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Chaos Raging (The Five Kingdoms Book 11)

Page 23

by Toby Neighbors


  Simply killing King Ricard would have relieved Lorik, but it was too good for the man ultimately responsible for Vera’s death. Ricard had to suffer, had to know fear, and pain, and most of all regret. Then he could die, but not before.

  Lorik watched the army from a distance as the sun rose. Lorik was waiting to see what the army would do in the light of day. He knew they were exhausted, but he couldn’t predict what that desperation would cause them to do.

  “They are dividing their forces,” Spector said.

  “I see that.”

  “Should we go around?”

  “No,” Lorik said. “Give them a little more time. I want to see what they are planning.”

  Lorik’s keen eyes could see the soldiers being lined up along the road. There were nearly a hundred foot soldiers, all armed. Another dozen knights with armor and weapons were held in reserve. Lorik couldn’t see who was leading the group, but it seemed obvious that their intent was to stop Lorik from pursuing them. If the whole army had failed to defeat him, Lorik couldn’t imagine why a hundred were being left behind to try it.

  “We could attack them from behind,” Spector said.

  “I don’t think so,” Lorik said. “At least not at first. I’ll confront them while you circle around behind.”

  “Should I kill their commander?”

  “I suppose,” Lorik said. “If they want to die fighting, I will grant them that wish.”

  Lorik walked toward the remnant that waited for him. He did nothing to hide his approach and didn’t hurry. He wasn’t tired, the cold had no effect on him at all, and he still had plenty of food in the bag that hung from his belt. After killing terrified men, wounded men, those that had given up all hope of living and begged for only a quick death, a good fight would be a welcome change.

  When he was only a hundred yards away the commander of the group moved out from behind the knights and Lorik recognized him instantly. It was Braynar, the arrogant commander who had invaded Ortis after King Yettlebor had been slain. Braynar had been defeated, but the wily commander had escaped. His arrogance on the battlefield just days before had infuriated Lorik, but there seemed to be no pride left in the man. His fine, fur-lined armor was filthy, and there were dark circles under the commander’s eyes.

  “Braynar,” Lorik said in a loud voice. “Have you come to die?”

  “We are here to stop you, sorcerer,” Braynar shouted.

  “We’ve danced to this tune before,” Lorik said. “I’ll tell you what. Come and fight me, man to man, and no matter the outcome I’ll let your soldiers live.”

  “You lie,” spat Braynar.

  Lorik could see the spark of hope in the eyes of the soldiers around Braynar. They had been given an impossible task, they all knew it. Lorik was an unstoppable force, at best they might be able to slow him down slightly, but the cost would be their lives. None of them had hoped to survive the battle, but Lorik was offering them a reprieve and yet their cowardly commander refused to accept it.

  “Braynar, you have no honor. You would rather sacrifice brave men than face me in a fair fight.”

  “You’re a sorcerer. No man can fight you in a fair fight.”

  “That’s not true,” Lorik said. “I will not use my magic against you, or even my weapons.”

  Lorik drew his swords and drove them down into the snow. He drew his dagger and flicked it down into the ground as well. Then he unbuckled his armor and let it fall to the ground. His helmet was the last thing Lorik removed, but he took it off and sat it gently on the ground.

  “You can bring whatever armor and weapons you like,” Lorik said. “But fight me.”

  “We will fight you,” Braynar screamed. “Attack!”

  A few of the soldiers moved forward, but most stood still. They were angry and disgusted with Braynar. Few men would die in battle for a cowardly commander. Those that stepped forward hesitated, looked at their companions, then stepped back into formation.

  “Cowards!” Braynar shouted.

  “The only coward is you, Braynar,” Lorik said. “It is your time to die. Do not cry and beg, face me like a man. Salvage what honor you can. These men will live to tell the story of your death. Would you have them tell how you fought with honor, or that you died weeping and begging for your life?”

  It took a moment for Braynar to realize what was happening. The troops that had been assigned to stay with him were the strongest left in the army from Baskla. They should have been able to swarm over Lorik, to defeat him by sheer weight of numbers, yet none were willing to attack. Finally the commander looked to one of the knights nearby.

