Warlord

by Keith McArdle

  “Bastards!” the woman screamed, running back into view holding a musket and preparing to fire from the hip.

  Before Vyder could react, Rafe brushed past him, grabbed a hold of the weapon's barrel, turned it towards the ceiling, and wrestled the musket free of her grasp. Reversing the weapon, he clubbed her in the head with the butt stock. Standing over her, the berserker continued battering her until the floor around her head was slick with fresh blood, small chunks of flesh, and splinters of skull.

  Rafe stooped and pulled the tartan clear. “Right!” he turned back to them, his face and beard painted with flecks of blood. “That's two tartans. We just need a few more.”

  Vyder headed back to the entrance. “Let's call in on the neighbours.”

  * * *

  “Get your stinking hands out of my belongings!” Henry said.

  The highlander chuckled and continued to ignore him. He cursed, aware there was an audience. Highlanders from all directions were advancing upon the altercation. They formed a wide circle around the pair, some talking, others laughing. They watched Henry, curious to see what the Wendurlund man would do.

  Only the fight remains.

  The last time he'd been so openly ridiculed and disrespected was at the hands of Steef, one of the Huronian soldiers tasked with guarding him during his time as a prisoner. Steef's ugly face hovered in his mind and a wave of fury swept over Henry. He clenched his fists.

  “Piece of shit!” Henry said, although unbeknown to those standing nearby observing, he'd been addressing Steef's memory, not the highlander hunched over his belongings.

  He jogged the last few strides and launched a kick straight into the highlander's face. The man rolled away with a grunt and came up holding his face. He spat out a glob of bloody phlegm, grinned and unsheathed a knife. Henry reached behind him and withdrew his own blade, sheathed at the small of his back.

  The dark haired warrior spluttered a sentence in his native tongue and feigned an attack, his grin widening when he saw Henry flinch.

  “Come then coward.”

  The sadistic grin vanished, anger flashing in his eyes.

  He knows that word at least.

  “Have at it, coward.”

  Raven Hair spat a few words in the Shadolian language and Henry guessed at the meaning.

  “Oh yes you're a coward, alright. Are we doing this or not, coward?”

  The highlander roared, veins bulging against the skin of his throat. He came at Henry in a sprint, dark eyes glinting with fury and violence. He stepped aside and kicked him in the stomach. Doubling over, the highlander held his midriff. Henry hissed at the pain lancing his calf. He checked his leg. His adversary's blade had sliced the skin, although it was only superficial.

  “That all you have, coward?”

  The Shadolian straightened and lunged at him. Henry leapt back, the knife only inches from plunging into his guts. Again he attacked and Henry lost his footing, tumbling to the ground. He regained his footing in time to dodge another stab that would have skewered his chest. The highlander was grinning again, his teeth painted claret and a strand of bloody saliva hanging from his beard. This was a fight to the death. The Shadolians were a proud, warrior race and few challenges would end with a handshake and shared beer. With that thought in his mind and with his muscles already tiring, he had to end it fast, or he'd be crossing the Frost River sooner than he'd like.

  Henry met his next attack on the front foot, jabbing a fist straight into the nose of his opponent. The highlander backed away, blood streaming from his nostrils. He attacked again shouting what sounded like a war cry. The man's eyes, filled with tears from the blow to his nose, slashed his blade wide, missing Henry by a hair's breadth. The Wendurlund prince strode in and slammed the knife into the throat of his enemy. He stepped back and kicked the man away, although he remained on his feet. Even as life blood gushed from the wound in rhythmic spurts, Raven Hair stared at Henry, hatred never leaving his dark eyes. He dropped to his knees, the glint of life fading. Then he fell forward.

  Henry cleaned his blade on the dead man's shirt and sheathed it. He wiped sweat from his brow and regained his breath with slow deep inhalations. Looking around at the crowd of highlanders surrounding him, he expected to see hostility, renewed hatred, he even expected to die under an army of swords and knives. But he found nothing of the sort. Something else found residence in the stares of the men and women. Respect.

  * * *

  When all but Ahitika owned a Firestorm tartan, they headed for the longhouse at the centre of the village.

