He breathed a sigh of relief as he went back to his seat, and took a big swig of mead to take the edge off.
The evening continued without much incident. Tiroginus spoke to the other delegates, conversing patiently with each in turn, but he looked a little distracted, occasionally looking in Mark’s direction. Mark turned away whenever he did so, trying not to catch his eye.
The barbarians gorged themselves on food and got steadily more drunk. They gradually began to excuse themselves and leave. As their guests began to file out the Calvii watchmen began be dismissed by Bronmere to escort the Pictoi, Galbandii and Aelsing delegates to their huts in Gothenmar, and the lesser delegates were escorted to Calvii chariots which waited to take them back to Gothen-Pit.
With the room half empty Tiroginus rose from his seat, and on his cue everyone else did so too.
“My friends, it has been a fine evening, but I tire and must now bid you good night.” he said, with a bow. The others bowed too, and began to make their way out.
For a moment Mark thought he had lost his chance. He had a half-formed plan to wrench a ceremonial longsword from the wall and charge at Tiroginus there and then, and go down fighting against the rest. But Tiroginus turned to him before leaving. “Alarik, may I speak with you in my chamber?”
It was a fine turn of events indeed. The sheep had invited the lion into his meadow. Bronmere would be a complication…But like a horny bull on the rampage, he would perhaps be best avoided rather than tackled head-on. As the other savages left, leaving the feasting hall empty save for a few guards, Mark and Bronmere followed Tiroginus to his room.
Tiroginus’ room was finely ornamented, with a huge and finely crafted bed, exquisite furniture, and a table and chairs. The room was lit by candles. Bronmere closed the door behind them and stood against it, arms folded.
Mark knew this was it. Bronmere or not, it was now or never. He would never get a better chance to redeem himself. He started looking around the room for something sharp to do the deed with. He didn’t have to look far. There was a sword at Tiroginus’ side in a glistening scabbard, hung from a bronze ornamental belt.
“Wine?” Tiroginus asked, with a smile.
“Thank you, sire.” grunted Mark, and Tiroginus began to pour wine into two golden cups. He handed one to Mark, which he downed with one gulp.
Tiroginus sighed. “You’re supposed to sip it, Alarik. I would pour you another, but I fear good wine is wasted on you.”
Mark tried to sense how near he was to Tiroginus. How many paces would it take to reach him? How long would it take to pull the sword from its scabbard and shove it into his gut? How quickly would Bronmere react? He took a small pace closer as they talked, small enough that Bronmere wouldn’t notice.
“Alarik, I want you to do something for me.” said Tiroginus. “It relates to Mark of Darloth. I fear he may be coming for me, but my trackers have been unable to find him in Lotheria, and I have heard nothing from the mercenaries I paid to track him down in Darloth. I suspect that they are either dead or have made off with my coin and are making no attempt to find him at all. I want you to find him for me. He could be in Lotheria, or he could be in Darloth, but you are somewhat familiar with both. If and when you find him, send me a raven to let me know where he is, and track him until my men can reach him. Then let them do their work. Do this for me, and I will repay you handsomely, more than you could earn in a decade of animal trapping.”
It was a surreal situation. Mark was being asked to track himself down by the very man he was here to kill.
“I did not raise the issue with you at the feast as I did not want people to think that this business with Mark is out of hand…It is not out of hand by any means, but the fact remains that we don’t know where he is. Does this sound agreeable to you?”
“Yes sire.” grunted Mark.
“That’s good. He is an elusive man, apparently, but he has a distinctive appearance. They say he has cold blue eyes, much like your own. And he has a scar over…” Tiroginus paused, his brow furrowing as he looked at Mark’s scars. “…over his right eye.”
“Like mine?” grunted Mark.
“Yes.” said Tiroginus, now seemingly deep in thought.
Mark bolted over to him. Tiroginus gasped as he pulled the sword from its sheath. Mark rammed it through his stomach, and the venerable warlord cried out in sudden pain.
“No!” cried Bronmere, reaching for his weapon.
“No…It can’t be…Mark…” were to be Tiroginus’ last, gasped words as he realised the grim truth.
