A March of Woe (Overthrown Book 3)

by Aaron Bunce

  “His like always run from a standup fight,” the guard spat, breathing hard as he moved to sheath his sword.

  “Don’t–” the monk started to say, even as the black form flashed in from the right. The guard howled and dropped to a knee, his blade falling away.

  The shiny dagger stabbed in again and again, plunging into the guard’s soft and unprotected neck. His startled cry devolved into a wet gurgle as he toppled over, steam rising from his opened body. The other guard appeared in the doorway, just as his counterpart toppled over, his eyes wide in shock and fear.

  “The shadows are all I’ve ever known,” Balin said, hoarsely, before flashing towards the second guard. The man pulled himself together enough to raise his sword, but the rogue came in savagely, stabbing and chopping violently.

  Brother Dalman couldn’t watch. They needed to run. He slipped in the straw, caught his footing, and made for the step up to the bench. The pitchfork slipped from his hands, rattling to the ground. He paused, turning to fetch it, but there wasn’t time. He hoisted himself up onto the bench and grasped the reins just as something struck him from behind, and he fell ungainly to the ground.

  “You shouldn’t have made it so hard,” Balin said, standing on the bench above him. “Those men didn’t have to die.” The rogue jumped and landed next to him, the dagger lifted up high, and then came down. But before the blade could bite, Balin made a strangled noise and lurched back.

  Aida yanked on the rogue’s cloak again, pulling the small man off his feet. She pulled him back, dragging Balin clear of the carriage and through the straw. Brother Dalman pushed off the ground, the ground treacherous and slippery. Balin twisted and lunged, his feet shooting up into the air and carrying the rest of his body with them.

  Aida shrieked in surprise, the rogue diving at her faster than the monk thought possible. The girl swung the carriage door open at the last moment, the dagger striking the wood instead. Balin ripped the blade free, and slammed the door shut, pinning Aida against the carriage. She would die, and he couldn’t stop it.

  Brother Dalman made it to his feet just as a blur of white streaked in, and then Balin was gone, an arrow imbedded in the side of the carriage, its shaft smeared with dark blood.

  “In with ya,” the older man said, appearing from behind the carriage, a bow in hand, another arrow already nocked. His white hair was neatly cropped, a steel of vitality in his eyes not normally seen in men of his thaws.

  Brother Dalman closed the door behind Aida and moved to climb onto the bench.

  “I’m Dugan. We’re to get my son and the girl out of here, now!” the older man said, swiveling and loosing another arrow into the shadows.

  Balin’s ruined laugh echoed from every corner of the carriage house.

  “You will run out of arrows eventually. And then…” the rogue hissed.

  Brother Dalman scrabbled for the first step. His right sleeve was slick with blood, the hand cold and numb. He didn’t remember getting cut. Clutching his injured hand to his body, the monk scooped the reins up and hoisted himself back into the bench, snapping the team into action before he’d even sat down.

  The horses, already agitated, whinnied and stamped their hooves, before finally pulling in unison. The carriage rocked forward, one of the axels grinding noisily. They emerged from the building, one of the wheels riding up and over the second guard’s body, his blood pooling in the white snow.

  “You killed them, not me!” Balin screamed.

  Brother Dalman pulled the left rein, but the team had already made for the turnaround, and beyond that, the road south.

  “Get in!” Brother Dalman cried, as Dugan ran out of the building behind him. The older man caught the carriage easily and heaved himself up onto the bench. Dugan moved quickly past Brother Dalman, and slid across the carriage roof, readying the bow.

  He snapped the reins again, urging the team on as the carriage rumbled through the turnaround, the snow-covered cobblestones crunching beneath the wheels. The road spanned ahead, a narrow expanse surrounded by trees – the path to freedom and safety. They were almost there.

  The carriage rode up onto a swell of snow and settled onto the road, the trees stealing the moonlight, temporarily casting them in shadow. Brother Dalman choked back a curse as they emerged into the moonlight again, Balin’s dark form hanging off the side of the carriage next to him.

