Avenger: Book Eight in the Enhanced Series

by T. C. Edge

  “Stay here, Brie!” he says. “Please…”

  I try to struggle off, but am held back. Then, with my attentions elsewhere and defences down, he sets his gaze on me, darts into my mind, and spreads an order through my consciousness.

  I’m unable to repel it, the order so simple and effective.

  Go back to the village. Now.

  He holds my shoulders firm against the bark, waiting for the order to fully set. Then, releasing me, I find my legs working me back up the hill, away from the battle, as my brother surges in the opposite direction.

  The sensation is unlike anything I’ve ever felt. I can feel the order inside me, feel it forcing me to act against my will. My legs move without my input, dragging me north, but my head swivels around and looks upon the battle as I go.

  I see Zander spread into the action, a force of nature even among such people. With two knives set in his hands, he zips from one Bear-Skin to the next, slicing and dicing and stabbing each of them a dozen times until they’re unable to fight back.

  It takes more with these men than others. The thick fur and pelts that cover them are like armour. Their skin is tough, their reactions quick, their bodies thick with protective muscle. Zander aims for their necks, the weakest points he can find, slipping around backs and thrusting blades beneath the base of their skulls.

  I watch, and I know that Bjorn made a terrible mistake goading Zander to the fight. But then, as my legs draw me further away, and the thickening smoke and darkening skies begin to obscure my view of the battle, I see something that sets my heart aflame.

  My brother’s fury fades. His movements slow. The power of speed that imbues him only takes him so far, and with his focus on one man, another appears behind. I watch in horror as the hunter approaches with a tooth-encrusted club, and swings it right down on Zander as he puffs and pants and tries to dodge.

  The club connects, ripping into his shoulder and tearing at his flesh. The force is so powerful that he plummets across the battlefield, sending old leaves and twigs flying as his body slides through the scrub. The man with the club stomps on, standing about as tall as Rhoth and quickly covering the ground as he heads straight for my brother.

  He looks dazed, confused. He shakes his head of its cobwebs and tries to get to his feet. He staggers and falls backwards, hitting the turf once more.

  And all the while, my legs continue to drag me away.

  A fear presses through me unlike any I’ve ever felt. A fear of loss that would cut me down and destroy me. My brother lies defenceless, his gifts subdued. If I don’t do something he’s going to die.

  I shut my eyes, slip into my mind, and bellow in the darkness with a hidden rage. I rip myself from the shackles that my brother placed upon me, and feel my legs begin to slow and suddenly stop. I fill my lungs with a breath of smoky air and close my fists with such force my nails slice skin.

  I open my eyes. My body is free. I turn, and see the club-wielding beast hovering over my brother. He lifts the weapon as Zander drags himself away, set to send the heavy wood down on his skull.

  No. Not today.

  With a strange and sudden calm, the noise of battle seems to fade. I press the air slowly from my lungs and feel time begin to slow. My muscles vibrate, and down the hill not far away, the swinging club of the man begins to decelerate to a gentle pace.

  Drawing my knife, I run. I run at full speed amid a world in slow motion. All around me, a strange, otherworldly spectacle appears. Knives cut slowly into flesh. Faces contort in anger and pain, features wrinkling and changing shape in almost comical fashion.

  I see Bjorn and Rhoth still raging in their battle, the smaller man dodging beneath a swinging axe and preparing to counter with his blade. I see bodies lying amid the dirt, half-hidden within the mist and smoke. Bodies of Fangs and Bear-Skins numbering in the dozens, the battle quickly seeing an end to the two tribes’ weaker warriors.

  I see it all in a flash, because that’s all it takes for me to arrive at the man I’m here to kill. I draw close and realise how large he is, a mighty warrior with an aged face and scars beyond counting covering his face and forearms.

  As his club falls, my knife rises. I reach high and press it beneath his chin, and push as hard as I can to ensure it finds his brain. His eyes turn inside out, losing their life as they glaze to black pebbles, and as I pull the knife out, I finally take a breath and feel my power being to fade.

