Roars of War: The War for the North: Book Two

by Sean Rodden

  Dulgar’s lone eye burned.

  “Why the fuckin’ fuck did they stop?”

  At the very rear of the haphazard formation, several dozen yards up the narrowing incline of the pass, Drogul of Dul-darad leaned upon the heavy haft of his war-axe. Mist and vapour reticulated about his massive form, serpents of smoke and ash slithered at his steel-shod boots. His black eyes scoured the enemy host, observing, assessing. That the enemy had marched into the very mouth of Doomfall with such discipline and precision did not much disturb the great Daradun Chieftain, not truly, but it had certainly aroused his interest. This was not the device of the demon. Nor of the Blood King. Both were creatures of chaos. And it was surely not the stratagem of an anonymous king of the Urkroks or of the Graniants – the rock ogres and the stone giants were more prone to follow than to lead. The scheme of a meticulous warlord from Waldard, perhaps, but the kirun-tar considered that unlikely, for only other Unmen would submit to an Unmannish leader.

  No, this dramatic display of discipline and precision was the thoughtchild of another. Of one with the aptitude to both invent and so perfectly implement such flawless order. Of one altogether different. Of one removed, apart.

  Superior.

  The Mighty One’s midnight gaze found him at the back of the Blood King’s host.

  Kor ben Dor.

  I know what you are called, giant. And I know what you are.

  “We have ssstopped,” observed Sil kin Hesh. The colubrine stalks of his hair bobbed and weaved like a quiver of charmed snakes dancing in the bamboo basket of a Genduri street performer. “And within missssssile range of the foe, my Prinsss.”

  “Yes.”

  “Is thisss wise, my Prinsss?”

  A render length behind and to either side of the Liaison and the Halflord, the two Black Shields resisted the urge to exchange a quick irate glance. Ev lin Dar inhaled, exhaled, slowly and evenly. Gren del Mor scraped his tongue along the needlepoints of his teeth.

  “Yes.”

  The Liaison persisted. “Apologiesss, my Prinsss, but I do not think – ”

  “I did not ask after your thoughts, Liaison,” Kor ben Dor said softly. “Your opinion in this matter does not interest me.”

  Sil kin Hesh recoiled. A serpentine hiss, liquid and sibilant. A flick of the forked tongue. But no words.

  “Nevertheless, you obviously require some elucidation. I am sure our attendant Black Shields would be pleased to enlighten you.”

  The two Shields did share a look then, swift and brief, and more than a little pained – and in the solitary second that their eyes met and locked, an entire intercourse could easily have been imagined.

  You tell him, Ev.

  No, you tell him.

  I’m not going to tell him. I hate the snaky bastard! Actually speaking to him would weaken my dubious resolve to not leap over there and slit his traitorous throat.

  Well, I’m not telling him.

  Why not?

  Because I don’t want to.

  You’re prettier than I am, he’ll listen to you.

  You know, Gren, it always amazes me how you can be so right and yet so wrong in the very same sentence.

  Did I ever mention how much I enjoyed slapping you that one time?

  Try it again, lizard-face, I dare you!

  Big baby!

  Bigger baby!

  The Prince of the Bloodspawn sighed for the silence behind him. “Or perhaps not.”

  Sil kin Hesh sucked air between his fangs, the muscles in his neck flexing and flaring like the hood of a cobra roused in fear, in warning.

  “The Daradur do not engage in missile warfare, Liaison,” explained the Halflord resignedly. “They do not… throw things. They fight in the dirt, close and personal. We need fear no bombardment from them save that of axe and hammer and iron fist.”

  “Of courssse, my Prinsss.”

  “And it may not be obvious to the untrained eye, but their seeming arbitrary configuration is, in reality, a most lethal defensive structure designed solely to maximize the infliction of pain and death upon our forces. We cannot outflank them – the Westwall wards them to the south, the Dragon’s Head secures their north. They appear thinly spread, but each one of them can reach out and touch with the tip of his weapon that of another doing the same. When those axe-blades whirl and those hammerheads fall, it will a veritable storm of destruction generated by a churning sinew-and-steel machine of war. And we cannot hope to overwhelm them, for they have summoned the power of the earth and have bound themselves to the stone where they stand, essentially becoming immovable objects – and their superior strength and skill in battle will render us a fully resistible force.”

