As men and horses fell to the ground, shouting and moaning with pain, Birus took a quick glance of the battlefield’s left flank from the eyes of his hawk. Horses danced in the distance with fatal grace, kicking up the ground’s dust with their hooves. And in several heartbeats, all Birus could see in front of him was the mass of round shields and swords. The crossbows did their job on the right. Only a few enemy knights remained mounted, while the bulk of the front closed the gap to the turtle at spear’s length.
The clash of metal on metal began – flesh tore open and bled. From the sky, the hosts appeared as two throngs of ants wrestling for the mound, for survival... The hawk’s eyes closed, and a vision struck him. An enemy soldier, bareheaded and screaming, coming at him in a frenzy of terror and courage. It was not a queer mixture of emotions, though. In battle, all things were made possible, all the gruesome acts of murder were not only warranted... they were necessary. Embracing the maddening thrill of destruction and slaughter on the field of war was all a man could do, if he was not to accept defeat and death. His father had taught him that.
With a cold swing of his greatsword, Birus opened the rebel’s throat in a flurry of ruby sparks. The man fell, choking in his death... In that sad moment, Birus couldn’t help but feel a sentiment of shame. War was a vile thing, a wretched display of the beastly nature of the human being. Alas, the enemies were invaders; they served a usurper. And they are to be vanquished. Birus Mandon had done all he could. Everything else would be determined by each man’s valour in combat and by the favor of the gods, if they wished to intervene at all. More often than not, the gods were cruel and ignorant. Little did they care about the pains and toils of mortal men, but he hoped that the warrior god would favor their cause – for it was an honorable and righteous one. That of the enemy was not; they were led by plotters, turncloaks... Oathbreakers.
From the sky, the two throngs of ants appeared as one, fighting amongst themselves in a slow but frantic rhythm. As men fell skewered and cleaved all around him, Birus escaped once again from the hawk’s eyes, and saw Norbert Shtolm. The man was defending against a longsword and a morning star. His buckler was taking a beating, and his shield arm seemed to weaken with every blow. One hit, then a second one from the spiked mace, and Shtolm fell to the ground.
“You traitorous curs! Hold fast, Norbert!”
Birus leaped in his aid, just in time to catch the finishing blow that would have been the death of his friend. The two soldiers were taken by surprise – but their moment of idleness was short-lived. The one with the morning star responded with a wide savage arc. Birus took a step back, avoiding the dire blow; then deflected the other soldier’s blade thrust. And, with sheer spite and a swift motion from Traitor’s bane, Birus succeeded to wound the enemy’s sword arm, just under his pauldron.
The one with the morning star almost planted the spiked steel club in his face, but Norbert Shtolm got back on his feet and drove his longsword at the joints, between the foe’s ribs. Free to attack his wounded adversary without looking over his shoulder, Birus lashed out strike after strike. Steel crackled and shrieked as the odds changed in their favor. Ruining the enemy knight’s shield hand, the fifth swing of the greatsword almost cut the man in half, from shoulder to groin. Birus had to put his foot against the dead soldier’s chest, in order to draw back the blade.
What he felt in that moment was a strange sensation of warmth. They say it takes a cold heart to kill a man. ’Tis true. But the reward is warmth... a shivering warmth. Traitor’s bane was dripping red and it gave out an iron smell that filled his nostrils. By then, that was all he knew, alongside the stench of sweat and bowel.
“A fine-cut if I ever saw one, my lord. We’ll beat these traitors yet.” Amidst the bloody battle, Norbert Shtolm appeared refreshed. Perchance all he needed were a few brief moments of respite, which Birus gave him, in order to catch his breath and strengthen his resolve. In response, his liege lord grinned.
As the battled around them continued, Birus slashed on left and right, against swords, shields, armor, and flesh. The shouts and cries rose and faded with every swing of his greatsword. Every arc of carefully measured death sending foes to the sorrowful ground – mired with blood and littered with skewered and mutilated corpses. His ears were attuned only to those enemies around him, to their movements; his eyes only to their weapons and weaknesses. While those eyes from above watched with swift calmness – each circle in the air a read on stance, number, position, and outcome.
