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

by Robert Ryan

  A warrior hacked away at the rope that held a grappling hook nearby. He used a large knife, and severed the fibers quickly. Men fell screaming below, and their deaths were a costly error on Unferth’s head. The ropes had not been twined with wire at the end to make the severing more difficult.

  Quickly the warrior bent and picked up the metal grappling hook. For a moment it looked as though he was about to cast it down at the enemy, and then he remembered his training. Instead, he threw it to the rear of the battlement. It was one grappling hook the enemy would not have for their next attack. It was metal that could be repurposed into arrow and spear heads.

  But despite the appalling slaughter, the weight of numbers and desperation of the enemy carried through. They began to reach the top, and the clash of sword against sword rang in the air. This gave encouragement to those below, and they swarmed up in a wave.

  The enemy surged through the crenels first, where the gap in the battlement allowed archers to shoot. Then they clambered over the merlons next, which gave protection to the archers. This was the more dangerous, for from that greater height they could leap into the defenders, and this they did with swinging swords and wild cries.

  Most died. The swords of the defenders flashed in answer. Their own battle cries rose up. But in killing these men others were given opportunity to clear the wall and fight man to man.

  A warrior thrust his sword at Brand. With a neat twist of his own blade, Brand deflected the point and sent a riposte back that tore away the warrior’s throat. Sighern knocked the blade from the warrior’s now weak grip and thrust him back against the battlement. A moment he staggered there, blood coursing from his throat, and then Sighern toppled him over the edge. He screamed, blood spraying from his mouth. A thump and more screams followed as he dislodged other attackers from rope or ladder.

  To Brand’s left, another warrior broke through, but Tinwellen was there before him, a knife in each hand and both flashing. The man died before her swift onslaught, and she pulled a bloody knife from the eye-slit of his helm and kicked him away.

  All over the battlement the same was happening. If the enemy broke through a little more, the battle would be won. If Brand’s men kept them at bay, the numbers of those climbing must diminish, and the defenders would hold. It hung in the balance, and Brand fought with a cold fire in his belly. More attackers came over the wall, more died at his hand and the hands of others.

  There was a momentary lull. No new grappling hooks were thrown up, at least not where Brand stood near the gate, and he leaned through a crenel to look out at the enemy. They still came up the wall like spiders. In the distance, Unferth stood out in his red armor, arms waving and seeming to bellow instructions. He was sending a new wave of attackers.

  The lull did not last long. In moments more warriors confronted Brand. They swarmed over the ramparts, screaming and slashing with their swords. Brand fought back, his blade cutting gleaming arcs through the air. Blood sprayed his face. Blood slicked the stone beneath his boots and made footing unsteady. On it went, and then out of nowhere a bright light flashed, dazzling his eyes.

  He staggered back, killing the enemy who followed him by instinct alone and not by sight, for he could barely see. Then Char-harash was there, his eyes blazing and a wicked sword flashing for Brand’s throat.

  Brand weaved to the side, and used his own blade to deflect his enemy’s attack, but his blade struck nothing. Too late he realized this was in his mind, that some sorcery had planted the image there. He felt the mind of Char-harash nearby, and his own magic came to life pushing the presence of the sorcerer away.

  It took only moments, but the distraction had its effect. Brand’s attention had been taken from the real attackers that came for him, and a mighty blow from an axe crashed against the Helm of the Duthenor. Sparks flew into the air, and Brand staggered, dropping his sword.

  Death was upon him. But Sighern was there, his sword killing the axe-man, and then Shorty and Taingern came to his side, their blades flashing and their eyes burning with a cold light. The enemy was repelled, but Brand felt his knees give way and he tumbled to the ground beside his sword. Darkness swamped him, and he knew no more.

  His mind swam through the blackness, and everything was vague and unformed. Then slowly it seemed that he rose up. There was light again, and he knew who he was and where. His eyes flickered open.

