Warlord

by Keith McArdle

  A deep rumble echoed over the clearing, and she realised it was coming from Henry. She paused and looked at him. His shoulders were shuddering, and she realised he was laughing. She relaxed and grinned.

  “If we stop near stream in future, you wash stench from skin. Yes?”

  “Aye, Ahitika.”

  “And hair.” She gestured at him, withdrawing her razor-sharp blade with deft skill. “If we have time, we cut.”

  He finished his meal. “Right you are.”

  * * *

  Rone lay amongst waist high grass, still and silent. A half-moon cast limited light upon the open plain across which he and his soldiers had charged half a day before. The Huronian Army had marched onward and would be camped elsewhere for the night. But for these bastards. He clenched his teeth as anger warmed him. Kneeling up in a slow, deliberate movement, the dark blobs surrounding the corpse of his soldier came into view. They were laughing and chattering amongst themselves, although Rone could not understand their language.

  The King’s Own officer climbed into a crouch and placed a leg in front of him, allowing his boot to touch the ground heel first. Rotating his foot forward, he ensured there was no branch, twig, or rock in the way to either cause unnecessary noise or push him off balance. When his boot came to rest flat upon the ground in silence, he brought his other foot forward in a similar manner.

  He took another pace forward, a third and fourth. Time ebbed past in painful lethargy, but with disciplined persistence, Rone came to a halt several paces behind the closest enemy soldier. The scene was clearer now. The Huronian soldiers, three in number, were facing away from Rone. They crouched over the corpse of his fallen comrade. One of them giggled as he tugged on the boots of the dead man. Another delved into pockets, but he came away empty handed.

  He’s probably already been looted long before now.

  The boot finally ripped free, and the soldier fell backwards onto the ground, his prize clasped in both hands. His laughter bellowed out over the plain. He shouted something in his foreign tongue before sitting up and turning his attention to the second boot.

  Rone dropped his hand to his belt and drew a blade without haste, the weapon sliding free of its deer hide sheath in silence. His eyes never left the back of the Huronian tugging upon the boot of his dead comrade. One of them shouted a string of words, the noise giving Rone his opportunity. The King’s Own officer lunged forward and swept one hand around the closest man to clamp upon his forehead. He pulled the man’s head back. With his other hand, he plunged the knife into the neck of his enemy under his ear and pushed the razor-sharp blade forward, the weapon bursting through the front of the Huronian’s throat, severing both the windpipe and voice box.

  A soft hiss of warm air exploded from the terrible wound at the man’s throat as he tried to scream, probably in pain or fear, or both. He fell onto his back, both hands clamped to his throat, coughing, gurgling, and choking upon the blood filling his lungs. The pair of Huronian soldiers paused in their chatter, the strange noises of their comrade drawing their attention.

  The hilt of the knife was slick with warm, fresh blood. Leaping over the dying man, Rone barged into another soldier, slamming the man to the ground. He straddled him, slashed open his throat, and was on his feet a moment later, running clear of the third Huronian. The remaining man shouted a sentence. Although Rone did not understand the words, the fear was evident in the voice of his enemy. The soldier stood, the dead King’s Own warrior lying behind him, long forgotten. He drew his sword and roared another few words in the Huronian language. Rone remained still and silent, lying on his guts, mere paces from his adversary.

  With a final, weak spasm of one leg, the first man stopped moving. The second had rolled onto his side and attempted to push himself onto all fours but dropped flat on his face, where all movement slowed and eventually ceased. Rone remained like a statue hidden amongst the tall grass, his focus boring into the final Huronian who stood close by. The limited light provided by the moon was enough to see the man’s chest expanding and contracting in rapid repetition.

  He turned away, boots crunching upon the dry grass beneath. He now stood side on to Rone. The terrified soldier was breathing through his mouth, the soft whisper ebbing and flowing, in time with the movement of his chest. He muttered something in Huronian, but Rone was not oblivious to the quiver that accompanied the words.

