Warlord Slayer

by Nicholas Everritt

  Otherwise Mark spent his time hunting for food, and on one occasion stealing a pig as payment for the hermits’ services. It wasn’t plain sailing by any means. Stealing a squealing pig from a mountainside farmhouse manned by a dozen Albrante barbarians is no easy feat.

  By night he would hide out in a makeshift bivouac he built on the mountainside. It was a miserable way to spend an evening – he was chilled by the howling wind and snow, and sodden whenever the heavens opened.

  Dravin and Burt had just finished their report of the day’s goings on, with news of Brogan’s death and the mustering of the Albrante warhost.

  “You killed the fellow Brogan, then?” asked Dravin.

  “Mhmm.” confirmed Mark, deep in thought as they sat round a fire in the hermits’ cave.

  “They say you’re some kind of warlord-slayer. Are you famous?”

  “You could say that.”

  “Well we’ve never heard of you, but then we’re a bit behind the times up ‘ere.” said Burt, cleaning out his ear-hole with his finger.

  Mark rubbed his chin in rumination. “If the warhost marches for Visgoti-land, Aelarix will go with them. That will make things more complicated. I need to kill her before she leaves.”

  “But how?” wondered Burt, with a shrug.

  “I remember something…” said Mark, trying to recall the scene. “I killed an Albrante warlord once before. I forget his name, but I remember the fight. He had his son and daughter with him. I killed the son, too, but the daughter lived. She must have been Aelarix…Yes, that would make sense. She would be about the right age by now.”

  Mark looked hard into the fire as he though things through. “She’s a famous warrior, constantly asked to prove herself by a string of challengers. She fights them one-on-one, as honour would dictate, and always proves to be a match for them. Suppose I were to challenge her…I’m an enemy, a Darlothian, who dares to pit myself against her. And what is more I killed her father and brother. She would fight me one-on-one, I think, just like the others. I just need to send her an invitation.”

  Dravin nodded with a mock-sage expression. “Now I’ve seen this bird fight off more pretenders than I can remember. Are you sure you can beat her?”

  “Don’t worry.” glowered Mark. “I never underestimate a foe.”

  “And how do you intend to send this invitation?” asked Burt. “You can’t exactly waltz up to Skarmshall and throw down a gauntlet!”

  Once again Mark thought back to his duel against Aelarix’s father. “That warlord…Her father…He said something to her before he fought me. It must have affected me somehow because I remembered the phrase even thought I couldn’t speak the language at the time. The sight of this man kissing his children one last time, knowing that he was going to die by my hand, stirred something within me. Perhaps it was seeing his bravery and dignity – a noble savage is a rare thing. After the battle I asked a scholar what it meant.”

  “Oh?” said Dravin.

  “He said ‘Be fierce, little flower’. I must be the only man alive who heard him speak those words. So this can be my message.” Mark turned his gaze to the two bums. “And you’re going to deliver it for me.”

  “Us?” protested Burt. “How are we supposed to get a message to the good Warlord?”

  “I don’t know yet.” admitted Mark. “But if you want the rest of your payment you’re going to have to find a way. In fact, if you can figure out a way to get my message to her without anyone else hearing it, I’ll steal you a damn cow. On the house.”

  Burt and Dravin looked at each other and grinned broad, gap-toothed grins.

  For the next few days the old farts worked feverishly trying to come up with a plan to deliver Mark’s message without being roughhoused by her bodyguards or blood-eagled for assisting a would-be assassin. They came up with all manner of ideas, schemes involving deception, costumes, projectiles, role-play. Burt’s schemes usually revolved, suspiciously, around him dressing up as an exotic whore from some far-off land to seduce her bodyguards. Dravin’s plans usually focused on a catapult of some sort – his best idea was to write Mark’s message onto the side of a pig and launch it into the side of Skarmshall. Burt rightly pointed out that this would be a waste of a good pig, and that although the plan might bear fruit and reward them with a cow, a pig in the hand is worth more than a cow in the bush.