Though his arms seemed weaker and his armor heavier, Birus pressed on. Somehow, his mind was away from the battle. It was strangely bent on Rivermark, upon the fate of his subjects. Through all the crackle of steel against steel, through all the shouts, curses, and cries of pain, Birus heard only the stern meaning which spoke the words of house Mandon. The creed of my family.
Loyalty was the second of those three words. For without loyalty to men of good faith there was nothing. The third of those words was justice. Justice was reason, it was lawfulness, rightfulness. Justice meant principle and good conduct, but it also meant administering deserved punishment and deserved reward. There was no forthright judgement without knowledge, wisdom, and virtue. And all men, high and low, were entitled to it... But the first word is unity.
Birus continued his reminiscence, hacking and slashing unperturbed against the traitorous foes. Where there is only one, there is no strength. And the enemy rises. Where there are two, strength rises. And the enemy does not. Only devils fostered disunity, for all men were meant to live as brothers. Unity was the foundation and necessity of any house, of any realm. He who unites them, conquers them. Time was not the test of unity; but the character of men was.
Suddenly, a horn blew loud and clear; then other horns followed. To his ears, those sounds pierced and overshadowed everything else. Birus knew what they were, what they meant. Narak al Zull had routed the enemy’s flank. He didn’t require to see it through the eyes of his hawk, for he had seen them fight before, during the skirmishes. When the Mounted Arrows sounded their horns, they sounded deeds, not retreat.
Emboldened by the sound of the horns and by the power of his creed, his strength grew as well as his focus. With Traitor’s bane in his hands, Birus was unstoppable. Cutting swift and true, right and left, high and low – parrying each strike against him like a rock splitting the raging water’s waves. Reaping life was a savage pleasure, but a pleasure nonetheless. Step by step, with each wide arc, with each thrust and slash and spray of blood – Birus found himself among strange soldiers... soldiers he failed to recognize. He paused, and the sounds of battle seemed to fade and weaken.
The hawk flew over him. His heart was steady; and for a moment, which seemed so long, his lungs had yet to draw breath. Birus shifted the weight of his bulk to the right, and spun on his heel – the burden of his armor seemed so heavy with that motion… And the enemy greatsword fell within an inch of his helmet.
But he had no time to count himself fortunate. Birus let out a roar of hatred, as he pushed back the foe – sensing renewed power in his limbs. The enemy’s blade locked itself in the lower guard of Traitor’s bane. And, with his other sight, he became aware of another foe coming from behind, bareheaded and filled with bloodlust.
The hawk descended in aid of its master, and bloodied the man’s face with its talons. Felling the wretched opponent, the bird’s sharp eyes revealed another threat. Birus saw it as well – and turned to one side, leaning away from the attack. The enemy’s weapon thrust went straight through the other one’s belly. The spear cracked open the breastplate, leaving scarlet blood flowing from the wound.
Birus wasted no time in preparing his swing. The enemy’s face turned chalk-white, aware of his imminent demise. Grunting with satisfaction, Birus severed the man’s head from his shoulders – the force of the blow shattering gorget and mail rings. With that motion, the redness of Traitor’s bane was livened anew.
“Smoke!” Voices yelled out from within his ranks. �
��Smoke! Smoke!” To the north, the grey sky seemed darker. Two thick tongues of black haze and a third slim one were raising themselves high; and Birus screamed. His scream was a cry of uncomprehending rage at the sight of an absurd reality. Rivermark was aflame…
Chapter XXII: Kalafar
He felt his heart beating in his ears, and his nose overwhelmed by a myriad of smells… cold smells, animal smells, forest smells, and the smell of man – smoke. He moved unevenly, on two legs, on four, on two again; sniffing the air above the ground, measuring every step, weighing every sound. He kept close to the trees, to the snow-covered bark and moss – listening to the faint rustle of the leaves above him. The smell tightened as the wind blew it in his way. He felt strong breathing in the scent.
