Howl of Blades

by J Glenn Bauer

  The injured man bolted for the doorway which Caros had stepped away from. Cursing, Caros slashed at him, but already the man was through it and into the street.

  “Rappo?” Caros felt his way to the cot and reaching out, felt thick, sticky liquid saturating bedclothes of rough spun wool. He touched a body lying in the center of the cot and traced a hand up the chest. Pulling his hand back abruptly, Caros cursed. The body was that of a woman. He had no time to wonder where Rappo’s body lay for the entrance to the hut was suddenly obscured by a dark figure.

  Caros wanted to roar his battle cry with every sinew of the fury that boiled through him. Instead, he set his jaws and grimly raised his blade.

  The warrior in the doorway was armed with a spear and not keen to rush into the darkness of the hut. He thrust forward with his spear, the heavy blade slicing the air to the right of Caros.

  He sprang at the warrior just as the man’s companions rammed into his back sending him staggering into the room. The chopping blade had a sufficiently sharp enough point to stab through the man’s thick leather armour, scattering bronze discs that spun away into the dark like a bag of coins. The warrior sucked in a horrid gasp of agony as he dropped his spear to clutch at the blade with one hand and fasten the other on Caros’ shoulder. He shuddered as a weapon struck him in the back; the rest of the attackers striking out blindly in the dark. Their shouts were deafening in the hut and Caros quickly drew the dying man closer and twisted away from their seeking blades.

  From beyond the doorway a general commotion was rising through the sleeping Bastetani as men pulled weapons from beneath cots and joined their neighbors on the streets. Caros wondered how many more warriors from Qart Hadasht were milling outside on the narrow street.

  Someone fell across the cot in the dark and in doing so, knocked the dying warrior’s knees from under him and tearing him from Caros’ grip. He immediately hacked his sword into the vague form scrambling over the cot and was rewarded with the pop of a helmet and skull that dropped the figure abruptly.

  His movement drew the attention of three pairs of eyes, stretched wide and shining white in the dark.

  As they turned on him, their blades keening for his blood, a roar sounded from just beyond the entrance followed by the clatter of iron and leather. A gasping figure fell into the doorway, bent over itself. Caros placed a foot on the cot and shoved it hard across the dirt floor and into the shins of one of the killers facing him. The warrior fell back a step before bracing the cot with his boot. Caros reacted in the blink of an eye, his falcata lopping sideways through the dark and cleaving through the man’s bent knee.

  The warrior’s roar turned to a scream as he fell back into his two companions. Before Caros could take advantage of their shock, a hulking figure came through the doorway and in two swift strokes, cut the remaining men down. Two more figures pushed past the bear-like warrior, one of them holding aloft a newly lit torch, revealing Maleric, Neugen and Rappo. They fell on the injured warriors squirming on the floor, blades swiftly opening their throats.

  Panting, Caros turned to the body lying on the cot and swore. He dropped his falcata and sprang between the dead girl and Rappo but was too late.

  They sat silently in a wide circle just within the main gates of Tagilit, their attention focused on the sounds that lifted from among the dark maze of streets and alleys.

  Hoarse cries and ringing metal mingled with calls of alarm and pealing screams.

  Berenger, sitting motionless atop his large mount, felt his lungs constrict with every breath. His fingers ached to close around the hilt of his blade so that he could vent his desire to kill.

  Having arrived long after nightfall, they were immediately rewarded when he sighted the young Masulian that accompanied the Bastetani. He had tasked twelve of his men with following the Masulian and finding out from him where the Bastetani and his other two companions slept. They were to use him to lure the others to where he and the rest of his warriors waited to net them.

  His eyes flicked to the men holding the nets and from the set of their shoulders, they knew no prey would be bound that night.

  The ringing fury of blades ended, replaced by more and more awakened Bastetani emerging armed and cautious onto the streets of their stronghold.

  This was what Berenger had hoped to avoid. If the Bastetani took it into their heads to defend Caros and his companions, it would take an army led by a general to overcome them. Berenger dared not let that happen for who knew what truths could fix like burrs in the minds of the Carthaginians back in Qart Hadasht.

