The Legacy of Skur: Volume One

by L. F. Falconer

  “… all five outposts and three hundred men in less than a sennight,” Evan spoke to Toban as Kael and Thoren dismounted.

  “Murdering bastards.” Toban spat upon the ground. “I’d take the whole slew of them and gut them like pigs if I could.”

  “Now Toban,” Thoren broke in, “we’re more civilized than that. You don’t master a dog by becoming one.”

  “You’re right,” Toban said. “You master a dog by whipping it. But if it fails to submit, you kill it.” He sneered and glanced over at Kael. “I’m surprised to see you here. Your father actually allowed you to come play with us? Didn’t he bribe the council to let you stay home safe in Avar?”

  Kael had never warmed to Toban’s company and held his rising gall in check. “And just what is your inference here?”

  Evan shot Toban a dark scowl as Toban continued. “I’m referring to the fact that your father bought your way out of your duty against Cork.”

  Kael took a deliberate step forward. “My father did nothing—”

  “He did,” Evan broke in, grabbing onto Kael’s arm to hold him back. “In a way, he did.”

  A contemptuous smile broke across Toban’s face and he laughed. “You didn’t know?”

  “I served my duty on the southern border just as you did,” Kael said.

  “That you did,” Evan said. “No one’s denying that. But Captain Rhyan recommended you to the king as a spy.”

  Kael stepped back in surprise. “Rhyan did what?”

  Again, Toban’s spit hit the dirt. “The king wanted you to serve as a spy in Cork. Your father took the matter to the Council. The story suggests that he paid the council members a fair amount to sway their favor and allow you to return to Avar instead.”

  “Kael has an inherent duty to Avar,” Thoren said. “He’s the successor to the office of Chief Warden.”

  “If I had known I was to be a spy in Cork, I would’ve been a spy in Cork.” Kael struggled to keep from shouting. “And if you are accusing my father of bribery, Toban, we can take this matter before the Council ourselves. Right now.”

  “Hah!” Toban snatched onto the bridle of his horse. “As if the Council would admit to bribery. Try to smear my reputation before them if you must, Kael, but at least have the decency to wait until after the war.”

  He strode off and Thoren broke the ensuing tension with a laugh. “I’d wager his wife is grateful for this war. Gets him out of her life for a while.”

  “What a bloody canker,” Evan added. “I’ll bet his wife started this war just for that purpose.”

  “Do you think it’s true?” Kael asked.

  Thoren shook his head and grabbed onto the bridle of his own horse. “Not at all. I doubt his wife has that kind of power.”

  “No,” Kael said, trailing behind. “I meant—”

  “I know what you meant,” Thoren said. “Just let it go and be grateful for what your father did, no matter how it might’ve been achieved. Every spy sent into Cork ends up with his head catapulted back across the river.”

  “But if people believe my father bribed my way out of duty—”

  “I wouldn’t wager a day’s pay on Toban’s opinion of anything,” Thoren said. “You know the man simply has a dour attitude and looks for a conspiracy in everything. Let it go.” He turned back to Evan. “Aren’t you coming?”

  “Not this time,” Evan answered, patting the brassard on his arm. “I’ve become one of the Expendables. I’ve been made lieutenant of the Fourth Gray Battalion.”

  Kael grimaced. “May the gods be with you, my friend.”

  “I’m deeply sorry, Evan the Expendable,” Thoren said.

  “But aren’t we all expendable?” Evan called out, raising his fist skyward in a warrior’s salute of solidarity. “Don’t worry. I’ll see you again when this war is over. And at least I’m not serving under Toban.”

  Evan’s words were made clear when Kael and Thoren gathered among the lancers. At the head of the regiment, between the banner bearers, seated upon their mounts were Captain Erram, Lieutenant Toban, and Corporal Morgan. As Kael donned his helmet and gauntlets, he withered a bit inside.

  “The Corkers have pushed as far north as the village of Rand,” Captain Erram announced. “Our men have succeeded in reclaiming Rand, but so far we’ve had no luck driving the Corkers any farther south. They still control Aarl.”

  Rand was a full day’s ride north of Broad River. How had the Corkers managed to come so far so fast?