  “Yesss,” susurrated Sil kin Hesh, “I sssee that. What do you suggessst we do?”

  Kor ben Dor peered down upon the defenders of Doomfall. The muscles of his face bunched, then loosened, causing the tattooed talons to rake his hard chiselled cheeks.

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing, my Prinsss?”

  “Yes.”

  The cleft tongue flicked at dry lips. “And what, may I asssk, will doing nothing accomplish, my Prinsss?”

  The Halflord inhaled deeply of the morning chill, trundled one broad shoulder, then the other. His moon-white eyes glowed like pearls on fire.

  “Everything.”

  Dulgar glared irascibly at the motionless mass of the Blood King’s army. Nothing moved there beyond rippling furls of banners and the billowing white breath of rallied thousands. Each square, each wedge, every rank and file, from the foremost to the last individual warrior, remained entirely immobile. Stationary and static. And as silent as the favonian fronds of earthmist twining before the fixed feet of the front line.

  “What the fuck are they doing?”

  “Waiting, garun-tar,” replied the nearest Warder of the Wandering Guard.

  “Waiting?” The Wild One scowled, an expression made exceedingly frightful for the blood seeping from beneath the iron of his patch and for the madness in his solitary eye. “What the fuck are they fuckin’ waiting for?”

  The only answer was the metallic murmur of armour-clad shoulders shrugging.

  Dulgar spat on the stone, grumbled angrily. The great Daradun Captain was sheathed from the waist down in heavy plate forged of strange scarlet steel. Like that of his axe, the metal of his cuisses and greaves was neither painted nor enameled, but was inherently red, the hue of bright blood, and this redness swirled like molten lava bubbling just beneath the surface of the steel. The only other armour the Wild One wore were vicious-looking vambraces of the same peculiar metal, each guard barbed along the outer face of the forearm by three curved razor-sharp blades. His head was helmless, his ferocious face bore no battle-mask, and his massively muscled chest was bare but for the blazing wildfire of his mane and beard.

  Within him the appetant thunder of war rumbled.

  “Well, the mudfuckers better do something fuckin’ soon.” Dulgar raised his bright red war-axe. “I’m not waiting for fuckin’ ever.”

  He waits. This Prince of the Bloodspawn, this… Halflord. He waits.

  Drogul the kirun-tar peered down through smoke and vapour and drifting ash, past his stalwart brethren, beyond the motionless army of the Blood King to the distant yet discernable form of Kor ben Dor.

  So huge and black. So potent. So strong.

  So…patient.

  Impressive.

  Strength. And patience. Each was a quality scarce enough in itself – to be found and bound so tightly together, and in such magnitude, in a single being was exceedingly rare. Rare and exceptional. Strength tempered with patience, hardened by endurance, annealed in persistence – perseverance forged of emotional fire and intellectual ice. And perseverance, the Mighty One knew, was a thing to be respected. More, revered. For it was said, and truly so, that while trials and tribulations loom for the strong man, and fortune and triumph await the patient man, entire worlds will submit in time to the perseverant man. And the pa
tience and power there, embodied so generously in the Prince of the Bloodspawn, promised extraordinary perseverance.

  Impressive…very.

  The Halflord believed he would achieve more with patience than he might with force.

  Unfortunately, for Kor ben Dor and the massed minions of the Red Wraith, Drogul of Dul-darad shared that very same belief.

  The Chieftain of the Wandering Guard sent his instructions down the black shaft of his war-axe, through the cold dark stone of Doomfall’s decline to where the restive demeanour of the Wild One veritably begged for bloodshed.

  Hold, brother. Wait.

  And a moment later, through the same stone and steel, the expected response:

  Fuck!

  “How much longer mussst we delay, my Prinsss? The sun approaches its zenith and ssstill we stand and wait. The blutsssauger undoubtedly becomes exasperated with us.”

  The day was yet grey and drear, and the only shadow cast upon that side of Doomfall was a deeper shade of dark on the hard ground directly beneath the bellies of the mar rendera.

  “You achieve overmuch, Sil kin Hesh,” the Halflord said softly.

  “My prinsss?”

  “Your duty as Liaison was to be an intermediary between the worthy demon and myself – not to actually care what the creature thinks or feels.”