  He was not sure how much time had passed. Moments? Hours? It did not feel like it had been a great length of time. He was on the ground, his head in Tinwellen’s lap. She was caressing his face. Nearby was Sighern, a bloodied cloth at his neck, wet with blood. He had killed the axe-man, but not without cost. The axe-man must have returned a near killing blow before he died.

  Brand was not sure if he had not seen these things after the blow to his head, or if he just could not remember. And the dull throbbing in his head did not help, nor the sharp pain in his neck where muscles and tissues must have been torn or twisted by the mighty blow.

  The Helm of the Duthenor lay nearby. It was unmarked and undented. The Halathrin wrought things well, with the skills immortality and magic lent them. It had saved his life.

  A great cheer went up along the ramparts, and Brand tried to stand. A roaring pain filled his head and he fell back down, Tinwellen cradling him.

  “What’s happening?” he asked.

  Taingern seemed to come from nowhere, and he knelt down with concern showing in his eyes.

  “We’ve repulsed the enemy. And we don’t think they’ll come again today. They had thought to take us in one great rush, but that failed, and they’ve learned what it’s like to attack a fortress. No, they’ll not come again today. Their losses are great in equipment, men and morale. Unferth must be chewing his own tongue right about now.”

  Brand wanted to answer, but the blackness was coming up to swamp him again.

  23. Gormengil

  Night fell, but the mood of the camp had long since been dark. Men muttered under their breaths. Treason was in the air. Not just of Gormengil, but in the heart of every warrior. Unferth had been confident of swift victory. He had promised it. But the attack had been a slaughter.

  Horta could not say he was overly surprised. Always Brand did the unexpected, but never anything without reason. If he chose to fight behind walls, he did so because it gave him an advantage. His every move was dangerous, but Su-sarat should have him in thrall by now. Or perhaps he was even dead. Men had claimed he had been struck a killing blow by an axe.

  Warriors eyed Horta coldly as he walked through the camp. Unferth had summoned him, and the messenger looked frightened. Everyone looked frightened. There was a dangerous feel to the air, and a sense that the world was shifting. So be it. But Unferth was right to call another war council. He would have to be open to ideas now, and a new plan would be developed. They still had the greater number of soldiers, and the enemy must fall, especially with a better-planned attack.

  He came to Unferth’s tent, but tonight a fire was set before it and the king’s men sat outside. He was the last to reach it, and the others had been waiting.

  A thin drizzle of rain began to fall. It had been coming and going these last few hours, but still the stars could be seen at whiles through breaks in the scudding clouds. But his knee ached, and he knew heavier rain was approaching.

  Horta took a place near the fire, turning his knee toward the heat. No one greeted him, and he offered none himself. Only Gormengil glanced at him, his eyes as unreadable as ever. But the man looked away swiftly, and Horta felt the stirrings of unease. At that moment, Unferth pulled aside the tent flap and exited his tent. He remained dressed in full armor, and the raven axe was in his hand. He intended to remind people of his authority tonight. It would not be pleasant.

  Unferth did not take a seat. He stood to address them. “We gave Brand a bloody nose today. It may even be that he is dead. But tomorrow, we will take the fortress. Even as we speak, men are working, and will continue to work through the nigh
t, to make new grappling ropes and ladders. Tomorrow, the enemy will fall. Count on it.”

  It was a confident speech. But he had spoken like that before. Horta glanced around him, assessing the mood of the men. Had Unferth done the same, he would not have spoken as he had. The men were in no mood for false confidence and bravado. Too many had died today, and too greatly had they underestimated Brand and overestimated their ability to take a fortress. Unferth was responsible for that, only he was not accepting it. Where he should have been asking for advice, he was saying the same things he had been for days, and his men knew it for incompetence now.

  No one answered him. Even Gormengil remained silent, staring at the ground as though no sight was more interesting.

  “Well?” Unferth said. “Does no one here have a voice? I expect enthusiasm from those I lead. And I expect them to impart that same confidence to the army. That’s your job as leaders.”

