by Tom Stacey
“Beccorban!” He hissed at the warrior’s broad back and Beccorban waved a hand angrily without turning to face them. “No, now! You need to see this!”
“Quiet, you fool!” Riella spat in a sibilant breath. “Are you mad?”
Loster ignored her. “Look! Look there. The horse can wait.”
Beccorban stared despairingly at the rump of the horse that seemed to wag invitingly and then marched quickly to Loster’s side. “What? If I lose the horse…” he fell silent as his eyes tracked the direction of Loster’s outstretched arm and landed upon the grave and its macabre decoration. Beccorban grabbed him roughly by the shoulder and pushed him to his knees. “Down!”
Riella dragged Mirril down to a crouch, her eyes wide. The girl gasped in shock but did not cry out and Beccorban nodded in appreciation. “Stay here,” he mouthed and rose to peer through the slats of the fence.
A terrible sense of foreboding gripped Loster around the chest and after every outwards breath he imagined he would not have the strength to fill his lungs again. It was that childlike feeling of stumbling out of your depth into a danger too great for you to escape from; a double dream where the only thing to greet your waking eyes was more horror. What if there was another one of those demonic knights in there? What if this had all been a trap to lure them to the orchard? It was all his fault: he had seen the horse, he had given them a reason to risk dry land again.
“Foolish child,” said Barde. “You’ve gotten them all killed.”
He calmed his breathing and watched as Beccorban lifted and then lowered himself over the fence. For a large man the old warrior moved through the tangled shrubbery and entwining weeds with nothing more than a whisper of sound. As quiet as Death, Loster thought and immediately scolded himself for his dark thoughts.
Beccorban moved closer towards the grave, stopping every now and again to scan the thick wall of trees around him. As he knelt by the grave and picked up the child’s doll, Loster wondered if it was a grave at all. Could it be a shrine to some childish god?
Beccorban was kneeling with his back to them, studying the doll in detail, so he did not see the tall man step from the trees.
Riella wanted to scream but her voice caught in her throat, dry with fear, and she bent forward in a hacking cough. Beccorban turned to scold her just as the tall man leapt into action, swinging a wickedly long sword in an overhead arc intended to cleave its target in two. But Beccorban was already moving and he used the momentum to fling himself away so that the blade bit into his trailing bearskin cloak and caught in its furry folds. Beccorban’s weight yanked the weapon from the tall man’s hand and yet he came on regardless, leaping on to Beccorban’s sprawling frame with a reckless abandon. The two struggled and rolled into a patch of coarse, thorny scrub bushes. Riella snapped at Loster to guard Mirril and clambered over the fence. She ran to help but then stopped herself. Beccorban was a warrior born and he did not need her help. She looked down at the two men as they fought, and tried to still the stirring of excitement that sent tendrils of warmth down her legs.
Beccorban was the stronger man and the larger, but the newcomer had a ranginess to him and he was using all of the leverage his height gave him to full effect. He was filthy and his clothes were a mess. His hair stuck up in a chaotic muddle of dirty blonde locks and his face was grim and scarred but his eyes were a piercing green, fixed on Beccorban. Now he sat astride Beccorban’s back with his heels dug into the ground for support. Both of his hands were interlocked underneath the older man’s chin and he was leaning back, putting his whole weight into an attempt to break Beccorban’s back. Briefly Riella felt fear settle alongside her excitement but it was soon washed away into nothing more than a nagging doubt at the back of her mind. She knew Beccorban and knew that he would not be so easily beaten.
Beccorban’s back arched as even his great muscles began to falter against the wild-eyed fury of his attacker. The blond man had his back to her but Riella could hear his tortured, lunatic breathing, and she imagined her guardian’s back snapping like dry wood to leave him flopping around in the dirt like a boned fish. She looked around for something to strike the blond man with but just then Beccorban exploded into action. With the speed of a striking snake, the big warrior wrenched around inside the grip of the other man and drove his elbow into the side of his opponent’s head. The sound of bone striking bone was a thundercrack and Riella winced in sympathy as the blond man was flung from Beccorban’s back like a ragdoll. Another man would have stayed down but this one did not even pause, rolling on to his front and standing to face Beccorban yet again, if a little unsteadily this time.
