Warlord Slayer

by Nicholas Everritt

  Still wincing from the blow, Mark brought down his sword, cutting through Aelarix’s arm at the elbow. She cried out as her arm fell to the ground, sword with it, and she fell to her knees.

  Blood spurted from her stump momentarily, but it stopped after a few moments, and she stopped screaming after the initial shock of dismemberment.

  She was done for. She knew that already. And only now, as Mark paced behind her and grabbed her by the hair, was it dawning on her how it had happened.

  “I should have killed you twice.” she said between painful pants. “But your armour saved you. It let you learn how I fight. Learn how to beat me.”

  “Yes.”

  She spat out a mouthful of phlegm. “Damn dirty tricks. I would have beaten you!”

  “We’ll never know for sure.”

  Aelarix managed a grim laugh. “Not knowing is the worst part.”

  “Take it as a compliment.” said Mark, pressing the edge of his sword gently against her neck. “I’ve never needed to use tricks before. I only did it because I didn’t know if I could beat you. Ready?”

  Aelarix took one last look at the snow falling down onto the mountains. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

  “Ready.”

  Mark slid the blade across, opening her throat. Blood spurted out, turning the white snow red. She shuddered at the blade bit, but it was a quick kill. She fell to the floor face-down a heartbeat later.

  Mark threw his bloodied sword to the floor and briefly inspected his wound. It was a sore one, and would need to be cauterised, but he would live to fight another day. Then he turned Aelarix’s body over, blood still seeping from her neck. He ripped open her jerkin, revealing her sternum, and took a hunting knife from his belt.

  “No!” screamed Haggorax.

  He had awoken to find himself alone in Aelarix’s bed. He had seen how pensive she was at the feast and was worried about her. He had meant to ask her about it that night, but somehow the timing didn’t seem right. Of course she was pensive, he thought. She’ll be riding out with a warhost of burly soldiers in the morning.

  He’d gone to find her and comfort her if he could. He’d looked around the feasting hall and asked the guards stationed there. He’d gone outside to see if she had gone for a walk, or to sit and watch the sunrise because she couldn’t sleep, as had happened so often before.

  But here is where he found her. Splayed out on the Bloody Circle, her blood smeared across the snow, a dark warrior looming over her dead body with a carving knife.

  He roared in fury and anguish as he charged. His sword swung wildly. Mark leapt aside of the blow, grabbed him by the hair and pulled him back. His boots slipped on the snow and blood beneath his feet. He smashed his head on the stone as he fell. The sword fell from his hands.

  Mark kicked the sword away as Haggorax lay dazed on the ground.

  “I’m sorry. This will be over soon.” was all Mark could think to say. He knew the man’s pain and he was keen to put him out of his misery. Before the warrior had regained his senses he rammed the knife into his throat.

  Taking a moment to regain his breath, Mark turned back to Aelarix and the task at hand. He did not relish the prospect of what was ahead. He had no personal quarrel with this woman, and she had impressed him as a warrior. But it needed to be done nonetheless.

  As Mark readied the knife at her sternum, he stopped suddenly. There was something about her face. Her dark blue eyes, still open but glazed over. The blood smeared on her pale skin. It took him back to another time, another place.

  He shook his head and regained his senses. He would do what he had to. He had a message to send to a man he had once met. He wanted him to know that he was coming for him, that he was destined to become like Brogan and Aelarix – ripped corpses, splayed out for all their men to see. He wanted him to feel fear.

  “Spectacular! Marvellous! Magnificent!” enthused Dravin as he and Burt scrambled up the cliff towards their cave.

  “A great haul!” concurred Burt, holding aloft the helmet full of bronzes – although in truth, the helmet was probably worth more than its contents. “Now I wonder how young Mark got on with his assassination business…”

  Their wondering was soon over as they hauled themselves up into their cave. When they saw what was inside they skipped about with joy, cheering.

  A pig. A goat. And a cow. All still living. The cow had its legs bound with rope and was braying madly.

