Blackest Spells

by Phipps, C. T.

  “Get your shit packed, pisswit,” he growled.

  By the time they reached Little Creek, Drangar felt less the outsider than before. Sure, there were many who still shunned him, but with Tadc, Finnen and Una he had some people to spend time with.

  It was noon. The clouds were heavy in the sky, and if he were to guess, winter was closer than he had reckoned. It must have been late Chill, or early Cold—maybe. A few children lined the dirt road into the village, staring at them. Here and there, a woman or man poked their heads out of a window or a door to watch their arrival. It wasn’t every day they saw a sight like Mireynh’s Marauders ride through their streets.

  The door to the largest timber frame, wattle and daub building flung wide open and out strode a stout, round-bellied man—a figure far better nourished than the children and people he’d seen. Next to the walking barrel panted a young man. His cheeks flushed red in the chill air. Drangar guessed father and son judging by the similar features. He was slimmer and stronger looking, but younger—much younger. Drangar reckoned he was near his own age.

  The donkey looked back at him as if demanding to be free of its load. He obliged, receiving a quick bite on the arm as thanks.

  “This is the one I spoke to, father,” the younger man said, pointing at Tuaghal.

  “So you’ll help us with the brigands?” the older asked. “Thank the gods.—Forgive me my manners; I’m headman Amdah, reeve of the Lord Gebennach Duann. Welcome to Little Creek.”

  “Tuaghal; and we ain’t here to trade pleasantries.—Why did you send for mercenaries? Your son didn’t tell me.”

  Headman Amdah’s eyebrows flew to his hairline. “Arvel, you didn’t tell them?” he reproached his son.

  Arvel could’ve explained. He wanted to. “But father-,” the young man’s reply was cut by a crimson heat burning at the side of his face where his father’s handprint lay pronounced.

  “Foolish boy,” the reeve scolded. Addressing Tuaghal, he said, “Apologies for the lack of transparency. Our lord’s forces are occupied. All able bodied men went with him. Which is why we searched for you. Heard only good things about Mireynh’s Marauders, though the name is a bit unsettling.”

  Tuaghal looked his son up and down. “Guess Arvel, here, ain’t that able in the body, eh?” he said. Even Drangar had to chuckle when the reeve and son shifted in discomfort. “Brigands, eh? Harvest drawing out the rats, eh?”

  “Father, will they be-,” More crimson heat. Again Arvel was slapped into silence.

  “When men talk, children listen.”

  Arvel gritted his teeth and looked to the ground, chastised. Drangar’s eye caught the clenched jaw, the locked muscles—he knew all too well each raw emotion coursing through the man.

  “The price remains?” Tuaghal asked.

  “Aye, twenty suns, plus another ten if you kill the leader,” reeve Amdah said.

  The Marauders were ten. With Tuaghal taking at least three shares, that still left more than two suns. Enough for another horse. That was, if the bastard, Tuaghal, didn’t cheat him out of his pay. The donkey bit him again. This time, he punched the beast’s nose. Two suns, he thought. Soon, he’d be rich.

  At nightfall, Tuaghal ordered them to the local tavern to eat and inform them of the situation and his plan. A warm meal, some bread, some watered down ale—Drangar felt better than he had since the gelding had croaked its last. Laden with a wooden plate of stew and bread, and a mug of bitter, he looked around the taproom, searching for a place to sit. To his happy surprise it was Tadc who signaled him, yelling “Over here, Ralchanh!”

  Few warriors in the Marauders used last names, that honor was reserved for warleaders and the warlord. Even fewer among them knew his last name. Of all people, he had not expected that Tadc would be one of them.

  Ralchanh. Why would someone like him remember my name? Drangar wondered as he joined Tadc, Una and Finnen at their table. Finnen used her spoon to point at the empty spot on the bench beside Tadc.

  “Keep your back to the wall, some fuckers don’t like you,” she said.

  She didn’t have to say more, he knew the ones she meant. A few days ago he had tried to juggle sitting on a log by their fire while keeping his food and drink balanced in his hands. It hadn’t ended well. Yet, another thing he’d never do again. Now, with plate and mug set on the table, he slid onto the bench. The sheathed sword strapped to his waist thumped against the seat.

