Redemption (Book 6)

by Ben Cassidy

  “Maklavir—” Joseph started to say.

  “Two.”

  “This is ridiculous,” Joseph said. “We can’t—”

  “Three!” Maklavir hurled himself forward and struck out with his rapier.

  Joseph leapt to the side.

  Maklavir went flying past him. His sword slashed and cut through empty air.

  Joseph wiped a hand across his mouth. “Maklavir, for Eru’s sake—”

  “For honor!” Maklavir cried. He turned and lunged at Joseph again.

  Joseph dodged the badly-aimed strike and grabbed Maklavir’s sword hand.

  Maklavir cuffed Joseph hard on the side of the head with his free hand.

  Joseph grunted. He shook his head, and twisted Maklavir’s hand until the rapier pointed away. “What in Zanthora—?”

  Maklavir swung at Joseph again.

  Joseph blocked the blow with his free hand. He punched Maklavir hard in the face.

  With a startled cry the diplomat tumbled back into the wet grass, toppling head over heels. His rapier rolled off to one side.

  Joseph shook his hand and stepped forward across the grass. “All right, Maklavir, that’s enough of—”

  Maklavir pushed himself back up to his feet. With barely a pause he lowered his head and charged towards Joseph like a bull.

  Surprised, Joseph tried to step out of the way, but didn’t make it in time.

  Maklavir crashed into him, wrapping his arms around Joseph’s mid-section.

  The two men stumbled backwards with a series of shouts and grunts. They slammed into the wooden fence at the end of the field and went right through it. Splintered pieces of boards flew out into the grass of the field.

  A dozen yards away two cows lifted their heads from their relentless chewing to see what was going on. One swished its tail.

  “Get off!” Joseph panted. He pummeled Maklavir on the head.

  “For love!” Maklavir shouted, his face turned towards the ground. He repeatedly punched Joseph hard in the side with one of his fists.

  Joseph grabbed Maklavir around the neck in a headlock.

  Maklavir kept charging forward blindly, pushing both of them across the field.

  One of the cows mooed. The second cow went back to grazing.

  The ground suddenly gave out from under them. Both men toppled over the steep edge into a shallow drainage ditch. They crashed with a giant splash into the cold, muddy water.

  Maklavir straggled to his feet, shaking the water from his eyes.

  Joseph climbed up, steadying himself against one side of the ditch’s edge. “You want to fight?” He snarled. “Come on, then.” He barreled towards Maklavir, his boots sending great splashes of brown water through the air.

  Maklavir balled up his fists and held them in front of his face.

  Joseph took a lunging strike at Maklavir’s head.

  Maklavir blocked the punch with his own fist. He lashed back a quick strike in return.

  The blow caught Joseph on the face. He staggered backwards through the knee-deep water, sputtering and spitting.

  The other cow went back to grazing as well.

  “Ha!” Maklavir said triumphantly. “Didn’t think I could land a hit, did you—?”

  Joseph came wheeling back. He slammed a fist into Maklavir’s stomach.

  The diplomat crumpled in two. He tottered and fell backwards with a splash into the water, ending in a sitting position.

  “You ready to give up?” Joseph said.

  Maklavir coughed and wheezed, trying to catch his breath. Water dripped from his goatee and ran down his face in rivulets. “Never!” he shouted. He grabbed at the edge of the ditch and pulled himself back up.

  “I’d stay down if I were you.” Joseph braced himself and raised both his fists. “I wouldn’t want to bruise that pretty face of yours.”

  “Just try it,” Maklavir responded. He raised his own fists.

  Both cows lifted their heads again. They kept chewing.

  Joseph came in. Water swished around his legs. He feinted left, then struck right.

  Maklavir dodged, then threw a roundhouse punch at Joseph’s head.

  The pathfinder ducked out of the way.

  Maklavir toppled forward. He sailed past Joseph and crashed face first into the water of the ditch.

  “You’re pathetic,” Joseph growled. He jumped on top of Maklavir.

  The diplomat twisted out of the way. He brought up a fist filled with dirt and slime and smashed it all over Joseph’s face.

