The Seven

by Robert J Power

  “Spread out, Hounds!” Heygar shouted, and each of his warriors leapt to action.

  At the top of the path, Silvious’s attackers came into view. Heygar strained his eyes as twenty brutes charged towards them in a cluster of menace and frenzy. They carried swords, shields, maces, daggers and flails. All were perfectly suited to the instilling of fear and dread upon victims. The ambushers roared loudly as they sprinted.

  Heygar took a few breaths to calm his beating heart and lowered the guard on his helm. Less vision, but he had to keep himself pretty, did he not? The steel in his longsword was always reassuring, and as he pulled it free of his scabbard, a cold thought ran through his mind. Someday, he would pull this blade and never sheath it again. It wasn’t the first time he had such a thought. It was likelier he would one day sheath his blade and never draw it again. He did not know which notion he preferred, for in battle, he felt alive. They all did. That was why they chose this life.

  At his feet, Eralorien and Iaculous tended to Silvious. The apprentice placed his glowing hands over the thin break in the rodenerack’s armour.

  “Pull it out,” squealed Silvious, trying to reach back at the offending arrow.

  “The barbed tip hasn’t come through the rat’s shoulder,” Eralorien said, instructing the apprentice.

  “Don’t call him that,” cried Arielle. Her face was flush with rage that someone had hurt her pet. Her friend.

  Iaculous bent over the wound and pushed the arrow through Silvious’s shoulder. There was a scream and a quick snap as the thin wooden body split in two and the offending arrow pieces pulled free. Iaculous allowed more of the source energy to flow into the wound, which sealed swiftly.

  “Just heal him enough to get him back into the fight,” Eralorien hissed and pulled the apprentice from his patient. The wound had become a delicate, pale membrane forming over the hole, and Silvious’s moans fell silent. The panic was already leaving his face, and Heygar saw the spark of war returning to the rodenerack’s eyes.

  The assassins spread out along the path. Each of them wore similar chain mail armour with red sashes along their arms. As he assumed, they were just another mercenary group. Money was money, and death was good business.

  He gestured to Arielle and Iaculous. They took out their bows and dashed for cover on the far side of the path, taking cover in the tree line. Eralorien moved to the other side and hid himself behind an old oak tree, taking out a bow of his own. He was a weaver of healing and illusion, but in the Hounds, he dug into the mud just like everyone else. With enough gold, one could afford the grandest soaps to wash it all away.

  “You did well, Silvious,” said Heygar. The rodenerack grinned and pulled his bow from his horse’s saddlebag. “How far have they tracked you?”

  “I picked up their scent a few miles in. When I got a closer look, they pinned me with an arrow. I would have been back sooner, but I couldn’t shake them.”

  Heygar patted him roughly on the head. “Let’s make these thurken brats pay for drawing Hound blood.” Silvious bared his teeth and scampered off to join Eralorien in the tree line.

  “Are these fools going to attack us like this?” Denan hissed, donning his own helmet casually. He held his Venistrian sword out before him. Most blades were silver or bronze, but some blades forged from that region were a deep, unsettling green. Heygar had always had an eye on that weapon, but Denan insisted he would never sell a family heirloom. Maybe when they earned their own blood money, he might find a Venistrian blacksmith willing to cook him up a similar sword.

  “I think it’s the Crimson Company,” said Cherrie, stepping up beside Heygar. She had tied her wild red hair up into an unflattering bun and secured an iron facemask. He’d begged her many times to wear a helmet, but this was the most she’d ever do to protect herself, and she’d never given the reason. Perhaps she liked them knowing just who vanquished them. As if any fool couldn’t recognise the way she moved in battle.

  “High numbers, low in tactics.” Denan spat his disgust into the dirt. He had a point. It was easy to send twenty soldiers after seven and assume that numbers would overcome.

  “Now!” Four projectiles took flight from either side through the trees, directly into the first line of attackers.

  “Like children led to an idiot’s slaughter,” Cherrie said and secured her leather chest plate. She stretched her arms out casually as though watching four young mercenaries die thirty feet from her was no great thing.