  “May I have your shield?” he asked quietly.

  The knight handed him the shield and his troops parted in front of him. Braynar drew his sword. It was a long, well-made weapon, sharp on both edges, with a wide runner that reached nearly the entire length of the blade. He swung the weapon once he was past his soldiers, loosening his arm and shoulder.

  “You swear on your life to spare my army and my king?” Braynar asked as he approached Lorik.

  “No, only these brave few. All that run from me will die.”

  “Not if I kill you first!”

  Braynar stabbed his sword straight at Lorik, lifting his shield in perfect form, his back foot supporting the attack while the other foot slid forward to give the thrust power. Lorik spun, his thick, muscular body turning so that the sword missed his abdomen by less than an inch. As he turned, Lorik threw his elbow toward Braynar’s head. The commander raised his shield to block the blow, but he wasn’t prepared for the raw strength of his opponent. Lorik’s elbow hit the shield with such force that it slammed into Braynar’s head and knocked him off balance.

  As Braynar stumbled Lorik could have pressed his advantage, but instead he waited, standing still as if he were watching a child, not fighting for his life. Braynar regained his balance and turned to face Lorik again, moving more cautiously. There was a red bruise forming over his left ear.

  Lorik smiled, his body perfectly still. He was unarmed and standing with his arms at his sides, seemingly relaxed. Braynar was inches away from being close enough to attack with his sword, gathering his courage, preparing to spring into action, but Lorik moved first. Almost imitating Braynar’s thrust, Lorik lunged forward, one empty hand reaching out. He grabbed the rim of Braynar’s shield before the commander even knew he was being attacked. With a powerful jerk he ripped the shield away.

  Braynar’s arm popped out of socket at the elbow, and he screamed. The commander dropped his sword and cradled his injured left arm to his body. Lorik tossed the shield away and turned back to Braynar.

  “Are you through?” Lorik asked.

  The commander’s eyes flashed with fury and fear, but he bent down and retrieved his sword. The strength was gone from the man, only desperation to live remained as he faced Lorik. He swung his sword at Lorik’s face, but he was just barely within range. Lorik swayed backward, avoiding the slash. Braynar screamed as he slashed again, stepping closer and hacking down at Lorik’s shoulder. The big warrior rotated his body so that his shoulder was clear of the blade and at the same time he brought his opposite fist up and slammed it into Braynar’s nose.

  The injured commander staggered back as blood poured from his crushed nose. He spat and sputtered, his eyes watering and his sword swinging feebly in front of him to ward Lorik off, but the big warrior didn’t press his attack. The entire group of soldiers stood watching their commander crumple to the ground. He fell on his knees, his sword in the mud, his face covered with blood.

  “End it,” he spat angrily. “At least give me a quick death.”

  “You don’t deserve it,” Lorik said. “How many men have you led to slaughter with your incompetence. You are an arrogant fool.”

  “Just end it!”

  Lorik walked toward Braynar and when he was close the fallen commander lunged up with his sword. It was a treacherous move, and would have driven the blade into Lorik’s groin, but the big
warrior was expecting exactly such a desperate act. He side stepped so quickly Braynar’s thrust sliced nothing but air, as Lorik’s hand came down on the commander’s forearm. The snap of the bone was loud and immediately followed by a blood-curdling wail from the commander, who toppled onto his side in the mud.

  The soldiers were suddenly uneasy as Lorik stalked back to his weapons and snatched up one of his swords. He did not look at them as he walked back to Braynar, cleared his throat, and spat on the fallen man.

  “You are no man,” Lorik said. “Know that I have beaten you and enjoyed every second of it. You deserve to die slowly a thousand times, but I will end your life quickly enough.”

  Lorik grabbed Braynar by his collar and pulled the commander to his knees, before placing the sword blade at the commander’s throat. Finally he looked up at the soldiers gathered together, watching their commander die.

  “Tell people what you saw,” he said. “Your valor has saved you this day. You can go east or west, but not north. If you return to King Ricard’s army you will die. Wherever you go, tell them what you saw this day. Anyone who comes into my kingdom with the intent to do me or my people harm, they will die.”

