by Kel Kade
Rezkin glanced at the others, his gaze lingering on Millins and Jimson. He said, “The army was not the outworld—at least, not in the greater sense. I was trained to understand the army, the regulations, its functions, its people. It was the same with the mercenaries. I was also informed of the kind of men with whom I would be engaging. I knew they would not follow the Rules because they were degenerates. I played a role, and they played theirs.”
“They were not playing roles,” said Kai.
“Perhaps not, but it was all the same to me. As I said, we never went near any settlements. The men lived, ate, slept, and fought together. They also died together. That was all there was. These outworlders,” he said with a nod over his shoulder, “they are not like the soldiers and mercenaries. They are strange to me, but I do understand one thing clearly. Farson is right. I am not one of them. I will never be one of them.”
“We are not all like them. You were trained by strikers. You are like us.”
“No, Kai. You are more like them than you think.”
“How is that?”
“You have ideals. You speak of good and evil as though they are measurable things. You believe in honor and hold it in high regard, whereas I have none.”
“That is untrue. You have spoken often of honoring your friends.”
“Only because it is Rule 1. If not for that, I would not bind myself in such a way. I would have dismissed them as irrelevant—and absurd. But, I must adhere to the Rules.”
Kai did not speak for several minutes. Rezkin watched as a kite swept the sky in lazy circles overhead, and his gaze shifted to the drifting grasses surrounding them. The mercenary company led the procession with one less member than the previous day. The severely injured man had succumbed to fever in the night. Wesson had berated Rezkin for not offering his healing services but had finally accepted his assertion that the man had been too far gone for help. It might have even been true.
The silence that loomed between the footfalls, tromp of hooves, and rickety creaking of the wagon at the front was eventually shattered by Kai’s gruff voice. “You have a sense of right and wrong. I have heard you speak at length about noble duty.”
“It is a role, Kai. If one is to play the noble, he must conduct himself by noble standards.”
“But you understand how those standards came to be. You must value them.”
“Only in that they provide structure to a society that would otherwise endure chaos. The outworlders accept them, so they must live by them. It is their own standard of Rules. When I play the part of the noble, I conduct myself as such. It is not who I am.”
“I do not believe you.”
“It is fact.”
“Oh, I believe that you believe what you are saying, but it is not the truth. I think you underestimate yourself and the connection you have with these people. If you are not the man you profess to be, then who are you?”
Before Rezkin could respond, Farson appeared at his side. “You are free with your words—last night and today. You reveal much. What has loosened your tongue?”
Rezkin ran a thumb along the warm metal of a knife he kept up his sleeve. He had done the same many times as a small-man to remind himself that words could be as dangerous as a blade. He watched the kite swoop in ever tightening circles. He wondered if the citadel’s power was still affecting him and shifted his focus to feel for the warmth of the small stone resting against his chest.
Kai interrupted his thoughts when he blurted, “Is that your cat?”
Rezkin looked down to see the small tortie sitting in the middle of the road staring at him. It flicked its tail and then ran into the grass on the west side of the road. Rezkin’s gaze flicked to the sky, and he followed the kite as it swept around again.
“Raise the alarm. Prepare for battle. Kai, check the rear—Farson, the sides.”
Rezkin yanked the packs from Pride’s back and then threw himself into the saddle. Heavy footfalls tore up dirt and rocks as the horse pounded down the road toward the front of the procession. Men scattered amongst angry shouts but not fast enough. In his urgency, Rezkin was forced to direct Pride into the grass where the chance of a misstep was greater. He had to stop the convoy before they waded into the trap. He was too late.
Rezkin’s furious arrival at the front inspired the drauglics to attack early. Their company had not yet been surrounded, but the horde emerging from the grass was so great it would make no difference. The White Crescents would be overrun.