  The soldier moved again, presenting his back to Rone. The King’s Own officer exploded to his feet, teeth bared. Before his opponent turned toward the sudden movement behind him, Rone, both hands on the knife, drove the weapon into the soldier’s neck with all the strength he could muster. The blade cut through the bones of his spine at the base of his skull, and the Huronian soldier dropped to the ground without a sound. The knife’s hilt was ripped free of Rone’s grasp before he could withdraw the weapon.

  Placing a boot between the shoulder blades of the dead soldier, Rone leaned down and levered the knife clear. The blade finally came free, and he cleaned the metal on the shirt of his deceased adversary. Sheathing the weapon, he stepped over the corpse and knelt beside the body of the King’s Own soldier, which the trio had been looting mere moments before. Rone placed a hand upon the cold, dead skin of his forehead.

  “Stand down warrior. Rest you in peace,” he muttered. Shifting his hand down the dead face, his fingertips told him the man’s eyes were still open. He brushed the eyelids closed and held them in place, ensuring they would remain shut when he removed his touch.

  Grasping a forearm, he pulled the dead King’s Own warrior into a sitting position. He squatted and lifted the corpse onto his shoulders. Rone screwed shut his eyes, jaw clenched. He grunted as the mighty muscles of his legs bulged, protesting against the extra weight, but he stood in one slow, strained movement, and stumbled a step as he lost his balance. Shooting a leg out to stop himself from travelling any further in the wrong direction, he began walking. Shrugging the dead body into a more comfortable position over his shoulders, he cursed. While the corpse may have shifted position slightly, it was no more comfortable.

  “Time to go home, lad. Your duty is at an end.” The words steeled Rone’s resolve, reminding him of why he’d come all this way. His lips clamped together, and he refused to complain any further.

  Rone quickened his pace, his determined focus placed several feet in front of him, in an attempt to watch for trip hazards or obstacles in his path. Although the top of the grass brushing past his thigh was easy to see, the light of the dim moon was not powerful enough to pierce deeper. He just had to hope luck was on his side.

  He shrugged the body again and persevered, ignoring the ache in his shoulders, the pain in his lower back, and the burning in his legs. Sweat beaded on his forehead, his breathing deepened and increased in speed. Still, he did not slow. The dull thump-thump of his boots upon the ground provided his ears a pace to maintain. He sniffed, wiped his brow, and strode onward.

  “We shall bury you beside your brothers,” he whispered to the corpse lying across his shoulders. “You’ll be in the finest company.” Rone frowned, eyes narrowing. The dark smear of the tree line was faintly visible, in which was tethered his warhorse. “The finest company in the world.”

  * * *

  Vyder sat, leaning against a tree, chewing idly upon a piece of grass. He relaxed, slumber’s heavy blanket not far away, although his body ached. It’d been another long day in the saddle, but they’d made good progress. Storm stood nearby, almost invisible in the darkness. His legs were ramrod straight, joints locked in place, head hung low. The powerful animal was dozing. On the far side of Vyder’s mount was the King’s Own horse. Soft rustling suggested the animal was still awake, searching for pick amongst the forest floor.

  His head touched the trunk and the world disappeared behind closed eye lids. Aching muscles relaxed, weary bones rested and a voice called.

  “Vyder?”

  It was a woman's voice. A familiar voice. He groaned and attempted to
reply, but no words came. He was cold. So very cold.

  “Vyder!”

  The gentle voice was louder. Clearer.

  “Vyder, come to me my love.”

  Verone! He shouted the name in his mind, intending for the word to breech his lips, but silence remained in control.

  “Come to me.”

  He reached out and his fingers touched her hand.

  Not yet. Gorgoroth's voice boomed to life in his mind.

  His eyes snapped open and the oppressive freezing wind departed, warmth flooding his body. Vyder took a deep breath, fresh cool air filling his lungs. Sadness and fury filled him. Vyder stood and stretched. They were outnumbered and in the middle of nowhere. Perhaps if they were overwhelmed and killed, it would quicken his journey into Verone's arms. Guilt filled him as soon as the thought entered his head.

  “Get Henry home first,” he muttered.

  He touched the dark, charcoal disk beneath his shirt. The pendant was attached to a piece of string around his neck. If they found themselves in dire need and survival looked uncertain, all he need do was strike a spark to the disk and call Agoth's name. The fire spirit would be summoned to them in a matter of moments. Or at least, that's what Agoth had said when they'd last spoken.

