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

by James Alderdice

  His scream echoed throughout the palace like a dire cataclysm.

  A half-dressed Niels holding a sword appeared at his door. “My lord?”

  Gathelaus held the limp form in his arms, unable to speak. He carried the body of Nicene to the royal bedchamber.

  “Gathelaus, we are under attack,” said Niels. “Men mount an ambush at the south gate!”

  Gathelaus glanced at him, but walked on with Nicene in his arms.

  Word among the servants spread, and YonGee and other members of court rushed to the king.

  “My liege, I am so sorry,” YonGee said softly. “Please, let us attend to her and make ready for a funeral.”

  Gathelaus glared at him. “I’ll not rest until those that did this pay. Find the man who posed as a priest in the temple last night.”

  A voice from the courtyard broke the reverie. “Hail King Gathelaus. Have you lost something of worth to you? It was I, Malhavok, herald and prophet of the Black Goddess Boha-Annu, who stole your bride’s life. Come and show me your vaunted wrath. If you dare.” The wizard laughed like crashing ice.

  Gathelaus strode to the window.

  “My lord, No. Don’t expose yourself,” said Niels, but Gathelaus ignored him.

  His face a furious grimace, Gathelaus looked out the window at a thin man in a black cloak perched upon an even blacker horse. Malhavok looked up at Gathelaus and smiled as if he were a friend calling at a garden party.

  “You may wonder why I did this. But that matters not. Instead ask yourself, what will you do about it?” asked Malhavok. “Meet me upon the northern road, if you have the courage to face me.” He gave a shrill piercing laugh and slowly rode out of the castle gates, taunting Gathelaus to give chase.

  Gathelaus roared and leapt out the window, landing on his feet like a cat. The jump would have crippled a lesser man, but his rage and strength made it seem as nothing.

  “Don’t! It’s a trap!” cried Niels, hanging out the window.

  Gathelaus ignored him and raced to the stables still only wearing his night robe.

  “My lord, take my sword.” Niels tossed the sheathed blade and belt to Gathelaus as he exited the stable.

  The king caught them, buckled it on and, fetching a horse, quickly gave chase after the wizard. A few loyal men followed as swiftly as they could mount their horses.

  The gate house and portcullis gaped open, and the men who should have been at attention within were slumped over, either asleep or dead. Gathelaus gave them no mind as he raced through the gates. Justice would be served, but only after revenge this day.

  ***

  “How could this have happened?” asked Evans.

  “I do not know,” answered YonGee, shaking his hoary head. “The sorcerer must have cast an enchantment over the men at the gates. Let us hurry and be after the king.”

  Niels declared, “No, you two stay and look after things, you’re not warriors but can control the chaos here. I will follow the king with his liege men. There are more killers out there.”

  YonGee nodded and went the other direction to inspect what had befallen those who should have been on guard duty. “To arms, to arms, the queen is slain and the king challenged!”

  Niels rallied more than two dozen men to follow him, but already Gathelaus and the murderous sorcerer must have been a half mile ahead of him.

  ***

  Vikarskeid watched from behind his partition as Gathelaus and a handful of men rode through the gates in pursuit of Malhavok. A grin curled up from beneath his dark beard. “With any luck, they’ll slay each other, and I’ll not have to tolerate that sorcerer at all.”

  Hawkwood grunted. He watched the pursuit of Malhavok with a spyglass as the horsemen raced up the road that led into the mountains behind Hellainik.

  “I’ll burn hecatombs to the true gods for such an outcome,” said Kefir.

  Hawkwood chuckled to himself.

  “What’s so funny?” asked Kefir.

  “That you think they listen. That’s the joke,” answered Hawkwood curtly.

  Vikarskeid didn’t argue but frowned.

  “The righteous are heard,” said Kefir.

  “The righteous? And who the hell might that be in this world?” asked Hawkwood, without taking his eye from the spyglass.

  Vikarskeid cleared his throat angrily.

  Hawkwood ignored that, continuing, “You all look like dogs in the street tearing at bones to me. We’re all just on the prowl for a little wonder. No one is righteous.”

