Warlord

by Keith McArdle

  “Where is Lieutenant Rone?” the King's Own commander shot a look over his shoulder at the dead men lying on their saddles. “He in there somewhere?”

  Baras explained what had happened.

  Tork clenched his jaw and sighed. His eyelids met, and the world descended into darkness. Rone, you've just given yourself a death sentence. The Huronian army will have killed him by now. His eyes opened. “I understand why he did it,” he finally spoke.

  “We would have all gone with him, sir, but he ordered us on.”

  Pride swelled through him. “I have no doubt. I can only hope he lives and will in time make it back to Lisfort.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “But for now, we should head north to the King's Own cemetery.” He jerked his thumb at the dead warriors behind him. “Get these soldiers on their way across the Frost River before the Huronian army put us to siege.”

  He saw the subtle slump of Baras's shoulders. The dark bags under his eyes, reflected by the members of his sub unit told the silent tale of sheer exhaustion.

  Tork nudged Might closer to the bugler's mount. He leaned across and clamped a hold of the bugler's shoulder. “I know how tired you must be, my friend. But this siege may go on for days, weeks, or many months. Our dead brothers need to be buried, or their rotting flesh may cause disease in the city.”

  Baras nodded. “Given a choice, sir, I think we'd all prefer to bury our men with full honours in the cemetery than burn them like a stack of firewood within the city walls.”

  “Then let us get it done.”

  The King's Own headed northwest towards the cemetery that had been dedicated to them for more than a thousand years.

  * * *

  Rone lay in a hollow in the ground, his dead soldier on one side of him and his horse lying on the other. The King's Own officer crept to the lip of the ditch, musket clutched tight in his hands. He raised his head just high enough so as to see above the grass. The Huronian cavalry force cantered onward, away from him, oblivious to his presence. They carried many dead with them.

  What in the bloody hell are Huronian cavalry doing this far north? They were only a small force. Must be deserters.

  A distant shouted command reached him and the Huronian formation halted, dismounted, and moved out into a circle, their commander standing in the centre. The officer gestured as he addressed them.

  His destrier snorted behind him, and Rone flinched. He scuttled back and laid a hand upon the horse. “Quiet, my lad, we aren't in the clear just yet.” He patted the powerful neck.

  * * *

  Garx held out his hands. “We should be safe here for the moment.” The dismounted cavalrymen surrounded him in a large circle, listening. Garx stood in the centre of the circle. “I know many of you have families back in Brencore, and I do not blame you for returning to gather them.”

  Whispers and mutters surrounded him. “But know,” he raised his voice to defeat the chatter, “you only have a limited time. When our army returns home, you will be treated as traitors and put to death. That goes for your family as well. Right now, no one back in Brencore knows what has taken place…yet. Once any one of those supply wagons is depleted and makes its way back for resupply, they shall carry word of our,” he hesitated and laughed. It was a sound full of sarcasm. “They'll carry word of our sedition.” His lips peeled apart to reveal clenched teeth. “Let me be clear that we did nothing but our duty to our empire and our king! We have done nothing wrong.”

  “What will you do, sir?” a man called from behind him.

  Garx pivoted. “I shall stay here. There is nothing left for me back in Brencore. Not anymore.”

  “And do what?” another asked.

  “Fight.” He paused. “I don't know against whom yet, but I will fight. And perhaps die.”

  “I've got nothin' left in Brencore either,” said a warrior to his left. “I'll join you, sir. We got nothin' left to lose.”

  Garx looked at the soldier who'd spoken. “Then there were two.”

  “I'm sorry, sir. I've a wife and three children. Their safety comes first. I must return and get them away from the city.”

  He turned to the speaker and nodded. “I completely understand and hold nothing against you.” He raised his voice. “Nor would I hold anything against any of you who choose to return for the sake of your families.”

  “I'm with ya, sir!”

  “Me too.”

  “Good luck to you, sir. I must return to my family.”

  Eventually, twenty cavalrymen decided to remain with Garx, while thirty-one chose to return to Brencore to secure their families and spirit them away before harm could visit them.