  The rogue was up on the bench before he could utter a cry. The smaller man shouldered him aside, his balance already precarious atop the rocking carriage. He tipped, scrabbled, and just managed to not fall.

  “I like you, monk. You don’t give up,” Balin said, wrestling the reins out of his hand, “I’m sorry that I have to kill you…you seem like an honest man.”

  Brother Dalman fought, his injured hand hooking back inside the smaller man’s arm. He wasn’t armed, but if they stopped, they all died.

  “You don’t have to do this!” he said, continuing to fight to push the smaller man back and take controls of the team. They were slowing.

  “You don’t understand. None of you do. I…we will all be slaves in the end. What we want doesn’t matter anymore. If you fight, you die,” Balin said, sliding him across the bench with an impossibly strong arm.

  He saw the dagger appear, even as his hands clawed desperately for the reins, but his mind refused to register what it meant. It was danger, and death, but he couldn’t stop. Not now.

  “Knowing what is coming for your people, I would consider your death a kindness,” the small man growled, and turned to plunge the shiny dagger toward his chest.

  Brother Dalman flinched as a weight fell over both of them, the blade’s painful bite not falling. The reins pulled free into his hands as the rogue tumbled backwards out of the seat and onto the top of the passenger compartment. Brother Dalman slapped the reins, urging the horses faster, and turned just as a bow tumbled over the side, arrows scattering after it.

  Dugan wrestled Balin off the ground, the old man easily half again the smaller man’s size, but also twice his age. The shiny dagger waved around in the air as the rogue struggled to find an angle. Dugan turned, narrowly missing a blade to his left thigh. His gaze met Brother Dalman’s, those icy blue eyes full of fear and panic.

  “Take care of my son…keep Dylan safe. Do it for me,” Dugan said, and then threw himself, and Balin, over the side of the carriage.

  Brother Dalman leapt and scrabbled, but they were already gone. He turned, searching the dark trees passing along beside them, and then the road behind them, but it was too dark.

  “No!” the monk yelled, clutching his throbbing hand to his chest. He sank mournfully back onto the bench and gave the reins a swift flick.

  The monk ran the team all night, and only stopped to feed and rest them when the sun had fully risen. Aida and Dylan emerged from the carriage, sleepy-eyed and pale.

  “Where is father?” Dylan asked, after feeling his way forward past the horses.

  Brother Dalman held out an apple for the stallion and reached into the bag for another. He struggled for a moment. What would he say? No, what should he say?

  “Your father…” he started, alarmed and frustrated at the lack of strength in his voice. To the hells, the boy deserved to know. “Your father fought the brigand off as he tried to stop the carriage. He threw himself off, to get him gone…to allow us to escape.”

  “Gone?” Dylan asked, his eyes searching the air blindly. “Is he dead?”

  “I don’t know. It was quite the fall, but the snow…” Brother Dalman responded, his voice cracking.

  “He sacrificed himself for us…that sounds very much like the kind of thing he would do. Always the strong one – always brave. Thank…” the young man faltered, pain breaking through his façade of strength. Tears flooded his eyes and he staggered against the carriage for support. “Tha…thank you for telling me. Other men might lie, so know that I appreciate your honesty.”

  Brother Dalman nodded, but couldn’t form any other respon
se. He held the apple out to the horse as the young man fell into grief, his shoulders bobbing as he searched his way along the animals and crawled back into the carriage. A short while later, the monk mounted the carriage and slid onto the bench, the sound of Dylan’s sorrow numbing him body and soul.

  * * * *

  The carriage held up against the pelting snow and ice, Brother Dalman refusing to relinquish the driver’s bench, even when Aida threatened him with “worse than a flogging”. He couldn’t stop, not until he had made good on Dugan’s last request.

  The team of horses proved strong and hardy, pulling the carriage through the thick snow without complaint, and only stopping when food, water, and rest were offered. After several sunrises, they passed Karnell’s Crest, a sweeping hillock just east of the roadway. The crest marked the northernmost border of Lord Thatcher’s domain, of the lakes commonly referred to as the Karnell Flats.

