FIERCE: A Heroic Fantasy Adventure (BRUTAL TRILOGY Book 2)

by James Alderdice

  FIERCE

  James AldeRdice

  FIERCE Copyright 2018 James Alderdice

  Cover typography/design by: http://indieauthordesign.com/

  Map by Anna Stansfield

  Digital formatting by: Hershel Burnside

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owners and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  LOSTREALMS PRESS

  Contents

  Blood on the Tiles

  Conspiracy Blooms

  Dark Dreams

  Death Stalks In

  The Broken Sword

  A Wicked Gift

  In the Hands of Fate

  A Loose Tongue

  The Silent City

  Temple of the Toad

  Upon the Golden Sea

  Island Devils

  Gift of the Waves

  Two for the Price of One

  Gods of the Mountain

  The Loss and Gain of Chalco

  Feast of the Flayed God

  Deal with the Devil

  Winners Never Leave

  The Bloodletting

  Summon the Thunder

  Dark Visions

  Kill the King

  The Door to Midnight

  House of the Serpent

  Coils of the Serpent

  And the Wheel Turns Round

  Beauty and Terror

  Breath of Life

  Blood Hunt

  The Pool of Sacrifice

  The Giant and the Dwarf

  Revolution Out of the Underworld

  The Old Black God

  The Coming Wave

  The Bloody Bay

  Follow the Roving Star

  This one is for the real Niels, a real friend and a true believer. Thanks

  FIERCE

  Blood on the Tiles

  The chill winds during the month of the White Wolf ripped at the banners atop the gleaming turrets of the king’s palace in Hellenaik. Inside the throne room, tensions were ready to explode with a blazing fury. The man who burned most kept his fire inside, but like a kettle, he was about to boil over. King Gathelaus leaned forward with stubbled chin resting on his scar-covered fist while his other hand drummed rapidly atop the armrest of his black throne. The irritated motion a poor barter against what he wanted to do—take up his sword and cleave the sniveling city folk. They twisted words to mean the opposite of their true intent and made that which was good seem evil and vice versa. Instead of spilling hot blood upon a cold floor, the king wore a grimace beneath the crown, and clenched his teeth as he heard the arguments between the town marshal, Evans, and Brylander, a lawyer for the aggrieved nobles of the eastern provinces.

  “Get on with it!” boomed Gathelaus.

  “Pardon, my lord, but as I was saying,” argued the lawyer, “do not those who remained out of your illustrious restructuring of the kingdom deserve some right to keep that which they have built up over centuries of hard work, and,” he emphasized while glaring at his opponent Evans, “to keep that property unmolested over those persons who actively fought against your righteous conquest?”

  “At least I took a side,” said Evans.

  “Might I remind you that it was the wrong one,” needled the lawyer.

  “You, craven dog,” snapped Evans. “Expecting a reward for being a fence sitter!”

  “Please,” continued the lawyer. “It is a wise man who sees which way the wind is blowing and stands abreast of it. If you had any sense, you would have opened the gates to our august ruler, instead of sending arrows at him.”

  Gathelaus ground his teeth and raised a hand, demanding silence. “I do not wish to hear one more word regarding the—” he paused. He didn’t wish to use the bizarre terminology of the lawyers, “transition” or “restructuring”, nor did he appreciate still being called a usurper after almost a year, but what to say? “Revolution,” he finally decided, “that I led. It is done. I am king and if I was going to punish someone for their participation or lack thereof, it would have been done already. The bodies buried along the king’s road testify of my justice to all men.”

  Brylander clicked his heels, spouting, “Yes, my lord. Well said, my lord. All acknowledge your fierce justice—.”

  “Get to that damn point!” Gathelaus roared.

  “Yes, my lord,” squeaked the lawyer. “My clients, the noble houses of the Danelaw, Merketh, and Volheim seek to be properly compensated for their contributions of grain and livestock that have been taken by royal requisition these last three months.”

  “Times are tough all over,” muttered Evans.

  The lawyer paused reading his scroll of demands to glare at Evans, then glanced, hopeful, to the king with anticipatory glee that he would shout down the marshal, but Gathelaus did not speak. Brylander was just about to open his mouth when the king cut him off.

  “There is nothing in the coffers that can be spared for those noble houses,” said Gathelaus, squeezing his thumb and forefinger together. “They must be grateful enough that there were no taxes or tithes collected from them the entire three months that the revolution was happening.”

  “Your majesty that is not true. I have documentation stating that they did pay a tithe to King Forlock. So are therefore…. damn it.”

  Evans chuckled. “Didn’t take a side, eh?”

  “Shut up, Evans,” Brylander sneered.

  “Get out,” demanded Gathelaus, “before I have you strung up by your heels for representing those dogs. I shall deal with them in time.”

  The lawyer slunk away while Evans clapped his hands together. “Use of the law and rhetoric as performed by the dignified coastal city states like Tolburn, is still new to us here in Hellainik. Don’t judge us too harshly for having little skill in it,” he said, with an ever-widening grin.

  Gathelaus laughed. “You here in Hellainik are more civilized than I’ll ever be.”