  “They have failed.”

  He turned his unblinking eyes on Ibon who spat between his mount’s ears.

  “We will not see any of ours return alive.” He faced Berenger. “This man we hunt; he is a champion?”

  “He is a merchant’s son who came late to the path of iron and blood.”

  Ibon fingered his sword.

  “He is a champion.”

  The Bastetani sentries who had admitted them through the gates when told they were there to capture traitors were becoming restless and three of them talked in lowered voices.

  Berenger grunted as one turned away and sprinted into the town.

  “He will be back soon and likely bring more spears with him.”

  “We should go then.” Ibon turned his mount and walked it sedately up to the other guards. There were seven Bastetani left guarding the gate. Four should have been asleep, but the commotion in the town had all of them up and clutching their spears. Their frowns deepened as he stopped before their leading man.

  “What have your men done? Sounds like a battle up there?” The Bastetani, a graybeard with a wide chest and bulging biceps, pointed towards the town where torches were rapidly being lit to reveal what had happened. “If any of our people have been injured…”

  He never got further. Ibon leaned forward and casually drove a dagger into the man’s throat.

  Behind him, Berenger snarled with released frustration as he dragged his blade free and whipped it through the face of the nearest sentry.

  The rest of Berenger’s riders closed in and the Bastetani guards were hacked down, though not in silence. Their cries for aid had turned into screams and now torches were pouring through the streets towards them.

  “Open the gates!” Berenger ordered and two riders quickly dismounted to do so.

  Angry shouts and the slap of running feet were closing on them fast and the two heaved aside the cross bar and shoved together on one gate to force it open.

  Berenger raked his mount’s flanks with his heels and bolted through the gap and into the night beyond.

  Rappo sat on the street, his hands hanging limply off his drawn-up knees, eyes staring vacantly at the entrance to the hut. From it came sobs that rose to wails before subsiding. The mother of the slain woman.

  Caros knelt beside Rappo, a hand on the Masulian’s shoulder.

  “You could not have known, Rappo.”

  He felt the shoulder beneath his hand tighten.

  “I walked her from the kitchens to her home, but I had forgotten the necklace. I went back to the kitchen to fetch it.” He flexed his hands and balled them into tight fists. “I passed the killers in the dark, but I was thinking of her.”

  Caros realized the woman must have gone to Rappo’s bed intending to surprise him, knowing he was leaving soon. The thought made his heart tremble with grief.

  “You did not know she had come here. It was not your fault.”

  Rappo sniffed and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms.

  “We should have left here sooner, Caros.”

  The words were like cold barbs in Caros’ conscience and he gritted his teeth.

  They sat in silence, listening to the sounds of anguish from inside the hut until a clash of weapons and cries of alarm rose from further away.

  Both men sprang to their feet, but the fighting ended abruptly. Bastetani men, brandishing torches and spears, were everywhere, seeking
more of the killers. Maleric and Neugen were among them.

  Just as they were about to sit, the two men appeared from around a corner, breathless.

  “There were more of them, Caros! Dozens! They were waiting inside the gates.”

  Neugen cried hoarsely before dropping to a knee, clutching his stomach.

  Maleric got a big hand under Neugen’s arm.

  “You are still bleeding. We had better get you home and have that wound bound up.”

  “What of the killers? Have they been captured?”

  “No. They slaughtered the sentries and fled the town.”

  Caros swore and slammed a hand into a wall, cracking the adobe.

  Upon hearing a stern voice call his name, he turned to see a party of warriors approaching. Leading them was a stocky man dressed in a fine tunic and cloak.

  Caros rubbed his throbbing knuckles and cursed under his breath.

  “Maleric, take Neugen home to have his wound dressed. Rappo can help.”

  The Masulian helped Maleric lift Neugen to his feet and supporting him between them, they disappeared into the milling crowds.

  The stocky man halted a pace from him.