  From thence south, the snow cut in at strange angles, biting at his face. He pulled his cap down and wrapped himself in furs, but the snow and ice were unrelenting. They made the lake road in another day, and Silma the sunset after that.

  Brother Dalman parked the carriage in a grove of trees outside the city, and they rode the horses in from there. Their food and coin spent, Brother Dalman, Aida, and Dylan rode straight through Silma. Their stomach’s rumbled audibly as they passed a lakeside market, an enormous pot of crab shells and fish carcasses boiling into fish stock.

  Aida offered to acquire them a bite to eat, but he refused, unwilling to let the young woman sacrifice anymore of herself so they might simply fill their bellies.

  “Ah, piss, Hobart. My belly’s rumblin’ so bad it’s making my knees knock together,” Aida complained, Dylan chuckling sympathetically next to her. In truth, he wasn’t sure they would get going again if they did stop. And another stop meant more time for the slippery, masked rogue to find them.

  “Lord Thatcher will greet us with a warm hall and hot food, and an open ear,” he told her, but second-guessed himself almost immediately.

  Free of the carriage, they made good time on the castle approach, although the horses wheezed and complained. The snow piled thicker here, the travel harder due to the narrow road and uneven footing. Brother Dalman eventually dropped from the mare and walked, allowing Aida and Dylan to ride single and put less strain on the horses.

  They reached the Astralen Gatehouse after nightfall the next day, the gated portcullis closed and the torches glowing. Brother Dalman tromped up to the gate and pulled the dangling chain. A deep bell sounded overhead. The monk pressed himself up to the gate. He could see through to the other side and the proper, where the cobblestone road led out to the castle itself. When no one appeared, he rang the bell again.

  “We tried that for a long while. No one ever came,” an old man said, his voice wheezy. “Have to wait ‘till morning, I’m afraid.”

  “Bah!” Brother Dalman rumbled, giving the chain another starchy pull. He was tired, cold and hungry, and worse, tired of being cold and hungry.

  “My travel companions and I have a fire over yonder, if you and yours would like to join us,” the old man offered. “We can all stay warm together tonight, and seeings how we’re probably here for the same reason, seek entry in the morning.”

  Brother Dalman rubbed his hands together and glanced through the portcullis one last time, the safety and warmth of the castle glowing irresistibly just out of reach.

  “We don’t want to be a bother–” he started to say, but the old man wouldn’t let him finish.

  “Nonsense, the only bother is being cold and alone on such a night! Come,” he said and hooked a knobby arm around him.

  Aida and Dylan dismounted and followed Brother Dalman, their horses tromping behind them.

  “Here, let me tie up your horses. They have hay. Be nice and warm,” the old man said, accepting the reins.

  “Appreciated!” he said, eyeing the man’s humble fire and settled down on a log.

  A crude spit had been constructed, several partridges and a pheasant already cooking. A boy in modest threads sat straight across from him. He looked to be Kida’s age, if not a little larger and longer of hair.

  “Are you here to see the Earl?” a young woman, seated next to the boy, asked. She had curly, light brown hair and sparkling hazel eyes. She had a fighter’s build and a pretty, honest face – two traits he’d found that didn’t always coincide.

  Brother Dalman nodded. “From the north, by way of King’s Fall and Silma. A difficult journey to be true,” he said, “you?”

  The young woman nodded, just as someone crunched through the trees behind them.

  “She’s tied up well,” a young man said, but stopped as soon as he saw them. He looked to the young woman, who nodded, and then dropped down next to the fire.

  “Apologies,” Brother Dalman said, immediately standing, “Your friend invited us to share your fire. We should not have intruded.”

  “No, please, stay! We have a little food, some water, and a small bag of wine left. You are welcome to share it with us,” the young man offered.

  Brother Dalman eyed the cooking birds, his stomach gurgling forcefully.

  The young woman laughed, “Mercy, I think he needs the food more than us!”

  “I really couldn’t,” he argued, but Aida threw him a murderous look.

  “I really could,” Dylan added with a guilty smile, and then sniffed the air.

  “It isn’t much, but I think it will tide you over for now,” the young man said.

