Warlord
Keith McArdle
Copyright © Keith McArdle 2019
The right of Keith McArdle to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000.
This work is copyright. Apart from any use as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Map designed by Simone McArdle of Art By Simi.
Cover design by Pen Astridge of The Mighty Pen.
Edited by Tim Marquitz of Dominion Editorial.
Connect with Keith online:
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
They say it takes a village to raise a child. A novel is similar. My name might appear on the cover, and although I wrote the novel, there is a small army behind the scenes who are responsible for making the end product as presentable as possible.
Thanks to my amazing wife, Simone, who didn't once ever doubt my passion for this craft. She has been my biggest supporter and advocate. Simone has always been there through thick and thin, pushing me on when I needed it. She's watched my six from day one and never once hesitated in voicing her support. I'm one very lucky man. I love you to bits, babe.
To the true friends, and there are too many to list here, your support means so much to me and helps steel my resolve to ensure characters like Vyder still walk the land.
Pen Astridge, my cover artist, is a true graphic design master. In my opinion, her skill is unrivalled and I hope she chooses to continue to work in the graphic design industry for many years to come. Thanks for another amazing cover, Pen.
Nothing is ever too much for my editor, Tim Marquitz. He takes everything in his stride and gets the job done with speed and efficiency. Although his writing hand must be sore from using his red pen so much. Thanks for running your eagle eye over my work, Tim.
Once again, Dean Samed of Neotsock, thanks for providing the photograph of Karlos Moir.
My Street Team. You guys and girls rock! Thank you so much for your support, advice and encouragement these past few years. It makes the journey that much easier.
Finally my Grimdarkling family, you know who you are, but you may not know how much you mean to me. I don't use the word 'family' lightly either. Your encouragement, humour and sometimes blunt advice has been a breath of fresh air.
Now...onwards!
For the veterans.
Contents
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Part I
I
II
III
IV
Part II
V
VI
VII
VIII
Part III
IX
X
XI
XII
Novels by Keith McArdle
Stand Alone Novels
Short Stories by Keith McArdle
Part I
Evading Death
I
Thick vines wrapped around wide trunks, climbing up their host until they reached the dense canopy in search of the sunlight they desperately craved. Some trees with which Baras was unfamiliar were in bloom, bright yellow flowers, interspersed with red, a stark contrast against the green mash of the Huronian forest.
“Sir!”
The voice broke his reverie. He returned his attention to the single file of mounted King’s Own warriors arrayed before him. The formation snaked through the woodland, moving at a fast trot towards their distant homeland. With their prince rescued from the enemy and securely positioned in the centre, their mission was complete. He caught movement in his peripheral vision, and a soldier slowed his horse from a gallop to match Baras’s steady trot.
“What is it?”
“Sir, enemy follow up.”
Gods, I’m a bugler, not a commander. Damn Rone for leaving me in charge. Guilt swept him immediately as his thoughts turned to Rone, who’d ridden back towards tens of thousands of enemies simply to retrieve the body of one of his soldiers.
Baras nodded. “Numbers?”
“At least a couple of hundred. Huronian cavalry, sir.”
He suppressed a curse. “Ride to the head of the formation, bring it to a halt. Summon Dreas to me.”
“Aye, sir!”
The man’s horse snorted and obliged its rider’s command, accelerating into a headlong gallop.
Baras felt a tap on his shoulder and flinched. I’d forgotten about the assassin!
“This is my stop,” the assassin spoke into his ear.
He twisted in the saddle and focused on the highlander. The man held his stare, that one blue eye skewering Baras’s soul.
“What do you mean, highlander?”
“My horse is tethered a few hundred paces that way.” He gestured to the right of the column. “You didn’t think I walked all this way, did you?”
“If you wait, we’ll be coming to a halt.”
“I’ll be fine, Baras.” The highlander vaulted from the horse and landed with a lithe agility that belied his powerful stature. The assassin smiled. Then he disappeared behind a stand of close-cropped trees.
Baras faced front again. Bloody madman.
The formation slowed and came to a stop, aside from two mounted warriors galloping along its length. They skidded to a halt beside Baras.
Baras pointed at the first. “Return to your post, lad.”
“Aye, sir.”
As the dull thuds of the departing horse drifted into silence, Baras appraised Dreas, the third most senior soldier.
“We have an enemy follow up.”
The man continued to glare at him as if willing the bugler to tell him something more interesting.
“We will ambush them.”
The corners of Dreas’s mouth creased upward slightly.
“I’ll take fifty soldiers and setup an immediate ambush here. I want you to take another fifty and push back the way we came. You’ll be the cut off party.”
Dreas touched his forehead with an index finger. “I can do that, sir.”
Baras was about to speak again, but movement through the nearby forest to their flank stayed his tongue. Dreas leaned forward in his saddle with lack of speed and pulled free his musket.
