Son of Cayn

by Jason McDonald

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to dampen your spirits. I didn’t sleep well, and it’s put me in a foul humor.”

  Chert patted Xandor on his good shoulder and said, “You must have faith, my friend. I will find my people one day, and you will find peace.”

  “Maybe, but not today,” Xandor said, standing.

  “No, not today.”

  False dawn found Chert leading Sky and Xerxes east on the roadway through the darkness. Xandor kept a lookout for signs of ambush, but there did not seem to be anything living in these woods. It unnerved him not to hear any of the typical nocturnal animals.

  As soon as there was enough light, Xandor called for a stop. He jumped down and scanned the grassy road, hoping to find signs the caravan had slowed. Instead, it seemed that they, too, had traveled late into the evening. Pushing aside some underbrush, he found tracks, including those of a large cat, but they were a couple days old. At least there was one animal in this godforsaken forest.

  Chert mounted Sky and gripped the pommel of the saddle tightly. Xandor directed Xerxes to take the lead while he held Sky’s reins.

  As they rode, the sun gradually climbed higher, and the light drove out some of the shadows lingering in the Haunted Wood.

  “Smoke,” Chert said, pointing south of the roadway. Xandor looked up from his inspection of the road and saw the dark plume through the line of trees.

  “Should we investigate?” Chert asked.

  Pulling back on the reins, Xandor stopped and looked back down; the tracks indicated the caravan had slowed, which probably meant they had camped near here. Judging distances, the ranger looked up again; the smoke was too far off the road to be from their campsite, but he needed to be sure. Chert followed when he dismounted.

  As they neared the site, the smell of smoke became stronger, even as the cloud above the trees began to thin. Xandor frowned; whatever had fed the fire must already have been consumed. It was fortunate the fire wasn’t spreading, but it also meant the fire had probably been set intentionally.

  “What do you think?” Chert whispered. Shaking his head, Xandor signaled for the dwarf to stay quiet.

  They topped a small hill and saw a shallow valley devoid of trees. The smoke was thicker here, but none of the surrounding trees seemed to have suffered any damage from the fire.

  After motioning for Chert to remain with Xerxes and Sky, Xandor slowly crept down the side of the hill and peered down at the bottom of the valley, where he saw the charred remains of an underground wooden bunker. Some of the interior walls still stood, forming a series of interconnected rooms and hallways just beneath the surface of the valley, but any access doors into the bunker from above had collapsed with its ceiling. Now, it was just a huge, burned-out mess.

  The blackened walls along the edge were thick logs stacked on top of one another, sealed with mud. He heard the crackle of smoldering wood and occasionally, an orange flame danced along the edge.

  Creeping closer, the ranger used all his training to remain hidden. A portion of an interior wall collapsed under its own weight, and fresh smoke billowed up. The wind shifted, and the ranger caught the pungent odor of burnt corpses. Expecting the worst, he raced toward the edge and looked down. Charred framing from the ceiling covered the bottom, hiding anyone below.

  “Chert! Get down here!”

  Surprised by the sudden urgency, the dwarf ran down the hill and found Xandor leaning over the edge. As he got closer, he smelled the bodies and didn’t need to ask.

  With the heat of the scorched earth seeping into their boots, the two raced toward one end of the bunker, where some of the ceiling hung tenaciously to the timber retaining wall and formed a steep ramp down. Xandor slid down it and quickly cleared the debris to one side as best he could. Behind him, Chert did the same as they searched for survivors.

  “I hope we don’t find the teamsters,” Chert said.

  “Me, too.”

  Their first body was an adult male, charred beyond recognition, sitting at what appeared to have once been a desk. Xandor searched nearby and found yellowed charts and maps that were brittle to the touch. He cleared them aside and discovered the burnt remains of a journal in a bottom drawer. The pages were yellowed from the heat and the cover disintegrated when touched; still, some of the middle pages were legible. The passages were written in Rhodinan.

  “I don’t think these were the teamsters,” Xandor concluded.