  “You sharpened that pig sticker?” Una asked.

  “Aye,” he replied, patting the weapon he’d had with him since his escape from the Eye. “What’s wrong with it?”

  “Shitty steel,” Tadc said, shoveling stew into his mouth.

  Una nodded. “Miracle the bugger hasn’t broken yet,” she added.

  Tadc snorted, Finnen chuckled, and Drangar tried to suppress his blush. But the blood crept to his cheeks anyway.

  “No worries, runt, we’ll find you a proper blade when we’re at camp,” Tadc said, slapping Drangar’s back.

  “Silence, fuckers!” Tuaghal’s shout drowned out all noise.

  The room fell quiet.

  The bastard had a smug look on his face; but as his gaze passed over Drangar, it darkened into something sinister. “Two gold suns each, the village promised us as reward to fight off a gang of robbers,” he said.

  Drangar squinted his eyes. That wasn’t what he had overheard. The total was thirty gold, they were ten, Tuaghal was entitled to more; three shares were standard, which left twenty-one gold for nine people to split.

  Tadc leaned closer and whispered, “I’ve seen that look in your eyes before, Ralchanh, don’t argue the point. He’s pissed off at you as it is.”

  That’s the second time he’s called me that. Why the Scales does he remember my last name? The answer was of little consequence. What mattered was that Tadc was on his side. Drangar heeded the man’s advice.

  “The reeve has no idea how many bastards will attack,” Tuaghal continued, “says the number varies. Could be five, could be thirty. We’ll have our runners watch the three paths into the village, the rest will wait and rush to form a shield wall to take on the buggers.”

  “A wall of ten,” Una muttered. “Could work, if the bastards are just rabble. We’re fucked if they aren’t.”

  “What about if they come from all three directions?” Drangar blurted out.

  “Pisswit,” Tuaghal growled. “Of course.”

  “The runt’s got a point,” Tadc said. “And you damn well know it. This place has more holes than Haldain’s king by the time the rebels were through with him.” A chuckle rippled through the mercenaries.

  The veteran went on. “It’s got no wall, a few fences, nothing that’ll stop a hare, much less brigands. We can’t control spit in this place, especially when we don’t know whether they have a spy here.”

  Tuaghal shook his head. “The villagers will help us with them fortifications,” he said. “They’ll close gaps between houses, rig up some surprises and all that, so the robbers only have the roads.”

  “Still leaves us with three roads through which they can enter,” Rathyen said, breaking her usual silence. “We need to control their entrance.”

  “Block all ways but one?” Tuaghal asked.

  It was plainly obvious to Drangar as if the older mercenary had never considered that option. “Some leader,” he muttered.

  Finnen must have heard him for she chuckled.

  “Aye,” Sitric said. “Rathyen’s right, we need to control the field.” Looking over at Tughal, he added, “All this time you had me thinking you’d been Mireynh’s messenger-boy. Thought you learned something running for the old man. Where’s your mind at, Tughal?”

  A lot of the mercenaries questioned where his mind was; but Tuaghal literally jumped for Sitric, grabbed the man’s tunic and pulled him off his chair. “Don’t you fucking mock me!” he said.

  Sitric must have seen it coming because he suddenly had a dagger pressed against Tuaghal’s waist. “Pi
cking on the pisswit is one thing,” he said, “he hasn’t the balls to stand up to you. But choosing to attack someone who’s been fighting at your side for years is beyond stupid. Let go, or my collar will be the last thing your hands ever clasp.”

  The words were ice water to Tuaghal’s fiery rage. He came to his senses and released the other.

  “Now behave,” Sitric said, smiling as he sat back down.

  “Wagons,” Finnen broke the deathly silence.

  “Pisswit’s lover is right,” Sitric said.

  Another insult. Drangar felt as if he was back in the Eye where it mattered not that he had been the most diligent of students. Here he was the youngest, the butt of every joke—always the runt!

  He took hold of the tankard and drank. Now they were attacking Finnen as well. Scales! he thought. Seething, he emptied the tankard, called for another, shoveled food into his mouth and drank again. Part of him still listened to the plan the mercenaries were forming, a bigger part imagined tearing Sitric and Tuaghal limb from limb.