  “Then we are decided!” Garx called to the cavalrymen encircling him. “But before we part ways, let us at least bury our brothers and send them on their way.”

  After many hours, the job was done and the soldiers sat together, talking in quiet voices about the dead, laughing at some of the memories, speaking in sombre tones about others. Then they mounted up, muttered their farewells to the makeshift graves where the bodies of their brothers would rest for eternity. The last remnant of sunlight speared the sky purple, and the two groups of Huronian cavalrymen parted. One heading deeper into Wendurlund territory, the other steering back to their homeland.

  * * *

  Fishermen teamed at the water's edge of the Wendurlund Port, carrying wooden crates or baskets full of fresh fish from their boats towards the fishmongers. The smell of fish pervaded the area. Gulls wheeled, dived, and bickered with one another for scraps. Vyder smiled. The aroma brought back memories of days gone by. In the water, tied to the wharf, were all manner of boats, ships, and barges bobbing with a gentle rhythm as the ocean moved beneath them.

  Merchants wandered along the stalls of the fishmongers arrayed in neat rows, selecting fish, crabs, squid, and even selections of shark. Once they'd purchased their produce, their journey to Lisfort or outlying towns would be a mad dash before the seafood turned bad. Vyder didn't understand why merchants entered the seafood game, it was such high risk, not to mention expensive. If an inn, fellow merchant, or kitchen chef did not purchase their product, they were out of pocket. If one wagon-load failed to sell, or the produce went off, it'd see the merchant at an end.

  Vyder turned to the pair walking behind him, leading their horses. “I missed that smell. I often worked at Shadolia's Port as a lad for one copper a week.”

  Henry glanced at the highlander, his mouth down-turned, nose crinkled. “Trust you to miss a smell like that. I suppose you highlanders are a sea faring nation, so it makes sense.”

  Ahitika laughed and slapped Henry's arm. “You too soft, too pampered.”

  The prince's eyebrows shot up, and he chuckled. “Perhaps I am.”

  A highland longship was moored further down the wharf, several Shadolian highlanders standing on the jetty in front of the ship and talking amongst themselves. On the bow of the ship, large highland runes were carved into the wood. “Sea Serpent,” Vyder muttered.

  The highlanders wore a thick tartan cloth diagonally across their chests, the square colours of black with red centres denoting the crew belonged to clan Steelforge. At their hips were holstered muzzle loading pistols, and on their backs, point facing towards the ground, were sheathed swords. Vyder changed direction towards the group.

  “Ho there, highlanders!” he called to them.

  They ceased talking and turned to Vyder. One of them, a tall man with flame hair and beard, stepped forward. Like all highlanders, the iris and pupils of his eyes were dark. He looked Vyder up and down and sneered.

  “What do ya want?”

  Vyder swept an arm behind him to encompass the two behind him. “We seek passage to Shadolia.”

  Flame Beard tucked his thumbs into his belt. “Do ya?”

  “Aye.”

  Flame Beard stepped past Vyder and addressed Ahitika. “This true, Kalote?”

  The Shadolian and Kalote empires shared a close bond, each
sharing a history of hardship and oppression at the hands of Wendurlund and Huron respectively. Vyder did not blame the flame-haired highlander for immediately distrusting him.

  “It true,” Ahitika replied. “He good man.” She pointed at Vyder. “Crazy as wounded dog,” she tapped her chest, “but good.”

  Flame Beard stepped back and held Vyder's stare. “Crazy, are ya?” his lips parted to reveal yellowing teeth. “That makes eight of us, then.”

  The highlanders behind Flame Beard burst into laughter.

  He became stern again and pointed at Vyder's one dark eye. “I see you have highlander blood too, crazy one.”

  “Aye, I do.”

  “Which clan?”

  “Ironstone.”

  “Strong clan that one.” He grinned again. “Almost as strong as Steelforge. But where is your tartan?”

  “I left it behind as a young man when I travelled south over the sea to Wendurlund. We are despised there. Wearing my clan colours would have done me no favours.”