  Responding from another room, Chert replied, “Yeah, I think you’re right. I found three more bodies. Looks like they were caught sleeping. Whoever did this stripped them of all their stuff.”

  Following the sound of Chert’s voice, Xandor walked into the other room. He found the dwarf kneeling beside one of the bodies, administering last rites. When Chert finished his prayer, he stood up and moved to the next one. The ranger watched briefly, then decided to continue searching the bunker. Like Chert, he did not expect to find anyone alive, but he couldn’t give up without checking.

  Xandor entered a short hallway, stepping carefully over the splintered wood. He continued toward the next room, but before he cleared the threshold, something slammed into him from behind and knocked him into the wall.

  * * *

  Chert looked up and saw Xandor staggering toward him with a large arrow sticking out of his back. Chert peeked through a small opening in the debris and saw two large, muscular, humanoid monsters standing along the edge. Eotenas, Chert thought grimly. Standing more than nine feet tall, they were larger, more primitive versions of Grendel. They had long, greasy hair that only partially hid their cruel features. It didn’t take much imagination to know what would happen if they were caught—the ogres typically brutalized and devoured their victims.

  Searching, the two ogres moved along the top of the bunker. They carried large axes, the likes of which Chert had never seen before. The weapons bore a steel labrys, or double-headed axe, at each end, connected by a long oaken shaft wrapped in leather strips.

  Thinking quickly, Chert turned, took out his dagger, and pried pieces of wood loose. He worked quietly and eventually exposed a large area of raw earth. He pressed his hands against the surface and pushed them into the soil; instead of creating an opening, he simply forced his body into the earth.

  * * *

  The feathered shaft of another large arrow streaked toward Xandor from somewhere above, and he saw it at the last second. Knowing he could not avoid it, he twisted violently and succeeded in turning enough that the arrow missed his heart; still, it was a grievous wound and the barbed head punctured his left lung. With a sharp swipe of his hand, he broke the shaft and dove for cover in the nearest room.

  Xandor knew he was in dire straits. He felt the arrow in his back but couldn’t reach it to break the shaft. He tried using the wall, but the rounded edges of the logs caught it an odd angle and only drove it deeper. His leather shirt was soaked with blood, and he tried not to think about it as he worked to control his breathing and listen.

  Leaning heavily against the wall beside the doorway, Xandor coughed blood. Fighting to stay conscious, he scanned the trees at the edge of the valley but still didn’t see anything. He peeked around the doorjamb and saw two ogres climbing down the charred ceiling framing, oblivious to the heat. Then he saw their weapons. His lips compressed to a bloodless slash, and his eyes narrowed.

  He ducked back around the jamb and struggled to get his feet under him. It was slow, painful work, but he managed to stand and draw both swords.

  “Aduro.” Golden flames coursed along the edges of the blades. If today was his day to die, then he would be taking company.

  The large ogres advanced cautiously through the bunker. Shoulder to shoulder, they walked past the desk and headed into the former sleeping quarters. The one on the left split off and approached the portion of collapsed ceiling where Chert had disappeared. He struck it hard with his axe, crushing it, but no one was there; the blow exposed raw earth.

  Speaking in a guttural voice, the ogre
said, “The dwarf’s in the walls.”

  They both glanced around, quickly checking the other openings in the hallway. With a grunt, the one on the right pointed toward the doorway ahead. The one on the left stepped forward and spun his labrys. The blades cut the air with a soft whirring sound.

  As the ogre stepped across the threshold, Xandor staggered out and struck with both blades. The monster deflected one with his axe, but the other sank deeply into its stomach. The ranger twisted his wrist as he wrenched it out, causing the bloodied wound to widen.

  Ignoring the wound, the ogre snarled viciously, reverse spun his axe ninety degrees, and caught Xandor across the right leg with the flat of his blade. The close-quarter maneuver caught the ranger by surprise as he saw another ogre behind the first.

  This just keeps getting better.

  Backing away, Xandor swung his swords back and forth, hoping to gain some breathing room. The large ogre pressed forward, reversed his spin again, and aimed for the ranger’s head. The axe blade missed, but it took everything Xandor had to dodge it.

