Savage
James
AldeRdice
SAVAGE Copyright 2019 James Alderdice
Cover by https://www.jcalebdesign.com/
Map by Anna Stansfield http://artofannastansfield.blogspot.com/
Digital formatting by: Hershel Burnside
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owners and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
LOSTREALMS PRESS
Contents
1.A Fighting Chance
2.Red Sun
3.The Desperate Lich
4.Black Necropolis
5.Webs of Deceit
6.A Cloven Skull
7.Friends in Low Places
8.The Apprentice
9.Enemies in Towers
10.Castaway
11.A Deadly Game
12.Into the Dark
13.A Stranger in Paradise
14.The Spider God
15.One Moon Later
16.Midnight Caravan
17.Green Fire
18.Ruins of Maleun
19.Blood and Sand
20.The Pipe of Mahmackrah
21.The Mad Song
22.A Friend on the Road
23.City of the Dreaming Dead
24.Return of the Sorcerer
25.On the Sea of Destiny
For Keith
(best of the West)
In Texas
1.
A Fighting Chance
Six sleek long warships raced after the small cat boat. Dozens of arrows protruded from its rear, a few of them still aflame. More shafts hissed as they hit the water beside the fleeing craft. The ferocious corsairs in the long warships cursed at their misses and shot more arrows, though the catapults couldn’t be brought to bear fast enough, for the cat boat kept turning about in the fierce waves.
“Any way we can go faster? They are gaining on us,” said Niels.
“Not unless we lose some weight,” growled Gathelaus. “The sail is what I’m most worried about, she’ll be tearing to pieces soon enough.”
The old navigator, Julius said, “Don’t figure we can do that without something drastic, they mean to sink us and kill us all. No prisoners from what I can make out.”
Gathelaus asked. “That rocky red coast. Is that…?”
Julius shook his head. “Dar-Al-Hambra’s northern horn. Not very hospitable.”
“Anything is more hospitable than them,” said Niels, snapping off a few of the arrows in the bow.
Gathelaus gestured to the reef and coast. “If I take the rowboat, and they know it’s me, that could give you enough time and weight loss to slip away.”
“Not a good idea,” said Niels. “They’ll land several companies of men to run you down.”
“They don’t have horses or any more gear than I do to traverse the desert,” said Gathelaus. “I can do this. You all can escape and meet me in KhoPeshli in a weeks’ time.”
Niels shook his head. “That’s not enough time for you to walk there and it’s too risky.”
“It’s a fighting chance, better than what Vikarskeid’s men are offering now.” The warships were closing in, the arrows ever closer to tearing the sail to shreds.
Julius said, “Well I’m all for it then, I’d prefer to keep my life and my ship even at the loss of the rowboat and your gold.”
“Get Niels to Kentsia and you’ll still be paid,” grumbled Gathelaus. “But get me around those rocks above the reef and I’ll disembark.”
Niels took him by the shoulder. “There has to be another way. Besides we can’t trust Hawkwood. What if he reneges on the deal and won’t sail to KhoPeshli?”
“He has been square with us so far. I don’t trust him, but we need men to defeat Vikarskeid, men I don’t have yet. We’ll meet with King LoBahan of Marence soon enough and get some warriors then we go back and bring the revolution to Vikarskeid just like I did to—”
“This is a lot more assumptions from you than usual. Why not land on the right side of the straights? Not here!”
“No choice right now, they’re closing in. They’ll have to slow down and give me some time or run aground, at least I should be able to get to shore before them and give the dogs a warm welcome if I can’t disappear into those hills first.”
“I don’t like this,” said Niels.
“We tried sneaking in and it didn’t work, we’ll have to come through the back door to Vjorn now, soon enough. I’ll find a way.”
“You always say that.”
“And I always find a way.”
Julius cried, “This is as close as I dare without tearing out my hull, and I’m sure that those warships drafts are twice mine. They’ll stop for a moment or two. Go!”
Gathelaus and Niels dropped the rowboat into the frothing waves and Gathelaus leapt aboard with only his sword belt, water skin, and a sack of dry meats. He rowed for all he was worth to the distant shore. “Get going!” he shouted, but Julius was already spinning the ship away.
The Vjornish warships dropped their oars to backpaddle before hitting the rocks the cat boat had so recently been stopped beside, in danger of hitting the reef. They were near enough to see it was Gathelaus escaping in a rowboat and they shot arrows and cursed him, but he rowed swiftly out of range.
Several warships moved to try and capture him before he could reach shore but as soon as one grazed the edge of the reef, they stopped and dropped three of their own longboats to pursue him. Two other warships made to carry on after the cat boat but with the loss of weight and the head-start it would almost certainly elude them.
