Fallen Empire

by Keith McArdle

  “Is there any more water?”

  “Of course.” The figure took back the cup and turned away.

  “Don’t give him too much.”

  Henry heard the pained sigh from the first man. “And why not, Braif?”

  “Because…he’s…a…prisoner!”

  “Maybe so, but we’re not barbarians. Not like those dungeon keepers. Bunch of bastards they are. Do not forget he is still the son of a monarch, Braif.”

  “Just don’t give him too much, alright? And stop saying my name.”

  “Whatever you say, Braif.”

  Henry grinned.

  The dark silhouette, barely distinguishable from the darkness around him returned to the wagon. “Here you are.” He passed the cup through the bars.

  Henry took it and drank it slower this time.

  “Thank you.”

  He drained half the water and placed the cup down upon the floor. He was full and felt bloated, but also knew he’d not eaten much. Henry decided to wait until he felt hungry again before he finished his meal. If he forced himself to eat, he knew he’d vomit, denying his body of essential sustenance.

  Braif, eh? Your name’s now on my kill list.

  He stared out into the darkness, focusing on one of the distant campfire’s around which sat Huronian soldiers.

  I’m going to kill you dead.

  * * *

  Vyder watched flames dancing as they fed upon the blackening logs he’d recently thrown onto the fire. He relaxed. Ever since he was a child wandering the Shadolian Highlands, fire always possessed the power to take away his tension and stress. He could sit for hours, simply feeding a campfire and watching it burn. When the odd thought crossed his mind, it moved in slow motion as if it had become stuck in some deep, muddy bog.

  You know what that is little brother?

  “What are you talking about?”

  Over yonder, on the far side of the fire, you see that tree?

  The assassin squinted through the flames and saw a tall tree straight enough to use as a ship’s mast, the trunk white as a ghost. Rising heat from the fire caused the upper branches to seem like they were blurry one moment and in focus the next.

  “I see it. Never seen one before.”

  It’s a Ghost Oak. And there’s a good reason you’ve never seen one. They only grow in Huronian forests. The temperature is slightly warmer here than in Wendurlund.

  “So we crossed the border into enemy territory.” Vyder smiled. “Finally.”

  No more night fires from here on in. Too easy to spot, not to mention, smell.

  “Aye, I know. This isn’t my first foray into dangerous territory. I’ve been doing this a long time, Gorgoroth.”

  Laughter peeled out in his mind and anger lanced Vyder’s chest. He clenched his jaw.

  A long time eh? You have no idea what a long time is. Remember to whom it is you speak my little human friend.

  “Oh fear not, I know laddie.”

  But we may need the help of my brother before our mission is at an end. Is that not correct, brother?

  “I don’t know what you mean?”

  I do not speak to you, Vyder. Agoth, are you here?

  Soft wind greeted them, brushing the skin of his cheek and caressing his hair. Vyder looked at the mighty upper branches of the Ghost Oak, the leaves emitted a dull glitter as they reflected the orange glow of the campfire far below.

  Agoth?

  He leaned across and grasped another fresh log he’d gathered before the sun departed below the horizon hours earlier. He flicked it onto the fire.

  “Doesn’t look hopeful, Gorgoroth.”

  Patience, my friend. Patience.

  Vyder felt his mouth open and Gorgoroth’s voice began singing a gentle melody, almost inaudible over the slight breeze. He’d heard Endessa hum the tune before. Was it some kind of song for summoning?

  Very good. That’s exactly what it is.

  A sudden gust of wind threw sparks across the ground and displaced one of the logs, the blackened, glowing piece of timber almost rolling clear of the campfire. But, the gust vanished as fast as it appeared. Gorgoroth’s voice increased in volume. Vyder felt his arms raise parallel with the ground, his hands opening, palms facing the fire.

  An explosion rang out from the fire and the log Vyder had so recently placed upon the blaze went spinning away from them into the forest’s darkness. Vyder’s arms dropped back to his sides and feeling returned to them. He swallowed and coughed.