  The noise of battle returns; the clashing of metal and roaring of men. The man with the club collapses, his frame now a heap of dead flesh. I turn from him with no feeling at all and kneel down to my brother. His shoulder is cut up from the fangs of the club, his eyes still blinking and trying to regain their usual form.

  “Zander! Are you OK?”

  He begins to work through the shroud, and I coax an arm over my shoulder, lifting him to his feet and helping him a little up the slope. I keep a watch on my surroundings as I go, but note the altering form of things. The Fangs are winning, their enemy now out numbered. What was once a one-on-one fight of fifty against fifty has become far more advantageous for my friends. Many little clashes now involve two of their number against a single Bear-Skin.

  And still, Rhoth and Bjorn’s battle goes on.

  I set my brother against a tree, just as he did me. He seems capable now of speaking, his faculties slowly returning.

  “I can fight,” he says, trying to push away from me and move back into the maelstrom.

  I strange swap has taken place. I press him firmly against the bark and say ‘no’ with a firmness that tells him he needs to stop here and rest a moment.

  “Stay with me,” he says, conceding.

  I shake my head and turn back to the fight.

  “I’ll be back in a moment,” I say.

  I leave him there and re-enter the fray. I leap over bodies and with a surge of adrenaline begin to utilise the gifts given to my by my father. My eyes catch sight of any zipping spear or throwing knife. My speed lets me avoid all threats.

  I head for the nearest Bear-Skins I can see, and note that it’s West he’s in combat with. The young Fang swerves with skill and grace, his dagger flashing and cutting as the bigger man tries to cleave him apart with a thicker blade. I arrive to help but realise I’m not needed. With a quick dodge and thrust, West sends the dagger through his enemy’s chest, cutting through fur, pelt, flesh and organ.

  The Bear-Skin reaches for his stomach and looks up at West as he sinks to his knees. I see a strange appreciation in his eyes, as if he’s acknowledging that he’s been met by a better fighter, before he flops like a dead fish and breathes his last.

  “Where did you learn to fight like that?” I ask my new friend, sliding in alongside him.

  He turns his gaze across the slope as Rhoth slips and slides, sniping at Bjorn like a snake.

  A smile curls on the young man’s face.

  “He taught me,” he says.

  28

  Alongside my new fighting companion, I slip from one skirmish to the next. We add our blades to each, the Bear-Skins now unable to withstand the onslaught as they’re quickly dispatched.

  Like powerful elk surrounded by the snapping jaws of jackals, we prod and poke with sharp tips, wearing some of the larger men down as we try to dodge their swinging blows. With my body still brimming, I utilise whatever Dasher energy remains in me, swirling in and ending several more men before they can deliver a fatal blow.

  Soon enough, all of our enemy are spent. All but one.

  The remaining Fangs gather around the final fight, the forest now silent but for the dying groans of men, and the single song of combat that still remains.

  Zander staggers down from the tree to stand beside me, and together we make a large circle around Bjorn and Rhoth as the two leaders part. Both men draw in heavy breaths, and both bleed from multiple gashes and wounds across their limbs.

  We hold our spears and daggers and throwing knives aloft, ready to charge in and swarm all over th
e giant. Rhoth lifts a blood-drenched hand, preventing a single new combatant from entering the circle.

  “This fight is between Bjorn and me. No one will interfere, not even if I die,” he says. “The victor will go free.”

  He never takes his eyes off Bjorn as he speaks. The Brute stares at him with a measure of respect, and drops his chin into a little nod.

  “Stand back now,” says Rhoth. “Give us the space to finish this.”

  As we draw away, widening the circle, I wonder whether I’ll be able to keep Rhoth’s promise. If Bjorn should strike him down, I can’t say I won’t try to avenge him. But it’s not my place to do such a thing. If his men can honour the terms, then I suppose I’ll have no choice either.

  Stark faces watch on as the battle resumes. Standing next to West, I see his youthful face crinkle and grow old with worry, his eyebrows pinching and lips quivering and teeth gnashing each time a blow looks set to strike.

  The rest of the remaining Fangs carry similar expressions, displaying the caring they hold for their leader. And it’s something I can understand. Even in my brief encounters with these people, and with Rhoth in particular, I’ve found myself drawn into their world. I consider them my kin.

