Vargus put it from his mind and the frown slowly eased away until his features were smooth once more. He reached the edge of the field, jumped the dry stone wall and rejoined the narrow track that sloped down to the village nestled in the heart of the valley. Smoke rose from a few chimneys and as more of the village came into view, he saw sheep and cows milling about in nearby fields. Looking towards the wooded hills beyond the village, he fancied he could see trees swaying and hear the rasp of the woodcutters’ saws. A couple of groups would be up there, chopping down trees for fuel and planting seedlings to replace them. The surrounding fields, forests and the river running through the heart of the village gave them everything they needed.
For those used to living in cities, with ready access to certain luxuries, it took a while to adjust, but they’d all come here for the same reason. After long years of wandering the world every single one of them sought peace. For a time they were content and truly happy. They embraced the silence and the simple life, shedding decades of customs, bad habits and accents from distant lands, until all that remained was the essence of self. Eventually something new would be born or created, the wind would change and a new age would begin. One day they would be walking in the hills, or working in the fields, and the next they would be gone, back into the wider world. No one threw around blame or passed judgement, because eventually it would happen to them all. Inevitably a time would come when they grew weary of the world and would come home again to the village.
The awful noise rose again, louder and sharper. Looking across the hills Vargus saw no birds taking flight in alarm and the animals in the fields paid no attention. Even as he looked down at the worn trail beneath his feet it began to fade.
Home. Soon then, but not just yet.
Vargus opened his eyes and Orran jumped back, covering his alarm with a grin. “Thought you were going to sleep all day. Past your bed time, old man?”
“This better be good, I was having a really nice dream.”
“About sheep, was it?” said Orran with a leer.
After wiping the last remnants of sleep from his face Vargus stretched and stood up. He was still on the battlements then, and the western army was still out there, waiting for the order to attack the city again, perhaps for the last time.
“Actually it was about sheep. They were running away from a naked man who kept chasing them. He looked a lot like you, Orran.”
Black Tom guffawed and a ghost of a smile briefly touched Hargo’s lips. The big man’s mood was consistently melancholy these days. The war had changed all of them, and if they survived it, each man would deal with it in his own way. Vargus couldn’t say what the long-term effects would be on Hargo, but he spoke little these days, which wasn’t a good sign.
“You’re twisted in the head,” said Orran, shaking his head.
“Didn’t you used to work on a farm?” asked Vargus. “Tend your own flock, eh?” he said, and a couple of lads laughed.
Before Orran could make a witty retort a crisp note from a bovine horn blasted the air. It was so loud it made Vargus’s ears hum. Several other horns followed in quick succession, echoing along the walls and across the city. It was the sound from his dream.
“Fuck,” muttered Hargo, as he tightened the leather straps on his shield and drew out the cleaver from his belt.
“Why are they still fighting?” asked Orran. He didn’t address the question at anyone in particular and wasn’t really expecting an answer. They were all thinking it, though. They’d all heard the stories, civil war in the north, rebellion in the south and the Yerskani liberating Perizzi in one night. With the capital free it wouldn’t be long before the Queen dealt with the rest of the Chosen in her country. The whole western alliance was falling apart, but no one seemed to have told the army marching towards them.
What little colour remained in Orran’s battered face quickly drained away when he saw who made up the bulk of the approaching army. Normally, before individual faces emerged they saw a sea of brown, grey and silver. After a time they would be able to make out armoured men spattered in mud. But on what was probably one of the last days of the war, Vargus saw a horde of green, brown and blue. After the first thousand he stopped trying to count the number of Vorga marching towards the city.
“Right lads, we’ve faced these slimy bastards before. You know the drill,” yelled Vargus before spitting over the wall. “They’re big, slow, and twice as ugly as your wife’s mother. Don’t try to outmuscle them, and don’t bother with dismembering. Slicing works best. Go for their elbows and knees with anything blunt, get them down, and don’t stop hitting them until you’re sure they’re dead. Let’s show these fish-heads what it means to be a Seve.”
