by R. S. Ford
He was a solemn and brooding warrior, but then he had a solemn duty. Defeating the enemies of the Blood Regent Seferius was a task only the most dedicated could accomplish. And it was only through war that such a deed could be achieved.
Though Kaleb had been forged within the walls of Kragenskûl, he was to be tempered on the field of battle.
Of all the cults of Ramadi he could have faced, the Hand of Zepheroth was the most ferocious and the most hated. Gortanis, their vast hive of a city, lurked a hundred leagues across the desert and after ten years of uneasy truce they had decided to break with the treaties and encroach upon the territories and hunting ground of the Qeltine Brotherhood. Such an insult would not stand, and the Blood Lord had sent his armies to strike back with ruthless efficacy.
For Kaleb Ap’Kharn it would be a deadly trial. During it he would ascend or die; the only choice for a Sword Saint.
With eagerness, he went to war.
The Ramadi Wastes, 103 years after the Fall
THE armoured wagon trundled eastwards along the desert road. Within it, the air was stifling, and Kaleb felt the sweat trickling down his neck, his tunic sticking to his back.
Avenor Ap’Wroch sat opposite. He didn’t seem to feel the heat, despite being clad in his black leather warjack. His blade lay across his knees, his hand lightly brushing the sheath as though he were lulling it to sleep.
Kaleb held the grip of his own blade, standing as it was between his legs. He could barely wait to unsheathe it. Avenor glanced across as though sensing his eagerness.
‘There will be time aplenty for that,’ he said, his deep voice resonating within the wagon.
‘I’m sure,’ said Kaleb. ‘I only hope the Hand know what they are about to unleash.’
Avenor laughed. ‘Your confidence serves you well,’ he said. ‘But never underestimate the enemy. Nor underestimate the need for tactics and diplomacy. Swordplay will save your life in a fight. Negotiation and planning will remove any need for it.’
‘We have come far,’ said Kaleb, feeling the stifling interior of the wagon more keenly than ever. ‘Surely we haven’t spent so long travelling in this oven to just negotiate.’
‘So eager to whet your blade. I remember when I was like you. I doubt it’s what you’re expecting.’
‘I am ready,’ said Kaleb.
‘Of course you are,’ replied Avenor, closing his eyes, a wry smile on his face.
The veteran’s words stung, but Kaleb said nothing. He wasn’t so confident that he would disregard such a man. Avenor had fought a dozen campaigns – it would be foolish of Kaleb to dismiss him.
Eventually, the wagon rumbled to a halt. The doors swung wide at the rear, the heat just as oppressive outside. Kaleb stepped out onto the stony ground, squinting against bright light. They were greeted by a single rank of Bloodguard, red armour dusty from the desert, spears held aloft in salute.
Avenor stepped down beside him, almost a head taller, looking as though he were dressed for some kind of parade rather than having just been encased in a sweaty box for the past fifty leagues.
Below them a slope ran down onto a shallow flat plain. The battle camp of the Brotherhood was a sprawling mass of tents, pennants flying the black skull on red everywhere they looked. Immediately Kaleb heard laughing as the warriors of the Bloodguard rested between battles.
Strung up about the perimeter were around a hundred bodies, their sickly sweet smell wafting across the camp. They might have presented a stern message, but leaving corpses to rot would only lead to disease.
Kaleb and Avenor were approached by one of the Bloodguard, his helmet in the crook of his arm, sword by his side. His jaw was square, hair dark and closely shorn.
‘Avenor Ap’Wroch,’ he said, dropping to one knee and bowing his head. He stood, ignoring Kaleb. ‘I am Adjutant Kreese. I have been sent to bring you before General Xanti.’
‘Lead on, Adjutant,’ Avenor replied.
Kreese walked them down to the camp. Kaleb could see a flat plain stretching beyond it, the detritus of war scattered across its wide expanse. Dead men and horses rotted in the sun, and the ripped and burned pennants of both the Brotherhood and the Hand fluttered in what little breeze there was.
