The druid’s cloak opened, revealing a crossbow in his hands.
“Die Calvii scum!” he screeched, breaking his ancient vows as he raised the crossbow and pointed it towards Tiroginus.
He wouldn’t have time to pull the trigger. Bronmere’s morning star swung, the ball crashing into the druid’s skull, which practically exploded in a shower of blood and brains. Tiroginus gasped as he looked back to see the druid fall dead.
The Calvii soldiers guarding Zamothrax and his wise man lost their nerve and stuck them both with spears.
All were quiet once more, save for excited whispers amongst the gathered crowd and the impaled Vargons’ last, anguished breaths. Tiroginus stared at the druid’s dead body, shell-shocked. Bronmere stood over the corpse and turned to his warlord. The Calvii soldiers grabbed Mark, and turned to Tiroginus for instructions.
Having regained himself, Tiroginus paced his way over to Bronmere.
“He would have killed me.”
“Doubt it.” said Bronmere. “He was slow to aim his weapon. I’d have got in the way of the bolt.”
“We can’t be sure of that.” said Tiroginus, turning to Mark. “Who is that man?”
Bronmere shrugged.
Tiroginus walked over to where Mark was being held, Bronmere following close behind. The bodyguard’s eyes scanned the onlookers, suspiciously. His blood-smeared ball and chain would put off any other would-be assassins.
“Your name?” asked Tiroginus.
“Alarik.” Mark replied.
“And why are you here, Alarik?”
“I come to seek an arrangement for my tribe, the Brogos.”
Tiroginus nodded. He had probably never heard of the Brogos before – Mark had picked an obscure tribe to imitate, a small clan living in poverty amongst the mountains of the Hindengaust Range – but if he didn’t know them, he pretended to know of them nonetheless.
“I see. I’m having a feast tonight with the heads of some major tribes. Perhaps I can find a few minutes then to iron out an arrangement which is aggregable to your people.”
“Thank you, Warlord Tiroginus.”
“Thank you, Alarik of the Brogos.” he smiled, with a wink.
With that, Tiroginus’ throne was loaded back onto his chariot, and he and Bronmere boarded it. Led by Tiroginus, the Calvii troops jumped aboard their chariots and followed after him. Mark was ushered onto one of the chariots which followed on behind.
The column of Calvii chariots rode on through the mud and shite of Gothen-Pit and out through its gates. Mark was glad to be free of that place, and he hoped never to return. But as he was escorted out of the frying pan, he would soon find himself right in the middle of the fire.
They rode on through the valley and up towards Gothenmar, which stood tall and proud upon its hill. The gold-gilded Heroes’ Hall could be seen glittering from a great distance.
The chariots rode through the lush green fields of Calvii-land, kicking up plumes of dust with their wheels. They rode up to Gothenmar, with its tall wooden walls manned by ranks of Calvii troops. Tiroginus was taking no chances with security, and for good reason.
The doors swung open to let the chariots in. Mark had found his way into Gothenmar, perversely by saving the life of the man he’d come to kill. He didn’t know if the druid would have hit his mark, but he wasn’t prepared to let someone steal his redemption away from him.
Every hut in Gothenmar was finely built, with large wooden rooves built like the prows of longships overhanging stone walls. Peasants went about their business, washing their clothes, cooking on fires. Children played. Blacksmiths hammered at their anvils. And up at the top of the hill, in the very centre, was the great Heroes’ Hall, built to look like a giant longship and decorated with gold. It was an impressive structure indeed, shining and shimmering, a symbol of the Calvii’s hard-won power and wealth. When at last Tiroginus got off his chariot he and his bodyguards headed off to the hall.
Mark knew he would only have one night. He had to kill Tiroginus tonight or his chance would be lost. He wasn’t going to be lucky enough to get into Gothenmar a second time.
The feast took place in the feasting hall of the mighty Heroes’ Hall. Tiroginus’ most distinguished guests – Habernach, Faelfar and Grug– and their posses feasted at the same table as Tiroginus, who sat at his tall, exquisitely carved wooden throne flanked by some wise old Calvii men, grey-haired sages and long-bearded druids. Bronmere stood beside him as usual. There were two smaller tables for the other guests, which included dignitaries from a gaggle of lesser tribes and clans. Mark was among them. A bonfire roared right in the middle of the hall.
