Grimdark Magazine Issue #4 mobi

by Edited by Adrian Collins

  Oban could hear the scraping of chairs behind him, the squeak of that door opening as some of the other patrons sensed violence coming and decided to be elsewhere when it kicked off.

  ‘You’re a murderer,’ said Oban, sensing the coming violence himself. ‘You Rooks are all the same. Taking the law into your own hands. Killing who you please and telling everyone it’s the will of the Lord of Crows. Well, I’m here to tell you it ain’t. I’m here to take you back, or enough of you as will stand for proof you’re dead.’

  Pike smiled at that one. ‘And I’m ready for it – ready for death. What about you, Warden? When you finally meet the Lord of Crows, when you finally have to stand before him and he gives you one last boon, what will you ask for?’

  Oban had never really thought on it. He didn’t put much store by the Old Gods, nor the new for that matter. It was legend that the Old God of the dead would come to take you to the heavens or the hells, but you’d get one last chance to put something right before you went. Oban had no regrets though; he’d lived a life he loved for as long as anyone could have hoped for.

  ‘I reckon I might find out soon enough,’ he replied, hand moving down to the knife at his thigh.

  ‘Aye,’ said Pike. ‘I reckon you just might.’

  Oban expected Pike to go for a weapon then, expected him to come at him across that table like a devil from the pits. He hadn’t expected Pike to fling the tankard that still sat between them right at his head.

  It bounced off his nose, what remained of the warm ale splashing on his face, in his eyes, on his lips, tasting bitter and tepid. It didn’t hurt, but it served to distract him just long enough for Pike to surge to his feet, knocking the table back and putting Oban off balance.

  The knife was in his hand now as he staggered back, shoulders hunching, ready to strike or parry as necessary, but he needn’t have bothered. Instead of attacking, Pike was off and away across the room. Oban was blocking his way to the door, but Pike didn’t seem too bothered about that. He moved towards the only window in the place, rickety slats letting the daylight creep into the room all wan and pale.

  Pike didn’t pause to open it but flung himself through the window, smashing the slats to kindling as he went and leaving Oban standing there with the knife in his hand, as much use as if he’d been holding his cock.

  None too keen to go leaping after him through the window, Oban ran to the door, skittering past the few folk still left in the place. As he raced out onto the street he sheathed his knife and shrugged the bow from his shoulder, nocking as he ran, eyes peeled for sign of Pike rushing off into the distance. He could hear a commotion; voices raised in anger, something being overturned, and he moved in that direction, his blood up now, eyes staring, ears pricked like a wolf’s.

  When he rounded the corner he saw an upturned barrel, some woman on her arse, looking off to the north. Oban followed her gaze, tramping through the muddy street as fast as he could, breathing hard, running hard, but not hard enough. He got to the end of the street in time to see Pike up ahead, already mounting the ladder to the wooden walkway that ran the perimeter of the stockade. The Rook was about to leap over the edge and off to freedom but suddenly stopped and turned. Oban aimed, pulling back on the bowstring, his target dead in his sights.

  Pike looked down at him and smiled.

  It was enough to give Oban pause.

  He’d killed countless men in countless ways: stabbed them, shot them, strangled them, even gutted one with a stag’s antler. They usually screamed, spat blood or cursed his name, but he’d never killed any bastard who was smiling at him.

  That pause, less time than it took to draw breath, was all the time Pike needed to spin round, clear the wooden palisade and disappear.

  Oban could have cursed himself for a fool, but surely it weren’t right to kill a man who shot you a grin.

  What a bloody trick.

  But he still had his job to do and as soon as Pike had gone over the wall, Oban ran shouting and wailing for the gate to be opened. The two sentries lifted the crossbeam while he was still yelling, doing their best to accommodate him but, despite their haste, by the time the gate was opened Pike had disappeared into the woods to the north. His sign was easy to follow, though; he was moving too quick to hide it, and Oban was right in pursuit, arrow still nocked, face fixed and determined.

  If that bastard flashed him another smile he wouldn’t make the same mistake; he’d see if Pike could still grin with an arrow through his teeth.