  “The boy’s mad!” marvelled Dravin. “How on earth has he managed to pilfer half a farm on a single night, and for that matter how did he manage to drag a live cow up a mountainside? Mad, I say, mad!”

  Chapter Four: Hesetti

  King Tiberix, flanked by his toughest thegns, stood opposite Vrakkar, Warlord of the Drom, and a handful of his henchmen.

  The meeting place was a clearing in the Grimwold Forest. Though you could scarcely have picked a name that better reflected the dense, dank forestry of Grimwold, thick with briars and scattered swamps, this particular clearing was spectacularly beautiful. It was a marsh of sorts, but the water was crystal clear and rose to half way up a man’s calf. Mossy mounds formed islands and pathways running through it. Surrounding the clearing were the tall, dark trees of the forest proper. The sun shone brightly overhead, making the water glisten.

  King Tiberix was strong and vibrant for a man of his age. His hair and beard were long, full and black. His nose was hooked, and his eyes were dark, glaring and fierce. He wore his famous crown, an iron helmet adorned with a bronze crown, and wore a hauberk and jerkin. At his side was his longsword, his iron-shod hand resting on the pommel.

  He was joined by his toughest thegns in all their battle gear, Kilbane among them, a few young lads to hold the reins of their horses just behind, and an interpreter wearing brown robes which he lifted above his knees to keep from getting wet.

  A hundred paces behind them, just beyond the treeline, the Darlothian army was amassed. Their tall shields bore the emblem of Darloth, a black fortress, and their banners flapped in the wind. The troops, drafted in from Darloth’s many farms and villages, were mainly country bumpkins, but they were a stern and sturdy lot, each wearing chainmail and iron helms, and carrying an assortment of spears, swords, bows and crossbows. They stood silent and ready.

  Vrakkar was a huge and mighty man, clad head to toe in dark metal plates and carrying a massive spiked mace and a massive spiked tower shield. His face, what of it was visible through the grill of his helmet, was brutish yet ageing, with a short white beard and a pale, scarred eye. He had a number of henchmen of his own, topless apart from wolf pelts and red war paint, and he had his own interpreter, a wizened old druid.

  Behind him, again just beyond the treeline, was the Drom horde. They were dressed like Vrakkar’s henchmen, and carried an assortment of cruel weapons – axes, maces, flails – and tall wooden shields. In contrast to the Darlothians they bayed for the blood of the wall-builders, pointing their weapons at them threateningly.

  “Are you sure you want to go through this whole rigmarole, Vrakkar? I assume, from the amount of armour you’re wearing, that you know who you’re up against.” said Tiberix, with a cruel and confident smirk. As he spoke, his interpreter spoke his words in the savage tongue. “Aren’t you getting a bit old for this nowadays? Those legs starting to creak yet? I know the feeling. I struggle to get out of bed some days. And all of a sudden I can’t seem to stop pissing. Wouldn’t you rather call it quits, and skulk back to whatever shithole you savages call home?”

  Vrakkar’s interpreter was made redundant by his warlord’s response. He spat out a glob of phlegm and smashed his mace against his shield, making a loud clang.

  “So be it.” said Tiberix, just about suppressing a grim. “I choose my champion, Mark, to fight in my stead.”

  “Mark!” roared Kilbane.

  There was a sense of anticipation from all parties, barbarian and wall-builder both, as Mark emerged from the Darlothian battle-line, axes resti
ng on his shoulders. His stride was deliberately slow as he made his way towards the men waiting for him in the middle of the clearing.

  Ancient battle-law dictates that the leaders of warhosts must offer champions to fight to the death before a battle begins. In ancient times this was a way of avoiding mass bloodshed – if a quarrel could be resolved by the duelling of two men alone, it could prevent a battle that might lead to hundreds of deaths. In latter days the battle would more often go ahead regardless. Though largely redundant these days the tradition of the pre-battle duel remained.

  It is the nature of barbarian societies that the warlord, the head of the tribe, has earned his position by being bigger, meaner and braver than anyone else. For this reason, most warlords would not countenance putting up a champion, but instead will fight personally to preserve their status as top dog. When it comes to Lotheria warfare, warlords typically live and die by the strength of their arms rather than their wisdom in governance or battle nous – although there are some notable exceptions.