  It's all you need do, little brother.

  Henry had cooked their evening meal, consisting of the boiled roots of a legume Ahitika called Kofat, sprinkled with various herbs and topped off with roast pigeon. As had become her custom, the Kalote woman ensured Henry ate his fill. When he refused to eat more than he was familiar, she forced him to consume another few mouthfuls.

  “Help stretch belly,” were her words each night.

  He spat out a small chunk of grass, placed the thin stalk between his lips again, and recommenced chewing. He rested his head against the trunk, the slight ache in his neck immediately vanishing. The bright orange dance of the campfire drew his attention, and his focus slid to the pair sitting in front of the small blaze. They sat far enough away from each other to remain aloof, but close enough to suggest they were attracted to one another.

  One corner of Vyder’s mouth creased upward. The Kalote woman had her legs crossed and drawn up to her chest, her arms hugging them. She was talking in soft tones to Henry, the son of the Wendurlund king. The young, skinny man sat, legs stretched out before him, staring into the flames, his face painted with a flickering light, shadows dancing upon his skin. He nodded every now and then and smiled at others. Occasionally, his long, lank hair flicked from his cheeks when he turned to look at her.

  A rapid beat filled the encampment. The pair by the fire, however, remained deep in conversation, oblivious to the noise. He stopped chewing, brow creasing. Vyder pulled the grass from his mouth, flicked it away, and reached for his knife. His mouth opened, ready to shout a warning to Henry and Ahitika.

  Can you hear her heartbeat? Gorgoroth’s silent voice filled his mind, causing him to pause. His tight grip upon the knife hilt relaxed, and he slammed the weapon back into its sheath.

  “Aye,” he muttered.

  Vyder felt one arm descend into numbness, and the limb raised, an index finger pointed towards a section of the forest’s star riddled canopy.

  There she is.

  His vision narrowed to slits, but his eyesight did not improve.

  An owl.

  “You might have just said that,” he whispered.

  The silent chuckle pervaded his thoughts.

  Shall we fly?

  Vyder relaxed again. His hand dropped from the knife sheathed by his side. Heaviness swept him, dragging him down into sleep’s kiss, then his stomach lurched into his throat, and he ascended towards the stars. His arms, of their own volition, stretched out either side of him. The cool night air slid over his wings. His eyelids broke apart and, aided by the owl’s sharp vision, the forest floor far below came into sharp focus.

  They twisted and turned to avoid trees, branches, and vines. With a flick of their wings, they changed direction with sudden power, and Vyder found himself concentrating at a section of the forest floor near a thick bush. He squinted, and the mouse scavenging through the leaf litter came into sharper focus. The tiny creature used its front paws to bring a nut to its mouth.

  Are you controlling the bird, Vyder?

  No. Not yet, at least.

  The wings snapped closed against their body, and they plummeted straight toward their target. Vyder’s stomach lurched again. Cool air blasted his ears. The surrounding forest blurred past in dark hues of grey, dark brown, and black. The mouse paused, stopped chewing, and listened. It pushed itself up onto its hind legs and sniffed the air. They ripped beyond the trunk of a tree with no more than a finger’s breadth of room, and the mouse was now only moments from becoming dinner.

  The animal dropped to all fours and scampered beneath the bush, disappearing from view. Their wings opened, arresting their speed, and they turned away. Powerful muscles drove the wings, and they ascended towards the forest canopy again. Each flap brought a whisper of sound. Vyder felt himself twist so that the right wing pointed towards the ground, and the left at the night sky.

  Now I have control.

  They dodged through gaps between the boughs of mighty birches, oaks, and pines, to rise above the forest so that only the open night surrounded them. They flew at speed, light from a half-moon casting a dull silver blanket upon the seemingly impenetrable forest canopy sliding below. Vyder smiled, a sense of freedom pervading him. They flew for what seemed like an age, although Vyder could not be sure of the exact amount of time.

  We are here.

  We are where, exactly?

  Here, human, that is all you need to know.