  “We were beaten today,” Gormengil answered. He had raised his gaze from the dirt and there was shame in his eyes. “We were beaten, and we should not have been. Had we—”

  “Enough!” roared Unferth. “I expect better from you. I expect better from all my captains. You must learn to be resilient. What use are you if you fall apart at the slightest setback?”

  Horta could see that Gormengil struggled to maintain his mask of detachment. Emotions chased themselves over his face. Anger, resentment, disbelief and then finally determination.

  “The fault is not ours,” he said softly. “Almost, we had the enemy. Almost. But they rallied. Brand fought on the wall, and his men fought with him. But you? You stayed back from the bloodshed. Had you gone forward in the battle and given encouragement, had you climbed the wall yourself we would have overrun them. But you did not see the moment that you should have done so. Or you did, and you were too cowardly to act.”

  Unferth went pale. “You dare to—”

  “I dare because it’s true.” Gormengil spoke in a steady voice, void of emotion.

  The king gripped the haft of his axe tightly. “You’re dismissed, Gormengil. Not just from this meeting. Leave. Flee! I exile you from the realm, and your life is forfeit if ever I see you again.”

  Gormengil slowly shook his head. “I don’t think so. You’re not fit to lead us. You’re a coward and incompetent. I challenge you under our ancient laws. It is my right, as heir.”

  “You’re no longer heir!”

  “I am, and I challenge you to a fight, as the law permits, for the leadership of the Callenor tribe.”

  Horta studied the men gathered there, and he saw that Unferth did also. No one met his gaze. They would not intervene, for they saw Gormengil as someone who might lead them to victory and Unferth as someone who had led them to disaster.

  It was for this reason that Horta had hurried after the king, to stop such a challenge. He must stop it, or at least he had thought so. But now? Now, he felt the dragon’s breath blow across the land. Destiny was in the air. He would not intervene.

  Unferth grunted in disgust. He must know that he had lost the support of the men, but he knew also that if he killed Gormengil he would remove any real alternative to leadership. And the armor of his forefathers gave him confidence. As well it might. Horta sensed the magic in it, though it was of a kind unfamiliar to him. And though Unferth had a tendency to cowardice, he now had his back to the wall. He would fight, and he might well win.

  “Come and die then, boy,” Unferth said. He moved away a little from the men to give himself room to move. He would need it, for wicked as the axe looked it was an unwieldy weapon.

  Gormengil joined him. His sword hissed from his scabbard, and the cold gaze of his eyes was even more remote than normal. A block of ice gave off more emotion.

  But Horta knew it was there. And often those who showed the least emotion were those who felt it the strongest.

  Unferth struck first. The raven-axe flew through the air, and it whistled as it did so by some art of its makers. It was a lightning strike, and Horta was confounded. How had Unferth moved so quickly?

  Gormengil darted nimbly to the side, but even so, he only barely avoided one of the blades of the axe that would have severed his head from his body in a single stroke.

  If the whistling of the axe surprised him, he did not show it. Perhaps the Callenor knew that as one of its properties.

  The king kept moving. His first stroke had missed, and now he was vulnerable because the weight of the axe meant it could not be returned to a guard position nor could a follow-up blow be delivered quickly. Yet Unferth surprised Horta again.

  Either by great strength or a lightness to the axe that Horta could hardly credit, the blades twisted in midflight and swept back in a reverse cut.

  For all his speed and nimbleness, Gormengil was caught out. He was moving in to drive his own blade forward in a killing thrust when the axe bore down on him again.

  There was no time to retreat. The axe was angling downward, so he could not duck. Instead, he jerked his blade toward the axe where the head met the haft. There it caught it, deflecting the blow but not stopping it.

  One of the blades of the axe sliced down into the heir’s side. Gormengil staggered away, fortunate to only receive a glancing blow. Yet still his chain mail vest was rent there, frayed as easily as rope by a knife.

  Even so, Gormengil showed nothing of the pain or emotion he felt. He was like a wall of stone, immoveable, and Horta admired him for it. Unferth, however, grinned, and he swung the axe leisurely before him in slow circles.

  “Your pride has killed you,” the king taunted. “You’re no match for me.”