“Show them the colour of our guts, you mean,” muttered Orran, but Vargus heard him anyway.
“Something to say, Orran?”
“No, just talking to myself.”
Vargus lowered his voice so only those nearby could hear. “You know today is probably the last day of the war. You’ve just got to hold on for a few more hours. Can you do that?”
The little man looked up at the sky and Vargus could see his eyes were wet with unshed tears. “I’m so tired my bones ache. How can that be? How is it I can feel every single one?”
“We’ll get through this.”
“I’d like to think so,” said Hargo, staring out at the Vorga horde, “but I don’t recognise many of the lads around me any more.”
There were a lot of drawn and anxious faces bordering on terrified. Facing a few units of Vorga, mixed in with men, was one thing. Facing an army full of them was a nightmare. The men around him were drained and physically exhausted beyond anything they’d ever experienced. No matter how much they ate or slept, they were still hungry and tired. The chasm inside would only begin to heal when the war ended.
Vargus grabbed Hargo and Orran by the shoulders, digging his fingers into their flesh until their eyes met his. Black Tom and a few other lads huddled around and a hush fell over the men at the sound of Vargus’s voice. “I don’t care about kings, politics or religion. It’s all games. Strategies for those with crowns and power. What’s important to me is making sure you survive, so you can go home and forget about the war. Remember the Brotherhood. Remember how far you’ve come because of it. We fight as one. Save the life of the man beside you, because without him you’re already dead. Don’t give up now when we’re so close.”
Some of the tension eased from the faces and shoulders of those nearest. Orran shook himself like a wet dog and rolled his shoulders in readiness, while Hargo just nodded. Black Tom said nothing but spat over the wall and offered Vargus a grisly smile. It would have to do. They were out of time. He could see individual faces and already the Vorga were starting to run at the walls with ladders. With hooks and pikes, brute force and a lot of shouting, many ladders were toppled, and whole squads of Vorga plunged to their deaths. But after a while their numbers began to tell and some of the ladders were not repelled by the defenders.
Some of the men waited in stony silence, while others began to curse and scream at the enemy, working themselves into a frenzy. If the Vorga expected their reputation to cower the Seves they were sorely disappointed. By the time the first made it onto the battlements they faced men who had become veterans after only one war. The fat and gristle had already been cut away, and all that remained was muscle and unrelenting bone.
A green-skinned Vorga barged its way onto the battlements to his left. To his right a squad of green-and brown-skinned Vorga started hacking into the defenders and pushing them back.
“Send them back to the sea!” shouted Vargus, charging towards the larger group. Before he was within range Vargus saw one of the Vorga stab a warrior in the throat with its spiked dagger, take a bite out of another man’s face and rip open a third with its claws, spilling entrails over the stones. Pushing off the battlements to add extra weight he leapt at the closest Vorga, aiming his blade at its head. The force of the impact sent a
shockwave up both of his arms, but thankfully the blade didn’t break. The steel bit into the Vorga’s face, snapping off several bony protrusions around its jaw and cleaving its face in two. The tip of his sword burst one of its eyes like an overripe melon. With a high-pitched keening sound it stumbled back and was quickly finished off by others.
“They bleed like anyone else!” roared Vargus. “Kill the fish-fuckers!”
Without turning to see if anyone stood with him, Vargus pressed forward into the melee. A whirling on his right told him Orran was whipping his daggers about and he heard frequent plopping sounds as bits of innards splashed down. A more rhythmic series of screams and high-pitched whines came from his left, as Hargo butchered anyone that tried to flank him on that side. When a burly brown Vorga pressed Hargo against the battlements, Black Tom rushed in, slicing open the creature’s stomach and then driving his pike into its body up to the haft. Instead of dying it hissed at Tom and swiped at his face, catching him across a cheek with its claws. With his right arm still pinned Hargo took a dagger from his belt and drove it into the Vorga’s eye, twisting it from side to side. Jelly and bits of brain dribbled down his hand. Finally the Vorga released its grip and died. Two more Vorga quickly took its place, but just as Vargus was about to assist, someone shoved him backwards.
