulsinor,’ he said, doing his best to rally the men. ‘One distracts and defends, the other attacks – go for the back of the knees if you can! Bring ‘em down, then go straight for the head or throat! Don’t waste any time with body blows.’
The Woses screamed again as they loped into a lumbering charge. Sir Redrich next to him prepared to receive attack, Balthor moving agilely to the side and behind him. The monster brought its mighty pick-axe down in a vicious arc towards the knight – at the last moment he dodged aside and the weapon sprayed turf as it buried itself in the ground.
Stepping in around him, Sir Balthor hacked at the monster’s knee. The stroke was slightly off and it hit just below, biting through leather and deep into its calf. It screamed and wrenched the pick-axe out of the ground, sweeping it around with staggering strength. Balthor stumbled back, the lethal blow narrowly missing his chest. Redrich stepped in with a downwards thrust, piercing the creature’s foot. It cried out and tottered as he pulled the blade free, pus-coloured ichor spurting from the wound.
Like lightning Balthor was on it again. The tension of the road and all the miseries it had brought suddenly burst from him in a wrathful tide, and roaring a war-cry he hacked and stabbed at it in quick succession, slicing its kneecap in two before piercing its groin. The Wadwo tumbled to the ground, grabbing him and yanking him down with it.
This close he could smell its body, like stale horse urine it was. He gagged and thrashed desperately as it tried to pull him into a crushing embrace. Balthor was stronger than most men, but now he felt like a frantic child.
Its arms closed around him like a vice and all his deeds flashed before his eyes…
With a yowl the creature flung its arms up to its face, arching its back as Redrich’s sword found its eye. The knight’s two-handed thrust pinned its head to the dark earth; the thing convulsed once, twice, then lay still.
Balthor rolled away from the gargantuan corpse and pulled himself up again, scrabbling for his sword. A glance told him all he needed to know. Sir Rufus lay unmoving on the ground, a red ruin where his face had been. Sir Wilhelm was hard pressed, his shield arm hanging limply at an awkward angle, grimacing as he struggled to dodge furious swipes of his Wadwo’s war hammer. Sir Redrich ran at it from the rear, thrusting at its leg behind the knee. It yowled as his sword point found its mark. Lifting up its leg and hopping backwards, it collided with Redrich and barged him to the ground. With a ferocious snarl Balthor stepped in and hacked viciously at the Wose’s ankle on its good leg. It yowled again more loudly and toppled over. The three knights circled it and rained blows on it, ichor spraying up and spattering their surcoats and faces. Balthor felt like vomiting by the time the thing was finally slain.
Gathering his composure he looked around for the damsels, the tumult of the wider battle momentarily forgotten. Adhelina was dragging Hettie to her feet; she appeared to have regained consciousness, though she wore a stunned expression on her face.
‘There are more coming!’ shouted Wilhelm, yanking Balthor’s attention back to the battle.
Turning he saw the ground before the smashed gate carpeted with mangled flesh and crushed bones. The woodlanders had managed to bring another beastman down, but the six others were making light work of the remainder. He spared a moment of admiration for common men who had chosen to lay down their lives in defence of their families, and steeled himself. The Woses seemed barely to notice their injuries, though they all bled from numerous gashes and punctures.
He knew this was the end. Not even three brave knights could hope to best twice their number of such strong creatures, and Wilhelm was hurt badly.
‘Stand your ground,’ he muttered, feeling the fire at his back. ‘We protect Her Ladyship or die trying.’
The beastmen lumbered towards them, their dead black eyes and white faces devoid of emotion. The three knights prepared to make a heroic end of things.
At least he’d go down in troubadour’s song for this, Balthor reflected grimly as the fiends closed on them.
A spinning silver flash caught his eye. One of the Wadwos stopped short, a dirk suddenly sprouting from its arm. Balthor thought little of it – a last futile effort by a woodsman – but the creature suddenly keeled over, thrashing around fitfully and making a sickening gurgling sound.
‘Anupe!’ he heard Adhelina exclaim behind him, but he had little time to reflect on what that meant as the five remaining beastmen engaged them.
Wilhelm was the first to fall, a scream dying as quickly as it had exited his lips as a mattock caught him in the chest, crumpling his ribcage. He kneeled in the dirt, a tide of blood erupting from his mouth and washing over his surcoat. A second backwards sweep nearly took his head off, twisting it around on its neck with a horrible tearing sound.
Two of the creatures loomed above him, one wielding a hammer, the other clutching what looked like an anvil welded to an iron rod.
At least they have a sense of humour, he thought wryly as they tried to crush him like a fly. Ducking with a speed born of desperation, he felt a stinging in his ears as the crude weapons struck each other with a deafening clang. Gripping his sword in both hands he drove it up through the groin of one, the point exiting from its lower back. The creature gave vent to a great ululating cry, lurching back and wrenching the blade from his hand.
Spinning around Balthor tried to duck the next swing he knew was coming… but saw instead his second assailant had fallen to the ground and was thrashing around in agony just as the other had done. Standing behind it was the female mercenary, her falchion blade slick with grey gore.