  The centre of the fire seemed to take form, flames curling and intensifying to create a deep orange face. It was the same face he’d seen Endessa speaking with. Horns adorned the temples, tusks protruding from each corner of its mouth.

  “Hello Agoth.”

  The face turned to him, glowing red eyes appraising him. “Vyder, greetings to you.” Fangs lined the mouth as the fire spirit spoke. “Well met, my friend.”

  This time, Vyder could hear Agoth’s voice. It was deep, gravelly and didn’t sound so much a voice as it did if the noise of a wildfire could be formed into words.

  We need to speak, brother.

  “Ah, Gorgoroth, I supposed as much, seeing as you summoned me here to this forest of Huron.”

  Fire will be used sparingly from now on. Can you be summoned without fire?

  “I can be summoned through the power of a single spark.”

  I understand, my second question of course is, are you deaf?

  The fang-lined mouth opened, head titled back and laughter filled the forest.

  Because, you may be needed at short notice and if tonight is example of the length of time required to summon you, it may be too late.

  Silence returned to the small clearing although Vyder could still hear a gentle chuckle. The fire exploded with a thunderous boom. Vyder leapt to his feet, knife clutched in his hand as he backed away into the shadows. A red-hot coal, the size of a man’s palm tumbled through the air and came to rest on the ground at Vyder’s feet with a thud. He watched it for a moment as the dry leaf litter surrounding it began to blacken and smoulder. Returning his attention to the fire, he saw that although it was diminished from what it’d been, it continued to burn, and Agoth still resided in its depths.

  “Relax, Vyder. There’s no threat here. That is a summoning token. It’ll bring me to you within moments, as long as there is at least a spark of fire present.”

  Thank you brother.

  “But use it sparingly, it can be used but one time before all power is faded from the token.”

  * * *

  Ahitika crouched upon an upper bow of a Ghost Oak looking upon the camp below. The man who sat near the fire was crazy. That much she knew. But, when the fire erupted and the face of an evil spirit resided within the fire, she rubbed her eyes and wondered if it was she who was the crazy one.

  She touched the breastplate, made from long thin beads created from animal bone. Medicine men had imbued the breastplate with the power of The Great Spirit, protecting her from evil. She stood and with lithe agility walked to the outer edges of the branches so that she stood directly above the campfire.

  When the evil spirit in the fire spoke, she ducked into a crouch, fear spreading through her. Ahitika touched the breastplate and held onto it this time. Long enough for the fear to dissipate.

  I am Ahitika, warrior of the Kalote people. And I am not afraid.

  The evil spirit in the fire seemed to be talking to itself, because the man sitting nearby remained silent. As the one way conversation continued, she lowered herself into a sitting position, so her legs dangled over the edge of the branch. As time passed, she grew accustomed to the face in the fire and listened to the words. It was speaking in the language of Wendurlund. She could pick out some words, but for the most part, it spoke too quickly for her to keep up. Outside of Kalote, she’d heard Huronian spoken so often that she’d almost forgotten the Wendurlund language.

  She focused upon
the back of the head of the seated man.

  So you are a man of Wendurlund. I hate you less, then. I might not take your scalp. Although the scalp of a Witch Doctor would see my initiation at an end.

  Her lips stretched into a smile as she watched the man far beneath her.

  I may take your scalp, yet.

  When the fire exploded with a thunderous noise, her moccasin enshrouded feet were beneath her and she stood once more, backing away. She padded backward on the branch, her balance instinctive while her eyes bored into the man, who himself was on his feet and retreating from the fire. Like she, he’d moved in an instant blur and backed away into the shadows.

  So, you too are a warrior.

  A piece of red hot coal bounced against the branch upon which she stood and fell to earth, coming to rest upon the ground with a soft thud.

  She crouched again, watching. Her brow creased, eyes narrowing as the fire regathered itself into the face of the evil spirit.

  What is happening here?

