Red Axe, Black Sun

by Michael Karner

  Freya bowed her head in constraint. “With all respect, Lady Jarnsaxa, I fear you see things, where there are none.”

  The warlord looked Freya into her eyes. “For once, we have to believe. This is what we have been dreaming of our whole lives. It has been told in the prophecy. We can forge our future right now. If we act.”

  Freya shook her head unbelievingly. She took Jarnsaxa’s hand in a friendly but firm grip.

  “This is not going to be easy.” She sighed. “But we will have to judge on his reaction.”

  The lictor strode back to Godsmite’s seat and drew her axe out of the bundle of rods.

  “Unnamed warrior,” she proclaimed, raising her voice to her full might. “You are accused of the cold-blooded murder of a boy named Lucky Kyr on the eve before battle.” The crowd broke out in shock, musicians stopped playing, customers got up from their tables, knocking over stools. Loud arguments began to fly immediately, but Freya ignored them.

  “You have stained a warrior’s honor, brought bad luck over our whole warband and shall therefore be detained and put on trial.”

  Blades were drawn all around the tavern hall, Barknar’s mob among the first, then Tancred’s men, the dark-elf by the fire, the bartender’s mace from under the booze, and the dwarven bouncer next. Slowly, Jarnsaxa’s sickle-sword slid out of its scabbard.

  “You can’t be serious,” she snapped.

  “Stand your trial, and you shall be judged here where all can bear witness,” Freya continued. She raised her axe to Godsmite, so that the blade of the weapon was pointing at his chin. He had to lift his head to evade getting cut by the smile of the lictor’s axe. Gently, he rose from his seat, unarmed and unarmored.

  “He cannot speak for himself!” Jarnsaxa said.

  Freya looked into the round. She didn’t waver. “This is the law! If he cannot defend his actions, he is to be pronounced guilty and will pay with his death. You let yourself be blinded by heroic deeds undertaken in a rush of drugs, supplied by the corrupt cartel. The same rush that let this man become a mindless murderer of an innocent boy. I condemn you to die, Unnamed One, and repay your sins a thousandfold in the afterlife.”

  Freya drew back her axe and embraced it in a two handed grip, ready to strike. Defenders of the accused flinched and took a step forward, bringing themselves in range between him and the lictor.

  Godsmite held them back with a stopping gesture. He cautiously lifted his gaze from the floor, carefully pondering his next step. Under a mane of sweat-soaked hair, he smirked like a child.

  “I think,” said the man with no name, talking for the first time, “I can speak for myself now.”

  THE ATMOSPHERE WAS SO TENSE you could cut it with a knife. The crowd had drawn weapons and became silent after murmurs of astonishment. No one dared to move.

  The man all eyes were upon drew a grimace.

  “My name is Thrynn Godsmite,” he exclaimed. He let the sound of his name linger for a moment. “I truly came to you in a dark time. I am what some of you call the Wolf King, or the lost barbarian king.” He said it without emotion. The feelings of the crowd boiling over didn’t need any more.

  “Why haven’t you spoken a word before?” Jarnsaxa asked.

  “Because it would have compromised everything,” Godsmite replied. “My identity had to be kept a secret. So I swore to remain quiet so that I wouldn’t reveal myself unwittingly. Unfortunately, it couldn’t be kept any longer.”

  “Why?” Jarnsaxa asked.

  “Because the right time hasn’t come,” Godsmite said. “Not for you, not for me. I spent my whole life in the wilderness, avoiding the temples and warm hearth-fires that were offered to me since I was a child. I knew that sitting on a throne and learning to rule a nation was not the life I should live. I’ve seen what it does to a culture, calling itself civilized with its temples and pompous parades. That’s Treveria. This is not the way of the north. In great Vacomany, we don’t have the luxury of following wisdom or reason; we can only follow strength. The home we grew up in is trying to kill itself every single day. Other rulers can learn about history, tactics, administration in their safe realms all they want, but my father taught me to win. I have been fighting every day of my life for survival. What better path could I have chosen to assist my people, now, when the time of need comes?”

