Broken Stone 02 - Warlock's Sun Rising

by Damien Black

  With a guttural cry it launched itself at him again. Vaskrian dodged another swipe and circled around again. He was much faster than it, but he couldn’t get close enough to counter, and if the Wadwo wasn’t tiring he certainly was. He stopped moving and crouched down to receive its attack, sweat dripping off his face. The wood demon was cutting a swathe through the remaining Wadwos; it wouldn’t be long before the others could come and help.

  That was the last thing he wanted – a Wadwo scalp would be a nice addition to his growing kill-list.

  Glad of a still target, the Wose launched itself at him. Vaskrian clutched his sword in both hands, holding his nerve. He’d wait till the last moment, then dodge aside and get it on the counter – he’d seen Braxus and Torgun use the same manoeuvre, surely it would work for him…

  There was a flash of movement behind the Wose. It suddenly arched its back, dropping its weapon and roaring in agony as a blade appeared from the top of its groin just below the waistline. It took two steps forward and fell to its knees. A second later its head shot off its huge shoulders, borne on a tide of pus-coloured gore.

  Sir Braxus stood behind it, a rakish grin on his face. Behind him lay the twitching carcass of another Wadwo.

  ‘Can’t win ‘em all, squire of mine,’ he said. ‘Glory takes time to earn.’

  Sir Braxus turned to see how the others were faring. The last two Wadwos were being brought down. The Northlendings were butchering one like a slab of meat, its body quivering into lifelessness at their feet. Their strange saviour had just dispensed of the other, bringing its huge fists together and crushing its ribcage like a wicker doll before kicking its corpse dismissively into the nearest hut.

  ‘In the name of Palom, GET OUT OF THERE!’

  Horskram’s voice tore through the darkness. By the sounds of it he was somewhere up on the slope, though Braxus couldn’t see him beyond the fading circle of light; the flames from the burning pitch were starting to fade.

  The wooden apparition turned to look at the four knights it had just saved. Its face was carved in an ugly totem. Braxus was reminded of the carvings of Tarnelion, a haunted island off the coast of Thraxia once home to a cult of devil-worshippers who practised human sacrifice. He had never visited it and didn’t want to, but he’d read about it in his father’s library. He had an unpleasant feeling this was something similar. Its eyes were two stones that seemed to glow with a green light of their own; its entire body was carved with strange symbols that hurt his eyes to look at.

  Crouching suddenly it swept an arm at Sir Doric, catching him square in the chest and sending him flying. With a cry of rage Sir Cirod launched himself at the wooden giant, his blade carving uselessly at its gigantic legs. Only then did Braxus realise that the attacks of the Wadwos had not left a scratch on it.

  With astonishing speed and strength the apparition brought its fist down on Cirod’s collarbone, shattering it. He barely had time to cry out before it caught him with its second fist, his head erupting in a shower of blood and bone and brains.

  Torgun and Aronn backed off aghast as the thing came after them, Cirod’s brains spattered across its unyielding form.

  ‘This is a fight we can’t win,’ said Braxus, turning to his squire. ‘Let’s…’

  His voice trailed off as he saw Vaskrian staring at his sword. The blade was shimmering with a keen green light. It matched the colour of the wood demon’s eyes.

  ‘Where in Reus’ name did you get that blade?’ he gawped.

  ‘It was my father’s,’ replied the squire. ‘The Fay Folk of Tintagael took it from me and did something to it…’

  ‘A magic blade, now I’ve seen it all!’ cried Braxus. He glanced over to where the Northlending knights were desperately trying to hold the thing off. They moved a lost faster than the Wadwos, but it only seemed a matter of time before the Golem pulverised them.

  ‘All right, dammit!’ cursed Braxus. ‘I’ll join the others – try to distract it while you get behind it, see what that faerie blade can do!’

  Dashing towards the fray he yelled a war cry. Vaskrian began circling around, trying to get in position to attack it from the rear.

  ‘Keep distracting it!’ cried Braxus to the others, hoping the demon couldn’t understand him. ‘Get it facing this way and make sure it doesn’t turn around, we’re going to try something!’

  Adelko scrabbled frantically up over the lip of the incline to rejoin Kyra. The huntress nocked and drew, sending another flaming arrow into the Golem’s chest.