Another scream reached his ears as he snatched up Rufus’ sword. Whirling around he saw Sir Redrich go flying through the air, smashing against a hut and collapsing in a broken heap. Three Woses left. Two of them closed on him and the foreign freesword.
His swung at him with a great scythe. Without thinking he brought his shield up, yelling in pain as the blade smashed through the oak, slicing open his forearm.
Dodge don’t parry you fool, he berated himself as the thing yanked the scythe free and prepared for another swing. Spurring himself on he stepped inside its guard, aiming a lethal thrust at its midriff just below its boiled leather jerkin.
But this one was smarter and quicker than the others, and took two great strides backwards out of range; Balthor’s sword point scraped harmlessly against tough hide. The Wadwo brought the scythe up and around, slicing downwards. That caug
ht him off-guard – he had been expecting another methodical sidewise swipe. He threw himself to one side and tried to counter attack, but the thing anticipated and changed its position, circling around to follow his own movement and keeping him at bay with another swipe.
Behind it he could see the freesword dancing and whirling with breath-taking speed, but two of the fiends were on her now and she could do nothing but stay on the defensive.
He locked eyes with his adversary. He had half expected to see some look of recognition, of respect for a worthy foe, but its dead pinpricks showed nothing. The Wose’s mouth hung open, its unnaturally long tongue lolling sideways in a silent leer as it came at him again.
Again and again it pressed him, driving him back, pursuing him remorselessly around the fire. He tried to counter attack but he was growing tired; the days of hard riding had taken their toll.
Out of the corner of his eye he glimpsed the two damsels, slowly edging their way towards their horses by the exit.
Of course, their horses…
He wouldn’t recapture the Lady Markward, and he wouldn’t survive the night, but maybe he could buy the Eorl’s daughter some time, give her a chance to flee. He owed his liege that much at least.
Gripping his sword and shield with renewed vigour, he snarled a curse at the loping Wadwo.
‘Come then, you bestial cur,’ he said with all the venom he could muster, ‘let’s see what you’re really made of.’
His sudden attack caught the monster off-guard. It stepped back, parrying his frenzied strokes with its scythe, the blade scouring chips from the treated hardwood. He didn’t care where he hit it now, any bit of damage before it finished him off would do.
His last blow sliced a finger, half severing it. The Wose gave an angry hissing sound and let one hand go of the scythe.
Now was his chance. Stepping in close again he tried the same trick as before, crouching low and aiming a thrust up at its vitals. His opponent seemed to be expecting the move however; the Wadwo abandoned the scythe and brought its huge fist down towards his head, not bothering to defend itself.
Too late he realised he had overstretched himself, been too quick to press his advantage. Everything seemed to slow down suddenly: he could see his sword speeding towards the creature’s gut, firelight glinting on Rufus’ unsoiled blade as the Wadwo’s fist came down towards his unarmoured head…
There was an explosion of light. A thousand tiny needles suddenly buried their hot points in his skull. He felt his grip on the sword relax just before it reached the Wadwo, the hilt slipping from his fingers and vanishing into nothingness as his senses left him.
Adhelina struggled to get Hettie to stay with her. All about them was pandemonium, as terrified villagers too young or old to fight poured from their huts and sought refuge in the forest. Glancing behind her she saw there were just three Wadwos left, one menacing Balthor on the other side of the fire, the other two swatting at Anupe as men might try to crush an irritating wasp.
‘Come on Hettie, for Reus’ sake!’ Adhelina yelled in her friend’s ear. Her lady-in-waiting stumbled on beside her. The simple had been enough to revive her but not fully to recover her wits – Adhelina cursed the fireside tales that had planted such seeds of fear in Hettie’s mind, although she was terrified too.
With some difficulty they reached their horses. Adhelina struggled to calm them, but it was hard work doing that alone.
Glancing over her shoulder she could see the village was nearly empty. Of Balthor there was no sign. She felt her heart in her mouth as the third Wadwo stalked back around the fire, clutching a scythe in one hand.
Anupe must have seen it too, for without a second thought the Harijan darted nimbly between the two Woses attacking her, before breaking into a mad dash for the stockade and vanishing between the huts. Her attackers seemed about to pursue her when the beastman with the scythe addressed them in a guttural tongue. With horror Adhelina realised it was pointing at her.
The two Woses turned and lumbered towards them, mercilessly clubbing down a pair of elderly woodfolk as they did. She recognised one of them: Harns, his scrawny limbs twitching as he expired in a heap.
‘Hettie, for Reus’ sake, MOVE!’ screamed Adhelina, grabbing her friend and yanking her towards a horse.
Something in her voice must have stirred her. Hettie blinked, looked back once, and scrambled for the horse’s reins. Silently mouthing a prayer, Adhelina did the same. The beasts were still terrified and extremely skittish. She struggled to take the saddle, falling twice before finally managing to hoist herself onto the mare’s back.