A horn blared just as the first of the drauglics jumped for Rezkin. Although they were the size of an adolescent child, the creatures were capable of jumping half again their own height. The drauglic crashed into Rezkin’s side, its scaly arms wrapping around him as it gnashed at his throat with its sharp teeth. Rezkin held tight to the saddle as he thrust a dagger into the soft tissue beneath his attacker’s arm. Another drauglic jumped at the stallion’s head, and Pride reared, crushing the creature beneath his massive hooves. Rezkin held tight as the drauglic that had attacked him lost its grip, giving him enough time to draw his sword. The injured drauglic leapt at him again, its perseverance rewarded with a blade through the throat.
Pride gnashed his teeth at another of the creatures and broke through the purple scales on its shoulder. The drauglic shrieked and swung a sharpened stone hatchet at the horse’s neck. Kingslayer took the creature’s arm off as Rezkin drew Bladesunder. He gripped the saddle with his legs as the blades flashed through the air at his sides, scoring scaled flesh and rending armor. One drauglic latched onto Pride’s hindquarters, and Rezkin was glad they had been traveling as mercenaries. The creature’s talons tore through the shabby caparison that hid the quality mail cruppers beneath. Rezkin twisted in his saddle and slashed at the drauglic’s worn armor. As he drew back his blade again, Pride unexpectedly bucked, tossing the drauglic into Rezkin’s back. The creature wrapped its arms, taut with wiry muscle, around Rezkin’s chest, its claws digging into his brigandine.
Rezkin’s muscles clenched as the horse trampled another drauglic, but the thrashing and the weight of the drauglic on his back eventually forced Rezkin from the saddle. Pride kicked out at exactly the wrong time, smacking Bladesunder from his grip in midair. Rezkin landed atop the drauglic, the air knocked from his lungs. He inhaled sharply and then swept Kingslayer across his own chest, amputating one of the creature’s hands. The creature screamed in his ear as Rezkin drew his serrated belt knife. He threw his feet over his head and rolled backward to crouch above the drauglic’s head. He plunged the dagger into the lizard man’s throat, and blood and ragged flesh spewed across his face as he withdrew the wicked weapon.
Rezkin looked up to see a gangly drauglic in patchwork leather armor grinning at him as it collected Bladesunder from the bloodied dirt at his feet. The drauglic’s yellowed, pointed teeth dripped with saliva, and it hissed. With the hilt gripped in both hands, it raised the sword over its head and then shrieked in pained horror. Its hands came down, but it seemed unable to release its grip. The air filled with the scent of charred meat as the flesh beneath the creature’s scales began to glow red and smoke erupted from its hands, which crumbled like blackened soot. Bladesunder toppled to the ground as the drauglic’s scream was silenced by the blue-swirled steel of the sword’s kin.
Rezkin could hear the discordant crescendo of battle, but he had no time to check on his friends. They were at the rear of the convoy, while he was in the thick of the enemy. Pride stomped and thrashed as drauglics jumped at him, slashing with stolen blades and stabbing with primitive spears. Some of the creatures threw stones, and Rezkin was grateful they had no arrows and crossbows. The battle was fierce, and it did not sound like the other horses were faring as well as Pride.
Wesson stood in the center of the circle with Minder Finwy, his sword wielding companions fending off the enemies advancing on them. From where he was standing, he felt as though the enemies were targeting him, but he knew that was absurd. Everyone was fighting except him and th
e minder, and the minder, at least, gripped a dagger. Wesson had never acquired any skills with mundane weapons, believing the curse of his destructive power was terror enough. He knew that using that power could expose him and potentially attract the attention of the Purifiers. A part of him, the part that dwelled deep within, the part he kept locked behind a fortress of mental barriers, was fighting for release. It wanted out. It wanted to spew flame and render flesh from bones. It wanted to burst the bodies of his enemies in a bloody rain, a glorious red swath painted across everything in sight. And he wanted to let it.
No, he reminded himself. Beauty before bane, his personal mantra. Quell the storm.
