The monster shouted and wheeled around with Kulith still hanging, caught by the arm and sword, his legs flying out and scraping a circle. It moved its other hand across and tried to grab and pry the sword blade out. The Vagrim wailed and cut itself more on the blade, and crushed Kulith’s hands in its own. A fire now lit inside its chest and glowed through all the wound-rents like the coals in a forge. It fell to its knees onto the wet stones, and then went over on one side, finally releasing Kulith. And Kulith had to finally let go of the sword, his fingers broken, his muscles bruised and torn. They both tried to gather themselves, to overcome their injuries and rise back up.
Kulith rose first and tried to get a hand back on the sword’s golden pommel. His fingers could only tickle its grip, but it was enough to start the healing. His fingers cracked and righted so that they were again able to grasp it, and pick it up. He took hold of the hilt, and pulled the Tuvier Blade free.
The Vagrim shuddered, as if a great pain or weight had been lifted off it. It turned over and tried to rise, in an incredible demonstration of its raw power. It growled out, and turned its head to look across at him with its angry, glassy eyes.
That was a mistake Kulith reckoned, as his other hand reached down, found and grabbed up the breaker sword, and he leapt and swung it around, with the magic sword following and driving behind it, right across the side of the Vagrim’s neck. With the magic sword’s movement, the breaker also seemed to leap forward in his hand and make the pass like it was the blade of an oar cutting through the water of a lake. It passed beyond the Vagrim and Kulith almost lost his grip on both weapons. He stumbled and caught himself on one knee, and then only with a swift shifting of his legs. It had to have been the greatest blow he had ever struck, he reckoned, and he looked back at what he had just done.
The Vagrim’s head turned at an angle not true to its neck, then fell over, to hang now only by a few corded muscles and a section of skin. The arms flailed in a spasm, clutching at the air, perhaps still trying to grasp and kill him. Kulith moved back, then around to get an opening. The Tuvier Blade sliced now and separated the rest of the head away. The creature had gotten up to its knees, and now it fell over, also seeming at the same times to shrink down and appear more normal. The Vagrim’s black blood did not splatter out or spurt, but instead slowly emptied like jellied worms from the severed veins in its neck. These black strings wiggled away from the body and burrowed down into the soil between the paving stones.
Kulith kicked the head away from the rest to make sure it didn’t roll back and try to reattach itself, as there were tales of that happening with other undead. He felt relieved, dizzy, and he walked around the body in almost a complete circle before wondering what had happened to the others who had been there. To the other buggers now, he kicked the head, and watched it roll over almost to their feet. Several turned and ran off down the slope, toward the rest of the Vagrim’s horde. Rat Ears was one of them, Kulith saw. He would have liked to have caught and killed him right there.
“What have you done?!” Ovodag shouted at him though a sheet of passing mist.
Kulith came over to the rest and stood there with his swords. “I was right when I told you that the Vagrim was not the one to lead us. He could not even beat one troll. Perhaps Sterina will reward us now, for getting rid of him.” He turned to two of the goblins chiefs who had favored him. “Bring wood and burn the body of this disgrace. Attack those who try to stop you,” he said.
“We will never get into Doom Wall now,” one of the trolls snarled over at him.
“The Vagrim was the lord of Doom Wall, I reckon,” Kulith said, “but now he is dead.” He looked about, speaking up to the rest of the leaders. “He attacked me and I did not wish to die. Now that he is gone, perhaps it is time for a troll to be the lord of Doom Wall. I will make the flesh-pit strong men there quake and quiver. No one among us will be cheated or denied if we all stick together. If we stay together now, all of the northern Stones are open to us, to take from and choose what we want.”
“They stand in the way of that. Don’t you see?” Ovodag scolded him, as he pointed down the slope at several thousand thrings, thyrs, trolls and goblins who waiting there in formation, between them and the Dimm. Thrings were falling out of the ranks now from becoming suddenly leaderless, attacking or reverting to corpses.