  The warrior man returned to the fire and knelt beside the piece of hot coal. Although he was wise enough not to touch it. Ahitika sat upon the branch once more legs dangling over the edge to be caressed by cool evening air. Soon the evil spirit faded from the campfire, the flames simply flickering and wobbling in the gentle breeze exactly as they should.

  Ahitika brushed a hand against her breastplate once more, drawing strength from it. If the evil spirit had departed the fire, then it was free to roam where it pleased. Would it come for her? She clutched firmly onto her breastplate, feeling the power of The Great Spirit wash over her.

  No!

  As the dull white orb of Finkam The Hunter ascended higher into the night sky, Ahitika held a fist to her mouth and supressed a yawn. When the Witch Doctor warrior lay upon the ground near the dying campfire, she stood and stretched. Padding along the mighty branch she came to the tree trunk of the colossal Ghost Oak. She leapt, swung and dropped from branch to branch, until she landed lithely upon the ground. Ahitika knelt and touched the earth, taking a handful of leaf litter and brought it to her nose. She closed her eyes and breathed in the scent. Splaying her fingers, the dead leaves drifted back to the ground.

  With fluid movement she was on her feet and striding to a nearby tree against which was leant her longbow, quiver and set of scalps. She tied the quiver and scalps to her belt next to her hunting knife and slung the bow. Pushing past a sapling, she crept through the forest, past vine-enshrouded trees. Ahitika brushed a hand across a fern’s broad, soft leaf as she moved in silence. The forest was like her second home, she was no stranger to the wild woodlands of Huron or Kalote. She’d once heard of a merchant becoming lost in some distant part of a Huronian forest. They’d found his body days later, although his horse had broken free of its tethers. The story amused her at the time.

  How soft have the Huronian people become that a man can no longer sustain himself within this huge home the woodlands provide?

  She looked through the canopy high above at the dull glow provided by Finkam The Hunter, the light filtering through the branches to cast random patterns upon the ground.

  Here there is food, water and shelter. The Huronians are so weak. How did the Huronian soldiers drive our people off this land in the days of my fore fathers? Our land.

  She clenched her teeth and her jaw bulged. She touched the scalps tied to her belt, the soft hair soothing against her fingers. Ahitika smiled.

  All from Huronian warriors.

  Her lips morphed from a smile into a snarl.

  All dead.

  Returning her attention to the dark forest in front of her, she saw what remained of the campfire, a dull red glow hidden away amongst the foliage before her.

  Three more scalps and my initiation as a warrior is at an end.

  Ahitika walked on with care, her soft moccasins almost inaudible as a soft breeze whispered through the forest. Her smile returned.

  Or the scalp of one Witch Doctor warrior.

  As Ahitika advanced past trees, shrubs, stumps left over from ancient trunks that, in life, would have dwarfed all the forest, she came upon the campfire. She crouched, brow creasing as her eyes swept the small clearing. The Witch Doctor was nowhere to be seen. She remained silent, her focus gliding more carefully across the glade, but the man who’d been there so recently was gone. It was as if he’d never existed at all. A horse stood in the flickering shadows, tied loosely to a tree and munching with content upon the pick growing through the leaf litter.

  A fern nearby moved seemingly of its own volition, sending a shock of fear spearing through her. She shot a look in that direction and saw the silhouette of a man, barely distinguishable from the darkness around him, kneeling nearby staring at the campfire.

  “Who are we looking for little monkey?”

  It is the Witch Doctor warrior!

  The man turned to face her, one bright blue orb where an eye should have been, illuminating his face in the soft colour of the ocean. His teeth shone from the depths of a wide smile. He slammed a hand onto his chest with a thump.

  “Or is it me you’re looking for?”

  She made to speak, but the words caught in her throat.

  “Because if it’s me for whom you look.” He exploded into motion, leaping through the air to come to rest in a crouch inches away from her. “I can help you.”

  Ahitika stared into the eyes of madness, her fingers curled around the deer horn hilt of her hunting knife. The Witch Doctor continued to hold her gaze, the grin spread across his face unwavering.

  “Are you sure you want to do that, little one?”