Gathelaus mused that it had been a risky plan to trust Hawkwood and try to separate and sneak back into Vjorn in the dead of night. Niels was sure that YonGee had a network of men loyal to him, but before they had even reached the outskirts of the bay, the contingent of warships was waiting and pursued them leagues beyond the Vjornish shore. The dogged chase was relentless.
He thought of Coco staying aboard Hawkwood’s ship with the other Tultecacan’s that were loyal to him, and hoped they were climatizing to the colder weather of the north. Soon enough his folk would meet these strangers form the south and whether for good or ill, they would blend and be part of his motley band.
Hawkwood had been the wild card, playing off his honor of serving Vikarskeid but also being grateful for Gathelaus saving his life against the Tultecacan’s. It was precarious, but a man with little resources must do the best he can. Gathelaus chose to trust the mercenary as they split forces, and now, he was without all his resources.
He plunged the oars into the waves, pounding them for all he was worth to give him a good lead on the three longboats that sped toward him. These corsairs of Vikarskeid wanted his blood.
He watched them a moment. These were deadly men, who knew who they were coming after. The Usurper, renowned for killing more men than the plague. Some said he was a plague.
The three longboats were overloaded with men who wore piece-meal armor and long mail, horned helmets of beaten iron gleamed while their spears and lances shone in the bright sunlight. Some were archers but all were carrying sw
ords, knives, and bucklers—some even had hammers and axes. The longboats, so full of men ready to support one another against the man regarded as one of the deadliest alive, nearly swamped. They readied to fight him on the beach. Perhaps fifty to one.
He wouldn’t let them get to the beach.
Gathelaus took off his boots and sword belt. He took off his shirt and vest of mail and laid them all in the bottom of the rowboat. He slipped over the side and waited.
The two nearest longboats cruised in and slowed when they realized he was not cowering in the bottom of the craft.
“Where did he go?”
“Did he swim for shore, thinking this would fool us?”
“Row in to the beach, we’ll find him soon enough. We’ll find his trail, sure as anything.”
One of the corsairs stood up in their longboat and lanced the bottom of Gathelaus’s rowboat with his spear. Water leaked into it.
Brawny arms shot from the water. Gathelaus took hold of the side of the first longboat and tipped it over into the blue. The warriors sank like stones.
Men shouted and stood, throwing off the balance of the second craft. Gathelaus swam beneath the it and yanked on an oar. The chief of the craft shouted and stood up, trying to spear at him from the opposite side.
Gathelaus tipped the boat, throwing everyone into the water.
But, wearing heavy iron armor, they sank to the bottom. Most descended faster than they could take off their weighted protection. A few bloodied themselves in the frantic attempt to unencumber themselves, waving their clutched swords about, wounding their comrades. Sharks moved in with the smell of blood in the water.
Gathelaus slipped back up to his rowboat and continued to the beach.
The third longboat proceeded with caution.
“Stay back from his boat, let us land and wait for him to come to shore, we still have more than enough men to overwhelm him!”
They rowed away from his boat and went to the shore to await him. But Gathelaus would not play the game by their rules. He rowed back toward the reef and, skirting over the shallows, he let the tidal current carry him farther up the coast. His pursuers were forced to row back against the incoming tide to their own warships and try to follow him from there.
The corsairs of Vikarskeid remaining on the deck of the warships watched as two longboats full of their companions became shark food. They sent no more longboats after Gathelaus. Once the third longboat returned, they sailed away on winds of hate and bitter revenge. By the time they had passed around the reef, there was no sign of where Gathelaus had landed.
2.
Red Sun
On the lone and level beach, the sands stretched far away. White surf battered at jagged rocks that dared rear themselves up from the brine like cadavers escaping the grave. Birds screamed at Gathelaus as he pushed his sinking craft into the waves. He glanced up and down the strand once again, searching for any sign of human presence. Finding none, he fell to the ground to catch his breath. Ahead lay desolate mountains of rust brown, wreathed by angry clouds full of lightning but not so much as a drop of rain.
He walked with caution to leave little to no track visible on the beach and made his way to the tufts of scrub brush. The warships soon passed by in their mad hunt for him. When they moved beyond the horizon, he continued on.
He knew these grim lands, though he had only ever seen them from the deck of a passing ship. The desert lands of Dar-Alhambra were considered treacherous and it was largely uninhabited, save for a handful of coastal cities that were spread far and wide from one another along the trade routes. Bedouins did live in some places along the interior, but it was deemed an inhospitable and cursed land that was not regarded as worthwhile for most any adventurer. Rain seemed to avoid the subcontinent while rumors of haunted ruins and terrible monsters made even the most curious of men shun the place.
Gathelaus knew that the nearest city to his relative position would be Mankares, and while Hawkwood had warned him that he would find no friends there, it was also his surest chance of gaining a ship and pursuing his quest. It would be worth the risk. The city was likely as not still days away walking along the strand. He had best get going.