  “Why, we are the righteous of course. Vikarskeid is the god given heir of Vjorn. The usurper stole it from us. He is the evil one.”

  Hawkwood chortled and removed the spyglass to stare deeply in Kefir’s face with his cold killer’s eyes. “Everyone thinks they’re put upon and yet the hero.”

  “And you Hawkwood? What do you think?” asked Vikarskeid pointedly.

  “I’m no hero,” answered Hawkwood with a grin. “I’m practical.”

  A moment thereafter, Captain Niels and an even larger group of cavalry chased out of the palace gates.

  “Now we take what is rightfully mine,” Vikarskeid said.

  ***

  A tumult within the castle bespoke a foreseen plot and while some folk fled with all they could hold in their arms, others carried on as if they knew very well who their new master would be.

  YonGee’s eyes swept over the chaos and caught glimpses of assassins moving through the rank and file members of the household. A troupe of horsemen poured in through the gates. At first, he wondered if it would be the king returning swiftly or even Captain Niels, but no, it was Count Vikarskeid, the mercenary commander Hawkwood and several other nobles in Vikarskeid’s retinue.

  “You will be dealt with most harshly for this injustice, Vikarskeid!” called YonGee.

  Vikarskeid met his gaze. “Ah, YonGee, you old cock. Still crowing for whomever tosses you crumbs, I see. Well, I shan’t be one of them. I have no use for traitors. Kill the old bastard,” he ordered a pair of men with crossbows.

  Before they could fire, the wily old advisor ducked back inside. He still had a few tricks up his sleeve.

  Screams sounded from deep within the castle halls as Vikarskeid’s men ravished women and murdered others as they retook the usurper’s court in blood and fury.

  YonGee hurried toward his personal keep. He was forced to step over the bodies of guardsmen loyal to Gathelaus and was surprised he had not run into any of the assassins when two slack-jawed men faced him right outside his chamber door.

  “What do we have here? Reggie?”

  “I dunno,” drawled the other, “looks like that rat bastard traitor, John Gee.”

  They each had bloody knives drawn and took a step toward the old man. “I think we’re gonna have to cut him a little before we bring him to the count, just to be sure he ain’t strong enough to work no spells against him.”

  YonGee looked down the hall. He couldn’t outrun the younger men and exposing his back would just get him killed anyway. He faced them, serene as a summer sunset. “I’m no wizard. Just a dabbler in astrology and alchemy and secrets,” YonGee said, cryptically.

  One of the men sneered but the one called Reggie asked, “What secrets?”

  “Where the king’s treasury is. I could show you, if you let me go.” YonGee gestured down the hall.

  “He’s lying. Vikarskeid will find it soon enough anyways.”

  “But,” said Reggie, “what if we was to help ourselves to a little bit beforehand? Huh, that wouldn’t hurt nothing would it?”

  “Playing with fire, that is.”

  YonGee prodded them further. “Let me go, and I will show you the secret passage to the treasury. And he is right, no one will ever know what you helped yourselves to.”

  The dubious one squinted his eyes at the old man, but Reggie was sold.

  “Go on, show us where it is,” said Reggie, directing with his knife.

  YonGee took them down the left-hand passage of the
hallway and then another quick turn to the left. Far down the hall, but just beyond sight, a woman screamed, a dog barked ferociously and then was silenced with a foul curse.

  “How close is it? We don’t want no one else seeing us take it or it will be our heads along with yours old man.”

  “Just ahead, here,” YonGee said. He pulled a curtain aside, revealing a wide oaken door behind.

  “This don’t look special enough for a treasury room,” said the one.

  “Course not,” assured Reggie. “They wouldn’t want just any riff-raff off the street to notice it, would they?”

  “You first,” grunted the other.

  YonGee bowed and opened the door, stepped inside, dropped suddenly into the black, and vanished.

  ***

  The two ruffians looked at each other, puzzled as anything.

  “Some kind of trick?” They reached hands inside the gloom but detected nothing. Finally, they saw a slide leading away and down.