  Eventually, opportunity knocked. Over the coming days men began to arrive from the surrounding villages and farmsteads. The tribe’s warriors were gathering for the warhost, and they set up camps among the mountains around Skarmjal. The chieftains of these villages and the heads of the Albrante clans were gathering in Skarmshall, awaiting a grand feast to commemorate their march to war.

  Burt and Dravin did some of their best work as Fuckface and Buttwort. The chiefs and their assorted toadies hadn’t seen any of their material before, so they got some good value out of their tried and tested routines. The bronze flowed aplenty.

  On one occasion a burly blonde-haired chief was red-faced with laughter, and his men were falling about themselves at the hermits’ childish japery.

  “Henrik, my old friend,” he said between guffaws, “we’ve got to get these fuckheads to perform for the feast. It’ll give us a break from all those tedious bards with their bloody epics!”

  “Why not? What could be the harm?” chuckled Henrik.

  That night they reported back to Mark, and their plan was put in place.

  The next evening the feast was in full swing. The noblest chiefs and headsmen of the Albrantes were crammed around a series of feasting tables with their closest family and hangers-on. There was heavy drinking, of course, and they wolfed down meat from vast platters. Aelarix didn’t take much part in the merriment. She simply sat upon her throne at the head of the biggest table and sipped her mead slowly. Haggorax was at her side, as always, his sheathed sword resting on his shoulder. Henrik watched on from the sidelines, and some of his trainees waited in the wings ready to break up any inevitable bust-ups. Harps and flutes played pleasant background music, though they were largely drowned out by the tumult of the bawdy feast-goers.

  Now and then a bard would enter and give a reading of their epic poems, recounting tales of long-dead chieftains, monster-slayers and heroes. Some, the most pompous and boring, were ignored and drowned out by chatter, or heckled with groans and put-downs. Others, the more bawdy and lewd, got a good reception, and every punchline was met with fists banging on tables. Throughout all of this Aelarix remained impassive.

  In an interval between readings the blonde chief, Morgrim his name, rose from his seat and clattered his brass goblet against his iron helmet to get everyone’s attention. Some of the crowd cheered as they saw him standing up, swaying under the influence of booze, and pouring himself another drink once he realised he’d spilt his mead all over his head. When at last he had a full goblet raised, he made a toast.

  “Here’s to Aelarix, the toughest warlord in all of Lotheria, sharpest blade in the tribeslands!” he roared, taking a swig.

  He got a good cheer from the punters, and even a cursory nod of approval from Aelarix, so he decided to double down and make another toast. “The toughest bitch I ever knew, and the prettiest pussy I wouldn’t dare to fuck!” There was more of an ‘oooo’ than a cheer this time, but Aelarix pretended to smile so that all could see that no offence had been taken.

  Not content with two toasts, Morgrim went in for another. “And here’s to Haggorax, the blushing beauty on her arm, and he’s a fairly pretty pussy too!”

  The room was deathly silent this time around as he took another swig. Aelarix’s eyes thinned into a terrible glare. Her hand reached for her sword, sheathed and lying on the table in front of her.

  “Aelarix, it was just a joke, and no offence need be taken.” said Haggorax, hurriedly.

  Henrik decided now would be a good time for a little distraction.

  “Bring in the fools!” he bellowed, and at once the awkward silence was rep
laced with raucous cheers as Fuckface and Buttwort were dragged into the hall by two burly men. Morgrim was dragged back onto his seat by his less inebriated followers, who breathed a sigh of relief as Aelarix’s glare turned from Morgrim to the fools, no less disdainfully for it.

  Fuckface swaggered from one end of the hall to the other, theatrically polishing an apple. Then, just as he was ready to take a bite, Buttwort let out his trademark ‘scree’ and charged at him. And so the stage was set for an epic showdown, a mighty battle which would determine the fate of that juicy Granny Smith.

  They pulled out all the stops – slaps, punches, throws. They whacked each other with heavy objects and chucked foodstuffs in each other’s faces. There were gonad-kicks and even a finger up the arse, ridiculous faces aplenty, and a symphony of daft noises. It was their magnum opus. Every hit, every mug pulled, every squeal and raspberry got a great reception from the helpfully pissed crowd. Aelarix watched on with completely unconcealed disdain.