  Oban broke the tree line. What light shone through the cloud was suddenly snuffed, and he paused until his eyes had adjusted and he could make out the trail – a quivering branch or a half print in the soft earth. Pike wasn’t far. . . not far at all.

  The wind was getting up, the canopy above swaying and rustling, and Oban couldn’t hear a thing above the noise. As he followed the prints he noticed they began to shorten as Pike’s pace slowed. The trees ahead were dense and Oban slowed to a walk, scanning all around him for sign of danger – that black-clad Rook could be lying in wait, hiding in the shadows with a naked blade ready to stick it somewhere Oban wouldn’t like. He could be anywh. . .

  Pike was up ahead, standing right in front of him.

  Oban pulled his bowstring taut, but waited.

  What was he doing, just standing there waiting like he’d given up?

  No, that wasn’t the way of the Rooks; they never gave up.

  Pike looked at him, his brow furrowed, then he lifted a hand, signalling for Oban to stop.

  There was no way he was going to be fooled a second time – Halfwyrd was no one’s bloody fool.

  As Oban raised his bow, Pike pointed to his left. Oban was about to curse him, about to shout out and ask how stupid Pike thought he was, when something came screaming at him from the shadows. He barely had time to raise his bow and block the axe that came scything down.

  The bow was cleaved in two, the arrow sent flying off into the canopy. Oban dashed back, pulling knife and axe from his belt. He could see his attacker now, animal skins adorning his powerful frame, scars, piercings and warpaint marring his face and body.

  A hunter of the Khurtas.

  The attack was ferocious, an onslaught fuelled by an animal’s rage. Oban was hard pressed to defend himself against it. The axe came swinging in left then right as Oban retreated. Before he could even think to counter his foot caught a tree root and he went tumbling backwards, the knife falling from his grip as he hit the ground.

  The Khurta screamed in triumph, his axe raised high, and all Oban could do was watch as it came crashing down.

  But it didn’t land.

  The Khurta’s scream of victory was cut short by a length of razor steel that suddenly shot from his neck. Pike then pulled his weapon clear and let the savage fall.

  ‘On your feet, Warden,’ said the Rook. ‘They never travel alone.’

  Oban scrambled to his feet, grabbing his fallen knife and, as though summoned by Pike’s words, more Khurtas came howling from the dark of the wood.

  This time though, Oban was ready.

  The first came straight at him, blue and black warpaint cutting across his face like a bear had clawed away his flesh. His teeth were sharpened to points and looked almost as nasty as the curved sword he carried in one hand. The blade thrust at Oban’s belly. He parried with the knife, his axe coming in, quick and neat. It took the Khurta in the shoulder, turning that cry of rage into a scream of pain. The savage staggered back, but Oban didn’t relent, hacking in with his knife once, twice, and making a bloody mess of the Khurta’s throat.

  As his foe fell back Oban faced the next one, barely registering Pike, who was moving in the periphery, fighting his own enemies with deadly efficiency, each cut of his blades slicing an artery, slashing a throat or bursting an eyeball.

  The second Khurta charged in. Oban’s axe blocked the blade but the force of the attack sent them both sprawling.

  Oban twisted, trying to get on top, trying to get a
n edge, but his attacker was strong, fast and young. Not that it bothered Oban. He could handle himself in a bloody scrap. They rolled over in the dirt, the Khurta growling like a dog in a pit fight, but Oban somehow managed to get behind him, somehow managed to clamp his arm around the bastard’s throat. The Khurta gasped, fingers like claws trying to tear Oban’s arm off, fishing for his eyes, grabbing at his balls, but there was no way Oban was going to let go. As his foe began to weaken, Oban squeezed all the harder, willing the air from his lungs, willing him to die. All the while Pike fought on, his speed dazzling, blades flashing, sending sprays of crimson flying from the two Khurtas that remained.

  By the time the one in Oban’s arms went slack, Pike had four corpses at his feet, piles of painted meat good for nothing but carrion.

  ‘Have you finished?’ asked Pike, wiping the blood from his blades and sheathing them at his side.

  ‘Aye, I reckon,’ Oban replied, rising gingerly. The pain from the fight hadn’t settled in yet, but he knew he’d feel it in the morning.