Soldiers close by brought the butts of muskets or blunderbusses into their shoulder, stared down iron sights, and waited.
The highland assassin, mounted on a black mare, walked into view.
Baras held up his hand. “Hold your fire.”
“Lucky boy,” Dreas muttered, sheathing his musket.
The horse was astonishing. She was tall and powerful, her silver mane and tail such a glaring difference to her dark fur.
“Nice horse.”
The assassin reined in beside him, Baras’s war horse sniffing the nose of the highlander’s mount. “I suggest I take the prince and make a break for Lisfort while we still can.”
“I had the same thought, highlander.”
“Vyder.”
Baras committed the name to memory and threw a glance in the direction of the emaciated royal mounted nearby. “Agreed, Vyder.”
“Then let us get it done. Time is no longer an option we have.”
“Keep him fed, keep him safe, and get him home. We shall fight a rear guard.”
“We go now. We go right now!” the voice of the Kalote woman cut through the forest.
The
bugler noticed the woman with smoke coloured skin glaring at him through narrowed eyes.
“Aye, get you gone. Ride fast. Tell the king of what approaches his keep.”
“We shall do that, Baras. Fight well.” The assassin nudged his horse past, and then he was gone, the mount of the Kalote woman cantering beside him.
* * *
Baras positioned his men off the rudimentary track they had been traversing. The fifty mounted King’s Own warriors were spread out in extended line, hidden behind thick shrubs, or mighty trees, their horses waiting in silent patience as if anticipating what was about to take place.
He’d ordered his warriors to engage with blunderbuss. Shards of ice speared his spine. The thunder of galloping hooves and occasional shouts or laughter pervaded the woodland in which he and the men of the King’s Own waited. The incessant thudding grew in volume until the gentle whisper of wind teasing the forest canopy was drowned out. Birds took to wing, shrieking their warnings to one another.
Pushing his mount forward a step, Baras leaned in his saddle beyond the thick, tall shrub so as to see the track with better clarity. The Huronian cavalry burst into view. They were urging their mounts on hard, the horses winded, coats sleek with sweat. They can’t hold that pace for long. He allowed the first few to pass his position. When twenty or thirty had streaked past in fast order, Baras lifted the bugle to his lips and blew the command.
Fire.
The blunderbusses spoke in deafening unison. Boom!
Men and animals both screamed in pain and fear. Soldiers were bucked from their saddles, horses fell to the ground to lie beside their human counterparts, blood oozing from mortal wounds.
The bugle screeched again. Move right!
Baras swung his horse to the right and cantered parallel to the killing ground. He reined the animal to a stop, the bugle’s cold kiss touching his lips.
Halt! Face left! Fire!
A moment later, the blunderbusses roared back to life, casting thick, grey smoke to drift across the woodlands. More confused cavalrymen bore the brunt of the onslaught, falling lifeless from their horses. The screaming and shouting increased in both volume and urgency until the remaining cavalry turned and retreated along their axis of advance.
The bugle’s call cut through the noise. Charge!
“OBRAGARDA!” the word, erupting from fifty King’s Own throats, echoed around the forest, and the warriors urged their horses into a gallop, spears clasped in their hands where moments before blunderbusses had been brandished.
Baras may not have carried flintlock weapons, but he could wield a spear along with the finest of the warriors. The smooth, wood was cold comfort in his hand, sharp spearhead flashing in the light as he held the weapon out before him. When his horse had reached full gallop, he was amongst the retreating enemy soldiers. One of them cast a look over his shoulder, eyes bulging. Baras’s spear slammed home just right of the man’s spine.
The haft was almost ripped clear of his fingers, but Baras kept tight grip. He stood in the stirrups, twisted the spear, and jerked it free. The enemy soldier slumped forward in his saddle, screeching, although his cries of agony were drowned out by those of his comrades as the small force of King’s Own battered through their ranks.
The King’s Own could fight on any ground or in any weather, on horseback or foot. But cavalry was only ever agile enough to engage an enemy on an open plain. A fact Baras’s soldiers were exploiting with devastating effect. The bugler urged his mount into a gallop once more, brought the spear to bear, and plunged the blood-soaked tip into the back of another soldier. The weapon slid in deep.
Bright blood exploded from the wound, and the man straightened in his saddle. Clenching his teeth, Baras pulled the weapon free and watched the enemy fall from the saddle. The cavalryman slammed onto the ground with a sickening thud, the body rolled several times before the trunk of a tree arrested its momentum. Baras swept past the corpse, surrounded by his comrades, heavy on the heels of their fleeing prey.
Sheathing the spear into the leather holster forward of his right knee, Baras lifted the bugle to his mouth and blew a command.
Disperse right.
The tiny King’s Own formation obliged, thundering off the track, horses dodging trees or leaping clean over bushes.
About turn! Blunderbuss.