  Had he been able to do so, Sil kin Hesh would have blinked then. As it was, the thoroughly serpentine aspect of his being extended also to his having lidless eyes, and so he could only stare, round and wide.

  “Of courssse.”

  Kor ben Dor tilted his head back, closed his eyes, inhaled. “Nevertheless, you are not wrong, Sil kin Hesh.” He sighed forth sheets of steam. “I seem to have underestimated the forbearance of the enemy – or of the one foe, at least, who matters most. An unfortunate oversight on my part, but one that can be readily redressed. We will delay no longer.”

  “I will inform the blutsssauger of your decision, my Prinsss.”

  “Unnecessary.”

  “Unnessssessary?”

  “Yes.”

  “But as Liaissson to – ”

  “I no longer require an intermediary, Sil kin Hesh,” the Prince interjected levelly. “You are relieved of that most unenviable position, and granted another, one apposite to your singular strengths and qualities.”

  Sil kin Hesh stifled a hiss. The Halflord’s particular choice of words warned him, worried him. Am I granted another posssition – or another unenviable posssition? The ’Spawn’s neck muscles flexed and flared.

  “My sssincere gratitude, my Prinsss. Might I asssk – ”

  “No.”

  The ’Spawn inclined his head, but bared his fangs. “As you sssay, my Prinsss.”

  The silence that settled then was the whisper of mist dissipating in autumnal air, the sigh of smoke swirling skyward, the hush of ash floating, falling, fluttering down.

  And the slow sough of the sword of war sliding from its sheath.

  “We will attack,” announced Kor ben Dor at last. “However, we will do so in tight formation, orderly and disciplined. Should one warrior fall, the next will step into the gap. We have sufficient numbers to withstand them, even defeat them – we need but hold and maintain formation until such time as we can draw them forth or overwhelm them, whichever opportunity presents itself first.”

  Sil kin Hesh stared into the clouded cleft between the Westwall and the Dragon’s Head, scowled upon the sparsely dispersed assemblage of warriors that fended the pass, intended to hold it, to retain it, to keep it theirs.

  “My Prinsss, surely thisss fight will not be such a close thing. We have the trollsss two hundred to one.”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “No, Sil kin Hesh,” the Halflord repeated. “Backward.” Then, quietly, dangerously, “They have us one to two hundred.”

  “I…ahh…I sssee.”

  “No. You do not see. Not yet. And I am uncertain that you have ever seen. Not clearly. But you will. Soon.”

  Sil kin Hesh sucked in his breath, his forked tongue flicking, licking his lips. He sussspects. Or worse, he knowsss. Should that be ssso, my life isss forfeit. The ’Spawn’s hands slid surreptitiously up his thighs and settled about the grips of his swords.

  The Black Shields marked the movements, but did not react. Their faces remained calm and tranquil, their bearing relaxed but ready. Ev lin Dar and Gren del Mor knew they would not be nearly swift enough. Quicker than the treacher, yes, but slower than the Halflord himself. Not even they could match the supernatural speed of the Prince of the Bloodspawn.

  “Sil kin Hesh, I give you the honour of leading the assault upon Doomfall.”

  The ’Spawn warrior gasped, a strange and startled sound sourced in the deep cold places of his reptilian soul. His heart struck for his throat.

  “I… my Prinsss… I am not worthy of thisss honour.”

  “Your worth is what I deem it to be, ’Spawn.”

  “Yesss, my Prinsss.”

  Kor ben Dor gestured, and four warriors of the Bloodspawn urged their terrible steeds forward. The heart of Sil kin Hesh sank once more, plummeting deep, deep down, down into a place colder than it had ever known. Three of the selected ’Spawn were fellow conspirators in his intended coup. The fourth was a Screamer. Fanatic, sorceress, assassin. Devotee of the Dark God. Exquisitely beautiful, consummately lethal. Her facial tattoo depicted a raptor in full screech, and Sil kin Hesh could already hear that searing kill-cry in that deep cold place where his heart had gone. His scaled hands slipped from the pommels of his swords.

  “You will command this Talon of the Bloodspawn, Sil kin Hesh.” The Halflord’s voice was as soft and as light as silk, yet harder and heavier than a hammer striking an anvil. “You will spearhead the attack upon the enemy centre.” He raised his arm, corded muscles rippling as he pointed. “Specifically, on that warrior, there.”

