Scion of Two Pantheons

by Ted Striker

  “Bryan cannot challenge the King!” exclaimed Ayabis suddenly. “Thorm will kill him!”

  “That was what we all thought about Bryan facing Phelan,” said Neit tolerantly. “Then he killed one of the fiercest Laignach who ever lived with a few stones.” He winked at Bryan.

  “Thorm is different,” she replied in a strained voice. “He has never been beaten.”

  Bryan looked to Afixio. “Do you know anything?”

  The wizard shook his head. “No, Thorm is Porvir’s bodyguard. He has a chamber next to the King’s in the castle. He stays there almost continually unless the King needs him. I do know that he has never been defeated in the arena.”

  Melthane knew little more. “A giant of a man who never talks, never socializes. Unless he is killing for the King, one would never know he was around.”

  “At least wait until the Harvest to start this madness.” Connor was adamant. “By then we will have our supplies in, North Keep’s fall tribute will have been paid, and the Empire will have no reason to look North for six months.”

  Branna nodded. “That makes sense,” she said. “It would seem that the Clan has a new war chief, Connor. Lord Bryan, we will be at your orders after the harvest for the duration of this conflict.”

  “I don’t mind waiting,” said Bryan, accepting his promotion to “Lord,” whatever that meant. “But I need you to do something for me.” He explained what he needed, and the Wolf Queen nodded.

  “Immediately,” she said. “Meanwhile, Connor and I both know North Keep and the surrounding area. Together with you, we can lay out a plan to take Porvir’s kingdom away from him.”

  She paused for a moment, and then added coldly, “Followed by his life.”

  Chapter 35

  The Erych came cautiously, light-footed on the trail despite their heavy-set muscular bodies. Their skin was a grayish hue, their powerful torsos covered with thick hide armor, their arms adorned with ornaments of copper, silver and gold. They were shod lightly so that they might be stealthier on the hunt, and the killing clubs were ready in their hands.

  As stealthy as were the Erych, Jwilla and Tamoth were shadows waiting to pounce. First one, then another of the hunting band passed within yards of Tamoth’s hiding place without spying their quarry, until all four had their broad backs to him. He drew the arrow on his bowstring fully to his ear, so smoothly and silently that even Jwilla, twenty feet away, heard nothing.

  She did hear the bow loose with a twang! of string and a hiss of air, and was out of her hiding place, her spear angled up as she came at them from the side. She stabbed the spear-point into the throat of her first target, noticing out of the corner of her eye that Tamoth had also gone for the throat, putting his shaft in just below the helmet so that the broad arrow head jutted out through his mark’s trachea. Snake-strike quick was her attack, in and out so that she had skewered two surprised enemies and was darting her razor-sharp leaf blade at the remaining Erych when Tamoth’s second arrow cut through his spinal cord.

  And it was over. Tamoth bent over the two he had killed, stripping his arrows from the wounds. He inspected each shaft critically, rinsed them with water from his water skin and then stowed them away. “Waste not,” was axiomatic in the wilderness. They piled stones over the bodies to slow down scavengers and detection. In a few days, the wolves and other animals would manage to move the stones and expose the bodies for the vultures to find, but a few days would be more than enough for them to be miles away.

  A day later, they were close to the River Road when bad fortune came along to offset all the good luck the Fates had given to them so far. It came in the form of a group of twelve Erych together with four mounted Men. The Men wore black plate armor with a white symbol of a mace decorated with lion heads in the center of the chest.

  The two groups spotted each other simultaneously and stared, incredulous. Tamoth recovered first and caught Jwilla around the waist as he sprang into a gallop. She scrambled onto his broad back and held on tightly as he raced up the road. Someone had a bow and a good eye, because two arrows whipped by them on the right. “Get off the road!” she screamed. He turned sharply to the right and arrows went by behind him. Then they were off the road and careering down a rocky slope. The slope steepened and Tamoth sat back on his haunches, half stumbling in a cascade of dirt and gravel. He turned at a slightly less steep angle and kept running down the slope into the ravine. He galloped a short distance then climbed up the other side. Just as he was at the top, an arrow slammed into his right buttock. He stumbled and recovered, and was out of sight over the ridge and running along a slight dip.