  Sleep came and went as Drangar tossed and turned. Images flooded his mind; images of his clawed hands ripping apart Tuaghal, ripping out the man’s guts one inch at a time. He woke staring at his hands in the moonlight, expecting to see blood, so vivid were the dreams that he almost smelled the shit dripping from the entrails.

  Over and over—each time a few calming breaths, and he lay back down, only to sit up again as another form of the same blood-soaked nightmare shot through his mind.

  The sun was rising as he woke for the fourth time.

  “Runt, you all right?” Tadc asked. “You were panting and muttering. Sexy dream?” The older man smirked at him as they washed in the village pond.

  “Something like that,” he replied.

  “Heard the plan?”

  “We block all but one path, wait for the brigands, and kill ‘em, right?”

  “Aye, guess Tuaghal’s and Sitric’s pissing contest wasn’t that important,” the other said, chuckling.

  “Morning, you bastards,” Finnen greeted them, undressing. She jumped into the pond and dammit if she wasn’t the very vision of vitality. Drangar stared, growing hard.

  “Perfect,” he said, realizing too late he had actually spoken the word. And, of course, he wasn’t the only one around to hear it.

  Tadc laughed as Drangar turned away from the man. Another scarlet tide shoved its way to his face. Good morning, indeed.

  “What’s so funny?” Finnen asked. He caught her eyes as she looked at his crotch. “Oh,” she smiled.

  “Aye, methinks he likes you,” Tadc chuckled.

  Embarrassed, Drangar walked off.

  They drafted the villagers to help with blocking two of the roads and every other gap or opening that allowed access to Little Creek. Wagons, wheelbarrows, barrels—even brute logs of uncut wood were piled up to fortify the barricades. The task was complete just a little past noon.

  “Pisswit,” Tuaghal smirked. By now, the smug son-of-a-bitch was the only one left amused by the insult. Drangar’s half-remembered dream from the night before flashed before his eyes. “You’re on the roof next to the northerly road. Take your bow, and warn us if they approach from there.”

  “I’m no bowman,” Drangar said. “Can barely hit a barn from ten paces, you know that.”

  “Good time to learn then, Pisswit Bowman,” Tuaghal sneered.

  “Fuck you, Tuaghal,” Tadc snapped. “The runt said he can’t shoot for shit, and you still want him there? You want to get him killed?” he was tired of Tughal’s antics. “Aw fuck it! Fight him now, one on one, to the death.”

  “You’re playing wet-nurse to the pisswit, Tadc?” Tuaghal growled.

  “You’ve been acting like a cunt for a week now, Tuaghal, how about you put your money—”

  Drangar interrupted Tadc by placing a hand on the man’s shoulder. “I appreciate this,” he said, loud enough for everyone to hear, “but it’s got to be me.”

  “Oh Librarian Pisswit has got some balls after all,” Tuaghal wouldn’t stop pushing.

  Drangar took a calming breath. I mustn’t lose my nerve, he repeated in the silence of his mind. The man was twice his age, and had been a mercenary for longer than Drangar had been alive. And who was he but a child compared to him? Sure, the Sons of Traksor had trained him since he could walk, but so far he had only seen two real battles. Did he really stand a chance against Tughal?

  Mireynh’s code gave him the right to challenge the older man. Calm, he reminded himself, he had to stay calm. They were on the edge of battle. It could come at any moment. This just wasn’t the right time. Drangar opened his mouth to keep the peace—to dismiss the insult like the thousands before it.

  “You’ve insulted me for the last time, Tuaghal. By the rules of Mireynh’s Marauders I challenge you to the death. I shall wait until you have donned your armor, then I will kill you.” Instead, that came out.

  Tughal dropped his mask of pleasantries, making way for a countenance of hatred. He had never liked Drangar, that was no secret, and now he’d given the older man the chance to kill him. “I need no armor to beat you,” Tuaghal said through thin, tight lips. He’d unsheathed his sword just as he’d unsheathed his true face. “I’ll end you, now.”

  This was not the reaction Drangar had expected from the older mercenary. Neither had he thought the man this fast. He was still drawing his sword from the scabbard when Tuaghal charged. Only a lunge to the right, his opponent’s left, saved him from being impaled.

