Warbringer

by Aaron Hodges

  Running down the muddy streets, Lukys’s heart soared. There was no time to think about what was to come, about strategy or logistics, only to charge, spear raised towards the enemy. The palisade came into view, the sloped earth leading up to makeshift ramparts packed with soldiers.

  Lukys’s fear came rushing back.

  The Tangata did not appear to be attacking this section of wall, but somehow that only made the fear worse. His guts turned to liquid as he listened to the sharp twang of bowstrings. Somewhere, men and women were screaming, but ahead a strange peace hung over the soldiers, the calm before the storm.

  Lukys’s stride faltered and he slowed his pace, allowing several recruits to overtake him. But he didn’t allow himself to stop. If he stopped, he’d never be able to start moving again.

  Soon the ground was rising beneath his feet. Lukys clenched his teeth and clutched his spear tighter as they approached the waiting soldiers. Unbidden, the recruits spread out along the wall, seeking areas where there was space for them to stand. Screams came from away to their right and Lukys craned his head. Even in his terror, he longed for a glimpse of the villainous Tangata.

  Then he was standing atop the fortifications, the spiked palisade stretching up to his waist, a twenty-foot drop beyond. A barrel was burning nearby, casting light out across the ramparts, while below great bales of hay turned the river flats to red.

  Ghosts moved amongst the flames.

  Death, death, death.

  The hairs on Lukys’s neck stood on end as he tried to track the creatures below. They were effervescent in the darkness: a flash of their eyes catching the light here, a flicker of shadows there, always moving. Bowstrings twanged along the wall, but Lukys sensed few would find their mark—not in this darkness, not with these creatures.

  Taking a two-handed grip of his spear, he looked left and right. Soldiers wearing the red embroidered uniforms of Flumeer made up the bulk of the front ranks—few of the blue-clad Perfugians had been so bold as to step right to the edge.

  Thwack.

  Lukys gaped as just a few feet from where he stood, a man crumpled to the ground, head caved in from some unseen projectile. The helmet had done nothing to protect him. Other defenders cried out as the crack of rocks striking wood came from the palisade—then they were throwing themselves down. Lukys mimicked their actions, though his eyes were still fixed on the dead man. A rock the size of a fist lay on the ground beside him.

  What The Fall am I doing here?

  Standing amongst the soldiers of Flumeer, Lukys realised in that moment he had no business being on that wall, in that city, on the frontline. He had no idea what he was doing, no clue about how to fight, what to do when the Tangata came.

  The pounding of rocks ceased as quickly as it had begun. Maybe the Tangata had run out of projectiles—or perhaps they were only waiting for fresh targets to present themselves. The Flumeerens must have thought the same, for they were slow to regain their feet.

  Eventually, some of the bolder archers began to fire into the darkness again. Still crouched, spear clutched at his side, Lukys watched a woman draw back a bowstring, eyes fixed on some point down below…

  Lukys blinked. The woman had vanished…no, not vanished—her body lay a yard from where she’d stood, neck snapped in two, eyes still staring at some distant point.

  Something else took her place.

  Lukys didn’t move, didn’t dare even breathe as finally he laid eyes upon the monster that haunted the dreams of every Perfugian child. It could have been human; indeed, there was no outward difference in its appearance. There was no disfiguration, no sharpened teeth or talons, as some of the legends claimed. Nothing other than eyes as grey as stones.

  Those eyes swept the ranks of defenders surrounding it, and as one they drew back. The Tangata smiled.

  Death, death, death.

  The chant had become a cacophony in Lukys’s mind now, booming along to the racing of his heart. Fear lodged in his throat, suffocating him, robbing him of strength. The tip of his spear shook; he almost dropped it.

  A howl shook the night.

  And the soldiers of Flumeer charged.

  Sword raised, a man leapt at the beast, steel point aimed for its throat. The Tangata wore no armour, carried no weapon that Lukys could see, but it moved far faster than its foe. It spun, and the soldier’s sword found only empty air. A hand flashed out and caught the soldier by the throat. Though he wore an iron bevor, the steel offered little protection against the strength of the Tangata. The creature wrenched its wrist, and then the man was dead.