  “Caros.”

  Caros squared his shoulders. Gateanux was one of Tagilit’s leading men. Both a warrior and a governor, his authority among the Bastetani was similar to that of a clan chief or minor king. And the man was breathless with rage.

  “Eight people are dead this night, Caros.” He snapped a hand up, stopping Caros before he could utter a sound. “There may be others. All killed because of your presence here which I and the elders have tolerated. No more though.” Gateanux waved a trembling warrior forward. “This man was one of the sentries at the gate. He tells me the men who came to take you were sent by the Barcas.” He glared. “Tell him!”

  The sentry swallowed and licked his lips. “They told us they were here from Qart Hadasht.”

  “I already said that, fool! Tell him the name of their leader.”

  “His name was Berenger. He showed the sentry leader a seal from the Carthaginians.”

  Gateanux snapped his fingers and signaled the sentry to step back, his stare boring into Caros.

  “The Barcas want your head and what they want, they get. You claim you are innocent, but right now that matters not one copper.”

  Caros snarled, his face a hand’s breadth from that of Gateanux’s.

  “I am innocent. It was Berenger who butchered our people and murdered the tax collector he was tasked to escort!”

  “Are you simple? It makes no difference! The Barcas have your name crossed and they will put you on one no matter how much you protest.” Gateanux relaxed abruptly and held a palm up. “For what it is worth, I believe you. If this Berenger had come to me in the light of day and showed me the Barca seal, I would have been forced to place you on your knees before him. He did not though and his deeds here tonight prove, to me at least, that he is devious and untrustworthy.” The man’s new found calm burned away. “Eight of my people dead! Seven of them good warriors.” He spat his rage into the mud at his sandals. “I would cut the murderous bastard’s sack off with a blunt rock, but I cannot or the Barca will have an army of Africans and oliphants stamping over the cold corpses of every man and woman in Tagilit!”

  Caros felt the man’s frustration tenfold and rubbed his bloody hands through his hair.

  “Then what? You hand me over to him?”

  Gateanux grinned.

  “You want me to do that?” He shook his head, eyes reflecting torch light. “I want you far from here. I heard you were planning to leave?” Caros nodded. “By the gods, it would have been best if you were already long gone. At first light, Caros. You leave Tagilit at sunrise. Do not tell me where you are going. Do not tell anyone. Just be gone and preferably not to some other unfortunate Bastetani village.”

  “At sunrise if not sooner. Thank you, Gateanux.”

  The stocky man grunted and threw his cloak over his shoulder, stopped and fixed Caros with a stare.

  “Your companions too. Neugen, that Gaul and the African. All of you.”

  “Neugen was injured…”

  “All of you! I have spoken.” He turned away, shouldering through his guards.

  Chapter 11

  Dawn’s pale belly hung on the eastern horizon. Waking birds shuffled from thatch, greeting the chill morning with fluffed feathers and tentative calls. Fires burned in braziers at intervals along the streets, surrounded by armed warriors who shifted moodily, hands stretched to the flames.

  Caros stood beside his horse, tying his pack to the saddle blanket with fingers numb with cold. He tested the cords and made sure it was secure.

  The others were busy with their own mounts and Rappo was checking on the remounts which were bundled with additional provisions. The Masulian seemed to draw comfort from the animals and even laughed softly when one tried to nip his shoulder.

  Neugen patted his horse and limping, led it over to Caros.

  “How is the wound?”

  Neugen waved his hand. “Stung like fire, but it is not deep.” He coaxed a grin onto his lips. “Might leave a nice little scar to brag about to my children and theirs too.”

  “What will your wife do?”

  “She will send word to her family. One of her brother’s will come and fetch her.” He looked over his shoulder at Rappo. “He was in love with that girl. His blood must be burning for vengeance.”

  Caros closed his hand around his sword’s hilt, caressed it. Seeing that Maleric was ready and Rappo too, he beckoned them closer.