  “I won’t be running far with this stuck in my ass,” he groaned, still moving. He could feel the cooling sheet of blood as it flowed over his flank. “Better pick a place to make our stand.”

  Jwilla pointed past his shoulder. “There, to the left!” she said. “That outcropping will make a perfect spot for a glorious last stand. I only hope that that idiot, Bryan, got to the Temple of Mebd. I would hate to die in vain.”

  At the chosen spot, Jwilla jumped off and looked at the wound. “It’s in almost to the fletching,” she said. I could pull it out, but if it’s a broadhead, it will tear you up more than I can heal in the few minutes before our company arrives.”

  “Get the damned thing out of me,” grated Tamoth. “Just grab it and hold on tight.” As soon as she had a firm grip, he bounded forward and the arrow tore free in a shower of blood. Jwilla pulled a long thin dagger from her pack and spoke an incantation over it before plunging it into the hole the arrow had left. White smoke rose from the wound as she withdrew the athame and Tamoth bellowed. But the wound began to close up.

  “That will help a bit,” she said, “but you can’t run without reopening the wound.”

  “What about fighting?” he asked grimly.

  “Oh, that will open the wound, too. But you won’t care as much.”

  Their pursuers topped the rise as Tamoth was stringing his bow. “Give me that arrow, would you?” he asked Jwilla. “I want to return it to its owner.”

  The group approached more slowly, spreading out in a crescent as they neared to prevent their prey from flight. Tamoth chose one of the two bowmen and sent the bloodied arrow back in a long arc. The shaft, shot at extreme range, struck inside the triangle made by the top of the hide armor and the wings of the helmet, driving downward inside the collarbone and into the body. The Erych bowman collapsed in mid-stride. Tamoth growled in satisfaction.

  The Erych stopped, shouting their anger and dismay, but the armored riders came on. One of them raised his hand palm out in a gesture of peace. “You serve the Defender, we serve the Destroyer,” he called in a deep voice slightly muffled by his helmet. “We are at odds today, but there is no need for further violence. We merely seek one who accompanied you, a Human youth. Only tell us where you have hid him, and you will be freed. This is Lord Nergal’s will.”

  Jwilla stepped forward. “I know your Lord! He seeks one who separated from our company days past. How are we to know his whereabouts? He was travelling with two other Humans. They joined us, then left, headed into the Indigo Mountains.”

  The armored speaker laughed scornfully. “Yes, we know that. The pieces of golem were collected in the mountains by our servants. The stink of your magic was on them. Do you think that we are without brains, Elf? We have been seeking him here on the River Road since that trick was revealed. Come, now. Speak. You see that there is no escape. Tell us where this person is, and you will walk away. Refuse, and we will ask these questions again . . . after suitable encouragement has been applied.”

  “If you could be believed, Death Lord,” sneered Jwilla, hiding the fear that had gripped her heart at the mention of the Defender’s arch enemy, “even then I would not tell you. Torture and death are your meat, you do not pass a day without them. Should we reveal our knowledge, you would torment us anyway.”

  “Very well,” said Nergal’s servant. “I will remind you o
f these words later, when you are spread upon my table for the Feast. I will take great personal pleasure in the things we will do to you. First, --“

  What would have befallen Jwilla first was never spoken, for Tamoth drew his great bow and sent a steel-tipped shaft like a lightning bolt through the black iron helmet. The armored form canted slowly to one side, the arrow protruding equally from the forehead and the rear of the helmet, then fell off his horse with a clatter as the startled animal wheeled and ran away.

  The other armored man had already turned his horse and was galloping away. “Wound them only!” he shouted. “Lord Nergal wishes them alive!”

  Tamoth put two arrows into the back of the retreating figure. Like his arrow to the helmet, they made a sound like a hammer striking an anvil as they drove through the armor. “Bodkin tips,” he said with grim satisfaction to Jwilla. “Let them feast on those, eh?”

  Jwilla shuddered. “Do not speak of feasting right now. Just be sure that I am dead before you die, my friend. Don’t let the Erych take me alive.”