  Flame Beard sneered. “No.” He gestured at the highlanders standing behind him. “We are despised in Wendurlund. You are as good as someone of Wendurlund stock now.” He stepped closer to Vyder. “Besides,” he motioned towards Vyder's darker eye, “tartan or no, it is easy to see you have highland blood. So why not wear your clan colours? Ashamed of them, are ya?”

  Vyder's jaw bulged. “Of course not.”

  “Could have fooled me,” one of the highlanders behind the flame haired warrior muttered.

  “This is goin' `round in circles, Snarri,” another spoke. “The wares are here. Best we be off.”

  Vyder touched the charcoal disk beneath his shirt and remained silent.

  A wagon-load of fine rugs, blankets, and clothes rumbled to a halt behind Vyder. Another highlander jumped down from the driver's seat, a wide grin adorning his face. “A good bargain this time, Snarri,” he addressed Flame Beard.

  “Snarri,” Vyder said. “We can pay.”

  Snarri's eyes left the wagon and returned to Vyder. “Oh, you'll pay, Wendurlund. One gold coin per person.”

  The chuckles and snorts of the highlanders standing behind Snarri faded to silence when Vyder produced the payment. Even Snarri's eyes bulged a little.

  “That pays for the travel of both us and our horses.”

  Snarri nodded. “Fair enough, Wendurlund.”

  “My name's Vyder.”

  Snarri shrugged and spat upon the thick wooden planks upon which he stood.

  “This is Ahitika and Henry,” Vyder motioned at the pair behind him.

  Snarri appraised Henry with a sneer. Turning his attention to Ahitika, he smiled and nodded. “A pleasure, Ahitika.” He shot the highlanders standing idle behind him with a glare. “Let's get this wagon unloaded!” he roared.

  When the wagon had been unloaded, the trio were motioned onboard. First, they were made to lead their horses up a wide gangplank onto the aft of the longship and into a large, dark enclosed area. The enclosure was awash with the stink of animal urine and shit. It was too dark for his eyes to focus at first, but he was not oblivious to the cries and bleats of cows, sheep, and goats all around him. Blinking, the blackness receded into shades of grey and gloom. Vyder noticed various species of stock were stabled. Vyder led Storm to an empty stable and locked the horse away. The area his horse was enclosed was wide and long enough for the animal to turn around and even lie down if necessary. He checked the water pail hooked on the rails was full.

  “You have any fodder?”

  A highlander approached him and shoved a bale of hay at him. “Here.”

  He cast the hay over the enclosure railings, and then reached through and cut free the bindings holding the bale tight. Checking Henry and Ahitika had done the same for their mounts.

  “Through this way!” shouted a highlander standing near a door leading towards the bow.

  He'd travelled upon a similar longship when he'd departed Shadolia as a young man. Large as it was, the ship was long and narrow, allowing it to cut through the water much faster than most other sea craft.

  They ducked through the doorway and down a narrow walkway, oarsmen sat on either side, preparing themselves to begin rowing out of the harbour. Some of them bound strips of leather around their hands to ward off blisters. Others stared at the newcomers, particularly Vyder and their eyes were far from welcoming.

  “Mixed blood,” one muttered as he strode by.

  “There's the half-blood,” another whispered.

  A third growled something Vyder missed, but the oarsmen nearby erupted in laughter.

  “What's a Wendurlund dog doing onboard?” one of them shouted from behind.

  Vyder turned. The highlander cast down his oar and burst to his feet, his face red, teeth clenched, and brow furrowed. But he wasn't looking at Vyder, he was glaring at Henry.

  “Brings nothin' but bad luck.” He pointed at the prince. “He'll send us to the bottom before we see Shadolia!”

  “Aye!” another joined in.

  The highlander leading the trio brushed past Vyder and faced the furious oarsman. “Stow it, Bowold. They have paid for their passage.”

  “Aye, and we likely to see any of that coin?”

  The highlander nodded. “Snarri's good for it, you know that.”

  That seemed to appease Bowold, although his dark eyes glinting with controlled violence returned to Henry. Bowold sat upon his rowing bench with lack of speed, his stare never leaving the prince's face.