  “For King and Country!” the captain shouted, raising his sword to the sky.

  All his warriors responded in kind, thrusting their swords toward the sun, shouting, “For King and Country!”

  Battle trumpets blared and the one hundred men in Kael’s regiment spurred their chargers south, the banner bearers holding their flags high, one proudly flying the Tillaman gray pennant emblazoned with the red escutcheon bearing a black bend beneath a crown of gold, the other midnight blue with crossed swords of silver.

  After easily overtaking the procession of the Third Gray Battalion on the road, a two day, back-breaking ride brought the regiment of lancers into Rand. What had once been a thriving village was now little more than a charred ruin, the surrounding land littered with make-shift tents for battle-weary warriors and rows of those that had fallen, retrieved from the battlefields, awaiting burial. The surviving farms north of Rand had been commandeered to house the injured as farmwives tirelessly tended their charges.

  Silence prevailed as they rode through the carnage. Kael wondered how many innocents had died here? How many women and children? Unbidden, his thoughts flew back home to Alyn and Elva, and he was grateful they were safe in the north.

  The regiment pushed through the devastation moving southward along the road that flanked South River. Bringing his mount alongside Kael’s, Thoren spoke. “Judging from this I doubt there’s anything left in Aarl.”

  “Those in Aarl were always friendly folk,” Kael said as his thoughts strayed to the tavern master of a seedy pub—the man whose life he had saved when he had betrayed Artu. A man now most surely dead. “It was hard to believe such friendliness from ones who always live under the shadow of a threat.”

  “Perhaps that is the mark of bravery.”

  “It is rich land for crops that brings folks to live down here. It has nothing to do with bravery. Only a perception of prosperity. And I might actually agree with Toban when it comes to Corkers. They give no mercy. They should receive none.”

  “I hear tell the peasantry of Cork are good-hearted. Over-taxed and over-burdened. Treated no better than cattle,” Thoren said. “It is only the king’s chosen class that thrives.”

  “Chosen class. Meaning the Dragos and warriors?”

  “Possibly. But that is merely speculation.”

  “Had my father allowed me to spy I could’ve cleared up any confusion. We would have a better idea of what life in Cork is really like.”

  “Your father did you a favor and don’t you ever forget that, Kael.” Thoren pointed to the hundreds of pikes that littered the river bank. “You know as well as I do what adorned those before we reclaimed this portion of our land. Your head would’ve been no more sacred than any others.”

  “What Tilla needs are some skilled assassins. Ones that can sneak into Cork and do away with that bloodthirsty tyrant.”

  “That would accomplish nothing. It would only prove our king to be as ruthless as theirs.”

  “Whose side are you on, Thoren? Are you a Corker spy?”

  “Please don’t say those words too loudly, my friend. There are those among us who might take you seriously.”

  Kael noted Thoren’s gaze settle upon Toban at the head of the procession. “My jest is ill-timed,” he agreed. “I’ll watch my words more carefully.”

  In silence, the two men rode on. The day was warm, sunshine causing the sweat to build beneath the layers of linen, leather, and mail. Beads of perspiration rolled down Kael’s face and glistened his beard.
The ground shook beneath the weight of 400 hooves as the lancers steadily advanced toward the battlefield south of Rand.

  Atop a hill in the distance, overlooking the point where the river snaked through a deep gorge, gray and red pennants proclaimed the location of the Tillaman stronghold. Two men on horseback rode toward the advancing party of lancers.

  “Is Dian’s son among you?” one of the men hailed, and Kael recognized the voice as Captain Rhyan’s.

  Kael moved his steed forward through the ranks. “I am here,” he called out.

  “Kael,” the captain hailed again and pointed to the swarthy man who rode beside him. “This is Farin. His skills of stealth can rival your own.” Kael and Farin gave one another greeting and Captain Rhyan went on. “You two are the best scouts we have. What I need you to do is get to the border. We need to know what’s going on there. We need to know what we’re up against in order to form the best plan of attack.”

  The two scouts nodded and turned their steeds toward the east. As Kael glanced back he saw Thoren thrust his fist into the air. The entire regiment followed his lead. Turning his attention once more to the distant woods, Kael did not look back again.