He walked the rest of the day along the rocky outcrop just above the surf for it was easier going than in the sands. Well after dark he gathered some driftwood and made a fire, though he had nothing to eat. The fire helped keep the chill of the desert and the cold wind from sapping his meager energy. The stars blinked awake and somewhere, Gathelaus imagined he would gain sweet revenge upon Hawkwood and Vikarskeid. He cursed himself for allowing their cunning and trickery to make a mockery of him. He would make them pay in kind soon enough. He simply had to endure and keep on the path of the righteous warrior.
Morning brought little relief, for he came upon a small brook that fed the ocean. It tasted of alkaline and was putrid, but it was water, so he drank. Soon enough Gathelaus fell ill from the stream, and purged his churning guts into the hungry sands. He wiped his mouth with his forearm with a frustrated growl. He’d have to find a better source of water if he wanted to survive. Dire circumstances called for dire measures. He found a wide swath of beach and dug down into the sands at almost fifty paces from the sea. Muddy water filled the hole and, while it was still salty, it was fresher than the sea itself and the foul stream.
A gull swooped down to harass him as he drank. He flung a stone, wounding the bird and he soon made himself a meal of the thing. It was an unappetizing dinner, but he needed sustenance.
Late the next day he found himself on the ridge beside a long finger of land that jutted out into the sea as if from a volcanic stretch that attempted to make a highway into the fathomless deep. It was rough going over such uneven ground, but here he strayed from following the shoreline and plunged into the hills to make a shortcut of his journey. He guessed that he was not more than a few days from Mankares and could shave a day off his travels.
This was likely true but also opened him up for other troubles.
A dust storm formed in the far reaches and came upon him with gale force winds trying to knock him off his feet. Rendered almost blind, he sought shelter among the crags and forced himself within a crevice in the jagged rocks. He spent the night there and when daylight came, it too mocked him. Grey clouds covered the sky and gave a light sprinkle of rain. It kept down the dust but did little else in the way of moisture. The clouds shielded him from the blazing sun, but he was so turned about that he could not get his bearings. He could neither see the ocean nor chart his way toward the east and west, so hidden was the sun behind the charcoal skies. Any hint if his trail had been covered by the night’s blowing sands, and every outcrop of rust-red rock looked much the same as the one he had spent the night under. Cursing his foul luck, he guessed upon which way he had been traveling before the storm and continued on into the gloom.
He guessed wrong.
After several hours of trudging through the maroon sands, he was no closer to the ocean or strand of beach. The rolling hills all looked much the same and the caress of wind masked his footprints once again. This was truly a cursed land.
Darkness blanketed the land, and, with the cloud cover, the night became black as pitch. Gathelaus strained his eyes out into that awful gloom, where a spark shone far into the hills like a gleaming tiger’s eye. Somewhere in the cold distance a flickering orange flame fought against the night and beckoned as a tawdry wench might.
3.
The Desperate Lich
Gathelaus made his way cautiously toward the light, anxious, yet unwilling to completely be a moth. He slowed his pace when but a few hundred paces off, though his stomach growled at the scent of roasting meat.
The orange glow and pleasing timbre of crackling wood was a welcome respite to naught but the wind and harangue of pelting rain.
The firelight made a circle of illumination but Gathelaus could not see the creative source of that warmth. He stepped closer, wondering at his good fortune yet alert.<
br />
“Hello, the camp,” he finally said.
There was no reply at first, and he made his way closer nice and easy.
“I saw your light and smelled your meat. I wonder if I might share your fire?”
“Come on in,” said the voice, deep and full. “Make yourself welcome.” The accent was strange but spoke the common tongue true enough.
Gathelaus came in slowly, hoping to get a better view of his host, but the fire blinded him against the vague shape behind.
Someone moved opposite him beyond the flames, but they could clearly see him better than he could them.
“Been traveling far?” asked the deep voice.
“I have,” answered Gathelaus.
“Why would a man come to this inhospitable place?”
“It was not by choice,” answered Gathelaus, “but finding myself here, I aim to make the best of it and continue on to a city where I might find a ship and travel on.”
“To the northlands? You sound like a Northman.”
“I am.”
“What is your name?”
Gathelaus paused, wondering about what he might say, wondering if his host might be a head hunter or even a kinsman to someone, he may have slain ages ago when he did siege and plunder Mankares. “My name is Khyte,” he lied, though convincingly enough to himself. Khyte having been a favorite uncle of his in his youth.
The shadow beyond mulled that answer and moved along the edge of the firelight, always staying just beyond the point where Gathelaus could make out their form.
“Come closer,” said the voice. “Let me get a look at you.”
“It seems to me a trustworthy host would do the same, and tell me his name,” said Gathelaus.
“It is you,” said the deep voice. “I thought so, the desert spirits whispered to me you would come, and they were right.”
Gathelaus still could not see his host. “And you are?”
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