“Hold!” he shouted. “Ilkar what do you have?”
Hirad stilled his impulse and, instead, watched those in the next rank glance down at their dead comrades before moving up to close their line. He could hear cavalry clashing once more. A horse screamed. Hirad heard a horn sound a break. Hooves thundered on the mud.
“ForceCone,” said Ilkar.
“On my go.” The big man’s sword tapped on the ground. “We’ll take these. Move up.”
Hirad paced forwards, switched his blade between his hands and hammered it into his opponent’s flank. Sirendor fenced briefly before delivering the killing blow and the big man kicked his enemy in the gut after his strike was blocked high and away.
“Hold!” he shouted, chopping his blade into the fallen man’s gut. “Ilkar, break their horsemen.”
“Oh, right. Good plan.”
Ilkar moved his focus. Hirad felt the sting of magic across his shoulders. He glanced left. Pontois’ cavalry were reforming, still lacking cohesion when Ilkar’s ForceCone struck them, an expanding circle of magic, hard as stone, emanating from his palms. Undefended while their mages gathered themselves after the last skirmish, horses and riders were driven across the ground. Legs buckled, horses collapsed and riders were crushed beneath their rides.
“Step up.”
Next to Sirendor, the Arlen mercenaries were gaining courage and this time they moved up simultaneously. Hirad found a firm footing, fielded a heavy overhead blow, swayed inside and dragged his sword across the chest of his enemy. The big man deflected an axe strike to his side, butted the axeman on the bridge of the nose and carved his blade up, splitting his enemy’s body from groin to ribcage.
“Hold.”
Arlen’s cavalry drove into the flank of Pontois’ militia. Spells fizzed from shields covering them from desperate attack. Horns sounded along Arlen’s lines and everywhere, men pushed forward and the roar of battle intensified.
“It’s as good as over,” said Hirad.
“So it is,” said the big man. “Two hours, no more. Better my way, don’t you think?”
Hirad shrugged. “This time,” he said.
“Every time. Come on, let’s point them back home.”
“I did not.”
“You bloody did. In fact, you said about halfway here that it was the only reason you were coming.”
Hirad took another long swallow of very good Blackthorne red wine and held out his goblet for a refill. The big man obliged.
“It was not the only reason,” said Hirad, a smile cracking his face. “I also mentioned the free lodgings as critical.”
“Told you he was just a free-loader,” said Ilkar.
“And I told all of you I knew what I was doing,” said the big man.
“I think the serious stuff might be coming,” said Ilkar.
“Then I need a lot more to drink,” said Hirad.
So here they were and Hirad couldn’t quite believe it, free food, drink and lodging or not. He’d been riding the road to Korina with Sirendor and Ilkar the morning after the victory party at Gyernath and the big man had trotted up, invited them all back to this inn and said he had something to discuss. Hirad still couldn’t really work out why he’d agreed to hear what the man had to say. Probably because, and he’d never admit this to anyone, he rather liked all three of them and he’d sworn he’d make no friends on the skirmish line. It was too fleeting a life.
But he hadn’t turned his back and he hadn’t ridden off towards Rache or up to Orytte where he had heard there was work. He was here in The Rookery with two men and an elf he’d wanted to kill a couple of days ago, sitting in a back room full of comfortable chairs set around a log fire.
Hirad shook his head and chuckled while the big man refilled his goblet again.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Nothing. Just the turns of life I suppose. So what is it you want to talk about?”
The big man placed the wine jug on the mantel and stood to one side of the fire where he could see them all.
“I’m not about to patronise you, you know I want to put a team together but it can’t be like anyone else’s team.”
Hirad scratched his head. Ilkar put his confusion into words.
“In what ways not the same? I presume you’re not talking about composition.”
“No, I’m not. Clearly warriors backed by a mage is the only sensible option for a fighting team. Although I can see a place for groups of mages hiring themselves out, I’m not one; so I want the more traditional make-up. No, I’m talking about attitude and approach and that’s why I’m talking to you three and I have another trio already working together that I think will fit us.”