  “Do you wanna follow him down?”

  “Hell no, we don’t.”

  “Then we best not say we ever even saw him.”

  “Agreed.”

  The Broken Sword

  Niels and his armored men rode hard in pursuit of the king. They would not allow the rage and grief of the king to overwhelm his senses and let him fall prey to a wicked trap set by his enemies.

  They galloped out of the city and up the steep road that led to grass covered hills where the mountains met the sea. They rode to just beneath the peak of the hill and into a slanted grassy meadow. It was a trap, but of truly curious circumstances. No cover for archers, no trees to hide behind—just thirty to forty men standing there. It astounded Niels as he realized that they didn’t even appear to be wearing any armor, just woolen jerkins and perhaps thick leather corselets. His eyes widened as he realized their weapons were only wooden cudgels and long pikes of wood without any iron tips to pierce armor. They could not hope to contend with even half the number of the king’s well armored men. What was the game here? Were they forest cultists who disdained metal? Unlikely, they looked like well-seasoned fighting men in their manner and stance, but without the proper equipment.

  His horse having already been struck by a javelin, Gathelaus had dismounted, but stood fearlessly before them with his sword drawn. A trio of dead men at his feet.

  Niels wondered if Gathelaus might just kill all of these enemies himself. Then he noticed the man in black who stood behind the rows of leather-clad men. The dark man was conjuring a spell. A green ball of light the size of a human head formed in his hands, spinning like a vortex. It grew larger.

  “I’ll have your head for this wizard!” shouted Gathelaus.

  The wizard laughed. “I wish you would have brought more men, usurper. I need to clear your loyalists from my employer’s ranks.”

  Gathelaus glanced over his shoulder at Niels and the rest. He had fifty men at least. More than enough for this rabble. But the wizard’s answer revealed that it was not he who had been the architect of this treachery. “Niels! Ride back with half the men and secure the palace. I’ll deal with this.”

  “Let me stand beside you!”

  “Go! Now! And quench the fire of revolt before it kindles any further!”

  “Astarte’s tits!” cursed Niels, as he wheeled his horse about and signaled half of the men to follow him. They, too, were reluctant but obeyed the king and their captain. He glanced over his shoulder as the green ball of light the wizard held grew in size and rose in the air above him. The horse carried him over the edge of the slope and he could no longer see or hear anything happening there. He wondered if he would hear a thunderous explosion and the crack of doom might open for King Gathelaus. What then? But there was no thunder, just a dull hum and a tugging on his conscience to return.

  ***

  The green orb released from the wizard’s hand. It spun like an icy green whirlpool as it rose ten spans above the wizard’s head. He laughed maniacally, weaving his hands through the air as if he were playing with a child’s toy. The green orb spun faster and faster. The rush of wind from the spinning orb whipped Gathelaus’s hair against his face, stinging his skin.

  “Can you not see the doom before you? The Black Goddess always gets her revenge!” cried Malhavok. “You have delayed her coming, but she will return in glory.” He cackled with insane glee.

  Gathelaus stepped forward despite the wall of pikes the armor-less men pointed at him. He lifted his sword and cried, “Laugh wizard, it’s the last thing you’ll ever do.”

  The pikemen at least took him seriously, taking a couple steps backward. After Gathelaus had slain three of their own in quick succession they had formed a wall and stopped engaging him.

  The dark man cried, “You think you can kill Malhavok the Great? How? When you have no weapon?”

  Gathelaus sneered and stepped closer, ready to engage the pikemen. But something invisible tugged at his sword. He grasped it with both hands and still it flew from his iron grasp. The blade soared toward the spinning, green sphere and clanged against itself as it wrapped, bent, and finally snapped around the verdant orb.

  “Demon dogs!” spat Gathelaus as he glanced back at his men for another weapon. Horror filled his breast. Men and horses screamed as an unseen force pulled, dragged, and lifted them toward the floating green ball. Swords and shields flew from hands, then even the armor-plated men and horses were tossed into the air only to be smashed together into a gory fusion of jagged metal lit internally by green fire. The din of crashing steel and final, terrible screams of man and beast ended in sudden eerie silence as they became a hideous globe of bloodstone as big as a house.