  For the grand finale, Buttwort, incensed at having his arse played like a pair of tribal drums, pulled a sword from a nearby chieftain’s sheath and charged at Fuckface with a terrible, wailing battle cry. The sword bit, wedging between arm and ribcage. There were gasps.

  Fuckface’s death was played for all it was worth, with a variety of hammy faces and many gestures of lamentation. He swayed this was and that in his death throes until, finally, he fell down at the side of Aelarix’s throne. There he whispered his final words to her and her alone, and then finally collapsed.

  She winced at first as the pungent old man whispered in her ear, but as she listened to his words her expression changed to surprise, and then contemplation.

  “Be fierce, little flower. Tonight.”

  Once the old fool had finally met his maker Aelarix, who had clearly hated the entire wretched performance, shot up and clapped. Everyone else followed suit, bashing their fists on the tables. Bronze bars were thrown at them from every direction, and Buttwort gratefully collected them in a helmet that was lying around. Fuckface leapt to his feet and, together, they bowed low and scuttled off out of the hall.

  Aelarix sat back down and rested her chin on her hands. She didn’t say another word for the entire feast.

  Aelarix lay awake in her bed until Haggorax was fast asleep. She lifted his arm off her waist, shuffled aside on the bed and gave him a gentle kiss on the lips. As she began getting dressed she was deep in thought. She strapped her sword to her back, took one last look at her sleeping lover, took a deep breath and headed out of her chamber.

  She walked through the feasting hall, where many of the chiefs and their attendants were sleeping on roll mats and, in some cases, the bare tables. Most of them were blind drunk, snoring terribly, some still clutching horns of mead. The leftovers, plates and goblets were littered all over the place.

  The men standing guard bowed their heads as she passed, as did the two men manning the doors of Skarmshall.

  “You are excused of your duties. Go back to your homes.” she said to them.

  “Warlord, we cannot…”

  “Don’t make me ask again.” she snapped. “Nobody would dare attack us tonight with our strength fully mustered. And you two will need a good night’s sleep for tomorrow’s march.”

  They wouldn’t dare question her a second time, and so set off sheepishly to their homes.

  With them gone, Aelarix looked out over Skarmjal, lit by the light of the bulbous moon. The wind was still. It was snowing gently, and already a thin layer of snow was beginning to build on the ground. She looked out towards the Bloody Circle, and there she saw the silhouette of a figure. She took another deep breath, which became white mist in the air, and began her approach.

  As she paced towards the figure the only noise was her slow footsteps. Nobody else stirred in Skarmjal. The cliffs outside the hillfort were dotted with pin-pricks of light, campfires made by the mustered tribesmen.

  As she drew nearer she could make out the figure more clearly. It was a man, tall, and with a sword in his hand. His shoulders were made broad by his wolf pelt cloak.

  As she drew nearer still, step by purposeful step, she thought about her father and her brother, killed by Mark’s hand. She thought about all the men she had killed to get to where she was now. She thought about her tribe, which she had dragged from ruin to become a force to be reckoned with once more. But she had no heirs. If she were to die, the Albrantes would be plunged into chaos. She thought about Haggorax, the only man she had ever learnt to love since her father and brother were taken from her.

  But as she stepped onto the platform all that was left in her mind was the glory of killing the most feared warrior in the world. Not for vengeance, but for the glory that comes with being unmatched. At that moment the promise of glory was all that mattered to her.

  They stood five faces apart. The snow fell around them. Aelarix glared at Mark, a dark spectre lit up by the moonlight. His cold eyes peered back from the gloom. His sword, Albrante-made, matched hers in size and length. She slid her sword from its scabbard.

  They stood still for a while. Looking each other up and down. Taking in the moment. Feeling the cold air and the melting snowdrops on their skin. Sensing the rush of blood in their veins and the beating of their hearts within their chests. Beyond them, the moon lit up the mighty Hindengaust Range. A fitting backdrop for one’s last moment. And for one of them it would be just that.