“We shall see. We shall see,” Kulith replied. “Have the bands form into battle lines. It’s a good thing we kept all those shields. Go, do it now!” Several goblins turned and ran back up to their waiting bands, those having gone almost silent, which usually signaled that an attack was imminent.
Horns then sounded from below, and the white, slug like bodies of the thrings moved forward, creeping up from the Dimm’s edge to destroy the returners. They were answered with a wall of trolls, goblins and thyrs that began to form up, stretching out their ranks and getting their spears all pointed the right way. The towers and walls of the warrens were alive now with activity as the occupants chose up sides, or just tried to hold out and defend what they had.
Kulith pointed back at the countess and the archer. “Keep them safe and we will go and collect her ransom together.” He turned back to the moving mass of dead coming up the slope. The wall of buggers coming down the slope quickly reached them, and he fell into their ranks.
The sword began to burn a bright gold in his hand as he walked back and forth in front of the goblins and trolls. “Come on,” he said to them. “Just one more fight and we will walk into Doom Wall as its lords. This will be easy!”
It made sense, as they looked around at each other. He had just killed the Vagrim, and with the Vagrim dead, the northern islands were all in play. They pulled out their weapons and shouted back to their battle companies and groups, getting better control and preparing to meet the defenders.
Behind them, the goblins lifted the body of the Vagrim up onto a pyre of wood, splashed oil on it, and then lit it on fire. The Vagrim’s head watched from ten yards away as the rest of it burned, and then a goblin put it on a spear point, added oil, and lit it from the fire. He came down the slope after the rest of the horde, dancing around with it burning in the air.
Kulith lifted the sword and swung it around, shouting back at the lines of buggers, trying and lead them all down the slope. Then he raised the golden sword up, shouted a battle call, and slashed it down to cut the first thring he came to in half.
CHAPTER NINE
WAYLAND
THE KNIGHT’S CANTEEN, TROLI
“There is quite a bit more here than what you have admitted to on your manifest,” the traveler scribe told Wayland, looking up from the tally he held. There was even more silver, cunningly hidden it a box attached under one of the wagon frames. Wayland also carried two small rows of gold coins sewn up inside the seam of his jacket, but that was just being a merchant.
“Deals that were promised to me on the road fell through,” he replied. “And as they say in Tolwind now, you can’t just trust in the travelers’ swords to guard your way. Why advertise my goods and wealth out to every watching wolf padding between the trees?”
They were on a widened part of the road that acted as the duty court after crossing the bridge over the west arm of the Ressel River. Two keep bastions sat on either side of the court, each twice as long as a hall. The knight’s canteen was just a wooden loading platform and inn against the south keep’s wall. On the north side of the court was a stable yard for the pulling animals and the parking of wagons. A memorial sat at the middle of the flagstones, a square plinth with a plaque of bronze on it commemorating the slaughter of a horde of monsters on the spot years before. It had taken them three tough weeks to get back through the Golden Slopes and across the frontier into Gece. They were all cross and eager to sell their goods, perhaps picking up some cargo to take back west into Alonze, Galfan or all the way across the Ribbon to Tolwind and Ballatch.
“The Captain of Troli will let you pick from the canteen’s warehouses,” the scribe rep
eated to him what he already knew. “White silk for dresses, silver and marked dishes from Pendwise. We have bronze articles, glass bottles, and iron manufactured in the old empire.”
“In Tolwind,” Wayland said back, “those things are already there.” He shook his head. “My customers don’t want more of the same. The fashion this year is for green, rose, or gold silk stitched with patterns, to be finished off with a short ruff of white and black lace. They want tea cups and game sets from Kraxika in tiled boxes, and black tea from Churuk to fill those cups. They want spices from the isles, rosy carbuncles and peach citrine from Isamee, and I have other orders for jewels.”