Ilkar spread his hands. “And which attitudes and approaches do you think we all meet? I don’t wish to insult anyone but Hirad but we don’t exactly conform to a type, do we?”
“Not in hygiene terms anyway,” said Sirendor.
“I have a bath every year even if I don’t need it,” said Hirad, punching Sirendor on the shoulder. “Play your cards right and I’ll even share my bath water with you.”
“I wouldn’t fit, what with all the other creatures trying to swim away from your filthy hide.”
The big man cleared his throat. “And that’s an example of why I’ve picked correctly. You’re not just outstanding at what you do, you’re also more comfortable together after two days than most teams are after two years.
“What I see on the battlefields of Balaia are teams only together because they earn more that way. They still fight as individuals, they squabble about leadership, shares and inevitably end up either breaking up, killing each other or getting killed by their opposition. I don’t want a short mercenary life. I want to earn my money, retire and run The Rookery with Tomas while I grow old.
“I can only do that if I fight alongside those I trust. We can build that trust between us, fight as one. And the more successful we get, the more we can command. But I don’t want our reputation simply to be that of effective fighters. I’ve watched you, more particularly, I’ve watched the contracts you’ve taken and the way you conduct yourselves so I know you believe how I believe. And I want to set down what that means.”
“I’m not going to fight by rules, muscle-head,” said Hirad, not liking where this seemed to be going.
“If I tried to impose that, I’d make you a lesser warrior,” he said. “What I want is for us to swear to a simple moral code. It will set us apart. Make us the first to be signed up by the barons and lords we want to fight for. Few teams fight exclusively for those on the right side of disputes. We can break that and make ourselves the key stone of future fights for people like Blackthorne, Gresse and Arlen.”
“You’ll make us targets,” said Ilkar.
“I’ll make us rich,” said the big man. “Look at this.”
He picked up a sheet of parchment from a table next to the mantel. He laid it on the table in front of them. Hirad stared at it, seeing there were words on it and nodding in what he was confident was a sage fashion.
“Absolutely. It’s very, y’know, perceptive and interesting.” They were all looking at him. “What? Just giving my opinion.”
“You have no idea what it says, have you?” said Sirendor.
Hirad felt himself blushing. “Well, some of the words I had to guess at a bit.”
“Which ones?” asked Ilkar.
Hirad gestured vaguely at the parchment. “The last four.”
“So you’re completely comfortable with ‘to’,” said Sirendor. “Well it’s a start.”
“Bloody barbarian,” said Ilkar.
“I am not.”
“By my definition, you are. Or did you actually get an education?”
“Farming,” replied Hirad.
“Fabulous. Reading and writing?”
“I can sign my name,” said Hirad.
“That’s all we need,” said the big man. “It reads: ‘To kill but never murder’. It’s the code I want us to
live by as a team. It will set us apart from every other team in Balaia. I don’t just want us to be the best, I want us to be the best by doing our jobs right every time.”
Hirad shrugged. Ilkar and Sirendor were both looking at the big man as if they’d received some sort of major revelation.
“This might actually work,” said Sirendor.
“We have to believe it,” said the big man. “Or this is just a piece of parchment.”
He held out a quill and placed a pot of ink on the table. Ilkar took the quill and signed his name with a flourish. He handed it on to Sirendor who scratched his name below Ilkar’s. He held the quill out to Hirad.
“I’ve left room for your ‘X’ or hand print or whatever it is.”
Hirad smiled. He dipped the quill in the ink, bent to the parchment and wrote his name carefully next to Ilkar’s.
“There,” he said. “Neater than yours, dandy boy.”
Ilkar roared with laughter. “Bugger me but he’s right!”
Sirendor sniffed. “Fucker.”
Hirad pointed the quill to the big man. “Your turn. Get to find out your name now, don’t we?”
The big man smiled. “I don’t need to sign, it’s not important. I wrote the code and that is enough.”
Hirad snorted. “We don’t want any mystery man on the team so either sign up or bugger off.”
