by D. M. Murray
The first of Ohasha’s guards didn’t even see the strike, rounding the corner in time to meet the raider’s blade with his throat. He halted with a soft gurgle and fell on top of Kalfinar.
The body of the fallen guard obstructed the raider’s follow-up thrust, allowing Kalfinar enough time to swing his hatchet into the leg of the attacker. Before the raider could slam his sword point into Kalfinar, Rondo rounded the corner and, with one artful stroke, sent the man’s head arcing towards the reddening floor.
“Quickly, get up!” Rondo snapped as the second guard and Evelyn made it to the landing. Rondo grabbed Kalfinar’s arm and hauled him to his feet.
“Thanks. I was done there.”
“Return the kindness, if we come to it,” Rondo said as he flicked the blood from his blade.
Kalfinar turned towards commotion up the hallway. His eyes focussed to see a brilliant light surrounding the faintest shape of a person. On either side of the light stood three shadowy silhouettes, two tall and one smaller.
Screams echoed over them from further up the corridor. The scene before Kalfinar was a clash of exquisite decor, gold and onyx, and the chaos of bloody death. The rich scents of fragranced oils were overwhelmed by the stink of blood and bowel.
“The Horn must be one of the two girls!” Evelyne barked. She clutched her sword and ran past her companions, leaving Kalfinar and the others scrambling to catch up.
“Evelyne! Wait!” Kalfinar roared, panic swelling in his gut.
She advanced on the four raiders as the form of light was bundled out a wide window. Evelyne cried out.
Kalfinar charged, leaping over the hacked and bloodied bodies of palace guardsmen, but he was too slow.
Without breaking her stride, Evelyne flicked a throwing knife, catching one of the raiders in the eye. He touched his face and then slumped against the wall. Evelyne dropped to the floor, avoiding the next raider’s sword swing. She used her momentum to slide through his legs and stab a dagger home, leaving it embedded in the man’s crotch.
The remaining raiders focussed on Kalfinar and the others as they bore down on them. Kalfinar smashed his sword down on to the blade of a raider as Ohasha cut down the other. Kalfinar crashed his cross-guard into the man’s face, once, twice, sending a spray of blood and teeth against the wall before bringing his hatchet down into the space behind the raider’s ear with a hollow click. The man’s eyes widened and then rolled white.
Kalfinar freed his weapon and ran towards where Evelyne stood, looking out the window. He reached the open window and watched as a carriage sped off, led by a team of four horses. The glowing light of the Horn disappeared into the distance.
“That was reckless,” he said to her.
Evelyne had tears in her eyes as she looked up at him. “I can hear her screams. There’s great fear within her.”
Broden joined them at the window. They looked upon the cityscape as sporadic fires burned throughout and the sound of Cannan’s wailing haunted the warm night air.
“My friends,” Rondo said, “come with me.”
The small Cannan ushered them to a doorway near the dead raiders. Kalfinar stepped over the crumpled bodies and entered the bright and ornate room. Ohasha stood inside the door. Her face was contorted in sorrow. On the floor in front of Ohasha sat a man of late-middle years. He cradled the body of a beautiful woman. Her bright, embroidered gown was soiled with blood, which spread from a single chest wound.
The man wept, rocking with the woman’s body. He appeared to pay no heed to Kalfinar or his companions as they entered. The man was so lost in grief that he seemed oblivious to the wounds that bled freely from either side of his head, where his ears had once been.
Rondo whispered subtly to his companions, “Esra, Father of the People, and Suna, Mother of the People. But the Daughter of the People, Natalya, is missing.”
“They took her,” an accented croak of a voice issued from the Father of the People. “They killed my beloved.” He grimaced as another wave of grief crashed over him. His tears and mucus merged on the tip of his nose and dripped onto the body of Suna. The Father of the People appeared to fight back the grief for a moment. “They killed her and then they took my child.” He looked up with sodden eyes.
The pain-stricken man stared helplessly at each of them before settling on Kalfinar’s face.
Kalfinar returned the man’s gaze. You and I, we are players in the same tragedy.
The Father of the People fell back into his crushing grief.