  The court servitor, Martell, came forward. “Next, my lord, is a delegation from the hinterlands. They speak of trouble with the Bronze Horde reaching over the Rakaus mountains and raiding their lands. Their clan’s chieftain, Marco, wished to tell you of this in his own words.”

  Gathelaus nodded while taking a goblet of wine from a serving girl. He remarked to his captain of the guard, “Now Niels, you fully understand why I rode out to see the lands for myself to avoid this wretched tedium.”

  “I do,” sighed Niels. “And right now, I think I’d prefer to follow you out once again.”

  “Soon enough,” whispered Gathelaus.

  A group of six robustly built men entered. They wore the long, woolen caps and tall boots of the northern herdsmen, a people accustomed to snow and wind. and the beardless men took off their caps as a sign of respect for the king, but Gathelaus’s eyes narrowed as he examined them, and he sat up at attention, like a steel coil ready to spring. They looked more like warriors than caribou herders from the high steppes despite their lengthy cloaks made o
f yak.

  “My lord, I am Marco, son of Tuomas,” began the foremost man. He had ruddy cheeks and flaming red gold hair. “We have come to warn you.”

  “Warn me?” he asked suspiciously. “Does it take six men to bear a message?”

  “Aye, my lord.” Marco stepped closer. “Warn you of the looming danger that comes from the far eastern mountains.” He held in his hands a broken spear shaft. The butt end was dabbed with copper colored paint and several dark feathers hung from just behind the sheathed point. It did appear to be a favored weapon used by the Bronze Horde.

  Marco stepped closer.

  “That’s close enough.” Niels held one palm out with the other on his hilt.

  Marco spoke with hushed tones. “We took this from a scouting party of the Bronze Horde. We believe they are preparing to invade in the spring time.” He stepped forward gingerly, holding the weapon out like an offering. He dropped to one knee and tore the sheath from the short spearhead. “Death to the Usurper!”

  Gathelaus jumped to his feet, his blade flying to his hand as if it had been born there.

  The remaining five hinterland men produced small folding crossbows from beneath their cloaks and fired. The bolts whizzed like angry hornets toward Gathelaus. One hit him square in the armored breastplate and shattered. Two struck right beside him, embedded in the back of the throne where they vibrated and bled vile green poison. Another caught in the folds of his cloak and hung limply there. The last bolt flew high, striking the ceiling, as a guardsman struck the triggerman down from behind with a poleax.

  The assassins dropped their crossbows and reached into their thigh-high boots, producing two-foot-long knives.

  Marco snarled as he lunged with the supposed Bronze Horde spear, also coated with green venom. He slashed it toward both Gathelaus and Niels.

  The assassins had not been projectile marksmen, but they were blade masters and despite being less in number they worked back to back cutting their way through the guards as they fought toward Gathelaus.

  Marco shouted like a man possessed, “I will kill you!”

  A drop of the green venom flew from the swinging spear point and struck Niels on the cheek. Niels stumbled back gasping in pain as he wiped the ooze from his face.

  “Now!” shouted Marco. “We need darkness now!” He continued his attack at Gathelaus as Niels scraped at the poison burning into his skin.

  One of the four assassins dropped his blade and conjured with his hands, chanting archaic words that spewed like maggots crawling from a wound. Black mist swirled about him and exploded outward, filling the room with thick, palpable darkness.

  “Niels back!” shouted Gathelaus, as he swung his sword like a whirlwind to counter any possible attack from within the blinding gloom. He had to trust that his friend could keep clear of his singing sword.

  Marco snarled an attack and the wind of the blade glided past Gathelaus’s ear.

  Gathelaus’s blade met the resistance of Marco’s probing short spear. He swung hard at the imagined arm behind it but struck nothing, almost losing his balance. His cloak pulled at his neck, an assassin’s lunge caught in the thick fabric.

  He slashed swift and hard, instinctively knowing his opponent’s position. His blade sheared down through flesh and bone, sinking into what must have been where shoulder and neck meet before he tore it out. The gurgle of his enemy’s death throes was followed by a dull, satisfying thud of a body hitting the floor.

  The clash of steel and men screaming carried from the rear of the room. Somewhere in the confused mess of blood and knives, the low mutter of the warlock’s spell droned on.

  Gathelaus’s mind raced at how to counter the quartet lost in the murk. A man cried out in pain. Was that Evans? It was impossible to tell.

  Blind as a sleeping man awoken in the sealed tomb, Gathelaus’s foot kicked the first step of the dais. He inched back and up toward the familiar point of his throne. The ornately carved piece of solid oak weighed hundreds of pounds. His mind reeled at how to take the fight from the assassins hidden in the gloom.

  The killers had to be only a couple of spans away. Their woolen boots were silent upon the marble floor, but the vile chanting of the warlock grew closer.

  “Niels,” he whispered, “its me.”

  “I’m here,” returned a soft, pained hush.

  “I’m taking the throne.” Gathelaus sheathed his sword. “It’s the only way I can end this.”

  “What?” The puzzled question escaped Niels’s lips.