A drauglic lunged at Yserria with a stone club while another raked her across the back with vicious claws that scored so deeply into her armor that a trickle of blood seeped from the wound. She ducked as the club sailed toward her head, and the creature smacked his own comrade in the jaw. The injured drauglic screamed, his jaw hanging limp, and then leapt at the one that had struck him. While the first drauglic was distracted, Yserria threw her weight into a mighty upswing that cleaved the stone-wielding drauglic from the groin, upward through his buttock, to finally lop off the tail. The creature fell writhing to the ground, and the other landed atop him shortly after with a gushing jugular.
Wesson suddenly stumbled as he was shoved from behind. He turned to see Malcius fighting off a drauglic bearing a rusted, broken sword. The creature, which wore an ill-fitted metal helm and chain mail over its torso, was a few inches shorter than Wesson. Although it was strong, it seemed to be having difficulty under the weight of its stolen armor. Its movements were sluggish, but between the metal armor and its natural scales, it was difficult for Malcius to score a fatal blow. Wesson itched to heat the armor until it glowed yellow and burned through the creature. A moment later, Malcius finally prevailed with a jab straight through the drauglic’s mouth into its brain. Wesson’s mind cleared long enough for him to be sickened by the bloodthirsty thoughts. Malcius immediately turned to engage two more of the creatures who were less armored but equally less encumbered.
Beside Malcius, Brandt blocked a swipe of claws with a buckler he must have claimed from one of the drauglics. He slammed the buckler into the creature’s protruding snout and then sliced his sword across the abdomen exposed below the fragmented wooden armor. The creature doubled over as its entrails spilled over its talonned feet, and Brandt kicked it in the head. As it toppled, Brandt spun to attack one of the creatures assaulting Malcius. He sliced the artery of the inner thigh, grabbed the fiend by the tail, and plunged his blade up through the soft tissue into the creature’s torso.
Wesson forced his eyes away from the liquid red curtain to survey the field beyond his protective circle. The mercenaries were enduring the brunt of it. Only one of the horses besides Pride still stood, and the beast that had been pulling the wagon was long since gutted. He could not see Rezkin, but he could still hear the furious shrieks of the battle charger, which he hoped was a sign that the elite warrior was also still alive. Kai and Farson fought between them and the swarm of drauglics that had gotten past the mercenaries, and Jimson and Millins were battling the creatures that flanked them through the tall grass. It was obvious that he and his circle were enduring barely a trickle of the overall assault, and he was frustrated he was the weakest among them without use of the power he so often scorned.
Wesson was about to turn when he saw a drauglic leap at Millins who was manning the rear. The soldier was already engaged with two of the fiends, and his back was left exposed. The lizard man’s talons dug into Millins’s lower back, and it wrapped its muscular arms around his head. Without a second thought, Wesson released a stream of raw power, a graceless spell lacking substantial form. The three drauglics and two more beyond simultaneously exploded. Loose flesh, shards of bone, heads, and limbs were ejected several paces in every direction. Those pieces that had sailed upward came raining down with satisfying thuds, and the prostrate Millins was buried under the shower of bodily debris.
Rezkin felt the shock of the spell just as it was released. He had but to wait a breath before it activated. From where he was, he could not see the effect, but he knew that if Wesson had taken the chance on using his power, his friends had to have been in grave danger. He was sure that Wesson would protect them if the situation became dire, but he hoped the mercenaries had not seen the action. The fact that they might have born witness to an act that in any other kingdom would have been respectable did not seem like a satisfactory reason for killing men who had martial value.
It had been some time since he had been in a battle this brutal. These drauglics had little or no concern for their own lives, and they attacked with ferocity. Although drauglics had always been fierce foes, they tended to retreat when it appeared they might lose too many. Rezkin had not yet found the ukwa, the leader or chief of the drauglic clan who would sound the call for retreat. While their language was primitive and seemed to have few words, the ukwa held a position of such importance as to be graced with a drauglic title.
Rezkin finished off the five closest drauglics with a flurry of Sheyalin slashes and thrusts and then rushed into the tall grass from which the creatures were attacking. Several of the lizard men scattered upon his approach, startled into running rather than fighting. He hacked through a number of others, leaving a bloody trail in his wake until he finally fell upon his prey. The ukwa was standing on a crudely constructed mound of dirt, stones, and hay so that it could see over the swaying grasses to the battlefield. It appeared to be caked in dried green mud that Rezkin knew to be the dried feces of its followers. The scholars and mages who studied such things posited that doing so allowed the drauglics to scent their leader. Luckily for Rezkin, it was also easy for anyone else to scent the ukwa, particularly if the ordure was fresh.