They saw the command tent in the centre of the camp and its guards bowed in reverence as Avenor and Kaleb were led inside. Kreese stood to one side as they entered and Kaleb could see someone reclining in the corner, a damp cloth over his face. Kreese noisily cleared his throat and the man sat up. Kaleb could see he was old, grey hair rising into peaks at his forehead, his face scarred and careworn.
‘General Xanti,’ Avenor said, regarding the man sternly.
The general stood, a little flustered, before regaining some of his composure.
‘Avenor,’ said the general.
They regarded one another for a moment, before Xanti smiled and stepped forward. The old veterans clasped arms.
‘It’s been years,’ said Avenor.
‘Too long, old friend,’ Xanti replied, clapping Avenor on the shoulder.
Kaleb glanced at Kreese, who seemed as uncomfortable with the overly familiar exchange as he was.
‘This is Kaleb Ap’Kharn. My brother.’ Avenor gestured to where Kaleb stood.
Xanti bowed. ‘An honour, my lord,’ he said, before turning his attention back to Avenor. ‘I wasn’t expecting you for days.’
‘The hierarch thought it best I come with all haste.’
Xanti’s smile quivered at the edge of his mouth.
‘I agree, things haven’t been progressing as we’d hoped. We are sorely outnumbered. I need more men. But you’re here now, Avenor; the tide is about to turn, I’m sure.’
Avenor’s smile had faded now. ‘Sorely outnumbered? When has the Blood Regent ever accepted that as an excuse, General?’
Xanti frowned. ‘Avenor, come now. When does the Blood Regent ever accept anything other than the total annihilation of our enemies? You know as well as I that his expectations can never be met. Remember Black Tarn Pass? Remember how we were expected to hold it for three weeks.’
‘I remember we did hold it, General.’
Xanti shook his head. ‘And what did it cost us? You are experienced enough to know we cannot sustain such losses. Our wars have gone on long enough.’
‘So you and the Hand are just sitting here, waiting…’
‘We have agreed on a truce. Until—’
‘Until what?’ Kaleb could sense the menace in Avenor’s voice. ‘Until one side becomes bored and returns to their homeland?’
‘There will be victory—’
‘Yes there will, General. That is why I am here.’
Whatever these two had shared in the past, whatever loyalty or friendship they bore one another, seemed to be gone now.
‘I can assure you, there is no need for—’
‘Discipline has been allowed to slip. Your men live in squalor. They have grown slovenly. You have bodies strung up rotting in the sun. How long before disease spreads? If left up to you, there would be no Bloodguard left to fight. Then what? The Hand of Zepheroth stroll over the plain to piss on the bodies?’
‘I have done all I can,’ said Xanti, panic rising in his voice. ‘Those corpses send a message. This war is—’
‘One we must win,’ said Avenor. ‘Our light cannot be seen to fade. The glory of the Brotherhood must be preserved. But it seems you are no longer up to the task, General.’
‘Avenor, please…’
‘Adjutant, have the General clapped in irons.’
‘Avenor, we are friends. We have fought together, shoulder to shoulder. We trained together…’
Xanti’s words were worthless. His fate was sealed.
Kreese returned with three Bloodguard. Xanti was silent as his hands were manacled and he was led from the tent, leaving the two Sword Saints behind. Avenor stood for some moments in silence.
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ he said finally. ‘One moment I speak of diplomac
y and tactics. The next I clap an old friend in irons.’
‘I’m thinking nothing,’ Kaleb lied.
‘The truth of it is I wasn’t sent here to help. I wasn’t sent to add my blade to this army. I was sent here to lead this army.’
Killing its general seemed an odd start, but Kaleb would never have dared say it. Avenor was a veteran of the Brotherhood and Kaleb kept a respectful silence.
Later, as the sun fell, bathing the broken battlefield in an ominous red light, they strung General Xanti up. The rest of the corpses had been pulled down and burned, the stench of the fires almost as bad as their rotting bodies.
Twenty men had been chosen at random and were being mercilessly flogged as Xanti was hoisted aloft. Avenor had decided to make an example of more than just their general. No longer were the men slovenly. Each had cleaned his armour and weapons. Each stood with rigid discipline.