  Now his blade was free, just in time to stop a downward chop. The blows rained and Drangar gave as hard as his opponent did. Each of them blocked the other’s attacks. For a moment Drangar wished for a shield, it would have taken pressure off his sword. The blade was too short for a two-handed grip to be useful, and the hilt barely supported his left hand either.

  Anya, his weapons teacher, had once attacked him like this. “Remember, always keep one eye on your opponent’s feet, they will tell you what he plans, and give you the chance to take him down.” The words had barely left her mouth when she had already tripped him, sending him to the ground.

  For months, he had bugged her to teach him how, now those painful training lessons ended the duel. Tuaghal went to the ground, and Drangar’s blade cut the older man’s throat.

  “Guess we need to divide the money by nine now,” Tadc said.

  The others looked at Drangar as if he was Lesganagh’s Servant incarnate, and for a moment he felt shame at all their attention. He had only done what was just. All quarrels must be resolved. The duel had done just that.

  “Well, runt, all his stuff is yours now,” Tadc said. “That includes the chain armor. I suggest you put it on.”

  They came later that afternoon. From the west. With the setting sun in their backs, they had the blinding rays on their side, and despite the mercenaries’ wall holding, the brigands had training themselves and began to rain arrows on them. Tadc had tasked Drangar with taking down anyone scaling their makeshift barricades.

  Once or twice he slipped on the blood of the enemy, still unused to the weight of the chain mail and the heavier boots Tuaghal had bequeathed him. Then, from the center of the village, an angry roar sounded, steel clashed on steel and wood. Now was the time to join his fellow warriors.

  He rushed back to the village round. The enemy had his comrades surrounded! They stood in a circle, shields outward, back to back, seven warriors against twenty. He saw Tadc take a blow to the helmeted head. For a moment the old mercenary swayed, tried to remain upright. Then he went down.

  The rage returned—the furor he felt whenever a brother went down. Kerral had once taken him out of the wall, reprimanding him. He was too uncontrolled for the wall, too undisciplined. Tadc had mocked him, but he’d been kind. Now all control was gone, leaving behind a growing frenzy of wrath and blood.

  Another mercenary went down; another brethren fallen.

  Drangar went in, howling, barreling into the mob of brigands
. If they realized he was among them the moment his blade cleft into the first one’s skull, he couldn’t tell. It mattered not. His sword stuck, he tore his victim’s axe from twitching hands, and chopped into the next in line. The woman fell, almost yanking free his newly acquired weapon. A third and a fourth, one with a spitted, the other with a bashed in face. They all went down.

  When the mercenaries saw him rage amongst the enemy, they pushed harder. Blood gushed from a hacked neck, drenching his face. The axe was lodged in the man’s spine, so Drangar dove for his opponent’s sword and slashed into someone’s feet.

  He slashed, stabbed, and hacked.

  Then it was over.

  Tadc lived, the blow had only stunned. Now the older warrior stood, covered in blood soaked mud. Finnen was alive as well and she smiled and laughed as she flung herself at him. They kissed—a taste of blood, sweat and spice. Six mercenaries had survived; it was a much better number to split the thirty gold suns with, but at what cost? With the help of the villagers they carried out the dead and prepared a pyre. Kindling and straw took spark to flame and soon three and thirty, mercenaries and brigands, burned to ash.

  Elated, four suns were a big enough fortune, and with Tuaghal’s gear and horse, now his, Drangar decided to pay for the night’s carousing. He had no idea just how much drink a single gold sun could buy.

  “…will you stop with the drink already? We both know your mood when you’re drunk.” Kerral’s words belonged to the past.

  He woke; someone was mistreating drums inside his head. Next to him lay Finnen, naked just like him. Had they fucked? Was it good? He smiled, though he remembered nothing. His stomach wasn’t as forgetful. Swaying, he got to his feet, stumbled out of the room, tried to get his bearings. Where the Scales was he? A barn? How fitting. The air still carried the stench of burnt flesh.

  His queasy stomach rebelled, and he barely made it out, stumbling headfirst into the nearby thornleaf. He didn’t care. All that mattered was getting it all out.