  Lukys’s stomach churned as blood sprayed across the mud, but the loss did not slow the man’s comrades. Screaming their rage, they struck at the creature, though it was already moving, evading their attempts to trap it, to drive their blades home. Lukys watch on from his knees, unable to find the courage to stand.

  He had never understood until now. Sure, he had heard the tales, knew the stories, the legends of these creatures who had dared defy the Gods.

  But no one in Perfugia truly understood.

  He knew that now. If they did, all the might of their island nation would already be here, battling on to hold the line, to push back against the inhuman hordes.

  The Tangata were no ordinary enemy, no human kingdom you could surrender to. The creature before him was mad, possessed by the magic its ancestors had stolen, utterly corrupted.

  If the Tangata could not be stopped…

  They were all going to die.

  Lukys climbed to his feet, spear held out before him. A second Flumeeren soldier had already fallen. The creature swept up the man’s sword before others could converge on it, and a third man fell, head separated from his shoulders in a single swing. Growling, it continued forward.

  Screams rent the air as Lukys watched the creature come, unable to move, to run, to do anything but wait for death to find him. It stalked across the rampart, dealing death with each step, and Lukys raised his spear, preparing for a final stand. But the soldiers of Flumeer were not finished yet.

  A woman stepped between Lukys and the creature, bow in hand with arrow nocked. Before the creature could spot the danger, she loosed. A howl sounded in the night as her red-plumed arrow sprouted from the Tangata’s chest. It stumbled back, grey eyes showing a moment’s surprise. But the wound was not mortal, and with a roar, the beast drew back an arm and hurled the stolen sword.

  There was a sickening thwack as the blade slammed into the woman’s chest. Thought fled Lukys’s mind as he dropped his spear and stepped forward to catch her. She sagged into his arms, the strength gone from her legs. The chainmail vest she wore had done nothing to save her, and staggering, Lukys lowered her carefully to the earthen ramparts.

  Blood bubbled from her lips as she struggled to breathe. Desperately, Lukys tried to recall the teachings of the master doctor. But the sword embedded in the woman’s ribs was beyond anything he’d learnt in the academy. With a last sigh, her eyes slid closed and the harsh rattling of her breath faded to nothing.

  Lukys sat back on his haunches. Around him, the world was on fire. Winds blew from across the river, catching in the hay below the walls and sending flaming strands swirling through the air. Acrid smoke stung his nostrils as he inhaled, and his throat burned. Terror robbed him of strength.

  He drew on what final dredges of courage remained to him. Clasping at his fallen spear, he forced himself up—and found himself staring into the stony eyes of the beast.

  It stood just a yard away, close enough that it could have reached out and snapped his neck at any moment. It didn't. Wrinkles creased its forehead as it watched him. The spear shook in Lukys’s hand as he realised this was his chance.

  But even as he tightened his grip on the weapon, the Tangata tensed, its features closing over. A smile twisted its lips, revealing yellowed teeth.

  Death, death, death.

  Laughter sounded in Lukys’s ears and the beast raised a hand, gesturing him forward.


  Screaming, Lukys leapt, spear held at the ready. He knew he could not win, that this was the end, but in that moment he didn’t care. All that mattered was the spear in his hands and the beast.

  The tip of his spear flashed out, aimed clumsily for the creature’s stomach. The Tangata was quicker, its hand swiping down, catching his weapon by the haft and snapping it in two with a quick wrench. Lukys staggered back, half of his now useless weapon still clutched to his chest. The tip of Lukys’s spear clasped in one hand, the Tangata advanced.

  A cry escaped Lukys as his boots failed to find purchase in the mud. He crashed to the ground, broken spear tumbling from his fingers. Mouth wide in terror, he looked up, expecting to see death descending upon him.

  A warrior stood between Lukys and the Tangata, twin-bladed axe extended towards the beast. The weapon rippled in the firelight as it swept out. The Tangata leapt away, twisting from the path of the blade, but even with its superhuman speed, it could not avoid the blow completely.