  ‘Damn thing wilna burn!’ she cried. ‘Seven Princes, yon knights’ve ‘ad it!’

  ‘Not if we can help it!’ breathed Adelko. ‘Where are our things?’

  The huntress looked at him blankly.

  ‘Our travelling gear!’ he yelled. ‘I need to get to Braxus’s things, where are they?’

  ‘Their over t’other side, where we left ‘em,’ she replied, looking baffled. ‘Why…?’

  ‘There’s no time to explain – you move a lot faster than me. Do you know the wooden case, the one the Thraxian carries around with him?’

  She paused, then nodded. ‘Aye, I think so… the one wi’ them funny clasps – ’

  ‘That’s the one,’ the novice cut her off. ‘You need to go and fetch it, then get it down to Sir Braxus.’

  She glanced back down to where the Thraxian was rolling on the ground, having just dodged another bone-crushing swipe.

  ‘He seems a bit distracted right now…’

  ‘Master Horskram will take care of that,’ replied Adelko breathlessly. ‘Just get the case and bring it down there!’

  The huntress nodded, put down her bow, and bounded off towards the ridge of trees.

  Adelko turned back to watch the desperate fight, hoping it wouldn’t be too late.

  Braxus lurched up from his roll, dropping into another crouch as the thing swung at him again. Sir Torgun took advantage to dive in and strike at it. He’d never seen a mightier sword arm than the Northlending’s, but the blow glanced off its thigh harmlessly.

  We’re dead, he thought. Then he saw a flickering shape, moving out of the darkness and into the shrinking circle of light.

  Maybe not yet…

  With a bellow Sir Aronn ran at it, suddenly pulling up short and moving backwards quickly, trying to goad it. The Golem took the bait: he narrowly avoided being clubbed by a fist slick with blood and ichor, but stumbled and fell backwards to the ground. The thing loomed above him, its giant angular frame cutting pitilessly across the darkening skies. It raised a huge foot and stamped down hard. Aronn rolled aside at the last minute but yowled as he collided with a rock.

  Braxus and Torgun drove in together, both slashing frantically at the Golem’s legs. It swung at the Northlending, catching him a glancing blow on the shoulder. It was enough to send the huge knight careening sideways like a spinning top. Braxus stepped backwards, inviting it to follow him. Vaskrian inched closer in behind it, the sword shimmering in his hand…

  ‘Braxus, stay out of this fight!’

  The Thraxian knight jumped, nearly losing his concentration as Horskram moved in behind him.

  ‘Reus teeth, you’ll get us both killed!’ Braxus snarled, without taking his eyes off the wooden fiend. It stepped forwards with a horrible speed, bringing its fists in towards both men and trying to squash them like flies. Braxus threw himself at the old monk, bringing the pair of them down. Two giant fists smashed together above them with a resounding crack.

  Vaskrian chose that moment to attack. Dashing nimbly towards it he hacked furiously at the thing’s ankle. It let out another horrible scream as the blade bit deep, tottering sideways and crashing into a hut, crushing its beams like twigs. Jerking itself into a sitting position it lashed out at the squire with its uninjured foot, keeping him at bay long enough to get to its feet again.

  It limped now as it stalked towards them, moving gingerly on its wounded ankle. The strange blade had bit deep, and a viscous sap-like substance oozed from
the wound.

  ‘That cursed blade won’t be enough to kill it,’ said Horskram as they picked themselves up. ‘You’re to fall back and meet Kyra.’

  Braxus spared him a glance as the Golem limped towards them. ‘In Reus’ name, why?’

  ‘She has your lyre,’ replied the monk, moving back as it closed on them. ‘When she gives it to you, play for your life!’

  ‘What?!’ cried Braxus, ducking another swing. His auburn locks waved as though in a gust of keen wind; the thing had missed him by a hand’s breadth.

  Torgun and Aronn had regained their feet and now rejoined the fray.

  ‘Just do it!’ snarled Horskram. ‘We’ll keep it distracted for now!’

  Utterly bemused, the Thraxian fell back beyond the light, which had nearly guttered out. Another flame caught his eye: Kyra, bounding down the slope towards him, a taper clutched in one hand and a case in the other. His lyre.