  Sil kin Hesh followed the line of the Prince’s finger, his round eyes falling upon the form of the foremost enemy fighter. The warrior was not as tall as some of the trolls, nor as broad and bulky as others. His legs and forearms were armoured, but his chest was bare, and he wore neither war-mask nor helm. He brandished but one weapon, an over-sized unwieldy-looking battle-axe. His armour, weapon and mangy mane were all stained the same shade of scarlet, a clinquant superciliousness akin to a peacock’s conceit. He seemed restless, anxious, perhaps even fearful. And he possessed only one eye, thereby lacking both peripheral vision and depth perception, optical aptitudes essential to the skilled warrior.

  “Should you succeed in destroying him,” said Kor ben Dor laconically, “you may break from battle and return to the Bloodspawn, your sins shriven, your treachery forgiven.” A succinct pause. “Should you fail, absolution will no longer be of any consequence.”

  He knowsss… yet he offers me absssolution?

  Sil kin Hesh stared. Within him, a serpentine smile slithered across his soul. The solitary troll was ill-equipped in both armour and arms, was ostentatious and haughty, and visually disabled. Nervous, anxious. Probably afraid. And his death was all that stood between Sil kin Hesh and absolution. A simple enough task for a single ’Spawn warrior – a leisurely ride with the wind for an entire Talon of the Bloodspawn upon mar rendera – a Talon honed sharper by the inclusion of a Screamer. Ah, the price of the Prince’s amnesty was a pittance indeed.

  “Thisss is your word, my Prinsss?”

  “Yes.”

  Sil kin Hesh bowed low upon the incarnadine mane of his render, the black quiver of cobras in his hair bobbling springily. Laughter hissed at the core of him, and his heart returned to the hollow place in his chest.

  “Your wish isss my command.”

  “Yes, Sil kin Hesh.” Kor ben Dor’s voice was devoid of emotion, his countenance as indecipherable as the unseen side of the moon. “It is.”

  Then, somewhere, someone shouted – “Open order!”

  Immediately, and as though it had long been waiting for
that very instruction, the vast army of the Blood King parted smoothly and efficiently along its centre.

  And with a triumphant hiss and a flick of the tongue, a smirking Sil kin Hesh led his mounted Talon down to darksome Doomfall.

  “Was that wise, Prince Kor?” asked Ev lin Dar as she and her fellow Black Shield brought their slavering steeds abreast the Halflord’s own. “And necessary?”

  “Yes.” A plume of pale breath. “And necessary enough.”

  “What if… what if he wins?”

  “He will not.”

  “An entire mounted Talon against a single troll?” Gren del Mor glowered grumpily. “The Screamer alone should be sufficient.”

  “Aida dan Char is not there for the Darad,” the Prince revealed matter-of-factly. If any emotion was in him, none of it moved past his mouth.

  Gren del Mor’s thin saurian visage brightened perceptibly, but he kept his satisfaction close and silent.

  “Sil kin Hesh rides to his death, then,” Ev lin Dar reasoned, her voice low and quiet. Oddly, she did not find the words easy on her tongue. “One way or another.”

  “Yes.”

  The Black Shield nodded. She felt something like sorrow well within her – not for the traitor, but for the Bloodspawn. They would be fewer soon. Fewer, and weaker for it. Never the same again. The first wounds are ever the worst. And no injury heals completely.

  “Do you know this Darad, Prince Kor?”

  “Know? No. But I believe he is one of whom my father spoke often. Tall tales, I thought as a child.” The Halflord’s ivory orbs glimmered with the ghostly glow of memory. “The Wild One, my father called him. A warrior of pure rage and boundless battle madness. Undefeated and indestructible. And evidently a tale not so tall, after all.”

  The beautiful Black Shield gazed upon the Daradun warrior in the distance. She felt the wrath there, the fetterless fury in him. The power, the strength, the absolute… insanity.

  She shivered as she watched the Talon draw nearer to the Wild One.

  Yes, the first wounds are ever the worst.

  A flash of black and red fire, the beast charged. It roared as it fell upon the lone adversary, monstrous maw open wide, knifelike teeth slashing. Its terrible forefeet unbunched into huge clawed hands, reaching, grasping. The strange broad-bladed weapon of its rider swooshed down for the foe’s crimson-haired head.