  Voices of approval could be heard throughout the tavern. Hands clapped, fists were raised, and people cheered.

  “I didn’t kill that boy Lucky Kyr,” Godsmite continued, turning to Freya. “Neither in frenzy, nor in calm.”

  Freya shook her head sadly. “You wouldn’t know if it was in frenzy. I’ve seen you on the wall, when you gave in to the red dream. No one knows what is mixed in with the agaric drugs. As far as I know, the Kolanthel are involved in their production. Can’t you see they are trying to manipulate us through them? You don’t know what you’re doing once you bite from the Raven’s Bread.”

  Barknar felt his back involuntary arch, making him sit upright. He nervously drummed his fingers on the table.

  “I ain’t a murderer of an innocent boy,” Godsmite told the lictor.

  “Trust me, I would like to believe you,” Freya said. Her eyes fell onto the grip of Godsmite’s hand-weapon strapped to his waist. “But he was killed with a machete just like yours.”

  Godsmite didn’t know what to say.

  “Is this true?” Jarnsaxa asked him.

  “I was with you that night,” he replied.

  “Not the whole time,” Jarnsaxa said.

  Godsmite shook his head. “Please, you have to trust me. I have many enemies; that’s why it was necessary to stay silent in the first place. They must have found out somehow who I was and are trying to pin a murder on me.”

  “Who are they?”

  “I don’t know.” He sighed. “But, believe me, I will find out and punish those who did this.”

  “My version sounds far more plausible,” Freya said, not convinced.

  “As any good scam should.” Godsmite gave her pause. “Look at the big picture, lictor. This is not about a boy’s murder; it is about causing the barbarians to fall. Give me five days, and I will find a lead. Failing that, you can execute judgment.” He stretched out his hand to Freya, who hesitated to take it.

  “You have lied before,” she added.

  “I have never lied,” Godsmite answered. “I just didn’t speak.”

  The lictor shook his hand and gripped it tight. “You won’t be a free man in the next few days.”

  Godsmite gave an appreciative nod. “One more question. Who brought you to me?”

  Freya paused. “There was a rumor from one of the wounded. It was his last wish that this matter be taken care of.”

  Godsmite narrowed his eyes. “Most peculiar.”

  THE MUSICIANS HESITANTLY continued to play and calmed the mood in the tavern once again. Barknar got up from his seat and left the Styxian Oarsman. His eyes were fixed on Godsmite when he pushed himself through to the tavern’s exit. This was not the lion he had meant that he had brought in.

  Barknar stepped outside alone. He glanced in the direction of Old Town, where their enemies had withdrawn, and took a breath. Everything seemed to be calm. Ysara Horne and her orc friend were watching the barricade from over the way, trusting in the presence of more comrades, who had occupied the buildings in their backs for the night. Besides, the two fire mages were with them. The door opened behind him and made him look back. The dwarven bouncer returned to his place outside the tavern. Things had returned to normal.

  Barknar nodded to the dwarf, turned on his heel, and strode down the road to the city gate. The infirmary was dark and quiet. Most were fortunate enough to find their first sleep after medical treatment had eased their agony. He decided to leave the house dark and stay quiet as he entered. It didn’t take too long till he found Joric. Barknar walked past the cots between them, brushing roughly against arms and feet. He earned soft moans from some of the sleeping who were caught
in feverish nightmares. Barknar sat down on Joric’s bed. He wrinkled his nose at the smell of the infirmary. It was that of burnt flesh, medicine, and decay.

  “Barknar,” Joric said, quickly waking up.

  Barknar didn’t greet him. He faked a smile and took the pillow from under Joric’s head to help him sit up. Then he closed the man in his arms and hugged him tight. He pressed the pillow against Joric’s face and increased the pressure, squeezing ribs and the last air out of the wounded man’s lungs until his resistance died down. Then he waited, counting for good measure. Having placed the dead body back on his cot, Barknar stood up and left the house again.