  “I no highlander,” Ahitika said when Vyder offered to provide her with one. “Kalote no wear tartans.”

  The group walked together in a loose formation, all but Rafe relaxed. The berserker, who'd since wiped his face clean of blood, was constantly reminded to relax, his face often shifting from a neutral look to one of blood curdling fury as he watched Firestorm highlanders stride past.

  Vyder negotiated amongst a throng of people. Clan Firestorm was so large, he had no concern he or anyone in the group would be questioned as to their identity. Kalote people were often travelling to and from Kalote into the Shadolian highlands and vice versa, so Ahitika, too, was safe. The further they travelled, it was more obvious they were entering the richer area of the clan.

  Beautiful homes clustered together, painted in soft hues of cream or white, a thin, dark streak lining the perimeters of windows. The dirt road ended, and a cobbled street began.

  Vyder's boots thumped upon the firm surface. “Fancy. They're living the high life.”

  “Not for long,” Rafe said, his voice cheery.

  People looked well fed, strong, and content. Unlike the vast majority of clans spread across Shadolia, working tirelessly to eek a living from the land, only to have half of their crop taken in a tithe to be given to Clan Firestorm.

  This group of little monkeys need to be purged. Cleansed with fire and sharp steel.

  Gorgoroth sounded angry.

  “I agree.”

  Hyglak looked sidelong at him. “With what?”

  He smiled. “Nothing, just talking to myself.”

  Ahitika tapped him on the arm. “What crazy one saying?”

  “He wants to kill them all.”

  Rafe grunted, his eyes glazed with fury. “Tell him I agree.”

  A group of merchant wagons were parked close beside one another. The horses used to haul the vehicles were detached from their harnesses and stood in a large temporary fenced area nearby, munching upon a few bales of fresh feed. The wagons had been unpacked and wares of all shapes and types placed on tables. People browsed the wares, haggled, or as in Vyder's case, walked past, ignoring the calls of merchants, attempting to draw more people in to purchase their goods.

  The longhouse came into view at the end of the main road. Two guards holding spears stood at the entrance. Few people approached the area, and the several who did were turned away.

  Torgun cursed. “Just stepped in horseshit.”

  The young man scraped his boot against the cobbled road.

  Hyglak chuckled. “Isn't that meant to be good luck?”

  Torgun stamped his boot upon the ground. “Doesn't bloody smell like it.”

  Vyder watched the young man. “I'm sure you've smelled worse than horse dung, surely?”

  He jogged a few steps to catch up with the group. “True,” Torgun said.

  Vyder swung around and walked backwards, looking from one person to the next. “We stick to the plan.”

  They all nodded. Vyder stared at Rafe. Although handy to have in a fight, a berserker would also be an unpredictable asset. “Agreed?”

  Rafe smirked. “Aye, of course. I'll stick to the plan, and then I'll stick every bastard in that longhouse.”

  The assassin turned around and continued striding towards the building. The pair of guards outside were watching the approaching group. One of them leaned towards the other and muttered something.

  Vyder forced a
smile. “Good morning!”

  A guard stepped forward and held up a hand. “Stop there, laddie, Herdrike is not accepting visitors today. Come back tomorrow.”

  “Strange.” Vyder frowned, stopping before the guard. “We were summoned here by him.”

  “Still, laddie—”

  “Vyder.”

  The guard held out one hand, open palm facing the group. “Vyder, we've been instructed not to allow anyone to pass.”

  “I don't care what you've been told.” He pointed at the closed door behind the pair. “We've been summoned here. I'm one of Herdrike's senior advisers, I know you're just doing your duty, but is it worth losing your head?”

  The bump in the soldier's throat rose and fell.

  “Because, that's what's going to happen if you don't allow us to pass.”

  The guard stepped aside and gestured for his comrade to do the same, then waved a hand towards the closed door.

  “A wise choice,” said Vyder, striding past.

  “I didn't know they had senior advisers,” whispered Rafe.

  “Neither did I,” muttered Vyder, clutching the steel handle, turning it, and pushing open the door.