Beccorban rose quickly too and his face showed surprisingly little evidence of any exertion or discomfort. He must be in pain, surely? she thought. The combatants stood a few paces apart and caught their breath, and Riella imagined that she was between two great and violent beasts, a bear and a wolf, each with slavering jaws and claws as sharp as razors and as thick as a man’s fingers. Beccorban stood in the pugilist’s pose, with one foot leading the other and his knees bent, ready to stretch into the graceful line of a jaw-shattering punch. The blond man stood straight with his arms dangling loosely at his sides, yet he was no less menacing than the man opposite him. His eyes were locked on to Beccorban’s as if they could draw him into their green depths and snare him there before devouring him.
Beccorban spat on to the ground and his voice was low and dark. “Be warned, lad. Your next step may be your last.”
Riella’s mind raced as she sought for something to say. She wanted Beccorban to draw Kreyiss but he showed no intention of doing so — the outline of the fearful weapon was still evident under his bearskin cloak. If he draws it he will have to kill him, she thought. Looking at the wild blond man that had attacked them, she was not sure she agreed with his restraint. The newcomer remained silent and his head bowed so that his chin touched his chest. Beccorban’s shoulders sagged a little and he seemed to breathe out in relief, but just as quickly the blond man’s head snapped back up and his eyes were an emerald fury. He leapt forward and caught the bigger man around the waist. Beccorban had not been expecting it and he huffed as the air was driven from his lungs and he was thrown backwards. The fence did not stop them and it splintered under the impact of the two men, giving way as easily as glass. Mirril and Loster threw themselves to the side as the two men came rolling through. They fell backwards and tumbled down the grassy slope to come up fighting and snarling at the bottom.
Riella and the others ran through the wake of their passing. It looked as though some great monster had ripped its way through the orchard, cutting a path in its rage. She stopped at the top of the slope and started as a wet muzzle touched her elbow. It was the horse, come to watch. She would have laughed at its apologetic expression were the violence below her not so desperate.
The two men had fought to their feet and now they were trading blows at a dazzling speed. Beccorban’s punches were short jabs that slammed into the blond man’s body with enough force to break ribs, yet the other barely seemed to notice, pummelling with wilder strikes that were no less damaging. Once Beccorban tried to grapple with his opponent but the blond man accepted it and stepped into Beccorban’s deadly embrace to butt him in the face with his forehead. Beccorban reeled from the blow and blood blossomed where he had caught it on his cheek, but he recovered quickly and resigned himself to attacks that were less than an arm’s length away.
Riella twitched and fidgeted as she watched. She wanted so desperately to clamber down the slope and help but what could she do that Beccorban could not? Fighting is a man’s game, said a voice in her mind. The only game you know is played on your back. She shook her head to clear it of that nagging tone and focused on the fight. Beside her, Loster flinched with every blow, and she sneered at his weakness. He’s just a green boy with nothing between his legs but shame.
The blond man tried to trip Beccorban with a straight leg planted firmly in the grass. If the old basta
rd had been lighter it might have worked but Beccorban was all muscle and seemed carved from granite, immovable when he wanted to be. He kicked the blond man’s straight leg from under him and brought his boot up to stamp down but the intended victim spun away as he fell so that he would not be trapped underneath that hobnailed heel. Again the blond man sprang to his feet and advanced on Beccorban to resume the fight.
A gust of wind flung Riella’s hair across her face and she swept it away impatiently. Something moved in the corner of her vision and she turned her head to look back at the burnt remains of what must have once been a large home. For a moment, it seemed like her heart stopped beating entirely and that great invisible hands closed over her ears so that all she could hear was the rushing sound of her own blood.