  They descended towards the forest, piercing the canopy, the sprawling floor of the forest coming back into view. Spreading their wings, legs reaching out, they landed upon a branch. Doubt edged into his entrails, the ice touch spreading across him.

  What’s going on Gorgoroth?

  We’re checking on the horse warriors.

  Directly beneath them, arrayed out in a circle hidden in the depths of darkness, slept the King’s Own soldiers. They were positioned far away from any track, path, or road. Horses stood over or slept beside their masters. One man on each compass point of the circle sat fifty paces from their comrades, facing out, a musket clutched in his grip.

  So, they survived. The smile in the nature spirit’s voice was evident.

  You really are drawn to them aren’t you, Gorgoroth?

  They intrigue me. I’ve not come across any humans quite like them before.

  Leaping clear of the branch, they plummeted to the ground, and with a snap of their wings, landed upon a branch much closer to the soldiers. The warrior sitting guard closest to them leaned back and looked straight at them, his glare boring into them. Vyder was not oblivious to the fact the soldier’s index finger had shifted onto the trigger of his musket. Stretching his back, the man returned his concentration to the forest around him, index finger moving clear to rest upon the trigger guard.

  Stretching their wings wide, they stepped from the branch and were airborne again, the defensive circle of the King’s Own sliding by beneath them. A towering Ghost Oak loomed out of the darkness, easily visible in contrast to the black forest around it.

  Look at her, Vyder.

  They ascended towards the oak’s upper branches, a twisted mass of huge boughs and dense foliage blotting out the star strewn sky. The Ghost Oak dominated its area of forest, like some general of old rallying troops to his banner.

  She must be two hundred years old. Maybe more.

  Moments slid by into nearly an hour by Vyder’s guess. The moon ascended into the night sky, eventually reaching her zenith.

  And here they are.

  Vyder felt the nature spirit shift the bird’s head down so they were staring at the leaf-littered forest floor beneath them. Scattered throughout the forest in every direction were the sleeping forms of Huronian soldiers. A few of the large campfi
res around which some slept had long ago burned out, but others still held a slight glow, wisps of smoke drifting up towards Vyder. Onward they flew, banking with gentle ease around trees, and still the Huronian Army littered the forest.

  Can Wendurlund withstand this, Vyder?

  Doubt crept into his chest like an assassin, a cold stab of fear piercing his heart.

  More Huronian soldiers appeared from the forest, sliding by beneath them to be replaced by an endless mass of inanimate human forms, deep within sleep’s embrace. No matter where they looked, enemy warriors slept.

  I don’t know.

  Ascending, they broke through the canopy and out into the open night. As before, freedom leaked around them, saturating and pleasing simultaneously. Gliding above the carpet of forest below, Vyder could see for miles in every direction. To their north, the wide band of the Likane Forest stretched to the horizon, as it did southward. But to the east, and their direction of travel, the forest ended in the near distance to be replace by open plains. In the far distance, Mount Grost stretched into the night sky. The dark behemoth blotting out a section of stars and almost reaching the pale white orb, casting its soft light upon the world.

  When the Likane Forest began to grow thin, they dropped towards earth, pierced the sparse canopy, and landed upon a branch not so far from the ground. They raised their head to the sky and sniffed. Vyder detected the sickly-sweet aroma of death, mingled with the stale sweat of both man and horse.

  There is one more warrior to check upon.

  Movement caught their focus, and through the trees, a man sitting astride a mighty horse appeared from behind a thick tree trunk. Lying across the saddle in front of the rider was slung the dead body of a second man. The powerful horse drew closer, and Vyder was able to see the various weapons holstered in the leather sheath in front of his right knee, and realisation descended upon him.

  It is the King’s Own officer.

  The warrior was slumped in the saddle, his head dropping slowly, eyes closing before his head popped back up and eyelids snapped open. Taking a deep breath, he muttered something, but soon his head dropped again, eyelids drawing closed once more. Vyder felt their beak open and a sharp, ear-piercing shriek blasted from them, echoing around the forest. The officer sat ramrod straight in his saddle, brought the warhorse to a halt, and rubbed his eyes.