Bronmere’s flail swung out, an anguished battle cry ringing through the air, but it flew a moment too late, sailing past Mark as he dived aside, smashing through the wooden wall behind him like a cannonball.
“No!” roared Bronmere again as Tiroginus slipped down to the floor, clutching at the sword in his gut. The flail flew down towards Mark, who jumped aside, and the mighty weapon sheared the table behind him into two broken parts.
“No!” Bronmere cried again as Tiroginus gasped his last, blood-choked breaths, reaching out feebly for his protector. The flail flew out again, and Mark threw himself at the doorway, which gave way and swung open as it was simultaneously smashed apart by the force of Bronmere’s weapon. Mark, the sheared door and a storm of splinters all fell to the floor at once.
Mark made a run for it, pursued by Bronmere, who was crying out in anguish, tears spilling from his eyes.
Mark slowed to a halt as the Calvii warriors in the hall began to surround him with their spears lowered. He would have to make it to one of the walls and take a weapon to fight them off. This was it. A last stand. Even if he got past the men in the hall, there were too many manning Gothenmar to hope of escape. He would have his redemption but he was gripped by regret nonetheless, for his task was not yet complete.
“Stop!” cried Bronmere, and everyone stopped at once. Then he gave his order. “Leave us. All of you.”
“Bronmere, what’s…” tried one of them.
“I said leave!” he bellowed, making the Calvii men’s balls try to scramble back into their bodies. “Do not interfere! You are to leave us at once!” he bellowed after them as they scuttled out of the hall.
As the doors slammed shut Mark turned to Bronmere, who was panting and crying.
“You’re him, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Good disguise. Very convincing.”
“It got the job done.”
“You bastard…” he seethed. “You killed the most just and kind warlord in all of Lotheria!”
“Then why did you call off his men?”
“I’m glad you asked.” he seethed, letting the ball of his flail fall and land on the floor with a metallic clang. “I demand a fight to the death. Just the two of us. Uninterrupted. I will fight for the honour of my fallen master. And you…You have nobody to fight for but yourself. You cannot avenge Tiberix, for you abandoned him, and left him to face me alone.”
“I do have someone to fight for.” said Mark.
“Who?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“You’re a taciturn one, aren’t you, Mark of Darloth? So be it, then.”
“May I?” said Mark, gesturing towards the nearest wall, which was festooned with weapons, shields and armour.
“Be my guest.”
Mark strolled up to the wall, watched every step of the way by Bronmere, and he began weighing up his options.
“You fight with axes, don’t you?” said Bronmere.
“Usually. Depends who I’m fighting.”
“So what will it be this time?”
“This.” said Mark, pulling a spear from the wall.
“Interesting choice.”
“Hmm. We’ll see.” he said as he walked towards the middle of the hall. As he came to a halt they stood ten paces apart with the embers of the bonfire in the middle, sparks and heat still rising from it, making the air between them shimmer.
It wouldn’t be e
asy. Mark was a tall and powerful man, but Bronmere was slightly taller than he was and about twice as broad. His barrel chest, mighty shoulders and huge arms were oiled up and suitably intimidating.
“I will crush every bone in your body, and then I will feed you to the dogs. Tiroginus will be buried with dignity in the burial mound of his ancestors.”
“I will kill you, then I’ll cut apart your warlord’s bleeding corpse.”
That was enough to get Bronmere riled up. He roared a battle cry and charged at Mark, swinging his flail in a terrible, deadly arc.
Mark leapt aside of one swing, which went past and threw several smashed chairs into the air. He swerved aside of another which bounced off the feasting table, making a massive dent in it. Then he ducked below another swing, which tore a chunk out of Tiroginus’ throne. Bronmere might not have landed a blow yet, but he was doing a fine job of wrecking Tiroginus’ furniture.
Mark spent the opening exchanges jumping away from Bronmere’s mighty blows. Because of its reach Mark wouldn’t be able to get close enough to land a blow himself. The mighty weapon would swat away his spear if he tried. So he had to fight defensively for now.
