by Ben Cassidy
“What is it, then?” Kara asked. She knew the answer even as the words came out of her mouth.
Joseph put both hands on the wet railing. “Trouble.”
Chapter 13
The landscape was lit by fire.
Flames burned to the north and the south. The remains of a nearby watchtower crumbled into fiery debris, sending up a cloud of embers and sparks. Bodies, both of the Jombards and the dragoons that had been manning the Wall, littered the ground. Rain continued to spatter down out of the cold night sky.
The Wall had fallen. It was finally finished. Over a century of oppression had been destroyed overnight. The Jombards had broken through into the civilized lands of the peninsula. Thousands of warriors were pouring through into the forests and fields. Already the horizon was filled with the flames of burning farms and outlying settlements.
The Great Fang stood on the remnants of the Wall, and breathed in the smoke and tang of blood as if was a summer breeze. He gave a predatory smile, enjoying the howls of the victorious Jombards and the wailing of the female priestesses as they offered up praises to the Seteru. Even the cries of the wounded and dying that filled the night were balm to his ears.
Already there had been much blood and slaughter tonight. Harnathu would be pleased.
But it was not yet over. The Great Fang would not stop, not until he reached the fort the colonists called Stockade, and then on to Redemption itself. He would make of it all a pile of ashes and blood, an offering to the Seteru.
And then, when he finally stood on the beaches looking out upon the Strait of Jagara, he would build ships for his men, and lead them on to the West, across the great waters and to the continent of Rothland. Arbela would fall, and Calbraith, and Badera and Merewith. Places that were just names on a map to the Fang and his people, cities he had seen only in his dreams and nightmares.
The people of the West would all die. The Great Fang would rule supreme over the whole continent of Rothland. It was his destiny, his great promise. He would build a towering temple to Harnathu on the bones of his fallen foes, would offer blood and fire to appease the dark god of slaughter and war.
But first he had to find the man called Demonbane. Find and destroy him as an offering to Harnathu, an offering to show the Seteru his worth.
Filled with the thrill of victory and invigorated by the sight of carnage, the Great Fang threw back his head and gave a rousing howl. He reached towards the Soulbinder that hung around his neck. The gem was warm. It glowed softly like a pulsing red heart.
The Great Fang smiled. The blood and death that surrounded the ancient relic was stirring it to life, making it remember its true purpose.
Soon, soon, the veil between this world and the Void would be shattered.
“Master.” Odgar emerged from the darkness. He, unlike most of the other tribe chieftains, had not yet drunk of the wolf-blood.
“Rise, Odgar,” the Great Fang said. Like Odgar, he was also still in human form. A greater gift awaited him, a blessing that would manifest itself only when the Soulbinder had achieved its full potency.
“There are prisoners,” Odgar said.
The Great Fang frowned. “Then the men did not heed my orders. Did I not say that all were to be killed without mercy?”
“Yes, O Fang,” Odgar replied. He looked up at the war lord. The expression on his face was almost anxious. “One of the men...he killed one of the Chosen.”
The Great Fang snapped his head in the direction of his lieutenant. “Bring him to me,” he growled. “Kill the rest.”
Odgar bowed even lower. “Yes, Great Fang.”
The Great Fang continued to growl softly even as Odgar turned and left.
“Well,” came a sultry voice from behind him, “perhaps your great wolf-men are not as invincible as you thought, Great Fang.”
“Bronwyn,” the Great Fang snarled, uttering her name almost like a curse, “your words come close to blasphemy.”
Bronwyn gave a small, confident laugh. She stepped beside the war chieftain, her body like a reed compared to his massive bulk. “I am a loyal servant of the Seteru, Great Fang.” She looked up at him with an innocent smile. “As you are.”
“The nations of the West will fall like rotten fruit from a tree,” the Great Fang intoned. “Look.” He swept a massive hand over the fires that burned as far as the eye could see to the west. “It has already begun.”