  Darlothians, who consider themselves a breed apart from the unwashed savages of Lotheria, obey these ancient rites, but the Darlothian King has no compunction in offering up a champion to do battle. They are the King’s Champion, the finest fighter in all of Darloth, who would train daily for the sole purpose of slaying enemy warlords in single combat.

  If their warlord died then a tribe would be leaderless and demoralised in battle, or perhaps provoked into a spontaneous civil-war if pretenders to the throne started staking their claims there and then. If the King’s Champion dies, and it is a great honour to die in such a manner, then the King lives on to lead his men in the coming battle. For generations, this had given the Darlothians an advantage against their barbarian foes.

  As Mark waded through the glittering water to Tiberix’s side, Vrakkar locked hateful eye upon his enemy and snarled, revealing rotting teeth. His henchmen began to back away, as did Tiberix’s thegns.

  “You ready, lad?” Tiberix asked in a hushed tone.

  “May I borrow your sword?” said Mark.

  “Our course. What’s your thinking?” said Tiberix, unsheathing his sword and handing it to him.

  “Having a look at his armour, I think a sword will be quicker. Can you hold these?” he said, handing over his two axes.

  “By all means.” said Tiberix, taking them. “Wouldn’t you like to keep one just in case?”

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  Tiberix grinned. “I like your confidence, boy. Do me proud.” he said, slapping him on the shoulder and set off to join his thegns.

  Mark and Vrakkar stood opposite each other for a while, sizing each other up, looking each other up and down. Mark listened to Tiberix’s splashing footsteps as he rejoined the thegns and waited until they stopped. Only then did he begin to advance towards Vrakkar, one slow pace at a time.

  Vrakkar didn’t move until Mark was a few of paces away from him. A war cry erupted from his mouth, and the behemoth lumbered towards him, heavy footfalls splashing into the water. He swung his mace down at Mark, who jumped aside. The mace hit the water, sending a plume of glittering droplets flying upwards.

  Even before Mark’s feet hit the water again he swung out with his sword. It skimmed just above the brute’s shield and ripped through the gap between his breastplate and his helmet.

  Mark landed, his feet splashing into the pool.

  Vrakkar’s head landed shortly after, blood staining the water red.

  The body fell a heartbeat later.

  Cue cheers from the watching Darlothians, and jeers from the Drom, who watched their legendary warlord being cut to pieces in a matter of moments. Tiberix and his thegns laughed long and hard.

  Mark strode back towards them casually, Tiberix’s now bloody sword resting on his shoulder. His part in the battle was over. He had done his duty.

  The battle which followed was a formality. Lacking leadership and furious at Vrakkar’s unceremonious death, the Drom charged headlong across the sodden clearing through a storm of arrows and bolts, and once they reached the Darlothian lines, now an impenetrable wall of locked shields and a thicket of spears, they were exhausted. Demoralised, they put up little resistance, and were soon scattered. The clearing was left littered with their bleeding corpses.

  It was on the march back to Darloth that Mark first saw her. They passed through Calvulani territory, and having suppressed the Drom, the strongest tribe in the region at the time, the Calvulani sued for peace. To ensure their good faith, King Tiberix demanded a prisoner of great importance to their tribe.

  The handover happened early one morning at the Darlothian encampment. King Tiberix had staged the event expertly to assert the dominance of Darloth over the grovelling Calvulani. In the camp, surrounded by onlooking soldiers and their tents, King Tiberix sat upon a wooden throne surrounded by the weapons and shields of the defeated Drom as well as a posse of his best men. As King’s Champion, Mark acted as Tiberix’s bodyguard when on campaign, and he stood beside his throne, his axes resting on his shoulders.

