The Dark One had returned, but not as an avatar. He traveled through the air and became the invisible death no one could escape. His Black Clerics walked the battlefields, raising armies of undead and using the fallen as fodder. Their black robes and large, two-handed swords became symbols of fear.
From the ranks of the Black Clerics, one rose above the others. He carried a sickly red orb that oozed black blood, and he held it high for all to see. Everywhere he went disease crept into people’s homes and rendered arcane spell casters useless as they succumbed to its evil. The plague struck down all who stood against the Black Clerics, and there seemed no hope for the common man.
Traveling through the Alashalian Mountains, mercenary barbarians from the north, led by Jongar, bypassed the borders of Gallowen, the home of the Iron Tower, and continued south into Carolingias. With Jongar’s army to the north and the Black Cleric Army to the east, York, the capital city of Carolingias, fell to the Dark One. York became an island surrounded by Black Death.
The Knights of Carolingias went into hiding, and the queen’s own champion was disgraced. The Black Clerics and their henchmen dragged the king and queen onto the steps of the palace, dismembered them in front of the crowd, and drank their blood in celebration. A hunt formed for members of the family as a way to keep the Carolingians people from organizing any resistance to their rule. But the Black Clerics weren’t done yet. They constructed massive stone towers that were hollow and filled them with the bodies of the dead, which they burned as sacrifices to their dark lord. Minions of the Dark One constantly threw bodies into the fire, and putrid plumes of smoke rose high in the air, day and night.
Even today, no one knows what caused the disease to stop spreading or stopped the momentum of the Black Clerics and their hordes. Some say it was because the khumanoidi hordes had claimed enough land as their own and were stretched too thin. Others say a deal was struck between the barbarians from the north and the Highlord of the Confederation of Nations.
In either case, songs sung of the return of Queen Ambrose, the last remaining heir to the Carolingian throne, tell how, with her knights, she struck deep into the heart of the followers of the Dark One. There were also stories of a humble half-human, half-elf priest whose words shook the foundation of the earth and called down the Wrath of the Eternal Father upon the blasphemous towers and the dark cult. Witnesses said holy fire streaked from the heavens and blasted the towers along with the clerics who fed them.
In the end, the Black Clerics and their minions were driven back into secrecy and the red orb was shattered; however, the khumanoidi had found purchase in the lands immediately west of the White River and the human armies were powerless to stop them. The khumanoidi took advantage of abandoned cities and towns, and their populations swelled as they became the new masters of the fertile lands between the White River, the Sea of Grass, and the eastern borders of Trakya. The map of the world changed at the conclusion of the Plague War as borders contracted and entire cultures found themselves on the verge of extinction.
These were the lands east of the Stena.
* * * * *
The Great Wall—Leaving Trakya (October 22)
Dragahn was the first to wake. He quickly bathed and dressed, then stepped outside the door to his room. Grendel stood in the hallway, guarding Sachin’s room. He nodded to the bodyguard, walked down a few doors, and knocked loudly.
“Pyotr, it’s me. Time to wake up!” he yelled through the door.
After a few moments of silence, he knocked louder. He tried the door handle but found it locked.
“Pyotr! You bastard! Wake up! It’s time to go.”
A grin appeared on Dragahn’s face when he heard cursing from within. He walked to the next door and then the next, banging loudly at each one to wake his team.
Pyotr staggered out of the inn, his eyes bloodshot and the bright early morning light causing physical pain. Before he reached his wagon, Dragahn caught up to him and handed him a metal flask.
“Here, drink some of my hooch. It’ll warm you up.”
“Thanks, Chief.”
Dragahn laughed. “Are you going to make it?”
“No one likes a wise ass this early in the morning. Of course I’ll make it,” Pyotr groused as he took a large gulp of the hooch.
He held up the flask and said to Dragahn, “To the hair of the dog that bit me.” Then he took another deep swallow, feeling the liquor burn its way down.