Bronwyn folded her hands behind her back. “There is a good deal of water between here and the nations of the West, O Fang. And the Jombards have never been keen sailors.”
The Great Fang smiled. “Harnathu will lead us. You will see, Bronwyn. This is only the beginning.”
“And what,” asked Bronwyn with a raised eyebrow, “of the Demonbane?”
The Great Fang grinned. “I will find him and devour him. His death will be sweet incense to the Seteru.”
“You don’t know the Demonbane,” said Bronwyn quietly. “Not like I do. You should not underestimate him. If any man will stop you and your warriors from crossing the sea to the West, it will be him.”
The Great Fang snorted angrily. “We shall see, witch.”
Bronwyn started to speak again, but held her tongue instead.
Odgar returned, flanked by two powerful Jombard warriors. He pushed a bound, badly injured dragoon to the ground before the Great Fang. “This is the man, O Fang.”
The Great Fang looked over the bloody, disheveled man at his feet. “What is your name?” he said in a rumbling tone.
The dragoon looked up at the war chieftain, blinking to see through the blood that covered half his face. “Captain Lockhart,” he croaked. He managed to straighten himself, even though he was on his knees. “Northampton Dragoon Regiment, Arbelan Protect—”
“You killed a werewolf tonight,” the Great Fang said. He searched the man with keen eyes. “An act of great courage. You must be proud of yourself, Captain Lockhart.”
Lockhart looked up at the Great Fang, his body shaking from loss of blood and physical trauma. “I’m a coward,” he managed to say. “And I would have run. I should have run.”
The Great Fang tilted his head. “And yet you did not.”
“No,” Lockhart said. He lifted his head, despite the obvious pain that it caused him. “Because I saw a man kill another of your werewolves just this morning. A man just like me. Lord Ravenbrook.” Lockhart managed to smile. “The Demonbane, they call him.”
Bronwyn crossed her arms. “You see, Great Fang? He inspires the men of Redemption to stand against you. The Demonbane is a greater threat to you than the Wall ever was.”
The Great Fang swung his head menacingly in Bronwyn’s direction. “Silence, witch. I’ve had more than enough out of you for one night.”
“I know I’m a dead man,” said Lockhart, his good eye riveted on the hulking shape of the Great Fang. “But you? You’re a dead man too, Jombard.” He spat on the ground in front of the war lord’s feet. “The Demonbane will gut you like a pig.”
Without a word the Great Fang drew a longsword from his back. He whipped it through the air.
Lockhart’s head toppled from his body. His corpse crumpled to the ground, his blood staining the turf of the Wall that he had given his life to guard.
The Great Fang breathed deeply for a moment, his eyes wild with rage. His hands gripped the handle of his sword so tightly that it seemed they would bend the metal of the hilt. “The Demonbane will die,” he hissed. “Along with every man, woman and child in Redemption.”
Odgar bowed even lower, his face almost to the wet ground. “The tribes are ready to assault the great fortress, Great Fang. Many of the warriors have scattered in search of plunder, but they will return when called.” He lifted his head and smiled. “Give the word and I will reduce the stronghold to splinters.”
The Great Fang’s face still wore a mask of seething rage. “Do it,” he growled. “I don’t want any of these dragoons left alive by morning.”
Odgar sto
od. His hands twitched expectantly. “Yes, Great Fang.”
“There will be panic in the town,” the Great Fang continued. “Send out raiders to hunt the roads and kill any stragglers you find.”
“As you will.” Odgar turned and disappeared into the darkness.
Bronwyn gave the glowing Soulbinder around the Great Fang’s neck a wary look. “You do not know the power you hold there, O Fang. You should be careful not to—”
“Do not lecture me on the old magic, witch,” the war lord rumbled. He wiped the massive blade of his longsword on Lockhart’s corpse. “When I offer my body and soul to Harnathu, it will be the greatest gift I can give my god. He will find my sacrifice acceptable, I assure you.”
Bronwyn pursed her lips, but said nothing.
“Now,” said the Great Fang as he sheathed his sword, “I have an assignment for you, witch.”