“We can’t linger,” Evelyne whispered to Kalfinar as he tore bed sheets for fresh dressings and handed them to Rondo, who tended the Father of the People’s wounds. “We must move after the Horn. I can feel them travel further away.’
Kalfinar sheathed his knife. I know. They’re taking the Horn to the docks. Back I come to a smoky embrace. “I know,” he grumbled.
Ohasha stood from where she had been crouched beside the Father of the People. “Take me with you.” The sorrow that had previously lined her face had been replaced with a hard calmness, though fury appeared to prickle not far beneath the surface. “Kalfinar, we must get the Daughter of the People back.” She stepped up to him. “And they owe me blood.”
Kalfinar nodded. “We need a ship. Any in the harbour will be burned.”
“My daughter,” the Father of the People croaked from where he sat huddled on the floor. His knees were pulled tight to his chest. “Bring me my daughter back.”
Kalfinar looked at the pleading eyes of the Cannan Father of the People, ears hacked from his head and a dead wife before him. Now the man stood to lose his daughter too. I know the bitterness of your pain all too well. “We’ll bring your daughter home.”
“I have a fast-sail in my private dock. It was being painted for the Festival of Sails,” the Father of the People said. He coughed a racking sound. “Take it. Bring my daughter home to me.”
Kalfinar flashed a look between Rondo and Ohasha. “Do you know where that is?”
“I know,” Rondo replied.
“Kalfinar, bring my daughter home.” The Father of the People croaked as he buried his head into the neck of his wife.
“Your daughter will return. I swear it.” Promises, promises. “Come on. We must hurry!” Kalfinar ordered. He set off with the others in tow. His mind was awash with darkened dens full of rich, powerful smoke. To the docks, at last. Yes!
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Grunnxe did not care about the cold rain that lashed against the side of his face; such was the depth to which he was lost in a fantasy. He rode within the central column of his vast army as they marched upon the Free Provinces. It felt better than he had ever dreamed.
In his mind’s eye, he watched the enemy fall, his sword opening their veins and showering him in blood. Blood he tasted from the glinting pommel of his sword. He carved his way through hordes like a farmer harvesting wheat. Chop, chop, slice, and slice. Closer he came towards those whose black hearts he hated most: the father and son he swore to kill. Grunnxe watched as he swept all enemies aside and finally stood before the terrified forms of the governor of Carte and his son. He absently rubbed at his stomach, the wound throbbing its near constant reminder. He watched as he raised his broadsword and smashed it into the space between Harruld’s neck and shoulder. He watched again as his fantasy shifted and the Priestess stood before him with Kalfinar bound and kneeling. The son of Harruld wept tears of blood.
“End him,” the Priestess hissed.
Grunnxe watched himself step forward and, with a slow and casual progress, he slid his sword into Kalfinar just above the navel.
“My Lord,” Grunnxe snapped from his fantasy as the Priestess hissed from the horse beside him. He shifted in his saddle and noticed he was aroused; his first erection in years.
“What is it, Priestess?” Grunnxe asked as he drew his oiled-leather hood tight to shield from the rain.
“Some of the spirits have been freed. We have reached someone within. Now death w
ill ravage them for their sins against our Lord God.” The Priestess hissing voice trailed off and disappeared back into the black shadows of the hood.
Grunnxe smiled at the revelation. It would work. The Free Provinces would fall. The Master God’s embrace was warm indeed. In return for his devotion and that of his people, Grunnxe would return Solansia to its rightful place as lord of the old empire. He would be restored as king of all the peoples of the Cullanain, as was his birth right.
Grunnxe’s massive army marched through the western salt plains of Solansia, trudging endlessly across vast, flat emptiness. Grunnxe observed the rider from several miles away and watched as the mirage-wrinkled form bled into clear detail. The rider was intercepted by a minor officer before he approached Grunnxe. The men spoke a moment before the officer turned and announced the arrival.
“Messenger, Your Highness.”
“Send him on,” Grunnxe growled, the hunger for more news stirring in his belly. “Let’s see who comes to bring me fortune,” he muttered under his breath.