  ‘Here,’ she gasped when she reached him. ‘Yer lyre, Horskram says ye’re to play it now!’

  ‘I know,’ muttered the Thraxian, hurriedly unfastening the clasps. This was without a doubt the strangest day of his life.

  Vaskrian trembled as the thing towered over him. His blow had cut deep and it had lost a lot of its speed, but now it was focusing all its attacks on him, ignoring the others as they tried to distract it.

  It struck at him with both fists in quick succession, dislodging hard earth and pebbles as he weaved desperately from side to side. Dashing between its legs he struck it a passing blow, but he was in motion and couldn’t get full force behind it without the right footwork. He felt a sickening feeling knife through him as it screeched again, a horrid inhuman sound that put him in mind of the demon they’d fought in Northalde. More sap oozed from the wound, this one to its inner thigh, but it was no more than a scratch. It tried to catch him a backwards blow as he ran out from under its legs, but the swipe was ill timed and just missed him.

  They both turned to face each other. The knights had given up trying to distract it with their own useless blades – the demon clearly had eyes only for him.

  ‘Vaskrian, toss me your blade!’ cried Sir Torgun. ‘This is a knight’s job!’

  The words stung him. But if his hero was saying them, they were probably true. Besides, not even he was reckless enough to believe he could take on a demon of folklore in single combat.

  He threw the blade at Torgun’s feet. The knight snatched it up just as the demon changed tack, lurching towards him with its carved fists. Sir Torgun stepped aside and sliced its forearm. Another horrid screech told them they had drawn blood. Or sap, perhaps.

  The fire guttered and went out. Vaskrian caught another at the edge of his vision. Glancing over he saw Kyra holding a taper while Braxus clutched…

  … his lyre?

  His eyes returned quickly to the Golem. Plunged into gloom it looked like a giant shadow etched against the evening skies, with two points of light for eyes. Was it his imagination or were the strange symbols on its body also traced with a faint illumination?

  Torgun prepared to take another run at it as it loomed over him.

  The notes drifted plangently through the dark, the lyre’s soft cadence eerily at odds with the ghastly scene around them. Braxus began to sing:

  My name is Sir Magwich, I cannot be slain

  Though true knights have tried and giants would fain

  I bear the girdle of Olwen, the witch of Gwenhyfyr

  ‘Tis her magic protects me, from bow, blade and spear!

  The notes resonated loud and clear, though Vaskrian fancied his master’s voice quavered a little. The Golem gave vent to another shriek, this one long and lingering, as though it were trying to drown out the music. Stepping back it began moving around jerkily, as it had done before. It looked almost frantic.

  Torgun wasn’t a man to waste an opportunity. Launching himself at the Golem with a war-cry he hacked furiously at it, sending splinters flying as he cut at its knees. The thing’s legs were the size of tree trunks, but the knight’s strength was kindled by a mighty rage. The demon tried to run but fell with a crash, its head landing in the river with a splash as its bleeding legs gave way beneath it.

  ‘This is for Doric and this is for Cirod!’ Sir Torgun roared, clambering onto its back as it thrashed around desperately.

  Braxus kept playing and singing:

  Ye can meet me on horseback, ye can fight me afoot

  Ye can cut me to ribbons, from branches to roots

  But while I wear the girdle of crimson brocade

  I’ll ne’er meet Azrael, nor fall to his blade!

  Torgun hacked at the Golem furiously with Vaskrian’s enchanted blade, carving rents across its back and head and shoulders. The faint light from the marks on its body began to grow fainter, its struggles weaker.

  Her grammarie it binds me, my flesh is encased

  In words of a litany no mortal can trace

  I’ll fight in the wars and seek danger in quest

  But ne’er shall I bleed from the swords of the best!

  Torgun raised the blade high above his head in both hands. He drove it down into the Golem’s back, piercing it where its heart should have been. Its thrashing subsided into quivering, its screech dying off and becoming a strange high-pitched whining sound.

  ‘Step back from it Torgun!’ cried Horskram. ‘The animating spirit is leaving the body!’

  His fury spent, the Northlending knight slumped backwards. The Golem had stopped moving altogether, the sigils covering its body had lost their light and its eyes had gone dark. A hissing sound could be heard now; in the gloom Vaskrian thought he could make out some kind of vapour exiting the wound caused by Torgun’s death blow. A horrendous stench filled the air, making him gag.

