The Crimson Lord (The Dark God Rises Trilogy Book 2)

by Robert Ryan

  “All goes well, Brand. But are you sure you want to stay here? Soon there’ll be no choice in the matter, but for now you still have freedom of movement.”

  “Are you worried?” Brand replied. “Do you think Unferth will pen us up here?”

  “He might do. Once he comes, there’ll be no escape, no alternative strategies. It will be defend the walls or die.”

  “True enough. And I don’t much like not having other options, but the fortress will serve us well. Away from it, I think I’d begin to miss it very quickly.”

  “How will the Duthenor adapt to fighting behind a wall?” Shorty asked.

  “They’ll learn quickly.” Brand was sure of that. “But perhaps we can speed things up. Appoint captains and talk to them day and night about what to expect. Let them practice mock battles on the ramparts, and teach them how to use long poles to dislodge ladders enemies used to scale the wall. Make sure there are axes to cut rope-thrown grappling hooks. Show them the uses of rocks and boiling oil, if we have enough of that.”

  “We don’t,” Shorty said. “Not oil anyway. The rest we can do.”

  “And I’ll have the archers and spearmen practice their aim from the ramparts and learn their ranges and distances,” Taingern offered.

  “Best wait until my men have finished clearing the ground below,” Shorty said with a wink.

  Taingern seemed to consider it. “If you insist.”

  Brand was glad of their company. Banter was the warrior’s way of dispelling tension. He needed that now, for it was in the calm before the storm that his nerves were always the worst. It was like that with most men. When the swordplay began, the heat of battle melted away nerves. At least, most of the time.

  Sighern had been quiet, listening and watching as he always did, soaking up knowledge. He was a quiet young man, old for his age, and he showed less nerves than a seasoned warrior. But a strange look was on his face now.

  Sighern had walked out to the very edge of the battlement, his hand up to his forehead to shade his eyes.

  “What is it?” Brand asked.

  Sighern pointed, and the others followed the direction of his arm.

  Brand saw nothing at first, then faraway on a tree-clad slope he spotted a rider. Whoever it was, they came alone, and they rode swiftly. And they made a line as direct as slope and tree allowed straight for the fortress.

  10. To the Death

  Unferth was bored. A while since, he had set aside his double-bladed axe. He enjoyed the fear it inspired, but it was too heavy to drag around. He did not like his armor either, for it chafed and made movement harder than he was used to. He should have been proud to wear it. In his youth, he dreamed of doing so. But his youth was far away and long ago, his dreams only half realized, and the half that were so remained in jeopardy.

  Most of all though, what annoyed him just now was the lack of a hall, a lack of cover from the night and the camp food that he would have cast in the cook’s face had he dared serve it to him back at home.

  Was he growing old? No, that was not the problem. He could still fight, perhaps better now than he ever had. He was still strong, but he had become used to the comforts of lordship. The problem was that traveling, he had nothing that he liked, not even a bard or storyteller to while away the smoke-ridden hours that each evening meal brought.

  The army had been gathered though, the full army. Some five thousand men camped around him, ready and willing to do his bidding. That was a good feeling, and his authority was greater now that he wore the armor of his ancestors. The men revered it, and therefore must revere the man who wore it.

  Unferth grunted to himself. Most men revered him, but not so his nephew. Gormengil was ever close by, even as he was now, sitting only a few feet away. And ever his dark eyes showed respect that was fitting for a servant when looking at his king, but there was a hint of judgement there. Not open, but Unferth saw it nonetheless.

  His nephew was of the same line, had the same blood of chieftains in his veins. He was a prideful man, and full of the false confidence of youth. He thought he would be a better king. It was an absurdity, but a dangerous one.

  Gormengil did not know, but his surreptitious meetings with Horta were not the secrets that he thought. There were eyes and ears everywhere among the Callenor, and they served the king alone.

  Horta, he did not trust much, yet the man had served him well and loyally. So far, at least. Gormengil he trusted far less. He was heir to the kingdom, for Unferth had not taken a wife. But he was ambitious. Perhaps ambitious enough to attempt to speed up his inheritance. It was something that Unferth knew to watch for. All the great rulers had to be on guard against such as that.

