by Ben Cassidy
Kara shoved away his arm. “Don’t touch me!” she shouted without thinking.
Maklavir retreated a step, surprised. He recovered his wits in a moment. “You can’t even draw that bow, Kara. You’re not healed yet—”
“Get a sword,” Kara said without looking at the man. “They’ll be on us in two minutes.” She turned to face him. “Maklavir, hurry!”
The diplomat opened his mouth to say something back, then spun and dashed off.
Kara half-lifted the bow and glanced out at the pirate ship again.
The vessel was swinging alongside the merchant ship. It was so close that Kara could make out the leering faces of the pirates on board. They looked like an unsavory, violent bunch. Weapons of all kinds bristled in their hands. Another pistol cracked off in the air, and was followed by a roar from the pirates.
“Eru help us!” the merchant captain squealed.
Kara waited, standing with a calmness she didn’t feel. She took slow, even breaths.
The pain. It would come again, just like always. The sharp, stabbing fire in her chest when she tried to draw back the bow. It had diminished slightly over the last few weeks, but not enough.
There was no other choice. Joseph was essentially incapacitated. Maklavir, despite his swordplay lessons with Joseph, was still as inept in combat as ever.
So it was up to Kara.
The pirate ship slammed into the merchant ship with a resounding clunk and screech of wood on wood.
The merchant ship shifted violently sideways.
Kara almost tripped, but managed to somehow keep her balance. She looked up into the faces of more than twenty brigands.
A flurry of objects sailed from the deck of the pirate ship over the merchant ship’s railing.
Grappling hooks, attached to ropes. They caught fast and gouged into the wood of the merchant ship.
Two long boarding planks were thrown down between the two ships, balanced on the railings.
Maklavir came scurrying back, a rapier in his hand. He stopped cold beside Kara at the sight of the bloodthirsty pirates.
Kara kept her fingers hooked around the feathered end of her arrow, keeping the bow barely drawn and lowered. She kept taking long, deep breaths, relaxing her shoulders and her arms. Relaxing her whole body.
A patter of gunshots crackled from the pirate ship, followed by black smoke that was quickly blown away in the stiff ocean breeze.
Musket balls chipped and pinged into the wooden mast and deck of the merchant ship.
“Here they come,” Maklavir said uneasily. He shifted his position and raised the sword uncertainly in his hands.
A blistering series of bellows and war whoops came from the pirate ship. A buccaneer, a sword clenched in each hand, leapt up onto one of the boarding planks with a scream. His eyes were wild like a beast’s. His drooping mustache and ragged beard seemed like those of a madman.
Maklavir instinctively flinched back.
Kara took another breath. She lifted the bow and pulled back the string. Pain tore into her chest like a white-hot spear. She ignored it, fought through it. She had to.
The pirate kept screaming. He was halfway across. On the other boarding plank a second pirate leapt up. He held a pistol in one hand and a cutlass in the other.
Kara released the arrow and her breath in one smooth motion.
The arrow hissed through the air. It struck the wild-eyed pirate squarely in the throat, hitting so hard that it stuck out the back of his neck.
He gave a strange warbling sound as he clutched for the arrow shaft. A second later, he tumbled off the boarding plank into the tossing sea below.
The second pirate saw the shot. He gave a shout and raised his pistol.
Kara’s bow was already reloaded. She took another breath and pulled the string.
The pirate’s pistol blasted off into the air.
The lead ball buzzed past Kara’s head, somewhere to her right. No way of telling how close.
Kara’s eyes were watering from the pain in her chest. It was hard to see through the welling tears. She breathed in and brought the notched end of the arrow up to her cheek.
The pirate tore across the boarding plank, yelling like a banshee. He raised his cutlass.
Kara breathed out and released the string. The twang of the bowstring and the report of the arrow filled the air.
The pirate actually twirled, his forward momentum rudely interrupted by the force of the shot. Kara’s arrow protruded from the middle of his chest. He tumbled backwards.