  Chert exploded out of the earth above the rim of the bunker and landed on the ogre in front of Xandor. The dwarf’s weight rocked the ogre sideways, and Chert rode him all the way down to the ground.

  Not wasting time, the other ogre charged Xandor, his blades spinning faster and faster. The ranger ducked around them, thrust his left blade into the ogre’s thigh, and dove into a room on the right. Again, the reverse spin caught Xandor, this time with a shallow cut across the back, breaking the shaft of the arrow.

  * * *

  With a roll, Chert put some distance between himself and his opponent and hurled his hammer. It flew past the axe blades and struck the ogre a crushing blow on the shoulder, bounced, and flew back into Chert’s waiting hand.

  “Liked that, didn’t you?” Chert taunted.

  The ogre rushed the dwarf. Again, the hammer flew from his hand and struck the monster, this time in the rib cage, bounced, and returned to Chert; however, the ogre ignored the pain and swung his axe in a ferocious arc that struck Chert’s shield. He reversed the spin, and the dwarf nearly lost his arm when his shield went flying across the bunker. Not missing a step, Chert gestured with his now-free hand, pointed at the ogre’s head, and yelled, “heofonléoht!”

  The ogre staggered back, blinded when white fire erupted in his eye sockets. He blinked, trying to escape it, but the fire originated from within his own eyes. He threw down the double labrys and pressed the palms of his hands to his eye sockets as the flame seared into his brain, driving him mad with pain.

  Using his hammer, the dwarf followed up with a swift strike to the ogre’s leg, crushing the knee joint. The ogre landed on his butt, holding his head and howling.

  * * *

  The world spun as Xandor dodged to one side to avoid another swing of the double-bitted axe. Blood seeped from several small wounds on the ogre, but none were near the ogre’s vital areas. On the other hand, the ranger remained standing for one reason alone—he would not go alone.

  Xandor struck at the ogre again, feinting with his left blade. The ogre brought his weapon around to block it, but this time, Xandor didn’t follow up; instead, he waited for an opening.

  The ogre reversed his weapon’s spin, expecting to catch the ranger, and it left him open. Despite his weariness, Xandor put all his weight into a thrust through the thick ribs and plunged his blade deep into the large chest, piercing the heart.

  Chert raced over in time to see the ranger perform his coup de grâce. Both ogre and ranger fell together in a pool of mingled blood.

  Before the dwarf could reach Xandor, a shadow crossed overhead. Chert dove for cover too late; a large arrow cut through the links of his chain armor, impaling his chest. The arrow hit with such strength it knocked him to the ground and pinned him to the charred flooring. His last vision before blacking out was of the tattooed Northman disappearing past the edge of the bunker.

  * * *

  It didn’t take long for the teamsters to pack everything after lunch. In the meantime, Pyotr checked on Ognian and reported to Aleksandra the Northman had suffered a minor concussion from the hammer blow.

  While he rode, Grendel, like the teamsters, struggled with his feelings. Rationally, he knew he should hate this woman riding with him, but other emotions stirred within him. Longings he had thought buried.

  Up front, Marko set a fast pace for the remainder of the afternoon, so the miles flew past. They traveled over hills and down into valleys through the Haunted Wood, and eventually a lone, snow-capped mountain peak broke the horizon above the line of trees.

  * * * * *

  On Three (October 23)

  “Get up, mountain boy!” Not satisfied, the sergeant-at-arms leaned over and yelled again, “Get up! Move your ass!”

  The brown sludge rippled slightly when Xandor raised his head. With one torturous move after another, he crawled slowly through the slurry with several large, painted rocks tied to his back.

  The sergeant stood over him, wearing a black and silver surcoat over a suit of shiny chain mail. Ahead of him, he saw the yellow rope marking the finish line.

  As part of the last test to graduate, the knight-commander selected ten of his best students to participate in the three-day event. It started at the gates of Tydway, the capital of Gallowen. Each candidate was required to follow a specific trail and find three rocks marked with the symbol of the Iron Tower.