  Once the two scouts reached the trees, they turned south, easing their mounts through dense shrubbery. Riding until nightfall, they were more than halfway to Broad River, deep inside current enemy territory when they dismounted and tied their horses securely beside a brook.

  After a quick meal of the soldier rations both men carried, they removed their armor, keeping only their sword belts, leather jerkins, and leggings. Mail was too noisy and restrictive for stealth. For extra precaution, they smeared their arms and faces with mud before proceeding through the thickets on foot in the dark of night.

  They neither stopped nor rested until they reached Broad River the following nightfall. Turning back to the west, they silently worked their way through the willows that clogged the river bank, back toward an open meadow uphill beyond the woods.

  As they approached the rim of the forest, Kael crept upon his belly among the willows while Farin crawled through the brush slightly behind, atop a rocky crag overhanging the roaring cascades that rushed into the woodland. In the after light of dawn, the two men beheld a sight that froze Kael’s blood.

  Nearly ten thousand men were gathered on the river banks, close to one hundred of those being the King of Cork’s Dragos, evident by pennants emblazoned with a white dragon upon a field of black. Large trebuchets and a host of smaller mangonels stood in wait on the river’s southern side.

  A bridge was being built. Alongside a temporary wooden crossing, the Corkers were constructing a stone bridge which would thus enable them to transport their wheeled war machines onto Tillaman soil.

  That bridge had to be destroyed. If not, they could easily move in on Fead and lay siege to the castle. Discounting the Corkers already at the battlefront, it was clear that the Tillaman army was greatly outnumbered.

  Kael eased backwards and was just about to signal Farin to move out when he caught sight of movement behind them in the trees downhill. With a tiny trill akin to a meadowlark, he signaled Farin instead to hold his position.

  Praying that the beating of his heart would not betray him, Kael kept as still as a stone in the shadows beneath the willows. Six Corker warriors emerged from the forest, riding through the brush along the river bank. There were too many for him and Farin to attempt to take out alone, and without their armor they wouldn’t stand a chance. Their only hope was to remain undetected, and he hoped the hooves of the horses would not stray from their path and crush him.

  He heard a whoosh among the brush behind him. To his horror, he noticed the men randomly stabbing at the surrounding bushes with spear-tipped lances. As if they knew they were being spied upon. Trying to flush the enemy out.

  He dared not move deeper into the willows. To do so would surely reveal himself. Lying motionless while holding his breath, Kael once more pictured the face of Alyn in his mind. He should have kissed her farewell. No matter what her reaction, he should have taken that chance.

  The hooves of the lead Corker plodded by, a spear tip digging into the earth just inches from Kael’s head. He did not budge. The second Corker passed by. The third. The fourth plunged his lance into the willows. The tip glanced off Kael’s shoulder, leaving a ragged tear in his shirt and the skin beneath. Biting back his pain in silence, Kael did not move. The fifth Corker plodded by. The sixth. Once more with a near miss of the lance.

  Without hesitation, the Corkers continued their trek up toward the meadow. Only when he felt safe did Kael dare breathe again, grimacing beneath the pain of the torn skin in his shoulder. Farin signaled him it was safe to move out, and the two scouts swiftly eased themselves back into the deeper cover of the woods.

  “I was afraid they had you,” Farin whispered as he tied off Kael’s bleeding wound with a strip of linen torn from his shirt.

  “I, as well. And I know your orders would’ve prevented you from coming to my aid.”

  “We have only one mission and your orders are no different,” Farin said, finishing the bandage with a tight knot. “We must make haste. That bridge will be our undoing if it gets finished.”

  Kael’s wound still burning, he followed Farin north as the two men hurried through the trees. Tired and hungry, he knew they couldn’t rest until they made it back with their report. With only a weak bridge, the Corkers had easily overtaken the land as far north as Rand. With a strong bridge, there would be no stopping them.

  Jogging through the wooded brush, they hadn’t gone many miles when Farin suddenly gurgled and cartwheeled to the ground. Blood gushed from his throat as the deadly zhonga that nearly severed his head thudded onto the dirt nearby.

  Clad in blued armor, his face painted white with black stripes, the lone Drago leapt from the brush, and retrieved his blade. He whirled to face Kael with crazed eyes.