By the charred wood and ashes of the house there stood eight tall knights in dark grey armour — only she knew that they were not men at all but something much worse, for their limbs were unnaturally long and thin and their leader wore a helm adorned with spikes and twists of curled metal that resembled a stag’s antlers.
The things that had burned Kressel, the second city of the greatest empire of man, were here. Antler Helm had found them at last.
Riella felt her knees go weak and her heart flutter like a bird trapped in the cage of her chest, but then something else spoke up inside her and it was like icy water in her veins. She would not fall down and weep like she knew other women would. She despised those women. She would survive and she would see these foul creatures brought low. But she could not do it by herself. She turned and ran back to the clearing by the grave, ignoring Loster’s protests and leaping over the broken wood of the fence to scan the long tufts of grass for the blond man’s fallen sword. A glint of dark steel in the undergrowth caught her eye and she rushed over and picked up the long bladed weapon with both hands. It was surprisingly heavy. Riella had never held a real sword before, never touched something that had been designed to end life. Her only experience was with knives, and they were tools, not weapons.
She lifted the sword and held the blade out from her body, then trotted back to the top of the slope. At the bottom the two men were still fighting.
“Beccorban!” she screamed at the top of her lungs but she was sure that he would not have responded even if she had thrown a rock at his head. “Beccorban!” A quick glance to her left confirmed that the eerie armoured figures were closing, though not rushing. They loped forward on those long legs with the casual arrogance of predators whose prey is cornered. They would be on her and the others in a matter of minutes. She cursed and threw her mind aside from the onrushing panic that tried to ensnare her. If she didn’t think about it, she could not worry about it.
The horse snorted loudly as if trying to join her cries but still the two men battled on with their fists and their elbows. She wanted to run down and pull them apart like scolded children but did not have the strength nor the time. Instead she plunged the blade of the sword into the earth at her feet and cupped both her hands around her mouth so that her voice would carry like a crossbow bolt right through the rage that clouded Beccorban’s senses. “Helhammer!” she screamed. “Scourge! Burner!”
Beccorban seemed to stagger as if arrow-shot and he looked up at her with confusion. His hesitation gave his opponent an opening and the blond man struck a mighty blow into Beccorban’s chin with both his hands balled together as a great club. Beccorban fell backwards and laid on his back like a tortoise that had been cruelly flipped in the surf. The blond man loomed over him and, for a second, Riella was horrified by what she had done.
A high mournful note broke the stillness, like the drone of a giant mosquito. Riella turned to look at the approaching warriors and saw that Antler Helm held a long horn that curled back on itself in a series of spirals and loops. He lowered it again and the figures with him seemed to gain pace, though still they did not run. Below her, the blond man had turned away from Beccorban and was staring at the coming soldiers with a look of confusion and hatred. Beccorban lay sprawled on his back, blinking in surprise, pain etched on his bruised and swollen face.
“Get up!” she screamed and the blond man looked at her, skewering her on those eyes of deepest green. He switched his gaze to Mirril and a look of concern came over his face. He began to march towards the girl, breaking into a run and storming up the slope with the grace of a cat. Riella stepped in front of Mirril and held the sword out from her with the point aimed at him as he approached. He slowed as he drew nearer, looking curiously at Mirril before dropping his pace to a walk. He made sure to walk an arm’s length away from the sword, out of the range of that terrible steel blade. She tracked him as he went and not once did he break his gaze from Mirril. Finally he turned his attention on her and she glared back, though it took every ounce of her will not to cower from that penetrating stare. It made her feel as though she had been stripped naked. “Don’t come any closer,” she warned, desperate to break the silence and so rob him of his power over her. She had the sword. He was the one that should be afraid. He could not be sure she did not know how to use it.