“Well, we will see what we have to sell to you. We may have only white silk and cotton, but that may be the last you’ll see this year, and none the next. Perhaps a credit draft from one of the bank houses in Kavvar would suit you better? Anyway, I will have to go get an authorization from the captain regarding the extra goods you have. There may be a small additional duty.”
“That is fine,” Wayland said, resigned, and closed the last chest lid back up with a slap. “Which way is it to Barracks Street?” The man shook his head back and forth and made a hissing noise, like a warning.
“That’s a nasty place for you to go to. It’s best that you stay away from there.”
“Most of my drovers and factors are entertaining in one of the taverns there. I’ll be back in an hour or two to settle up.” He reached out and pinched the man’s ledger between his thumb and index finger making him look back suddenly into his face. “Don’t try and cheat me,” he added.
Wayland jumped down off the wagon and lifted his sword belt out of his kit, it being of the best quality he could afford, the sheath made in the style now popular in Marmad, with gilded scroll work on the caps, bosses, and buckles. He put it on, opposite the long knife he wore, as he went north across Troli’s merchant court toward the street the man had condemned.
He walked past the far corner of the east bastion and found it running parallel and facing its outer wall. There were a few other drivers and merchants about, perhaps also stopped at the canteen houses because of the siege on the plain. There were a line of signs along the building fronts, and a wet little drain running down the middle of the cobbles. A vegetable cart was doing some business, and a line of waiting beggars were sitting in front of their hovels against the fort’s outer wall across from the public doors. He fished in his pocket for some black coins as he stepped over the drain, his intentions on going to the second house, advertised above its door as the Silver Lion.
The third door down the row burst open before he could reach it. The heavy wood it was made of cracked lose and almost came completely ajar from its frame. Out through it tumbled two men, and quickly after them hurried a third. The people close to the door backed up and made a space as Sascha of the Krag rolled and stood up. The other man who had followed the two out now tried to stab him through with his long sword.
“Stop fighting you fools!” Wayland yelled out to them, as he approached, disgusted by the sight of two Traveler Knights fighting in the street in front of a bar. Sascha had moved aside from the thrust, taking instead a cut to his jacket, and noe he moved back further away from the two men. He drew his own sword, and then presented them with its tip. Wayland saw that they were not going to listen to him, and why should they?
The other man got up off the street and now drew his sword out. From out of the broken doorway came Uffo, and a bearded stranger in a brigantine and black leather that looked like he might be the tavern strong man, or a member of the watch. The two saw the bared steel in the street and shoved each other roughly apart; the rasp of their swords came only a second later.
When the man made another lunge for Sascha, and Sascha blocked it and returned a cut, Wayland also drew his sword. He gave one of the buckles on his belt a cinch to lift his scabbard, so that it wouldn’t drag across the street. As he did so, Sascha traded two more blows with the man, in the heavy fencing style most trained soldiers used, then stepped back away. He made circles with the tip of his sword, the polished flat flickering as it caught the sun.
The smell of the tavern row, which was excessive, faded in Wayland’s mind as he heard the unforgiving rasp of metal on metal and then saw the flash of those blades. Now it didn’t seem like the fight could be stopped, and Sascha and the other Traveler Knight went into each other again, trading three blows. Some of the rowdier onlookers began to shout and encourage the men on.
Their swords hacked and scraped across each other again in a series of thrust and cuts. Sascha wildly slashed back and cut the man on the arm, as he was cut back across his leg. He had slapped the point away just as it had done its cut, and now they circled half way around each other. The other man worked in now from the side, to also attack Sascha and kill him.
Wayland understood duels, but this no longer appeared to be one. As the man looked for his moment, Wayland forced his way through the crowd and slapped the man’s sword blade away, giving him a head shake to warn him off interfering. The man turned with a snarl and Wayland was immediately engaged by his sword, the whole crowd moving back away as their weapons flashed, cracked, and circled through the air. Wayland used a close bind to push the man back, and as he caught his feet on a stone, Wayland cut him neatly across the meat on the back of his calf.