Harps and flutes were played by well-dressed young lads and pretty maidens as the men ate and drank in a relatively civilised manner. Their chatter was animated at times, and there were bursts of laughter, but they were guests in Tiroginus’ hall, and Mark could tell they were on their best behaviour. Mark, for his part, kept his head down, ate his food, and sipped sparingly from his mead. He made some small-talk with the tribesmen around him, but neither he nor they were especially interested in being talkative. In truth all eyes were on Tiroginus. Everyone listened in to his wise words as he held court, waiting for their chance to converse with him and make the case for their tribe.
Already Mark was weighting up his options. His eye flitted about the place, counting the guards who lined the hall and stood erect with their spears. There were twenty in the hall and many more outside. Then there was Bronmere of course. The other barbarians had been disarmed, but they might well move to protect Tiroginus if Mark attacked him. He would have to bide his time.
The walls were decorated with the shields and weapons Tiroginus had collected from the many enemies he had defeated. Useful, perhaps, but not yet.
As the warlords chatted at the main table the others all listened in intently. Conversation progressed from small talk, to war stories, and then on to current affairs. One story in particular had caused a stir amongst the barbarians, appalled by the act but at the same time impressed by the cunning and heroism of it.
“Remarkable that this man should seemingly come back from the dead to haunt us, like a wight or a wraith.” said Faelfar.
“What happened to him, anyway? Why did he disappear for so long?” asked one of his toadies.
“He deserted his people.” explained Habernach. “Ran off with the Calvulani girl. That’s what the wall-builders told me anyway.”
“Ah yes, she was betrothed to your nephew, wasn’t she?” said Faelfar.
“Yes. Hesetti was her name. A good-looking, clean-limbed girl by all accounts.” said Habernach, between swigs. Mark stopped eating as he heard her name. He breathed slow, painful breaths as his throat constricted and his fists clenched.
“What did you do?” asked Faelfar.
“Broke off our alliance with the Calvulani. They hadn’t kept their side of the bargain. So I left them to the mercy of the Morrowfow.”
“Slaughtered, so I hear.” said Grug, wolfing down a chicken leg. “Wiped off the map. Their hold burned to the ground. Their horses stolen. Their men slaughtered. Their women and children carried off as slaves.”
“That is Maedoc’s way.” said Tiroginus as he sipped his wine.
Mark couldn’t help but feel a brief swelling of guilt. In their time in blissful exile he and Hestii had come to terms with their decision. They knew there would be terrible consequences for their actions, but they did it anyway. The Calvulani must have suffered greatly. But those feelings of remorse subsided soon enough. There is no use dwelling over the suffering of barbarians.
“Why did Mark return?” asked a man at the top table.
“Nobody knows for sure.” said Faelfar. “But he slaughtered Brogan along with a dozen of his men. Then he killed Aelarix in her own fortress.”
“And why did he turn them into blood eagles?” asked another.
“It is a mystery, and that makes it all the more intriguing!” laughed Grug, raising his horn
in a toast to Mark’s butchery.
“Are you worried you’re next in line, Tiroginus?” asked Habernach, with a cheeky twinkle in his eye. “Or is that bodyguard of yours as good as they say he is?”
Tiroginus and Bronmere grinned, and Grug laughed. “Now that is a fight I’d like to see! Bronmere’s flail versus Mark of Darloth’s axe.”
“He has already put down the King of Darloth, why not his Champion also?” guffawed Faelfar.
Grug leaned towards Bronmere and smiled cruelly. “Did the old man beg for his life before you broke him?”
Bronmere looked thoughtful for a while, sorrowful almost. “No. He was brave. The bravest man I ever fought.”
The others all fell quiet as Bronmere spoke.
“Come, Bronmere. Tell us your tale.” said Habernach. Bronmere looked over at Tiroginus, who nodded his consent, and so he told his story.