Kara didn’t stop to see anything else. She was already turning, notching another arrow to her string and trying her best to shove down the blinding pain in her chest.
There were several pirates coming now, shoving each other to get onto the flimsy boarding planks. A couple more pistol shots cracked out.
Kara didn’t bother ducking. Even at this relatively short distance, a shot fired from the deck of a bobbing vessel from a smoothbore weapon had little chance of making contact with the intended target.
Someone shouted from behind Kara. She ignored the voice, and focused on the oncoming pirates.
A bullet zinged by her ear.
That had been a little close for comfort.
“Kara—” Maklavir started to say.
She bent, lifted, exhaled and shot in one fluid motion.
A pirate pitched forward with a gurgling cry. He slammed hard into the deck of the merchant ship, the arrow shaft fixed in his gut.
Someone screamed a curse.
Kara turned, fitting another arrow to her string.
One of the pirates hit the deck of the merchant ship. His face was a mask of scars and unshaven stubble.
Kara shot him in the chest.
The pirate shrieked and collapsed backwards, clutching at the arrow shaft.
The pain. It was so bad, so jagged and raw that Kara wanted nothing else than for it to stop. It was hard to breathe, hard even to lift her arms.
No. She couldn’t. Not now. She had to keep firing. She had to keep—
“Kara!”
Maklavir’s voice in her ear caused Kara to suddenly come back into focus. She snapped her head to the side, another arrow already fitted to her string.
Something struck her head hard, causing explosions of purple and white before her eyes.
And then, finally, the pain stopped.
There was a pile of dispatches on the large desk that filled Kendril’s office.
He snorted and walked to the small window.
Outside the yard of the Stockade stretched to the fort’s palisade wall. A company of recruits, volunteers from the mainland, were being drilled in halberd and polearm practice. From a quick glance Kendril could see that most of them were not handling their weapons well, much less staying in formation.
He shook his head with a sigh. Most of the recruits that they were getting from Rothland were young, eager men with no military training or background. Their hearts were in the right place, but it would take more than heart to defend the Wall when the Jombards hit it again.
Then there was the problem of equipment. Halberds and pikes were poor substitutes for good steel swords and muskets. Even bows and crossbows were in short supply. The Redemption militia was poorly equipped as it was. Most of the militiamen had to supply their own equipment out of their own pockets. And every day they spent here in arms was one day that they weren’t tending their farms or earning a living at the lumber mills.
It was a recipe for disaster. Sooner or later, something had to give.
Kendril turned to the desk that dominated his office. He reached for the top dispatch, the report from the scouts that he had sent over the Wall to discover the position of the Jombard forces.
But he hesitated. His eyes shifted from the dispatch to the large trunk that was set against the wall of the room, sandwiched between the bookshelf and a musket stand.
Kendril walked over to the chest and knelt down before it. Slowly, almost with reverenc
e, he undid the clasp and opened the lid.
There was a jumble of personal belongings inside. Folded on the top was a black hooded cloak. Two sheathed short swords, each about two feet in length, lay wrapped in the cloak. To the side was a pair of black leather gauntlets.
Kendril tentatively put his hand into the chest. He grabbed the worn, stained fabric of the black cloak. Then he reached for one of the swords and picked it up. He unsheathed it.
It was a fine, solid weapon. Steel that had been sharpened countless times flashed in the gray light from the window. The edges of the blade were notched and nicked in various places, a testimony to the violent fights that it had seen over the years.
The sword was simple. Rugged. Reliable. Its short length and broad blade made it equally good at stabbing and swinging, at attacking and parrying. But its short length made it suffer in combat with a longer blade, especially in the hands of a skilled swordsman.
That was why Kendril had always carried two of the weapons. It had not always been enough, however. He still had the scars that Lord Bathsby had given him in Balneth to prove it.
Kendril turned the sword over in his hands, his eyes wandering down the length of the dull gray blade. It was strange, the attachment that he felt to this weapon. It was like an old friend, a part of himself.