His leg collapsed and he cried out in pain. Wayland turned back to see Sascha beat down the guard of the man he fought and stick his sword point through the man’s neck. It was a mortal blow, creating a fountain of blood as the man collapsed. The man in armor and black leather now came forward from Uffo and swung in at Sascha, but he jumped back away, striking the blade aside with a bloody swish. All Wayland could see of Uffo was that he was now down and lying by the broken door.
Wayland backed up, catching his breath as he watched the two now fight it out. They went back and forth in a series of parried swings, and then Sascha stepped by the man’s guard and cut him across the chest so that blood flew across the stones and crowd in a splatter. The man in the brigantine went furiously to work on Sascha, closing the distance and beating him back. His teeth were gritted; his eyes and jaw were set in a mask of hate. Temmi and two of Wayland’s drovers came out of the Silver Lion right then to see what was happening and quickly backed away.
“It’s enough now. Stop!” Wayland demanded, but they heard him and did not care.
“Anton,” Sascha said flatly, spitting as they parted again. They both took a few steps around, sizing the other up. Wayland wondered if what Sascha had said was his abrupt way of making an explanation, but it didn’t connect with any quarrel he knew of. Then they struck at each other with their swords wildly, and quickly came to grips with their off hands. They manhandled each other around and then pushed back away, slashing at each other as they parted. Sascha was hit and staggered to find his balance.
Anton went back in for the kill and Wayland now forced the man’s sword away from Sascha with a scraping bind, and he moved the two swords down, then up, so that the points cut only at the sky.
Anton pushed him away and tried to slash him, but Wayland was ready and intercepted the blade. Holding nothing back, Wayland struck in at Anton, knocked the man’s blade further and further out of guard with two successive strikes. Wayland jumped forward with a quick movement of his feet and beat the man’s sword back further, then slapped back with the tip of his sword and stabbed through the man’s skull with it.
There was a loud pop, and Anton’s forehead flashed red. He slipped sideways and fell down onto the cobbles, the life gone out of him. His sword clanged and clattered, his eyes stayed open, and his mouth gaped to the side and leaked some blood.
Sascha blew out and went down onto a knee; his blood ran out from under him down into the street’s gutter from his wounds, mixing with the other men’s. One of the guards then shouted down off the fort’s wall, as two men from the watch came up to the crowd and made it part away by spinning around their wooden clackers.
Wayland had given up his sword and dagger, and been moved back in chains by the Traveler Knights into the canteen master’s court. Sascha had gone to receive care in another part of the fortress. Their bloody weapons and the ledger recording his goods were placed onto Captain Tig Morten’s table, it acting now as it usually did as his desk. The sharp-eyed, bald headed minor lord leaned back in a great chair of turned oak. Behind him hung the blazon of the Traveler Knights, showing his authority over the matter of the fight.
His boots were thrown up on the corner of the table as he sipped from a great mug of cider and listened to the witness’ accounts of the fight. He sat forward after the third testimony and dismissed the fourth, then picked up the ledger and gave the bloody swords a quick glance over. Wayland didn’t know what to expect from the man, as the courts of Gece and the knights were notoriously partial, and the verdicts usually driven by each lords’ individual ends.
“So, it was Sascha of the Krag who was attacked?” he asked Wayland, sipping his cider as if he was having some casual conversation with another, and not a man rattling in chains with justice about to drop down on him.
“It was so, from what I could tell,” Wayland replied. “It was three against one there, and I demanded several times that they stop.”
“Why would they stop?” Tig Morten asked, posing a question he obviously already knew the answer for. Then he explained. “The Sobrezek cousins mostly hate one another and Sascha is the heir to the dignity of the Krag. It was just a matter of time until another Sobrezek tried to jump up over him.”
A War of Stones: Book One of the Traveler Knight Page 10