  Denan tapped his sword against his forehead absently. “I’m trying to remember their leader’s name.” Four bodies stumbled and crashed to the ground, limp appendages tripping a few more as they did. Horrific screams erupted from the cluster, but still, they charged down the Hounds, never once assuming this battle was about to turn swiftly before it had even begun.

  “I may be wrong, but I think Lorgan is their leader’s name,” Heygar said. Denan shrugged.

  Another volley of projectiles took flight from each side, and three more attackers fell to the ground. Heygar thought back to the brash young cur by the name of Lorgan he had met over a few ales in a tavern a few months previous. It was somewhere up north, but he couldn’t be certain. There were so many. The event had been nothing spectacular, just a few civil words among comrades of the money under the guise of a peaceful banner. He remembered the lad was half his age and twice as arrogant. He had only begun to accept death contracts, and that sudden rise in power usually brought out the worst in any man or woman. A few months later and a few more contracts filled, and the fool believed he had garnered enough experience to form a mercenary crew wild enough to attack the Hounds.

  “This is unsettling,” Cherrie said.

  Both mercenaries nodded in agreement at the pitiful attempt on their life. What type of ambush involved charging straight into oncoming fire? Heygar looked beyond the dozen attackers still running to a lone warrior sitting atop a war steed at the top of the path, away from danger.

  What type of man concocted a thoughtless plan as this? The same man who left his soldiers to die while he sat back, taking stock, he thought bitterly. Another volley, but only one more fell. It was Arielle’s kill. She rarely missed. The brutes finally cleared the line of archers, and Heygar stepped forward to meet their attack. Cherrie stepped with him. She crouched low and poised like a bird of prey. She was built for war, blood, and delicious death. She was perfect for him.

  “Kill them all!” cried Heygar fiercely and charged into the crowd. He swung and nothing could hold his strike. With a swiftness that belied his great size, he tore into the attackers and felled all who stood before him. Through chain mail, through skin, through organ. Blood sprayed over his armour, ruined its polished finish, and marred the exquisite image of the hound across his chest plate. However, things like this couldn’t be helped when fighting for one’s wealth.

  Heygar felt the blows from his assailants as they collectively struck back, but his armour was far stronger than any sword could ever be. It would take a sturdy battle-axe and a sturdier wielder to cause worry. He ignored the young screams ringing in his ears as he took their misled lives into the source beyond. He tried not to think of these young men signing up to a fool's gambit, hoping to make a life for themselves. A catchy title like the Crimson Company must have seemed like quite the idea. Little did they know, the Crimson Company would likely be disbanded by day’s end.

  “Fall to my vengeance!” Heygar roared—for that was the thing living legends infused their legacy with. It instilled confidence in those he fought with. He also liked to scream out in triumph when winning the day. He had a very impressive roar.

  Cherrie was equally mesmerising to watch in battle. She never forced the attack, instead relying on her reflexes to earn her victory. Every time a strike came near her, she slipped from the terrifying blow easily as though she dared the aggressor to end her life. She leapt between two attackers, ducked, and dodged under each failing strike before countering swiftly and drawing blood. He imagined the
smile on her luscious lips as she leapt away from danger. She took his breath away.

  Within a few moments, all who charged Heygar were brutally felled. What remained at his feet was a handful of broken mercenaries fit only for carrion birds. He caught sight of Cherrie spinning under one last strike and sweeping up behind her attacker. With blood-soaked hands, she took hold of the young man and held her blade to his throat.

  “Lay down your blade,” she hissed to the second attacker, who hesitated at the potential for mercy. That was all she needed. Quick as an eye, she slid the blade across her prisoner's throat. Through the spray of blood, she leapt forward and sent her sword through the second man’s heart. The easiest kills of the day.

  On the other side, Denan cursed loudly and struck down the last attacker. “Why didn’t you use your heads?” he screamed to the dying man at his feet. He plunged the sword through the man’s face and fell to his knee, leaving the blade standing upright. Heygar heard the low mutter of Venistrian prayer and left him to receive the one remaining Crimson soldier up the road.

