Redemption (Book 6)

by Ben Cassidy

  It was a disaster waiting to happen. Depending on the result of this little brawl, two of the Jombard tribes could very well get into an all-out battle that could spill over into the rest of the camp. It was the kind of thing that so easily destroyed these fragile alliances among the pagan peoples of Rothland, who were more used to fighting each other than working together for a common cause.

  The first Jombard warrior spat blood from his mouth onto the moss-covered stones under his feet. He growled a warning.

  The second Jombard, the chieftain from the east, gave a croaking laugh. He lifted a greataxe in both hands with a grin.

  The first Jombard hurled himself forward in a fury, his sword held high to strike.

  Bronwyn didn’t look to see what happened next. She walked past the ruckus, very deliberately keeping her face forward and her expression calm. She threaded her way carefully between overturned stools, puddles of spilled beer, and long wooden tables.

  A thunder of cheers came from the circle of barbarians to Bronwyn’s left.

  She studiously ignored it. And tried to ignore the hammering of her heart in her chest.

  The day was well under way, but here in the Hall of the Stone Trees it was cold. It was always cold here, or at least it seemed cold. Whether that was because of all the stone that filled the place, or because of a magic that was too deep and ancient to remember, or something else entirely, Bronwyn did not know.

  She suspected, especially in the deep of night when she could not sleep, and the darkness seemed to stare right back at her, that the coldness was due to all the souls of the dead that still lingered in this place. For the Hall of the Stone Trees was also a place of blood and sorrow. It had been ever since before anyone could remember.

  The ancient Rajathans had built it long ago, back when Jothland had been the heart of their empire. Then the Hall had been a great temple, perhaps the great temple of their domains. Even now, after centuries of wind, rain, and decay, it was an awe-inspiring sight.

  In her more heretical moments, Bronwyn found herself wishing that she could see it as it had once been, before the first great Despair and the coming of the Seteru into Zanthora.

  Massive pillars, carved in the shape and style of trees, flanked the walls on either side, and stretched for more than a hundred feet into the air. The vaulted ceiling had partially collapsed in places, leaving piles of rubble and stone on the huge antechamber below. Moss, ivy, and vegetation of all sorts grew up through the cracks of the stone, giving the Hall a strangely arboreal look. Sunlight streamed in through the huge holes in the ceiling. Birds flitted around in the stone arches of the expansive rafters and buttresses above, twittering and chirping endlessly. Their cries echoed in the vast expanse of hall.

  Behind Bronwyn came the clang of metal on metal, and another screaming cheer from the crowd of onlookers. She kept walking.

  Statues had once lined either side of the hall. Over time they had been defaced and vandalized by worshippers of the Seteru, so that now none of their features remained.

  It was ironic to consider the depths to which this place, once considered so holy by the Rajathans, had fallen over the centuries. This had once been a huge hall filled with the smell of incense and burning sacrifice, echoing with the chants of priests and the murmured prayers of petitioners. Now it was filled with the stench of human filth and sweat, and echoed with the harsh cries of barbarians.

  Still, whenever Bronwyn chanced to glance up at the vastness of the ancient temple, she found it hard to restrain a shiver of awe at the majesty of the lost Rajathans.

  The Great Fang had made the Hall of the Stone Trees his temporary residence. All the Jombard tribes of Rothland, at least those who were wise enough to fear his power, had come at his summons. Even some of the Hagar from the Wastelands to the far north had come, eager for spoil and war.

  But still, the cracks in this temporary alliance were starting to show. It had been almost a month now with nothing but setbacks and defeats to show for the attacks against the Wall to the west. The Great Fang was biding his time, but the other barbarian chieftains were starting to grow impatient and restless.

  It would not be long before the barbarians in the camp were at each other’s throats.

  Bronwyn reached the start of the huge stone stairs. They led up to the ruined area that had once been the temple’s high altar.

  Two burly Jombards, each wearing a wolf skin over his head, crossed spears to block her path.

  “The Great Fang has not summoned you,” one said. His voice was low, like the growl of an animal.

  Bronwyn gave both men a diffident, almost unconcerned look. “Tell him,” she said with intentional slowness, “that my audience with him is a matter of urgency.”