As the messenger approached, Grunnxe recognised the man: Mulan, whom he had dispatched to pass the final plans to the traitor. Mulan’s horse was near death, panting ragged breaths as blood from its nose merged with froth around its mouth.
“You’ve ridden that beast near to death, Mulan,” Grunnxe spoke, though he cared nothing for the animal. He scratched at his whiskered chin and relaxed his pace. “Your news is urgent, yes?” Grunnxe leaned over the extravagant silver, bear-headed pommel of his saddle, leering towards Mulan, such was his eagerness to hear his news.
Mulan stopped beside the king and bowed in his saddle before kicking his heels into the dying horse’s flanks and keeping time alongside his king. “Indeed, Highness,” Mulan answered. The man’s jaundiced face was a patchwork of motley bruises and his nose had been broken of late. He cracked a weary smile. “The traitor Bergnon is ours, Highness.”
“You’re sure he has the stomach to see it through?” Grunnxe asked.
“Yes, Highness, more’an sure,” Mulan replied, his tired smile awakening into something altogether uglier. “He’s got such a hard-on for tha’ girl he’d wade through liquid fire to keep her prime.”
The messenger appeared to draw energy from the rich flavour of pain. Grunnxe decided he liked that quality in the man.
“He killed one ‘is own to keep his neck and follow through. He’ll stay the course.” Mulan sucked on his blackened teeth stumps as Grunnxe savoured his news.
“Yes, he’ll stay the course,” Grunnxe responded after a long moment tasting another victory. “He’ll stay the course or that bitch whore of his will bear me sons and then service my brave men.” He barked a laugh. “Take your leave, Mulan. Replace that horse and get a meal from a grub cart.”
“My thanks, Highness,” Mulan said as he bowed from his saddle before turning his horse and heading towards a meal cart.
A moment after the messenger had moved off, Grunnxe heard a whinny and a crash. He turned to see Mulan’s horse had succumbed and lay dead on the ground with Mulan pinned beneath its weight.
Mulan pushed weakly at the bulk of the dead horse. He coughed and blood spattered his chin. “My Lord,” he wheezed, “help.”
The old king turned to the shadowy Priestess and shrugged his shoulders. He chuckled and said, “I suppose we’re lucky he told us that much before that damned beast gave up.”
The Priestess remained silent and Grunnxe snorted indifferently before riding on.
*
Grunnxe waited until his retainers had erected his tented pavilion before speaking again to the Priestess. Ever present, she stood on the edge of Grunnxe’s vision, in the corner of the pavilion’s central chamber. Grunnxe drank deeply on the wine whilst servants brought fresh food.
“Leave me,” he growled, sending the servants scattering through all four exits of the chamber with a wave of his hand. When alone, he swallowed the remaining wine and poured some more. He rose from the cushions piled in the chamber’s centre. He paced around the pile and rubbed the back of his neck, reddened by the strong sun that blasted them as they progressed across the salt desert. “Tell me, Priestess, what do you sense of the girl? Have they captured her? Not much good with just the traitor.” He stopped and glared into the heart of the shadow under the Priestess’ hood. “I want Canna too. I need the bitch.”
The Priestess hissed a slow breath in and a rasping breath out.
Grunnxe felt uneasy; unsure of himself. Perhaps he had spoken to boldly, he thought. He shifted his weight and felt his confidence sag.
The Priestess lurched into a slow pace, walking around Grunnxe and wheezing sibilantly between words. “Yes. I sense there have been many pains within the Father of the People’s heart. The princess is within your grasp and pray to our Lord God that she be soon in your arms, for the girl is ripe for your seed and she will bear thee strong sons.” The Priestess ceased pacing in the corner of the chamber and fell silent as Grunnxe regarded more good news. “Canna will be yours.”
“Yes! Excellent,” Grunnxe said. Turning, he clutched his crotch and shook it towards the Priestess. His tongue waggled as his foul laughter filled the chamber. “Ripe, you say!” He laughed and poured himself another goblet of wine. “That is timely indeed. I’m starting to feel the old vigour in the blood as before. I think I may even enjoy some new children. The others were all such disappointments,” he barked before quaffing the wine in one go. “Yes, ripe indeed,” he repeated, his voice lowering as wine fuzzed his head. “Let’s hope she’s still full of the fight when I get my hands on her. My old prick always liked a fighter.” Grunnxe cackled as he plonked himself down onto the pillow pile.