  Braxus stopped playing as he saw the thing expiring. ‘Worst audience I’ve ever had,’ he muttered, as he went to pack up his lyre.

  Torgun knelt beside Sir Doric as he struggled to breathe his last. The Golem’s blow had crushed his chest; blood poured from his mouth as he tried to speak.

  ‘Peace, Sir Doric,’ said Torgun, taking a gauntleted hand in his own. He was trying to be stoical as all noble Northlendings should, but watching an old comrade die was never easy.

  Doric tried to stare at him, his glazed eyes weak and distant in the light of Kyra’s taper.

  ‘My brother… is he…?’

  ‘He speeds towards the Heavenly Halls,’ said Sir Torgun, an unwanted tear forcing itself down his cheek. ‘You’ll be with him shortly.’

  Doric stared up at the darkened heavens. He looked confused.

  ‘Aye…’ was all he said.

  Torgun was about to tell him they would honour both their memories in troubadour’s song… then he realised the knight was dead. He closed Doric’s eyes and rose, wiping his tears away.

  Horskram and Adelko began intoning a prayer. The sound of music drifted across the wrecked camp once more; Braxus had taken out his lyre again and begun to play a dirge.

  Sir Torgun listened in silence for a while, then walked over to the Thraxian. Braxus looked up at him and stopped playing.

  ‘Your music saved us tonight, strange as that seems,’ said the Northlending. ‘My thanks are due – and the thanks of the Order too.’

  The Thraxian shrugged. ‘Think nothing of it, sir knight. I am sorry for your loss.’

  Torgun remained staring at him, trying to decide if he could ever like the foreign knight. Then he said: ‘Yon tune you were playing just now, a right fine sound it has. Do you think you could put words to it… for the Chequered Twins, I mean?’

  Braxus shrugged again. ‘It is an old score in my land,’ he replied. ‘A traditional piece we play at funerals… but I don’t see why not. When I find the time I’ll do so. It’s a while since I composed anything new anyway.’

  Sir Torgun didn’t see why any of that was relevant, but nodded curtly and put a broad hand on Braxus’ shoulder. Perhaps he had been wrong to misjudge him; the fore
igner was brave, even if he was a Thraxian.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said softly, before walking away.

  Vaskrian had started building a fire. Sir Aronn was binding up his head wound, his face even sourer than usual. Horskram approached him and started talking about giving the Chequered Twins their Last Rites. Torgun wasn’t sure why brave men needed extra prayers to earn their rightful place in the Heavenly Halls, but he respected the Argolians enough to trust their judgement in the matter.

  Evening deepened into night as they chopped wood for a funeral pyre, using the smashed logs of the huts and the Wadwos’ axes. When it was ready they doused it in pitch from the barrels underneath the tarpaulin, before placing the mangled bodies on it next to each other. The monks intoned the Last Rites, bidding the fallen fighters swift passage to the Judgment of Azrael.

  When it was done, Torgun approached the pyre with a flaming brand. He tried not to look at Cirod, a shattered skull slick with pulped brains where his head had been. He hated burning high-born men, but the ground was too hard for a proper burial.

  ‘Does anyone have anything to say?’ he asked. Nobody did. Torgun lit the pyre and stepped back. Overhead the waxing moon seemed to mock them with its sickle mouth. He tossed the brand onto the pyre and made the sign, holding his splayed hand across his breast and bowing his head as orange tongues consumed his friends.

  Thoughts of battles and tourneys, carousing and feasting, and jokes shared on the training ground at Staerkvit ghosted across his memory. He felt a deep sadness tinged with bitterness. Dying in the field fighting mortal men was one thing; being broken like a doll for sport by an inhuman monster was another. What would he say to their poor mother when he returned to Northalde? Not all her prayers would bring them back now.

  Unbidden, another tear slid down his rugged cheek.

  Vaskrian sat on a rock by the fire staring at his sword. Torgun had returned it to him, though he wasn’t sure it was much use now except as an heirloom. Whatever faerie magic it possessed had been used up against the Golem; he now clutched the same tatty old blade his father had given him, covered with dints and notches.