  The Calvulani delegation was intentionally pitiful, barely filling out a single chariot. There was their Warlord, Magraxi, a venerable yet sturdy old man with long white hair who wore bronze armour. Beneath his arm was his helmet, which bore a crown of bronze briars. He, like the others, was unarmed. There was his charioteer, covered in swirling blue tattoos. There was a druid, a wise elder who cannot engage in battle, and whom it is a terrible dishonour to kill. He had been taken along as a translator, and also to guard against any ploy to slaughter the delegation.

  Finally there was the prisoner: Hesetti, Magraxi’s daughter and his only child. She was a beauty, and had been beautified to make her seem a more valuable prize for the King of Darloth. Her hair, long and flowing, blazed red. Her skin was fair, almost as pale as her flowing white dress. Her features could scarcely have been arranged more perfectly. She was no waif – she was tall and strong, like most barbarian women. She wore golden torcs around her neck and arms and had flowers in her hair. Her eyes were deep blue, and locked in a steely and hateful glare trained on the Darlothian King.

  Mark, for his part, glowered at the Calvulani. They were barbarians. Scum. Warmongers, raiders and rapists. No amount of beautification could hide that. He hated them all, and had trained his whole life to kill their warlords.

  All in attendance were silent as the chariot came to a halt and Magraxi stepped off, dragging his daughter with him and followed by the druid. Her fists were clenched and her arms were stiff, her glare still fixed on Tiberix. Tiberix himself had a stern, stately look about him, raising his head slightly so he could look down his considerable nose at them.

  Magraxi and Hesetti came to a halt just in front of Tiberix’s throne. The Calvulani warlord was sweating and looked nervous, understandably so. Magraxi stepped forward and fell to one knee, bowing low, presenting his helmet to Tiberix. Tiberix nodded magnanimously, and Magraxi left his helmet where it was and stepped back next to his daughter.

  Magraxi spoke and his druid translated into Darlothian. “King Tiberix, mightiest of Kings, I present to you, as a sign of good faith in our truce, my daughter and sole heir: Hesetti.”

  Tiberix did not reply, but simply bowed his head.

  Magraxi couldn’t help but notice the lustful gaze of the men who had come to watch. Their eyes were fixed on his daughter, who was a picture of silent fury.

  “As you are aware, King Tiberix, Hesetti is betrothed to Algrim, nephew of Habernach, Warlord of the Pictoi, and it is a term of our arrangement that she will be delivered to the Pictoi in one year’s time. When she is taken to them she will be unharmed, and she will be a virgin.”

  Tiberix laughed aloud. “I am indeed aware of that, Magraxi. I’ll take this opportunity to reiterate this point to my men.”

  Tiberix stood and address the gathered troops. “Now I realise, men, that half of you have hard-ons as we speak, but let me make this crystal clear. Nobody fucks this woman. She m
ay be pleasing to the eye, but think of her not as a woman, but instead as a mountain cat. You may admire the cat’s beauty from afar, but you wouldn’t stick your dick in one.” he said, to much laughter. Hesetti scoffed and Magraxi blushed as his druid sheepishly translated.

  “Because if you do, I’ll tear your nads of.” he said, before turning back to Magraxi. “And to ensure her safety, and as a sign of good fair, I will assign my very own bodyguard to protect her, the most potent killer in all of Lotheria and Darloth combined. If there’s a man alive who can get past him to your lovely daughter, I don’t want to meet him.”

  He turned to Mark with a grin. “Mark, meet your new friend, Hesetti. I think you’re going to get along tremendously.”

  The two glared at each other with furious, hateful eyes.

  The march back to Tirigast was a long one, and Mark was set the unenviable task of guarding their new captive. Guarding his King was boring enough but at least there was honour in it. But guarding some barbarian wench? That was both tedious and humiliating.

  For the first few days she was in an almighty strop. She said nothing, just glaring at whoever happened to be nearby with those furious blue eyes. On the road or in the camp, the men would gawp at her and make lewd remarks and gestures. She would snarl back at them, and they would laugh in her face. None dared get too close, mind you, for Mark rode at her side, and stood watch outside her tent when they made camp. Nobody would dare to cross him.

  The two of them barely registered each other’s existence, except for the occasional moment when their eyes would meet and they would glare at each other, hatefully.