  Pike eyed him warily, his hand still close to his blades should he need them, but Oban had other things on his mind now.

  ‘This is a scouting party,’ he said, looking at the seven corpses fast cooling in the shade of the trees. ‘They wouldn’t have come this far south on their own. They must be ahead of a bigger host.’

  Pike nodded. ‘Aye, but how big? If it’s just a few tribesmen looking for slaves and steel we should warn Harrowgard. But if it’s more, if it’s a whole clan come looking for war, Baron Harlan will have to be told and his bannermen raised.’

  ‘Only one way to find out, I suppose,’ Oban replied.

  He moved to where the Khurtas had come howling from the trees, looking for their sign so he could track it to the source. Pike didn’t move, still watching, hands still at his sides, close to the handles of those blades.

  ‘And what about our business, Warden?’

  Oban stopped, looking at the Rook standing there tense and ready for another fight.

  ‘I reckon our business can wait,’ he said. ‘There’s other matters need my attention. So are you going to help me or not?’

  Pike seemed to relax some. ‘Guess I will.’

  Though Oban didn’t show it, he was glad of Pike’s choice; he’d shown himself handy in a fight. What he’d done in Valdor needed answering for, but right now that wasn’t important. Oban didn’t know what odds he was up against, and it was better facing them with someone at his back – even if that man was a priest to the god of death.

  The pair moved north. Oban had to give it to those Khurtas – they knew how to move through the brush. There was hardly any sign, and a lot of time Oban had to make his way blind until he picked up their trail again. Pike moved alongside as silent as the dead, and on occasion Oban didn’t even know he was there.

  They moved north until nightfall, only stopping when the light had waned so far as to kill any hope of seeing a trail. Oban crouched down, his back to the bole of a tree, pulling his fur cloak about his shoulders. Where Pike was he couldn’t tell, but he was sure the Rook was doing similar. It wouldn’t do to build a fire with Khurtas on the prowl. Best to spend the night cold and hungry than wake with your throat slit wide.

  Oban hardly slept, but then on the wilderness trails a man who slept soundly was most likely never to wake again. As soon as the first light began to encroach through the trees, Oban was up, stamping his feet and rubbing the cold out of his veins. Before he could even wonder where the Rook had gotten to, Pike was at his shoulder. They didn’t speak, but then they didn’t have to. This wasn’t a time for bartering words and it was clear Pike knew it. Oban had to admit he liked that. Wasn’t often he met a man wasn’t a Warden who was as like-minded in purpose. He guessed that’s why Pike had been so hard in the tracking.

  The trail was easy to pick up again. Oban took some dried meat from his pack to stop the grumbling in his belly and even offered a sliver to Pike, who took it with a grateful nod. Soon enough it was like the two of them had been travelling side by side for months as they moved further north.

  As the day wore on the woodland was gradually replaced by rocky scrub that rose up ahead of them towards a ridge. The forest thinned out and so too did the trail, but Oban wasn’t worried about losing his quarry. He knew they were somewhere close.

  Pike slowed, his hands slipping to the blades at his side. Oban pulled his axe, wishing his bow was still in one piece. He far preferred taking down Khurtas from a distance rather than up close. . . if not just because of the smell.

  They moved up toward the ridge, and Oban’s unease began to grow. This place was unfamiliar, and the fact he didn’t know the lay of the land bothered him more than he could say. He relied on knowing his terrain, knowing the best vantage points for ambush, knowing where the rivers and streams were to hide your scent and sign. Here he was in the open, exposed, and he didn’t like it one bit.

  As the men made their way up to the edge of the ridge Pike raised a hand for him to slow.

  Could he hear something Oban couldn’t?

  Not likely – Oban’s senses were keener than most – but he did as the Rook signalled. When they were near the lip of the rise, Pike dropped to his knees and began to crawl, Oban doing the same. When he reached the top, what he saw filled him with dread.

  Below was a wide, flat valley. Sitting in it, spreading far to the north, was the biggest horde Oban had ever seen.

  He stared for long moments; at the hide tents, at the guttering campfires, at the wild men with their wild hair and their scarred flesh as they moved about in silence. For how long he stared Oban couldn’t tell, but he suddenly realised he was holding his breath, and let it out in a long audible sigh of despair.