  “You failed them all. Come redeem yourself,” Heygar called out, but the figure remained motionless atop the steed. Frozen in panic at the thought of his diminished guild of idiots, Heygar almost felt bad for the thurken cur. Almost. “Coward.”

  The rest of his Hounds emerged from the trees to loot the dead, leaving both leaders to settle up. Arielle joined Denan in prayer, but after a few verses, he knew she would scavenge too.

  “Just you and me,” Heygar said, raising his blade in challenge.

  “I have hardly any chance against you, Heygar,” Lorgan countered from atop his horse.

  “Better that than a dishonourable death.”

  “I fancy a dishonourable life.”

  “Strike me down and live,” Heygar said, playing and enjoying the part of the honourable warrior, gifting a broken man one last chance at redemption. Such things added to his mystique. The bards would soon be singing tales of the Crimson Company’s last march. A fitting end would be a fight to the death. He would hold the man’s head as he died and whisper reassurances as he passed into the source’s night.

  “And if I do, none of your Hounds will bite?”

  “You have my word,” Heygar said and waved his blade.

  Lorgan drew his loaded crossbow swiftly and shot the legend in the head.

  7

  Water Lily

  Thunk! It was a fine sound. Heavy, metallic, and reassuring.

  Heygar fell to a knee as the bolt rebounded and embedded itself in a nearby patch of flowers. He shook the dizziness from his senses, and something else replaced the arrogant triumph he had felt. Something cruel, fierce, and volatile.

  Lorgan turned his steed and charged away. In his panic, he dropped the crossbow and Heygar grinned. That mistake would cost him.

  “No, you don’t,” he hissed, climbing to his unsteady feet.

  The short battle had taken a toll with such heavy armour. Still, it had earned its value. Who knew how well a lighter helm might have fared?

  “My horse,” he called as his quarry reached the top of the path and disappeared around the corner in a haze of cowardly dust. It felt as though an ethereal force had taken hold and infused him with a terrible fury. How dare this thurk impede his task?

  With a heave that spent the last of his energy, Silvious assisted him into the saddle.

  “Leave it be,” said Cherrie from somewhere behind, but Heygar paid the woman little heed. A legend could not allow an animal like Lorgan to live after such a treacherous act. A legend would chase down the fool and bleed him until he was dry.

  His horse, free of the rodenerack’s hold and the smell of death, charged onwards willingly. Heygar gripped tightly with aching hands and roared aloud, for there was one more death to come that day. He loved a fine skirmish, but the hunt was where he truly came alive.

  They broke from the clearing, and soon enough, he caught sight of the cur. Lorgan’s ineptitude as a general was not his only failing. He struggled with his horse, and Heygar grinned under his helm. This hunt would be short. He gave frantic chase through dark woods until they broke into a burst of sunshine as the forest path opened to a clearing. Heygar came up behind his prey, close enough to strike, but like the snake he was, Lorgan pulled his horse sharply wide. He broke across the waist-high grass back into a wilder, pathless charge. Heygar’s turn was slower, and his quarry earned a few more breaths of freedom before both men raced back through the wooded tree line.

  Ducking and dodging between trunks and thick shrubbery slowed the pace, and Heygar cursed loudly between each breath. The chase continued up a hill, and he felt sweat pour down his forehead. Perhaps he really was getting too old for this. A few years before, he would have recovered from the fight and chased down the last man standing without enduring exhaustion like this. Maybe this was a young man’s game.

  Lorgan roared, pleaded, and cursed his beast forward. Heygar took pleasure in his frantic, desperate yelling. The assassin willed the beast beyond its limit and paid dearly for it. As they reached the top of the incline, the exhausted animal dropped its sprint altogether. Heygar wondered if it would rear and kick Lorgan from his saddle for good measure. Heygar eased the charge and came alongside the beaten man at the top of the hill.

  “It’s over. Let us end this as warriors!” he shouted, offering Lorgan one last chance at honour. The festering anger simmered within him again.

