“Then here goes nothing.”
Chapter 21
Usually after a fight Lorik felt tired, but not this time. The darkness inside him was stirred by the chaos and destruction. The fear of his enemies fed his power, which seemed to roil inside him, ready to come pouring out in a rain of destruction, but the mercenaries were all dead, and there was no one left to fight.
And the fight itself had been rather disappointing. The mercenaries were not only terrified after seeing Ulber defeated so easily and hearing his death cries as Spector carved the outlaw into bloody pieces, but the stable had quickly filled with smoke, sapping the strength of the mercenaries who barely put up a fight as they fled the small structure. Lorik and Spector cut them down quickly and efficiently. Only Pyllvar was allowed to live, and then only for a few minutes.
Lorik stood with his boot on Pyllvar’s throat after knocking the mercenary’s sword away and slicing a deep gash into his upper thigh. The outlaw gasped for breath, clawing weakly at Lorik’s boot as Pyllvar’s eyes bulged grotesquely.
“Do you see this?” Lorik said in a loud voice to the group of Outcasts huddled nearby. “He is just a man. You have no need to fear men. You are stronger and more powerful than any man. I know you did not choose to be changed and perhaps you despise the way you look, but you should never let a man like this hurt you or the people you love.”
Lorik’s sword stabbed down, straight through Pyllvar’s open mouth and out the back of his neck. The smell of his bowels releasing in death was strong, and Lorik jerked his sword free and went to find something to clean his legendary blades on. He signaled to the group of soldiers who rode down into the valley.
“Help the villagers collect their things—they’ll be going with us,” he told the men.
“But they’re monsters,” said one of the soldiers.
What Lorik did next was almost like someone else was controlling his body and he was a mere observer. He blew straight at the soldier who had voiced his opinion about the Outcasts. It was a simple gesture, almost like a child blowing the white fluff off a dandelion, but the result was completely unexpected. The soldier screamed, but his cry was cut off suddenly as his entire upper body froze solid. The skin turned blue, and ice crystals formed at his mouth and nose. His eyes became hard like glass, and he suddenly fell to the side.
When the soldier hit the ground, his upper body shattered. Blood and tissue bounced on the ground, like a porcelain vase that is knocked onto a stone floor. The dead soldier’s legs and lower abdomen lay on the ground as if he’d been cut in two.
Lorik felt the dark magic stirring in him. It was similar to what had occasionally happened when he was filled with the magic from the Drery Dru, only this time it felt more powerful. Lorik didn’t like to kill indiscriminately, but he wouldn’t allow his own troops to mistreat the Outcasts. Perhaps it was because their lives had been stolen from them, the same way Yettlebor had stolen what Lorik loved most, or maybe it was because they too had been touched by the darkness, but whatever the reason, he felt a kinship with the Outcast and he wouldn’t tolerate anyone mistreating them.
“Does anyone else have anything to say?” Lorik asked.
None of the soldiers dared move, much less speak.
“Good, then we understand each other. The Outcasts are different, but they are still our countrymen. They did not choose to be different, and we will not cast them aside because they are. We need to gather their things and move on from this place.”
“They can’t ride,” said Toomis. “We’ll gather the outlaws’ horses, but we’ll have to slow our pace.”
“You are correct,” Lorik said. “But you might be surprised at how hardy these folk are. Gather the horses and make our camp upriver. I want four men on guard all night. You can stand watch in two-hour shifts; that way, you all will get some rest. And butcher one of the villager’s sheep for our supper—there’s no sense in all the livestock going to waste.”
It was dark by the time the Outcast villagers, nearly forty all told, finally made their way to the soldiers’ camp. In the end, three sheep were roasted over open fires on spits made by the villagers. They had very meager possessions, but they all carried something from the village. Lorik walked among the Outcasts, hearing their stories and learning about their skills. Most had been farmers, some shopkeepers. They had banded together for safety, although it did them little good since only two had weapons, and those were taken from the mercenaries.