  Aelarix took a step, and Mark followed. They began slowly circling each other, and gradually, very gradually, inched closer. They could see the glint of moonlight off each other’s eyes, and the shimmer of their swords. They began to plan their moves as they gripped the hilts of their blades more tightly, each imagining the duel that was about to unfold, running through scenarios, picturing their killing blows.

  Then they stopped a sword’s length apart. They stared into each other’s eyes, seeing who would blink first and strike the first blow. They stood there for what seemed like an eternity, eyes locked, breathing slowly.

  Mark would be the first to strike.

  He thrust his blade, fast as a viper. But his intake of breath had forewarned Aelarix, and she ducked back and knocked the sword aside. She swung her blade, and Mark parried. Their swords span in glittering circles, clashing again and again. Both were a flurry of iron, fast as lightning, unrelenting.

  Using his height, Mark rose above Aelarix and began raining down powerful blows. Aelarix kept her focus and turned them aside, one after another, and her sword clanged and shuddered with each hit. She weaved aside of his heaviest blows and counterattacked with darting jabs and thrusts. Mark was equal to it, knocking each strike aside as it came.

  Mark bared his teeth as he swung his blade double-handed. Aelarix darted aside and it whooshed past her. It was a heavy blow, and would have torn her in two had it hit its mark, but Mark lurched forward as he swung. This was her opening. She span, her sword flashing out. The blade struck Mark’s neck.

  She gasped and staggered back as her blade hit iron. Where she had expected flesh to shear and blood to erupt, instead sparks flew from Mark’s neck. She took a couple of steps back and held out her sword, defensively, as Mark rubbed his neck. He was wearing a thick iron collar beneath his wolf pelt.

  Aelarix scowled. “Coward.”

  Mark disagreed. Part of defeating one’s enemy is assessing their strengths and weaknesses, noting their modes of attack, picking the weapons and armour for the job. His task had been made more difficult by not having seen her fight before. But this disadvantage was rapidly diminishing. He had now seen her fighting style up close and personal. But besting it would be a sterner test.

  The two circled each other once more as more snow settled on the platform. Each footstep now crunched. They regained their breath, readied their swords, and the fighting began anew.

  Mark struck first, but Aelarix’s sword was a blur and she turned the blow aside. Her own rapid counter-attack was blocked by Mark’s sword. They traded blows
, ducking and weaving, sparks flying as the swords bit at one another. Then Mark went for an overarm swipe. His blow was a heavy one, and as his sword cleaved through air Aelarix jumped aside of it, and as she came down her sword fell like an arrow, stabbing into Mark’s shoulder.

  Again, iron hit iron. Aelarix dashed out of reach and cursed in frustration. Mark rubbed his shoulder, protected by a thick metal plate beneath his jerkin and pelt.

  “I’ve killed you twice now.” she protested. “I have a mind to call in my shield-bearers to deal with you. That’ll teach you for not fighting fair.”

  “Very well.” said Mark, in her own tongue. “Fair is fair.” He began to remove his jerkin, his cloak and the metal plates he had strapped to his body beneath them, protecting his neck and lungs.

  Aelarix was taken aback. “You speak the tongue of the Lotherians?”

  “Yes.” was Mark’s gruff reply as he threw off the last of his armour plates. He was topless now, the moonlight illuminating his muscular, scarred torso, black bruises forming on his neck and shoulder where Aelarix’s blade had hit his armour.

  “That’s more like it.” she said, and the two of them circled each other once more with eyes locked.

  Their third bout went much like the first two. They traded blows, swords flashing in the moonlight, their blades emitting shrill clangs as they struck one another again and again. But then Mark went for a killer blow, sweeping his sword to take off her head. The blow was a little heavy, and Aelarix anticipated it. He lurched forward a little as his blade swept through cold air. Aelarix capitalised.

  She leapt forward, thrusting upwards with her sword gripped in both hands. It should have gone up under Mark’s ribcage and punctured his lung. Instead he swerved at just the right moment as if he had predicted the strike. The blade went between his ribs and his arm, slicing through a chunk of armpit. Blood ran down the blade, but Aelarix knew at once that it was a superficial blow.