  The two leaders circle each other, fatigue now beginning to set in. They work clockwise, before going the other way, Rhoth snipping and jabbing, Bjorn swinging and hacking.

  Occasionally, slow periods are followed by sudden bouts of ferocity. As Bjorn steps forward with a horizontal swipe, Rhoth ducks low and reaches out for the great bear’s belly. It’s enough to pierce his armour of hides and thick fur, slicing a gash across his abdomen.

  A bellow clatters up into the sky, and Bjorn unleashes a devastating series of attacks. He swings with a blend of ferocious control, forcing Rhoth to retreat and parry and step around a tree for protection. Such is the strength of the mighty beast that his axe cuts straight through the bark, felling the tower and sending it creaking and breaking and falling down to the earth.

  The Fangs below it scatter like mice beneath the shadow of a hawk, breaking apart the circle. The distraction is enough to have Bjorn launching himself forward, bounding towards his foe and drawing a blade from his belt. He cuts with speed, the lighter weapon hastening his diagonal blows, but Rhoth is just quick enough to see it coming.

  I shout “lookout!” by instinct and Rhoth rolls to the side beneath the knife, appearing up behind Bjorn and drawing open the flesh of his upper arm. The gash peels and red blood spills, and Bjorn suddenly staggers as if the accumulating loss of blood is having an effect.

  His eyes turn more feral than ever, and they look at me as if I’m to blame. He seems to forget everything else for a second and comes marching my way, a hatred beyond reckoning infusing his every shuddering step.

  “Where are you going, Bjorn?!” roars Rhoth. “You too afraid to fight me now? You think a girl-cub is a better match for you?”

  Bjorn stops in his tracks. Laughter fills the air. He looks around in fury at the faces that stare at him, and seems to see beyond them for the first time, at the forms of his men littering the dirt.

  A crack of thunder escapes his chest, his neck twisting skyward and gaping mouth opening wide. Blood trickles from a dozen wounds, now pooling on the ground whenever he stays in one place too long. All over, the earth is strained crimson, the sheer volume of the stuff within the giant enough to paint a mansion red.

  He sets his eyes back on Rhoth again, and musters the final shreds of strength within him. He paces forward. Rhoth stays still, watching with the attention of a bird of prey and seeking an opening. Bjorn discards his heavy axe and lifts only his short sword, ready to swipe. Rhoth notes the motion, foresees its path, and makes the appropriate move to the left.

  Were Rhoth’s head not already shaven, the swinging blade would have sheared his hair clean off. It strokes across his scalp, mere millimetres from meeting his skull, and Rhoth replies with a strike of his own.

  With all his energy pressed into the attack, Bjorn’s midsection awaits, defenceless. It’s a large target, and across his sides where his armouring is weaker, Rhoth stabs his jagged blade with the strength of a wild boar. It cuts in, entering his flesh, seeker the depths of his body as a full foot of metal embeds itself within him.

  The reaction on Bjorn’s face is one of utter agony. But more than that, it’s one of defeat. He gasps for air as Rhoth pulls the handle of the blade up, then twists to ensure the wound can’t close.

  Stepping back, the dagger comes with him, producing a gush of blood as it withdraws. Bjorn tries to stay on his feet but can’t. He falls forward onto a single knee, clutching at his side, wondering how his hunt came to this. Wondering how he, so mighty as he is, could have been bested by a man of such comparatively feeble size.

  But size isn’t everything. Rhoth had speed, skill, accuracy, and smarts. Bjorn lacked too much for his monolithic frame to make up, counting only on his strength and ferocity to see him through. He’ll have spent his entire life cleaving his enemies in two. But today he met his match.

  As the blood seeps from between his fingers, and his skin begins to pale, Rhoth seems to look at him in a different way. Despite their differences, there looks to be a vein of respect and honour between them, and with Bjorn now drawing in his dying breaths, it’s all that remains.

  Rhoth kneels before him, and they come face to face a final time. The anger and rage seems to escape Bjorn’s body along with the blood, his wheezing, ragged breaths growing shallow.