  “Ow!” Joseph shouted. He stumbled back, trying to smear the concoction out of his eyes. “Eru in Pelos, Mak—”

  Maklavir got unsteadily to his feet, then punched Joseph hard across the face.

  Joseph fell backwards and crashed into the brown water.

  One of the cows gave a bored moo.

  “Now who’s laughing?” Maklavir threw himself at Joseph, his fist coiled back and ready to strike again.

  Joseph jumped up, his clothes soaking wet. He lashed out with his own fist.

  Maklavir missed. He tripped and crashed heavily into the side of the drainage ditch.

  With the dirt still in his eyes, Joseph swung wildly. He didn’t connect with anything at all, but the force of his swing toppled him back into the water again with a huge splash.

  Maklavir coughed, leaning against the bank and holding his stomach with one hand.

  A crow landed on the broken remains of the fence. It cocked its head curiously as it watched the two men.

  Joseph struggled to his feet again. He wiped the last bit of mud and grass out of his face.

  Maklavir steadied himself, still struggling for breath. He raised his fists defensively.

  Joseph balled his fists and took a step forward.

  “Joseph! Maklavir!”

  Both men froze. They glanced to the side.

  Kara stood by the broken remains of the fence, staring down at them in complete shock. The hood of her green cloak was down, and her ragged red hair tossed gently in the morning breeze.

  “Hey, Kara,” Joseph said weakly.

  Kara looked from one man to another. “What on Zanthora are the two of you doing?”

  Joseph and Maklavir looked at each other.

  They were both covered in slime, mud, bits of grass and leaves. Their clothes were completely soaked. Water dripped off them like a steady patter of rain. Maklavir was bleeding from the lip. Joseph had a swollen cut across his cheek. Now that they had stopped fighting, both men were shivering in the cold morning air.

  Joseph looked back up at Kara. He paused for a second. “I was...teaching Maklavir to swordfight.”

  Kara kept staring at them.

  “Yes,” said Maklavir hesitantly. He plucked a long wet vine from his shoulder and dropped it into the water. “Just...a bit of fencing, that’s all.”

  Kara glanced back at the cow pasture beyond the broken fence. “Aren’t those your swords back there in the grass?”

  Both men were silent for a long moment.

  “These are...” Joseph squirmed. Water dripped from his beard. “Advanced techniques.”

  Kara cocked an eyebrow. “Really?”

  Joseph coughed. “Yes.” He put a hand awkwardly on Maklavir’s shoulder. “You’re...showing a lot of progress, Maklavir. Good job.”

  “And you,” said Maklavir, spitting a piece of grass out of his mouth, “are an excellent teacher, Joseph.”

  “Come on, you two,” said Kara with a sigh. She leaned against the broken fence. “Tell me what’s really going on here. Why were you fighting?”

  There was another long pause.

  “You know,” said Maklavir as he dabbed at the corner of his mouth, “I can’t honestly remember.”

  “Neither can I,” said Joseph quickly. He gave an innocent shrug of his shoulders. “We really just got a little carried away, that’s all. Heat of the moment and all that.”

  Kara gave both men an intent look. “Right.” She rolled her eyes. “
Keep your secrets. I don’t care.” She jerked a thumb back towards the edge of the field. “I’ve got a fire going, if you’re done beating on each other and want to come get warm.”

  Both men looked at one another.

  Kara crossed her arms. “And have some breakfast. And bandage those bleeding cuts.”

  “Well,” said Maklavir after another long pause, “that sounds capital to me.” He stepped forward out of the water and climbed up out of the ditch.

  “Me too,” said Joseph. He pulled himself out of the ditch as well.

  Kara looked again at both bruised and bloodied men. “You’re...both sure everything’s all right?”

  “Of course,” said Joseph with a reddening of his cheeks.

  “Absolutely,” said Maklavir with an easy smile.

  Kara turned away. “Men,” she said under her breath.

  The cows began to wander off, their tails swishing nonchalantly.

  Joseph and Maklavir began to follow Kara across the field, their heads hung low and their faces sheepish.

  “I say,” came a voice from their right, “is everything all right?”

  They turned their heads to investigate.

  A road ran parallel to the field on one side. A man riding a small cart piled high with firewood had stopped his horses, and was gazing at the three of them in mild curiosity.