“It was at Hyalmarch. A swampy moor. Water up to your ankles.” began Bronmere. He wasn’t a great orator, but he seemed to be deeply affected by this memory, as if he were reliving it. “Our armies faced off across the moor. King Tiberix came with his thegns. I challenged him to single combat in Warlord Tiroginus’ place. They looked surprised.”
Tiroginus shrugged. “It’s rare that a Lotherian warlord will pick a champion to fight for him. I’m not much of a warrior, but I’m not a fool either. Tiberix would have cut me to shreds.”
“It is dishonourable for a warlord to be unwilling to face death, and yet he asks the same of his men.” said Grug as he slurped mead, clearly without thinking. There was an awkward silence for a few moments.
“Dishonourable, perhaps.” said Tiroginus, as calmly as he could manage, thought he couldn’t completely hide his impatience with the dim-witted warlord. “But my men need my strategy, not my sword-arm, withered as it is. King Tiberix was an honourable man, Grug. And his people have paid a heavy price for his pride.”
Grug said no more, simply nodding his head obliviously and taking a bite out of his bread.
“Tiberix himself accepted my challenge.” continued Bronmere. “I don’t know why he didn’t pick a champion. Perhaps he was too proud or stubborn. Maybe he didn’t want another man to die in his place. The thegns begged him to reconsider. They offer their swords to him, to fight in his place. But he refused. Perhaps he was ready to die.”
“He took his longsword and his shield and came to face me. He must have known he was going to die. I feel sure he did. But all the while he had this hateful stare that would scare the ghost out of you. I’ll never forget it.”
Mark’s throat tightened up and his innards twisted as he heard how his king was bludgeoned upon that moor.
“I swung my flail and buckled his shield.” said Bronmere, pacing out his movements, recreating the fight. “But he came again. Once more my flail hit. He dropped his shield and he fell. But he got back up and came again. I hit him again, this time smashing his hand, and he dropped his sword. I brought the flail round again, and it smashed his crown. Though he had fallen, with his shield gone, his skull caved in and his hand smashed, he would have gotten up again if it were not for his thegns restraining him. Even as they dragged him away he was reaching for his dagger. And that glare…I will never forget it.”
Bronmere’s story was over. He looked over at Tiroginus, who nodded to him before addressing the others.
“My Darlothian spies tell me that King Tiberix has not spoken a word since. No laws decreed, no attacks ordered. Nothing. He may be brave, but now he is lame. It’s just as well Bronmere didn’t kill him. Then a new king would have been crowned who might take steps to oppose me. But as it is his thegns dither, unwilling to take decisive action for fear of being seen to be jumping in Tiberx’s grave.”
“Once Tiberix was beaten down by Bronmere, I used my strategy to defeat the Darlothians in battle. We were able to force them into the mire, where they were at the mercy of my archers who were deployed on higher ground. It was a massacre, and the Darlothian army has not been raised since.”
Tiroginus’ glare shot over to Grug. “That is the value of strategy. Curse your pathetic honour.”
After a few seconds of awkward silence Grug bowed his head reverently, and Habernach lightened the mood shortly after by describing the shit he had taken earlier that day.
The chatter continued amiably enough. Tiroginus kept fairly quiet, simply listening to the other warlords and laughing, politely, at their jokes.
When he had eaten his meal he began calling over the delegates from the smaller tribes. They would stand beside his throne and converse with him as he sipped his wine. As he sat there, swilling his wine in its goblet and stroking his beard in rumination, he looked more a king than a warlord. The wise Calvii men would give their counsel and chip in from time to time.
Eventually Mark’s turn came.
“Alarik, come speak with me.” called Tiroginus, beckoning him over.
Already within the belly of the beast, Mark would admit to feeling a little trepidation as he waked over to stand beside the man he was honour-bound to kill, surrounded by men who were hunting for him.
“Alarik has come from…” he said to his wise men, before stopping himself. “Remind me of you tribe again, Alarik?”
“The Brogos.”
“The Brogos, of course. He has a sharp eye. He identified the treachery of Zamothrax’s assassin before Bronmere or I did.”
“A despicable business.” muttered one of the old druids. “To abandon one’s sacred vows in the pursuit of vengeance…Honestly, a druid trying to kill people, whatever next?”