  Her grip tightened upon the weapon and she tensed her arm ready to draw it and strike a killing blow, something she could carry out in the blink of an eye. But, a cold sensation spread from her chest to her gut, causing hesitation to win supreme. The feeling was foreign to her and after a moment’s pause, she realised it was doubt. She relaxed her hand and allowed it to slide free from the knife.

  “A wise choice.”

  She made to retort, but the dull glint of Finkham The Hunter’s light reflected upon metal caught her eye and she looked down to see the Witch Doctor holding a knife, which looked more like a small sword, less than a finger’s breadth from her gut.

  “You are warrior,” her lips struggled to form the words of the Wendurlund language. Ahitika had not spoken the language in so many years.

  The Witch Doctor stood and sheathed the knife. “I am many things.”

  “What is Wendurlund Witch doing here in enemy territory?” she couldn’t remember the Wendurlund word for doctor.

  The tall man chuckled. “I could ask you, a Kalote woman, the very same thing. Let us return to the fire.” He walked away, but cast a glance over his shoulder at her. “And I’m no witch. I’ll leave that to Endessa.”

  Her brow creased.

  Endessa?

  She stood and followed, watching the Witch Doctor throw a log onto the glowing coals. Clearly, he held no fear of her.

  I’ll not scalp this one. Safer to scalp another few Huronian warriors.

  Sparks were cast skyward, drifting through the air in random patterns. Soon small flames were flickering up around the outer edges of the fresh wood as the campfire began to return to life.

  “Me,” she touched her breastplate, drawing strength from it, “Ahitika.”

  The Witch Doctor sat cross-legged, watching her, that glowing blue eye boring into her soul. “I am Vyder.”

  Ahitika took a pace backward, her hand snaking to catch a hold of her breastplate.

  “Your voice…different.”

  The Witch Doctor’s voice had become somehow deeper and held an accent. Struggle as she might with recalling the Wendurlund language, she was sure the accent was one of the highlanders of Shadolia.

  “I’ll not hurt you lass.”

  Ahitika walked closer, but stopped at a safe distance. She sat upon the forest floor. “You
are witch dotoc…dotocor?”

  “A witch doctor?” Vyder’s laugh boomed throughout the forest. “I’m not entirely normal, but I’ll tell you in time. For now, think of me as a man with a split personality, but I’m no witch doctor.”

  “What is split personality?”

  Vyder reached with a long, thick stick and poked the log, rolling it over. Flames leapt higher. “It means there are two people living in one body.”

  She shifted and pointed at him. “Insane?”

  “No, not me,” he smiled. “The other one though?” Vyder nodded. “Very possibly. But he likes you I think. I doubt he’ll harm you.”

  “You not sure though?”

  The shoulders of the big highlander rose and fell.

  “Add more spice to life,” Ahitika pushed herself to her feet and crept closer to the fire.

  Vyder laughed.

  If the crazy one attacks, I’ll kill him. Then scalp him.

  She smiled.

  She gestured towards the man. “You speak Wendurlund, but with different accent?”

  He nodded and looked away from her, returning his attention to the fire. He poked the fire again before the odd coloured eyes returned to drill into her being. “I’m a Shadolian Highlander.”

  As I thought.

  “I met a Wendurlund woman on a short trip across the Shadolian Sea to Wendurlund, many years ago now. Her father was a merchant who travelled often between Shadolia and Wendurlund.”

  Silence drifted once more across the camp.

  “She bound herself to you?”

  His brow creased then relaxed just as fast. “Yes, we were married.”

  “Where she now?”

  “Dead.”

  “Killed by crazy one?” she pointed a twig in his direction. “Killed by blue-eyed split personality?”

  Vyder’s eyes returned to the fire, his chest expanded and then contracted rapidly. “No.”

  She almost misheard him his voice was so soft.

  “We lived in a cabin in the Likane Forest on the eastern most border of Wendurlund.”

  “East?”

  “The direction from which the sun rises.”

  She nodded. “You lived near the border with Huron?”

  “Aye, lass.”