The next day they set out at dawn. The Outcast were not unlike Lorik himself. A slow jog was their ideal pace, one they could keep up for hours. Without the horses the soldiers would have been left far behind. Lorik led the group north again but didn’t push the group as hard as he had on the way south. They traveled through the day and made camp at night.
Lorik was sullen during the day, despite the good weather and the good time the group was making. He couldn’t explain why his mood always seemed to sour in the daylight. At night he was a different person. He spent hours talking with his soldiers or visiting with the villagers. The darkness seemed to calm him, to ease the pain of his guilt. Specter was always close by, but he could make himself invisible when he wanted to, and although Lorik could always feel the hatred that radiated from his friend, the wraith preferred solitude when the group wasn’t in danger.
On the third day they spotted another group of Outcasts. Even from a distance, Lorik could see that the group was wary. He ordered the soldiers to halt and wait, while he and two of the villagers went toward the group on foot. The Outcasts were taller than Lorik, who was taller himself than most men. But while the Outcast looked like deformed people, Lorik looked like a god. There was no sign of fat anywhere on his body, and his features were perfectly symmetrical. His muscles were large, but he was still very limber and agile. His face was dark, even when he wasn’t wearing the menacing-looking helmet that matched his black armor, but he did his best to seem accommodating.
“That’s close enough,” shouted one of the men from the new group of Outcasts. “What do you want?”
Lorik and the villagers stopped. He guessed they were thirty paces from the other group and he could see that they were not doing well. Even in their mutated state, Lorik could see hunger in their eyes. They looked gaunt and fearful, despite the fact that the new group outnumbered Lorik’s own party.
“My name is Lorik, and I am the King of Ortis,” he said, trying his best to sound regal. “We mean you no harm. In fact, we would offer you safety and rest if you would join us.”
“You’re not one of us,” the Outcast said.
“We are both men,” Lorik said. “We are both Ortisians. We have both been touched by magic. I am sorry for what the witch did to you. And I cannot change it, but I would not forsake you or mistreat you simply because we are different. There is room in Ortis for humans and the Outcast to live together. You have skills, new strengths and abilities since you’ve been changed. Not everything the witch did was bad. We can help each other.”
“We need food,” the man said.
“We have it,” Lorik said. “Come with us to Ort City; let me find a place for you and your people.”
“Most of us have been barely able to survive this last year. We’re weak. We’ll slow you down.”
“So be it. I will not turn a blind eye to those in need.”
The speaker nodded, and the group moved slowly toward Lorik. He could see the fear in the eyes of so many, but he stayed with them, sending the two villagers back for food. They spend the rest of the day gathered together, sharing food and medicine, and resting. The soldiers gathered fuel for fires, and one of the captured horses was slaughtered to supply meat for the group, which was over a hundred people strong, counting the soldiers and Outcasts together.
They moved more slowly over the next two days, and on the morning of the third since meeting the new group of Outcasts, Lorik sent two of his soldiers ahead. He had no illusions about how the Outcasts would be accepted in Ort City. He
intended to ride ahead himself and prepare the city for their new arrivals. For the first time since leaving the Wilderlands, Lorik felt as if he were doing what he was meant to do. His goal was to unify Ortis, to bring the kingdom together and reclaim their strength. In his mind, the Outcasts offered them a strength they hadn’t had before. He could envision a well trained army of the mutated people, strong and strategically deployed to keep the kingdom safe. But, like the dark clouds that were rolling across the sky, his dream was swept away just as quickly as the sunshine before the storm.
“My lord,” said Toomis as he returned from scouting ahead. “There is trouble in Ortis.”
“What manner of trouble?” Lorik asked.
“The city is occupied by troops from Baskla.”
“What?” Lorik asked.
“It is true, sire. Finnius is learning more, but I thought it best to return before our party came within sight of the city.”
“That was wise,” Lorik said. “Have our people make camp here.”
“Shall I go?” Spector hissed.
“Yes, and find out what is happening.”