  In an instant, Kael drew his sword, swinging it two-handed at the enemy.

  The Corker wheeled and blocked the blow with his blood-soaked blade. The crossed weapons sent a clang bouncing through the morning air.

  The man was short and quick with his movements. He vaulted back, bringing his weapon into a hurling position. Kael rushed forward. He had to keep close—far enough to avoid a slice from the zhonga, but near enough to keep the man from an accurate throw. In close combat, his longer blade was superior. Yet he needed to keep his blade well away from the hooked space between the zhonga’s blades, lest the sword be ripped from his grasp.

  The Drago lunged, slicing the air with his blades. Kael, unencumbered by armor, countered the blow with ease. Ignoring the pain ripping through his arm from his shoulder wound, Kael swung again at the man. The Drago wheeled about, once more searching for distance.

  The Drago made no sound other than an animalistic growl guttering from deep down within his throat and showed no signs of tiring—Kael, already wounded, had had no sleep for three days. In a whirl, the Drago scissored forth, sweeping the air with his deadly blades. Kael twisted out of his path, sweat flying from his face. He brought his sword about. The clash of metal against metal once more pealed and melted into the surrounding woods.

  The Drago sped for Farin’s body, then leaped upon it, propelling himself high into the air. Kael brought his sword up, away from his body, too late realizing his mistake. The Drago’s feet hit the ground and he spun about in a crouch. Pain, deep and searing, pierced through Kael’s left side. He screamed when the zhonga gouged through the leather of his jerkin, deep into his flesh just below the ribs. Blood rushed out and down.

  Anguished anger washed his eyes. He slashed wildly, out of control, warm moist blood draining the wound. The Drago’s blade sliced again at the tender flesh and Kael wheeled in a black rage, clamping his sword under the grim agony, smashing it against the back of the Drago’s armor and the resonant peal of the blade against armor swung Kael far away to the north, back home, back to a stone house beside a gurgling brook, b
ack to Alyn and her smoldering smile, and the Drago was knocked off his feet by the blow, and as Kael reeled, through his tears and pain he could see the gleaming bluish mass trying to rise and beyond that lay the bleeding body of Farin. With another wail, Kael broke the air as he hewed his blade down.

  The half-severed head of the Drago listed to the right as he fell limply to the dirt.

  Kael groaned and crumpled to the ground, clutching at his flaming wound. He had to make it to the horses. If he could make it to the horses, he might make it to the encampment below Rand to tell Captain Rhyan what he knew before he died.

  Using his sword for support, he wobbled back to his feet, sheathed his weapon and stumbled through the wooded thickets, clutching his bleeding side. Swiftly, his strength ebbed. He fell once again to the ground.

  Wae! He’d been snabbled for sure this time.

  Struggling back up on tremulous legs, he moved blindly through the woods, his endurance and senses waning. As the lifeblood drained out, staining the shirt beneath his jerkin red, he once again hit the dirt, able to bring himself to rise no more. Beneath the advancing cold, he was burning alive. Gurgling into the dust, darkness eased in over his vision and mind. His final thoughts were of Alyn.

  6

  Alyn’s Burden

  Far to the north in Avar, Alyn carried her market basket on one arm while cradling Elva within the other. Stepping off the road for the house by the brook, she stopped and stared in the direction of Fead at the long stretch of wheel ruts that cut through the heath and faded into the horizon. She did everything she could to keep busy, caring for Elva, the house, and the garden as she tried to keep her thoughts off Kael, but it was an impossible task. What would happen once he returned? What would happen if he never returned?

  It was this thought she couldn’t bear and tried to keep it hidden in the recesses of her mind without much success. She hurried for the house and remembered how, as a young girl, she had often dreamed of growing up to marry a warrior, a fantasy enmeshed in excitement and glory. How could she have ever dreamed such a dreadful thing? It would be so much better to be the wife of a cooper or a smith, of an unadventurous man who stayed home and didn’t rush off to battle. A dull, simple man who would probably come home at the end of a day’s work. Waiting for a warrior to come home was agony, and she, not even a warrior’s wife, was forced to endure it just as surely as the warriors’ wives were.