Bronwyn’s face soured. She looked out over the burning fields and forests west of the Wall. “I don’t take orders from you, Great Fang.”
As quick as a darting snake, the Great Fang shot out an arm and gripped Bronwyn by the throat.
Surprised and choking, Bronwyn kicked her feet and grabbed ineffectually at the massive Jombard’s muscled arm.
“You forget yourself, witch,” the Great Fang snarled. “While you are in my camp, in my land, you will heed me or die.” He leaned in closer to her face and smiled maliciously. “I could squeeze the life out of you right now. Do you deny it?”
Bronwyn gasped, sputtering for breath. She shook her head as much as the Great Fang’s tight hold would allow.
“Good.” The Great Fang released his grip as if he were swatting away a fly. “I think that we understand each other, then.”
Bronwyn fell to her knees, coughing and rubbing her swollen throat. It was almost a minute before she could finally speak. “What—” she said between rattling coughs, “what do you want...Great Fang?”
The Jombard allowed himself a pitiless smile. “That’s better.” He looked out over the fields towards the night sky in the west. “What I need from you is simplicity itself.”
Bronwyn tottered to her feet, still rubbing her throat. She glared with an uneven mix of hatred and fear at the Great Fang.
If he noticed her look, the Great Fang did not show it. He continued to stare out to the west, his face grim and determined. “I need you to go to Redemption,” he said.
The road was clogged with fleeing farmers and settlers.
Children cried softly, and infants wailed in the cold night air. Many of the men and women wept openly as well. Most were leaving burnt farmsteads behind. Some were leaving the corpses of family members.
There were injuries. A large number of the refugees were still bleeding from cuts that had been hastily bandaged, or limping on improvised crutches. Some were so badly wounded that they were laid in the back of carts and wagons.
There were animals, too. Mules and horses gave frightened whinnies in the dark. Chickens fluttered uneasily in cages. Dogs barked and howled as they ran up and down the line of fleeing people.
The rain continued to hammer down out of the night sky, drenching the struggling mass of humanity and turning the dirt road into a slogging mash of mud.
And behind them to the east, the sky glowed orange.
Kendril thundered past the line of refugees, trampling through fields and leaping small hedges as he rode on the edge of the road. The wind caught his face, spattering rain onto his bare head. The steel cuirass he wore felt heavy. Rain plinked off it and ran down the metal in rivulets. His buff coat was already soaked through. The trousers and boots he wore were splattered with so much mud that they almost seemed one color. His rapier hung at his side, his flintlock pistols tucked away in closed, waterproof holsters.
It felt strange, the feel of the armor and the weapons on him. It was as if he was outside his own body and watching himself ride by like one of the terrified refugees. It didn’t feel like he was actually himself.
Behind him came Tomas, riding with a skill that surprised Kendril. He was more than managing to keep up. It was a sharp reminder to Kendril that he knew almost nothing of Tomas’ past.
Kendril looked over the line of refugees. In the darkness they appeared to be black, formless shapes. Almost indistinguishable from the mud they were tromping in. It was like the first exodus, the one that had happened more than a month ago when the Jombards had first assaulted the Wall. Back then the refugees had largely been those who had been brave or foolish enough to settle east of the Wall, or who were so close to the Wall itself that they had feared for their lives.
But this was different. These people lived well to the west of the Wall, but they were still fleeing in terror. The Jombards had broken through and were slaughtering everyone and everything in their path.
Redemption would be in panic. Kendril knew that already. There weren’t enough ships to evacuate the entire population of the peninsula. It would be chaos and fear.
Kendril brought up his horse alongside a crossroads. He peered out into the darkness ahead.
The long, high shape of the palisade wall of Redemption was less than a mile away. The shape of the main temple’s bell tower lifted high above the wall itself. The gates appeared to still be open, at least for now.
That wouldn’t last long.
Kendril spun back around to Tomas, who had pulled up alongside him. “When we get to town,” he said, raising his voice above the falling rain and blowing of the horses, “we need to find Beckett and Root. From there we can form the militia back again.”