It was nothing compared to the finely-crafted rapier that Kendril currently carried. That had been made by the finest swordsmiths in all of Llewyllan. The blade never seemed to notch or need sharpening. The way it had cut through the werewolf’s head just that morning had been a testament to its superb craftsmanship. With a sword like that, a man could conquer the world.
Kendril quietly sheathed the short sword.
Still, every time he wore the beautiful, deadly rapier at his side, every time he drew it in battle and heard the hum of the metal through the air....
It felt like someone else’s weapon.
Kendril looked down at the folded cloak and gauntlets.
“Sir?” Wilkes rapped on the doorpost of the office. “I have your coffee, General.”
Kendril quickly put the sword back in the chest and shut the lad. “Put it on the desk, Wilkes.”
“Yes, sir.” The lad came in, a steaming cup of coffee in one hand and Kendril’s sheathed rapier in the other. “Cook’s still working on the fish, sir.”
Kendril nodded absently. He got up and took the coffee.
Wilkes laid the sword down on the desk as if it were an infant being put to bed. “The men said you—” he paused, suddenly self-conscious of his words. “That is to say, there was talk that you killed a, uh, werewolf this morning, sir.”
Kendril took a sip of the coffee. He gave a resigned nod of his head. “There was a werewolf at Hangman’s Hill, yes.”
Wilkes’ eyes grew wide. “You...you think there might be more of them, sir? Werewolves, I mean?”
Kendril glanced out the window at the parade ground. “There are dark forces stirring in the forests of Jothland. I wouldn’t be surprised if we see Regnuthu himself before this is over.” He turned his head back to the boy, and realized that the color had completely drained from Wilkes’ face.
“Yes, sir,” the lad stammered. He stared down at the floor. His arms were trembling. “I—if you need anything, sir, just let me know. I’m still seeing about a new horse.” He gave a shaky salute, then started to turn for the door.
Kendril put the coffee down. “Wilkes?”
He turned. “Yes, sir?”
“How old are you?”
Wilkes hesitated. “Eighteen summers, sir.”
Kendril gave a half-smile. “How old are you really?”
Wilkes glanced down at the floor. “Sixteen, sir.”
“Sixteen,” Kendril murmured. He felt suddenly old.
Wilkes looked around, as if nervous. He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Sir? Can...I ask you a question?”
Kendril took another sip of the coffee. It was a little on the weak side. “Fire away.”
“When you killed that werewolf—” Wilkes swallowed. “Were you...scared?”
Kendril looked up from the dispatches at the young man’s eyes. He could read the fear there as plainly as if it had been an open book.
And there were a lot of other men in the militia who were just as scared of meeting their first Jombard in battle, much less an abomination from the Void.
“I was terrified,” Kendril lied.
Wilkes gave a nervous smile. He nodded his head eagerly. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” He pointed at the coffee. “If you want any more, let me know.” He saluted and exited the room.
Kendril stared at the empty doorway for a long moment, his fingers gripping the scouts’ dispatch on the desk in front of him. Then he flipped open the dispatch and scanned its contents.
His face slowly turned into a scowl as he read.
The report was clear enough, and really no surprise. The scouts had detected a massive presence of combined Jombard tribes not ten miles east of the Wall. They were still encamped in the same place they had been for the last four weeks, ever since the first round of attacks.
It was unusual for the pagan tribes to unite this long and remain in one place without either launching a massive attack or breaking up into warring factions. This “Great Fang” that the witch Bronwyn had mentioned must be a powerful war chieftain indeed to hold the barbarians together this long.
And then there were the werewolves. Kendril had killed one more than a month ago, in a sea cave along the coast when he had tried to capture Bronwyn. He had almost managed to convince himself that it had been an isolated incident, a unique intrusion of the Void into the real world.
Until this morning.
Kendril tossed the dispatch down and flicked his eyes up to the large map tacked on the wall of the office.