  Herdrike sat on a large wooden chair at the far end of the longhouse, hands clamped upon the fur lined armrests. Head lolled against the backrest, his eyes were closed. Four guards stood nearby, two on either side, spears clutched in their hands.

  Sitting cross-legged beside the fire in the centre of the huge room were two Kalote warriors. One man, the other a woman. They wore shabby clothes, eyes downcast, metal collars upon their necks, chains attaching the collars to the ground. One of them reached across and added a fresh log to the blaze, then returned to staring at the rich carpet upon which they sat. Fresh sparks drifted from the blaze, disappearing through the hole in the roof high above. He'd never seen Kalote slaves before. The only people from their neighbouring country he'd ever known had been much like Ahitika. Free, proud, and fierce. Not to mention the fact the countries of Kalote and Shadolia enjoyed an alliance. In his peripheral vision he saw Ahitika stiffen and did not need to look to know her face would be creased with fury.

  A massive, black war hound lay on the floor at Herdrike's feet, jowls resting upon its paws. One baleful eye opened, then the other, and the hound raised its head, brow creasing with interest, alert eyes watching the approaching group. It snarled and barked, the powerful sound echoing around the longhouse. Herdrike lurched in his chair, bleary eyes opening.

  “Wait until we are closer, do not attack until I give the signal, understood?”

  A strange, intermittent, low-pitched noise moved with the group advancing upon the sleeping Firestorm chieftain. Vyder swept his gaze across the group, his attention coming to rest upon Rafe. The man was growling with each exhalation, his lips pulled apart in a snarl, eyes wide with fury and madness, a tendril of saliva hanging from his beard.

  “Rafe!” he hissed. “Rafe, get a bloody hold of yourself.”

  “What is the meaning of this?” Herdrike shouted.

  The war hound barked again, the animal's deep growl promising a bone crushing bite should the newcomers move any closer. Vyder looked into the dog's face, staring into those dark eyes.

  Hello, my daughter. Aren't you a lovely one?

  The hound's face relaxed, and her tail thumped against the floor. She licked her lips and whined. Climbing to her feet, she padded forward a few steps, her tail wagging from side to side so fast it was nothing more than a dark blur behind her.

  “We are here as you requested, my chieftain,” Vyder called.

  The guards on either side of their leader relaxed.

  The hound darted forward at Vyder's voice.

  “I didn't request your presence. You'd best leave or she'll tear you all limb from limb.”

  The black hound, her head reaching Vyder's waist, skidded to a halt in front of him, stood on her hind legs and placed a paw on either shoulder, licking his cheek.

  Vyder squinted against the onslaught of affection, stroking her, but attempting to push her away. The animal was having none of it. She licked his face, Vyder eventually having to resort to covering his mouth with a hand. When she'd finished, she dropped back onto all fours and stared up at him, her tail slapping against the thigh of Torgun standing nearby.

  He knelt beside the animal and scratched her head. “It's been a while, girl!” he said loud enough for the chieftain and his guards to hear. “My apologies, my lord, there must have been some mistake. We were told to come to the longhouse as soon as possible for a meeting with you.”

  “What's that Kalote slut doing here?” Herdrike roared.

  It was lucky for the chieftain Ahitika could not speak or understand the Shadolian language, else Herdrike would be without a scalp.

  Vyder shrugged. “She cooks.” He smiled. “Attends our needs.” He'd be less his scalp if Ahitika knew the words he spoke. Maintaining the smile, guilt stabbed him. Verone's face drifted into his mind's eye.

  Herdrike laughed. It was a harsh staccato of sound. “I do not recall summoning you, especially that drooling dimwit amongst your number, but you may stay briefly.”

  He looked at Rafe and noticed the berserker's eyes rolled back in his head, several tendrils of saliva hanging in various lengths, vying to be the first to drip to the floor.

  Vyder's arms and legs became numb. He allowed Gorgoroth to take control without complaint. He stroked the dog, and she nuzzled his cheek.

  “You see that little bastard sitting in the chair over there?” he looked at Herdrike.

  The hound followed his gaze and whined.

  “Soon, I'm going to kill him and the men standing guard over him.”

  The whine changed to a deep, aggressive rumble.