Tomas’ face was a dark blur in the night. “If any of them are still in town.”
“They will be,” Kendril said with more confidence than he felt. “We may have trouble from Blackstone.”
“We already had trouble from Blackstone,” Tomas said icily. “I have no issue putting a knife in him if I have to.” He looked down. “How’s the leg?”
Kendril realized that he had been rubbing his upper leg without even thinking. He took his hand away with a great act of will. “Fine. Just fine.”
Tomas shook his hooded head. “It must be nice to lie any time you want.”
Kendril gritted his teeth. “All right, the truth? My leg’s killing me, and riding this blasted horse all day long hasn’t helped me at all. But I can still fight. Happy now?” He looked off towards the gate of Redemption. “Now come on. We have a lot to do and not much time to do it in.”
Tomas grabbed Kendril’s arm before he could urge his horse forward again. “Wait.”
Kendril glanced back. “What?”
Tomas released Kendril’s arm and sat back in his saddle. “Another thing you should know. Olan and the other Ghostwalkers. They may still be in Redemption.”
Kendril was silent for a moment. “Olan,” he said at last, “is at the bottom of my list of worries right now.”
Tomas shrugged. “Just thought you should know. He still considers you a traitor to the Order.”
Kendril turned his brooding look back towards the town walls. “It seems that everyone seems to think that I’m a traitor these days. Maybe it’s time I really started acting the part.” He flicked his reins and his horse took off again.
The wind had picked up considerably. Rain pelted the deck and sails of the merchant ship. Waves came crashing over the bow of the vessel with alarming regularity.
Joseph had gotten over his initial seasickness, but as the weather began to turn more violent he felt it return to his gut. It was hard to stand, hard to keep his head and stomach from spinning. He didn’t want to feel helpless like that again. When the pirates had boarded the ship, when they had almost thrown Kara overboard—
He had been useless. Worse than useless. And Joseph didn’t want that to happen again. Ever.
So now he was on the deck of the ship in the middle of the night, drenched to his skin and shaking from cold and nausea. It was still better than being crammed down in the stuffy hold of the ship, where Joseph’s nausea
seemed ten times worse. At least out here there was a brisk wind to fight away his feelings of sickness.
Kara was down below, though how she could sleep with the ship lurching up and down was beyond Joseph’s comprehension. She was certainly exhausted. The nightmares she had been having every night were taking their toll.
Joseph stared at the land mass that was growing ever larger against the glowering sky. The orange glow flickered on the horizon. He felt uneasy looking at it, knowing that he would soon be seeing Kendril again.
It had been months since what had happened in Vorten. But the fact was that Kendril had shot Kara, and almost killed her. And try as he might, Joseph could feel nothing but dark rage against the man who had used to be his friend.
And now things were even worse. Joseph had no idea where things stood between him and Kara. She seemed confused and uncertain, all because of Maklavir.
No, Joseph corrected himself. All because of Kendril. His bullet had started the whole chain of events.
So here Joseph was, on a ship only thirty minutes away from the backside of the world and the man he had hoped never to see again.
Joseph closed his eyes, fighting down the bile that was rising into his throat. The movement of the ship was making him dizzy.
He knew the Blessed Scriptures. Eru was a God of forgiveness, of love and mercy. Joseph should be ready and willing to forgive Kendril, too.
But it was hard. Harder than he had ever expected it to be. The anger just wouldn’t go away.
Kara was suffering. The dreams and nightmares she had, remnants of the horror of Vorten, were wearing her down both physically and emotionally. There was hardly a night that went by where she didn’t wake up screaming.
Joseph took a deep breath and tried to fight off the overwhelming wave of sickness that washed over him. He clutched the railing of the ship, feeling the mix of rain and salt spray slap his face.
Why was he even here? For Kara? She didn’t seem interested in him any more, not romantically. Or at least she was so confused she didn’t know if she was or not.