The blond man walked on, drawing a circle around her and the younger ones but keeping her in the centre. She realised that he was going for the horse and she stepped back to let him reach it unmolested. Maybe then he would see that they were not a threat. The horse stamped a hoof into the turf and then stepped forward into the control of its rider. The blond man rubbed its muzzle and whispered something into its ear, then leapt effortlessly on to its back. Riella stared up at him and shrunk back in awe. Now he was mounted it was as though the filth and the wildness fell away like old skin. Atop the horse, the tall, blond man looked majestic and lordly, in complete harmony with the powerful beast between his thighs.
“Who are you?” Loster broke the silence.
The blond man switched his scrutiny to the boy, then simply clucked his tongue. The horse began to trot forward. Riella sidestepped out of his path and followed him warily with her eyes. As he came level to her he pulled the horse to a stop with a gentle tug on the reins and lashed her with that emerald gaze again. She stared back and set her jaw defiantly, and then he did something that she did not expect.
He held out his hand.
She blinked in surprise and stared at him and in answer he simply flexed his fingers. Unsure of what to do, she did nothing. He turned his head to look at the oncoming knights and then looked back towards her. He raised an eyebrow in question and his face showed no evidence of fear. She suddenly felt very safe and very certain that this man would kill those tall grey demons and then she realised that he wanted the sword. His sword. She took a deep breath and looked over at the armoured soldiers approaching. If she gave him the sword he would kill them but he might also cut her down. He had already proven a match for Beccorban, the man she had thought infallible.
“Step away, girl,” said a weary voice. She looked up to see Beccorban standing some ten paces from the horse, legs set wide and Kreyiss held high, ready to swing down and scythe the horse’s thin legs from under it. The blond man ignored Beccorban and flexed his fingers again, shaking his arm to show his urgency.
“Is he one of the Sons of Iss?” Riella asked, trying to find some clue on the stranger’s face.
“I’m not sure, but don’t give him the weapon, lass. He is a cavalryman and that is a cavalryman’s blade. Give him that and he will be complete.” Beccorban’s voice was low with warning but it was also laced with something she had never heard in it before: fear. This was a man who had lived with fear and had used it to great effect. Now he was learning how treacherous it could be.
Riella hesitated, unsure of the best course. “They can’t have found us again so soon,” she breathed almost to herself, and then the horn sounded again and she made up her mind. She stepped forward and reversed the blade, marvelling at the balance of the sword and noting how the fluted end carried the bulk of its weight. The blond man took it wordlessly and spun it around with skill. Beccorban flexed his sh
oulders and planted himself more firmly, swapping Kreyiss to the other shoulder and readying himself for the charge.
With a hoarse shout, the blond man kicked his heels into the flanks of his mount and they began to trot forward at a leisurely pace. Beccorban’s face was grim and he rolled his neck around on his shoulders, his eyes searching for the best place to strike, but the blond man ignored him as though he were an insect and casually led the horse around the big, hammer-wielding warrior.
Beccorban dropped the hammer’s head from his shoulder and turned to watch the man as he walked his horse towards the approaching knights. Riella came up alongside him and hung her head. She had made far too many apologies to this man who had fought to keep her safe. “I’m sorry,” she said.
He nodded. “Aye, me too, lass, but, gods, that man is wild.” He shook his head and once more became the warrior, cold and hard and wrought of tempered steel. “Stay here,” he said. And loped off to join the blond man.
The sun was high in the sky and the enemy had arrived.
But the Helhammer had come to meet them.
XX
The knights fanned out into a line as Callistan trotted towards them, drawing their long blades and closing the gaps between them so that he was presented with a wall of metal. That showed discipline, and their armour suggested they were a professional force. Verian conscripts wore armour that could only loosely be described as uniform, but to compare those green boys in red with these was to compare night to day. Callistan rolled his arm to loosen the muscles and guided Crucio with his knees so that he would be facing them head on. The tall knights were still a hundred paces or so off and he did not want to charge just yet. The only thing more fearsome than a charging line of cavalrymen was one that walked into battle. It spoke of confidence and an arrogance and led men’s minds down dark paths. The faceless masks of these warriors suggested that they would not be easily scared, and he was only one man, so he would have to use every trick he could. He would make them fear him.