  As he said the last few words he grabbed the commander’s hair on top of his head, pulling the man’s chin back, and began to saw at Braynar’s neck. He could have severed the commander’s head in one swift action had he stepped backward and swung his sword. Instead he cut randomly, severing thick veins and Braynar’s wind pipe in a slow, clumsy manner. The commander struggled at first, then gurgled and choked until Lorik’s sword finally reached the spinal cord and ended his life.

  Blood gushed and fountained as Lorik took his revenge. Many of the soldiers were forced to look away. The sound of their commander dying was more than they could take and many retched, their empty stomachs twisting at the sight of such bloody carnage. Lorik kept sawing until the commander’s head was severed. He lifted the bloody trophy and smiled. He knew just what to do with his grisly prize.

  Chapter 27

  The market was busy, but Mansel got food and blankets easily enough. He couldn’t get clothes for Vyctor, the boy was so big he had to have garments custom made, but Mansel was certain that he had enough raw materials to keep the young man warm as they fled the city.

  A large wagon with a canvas draped over long, thin strips of wood called bows was waiting just outside the livery when Mansel returned. The bows arched over the bed of the wagon and the canvas was being tied down by the fat proprietor of the livery.

  “This what you were expecting?” the man asked.

  “It is,” Mansel said. “Thank you.”

  “She’s ready. I’ll take my coin now.”

  Mansel tossed his armload of supplies into the bed of the wagon and walked back into the large barn with the fat man. Danella had washed Vyctor’s wounds and covered him with Mansel’s cloak.

  “Time to go,” Mansel said, taking the gold from Danella and giving it to the fat man.

  “Pleasure doing business with you,” the fat man said, his smile betraying the greed in the proprietor’s face.

  Mansel helped get Vyctor to his feet. He had to hobble on his heels from the pain in his toes. Mansel knew the young man was going to lose the frostbitten digits, but they would have to get clear of Tragoon before they sought out a healer. He hoped that the wounded flesh wouldn’t putrefy before they could get him help.

  “Just get him in the wagon,” Mansel said. “We’ll worry about making it comfortable once we’re out of the city.”

  Danella nodded as they shoved Vyctor into the bed of the wagon. She hopped in after the young man, and pulled him inside the covered wagon, while Mansel hurried around and climbed onto the long bench. He had driven wagons occasionally with Quinn back when he was an apprentice in Tranaugh Shire. Just the thought of his mentor and friend made Mansel’s eyes water. He was brushing the tears away as men with weapons came running out of a side street to block the wagon.

  “Out of the way!” Mansel shouted.

  “We found him!” shouted the soldier. Mansel could see the armor the men wore under their cloaks. They were the king’s Royal Guard, but dressed in warm cloaks that covered their distinctive armor.

  “I said move or I’ll ride you down,” Mansel threatened.

  “You try it and we’ll kill the horses,” the soldier replied. “You aren’t going anywhere.”

  Mansel knew that he had to get the wagon out of the city, but he couldn’t risk the horses getting injured. He jumped from the driver’s bench, drawing his sword in midair and stabbing the nearest solder through the neck.

  The other guards sprang into action but Mansel was ready for them. One jerk freed his sword, and while he ducked under a slash from the next soldier, Mansel countered with a slash across the man’s knee. It wasn’t a deep wound, but the soldier fell onto his side, dropping his weapon and grabbing his leg. Then three more men rushed forward, all striking at Mansel at the same time. He was forced to fall back, his sword flashing as he parried the soldiers’ attack. He moved in a wide arc, until his back was to the horses, between the wagon and the soldiers.

  “I’m sorry!” he shouted. “This was the best I could do.”

  He slapped the horse’s rump and sent the wagon rumbling down the street. One of the guards turned after the wagon and Mansel used the distraction to thrust his sword into the next soldier’s exposed side. He was wearing leather armor over chain mail. The sword pierced the armor and broke several links of the mail, but didn’t go deep enough to seriously wound the soldier. It did however snap at least one rib and took the man out of the fight.