  The two warriors exchanged looks.

  The first snarled at Bronwyn, but moved his spear. “Remain here,” he ordered. “I will seek the Fang’s will.”

  Bronwyn said nothing. The Jombards of the Great Fang’s tribe spoke almost as if he were some kind of a god.

  The barbarian disappeared up the stone steps.

  Bronwyn stood, waiting with a patience she did not feel. Behind her came more shouts and screams from the fight. She found herself idly wondering which man would win, and which would be food for the dogs before nightfall.

  The Jombard warrior reappeared. “The Great Fang will see you,” he said gruffly.

  Bronwyn gave a bow of her head and a condescending smile. “You are too kind.” She traipsed past the two guards and up the steps.

  The area at the top of the steps was in shadow, a recess at the rear of what had once been the huge nave of the temple. Even though it was day, torches burned in stands around the perimeter of the chamber, casting an orange and flickering glow. A large, round wooden table stood in the center of the room. It was covered with maps drawn on the hides of animals, as well as a silver bowl filled with fruit. Behind the table a large, throne-like chair had been set up.

  The Great Fang sat there.

  Bronwyn stopped at the entrance to the shadowy chamber, taken aback once more by the sight of the Jombard chieftain.

  He was huge, a head taller than even the largest of the Jombard warriors that followed him. Blue tattoos covered his naked chest and half his face, swirling in loops and spirals that seemed to defy logic. His face was clean-shaven, his eyes dark and bright. His hair was reddish-brown, pulled into a large braided top knot. He wore a golden torque shaped like a wolf round his neck, golden bracers that were also shaped like wolves, and plaid trousers. His skin was covered with white scars, the evidence of countless past battles and conflicts.

  Bronwyn took a breath. She knew just how dangerous the Great Fang was. The only reason the Jombard tribes were not yet fighting each other outright was because they feared him more than each other.

  Two half-naked Jombard women slouched on either side of the Great Fang’s throne. They looked coldly at Bronwyn as she approached. To the left of the table was another Jombard chieftain, a man from one of the eastern tribes. Bronwyn recognized him immediately. His name was Odgar. He was a fearsome warrior and the right hand of the Fang.

  The Great Fang didn’t move from his throne. His dark eyes watched Bronwyn keenly.

  Bronwyn bowed low. “Thank you for granting me an audience, Great Fang.”

  “Bronwyn.” The Jombard’s voice was a purring growl. “Speak.”

  Bronwyn smoothed her long dark robe, and tried her best not to look flustered. There was something about the Great Fang that unnerved her, even though she had stood in the very presence of the blessed Seteru. “I come with counsel,” she said, raising her voice a little. “The Seteru have spoken to me.”

  The Great Fang waved away one of the fawning women. “Really? And tell me, Bronwyn, what do the Seteru say?”

  Bronwyn moved casually to the table. She tried her best to keep her movements aloof and unconcerned. “They urge an attack. They are hungry for blood, hungry for the slaughter of all who oppose them and deny the
m worship.” She glanced suddenly at the Fang. “It is time to attack the Wall.”

  The Great Fang chuckled. The sound was low and deep, more beast-like than human.

  Bronwyn straightened, her face flushing slightly. “I would remind you, Great Fang, that I was there at Vorten. I watched the door to the Void open. I stood in the presence of the glorious goddess Indigoru—”

  “Yes, yes,” said the Great Fang. “Indigoru.” He reached down and picked up an apple that lay on a silver plate next to his chair. “She is weak.”

  Bronwyn was so shocked for a moment that she could not speak. She gave the Fang a determined glance. “You should be careful not to speak blasphemy against—”

  “Please.” The Jombard chieftain took a bite of the apple. “Spare me your protestations, witch. Indigoru had her chance at Vorten. She could have made all of Rothland run red with blood. The goddess failed.” He took another bite, and chewed thoughtfully. “You failed.”

  Bronwyn squeezed her hand slowly on the table’s edge until her knuckles showed white. “The Wall still stands,” she said quietly. “Redemption still stands. The Seteru are losing patience with you. So are your men.” She glanced back at the steps leading down towards the cavernous nave. “If they do not taste the blood of victory soon, they will taste the blood of each other.”