The last two out the door were Grendel and Sachin. Sachin glared at the teamsters and the wagons. “Why isn’t everyone ready to move?” the small man barked.
Heads turned and Draghan’s jaw tightened as he met his employer by the bed of the center wagon. “We were just awaiting your morning inspection before we mount up,” the chief replied. Around them, everyone found something to do to take themselves out of Sachin’s immediate reach.
Grendel stood close to his charge. He paid little heed to the tension between Sachin and Draghan. Instead, he mulled over the conversation he’d had with Jasper earlier that morning. Before even Draghan had awoken, Jasper had slipped into the hallway, and they had their first real opportunity to talk. Grendel quickly explained about seeing Xandor, eliciting a sigh of relief from Jasper, and then mentioned Sachin’s meeting with Marko, the knight. Jasper’s face had clouded with concern, but the cook instructed the bodyguard to stay the course. His final words had been, “We still need to find out what’s going on here, and we can’t do that if we blow our cover now. Besides, if there had been any real trouble, Chert would have found us. I’m sure he knows where we are.”
Jasper’s words made sense, but Grendel was still worried. He was used to dealing with issues in an open, brutal fashion, and the inactivity was becoming more and more of a struggle.
* * *
“Back again, Dragahn?” the Gatekeeper asked.
“Yeah, this should be our last run for the year,” Dragahn replied casually. “It won’t be long until the snow, and after that, everything will be covered in mud.”
The Gatekeeper laughed quietly, “You got that one right.” After skimming the paperwork, he said, “You know the procedure. Have everyone move inside, and I’ll tell you which crates to open.”
* * *
A half-hour later, the team crossed the bridge over the Vallum and entered the Haunted Wood. They resumed their normal positions: the chuck wagon in front, followed by the other two wagons, while Viktor and his horsemen took charge of guarding their flanks. Dragahn kept the horses moving at a slow walk, but he still wanted to cover at least thirty miles by the end of the day.
The forest passed slowly, the rhythmic pattern of hoofbeats muffled by the short grass, and Jasper found himself constantly looking from one side to the other. Screaming faces in the decaying bark leered at him evilly. Always at the edge of his vision, he caught glimpses of pools of blood at the base of the trees and heard an occasional echo of a scream; however, when he glanced at Dragahn, the caravan chief seemed oblivious to the sights and sounds. He cast a quick look over his shoulder and found Grendel asleep.
Viktor rode along the left side of the chuck wagon, keeping a watchful eye on the road ahead. The horseman seemed tense, and he signaled for the others to stay alert. He openly carried a longsword at his left hip, and his yew bow with its quiver of arrows was close at hand. Maybe he felt something, too.
Jasper looked around at the dark hardwoods. The branches were completely barren, making the disjointed sections more like skeletal remains than trees. The mage shivered, and not just from the cold air.
“Is the forest like this the whole way?”
“No,” Dragahn said as he looked around. “This is the worst of it. I heard rumors when Trakya closed the Stena, families of elves were left stranded outside the gates. They were slaughtered by khumanoidi, and their ghosts still haunt these woods. But don’t worry; in a couple of days, it will be more normal, and after that, we’ll reach the mudpots.”
“Mudpots? What’s th
at?” Jasper asked.
“Just wait. You’ll see,” the chief said, amused.
“Where do we go after that?”
“We’ll stop at a little town just on the other side.” The amusement in his voice vanished.
“Will we travel all the way to the White River?” Jasper asked.
“No. But we’ll be close.”
“I’m glad I brought enough food,” Jasper said, calculating.
“Me, too. Although, if we had to, Viktor’s a very good hunter. I bet he could scrounge something.”
Viktor smiled broadly and said, “Yeah, I remember the last time you sent me out hunting. As I recall, I found two squirrels and a rabbit with a bad case of mange.”
“We still ate them,” Dragahn said.
“You ate them,” Viktor corrected. “What did you expect? You had Lucky cook them.”
“They were good. Even if they were a little scrawny.”