Before he could see who had attacked him something flashed by his cheek, leaving a white hot trail. Stumbling back with one hand pressed to his face, he swung his sword in tight arcs to keep the enemy at bay. When his vision cleared a blue-skinned Vorga was bearing down on him with a bloody axe. He parried two attacks that threatened to split him in two, and riposted with an underarm slash that forced the Vorga back. Although it looked as vicious as the others, Vargus sensed the reluctance of its attacks. When their eyes met he saw a fierce intelligence and regret. It had no desire to be fighting in this war.
Offering his enemy a smile Vargus gave it a little salute then charged. Brushing aside the axe he put a hand under its jaw, shoving its face up. At the same time he lashed out with a boot which connected with its right knee. There was a dull cracking sound and the Vorga lurched to one side, but grabbed his arm on the way down, pulling him off balance. Someone stepped on Vargus’s hand and another heavy foot stomped on his right arm, turning it numb. Something pierced his leg and another blade found its mark on his back, cutting a narrow trail across his ribs. The crippled Vorga wasn’t faring any better and was kicked, stabbed and stomped several times before it sloped away.
Crawling on elbows and knees, Vargus tried to move away from the heart of the melee, but someone grabbed him by the back of the neck. He was hauled into the air and held aloft by the biggest and ugliest Vorga he’d ever seen in his life. The seven-foot monster was covered with a network of old scars which cross-crossed its face, arms and body. Bony spurs were missing all over its head and the only weapon it carried was a huge stone mallet.
“Crawling little worm,” it whispered, giving him a bloody smile littered with bits of skin and hair. Before it could take a bite out of him a Seve warrior tried to drive a spear into its side. The blade glanced off its rubbery hide and didn’t even leave a mark. The Vorga looked annoyed at the interruption, but only as long as it took to cave the man’s head in with its mallet.
While it was distracted, Vargus drove both feet into its face. All of the air was knocked out of his body as he slammed to the ground. While he scrambled around for a weapon the stone mallet came down on his chest, breaking several ribs. In desperation Vargus kicked out with both legs. One of his feet hit something, giving him a moment of respite. His clawing fingers closed around something sharp, cutting the flesh on his palm, but he pulled the weapon towards him until he found the hilt.
As he wheezed and tried to stay conscious, Vargus saw the huge scarred Vorga battling three Seve warriors and managing to hold its own against them. Crawling forward again he waited until it was distracted before driving the sword into its groin. Bright green blood spurted but he kept pushing upwards, using the strength in his arms and legs until he’d buried all four foot of steel inside the monster’s body.
The Vorga coughed and took a step backwards as Vargus regained his feet, leaning against the wall for support.
“You are not a child of Nethun,” said Vargus in its native tongue. The Vorga’s eyes widened, perhaps in shock at the curse more than pain from its wound. Hargo pressed a sword into his hand and Vargus opened the Vorga’s throat before kicking it over the wall. The men around him cheered, but the victory was brief as more Vorga charged towards them.
The press of bodies swept Vargus along the wall until he found himself separated from the others. Someone slammed into him and a white hot lance of pain shot up his side. An axe came out of nowhere biting into his right leg, gouging a chunk out of his thigh. He stumbled backwards and only stayed upright because he was squashed against the battlements in a press of bodies. When the melee moved on he looked around for his attacker and saw a pair of brown Vorga looking at him. All of the Seve warriors nearby were engaged, leaving him to deal with them both by himself.
Working as a team they charged, forcing Vargus to choose an opponent. He feinted to the right with his sword, then struck the other Vorga in the throat with his fist. It gagged and fell to one knee but the other came forward, slicing its axe into his shoulder. His right arm went numb and his sword dropped to the ground. Blood was pouring down his side, and as the Vorga wrenched its axe free he howled and almost blacked out from the pain. As he reached for a dagger a spear pierced his side, driving out what little breath remained in his body. Blood trickled down his leg and there was something stuck in his throat.