Mark skipped back three times, and each time the cannonball head of Bronmere’s flail swept inches from his face. He could feel the rush of air as it flew past, and he heard the whooshing noise it made, as well as Bronmere’s heaving grunts and battle-cries.
Mark tumbled backwards onto the ground to avoid another blow, and spread his legs to avoid another, the ball smashing down and making a dent in the floor between his thighs.
He rolled back and got back on his feet. This time as Bronmere swung Mark held out his spear and, as he’d hoped, the chain wrapped around the haft and the ball came to a stop. Mark allowed himself a grin of satisfaction, thinking he had lamed his mighty foe’s attacks.
His smugness was short lived, as with a whip of Bronmere’s mighty arm the chain snapped Mark’s spear in two. With a momentarily stunned look on his face Mark dropped the half he was holding and ran off, avoiding another mighty swing, bolting towards one of the walls and the weapons there.
Mark grabbed a long-hafted battle axe. He turned just in time. He saw the cannonball heading straight for him, so he jumped aside, and it planted itself in the wall. Bronmere grunted as he pulled the weapon back, but the ball was lodged in the wall for a moment, and as the chain went taut Mark saw his chance. He brought his axe down on the chain, and with a silvery spark the chain was sheared.
For a brief moment Mark thought he had the upper hand. Bronmere turned away from him and began to run, and Mark gave chase, but when he saw Bronmere run over to the opposite wall and grab a spear Mark frantically returned to the wall behind him and reached for a shield.
Not a moment too soon. Bronmere roared as he launched the spear. It smashed into Mark’s shield like a ballista bolt, completely ruining it and sending Mark flying from his feet.
Mark dropped the shield and staggered up, but a moment too late. Bronmere was upon him, unarmed but still deadly, a hammer punch to the face knocking him down, and with his boot he kicked the axe from Mark’s hand.
Mark’s face ached from the impact. It was a test of his chin that he hadn’t been knocked out by the thunderous blow. He was just about able to shake off the fuzziness and pain quick enough to roll aside as Bronmere punched down at him. He yelped, as much as a big man like him can yelp, as he punched the floor.
The two men squared up and traded blows. Mark threw powerful punches, smashing into Bronmere’s body and head. Bronmere responded with mighty swings of his fist, which Mark mostly managed to dodge, but the one that hit him hit hard. A punch to the gut sent Mark sprawling, and he landed on a table behind him.
Bronmere threw himself at him. Mark rolled aside, falling on the floor, and Bronmere smashed straight through the table, which collapsed under his bulk.
Mark backed off, and Bronmere took the moment to regroup too, taking a few heaving breaths, fists clenched in furious rage. They stood there, both exhausted, glaring at each other.
“Rearm?” ventured Mark.
“Hmm. Very well.” concurred Bronmere.
So they both wandered around the hall, which was now littered with broken furniture, scanning the weapons on the walls. Mark picked two battle axes. Bronmere grinned as he saw a massive, two-handed sword. He pulled it free of its giant scabbard and hefted it overhead. Then they paced their way towards the middle of the hall, and soon the two of them were standing opposite each other once again.
Bronmere glared at Mark and grinned as he contemplated his vengeance, and the satisfaction of placing Mark’s skull on the grave of his fallen master. He seethed with heavy breaths, and growled as his mighty hands gripped the haft of his sword.
Mark was calm. He breathed slowly. He ignored the paid in his limbs and face. He held the axes loosely in his hands.
Roaring, Bronmere charged it. He swung his sword in a mighty arc, trying to cut Mark clean in two. Mark ducked back and the blade swung over him. He felt the rush of air on his face as the blade flew by. Then he leapt at Bronmere and his axes swung. Bronmere’s neck was caught between the two of them. His head was sheared clean off, and the body fell with it, quivering and spitting blood from the stump.
Mark allowed himself a satisfied smirk. The opening exchanged had given Bronmere cause for confidence. With his unorthodox weapon and the extended reach it gave him, Mark was unable to get close enough to land a killer blow. But as soon as they faced off against each other the second time, he was doomed. By that point he was just a big brute with a big sword, like countless other warlords who had tried and failed to kill Mark.