  Odgar raised his head, his blue eyes examining Bronwyn carefully. “The witch is right. The northern tribes are growing restless. Things could come to blows.”

  Bronwyn inclined her head towards the steps again. “They already have. It will only get worse from here.” She put both her hands on the table, and stared straight at the Fang with a confidence that she did not feel. “What are you waiting for, Great Fang? Strike now, while the iron is hot. We may not get a second chance.”

  “Bronwyn, Bronwyn.” The Great Fang rose suddenly from his throne. Both of the women slunk away instantly, like startled pigeons from a stalking cat. “You are not the only one who listens to the Seteru.”

  Bronwyn tried not to show her surprise. Did the Great Fang have a witch of his own? It was not impossible. A woman from one of the northern tribes, perhaps, a seer or soothsayer of some kind? If so, Bronwyn needed to find out exactly who it was. Accidents were known to happen in a camp like this.

  “And what,” Bronwyn said slowly, “do the Seteru tell you, O Great Fang?”

  The Great Fang stretched his mighty frame. His muscles rippled under his bronzed and tattooed skin. “Indigoru had her chance at Vorten. She was insufficient. Now it is time for blood. For fire. For war.”

  Bronwyn swallowed. Not many worshippers of the Seteru would dare speak of any of the pagan gods as the Great Fang was doing. “You were not at Vorten,” Bronwyn said, trying to keep her voice level and cool. “You did not see—”

  “No,” the Great Fang interrupted. “I was not at Vorten. If I had, things would have been different.” He moved down towards the table, his body as lithe and powerful as a panther’s.

  It was all Bronwyn could do to not shrink back as the Jombard chieftain approached her. He could have easily snapped her in two with his bare hands. “Great Fang,” she said, trying to start over, “I know that you—”

  “You know nothing.” The comment was not a rebuke, simply a calm statement of fact. The Great Fang turned his dark eyes directly on Bronwyn. “I want him, Bronwyn. The one who slew Indigoru and closed the gate at Vorten. The one they call Demonbane. He is my trophy, my prize.”

  It was so still Bronwyn could hear her own heart pounding in her ears. “Kendril?”

  The Great Fang gave a thin, merciless smile. He put a hand down on one of the skin-maps and traced the line of the Wall. “I must teach him true fear. He must taste defeat, and then despair.” He turned from the table with the slightest of shrugs. “And afterwards, death.”

  Bronwyn’s hands were shaking. She shoved them under the sleeves of her robe to hide the tremor. “Great Fang,” she said, still managing to keep her voice low and steady, “when will you attack the Wall?”

  The Great Fang lifted the apple in his hand, his back turned to Bronwyn. He took another bite. “When Harnathu directs me.”

  So the Fang was in communication with the Seteru. Bronwyn kept her face impassive.

  “All of the land west of the Wall will become a sacrifice to Harnathu, a monument to his glory.” The Great Fang turned, his eyes sweeping over the maps on the table. “The smoke and blood will rise up in his name, and he will be here to inhale the scent of the slaughter.”

  Bronwyn felt a long, cold chill run up her back. Was Harnathu, the wolf-headed god of fire and war, coming here, to Jothland?

  “When he tells me to attack, we will destroy the Wall,” the Fang rumbled. “Anyone who attacks before then will pay the price.” He turned his head ever so slightly to Odgar. “Bring forth Galbrath.”

  Bronwyn tried not to show her surprise. What was going on here?

  Odgar gave a bow, then nodded to the guards at the head of the stairs.

  The guards hurried out of sight down the steps. A moment later, they reappeared, spears clutched in their hands. Between them walked a Jombard warrior. His tattoos and ornaments clearly showed he was from one of the southern tribes. His face was etched with uncertainty. A blood-stained bandage was wrapped around his arm and shoulder.

  “Galbrath,” the Fang said in his growling voice. “Where is the head of your tribe? Callidon the Night Wolf?”