  The last remaining soldier screamed as he jumped toward Mansel, scoring a shallow wound across the young warrior’s thigh. The thick wool pants parted easily beneath the blade, and blood welled from the wound but Mansel ignored it. Instead he brought his sword straight up into the soldier’s face, the cross guard smashed into the man’s mouth and shattered several teeth. As the wounded man staggered back Mansel swung his sword hard and severed the man’s head. It flipped into the air as the soldier’s body stiffened and toppled over.

  Mansel bent over the dead soldier’s body and snatched up his throwing knives. He flung one at the soldier trying to stop the wagon. It flew wide. Mansel took careful aim with his second attempt and buried the blade in the soldier’s backside. It wasn’t where he’d been aiming, but he guessed the soldier’s armor would have deflected the blade if it had hit him between the shoulder blades. The wounded soldiers were wailing and Mansel limped toward the wagon. The magic from his sword nullified his pain, but Mansel’s wounded leg was weak and slowed him down.

  He had almost reached the wagon when a wave of fire erupted in front of the horses, who neighed, their legs going stiff as they dug their hooves into the ground to stop the wagon. Mansel could see Danella. She had climbed up onto the driver’s bench and was holding the reins, but there was a look of terror on her face. When Mansel looked further up the street he saw Roleena and Branock coming toward them. He moved quickly behind the wagon, where he wouldn’t be seen.

  “Where are you going, my dear?” Branock asked in a high-pitched voice. “Surely you aren’t thinking that I would just let you leave.”

  “I don’t want trouble, please,” Danella said.

  “You are nothing to me,” the wizard snarled. “But no one insults me and lives. You should have stayed and played your part in Orrock. But you were too stupid to see what I was offering you. A chance to be queen, to live in luxury and privilege. You are a bigger fool than that oaf in the wagon. I will have my satisfaction.”

  Branock raised his hands and Mansel was about to race around the wagon, but Vyctor was faster. The young man, wounded, hurting, and weak from hunger, came charging out of the wagon like a caged animal set free. He bounded through the canvas flap that hung just behind the driver, and jumped clear over the horses. Mansel was just racing around the wagon as Danella screamed.

  Branock sent a plume o
f fire shooting from his hands straight at Vyctor, but there was no stopping the hulking boy. The fire engulfed him, surrounded his body and covered him in bright orange flames. The fire was so hot that Roleena was forced to stumble back, away from the wizard. Vyctor, his battle cry still echoing from his immolated body, smashed into Branock and sent them both tumbling down onto the ground. Mansel jumped onto the wagon, slapping the horse with the flat of his sword blade and shouting. The terrified animals bolted, and Mansel had to grab Danella around the waist to keep the young girl from tumbling off the wagon.

  She was screaming, and leaning around the wagon’s canvas as the horses galloped down the street. Mansel had to hold her in place as she tried to jump down and race back to Vyctor, but Mansel knew the boy was dead. He had sacrificed himself to save Danella, and it was Mansel’s burden to get her clear of the city. If they were caught it would mean Vyctor’s sacrifice was in vain. He felt terrible, but he kept going, driving his sword point first into the wooden plank beneath his feet and then snatching up the reins that Danella had discarded.

  “No!” she wailed. “Vyctor!”

  Mansel snapped the leather reins, urging the horses to speed. He risked one look back, peering anxiously through the canvas flap. Roleena was watching them go as Branock rose to his feet, his clothes blackened and smoking. Mansel couldn’t be sure but he thought he saw several blisters from burns on the pale, bald wizard’s skin. Of course Mansel had seen Branock engulfed in flames and left for dead before. That had been long ago, when Mansel, Quinn, Brianna, and Zollin were fleeing toward the Northern Highlands. The wily wizard had survived that attack and Mansel had no doubt the burns the old man had suffered from Vyctor’s heroic charge wouldn’t hold him back for long. Still, he felt a sense of relief that the wizard and the pirate weren’t chasing them.

  “He’s gone,” Mansel said, his voice heavy, tears stinging his eyes and making his throat ache. “He saved us, but he’s dead. We can’t go back for him.”

 

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