  Straining, Gathelaus hefted the throne up over his head and listened for the sorcerous murmur.

  Gathelaus gauged the distance to the murmuring warlock and heaved the throne toward him. The terrible, vicious music of breaking wood and bones echoed through the chamber.

  As swiftly as it came, the black fog rolled back into the sorcerous ether from which it had sprung, leaving the guardsmen blinking in the sudden light. It also revealed to the whole of the court, two crushed assassins and another shocked two beside them.

  Drawing his blade, Gathelaus leapt upon them like a ravening wolf, cutting down the final two before his remaining guardsmen could assist.

  Of the two on the ground, one’s skull was crushed by the broken throne and the other had broken limbs twisted in unnatural positions.

  Gathelaus kicked the dagger beside him away, shouting, “Speak dog! Who paid you?”

  The assassin cried out and struggled against his shattered limbs to crawl away. He screamed and retched and said nothing more as he gritted his teeth.

  “Make him talk,” ordered Gathelaus to his guardsmen.

  They jerked the assassin up. He dangled between them as they twisted his broken bones in various directions while he cried out, then went flaccid in their grip.

  “See that he is treated, and we will work on him more when he awakens.” Gathelaus turned to Niels. “How are you?”

  “It burns like flaming pitch.”

  “See that the apothecary grants you a poultice for it.”

  “Yes, Lord.”

  YonGee, the court advisor, was a wise man from the mystic nation of Shang Henj far to the east. The old advisor, long greying beard trailing down his silken robe almost to his knees, warily made his way into the chamber. He was one of the few courtiers Gathelaus had kept on following his usurpation of Forlock. The courtier’s eyes widened as he strode into the throne room. Crimson pooled and stained the white and grey checkerboard tiles. “My liege, are you unhurt?” Turning, YonGee noticed the broken throne amidst the blood on the tiles. “Oh, my king, your throne!”

  “Bah! It was Forlock’s before me, I may as well have another commissioned that suits me better.”

  “Of course, I shall speak with the royal carpenters immediately. Something that perhaps fits your noble frame better.”

  YonGee turned to go, but before he reached the door Gathelaus called to him. “YonGee.”

  “Yes, my lord?”

  “Make sure that it’s not so heavy that I can’t lift it if I want to.”

  “Yes, my lord,” said YonGee. “Is there anything else?”

  Gesturing at his own dead guardsmen being picked up off the floor by their comrades, Gathelaus said, “Aye, men died no thanks to the foolish guards who let those dogs in. Find out who granted them passage.”

  YonGee paused a moment as his face flushed but he stood erect and said, “My liege, a thousand pardons. I saw them in and watched the doormen check in their weapons myself. If thou think there was truly foul play on behalf of your own folk, then blame and punish me.”

  Gathelaus glared at him. “I saw where they drew their real weapons from and they were hidden well enough for city folk to miss them, but the real giveaway was that they were not men from the hinterlands.”

  “My liege?”

  Gathelaus rubbed at his own stubbled chin. “Those men had no beards. Men from the hinterlands never shave and their women never cut their hair. Anyone who had any experience outside city walls and
to the north would have known that despite their authentic garb. I suspect we’ll find a party of dead hinterlanders somewhere beyond the hills to the north.”

  YonGee’s eyes bulged at the revelation. “Then who are they?”

  “They were assassin blade masters. Likely as not out of Tolburn or perhaps Marence. At least one was a decent warlock too. That’s him with the crushed skull.”

  YonGee looked at his feet. “My lord,” he said apologetically. “I am so sorry.”

  A serving girl brought a small tub of warm water and a pair of towels. Gathelaus took the towel, dipped it, and wiped blood from his face and hands.

  “Keep your words and see to the families of the fallen. What I want to know is who paid for them? Blade masters aren’t cheap, and these are far beyond just rebels and die-hard folk of Forlock’s.”

  “Yes, my liege.”

  “I grow weary of their attacks. I must cut the head off the lead serpent.” He tossed the towel back into the basin.

  YonGee nodded. “You would have me bring in the scryer and see if we might be able to determine the true guilty parties?”

  Gathelaus frowned as he washed his hands in the basin. “Yes, for that knowledge I’ll even deal with your devil summoning apprentice.”

  YonGee, bowed low. “It shall be done. I’d imagine whomever they are they’ve run into their rat holes by now.”

  Gathelaus snorted at that. “We can guess cesspits and taverns, but I’d sooner wager they are in the lap of luxury somewhere nearby.”

  Conspiracy Blooms

  They did not meet in a dank and dark dungeon or foul crypt but in a perfume-scented seraglio fit for a king, for indeed, Count Vikarskeid might have been king of Vjorn once his uncle Forlock died had not a certain barbarian usurper claimed that privilege for himself by slaying his uncle upon his throne with his own bare hands. That a foreigner had stolen his birthright was humiliating to the count, though he wisely hid that fact when the usurper purged the kingdom of his foes. Pledging his undying fealty to the barbarian had allowed Vikarskeid his life, and for that humiliation, his hatred for the usurper bloomed brighter every day.