“Scrawny wasn’t the word for it . . .” With a gasp, Viktor abruptly stopped talking and hunched over, his face a mask of extreme pain.
Jasper blinked, and everything seemed to slow down. He couldn’t believe his eyes as he watched the feathered shaft of a second arrow fly in slow motion toward Viktor’s chest. Time suddenly resumed its normal speed as the arrow slammed into Viktor, knocking him from the saddle.
Dragahn made to snap the reins just as an arrow struck the hand brake at his side, the thin shaft vibrating from the impact. Another struck between him and Jasper. The warning was clear. Dragahn signaled behind him and pulled hard on the reins, stopping the Percherons.
Grendel woke at the sound of Viktor hitting the ground. He looked around groggily but couldn’t see past the chuck wagon. He growled and started to stand, but Sachin laid a firm hand on his arm and said with a fierce whisper, “Do not interfere, orcné. This is not your fight.”
“Yes, it is,” the bodyguard said.
Staring into the sleep-filled eyes of the half-orc, Sachin said, “No, it’s not. If you go out there, you will only get someone killed. These men are professionals. They won’t just aim at you; they will also aim at your friends.”
Grendel’s eyes smoldered, burning off his sleepiness, but he remained where he was.
As if by magic, Marko appeared directly in front of the caravan, no more than thirty feet away. Behind him, Mladen and Ognian had their longbows drawn, arrows nocked and aimed at the two men in the front wagon.
Jasper couldn’t help but stare at the Northmen. They had removed their shirts and exposed the markings on their upper torsos. As they walked cautiously toward the wagons, their tattoos swirled and blended with the forest, partially camouflaging them. As they passed, Kourash walked out of the woods, holding the reins to their horses. The mage refocused on the two Northmen, calculating the odds. It didn’t look good.
“Comrades! It’s good to see you again,” Marko said with a mock bow. As he straightened, he commanded, “Don’t make any sudden moves. I would hate for someone else to get hurt.”
After a pause to let his words sink in, Marko said loud enough for everyone to hear, “We are taking over this caravan!”
“Ebi se! This is my caravan!” Dragahn yelled.
Marko’s eyes narrowed and he said, “Driver, do I need to make an example of someone else?”
Dragahn looked down at Viktor, who lay unconscious and bleeding. The Northmen closed, and Jasper judged they had everyone within easy range.
“That goes for everyone!” Marko yelled as he walked closer. “I want these wagons.”
Dragahn stared daggers at the knight and said, “You will get no help from us!”
“Driver, I find myself in the fortunate position where I don’t need your help,” Marko explained. He spread his arms expansively and continued, “But at the same time, I’m not a cold-blooded killer. So I’m willing to make a deal.”
Looking around, the caravan chief saw everyone was watching him, waiting on him to give the word. The caravan chief stared at the Northmen and then at the knight.
“What kind of deal?”
Dragahn heard muttering behind him. He guessed it was either Lucky or one of the younger horsemen, possibly both.
“I want you to drive these wagons down this road, just like you originally intended. Nothing more.”
“What do we get?”
“Your lives, of course. In exchange for delivering these wagons, I will let you go free. However, if you resist, I will have my men kill everyone here. Got it?”
Dragahn cast a quick glance at Jasper. The cook appeared relaxed, but his face was expressionless. He could tell one thing—Jasper didn’t have the look of someone who was scared. For some reason, it gave him a glimmer of hope they might survive this.
“Seems we have no choice.”
“No. You don’t.”
Marko motioned for Kourash to come forward with their horses. He took the Frisian and mounted. The two Northmen quickly jumped into their saddles and rode to the back of the line, using their knees to guide their horses while keeping their bows ready; however, Kourash, the Seldaehne, didn’t follow everyone else’s lead. Instead, he took the reins to Viktor’s rouncey and tied them to Dragahn’s wagon. When he was done, he approached Jasper. He stood beside the wagon and looked the mage in the face.