  The highlander turned back to the three newcomers and took the lead once more. “Come,” he said over one shoulder. “I shall walk you to the top deck.”

  * * *

  Remaining prone, Rone waited for long hours as the nearby enemy cavalry unit buried their dead. He often withdrew with slow, deliberate movements to check on his horse. The warhorse remained lying and seemed to be calm. Can't be comfortable though.

  The Huronians finished the task, and then split into two groups. One continuing on towards Lisfort, the other departing in the opposite direction. When they were gone, and he could no longer hear the plod of their horses' hooves, he dragged his dead comrade onto the horse and tied the corpse in place. “Gods you stink, brother.”

  He coaxed the horse to its feet, stepped into the saddle, and as darkness descended upon the land, urged his mount onward towards Lisfort and the safety of the city's walls.

  * * *

  The bright glow thrown by Finkam the Hunter glittered upon the surface of the ocean. Ahitika leaned upon the rail of the top deck and stared out at the harbour. She steadied herself as the ship accelerated and decelerated beneath her. A tell-tale sign they were travelling under the power of oars.

  “Nice night,” Henry spoke, moving alongside her.

  “It is.”

  The ship was negotiating out of the harbour. The surface of the ocean was still and flat, the longship cutting through the water at speed.

  Henry's arm encircled her shoulders. “Where's Vyder?”

  She jerked a thumb behind her. “He sleeping.”

  A raven landed on the handrail nearby and cackled. Ahitika noticed one of the animal's eyes shimmered a gentle blue. “Maybe he not sleeping.” She nodded at the bird. “He also witch doctor.”

  Henry laughed. “You think Vyder is controlling the raven?”

  She shrugged out of his embrace and fixed him with a baleful glare. “These things no laughing matter. I saw Vyder speak with fire god. Long before your rescue. He not just man. He something else as well. Something,” she paused, “not man.”

  “His mind is just injured, Ahitika. I've seen it before. We call it a split personality.”

  “You wrong, Henry.” She leaned on the rail again, staring at the raven. “I right.”

  The bird glared at her with its odd eyes, stretched its wings, cackled, and flew away.

  Henry clutched a hold of the ship to steady himself as the deck rolled and pitched beneath his feet. A shouted command in the highland to
ngue and a team of sailors untied a thick rope, allowing the sail to descend to its a full length with a powerful snap. Wind billowed the sail, powerful lines holding it in place creaking against the strain. The longship accelerated. Muffled shouting below decks suggested the oarsmen had been commanded to cease their work.

  A small group of highlanders moved to the bow and stern, fixing a dragon's head and tail respectively. Ahitika had seen many longships adorned in such a way.

  She noticed Henry watching the groups as they hammered the carvings in place. “To ward off evil spirits.”

  He nodded, his brow relaxing.

  “Best get some rest,” Ahitika said.

  “How long does the journey across the Shadolian Sea take?”

  “We arrive tomorrow evening.” She clutched a hold of his hand. “Come, we rest until Yanahee's Fire splits the sky.”

  Henry grinned. “We're going to rest, are we?”

  She smirked at him and winked. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  * * *

  Vyder jerked awake and sat up. He'd been allowed to sleep on the centre of the longship's top deck. Something's wrong, brother.

  For the first time, Gorgoroth sounded concerned. Perhaps even frightened.

  “What is it?” he whispered.

  We are not alone.

  Vyder snorted. “We're on a longship full of highland warriors, Gorgoroth. Of course we're not alone.”

  Well, well, what have we here? A new voice, higher pitched than that of Gorgoroth blasted through Vyder's mind.

  A crushing pressure pushed down upon his chest, and despite his attempts to resist the weight, Vyder was forced back into a supine position. A flicker of lightning lit the deck up for a fraction of a moment, followed by a blast of thunder.

  A nature spirit out here upon my ocean?

  Vyder attempted to sit, but despite the burning of the muscles in his stomach, he remained flat upon the wood of the longship's deck. “What is happening, Gorgoroth?”

  Like I said, little brother, we are not alone.

  Gorgoroth is it? I've heard of you. You're the shepherd of the Waning Wood.