The ukwa saw Rezkin approaching before he could reach the creature. It screamed a senseless cadence, and the half dozen lizard men who surrounded him echoed his call. The dwindling horde of creatures that were engaged in battle shrieked in unison and then began to retreat. Many flew past Rezkin without even attempting to strike at him, although that did not stop him from hewing down those within his reach. Within minutes, the entire clan had retreated into the grass, and the tousle of stalks continued beyond his view of the horizon.
After searching the immediate area for any stragglers, Rezkin strode down the path of detrital gore that he had paved through the pasture. When he arrived at its end, the remaining men and one woman were gathered at the epicenter of the battle where Rezkin had made his stand. Everyone was keeping a safe distance from the battle charger whose eyes were still rolling as he snorted and stomped on the bodies of dead lizard men. The mercenaries and his friends were covered in blood, much of it their own. Of everyone, Wesson was the cleanest, and he stood pensively hiding in the rear. Farson and Kai were speaking quietly several paces from the others. Their injuries appeared to be minor, but it was always difficult to tell with strikers. Like Rezkin, they were trained to hide their weaknesses. Malcius, Brandt, Yserria, and Minder Finwy all had deep cuts on their limbs and torsos, Millins was laid out on the ground, his shoulders propped against the wagon, and Jimson gripped a dislocated arm, seemingly unconcerned with the seeping gashes across his cheek and jaw.
The mercenaries had fared far worse. Of the twenty-seven from the previous day, only twelve remained, and all their horses were lost. Orin stood in the center of the mounded ring of drauglic bodies. He was slathered in gore, his left hand wrapped in a blood-sodden rag. Rezkin guessed the man had lost a few fingers.
The mercenary leader spit a glob of bloody phlegm and said, “Ya see that line over there by the wagon?”
Rezkin surveyed the area. A number of drauglic and mercenary bodies were concentrated in the location. Rezkin nodded.
“My men and yours fought over there—on the other side.” His gaze roved over the surrounding mounds. “I’d say more than half of the dead lizard demons are on this sid
e. On this side of the line was you. You and that beast you call a horse.” He glanced past Rezkin down the bloody path. “Who knows what ya left out there?”
Rezkin adopted a feral grin. With a sloppy Gendishen drawl, he said, “Whether you run cryin’ or bear the torch, I’m there. I am the darkness.” Orin looked at him like he was mad. Satisfied, Rezkin lightened his tone. “I didn’t kill them all, if that’s what yer askin’. They run off into the grass. Thing about drauglics is, if ya sneak up on them, they’ll run. But, if they get all hyped up to fight, they don’t stop—not ’till the ukwa calls them off.”
Blood dripped from Orin’s braided, black beard, but he did not seem to notice or care. “The ukwa?”
“Their chief,” Rezkin said as he stepped over bodies to reach Pride.
Orin never took his eyes off Rezkin. “Couldn’t help but notice over half my men are dead and all yers are still standin’. Well, save that one”—he nodded toward Millins who appeared pained but awake—“but he don’t look to be checkin’ out.”
Rezkin said nothing as he examined a few of the drauglic bodies on the ground.
“I guess I’m startin’ to believe yer fish tale,” said Orin. When Rezkin neglected to answer, the man said, “What’s yer plan now?”
Orin’s face was pale, and Rezkin realized the mercenary was probably in shock or he would have been seeing to his wounds instead of asking questions. Rezkin muttered softly to the horse and stroked and petted his neck and sides as he examined Pride’s injures. Once the stallion was calm enough to be led, Rezkin took the reins and started toward the rear of the convoy where he had left his packs.
“Hey!” Orin said as Rezkin made to pass. “I asked what yer plannin’.”