Lorik paced. Waiting was not his strong suit, and the darkness within him sent warning premonitions as the day waned. Finnius did not return, and even though Lorik had won the respect of some of his soldiers, others were less inclined to accept the Outcasts. Once night fell, nearly a dozen of his remaining soldiers drifted away. Lorik let them go. He had a feeling that war was inevitable, and while he had no doubt the deserters would join his enemies, he only wanted those loyal to him to remain.
Spector returned three hours after nightfall. Lorik felt his friend approaching; the outrage in the wraith was like a beacon in the darkness. He walked out away from the camp to meet the ghostly figure. Spector loomed up out of the darkness suddenly; the form of his head and shoulders was all that was visible.
“It is worse than we thought,” Spector said. “Nearly a thousand men at arms.”
“That’s at least a third of Baskla’s army,” Lorik said.
“Five hundred men are camped on the southern plain. They have the high ground.”
“Half of the force from Baskla?”
“Half,” the wraith confirmed.
“I’m flattered,” Lorik said. “Perhaps they’ve heard of my prowess in battle.”
“I could kill their commander tonight,” Spector suggested. “Without a leader they will falter.”
“You would spoil my fun? No, we shall go together and ruin their night.”
“No mercy,” the wraith hissed.
“No mercy,” Lorik agreed. “They are here to kill us. We will show them what a bad idea that is.”
Chapter 22
The cold night was made warmer with a roaring fire not far from the small village. Quinn stretched out on the ground with his feet near the fire and fell quickly asleep. Mansel, on the other hand, sat staring into the flames for a long time. For a while he thought that moving from place to place and living by his sword was the greatest life he could imagine. But his problems seemed to creep up on him when he least expected them. Chief among them was his love for drink. Since meeting Nycol, he had a reason to be moderate with ale. She had never held his love for spirits against him, but he had a deep desire not to let her down. And yet, despite his self-discipline and strongest efforts, he had failed her in the worst way.
The weight of her death weighed on him more deeply with each passing day. He felt as if he would be crushed by his guilt. He wanted to die; nothing sounded as sweet to him as lying down and opening his own veins, yet he couldn’t turn his back on Quinn. His friend had been badly injured in the fight with Kurchek, and there was something different about him that was hard to understand. It was a change of personality and it was something Mansel felt entirely unsuited to deal with.
Over the next few days, they avoided villages. Quinn wanted to stop, but Mansel insisted that they pass through. They stayed in abandoned barns or camped beside streams. It was solitary and peaceful, but each moment was painful for Mansel. Nycol preferred solitude and would have wanted to avoid the settlements. Everything seemed to remind Mansel of his lost love. The gray clouds that hung so close were like the cold weight of judgment just waiting to fall. Eventually snow did fall, and Mansel was forced to take refuge in a small inn. They took their dinner in their room rather than in the common room, and Mansel ignored the young serving maid’s advances. He knew that for a few coins she would warm his bed, but even the thought of being intimate with someone felt like a red hot poker in his heart.
He did, however, accept a bottle of strong wine, which he drank after Quinn was tucked into his bed and snoring. The room had a small wood stove to warm it, but the small space got so hot that Mansel ended up sitting by the open window, staring out at the darkness drinking his wine and brooding.
The next morning he was ill and in no mood to deal with Quinn’s loss of civility. When he heard his companion getting up and preparing to go out, he rolled over on the small bed and looked at Quinn.
“You should wait,” Mansel said.
“For what? I don’t need an escort to fetch breakfast.”
“Just wait, I’m getting up.”
Mansel sat up, but the room spun, and he felt his stomach flip. He dashed to the window, which was still open, and stuck his head out until his stomach emptied what remained from his night of drinking. He brushed his mouth with his sleeve and stood up, waiting for a new wave of dizziness to pass.
“You finished?” Quinn asked sharply.
“I just need a minute.”
“You always were a fool when it came to drink.”
Mansel almost struck his friend. Quinn watched him without any awareness of how angry he was making the young warrior.
“Go have your breakfast, but I would keep that foul tongue of yours in your mouth if you don’t want your ears boxed.”