As the pair of Vorga charged again, Vargus spat a wadge of blood into the face of the first and made a desperate grab for its axe, keeping its body between him and the other. His opponent’s grip was impossibly strong and instead of trying to wrestle for the weapon he swung its whole arm. The axe sliced across the chest of the second Vorga and a flurry of green and yellow innards spilled out. Forgetting the axe the Vorga wrapped its arm about Vargus’s throat and started to choke him, then bit down into his shoulder. With a roar he pulled the Vorga close, then with the last of his strength, threw it over his shoulder. It hit the battlements and started to slide over, but made a desperate grab for purchase. Its unbreakable grip wrapped around his injured right wrist, and before he could scream Vargus was pulled over the wall. Even as they fell the Vorga tried to kill him, but as the ground rushed up towards them it was the last thing Vargus cared about. He was going home.
There were only a few candles in the hospital room, but they provided enough light for Balfruss to make his way to the narrow cot without bumping into the furniture. He sat down beside Eloise and tried not to grimace at the stench that clogged the air. For a time he just listened to the frail rattling breath that hissed in and out of her burned lungs. It was such a small noise, one that barely seemed capable of sustaining life, and yet she persisted. Hours and now a day beyond what the surgeons expected.
Yesterday, when her breathing stopped for a short time the hospital had sent for him, thinking it signalled the beginning of the end. Now they were at a loss to explain it. Every twenty or thirty breaths there would be a strange hiccup, her breathing would pause for three heartbeats and then resume.
The thick stone walls kept out the noise from other parts of the hospital, leaving him wrapped in an oppressive silence broken only by the sound of her breathing. For a brief moment he thought it sounded louder than yesterday. But he knew hope was a spiteful mistress that played tricks on desperate minds. More than anything he wanted to heal her. To find a way to mend the ruined flesh and see her returned to full health. But Eloise was dead. The charred thing in front of him was not her. Soon, even the faint spark that lingered in the ruined flesh would fade.
The worst part, through a cruel trick of fate, was that half of her face remained unblemished by the burns that covered the rest of her body. Bandages dipped in a mix of oils and lotio
ns meant to calm and soothe the flesh covered her from head to toe. If he focused all of his attention on that unmarked half, he could almost convince himself that she was sleeping.
Eloise hiccupped again and this time his heart beat five times before her breathing resumed with a faint catch. They were getting further apart. It wouldn’t be much longer now. No matter how many times they soaked the bandages, or dribbled tonics into her mouth to numb the pain, the agony she was experiencing was beyond imagination.
“It’s only now, at the very end, that I realise how rich I was,” said Balfruss.
He reached out and touched the Source, channelling a trickle of power until a tiny blue flame appeared on the tip of his right thumb. The flame remained unnaturally steady and it made no sound as it washed the room in a pale glow, a weak imitation of daylight. With an impotent shake of his head Balfruss extinguished the flame and stood up to leave. As he turned away from the bed he noticed her features looked more relaxed. Perhaps Eloise was drifting away and was now in a place beyond pain. He certainly hoped so.
“I’ve never believed in the Gods, or a golden place after,” Balfruss admitted, “but if I’m wrong, I hope Darius is waiting there for you.”
Pressing two fingers to his lips Balfruss gently touched them to Eloise’s unblemished cheek. The air in the corridor outside felt cool and fresh, but it was busy with groups of teary-eyed relatives. All of the patients on this corridor didn’t have long and their families were just waiting for the inevitable.
To his left a Lantern priest, dressed in a pristine white hooded robe, sat praying with a group of women. Beyond them a group of local warriors, rangy men from the south, were discreetly passing around a flask and talking in quiet voices. Next to them was a burly priest of the Maker trying to console a grey-haired woman. Two young boys ran past her screaming in delight, oblivious to her pain and the general mood. A shame-faced mother chased after the boys, trying to grab hold of them, but they eluded her grasp and ran on. For a moment Balfruss considered offering to help, but then he saw the expression on every face as they recognised him. It wasn’t just fear any more; they were terrified.
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