  He had no men left, he had no weapons, even his knife had been stolen from his hip.

  “Doom awaits you, Gathelaus, usurper,” snarled Malhavok. “Take him.”

  The pike men rushed at Gathelaus, ready to drive their long wooden points into his gut. Three of them closed in on him and he grasped the end of one’s pike and swung the man into his comrades. Holding the pike horizontally, he pushed like a titan, raising the points of the men that followed and evading the initial assault. He kicked the man before him and dropped the pike, releasing the pressure they had on him as he broke through their ranks to face the men with clubs. He charged like an enraged bull, striking one down and stealing his instrument. He razed all those about him with skull crushing blows. But there were too many, he would eventually fall to their numbers.

  He glanced at Malhavok, still holding the steel orb high above in sorcerous thrall. Gathelaus coiled his arm back and threw the club with all his might at the wizard. It struck Malhavok dead center in the chest, knocking the wind from his lungs.

  The wizard wheezed in pain as the club sent him sprawling to the ground. He lost control of his terrible spell and had half a moment to faintly scream before the colossal steel ball dropped, crushing him to pulp.

  Then it rolled, careening over the top of a dozen pikemen as it rumbled down the mountain road like thunder.

  Everyone halted a moment to watch it roll out of sight. They looked to where the wizard had been. Only a red stain punched into the mud where he once stood.

  “You bastards better start running,” growled Gathelaus. A few of them did, but several more banded together.

  “There’s still a price on your head usurper, and now there’s just a whole lot more of it for those of us left standing. Especially since you got rid of the damned wizard for us.”

  “Aye, thanks then for that,” chortled another.

  Gathelaus snorted and spit blood from his bleeding lips. “If you’re so confident, tell me who’s paying?”

  The foremost pikeman said, “Vikarskeid, and if you had half a brain, you’da figured that out by now.”

  Gathelaus gave them a bloody, ruthless grin and gestured with his index finger. “Come on then.”

  The score of men charged him, clubs raised, and he met them with his fists, teeth and will. He beat a dozen into s
ubmission, breaking necks and jaws, but the wave overcame him, and all went black.

  A Wicked Gift

  Niels rode hard back to the castle. It was apparent something was happening and Gathelaus had been right that a coup was taking place in their absence. Folk streamed out of both the castle and city gates nearby. Smoke from fires erupted intermittently and a few men were dead at their posts, arrow shafts growing like weeds from their backs.

  “Armed and ready boys!” cried Niels. He charged into the courtyard. The portcullis dropped just as he and only half his riders made it inside. An unfortunate three met their doom beneath the iron teeth as it bit down into men and horses.

  Arrows filled the air and stricken men cried out.

  Two clothyard shafts took his horse in the flanks and Niels was thrown, landing on his side. He rolled away before his own mount fell atop him.

  As the arrows ceased, men at arms roared, running into the court like vultures to sup on the dead. Axe and sword strokes fell, cleaving the wounded like dead wood as the surprise attackers laughed like hyenas.

  Niels jumped to his feet and slashed the throat of the first man that charged him, before dodging aside from the attack of another. In the haze of battle, he saw arrows from the walls take his men outside the gates—and he knew there was no help coming. This would take savage fury.

  He struck back at the foe, piercing him through the visor. Blood poured from the helm and Niels barely jerked his blade free in time to block the next attack.

  The attacker was a guardsman he had known personally named Sven. Niels had thought Sven was friend and loyal comrade. Looks can be deceiving, but a raised sword and cry of, “Death to the usurper!” left no mystery.

  The two of them crossed blades, until Niels kicked the man’s exposed knee; it snapped, bringing him down with a yelp. Niels took his head. A quick glance showed far too many enemies and many, if not all his loyal command had already fallen.

  Niels turned and ran inside the stables, knocking aside another attacker and crippling him with a slice across the back of his thighs. He had no time to finish the screaming man, others were coming. Too many.