  It was not Horta’s fault. He cultivated the younger man, threw him compliments and nuggets of wisdom. To Horta, it was nothing but a prudent backup plan. Unferth did not blame him for having one. The opposite, in fact. Had he not had one he would be showing incompetence, and that was a trait unwelcome in advisors. But Gormengil was another matter. He was of the same blood. The nobility of royalty ran through his veins, and he should be above such things.

  Unferth stared into the fire. It was a large blaze, and it would burn through the night bringing warmth. That would be welcome, for he found the ground cold and uncomfortable to sleep on even though summer was drawing on. He had eaten, at least what passed for food at the moment. And he had been given news too. Bad news.

  A hall away to the west somewhere had revolted. Some traitors were killed, but many had escaped. No doubt they would go to Brand. He had been warned that others might do the same, or perhaps had already done so and word had not reached him yet. Everywhere was betrayal, and annoyance only exacerbated his boredom.

  A slow smile spread over his face. He was bored, and he held a grudge against Gormengil. That was one betrayal, even if it was only in thought yet and not in deed, that he might be able to do something about. With luck, he might remedy that situation and alleviate his boredom at the same time.

  He clapped his hands together. “Entertainment! We need something to liven these dull hours.”

  One of the lords nearby kicked the dirt with his heels. “We have none, sire. There are no bards in the camp.”

  Unferth grinned at him. “Then we must make our own fun. And I’ve had my fill of words anyway. All I hear are reports and scouts coming in and the whining of the men. What we need is action instead.”

  “What would that be, my lord? Perhaps a wrestling match?”

  Unferth seemed to consider the suggestion. “Yes, indeed. That was the sort of thing I meant. Only we need to make it more entertaining. We need something to liven our battle spirits for the days ahead.”

  They all looked at him blankly. “Swords!” he barked. “Let us have a duel of blades. That will get the blood flowing.”

  They did not seem overly happy at the suggestion. Not that they said anything, but he read it in their faces. They all looked down, hoping to remain inconspicuous. None of them wanted to be chosen for such a task.

  Fools, Unferth thought. He was a king, but a magnanimous one. He would not order it.

  “Two volunteers will be needed. Who shall it be?”

  No one answered him, and he grew agitated. It was, perhaps, the mead he had drunk before eating. And after. But he was their king, and it was only proper for his wishes to be fulfilled.

  “Well? Are there no men of courage here? Shall I send word to the common soldiers for two of them to come forth? Or are there lords among us who will do as their king wishes?”

  Vorbald stood. He was a tall man, thickset and strong. He had a reputation as a fighter, and it was said that once he killed three outlaws that he was hunting. They had doubled back and found him without his retinue, but it was to their cost and not his.

  Unferth clapped. “I salute you. At least there’s one man here of courage, one man fit to sit in the company of a king.”

  The others remained silent. It was an insult, but they took it. Yet his words had fo
und their mark, for they were targeted so.

  Gormengil eventually stood, and he offered a stiff bow. “I too am of the blood of chieftains, and I fear no man nor any fight.”

  His gaze found that of Vorbald’s, and the two men stared at each other, hard and flat. A moment Gormengil turned that gaze on him, and Unferth felt a shiver. The man was cold, cold as a blizzard and just as furious.

  It was a look that Unferth did not like. “Let it be to the death then, if each of you are willing.”

  The two men faced each other again, gazes remaining hard and flat. Gormengil gave a sharp nod to signify he was willing, and Vorbald returned it, a gleam in his eye. Unferth thought the man was beginning to look forward to this. There had always been rivalry between the two.

  All around, the group of lords stood and opened up a space for the combatants. They were silent as ghosts, and Unferth was pleased. This was turning out better than expected. In addition to everything else, he had managed to find a way to cow them. Dissent was everywhere, if veiled for the moment, but a man who knew he could be fighting for his life at a moment’s notice kept his mouth shut and his head down. It was good to know.

