Son of Cayn

by Jason McDonald

  “Then get on with it.”

  The cavalier way Pyotr responded must have humored the knight. Marko laughed and said, “I want these horses moving, doctor; I don’t want any more excuses. If I kill you, will that get me what I want?”

  It was somewhat disconcerting for Pyotr to watch the knight contemplate the pros and cons of his life. Finally, the knight reached a decision and said, “Dragahn, I will kill these two men if you do not keep up with me, and for insurance . . .”

  As he spoke the last word, he reached back and stabbed his sword into Lucky’s side, cutting him deeply but not fatally. Pulling out his sword, he wiped the blood from the blade using a red kerchief.

  Pyotr stood and yelled, “You were supposed to hurt me, not him!”

  “Sit down, doctor! You try my patience,” Marko replied. “Dragahn, I would get these wagons moving if I were you. This man doesn’t have all day, and I forbid you to stop again until this evening. Then, and only then, will your precious doctor be able to bandage him.”

  The teamsters were angry, but they felt helpless against their captors. Grabbing a cloth from beneath the seat, Pyotr handed it to Lucky and whispered for him to press it against the wound. The doctor hoped it would be enough to stop the bleeding, but he doubted it. At a minimum, the boy needed stitches.

  With a snap of the reins, Dragahn’s Percherons continued down the road, and this time he matched Marko’s pace. The other two wagons quickly fell in behind him.

  * * *

  Mladen’s horse galloped east along an old woodsman’s trail. The four-beat gait rapidly put distance between him and the caravan. After about ten miles, the Northman slowed. The dead woods had not changed, but something felt different.

  He passed several large rocks piled on the side of the trail, forming a small cairn. The topmost boulder had been marked with a blackish-red handprint. He pulled sharply on the reins, bringing his horse to a halt, and reached for the whistle he wore around his neck. Its shrill noise felt intrusive in the deathly-quiet wood. He stopped and listened, and a few minutes later, he heard the response.

  Crashing through the woods came one of the dreaded Anak’im, a descendant of the feared Nephilim. The giant stood more than fifteen feet tall and reeked of death. Greasy black hair fell about his twisted face, and deep scars covered every exposed inch of his pale white skin. He wore the pelt of a large brown bear over his heavily muscled torso, leaving his legs bare, and he wielded a large wooden club embedded with long, thin iron spikes, each acid-etched with a rune of power.

  Mladen’s horse reared and screamed. The Northman gripped the reins and managed to calm the beast, but the horse’s eyes still rolled nervously.

  “I need your help.”

  The giant’s eyes gleamed wickedly in the filtered light beneath the trees and peered down at the Northman. He stared intently at the stranger and replied in a ground-rumbling voice, “Why do you summon me?”

  “I work for the Zhitomiran knight, Sir Marko Madasgorski. He has sent me to kill a ranger and his dwarf companion.”

  The Anak’im looked west and said, “I have heard the trees talk of this ranger and dwarf. They bested the trolls of Tartarus Peak and killed both Gath and Calliades. The spirit of this wood will not touch them.”

  “Mighty One, I beseech you. My master will not tolerate failure; he offers you gold and silver.”

  Baring his stained, pointed teeth, the Anak’im said, “What need have I for gold or silver? Your master has nothing I want.”

  Thinking quickly, Mladen replied, “The ranger is a harbinger. He works for the Kral, and it is his intent to take this land back. You will be driven out.”

  The Anak’im’s evil eyes narrowed dangerously. Mladen continued hastily, “Help me kill him, and we’ll stop the Kral’s plan before it starts.”

  Gripping his club so tightly it creaked, the Anak’im growled ominously, “The Kral owes me a debt of blood. I will aid you, but the body of the ranger is mine.”

  A chill went down Mladen’s spine. He bowed his head and said, “Of course.”

  * * * * *

  Ambush (October 24)

  Marko gestured for the caravan to slow. He searched the sides of the road as if looking for a place to camp.