  The Erych were hesitating. They wisely did not want to charge into the face of the Centaur’s arrows, and their bows obviously lacked the range of his enormous weapon. The second servant of Nergal had reached them and was haranguing them into action. Jwilla watched this critically. “Wait to shoot until they begin their charge,” she said. “Perhaps they are more afraid of us than they are of the Death God. Speaking of which, if these bodkin points are so great, why isn’t that other one dead?”

  “The point is narrow, made to punch through armor, at close range, anyway. I may not have killed him, but I bet he’s suffering. And he might die yet,” said Tamoth. “For the Erych, I’m switching to broadheads. Less penetrating power, more damage.”

  Jwilla stuck her spear into the ground by her side and strung her lighter bow. It only had half the range of Tamoth’s monster stave, as it was meant more for hunting than war, but it would still kill at a greater distance than her spear, and the goal today was to kill as many servants of the Destroyer at as great a range as possible.

  The Erych finally started their charge. Tamoth began to loose arrows, taking out the other bowman first, then choosing the biggest targets, not because they were easy, but so that Jwilla wouldn’t have to face them hand-to-hand later. She was touched by his consideration. Then she nocked an arrow and shot. The Erych suddenly were in disarray. “That’s funny,” said Jwilla. “What’s put them into a panic?”

  “Look at that,” breathed Tamoth reverently. “I think Bryan has found us!”

  Jwilla squinted; for all the tales told of Elven eyesight, Tamoth could see better than she. Probably because of his greater height, she told herself. “Are those Wyrgs?” she asked, incredulous. “Immortal Gods!”

  “Six of them, attacking the rear of the company,” said the Centaur.

  Jwilla hooted, her heart suddenly light, and began to send arrows downrange to give the gray warriors something else to worry about.

  “You know,” said Tamoth pedantically, casually putting his arrows into Erych heads and necks as he spoke, “if you would only learn to aim your shots, you wouldn’t frighten the Wolves as much as the Erych.”

  Jwilla snorted. Every arrow she shot was driving deep into an enemy torso. “Just because I’m not putting all my shafts into someone’s eye, you say I’m not aiming. You would be able to shoot faster if you weren’t so picky with your shots.”

  In a few minutes, every enemy was down or fled, trailed by Wyrgs howling their horrendous war cry. A pair of the Wolves transformed into human form and approached, hands raised in case Jwilla and Tamoth didn’t realize that they were being rescued. Both had red hair and were obviously related, even if the big one was ruddy and the smaller one dark-complexioned. The big one spoke in a pleasant lilt reminiscent of Branna. “Aodhan,” he said, hand to his hairy chest, “and this bean pole is Neit. We have been sent by Lord Bryan to find you and bring you back to our lands.”

  “Lord Bryan?” said Jwilla, deadpan. “How swiftly he rises.”

  “Aye, and soon to be King Bryan,”

  Tamoth snorted. “What? King? Where?”

  Neit said, “Best if we let him tell you the details.”

  Jwilla shrugged it all off. “At least he is well,” she said.

  Tamoth snorted again, this time, a sign of appreciation. “In any case, his timing, and yours, could not have been better,” he said. “Thank you.”

  “Think nothing of it,” said Neit. “In fact, we crossed your trail two days past, and have been awaiting the opportune moment, as it were. Seeing that they were focused on you, Aodhan judged that this was a time to wreak the most damage.”

  “So how did you track us?” asked Tamoth.

  Aodhan looked pensive. “I’m not sure how to explain . . . Branna knows your scents. She told us what your spoor is.”

  Neit added, “And Bryan told us the direction of your travel, and that you were evading Erych, and where you expected to meet. So we were able to guess where you might be. Our team was the lucky group.”

  “There are more of you?” Jwilla was surprised.

  “We went out in pairs.” Said Aodhan. “When Neit found your trail, he knew that it was fresh, so he called the rest in. By late today we’ll be twelve strong.”

  One of the other Wolves bounded up and Changed. “The Man escaped,” he reported. “A wizard, that one. We had downed his horse, but he conjured a whirlwind to carry him away.”

  Jwilla looked up. “A whirlwind, you say? What was it like?”

  The Wyrg looked at Aodhan, who nodded. He answered, “Yes. Eire took out his mount’s hamstring, and the fellow tumbled when the horse fell. He cried out in some unknown language, and a black swirling cloud appeared above him. He was sucked up into it, and was gone.”