  The two combatants donned their helms. They already wore chain mail shirts. At each of their sides was strapped their swords, and Unferth was eager to hear those blades clash. But Gormengil turned to him, his voice hollow-sounding as it issued from within the confines of his helm.

  “What we do now, will give great entertainment for our king. But will not the king offer a great prize to whoever is victorious in return?”

  Unferth did not like his tone. There was an edge of disrespect to it. More than an edge. But he could not refuse a prize.

  “Very well. What shall it be?” He looked to the lords for a suitable answer, but it was Gormengil who replied, and swiftly.

  “The axe of the Callenor.”

  Unferth’s gaze fell to where he had left the axe lie on the ground.

  “No! Not that!” he cried. “Never that. The axe belongs to the chieftains of the Callenor. It’s mine by blood.”

  Gormengil gazed at him, his eyes dark pits within the shadow of his helm.

  “I, too, am of the blood of chieftains. Have you forgotten? Or perhaps you think I’ll shame my forefathers, carrying it?”

  “I have not forgotten. All I have, all I build, will one day be yours. Unless I take a wife and sire an heir of my own. Even the axe will be yours, one day. But not today.”

  Vorbald laughed. “You get ahead of yourself, Gorm. Well ahead. You’ll have to beat me to claim any prize, and that you will not do.”

  Vorbald turned to Unferth, but it seemed that he never quite took his gaze off Gormengil, and his hand rested lazily on the hilt of his sheathed sword.

  “Sire. A few gold coins are prize enough for me. I have no ambition to be … a rich man. Or anything else.”

  “So be it,” Unferth said. “But not just a few gold coins. As many as the winner can clasp in one hand from my coin chest.”

  Unferth moved back, and he gave a signal with his hand. The fight could begin.

  The two combatants drew their blades. This would be no wild fight, full of bravado and rough swings. These men were skilled fighters, and neither was the kind to allow emotion to rule the battle. They would be cold and calculated, taking their time and testing each other carefully for weaknesses.

  The two men inclined their heads, ever so slightly, and they settled into a fighting stance. Vorbald yelled, and he swung a mighty overhand strike at Gormengil. Unferth was amazed. He had misjudged the man, and he would die quickly for his folly.

  The sword dropped, cleaving air, for Gormengil had already dodged aside, yet even as he moved away, his own blade was ready to drive forward.

  Gormengil never got the chance. Vorbald twisted, quicker than anyone would have thought possible, and his downward stroke angled now straight for Gormengil’s head.

  Vorbald had planned this move out, taken a gamble as to which side his opponent would dodge, and prepared for the counterstroke even as the feint was in motion.

  It was a dangerous move, but it had paid off. The sword struck Gormengil’s helm, and the clang of metal rang through the night.

  Gormengil staggered back, his knees buckling and it appeared that he might fall. Vorbald leapt after him, but even as he did so Gormengil sent a deadly riposte with the tip of his blade. Had Vorbald not worn chain mail, it might have disemboweled him, but the steel links of his armor deflected the blow. Even so, he reeled back in sudden pain. If he lived, tomorrow would see a massive bruise flower on his abdomen.

  The two men circled each other. Unferth watched them, his gaze riveted. The two opponents were greatly skilled and evenly matched. He was not really sure who he wanted to win. Gormengil was a blood relative, but he was dangerous. More than ever, Unferth knew he wanted the throne. Vorbald, on the other hand, was nobody. Lords were common enough, and he could easily be replaced. Yet of the two, Unferth trusted him the more, and he was a capable leader of men. He would carry out orders, any orders, without question. And he was reliable. Such men were not so easily replaced as lords.

  With a flash of swords the two men struck again. Steel rang on steel, and sparks sheared off the blades. This time no advantage was given or taken, and the combatants separated to think of their enemy, and their preferences and their habits in order to find a weakness.

  Both men had them. Unferth saw that Gormengil leaned a little too far forward with each stroke, especially a thrusting movement. In this way he was slightly off balance and vulnerable to an attacker who had the skill to use that against him. This was a worse fault in a fist fight than with swords, though Vorbald might yet find a way to exploit the flaw.