  “We have seen what this man Berenger is. We four know him to be a serpent with not a shred of honor; changing his skin to fool the Barca’s into believing his word.”

  The three men spat at their feet, the anger in their eyes a deadly glow.

  “While we may be fleeing now,” he held up a placatory hand to still their protests, “let us not fool ourselves, that is what we are doing, but there will come a day when we will return. On that day I will kill the snake and as he dies, remind him through pain of all he has done to deserve his death. By my blood, I will kill the man named Berenger.”

  Caros pulled his short knife from its sheath at his belt and opened the flesh on the ball of his thumb. Lifting his hand so the blood dripped from the end of the thumb, he marked his forehead and cheeks with the glistening red ink.

  Eleven days later, during their afternoon rest, Rappo rode hurriedly into the little clearing in the forest of trees waking them from their slumber. Their flight from Tagilit had been hurried. The fear that Berenger would pounce on them like a lynx on a hare had hastened their steps. For the first four days they had ridden hard, striking north and always with their eyes on their back trail. The man sent from Qart Hadasht had not appeared and they had slowly relaxed that particular vigil. There were still dangers aplenty for a small group like theirs. The country they rode through was wild land and home to wandering bands of hill-warriors, bandits that lived on the fringes of tribes and preyed on the weak or unwary. Although late in the season, the days were still cold and the nights sometimes freezing, there was also the possibility they would encounter raiders from the clans that lived in these parts. The village they had passed the day before had been of the Carpetani people. Caros had learned that the land north of it gave over to the Celtiberi, the warlike tribe that dominated a large swath of central Iberia.

  Caros snapped awake at the clop of hooves on rock and the fluted whistle Rappo used to alert them of his arrival.

  Rolling swiftly to his feet, shield in hand and sword hissing from scabbard, Caros crouched, eyes dancing from shadow to shadow.

  Neugen and Maleric were on their feet almost as quickly, one holding forth a spear and the other his long sword.

  Rappo whistled from among the trees before appearing a moment later, his face flushed and eyes wide.

  “What have you found?”

  Caros’ voice was gravelly with sleep and he cleared his th
roat.

  “Warriors. Raiders.” He drew a breath and sprang from his pony.

  Caros relaxed his posture. If danger had been imminent Rappo would be urging them to mount, not dropping from his horse.

  Maleric grumbled and slid his blade into its sheath.

  “What makes you so sure they are raiders then?”

  Rappo grinned, his face still flushed. “They have a wagon loaded high with loot and they are drinking and celebrating.” His grin turned cold. “They also have captives.”

  Caros breathed out. He could imagine exactly what Rappo had seen.

  “These men, Rappo, were they well-armed?”

  “They were of no tribe, Caros. I have heard the tales told of their kind and they are surely hill-warriors.”

  Neugen looked uneasily at Caros.

  “How many men?”

  Rappo made a gesture with his hands. Ten. His smile was fixed in place on his lips while his eyes burned with lust for a fight.

  Neugen thumped his spear butt into the ground.

  “Ten is too many.”

  Maleric looked at him, an eyebrow lifting high up his brow.

  “You always say that, but it is never so.” He rapped his knuckles on his helmet and gave him a wide grin.

  “They have made their camp then?”

  Rappo fingered his spears.

  “They have built a fire. Meat on it and a flagon of ale already unstopped. They are travelling no further today.”

  “Then we will see that they travel no further ever.”

  Rappo nodded, anticipating Caros’ thoughts.

  “We can reach them and kill them long before the sun sets.”

  Caros pulled the reins of his mount tight and hauled himself onto its back.

  “Hill-riders are like spit-blowing dogs who bite everything they see. We will kill these just as any of us would kill a mad dog.” He looked at each of his companions. “First, we watch them and then we decide how.”

  Leaving their horses grazing two stade from the hill raiders’ camp, Caros let Rappo show the rest of the way on foot. The area was heavily wooded with the only clearings those made by deadfalls. Slithering and stalking forward, each man progressed slowly, placing each footfall deliberately to lessen the sounds of their approach.