For his part, Xanti made no sound as they stretched him out for all to see. It was his one final attempt at dignity. Kaleb admired him for that.
Avenor strode in front of them, silhouetted by the fires.
‘Warriors,’ he called, as the flogging went on. ‘Brothers. Tomorrow we cross the field. Tomorrow we take the fight to the enemy. None of you will fail the Blood Regent. You will make the Brotherhood proud. I will show you the way.’
Kaleb watched from the sideline, admiring the respect Avenor commanded.
‘General Kreese,’ Avenor spoke to the former adjutant. ‘See the men are fed and rested. Tomorrow will be the hardest day of their lives.’
‘Yes, my lord,’ Kreese replied, and the men fell out.
Kaleb came to stand beside Avenor as he glared out over the plain.
‘What do you think of my methods, Kaleb?’ he asked.
‘I am learning much, brother,’ Kaleb replied.
Avenor nodded grimly. ‘I hope so. For tomorrow it won’t just be me the men will look to for an example.’
‘I am ready.’ Kaleb meant the words, despite the trepidation within.
Avenor glanced at him, but Kaleb couldn’t make out his expression in the shadows.
‘Of course you are,’ he said, before stepping away.
Over the plain, the ambient light from the camp of the Hand was glowing in the desert sky.
He was ready.
35
Word of him spread quickly. Kaleb Ap’Kharn became a name to fear for the Hand of Zepheroth. That had always been his intention: to write his reputation in blood across the sands of the Ramadi Wastes. To become a legend.
It was not an easy road. The battle across the plain had spread, and quickly. The Bloodguard were slaughtered by the score, but for every one of them to die Kaleb had made the Hand pay threefold. His sword was anointed with the blood of a hundred enemies before he lost count of his tally, and he wore his scars with pride.
In response, the Hand of Zepheroth escalated the war, attacking on several fronts, enlisting their entire army to destroy the Qeltine Brotherhood. And for every phalanx they brought forth, the Brotherhood matched it with one of their own. The Blood Regent would not be outdone, and his lust for slaughter and sacrifice only blossomed in the face of the Hand’s defiance.
Kaleb revelled in the slaughter. His enemies no longer bore faces – they were only meat to be cut down for the glory of the Qeltine.
Avenor rose to become supreme commander of the Brotherhood’s armies and had little time to guide Kaleb in the subtle ways of warfare. As a result, Kaleb was taught by the blade in his hand, schooled on the battlefield in the merciless art of slaughter. He was feared and admired in equal measure.
But as the weeks turned to months and the war seemed to stretch out ahead of them, other cults came to see the advantage the Brotherhood and the Hand had gifted them. With their warriors depleted, the two cults, whose former power was unrivalled, had become weak.
The Lords of Byzantus added their own warriors to the slaughter. From the east came the Daughters of Mandrithar, bringing their screaming, frenzied warriors to lay waste to what remained.
Badab Endyr had entered the fray heralded by chariots of bone and skull-helmed berserkers. He was High Lord of the Legion of Wraak, a fierce warrior of the northern wastelands. He also threatened Avenor’s crusade, having slaughtered a thousand Bloodguard at the Bridge of Souls. There was nothing to stop him rolling across the wastes on his chariot and levelling Avenor’s entire force. Unless he was killed before that could happen.
Avenor knew that soon there would be no army left to lead, and so he had to act. One deft strike in the night to cut the head from the beast. And what better weapon to slay the enemy than one tempered in blood.
The Ramadi Wastes, 104 years after the Fall
THE Legion of Wraak were notorious for their lack of discipline. If their High Lord was slain the entire cult would be in disarray, fighting within its own ranks until a new chieftain could be crowned on a throne made from the skulls of his enemies.
Word had reached Avenor that the Legion was encamped at the base of Kyba Tarn. Scouts had reported that Badab Endyr was housed in one of the ancient watchtowers beside the Cestus River. One swift strike and Kaleb could end the Legion’s involvement in this conflict, allowing Avenor to concentrate on the Hand.
Tonight Badab Endyr would die.