There was silence for a moment as Mark regained his breath, but he soon returned to his grim calling. He went into Tiroginus’ room to complete the ritual.
He returned a few moments later with Tiroginus’ blood all over his hands. He dropped his gore-drenched axes on the floor. He poured a flagon of mead over his hands to wash off the blood. Then he took a moment to regain himself, and walked out of the hall as casually as he could.
It was dark outside, save for the light of torches and campfires. Half a dozen Calvii warriors were loitering there. They looked shocked. Awe-struck even.
“What happened in there? It sounded like a herd of fighting aurochs!”
“I insulted Bronmere’s mother and he challenged me to a fight.” Mark panted, holding his aching head where there was swelling around his eye socket.
“You stupid son of a bitch.” said one of them. “Did he whip your ass?”
“Yes he did. But I got a good hit in and broke his nose.”
The men gasped. “He won’t like that.” said one of them.
“He’s still in there sulking, so I wouldn’t go in there for a couple of hours if I were you.”
The men nodded and let him pass as they chatted amongst themselves. One of the men pointed Mark to a chariot which was waiting for him.
“Hurry up and get in!” wailed the charioteer. “I’ve got to take you all the way back to Gothen-Pit, and I want to get home to my wife if you don’t mind!”
“Sorry to keep you waiting.” grunted Mark, stepping aboard.
The charioteer lashed the reins and the ponies started to trot.
As he was leaving Gothenmar, Mark looked back to see the Calvii warriors stood there at the hall, deliberating whether or not to go in. It wasn’t until Mark was half way to Gothen-Pit that the war horns blared. They’d found Tiroginus’ body, and the alarm was raised.
“What the hell is all that about?” complained the charioteer.
“The thing is, friend, I’m Mark of Darloth, and I just killed your warlord.”
The man gasped, but had time to do nothing else before Mark snapped his neck. He threw his limp body out of the chariot, which rolled head over heels as it hit the ground, and then he grabbed the reins, lashing at them for speed.
“You’ll just have to wait for your wife in the afterlife, friend.” Mark said
to himself as he rode off, followed by the wailing of the war horns as torches lit up Gothenmar. Mark smirked to himself. “She will be heart-broken I’m sure. It looks to me like you were ‘head over heels’.”
Mark chuckled at his own joke, but then was struck with a certain sense of melancholy as he realised that the one time he’d managed to string together a quip there was nobody there to hear it.
Chapter Seven: The Moot
Habernach, Faelfar and Grug shook their heads in sombre disbelief as they looked upon the body of Tiroginus, wrapped in his cloak and dressed in his finest armour, crown upon his head. He lay in a stone coffin, with his eyes and tongue removed and druidic herbs stuffed into his mouth and eye sockets to preserve him. The druids had managed to stick him back together convincingly enough after Mark’s axes had done their work.
“A terrible shame.” said Faelfar. “All his plans, all his machinations, all snuffed out. Funny what a sword can do.”
“Aye.” said Habernach as they bowed their heads in reverence. They moved on, letting the next in line come and pay their respects.
They were at the family barrow of the Calvii nobles, a giant burial mount with a tomb inside. The tomb’s entrance revealed a dark tunnel leading to a labyrinth of graves. Tiroginus’ body was on display just outside the tomb for the time being as a long procession of mourners and well-wishers queued up to pay their respects.
A moot had been called, summoning the headsmen, chieftains and wise old men of the Calvii to come and bury Tiroginus, but also to debate who should be the new warlord since Tiroginus had left no heirs.
Other warlords had come to pay their respects, too. They would take the opportunity to come together and discuss how to proceed with Tiroginus’ grand confederacy, but that could wait until the man was in his grave. All had come with large contingents of bodyguards and hangers-on, but the burial mound was sacred ground, and so were the tranquil sacred groves which surrounded it, and so it was forbidden to shed blood or even carry weapons there.
“So what’s the verdict, boys?” asked Habernach. “Do we press ahead with the alliance?”
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