A huge shadow fell across her. A horrid stench filled her nostrils as a clammy two-fingered hand grasped her by the neck and lifted her off the horse. She kicked and punched frenziedly, finding a strength and fury she never knew she had, but she might as well have been rain lashing the stormy seas. The other beastman had Hettie in its grasp too; her oldest friend had fallen into a paroxysm of fear, trembling uncontrollably.
The creatures bound them fast together with thick ropes they carried on their backs, tying their hands and feet as well. As Adhelina registered that they were being spared, she found pity in her heart for the less fortunate village elders: the third Wadwo stalked about the compound, hewing down stragglers with its scythe, a monstrous reaper bringing in a harvest of blood.
When it was done it barked another command at the two guarding them. Adhelina could only watch as they ransacked the village, despatching a handful of old folk and infants they found cowering in huts. She could not look as they dashed the heads of babes against wall and tree trunk. A few of the younger womenfolk had stayed, unable to leave their children behind; the Wadwo gathered these up in its huge arms like bundles of wheat and brought them over to where the damsels were. They trussed them up as well.
They found little enough of value that belonged to the woodfolk, but Adhelina’s saddlebags laden with her valuables were added to the pile.
Not that I’ll be needing them any more, she thought, more sadly than anything else. Lying on the ground next to Hettie, she felt the terror ebb out of her to be replaced by a great weariness. Her bid for freedom from the world of men had led her – and her best friend – into a world of monsters. She wanted it to be over.
The three surviving Wadwos returned to them. One lifted up the damsels and the wailing woodswomen, slinging them effortlessly over its huge shoulders. The second picked up a sack they had put their spoils in. The third, the one with the scythe, now carried a large hide drum, which hung from its shoulders by a leather strap.
As their inhuman captors shambled from the settlement they had raped, the one with the drum started up a rhythm in time to their loping gait.
Boom-boom, boom-boom-BOOM…
As the noise filled her ears, Adhelina shut her eyes and wondered why they were still alive. Then the answer came to her, as her copious reading bore fruit once more. A stab of renewed fear, far worse than terror of death, lanced through her body.
The heiress of Dulsinor stifled a scream, and prayed feverishly for deliverance.
CHAPTER XI
An Awkward Homecoming
Sir Vertrix watched from the deck as the crooked rooftops of Ongist slid into view. To either side of the River Rundle the wooden houses tumbled down the hillsides, levelling out as they reached the city centre. Crowning the grander stone buildings of that district he could see the Palace of Bending Branches, perched on its curiously fashioned stilts straddling the river and swaddled in banners sporting a green stag and bear rearing at one another on a sky blue background. The coat of arms of the Ruling Clan Cierny inspired him with little reassurance under the circumstances.
He could hear the sounds of bustling clamour cutting across the lapping waters with increasing intensity as the market squares and trading streets opened for business. Not long after that he caught the reek of it, borne on the brisk wind: fish, offal, dung, burning charcoal, the sweat of many men and animals.
The
old knight hated cities, but then any respectable knight did in his opinion. Men of arms were men of the country; cities a necessary evil. At least Strongholm had benefited from its position by the sea, a fortuitous location that cleansed it of its urban stench. Ongist boasted forty thousand souls’ worth of that stench – a loremaster had once told him that was its population. Twice that of the Northlending capital, but all superiority over its age-old rival ended there. Ongist made for a poor enough sight after the proud buttressed city of the Northlendings: its dilapidated walls, their dark stones unevenly crammed one atop the other, said as much; likewise the crooked streets it dubiously protected, left half in gloom thanks to the lurching storeys of the buildings unsteadily lining them like woozy drunkards.
We couldn’t organise an orgy in a brothel, he thought disparagingly, no wonder they always beat us at war.
He turned to look at his squire. Gormly looked much the same as he always did, hard as a stone and little more expressive. He could sense a gladness to be home in him though; Gormly hadn’t been any happier to find himself on foreign soil than his master.
‘Well, we’re not in the part of it we want to be, Gormly,’ the old knight sighed. ‘But at least we’re back in Thraxia.’
Gormly nodded deferentially. ‘We’ll take to the saddle as soon as we’ve docked, just like you said sire – should be no more than a week’s hard ride. We’ll be home soon enough.’
‘If there’s a home to return to!’ said Vertrix with a humourless laugh.
And by the sounds of the news they had received in Port Grendel, there might well not be.
Bad enough that they’d had to return home without Sir Braxus, who’d got it into his head that going on some madcap adventure with that Argolian friar was the only way to get the Northlending King to send military aid to Thraxia; bad enough that it had fallen to him, Sir Vertrix, to deliver this unwelcome news to the young knight’s father, Lord Braun. Then they’d docked at Grendel, intending to retrace their outbound journey up the river, only to be told the lands to the southeast had been overrun by Slangá Mac Bryon. If the highland rebels from the Brekken Hills had overrun the surrounding countryside, Reus knew what his ally Tíerchán had done from the Whaelen Hills that neighboured Gaellentir – they had barely been able to hold them off when they’d left on their mission to Strongholm. And that had been well over two months ago.