Kaleb crouched in the dark across the river. Beside him were four of the Bloodguard’s best, elite amongst the Brotherhood. Under different circumstances they would have made Sword Saints, but for one reason or another they had not been deemed suitable. Now was a chance to prove their worth.
Fierdun crawled forward as they made their way to the riverbank. He seemed the most eager to prove himself. Kaleb remembered back to his first battle against the Hand of Zepheroth. He remembered his own eagerness and how it had fuelled him; and how it had also made him complacent. Kaleb still bore the scar on his back to prove it.
He tugged at the tunic bound tightly about Fierdun’s torso. The warrior looked back, nodding at the Sword Saint’s unspoken order. Silently, Kaleb, Fierdun and the others – Haleg, Vardick and Netan – crawled to the edge of the riverbank.
The river ran past sluggishly, the smell rising, pungent and ripe. Nevertheless, Kaleb led them into the water, holding his weapon aloft as they waded across.
He scanned the far bank as they approached, but there didn’t seem to be anyone on guard – for who would be mad enough to brave a camp of fanatics in the dead of night? Surely that would mean only death?
The five warriors crawled up the bank at the other side, feeling the chill of the desert night on their wet bodies. Kaleb listened in the dark, watching the side of the tower for any sign they had been spotted. Nothing.
And then Kaleb was up and running, his four warriors at his heels. They stepped into the shadow of the wall, leaning against the tower, listening as the sound of revelry and combat rose from the enemy encampment. There were screams, loud and shrill, as well as laughter, but whatever foul rites were being enacted was none of Kaleb’s concern. Eagerly he began to climb the tower.
A window on the first floor revealed only darkness. Kaleb slipped in, crouching in the dark as his eyes adjusted to the gloom. There was no sound but that of his men following him inside.
Kaleb moved to the edge of the room. The corridor that ran parallel was silent. He paused, straining his ears, trying to catch any kind of sound. There was nothing.
He moved into the corridor. At one end was a door, light lancing out from beneath it. Badab Endyr had to be here somewhere. If it was not him in the room then at least it would be someone who knew where he was hiding.
The four Bloodguard stuck close to Kaleb as he approached the door. When he reached it he stopped and listened again, but there was no sound. He had a brief feeling of unease, that this seemed too easy, before he dismissed it and opened the door.
Candles were lit and mounted on an iron chandelier, illuminating the room. Skulls were piled in every corner and the place stank of raw meat. A door s
tood at the other side, and Kaleb could suddenly hear a constant knocking from beyond it.
Gripping his blade he crossed the room, his four fighters close behind.
Before he could reach the door, the skulls erupted.
From within the piles of bone that surrounded them, Legion berserkers burst forth, screaming in rage as they raised their axes. Vardick was cut down before he could even move, a plume of blood spurting as an axe cut him shoulder to sternum.
Kaleb had no time to wonder how the Legion had managed to set an ambush for them or who was responsible for the betrayal. He ducked an axe, before cutting down two enemies in quick succession, turning in time to see Haleg take the head of one berserker before his own was lopped from his shoulders.
More berserkers flooded into the room, and Kaleb realised flight was the only option. To stand and fight would be to die.
The way to the door ahead was clear, and as Fierdun and Netan fought furiously behind him, Kaleb darted forward, kicking it open. More light from beyond, dim and red.
‘This way,’ he barked as he ducked into the room.
He could still hear the knock, knock, knocking as he entered, but had no time to work out its source. He turned briefly, seeing Fierdun and Netan enter, before the look of shock on Netan’s face made him turn back.
From the shadows came a giant, bedecked in armour of black bone, his greataxe held aloft and ready to strike.
Kaleb span, dodging the scything blow but Fierdun was not so lucky. The axe came down, splitting his skull and hacking him in two to the waist.
Kaleb struck at the giant, his sword striking the warrior’s midriff and shattering his bone armour, but the giant grasped his blade before he had time to pull it free.
The huge warrior stood to full height, eyes staring down with amusement as he pulled the blade free of his body and flung it into the corner of the room.
Kaleb took a step back, barely registering Netan’s plight as he was cut down by the clamouring berserkers, their axes hacking at him until the warrior was nothing more than bloody meat.