  The test wasn’t just pass/fail. The person who ran the course the fastest typically got their choice of assignments, and there were only ten assignments. They weren’t allowed food, water, or lights. Just the clothes on their back, their boots, and whatever they found along the way.

  Horses were not allowed, either, so all ten ran, searching for their prizes. Each had a different course to navigate, and as soon as the course started, the ten students quickly separated and disappeared into the forest west of the city. Some had to climb trees while others dove into clear pools of water.

  It took over twenty miles of navigation for Xandor to find his first rock, and it was at least another twenty before he found the second. By the last day, he had lost count of the miles, and all he knew was he was exhausted and tired of carrying his three rocks.

  “You’re a Ranger, and this is the Iron Tower!” the sergeant shouted, leaning over and staying with him. Xandor snapped out of his reverie and inched forward through the slurry. He wouldn’t be the first to cross the line, nor the second, but he was going to cross that line.

  “Ooh-rah!” Xandor yelled, spitting out a mouthful of mud.

  “You’re a Ranger, and this is the Iron Tower!” the sergeant repeated.

  “Ooh-rah!” Xandor responded again, this time louder, and deep, deep down, he found a small reserve of energy. He clawed through the brown goo and inched his way toward the yellow rope until finally he reached up, grabbed it, and pulled himself out.

  * * *

  Somewhere inside his head, he heard that sergeant still yelling at him, “You’re a Ranger…get up, mountain boy…This is the Iron Tower!”

  He mouthed the words, “Ooh-rah!”

  Pain coursed through his body as his chest muscles contracted around the arrow wounds and protested at the movement. He was so thirsty.

  Xandor opened his eyes. Staring back at him were the vacant eyes of an ogre.

  Looking past the body of the dead ogre, he saw Chert lying face down, the feathered shaft of an arrow sticking out of his back. He wasn’t moving.

  “Get up!” he heard the sergeant yell.

  Xandor spit the blood out of his mouth, grabbed a handful of the ogre’s tunic, and pulled. Inch by inch, he crawled closer to Chert. After an eternity, Xandor pulled close enough to the dwarf and checked his pulse. He was still alive.

  “Chert, wake up,” Xandor whispered, shaking him lightly.

  Nothing.

  Nearly losing consciousness, he pulled out a small brass vial of Spirit of Hartshorn from his pouch. Opening
it, he waved it under the dwarf’s nose. Instantly, Chert twitched and wrinkled his nose.

  “That’s vile. Where did you get that stuff?”

  Xandor mustered a weak smile and said, “Welcome back.”

  “Where are we?” Chert said as he slowly pushed his helmet off his head and looked around, his movement causing an involuntary groan.

  “Please tell me you’re still on good terms with the powers that be,” Xandor said.

  Chert looked at him askance and said, “And you’re not?”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  Chert smiled back and said, “I know.”

  Still pinned to the floorboards, the dwarf fished out his dagger, pushed up slightly with one arm, and notched the shaft just above the arrowhead. With a heave and loud grunt of pain, he broke the shaft and pushed himself the rest of the way off the floor. Turning his attention to Xandor, he laid a hand on the ranger’s shoulder and prayed. Blue light instantly leapt from his hand and disappeared beneath the ranger’s armor.

  * * *

  Standing at the edge of the bunker, Xerxes and Sky watched the ranger crawl across the floor and wake the dwarf. A blue light flared brightly for a moment, and they saw Xandor sit up. Dark patches of dried blood—most of it his own—covered his leathers. Another blue light flared, and Chert managed to stand. He still had a broken arrow shaft sticking out of his back, so he turned around and asked Xandor to take it out.

  “On three. Alright?”

  Chert nodded curtly and listened for the count.

  “One.”

  Xandor yanked out the shaft and threw it to the side. The dwarf never had time to tense up. He looked over his shoulder with a shocked expression but held his tongue. Xandor grew worried and paled when he remembered he still had two arrowheads inside him.