  The mood of the teamsters had not improved during the afternoon; if anything, it had worsened. Each of them cast worried glances toward Lucky, hoping he would make it until they stopped, but everyone saw the cloth pressed against the wound had turned a deep crimson, a stark contrast to the youth’s extremely pale skin.

  Without warning, clouds of yellowish-white smoke erupted around the wagons.

  Dragahn yanked back on the reins as he tried to get his bearings. Fumes clouded his vision and his movements became sluggish as the world spun. He slumped over in his seat. Next to him, Jasper lurched forward, his head drooping, as the group’s outriders slumped and fell from their horses.

  The Percherons stopped and looked around, confused by the sudden relaxation of their reins. The fumes had a lesser effect on them than on their drivers.

  Four orc warriors, wearing black masks and black leather armor, dropped from the tree branches above and walked among the wagons to make sure everyone was asleep. Staying clear of the smoke, Marko turned his horse around and waited while, at the other end of the caravan, Kourash and Ognian did the same. In the middle, Aleksandra, her face covered by her scarf, checked to make sure Grendel was still asleep. Once confirmed, she climbed down from her seat and studied the other teamsters.

  “I think they’re out,” Kourash said.

  Moving like a shadow amongst the wagons, a man wearing a dark cloak with the hood pulled up gently touched each of the bodies, exposing a cadaverous hand with blackened fingertips

  “Gregori,” Aleksandra said. “I wasn’t expecting you here.”

  A hairless face that wept with open sores turned toward her. His eyes bored into hers as he leaned heavily on his staff. “I wanted to see what gifts you brought me.”

  She shuddered involuntarily and said, “You look horrible.”

  “A side effect. Nothing more.” His eyes roamed over the sleeping forms as he added, “Yes, these will do just fine.”

  “What are you going to do to them?”

  Gregori stiffened. “I’ll infect them like everyone else . . . like the guild.” Staring at her again, he asked, “Do you care what I do to them?”

  “No, of course not. Just curious about your work,” she replied quickly.

  “My sister’s grown soft.”

  They both turned at Marko’s approach. “We are wasting time,” he added before Aleksandra could respond. “Where’s your camp?”

  Waving his hand, Gregori pointed toward a now-visible side trail.

  * * * * *

  San Sebek-Wy (October 24)

  Night fell around Xandor and Chert and still they traveled, jumping at each new sound and peering into deep shadows though they could make out little. They moved as quickly as they could through the looming darkness, trusting the instincts of their horses to keep them on the road while Chert used his night vision to help them avoid low-hanging branches and other obstacles.

  After traveling this way for several miles, Chert and Xandor spotted a faint glow just off the roadway. Pulling back on the reins, Xandor directed his horse closer to the pale light. Sky followed close behind.

  Standing beside the road was an elf, his hand raised in greeting or maybe in warning. A white nimbus surrounded the figure, causing the two travelers to squint against the glare.

  Speaking the language of the elves, Xandor asked, “How can I help you, master elf?”

  The elf looked at the ranger and pointed west, back the way the two had just come.

  Xandor replied, “We can’t do that.”

  The mouth of the elf did not move, but a hollow voice echoed all around them and said, “The Anak’im hunts you. You must flee this place.”

  Xandor and Chert looked at each other; neither had seen an Anak’im. Che
rt had read about them in his religious studies, but even those references were vague and often contradictory.

  “Elf, we cannot leave. Perhaps you can show us a safe route around this Anak’im?”

  The elf stared at them, the expression on his face unreadable.

  “Why do you warn us?” Xandor prodded.

  Again, no answer. The elf’s eyes glazed slightly, giving the impression he was listening to something only he could hear. When his eyes came back into focus, he stared at the ranger. Then the elf bowed slightly before he disappeared, and with him went every creak and groan of the forest.

  Xandor searched around for the elf, trying to see if he had reappeared somewhere else. Nothing. Giving up, he applied a little pressure with his knees.

  Just as they were about to continue, the stench of death and decay enveloped them.

  Xerxes pawed the road and tossed his head, urging his rider to flee, but the stallion made no other sound to give away their position. Xandor rubbed the horse’s neck, peering vainly into the darkness for signs of this new enemy.