  Vorbald himself, though better balanced, was not as quick on his feet, and his footwork and the movement of his shoulder signaled in advance his intention to strike.

  Gormengil attacked again, this time dropping low and slashing at his enemy’s knees. It was a fruitless move. Vorbald, despite not being especially quick on his feet, easily shuffled back.

  Vorbald’s laugh came hollowly from his helm. “You can do better than that, Gorm. Or are you becoming too afraid to face me man to man? That’s how dogs attack, going for the legs.”

  Gormengil gave no reply, nor was there a change to his smooth movements as he circled the other man. There would not be any sign of anger from him. Gormengil was coldblooded, and all the more so in a fight. He was ice itself, and no taunting would get under his skin. But he would remember, and if he had the victory, Vorbald would regret the insult.

  The men circled each other, blades weaving slowly before them, eyes fixed on their enemy. It was like a dance, for every move was full of grace built on years of hard work and practice.

  Gormengil skipped forward, his blade lunging. Vorbald skipped back, keeping the same distance between them.

  “You speak of dogs,” Gormengil said quietly. “You should know. You run away like one.”

  Vorbald did not like it. But he kept his mouth shut and offered no taunt himself.

  Unferth felt sweat trickle down his back. There was tension in the air, for one man at least would die tonight. But they were in no hurry to engage again, each uncertain as to the outcome. They had begun in confidence, but it had ebbed away as no advantage presented itself. So evenly matched were they that chance would determine the outcome of the fight, and this was a thing neither of them wished.

  Suddenly Vorbald charged. He danced forward on light feet, but there was nothing light in the stroke of his sword. It was a mighty slash, leveled at his opponent’s neck where helm ended and chain mail began. Many men wore a chain mail coif that trailed beneath their helm and protected this vulnerability. Not Gormengil. Nor did he need it.

  Gormengil did not dance back, but rather he edged forward a half step. This threw his opponent’s timing off, and parried the strike with a deft move for the full force of the blow could not be delivered. Then, with a second deft move,
he drove the pommel of his sword direct into Vorbald’s helm.

  There was a crash as the blow landed, and Vorbald staggered back. He moved to lift his sword between them again, but he was not quick enough. Gormengil followed through, drawing in close and headbutting the other man before following up with another strike of the sword pommel. This one took Vorbald under the chin, and he toppled like a felled tree.

  Gormengil was not done. As the other man sprawled on the ground he stamped on his sword arm, crushing the man’s wrist beneath his boot and ensuring he released the weapon.

  Vorbald screamed. Gormengil ground the heel of his boot in deeper. And then he let go his own blade and drew a fine-pointed dagger. Dropping to his knees and pinning the other man with his weight, he slid the point of the dagger through the eye socket of his opponent’s helm.

  Vorbald screamed again, and he thrashed in an attempt to dislodge his opponent. But Gormengil was no small man, and Vorbald was badly weakened. The blade penetrated, but stuck, and Vorbald cried out piteously.

  Gormengil twisted the blade slowly, seeking a way through the eye into the brain. He hefted his weight upon the blade, and bone suddenly gave way.

  Vorbald spasmed and then grew still, blood seeping down onto the ground from out of his helm. A moment Gormengil looked at him, and then he drew forth his dagger. It had snapped, and he stood slowly before casting the broken and bloodied blade near the feet of Unferth.

  “Sire,” he said softly, no emotion in his voice. “Death is loosed this night, and ere the war is over it will be loosed again.”

  Unferth knew it as a threat. Knew it as a threat against himself, and anger burned inside him. But he could not prove the words were directed so.

  “Fetch my coin chest,” he commanded the lord beside him. “A king always pays his debts. And he rewards those who serve him just as they deserve.”

  11. Word Spreads Like Fire

  The rider sped across the slope and angled toward the road leading to the fortress. Whoever it was could ride with supreme skill, for the slope was uneven, steep and dotted with outcrops of rock and boulders. A mistake by either horse or rider was death. Yet the rider came on, weaving a course around all obstacles and somehow finding a safe path.