  A shriek rent the air as the axe sliced the creature’s thigh. Blood pulsed from the wound as it staggered. Lukys was surprised to see it bled red. Despite their distinctly human appearance, surely the monsters could not be the same within?

  Pain contorted the Tangata’s face as it faced the axeman. Then a change seemed to come over the creature, a wave of pure rage sweeping away its agony. Its eyes flashed and it rushed forward—now in total silence.

  The axeman did not retreat from its fury. He charged with a shout, words lost in the chaos, massive shoulders sending the axe flashing for the Tangata. Somehow, the creature seemed sluggish by comparison. Perhaps the wound had slowed it. Regardless, it realised its mistake too late, and with a sickening thud, the axe slammed into its shoulder, slicing through bone and sinew to bury itself in the beast’s chest.

  An awful gurgling came from the Tangata as it struggled to step forward, to reach the enemy that had slain it. But not even these creatures could survive such a blow, and with a sharp whistle of departing air, it slumped to its knees and fell alongside Lukys.

  The warrior towered over the beast. His shoulders heaved as blue eyes scanned the ramparts, seeking out signs of fresh danger. Another Tangata lay nearby, its body peppered with arrows and impaled by several spears. In the distance, the sounds of battle were fading, an eerie stillness coming over the night.

  The battle was won.

  Looking up at the massive axeman, Lukys could hardly believe he was alive. If not for the ferocious warrior, he wouldn’t be. Only now did he notice the man did not wear the familiar red of Flumeer, nor the blue of Perfugia. Instead, his chainmail had been woven through with the deepest green, remnant of the forest.

  Calafe.

  He hadn’t realised there were any Calafe warriors left. They had passed the refugee camps outside Mildeth, but it was said that the last of their soldiers had refused to leave their land, and had died on the shores of the Illmoor. What did this man fight for now, with his kingdom overcome?

  “Need some help?”

  Lukys started as the man spoke, dragging him from his thoughts. Seeing the hand the warrior was extending, he took it. His slender fingers were ingulfed by the warrior’s giant mitts and he was yanked to his feet. Lukys stumbled before righting himself, his gaze catching on the body of the Tangata once more. The blood had stopped flowing from the awful wound the man’s axe had left.

  It almost killed me.

  Before he could stop himself, Lukys was bent in two and retching in the mud.

  Gentle laughter came from beside him. “First battle?”

  Gasping, Lukys managed a nod.

  “You’ll get used to it,” the warrior grunted.

  With that, he took a hold of his axe. Placing a boot on the Tangata’s chest, he yanked the weapon free with a sickening squelch, then turned and walked away along the ramparts.

  Lukys watched him go, a reply on his lips, though he couldn’t bring himself to say it. The warrior was wrong. He would never get used to this. He would never get the chance.

  He’d be dead long before then.

  8

  The Archivist

  Erika was sagging in the saddle by the time the walls of Mildeth finally came into view. The short winter days had made the journey hard, forcing her to wake in the darkness and ride until long after the sun had shrunk beneath the horizon. Blessedly, it was still high now; her five day journey would be at an end by nightfall.

  Now her excitement began to rise as she contemplated what awaited her in Mildeth. They had all been expecting her to fail, every noble in the blasted court. Only the queen had shown faith, and even she had warned Erika that there would be no more expeditions should she return empty handed.

  But this time, Erika had succeeded.

  This time there would be no reprisals.

  This time she would offer Queen Amina the true magic of the Gods.

  She had spent the long journey intermittently dreaming of what might lie hidden in northern Calafe, and practicing with the power she now literally held in the palm of her hand. Not long after leaving the caverns, she had discovered the metal fibres had indeed fused to her flesh. It should have frightened her, but instead she found herself relieved the magic could not be taken away.

  Each night she had practiced with it, trying to discover its secrets. She had experimented first with its ability to summon light. In her rush to escape the caverns, Erika hadn’t realised she’d forgotten the lantern until halfway to the exit. It was only then she’d noticed the magical glow that had followed her, seeping from her hand. Now she could summon not only light, but warmth at will by clenching her fist, though she found if she practiced too long, she grew fatigued.