“Yeah, what are you, some kind of mystical unknown warrior or something?” said Ilkar.
The big man shook his head. He took the quill, dipped it and signed.
“Excellent,” said Hirad. “What does it say?”
“It says ‘Unknown Warrior’,” said Sirendor.
“Unknown… I like that,” said Hirad. “Good to meet you, Unknown.”
“Thank you,” said the Unknown. “We’re now a team. I’ve already thought of a name.”
“Oh, yeah? Pray tell,” said Ilkar. “Coldheart’s Killers?”
“Larn’s Lacerators?” said Sirendor.
“Ilkar’s…” began Hirad. “Um, incinerators?”
“Those are all utterly terrible,” said The Unknown, smiling. “I was looking for something less flashy, more, I dunno, worthy…something that says we’re serious and exceptional in our field.”
“Oh dear,” said Ilkar. “So more along the lines of ‘the Moral Marauders’ then?”
“None of the rhyming crap,” said the Unknown. “We formalised our arrangement here in The Rookery. ‘The Rook’ is rubbish but I thought something in the same family of birds would work.”
“Yes?” said Hirad. ‘Which one do you want to name us after? Jackdaws? Magpies? Not going to earn us respect, I’d say.”
The Unknown let the silence settle like an actor might for dramatic effect.
“We should call ourselves, ‘The Raven’.”
Hirad thought for a moment. “It’s not bad.”
“I’ve heard worse,” said Ilkar.
“Think it’ll stand the test of time?” asked Sirendor.
“Well, we’ll just have to wait and see.” The Unknown lifted his goblet. “To us. To ‘The Raven’.”
The quartet clashed goblets, sloshing wine on the table.
“The Raven!”
A Blade to the Heart
Gaie Sebold
Lapscar, already doomed, approached his keep. He held himself rigid on the great scaled mount, massive shoulders back, head up. The torchlight flickered on his tusks and the claws of his raised hand. A chill breeze whispered through the rainy night, blowing about the cloaks of the guard on the battlements.
“What happened?” one muttered.
“Soul blade,” said another. “They’ve sent for healers. Much good that’ll do.”
They looked down at their leader. Even among his species, who stood a head above most humans and could break a person’s arm as a man might a twig, Lapscar was huge; his tusks five inches long, the muscles of his arms like boulders. Snarling, he eased himself from his mount.
None of his men dared offer help.
Lapscar looked up. The guards hurriedly looked outwards, over his lands, so long and well defended.
“Keep your eyes open, damn you.” Lapscar’s voice echoed in the dank well of the court. “We’ve driven them back, but you drop your guard and you’ll be the first I come for, whether or not I remember your fools’ faces. Stand to.”
The guard stiffened their spines. If they trembled, they hoped Lascar’s sight was already dim enough to hide the fact.
The inner door boomed shut behind him.
“Soul blade. S’what finally did for…” the guard lowered his voice, “Bloom of Crimson. Mind, nothing natural could kill the Bloom.”
The other snarled. “Shut it! You trying to bring more bad luck down on us?”
“You ever seen someone… after? You ever seen a wraith?” another said.
“No. Shut up about it.”
“They’re not going to let him turn here.”
“How they going to stop him?”
“They’ll kill him, of course.”
Killing Lapscar wouldn’t stop him becoming a wraith. It would merely slow the process, and give them a chance to get the thing that had been their Lord out of the keep.
The first guard licked at a tusk thoughtfully. “Yeah. And who’s going to do that? You?”
Lapscar kept walking. He had never noticed the cold; now the stone floor struck chill up the bones of his legs, reaching towards the chill spreading from his wound.
His courtiers were gathering - he thought. But other shadows, other whispers had been following him since the moment the soul-blade had struck. He swung his head, glared into the eyes of one of his councillors. No phantom this; Lapscar could smell his fear. “Don’t crowd me,” he growled.
“My Lord.” Sweating, the councillor backed away.
Lapscar’s grip was still iron. But for how long?