  Galbrath glanced around him nervously. “I—he fell, Great Fang. In the battle against the Wall this morning.” He paused for a moment. “The Demonbane killed him. I saw it myself.”

  The Great Fang still didn’t look directly at Galbrath. “And yet you fled.”

  Galbrath licked his lips. He looked over at Odgar, but the Jombard chieftain stood with his arms crossed and a stony expression on his face. “There was no chance,” Galbrath said quickly. “Our warriors were being cut down. The Demonbane—”

  “Do not speak to me of the Demonbane,” said the Fang in a deceptively quiet voice.

  Galbrath shut his mouth quickly. His face seemed drained of all color.

  “Who ordered the attack on the Wall?” The Great Fang turned and sat leisurely down on his throne again.

  Galbrath looked nervously first at Odgar, then Bronwyn. “It—it was our chieftain, O Fang. Callidon.”

  “I see.” The Great Fang examined his apple. “Did I not order that no attacks were to be made until I had given the order?”

  The chamber was deathly quiet save for the crackling of the torches. A single fly buzzed aimlessly over the bowl of fruit on the table.

  “He—” Galbrath brought his good arm up to his face and wiped the sweat off his forehead, “he thought it was time to attack. The warriors were impatient.” Galbrath fell on his knees before the Great Fang. “Please, please, I didn’t have anything to do with the decision. I was only—”

  “Following orders?” the Fang finished for him. “And yet you did not die at the Wall to atone for your mistake. So you still live, and your presence in our midst is a continual reminder of your failure. A stench.”

  Galbrath was shaking now. He bowed his head low before the mighty Jombard chieftain until his forehead touched the dirty stone floor. “Forgive me, Great Fang. I did not mean—”

  “I blessed your chieftain with my own blood,” the Fang continued. He held up his arm, covered with fresh red scars. “The blood of the wolf-god. And yet he betrayed me. Your whole tribe betrayed me. And now that your chieftain is dead, you must answer for him.”

  Galbrath didn’t answer. He was trembling so violently that it looked like he would not have been able to speak even if he had tried.

  Bronwyn found she was holding her breath. Her eyes darted back and forth between Galbrath and the Great Fang.

  “Tell me,” the Fang said in a voice a little above a whisper, “what do you think your punishment should be, Galbrath?”

  The man kept his face towards the ground. “I deserve death
, my lord.”

  The Great Fang nodded sagely. “I agree. But dead warriors are of no use to me, are they? Not unless their death serves as an example to others.” He gave a great, heavy sigh, like the grunt of a bear. “No, Galbrath, I will not take your life. You will live, and testify both to my mercy and my greatness.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Galbrath still kept his face pressed to the dirty floor. He seemed small and disgusting, like a worm in human form.

  The Great Fang turned his head towards Odgar. “Have this coward and the rest of his tribe taken out before the encampment. Cut off the right ear from every man and woman.”

  Galbrath was still shaking. He was biting his lip so hard that he drew blood.

  Odgar bowed again. “As you command, my lord.” He motioned to the two guards again.

  The warriors came forward and picked up Galbrath, then practically dragged the man back down the steps into the vast nave of the ruined temple.

  “Discipline does not come easily to these people, Bronwyn,” the Great Fang said, his voice soft and musing. “They must learn to respect me. To respect and fear Harnathu.”

  Bronwyn felt sick, but did her best not to show the slightest twitch of it on her face. “And do you speak for Harnathu, Great Fang?”

  The Great Fang gave her a condescending smile. “I not only speak for him, witch, soon I will bring him into the world of men.”

  Bronwyn kept an easy, relaxed expression on her face. “And with respect, my lord, how do you intend to do that?”

  “With the old magic,” the Fang responded mysteriously. He gestured to Odgar. “Show her.”

  The Jombard warrior nodded, then turned to the shadows in the side of the chamber.

  Bronwyn licked her lips, her curiosity getting the better of her reserve. “Show me what?”

  “We found it in the ruins of the Forbidden City,” the Fang continued, as if Bronwyn had not spoken. “A talisman of old. A gift from the true gods. It will be the end of all the false worshippers, first the colony of Redemption, then the nations of the West.”