  Dismounting, Chert and Xandor silently led their horses behind a large granite boulder that stood like a sentinel near the roadside. The ranger whispered to each animal while he removed their bridles and stowed them in the saddlebags. When he was done, he crouched beside a jumble of smaller rocks while Chert stood by the larger rock, checking his armor.

  * * *

  Several minutes later, the dwarf could not believe his eyes—walking down the road was a massive giant with a spiked club braced against one shoulder. Chert’s eyebrows climbed higher as he noted the man riding slowly beside the giant. It was the same Northman who had attacked them at the bunker.

  The dwarf glanced over and saw Xandor give the signal. Whispering a silent prayer, Chert gestured sharply.

  Silvery-white light erupted in front of Mladen’s horse. It screamed and reared, throwing its rider. The Anak’im stopped and raised one of his massive hands to block the glare. Taking advantage of the confusion, the dwarf shouted another prayer and hurled his hammer.

  It whooshed through the air and struck the giant in the lower chest; a loud crack echoed off the trees. With a sharp intake of air, the Anak’im stepped back as the hammer bounced off the flattened bear hide and returned to Chert’s waiting hand. Meanwhile, Xandor ghosted away into the woods.

  With a loud bellow, the Anak’im swung his club in a large circle, striking several tall trees. They crashed and fell toward the dwarf.

  Using the boulder for cover, Chert ducked to avoid the flying branches. He closed his eyes to keep out the dust and, when he reopened them, found himself surrounded by a sea of splintered wood. Feeling trapped, he watched the giant wade through the destruction toward him.

  With another shouted prayer, Chert side-armed the hammer. White flames enveloped the head. It struck the giant in the shoulder with an explosive boom, leaving the giant’s left arm hanging numb at his side. The giant’s twisted face snarled in anger, and slimy spittle escaped from the corner of his mouth, splattering on Chert’s shield.

  Unfortunately, the temporary loss of the arm was not enough to stop the Anak’im. Roaring, the giant held his spiked club high in the air and struck the large boulder, shattering it into a thousand tiny pieces. Shrapnel flew everywhere, and Chert found himself deafened by the rain of stones pelting his helmet.

  * * *

  With his blades ready, Xandor stalked Mladen. Taking advantage of the havoc caused by the Anak’im, the ranger circled the light radiating from the road and slowly closed the distance. When the boulder exploded, Mladen raised his bow and quickly pulled back the string.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Xandor saw Chert standing dazed amid the boulder’s pulverized remains. In one fluid motion, he stepped and threw one of his blades overhand. Spinning through the air, the hilt of the sword struck the Northman’s extended left arm.

  With a cry, Mladen dropped his bow and spun in place, simultaneously drawing his cutlasses. Xandor charged across the short, well-lit distance, swinging his remaining longsword in a mighty, downward, two-handed cleave. At the last second, he dipped his shoulder under the rising block and slammed into his opponent’s solar plexus; he straightened explosively, hurling the Northman through the air.

  Trailing arrows in his wake, Mladen crashed to the ground in a sliding roll. He came up in a low crouch and brought one of his cutlasses into a high block and attacked with the other in a low slice, braced for an attack that did not come.

  The Northman glanced about, surprised. Instead of attacking, the ranger had retrieved his fallen weapon and now casually waited in silence.

  Fighting the dull pain in his chest, Mladen sent his tattoos swirling. He knew well the psychological impact the display had on his opponents and searched the ranger’s eyes for the fear his tattoos normally inspired.

  Instead, what he saw was…a cold, pitiless gaze.

  Mladen shook himself and fought against the worm of fear in his mind. The thought I killed this man jumped into his head. I saw the arrows go in. I saw him fall. He was dead. The words kept repeating in his mind, feeding his fear. Words he had used with Marko.

  “Are you a ghost?” he finally screamed.

  Xandor answered the tattooed warrior’s query by advancing.

  Without warning, Mladen rushed forward and feinted with his left blade while slashing up from a low guard position with his right blade. Xandor blocked and dodged the first, but was a second too slow with the other, earning a bloody gash along his left calf.