  “You fought well,” he says. “I was beaten…by…the better…man.”

  He reaches out a huge, bloodied paw, and Rhoth’s hand comes forward and clasps it. And in silence, Bjorn dies, holding the hand of his sworn enemy.

  The hand of the man who killed him.

  29

  The hours that follow the battle are those of silence and reflection.

  No songs are sung of victory. No smiles are raised on those that survived. The Fangs, shorn of most of their number, go about the process of cremating their brothers with sober expressions and introspective grief.

  Rhoth leads, despite his many wounds that need attention. As Kervan returns and looks upon the field of the dead, he grasps the great Fang’s blood-soaked forearm and thanks him for what he’s done.

  “You will always be a friend to the Roosters,” he says. “Tonight, we will honour you.”

  Rhoth remarks that the only honouring he desires is in aiding them in building the pyres. Kervan immediately calls for the villagers to come forth and lend their hands. They do so with calm efficiency, gathering wood and bodies, clearing the battlefield of weapons, giving thanks to the Fangs through their actions if not their words.

  Many pyres are built. Not only for the Fangs, but for the Bear-Skins too. Kervan appears opposed to the idea, but doesn’t voice it. He merely nods and directs his people as the many bodies are burned.

  Across the forest, dozens of fires smoulder, eating the flesh of the dead. The clear skies fill with smoke, the starlight and moonlight blotted from the lands, and the Fangs stand and watch as their kin depart this world.

  It all happens in silence. No words or prayers are spoken. Only when the flames recede do the hunters do the same, creeping back to the village up the slope to be fed and watered and seek rest.

  The injured are tended, my brother and Rhoth among them. They’re too weak to make the climb to the hut assigned for such things, and so medical tools are brought down and their wounds sewn and sealed.

  I hover around, watching as Rhoth’s bloodied clothes are pealed away, and the many gashes across his flesh revealed. It takes several girls to work on him, both arms and both legs suffering some major or minor cut.

  My brother fares better. His shoulder is badly torn and likely to be heavily scared, but the wounds are superficial and look much worse than they are. The slightly spaced out look in his eyes suggests he’s also got a concussion from when he hit the floor. Some tonic is given to him to help with the
pain and let him sleep.

  He tries to push it away, half deliriously suggesting that we return to the city immediately, but the carers merely speak to him in gentle tones and coax his mouth open. Several minutes later, his eyes are shut tight and he’s snoring gently on the forest floor.

  Rhoth’s surgery lasts a little while longer, the Fangs nervously meandering around and praying his wounds aren’t too deep. Yet none appear quite as worried as West, his feet pacing a little quicker than the rest, his fidgeting fingers refusing to settle.

  Eventually, I manage to calm him, drawing him away beneath the shade provided by one of the huts above. We sit up against the trunk of the tree and I assure him that Rhoth’s wounds are merely to the flesh, and that the Roosters know just what they’re doing.

  He rarely takes his eyes away from his adopted father, and it becomes clear just how strong their bond is. I ponder it with a mind to the past, and how, not so long ago, I thought the wilds were full of only savagery with little tenderness, violence and no love.

  Eventually, as Rhoth’s wounds are sealed, and the Fangs begin to drop off to sleep, one by one, West finds his voice once more. We begin whispering in the moonlight, the smoke of the fires down the hill now fading, and he tells me more of his old home and the things he’s seen.

  My education into the world continues, my once narrow-minded view now expanded beyond all possible expectation. He tells me not only of his village, but of the settlements he saw on his journey here many years ago. Of both the brutality of people and their kindness. Of how certain bands tried to take them, and others help them, during their long journey eastwards.

  I learn that night that the dichotomy of these lands goes far beyond Haven, far beyond the outerlands I know. That the world is full of people, good and bad, willing to take or give, kill and save. It is a balance that I’ve seen all my life in the city, the same balance that has always existed.

  The years pass, and perhaps the balance goes one way or the other. Sometimes evil will rise and dominate, and at others good will prevail and rule. But over the course of time, the balance is set straight, the passage of time a pendulum between the two, swinging one way and then the next, never to fully settle.