“We have unfinished business,” he said in a deep, menacing tone.
“Knight!” Dragahn yelled before Jasper could do something stupid.
“Yes, driver?” Marko steered his horse closer to the chuck wagon.
“Keep a leash on your man here. Otherwise, we may lose the best cook this side of the White River.”
Marko stared at Jasper a moment. “A cook?”
The knight looked at Kourash, questioning. The Seldaehne inhaled deeply, and a somewhat confused look came and went. “I smell spices,” he said simply.
Dragahn kept an eye on his cook and said quickly, “I don’t know exactly what business your friend here has in mind, but if it’s what I think it is, you will miss out on some of the best-tasting food you’ve ever eaten. Look in the back if you don’t believe me. That’s all his stuff.”
Marko glanced at the back of the wagon and said, “You’d better be right, Driver. Cook, what’s your name?”
“Jasper, sir,” Jasper said calmly.
“Are you as good a cook as this man says?”
“Better.”
Marko gave one of his wolfish grins and said, “We’ll see.”
The knight motioned for Kourash to back off.
“Let’s go. We’re burning daylight.”
“What about Viktor?” Pyotr yelled out.
Marko pulled on the reins. The Frisian turned, letting the knight get a good look at the speaker. “What about him?”
“We can’t just leave him here. He’ll die. Dragahn, let me help him.”
Marko stared hard at the horse doctor and said, “Stay where you are unless you care to join him. Driver, let’s go. We need to make some time.”
Dragahn turned to look at Pyotr, who was fuming. He gave him a helpless look, turned back around, and flicked the reins. As the team moved down the road, everyone gave Viktor a parting glance, hoping against hope they wouldn’t be next.
* * *
Red and gold flags fluttered in the frigid breeze, marking the border to the land ruled by the Kral. Xandor and Chert stood forty feet in the air atop the gray, stone tower. Below them stood the famous milecastle of Vratsa.
At first glance, Xandor had to admit he was not impressed. The milecastle consisted of a simple, gated courtyard surrounded by twenty-foot-tall, crenelated walls made of large stone blocks. Its footprint measured roughly fifty feet by sixty feet and housed several support buildings for the garrison that manned the walls. However, when he turned and looked to the north and south, he quickly revised his opinion. The line of the Stena traveled endlessly over hills and into valleys.
The curtain wall easily stood twelve to fifteen feet high, and men armed with long halberds
patrolled the battlements along the top. At the edges of the horizon, Xandor could just make out the towers of the nearest milecastles, five miles away in each direction.
Xandor reflected on the morning’s events. He had spoken to the militsiya about repairing Dana’s apartment and also arranged for a small, light reddish-brown pony to be loaned to Chert. The dwarf had protested heavily when he saw the beast but seemed to concede after Xandor explained that once they were past the Stena, they needed to move quickly to catch up to the wagons. Xandor suspected their conversation was not over yet, because the normally stubborn dwarf had given in far too easily.
Auburn hues painted the sky and silhouetted four lopsided peaks to the east. Xandor turned his eyes toward the dark trees below. These weren’t the young trees they had traveled through in the Silva Nigra. These were old, gnarled hardwoods with branches that overhung the road. The harder he stared, the more he thought he saw faces in the bark—inhuman faces that screamed in agony. He had heard rumors in Pazard’zhik about the Haunted Wood, but until he saw it with his own eyes, he had taken them as just that—rumors.
“I don’t like those trees, Xandor,” Chert said, his breath forming a white cloud. The dwarf had donned his chain armor today. Under his arm, he held his great horned helmet, a sure sign of trouble to come.
“You haven’t liked any of the trees we’ve come across.”
“Yeah, but I really don’t like those trees.”
“Maybe it’s just your imagination,” Xandor said hopefully.
“Now, that’s a load of scrap metal. You know dwarves don’t have imaginations, and even I can see those faces.”
Xandor looked down at the dwarf and said dourly, “We still have to go down there.”
Son of Cayn Page 15