  “I could never allow strangers to offer me such kindness, not when they are likely just as hungry,” Brother Dalman argued, Dugan’s sacrifice still burning a hole inside him.

  The young man eyed him for a moment, and then promptly held out his hand in greeting. Brother Dalman grasped it, “Hobart Dalman,” he said.

  “Hello, Hobart. My name is Roman. This is Dennah, Folkvar, and Theo…but he prefers Tadd.

  “I’m Aida, and this is Dylan,” Aida said, greeting everyone seated around the fire.

  “Now we are acquaintances. Come…let us share in some food and a touch of wine to warm our bellies, and share stories of our journeys here!” Roman said, pulling the spit from the fire.

  Brother Dalman nodded appreciatively, and settled back down on the log.

  Epilogue

  Ghadarzehi and Histarian climbed the treacherous slope, the two Yu’urei warriors picking and leaping their way where no humans could easily follow. Ghadarzehi’s foot slipped, but he caught his balance and shifted to a better hold.

  The softskin, their prisoner, had entered the massive, walled city bellow. There was no way for them to enter and retrieve him, as directed, and not without being seen, so they decided to gain elevation and scout the city. Perhaps the softskin would leave again, and they could reacquire him.

  They mounted the narrow trail, climbing the mountain their people called High Tooth, a place of great battles, and realized that something was very wrong.

  Bodies littered the ground in the lower half of the city, scattered amongst the buildings like rocks in an unproductive field. There was also a foul smelling smoke tainting the air, and from time to time, the Yu believed he could feel subtle tremors through the soles of his feet.

  “The air has gone sour, and the mountain rumbles,” Ghadarzehi said.

  Histarian, his Jah’dun and long-time hunting partner, grunted before leaping to a wide perch. Ghadarzehi followed, and crouched down next to his counterpart on the wider path.

  “Not the High Tooth. The city,” Histarian responded, simply, gesturing out over the massive village of stone.

  “Huntress!” Histarian muttered, taking it in. Their vantage now provided them with an unparalleled view of the whole city, and he could clearly see that something significant had happened. Large portions of the city were simply gone, replaced by gaping holes in the ground. Swarms of small figures worked below, already clearing away the rubble.

  “The soft
skin did this?” he asked, thinking out loud.

  Histarian shook his head, absently rubbing his tusk-like teeth. Ghadarzehi watched and waited, knowing full well that was what his Jah’dun did when he was pondering something. Now was the time to wait, not fill the air with empty words and groundless assumption.

  “The softskin told us he needed to get back to his village…that something bad was going to happen to his people. He said he needed to save his mate,” Histarian reasoned.

  Ghadarzehi nodded, “but how could a softskin know? Is he a soothsayer? Could he know that the mountain would break apart beneath his people?” He tried to put the puzzle pieces together, to make sense of it all, but even speaking it out loud did little to help. He was strong and quick of feet. Unfortunately, his mind was not as swift as Histarian’s. That was why he was Jah’dun.

  “The great black claw protected him. That fact cannot be ignored. The softskin showed great power in the end. I think we underestimated him, perhaps his people, too,” Histarian said, quietly, and moved quickly along the path.

  Ghadarzehi followed for some time, weaving and crawling his way through the path, until they came to a subtle switchback leading down to a ledge covered in scraggly bushes. The Yu dropped to the ledge and watched, the new perch giving them a clear vantage of a wide square covered in once beautiful gardens and frozen pools. A substantial fortress sat at the back of the square, but it was crumbling apart, several of its outer walls already lying in rubble.

  And yet it wasn’t the crumbling buildings or the holes dotting the ground that transfixed Ghadarzehi, but an impressive horde standing in the middle of the square. They formed well-ordered lines and ranks, filling every space in and around the rubble or breaks in the ground. He found it strange that none moved. In fact, if his eyesight wasn’t so keen, he would swear they were statues.

  It was a force, an army, waiting to march – but to where…and why?

  “What is this?” Ghadarzehi asked in confusion.

  “Look!” Histarian said, and pointed to the far side of the square.