“The only foul thing around here is you,” the older man said in a matter-of-fact tone. “You smell like stale wine and sweat.”
“Get out,” Mansel shouted.
Quinn left the room, and Mansel poured cold water over his head. The small inn provided clean towels, and Mansel stripped down, scrubbed his body, then put his clothes back on. He was just pulling his boots up when he heard shouting in the common room. Grabbing his sword and their pack of basic supplies, which included their small stash of coins, he hurried out.
“You’re a beast of a man,” the server was shouting.
“I’m honest, that’s all,” Quinn said with a look of utter calm on his face. “Your food tastes like pig slop.”
“If you don’t like it, then get out!” the serving girl said.
“What’s all this?” the innkeeper said as he hurried into the common room.
“He’s insulted me all morning,” the woman said.
Mansel noticed that she was not as young or as attractive in the bright morning sunlight as she had appeared the night before.
“We’ll leave,” Mansel said.
“Please, don’t rush off,” the innkeeper said apologetically. “If there is something wrong with the food, we will make it right.”
“There’s nothing wrong with food, just my partner,” Mansel said.
“Nothing wrong,” Quinn said quietly. “The ale was warm, the bread was stale, there were crumbs in the crock of butter that looked like a horse had eaten out of it, and the portage tastes like mud.”
“He’s not well,” Mansel said.
“You see!” the woman cried. “He’s a horrid brute.”
“Who’s a brute?” Quinn shouted as Mansel pulled him toward the door.
“Our apologies,” Mansel said in a loud voice.
Quinn was just opening his mouth for another insult when Mansel shoved him out the door and into the snow. The ground was covered with slushy, white snow. The bright sun would melt it all by nightfall, but the day was extremely cold, and the gray clouds had parted for the time being.
Mansel felt as if the brigh
t light was stabbing his brain. He felt his stomach churn, and his mouth began to water again. He knew he was going to be sick as he staggered toward the barn.
“A talentless cook, an ugly maid, and a man who can’t hold his liquor, yet I’m the bad guy?” Quinn said in a voice that was almost taunting. “Try not to get vomit on your clothes—I don’t want to smell that foul stench all day.”
He walked past Mansel with his back straight and his head held high. Mansel watched him march into the small stable where their horses were secured in warm stalls for the night. Then his stomach erupted violently, and he lost track of time. Eventually Quinn came out leading his own horse.
“Where’s my horse?” Mansel asked.
“In the barn,” Quinn said. “Don’t expect me to saddle it for you. I didn’t sit up all night drinking.”
Mansel would have punched the older man, but he was too weak. He strapped his sword around his waist and went to get his own horse. By the time he came out, Quinn was nearly a quarter mile down the muddy road. Mansel didn’t hurry to catch up. He’d had enough of Quinn’s mouth to last him a lifetime. And the worst part was that Mansel knew Quinn was right. He had drunk himself into a stupor the night before, even though he knew it would make him sick the next morning. The food at the inn had been rather bland, and the serving maid was not particularly good at her job. Still, Mansel knew that just because a thing was true didn’t mean that it was acceptable to announce it to the world.
For most of the day Mansel kept his distance. A few hours after dawn, the gray clouds rolled back in, the mud on the country lane turned hard, the snow that had survived the sunshine refroze, and a cold wind started to blow. It was almost dark before Mansel decided he needed to catch up to Quinn. They would need to find a place to make camp soon, and Mansel wasn’t particularly looking forward to sleeping through a night of foul weather. He was hoping they might be close to a town or village, when he saw the men running from the grove of trees near the road toward Quinn.
He was a perfect mark for brigands. An older man, alone, Quinn looked like an easy target. One of the outlaws grabbed the horse’s reins just below the bridle, and another tried to fling Quinn off the horse. Mansel had kicked his own mount into a gallop, but Quinn was far enough ahead of the young warrior that the outlaws could rob him and escape before Mansel reached him. But Quinn wasn’t an easy target.
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