  He staggered on his way back down the road. He shook his head to shake off his dizziness. That smell had gotten to him. He squeezed his eyes together as he saw movement at the end of the street. There was something happening at the barricade. He sprinted a few steps forward and looked again. It was blurry, and his eyes watered from the cold. He shook off the hallucination his mind was playing him with. But it was real. He saw the lion he had let in. He was among Ysara, Ravage and the mages. Sweet mother, he could hear them crying out in pain.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  OLD BROTHERHOOD MANSE

  FIRE-MAGES WIELDED THE POWER of a small sun. But Sendel Varon was not going to fight their powers; he was going to fight their bodies. They were frail and weak and easy to destroy once he came close enough.

  The grandmaster was hit by a dull, heavy object at the neck that penetrated and tore out his throat without him even realizing it at first. He looked down to see the sharp tip of an iron blade protrude from his collarbone. A master-shot. The rope made a rasping sound as it glid over a wooden roof bar behind him. He wanted to say something to his companion. He gurgled dark blood instead, but eventually, his adjutant turned and saw what was happening for himself. The younger mage opened his mouth and eyes wide in horror. His face was splattered by blood, as Sendel jerked the blade back and dragged the grandmaster by the sudden pull and weight of on the rope’s other end. Sendel used the fire-mage’s leverage to land safely on the street while pulling his victim up. The others stared unwittingly at the grandmaster getting violently pinned to the house, incapable of helping him.

  The young mage’s face lit up as a violet burning fire-ball emerged out of his hand, like an instinctive reaction an animal would have in face of danger. He threw the energy projectile against Sendel’s form. Sendel had no time to evade. He covered his face with his leather-wrapped arms and took the brunt of it. The ball of fire exploded against his frame and threw sparks and drops like molten iron in a shower over him. It would have burnt and knocked any normal man unconscious through shock, but he was no normal man and had prepared for this. His body was covered in a heat-repellant cooling fluid. Being from the long bloodline of the elven clan of the volcanic steppes, he had found ways to withstand fire with the most unorthodox methods. But even one of their furnace-hardened bodies could only take so much. He felt like he had lost parts of his skin and knew that his clothes and hair had fallen victim to the flames. As a smoking, hunched up figure, he dived into the mage and took him down on the snow. The cold choked the fire that had taken root and left them two fuming figures, entangled in a duel to the death. Sendel Varon yanked out his blade quicker than the bite of a rattlesnake and finished the business with one deep cut straight through the mage’s throat.

  An orc unrigged his bow from his back, but Sendel pulled out the rope’s end from the ground and entangled the orc’s foot in the snare. He let loose and left the mage’s body go hurtling down a bit, till the orc was able to regain his footing. Sendel Varon paused and regarded him, before sidestepping a blow from a woman’s sword with a roll of his torso.

  Barknar was rushing at the mage’s side to stop the bleeding. He pushed his fingers on the open throat, though he lost sight of his hand in the mess after mere seconds. He looked up to Sendel, reckoning that he could not be his next victim. A certain understanding was established between the two, an unspoken law. Sendel provided the cartel with Kolanthel-made drugs in order to make the warband’s warriors stronger, while Barknar arranged gaps in their safety net to allow for terror attacks. It filled the one’s purse and the other’s cause.

  Sendel drove his heel fast against the woman’s knee and pulled her over, leaving her trying not to fall on her own sword. He noticed the orc drawing his bow with a spike-head arrow nocked. Sendel spurted a few steps and simply ran up the wall, catching the top edge somewhere in midair and hoisting himself over the barricade.

  The orc lowered his bow and spat out a curse. He had been too slow. Sendel was gone, in Old Town, submerging in the non-human population, and at the best, even finding devotees.

  The female rose again on her damaged knee, looking at the grim scene together with Barknar. The two mages were dead, one lying in a puddle of his blood, the other still hanging up on the building behind. Barknar swallowed and looked up to the blotched barricade of Old Town, where Sendel had gone. At least he was still alive. One hand gave, the other received.