  She’d had less success replicating its more deadly nature. The magic seemed to have no impact on inanimate objects; the trees she’d practiced on hadn’t so much as shaken before her power. Erika hadn’t dared test it on anything living yet; she would have to trust it would work when needed.

  The rolling hills fell behind Erika and the last of the snow with them, while the walls of Mildeth grew larger. Built of red sandstone, they rose from the land like a bloody scar, standing defiant against the wild green of the surrounding farmland. Joining the Queen’s Highway, Erika began to overtake wagons. Many were loaded with food goods, broad beans and cabbage and onions, late crops, the last to be harvested before the snows had started. Others were escorted by armed men, their contents hidden by heavy tarps. These would be from the mines, filled with gold or silver or other precious metals. Maybe even marble, cut from high in the mountains and conveyed to distant Mildeth to grow the ever-expanding citadel in the city’s centre.

  Erika heart raced at the thought that one of those new apartments might soon be hers. Finally she would be granted the position in court she deserved. But her excitement was short-lived, as ascending the final hill before the city, she looked down at the plains surrounding Mildeth.

  A mass of humanity crowded the earth beneath the walls. Here was the fate of the failed, all that remained of the ruin that was Calafe. Flumeeren guards stood at the gates, inspecting each wagon and barring entrance to those who lacked the proper papers. There were simply too many for the city to hold; already Mildeth was bursting at the seams.

  And so they gathered without, women and children, the old and crippled and infirm, all waiting upon the queen’s mercy. Some had raised worn canvas tents, while others had gathered enough garbage and detritus to create lean-tos or makeshift buildings—though that was perhaps too strong a word for the pitiful structures they had erected.

  The Calafe had never been builders. Though many spoke of the beauty of New Nihelm and Fort Agzor before they had fallen, most of its people were said to be nomads, surviving upon the fruits of the forests.

  Only there were few forests in Flumeer. Those had given way long ago to farmland, a necessity to feed not only the growing population, but the ever-expanding army.

  Raising her hood, Erika drew the cloak tighter around
herself and rode on. After the assassination attempt in the caverns, she was wary of being recognised. Though she would be forced to show her papers to the guards, there was no need to shout her arrival to every watcher in the city.

  She kept her gaze fixed straight ahead as she entered the crowds, eager to avoid contact. A long line of wagons clogged the road ahead, waiting to be processed and checked, but alone on her horse, Erika was able to press forward unopposed. Even so, she felt the refugees pressing in, their desperate eyes upon her back. Clenching her fist, she summoned warmth to her gauntlet, drawing strength from the magic’s presence.

  However, it could not keep the stench from her nostrils. Closer to the city, the refugees grew denser, bunching up against the walls in their desperation for shelter. Erika wrinkled her nose as she caught a whiff of another unpleasant smell. She didn’t need to ask what happened to their waste in such tight conditions.

  Approaching the gates, she could no longer avoid setting eyes upon her poverty-stricken neighbours. They were everywhere, crowding onto the Queen’s Highway, pressing at the guards, the wagons. Images flashed before Erika’s eyes, of a pale-skinned, dark-haired woman wearing a thread-worn dress. Even the memory made her cheeks grow warm. Her past was like an anchor, ever seeking to drag her back to the poverty she and her mother had experienced when they’d first arrived in Flumeer…

  The last wagon in line was being searched as Erika rode past. She didn’t spare the contents a glance. Ahead, the gates were open, though a company of soldiers stood at the ready should any of the human debris camped outside attempt to gain passage. They closed ranks at her approach and Erika pulled her horse to a stop before them.

  She dismounted as one of the soldiers wearing the badge of a lieutenant pinned to his chest stepped towards her. “Papers, ma’am?”

  “Erika, the Queen’s Archivist” she replied, reaching into her coat for the documents. As she did, her hand brushed the ancient map and a thrill of excitement touched her. Shaking it off, she offered her papers to the man. “I trust everything is in order,” she added, adopting an elevated tone.