  Mladen’s evil grin became wider when he saw his opponent wasn’t a ghost. Looking into his foe’s eyes, he searched again for an emotion, any emotion. The ranger’s gaze was unchanged; his expression remained impassive.

  What kind of man was the Kral’s ranger? Did he have no fear of death?

  “I killed you once; I’ll do it again!” Mladen yelled.

  * * *

  Growling loudly, the Anak’im swung his club at the dwarf.

  Partially trapped by the fallen branches and deafened by the noise, Chert could only stand his ground and watch through the eye slit of his helmet as the club began its downward arc. Bracing himself, he yanked his shield up over his head in a vain attempt to stop the crushing blow. The club landed with a deafening crunch, and several of its spikes punched through the steel shield, driving Chert to his knees.

  With an alarming metallic scrape, the spikes grated against the side of Chert’s helmet as the Anak’im raised his club two-handed. Wrenching the torn piece of metal back and forth, Chert couldn’t get his shield off the club. He glanced down and saw the bloodied tip of a spike protruding through the steel vambrace he wore over his chain sleeve. Having no other choice, the dwarf hung on like a gristly piece of meat and rode the club into the air.

  The giant slowly raised the club over his head. Pivoting, he found a fractured tree trunk. He inhaled deeply and drew back his club in a long arc, preparing to drive the impaled dwarf into the knifelike projections.

  Ignoring spasms of icy pain that shot through his arm, the dwarf desperately struck at the spikes trapping his shield with his hammer, hitting them with everything he had as he rose.

  The Anak’im felt the blows when several spikes broke away from the hardwood, but he didn’t care; he continued his deadly arc.

  Frantic, Chert worked his shield back and forth, causing the spike in his arm to become more and more brittle with each pass, but also rending his flesh. Gritting his teeth, he pushed against the almost-vertical club with his feet, finally snapping the spike between his arm and the shield.

  Pain consumed his world, but through the divine grace, he clung to consciousness. When the club stopped for a brief moment at its apogee, Chert was free. He held on and twisted as best he could as blood dripped steadily down his mangled arm.

  The Anak’im brought his club around swiftly, but the dwarf didn’t slam into the broken tree; instead, the dwarf let go of his shield and dropped the few feet to land on th
e giant’s head. Chert grabbed a handful of the greasy hair, and with all the strength his short frame could muster, he smashed the thick skull of the Anak’im repeatedly with his hammer.

  Enraged, the giant reached up, grabbed the dwarf by the leg, and flung him.

  * * *

  Xandor remained focused on his opponent and saw he needed to move faster. He watched the play of emotions on the smaller man’s face; he could smell the Northman’s fear. The two circled for a moment more before Xandor launched his attack, bringing both blades in opposite arcs, forcing Mladen to split his attention. The Northman succeeded in blocking both of them but could not avoid the ranger’s head butt.

  Blood running down his chin, Mladen staggered back. Xandor kicked him in the groin. The wounded man’s tattoos ceased swirling, and his eyes lost focus as he sank to the ground.

  Gasping in pain, the Northman instinctively rolled, putting distance between himself and the ranger.

  Xandor closed and was ready when the Northman came up with his high block and a low slice. But this time, the low slice skimmed the surface of the roadway, throwing a face full of dirt and gravel into Xandor’s eyes. Stumbling back, the ranger held his swords defensively as he blinked the grit from his eyes.

  Taking advantage of the distraction, the Northman dodged sideways and hurtled into the darkness, crashing through the underbrush. Through watery eyes, Xandor watched the distorted form of the Northman vanish into the darkness.

  A sudden clamor of metal on metal drew his attention, and Xandor glanced in Chert’s direction in time to see the dwarf fly through the air and smash into a large boulder.

  Ignoring the Northman, the ranger’s eyes darted to the discarded bow. He scooped it up and let an arrow fly toward the giant’s backside. Before the arrow hit its intended target, Xandor stepped back to the edge of the forest and readied another.