“Indeed.” said Tiroginus. “I owe you a debt, Alarik of the Brogos. I will send your people a dozen fine ponies. Where exactly are your tribal homelands?”
“We are but a small clan, sire,” said Mark, “from the mountains, not far from the Horns. We have no chariots, sire, for we are a poor clan with few warriors. Perhaps mules would be a more useful gift?”
Tiroginus laughed. “This man turns down ponies and asks for mules! I like that. I will see that it is done.”
“Most gracious, sire.” said Mark, bowing his head.
One of the sages had been muttering to himself, stroking his beard. “The Brogos, you say? That name sounds familiar. Is that the clan of the wise old herbalist Methustra?”
Mark’s heart thumped. “Methustra…” he muttered. He couldn’t think of what to say, and he could feel a dozen pairs of eyes on him.
“No, you old fool, that’s the Brogotis!” chastised another of the old men.
Mark let out a little sigh of relief as the wise men debated amongst themselves. Was it the Brogotis or the Brogores? Or was it none of the Brog-tribes at all? One druid, however, kept his beady eyes on him.
“What do the Brogos ask of me, Alarik?” asked Tiroginus, turning to business.
“Association with your mighty confederation, Warlord Tirognus. We are but a small clan and can spare only a dozen fighting men, but they are brave and hardy boys.”
Tiroginus slapped his hands on the table. “Done. You send your boys to fight for me during the warmer seasons, and in return your clan may keep whatever plunder they can carry home.”
“Hmmmm….” mused the wise old druid who had his hawk-like gaze fixed on Mark.
“You have something on your mind, Meryn?” said Tiroginus.
“I’ve been trying to remember. The Brogos, you say…Yes, I have visited their stronghold. More of a big hut than a hill-fort.” he said thoughtfully, his cunning eyes locked on Mark.
Mark’s heart started thumping again. He scanned around him momentarily. Perhaps the best bet would be to seize Tiroginus’ dinner knife and us him as a hostage…That way he could maybe make an unceremonious escape before stabbing him on the way out…But it was risky.
“When was that, old friend?” asked Tiroginus.
“During my pilgrimage through the mountains, visiting the wise men there, absorbing their rustic knowledge. Tell me, lad, how is Aeldorman Kane keeping
?”
Mark gulped. With every moment that passed, with each thumping heartbeat, his thoughts became more fudged as he started running through his options. Take Tiroginus hostage? Stab him with his dinner knife, then run off? Or fight to the death against Bronmere and a dozen Calvii spearmen? He could feel their eyes burning into him…
“I have not returned to my homeland for many years.” he said, eventually, making things up on the spot. “I am a hunter and tracker by trade. I travel from mountain, to forest, to plain, plying my trade.”
Tiroginus furrowed his brow. “And yet you have come to seek terms with me. Have you not discussed this with your warlord?”
Mark kept on talking, hoping some of it would make sense. “My people know my hunting grounds. They know where I can be found as the seasons and migrations pass. They send boys now and then to collect furs from me, and also to bring me messages. The wise Aeldorman thought an alliance would be expedient, and as the farthest-travelled of my tribe he asked me to beseech you.”
There were a few nervous seconds. Tiroginus had his brow furrowed and seemed to be deep in thought. The druid looked a little confused.
Eventually, though, the druid sighed and returned to his mead and boar. But Tiroginus’ interest had been piqued.
“You travel far for your trade?”
“Indeed, sire.”
“And you track migrating beasts?”
“Yes.”
“Could you track a man?”
“Yes. I’ve done so before. I’ve hunted down men who have trespassed on my hunting grounds.”
Tiroginus nodded, deep in thought. “Do you hunt in Darloth?”
“Yes, when the hunting is poor on our side of the border.”
“That’s impressive.”
“It’s not so a hard thing since the Great Wall has gone unmanned. Now that their farms and villages have been abandoned by the crown it is no more perilous than hunting in Lotheria.”
“I see.” he said, putting a hand on his chin. “We shall speak more, Alarik of the Brogos, but for now I have many more delegates to attend to.”
“Very well, sire.” bowed Mark.
Warlord Slayer Page 15