His thoughts drifted as he rode the drunken tide. The Master God was a kind god, kinder by far than the foul god Dajda had ever been. Dajda did not share her love with Grunnxe or his people. The Free Provinces was the favourite child in that unhappy family. Now they would stare up in fear and awe of the great Master God, with his foremost servant King Grunnxe’s boot upon their throats.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Bergnon washed his wounded ear in salted water. He daubed off the ragged end, being careful to stop his trembling hands from removing too much of the sticky black blood for fear of it bleeding heavily again. He paid close attention in the mirror to make sure all the blood from his face, neck, and hair was removed. He dried the washed areas, applied a small herbal poultice to stop it turning bad, and placed a gum-backed muslin strip over the wound.
Regarding the area in the mirror, Bergnon observed he had done a remarkable job. His heart rate slowed as fear lessened. He dried his wet hair and pulled it over the injured ear, noting it was almost obscured from sight. He puffed out a breath heavy with emotion and mixed himself a tonic to ease pain and lessen stress.
Bergnon thought of his love, Natalya, and what he must do to ensure she lived. Within seconds, his resolved stiffened. Even so, Arrlun’s eyes burned in his thoughts. He cursed himself, chased away sorrow, and left the tent. His mind was straight and focussed, and his smile was ready to flash easy in an instant.
*
The noise of a horse trotting up behind caused Bergnon to shift nervously as he spoke to the assembled troops.
“Major Bergnon, sir.”
The familiar voice made Bergnon’s throat tighten and pressed his guts. He turned from where he was arranging fortifications and, with a practised coolness, smiled at the young officer. “Lieutenant Thaskil, how did you get on?”
Thaskil looked distracted, Bergnon thought. The young man’s brows were furrowed as he replied, “Fine, sir. No problems with your orders.”
Bergnon nodded in response. “How can I help you this morning?” Bergnon acted concerned, knitting his angular blonde brows and rubbing his light beard. “Tell me, where is that formal friend of yours?” You bastard, you utter swine. The boy’s blood is all over you. You stink of it.
Thaskil’s face reflected the slightest uncertainty and then relaxed
. “I was going to ask if you’d seen him, sir.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Haven’t seen him since I left.”
“I’ve not given him any different orders from this morning,” Bergnon responded. “Have you checked with the troop?”
Thaskil nodded. “Yes, sir.”
Bergnon laughed as he approached the young officer, ensuring he was out of his men’s earshot. He leaned closer to him. “Between you and I, Thaskil, I’ve had the feeling recently that our friend was perhaps feeling a little pressure. He spoke to me about being afraid some night’s back.” Lie, lie away. Lying comes easily after murdering friends.
Thaskil’s eyes flashed upwards to meet Bergnon.
“I know, I know,” Bergnon whispered. “Doesn’t seem like him. Dajda, he seems as brave as a mountain wolf, that boy.” That’s it, breathe life into the fear. Open up the wound. Bergnon shook his head and grumbled. “I don’t know. I just felt uneasy in my gut. That’s why I gave you both the night off.” Bergnon locked his gaze on Thaskil’s. “You’d tell me if he said anything to you about running off, wouldn’t you, Thaskil?” Bergnon caught the flicker of doubt and fear in the young man’s eyes.
That’s it. Plant the seed, you evil bastard. You despicable shit, you don’t deserve her. Kill yourself, fucker. Bergnon heard the words over and over in his head as he watched Thaskil ride off, except this time it was different. This time the voice belonged to Arrlun.
*
Thaskil entered the tent he shared with Arrlun and Bergnon. He looked around. Nothing appeared to have changed. He looked under Arrlun’s neatly made cot for his belongings and found what few possessions his friend had. Nothing appeared to have been moved.
Thaskil lifted a leather bag onto the cot and undid the loosely knotted thong. He spread the bag’s neck and upturned it, forcing the contents onto the bed. Spare clothes, gloves, a small notebook, an ink pot, and whetstones rested amongst various other mundane items.