  Kara gave Joseph and Maklavir a rueful glance. “Ask them.”

  The man shifted his gaze, even more curious.

  Joseph sighed. “We’re...fine. Just fine. Thanks for asking.”

  Maklavir grabbed his cape off the fence, his arms shaking from the cold breeze on his wet skin.

  “You folk headed into Shawnor?” The cart driver called. “I could give you a lift, if two of you don’t mind riding on some firewood.”

  Kara turned eagerly back towards Maklavir and Joseph. “We could be there before nightfall,” she said under breath. “This is perfect.”

  “We have to pack up,” Joseph protested weakly. He was already shivering at the thought of riding in the cold air on the back of the cart with soaking wet clothes.

  “I already packed most everything,” Kara said excitedly. “I just need to put out the fire. There’s some leftover cheese and apples we can have on the way.” She turned back towards the cart driver. “Thank you! Give us five minutes.”

  The old cart driver turned and spat onto the dirt pathway. “Same enough to me. I’ve got time.”

  Kara turned and dashed off towards the edge of the field, in the direction of some drifting smoke.

  “Cheese and apples,” Maklavir said in a quiet voice as he crossed over to Joseph. “Sounds like a fantastic breakfast.”

  Joseph ignored him. He reached down and snatched up his greatcoat, then his rapier.

  Maklavir dabbed at his lip, then grabbed his own rapier off the ground. He looked down at the weapon for a moment. “I suppose....” he started to say. “That is to say, I guess we should—”

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” Joseph said curtly. He turned towards the road.

  The man on the cart was waiting patiently for them. He put down a canteen he had been drinking from, and his eyes widened a little at the sight of Joseph and Maklavir’s swords. “Ah, I see,” he said with a nod at their weapons. “Bound for Redemption, I take it?”

  Both men stopped, surprised at the cart driver’s clairvoyance.

  “As a matter of fact,” said Joseph warily, “we are heading that way.”

  The man nodded. “I’d head out there myself if I was a younger man. Afraid those days have passed, though.”

  Maklavir couldn’t quite contain the bemused look on his face. “You’ll have to forgive us...we’ve been on the road for quite a bit. What exactly is happening in Redemption?”

  “What is happening in Redemption?” The cart driver put down his canteen as it was halfway to his mouth. “You really don’t know?”

  Joseph and Maklavir looked at each other.

  “All the barbarians in Jothland are throwing themselves at the Wall,” the cart driver said with a wheeze. He slapped a hand across his knee. “They’ve almost broken through half a dozen times or more. There’s a call out for volunteers to go and assist with the defense of the town.” He gave the swords another meaningful glance. “When I saw your blades, I just assumed—”

  “Wait,” said Joseph as he held up a hand. “The barbarians haven’t broken through the defenses yet?”

  The old man gave a crafty smile. “They should have.” He lowered his eyebrows. “You two sure you haven’t heard all this? You’re not pulling my chain, are you?”

  “We really haven’t,” Maklavir said between chattering teeth. “What’s going on over there?”

  “What? More like who.” The cart driver leaned in with a conspiratorial glance around. “There’s a general over there who’s beating back the pagans at every turn. Hammer of the Jombards, they call him. An old war hero. They say he can’t be stopped.”

  Joseph and Maklavir both felt a strange thrill pass through them at the man’s words.

  “This general,” Joseph said haltingly, “he’s an...Arbelan?”

  The cart driver gave an exaggerated shrug. “Can’t rightly say. Rumor is, though,” he glanced around again, as if afraid someone would overhear his words, “rumor is that he was at Vorten, during the start of the Despair. The Demonbane, they’re calling him.”

  Maklavir’s mouth dropped open. “Kendril? This man...his name is Kendril?”

  The cart driver gave a puzzled shake of his head. “Kendril? No, no, can’t say I’ve ever heard that name.” He took another swig from his canteen, and rubbed a dirty sleeve across his mouth.

  Joseph and Maklavir exchanged confused glances.

  “Then...what is his name?” asked Joseph between shivers.

  “Ravenbrook,” said the cart driver after a moment’s reflection. “That’s it. Lord Ravenbrook.”