  Gorgoroth stood. He appraised the group around him with a lethargic sweep. “Is everyone ready?”

  Ahitika snarled, Torgun nodded, Hyglak muttered something under his breath, and Rafe growled, one tendril of saliva finally touching the ground.

  Hand still upon the hound's head, he strode forward. “Then let us get it done.”

  Gorgoroth pulled the hunting knife free of its sheath held firm by the belt beneath his shirt. He broke into a run, darted around the seated Kalote slaves, and charged at the chieftain. Herdrike was on his feet, struggling to draw his sword in desperation. “Kill them!” he screamed at his guards.

  Gorgoroth plunged the knife into the man's throat. The sharp blade sliced through soft flesh, and Vyder kicked the dying man to the ground. The hound leapt upon the closest guard, her jaws fracturing his arm with a sickening crack. The man, off balance, fell to the floor under the dog's weight, screaming in agony. The animal released his arm and bit down upon his throat. The screaming ended.

  Vyder coughed and rubbed at the tingling ache in his throat. Feeling returned to his limbs. He knelt beside the dying chieftain, grabbed a fistful of shirt and hauled him into a semi-recumbent position. He stared into his eyes. “That's for my family and my clan, you stinking pile of shit. I am Clan Ironstone.” Herdrike's eyes, fast losing the light of life, bulged. He released him to fall to the ground. “Now and always.”

  When he stood, Rafe had killed one clansman and had the other in a headlock. Ahitika had dispatched the final man and the group stood watching Rafe. The berserker screamed like a wounded animal, spittle flying from his mouth. The guard struggled in Rafe's grip and finally landed a powerful blow on the berserker's back. The force of the punch would have given most men pause, but Rafe screamed at the roof of the longhouse, veins bulging in his throat and forehead. The glint of madness lit his eyes.

  “Crazy as wounded dog,” Ahitika muttered. She cleaned her blade upon the shirt of one and sheathed the weapon. Vyder half-expected her to scalp the guard, but she refrained. Instead she turned away and walked to the seated Kalote slaves watching proceedings, hope flickering in their dark eyes.

  Torgun stopped beside Vyder and gestured at the struggling pair. “He going to kill him? or keep
playing at wrestling?”

  He shook his head and shrugged, lost for words. “What in the name of the gods are you doing, Rafe?”

  Tightening the grip on his throat, the guard buckled at the knees. Only then did the berserker release the hold. The purple-faced guard clutched his neck, gasping in a deep breath.

  “Thros!” screamed Rafe, looking to the rafters. “Thros, bring us luck!” He drew a knife from his belt. “For you!” he yelled, pointing the weapon at the ceiling and the sky beyond, then dropped his arm and slashed open the guard's throat.

  “Ah, a sacrifice,” muttered Torgun.

  Something wet touched Vyder's fingers, and he glanced down. The hound nuzzled his hand, her tail wagging. He squatted beside the animal.

  Vyder stroked her head. “Good work, lass. I need to think of a name for you, don't I?”

  Prying a spear free from a guard's dead hand, Vyder rose and approached the slaves. Ahitika sat near them talking in their native tongue with soft tones.

  “Can you tell them we're going to free them?”

  Ahitika swung around. “Done already.”

  “I'm going to use the spear to pry lose their collars.”

  She turned to the pair and switched back to her native tongue.

  “I'm not going to hurt them.”

  Ahitika translated.

  They appeared unsure, yet hopeful. The closest felt her collar and found the locking mechanism fastening the device around her neck. She slid around to present it towards the assassin, then arched her head to give Vyder space. In doing so, she exposed her throat, entrusting a man she'd never before met with her freedom and her life.

  He placed the spear head into the lock and pried the rusted metal apart. She winced at the pressure. The metal held, the lock bending completely out of shape. Then it snapped. Ahitika pushed the spear away and opened the collar. The woman, once a slave rubbed her neck, wide, disbelieving eyes staring at the man sat opposite. She looked at Vyder and waved her hand at her comrade.

  Vyder nodded. “Yes, he's next.”

  He walked around to the far side and performed the same rudimentary operation. The pair jumped to their feet and embraced each other, laughing.