  Lorgan reached for his blade, and Heygar met the strike with his own longsword.

  “You dare attack my pack?”

  It was foolish thugs like Lorgan who gave the mercenary profession a bad name and caused the senseless deaths of impressionable young warriors. Their only sins had been desires of fame, prestige, and exquisite things. Or maybe just full bellies.

  Lorgan slashed again, and Heygar allowed the strike to clash his helm and rebound away harmlessly against the thick steel. Unlike the arrow before, he was prepared for the strike, and Lorgan could only drop his assault and look around pitifully. There was nowhere left to run but for a slope, a drop, and a river far below.

  Without the rush of wind or the clash of metal piercing the day, Heygar enjoyed the silence falling around them. The world recognised silence when death was walking its land. He found it oddly settling. His heart raced, his head hurt, and he was more fatigued than he had ever remembered, but Heygar felt at peace.

  “Please,” Lorgan begged and dropped his sword to the ground.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Heygar raised his sword, but the snake surprised him once more. Without warning, he leapt from the saddle and struck Heygar. His momentum sent both men careening down the slope. Heygar felt his leg shatter on the second tumble. He screamed. The world spun, and Heygar spun with it. Heygar felt a second something snap in his wrist, and more pain shot through him. He fought unconsciousness until, mercifully, they reached the bottom.

  There was a moment of painful weightlessness before he fell headfirst into the river. Blinded by darkness and freezing water pulling him deep, Heygar struggled to right himself as his legs touched the riverbed. Pain shook him to alertness. This river was too deep, he thought. He pushed back to the surface with his one good leg. With a flailing hand, he touched the surface and seized hold of some water lily roots. They tore away in his grasp.

  For a second time, Heygar sank downwards again. His lungs burned. His suit of armour was too heavy. Was this how he would die? He tore his helmet free and let it disappear among the murk. He blinked in the darkness and strained to see the surface above. He touched the bottom again and groaned aloud as water filled his mouth. He held, swallowed, coughed, panicked, and pushed his injured body up towards the surface, agonizingly slowly.

  Not like this.

  His lungs felt molten. The world darkened, and his hand reached out of the surface and touched the edge of the riverbank again. He felt river reeds in his grasp and pulled himself a foot short of delicious air before the terrible weight
tore them from their roots.

  Above him, Heygar saw a shadow and he reached for it. It was Lorgan. The shadow made no move to take his hand, and Heygar fell back to the bottom, where it was darkest. He kicked back up, but his legs failed him completely, and he fell on his side. He tried to tear his armour free, but it was no simple task done alone. It was nearly impossible without the help of a rodenerack or bride-to-be.

  This is it. This is how I die.

  He thrashed, screamed, and suddenly, an explosion of bubbles erupted around him as a rodent-like human leapt into the water beside him. His eyes opened, and he felt the claws ripping desperately at his armour. Heygar couldn’t make out whatever Silvious screamed beneath the water, but he fought with all his might to stay alive. He had a ring to give to Cherrie. He wanted to live. He wanted to kill Mallum.

  Heygar struggled one last time to push himself to the surface. With the help of Silvious, he rose towards life, but his gloved fingers broke the surface and could not take hold. He slipped below again, and his bladder released. He tried to scream, but there was too much water in his lungs. He felt the rat’s claws rip and fight for him, but all strength left him as he sank to the bottom.

  Heygar closed his eyes. After a few empty breaths, he stopped feeling anything at all.

  8

  The Rat

  Silvious ripped into the armour with his long, jagged nails, but the leather straps would not break. It was sturdy, thick leather, expensive and expertly wrapped and worthy of grand armour. His lungs, built for dreadful, hostile conditions, finally betrayed him, and he swam back to the surface for the umpteenth time.

  “Help us!” he screamed and gasped precious air into his lungs before dipping back down into the cold water.

  Might it be cold enough to slow Heygar’s heart? he wondered miserably, thinking of heated debates he had heard between master and apprentice healer. He tried to remember the arguments, but the weavers may as well have been speaking in a foreign tongue.