  Chapter 2

  Captain Lockhart stood atop the third level of the wooden tower. He peered out through the pre-dawn darkness along the length of the Wall, looking north towards Hangman’s Hill.

  There was a flash of light. A few seconds later the echoing boom of a gunshot rolled down the Wall.

  “No beacon yet,” remarked Lieutenant Sharpton. He stood just behind Lockhart, his dragoon uniform worn and patched.

  “No,” said Lockhart thoughtfully. He turned and walked across the wooden floor, then looked out through the dark night south along the Wall. “Nothing from Dyke?”

  Sharpton shook his head. “No, sir. Just—”

  Two more flashes lit the hill to the north. They were quickly followed by two bangs.

  Lockhart scowled. He stroked his mustache as he pondered his options.

  “I could take a squad, sir,” Sharpton offered. “Be up there in less than ten minutes.”

  Lockhart didn’t answer. He turned and looked out over the Wall itself, directly east into the tangled woods that covered most of the continent of Jothland.

  The Wall. That was what it had been called, ever since the first skeleton structure had been carved out of the ground almost a century before. The Wall was the first and greatest line of defense against the Jombard tribes that inhabited the dark interior of Jothland. It had stood the test of time, it had been assaulted again and again, but always rebuilt and re-manned.

  It was a symbol, both of the defiance of the colonists back in Redemption, and also of the constant danger that threatened their livelihood. It and the men who manned it were the only things holding back a wave of barbarians who wouldn’t hesitate to kill, burn, and destroy everything between the Wall and the Strait of Jagara.

  Sharpton cleared his throat. “Sir?”

  “I’ll take a squad up myself,” Lockhart said. “I want to check out the situation. You hold down the fort here, keep an eye to the south.”

  Sharpton nodded. “Yes, sir.” He seemed as if he was about to say more, but hesitated.

  Lockhart l
ooked back to the north. “Something on your mind, :Lieutenant?”

  Sharpton clasped his hands behind his back. “It’s just...begging your pardon, sir, but you haven’t slept in two days. If I might suggest, let me take the squad up.” He glanced up as another flash appeared from Hangman’s Hill. “It’s probably nothing anyway, sir. Just a raiding party, or perhaps a few infiltrators—”

  “Maybe,” said Lockhart doubtfully. He chewed on the corner of his mustache. “I wish we had eyes on the other side of the Wall. Some way to know where the blasted Jombards are massing.”

  “The general sent some scouts through yesterday,” Sharpton said quickly. “I saw them go through the central gate when I was returning from Stockade. He—”

  Lockhart turned quickly on the lieutenant. “I would remind you, Lieutenant, that Lord Ravenbrook’s rank is merely a commission in the local militia. He’s no more a ‘general’ than you or I.”

  Sharpton straightened. “Yes, sir.”

  Lockhart nodded absently.

  “Sir,” Sharpton began again, more hesitantly this time, “give me the word and I’ll take the squad up to Hangman’s Hill myself. There’s no reason for you to go.”

  Lockhart smiled. “You’re a good man, Sharpton. But we’re all tired. The Jombards haven’t let us sleep for almost a month now, have they?”

  Sharpton gave a brief shake of his head. “No sir.”

  Lockhart put a hand on Sharpton’s shoulder. “Hold the line here. I’ll be back in less than an hour.” He moved towards the ladder without waiting for a response, and scooted down the rungs to the second level of the watchtower.

  The Wall incorporated more than twenty miles of coordinated defenses. Chief among these were the mileforts, small barracked enclosures every mile or so along the wall itself. Some were larger than others. The fort that Lockhart and Sharpton were at, known by the dragoons posted here as Hangman’s Rest, butted up against the Wall itself. The milefort was flanked by two wooden watchtowers that reared over the turf wall and wooden palisade, allowing an unobstructed view out onto the barbarian side of the Wall.

  Another milefort was located at Hangman’s Hill, about a mile to the north. It was significantly smaller than Hangman’s Rest, which was easily large enough to house a full company of dragoons with mounts and supplies. The largest milefort was not located on the Wall at all, but was several miles to the west. It was known simply as Stockade, and it was a free-standing fortress.