The horses regained their breath, some snorting, other stamping hooves upon the leaf litter. The twenty or thirty enemy soldiers Baras had allowed to gallop past prior to triggering the ambush came into view along the track. They were hesitant, trotting after their retreating counterparts. The eyes of the man leading the group were the size of saucers, his focus glued to the forest immediately before him.
Baras’s lips nestled around the bugle.
Fire!
The throats of fifty blunderbusses spewed death upon the enemy. Boom!
Charge!
“OBRAGARDA!”
The warriors of the King’s Own were amongst the enemy like a bolt of lightning, hitting them with the same force. One Huronian cavalryman was lucky enough to gallop clear before Baras called off his soldiers. He lifted the bugle to his mouth.
Enemy withdrawing to you!
The instrument’s piercing voice echoed to silence and remained unanswered. Beyond the gentle ringing in his ears, Baras listened to the soft breeze gliding through the canopy high above. The high-pitched din echoing through his skull would disperse over the following hours. Always happens after I’m near muskets or blunderbusses firing. He shoved a finger into his ear and twisted it backward and forward with little effect.
A single, distant blunderbuss echoed through the forest. Fleeting moments passed before a group of blunderbusses echoed the bellow of the first, boom. The screams of dying men started again. Dreas’s cut off party would make short work of the survivors. Another volley of blunderbusses sang their lethal chorus, followed by The King’s Own war cry. The single word sliced the forest, and the muffled clash of steel on steel rose above the soft, high-pitched noise bouncing around Baras’s skull.
* * *
Ahitika pushed the chest-high fern out of her way in one slow, fluid movement. She placed a moccasin enshrouded foot forward and stepped past the plant, allowing the fronds to return to their original position behind her. Even though night’s blanket covered the woodland, the small, grey ball remained still and silent perhaps ten paces in front of her. The rabbit was scratching amongst the leaf litter with gentle practise, searching for fresh shoots. The warrior stood still, brought up the arrow-nocked bow, and drew back the string. The cord touched the flesh of her cheek, the aroma of animal fat drifted to her. She rubbed it into the bowstring to keep it supple and strong.
She exhaled and released the arrow. Hiss, thud. Ahitika strode forward and knelt beside the dead rabbit. She touched the fur of the animal, smeared blood upon her forehead, and then leaned back to look at the stars interspersed between the forest’s canopy.
“Thank you for giving your life this night, so that we might live.”
She butchered the rabbit with expert skill, skinned it, then buried what she did not take with her. She strolled back to the camp, the smell of the smoke drifting to her long before she spotted the dull, orange glow amongst the tree trunks.
Ahitika advanced into the clearing and held up the rabbit to the two men sat staring into the fire.
“That didn’t take long,” the highlander spoke.
She squatted beside the scrawny one named Henry. “Hungry?”
The malnourished man brushed hair out of his face, his eyes meeting her questioning stare. “No, I don’t feel hungry.”
“You eat.”
“Ahitika, I don’t think I–”
“You eat! Long journey, fast journey. Not much rest.”
Vyder leaned forward, picked up a twig, and flicked it into the fire. “She’s right you know, Henry. You have to keep up your strength.”
The suggestion attracted no response.
She skewered
the rabbit onto a stick, held it out over the fire with one hand, and tapped her chest with the other. “I cook.” She pointed at the living skeleton. “Then you eat.”
When the food was ready, they ate in silence. She enjoyed the taste but cast furtive glances at the skinny one, ensuring he continued to chew on the meal. Although the bones of his chest, shoulders, and back were visible beneath his skin, it was clear to Ahitika he had once been powerful. And might be again. She watched his face, the flames reflected in those ocean blue eyes. Handsome too. She looked away, tore a chunk of meat off the bone with her teeth, and grinned.
She ate her fill and held the remnants out to Henry. “You eat rest of this.”
He shook his head, long, matted hair hiding his face. “I can’t. I’m full.”
She held the small portion of meat closer to his face. “You eat now.”
Vyder’s soft chuckle mingled with the crackle of the fire. “You’re not going to have a win, Henry.”
The prince flicked dirty hair out of his vision and fixed his gaze upon the Kalote warrior. Even in the dull light thrown by the flames, she enjoyed those piercing, blue eyes. His brow softened, slight wrinkles adorning the corners of his eyes, hinting at the smile beneath the thick beard hiding his mouth.
“Thank you.”
He took the proffered food.
Definitely handsome. But more so if he didn’t smell like a corpse.
She dropped her hand onto her thigh. “Welcome.”
The fire drew her attention, flames dancing beneath and upon the wood like living creatures, occasionally spitting embers into the darkness, where the tiny orbs of light drifted in random patterns before blinking out to be consumed by night’s shroud.
“You stink,” she muttered.
“You know,” his words muffled as he chewed on the cooked meat, “where I’m from, you’d have your head removed for talking to me like that.”
She prodded the fire with a stick, enjoying the army of sparks exploding skyward. “Where I from, men wash.”
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