  This was no mere war party. This was no single tribe on the hunt for glory and blood and slaves.

  This was an invading army.

  ‘Lord, there’s thousands of them,’ Pike whispered.

  Oban could hear the fear in his voice, and that in itself unmanned him still further. If a priest of the Lord of Crows was afraid of something, then it was bloody well worth fearing.

  ‘Fifty thousand, maybe,’ Oban replied. ‘All the tribes united. Must have been a mighty war leader brought this lot together.’

  ‘We have to warn the baron.’

  ‘The king, more like. It’ll take more than Baron Harlan’s bannermen to see off these bastards.’

  ‘Either way,’ said Pike, already moving back down the ridge, ‘we need to get out of here.’

  Oban didn’t need telling twice, and he moved after the Rook, barely able to take his eyes from the horde sprawled out across the valley floor.

  They moved quick now, back down the ridge and towards the woods, all thoughts of stealth blown to the winds. There was a time for creeping and there was a time for running, and Oban was damn well sure he knew what this one was.

  Before they could make it to the safety of the tree line Pike stopped, hand moving to his side. Oban couldn’t see what had him spooked, but he pulled up just the same, hand on his axe, eyes scanning the trees.

  He was about to ask what was up when he saw something move from within the forest. His heart sank, fingers twitching, yearning for his bow, eyes flashing quick to left and right looking for a way of escape but there wasn’t one, only the valley behind and the trees ahead.

  The Khurtas crept out of the wood, eyes hungry, weapons drawn. There must have been a dozen of them, perhaps more still lurking beyond the tree line, but Oban didn’t pay them much heed. He was watching the woman walking at their head, leading them on like they were her faithful pack.

  She was all decked in leather cut tight to her frame, sheathed blade at her side, and it was clear she was no Khurtic barbarian. Her black hair was tied in a knot and her face was sharp, aquiline and bearing a wry smile. It was her eyes struck him most of all though, all glittery and golden in that beautiful face.

  Oban had heard about the Elharim of the far northern Riverlan
ds in stories, heard about their immortal lusts and cruelties, and this woman seemed a fitting embodiment of their arrogant pride. He had never seen her like before, and part of him hoped he never would again.

  ‘You are far from home,’ she said, stopping a few feet before them. Her Khurtas fanned out, moving to the flanks, outmanoeuvring them, and as much as Oban hated being outmanoeuvred there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.

  ‘As are you,’ Pike replied. ‘Since when did the Elharim keep company with Khurtas?’

  Her smile widened at that. ‘Since my lord Amon Tugha defeated their warchiefs and united their tribes. And since he took a fancy to your kingdom.’ She smiled the wider, looking at them with those eyes, cruel and beautiful all at once. Oban almost lost himself to the alluring lilt of her voice, despite the dire implication of her words.

  ‘But you shouldn’t worry about that, southron. You should worry about me.’ She laid a hand on her blade as the savages surrounding her prepared to attack.

  ‘Guess we won’t be delivering that message, after all,’ said Oban, hand on his axe. If these bastards were going to slaughter him where he stood he’d be sure to take a couple with him.

  Pike didn’t reply, but he didn’t go for his weapons either. Instead, he reached behind him, pulling something from a pouch at his belt, and before the Khurtas could move he’d thrown it down in front of him.

  The ground exploded.

  There was no sound, no deafening crack nor violent hiss, but it was like being hit in the face by a thunderstorm all the same. The air turned grey as ash and Oban was blinded in an instant, gasping for air that wouldn’t come. He flailed around, panic gripping him as he realised he was surrounded by enemies and couldn’t see a bloody thing.

  Someone grabbed his arm. Instinct told him to fight against it, to pull away and run for his life, but he knew it couldn’t be one of the Khurtas – they wouldn’t be grabbing, they’d be stabbing.

  Pike was strong for a wiry bastard, and Oban was dragged stumbling and tripping from the grey cloud and into the trees. He could hear the Khurtas screaming and cursing in their foul tongue as they floundered behind, but he knew they’d be coming after them soon enough.