Every autumn in the north was like winter, but this time it was not so. The cold was yielding… abated as if by a higher power – a calling or a curse. The iron smell of blood he could trace in every scent. Blood long ago spent, the stench of which still clinging to an empty hope… filled with desires, memories, and dreams.
He was not alone; there were others… others like him. But they were not his pack, not in truth. They were wary about his spirit – envious of his strength, of his great thick fur, of his sharp teeth and claws. The wind began to whisper words, strange words that echoed without meaning. And as he moved, so did they; following his lead, ears raised sharp – attuned to the calling.
When the thick darkness of the forest lit up in a grey, he looked and saw the lands of men. The rising tongues of smoke above the houses. The villages, the crops, the roads, the fires, the children, the beasts of burden and their masters, the large wooden boxes on wheels – all under a sky heavy with clouds, and a pale disc hiding behind the mountains. His belly growled, and the others became uneasy – snarling at each other, baring their fangs and drool. He stood on two feet, towering above them and howled, howled long and free… He howled again and again, howled till the others echoed the songs of wolf’s tongue; a tongue far older than that of man.
When he awoke from the dream, Kalafar got out of bed and opened a window. He saw that it was true. The air wasn’t so cold, and the sun was rising above the mountains, goldening the frozen tips of the Alpians. The sky was clear though… It must have been an omen, he thought. But of what? What ghost did I see through? What beast did I embody? What heart did I feel beating inside my ears?
Later that day, the ram found himself growing restless and bored at the same time. A message from Holton Brax had arrived, saying that the small host of greenhorns had failed to find his brother. All that the bloodhounds had uncovered was Arfaij’s attire, torn and sullied red, but not his corpse. And if somehow he got lost, and attacked by a pack of hungry and bold wolves – surely bones would have turned up by now. Yet deep down inside, Kalafar had given up on that chance. And he found himself contemplating the notion with an unburdened soul, without any shred of sadness.
Without food, wounded, and alone against the hungry wild things that lurk inside the Black Forest... Gods forgive the early content inside my heart, but I feel no true sorrow.
The warden of the Winterlands had no appetite for food or drink. Instead, he stood brooding in his solar, picking the ruby seeds from a blood apple he had sliced in half. The fruit’s sweet-sour flavor reflected the mood of his mind. He thought of everything and nothing. As soon as he considered a particular notion, he shrugged it off as nothing more than a chasing after wind…
The world below the Northlands is thick and foul with intrigues and turncloaks. And somehow, I fear that pestilence has reached us here as well. That notion troubled him. Political intrigues made any man prone to stress. And Kalafar was not the only one feeling thus. Even his lady mother’s usual cold mood had turned to anguish. These days he rarely saw her outside of her chambers, and the plates of food, which left her doors, were more full than empty.
After he finished half of the blood apple, Kalafar sent for his steward, lord Alghernon. He instructed the man to send scouts into the south to gather news about the usurper’s war. “And I want to hear about Redgarden, as well.” For Juni’s sake, I hope the Mayflowers are safe within their fasthold. “Also send word to Quintus More. Tell him that most likely my brother is dead. Think of some soothing words for him and his daughter, lady Catherine. Tell him that in spite of it all, our house will remain his faithful ally.”
“What a caring soul you are, nephew.”
Kalafar tried to conceal a smile, but said nothing.
Alghernon Sodomis stiffly inclined his head, turned on his heel and left the chamber. His lord uncle afforded himself only so many words in mockery. Despite their blood bond, the inheritance laws in the Northlands were not those of seniority, but those of primogeniture. And being a eunuch, no treacherous ambition would serve the man. He held the office of steward and the lordship over Corhag’s Fasthold. And he will die with no more a title attached to his name.
Once again, the ram was left brewing alone in his solar, with only the other half of the blood apple for food, drink, and company. Sweet-sour company, at least. Then the ram thought of his beloved. Juni was still adjusting to the northern weather and to her new chambers at the castle. A few days ago she had caught a cold, and the physician had confined her to bed in order to rest and keep warm. Though all physicians recommended bleeding and leeching for nearly every illness, Kalafar wouldn’t hear of it. His lord father would always say that in the absence of outright poison, there was no need to bleed someone in hopes of besting disease.