Around the councillor’s face greyish vapours collected. Lapscar fought the desire to tear at them with his fingers.
He fumbled his way through the whispering darkness towards his throne, and hauled himself into it. Cold stone gripped him like a dead hand. He braced himself against it.
His vision cleared slightly. He could see his remaining sons, already eyeing each other, weighing strengths and weaknesses; his courtiers eyeing his sons. Suddenly he laughed, grating and terrible.
“Well, my vultures? Soon I’ll be a thing to eat your dreams. You want to watch it happen? Get out.”
He managed to hold himself upright until they had gone, then slumped, hand to his side. “Cold,” he muttered. “So cold.”
Lapscar tried to think. His rule had been brutal, but it wasn’t strength alone that had kept him on his throne – they called him sharp as an axe. But now his mind was fuzzing over with ice-crystals.
Grimacing with the effort, he pushed back the dimness a little. Think. A soul blade turned a living being to a wraith, unkillable, susceptible only to powerful sorcery. Lapscar had never heard of a cure - only destruction, or banishment of the wraith to some grey realm.
The truth of soul-stealers was as ungraspable as their substance. No one knew whether they had countries, leaders, loyalties. They were drawn to battle; to certain victims. From some their blades sucked all the essence, leaving husks. Others survived, only to become wraiths themselves.
Lapscar’s own father had been one such. Luckily for his family, the transformation had happened far from home. But perhaps their most famous prey had been the war-leader, Bloom of Crimson… Even unspoken, in the darkening fog of his own mind, Lapscar hesitated over the name. It tasted of blood and bronze, and rang with screams.
Footsteps brought his head up, his hand to his dagger. “Oh, Brug. Get out, didn’t you hear me?”
The big stupid lump just stood there. “You’re hurt. You want water?”
Lapscar ran his tongue over cracked lips. His tusks felt like old bone drying in a cold desert. “Yes.”
Brug went. Poor fool. The only one wh
o might be sorry at Lapscar’s passing, at least he wasn’t important enough for anyone to murder.
Of course if Lapscar returned in his new form, he would slaughter Brug with as little hesitation as he would step on an ant.
Without wincing, Lapscar lifted his armour from his breast and peeled back his tunic.
The wound looked like nothing. Barely two inches long. The blade had been narrow as a needle. But the feel of it… Lapscar closed his eyes, then wrenched them open in case someone should come in.
Already the flesh around the wound had a grey, insubstantial look.
Brug’s heavy footsteps crunched through the gathering mists. “Water, Lord.”
Lapscar took it, and drank. Cold water, at first refreshing, suddenly conspired with the dreadful cold rising from the wound. He went rigid, fighting the deep icy spread of it, knowing it was hopeless.
“Lord?” Brug said, distressed, “is the water bad?”
Lapscar forced his clenched teeth apart. “No. Go now.”
Brug, always obedient, hesitated. Lapscar swelled with fury. Had even Brug begun to think he could be disobeyed? He, Lapscar, the Wolf of Gaen?
Before he could unlock his throat Brug said, “Forgot. Healer’s come.”
Not disobedience. Lack of brains. As he had several times before, Lapscar decided to let the fool live. “That was quick.”
“Lord?”
Lapscar was suddenly uncertain. How long had he sat here, drifting into darkness? He pushed himself upright. “Has that skinny runt of a priest pulled his courage up far enough to come here? What did they offer him? My soul? Too late for that.”
Brug wouldn’t see the joke, but better a jest than a whimper.
Brug shook his head. “S’a woman.” He paused a moment, pondering. “Still skinny.”
Lapscar snorted. “Human?”
“Think so.”
“Greedy, or desperate. Bring her. I could do with a laugh.”
Brug opened the door. Lapscar saw the crowd gathering behind a small, cloaked shape. His lips drew back. “Get out. The healer can stay. The rest leave. Brug, to your room, and wait.” Brug’s room was behind the throne; strong, fast, and too stupid for conspiracy, he was the only one Lapscar trusted with his back.
Legends: Stories in Honor of David Gemmell Page 3