What was this Great Fang waiting for? The tension was like static electricity in the air before a storm. Why not throw all the barbarian tribes at the Wall at once and be done with it?
Kendril shook his head. The Jombards were coming. He knew that much. And when they did, he would meet them and break the horde before it could reach Redemption.
He grabbed the sword off the desk and buckled it onto his belt. It felt strangely heavy, and...wrong at his side. Without thinking Kendril’s eyes shifted to the trunk against the wall.
No. He wasn’t a Ghostwalker anymore. He couldn’t continue to live out his penance any longer. He needed to be Lord Ravenbrook again. He was the only one who could save this land and this people.
His land. His people.
Kendril was about to head for the door when he remembered the letter from the mayor. With a sigh he dug out the official dispatch and cut it open with the slim dagger he kept on the desk as a letter opener.
With the sounds of the drill sergeant berating the new recruits out in the parade ground echoing in his ears, Kendril looked quickly over the letter.
Seconds later he crumpled it in his fist, his eyes ablaze. “Wilkes!”
The boy’s head appeared almost instantly. He had the look of a hound that had done something wrong and expected punishment. “Sir?”
“Saddle a horse for me, now,” Kendril ordered. He strung out a line of curses under his breath. “Tell Colonel Root I’m riding for Redemption.”
Wilkes nodded, half-afraid of the storm on Kendril’s face. “Y-yes, sir. Right away sir.”
Kendril threw the crumpled letter onto the desk.
Wilkes hesitated for just a moment in the doorway, his eyes on the crinkled dispatch. “What’s wrong, sir?”
Kendril jerked his head towards Wilkes so quickly that the boy almost physically leaped back. “What’s wrong? What’s wrong is that the honorable Lord Blackstone is about to hand the entire colony of Redemption over to the Jombards.”
Wilkes gawked. For a moment his legs seemed to have forgotten how to operate.
Kendril clenched a fist, then stared over at Wilkes. “A horse, Wilkes. Now.”
There
were bodies on the ground, amidst the trees and brambles. Twelve, by Bronwyn’s count.
Senseless. So completely senseless.
She strode in the forest between the two lines of tents and makeshift huts that the Jombard tribesmen had set up. “How did it start?” she asked, trying to keep her voice measured and calm.
“The Blood Fang Clan insulted us,” the chieftain standing behind Bronwyn responded. He curled back his lips in a snarl. “They questioned our honor, our reputation. We—”
“That is a lie,” the Blood Fang chieftain broke in. He stood on the other side of Bronwyn, with half a dozen armed warriors at his side. “It was this coward and his lackeys who insulted us. The Half Moon Tribe has always been reckless and eager for treachery—”
The Half Moon chieftain reached for his spear. The warriors behind him jumped into action as well. They seemed to need little motivation to do so.
The Blood Fang chieftain and his men had their weapons up in a moment as well.
“Let us finish what you have started,” the Half Moon chieftain growled. “Show me your courage, you son of a suckling pig.”
The Blood Fang chieftain raised his spear, ready to cast it. “I would be more than happy to show you how a real warrior fights.”
Bronwyn gave a heavy sigh. She turned her head first to one chieftain, and then to the other. “I have stood in the presence of the goddess,” she said, her voice still low and calm. “And you would battle over petty grievances right in front of me?”
“The goddess has little sway here,” the Half Moon chieftain said. “Harnathu is our lord, and it is he who—”
Bronwyn turned on the man with a terrible expression on her face. “You would dare to speak ill of the goddess? To blaspheme her?”
The chieftain shrank back, sudden fear on his face. “I-I meant no disrespect. I only—”
Bronwyn raised her hand. Her amber eyes flashed with zealous rage. “You are cursed. The hand of the goddess is on you. You shall bear no children. Your wives shall find comfort in the arms of other men.”
The Half Moon chieftain fell to his knees, his face white and trembling. “No, no, priestess, I did not mean it! I spoke rashly, I—”