  Jwilla shuddered.

  “What’s wrong?” Aodhan looked at Tamoth and Jwilla. “What should I know?”

  Jwilla hesitated, then decided: trust for trust. “The wizard who was taken by the whirlwind is a follower of Nergal, the God of Death, the sworn enemy of my Lord, Perkunas the Defender. I have fought Nergal’s disciples before. Once, after a battle we won, I saw this swirling cloud you speak of. It sucked up the survivors of that battle, but it was not summoned by them; they were screaming and pleading for mercy when it took them. I think that this one didn’t escape, or if he did, he escaped you Wyrgs for a worse fate. If there is one thing you should know, know this: the disciples of Nergal fear him above all else, and because of that, they are to be feared. They will do all they can to accomplish the tasks he sets them. And know that by aligning with Bryan, you are putting yourselves directly between Nergal and something he apparently wants very badly.”

  Chapter 36

  The chamber of Porvir, King of North Keep, was an uncomfortable place to be for Dumitrou, the new guard captain. He had served for two years as Melthane’s lieutenant, and as one of the Imperial spies of Shimshon. He was a capable swordsman and commander in his own right, but the timing of his elevation to captain could not have been worse. He did not exactly fear that Porvir might strike him down, since the guard force was down to just forty-five soldiers and the King needed every man, but there were other things that could happen to a man in his Highness’ bad graces.

  “Are you witless!” fumed Porvir. “Are you cowards! I send you out on a single simple errand, and you cannot even complete that one!”

  “Sire,” said Dumitrou, bowing, “It was impossible! The farmers at Cueid have armed themselves; there were forty total, twenty of them with bows lining the village square, and you know how dangerous the Cueidans are with those bows! Even with the full Guard complement I would hesitate to do battle. Why, we would leave half the men or more on the ground. They simply refuse to pay the tax. The lord there, one Zsiga, says that if he pays taxes to a King who does not protect him, he cannot pay the Lord Bryan, who does. All of the lords in that area have said basically the same thing. This Bryan has driven out the bandits who w
ere plaguing the area,” Dumitrou tactfully did not mention that many of the bandits plaguing the area had been members of the North Keep guard, “and proposed an agreement with the landowners to receive payment in return for the service.”

  Porvir backhanded the guard captain so forcefully that the man fell onto his side. “Imbecile! Did you at least find out who this Bryan is?”

  Dumitrou took his time in rising to his knees in order to think of an answer that would not get him felled again. He stayed on one knee, head bowed. “Your Highness,” he temporized, “No one knows for sure. Descriptions of the man match those of the former prisoner.” He tensed himself for the coming blow.

  When it did not fall, the guard captain looked up.

  Porvir was pulling at the hair on his head in red-faced fury. He saw Dumitrou’s move, and grated, “Leave me before I kill you! And send in some worthless slave!”

  Dumitrou did so, as quickly as possible. He sent a concubine in, thinking that she might minister to the King, but as he left he saw that Porvir was drawing a sword. The doors closed after the girl, and those without heard her long-drawn screams of terror and agony.

  No more than an hour had passed before Dumitrou was summoned again to the throne room. He saw the bloody trail that told how Porvir had soothed himself by maiming the luckless girl and then hacking her to pieces as she tried to flee. When she could no longer escape, or perhaps had died, if Dumitrou’s soldier’s eye read the story aright, the King had continued chopping at her corpse until there were only small pieces left.

  As the cowed servants picked up gruesome pieces and mopped up the pools and trails of blood, Porvir, much calmer, addressed the guard captain. “This infectious hell-spawn has plagued me since we first met. I should have had his throat cut the minute he was in my power, but who could know that the lout would turn into such a carbuncle on my ass?”

  Dumitrou, who had been one of those involved that fateful day, wisely refrained from pointing out that Afixio had warned against forcing Bryan to battle the female Wyrg. Instead he nodded mutely, allowing the King to continue his tirade of vile insults against Bryan’s parentage and upbringing, little suspecting that at least one of the things Bryan was accused of in the rant, an act involving his mother, was actually true.