“I’ve seen good soldiers, strong fighters die from a mere loss of blood.” He remembered his father saying, when one of the washerwomen had contracted a fever. “A frail woman, who’s not drinking nor eating, will surely die from a bleeding. And despite what the physicians will have us believe, leeches don’t fight disease at all.”
Kalafar wasn’t afraid of sickness, though. He had seldom been sick in his childhood, and his life had been nowhere near threatened by any of those past illnesses. But his chief physician had advised against seeing her, or indeed, lying with the lady while she was sick. The past days had been unpleasant to say the least. His loins yearned to know her, as a man would properly know a woman.
After he finished the last seed of the blood apple half, his fingers were left sticky from the fruit’s juice. He took a piece of cloth and soaked it inside a bowl of water, and used it to wipe his hands and fingers. Kalafar resumed his silent musings, until sleep took him.
The ram awoke in the evening with his belly growling for a warm meal, and his throat in need of a hot drink. The servants had not allowed their master’s solar to grow dark. The candles about the room and the crackling wood in the fireplace offered enough light. Diligence and silence, thought Kalafar. The greatest attributes of a servant; those and loyalty, of course. Now, time for supper.
His lady mother asked if she could join him at the table, and he nodded. They were both served cooked trout in garlic sauce, brown bread, and hot spiced wine. During the meal, Kalafar looked at his mother with an eye’s tail, and he saw that she did the same. She’s never going to speak her mind unless I ask her to. “Mother,” he said in a low voice, “have you heard the news from Herron’s Keep… about Arfaij?”
“Yes,” she said with obvious discomfort. “They haven’t found your brother, only his shredded clothes.” She shook her head. “I pray to the gods that if he died… I hope the Three spared him of any pain, of any… suffering.”
Kalafar was grateful that his mother had abstained from scolding him. His lack of concern toward his brother’s strange long absence had been fairly obvious. Kalafar still practiced his sword fighting out in the yard, his marksmanship, and his late night readings. And his face bore no sentiment of sadness. His lady mother, Olivia, did not speak afterwards; and he did not encourage her to do so.
Both of them finished the supper in silence.
Afterwards, Kalafar decided to visit Juni’s chambers, to see if she was feeling better. But then, he remembe
red the garlic sauce; so he took a leaf of mint and chewed on it for a while in order to freshen his breath. Then he reached the lady’s chambers and entered without knocking. The door gave out a minor creak, but no voice was heard. The only light in the room was coming from the fireplace; and he saw her in bed, asleep, covered up to her neck in a thick blanket.
She’s sleeping so gently, one would never know she was feeling ill. The ram took off his boots and got out of his cloak, letting it drop to the cold floor. He left on only his tunic and breeches. He crawled into bed next to her, and planted a kiss on Juni’s brow. Her fever’s gone, it seems.
Juni awoke with tired eyes, and she smiled at him. “What are you doing here, Kal? The physician told you that – ”
“Don’t mind him. I came to see how you were feeling.”
“I’m better than I was a few days ago and better now that you are here.” She wrapped her arms around him and kissed him on the lips. “Huh, no tongue,” she said giggling.
“Oh. And why not, sweet thing?”
“I don’t want my lord to catch my illness.”
“What illness? It was a minor cold. You’re just not used to the weather up here. But nonetheless, don’t think that such a trifling thing can keep me away from you, my lady.” He kissed her again, and this time her mouth opened. After a moment or two, she interrupted him from going further with his affection, and asked about Arfaij.
“Is there any word of your brother and the men he was with?”
Kalafar turned on his back, and moved a hand across his head in a gesture of discomfort. “Yes... I’ve received word from Herron’s Keep. It seems that wolves attacked his hunting party. But they didn’t find my brother’s corpse, only the rags of his clothes. And someone else is missing as well. Arfaij had sir Peter Steinward along with him, and they were both riding coursers. The search party failed to find the knight and the two mounts. But I sent word for the small regiment to be disbanded. The men need to return to their homes, to help with the harvest.”
An Empire Of Traitors (Of Hate And Laughter Book 1) Page 26