  THE MANSION WAS AN OLD ESTATE on the edge of the city, cast to the side of a rock overlooking the district of noblemen, rich merchants, and inherited upper-class. It was also a beacon of hope to Tancred’s men behind enemy lines. Once built and used by a long gone brotherhood in the early days, it was now a wealthy businessman’s summer residence. Only the serfs, staff members, and a few security guards were housed at the mansion during their master’s absence. They didn’t put up a fight at the sight of Tancred’s finest, surrounded by bloodied barbarians, and surrendered without much resistance.

  These men and women had a good life residing in their master’s house, Dryston thought. The property was bounded by a high fence, vines creeping over the gate’s bars into the garden beyond. The pavement was slippery and overgrown from rampant weed, moss-grown statues paving the way along the wide, inviting stairs leading up to the house. A frozen well was situated there in front of the high oak door-wings, which were laden with brass lion-head doorknockers: Godfrey’s heraldic animal.

  “Do you think this house’s master is close to Godfrey?” Jade Cyrus asked after a moment’s silence. She observed the ceiling of the vast living room, lying on a couch inside the mansion.

  “I have no idea,” Dryston said, turning from the window, where he had kept watch out into the night. “He is liked by many. I don’t know how much of an indication it is to have his crest all over the place. Or requirement. Not that it matters to us.”

  “It does matter to us,” Jade said. “Not to say that it is the same as here, but the principle stays. In my hometown, a ruler’s divine status was at the core of his citizens’ view of their universe. He had the power to influence the gods by bloodletting rituals. In some way or another, self-fulfilling prophecy, or power of the human mind, these rulers were successful in bringing prosperity to their people, and so the belief system sustained itself as the civilization grew. Success begot success. People never questioned the omnipresent might of their rulers, and likewise, each new generation of royalty was convinced of their own divine powers. But after natural disasters, drought, earthquakes, volcanoes, hurricanes, this unquestioned belief in their rulers started to wear thin. This led to warfare as the rulers felt their powers were failing and the gods required more and more royal blood. Their own personal bloodletting became insufficient, so there was the need to secure other royalty to sacrifice to the insatiable gods. What happened when these royals were captured is that they were not immediately sacrificed. They were kept for years to be bled at ritual ceremonies. Meanwhile, there was no one running the show back at their homes. Their heirs could not take over leadership responsibilities because the ruler was still alive. As this frantic capturing of royalty escalated, it became very risky to be of royal blood. What rulers were beginning to do was to tie connections with influential landlords who could save their necks one day. The thing that binds this story to us is, if the landlord stands close to him, we might get informati
on on where to find Godfrey.”

  Dryston considered that for a moment.

  “Why is he liked?” Skadi asked.

  Dryston shook off the thought with a shrug. “This is not the right thing to ask ourselves while we’re on this mission.”

  “Because we have to kill him,” the Valkyrie said. “But still, I want to know why he is favored. He must have a good side, just like everyone else. The names on my list, they all have a good side. They are not totally evil. They all have families, friends, or loved ones that they care about and vice versa. But with one action they destroyed all that for someone else. That’s why they ended up on the list and why someone is going to kill them.”

  “Sometimes we need to blank their good side out,” Dryston continued. “Or it will hold us back.”

  Skadi leaned back in a rocking chair by the hearth, covered in a blanket. Her face was warmed and touched by the fireplace in a red glow. Her eyes stared outside into the night.

  “Like they did to Cormack,” Skadi said.

  Everyone in the room was quiet and looked at her.

  “When they tried to kill him, I could see that they only saw his bad side. Pure evil, that needed to be brought down. I don’t want to become such a person, too, but ultimately, for the names on my list, I will.”

  “It’s either them or you,” Dryston said. “And it’s rather them, than you. They have a headstart by eradicating your whole village. You do nothing worse by paying them back.”

  “God, I can’t stand this.” She sobbed, pausing to rock in her chair. “I miss Cormack. I always thought he would be the one who would bring me through this. Every moment I’m waiting for him to come back. I can’t believe he isn’t going to see me through.”