  Gormengil did not answer. He merely gazed at his opponent with dark eyes, and his lack of fear or reaction seemed to enrage Unferth. The king leapt forward again, his axe hurtling, and this time it did not whistle but moaned. It was an underhanded cut, unexpected and swift.

  But Gormengil seemed to have anticipated it, for he stepped a little to the side with time to spare and his sword crashed into the dwarven helm.

  This time, it was the king who staggered back. Gormengil was upon him, his blade flashing in cuts and thrusts quicker than the eye could follow. Three times Unferth would have died save for the quality of armor he wore, but Gormengil made one strike too many and overbalanced slightly in his haste. Unferth saw his opportunity and the raven-axe moaned again, this time thrust forward so that the spike at the head of the blades could pierce armor and then hook out entrails.

  The heir to the throne dived and rolled. He avoided the thrust but a follow-up slash caught him a glancing blow to his helmet. But this time he did not retreat. He stepped in close, avoiding the sweeping danger of the axe and drove a knife deep into the king’s thigh, then leapt back, the blood-wetted knife in one hand and his sword in the other.

  Unferth screamed. It was not a fatal wound, but he would weaken swiftly and lose strength in his legs if it was not bandaged. The raven-axe flew once more, whistling even as Unferth screamed, and it cut the air like a streaking shadow.

  But this time Gormengil was quicker. Perhaps he had held back before. Or perhaps the sight of Unferth’s blood gave him hope of victory and purpose. Either way he stepped in to meet the attack. The axe whistled, but Gormengil’s sword sliced, and it severed the king’s hand in one blow above the black gauntlet.

  The axe thudded to the ground. Unferth’s severed hand fell silently, looking out of place on the grass. Blood spurted from the stump, and the king, wide-eyed, looked in shock at his own gauntleted hand as it lay before him.

  Unferth fell to his knees. He screamed again, a terrible sound to hear, but Gormengil was deaf to it. Slowly, step by step he approached, his sword steady before him.

  The heir to the throne, he who now would rule, struck swiftly at his uncle. His blade flashed, cutting between the bottom of the helm and the top of the chain mail coat, and it found the small gap there.

  Unferth toppled over and stopped screaming, but Horta was not sure if he was dead. Gormen
gil reached down though, one hand dislodging the helm and with the blade in the other he began to hack.

  After some moments, he held up the head of Unferth. “He was a fool, and look where it got him?” He cast the head aside. “I am not a fool. I will lead you better.”

  No one said anything. The men were stunned, but Horta knew instinctively what to do and acted quickly. He stepped over to the fallen raven-axe and picked it up. He marveled at the feel of it in his hands and the lightness of it. Of what metal the blades were made, he did not know. Yet still he felt the deadliness of the weapon. Nor could he see any nick or blemish on the metal, which there should have been.

  He approached Gormengil. “Hail, Gormengil, king by blood, and by right, and by victory in battle. Take your axe, and if you will have it, my service also.” He bowed slightly, and lifted up the weapon.

  Gormengil wrapped a hand around the axe haft, and Horta saw his eyes widen a fraction when he took it. He, too, marveled at the lightness of it.

  “Truly,” Gormengil muttered. “It is a weapon of magic.” His gaze fell on Horta, and his eyes were emotionless again. “I will accept your service.” There may have been no emotion there, but there was a glint of knowledge. He understood that Horta had just set the tone of how to react, and Unferth’s counselors all approached. One by one they knelt and swore their oaths of loyalty.

  When they were done, Gormengil spoke. “Go forth among the men. Tell them that the Callenor have a new chieftain, and this one is not so craven as not to fight himself.” Then he hefted the axe wickedly through the air, making it whistle and moan.

  24. Two Battles

  Brand woke. It was dark, save for the wavery light of a single candle. There was a roaring in his head, and a dull ache, but a soft hand touched his forehead, and Tinwellen’s voice came to him, suddenly clear above the roaring. “Sleep,” she commanded. And Brand slept.